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Henrg W, Sage 

1 891 



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A LOinprehenshie and systematic series of exercises for gesture 

calisthenics and the cultivation of the voice, together 

with a collection of nearly one hundred and fifty 

Literary Gems for Reading and Speaking 






Graduate of the National School of Elocution and Oratory; Compiler of 

'*Fenno's Favorites t" /or Reading and Speaking-; Author o/ 

"The Chart o/ Elocution,** "Lectures on 

Elocution," etc., etc. 


HINDS & NOBLE, Publishers 
^_5_6-j2-i3-i4 Cooper Institute, New York CIty 

School Books of All Publishers at One Store 


A'l 3?/^^ 








This Volume is Respectfully Insciribed 


/\> i^-sus 


There havs been scores of books published containing 
selections for reading and speaking, but the author, in 
common with the public, has long felt the need of 
something different from what has yet appeared, — a book 
containing only the best — the choicest productions usually 
selected for public delivery — issued in a compact form, 
accompanied by a comprehensive, yet condensed, treatise 
on Elocution, sufficiently concise to be clearly understood, 
yet embracing the entire range of the subject. 

To meet this want, the present volume has been pre- 
pared, with the heartfelt desire that it will fill the posi- 
ition for which it is designed, and prove effectual in its 

It is earnestly believed that no person of fair natural 
abilities, by carefully studying and applying the principles 
presented in this book, and by giving the examples a 
reasonable amount of practice, can fail to become a good, 
effective reader and speaker. 

The selection of pieces has been made with reference 
to their adaptation and intrinsic merit, and they will be 
found to cover the entire range of expression, many of 
them affording excellent opportunity for elocutionary 
effect. Each selection is accompanied by an explanatory 


oote indicating the manner in which it should be 
delivered. This will meet the ready appreciation of 
students and amateur readers. 

In Part I. tlie author has endeavored to place before 
tlie reader the true principles of Theoretical Elocution, 
and in Part IV. Fractical Elocution will be found 
exemplified. The exercises for Gesture, Calisthenics and 
Vocal Culture, it is confidently believed, are the best of 
their kind; and, if they are perseveringly practiced, 
advancement will be the inevitable result. 

In conclusion, the author will merely say that, if this 
little book be the means of inspiring its readers to a 
higher knowledge of this beautiful art, it will have 
Ter-'orr, cd it^ mission. F. H. F. 


Part I.— Theoretical. 

IJ.' B 

Elocutionary Chart 20 

Theory of Elocution 21 

\ OICE 21 

Ariiciiialion 21 

Sounds ; I 

1. Vocal 21 

2. Aspirate ..' 

3. Combined iz 

Exercises in Arliailation j^ 

ytodulation 25 

I. Quality 25 

Pure .... 25 

1. Simple 25 

2. Orotund 25 

Impure 20 

1. Aspirate 26 

a. Pure 26 

b. Vocal 26 

2. Pectoral 26 

3. Guttural 27 

4. Falsetto 27 

II. Melody 2S 

1. Pitch 2S 

a. Natural 2S 

b. Low 29 

c. High 29 

2. Slides 30 

a. Ascending 30 

b. Descending, 3° 

c. Circumflex 3' 

3. Cadence 3' 




III. Form 3' 

1. Natural 3' 

2. Effusive -32 

3. Expulsive 33 

4. Explosive 33 

IV. Force y^ 

1. Natural. 33 

2. Heavy 3-1 

3. Gentle 34 

V. Time 35 

1. Quantity 35 

a. Xatiiral 3j 

b. Loug. 36 

c. Short 36 

2. Rale 36 

a. Natural 36 

b. Slow 37 

c. Fast 37 

3- r.^"- 38 

a. Xatural 3S 

b. Long 39 

c. Short 39 

Vr. Strc»» 39 

1. Initial 39 

2. Final. 40 

3. Median 40 

4. Compound 40 

5. Thorough 41 

6. Tremulous 41 

OilSTURE 42 

Position 43 

Movements 42 

Head and Face 42 

Hands 43 

1. Supine 43 

2. Pione 43 

3. Vertical 43 

4. Pointing 43 

a. Ordinary 43 

b. Emphatic 43 



5. Clenched 43 

Arms _ ^ J 

i. Front 44 

2. Oblique 4^ 

3. Lateral ^_^ 

4. Backward 44 

ii. Horizontal 44 

b. Descending 45 

c. Ascendisg 45 

Exercises in Gesture 45 

Part II.— Vocal Culture. 

Cultivation of the Voice 51 

Development .51 

1 . Proper Breathing 51 

2. Breathing Exercises jr 

Table of Breathing Exercises 51 

3. Vocal Drill 52 

Table of Vocal Exercises i,2 

Natural Form 52 

Intense Form 53 

Calling Voice 53 

Transitions 54 

Effusive Form . 55 

Expr.I-ivc Funn 55 

Explosive Form 56 

Orotund Form 56 

Tremulous Form 57 

Table of Special Vocal Exercises 57 

4. Calisthenic Exercises 63 

Table of Calisthenic Exercises 63 

Free Arm Exercise 63 

Supine Hand Exercise 63 

Clapping Exercise 63 

Wa\e Movement 64 

Head Movements 64 

Body Movements 64 

Lyre Movement . , ... 64 

Circle Movements 65 


Part III.— Helps to the Study. 


Elocution: Its Importance 69 

What is Elocution? 7° 

Elocution and Rhetoric Co-helpers 7' 

Division of the Subject 7- 

Voice: Philosophy and Physiology of 7- 

VocAL Culture 73 

Correct Breathing: Importance of. 7,; 

Vocal Practice; Exercises in "1 

Articulation: Its Value 75 

Organs of Articulation 73 

Classes of Articulate Sounds 75 

Table of Cognates 1(> 

Elementary Sounds 77 

Coalescents and Inseparables 77 

Table of Diphthongal Sounds 77 

Table of Elementary Sounds. 77 

The Vanish 77 

The Trilled R 7S 

Transitions and Repetitions 7>^ 

Phonetic Spelling 79 

Prqniincialioa i>o 

Words Frequently Mispronounced — Exercise in Pronuncia- 
tion So 

Foreign Pronunciation: Tables of 82 

Modulation S4 

Quality of Voice 85 

Speaking and Singing Tones 85 

Examples in Pitch 86 

Examples in Interrogation 86 

Examples in Rate 87 

Emphasis: What is it? SS 

Word Individuality, etc 90 

Dr. Wallis's List of Derivatives. c.o 

Example; The Engine, 91 

Analysis and Grouping, .,,,.,,, 92 

Transition 93 

Example : Ego and Echo, 93 


I Ar.R 

Example : The Loss of the Uorntt 94. 

Climax : Examples of 95 

Reposi 56 

Impfrsonation 96 

Dialogue Reading 97 

Bible Reading 97 

Gesture 9S 

iJoable Gestures 99 

Selection : The Miser and Plutus 9 > 

The Three Forms of Speech loi 

Conversation; Hints on 101 

Reading: Hints on loi 

Public Speaking: Hints on 102 

Applications 103 

Pulpit Elocution 104 

Dramatic Action 105 

Lisr OF Impersonations 108 

Part IV.— Readings and Recitals. 

A Day at Niagara Samuel L. Clemens. 408 

Alonro the Brave and the Fair Imogine 164 

An Interesting Traveling Companion. . . . Detroit Free Press. 395 

.\nnie and Willie's Prayer Mrs. S.P.imow. 253 

Annuity, The George Oulram. 380 

A|i05trophe to Cold Water JohnB. Cough. 159 

Apple Blossoms Amanda T. Jones. 369 

Archie Dean Gail Hamilton. 330 

Arnold Winkelried Jatiies Montgomery. 274 

Attack of the Cumberland George II. Boker. 187 

Aunty Doleful's Visit Mary Kyle Dallas. 413 

Battle of Ivry Macaulay. 286 

Belfry of Ghent, The Robert Maguire. 179 

Bells of Shandon, The Francis Mahony. 260 

Bells, The Poe. 240 

Bells, The Three U'hittier. 199 

Betsey and I Are Out Carleton. 355 

Boy Britton. •■ rmceythi IVillson. 336 



Bridal Feast, The P- C. Long. 207 

Bride of the Greek Isle, The Mrs. Hemans. z^9 

Bridge, The Longfellow. 289 

Bridget as a School Teacher. Max Adeler. 176 

Bugle Song, The Tennyson. 272 

Burial of Moses, The "57 

Burning of Chicago, The Carklon. 146 

Burning Ship, The '86 

Cataract of Lodore, The Southey. 234 

Caught in the Quicksand Victor Hugo. 393 

Charcoal Man, The J. T. Trowbridge. 212 

Charge of the Light Brigade Tennyson. 249 

Charlie Machree IVilllain y. Hofpin. 268 

Christmas Night in the Quarters Irwin Russell. 361 

Closing Year, The George £). Prentice. 1 14 

Clown's Story, The Vandyke Brown. 347 

Creeds of the Bells G. W. Bungay. 250 

"Curfew Must Not Ring To-night" . 155 

Dawn of Redemption, The James G. Clark. 3S3 

Demon Ship, The I/ooi/. 375 

Drifting T. Buchanan Head. 315 

Dukite Snake, The J. Boyle O' Reilly. 309 

Evening at the Farm y. T. Trowbridge. 281 

Existence of a God 121 

Famine, The Longfello^n. 142 

Fireman, The George M. Baker. 287 

Gladiator, The 390 

Gracious Answer, The Henry N. Cobb. 225 

Granny's Tui^t . . 377 

Great Bell Roland, The Theodore Tilion. 191 

Harvest of Rum, The Paul Denton. 3S9 

High Tide ; or, Brides of Enderby yean Ingelow. 117 

Horatius at the Bridge Ji/acaulay. 295 

How he Saved St. Michael's 301 

How Jamie Came Home Carleton. 173 

How " Ruby" Played 403 

Imitation -^g^ 

Independence Bell, The 33S 

Inquiry, The. _ Charles Mackay. 173 


Irishwoman's Letter, The 25'' 

Isle of Long Ago, The £. F. Taylor. 116 

Jimmy Butler and the Owl iiu 

John and Tibbie's Dispute 341 

John Maynard . . 270 

Kale Ketchem ri:iibi Ctirey. 22S 

Katie Lee and Willie Gray 335 

Kentucky Belle C. F. Woohon. 372 

Laughing in Mee^^ng Mrs. H. B. Stowe. 324 

Launch of the Ship, The Longfellow. l8i 

Legend of Bregenz Adelaide Proctor. 303 

Little Black-eyed Rebel Will Carleton. 359 

Little Jim 239 

Mabel; or. The Face Against the Pane T. B. Aldrick. 183 

Maclaine's Child Charles Mackay. 283 

Magdalena; or, the Spanish Duel 129 

Maiden Martyr, The Baltimore ElocHtioitist. 343 

Major Slott's Visitor Max Adeler. 21O 

Maud MuUer Whittler. 152 

Miner's Death, The John Hanover. 227 

Minot's Ledge Jitz yames O'Brien. 357 

Miss Malony on the Chinese Question . . . Mrs. M. M. Dodge. 293 

Modern Cain, The E. Evans Edwards. 124 

Mona's Waters 139 

Month of Mars, The B.F. Taylor. 340 

Morning Edward Everett. 397 

Mother and Poet J\Irs. Browning. 20i 

Mr. Fogg's Account of a Scientific Experiment . . Max Adeler. 232 

New England Weather Mark Twain. 135 

New Year's Eve 291 

Nightfall W. ]V. Ellsworth. 113 

Nobody's Child Mrs. Phila H. Chase. 150 

Xo God N. K. Richardson. 123 

Old Forsaken School House, The John H. Yates. 24S 

Old Times and New A. C. Spooner. 244 

Old Man in the Model Church John H. Yates. 265 

On the Ice 3''7 

Orator Puff. Thomas Mul re. 23'j 

Order for a Picture Alice Carey. 257 



Our Folks Ethel Ly^m. 260 

I )ver the River Miss Priest. 166 

Painter of Seville, The Susan Wilson. 167 

I'assingAway Pierpcmt. 12; 

Poetry Percival. \>y^ 

Polish Boy, The Ann S. Sttphens. 29^ 

Prisoner of Chillon Byron. 276 

Pyramus and Thisbe Saxe. 196 

Quiet Street, The 237 

Rainbow, The 21S 

Rain on the Roof Coates Kinney. 236 

Rainy Day, The Lotigfelloiu. 211 

Relief of Lucknow, The Lowell. 345 

Revolutionaiy Rising, The T, B. Read. 213 

Ride of Collins Graves, The J. Boyle O' Reilly. n% 

Rock of Ages . 264 

Rum Maniac, The Adapted. 220 

Samuel Short's Success 242 

S iracen Brothers, The. 384 

Seminole's Reply, The G, W. Pallen. 360 

S'lamus O'Brien Samuel Lover. 351 

Sleeping Sentinel Janvier, 312 

Somebody's Darling 368 

Song of the Greeks (1822) Campbell. 273 

Tell on his Native Hills . . Knowles. z(% 

Uncle Dan'l's Apparition and Prayer. . . Ch'in.'iis and Warner, 200 

Vagabonds, The Trowbridge. 204 

^'ision of Mirza, The Joseph Addison. 399 

Waiting for the Cliildren 317 

NVreck of the Hesperus, The Longfellow. 307 

Wrtc'; of the Huron Rev. T. De Witt Talmage. 392 




" Behold, what fire is in his eye, what fervor on his cheek ! 
Tiiat glorious bur^t o winge 1 vcrds !■ - how boind they from hiL 

tongue ! 
The full expression of the mighty thought, the strong, triumphaul 

The rush of native eloquence, resistless as Niagara, 
The lieen demand, the clear reply, the fine, poetic image, 
The nice analogy, the clinching f,ict, the metfiphor uold and free, 
The grasp of concentrated iiitellecf wielding the omnipotence of truth 
The grandeur of his speech, in his majssty of a'miI:" — Tupper. 


''The Human Voice 

is to be considered as a musical instrument — an organ, 
constructed by the hand of the Great Master of all Har- 
mony. It has its bellows, its pipe, its mouth-piece ; and, 
when we know the 'stops,' it will discourse most eloquent 
music. It has its gamut, or scale of ascent and descent ; 
it has its keys, or pitch, its tones, its semi-tones, its bass, 
its tenor, its alto, its melody, its cadence. It can speak 
as gently as the lute, ' like the sweet south upon a bed of 
violets,' or as shrilly as the trumpet; it can tune the 
' silver sweet ' note of love, and the ' iron throat of war ;• 
in fine, it may be modulated by art to any sound of soft- 
ness or of strength, of gentleness or harshness, of harmony 
or discord — and the art that wins this music from the 
strings is 



ElocutioiXaky Chart. 

By Frank H. Fenno. 








'^ Aspirate. 

f Simple. 
1 Orotund. 



[Aspirate/ {!:;- 

Impure. ■{ Pectoral. 
I Guttural. 
I Falsetto. 



f Natural. 
- Low. 
I High. 

/Ascending 1 Circum 
\ Descending! flex. 

f Natural. 

I Expulsive. 
[_ Explosive. 



I" Natural. 
Quantity ■< Long. 




^ SIq^v. 

( Natiiirtl. 



j\Io\'E\ir.XTS. ■ 

Thorough . 
Head and Face. 
I Supine. 




( Emphatic 

I Vertical. 

I Pointing. 

fobiklue. ] [Horizontal, 
i Lateral. \ Descending. 

I Backward. [Ascending. 


Theory of Elocution. 

Elocution consists in the utterance or expression of 

As a true Artist imitates Nature, not as she is, but as 
she should be, — so it is the aim of the Elocutionist to 
give to thought its highest mode of expression. 

Thought may be conveyed by Voice or Gesture; the 
latter reaching the hearer through the eye — the former, 
through the ear. 

The Voice is the principal agent f>v which thought is con- 
veyed ; hence, it is the basis of elocution. 


Articulation consists in a distinct and correct utterance 
of the elementary sounds. These sounds, formed by the 
organs of speech, are forty-six in number, and they are 
divided into Vocal Sounds, Aspirate Sounds bcc\A Combined 

Vocal Sounds are those having vocality. 
twenty-one in number, viz. . 

a, ate. e, ^arn. 

a, (7i'm. ^, ^nd. 

a, <7ll. I, 8ce. 

a, (7t. i, h. 

S, a\K. o, o\^. 

a, ask. o, orb. 

e, ^ve. 6, on. 

NoTi: . — Care should be taken to give a, 6, I, 6 and u very sliort ; to 
pronounce a (which is a sound between a and a) as dearly as possible, 
in order to obtain its pure, ringing sound ; and to preserve the dis- 
tinction between a or a and 4, e and u, a and 6, a and A. Tliesc 
sounds approach each other very nearly, but a careful ear will readily 
perceive the fine distinctions existing. 

ty. They 


0, «se. 

u, ap. 

u. Km. 

oo, ooze. 

w^ book. 

oi, o«l. 

ou, o«t. 


Aspirate Sounds are those produced by the breath only. 
Thc\ are ten in number, viz. : 

", fm. 

k, /fid. 

s, jat. 

ch, ch<i.i. 

th, thm. 

1, .^er. 


t, /en. 

.sh, she 

wh, w^en 

Combined Sounds are those which are produced by 
both voice and breath. They are fifteen in number, liz. . 

It, i^ay. 1, /ay. v, 7'ane. z, rnure. 

il, i/ay. ra, z«ay. w, way. TH,///ey. 

tj.^ay. .1, »ay. y, jea. n^', lo«-. 

j, yay. r, ?-are. z, zone. 

NnTE. — A' may be slightly and delicately trilled when it precedes a 
vowel. In the word "roar" the second ?■ is much softer and lighter 
than ihe first, — the two may be distinguished as hard :is\A soft. 

The following subdii'isioiis arc also made : 

Labial : B-ay, P-^y, ./JZ-ay, ff^-ay, / -ane, E-ax. 
Palatal: C-a-X-e, t-ay, K-ea. 
Pure Aspirate : //-er. 
Nasal : vV-ay, lo-»f. 
Liiv^ual : /.-ay, j?-oa-?'. 

Denial : D-ay, T-en, Thm, TV/ey, .\-;-uie, Sh-t, C-ea-j-e, Z-one; 
7-ay, C/j-at. 

Ni'TE. — The above lists of words and sounds should be practiced 
often, always lalcing caie to give them correctly anA forcibly. After 
the vowel sounds are thoroughly mastered, and ease and accuracy are 
acquired in the use of the consonant combinations, the voice will have 
received a polish and a degree of refinement that will command atten- 
tion and respect wherever it may be heard. 

Too much attention cannot be given to the subject of Articulation, 
for on this depend correct pronunciation and the ability to speak in 
such a manner as to be readily understood. Frequent practice on 
difficult combinations will give facility in articulation. Always be 
careful to give every letter correctly, especiall)' when the letter has 
its short sound, as i in ability — e in solemn. Do not say " solam" 
" abiliity." Always be on the alert for errors in your own pronuncia- 
tion,— the dictionary should be freely consulted. 

The following exercises will be found useful in training 
the vocal organs to readily adapt themselves to difficult 

pronunciation : 




[. Pronounce forcibl)- : 

I. I'.ubble, hist, hid, hlcist, hlz (Bubbl'st, bubbled, elc.) 
I [andle, dto, ild, Altlst, i/z. 
I larden, Aiiz, dust, And, duds/. 
Tangle, gist, gld, gldst, glz. 
Trifle, {1st, fid, ildst, ilz. 
Rustle, slst, sld, sldsl, sis. 
Barb, tist, t/id, rddst, rfc. 
] lurl, rlst, rid, rldst, rh. 
Warm, xmst, xmd, rmdst, xinz, xmtk 
Burn, xnst, xnd, xndst, xnt, xttz. 
Curve, xvst, xvd, xvdst, xv:. 
Harp, xps, xpst, xpt, xptst. 
Drivel, v/r/, \ld, \ldst, v/i. 
Muzzle, zlst, zld, ildst, zlz. 
Buckle, XUst, Vld, kldst, hlz. 
Darken, Vns/, Vnd, Vndst, Viiz. 
Ripple, pA/, \ild, \ildst, p/3. 
Settle, \lsl, tld, Udst, tlz. 

Imz, elni^. 
Idz, hokU. 
rbd, orbed. 
rdz, words. 
ygd, verged. 
rid, hurled. 
rlz, pearls, 
nnd, harmed. 

rinz, charms. 
rvd, curved. 
rvz, serves. 
cht, arched. 
fis, lips. 
pt, kept. 
Ids, acts. 
ziii, chasm. 

sps, asps. 
1//, grasped. 
.t/(t, asks. 
skt, asked. 
sts, boasts. 
ths, truths. 
tht, withed. 
znz, prisons. 

II. Practice the following sentences until absolute cor- 
rectness and a reasonable degree of rapidity are acquired : 

1. When thou shoutedst the sixth time, I was saying to the ho-.t^, 
" What whimpering coward is there among yon who would not lay 
down his life to suppress slavery!" 

2. Thou turnedst, graspedst, countedst, rushedst forth and dis- 

Amidst the mists, and coldest frosts. 

With stoutest wrists, and loudest boasts, 

He thrusts his fists against the posts. 
And still insists he sees the ghosts. 


4. Some sbun sunshine; do you shun sunshine? 
Some sell sea shells; do you sell sea-shells? 

I snuff shop snuff; do you snuff shop snuff? 

The sun shines on the shop signs. 

A -hot silk sash shop. 

Don't run along the wrong lane. 

5. Theoph'lus Thistle, the successful thistle sifter, in sifting a 
sieve full of unsifted thistles, thrust three thousand this'.les through 
the thick of his thumb; now, if Theophilus Thistle, the successlul 
thistle sifter, in sifting a sieve full of unsifted thistles, thrust three 
thousand thistles through the thick of his thumli, see that thou, in 
silting 1 =icve full of unsifted thistles, thrust not three thousand thistles 
through the thick of thy thumb. Success to the successful thistle 

111. Practice the long and short vowels, in this order: 
a--i, a-a, O-G, e-e, I-i, i-i, 0-0, 6-6, tl-u, la-u, 06-00, uiVuci, 
o'-oi, oti-ou. 

Then prefi.K b and/, thus : bfi-pii, ba-pa, etc. 
Prefix:;/ and /, tlnis : da-ta, da-ta, etc. 
Prefix^ and /', thus: ga-ka, ga-ka, etc. 
Prefix y and ch, thus: ja-cha, Ja-cha, etc. 
Prefix va.w\f, thus: va-fa, y.i-fa, etc. 

This exercise may be varied and extended at pleasure 
by increasing the number of syllables, changing the accent 
and introducing the following sounds: /, /// lo, y , gs, ks ; 
th, TH, dr, bl, pi, dw, gr, kr, etc. 

Note. — E.icellent practice in articulation is obtained by reading 
.iloud, slowly and distinctly, taking c.tre (i) that the body of sound 
(the sound of the vowels) fs correct, (2) that all the consonants not 
necessarily silent are properly enunciated, and (3) that all short 
vowels have their proper sound. 

The selections Samuel Short's Siiaess and the Cataract of I o.lon 
furnish a rich field for this practice. 

Reading in a pure whisper, throwing the sound ta a great distance, 
will give strength and flexiliility to the organs of speech. 



Modulation consists in such a use of the voice as will 
fonvey the thought in the best manner. It hasrefereiue to 
(Jua/ity, Melody, Form, Force, Time and St/tss. 


The Quality, or kind of voice, may be Pure or Impure. 
Ill ordinary conversation, reading or speaking, we should 
always use the /'«/-<?/ but, in expressing /#a/-, anger, con- 
tempt, hatred, loathing, etc., we should employ a different 
(juality of tone. When we feel the influence of these 
])assions, we can easily make use of the proper form, but 
we should so control our voice that, in reading or speak- 
ing, in the absence of passion, we can assume the tone 
best adapted to give expression to the sentiment. 

Tlie Pure quality is used in all cases when there is not 
a demand for the Impure. Great attention should be 
given to the cultivation of the conversational voice, until 
a habit of correct speech is acquired. This tone should 
always be full, rich and resonant. Of it, there are two 
varieties — the Simple and the Orotund. 

The Simple Pure is used in ordinary conversation, 
reading and speaking. 


1. And he said, .\ certain man liad two sons : and the younger of 
them said to his father. Father, give me the portion of goods that 
falleth to me. And he divided unto them his living. 

2. Two brown heads with tossing curls, 
Red lips shutting over pearls, 

Bare feet, white and wet with dew, 
Two eyes black, and two eyes bhie — 
Little boy and girl were they, 
Katie Lee and Willie Gray. 

The Orotund is a full, round tone used in expressin'.; 
grandeur, awe, sublimity, courage, reverence, veneration 
and other hoiv emotions. 

26 THE OR y OF ELOCbllOX. 


f . Thou, tou, sail on, O Ship of State ! 

S.iil on, O Union, strong and great ! 

2. O thou that rollc^t above, round as the shield of my fathers- 
whence are thy beams, O Sun, thy everlasting light ! 1 hou comt---t 
forth in thy awful beauty — the moon, cold and pale, sinks in the 
\\'estern \\'ave ! 

The Impure quality of voice is used to express the action 
of the baser passions. It is also used in mimicry. The 
Impure (,)ualities are the Aspirate, Pectoral, Guttural and 

The Aspirate is the intense tuliisper, with little or no 
'ii'calitv. It is used to denote fear, secrecy, great cantion, etc. 

ExAMrt.iiS. — [Pure, or Whisper'), i. Soldiers, you are now within 
a few steps of the enemy's outpost. Our scouts report ihem slumber- 
ing around their watch-fires, and entirely unprepared for our attack. 
Let every man keep the strictest silence, under pain of instant death. 

1. Hark! I hear the bugles of the enemy! They aie on their 
march along the bank of the river. We must retreat instantly, or be 
cut off from our boats. I see the head of their column alrendy rising 
over the height. Our only safety is in the screen of this hedge. Keep 
close to it ; be silent ; and stoop as you run. For the boats ! Forward I 


1. Ilai-k! what was that? Hark! M.ark to the shout ! 

2. And now the work of life and death 
Hung on the passing of a breath ; 
The fire of confiict burned within ; 
The battle trembled to begin. 

The Pectoral is the deep tone of despair and anger. It 
is used to denote great solemnity, and in describi)ig the super- 
natural. It is orotund, very loio in pitch, a)jd is formed 
7Cihollv in the throat. 



O, I have passed a miserable night — 
' So full of fearful dreams and ugly sights, 
That, as I am a Christian, faithful man, 
I would not spend another such a night. 
Though 'twere to buy a world of happy days — 
So full of dismal tenor was the time. 

The skie»they were ashen and sober. 

The leaves they were crisped and sear. 

The leaves they were withering and se.ii. 

It was night in the lonesome October, 

Of my most immemorial year, 

It was hard by the dim lake of Auber 

In the misty mid region of Wier. 

It wis dnun by the dark tarn of Auber, 

In the ghoul. haunted woodland of Wier. 

The Guttural is a harsh throat-tone, lacking the orotund 
quality of the Patoral — the lans^uai^'e of hatred, intense 
anger, loaihiiii:; and contempt. 


I Iijalhe 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! 

2. "Cuiie on him!" quoth false Sextus ; "will nut the villain 
drown ? 
But for this stay, ere close of day we should ha^-e 'i.Tcked the 
town !" 

7he Falsetto is a shrill, high-pitched tone, used in ex- 
pressing pain or terror. It is also employed in imitating the 
female voice. 


I. When the lorn damsel, with a frantic screech 
And cheeks as hueless as a brandy peach, 
Cries, " Help, kyinii /leaven !" and drops upon her Unees 
Oil the <;reen — baize, beneath the — ^canvas — tree-. 


2. " Now, Socrates, dearest," Xantippe replied, 

'• I hate to hear everything vulgarly m/d; 
Now, whenever you speak of your chattels again, 
Say our cow house, our barn yard, our pig pen." 

" By your leave, Mrs. Snooks, I will say what I please 
Of my houses, my lands, my gardens, 7)iy trees." 

" Say our," Xantippe exclaimed, in a rage. 

" I won't, Mrs. Snooks, though you ask it an age \" 

' Goodwife," quoth John, "did you see that moose ? 

Whar sorra was the CAt ? ' 
' A mouse?" — " Ay, a moose." — " Na, na, 'niidman. 
It wasna a mouse, 'twas a lat. 
I've seen more mice than you, Gviidnian — 

An' what think ye o' that? 
Sae hand your tongue an' say nae mair — 
I tell ye it was a rat." 


Melody in Elocution is the effect produicJ upon the ear 
hy tite succession of vocal notes. It has reference to Pitch, 
S/it/<s. and Cadcinc. 

Pitch relates to the elevation or depression of the tone. 
It varies according to the sentiment. It may be Natural, 
Lo'a' or High. 

Natural Pitch is used in all ordinarv discourse. 


England's sun was slowly setting o'er the hills so far away, 
Filling all the land with beauty at the close of one sad day ; 
And the last rays kissed the forehead of a man and maiden fair, 
lie with step so slow and weakened, she with sunn\', floating 

He with sad bowed head, and thoughtful, she with lip^ ^o cold 

and white, 
.'Struggling to keep back the murmur, "Curfew must not ling 
. to-ni"ht." 


When Music (heavenly maid !) was young, 
While yet in early Greece she sung, 
The Passions oft, to hear her shell. 
Thronged around her magic cell ; 
Exulting — trembling — raging — fainting; 
Possessed beyond the Muse's painting. 
By turns they felt the glowing mind 
Disturbed — delighted, raised, refined. 

Low ^'\\.Q^ is used in language serious, grave, siibliiiie, 
grand, solemn, reverential and vehement. 


I. I had a dream that was not all a dream. 

The bright sun was extinguished, and the stars 
Did wander darkling in the eternal space, 
Rayless and pathless, and the icy earth 
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air 

Silence how dead, and darkness how profounu 
No eye nor listening ear an object finds ; 
Creation sleeps. 'Tis as the general pulse 
Of life stood still, and Nature made a pause — 
An awful pause ! prophetic of her end. 

High Pitch is used to express sentiment lively, Joyous or 
impassioned. It is also characteristic of fear and grief . 


I. " Oh, sp.are my child, my joy, my pride ; 

Oh, give me back my child!" she cried. 

O, but to breathe the breath 

Of the cowslip and primrose sweet. 
With the sky above my head. 

And the grass beneath my feet ; 
For only one short hour 

To feel as I used to feel, 
Before I knew the woes of want. 

And the walk that costs a meal. 

I'ictoiy ! Victory! is the shout. 

:;o THEORY OF elocujjon: 


Slides are inflections of the voice, used to prevent monotony 
and to give better expression to the idea. Tliey are Ascciid- 
iiii^ and Descending ; both are united in the Circumflex. 

Ill music, the ascent or descent is made by distinct 
steps; but, in speech, the voice is bent more or less upward 
or downward. These changes are continually taking place, 
except in the monotone, and they give expression to the 

Ascending Slides denote uncertainty, doiiht, interroga- 
tion, and incompleteness of idea. 


1. Hast thou ever known the feeling 

I have felt, when I have seenj 
'Mid the tombs of aged heroes, 

Memories of what hath been — 
What it is to view the present 

In the light of by-gone days; 
From an eminence to ponder 

Human histories and ways ? 

2. Was it the chime of a tiny hell, 

That came so sweet to my dreaming ear. 
Like the silvery tones of a iairy's shell. 

That he winds on the beach, so mellow and clear. 
When the winds and the waves lie together asJeep, 
And the moon and the fairy are watching the deep, 
She dispensing her silvery light, 
And he his notes as silveiy quit^, 
While the boatman listens and ships his oar, 
To catch the music that comes from the shore ? 

Descending Slides indicate positiveness, determination, 
o'- a completion of the thought. 


I. Come one, come all, this rocl< shall fly 

From its firm base as soon as I ! 

^. Knave, stand aside ! 

Til have my freedom, or I'll die ! 


The Circumflex (Rising ■— • or Falling ,-^ ), /x used 
/<> licnole surprise or to express a secondary meaning, which 
may be in harmony witli or directly opposite to that con- 
icyed by the words. 

I Wluil ? ci -.i-'olf, a prowling wolf? 

2. " My father's trade ! now really, that's too bad ! 

My father's /rm/i? / Why, blockhead, are you mad? 
My father, sir, did never stoop so low — 
lie was ^gentleman, I'd have you know." 

Cadence is the tone laith which a sentence ter/ninatrw 
Aicoiding to the scntirnent, it m?,y have the ascending or 
the descending slide, the rising or the fiiUing tircuniflex; 
or it may v,nii\h with no slide whatever. A sentence 
expressing a complete thought, having no modifying 
l/nrase or clause, and not affected by anything preceding 
or following it, should always terminate witli a downward 
inflection ; but, when so modified, it should close with a 
tone adapted to the connection of meaning. 

The reader should study variety, and avoid uniformity 
in closing sentences. Practice the following with (i) the 
vanish, or absence of slide ; (2) slight rising inflection; 
(3) full rising inflection ; (4) slight falling inflection ; (5) 
full falling slide; (_6_) rising circuinflex; (7) falling cir- 

"For weeks the clouds had raked the hills." 

Note. — It will be remembered that there are infinite variations in 
Pitch, Force, Time and Slides. For instance, in Pitch we have 
.\alitraly Zcri' and Ilii^h, but one word may require a tone much 
higher than another, though the lower may be abcj\e the Natural. 
All varieties of Pitch that vary from the Natural are designated as 
Ili:;h or Low ; the degree must be determined by the judgment of the 


Form of \-oice ma)' be Natural, Effusive, Expulsive, 
or Explosive. 

The Natural is that ordinarilv used in conversation. 



I. 'Twas the eve before Christmas, " Good-night" had been laid. 
And Annie and Willie had crept into bed; 
There were tears on their pillows and tears in their eves. 
And each little bosom was heaving with sighs. 
For to-night their stern father's command had been given 
That they should retire precisely at seven 
Instead of at eight — for they troubled him more 
With questions unheard-of than ever before. 

