Class ±1
Book.
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GopigM
COPYRIGHT DETOSm
CHOICE READINGS
PUBLIC AND PRIVATE ENTERTAINMENT,
ARRANGED FOE THE EXERCISES OF THE
School, College and Public Reader,
WITH ELOCUTIONARY ADYICE.
EDITED BV
Robert McLain Cumnock A. M.
PROFESSOR OF RHETORIC AND ELOCUTION,
NORTHWESTERN UNlVERSIlYj
EVANSTON, ILL.
CHICAGO :
JANSEN, MCCLUEG & CO.
1878.
<
■^
A
\
COPYRIGHT.
JANSEN, McCLURG & CO.
A. D. 1878
rEREOTYPED ANO FBINTED
1CAGO LEGAL NEWS CO.
PEEFACE
In this book are contained selections from a very wide
range of English authorship, such as are thought to be the
best suited to the purposes of Elocutionary training, and
public reading and declamation.
An endeavor has also been made to give such specific
directions as will aid the intelligent student to acquire a
just conception of their sentiment.
The great wrong practiced upon our youth, is that they
are led to imitate an interpretation given to them by some
person whom they admire, rather than to ascertain and
apply the principles which govern the vocal expression of
all sentiments and emotions that are conveyed by words.
The great danger of such a course of training might be
averted, in a measure, if every teacher of Reading were an
artist; but, unfortunately, few have the time or aptitude for
such high attainments. The only safe course is to ascertain
the principles of vocal expression by careful observation of
nature in its best moods and manifestations; and to apply
the rules thus obtained to such portions of our Literature as
may be easily classified with reference to the sentiment or
passion they chiefly express.
Great care has been exercised in excluding all selections
of an inferior order of literary excellence, however popular
in exciting momentary laughter or sensation, while, on the
other hand, all pieces, however elegant in style, yet not
adapted to the purposes of Reading and Speaking, have
been rejected.
!V PREFACE.
The variety of the selections, added to the fact that each
has been chosen with reference to its effectiveness and avail-
ability, will furnish material for every possible exercise in
the ordinary requirements of school life, as well as the more
formal exercise of Public Reading and Declamation.
The elocutionary suggestions will appear as introductions
to the various classes of selections in their respective orders:
First. — Pathos.
Second. — Solemnity.
Third. — Serenity, Beauty, Love.
Fourth. — Common Reading, Narrative, Descriptive and
Didactic Styles.
Fifth. — Gayety.
Sixth. — Humor.
Seventh. — Grand, Sublime and Reverential Styles.
Eighth. — Oratorical Styles.
Ninth. — Abrupt and Startling Styles.
Tenth. — Miscellaneous Selections.
In each class of selections an endeavor has been made to
secure just as pleasing and effective pieces as though the
choice were unrestricted, and, at the same time, the import-
ance of choosing pieces that would serve as types of the
sentiment or passion they were intended to illustrate, has
been duly considered.
If, in some cases, selections do not sustain throughout the
sentiment which they are intended to illustrate, they are
placed where the leading, or most characteristic sentiment
of the piece would require, and it is thought that, in most
cases, the selections are nearly perfect specimens of the sev-
eral classes in which they are placed.
The compiler acknowledges, with thanks, the kind permis-
sion of Messrs. J. R. Osgood & Co., Hurd & Houghton, and
D. Appleton & Co., to use the poems of Longfellow, Whit-
tier, Holmes, Cary, Bryant, etc., that are in this volume, and
of which they hold the copyright.
R. McL. C.
Evanston, III., Jan., '78.
CONTENTS
PAGE
Expression 11
PART I.
PATHETIC SELECTIONS.
Pathos 13
Death of Paul Dombey Charles Dickens 15
Tears, Idle Tears Alfred Tennyson 17
Pictures of Memory Alice Cart 18
Little Jim Anonymous 19
Those Evening Bells Thomas Moore 20
The Isle of Long Ago Benjamin F. Taylor . . 21
The Bridge of Sighs Thomas Hood 22
Break, Break, Break Alfred Tennyson 25
Bingen on the Rhine Caroline E. Norton . . 25
How Sleep the Brave William Collins 27
The Banks o' Doon Robert Burns 28
A Death-Bed James Aldrich 28
We Watched her Breathing Thomas Hood 29
"Rock of Ages " Anonymous 29
Old Ralph Hoyt 31
The Song of the Camp Bayard Taylor 33
The Lost Steamship Fitz- James O'Brien. . . 35
T is the Last Rose of Summer Thomas Moore 37
Death of Poor Jo Charles Dickens 38
The Volunteer's Wife M. A. Dennisgn 41
Our Folks Ethel Lynn 42
The Landlady's Daughter (Tr.) Uhland — J. S. Dwight, 44
Auld Robin Gray Lady Anxe Barnard . . 45
John Anderson, my Jo Robert Burns 46
VI CONTENTS.
PAGE
PART II.
SOLEMN SELECTIONS.
Solemnity 47
The Old Clock on the Stairs Henry W. Longfellow 47
The Last Leaf Oliver W. Holmes 49
Thauatopsis William C. Bryant ... 51
The Rainy Day Henry W. Longfellow 53
The Blue and the Gray F. M. Finch 53
The Day is Done Henry W. Longfellow 55
The Bridge — Henry W. Longfellow 56
Sorrow for the Dead Washington Irying. . . 58
Funeral Hymn James Montgomery ... 60
PART III.
SELECTIONS OF SERENITY, BEAUTY, LOVE.
Serenity, Beauty, Love 61
Endymion Henry W. Longfellow 61
The Vale of Cashmere Thomas Moore 62
The Bells of Shandon Francis Mahony 63
Drifting T. Buchanan Read. ... 65
Dickens in Camp Bret H arte 67
Evangeline on the Prairie Henry W. Longfellow 69
The Soldier's Dream Thomas Campbell 70
The Reaper's Dream T. Buchanan Read 71
Passing Away John Pierpont 74
Sleep s E. B. Browning 76
Sandalphon Henry W. Longfellow 77
When the Kye Come Hame James Hogg 79
PART IV.
NARRATIVE SELECTIONS.
Narrative, Descriptive and Didactic Styles 81
A Child's Dream of a Star Charles Dickens 82
Trial and Execution of Charles I Oliver Goldsmith . . . ; 85
Execution of Mary Queen of Scots John Lingard 89
The Pilot ' John B. Gough 91
Hannah Jane D. R. Locke 93
Connor .Anonymous 97
CONTEXTS.
PAGE
DESCRIPTIVE SELECTIONS.
The Cheap Jack Charles Dickens 103
Farmyard Song J. T. Trowbridge 106
Scene at Dr. Blimber's Charles Dickens 108
The Child- Wife .Charles Dickens Ill
The Charcoal Man J. T. Trowbridge 116
Scene at the Natural Bridge Elihu Burritt 118
DIDACTIC SELECTIONS.
Hamlet's Instructions to the Players. ..William Shakespeare 121
Happiness Walter Colton 122
Come it will Thomas Chalmers 123
Books Francis Bacon 124
The Sky John Ruskin 125
PART V.
GAY AND ANIMATED SELECTIONS.
Gatett 127
Daffodils Willtam Wordsworth 127
The Fairies - William Allingham . . 128
Fezziwig's Ball Charles Dickens 129
Kissing 's no Sin Anonymous 131
SoDg of the Brook'. Alfred Tennyson 132
The Boys Oliver W. Holmes 133
Praise of Little Women (Tr.) De Hita — Longfellow 135
Cupid Swallowed Leigh Hunt 136
PART VI.
HUMOROUS SELECTIONS.
Humor 137
A Senator Entangled James De Mille 137
The Gridiron Samuel Lover 141
The Stuttering Lass John G. Saxe 144
Henry V. 's Wooing William Shakespeare 145
The Charity Dinner Litchfield Mosley . . . 149
Irish Astronomy Charles G. Halpine . . 155
Widow Malone " Charles Lever 156
Words and their Uses Frank Clive 157
The One-Hoss Shay Oliver W. Holmes 159
The Canal-Boat Harriet B. Stowe 162
Vlll CONTENTS.
PAGE
Sam Weller's Valentine Charles Dickens 167
The Ballad of the Oysterinan Oliver W. Holmes 172
The Low-Backed Car Samuel Loyer 173
Kitty of Coleraine Charles D. Shanly . . . 175
Jupiter and Ten James T. Fields 175
The Courtin' James Russell Lowell 176
Misadventures at Margate Richard H. Barham. . . 179
The Lost Heir Thomas Hood 183
Our Guide in Genoa and Rome Samuel L. Clemens. . . 185
The Subscription List Samuel Loyer 189
The Spectre Pig Olivjer W. Holmes 196
Darius Green and his Flying-Machine. J. T. Trowbridge 200
A Frenchman on Macbeth Anonymous 207
The White Squall William M. Thackeray 207
Nocturnal Sketch Thomas Hood 211
French and English Thomas Hood 212
Prince Henry and Falstaff .William Shakespeare 214
Pyramus and Thisbe John G. Saxe 217
Handy Andy at the Post Office Samuel Loyer 219
The Aged Stranger Bret Harte 223
PART VII.
GRAND, SUBLIME AND REVERENTIAL SELECTIONS.
Ototund Voice 225
Effusive Orotund 226
Hymn to Mont Blanc Samuel T. Coleridge. 227
The Burial of Moses Mrs. C. F. Alexander. 229
Apostrophe to the Ocean Lord Byron 231
The Lost Chord Adelaide A. Procter. 233
Hymn to the Night Henry W. Longfellow 234
PART VIII.
ORATORICAL SELECTIONS.
Expulsive Orotund 235
South Carolina Robert Young Hayne. 236
New England Caleb Cushing 237
South Carolina and Massachusetts Daniel Webster 239
Crime its own Detecter Daniel Webster 240
Extract from Oration on O'Connell Wendell Phillips 242
CONTENTS. IX
PAGE
Webster's Speech in Reply to Hayne . .Charles W. March 245
Eulogy on Charles Sumner Carl Schurz 24S
Idols Wendell Phillips ... 250
Toussaint L'Ouverture Wendell Phillips 252
Impeachment of Warren Hastings Edmund Burke 254
Character of Washington Edward Eyerett 256
Eulogy on Lafayette Edward Everett 259
Grattan's. Reply to Mr. Corry Henry Grattan 262
Spartacus to the Gladiators Elijah Kellogg- 263
Address at Gettysburg Cemetery Abraham Lincoln 266
PART IX.
SELECTIONS OF BOLD ADDRESS, ANGER, HURRY AND
COMMOTION, ETC.
Explosive Orotund 267
Marmion and Douglas Sir Walter Scott 268
The Battle of Beal' an Duine Sir Walter Scott 269
The Burial-March of Dundee William E. Aytoun. . . 272
Standish's Encounter with the Indians. Henry W. Longfellow 275
The Battle of lyry Lord Macaulay 278
Charge of the Light Brigade Alfred Tennyson 280
Battle of Fontenoy Thomas Davis 282
Herve Riel Robert Browning 284
Warren's Address John Pierpont 289
The Seminole's Reply George W. Patten 289
PART X.
MISCELLANEOUS SELECTIONS.
King Robert of Sicily Henry W. Longfellow 291
Horatius at the Bridge Lord Macaulay 297
The Vagabonds J. T. Trowbridge 304
Rivermouth Rocks John G. Whittier 307
The Face against the Pane Thomas B. Aldrich. . . 310
Catiline's Defiance George Croly 313
McLain's $hild Charles Mackay 314
Rienzi to /the Romans Mary Russell Mitford 317
Lochinvar Sir Walter Scott 318
Charlie Machree William J. Hoppin 319
The Picket Guard Mrs. Ethel Lynn Beers 321
X CONTENTS.
PAGE
The Execution of Montrose William E. Aytoun. . . 322
For a' That and a' That Robert Burns 325
Magdalena, or the Spanish Duel J. F. Waller 326
The Three Bells John G. Whittier. . . . 334
The Main Track Walter Colton 335
Mona's Waters Anonymous 336
Annabel Lee Edgar Allan Poe ..... 340
The Slave's Dream Henry W. Longfellow 341
The Launching of the Ship Henry W. Longfellow 342
Old Chums Alice Cary 345
The Prisoner of Chillon Lord Byron 347
Abou Ben Adhem Leigh Hunt 350
The Wreck of the Hesperus Henry W. Longfellow 351
John Burns of Gettysburg Bret Harte 353
Extract from Morituri Salutarnus Henry W. Longfellow 356
An Order for a Picture Alice Cary 358
How they Brought the Good News Robert Browning .... 361
The Gambler's Wife Reynell Coates 362
Shainus O'Brien J. S. Le Fanu 363
The Glove and the Lions Leigh Hukt 369
A Legend of Bregenz Adelaide A. Procter. 370
The Schoolmaster's Guests. Will Carleton 375
Aux Italiens R. Bulwer Lytton 380
Count Candespina's Standard George H. Boker. .... 383
Her Letter Bret HarTe 386
The Bugle Song Alfred Tennyson 388
The Revolutionary Rising T. Buchanan Read. . . . 389
My Pipe James W. Watson 391
The Death of Marmion Sir Walter Scott 394
William Tell among the Mountains SheridanKnowles. . . . 396
The Dying Christian to his Soul Alexander Pope 397
The Scholar of Thebet Ben Khorat Nathaniel P. Willis. 398
The Death of the Owd Squire Anonymous 402
The Dream of Eugene Aram Thomas Hood 405
The Polish Boy Ann S. Stephens 411
The Brookside. « Lord Houghton 415
Ye Mariners of England Thomas Campbell 410
Battle Hymn of the Republic Julia Ward Howe 417
High-Tide on the Coast of Lincolnshire . Jean Ingelow 418
Index of Authors 423
CHOICE READINGS
EXPKESSIOX.
It is taken for granted that those who make use of this
book will, at least, have attained correct and definite notions
of English Phonation; also that all the difficulties of conso-
nantal articulation will have been mastered, so that the
Reader, with perfect control of his tongue, teeth and lips,
and his ear trained to accuracy in English vowel sound, may
come directly to the more difficult, as well as the more pleas-
ant subject of Expression.
By Expression we mean the utterance of words with their
accompanying emotions. We do not develop the full thought
of an emotional selection by the mere repetition of the words.
If we did, the tenclerest pathos and the sublimest passion
would alike sink to the level of the most common talk. The
temper or emotion which is the life of the thought, and
which seeks conveyance in the words, must be expressed
before the meaning of the author can be made known.
A knowledge, then, of the laws of Expression is necessary
to the proper interpretation of thought. The method pro-
posed in this book for the attainment of such knowledge
has taken shape in my daily experience as a Teacher, and
has no geater merit than its practicability. No merely
12 EXPKESSIOtf.
arbitrary rules are of value here. Nature must ever ]pe
the great Teacher, and he who observes most clearly her
best manifestations must be, of necessity, the best fitted to
deduce the laws that underlie and control those manifes-
tations.
It is, however, of great importance to the student of Elo-
cution to remember that there is a certain best way to render
every emotion, and having mastered one selection of a great
class, the power has been acquired to render all selections
of that type. By pursuing such a method, the Reader will
be lifted from the contemplation of a single piece to the
class of which it is a specimen, and eventually to a classified
knowledge of the laws that develop every sentiment and
passion of the human soul.
I. PATHOS.
The proper rendition of all pieces of pure pathos, de-
mands chiefly three conditions:
First, Natural voice.
Second, Effusive utterance.
Third, Slide of semitone.
First. — By natural voice we mean the conversational
voice, or the voice we all have by nature. Great care
should be taken to secure the purest tone, free from all
nasal, gutteral and pectoral qualities of voice. A clear,
pleasant and musical tone is indispensable in securing the
best effects.
Second. — The utterance must be effusive, i. e., flowing
from the mouth in a continuous stream of sound. If a
staccato or commonplace style of utterance is indulged in,
the reading will necessarily degenerate into mere talk, and
crush oat all sympathetic feeling.
Third. — In ordinary, unimpassioned speech, the voice
passes through the interval of one tone on the musical scale,
in the utterance of each word, thus:
"That quarter
most the
skilful Greeks
an
- noy,
•* arf «e
a* * m
C
— V ■■ 9 ©?
| w
<gy
Monotone. Falling Ditone. Rising Tritone. Rising Ditone.
"Where yon wild fig trees join the walls of Troy."
-S* * €*-
■&-
Falling Tritone. Alternation. Triad of the Cadence.
14 PATHOS.
The radical pitch is represented by the heads of the notes,
and the concrete pitch by the short stems of the notes,, which,
on observation, will be seen to pass to the note above or
below the radical. In short, it is impossible for us to utter a
word in unimpassioned speech, from its initiation to its close,
without passing up or down the musical scale one tone.
However, in all plaintive and deeply pathetic moods of
mind we find, on investigation, that the slides of the voice
are one-half as long as they are in ordinary discourse. This
unconscious slide of the voice on the minor chord, as exhibi-
ted in the plaintive cry of the child, or the weeping utter-
ance of the bereaved mother, is the chief characteristic of
voice necessary to the expression of all pathetic selections.*
The student should now select one of the pieces given under
this head, and endeavor to secure the effects which mast fol-
low from a careful application of the foregoing suggestions.
It will be found of great service in the acquirement of the
semitonic slide, to practice the musical scale, and oftentimes
the sympathetic study of a piece, thoroughly saturated with
pathetic emotion, is the best aid in the acquisition of the
characteristics of voice necessary to the effective rendition
of this important class of selections. \
* It may be vv ell to note that this pathetic slide is not measured by a half tone
in all cases, but follows the voice in all its movements up and down the scale
on the third, fifth and octave, always vanishing, however, on a minor chord.
f Exercises on the vowels and numerals should constantly be used, or the
vowel sounds in the selections you are rendering. Pro'ong each vowel with as
pure and even a tone as possible, in order that the vocal organs may be trained
to the manufacture of the clearest musical sounds, thereby ridding the voice of
all harsh and unpleasant qualities. Evenness and steadiness of tone can only
be secured by perfect control in the management of the breath. This sugges-
tion applies with equal force to the two following classes of selections.
PATHETIC SELECTIONS.
. DEATH OF PAUL DOMBEY.
Little Dombet had never risen from his little bed. He
lay there, listening to the noises in the street, quite tran-
quilly; not caring much how the time went, but watching it
and watching everything.
"When the sunbeams struck into his room through the rus-
tling blinds, and quivered on the opposite wall, like golden
water, he knew that evening was coming on, and that the
sky was red and beautiful. As the reflection died away, and
a gloom went creeping up the wall, he watched it deepen,
deepen, deepen into night. Then he thought how the long
unseen streets were dotted with lamps, and how the peace-
ful stars were shining overhead. His fancy had a strange
tendency to wander to the river, which he knew was flowing-
through the great city; and now he thought how black it
was, and how deep it would look reflecting the hosts of stars;
and, more than all, how steadily it rolled away to meet the
sea.
u Floy! What is that?"
" Where, dearest? "
" There! at the bottom of the bed."
" There's nothing there, except papa ! "
The figure lifted up its head and rose, and, coming to the
bedside, said:
"My own boy! Don't you know me?"
Paul looked it in the face. Before he could reach out
both his hands to take it between them and draw it towards
him, the figure turned away quickly from the little bed, and
went out at the door.
The next time he observed the figure sitting at the bottom
of the bed, he called to it.
"Don't be so sorry forme, dear papa. Indeed, I am quite
happy! "
16 DEATH OF PAUL DOMBEY.
His father coming and bending down to him, he held him
round the neck, and repeated these words to him several
times, and very earnestly; and he never saw his father in his
room again at anytime, whether it were day or night, but he
called out, " Don't be so sorry for me! Indeed, I am quite,
happy!"
How many times the golden water danced upon the wall,
how many nights the dark river rolled towards the- sea in
spite of him, Paul never sought to know.
One night he had been thinking of his mother and her pic-
ture in the drawing room down stairs. The train of thought
suggested to him to inquire if he had ever seen his mother.
For he could not remember whether they had told him
yes or no; the river running very fast, and confusing his
mind.
" Floy, did I ever see mamma?"
"No, darling; why?"
" Did I never see any kind face, like a mamma's, looking
at me when I was a baby, Floy? "
"O yes, dear!"
"Whose, Floy?"
" Your old nurse's. Often."
"And where is my old nurse? Show me that old nurse,
Floy, if you please! "
" She is not here, darling. She shall come to-morrow."
"Thank you, Floy!"
Little Dombey closed his eyes with these words, and fell
asleep. When he awoke, the sun was high, and the broad
day was clear and warm. Then he awoke, — woke mind and
body, — and sat upright in his bed. He saw them now about
him. There was no gray mist before them, as there had been
sometimes in the night. He knew them every one, and
called them by their names.
"And who is this? Is this my old nurse?" asked the
child, regarding, with a radiant smile, a figure coming in.
Yes, Yes. No other stranger would have shed those tears
at sight of him, and called him her dear boy, her pretty boy,
her own poor blighted child. No other woman would have
stooped down by his bed, and taken up his wasted hand, and
put it to her lips and breast, as one who had some right to
fondle it. No other woman would have so forgotten every-
body there but him and Floy, and been so full of tenderness
and pity.
TEARS, IDLE TEARS. 17
" Floy! this is a kind, good face! I am glad to see it again.
Don't go away, old nurse. Stay here! Good by! "
"Good by, my child? " cried Mrs. Pipchin, hurrying to his
bed's head. " Not good by? "
" Ah, yes! Good by! — Where is papa? "
His father's breath was on his check before the words had
parted from his lips. The feeble hand waved in the air,,
as if it cried " Good by! " again.
" Now lay me down; and, Floy, come close to me, and let
me see you."
Sister and brother wound their arms around each other,
and the golden light came streaming in, and fell upon them,
locked together.
" How fast the river runs, between its green banks and
the rushes, Floy! But, it's very near the sea now. I hear
the waves! They always said so! "
Presently he told her that the motion of the boat upon the
stream w r as lulling him to rest, xiowthe boat was out at
sea. And now there was a shore before him. Who stood
on the bank! —
" Mamma is like you, Floy. I know her by the face! "
The golden ripple on the wall came 'back again, and noth-
ing else stirred in the room. The old, old fashion! The
fashion that came in w T ith our first garments, and will last
unchanged until our. race has run its course, and the w T ide
firmament is rolled up like a scroll. The old, old fashion,—
Death!
O, thank God, all who see it, for that older fashion yet, of
Immortality! And look upon us, Angels of young children,
with regards not quite estranged, when the swift river bears
us to the ocean!
CHARLES DICKENS.
TEARS, IDLE TEARS.
FECOI "THE PRINCESS"
Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy autumn fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.
2
IS PICTURES OF MEMORY.
Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,
That brings our friends up from the under world;
Sad as the last which reddens over one
That sinks with all we love below the verge, —
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.
Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer. dawns
The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square;
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.
Dear as remembered kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned
On lips that are for others; deep as love.
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret, —
O Death in Life, the days that are no more.
ALFRED TENNYSON.
PICTURES OF MEMORY
Among the beautiful pictures
That hang on Memory's wall
Is one of a dim old forest,
That seemeth best of all;
Not for its gnarled oaks olden,
Dark with the mistletoe;
Not for the violets golden
That sprinkle the vale below;
Not for the milk-white lilies
That lean from the fragrant ledge,
Coquetting all day with the sunbeams,
And stealing their golden edge;
Not for the vines on the upland,
Where the bright red berries rest,
Nor the pinks, nor the pale sweet cowslip,
It seemeth to me the best.
I once had a little brother,
"With eyes that were dark and deep;
In the lap of that old dim forest
He lieth in peace asleep:
LITTLE JIM. 19
Light as the down of the thistle,
Free as the winds that blow,
We roved there the beautiful summers,
The summers of long- ago;
But his feet on the hills grew weary,
And, one of the autumn eves,
I made for my little brother
A bed of the yellow leaves.
Sweetly his pale arms folded
My neck in a meek embrace,
As the light of immortal beauty
Silently covered his face;
And when the arrows of sunset
Lodged in the tree-tops bright,
He fell, in his saint-like beauty,
i^sleep by the gates of light.
Therefore, of all the jDictures
That hang on memory's wall,
The one of the dim old forest
Seemeth the best of all.
ALICE CART.
LITTLE JIM.
The cottage was a thatched one, the outside old and mean,
But all within that little cot was wondrous neat and clean;
The night was dark and stormy, the wind was howling
wild,
As a patient mother sat beside the death-bed of her child:
A little worn-out creature, his once bright eyes grown
dim :
y It was a collier's wife and child — they called him little
Jim.
And oh! to see the briny tears fast hurrying down her
cheek,
x\s she offered up the prayer, in thought, she was afraid
to speak,
Lest she might waken one she loved far better than her
life;
For she had all a mother's heart — had that poor collier's
wife.
20 THOSE EVENING BELLS.
With hands uplifted, see, she kneels beside the sufferer's
bed,
And prays that he would spare her boy, and take herself
instead.
She gets her answer from the child: soft falls the words
from him,
" Mother, the' angels do so smile, and beckon little Jim,
I have no pain, dear mother, now, but O! I am so dry,
Just moisten poor Jim's lips again, and, mother, don't you
With gentle, trembling haste she held the liquid to his lip;
He smiled to thank her as he took each little, tiny sip.
" Tell father, when he comes from work, I said good-
night to him,
And, mother, now I'll go to sleep." Alas! poor little Jim!
She knew that he was dying; that the child she loved so
dear,
Had uttered the last words she might ever hope to hear:
The cottage door is opened, the collier's step is heard,
The father and the mother meet, yet neither speak a
word.
He felt that all was over, he knew his child was dead,
He took the candle in his hand and walked towards the
bed;
His quivering lips gave token of the grief he'd fain con-
ceal,
And see, his wife has joined him — the stricken couple
kneel:
With hearts bowed down by sadness, they humbly ask of
Him,
In heaven, once more, to meet again their own poor little
Jim.
ANONYMOUS.
THOSE EVENING BELLS.
Those evening bells! those evening bells!
How many a tale their music tells
Of youth, and home, and that sweet time
When last I heard their soothing chime!
THE ISLE OF LONG AGO. 21
Those joyous hours are passed away;
And many a heart that then was gay
Within the tomb now darkly dwells,
And hears no more those evening bells.
And so 'twill be when I am gone, —
That tuneful peal will still ring on;
While other bards shall walk these dells,
And sing your praise, sweet evening bells.
THOMAS MOORE.
THE ISLE OF LONG AGO.
O A wonderful stream is the river Time,
As it runs through the realm of tears,
With a faultless rythm and a musical rhyme,
And a boundless sweep and a surge sublime,
As it blends with the Ocean of Years.
How the winters are drifting, like flakes of snow,
And the summers like buds between,
And the year in the sheaf, so they come and they go,
On the river's breast, with its ebb and flow,
As it glides in the shadow and sheen.
There's a magical isle up the river Time,
Where the softest of airs are playing;
There's a cloudless sky and a tropical clime,
And a song as sweet as a vesper chime,
And the Junes with the roses are straying.
And the name of that Isle is the Long Ago,
And we bury our treasures there;
There are brows of beauty and bosoms of snow;
There are heaps of dust — but we loved them so!
There are trinkets and tresses of hair; ■,
There are fragments of song that nobody sings,
And a part of an infant's prayer;
There's a lute unswept, and a harp without strings;
There are broken vows and pieces of rings,
And the garments that she used to wear.
22 THE BKIDGE OP SIGHS.
There are hands that are waved when the fairy shore
By the mirage is lifted in air,
And we sometimes hear through the turbulent roar
Sweet voices we heard in the days gone before,
When the wind down the river is fair.
O remembered for aye, be the blessed Isle,
All the day of our life until night;
When the evening comes with its beautiful smile,
And our eyes are closing to slumber awhile,
May that " Greenwood " of Soul be in sight!
BEN J. F. TAYLOR.
THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS.
One more unfortunate,
Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate,
Gone to her death!
Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care!
Fashioned so slenderly,
Young, and so fair!
Look at her garments
Clinging like cerements,
Whilst the wave constantly
Drips from her clothing;
Take her up instantly,
Loving, not loathing!
Touch her not scornfully!
Think of her mournfully,
Gently and humanly, —
Not of the stains of her;
All that remains of her
Now is pure womanly.
Make no deep scrutiny
Into her mutiny,
Rash and un dutiful;
THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS.
Past all dishonor,
Death has left on her
Only the beautiful.
Still, for all slips of hers, —
One of Eve's family, —
Wipe those poor lips of hers,
Oozing so clammily.
Loop up her tresses
Escaped from the comb, —
Her fair auburn tresses, —
Whilst wonderment guesses
Where was her home?
Who was her father?
Who was her mother?
Had she a sister?
Had she a brother?
Or was there a dearer one
Still, and a nearer one
Yet, than all other?
Alas! for the rarity *
Of Christian charity
Under the sun!
O, it was pitiful!
Near a whole city full,
Home she had none.
Sisterly, brotherly,
Fatherly, motherly . .
Feelings had changed, —
Love, by harsh evidence,
Thrown from its eminence;
Even God's providence
Seeming; estranged.
Where the lamps quiver
So far in the river,
With many a light
From window and casement,
From garret to basement,
She stood with amazement,
Houseless by night.
24 THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS.
The bleak wind of March
Made her tremble and shiver;
But not the dark arch,
Or the black flowing river;
Mad from life's history,
Glad to death's mystery,
Swift to be hurled —
Anywhere, anywhere
Out of the world!
In she plunged boldly, —
No matter how coldly
The rough river ran —
Over the brink of it!
Picture it, — think of it!
Dissolute man!
Lave in it, drink of it,
Then, if you can!
Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care!
Fashioned so slenderly,
Young, and so fair!
Ere her limbs, frigidly,
Stiffen too rigidly,
Decently, kindly,
Smooth and compose them;
And her eyes, close them,
Staring so blindly!
Dreadfully staring
Through muddy impurity,
As when with the daring
Last look of despairing
Fixed on futurity.
Perishing gloomily,
Spurred by contumely,
Cold inhumanity,
Burning insanity,
Into her rest!
Cross her hands humbly,
As if praying dumbly,
Over her breast!
BINGEN ON THE RHINE. 25
Owning her weakness,
Her evil behavior,
And leaving-, with meekness,
Her sins to her Savior!
THOMAS HOOD.
BREAK, BREAK, BREAK.
Break, break, break,
On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.
O well for the fisherman's boy,
That he shouts with his sister at play!
O well for the sailor-lad,
That he sings in his boat on the bay!
And the stately ships go on
To their haven under the hill;
But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still.
Break, break, break,
At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me.
ALFRED TENNYSON.
BINGEN ON THE RHINE.
A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers;
There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of
woman's tears;
But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebbed
away,
And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might say.
The dying soldier faltered, as he took that comrade's hand,'
And he said, " I nevermore shall see my own, my native land;
Take a message, and a token, to some distant friends of mine,
For I was born at Bingen, — at Bingen on the Rhine.
26 BINGEN ON THE KHINE.
"Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet and
crowd around,
To hear my mournful story, in the pleasant vineyard ground,
That we fought the battle bravely, and when the day was
done,
Full man}' a corse lay ghastly pale beneath the setting sun;
And, mid the dead and dying, were some grown old in wars, —
The death-wound on their gallant breasts, the last of many
scars;
And some were young, and suddenly beheld life's morn
decline, —
And one had come from Bingen, — fair Bingen on the Rhine.
" Tell my mother that her other son shall comfort her old age;
For I was still a truant bird, that thought his home a cage.
For ray father was a soldier, and even as a child
My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce
and wild;
And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard,
1 let them take whate'er they would, — but kept my father's
sword ;
And with boyish love I hung it, where the bright light used
to shine,
On the cottage wall at Bingen, — calm Bingen on the Rhine.
" Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping
head,
When the troops come marching home again with glad and
gallant tread,
But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye,
For her brother was a soldier too, and not afraid to die;
And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name
To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame,
And to hang the old sword in its place (my father's sword
and mine)
For the honor of old Bingen, — dear Bingen on the Rhine.
"There's another, — not a sister; in the happy days gone by
You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in
her eye;
Too innocent for coquetry, — too fond for idle scorning, —
O friend! I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest
mourning!
HOW SLEEP THE BEAYE. 27
Tell her the last night of my life (for, ere the moon be risen,
My body will be out of pain, my soul be out of prison), —
I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight shine
On the vine-clad hills of Bingen, — fair Bingen on the Rhine.
" I saw the blue Rhine sweep along, — I heard, or seemed to
hear,
The German songs we used, to sing, in chorus sweet and
clear;
And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill,
The echoing chorus sounded, through the evening calm and
still;
And her glad blue eyes were on me, as Ave passed, with
friendly talk, .
Down manv a path beloved of yore, and well-remembered
walk!
And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine, —
But we'll meet no more at Bingen, — loved Bingen on the
Rhine."
His trembling voice grew faint and hoarse, — his grasp was
childish weak, —
His eyes put on a dying look, — he sighed and ceased to
speak;
His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had fled, —
The soldier of the Legion in a foreign land is dead!
And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked
down
On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corses strewn ;
Yes, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seemed to
shine,
As it shone on distant Bingen, — fair Bingen on the Rhine.
CAROLINE E. K0IIT0N.
HOW SLEEP THE BRA YE.
How sleep the brave, who sink to rest
By all their country's wishes blessed!
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallowed mould,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.
28 A DEATH-BED.
By fairy hands their knell is rung;
By forms unseen their dirge is sung;
There Honor comes, a pilgrim grav,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
And Freedom shall awhile repair,
To dwell a weeping hermit there!
WILLIAM COLLINS
THE BANKS O' DOON.
Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,
How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair?
How can ye chant, ye little birds,
And I sae weary, fu' o' care?
Thou'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird,
That wantons through the flowering thorn;
Thou minds me o' departed joys,
Departed — never to return. ■
Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon,
To see the rose and woodbine twine;
And ilka bird sang o' its luve,
And, fondly, sae did I o' mine.
Wi' lightsome heart I pou'd a rose,
Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree;
And my fause luver stole my rose,
But ah! he left the thorn wi' me.
ROBERT BURNS.
A DEATH-BED.
Her suffering ended with the day;
Yet lived she at its close,
And breathed the long, long night away
In statue-like repose.
But when the sun, in all his state,
Illumed the eastern skies,
She passed through glory's morning-gate,
And walked in Paradise!
JAMES ALDRICH.
29
WE WATCHED HER BREATHING
We watched her breathing through the night,
Her breathing soft and low,
As in her breast the wave of life
Kept heaving to and fro.
So silently we seemed to speak,
So slowly moved about,
As we had lent her half our powers
To eke her living out.
Our very hopes belied our fears,
Our fears our hopes belied, —
We thought her dying when she slept,
And sleeping when she died.
For when the morn came dim and sad,
And chill with earlv showers,
Her quiet eyelids closed, — she had
Another morn than ours.
THOMAS HOOD.
"ROCK OF AGES."
" Rock of ages, cleft for me,"
Thoughtlessly the maiden sung,
Fell the words unconsciously
From her girlish, gleeful tongue,
Sung as little children sing,
Suno- as sing; the birds in June:
Fell the words like light leaves sown
On the current of the tune —
" Rock of ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee."
Felt her soul no need to hide —
Sweet the song as song could be
And she had no thought beside;
All the words unheedingly
Fell from lips untouched by care,
Dreaming not that each miorht be
On some other lips a prayer —
30 u EOCK J AGES
•• Rock of A^res, cleft for me,
L :-: me hide myself in The . *
: : Ages, rleft for me — "'
"Twas a woman sung them nc — .
Pleadingly and prayerfully;
Every word her heart did kn: — :
_ tose the song as storm- tossed bird
Beats with weary wing the air,
Every note with sorrow stirred,
Every syllable a prayer —
• ?. sk Ag 3S, :left for me,
It: me hide myself in T
: . Ages, left for me — "
Lips grown aged snng the hymn
Trustingly and tendf
weak and eyes grown dim —
Iri me hide myself in Thee."
Trembling through the ice, and low,
- 5 Train peacefully
As a river in its flow;
Sung as only they can sing,
Who life's thorny paths have pressed;
Song as only they san ; :ng
TTho behold the promised rest
-Rock of Arc?, cleft for me."
Sung above a conin-lid;
Underneath, all restfally
All life's cares and sorrows hid.
Nevermore, I storm-tossed soul,
Never more from wind or tide,
N e ver more from billow's roil
"Wilt thou need thyself to hide.
old the sightless, sunken eyes
Closed beneath the soft gray hair.
Could the mute and stiffened lips.
Move again in pleading prayer.
Still, aye still the words would be,
L tT me hide myself in Thee,"
."■zmfors.
OLD. 31
OLD.
Br the waj^side, on a mossy stone,
Sat a hoary pilgrim, sadly musing;
Oft I marked him sitting there alone,
All the landscape, like a page, perusing;
Poor, unknown,
By the wayside, on a mossy stone.
Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-brimmed hat;
Coat as ancient as the form 't was folding;
Silver buttons, queue, and crimped cravat;
Oaken staff his feeble hand upholding;
There he sat!
Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-brimmed hat.
Seemed it pitiful he should sit there,
No one sympathizing, no one heeding,
None to love him for his thin gray hair,
And the furrows all so mutely pleading
Age and care;
Seemed it pitiful he should sit there.
One sweet spirit broke the silent spell,
O, to me her name was always Heaven!
She besought him all his grief to tell,
(I was then thirteen, and she eleven,)
Isabel !
One sweet spirit broke the silent spell.
"Angel," said he sadly, "I am old;
Earthly hope no longer hath a m^row;
Yet, why I sit here thou shalt be t( 1 J."
Then his eye betrayed a pearl of sorrow,
Down k rolled !
" Angel," said he sadly, " I am old."
" I have tottered here to look once more
On the pleasant scene where I delighted
In the careless, happy days of yore,
Ere the garden of my heart was blighted
To the core !
I have tottered here to look once more.
32 OLD.
"Old stone school-house! — it is stiW the same;
There's the very step I so oft mounted;
There's the window creaking in its frame,
And the notches that I cut and counted
For the game.
Old stone school-house, it is still the same.
"In the cottage yonder I was born;
Long my happy home that humble dwelling;
There the fields of clover, wheat, and corn;
There the spring with limpid nectar swelling;
Ah, forlorn!
In the cottage yonder I was born.
" There's the mill that ground our yellow grain;
Pond and river still serenely flowing;
Cot there nestling in the shaded lane,
Where the lily of my heart was blowing,
Mary Jane!
There's the mill that ground our yellow grain.
There's the gate on which I used to swing,
Brook, and bridge, and barn, and old red stable;
But alas ! no more the morn shall bring
That dear group around my father's table;
Taken wing!
There's the gate on which I used to swing.
" I am fleeing, — all I loved have fled.
Yon green meadow was our place for playing;
That old tree can tell of sweet things said
When around it Jane and 1 were straying;
She is dead!
I am fleeing, — all I loved have fled.
" Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky,
Tracing silently life's changeful story,
So familiar to my dim old eye,
Points me to seven that are now in glory
There on high!
Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky.
" Oft the aisle of that old church we trod,
Guided thither by an angel mother;
THE SOXG OF THE CAMP. 33
Now she sleeps beneath its sacred sod;
Sire and sisters, and my little brother.
Gone to God!
Oft the aisle of that old church we trod.
" There my Mary blest me with her hand
When our souls drank in the nuptial blessing,
Ere she hastened to the spirit-land,
Yonder turf her gentle bosom pressing;
Broken band!
There my Mary blest me with her hand.
" I have come to see that grave once more,
And the sacred place where we delighted,
Where we worshipped in the days of yore,
Ere the garden of my heart was blighted
To the core!
I have come to see that grave once more.
"Angel," said he sadly, "I am old;
Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow,
Now, why I sit here thou hast been told."
In his eye another pearl of sorrow,
Down it rolled!
" Angel," said he sadly, " I am old."
By the wayside, on a mossy stone,
Sat the hoary pilgrim sadly musing;
Still I marked him sitting there alone,
All the landscape, like a page, perusing;
Poor, unknown!
By the wayside, on a mossy stone.
RALPH HOTT.
THE SONG OF THE CAMP.
AN INCIDENT OP THE CRIMEAN WAR.
tc Giye us a song! " the soldiers cried,
The outer trenches guarding,
When the heated guns of the camps allied
Grew weary of bombarding.
3
34 THE SONG OF THE CAMP.
The dark Redan v in silent scoff,
Lay, grim and threatening, under;
And the tawny mound of the Malakoff
No longer belched its thunder.
There was a pause. A guardsman said:
" We storm the forts to-morrow;
Sing while we may, another day
Will bring enough of sorrow."
They lay along the battery's side,
Below the smoking cannon;
Brave hearts, from Severn and from Clyde,
And from the banks of Shannon.
They sang of love, and not of fame;
Forgot was Britain's glory:
Each heart recalled a different name,
But all sang " Annie Laurie."
Voice after voice caught up the song,
Until its tender passion
Rose like an anthem, rich and strong, —
Their battle-eve confession.
Dear girl, her name he dared not speak,
But, as the song grew louder,
Something upon the soldier's cheek
Washed off the stains of powder.
Beyond the darkening ocean burned
The bloody sunset's embers,
While the Crimean valleys learned
How English love remembers.
And once again a fire of hell
Rained on the Russian quarters,
With scream of shot, and burst of shell,
And bellowing of the mortars!
And Irish Nora's eyes are dim
For a singer, dumb and gory;
And English Mary mourns for him
Who sang of " Annie Laurie."
THE LOST STEAMSHIP. 35
Sleep, soldiers! still in honored rest
Your truth and valor wearing:
The bravest are the tenderest, —
The loving are the daring.
BAYARD TAYLOR.
THE LOST STEAMSHIP.
"Ho, there! fisherman, hold your hand!
Tell me what is that far away —
There, where over the Isle of Sand
Hangs the mist-cloud sullen and gray?
See! it rocks with a ghastly life,
Rising and rolling through clouds of spray,
Right in the midst of the breakers' strife —
Tell me, what is it, Fisherman, pray?"
"That, good sir, was a steamer stout
As ever paddled around Cape Race,
And many's the wild and stormy bout
She had with the winds in that self-same place;
But her time had come; and at ten o'clock
Last night she struck on that lonesome shore,
And her sides were gnawed by the hidden rock,
And at dawn this morning she was no more."
" Come, as you seem to know, good man,
The terrible fate of this gallant ship,
Tell me all about her that you can, —
And here's my flask to moisten your lip.
Tell me how many she had on board —
Wives and husbands, and lovers true —
How did it fare with her human hoard,
Lost she many or lost she few?"
" Master, I may not drink of your flask,
Already too moist I feel my lip;
But I'm ready to do what else you ask,
And spin you my yarn about the ship:
'T was ten o'clock, as I said, last night,
When she struck the breakers and went ashore,
And scarce had broken the morning's light
Than she sank in twelve feet of water, or more.
36 THE LOST STEAMSHIP.
" But long ere this they knew their doom,
And the Captain called all hands to prayer;
And solemnly over the ocean's boom
The orisons rose on the troubled air.
And round about the vessel there rose
Tall plumes of spray as white as snow,
Like angels in their ascension clothes,
Waiting ibr those who prayed below.
" So those three hundred people clung
As well as they could to spar and rope;
With a word of prayer upon every tongue,
Nor on any face a glimmer of hope.
But there was no blubbering weak and wild —
Of tearful faces I saw but one,
A rough old salt, who cried like a child,
And not for himself, but the Captain's son.
" The Captain stood on the quarter-deck,
Firm but pale, with trumpet in hand,
Sometimes he looked on the breaking wreck,
Sometimes he sadly looked on land.
And often he smiled to cheer the crew —
But, Lord! the smile was terrible grim —
'Till over the quarter a huge sea flew,
And that was the last they saw of him.
"I saw one young fellow, with his bride,
Standing amidship upon the wreck;
His face was white as the boiling tide,
And she was clinging about his neck.
And I saw them try to say good-bye,
But neither could hear the other speak;
So they floated away through the sea to die —
Shoulder to shoulder, and cheek to cheek.
" And there was a child, but eight at best,
Who went his way in a sea we shipped,
All the while holding upon his breast
A little pet parrot whose wings were clipped.
And as the boy and the bird went by,
Swinging away on a tall wave's crest,
They were grappled by a man with a drowning cry;
And together the three went down to rest.
'tis the last rose of summee. 37
" And so the crew went one by one,
Some with gladness, and few with fear;
Cold and hardship such work had done
That few seemed frightened when death was near.
Thus every soul on board went down —
Sailor and passenger, little and great;
The last that sank was a man of my town,
A capital swimmer — the second mate."
" Now, lonely Fisherman, who are you,
That say you saw this terrible wreck?
How do I know what you say is true,
When every mortal was swept from the deck?
Where were you in that hour of death?
How do you know what you relate? "
His answer came in an under- breath —
" Master, I was the second mate! "
FITZ- JAMES O'BEIEN.
»T IS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER.
5 T is the last rose of summer,
Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone;
No flower of her kindred,
No rosebud, is nigh
To reflect back her blushes,
Or give sigh for sigh!
I '11 not leave thee, thou lone one!
To pine on the stem;
Since the lovely are sleeping,
Go, sleep thou with them;
Thus kindly I scatter
Thy leaves o'er the bed
Where thy mates of the garden
Lie scentless and dead.
So soon may I follow,
When friendships decay,
And from love's shining circle
The gems drop away!
38 DEATH OF POOE JO.
When true hearts lie withered,
And fond ones are flown,
O, who would inhabit
This bleak world alone?
THOMAS MOORE.
DEATH OF POOR JO.
Jo is very glad to see his old friend, and says, when they
are left alone, that he takes it uncommon kind as Mr.
Sangsby should come so far out of his way on accounts of
sich as him. Mr. Sangsby, touched by the spectacle before
him, immediately lays upon the table half a crown, — that
magic balm, of his for all kinds of wounds.
" And how do you find yourself, my poor lad ? " inquires
the stationer, with his cough of sympathy.
" I am in luck, Mr. Sangsby, I am," returns Jo, " and
don't want for nothink. I'm more cumf bier nor you can't
think. Mr. Sangsby ! I'm werry sorry that I done it, but I
did n't go fur to do it, sir."
The stationer softly lays down another half-crown, and
asks him what it is that he is so sorry for having done.
" Mr. Sangsby," says Jo, " I went and give a illness to the
lady as wos and yit as warn't the t'other lady, and none of 'em
never says nothink to me for having done it, on accounts of
their being ser good and my having been s' unfortnet. The
lady come herself and see me yesday, and she ses, 'Ah, Jo!'
she ses. 'We thought we'd lost you, Jo ! ' she ses. And she
sits down a smilin' so quiet, and don't pass a word nor yit a
look upon me for having done it, she don't, and I turns agin
the wall, I doos, Mr. Sangsby. And Mr. Jarnders, I see him
forced to turn away his own self. And Mr. Woodcot, he come
fur to giv me somethink for to ease me, wot he's alius a doin'
on day and night, and wen he come a bendin' over me and a
speakin' up so bold, I see his tears a fallin', Mr. Sangsby."
The softened stationer deposits another half-crown on the
table. Nothing less than a repetition of that infallible
remedy will relieve his feelings.
" Wot I wos a thinkin' on, Mr. Sangsby," proceeds Jo,
" wos, as you wos able to write wery large, p'r'aps ? "
" Yes, Jo, please God," returns the stationer.
" Uncommon precious large, p'r'aps ? " says Jo, with
eagerness.
DEATH OF POOR JO. 39
" Yes, my poor boy."
Jo laughs with pleasure. "Wot I was thinkin' on then,
Mr. Sangsby, wos, that wen I was moved on as fur as ever I
could go and could n't be moved no furder, whether you
might be so good, p'r'aps, as to write out, wery large so that
any one could see it anywheres, as that I wos wery truly
hearty sorry that I done it and that I never went fur to do
it; and that though I did n't know nothink at all$ I knowd
as Mr. Woodcot once cried over it and wos alius grieved
over it, and that I hoped as he'd be able to'forgiv me in his
mind. If the writin' could be made to say it wery large, he
might.
" It shall say it, Jo. Very large."
Jo laughs again. " Thank'ee, Mr. Sangsby. It's wery
kind of you, sir, and it makes me more cumfbler nor I was
afore."
The meek little stationer, with a broken and unfinished
cough, slips down his fourth half-crown, — he has never been
so close to a case requiring so many, — and is fain to depart.
And Jo and he upon this little earth shall meet no more.
No more.
For the cart, so hard to draw, is near its journey's end,
and drags over stony ground. All round the clock, it labors
up the broken steeps, shattered and worn. Not many times
can the sun rise, and behold it still upon its weary road.
Jo is in a sleep or stupor to-day, and Allan Woodcourt
newly arrived, stands by him, looking down upon his wasted
form. After a while, he softly seats himself upon the bed-
side with his face toward him, and touches his chest and
heart. The cart had very nearly given up, but labors on a
little more.
"Well, Jo? What is the matter? Don't be frightened."
"I thought," says Jo, who has started, and is looki no-
round, — " I thought I was in Tom-all-Alone's agin. An't
there nobody here but you, Mr. Woodcot ?"
" Nobody."
;t And I ain't took back to Tom-all-Alone's. Am I, sir ? "
" No."
Jo closes his eyes, muttering, " I'm wery thankful."
After watching him closely a little while, Allan puts his
mouth very near his ear, and says to him in a low, distinct
voice, —
" Jo! Did you ever know a prayer? "
40 DEATH OF POOR JO.
"JNever knowd notlnnk, sir."
" Not so much as one short prayer? "
" No, sir. Nothink at all. Mr. Chadbands he wos a
prayin' wunst at Mr. SaDgsby's, and I heerd him, but he
sounded as if he wos speakin' to hisself, and not to me. He
prayed a lot but I could n't make out nothink on it. Differ-
ent times there wos other genlmen come down Tom-all-
Alone's a prayin', but they all mostly sed as the t' other
wuns prayed wrong, and all mostly sounded to be a talking
to theirselves, or a passing blame on the t' others, and not a
talkin' to us. We never knowd nothink. I never knowd
what it wos all about."
It takes him a longtime to say this; and few but an exper-
ienced and attentive listener could hear, or, hearing, under-
stand him. After a short relapse into sleep or stupor, he
makes, of a sudden, a strong effort to get out of bed.
" Stay, Jo, stay! What now? "
"It 's time for me to goto that there berryin-ground, sir,"
he returns, with a wild look.
" Lie down, and tell me. What burying-ground, Jo?"
"Where they laid him as wos wery good to me; wery good
to me indeed, he wos. It 's time fur me to go down to that
there berryin-ground, sir, and ask to be put along with him.
I wants to go there and be berried. He used fur to say to
me, 1 1 am as poor as you to-day, Jo,' he ses. I wants to tell
him that I am as poor as him now, and have come there to
be laid along with him."
" By and by, Jo. By and by."
"Ah! PVaps they would n't do it if I wos to go myself.
But will you promise to have me took there, sir, and have
me laid along with him?"
"I will, indeed."
" Thank'ee, sir! Thank'ee, sir! They'll have to get the
key of the gate afore they can take me in, for it 's alius
locked. And there's a step there, as I used fur to clean with
my broom. It 's turned wery dark, sir. Is there any light
a comin'?"
" It is coming fast Jo."
Fast. The cart is shaken all to pieces, and the rugged
road is very near its end.
"Jo, my poor fellow! "
" I hear you, sir, in the dark, but I'm a gropin', — a gropin',
— let me catch hold of your hand."
41
"Jo, can you say what I say?"
" I'll say anythink as you say, sir, for I knows it 's good."
" Our Father."
" Our Father! — yes, that's wery good, sir."
" Which art in heaven."
" Art in Heaven — is the light a comin', sir? "
" It is close at hand. Hallowed be thy name! "
" Hallowed be — thy — name! "
The light is come upon the dark benighted way. Dead!
Dead, your Majesty. Dead, my lords and gentlemen.
Dead, Right Reverends and Wrong Reverends of every
order. Dead, men and women, born with heavenly compas-
sion in your hearts. And dying thus around us every day!
CHARLES DICKENS.
THE VOLUNTEER'S WIFE.
" An' sure I was tould to come to your Honor,
To see if ye'd write a few words to me Pat.
He's gone for a soldier, is Misther O'Connor,
Wid a sthripe on his arm and a band on his hat.
"An' vvhat'll ye tell him? It ought to be aisy
For sich as yer Honor to spake wid the pen, —
Jist say I'm all right, and that Mavoorneen Daisy
(The baby, yer Honor,) is betther again.
" For when he went off it's so sick was the childer
She niver held up her blue eyes to his face;
And when I'd be cryin' he'd look but the wilder,
An' say, 4 Would you wish for the counthry's disgrace? '
" So he left her in danger, and me sorely gratin',
To follow the flag wid an Irishman's joy; —
O, it 's often I drame of the big drums a batin',
An' a bullet gone straight to the heart of me boy.
"An' say will he send me a bit of his money,
For the rint an' the docther's bill due in a wake; —
Well, surely, there's tears on yer eye-lashes, honey!
Ah, faith, I've no right with such freedom to spake.
42 OUR FOLKS.
"You've overmuch trifling, I'll not give ye trouble,
I'll find some one willin' — O, what can it be?
What's that in the newspaper folded up double?
Yer Honor, don't hide it, but rade it to me.
" What, Patrick O'Connor! No, no, 't is some other!
Dead! dead! no, not him! 'Tis a wake scarce gone by.
Dead! dead! why, the kiss on the cheek of his mother,
It has n't had time yet, yer Honor to dry.
" Don't tell me ! It 's not him! O God, am I crazy?
Shot dead! O for love of sweet Heaven, say no.
O, what '11 I do in the world wid poor Daisy!
O, how will I live, an' O, where will I go!
44 The room is so dark, I 'm not seein' yer Honor,
I think I '11 go home — " And a sob thick and dry
Came sharp from the bosom of Mary O'Connor,
But never a tear-drop welled up to her eye.
M. A. DENNISON.
OUR FOLKS.
"Hi! Harry Holly! Halt— and tell
A fellow just a thing or two;
You 've had a furlough, been to see
How all the folks in Jersey do.
It's months ago since I was there, —
I, and a bullet from Fair Oaks;
When you were home, — old comrade, say,
Did you see any of our folks?
"You did? Shake hands, — O, ain't I glad;
For if I do look grim and rough,
I 've got some feelin' —
People think
A soldier's heart is mighty tough;
But, Harry, when the bullets fly,
And hot saltpetre flames and smokes,
While whole battalions lie afield,
One's apt to think about his folks.
OUR FOLKS. 43
"And so you saw them — when? and where?
The old man — is he hearty yet?
And mother — does she fade at all?
Or does she seem to pine and fret
For me? And Sis? — has she grown tall?
And did you see her friend — you know
That Annie Moss —
(How this pipe chokes!)
Where did you see her? — tell me, Hal,
A lot of news about our folks.
"You saw them in the church — yet say;
It 's likely, for they 're always there.
Not Sunday? no? A funeral? Who?
Who, Harry? how you shake and stare!
All well, you say, and all were out;
What ails you, Hal? Is this a hoax?
Why don't you tell me, like a man,
What is the matter with our folks ?
" I said all well, old comrade, true;
I say all well, for He knows best
Who takes the young ones in his arms,
Before the sun goes to the west.
The axe-man Death deals right and left,
And flowers fall as well as oaks;
And so —
Fair Annie blooms no more!
And that's the matter with your folks.
" See, this long curl was kept for you;
And this white blossom from her breast;
And here — your sister Bessie wrote
A letter, telling all the rest.
Bear up, old friend."
Nobody speaks;
Only the old camp raven croaks,
x\nd soldiers whisper:
" Boys, be still ;
There's some bad news from Grainger's folks."
He turns his back — the only foe
That ever saw it — on this grief,
44 the landlady's daughter.
And, as men will, keeps down the tears
Kind Nature sends to "Woe's relief.
Then answers he:
"Ah, Hal, I '11 try;
But in my throat there 's something chokes,
Because, you see, I' ve thought so long
To count her in among our folks.
" I s'pose she must be happy now,
But still I will keep thinking too,
I could have kept all trouble off,
By being tender, kind, and true.
But maybe not.
She 's safe up there,
And when the Hand deals other strokes,
She '11 stand by Heaven's gate, I know,
And wait to welcome in our folks."
ETHEL LYNN.
THE LANDLADY'S DAUGHTER.
Three students were traveling over the Rhine;
They stopped when they came to the landlady's sign;
"Good landlady, have you good beer and wine?
And where is that dear little daughter of thine? "
" My beer and wine are fresh and clear;
My daughter she lies on the cold death-bier! "
And when to the chamber they made their way,
There, dead, in a coal-black shrine, she lay.
The first he drew near, and the veil gently raised,
And on her pale face he mournfully gazed:
" Ah! wert thou but living yet," he said,
"I'd love thee from this time forth, fair maid! "
The second he slowly put back the shroud,
And turned him away and wept aloud:
"Ah! that thou liest in the cold death-bier!
Alas! I have loved thee for many a year! "
AULD EOBIN GRAY. 45
The third he once more uplifted the veil,
And kissed her upon her mouth so pale:
" Thee loved I always; I love still but thee;
And thee will I love through eternity! "
TJHLAND. [TRANSLATION OF J. S. DWIGHT.]
AULD ROBIN GRAY.
"When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at hame,
And a' the warld to sleep are gane;
The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my ee,
"When my gudeman lies sound by me.
Young Jamie loo'd me weel, and socht me for his bride;
But, saving a croun, he had naething else beside.
To mak that croun a pund, young Jamie gaed to sea;
And the croun and the pund were baith for me!
He hadna been awa a week but only twa,
When my mother she fell sick, and the cow was stown awa;
My father brak his arm, and young Jamie at the sea —
And auld Robin Gray cam' a-courtin' me.
My father cou'dna work, and my mother cou'dna spin;
I toiled day and nicht, but their bread I cou'dna win;
Auld Rob maintained them baith, and, wi' tears in his ee,
Said, "Jenny, for their sakes, oh marry me!"
My heart it said nay, for I looked for Jamie back;
But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wrack;
The ship it was a wrack! Why didna Jamie dee?
Or, why do I live to say, Wae's me?
My father argued sair — my mother didna speak,
But she lookit in my face till my heart was like to break;
Sae they gied him my hand, though my heart was in the sea;
And auld Robin Gray was gudeman to me.
I hadna been a wife, a week but only four,
When, sitting sae mournfully at the door,
I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I cou'dna think it he,
Till he said, "I'm come back for to marry thee!"
46 JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO.
Oh sair, sair did we greet, and muckle did we say;
We took bat ae kiss, and we tore ourselves away:
I wish I were dead, but I'm no like to dee;
And why do I live to say, Wae's me?
I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin;
I daurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin;
But I'll do my best a gude wife to be,
For auld Robin Gray is kind unto me.
LADY ANNE BARNARD.
JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO.
John Anderson, my jo, John,
When we were first acquent,
Your locks were like the raven,
Your bonnie brow was brent;
But now your brow is beld, John,
Your locks are like the snaw;
But blessings on your frosty pow,
John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John,
We clamb the hill thegither;
And mony a canty day, John,
We've had wi' ane anither.
Now we maun totter down, John,
But hand in hand we '11 go;
And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson, my jo.
ROBERT BURNS.
II. SOLEMNITY.
In the expression of solemnity three things are necessary:
First, Natural voice.
Second, Effusive utterance.
Third, Low pitch.
Here, as in pathetic reading, the natural voice and effu-
sive utterance are used, and the same care should be taken
to secure perfect purity of tone and a gentle continuous
emission of sound.
Low pitch can be easily secured by striking the pitch of
ordinary conversation, which is about the middle line of the
voice, and descending on the musical scale four notes. The
level of solemn expression will thus be reached, and with
freedom from harshness of tone, united with an effusive ut-
terance, the conditions of solemn reading will be fully met.
SOLEMN SELECTIONS.
THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS.
Somewhat back from the village street
Stands the old-fashioned country-seat.
Across its antique portico
Tall poplar-trees their shadows throw,
And from its station in the hall
An ancient timepiece says to all, —
" Forever — n ever !
Never — forever!"
48 THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS.
Half-way up the stairs it stands,
And points and beckons with its hands
From its case of massive oak,
Like a monk, who, under his cloak,
Crosses himself, and sighs, alas!
With sorrowful voice to all who pass, — -
" Forever — never!
Never — forever!"
By day its voice is low and light;
But in the silent dead of night,
Distinct as a passing footstep's fall,
It echoes along the vacant hall,
Along the ceiling, along the floor,
And seems to say, at each chamber-door,
" Forever — never!
Never — forever!"
Through days of sorrow and of mirth,
Through days of death and days of birth,
Through every swift vicissitude
Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood,
And as if, like God, it all things saw,
It calmly repeats those words of awe, —
" Forever — never!
Never — forever!"
In that mansion used to be
Free-hearted Hospitality;
His great fires up the chimney roared;
The stranger feasted at his board;
But, like the skeleton at the feast,
That warning timepiece never ceased,
" Forever — never!
Never — forever!"
There groups of merry children played,
There youths and maidens dreaming strayed;
O precious hoars ! O golden prime!
And affluence of love and time!
Even as a miser counts his gold,
Those hours the ancient timepiece told, —
" Forever — never!
Never — forever!"
THE LAST LEAF. 49
From that chamber, clothed in white,
The bride came forth on her wedding night;
There, in that silent room below,
The dead lay in his shroud of snow;
And in the hush that followed the prayer,
Was heard the old clock on the stair, —
" Forever — never!
Never — forever!"
All are scattered now and fled,
Some are married, some are dead;
And when I ask, with throbs of pain,
"Ah ! when shall they all meet again?"
As in the days long since gone by,
The ancient timepiece makes reply, —
" Forever — never!
Never — forever!"
Never here, forever there,
Where all parting, pain and care,
And death and time shall disappear, —
Forever there, but never here!
The horologe of eternity
Sayeth this incessantly, —
" Forever — never!
Never — forever!"
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
THE LAST LEAF.
I saw him once before,
As he passed by the door;
And again
The pavement-stones resound
As he totters o'er the ground
With his cane.
They say that in his prime,
Ere the pruning-knife of time
Cut him down,
Not a better man was found
By the crier on his round
Through the town.
50 THE LAST LEAF.
But now he walks the streets,
And he looks at all he meets
So forlorn ;
And he shakes his feeble head,
That it seems as if he said,
" They are gone."
The mossy marbles rest
On the lips that he has pressed
In their bloom;
And the names he loved to hear
Have been carved for many a year
On the tomb.
My grandmamma has said —
Poor old lady! she is dead
Long ago —
That he had a Roman nose,
And his cheek was like a rose
In the snow.
But now his nose is thin,
And it rests upon his chin
Like a staff;
And a crook is in his back,
And a melancholy crack
In his laugh.
I know it is a sin
For me to sit and grin
At him here,
But the old three-cornered hat,
And the breeches, — and all that,
Are so queer!
And if I should live to be
The last leaf upon the tree
In the spring,
Let them smile, as I do now,
At the old forsaken bough
Where I cling.
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
THANATOPSIS. 51
THANATOPSIS.
To him who, in the love of Nature, holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language: for his gayer hours
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
And eloquence of beauty; and she glides
Into his darker musings with a mild
And gentle sympathy, that steals away
Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
Over thy spirit, and sad images
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall.
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart,
Go forth under the open sky, and list
To Nature's teachings, while from all around —
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air —
Comes a still voice, — Yet a few days and thee
The all-beholding sun shall see no more
In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,
Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist
Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again;
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
Thine individual being, shalt thou go
To mix forever with the elements;
To be a brother to the insensible rock,
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.
Yet not to thine eternal resting-place
Shalt thou retire alone, — nor couldst thou wish
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
With patriarchs of the infant world, — with kings,
The powerful of the earth, — the wise, the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills,
Rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun; the vales
Stretching in pensive quietness between;
The venerable woods; rivers that move
h% THANATOrSIS.
In majesty, and the complaining brooks,
That make the meadows green; and, poured round all,
Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste, —
Are but the solemn decorations all
Of the great tomb of man! The golden sun,
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,
Are shining on the sad abodes of death,
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings
Of morning, traverse Barca's desert sands,
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound
Save his own dashings, — yet the dead are there!
And millions in those solitudes, since first
The flight of years began, have laid them down
In their last sleep, — the dead reign there alone!
So shalt thou rest; and what if thou withdraw
In silence from the living, and no friend
Take note of thy departure? All that breathe
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh i
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care 1
Plod on, and each one, as before, will chase
His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come
And make their bed with thee. As the long train
Of ages glide away, the sons of men —
The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes
In the full strength of years, matron and maid,
And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man —
Shall, one by one, be gathered to thy side
By those who in their turn shall follow them.
So live, that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan that moves
To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.
WILLIAM CULLEN BEYANT.
THE BLUE AND THE GRAY. 53
THE RAINY DAY.
The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
And the day is dark and dreary.
My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past,
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,
And the days are dark and dreary.
Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall,
Some days must be dark and dreary.
HENRY WADSWOETH LONGFELLOW.
THE BLUE AND THE GRAY.
[The women of Columbus, Mississippi, animated by nobler sentiments than
are many of their sisters, have shown themselves impartial in their offerings
made to the memory of the dead. They strewed flowers alike on the graves of
the Confederate and of the National soldiers.]
By the flow of the inland river,
Whence the fleets of iron have fled,
Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver
Asleep are the ranks of the dead; —
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment day; —
Under the one, the Blue;
Under the other, the Gray.
These in the robings of glory,
Those in the gloom of defeat,
All with the battle-blood gory,
In the dusk of eternity meet; —
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment day; —
54 THE BLUE A:NT> THE GBAY.
Under the laurel, the Blue;
Under the willow, the Gray.
From the silence of sorrowful hours
The desolate mourners go,
Lovingly laden with flowers
Alike for the friend and the foe; —
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment day; —
Under the roses, the Blue;
Under the lilies, the Gray.
So with an equal splendor
The morning sun-rays fall,
With a touch, impartially tender,
On the blossoms blooming for all; —
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment day; — -
'Broidered with gold, the Blue;
Mellowed with gold, the Gray.
So, when the summer calleth,
On forest and field of grain,
With an equal murmur falleth
The cooling drip of the rain; —
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment day; —
Wet with the rain, the Blue;
Wet with the rain, the Gray.
Sadly, but not with upbraiding,
The generous deed was done;
In the storm of the years that are fading,
No braver battle was won; —
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment day; —
Under the blossoms, the Blue;
Under the garlands, the Gray.
No more shall the war-cry sever,
Or the winding rivers be red;
They banish our anger forever
When they laurel the graves of our dead!
THE DAY IS DONE.
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment day; —
Love and tears for the Blue;
Tears and love for the Gray.
55
F. M. FINCH.
THE DAY IS DONE.
The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.
I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me
That my soul cannot resist:
A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.
Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.
Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of Time.
For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life's endless toil and endeavor;
And to-night I long for rest.
Read from some humbler poet,
Whose songs gushed from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start;
56 THE BRIDGE.
"Who, through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.
Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.
Then read from the treasured volume
The poem of thy choice,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.
And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares, that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.
HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW.
THE BRIDGE.
I stood on the bridge at midnight,
As the clocks were striking the hour,
And the moon rose o'er the city,
Behind the dark church-tower.
I saw her bright reflection
In the waters under me,
Like a golden goblet falling
And sinking into the sea.
And far in the hazy distance
Of that lovely night in June,
The blaze of the flaming furnace
Gleamed redder than the moon.
Among the long, black rafters
The wavering shadows lay,
And the current that came from the ocean
Seemed to lift and bear them away;
THE BEIDGE. 5?
As, sweeping and eddying through them,
Rose the belated tide,
And, streaming into the moonlight,
The sea-weed floated wide.
And like those waters rushing
Among the wooden piers,
A flood of thoughts came o'er me
That filled my eyes with tears.
How often, O how often,
In the days that had gone by,
I had stood on that bridge at midnight,
And gazed on that wave and sky!
How often, O how often,
I had wished that the ebbing tide
Would bear me away on its bosom
O'er the ocean wild and wide!
For my heart was hot and restless,
And my life was full of care,
And the burden laid upon me
Seemed greater than I could bear.
But now it has fallen from me,
It is buried in the sea;
And only the sorrow of others
Throws its shadow over me.
Yet whenever I cross the river
On its bridge with wooden piers,
Like the odor of brine from the ocean
Comes the thought of other years.
And I think how many thousands
Of care-encumbered men,
Each bearing his burden of sorrow,
Have crossed the bridge since then.
I see the long procession
Still passing to and fro,
The young heart hot and restless,
And the old subdued and slow!
58 S0EE0W FOE THE DEAD.
And forever and forever,
As long- as the river flows,
As long as the heart has passions,
As long as life has woes:
The moon and its broken reflection
And its shadows shall appear,
As the symbol of love in heaven,
And its wavering image here.
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
SORROW FOR THE DEAD.
The sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which
we refuse to be divorced. Every other wound we seek
to heal, every other affliction to forget; but this wound we
consider it a duty to keep open; this affliction we cherish
and brood over in solitude. Where is the mother who would
willingly forget the infant that perished like a blossom from
her arms, though every recollection is a pang? Where is
the child that would willingly forget the most tender of
parents, though to remember be but to lament? Who, even
in the hour of agony, would forget the friend over whom he
mourns? Who, even when the tomb is closing upon the
remains o£ her he most loved — when he feels his heart, as it
were, crushed in the closing of its portals — would accept of
consolation that must be bought by forgetfulness?
No, the love which survives the tomb is one of the noblest
attributes of the soul. If it has its woes, it has likewise its
delights; and when the overwhelming burst of grief is calmed
into the gentle tear of recollection; when the sudden anguish
and the convulsive agony over the present ruins of all that
we most loved is softened away into pensive meditation on
all that it was in the days of its loveliness, who would root
out such a sorrow from his heart? Though it may sometimes
throw a passing cloud over the bright hour of gayety, or
spread a deeper sadness over the hour of gloom, yet who
would exchange it, even for the song of pleasure, or the
burst of revelry?
No, there is a voice from the tomb sweeter than song.
There is a remembrance of the dead to which we turn, even
from the charms of the living. Oh, the grave! the grave!
SORROW FOR THE DEAD. 59
It buries every error, covers every defect, extinguishes every
resentment! From its peaceful bosom spring none but fond
regrets and tender recollections. Who can look down, even
upon the grave of an enemy, and not feel a compunctious
throb, that he should ever have warred with the poor handful
of earth that lies mouldering before him?
But the grave of those we loved, what a place for medita-
tion! There it is that we call up in long review the whole
history of virtue and gentleness, and the thousand endear-
ments lavished upon us, almost unheeded in the daily inter-
course of intimacy; there it is that we dwell upon the ten-
derness, the solemn, awful tenderness of the parting scene;
the bed of death, with all its stifled griefs, its noiseless
attendance, its mute, watchful assiduities. The last testi-
monies of expiring love! the feeble, fluttering, thrilling, —
oh, how thrilling! — pressure of the hand. The faint, falter-
ing accents, struggling in death to give one more assurance
of affection! The last fond look of the glazing eye, turning
upon us even from the threshold of existence! Ay, go to
the grave of buried love and meditate. There settle the
account with thy conscience for every past benefit unre-
quited, every past endearment unregarded, of that departed
being who can never, never, never return to be soothed by
thy contrition.
If thou art a child, and hast ever added a sorrow to the
soul, or a furrow to the silvered brow of an affectionate
parent; if thou art a husband, and hast ever caused the fond
bosom that ventured its whole happiness in thy arms to
doubt one moment of thy kindness or thy truth; if thou
art a friend, and hast ever wronged, in thought, or word, or
deed, the spirit that generously confided in thee; if thou art
a lover, and hast ever given one unmerited pang to that true
heart that«now lies cold and still beneath thy feet; — then be
sure that every unkind look, every ungracious word, every
ungentle action will come thronging back upon thy memory,
and knock dolefully at thy soul; then be sure that thou
wilt lie down sorrowing and repentant in the grave, and
utter the unheard groan, and pour the unavailing tear, more
deep, more bitter, because unheard and unavailing.
Then weave thy chaplet of flowers, and strew the beau-
ties of nature about the grave; console thy broken spirit, if
thou canst, with these tender, yet futile tributes of regret;
but take war.iing by the bitterness of this thy contrite afnic-
60 FUNERAL HYMN.
tion over the dead, and henceforth be more faithful and
affectionate in the discharge of tlry duties to the living.
WASHINGTON IRVING.
FUNERAL HYMN.
How still and peaceful is the grave,
Where, — life's vain tumults past, —
The appointed house, by Heaven's decree,
Receives us all at last!
The wicked there from troubling cease, —
Their passions rage no more;
And there the weary pilgrim rests
From all the toils he bore.
All, leveled by the hand of death,
Lie sleeping in the tomb,
Till God in judgment call them forth
To meet their final doom.
JAMES MONTGOMERY.
m SEKEKETY, BEAUTY, LOVE.
The requirements are,
First — Natural voice.
Second — Effusive utterance.
Third— High pitch.
The pleasant effect produced by this combination was
called by the Ancients, the " Silvery tone." The quietude
and delicacy of this class of selections demand' especial care
in securing a pure, musical and effusive quality of voice.
The more pure, gentle and continuous the tones can be made,
the more effective and pleasant will be the results of the read
ing.
To secure high pitch let the voice ascend the musical scale
four notes, beginning with the pitch of ordinary conversa-
tion.
SELECTIONS OF SEKENITY, BEAUTY, LOYE.
ENDYMION.
The rising moon has hid the stars;
Her level rays, like golden bars,
Lie on the landscape green,
With shadows brown between.
And silver white the river gleams,
As if Diana, in her dreams,
Had dropt her silver bow
Upon the meadows low.
62 THE VALE OF CASHMERE.
On such a tranquil night as this,
She woke Endymion with a kiss,
When sleeping in the grove,
He dreamed not of her love.
Like Dian's kiss unasked, unsought,
Love gives itself, but is not bought;
Nor voice, nor sound betrays
Its deep, impassioned gaze.
It comes, — the beautiful, the free,
The crown of all humanity, —
In silence and alone
To seek the elected one.
It lifts the boughs, whose shadows deep,
Are Life's oblivion, the soul's sleep,
And kisses the closed eyes
Of him, who slumbering lies.
O weary hearts! O slumbering eyes!
O drooping souls, whose destinies
Are fraught with fear and pain,
Ye shall be loved again!
No one is so accursed by fate,
No one so utterly desolate,
But some heart, though unknown,
Responds unto his own.
Responds, — as if with, unseen wings,
An angel touched its quivering strings;
And whispers, in its song,
" Where hast thou stayed so long! "
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
THE VALE OF CASHMERE.
Who has not heard of the Vale of Cashmere,
With its roses the brightest that earth ever gave,
Its temples and grottos, and fountains as clear
As the love-lighted eyes that hang over their wave?
THE BELLS OF SHANDON. 63
>
O, to see it at sunset, — when warm o'er the lake
Its splendor at parting a summer eve throws,
Like a bride, full of blushes, when lingering to take
A last look of her mirror at night ere she goes! —
When the shrines through the foliage are gleaming half
shown,
And each hallows the hour by some rites of its own.
Here the music of prayer from a minaret swells,
Here the Magian his urn full of perfume is swinging,
And here, at the altar, a zone of sweet bells
Round the waist of some fair Indian dancer is ringing.
Or to see it by moonlight, — when mellowly shines
The light o'er its palaces, gardens, and shrines;
When the waterfalls gleam like a quick fall of stars,
And the nightingale's hymn from the Isle of Chenars
Is broken by laughs and light echoes of feet
From the cool shining walks where the young people meet.
Or at morn, when the magic of daylight awakes
A new wonder each minute as slowly it breaks,
Hills, cupolas, fountains, called forth every one
Out of darkness, as they were just born of the sun.
When the spirit of fragrance is up with the day,
From his harem of night-flowers stealing away;
And the wind, full of wantonness, woos like a lover
The young aspen-trees till they tremble all over.
When the east is as warm as the light of first hopes,
And day, with its banner of radiance unfurled,
Shines in through the mountainous portal that opes,
Sublime, from that valley of bliss to the world!
THOMAS MOOKE.
THE BELLS OF SHANDON.
With deep affection
And recollection
I often think of
Those Shandon bells,
Whose sounds so wild would,
In the days of childhood,
Fling round my cradle
Their magic spells.
64: THE BELLS OF SHANDON.
On this I ponder
Where'er I wander,
And thus grow fonder,
Sweet Cork, of thee, —
With thy bells of Shandon,
That sound so grand on
The pleasant waters
Of the river Lee.
I Ve heard bells chiming
Full many a clime in,
Tolling sublime in.
Cathedral shrine,
While at a glibe rate
Brass tongues would vibrate;
But all their music
Spoke naught like thine.
For memory, dwelling
On each proud swelling
Of thy belfry, knelling
Its bold notes free,
Made the bells of Shandon
Sound far more grand on
The pleasant waters
Of the river Lee.
I 've heard bells tolling
Old Adrian's Mole in,
Their thunder rolling
From the Vatican, —
And cymbals glorious
Swinging uproarious
In the gorgeous turrets
Of Notre Dame;
But thy sounds were sweeter
Than the .dome of Peter
Flings o'er the Tiber,
Pealing solemnly.
Oh! the bells of Shandon
Sound far more grand on
The pleasant waters
Of the river Lee.
DRIFTING. 06
There's a bell in Moscow;
"While on tower and kiosk O
In St. Sophia
The Turkman gets,
And loud in air
Calls men to prayer,
From the tapering summit
Of tall minarets.
Such empty phantom
I freely grant them;
But there's an anthem
More dear to me, —
'T is the bells of Shandon,
That sound so grand On
The pleasant waters
Of the river Lee.
FATHER PKOUT (FRANCIS MAHONV).
DRIFTING.
My soul to-day
Is far away,
Sailing the Vesuvian Bay;
My winged boat,
A bird afloat,
Swims round the purple peaks remote: —
Round purple peaks
It sails, and seeks
Blue inlets, and their crystal creeks,
Where high rocks throw,
Through deeps below,
A duplicated golden glow.
Far, vague and dim,
The mountains swim:
While on Vesuvius' misty brim,
With outstretched hands,
The gray smoke stands
O'erlooking the volcanic lands.
66 DRIFTING.
Here Ischia smiles
O'er liquid miles;
And yonder, bluest of the isles,
Calm Capri waits,
Her sapphire gates
Beguiling to her bright estates.
I heed not, if
My rippling skiff
Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff; -—
With dreamful eyes
My spirit lies
Under the walls of Paradise.
Under the walls-
Where swells and falls
The Bay's deep breast at intervals,
At peace I lie,
Blown softly by,
A cloud upon this liquid sky.
The day, so mild,
Is Heaven's own child,
With Earth and Ocean reconciled; —
The airs I feel
Around me steal
Are murmuring: to the murmuring keel.
Over the rail
My hand I trail
Within the shadow of the sail,
A joy intense,
The cooling sense,
Glides down my drowsy indolence.
With dreamful eyes
My spirit lies
Where Summer sings and never dies,—
O'erveiled with vines,
She glows and shines
Among her future oil and wines.
Her children hid
The cliffs amid,
Are gambolling with the gambolling kid;
DICKENS IN CAMP. 67
Or down the walls,
With tipsy calls,
Laugh on the rocks like waterfalls.
The fisher's child,
With tresses wild,
Unto the smooth, bright sand beguiled,
With glowing lips
Sings as she skips,
Or gazes at the far-off ships.
Yon deep bark goes
Where traffic blows,
From lands of sun to lands of snows; —
This happier one,
Its course is run
From lands of snow to lands of sun.
Oh, happy ship,
To rise and dip,
With the blue crystal at your lip!
Oh, happy crew,
My heart with you
Sails, and sails, and sings anew!
No more, no more
The worldly shore
Upbraids me with its loud uproar!
With dreamful eyes
My spirit lies
Under the walls of Paradise.
THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.
DICKENS IN CAMP.
Above the pines the moon was slowly drifting,
The river sang below;
The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting
Their minarets of snow.
The roaring camp-fire, with rude humor, painted
The ruddy tints of health
68 DICKENS IN CAMP.
On haggard face and form that drooped and fainted
In the fierce race for wealth;
Till one arose, and from his pack's scant treasure
A hoarded volume drew,
And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure,
To hear the tale anew;
And then, while round them shadows gathered faster,
And as the firelight fell,
He read aloud the book wherein the Master
Had writ of " Little Nell."
Perhaps 'twas boyish fancy, — for the reader
Was youngest of them all, —
But, as he read, from clustering pine and cedar
A silence seemed to fall;
The fir-trees, gathering closer in the shadows,
Listened in every spray,
While the whole camp, with " Nell," on English meadows
Wandered and lost their way.
And so in mountain solitudes — o'ertaken
As by some spell divine —
Their cares dropped from them like the needles shaken
From out the gusty pine.
Lost is that camp, and wasted all its fire;
And he who wrought that spell, — ■
Ah, towering pine and stately Kentish spire,
Ye have one tale to tell!
Lost is that camp! but let its fragrant story
Blend with the breath that thrills
With hop-vines' incense all the pensive glory
That fills the Kentish hills.
And on that grave where English oak and holly
And laurel wreaths intwine,
Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly,
This spray of Western pine.
BRET HARTE.
EVANGELINE ON THE PKAIRIE. 69
EVANGELINE ON THE PRAIRIE.
Beautiful was the night. Behind the black wall of the
forest,
Tipping its summit with silver, arose the moon. On the
river
Fell here and there through the branches a tremulous gleam
of the moonlight,
Like the sweet thoughts of love on a darkened and devious
spirit.
Nearer and round about her, the manifold flowers of the
garden
Poured out their souls in odors, that were their prayers and
confessions
Unto the night, as it went its way, like a silent Carthusian.
Fuller of fragrance than they, and as heavy with shadows
and night- dews,
Hung the heart of the maiden. The calm and the magical
moonlight
Seemed to inundate her soul with indefinable longings,
As, through the garden gate, and beneath the shade of the
oak-trees,
Passed she along the path to the edge of the measureless
prairie.
Silent it lay, with a silvery haze upon it, and fire-flies
Gleaming and floating away in mingled and infinite numbers.
Over her head the stars, the thoughts of God in the heavens,
Shone on the eyes of mart, who had ceased to marvel and
worship,
Save when a blazing comet was seen on the walls of that
temple,
As if a hand had appeared and written upon them
"Upharsin."
And the soul of the maiden, between the stars and the fire-
flies,
Wandered alone, and she cried, "O, Gabriel! O, my be-
loved!
Art thou so near unto me, and yet I cannot behold thee!
Art thou so near unto me, and yet thy voice does not reach
me?
Ah! how often thy feet have trod this path to the prairie!
Ah! how often thine eyes have looked on the woodlands
around me!
70 the soldier's dream.
Ah! bow often beneath this oak, returning from labor,
Thou hast lain down to rest, and to dream of me in thy
slumbers.
When shall these eyes behold, these arms be folded about
thee?"
Loud and sudden and near the note of a whippoorwill
sounded,
Like a flute in the woods; and anon, through the neighbor-
ing thickets,
Farther and farther away it floated and dropped into silence.
"Patience!" whispered the oaks from oracular caverns of
darkness;
And, from the moonlit meadow, a sigh responded, "To-
morrow!"
HENRY WADSWOETH LONGFELLOW.
THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.
Our bugles sang truce, — for the night-cloud had lowered,
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky;
And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered,
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.
When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,
By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain;
At the dead of the night a sweet vision T saw,
And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.
Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array,
Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track:
'Twas autumn, — and sunshine arose on the way
To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.
I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft
In life's morning march, when my bosom was young;
1 heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,
And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.
Then pledged we the wine-cup; and fondly I swore,
From my home and my weeping friends never to part;
My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er,
And my wife sobbed aloud in her fullness of heart.
THE REAPER'S DREAM. 71
"Stay, stay with us, — rest, thou art weary and worn ";
And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay; —
But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn,
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.
THOMAS CAMPBELL.
THE REAPER'S DREAM.
The road was lone; the grass was dank
With night-dews on the briery bank
Whereon a weary reaper sank.
His garb was old; his visage tanned;
The rusty sickle in his hand
Could find no work in all the land.
He saw the evening's chilly star
Above his native vale afar;
A moment on the horizon's bar
It hung, then sank, as with a sigh;
And there the crescent moon went by,
An empty sickle down the sky.
To soothe his pain, Sleep's tender palm
Laid on his brow its touch of balm;
His brain received the slumberous calm:
And soon that angel without name,
Her robe a dream, her face the same,
The giver of sweet visions came.
She touched his eyes; no longer sealed,
They saw a troop of reapers wield
Their swift blades in a ripened field.
At each thrust of their snowy sleeves
A thrill ran through the future sheaves
Rustling like rain on forest leaves.
They were not brawny men who bowed,
With harvest voices rough and loud,
But spirits, moving as a cloud.
Like little lightnings in their hold,
The silver sickles manifold
Slid musically through the gold.
72 the reaper's dream.
O, bid the morning stars combine
To match the chorus clear and fine,
That rippled lightly down the line, —
A cadence of celestial rhyme,
The language of that cloudless clime,
To which their shining hands kept time!
Behind them lay the gleaming rows,
Like those long clouds the sunset shows
On amber meadows of repose;
But, like a wind, the binders bright
Soon followed in their mirthful might,
And swept them into sheaves of light.
Doubling the splendor of the plain,
There rolled the great celestial wain,
To gather in the fallen grain.
Its frame was built of golden bars;
Its glowing wheels were lit with stars;
The royal Harvest's car of cars.
The snowy yoke that drew the load,
On gleaming hoofs of silver trode;
And music was its only goad.
To no command of word or beck
It moved, and felt no other check
Than one white arm laid on the neck, —
The neck, whose light was overwound
With bells of lilies, ringing round
Their odors till the air was drowned:
The starry foreheads meekly borne,
"With garlands looped from horn to horn,
Shone like the many-colored morn.
The field was cleared. Home went the bands,
Like children, linking happy hands,
While singing through their father's lands;
Or, arms about each other thrown,
With amber tresses backward blown,
They moved as they were music's own.
The vision brightening more and more,
He saw the garner's glowing door,
And sheaves, like sunshine, strew the floor, —
the reaper's dream. 73
The floor was jasper, — golden flails,
Swift-sailing as a whirlwind sails,
Throbbed mellow music down the vales.
He saw the mansion, — all repose, —
Great corridors and porticos,
Propped with the columns, shining rows;
And these — for beauty was the rule —
The polished pavements, hard and cool,
Redoubled, like a crystal pool.
And there the odorous feast was spread;
The fruity fragrance widely shed
Seemed to the floating music wed.
Seven angels, like the Pleiad seven,
Their lips to silver clarions given,
Blew welcome round the Avails of heaven.
In skyey garments, silky thin,
The glad retainers floated in
A thousand forms, and yet no din:
And from the visage of the Lord,
Like splendor from the Orient poured,
A smile illumined all the board.
Far flew the music's circling sound;
Then floated back, with soft rebound,
To join, not mar, the converse round, —
Sweet notes, that, melting, still increased,
Such as ne'er cheered the bridal feast
Of king in the enchanted East.
Did any great door ope or close,
It seemed the birth-time of repose,
The faint sound died where it arose;
iVnd they who passed from door to door,
Their soft feet on the polished floor
Met their soft shadows, — nothing more.
Then once again the groups were drawn
Through corridors, or down the lawn,
Which bloomed in beauty like a dawn.
Where countless fountains leapt alway,
Veiling their silver heights in spray,
The choral people held their way.
74 PASSING AWAY.
There, midst the brightest, brightly shone
Dear forms he loved in years agone, —
The earliest loved, — the earliest flown.
He heard a mother's sainted tongue, ,
A sister's voice, who vanished young,
While one still dearer sweetly sung!
No further might the scene unfold;
The gazer's voice could not withhold;
The very rapture made him bold:
He cried aloud, with clasped hands,
"O happy fields! O happy bands!
Who reap the never-failing lands.
" O master of these broad estates,
Behold, before your very gates
A worn and wanting laborer waits!
Let me but toil amid your grain,
Or be a gleaner on the plain,
So I may leave these fields of pain!
"A gleaner, I will follow far,
With never look or word to mar,
Behind the Harvest's yellow car;
All day my hand shall constant be,
And every happy eve shall see
The precious burden borne to thee!"
At morn some reapers neared the place,.
Strong men, whose feet recoiled apace;
Then gathering round the upturned face,
They saw the lines of pain and care,
Yet read in the expression there
The look as of an answered prayer.
THOMAS BUCHANAN BEAD.
PASSING AWAY.
Was it the chime of a tiny bell
That came so sweet to my dreaming ear,
Like the silvery tones of a fairy's shell,
That he winds on the beach so mellow and clear,
PASSING AWAY. 75
When the winds and the waves lie together asleep,
And the moon and the fairy are watching the deep,
She dispensing her silvery light,
And he his notes as silvery quite,
While the boatman listens and ships his oar,
To catch the music that comes from the shore? —
Hark! the notes on my ear that play,
Are set to words: as they float, they say,
" Passing away! passing away! "
But, no; it was not a fairy's shell,
Blown on the beach, so mellow and clear:
Nor was it the tongue of a silver bell
Striking the hours that fell on my ear,
As I lay in my dream: yet was it a chime
That told of the flow of the stream of Time;
For a beautiful clock from the ceiling hung,
And a plump little girl for a pendilum, swung;
(As you've sometimes seen, in a little ring '
That hangs in his cage, a canary bird swing;)
And she held to her bosom a budding bouquet-^,
And as she enjoyed it, she seemed to say,
"Passing away! passing away! "
Oh, how bright were the wheels, that told
Of the lapse of time as they moved round slow!
And the hands as they swept o'er the dial of gold,
Seemed to point to the girl below.
And lo! she had changed; — in a few short hours,
Her bouquet had become a garland of flowers,
That she held in her outstretched hands, and flung
This way and that, as she, dancing, swung
In the fullness of grace and womanly pride,
That told me she soon was to be a bride;
Yet then, when expecting her happiest day,
In the same sweet voice I heard her say,
" Passing away! passing away! "
While I gazed on that fair one's cheek, a shade
Of thought, or care, stole softly over,
Like that by a cloud in a summer's day made,
Looking down on a field of blossoming clover.
The rose yet lay on her cheek, but its flush
Had something lost of its brilliant blush;
76 SLEEP.
And the light in her eye, and the light on the wheels,
That marched so calmly round above her,
Was a little dimmed — as when evening steals
Upon noon's hot face: — yet one couldn't but love her;
For she looked like a mother whose first babe lay
Rocked on her breast, as she swung all day;
' And she seemed in the same silver tone to say,
" Passing away! passing away! "
While yet I looked, what a change there came!
Her eye was quenched, and her cheek was wan;
Stooping and staffed was her withered frame,
Yet just as busily swung she on:
The garland beneath her had fallen to dust;
The wheels above her were eaten with rust;
The hands, that over the dial swept,
Grew crook'd and tarnished, but on they kept;
And still there came that silver tone
From the shriveled lips of the toothless crone,
(Let me never forget, to my dying day,
The tone or the burden of that lay) —
" Passing away! passing away! "
john pierpont.
SLEEP.
Of all the thoughts of God that are
Borne inward unto souls afar,
Among the Psalmist's music deep,
Now tell me if that any is
For gift or grace surpassing this, — ■
"He giveth his beloved sleep"?
What would we give to our 'beloved?
The hero's heart, to be unmoved, —
The poet's star-tuned harp, to sweep, —
The patriot's voice, to teach and rouse, —
The monarch's crown, to light the brows?
" He giveth his beloved sleep."
What do we give to our beloved?
A little faith, all undisproved, —
A little dust, to overweep, —
SANDALPHON. 77
And bitter memories, to make
The whole earth blasted for our sake,
" He giveth his beloved sleep."
" Sleep soft, beloved! " we sometimes say,
But have no tune to charm away-
Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep;
But never doleful dream again
Shall break the happy slumber when
" He giveth his beloved sleep."
O earth, so full of dreary noises!
O men, with wailing in your voices!
O delved gold the wailers heap!
O strife, O curse, that o'er it fall!
God strikes a silence through you all,
And " giveth his beloved sleep."
His dews drop mutely on the hill,
His cloud above it saileth still,
Though on its slope men sow and reap;
More softly than the dew is shed,
Or cloud is floated overhead,
" He giveth his beloved sleep."
For me, my heart, that erst did go
Most like a tired child at a show,
That sees through tears the mummers leap,
Would now its wearied vision close,
Would childlike on His love repose
Who " giveth his beloved sleep."
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING,
SANDALPHON.
Have you read in the Talmud of old,
In the Legends the Rabbins have told
Of the limitless realms of the air,
Have you read it, — the marvelous story
Of Sandalphon, the Angel of Glory,
Sandalphon, the Angel of Prayer?
78 SANDALPHON.
How, erect, at the outermost gates
Of the City Celestial he waits,
With his feet on the ladder of light,
That, crowded with angels unnumbered,
By Jacob was seen, as he slumbered
Alone in the desert at night?
The Angels of Wind and of Fire
Chant only one hymn, and expire
With the song's irresistible stress;
Expire in their rapture and wonder,
As harp-strings are broken asunder
s By music they throb to express.
But serene in the rapturous throng,
Unmoved by the rush of the song,
With eyes un impassioned and slow,
Among the dead angels, the deathless
Sandalphon stands listening breathless
To sounds that ascend from below; —
From the spirits on earth that adore,
From the souls that entreat and implore
In the fervor and passion of prayer;
From the hearts that are broken with losses,
And weary with dragging the crosses
Too heavy for mortals to bear.
And he gathers the prayers as he stands,
And they change into flowers in his hands,
Into garlands of purple and red;
And beneath the great arch of the portal,
Through the streets of the City Immortal
Is wafted the fragrance they shed.
It is but a legend, I know, —
A fable, a phantom, a show,
Of the ancient Rabbinical lore;
Yet the old mediaeval tradition,
The beautiful, strange superstition,
But haunts me and holds me the more.
When I look from my window at night,
And the welkin above is all white,
All throbbing and panting with stars,
WHEN THE KYE COME HAME. 79
Among them majestic is standing
Sandalphon the angel, expanding
His pinions in nebulous bars.
And the legend, I feel, is a part
Of the hunger and thirst of the heart,
The frenzy and fire of the brain,
That grasps at the fruitage forbidden,
The golden pomegranates of Eden,
To quiet its fever and pain.
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
WHEN THE KYE COME HAME.
Come, all ye jolly shepherds,
That whistle through the glen!
I'll tell ye o' a secret
That courtiers dinna ken:
What is the greatest bliss
That the tongue o' man can name?
'Tis to woo a bonnie lassie
When the kye come hame.
When the kye come hame,
When the kye come hame, —
'Ticeen the gloomin? art the mirk,
When the kye come hame.
'Tis not beneath the burgonet,
Nor yet beneath the crown;
'Tis not on couch o' velvet,
Nor yet in bed o' down:
'Tis beneath the spreading birk,
In the glen without the name,
Wi' a bonnie bonnie lassie,
When the kye come hame.
There the blackbird bigs his nest,
For the mate he lo'es to see,
And on the tapmost bough
O, a happy bird is he!
80 WHEN THE KYE COME HAME,
There he pours his melting ditty,
And love is a' the theme;
And he'll woo his bonnie lassie,
When the kye come hame.
When the blewart bears a pearl,
And the daisy turns a pea,
And the bonnie lucken gowan
Has fauldit up his ee,
Then the lavrock, frae the blue lift,
Draps down and thinks nae shame
To woo his bonnie lassie,
When the kye come hame.
See yonder pawky shepherd,
That lingers on the hill:
His yowes are in the fauld,
And his lambs are lying still;
Yet he downa gang to bed,
For his heart is in a flame,
To meet his bonnie lassie
When the kye come hame.
When the little wee bit heart
Rises high in the breast, «
And the little wee bit starn
Rises red in the east,
O, there's a joy sae dear
That the heart can hardly frame!
Wi' a bonnie bonnie lassie,
When the kye come hame.
Then since all Nature joins
In this love without alloy,
Q, wha wad prove a traitor
To Nature's dearest joy?
Or wha wad choose a crown,
Wi' its perils an' its fame,
And miss his bonnie lassie,
When the kye come hame?
JAMES HOGG.
IV. NAEEATIVE, DESCEIPTIVE AND
DIDACTIC STYLES.
This class of selections includes all that is generally
designated as common reading, viz.: conversations, essays,
newspaper composition, or any selection which is intended
simply to convey information to the mind. So frequent is
the use of this style of address that more than two-thirds of
everything the professional man has to utter falls under this
head, and in non-professional life nearly everything that is
spoken. The excellences of common reading may be com-
passed by observing the following suggestions:
First — Purity of tone.
Second — Variety of tone.
Third — Distinctness of enunciation.
A great mistake is made if we allow ourselves to think
that any less care should be taken in securing pure tone in
this class of selections, than in those of which we have
already spoken.
Purity of tone is of as much importance in common read-
ing as in the rendering of sentiment. Every tone should
fall from the lips like the tinkle of a coin upon the table.
A clear, musical and crystalline articulation is the highest
charm of common reading.
Variety of tone is an element not to be overlooked. An
essay can -be written out in musical forms as well ns an ora-
torio, and he who makes the best music is, other things
being equal, the best reader. A well modulated voice trav-
ersing the musical scale with happy intonations renders
6
S3 A child's dream of a star.
common reading, not only interesting, but highly artistic
and charming, The only caution necessary is that over
much variety may render the reading fantastic and flippant.
Distinctness of enunciation must always be strictly de-
manded/ As a rule we enunciate the first parts of our
words distinctly, but the last j)arts are frequently blurred,
or left untouched. Another source of indistinctness arises
from precipitating one syllable on the top of the other and
melting the whole word into a mass of confused sound.
The only relief in such cases is a thorough drill in the con-
sonantal elements, until firmness, accuracy and force are
developed in enunciation. The last syllable in a word
should be brought out as distinctly as the first, and the mid-
dle syllables as distinctly as the last, in order that the articu-
lative energy may be equally distributed in the enunciation.
The question may be raised, are Narrative, Descriptive
and Didactic styles all read in the same manner? Narrative
and Descriptive Readings, appealing in many instances to
feeling and imagination for their chief effects, abound in
vivid and varied tones associated with the different moods
of sympathy and emotion; while Didactic subjects, being
usually directed to the reason and judgment through the
understanding, hold a more steady, uniform and regulated
course of utterance, adapted to a clear, distinct and pointed
conveyance of thought to the intellect.
NARRATIVE SELECTIONS.
A CHILD'S DREAM OF A STAR.
There was once a child, and he strolled about a good
deal, and thought of a number of things. He had a sister
who was a child too, and his constant companion. They
wondered at the beauty of flowers; they wondered at the
height and blueness of the sky; they wondered at the depth
83
of the water; they wondered at the goodness and power of
God, who made them lovely.
They used to say to one another sometimes: Supposing
all the children upon earth were to die, would the flowers,
and the water, and the sky be sorry? They believed they
would be sorry. For, said they, the buds are the children of
the flowers, and the little playful streams that gambol down
the hillsides are the children of the water, and the smallest
bright specks playing at hide and seek in the sky all night
must surely be the children of the stars; and they would all
be grieved to see their playmates, the children of men, no
more.
There was one clear shining star that used to come out in
the sky before the rest, near the church spire, above the
graves. It was larger and more beautiful, they thought,
than all the others, and every night they watched for it,
standing hand-in-hand at a window. Whoever saw it first,
cried out, " I see the star." And after that, they cried out
both together, knowing so well when it would rise, and
where. So they grew to be such friends with it that, before
lying down in their bed, they always looked out once again
to bid it good night; and when they were turning round to
sleep, they used to say, a God bless the star!"
But while she was still very young, oh, very young, the
sister drooped, and came to be so w T eak that she could no
longer stand in the window at night, and then the child
looked sadly out by himself, and when he saw the star,
turned round and said to the patient pale face on the bed,
"I seethe star!" and then a smile would come upon the face,
and a little weak voice' used to say, "God bless my brother
and the star!"
And so the time came, all too soon, when the child looked
out all alone, and when there was no face on the bed, and
when there was a grave among the graves, not there before,
and when the star made long rays down toward him as he
saw it throuo-h his tears.
Now these rays were so bright, and they seemed to make
such a shining w 7 ay from earth to heaven, that when the child
went to his solitary bed, he dreamed about the star; and
dreamed that, lying where he w r as, he saw a train of people
taken up that sparkling road by angels; and the star, open-
ing, showing him a great world of light, where many more
such angels w r aited to receive them.
84 a child's dkeam of a stae.
All these angels, who were waiting, turned their beaming
eyes upon the people who were carried up into the star; and
some came out from the long rows in which they stood, and
fell upon the people's necks, and kissed them tenderly, and
went away with them down avenues of light, and were so
happy in their company, that lying in his bed, he wept for
joy.
But there were many angels who did not go with them,
and among them one he knew. The patient face that once
had lain upon the bed was glorified and radiant, but his
heart found out his sister among all the host.
His sister's angel lingered near the entrance of the star,
and said to the leader amonor those who had brought the
people thither:
"Is my brother come?"
And he said, "No!"
She was turning hopefully away, when the child stretched
out his arms, and cried, " Oh! sister, I am here! Take me!"
And then she turned her beaming eyes upon him, — and it
was night; and the star was shining into the room, making
long rays down toward him as he saw it through his tears.
From that hour forth, the child looked out upon the star
as the home he was to go to when his time should come; and
he thought that he did not belong to the earth alone, but to
the star too, because of his sister's angel gone before.
There was a baby born to be a brother to the child, and
while he was so little that he never yet had spoken a word,
he stretched out his tiny form on his bed, and died.
Again the child dreamed of the opened star, and of the
company of angels, and the train of people, and the rows
of angels, with their beaming eyes all turned upon those
people's faces.
Said his sister's angel to the leader:
" Is my brother come?"
And he said, "Not that one, but another!"
As the child beheld his brother's angel in her arms, he
cried, "Oh, my sister, I am here! Take me!" And she
turned and smiled upon him, — and the star was shining.
He grew to be a young man, and was busy at his books,
when an old servant came to him and said:
" Thy mother is no more. I bring her blessing on her
darling son."
Again at night he saw the star, and all that former com-
TRIAL AND EXECUTION OF CHARLES I. 85
pany. Said his sister's angel to the leader, " Is my brother
come?"
And he said "Thy mothe
f"
A mighty cry of joy went forth through all the star, be-
cause the mother was re-united to her two children. And
he stretched out his arms and cried, " Oh, mother, sister and
brother, I am here! Take me!" And they answered him,
" Not yet!" — and the star was shining.
He grew to be a man, whose hair was turning gray, and
he was sitting in his chair by the fireside, heavy with grief,
and with his face bedewed with tears, when the star opened
once again.
Said his sister's angel to the leader, " Is my brother come?"
And he said, "Nay, but his maiden daughter!"
And the man who had been the child saw his daughter,
newly lost to him, a celestial creature among those three,
and he said: " My daughter's head is on my sister's bosom,
and her arm is around my mother's neck, and at her feet is
the baby of old time, and I can bear the parting from her,
God be praised." — And the star was shining.
Thus the child came to be an old man, and his once smooth
face was wrinkled, and his steps were slow and feeble, and
his back was bent. And one night as he lay upon his bed,
his children standing round, he cried, as he cried so long
ago: " I see the star!"
They whispered one another, " He is dying." And he
said, " I am. My age is falling from me like a garment, and
I move towards the star as a child. And O, my Father, now
I thank Thee that it has so often opened to receive those
dear ones who await me!" —
And the star was shining; and it shines upon his grave.
CHAKLES DICKENS-
TRIAL AND EXECUTION OF CHARLES I.
[After Cromwell had by violence expelled from Parliament all who were hos-
tile to his own views and those of his party, the remainder, including about
fifty members, ordered that the king should be tried on a charge of treason
against the people. A court was accordingly arranged for the purpose, consist-
ing of one hundred and thirty-three members, among whom were the chief
officers of the army, including Cromwell. It was presided over by John Brad-
shaw, and held its sessions at Westminster Hall. The following account is
taken from Goldsmith's "History of England."]
The king was now conducted from Windsor to St. James's,
and the next day was brought before the high court to take
bb TEIAL AND EXECUTION OF CHAKLES I.
his trial. "When he was brought forward, he was conducted
by the mace-bearer to a chair placed within the bar. Though
long detained a prisoner, and now produced as a criminal, he
still sustained the dignity of a king; surveyed the members
of the court with a stern and haughty air; and, without mov-
ing his hat, sat down, while the members also were covered.
The charge was then read by the solicitor, accusing him of
having been the cause of all the bloodshed which followed
since the commencement of the war. At that part of the
charge he could not suppress a smile of contempt and indig-
nation. After the charge was finished, Bradshaw directed
his discourse to the king, and told him that the court ex-
pected his answer.
The king, with great temper, entered upon his defense
by denying the authority of the court. He represented
that, having been engaged in a treaty with his two Houses
of Parliament, and having finished almost every article, he
expected a different treatment from that which he now
received. He perceived, he said, no appearance of an
Upper House, which was necessary to constitute a just tri-
bunal. That he was himself the king and the fountain of
law, and consequently, could not be tried by laws to which
he had never given his assent; that having been intrusted
with the liberties of the people, he would not now betray
them, by recognizing a power founded in usurpation; that
he was willing, before a proper tribunal, to enter into the
particulars of his defense; but that before them he must
decline any apology or plea of innocence, lest he should be
considered as the betrayer of, and not a martyr for, the con-
stitution.
Bradshaw, in order to support the authority of the court,
insisted that they had received their power from the people,
the source of all right. He pressed the prisoner not to de-
cline the authority of the court, which was delegated by the
Commons of England; and he interrupted and overruled
the king in his attempts to reply. In this manner the king
was three times produced before the court, and as often he
persisted in declining its jurisdiction. The fourth and last
time he was brought before the self-created tribunal. As
he was proceeding thither he was insulted by the soldiers
and the mob, who exclaimed, "Justice! justice! execution!
execution!" but he continued undaunted. His judges, hav-
ing now examined some witnesses, by whom it was proved
TRIAL AND EXECUTION OF CHARLES I. 87
that the king had appeared in arms against the forces com-
missioned by Parliaments pronounced sentence against him.
The conduct of the king, tinder all these instances of low-
bred malice, was great, firm, and equal. In going through
the hall the soldiers and the rabble were again instigated to
cry out, "Justice and execution!" They reviled him with
the most bitter reproaches. Among other insults, one mis-
creant presumed to spit in the face of his sovereign. He
patiently bore their insolence. " Poor souls, " cried he,
"they would treat their generals in the same manner for
sixpence." Those of the populace who still retained the
feelings of humanity, expressed their sorrow in sighs and
tears. A soldier, more compassionate than the rest, could
not help imploring a blessing on his royal head. An officer,
overhearing him, struck the honest sentinel to the ground,
before the king, who could not help saying that the punish-
ment exceeded the offense.
After returning from this solemn mockery of justice, the
unhappy monarch petitioned the House for permission to see
his children, and desired the attendance of Dr. Juxon, Bishop
of London, to assist in his private devotions. Both requests
were immediately granted, and three days were allowed to
prepare for the execution of the sentence. This interval
was spent by Charles in the exercises of devotion, and in
administering consolation to his unhappy family. During
the progress of the trial, the French and Dutch ambassadors
vainly interceded in his behalf; and the Scots, who had set
the first example of resistance to his authority, now remon-
strated against the violence offered to his person and dignity.
After his condemnation, the queen and the Prince of Wales
wrote the most pathetic letters to the Parliament, but nothing
could divert the stem regicides from their atrocious design.
The king w T as confined in the palace of St. James, but the
place selected for erecting the scaffold was the street before
the palace of Whitehall. On the morning of the execution
he rose early, and having spent some time in private devo-
tion, received the sacrament from the hands of Bishop Juxon.
He was then conducted on foot through the park to White-
hall, and partook of some slight refreshment. After a brief
delay, he advanced to the place of execution, attended still
by his friend and servant, Dr. Juxon, who used every exer-
tion to soothe the last moments of his unfortunate master.
The scaffold, which was covered with black, was guarded
88 TRIAL AND EXECUTION OF CHARLES I.
by a regiment of soldiers, under the command of Colonel
Tomlinson, and under it were to be seen a block, the axe,
and two executioners in masks. The people, in immense
crowds, stood at a great distance in dreadful expectation of
the event. The king surveyed all these solemn preparations
with calm composure; and as he could not expect to be
heard by the people at a distance, he addressed himself to
the few persons who stood around him.
He then justified his own innocence in the late fatal war;
and observed that he had not taken arms till after the Par-
liament had shown the example. That he had no other
object in his warlike preparations than to preserve that au-
thority entire, which had been transmitted to him by his
ancestors; but, though innocent toward his people, he ac-
knowledged the equity of his execution in the eyes of his
Maker. He owned that he was justly punished for having
consented to the execution of an unjust sentence upon the
Earl of Strafford. He forgave all his enemies, exhorted the
people to return to their obedience, and acknowledged his
son as his successor; and signed his attachment to the Pro-
testant religion, as professed in the Church of England. So
strong was the impression his dying words made upon the
few who could hear him that Colonel Tomlinson himself, to
whose care he had been committed, acknowledged himself
a convert.
While he was preparing himself for the block, Bishop
Juxon called out to him, "There is, sir, but one stage more,
which, though turbulent and troublesome, is yet a very short
one. It will soon carry you a great way. It will carry you
from earth to heaven; and then you shall find, to your great
joy, the prize to which you hasten, a crown of glory." " I
go," replied the king, " from a corruptible to an incorrupt-
ible crown, where no disturbance can have place." "You
exchange," replied the bishop, " a temporal for an eternal
crown; a good exchange!"
Charles, having taken off his cloak, delivered his ^George
to the prelate, pronouncing the word "Remember!" Then
he laid his neck on the block, and, stretching out his hands
as a signal, one of the executioners severed his head from
his body at a blow; while the other, holding it up, exclaimed,
"This is the head of a traitor!" The spectators testified
their horror of the sad spectacle in sighs, tears, and lamen-
*A figure of St. George on horseback, worn by the knights of the Garter.
EXECUTION OF MARY QTJEEX OF SCOTS. 89
tations; the tide of their duty began to return; and each
blamed himself either for active disloyalty to his king, or a
passive compliance with his destroyers.
OLIVER GOLDSMITII.
EXECUTION OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS.
[Mary Queen of Scots having given great offense to. her subjects was deprived
of" her throne and imprisoned in Loehleven Castle. Escaping thence she took
refuse in England, supposing that she would be kindly treated by her cousin
Elizabeth, then the reigning queen. She had. however, offended the Queen of
England by setting « pa claim to the English throne on the ground of the
alleged illegitimacy of Elizabeth, who was the daughter of Anne Boleyn.
Instead, therefore, of finding protection and hospitality, she was made a prisoner,
and continued in captivity during nineteen years. In 1587, she was beheaded
at Fotheringay Castle, on a charge of being concerned in a conspiracy, the
object of which was to take the life of Elizabeth. The following account of
the execution is taken from Lingard's "History of England."]
Mary heard the announcement of her sentence with a
serenity of countenance and dignity of manner, which awed
and affected the beholders; but her attendants burst into
tears and lamentations. After long and fervent prayer, the
queen was called to supper. She ate sparingly; and before
she rose from table, drank to all her servants; asking, at the
same time, forgiveness of them, if she had ever spoken or
acted toward them unkindly.
The last night of Mary's life was spent in the arrange-
ment of her domestic affairs, the writing of her will and" of
three letters, and in exercises of devotion. In the retire-
ment of her closet, with her two maids, she prayed and read
alternately; and sought for support and comfort in reading
the passion of Christ. About four she retired to rest; but
it was observed that she did not sleep. Her lips were in
constant motion, and her mind seemed absorbed in prayer.
At the first break of day her household assembled around
her. She read to them her will, distributed among them
her clothes and money, and bade them adieu, kissing the
women and giving her hand to kiss to the men. Weeping
they followed her into her oratory, where she took her place
in front of the altar; they knelt down and prayed behind
her.
In the midst of the great hall of the castle had been raised
a scaffold covered with black serge, and surrounded with a
low railing. Before eight, a message was sent to the queen,
who replied that she would be ready in half an hour. At
1)0 EXECUTION OF MAEY QUEEN OF SCOTS.
that time the sheriff entered the oratory, and Mary arose,
taking the crucifix from the altar in her right, and carrying
her prayer-book in her left hand. Her servants were for-
bidden to follow; they insisted; but the queen bade them be
content; and turning, gave them her blessing. They receiv-
ed it on their knees, some kissing her hands, others her
mantle. The door closed; and the burst of lamentation
from those within resounded through the hall.
Mary was now joined by the earls and her keepers, and
descending the staircase, found at the foot, Melville, the
steward of her household, who, for several weeks had been
excluded from her presence. " Good Melville," said Mary,
"I pray thee report that I die a true woman to my religion,
to Scotland, and to France. May God forgive them that
have long thirsted for my blood as the hart doth for the
brook of water. Commend me to my son; and tell him that
I have done nothing prejudicial to the dignity or independ-
ence of his crown." She made a last request, that her ser-
vants might be present at her death; but the Earl of Kent
objected. When she asked with vehemence, " Am I not
the cousin to your queen, a descendant of the blood royal of
Henry VII., a named queen of France, and the anointed
Queen of Scotland?"
It was then resolved to admit four of her men and two of
her women servants. She selected her steward, physician,
apothecary, and surgeon, with her two maids. Mary wore
the richest of her dresses, that which was appropriate to the
rank of a queen-dowager. Her step was firm, and her coun-
tenance cheerful. She bore without shrinking the gaze of
the spectators, and the sight of the scaffold, and block, and
the executioner; and advanced into the hall with that grace
and majesty which she had so often displayed in her happier
days, and in the palace of her fathers. To aid her, as she
mounted the scaffold, Paulet offered his arm. " I thank you,
sir," said Mary; " it is the last trouble I shall give you, and
the most acceptable service you have ever rendered me."
The queen seated herself on a stool which was prepared
for her; and in an audible voice addressed the assembly.
She said that she pardoned from her heart all her enemies.
She then repeated with a loud voice, and in the Latin lan-
guage, passages from the Book of Psalms; and a prayer in
French, in which she begged of God to pardon her sins,
declared that she forgave her enemies, and protested that
THE PILOT. 91
she was ignorant of ever consenting in wish or deed to the
death of her English sister. She then prayed in English for
Christ's afflicted church, for her son James, and for Queen
Elizabeth, and in conclusion, holding up the crucifix, exclaim -
ed, u As thy arms, O God. were stretched out upon the cross,
so receive me unto the arms of thy mercy and forgive my sins."
" Madam," said the Earl of Kent, " you had better leave
such popish trumperies, and bear him in your heart." She
replied, "I cannot hold in my hand the representation of his
sufferings, but I must at the same time bear him in my heart."
When her maids, bathed in tears, began to disrobe their
mistress, the executioners, fearing the loss of their usual
perquisites, hastily interfered. The queen remonstrated;
but instantly submitted to their rudeness, observing to the
earls, with a smile, that she was not accustomed to employ
such grooms, or to undress in the presence of so numerous a
company. Her servants, at the sight of their sovereign in
this lamentable state, could not suppress their feelings; but
Mary, putting her finger to her lips, commanded silence, gave
them her blessing, and solicited their prayers.
One of her maids, taking from her a handkerchief edged
with gold, pinned it over her eyes; the executioners, holding
her by the arms, led her to the block; and the queen, kneel-
ing down, said repeatedly, with a firm voice, " Into thy
hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit." But the sobs and
groans of the spectators disconcerted the headsman. He
trembled, missed his aim, and inflicted a deep wound in the
lower part of the skull. The queen remained motionless;
and at the third stroke her head was severed from her body.
The executioner neid it up, and cried as usual, " God save
Queen Elizabeth." " So perish all her enemies!" subjoined
the Dean of Peterborough. " So perish all the enemies of
the gospel! " exclaimed, in a still louder tone, the fanatical
Earl of Kent. Not a voice was heard to cry Amen. Party
feeling was absorbed in pity.
JOHN LI3TGAHD.
THE PILOT.
A THRILLING INCIDENT.
Johx Mayxaed was well known in the lake district as a
God-fearing, honest and intelligent pilot. He was pilot on
92 THE PILOT.
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 quantities of
resin and tar on board, and it was found useless to attempt
to save the ship. The passengers rushed forward and in-
quired of the pilot:
"How far are we from Buffalo?"
" Seven miles."
"How long before we can reach there?"
*" Three-quarters of an hour at our present rate of steam."
" Is there any danger?"
" Danger, here — see the smoke bursting out — go forward
if you would save your lives."
Passengers and crew — men, women and children — crowded
the forward part of the ship. John Maynard stood at the
helm. The flames burst forth in a sheet of fire; clouds of
smoke arose. The captain cried out through his trumpet:
" John Maynard!"
"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 man, woman and child was saved, as
John Maynard dropped, and his spirit took its flight to its God.
JOHN B. GOUGH.
HANNAH JANE. 93
HANNAH JANE.
She isn't half so handsome as when twenty years agone,
At her old home in Piketon, Parson Avery made us one:
The great house crowded fall of guests of every degree,
The girls all envying Hannah Jane, the boys all envying me.
Her fingers then were taper, and her skin as white as milk,
Her brown hair — what a mess it was! and soft and fine as
silk;
No wind-moved willow by a brook had ever such a grace,
The form of Aphrodite, with a pure Madonna face.
She had but meagre schooling: her little notes to me,
Were full of crooked pothooks, and the worst orthography:
Her "dear" she spelled with double e, and kiss with but
one s:
But when one's crazed with passion, what's a letter more or
less?
She blundered in her writing, and she blundered when she
spoke,
And every rule of syntax, that old Murray made, she broke;
But she was beautiful and fresh, and I — well, I was young;
Her form and face o'er balanced all the blunders of her
tongue.
I was but little better. True, I'd longer been at school;
My tongue and pen were run, perhaps, a little more by rule;
But that was all. The neighbors round, who both of us well
knew,
Said — which I believed — she was the better of the two.
All's changed; the light of seven teen's no longer in her
eyes;
Her wavy hair is gone — that loss the coiffeur's art supplies;
Her form is thin and angular; she slightly forward bends;
Her fingers once so shapely, now are stumpy at the ends.
She knows but very little, and in little are we one;
The beauty rare, that more than hid that great defect is gone.
My parvenu relations now deride my homely wife,
And pity me that I am tied to such a clod, for life.
94 HANNAH JANE.
I know there is a difference; at reception and levee,
The brightest, wittiest, and most famed of women smile on
me;
And everywhere I hold my place among the greatest men;
And sometimes sigh with Whittier's judge, "Alas! it might
have been."
When they all crowd around me, stately dames and brilliant
belles,
And yield to me the homage that all great success compels,
Discussing art and statecraft, and literature as well,
From Homer down to Thackeray, and Swedenborg on
' "Hell."
I can't forget that from these streams my wife has never
quaffed,
Has never with Ophelia wept, nor with Jack Falstaff laughed ;
Of authors, actors, artists — why, she hardly knows the names;
She slept while I was speaking on the Alabama claims.
I can't forget — just at this point another form appears —
The wife I wedded as she was before my prosperous years;
I travel o'er the dreary road we traveled side by side,
And wonder what my share would be, if Justice should
decide.
She had four hundred dollars left her from the old estate;
On that we married, and, thus poorly armored, faced our fate.
I wrestled with my books; her task was harder far than
mine —
'Twas how to make two hundred dollars do the work of nine.
At last I was admitted; then I had my legal lore,
An office with a stove and desk, of books perhaps a score;
She had her beauty and her youth, and some housewifely
skill,
And love for me, and faith in me, and back of that a. will.
Ah! how she cried for joy when my first legal fight was
won
When our eclipse passed partly by, and we stood in the sun!
The fee was fifty dollars — 'twas the work of half a year —
First captive, lean and scraggy, of my legal bow and spear.
HANNAH JANE. 95
I well remember, when my coat (the only one I had)
Was seedy grown and threadbare, and, in fact> most
" shocking bad."
The tailor's stern remark when I a modest order made;
"Cash is the basis, sir, on which we tailors. do our trade."
Her winter cloak was in his shop by noon that very day;
She wrought on hickory shirts at night that tailor's skill to
pay;
I got a coat and wore it; but, alas! poor Hannah Jane
Ne'er went to church or lecture, till warm weather came
Our second season she refused a cloak of any sort,
That I might have a decent suit in which t' appear in court;
She made her last year's bonnet do, that I might have a hat;
Talk of the old-time, flame-enveloped martyrs after that!
No negro ever worked so hard; a servant's pay to save,
She made herself most willingly a household drudge and
slave.
What wonder that she never read a magazine or book,
Combining as she did in one, nurse, housemaid, seamstress,
cook !
What wonder that the beauty fled that I once so adored!
Her beautiful complexion my fierce kitchen fire devoured;
Her plump, soft, rounded arm was once too fair to be con-
cealed;
Hard work for me that softness into sinewy strength con-
gealed.
I was her altar, and her love the sacrificial flame;
Ah! with what pure devotion she to that altar came,
iliid, tearful, flung thereon — alas! I did not know it then —
All that she was, and more than that, all that she might have
been!
At last I won success. Ah! then our lives were wider parted;
I was far up the rising road; she, poor girl, where we started.
I had tried my speed and mettle, and gained strength in
every race;
I was far up the heights of life — she drudging at the base.
9G HANNAH JANE.
She made me take each fall the stump; she said t'was my
carer;
The wild applause of list'ning crowds was music to my ear.
What stimulus had she to cheer her dreary solitude?
For me she lived on gladly, in unnatural widowhood.
She couldn't read my speech, but when the papers all agreed
T'was the best one of the session, those comments she could
read;
And with a gush of pride thereat, which I had never felt,
She sent them to me in a note with half the words misspelt.
At twenty-eight the State-house; on the bench at thirty-
three;
At forty every gate in life was opened wide to me.
I nursed my powers and grew, and made my point in life,
but she —
Bearing such pack-horse weary loads, what could a woman be?
What could she be! Oh, shame! I blush to think what she
has been
The most unselfish of all wives to the selfishest of men.
Yes, plain and homely now she is; she's ignorant, 'tis true;
For me she rubbed herself quite out, I represent the two.
Well, I suppose that I might do as other men have done —
First break her heart with cold neglect, then shove her out
alone.
The world would say 'twas well, and more, would give great
praise to me, *
For having borne with "such a wife" so uncomplainingly.
And shall I? No! The contract 'twixt Hannah, God and me,
Was not for one or twenty years, but for eternity.
No matter what the world may think; I know down in my
heart
That, if either, I'm delinquent; she has bravely done her part.
There's another world beyond this; and, on the final day,
Will intellect and learning 'gainst such devotion weigh?
When the great one, made of us two, is torn apart again
I'll yield the palm, for God is just, and he knows Hannah
Jane.
PETROLEUM V. NASBY (d. K. LOCKE).
coxxoe. 97
CONNOR.
" To the memory ol Patrick Connor ; this simple stone was erected by his fel-
low-workmen."
Those words you may read any day upon a white slab in
a cemetery not many miles from New York; but you might
read them an hundred times without guessing at the little
tragedy they indicate, without knowing the humble romance
which ended with the placing of that stone above the dust
of one poor humble man.
In his shabby frieze jacket and mud-laden brogans, he
was scarcely an attractive object as he walked into Mr.
Bawne's great tin and hardware shop one day and presented
himself at the counter with an,
" IYe been tould ye advertized for hands, yer honor."
" Fully supplied, my man," said Mr. Bawne, not lifting his
head from his account book.
" I'd work faithfully, sir, and take low wages, till I could
do better, and I'd learn — I would that."
It was an Irish brogue, and Mr. Bawne always declared
that he never would employ an incompetent hand.
Yet the tone attracted him. He turned briskly, and with
his pen behind his ear, addressed the man, who was only
one of fifty who had answered his advertizement for four
workmen that morning —
" AYhat makes you expect to learn faster than other folks
— are you any smarter! "
"I'll not say that; said the man, " but I'd be wishing to;
and that would make it aisier."
" Are you used to the work? "
u Ive done a bit of it."
"Much?"
" No, yer honor, I'll tell no lie, Tim O'Toole had n't the
like of this place; but I know a bit about tins."
" You are too old for an apprentice, and you'd be in the
way I calculate," said Mr. Bawne, looking at the brawny
arms and bright eyes that promised' strength and intelli-
gence. " Besides I know your county- men — lazy, good-for-
nothing fellows who never do their best. No, I've been
taken in by Irish hands before, and I wont have another."
" The Yirgin will have to be after bringing them over to me
in her two arms, thin," said the man, despairingly, " for I've
tramped all the day for the last fortnight, and niver a job
7
08
CONNOR.
can I get, and that's the last penny I have, ycr honor, and
it's but a half one."
As he spoke he spread his palm open, with an English
half-penny in it.
"Bring whom over?" asked Mr. Bawne arrested by the
odd speech, as he turned upon his heel and turned back
again.
" Jist Nora and Jamesy."
" Who are they ?"
"The wan's me wife, the other me child," said the man.
"O masther, just thry me. How'll I bring em over to me,
if no one will give me a job? I want to be aiming, and
the whole big city seems against it, and me with arms like
them."
He bared his arms to the shoulder as he spoke, and Mr.
Bawne looked at them, and then at his face.
"I'll hire you for a week," he said; "and now, as it's
noon, go down to the kitchen and tell the girl to get you
some dinner — a hungry man can't work."
With an Irish blessing, the new hand obeyed, while Mr.
Bawne, untying his apron, went up stars to his own meal.
Suspicious as he was of the new hand's integrity and ability,
he was agreeably disappointed. Connor worked hard, and
actually learned fast. At the end of the week he was
engaged permanently, and soon was the best workman in
the shop.
He was a great talker, but not fond of drink or wasting
mone}^. As his wages grew, he hoarded every penny, and
wore the same shabby clothes in which he had made his first
appearance.
"Beer costs money," he said one day, "and ivery cint I
spind puts off the bringing Nora and Jamesy over; and as
for clothes, them I have must do me. Better no coat to my
back than no wife and boy by my fireside; and anyhow, it's
slow work saving."
It was slow work, but he kept at it all the same. Other
men, thoughtless and full of fun, tried to make him drink;
made a jest of his saving habits, coaxed him to accompany
them to places of amusement, or to share in their Sunday
frolics.
All in vain. Connor liked beer, liked fun, liked compan-
ionship; but he would not delay that long-looked-for bring-
ing of Nora over, and was not " mane enough " to accept
favor of others. He kept his way, a martyr to his one
great wish, living on little, working at night on any extra
job that he could earn a few shillings by, running errands
in his noon-tide hours of rest, and talking to any one who
would listen to him of his one great hope, and of Nora and
of little Jamesy.
At first the men who prided themselves on being all
Americans, and on turning out the best work in the city, made
a sort of butt of Connor, whose " wild Irish" ways and ver-
dancy were indeed often laughable. But he won their
hearts at last, and when one day mounting a work-bench, he
shook his little bundle, wrapped in a red kerchief, before
their eyes, and shouted, "Look, boys; I've got the whole at
last! I'm going to bring Nora and Jamesy over at last!
Whorooo!! I've got it!!! " all felt sympathy in his joy, and
each grasped his great hand in cordial congratulations, and one
proposed to treat all round, and drink a good voyage to Nora.
They parted in a merry mood, most of the men going to
comfortable homes. But poor Connor's resting-place was a
poor lodging-house, where he shared a crazy garret with four
other men, and in the joy of his heart the poor fellow exhib-
ited his handkerchief, with his hard-earned savings tied up
in a wad in the middle, before he put it under his pillow and
fell asleep.
When he awakened in the morning, he found his treasure
gone; some villain, more contemptible than most bad men,
had robbed him.
At first Connor could not even believe it lost. He searched
every corner of the room, shook his quilt and blankets, and
begged those about him "to quit joking, and give it back."
But at last he realized the truth —
Is any man that bad that it's thaved from me?" he asked,
in a breathless way. "Boys, is any man that bad?" And
some one answered: " No doubt of it, Connor; it's sthole."
Then Connor put his head down on his hands and lifted
up his voice and wept. It was one of those sights which
men never forget. It seemed more than he could bear, to
have Nora and his child " put" as he expressed it." months
away from him again."
But when he went to work that day it seemed to all who
saw him that he had picked up a new determination. His
hands were never idle. His face seemed to say, " I'll have
Nora with me yet."
100 CONNOR.
At noon he scratched out a letter, blotted and very strange-
ly scrawled, telling Nora what had happened; and those who
observed him noticed that he had no meat with his dinner.
Indeed from that moment he lived on bread, potatoes, and
cold water, and worked as few men ever worked before. —
It grew to be the talk of the shop, and now that sympathy
was excited every one wanted to help Connor. Jobs were
thrown in his way, kind words and friendly wishes helped
him mightily; but no power could make him share the food
or drink of any other workman. It seemed a sort of charity
to him.
Still he was helped along. A present from Mr. Bawne at
pay day, set Nora, as he said, " a week nearer," and this and
that and the other added to the little hoard. It grew faster
than the first, and Connor's burden was not so heavy. At
last before he hoped it, he was once more able to say, "I'm
going to bring them over," and to show his handkerchief, in
which, as before, he tied up his earnings; this time however
only to his friends. Cautious among strangers, he hid the
treasure, and kept his vest buttoned over it night and day
until the tickets were bought and sent. Then every man,
woman and child, capable of hearing or understanding knew
that Nora and her baby were corning.
There was John Jones, who had more of the brute in his
composition than usually falls to the lot of man — even he,
who had coolly hurled his hammer at an offender's head,
missing him by a hair's breadth, would spend ten minutes of?
the noon hour in reading the Irish news to Connor. There
was Tom Barker, the meanest man among the number, who
had never been known to give anything to any one before,
absolutely bartered an old jacket for a pair of gilt vases
which a peddler brought in his basket to the shop, and pre-
sented them to Connor for his Nora's mantle-piece. And
here was idle Dick, the apprentice, who actually worked two
hours on Connor's work when illness kept the Irishman at
home one day. Connor felt this kindness, and returned it
whenever it was in his power, and the days flew by and
brought at last a letter from his wife.
She would start as he desired, and she was w T ell and so was
the boy, and might the Lord bring them safely to each oth-
er's arms and bless them who had been so kind to him."
That was the substance of the epistle which Connor proudly
assured his fellow- workmen Nora wrote herself. She had
CONXOR. 101
lived at service as a girl, with a certain good old lady, who
had given her the items of an education, which Connor told
upon his fingers. " The radin', that's one, and the writin',
that's three, and moreover, she knows all that a woman can."
Then he looked up with tears in his eyes, and asked, — Do
you wondher the time seems long between me an' her, boys?"
So it was. Nora at the dawn of day — Nora at noon —
Nora at night — until the news came that the Stormy Petrel
had come to port, and Connor, breathless and pale with ex-
citement, flung his cap in the air and shouted.
It happened on a holiday afternoon, and half-a-dozen men
were ready to go with Connor to the steamer and give his
wife a greeting. Her little home was ready; Mr. Bawne's
own servant had put it in order, and Connor took one peep
at it before he started.
"She hadn't the like of that in the old counthry," he said,
"but she'll know how to keep them tidy."
Then he led the way towards the dock where the steamer
lay, and at a pace that made it hard for the rest to follow
him. The spot was reached at last; a crowd of vehicles
blockaded the street; a troop of emigrants came thronging
up; fine cabin passengers were stepping into cabs, and dri-
vers, porters, and all manner of employees were yelling and
shouting in the usual manner. Nora would wait on board
for her husband, he knew that.
The little group made their way into the vessel at last, and
there, amid those who sat watching for coming friends,
Connor searched for the two so dear to him; patiently at
first, eagerly but patiently, but by-and-by growing anxious
and excited.
"She would never go alone," he said, "she'd be lost en-
tirely; I bade her wait, but I don't see her, boys; I think
she's not in it."
"Why don't you see the captain?" asked one, and Connor
jumped at the suggestion. In a few minutes he stood before
a portly, rubicund man, who nodded to him kindly.
"I am looking for my wife, yer honor," said Connor, "and
I can't find her."
"Perhaps she's gone ashore," said the captain.
" I bade her wait," said Connor.
" Women don't always do as they are bid, you know," said
the captain.
"Nora would," said Connor; — "but mavbe she was left
102 CONNOR.
behind. Maybe she didn't come. I somehow think she
didn't."
At the name of Nora the Captain started. In a moment
he asked:
" What is your name?"
" Pat Connor," said the man.
"And your wife's name was Nora?"
'' That's her name, and the boy with her is Jamesy, yer
honor," said Connor.
The captain looked at Connor's friends, they looked at
the captain. Then he said huskily: "Sit down, my man;
I've got something to tell you."
"She's left behind," said Connor.
" She sailed with us," said the captain.
"Where is she?" asked Connor.
The captain made no answer.
" My man," he said " we all have our trials; God sends
them. Yes — Nora started with us."
Connor said nothing. He was looking at the captain now,
white to his lips.
" It's been a sickly season," said the captain, " we have
had illness on board — the cholera. You know that."
"I didn't. I can't read; they kept it from me," said
Connor.
"We didn't want to frighten him," said one in a half
whisper.
" You know how long we lay at Quarantine?"
"The ship I came in did that," said Connor. "Did ye
say Nora went ashore? Ought I to be looking for her,
captain? "
" Many died, many children," went on the captain.
"When we were half way here your boy was taken sick."
"Jamesy," gasped Connor.
" His mother watched him night and day," said the cap-
tain, "and we did all we could, but at last he died; only
one of many. There were five buried that day. But it
broke my heart to see the mother looking out upon the
water. " Its his father I think of," said she, " he's longing
to see poor Jamesy."
Connor groaned.
" Keep up if you can, my man," said the captain. " I
wish any one else had it to tell rather than I. That night
Nora was taken ill also; very suddenly, she grew worse fast.
THE CHEAP JACK. 103
In the morning she called me to her. ' Tell Connor I died
thinking 1 of him,' she said, 'and tell him to meet me.'
And my man, God help you, she never said anything more
— in an hour she was gone."
Connor had risen. He stood up, trying to steady himself;
looking at the captain with his eyes dry as two stones. Then
he turned to his friends: —
"I've got my death, boys," he said, and then dropped to
the deck like a log.
They raised Mm and bore him away. In an hour he was
at home on the little bed which had been made ready for
Nora, weary with her long voyage. There at last, he opened
his eyes. Old Mr. Baune bent over him; he had been sum-
moned by the news, and the room was full of Connor's fellow
workmen.
• ; Better, Connor?" asked the old man.
"A dale," said Connor. "It's aisy now; I'll be with her
soon. And look ye, masther, I've learnt one thing — God is
good; He wouldn't let me bring Xora over to me, but he's
takin' me over to her, and Jamesy over the river; don't you
see it, and her standin'on the other side to welcome me?"
And with these words Connor stretched out his arms. Per-
haps he did see Xora — Heaven only knows — and so died.
AXOXYMOUS.
DESCEIPTIYE SELECTIONS.
THE CHEAP JACK.
I am a Cheap Jack, and my father's name was Willum
Marigold. It was in his lifetime supposed by some that his
name was William, but my father always consistently said,
Xo, it was Willum. On which point I content myself with
looking at the argument this way: If a man is not allowed
to know his own name in a free country, how much is he
allowed to know in a land of slavery?
I was born on the Queen's highway, but it was the King's
at that time. The doctor being a very kind gentleman, and
accepting no fee but a t^a-tray, I was named Doctor, out of
gratitude and complime.it to him. There you have me.
Doctor Marigold.
104 THE CHEAP JACK.
The doctor having accepted a tea-tray, you'll guess that
my father was a Cheap Jack before me. You are right. He
Avas. And my father was a lovely one in his time at the
Cheap Jack work. Now I'll tell you what. I mean to go down
into my grave declaring that, of all the callings ill-used
in Great Britain, the Cheap Jack calling is the worst used.
Why ain't we a profession? Why ain't we endowed with
privileges? Why are we forced to take out a hawker's
license, when no such thing is expected of the political
hawkers? Where's the difference betwixt us? Except that
we are Cheap Jacks and they are Dear Jacks. I don't see
any difference but what's in our favor.
For look here! Say its election time. I am on the foot-
board of my cart in the market place on a Saturday night. I
put up a general miscellaneous lot. I say: "Now here my
free and independent woters, I 'm a going to give you such
a chance as you never had in all your born days, nor yet the
days preceding. Now I'll show you what I am going to do
with you. Here's a pair of razors that 'il shave you closer
than the Board of Guardians; here's a flit-iron worth its
weight in gold; here's a frying-pan artificially flavored with
essence of beefsteaks to that degree that you 've only got
for the rest of your lives to fry bread and dripping in it,
and there you are replete with animal food; here's a genu-
ine chronometer wateh in such a solid silver case that you
may knock at the door with it when you come home late
from a social meeting, and rouse your wife and family and
save up your knocker for. the postman; and here's half a
dozen dinner-plates that you may play the cymbals with to
charm the baby when it's fractious. Stop. I'll throw you
in another article, and I'll give you that, and it's a rolling-
pin, and if the baby can only get it well into its mouth
when its teeth is coining, and rub the gums once with it,
they'll come through double, in a fit of laughter, equal to
being tickled. Stop again!. I'll throw you in another arti-
cle, because ] don't like the looks of you, for you havn't
the appearance of buyers unless I lose by you, and because
I'd rather lose than not take money to-night, and that
article's a looking-glass, in which you may see how ugly you
look when you don't bid. What do you say now? Come!
Do you say a pound? Not you, for you have n't got it. Do
you say ten shillings? Not you, for you owe more to the
tally-man. Well, then, I'll tell you what I'll do with you.
THE CHEAP JACK. 105
I'll heap 'em all on the footboard of the cart, — there they
are! razors, flat-iron, frying-pan, chronometer watch, dinner-
plates, rolling-pin, and looking-glass, — take 'em all away for
four shillings, and I'll give you sixpence for your trouble! "
This is me, the Cheap Jack.
I courted my wife from the footboard of the cart. I did
indeed. She was a Suffolk young woman, and it was in Ip-
swich market-place, right opposite the corn-chandler's shop.
I had noticed her up at a window last Saturday that was,
appreciating highly. I had took to her, and I had said to
myself: " If not already disposed of, I'll have that lot."
Next Saturday that come, I pitched the cart on the same
pitch, and I was in very high feather indeed, keeping 'em
laughing the whole of the time, and getting off the goods
briskly. At last I took out of my waistcoat-pocket a small
lot wrapped in soft paper, and I put it this way (looking up
at the window where she was): "Now here, my blooming
English maidens, is a article, the last article of the present
evening's sale, which I offer to only you, the lovely Suffolk
Dumplings biling over with beauty, and I won't take a bid
of a thousand pound for, from any man alive. Now what is
it? Why I '11 tell you what it is. It 's made of fine gold,
and it 's not broke, though there's a hole in the middle of it,
and it 's stronger than any fetter that ever was forged, though
it's smaller than any finger in my set often. Why ten? Be-
cause when my parents made over my property to me, I tell
you true, there was twelve sheets, twelve towels, twelve
table-cloths, twelve knives, twelve forks, twelve table spoons,
and twelve teaspoons, but my set of fingers was two short
of a dozen and could never since be matched. Now what
else is it? Come, I'll tell you. It's a hoop of solid gold,
wrapped in a silver curl-paper that I myself took off the shin-
ing locks of the ever beautiful old lady in Threadneedle
Street, London city. I would n't tell you so if I had n't the
paper to show, or you might n't believe it even of me. Now
what else is it? It's a man-trap and a handcuff, the parish
stocks and a leg-lock, all in gold and all in one. Now what
else is it? It's a wedding ring. Now I'll tell you what I'm
a going to do with it. I'm not going to offer this lot for
money, but I mean to give it to the next of you beauties
that laughs, and I'll pay her a visit to-morrow morning at
exactly half after nine o'clock as the chimes go, and I'll take
her out for a walk to put up the banns." IS he iaughed, and
106 FARM-YARD SONG.
got the ring handed up to her. "When I called in the morn-
ing, she says, u O dear! It's never you, and you never
mean it?" " It's ever me," says I, " and I'm ever yours,
and I ever mean it." So we got married, after being put
up three times, — which, by the by, is quite in the Cheap
Jack way again, and shows once more how the Cheap Jack
customs pervade society.
She wasn't a bad wife, but she had a temper. If she
could have parted with that one article at a sacrifice, I
wouldn't have swopped her away in exchange for any other
woman in England. Not that I ever did swop her away,
for we lived together till she died, and that was thirteen
year. Now, my lords and ladies and gentlefolks all, I'll
let you into a secret, though you won't believe it. Thirteen
year of temper in a Palace would try the worst of you, but
thirteen year of temper in a cart would try the best of you.
You are kept so very close to it in a cart, you see. There's
thousands of couples among you, getting on like sweet-ile
upon a whetstone, in houses five and six pairs of stairs high,
that would go the Divorce Court in a cart. Whether the
jolting makes it worse, I don't undertake to decide, but in a
cart it does come home to you and stick to you. Wiolence
in a cart is so wiolent, and aggrawation in a cart is so aggra-
wating.
My dog knew as weli when she was on the turn as I did.
Before she broke out he would give a howl, and bolt. How
he knew it was a mystery to me; but the sure and certain
knowledge of it would wake him up out of his soundest
sleep, and he would give a howl, and bolt. At such times
I wished I was him.
CHARLES DICKENS.
FARM- YARD SONG.
Over the hill the farm-boy goes:
His shadow lengthens along the land.
A giant staff in a giant hand;
In the poplar-tree above the spring
The katydid begins to sing;
The early dews are falling:
Into the stone-heap darts the mink,
The swallows skim the river's brink,
FARAI-YAKD SONG. 107
And home to the woodland fly the crows,
When over the hill the farm-boy goes,
Cheerily calling —
" Co', boss! co', e boss! co'! co'! co'! " #
Farther, farther over the hill,
Faintly calling, calling still —
u Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'!"
Into the yard the farmer goes,
With grateful heart, at the close of day:
Harness and chain are hung away;
In the wagon-shed stand yoke and plough;
The straw's in the stack, the hay in the mow;
The cooling dews are falling:
The friendly sheep his welcome bleat,
The pigs come grunting to his feet,
The whinnying mare her master knows,
When into the yard the farmer goes,
His cattle calling —
" Co' boss! co', boss! co', co', co'! "
While still the cow-boy, far away,
Goes seeking those that have gone astray —
"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! "
Now to her task the milkmaid goes;
The cattle come crowding through the gate,
Lowing, pushing, little and great;
About the trough, by the farm-yard pump,
The frolicsome yearlings frisk and jump,
While the pleasant dews are falling:
The new milch heifer is quick and shy,
But the old cow waits with tranquil eye;
And the white stream into the bright pail flows,
When to her task the milkmaid goes,
Soothingly calling-
So, boss! so, boss! so! so! so
! »
The cheerful milkmaid takes her stool,
And sits and milks in the twilight cool,
Saying, " So, so, boss! so! so! "
To supper at last the farmer goes.
The apples are pared, the paper read,
The stories are told, then all to bed:
108 SCENE AT DR. BLIMBER'S.
Without, the cricket's ceaseless song
Makes shrill the silence all night long;
The heavy dews are falling;
The housewife's hand has turned the lock;
Drowsily ticks the kitchen clock;
The household sinks to deep repose;
But still in sleep the farm-boy goes
Singing, calling —
" Co' boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'! "
And oft the milkmaid, in her dreams,
Drums in the pail with the flashing streams,
Murmuring, " So, boss! so! "
J. T. TROWBRIDGE.
SCENE AT DR. BLIMBER'S.
At length Mr. Dotnbey, one Saturday, when he came
down to Brighton to see Paul, who was then six years old,
resolved to make a change, and enroll him as a small student
under Doctor Blimber.
Whenever a young man was taken in hand by Doctor
Blimber, he might consider himself sure of a pretty tight
squeeze. The Doctor only undertook the charge of ten
young gentlemen, but he had always ready a supply of
learning for a hundred, and it was at once the business and
delight of his life to gorge the unhappy ten with it.
In fact Doctor Blimber's establishment was a great hot-
house, in which there was a forcing apjDaratus incessantly at
work. All the boys -blew before their time. Mental green
peas were produced at Christmas, and intellectual asparagus
all the year round. No matter what a young gentleman
was intended to bear, Doctor Blimber made him bear to pat-
tern, somehow or other.
This was all very pleasant and ingenious, but the system
of forcing was attended with its usual disadvantages. There
was not the right taste about the premature productions; and
they didn't keep well. Moreover, one young gentleman,
with a swollen nose and an excessively large head (the old-
est of the ten who had " gone through " everything) sud-
denly left off blowing one day, and remained in the estab-
lishment a mere stalk. And people did say that the Doctor
had rather overdone it with young Toots, and that when he
began to have whiskers he left off having brains.
109
The Doctor was a portly gentleman in a suit of black,
with strings at his knees, and stockings below them. He
had a bald head, highly polished; a deep voice; and a chin
so very double, that it was a wonder how he ever managed
to shave into the creases.
His daughter, Miss Blimber, although a slim and graceful
maid, did no soft violence to the gravity of the Doctor's
house. There was no light nonsense about Miss Blimber.
She kept her hair short and crisp, and wore spectacles, and
she was dry and sandy with working in the graves of de-
ceased languages. None of your live languages for Miss
Blimber. They must be dead, — stone dead, — and then
Miss Blimber dug them up like a Ghoul. Mrs. Blimber, her
mamma, was not learned herself, but she rjretended to be,
and that answered just as well. She said at evening parties,
that, if she could have known Cicero, she thought she could
have died contented.
As to Mr. Feeder, B. A., Doctor Blimber's assistant, he
was a kind of human hand-organ, with a little list of tunes
at which he was continually working, over and over again,
without any variation.
To Doctor Blimber's Paul was taken by his father, on an
appointed day. The Doctor was sitting in his portentous
study, with a globe at each knee, books all around him;
Homer over the door and Minerva on the mantel-shelf.
"And how do you do, sir?" he said to Mr. Dombey, "and
how is my little friend?" When the Doctor left off, the
great clock in the hall seemed (to Paul, at least) to take him
up, and to go on saying, over and over again. 'How, is,
my, lit,tle, friend; how, is, my, lit,tle, friend?'
" Mr. Dombey," said Doctor Blimber, " you would wish
my little friend to acquire — "
"Everything, if you please, Doctor."
"Yes," said the Doctor, who, with his half-shut eyes,
seemed to survey Paul with the sort of interest that he
might attach to some choice little animal he was going to
stuff, — "yes, exactly. Ha! We shall impart a great variety
of information to our little friend, and bring him quickly
forward, I dare say. Permit me. Allow me to present Mrs.
Blimber and my daughter Cornelia, who will be associated
with the domestic life of our voung Pilgrim to Parnassus."
"Now, Dombey," said Miss Blimber, "I'm going out for
a constitutional."
110 SCENE AT DE. BLIMBEE's.
Paul wondered what that was, and why she didn't send
the footman out to get it in such unfavorable weather. But
he made no observation on the subject, his attention being
devoted to a little pile of new books, on which Miss Blim-
ber appeared to have been recently engaged.
"These are yours, Dombey. I am going out for a consti-
tutional; and while I am gone, that is to say in the interval
between this and breakfast, Dombey, I wish you to read
over what I have marked in these books, and to tell me if
you quite understand what you have got to learn."
They comprised a little English, and a deal of Latin, —
names of things, declensions of articles and substantives,
exercises thereon, and rules, — a trifle of orthography, a
glance at ancient history, a wink or two at modern ditto, a
few tables, two or three weights and measures, and a little
general information. When poor little Dombey had spelt
out number two, he found he had no idea of number one;
fragments of which afterwards obtruded themselves into
number three, which slided into number four, which grafted
itself on to number two. So that it was an open question
with him whether twenty Romuluses made a Remus, or hie
hsec hoc was troy weight, or a verb always agreed with an
ancient Briton, or three times four was Taurus, a bull.
Such spirits as Little Dombey had he soon lost, of course.
But he retained all that was strange and old and thoughtful
in his character; and even became more strange and old and
thoughtful. He loved to be alone, and liked nothing so well
as wandering about the house by himself, or sitting on the
stairs listening to the great clock in the hall. He was inti-
mate with all the paper-hangings in the house; he saw things
that no one else saw in the patterns; and found out minia-
ture tigers and lions running up the bedroom walls;
And so the solitary child lived on and on, surrounded by
the arabesque work of his musing fancy, and still no one
understood him. He grew fond, now of a large engraving
that hung upon the staircase, where, in the center of the
group, one figure that he knew — a figure with a light about
its head, benignant, mild, merciful — stood pointing upward.
He watched the waves and clouds at twilight with his earn-
est eyes, and breasted the window of his solitary room when
birds flew by, as if he would have emulated them and soared
away.
CHAELES DICKENS.
THE CHILD-WIFE. Ill
THE CHILD-WIFE.
All this time I had gone on loving- Dora harder than ever.
If I may so express it, I was steeped in Dora. I was not
merely over head and ears in love with her, I was saturated
through and through. I took night walks to Norwood where
she lived, and perambulated round and round the house and
garden for hours together, looking through crevices in the
palings, using violent exertions to get my chin above the
rusty nails on the top, blowing kisses at the lights in the
windows, and romantically calling on the night to shield my
Dora, — I don't exactly know from what, — I suppose from
fire, perhaps from mice, to which she had a great objection.
Dora had a discreet friend, comparatively stricken in
years, almost of the ripe age of twenty, I should say, whose
name was Miss Mills. Dora called her Julia. She was the
bosom friend of Dora. Happy Miss Mills!
One day Miss Mills said: " Dora is coming to stay with
me. She is coming the day after to-morrow. If you would
like to call, I am sure papa would be happy to see you."
I passed three days in a luxury of wretchedness. At last,
arrayed for the purpose, at a vast expense, I went to Miss
Mills's, fraught with a declaration. Mr. Mills w T as not at
home. I didn't expect he would be. Nobody wanted him.
Miss Mills was at home. Miss Mills would do.
I was shown into a room up stairs, where Miss Mills and
Dora were. Dora's little dog Jip was there. Miss Mills was
copying music, and Dora was painting fkrwers. What were
my feelings when I recognized flowers I had given her!
Miss Mills was very glad to see me, and very sorry her
papa was not at home, though I thought we all bore that
with fortitude. Miss Mills was conversational for a few
minutes, and then laying down her pen, got up and left the
room.