I sometimes have thought in my loneliest hours. 
That lie on my heart like the dew on the flowers. 
Of a ramble I took one bright afterooon. 
When my heart was as light as a blossom in June ; 
The green earth was moist with the new-fallen showers. 
The breeze fluttered down and blew open the flowers ; 
While a single white cloud to its haven of rest. 
On the white wing of peace floated off in the west. 

7 he Effusive is a Tc'iy light, gentle form, usually cha- 
riiterized by the swell (-<:=—). It is used in expressing 
that which is beautiful, tranquil or pathetic. It is tharac- 
tL-ristic of lofty sentiment not requiring vigorous ex- 


I. IIow beautiful she is I how fair 

.She lies « itliiii those arms that press 
1 ler form with many a soft caress 
Of tenderness and watchful care. 

Over the river they beckon to me, 

Loved ones who crossed to the other side ; 
The gleam of their snowy robes I see. 

But their voices are drowned by the rushing tide. 
There's one with ringlets of sunny gold, 

And eyes the reflection of heaven's own blue , 
He crossed in the twilight gray and cold. 

And the pale mist hid him from mortal view. 
We saw not the angels who met him there 

The gate of the city we could not see; 
0»er the river, over the river^ 

iMy brother stands, waiting to welcome me. 


r/ie Expulsive (-«) is a forcible utterance expressive 
tf determination and intensity of feeling. 


I. Up all, and shout for Rudiger — 

Defiance unto Death. 

2 Why not reform ? That's easily said ; 

But I've gone through such wretched treatment, 
Sometimes foi^etting 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. 

The Explosive (=— ) is used in vehement language and 
in powerful description. It usually manifests itself in the 
bursting of the voice on a single word. 

Men, at some time, are //tasters of their fates. 

2. " Halt /" — the dust-brown rank stood fast; 

" Fire /" — out blazed the rifle blast. 


Force, or po7iie/- of the voice, is of three kinds — Natural, 
Heavy and Gentle. 

Natural Force is that most commonly used in speaking 
or reading. 


I W» are two travellers, Roger and I. 

Roger's my dog — come here, you scamp I 
Jump for the gentleman — 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. 


2. 'Tis easy to stand on a vessel's deck, 

On a vessel snug and trim, 
And watch the foam from her flashing wake, 

And the rainbow bubbles swim ; 
'Tis easy enough to climb the mast 
When hushed the billow's war. 
And zephyrs play 
With the pennon gay 
That floats with the highest spar. 

Heavy Force is used in grand description and in con- 
veying any idea of power. 


I. The storm o'er the ocean flew furious and fast, 

And the waves rose in foam at the voice of the blast, 
And heavily labored the gale-beaten ship. 
Like a stout-hearted swimmer, the spray at his lip ; 
And dark was the sky o'er the mariner's path. 
Save when the wild lightning illumined in wrath. 

Bell never yet was hung, 
Between whose lips there swung 
So grand a tongue. 

As the bleak Atlantic currents 

Lash the wild Newfoundland shore. 

So they beat against the State-house, 
So they surged against the door. 

Gentle Force is used in tender and pathetic description, 
and in all cases where a subdued form is necessary to cor- 
rectly express the sentiment. 


I. Noiselessly as the daylight 

Comes when the night is done, 
And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek 
Grows into tlic great sun,— 


Noiselessly as the spring-time 

Her crown of verdure weaves, 
And all the trees on all the hills 

Open their thousand leaves,— 

So, without sound of music, 

Or voice of them that wep^. 
Silently down from the mountain crown 

The great procession swept. 

Hush-a-bye, Lilian, 

Rock to thy rest; 
Be thy life, little one. 

Evermore blest. 

Once has the changing tnoon 

Waned in the skies 
Since little Lilian 

Opened her eyes. 

Once has the crescent inoon 

Shone in the west 
On little Lilian 

Taking her rest. 

Time has reference to Quft)ititii, Kate, and Paicse. 

Quantity is the amount of tiinf given to a word. It 
may be Natural, Long, or Short. 

Natural Quantity is that umally given to words in 
unemotional language. 


There is one accomplishment, in particular, which I would earnestly 
recommend to you. Cultivate assiduously the ability to read well. 
Where one person is really interested by music, twenty are pleased by 
good reading. Where one person is capable of becoming a. skillful 
musician, twenty may become good readers. Where there is one 
occasliin suitable for the exercise of musical talent, there are twenty 
for that of good reading. 


Long Quantity is used in expressing that which is grand, 
sublime, gloomy or ho7-rihle. 


O thou Eternal One ! whose presence bright 
All space dcth occupy, all motion guide; 
Unchanged through Time's all-devastating flight; 
Thou only God ! There is no God beside ! 

I had a dream which was not all a dream. 

The bright sun was extinguished; and the stars 

Did wander darkling in the eternal space, 

Rayless and pathless ; and the icy earth 

Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air; 

Morn came, and went, and came, and brought no day. 

Short Quantity is vsed to express sentiment light, 
joyous, gay and brisk. It also expresses haste, fear, com- 
mand, indignation, etc. 


I. A huri-y of hoofs in a village street, 

A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, 
And beneath from the pebbles in passing a spark 
Struck out by a steed that flies fearless and fleet. 

Ring out the old, ring in the new. 
Ring, happy bells, across the snow ; 
The year is going, let him go ; 

Ring out the false, ring in the true. 

Rate is the degree of rapidity or slowness with 7vhich 
several successive words are uttered. It may be Natural 
Slow or I^ast. 

Natural Rate is that tvhich a person naturally uses in 
retfding or speaking. 



la O good painter, lell 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, 

Ve'. all in the golden and gracious light 

Of a cloud when the summer sun is down. 

2. What a fascination there is in really good reading! In th« 
hospital, in the chamber of the invalid, in the nursery, 'n the domestic 
and in the socal circle, among chosen friends and companions, how it 
enables you to minister to the amusement, the comfort, the pleai>ure of 
dear ones, as no other art or accomplishment can. No instrument of 
man's devising can reach the heart as does that most wonderful inftru- 
ment, the human voice. It is God's special gift and endowment to his 
chosen crea':ures. Fold it not away in a napkir.. 

Slow Rate mn[i dmote horror ami aire; it should bt 
Hied in hniguage yerioun, sublime, and /lathetie. 


By the flow of the jnland river 

Whence the fleets of iron have flea 
Where the blades of the grave-grass quivei 
Asleep on the ranks of the dead : 
Under the sod and the dew, 

Wajiing the judgment day, 
Un-jcr the one, the Blue, 
L ndei the other, th» Grey. 

Meanwhile the shapeless iron mass 
Came moving o'er the wave, 

As gloomy as a passing hearse, 
As silent as the grave. 

Fast Rate is used to e:cpress sentiment, lively, joyous, 
impasmned and vehement. 



I. 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. 

Hurrah ! the foes are moving ! Hark to the mingled din 

Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin ! 

The fiery duke is pricking fast across St. Andre's plain, 

With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne. 

Now, by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France, 

Charge for the golden lilies — 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 

And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a guiding, 
Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre. 

Pause is the suspension of the voice. Poetic and Ora- 
torical "PoMXi express emotion, J?hetorici7 / Fa.uses are those 
demanded by the sense and structure of a sentence. 
Grammatical Pauses are those indicated by the usual 
marks of punctuation, and Prosodial Va-u^ts are those used 
only in verse. But in this connection it is thought best 
to make three divisions, viz. : Natural Pause, Long Pause, 
and Short Pause. 

Natural Pause is uscil in unimpassioned language and 
frdinaty description. 


Have you heard the tale of the Aloe plant. 

Away in tlie sunny clime? 
riy humble growth of a hundred years 

It reaches its blooming time; 
And' then a wondrous bud at its crown 

Breaks into a thousand flowers; 
This floral queen, in its blooming seen. 

Is the pride of the tropical bowers. 
But the plant to the flower is a sacrifice, 
For it blooms but once, and in blooming dies. 


Long Pause usually accompanies slow rate or a change 
of sentiment, and marks a suspension of the sense. 


Pause a moment. I heard a footstep. Listen now. I heard it 
again. But it is going from us. It sounds fainter — still fainter. It is 

Short Pause accompanies fast rate, and is characteristic 
of haste, fear, etc. 


John, be quick ! Get some water ! Throw the powder overboard ! 
It cannot be reached ! Jump into the boat, then ! Shove oSf! There 
goes the powder — thank Heaven, we are safe ! 


Stress has much to do with the power, beauty and 
general effect of a sentence. It is that finishing, polishing 
touch which causes the thought to stand out in relief — 
throwing it vividly upon the background, with its profile 
well defined, its lights and shadows harmoniously blended 
— rendering it complete, beautiful and symmetrical. 

There are six distinct kinds of Stress, viz. : Initial, 
Final, Median, Compound, Thorough and Tremulous. 

Initial Stress (=— ) is an explosive force on the first 
part of a syllable or word. It is characteristic of lively, 
joyous description. 


1. There's a dance of leaves in that aspen bower; 

There's a titter of winds in that beechen tree ; 
There's a smile on the fruit, and a smile on the flower. 
And a laugh from the brook that runs to the sea. 

2. 1 come from haunts of coot and hern; 

I make a sudden sally. 
And sparkle out among the fern, 
To iiicker down a valley. 


The Final Stress (— =) is an explosive force on the 
latter part of a syllable or word. It is used in expressing 
defiance, determination, or intensity of feeling or purpose. 


A breath of submission we breathe not; 

The sword we have drawn v e will sheathe not. 

•• Art thou a friend to Roderick ?" " So.'' 
"Thou dar'st not call lliyself a foe?" 
" I dare, to him, and all the band 
He brings to aid his murderous hand." 

Median Stress or the Swell (-c=-), characteristic 
of the Orotund Quality and Effusive Form, is most marked 
;n the sublime, but it is found in all classes of literature, 
sometimes occurring on a single word and again continu- 
ing through an entire sentence. 


1. Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean, roll ! 

2. Lord, thou hast been our dwelling-place in all generations. 
Before the mountains were brought forth, or ever thou hadst formed 
the earth and the world, even from everlasting to everlasting, thou art 

3. Lift up your heads, O ye gates; even lift them up, ye everlast- 
ing doors; and the King of glory shall come in. 

Compound Stress (=~=) is a union of the Initial ami 
Final in one word. It is indicative of surprise, irony and 


I. Gone to be married ! Gone lo swear a pcaie ! 

Shall Levin's have Blanche, and Blanche Ihese /irovinees f 

t. And this man 

Is now become a god. 


ril have my bond ; I will not hear thee speak : 
I'll have rr.y bond ; and therefore speak no more. 
77/ not be made a soft and dull-eyed fool. 
To shake the head, relent, and sigh, and yield 
To Christian intercessors. Follow not : 
I'll have no speaking : I'll have my bond. 

Thorough Stress (□) is an abrupt heavy force, used 
in comfnanU, fearlessness a)ul braggadocio. 


1. Blaze, with your serried columns! 

I will not bend the knee ! 
The shackles ne'er again shall bind 
The arm which now is free. 

2. " I scorn forgiveness, haughty man ! 

You've injured me before the clan. 
And naught but blood shall wipe away 
The shame I have endured to-day !" 

Tremulous or Intermittent Stress (-^'^) is used in 
fear, joy and laui^hter, in the broken voice of sorrow, a?id 
in imitation of the feeble voice of old age. 


1. Ho, why dost thou shiver and >hake. Gaffer Gray, 

And why does thy n ise look so blue ? 
" 'Tis the weather is cold, 'tis I've grown very old, 
And my doublet is not very new, well-a-day." 

2. A young mother knelt in the cabin below. 
And pressing her babe to her Ijosom of snow. 
She prayed to her God, 'mid the hurricane wild, 

" O Father, have mercy, lool; I'nwn on my child !" 

Note. — The "royal road" to succes in reading lies in a true con- 
ception of the spirit of the piece, and a faithful delineation of the 
autho. 's meaning. 

Endeavor to grasp the ideas, make them a part of yourself, and 
clothe your hearers with them. Do not allow your audience to grope 
blindly for that which you are trying to express, but let your own soul 
enter into the work, and make the thought so apparent that your 
hearers cannot fail to comprehend the entire meaning. 


Another element of power lies in playing upon words and giving 
(hem their full individual expression. For instance, the yioxd. firm 
should usually be spoken in a fiim tone of voice, sti-ong in a strong 
tone, light in a light tone, grand in a manner conveying an idea of 
grandeur. Old, sweety loJigy gay, cold, deep, dark, fierce, wild, horrid, 
mad, cool, hot, yoting, black, timid, bold, roar, whisper, thunder, 
growl, laugh, rise, sink, blozo, roll, murviur, titter, babble, gush, burst, 
dash, dance, breathe, i-ipple^t\\eie and all similar words may be ren- 
dered infinitely more expressive by giving each word its own peculiar 
individual character. 


Gesture is that part of Elocution which appeals to the 
tye. It relates to Position and Movements. 

Position of the body should be in harmony with the 
character of the thought. Vigorous expression requires a 
firm posture; beauty of sentiment, a graceful attitude. 
The position should be changed, not too often, as quietly 
and with as few movements as possible. The arms, when 
not in use, should hang easily by tlie sides, and one foot 
should be slightly in advance, the head being held natu- 
rally erect. 

The speaker should always take his position near the 
front of the stage, in order to be the better seen and 

In reading, always stand or sit erect, with the lungs 
well inflated. 

Movements of the body are necessary to give character 
to the delivery, but they must be natural, graceful and 

The Head should maintain an easy position and allow 
the eyes to move deliberately over the audience. Do not 
stare into vacancy while before a company, but fix your 
^aze upon the individuals composing the assemblage. 


Avoid an excessive use of the head, both in reading and 
speaking. In reading, the eyes should be raised from the 
book as much as possible. Practice will give facility in 
reading long sentences with a single glance at the book. 

The Expression of the face should reflect the character 
of the thought. 

The Hands in gesture should be used easily and grace- 
fully. Frequent practice before a mirror will be advan- 
tageous in securing freedom and grace of movement. 

The hands may ht Supine, Prone, Vertical, Pointing and 

The Supine Hand lies easily opened, with the palm 
upward- It is the common form for gesture. 

The Prone Hand is opened, with the palm downward. 
It is used to denote negative assertions, superposition, etc. 

The Vertical Hand is opened, with the palm outward 
from the speaker. It is used in warding off and in de- 
noting a limit. 

The Pointing Hand, forefinger extended, is used in 
designating or pointing out any particular thing or place. 
Ordinarily the hand is loosely opened, but, when the 
gesture is emphatic, it is tightly closed 

The Clenched Hand denotes intense action of the 
will or of the passions. 

The Arms should be used naturally and with decision. 
In forcible utterance they move in straight lines; in 


gracefwl expression, tliey move in curves, but even in the 
curves they should show that they are servants sent to 
perform certain duties, and that they are guided in every 
motion by a power beyond themselves. 

Sometimes, in familiar gesture, the forearm only is used, 
but ordinarily the arm moves freely from the shoulder. 

Hand and Arm Gestures are made in four general 
directions, viz.: Front, Oblique, Lateral and Backward. 
Each of these is subdivided into Horizontal, Descending 
and Ascending. 

Front gestures are used to designate or to illustrate 
that which is near to us, whether it be an object, a thought 
or a feeling. In addressing an object, real or ideal, we 
suppose it to be placed in the direction of the Front 

Oblique gestures are less emphatic and more general 
In their application than the Front gestures. They relate 
to things indefinitely. 

Lateral gestures denote expansion, extreme distance, 
breadth ; or the placing of persons, objects or ideas in 
contrast one with another. 

Backward gestures indicate things remote, obscure or 

Horizontal gestures are employed in general allusions; 
ihey indicate a level or equality, and belong to the realm 
of the Intellect. 


Descending gestures denote inferiority or inequality, 
and, when emphatic, they show determination and pur- 
pose. They belong to the Will. 

Ascending gestures denote superiority, greatness, an 
unfolding or lifting up figuratively or literally. They 
belong to the Imagination. 

Note. — Two important points : 

I. Make all gestures with decision — when the gesture is completed, 
let the arm fall slowly to the side — never allow the arms to switip. 

II. Practice until graceful gesture becomes natural. 


Practice on the following exercises cannot fail to give 
ease and grace to the movements of the arm and hand. 
The letters refer to the direction of the gesture, which 
should be made upon the word or syllable printed in 

This list of exercises is not presented as original. 

D. F. This sentiment I will maintain with the last breath o{ life. 

U, E. I appeal Ut yoit, sir, for your decision. 

A. F. I appeal to the great searcher of hearts for the truth of what 
I utter. 

D. O. Of all mistakes, none .'re so fatal as those which we incur 
through prejudice. 

H. O. Truth, honor, _;«itice were his motives. 

A.'O. Fix your eye on the prize of a truly «oble ambition. 

D. L. Away with an idea so absurd. 


JI. L, 'riic breeze of morning A\'nftecl 7«cense on llie air. 

./. L. Ill dreams Ihro' camp and court he bore the trophies of a 

D. B. . hi'irv with an idea so alilimrent to humanity. 

//. B. Search the records of the remotest an^/quity for a parallel 
to this. 

yi. B. Then rang their proud Jitirrah. 

D. E. Put doiun the unworthy feeling. 

JJ. E, 'Kestraiu the unhallowed propensity. 

E>. O. Let evciy one who would merit the Christian name repress 
such a feeling. 

//. O. I charge you as men and as Christians to lay a zes/rai'U oi\ 
all such dispositions. 

..-/. O. Ye gods, with/io/f/ your vengeance. 

Z*. Z. The hand ('( affeclion shall smooth the tiirf iiix )our last 

//. Z. The cloud of adversity threw its gloom over all his/r^pect-i. 

A. L. So darkly glooms yon thunder-cloud that swathes, as with 
a purple shroud, Benledi's distant hill. 

// F. Arise ! meet and r<-/t7 the foe ! 

A. J'. For/»/f/it, L'Ttl of Heaven! 

//. O. His arm warded ^the blow. 

A. O. May Heaven az'i 7-/ the cal.mity! 

II. L, Out of my sight, thou .serpent] 

//. B. A;. 'i'.i', delusive phantom. 



D. F. AU personal feeling he de/wited on the altar of his country's 

H. F. Listen, I \mplore you, to the voice of reason I 

A. F. >/(7j7/ universal lord. 

D. O, Every personal advantage he sur^^Kdered to the common 

J/ O. It'e/come ! once more to your early home! 

A. O. Hail! holy Light 1 

D. L. I utterly renounce all the supposed advantages of such a 

H. L. They yet slept in tlie w ide ^byss of possibility. 

A.JL. 1o^ ,\oy iaxevir I 


Z>. F. Lie light\y on him, earth — bis step v as light on thee. 

//. F- Now all the blessings of a glad father rest on thee I 

A F. Blessed be Thy «ff/«f, O Lord, Most High! 

r>. O. We are in Thy sight but as worms of the dust. 

II. 0. May the grace of God abide with you forever/ 

A. O. And let the triple rainbow rest o'er all the mountain top*. 

D. L. Here let the tumults of passion forever cease I 

H. L. Spread wide aroundthe heaven-breathing calm! 

A. L. Heaven opened wide her ever during gates. 



H. F. Hence, hideous siiccire ! 

A. F. Hide your faces, holy aiiyels ! 

//. O. Far from our hearts be so inhuman a feeling. 

A. O. Angels and ministers of grace, defend us ! 

//. L. The gates of death in sunder break. 

A. L. Melt and dS.%pel, ye spectre doubts! 


Vocal Oultuhe 

* ♦ (49 


I Development. I Habit. -J Proper Breathing. 
I ("Breathing Exercises. 

Quality. -j Drill. -< Vqcal Drill. 

1 I Calisthenics. 


YooAL Culture. 

The Cultivation of the z'oiie is necessary to an easy and 
correct use of it. To secure ease in its use, we develop itj 
to enable us to use it cgrrectly, we improve its quality. 


The Development, or increased power of the voice is 
secured by a proper habit of breathing, by vocal drill, and 
bv exercises in breathinz and calisthenics. 

Note. — In Elocution, we begin at the lowest step — breathing; after 
this follow, in nalural order, articulation and modulation with their 
various subdivisions. Breathing is the simplest act we perform — we 
aim to render it correct ; conversation is the next step — we endeavor to 
acquire a correct use of the conversational voice as the foundation of a 
knowledge of Elocution. 

Proper Breathing consists in taking in and giving out 
full inspirations of pure air in such a manner as not to 
interfere with speech. It should be practiced until deep 
breathing becomes a fixed habit. 


1. Take an erect position and breathe deeply and very slowly, 
observing that the lungs are well filled with air at each inspiration. 

2. Breathe slowly, allowing the air to escape through the mouth, 
raising the arms with each inflation and lowering them as the breath 
is expelled. 

3. Take a deep insoiration and allow the breath to suddenly escape 
through the mouth. 


4. Breathe quickly through the mouth, allowing the lungs to 
become filled with each breath. 

5. Take a full breath, then place the hands, palms inward, just 
above the hips, and bend the body as far as possible without incon- 
venience forward, to the right bafikward and to the left. 

These exercises will tend to enlarge the breathing ca- 
pacity and strengthen the muscles employed. In addition 
to an increase of vocal power, the general health cannot 
fail to be benefited by a judicious exercise of the breathing 

In Vocal Drill, the object should be to obtain a full, 
pure tone. The sentences under the Simple and Orotund 
qualities of voice may be practiced freely to secure this 


The following exercises are taken from the selections 
found in this book. They are designed to give purity 
and power to the voice, and strength and vigor to the 
vocal organs. They should be practiced often, not long 
at a time, with the best quality of voice at command. In 
giving the Natural and Intense Forms, be particular to 
employ a full, rich, resonant tone. 

Natural Form. 

I. < 'vei the hill the farm-boy goes. 

Maud MuUer, on a summer's day. 
Raked the meadow sweet with hay. 

They've left the school-house, Charlie, where years ago we sat 
And shot our paper bullets at the master's time-worn hat ; 
The hook is gone on which it hung, the master sleepeth now 
Where schoolboy tricks can never cast a shadow o'er his brow. 


'Twas on Lake Erie's broad expanse. 

One bright midsummer day, 
The gallant steamer Ocean Queen 

Swept proudly on her way. 
Bright faces clustered on the deck, 

Or, leaning o'er the side. 
Watched carelessly the feathery foatn 

That flecked the rippling title. 

Intense Form. 

I. Impregnable their front appears. 

All horrent with projected spears. 

t. It must nut be : This day, this hour 

Annihilates the invader's power! 
All Switzerland is in the field — 
She will not fly; she cannot yield; 
She must not fall ; her better fate 
Here gives her an immortal date. 

3. 'Tis a cold, bleak night I with angry roar 
The north winds beat and clamor at the door; 
The drifted snow lies heaped along the street. 
Swept by a blinding storm of hail and sleet; 
The clouded heavens no guiding starlight lend. 
But o'er the earth in gloom and darkness bend; 
Gigantic shadows, by the night lamps thrown, 
Dance their weird revels fitfully alone. 

4. Toll ! Roland, Toll ! 
Bell never yet was hung, 
Between whose lips there swung 

So grand a tongue ! 

Calling Voice. 

Hi ! Harry Holly ! Halt— and tell 
A fellow just a thing or two ; 

You'\e had a furlough, been to see 
How all the folks in Jersey do. 

' To all, the truth we tell ! we tell !" 

Shouted in ecstasies a bell. 
' Come all ye weary wanderers, see ! 

l.iur Lord has made salvation freel 


Repent, believe, have fa'ili, and then 
Ke saved, and praise the Lord, Amen ! 
Salvation's free, we tell! we tell!" 
Shouted the Methodistic bell. 

3. Blow on ! this is the land of liberty ! 

4. A voice came down the wild wind — 

" Ho ! ship ahoy !" its cry : 
"Our stout Three Bells of Glasgow 

Shall stand till daylight by." 
As the captain from her taffrail 

Sent down his hopeful cry : 
" Take heart ! hold on !" he shouted, 

" The Three Bells shall stand by." 

5. Charco' ! Charco' ! Hark, o ! Hark, o \ 



1. Ye crags and peaks, I'm with you once again I 

2. " Ve purifying waters, swell !" 

Rang out the clear-toned Baptist bell. 

3. " Ring! oh, ring for liberty !" 

4. Hurrah ! hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war. 
Hurrah ! hurrah ! lor Iviy and Her.ry of Navarre ! 


'Tis midnight's holy hour — and silence now 

Is brooding, like a gentle spirit, o'er 

The still and pulseless world. Hark ! on the winds 

The bell's deep tones are swelling — 'tis the knell 

Of the departed year. 

With woeful measures wan Despair — 
Low, sullen sounds his grief beguiled; 

A sulemn, strange and mingled air; 
' l\vas sad by fits — b)' starts 'twas wild. 


Id his dark, carved oaken chair 
Sat the old baron — dead ! 

Hear the tolling of the bells — 

Iron bells ! 
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels. 

Effusive Form. 

I. The day is cold, and dark, and dreary; 

It rains, and the wind is never weary. 

How sweet the chime of the Sabbath bells ! 

Each one its creed in music tells, 
In tones that float upon the air. 

As soft as song, as pure as prayer. 

Mabel, little Mabel, with her face against the pane. 
Looks out across the night at the beacon in the rain. 

How often, oh, how often. 

In the days that had gone by, 
I had stood on that bridge at midnight 

And gazed on that wave and sky. 

My soul to-day 

Is far away, 
Sailing the Vesuvian Bay; 

My winged boat, 

A bird afloat. 
Swims round the purple peaks remote. 

Expulsive Form. 

1. "Farewell! farewell! base world, farewell!" 

2. Now, by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France, 
Charge for the golden lilies — upon them with the lance! 

3. " Maclaine ! 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." 


4. Oh, * Kii what pride I used 

To walk these hills, and iDok up to my God, 
And bless him that the land was free 1 

Explosive Form. 

1. Again to the battle, Achaiansl 
Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance ! 

Our land, the first garden of Liberty's tree, 

It has been, and shall ^'<f/ be, the land of the free ! 

For the cross of our faith is replanted^ 

The pale, dying crescent is daunted. 

And we march that the footprints of Mahomet's slaves 

May be washed out in blood from our forefathers' graves. 

2. Fire ! fire ! it was raging above and below. 

3. Quick ! quick ! brave spirits, to his rescue fly ; 
Up ! up ! by Heavens ! This hero must not die ! 

4. Strike — till the last armed foe expires, 
Strike — for your altars and your fires, 
Strike — for the green graves of your sires, 

God — and your native land ! 

Orotund Form. 

1. By Nebo's lonely mountain, 

On this side Jordan's wave, 
In a vale in the land of Moab, 
There lies a lonely grave. 

2. The curfew tolls tlie knell of parting day; 

The lowing herds wind slowly o'er the lea; 

The ploughman homeward plods his weary way. 

And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 

3. The way is dark, my child ! but leads to light. 
I would not always have thee walk by sight. 
My dealings now thou canst not understand. 

I meant it so; but I will take thy hand, 
And through the gloom 
Lead safely home 
My child 1 


Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are ! 
And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King Henry of Navarre ! 

Tremulous Form. 

1. O Christ of the seven wounds, who look'dst through the dark 

To the face of thy mother ! consider, I pray. 
How we common mothers stand desolate, mark. 

Whose sons, nat being Christs, die with eyes turned away. 
And no last word to say. 

2. Pity the sorrows of a poor old man. 

Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door; 
Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span ; 
Oh, give relief! £.nd heaven will bless your store. 

3. O, my son Absalom ! My son Absalom ! 
Would God I had died for thee. O, 
Absalom, my son, my son ! 

My keg is but low, I confess. Gaffer Gray ; 
What then ? While it lasts, man, we'll live. 

" The poor man alone. 

When he hears the poor moan, 
Of his morsel a morsel will give — Well-a-day 1" 


For Class or Private Practice. 

[Note of Explanation. — In the following e.\ercises the symbols 
used aie thus explained: (•) high pitch, (.) low pitch, (••) high and 
loud, (f), (si) slow, {-) monotonr, (-<) gradual increase of tone 
to the mark | or to the end of the sentence, (:s— ) gradual decrease 
of tone. Words printed in italict should be played upon, those primed 
in SMALL CAPITALS should be given in a deep tone of voice, those 
printed in CAPITALS should be given with great force]. 


I. (si) The sun hath set in folded clouds, 

Its twilight rays are gone; 
(.) And, gathered in the shades of night. 

The STORM is rolling on. 
(Effusive) Alas ! how ill that bursting storm 
'I'he fainting spirit braves, 
When they, the lovely and the lost, 
Are gone to early graves ! 

Ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! 

3. (.si) When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw. 

The line, too, labors, and the words move slow; 
(■f) Not so when swift Camilla scours the plain. 

Flies o'er the unbending corn and skims along the main 

4. Oh ! Mona's waters are blue and bright 

When the sun shines out like a^ny young lover; 
(.) But Mona's waters are dark as night 

When the face of heaven is clouded over. 
The wild wind drives the crested foam 

l-'ar up the steep and rocky mountain. 
And booming echoes drown the voice, 

The silvery voice, of Mona's fountain. 

5. (>~) The lingering ray 

Of dying day 
Sinks deeper down and fades away. 

6. (— ^) -A- faint light gleams, 

A light that seems 
To grow and grow till Nature teems 
With mellovi' haze. 

7. (— c) But, lo! he is nearing his heart's desire; 

He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray, 
With Sheridan only five miles away. 

8. (==— ) 1 he loud wind dwindled to a whisper low. 

9. "Ho! a sail! Ho! a sail!" cried the man at the lea, 
"Ho 1 a sail !" and they turned their glad eyes o'er the sea. 
" They see us, they see us, the signal is waved ! 

'i'hey bear down upon us, they bear down upon us; 
Huzza I we are saved!" 


10. For weeks the clouds had r.iked the hills. 

1 1 . Co', boss ! Co', boss 1 co' ! co' ! co' ! 

\i. Blow, bugle, blow; set the wild echoes flying; 

(>-) Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 

13. Over the hill the farm-boy goes. 

H- Hear the sledges with the bells — 

Silver bells! * * 

Hear the mellow wedding bells, 
(;olden bells! * * 

Hear the loud alarm bells — 
Brazen bells ! * * 

Hear the tolling of the bells- 
Iron bells! * * 

15. \Kitjoice, you men of Angiers ! ring your bells : 

King John, your King and England's, doth a'pproai-h- 
Open yauT gales, and give the victors way ! 

tf> " In deeds of love excel ! excel !" 

Chimed out from ivied towers a bell. * 
" Oil, heed the ancient landmarks well !" 

\\\ solemn tones exclaimed a bell. * 
" Ve purifying waters, swell !" 

In mellow tones rang out a bell. * * 
" Not faith alone, but works as well, 

Must test the soul !" said a soft bell. 
" Farewell ! farewell ! base world, farewell !" 

In touching tones exclaimed a bell. * 
" To all, the truth we tell ! we tell !" 

Shouted in ecstasies a bell. 

17. Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you — 
trippingly on (he tongue; but, if you mouth it, as many of our players 
do, I had as lief the town-crier spake my lines. 

18. Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and 
have not charity, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal. 
And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries, 
and all knowledge; and though I have all faiih, so that I could 
lemove mountains, and have not charily, I am nothing. 


19. (si) And thou, O, silent mountain, sole and bare, 

1 1, blacker than the darkness, all the night, 
And visited all night by troops of stars — 

( _<;) Or when they climb the sky, ( | ) or when they sink- 

(InitiTl Stress) Companion of the morning star at dawn, 
Thyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawn 
Co-herald ! wake, oh ! 7uake and utter praise ! 
Ye ice falls ! ye that from your dizzy heights 

f>— ) Adown enormous ravines steeply slope, | 

Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty noise, 
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 flowers 
Of living blue spread garlands at your feet? 
God ! God ! the torrents like a shout of nation* 
Utter : the ice-plain bursts and answers God. 

(■) To the deep, (.) To the deep; 

(•) Down, (.) Down; 
(-ec) Through the shades of sleep — 
Through the cloudy strife 
Of death and of life ; 
Through the veil and the bar 
Of things that seem and are; 
Even to the steps of the remotest THRONE. 
(•) Down! Down! (.) Down! 

(■) Oh time! Oh life ! {.) Oh world ! 

(:=— J On whose last steps I climb. 

(:5>-j Trembling at that where I had stood before. 

(>— j When will return the glory of your prime? 

(>—) No more ! oh, never more. 

(•) There is a silence 

( . ) where hath been no sound ; 
(•) There is a silence 

(.) where no sound may be; 
In the colli grave, under the deep, deep sea. 
Or in wide desert, 

(.) where no life is found; 
(■) Which hath been mute, 

(.) and still must sleep profound. 
( — ) No voice is hushed, no foot treads silently; 
(^.) But clouds an<l cloudy shadozvs wander free^ 
That never spoke over idle ground — 


(— «) But in green ruins, in tlie desolate walls of antiqu* 
Where man hath been. 
Though the dun fox and wild hyena call. 
And owls that flit continually between 
SHRIEK I to the echo, and the low winds moan; 
There the true silence is self-conscious and alone. 

~i- * * A banner with the strange device, 
" Excelsior!" 

* ■"' And like a silver clarion rung — 

•' Excelsior !" 
" ■■' And from his lips escaped a groan, 

'* Excelsior !" 
*' And loud that clarion voice replied, 

" Excelsior!" 

* * liut still he answered, with a sigh, 

" Excelsior !" 
A voice replied, far up the height, 

"Excelsior!" * * 
A voice cried through the startled air, 

"Excelsior!" * * 
That banner with the strange device, 

" Excelsior !" * * 
A voice fell, lil<e a falling star — 

" Excelsior!" * * 

34. ( — ) High on a throne of royal state, which FAR 
Outshone the WEALTH of Ormus and of Ind, 
Or WHERE the gorgeous east, with richest hand 
Showers on her kings, barbaric pearls and gold,, 
Satan exalted sat (Repeat). 

25. Setting aside his high blood's royalty, 

And let him be no kinsman to my liege. 
I do DEFY him and I spit at him. 
Call him — a slanderous coward, and a villain; 
Which to maintain, I would allow him odds. 
And meet him, were I lied to run a-foot, 
Even to the frozen ridges of the Alps, 
Or any other ground inhabitable, 
□ Wherever Englishman durst fet his foot. 

Meantime let this defend my loyally ; 
iJy all my hopes most falsely doth he LIE, 


26. ( — ) I hear them marching o'er the hill, I hear them 
(ainter, fainter slill ! 
I hear them marching o'er the hill, I hear them 

faint«-, fainter slill! 
I hear them marching o'er the hill, I hear them 
fainter, fainter still ! 
(• — ) They stole, they sto/e, they stole my child away 
They stole, they sio/e, they stole my child away I 

2y. Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more, 
Or close the wall up with our English dead ! 
(J, when the blast of war 6/ows in our ears, 
Then imitate the action of the tiger, 
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, 
Dis^guise fair nature with hard-favored rage; 
Then lend to the eye a terrible aspect ; 
Aye, set the teelh and stretch the nostrils wide, 
Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit 
To its full height. On ! on ! you noble En_L;lish, 
Whose blood is set from fathers of war proof. 
Cry, " Heaven for Harry, England and St. George!" 

28. Charco— *^' ^oal, charcoal. 


O o 

O o 

O o 

O O 

29. (Transiticiis in Fofcr and Pitch.^ ooOOO ooOOO 

Calisthenic Exercises, by giving grace and strength 
to the body, increase the power of the voice as well as rendei 
gesticulation more easy and natural. 



Exercise I.— Free Arm Exercise. 

Close the hands and allow them to rest easily on the chest, elbows 
down. Count to eight, and with every odd number throw the arm 
forcibly in the direction indicated, allowing it to return on the even 
count. Begin with the right hand, making four movements (eight 
counts) ; then use the left hand ; then both hands siiiniltaneously ; then 
both hands alternately, lettip<T 'hem lioth rest on the last count. 

/. Throw the hands downward, 

2. Throw the hands laterally, 

J, Throw the hands upward, 

4. Throw the hands front. 

Exercise II. — Supine Hand Exercise. 

Place the hands in the same position, use slower time, throwing out 
the arms gracefully in a curved line, allowing the hands to open easilj 
as they are thrown out, and to close as they return. 

1, Throw the hands downward. 

2, Throw the hands laterally, 
^, Throw the hands upward, 
4. Throw the hands front. 

Exercise III.— Clapping Exercise. 

Position same as before, similar to Exercise I ; throw out the right 
hand twice, then the left hand twice, both hands together twite, then 
clap tha hands three times. 


I. Dowmuard. 

3. Laterally. 

J. Upward. 

^. Front. 

Exercise IV. — Wave Movement. 

Place the tips of the fingers upon the shoulders; throw out the hands 
IS in Exercise II. 

J . Upward. 

^. Laterally. 

J. Downward. 

Exercise V. — Head Movements. 

1. Count as before, throwing the head /(;>-7</a?-(/ twice, backward 
twice, then alternately four times, making sixteen counts in all. 

2. Use sixteen counts and throw the head to the right, to the left, 
4nd alternate. 

E,\ercise VI — Body Movements. 

1. Bend the body y()/-7W(7/(/ twice, backward twice, then alternate. 

2. Turn the body to the right twice, to the left twice, then alter- 

Exercise VII. — Lyre Movement. 

Place the tips of the fingers upon the shoulders, throw the arms 
outward htm^xn^ the hands back with the fingers resting upon the top 
of the head; then throw the arms upivard, bringing the hands back to 
the shoulders. Repeat this eight times. 


Exercise VIII. — Circi.h: Movements. 

I. Let the closed liands ies.t U|)on tlie chest; at the first couin., dro/- 
both hands and allow them to return l)y a wide sweep, making ■» .ircle 
krith each hand. Repeat this four times. 

2. Raise the hands, letting them sweep downward in a cirHe and 
return to their places. Eight counts. 

3. Raise both hands ^jid allow them to sweep to the rii;hl^ making 
a circle. Eight counts. 

4. Raise both hands and allow them to circle to the left. Eiyht 

5. Same as i, except that the left hand follows half a circle behind 
the right. 

6. Same as 2, left hand half a circle behind. 

7. Same as 3, left hand behind. 

8. Same as 4, left hand behind. 

Exercise IX. — Dumb Bell Movement. 

Place the closed hands upcm the chest, and throw them both cut as 
indicated, twice in each direction. 

J . Downivard, 

•r. Lateraliy, 

J. Upward, 

4. Front. 

J. Bvtn hands to the r!\'ht. 

66 yocal culture. 

6. Both hands to the left. 

^. Right hand upzvard, left hand Joiunward. 

8. Left hand upward, right hand downward. 

Note. — The object of the foregoing exercises is to secure grace and 
freedom of movement. They should all be given wiih vigor and 
decision, avoiding a feeble, listless manner, which will thwart the 
purpose in view. 

p'requent pr.ictice and pro])er attention to this exercise will enable 
one to acquire facility and ea^c in gesticulation, and give to the body 
a degree of grace, strength and elasticity that would l-e attained in no 
other way. 

If the above exercises be accompanied with music, the effect will 
be quite pleasing. 


Helps to the Studi 


" Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, trip- 
fingly on the tongue ; but if you mouth it, as many of our players 
do, I had as lief the town-crier spoke my lines. Nor do not saw the 
air too much with your hands, thus ; but use all gently ; for in the very 
torrent, tempest, and (as I may say) whirlwind of your passion, you 
must acquire and beget a temperance, that may give it smoothness. 0, 
it offends me to the soul, to hear a robustious periwig-pated fellow tear 
a passion to tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings ; 
who, for the most part, are capable of nothing but inexplicable dumb 
shows, and noise. I would have such a fellow whipped for o'erdoing 
Termagant; it out-herods Herod. 'Pray you, avoid it." — Hamlet. 


Helps to the Study. 


It is impossible to zealously pursue any branch of 
knowledge without a 'realization of its importance. No 
work can be cheerfully performed without an expectation 
of some good arising from it, either to ourselves or to 
another. We labor not from a love for exertion, but 
from a desire to produce results. These results may be in 
the form of a remuneration to us, or a benefaction to 
mankind in general, or to one or more persons in par- 
ticular. In any case, we are prompted by an expectation 
of a reward in some shape, and this anticipation gives us 
1 zest in our work. It is this that gives us a zeal and 
ambition to excel in whatever we may be engaged. The 
business man is actuated by the same impulse ; the pro- 
fessional man, the statesman, the man of letters, all labor 
for one common end. 

The student is not exempt from the general law. His 
toil is arduous and incessant. The wearying strain of 
brain and nerve finds a recompense in the reward of his 
daily exertions, in the constant growth of his intellec- 
tuality, in the continued development of his reflective 
and perceptive powers, and his increased activity of 
mind. His brain expands under the influence of a train- 
ing designed to bring out his latent capabilities. This 
training is varied to meet the peculiar requirements of each 
individual case. The instruction and drill may be for the 
purpose of strengthening the brain and enabling it to 
work with greater accuracy and rapidity; it may be for 
the purpose of filling the mind with facts, and so training 
it that it may retain them; it may be for the purpose of 
developing the perceptive faculties that they may act with 
greater precision, or the reflective powers that thought 
may be evolved ; it may be to skill the mind in the use 
of figures, the hand in the use of the pen, brush or chisel, 



the eye to color, the ear to sound, the voice to music or 
to speech. But in all this instructing and educating 
process there is a specific end in view, and the greater is 
the ambition, the more worthy the object, the more 
strenuous will be the efforts put forth to attain it. 

It is essential, then, that the student have at the outset 
an ambition, an aim ; that he feel the importance of the 
work in which he is engaged. If this be not the case, his 
efforts will be inadequate to the desired result, and he 
will fall far short of success. Let him never pursue a 
study until he feels it worthy of his best efforts; and, 
starting with this inspiration, he can hardly fail to reach 
the coveted goal. Let no one teach without a hearty 
sympathy with the pupil in his desire for improvement. 

There is no branch of education more important than 
that which treats of the expression of thought — not even 
the production of thought itself. Man must think; no 
lack of education can prevent him. As all have thoughts, 
all will express those thoughts as best they can. Educa- 
tion will give men deeper thought, more methodical 
habits in thinking, more logical connection in the ideas. 
He who is taught how to express himself in words (either 
spoken or written) will, if he practice expression, improve 
his thoughts thereby. This is seen in the admitted fact 
of practice making perfect in composition. Teach one 
how to think by filling his mind with facts and laws of 
reasoning and logic, and teach another how to write or 
speak, and the latter will by and by surprise you with 
the better production, containing undoubtedly the better 
thoughts. If there is a tendency in the educational 
system of the present day to devote too great an amount 
of time and labor to the evolving of thought, and too 
little to its written and vocal expression, it is due to 
present and future generations that it be speedily cor- 

Elocution (Latin elocutio, from eloqui, to speak out, 
express or declare; from e, out, and loqui, to speak — 
Webster) is the act of expressing our feelings and ideas. 
It is the manner of speaking. Our elocution may natu- 
rally be good, or it may not. If good, it can be made 
still better; if poof, it may be made good. He who can 


speak at all can be taught an improved style. The study 
of elocution is one in which none can be pronounced 
perfect. As in penmanship, a proficient may greatly 
improve by practice ; and thousands are content to possess 
a handwriting next to illegible instead of the neat, ele- 
gant hand of which they could easily become master. So 
thousands are satisfied with a harsh, disagreeable voice, a 
careless articulation, a monotonous expression and a re- 
pulsive manner, being poor talkers, worse readers, and no 
speakers, when by a proper training they might have been 
fluent conversationalists, expressive readers, and easy (if 
not eloquent) speakers. How many are content to work 
with one talent, when they could readily possess five ! 

Among well-educated persons of taste and refinement 
how often do we find those to whom a knowledge of 
elocution would be invaluable, because of its power to set 
forth their otl er accomplishments! The first tones of a 
speaker's voice always convey an idea, favorable or unfa- 
vorable, of the speaker himself; and, if the latter, much 
effort will be required of him to regain the estimation so 
unwittingly lost. What can be more satisfactory to its 
possessor than a rich, clear, melodious tone, a distinct, 
clean-cut articulation, a perfect command of the modula- 
tions, and a pleasing style both in voice and manner ! 
All this is possible to any one who does not possess 
imperfect vocal organs, and who will assiduously devote 
himself or herself to the study, believing it to be worthy 
of all efforts required to obtain a mastery of the art. 
Thought is divine; its expression is a divine art, and it is 
worthy of all labor, all culture, all enthusiasm, and all 
human effort. Your best expression demands your best 
energies in your best condition. It calls into action the 
noblest manhood and womanhood. The greater the soul 
the greater and more effective will be the vocal manifesta- 

Then let students and teachers first of all be inspired by 
the greatness and divinity of their work, and let them 
labor with all enthusiasm, putting forth every effort for 
the speedy and certain realization of their desire. 

Elocution and Rhetoric. — The study of elocution 
is a valt:able aid to that of rhetoric- The two are inti- 


mately connected, and the one should always accompany 
the other. The construction of a sentence implies its ex- 
pression, and the expression in original discourse always 
pre-supposes its construction. One follows the other as 
cause and effect ; the rhetorician can frame his sentences 
with much greater ease and polish if he applies a knowl- 
edge of elocution, and the elocutionist can give a more 
powerful and effective rendering if he build his paragraphs 
upon strict rhetorical rules. It is advised that all study- 
ing elocution combine with this a perfect understanding 
of rhetoric. Dr. Barber says, " The art of rhetoric cannot 
fail to derive assistance from that of elocution ; since a 
careful consideration of the nice relations of thought in 
•written language is constantly necessary to its practice." 
The elocutionist should not devote all his talents to the 
rendition of other authors. He should be inventive, and 
apply the principles of his art to original composition. 
No one requires a more thorough knowledge of all sub- 
jects than the orator, and, if you aim at oratory as well as 
elocution, strive to make your education broad and com- 

Division of the Subject. — In the study of elocu- 
tion, or a gradual development of the vocal powers and 
a knowledge of the underlying principles, the subject 
naturally separates into two branches, viz.. Science and 
Art, or Theory and Fractice. Each of these has four 
distinct branches, viz.. Vocal Culture, Articulation, Ex- 
pression (or Modulation^, and Gesture. Theoretically 
these should be arrived at in the order given, but prac- 
tically they should be treated simultaneously. 

Voice is produced by breath passing over the vocal 
cords, which are situated in the larynx, or upper portion 
of the windpipe. The abdominal muscles act upon the 
diaphragm, causing the chest cavity to enlarge. A vacuum' 
being formed, the air rushes into the lungs. This air, after 
performing its office of supporting life, is expelled from the 
lungs, and, in its escape, it causes the elastic vocal cords 
to vibrate, producing the tone. When the voice is not in 
use, these cords lie near the sides of the larynx and do not 
obstruct the breath, while in speech they are thrown for-" 


ward into the ascending current of air. Thus we see that 
the organs of voice constitute a wind as well as a stringed 


The Culture of the Voice should be a matter of 
necessity as well as the training, of the mind, or the devel- 
opment of the hand or arm by exercise. The vocal organs 
become inefficient through disuse, and frequent practice is 
necessary to give thehi a readiness in adapting themselves 
to difficult articulation. By long neglect the tone is im- 
paired, ease of utterance is lost, and the organs become 
weak. Frequent vigorous practice induces healthy activ- 
ity, the voice is strengthened, and rendered pure and 
resonant. Female voices show, in a remarkable degree, 
the power that may be given them by culture. Shaks- 
peare's lines, 

"Her voice was ever soft, 
Gentle, and low; an excellent thing in woman," 

may be well in all other matters ; but in elocution we like 
an occasional Parepa Rosa, whose clear notes were dis- 
tinctly heard above a chorus of several thousand voices at 
the Boston Peace Jubilee. 

The voice should be frequently exercised outside of 
conversational tones. Employ extremes of force and 
pitch, full rising and falling slides, musical notes, etc., 
to give flexibility, strength and compass. Dumb-bells 
and Indian clubs afford good exercise ; but, unlike vocal 
practice, they do not enlarge the lungs, but merely the 
chest cavity. 

Correct Breathing is an important factor in elocu- 
tion, of more consequence than might be supposed. It 
should be so timed as not lo interfere with speech ; 
breath should be taken in only at the pauses. Study at 
first never to destroy the connection of the thought by 
a pause for breathing purposes. In long sentences, we 
should economize the breath as much as possible. Prac 
tice sentences with this in view for the purpose of reserv- 
ing breath for the strong passages. 

7 1 HELPS ro 7"/"^ STUDY. 

But proper breathing should be insisted on for a more 
important reason. We cannot give best expression with- 
out the full exercise of our best powers, and this requires 
a perfect state of health. Full breathing of pure air 
insures great lung capacity, vigorous circulation of the 
Wood, and a perfect action of the vital organs. Breath 
bears to our lungs the fiery oxygen of the air ; this is 
taken into the blood, and, carried by each pulsing artery, 
builds up and strengthens the entire system. 


Practice frequently the vocal exercises found on pages 
52-62. The laughing exercise, page 58, will be found 
valuable. Enter into it with spirit, as a health exercise. 
The vowel sounds on page 21 may all be used in the same 
exercise, prefixing "h" to each sound in turn. 

Exercise 15, on page 59, should be given with the itali- 
cised syllables in a loud, sustained calling voice, high in 
pitch, as clear and ringing as possible. No better practice 
can be found for toning the voice or improving its quality. 
See, however, that it is given in the Simple Pure or Oro- 

In the 1 6th exercise (page 59) read each line in quota- 
tions as directed in the line following, all in the calling 
voice, with imitative modulation. Prolong the final syl- 
lable of each, and let it seem to die away in the distance. 

Read exercises 17 and 18 in a simple conversational 
style, avoiding anything like a "reading tone." Give 
the full meaning, and study to be natural. 

Read exercise 24 on page 61 rapidly with high pitch, 
then repeat without a pause with lower pitch, repeat again 
and again, each time lowering the pitch ; then reverse the 
order, and continue until high pitch is again reached. 
This exercise may be varied by using low pitch at first, 
gradually changing to high and back again to low. Take 
breath only at the pauses, sustain the pitch throughout 
each repetition, and let the transition at the end be 



Articulation consists in a correct and distinct enun- 
ciation of the elementary sounds of the language. It will 
be found almost impossible to overestimate the value of 
a good articulation, and no pains should be spared by 
tiie student to perfect himself in this branch of the art. 
Though nowhere else will practice be found so dry and 
uninteresting, yet the results of a rigorous application will 
well repay the learner for the tediousness of the drill, and 
a proper enthusiasm will make even this pleasant and agree- 
able. Great care and patience are here required, but a 
fine voice and a perfect enunciation will be their own 

A dignified presence commands respect ; so does a 
refined articulation. The man or woman of culture is 
soonest recognized by the voice and manner. No display 
of silks and diamonds can compensate for the absence of 
a pure tone and a pleasing articulation. This will not 
come of itself; it requires continued, repeated drill day 
after day until a correct habit is formed ; then it becomes 
second nature. 

The Organs of Articulation are the tongue, lips, 
fialate and teeth, forming the Lingual, Labial, Palatal and 
Dental sounds respectively. These organs, like valves, act 
either singly or together upon the stream of breath issuing 
from the larynx, and mould sound into speech. The mouth 
cavity and nasal cavity assist in modifying the tone of 
voice, giving it character and resonance. 

Sounds of the voice are divided into three classes, 
viz.. Vocal, Aspirate and Combined. Those which are 
not interrupted by the articulate organs are of the first 
class. These are the vowel sounds. They may be whis- 
pered, yet their characteristic is vocality. They are pro- 
duced wholly in the larynx, and vocal culture should give 
them a chest resonance, deepening their tone and adding 
to their dignity and character. 

Those of the second class. Aspirate Sounds, have no 
tone or vocality — they consist of breath only, modified 



by the organs of articulation. If is a. pure aspirate, it 
being an uninterrupted flow of breath. J'' is an impure 
aspirate, labio-dental, because it is breath acted upon by 
the teeth and lips. 

The third class, Combined Sounds, consist of tone modi- 
fied by the organs of articulation, as the sound of b in boy, 
gvs\ go. They differ from the Impure Aspirates in being 
voice or tone, instead of breath. 

Cognates are those sounds which occur in pairs, one 
vocalized and the other not, but both having the same 
articulate modification. As breath is the foundation of 
all voice, let us take the Pure Aspirate h as the simplest 
sound, though having no tone or vocality. This is made 
by a single forcibly expelled breath. If the same breath be 
modified by the lips, it becomes the labial// if vocalized, 
the labial b, a cognate of/. If modified by the teeth, we 
have the dental /, or if vocalized, its dental cognate d. 
Wheri modified by the palate, we have the palatal cog- 
nates k and g. A modification by the tongue gives the 
lingual /without a cognate. Both tongue and teeth give 
the labio dental cognates th (as in thiti) and th (as in 
they). With lips and teeth we obtain the labio-dental 
cognates /'and v. Thus we can examine the formation of 
every Aspirate and Combined sound, as they all consist 
of breath or voice, acted on by the organs of articulation. 

organical table of consonant sounds, 
(showing cognates.) 





p, wh. 

b, w. 





t, ch, s, sh. 

d, j, z, zh. 


i, r. 









The Elementary Sounds of the English language 
are treated in this work as forty-six in number. (See page 
21.) Authors differ much in regard to them, many, with 
Kerl, claiming the number to be forty-three. Shoemaker 
claims 46; Covell, 41 ; Greene, 40; Comstock, 38; Mur- 
ray, 37; Brown, 36; Kirkham,35; Frobisher, 33 ; BoUes, 
29; Sheridan and Jones, 28. This work chooses to con- 
sider four vowels Coalescenis or Inseparables , viz., a as in 
air, tf as in fern, <? as in orb, and « as in urn. It is also 
believed that A is a Sound, though unmodified ; that wh 
should be considered a single aspirate sound, the cognate 
of a/, and not the sound of A followed by that oiw. This 
gives/rafAVt7//>' forty-six sounds; but theoretically^^ should 
consider the following as diphthongal sounds, though they 
are so closely bound together as to entitle them to rJ>nk as 
jingle sounds ; 


Long a = a ■\- long e. 
Long i = Italian a -|- short i. 
Long 0=0-)- long 00. 
Long tt = short i -j- long 00. 

01 ^ short -|- short i. 

oa = short o -j- long 00. 

This arrangement gives us forty theoretical simple 
sounds. The second sound of long a and o, as above, 
is called the vanish. It is light and delicate, always 
heard in graceful pronunciation. 


I. Vocal. 

1. Simple. 

a. Long: a, a, e, 00, 

b. Short : a, a, i, I, 6, u, do. 

2. Diphthongal: a, i, 5, a, oi, ou. 

3. Coalescents : a, e, o, u. 
II. Aspirates. 

I. Pure : h. 

{( Explodents ; k, p, t, ch, wh. 
2. Impure. < ff, s, sh,'th. 
( Continuants : J 
(1, m, n, r, v, z, zh, th, ng. 
Suppressives : b, d, g, j, w, y. 


The Trilled "R." — Some diversity of opinion exists 
in regard to the "trilled R." Like a tasty flourish ir, 
penmanship, it often a<lds much to the rendering of a 
passage; but, like tlie flourish, it may be misplaced. I' 
is borrowed from the Continental languages, and, though 
foreign, cannot properly be regarded as a mark of affecta- 
tion. Yet it should be used sparingly, seldom or never 
in the most serious discourse. In light description and 
imitative modulation it may be employed, taking care, 
however, that it is never used unless immediately followed 
by a vowel sound. 

Transition and Repetition. — Practice in articula- 
tion should be directed specially to those exercises in 
which transitions or repetitions of the same sound occur, 
as these will be quite difficult of mastery. See that both 
sounds are correctly and distinctly given, and that £'n» 
organs of speech pass rapidly from one to the other 


S, sh. Thij j/;ip. 

s, y. I shall ra\ss ^14. 

s, z. Lejj ceal. 

sli, z. Yttsh zeph5'rs. 

St, s. Sweetej/ fong. 

St, sh. Largej/j^>p. 

z, sh. ) . 
' y Ks jure a; ^u go 


1. S, s. Fabe jounds. 

sh, sh. Huj^, C^ar'.otte! 

/, z. Ks zealous. 

st, si. Severej/ storais,. 

2. Eight great gray geese grazing gai?y into Greece. 

3. A storm ariseth on the sea. A nno>lel vessel is straggling amidst 
the war of the elements, quivering and shivering, shrinking and bat- 
tling like a thinking being. The merciless, racking whirlwinds, like 
frightful fiends, howl and moan, and send sharp, shrill shrieks 
through the creaking cordage, snapping; the sheets and masts. The 
sturdy sailors stand to their tasks, and weather the severest storm of 
the seasoi*. — Practical Elocution. 

4. He spoke reasonably, philosophically, disinterestedly, and yet 


particularly, of the unceremoniousness of their communicabilitv, ami 
peremptorily, authoritatively, unhesitatingly declareil it to be wholly 
inexplicable. — Practical Elocution. 

5. A day or two ago, during a lull in business, two little boot- 
blacks, one white and one black, were standing at the corners doing 
nothing, when the white bootblack agreed to black the black boot- 
black's boots. The black bootblack was of course willing to have his 
boots blacked by his fellow bootblack, and the bootblack who hnd 
agreed to black the black bootblack's boots went to work. 

When the bootblack had blacked one of the black bootblack's boots 
till it shone in a mannel' that would make any bootblack proud, ihis 
bootblack who had agreed to black the black bootblack's boots refused 
to black the other boot of the black bootblack until the black boot- 
black, who had consented to have the white bootblack black his boots, 
should add five cents to the amount the white bootblack had made 
blacking other men's boots. This the bootblack whose boot had been 
Macked refused to do, saying it was good enough fir a black boot- 
black to have one boot blacked, and he didn't care whether the boot 
that the white bootblack hadn't blacked was blacked or not. 

This made the bootblack who had blacked the bl.\ck bootblack's 
boot as angry as a bootblack often gets, and he vented his black wrath 
by spitting upon the blacked boot of the binck bootblack. This roused 
the latent passions of the black bootblack, and he proceeded to boot 
the white bootblack with the boot which the -white bootblack had 
blacked. A fight ensued, in which the white bootblack who had 
refused to black the unblacked boot of the black bootblack blacked 
the black bootblack's visionary organ, and in which the black boot- 
black wore all the blacking off his blacked boots in booting the white 

Phonetic Spelling. — As literal spelling consists in 
separating a word into the letters contained in it, pho- 
netic spelling is the process of analyzing it with reference 
to the sounds of which it is composed. Each letter in a 
word may or may not represent a sound. Man contains 
three letters and three sounds; than, four letters and three 
sounds; //(J.^'aif, six letters and four sounds; ^-ijze/, three 
letters and '.wt founds; though, six letters and two sounds ; 
owe, three letters >.nd one sound. By studying the table 
of elementary sounds on pages 21 and 22, it can easily be 
determined which of them unite to form diphthongs; these 
are considered in phonetic spelling as single elements. To 
spell phonically, three processes are required, viz. : ist. 
Pronounce the word correctly and distinctly. 2d. Give 
its several sounds (not letters) in their order, pronounc- 
ing syllables. 3d. Pronounce the word. K\\ silent letters 


are to be disregarded, as the sounds only are to be pro- 
nounced. Thus: "Plough. F-l-ou. Plough." "Day. 
D-a. Day." 

As the coalescents a, e, o, and u are always accompanied 
by r, it is advised that they be not separated in spelling, 
thus: "Dare. Dar. Dare." A letter often has the 
sound of another letter ; this is called an equivalent or a 
substituted sound, as in deign, which would be spelled thus: 
"Deign. D-a-n. Deign." At first it would be well to 
prolong the words to great length, that the elements may 
be the more readily distinguished. 

Phonetic spelling affords excellent practice for the vocal 
organs. It teaches correct pronounciation and accuracy 
in speech. The exercise should always be accompanied 
by much energy and a good tone of voice. 

Pronunciation. — The subject of Pronunciation should 
receive special attention by the learner, as a good voice 
and a distinct articulation tend to magnify any defect in 
utterance. He should have constantly at hand a good 
dictionary, either Webster's or Worcester's (one is pro- 
bably as good as the other, both receiving the sanction of 
educated speakers), and refer to it frequently. Read 
carefully the introductory portion, Principles of Pronun- 
ciation, etc., and let it be your standard of speech. You 
will find therein many words marked with a pronunciation 
different from that given by good speakers near you; but 
bear in mind the fact that the marking there given is 
always in accord with the usage of our best literati, and it 
should be preferred to local usage. 

It may here be mentioned that there is hardly a book 
the perusal of which will so well repay you for the time 
devoted to its study as a good English dictionary. It is 
an excellent plan to keep a pre perly-marked list of those 
words that you cannot pronounce with certainty, adding 
to it as you meet new words. 


Class I. The following words require short a, as in at: Arrow, 
barrow, farrow, harrow, marrow, narrow, sparrow, fallow, wheel- 
barrow, etc. 


Class 2. The following should have Italian a, as ir arm: Ha, 
balm, calm, palm, psalm; calf, half; wrath; a\mt; laugh; launch; 
mustache, etc. 

Class _f. The following and similar words should not be pro- 
nounced with short a nor Italian a: Staff, quaff; craft, draft; mass, 
pass; fast, last; ask, task; asp, ciasp; di.nce, glance; chant, plant, etc. 

Class 4. Coalescent e should not be pronounced like coalescent u. 
Examples: Earn, verge, verse, mercy, prefer, etc. 

Class J'. The following should have short (as in odd, not) : On, 
gone, dog, off, often, soft, long, song, strong, throng, coral, orange, 
foreign, torrid, coronet, corridor, correlate) frontispiece, etc. 

Class 6. for nt) should never Le pronounced like Ion-:; 00 unless 
preceded by the sound of r, cli, sh or zh. Examples : Dew, duty, 
duel, gewgaw, juice, lut ■, new, sue, Ilmii.', whew, etc. It should be 00 
in the following: Rude, bnuc, frui^ chew, chute (pronounced shoot), 
chusite, sure, azure, etc. [ Note. — AMicn u or ew is not preceded by 
the sound of r, ch, sh or zli, it has the regular sound of u, which is 
that'Of short i and long 00 pronounced as closely together as possible. 
Thus : Cube is correctly pronounced kyoob, not kewb nor koob.'\ 

Class 7. The following liave the accent on the last syllable : Dis- 
course (noun and verb), retc--^, research, re'.o-.i je, romance, address 
(noun and verb), ally (m im and verb), Loi.tuur, finance, routine, 
canine, robust, occult, verbose, etc. 

Class 8. A,you, the, that, for, from, e.\.:.,t^V?- an obscure vowel 
sound (nearly like short u, as in run) vi'hen they occur as unemphatic 
words in a seriterj^. The before a vowel ;:und, however, takes the 
sound of short i. 


An Indian, attracted by the aroma of the coffee and the broth, 
arising from the bivouac and moving down the path, met a bombastic 
bravo w'lo was troubled with bronchitis. The Indian, bein;:; in ui ,ha- 
biUe, was treated with d'sdain by this blac'-'^uard, who called him a 
dog and bade him with much vehemence and contumely to leave his 
domain, or he would demon :.:;;e with his carbine the use of a cofrm 
and a cemetery. The calmly surveyed the dimensions of his 
.European antagonist and opponent, and, bein^ ;.i_»acious and robust, 
and h.wing all the corabativeness of a combatant, shot this ruffian in 
the abdomen with an arrow. 

Ayo'jng patriot with a black mustache, coming from t'le museum, 
lauj-hM^'jiy said, "l'r.-",'o! ym; rhoiild be nationally j_'\ .n.ku \>y 
reoe:. Iml; the right of franchise, fjr I wit^e■"^.cd the al'er'--,t'oi'. »nd 
the evidence is irrefragable and indisputable that you ha»e -em» "-J 
a nauseous reptile." 


1 now make this inquiry : Will not the matrons in this country and 
the patrons of our schools inaugurate some system that will give sn 
impetus to the interesting study of our language ? If half the leisuii; 
moments were thus spent, in lieu of reading some despicable romance, 
we should be wiser than we are. 

Foreign Pronunciation. — In reading, foreign words 
are often found which are utterly unpronounceable to one 
not having at least an elementary knowledge of the lan- 
guage to which they belong. To pronounce such words 
according to English rules would in many cases be allow- 
able; but this could not apply to G«7^/,4(f and similar names. 
Clearly, the only correct way is to approach as nearly as 
possible to the native pronounciation, except in words and 
names thoroughly anglicized. To pronounce Paris Parte 
would be pedantry. 

For the benefit of those who may not have the advan- 
tage of a knowledge of the principal languages of Europe, 
it is thought best to insert here, for reference, short tables 
of pronounciation, which cannot fail to be of service to 
the student. 


I. Vowels. 

Long a as in arm. Short a as in et. 

Long e as in ale. Short e as in enA. 

Ix)ng i or y as in ^ve. Short i or y as in ft. 
Long u as in oozt, 

n. Diphthongs. 

Ae, or 5, like English a or short e. 

at, ay, like English e. 

au, like English ow. 

ti, ey, like English a (with vanish.) 

ee, or 6 (German o), formed by sounding long a with lips in position 

for long 0. 
ut, or U (French or German k), formed by sounding long e with lips 

placed for long oo. 

III. Consonants. 

C, hard before a, o, or «. 

r, rolled, or trilled. 

J (between vowels), usually like English t. 

w, often like v (not dental). 

ih, like t. 


Latin. (Roman Pronunciation.) 

Ae, like English i. 
oe, like English oy, 
ui, like English we. 
}, like English J/. 
7J, like English w. 

n, like English ng (before palatals). 
is, like English /J. 
ch, like English k. 
ph, like English/. 
<-5nd^, always hard. 
s, always sharp. 

Latin. (Modern PRONUNciATioN.y 

Ae and oe, like English ee. 

au, like English aw, 

eu, like English ew. 

ei and ui^ like English eye. 

es and ot (final) like English eez and nf. 

ch, like English ^. 

c and^, soft before e, i,y, ae, oe, eu. 

Vowels, same as in English. 

No silent letters. 


Ei, ey, like English i. 
eu, all, like English oi. 
ie, like English e. 
b (at end of word) like English/. 
d (at end of word) like English /. 
c (before e, i, or y) like English ti. 
j, like English J. 
sch, like English sh. 
w, like English v (not dental). 
z, like English ts. 
ch, guttural. 
g, always hard. 

Ai, ay, like English a. 
au, eau, like English o. 
i (final), like English e. 
ie (at end of word), like English *. 
oi, like English wah. 
ou, like English oo (long). 
e, often silent. 
eu, like German S. 
u, French or German ii. 


ch, like English sh (except in Greek derivations). 

^(t'^f°'"<='''''°'"-'' I like English c//. 

gu (before e or i), like Englis'^ f (hard). 

// (preceded by i)\ like English j/ (formerly Sp. //). 

qu (before vowel), like English k. 

gn, like Spanish n. 

k, scarcely pronounced. 

'" I (at end of a syllable), nasal. 


/(final), like English ,e. 

b (between vowels), lite Englibh v (not dental). 

^ {e or i following) | j.^^ English th (as in thin). 

ch (Catalan dialect), like English k. 

d (between vowels) 1 ,;, j, j;^,^ ^^ ^^^ ;„ ^^^^ 

a? (at end of word) / & \ J- 1 

g (before e,i or y ,^ 

j \ like English /; (strongly aspirated) 

gu (before e or /), like English^ (hard). 

qu (before e or i), like English li. 

/;, scarcely pronounced. 

/, nearly like d. 

//, in two syllables, as villa {veel-ya), 

a, in two syllables, as canon (can-yon). 


/(final), like English »•.■. 

c (before e and z), like English ch. 

ch, like English k. 

g (before e, i or y), like English /. 

gh, like English^ (hard). 

y, like English J)'. 

sc (before e or i), like English sh. 

sch (before e or i), like English sk. 

z, like English dz. 

zz, like English is. 

h, scarcely pronounced. 

gl (followed by i), like Spanish //. 

gn, like Spanish fl. 