I began to think I would put it off till to-morrow.
" I hope your poor horse was not tired when he got home
at night from that picnic," said J)ora, lifting up her beautiful
eyes. " It was a long way for him."
I began to think I would do it to-day.
"It was a long way for Aim, for he had nothing to uphold
him on his journey."
"Wasn't he fed, poor thing?" asked Dora.
I began to think I would put it off till to-morrow.
112 THE CHILD- WIFE.
" Ye — yes, he was well taken care off. I mean he had not
the unutterable happiness that I had in being so near to you."
I saw now that I was in for it, and it must be done on the
spot.
"I don't know why you should care for being near me,"
said Dora, " or why you should call it a happiness But, of
course, you don't mean what you say. Jip, you naughty
boy, come here!"
I don't know how I did it, but I did it in a moment.
I intercepted Jip. I had Dora in my arms. I was full
of eloquence. I never stopped for a word. I told her how
I loved her. I told her I should die without her. I told
her that I idolized and worshiped her. Jip barked madly
all the time. My eloquence increased, and I said, if she
would like me to die for her, she had but to say the word,
and I was ready. I had loved her to distraction every
minute, day and night, since I first set eyes upon her. I
loved her at that moment to distraction. I should always
love her, every minute, to distraction. Lovers had loved
before, and lovers would love again ; but no lover had ever
loved, might, could, would, or should ever love, as I loved
Dora. The more I raved, the more Jip barked. Each of
us in his own way got more mad every moment.
Well, well: Dora and I were sitting on the sofa, by and
by, quiet enough, and Jip was lying in her lap winking
peacefully at me. It was off my mind. I was in a state of
perfect rapture. Dora and I were engaged.
Being poor, I felt it necessary the next time I went to my
darling to expatiate on that unfortunate drawback. I soon
carried desolation into the bosom of our joys — not that I
meant to do it, but that I was so full of the subject — by ask-
ing Dora, without the smallest preparation, if she could love
a beggar.
" How can you ask me anything so foolish ? Love a beggar!"
"Dora, my own dearest, I am a beggar!"
"How can you be such a silly thing," replied Dora, slap-
ping my hand, " as to sit there, telling such stories?"
"I'll make Jip bite you, if you are so ridiculous."
But I looked so serious that Dora began to cry. She did
nothing but exclaim, Oh, dear! Oh, dear! And Oh, she was
so frightened! And where was Julia Mills? And Oh, take
her to Julia Mills, and go away, please! until I was almost
beside myself.
THE CHILD- WIFE. 113
I thought I had killed her. I sprinkled water on her face;
I went down on my knees; I plucked at my hair; I implored
her forgiveness; I besought her to look up; I ravaged Miss
Mill's work-box for a smelling-bottle, and in my agony of
mind, applied an ivory needle-case, instead, and dropped all
the needles over Dora.
At last I got Dora to look at me, with a horrified expres-
sion which I gradually soothed until it was only loving, and
her soft, pretty cheek was lying against mine.
"Is your heart mine still, dear Dora?"
"Oh yes! Oh yes! it's all yours. Oh don't be dreadful."
"My dearest love, the crust well earned — "
" Oh, yes; but I don't want to hear any more about crusts.
And after we are married, Jip must have a mutton chop
every day at twelve, or he'll die."
I was charmed with her childish, winning way, and I
fondly explained to her that Jip should have his mutton
chop with his accustomed regularity.
When we had been engaged some half-year or so, Dora
delighted me by asking me to give her that cookery book I
had once spoken of, and to show her how to keep accounts,
as I had once promised I would. I brought the volume
with me on my next visit (I got it prettily bound first, to
make it look less dry and more inviting), and showed her an
old housekeeping book of my aunt's, and gave her a set of
tablets, and a pretty little pencil-case, and a box of leads, to
practice housekeeping with.
But the cookery-book made Dora's head ache, and the
figures made her cry. They wouldn't add up she said. So
she rubbed them out, and drew little nosegays, and likenesses
of me and Jip, all over the tablets.
Time went on, and at last, here in this hand of mine, I
held the wedding license. There were the two names in
the sweet old visionary connection, — David Copperfield and
Dora Spenlow; and there in the corner was that parental
institution, the Stamp Office, looking down upon our union;
and there, in the printed form of words, was the Archbishop
of Canterbury, invoking a blessing on us, and doing it as
cheap as could possibly be expected.
I doubt whether two young birds could have known less
about keeping house than I and my pretty Dora did. We
had a servant, of course. She kept house for us.
We had an awful time of it with Mary Anne.
114 THE CHILD-WIFE.
Her name was Paragon. Her nature was represented to
us, when we engaged her, as being feebly expressed in her
name. She had a written character, as large as a proclama-
tion, and according to that document could do everything
-of a domestic nature that ever I heard of, and a great many
things that I never did hear of. She was a woman in the
prime of life; of a severe countenance, and subject (partic-
ularly in the arms) to a sort of perpetual measles. She had
:A cousin in the Life Guards, with such long legs that he
■looked like the afternoon shadow of somebody else. She
•was warranted sober and honest; and I am therefore willing
tto believe that she was in a fit when we found her under the
iboiler, and that the deficient teaspoons were attributable to
the .dustman. She was the cause of our first little quar-
rel.
" My dearest life," I said one day to Dora, " do you think
that Mary Anne has any idea of time?"
"Why, Doady?"
" My love, because its five, and we were to have dined
at four."
My little wife came and sat upon my knee, to coax me to
be quiet, and drew a line with her pencil down the middle
of my nose; but I couldn't dine off that, though it was very
agreeable.
" Don't you think, my dear, it would be better for you to
remonstrate with Mary Anne?"
"Oh, no, please! I couldn't, Doady! "
" Why not, my love? "
"Oh, because I am such a little goose, and she knows I
am!"
I thought this sentiment so imcompatible with the estab-
lishment of any system of check on Mary Anne, that I
frowned a little.
" My precious wife, we must be serious sometimes.
Come! sit down on this chair, close beside me! Give me the
pencil! There! Now let us talk sensibly. You know,
dear," — what a little hand it was to hold, and what a tiny
wedding ring it was to see, — " you know, my love, it is not
exactly" comfortable to have to go out without one's dinner.
Now is it?"
" N-n-no! " replied Dora, faintly.
" My love, how you tremble! "
" Because, I know you're going to scold me."
THE CHILD-WIFE. 115
" My sweet, I am only going to reason."
" Oh, but reasoning is worse than scolding! I didn't
marry to be reasoned with. If you meant to reason with
such a poor little thing as I am, you ought to have told me
so, you cruel boy! "
" Dora, my darling! "
" No, I am not your darling. Because you must be sorry
that you married me, or else you wouldn't reason with me! "
I felt so injured by the inconsequential nature of this
charge, that it gave me courage to be grave.
" Now, my own Dora, you are childish, and are talking
nonsense. You must remember, I am sure, that I was
obliged to go out yesterday when dinner was half over; and
that, the day before, I was made quite unwell by being
obliged to eat underdone veal in a hurry; to-day, I don't
dine at all, and I am afraid to say how long we waited for
breakfast, and then the water didn't boil. 1 don't mean to
reproach you, my dear, but this is not comfortable."
" Oh, you cruel, cruel boy, to say I am a disagreeable
wife!"
" Now. my dear Dora, you must know that I never said
that! "
"You said I wasn't comfortable! "
"I said the housekeeping was not comfortable! "
" It's exactly the same thing! and I wonder, I do, at your
making such ungrateful speeches. When you know that
the other day, when you said you would like a little bit of
fish, I went out myself, miles and miles, and ordered it to sur-
prise you."
"And it was very kind of you, my own darling; and I
felt it so much that I wouldn't on any account have men-
tioned that you bought a salmon, which was too much for
two; or that it cost one pound six, which was more than we
can afford."
"You enjoyed it very much," sobbed Dora. " And you
said I was a Mouse."
" And I'll say so again, my love, a thousand times! "
I said it a thousand .times and more, and went on saying
it until Mary Anne's cousin deserted into our coal-hole, and
was brought out, to our great amazement, by a picket of his
companions in arms, who took him away handcuffed in a pro-
cession that covered our front garden with disgrace.
Everybody we had anything to do with, seemed to cheat
116 THE CHARCOAL MAN.
us. Our appearance in a shop was a signal for the damaged
goods to be brought out'immediately. If we bought a lob-
ster, it was full of water. All our meat turned out tough,
and there was hardly any crust to our loaves.
As to the washerwoman pawning the clothes, and coming
in a state of penitent intoxication to apologize, I suppose that
might have happened several times to anybody. Also the
chimney on fire, the parish engine, and perjury on the part
of the beadle. But I apprehend we were personally unfor-
tunate in our page, whose principal function was to quarrel
with the cook. We wanted to get rid of him, but he was
very much attached to us, and wouldn't go, until one day he
stole Dora's watch, then he went.
" I am very sorry for all this, Doady," said Dora. " Will
you call me a name I want you to call me?"
"•What is it, my dear?"
"It's a stupid name, — Child- wife. When you are going
to be angry with me, say to yourself, ' It's only my Child-
wife.' When I am very disappointing, say, c I knew a long
time ago, that she would make but a Child-wife.' When
you miss what you would like me to be, and what I should
like to be, and what I think I never can be, say, ' Still my
foolish Child- wife loves me.' For indeed I do."
I invoke the innocent figure that I dearly loved to come
out of the mists and shadows of the past, and to turn its gen-
tle head towards me once again, and to bear witness that it
was made happy by what I answered.
CHAELES DICKENS.
THE CHARCOAL MAN.
Though rudely blows the wintry blast,
And sifting snows fall white and fast,
Mark Haley drives along the street,
Perched high upon his wagon seat;
His sombre face the storm defies,
And thus from morn till eve he cries, —
" Charco' ! charco' ! "
While echo faint and far replies, —
"Hark, O! hark, O!"
"Charco'! "—"Hark, O! "—Such cheery sounds
Attend him on his daily rounds.
THE CHARCOAL MAN. 117
The dust begrimes his ancient hat;
His coat is darker far than that;
'Tis odd to see his sooty form
All speckled with the feathery storm;
Yet in his honest bosom lies
Nor spot nor speck, — though still he cries, —
"Charco'! charco'!"
And raanv a roguish lad replies, —
"Ark, ho! ark ho!"
" Charco'! " — " Ark, ho! " — Such various sounds
Announce Mark Haley's morning rounds.
Thus all the cold and wintry day
He labors much for little pay;
Yet feels no less of happiness
Than many a richer man, I guess,
When through the shades of eve he spies
The light of his own home, and cries, —
"Charco'! charco'!"
And Martha from the door replies, —
" Mark, ho! Mark, ho! "
" Charco'! "— " Mark, ho! "— Such joy abounds
When he has closed his daily rounds.
The hearth is warm, the fire is bright
And while his hand, washed clean and white,
Holds Martha's tender hand once more,
His glowing face bends fondly o'er
The crib wherein his darling lies,
And in a coaxing tone he cries,
"Charco'! charco'!"
And baby with a laugh replies, —
"Ah, go! ah, go!"
" Charco'!" — "Ah go!" — while at the sounds
The mother's heart with gladness bounds.
Then honored be the charcoal man!
Though dusky as an African,
'Tis not for you, that chance to be
A little better clad than he,
His honest manhood to despise,
Although from morn till eve he cries, —
"Charco'! charco'!"
118 SCENE AT THE NATURAL BRIDGE.
While mocking echo still replies, —
"Hark, O! hark, O! "
" Charco' !" — "Hark, O! " — Long may the sounds
Proclaim Mark Haley's daily rounds!
J. T. TROWBRIDGE.
SCENE AT THE NATURAL BRIDGE.
The scene opens with a view of the great Natural Bridge
in Virginia. There are three or four lads standing in the
channel below, looking up with awe to that vast arch of un-
hewn rocks, which the Almighty bridged over those ever-
lasting hutments, "when the morning stars sung together."
The little piece of sky spanning those measureless piers is
full of stars, although it is mid-day.
It is almost five hundred feet from where they stand, up
those perpendicular bulwarks of limestone, to the key-rock
of that vast arch, which appears to them only the size of a
man's hand. The silence of death is rendered more im-
pressive by the little stream that falls from rock to rock down
the channel. The sun is darkened, and the boys have un-
consciously uncovered their heads, as if standing in the
presence-chamber of the Majesty of the whole earth.
At last this feeling begins to wear away; they begin to
look around them ; they find that others have been there
before them. They see the names of hundreds cut in the
limestone butments. A new feeling comes over their young
hearts, and their knives are in their hands in an instant.
" What man has done, man can do," is their watchword,
while they draw themselves up, and carve their names a foot
above those of a hundred full -grown men who have been
there before them.
They are all satisfied with this feat of physical exertion,
except one, whose example illustrates perfectly the forgotten
truth, that there is no royal road to intellectual eminence.
This ambitious youth sees a name just above his reach — a
name that will be green in the memory of the world, when
those of Alexander, Caesar, and Bonaparte shall be lost in
oblivion. It was the name of Washington.
Before he marched with Braddock to that fatal field, he
had been there, and left his name a foot above all his pred-
ecessors. It was a glorious thought of the boy to write his
SCENE AT THE NATURAL BRIDGE. 119
name side by side with that of the great father of his coun-
try. He grasped his knife with a firmer hand, and clinging
to a little jutting crag, he cuts a gain into the limestone,
about a foot above where he stands; he then reaches up and
cuts another for his hands.
'Tis a dangerous adventure; but as he puts his feet and
hands into those gains, and draws himself up carefully to
his full length, he finds himself a foot above every name
chronicled in t'.iat mighty wall. While his companions are
regarding him with concern and admiration, he cuts his
name in rude capitals, large and deep into that flinty album.
His knife is still in his hand, and strength in his sinews,
and a new created aspiration in his heart. Again he cuts
another niche, and again he car res his name in larger cap-
itals. This is not enough. Heedless of the entreaties of
his companions, he cuts and climbs again. The gradations
of his ascending scale grow wider apart. He measures his
length at every gain he cuts. The voices of his friends wax
weaker and weaker, till their words are finally lost on his
ear.
He now, for the first time, cast a look beneath him. Had
that glance lasted a moment, that moment would have been
his last. He clings with a convulsive shudder to his little
niche in the rock. An awful abyss awaits his almost certain
fall. He is faint with severe exertion, and trembling from
the sudden view of the dreadful destruction to which he is
exposed. His knife is worn half way to the haft. He can
hear the voices, but not the words, of his terror-stricken
companions below! What a moment! What a meager
chance to escape destruction! There is no retracing his
steps. It is impossible to put his hand into the same niche
with his feet, and retain his slender hold a moment.
His companions instantly perceive this new and fearful
dilemma, and await his fall with emotions that " freeze their
young blood." He is too high, too faint, to ask for his father
and mother, and brothers and sisters, to come and witness
or avert his destruction. But one of his companions antic-
ipates his desire. Swift as the wind, he bounds down the
channel, and the situation of the ill-fated boy is told upon
his father's hearthstone.
Minutes of almost eternal length roll on, and there are
hundreds standing in that rocky channel, and hundreds on
the bridge above, all holding their breath, and awaiting the
120 SCENE AT THE NATURAL BRIDGE.
fearful catastrophe. The poor boy hears the hum of new
and numerous voices both above and below. He can dis-
tinguish the tones of his father, who is shouting, with all the
energy of despair, "William! William! don't look down!
Yonr mother, and Henry, and Harriet, are all here, praying
for you! Don't look down! Keep your eye towards the
top!"
The boy didn't look down. His eye is fixed like a flint
towards heaven, and his young heart on Him who reigns
there. He grasps again his knife. He cuts another niche,
and another foot is added to the hundreds that remove him
from the reach of human help from below. How carefully
he uses his wasting blade! How anxiously he selects the
softest places in that vast pier! How he avoids every flinty
grain! How he economizes his physical powers, resting a
moment at each gain he cuts! How every motion is watched
from below! There stand his father, mother, brother, and
sister, on the very spot, where, if he falls, he will not fall
alone.
The sun is half way down the west. The lad has made
fifty additional niches in that mighty wall, and now finds
himself directly under the middle of that vast arch of rocks,
earth, and trees. He must cut his way in a new direction,
to get from under this overhanging mountain. The inspira-
tion of hope is dying in his bosom; its vital heat is fed by
the increasing shouts of hundreds, perched upon cliffs and
trees, and others who stand with ropes in their hands on the
bridge above, or with ladders belcfw.
Fifty more gains must be cut before the longest rope can
reach him. His wasting blade strikes again into the lime-
stone. The boy is emerging painfully, foot by foot, from
under that lofty arch. Spliced ropes are ready in the hands
of those who are leaning over the outer edge of the bridge.
Two minutes more and all must be over. The blade is worn
to the last half inch. The boy's head reels; his eyes are
starting from their sockets. His last hope is dying in his
heart; his life must hang on the next gain he cuts. That
niche is the last.
At the last faint gash he makes, his knife — his faithful
knife — falls from his little nerveless hand, and ringing along
the precipice, falls at his mother's feet. An involuntary
groan of despair runs like a death-knell through the channel
below, and all is still as the grave. At the height of nearly
hamlet's ixstettctions to the playees. 121
three hundred feet, the devoted boy lifts his hopeless heart,
and closes his eyes to commend his soul to God.
'Tis but a moment — there! one foot swings off — he is reel-
ing — trembling — toppling over into eternity! Hark! a shout
falls on his ear from above. The man who is lying with half
his length .over the bridge, has caught a glimpse of the boy's
head and shoulders. Quick as thought the noosed rope is
within reach of the sinking youth. No one breathes. With
a faint convulsive effort, the swooning boy drops his arms
into the noose. Darkness comes over him, and with the
words God — Mother — the tightening rope lifts him out of
his last shallow niche. Not a lip moves while he is dangling
over that fearful abyss; but when a sturdy Virginian reaches
down and draws up the lad, and holds him up in his arms
before the tearful, breathless multitude, such shouting — such
leaping and weeping for joy — never greeted the ear of a hu-
man being so recovered from the yawning gulf of eternity.
ELIHU BURRITT.
DIDACTIC SELECTIONS.
HAMLET'S INSTRUCTIONS TO THE PLAYERS.
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 spake my lines.
Nor do not saw the air too much with your hand thus, but
use all gently; for in the very torrent, tempest, and, as I may
say, whirlwind of your passion, you must acquire and beget a
temperance, that may give it smoothness. Oh! it offends me
to the soul, to hear a robustious periwig-pated fellow tear a
passion to tatters, — to very rags, — to split the ears of the
groundlings; who, for the most part, are capable of nothing
but inexplicable dumb show and noise. I would 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 w^ord; 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,
122 HAPPINESS.
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 pres-
sure. Now this, overdone or come tardy off, though it make
the unskillful laugh, can not but make the judicious
grieve; the censure of which one, must, in your allowance,
o'erweigh a whole theater 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, or man,
have so strutted and bellowed, that I have thought some of
nature's journeymen had made men, and not made them
well, — they imitated humanity so abominably!
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.
HAPPINESS.
She is deceitful as the calm that precedes the hurricane,
smooth as the water on the verge of the cataract, and beau-
tiful as the rainbow, that smiling daughter of the storm; but,
like the mirage in the desert, she tantalizes us with a de-
lusion that distance creates, and that contiguity destroys.
Yet, when unsought, she is often found, and when unex-
pected, often obtained; while those who seek for her the
most diligently, fail the most, because they seek her where
she is not. Anthony sought her in love; Brutus, in glory;
Caesar, in dominion; — the first found disgrace, the second
disgust, the last ingratitude, and each destruction. To some
she is more kind, but not less cruel; she hands them her
cup; and they drink even to stupefaction, until they doubt
whether they are men, with Philip, or dream that they
are gods, with Alexander. On some she smiles, as on Napo-
leon, with an aspect more bewitching than an Italian sun;
but it is only to make her frown the more terrible, and by
one short caress to embitter the pangs of separation. Yet is
she, by universal homage and consent, a queen; and the pas-
sions are the vassal lords that crowd her court, await her
mandate, and move at her control. But, like other mighty
sovereigns, she is so surrounded by her envoys, her officers,
and her ministers of state; that it is extremely difficult to be
admitted to her presence chamber, or to have any immediate
communication with herself. Ambition, Avarice, Love,
Revenge, all these seek her, and her alone; alas! they are
COME IT WILL. 123
neither presented to her, nor will she come to them. She
despatches, however, her envoys unto them, — mean and
poor respresentatives of their queen. To Ambition, she
sends Power; to Avarice, Wealth; to Love, Jealousy; to
Revenge, Remorse: alas! what are these, but so many other
names for vexation or disappointment? Neither is she to be
won by flatteries or by bribes: she is to be gained by waging
war against her enemies, much sooner than by paying any
particular court to herself. Those that conquer her adver-
saries, will find that they need not go to her, for she will
come unto them. None bid so hio-h for her as kino-s; few
are more willing, none are more able to purchase her
alliance at the fullest price. Bat she has no more respect
for kings than for their subjects; she mocks them, indeed,
with the empty show of a visit, by sending to their palaces
all her equipage, her pomp, and her train; but she comes
not herself. What detains her? She is traveling: incognito
to keep a private appointment with Contentment, and to
partake of a dinner of herbs in a cottage.
WALTER C0LT0N.
COME IT WILL.
Manhood will come, and old age will come, and the dy-
ing bed will come, and the very last look you shall ever have
on your acquaintances will come, and the time when you are
stretched a lifeless corpse before the eyes of weeping rela-
tives will come, and the coffin that is to enclose you will
come, and that hour when the company assemble to carry
you to the churchyard will come, and that minute when you
are put down into the grave will come, and the throwing in
of the loose dirt into the narrow house where you are laid, and
the spreading of the green sod over it — all, all will come on
every living creature who now speaks, and the people who
now listen will be carried to their long homes, and make
room for another generation. Now all this you know must
and will happen — your common sense and common expe-
rience serve to convince you of it.
Perhaps it may have been little thought of in the clays of care-
less and thoughtless and thankless unconcern which you have
spent hitherto; but I call upon you to think of it now, to lay
it seriously to heart, and no longer to delay when the high
matters of death and judgment and eternity are thus set so
124 BOOKS.
evidently before you. And the tidings wherewith I am
charged — and the blood lieth upon your own head, and not
upon mine, if you will not listen to them — the object of my
coming amongst you is to let you know what more things are
to come; it is to carry you beyond the regions of sight and
of sense, to the regions of faith, and to assure you in the
name of Him who cannot lie, that as sure as the hour for lay-
ing the body in the grave comes, so surely will also come the
hour of the spirit returning to Him who gave it. Yes, the
day of final reckoning will come, and the appearance of the
Son of God in heaven, and his mighty angels around him,
will come, and the opening of the books will come, and the
stand inir of men of all generations before the judgment seat
will come, and the solemn passing of that sentence which is
to fix you for eternity will come.
THOMAS CHALMERS.
BOOKS.
Studies serve for delight, for ornament, and for ability.
Their chief use for delight is in privateness, and retiring;
for ornament, is in discourse; and for ability, is in the judg-
ment and disposition of business; for expert men can exe-
cute, and perhaps judge of particulars, one by one; but the
general counsels, and the plots and marshalling of affairs,
come best from those that are learned.
To spend too much time in studies, is sloth; to use them
too much for ornament, is affectation; to make judgment
wholly by their rules, is the humor of a scholar; they per-
fect nature, and are perfected by experience — for natural
abilities are like natural plants, that need pruning by study;
and studies themselves do give forth directions too much at
large, except they be bounded in by experience,. Crafty
men contemn studies, simple men admire them, and wise
men use them, for they teach not their own use; but that is
a wisdom without them, and above them, won by observa-
tion. Read not to contradict and confute, nor to believe
and take for granted, nor to find talk and discourse, but to
weigh and consider. Some books are to be tasted, others to
be swallowed, and some few to be chewed and digested:
that is, some books are to be read only in parts; others to be
read, but not curiously; and some few to be read wholly,
and with diligence and attention. Some books also may be
THE SKY. 125
read by deputy and extracts made of them by others; but
that would be only in the less important arguments, and the
meaner sort of books; else distilled books are, like common
distilled waters, flashy things. Reading maketh a full man,
conference a ready man, and writing an exact man; and,
therefore, if a man write little, he had need have a great
memory; if he confer little, he had need have a present wit;
and if he read little, he had need have much cunning, to
seem to know that he doth not. Histories make men wise;
poets witty; the mathematics subtle; natural philosophy
deep; moral grave; logic and rhetoric, able to contend.
FRANCIS BACON.
THE SKY.
Not long ago I was slowly descending the carriage road
after you leave Albano. It had been wild weather when I
left Rome, and all across the Campagna the clouds were
sweeping in sulphurous blue, with a clap of thunder or two,
and breaking gleams of sun along the Claudian aqueduct,
lighting up its arches like the bridge of chaos. But as I
climbed the long slope of the Alban mount, the storm swept
finally to the north, and the noble outline of the domes of
Albano and the graceful darkness of its ilex grove rose
against pure streaks of alternate blue and amber, the upper
sky gradually flushing through the last fragments of rain-
cloud, in deep palpitating azure, half ether and half dew.
The noon-day sun came slanting down the rocky slopes of
LaRicca, and its masses of entangled and tall foliage, whose
autumnal tints were mixed with the wet verdure of a thousand
evergreens, were penetrated with it as with rain. I cannot
call it color, it was conflagration. Purple, and crimson and
scarlet, like the curtains of God's tabernacle, the rejoicing
trees sank into the valley in showers of light, every separate
leaf quivering with buoyant and burning life; each, as it
turned to reflect or to transmit the sunbeam, first a torch and
then an emerald. Far up into the recesses of the valley, the
green vistas, arched like the hollows of mighty waves of
some crystalline sea, with the arbutus flowers, dashed along
their flanks for foam, and silver flakes of orange spray tossed
into the air around them, breaking over the gray walls of
rock into a thousand separate stars, fading and kindling al-
ternately as the weak wind lifted and let them fall. Every
126 THE SKY.
blade of grass burned like the golden floor of heaven, open-
ing in sudden gleams as the foliage broke and closed above
it, as sheet lightning opens in a cloud at sunset the motion-
less masses of dark rock — dark, though flushed with scarlet
lichen, casting their quiet shadows across its restless radiance,
the fountain underneath them filling its marble hollow with
blue mist and fitful sound, and, over all, — the multitudinous
bars of amber and rose, the sacred clouds that have no dark-
ness, and only exist to illumine, were seen in intervals be-
tween the solemn and orbed repose of the stone pines, pass-
ing to lose themselves in the last, white, blinding lustre of
the measurless line where the Campagna melted into the
blaze of the sea. * *
Are not all natural things, it may be asked, as lovely near
as far away? By no means. Look at the clouds and watch
the delicate sculpture of their alabaster sides, and the rounded
lustre of their magnificent rolling. They are meant to be
beheld for away: they were shaped for their place high above
your head: approach them and they fuse into vague mists, or
whirl away in fierce fragments of thunderous vapor. Look
at the crest of the Alp from the far away plains over which
its light is cast, whence human souls have communed with
it by their myriads. It was built for its place in the far off
sky: approach it, and as the sound of the voice of man dies
away about its foundations, and the tide of human life is met
at last by the eternal "Here shall thy waves be stayed," the
glory of its aspect fades into blanched fearfulness: its purple
walls are rent into grisly rocks, its silver fret-work saddened
into wasting snow: the stormbrands of ages are on its breast,
the ashes of its own ruin lie solemnly on its white raiment.
If you desire to perceive the great harmonies of the form
of a rocky mountain, you must not ascend upon its sides.
All there is disorder and accident, or seems so. Retire from
it, and as your eye commands it more and more, you see the
ruined mountain world with a wider glance; behold! dim
sympathies begin to busy themselves in the disjointed mass:
line binds itself into stealthy fellowship with line: group by
group the helpless fragments gather themselves into ordered
companies: new captains of hosts, and masses of battalions,
becomes visible one by one; and faraway answers of foot to
foot and of bone to bone, until the powerless is seen risen up
with girded loins, and not one piece of all the unregarded
heap can now be spared from the mystic whole.
JOHN KUSKIN.
V. GAYETY.
In this class of selections the same suggestions that were
made on the subject of common reading are pertinent and
practical. However, greater variety of intonation, a quicker
movement, and a higher pitch, are required in gay and lively
styles. Flexibility of voice is indispensable; so that the
slides of the fifth and octave may be easily reached, while
the voice remains free from strain and harshness.
GAY AND ANIMATED SELECTIONS.
DAFFODILS.
I "wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd, —
A host of golden daffodils
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I, at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced, but they
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee;
A poet could not but be gay
In such a jocund company;
128 THE FAIRIES.
I gazed — and gazed — but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought.
For oft, when on my couch I lie,
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
THE FAIRIES.
Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren't go a hunting
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl's feather!
Down along the rocky shore
Some make their home, —
They live on crispy pancakes
Of yellow .tide-foam;
Some in the reeds
Of the black mountain-lake,
With fro^s for their watch- doses,
All night awake.
High on the hill-top
The old king sits;
He is now so old and gray
He's nigh lost his wits.
With a bridge of white mist
Columbkill he crosses,
On his stately journeys
From Slieveleague to Rosses;
Or going up with music
On cold starry nights,
To sup with the queen
Of the gay Northern Lights.
fezzi wig's ball. 129
They stole little Bridget
For seven years long;
When she came down again
Her friends were all gone.
They took her lightly back,
Between the night and morrow;
They thought that she was fast asleep,
But she was dead with sorrow.
They have kept her ever since
Deep within the lakes,
On a bed of flag-leaves,
Watching till she wakes.
By the craggy hillside,
Through the mosses bare,
They have planted thorn-trees
For pleasure here and there.
Is any man so daring
To dig one up in spite,
He shall find the thornies set
In his bed at night.
Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren't go a hunting
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl's feather!
WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.
FEZZIWIG'S BALL.
The Ghost stopped at a certain warehouse door, and asked
Scrooge if he knew it.
" Know it! Was I apprenticed here! "
They went in. At sight of an old gentleman in a Welsh
wig, sitting behind such a high desk that, if he had been
two inches taller, he must have knocked his head against the
ceiling, Scrooge cried in great excitement: "Why, it 's old
Fezziwig! Bless his heart, it 's Fezziwig, alive again! "
130 fezziwig's ball.
Old Fezziwig laid down his pen, and looked up at the
clock, which pointed to the hour of seven. He rubbed his
hands; adjusted his capacious waistcoat; laughed all over
himself, from his shoes to his organ of benevolence; and
called out in a comfortable, oily, rich, fat, jovial voice: "Yo
ho, there! Ebenezer! Dick! "
A living and moving picture of Scrooge's former self, a
young man, came briskly in, accompanied by his fellow-
prentice.
'• Dick Wilkins, to be sure! " said Scrooge to the Ghost.
" My old fellow-prentice, bless me, yes. There he is. He
was very much attached to me, was Dick. Poor Dick!
Dear, dear! "
"Yo ho, my boys! " said Fezziwig. "No more work to-
night. Christmas eve, Dick. Christmas, Ebenezer! Let's
have the shutt' rs up, before a man can say Jack Robinson!
Clear away, my lads, and let's have lots of room here! "
Clear away! There was nothing they wouldn't have
cleared away, or could n't have cleared away, with old
Fezziwig looking on. It was done in a minute. Every
movable was packed off, as if it were dismissed from public
life forevermore; the floor was swept and watered, the lamps
were trimmed, fuel was heaped upon the fire; and the ware-
house was as snug and warm and dry and bright a ball-room
as you would desire to see upon a winter's night.
In came a fiddler with a music-book, and went up to the
lofty desk, and made an orchestra of it, and tuned like fifty
stomach-aches. In came Mrs. Fezziwig, one vast substan-
tial smile. In came the three Miss Fezziwigs, beaming and
lovable. In came the. six young followers whose hearts they
broke. In came all the young men and women employed in
the business. In came the house maid, with her cousin the
baker. In came the cook, with her brother's particular friend
the milkman. In they all came one after another; some
shyly, some boldly, some gracefully, s$me awkwardly, som£
pushing, some pulling; in they all came, anyhow T and every-
how. Away they all went, twenty couple at once; hands
half round and back again the other way; down the middle
and up again; round and round in various stages of affection-
ate grouping; old top couple always turning up in the
wrongplace; new top couple starting off again, as soon as they
got there; all top couples at last, and not a bottom one to
help them. When this result was brought about, old Fezzi-
131
wig, clapping his hands to stop the dance, cried out, " Well
done! " and the fiddler plunged his hot face into a pot of
porter especially provided for that purpose.
There were more dances, and there were forfeits, and more
dances, and there was cake, and there was negus, and there
was a great piece of Cold Roast, and there was a great piece
of Cold Boiled, and there were mince-pies, and plenty of
beer. But the great effect of the evening came after the
Roast and Boiled, when the fiddler struck up " Sir Roger de
Covelry." Then old Fezziwig stood out to dance with Mrs.
Fezziwig. Top couple, too; with a good stiff piece of work
cut out for them; three or four and twenty pair of partners;
people who were not to be trifled with; people who would
dance, and had no notion of walking.
But if they had been twice as many, — four times, — old
Fezziwig would have been a match for them and so would
Mrs. Fezziwig. As to Aer, she was worthy to be his part-
ner in every sense of the term. A positive light appeared
to issue from Fezziwig's calves. They shone in every part
of the dance. You could n't have predicted, at any given
time, what would become of 'em next. And when old Fezzi-
wig and Mrs. Fezziwig had gone all through the dance, —
advance and retire, turn your partner, bow and courtesy,
corkscrew, thread the needle, and back again to your place,
— Fezziwig " cut," — cut so deftly, that he appeared to wink
with his legs.
When the clock struck eleven this domestic ball broke
up. Mr. and Mrs. Fezziwig took their stations, one on either
side the door, and, shaking hands with every person individ-
ually as he or she went out, wished him or her a Merry
Christmas. When everybody had retired but the two 'pren-
tices, they did the same to them; and thus the cheerful
voices died away, and the lads were left to their beds, which
were under a counter in the back shop.
CHARLES DICKENS.
KISSING 'S NO SIN.
Some say that kissing 's a sin;
But I think it's nane ava,
For kissing has wonn'd in this warld
Since ever that there was twa.
132 SONG OF THE BEOOK.
O, if it wasna lawfu',
Lawyers wadna allow it;
If it wasna holy,
Ministers wadna do it.
If it wasna modest,
Maidens wadna tak' it;
If it wasna plenty,
Puir folk wadna get it.
ANONYMOUS.
SONG OF THE BROOK.
I come from haunts of coot and hern:
I make a sudden sally
And sparkle out among the fern,
To bicker down a valley.
By thirty hills I hurry down,
Or slip between the ridges,
By twenty thorps, a little town,
And half a hundred bridges.
Till last by Philip's farm I flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go.
But I go on forever.
I chatter over stony ways,
In little sharps and trebles,
I bubble into eddying bays,
I babble on the pebbles.
With many a curve my banks I fret
By many a field and fallow,
And many a fairy foreland set
With willow- weed and mallow.
I chatter, chatter, as I flow
To join the brimming river;
For men may come and men may go.
But I go on forever.
THE BOYS. 133
I wind about, and in and out,
With here a blossom sailing,
And here and there a lusty trout,
And here and there a grayling.
And here and there a foamy flake
Upon me, as I travel
With many a silvery waterbreak
Above the golden gravel,
And draw them all along, and flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.
I steal by lawns and grassy plots;
I slide by hazel covers;
I move the sweet forget-me-nots
That grow for happy lovers.
I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,
Among my skimming swallows;
I make the netted sunbeams dance
Against my sandy shallows.
I murmur under moon and stars
In brambly wildernesses;
I linger by my shingly bars;
I loiter round my cresses;
And out again I curve and flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.
ALFRED TENNYSON".
THE BOYS.
This selection is a poem addressed to the class of 1829. in Harvard College,
some thirty years after their graduation. The author, who retains, in a high
degree, the ireshness and joyousness of youth, addresses his classmates as
" boys."
Has there any old fellow got mixed with the boys?
If there has, take him out, without making a noise.
134 THE BOYS.
Hang the almanac's cheat and the catalogue's spite!
Old Time is a liar! we're twenty to-night!
We're twenty! We're twenty! Who says we are more?
He's tipsy, — young jackanapes! — show him the door!
"Gray temples at twenty ? "—Yes ! white if you please;
Where the snow-flakes fall thickest there's nothing can freeze!
Was it snowing I spoke of? Excuse the mistake!
Look close you will see not a sign of a flake!
We want some new garlands for those we have shed,
And these are white roses in place of the red.
We've a trick, we young fellows, you may have been told,
Of talking (in public) as if we were old;
That boy we call "Doctor," and this we call "Judge;"
It's a neat little fiction, — of course it's all fudge.
That fellow's the "Speaker," the one on the right;
" Mr. Mayor," my young one, how are you to-night?
That's our " Member of Congress," we say when we chaff;
There's the " Reverend " — what's his name? — don't make me
laugh.
That boy with the grave mathematicalTook
Made believe he had written a wonderful book,
And the Royal Society thought it was true!
So they chose him right in, — a good joke it was too!
There's a boy, we pretend, with a three-decker brain,
That could harness a team with a logical chain;
When he spoke for our manhood in syllabled fire,
We called him " The Justice," but now he's the " Squire."
And there's a nice youngster of excellent pith;
Fate tried to conceal him by naming him Smith;
But he shouted a song for the brave and the free, —
Just read on his medal, " My country," " of thee! "
You hear that boy laughing? You think he's all fun;
But the angels laugh, too, at the good he has done;
The children laugh loud as they troop to his en 11,
And the poor man that knows him laughs loudest of all!
PRAISE OF LITTLE WOMEN. loD
Yes, we're boys, — always playing with tongue or with pen ;
And I sometimes have asked, Shall we ever be men?
Shall we always be youthful, and laughing, and gay,
Till the last dear companion drops smiling away?
Then here's to our boyhood, its gold and its gray!
The stars of its winter, the dews of its May!
And when we have done with our life-lasting toys,
Dear Father, take care of thy children, The Boys!
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
PRAISE OF LITTLE WOMEN.
TRANSLATED BY LONGFELLOW. ♦
To praise the little women Love besought me in my musing;
To tell their noble qualities is quite beyond refusing;
So I'll praise the little women, and you'll find the thing
amusing;
They are, I know, as cold as snow, whilst flames around dif-
fusing.
In a little precious stone what splendor meets the eyes!
In a little lump of sugar how much of sweetness lies!
So in a little woman love grows and multiplies;
You recollect the proverb says, — A word unto the wise.
A peppercorn is very small, but seasons every dinner
More than all other condiments, although 'tis sprinkled
thinner;
Just so a little woman is, if Love will let you win her, —
There's not a joy in all the world you will not find within
her.
And as within the little rose you find the richest dyes,
And in a little grain of gold much price and value lies,
As from a little balsam much odor doth arise,
So in a little woman there's a taste of paradise.
Even as the little ruby its secret worth betrays,
Color, and price, and virtue, in the clearness of its rays, —
Just so a little woman much excellence displays,
Beauty, and grace, and love, and fidelity always.
136 CUPID SWALLOWED.
The skylark and the nightingale, though small and light of
wing,
Yet warble sweeter in the grove than all the birds that sing:
And so a little woman, though a very little thing,
Is sweeter far than sugar, and now,ers that bloom in spring.
There's naught can be compared to her throughout the wide
creation ;
She is a paradise on earth, — our greatest consolation;
So cheerful, gay, and happy, so free from all vexation ;
In fine, she's better in the proof than in anticipation.
If as her size increases are woman's charms decreased,
Then surely it is good to be from all the great released.
Now, of two evils choose the less, said a wise man of the
East;
By consequence, of woman-kind be sure to choose the least,
JUAN KUIZ DE HITA.
CUPID SWALLOWED.
T' other day, as I was twining
Roses for a crown to dine in,
What, of all things, midst the heap,
Should I light on, fast asleep,
But the little desperate elf, —
The tiny traitor, — Love himself!
By the wings I pinched him up
Like a bee, and in a cup
Of my wine I plunged and sank him;
And what d' ye think I did? — I drank him!
Faith, I thought him dead. Not he!
There he lives with tenfold glee;
And now this moment, with his wings,
I feel him tickling my heart-strings.
LEIGH HUNT.
VI. HUMOR
The upper tones of the voice are peculiarly those of Hu-
mor. A sudden flight on the musical scale, from a compara-
tively low note to a very high one, is usually provocative of
mirth.
The greatest possible variety in intonation, united with an
airiness of movement and an approach to a laughing utter-
ance, are the principal requirments of Humorous Reading.
HUMOROUS SELECTIONS.
A SENATOR ENTANGLED.
The Countess di Nottinero was not exactly a Recamier,
but she was a remarkably brilliant woman, and the acknowl-
edged leader of the liberal part of Florentine society.
The good Senator had never before encountered a
thorough woman of the world, and was as ignorant as a
child of the innumerable little harmless arts by which the
power of such a one is extended and secured. At last the
Senator came to this conclusion, — La Ciea was desperately
in love with him.
She appeared to be a widow. At least she had no hus-
band that he had ever seen. Now if the poor Cica was
hopelessly in love, it must be stopped at once. But let it
be done delicately, not abruptly.
One evening they walked on the balcony of La Cleans
noble residence. She was sentimental, devoted, charming.
The conversation of a fascinating woman does not sound
so well when it is reported as it is when uttered. Her power
138 A SENATOR ENTANGLED.
is in her tone, her glance, her manner. "Who can catch the
evanescent beauty of her expression or the deep tenderness
of her well modulated voice? — who indeed?
" Does ze scene please you, my Senator? "
" Very much indeed." .
" Youar countryman haf tol me zey would like to stay
here alloway."
" It is a beautiful place."
"Did you aiver see any thin moaire loafely?" And the
Countess looked full in his face.
" Never," said the Senator, earnestly. The next instant
he blushed. He had been betrayed into a compliment.
The Countess sighed.
"Helas! my Senator, that it is not pairmitted to mortals
to sociate as zey would laike."
" ' Your Senator,' " thought the gentleman thus addressed;
"how fond, how tender, — poor thing! poor thing! "
"I wish that Italy was nearer to the States," said he.
" How I adamiar youar style of mind, so different from ze
Italiana! You are so strong, — so nobile. Yet would I laike
to see moar of ze poetic in you."
" 1 always loved poetry, marm," said the Senator, desper-
ately.
"Ah — good — nais — eccelente. I am plees at zat," cried
the Countess, with much animation. "You would loafe it
moar eef you knew Italiano. Your langua ees not sufficient
musicale for poatry."
" It is not so soft a language as the Ttalian."
"Ah — no — not so soft. Very well. And what theenka
you of ze Italiano? "
" The sweetest language I ever heard in all my born
days."
"Ah now — you hev not heard much of ze Italiano, my
Senator."
" I have heard you speak often," said the Senator, naive-
"Ah, you compliment! I sot you was aboove flattera."
And the Countess playfully tapped his arm with her little
fan.
"What Ingelis poet do you loafe best?"
"Poet? English poet?" said the Senator, with some sur-
prise. " O — why, marm, I think Watts is about the best of
the lot.
A SENATOR EXTAXGLED. 130
"Watt? Was he a poet? I did not know zat. He who
invented ze stim-injaine? And yet if he was a poet it is
naturale zat you loafe him best."
"Steam-engine? O no! This one was a minister."
"A meeneestaire? Ah! an abbe? I know him not. Yet
I haf read mos of all youar poets."
"He made up hymns, marm, and psalms, — for instance,
'Watts's Divine Hymns and Spiritual Songs.'"
"Songs? Spirituelle? Ah, I mus at once procuaire ze
works of Watt, which was favorit poet of my Senator."
" A lady of such intelligence as you would like the poet
Watts," said the Senator, firmly. "He is the best known by
far of all our poets."
"What! better zan Sakespeare, Milton, Bairon ? You much
surprass me."
" Better known and better loved than the whole lot. Why,
his poetry is known by heart through all England and
America."
"Merciful Heaven! what you tell me! ees eet possble! An
yet he is not known here efen by name. It would please
me mooch, my Senator, to haire you make one quotatione.
Know you Watt? Tell to me some words of his which I
may remembaire."
" I have a shocking bad memory."
"Bad memora! O, but you remember somethin, zis mos
beautiful charm nait — you haf a nobile soul — you mus be
alfecta by beauty — by ze ideal. Make for a me one quota-
tione."
And she rested her little hand on the Senator's arm, and
looked up imploringly in his face.
The Senator looked foolish. He felt even more so. Here
was a beautiful woman, by act and look showing a tender
interest in him. Perplexing, — but very flattering, after all.
So he replied, —
"You will not let me refuse you anything."
"Aha! you are vera willin' to refuse. It is difficulty for
me to excitaire youar regards. You are fill with the grands
ideas. But come, — will you spik for me some from your
favorit Watt?"
" Well, if you wish it so much," said the Senator, kindly;
and he hesitated.
"Ah, — I do wis it so much!"
"Ehem!"
140 A SENATOR ENTANGLED.
" Begin," said the Countess. " Behold me. I listen. I
hear every sin, and will remembaire it ibrava."
The only thing that the Senator could think of was a verse
which had been running in his head for the last few days,
its measured rhythm keeping time with every occupation: —
" ' My willing soul would stay — ' "
" Stop one moment," said the Countess. " I weesh to learn
it from you "; and she looked fondly and tenderly up, but
instantly dropped her eyes.
" ' Ma willina sol wooda sta — ' "
" ' In such a frame as this,' ' prompted the Senator.
" ' Een socha framas zees.' Wait — ' Ma willina sol wooda
sta in socha framas zees.' Ah, appropriat! but could I hope
zat you were true to zose lines, my Senator? Well?"
" 'And sit and sing herself away,' " said the Senator, in a
faltering voice, and breaking out into a cold perspiration for
fear of committing himself by such uncommonly strong lan-
guage,
"Ansit ansin hassaf awai," repeated the Countess, her
face lighting up with a sweetly conscious expression.
The Senator paused.
"Well?"
"I — ehem ! I forget."
" Forget? Impossble!"
" I do really."
"Ah now! Forget! I see by youar face — you desave.
Say on."
The Countess again gently touched his arm with both of
her little hands, and held it as though she would clasp it.
"Have you fear? Ah, cruel!"
The Senator turned pale, but, finding refusal impossible,
boldly finished: —
" To everlasting bliss ' — there!"
"'To affarlastin blees thar.' Stop. I repeat it all: ' Ma
willina sol wooda sta in socha framas zees, ansit ansin hassaf
awai to affarlastin blees thar.' Am I right?"
"Yes," said the Senator, meekly.
"I knew you war a poetic sola," said the Countess, con-
fidingly. "You are honesto — true — you cannot desave.
When you spik I can beliv you. Ah, my Senator! an you
can spik zis poetry! — at soch a taime! I nefare knew
befoare zat you wos so impassion e! — an you air so artaful!
You breeng ze confersazione to beauty — to poatry — to ze
THE GRIDIRON. 141
poet Watt — so you may spik verses mos impassion e! Ah!
what do you mean? Santissima madra! how I wish you spik
Italiano."
The Countess drew nearer to him, but her approach only
deepened his perplexity.
"How that poor thing does love me!" sighed the Senator,
"Law bless it! she can't help it, — can't help it nohow. She
is a goner; and what can I do? I'll have to leave Florence."
The Countess was standing close beside him in a tender
mood waiting for him to break the silence. How could he?
He had been uttering words which sounded to her like love;
and she — "a widow! a widow! a widow! wretched man that
I am!"
There was a pause. The longer it lasted the more awk-
ward the Senator felt. What upon earth was he to do or say?
What business had he to go and quote poetry to widows?
What an old fool he must be! But the Countess was very
far from feeling awkward. Assuming an elegant attitude
she looked up, her face expressing the tenderesb solicitude.
"What ails my Senator?"
"Why, the fact is, marm — I feel sad — at leaving Flor-
ence. I must go shortly. My wife has written summoning
me home. The children are down with the measles."
O base fabrication! O false Senator! There wasn't a
word of truth in that remark. You spoke so because you
wished La Cica to know that you had a wife and family.
Yet it was very badly done.
La Cica changed neither her attitude nor her expression.
Evidently the existence of his wife and the melancholy sit-
uation of his unfortunate children awakened no sympathy.
"But, my Senator — did you not say you wooda seeng
yousellef away to affarlastin blees?"
"O marm, it was a quotation, — only a quotation."
But at this critical juncture the conversation was broken
up by the arrival of a number of ladies and gentlemen.
JAMES DE MILLE.
THE GRIDIRON.
THE CAPTAIN, PATRICK, AND THE FRENCHMAN. .
Patrick. Well, Captain, whereabouts in the wide world
are we? Is it Roosia, Proosia, or the Jarmant oceant?
142 THE GEIDIEOK".
Captain. Tut, you fool; it 's France.
Patrick. Tare an ouns! do you tell me so? and how do
you know it 's France, Captain dear?
Captain. Because we were on the coast of the Bay of
Biscay when the vessel was wrecked.
Patrick. Throth, I was thinkin' so myself. And noi,
Captain, jewel, it is I that wishes we had a gridiron.
Captain. Why, Patrick, what puts the notion of a grid-
iron into your head?
Patrick. Because I'm starving with hunger, Captain dear.
Captain. Surely you do not intend to eat a gridiron, do.
you?
Patrick. Ate a gridiron! bad luck to it! no. But if we
had a gridiron, we could dress a beefsteak.
Captain. Yes; but where's the beefsteak, Patrick?
Patrick. Sure, could n't we cut it off the pork?
Captain. I never thought of that. You are a clever fel-
low, Patrick. {Laughing?)
Patrick. There's many a true word said in joke, Captain.
And now, if you will go and get the bit of pork that we saved
from the rack, I '11 go tothchouse there beyant, and ax some
of them to lind me the loan of a gridiron.
Captain. But, Patrick, this is France, and they are all
foreigners here.
Patrick. Well, and how do you know but I am as good
a^furriner myself as any o' them.
Captain. What do you mean, Patrick?
Patrick. Parley voo frongsay?
Captain. O, you understand French, then, is it?
Patrick. Troth, you may say that, Captain dear.
Captain. Well, Patrick, success to you. Be civil to the
foreigners, and I'll be back with the pork in a minute.
[He goes out.
Patrick. Ay, sure enough, I'll be civil to them; for the
French are always mighty p'lite intirely, and I'll show them
I know what good manners is. Indade, and here comes
munseer himself, quite convaynient. (As the Frenchman
enters, Patrick takes off his hat, and, making a low bow,
says:) God save you, sir, and all your children. I beg your
pardon for the liberty I take, but it's only being in disthress
in regard of ateing, that I make bowld to trouble ye; and if
you could lind me the loan of a gridiron, I 'd be intirely
obleeged to ye.
THE GEIDIRON". 143
Frenchman [staring at him). Comment!
.Patrick. Indade it 's thrue for you. I 'm tathered to
paces, and God knows I lookquare enough; but it's by rason
of the storm that dhruve us ashore jist here, and we 're all
starvin'.
Frenchman. Je m'yt — [pronounced zhe meet).
Patrick. Oh! not at all! by no manes! we have plenty
of mate ourselves, and we '11 dhress it, if you 'd be plased
jist to lind us the loan of a gridiron, sir. [Making a low
bow.)
. Frenchman [staring at h im but not understanding a word).
Patrick. I beg pardon, sir; but maybe I'm under a mis-
take, but I thought I was in France, sir. An't you all furr-
iners here? Parley voo frongsay?
Frenchman. Oui, monsieur.
Patrick. Then, would you lind me the loan of a gridiron,
if you plase? ( The Frenchman stares more than ever, as if
anxious to understand^) I know it's a liberty I take, sir;
but it's only in the regard of bein' cast away; and if you
plase, sir, parley voo frongsay?
Frenchman. Oui, monsieur, oui.
Patrick. Then would you lind me the loan of a gridiron,
sir, and you '11 obleege me?
Frenchman. Monsieur, pardon, monsieur —
Patrick [angrily). By my sow!, if it was you was in dis-
thress, and if it was to owld Ireland you came, it 's not only
the gridiron they 'd give you, if you axed it, but something
to put on it too, and a dhrop of dhrink into the bargain
Can't you understand your own language? [Very slowly.)
Parley — voo — frongsay — mounseer?
Frenchman. Oui, monsieur; oui, monsieur, mais —
Patrick. Then lind me the loan of a gridiron, I say, and
bad scram to you.
Frenchman (bowing and scrap ing) . Mon si eur, j e n e Pen-
ten d —
Patrick. Phoo! the divil sweep yourself and your long
tongs! I don't want a tongs at all, at all. Can't you listen
to rason ?
Frenchman. Oui, oui, monsieur: certainement, mais —
Patrick. Then lind me the loan of a gridiron, and howld
your prate. [The Frenchman shakes his head, as if to say
he did not understand; but Patrick, thinking he meant it as
a refusal, says, in a passion:) Bad cess to the likes o' you! ■
144 THE STUTTERING LASS.
Throth, if you were in my counthry, it 's not that-a-way
they'd use you. The curse o' the crows on you, you owld
sinner! The divil another word I '11 say to you. (The
Frenchman puts his hand on his heart, and tries to express
compassion in his countenance.) Well, I '11 give you one
chance more, you owld thafe! Are you a Christian, at all,
at ail? Are you a furriner that all the world calls so p'lite?
Bad luck to you! do you understand your mother tongue?
Parley voo frongsay? (Very loud.) Parley voo frongsay?
Frenchman. Oui, monsieur, oui, oui.
Patrick. Then, thunder and turf! will you lind me the
loan of a gridiron? (The Frenchman shakes his head, as if
he did not understand; and Pat says vehemently :) The curse
of the hungry be on you, you owld negarly villain! the back
of my hand and the sow! of my fut to you! May you want
a gridiron yourself yet, and wherever I go, it 's high and low,
rich and poor, shall hear of it, and be hanged to you!
SAMUEL LOVER.
THE STUTTERING LASS.
When deeply in love with Miss Emily Pryne,
I vowed, if the maiden would only be mine,
I would always endeavor to please her.
She blushed her consent, though the stuttering lass
Said never a word, except "You're an ass —
An ass — an ass-iduous teaser! "
But when we were married, I found to my ruth,
The stammering lady had spoken the truth.
For often in obvious dudgeon,
She'd say, — if I ventured to give her a jog
In the way of reproof, — " You 're a dog — you 're a dog-
A dog — a dog-matic curmudgeon! "
And once when I said, "We can hardly afford
This extravagant style, with our moderate hoard,
And hinted we ought to be wiser,
She looked, I assure you, exceedingly blue,
And fretfully cried, " You're a Jew — you're a Jew —
A very judicious adviser! "
HENRY V.'S WOOING. 145
Again, when it happened that, wishing to shirk
Some rather unpleasant and arduous work,
I begged her to go to a neighbor,
She wanted to know why I made such a fuss,
And saucily said, "You 're a cus — cus — cus — •
You were always ac-cus-tomed to labor! "
Out of temper at last with the insolent dame,
And feeling that Madame was greatly to blame
To scold me instead of caressing,
I mimicked her speech, — like a churl as I am, —
And angrily said, "You 're a dam — dam — dam —
A dam-a^e instead of a blessing! "
JOHN a. SAXE.
HENRY V.'S WOOING.
Scene. — An Apartment in the French King's Palace. —
King Kenry, Katherine, and Alice her Gentlewoman.
j&ing Henry. Fair Katherine, and most fair!
Will you vouchsafe to teach a soldier terms,
Such as will enter at a lady's ear,
And plead his love-suit to her gentle heart?
Kath. Your majesty shall mock at me; I cannot speak
your England.
K. Hen. O fair Katherine, if you will love me soundly
with your French heart, I will be glad to hear you confess it
brokenly with your English tongue. Do you like me, Kate?
Kath. JPardonnez moy, I cannot tell vat is — like me.
K. Hen. An angel is like you, Kate; and you are like
an angel.
Kath. Que dit-ilf que je suis semblable a les anges?
Alice. Guy, vrayment, sauf vostre Grace, ainsi dit-il.
K. Hen. I said so, dear Katherine, and I must not blush
to affirm it.
Kath. ho7i Dieu! les langues des hommes sont pleines
de tromperies.
K. Hen. What says she, fair one? that the tongues of
men are full of deceits?
Alice. Guy; dat de tongues of de mans is be full of
deceits; dat is de Princess.
10
146 t
IT. Hen. The Princess is the better Englishwoman. I'
faith, Kate, my wooing is fit for thy understanding: I am
glad thou canst speak no better English; for, if thou couldst,
thou wouldst find me such a plain king that thou wouldst
think I had sold my farm to buy my crown. I know no w T ays
to mince it in love, but directly to say — I love you: then, if
you urge me further than to say — Do you in faith? I wear
out my suit. Give me your answer; I' faith, do, and so clap
hands and a bargain. How say you, lady?
Kath. JSauf vostre honneur, me understand well.
K. Hen. Marry, if you would put me to verses, or to
dance for your sake, Kate, why you undid me: for the one, I
have neither words nor measure; and for the other I have no
strength in measure, yet a reasonable measure in strength.
If I could win a lady at leap-frog, or by vaulting into my
saddle with my armor on my back, under the correction of
bragging be it spoken, I should quickly leap into a wife; or.
if I might buffet for my love, or bound' my horse for her
favors, I could lay on like a butcher, and sit like a jack-an-
apes, never off: but, before God, Kate, I cannot look greenly,
nor gasp out my eloquence, nor I have no cunning in pro-
testation ; only down-right oaths, which I never use till urged,
nor never break for urging. If thou canst love a fellow of
this temper, Kate, whose face is not worth sun-burning, that
never looks in his glass for love of anything he sees there,
let thine eye be thy cook. I speak to the plain soldier; if
thou canst love me for this, take me; if not, to say to thee
that I shall die, is true; but for thy love, by the Lord, no;
yet I love thee too. And while thou liv'st, dear Kate, take
a fellow of plain and uncoined constancy, for he perforce
must do thee right, because he hath not the gift to woo in
other places; for these fellows of infinite tongue, that can
rhyme themselves into ladies' favors, they do always reason
themselves out again. What! a speaker is but a prater; a
rhyme is but a ballad. A good leg will fall, a straight back
will stoop, a black beard will turn white, a curled pate wnll
grow bald, a fair face will wither, a full eye will wax hollow;
but a good heart, Kate, is the sun and the moon; or, rather,
the sun, and not the moon, for it shines bright, and never
changes, but keeps his course truly. If thou would have
such a one, take me: and take me, take a soldier; take a
soldier, take a king; and what say'st thou then to my love?
speak, my fair, and fairly, I pray thee.
HEXET V.'s WOOING. j 147
Kath . Is it possible dat I should love de enemy of France ?
K. Hen. No; it is not possible you should love the
enemy of France, Kate; but in loving me, you should love
the friend of France, for I love France so well that I will not
part with a village of it; I will have it all mine; and, Kate,
when France is mine and I am yours, then yours is France
and you are mine.
Kath. I cannot tell vat is dat.
K Hen. No, Kate? I will tell thee in French, which I
am sure will hang upon my tongue like a new-married wife
about her husband's neck, hardly to be shook off. Quandfay
la possession de France, et quand vons avez le possession de
moy (let me see, what then? Saint Denis be my speed!) —
done vostre est France et votes estes mienne. It is as easy for
me, Kate, to conquer the Kingdom, as to speak so much
more French. I shall never move thee in French, unless it
be to laugh at me.
Kath. Saiif vostre honneur, le Francois que vous parlez
est meilleur que V Anglois lequel je parle.
K. Hen. No, faith, is't not, Kate; but thy speaking of
my tongue, and I thine, most truly falsely, must needs be
granted to be much at one. But, Kate, dost thou understand
thus much English? Canst thou love me?
Kath. I cannot tell.
K Hen. Can any of your neighbors tell, Kate? I'll ask
them. Come, I know thou lovest me, and at night, when
you come into your closet, you'll question this gentlewoman
about me; and I know, Kate, you will to her, dispraise those
parts in me that you love with your heart; but, good Kate,
mock me mercifully, the rather, gentle Princess, because I
love thee cruelly. If ever thou be'st mine Kate, (as I have
a saving faith within me tells thou shalt), I get thee with
scambling. But what says't thou, my fair flower-de-luce?
Kath. I do not know dat.
K. Hen. No; 't is hereafter to know, but now to prom-
ise. How answer you, la phis belle Katherine du monde,
mon tres chere et dlmn deesef
Kath. Your Majeste have fausse French enough to de-
ceive de most sage damoiselle dat is en France.
K Hen. Now, fie upon my false French! By mine
honor, in true English, I love thee, Kate: by which honor I
dare not swear thou lovest me; yet my blood begins to flatter
me thou dost, notwithstanding the poor and untempering
148 HENRY V.'S WOOING.
effect of my visage. I was created with a stubborn outside,
with an aspect of iron, that, when I come to woo ladies, I
fright them But, in faith, Kate, the elder I wax, the better
I shall appear: my comfort is, that old age, that ill layer-up
of beauty, can do no more spoil upon my face; thou hast me,
if thou hast me, at the worst; and thou shalt wear me, if
thou wear me, better and better. And therefore tell me,
most fair Katherine, will you have me? Put off your maiden
blushes; avouch the thoughts of your heart with the looks
of an empress; take me by the hand and say — Harry of
England, I am thine: which word thou shalt no sooner bless
my ear withal, but I will tell thee aloud — England is thine,
Ireland is thine, France is thine, and Henry Plantagenet is
thine. Who, though I speak it before his face, if he be not
fellow with the best King, thou shalt find the best king of
good fellows. Come, your answer in broken music, for thy
voice is music, and thy English broken; therefore, Queen
of all Katherines, break thy mind to me in broken English:
wilt thou have me?
Kath. Dat is as it shall please de Roy mon pere.
. K. Hen. Nay it will please him well, Kate: it shall please
him, Kate.
Kath. Den it shall also content me.
K. Hen. Upon that I kiss your hand, and I call you —
my queen.
Kath. Laissez, mon seigneur, laissez, laissez! Ma foy,
je ne veux point que vous abbaissez vostre grandeur, en
baisant la main oVune vostre indigne serviteure: excusez
moy,je vous supplie, mon tres puissant seigneur.
K. Hen. Then I will kiss your lips, Kate.
Kath. Les dames, et damoiselles, pour estre baisees
devant leur nopces, il n'est pas la coustume de France,
K. Hen. Madam, my interpreter, what says she?
Alice. Dat it is notde fashion pour les ladies of France,
— I cannot tell what is baiser en Anglish.
K. Hen. To kiss.
Alice. Your Majesty entend bettre que moy.
K. Hen. It is not the fashion for the maids in France to
kiss before they are married, would she say?
Alice. Ouy, vrayment.
K. Hen. O Kate, nice customs curt'sy to great kings.
Dear Kate, you and I cannot be confined within the weak
list of a country's fashion; we are the makers of manners,
THE CHARITY DIXXER. 149
Kate; and the liberty that follows our places stops the
mouths of all find-faults, as I will do yours, for upholding the
nice fashion of your country in denying me a- kiss; therefore
patiently and yielding. [Kissing her.] You have witch-
craft in your lips, Kate: there is more eloquence in a sugar-
touch of them than in the tongues of the French Council;
and they should sooner persuade Harry of England than a
general petition of monarchs. Here comes your father.
[Enter French King and attendants.'] God save your
Majesty! Shall Kate be my wife?
K. Hen. I am content.
WILLIAM SHAKESPHARE.
THE CHARITY DINNER.
Time: half-past six o'clock. Place: The London Tavern.
Occasion: Fifteenth Annual Festival of the Society for the
Distribution of Blankets and Top-Boots among the Natives
of the Cannibal Islands.
On entering the room, we find more than two hundred
noblemen and gentlemen already assembled; and the num-
ber is increasing every minute. The preparations are now
complete, and we are in readiness to receive the chairman.
After a short pause, a little door at the end of the room
opens, and the great man appears, attended by an admiring
circle of stewards and toadies, carrying white wands like a
parcel of charity-school boys bent on beating the bounds.
He advances smilingly to his post at the principal table, amid
deafening and long-continued cheers.
The dinner now makes its appearance, and we yield up
ourselves to the enjoyments of eating and drinking. These
important duties finished, and grace having been beautifully
sung by the vocalists, the real business of the evening
commences. The usual loyal toasts having been given,
the noble chairman rises, and, after passing his fingers through
his hair, he places his thumbs in the armholes of his waist-
coat, gives a short preparatory cough, accompanied by a
vacant stare round the room, and commences as follows: —
"My Lords axd Gextlemex: — It is with feelings of
mingled pleasure and regret that I appear before you this
evening: of pleasure, to find that this excellent and world-
wide-known society is in so promising a condition; and of
150 THE CHARITY DINNER.
regret, that you have not chosen a worthier chairman; in fact,
one who is more capable than myself of dealing with a sub-
ject of such vital importance as this. (Loud cheers.) But
although I may be unworthy of the honor, I am proud to
state that I have been a subscriber to this society from its
commencement; feeling sure that nothing can tend more to
the advancement of civilization, social reform, fireside com-
fort, and domestic economy among the Cannibals, than the
diffusion of blankets and top-boots. (Tremendous cheering,
which lasts for sevefal minutes.) Here, in this England of
ours, which is an island surrounded by water, as I "suppose you
all know — or, as our great poet so truthfully and beautifully
expresses the same fact, ' England bound in by the triumph-
ant sea' — what, down the long vista of years, have conduced
more to our successes in arms, and arts, and song, than
blankets? Indeed, I never gaze upon a blanket without my
thoughts reverting fondly to the days of my early childhood.
Where should we all have been now but for those warm and
fleecy coverings? My Lords and Gentlemen! Our first and
tender memories are all associated with blankets: blankets
when in our nurses' arms, blankets in our cradles, blankets
in our cribs, blankets to our French bedsteads in our school-
days, and blankets to our marital four-posters now. There-
fore, I say, it becomes our bounden duty as men — and, with
feelings of pride, I add, as Englishmen — to initiate the un-
tutored savage, the wild and somewhat uncultivated denizen
of the prairie, into the comfort and warmth of blankets; and
to supply him, as far as practicable, with those reasonable,
seasonable, luxurious, and useful appendages. At such a
moment as this, the lines of another poet strikes familiary
upon the ear. Let me see, they are something like this — ah
— ah —
" Blankets have charms to sooth the savage breast,
And to — to do — a — "■
I forget the rest. (Loud cheers.) Do we grudge our money
for such a purpose? I. answer, fearlessly, No! Could we
spend it better at home? I reply, most emphatically, No!
True, it may be said that there are thousands of our own
people who at this moment are wandering about the streets
of this great metropolis without food to eat or rags to
cover them. But what have we to do with them? Our
thoughts, our feelings, and our sympathies are all wafted
THE CHARITY DINNER. 351
on the wings of charity to the dear and interesting Can-
nibals in the far-off islands of the great Pacific Ocean.
(Hear, hear.) Besides, have not our own poor the work-
house to go to; the luxurious straw of the casual wards
to repose upon, if they please; the mutton broth to bathe
in ; and the ever toothsome, although somewhat scanty al-
lowance of "toke" provided for them! If people choose
to be poor, is it our business? And let it ever be remem-
bered that our own people are not savages and man-eat-
ers; and, therefore, our philanthropy would be wasted
upon them. (Overwhelming applause.) To return to our
subject. Perhaps some person or persons here may wonder
why we should not send out side-springs and bluchers, as
well as top-boots. To those I will say, that top-boots alone.,
answer the object desired — namely, not only to keep the feet
dry, but the legs warm, and thus to combine the double uses
of shoes and stockings. Is it not an instance of the remark-
able foresight of this society, that it purposely abstains from
sending out any other than top-boots? To show the grati-
tude of the Cannibals, foj* the benefits conferred upon them,
I will just mention that, within the last few weeks, his illus-
trous Majesty, Hokee Pokey Wankey Fum the First — sur-
named by his loving subjects ' The Magnificent,' from the
fact of his wearing, on Sundays, a shirt-collar and an eye-
glass as full c«urt costume — has forwarded the president of
the society a very handsome present, consisting of two live
alligators, a boa constructor, and three pots of preserved
Indian, to be eaten with toast; and I am told, by competent
judges, that it is quite equal to Russian caviare.
" My Lords and Gentlemen — I will not trespass on your
patience by making any further remarks; knowing how
incompetent I am — no, no! I don't mean that — knowing
how incompetent you all are — no! I don't mean that either —
but you all know what I mean. Like the ancient Roman law-
giver, I am in a peculiar position ; for the fact is, I cannot sit
down — I mean to say, that I cannot sit down without say-
ing that, if ever there was an institution, it is this institu-
tion; and, therefore, 1 beg to propose, 'Prosperity to the
Society for the Distribution of Blankets and Top-Boots
among the Natives of the Cannibal Islands.' "
The toast having been cordially responded to, his lordship
calls upon Mr. Duffer, the secretary, to read the report.
Whereupon that gentleman, who is of a bland and oily
152 THE CHAEITY DIKXEE.
temperament, and whose eyes are concealed by a pair of
green spectacles, produces the necessary document, and reads
in the orthodox manner —
" Thirtieth Half-yearly Report of the Society for the Dis-
tribution of Blankets and Top-Boots to the Natives of the
Cannibal Islands.
"The society having now reached its fifteenth anniver-
sary, the committee of management beg to congratulate
their friends and subscribers on the success that has been
attained.
" When the Society first commenced its labors, the gener-
ous and noble-minded natives of the islands, together with
their King — a chief whose name is well known in connec-
tion with one of the most sterling and heroic ballads of this
country — attired themselves in the light but somewhat
insufficient costume of their tribe — viz, little before, nothing
behind, and no sleeves, with the occasional addition of a
pair of spectacles; but now, thanks to this useful association,
the upper classes of the Cannibals seldom appear in public
without their bodies being enveloped in blankets, and their
feet encased in top-boots.
"When the latter useful articles were first introduced
into the islands, the society's agents had a vast amount of
trouble to prevail upon, the natives to apply them to their
proper purpose; and, in their work of civilization, no less
than twenty of its representatives were massacred, roasted,
and eaten. But we persevered; we overcame the natural
antipathy of the Cannibals to wear any covering to their
feet; until, alter a time, the natives discovered the warmth
and utility of boots; and now they can scarcely be induced
to remove them until they fall off through old age.
" During the past half-year, the society has distributed no
less than 71 blankets and 128 pairs of top-boots; and your
committee, therefore, feel convinced that they will not be
accused of inaction. But a great work is still before them;
and they earnestly invite co-operation, in order that they
may be enabled to supply the whole of the Cannibals with
these comfortable, nutritious and savory articles.
" As the balance sheet is rather a lengthy document, I
will merely quote a few of the figures for your satisfaction.
We have received, during the last half-year, in subscrip-
tions, donations, and legacies, the sum of 5,403/. Qs. 8fflf.
We have disbursed for advertising, &c, 222/. 6s. 2d. Rent,
THE CHARITY DINNEE. 153
rates, and taxes, 305/. 10s. O^d. Seventy-one pairs of
blankets, at 205. per pair, have taken 71/. exactly; and 128
pairs of top-boots, at 21s. per pair, cost us 134/. some odd
shillings. The salaries and expenses of management amount
to 1,307/. 4s. 2^-c/.; and sundries, which include committee
meetings and t. aveling expenses, have absorbed the remain-
der of the sum, and amount to 3268/. 9s. lfc/. So that we
have expended on the dear and interesting Cannibals the
sum of 205/. and the remainder of the sum — amounting to
5,198/. — has been devoted to the working expenses of the
society."
The reading concluded, the secretary resumes his seat,
amid hearty applause, which continues until Mr. Alderman
Gobbleton rises, and, in a somewhat lengthy and discursive
speech — in which the phrases, " the Corporation of the City
of London," " suit and service," " ancient guild," " liberties
and privileges," and "Court of Common Council," figure
frequently, states that he agrees with everything the noble
chairman has said; and has, moreover, never listened to a
more comprehensive and exhaustive document than the one
just read; which is calculated to satisfy even the most ob-
tuse and hard-headed of individuals.
Gobbleton is a great man in the city. He has either been
lord mayor, or sheriff, or something of the sort; and, as a
few words of his go a long way with his friends and admir-
ers, his remarks are very favorably received.
"Clever man, Gobbleton!" says a common councilman,
sitting near us, to his neighbor, a languid swell of the
period.
"Ya-as, vewy! Wemarkable style of owatowy — gweat
fluency," replies the other.
But attention, if you please! — for M. Hector de Longue-
beau, the great French writer is on his legs. He is staying
in England for a short time, to become acquainted with our
manners and customs.
"Milors axd Gextlemaxs!" commences the French-
man, elevating his eyebrows and shrugging his shoulders.
"Milors and Gentlemans — You excellent chairman, M. le
Baron de Mount-Stuart, he have say to me, ' Make de toast.'
Den I say to him dat I have no toast to make; but he nudge
my elbow ver soft, and say dat dere is von toast dat nobody
but von Frenchman can make proper; and, derefore, wid
your kind permission, I vill make de toast. ' De brevete is de
154 THE CHARITY DINNER.
sole of de feet,' as you great philosophere, Dr. Johnson, do
say, in dat amusing little vork of his, de Pronouncing Dic-
tionaire; and, derefore, I vill not say ver mooch to de point.
Ven I vas a boy, about so moch tall, and used for to prom-
enade de streets of Marseilles et of Rouen, vid no feet to
put onto my shoe, I nevare to have expose dat dis day vould
to have arrive. I vas to begin de vorld as von garcon — or,
vat you call in dis countrie, von vataire in a cafe — vere I
vork ver hard, vid no habilimens at all to put onto myself,
and ver little food to eat, exeep' von old bleu blouse vat vas
give to me by de proprietaire, just for to keep myself fit to
be showed at; but, tank goodness, tings dey have change
ver moch for me since dat time, and I have rose myself,
seulement par mon industrie et perseverance. (Loud cheers.)
Ah! mes amis! ven I hear to myself de flowing speech, de
oration magnifique of you Lor' Maire, Monsieur Gobble-
down, T feel dat it is von great privilege for von etranger
to sit at de same table, and to eat de same food, as dat grand,
dat majestique man, who are de terreurof de voleurs and de
brigands of de metropolis; and who is also, I for to suppose,
a halterman and de chef of you common scoundrel. Milors
and gentlemans, I feel dat I can perspire to no greataire
honneur dan to be von common scoundrelman myself; but,
helas! dat plaisir are not for me, as I are not freeman of
your great cite, not von liveryman servant of von of you com-
pagnies joint-stock. But I must not forget de toast. Milors
and Gentlemans! De immortal Shakispeare he have write,
' De ting of beauty are de joy for nevermore.' It is de ladies
who are de toast. Vat is more entrancing dan de charmante
smile, de soft voice de vinking eye of de beautiful lady!
It is de ladies who do sweeten de cares of life. It is de
ladies who are de guiding stars of our existence. It is de
ladies who do cheer but not inebriate, and derefore, vid all
homage to dere sex, de toast dat I have to propose is, ' De
Ladies! God bless dem all!' "
And the little Frenchman sits down amid a perfect tem-
pest of cheers.
A few more toasts are given, the list of subscriptions is
read, a vote of thanks is passed to the noble chairman; and
the Fifteenth Annual Festival of the Society for the Distri-
bution of Blankets and Top-Boots among the Natives of the
Cannibal Islands is at an end.