Modulation concerns the proper managemenl of th* 
voice in speech, and treats of those changes that should 


be msde in it to best express the sentiment. When per- 
fectly at our ease we use I'^e unemotional language of 
simple conversation. Wht'i -c are influenced by feelings 
of adoration or sublimity, we use tlie same form of 
speech, but the language bi.i omes grander, the tones 
more full and round; we tl-, , use the Orotund. When 
greatly agitated by intense en; tions of the mind, such as 
lerror, anger, etc., we lose the perfect control of our 
voices, the tension of the vocal cords is increased or 
relaxed, and we use the aspirated harsh, cold, steely tones 
designated Tmpilie Quality. Were we to represent the 
Simple Pure voice on paper, it might be done with this 
STYLE of type, while the Orotund would require THIS 
STYLE, larger, but each letter of the same shape, as the 
Orotund is but a symmetrical enlargement of the Simple 
Pure. In the same mrnner, Impure Quality should be 
represented in distorted type, possibly by ITALIC CAP- 

The pur-? voicv, id used both in speech and song; in the 
former, however, we use speaking tones, and in the latter 
singing tones. The difference between music and speech 
lies in the manner of transition from one degree of pitch 
to another. In speech the movement is concrete, the voice 
continually sliding upward and downward, never remain- 
ing at one point of the scale except in the monotone. 
The singing voice passes from one pitch to another by a 
distinct step called discrete movement. Elocution re- 
quires a culture of the speaking voice, though the quality 
is improved by a cultivation of singing tones. Singing 
develops pure voice ; speaking improves the other quali- 
ties and the various modulations. Music is a succession 
of similar sounds following one another in a regular 
order, though each sound of itself may be unmusical. In 
Elocution, guard against the use of singing tones except 
in practice. 

As we have seen, the tones of voice are caused by the 
action of breath upon the vibrating vocal cords. The 
greater is the tension of these cords, the higher will be 
the pitch. In terror, they are strained to the utmoi-t, and 
the result is a high-pitched tone, or shriek. In despair 
and anger, the vocal cords are relaxed, and the result is 
the Pectoral quality, very low in pitch. 



1. lo. (As high as possible.) " Strike for the sires who left ytu 

free !" 

2. 9. (Extremely high.) " I repeat it, sir, let it come, let it 

come !'* 

3. 8. (Very high, spirited.) " Three millions of people armed 

in the holy cause of liberty." 

4. 7. (High.) " The sounding aisles of the dim woods rang." 

5. 6. (Rather high.) " With music I come from my balmy 


6. 5. [Middle. Firm, natural.) " A vision of beauty appeared 

on the clouds." 

7. 4. (Rather low.) " Friends, Romans, Countrymen !" 

8. 3. (Low. Modest.) "And this is the night! most glorious 


9. 2, (Very low. Sublime.) "Roll on, thou deep and dark 

blue ocean, — roll !" 

10. I: (As low as possible. Solemn.) "Eternity! thou pleasing, 
dreadful thought!" 

Note. — The above examples for practice in Pitch, as well as the 
exercise in Rate, on page 87, are taken from Frobisher's " Voice 
and Action." They are recommended as excellent for the purpose 
for which they are designed. 


The Past — where is it? It has fled! 

The Future ? It may never come. 
Our friends departed ? With the dead. 

Ourselves? Fast hastening to the tomb. 
What are earth's joys? The dews of morn. 

Its honors? Ocean's wreathing foam. 
Where's peace ? In trials meekly borne. 

And joy? In Heaven — the Christian's home. 

— Kidd's Elocution, 

The following extract will be found valuable for practice 
in Rate. It is from Henry Bateman's " Ship on Fire." 

. . , The bright sun 
Lights up the deep blue wave, and favoring breese 
Kills the white sails. . . 
#;.-e !— Fire ! —Fire !— Fire ! 


Scorching smoke in many a wreath, 

Sulphurous blast of heated air. 
Grim presentment of quick death. 

Crouching fear and stern despair, 
Hisr, to what the Master saith, — 

" Steady, steersman, steady there!" — Ayt ay I 

" To the mast-head!" — it is done, — 

" Look to leeward !" — scores obey, — 
" And to windward!" — many a one 

Turns, and never turns away; 
Steadfast is the word and tone, 

" Man the boats, and clear away l" — Ayt ayl 

Vhen it comes, — "A sail! a sail !" — 

Up from prostrate misery, 
Jp l^rom heart-break woe and wail. 

Up to shuddering ecstasy ; — 
■• Can so strange a promise fail ?" 

" Call the Master, let him see !" — Ay t ay J 

Silence ! Silence ! Silence ! — Pray I 

Every moment is an hour. 

Minutes long as weary years, 
While with concentrated power, 

Through the haze that clear eye peers,^ 
" No," — " Yes," — " No," — the strong men cower. 

Till he sighs, — faith conquering fears, — " Ay ! ay!" 

Pah ! — a rush of smothered light 

bursts the staggering ship asunder, — . 
Lightning flashes, fierce and bright,— 

Blasting sounds, as if of thunder, — ■ 
Dread destruction wins the fight 

Round about, above, and under. — Ay ! ay { 


1. 9. (As quick as possible.) " Quick as the lightning's flash 

that illumes the night." 

2. 8. (Very quick.) " Charge for the golden lilies, now, upon 

them with the lance !" 

3. 7. (Quick.) " Hurrah 1 the foes are moving!" 

4. 6. (Rather quick.) " Wild winds and mad waves drive tiie 

vessel a-wreck." 

5. 5. {^Medium Time.) "What stronger breast-plate than a 

heart untainted !" 


6. 4. (Rather slow.) " Slowly and sadly we laid him down." 

7. 3. (Slow.) " The bell strikes one! we take no note of time 

but from its l>ss." 

8. i:. (Very slow.) Which, like a wounded snake, drags its 

slow length along." 

9. I. (The slowest time.) " Slow tolls the village clock the 

drowsy hour." 

"Emphasis," it has been said, "is in speech what 
coloring is in painting. It admits of all possible degrees, 
and must, to indicate a particular degree of distinction, 
be more or less intense, according to the groundwork or 
current melody of the discourse." It consists of any 
peculiarity of utterance which will call special attention 
to a particular word or words in a sentence. Thus it will 
be seen that emphasis may be of force, stress, quality, 
pitch, or rate. 

I. Emphasis of Force. 

Study to show thyself a man I 

II. Of Stress. 

1. Initial: Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts ! 

Dash him to pieces' 

2. Median : What a piece of work is 7nan f 

How noble in reason ! how infinite in faculties ! 
Infortn and movinghovj express and admirable ! 
In action how like an angel! In apprehension how 
like agoil! 

3. Filial: Ye gods, it doth amaze me ! 

A man of such a. feeble temper should 
So get the start of the majestic world, 
And bear the palm alone I 

4. Compound: Arm! Arm! ye heavens, against these per- 

jured kings! 

5. Thorough : I ask, why not " traitor" unqualified by an 

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. 

III. Of Quality. 

I. Aspirate: A lowly knee to earth he bent; his father's 
hand he took. 
IVAat was there in its touch that all hisjiery spirit shook f 


3. Pectoral : You souls of geese. 

That bear the shapes of men, how have you run 
From slaves that apes would beat ! Pluto and hell ! 
All hurt behind; backs redxad. faces pale 
Vf\t\ijiight and agued fear I Mend, and charge home. 
Or, by \.\\i fires oi heaven, I'll leave the foe 
And make my wars on you : look to't. Co .le on ! 

3. Guttural: Thou stands't at length before mt, undisguised, 
Of all earth's groveling crew the most accursed. 
Thou worm I thou viper t to thy native earth 
Return I Away I Thou art too base for man 
To tread flpon. Thou scum I thou reptile I 

IV. Of Pitch. 

1. high: They strike / hurrah ! the fo.t has surrendered f 

iyhotit I shout I my warrior boy. 

And wave your cap, and clap your hands for joy ! 

2. low: The flag of the old Revolution 

Swear firmly to serve and uphold, 
That no treasonous breath of pollution 
Shall tarnish one star of its fold. 
And hark, tlie deep voices replying. 
From the graves where your fathers are lying, 
Swear, O Swear I 

V. Of Rate. 

1 . Slow : Then answers he, " Ah, Hal, Til try ; 
But in my throat there's something chokes." 

2. past: He looked across the grassy lea, 
To right, to left, " Ho, Enderby !" 
They rang " The Brides of Enderby." 

Note. — Many of the above exercises are selected from HamiWs 

No definite rule can be given for the use of emphasis. 
Tt is so subtile, its shadings so delicate, that it can never 
lie cabled to inflexible rules. But in general we should 
emphasize — 

1. Words, phrases or clauses that are particularly significant. 

2. Words, phrases or clauses that contrast. 

3. Anything repeated iot Xhe sake of emphasis. 

4. A succession of ol)jcc!s or ideas. 


Word Individuality, Expressive Intonation, Imita- 
tive Modulation and Sound to Sense are terms used to 
express the act of playing upon \vords, sounding the 
syllables, or intoning the vowel in such a way as to more 
fully bring out the meaning of the word by its sound. 
(See page 42.) The stroke upon the vowel resembles 
that given the notes of a piano. 

Practice the following words, intonating so as to best 
bring out the meaning : Rich, poor, little, great, brisk, 
smooth, rough, noble, large, broad, beast, dove, round, 
massive, strength, brilliant, sublime, powerful, grasping, 
glory, terrible, whirlwind, dazzling, gold, silver, joyous, 
slowly, victory, ragged, meekly, lordly, sparkling, glitter- 
ing, bursting, repose. 

Also practice selections on pages 127, 146, 160, 172, 
179, 191, 234, 240, 250, 272, 281, and 340. 

The following was given during the reign of Charles II. : 


1. .Sy (Latin sto) denotes firmness or strength. Examples: Stand, 

stay, staff, stop, stout, steady, stake, stamp, etc. 

2. Str — ■ indicates violent force or energy. Examples: Strive, 

stress, strength, stripe, etc. 

^. Thr — implies forcible motion. Examples: Throw, throb, 
Ihnist, threaten, thraldom, thrill, etc. 

4. Gl — indicates smoothness or silent motion. Examples : Glib, 

glide, glow, etc. 

5. \Vr — denotes obliquity or distortion. Examples : Wry, wrest, 

wrestle, wrangle, wring, wrong, wrath, etc. 

6. Sw — implies silent agitation or lateral motion ; as sway, sweep, 

swerve, swing, swim, etc. 

7. SI — den tes gentle fall or less obsfciyable motion. Sly, slide, 

slip, slit, slow, slack, sling, etc. 

8. Sp — indicates dissipation or expansion. Spread, sprout, sprinVl?, 

split, spill, spring, etc. 

9. — ash indicates something acting niml>ly and sliarply. Cra.«h, 

dash, rash, flashy lash, slash, spLish, etc. 


lo. — ush denotes something acting more obtusely and dully. Ciu'sh, 
brush, hush, gush, blush, etc. 

"The Engine," and the following extract from "When 
the Cows Come Home," will be found good for practice: 

When lilingle, klangle, klingle. 

Far down the dusty dingle. 

The cows are coming home ; 
Now sweet and clear, now faint and low. 
The airy tinklings come and go. 
Like chiniiligs from the far-off tower, 
Or patterings of an April shower 

That make the daisies grow ; 

Ko-ling, ko-lang, kolinglelingle. 

Far down the darkening dingle. 

The cows come slowly home. 

And old-time friends, and twilight plays. 
And starry nights and sunny days. 
Come trooping up the misty ways 
When the cow« come home. 

Through violet air we see the town. 
And the summer sun a-sliding down. 
And the maple in the hazel glade 
Throws down the path a longer shade. 
And the hills are growing brown; 
To-ring, torang, toringleringle. 
By threes and fours and single 
The cows come slowly home. 

The same sweet sound of worldless psalm, 
The same sweet June-day rest and calm, 
The same sweet smell of buds and balm. 
When the cows come home. 
With tinkle, tankle, tinkle. 
Through fern and periwinkle. 
The cows are coming home. 

THE ENGINE.— ^«o«. 

With a clang! 
With a clank and a clang ! 
With a clamor, a clank, and a clangl 
With clatter, and clamor, a clank, and a clang f 
With veins full of fire, and the artery steam. 
Roused to the pulse of a feverish dream ; 
With a gray plume trailing, fleecy and pale. 


Like mist-boats sailing to sea with the gale ; 
With the ring and the rattle of lever and wheel, 
And the blow and the battle of track and of steel; 
With the tremulous spring, like the launch of a winu 
From the condor's cliff, where the wild vines cling; 
An eagle of iron, with sinews of steel. 
And blow of a pinion like avalanche peal; 
With talons of flame and a blaze in the blood, 
I tunnel the mountain and compass the flood ; 
I startle the morning and shiver the noon; 
And splinter the cold, pale rays of the moon ; 
From pine and from granite to orange and palm. 
From storm of sleet fury to zephyrs of balm ; 
From Allegan summit to Michigan's wave, 
From tlie life of the East to the pioneer's grave, 
Dragging a train 

As a flying prisoner drags his chain ; 
Climbing the grade 

Panting and sullen, but undismayed. 
Then away to the prairie with antelope speed. 
Belling the forest and skimming the mead, 
Aw. iking the bear from its underground lair, 
And staitling the deer to a leap in the air; 
Breaking the Indian's solitude rest, 
Pu';hin2 the buffalo far to the west; 
Skirting the current with spur and with thong. 
Where the drain of the continent thunders along; 
Mixing and mingling the races of men. 
Bearing the A mo in advance of the Then ! 
Then ceasing the rattle of lever and wheel, 
And parting the battle of track and of steel. 
And ending, at last, the roll and the race. 
And checking the flight into gradual pace — 
With clatter, and clamor, a clank, and a clang ! 

With a clamor, a clank, and a clang! 

With a clank and a clank ! 

With a clang ! 

Analysis and Grouping. — In reading, it is necessary 
first to analyze the thought, to decide in the mind what 
portions are most prominent, and these should receive 
greatest emphasis. The subordinate thoughts should be 
properly grouped together and expressed in such a manner 
as will clearly show them to be subordinate. To use a 
figure of speech, let the more important parts of a sen- 
tence stand in the foreground, giving them intensest 
light; the auxiliary thoughts may repose in the shadows 
oi the background. 


In general, the subject, predicate, object and connec- 
tives of a sentence should receive emphatic force. Give 
the same degree of force to words having a close gram- 
matic connection, but separated from each other in the 
sentence. The intervening portions should be read 


Go PREACH to the coward, thou death-telling seer! 
Or, if gory CuUoden so dreadful appear, 
Draw, ddtard, around thy old wavering sight, 
This MANTLE, to cover the phantoms of fright. 

Transition is the art of changing easily, rapidly and 
completely from one modulation or form of voice to 
another; as from Simple Pure to Pectoral, Long Quantity 
to Short, High Pitch to Low, Gentle to Heavy, or Natu- 
ral to Explosive. It should be carefully practiced by 
advanced students, and, for this purpose, use the selec- 
tions on pages 129, 164, 236, 237, 244, 250, 274, and 341. 

The two following selections will be found admiraWe 
practice in Transition : 

EGO AND ECHO.— Jo/in G. Saxe. 

I asked of Echo, th' other day, 

(Whose words are few and often funny,) 

What to a novice she could say 

Of courtship, love, and matrimony. 
Quoth Echo, plainly — "Matter 0' money T' 

Whom should I marry ? — should it be 

A dashing damsel, gay and pert, 
A pattern of inconstancy ; 

Or selfish, mercenary flirt ? 

Quoth Echo, sharply — "Nary flirt!" 

What if, a-weary of the strife. 

That long has lured the dear deceiver, 
She promises to amend her life. 

And sin no more: Can I believe her? 

Quoth Echo, with decision — "Leave her J" 

But if some maiden with a heart 

On me should venture to bestow it. 
Pray, should I act the wiser part 

To take the treasure or forego it 7 

Quoth Echo, very promptly — "Go itP' 


But what if, seemingly afraid 

To bind her fate in Hymen's fetter, 
She vow she means to die a maid, 

In answer to my loving letter? 

Quoth Echo, rather coolly — "Let her !" 

What if, in spite of her disdain, 

I find my heart entwined about 
With Cupid's dear, delicious chain, 

So closely that I can't get out ? 

Quoth Echo, laughingly — " Get out !" 

But if some maid, with beauty blest, 

As pure and fair as Heaven can make her, 

Will share my labor and my rest 

Till envious Death shall overtake her ? 
Quoth Echo (sotto voce)—" Take her!" 


Call the walch ! call the watch ! 

"Hoi the itarbcard watch, ahoy 1" Have you heard 
How a noble ship so trim, like our own, my hearties, here. 
All scudding 'fore the gale, disappeared. 

Where yon southern billows roll o'er their bed so green and clearf 
Hold the reell keep her.full t hold the reel! 
How she flew athwart the spray, as, shipmates, we do now, 
Till her twice a hundred fearless hearts of steel 
Felt the whirlwind lift its waters aft, and plunge her downward bow ? 
Bear a hand ! 

Strike topgallants ! mind your helm I jump aloft ! 
'Twas such a night as this, my lads, a rakish bark was drowned, 
When demons foul, that whisper seamen oft. 
Scooped a tomb amid the flashing surge that never shall be found. 
Square the yards ! a double reeft Hark the blast! 
O, fiercely has it fallen on the war-ship of the brave. 
When the tempest fury stretched the stately mast 
All along her foamy sides, as they shouted on the wave, 
"Bear a hand!" 

Call the watch ! call the watch ! 
"Ho ! the larboard watch, ahoy /" Have you heard 
How a vessel, gay and taut, on the mountains of the sea. 
Went below, with all her warlike crew on board. 
They who battled for the happy, boys, and perished for the free ? 
Clew, clew up fore and aft ! keep away ! 

How the vulture bird of death, in its black and viewless form, 
Hovered sure o'er the clamors of his prey. 

While through all their dripping shrouds yelled the spirit of the storm ? 
Bear a hand! 


Now out reefs ! brae: the yards! lively there! 
O, no more to homeward breeze shall her swelling bosom spread, 
But love's expectant eye bid Despair 
Set her raven watch eternal o'er the wreck in -ocean's bed. 
Board your taclis ! cheerily, boys ! But for them, 
Their last evening gun is fired, their gales are overblown ; 
O'er their smoking deck no starry flag shall stream ; 
They'll sail no more, they'll fight no more, for their gallant ship's gone 

Bear a hand! 

Note. — In the above selection, "Ho! | the starboard | watch, [ 
ahoy!" and "Ho! | the larboard | watch, | ahoy!" should be given 
in a loud calling voice, with vowels sharply intonated, and with full 
falling slide on "ahoy!" On the line of command at the middle of 
each stanza and at the beginning of the second and fourth stanzas, the 
author would use falling slides on the first and second order, and sus- 
tained force on the third. 

Climax. — It has been previously stated in this work that 
a succession of objects or ideas should receive emphasis ; 
that is, each of the series should be made more emphatic 
than the one immediately preceding. This gives a con- 
stantly increasing emphatic scale. The extreme point of 
this scale is called the Climax. There the vocal efforts 
should reach their culmination, giving great strength to 
the sentence. 


1. Days, months, years and AGES shall circ!e away. 

2. Clarence has come ! {^Xse, fleeting, perjured Clarence I 

3. I tell you, though you, though all the world, though an Angel 

FROM heaven should declare the truth of it, I would not 
believe it. 

4. Let but the commons hear this testament, (which, pardon me, T 

do not mean to read,) 

And they [i] would go and kiss dead Caesar's woijjids. 
And [2] dip their napkins in his sacred blood; 
Yea, [3] beg a hair of him for memory. 
And, dying, mention it within their wills, 
Bequeathing it, as a rich legacy, 
Unto their issue. 

5. Add to your faith virtue, and to virtue knowledge ; and to knowl- 

edge temperance ; and to temperance patience ; and to patience 
godliness; and to godliness brotherly kindness; and to brotherly 
kindness charity. 


6. /.cl Ae:r Kst feeble and lingering glance ratlier behold the gor- 
geous ens'gn of the republic, now known and honored through- 
i/Ut t).e £aith, still full high advanced, its arms and trophies 
streaming in their original lustre, not a stripe erased or polluted, 
nor a single star obscured — bearing for its motto no such miser- 
erable interrogatory as. What is all this worth? Nor those 
other words of delusion and folly, liberty first, and union after- 
ward — but everywhere, spread all over in characters of living 
light, blazing on all its ample folds as they float over the sea 
and over the land, aiid in every wind under the whole heavens, 
that other sentiment dear to every true American heart — liberty 

Repose is the sublime emblem of infinite power. It 
Is reserve force that is immeasurable. He who by violent 
exertion shows that he has reached nis limit loses that 
greater conception that we may have formed regarding 
his powers. We know not the weakness ol' an invisible 
cable, because its length and size are not revealed to us. 
Man, by exhibiting the measure of his strength, proves 
that he is human ; God, by His reserve force, shows us 
that He is divine. Violence is not our hignest idea of 
power. We see a greater force in the slowly-moving 
volume of a Mississippi or an Amazon than in the giddy 
tumult of a St. Lawrence. 

Where climax is employed in speech, in order to 
convey the greatest possible idea of power it is necessary 
to mark the concluding portion of the sentence with that 
repose which indicates unlimited reserved strength. It 
has been well said that "The highest power is mastery, 
and the highest mastery is self-mastery, and of self-mas- 
tery repose is the emblem." 

Impersonation. — In impersonation, the reader or 
speaker puts himself in the place of another, using the 
tone and style required by the assumed character. This, 
however, should not be resorted to when the beauty or 
sublimity of thought contained in a passage would be 
weakened thereby, as an assumed form always detracts 
from the ideas by directing our attention to the manner. 
But there are many times when personation really adds 
to the beauty and effectiveness of the rendering. The 
judgment of the reader must decide when it should be 
employed and in what particular cases it may be omitted- 


When impersonating, the tone may be changed, as well 
as the general manner. A heavy or light voice, fast or 
slow rate, low or high pitch will often be a sufficient 

Old Age requires a feeble or cracked voice, higher 
pitch, slower rate, gentler force, a greater use of the in- 
flections, and an apparent toothlessness easily secured by 
retracting the lower jaw and drawing the under lip as far 
as possible over the teeth. 

Children's Voices are imitated by light force, many 
rising and falling slides, using great expression. Let the 
throat be contracted, that the voice may appear to be 
formed in the front part of the mouth. 

In imitating voices of the opposite sex, the reader should 
employ gentler or heavier force, as required. 

It will be readily seen that a skillful mimic will surpass 
all others in impersonation, but it must not be inferred 
that such only will make good elocutionists. It is not 
the highest phase of the art to excel in this particular 
branch, though excellence in this will provoke great 
popular applause. The true elocutionist should aim at 
something higher than mimicry. (See List of Imperso- 
nations, page 1 08. ) 

In Dialogue Reading several impersonated voices 
may occur, varying one from another by changes of force, 
pitch, rate or quality. As a general rule the direction of 
the eyes and head should change with each transition of 
character. Where only two speakers are represented the 
whole body may change position, but where several 
appear a slight change only is required. In representing 
two characters, the gaze is alternated left and right, but 
the descriptive portions (those not spoken by either of 
the characters) should always be given front. Let changes 
of position and of voice be sudden and decided, especi- 
ally so when one speaker is interrupted by another. 

Bible Reading is of a graver cast than ordinary read- 
ing, and it requires a somewhat different style in order to 
properly express the majesty and sublime grandeur of 


many of its passages. The Bible should never be read id 
a trifling, careless manner, but always with expression 
and solemnity. Its extreme importance demands a style 
suited to the correct rendition of its grand truths. With 
reverence should we approach the holy volume, and in a 
proper manner give expression to its inspired sentences. 

The following may be mentioned as among the be* 
examples for practice: Exodus xv., Psalms xxiii. ana 
xxiv. , Ecclesiastes xii., Isaiah xxxv. and iv., Matthew vi., 
26-34, I. Corinthians xv., and Revelation xxii. 


Elocution may be divided into two pares j that which is 
heard, and that which is seen. The former is called Voice; 
the latter. Gesture. Both are important and indispensable 
to its proper study. We speak {Elocutio, to speak out) by 
our words and by our manner. The manner may be so 
out of harmony that it entirely contradicts the words, and 
an idea is conveyed directly opposite to that intended. 

It is important, then, that we study manner as well as 
matter. A pleasing style of delivery adds much to the 
effectiveness of a production, and in this gesture plays 
an important part. It is absolutely essential to the per- 
fect success of vocal delivery that it be accompanied by a 
manner that will not provoke criticism, nor in any way 
draw the hearer's attention from the thought uttered. It 
should rather aid that thought by conveying to the eye 
what the voice sends to the ear. Gesture should always 
be an assistant, never a hindrance as it certainly is when 
not properly used. 

Those who naturally employ many gestures should learn 
how to correctly use them ; those who use but few should 
cultivate the use of more by making themselves familiar 
with the laws that govern intell'^^'ent gesticulation. 

Gesture forms a natural language, but no exact rules 
can be given for its practice, though we may consider the 
principles upon which it is based. (See pages 43-45.) 

The question arises, How much attention should we pay 
this subject? Certainly not as much as is given to the 
voice, for all will admit that it is of less importance. Few 


will agree as to its exact relative importance. Nationali- 
ties differ on this point as well as do individuals. People 
of Southern countries, as the French, Italians and Spanish, 
employ many more gestures than the less vivacious inhabi- 
tants of the North, such as the English, the Danes, Swedes 
and Esquimaux. 

The subject certainly should receive much attention, 
that we may accompany our voices with appropriate and 
pleasing gestures. Inappropriate gesticulation detracts 
much from the success of a speaker; study sx\A practice are 
required to overcome our natural deficiencies and secure a 
polished manner. 

Excellent practice is afforded by repeating the words 

" High I Low! Left! Eight!'' 

using the left hand on the third word and the right hand 
on the others. Also, count " One, two, three," etc., 
using free find graceful gestures on each word. 

Double Gestures have the same significance as single 
gestures. They are used for variety, and greater effect 
and force. In speaking, do not employ one hand exclu- 
sively, but occasionally use the other, to avoid sameness. 

Much value may be derived from the careful use of a 

Note. — In the following exercise the letters refer to the direction 
as given on patjes 43-45. All are to be given with supine hand unless 
otherwise designated. 


The wind is high — the window shakes ; 

Dbl. A.O. H.L. Pointing Right. 

With sudden start the miser wakes ! 
H.O. Vertical. H.O. 

Along the silent room he stalks; 

H.F.toO. . . . {^Gesture sustained.") 

Looks back and trembles as he walks ! 
Head and eyes left. Dbl. H, O. {tremor.) 


Lach lock, and ev'ry holt he tries, 
D.O. Pointing. D.L. Pointing. 

Tr. ev'ry crack and corner pries ; 
H.O.Lefi. . . H.O.Dbl. 

Then opes his chest with treasure stored, 
D.O. {Gesture of Illustration.) 

And stands in rapture o'er his hoard. 
Dbl. A.F, Vert, {forearm only.) 

But now with sudden qualms possessed, 
(Both hands to Right.) Dbl. H.L. Vertical. 

He wrings his hands — ^he beats his breast ; 
{Illustration.) {Illustration.) 

By conscience stung he wildly stares ; 

Illustration. { Over right shoulder^ 

nd thus his guilty soul declares : 

Hands crossed on breast. 

Had the aeep earth her stores confined, 
Dbl. D.O. 

This heart had known sweet peace of mind; 
Right hand on heart. Dbl. A. O. 

But virtues sold 1 Good gods, what price 
Dbl. D.O. Prone. Dbl. H.L. 

Can recompense the pangs of vice ? 

Dbl. D.O. Prone. 

O, bane o{ good I seducing cheat t 
Dbl. H.O. Prone 

Can man, weak man, thy power defeat? 
Same, but D. 

Gold banished honor from the mind, 
Dbl. H.L. Vtrt. 


And only left the name behind; 
DM. H.F. 

Gold sowed the world with ev'ry ill ; 
Dbl. H.L. 

Gold taught the murd'rer's sword to kill ; 

Hand raised to slrike, Dbl. D. O, Prone 

'Twas gold instructed coward hearts 

In treachery's more pernicious arts. 
D.B. Prone. 

Who can recount the mischief o'er? 
Dbl. H.O. 

Virtue resides on earth no more! 
Dbl. A. O. Dbl H.L. 


I. Conversation. — This is the simplest form of speech, 
and it is the most natural. In conversation we are our- 
selves, and we use no forced, unnatural style of utterance. 
Without previous study we speak those words that come 
most readily to the lips. It has been truly said that if 
we wish to know what we are, we have only to look at 
our speech and behold ourselves. 

Let us always endeavor in conversation to express (i) 
the best thoughts {2) in our best manner, (3) avoiding 
those subjects not of general interest to our listeners, (4) 
using the best language at command, and thereby eleva- 
ting our thought and our expression. 

II. Reading. — In conversation, our ideas are evolved 
fronj our own minds, clothed in our own words, and given 
forth in our own manner. In reading, the thought may 
be the same and the manner the same, though the phra- 
seology may differ. This difference of words, however, 
may be overcome by familiarizing ourselves with the pro- 


duction. But, in reading our own composition, we arc 
too liable to fall into a reading tone — an unnatural mode 
of expression. Tliis droning process causes the hearer to 
lose a large portion of the thought, which he would re- 
ceive were the reading inteiligent instead of mechanical. 
In emotional reading, he receives all the thought, and it 
is intensified in its conveyance to him. Emotional read- 
ing might be compared to the refraction of light through 
a lens; it is concentrated and rendered powerful. Me- 
chanical reading may be compared to light reflected from 
a mirror; a large percentage of it is lost in the process 
of reflection. 

Remember that the only office of the printed or written 
page in reading is to furnish you with the thought that 
you are to convey to others. Let your mind receive this; 
then express it, idea by idea (not word by word), in the 
same manner that you would if it were original with you. 

When you desire to read well, be sure to previously 
familiarize yourself with (a) the words, (b) arrangement 
of paragraphs, and (c) logical connection of all the 
thoughts contained in the piece of reading. 

Always hold your book or paper in such a way that you 
can readily take in the whole line at once. Allow the 
letters to be about fourteen inches from the eye, not 
directly below, nor horizontal with the eye, but half-way 
between these two positions. 

Look off the book as much as possible. 

in. Public Speaking. — This is conversation magni- 
fied. The same forms of voice are employed as in con- 
versation; the difference lies in a symm«?trical enlargement 
of the sentences. In this, do not dutcrt, but preserve the 
form in its simplicity, and yovt wili have it in its greatest 
purity and power. (See iUustrations of Quality on page 
85). Apply all rulias of elocution and rhetoric to your 
conversation, ard you wiii have the form best suited to 
public address. 

Alwai/s make a marked distinction between the conver- 
sa.tional (or explanatory) and the oratorical or dramatic 
Vortions. Studiously avoid everything like an oratorical 
style in simple description or narration. 

Never appear in public without thorough preparation. 


and be cure that this is succeeded by a period of rest, that 
you may be in your best condition. Tone the voice just 
before beginning your vocal effort. 

In your approach, do not appear hurried ; but let youi 
manner be graceful, and your bearing dignified. This 
will insure respect. Put yourself at your ease by a strong 
mental effort, and begin deliberately, gradually warming 
up with your subject. 

Never acquire the useless habit of drinking water during 
a vocal performance. As soon think of pausing in an 
address to eat as to drink ; there is as much propriety in 
one as in the other. Water will not supply the natural 
moisture of the vocal organs, and, if they are properly 
used, there is no necessity for artificial moistening. 

Pay special attention to the articulation, and let it 
always be distinct. Deliver the sounds sharply and cor- 
rectly, and your audience will appreciate your efforts, 
though they may not themselves know wherein lies the 
charm of the voice to which they listen. 


As shown in the foregoing pages, the principles and 
rules of elocut'->n find a practical application in every- 
day life. Ever> sentence we utter, every word we speak, 
every tone of the voice, and every gesture, is but the 
natural outgrowth of the principles of the science and 
its application to the true art of expression. These prin- 
ciples and rules, when understood, may be intelligently 
applied to all forms of conversation, of reading, and of 
public speaking. This, while including in its scope every 
rational human being, embraces many professions as a 
whole, of which may be cited as examples the following : 
Actors, teachers, lawyers, ministers, lecturers, etc. The 
majority of these require nothing in this line farther than 
a general knowledge of elocution as here presented, while 
others demand a slight modification of these rules, in the 
form of a special application, as is noticeably the case 
with the actor, who requires a system of elocution mate- 
rially different from that of the orator, though both systems 
are based on common principles and emDlov similar rules. 


We. (vill make but two applications in the scope of this 
work — Dramatic Action and 

Pulpit Elocution. — The pulpit affords the broadest, 
freest exercise of the powers of the orator. In no other 
position has a man so wide a range for the use of his 
oratorical talent. Every branch of knowledge is an avenue 
through which he may wend his way, explaining the beau- 
ties and mysteries of the pathway to the multitudes that 
follow. The world is his field ; the whole arcana of 
knowledge is waiting to furnish the materials with which 
he may sway the masses. Taking "all knowledge" for 
his " province," and laboring zealously in the great field 
of human progress, his power is limited only by the com- 
pass of his own humanity. His mission is a noble one — • 
his object, to save the world. 

The instrument by which he hopes to achieve good is 
the human voice. This he should so cultivate and train 
that it performs its duty perfectly, else it will prove a hin- 
drance instead of an assistant. His manner, too, can aid 
or detract from his efforts, and it is of the utmost import- 
ance that he understand all the laws of gesture. 

In short, he should have so good a knowledge 'of every 
branch of the art that he may be a perfect master of all his 
powers ; that every thought shall be sent ' ome with its full 
force ; that every intonation of his voice shall be rich with 
meaning ; that every gesture shall add to the convincing 
power of his argument, to the beauty of his description, 
the clearness of his narration, and the irresistible force of 
his logic. 

That this may be the case, it is absolutely necessary (i) 
that he have no unpleasant peculiarity of manner nor of 
pronounciation ; (2^ that he possess a dignity befitting his 
station, and that this be not lowered by jocular or com- 
monplace remarks while in the pulpit ; (3) that his voice 
and manner harmonize one with the other; (4) that he 
never betray a lack of self-mastery by allowing his voice 
to get beyond control, or by using such gestures as stamp- 
ing with the foot or striking the desk with the closed 
hand. These are noises, not 'oratory — sound, not sense. 

He will succeed best in his work who takes his position 
midway between inaction and dramatic action. He should 


not gesticulate too much nor too little ; but, above all else, 
lie should see that nothing in his verbiage, tone, enuncia- 
tion or gesture shall divert the attention of his audience 
from the sacredness of the subject and the occasion. He, 
of all men, should be a good, expressive reader, able to 
present the Scriptures in a manner worthy of their dignity, 
and to read the hymns with intelligence and force. (See 
Bible Reading, page 97.) 

A heavy, full, round tone of power carries with it a 
degree of conviction that no finely-rounded period of rhe- 
torical argument ever possessed. 

In conclusion, he should endeavor by all possible means 
to prove himself a man, that his words may receive char- 
acter from his daily example; and, specially, let him study 
his style of delivery, for thereon depends more of success 
or failure than he is aware. 


Dramatic action differs from oratory, though it employs 
the same vocal expression. The orator is always himself, 
in his best condition; the actor acts an assumed character, 
which would often not be consistent with the dignity of 
the orator. The actor is an imitator — an impersonator, 
and he may make sentiment subordinate to action. His 
office is to entertain rather than to instruct. He must 
study to sustain the character which he has assumed, and, 
in order to successfully accomplish this, it is necessary to 
lay aside as far as possible his individuality, and to assume 
as completely as possible the personality of another. He, 
unlike the orator, may be extravagant, affected, or pas- 
sionate, as required. He may have recourse to scenery 
and surroundings in order the mere fully to act his part, 
while the orator is compelled to resort entirely to his own 
powers. Hence, oratory is the higher, greater, more 
commendable art. 

In presenting these pages upon Dramatic Action, it is 
not the object of the author in any way to encourage a 
taste for pernicious or even questionable acting or theatre 
performance, but simply to apply the principles of elocu- 
*' ' \ to the stage, and to show wherei_n lies the dlfferenrf 


between the orator and the actor. In oratory, we may 
borrow certain gestures (termed Special Gestures) from 
the art of acting; hence, it is necessary for us to be in- 
formed as to the significance and proper method of using 
those gestures. 


In acting, the moderate siep may become a stride. 
Actors are permitted to move in a lateral direction, while 
the orator may only advance and recede from his audi- 
ence. The actor may also stamp, start or kneel. These 
demonstrations are forbidden the orator. 

The Trunk. — An erect position is the only one 
siutable to the dignity of the orator. In acting, grief 
depresses, and pride throws the body backward. 

The Head and Eyes. — The head is raised in arro- 
gance, inclined \\\ languor or indiffeience, and hung in 
sha Tie. The head may take the following positions : 
Inclined, Erect, Assenting, Denying, Shaking, Tossing, 

Considered in reference to the direction of the eyes, it 
may be Averted, Downward, Upward, Around, or on 

The Countenance may take the expression of anger, 
shame, contempt, pride, despair, terror, or any other 
violent passion. In oratory this is not admissible. 

The Hand m.iy take the following positions: Hollow, 
Holding ox Grasping (^ccoxd^mg to the degree of energy), 
Applied (palms together). Clasped, Crossed (upon the 
breast), Folded (fingers of right hand between the thumb 
and forefinger of the left). Inclosed (back of one within 
the palm of the other). Touching (points of thumb and 
fingers of each hand brought into light contact). Wringing 
(clasped, raised, lowered, and separated at wrists but 
without fingers disengaged). Enumerating (first finger of 
right hand laid successively upon first and other fingers 
Ok. ':he left. 


I'he Arms may be Folded {crosscA and enclosing each 
other), A-kimbo (one or both hands on hips, elbows ex- 
tended at one or both sides), Heposed {e\\)0-vi% nearly rest- 
ing on hips, one hand holding the wrist of the other — a 
female position). 


In designating the manner of motion. Gesture may be 
considered as Noting (the hand being drawn back and 
raised, then advanced and by a gentle stroke depressed), 
Projecting (arm thrust forward in the direction in which 
the hand may be pointing), .^f/rtrcZ/w^ (arm drawn back 
preparatory to Projecting or to avoid an object), Waving 
(fingers pointing downward, then the hand flung smartly 
upward), the Flourish (in which the hand describes a 
circle or part of a circle above the head), the Sweep (the 
hand making a curved movement, descending from the 
opposite shoulder and rising high above the head ; or the 
reverse, changing in the first case from the Supine to 
Vertical, and in the second from Vertical to Supine. 
Sometimes a Double Sweep is used, combining both move- 
ments). Beckoning (with whole hand or simply the fore- 
finger), depressing (the opposite of Beckoning), Advancing 
(the hand moved slowly forward and upward to the 
horizontal, the whole body aiding the action, and a step 
in advance being taken). Springing (the hand, having 
nearly arrived at the limit of the gesture, springs suddenly 
up to it by a quick movement of the wrist), Striking (hand 
and arm), Bending (preparation for Striking), Recoiling {a. 
return to position after striking). Throwing (arm flung 
outward in the direction of a person addressed). Clinching 
(clenched hand raised threateningly), Collecting (arm 
sweeps inward toward the body). Shaking (tremulous mo- 
tion given to arm and hand), Pressing (the hand being 
laid upon any part, the elbow is raised and the fingers 
contracted). Rejecting (vertical hand pushed toward the 
object, head averted). 

108 i.^LPS TO rz/iff STUDY. 

For convenient 'eference we append the following 


Jimmy Butler and the Owl J'"a'' ■ '60 

Bridget as a School-Teacher 17I' 

Orator Puff. 23O 

Irishwoman's Letter 25^ 

Mibs Malony on the Chinese Question 293 

Shanius O'Brien (Dignified Irish) 351 

A Day at Niagara 408 

Negro : 

Uncle Dan'l's Apparition 200 

Christmas Night in the Quarters 361 

Yankee : 

Laughing in Meeting 32.) 

Betsey and I are Out 355 

Spanish : 

The Spanish Duel 129 

Scotch : 

Charlie Machree 268 

John and Tibbie's Dispute 341 

Relief of Lucknow 345 

The Annuity 380 

fiemale : 

How Jamie Came Home tJi 

The Burning Ship 186 

Mother and Poet 261 

Charlie Machree (Scotch) 268 

Ifa/e and Female : 

The Modern Cain 124 

The Spanish Duel 129 

Maud Mullen. 152 

Curfew Must not Ring To-Night 155 

Alonzo and Imogine 164 

Bridget as a School-Teacher 176 

The Bridal Feast 207 

Kate Ketchem 228 

Mr. Fogg's Story 232 

Samuel Short's Success 242 

Maclaine's Child 283 

The Polish Boy 298 

Wreck of the Hesperus 307 

John and Tibbie's Dispute 341 

The Little Black-eyed Rebel 3S9 

r/ELFS 70 THE S7UD\. Jo;) 

Man, Woman, und Boy : 

Mona's Waters , /Wif I •?Q 

Man and Boy : 

Painter of Seville 167 


Nobody's Child ,^0 

Little Jim 239 

Annie and Willie's Prayer 253 

Wreck of the Hesperus , 307 

Katie Lee and Willie Gray oi5 

Old Age : 

The Model Church 265 

Waiting for the Children 317 

Granny's Trust 377 

Ffehlcness : 

Magdalena 120 

The Miner's Death 227 

Spectral : 

The Famine 142 

Alonzo and Imogine Ih4 

Charaeler : 

The Vagabonds 204 

The Revolutionary Rising 213 

Major Slott's Visitor 216 

The Rum Maniac 220 

The Gracious Answer 22^ 

The Miner's Death 227 

Orator Puff 230 

Old Times and New 244 

Order for a Picture 2^7 

Our Folks 2t)t. 

Horatius 295 

How He Saved St. Michael's 3°' 

Archie Dean 33° 

Independence Bell J.iS 

Betsey and I are Out 355 

On the Ice 36? 

Kentucky Belle 37^ 

The Demon Ship 375 

Dawn of Redemption i^i 

Saracen Brothers 3^4 

How " Ruby" Played 403 


Calling Voice: 

The High Tide Page . 117 

The Famine 142 

Burning of Chicago 146 

Attacli of the Cumberland 187 

The Three Bells 199 

Charcoal Man 212 

The Quiet Street . 237 

Charge of the Light Brigade 249 

John Maynard 270 

Arnold Winkeiried 274 

Evening at the Farm 281 

Ride of Collins Graves, ..,,,.,,,,,,,,, 378 

Vocal Exercises : 

Passing Away 127 

The Inquiry 172 

Belfry of Ghent 179 

Face Against the Pane 183 

Great Bell Roland 191 

The Three Bells 199 

Cataract of Lodore 234 

The Bells 240 

Creeds of the Bells 250 

Rock of Ages 264 

Bugle Song. ... , 272 

Tevtperance Selections : 

The Modern Cain ^ 124 

Apostrophe to Cold Water 159 

How Jamie Came Home. 173 

The Bridal Feast 207 

Cataract of Lodore 234 

Creeds of the Bells 250 

Nobody's Child 150 

Orator Puff. 236 

The Rum Maniac 220 

The Vagabonds 204 

The Harvest of Ruru , , , , 389 


Readings ATO Recitals 


' 'Tis not enough the voice be sound and clear; 
'Tis modulation that must charm the ear. 
When desperate heroines grieve with tedious moan 
And whine their soiiows in a see-saw tone, 
The same soft sounds of unimpassiontd woes 
Can only make the yawning hearers doze. 
The voice all modes of passion can express, 
'fiat marks the proper %\ord with proper stress. 
But none emphatic can that actor call, 
Who lays an equal emphasis on all, .... 
Some placid natures fill the allotted scene 
With lifeless drone, insipid, and serene ; 
While others thunder every couplet o'er. 
And almost crack your ears w ith rant and roar." 



Rrahings and "Recitals. 


fThis exquisite p(?etical gem sl.iuVl be given in the effusive form of 
voice, gentle force — as in a dreamy reverie. Play upon th» words, 
and bring ou' »heir full expression.] 

Alone I stand > 

On either hand 
[n gathering gloom stretch sea and Jand; 

Beneath my feet, 

With ceaseless beat, 
The waters murmur low and sweet. 

Slow falls the night : 

The tender light 
Of stars grows brighter and more bright. 

The lingering ray 

Of dying day 
Sinks deeper down and fades away. 

Now fast, now slow. 

The south winds blow. 
And softly whisper, breathing low ; 

With gentle grace 

They kiss my face. 
Or fold me in their cool embrace. 

Where one pale star. 

O'er waters far. 
Droops down to touch the harbor bar, 

A faint light gleams, 

A light that seems 
To grow and grow till nature teems 

With mellow haze ; 

And to my gaze 
Comes proudly rising, with its rays 

No longer dim. 

The moon ; its rim 
In splendor gilds the billowy brim. 


I watch it gain 

The heavenly plain; 
Behind it trails a starry train — 

While low and sweet 

The wavelets beat 
Their murmuring music at my feet. 

Fair night of June ! 

Yon silver moon 
Gleams pale and still. The tender tune. 

Faint-floating, plays, 

In moonlit lays, 
A melody of other days. 

'Tis sacred ground ; 

A peace profound 
Comes o'er my soul. I hear no sound. 

Save at my feet 

The ceaseless beat 
Of waters murmuring low and sweet. 

W. W. Ellsworth. 


[To be read with great intensity and expression; avoid monotony.J 

'Tis midnight's holy hour — and silence now 

Is brooding, like a gentle spirit, o'er 

The still and pulseless world. Hark! on the winds 

The bell's deep tones are swelling — 'tis the knell 

Of the departed year. No funeral train 

Is sweeping past ; yet, on the stream and wood. 

With melancholy light, the moonbeams rust 

Like a pale, spotless shroud ; the air is stirred 

As by a mourner's sigli ; and on yon cloud 

That floats so still and placidly through heaven. 

The spirits of the seasons seem to stand — 

Young Spring, bright Summer, Autumn's solemn form. 

And Winter with his aged locks — and breathe, 

In mournful cadences that come abroad 

Like the far wind-harp's wild and touching wail, 

A melancholy dirge o'er the dead year. 

Gone from the Earth forever. 


'Tis a time 
For iiicmury and for tears. Within the deep, 
Still chamber^ of the heart, a spectre dim, 
Whose tones are like the wizard voice of Time 
Heard from the tomb of ages, points its ti M 
And solemn finger to the beautiful 
And holy visions that have passed away, 
And left no shadow of their loveliness 
On the dead waste of life. That spectre lifts 
The cofiin-lid of Hope, and Joy, and Love, 
And, bending mournfully above the pale. 
Sweet form* that slumber there, scatters dead flowers 
O'er what has passed to nothingness. 

The year 
Has gone, and, with it, many a gloiious throng 
Of happy dreams. Its mark is on each brow, 
Its shadow in each heart. In its swift course. 
It waved its sceptre o'er the beautiful — 
And they are not. It laid its pallid hand 
Upon the strong man — and the haughty form 
Is fallen, and the flashing eye is dim. 
It trod the hall of revelry, where thronged 
The bright and joyous — and the tearful wail 
Of stricken ones is heard where erst the song 
And reckless shout resounded. 

It pass'id o'l. 
The battle-plain, where sword, and spear, and shield 
Flashed in the light of mid-day — and the strength 
Of .serried hosts is shivered, and the grass, 
' Green from the soil of carnage, waves above 
The crushed and moldering skeleton. It came, 
And faded like a wreath of mist at eve; 
Yet, ere it melted in the viewless air, 
It heralded its millions to their home 
In the dim land of dreams. 

Remorseless Time ! 
Fierce spirit of the glass and scythe ! — what power 
Can stay him in his silent course, or melt 
His iron heart to pity ? On, still on 
He presses, and forever. The proud bird. 
The condor of the Andes, that can soar 
Through heaven's unfathomable depths, or brave 
The fury of the northern hurricane, 
And bathe his plumage in the thunder's home. 
Furls his broad wings at nightfall, and sinks down 
To rest upon his mountain crag — but Time 
Knows not the weight of sleep or weariness. 
And night's deep darkness has no chain to bind 
His rushing pinions. 


Revolutions sweep 
O'er eartli, like troubled visions o'er the breast 
Of dreamini^ sorrow ; cities rise and sink 
Like bubbles on the water; fiery isles 
Spring blazing from the ocean, and go back 
To their mysterious caverns ; mountains rear 
To heaven their bald and blackened cliffs, and bow 
Their tall heads to the plain; new empires rise, 
Gathering the strength of hoary centuries, 
And rush down like the Alpine avalanche. 
Startling the nations — and the very stars, 
Yon bright and burning blazonry of God, 
emitter a while in their eternal depths, 
And, like the Pleiad, loveliest of their train, 
Slioot from their glorious spheres, and pass away 
To darkle in the trackless void : yet Time — 
Time, the tomb-builder, holds his fierce rarc-er, 
Hark, stern, all pitiless, and pauses not 
Amid the mighty wrecks that strew his path, 
To sit and muse, like other conquerors, 
Lpon the fearful ruin he has wrought. 

Georgk D. Prentice. 


[Employ a clear, pure, oxpressise voice and a distinct enunciation.] 

Oh, a wonderful stream is the river of Time, 

As it runs through the realm of tears. 
With a faultless rhythm and a musical rhyme. 
And a boundless sweep and a surge sublime. 

As it blends with the Ocean of Years. 

'iow the winters are drifting, like flakes of snow. 

And the summers, like buds between; 
And the year in the sheaf — so they come and they go 
On the river's breast, with its ebb and flow , 

As it glides in the shadow and sheen. 

There's a magical isle up the river of Time, 

^Vhere the softest of airs are playing; 
There's a cloudless sky and a tropical clime. 
And a song as sweet as a vesper chime, 

And the Junes with the roses are staying. 


And the name of that Isle is the Long Ago, 

And we bury our treasures there; 
There are brows of beauty and bosoms of snow — 
There are heaps of dust — but we loved them su !- 

There are trinkets and tresses of hair: 

There arc 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 th» garments that she used to wear. 

There are hands that are waved, when the fairy shore 

By the mirage is lifted in air; 
And we sometimes hear, through the turbulent roar 
Sweet voices we heard in the days gone before. 

When the wind down the river is fair. 

Oh, remembered for aye be the blessed Isle, 

All the day of our life till night — 
\Vhen the evening comes with its beautiful smile, 
^'Vnd our eyes are closing to slumber awhiK-, 

May that " Greenwood" of Soul be in sight ! 

B. F. Taylor. 


[All incident of Lincolnshire, 1571. The piece should be given in 
a natuial, descriptive tone, with a shade of sadness throughout. Pic- 
ture vividly the excitement of the scene, and use variety in the calling 

The old ma)or climbed the belfry tower. 

The ringers rang by two, by three; 
" Pull, if ye never pulled before ; 

Good ringers, pull your best." quoth he. 
" Play uppe, play uppe, O IJoslon bells ! 
Ply all your changes, all your swells, 

Play uppe ' The B-ides "f 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 where Lindis wanderelh. 
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. 
From the meads where melick groweth, 
Faintly came her milking song. 

"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha !" calling, 
" For the dews will soon be falling; 
Leave your meadow grasses mellow. 

Mellow, mellow ; 
Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow ; 
Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot; 
Quit the stalks of parsley hollow. 

Hollow, hollow ; 
Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow. 
From the cloveis lift your head ; 
Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot, 
Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow. 
Jetty, to the milking shed." 

If it be long, aye, long ago. 

When I Ijcginne to think howe long, 
Againe I hear the Lindis flow. 

Swift as an arrow, sharpe and strong; 
And all the aire it seemeth mee 
Bin full of floating bells (sayth shee), 
' riit^ tilt* lune of Eiulcrhy. 


Alle fresh the level pasture lay, 

And not a shadow mote be seene, 
Save where full fyve good miles away 

The steeple towered from out the greene; 
And lo ! the great liell farre and wide 
Was heard in all the country side 
That Saturday at eventide. 

Then some looked uppe into the sky, 

And all along where Lindis flows 
To where the goodly vessels lie, 

And whlre the lordly steeple shows. 
They sayde, " And why should this thing t 
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 Vviest 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 welliin 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 saith; 
" 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 pla\", 

Afar I heard her milking song." 
He looked across the grassy sea. 
To right, to left, " Ho Endeib)' 
They rang " The Brides of Enderby I" 


With that he cried and beat his breast 
For lo ! along the river's bed 

A mighty eagre reared his crest. 
And up the Lindis raging sped. 

]l 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 eagre's breast 

Flung uppe her weltering walls again. 
Then bankes came down with ruin and rout- 
Then beaten foam flew round about — 
Then all the mighty floods were out. 

So farre, so fast the eagre 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 sat 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 awesome bells they were to mee, 

That in the dark rang " Enderby." 

They rang the sailor lads to guide 

From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed j 

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 1 

O lost! my love, Elizabeth." 

And didst thou visit him no more ? 

Thou didst, thou did^t, 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. 


That flow strewed wrecks about the grass, 

That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea ; 
A ebbe and flow, alas! 

To manye more than myne and me : 
But each will mourn his own (she saiih). 
And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath 
1 han my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth. 

I shall nev:r 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 1" all along. 

Where the sunny Lindis floweth, 

Goeth, floweth ; 

From the meads where melick groweth. 

When 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; 
1 shall never hear her calling, 
" Leave your meadow grasses mellow. 

Mellow, mellow; 
Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow ; 
Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot; 
Quit your pipes of parsley hollow; 

Hollow, hollow ; 
Come uppe Lightfoot, rise and follow; 

Lightfoot, Whitefoot, 
From the clovers lift your head ; 
Come uppe Jetty, follow, follow, 
Jetty, to the milking shed." 

Jean Ingelow. 


["The fool hath said in his heart, there is no God."] 

Go out beneath the arched heavens at night, and say, if 
you can, "Ihereisno God!" Pronounce that dreadful 
blasphemy, and each star above you will reproach the 
unbroken darkness of your intellect; every voice that 


floats upon the night winds will bewail your utter hope- 
lessness and folly. 

Is there no God ? Who, then, unrolled the blue scroll, 
and threw upon its high frontispiece the legible gleamings 
of immortality ? Who fashioned this green earth, with its 
perpetual rolling waters, and its wide expanse of islands 
and of main ? Who settled the foundations of the moun- 
tains? Who paved the heavens w'th clouds, and attuned, 
amid the clamor of storms, the voice of thunders, and 
unchained the lightnings that flash in their gloom? 

Who gave to the eagle a safe eyrie where the tempests 
dwell, and beat the strongest, and to the dove a tranquil 
abode amid the forests that echo to the minstrelsy of her 
moan ? Who made thee, O man ! with thy perfected 
elegance of intellect and form? Who made the light 
pleasant to thee, and the darkness a covering, and a 
herald to the first gorgeous flashes of the morning? 

There is a God. All nature declares it in a language 
too plain to be misapprehended. The great truth is too 
legibly written over the face of the whole creation to be 
easily mistaken. Thou canst behold it in the tender blade 
just starting from the earth in the early spring, or in the 
sturdy oak that has withstood the blasts of fourscore win- 
ters. The purling rivulet, meandering through downy 
meads and verdant glens, and Niagara's tremendous tor- 
rent, leaping over its awful chasm, and rolling in majesty 
its broad sheet of waters onward to the ocean, unite in 
proclaiming — "There is a God." 

'Tis heard in the whispering breeze and in the howling 
storm; in the deep-toned thunder, and in the earthquake's 
shock; 'tis declared to us when the tempest lowers — when 
the hurricane stveeps over the land — when the winds moan 
around our dwellings, and die in sullen murmurs on the 
plain — when the heavens, overcast with blackness, ever 
and anon are illuminated by the lightning's glare. 

Nor is the truth less solemnly impressed on our minds 
in the universal hush and calm repose of nature, when all 
is still as the soft breathings of an infant's slumber. The 
vast ocean, when its broad expanse is whitened with foam, 
and when its heaving waves roll mountain on mountain 
high, or when the dark blue of heaven's vault is reflected 
with beauty on its smooth and tranquil bosom, confirms 


the declaration. The twinkling star, shedding its flicker- 
ing rays so far above the reach of human ken, and the 
glorious sun in the heavens — all — all declare, there is a 
universal First Cause. 

And Man, the proud lord of creation, so fearfully and 
wonderfully made — each joint in its corresponding socket — 
each muscle, tendon, and artery, performing their allotted 
functions with all the precision of the most perfect me- 
chanism — and, surpassing all, possessed of a soul capable 
of enjoying the uiost exquisite pleasure, or of enduring 
the most excruciating pain, which is endowed with im- 
mortal capacities, and is destined to live onward through 
the endless ages of eternity — these all unite in one general 
proclamation of the eternal truth — there is a Being, infinite 
in wisdom, who reigns over all, undivided and supreme — 
the Fountain of all life, Source of all light — from whom 
all blessings flow, and in whom all happiness centres. 


(^Dtucly variety and individual word expression.] 

Is there no God ? The white rose made reply, 
My ermine robe was woven in the sky. 
The blue-bird warbled from his shady bower, 
My plumage fell from hands that made the flower. 

Is there no God? The silvery ocean spray 
At the vile question startles in dismay; 
And, tossing mad against earth's impious clod, 
iTnpatient thunders — yes, there is a God ! 

Is there no God ? The greedy worm that raves 
In sportive glee amid the gloom of graves. 
Proves a Divinity supremely good. 
For daily morsels sent of flesh and blood. 

h there no God? The dying Christian's hand. 
Pale with disease, points to a belter land; 
And, ere his body mingles with the sod. 
He, sweetly smiling, softly murmurs — God. 


N.> God ! Wlio broke the shackles from the slave? 
Who gave this bleeding nation power to save 
Its Flag and Union in the hour of gloom. 
And lay rebellion's spirit in the tomb ? 

We publish God ! — The towering mountains cry. 
Jeliovnh's name is blazoned on the sky, 
Tlie dancing streamlet and the golden grain. 
The lightning gleam, the thunder, and the rain, 

The dew-drop diamond on the lily's breast. 
The tender leaf by every breeze caressed, 
The shell, vvliose pearly bosom ocean laves, 
And sea weed bowing to a troop of waves; 

The glow of Venus and the glare of Mars, 

The tranquil beauty of the lesser stars; 

The eagle, soaring in majestic flight. 

The morning bursting from the clouds of night. 

The child's fond prattle and the mother's prayer. 
Angelic voices floating on the air, 
Mind, heart, and soul, the ever-restless breath. 
And all the myriad-mysteries of death. 

Beware ye doubting, disbelieving throng. 
Whose sole ambition is to favor wrong ; 
There is a God ; remember while ye can, 
" His Spirit will not always strive with man." 

N. K. Richardson 


[Oi^portunity is here afforded for great variety in expression, froiv, 
pathetic to vehement, many passages requiring great intensity of feel- 
ing and utterance.] 

" Am I my brother's keeper ?" 

Long ago. 
When first the human heart-strings felt the touck 
Of Death's cold fingers — when upon the eailh 
-Shroudless and coffinless Death's first-born lay, 
Slain by the hand cf violence, the wail 


Of human grief arose — " My son, my son ! 
Awake thee from this strange and awful sleep; 
A mother mourns thee, and her tears of grief 
Are falling on thy pale, unconscious brow : 
Awake and bless her with thy wonted smile." 

In vain, in vain ! that sleeper never woke. 
His murderer fled, but on his brow was fixed 
A stain which baffled wear and washing. As he fled, 
A voice pursued him to the wilderness : 
" Where is thy brother, Cain ?" 

" Am I my brother's keeper?" 

O, black impiety that seeks to shun 

The dire responsibility of sin — 

That cries with the ever warning voice: 

" Be still — away, the crime is not my own — 

My brother lived — is dead, when, where. 

Or how, it matters not, but he is dead. 

Why judge the living for the dead one's fall? 

" Am I my brother's keeper ?" 

Cain, Cain, 

Thou art thy brother's keeper, and his blood 

Cries up to heaven against thee : every stone 

Will find a tongue to curse thee, and the winds 

Will ever wail this question in thy : 

" Where is thy brother?" Every sight and sound 

Will mind thee of the lost. 

I saw a man 
Deal Death unto his brother. Drop by drop 
The poison was distilled for cursed gold ; 
And in the wine cup's ruddy glow sat Death, 
Invisible to that poor trembling slave. 
He seized the cup, he drank the poison down. 
Rushed forth into the streets — home had he none — 
Staggered and fell and miserably died. 
They buried him — ah ! little recks it where 
His bloated form was given to the woiin^. 
No stone marked that neglected, lonely spot; 
No mourner sorrowing at evening came 
To pray by that unhallowed mound ; no hand 
Planted sweet flowers above his place of rest. 
Years pa.ssed, and weeds and tangled briers grew 
Above that sunken grave, and men forg»t 
Who slept there. 


Once had he friends, 
A happy home was his, and love was his. 
Ills Mary loved him, and around him played 
His smiling children. O, a dream of joy 
Were lliose unclouded years, and, more than all, 
He had an interest in the world above. 
The big 'Old Bible' lay upon the stand. 
And he was wont to read its sacred page 
And then to pray : " < >iir Father, bless the poor, 
And save the templed from the tempter's art; 
Save us from sin, and let us ever be 
United in thy love, and may we meet, 
When life's last scenes are o'er, around the throne.'' 
Thus prayed he — thus lived he — years passed. 
And o'er the sunuhine of that happy home 
A cloud came from the pit; the fatal bolt 
Fell from that cloud. The towering tree 
Was shivered by the lightning's vengeful stroke. 
And laid its coronil of glory low. 
A happy home was ruined ; want and woe 
I'iayed with his children, and the joy of youth 
Left their sweet faces no more to return. 
His Mary's face grew pale and paler still. 
Her eyes were dimmed with weeping, and her soul 
W^ent out through those blue portals. Mary died. 
And yet he wept not. At the demon's call 
He drowned his sorrow in the maddening bowl. 
And when they buried her from sight, he sank 
In drunken stupor by her new made grave ! 
His friend gone — he never had another. 
And the world shrank from him, all save one. 
And he still plied the bowl with deadly drugs 
And bade him drink, forget his God, and die! 

He died. 

Cain ! Cain ! where is thy brother nowl 
Lives he still — if dead, still where is he? 
Where? In heaven? Go read the sacred page ; 
" \o drunkard ever shall inherit there." 
Who sent him to the pit ? Who dragged him down ? 
Who bound him hand and foot? Who smiled and smiled 
While yet the hellish work went on ? Who grasped 
His gold — his health — his life — his hope — his all? 
Who saw his Mary fade and die ? Who saw 
His beggared children wandering in the streets? 
Speak — Coward — if thou hast a tongue, 
Tell why with hellish art you slew A MAN, 


" Where is my brother?" 

" Am I my brother's keeper ?" 

Ah, man ! A deeper mark is on your brow 
Than that of Cain. Accursed was the name 
Of him who slew a righteous man, whose soul 
Was ripe for heaven ; thrice accursed he 
Whose art maHijnant siiilis a soul to hell. 

E. Evws EDWJons. 


[Let the voice be as clear and silvery as possible, especially in the 

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, 
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 tliat 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 !" 

3ut, no; it was not a fairy's shell, 

lilown on the beach so mellow and clear : 
.\^or was it the tongue of a silver bell 

Striking the hour, 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 pendulum, 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, und 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 Ijlossoming clover. 
The rose yet lay on her cheek, but its flush 
Had something lost of its brilliant blush ; 

And the light in her eye, and the light on the wlieels 
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 staflfed was her withered frame. 

Vet 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 awa's !" 




[The descriptive parts should be natural and vivacious — the conclu- 
sion, reflective. If the song be sung, the words should be clearly 
articulated. The Spanish portions should be given in a lively and 
confident manner. Impersonate the dying man by using a feeble, 
broken voice.] 

Near the city of Sevilla, 

Years and years ago — 
Dwelt a lady in a villa 

Years and years ago — 
And her hair was black as night, 
And her eyes were starry bright; 
Olives on her brow were blooming, 
Roses red her lips perfuming. 
And her step was light and airy 
As the tripping of a fairy; 
When she spoke, you thought each minute, 
'Twas the trilling of a linnet; 
When she sang, you heard a gush 
Of full- voiced sweetness like a thrush; 
And she struck from the guitar 
Ringing music, sweeter far 
Than the morning breezes make 
Through the lime trees when they shake-«- 
Than I he ocean murmuring o'er 
Pebbl«-s on the foamy shore. 

Orphaned both of sire and mother 

D»felt she in that lonely villa; 
Absent now her guardian brother 

0»i a mission from Sevilla. 
Skil's 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 year* ago. 

Ay de ml ! — Like echoes falling 
Sweet and sad and low. 

Voices came at night, recalling 
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 
llinv the shadows, spreading over, 

Like a veil of silver gray. 
Toned the golden clouds, sun-paintcci. 
Till ihey 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 prints her crescent 

Underneath Madonna's feet. 
And we sat outside the villa 

Where the waters flow 
Down to the city of Rl\ ilia — 

Years and years ago. 

There we sat — the mighty river 

Wound its serpent course along — 
Silent, dreamy Guadalquivcr, 

Fansed in many a song. 
Silver gleaming 'mid the plain 
^'ellow 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 plenitude of waters. 

Ever flowing calm and slow, 
Lo\ed by Andalusia's daughters. 

Sung by poets long ago. 

Seated half within a bower. 

Where the languid evening breeze 
Shook out odors in a shower 

From oranges and citron tree , 

Sang she from a romancero, 
How a Moorish chieftain bold 

Fought a Spanish caballero 
By Sevilla's walls of old,— 


IIow 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 ! dearest lady. 

Are — quien sibe ? 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 [ sang in sportive strain 
This song to an old air of Spain. 

'Quien Sabe?" 

" The breeze of the evening that cools the hot air. 
That kisses the orange and shakes out thy hair. 
Is its freshness less welcome, less sweet its perfume, 
That you know not the region from which it is come J 
Whence the wind blows, where the wind goes. 
Hither and thither and whither — who knows? 

Who knows ? 
Hither and thither — but whither — who knows? 



' The river forever glides singing along, 
The rose on the bank bends adown to its song; 
And the flower, as it listens, unconsciously dips, 
Till the rising wave glistens and kisses its lips. 
But why the wave rises and kisses the rose. 
And why the rose stoops for those kisses — who knows. 

Who knows ? 
And away flows the river — but vfhither — who knows ? 


" Let me be the breeze, love, that wanders along 
The river that ever rejoices in song; 
Be thou to my fancy the orange in bloom, 
The rose by the river that gives its perfume. 
Would the fruit be so golden, so fragrant the rose, 
If no breeze and no wave were to kiss them ? 

Who knows ? 

Who knows ? 
If no breeze and no wave were to kiss them ? 

Who knows ?" 

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 feel-ng 
Of that false and heartless strain. 

Which I sang in words concealing 
What my heart would hide in vain. 

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. 


" Magdalena, dearest, hear me," 

Sighed I, as I seized her hand — 
" H61a ! 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 — 

(On the whole, he looked the chap a 
Man to slight would scarcely dare.) 

" 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 caballero 
Bowed with haughty courtesy. 

Solemn as a tragic hero. 

And announced himself to me : 

" Senor, I am Don Camillo 
Guzman Miguel Pedrillo 
De Xymenes y Ribera 

Y Santallos y Herrera 

Y de Rivas y Mendoza 

Y Quintana y de Rosa 

Y Zorilla y" — " No more, sir; 
'Tis as good as twenty score, sir," 

S.iid I to him, wiih a frown; 
" Mucha bulla para nada. 
No pilabras, draw your 'spada; 
If you're up for a duello. 
You will find I'm just your fellovf— 

Senor, I am Petkr Brown !" 