LITCHFIELD MOSLEY.
IRISH A8TR0X0MY. 155
IRISH ASTRONOMY.
VERITABLE MYTH, TOUCHING THE CONSTELLATION OF O'RYAN, IGNORANTLY AND
FALSELY SPELLED ORION.
O'Ryast was a man of might
Whin Ireland was a nation,
But poachin' was his heart's delight
And constant occupation.
He had an ould militia gun,
iAnd sartin sure his aim was;
He gave the keepers many a run,
And would n't mind the game laws,
St. Pathrick wanst was passin' by
O'Ryan's little houldin',
And, as the saint felt wake and dhry,
He thought he'd enter bould in.
"O'Ryan," says the saint, "avick!
To praich at Thurles I 'm goin';
So let me have a rasher quick,
And a dhrop of Innishowen."
No rasher will I cook for you
While betther is to spare, sir,
But here 's a jug of mountain dew,
And there 's a rattlin' hare, sir."
St. Pathrick he looked mighty sweet,
And says he, " Good luck attind you,
And when you're in your win din' sheet,
It's up to heaven I'll sind you."
O'Ryan gave his pipe a whiff, —
" Them ti din's is thransportin',
But may I ax your saintship if
There 's any kind of sportin'?"
St. Pathrick said, "A Lion's there,
Two Bears, a Bull, and Cancer" —
u Bedad," says Mick, "the huntin 's rare;
St. Pathrick, I'm your man, sir."
So, to conclude my song aright,
For fear I 'd tire your patience,
You '11 see O'Ryan any night
Amid the constellations.
15G WIDOW MALONE.
And Venus follows in his track
Till Mars grows jealous raally,
Bat faith, he fears the Irish knack
Of handling the shillaly.
Charles G. Halpine (Miles O'Reilly).
WIDOW MALONE.
Did you hear of the Widow Malone,
Ohone!
Who lived in the town of Athlone,
Alone!
O, she melted the hearts
Of the swains in them parts:
So lovely the Widow Malone,
Ohone!
So lovely the Widow Malone.
Of lovers she had a full score,
Or more,
And fortunes they all had galore,
In store;
From the minister down
To the clerk of the Crown,
All were courting the Widow Malone,
Ohone!
All were courting the Widow Malone.
But so modest was Mistress Malone
'T was known!
That no one could see her alone,
Ohone!
Let them ogle and sigh,
They could ne'er catch her eye,
So bashful the Widow Malone,
Ohone!
So bashful the Widow Malone.
Till one Misther O'Brien, from Clare,
(How quare!
It's little for blushing they care
Down there.)
"WORDS AND THEIR USES. 157
Put his arm round her waist, —
Gave ten kisses at laste, —
u O," says he, "you're my Molly Malone,
My own!
"O," says he, "you're my Molly Malone."
And the widow they all thought so shy,
My eye!
Ne'er thought of a simper or sigh, —
For w T hy?
But, " Lucius," says she,
" Since you've now made so free,
You may marry your Mary Malone,
Ohone!
You may marry your Mary Malone."
There's a moral contained in my song,
Not wrong;
And one comfort, it's not very long,
But strong.
If for widows you die,
Learn to kiss, not to sigh;
For they're all like sweet Mistress Malone,
Ohone!
O they're all like sweet Mistress Malone.
CHARLES LEVER.
WORDS AND THEIR USES.
A SATIRE ON SLANG PHRASES.
Respected Wife: From these few lines my whereabouts
thee '11 learn —
Moreover, I impart to thee my serious concern:
The language of this people is a riddle unto me,
And words, with them, are figments of a reckless mockery!
For instance: As I left the cars, an imp with smutty face,
Said " Shine " Nay, I '11 not shine " I said, " except with in-
ward grace! "
" Is ' inward grace ' a liquid or a paste?" asked this young
Turk;
"Hi Daddy! What is 'inward grace '? How does the old
thing work?"
158 WORDS AND THEIR USES.
" Friend," said I to Jehu, whose breath suggested gin,
" Can thee convey me straightway to a reputable inn?"
His answer's gross irrelevance I shall not soon forget —
Instead of simply yea or nay, he gruffly said "You bet! "
" Nay, nay, I shall not bet," said I, " for that would be a
sin —
"Why don't thee answer plainly: Can thee take me to an
inn?
Thy vehicle is doubtless meant to carry folk about in —
Then why prevaricate?" Said he, perversely, "Now yer
shoutin'! "
" Nay, verily, I shouted not! " quoth I, "my speech is mild;
But thine — I grieve to say it — with falsehood is denied.
Thee ought to be admonished to rid thy heart of guile."
"See here! my lively moke," said he, " You sling on too
much style! "
" I've had these plain drab garments some twenty years and
more," said I,
And when thee says I c sling on style,' thee tells a willful
lie!"
At that he pranced around as if " a bee were in his bonnet,"
And, with hostile demonstrations, inquired if I was " on it!"
"On what? Till thee explains thyself, I cannot tell," I said;
He swore that something was "too thin;" moreover it was
"played!"
But all his jargon was surpassed, in wild absurdity,
By threats, profanely emphasized, "to put a head " on me!
"No son of Belial," said I, "that miracle can do!"
Whereat he fell upon me with blows and curses, too,
But failed to work that miracle — if such was his design —
For instead of putting on a head, he strove to smite off
mine!
Thee knows I cultivate the peaceful habit of our sect,
But this man's conduct wrought on me a singular effect;
For when he slapped my broad-brim off, and asked " How's
that for high?'"
It roused the Adam in me, and 1 smote him hip and thigh!
THE ONE-HOSS SIIAY. 159
The throng then gave a specimen of calumny broke loose,
And said I'd "snatched him bald-headed," and likewise
" cooked his goose;"
Although, I solemnly affirm, I did not pull his hair,
Nor did I cook his poultry — for he hacl no poultry there!
They called me " Bully boy," although I've seen nigh three-
score year;
And said that I was " lightning " when I "got up on my ear!"
And when I asked if lightning; climbed its ear, or dressed
in drab,
"You know how 'tis yourself!" said one inconsequential blab!
Thee can conceive that by this time, I was somewhat per-
plexed;
Yea, the placid spirit in me has seldom been so vexed;
I tarried there no longer, for plain-spoken men — like me —
With such perverters of our tongue, can have no unity.
FRANK CLIVE.
THE ONE-HOSS SHAY;
OR, THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE.
A LOGICAL STORY.
Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay,
That was built in such a logical way
It ran a hundred years to a day,
And then of a sudden, it — ah, but stay,
I'll tell you what happened without delay,
Scaring the parson into fits,
Frightning people out of their wits, —
Have you ever heard of that I say?
Seventeen hundred and fifty-five,
Georgius Secundits was then alive, —
Snuffy old drone from the German hive.
That was the year when Lisbon-town
Saw the earth open and gulp her down,
And Braddock's army was done so brown,
Left without a scalp to its crown.
It was on the terrible earthquake day
That the Deacon finished the one-hoss shav.
160 THE ONE-HOSS SHAY.
...
Now in building of chaises, I tell you what,
There is always somewhere a weakest sjDot, —
In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill,
In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill,
In screw, bolt, thorough-brace, — lurking still,
Find it somewhere you must and will, —
Above or below, or within or without, —
And that's the reason, beyond a doubt,
A chaise breaks down but doesn't wear out.
.
But the Deacon swore (as Deacons do,
With an "I dew vum," or an "I tell yeoit")
He would build one shay to beat the taown
'N' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun';
It should be so built that it could rC break daown;
— " Fur," said the Deacon, " 't's mighty plain
That the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain;
'N' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain,
Is only jest
T' make that place uz strong uz the rest."
So the Deacon inquired of the village folk
Where he could find the strongest oak,
That could n't be split nor bent nor broke, —
That was for spokes and floor and sills;
He sent for lance wood to make the thills;
The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees;
The panels of whitewood, that cuts like cheese,
But lasts like iron for things like these;
The hubs of logs from the " Settler's ellum," —
Last of its timber, — they could n't sell 'em,
Never an axe had seen their chips,
And the wedges flew from between their lips,
Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips;
Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw,
Spring, tire, axle and linchpin too,
Steel of the finest, bright and blue;
Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide;
Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide
Found in the pit when the tanner died.
That was the way he " put her through." —
" There! " said the Deacon, " naow she'll dew! "
THE ONE-HOSS SHAY. 161
Do! I tell you, I rather guess
She was a wonder, and nothing less!
Colts grew horses, beards turned gray,
Deacon and deaconess dropped away,
Children and grandchildren, — where were they?
But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay
As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake day!
Eighteen - hundred; — it came and found
The Deacon's masterpiece strong and sound.
Eighteen hundred increased by ten; —
"Hahnsum kerridge" they called it then.
Eighteen hundred and twenty came; —
Running as usual; much the same.
Thirty and forty at last arrive,
And then come fifty, and fifty-five.
Little of all we value here
Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year
Without both feeling and looking queer.
In fact, there's nothing that keeps its youth,
So far as I know, but a tree and truth.
(This is a moral that runs at large;
Take it. — You're welcome. — No extra charge.)
First of November, — the Earthquake day, —
There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay,
A general flavor of mild decay,
But nothing local as one may- say.
There couldn't be, — for the Deacon's art
Had made it so like in every part
That there wasn't a chance for one to start.
For the wheels were just as strong as the thills,
And the floor was just as strong as the sills,
And the panels just as strong as the floor,
And the whippletree neither less nor more,
And the back crossbar as strong as the fore,
And spring and axle and hub encore.
And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt
In another hour it will be worn out!
First of November, 'Fifty-five!
This morning the parson takes a drive.
11
162 THE CANAL-BOAT.
Now, small boys, get out of the way!
Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay,
Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay.
"Huddup! " said the parson. — Off went they.
The parson was working his Sunday's text, — ■
Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed
At what the — Moses was coming next.
All at once the horse stood still,
Close by the meetin'-house on the hill.
— First a shiver, and then a thrill,
Then something decidedly like a spill, —
And the parson was sitting upon a rock,
At half-past nine by the meetin'-house clock,—
Just the hour of the Earthquake shock!
— What do you think the parson found.
When he got up and stared around?
The poor old chaise in a heap or mound,
As if it had been to the mill and ground!
You see, of course, if you're not a dunce,
How it went to pieces all at once, —
All at once, and nothing first, —
Just as bubbles do when they burst.
End of the wonderful one-hoss shay.
Logic is logic. That's all I say.
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
THE CANAL-BOAT.
Of all the ways of traveling which obtain among our loco-
motive nation, this said vehicle, the canal-boat, is the most
absolutely prosaic and inglorious. One sees all there is in
the case,— a horse, a rope, and a muddy strip of water, —
and that is all.
Did you ever try it? If not, take an imaginary trip with
us, just for experiment.
" There 's the boat!" exclaims a passenger in the omnibus,
as we are rolling down from the Pittsburg Mansion House
to the canal.
"Where?" exclaim a dozen voices, and forthwith a dozen
heads go out of the window.
" Why, down there, under that bridge; don't you see those
lights?"
THE CANAL-BOAT. 163
" What, that little thing!" exclaims an inexperienced trav-
eler; " dear me! we can't half of us get into it!"
"We! indeed," says some old hand in the business,
"I think you'll find it will hold us and a dozen loads like
us."
"Impossible!" say some.
"You'll see," say the initiated; and, as soon as you get
out, you do see, and hear too, what seems like a general
breaking loose from the Tower of Babel, amid a perfect
hailstorm of trunks, boxes, valises, carpet-bags, and every
describable and indescribable form of what a Westerner calls
"plunder."
" That 's my trunk!" barks out a big round man.
"That's my bandbox?" screams a heart-stricken old lady,
in terror for her immaculate Sunda} r caps.
"Where's my little red box? I had two carpet-bags and
a — My trunk had a scarle — Halloo! where are you going
with that portmanteau? — Husband! husband! do see after
the large basket and the little hair trunk — O, and the
baby's little chair! "
"Go below, for mercy's sake, my dear! I'll see to the
baggage."
"Mercy on us!" says one, after surveying the little room,
about ten feet long and six high, " where are we all to sleep
to-night?"
" O me! what a sight of children! " says a young lady in a
despairing tone.
"Poh!" says an initiated traveler; "children! scarce any
here. Let's see: one; the woman in the corner, two; that
child with the bread-and-butter, three; and then there's that
other woman with two. Really it 's quite moderate for a
canal-boat. However, we can't tell till they have all come."
"All! for mercy's sake, you don't say there are any more
coming!" exclaim two or three in a breath; "they carft come;
there is notsroom /"
Notwithstanding the impressive utterance of this sentence,
the contrary is immediately demonstrated by the appearance
of a very corpulent elderly lady, with three well-grown
daughters, who come down looking about them most com-'
placently, entirely regardless of the unchristian looks of the
company. AVhat a mercy it is that fat people are always
good-natured!
After this follows an indiscriminate raining down of all
104 THE CANAL-BOAT.
shapes, sizes, sexes, and ages — men, women, children, ba-
bies, and nurses. The state of feeling becomes perfectly-
desperate. Darkness gathers on all faces.
"We shall be smothered! we shall be crowded to death!
we canH stay here! " are heard faintly from one and another;
and yet, though the boat grows no wider, the walls no higher,
they do live, and do stay there, in spite of repeated protes-
tations to the contrary. Truly, as Sam Slick says, " there's
a sight of wear in human natur'."
But, meanwhile, the children grow sleepy, and divers in-
teresting little duets and trios arise from one part or another
of the cabin.
" Hush, Johnny! be a good boy," says a pale, nursing mam-
ma to a great, bristling, white-headed phenomenon, who is
kicking very much at large in her lap.
" I won't be a good boy, neither," responds Johnny, with
interesting explicitness; " I want to go to bed, and so-o-o-o!"
and Johnny makes up a mouth as big as a teacup, and roars
with good courage, and his mamma asks him if he ever saw
pa do so," and tells him that " he is mamma's dear, good little
boy, and must not make a noise," with various observations
of the kind, which are so strikingly efficacious in such cases.
Meanwhile, the domestic concert in other quarters proceeds
with vigor.
" Mamma, I 'm tired! " bawls a child.
"Where's the baby's nightgown?" calls a nurse.
" Do take Peter up in your lap, and keep him still."
" Pray get some biscuits and stop their mouths."
Meanwhile, sundry babies strike in "con spirito," as the
music-books have it, and execute various flourishes; the dis-
consolate mothers sigh, and look as if all was over with them;
and the young ladies appear extremely disgusted, and won-
der " what business women have to be traveling round with
babies."
"What, sleep up there! I won't sleep on one of those top
shelves, J know. The cords will certainly break."
The chambermaid here takes up the conversation, and sol-
emnly assures them that such an accident is not to be thought
of at all, that it is a natural impossibility, — a thing that
could not happen without an actual miracle; and since it be-
comes increasingly evident that thirty ladies cannot all sleep
on the lowest shelf, there is some effort made to exercise
faith in this doctrine; nevertheless, all look on their neigh-
THE CANAL-BOAT. 165
bors with fear and trembling, and when the stout lady talks
of taking a shelf, she is most urgently pressed to change
places with her alarmed neighbor below. Points of location
being after awhile adjusted, comes the last struggle. Every-
body wants to take off a bonnet, or look for a shawl, to find
a cloak or get a carpet-bag, and all set about it with such
zeal that nothing can be done.
"Ma'am, your 're on my foot! " says one.
"Will you please to move, ma'am? " says somebody who
is gasping and struggling behind you.
"Move!" you echo. "Indeed I should be very glad to,
but I don't see much prospect of it."
"Chambermaid!" calls a lady, who is struggling among a
heap of carpet bags and children at one end of the cabin.
" Ma'am!" echoes the poor chambermaid, who is wedged
fast, hi a similar situation, at the other.
" Where's my cloak, chambermaid?"
" I'd find it Ma'am if I could move."
"Chambermaid, my basket!"
"Chambermaid, my parasol!"
" Chambermaid, my carpet-bag!"
" Mamma, they push me so!"
"Hush, child; crawl under there, and lie still till I can
undress you."
At last, however, the various distresses are over, the babies
sink to sleep, and even that much-enduring being, the cham-
bermaid, seeks out some corner for repose. Tired and
drowsy, you are just sinking into a doze, when bang! goes
the boat against the sides of a lock; ropes scrape, men run
and shout, and up ily the heads of all the top shelfites, who
are generally the more juvenile and airy part of the company.
"'What's that! What's that!" flies from mouth to mouth;
and forthwith they proceed to awaken their respective rela-
tions. "Mother! Aunt Hannah! do wake up; what is this
awful noise?"
" O, only a lock! Pray be still! groan out the sleepy
members from below.
"A lock!" exclaim the vivacious creatures, ever on the
alert for information; "and what is a lock, pray?"
" Don't you know what a lock is, you silly creatures? Do
lie down and go to sleep."
"But say, there ain't any danger in a lock, is there?" re-
spond the querists.
166 THE CAXAL-BOAT.
"Danger!" exclaims a deaf old lady, poking up her head.
" What's the matter? There hain't nothin' burst, has there?"
" No, no, no!" exclaim the provoked and despairing oppo-
sition party, who find that there is no such thing as going to
sleep till they have made the old lady below and the young
ladies above understand exactly the philosophy of the lock.
After awhile the conversation again subsides; again all is
still ; you hear only the trampling of horses and the rippling
of the rope in the water, and sleep again is stealing over
you. You doze, you dream, and all of a sudden you are
startled by a cry, —
"Chambermaid! wake up the lady that wants to be set
ashore."
Up jumps chambermaid, and up jumps the lady and two
children, and forthwith form a committee of inquiry as to
ways and means.
"Where's my bonnet?" says the lady, half awake, and
fumbling- araonsr the various articles of that name. " I
thought I hung it up behind the door."
" Can't you find it?" says poor chambermaid, yawning and
rubbing her eyes.
"O yes, here it is," says the lady; and then the cloak,
the shawl, the gloves, the shoes, receive each a separate dis-
cussion. At last all seems ready, and they begin to move
off, when lo! Peter's cap is missing. "Now, where can it
be?" soliloquizes the lady. " I put it right here by the table
leg; maybe it got into some of the berths."
At this suggestion the chambermaid takes the candle,
and goes round deliberately to every berth, poking the light
directly in the face of every sleeper. " Here it is," she ex-
claims, pulling at something black under one pillow.
" No, indeed, those are my shoes," says the vexed sleeper.
" Maybe it's here," she resumes, darting upon something
dark in another berth.
" No, that's my bag," responds the occupant.
The chambermaid then proceeds to turn over all the chil-
dren on the floor, to see if it is not under them. In the
course of which process they are most agreeably waked up
and enlivened; and when everybody is broad awake, and
most uncharitably wishing the cap, and Peter too, at the
bottom of the canal, the good lady exclaims, " Well, if this
isn't lucky; here I had it safe in my basket all the time!"
And she departs amid the — what shall I say? — execra-
tions? — of the whole company, ladies though they be.
SAM wellee's valentine. 167
At last, however, voice after voice drops off; you fall into
a most refreshing slumber; it seems to you that you sleep
about a quarter of an hour, when the chambermaid pulls you
by the sleeve: "Will you please to get up, ma'am? We
want to make up the beds."
You start and stare. Sure enough the night is gone. So
much for sleeping on board canal-boats.
Let us not enumerate the manifold perplexities of the
rnOrning toilet in a place where every lady realizes most for-
cibly the condition of the old lady who lived under a broom:
"All she wanted was elbow room." Let us not tell how one
glass is made to answer for thirty fair faces, one ewer and
vase for thirty lavations, and — tell it not in G-atb! — one
towel for a company! Let us not intimate how ladies' shoes
have, in a night, clandestinely slid into the gentlemen's cabin,
and gentlemen's boots elbowed — or, rather, toed — their way
among ladies' gear, nor recite the exclamations after runaway
property that are heard.
" I can 't find nothin' of Johnny's shoe! "
"Here 's a shoe in the water-pitcher, — is this it! "
"My side-combs are gone!" exclaims a nymph with
dishevelled curls.
"Massy! do look at my bonnet! " exclaims an old lady,
elevating an article crushed into as many angles as there are
pieces in a mince-pie.
"I never did sleep so much together in my life," echoes a
poor little French lady, whom despair has driven into talking
English.
But we must not prolong our catalogue of distresses be-
yond reasonable bounds, and therefore we will close with
advising all our friends, who intend to try this way of travel-
ing for 2ileasure, to take a good stock both of patience and
clean towels with them, for we think they will find abundant
need for both.
HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.
SAM WELLER'S VALENTINE.
The brandy and water luke, and the inkstand, having
been carried into the little parlor, and the young lady
having carefully flattened down the coals to prevent their
blazing, and carried away the poker to preclude the possibi'l-
168 SAM weller's valentine.
ity of the fire being stirred, without the full privity and con-
currence of the Blue Boar being first had and obtained,
Sam Weller sat himself down in a box near the stove, and
pulled out the sheet of gilt-edged letter-paper, and the
hard-nibbed pen. Then looking carefully at the pen to see
that there were no hairs in it, and dusting down the table,
so that there might be no crumbs of bread under the paper,
Sam tucked up the cuffs of his coat, squared his elbows, and
composed himself to write.
To ladies and gentlemen who are not in the habit of de-
voting themselves practically to the science of penmanship,
writing a letter is no very easy task; it being always consid-
ered necessary in such cases for the writer to recline his
bead on his left arm, so as to place his eyes as nearly as pos-
sible on a level with the paper, while glancing sideways at
the letters he is constructing, to form with his tongue imag-
inary characters to correspond. These motions, although
unquestionably of the greatest assistance to original compo-
sition, retard in some degree the progress of the writer; and
Sam had unconsciously been a full hour and a half writing
words in small text, smearing out wrong letters with his
little finger, and putting in new ones which required going
over very often to render them visible through the old blots,
when he was roused by the opening of the door and the en-
trance of his parent.
" Veil, Sammy," said the father.
"Veil, my Prooshan Blue," responded the son, laying
down his pen. "What's the last bulletin about mother-in-
law?"
" Mrs. Veller passed a very good night, but is uncommon
perwerse, and unpleasant this mornin'. Signed upon oath,
S. Veller, Esquire, Senior. That's the last vun as was issued,
Sammy," replied Mr. Weller, untying his shawl.
"No better yet?" inquired Sam.
"All the symptoms aggerawated," replied Mr. Weller,
shaking his head. "But wot's that, your'e a doin' of?"
Pursuit of knowledge under difficulties, Sammy?"
"I've done now," said Sam, with slight embarrassment;
"I've been a writin'."
"So I see," replied Mr. Weller. "Not to any young
'ooman, I hope, Sammy."
" Why, it's no use a sayin' it aint," replied Sam. " It's a
walentinc."
SAM weller's valentine. 169
"A what?" exclaimed Mr. Weller, apparently horror-
stricken by the word.
U A walentine," replied Sam.
" Samivel, Samivel," said Mr. Weller, in reproachful ac-
cents, "I didn't think you'd ha' done it. Arter the warnin 1
you've had o' your father's wicious propensities; arter all
I've said to you upon this here wery subject; arter actiwally
seein' and bein' in the company o' your own mother-in-law,
vich I should ha' thought was a moral lesson as no man
could ever ha' forgotten to his dyin' day! I didn't think
you'd ha' done it, Sammy, I didn't think you'd ha' done it."
These reflections were too much for the good old man;
he raised Sam's tumbler to his lips and drank off the
contents.
" Wot's the matter now?" said Sam.
" Nev'r mind, Sammy," replied Mr. Weller, " it'll be a
wery agonizin' trial to me at my time o' life, but I'm pretty
tough, that's vun consolation, as the wery old turkey re-
marked ven the farmer said he vos afeerd he should be
obliged to kill him for the London market."
" Wot'll be a trial!" inquired Sam.
u To see you married, Sammy; to see you a deluded wic-
tim, and thinkin' in your innocence that it's all wery capital,"
replied Mr. Weller. " It's a dreadful trial to a father's feel-
in 's, that 'ere, Sammy.
" Nonsense," said Sam, " I ain't a goin' to get married,
don't you fret yourself about that. I know you're a judge
o' these things; order in your pipe, and I'll read you the
letter, — there!"
Sam dipped his pen into the ink to be ready for any cor-
rections, arid began with a very theatrical air- —
" ' Lovely — '
" Stop," said Mr. Weller, ringing the bell. "A double
glass o' the inwariable, my dear."
" Very well, sir," replied the girl, who with great quick-
ness appeared, vanished, returned, and disappeared.
" They seem to know your ways here," observed Sam.
" Yes," replied his father, " I've been here before, in my
time. Go on, Sammy."
" ' Lovely creetur',' " repeated Sam.
"'Taint in poetry, is it?" interposed the father.
" No, no," replied Sam.
" Wery glad to hear it," said Mr. Weller. " Poetry's
170 sam weller -S valentine.
unnat'ral. No man ever talked in poetry 'cept a beadle on
boxin' day, or Warren's blackin' or Rowland's oil, or some
o' them low fellows. Never you let yourself down to talk
poetry, my boy. Begin again, Sammy."
Mr. Weller resumed his pipe with critical solemnity, and
Sam once more commenced and read as follows:
" 'Lovely creetur' i feel myself a damned ' " —
" That ain't proper," said Mr. Weller, taking his pipe
from his mouth.
"No: it ain't damned," observed Sam, holding the letter
up to the light, " it's ' shamed,' there's a blot there; ' i feci
myself ashamed.' "
" Werry good," said Mr. Weller. " Go on."
" ' Feel myself ashamed, and completely cir — .' I for-
get wot this 'ere word is," said Sam, scratching his head with
the pen, in vain attempts to remember.
" Why don't you look at it, then? " inquired Mr. Weller.
" So I am a lookiu' at it," replied Sam, " but there's an-
other blot: here's a 'c,' and a 'i,' and a 'd."
" Circumwented, p'rhaps," suggested Mr. Weller.
" No, it ain't that," said Sam: " ; circumscribed,' that's it."
" That ain't as good a word as circumwented Sammy,"
said Mr. Weller, gravely.
"Think not?" said Sam.
" Nothin' like it," replied his father.
" But don't you think it means more? " inquired Sam.
" Veil, p'rahps it's a more tenderer word," said Mr. Wel-
ler, after a few moments' reflection. "Go on, Sammy."
" ' Feel myself ashamed and completely circumscribed in
a dressin' of you, for you are a nice gal and nothin' but it.' "
" That's a wery pretty sentiment." said the elder Mr.
Weller, removing his pipe to make way for the remark.
"Yes, I think it's rayther good," observed Sam, highly
flattered.
"Wot I like in that 'ere style of writin'," said the elder
Mr. Weller, "is, that there ain't no callin' names in it — no
Wenuses, nor nothing' o' that kind; wot's the good o' callin'
a young 'ooman a Wenus or a angel, Sammy?"
"Ah! what indeed?" replied Sam.
" You might just as veil call her a griflin, or a unicorn, or
a king's arms at once, which is werry veil known to be a col-
lection o' fabulous animals," added Mr. Weller.
"Just as well," replied Sam.
171
" Drive on, Sammy," said Mr. Weller.
Sam complied with the request, and proceeded as follows,
his father continuing to smoke with a mixed expression of
wisdom and complacency, which was particularly edifying:
" 'Afore i see you i thought all women was alike.'"
44 So they are," observed the elder Mr. Weller, parenthet-
ically.
44 4 But now,' " continued Sam, 4C 4 now i find what a reg'lar
soft-headed, ink-red'lous turnip i must ha 1 been, for there
ain't nobody like you, though i like you better than no-thin'
at all.' I thought it best to make that rayther strong," said
Sam, looking up.
Mr. "Weller nodded approvingly, and Sam resumed.
44 4 So i take the privilidge of the day, Mary, my dear, — as
the gen'lem' in difficulties did, ven he valked out of a Sun-
day, — to tell you that the- first and only time i see you your
likeness wos took on my hart in much quicker time and
brighter colors than ever a likeness was taken by the profeel
macheen (which p'rhaps you may have heered on Mary my
dear), altho' it does finish a portrait and put the frame and
glass on complete with a hook at the end to hang it up by,
and all in two minutes and a quarter.' "
44 1 am afeerd that werges on the poetical, Sammy," said
Mr. Weller, dubiously.
44 No it don't," replied Sam, reading on very quickly to
avoid contesting the point.
444 Except of me Mary my dear as your walentine, and
think over what I've said. My dear Mary I will now con-
clude.' That's all," said Sam.
44 That's rayther a sudden pull up, ain't it, Sammy?" in-
quired Mr. Weller.
44 Not a bit on it," said Sam: 44 she'll vish there wos more,
and that's the great art o' letter writin'."
44 Well," said Mr. Weller, ''there's somethin' in that; and
I wish your Mother-in-law 'ud only conduct her conwersa-
tion on the same gen-teel principle. Ain't you agoin' to
sign it?"
44 That's the difficulty," said Sam; 1 don't know what to
sign it."
44 Sign it — Veller," said the oldest surviving proprietor of
that name.
44 Won't do," said Sam. "Never sign a walentine with
your own name."
172 THE BALLAD OF THE OYSTERMAN.
" Sign it Pickvick, then," said Mr. Weller; it's a wery
good name, and a easy one to spell."
" The wery thing," said Sara. " I could end with a werse:
what do you think?"
"I don't like it, Sam," rejoined Mr. Weller. "I never
know'd a respectable coachman as wrote poetry, 'cept one as
made an affectin' copy o' werses the night afore he wos hung
for a highway robbery, and he wos only a Camberveil man,
so even that's no rule."
But Sam was not to be dissuaded from the poetical idea
that had occurred to him, so he signed the letter, —
" Your love-sick
Pickwick."
CHARLES DICKENS.
THE BALLAD OF THE OYSTERMAN.
It was a tall young oysterman lived by the river-side,
His shop was just upon the bank, his boat was on the tide;
The daughter of a fisherman, that was so straight and slim,
Lived over on the other bank, right opposite to him.
It was the pensive oysterman that saw a lovely maid,
Upon a moonlight evening, a sitting in the shade;
He saw her wave her handkerchief, as much as if to say,
" I 'm wide awake, young oysterman, and all the folks away."
Then up arose the oysterman and to himself said he:
"I guess I'll leave the skiff at home, for fear that folks
should see;
I read it in the story-book, that, for to kiss his dear,
Leander swam the Hellespont, — and I will swim this here."
And he has leaped into the waves, and crossed the shining
stream,
And he has clambered up the bank, all in the moonlight
gleam;
O there were kisses sweet as dew, and words as soft as
rain, —
But they have heard her father's step, and in he leaps
again !
THE LOW-BACKED CAE. 173
Out spoke the ancient fisherman, — " O what was that, my
daughter?"
" 'Twas nothing but a pebble, sir, I threw into the
water."
"And what is that, pray tell me, love, that paddles off so
fast?"
"It's nothing but a porpoise, sir, that's been a swimming
past."
Out spoke the ancient fisherman, — "Now bring me my har-
poon !
I '11 get into my fishing-boat, and fix the fellow soon."
Down fell that pretty innocent, as falls a snow-white
lamb,
Her hair drooped round her pallid cheeks, like sea-weed on
a clam.
Alas for those two loving ones! she waked not from her
swound,
And he was taken with the cramp, and in the waves was
drowned;
But Fate has metamorphosed them, in pity of their
woe,
And now they keep an oyster-shop for mermaids down
below.
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
THE LOW-BACKED CAR.
WnEX first I saw sweet Peggy,
'T was on a market day:
A low-backed car she drove, and sat
Upon a truss of hay;
But when that hay was blooming grass,
And decked with flowers of spring,
No flower was there that could compare
With the blooming o-irl I sing.
As she sat in the low-backed car,
The man at the turnpike bar
Never asked for the toll,
But just rubbed his owld poll,
And looked after the low-backed car.
174: THE LOW-BACKED CAE.
In battle's wild commotion,
The proud and mighty Mars
With hostile scythes demands his tithes
Of death in warlike cars;
While Peggy, peaceful goddess,
Has darts in her bright eye,
That knock men down in the market town
As right and left they fly;
While she sits in her low-backed car,
Than battle more dangerous far, —
For the doctor's art
Cannot cure the heart,
That is hit from that low-backed car.
Sweet Peggy round her car, sir,
Has strings of ducks and geese,
But the scores of hearts she slaughters
"By far outnumber these;
While she among her poultry sits,
Just like a turtle-dove.
Well worth the cage, I do engage,
Of the blooming god of Love!
While she sits in her low-backed car,
The lovers come near and far,
And envy the chicken
That Peggy is pickin',
As she sits in her low-backed car.
O, I'd rather own that car, sir,
With Peggy by my side,
Than a coach and four, and gold galore,
And a lady for my bride;
For the lady would sit forninst me,
On a cushion made with taste,
While Peggy would sit beside me,
With my arm around her waist,
While we drove in the low-backed car,
To be married by Father Mahar;
O, my heart would beat high
At her glance and her sigh, —
Though it beat in a low-backed car!
Samuel Lover.
JUPITER AND TEX. 175
KITTY OF COLERAINE.
As beautiful Kitty one morning was tripping
With a pitcher of milk, from the fair of Coleraine,
When she saw me she stumbled, the pitcher it tumbled,
And all the sweet buttermilk watered the plain.
" O, what shall I do now? — 't was looking at you now!
Sure, sure, such a pitcher I '11 ne'er meet again!
'T was the pride of my dairy: O Barney M'Cleary!
You 're sent as a plague to the girls of Coleraine."
I sat down beside her, and gently did chide her,
That such a misfortune should give her such pain.
A kiss then I gave her; and ere I did leave her,
She vowed for such pleasure she 'd break it again.
'T was hay-making season — I can't tell the reason —
Misfortunes will never come single, 'tis plain;
For very soon after poor Kitty's disaster
The devil a pitcher was whole in Coleraine.
CHARLES DAWSON SHANLY.
JUPITER AND TEN.
Mrs. Chub was rich and portly,
Mrs. Chub was very grand,
Mrs. Chub was always reckoned
A lady in the land.
You shall see her marble mansion
In a very stately square, —
Mr. C. knows what it cost him,
But that 's neither here nor there.
Mrs. .Chub was so sagacious,
Such a patron of the arts,
And she gave such foreign orders,
That she won all foreign hearts.
Mrs. Chub was always talking,
When she went away from home,
Of a most prodigious painting
Which had just arrived from Rome.
176
" Such a treasure," she insisted,
" One might never see again! "
"What 's the subject? " we inquired.
" It is Jupiter and Tent "
" Ten what? " we blandly asked her,
For the knowledge we did lack.
" Ah! that I cannot tell you,
But the name is on the back.
" There it stands in printed letters, —
Come to-morrow, gentlemen, —
Come and see our splendid painting,
Our fine Jupiter and Ten"
When Mrs. Chub departed,
Our brains began to rack, —
She could not be mistaken, 9
For the name was on the back.
So we begged a great Professor
To lay aside his pen,
And give some information
Touching "Jupiter and Ten."
And we pondered well the subject,
And our Lempriere we turned,
To find out who the Ten were;
But we could not, though we burned!
But when we saw the picture, —
O Mrs. Chub! O, fie! O!
We perused the printed label, ,
And 't was Jupiter and Jo!
JAMES T. FIELDS.
THE COURTIN'.
God makes sech nights, all white an' still
Fur 'z you can look or listen,
Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill,
All silence an' all glisten.
THE COURITN-'. 177
Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown
An' peeked in thru' the winder,
An' there sot Hulcly all alone,
'Ith no one nigh to hender.
A fireplace filled the room's one side
With half a cord o' wood in —
There warn't no stoves (tell comfort died)
To bake ye to a puddin'.
The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out
Towards the pootiest, bless her,
An' leetle flames danced all about
The chiny on the dresser.
Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung,
An' in amongst 'em rusted
The ole queen's arm that gran'ther Young
Fetched back from Concord busted.
The very room, coz she was in,
Seemed warm from floor to ceilin',
An' she looked full ez rosy agin
Ez the apples she was peelin'.
'T was kin' o' kingdom-come to look
On sech a blessed creetur,
A dogrose blushin' to a brook
Ain't modester nor sweeter.
He was six foot o' man, A 1,
Clean grit an' human natur';
None could n't quicker pitch a ton
Nor dror a furrer straighter.
He'd sparked it with full twenty gals,
Had squired 'em, danced 'em.
Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells
All is, he could n't love 'em.
But long o' her his veins 'ould run
All crinkly like curled maple,
The side she breshed felt full o' sun,
Ez a south slope in Ap'il.
12
178 THE COUETIN'.
She thought no v'ice hed 'sech a swing
Ez hisn in the choir;
My! when he made Ole Hundred ring,
She knowed the Lord was nigher.
An she'd blush scarlit, right in prayer,
When her new meetin'-bunnet
Felt somehow thru' its crown a pair
O' blue eyes sot upon it.
Thet night, I tell ye, she looked some!
She seemed to Ve gut a new soul,
For she felt sartin-sure he'd come,
Down to her very shoe-sole.
She heered a foot, an' knowed it tu,
A-raspin' on the scraper, —
All ways to once her feelin's flew
Like sparks in burnt- up paper.
He kin' o' l'itered on the mat,
Some doubtfle o' the sekle,
His heart kep' goin' pity-pat,
But hern went pity Zekle.
An' yit she gin her cheer a jerk
Ez though she wished him furder,
An' on her apples kep' to work,
Parin' away like murder.
" You want to see my Pa, I s'pose?"
" Wal ... no ... I come designin' "-
" To see my ma? She's sprinklin' does
Agin to-morrer's i'nin'.'
,' "
To say why gals acts so or so,
Or don't 'ould be presumin';
Mebby to mean yes an' say no
Comes nateral to women.
He stood a spell on one foot fust,
Then stood a spell on t' other,
An' on which one he felt the wust
He couldn't ha' told ye nuther.
MISADVENTURES AT MARGATE. 179
Savs he, "I'd better call agin";
Says she, " Think likely, Mister";
Thet last word pricked him like a pin,
An' . . . Wal, he up an' kist her.
When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips,
Huldy sot pale ez ashes,
All kin' o' smily 'roun the lips
An' teary 'roun the lashes.
For she was jes' the quiet kind
Whose naturs never vary,
Like streams that keep a summer mind
Snowhid in Jenooary.
The blood clost roun' her heart felt glued
Too tight for all expressing
Tell mother see how metters stood,
An gin 'em both her blessin'.
Then her red come back like the tide
Down to the Bay o' Fundy,
An' all I know is they was cried
In meetin' come nex' Sunday.
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
MISADVENTURES AT MARGATE.
I was in Margate last July, I walked upon the pier,
I saw a little vulgar Boy, — I said, "What make you here?
The gloom upon your youthful cheek speaks anything but
joy";
Again I said, " What make you here, you little vulgar Boy ? "
He frowned, that little vulgar Boy, — he deemed I meant to
scoff, —
And when the little heart is big, a little " sets it off."
He put his finger in his mouth, his little bosom rose, —
He had no little handkerchief to wipe his little nose!
"Hark! don't you hear, my little man? — it's striking Nine,"
I said,
"An hour when all good little boys and girls should be in bed.
180 MISADVENTURES AT MARGATE.
Run home and get your supper, else your Ma will scold, — O
fie!
It's very wrong indeed for little boys to stand and cry! "
The tear-drop in his little eye again began to spring,
His bosom throbbed with agony, — he cried like anything!
I stooped, and thus amidst his sobs I heard him murmur, —
"Ah!
I have n't got no supper! and I have n't got no Ma! —
" My father, he is on the seas, — my mother's dead and gone!
And I am here, on this here pier, to roam the world alone;
I have not had, this livelong day, one drop to cheer my
heart.
Nor ''brown'' to buy a bit of bread with, — let alone a tart.
"If there 's a soul will give me food, or find me in employ,
By day or night, then blow me tight! " (he was a vulgar
B °y;)
"And now I 'm here, from this here pier it is my fixed intent
To jump as Mister Levi did from off the Monument! "
"Cheer up! cheer up! my little man, — cheer up! I kindly
said,
"You are a naughty boy to take such things into your head;
If you should jump from off the pier, you'd surely break
yoor legs,
Perhaps your neck, — then Bogey 'd have you, sure as eggs
"Come home with me, my little man, come home with me
and sup;
My landlady is Mrs. Jones,; — we must not keep her up, —
There's roast potatoes at the fire, — enough for me and you, —
Come home, you little vulgar Boy, — I lodge at number 2."
I took him home to number 2, the house beside " The Foy,"
I bade him wipe his dirty shoes, — that little vulgar Boy, —
And then I said to Mistress Jones, the kindest of her sex,
"Pray be so good as go and fetch a pint of double X! "
But Mrs. Jones was rather cross, she made a little noise,
She said she "did not like to wait on little vulgar Boys."
MISADVENTURES AT MARGATE. 181
She with her apron wiped the plates, and, as she rubbed the
delf,
Said I might " go to Jericho, and fetch my beer myself ! "
I did not go to Jericho, — I went to Mr. Cobb, —
I changed a shilling (which in town the people call a Bob,) —
It was not so much for myself as for that vulgar child, —
And I said, "A pint of double X, and please to draw it
mild!"
When I came back I gazed about, — I gazed on stool and
chair. —
I could not see my little friend, because he was not there!
I peeped beneath the table-cloth, beneath the sofa too, —
I said, " You little vulgar Boy! why, what 's become of you?"
I could not see my table-spoons, — I looked, but could not
see
The little fiddle-patterned ones I use when I'm at tea;
I could not see my sugar-tongs, my silver watch, — O, dear!
I know 't was on the mantle-piece when 1 went out for beer.
I could not see my Macintosh, — it was not to be seen !
Nor yet my best white beaver hat, broad brimmed and lined
with green;
My carpet-bag, — my cruet-stand, that holds my sauce and
soy, —
My roast potatoes! — all are gone! — and so 's that vulgar Boy!
I rang the bell for Mrs. Jones, for she was down below,
" O Mrs. Jones, what do you think? — ain't this a pretty go?
That horrid little vulgar Boy whom I brought here to-night
He's stolen my things and run away!" Says she, "And
sarve you right! "
Next morning I was up betimes, — I sent- the Crier round,
AH with his bell and gold-laced hat, to say, I 'd give a pound
To find that little vulgar Boy, who'd gone and used me so;
But when the Crier cried, "O Yes!" the people cried, "O
No!"
I went to " Jarvis' Landing-place," the glory of the town,
There was a common sailor-man a walking up and down,
182 MISADVENTURES AT M AEG ATE.
I told my tale, — lie seemed to think I'd not been treated
well.
And called me "Poor old Buffer! " — what that means I can-
not tell.
A landsman said, " I twig the chap, — he 's been upon the
Mill,—
And 'cause he gammons so the flats, ve calls him Veeping
Bill!"
He said " he 'd done me werry brown," and nicely " stowed
the swag" —
That^s French, I fancy, for a hat, or else a carpet-bag.
I went and told the constable my property to track;
He asked me if " I did not wish that I might get it back."
I answered, "To be sure I do! — it's what I'm come
about."
He smiled and said, " Sir, does your mother know you 're
out?"
Not knowing what to do, I thought I 'd hasten back to town,
And beg our own Lord Mayor to catch the boy who 'd "done
me brown."
His Lordship very kindly said he 'd try and find him out,
But he " rather thought that there were several vulgar boys
about."
He sent for Mr. Whithair then, and I described " the swag,"
My Macintosh, my sugar-tongs, my spoons, and carpet-bag;
He promised that the New Police should all their powers
employ, _
But never to this hour have I beheld that vulgar Boy!
MORAL.
Remember, then, what when a boy I 've heard my Grandma
tell,
" BE WARNED IN TIME BY OTHERS' HARM, AND YOU SHALL
DO FULL WELL!
! »
Do n't link yourself with vulgar folks, who 've got no fixed
abode,
Tell lies, use naughty words, and say they "wish they may
be blowed! "
THE LOST HEIR. 183
Do n't take too much of double X! — and do n't at night go
out
To fetch your beer yourself, but make the pot-boy bring
your stout!
And when you go to Margate next, just stop, and ring the
bell,
Give my respects to Mrs. Jones, and say I'm pretty well!
RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM.
THE LOST HEIR.
One day, as I was going by
That part of Holborn christened High,
I heard a loud and sudden cry
That chilled my very blood;
And lo! from out a dirty alley,
Where pigs and Irish wont to rally,
I saw a crazy woman sally,
Bedaubed with grease and mud.
She turned her East, she turned her "West,
Staring like Pythoness possest,
With streaming hair and heaving breast
As one stark mad with grief.
This way and that she wildly ran,
Jostling with woman and with man —
Her right hand held a frying pan,
The left a lump of beef.
At last her frenzy seemed to reach
A point just capable of speech,
And with a tone almost a screech,
As wild as ocean birds,
Or female Ranter moved to preach,
She gave her " sorrow words."
" O Lord! O dear, my heart will break, I shall go stick stark
staring wild!
Has ever a one seen anything about the streets like a cry-
ing lost-looking child?
Lawk help me, I don't know where to look or to run, if I
only knew which way —
A Child as is lost'about London streets, and especially Seven
Dials, is a needle in a bottle of hay.
184 THE LOST HEIR.
I am all in a quiver — get out of my sight, do, vou wretch,
you little Kitty M'Nab!
You promised to have half an eye to him, you know you
did, you dirty deceitful young drab.
The last time as ever I see him, poor thing, was with my own
blessed Motherly eyes,
Sitting as good as gold in the gutter, a playing at making
little dirt pies.
I wonder he left the court where he was better off than all,
the other young boys,
With two bricks, an old shoe, nine oyster-shells, and a dead
kitten by way of toys.
"When his father comes home, and he always comes home as
sure as ever the clock strikes one,
He'll be rampant he will, at his child being lost; and the beef
and the inguns not done!
La bless you, good folks, mind your own consarns, and don't
be making a mob in the street;
O serjeant M'Farlane! you have not come across my poor lit-
tle boy, have you in your beat?
Do, good people, move on! don't stand staring at me like a
parcel of stupid stuck pigs;
Saints forbid! but he's p'r'aps been inviggled away up a court
for the sake of his clothes by the prigs;
He'd a very good jacket, for certain, for I bought it myself
for a shilling one day in Rag Fair;
And his trowsers considering not very much patched, and
red plush, they was once his Father's best pair.
His shirt, it's very lucky I'd got washing in the tub, or that
might have gone with the rest;
But he'd got on a very good pinafore with only two slits
and a burn on the breast.
He'd a goodish sort of hat, if the crown was sewed in, and
not quite so much jagged at the brim.
With one shoe on, and the other shoe is a boot, and not a fit
and you'll know by that if it's him.
Except being so well dressed, my mind would misgive, some
old beggar woman in want of an orphan,
Had borrowed the child to go a begging with, but I'd rather
see him laid out in his coffin !
Do, good people, move on, such a rabble of boys! I'll break
every bone of 'em I come near,
Go home — you're spilling the porter — go home — Tommy
Jones, go along with your beer.
OUR GUIDE IN GENOA AND ROME. 185
This day is the sorrowfullest day of my life, ever since my
name was Betty Morgan,
Them vile Savoyards! they lost him once before all along
of following a Monkey and an Organ.
my Billy — my head will turn right round — if he's got kid-
dynapped with them Italians-,
They'll make him a plaster parish image boy, they will, the
outlandish tatterdemalions.
Billy — where are you, Billy? — I'm as hoarse as a crow, with
screaming for ye, you young sorrow!
And shan't have half a voice, no more I shan't, for crying
fresh herrings to-morrow.
Billy — where are you, Billy, I say? come Billy, come home,
to your best of Mothers!
I'm scared when I think of them Cabroleys, they drive so,
they'd run over their own Sisters and Brothers.
Or may be he's stole by some chimbly sweeping wretch, to
stick fast in narrow flues and what not,
And be poked up behind with a picked pointed pole, when
the soot has ketched, and the chimbly's red hot.
Oh, I'd give the whole wide world, if the world was mine, to
clap my two longin' eyes on his face.
For he's my darlin' of darlin's, and if he don't soon come
back, you'll see me drop stone dead on the place.
1 only wish I'd got him safe in these two Motherly arms,
and wouldn't I hug him and kiss him!
Lawk! I never knew what a precious he was — but a child
don't feel like a child till you miss him.
Why there he is! Punch and Judy hunting, the young-
wretch, it's that Billy as sartin as sin !
But let me get him home, with a good grip of his hair, and
I'm blest if he shali have a whole bone in his skin!
THOMAS HOOD.
OUR GUIDE IN GENOA AND ROME.
European guides know about enough English to tangle
everything up so that a man can make neither head nor tail
of it. They know their story by heart, — the history of
every statue, painting, cathedral, or other wonder they
show you. They know it and tell it as a parrot would, — and
if you interrupt, and throw them off the track, they have to
186 OUR GUIDE IN GENOA AND ROME.
go back and begin over again. AH their lives long, they
are employed in showing strange things to foreigners and
listening to their bursts of admiration.
It is human nature to take delight in exciting admiration.
It is what prompts children to say "smart" things, and do
absurd ones, and in other ways "show off" when company
is present. It is what makes gossips turn out in rain and
storm to go and be the first to tell a startling bit of news.
Think, then, what a passion it becomes with a guide, whose
privilege it is, every day, to show to strangers wonders that
throw them into perfect ecstasies of admiration! He gets
so that he could not by any possibility live in a soberer
atmosphere.
Alter we discovered this, we never went into ecstasies any
more, — we never admired anything, — we never showed any
but impassible faces and stupid indifference in the presence
of the sublimest wonders a guide had to display. We had
found their weak point. We have made good use of it ever
since. We have made some of those people savage, at times,
but we have never lost our serenity.
The doctor asks the questions generally, because he can
keep his countenance, and look more like an inspired idiot,
and throw more imbecility into the tone of his voice than any
man that lives. It comes natural to him.
The guides in Genoa are delighted to secure an American
party, because Americans so much wonder, and deal so much
in sentiment and emotion before any relic of Columbus.
Our guide there fidgeted about as if he had swallowed a
spring mattress. He was full of animation, — full of impa-
tience. He said: —
"Come wis me, genteelmen! — come! I show you ze let-
ter writing by Christopher Colombo! — write it himself! —
write it wis his own hand! — come! "
He took us to the municipal palace. After much impres-
sive fumbling of keys and opening of locks, the stained and
aged document was spread before us. The guide's eyes
sparkled. He danced about us and tapped the parchment
with his finger: —
"What I tell you, genteelmen! Is it not so? See! hand-
writing Christopher Colombo! — -write it himself! "
We looked indifferent, — unconcerned. The doctor exam-
ined the document very deliberately, during a painful pause.
Then he said, without any show of interest, —
OUR GUIDE IN GENOA AND ROME. 187
"Ah, — Ferguson, — what — what did you say was the name
of the party who wrote this? "
"Christopher Colombo! ze great Christopher Colombo! "
Another deliberate examination.
"Ah, — did he write it himself, or, or — how?"
" He write it himself! — Christopher Colombo! he's own
handwriting, write by himself! "
Then the doctor laid the document down and said, —
" Why, I have seen boys in America only fourteen years
old that could write better than that."
" But zis is ze great Christo — "
"I don't care who it is! It's the worst writing I ever saw.
Now you must n't think you can impose on us because we
are strangers. We are not fools, by a good deal. If you
have got any specimens of penmanship of real merit, trot them
out! — and if you have n't, drive on! "
We drove on. The guide was considerably shaken up,
but he made one more venture. He had something which
he thought would overcome us. He said, —
" Ah, genteelmen, you come wis me! I show you beauti-
ful, O, magnificent bust Christopher Colombo! — splendid,
grand, magnificent! "
He brought us before the beautiful bust, — for it was beau-
tiful, — and sprang back and struck an attitude: —
"Ah, look, genteelmen! — beautiful, grand, — bust Christo-
pher Colombo! — beautiful bust, beautiful pedestal! "
The doctor put up his eye-glass, — procured for such occa-
sions: — "
"Ah, — what did you say this gentleman's name was? "
" Christopher Colombo! ze great Christopher Colombo! "
" Christopher Colombo, — the great Christopher Colombo.
Well, what did he do?
" Discover America! — discover America, O, ze devil !
" Discover America. No, — that statement will hardly
wash. We are just from America ourselves. We heard
nothing about it. Christopher Colombo, — pleasant name, —
is — is he dead?"
" O, corpo di Baccho! — three hundred year! "
"What did he die of?"
" I do not know. I cannot tell."
"Small-pox, think?"
" I do not know, genteelmen, — I do not know what he
die of."
188 OUR GUIDE IN GENOA AND ROME.
"Measles, likely?"
"Maybe, — maybe. I do not know, — I think he die of
somethings."
" Parents living? "
"Im-posseeble! "
"Ah, — which is the bust and which is the pedestal?"
"Santa Maria! — zis ze bust! — zis ze pedestal! "
" Ah, I see, I see — happy combination, — very happjr com-
bination indeed. Is — is this the first time this gentleman
was ever on a bust? "
That joke was lost on the foreigner, — guides cannot mas-
ter the subtleties of the American joke.
We have made it interesting for this Roman guide. Yes-
terday we spent three or four hours in the Vatican again,
that wonderful world of curiosities. We came very near
expressing interest sometimes, even admiration. It was
hard to keep from it. We succeeded, though. Nobody
else ever did, in the Vatican museums. The guide was be-
wildered, nonplussed. He walked his legs off, nearly, hunt-
ing up extraordinary things, and exhausted all his ingenuity
on us, but it was a failure; we never showed any interest in
anything. He had reserved what he considered to be his
greatest wonder till the last, — a royal Egyptian mummy, the
best preserved in the world, perhaps. He took us there.
He felt so sure, this time, that some of his old enthusiasm
came back to him: —
" See, genteelmen! — Mummy! Mummy! "
The eye-glass came up as calmly, as deliberately as ever.
" Ah, — Ferguson, — what did I understand you to say the
gentleman's name was?"
"Name? — he got no name! Mummy! — 'Gyptian mum-
my!"
"Yes, yes. Born here?"
" No. ''Gyptian mummy."
"Ah, just so. Frenchman, I presume?"
"No! — not Frenchman, not Roman! — born in Egypta!"
" Born in Egj^pta. Never heard of Egypta before. For-
eign locality, likely. Mummy,— mummy. How calm he is,
how self-possessed! Is — ah! — is he dead?"
" O, sacre bleu! been dead three thousan' year! "
The doctor turned on him savagely: —
"Here, now, what do you mean by such conduct as this?
Playing us for Chinamen because we are strangers and try-
THE SUBSCRIPTION LIST. 189
ing to learn! Trying to impose your vile second-hand car-
casses on us! Thunder and lightning! I 've a notion to —
to — If you 've got a nice fresh corpse, fetch him out! — or,
by George, we '11 brain you! "
We make it exceedingly interesting for this Frenchman.
However, he has paid us back, partly, without knowing it.
He came to the hotel this morning to ask if we were up, and
he endeavored, as well as he could, to describe us, so that
the landlord would know which persons he meant. He fin-
ished with the casual remark that we were lunatics. The
observation was so innocent and so honest that it amounted
to a very good thing for a guide to say.
Our Roman Ferguson is the most patient, unsuspecting,
long-suffering subject we have had yet. We shall be sorry
to part with him. We have enjoyed his society very much.
We trust he has enjoyed ours, but we are harrassed with
doubts.
MAllK TWALSr.
THE SUBSCRIPTION LIST.
On the Sunday in question Father Phil intended deliver-
ing an address to his flock from the altar, urging them to the
necessity of bestirring themselves in the repairs of the
chapel, which was in a very dilapidated condition, and at
one end let in the rain through its worn-out thatch. A sub-
scription was necessary: and to raise this among a very
impoverished people was no easy matter. The weather
happened to be unfavorable, which was most favorable to
Father Phil's purpose, for the rain dropped its arguments
through the roof upon the. kneeling people below, in the
most convincing manner; and as they endeavored to get out
of the wet, they pressed round the altar as much as they
could, for which they were reproved very smartly by his
Reverence in the very midst of the mass. These interrup-
tions occurred sometimes in the most serious places, produc-
ing a ludicrous effect, of which the worthy Father was quite
unconscious, in his great anxiety to make the people repair
the chapel.
A big woman was elbowing her way towards the rails of
the altar, and Father Phil, casting a sidelong glance at her,
sent her to the right-about, while he interrupted his appeal
to Heaven to address her thus: —
190 THE SUBSCRIPTION LIST.
u Agnus Dei — You'd betther jump over the rails of the
althar, I think. Go along out o' that, there's plenty o' room
in the chapel below there — "
Then he would turn to the altar, and proceed with the ser-
vice, till, turning again to the congregation, he perceived
some fresh offender.
"Orate fratres! — Will you mind what I say to you, and
go along out of that, there's room below there. Thrue for
you, Mrs. Finn, — its' a shame for him to be thramplin'
on you. Go along, Darby Casy, down there, and kneel in
the rain, — it's a pity you have n't a decent woman's cloak
under you, indeed! — Orate fratres!
Then would the service proceed again, till the shuffling of
feet edging out of the rain would disturb him, and, casting
a backward glance, he would say, —
" I hear you there, — can't you be quiet, and not be dis-
turbin' my mass, you haythens?"
Again he proceeded, till the crying of a child interrupted
him. He looked round quickly —
"You'd betther kill the child, I think, thramplin' on him,
Lavery. Go out o' that, — your conduct is scandalous —
Dominus vobiscum!"
Again he turned to pray, and after some time he made an
interval in the service to address his congregation on the
subject of the repairs, and produced a paper containing the
names of subscribers to that pious work who had already
contributed, by way of example to those who had not.
"Here it is," said Father Phil, — "here it is, and no deny-
ing it, — down in black and white; but if they who give are
down in black, how much blacker are those who have not
given at all! But I hope they will be ashamed of them-
selves when I howld up those to honor who have contributed
to the uphowlding of the house of God. And is n't it
ashamed o' yourselves you ought to be, to lave His house in
such a condition? and doesn't it rain a'most every Sunday,
as if He wished to remind you of your duty? — aren't you
wet to the skin a'most every Sunday? O, God is good to
you! to put you in mind of your duty, giving you such bit-
ther cowlds that you are coughing and sneezin' every Sun-
day to that degree that you can't hear the blessed mass for a
comfort and a benefit to you; and so you'll go on sneezin'
until you put a good thatch on the place, and prevent the
appearance of the evidence from Heaven against you every
THE SUBSCRIPTION LIST. 191
Sunday, which is condemning you before your faces, and
behind your backs too, for don't I see this minit a strame
o' wather that might turn a mill running down Micky
Mackavoy's back, between the collar of his coat and his
shirt?"
Here a laugh ensued at the expense of Micky Mackavoy,
who certainly loas under a very heavy drip from the imper-
fect roof.
"And is it laughing you are, you haythens? " said Father
Phil, reproving the merriment which he himself had purpose-
ly created, that he might reprove it. "Laughing is it you
are, at your backslidings and insensibility to the honor of
God, — laughing because when you come here to be saved,
you are lost entirely with the wet; and how, I ask you, are
my words of comfort to enter your hearts when the rain is
pouring down your backs at the same time? Sure I have no
chance of turning your hearts while you are under rain that
might turn a mill, — but once put a good roof on the house,
and I will inundate you with piety! Maybe it 's Father
Dominick you would like to have coming among you, who
would grind your hearts to powdher with his heavy words."
(Here a low murmur of dissent ran through the throng.)
"Ha! ha! so you wouldn't like it, I see, — very well, very
well, — take care then, for I find you insensible to my
moderate reproofs, you hard-hearted haythens, you malefac-
thors and cruel persecuthors, that won't put your hands in
your pockets because your mild and quiet poor fool of a
pasthor has no tongue in his head ! I say your mild,
quiet, poor fool of a pasthor (for I know my own faults
partly, God forgive me!) and I can't spake to you as you
deserve, you hard-living vagabonds, that are as insensible
to your duties as you are to the weather. I wish it was
sugar or salt that you are made of, and then the rain
might melt you if I couldn't; but no, them naked rafth-
ers grins in your face to no purpose, — you chate the house
of God, — but take care, maybe you won't chate the Divil
so aisy." (Here there was a sensation.) "Ha! ha! that
makes you open your ears, does it ? More shame for
you; you ought to despise that dirty enemy of man, and
depend on something better, — but I see I must call
you to a sense of your situation with the bottomless pit
undher you, and no roof over you. O dear! dear! dear!
I'm ashamed of you, — throth, if I had time and sthraw
192 THE SUBSCRIPTION LIST.
enough, Vd rather thatch the place myself than lose my
time talking to you; sure the place is more like a stable
than a chapel. O, think of that! — the house of God to be
like a stable! — for though our Redeemer was born in a stable,
that is no reason why you are to keep his house always like
one.
"And now I will read you the list of subscribers, and it
will make you ashamed when you hear the names of several
good and worthy Protestants in the parish, and out of it,
too, who have given more than the Catholics."
SUBSCRIPTION" LIST
For the Repairs and Enlargement of Bally slough-
Gutthery Chapel.
Philip Blake, P. P.
Micky Hickey, £0 Is. 6d. "He might as well have made
it ten shillings; but half a loaf is betther than no bread."
" Plaze your Reverence," says Mick, from the body of the
chapel, "sure seven and sixpence is more than half of ten
shillings." (A laugh.)
"O, how witty you are! Faith, if you knew your prayers
as well as vour arithmetic, it would be betther for you,
Micky."
Here the Father turned the laugh against Mick.
Billy Riley, £0 3s. 4c?. " Of course he means to subscribe
again ?"
John Dwyer, £0 15s. "That's something like! I'll be
bound he's only keeping back the odd five shillings for a
brush full o' paint for the althar; it's as black as a crow, in-
stead o' being as a dove."
He then hurried over rapidly some small subscribers as
follows: —
Peter Hefferman, £0 Is. Sd.
James Murphy, £0 2s. 6d.
Mat Donovan, £0 Is. 3d.
Luke Dannelly, £0 3s. Od.
Jack Quigly, £0 2s. Id.
Pat Finnegan, £0 2s. 2d.
Edward O'Connor, Esq., £2 0s. Od. "There's for you!
Edward O'Connor, Esq., — a Protestant in the parish, — two
pounds."
"Long life to him!" cried a voice in the chapel.
THE SUBSCRIPTION LIST. 193
"Amen!" said Father Phil; "I'm not ashamed to be clerk
to so good a prayer."
Nicholas Fagan, £0 2,5. 6d.
Younsr Nicholas Fagan, £0 5s. Od. "Young Nick is bet-
ther than owld Nick, you see."
Tim Doyle, £0 7s. Ad.
Owny Doyle, £1 0s. Od. Well done, Owny na Coppal, —
you deserve to prosper, for you make good use of your thriv-
ings."
Simon Leary, £0 2s. Qd.; Bridget Murphy, £0 10s. Od.
"You ought to be ashamed o' yourself, Simon; a lone
widow-woman gives more than you."
Simon answered, " I have a large family, sir, and she has
no childhre."
" That's not her fault," said the priest, — " and maybe she'll
mend o' that yet." This excited much merriment, for the
widow was buxom, and had recently buried an old husband,
and, by all accounts, was cocking her cap at a handsome
young fellow in the parish.
Judy Moylan, £0 5s. Od. " Very good, Judy, tne women
are behaving like gentlemen; they'll have their reward in
the next world."
Pat Finnerty, £0 8s. 4:d. " I'm not sure if it is 8s. 4d. or
3s. 4tf., for the figure is blotted, but I believe it is 8s. 4<:/."
" It was three and fourpence I gave your Reverence," said
Pat from the crowd.
" Well, Pat, as I said eight and fourpence, you must not
let me go back o' my word, so bring me five shillings next
week.
" Sure, you wouldn't have me pay for a blot, sir?"
"Yis, I would, — that's the rule of backmammon, you
know, Pat. When I hit the mark, you pay for it."
Here his Reverence turned round, as if looking for some
one, and called out, "Rafferty! Rafferty! Rafferty! Where
are you, Rafferty?"
An old gray-headed man appeared, bearing a large plate,
and Father Phil continued, —
"There now, be active — I'm sending him among you,
good people, and such as cannot give as much as you would
like to be read before your neighbors, give what little you
can towards the repairs, and I will continue to read out the
names by way of encouragement to you, and the next name
I see is that of Squire Egan. Long life to him!"
13
194 THE SUBSCRIPTION LIST.
Squire Egan, £5 Os. Od. "Squire Egan — five pounds
— listen to that — a Protestant in the Parish! — five pounds!
Faith, the Protestants will make you ashamed of yourselves
if you don't take care."
Mrs. Flanagan, £2 Os. Od. " Not her own parish, either,
— a kind lady."
James Milligan of Roundtown, £1 Os. Od. "And here I
must remark that the people of Roundtown has not been
backward in coming forward on this occasion. I have a long
list from Roundtown, — I will read it separate." He then
proceeded at a great pace, jumbling the town and the
pounds and the people in the most extraordinary manner:
"James Milligan of Roundtown, one pound; Darby Daly
of Roundtown, one pound; Sam Finnigan of Roundtown,
one pound; James Casey of Roundpound, one town? Kit
Dwyer of Townpound, one round — pound, I mane; Pat
Roundpound — Pounden, I mane — Pat Pounden a pound
of Poundtown also — there's an example for you! —
But what are you about, Rafferty? I don't like the sound
of that plate of yours, — you are not a good gleaner, — go up
first into the gallery there, where I see so many good-look-
ing bonnets, — I suppose they will give something to keep
their bonnets out of the rain, for the wet will be into the gal-
lery next Sunday if they don't. I think that is Kitty Crow I
see, getting her bit of silver ready; them ribbons of yours
cost a thrifle, Kitty — Well, good Christians, here is more of
the subscription for you.
Matthew Lavery, "£0 2s. 6d. " He does n't belong to
Roundtown, — Roundtown will be renowned in the future
ages for the support of the church. Mark my words! Round-
town will prosper from this day out, — Roundtown will be a
rising place."
Mark Hennessy, £0 2s. Qd.; Luke Clancy, £0 2s. %d.;
John Doolin, £0 2s. Qd. " One would think they all agreed
only to give two and sixpence apiece. And they comforta-
ble men, too! And look at their names, — Matthew, Mark,
Luke, and John, — the names of the blessed Evangelists, and
only ten shillings among them ! O, they are apostles not
worthy the name, — we'll call them the poor apostles from
this out! " (Here a low laugh ran through the chapel.) " Do
you hear that, Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John? Faith! I
can tell you that name will stick to you." (Here the laugh
was louder.)
THE SUBSCRIPTION LIST. 195
A voice, when the laugh subsided, exclaimed, " I '11 make
it ten shillin's, your Reverence."
"Who's that?" said Father Phil.
" Hennessy, your Reverence."
" Very well, Mark. I suppose Matthew, Luke, and John
will follow your example?"
"We will, your Reverence."
"Ha! I thought you made a mistake; we '11 call you now
the faithful apostles, — and I think the change in the name
is better than seven and sixpence apiece to you."
" I see you in the gallery there, Ratferty. What do you
pass that well-dressed woman for? thry back — Ha! see that,
she had her money ready if you only asked her for it, — don't
go by that other woman there — O ho! So you won't give
anything, ma'am? You ought to be ashamed of yourself.
There is a woman with an elegant sthraw bonnet, and she
won't give a farthing. Well now, — after that remember, —
I give it from the althar, that from this day out sthraw bon-
nets pay irpenny pieces."
Thomas Durfy, Esq., £1 Os. Od. "It's not his parish, and
he 's a brave gentlemen."
Miss Fanny Dawson, £1 Os. Od. " A Protestant, out of
the parish, and a sweet young lady, God bless her! O faith,
the Protestants is shaming you! "
Dennis Fannin, £0 7s. Qd. "Very good indeed, for a
working mason."
Jemmv Rilev, £ os. Od. " Not bad for a hedge carpen-
ther."
" I gave you ten, plaze your Reverance," shouted Jemmy;
" and by the same token, you may remember it was on the
Nativity of the blessed Vargin, sir, I gave you the second
five shillin's."
" So yon did, Jemmy," cried Father Phil, "I put a little
cross before it, to remind me of it; but I was in a hurry to
make a sick call when you gave it to me, and forgot it afther:
and indeed myself does n't know what I did with that same
five shillings."
Here a pallid woman, who was kneeling near the rails of
the altar, uttered an impassioned blessing, and exclaimed,
"O, that was the very five shillings, I 'm sure, you gave to
me that very day, to buy some little comforts for my poor
husband, who was dying in the fever!" and the poor woman
burst into loud sobs as she spoke.
196 THE SPECTRE PIG.
A deep thrill of emotion ran through the flock as this
accidental proof of their poor pastor's beneficence burst
upon them; and as an affectionate murmur began to arise
above the silence which that emotion produced, the burly
Father Philip blushed like a girl at this publication of his
charity, and even at the foot of that altar where he stood,
felt something like shame in being discovered in the com-
mission of that virtue so highly commended by the Provi-
dence to whose worship that altar was raised. He uttered a
hasty "Whisht, whisht!" and waved with his outstretched
hands his flock into silence.
In an instant one of those sudden changes so common to
an Irish assembly, and scarcely credible to a stranger, took
place. The multitude was hushed, the grotesque of the
subscription list had passed away and was forgotten, and
that same man and that same multitude stood in altered
relations, — they were again a reverent flock, and he once
more a solemn pastor; the natural play of his nation's mirth-
ful sarcasm was absorbed in a moment in the sacredness of
his office; and with a solemnity befitting the highest occa-
sion, he placed his hands together before his breast, and,
raising his eyes to heaven, he poured forth his sweet voice,
with a tone of the deepest devotion, in that reverential call
for prayer, " Orate, f retires! "
The sound of a multitude gently kneeling down followed,
like the soft breaking of a quiet sea on a sandy beach; and
when Father Philip turned to the altar to pray, his pent-up
feelings found vent in tears, and while he prayed he wept.
I believe such scenes as this are of not un frequent occur-
rence in Ireland, — that country so long suffering, so much
maligned, and so little understood.
O rulers of Ireland! why have you not sooner learned to
lead that people by love, whom all your severity has been
unable to drive?
SAMUEL LOVER.
THE SPECTRE PIG.
It was the stalwart butcher man,
That knit his swarthy brow,
And said the gentle Pig must die,
And sealed it with a vow.
THE SPECTRE PIG. 197
And oh! it was the gentle Pig
Lay stretched upon the ground,
And ah! it was the cruel knife
His little heart that found.
They took him then, those wicked men,
They trailed him all along;
They put a stick between his lips,
And through his heels a thong;
And round and round an oaken beam
A hempen cord they flung,
And, like a mighty pendulum,
All solemnly he swung!
Now say thy prayers, thou sinful man,
And think what thou has done, -
And read thy catechism well,
Thou bloody-minded one;
For If his sprite should walk by night,
It better were for thee,
That thou wert mouldering in the ground
Or bleaching in the sea.
It was the savage butcher then,
That made a mock of sin,
And swore a very wicked oath,
He did not care a pin.
It was the butcher's youngest son, —
His voice was broke with sighs,
And with his pocket-handkerchief
He wiped his little eyes;
All young and ignorant was he,
But innocent and mild,
And, in his soft simplicity,
Out spoke the tender child: — •
" O father, father, list to me;
The Pig is deadly sick,
And men have hung him by his heels,
And fed him with a stick."
198 THE SPECTRE PIG.
It was the bloody butcher then,
That laughed as he would die,
Yet did he soothe the sorrowing child,
And bid him not to cry: —
" O Nathan, Nathan, what's a Pig,
That thou shouldst weep and wail?
Come, bear thee like a butcher's child,
And thou shalt have his tail!"
It was the butcher's daughter then,
So slender and so fair,
That sobbed as if her heart would break.
And tore her yellow hair;
And thus she spoke in thrilling tone, —
Fast fell the tear-drops big; —
"Ah! woe is me! Alas! Alas!
^he Pig! The Pig! The Pig!
Then did her wicked father's lips
Make merry with her woe,
And call her many a naughty name,
Because she whimpered so.
Ye need not weep, ye gentle ones,
In vain your tears are shed,
Ye cannot wash his crimson hand,
Ye cannot soothe the dead.
The bright sun folded on his breast
His robes of rosy flame,
And softly over all the west
The shades of evening came.
He slept, and troops of murdered Pigs
Were busy with his dreams;
Loud rang their wild, unearthly shrieks,
Wide yawned their mortal seams.
The clock struck twelve; the Dead hath heard;
He opened both his eyes,
And sullenly he shook his tail
To lash the feeding. flies.
THE SPECTRE PIG. 199
One quiver of the hempen cord, —
One struggle and one bound, —
With stiffened limb and leaden eye,
The Pig was on the ground!
And straight towards the sleeper's house
His fearful way he wended:
And hooting owl, and hovering bat,
On midnight wing attended.
Back flew the bolt, up rose the latch,
And open swung the door,
And little mincing feet were heard
Pat, pat along the floor.
Two hoofs upon the sanded floor,
And two upon the bed;
And they are breathing side by side,
The living and the dead!
"Now wake, now wake, thou butcher man!
What makes thy cheek so pale?
Take hold! take hold! thou dost not fear
To clasp a spectre's tail!"
Untwisted every winding coil;
The shuddering wretch took hold,
All like an icicle it seemed,
So tapering and so cold.
a Thou com'st with me, thou butcher man! " —
He strives to loose his grasp,
But, faster than the clinging vine,
Those twining spirals clasp.
And open, open swung the door,
And, fleeter than the wind,
The shadowy spectre swept before,
The butcher trailed behind.
Fast fled the darkness of the night,
And morn rose faint and dim;
They called full loud, they knocked full long,
They did not waken him.
200 DAKIUS GEEEN AND HIS FLYING-MACHINE.
Straight, straight towards that oaken beam,
A trampled pathway ran;
A ghastly shape was swinging there, —
It was the butcher man.
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
DARIUS GREEN AND HIS FLYING-MACHINE.
If ever there lived a Yankee lad,
Wise or otherwise, good or bad,
Who, seeing the birds fly, did n't jump
With flapping arms from stake or stump,
Or, spreading the tail
Of his coat for a sail,
Take a soaring leap from post or rail,
And wonder why
He could n't fly,
And flap and flutter and wish and try, —
If ever you knew a country dunce
Who did n't try that as often as once,
All I can say is, that 's a sign
He never would do for a hero of mine.
An aspiring genius was D. Green:
The son of a farmer, — age fourteen;
His body was long and lank and lean, —
Just right for flying, as will be seen;
He had two eyes as bright as a bean,
And a freckled nose that grew between,
A little awry, — for I must mention
That he had riveted his attention
Upon his wonderful invention,
Twisting; his tongue as he twisted the strings,
And working- his face as he worked the wings,
And with every turn of gimlet and screw.
Turning and screwing his mouth round too,
Till his nose seemed bent
To catch the scent,
Around some corner, of new-baked pies,
And his wrinkled cheeks and his squinting eyes
Grew puckered into a queer grimace,
That made him look very droll in the face,
And also very wise.
DARIUS GREEN AND HIS FLYING-MACHINE. 201
And wise he must have been, to do more
Than ever a genius did before,
Excepting Dasdalus of yore
And his son Icarus, who wore
Upon their backs
Those wings of wax
He had read of in the old almanacs.
Darius was clearly of the opinion,
That the air is also man's dominion,
And that, with paddle or fin* or pinion,
We soon or late
Shall navigate
The azure as now we sail the sea.