By tlie river's bank that night, 

Foot to foot in strife, 
Fought we in the dubious light 

A fight of death or life. 
Don Camillo slashed my shoulder. 
With the pain I grew the bolder, 

Close, and closer still I pressed ; 
Fortune favored me at last, 
I broke his guard, my weapon passed 

Through the caballero's breast. 

Down to the earth went Don Camillo 
Guzman Miguel Pedrillo 
De Xymenes y Ribera 

Y Santallos y Herrera 

Y de Rivas y Mendoza 

Y Quintana y de Rosa 

Y Zorilla y — One groan 

And he lay motionless as stone. 
The man of many names went down. 
Pierced by the sword of Peter Brown ! 

Kneeling down, I raised his headj 

The caballero faintly said, 

" Signer Ingles, fly from Spain 

With all speed, for you have slain 

A Spanish noble, Don Camillo 

Guzman Miguel Pedrillo 

De Xymenes y Ribera 

Y Santallos y Herrera 
y de Rivas y Mendoza 

Y Quintana y de Rosa 

Y Zorilla y" — He swooned 

With the bleeding from his wound. 
If he be living still or dead, 

I never knew, I ne'er shall know. 
That night from Spain in haste I fled. 

Years and years ago. 

Oft when autumn eve is closing. 

Pensive puffing a cigar 
As I sit alone, reposing. 
Musing half, and half a-dozing, 

Comes a vision from afar 
Of that lady of the villa 
In her satin fringed mantilla. 
And that haughty caballero 
With his capa and sombrero, 


And I vainly keep revolving 

That long, jointed, endless name; 
'Tis a riddle past my solving 

Who he was, or whence he came. 
Was he that brother home relumed ? 
Was he some former lover spurned ? 
Or some family y?a«ri 
That the lady did not fancy ? 
Was he any one of those ? 
• Sabe Dios. Ah ! God knows. 

Sa8ly smoking my manilla. 

Much I long to know 
How fares the lady of the villa 

That once charmed me so. 
When I visited Sevilla 

Years and years ago. 
Has she married a Hidalgo? 
Gone the way that ladies all go 
In those drowsy Spanish cities. 
Wasting life — a thousand pities — 
Waking up for a fiesta 
From an afternoon siesta, 
To " Giralda" now repairing, 
Or the Plaza for an airing ; 
At the sh.nlcd reja flirting, 
At a bull-fight now disporting; 
Does she walk at evenings ever 
Through the gardens by the river? 
Guarded by an old duenna 
Fierce and sharp as a hyena. 
With her goggles and her fan 
Warning off each wicked man? 
Is she dead, or is she living? 
Is she for my absence grieving ? 
Is she wretched, is she happy? 
Widow, wife, or maid? Quien sabe ? 


[At a New England dinner in New York, Mark Twain delivered 
the following speech, amidst frequent interruptions — of laughter and 

I reverently believe that the Maker who made us all 
makes everything in New England but the weather. I 
don't know who makes that, but I think it must be raw 


apprentices in the Weather Clerk's factory, who experiment 
and learn how, in New England, for board and clothes, 
and then are promoted to make weather for countries that 
require a good article and will take their custom elsewhere, 
if they don't get it. 

There is a sumptuous variety about the New England 
weather that compels the stranger's admiration — and regret. 
The weather is always doing something there, always at- 
tending strictly to business, always getting up new designs 
and trying them on the people to see how they will go. 
But it gets through more business in the spring than in 
any other season. In the spring I have counted 136 dif- 
ferent kinds of weather inside of four and twenty hours. 
It was I that made the fame and fortune of that man that 
had that marvelous collection of weather on exhibition at 
the Centennial that so astounded the foreigners. He was 
going to travel all over the world and get specimens from 
all climes. I said, " Don't you do it; you come to New 
England on a favorable spring day." I told him what we 
could do in the way of style, variety, and quantity. Well, 
he came, and he made his collection in four days. As to 
variety; why, he confessed he got hundreds of kinds of 
weather that he had never heard of before. And as to 
quantity; well, after he had picked out and discarded 
all that were blemished in any way, he not only had 
weather enough, but weather to spare ; weather to hire 
out; weather to sell ; weather to deposit; weather to in- 
vest ; weather to give to the poor. 

The people of New England are by nature patient and 
forbearing ; but there are some things that they will not 
stand. Every year they kill off a lot of poets for writing 
about "Beautiful Spring." These are generally casual 
visitors, who bring their notions of spring from somewhere 
else, and cannot, of course, know how the natives feel 
about spring. And so, the first thing they know, the 
opportunity to inquire how they feel has permanently 
gone by. 

Old Probabilities has a mighty reputation for accurate 
prophecy, and thoroughly well deserves it. You take up 
the papers and observe how crisply and confidently he 
checks off what to-day's weather is going to be on the 
Pacific, down South, in the Middle States, in the Wis- 


cousin region, see him sail along in the joy and pride of 

his power till he gets to New England, and then . He 

doesn't know what the weather is to be in New England. 
He can't any more tell than he can tell how many Presi- 
dents of the United States there are going to' be. Well, 
he mulls over it, and by and by he gets out something like 
this : " Probable northeast to southwest winds, varying to 
the southward and westward and eastward and points 
between ; high and low barometer, sweeping around from 
place to place j probable areas of rain, snow, hail, and 
drought, succeeded or preceded by earthquakes, with 
thunder and lightning." Then he jots down this post- 
script from his wandering mind to cover accidents : "But 
it is possible that the programme m.ay be wholly changed 
in the meantime." 

Yes, one of the brightest gems in the New England 
weather is the dazzling uncertainty of it. There is only 
one thing certain about it, you are certain there is going 
to be plenty of weather. A perfect grand review; but you 
never can tell which end of the procession is going to 
move first. You fix up for the drought; you leave your 
umbrella in the house and sally out with your sprinkling 
pot, and ten to one you get drowned. You make up youi 
mind that the earthquake is due; you stand from undei 
and take hold of something to steady yourself, and the 
first thing you know you get struck by lightning. These 
are great disappointments; but they can't be helped. The 
lightning there is peculiar; it is so convincing when it 
strikes a thing it doesn't leave enough of that behind for 
you to tell whether — well, you'd think it was something 
valuable, and a Congressman had been there. 

And the thunder. When the thunder commences merely 
to tune up, and scrape and saw and key up the instruments 
for the performance, strangers s.iy, "Why, what awful 
thunder you have here!" But when \!r^t baton is raised 
and the real concert begins, you'll find that stranger down 
in the cellar, with his head in the ash barrel. 

Now as to the size of the weather in New iiiigland — 
lengthways I mean. It is utterly disproportionate to the 
size of that little country. Half the time when it is packed 
as full as it can stick, you will see that New England 
weather sticking out bevond the edges and projecting 


around hundreds and hundreds of miles over the neighbor- 
ing States. She can't hold a tenth part of her weather. 
You can see cracks all about, where she has strained 
herself trying to do it. 

I could speak volumes about the inhuman perversity of 
the New England weather, but I will give but a single 
specimen. I like to hear rain on a tin roof, so I covered 
part of my roof with tin, with an eye to that luxury. Well, 
sir, do you think it ever rains on the tin ? No, sir; skips 
it every time. 

Mind, I have been trying merely to do honor to the 
New England weather; no language could do it justice. 
But after all there are at least one or two things about that 
weather (or, if you please, effects produced by it), which 
we residents would not like to part with. If we had not 
our bewitching autumn foliage, we should still have to 
credit the weather with one feature which compensates for 
all its vagaries — the ice storm — when a leafless tree is 
clothed with ice from the bottom to the top — ice that is as 
bright and clear as crystal; every bough and twig is strung 
with ice-beads, frozen dew-drops, and the whole tree 
sparkles, cold and white like the Shah of Persia's diamond 
plume. Then the wind waves the branches and tlie sun 
comes out and turns all those myriads of beads and drops 
to prisms, that glow and hum and flash with all manner of 
colored fires, which change and change again with incon- 
ceivable rapidity, from blue to red, from red to green, and 
green to gold; the tree becomes a sparkling fountain, a 
very explosion of dazzlinj: jewels, and it stands there the 
acme, the climax, the supremest possibility in art or nature 
of bewildering, intoxicating, intolerable magnificence ! 
One cannot make the words too strong. 

IMonth after month I lay up hate and grudge against the 
New England weather; but when the ice storm comes at 
last, I say, "There, I forgive you now; the books are 
square between i>s; yo'i don't owe me a cent; go and sin 
no more; your lictle faults and foibles count for nothing; 
you are the most en' Jianting weather in the world." 

S. L. Clemens. 



[Great variety in expression — light to grand description. Avoid 

Oh ! Mona's waters are blue and bright 

When the sun shines out lilic a g.-iy young lover; 
But Mona's waves are darli as night 

When the face of heaven is clouded over. 
The wild wind drives the crested foam 

Far up the steep and rocky mountain. 
And booming echoes drown the voice, 

The silvery voice, of Mona's fountain. 

Wild, wild against that mountain's side 

The wrathlul waves were up and beating, 
When stern Glenvarloch's chieftain came; 

With anxious brow and hurried greeting 
He bade the widowed mother send 

(While loud the tempest's voice was raging) 
Her fair young son across the flood, 

Where winds and waves their strife were waging. 

And still that fearful mother prayed, 

" Oh! yet delay, delay till morning, 
For weak the hand that guides our bark, 

Though brave his heart, all danger scorning." 
Little did stern Glenvarloch heed : 

" The safety of my fortress tower 
Depends on tidings he must bring 

From Fairlee bank, within the hour. 

" See'st thou, across the sullen wave, 

A blood-red banner wildly streaming? 
That flag a message brings to me 

Of which my foes are little dreaming. 
The boy inu^t put his boat across 

(Gold shall repay his hour of danger). 
And bring me back, with care and speed. 

Three letters from the light-browed stranger." 

The orphan boy leaped lightly in ; 

Bold was his eye and brow of beauty. 
And bright his smile as thus he spoke: 

" I do but pay a vassal's duty; 
Fear not for me, O mother dear ! 

See how the boat the tide is spurning; 
The storm will cease, the sky will clear. 

And thou wilt watch me safe returning." 


His bark shot on — now up, now down. 

Over the waves — the snowy-crested; 
Now like a dart it sped along. 

Now liUe a white winged sea-bird rested; 
And ever when the wind sank low. 

Smote on the ear that woman's wailing, 
As long she watched with strenmins; eyes, 

That fragile bark's uncertain sading. 

He reached the shore — the letters claimed ; 

Triumphant, heard the stranger's wonder 
That one so young should brave alone 

The heaving lake, the rolling thunder. 
And once again his snowy sail 

Was seen by her — that mourning mother; 
And once she heard his shouting voice — 

That voice the waves were soon to smother. 

Wild burst the wind, wide flapped the sail, 

A crashing peal of thunder followed; 
The gust swept o'er the water's face. 

And caverns in the deep lake hollowed. 
The gust swept pa^^t, the waves grew calm, 

The thunder died along the mountain; 
But where was he who u ed to play. 

On sunny days, by Mona's fountain ? 

His cold corpse floated to the shore, 

Where knelt his lone and shrieking mother; 
And bitterly she wept for him. 

The widow's son, who had no brother ! 
She raised his arm — the hand was closed; 

With pain his stiffened fingers parted, 
And on the sand three letters dropped ! — 

His last dim thought — the faithful-hearted. 

Glenvarloch gazed, and on his brow 

Remorse with pain and grief seemed blending; 
A purse of gold he flung beside 

That mother o'er her dead child bending. 
Oh! wildly laughed that woman then, 

" Glenvarloch ! would ye dare to measure 
The holy life that God has given 

Against a heap of golden treasure ? 


" Ye spurned my prayer, for we were poor; 

But know, proud man, that God hath power 
To smite the king on Scotland's throne, 

The chieftain in his furtress tower. 
Frown on ! frown on ! I fejr ye not ; 

We've done the last of chieftain's bidding, 
And cold he lies, for whose young sake 

I used to bear your wrathful chiding. 

" Will gold bring back his cheerful voice, 

That used to win my heart from sorrow ? 
Will silver warm the frozen blood. 

Or make my heart less lone tomorrow ? 
Go back and seek your mountain home. 

And when ye kiss your fair-haired daughter. 
Remember him who died to-night 

Beneath the waves of Mona's water." 

Old years rolled on, and new ones came — 

Foes dare not brave Glenvarloch's tower 
But naught could bar the sickness out 

That stole within fair Annie's bower. 
The o'erblown floweret in the sun 

Sinks languid down, and withers daily. 
And so she sank — her voice grew faint, 

Her laugh no longer sounded gayly. 

Her step fell on the old oak floor 

As noiseless as the snow-shower's drifting; 
And from her sweet and serious eyes 

They seldom saw the dark lid lifting. 
" Bring aid ! Bring aid !" the father cries ; 

" Bring aid !" each vassal's voice is crying; 
" The fair-haired lienuly of the isles. 

Her pulse is faint — her life is flying !" 

He called in vain ; her dim eyes turned 

And met his own with parting sorrow. 
For well she knew, that fading girl, 

That he must weep ami wail I'he morrow. 
Her faint brealh ceased ; the father bent 

And gazed upon his fair-haired daughter. 
Whit thought he on ? The widow's son. 

And the stormy night by Mona's water. 




[The greeting of the guests, the prayer, the echo, the visions, and 
the tenor of the dying Minnehaha, the wailing of Nokomis, and the 
parting svords of Hiawatha should receive special attention."! 

O the long and dreary Winter ! 

O the cold and cruel Winter ! 

Ever thicker, thicker, thicker 

Froze the ice on lake and river; 

Ever deeper, deeper, deeper 

Fell the snow o'er all the landscape, 

Fell the covering snow, and drifted 

Through the forest, round the village. 

Hardly from his buried wigwam 

Could the hunter force a passage; 

With his mittens and his snow-shoes 

Vainly walU'd he through the forest. 

Sought for bird or beast and found none. 

Saw no track of deer or rabbit, 

In the snow beheld no footprints, 

In the ghastly, gleaming forest 

Fell, and could not rise from weakness, 

Perish'd there from cold and hunger. 

Into Hiawatha's wigwam 

Came two gloomy guests in silence. 

Waited not to be invited, 

Did not parley at the doorway, 

Sat there without word of welcome 

In the seat of Laughing Water, 

Looked with haggard eyes and hollow 

At the face of Laughing Water ; 

And the foremost said : " Behold me! 

I am Famine, Bukadawin !" 

And the other said : " Behold met 

I am Fever, Ahkosewin !" 

And the lovely Minnehaha 

Shudder'd as they look'd upon her, 

Shudder'd at the words they utter'd, 

Lay down on her bed in silence. 

Hid her face, but made no answer; 

Lay there trembling, freezing, burning 

At the looks they cast upon her, 

At the fearful words they ulter'd. 


Forth into the empty forest 
Rushed the madden'd Hiawatha; 
In his heart was deadly sorrow. 
In his face a stony firmness, 
On his brow the sweat of anguish 
Started, but it froze and fell not. 
Wrapp'd in furs and arm'd for hunting. 
With his mighty bow of ash-tree. 
With his quiver full of arrows, 
With his mittens, Minjekahwur., 
Into the vast and vacant forest 
On his snow-shoes strode he forward; 
" Gitchie Manito, the Mighty !" 
Cried he with his face uplifted 
In that bitter hour of anguish, 
"Give your children food, O Fatherl 
Give us food, or we must perish 1 
Give me food for Minnehaha, 
For my dying Minnehaha !" 
Through the far-resounding forest. 
Through the forest vast and vacant 
Rang that cry of desolation. 
But there came no other answer 
Than the echo of his crying. 
Than the echo of the woodlands, 
"Minnehaha! Minnehaha!" 

All day long roved Hiawatha 

In that melancholy forest. 

Through the shadow of whose thickets. 

In the pleasant days of Summer, 

Of that ne'er forgotten Summer, 

He had brought his yoang wife homeward 

From the land of the Dacotahs ; 

When the birds sang in the thickets. 

And the streamlets laugh'd and glisten'd. 

And the air wns full of fragrance. 

And the lovely Laughing Water 

Said with voice that did not tremble, 

" I will follow you, my husband 1" 

In the wigwam with Nokomis, 

With those gloomy guests, that watch'd her. 

With the Famine and the Fever, 

She wai lying, the Beloved, 

She the dying Minnehaha. 

" Hark !" she said, " I hear a rushing. 

Hear a roaring and a rushing. 

Hear the Falls of Minnehaha 


Calling to me from a distance !" 

" No, my child !" said old Nokomis, 

" 'Tis the night-wind in the pine-trees!" 

" Look !" said she ; " I see my father 

Standing lonely at his doorway, 

Beckoning to me from his wigwam 

In the land of the Dacotahs !" 

" No, my child!" said old Nokomis, 

"'Tis the smoke that waves and beckons!" 

" Ah !" she said, " the eyes of Pauguk 

Glare upon me in the darkness, 

I can feel his icy fingers 

Clasping mine amid the darkness I 

Hiawatha! Hiawatha!" 

And the desolate Hiawatha, 

Far away amid the forest, 

Miles away among the mountains, 

Heard that sudden cry of anguish, 

Heard the voice of Minnehaha 

Calling to him in the darkness, 

" Hiawatha ! Hiawatha !" 

Over snow-fields waste and pathless. 
Under snow-encumber'd branches. 
Homeward hurried Hiawatha, 
Empty-handed, heavy-hearted, 
Heard Nokomis moaning, wailing : 
" Wahonowin ! Wahonowin ! 
Would that I had perish'd for you. 
Would that I were dead as you are ! 
Wahonowin! AVahonowin!" 
And he rush'd into the wigwam, 
Saw the old Nokomis slowly 
Rocking to and fro and moaning, 
Saw his lovely Minnehaha 
Lying dead and cold before him, 
And his bursting heart within him 
Uller'd such a cry of anguish. 
That the forest moan'd and shudder'd 
That the very stars in heaven 
Shock and trembled with his anguish. 

Then he sat down still and speechless. 
On the bed of Minnehaha, 
At the feet of I^aughing Water, 
At those willing feet, that n«ver 


More would lightly run to meet him, 
Never more would lightly follow. 
With both hands his face he cover'd, 
Seven long days and nights he sat there, 
As if in a swoon he sat there, 
Speechless, motionless, unconscious 
Of the daylight or the darkness. 

Then they buried Minnehaha; 
Ilj the snow a grave they made her. 
In the forest deep and darksome, 
Underneath the moaning hemlocks ; 
Clothed her in her richest garments ; 
Wrapp'd her in her robes of ermine. 
Clothed her with snow, like ermine ; 
Thus they buried Mmnehaha. 
And at night a fire was lighted. 
On her grave four times was kindled, 
For her soul upon its journey 
To the Islands of the Blessed. 
From his doorway Hiawatha 
Saw it burning in the forest, 
Lighting up the gloomy hemlocks ; 
From his sleepless bed uprising. 
From the bed of Minnehaha, 
Stood and watch'd it at the doorway. 
That it might not be exlinguish'd, 
Might not leave her in the darkness. 

" Farewell !" said he, " Minnehaha ! 
Farewell, O my Laughing Water! 
All my heart is buried with you. 
All my thoughts go onward with you! 
Come not back again to labor, 
Come not back again to suffer. 
Where the Famine and the Fever 
Wear the heart and w aste the body. 
Soon my task will be completed. 
Soon your footsteps I shall follow 
To the Islands of the Blessed, 
To the Kingdom of Pcmemah, 
To the Land of the Hereafter !" 

H. W. Longfellow 



[This grand poem was written by the author of Betsy and I are 
Out, appearing in Our Fireside Friend. It will be found » valuable 
exercise for practice.] 

'Twas night in the beautiful city, 
I'he famous and wonderful city. 
The proud and magnificent city, 
The Queen of the North and the West. 
The riches of nations were gathered in wondrous and plentiful store ; 
The swift-speeding bearers of Commerce were waiting on river and 

shore ; 
The great staring walls towered skyward, with visage undaunted and 

And said, " We are ready, O Winter ! come on with your hunger and 

Sweep down with your storms from the Northward ! come out from 

your ice-guarded lair! 
Our larders have food for a nation ! our wardrobes have clothing to 

spare ! 
For off from the corn-bladed prairies, and out from the valleys and 

The farmer has swept us his harvests, the miller has emptied his mills; 
And here, in the lap of our city, the treasures of Autumn shall rest, 
In golden-crowned, glorious Chicago, the Queen of the North and the 


'Twas night in the church-guarded city, 
The templed and altar-decked city. 
The sacred and spire-adorned city. 
The Queen of the North and the West. 
And out from the beautiful temples that Wealth in its fullness had 

And out from the haunts that were humble, where Poverty peacefully 

Where praises and thanks had been offered to Him where they rightly 

In peacefulness quietly homeward the worshipping multitude thronged. 
The Pharisee, laden with riches and jewelry, costly and rare, 
Who proudly deigned thanks to Jehovah he was not as other men are ; 
The penitent, crushed in his weakness, and laden v.'ith pain and with 

The outcast, who yearningly waited to hear the glad bidding, " Come 


And thus went they quielly homeward, with sins and omissions con- 

In spire-adorned, templed Chicago, the Queen of the North and the 

'Twas night in the sin-burdened city, 
Tlie turbulent, vice-laden city. 
The sin-compassed, rogue-haunted city, 
Thoygh Queen of the North and the West. 
And low in their caves of pollution great beasts of humanity growled. 
And over his money-strewn table the gambler bent fiercely, and 

scowled ; 
And men with no seeming of manhood, with countenance flaming and 

Drank deep from the fire-laden fountains that spring from the rivers of 

And men with no seeming of manhood, who dreaded the coming of 

Prowled, cat-like, for blood-purchased plunder from men who were 

better than they. 
And men with no seeming of manhood, whose dearest-craved glory 

was shame, 
Whose joys were the sorrows of others, whose harvests were acres of 

Shmk, whispering and low, in their corners, with bowie and pistol 

In rogue-haunted, sin-cursed Chicago, though Queen of the North and 

the West. 

'Twas night in the elegant city. 
The rich and voluptuous city. 
The beauty-thronged, mansion-decked city. 
Gay Queen of the North and the West. 
And childhood was placidly resting in slumber untroubled and deep ; 
And softly the mother was fondling her innocent baby to sleep; 
And maidens were dreaming of pleasures and triumphs the future 

should show, 
And scanning the brightness and glory of joys they were never to 

And firesides were cheerful and happy, and Comfort smiled sweetly 

around ; 
But grim Desolation and Ruin looked into the window and frowned. 
And pitying angels looked downward, and gazed on their loved ones 

And longed to reach forth a deliverance, and yearned to beat backward 
the foe ; 


But Pleasure and Comfort were reigning, nor danger was spoken or 

In beautiful, golden Chicago, gay Queen of the North and the West. 

Then up in the streets of the city. 
The careless and negligent city, 
The soon-to-be-s.icrificed city. 
Doomed Queen of the North and the West, 
Crept, softly and slyly, so tiny it hardly was worthy the name, 
Crept, slowly and soft through the rubbish, a radiant serpent of flame. 
The South-wind and West-wind came shrieking, " Rouse up in your 

strength and your ire ! 
For many a year they have chained you, and crushed you, O demon 

of fire ! 
For many a year they have bound you, and made you their servant 

and slave ! 
Now, rouse you, and dig for this city a fiery and desolate grave ! 
Freight heavy with grief and with wailing her world-scattered pride 

and renown ! 
Charge straight on her mansions of splendor, and batter her battlements 

down ! 
And we, the strong South-wind and West-wind, with thrice-doubled 

fury possessed. 
Will sweep with you over this city, the Queen of the North and the 


Then straight at the great quiet city. 

The strong and o'er-confident city, 

The well-nigh invincible city. 

Doomed Queen of the North and the West, 

The Fire-devil rallied his legions, and speeded them forth on the wind. 

With tinder and treasures before him, with ruins and tempests behind. 

The tenement crushed 'neath his footstep, the mansion oped wide at 
his knock ; 

And walls that had frowned him defiance, they trembled and fell with 
a shock ; 

And down on the hot, smoking house-tops, came raining a deluge of 

And s rpents of flame writhed and clambered and twisted on sieeple 
and spire ; 

And beautiful, glorious Chicago, the ciiy of riches and fame. 

Was swept by a storm of destrU' tion, was flooded bv billows of flame. 

The Fire-king loomed high in his glory, with crimson and flame- 
streaming crest. 

And grinned his fierce scorn on Chicago, doomed Queen of the North 
and the West. 



Then swiftly the quick-breathing city, 
The fearful and punic-struck city, 
The startled and lire-deluged city. 
Rushed back from the South and the West, 
y-ind loudly the fire-bells were clanging, and ringing their funeral 

notes ; 
And loudly wild accents of terror came pealing from thousands of 

throats ; 
And loud was the wagon's deep rumbling, and loud the wheel's clatter 

and creak ; 
And loud was the calling for succor from those who were sightless and 

weak ; 
And loud were the hoofs of the horses, and loud was the tramping of 

And loud was the gale's ceaseless howling through fire-lighted alley 

and street ; 
But louder, yet louder, the crashing of 'oofs and of walls as they fell. 
And louder, yet louder, the roaring that told of the coming of hell. 
The Fire-king threw back his black mantle from off his great blood- 
dappled breast, 
And sneered in the face of Chicago, the Queen of the North and the 


'Twas morn in the desolate city. 
The ragged and ruin-heaped city. 
The homeless and hot-smoking city. 
The grief nf the North and the West. 
Hut down from the West came the bidding, " O Queen, lift in courage 

thy head ! 
Thy friends and thy neighbors awaken, and hastL-n, with raiment and 

bread I" 
And up from the South came the bidding, " Cheer up, fairest Queen 

of the Lakes ! 
For comfort and aid shall be coming from out our savannahs and 

brakes !" 
And down from the North came the bidding, " O City, be hopeful of 

cheer ! 
We've somewhat to spare for thy sufferers, for all of our suffering here !'' 
And up from the East came the bidding, " O City, be dauntless and 

bold ! 
Look hither for food and for raiment — look hither for credit and gold !" 
And all through the world went the bidding, " Bring hither your 

choicest and best. 
For weary and hungry Chicago — sad Queen of the North and the 



O cvubheil, but invincible city ! 
O broken, but fast-rising city ! 
O glorious, but unconquered ciiy, 
Still Queen of the North and the West ! 
The long, golden years of the future, with treasures increasing and rare, 
Shall glisten upon thy rich garments — shall twine in the folds of thy 

From out the black heaps of thy ruins new columns of beauty shall 

And glittering domes shall fling grandly our nation's proud flag to the 

skies ! 
From off the wide praries of splendor the treasures of Autumn shall 

The breezes shall sweep from thS Northward, and hurry the ships to 

thy shore ! 
For Heaven will look downward in mercy on those who've passed 

under the rod, 
And happ'ly again they will prosper, and bask in the blessings of God. 
Once more thou dost stand mid the cities, by prosperous breezes 

O, grand and unconquered Chicago, still Queen of the North and the 

Will M. Carleton. 


[This should be rendered in the tender, pathetic voice of a child, 
and, when so given, it is exquisitely beautiful. The sad, touching 
voice should kindle with expectation at the close.] 

Alone in the dreary, pitiless street. 
With my torn old dress, and bare, cold feet. 
All day have I wandered to and fro, 
Hungiy and shivering, and nowhere to go; 
The niglit's coming on in darkness and dread. 
And the chill sleet beating upon my bare head. 
Oh ! why does the wind blow upon me so wild ? 
Is it because I .am nobody's child ? 


Just over the way there's a flood of light, 

And wnrnith, and beauty, and all things bright; 

Beautiful children, in robes so fair, 

Are caroling songs in their rapture there. 

I wonder if they, in their blissful glee, 

Would pity a poor little beggar like me, 

Wandering alone in the merciless street. 

Naked and shivering, and nothing to eat? 

Oh ! what shall J do when the night comes down 

In its terrible blackness all over the town ? 

Shall I lay me down 'neath the angry sky. 

On the cold, hard pavement, alone to die, 

When the beautiful children their prayers have said, 

And their mammas have tucked them up snugly in bed ? 

For no dear mother on me ever smiled. 

Why is it, I wonder, I'm nobody's child? 

No father, no mother, no sister, not one 
In all the world loves me, e'en the little dogs run 
When I wander too near them ; 'tis wondrous to see 
How everything shrinks from a beggar like me ! 
Perhaps 'tis a dream ; but sometimes, when I lie 
Gazing far up in the dark blue sky, 
Watching for hours some large bright star, 
I fancy the beautiful gates are ajar. 

And a host of white-robed, nameless things, 
Come fluttering o'er me on gilded wings; 
A hand that is strangely soft and fair 
Caresses gently my tangled hair, 
And a voice like the carol of some wild bird— 
The sweetest voice that was ever heard — 
Calls me many a dear, pet name. 
Till my heart and spirit are all aflame. 

They tell me of such unbounded love. 
And bid me come up to their home above ; 
And then with such pitiful, sad surprise. 
They look at me wiih their sweet tender eyes, 
And It seems to me, out of the dreary night 
I am going up to that world of light. 
And away from the hunger and storm so wild ; 
1 am sure I shall then be somebody's child. 

Phii.a II. Case. 



[Simple conversational style ; avoid rhythm.] 

Maud Muller, on a summer's day, 
Raked the meadow, sweet with hay. 

Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth 
Of simple beauty and rustic health. 

Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee 
The mock-bird echoed from his tree. 

But, when she glanced to the far-off town. 
White from its hill-slope looking down, 

The sweet song died, and a vague unrest 
And a nameless longing filled her breast — 

A wish, that she hardly dared to own, 
For something better than she had known. 

The Judge rode slowly down the lane, 
Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane. 

He drew his bridle in the shade 

Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid, 

And ask a draught from the spring that fiowed 
Through the meadow across the road. 

She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up, 
And filled for him her small tin cup. 

And blushed as she gave it, looking down 
On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown. 

" Thanks ! " said the Judge, " a sweeter draught 
From a fairer hand was never quaffed." 

He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees, 
Of the singing birds and the humming bees ; 

Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether 
The cloud in the west would bring foul weather. 


And Maud forgot her brier-lorn gown, 
And her graceful ankles bare and brown ; 

And listened, while a pleased surprise 
Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes. 

At last, like one who for delay 
Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away. 

Maud MuUer looked and sighed : " Ah, me ! 
That I the Judge's bride might be ! 

" He would dress me up in silk so fine. 
And praise and toast me at his wine. 

" My father should wear a broadcloth coat ; 
My brother should sail a painted boat. 

" I'd dress my mother so grand and gay; 

And the baby should have a new toy each day. 

" And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor. 
And all sliould bless me who left our door." 

The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill. 
And saw M.iud Muller standing still. 

" A form more fair, a face more sweet, 
Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet. 

" And her modest answer and graceful air 
Show her wise and good as she is fair. 

" Would she were mine, and I to-day, 
Like her, a harvester of hay : 

•' No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs. 
Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues, 

" But low of cattle and song of birds. 

And health, and quiet, and loving words." 

But he thought of his sisters proud and cold. 
And his mother, vain of her rank and gold. 

So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on. 
And Maud was left in the field alone. 


But the lawyers smiled that afternoon, 
\\'hen he hummed in court an old love-tune; 

And the young girl mused beside the well, 
Till the rain on the unraked clover fell. 

He wedded a wife of richest dower, 
Who lived for fashion as he for power. 

Yrt oft, in his maible hearth's bright glow. 
He watched a picture come and go; 

And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyes 
Looked out in their innocent surprise. 

Oft when the wine in his glass was red. 
He longed for the wayside-well instead ; 

And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms. 
To dream of meadows and clover-blooms. 

And the proud man sighed, with a secret pain; 
" Ah, that I were free again ! 

" Free as when I rode that day 

Where the barefoot maiilen raked her hay." 

She wedded a man unlearned and poor, 
And many children played round her door. 

But care and sorrow, and childbirth pain. 
Left their traces on heart and brain. 

And oft when the summer sun shone I;ot 
On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot. 

And she heard the Utile spring brook fall 
Over the roadside, through the wall — 

In the shade of the apj^le-trees again 
She saw a rider draw his rein. 

And, gazing down with timid grace, 
She felt his pleased eyes read her face. 

Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls 
Stretched away into stately halls ; 


The weary wheel to a spinnet turned, 
The tallow candle an astral burned, 

And for him who sat by the chimney lug. 
Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug, 

A manly form at her side she saw, 
And joy was duty and love was law. 

Then she took up her burden of life again. 
Saying o«ly, " It might have been !" 

Alas for maiden, alas for Judge, 

For rich repiner and liousehold drudge ! 

God pity them both ! and pity us all, 
Who vainly the dreams of youth recall. 

For of all sad words of tongue or pen. 

The saddest are these : " It might have been !" 

Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope lies 
Deeply buried from human eyes ; 

And, in the hereafter, angels may 
Roll the stone from its grave uway ! 

John G. Whittier. 


[This touching incident in English history should be read with' ut 
formality of manner, in which case it makes a choice reading. Study 

England's sun was slowly setting o'er the hills so far away, 
Filling all the land with beauty at the close of one sad day ; 
And the last rays kiss'd the foreheads of a man and maiden fair. 
He with step so slow and weakened, she with sunny, floating hair; 
He with sad bowed head, and thoughtful, she vi\\\\ lips so cold and 

Struggling to keep back the murmur, " Curfew must not ring to-night." 


" Sexton," Bessie's white lips faltered, pointing to the prison old, 
With its walls so dark and gloomy— walls so dark, so damp, and 

cold — 
"I've a lover in that prison, doomed this very night to die, 
At the ringing of the Curfew, and no earthly help is nigh. 
Cromwell will not come till sunset," and her face grew strangely 

As she spoke in husky whispers, " Curfew must not ring to-night." 

" Bessie,'' calmly spoke the sexton — every word pierced her young 

Like a thousand gleaming arrows — like a deadly poisoned dart ; 
" Long, long years I've rung the Curfew from that gloomy shadowed 

tower ; 
Every evening, just at sunset, it has tolled the twilight hour; 
I have done my duty ever, tried to do it just and right. 
Now I'm old, I will not miss it; girl, the Curfew rings to-night!" 

Wild her eyes and pale her features, stern and white her thoughtful 

And within her heart's deep centre Bessie made a solemn vow ; 
She had listened while the judges read, without a tear or sigh, 
" At the ringing of the Curfew — Basil Underwood must die." 
And her breath came fast and faster, and her eyes grew large and 

bright — 
One low murmur, scarcely spoken — " Curfew must not ring to-night." 

She with light step bounded forward, sprang within the old church 

Left the old man coming slowly, paths he'd trod so oft before ; 
Not one moment paused the maiden, but with cheek and brow aglow, 
Staggered up the gloomy tower, where the bell swung to and fro; 
Then she climbed the slimy ladder, dark, wiihout one ray of light, 
Upward still, her pale lips saying: " Curfew s/iat/ nol ring to-night." 

She has reached the topmost ladder, o'er her hangs the great dark bell, 
And the awful gloom beneath her, like the pathway down to hell ; 
See, the ponderous tongue is swinging, 'tis the hour of Curfew now — 
And the sight has chilled her bosom, stopped her breath and paled her 

Shall she let it ring? No, never ! her eyes flash with sudden light, 
As she springs and grasps it firmly — " Cuifew shall ttot ring to-night !" 

Out she swung, far out, the city seemed a tiny speck below ; 
There, 'twixt heaven and earth suspended, as the bell swung to and 


And the half-deaf Sexton ringing (years he had not heard the bell), 
And he thought the twilight Curfew rang young Basil's funeral knell; 
Still the maiden clinging firmly, cheek and brow so pale and white, 
Stilled her frightened heart's wild beating — " Cui/ew shall not ring 

It was o'er — the bell ceased swaying, and the maiden stepped once 

Firmly on the damp old ladder, where for hundred years before 
Human foot had not been planted; and what she this night had done 
Should be told in long years after — as the rays of setting sun 
Light the sky with njellow beauty, aged sires with heads of white 
Tell their children why the Curlew did not ring that one sad night. 

O'er the distant hills came Cromwell ; Bessie saw him, and her brow. 
Lately while with sidtening terror, glows with sudden beauty now ; 
At his feet she told her story, showed her hands all bruised and torn ; 
And her sweet young face so haggard, with a look so sad and worn. 
Touched his heart with sudden pity — lit his eyes wiih misty light ; 
"Go, your lover lives!" cried Cromwell; " Curfew shall not ring to- 


" And he buried him in a valley in the land of Moab, over against 
Beth-peor; but no man knoweth of his sepulchre to this day." — Deut. 
xxxiv : 6. 

[Characteristic — Effusive Orotund.] 

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. 
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 aud 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 cosily marble dressed. 
In the great minster transept, 

Where lights like glories fall, 
And the 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 the golden pen. 
On the deathless page, truths half so sage 

As he wrote down for men. 

And had he not high honor? 

The hillside for his pall ; 
To lie in stale 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 uncoffined clay 
Shall break ngain — O wondrous thought!— 

Before the judgment day, 
And stand, with glory wrapped around, 

On the hills he never trod. 
And spe»k 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. 


[Paul Denton, a Methodist preacher in Texas, advertised a barbecue, 
witli better liquor than is usually furnished. When the people were 
assembled, a desperado in the crowd walked up to him, and cried out: 
" Mr. Denton, your reverence has lied. You promised not only a good 
barbecue, but better liquor. Where's the liquor ? " 

" There ! " answered the preacher, in tones of thunder, pointing his 
motionless finger at a spring gushing up in two strong columns, with 
a sound like a shout of joy, from the bosom of the earth.] 

"There!" he repeated, with a look terrible as light- 
ning, while his enemy actually trembled at his feet ; "there 
is the liquor which God, the Eternal, brews for all his chil- 
dren. Not in the simmering still, over smoky fires, choked 
with poisonous gases, surrounded with the stench of sick- 
ening odors and corruptions, doth your Father in heaven 
prepare the precious essence of life — pure, cold water; but 
in the green glade and grassy dell, where the red deer 
wanders, and the child loves to play, there God brews it : 
and down, low down in the deepest valleys, where the 


fountain murmurs and the rills singj and high upon the 
mountain tops, where the naked granite glitters like gold 
in the sun, where the storm-cloud broods and the thunder- 
storms crash ; and far out on the wide, wild sea, where 
the hurricane howls music, and the big waves roll the 
chorus, sweeping the march of God — there He brews it, 
that beverage of life — health-giving water. 

"And everywhere it is a thing of life and beauty — 
gleaming in the dew-drop ; singing in the summer rain ; 
shining in the ice-gem, till the trees all seem turned to 
living jewels; spreading a golden veil over the setting sun, 
or a white gauze around the midnight moon; sporting in 
the glacier; folding its bright snow-curtain softly about 
the wintery world ; and weaving the many-colored bow, 
that seraph's zone of the siren — whose warp is the rain- 
drop of the earth, whose woof is the sunbeam of heaven, all 
checked over with celestial flowers, by the mystic hand of 

"Still always it is beautiful — that blessed life-water! 
No poisonous bubbles are on its brink; its foam brings not 
madness and murder; no blood stains its liquid glass; pale 
widows and starving orphans weep not burning tears in its 
depths ; no drunkard's shrinking ghost, from the grave, 
curses it in the worlds of eternal despair ! Speak out, my 
friends: would you exchange it for the demon's drink, 
ALCOHOL?" A shout, like the roar of a tempest, answered. 


John £. Gough. 


[An impersonation. " Who ! Whoo ! Whooo ! " should be given 
with high pitch, descending slides, and tremulous stress on " Whooo ! "] 

'Twas in the summer of '46 that I landed at Hamilton, 
fresh as a new pratie just dug from the " ould sod," and 
wid a light heart and a heavy bundle I sot off for the 
township of Buford, tiding a taste of a song, as merry a 
young fellow as iver took the road. Well, I trudged on 


and on, past many a plisint place, pleasin' myself wid the 
thought that some day I might have a place of my own, 
wid a world of chickens, and ducks and pigs and childer 
about the door ; and along in the afternoon of the sicond 
day I got to Buford village. A cousin of me mother's, 
one Dennis O'Dowd, lived about sivin miles from there, 
and I wanted to r-ake his place that night, so I inquired 
the way at the tav«rn, and was lucky to find a man who was 
goin' part of the way an' would show me the way to find 
Dennis. Sure he w<»s very kind indade, an' when I got out 
of his wagon he pointed me through the wood and tould 
me to go straight sou'h a mile an' a half, snd the first 
house would be Dennis's. 

"An' you've no tim<; to lose now," said be, " for the 
sun is low, and mind yoif dc*n't get lost in the woods." 

" Is it lost now," said I, " that I'd be gittin, an' me 
uncle as great a navigator as iver steered a sliip ^cross the 
thrackless say ! Not a bit of it. though I'm oblcep;ed to 
ye for your kind advice, and thank yiz for the ride." 

An' wid that he drove off ao' left me alone. I shouldered 
me bundle bravely, an' whisdin' a bit of time for com- 
pany like, I pushed into the bush. Well, I went a long 
way over bogs, and turnin' round among the bush an' 
trees till I began to think I must be well nigh to Dennis's. 
But, bad cess to it ! all of a sudden I came out of the 
woods at the very identical spot where I started in, which 
I knew by an ould crotched tree that seemed to be standin' 
on its head and kickin' up its heels to make divsrsion of 
me. By this time it was growin' dark, and a? there was 
no time to lose, I started in a second time, determined to 
keep straight south this time, and no mistake. 1 ^ot. on 
bravely for a while, but och hone! och hone! it got so 
dark I couldn't see the trees, and I bumped me nose and 
barked me shins, while the miskaties bit me hands and 
face to a blister ; an' after tumblin' and stumblin' around 
till I was fairly bamfoozled, I sat down on a log all of .1 
trimble, to think that I was lost intirely, an' that maybe a 
Honor some other wild craythur would devour me before 

Just then I heard somebody a long way off say, " Whip 
poor Will! Whip poor Will ! " "Bedad," sez I, " I'm 
glad it is't Jamie that's got to take it, though it's more 



in sorrow than in anger they are doin' it, or why should 
they say, ' poor Will ? ' an' sure they can't be Injin, 
haythin, or naygur, for it's plain English they're afther 
spakin'. Maybe they might help me out o' this," so I 
shouted at the top of my voice, " A lost man ! " Thin I 
listened. Prisently an answer came. 

"Who? Whoo? Whooo?" 

"Jamie Butler, the waiver! " sez I, as loud as I could 
roar, an' snatchin' up me bundle an' stick, I started in 
the direction of the voice. Whin I thought I had got 
near the place I stopped and shouted again, " A lost 
man ! " 

"Who! Whoo! Whooo!" said a voice right over 
my head. 

" Sure," thinks I, " it's a mighty qiiare place for a man 
to be at this time of night ; maybe it's some settler scrapin' 
sugar off a sugar-bush for the children's breakfast in the 
mornin'. But where's Will and the rest of them?" All 
this wint through me head like a flash, an' thin I answered 
his inquiry. 

"Jamie Butler, the waiver," sez I; "and if it wouldn't 
inconvanience yer honor, would yez be kind enough to 
step down and show me the way to the house of Dennis 

" Wlio ! Whoo ! Whooo ! " sez he. 

" Dennis O'Dowd," sez I, civil enough, "and a dacent 
man he is, and first cousin to me own mother." 

" Who ! Whoo I Whooo ! " sez he again. 

"Me mother! " sez I, "and as fine a woman as iver 
peeled a biled pratie wid her thumb nail, and her maiden 
name was Molly McFiggin." 

"Who! Whoo! Whooo! " 

" Paddy McFiggin ! bad luck to yer deaf ould head, 
Paddy McFiggin, I say — do you hear that? An' he was 
the tallest man in all the county Tipperary, excipt Jim 
Doyle, the blacksmith." 

"Who! Whoo! Whooo!" 

"Jim Doyle, the blacksmith," sez I, "ye good" for 
nothin' blaggurd naygur, and if yiz don't come down and 
show me the way this min't, I'll climb up there and break 
every bone in your skin, ye spalpeen, so sure as me name 
is Jimmy Butler! " 


" Who ! Whoo ! Whooo ! " sez he, as impident as 

I said never a word, but lavin' down me bundle, and 
takin' me stick in me teeth, I began to climb the tree. 
Whin I got among the branches I looked quietly around 
till I saw a pair of big eyes just forninst me. 

" Whist," sez I, "and I'll let him have a taste of an 
Irish stick," and wid that I let drive and lost me balance 
an' came tumblin' to the ground, nearly breakin' me neck 
wid the fall. When I came to me sinsis I had a very 
sore head wid a lump on it like a goose egg, and half of 
me Sunday coat-tail torn off intirely. I spoke to the chap in 
the tree, but could git niver an answer, at all, at all. 

Sure, thinks I, he must have gone home to rowl up his 
head, for by the powers I didn't throw me stick for 

Well, by this time the moon was up and I could see a 
little, and I detarmined to make one more effort to reach 

I wint on cautiously for awhile, an' thin I heard a bell. 
"Sure," sez I, "I'm comin' to a settlement now, for I 
hear the church bell." I kept on toward the sound till I 
came to an ould cow wid a bell on. She started to run, 
but I was too quick for her, and got her by the tail and 
hung on, thinkin' that maybe she would take me out of the 
woods. On we wint, like an ould country steeple-chase, 
till, sure enough, we came out to a clearin' and a house in 
sight wid a light in it. So, lavin' the ould cow puffin' 
and blowin' in a shed, I went to the house, and as luck 
would have it, whose should it be but Dennis's. 

He gave me a raal Irish welcome, and introduced me to 
his two daughters — as ijurty a pair of gurls as iver je 
clapped an eye on. But whin I tould him me adventure 
in the woods, and about the fellow who made fun of me, 
they all laughed and roared, and Dennis said it was an 

"An ould what?" sez I. 

" Why, an owl, a burd," sez he. 

" Do you tell me now ?" sez I. " Sure it's a quare country 
and a quare burd." 

And thin they all laughed again, till at last I laughed 
myself, that hearty like, and dropped right into a chair 


between the two purty girls, and the ould chap winked at 
me and roared again. 

Dennis is me father-in-law now, and he often yet delights 
to tell our children about their daddy's adventure wid 
the owl. 


[Aspirate and Pectoral qualities of voice are here employed.] 

A warrior so bo!d, and a virgin so bright, 

Conversed as they sat on the green ; 
They gazed on each other with lender delight : 
Alonzo the Brave was the name of the l^night. 
The maiden's, the Fair Imogine. 

" And oh !" said the youth, " since to-morrow I go 

To fight in a far distant land, 
Your tears for my absence soon ceasing to flow, 
Some other will court you, and you will bestow 

On a wealthier suitor your hand !" 

" Oh ! hush these suspicions," Fair Imogine said, 

" Oflfensive to love and to me ; 
For, if you be livmg, or if you be dead, 
I swear by the Virgin that none in your stead 

Shall husband of Imogine be. 

" If e'er I, by love or by wealth led aside, 
Forget my Alonzo the Brave, 
God grant that, to punish my falsehood and pride, 
Your ghost at the marriage may sit by my side. 
May tax me with perjury, claim me as bride, 
And bear me away to the grave !" 

To Palestine hastened the hero so bold. 

His love she lamented him sore; 
But scarce had a twelvemonth elapsed, when, behold I 
A baron, all covered with jewels and gold, 

Arrived at Fair Imogine's door, 


His treasures, his presents, his spacious domain, 

Soon made her untrue to her vows ; 
He dazzled her eyes, he bewildered her brain; 
He caught her affections, so light and so vain. 

And carried her home as his spouse. 

And now had the marriage been blest by the priest; 

The revelry now was begun : 
The tables they groaned wuh the weight of the feast. 
Nor yet had the laughter and merriment ceased. 

When the bell at the castle tolled — one. 

Then first with amazement Fair Imogine found. 

A stranger was placed by her side : 
His air was terrific; he uiteied no sound — 
He spake not, he moved not, he looked not around, 

But earnestly gazed on the bride. 

His visor was closed, and gigantic his height, 

His armor was sable to view ; 
All pleasure and laughter were hushed at his sight; 
The dogs, as they eyed him, drew back in affright; 

The lights in the chamber burned blue ! 

His presence all bosoms appeared to dismay; 

The guests sat in silence and fear ; 
At length spake the bride — while she trembled—" I pray, 
Sir knight, that your helmet aside you would lay, 

And deign to partake of our cheer." 

The lady is silent ; the stranger complies— 

His visor he slowly unclosed ; 
Oh, God! what a sight met Fair Imogine's eyei 
What words can express her dismay and surprise 

When a skeleton's head was exposed ? 

All present then uttered a terrified shout. 

All turned with disgust from the scene ; 
The worms they crept in, and the worms they crept out» 
And sported his eyes and his temples about. 

While the spectre addressed Imogine : 

" Behold me, thou false one, behold me !" he cried; 
" Remember Alonzo the Brave ! 
God grants that, to punish thy falsehood and pride. 
My ghost at thy marriage should sit by thy side ; 
Should tax thee with perjury, claim thee as bride. 
And bear thee away to the grave !" 


Thus saying, his arms round the lady he wound, 

While loudly she shrieked in dismay ; 
Then sunk with his prey thro' the wide-yawning ground, 
Nor ever again was Fair Imogine found. 

Or the spectre that bore her away. 

Not long lived the baron ; and none, since that time. 

To inhabit the castle presume ; 
For chronicles tell that, by order sublime, 
There Imogine suffers the pain of her crime, 

And mourns her deplorable doom. 

At midnight, four times in each year, does her sprite. 

When mortals in slumber are bound. 
Arrayed in her bridal apparel of white. 
Appear in the hall with the skeleton knight. 

And shriek as he whirls her around ! 

While they drink out of skulls newly torn from the grave, 

Dancing round them the spectres are seen; 
Their liquor is blood, and this horrible stave 
They howl : " To the health of Alonzo the Brave, 
And his consort, the Fair Imogine !" 

I \ 


[Employ the effusive form, and avoid ihythm.J 

Over the river they beckon to me — 

Loved ones who've crossed to the further side; 
The gleam of iheir snowy robes I see, 

But their voices are drowned in the rushing tide. 
There's one with ringlets of sunny gold. 

And eyes, the reflection of heaven's own blue; 
lie crossed in the twilight, gray and cold. 

And the pale mist hid him from mortal view. 
We saw not the angels who met him there ; 

The gates of the city we could not see ; 
Over the river, over the river. 

My brother stands waiting to welcome me ! 

Over the river, the boatman pale 

Carried anothpr — the household pet ; 
Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale — 

Darling Minnie ! I see her yet. 


She crossed on her bosom her dimpled hands, 

And fearlessly entered the phantom bark; 
We watched it glide Irom the silver sands, 

And all our sunshine grew strangely dark. 
We know she is safe on the further side, 

Where all the ransomed and angels be ; 
Over the river, the mystic river, 

My childhood's idol is waiting for me. 

For none return from those quiet shores. 

Who cross with the boatman cold and pale; 
We hear the dif) of the golden oars, 

And catch a gleam of the snowy sail — • 
And lo! they have passed from our yearning heart; 

They cross the stream, and are gone for aye; 
We may not sunder the veil apart 

That hides from our vision the gates of day; 
We only know that their bark no more 

May sail with us over life's stormy sea ; 
Yet somewhere, I know, on the unseen shore, 

They watch, and beckon, and wait for me. 

And I sit and think, when the sunset's gold 

Is flushing river, and hill, and shore, 
I shall one day stand by the water cold. 

And list for the sound of the boatman's oar; 
I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail ; 

I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand ; 
I shall pass from sight with the boatman pale. 

To the better shore of the spirit land ; 
I shall know the loved who have gone before, 

And joyfully sweet will the meeting be. 
When over the river, the peaceful river, 

The Angel of Death shall carry me. 

Miss Priest. 


[Sebastian Gomez was one of the most celebrated painters of Spain. 
The following incident occurred about the year 1630. The picture 
which he was found painting, as described below, together with others 
of high merit, may yet be seen in the churches of Seville.] 

'Twas morning in Seville ; and brightly beamed 

The early sunlight in one chamber there ; 
Showing, where'er its glowing radiance gleamed, 

Rich, varied beauty. 'Twas the study where 


Muvillo, the famed painter, came to sliaie 
With young aspirants his long-cherished art, 

To prove how vain must be the teacher's care 
\Vho strives his unbought knowledge to impart. 
The language of the soul, the feeling of the heart. 

The pupils came, and glancing round, 
Mendez upon his canvas found. 
Not his own work of yesterday. 
But, glowing in the morning ray, 
A sketch so rich, so pure, so bright. 

It almost seemed that there were given 
To glow before his dazzled sight 

Tints and expression warm from heaven. 

'Twas but a sketch — the Virgin's head- 
Yet was unearthly beauty shed 
Upon the mildly beaming face ; 

The lip, the eye, the flowing hair, 
Had separate, yet blended giace— 

A poet's brighest dream was there I 

Murillo entered, and amazed 
On the mysterious painting gazed ; 
' Whose work is this ? — speak, tell me ! — ^he 

Who to his aid such power can call," 
Exclaimed the teacher, eagerly, 

" Will yet be master of us all , 
Would I had done it ! — Ferdinand 1 
Isturitz, Mendez ! — say, whose hand 
Among ye all ? " — With half-breathed sigh. 
Each pupil answered — " 'Twas not 1 1 " 

' How came it then ? " impatiently 
Murillo cried ; " but we shall see 
Ere long into this mystery. 
Sebastian 1 " 

At the summons came 

A bright-eyed slave. 
Who trembled at the stern rebuke 

His m.-ister gave. 
For, ordered in that room to sleep, 
And faithful guard o'er all to keep, 
Murillo bade him now declare 
What rash intruder had been there, 
And threatened — if he did not tell 
The truth at once — the dungeoncell. 


" Thou answerest not," Munllo said ; 
(The boy had stood in speechless fear.) 

" Speak on !" — At last he raised his head, 
And murmured, " No one has been here." 
" ' Tis false 1" Sebastian bent his knee, 

And clasped his hands imploringly, 
And said, " I swear it, none but me !" 

"List!" said his master. " I would know 
Who enters here — there have been found 
Before, rough sketches strewn around, 

By whosetold hand, 'tis yours to show ; 
See that to-night strict watch you keep. 
Nor dare to close your eyes to sleep. 

If on to-morrow morn you fail 
To answer what I ask. 

The lash shall force you — do you hear ? 
Hence ! to your daily task." 

'Twas midnight in Seville ; and faintly shone 

From one small lamp a dim uncertain ray 
Within Murillo's study — all were gone 

Who there, in pleasant tasks or converse gay. 
Passed cheerfully the morning hours away. 

'Twas shadowy gloom, and breathless silence, save 
That, to sad thoughts and torturing fear a prey, 

One bright-eyed boy was there — Murillo's little slave. 

Almost a child — that boy had seen 

Not thrice five summers yet. 
But genius marked the lofty brow. 

O'er which his locks of jet 
Profusely curled; his cheek's daik hue 
Proclaimed the warm blood flowing through 
Each throbbing vein, a mingled tide. 
To Africa and Spain allied. 

"Alas ! what fate is mine !" he said. 

" The lash, if I refuse to tell 
Who sketched those figures — if I do, 

Perhaps e'en more — the dungeon cell !" 
He breathed a prayer to Heaven for aid; 
It came — for soon, in slumber laid, 
He slept until the dawning day 
Shed on his humble couch its ray. 


" I'll sleep no more !" he cried; "and now, 
Three hours of freedom I may gain 
Before my master comes J for then 

I shall be but a slave again. 
Three blessed hours of freedom ! how 
Shall I employ them ? — ah ! e'en now 
The figure on that canvas traced 
Must be — yes, it must be effaced." 

He seized a brush — the morning light 
Gave to the head a softened glow ; 

Gazing enraptured on the sight 

He cried, " Shall I efface it?— No ! 

That breathing lip ! that beaming eye ! 

Efface them ? — I would rather die !" 

The terror of the humble slave 

Gave place to the o'erpowering flow 
Of the high feelings Nature gave — 

Which only gifted spirits know. 
He touched the brow — the lip — it seemed 

His pencil had some magic power; 
The eye with deeper feeling beamed — 

Sebastian then forgot the hour. 
Forgot his master, and the threat 

Of punishment still hanging o'er him; 
For, with each touch, new beauties met 

And mingled in the face before him. 

At length 'twas finished ; rapturously 
He gazed — could aught more beauteous be !- 
Awhile absorbed, entranced he stood. 
Then started — horror chilled his blood 1 
His master and the pupils all 

Were there, e'en at his side ! 
The terror-stricken slave was mute — 

Mercy would be denied. 
E'en could he ask it — so he deemed. 
And the poor boy half lifeless seemed. 

Speechless, bewildered — for a space 
They gazed upon that perfect face. 

Each with an artist's joy ; 
At length Murillo silence broke, 
And with affected sternness spoke— 
" Who is your master, boy?" 
"You, Senor," said the trembling slave. 


" Nay, who, I mean, instruction gave, 
Uefore that Virgin's head you drew ?" 
Again he answered, " Only you." 
" I gave you none," Murillo cried! 
" But I have lieard," the boy replied, 

" What you to others said." 
" And more than heard," in kinder tone, 
The painter said ; " 'tis plainly shown 
That you have profited." 

"What (to his pupils) is his meed? 

Reward or punishment ?" 
"Reward, reward!" they warmly cried. 
(Sebastian's ear was bent 
To calch the sounds he scarce believed, 
But with imploring look received.) 
" What shall it be ?" They spoke of gold 
And of a splendid dress ; 
But still unmoved Sebastian stood. 
Silent and motionless. 

"Speak!" said Murillo, kindly ; "choose 
Your own reward — what shall i be? 
Name what you wish, I'll not refuse : 
Then speak at once and fearlessly." 
" Oh ! if I dared !" — Sebastian knelt, 
And feelings he could not control 
(But feared to utter even then) 

With strong emotion shook his soul. 

" Courage !" his master said, and each 
Essayed in kind, half-whispered speech. 
To soothe his overpow'ring dread. 
He scarcely heard, till some one said, 

" Sebastian — ask — you have your choice. 
Ask for yom freedom .'" — At the word. 
The suppliant strove to raise his voice : 

At first but stifled sobs were heard. 

And ihen his prayer — breathed fervently— 

" Oh ! master, make my father free 1" 
" Him and thyself, my noble boy!" 

Warmly the painter cried ; 
Raising Sebastian from his feet, 

He pressed him to his side. 
" Thy talents rare, and filial love. 

E'en more have fairly won ; 
Still be thou mine by other bonds— 

My pupil and my son " 


Murillo knew, e'en when the words 

Of generous feelin;; jjassed his hps, 
Sebastian's talents soon must lead 

To fame that would his own eclipse ; 
And, constant to his purpose still, 

He joyed to see his pupil gain, 
Beneath his care such matchless skill 

As made his name the pride of Spain. 

Susan Wilson. 


[The refrain, " No," should be given in a manner appropriate to the 
circumstances under which it is uttered.] 

Tell me, ye winged winds, that round my pathway roar. 
Do ye not know some spnt where mortals we-p no more? 
Some lone and pleasant dell, some valley in he west. 
Where, free from toil and pain, the weary soul may rest? 

The InuH wind dwindled to a whisper low, 

And sigh'd for pity as it answer'd — " No." 

Tell me, thou mi[;hty deep, whose billows round me play, 
Know'sl thou some favor'd spot, some island far away. 
Where weary man may find the bliss for which he sighs— 
Where sorrow never lives, and friendship never dies? 
The l"ud wnvt-s. rollintj in perpetual tlow, 
Stopp'J for awhile, and sigh'd to answer — " No." 

And fhon. serenesi moon, that, with such lovely face, 

Dost look upon the earth, asleep in night's embrace; 

Tell me, in all thy routid ha^t thou nrit sren some spot 

Where niisernhle man mitrbt find a happier lot? 
Behind a cloud the moon withdrew in -woe, 
And a voice, sweet, but sad, responded — " No." 

Tell me, my secret s^ul ; oh ! tell me, Hope and Faith, 
Is there no resting-place from sorrow, sin, and death ? 
Is there no happv spot where moitals may be bless'd. 
Where grief may find a balm, and weariness a rest? 
Faiih, Hope, and Love, best boons to mortals given. 
Waved their bright wings, and whisper'd — " Yes, in Heaven." 

Charles Mackav. 



[Great pathos at the close.] 

Come, mother, set the kettle on, 

And put the ham and eggs to fry; 
Something to eat. 
And make it neat, 

To plejst our Jamie's mouth and eye; 
For Jamie is our all, you know. 
The re^t have perished long ago ! 
He's coming fnim the wars to-night. 
And his bhie eyes vvil' sparkle bright. 
And his (,ld smile will play right free, 
His old loved home agam to see. 

I say for 't ! 'twas a cur'us thing 

Thai Jamie was nut maimed or killed! 
P'ive were tne years. 
With hojies and fears, 

And gloomy, hopeless tidings filled ; 
And many a ni^hl the jiast five year, 
We've lain wiihin our cottage here, 
And while the rilill-^torm came and went, 
We've thought of Jamie, in his tent; 
And offered many a silent prayer 
That God would keep him in His care. 

I say for 't ! 'twas a cur'us thing 

That Jamie was not maimed or killed 1 
Five were the years. 
With bliiod and tears, 

With cruel, bloody battles filled; 
And many a morn, the pn^t five year. 
We've knelt around our fireside here. 
And while we thoufjr.t of bleeding ones. 
Our blazing towns and smoking guns. 
We've thttuijht of him and breathed a prayer 
That God would keep him in His care. 

Nay, Addie, girl, just come away, 
Touch nut a dish upon the shelf I 
Mother well knows 
Just how it goes. 
Mother shall set it :ill herself! 
There's nothing to a wanderer's looks 
Equal to food that mother cooks ; 


There's nothing to a wanderer's taste 
Like food where mother's hand is traced; 
'I'hough good a sister's heart and will, 
A mother's love is better still. 

She knows the side to put his plate, 
She knows the place to put his chair; 
Many a day. 
With spirits gay. 
He's talked and laughed and eaten there ; 
And though five years have come and gone, 
Our hearts for him beat truly on. 
And keep a place for him to-day. 
As well as ere he went away; 
And he shall take, as good as new, 
His old place at the table, too ! 

And opposite to him, again, 

Your place, my Addie, girl, shall be; 
Mother, your place. 
And kind old face, 
I'll still have opposite to me ; 
And we will talk of olden days. 
Of all our former words and ways. 
And we will tell him what has passed 
Since he, dear boy, was with us last ; 
And how our eyes have fast grown dim, 
Whenever we conversed of him. 

And he shall tell us of his fights. 
His marches, skirmishes, and all ; 
Many a tale 
Will make us pale. 
And pity those who had to fall ; 
And many a tale of sportive style 
Will go, perhaps, to make us smile ; 
And when his stories are all done, 
And when the evening well has gone. 
We'll kneel around the hearth once more, 
And thank the Lord the war is o'er. 

Hark ! — there's a sound ! he's coming now. 
Hark, mother ! there's the sound once more ! 
Now on our feet, 
With smiles to greet. 
We'll meet him at the opening door! 
It is a heavy step and tone. 
Too heavy, far, for one alone , 


Perhaps the company extends 

To some of his old army friends , 

And who they be, and whence they came, 

Of course, we'll welcome them all the same. 

What bear ye on, your shoulders, men? 

Is it my Jamie, stark and dead ? 
What did you say? 
Once more, I pray, 

I did not gather what you said. 
What ! drunk ? you tell that LIE to me ? 
What ! DRUNK ! Oh, God, it cannot be I 
It cannot be my Jamie dear, 
Lying in drunken slumbers here ! — 
It is, It is, as you have said! 
Men, lay him on yon waiting bed. 

'Tis Jamie, yes ! a bearded man, 

Though bearing still some boyhood's trace; 
Stained with the ways 
Of reckless days — 
Fluslied with the wine cup in his face. 
Swelled with the fruits of reckless years. 
Robbed of each trait that e'er endears, 
Except the heart-distressing one 
That Jamie is our only son. 

Oh ! mother, take the kettle off, 
And put the ham and eggs away I 
What was my crime, 
And when the time, 
That I should live to see this day? 
For all the sighs I ever drew, 
And all the griefs I ever knew, 
And all the cares that creased my brow, 
Were naught to what comes o'er me now. 

I would to God that when the three 
We lost were hidden from our view, 
Jamie had died, 
And by their side 
Had laid, all pure and spotless, too I 
I would this rain might fall above 
The grave of him we joyed to love, 
Rather than hear its coming traced 
Upon the roof he has disgraced ! 
But, mother, Addie, come this way. 
And let us kneel, and humbly [iray. 

Will M. Carleton. 



[The following and other selections are taken, by permission of the 
author, from that humorous boolc entitled " Elbow-Room." In read- 
ing, impersonate.] 

Millburg was in want of a school-teacher. Accordingly, 
the board of directors advertised for a suitable person, 
instructing applicants to call upon Judge Twiddler, the 
chairman. A day or two later Mrs. Twiddler advertised 
in a city paper for a cook, and upon the same afternoon 
an Irish girl came to the house to obtain the place in the 
kitchen. The Judge was sitting upon the front porch at 
the time reading a newspaper ; and when the girl entered 
the gate of the yard, he mistook her for a school-mistress, 
and he said to her : — 

" Did you come about that place?" 

" Yes, sor," she answered. 

" Oh, very well, then ; take a seat and I'll run over a 
few things in order to ascertain what your qualifications are. 
Bound Africa. 

" If you please, sor, I don't know what you mean." 

" I say, bound Africa." 

" Bou — bou — Begorra, I don't know what ye're re- 
ferrin' to." 

"Very strange," said the Judge. " Can you tell me if 
'amphibious' is an adverb or a preposition ? What is an 

" Indade, and ye bother me intirely. I never had any- 
thing to do wid such things at my last place." 

" Then it must have been a curious sort of an institu- 
tion," said the Judge. " Probably you can tell me how 
to conjugate the verb ' to be,' and just mention, also, what 
you know about Herodotus." 

"Ah, yer Honor's jokin' wid me. Be done wid yerfun, 

" Did you ever hear of Herodotus? " 

"Never once in the whole coorse of my life. Do you 
make it with eggs? " 

"This is the most extraordinary woman I ever encoun- 
tered," murmured the Judge. " How she ever associated 


Herodotus with the idea of eggs is simply incomprehensible. 
Well, can you name the hemisphere in which China and 
Japan are situated ? ' ' 

" Don't bother me wid your fun, now. I can wash the 
china and the pans as well as anybody, and that's enough, 
now, isn't it? " 

"Dumb! awful dumb ! Don't know the country from 
the crockery. I'll try her once more. Name the limits of 
the Tropic of Capricorn, and tell me where Asia Minor is 

" I have a brother that's one, sor; that's all I know 
about it." 

"One? One what?" 

" Didn't ye ask me after the miners, sor? My brother 
Teddy works wid 'em." 

"And this," said the Judge, "is the kind of person to 
whom we are asked to entrust the education of youth. 
Woman, what do you know ? What kind of a school have 
you been teaching ? " 

" None, sor. What should I teach school for? " 

" Totally without experience, as I supposed," said the 

" Mrs. Ferguson had a governess teach the children when 
I was cookin' for her." 

" Cooking ! Ain't you a school-teacher? What do you 
mean by proposing to stop cooking in order to teach school? 
Why, it's preposterous." 

" Begorra, I came here to get the cook's place, sor, and 
that's all of it." 

" Oh, by George ! I see now. You ain't a candidate 
for the grammar school, after all. You want to see Mrs. 
Twiddler. Maria, come down here a minute. There's a 
thick-headed immigrant here wants to cook for you." 