The thing looks simple enough to me;
And if you doubt it,
Hear how Darius reasoned about it.
" The birds can fly,
An' why can't I?
Must we give in,"
Says he with a grin,
" 'T the bluebird an' phcebe
Are smarter 'n we be?
Jest fold our hands an' see the swaller
An' blackbird an' catbird beat us holler?
Doos the leettle chatterin', sassy wren,
No bigger 'n my thumb, know more than men ?
Jest show me that!
Er prove 't the bat
Hez got more brains than's in my hat,
An' I'll back down, an' not till then! "
He argued further: " Ner I can't see
What's th' use o' wings to a bumble-bee,
Fur to git a livin' with, mor'n to me; —
Ain't my business
Importanter 'n his 'n is?
" Tftat Icarus
Was a silly cuss, —
Him an' his daddy Daedalus.
They might 'a' knowed wings made o' wax
Woudn't stand sun-heat an' hard whacks.
I'll make mine o' luther,
Ur suthin or other."
202 DARIUS GREEN AND HIS FLYING MACHINE.
And he said to himself, as he tinkered and planned.
" But I ain't goin' to show my hand
To nummies that never can understand
The fust idee that's big an' grand
They'd 'a' laft an' made fun
O' Creation itself, afore 't was done! "
So he kept his secret from all the rest,
Safely buttoned within his vest;
And in the loft above the shed
Himself he locks, with thimble and thread
And wax and hammer and buckles and screws,
And all such things as geniuses use; —
Two bats for patterns, curious fellows!
A charcoal-pot and a pair of bellows;
An old hoop-skirt or two, as well as
Some wire, and several old umbrellas;
A carriage-cover, for tail and wings;
A piece of a harness; and straps and strings;
And a big strong box,
In which he locks
These and a hundred other things.
His grinning brothers, Reuben and Burke
And Nathan and Jotham and Solomon, lurk
Around the corner to see him work, —
Sitting cross-legged, like a Turk,
Drawing the waxed-end through with a jerk,
And boring the holes with a comical quirk
Of his wise old head, and a knowing smirk.
But vainly they mounted each other's backs,
And poked through knot-holes and pried through cracks;
With wood from the pile and straw from the stacks
He plugged the knot-holes and calked the cracks;
And a bucket of water, which one would think
He had brought up into the loft to drink
When he chanced to be dry,
Stood always nigh,
For Darius was sly!
And whenever at work he happened to spy
At chink or crevice a blinking eye,
He let a dipper of water fly.
"Take that! an' ef ever ye git a peep,
Guess ye '11 ketch a weasel asleep! "
DARIUS GREEN AND HIS FLYING-MACHINE. 203
And he sings as he locks
His big strong box: —
SONG.
" The weasel's head is small an' trim,
An' he is little an' long an' slim,
An' quick of motion an' nimble of limb,
An' ef yeou '11 be
Advised by me,
Keep wide awa,ke when ye 're ketchin' him!"
So day after day
He stitched and tinkered and hammered away,
Till at last 't was done, —
The greatest invention under the sun!
"An' now," says Darius, "hooray fer some fun!"
'T was the fourth of July,
And the weather was dry,
And not a cloud was on all the sky,
Save a few light fleeces, which here and there,
Half mist, half air,
Like foam on the ocean went floating by, — -
Just as lovely a morning as ever was seen
For a nice little trip in a flying-machine.
Thought cunning Darius: "Now I sha'n't go
Along 'ith the fellers to see the show.
I'll say I've got sich a terrible cough!
An' then, when the folks 'ave all gone off,
I '11 hev full swing
Fer to try the thing,
An' practyse a leetle on the wing."
"Ain't goin' to see the celebration?"
Says Brother Nate. "No; botheration!
I 've got sich a cold — a toothache — I —
My gracious! — feel 's though I should fly! "
Said Jotham, " 'Sho!
Guess ye better go."
But Darius said, "No!
Should n't wonder 'f yeou might see me, though,
204 DARIUS GREEN AND HIS FLYING-MACHINE.
'Long 'bout noon, ef I git red
O' this jumpin', thumpin' pain 'n my head."
For all the while to himself he said: —
"I tell ye what!
I '11 fly a few times around the lot,
To see how 't seems, then soon 's I Ve got
The hang o' the thing, ez likely 's not,
I '11 astonish the nation,
An' all creation,
By flyin' over the celebration!
Over their heads I '11 sail like an eagle;
I'll balance myself on my wings like a sea-gull;
I '11 dance on the chimbleys; I '11 stan' on the steeple;
I '11 flop up to the winders an' scare the people!
I '11 light on the libbe'ty-pole, an' crow;
An' I '11 say to the gawpin' fools below,
4 What world 's this 'ere
That I've come near?'
Fer I '11 make 'em b'lieve I 'm a chap f'm the moon;
An' I '11 try a race 'ith their ol' bulloon! "
He crept from his bed;
And, seeing the others were gone, he said,
" I'm a gittin' over the cold 'n my head."
And away he sped,
To open the wonderful box in the shed.
His brothers had walked but a little way,
"When Jotham to Nathan chanced to say,
" What on airth is he up to, hey? "
" Don'o', — the' 's suthin' ur other to pay,
Er he would n't 'a' stayed to hum to day."
Says Burke, " His toothache's all 'n his eye!
He never'd miss a Fo'th-o'-July,
Ef he hed n't got some machine to try." ,
Then Sol, the little one, spoke: "By darn!
Le' 's hurry back an' hide 'n the barn,
An' pay him fer tellin' us that yarn! "
" Agreed! " Through the orchard they creep back,
Along by the fences, behind the stack,
And one by one, through a hole in the wall,
In under the dusty barn they crawl,
Dressed in their Sunday garments all;
DAEITJS GREEN AND HIS FLYING-MACHINE. 205
And a very astonishing sight was that,
When each in his cobwebbcd coat and hat
Came up through the floor like an ancient rat.
And there they hid;
And Reuben slid
The fastenings back, and the door undid.
" Keep dark! " said he,
" While I squint an' see what the' is to see."
As knights of old put on their mail, —
From head to foot
An iron suit,
Iron jacket and Iron boot,
Iron breeches, and on the head
No hat, but an iron pot instead.
And under the chin the bail,
(I believe they called the thing a helm,)
And the lid they carried they called a shield;
And, thus accoutred, they took the field,
Sallying forth to overwhelm
The dragons and pagans that plagued the realm, —
So this modern knight,
Prepared for flight,
Put on his wings and strapped them tight;
Jointed and jaunty, strong and light;
Buckled them fast to shoulder and hip, — ■
Ten feet they measured from tip to tip!
And a helm had he, but that he wore,
Not on his head, like those of yore,
But more like the helm of a ship.
" Hush! " Reuben said,
"He's up in the shed!
He's opened the winder, — I see his head!
He stretches it out,
An' pokes it about,
Lookin' to see 'f the coast is clear,
An' nobody near; —
Guess he don'o' who's hid in here!
He 's riggin' a spring-board over the sill!
Stop laffiu', Solomon! Burke, keep still!
He 's a climbin' out now — Of all the things!
What's he got on? I van, it 's wings!
206 DARIUS GREEN AND HIS FLYING -MACHINE.
An' that t'other thing? I vum, it 's a tail!
An' there he sets like a hawk on a rail!
Steppin' careful, he travels the length
Of his spring-board, and teeters to try its strength.
Now he stretches his wings, like a monstrous bat;
Peeks over his shoulder, this way an' that,
Fer to see 'f the' 's any one passin' by;
But the' 's on'y a ca'f an' a goslin' nigh.
They turn up at him a won derm' eye,
To see — The dragon! he 's goin' to fly!
Away he goes! Jimminy! what a jump!
Flop — flop — an' plump
To the ground with a thump!
Flutterin' an' flound'rin', all 'n a lump! "
As a demon is hurled by an angel's spear,
Heels over head, to his proper sphere, —
Heels over head, and head over heels,
Dizzily down the abyss he wheels, —
So fell Darius. Upon his crown,
In the midst of the barn-yard, he came down,
In a wonderful whirl of tangled strings,
Broken braces and broken springs,
Broken tail and broken wings,
Shooting-stars, and various things, —
Barn-yard litter of straw and chaff,
And much that was n't so sweet by half.
Away with a bellow fled the calf,
And what was that? Did the gosling laugh?
'T is a merry roar
From the old barn-door,
And he hears the voice of Jotham crying,
" Say, D'rius! how do yeou like flyin'?"
Slowly, ruefully, where he lay,
Darius just turned and looked that way,
As he staunched his sorrowful nose with his cuff.
" Wal, I like flyin' well enough,"
He said; " but the' ain't sich a thunderin' sight
O' fun in 't when ye come to light."
MORAL.
I just have room for the moral here:
And this is the moral, — Stick to your sphere.
THE WHITE SQUALL. 207
Or if you insist, as you have the right,
On spreading your wings for a loftier flight,
The moral is, — Take care how you light.
J. T. TROWBRIDGE.
A FRENCHMAN ON MACBETH.
An enthusiastic French student of Shakspeare thus
comments on the tragedy of Macbeth: —
"Ah! your Mossieu' Shak-es-pier! He is gr-r-aa-nd —
mysterieuse — soo-blime! You 'ave reads ze Macabess? —
ze scene of ze Mossieu' Macabess vis ze Vitch — eh?
Superb sooblimitee! Wen he say to ze Vitch, 'Ar-r-roynt
ze, Vitch!' she go away: but what she say when she go
away? She say she will do s'omesing dat aves got no
naame! Ah, ha!' she say, ' I go, like ze r-r-aa-t vizout ze tail
but I'll do! I'll do! I'll do! Wat she do? Ah, ha! — voila
le graand mysterieuse Mossieu' Shak-es-pier! She not say
what she do!"
This was " grand," to be sure: but the prowess of Macbeth,
in his "bout" with Macduff, awakens all the mercurial
Frenchman's martial ardor: —
"Mossieu' Macabess, he see him come, clos' by; he say
(proud empressement), ''Come o-o-n, Mossieu' Macduffs, and
d — d be he who first say EnoffsP Zen zey fi-i-ght —
moche. Ah, ha! — voila! Mossieu' Macabess, vis his
br-r-ight r-r-apier 'pink' him, vat you call, in his body.
He 'ave gots mal d'estomac: he say, vis grand simplicity,
' Enoffsl What for he say 'Enoffs?' 'Cause he got enoffs
— plaanty; and he €ccpire, r-r-ight away, 'mediately, pretty
quick! Ah, mes amis, Mossieu' Shak-es-pier is rising man
in La Belle France!"
ANONYMOUS.
THE WHITE SQUALL.
On deck, beneath the awning,
I dozing lay and yawning;
It was the gray of dawning,
Ere yet the sun arose;
208 THE WHITE SQUALL.
And above the fnnnel's roaring,
And the fitful wind's deploring,
I heard the cabin snoring
With universal nose.
I could hear the passengers snorting, —
I envied their disporting, —
Vainly I was courting
The pleasure of a doze.
So I lay, and wondered why light
Came not, and watched the twilight,
And the glimmer of the skylight,
That shot across the deck;
And the binnacle pale and steady,
And the dull glimpse of the dead-eye,
And the sparks in fiery eddy
That whirled from the chimney neck.
In our jovial floating prison
There was sleep from fore to mizzen,
And never a star had risen
The hazy sky to speck.
Strange company we harbored,
We'd a hundred Jews to larboard,
Unwashed, uncombed, unbarbered, —
Jews black and brown and gray.
With terror it would seize ye,
And make your souls uneasy,
To see those Rabbis greasy,
Who did naught but scratch and pray.
Their dirty children puking, —
Their dirty saucepans cooking, — ■
Their dirty fingers hooking
Their swarming fleas away.
To starboard Turks and Greeks were, —
Whiskered and brown their cheeks were,-
Enormous wide their breeks were, —
Their pipes did puff away;
Each on his mat allotted
In silence smoked and squatted,
Whilst round their children trotted
In pretty, pleasant play.
THE WHITE SQUALL. 209
He can't but smile who traces
The smiles of those brown faces,
And the pretty, prattling graces
Of those small heathens gay.
And so the hours kept tolling;
And through the ocean rolling
"Went the brave Iberia bowling,
Before the break of day, —
When a squall, upon a sudden,
Came o'er the waters scudding;
And the clouds began to gather,
And the sea was lashed to lather,
And the lowering thunder grumbled,
And the lightning jumped and tumbled,
And the ship, and all the ocean,
Woke up in wild commotion.
Then the wind set up a howling,
And the poodle dog a yowling,
And the cocks began a crowing,
And the old cow raised a lowing,
As she heard the tempest blowing;
And fowls and geese did cackle,
And the cordage and the tackle
Began to shriek and crackle;
And the spray dashed o'er the funnels,
And down the deck in runnels;
And the rushing water soaks all,
From the seamen in the fo'ksal
To the stokers, whose black faces
Peer out of their bed-places;
And the captain he was bawling,
iVnd the sailors pulling, hauling,
And the quarter-deck tarpauling
Was shivered in the squalling;
And the passengers awaken,
Most pitifully shaken ;
And the steward jumps up, and hastens
For the necessary basins.
Then the Greeks they groaned and quivered,
And they knelt and moaned and shivered,
14
210 THE WHITE SQUALL.
As the plunging waters met them,
And splashed and overset them;
And they called in their emergence
Upon countless saints and virgins;
And their marrowbones are bended,
And they think the world is ended.
And the Turkish women for'ard
Were frightened and behorrored;
And, shrieking and bewildering,
The mothers clutched their children;
The men sang " Allah! Illah!
Mashallah Bismillah! "
As the warring waters doused them,
And splashed them and soused them;
And they called upon the Prophet,
"Who thought but little of it.
Then all the fleas in Jewry
Jumped up and bit like fury;
And the progeny of Jacob
Did on the main-deck wake up,
(I wot those greasy Rabbins
Would never pay for cabins;)
And each man moaned and jabbered in
His filthy Jewish gabardine,
In woe and lamentation,
And howling consternation.
And the splashing water drenches
Their dirty brats and wenches;
And they crawl from bales and benches,
In a hundred thousand stenches.
This was the white squall famous,
Which latterly o'ercame us,
And which all will well remember,
On the 28th September;
When a Prussian captain of Lancers
(Those tight-laced, whiskered prancers)
Came on the deck astonished,
By that wild squall admonished,
And wondering cried, " Potz tausend,
Wie ist der Sturm jetzt brausend?"
NOCTURNAL SKETCH. 211
And looked at Captain Lewis
Who calmly stood and blew his
Cigar in all the bustle,
And scorned the tempest's tussle.
And oft we've thought hereafter
How he beat the storm to laughter;
For well he knew his vessel
With that vain wind could wrestle;
And when a wreck we thought her,
And doomed ourselves to slaughter,
How gayly he fought her,
And through the hubbub brought her,
And as the tempest caught her,
Cried, " George, some brandy and water!"
And when, its force expended,
The harmless storm was ended,
And as the sunrise splendid
Came blushing o'er the sea, — ■
I thought, as day was breaking,
My little girls were waking,
And smiling, and making
A prayer at home for me.
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.
NOCTURNAL SKETCH.
Even is come; and from the dark Park, hark,
The signal of the setting sun — one gun!
And six is sounding from the chime prime time
To go and see the Drury-Lane Dane slain, —
Or hear Othello's jealous doubt spout out, —
Or Macbeth raving at that shade-made blade,
Denying to his frantic clutch much touch; —
Or else to see Ducrow with wide stride ride
Four horses as no other man can span;
Or in the small Olympic Pitt sit split
Laughing at Liston, while you quiz his phiz.
Anon Night comes, and. with her wings brings things
Such as, with his poetic tongue, Young sung;
The gas up-blazes with its bright white light,
212 FRENCH AND ENGLISH.
And paralytic watchmen prowl, howl, growl,
About the streets and take up Pall-Mali Sal,
Who, hasting to her nightly jobs, robs fobs.
Now thieves to enter for your cash, smash, crash,
IJast drowsy Charley, in a deep sleep, creep,
But frightened by Policeman B. 3, flee,
And while they're going, whisper low, " No go! "
Now puss, wmile folks are in their beds, treads leads,
And sleepers waking, grumble, — "Drat that cat!"
Who in the gutter caterwauls, squalls, mauls,
Some feline foe, and screams in shrill ill-will.
«
Now Bulls of Bashan, of a prize size, rise
In childish dreams, and with a roar gore poor
Georgy, or Charley, or Billy, willy-nilly; —
But Nursemaid in a nightmare rest, chest-pressed,
Dreameth of one of her old flames, James Games,
And that she hears— what faith is man's — Ann's banns
And his, from Reverend Mr. Rice, twice, thrice;
White ribbons flourish, and a stout shout out,
That upward goes, shows Rose knows those bows' woes,!
THOMAS HOOD.
FRENCH AND ENGLISH.
" Good heaven! Why even the little children in France speak French !"
Addison.
Never go to France
Unless you know the lingo,
If you do, like me,
You will repent, by jingo.
Staring like a fool,
And silent as a mummy,
There I stood alone,
A nation with a dummy:
Chaises stand for chairs,
They christen letters Billies,
They call their mothers mares,
And all their daughters Jillies;
FREXCH AXD ENGLISH. 213
Strange it was to hear,
I'll tell you what's a good 'un,
They call their leather queer,
And half their shoes are wooden.
Signs I had to make,
For every little notion,
Limbs all joiner like
A telegraph in motion,
For wine I reeled about,
To show my meaning fully,
And made a pair of horns,
To ask for " beef and bully."
Moo! I cried for milk;
I got my sweet things snugger,
When I kissed Jeannette
'Twas understood for sugar.
If I wanted bread.
My jaws I set a-going,
And asked for new-laid eggs,
By clapping hands and crowing!
If I wished a ride,
I'll tell you how I got it;
On my stick astride,
I made believe to trot it;
Then their cash was strange,
It bored me every minute,
Now here's a hog to change,
How many soics are in it!
Never go to France,
Unless you know the lingo;
If 3 t ou do, like me,
You will repent, by jingo;
Staring like a fool,
And silent as a mummy,
There I stood alone,
A nation with a dummy!
THOMAS HOOD.
214 PRINCE HENRY AND FALSTAFF.
PRINCE HENRY AND FALSTAFF.
Prince Henry. Welcome, Jack. Where hast thou
been?
Falstaff. A plague on all cowards, I say, and a ven-
geance too! marry, and amen! (To an attendant.) Give
me a cup of sack, boy. Ere I lead this life long, I'll sew
nethersocks, and mend them, and foot them too. A plague
on all cowards! — Give me a cup of sack, rogue. — Is there no
virtue extant? (Drains the cup.) You rogue, here's lime
in this sack, too. There is nothing but roguery to be found
in villainous man! Yet a coward is worse than a cup of sack
with lime in it, — a villainous coward! Go thy ways, old Jack,
die when thou wilt, if manhood, good manhood, be not for-
got upon the face of the earth, then am I a shotten herring.
There live not three g-ood men unhanged in England; and
one of them is fat and grown old, — a bad world, I say! A
plague ou all cowards, I say still!
P. Henry. How now, wool-sack? what mutter you?
Fal. A king's son! If I do not beat thee out of thy
kingdom with a dagger of lath, and drive all thy subjects
afore thee like a flock of wild geese, I'll never wear hair on
my face more. You — Prince of Wales!
P. Henry. Why, what's the matter?
Fal. Are you not a coward? answer me that.
P. Henry. Ye fat paunch, an' ye call me coward, I'll stab
thee.
Fal. I call thee coward? I'll see thee hanged ere I call
thee coward: but I would give a thousand pound I could run
as fast as thou canst. You are straight enough in the
shoulders, you care not who sees your back. Call you that
backing of your friends? A plague upon such backing!
give me them that will face me. — Give me a cup of sack: —
I am a rogue, if I have drunk to-day.
P. Henry.* O villain! thy lips are scarce wiped since
thou drank'st last.
Fal. All 's one for that. (He drinks.) A plague on all
cowards, still say I!
P. Henry. What's the matter?
Fal. What's the matter? here be four of us have taken
a thousand pound this morning.
P. Henry. Where is it Jack? where is it?
Fal. Where is it? taken from us, it is; a hundred upon
poor four of us.
PRINCE HENRY AND FALSTAFF. 215
P. Henry. What, a hundred, man?
Fal. I am a rogue, if I were not at half-sword with a
dozen of them two hours together. I have escaped by mir-
acle. I am eight times thrust through the doublet; four
through the hose; my buckler cut through and through; my
sword hacked like a handsaw, ecce signum. (Shows his
sword.) I never dealt better since I was a man: all would
not do. A plague on all cowards! —
P. Henry. What, fought you with them all?
. Fal. All! I know not what ye call all; but, if I fought
not with fifty of them, I am a bunch of radish: if there were
not two or three and fifty upon poor old Jack, then am I no
two-legged creature.
P. Henry. Pray heaven, you have not murdered some
of them.
Fal. Nay, that's past praying for, I have peppered
two of them: two I am sure I have paid, — two rogues in
buckram suits. I tell thee what, Hal; if I tell the a lie, spit
in my face, call me horse. Thou knowest my old ward.
(Taking a position for fighting?) Here I lay, and thus I
bore my point. Four rogues in buckram let drive at me —
P. Henry. What, four? thou saidst but two, even now.
Fal. Four, Hal! I told thee four. These four came all
a-front, and mainly thrust at me. I made no more ado, but
took all their seven points in my target, thus.
P. Henry. Seven! why, there were but four, even now.
Fal. In buckram?
P. Henry. Ay, four in buckram suits.
Fal. Seven, by these hilts, or I am a villain else. Dost
thou hear me, Hal?
P. Henry. Ay, and mark thee too, Jack.
Fal. Do so, for it is worth listening to. These nine in
buckram that I told thee of —
P. Henry. So, two more already.
Fal. Their points being broken, — began to give me
ground; but I followed me close, came in foot and hand,
and with a thought, seven of the eleven I paid.
P. Henry. O monstrous! eleven buckram men grown
out of two!
Fal. But, as ill luck would have it, three misbegotten
knaves, in Kendal green, came at my back, and let drive at
me; — for it was so dark, Hal, that thou couldst not see thy
hand.
216 PRINCE HENRY AND FALSTAFF.
P. Henry. These lies are like the father that begets
them; gross as a mountain, open, palpable. Why, thou
knotty-pated fool; thou greasy tallow-tub.
Fal. What, art thou mad? art thou mad? is not the
truth the truth?
P. Henry. Why, how couldst thou know these men in
Kendal green, when it was so dark thou couldst not see thy
hand? Come, tell us your reason; what sayest thou to this?
Come, your reason, Jack, your reason.
Fal. What, upon compulsion? No. Were I at the
strappado, or all the racks in the world, I would not tell you
on compulsion. Give you a reason upon compulsion! If
reasons were as plenty as blackberries, I would give no
man a reason upon compulsion.
P. Henry. I '11 be no longer guilty of this sin. This
sanguine coward, this bed-presser, this horse-back breaker,
this huge hill of flesh —
Fal. Away, you starveling, you eel-skin, you dried
neat's-tongue, you stock-fish! O for breath to utter what is
like thee! you tailor's yard, you sheath, you bow-case, you
vile standing tuck —
P. Henry. Well, breathe awhile, and then to it again;
and when thou hast tired thyself in base comparisons, hear
me speak but this. Poins and I saw you four set on four;
you bound them and were masters of their wealth: mark
now how a plain tale shall put you down. Then did we tw T o
set on you four, and with a word, outfaced you from your
prize, and have it, yea, can show it you here in the house.
And, Falstaif, you carried your paunch away as nimbly,
with as quick dexterity, and roared for mercy, and still ran
and roared, as ever I heard a bull-calf. What a slave art
thou, to hack thy sword as thou hast done, and then say it
was in fight? What trick, what device, what starting hole
canst thou now find out, to hide thee from this open and
apparent shame?
Fal. Ha! ha! ha! D 'ye think I didn't know you, Hal?
Why, hear me, my master, was it for me to kill the heir
apparent? should I turn upon the true prince? why, thou
knowest I am as valiant as Hercules. But beware instinct;
the lion will not touch the true prince; instinct is a great
matter. I was a coward on instinct, I grant you; and I
shall think the better of myself and thee during my life, —
I for a valiant lion, and thou for a true prince. But I am
TYKAMUS AND THISBE. 217
glad you have the money. Let us clap to the doors; watch
to-night, pray to-morrow. "What! shall we be merry? shall
we have a play extempore?
1 J . Henry. Content! — and the argument shall be, thy
running away.
Fal. Ah! — no more of that, Hal, if thou lovest me.
WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.
PYRAMUS AND THISBE.
Tins tragical tale, which, they say, is a true one,
Is old; but the manner is wholly a new one.
One Ovid, a writer of some reputation,
Has told it before in a tedious narration;
In a style, to be sure, of remarkable fullness,
But which nobody reads on account of its dullness.
Young Peter Pyramus — I call him Peter,
Not for the sake of the rhyme or the meter;
But merely to make the name completer —
For Peter lived in the olden times,
And in one of the worst of pagan climes
That flourish now in classical fame,
Long before either noble or boor
ELid such a thing as a Christian name —
Young Peter, then, was a nice young beau
As any young lady would wish to know;
In years, I ween, he was rather green.
That is to say, he was just eighteen, —
A trifle to short, a shaving too lean,
But "a nice young man " as ever was seen,
And fit to dance with a May- day-queen!
Now Peter loved a beautiful girl
As ever ensnared the heart of an earl,
In the magical trap of an auburn curl, —
A little Miss Thisbe, who lived next door,
(They slept, in fact, on the very same floor'
"With a wall between them and nothing more, —
Those double dwellings were common of yore,)
And they loved each other the legends say,
In that very beautiful, bountiful way,
218 PYKAMITS AND THISBE.
That every young maid and every young blade,
Are wont to do before they grow staid,
And learn to love by the laws of trade.
Bat (a-lack-a-day, for the girl and boy!)
A little impediment checked their joy,
And gave them awhile, the deepest annoy,
For some good reason, which history cloaks,
The match didn't happen to please the old folks!
So Thisbe's father and Peter's mother
Began the young couple to worry and bother,
And tried their innocent passion to smother,
By keeping the lovers from seeing each other!
But who ever heard of a marriage deterred
Or even deferred
By any contrivence so very absurd
As scolding the boy, and caging the bird?
Now, Peter, who was not discouraged at all
By obstacles such as the timid appall,
Contrived to discover a hole in the wall,
Which wasn't so thick, but removing a brick
Made a passage — though rather provokingly small.
Through this little chink the lover could greet her
And secrecy made their courting the sweeter,
While Peter kissed Thisbe, and Thisbe kissed Peter —
For kisses, like folks with diminutive souls,
Will manage to creep through the smallest of holes!
'T was here that the lovers, intent upon love,
Laid a nice little plot to meet at a spot
Near a mulberry- tree in a neighboring grove;
For the plan was all laid by the youth and the maid,
Whose hearts, it would seem, were uncommonly bold ones,
To run off and get married in spite of the old ones.
In the shadows of evening, as still as a mouse,
The beautiful maiden slipped out of the house,
The mulberry-tree impatient to find;
While Peter, the viligant matrons to blind-,
Strolled leisurely out, some minutes behind.
While waiting alone by the trysting tree,
A terrible lion as e'er you set eye on.
Came roaring along quite horrid to see,
And caused the young maiden in terror to flee,
HANDY ANDY AT THE POST OFFICE. 219
(A lion's a creature whose regular trade is
Blood — and " a terrible thing among ladies,")
And losing her veil as she ran from the wood,
The Monster bedabbled it over with blood.
Now Peter arriving, and seeing the veil
All covered o'er and reeking with gore,
Turned, all of a sudden, exceedingly pale,
And sat himself down to weep and to wail, —
For, soon as he saw the garment, poor Peter,
Made up his mind in very short meter,
That Thisbe was dead and the lion had eat her!
So breathing a prayer, he determined to share
The fate of his darling, " the loved and the lost,"
And fell on his dagger, and gave up the ghost!
Now Thisbe returning, and viewing her beau,
Lying dead by her veil, (which she happened to know,)
She guessed in a moment the cause of his erring;
And seizing the knife that had taken his life,
In less than a jiffy was dead as a herring.
MORAL.
Young gentlemen! — pray recollect if you please,
Not to make assignations near mulberry-trees.
Should your mistress be missing, it shows a weak head
To be stabbing yourself, till you know she is dead.
Young ladies! — you shouldn't go strolling about
When your anxious mammas don't know you are out;
And remember that accidents often befall
From kissing young fellows through holes in the wall!
JOHN G. SAXE.
HANDY ANDY AT THE POST OFFICE.
"Ride into the town and see if there's a letter for me,"
said the squire one day to our hero.
"Yes, sir."
"You know where to go?"
" To the town, sir."
" But do you know where to go in the town?"
"No, sir."
220 HANDY ANDY AT THE POST OFFICE.
"And why don't you ask, you stupid thief?"
"Sure I'd find out, sir."
" Did n't I often tell you to ask what you're to do, when
you don't know?"
"Yes, sir."
"And why don't you?"
" I don't like to be throublesome, sir."
"Confound you!" said the squire: though he could not
help laughing- at Andy's excuse for remaining in ignorance.
"Well," continued he, "go to the post-office. You know
the post-office, I suppose?"
" Yes, sir, where they sell gunpowder."
"You're right for once," said the squire; for his Majesty's
postmaster was the person who had the privilege of dealing
in the aforesaid combustible. " Go then to the post-office,
and ask for a letter forme. Remember — not gunpowder,
but a letter."
" Yis, sir," said Andy, who got astride of his hack, and
trotted away to the post-office. On arriving at the shop of
the postmaster, (for that person carried on a brisk trade in
groceries, gimlets, broadcloth, and linen-drapery,) Andy
presented himself at the counter, and said, "Iwant a let-
ther, sir, if you plaze."
" Who do you want it for?" said the postmaster, in atone
which Andy considered an aggression upon the sacredness
of private life: so Andy thought the coolest contempt he
could throw upon the prying impertinence of the postmas-
ter was to repeat his question.
"I want a letther, sir, if you plaze. "
"And who do you want it for?" repeated the postmaster.
"What's that to you?" said Andy.
The postmaster, laughing at his simplicity, told him he
could not tell what letter to give him unless he told him the
direction.
" The directions I got was to get a letther here — that's
the directions."
" Who gave you those directions?"
" The masther."
"And who's your master?"
"What consarn is that o'yours?"
" Why you stupid rascal! if you don't tell me his name,
how can I give you a letter?"
"You could give it if you liked; but you're fond of axin'
impident questions, bekase you think I'm simple."
HANDY ANDY AT THE POST OFFICE. 221
"Go along out o' this! Your master must be as great a
goose as yourself, to send such a messenger."
"Bad luck to your iinpidence," said Andy; "is it Squire
Egan you dar to say goose to?"
"Oh, Squire Egan's your master, then?"
"Yes, have you anything to s-ay agin it?"
" Only that I never saw you before."
" Faith, then you'll never see me agin if I have my own
consint."
" I won't give you any letter for the squire, unless I know
you're his servant. Is there any one in the town knows
you?"
" Plenty," said Andy; " it's not every one is as ignorant as
you."
Just at this moment a person to whom Andy was known
entered the house, who vouched to the postmaster that he
might give Andy the squire's letter. " Have you one for
me?"
"Yes, sir," said the postmaster, producing one — " four-
pence."
The gentleman paid the fourpence postage, and left the
shop with his letter.
"Here's a letter for the squire," said the postmaster,
"you.'ve to pay me elevenpence postage."
"What 'ud I pay elevenpence for?"
" For postage."
" To the devil wid you! Did n't I see you give Mr. Duffy
a letther for fourpence this minit, and a bigger letther than
this? and now you want me to pay elevenpence for this
scrap of a thing?" Do you tkink I'm a fool?"
"No; but I'm sure of it," said the postmaster.
"Well, you 're welkum to be sure, sure; — but don't be
delayin' me now: here's fourpence for you, and gi' me the
letther."
" Go along, you stupid thief!" said the postmaster, taking
up the letter, and going to serve a customer with a mouse-
trap.
While this person and many others were served, Andy
lounged up and down the shop, every now and then putting
in his head in the middle of the customers, and saying,
"Will you gi' me the letther?"
He waited for above half an hour, in defiance of the
anathemas of the postmaster, and at last left, when he found
222 HANDY ANDY AT THE POST OFFICE.
it impossible to get common justice for his master, which he
thought he deserved as well as another man; for, under this
impression, Andy determined to give no more than the four-
pence.
The squire in the meantime was getting impatient for his
return, and when Andy made his appearance, asked if there
was a letter for him.
44 There is, sir," said Andy.
" Then give it to me."
" I have n't it, sir."
" What do you mean?"
" He would n't give it to me, sir."
" Who would n't give it you? "
" That owld chate beyant in the town — wanting to charge
double for it."
" Maybe it 's a double letter. Why the devil did n't you
pay what he asked, sir?"
" Arrah, sir, why would I let you be chated? It's not a
double letther at all: not above half the size o' one Mr.
Duffy got before my face for fourpence."
" You '11 provoke me to break your neck some day, you
vagabond! Ride back for your life, you omadhaun; and
pay whatever he asks, and get me the letter."
" Why, sir, I tell you he was sellin' them before my face
for fourpence apiece."
" Go back, you scoundrel! or I'll horsewhip you; and if
you're longer than an hour, I'll have you ducked in the
horse-pond! "
Andy vanished, and made a second visit to the postofBce.
When he arrived, two other ''persons were getting letters,
and the postmaster was selecting the epistle for each, from
a large parcel that lay before him on the counter; at the
same time many shop customers were waiting to be served.
" I 'm come for that letther," said Andy.
" I'll attend to you by-and-by."
" The masther's in a hurry."
" Let him wait till his hurry's over."
" He '11 murther me if I 'm not back soon."
" I 'm glad to hear it."
While the postmaster went on with such provoking an-
swers to these appeals for dispatch, Andy's eye caught the
heap of letters which lay on the counter: so while certain
weighing of soap and tobacco was going forward, he con-
THE AGED STEAXGEE. 223
trived to become possessed of two letters from the heap, and,
having effected that, waited patiently enough till it was the
great man's pleasure to give him the missive directed to his
master.
Then did Andy bestride his hack, and in triumph at his
trick on the postmaster, rattled along the road homeward as
fast as the beast could carry him. He came into the squire's
presence, his face beaming with delight, and an air of self-
satisfied superiority in his manner, quite unaccountable to
his master, until he pulled forth his hand, which had been
grubbing up his prizes from the bottom of his pocket; and
holding three letters over his head, while he said, " Look at
that! " he next slapped them down under his broad fist on
the table before the squire, saying —
" Well! if he did make me pay eleven-pence, by gor, I
brought your honor the worth o' your money anyhow! "
SAMUEL LOVER.
THE AGED STRANGER.
u I was with Grant — " the stranger said;
Said the farmer, " Say no more,
But rest thee here at my cottage porch,
For thy feet are weary and sore."
"I was with Grant — " the stranger said;
Said the farmer, " Xay, no more, —
I prithee sit at my frugal board,
And eat of my humble store.
"How fares my boy, — my soldier boy,
Of the old Ninth Army Corps?
I warrant he bore him gallantly
In the smoke and the battle's roar! "
"1 know him not," said the aged man,
And, as I remarked before,
I was with Grant — " " Xay. nay, I know,"
Said the farmer, " say no more;
"He fell in battle? — I see, alas!
Thou 'dst smooth these tidings o'er,— -
224 THE AGED STEANGEE.
Nay: speak the truth, whatever it be,
Though it rend my bosom's core.
" How fell he, — with his face to the foe,
Upholding the flag he bore?
O, say not that my boy disgraced
The uniform that he wore!"
" I cannot tell," said the aged man,
"And should have remarked, before,
That I was with Grant, — in Illinois, —
Some three years before the war."
Then the farmer spake him never a word,
But beat with his fist full sore
That aged man, who had worked for Grant
Some three years before the war.
BRET HARTE.
VII. GBAOT), SUBLIME AKD BEYEB-
EOTIAL STYLES.
OROTUND VOICE.
The Orotund voice, or the voice that is used in the ex-
pression of impassioned selections, needs now to be specially
considered, as we are about to treat of various classes of
composition that depend upon that voice for their appro-
priate interpretation.
What is the Orotund voice, and wherein does it differ
from the natural or conversational voice? These questions
are pertinent to the present discussion.
The Natural and Orotund voices are manufactured in the
same way, and differ only in their intensity and volume of
sound. If a drum head be tapped by the finger a feeble re-
port is heard; but if you beat the drum with great force a
very much louder report follows each blow, and a consequent
resonance is heard inside as the sound passes from one head
of the drum to the other. So with these voices. In the case
of the Natural voice the sound made in the glottis, as we
talk, is not sufficiently loud to produce any resonance, ex-
cept a slight one in the head; but when by the action of the
abdominal muscles, the air in the lungs is thrown into the
glottis with great force, a loud explosion of sound is heard,
and a consequent resonance takes place in the cavities of the
body, especially the chest; hence the term, chest tone.
The most direct answer that we can make to the inquiry,
what is the Orotund voice and wherein does it differ from
the Natural voice, is this. The Orotund voice is that full,
15
226 EFFUSIVE OROTUND.
deep and resonant sound heard in all impassioned sublimity,
oratory and fierce emotion, and it differs specifically from the
Natural voice in that its depth, fullness and roundness arise
chiefly from resonance in the cavities of the body.
The use of the Orotund voice in impassioned styles is so
common a thing in ordinary life that the mention of a single
example may serve to dissipate the absurd notion that elo-
cutionary rules are arbitrary and conventional. For exam-
ple, when the boy loses a finger he does not talk, he roars:
he has so much feeling to get rid of that he cannot find vent
in the Natural voice, and is forced by an irresistible impulse
to use a larger voice in order that he may find relief. You
can read an essay, but you must sjieak an oration. The
emotion that fills the Orator's soul as he denounces an enemy,
or excites his countrymen to heroic deeds, must find an out-
let in the full strong and ample tones of the Orotund.
There are three kinds of Orotund voice, the Effusive, Ex-
pulsive and Explosive, each of which will receive a separate
consideration.
EFFUSIVE OROTUND.
This kind of Orotund is used in the rendition of all
grand, sublime, and reverential styles. It is the appropri-
ate voice of prayer, of all the prayer services of the church,
of nearly all hymns — since they are but prayers in verse —
of the grand passages of the Prophets and Psalms, as well
as the sublime utterances of the Revelation. It is also the
appropriate voice for the expression of all emotions that are
excited by the grandeur, vastness or splendor of natural
objects. The prevailing pitch of voice is low, and in pro-
found awe, despair and horror, we descend to the lowest
pitch.
Care should be taken to avoid all harshness of tone, as
impure qualities of voice are more readily detected in the
full, long drawn notes of the Effusive Orotund than in any
HYMN TO MONT BLANC. 227
other style of reading or speaking. A deep, full, sonorous
quality of voice, free from all false intonations, sudden tran-
sitions, or conversational inflections, should be cultivated for
the proper expression of this style of selections.
GEA^D, SUBLIME AND EEVEEENTIAL
SELECTIONS.
HYMN TO MONT BLANC.
Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-star
In his steep course? so long he seems to pause
On thy bald, awful head, O sovereign Blanc!
The Arve and Arveiron at thy base
Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful Form!
Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines,
How silently! Around thee and above •
Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black —
An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it,
As with a wedge! But when I look again,
It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine,
This habitation from eternity!
dread and silent Mount! I gazed upon thee,
Till thou, still present to the bodily sense,
Did'st vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer,
1 worshiped the Invisible alone.
Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody,
So sweet we know not' we are listening to it,
Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought — ■
Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy:
Till the dilating Soul, enrapt, transfused,
Into the mighty vision passing — there
As in her natural form, swelled vast to Heaven!
Awake, my soul! not only passive praise
Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears,
Mute thanks, and secret ecstasy! Awake,
Voice of sweet song! Awake, my heart, awake!
Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my Hymn.
228 HYMN TO MONT BLANC.
Thou first and chief, sole Sovereign of the Vale!
O, struggling with the darkness all the night,
And visited all night by troops of stars,
Or when they climb the sky or when they sink:
Companion of the morning-star at dawn,
Thyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawn
Co-herald: wake, O wake, and utter praise!
Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth?
Who filled thy countenance with rosy light?
Who made thee parent of perpetual streams?
And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad!
Who called you forth from night and utter death,
From dark and icy caverns called you forth,
Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks,
For ever shattered and the same lor ever?
Who gave you your invulnerable life,
Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy,
Unceasing thunder and eternal foam?
And who commanded (and the silence came),
Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest?
Ye ice-falls! ye that from the mountain's brow
Adown enormous ravines slope amain —
Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice,
And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge!
Motionless torrents! silent cataracts!
Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven
Beneath the keen full moon? Who bade the sun
Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers
Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet? —
God! let the torrents, like a shout of nations,
Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, God!
God! sing, ye meadow-streams, with gladsome voice!
Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds!
And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow,
And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God!
Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost!
Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest!
Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain-storm!
Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds!
Ye signs and wonders of the element!
Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise I
THE BURIAL OF MOSES. 229
Thou too, hoar Mount! with thy sky-pointing peaks,
Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard,
Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene,
Into the depth of clouds that veil thy breast —
Thou too again, stupendous Mountain! thou
That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low
In adoration, upward from thy base
Slow traveling with dim eyes suffused with tears,
Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud,
To rise before me — Rise, O ever rise!
Rise like a cloud of incense, from the earth!
Thou kingly Spirit throned among the hills,
That dread ambassador from earth to heaven,
Great Hierarch! tell thou the silent sky,
And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun,
Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God.
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.
THE BURIAL OF MOSES.
"And he buried him in a valley in the land of Moab, over against Beth-peor;
but no man knoweth of his sepulchre unto this day." Deut. xxxiv. 6.
By Nebo's lonely mountain,
On this side Jordan's wave,
In a vale in the land of Moab,
There lies a lonely grave;
But no man dug that sepulchre,
And no man saw it e'er.
For the angels of God upturned the sod,
And laid the dead man there.
That was the grandest funeral
That ever passed on earth;
But no man heard the tramping,
Or saw the train go forth;
Noiselessly as the daylight
Comes when the night is done,
And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek
Grows into the great sun, —
(
Noiselessly as the spring-time
Her crown of verdure weaves,
230 THE BUBIAL OF MOSES.
And all the trees on all the hills
Open their thousand leaves, —
So, without sound of music,
Or voice of them that wept,
Silently down from the mountain crown
The great procession swept.
Perchance the bald old eagle,
On gray Beth-peor's height,
Out of his rocky eyrie,
Looked on the wondrous sight.
Perchance the lion, stalking,
Still shuns the hallowed spot;
For beast and bird have seen and heard
That which man knoweth not.
Lo! when the warrior dieth,
His comrades in the war,
With arms reversed, and muffled drum,
Follow the funeral car.
They show the banners taken,
They tell his battles won,
And after him lead his masterless steed,
While peals the minute gun.
Amid the noblest of the land
Men lay the sage to rest,
And give the bard an honored place
With costly marble dressed.
In the great minster transept,
Where lights like glories fall,
And the sweet choir sings, and the organ rings,
Along the emblazoned wall.
This was the bravest warrior
That ever buckled sword;
This the most gifted poet
That ever breathed a word;
And never earth's philosopher
Traced, with his golden pen,
On the deathless page, truths half so sage,
As he wrote down for men.
APOSTROPHE TO THE OCEAN. 231
And had he not high honor,
The hill-side for his pall;
To lie in state while angels wait
With stars for tapers .tall;
And the dark rock pines, like tossing plumes,
Over his bier to wave;
And God's own hand, in that lonely land,
To lay him in the grave? —
In that deep grave, without a name,
Whence his uncofhned clay
Shall break ao;ain — most wondrous thought! —
Before the judgment day,
And stand with glory wrapped around
On the hills he never trod,
And speak of the strife that won our life
With the Incarnate Son of God
O, lonely tomb in Moab's land,
O, dark Beth-peor's hill,
Speak to these curious hearts of ours,
And teach them to be still.
God hath his mysteries of Grace —
Ways that we cannot tell;
He hides them deep, like the secret sleep
Of him he loved so well.
MTS. CECIL FRANCIS ALEXANDER.
APOSTROPHE TO THE OCEAN.
There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society, where none intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music in its roar.
I love not man the less, but Nature more,
From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before,
To mingle with the universe, and feel
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.
Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean — roll!
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain,
232 APOSTROPHE TO THE OCEAN.
Man marks the earth with ruin — his control
Stops with the shore; — upon the watery plain
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own,
"When for a moment, like a drop of rain,
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan,
Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown.
The armaments which thunderstrike the walls
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake,
And monarchs tremble in their capitals;
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make
Their clay creator the vain title take
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war, —
These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake,
They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar
Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar.
Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee —
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, — what are they?
Thy waters wasted them while they were free,
And many a tyrant since; their shores obey
The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay
Has dried up realms to deserts:— not so thou,
Unchangeable, save to thy wild waves' play —
Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow —
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now.
Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form
Glasses itself in tempests; in all time,
Calm or convulsed — in breeze or gale or storm,
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime
Dark heaving; — boundless, endless, and sublime—
The image of Eternity — the throne
Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime
The monsters of the deep are made; each zone
Obeys thee: thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.
And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be
Borne, like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy
I wantoned with thy breakers — they to me
Were a delight; and if the freshening sea
THE LOST CHORD. 233
Made them a terror, — 'twas a pleasing fear;
For I was, as it were, a child of thee,
An trusted to thy billows far and near,
And laid my hand upon thy mane — as I do here.
LORD BYRON.
THE LOST CHORD.
Seated one day at the organ,
I was weary and ill at ease,
And my fingers wandered idly
Over the noisy keys.
I do not know what I was playing,
Or what I was dreaming then;
But I struck one chord of music,
Like the sound of a great Amen.
It flooded the crimson twilight,
Like the close of an Angel's Psalm,
And it lay on my fevered spirit
With a touch of infinite calm.
It quieted pain and sorrow,
Like love overcoming strife;
It seemed the harmonious echo
From our discordant life.
It linked all perplexed meanings
Into one perfect peace,
And trembled away into silence
As if it were loth to cease.
I have sought, but I seek it vainly,
That one lost chord divine,
That came from the soul of the Organ,
And entered into mine.
It may be that Death's bright angel
AVill speak in that chord again;
It may be that only in Heaven
I shall hear that grand Amen.
ADELAIDE A. PROCTER.
234 HYMN TO THE NIGHT,
HYMN TO THE NIGHT.
I heard the trailing garments of the Night
Sweep through her marble halls!
I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light
From the celestial walls!
I felt her presence, by its spell of might,
Stoop o'er me from above;
The calm, majestic presence of the Night,
As of the one I love.
I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight,
The manifold, soft chimes,
That fill the haunted chambers of the Night,
Like some old poet's rhymes.
From the cool cisterns of the midnight air
My spirit drank repose;
The fountain of perpetual peace flows there, —
From those deep cisterns flows.
O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear
What man has borne before!
Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care,
And they complain no more.
Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer!
Descend with broad-winged flight.
The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair,
The best-beloved Night!
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
VIII. OEATOEIOAL STYLES.
EXPULSIVE OROTUND.
This is the form of the Orotund used in the expression of
all oratorical styles. The air, instead of flowing from the
mouth in a continuous stream as in the Effusive Orotund, is
here gathered up in a tense, compact volume and thrown in-
to the glottis, whence it issues in the form of a short shout.
The key to the effective and easy expression of all orator-
ical styles requires a separate impulsion of air for each tone
or word that is uttered. The tones of the orator thus formed
resemble the firm resonant strokes of a bell, or the compact
and solid blows of a hammer on an anvil. Flabbiness of
tone, which destroys all vigor of expression, and imperfect
vocalization, producing huskiness, would be speedily over-
come if the tones were made firm by energetic expulsion of
the air in the pronunciation of each word. Daily practice
on the vowels and numerals, securing a sturdy and resonant
tone in the enunciation of each, would be the most direct
and simple way to acquire this form of expression.
Two essential points of advantage are gained by the adop-
tion of these suggestions: 1st, economy of breath. 2nd,
distinctness of utterance. The tones being made in such a
firm and compact manner, it is apparent that the liability of
air escaping unvocalized is diminished, and what is used is
put in such form as to secure the greatest amount of sound
with the least possible expenditure of breath. In short, the
speaker is working at his best with the least possible outlay
of physical exertion.
236 SOUTH CAROLINA.
Indistinctness arises chiefly, as we have before stated,
from precipitating one word on the top of another. Here it
is impossible, as each word is mafle by a separate impulsion
of breath, and hence the speaker must be distinct in his ut-
terance, if he pronounces individual words distinctly.
ORATORICAL SELECTIONS.
SOUTH CAROLINA.
If there be one State in the Union, Mr. President, — and
I say it not in a boastful spirit, — that may challenge com-
parison with any other, for a uniform, zealous, ardent, uncal-
culating devotion to the Union, that State is South Caro-
lina.
Sir, from the very commencement of the Revolution, up to
this hour, there is no sacrifice, however great, she has not
cheerfully made; no service she has hesitated to perform.
She has adhered to you, in your prosperity; but, in your
adversity, she has clung to you, with more than filial affec-
tion.
No matter what was the condition of her domestic affairs;
though deprived of her resources, divided by parties, or sur-
rounded with difficulties, the call of the country has been to
her as the voice of God. Domestic discord ceased at the
sound; — every man became at once reconciled to his breth-
ren; and the sons of Carolina were all seen crowding
together to the temple, bringing their gift to the altar of
their common country.
What, sir, was the conduct of the South, during the Rev-
olution? Sir, I honor New England for her conduct in that
glorious struggle. But great as is the praise which belongs
to her, I think, at least, equal honor is due to the South.
They espoused the quarrel of their brethren, with a gener-
ous zeal, which did not suffer them to stop to calculate their
interests in the-dispute.
Favorites of the mother country, possessed of neither ships
nor seamen, to create a commercial relationship, they might
have found in their situation, a guarantee that their trade
NEW ENGLAND. 237
would be forever fostered and protected by Great Britain.
But, trampling' on all consideration, either of interest or of
safety, they rushed into conflict; and fighting for principle,
periled all in the sacred cause of freedom.
Never were there exhibited in the history of the world,
higher examples of noble daring, dreadful suffering, and
heroic endurance than by the Whigs of Carolina during the
Revolution. The whole State, from the mountains to the sea,
was overrun by an overwhelming force of the enemy. The
fruits of industry perished on the spot where they were pro-
duced, or were consumed by the foe. The ' plains of Carolina'
drank up the most precious blood of her citizens. Black
and smoking ruins marked the places which had been the
habitations of her children!
Driven from their homes into the gloomy and almost
impenetrable swamps, — even there the spirit of liberty sur-
vived; and South Carolina, sustained by the example of her
Sumpters and her Marions, proved by her conduct that
though her soil might be overrun, the spirit of her people was
invincible!
ROBERT YOUNG HATXE.
NEW ENGLAND.
The gentleman from South Carolina taunts us with count-
ing the costs of that war in which the liberties and honor of
the country, and the interests of the North, as he asserts,
were forced to go elsewhere for their defense. Will he sit
down with me and count the cost now? Will he reckon up
how much of treasure the State of South Carolina expended
in that war, and how much the State of Massachusetts? —
how much of the blood of either State was poured out on
sea or land? I. challenge the gentleman to the test of
patriotism, which the army roll, the navy lists, and the treas-
ury books, afford.
Sir, they who revile us for our opposition to the last war,
have looked only to the surface of things. They little know
the extremities of suffering which the people of Massachu-
setts bore at that period, out of attachment to the Union, —
their families beggared, their fathers and sons bleeding in
camps, or pining in foreign prisons. They forget that not
a field was marshaled on this side of the mountains, in
238 NEW ENGLAND.
which the men of Massachusetts did not play their part, as
became their sires, and their ' blood fetched from mettle of
war- proof.' They battled and bled, wherever battle was
fought or blood drawn.
Nor only by land. I ask the gentleman, "Who fought your
naval battles in the last war? Who led you on to victory
after victory, on the ocean and the lakes? Whose was the
triumphant prowess before which the Red Cross of England
paled with unwonted shames? Were they not men of New
England? Were these not foremost in those maritime
encounters which humbled the pride and power of Great
Britain?
I appeal to my colleague before me from our common
county of brave old Essex, — I appeal to my respected col-
leagues from the shores of the Old Colony. Was there a
village or a hamlet on Massachusetts Bay, which did not
gather its hardy seamen to man the gun-decks of your ships
of war? Did they not rally to the battle, as men flock to a
feast?
In conclusion, I beseech the House to pardon me, if I
may have kindled, on this subject, into something of un-
seemly ardor. I cannot sit tamely by, in humble, acquies-
cent silence, when reflections, which I know to be unjust,
are cast on the faith and honor of Massachusetts.
Had I suffered them to pass without admonition, I should
have deemed that the disembodied spirits of her de-
parted children, from their ashes mingled with the dust of
every stricken field of the Revolution, — from their bones
mouldering to the consecrated earth of Bunker's Hill, of
Saratoga, of Monmouth, would start up in visible shape,
before me, to cry shame on me, their recreant country-
man.
Sir, I have roamed through the world, to find hearts no-
where warmer than hers; soldiers nowhere braver; patriots,
nowhere purer; wives and mothers nowhere truer; maidens
nowhere lovelier; green valleys and bright rivers nowhere
greener or brighter; and I will not be silent, when I hear
her patriotism or her truth questioned with so much as a
whisper of detraction. Living, I will defend her; dying, I
would pause in my last expiring breath, to utter a prayer of
fond remembrance for my native New England.
CALEB CUSHING.
SOUTH CAROLINA AND MASSACHUSETTS. *239
SOUTH CAROLINA AND MASSACHUSETTS.
[From a speech in defense of the Union and the Constitution, delivered in the
Senate of the United States, January 26, 1S3U.]
The eulogium pronounced by the honorable gentlemen
on the character of the State of South Carolina, for her
Revolutionary and other merits, meets my hearty concur-
rence. I shall not acknowledge that the honorable member
goes before me in regard for whatever of distinguished tal-
ent or distinguished character South Carolina has produced.
I claim part of the honor; I partake in the pride, of her
great names. I claim them for countrymen, one and all, —
the Laurenses, the Rutledges, the Pinckneys, the Sumters,
the Marions. — Americans all, whose fame is no more to be
hemmed in by State lines, than their talents and patriotism
were capable of being circumscribed within the same nar-
row limits.
In their day and generation, they served and honored
the country, and the whole country; and their renown is of
the treasures of the whole country. Him whose honored
name the gentleman himself bears, — does he esteem me less
capable of gratitude for his patriotism, or sympathy for his
sufferings, than if his eyes had first opened upon the light
of Massachusetts, instead of South Carolina? Sir, does he
suppose it in his power to exhibit a Carolina name so bright
as to produce envy in my bosom? No. sir; increased grati-
fication and delight, rather. I thank God, that, if I am
gifted with little of the spirit which is able to raise mortals
to the skies, I have yet none, as I trust, of that other spirit,
which would drag angels down.
When I shall be found, sir, in my place here in the Sen-
ate, or elsewhere, to sneer at public merit because it hap-
pens to spring up beyond the limits of my own State or
neighborhood; when I refuse, for any such cause, or for any
cause, the homage due to American talent, to elevated
patriotism, to sincere devotion to liberty and the country;
or if I see an uncommon endowment of heaven, — if I see
extraordinary capacity and virtue in any son of the South,
and if, moved by local prejudice or gangrened by State jeal-
ousy, I get up here to abate the tithe of a hair from his just
character and just fame, — may my tongue cleave to the roof
of my mouth !
Sir, let me recur to pleasing recollections; let me indulge
240 CHIME ITS OWI DETECTER.
in refreshing remembrances of the past; let me remind you
that, in early times, no States cherished greater harmony,
both of principle and feeling, than Massachusetts and South
Carolina. Would to God that harmony might again return!
Shoulder to shoulder they went through the Revolution;
hand in hand they stood round the administration of Wash-
ington, and felt his own great arm lean on them for support.
Unkind feeling, if it exist, alienation and distrust, are the
growth, unnatural to such soils, of false principles since sown.
They* are weeds, the seeds of which that same great arm
never scattered.
Mr. President, I shall enter on no encomium upon Massa-
chusetts; she needs none. There she is. Behold her, and
judge for yourselves. There is her history; the world knows
it by heart. The past, at least, is secure. There is Boston,
and Concord, and Lexington, and Bunker Hill; and there
tfiey will remain forever. The bones of her sons, fallen in
the great struggle for Independence, now lie mingled with
the soil of every State, from New England to Georgia; and
there they will lie forever.
And, sir, where American Liberty raised its first voice,
and where its youth was nurtured and sustained, there it still
lives, in the strength of its manhood, and full of its original
spirit. If discord and disunion shall wound it; if party strife
and blind ambition shall hawk at and tear it; if folly and
madness, if uneasiness under salutary and necessary restraint,
shall succeed in separating it from that Union by which
alone its existence is made sure, — it will stand, in the end,
by the side of that cradle in which its infancy was rocked;
it will stretch forth its arm, with whatever of vigor it may
still retain, over the friends who gather round it; and it will
fall at last, if fall it must, amid the proudest monuments of
its own glory, and on the very spot of its origin.
DANIEL WEBSTER.
CRIME ITS OWN DETECTER.
Against the prisoner at the bar, as an individual, I cannot
have the slightest prejudice; I would not do him the small-
est injury or injustice. But I do not affect to be indifferent
to the discovery and the punishment of this deep guilt. I
cheerfully share in the opprobrium, how much soever it may
CRIME ITS OWN DETECTEE. 241
be, which is cast on those who feel and manifest an anxious
concern that all who had a part in planning, or a hand in exe-
cuting, this deed of midnight assassination, may be brought
to answer for their enormous crime at the bar of public
justice.
Gentlemen, this is a most extraordinary case. In some
respects it has hardly a precedent anywhere — certainly none
in our New England history. This bloody drama exhibited
no suddenly excited, ungovernable rage. The actors in it
were not surprised by any lion-like temptation springing
upon their virtue, and overcoming it, before resistance could
begin. Nor did they do the deed to glut savage vengeance,
or satiate long-settled and deadly hate. It was a cool, cal-
culating, money-making murder. It was all " hire and salary,
not revenge." It was the weighing of money against life;
the counting out of so many pieces of silver against so many
ounces of blood.
An aged man, without an enemy in the world, in his own
house, and in his own bed, is made the victim of a butchery
murder, for mere pay. Deep sleep had fallen on the des-
tined victim, and on all beneath his roof. A healthful old
man, to whom sleep was sweet — the first sound slumbers of
the night held him in their soft but strong embrace.
The assassin enters through the window, already prepared,
into an unoccupied apartment; with noiseless foot he paces
the lonely hall, half lighted by the moon; he winds up the
ascent of the stairs, and reaches the door of the chamber.
Of this he moves the lock, by soft and continued pressure,
till it turns on its hinges; and he enters and beholds his
victim before him. The room was uncommonly light. The
face of the innocent sleeper was turned from the murderer;
and the beams of the moon, resting on the gray locks of his
aged temple, showed him where to strike. The fatal blow is
given, and the victim passes, without a struggle or a motion,
from the repose of sleep to the repose of death! It is the
assassin's purpose to make sure work; and he yet plies the
dagger, though it was obvious that life had been destroyed
by the blow of the bludgeon. He even raises the aged arm,
that he may not fail in his aim at the heart, and replaces it
again over the wounds of the poignard! To finish the pic-
ture, he explores the wrist for the pulse! he feels it, and as-
certains that it beats no longer! It is accomplished! the
deed is done ! He retreats — retraces his steps to the win-
16
242 ORATION ON O'CONNELL.
(low, passes through as he came in, and escapes. He has
done the murder; no eye has seen him, no ear has heard
him; the secret is his own, and he is safe!
Ah! gentlemen, that was a dreadful mistake. Such a se-
cret can be safe nowhere. The whole creation of God has
neither nook nor corner, where the guilty can bestow it and
say it is safe. A thousand eyes turn at once to explore
every man, every thing, every circumstance, connected with
the time and place; a thousand ears catch every whisper; a
thousand excited minds intently dwell on the scene; shed-
ding all their light, and ready to kindle the slightest circum-
stance into a blaze of discovery. Meantime the guilty soul
cannot keep its own secret. It is false to itself — or rather
it feels an irresistible impulse of conscience to be true to it-
self — it labors under its guilty possession, and knows not
what to do with it. He feels it beating at his heart, rising
to his throat, and demanding disclosure. He thinks the
whole world sees it in his face, reads it in his eyes, and al-
most hears its workings in the very silence of his thoughts.
It has become his master; — it betrays his discretion; it
breaks down his courage; it conquers his prudence. It
must be confessed; it will be confessed; there is no refuge
from confession but in suicide, and suicide is confession.
DANIEL WEBSTER.
ORATION ON THE CENTENNIAL OF THE BIRTH
OF O'CONNELL.
I »e->mtjiijife3> exaggerate when I say that never since
God made Demosthenes has He made a man better fitted
for a great work than I fe p j tiLTO 'Conn ell.
You may say that I am partial to my hero: but John
Randolph of Roanoke, 'who hated an Irishman almost as
much as he did a Yankeey when he got to London and
heard O'Connell, the old slaveholder threw up his hands
and exclaimed, "This is the man, those are the lips, the
most eloquent that speak English in my day," and I think
he was right.
Webster could address a bench of judges; Everett could
charm a college; Choate could delude a jury; Clay could
magnetize a senate, and Tom Corwin could hold the mob in
hisright hand, but no one of these men could do more than
ORATION ON O'CONNELL. 243
this one thing. The wonder about O'Connell was that he
could out-talk Corwin, he could charm a college better than
Everett, and leave Henry Clay himself far behind in magnet-
izing a senate.
It has been my privilege to have heard all the great ora-
tors of America who have become singularly famed about
the world's circumference. I know what was the majesty
of Webster; I know what it was to melt under the magnet-
ism of Henry Clay; I have seen eloquence in the iron logic
of Calhoun, but all three of these men never surpassed and
no one of them ever equaled the great Irishman. I have
hitherto been speaking of his ability and success, I will now
consider his character.
To show you that he never took a leaf from our American
gospel of compromise, that he never filed his tongue to
silence on one truth fancying so to help another, let me
compare him to Kossuth, whose only merits were his elo-
quence and his patriotism. When Kossuth was in Faneuil
Hall, he exclaimed, "Here is a flag without a stain, a nation
without a crime. 7 ' We Abolitionists appealed to him, " O
eloquent son of the Magyar, come to break chains, have you
no word, no pulse-beat for four millions of negroes bending
under a yoke ten times heavier than that of Hungary? " He
exclaimed, " I would forget anybody, I would praise any-
thing, to help Hungary." O'Connell never said anything
like that.
When I was in Naples I asked Sir Thomas Foxwell Bux-
ton, "Is Daniel O'Connell an honest man?" "As honest a
man as ever breathed," said he, and then he told me the
following story: " When, in 1830, O'Connell first entered
Parliament, the anti-slavery cause was so weak that it had
only Lushington and myself to speak for it, and we agreed
that when he spoke I should cheer him up, and when I spoke
he should cheer me, and these were the only cheers we ever
got. O'Connell came with one Irish member to support
him. A large party of members (I think Buxton said twen-
ty-seven) whom we calied the West India interest, the Bris-
tol party, the slave party, went to him saying, ' O'Connell, at
last you are in the House with one helper — if you will never
go down to Freemason's Hall with Buxton and Brougham,
here are twenty-seven votes for you on every Irish question.
If you work with those Abolishionists, count us always
against you.' "
244
It was a terrible temptation. How many a so-called
statesman would have yielded! O'Connell said, "Gentle-
men, God knows I speak for the saddest people the sun sees;
but may my right hand forget its cunning and my tongue
cleave to the roof of my mouth, if to help Ireland — even
Ireland — I forget the negro one single hour."
" From that day " said Buxton, " Lushington and I never
went into the lobby that O'Connell did not follow us."
And then besides his irreproachable character, he had what
is half the power of a popular orator, he had a majestic pres-
ence. In youth he had the brow of a Jupiter or Jove, and
the stature of Apollo. A little O'Connell would have been
no O'Connell at all. Sydney Smith says of Lord John Rus-
sell's five feet, when he went down to Yorkshire after the
Reform Bill had passed, the stalwart hunters of Yorkshire
exclaimed, " What, that little shrimp, he carry the Reform
Bill!" "No, no," said Smith, "He was a large man, but
the labors of the bill shrunk him." You remember the story
that Russell Lowell tells of Webster when we in Massachu-
setts were about to break up the Whig party. Webster came
home to Faneuil Hall to protest, and four thousand Whigs
came out to meet him. He lifted up his majestic presence
before that sea of human faces, his brow charged with thunder
and said, "Gentlemen lam a Whig; a Massachusetts Whig;
a Revolutionary Whig; a Constitutional Whig; a Faneuil Hall
Whig; and if you break up the Whig party where am I to
go?" And, says Lowell, "we all held our breath, thinking
where he could go." " But," says Lowell, " if he had been
five feet three, we should have said, confound you, who do
you suppose cares where you go? " Well, O'Connell had all
that, and then he had what Webster never had, and what
Clay had, the magnetism and grace that melts a million souls
into his.
When I saw him he was sixty-five, lithe as a boy. His
every attitude was beauty, his every gesture grace. Why,
Macready or Booth never equaled him.
It would have been a pleasure even to look at him if he
had not spoken at all, and all you thought of was a grey-
hound. And then he had, what so few American speakers
have, a voice that sounded the gamut. I heard him once in
Exeter Hall say, "Americans, I send my voice careering like
the thunder storm across the Atlantic, to tell South Carolina
that God's thunderbolts are hot, and to remind the negro
DESCRIPTION OF WEBSTER^ SPEECH. 245
that the dawn of his redemption is drawing near," and I
seemed to hear his voice reverberating and re-echoing back
to London from the Rocky Mountains.
And then, with the slightest possible flavor of an Irish
brogue, he would tell a story that would make all Exeter Hall
laugh, and the next moment there were tears in his voice,
like an old song, and five thousand men would be in tears.
And all the while no effort — he seemed only breathing.
"As effortless as woodland nooks
Send violets up and paint them blue. 11
WENDELL PHILLIPS.
DESCRIPTION OF WEBSTER'S SPEECH IN REPLY
TO HAYNE.
It was Tuesday, January the 26th 1830, — a day to be
hereafter forever memorable in Senatorial annals, — that the
Senate resumed the consideration of Foote's resolution.
There never was before, in the city, an occasion of so
much excitement. Multitudes of strangers had for two or
three days previous been rushing into the city, and the
hotels overflowed. As early as nine o'clock of this morning,
crowds poured into the Capitol in hot haste; at twelve
o'clock, the hour of meeting, the Senate chamber — its gal-
leries, floor, and even lobbies — was filled to its utmost
capacity. The very stairways were dark with men, who
clung to one another like bees in a swarm. The House of
Representatives was early deserted, an adjournment cpuld
hardly have made it emptier.
Seldom, if ever, has speaker in this or any other country
had more powerful incentives to exertion. A subject, the
determination of which involved the most important inter-
ests; even the duration of the Republic. Competitors un-
equaled in reputation, ability or position; a name to make
still more glorious or lose forever; and an audience com-
prising not only persons of this country, most eminent in
intellectual greatness, but representatives of other nations
where the art of eloquence had flourished for ages. All the
soldier seeks in opportunity was here.
Mr. Webster perceived and felt equal to the destinies of
the moment. The very greatness of the hazard exhilerated
him. His spirits rose with the occasion. He awaited the
246 description of websteb's speech.
time of onset with a stern impatient joy. A confidence in
his own resources springing from no vain estimate of his
power, but the legitimate offspring of previous severe men-
tal discipline, sustained and excited him. He had gauged
his opponent, his subject and himself. He never rose on an
ordinary occasion to address an ordinary audience more self-
possessed. There was no tremulousness in his voice nor
manner; nothing hurrried, nothing simulated. The calm-
ness of superior strength was visible everywhere; in coun-
tenance, voice and bearing.
Mr. Webster rose and addressed the Senate. His exor-
dium is known by heart everywhere: " Mr. President, when
the mariner has been tossed, for many days in thick weather,
and on an unknown sea, he naturally avails himself of the
first pause in the storm, the earliest glance of the sun, to take
his latitude and ascertain how far the elements have driven
him from his true course. Let us imitate this prudence, and,
before we float farther on the waves of this debate, refer to
the point from which we departed, that we may at least be
able to conjecture where we now are. I ask for the reading
of the resolution before the Senate."
There wanted no more to enchain the attention. There
was a spontaneous, though silent, expression of eager appro-
bation, as the orator concluded these opening remarks, and
while the clerk read the resolution many attempted the im-
possibility of getting nearer the speaker. Every head was
inclined toward him, every ear turned in the direction of his
voice, and that deep, sudden, mysterious silence followed,
which always attends fullness of emotion. From the sea of
upturned faces before him, the orator beheld his thoughts
reflected as from a mirror. The varying countenance, the
suffused eye, the earnest smile, the ever attentive look,
assured him of his audience's entire sympathy. If among
his hearers there were those who affected at first an indiffer-
ence to his glowing thoughts and fervent words, the difficult
mask was soon laid aside, and profound, undisguised, devoted
attention followed. Those who had doubted Mr. Webster's
ability to cope with and overcome his opponents were fully
satisfied of their error before he had proceeded far in his
speech. Their fears -soon took another direction. When
they heard his sentences of powerful thought, towering in
accumulative grandeur, one above the other, as if the orator
strove, Titan-like, to reach the very Heavens themselves;
DESCRIPTION OF WEBSTER'S SPEECH. 247
they were giddy with an apprehension that he would break
down in his flight; they dared not believe that genius, learn-
ing, and intellectual endowment however uncommon that
was simply mortal, could sustain itself long in a career seem-
ingly so perilous; they feared an Icarian fall. What New
England heart was there but throbbed with vehement, tumul-
tuous, irrepressible emotions as he dwelt upon New England
struggles and New England triumphs during the war of the
Revolution?
There was scarcely a dry eye in the Senate; all hearts were
overcome; grave judges and men grown old in dignified life
turned aside their heads to conceal the evidences of their
emotion. In one corner of the gallery was clustered a group
of Massachusetts men; they had hung from the first moment
upon the words of the speaker, with feelings variously but al-
ways warmly excited, deepening in intensity as he proceeded.
x\t first, while the orator was going through his exordium,
they held their breath and hid their faces, mindful of the
savage attack upon him and New England, and the fearful
odds against him, her champion: — as he went deeper into his
speech they felt easier, when he turned Hayne's flank on
Banquo's ghost they breathed freer and deeper. But now
as he alluded to Massachusetts xheir feelings were strained
to their highest tension, and when the orator, concluding this
encomium of the land of his birth, turned unintentionally
or otherwise, his burning eye full upon them, they shed tears
like girls. The exulting rush of feeling with which he went
through the peroration threw a glow over his countenance,
like inspiration — eye, brow, each feature, every line of his
face seemed touched as with a celestial fire. The swell and
roll of his voice struck upon the ears of the spell-bound
audience, in deep and melodious cadence, as waves upon the
shore of the far-sounding sea. The Miltonic grandeur of
his words was the fit expression of his thought and raised his
hearers up to hfc theme. His voice, exerted to its utmost
power, penetrated every recess and corner of the Senate —
penetrated even the ante-rooms and stair- ways, as he pro-
nounced in the deepest tones of pathos these words of
solemn significance:
"When my eyes turn to behold for the last time the sun in
heaven, may they not see him shining on the broken and
dishonored fragments of a once glorious Union; on States
dissevered, discordant, belligerent; on a land rent with civil
24:8 EULOGY ON CHARLES SUMNER.
feuds; or drenched, it may be, in fraternal blood. Let their
last feeble and lingering glance rather behold the gorgeous
ensign of the Republic, now known and honored throughout
the earth, still full high advanced; its arms and trophies
streaming in all their original luster; not a stripe erased or
polluted; not a single star obscured; bearing for its motto
no such -miserable interrogatory as " What is all this worth?"
nor those other words of delusion and folly, of Liberty first,
and Union afterwards, but everywhere, spread all over in
characters of living light, and blazing on all its ample folds,
as they float over the sea and over the land, and in every
wind under the whole heavens, that other sentiment dear to
every American heart, — " Liberty and Union, — now and
forever, — one and inseparable."
The speech was over, but the tones of the orator still lin-
gered upon the ear, and the audience, unconscious of the
close, remained in their positions. The agitated counte-
nance, the heaving breast, the suffused eye, attested the con-
tinued influence of the spell upon them. Hands that in the
excitement of the moment had sought each other still re-
mained closed in an unconscious grasp. Eye still turned to
eye, to receive and repay mutual sympathy, and everywhere
around seemed forgetfulness of all but the orator's presence
and words.
CHARLES W. MARCH.
EULOGY ON CHARLES SUMNER.
At the opening of the session in the Fall of 1872, Mr.
Sumner introduced two measures which, as he thought,
should complete the record of his political life. One was
his Civil Rights Bill, and the other, a resolution providing
that the names of the battles won over fellow-citizens in the
war of the Rebellion, should be removed from the regiment-
al colors of the arm}?-, and from the army register. This
resolution called forth a new storm against him. It was de-
nounced as an insult to the heroic soldiers of the Union,
and a degradation of their victories and well-earned laurels.
It was condemned as an unpatriotic act.
Charles Sumner insult the soldiers who had spilled their
blood in a war for human rights! Charles Sumner degrade
victories and depreciate laurels won for the cause of univer-
sal freedom! How strange an imputation!
EULOGY OTX CHARLES SUMNER. 249
Let the dead man have a hearing. This was his thought:
No civilized nation, from the republics of antiquity down to
our days, ever thought it wise or patriotic to preserve in
conspicuous and durable form the mementoes of victories
won over fellow-citizens in civil war. Why not?
Because every citizen should feel himself with all others
as the child of a common country, and not as a defeated foe.
All civilized governments of our days have instinctively fol-
lowed the same dictate of wisdom and patriotism. The
Irishman, when fighting for old England at Waterloo, was
not to behold on the red cross floating above him the name
of the Boyne. The Scotch Highlander, when standing in
the trenches of Sebastopol, was not by the colors of his regi-
ment to be reminded of Culloden. No French soldieF at
Austerlitz or Solferino had to read upon the tri-color any
reminiscence of the Vendee. No Hungarian at Sadowa was
taunted by any Austrian banner with the surrender of Vil-
lagos. No German regiment, from Saxony or Hanover,
charging under the iron hail of Gravelotte, was made to
remember by words written on a Prussian standard that the
black eagle had conquered them at Koniggratz and Langen-
salza. Should the son of South Carolina, when at some fu-
ture day defending the Republic against some foreign foe,
be reminded by an inscription on the colors floating over
him, that under this flag the gun was fired that killed his
father at Gettysburg? Should this great and enlightened
Republic, proud of standing in the front of human progress,
be less wise, less large-hearted, than the ancients were two
thousand years ago, and the kingly governments of Europe
are to-day? Let the battle-flags of the brave volunteers,
which they brought home from the war with the glorious
record of their victories, be preserved intact as a proud orna-
ment of our State-houses and armories. But let the colors
of the army, under which the sons of all the States are to
meet and mingle in common patriotism, speak of nothing
but union, — not a union of conquerors and conquered, but
a union which is the mother of all, equally tender to all,
knowing of nothing but equality, peace and love among her
children.
Such were the sentiments which inspired that resolution.
Such were the sentiments which called forth a storm of ob-
loquy. Such were the sentiments for which the Legislature
of Massachusetts rjassed a solemn resolution of censure up-
250 IDOLS.
on Charles Sumner, — Massachusetts, his own Massachusetts,
whom he loved so ardently with a filial love, — of whom he
was so proud, who had honored him so much in days gone
by, and whoi^i he had so long and so faithfully labored to
serve and to honor!
How thankful I am, how thankful every human soul in
Massachusetts, how thankful every American must be, that
he did not die then! How thankful that he was spared to
see the day when the heart of Massachusetts came back to
him full of the old love and confidence, assuring him that
he would again be her chosen son for her representative seat
in the House of States; — when the lawgivers of the old com-
monwealth, obeying an irresistible impulse of justice, wiped
away from the records of the Legislature, and from the fair
name of the State, that resolution of censure which had
stung him so deeply.
Now we have laid him into his grave, in the motherly soil
of Massachusetts, which was so dear to him. He is at rest
now, the stalwart, brave old champion, whose face and bear-
ing were so austere, and whose heart was so full of tender-
ness; who began his career with a pathetic plea for universal
peace -^and charity, and whose whole life was an arduous,
incessant, never-resting struggle, which left him all covered
with scars. And we can do nothing for him but commemo-
rate his lofty ideals of liberty and equality, and justice, and
reconciliation, and purity, and the earnestnessand courage
and touching fidelity with which he fought for them; so
genuine in his sincerity, so single-minded in his zeal, so
heroic in his devotion.
CABL SCHUHZ.
IDOLS.
It is a grave thing when a State puts a man among her
jewels, the glitter of whose fame makes doubtful acts look
heroic. The honors we grant mark how high we stand, and
they educate the future. The men we honor and the max-
ims we lay down in measuring our favorites, show the level
and morals of the time. A name has been in every one's
mouth of late, and men have exhausted language in trying
to express their admiration and their respect. The courts
have covered the grave of Mr. Choate with eulogy. Let us
see what is their idea of a great lawyer. We are told that
IDOLS. 251
"he worked hard," "he never neglected his client," "he
flung over the discussions of the forum the grace of a rare
scholarship," " No pressure or emergency ever stirred him
to an unkind word." A ripe scholar, a profound lawyer, a
faithful servant of his client, a gentleman. This is a good
record surely. May he sleep in peace. What he earned,
God grant he may have. But the bar that seeks to claim for
such a one a place among great jurists must itself be weak
indeed. Not one high moral trait specified; not one patri-
otic act mentioned; not one patriotic service even claimed.
Look at Mr. Webster's idea of what a lawyer should be in
order to be called great, in the sketch he drew of Jeremiah
Mason) and notice what stress he lays upon the religious and
moral elevation, and the glorious and high purposes which
crown his life. Nothing of this now; nothing but incessant
eulogy. But not a word of one effort to lift the yoke of
cruel or unequal legislation from the neck of its victim; not
one attempt to make the code of his country wiser, purer,
better; not one effort to bless his times or breathe a higher
moral purpose into the community. Not one blow struck
for right or for liberty, while the battle of the giants was
going on about him; not one patriotic act to stir the hearts
of his idolaters; not one public act of any kind whatever,
about whose merit friend or foe could even quarrel, unless
when he scouted our great charter as a glittering generality,
or jeered at the philanthropy which tried to practice the
sermon on the mount.
When Cordus, the Roman senator, whom Tiberius mur-
dered, was addressing his fellows he began: "Fathers, they
accuse me of illegal words; plain proof that there are no
illegal deeds with which to charge me." So with those eulo-
gies. Words, nothing but words; plain proof that there were
no deeds to praise. Yet this is the model which Massachu-
setts offers to the Pantheon of the great jurists of the world!
Suppose we stood in that lofty temple of jurisprudence, —
on either side of us the statues of the great lawyers of every
age and clime, — -and let us see what part New England —
Puritan, educated, free New England — would bear in the
pageant.
Rome points to a colossal figure and says, " That is Papin-
ian, who, when the Emperor Caracella murdered his own
brother, and ordered the lawyer to defend the deed, went
cheerfully to death, rather than sully his lips with the atro-
252 toussaint l'ouvebtube.
cious plea; and that is Ulpian, who, aiding his prince to put
the army below the law, was massacred at the foot of a weak
but virtuous throne."
And France stretches forth her grateful hands, crying
" That ic D'Aguesseau, worthy, when he went to face an en-
raged King, of the farewell his wife addressed him : ' Go,
forget that you have a wife and children to ruin, and remem-
ber only that you have France to save.' "
England says, " That is Coke, who flung the laurels of
eighty years in the face of the first Stuart, in defense of the
people. This is Selden on every book of whose library you
saw written the motto of which he lived worthy, ' Before
everything Liberty! ' That is Mansfield, silver-tongued,
who proclaimed, 'Slaves cannot breathe in England; if their
lungs receive our air, that moment they are free.'
" This is Romily, who spent life trying to make law synon-
ymous with justice, and succeeded in making life and prop-
erty safer in every city of the empire. And that is Erskine,
whose eloquence, spite of Lord Eldon and George the Third
made it safe to speak and to print."
Then New England shouts, " This is Choate, who made it
safe to murder, and of whose health thieves asked before they
began to steal! "
WENDELL PHILLIPS.
TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE.
Some doubt the courage of the negro. Go to Hayti, and
stand on those fifty thousand graves of the best soldiers
France ever had, and ask them what they think of the
negro's sword. And if that does not satisfy you, go to
France, to the splendid mausoleum of the Counts of Roch-
ambeau, and to the eight thousand graves of Frenchmen
who skulked home under the English flag, and ask them.
And if that does not satisfy you, come home, and if it had
been October, 1859, you might have come by way of quak-
ing Virginia, and asked her what she thought of negro cour-
age.
You may also remember this, — that we Saxons were slaves
about four hundred years, sold with the land, and our fathers
never raised a finger to end that slavery. They waited till
Christianity and civilization, till commerce and the discov-
toussaint l'outeetuee. 253
ery of America, melted away their chains. Every race has
been, some time or other, in chains. But there never was a
race that, weakened and degraded by such chattel slavery,
unaided, tore off its own fetters, forged them into swords,
and won its liberty on the battle-field, but one, and that was
the black race of St. Domingo.
So much for the courage of the negro. Now look at his
endurance. In 1805 he said to the white men, ' ; This island
is ours; not a white foot shall touch it." Side by side with
him stood the South American republics, planted by the
best blood of the countrymen of Lope de Vega and Cer-
vantes. They topple over so often that you could no more
daguerreotype their crumbling fragments than you could the
waves of the ocean. And yet, at their side, the negro has
kept his island sacredly to himself. Burn over Xew York
to-night, fill up her canals, sink every ship, destroy her rail-
roads, blot out every remnant of education from her sons;
let her be ignorant and penniless, with nothing but her
hands to begin the world again, — how much could she do in
sixty years? And Europe, too, would lend you money, but
she will not lend Hayti a dollar. Hayti, from the ruins of
her colonial dependence, is become a civilized state, the
seventh nation in the catalogue of commerce with this
country, inferior in morals and education to none of the
West Indian isles. Toussaint L'Ouverture made her what
she is. Toussaint was indisputably their chief. Courage,
purpose, endurance, — these are the tests. He did plant a
state so deep that all the world has not been able to root
it up.
Xow, blue-eyed Saxon, proud of your race, go back with
me to the commencement of the century, and select what
statesman you please. Let him be either American or
European; let him have a brain the result of six generations
of culture; let him have the ripest training of university
routine; let him add to it the better education of practical
life; crown his temples with the silver of seventy years;
and show me the man of Saxon lineage for whom his most,
sanguine admirer will wreathe a laural rich as embittered
foes have placed on the brow of this negro.
I would call him Xapoleon, but Xapoleon made his way
to empire over broken oaths and through a sea of blood.
This man never broke his word. I would call him Cromwell,
but Cromwell was only a soldier, and the state he founded
254 IMPEACHMENT OF WARREN HASTINGS.
went down with him into his grave. I would call him
Washington, but the great Virginian held slaves. This man
risked his empire rather than permit the slave-trade in the
humblest village of his dominions.
You think me a fanatic to-night, for you read history not
with your eyes, but with your prejudices. But fifty years
hence, when Truth gets a hearing, the Muse of History will
put Phocion for the Greek, and Brutus for the Roman,
Hampden for England, Fayette for France, choose Wash-
ington as the bright, consummate flower of our earlier civil-
ization, and John Brown the ripe fruit of our noon-day;
then, dipping her pen in the sunlight, will write in the
clear, blue, above them all, the name of the soldier, the
statesman, the martyr, Toussaint L'Ouverture.
WENDELL PHILLIPS.
IMPEACHMENT OF WARREN HASTINGS.
My Lords, you have now heard the principles on which
Mr. Hastings governs the part of Asia subjected to the
British empire. Here he has declared his opinion, that he
is a despotic prince; that he is to use arbitrary power; and,
of course, all his acts are covered with that shield. " I
know," says he, "the Constitution of Asia only from its
practice." Will your Lordships submit to hear the corrupt
practices of mankind made the principles of Government?
He have arbitrary power! My Lords, the East India
Company have not arbitrary power to give him; the King
has no arbitrary power to give him; your Lordships have
not; nor the Commons; nor the whole Legislature. We
have no arbitrary power to give, because arbitrary power is
a thing which neither any man can hold nor any man can
give. No man can lawfully govern himself according to his
own will, much less can one person be governed by the will
of another. We are all born in subjection, all born equally,
high and low, governors and governed, in subjection to one
great, immutable, pre-existent law, prior to all our devices,
and prior to all our contrivances, paramount to all our ideas,
and all our sensations, antecedent to our very existence, by
which we are knit and connected in the eternal frame of the
universe, out of which we cannot stir.
This great law does not arise from our conventions or com-
IMPEACHMENT OP WARREN HASTINGS. 255
pacts; on the contrary, it gives to our conventions and
compacts all the force and sancion they can have; — it does
not arise from our vain institutions. Every good gift is of
God; all power is of God; — and He, who has given the
power, and from whom alone it originates, will never suffer
the exercise of it to be practiced upon any less solid founda-
tion than the power itself. If then all dominion of man
over man is the effect of the divine disposition, it is bound
by the eternal laws of Him that gave it, with which no hu-
man authority can dispense; neither he that exercises it,
nor even those who are subject to it: and if they were mad
enough to make an express compact that should release
their magistrate from his duty, and should declare their
lives, liberties, and properties dependent upon, not rules and
laws, but his mere capricious will, that covenant would be
void.
This arbitrary power is not to be had by conquest. Nor
can any sovereign have it by succession ; for no man can
succeed to fraud, rapine, and violence. Those who give and
those who receive arbitrary power are alike criminal; and
there is no man but is bound to resist it to the best of his
power, wherever it shall show its face to the w T orld.
Law and arbitrary power are in eternal enmity. Name
me a magistrate, and I will name property; name me power,
and 1 will name protection. It is a contradiction in terms;
it is blasphemy in religion, it is wickedness in politics, to
say that any man can have arbitrary power. In every pat-
ent of office the duty is included. For what else does a
magistrate exist? To suppose for power, is an absurdity in
idea. Judges are guided and governed by the eternal laws
of justice, to which we are all subject. AVe may bite our
chains, if we will; but we shall be made to know ourselves,
and be taught that man is born to be governed by law/ and
he that will substitute will in the place of it, is an enemy to
God.
My Lords, I do not mean to go further than just to remind
your Lordships of this, — that Mr. Hastings' government was
one whole system of oppression, of robbery of individuals, of
spoliation of the public, and of suppression of the whole
system of the English Government, in order to vest in the
worst of the natives all the power that could possibly exist
in any Government; in order to defeat the ends which all
Governments ought, in common, to have in view. In the
256 CHARACTER OF WASHINGTON - .
name of the Commons of England, I charge all this villainy
upon Warren Hastings, in this last moment of my application
to you.
Therefore, it is with confidence that, ordered by the Com-
mons of Great Britain, I impeach Warren Hastings of high
crimes and misdemeanors.
I impeach him in the name of the Commons of Great Brit-
ain in Parliament assembled, whose parliamentary trust he
has abused.
I impeach him in the name of the Commons of Great
Britain, whose national character he has dishonored.
I impeach him in the name of the people of India, whose
laws, rights, and liberties he has subverted.
I impeach him in the name of the people of India, whose
property he has destroyed, whose country he has laid waste
and desolate.
I impeach him in the name of human nature itself, which
he has cruelly outraged, injured and oppressed, in both sexes.
And I impeach him in the name and by the virtue of those
eternal laws of justice, which ought equally to pervade every
age, condition, rank, and situation, in the world.
EDMUND BURKE.
CHARACTER OF WASHINGTON.
There are but three individuals upon whom mankind, with
some approach to general consent, have bestowed the epithet
of " the Great." Shall we compare our Washington for a
moment with each of them? Shall we compare him with
Peter the Great of Russia, who flourished in the bemnnino;
of the century, and hewed that political colossus of the
North into form and symmetry? A sovereign of vast, though
often most ill-directed energy; a fearless, and, on some occa-
sions, a beneficent reformer; a consummate organizer, who
with a kind of rough tact, truly felt the pulses of national
life in the Titanic frame which he called into being; pursu-
ing a few grand ideas, though often by eccentric methods
bordering on madness, but with a resolution which no labors
could weary and no dangers appall, and forcing them with
an iron will upon an unsympathizing and apathetic people.
These are his titles to the epithet of "Great"; but with
them all he was an unmitigated tyrant, — the murderer, per-
CHARACTER OF WASHINGTON. 257
haps the torturer, of his own son; a man who united the
wisdom of a philosopher and the policy of a great prince
with the tastes of a satyr, the manners of a barbarian, and
the passions of a fiend; guilty of crimes so hideous and re-
volting, that if I attempted to describe them, I should drive
you shrieking from this hall. You surely would not permit
me to place the name of Washington in comparison with his.
Or shall we compare him with Frederick the Second of
Prussia, to whom complacent public opinion has also ac-
corded the epithet of " Great." He was no doubt a military
and a civil genius of the first order; by the energy of his
character he built up a kingdom scarcely known by that title
when he came to the throne, into a first-rate power; the fear-
less soldier, the profound strategist, the heroic chief; nor less
a master of political combination, a zealous promoter of the
material prosperity of his subjects, who doubled the popula-
tion of his little kingdom, and increased all the resources in
more than the same proportion, notwithstanding the wars iii
which he was continually involved; but at the same time a
pedant, ostentatious, of superficial literary attainments, a
wretched poetaster, a dupe of the insipid adulation of godless
foreign wits, who nattered him to his face and ridiculed him
behind his back; a German sovereign who yet preferred to
write and speak poor broken French, in which Voltaire said
there was not a sentence which you would not know to be the
language of a foreigner; a prince raised by Providence in the
bitter school of adversity to an absolute throne, entertaining
the most exalted ideas of the Kingly prerogative, drawing
everything, even the administration of justice, into an arbi-
trary centralization, who had yet trained his undevout heart
to believe that blind chance or blind destiny occupies the
throne of the universe; that the heavens and the earth could
do without a God, though the paltry electorate of Bran den-
burgh could not do without a king; and that while it was im-
possible for him to hold the scattered provinces of his little
realm together without a daily outgoing of civil, military,
and judicial power, moved by one intellect and one will,
could yet believe that the systems and systems which com-
pose the universe, beyond the power of human speech to
enumerate, or human thought to conceive, are thrown out into
one vast anarchy, wheeling and hurtling through the regions
of space without a lawgiver and a head: who, so thinking
and so believing while he lived, when he came to die, in
17
258 CHARACTER OF WASHINGTON".
order to mark more emphatically his contempt for the species
to which he belonged, instead of allowing his " poor old car-
cass," as he himself called it, to be laid by the side of his
kindred, ordered that it should be buried "with his favorite
dogs at Potsdam!
Or shall we compare Washington with the third greatness
of his age, the illustrious captain of the last generation in
France; that portentous blazing star which began to flame
in the eastern sky -as our benignant luminary was sinking in
the west, amidst the golden clouds of a nation's blessings?
I have no wish to trample on the memory of Napoleon the
First, whom I regard by no means as the most ambitious of
conquerors, the most arbitrary of despots, or the worst of
men. The virtues and the feelings, like the talents, the
opportunities, and the fortunes of this extraordinary man,
are on too colossal a scale to be measured by ordinary stand-
ards of morality. The prevalent opinions in this country of
his character and career have come to us through a British
medium, discolored by a national prejudice and the deadly
struggle of a generation; or by natural reaction have been
founded on the panegyrics of grateful adherents and admir-
ing subjects, who deem every Frenchman a partner in the
glory of their chief. Posterity and impartial history will
subdue the lights and relieve the shadows of the picture.
They will accord to him a high, perhaps the highest, rank
among the great masters of war, placing his name upon an
equality with the three great captains of antiquity, if not
above them; will point to his code as a noble monument of
legislative wisdom; will dwell upon the creative vigor with
which he brought order out of the chaos of the Revolution,
retrieving the dilapidated finances and restoring the pros-
trate industry of France; will enumerate the' harbors, the
canals, the bridges, the public buildings, the Alpine roads,
the libraries, the museums, and all the thousand works of
industrious peace and productive art; will not withhold
their admiration for the giant grasp of his genius and the
imperial grandeur of his fortunes, nor deny a tribute of
human sympathy to his calamitous decline and fall; — but
the same impartial history will record more than one inef-
faceable stain upon his character, and never, to the "end of
time, never on the page of historian, poet or philosopher;
never till a taste for true moral greatness is eaten out of the
hearts of men by a mean admiration of success and power;
EULOGY ON LAFAYETTE. 259
never in the exhortations of the prudent magistrate counsel-
ing his fellow-citizens for their good; never in the dark ages
of national fortune, when anxious patriots explore the annals
of the past for examples of public virtue; never in the ad-
monition of the parent forming the minds of his children by
lessons of fireside wisdom; never, O never, will the name of
Napoleon, nor of any of the other of the famous conquerors
of ancient and modern days, be placed upon a level with
Washington's.
And while we on the 22d of February celebrate with sol-
emn and joyous rites the great anniversary of our Washing-
ton, our fellow citizens on the Hudson, on the Potomac, from
the Southern plains to the Western lakes, are engaged in
the same offices of gratitude and love. Nor we, nor they
alone,— beyond the Ohio, beyond the Mississippi, along the
stupendous trail of immigration from East to West, which,
bursting into States as it moves westward, is already thread-
ing the Western prairies, swarming through the portals of
the Rocky Mountains and winding down their slopes, the
name and the memory of Washington on that gracious night
will travel with the silver queen of heaven through sixty
degrees of longitude, nor part company with her till she
walks in her brightness through the golden gate of California,
and passes serenely on to hold midnight court with her Aus-
tralian stars. There and there only, in barbarous archipel-
agos, as yet untrodden by civilized man, the name of Wash-
ington is unknown; and there, too, when they swarm with
enlightened millions, new honors shall be paid with ours to
his memory.
EDWARD EVERETT.
EULOGY ON LAFAYETTE.
There have been those who have denied to Lafayette, the
name of a great man. What is greatness? Does goodness
belong to greatness, and make an essential part of it? If it
does, who, I would ask, of all the prominent names in his-
tory, has run through such a career with so little reproach,
justly or unjustly bestowed? Are military courage and con-
duct the measure of greatness? Lafayette was intrusted by
Washington with all kinds of service, — the laborious and
complicated, which required skill and patience; the perilous,
260 EULOGY OX LAFAYETTE.
that demanded nerve; and we see him performing all with
entire success and brilliant reputation. Is the readiness to
meet vast responsibilities a proof of greatness? The me-
moirs of Mr. Jefferson show us that there was a moment, in
1789, when Lafayette took upon himself, as the head of the
military force, the entire responsibility of laying down the
basis of the Revolution. Is the cool and brave administration
of gigantic power a mark of greatness? In all the whirl-
wind of the Revolution, and when, as commander-in-chief of
the National Guard, an organized force of three millions of
men, who, for any popular purpose, needed but a word, a
look, to put them in motion, we behold him ever calm, col-
lected, disinterested; as free from affectation as selfishness;
clothed not less with humility than with power. Is the vol-
untary return, in advancing years, to the direction of affairs,
at a moment like that, when, in 1815, the ponderous machin-
ery of the French Empire was flying asunder, — stunning,
rending, crushing thousands on every side,' — a mark of
greatness? Lastly, is it any proof of greatness, to be
able, at the age of seventy-three, to take the lead in a
successful and bloodless revolution; to change the dy-
nasty; to organize, exercise, and abdicate a military com-
mand of three and a half millions of men; to take up, to
perform, and lay down the most momentous, delicate, and
perilous duties, without passion, without hurry, without self-
ishness? Is it great to disregard the bribes of title, office,
money; to live, to labor, and suffer for great public ends
alone; to adhere to principle under all circumstances; to
stand before Europe and America conspicuous, for sixty
years, in the most responsible stations, the acknowledged
admiration of all good men ?
But it is more than time, fellow-citizens, that I commit the
memory of this great and good man to your unprompted
contemplation. On his arrival among you, ten years ago,
when your civil fathers, your military, your children, your
whole population, poured itself out, in one throng, to salute
him; when your cannons proclaimed his advent with joyous
salvos, and your acclamations were answered, from steeple
to steeple, by festal bells, — with what delight did you not
listen to his cordial and affectionate words — "I beg of you
all, beloved citizens of Boston, to accept the respectful and
warm thanks of a heart which has for nearly half a century
been devoted to your illustrious city! "
EULOGY ON LAFAYETTE. 261
That noble heart, — to which, if any object on earth was
dear, that object was the country of his early choice, of his
adoption, and his more than regal triumph, — that noble heart
will beat no more for your welfare. Cold and still, it is
already mingling- with the dust. While he lived, you thronged
with delight to his presence; you gazed with admiration on
his placid features and venerable form, not wholly unshaken
by the rude storms of his career; and now that he has de-
parted, you have assembled in this cradle of the liberties for
which, with your fathers, he risked his life, to pay the last
honors to his memory. You have thrown open these conse-
crated portals to admit the lengthened train, which has come
to discharge the last public offices of respect to his name.
You have hung these venerable arches, for the second time
since their erection, with the sable badges of sorrow. You
have thus associated the memory of Lafayette in those dis-
tinguished honors, which but a few years since you paid to
your Adams and Jefferson.
There is not, throughout the world, a friend of liberty
who has not dropped his head when he has heard that La-
fayette is no more. Poland, Italy, Greece, Spain, Ireland,
the South x\raerican republics — every country where man is
struggling to recover his birthright, — have lost a benefactor,
a patron in Lafayette. And what was it, fellow-citizens,
which gave to our Lafayette his spotless fame? The love of
liberty. What has consecrated his memory in the hearts of
good men? The love of liberty. What nerved his youth-
ful arm with strength, and inspired him, in the morning of
his days, with sagacity and counsel? The living love of
liberty. To what did he sacrifice power, and rank, and
country, and freedom itself? To the horror of licentious-
ness, — to the sanctity of plighted faith, — to the love of lib-
erty protected by law. Thus the great principle of your
Revolutionary fathers, and of your Pilgrim sires, was the
rule of his life — the love of liberty protected by lav:.
You have now assembled within these celebrated walls,
to perform the last duties of respect and love, on the birth-
day of your benefactor. The spirit of the departed is in
high communion with the spirit of the place — the temple
worthy of the new name which we now behold inscribed on
its walls. Listen, Americans, to the lesson which seems
borne to us on the very air we breathe, while we perform
these dutiful rites! Ye winds, that wafted the Pilgrims to
262 geattan's eeply to me. coeet.
the land of promise, fan, in their children's hearts, the love
of freedom! Blood, which our fathers shed, cry from the
ground! Echoing arches of this renowned hall, whisper
back the voices of other days! Glorious Washington, break
the long silence of that votive canvas! Speak, speak, mar-
ble lips; teach us the love of libeety peotected by law.
EDWARD EVEEETT.
GRATTAN'S REPLY TO MR. CORRY.
Has the gentleman done? Has he completely done? He
was unparliamentary from the beginning to the end of his
speech. There was scarce a word he uttered that was not a
violation of the privileges of the House. But I did not call
him to order, — why? because the limited talents of some
men render it impossible for them to be severe without be-
ing unparliamentary. But before I sit down, I shall show
him how to be severe and parliamentary at the same time.
On any other occasion I should think myself justifiable in
treating with silent contempt anything which might fall from
that honorable member; but there are times w 7 hen the insig-
nificance of the accuser is lost in the magnitude of the accu-
sation. I know the difficulty the honorable gentleman
labored under when he attacked me, conscious that, on a
comparative view of our characters, public and private, there
is nothing he could say which would injure me. The pub-
lic would not believe the charge. I despise the falsehood.
If such a charge were made by an honest man, I would an-
swer it in the manner I shall do before I sit down. But I
shall first reply to it when not made by an honest man.
The right honorable gentleman has called me "an unim-
peached traitor." I ask why not " traitor," unqualified by
any epithet? I will tell him: it was because he durst not.
It was the act of a coward, who raises his arm to strike, but
has not courage to give the blow. I will not call him vil-
lain, because it would be unparliamentary, and he is a privy
counselor. I will not call him fool, because he happens to
be chancellor of the exchequer. But I say, he is one who
has abused the privilege of Parliament and the freedom of
debate, by uttering language which, if spoken out of the
House, I should answer only with a blow. I care not how
high his situation, how low his character, how contemptible
SPARTACUS TO THE GLADIATORS. 263
his speech; whether a privy counselor or a parasite, my an-
swer would be a blow.
He has charged me with being connected with the rebels.
The charge is utterly, totally, and meanly false. Does the
honorable gentleman rely on the report of the House of
Lords for the foundation of his assertion? If he does, I can
prove to the committee there was a physical impossibility of
that report being true. But I scorn to answer any man for
my conduct, whether he be a political coxcomb, or whether
he brought himself into power by a false glare of courage
or not.
I have returned, — not as the right honorable member has
said, to raise another storm, — I have returned to discharge
an honorable debt of gratitude to my country, that conferred
a great reward fqr past services, which, I am proud to say,
was not greater than my desert. I have returned to protect
that Constitution of which I was the parent and founder,
from the assassination of such men as the right honorable
gentleman and his unworthy associates. They are corrupt,
they are seditious, and they, at this very moment, are in a
conspiracy against their country. I have returned to refute
a libel, as false as it is malicious, given to the public under
the appellation of a report of the committee of the Lords.
Here I stand, ready for impeachment or trial. I dare accu-
sation. I defy the honorable gentleman; I defy the govern-
ment; I defy their whole phalanx; let them come forth. I
tell the ministers, I will neither give quarter nor take it. I
am here to lay the shattered remains of my constitution on
the floor of this House, in defense of the liberties of my
country.
HENRY GRATTAN.
SPARTACUS TO THE GLADIATORS.
It had been a day of triumph in Capau. Lentulus, re-
turning with victorious eagles, had amused the populace
with the sports of the amphitheatre, to an extent hitherto
unknown even in that luxurious city. The shouts of revelry
had died away; the roar of the lion had ceased; the last
loiterer had retired from the banquet, and the lights in the
palace of the victor were extinguished. The moon, pierc-
ing the tissue of fleecy clouds, silvered the dew-drop on the
264. SPARTACUS TO THE GLADIATORS.
corselet of the Roman sentinel, and tipped the dark waters
of Voiturnus with wavy, tremulous light. It was a night of
holy calm, when the zephyr sways the young spring leaves,
and whispers among the hollow reeds its dreamy music. No
sound was heard but the last sob of some weary wave, tell-
ing its story to the smooth pebbles of the beach, and then
all was still as the breast when the spirit has departed.
In the deep recesses of the amphitheatre, a band of glad-
iators were crowded together, — their muscles still knotted
with the agony of conflict, the foam upon their lips, and the
scowl of battle yet lingering upon their brows, — when
Spartacus, rising in the midst of that grim assemblage, thus
addressed them:
Ye call me chief; and ye do well to call him chief who
for twelve long years has met upon the arena every shape
of man or beast the broad Empire of Rome could furnish,
and who never yet lowered his arm. If there be one among
you who can say that ever, in public fight or private brawl,
my actions did belie my tongue, let him stand forth and say
it. If there be three in all your company dare face me on
the bloody sands, let them come on. And yet I was not
always thus, — a hired butcher, a savage chief of still more
savage men. My ancestors came from old Sparta, and set-
tled among the vine-clad rocks and citron groves of Syra-
sella. My early life ran quiet as the brooks by which I
sported; and when, at noon,- 1 gathered the sheep beneath
the shade, and played upon the shepherd's flute, there was a
friend, the son of a neighbor, to join me in the pastime.
We led our flocks to the same pasture, and partook together
our rustic meal. One evening, after the sheep were folded,
and we were all seated beneath the myrtle which shaded
our cottage, my grandsire, an old man, was telling of Mara-
thon and Leuctra; and how, in ancient times, a little band
of Spartans, in a defile of the mountains, had withstood a
whole army. I did not then know what war was; but my
cheek burned, I know not why, and I clasped the knees of
that venerable man, until my mother, parting the hair from
off my forehead, kissed my throbbing temples, and bade me
go to rest, and think no more of those old tales and savage
wars. That very night the Romans landed on our coast. I
saw the breast that had nourished me trampled by the hoof
of the war horse, — the bleeding body of my father flung
amidst the blazing rafters of our dwelling! To-day I killed
*\
SPARTACUS TO THE GLADIATORS. 265
a man in the arena; and, when I broke his helmet clasps,
behold! he was my friend. He knew me, smiled faintly,
gasped, and died; the same sweet smile upon his lips that I
had marked, when, in adventurous boyhood, we scaled the
lofty cliff to pluck the first ripe grapes, and bear them home
in childish triumph! I told the praetor that the dead man
had been my friend, generous and brave; and I begged that
I might bear away the body, to burn it on a funeral pile,
and mourn over its ashes. Ay! upon my knees, amid the
dust and blood of the arena, I begged that poor boon, while
all the assembled maids and matrons, and the holy virgins
they call Vestals, and the rabble, shouted in derision, deem-
ing it rare sport, forsooth, to see Rome's fiercest gladiator
turn pale and tremble at sight of that piece of bleeding
clay! And the praetor drew back as I were pollution, and
sternly said, "Let the carrion rot; there are no noble men
but Romans." And so, fellow-gladiators, must you, and so
must I, die like dogs. O Rome! Rome! thou hast been a
tender nurse to me. Ay! thou hast given to that poor, gen-
tle, timid shepherd lad, who never knew a harsher tone than
a flute-note, muscles of iron and a heart of flint; taught
him to drive the sword through plaited mail and links of
rugged brass, and warm it in the marrow of his foe; — to
gaze into the glaring eyeballs of the fierce JSIumidian lion,
even as a boy upon a laughing girl! And he shall pay thee
back, until the yellow Tiber is as red as frothing wine, and
in its deepest ooze thy life-blood lies curdled.
Ye stand here now -like giants, as ye are! The strength
of brass is in your toughened sinews, but to-morrow some
Roman Adonis, breathing sweet perfume from his curly
4ocks, shall, with his lily fingers, pat your red brawn, and bet
his sesterces upon your blood. Hark! hear ye yon lion
roaring in his den? 'Tis three days since he has tasted flesh;
but to-morrow he shall break his fast upon yours, — and a
dainty meal for him ye will be! If ye are beasts, then stand
here like fat oxen, waiting far the butcher's knife! If ye are
men, follow me! Strike down yon guard, gain the mountain
passes, and then do bloody work, as did your sires at old
. Thermopylae! Is Sparta dead? Is the old Grecian spirit
frozen in your veins, that you do crouch and cower like a
belabored hound beneath his master's lash? O comrades!
warriors! Thracians! if we must fight, let us fight for our-
selves! If we must slaughter, let us slaughter our oppres-
266 ADDRESS AT GETTYSBURG.
sors! If we must die, let it be under the clear sky, by the
bright waters, in noble, honorable battle!
ELIJAH KELLOGG.
ADDRESS AT THE DEDICATION OF GETTYSBURG
CEMETERY.
Fourscore and seven years ago our fathers brought forth
upon this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and
dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.
Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether
that nation, or any nation, so conceived and so dedicated,
can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of
that war. We are met to dedicate a portion of it as the
final resting-place of those who here gave their lives that
that nation might live.
It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.
But in a larger sense we cannot dedicate, we cannot conse-
crate, we cannot hallow this ground. The brave men, liv-
ing and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it far
above our power to add or detract. The world will little
note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never
forget what they did here.
It is for us, the living rather to be dedicated here to the
unfinished work they have thus far so nobly carried on. It
is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task re-
maining before us, that from these honored dead we take
increased devotion to the cause for which they gave the last
full measure of devotion; that we here highly resolve that
these dead shall not have died in vain, that the nation shall,
under God, have a new birth of freedom, and that the gov-
ernment of the people, by the people, and for the people,
shall not perish from the earth.
ABRAHAM LINCOLN.
IX. ABKUPT AET) STAETLISG
STYLES.
EXPLOSIVE OROTUND.
Under this head come all abrupt and startling emotions,
as fear, alarm, terror, hurry and commotion, anger, etc.
The chief peculiarity of this form of the Orotund is that
the tones, as they issue from the glottis, resemble the suc-
cessive reports of a pistol. In the case of the Expulsive
Orotund the 'form of utterance was a short shout. Here it
has no prolongation whatsoever, but is a sudden, instanta-
neous burst of voice. Without this sharp, clear arid pistol-
like utterance, all pieces of anger and fierce emotion, as well
as the fury and intensity of battle scenes, would be lost, and
the words charged with fire and passion would fall from the
lips of the speaker lifeless and flat. On the other hand, if
this explosive utterance were applied to Oratory, it would
crush out all the dignity of persuasive eloquence and turn
the prudent and manly utterance of the Orator into nothing
but angry diatribes.
The only style of Oratory in which the voice assumes any-
thing like an explosive form is that of fierce invective.
The prevailing pitch of the Explosive Orotund is high,
and sometimes very high, and the movement of the voice
quick or rapid.
268 MARMION AND DOUGLAS.
SELECTIONS OF BOLD ADDRESS, ANGER,
HURRY AND COMMOTION, ETC.
MARMION AND DOUGLAS.
The train from out the castle drew,
But Marmion stopped to bid adieu: —
" Though something I might plain," he said,
" Of cold respect to stranger guest,
Sent hither by your king's behest,
While in Tantallon's towers I stayed,
Part we in friendship from your land,
And noble Earl, receive my hand." —
But Douglas round him drew his cloak,
Folded his arms, and thus he spoke: —
" My manors, halls, and bowers shall still
Be open, at my sovereign's will,
To each one whom he lists, howe'er
Unmeet to be the owner's peer.
My castles are my king's alone
From turret to foundation-stone, —
The hand of Douglas is his own;
And never shall in friendly grasp
The hand of such as Marmion clasp." —
Burned Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire,
And shook his very frame for ire,
And — " This to me! " he said, —
" An 't were not for thy hoary beard,
Such hand as Marmion's had not spared
To cleave the Douglas' head!
And, first, I tell thee, haughty Peer,
He who does England's message here,
Although the meanest in herjstate,
May well, proud Angus, be thy mate:
And, Douglas, more I tell thee here,
Even in thy pitch of pride,
Here in thy hold, thy vassals near,
(Nay, never look upon your lord,
And lay your hands upon your sword,)
I tell thee, thou'rt defied!
BATTLE OF BEAL' AX DUIXE. 269
And if thou said'st I am not peer
To any lord in Scotland here,
Lowland or Highland, far or near,
Lord Angus, thou hast lied! *' —
On the Earl's cheek the flush of rage
O'ercame the ashen hue of age;
Fierce he broke forth, — ;; And dar'st thou then
To beard the lion in his den,
The Douglas in his hall?
And hop'st thou hence unscathed to go?
Xo. by St. Bride of Bothwell, no!
Up drawbridge, grooms, — what, Warder, ho!
Let the portcullis fall." —
Lord Marmion turned. — well was his need! —
And dashed the rowels in his steed,
Like arrow through the archway sprung;
The ponderous gate behind him rung:
To pass there was such scanty room,
The bars, descending, razed his plume.
The steed along the drawbridge flies,
Just as it trembled on the rise;
Not lighter does the swallow skim
Along the smooth lake's level brim;
And when Lord Marmion reached his band,
He halts, and turns with clenched hand,
And shout of loud defiance pours,
And shook his gauntlet at the towers.
SIB WALTEB SCOTT.
BATTLE OF EEAL' AX DUINE.
No cymbal clash'd, no clarion rang,
Still were the pipe and drum:
Save heavy tread, and armor's clang,
The sullen march was dumb.
There breathed no wind their crests to shake.
Or wave their flags abroad;
Scarce the frail aspen seem'd to quake,
That shadowed o'er their road.
270 BATTLE OF BEA^ AN DUINE.
Their vaward scouts no tidings bring,
Can rouse no lurking foe,
Nor spy a trace of living thing
Save when they stirr'd the roe;
The host moves, like a deep-sea- wave,
Where rise no rocks its pride to brave,
High-swelling, dark, and slow.
The lake is pass'd, and now they gain,
A narrow and a broken plain,
Before the Trosach's rugged jaws;
And here the horse and spearmen pause,
While to explore the dangerous glen,
Dive through the pass the archer-men.
At once there rose so wild a yell
Within that dark and narrow dell,
As all the fiends, from heaven that fell,
Had peal'd the banner-cry of hell!
Forth from the pass in tumult driven,
Like chaff before the wind of heaven,
The archery appear: «
For life! for life! their flight they ply — •
And shriek, and shout and battle-cry,
And plaids and bonnets waving high,
And broadswords flashing to the sky,
Are maddening in the rear.
Onward they drive in dreadful race,
Pursuers and pursued;
Before that tide of flight and chase,
How shall it keep its rooted place,
The spearmen's twilight- wood?
- — " Down, down," cried Mar, "your lances down!
Bear back both friend and foe!"
Like reeds before the tempest's frown,
That serried grove of lances brown
At once lay level'd low;
And closely shouldering side to side,
The bristling ranks the onset bide, —
— "We'll quell the savage mountaineer,
As their Tinchel cows the game!
They come as fleet as forest-deer
We'll drive them back as tame." —
AN - DUINE. 271
Bearing before them, in their course,
The relics of the archer-force,
Like wave with crest of sparkling foam,
Right onward did Clan-Alpine come.
Above the tide each broad-sword bright,
Was brandishing like beam of light
Each targe was dark below;
And with the ocean's mighty swing,
When heaving to the tempest's wing,
They hurl'd them on the foe.
I heard the lance's shivering crash,
As when the whirlwind rends the ash;
I heard the broad-swords' deadly clang,
As if an hundred anvils rang!
Bat Moray wheel'd his rear-ward rank
Of horsemen on Clan-Alpine's flank,
— " My banner-man, advance!
I see," he cried, " their column shake,—
Now, gallants! for your ladies' sake,
Upon them with the lance!"
The horsemen dash'd among the route,
As deer break through the broom;
Their steeds are stout, their swords are out,
They soon make lightsome room.
Clan-Alpine's best are backward borne, —
Where, where was Roderick then!
One blast upon his bugle-horn
Were worth a thousand men.
And refluent through the pass of fear
The battle's tide was pour'd;
Vanished the Saxon's struggling spear,
Vanished the mountain -sword.
AsBracklinn's chasm, so black and steep,
Receives her roaring linn,
As the dark caverns of the deep
Suck the wild whirlpool in,
So did the deep and darksome pass
Devour the battle's mingled mass;
None linger now upon the plain,
Save those who ne'er shall fight again.
SIR WALTER SCOTT.
272 THE BURIAL-MARCH OF DUNDEE.
THE BURIAL-MARCH OF DUNDEE.
On the heights of Killiecrankie
Yester-raorn our array lay;
Slowly rose the mist in columns
From the river's broken way;
Hoarsely roared the swollen torrent,
And the Pass was wrapped in gloom,
When the clansmen rose together
From their lair amidst the broom.
Then we belted on our tartans,
And our bonnets down we drew,
And we felt our broadswords' edges,
And we proved them to be true;
And we prayed the prayer of soldiers,
And we cried the gathering-cry,
And we clasped the hands of kinsmen,
And we swore to do or die!
Then our leader rode before us
On his war-horse black as night, —
Well the Camcronian rebels
Know that charger in the fight!—
And a cry of exultation
From the bearded warriors rose;
For we loved the house of Claver'se,
And we thought of good Montrose.
. But he raised his hand for silence — ■
"Soldiers! I have sworn a vow:
Ere the evening star shall glisten
On Schehall ion's lofty brow,
Either we shail rest in triumph,
Or another of the Graemes
Shall have died in battle-harness
For his Country and King James!
Think upon the Royal Martyr, —
Think of what his race endure, —
Think of him whom butchers murdered
On the field of Magus Nuir: —
By his sacred blood I charge ye,
By the ruined hearth and shrine, —
By the blighted hopes of Scotland,
By your injuries and mine, —
THE BTJKIAL-MAKCH OF DUNDEE. * 273
Strike this day as if the anvil
Lay beneath your blows the while,
Be they covenanting traitors,
Or the brood of false Argyle!
Strike! and drive the trembling rebels
Backwards o'er the stormy Forth;
Let them tell their pale Convention
How they fared within the North.
Let them tell that Highland honor
Is not to be bought nor sold,
That we scorn their Prince's anger
As we loath his foreign gold.
Strike! and w r hen the fight is over,
If ye look in vain for me,
Where the dead are lying thickest,
Search for him that was Dundee! "
Loudly then the hills re-echoed
With our answer to his call,
But a deeper echo sounded
In the bosoms of us all.
For the lands of wide Breadalbane,
Not a man who heard him speak
Would that day have left the battle.
Burning eye and flashing cheek
Told the clansmen's fierce emotion,
And they harder drew their breath.
For their souls were strong within them,
Stronger than the grasp of death.
Soon we heard a challenge-trumpet
Sounding in the Pass below,
And the distant tramp of horses,
And the voices of the foe;
Down we crouched amid the bracken,
Till the Lowland ranks drew near,
Panting like the hounds in summer, ,
When they scent the stately deer.
From the dark defile emerging,
Next we saw the squadrons come,
Leslie's foot and Leven's troopers
Marching to the tuck of drum;
Through the scattered wood of birches,
O'er the brooken ground and heath,
18
274 THE BURIAL-MARCH OF DUNDEE.
Wound the long battalion slowly,
Till they gained the plain beneath;
Then we bounded from our covert, —
Judge how looked the Saxons then,
"When they saw the rugged mountains
Start to life with armed men!
Like a tempest down the ridges
Swept the hurricane of steel,
Rose the slogan of Macdonald, —
Flashed the broadsword of Lochiel!
Vainly sped the withering volley
'Mongst the foremost of our band, —
On we poured until we met them,
Foot to foot, and hand to hand.
Horse and man went down like drift-wood
When the floods are black at Yule,
And their carcasses are whirling
In the Garry's deepest pool.
Horse and man went down before us, —
Living foe there tarried none
On the field of Killiecrankie,
When that stubborn fight was done!
And the evening star was shining
On Schehallion's distant head,
When we wiped our bloody broadswords,
And returned to count the dead.
There we found him gashed and gory,
Stretched upon the cumbered plain,
As he told us where to seek him,
In the thickest of the slain.
And a smile was on his visage,
For within his dying ear
Pealed the joyful note of triumph,
And the clansmen's clamorous cheer:
So^ amidst the battle's thunder,
Shot, and steel, and scorching flame,
In the glory of his manhood
Passed the spirit of the Grasme!
Open wide the vaults of Atholl,
Where the bones of heroes rest, —
Open wide the hallowed portals
To receive another guest!
STANDISH's ENCOUNTER WITH THE INDIANS. 275
Last of Scots, and last of freemen, —
Last of all that dauntless race,
Who would rather die unsullied
Than outlive the land's disgrace!
O thou lion-hearted warrior!
Reck not of the after-time ;
Honor may be deemed dishonor,
Loyalty be called a crime.
Sleep in peace with kindred ashes
Of the noble and the true,
Hands that never failed their country,
Hearts that never baseness knew.
Sleep! — and till the latest trumpet
Wakes the dead from earth and sea,
Scotland shall not boast a braver
Chieftain than our own Dundee!
W. EDM0NDST0UNE AYTOTJN.
MILES STANDISH'S ENCOUNTER WITH THE
INDIANS.
After a three days' march he came to an Indian encamp-
ment
Pitched on the edge of a .meadow, between the sea and the
forest;
Women at work by the tents, and the warriors, horrid with
war-paint,
Seated about a fire, and smoking and talking together;
Who, when they saw from afar the sudden approach of the
white men,
Saw the flash of the sun on breastplate and sabre and
musket,
Straightway leaped to their feet, and two, from among them
advancing,
Came to parley with Standish, and offer him furs as a
present;
Friendship was in their looks, but in their hearts there was,
hatred.
Braves of the tribe were these, and brothers gigantic in.
stature,
Huge as Goliath of Gath, or the terrible Og, king of Bashan;
276 standish's encountek with the Indians.
One was Pecksuot named, and the other was called Watta-
wamat.
Round their necks were suspended their knives in scabbards
of wampum,
Two-edged, trenchant knives, with points as sharp as a
needle.
Other arms had they none, for they were cunning and
crafty.
" Welcome, English! " they said, — these words they had
learned from the traders
Touching at times on the coast, to barter and chaffer for
peltries.
Then in their native tongue they began to parley with
Standish,
Through his guide and interpreter, Hobomok, friend of the
white man,
Begging for blankets and knives, but mostly for muskets
and powder,
Kept by the white man, they said, concealed, with the
plague, in his cellars,
Keady to be let loose, and destroy his brother the red man!
But when Standish refused, and said he would give them
the Bible,
Suddenly changing their tone, they began to boast and to
bluster.
Then Wattawamat advanced with a stride in front of the
other,
And, with a lofty demeanor, thus vauntingly spake to the
Captain :
"Now Wattawamat can see, by the fiery eyes of the cap-
tain,
Angry is he in his heart; but the heart of the brave Watta-
wamat
Is not afraid of the sight. He was not born of a woman,
But on a mountain, at night, from an oak-tree riven by light-
ning,
Forth he sprang at a bound with all his weapons about him
Shouting, ' Who is there here to fight with the brave Wat-
tawamat? ' "
Then he unsheathed his knife, and, whetting the blade on
his left hand,
Held it aloft and displayed a woman's face on the handle,
Saying, with bitter expression and look of sinister meaning:
" I have another at home, with the face of a man on the han-
dle;
By and by they shall marry; and there will be plenty of
children! "
Then stood Pecksuot forth, self-vaunting, insulting Miles
Standish:
While with his fingers he patted the knife that hung at his
bosom,
Drawing it half from its sheath, and plunging it back, as he
muttered,
" By and by it shall see; it shall eat; ah, ha! but shall
speak not!
This is the mighty Captain the white men have sent to des-
troy us!
He is a little man; let him go and work with the women! "
Meanwhile Standish had noted the faces and figures of
Indians
Peeping and creeping about from bush to tree in the forest,
Feigning to look for game, with arrows set on their bow-
strings,
Drawing about him still closer and closer the net of their
ambush.
But undaunted he stood, and dissembled and treated them
smoothly;
So the old chronicles say, that were writ in the days of the
fathers.
But when he heard their defiance, the boast, the taunt, and
the insult,
All the hot blood of his race, of Sir Hugh and of Thurston
de Standish,
Boiled and beat in his heart, and swelled in the veins of his
temples.
Headlong he leaped on the boaster, and, snatching his knife
from its scabbard,
Plunged it into his heart, and, reeling backward, the savage
Fell with his face to the sky, and a fiendlike fierceness upon
it.
Straight there arose from the forest the awful sound of the
war-whoop,
And like a flurry of snow on the whistling wind of Decem-
ber,
278 THE BATTLE OF IVEY.
Swift and sudden and keen came a flight of feathery ar-
rows.
Then came a cloud of smoke, and out of the cloud came the
lightning,
Out of the lightning thunder; and death unseen ran before
it.
Frightened the savages fled for shelter in swamp and in
thicket,
Hotly pursued and beset; but their sachem, the brave Wat-
tawamat,
Fled not; he was dead. Unswerving and swift had a bullet
Passed through his brain, aud he fell with both hands clutch-
ing the greensward,
Seeming in death to hold back from his foe the land of his
fathers.
Thus the first battle was fought and won by the stalwart
Miles Stan dish.
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
THE BATTLE OF IVRY.
Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are!
And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King Henry of Navarre!
Now let there be the merry sound of music and the dance,
Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vales, O pleasant
land of France!
And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the
waters,
Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daugh-
ters;
As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy,
For cold and stiff and still are they who wrought thy walls
annoy.
Hurrah! hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of
war.
Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivry and King Henry of Navarre!
Oh, how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day,
We saw the army of the League drawn out in long array;
"With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers,
And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish
spears!
THE BATTLE OF IVEY. 279
There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our
land!
And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his
hand;
And as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled
flood,
And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his blood;
And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of
war,
To fight for His own holy Name, and Henry of Navarre.
The King has come to marshal us, in all his armor drest,
And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant
crest.
He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye;
He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and
high.
Right graciously, he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to
wing,
Down all our line, in deafening shout, " God save our lord,
the King! "
" And if my standard-bearer fall, — as fall full well he may,
For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray, —
Press where ye see my white plume shine, amid the ranks of
war,
And be your oriflamme, to-day, the helmet of Navarre."
Hurrah! the foes are moving! Hark to the mingled din
Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring cul-
verin!
The fiery Duke is pricking fast across Saint Andre's plain,
With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne.
Now, by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of
France,
Charge for the golden lilies now, — upon them With the
lance!
A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in
rest,
A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white
crest,
And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a guiding
star,
Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre.
280 CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE.
Now, God be praised, the days is ours! Mayenne hath
turned his rein,
D'Aumale hath cried for quarter — the Flemish Count is
slain;
Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay
gale;
The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and
cloven mail.
And then we thought on vengeance, and all along our van,
"Remember St. Bartholomew! " was passed from man to
man;
Bat out spake gentle Henry then, " No Frenchman is my
foe;
Down, down with every foreigner; but let your brethren
Oh! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war,
As our sovereign lord, King Henry, the soldier of Navarre!
Ho! maidens of Vienna! Ho! matrons of Lucerne!
Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall
return ;
Ho! Phillip, send for charity thy Mexican pistoles,
That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spear-
men's souls!
Ho! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be
bright!
Ho! burghers of St. Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-
night!
For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised
the slave,
And mocked the counsel of the wise and the valor of the
brave.
Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are;
And glory to our sovereign lord, King Henry of Navarre!
LORD MACAULAY.
CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE.
Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of death
Rode the six hundred.
CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. 281
"Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns! " he said.
Into the valley of death,
Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade! "
Was there a man dismayed?
Not though the soldiers knew
Some one had blundered:
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die:
Into the valley of death,
Rode the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them,
Volleyed and thundered:
Stormed at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well:
Into the jaws of death,
Into the mouths of hell,
Rode the six hundred.
Flashed all their sabers bare,
Flashed as they turned in air,
Sab'ring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wondered:
Plunged in the battery smoke,
Right through the line they broke:
Cossack and Russian
Reeled from the saber-stroke,
Shattered and sundered.
Then they rode back — but not,
Not the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them,
Volleyed and thundered:
282 BATTLE OF FONTENOY.
Stormed at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well,
Came through the jaws of death,
Back from the mouth of hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.
"When can their glory fade?
Oh, the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honor the charge they made!
Honor the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred!
ALFRED TENNYSON.
BATTLE OF FONTENOY.
May 11th, 1745.
Thrice, at the huts of Fontenoy, the English column failed,
And, twice, the lines of Saint Antoine, the Dutch in vain
assailed;
For town and slope were filled with fort and flanking bat-
And well they swept the English ranks, and Dutch auxiliary.
As vainly, through De Barri's wood, the British soldiers
burst,
The French artillery drove them back, diminished and dis-
persed.
The bloody Duke of Cumberland beheld with anxious eye,
And ordered up his last reserve, his latest chance to try.
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, how fast his generals ride!
And mustering come his chosen troops, like clouds at even-
tide.
Six thousand English veterans in stately column tread, —
Their cannon blaze in front and flank, Lord Hay is at their
head;
Steady they step adown the slope — steady they climb the
hill;
Steady they load — steady they fire, moving right onward
still,
BATTLE OP FONTENOY. 283
Betwixt the wood and Fontenoy, as through a furnace blast,
Through rampart, trench, and palisade, and bullets shower-
ing fast;
And on the open plain above they rose and kept their course,
With ready fire and grim resolve, that mocked at hostile
force;
Past Fontenoy, past Fontenoy, while thinner grow their
ranks,
They break, as broke the Zuyder Zee through Holland's
ocean banks.
More idly than the summer flies, French tirailleurs rush
round;
As stubble to the lava tide, French squadrons strew the
ground;
Bombshell, and grape, and round-shot tore, still on they
marched and fired —
Fast from each volley, grenadier and voltigeur retired.
"Push on my household cavalry;" King Louis madly cried;
To death they rush, but rude their shock — not unavenged
they died.
On through the camp the column trod — King Louis turns
his rein;
" Not yet, my liege," Saxe interposed, " the Irish troops re-
main;"
And Fontenoy, famed Fontenoy, had been a Waterloo,
Were not these exiles ready then, — fresh, vehement and
true.
"Lord Clare, '• he says "you have your wish, there are your
Saxon foes!"
The Marshal almost smiled to see, so furiously he goes!
How fierce the look these exiles wear, who 're wont to be so
gay,
The treasured wrongs of fifty years are in their hearts to-
da y—
The treaty broken, ere the ink wherewith 't was writ could
: dr ^'
Their plundered homes, their ruined shrines, their women's
parting cry,
Their priesthood hunted down like wolves, their country
overthrown, —
Each looks, as if revenge for all were staked on him alone.
284 HEEVE El EL.
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, nor ever yet elsewhere,
Rushed on to fight a nobler band than those proud exiles
were.
O'Brien's voice is hoarse with joy, as, halting, he commands,
"Fix bay'nets — Charge!" Like mountain-storm, rush on
these fiery bands.
Thin is the English column now, and faint their volleys
grow,
Yet, must'ring all the strength they have, they make a gal-
lant show.
They dress their ranks upon the hill to face that battle
wind —
Their bayonets the breakers' foam; like rocks, the men
behind!
One volley crashes from their line, when, through the surg-
ing smoke,
With empty guns clutched in their hands, the headlong Irish
broke.
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, hark to that fierce huzza!
" Revenge! remember Limerick! dash down the Sassenagh!"
Like lions leaping at a fold, when mad with hunger's pang,
Right up against the English line the Irish exiles sprang:
Bright was their steel, 'tis bloody now, their guns are filled
with gore;
Through shattered ranks, and severed files, and trampled
flags they tore;
The English strove with desperate strength, paused, rallied,
staggered, fled —
The green hill-side is matted close with dying and with dead;
Across the plain, and far away passed on that hideous wrack,
While cavalier and fantassin dash in upon their track.
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, like eagles in the sun,
With bloody plumes the Irish stand — the field is fought and
won
THOMAS DAVIS.
HERV£ RIEL.
On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two,
Did the English fight the French, — woe to France!
HEEYE EIEL. 285
And, the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter through the blue,
Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks pursue,
Came crowding ship on ship to St. Malo on the Ranee,
"With the English fleet in view.
5 T was the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full
chase,
First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, Damfre-
ville;
Close on him fled, great and small,
Twenty-two good ships in all;
And they signaled to the place.
"Help the winners of a race!
Get us guidance, give us harbor, take us quick, — or,
quicker still,
Here 's the English can and will! "
Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leaped on
board.
" Why, what hope or chance have ships like these to pass? "
laughed they;
" Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred
and scored,
Shall the Formidable here, with her twelve and eighty guns,
Think to make the river-mouth by the single narrow way,
Trust to enter where 't is ticklish for a craft of twenty tons,
And with flow at full beside?
Now 't is slackest ebb of tide. ^
Reach the mooring? Rather say,
While rock stands or water runs,
Not a ship will leave the bay! "
Then was called a council straight;
Brief and bitter the debate:
" Here's the English at our heels; would you have them take
in tow
All that s left us of the fleet, linked together stern and bow,
For a prize to Plymouth Sound?
Better run the ships aground! "
(Ended Damfreville his speech.)
u Not a minute more to wait!
Let the captains all and each
Shove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the beach!
France must undergo her fate."
286 HERVE RIEL.
" Give the word! " But no such word
Was ever spoke or heard;
For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid all these, —
A captain? A lieutenant? A mate, — first second, third?
No such man of mark, and meet
With his betters to compete!
But a simple Breton sailor pressed by Tourville for the
fleet —
A poor coasting-pilot he, Herve Riel the Croisickese.
And " What mockery or malice have we here? " cries Herve
Riel;
Are you mad, you Malouins? Are you cowards, fools,
or rogues?
Talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the soundings, tell
On my fingers every bank, every shallow, every swell
'Twixt the offing here and Greve, where the river disem-
bogues?
Are you bought by English gold? Is it love the lying's for?
Morn and eve, night and day,
Have I piloted your bay,
Entered free and anchored fast at the foot of Solidor.
Burn the fleet, and ruin France? That were worse than
fifty Hogues!
Sirs, they know I speak the truth! Sirs, believe me,
there's a way!
Only let me lead the line,
Have the biggest ship to steer,
Get this Formidable clear,
Make the others follow mine,
And I lead them most and least by a passage I know well,
Right to Solidor, past Greve,
And there lay them safe and sound;
And if one ship misbehave, —
Keel so much as grate the ground, —
Why, I've nothing but my life ; here's my head! " cries
Herve Riel.
Not a minute more to wait.
" Steer us in, then, small and great!
Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron!" cried its
chief.
Captains, give the sailor place!
He is Admiral, in brief.
HEEVE EIEL. 287
Still the north-wind, by God's grace.
See the noble fellow's face
As the big ship, with a bound,
Clears the entry like a hound,
Keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide sea's
profound!
See, safe through shoal and rock,
How they follow in a flock.
Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground.
Not a spar that comes to grief!
The peril, see, is past,
All are harbored to the last;
And just as Herve Riel halloos "Anchor!" — sure as fate,
Up the English come, too late.
So the storm subsides to calm;
They see the green trees wave
On the heights o'erlookino; Greve;
Hearts that bled are staunched with balm.
"Just our rapture to enhance,
Let the English rake the bay,
Gnash their teeth and glare askance
As they cannonade away!
'Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the Ranee!"
How hope succeeds despair on each captain's countenance!
Outburst all with one accord,
"This is Paradise for Hell!
Let France, let France's King
Thank the man that did the thing! "
What a shout, and all one word,
"Herve Riel,"
As he stepped in front once more,
Not a symptom of surprise
In the frank blue Breton eyes,
Just the same man as before.
Then said Damfreville, " My friend,
I must speak out at the end,
Though I find the speaking hard:
Praise is deeper than the lips;
You have saved the king his ships,
You must name your own reward,
Faith, our sun was near eclipse!
288 HERVE KIEL.
Demand whate'er you will,
France remains your debtor still.
Ask to heart's content, and have! or my name's not Dam-
freville."
Then a beam of fun outbroke
On the bearded mouth that spoke,
As the honest heart laughed through
Those frank eyes of Breton blue;
" Since I needs must say my say,
Since on board the duty's done,
And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what is it but a
run ? —
Since 't is ask and have I may, —
Since the others go ashore, —
Come! A good whole holiday!
Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the Belle
Aurore! "
That he asked, and that he got, — nothing more.
Name and deed alike are lost;
Not a pillar nor a post
In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell;
Not a head in white and black
On a single fishing-smack.
In memory of the man but for whom had gone to wrack
All that France saved from the fight whence England
bore the bell.
Go to Paris; rank on rank
Search the heroes flung pell-mell
On the Louvre, face and flank;
You shall look long enough ere you come to Herve Kiel.
So, for better and for worse,
Herve Riel, accept my verse!
In my verse, Herve Riel, do thou once more
Save the squadron, honor France, love thy wife, the Belle
Aurore!
ROBERT BROWNING.
the seminole's reply. 289
WARREN'S ADDRESS.
Stand! the ground's your own, my braves!
Will ye give it up to slaves?
Will ye look for greener graves?
Hope ye mercy still?
What 's the mercy despots feel?
Hear it in that battle-peal!
Read it on yon bristling steel!
Ask it, — ye who will.
Fear ye foes who kill for hire?
Will ye to your homes retire?
Look behind you! — they 're afire!
And, before you, see
Who have done it! From the vale
On they come! — and will ye quail?
Leaden rain and iron hail
Let their welcome be!
In the God of battles trust!
Die we may, — and die we must:
But, O, where can dust to dust
Be consigned so well,
As where heaven its dew shall shed
On the martyred patriot's bed,
And the rocks shall raise their head,
Of his deeds to tell.
JOHN PIERPONT.
THE SEMINOLE'S REPLY.
Blaze, with your serried columns!
I will not bend the knee!
The shackles ne'er again shall bind
The arm which now is free.
I've mailed it with the thunder,
When the tempest muttered low;
And where it falls, ye well may dread
The lightning of its blow!
I've scared ye in the city,
I've scalped ye on the plain;
19
290 the Seminole's reply.
Go, count your chosen, where they fell
Beneath my leaden rain!
I scorn your proffered treaty!
The pale-face I defy!
Revenge is stamped upon my spear,
And blood my battle cry!
Some strike for hope of booty,
Some to defend their all, — •
I battle for the joy I have
To see the white man fall:
I love, among the wounded,
To hear his dying moan,
And catch, while chanting at his side,
The music of his groan.
Ye've trailed me through the forest,
Ye've tracked me o'er the stream;
And struggling through the everglade,
Your bristling bayonets gleam;
But I stand as should the warrior,
With his rifle and his spear;
The scalp of vengeance still is red,
And warns ye — Come not here!
I loathe ye in my bosom,
I scorn ye with mine eye,
And I'll taunt ye with my latest breath.
And fight ye till I die!
I ne'er will ask ye quarter,
And I ne'er will be your slave;
But I'll swim the sea of slaughter,
Till I sink beneath its wave!
GEORGE W. PATTEN.
X. MISCELLANEOUS
From the fact that the selections under this head are of
varied emotion, and no satisfactory classification can be
made unless each piece is analyzed, it has been thought
best to rely upon the suggestions already given as the best
means for their successful interpretation.
The student after careful study of the leading styles of
composition which have been considered, will have acquired
such familiarity with the written forms of impassioned lit-
erature that he will be prepared to analyze the spirit and
temper of all selections involving a variety of mingled
emotions.
MISCELLANEOUS SELECTIONS
KING ROBERT OF SICILY.
Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane
And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine,
Appareled in magnificent attire,
With retinue of many a knight and squire,
On St. John's eve, at vespers, proudly sat
And heard the priests chant the Magnificat.
And as he listened, o'er and o'er again
Repeated, like a burden or refrain,
He caught the words, " Deposuit potentes
De sede et exaltavit humiles ";
And slowly lifting up his kingly head,
He to a learned clerk beside him said,
292 KING E0BEET OF SICILY.
"What tnean these words?" the clerk made answer meet,
" He has put down the mighty from their seat,
And has exalted them of low degree."
Thereat King Robert muttered scornfully,
" 'T is well that such seditious words are sung
Only by priests and in the Latin tongue;
For unto priests and people be it known,
There is no power can push me from my throne!"
And leaning back, he yawned and fell asleep,
Lulled by the chant monotonous and deep.
When he awoke it was already night;
The church was empty, and there was no light,
Save where the lamps, that glimmered few and faint,
Lighted a little space before some saint.
He started from his seat and gazed around,
But saw no living thing and heard no sound.
He groped towards the door, but it was locked;
He cried aloud, and listened, and then knocked,
And uttered awful threatenings and complaints,
And imprecations upon men and saints,
The sounds re-echoed from the roof and walls
As if dead priests were laughing in their stalls.
At length the sexton, hearing from without
The tumult of the knocking and the shout,
And thinking thieves were in the house of prayer,
Came with his lantern, asking, "Who is there?"
Half choked with rage, King Robert fiercely said,
"Open: 'tis I, the King! Art thou afraid?"
The frightened sexton, muttering, with a curse,
" This is some drunken vagabond, or worse!"
Turned the great key and flung the portal wide;
A man rushed by him at a single stride,
Haggard, half nakod, without hat or cloak,
Who neither turned, nor looked at him, nor spoke,
But leaped into the blackness of the night
And vanished like a spectre from his sight.
Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane
And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine,
Despoiled of his magnificent attire,
Bareheaded, breathless, and besprent with mire,
KING EOBEET OF SICILY. 293
"With sense of wrong and outrage desperate,
Strode on and thundered at the palace gate:
Rushed through the court-yard, thrusting in his rage
To right and left each seneschal and page,
And hurried up the broad and sounding stair,
His white face ghastly in the torches' gJare.
From hall to hall he passed with breathless speed:
Voices and cries he heard, but did not heed,
Until at last he reached the banquet room,
Blazing with light and breathing with perfume.
There on the dais sat another king,
Wearing his robes, his crown, his signet-ring,
King Robert's self in feature, form and height,
But all transfigured with angelic light!
It was an Angel; and his presence there
With a divine effulgence filled the air,
An exaltation, piercing the disguise,
Though none the hidden Anorel recognize.
A moment speechless, motionless, amazed,
The throneless monarch on the Angel gazed,
Who met his look of anger and surprise
With the divine compassion of his eyes;
Then said, "Who art thou? and why com'st thou here?"
To which King Robert answered with a sneer,
"I am the King, and come to claim my own
From an imposter, who usurps my throne!"
And suddenly, at these audacious words,
Up sprang the angry guests, and drew their swords!
The Angel answered with unruffled brow,
u Nay, not the King, but the King's Jester, thou
Henceforth shalt wear the bells and scalloped cape,
And for thy counselor shalt lead an ape;
Thou shalt obey my servants when they call,
And wait upon my henchmen in the hall!"
Deaf to King Robert's threats and cries and prayers,
They thrust him from the hall and down the stairs;
A group of tittering pages ran before,
And as they opened wide the folding- door,
His heart failed, for he heard, with strange alarms,
The boisterous laughter of the men-at-arms,
294 KING EOBEET OP SICILY.
And all the vaulted chamber roar and ring
With the mock plaudits of " Long live the King!"
Next morning, waking with the day's first beam,
He said within himself, "It was a dream!"
But the straw rustled as he turned his head,
There were the cap and bells beside his bed,
Around him rose the bare, discolored walls,
Close by, the steeds were champing in their stalls,
And in the corner, a revolting shape,
Shivering and chattering sat the wretched ape.
It was no dream; the world he loved so much
Had turned to dust and ashes at his touch!
Days came and went; and now returned again
To Sicily the old Saturnian reign;
Under the Angel's governance benign
The happy island danced with corn and wine,
And deep within the mountain's burning breast
Enceladus, the giant, was at rest.
Meanwhile King Robert yielded to his fate,
Sullen and silent and disconsolate,
Dressed in the motley garb that Jesters wear,
With look bewildered and a vacant stare,
Close shaven above the ears, as monks are shorn,
By courtiers mocked, by pages laughed to scorn,
His only friend the ape, his only food
What others left, — he still was unsubdued.
And when the Angel met him on his way,
And half in earnest, half in jest, would say,
Sternly, though tenderly, that he might feel
The velvet scabbard held a sword of steel,
"Art thou the King?" the passion of his woe
Burst from him in resistless overflow,
And, lifting high his forehead he would fling
The haughty answer back, " I am, I am the king! "
Almost three years were ended; when there came
Ambassadors of great repute and name
From Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine,
Unto King Robert, saying that Pope Urbane
By letter summoned them forthwith to come
On Holy Thursday to his city of Rome.
KING ROBERT OP SICILY. 295
The Angel with great joy received his guests,
And gave them presents of embroidered vests,
And velvet mantels with rich ermine lined,
And rings and jewels of the rarest kind.
Then he departed with them o'er the sea
Into the lovely land of Italy,
Whose loveliness was more resplendent made
By the mere passing of that cavalcade,
With plumes, and cloaks, and housings, and the stir
Of jeweled bridle and of golden spur.
And lo! among the menials, in mock state,
Upon a piebald steed, with shambling gait,
His cloak of fox-tails napping in the wind,
The solemn ape demurely perched behind,
King Robert rode, making huge merriment
In all the country towns through which they went.
The Pope received them with great pomp and blare
Of bannered trumpets, on Saint Peter's square,
Giving his benediction and embrace,
Fervent, and full of apostolic grace.
While with congratulations and with prayers
He entertained the Angel unawares,
Robert, the Jester, bursting through the crowd,
Into their presence rushed, and cried aloud,
" I am the King! Look and behold in me
Robert, your brother, King of Sicily!
This man who wears my semblance to your eyes,
Is an impostor in a king's disguise.
Do you not know me? does no voice within
Answer my cry, and say we are akin?"
The Pope in silence, but with troubled mien,
Gazed at the Angel's countenance serene;
The Emperor, laughing said, " It is strange sport
To keep a madman for thy Fool at court! "
And the poor, baffled Jester in disgrace
Was hustled back among the populace.
In solemn state the Holy Week went by,
And Easter Sunday gleamed upon the sky;
The presence of the Angel, with its light,
Before the sun rose, made the city bright,
296 KING ROBERT OF SICILY.
And with new fervor filled the hearts of men,
Who felt that Christ indeed had risen again.
Even the Jester on his bed of straw,
With haggard eyes the unwonted splendor saw,
He felt within a power unfelt before,
And, kneeling humbly on his chamber floor,
He heard the rushing garments of the Lord
Sweep through the silent air, ascending heavenward.
And now the visit ending, and once more
Valmond returning to the Danube's shore,
Homeward the Angel journeyed, and again
The land was made resplendent with his train
Flashing along; the towns of Italv
Unto Salerno, and from thence by sea.
And when once more within Palermo's wall,
And seated on the throne in his great hall,
He heard the Angelus from convent towers,
As if a better world conversed with ours,
He beckoned to King Robert to draw nigher,
And with a gesture bade the rest retire;
And when they were alone, the Angel said,
" Art thou the King?" Then, bowing down his head,
King Robert crossed both hands upon his breast,
And meekly answered him: "Thou knowest best!
My sins as scarlet are; let me go hence,
And in some cloister's school of penitence,
Across those stones, that pave the way to heaven,
Walk barefoot, till my guilty soul be shriven ! "
The Angel smiled, and from his radiant face
A holy light illumined all the place,
And through the open window, loud and clear,
They heard the monks chant in the chapel near,
Above the stir and tumult of the street:
" He has put down the mighty from their seat,
And has exalted them of low degree! "
And through the chant a second melody
Rose like the throbbing of a single string:
" I am an Angel, and thou art the Kin^! "
King Robert, who was standing near the throne,
Lifted his eyes, and lo! he was alone!
HORATIUS AT THE BRIDGE. 297
But all appareled as in days of old,
With ermined mantle and with cloth of gold;
And when his courtiers came, they found him there
Kneeling upon the floor, absorbed in silent prayer.
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
HORATIUS AT THE BRIDGE.
Lars Porsena of Clusium,
By the nine gods he swore
That the great house of Tarquin
Should suffer wrong no more.
By the nine gods he swore it,
And named a trysting-day,
And bade his messengers ride forth,
East and west and south and north,
To summon his array.
East and west and south and north
The messengers ride fast,
And tower and town and cottage
Have heard the trumpet's blast.
The horsemen and the footmen
Are pouring in amain
From many a stately market-place,
From many a fruitful plain;
And now hath every city
Sent up her tale of men;
The foot are fourscore thousand
The horse are thousands ten.
Before the gates of Sutrium
Is met the great array,
A proud man was Lars Porsena
Upon the trysting day.
But by the yellow Tiber
Was tumult and affright:
From all the spacious champaign
To Rome men took their flight.
A mile around the city,
The throng stopped up the ways;
298 HOKATIUS AT THE BKIDGE.
A fearful sight it was to see
Through two long nights and days.
Now, from the rock Tarpeian,
Could the wan burghers spy
The line of blazing- villages
Red in the midnight sky.
The Fathers of the City,
They sat all night and day
For every hour some horseman came
With tidings of dismay.
They held a council standing
Before the river-gate;
Short time was there, ye well may guess,
For musing or debate.
Outspake the Consul roundly:
" The bridge must straight go down;
For since Janiculum is lost
Naught else can save the town."
Just then a scout came flying,
All wild with haste and fear:
" To arms! to arms! Sir Consul;
Lars Porsena is here."
On the Jow hills to westward
The Consul fixed his eye,
And saw the swarthy storm of dust
Rise fast along the sky.
And nearer, fast and nearer,
Doth the red whirlwind come;
And louder still and still more loud,
From underneath that rolling cloud,
Is heard the trumpet's war-note proud,
The trampling and the hum.
And plainly and more plainly
Now through the gloom appears,
Far to left and far to right,
In broken gleams of dark-blue light,
The long array of helmets bright,
The long array of spears.
HORATIUS AT THE BRIDGE. 299
But the Consul's brow was sad,
And the Consul's speech was low,
And darkly looked he at the wall,
And darkly at the foe:
"Their van will be upon us
Before the bridge goes down;
And if they once may win the bridge,
What hope to save the town? "
Then outspake brave Horatius,
The captain of the gate:
" To every man upon this earth
Death cometh soon or late.
And how can man die better
Than facing fearful odds
For the ashes of his fathers
And the temples of his gods?
"Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul,
With all the speed ye may;
I, with two more to help me,
Will hold the foe in play, —
In yon strait path a thousand
May well be stopped by three.
Now who will stand on either hand,
And keep the bridge with me? "
Then outspake Spurius Lartius, —
A Ramnian proud was he:
" Lo, I will stand at thy right hand,
And keep the bridge with thee."
And outspake strong Herminius, —
Of Titian blood was he:
" I will abide on thy left side,
And keep the bridge with thee."
"Horatius," quoth the Consul,
" As thou sayest, so let it be."
And straight against that great array,
Forth went the dauntless Three.
Now, while the Three were tightening
Their harness on their backs,
300 HOKATIUS AT THE BRIDGE.
The Consul was the foremost man
To take in hand an axe;
And Fathers mixed with Commons
Seized hatchet, bar, and crow,
And smote upon the planks above,
And loosed the props below.
Meanwhile the Tuscan army,
Right glorious to behold,
Came flashing back the noonday light,
Rank behind rank, like surges bright
Of a broad sea of gold.
Four hundred trumpets sounded
A peal of warlike glee,
As that great host, with measured tread,
And spears advanced, and ensigns spread,
Rolled slowly towards the bridge's head,
Where stood the dauntless Three.
The three stood calm and silent,
And looked upon the foes,
And a great shout of laughter
From all the vanguard rose;
And forth three chiefs came spurring
Before that mighty mass;
To earth they sprang, their swords they drew,
And lifted high their shields, and flew
To win the narrow pass.
Aunus, from green Tifernum,
Lord of the hill of vines;
And Seius, whose eight hundred slaves
Sicken in Ilva's mines;
And Picus, long to Clusium
Vassal in peace and war.
Stout Lartius hurled down Aunus
Into the stream beneath;
Herminius struck at Seius,
And clove him to the teeth;
At Picus brave Horatius
Darted one fiery thrust,
HOEATIUS AT THE BRIDGE. 301
And the proud Umbrian's gilded arms
Clashed in the bloody dust.
But now no sound of laughter
Was heard amongst the foes.
A wild and wrathful clamor
From all the vanguard rose.
Six spears' lengths from the entrance
Halted that mighty mass,
And for a space no man came forth
To win the narrow pass.
But, hark! the cry is Astur:
And lo! the ranks divide;
And the great lord of Luna
Comes with his stately stride.
Upon his ample shoulders
Clangs loud the fourfold shield,
And in his hand he shakes the brand
Which none but he can wield.
He smiled on those bold Romans,
A smile serene and high;
He eyed the flinching Tuscans,
And scorn was in his eye.
Quoth he, " The she-wolf's litter
Stand savagely at bay;
But will ye dare to follow,
If Astur clears the way?"
Then, whirling up his broadsword
With both hands to the height,
He rushed against Horatius,
And smote with all his might,
With shield and blade Horatius
Right deftly turned the blow,
The blow, though turned, came yet too nigh;
It missed his helm, but gashed his thigh.
The Tuscans raised a joyful cry
To see the red blood flow.
He reeled, and on Herminius
He leaned one breathing-space,
302 HOEATIUS AT THE BEIDGE.
Then, like a wild-cat mad with wounds,
Sprang right at Astur's face.
Through teeth and skull and hemlet
So fierce a thrust he sped,
The good sword stood a handbreadth out
Behind the Tuscan's head.
And the great lord of Luna
Fell at that deadly stroke,
As falls on Mount Avernus
A thunder-smitten oak.
On Astur's throat Horatius
Right firmly pressed his heel,
And thrice and four times tugged amain,
Ere he wrenched out the steel.
" And see," he cried, " the welcome,
Fair guests, that waits you here!
What noble Lucumo comes next
To taste our Roman cheer? "
But meanwhile axe and lever
Have manfully been plied,
And now the bridge hangs tottering
Above the boiling tide.
" Come back, come back, Horatius! "
Loud cried the Fathers all;
"Back, Lartius! back, Herminius!
Back, ere the ruin fall! "
Back darted Spurius Lartius;
Herminius darted back;
And, as they passed, beneath their feet
They felt the timbers crack;
But when they turned their faces,
And on the further shore
Saw brave Horatius stand alone,
They would have crossed once more.
But, with a crash like thunder,
Fell every loosened beam,
And, like a dam, the mighty wreck
Lay right athwart the stream;
HOEATIUS AT THE BRIDGE. 303
And a long shout of triumph
Rose from the walls of Rome.
As to the highest turret-tops
Was splashed the yellow foam.
Alone stood brave Horatius,
But constant still in mind, —
Thrice thirty thousand foes before,
And the broad flood behind.
"Down with him!" cried false Sextus,
With a smile on his pale face;
"Now yield thee," cried Lars Porsena,
"Now yield thee to our grace!"
Round turned he, as not deigning
Those craven ranks to see;
Naught spake he to Lars Porsena,
To Sextus naught spake he;
But he saw on Palatinus
The white porch of his home;
And he spake to the noble river
That rolls by the towers of Rome:
" O Tiber! Father Tiber!
To whom the Romans pray
A Roman's life, a Roman's arms,
Take thou in charge this day!"
So he spake, and, speaking, sheathed
The good sword by his side,
And, with his harness on his back,
Plunged headlong in the tide.
No sound of joy or sorrow
Was heard from either bank,
But friends and foes in dumb surprise,
With parted lips and straining eyes,
Stood gazing where he sank;
And when above the surges
They saw his crest appear,
All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry,
And even the ranks of Tuscany
Could scarce forbear to cheer.
304 THE VAGABONDS.
But fiercely ran the current,
Swollen high by months of rain,
And fast his blood was flowing;
And he was sore in pain,
And heavy with his armor,
And spent with changing blows;
And oft they thought him sinking,
But still again he rose.
And now he feels the bottom; —
Now on dry earth he stands;
Now round him throng the Fathers
To press his gory hands.
And, now with shouts and clapping,
And noise of weeping loud,
He enters through the River Gate,
Borne by the joyous crowd.
LORD MACAULAY.
THE VAGABONDS.
We are two travelers, Roger and I.
Roger's my dog: — come here, you scamp!
Jump for the gentlemen, — mind your eye!
Over the table, — look out for the lamp! —
The rogue is growing a little old;
Five years we've tramped through wind and weather,
And slept out-doors when nights were cold,
And ate and drank — and starved together.
We've learned what comfort is, I tell you!
A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin,
A fire to thaw our thumbs (poor fellow!
The paw he holds up there 's been frozen).
Plenty of catgut for my fiddle
(This out-door business is bad for the strings),
Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the griddle,
And Roger and I set up for kings!
No, thank ye, sir, — I never drink;
Roger and I are exeedingly moral, —
Are n't we, Roger? — see him wink! —
Well, something hot then, — we won't quarrel.
THE VAGABONDS. 305
He's thirsty too, — see him nod his head?
What a pity, sir, that dogs can't talk!
He understands every word that 's said, —
And he knows good milk from water-and-chalk.
The truth is, sir, now I reflect,
I 've been so sadly given to grog,
I wonder I 've not lost the respect
(Here's to you, sir!) even of my dog.
But he sticks by through thick and thin;
And this old coat, with its empty pockets,
And rags that smell of tobacco and gin,
He '11 follow while he has eyes in his sockets.
There is n't another creature living
Would do it, and prove through every disaster,
So fond, so faithful, and so forgiving
To such a miserable, thankless master!
No, sir! — see him wag his tail and grin!
By George! it makes my old eyes water! —
That is, there 's something in this gin
That chokes a fellow. But no matter!
We '11 have some music, if you're willing,
And Roger (hem! what a plague a cough is, sir!)
Shall march a little. Start, you villain!
Stand straight! 'Bout face! Salute your officer!
Put up that paw! Dress! Take your rifle!
(Some dogs have arms you see!) Now hold your
Cap while the gentlemen give a trifle,
To aid a poor old patriot soldier!
March! Halt! Now show how the rebel shakes,
When he stands up to hear his sentence.
Now tell us how many drams it takes
To honor a jolly new acquaintance.
Five yelps, — that's five; he's mighty knowing!
The night 's before us, fill the glasses! —
Quick, sir! I'm ill, — my brain is going! —
Some brandy, — thank you, — there !— it passes!
Why not reform? That's easily said;
But I've gone through such wretched treatment,
20
306 THE VAGABONDS.
Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread,
And scarce remembering what meat meant,
That my poor stomach's past reform;
And there are times when, mad with thinking,
I'd sell out heaven for something warm
To prop a horrible inward sinking.
Is there a way to forget to think?
At your age, Sir, home, fortujie, friends,
A dear girl's love, — but I took to drink, —
The same old story; you know how it ends.
If you could have seen these classic features, —
You need n't laugh, Sir; they were not then.
Such a burning libel on God's creatures:
I was one of your handsome men! #
If you had seen her, so fair and young,
Whose head was happy on this breast!
If you could have heard the songs I sung
When the wine went round, you wouldn't have guessed
That ever I, Sir, should be straying
From door to door, with fiddle and dog,
Ragged and penniless, and playing
To you to-night for a glass of grog!
She 's married since, — a parson's wife;
'T was better for her that we should part, —
Better the soberest, prosiest life
Than a blasted home and a broken heart.
I have seen her? Once; I was weak and spent
On the dusty road, a carriage stopped;
But little she dreamed, as on she went,
Who kissed the coin that her fingers dropped!
You've set me talking, sir; I'm sorry;
It makes me wild to think of the change!
What do you care for a beggar's story?
Is it amusing? you find it strange?
I had a mother so proud of me!
'T was well she died before — Do you know
If the happy spirits in heaven can see
The ruin and wretchedness here below?
RIVERMOUTH ROCKS. 307
Another g]ass, and strong, to deaden
This pain; then Roger and I will start.
I wonder, has he such a lumpish, leaden,
Aching thing in place of a heart?
He is sad sometimes, and would weep if he could,
No doubt, remembering things that were, — ■
A virtuous kennel, with plenty of food,
And himself a sober, and respectable cur.
I 'm better now; that glass was warming.
You rascal! limber your lazy feet! >
We must be fiddling and performing
For supper and bed, or starve in the street.
Not a very gay life to lead, you think?
But soon we shall go where lodgings are free,
And the sleepers need neither victuals nor drink; —
The sooner the better for Roger and me!
J. T. TROWBRIDGE.
RIVERMOUTH ROCKS.
Rivermouth Rocks are fair to see,
By dawn or sunset shone across,
When the ebb of the sea has left them free,
To dry their fringes of gold-green moss:
For there the river conies winding down
From salt sea-meadows and uplands brown,
And waves on the outer rocks afoam
Shout to its waters, " Welcome home! "
And fair are the sunny isles in view
East of the grisly Head of the Boar,
And Agamenticus lifts its blue
Disk of a cloud the woodlands o'er;
And southerly, when the tide is down,
'Twixt white sea-waves and sand-hills brown,
The beach-birds dance and the gray gulls wheel
Over a floor of burnished steel.
Once in the old Colonial days,
Two hundred years ago and more,
A boat sailed down through the winding ways
Of Hampton River to that low shore,
308 EIVEEMOUTH EOCKS.
Full of a goodly company
Sailing out on the summer sea,
Veering to catch the land-breeze light,
With the Boar to left and the Rocks to right.
In Hampton meadows, where mowers laid
Their scythes to the swaths of salted grass,
" Ah, well-a-day! our hay must be made! "
A young man sighed, who saw them pass.
Loud laughed his fellows to see him stand
Whetting his scythe with a listless hand,
Hearing a voice in a far-off song,
Watching a white hand beckoning Ions;.
" Fie on the witch! " cried a merry girl,
As they rounded the point where Goody Cole
Sat by her door with her wheel atwirl,
A bent and blear-eyed poor old soul.
" Oho! " she muttered, "ye 're brave to-day!
But I hear the little waves laugh and say,
' The broth will be cold that waits at home;
For it 's one to go, but another to come! ' '
" She 's cursed," said the skipper; " speak her fair:
I 'm scary always to see her shake
Her wicked head, with its wild gray hair,
And nose like a hawk, and eyes like a snake."
But merrily still, with laugh and shout,
From Hampton River the boat sailed out,
Till the huts and the flakes on Star seemed nigh,
And they lost the scent of the pines of Rye.
They dropped their lines in the lazy tide,
Drawing up haddock and mottled cod;
They saw not the shadow that walked beside,
They heard not the feet with silence shod.
But thicker and thicker a hot mist grew,
Shot by the lightnings through and through;
And muffled growls, like the growl of a beast,
Ran along the sky from west to east.
Then the skipper looked from the darkening sea
Up to the dimmed and wading sun;
EIVEEAIOUTH ROCKS. 309
But he spake like a brave man cheerily,
" Yet there is time for our homeward run."
Veering and tacking, they backward wore;
And just as a breath from the woods ashore
Blew out to whisper of danger past,
The wrath of the storm came down at last!
The skipper hauled at the heavy sail:
" God be our help " he only cried,
As the roaring gale, like the stroke of a flail,
Smote the boat on its starboard side.
The shoalsmen looked, but saw alone
Dark films of rain-cloud slantwise blown,
Wild rocks lit up by the lightnings glare
The strife and torment of sea and air.
Goody Cole looked out from her door:
The Isles of Shoals were drowned and gone,
Scarcely she saw the Head of the Boar
Toss the foam from tusks of stone.
She clasped her hands with a grip of pain,
The tear on her cheek was not of rain:
" They are lost," she muttered, " boat and crew!
Lord, forgive me! my words were true!"
Suddenly seaward swept the squall;
The low sun smote through cloudy rack;
The shoals stood clear in the light, and all
The trend of the coast lay hard and black.
But far and wide as eye could reach,
Xo life was seen upon wave or beach;
The boat that went out at morning never
Sailed back again into Hampton River.
O mower, lean on thy bended snath,
Look from the meadows green and low:
The wind of the sea is a waft of death,
The waves are sino-ino- a sons; of woe!
By silent river, by moaning sea,
Long and vain shall thy watching be:
Xever again shall the sweet voice call,
Never the white hand rise and fall!
310 THE FACE AGAINST THE PANE.
O Rivermouth Rocks, how sad a sight
Ye saw in the light of breaking day!
Dead faces looking up cold and white
From sand and sea-weed where they lay.
The mad old witch-wife wailed and wept,
And cursed the tide as it backward crept:
"Crawl back, crawl back, blue water-snake!
Leave your dead for the hearts that break!"
Solemn it was in that old day
In Hampton town and its log-built church,
"Where side by side the coffins lay
And the mourners stood in aisle and porch.
In the singing-seats young eyes were dim,
The voices faltered that raised the hymn,
And Father Dalton, grave and stern,
Sobbed through his prayer and wept in turn.
And the sun-set paled, and warmed once more
With a softer, tenderer after-glow;
In the east was moonrise, with boats off-shore
And sails in the distance drifting slow.
The beacon glimmered from Portsmouth bar,
The White Isle kindled its great red star;
And life and death in my old-time lay
Mingled in peace like the night and day!
JOHN G. WHITTIER.
THE FACE AGAINST THE PANE.
Mabel, little Mabel,
With face against the pane,
Looks out across the night
And sees the Beacon Light
A-trembling in the rain,
She hears the sea-birds screech,
And the breakers on the beach
Making moan, making moan.
And the wind about the eaves
Of the cottage sobs and grieves;
And the willow-tree is blown
To and fro, to and fro,
THE FACE AGAINST THE PANE. 311
Till it seems like some old crone
Standing out there all alone,
With her woe!
Wringing, as she stands,
Her gaunt and palsied hands,
While Mabel, timid Mabel,
With face against the pane.
Looks out across the night,
And sees the Beacon Light
A-trembling in the rain.
Set the table, maiden Mabel,
And make the cabin warm;
Your little fisher-lover
Is out there in the storm,
And your father — you are weeping!
O Mabel, timid Mabel,
Go, spread the supper-table,
And set the tea a-steeping.
Your lover's heart is brave,
His boat is staunch and tight;
And your father knows the perilous reef
That makes the water white.
■ — But Mabel, Mabel darling,
With face against the pane,
Looks out across the night
At the Beacon in the rain.
The heavens are veined with fire!
And the thunder how it rolls!
In the hillings of the storm
The solemn church-bell tolls
For lost souls!
But no sexton sounds the knell
In that belfry old and high;
Unseen fingers sway the bell
As the wind goes tearing by!
How it tolls for the souls
Of the sailors on the sea!
God pity them, God pity them,
Wherever they may be!
God pity wives and sweethearts
Who wait and wait in vain!
312 THE FACE AGAINST THE PANE.
And pity little Mabel,
With face against the pane.
A boom! — the Lighthouse gun!
(How its echo rolls and rolls!)
'T is to warn the home-bound ships
Off the shoals!
See! a rocket cleaves the sky
From the Fort; — a shaft of light!
See! it fades and, fading, leaves
Golden furrows on the night!
What made Mabel's cheek so pale?
What made Mabel's lips so white?
Did she see the helpless sail
That tossing here and there,
Like a feather in the air,
Went down and out of sight?
Down, down and out of sight!
O, watch no more, no more,
With face against the pane;
You cannot see the men that drown
By the Beacon in the rain !
From a shoal of richest rubies
Breaks the morning clear and cold;
And the angel on the village spire,
Frost-touched, is bright as gold.
Four ancient fishermen,
In the pleasant autumn air,
Come toiling up the sands,
With something in their hands, —
Two bodies stark and white,
Ah, so ghastly in the light,
With sea-weed in their hair!
O ancient fishermen,
Go up to vonder cot!
You '11 find a little child,
With face against the pane,
Who looks towards the beach,
And, looking, sees it not.
She will never watch again!
Never watch and weep at night!
catiline's defiance. 313
For those pretty, saintly eyes
Look beyond the stormy skies,
And they see the Beacon Light.
THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.
Cx\TILINE'S DEFIANCE.
Conscript Fathers:
I do not rise to waste the night in words;
Let that Plebeian talk, 't is not my trade;
But here I stand for right, — let him show proofs, —
For Roman right, though none, it seems, dare stand
To take their share with me: Ay, cluster there!
Cling to your master, judges, Romans, slaves!
His charge is false; — I dare him to his proofs.
You have my answer. Let my actions speak!
But this I will avow, that I have scorned
And still do scorn, to hide my sense of wrong.
Who brands me on the forehead, breaks my sword,
Or lays the bloody scourge upon my back,
Wrongs me not half so much as he who shuts
The gates of honor on me, — turning out
The Roman from his birthright; and for what?
To fling your offices to every slave!
Vipers, that creep where man disdains to climb,
And, having wound their loathsome track to the top
Of this huge, mouldering monument of Rome,
Hang hissing at the nobler man below.
Come, consecrated Lictors, from your thrones;
[To the Senate.
Fling down your sceptres; take the rod and axe,
And make the murder as you make the law.
Banished from Rome! What 's banished but set free
From daily contact of the things I loathe?
" Tried and convicted traitor! " Who says this?
Who '11 prove it, at his peril, on my head?
Banished! I thank you for 't. It breaks my chain!
I held some slack allegiance till this hour;
But 7ioio my sword's my own. Smile on, my Lords!
I scorn to count what feelings, withered hopes,
314 mclain's child.
Strong provocations, bitter, burning wrongs,
I have within my heart's hot cells shut up,
To leave you in your lazy dignities.
But here I stand and scoff you! here 1 fling
Hatred and full defiance in your face!
Your Consul's merciful; — for this all thanks.
He dares not touch a hair of Catiline!
"Traitor!" I go; but, I return! This — trial!
Here I devote your Senate! I 've had wrongs
To stir a fever in the blood of age,
Or make the infant's sinews strong as steel.
This day 's the birth of sorrow; this hour's work
Will breed proscriptions! Look to your hearths, my Lords!
For there, henceforth, shall sit, for household gods,
Shapes hot from Tartarus; all shames and crimes;
Wan Treachery, with his thirsty dagger drawn;
Suspicion, poisoning his brother's cup;
Naked Rebellion, with the torch and axe,
Making his wild sport of your blazing thrones';
Till Anarchy comes down on you like night,
And Massacre seals Rome's eternal grave.
I go; but not to leap the gulf alone.
I go; but when I come, 't will be the burst
Of ocean in the earthquake, — rolling back
In swift and mountainous ruin. Fare you well!
You build my funeral-pile; but your best blood
Shall quench its flame! Back, slaves! [To the lAetors.
I will return.
GEORGE CROLY,
McLAIN'S CHILD.
"McLain! 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, —
mclain's child. 315
"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 McLain!"
"With flashing eye and burning brow,
The mother followed, heedless how,
O'er crags with mosses overgrown,
And stair-like juts of slippery stone.
But midway up the rugged steep,
She found a chasm she could not leap,
And kneeling on its brink, she raised
Her supplicating hands, and gazed.
" 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, —
"Restore the boy, give back my son,
And I'll forgive the wrong you've done."
" I scorn forgiveness, haughty man!
You 've injured me before the clan,
And nought but blood shall wipe away
The shame 1 have endured to-day.
And as he spoke, he raised the child,
To dash it 'mid the breakers wild,
But, at the mother's piercing cry,
Drew back a step, and made reply: —
316
" Fair lady, if your lord will strip,
And let a clansman wield the whip,
Till skin shall flay, and blood shall run,
I'll give you back your little son."
The lady's cheek grew pale with ire,
The chieftain's eyes flashed sudden fire;
He drew a pistol from his breast,
Took aim, — then dropped it, sore distressed.
"I might have slain my babe instead;
Come, Evan, come," the father said,
And through his heart a tremor ran;
We'll fight our quarrel man to man."
"Wrong unavenged I've never borne,"
Said Evan, speaking loud in scorn;
"You've heard my answer, proud McLain.
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;
" Revenge is just, revenge is sweet,
And mine, McLain, shall be complete."
RIEXZI TO THE ROMANS. • 31"
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 tjjat sad mother known to smile —
The Niobe of Mulla's isle.
CHARLES MACKAY.
RIENZI TO THE ROMANS.
Friends!
I came not here to talk. Ye know too well
The story of our thraldom. We are slaves!
The bright sun rises to his course, and lights
A race of slaves! he sets, and his last beam
Falls on a slave! Not such as swept along
By the full tide of power, the conqueror leads
To crimson glory and undying fame,
But base, ignoble slaves! — slaves to a horde
Of petty tyrants, feudal despots; lords
Rich in some dozen paltry villages,
Strong in some hundred spearmen, only great
In that strange S]3ell, — a name! Each hour, dark fraud,
Or open rapine, or protected murder,
Cries out against them. But this very day
An honest man, my neighbor, — there he stands, —
Was struck — struck like a dog — by one who wore
The badge of Ursini! because, forsooth,
He tossed not high his ready cap in air,
Nor lifted up his voice in servile shouts,
At sight of that great ruffian! Be we men,
And suffer such dishonor? men, and wash not
The stain away in blood? such shames are common.
I have known deeper wrongs. I that speak to ye —
I had a brother once, a gracious boy,
Full of all gentleness, of calmest hope,
Of sweet and quiet joy; there was the look
Of heaven upon his face which limners give
To the beloved disciple. How I loved
318 LOCH INVAR.
That gracious boy! younger by fifteen years,
Brother at once and son! He left my side, — ■
A summer bloom on his fair cheeks, a smile
Parting his innocent lips. In one short hour
The pretty, harmless boy was slain! I saw
The corse, the mangled corse, and then I cried
For vengeance! Rouse, ye Romans! Rouse, ye slaves!
Have ye brave sons? — Look in the next fierce brawl
To see them die! Have ye fair daughters? — Look
To see them live, torn from your arms, disdained,
Dishonored; and, if ye dare call for justice,
Be answered by the lash! Yet this is Rome,
That sate on her seven hills, and from her throne
Of beauty ruled the world! Yet we are Romans.
Why in that elder day to be a Roman
Was greater than a king! And once again —
Hear me, ye walls, that echoed to the tread
Of either Brutus! — once again I swear
The eternal city shall be free!
MARY EUSSELL MITFORD.
LOCHINVAR.
O, young Lochinvar is come out of the west,
Through all the wide Border his steed was the best;
And, save his good broadsword, he weapon had none,
He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone.
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.
He stayed "not for brake, and he stopped not for stone,
He swam the Eske River where ford there was none,
But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate,
The bride had consented, the gallant came late;
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.
So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall,
Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers and all.
Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword,
(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word),
" O, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?"
CHARLIE MACHREE. 319
" I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied; —
Love swells iike the Sol way. but ebbs like its tide, —
And now I am come, with this lost love of mine,
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine;
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,
That would odadlv be bride to the vouno- Lochinvar."
The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up,
He quaffed off the wine, and threw down the cup.
She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh.
AVi^h a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye,
He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar, — ■
" Now tread we a measure," said young Lochinvar.
So stately his form, so lovely her face,
That never a hall such a galliard did grace;
While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume;
And the bridemaidens whispered, " 'T were better by far
To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar."
One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,
When they reached the hall-door, and the charger stood
near;
So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,
So light to the saddle before her he sprung;
" She is won! we are gone! over bank, bush, and scaur;
They '11 have fleet steeds that follow, quoth young Loch-
invar.
There was mounting 'mong Graarnes of the Xetherby clan;
Fosters, Fen wicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran:
There was racing and chasing on Cannobie lea,
But the lost bride of Xetherby ne'er did they see.
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war;
Have ye e ? er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?
SIB WALTER SCOTT.
CHARLIE MACHREE.
Come over, come over the river to me,
If ye are my laddie bold Charlie Machree!
320 CHARLIE MACHREE.
Here's Mary McPherson and Susy O'Linn,
Who say ye're faint-hearted, and dare not plunge in.
But the dark rolling river, though deep as the sea,
I know cannot scare you, nor keep you from me;
For stout is your back and strong is your arm,
And the heart in your bosom is faithful and warm.
Come over, come over the river to me,
If ye are my laddie, bold Charlie Machree.
I see him, I see him. He's plunged in the tide,
His strong arms are dashing the big waves aside.
Oh! the dark rolling water shoots swift as the sea
But blithe is the glance of his bonny blue e'e;
His cheeks are like roses, twa buds on a bough ;
Who says ye're faint-hearted, my brave laddie, now.
Ho, ho, foaming river, ye may roar as ye go,
But ye canna bear Charlie to the dark loch below!
Come over, come over the river to me,
My true-hearted laddie, my Charlie Machree!
He's sinking, he's sinking — Oh, what shall I do!
Strike out, Charlie, boldly, ten strokes and ye're thro'.
He's sinking, O Heaven! Ne'er fear, man, ne'er fear;
I've a kiss for ye Charlie, as soon as ye 're here!
He rises, I see him, — five strokes, Charlie, mair, —
He's shaking the wet from his bonny brown hair;
He conquers the current, he gains on the sea, —
Ho, where is the swimmer like Charlie Machree!
Come over the river, but once come to me,
And I'll love ye forever, dear Charlie Machree.
He's sinking, he's gene, — O God, it is I,
It is I, who have killed him — help, help! — he must die.
THE PICKET GUAED. 321
Help, help! — ah, he rises, — strike out and ye 're free.
Ho, bravely done, Charlie, once more now, for me!
Now cling to the rock, now gie us your hand, —
Ye're safe, dearest Charlie, ye 're safe on the land!
Come rest on my bosom, if there ye can sleep;
I canna speak to ye; I only can weep.
Ye 've crossed the wild river, ye 've risked all for me.
And I'll part frae ye never, dear Charlie Machree!
WILLIAM J. HOFPIN.
THE PICKET GUARD.
" All quiet along the Potomac," they say,
" Except now and then a stray picket
Is shot, as he walks on his beat, to and fro,
By a rifleman off in the thicket.
'Tis nothing — a private or two, now and then,
Will not count in the news of the battle;
Not an officer lost — only one of the men,
Moaning out, all alone, the death-rattle."
All quiet along the Potomac to-night,
Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming;
Their tents in the rays of the clear autumn moon,
Or the light of the watchfires are gleaming.
A tremulous sigh, as the gentle night- wind
Through the forest-leaves softly is creeping;
While stars up above, with their glittering eyes,
Keep guard — for the army is sleeping.
There's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread
As he tramps from the rock to the fountain,
And thinks of the two in the low trundle-bed
Far away in the cot on the mountain.
His musket falls slack — his face dark and grim,
Grows gentle with memories tender,
31
322 THE EXECUTION" OF MONTROSE.
As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep—
For their mother — may Heaven defend her!
The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then,
That night, when the love yet unspoken
Leaped up to his lips — when low-murmured vows j
"Were pledged to be ever unbroken.
Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes,
He dashes off tears that are welling,
And gathers his gun closer up to its place
As if to keep down the heart-swelling.
He passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree—
The footstep is lagging and weary;
Yet onward he goes through the broad belt of light
Toward the shades of the forest so dreary.
Hark! was it the night- wind that rustled the leaves?
Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing?
It looked like a rifle — "Ah! Mary, good-by!"
And the life-blood is ebbing and plashing.
All quiet along the Potomac to-night,
No sound save the rush of the river;
While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead
The picket 's off duty forever.
MRS. ETHEL LYNN BEERS.
THE EXECUTION OF MONTROSE.
[James Graham, Marquis of Montrose, was executed in Edinburgh, May 21,
1650, for an attempt to overthrow the power of the commonwealth, and restore
Charles II. The ballad is a narrative of the event, supposed to be related by an
aged Highlander, who had followed Montrose throughout his campaigns, to his
grandson, Evan Cameron. Lochaber is a district of Scotland in the southwest-
ern part of the countv of Inverness. Dundee is a seaport town in the county
of Forfar. Inverlochv was a castle in Inverness-shire. Montrose was betrayed
by a man named MacLeod of Assynt. Duuedin is the Gaelic name for Edinburgh.
Warristoun was Archibald Johnston of Warristoun, an inveterate enemy of
Montrose.]
Come hither, Evan Cameron! Come, stand beside my knee.
I hear the river roaring down towards the wintry sea:
There's shouting on the mountain-side, there's war within
the blast,
Old faces look upon me, old forms go trooping past;
TEE EXECUTION OF MOBTBOS& 323
I hear the pibroch wailing" amidst the din of fight,
And my dim spirit wakes again upon the verge of night.
'T was I that led the Highland host through wild Lochabers
snows,
: time the plaided elans came down to ': attle with
Montrose.
IVe told thee how the Southrons fell beneath the broad clay-
more,
And how we smote the Campbell clan by Inverlochy's shore.
".■Id thee how we swept Dundee, and tamed the Lind-
r 's pride;
But never have I told thee yet how the Great Marquis died.
A traitor sold him to his foes; — O deed of deathless shame!
I charge thee, boy, if e'er thou meet with one of Assynrs
name —
Be it upon the mountain's side, or yet within the glen,
Stand he in martial gear alone, or backed by armed men —
Face him. as thou wouldst face the man who wronged thy
sire's renown;
Remember of what blood thou art, and strike the caitiff
do v.
brought him to the "Watergate, hard bound with hemp-
en span,
As though they held a lion there, and not an unarmed
man.
i set him high upon a cart — the hangman rode below —
They drew his hands behind his back, and bared his noble
brow:
Then, as a hound is slipped from leash, they cheered — the
common throng,
And blew the note with yell and shout, and bade him pass
along.
But when he came, though pale and wan, he looked so great
and high,
So noble was his manly front, so calm his steadfast eye. —
The rabble rout forebore to shout, and each man held his
breath,
For well they knew the hero's soul was face to face with
death.
324 THE EXECUTION OF MONTKOSE.
And then a mournful shudder through all the people crept,
And some that came to scoff at him, now turned aside and
wept.
Had I been there with sword in hand, and fifty Camerons by,
That day through high Dunedin's streets had pealed the slo-
gan cry,
Not all their troops of trampling horse, nor might of mailed
men
Not all the rebels in the south had borne us backward then!
Once more his foot on Highland heath had trod as free as
air,
Or I, and all who bore my name, been laid around him there.
It might not be. They placed him next within the solemn
hall,
Where once the Scottish kings were throned amidst their
nobles all.
But there was dust of vulgar feet on that polluted floor,
And perjured traitors filled the place where good men sate
before,
With savage glee came Warristoun to read the murderous
doom,
And then uprose the great Montrose in the middle of the
room.
Now by my faith as belted knight, and by the name I bear,
And by the bright Saint Andrew's cross that waves above
us there,
Yea, by a greater, mightier oath, and oh, that such should
be!—
By that dark stream of royal blood that lies 'twixt you and
me, —
I have not sought in battle-field a wreath of such renown,
Nor hoped I, on my dying day, to win a martyr's crown!
The morning dawned full darkly, the rain came flashing
down,
And the jagged streak of the levin-bolt lit up the gloomy
town:
The thunder crashed across the heaven, the fatal hour was
come,
Yet aye broke in, with muffled beat, the 'larum of the drum.
FOE A' THAT, AXD A' THAT. 325
There was madness on the earth below, and anger in the sky,
And young and old, and rich and poor, came forth to see him
die.
Ah God! that ghastly gibbet! how dismal 't is to see
The great, tall, spectral skeleton, the ladder, and the tree!
Hark! Hark! it is the clash of arms, the bells begin to toll —
He is coming! he is coming! God's mercy on his soul!
One last long peal of thunder — the clouds are cleared away,
And the glorious sun once more looks down amidst the daz-
zling day.
He is coming! he is coming! — Like a bridegroom from his
room
Came the hero from his prison to the scaffold and the doom.
There was glory on his forehead, there was lustre in his eye,
And he never walked to battle more proudly than to die:
There was color in his visage, though the cheeks of all were
wan,
And they marveled as they saw him pass, that great and
goodly man.
A beam of light fell o'er him, like a glory round the shriven,
And he climbed the lofty ladder, as it were the joath. to
heaven.
Then came a flash from out the cloud, and a stunning thun-
der roll,
And no man dared to look aloft, for fear was on every soul.
There was another heavy sound, a hush and then a groan;
And darkness swept across the sky — the work of death was
done!
Wil. EDITO^DSTOUXE ATTOrJN.
FOR A' THAT, AND A' THAT.
Is there, for honest poverty,
That hangs his head, and a' that?
The coward-slave, we pass him by,
And dare be poor, for a' that;
For a' that, and a' that,
Our toils obscure, and a' that;
The rank is but the guinea's stamp;
The man's the gowd for a' that.
326 MAGDALENA, OR THE SPANISH DUEL.
What tho' on namely fare we dine,
"Wear hodden-gray, and a' that;
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,
A man's a man, for a' that;
For a' that, and a' that,
Their tinsel show, and a' that;
The honest man, tho' ne'er sae poor,
Is king o' men for a' that.
Ye see yon birkie, ea'ed a lord,
Wha struts, and stares, and a' that;
Tho' hundreds worship at his word,
He's but a coof for a' that;
. For a' that, and a' that,
His riband, star, and a' that;
The man of independent mind,
He looks and laughs at a' that.
A king can mak.a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, and a' that;
But an honest man's aboon his might,
Guid faith, he maunna fa' that!
For a' that and a' that,
Their dignities, and a' that;
The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth,
Are higher ranks than a' that.
Then let us pray that come it may,
As come it will for a' that,
That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth,
May bear the gree, and a' that;
For a' that, and a' that,
It's coming yet, for a' that;
That man to man, the warld o'er.
Shall brothers be for a' that.
ROBERT BURNS.
MAGDALENA, OR THE SPANISH DUEL.
Near the city of Sevilla,
Years and years ago —
Dwelt a lady in a villa
Years and years ago; —
MAGBALENA, OR THE SPANISH DUEL. 327
And her hair was black as nio-ht,
And her eyes were starry bright;
Olives on her brow were blooming,
Roses red her lips perfuming,
And her step was light and airy
As the tripping of a fairy,
When she spoke, you thought, each minute,
'T was the thrilling of a linnet;
When she sang you heard a gush
Of full-voiced sweetness like a thrush;
And she struck from the guitar
Ringing music, sweeter far
Than the morning breezes make
Through the lime trees when they shake—
Than the ocean murmuring o'er
Pebbles on the foamy shore.
Orphaned both of sire and mother
Dwelt she in that lonely villa,
Absent now her guardian brother
On a mission from Sevilla.
Skills it little now the telling
How I wooed that maiden fair.
Tracked her to her lonely dwelling
And obtained an entrance there.
Ah! that lady of the villa!
And I loved her so,
Near the city of Sevilla,
Years and years ago,
Ay de mi! — Like echoes falling
Sweet and sad and low,
Voices come at night, recalling
Years and years ago.
Once again I 'm sitting near thee,
Beautiful and bright;
Once again I see and hear thee
In the autumn night;
Once again I'm whis]3ering to thee
Faltering words of love;
Once again with song I woo thee
In the orange grove
Growing near that lonely villa
Where the waters flow
328 MAGDALENA, OR THE SPANISH DUEL.
Down to the city of Sevilla —
Years and years ago.
'Twas an autumn eve: the splendor
Of the day was gone,
And the twilight, soft and tender,
Stole so gently on
That the eye could scarce discover
How the shadows, spreading over,
Like a veil of silver gray,
Toned the golden clouds, sun-painted,
Till they paled, and paled, and fainted
From the face of heaven away.
And a dim light rising slowly
O'er the welkin spread,
Till the blue sky, calm and holy,
Gleamed above our head;
And the thin moon, newly nascent,
Shone in glory meek and sweet,
As Murillo paints her crescent
Underneath Madonna's feet.
And we sat outside the villa
Where the waters flow
Down to the city of Sevilla —
Years and years ago.
There we sate — the mighty river
Wound its serpent course along
Silent, dreamy Guadalquivir,
Famed in many a song.
Silver gleaming 'mid the plain
Yellow with the golden grain,
Gliding down through deep, rich meadows,
Where the sated cattle rove,
Stealing underneath the shadows
Of the verdant olive grove;
With its plentitude of waters,
Ever flowing calm and slow,
Loved by Andalusia's daughters,
Sung by poets long ago.
Seated half within a bower
Where the languid evening breeze
MAGDALEXA, OR THE SPAXISH DUEL. 329
Shook out odors in a shower
From oranges and citron trees,
Sang she from a romancero,
How a Moorish chieftain bold
Fought a Spanish cabellero
By Sevilla's walls of old.
How they battled for a lady,
Fairest of the maids of Spain — ■
How the Christian's lance, so steady,
Pierced the Moslem through the brain.
Then she ceased — her black eyes moving,
Flashed, as asked she with a smile, — ■
"Say, are maids as fair and loving — ■
Men as faithful, in your isle? "
" British maids," I said, " are ever
Counted fairest of the fair;
Like the swans on yonder river
Moving with a stately air.
" Wooed not quickly, won not lightly —
But when won, forever true;
Trial draws the bond more tightly,
Time can ne'er the knot undo.
"And the men?" — "Ah! clearest lady,
Are — quien sabe? who can say?
To make love they're ever ready,
When they can and where they may;
" Fixed as waves, as breezes steady
In a changeful April day —
Como brisas, como rios,
No se sabe, sabe Dios."
"Are they faithful?" — "Ah! quien sabe?
Who can answer that they are?
While we may we should be happy." —
Then I took up her guitar,
And I sang in sportive strain.
This song to an old air of Spain.
330 magdalena, ok the spanish duel.
" Quien Sabe."
I.
" The breeze of the evening that cools the' hot air,
That kisses the orange and shakes out thy hair,
Is its freshness less welcome, less sweet its perfume,
That you know not the region from whence it is come?
Whence the wind blows, where the wind goes,
Hither and thither and whither — who knows?
Who knows?
Hither and thither — -but whither] — who knows?
IT.
" The river forever glides singing along,
The rose on the bank bends a'down to its song;
And the flower, as it listens, unconsciously dips,
Till the rising wave glistens and kisses its lips.
But why the wave rises and kisses the rose,
And why the rose stoops lor those kisses — who knows?
Who knows?
And away flows the river — but whither — who knows?
III.
" Let me be the breeze, love, that wanders along
The river that ever rejoices in song;
Be thou to my fancy the orange in bloom,
The rose by the river that gives its perfume.
Would the fruit be so golden, so fragrant the rose,
If no breeze and no wave were to kiss them?
Who knovv's?
Who knows ?
If no breeze and no wave were to kiss them?
Who knows? 1 '
As I sang, the lady listened,
Silent save one gentle sigh;
When I ceased, a tear-drop glistened
On the dark*fringe of her eye.
Then my heart reproved the feeling
Of that false and heartless strain
Which I sang in words concealing
What my heart would hide in vain.
MAGDALEXA, OR THE SPANISH DUEL. 331
Up I sprang. What words were uttered
Bootless now to think or tell —
Tongues speak wild when hearts are fluttered
By the mighty master-spell.
Love, avowed with sudden boldness,
Heard with flushings that reveal,
Spite of woman's studied coldness,
Thoughts the heart cannot conceal.
"Words half-vague and passion-broken,
Meaningless, yet meaning all
That the lips have left unspoken,
That we never may recall.
K Ifagdalena, dearest, hear me,*'
Sighed I, as I seized her hand—
"Hola! Senor." very near me,
Cries a voice of stern command.
And a stalwart caballero
Comes upon me with a stride,
On his head a slouched sombrero,
A toledo by his side.
From his breast he flung his capa
With a stately Spanish air—
16 Will your worship have the goodness
To release that lady's hand?'' —
" Senor," I replied, " this rudeness
I am not prepared to stand.
" Magdalena. say " — the maiden
With a cry of wild surprise,
As with secret sorrow laden,
Fainting sank before my eyes.
Then the Spanish ca to be
The bride of the gray old Sea.
344 THE LAUNCHING OF THE SHIP.
Then the Master,
With a gesture of command,
Waved his hand:
And at the word,
Loud and sudden there was heard,
All around them and below,
The sound of hammers, blow on blow,
Knocking away the shores and spurs.
And see! she stirs!
She starts, — she moves, — she seems to feel
The thrill of life along her keel,
And, spurning with her foot the ground,
With one exulting, joyous bound,
She leaps into the ocean's arms,
And lo! from the assembled crowd
There rose a shout, prolonged and loud,
That to the ocean seemed to say,
" Take her, O, bridegroom, old and gray;
Take her to thy protecting arms,
With all her youth and all her charms."
How beautiful she is! how fair
She lies within those arms, that press
Her form with many a soft caress
Of tenderness and watchful care!
Sail forth into the sea, O, ship!
Through wind and wave, right onward steer,
The moistened eye, the trembling lip,
Are not the signs of doubt or fear.
Sail forth into the sea of life,
Oh gentle, loving, trusting wife,
And safe from all adversity,
Upon the bosom of that sea
Thy comings and thy goings be!
For gentleness, and love, and trust,
Prevail o'er angry wave and gust;
And in the wreck of noble lives
Something immortal still survives!
Thou, too, sail on, O ship of State!
Sail on, O Union, strong and great!
OLD CHUMS. 345
Humanity, with all its fears,
"With all its hopes of future years,
Is hanging breathless on thy fate!
We know what Master laid thy keel,
What workman wrought thy ribs of steel,
Who made each mast, and sail and rope,
What anvils rang, what hammers beat,
In what a forge, and what a beat.
Were shaped the anchors of thy hope.
Fear not each sudden sound and shock:
"Pis of the wave, and not the rock;
Tis but the napping of the sail,
And not a rent made by the gale;
In spite of rock and tempest roar,
In spite of false lights on the shore,
Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea.
Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee;
Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, out tears,
Our faith triumphant o'er our fears,
Are all with thee — are all with thee.
HEXEY WADSWOETH LONGFELLOW.
OLD CHUMS.
Is it you. Jack? Old boy, is it really you?
I shouldn't have known you but that I was told
You might be expected; — prav. how do you do?
But what, under heaven, has made you so old?
Your hair! why. you've only a little gray fuzz!
And your beard's white! but that can be beautifully dyed;
And your leg's aren't but just half as long as they was;
And then — stars and garters! your vest is so wide!
Is this vour hand? Lord, how I envied vou that
In the time of our courting. — so soft, and
so sma
And now it is callous inside, and so fat, —
Well, you beat the very old deuee, that is all.
Turn round! let me look at you! is n't it odd
How strange in a few years a fellow's chum stows!
346 OLD CHUMS.
Your eye is shrunk up like a bean in a pod,
And what are these lines branching out from your nose?
Your back has gone up and your shoulders gone down,
And all the old roses are under the plough;
Why, Jack, if we'd happened to meet about town,
I wouldn't have known you from Adam, I vow!
You've had trouble, have you? I'm sorry; but, John,
All trouble sits lightly at your time of life.
How's Billy, my namesake? You don't say he's gone
To the war, John, and that you have buried your wife?
Poor Katherine! so she has left you, — ah me!
I thought she would live to be fifty, or more.
What is it you tell me? She teas fifty-three!
no, Jack! she wasn't so much by a score!
Well, there's little Katy, — was that her name, John?
She'll rule your house one of these days like a queen.
That baby! good Lord! is she married and gone?
With a Jack ten years old! and a Katy fourteen!
Then I give it up! Why, you're younger than I
By ten or twelve years, and to think you've come back
A sober old greybeard, just ready to die!
1 don't understand how it is, — do you, Jack?
I've got all my faculties yet, sound and bright;
Slight failure my eyes are beginning to hint;
But still, with my spectacles on, and a light
'Twixt them and the page, I can read any print.
My hearing is dull, and my leg is more spare,
Perhaps, than it was when I beat you at ball;
My breath gives out, too, if I go up a stair, —
But nothing worth mentioning, nothing at all!
My hair is just turning a little, you see,
And lately I've put on a broader-brimmed hat
Than I wore at your wedding, but you will agree,
Old fellow, I look all the better for that.
THE PEISOXEE OF CHILLOX. 34?
I'm sometimes a little rheumatic, 'tis true,
And my nose is n't quite on a straight line, they say;
For all that, I don't think I've changed much, do you?
And I don't feel a day older, Jack, not a day.
AXICE CAEY.
THE PRISONER OF CHILLON.
My hair is gray, but not with years;
Nor grew it white
In a single- night,
As men's have grown from sudden fears:
My limbs are bow'd, though not with toil,
But rusted with a vile repose,
For they have been a dungeon's spoil,
And mine has been the i'ate of those
To whom the goodly earth and air
Are bann'd, and barr'd — forbidden fare;
But this was for my father's faith
I suffer'd chains and courted death;
That father perish'd at the stake
For tenets he would not forsake;
And for the same his lineal race
In darkness found a dwelling-place.
We were seven — who now are one,
Six in youth, and one in age,
Finish'd as they had begun,
Proud of Persecution's rage:
One in fire, and two in field,
Their belief with blood have seal'd,
Dying as their father died,
For the God their foes denied;
Three were in a dungeon cast,
Of whom this wreck is left the last.
There are seven pillars of Gothic mould
In Chillon's dungeons deep and old,
There are seven columns, massy and gray,
Dim with a dull imprisoned ray, —
And in each pillar there is a ring,
And in each ring there is a chain;
348 THE PRISONER OP CHILLON.
That iron is a cankering thing,
For in these limbs its teeth remain
With marks that will not wear away,
Till I have done with this new day,
Which now is painful to these eyes
Which have not seen the sun to rise
For years, — I cannot count them o'er,
I lost their long and heavy score
When my last brother drooped and died,
And I lay living by his side.
They chained us each to a column stone,
And we were three, yet each alone;
We could not move a single pace,
We could not see each other's face
But with that pale and livid light
That made us strangers in our sight;
And thus together, yet apart,
Fettered in hand, but pined in heart;
Our voices took a dreary tone,
An echo of the dungeon-stone,
A grating sound, — not full and free
As they of yore were wont to be;
It might be fancy, — but to me
They never sounded like our own.
Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls;
A thousand feet in depth below
Its massy waters meet and flow;
Thus much the fathom-line was sent
From Chillon's snow-white battlement.
Below the surface of the lake
The dark vault lies wherein we lay
We heard it ripple night and day;
Sounding o'er our heads it knocked;
And I have felt the winter's spray
Wash through the bars when winds were high
And wanton in the happy sky;
And then the very rock hath rocked.
And I have felt it shake, unshocked,
Because I could have smiled to see
The death that would have set me free.
THE PRISONER OP CHILLON. 349
I said my nearer brother pined,
I said his mighty heart declined,
He loathed and put away his food;
It was not that 't was coarse and rude,
For we were used to hunter's fare,
But
My brother's soul was of that mould
Which in a palace had grown cold,
Had his free breathing been denied
The range of the steep mountain's side;
But why delay the truth? — he died.
I saw, and could not hold his head,
Nor reach his dying hand, — nor dead, —
Though hard I strove, but strove in vain,
To rend and gnash my bonds in twain.
He died, — and they unlocked his chain,
And scooped for him a shallow grave
Even from the cold earth of our cave
I begged them, as a boon, to lay
His corse in dust whereon the day
Might shine, — it was a foolish thought,
But then within my brain it wrought,
That even in death his freeborn breast
In such a dungeon could not rest.
I might have spared my idle prayer, —
They coldly laughed, and laid him there.
The flat and turfless earth above
The being we so much did love;
His empty chain above it leant,
Such murder's fitting monument!
But he, the favorite and the flower,
Most cherished since his natal hour,
His mother's image in fair face,
The. infant love of all his race,
He, too, was struck, and day by day
Was withered on the stalk away.
And not a word of murmur, — not
A groan o'er his untimely lot, —
A little talk of better days,
A little hope my own to raise,
For I was sunk in silence, — lost
In this last loss, of all the most;
350 ABOU BEN ADHEM.
And then the sighs he would suppress
Of fainting nature's feebleness,
More slowly drawn, grew less and less:
I listened, but I could not hear, —
I called, for I was wild with fear;
I knew 't was hopeless, but my dread
Would not be thus admonished;
I called, and thought I heard a sound, —
I burst my chain with one strong bound.
And rushed to him: — I found him not,
.7" only stirred in this black spot,
./only lived, — /only drew
The accursed breath of dungeon-dew;
One on the earth, and one beneath, —
My brothers — both had ceased to breathe.
I took that hand which lay so still,
Alas! my own was full as chill;
I know not why
I could not die,
I had no earthly hope, — but faith,
And that forbade a selfish death.
"What next befell me then and there
I know not well, — I never knew.
First came the loss of light and air,
And then of darkness too;
I had no thought, no feeling, — none, —
Among the stones I stood a stone.
LORD BYRON.
ABOU BEN ADHEM.
Abotj Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich and like a lily in bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold ;
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the presence in the room he said,
"What writest thou?" — The vision raised its head,
And, with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answered, " The names of those who love the Lord."
THE WEECK OF THE HESPERUS. 351
"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"
Replied the angel. — Abou spoke more low,
But cheerily still ; and said, "I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow-men."
The angel wrote and vanished. The nest night
It came again, with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had blessed,
And, lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest!
LEIGH HUNT.
THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS.
It was the schooner Hesperus
That sailed the wintry sea;
And the skipper had taken his little daughter,
To bear him company.
Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax,
Her cheeks like the dawn of day,
And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds
That ope in the month of May.
The skipper he stood beside the helm,
His pipe was in his mouth,
And he watched how the veering flaw did blow
The smoke now west, now south.
Then up and spake an old sailor,
Had sailed the Spanish main,
" I pray thee put into yonder port,
For I fear a hurricane.
" Last night the moon had a golden ring,
And to-night no moon we see! "
The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe,
And a scornful laugh laughed he.
Colder and louder blew the wind,
A gale from the northeast;
The snow fell hissing in the brine,
And the billows frothed like yeast.
352 THE WEECK OP THE HESPEEUS.
Down came the storm, and smote amain
The vessel in its strength;
She shuddered and paused, like a frightened steed,
Then leaped her cable's length.
"Come hither! come hither! my little daughter,
And do not tremble so;
For I can weather the roughest gale,
That ever w T ind did blow."
He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat
Against the stinging blast;
He cut a rope from a broken spar,
And bound her to the mast.
" O father! I hear the church-bells ring,
O say, what may it be? "
"'Tisa fog-bell on a rock-bound coast! " —
And he steered for the open sea.
" O father! I hear the sound of guns,
O say what may it be? "
" Some ship in distress, that cannot live
In such an angr\^ sea! "
"O father! I see a gleaming light,
O say, what may it be?"
But the father answered never a word,
A frozen corpse was he.
Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark,
With his face turned to the skies,
The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow
On his fixed and glassy eyes.
Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed
That saved she might be;
And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave,
On the Lake of Galilee.
And fast through the midnight dark and drear,
Through the whistling sleet and snow,
Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept
Towards the reef of Norman's Woe.
JOHX BUBKB OF GETTYSBUEG. 353
And ever, the fitful gusts between
A sound came from the land;
It was the sound of the trampling surf
On the rocks and the hard sea-sand.
The breakers were right beneath her bows,
She drifted a dreary wreck,
And a whooping billow swept the crew
Like icicles from her deck.
She struck where the white and fleecy waves
Looked soft as carded wool,
But the cruel rocks, they gored her side
Like the horns of an angry bull.
Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice,
With the masts went by the board;
Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank,
Ho! ho! the breakers roared!
At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach,
A fisherman stood aghast,
To see the form of a maiden fair
Lashed close to a drifting mast.
The salt sea was frozen on her breast,
The salt tears in her eyes;
And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed,
On the billows fall and rise.
Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,
In the midnight and the snow!
Christ save us all from a death like this,
On the reef of Norman's Woe!
HEXEY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
JOHN BURNS OF GETTYSBURG.
Have you heard the story that gossips tell
Of Burns of Gettysburg? No? Ah, well: —
Brief is the glory that hero earns,
Briefer the story of poor John Burns:
23
354: JOHN BURNS OF GETTYSBURG.
He was the fellow who won renown —
The only man who didn't back down
When the rebels rode through his native town;
But he held his own in the fight next day,
When ail his townsfolk ran away.
That was in July, sixty-three,
The very day that General Lee,
Flower of, southern chivalry,
Baffled and beaten, backward reeled
From a stubborn Meade and a barren field.
T might tell how, but the day before,
John Burns stood at his cottage door,
Looking down the village street,
Where, in the shade of his peaceful vine,
He heard the low of his gathered kine,
And felt their breath with incense sweet;
Or I might say, when the sunset burned
The old farm gable, he thought it turned
The milk, that fell in a babbling flood
Into the milk-pail, red as blood!
Or how he fancied the hum of bees
Were bullets whizzing among the trees.
But all such fanciful thoughts as these
Were strange to a practical man like Burns,
Who minded only his own concerns,,
Troubled no more by fancies fine
Then one of his calm-eyed, long-tailed kine —
Quite old-fashioned, and matter-of-fact,
Slow to argue, but quick to act,
That was the reason, as some folks say,
He fought so well on that terrible day.
And it was terrible. On the right
Raged for hours the heavy fight,
Thundered the battery's double bass — ■
Difficult music for men to face;
While on the left — where now the graves
Undulate like the living waves
That all the day unceasing swept
Up to the pits the rebels kept —
Round shot plowed the upland glades,
Sown with bullets, reaped with blades;
JOHN BURNS OF GETTYSBURG. OOd
Shattered fences here and there
Tossed their splinters in the air;
The very trees were stripped and bare;
The barns that once held yellow grain
Were heaped with harvests of the slain.
The cattle bellowed on the plain,
The turkeys screamed with might and main,
And brooding barn- fowl left their rest
With strange shells bursting in each nest.
Just where the tide of battle turns,
Erect and lonely, stood old John Burns.
How do you think the man was dressed?
He wore an ancient, long buff vest,
Yellow as saffron — but his best;
And, buttoned over his manly breast
Was a bright blue coat with a rolling collar,
And large gilt buttons — size of a dollar —
With tails that country-folk called " swaller."
He wore a broad-brimmed, bell crowned hat,
White as the locks on which it sat.
Never had such a sight been seen
For forty years on the village-green,
Since John Burns was a country beau,
And went to the "quilting" long ago.
Close at his elbows, all that day
Veterans of the Peninsula,
Sunburnt and bearded, charged away,
And striplings, downy of lip and chin, —
Clerks that the Home Guard mustered in —
Glanced as they passed at the hat he wore,
Then at the rifle his right hand bore;
And hailed him from out their youthful lore,
With scraps of a slangy repertoire:
" How are you, White Hat?" " Put her through!"
"Your head's level!" and, "Bully for you!"
Called him " Daddy " — and begged he'd disclose
The name of the tailor who made his clothes,
And what was the value he set on those;
While Burns, unmindful of jeer and scoff,
Stood there picking the rebels off —
356 EXTEACT FROM MORITUEI SALUTAMUS.
With his long, brown rifle and bell-crown hat,
And the swallow-tails they were laughing at.
'T was but a moment, for that respect
Which clothes all courage their voices checked;
And something the wildest could understand
Spake in the old man's strong right hand,
And his corded throat, and the lurking frown
Of his eyebrows under his old-bell crown;
Until, as they gazed, there crept an awe
Through the ranks in whispers, and some men saw,
In the antique vestments and long white hair
The Past of the Nation in battle there.
And some of the soldiers since declare
That the gleam of his old white hat afar,
Like the crested plume of the brave Navarre,
That day was their oriflamme of war.
Thus raged the battle. You know the rest;
How the rebels, beaten, and backward pressed,
Broke at the final charge and ran.
At which John Burns — a practical man
Shouldered his rifle, unbent his brows,
And then went back to his bees and cows.
This is the story of old John Burns;
This is the moral the reader learns:
In fighting the battle, the question's whether
You'll show a hat that's white, or a feather.
BRET HARTE.
EXTRACT FROM MORITUEI SALUTAMUS.
In mediaeval Rome, I know not where,
There stood an image with its arm in air,
And on its lifted finger, shining clear,
A golden ring with the device " Strike here!"
Greatly the people wondered, though none guessed,
The meaning that these words but half expressed,
Until a learned clerk, who at noonday
With downcast eyes was passing on his way,
Paused, and observed the spot, and marked it well,
Whereon the shadow of the finger fell,
EXTRACT FROM MORITUEI SALTJTAMTJS. 357
And coming back at midnight, delved and found
A secret stairway leading underground.
Down this he passed into a spacious hall,
Lit by a flaming jewel on the wall;
And opposite in threatening attitude
With bow and shaft a brazen statue stood;
Upon its forehead, like a coronet,
Were these mysterious words of menace set:
"That which I am, I am; my fatal arm
None can escape, not even yon luminous flame!"
Midway the hall was a fair table placed,
With cloth of gold, and golden cups enchased
With rubies, and the plates and knives were gold,
And gold the bread and viands manifold.
Around it, silent, motionless, and sad,
Were seated gallant knights in armor clad,
And ladies beautiful with plume and zone,
But they were stone, their hearts within were stone;
And the vast hall was filled in every part
With silent crowds, strong in face and heart.
Long at the scene bewildered and amazed
The trembling clerk in speechless wonder gazed;
Then from the table, by his greed made bold,
He seized a goblet and a knife of gold,
And suddenly from their seats the guests upsprang,
The vaulted ceilings with loud clamors rang-
The archer sped his arrow, at their call,
Shattering the lambent jewel on the wall,
And all was dark around and overhead; —
Stark on the floor the luckless clerk lay dead!
4
The writer of this legend then records
Its ghosth' application in these words:
The image is the Adversary old,
Whose beckoning finger points to realms of gold;
Our lusts and passions are the downward stair
That leads the soul from a diviner air;
The archer, Death, the flaming jewel, Life.
Terrestrial goods, the goblet and the knife;
The knights and ladies, all whose flesh and bone
By avarice have been hardened into stone;
358 AN ORDER FOR A PICTURE.
The clerk, the scholar, whom the love of pelf
Tempts from his books and from his nobler self.
The scholar and the world! The endless strife,
The discord in the harmonies of life!
The love of learning, the sequestered nooks,
And all the sweet serenity of books;
The market-place, the eager love of gain,
Whose aim is vanity, and whose end is pain!
HENBY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
AN ORDER FOR A PICTURE.
O good painter, tell me true,
Has your hand the cunning to draw
Shapes of things that you never saw?
Ay? Well, here is an order for you.
Woods and cornfields, a little brown, —
The picture must not be over-bright, — •
Yet all in the golden and gracious light
Of a cloud, when the summer sun is down.
Alway and alway, night and morn,
Woods upon woods, with fields of corn
Lying between them, not quite sere,
And not in the full, thick, leafy bloom,
When the wind can hardly find breathing-room
Under their tassels, — cattle near,
Biting shorter the short green grass,
And a hedge of sumach and sassafras,
With bluebirds twittering all around, —
(Ah, good painter, you can't paint sound!)—
These, and the house where I was born,
Low and little, and black and old,
With children, many as it can hold,
All at the windows, open wide, —
Heads and shoulders clear out side,
And fair young faces all ablush:
Perhaps you may have seen, some' day,
Roses crowding the selfsame way,
Out of a wilding, wayside bush.
AN OEDEE FOE A PICTUEE. 359
Listen closer. When you "have done
With woods and cornfields and grazing herds,
A lady, the loveliest ever the sun
Looked down upon, you must paint for me;
O, if I only could make you see
* The clear blue eyes, the tender smile,
The sovereign sweetness, the gentle grace,
The woman's soul, and the angel's face
That are beaming on me all the while! —
I need not speak these foolish words:
Yet one word tells you all I would say,—
She is my mother: you will agree
That all the rest may be thrown away.
Two little urchins at her knee
You must paint, sir: one like me, — ■
The other with a clearer brow,
And the light of his adventurous eves
Flashing with boldest enterprise:
At ten years old he went to sea, —
God knoweth if he be living now, —
He sailed in the good ship Commodore,-—
Nobody ever crossed her track
To bring us news, and she never came back.
Ah, 't is twenty long years and more
Since that old ship went out of the bay
With my great-hearted brother on her deck;
I watched him till he shrank to a speck,
And his face was toward me all the way.
Bright his hair was, a golden brown,
The time we stood at our mother's knee:
That beauteous head, if it did go down,
Carried sunshine into the sea!
Out in the fields one summer night
We were together, half afraid
Of the corn-leaves' rustling, and of the shade
Of the high hills, stretching so still and far, — ■
Loitering till after the low little light
Of the candle shone through the open door,
And over the haystack's pointed top, •
All of a tremble, and ready to drop,
360 AN OEDEE FOE A PICTUEE.
The first half-hour, the great yellow star
That we with staring, ignorant eyes,
Had often and often watched to see
Propped and held in its place in the skies
By the fork of a tall, red mulberry-tree,
Which close in the edge of our flax-field grew, —
Dead at the top, — just one branch full
Of leaves, notched round, and lined with wool,
From which it tenderly shook the dew
Over our heads, when we came to play
In its handbreadth of shadow, day after day: —
Afraid to go home, sir; for one of us bore
A nest full of speckled and thin-shelled eggs, —
The other, a bird, held fast by the legs,
Not so big as a straw of wheat:
The berries we gave her she wouldn't eat,
But cried and cried, till we held her bill,
So slim and shining, to keep her still.
At last we stood at our mother's knee.
Do you think, sir, if you try,
You can paint the look of a lie?
If you can, pray have the grace
To put it solely in the face
Of the urchin that is likest me:
I think 'twas solely mine, indeed:
But that 's no matter, — paint it so;
The eyes of our mother — (take good heed) —
Looking not on the nestful of eggs,
Nor the fluttering bird, held so fast by the legs,
But straight through our faces down to our lies,
And O, with such injured, reproachful surprise!
I felt my heart bleed where that glance went, as though
A sharp blade struck through it.
You, sir, know,
That you on the canvas are to repeat
Things that are fairest, things most sweet, —
Woods and cornfields and mulberry- tree, —
The mother, — the lads, with their bird, at her knee:
But, O, that look of reproachful woe!
High as the heavens your name I '11 shout,
If you paint me the picture, and leave that out.
ALICE CARY.
HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS. 361
HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM
GHENT TO AIX.
I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris and he;
I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three;
"Good speed!" cried the watch as the gate-bolts undrew,
"Speed! " echoed the wall to us galloping through.
Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest,
And into the midnight we galloped abreast.
Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace, —
Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place;
I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight,
Then shortened each stirrup and set the pique right,
Rebuckled the check-strap, chained slacker the bit,
Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit.
'T was a moonset at starting; but while we drew near
Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear;
At Boom a great yellow star came out to see;
At Diiffeld 't was morning as plain as could be;
And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime, —
So Joris broke silence with "Yet there is time!"
At Aerschot up leaped of a sudden the sun,
And against him the cattle stood black every one,
To stare through the mist at us galloping past;
And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last,
With resolute shoulders, each butting away
The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray;
And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back
For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track;
And one eye's black intelligence, — ever that glance
O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance;
And the thick heavy spume-flakes, which aye and anon
His fierce lips shook upward in galloping on.
By Hasselt Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, " Stay spur!
Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her;
We '11 remember at Aix," — for one heard the quick wheeze
Of her chest, saw the stretched neck, and staggering knees,
And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank,
As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.
3o3
So we were left galloping, Joris and I,
Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky;
The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh;
'Neath our feet broke the brittle, bright stubble like chaff;
Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white,
And " Gallop," gasped Joris, " for Aix is in sight! "
" How they '11 greet us! " — and all in a moment his roan
Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone;
And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight
Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate,
With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim,
And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim.
Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall,
Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all,
Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear,
Called my Roland his pet name, my horse without peer, —
Clapped my hands, laughed and sung, any noise, bad or
good,
Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood.
And all I remember is friends nocking round,
As I sate with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground;
And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine,
As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine,
"Which (the burgesses voted by common consent)
Was no more than his due who brought good news from
Ghent.
ROBERT BROWNING.
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
Dark is the night! how dark — no light — no fire!
Cold, on the hearth, the last faint sparks expire!
Shivering she watches by the cradle side
For him who pledged her love — last year a bride!
"Hark! 'tis his footstep! No — 'tis past; 'tis gone:
Tick! — Tick! — How wearily the time crawls on!
Why should he leave me thus? He once was kind!
And I believed 'twould last — '■ how mad! — how blind!
shamus o'beien. 363
" Rest thee, my babe! — rest on! — 'tis hunger's cry!
Sleep ! — for there is no food! the fount is dry!
Famine and cold their wearying work have done,
My heart must break! — and thou!" The clock strikes one,
"Hush! 'tis the dice-box! Yes, he 's there, he's here,
For this he leaves me to despair!
Leaves love! leaves truth! his wife! his child! for what?
The wanton's smile — the villain — and the sot!
"Yet I'll not curse him! No! 'tis all in vain!
'Tis long to wait, but sure he'll come again!
And I could starve and bless him, but for you,
My child! — his child! — O fiend!" The clock strikes two.
" Hark! how the sign-board creaks! The blast howls by!
Moan! moan! A dirge swells through the cloudy sky!
Ha! 'tis his knock! he comes! — he comes once more!
'Tis but the lattice flaps! Thy hope is o'er.
" Can he desert me thus! He knows I stay
Night after night in loneliness to pray
For his return — and yet he sees no tear*
No! No! it cannot be. He will be here
" Nestle more closely, dear one, to my heart!
Thou'rt cold! thouVt freezing! But we will not part.
Husband! — I die! — Father! — It is not he!
O God! protect my child!" The clock strikes three.
They're gone! they 're gone! the glimmering spark hath fled!
The wife and child are numbered with the dead!
On the cold hearth, outstretched in solemn rest,
The child lies frozen on its mother's breast!
The gambler came at last — but all was o'er —
Dead silence reigned around — the clock struck four!
REYNELL COATES.
SHAMUS O'BRIEN.
Jist afther the war, in the year '98,
As soon as the boys wor all scattered and bate,
3G4 SHAMUS O'BRIEN".
'Twas the custom, whenever a pisant was got,
To hang him by th'riaJ — barrin' sich as was shot.
There was trial by jury goin' on by daylight,
And the martial-law hang-in' the lavins by night.
It 's them was hard times for an honest gossoon:
If he missed in the judges — he \i meet a dragoon;
An' whether the sodgers or judges gev sentence,
The divil a much time they allowed for repentance.
An' it 5 s many 's the fine boy was then on his keepin'
Wid small share iv restin' or atin' or sleepin',
An' because they loved Erin, an' scorned to sell it,
A prey for the bloodhound, a mark for the bullet —
Unsheltered by night, and unrested by day,
With the heath for their barrack, revenge for their pay;
An' the bravest, an' hardiest boy iv them all
Was Siiamus O'Bimex, from the town iv Glingall.
His limbs were well set, an' his body was light,
An' the keen-fanged hound had not teeth half so white;
But his face was as pale as the face of the dead,
And his cheek never warmed with the blush of the red.
An' for all that he wasn't an ugly young bye,
For the divil himself couldn 't blaze with his eye,
So droll an' so wicked, so dark and so bright,
Like a fire-flash that crosses the depth of the night!
An' he was the best mower that ever has been,
An' the illigantest Hurler that ever was seen.
An' in fencin' he gave Patrick Mooney a cut,
An' in jumpin' he bate Tim Mulloney a fut;
An' for lightness of fut there was n't his peer,
For, be gorra, he could almost outrun the red deer!
An' his dancin' was sich that the men used to stare,
An' the women turn crazy, he done it so quare;
An' by gorra, the whole world gev in to him there.
An' it 's he was the boy that was hard to be caught,
An' it's often he run, an' it's often he fought,
An' it 's many the one can remember right well
The quare things he done: an' it's often I heerd tell
How he frightened the magistrates in Caharbally,
An' 'scaped through the sodgers in Aherloe valley;
How he lathered the yeomen, himself agin four,
An' stretched the two strongest on old Galtimore.
shamus o'beien. 365
But the fox must sleep sometimes, the wild deer must rest,
An' treachery prey on the blood iv the best;
Afther many a brave action of power and pride,
An' many a hard night on the mountain's bleak side,
An' a thousand great dangers and toils overpast,
In the darkness of night he was taken at last.
Now, Siiamus, look back on the beautiful moon,
For the door of the prison must close on you soon,
An' take your last look at her dim lovely light,
That falls on the mountain and valley this night;
One look at the village, one look at the flood,
An' one at the sheltering, far-distant wood;
Farewell to the forest, farewell to the hill,
An' farewell to the friends that will think of you still;
Farewell to the pathern, the hurlin' an' wake,
And farewell to the girl that would die for your sake.
An' twelve sodgers brought him to Maryborough jail,
An' the turnkey resaved him, refusin' all bail.
Well, as soon as a few weeks was over and gone,
The terrible day iv the thrial kem on,
There was sich a crowd there was scarce room to stand,
An' sodgers on guard, an' dhragoons sword-in-hand;
An' the court-house so full that the people were bothered,
An' attorneys an' criers on the point iv bein' smothered;
An' counsellors almost gev over for dead,
An' the jury sittin' up in their box overhead;
An' the judge settled out so detarmined an' big
"With his gown on his back, and an illegant new wig;
An' silence was called, an' the minute it was said
The court was as still as the heart of the dead,
An' they heard but the openin' of one prison lock,
An' Shamus O'Briex kem into the dock.
For one minute he turned his eye round on the throng,
An' he looked at the bars, so firm and so strong,
An' he saw that he had not a hope nor a friend,
A chance to escape, nor a word to defend;
An' he folded his arms as he stood there alone,
As calm and as cold as a statue of stone;
And they read a big writin', a yard long at laste,
An' Jm didn't understand it, nor mind it a taste,
366 shamus o'brien.
An' the judge took a big pinch iv snuff, and he says,
"Are you guilty or not, Jim O'Brien, av you plase? "
An' all held their breath in the silence of dhread,
An' Shamus O'Brien made answer and said:
" My lord, if you ask me, if in my life-time
I thought any treason, or did any crime
That should call to my cheek, as I stand alone here,
The hot blush of shame, or the coldness of fear,
Though I stood by the grave to receive my death-blow
Before God and the world I would answer you, no!
But if you would ask me, as I think it like,
If in the rebellion I carried a pike,
An' fought for ould Ireland from the first to the close,
An' shed the heart's blood of her bitterest foes,
I answer you, yes; and I tell you again,
Though I stand here to perish, it 's my glory that then
In her oause I was willing my veins should run dhry,
An' that now for her sake I am ready to die."
Then the silence was great, and the jury smiled bright,
An' the judge wasn't sorry the job was made light;
By my sowl, it's himself was the crabbed ould chap!
In a twinklin' he pulled on his ugly black cap.
Then Shamus' mother in the crowd standin' by,
Called out to the judge with a pitiful cry:
"O, judge! darlin', don't, O, don't say the word!
The crather is young, have mercy, my lord;
He was foolish, he didn't know what he was doin';
You don't know him, my lord — O, don't give him to ruin!
He's the kindliest crathur, the tendherest-hearted;
Don't part us forever, we that's so long parted.
Judge, mavourneen, forgive him, forgive him, my lord,
An' God will forgive you— O, don't say the word! "
That was the first minute that O 'Brien was shaken,
When he saw that he was not quite forgot or forsaken;
An' down his pale cheeks, at the word of his mother,
The big tears wor runnin' fast, one afther th' other;
An' two or three times he endeavored to spake,
But the sthrong manly voice used to falther and break;
But at last, by the strength of his high-mounting pride,
He conquered and masthered his grief's swelling tide,
shamus o'beiex. 367
" An','' says he, "mother, darlin', don't break your poor heart,
For, sooner or later, the dearest must part;
And God knows it 's betther than wandering in fear
On the bleak, trackless mountain, among the wild deer,
To lie in the grave, where the head, heart, and breast,
From thought, labor, and sorrow, forever shall rest.
Then, mother, my darlin', don't cry any more,
Don't make me seem broken, in this, my last hour,
For I wish, when my head *s lyin' undher the raven,
Xo thrue man can say that I died like a craven! "
Then towards the Judge Shamus bent down his head,
An' that minute the solemn death-sentence was said.
The mornin' was bright, an' the mists rose on high,
An' the lark whistled merrily in the clear sky;
But why are the men standin' idle so late?
An' why do the crowds gather fast in the street?
What come they to talk of? what come they to see?
An' why does the long rope hang from the cross-tree?
O, Shamus O'Briex! pray fervent and fast,
May the saints take your soul, for this day is your last;
Pray fast an' pray sthrong, for the moment is nigh,
AVhen, sthrong, proud, an' great as you are, you must die.
At last they threw open the big prison-gate,
An' out came the sheriifs and sodgers in state,
An' a cart in the middle an' Shamus was in it,
Not paler, but prouder than ever, that minute.
An' as soon as the people saw Shamus O 'Briex,
"Wid prayin' and blessin', and all the girls cryin',
A wild wailin' sound kem on by degrees,
Like the sound of the lonesome wind blowin' through trees,
On, on to the gallows the sheriffs are gone,
An' the cart an' the sodgers go steadily on;
An' at every side swellin' around of the cart,
A wild, sorrowful sound, that id open your heart.
Now under the gallows the cart takes its stand,
An' the hangman gets up with the rope in his hand;
An' the priest, bavin' blest him, goes down on the ground.
An' Shamus O'Briex throws one last look round.
Then the hangman dhrew near, an' the people grew still,
Young faces turned sickly, and warm hearts turn chill;
368 shamus o'beie^.
An' the rope bein' ready, his neck was made bare,
For the gripe iv the life-strangling chord to prepare;
An' the good priest has left him, havin' said his last prayer.
But the good priest done more, for his hands he unbound
An' with one daring spring Jim has leaped on the ground;
Bang! bang! goes the carbines, and clash goes the sabres;
He's not down! he's alive still! now stand to him, neighbors'
Through the smoke and the horses he's into the crowd, —
By the heavens, he's free! — than thunder more loud,
By one shout from the people the heavens were shaken —
One shout that the dead of the world might awaken.
The sodgers ran this way, the sheriffs ran that,
An' Father Malone lost his new Sunday hat;
To-night he '11 be sleepin in Aherloe Glin,
An' the divil 's in the dice if you catch him ag'in.
Your swords they may glitter, your carbines go bang,
But if you want hangin' it 's yourself you must hang.
Well, a week after this time without firing a cannon,
A sharp, Yankee schooner sailed out of the Shannon,
And the captain left word he was going to Cork,
But the divil a bit, he was bound for New York.
The very next spring, a bright morning in May,
Just six months after the great hangin' day,
A letter was brought to the town of Kildare.
An' on the outside was written out fair
"Toould Mistress O'Brien in Ireland or elsewhere."
And the inside began, " My dear good old mother,
I'm safe — and I'm happy — and not wishing to bother
You in the readin' (with the help of the priest)
I send you inclosed in this letter at least
Enough to pay him and fetch you away
To this land of the free and the brave, Amerikay.
Here you '11 be happy and never nade cryin'
So long as you 're mother of Shamus O'Brien.
An' give me love to swate Biddy and tell her beware
Of that spalpeen who calls himself Lord of Kildare
An' just tell the Judge, I don't now care a rap,
For him or his wig, or his dirty black cap,
An' as for dragoons, them paid men of slaughter,
Just say that 1 love them as the divil loves holy water.
An' now my good mother, one word of advice:
Fill your bag with pittatyes and whisky and rice,
THE GLOYE AND THE LIONS.
369
An' when you start from ould Ireland take passage at Cork
An 1 come straight over to the town of New York,
An' there ax the mayor the best w T ay to go
To the state of Cincinnati in the town of Ohio,
For 'tis there you will find me without much tryin'
At the Harp and the Eagle kept by Shamus O'Brien."
J. S. LE FANT7.
THE GLOVE AND THE LIONS.
King Francis was a hearty king, and loved a royal sport,
And one day as his lions fought, sat looking on the court;
The nobles filled the benches, with the ladies in their pride,
And 'mongst them sat the Count de Lorge, with one for
whom he sighed:
And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show,
Valor and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below.
Ramped and roared the lions, with horrid laughing jaws;
They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went
with their paws;
With wallowing might and stifled roar they rolled on one
another,
Till all the pit with sand and mane was in a thunderous
smother,
The bloody foam above the bars came whisking through the
air;
Said Francis then, " Faith, gentlemen, we 're better here than
there!"
De Lorge's love o'erheard the King, a beauteous lively dame,
With smiling lips and sharp bright eyes, which always
seemed the same;
She thought, " The Count, my lover, is brave as brave can be.
He sureiy would do wondrous things to show his love of me;
King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the occasion is divine;
I'll drop my glove, to prove his love; great glory will be
mine!"
She dropped her glove to prove his love, then looked on him
and smiled;
He bowed, and in a moment leaped among the lions wild;
24
370 A LEGEND OF BEEGENZ.
The leap was quick, return was quick, he has regained his
place,
Then threw the glove, — but not with love, — right in the
lady's face.
"By Heaven!" said Francis, "rightly done!" and he rose
from where he sat;
" No love," quoth he, " but vanity, sets love a task like that.
LEIGH HUNT.
A LEGEND OF BREGENZ.
Giet round with rugged mountains
The fair Lake Constance lies;
In her blue heart reflected,
Shine back the starry skies;
And watching each white cloudlet
Float silently and slow,
You think a piece of heaven
Lies on our earth below!
Midnight is there: and silence,
Enthroned in heaven, looks down
Upon her own calm mirror,
Upon a sleeping town;
For Bregenz, that quaint city
Upon the Tyrol shore,
Has stood above Lake Constance
A thousand years and more.
Her battlements and towers
Upon their rocky steep
Have cast their trembling shadow
For ages on the deep;
Mountain and lake and valley
A sacred legend know,
Of how the town was saved one night,
Three hundred years ago.
Far from her home and kindred
A Tyrol maid had fled,
To serve in the Swiss valleys,
And toil for daily bread;
A LEGEND OF BREGENZ. 371
And every year that fleeted
So silently and fast
Seemed to bear farther from her
The memory of the past.
She served kind, gentle masters,
Xor asked for rest or change;
Her friends seemed no more new ones.
Their speech seemed no more strange;
And when she led her cattle
To pasture every day,
She ceased to look and wonder
On which side Bregenz lay.
She spoke no more of Bregenz
With longing and with tears;
Her Tyrol home seemed faded
In a deep mist of years.
She heeded not the rumors
Of Austrian war and strife;
Each day she rose contented,
To the calm toils of life.
Yet, when her master's children
Would clustering round her stand,
She sang them the old ballads
Of her own native land;
And when at morn and evening
She knelt before God's throne,
The accents of her childhood
Rose to her lips alone.
And so she dwelt: the valley
More peaceful year by year;
When suddenly strange portents
Of some great deed seemed near.
The golden corn was bending
Upon its fragile stalk,
While farmers, heedless of their fields,
Paced up and down in talk.
The men seemed stern and altered,
With looks cast on the ground;
372 A LEGEND OF BKEGENZ.
'With anxious faces, one by one,
The women gathered round;
All talk of flax or spinning,
Or work, was put away;
The very children seemed afraid
To go alone to play.
One day, out in the meadow,
With strangers from the town,
Some secret plan discussing,
The men walked up and down;
Yet now and then seemed watching
A strange uncertain gleam,
That looked like lances 'mid the trees
That stood below the stream.
At eve they all assembled,
All care and doubt were fled;
With jovial laugh they feasted,
The board was nobly spread.
The elder of the village
Rose up, his glass in hand,
And cried, "We drink the downfall
Of an accursed land!
" The night is growing darker, —
Ere one more day is flown,
Bregenz, our foeman's stronghold,
Bregenz shall be our own ! "
The women shrank in terror,
(Yet pride, too, had her part,)
But one poor Tyrol maiden
Felt death within her heart.
Before her stood fair Bregenz,
Once more her towers arose;
What were the friends beside her?
Only her country's foes!
The faces of her kinsfolk,
The days of childhood flown,
The echoes of her mountains,
Reclaimed her as their own.
A LEGEINTD OF BREGENZ. 373
Nothing she heard around her
(Though shouts rang forth again),
Gone were the green Swiss valleys,
The pasture and the plain;
Before her eyes one vision,
And in her heart one cry,
That said, " Go forth, save Bregenz,
And then, if need be, die! "
"With trembling haste and breathless.
With noiseless step she sped;
Horses and weary cattle
Were standing in the shed;
She loosed the strong white charger,
That fed from out her hand;
She mounted, and she turned his head
Towards her native land.
Out — out into the darkness, —
Faster, and still more fast;
The smooth grass flies behind her,
The chestnut wood is past;
She looks up; clouds are heavy:
Why is her steed so slow? — ■
Scarcely the wind beside them
Can pass them as they go.
« Faster! " she cries, " O, faster! "
Eleven the church-bells chime;
"O God," she cries, "help Bregenz,
And bring me there in time! "
But louder than bells' ringing,
Or lowing of the kine,
Grows nearer in the midnight
The rushing of the Rhine.
Shall not the roaring waters
Their headlong gallop check?
The steed draws back in terror,
She leans above his neck
To watch the flowing darkness, — ■
The bank is high and steep, — •
374 A LEGEND OF BKEGENZ.
One pause — he staggers forward
And plunges in the deep.
She strives to pierce the blackness,
And looser throws the rein;
Her steed must breast the waters
That dash above his mane.
How gallantly, how nobly,
He struggles through the foam!
And see — in the far distance
Shine out the lights of home!
Up the steep bank he bears her,
And now they rush again
Towards the heights of Bregenz,
That tower above the plain.
They reach the gate of Bregenz
Just as the midnight rings,
And out comes serf and soldier,
To meet the news she brings.
Bregenz is saved! ere daylight
Her battlements are manned;
Defiance greets the army
That marches on the land.
And if to deeds heroic
Should endless fame be paid,
Bregenz does well to honor
The noble Tyrol maid.
Three hundred years are vanished,
And yet upon the hill
An old stone gateway rises,
To do her honor still.
And there, when Bregenz women
Sit spinning in the shade,
They see in quaint old carving
The Charger and the Maid.
And when, to guard old Bregenz,
By gateway, street, and tower,
The warder paces all night long,
And calls each passing hour:
THE SCHOOL-MASTERS GUESTS. 375
" Nine," " ten," " eleven," he cries aloud,
And then (O crown of Fame!)
When midnight pauses in the skies,
He calls the maiden's name!
ADELAIDE A. PROCTER.
THE SCHOOL-MASTER'S GUESTS.
The district school-master was sitting behind his great book-
laden desk,
Close watching the motions of scholars, pathetic and gay and
grotesque.
As whisper the half leafless branches, when Autumn's brisk
breezes have come,
His little scrub-thicket of pupils sent upward a half-smoth-
ered hum.
Like the frequent sharp bang of a wagon, when treading a
forest path o'er,
Resounded the feet of his pupils, whenever their heels struck
the floor. •
There was little Tom Timms on the front seat, whose face
was withstanding a drouth;
And jolly Jack Gibbs just behind him, with a rainy new
moon for a mouth.
There were both of the Smith boys, as studious as if they
bore names that could bloom;
And Jim Jones, a heaven-built mechanic, the slyest young
knave in the room,
With a countenance grave as a horse's and his honest eyes
fixed on a pin,
Queer-bent on a deeply laid project to tunnel Joe Hawkins's
skin.
There were anxious young novices, drilling their spelling-
books into the brain,
Loud puffing each half-whispered letter, like an engine just
starting its train.
376
There was one fiercely muscular fellow, who scowled at the
sums on his elate,
And leered at the innocent figures a look of unspeakable hate,
And set his white teeth close together, and gave his thin
lips a short twist,
As to say " I could whip you, confound you! could such
things be done with the fist! "
There were two knowing girls in the corner, each one with
some beauty possessed,
In a whisper discussing the problem which one the young
master likes best.
A class in the front, with their readers, were telling, with
difficult pains,
How perished brave Marco Bozzaris while bleeding at all
of his veins;
And a boy on the floor to be punished, a statue of idleness
stood,
Making faces at all of the others, and enjoying the scene all
he could.
II.
Around were the walls gray and dingy, which every old
school-sanctum hath,
"With many a break on their surface, where grinned a wood
grating of lath.
A patch of thick plaster, just over the school- master's rickety
chair,
Seemed threat'ningly o'er him suspended, like Damocles'
sword, by a hair.
The square stove puffed and crackled, and broke out in red-
flaming sores,
Till the great iron quadruped trembled like a dog fierce to
rush out-o'-doors.
White snow-flakes looked in at the windows; the gale pressed
its lips to the cracks;
And the children's hot faces were steaming, the while they
were freezing their backs.
TEE SCHOOL-MASTEE's GUESTS. 377
III.
Now Marco Bozzaris had fallen, and all of his sufferings were
o'er,
And the class to their seats were retreating, when footsteps
w T ere heard at the door;
And five of the good district fathers marched into the room
in a row,
And stood themselves up by the hot fire, and shook off their
white cloaks of snow;
And the spokesman, a grave squire of sixty, with counte-
nance solemnly sad,
Spoke thus, while the children all listened, with all of the
ears that they had:
"We 've come here, school-master, intendin' to cast an in-
quirin' eye 'round,
Concernin' complaints that's been entered, an' fault that has
lately been found;
To pace off the width of your doin's, an' witness what you've
been about,
An' see if it 's payin' to keep you, or whether we 'd best turn
ye out.
" The first thing I'm bid for to mention is, when the class
gets up to read,
You give 'em too tight of a rein in' an' touch 'em up more
than they need;
You 're nicer than wise in the matter of holdin' the book in
one hau',
An' you turn a stray g in their doin's, an' tack an odd d on
their an'.
There ain't no great good comes of speakin' the words so
polite, as I see,
Providin' you know what the facts is, an' tell 'em off jest as
they be.
An' then there 's that readin' in concert, is censured from
first unto last;
It kicks up a heap of a racket, when folks is a travelin' past.
378 the school-master's guests.
Whatever is done as to readin', providin' things go to my
say,
Sha 'n't hang on no new-fangled hinges, but swing in the
old-fashioned way."
And the other four good district fathers gave quick the con-
sent that was due,
And nodded obliquely, and muttered, "Them 'ere is my
sentiments tew."
"Then as to your spellin'; I've heern tell, by them as has
looked into this,
That you turn the u out of your labour, an' make the word
shorter than 'tis;
An' clip the k off yer musick, which makes my son Ephriam
perplexed,
An' when he spells out as he ought'r, you pass the word on
to the next.
They say there 's some new- grafted books here that don't
take them letters along;
But if it is so, jest depend on 't, them new-grafted books is
made wrong.
You might jest as well say that Jackson did n't know all
there was about war,
As to say that old spellin'-book Webster did n't know what
them letters was for."
And the other four good district fathers gave quick the con-
sent that was due,
And scratched their heads slyly and softly, and said,
" Them 's my sentiments tew."
" Then, also, your 'rithmetic doin's, as they are reported to me.,
Is that you have left Tare and Tret out, an' also the old Rule
of Three;
An' likewise brought in a new study, some high-stepping
scholars to please,
With saw-bucks an' crosses and pot-hooks, an' w's, x, y's
and z's.
THE SCHOOL-MASTEE's GUESTS. 379
We ain't got no time for such foolin'; there ain't no great
good to be reached.
By tip-toein' childr'n up higher than ever their fathers was
teached."
And the other four good district fathers gave quick the con-
sent that was due,
And cocked one eye up to the ceiling, and said, " Them 's
my sentiments tew."
' Another thing, I must here mention, comes into the ques-
tion to day,
Concerning some things in the grammar you 're teachin' our
girls for to say.
My gals is as steady as clockwork, an' never give cause for
much fear,
But they come home from school t'other evenin' a talkin'
such stuff as this here:
'I love,' an' 'Thou lovest,' an' 'He loves,' an' 'You love,'
an' ' They—'
An' they answered my questions, ' It 's grammar' — 't was all
I could get 'em to say.
Now if, 'stead of doin' your duty, you're carryin' matters on so
As to make the gals say that they love you, it 's just all that
I want to know."
IV.
Now Jim, the young heaven-built mechanic, in the dusk of
the evening before,
Had well-nigh unjointed the stove-pipe, to make it come
down on the floor;
And the squire bringing smartly his foot down, as a clincher
to what he had said,
A joint of the pipe fell upon him, and larruped him square
on the head.
The soot flew in clouds all about him, and blotted with
black all the place,
And the squire and the other four fathers were peppered
with black in the face.
380 AUX ITALIENS.
The school, ever sharp for amusement, laid down all their
cumbersome books,
And, spite of the teacher's endeavors, laughed loud at their
visitors' looks.
And the squire, as he stalked to the doorway, swore oaths of
a violet hue;
And the four district fathers, who followed, seemed to say,
" Them 's my sentiments tew."
WILL CAFvLETON.
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;
And Mario can soothe, with a tenor note,
The souls in purgatory.
The moon on the tower slept soft as snow;
And who was not thrilled in the strangest way,
As we heard him sins;, while the gas burned low,
" Non ti scordar di me? "
The emperor there, in his box of state,
Looked grave; as if he had just then seen
The red flag wave from the city gate,
Where 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 again,
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.
AUX ITALIENS. 381
And both were silent, and both were sad; —
Like a queen she leaned on her full white arm,
With that regal, indolent air she had;
So confident of her charm!
I have not a doubt she was thinking then
Of her former lord, good soul that he was,
Who died the richest and roundest of men,
The Marquis of Carabas.
I hope that, to get to the kingdom of heaven,
Through a needle's eye he had not to pass;
I wish him well for the jointure given
To my lady of Carabas.
Meanwhile, I was thinking of my first love
As I had not been thinking of aught for years;
Till over my eyes there began to move
Something that felt like tears.
I thought of the dress that she wore last time,
When we stood 'neath the cypress-trees together,
In that lost land, in that soft clime,
In the crimson evening weather;
Of that muslin dress (for the eve was hot);
And her warm white neck in its golden chain;
And her full soft hair, just tied in a knot,
And falling loose again:
And the jasmine flower in her fair young breast;
(O the faint, sweet smell of that jasmine flower!)
And the one bird singing alone to 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!"
382
AUX ITALIENS.
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,
To my early love, with her eyes downcast,
And over her primrose face the shade,
(In short, from the future back to the past,)
There was but a step to be made.
To my early love from my future bride
One moment I looked. Then I stole to the door,
I traversed the passage; and down at her side
I was sitting, a moment more.
My thinking of her, or the music's strain,
Or something which never will be 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 '11 let that pass;
She may marry whomever she will.
couxt caxdespina's standard. 383
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 is n't loved every day.
And I think in the lives of most women and men,
There 's a moment when all would go smooth and even
If only the dead could find out when
To come back and be forgiven.
But O the smell of that jasmine flower!
And O that music! and O the way
That voice rang out from the donjon tower,
Kon ti scordar di me,
J¥o?i ti scordar di me!
ROBERT BULWER LYTTOS.
COUXT CAXDESPLNA'S STANDARD.
Scarce were the splintered lances dropped,
Scarce were the swords drawn out,
Ere recreant Lara, sick with fear,
Had wheeled his steed about;
His courser reared, and plunged, and neighed,
Loathing the fight to yield;
But the coward spurred him to the bone,
And drove him from the field.
Gonzalez in his stirrups rose:
" Turn, turn, thou traitor knight!
Thou bold tongue in a lady's bower,
Thou dastard in a fio-ht! "
But vainly valiant Gomez cried
Across the waning fray:
Pale Lara and his craven band
To Burgos scoured away.
384
" Now, by the God above me, sirs,
Better we all were dead,
Than a single knight among ye all
Should ride where Lara led!
" Yet ye who fear to follow me,
As yon traitor, turn and fly;
For I lead ye not to win a field;
I lead ye forth to die.
" Olea, plant my standard here —
Here on this little mound;
Here raise the war-cry of thy house,
Make this our rallying ground.
" Forget not, as thou hop'st for grace,
The last care I shall have
Will be to hear thy battle-cry,
And see that standard wave."
Down on the ranks of Aragon
The bold Gonzalez drove,
And Olea raised his battle-cry,
And waved the flag above.
Slowly Gonzalez' little band
Gave ground before the foe;
But not aii inch of the field was won
Without a deadly blow;
And not an inch of the field was won
That did not draw a tear
From the widowed wives of Aragon,
That fatal news to hear.
Backward and backward Gomez fought,
And high o'er the clashing steel,
Plainer and plainer rose the cry,
"Olea for Castile!"
Backward fought Gomez, step by step,
Till the cry was close at hand,
Till his dauntless standard shadowed him;
And there he made his stand.
385
Mace, sword and axe rang on his mail,
Yet he moved not where he stood,
Though each gaping joint of armor ran
A stream of purple blood.
As, pierced with countless wounds he fell,
The standard caught his eye,
And he smiled like an infant hushed asleep,
To hear the battle-cry.
Now one by one the wearied knights
Have fallen, or basely flown ;
And on the mound where his post was fixed
Olea stood alone.
"Yield up thy banner, gallant knight!
Thy lord lies on the plain;
Thy duty has been nobly done;
I would not see thee slain."
" Spare pity, King of Aragon!
I would not hear thee lie:
My lord is looking down from heaven
To see his standard fly."
"Yield, madman, yield! thy horse is down,
Thou hast nor lance nor shield;
Fly!— I will grant thee time." " This flag
Can neither fly nor yield! "
They girt the standard round about,
A wall of flashing steel;
But still they heard the battle-cry,
" Olea for Castile! '
And there, against all Aragon,
Fall-armed with lance and brand,
Olea fought until the sword
Snapped in his sturdy hand.
Among the foe with that high scorn
Which laughs at earthly fears,
He hurled the broken hilt, and drew
His dagger on the spears.
25
386 HER LETTER.
They hewed the hauberk from his breast,
The hemlet from his head;
They hewed the hands from off his limbs;
From every vein he bled.
Clasping the standard to his heart,
He raised one dying peal,
That rang as if a trumpet blew, —
"Olea for Castile!"
GEORGE H. BOKER.
HER LETTER.
I 'm sitting alone by the fire,
Dressed just as 1 came from the dance,
In a robe even you would admire, —
It cost a cool thousand in France;
I'm be-diamonded out of all reason,
My hair is done up in a cue:
In short, sir, " the belle of the season "
Is wasting an hour on you.
A dozen engagements I 've broken;
I left in the midst of a set;
Likewise a proposal, half spoken,
That waits — on the stairs — for me yet.
They say he'll be rich, — when he grows up,-
And then he adores me indeed.
And you, sir, are turning your nose up,
Three thousand miles off, as you read.
"And how do I like my position? "
"And what do I think of New York?"
"And now, in my higher ambition,
With whom do I waltz, flirt or talk?"
"And is n't it nice to have riches,
And diamonds and silks, and all that?"
" And are n't it a change to the ditches
And tunnels of Poverty Flat?"
Well, yes, — if you saw us out driving
Each day in the park, four-in-hand, —
HEE LETTEE. 387
If you saw poor dear mamma contriving
To look supernaturally grand, —
If you saw papa's picture as taken
By Brady, and tinted at that, —
You 'd never suspect he sold bacon
And flour at Poverty Flat.
And yet, just this moment, when sitting
In the glare of the grand chandelier, — ■
In the bustle and glitter befitting
The "finest soiree of the year,"
In the mists of a gauze de Chambery,
And the hum of the smallest of talk, —
Somehow, Joe, I thought of the " Ferry,"
And the dance that we had on "The Fork; "
Of Harrison's barn, with its muster
Of flags festooned over the wall;
Of the candles that shed their soft lustre
And tallow on head-dress and shawl;
Of the steps that Ave took to one fiddle;
Of the dress of my queer vis-a-vis;
And how I once went down the middle
With the man that shot Sandy McGee;
Of the moon that was quietly sleeping
On the hill, when the time came to go;
Of the few baby peaks that were peeping
From under their bed-clothes of snow;
Of that ride, — that to me was the rarest;
Of — the something you said at the gate, —
Ah, Joe, then I was n't an heiress
To " the best-paying lead in the State."
Well, well, it's all past; yet it's funny
To think, as I stood in the glare
Of fashion and beauty and money,
That I should be thinking, right there,
Of some one who breasted high water,
And swam the North Fork, and all that,
Just to dance with old Folinsbee's daughter,
The Lily of Poverty'Flat.
388 THE BUGLE SONG.
But goodness! what nonsense I 'm writing!
(Mamma says my taste still is low,)
Instead of my triumphs reciting,
I 'm spooning on Joseph, — heigh-ho!
And I 'm to be " finished " by travel, —
Whatever 's the meaning of that, —
Oh! why did papa strike pay gravel
In drifting on Poverty Flat?
Good night, — here 's the end of my paper;
Good night, — if the longitude please, —
For maybe while wasting my taper,
Your sun 's climbing over the trees.
But know if you have n't got riches,
And are poor, dearest Joe, and all that,
That my heart's somewhere there in the ditches,
And you 've struck it, — on Poverty Flat.
BRET HARTE.
THE BUGLE SONG.
The splendor falls on castle walls
And snowy summits old in story;
The long light shakes across the lakes,
And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
Blow, bugle blow, set the wild echoes flying,
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
O hark! O hear! how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, farther going!
O sweet and far, from cliff and scar,
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
O love, they die in yon rich sky,
They faint on hill or field or river:
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
And grow forever and forever.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
And answer echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.
ALFRED TENNYSON.
THE EEVOLUTIONAKY RISING. 389
THE REVOLUTIONARY RISING.
Out of the North the wild news came,
Far flashing on its wings of flame,
Swift as the boreal light which flies
At midnight through the startled skies.
And there was tumult in the air,
The fife's shrill note, the drum's loud beat,
And through the wide land everywhere
The answering tread of hurrying feet;
While the first oath of Freedom's gun
Came on the blast from Lexington;
And Concord roused, no longer tame,
Forgot her old baptismal name,
Made bare her patriot arm of power, t
And swelled the discord of the hour.
Within its shade of elm and oak
The church of Berkley Manor stood;
There Sunday found the rural folk,
And some esteemed of gentle blood.
In vain their feet with loitering tread
Passed mid the graves where rank is naught;
All could not read the lesson taught
In that republic of the dead.
How sweet the hour of Sabbath talk,
The vale with peace and sunshine full,
Where all the happy people walk,
Decked in their homespun flax and wool;
Where youth's gay hats with blossoms bloom;
And every maid, with simple art,
Wears on her breast, like her own heart,
A bud whose depths are all perfume;
While every garment's gentle stir
Is breathing rose and lavender.
The pastor came; his snowy locks
Hallowed his brow of thought and care;
And calmly, as shepherds lead their flocks,
He led into the house of prayer,
Then soon he rose; the prayer was strong;
The Psalm was warrior David's song;
390 THE REVOLUTIONARY RISING.
The text, a few short words of might —
"The Lord of Hosts shall arm the right!"
He spoke of wrongs too long endured,
Of sacred rights to be secured;
Then from his patriot tongue of flame
The startling words for freedom came.
The stirring sentences he spake
Compelled the heart to glow or quake,
And, rising on his theme's broad wing,
And grasping in his nervous hand
The imaginary battle-brand,
In face of death he dared to fling
Defiance to a tyrant king.
Even as he spoke, his frame, renewed
In eloquence of attitude,
Rose, as it seemed, a shoulder higher;
Then swept his kindling glance of fire
From startled pew to breathless choir;
When suddenly his mantle wide,
His hands impatient flung aside,
And, lo! he met their wondering eyes
Complete in all a warrior's guise.
A moment there was awful pause —
When Berkley cried, " Cease, traitor! cease
God's temple is the house of peace!"
The other shouted, "Nay, not so,
When God is with our righteous cause;
His holiest places then are ours,
His temples are our forts and towers
That frown upon the tyrant foe;
In this, the dawn of Freedom's day,
There is a time to fight and pray!"
And now before the open door —
The warrior priest had ordered so — •
The enlisting trumpet's sudden roar
Rang through the chapel, o'er and o'er,
Its long reverberating blow,
So loud and clear, it seemed the ear
Of dusty death must wake and hear.
MY PIPE. 391
And there the startling drum and fife
Fired the living with fiercer life;
While overhead, with- wild increase,
Forgetting its ancient toll of peace,
The great bell swung as ne'er before:
It seemed as it would never cease;
And every word its ardor flung
From off its jubilant iron tongue
Was, "War! War! WAR!"
"Who dares?" — this was the patriot's cry,
As striding from the desk he came, —
" Come out with me, in Freedom's name,
For her to live, for her to die?"
A hundred hands flung up reply,
A hundred voices answered, " I!"
THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.
MY PIPE.
What! sell my pipe, sir? By old Jove!
Ha! ha! excuse my ill-seemed mirth.
Why, boy, to get that pipe I clove
A trooper to his saddle-girth!
What 's that? Why, more than you have done,
My white-faced lad, or you will do,
If you but end as you 've begun;
Mind what I tell you, lad, 'tis true!
Put up your money; this old pipe
May be, as you have said, a gem;
Whoever loosens death's last gripe
Will find it here, a prize to them.
A beauty! yes indeed, a pearl!
See how the rich brown color glows;
The blushes of a pretty girl,
The heart's core of the deep red rose!
Pshaw! sell my pipe! the thing 's absurd!
My silver-lipped, my amber-tipped!
See here, my lad, perhaps you 've heard
About a pack of fellows whipped
392 MY PIPE.
At Gettysburg? Well, I was there,
Where showers of ball ploughed up the ground
Beneath the footsteps of my mare,
Who challenged death at every bound!
Up came an order from our chief
To take a belching battery nigh:
Our captain's words were sharp and brief,
"Forward! which of ye fears to die?"
Like one united mass we sprang
O'er abattis: the works were won;
With one wild shout the hillside rang,
And then we spiked each murderous gun!
Just then a cloud of horsemen rushed
Upon our rear like some fierce gust:
By every count they should have crushed
Our little band into the dust.
Full five to one the squadron came;
Thank God! we knew not how to fly,
For, I'll be sworn, each felt the same,
As men who did not fear to die.
Wild was the crash; the shrieks, the yells,
The screaming of the frightened steeds!
It seemed as though a score of hells
Had loosed their fiends for bloody deeds!
Each man of all our little band
Fought like a hundred men in one,
Slashing his foes on either hand,
As though 't were but a bit of fun.
At last, with half our comrades slain,
We beat the foemen wildly back,
And fiercely over hill and plain
We smote them on their flying track.
My arm was hardened steel that day
From shoulder to my sword's red tip;
But still no blood was in the fray
Of mine, save from my bitten lip.
But I had seen my brother fall —
Hewed down by one great, giant blow:
MY PIPE. 393
The sight had turned my blood to gall,
And almost checked its living flow.
I bent my mare's long reaching stride
On every flying wretch I scanned,
Sworn that no spot on earth should hide
The murderer from my vengeful hand.
The nio-ht was closing- in around,
"With just enough of light to see,
When suddenly I heard the sound
Of clattering hoofs not far from me.
I turned my mare, and stood on guard,
My ready sabre on my knee;
My listening heart beat quick and hard,
For something whispered, "This is he! "
I knew him at our horses' length,
Though but a glimpse I had before —
His fierce black eye, his size and strength,
His hands all smeared with blackened gore.
And in his tightly clenched teeth
He held this pipe with mocking grin —
A grin that hid a fiend beneath;
A murderous fiend there lurked within.
He stretched his head, with straining eyes,
Thinking my silent form a friend;
I marked him for a certain prize,
And grasped my sabre for the end.
Just then he thrust his cursed face
Far forward from his saddle-bow,
And with a puff lit all the place
And knew me for his deadly foe.
But ere his horse could backward spring,
I clutched this pipe with fiercest hate;
Then, with one quick and desperate swing,
My good sword fell — alas! too late!
He charged, and, in his fearful haste,
He only took my bridle-arm;
I cut him, cleanly, to his waist: —
An arm the less, boy, that 's no harm!
394 THE DEATH OP MAEMIOIST.
So that's the way my pipe was won.
Now, do you think I'd sell my prize!
Why, all the gold beneath the sun
Would not so fill my loving eyes.
I kiss its bowl for memory's sake —
The memory of my brother Steve;
Its presence keeps the thought awake
Of him I slew that summer eve.
JAMES W. WATSON.
THE DEATH OF MARMION.
Wide raged the battle on the plain ;
Spears shook, and falchions flashed amain;
Fell England's arrow-flight like rain;
And crests of Scottish chieftains brave
Floated like foam upon the wave;
Yet still amid the tumult high
England saw Marrnion's pennon fly.
The border slogan rent the sky:
"A Home! a Gordon! " was the cry;
Loud were the clanging- blows!
Advanced, — forced back, — now low, now high,
The pennon sank and rose;
As bends the bark's mast in the gale,
When rent are rigging, shrouds, and sail,
It wavered 'mid the foes.
Swift to the fray Blount rode amain,
Followed by all the archer train.
The fiery youth, with desperate charge,
Made, for a space, an opening large; —
The rescued banner rose;
But darkly closed the war around, —
Like pine-tree rooted from the ground,
It sank among the foes!
Then, fast as shaft can fly,
Bloodshot his eyes, his nostrils spread,
The loose rein dangling from his head,
Housing and saddle bloody red,
Lord Marmion's steed rushed by.
THE DEATH OF MAEMION.
And soon, straight up the hill there rode
Two horsemen drenched with gore,
And in their arms, a helpless load,
A wounded knight they bore.
His hand still strained the broken brand,
His arms were smeared with blood and sand.
Dragged from among the horses' feet,
With dinted shield, and helmet beat,
The falcon crest and plumage gone, —
Can that be haughty Marmion?
Young Blount his armor did unlace,
And, gazing on his ghastly face,
Said, " By Saint George, he 's gone!
That spear- wound has our master sped;
And see the deep cut on his head!
Good-night to Marmion !" —
"Unnurtured Blount! thy brawling cease:
He opes his eyes," said Eustace; "peace!"
When, doffed his casque, he felt free air,
Around 'gan Marmion wildly stare: —
"Where 's Harry Blount? Fitz Eustace where?
Linger ye here, ye hearts of hare!
Redeem my pennon! Charge again!
Cry, ' Marmion to the rescue! — Vain!
Last of my race, on battle-plain
That shout shall ne 'er be heard ag-ain!
" Yet my last thought is England's; fly!
To Dacre Dear my signet ring;
Tell him his squadrons up to bring.
Let Stanley charge with spur of fire,
With Chester charge, and Lancashire,
Full upon Scotland's central host, —
Or victory and England's lost!
Must I bid twice? Hence, varlets! fly!
Leave Marmion here alone — to die!"
The war, that for a space did fail,
Now, trebly thundering, swelled the gale,
And — Stanley! was the cry; —
A light on Marmion's visage spread,
Arid fired his glazing eye;
3<J.
396 WILLIAM TELL AMONG THE MOUNTAINS.
With dying hand, above his head
He shook the fragment of his blade,
And shouted " Victory!"—, ^
"Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley, on!
Were the last words of Marmion.
SIR WALTER SCOTT.
WILLIAM TELL AMONG THE MOUNTAINS.
Ye crags and peaks, I'm with you once again!
I hold to you the hands you first beheld,
To show they still are free. Methinks I hear
A spirit in your echoes answer me,
And bid your tenant welcome to his home
Again! O, sacred forms, how proud ye look!
How high you lift your heads into the sky!
How huge you are! how mighty and how free!
Ye are the things that tower, that shine, whose smile
Makes glad, whose frown is terrible, whose forms,
Robed or unrobed, do all the impress wear
Of awe divine. Ye guards of liberty!
I'm with you once again ! — I call to you
With all my voice! I hold my hands to you
To show they still are free. I rush to you,
As though I could embrace you!
Scaling ySnder peak,
I saw an eagle wheeling, near its brow,
O'er the abyss. His broad, expanded wings
Lay calm and motionless upon the air,
As if he had floated there, without their aid,
By the sole act of his unlorded will,
That buoyed him proudly up! Instinctively
I bent my bow; yet wheeled he, heeding not
The death that threatened him! I could not shoot!
'T was liberty! I turned my bow aside,
And let him soar away.
Once Switzerland was free! O, with what pride
I used to walk these hills, look up to heaven,
And bless God that it was so! It was free!
From end to end, from cliff to lake, 't was free!
THE DTIXG CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL. 397
Free as our torrents are, that leap our rocks,
And plough our valleys without asking leave;
Or as our peaks, thai wear their caps of snow
In very presence oi rue regal sun!
How happy was I in it then! I loved
Its very storms! Ay, often have I sat
In my boat, at night, when down the mountain gorge
The wind came roaring — sat in it, and eyed
The thunder breaking from his cloud, and smiled
To see him shake his lightnings o'er my head,
And think I had no master, save his own!
You know the jutting cliff, round which a track
Up hither winds, whose base is but the brow
To such another one, with scanty room
For two to pass abreast? CTertaken there
By the mountain-blast, I 've laid me flat along;
And while gust followed gust more furiously,
As if 't would sweep me o'er the horrid brink,
And I have thought of other lands, whose storms
Are summer-flaws to those of mine, and just
Have wished me there, — the thought that mine was free
Has checked that wish; and I have raised my head,
x\nd cried, in thrall dom, to that furious wind,
" Blow on! — This is the land of liberty! "
SHERIDAN KXOWLES.
THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL.
Yital spark of heavenly flame,
Quit, oh! quit this mortal frame!
Trembling, hoping-, lingering, flying, —
Oh the pain — the bliss of dying!
Cease, fond nature, cease thy strife,
And let me languish into life!
Hark! they whisper: angels say,
"Sister spirit, come away!"
What is this absorbs me quite, —
Steals my senses, shuts my sight,
Drowns my spirits, draws my breath? —
Tell me, my soul! can this be death?
398 THE SCHOLAE OF THEBET BEN KHOEAT.
The world recedes — it disappears;
Heaven opens on my eyes; my ears
"With sounds seraphic ring:
Lend, lend your wings! I mount, I fly!
O Grave! where is thy victory?
O Death! where is thy sting?
ALEXANDER POPE.
THE SCHOLAR OF THEBET BEN KHORAT.
Night in Arabia. An hour ago,
Pale Dian had descended from the sky,
Flinging her cestus out upon the sea,
And at their watches, now, the solemn stars
Stood vigilant and lone; and, dead asleep,
With not a shadow moving on its breast,
The breathing earth lay in its silver dew,
And, trembling on their myriad viewless wings,
Th' imprisoned odors left the flowers to dream,
And stole away upon the yielding air.
Ben Khorat's tower stands shadowy and tall
In Mecca's loneliest street; and ever there,
When night is at the deepest, burns his lamp
As constant as the Cynosure, and forth
From his loop'd window stretch the brazen tubes,
Pointing forever at the central. star
Of that dim nebula just lifting now
Over Mount Arafat. The sky to-night
Is of a clearer blackness than is wont,
And far within its depths the colored stars
Sparkle like gems — capricious Antares
Flushing and paling in the Southern arch;
And azure Lyra, like a woman's eye,
Burning with soft blue lustre; and away
Over the desert the bright Polar star,
White as a flashing icicle; and here,
Hung like a lamp above th' Arabian sea,
Mars with his dusky glow; and fairer yet,
Mild Sirius, tinct with dewy violet,
Set like a flower upon the breast of Eve;
And in the zenith the sweet Pleiades
(Alas — that even a star may pass from heaven
THE SCHOLAR OF THEBET BEX KHOEAT. 399
And not be miss'd) — the linked Pleiades
Undimmed are there, though from the sister band
The fairest has gone down; and, south away,
Hirundo with its little company;
And white-browed Vesta, lamping on her path
Lonely and planet-calm, and, all through heaven,
Articulate almost, they troop to-night,
Like unrobed angels in a prophet's trance.
* * It was the morning watch once more.
The clouds were drifting rapidly above.
And dim and fast the glimmering stars flew through,
And as the fitful gust sough'd mournfully,
The shutters shook, and on the sloping roof
Plash 'd heavily, large, single drops of rain —
And all was still again. Ben Khorat sat
By the dim lamp, and, while his scholar slept,
Pored on the Chaldee wisdom. At his feet,
Stretch 'd on a pallet, lay the Arab boy,
Muttering fast in his unquiet sleep,
And working his dark fingers in his palms
Convulsively. His sallow lips were pale,
And, as they moved, his teeth show'd ghastly through,
* * * * Ben Khorat rose
And silently look'd forth upon the East.
The dawn was stealing up into the sky
On its gray feet, the stars grew dim apace,
And faded, till the Morning Star alone,
Soft as a molten diamond's liquid fire,
Burn'd in the heavens. The morn grewfreshlier —
The upper clouds were faintly touched with gold;
The fan-palms rustled in the open air;
Daylight spread cool and broadly to the hills:
And still the star was visible, and still
The young astronomer with straining eye
Drank its departing light into his soul.
It faded — melted — and the fiery rim
Of the clear sun came up, and painfully
The passionate scholar press'd upon his eyes
His dusky fingers, and, with limbs as weak
As a sick child's, turn'd fainting to his couch,
And slept. ******
400 THE SCHOLAR OF THEBET BEX KHORAT.
White as a charnel bone, and — closely drawn
Upon his sunken eyes, as if to press
Some frightful image from the blood -shot balls —
His lids a moment quiver'd, and again
Relax'd, half open, in a calmer sleep.
Ben Khorat gazed upon the dropping sands
Of the departing hour. The last white grain
Fell through, and with the tremulous hand of age
The old" astrologer reversed the glass;
And, as the voiceless monitor went on,
Wasting and wasting with the precious hour,
He look'd upon it with a moving lip,
And, starting, turn'd his gaze up to the heavens,
Cursing the clouds impatiently.
" 'Tistime!"
Mutter 'd the dying scholar, and he dash'd
The tangled hair from his black eyes away,
And, seizing on Ben Khorat's mantle-folds,
He struggled to his feet, and falling prone
Upon the window-ledge, gazed steadfastly
Into the East: —
" There is a cloud between —
She sits this instant on the mountain's brow,
And that dusk veil hides all her glory now —
Yet floats she as serene
Into the heavens! — Oh God! that even so
I could o'ermount my spirit-cloud, and go!
" The cloud begins to drift!
Aha! fling open! 'tis the star — the sky!
Touch me, immortal mother ! and I fly!
Wider! thou cloudy rift
Let through! — such glory should have radiant room!
Let through! — a star-child on its light goes home!
" Speak to me, brethren bright!
Ye who are floating in these living beams!
Ye who have come to me in starry dreams!
Ye who have wing'd the light
Of our bright mother with its thoughts of flame —
(I knew it pass'd through spirits as it came) —
THE SCHOLAR OF THEBET BEX KHORAT. 401
" Tell me! what power have ye?
What are the heights ye reach upon your wings?
What know ye of the myriad wondrous things
I perish but to see?
Are ye thought rapid? — Can ye fly as far —
As instant as a thought, from star to star?
"Where has the Pleiad gone?
Where have all missing stars found light and home?
Who bids the Stella Mira go and come?
Why sits the Pole-star lone?
And why, like banded sisters, through the air
Go in bright troops the constellation fair?
"Ben Khorat! dost thou mark?
The star! the star? By heaven! the cloud drifts o'er!
Gone — and I live! nay — will my heart beat more?
Look! master! 'tis all dark —
Not a clear speck in heaven? — my eyeballs smother!
Break through the clouds once more! oh starry mother!
"I will lie down! Yet stay,
The rain beats out the odor from the gums,
And strangely soft to-night the spice-wind comes!
I am a child alway
When it is on my forehead! Abra sweet
Would I were in the desert at thy feet!
"My barb! my glorious steed!
Methinks my soul would mount upon its track
More fleetly, could I die upon thy back!
How would thy thrilling speed
Quicken my pulse! Oh Allah! I get wild!
Would that I were once more a desert child!
"Nay — nay — I had forgot!
My mother! my star mother! — Ha! my breath
Stifles! — more air! — Ben Khorat this is — death!
Touch me! — I feel you not!
Dying! — Farewell! good master! — room! more room!
Abra! I loved thee! star! bright star! I — come!"
NATHANIEL P. WILLIS.
26
402 THE DEATH OF THE OWD SQUIRE.
THE DEATH OF THE OWD SQUIRE.
5 Twas a wild, mad kind of night, as black as the bottomless
pit,
The wind was howling away, like a Bedlamite in a fit,
Tearing the ash boughs off, and mowing the poplars down,
In the meadows beyond the old flour mill, where you turn
off to the town.
And the rain (well, it did rain) dashing against the window
glass,
And deluging on the roof, as the Devil were come to pass;
The gutters were running in floods outside the stable-door,
And the spouts splashed from the tiles, as they would never
give o'er.
Lor' how the winders rattled! you'd almost ha' thought
that thieves
Were wrenching at the shutters; while a ceasless pelt of
leaves
Flew to the dcors in gusts; and I could hear the beck
Calling so loud I knew at once it was up to a tall man's neck.
We was huddling in the harness room, by a little scrap of fire,
And Tom, the coachman, he was there, a practicing for the
choir;
But it sounded dismal, anthem did, for squire was d^dng fast,
And the doctor said, — " Do what he would, Squire 's break-
ing up at last."
The Death watch, sure enough, ticked loud just over th'
owd mare's head,
Though he had never once been heard up there since
master's boy lay dead;
And the only sound, beside Tom's toon, was the stirring in
the stalls,
And the gnawing and the scratching of the rats in the owd
walls.
We couldn't hear Death's foot pass by, but we knew that
he was near;
And the chill rain, and the wind and cold made us all shake
with fear;
THE DEATH OF THE OWD SQUIRE. 403
We listened to the clock up-stairs, 'twas breathing soft and
low,
For the nurse said " At the turn of the night the old squire's
soul would go."
Master had been a wildish man, and led a roughish life;
Didn't he shoot the Bowton squire, who dared write to his
wife ?
He beat the Rads at Hindon town, I heard in twenty-nine,
When every pail in market place was brimmed with red
port wine.
And as for hunting, bless your soul, why for forty years or
more
He'd kept the Marley hounds, man, as his fayther did afore;
And now to die, and in his bed — the season just begun —
" It made him fret," the doctor said, " as it might do any one."
And when the young sharp lawyer came to see him sign
his will,
Squire made me blow my horn outside as we were going to
kill;
And we turned the hounds out in the court — that seemed
to do him good;
For he swore, and sent us off to seek a fox in Thornhill wood.
But then the fever it rose hio;h, and he would 2:0 see the
room
Where mistress died ten years ago when Lammastide shall
come;
I mind the year, because our mare at Salisbury broke down;
Moreover the town hall was burnt at Steeple Dinton town.
It might be two, or half-past two, the wind seemed quite
asleep;
Tom, he was off, but I awake, sat watch and ward to keep;
The moon was up, quite glorious like, the rain no longer fell,
When all at once out clashed and clanged the rusty* turret
bell,
That hadn't been heard for twenty year, not since the Lud-
dite days;
Tom he leaped up, and I leaped up, for all the house ablaze
404 THE DEATH OF THE OWD SQUIKE.
Had sure not scared us half as much, and out we ran like mad,
I, Tom, and Joe, the whipper in, and t' little stable lad.
" He's killed himself," that's the idea that came into my head:
I felt as sure as though I saw Squire Barrowby was dead;
"When all at once a door flew back, and he met us face to face ;
His scarlet coat was on his back, and he looked like the old
race.
The nurse was clinging to his knees, and crying like a child;
The maids were sobbing on the stairs, for he looked fierce
and wild;
"Saddle my Lightning Bess, my men," that's what he said
to me:
" The moon is up, we're sure to find at Stop or Etterly.
" Get out the dogs; I'm well to-night, and young again and
sound,
I'll have a run once more before they put me under-ground;.
They brought my father home feet first, and it never shall
be said
That his son Joe, who rode so straight, died quietly in his bed.
"Brandy! " he cried; "a tumbler full, you women howling
there;"
Then clapped the old black velvet cap upon his long grey hair,
Thrust on his boots, snatched down his whip, though he was
old and weak,
There was a devil in his eye, that would not let me speak.
We loosed the dogs to humor him, and sounded on the horn;
The moon was up above the woods, just east of Haggard
Bourne;
I buckled Lightning's throat-latch fast; the squire was
watching me;
He let the stirrups down himself so quick, yet carefully.
Then up he got and spurred the mare, and, ere I well could
mount,
He drove the yard gate open, man; and called to old Dick
Blount,
Our huntsman, dead five years ago — for the fever rose again,
And was spreading like a flood of flame, fast up into his brain.
THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM. 405
Then off he flew before the dogs, yelling to call us on,
While we stood there, all pale and dumb, scarce knowing
he was gone;
We mounted, and below the hill we saw the fox break out,
And down the covert ride we heard the old squire's parting
shout.
And in the moonlit meadow mist we saw him fly the rail
Beyond the hurdles by the beck, just half way down the vale;
I saw him breast fence after fence — nothing could turn him
back;
And in the moonlight after him streamed out the brave old
pack.
'Twas like a dream, Tom cried to me, as we rode free and fast,
Hoping to turn him at the brook, that could not well be past,
For it was swollen with the rain; but ah, 'twas not to be;
Nothing could stop old Lightning Bess but the broad breast
of the sea.
The hounds swept on, and well in front the mare had got
her stride;
She broke across the fallow land that runs by the down side;
We pulled up on Chalk Linton Hill, and as we stood us there,
Two fields beyond we saw the squire fall stone dead from
the mare.
Then she swept on, and in full cry, the hounds went out of
sight;
A cloud came over the broad moon and something dimmed
our sight,
As Tom and I bore master home, both speaking under
breath;
And that 's the way I saw th' owd squire ride boldly to his
death.
ANONYMOUS.
THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM.
'Twas in the prime of summer time,
An evening calm and cool,
And four-and-twenty happy boys
Came bounding out of school;
406 THE DREAM OF EUGENE AEAM.
There were some that ran, and some that leapt
Like troutlets in a pool.
Away they sped with gamesome minds
And souls untouched by sin;
To a level mead they came, and there
They drave the wickets in;
Pleasantly shone the setting sun
Over the town of Lynn.
Like sportive deer they coursed about,
And shouted as they ran,
Turning to mirth all things of earth
As only boyhood can;
But the usher sat remote from all,
A melancholy man!
His hat was off, his vest apart,
To catch heaven's blessed breeze;
For a burning thought was in his brow,
And his bosom ill at ease;
So he leaned his head on his hands, and read
The book between his knees.
Leaf after leaf he turned it o 'er,
Nor ever glanced aside, —
For the peace of his soul he read that book
In the golden eventide;
Much study had made him very lean,
And pale, and leaden-eyed.
At last he shut the ponderous tome;
With a fast and fervent grasp
He strained the dusky covers close,
And fixed the brazen hasp:
"O God! could I so close my mind,
And clasp it with a clasp! "
Then leaping on his feet upright,
Some moody turns he took, —
Now up the mead, then down the mead,
And past a shady nook, —
And, lo! he saw a little boy
That pored upon a book.
THE DKEA1I OF EUGEXE ARAM. 407
" My gentle lad, what is 't you read, —
Romance or fairy fable?
Or is it some historic page,
Of kings and crowns unstable?"
The voung boy gave an upward glance, —
" It is ' The Death of Abel.' "
The usher took six hasty strides,
As smit with sudden pain, —
Six hasty strides beyond the place,
Then slowly back again ;
And down he sat beside the lad,
And talked to him of Cain;
And, long since then, of bloody men,
Whose deeds tradition saves;
Of lonely folk cut off unseen,
And hid in sudden graves;
Of horrid stabs, in groves forlorn,
And murders done in caves;
And how the sprites of injured men
Shriek upward from the sod, —
Ay, how the ghostly hand will point
To show the burial clod;
And unknown facts of guilty acts
Are seen in dreams from God!
He told how murderers walked the earth,
Beneath the curse of Cain, —
With crimson clouds before their eyes,
And flames about their brain;
For blood has left upon their souls
Its everlasting stain.
" And well," quoth he, " I know for truth,
Their pangs must be extreme, —
Woe, woe,- unutterable woe, —
Who spill life's sacred stream!
For why? Methought, last night, I wrought
A murder, in a dream!
" One that had never done me wrong —
A feeble man and old;
4:08 THE DKEAM OF EUGENE ARAM.
I led him to a lonely field,--
The moon shone clear and cold:
Now here, said I, this man shall die,
And I will have his gold!
" Two sudden blows with a ragged stick,
And one with a heavy stone,
One hurried gash with a hasty knife, —
And then the deed was done:
There was nothing lying at my foot
But lifeless flesh and bone!
"Nothing but lifeless flesh and bone,
That could not do me ill;
And yet I feared him all the more,
For lying there so still:
There was a manhood in his look,
That murder could not kill!
"And, lo! the universal air
Seemed lit with ghastly flame, —
Ten thousand tlousand dreadful eyes
Were looking down in blame;
I took the dead man by his hand,
And called upon his name.
" O God! it made me quake to see
Such sense within the slain;
But, when I touched the lifeless clay,
The blood gushed out amain!
For every clot a burning spot
Was scorching in my brain!
" My head was like an ardent coal,
My heart as solid ice;
My wretched, wretched soul, I knew,
Was at the Devil's price.
A dozen times I groaned, — the dead
Had never groaned but twice.
" And now, from forth the frowning sky,
From the heaven's topmost height,
I heard a voice, — the awful voice
Of the blood- avenging sprite:
THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM. 409
4 Thou guilty man ! take up thy dead,
And hide it from my sight! '
" And I took the dreary body up,
And cast it in a stream, —
The sluggish water black as ink,
The depth was so extreme;
My gentle boy, remember, this
Is nothing but a dream!
" Down went the corse with a hollow plunge,
And it vanished in the pool;
Anon I cleansed my bloody hands,
And washed my forehead cool,
And sat among the urchins young,
That evening, in the school.
"O Heaven! to think of their white souls,
And mine so black and grim!
I could not share in childish prayer,
Nor join in evening hymn;
Like a devil of the pit I seemed,
'Mid holy cherubim!
" And peace went with them, one and all,
And each calm pillow spread;
But Guilt was my grim Chamberlain
That lighted me to bed;
And drew my midnight curtains round,
With fingers bloody red!
" All night I lay in agony,
In anguish dark and deep;
My fevered eyes I dared not close,
But stared aghast at Sleep:
For Sin had rendered unto her
The keys of Hell to keep!
" All night I lay in agony,
From weary chime to chime,
With one besetting, horrid hint,
That racked me all the time;
A mighty yearning, like the first
Fierce impulse unto crime!
410
THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM.
"One stern tyrannic thought, that made
All other thoughts its slave;
Stronger and stronger every pulse
Did that temptation crave, — •
Still urging me to go and see
The dead man in his grave! ,
" Heavily I rose up, as soon
As light was in the sky,
And sought the black, accursed pool
With a wild misgiving eye;
And I saw the Dead in the river bed,
For the faithless stream was dry.
" Merrily rose the lark, and shook
The dew-drop from its wing;
But I never marked its morning flight,
I never heard it sing:
For I was stooping once again
Under the horrid thing.
" With breathless speed, like a soul in chase,
I took him up and ran; —
There was no time to dig a grave
Before the day began:
In a lonesome wood, with heaps of leaves,
I hid the murdered man!
" And all that day I read in school,
But my thought was other where;
As soon as the mid-day task was done,
In secret I was there:
And a mighty wind had swept the leaves,
And still the corpse was bare!
"Then down I cast me on my face,
And first began to weep,
For I knew my secret then was one
That earth refused to keep:
Or land or sea, though he should be
Ten thousand fathoms deep.
"So wills the fierce avenging Sprite,
Till blood for blood atones!
THE POLISH BOY. 411
Ay, though he's buried in a cave,
And trodden down with stones,
And years have rotted off his flesh,—
The world shall see his bones!
" Oh, God! that horrid, horrid dream
Besets me now awake!
Again — again, with dizzy brain,
The human life I take;
And my right red hand grows raging hot,
Like Cranmer's at the stake.
"And still no peace for the restless clay,
Will wave or mould allow;
The horrid thing pursues my soul, —
It stands before me now!"
The fearful Boy looked up, and saw
Huge drops upon his brow.
That ver}^ night, while gentle sleep
The urchin eyelids kissed,
Two stern -faced men set out from Lynn,
Through the cold and heavy mist;
And Eugene Aram walked between,
With gyves upon his wrist.
THOMAS HOOD.
THE POLISH BOY.
Whence came those shrieks, so wild and shrill,
That like an arrow cleave the air,
Causing the blood to creep and thrill
With such sharp cadence of despair?
Once more they come! as if a heart
Were cleft in twain by one quick blow,
And every string had voice apart
To utter its peculiar woe!
Whence came they? From yon temple, where
An altar raised for private prayer,
Now forms the warrior's marble bed,
Who Warsaw's gallant armies led.
412 THE POLISH BOY.
The dim funereal tapers throw
A holy lustre o'er his brow,
And burnish with their rays of light
The mass of curls that gather bright
Above the haughty brow and eye
Of a young boy that 's kneeling by.
What hand is that whose icy press
Clings to the dead with death's own grasp,
But meets no answering caress —
No thrilling fingers seek its clasp?
It is the hand of her whose cry
Rang wildly late upon the air,
When the dead warrior met her eye,
Outstretched upon the altar there.
Now with white lips and broken moan
She sinks beside the altar stone;
But hark! the heavy tramp of feet,
Is heard along the gloomy street,
Nearer and nearer yet they come,
With clanking arms and noiseless drum.
They leave the pavement. Flowers that spread
Their beauties by the path they tread,
Are crushed and broken. Crimson hands
Rend brutally their blooming bands.
Now whispered curses, low and deep
Around the holy temple creep.
The gate is burst. A ruffian band
Rush in and savagely demand,
With brutal voice and oath profane,
The startled boy for exile's chain.
The mother sprang with gesture wild,
And to her bosom snatched the child;
Then with pale cheek and flashing eye,
Shouted with fearful energy, —
"Back, ruffians, back! nor dare to tread
Too near the body of my dead!
Nor touch the living boy — I stand
Between him and your lawless band!
No traitor he — But listen ! I
Have cursed your master's tyranny.
THE POLISH BOY. 413
I cheered my lord to join the band
Of those who swore to free our land,
Or fighting, die; and when he pressed
Me for the last time to his breast,
I knew that soon his form would be
Low as it is, or Poland free.
He went and grappled with the foe,
Laid many a haughty Russian low;
But he is dead — the good — the brave —
And I, his wife, am worse — a slave!
Take me, and bind these arms, these hands,
With Russia's heaviest iron bands,
And drag me to Siberia's wild
To perish, if 'twill save my child! "
"Peace, woman, peace! " the leader cried,
Tearing the pale boy from her side;
Andin his ruffian grasp he bore
His victim to the temple door.
"One moment! " shrieked the mother, " one;
Can land or gold redeem my son?
If so, I bend my Polish knee,
And, Russia, ask a boon of thee.
Take palaces, take lands, take all,
But leave him free from Russian thrall.
Take these," and her white arms and hands
She stripped of rings and diamond bands,
x\nd tore from braids of long black hair
The gems that gleamed like star-light there;
Un elapsed the brilliant coronal
And carcanet of orient pearl;
Her cross of blazing rubies last
Down to the Russian's feet she cast.
He stooped to seize the glittering store;
Up springing from the marble floor,
The mother with a cry of joy,
Snatched to her leaping heart the boy!
But no — the Russian's iron grasp
Again undid the mother's clasp.
Forward she fell, with one long cry
Of more than mother's agony.
414 THE POLISH BOY.
But the brave child is roused at length,
And breaking from the Russian's hold.
He stands, a giant in the strength
Of his young spirit, fierce and bold.
Proudly he towers, his flashing eye,
So blue and fiercely bright,
Seems lighted from the eternal sky,
So brilliant is its light.
His curling lips and crimson cheeks
Foretell the thought before he speaks.
With a full voice of proud command
He turns upon the wondering band.
"Ye hold me not! no, no, nor can;
This hour has made the boy a man.
The world shall witness that one soul
Fears not to prove itself a Pole.
I knelt beside my slaughtered sire,
Nor felt one throb of vengeful ire;
I wept upon his marble brow —
Yes, wept — I was a child; but now
My noble mother on her knee,
Has done the work of years for me.
Although in this small tenement
My soul is cramped — unbowed, unbent,
I 've still within me ample power
To free myself this very hour.
This dagger in my heart! and then,
Where is your boasted power, base men?"
He drew aside his broidered vest,
And there, like slumbering serpent's crest,
The jewelled haft of^ poniard bright,
Glittered a moment on the sight.
u Ha! start ye back? Fool! coward! knave!
Think ye my noble father's glave,
Would drink the life blood of a slave?
The pearls that on the handle flame,
Would blush to rubies in their shame!
The blade would quiver in thy breast,
Ashamed of such ignoble rest!
No; thus I rend thy tyrant's chain.
And fling him back a boy's disdain!"
THE BEOOKSIDE. 415
A moment, and the funeral light
Flashed on the jewelled weapon bright;
Another, and his young heart's blood
Leaped to the floor a crimson flood.
Quick to his mother's side he sprang,
And on the air his clear voice rang —
"Up, mother, up! I'm free! I'm free!
The choice was death or slavery;
Up! mother, up! look on my face,
I only wait for thy embrace.
One last, last word — a blessing, one,
To prove thou knowest what 1 have done,
No look! No word! Canst thou not feel
My warm blood o'er my heart congeal?
Speak, mother, speak — lift up thy head.
What, silent still? Then art thou dead!
Great God, I thank thee! Mother, I
Rejoice with thee, and thus to die."
Slowly he falls. The clustering hair
Rolls back and leaves that* forehead bare.
One. long, deep breath, and his pale head
Lay on his mother's bosom dead,
ANN S. STEPHENS.
THE BROOKSIDE.
I waxdeeed by the brookside,
I wandered by the mill;
I could not hear the brook flow, —
The noisy wheel was still;
There was no burr of grasshopper.
No chirp of any bird,
But the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.
I sat beneath the elm tree;
I watched the long, long shade,
And, as it grew still longer,
I did not feel afraid;
For I listened for a footfall,
I listened for a word, —
But the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.
416 YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.
He came not, — no, he came not, —
The night came on alone, —
The little stars sat one by one,
Each on his golden throne;
The evening wind passed by my cheek,
The leaves above were stirred,
But the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.
Fast, silent tears were flowing,
When something stood behind;
A hand was on my shoulder, —
I knew its touch was kind;
It drew me nearer, — nearer, —
We did not speak one word,
For the beating of our own hearts
Was all the sound we heard.
LORD HOUGHTON.
YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.
Ye mariners of England,
That guard our native seas;
Whose flag has braved, a thousand years,
The battle and the breeze !
Your glorious standard launch again
To match another foe !
And sweep through the deep,
While the stormy winds do blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.
The spirit of your fathers
Shall start from every wave;
For the deck it was their field of fame,
And Ocean was their grave.
Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,
Your manly hearts shall glow.
As ye sweep through the deep,
While the stormy winds do blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.
BATTLE HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC. 4:17
Britannia needs no bulwarks,
No towers along the steep;
Her march is o'er the mountain- waves,
Her home is on the deep.
With thunders from her native oak,
She quells the floods below, —
As they roar on the shore,
"When the stormy winds do blow;
When the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.
The meteor fla^ of England
Shall yet terrific burn;
Till danger's troubled night depart,
And the star of peace return.
Then, then, ye ocean warriors!
Our song and feast shall flow
To the fame of your name,
When the storm has ceased to blow;
When the fiery fight is heard no more
And the storm has ceased to blow.
THOMAS CAMPBELL.
BATTLE HY}1N OF THE REPUBLIC.
Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord;
He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath
are stored;
He hath loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible swift sword,
His truth is marching on.
I have seen him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps ;
They have builded him an altar in the evening dews and
damps;
I can read his righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps,
His days are marching on.
I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of steel;
" As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace
shall deal;
Let the Hero born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel,
Since God is marching on."
27
418 HIGH-TIDE ON THE COAST OP LINCOLNSHIRE.
He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat;
He is sifting out the hearts of men before his judgment seat;
O, be swift, my soul, to answer him! be jubilant my feet!
Our God is marching on.
In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea,
With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me;
As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free,
While God is marching on.
JUILA WARD HOWE.
HIGH-TIDE ON THE COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE.
The old mayor climbed the belfry tower,
The ringers run by two, by three;
"Pull! if ye never pulled before;
Good ringers, pull your best," quoth hee.
"Play uppe, play uppe, O Boston bells!
Ply all your changes, all your swells!
Play uppe The Brides of Enderby!"
Men say it was a " stolen tyde," —
The Lord that sent it, he knows all,
But in myne ears doth still abide
The message that the bells let fall;
And there was naught of strange, beside
The flights of mews and peewits pied,
By millions crouched on the old sea-wall.
I sat and spun within the doore;
My thread brake off, I raised myne eyes:
The level sun, like ruddy ore,
Lay sinking in the barren skies;
And dark against day's golden death
She moved w T here Lindis wandereth!—
My Sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth.
"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling
Ere the early dews were falling,
Farre away I heard her song.
"Cusha! Cusha!" all along
Where the reedy Lindis floweth
Floweth, floweth,
HIGH-TIDE OX THE COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE. 419
From the meads -where melick groweth,
Faintly came her milking-song.
"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling
"For the dews will soone be falling;
Leave your meadow grasses mellow,
Mellow, mellow,
Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow 7 !
Come uppe, Whitefoot! come uppe, Lightfoot!
Quit the stalks of parsley hollow,
Hollow, hollow!
Come uppe, Jetty! rise and follow;
From the clovers lift your head!
Come uppe, Whitefoot! come uppe, Lightfoot!
Come uppe, Jetty! rise and follow,
Jetty, to the milking-shed."
If it be long — ay, long ago —
"When I beginne to think howe long,
Againe I hear the Lindis flow,
Swift as an arrowe, sharpe and strong;
And all the aire, it seemeth mee,
Bin full of floating bells (sayth shee),
That ring the tune of Enderby.
Alle fresh the level pasture lay,
And not a shadowe mote be seene,
Save where, fiill fyve good miles away,
The steeple towered from out the greene.
And lo! the great belle farre and wide
Was heard in all the country side
That Saturday at eventide.
The swannerds, where their sedges are,
Moved on in sunset's golden breath;
The shepherde lads I heard afarre,
And my sonne 's wife, Elizabeth;
Till, floating o'er the grassy sea,
Came downe that kyndly message free,
The Brides of Mavis Enderby.
Then some looked uppe into the sky,
And all along where Lindis flows
420 HIGH-TIDE ON THE COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE.
To where the goodly vessels lie,
And where the lordly steeple shows.
They sayde, "And why should this thing be,
What danger lowers by land or sea?
They ring the tune of Enderby.
" For evil news from Mablethorpe,
Of pyrate galleys, warping down, —
For shippes ashore beyond the scorpe,
They have not spared to wake the towne;
But while the west bin red to see,
And storms be none, and pyrates flee,
Why ring The Brides of Enderby?
I looked without, and lo! my sonne
Came riding downe with might and main;
He raised a shout as he drew on,
Till all the welkin rang again:
"Elizabeth! Elizabeth!"
(A sweeter woman ne 'er drew breath
Than my sonne 's wife, Elizabeth.)
"The old sea-wall" (he cried) "is downe!
The rising tide comes on apace;
And boats adrift in yonder towne
Go sailing uppe the market place! "
He shook as one that looks on death:
"God save you, mother! " straight he sayth;
" Where is my wife, Elizabeth? "
" Good sonne, where Lindis winds away
With her two bairns I marked her long;
And ere yon bells beganne to play,
Afar I heard her milking-song."
He looked across the grassy sea,
To right, to left, Ho, Enderby!
They rang The Brides of Enderby,
With that he cried and beat his breast;
For lo! along the river's bed
A mighty eygre reared his crest,
And uppe the Lindis raging sped.
HIGH-TIDE ON THE COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE. 421
It swept with thunderous noises loud, —
Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud,
Or like a demon in a shroud.
And rearing Lindis, backward pressed,
Shook all her trembling bankes amaine;
Then madly at the eygre 's breast
Flung uppe her weltering walls again.
Then bankes came downe with ruin and rout,
Then beaten foam flew /ound about, —
Then all the mighty floods were out.
So farre, so fast, the eygre drave,
The heart had hardly time to beat
Before a shallow seething wave
Sobbed in the grasses at oure feet:
The feet had hardly time to flee
Before it brake against the knee,—
And all the world was in the sea.
Upon the roofe we sate that night;
The noise of bells went sweeping by;
I marked the lofty beacon light
Stream from the church tower, red and high, —
A lurid mark, and dread to see;
And awsome bells they were to mee,
That in the dark rang Enderhy.
They rang the sailor lads to guide,
From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed;
And I, — my sonne was at my side,
And yet the ruddy beacon glowed;
And yet he moaned beneath his breath,
"O, come in life, or come in death!
O lost ! my love, Elizabeth ! "
And didst thou visit him no more?
Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare,
The waters laid thee at his doore
Ere yet the early dawn was clear!
Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace,
The lifted sun shone on thy face,
Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place.
422 HIGH-TIDE ON THE COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE.
That flow strewed wrecks about the grass,
That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea, —
A fatal ebbe and flow, alas!
To manye more than myne and mee;
But each will mourne his own (she sayth)
And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath
Than my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth. ■
I shall never hear her more
By the reedy Lindis shore,
" Cusha ! Cusha ! Cusha ! " calling,
Ere the early dews be falling;
I shall never hear her song,
" Cusha ! Cusha ! " all along,
"Where the sunny Lindis floweth,
Goeth, floweth,
From the meads where melick groweth,
Where the water, winding down,
Onward floweth to the town.
I shall never see her more,
Where the reeds and rushes quiver,
Shiver, quiver,
Stand beside the sobbing river, —
Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling
To the sandy lonesome shore.
JEAN INGELOW.
INDEX OF AUTHOES
Page
ALDRICH, JAMES.
A Death-Bed 28
ALD.RICH, THOMAS BAILEY.
The Face against the Pane 310
ALEXANDER, Mrs. CECIL FRANCES
The Burial of Moses..... 229
ALLINGHAM, WILLIAM.
The Fairies 128
ANONYMOUS.
A Frenchman on Macbeth 207
Connor 97
Kissing 's no Sin 131
Little Jim 19
Mona's Waters 336
Rock of Ages 29
The Death of the Owd Squire.. 402
AYTOUN, W. EDMONDSTOUNE.
The Burial March of Dundee.. 272
The Execution of Montrose..., 322
BACON, FRANCIS.
Books 124
BARHAM, RICHARD HARRIS.
Misadventures at Margate 179
BARNARD, Lady ANNE.
Auld Robin Gray 45
BEERS, MRS. ETHEL LYNN.
The Picket Guard 321
BOKER, GEORGE H.
Count Candespina's Standard.. 383
BROWNING, ELIZABETH BARRETT
Sleep 76
Page
BROWNING, ROBERT.
Herve Riel 284
How they Brought the Good
News from Ghent to Aix 361
BRYANT, WILLIAM CULLEN.
Thanatopsis 51
BURKE, EDMUND.
Impeachment of Warren Hast-
ings 254
BURNS, ROBERT.
For a' That and a' That.
John Anderson
The Banks o' Doon..
325
46
28
BURRITT, ELIHU.
Scene at the Natural Bridge... 118
BYRON, GEORGE GORDON, Lord.
Apostrophe to the Ocean 231
The Prisoner of Chillon 347
CAMPBELL, THOMAS.
The Soldier's Dream 70
Ye Mariners of England 416
CARLETON, WILL.
The Schoolmaster's Guests 375
CARY, ALICE.
Old Chums
An Order for a Picture.
Pictures of Memory
345
358
18
CHALMERS, THOMAS.
Come it will 123
CLIVE, FRANK.
Words and their Uses « 157
[4231
424
INDEX OF AUTHORS.
Page
COATES, REYNELL.
The Gambler's Wife 362
COLERIDGE, SAMUEL TAYLOR.
Hymn to Mont Blanc 227
COLLINS, WILLIAM.
How Sleep the Brave 27
COLTON, WALTER.
Happiness 122
The Main Truck 335
CROLY, GEORGE.
Catiline's Defiance 313
CUSHING, CALEB.
New England 237
DAVIS, THOMAS.
Battle of Fontenoy 282
DENNISON, M. A.
The Volunteer's Wife 41
DICKENS, CHARLES.
A Child's Dream of a Star 82
Death of Paul Dombey 15
Death of Poor Jo 38
Fezziwig's Ball 129
Sam Weller's Valentine 167
Scene at Dr. Blimber's 108
The Cheap Jack '. 103
The Child-Wife Ill
EVERETT, EDWARD.
Character of Washington 256
Eulogy on Lafayette 259
FIELDS, JAMES T.
Jupiter and Ten 175
FINCH, F. M.
The Blue and the Gray 53
GOLDSMITH, OLIVER,
Trial and Execution of Charles
1 85
GOUGH, JOHN B.
The Pilot 91
GRATTAN, HENRY.
Grattan's Reply to Mr. Corry.... 262
Pag«
HALPINE, CHARLES G.
Irish Astronomy 155
HARTE, BRET.
Dickens in Camp 67
Her Letter 386
John Burns of Gettysburg 353
The Aged Stranger 223
HAYNE, ROBERT YOUNG.
South Carolina 236
HITA, JUAN RUIZ DE.
Praise of Little Women 135
HOGG, JAMES.
When the Kye Come Hame 79
HOLMES, OLIVER WENDELL.
The Ballad of the Oysterman.. 172
The Boys 133
The Last Leaf. 49
The One-Hoss Shay 159
The Spectre Pig 196
HOOD, THOMAS.
French and English 212
Nocturnal Sketch 211
The Bridge of Sighs 22
The Dream of Eugene Aram.... 405
The Lost Heir 183
We Watched her Breathing 29
HOPPIN, WILLIAM J.
Charlie Machree 319
HOUGHTON, Lord.
The Brookside 415
HOWE, JULIA W A RD.
Battle-Hymn of the Republic. 417
HOYT, RALPH.
Old 31
HUNT, LEIGH.
Abou Ben Adhem 350
Cupid Swallowed 136
The Glove and the Lions 369
IRVING, WASHINGTON.
Sorrow for the Dead 58
INDEX OF AUTHORS.
425
INGELOW, JEAN.
High-Tide
Pago
418
KELLOGG, ELIJAH.
Spartacus to the Gladiators.... 263
KNOWLES, SHERIDAN.
Tell anion;? the Mountains 396
LE FANTJ, J. S.
Shamus O'Brien.
363
LEVER, CHARLES.
Widow Malone 156
LINCOLN, ABRAHAM.
Address at Gettysburg 266
LINGARD, JOHN.
Execution of Mary Queen of
Scots 89
LONGFELLOW, HENRY W.
Endymion 61
Evangeline on the Prairie 69
Extract from Morituri Saluta-
mus 356
Hymn to the Night 234
King Robert of Sicily 291
Miles Standish's Encounter
with the Indians 275
The Old Clock on the Stairs 47
Sandalphon 77
The Bridge 56
The Day is Done 55
The Launching of the Ship 342
The Rainy Day 53
The Slave's Dream 341
The Wreck of the Hesperus 351
LOVER. SAMUEL.
Handy Andy at the Post Office 219
The Gridiron 141
The Low-backed Car 173
The Subscription List 189
LOWELL, JAMES RUSSELL.
The Courtin' 176
LYNN, ETHEL.
Our Folks 42
Pag*
LYTTON. ROBERT BULWER.
Aux Italiens 380
MACAULAY, Lord.
Battle of Ivry 278
Horatius at the Bridge 297
MACKAY, CHARLES.
McLain's Child 314
MAHONY, FRANCIS.
The Bells of Shandon - 63
MARCH, CHARLES W.
Description of Webster's Speech
in Reply to Hayne 215
MILLE, JAMES DE
A Senator Entangled 137
MITFORD, MARY RUSSELL.
Rienzi to the Romans 317
MONTGOMERY, JAMES.
Funeral Hymn 60
MOORE, THOMAS.
Vale of Cashmere 62
'Tis the Last Rose of Summer.. 37
Those Evening Bells 20
MOSELY, LITCHFIELD.
The Charity Dinner..... 149
NASBY, PETROLEUM V.
Hannah Jane 93
NORTON, CAROLINE E. .
Bingen on the Rhine.
O'BRIEN. FITZ-JAMES.
The Lost Steam-Ship 35
PATTON, GEORGE W.
The Seminole's Reply 289
PHILLIPS, WENDELL.
Idols 250
Oration on O'Connell 242
Toussiant L'Ouverture 252
426
INDEX OF AUTHORS.
PIERPONT, JOHN.
Passing Away 74
Warren's Address 2S9
POE, EDGAR ALLAN.
Annabel Lee 340
POPE, ALEXANDER.
The Dying Christian 397
PROCTER, ADELAIDE A.
A Legend of Bregenz 370
The Lost Chord 233
READ, THOMAS BUCHANAN.
Drifting 65
The Reaper's Dream 71
The Revolutionary Rising 389
RUSKIN, JOHN.
The Sky 125
SAXE, JOHN G.
Pyramus and Thisbe 217
The Stuttering Lass 144
SCHURZ, CARL.
Eulogy on Charles Sumner 248
SCOTT, Sir WALTER,
Battle of Bear an Duine 2"9
Lochinvar 318
Marmion and Douglass 268
The Death of Marmion 394
SHAKESPEARE, WILLIAM.
Hamlet's Address to the Play-
ers 121
Henry V.'s Wooing 145
Prince Hal and Falstaff. 214
SHANLY, CHARLES DAWSON.
Kitty of Coleraine 175
STEPHENS, ANN S.
The Polish Boy 411
STOWE, HARRIET BEECHER.
The Canal Boat 162
Page
TAYLOR, RAYARD.
The Song of the Camp 33
TAYLOR, BENJAMIN F.
The Isle of Long Ago 21
TENNYSON, ALFRED.
Break, Break, Break 25
Charge of the Light Brigade 280
Song of the Brook 132
Tears. Idle Tears 17
The Bugle Song 388
THACKERAY, WILLIAM M.
The White Squall 207
TROWBRIDGE, J. T.
Darius Green 200
The Charcoal Man 116
The Farm-yard Song 106
The Vagabonds 304
TWAIN, MARK.
Our Guide in Genoa and Rome 185
UHLAND,
The Landlady's Daughter 44
WALLER, J. F.
Magdalena, or the Spanish
Duel 326
WATSON, JAMES W.
My Pipe 391
WEBSTER, DANIEL.
Crime its Own Detective 240
South Carolinia and Massa-
chusetts 239
WHITTIER, JOHN G.
Rivermouth Rocks 307
Three Bells o34
WILLIS, NATHANIEL P.
The Scholar of Thebet Ben
Khorat 39S
WORDSWORTH WILLIAM.
The Daffodils 127
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