And the Judge picked up his paper and resumed the edi- 
torial on " The Impending Crisis." 

They obtained a good teacher, liowever, and the course 
of affairs in the girls' department was smooth enough ; but 
just after the opening of the fall session there was some 
trouble in the boys' department. 

Mr. Barnes, the master, read in the Educational Monthly 
that boys could be taught history better than in any other 
way by letting each boy in the class represent some his- 


torical character, and relate the acts of that character as 
if he had done them himself. This struck Barnes as a 
mighty good idea, and he resolved to put it in practice. 
The school had then progressed so far in its study of the 
history of Rome as the Punic wars, and Mr. Barnes imme- 
diately divided the boys into two parties, one Romans 
and the other Carthaginians, and certain of the boys were 
named after the leaders upon both sides. All the boys 
thought it was a fine thing, and Barnes noticed that they 
were so anxious to get to the history lesson that they could 
hardly say their other lessons properly. 

When the time came, Barnes ranged the Romans upon 
one side of the room and the Carthaginians on the other. 
The recitation was very spirited, each party telling about 
its deeds with extraordinary unction. After awhile Barnes 
asked a Roman to describe the battle of Cannae. Where- 
upon the Romans hurled their copies of " Wayland's Moral 
Science" at the enemy. Then the Carthaginians made a 
battering-ram out of a bench and jammed it among the 
Romans, who retaliated with a volley of books, slates, and 
chewed paper- balls. Barnes concluded that the battle of 
Cannae had been sufficiently illustrated, and he tried to 
stop it ; but the warriors considered it too good a thing to 
let drop, and accordingly the Carthaginians dashed over 
to the Romans with another battering- ram and thumped a 
couple of them savagely. 

Then the Romans turned in, and the fight became 
general. A Carthaginian would grasp a Roman by the 
hair and hustle him around over the desk in a manner that 
was simply frightful, and a Roman would give a fiendish 
whoop and knock a Carthaginian over the head with 
" Greenleaf's Arithmetic." Hannibal got the head of 
Scipio Africanus under his arm, and Scipio, in his efforts 
to break away, stumbled, and the two generals fell and had a 
rough-and-tumble fight under the blackboard. Caius 
Gracchus prodded Hamilcar with a ruler, and the latter, 
in his struggles to get loose, fell against the stove and 
knocked down about thirty feet of stove-pipe. Thereupon 
the Romans made a grand rally, and in iive minutes they 
chased the entire Carthaginian army out of the school- 
room, and Barnes along with it ; and then they locked the 
door and began to hunt up the apples and lunch in the 
desks of the enemy. 


After consuming the supplies they went to the windows 
and made disagreeable remarks to the Carthaginians, who 
were standing in the yard, and dared old Barnes to bring 
the foe once more into battle array. Then Barnes went 
for a policeman ; and when he knocked at the door it was 
opened, and all the Romans were found busy studying 
their lessons. When Barnes came in with the defeated 
troops he went for Scipio Africanus ; and pulling him out 
of his seat by the ear, he thrashed that great military genius 
with a ratt&n until Scipio began to cry, whereupon Barnes 
dropped him and began to paddle Caius Gracchus. Then 
things settled down in the old way, and next morning 
Barnes announced that history in the future would be 
studied as it always had been ; and he wrote a note to the 
Educational Monthly to say that in his opinion the man 
who suggested the new system ought to be led out and shot. 
The boys do not now take as much interest in Roman 
history as they did on that day. 

Max Adeler. 


[Imitative modulation should be employed in The Chimes, the voice 
being made to resemble the ringing of bells.] 

Hast thou ever known the feeling 

I have felt, when I have seen, 
'Mid the tombs of aged heroes — 

Memories of what hath been— 
What it is to view the present 

In the light of by-gone days; 
From an eminence to ponder 

Human histories and ways ? 

Once I stood with soul enchanted, 

Lost in deep astonishment, 
On the lofty, dark old belfry 

Of the ancient town of Ghent. 
From the heiglit I looked below me. 

Saw the quaint old city lie, 
Full of glorious recollections. 

Climbing up to memory. 


Toilsome was the steep ascending, 

By tliat broken flight of stairs ; 
But the end was like the pleasure 

Oft derived from weary cares ; 
Like the steps that lift us upward 

To the aim we ha\e designed; 
Like the stages leading onward 

To the things we seek to find. 

From that nohle height of vision, 

To tliat distant azure sky, 
Thrill, my heart, the swelling anthem, 

Taught and tuned by memory ! 
Celebrate the deeds of glory; 

Sing ihe heart- that throbbed and beat; 
Sing the hands that stayed the throbbing; 

Songs like these, my harp, repeat ! 

Tell the days of ancient heroes. 

On a nobler errand — 
Old Sainl B.ivon, once a soldier, 

Now the patron saint of Ghent. 
Show the tomb of Saint Columba, 

Erin's and lona's pride ; 
Let me gather leaves and flowers 

From Its green and mossy side. 

Chime, ye merry ringing changes. 

Booming through the liquid air; 
Though yo tell that Time is passing, 

Ye are what ye ever were ! 
Yes, ihe same sad midnij^lit chiming, 

Yes, the selfsame peals by day; 
Have ye not a voice that spenkeih? 

Tell me, therefore, what ye say ! 


" We speak of days long, long ago ; 

We speak of '1 ime now given ; 
We speak of Time that's yet to come, 

And say — Prepare for Heaven! 
Twice we tell the hours in passing — 

First by due adveiti-ement ; 
Then we tell the hour's departure — 

We, the bells of ancient Ghent, 


" We have told Ihe birth of princes ; 

Sounded forth the marriage bell ; 
We have sung the Miserere; 

We have rung the last farewell ; 
Varied still, but true the tidings, 

Sounding from our belfry floor; 
Yet the time is coming, coming, 

When our bells shall chime no more. 

Yes, the day is hastening onward. 

When all earthly tongues shall cease; 
And the chimes that sung their praises 

Shall be stilled when all is peace. 
Till that day sound forth your measures. 

Ring your changes to the last ; 
And, amid the tomb of ages, 

Tell the virtues of the past. 

Still I saw the waking vision, 

Read the memories of old. 
Till the changes chimed the vesper. 

And the hour of evening tolled. 
Thus I mused, and thought, and pondered. 

Lost in deep astonishment. 
On the well-remembered belfry 

Of the ancient town of Ghent. 

Robert Maguirb- 


[With great expression.] 

■ Build me straight, O worthy Master ! 
Staunch and strong, a goodly vessel. 
That shall laugh at all disaster. 

And with wave and whirlwind wrestle ! " 

The merchant's word. 

Delighted, the Master heard ; 

For his heart was in his work, and the heart 

Giveth grace unto every art. 

And with a voice was full of glee, 

He answered, " Ere long we will launch 

A vessel as goodly, and strong, and staunch, 

As ever weathered a wintry sea ! ' 


AH is finished ! and, at length, 

Has come the bridal day 

Of beauty and of strength. 

To-day the vessel shall be launched ! 

With fleecy clouds the sky is blanched; 

And o'er the bay. 

Slowly, in all his splendors dight. 

The great sun rises to behold the sight. 

The ocean old. 

Centuries old. 

Strong as youth, and as uncontrolled, 

Paces restless to and fro. 

Up and down the sands of gold. 

His beating heart is not at rest ; 

And far and wide, 

With ceaseless flow, 

His beard of snow 

Heaves with the heaving of his breast. 

He waits impatient for his bride. 

There she stands, 

With her foot upon the sands. 

Decked with flags and streamers gay. 

In honor of her marriage-day ; 

Her snow-white signals, fluttering, blending. 

Round her like a veil descending, 

Ready to be 

The bride of the gray, old sea. 

Then the Master, 

With a gesture of command. 

Waived his hand ; 

And at the word, 

Loud and sudden there was heard 

All around them and below 

The sound of hammers, blow on blow. 

Knocking away the shores and spurs. 

And see ! she stirs ! 

She starts, — she moves, — she seems to feel 

The thrill of life along her keel. 

And, spurning with her feet the ground, 

With one exulting, joyous bound. 

She leaps into the ocean's arms ! 

And lo ! from the assembled crowd 
There rose a shout 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. 

Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State ! 
Sail on, O Union, strong and great ! 
Humanity, with all its fears. 
With all the hopes of future years. 
Is hanging breathless on thy fate ! 
We know what Master laid thy keel. 
What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel. 
Who made each mast, and sail, and rope, 
What anvils rang, what hammers beat. 
In what a forge, and what a heat, 
Were shaped the anchors of thy hope ! 

Fear not each sudden sound and shock j 

'Tis of the wave, and not the rock ; 

'Tis but the flapping of the sail. 

And not a rent made by the gale ! 

I.i spite of rock and tempest's roar, 

In spite of false lights on the shore. 

Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea ! 

Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee : 

Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears. 

Our faith triumphant o'er our fears. 

Are all with thee, — are all with thee I 

H. W. Longfellow. 


[This selection contains great variety of expression. The storm 
should be vividly depicted. The conclusion should be marked by the 
plaintive effusive.] 

Mabel, little Mabel, 

With her face against the pane, 

Looks out across the night. 


And sees the beacon light 

A-trembling in the rain. 

She hears the sea bird 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. 

Till it seems like ?ome old crone 

Standing out there all alone with her voe. 

Wringing as she stands 

Her gaunt and palsied hands; 

While Mabel, timid Mabel, 

With her 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 ihe water white. 

But Mabel, Mabel, darling, 

With her 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 luUintrs of the storm 
The solemn church bell tolls 

For lost souls ! 
But no sexton sounds the knell ; 
In that belfi-y, old and high. 
Unseen fingers sway the bell 
As the wind goes teanng by 1 
How it tolls, for the souls 
Of the sailors on the sea. 
God pity them ! God pity them I 


Wherever they may be. 

God pity wives and sweethearts 

Who wait and wait in vain. 

And pity little Mabel, 

With her face against the pane ! 

A boom I the lighthouse gun. 
How it echoes, rolls and rolls,— 
'Tis to wEnrn 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 makes Mabel's cheek so pale 
What makes 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 arown 
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 yonder cot I 
You'll find a little child 
With face against the pane. 
Who looks toward the beach 
And looking sees it not. 
She will never watch again. 
Never watch and wake at night, 
For those pretty saintly eyes. 
Look beyond the stormy skies. 
And they see the beacon light. 

T. B. Aldrich. 



[Heavy force, simple description, tremulous aspirate, effusive explo- 
sive and calling voice should all be employed. Study carefully.] 

The storm o'er the ocean flew furious and fast. 

And the waves rose in foam at the voice of the blast, 

And heavily labored the gale-bealen ship, 

Like a stout-hearted swimmer, the spray at his lip; 

And dark was the sky o'er the mariner's path. 

Save when the wild lightning illumined in wrath. 

A young mother knelt in the cabin below, 

And pressing her babe to her bosom of snow, 

Sht prayed to her God 'mid the hurricane wild, 

'■ O Father, have mercy, look down on my child !" 


It passed — the fiecce whirl»...j careered on its way. 

And the ship like an arrow divided the spray; 

Iler sails glimmered while in the beams of the moon, 

And the wind up aloft seemed to whistle a tune — to whistle a tune. 

There was joy in the ship as she furrowed the foam, 

I'or fond hearts within her were dreaming of home. 

The fond mother pressed her young babe to her breast. 

And sang a sweet song as she rocked it to rest; 

And the husband sat cheerily down by her side 

And looked with delight on the face of his bride. 

" Oh, happy," said he, " when our roaming is o'er, 

We'll dwell in our cottage that stands by the shore. 

Already in fancy its roof I descry. 

And the smoke of its hearth curling up to the sky; 

lis garden so green, and its vine-covered wall; 

The kir. I friends awaiting to welcome us all. 

And the children that sport by the old oaken tree." 

Ah, gently the ship .glided over the sea! 

Hark! what was that? Hark! Hark to the shout ! 

'■ Fire !" Then a tramp, and a rout, and a tumult of voices uprose on 

the air — 
And the mother knelt down, and the half-spoken prayer 
'I'hat she offered to God in her agony wild 
Was, " Father, have mercy, look down on my child !" 
Slie flew to her husband, she clung to hie side — 
Oh, there washer refuge whate'er might betide. 
"Fire!" "Fi/e!" It was raging above and below— 
And the checks of the sailors grew pale at the sight, 
And their eyes glistened wild in the glare of the light. 
'Twas vain o'er the ravage the waters to drip; 
The pitiless flame was the lord of the ship, 


And the smoke in thick wreaths mounted higher and higher. 

" O God, it is fearful to perish by fire." 

Alone with destruction, alone on the sea; 

" Great Father of mercy, our hope is in Thee." 

Sad at heart and resigned, yet undaunted and brave, 

Tliey lowered the boat, a mere speck on the wave. 

Fir.-.t entered the mother, enfolding her child : 

It knew she caressed it, looked upward and smiled. 

Cold, cold was the night as they drifted away, 

And mistily dawned o'er the pathway the day — 

They prayed for the light, and, at noontide about. 

The sun o'er the waters shone joyously out. 

" Ho ! a sail !" and they turned their glad eyes o'er the sea, 

" They see us, they see us, the signal is waved ! 

They bear down upon us, they bear down tipon us : 

Huzza! we are Saved." 


[The following describes the fatal encounter of the Cumberland and 
the Merrimac, on March 7, 1862. Strive to bring out the scene 
vividly in reading.] 

" Stand to your guns, men !" Morris cried ; 
Small need to pass the word ; 
Our men at quarters ranged themselves 
Before the drum was heard. 

And then began the sailors' jests: 

" What thing is that, I say ? 
A 'longshore meeting-house adrift 

Is standing'down the bay !" 

A frown came over Morris's face ; 
The strange, dark craft he knew ; 
" That is the iron Merrimac, 
Manned by a rebel crew. 

"So shot your guns and point them straight ; 
Before this day goes by, 
We'll try of what her metal's made." 
A cheer was our reply. 


" Remember, boys, this flag of ours 
Has seldom left its place ; 
And wliere it falls, the deck it strikes 
Is covered with disgrace. 

« I ask but this ; or sink or swim. 
Or live or nobly die, 
My last sight upon earth may be 
To see that ensign fly 1" 

Meanwhile the shapeless iron mass 
Came moving o'er the wave, 

As gloomy as a passing hearse. 
As silent as the grave. 

Her ports were closed ; from stem to stem 

No sign of life appeared : 
We wondered, questioned, strained our eyes. 

Joked — everything but feared. 

She reached our range. Our broadsides rang; 

Our heavy pivots roared ; 
And shot and shell, a fire of hell. 

Against her side we poured. 

God's mercy! from her sloping roof 

The iron tempest glanced, 
As hail bounds from a cottage-thatch, 

And round her leaped and danced •, 

Or when against her dusky hull 
We struck a fair, full blow. 

The mighty, solid iron globes 
Were crumbled up like snow.- 

On, on, with fast increasing speedy 

The silent monster came, 
Though all our starboard battery 

Was one long line of flame. 

She heeded not ; no guns she fired ; 

Straight on our how she bore ; 
Through riving plank and crashing frame 

Her furious way she tore. 


Alas ! our beautiful, keen bow. 

That in the fiercest blast 
So gently folded back the seas, 

They hardly felt we passed — 

Alas ! alas ! my Cumberland, 

That ne'er knew grief before. 
To be so gored, to feci so deep 

The tusk of that sea-boar ! 

Once more she backward drew apace ; 

Once more our side she rent. 
Then, in the wantonness of hate. 

Her broadside through us sent. 

The dead and dying round us lay, 

But our foemen lay abeam ; 
Her open port-holes maddened us. 

We fired with shout and scream. 

We felt our vessel settling fast ; 
We knew our lime was brief : 
" Ho ! man the pumps !" But they who worked. 
And fought not, wept with grief. 

" Oh ! keep us but an hour afloat ! 
Oh ! give us only time 
To mete unto yon rebel crew 
The measure of their crime ! 

From captain down to powder-boy. 

No hand was idle then : 
Two soldiers, but by chance aboard. 

Fought on like sailor men. 

And when a gun's-crew lost a hand. 

Some bold marine stepped out, 
Aud jerked his braided jacket off. 

And hauled the gun about. 

Our forward magazine was drowned. 

And up from the sick-bay 
Crawled out the wounded, red with blood. 

And round us gasping lay ; 

Yes, cheering, calling us by name. 

Struggling with falling breath 
To keep their shipmates at the post 

Where glory strove with deatji. 


With decks afloat and powder gone. 

The last broadside we gave 
From the guns' heated iron lips 

Burst out beneath the wave. 

So sponges, rammers, and handspikes— 
As men-of-war's men should^ 

We placed within their proper racks. 
And at our quarters stood. 

"Up to the spar deck! save yourselves!" 
Cried Selfridge. " Up, my men ! 
God grant that some of us may live 
To fight yon ship again !" 

We turned : we did not like to go; 

Yet staying seemed but vain, 
Knee-deep in water ; so we left ; 

Some swore, some groaned with pain. 

We reached the deck. There Randall stood : 

" Another turn, men, so !" 
Calmly he aimed his pivot gun : 

" Now, Tenny, let her go !" 

It did our sore hearts good to hear 

The song our pivot sang. 
As rushing on from wave to wave 

The whirring bomb-shell sprang. 

Brave Randall leaped upon the gun, 
And waved his cap in sport ; 
" Well done ! well aimed ! I saw that shell 
Go through an open port !" 

It was our last, our deadliest shot; 

The deck was overflown ; 
The poor ship staggered, lurched to port. 

And gave a living groan. 

Down, down, as headlong through the waves. 

Our gallant vessel rushed ; 
A thousand gurgling watery sounds 

Around my senses gushed. 

Then I remember little more; 

One look to heaven I gave. 
Where, like an angel's wing, I saw 

Our spotless ensign wave. 


J! tried to cheer. I cannot say 

Whelher I swam or sank ; 
A blue mist closed around my eyes, 

And everything was blank. 

When I awoke, a soldier lad, 

All dripping from the sea. 
With two great tears upon his cheeks. 

Was bending over me. 

I tri«d to speak. He understood 

The wi^.h I could not speak. 
He turned me. There, thank God ! the flag 

Still fluttered at the peak ! 

And there, while thread shall hang to thread. 

Oh, let that ensign Hy ! 
The noblest constellation set 

Against the northren sky— 

A sign that we who live may claim 

The peerage of the brave ; 
A monument that needs no scroll. 

For those beneath the wave. 

George H. Boker. 


[Opportunity is here afforded for vigorous expression. Study 

Toll ! Roland, toll ! 
In old Saint Bavon's tower, 
At midnight hour, 
The great bell Roland spoke ; 
And all that slept in Ghent awoke I 
What meant (he thunder stroke ? 
Why trembled wife and maid ? 
Why caught each man his blade ? 
Why echoed every street 
With tramp of thronging; feet. 

All flying to the city's wall ? 

It was the morning call 
That Freedom stood in peril of a foe! 


And even timid hearts grew bold 
Whenever Roland tolled. 
And every hand a sword could hold I 
And every arm could bend a bow ! 

So scted men 

Like patriots then — 
Three hundred years ago ! 

Toll! Roland, toll! 
Bell never yet was hung. 
Between whose lips there swung 
So grand a tongue ! 

If men be patriots still. 

At thy first sound. 

True hearts will bound, 

Great souls will thrill ! 
Then toll ! and let thy test 
Try each man's breast. 
And let him stand confest. 

Toll ! Roland, toll ! 
Not now in old Saint Bavon's tower; 
Not now at midnight hour; 
Not now from river Scheldt to Zuyder Zee, 

But here, — this side the sea ! — 

Toll here, in broad, bright day ! — 

For not by night awaits 

A noble foe without the gates. 
But perjured friends within betray, 
And do the deed at noon! 

Toll ! Roland, toll ! 
Thy sound is not too soon ! 
To Arms ! Ring out the Leader's call ! 
Re-echo it from East to West, 
Till every hero's breast 
Shall swell beneath a soldier's crest! 

Toll ! Roland, toll, 
Till cottager from cottage- wall 
Snatch pouch and powder-horn and gun I 
The heritage of sire to son 
Ere half of Freedom's work was done I 

Toll ! Roland, loll ! 
Till swords from scabbards leap ! 

Toll ! Roland, toll ! 
What tears can widows weep 
More bitter than when brave men fall I 

Toll ! Roland, toll ! 
In shadowed hut and hall 
Shall lie the soldier's pall, 


And lirarts shall break while graves are filled! 
Amen ! so God hath willed ! 
And may His grace anoint us all ! 

Toll! Roland, toll! 
The Dragon on thy tower 
Stands sentry to this hour, 
And Freedom now is safe in Ghent I 
And merrier bells now ring, 
And in the land's serene content. 
Men shout " God save the King!" 

Until the skies are rent 1 
So let it be ! 
A kingly king is he 
Who keeps his people free ! 

Toll 1 Roland, toll ! 
Ring out across the sea! 
No longer, they, but we, 
Have now such need of thee I 

Toll! Roland, toll! 
Nor ever let thy throat 
Keep dumb its warning note 
Till Freedom's perils be outbraved 1 

Toll! Roland, toll! 
Till Freelom's flag, wherever waved. 
Shall '.hadow not a man enslaved ! 

Toll! Roland, toll! 
From Northern lake to Southern strand 1 

Toll! Roland, toll! 
Til! friend and foe, at thy command. 
Shall clasp once more each other's hand. 
And shout, one-voiced, " God save the land!" 
And love the land that God hath saved 1 

Toll ! Roland, toll ! 

Theodore Tilton, 


[Poetry maybe considered in a twofold view, as a spirit and a mani- 
festation. Perhaps tl.e poetic spirit has never been more justly de- 
fined, than by Byron in his Prophecy of Dante, — a creation 

" From overfeeling good or ill, an aim 
At an eternal life beyond our fate." 

Tliis spirit maybe manifested by language, metrical or prose, by decla- 
mation, by musical sounds, by expression, by gesture, by motion, and 

194 READINGS a:\D recital \ 

by imitating forms, colors and shades ; so that literature, oratory, music, 
physiognomy, acting, and the arts of paintiuj^ and sculpture may all 
have their poetry ; but that peculiar spirit, which alone gives the great 
life and charm to all the efforts of genuis, is as distinct from the mea- 
sure and rhyme of poetical composition, as from the scientific principles 
cf drawing and perspective.] 

The world is full of poetry — the air 

Is living with its spirit; and the waves 

Dance to the music of its melodies. 

And sparkle in its brightness. Earth is veiled, 

And mantled with its beauty ; and the walls 

That close the universe with crystal in. 

Are eloquent with voices, that proclaim 

The unseen glories of immensity. 

In harmonies, too perfect, and too high. 

For aught but beings of celestial mould. 

And speak to man in one eternal hymn. 

Unfading beauty, and unyielding power. 

The year leads round the seasons in a choir 
Forever charming, and forever new. 
Blending the grand, the beautiful, the gay. 
The mournful, and the tender, in one strain. 
Which steals into the heart, like sounds that rise 
Far off, in moonlight evenings, on the shore 
Of the wide ocean resting after storms ; 
Or tones that wind around the v.iulted roof. 
And pointed arches, and retiring aisles 
Of some old, lonely minster, where the hand. 
Skillful, and moved with passionate love ol art. 
Plays o'er the higher keys, and bears aloft 
The peals of bursting thunder, and then calls. 
By mellow touches, from the softer tubes. 
Voices of melting tenderness, that blend 
With pure and gentle musings, till the soul. 
Commingling with the melody, is borne. 
Rapt, and dissolved in ecstasy, to Heaven. 

'Tis not the chime and flow of words, that roovs 
In measured file, and metrical array ; 
'Tis not the union of returning sounds. 
Nor all the pleasing artifice of rhyme, 
And quantity, and accent, that can give 
This all-pervading spirit to the ear, 
Or blend it with the movings of the soul. 
'Tis a mysterious feeling, which combines 
Man with the world around him, in a chain 
Woven of flowers, and dipped in sweetness, till 
He taste the high communion of his ihouglits. 


With all existences, in earth and Heaven, 

That meet him in the charm of grace and power. 

'Tis not the noisy babbler, who displays, 

In studied phrase, and ornate epithet. 

And rounded peiiod, poor and vapid thouglUs, 

Which peep from out the cumbrous ornaments 

That overload their littleness. Its words 

Are few, but deep and solemn ; and they break 

Fresh from the fount of feeling, and are full 

Of all that passion, which, on Carmel, fired 

The holy prophe'', when his lips were coals. 

His langujige winged with terror, as when l>olts 

Leap from the brooding tempest, armed with wrath, 

Commissioned to affright us and destroy. 

Well I remember, in my boyish days, 
How deep the feeling when my eye looked forth 
On Nature, in her loveliness, and storms. 
How my heart gladdened, as the light of spring 
Came from the sun, with zephyrs, and with shower* 
Waking the earth to beauty, and the woods 
To music, and the atmosphere to blow. 
Sweetly and calmly, with its breath of balm. 
O, how I gazed upon the dazzling blue 
Of summer's Heaven of glory, and the waves. 
That rolled, in bending gold, o'er hill and plain; 
And on the tempest, when it issued forlh, 
In folds of blackness, from the northern sky, 
And stood above the mountains, silent, dark, 
Frowning, and terrible; then sent abroad 
The lightning, as its herald, and the penl. 
That rolled in deep, deep volleys, round the hills 
The warning of its coming, and the sound 
That ushered in its elemental war! 
And, oh ! I stood, in breathless longing fixed. 
Trembling, and yet not fearful, as the clouds 
Heaved their dark billows on the roaring winds. 
That sent, from mountain top, and bending wood, 
A long hoarse murmur, like the rush of waves. 
That burst, in foam and fury, on the shore. 

Nor less the swelling of my heart, when high 
Rose the blue arch of autumn, cloudless, pure 
As nature, at her dawning, when she sprang 
Fresh from the hand that wrought her; where the ev» 
Caught not a speck upon the soft serene. 
To stain its deep cerulean, but the cloud. 
That floated, like a lonely spirit, there. 
White as the snow of Zemla. or the foam 


That on the mid-sea tosses, cinctured round. 

In easy undulations, with a belt, 

Woven of bright Apollo's golden hair. 

Nor, when that arch, in winter's clearest night, 

Mantled in ebon darkness, strewed with stars 

Its canopy, that seemed to swell, and swell 

The higher, as I gazed upon it, till, 

Sphere after sphere, evolving, on the height 

Of heaven, the everlasting throne shone through. 

In glory's lull effulgence, and a wave, 

Intensely bright, rolled, like a fountain forth 

Beneath its sapphire pedestal, and streamed 

Down the long galaxy, a flood of snow, 

Bathing the heavens in light, the spring that gushed, 

In overflowing richness, from the breast 

Of all-maternal nature. These I saw. 

And felt to madness : but my full heart gave 

No utterance to the ineffable within. 

Words were too weak ; they were unknown, but still 

The feeling was most poignant: it has gone. 

And all the deepest flow of sounds, that e'er 

Poured, in a torrent fullness, from the tongue 

Rich with the wealth of ancient bards, and stored 

With all the patriarchs of British song 

Hallowed and rendered glorious, cannot tell 

Those feelings, which have died, to live no more. 



[Conversational — great expression.] 

This tragical tale, which, they say, is a true one. 

Is old ; but the manner is wholly a new one. 

One Ovid, a writer of some reputation. 

Has told it before in a tedious narration ; 

In a style, to be sure, of remarkable fullness, 

But which nobody reads on account of its dullness. 

Young Peter Pyramus — I call him Peter, 
Not for the sake of the rhyme nor the metre. 
But merely to make the name completer^ 
For Peter lived in the olden times, 
And in one of the worst of pagan climes 
That flourish now in classical fame. 


Long before either noble or boor 
Had such a thing as a Christian name — 
Young Peter, then, was a nice young beau 
As any young lady would wi.h to know; 
In years, I ween, he was rather green, 
That is to say, he was just eighteen— 
A trifle too short, a shaving too lean, 
But " a nice young man" as ever was seen. 
And fit to dance with a May-day queen I 

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 lived, 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. 

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. 

But (a-lack-aday, 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 I 

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 I 

But who ever heard of a marriage deterred 

Or even deferred 

By any contrivance 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 appal, 

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 kl-^sed Peter— 

For kisses, like folks with diminutive souls, 

Will manage to creep through the smallest of holes! 

Twas here that the lovers, intent upon love, 
I,ai(l 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 a>i a mouse 
The beautiful maiden slipped out of the house 
The mulberry-tree impatient to find ; 
While Peter, the vigilant 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 

(A lion's a creature whose regular trade is 

]3lood — and " and a terrible thing among ladies"). 

And losing her veil as she ran from the wood, 

The monster bedabbled it over with blood. 

Now Peter arriving, and seeing the veil 
All covered o'er and reeking with gore. 
Turned, all of a sudden, exceedingly pale. 
And sat himself down to weep and to wail ; 
Tor, soon as he saw the garment, poor Peter 
Made up his mind in very short metre 
That Thisbe was dead, and the lion had eat her! 
So breathing a prayer, he determined to share 
The late 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 lile, 

In less than a jiffy was dead as a herring. 


Young gentlemen : — pray recollect, if you please, 
Not to make appointments near mulberry-trees. 
Should your mistress be missing, it shows a sveak head 
To be stabbing yourself, till you know she is dead. 
Young ladies : — you shouldn't go strolhng aliout 
AVhen your anxious mammas don't know you are out ; 
And remember that accidents often befall 
From kissing young fellows through holes in the wall I 

John G Saxf. 



[This poem refers to the rescue of the crew of an American vessel 
sinking in mid-ocean, by Captain Leighton, of the English ship Three 
Bells. In reading, let the calls appear to come from a distaB^e.J 

Beneath the low-lning night cloud 

That raked her splintering mast, 
TI;p good ship settled slowly, 

The cruel leak gained fast. 

Over the awful ocean 

Her signal guns pealed out; 
Dear God ! was that Ihy answer. 

From the horror round about ? 

A voice came down the w ild wind— 
" Ho! ship-ahoy !" its cry: 
"Our stout Three Bells of Glasgow 
Shall stand till daylight by !'' 

Hour after hour crept slowly. 

Yet on the heaving swells 
Tossed up and dow ii the ship-lights— 

The lights of the Three Bells. 

And ship to ship made signals; 

Man answered back to man ; 
While oft, to cheer and hearten, 

The Three Bells nearer ran. 

And the captain from her tafirail 
Sent down his hopeful cry : 
" Take heart ! hold on !" he shouted, 
" The Three Bells shall stand by!" 

All night across the waters 

The tossing lights shone clear ; 
All night from reeling taffrail 

The Three Bells sent her cheer. 

And when the dreary watches 

Of storm and darkness passed, 
Just as the wreck lurched under. 

All souls were saved at last- 


Sail on, Three Bells, forever, 

In grateful memory sail ! 
Ring on, Three Bells of rescue. 

Above the wave and gale ! 

As thine, in night and tempest, 

I hear the Master's cry, 
And, tossing through the darkness. 

The lights of God draw nigh. 

J. G. Whittier, in Atlantic Monthly. 


[An impersonation. The descriptive portions should be purely 

Whatever the lagging, dragging journey from Tennessee 
to Missouri may have been to the rest of the emigrants, 
it was a wonder and delight to the children, a world of 
enchantment; and they believed it to be peopled with the 
mysterious dwarfs and giants and goblins that figured in 
the tales the negro slaves were in the habit of telling them 
nightly by the shuddering light of the kitchen fire. 

At the end of nearly a week of travel, the party went 
into camp near a shabby village which was caving, hou^e 
by house, into the hungry Mississippi. The river aston- 
ished the children beyond measure. Its mile-breadth of 
water seemed an ocean to them, in the shadowy twilight, 
and the vague riband of trees on the further shore, the 
verge of a continent which surely none but they had ever 
seen before. 

"Uncle Dan'l'' (colored), aged 40; his wife, "Aunt 
Jinny," aged 30; "Young Miss" Emily Hawkins, "Young 
Mars" Washington Hawkins and "Young Mars" Clay, 
the new member of the family, ranged themselves on a 
log, after supper, and contemplated the marvelous river 
and discussed it. The moon rose and sailed aloft through 
a maze of shredded cloud-wreaths ; the sombre river just 
perceptibly brightened under the veiled light; a deep 
silence pervaded the air and was empjhasized, st intervals, 


rathej than broken, by the hooting of an owl, the baying 
of a clog, or the muffled crash of a caving bank in the 

The little company assembled on the log were all chil- 
dren (at least in simplicity and broad and comprehensive 
ignorance), and the remarks they made about the river 
were in keeping with their character ; and so awed were 
they by the grandeur and the solemnity of the scene before 
them, and by their belief that the air was filled with 
invisible spirits, and that the faint zephyrs were caused by 
their passing wings, that all their talk took to itself 
a tinge of the supernatural, and their voices were subdued 
to a low and reverent tone. Suddenly Uncle Dan'l ex- 
claimed : 

" Chil'en, dah's sumfin a comin' !" 

All crowded close together and every heart beat faster. 
Uncle Dan'l pointed down the river with his bony finger. 

A deep coughing sound troubled the stillness, way 
toward a wooded cape that jutted into the stream a mile 
distant. All in an instant a fierce eye of fire shot oi-.t.from 
behind the cape and sent a long brilliant pathway quiver- 
ing athwart the dusky water. The coughing grew louder 
and louder, the glaring eye grew larger and still larger, 
glared wilder and still wilder. A huge shape developed 
itself out of the gloom, and from its tall duplicate horns 
dense volumes of smoke, starred and spangled with sparks, 
poured out and went turiibling away into the farther dark- 
ness. Nearer and nearer the thing came, till its long sides 
began to glow with spots of light which mirrored them- 
selves in the river and attended the monster like a torch- 
light procession. 

" What is it? Oh ! what is it, Uncle Dan'l?" 

With deep solemnity the answer came : 

" It's de Almighty I Git down on yo' knees !" 

It was not necessary to say it twice. They were all 
kneeling in a moment. And then while the mysterious 
coughing rose stronger and stronger and the threatening 
glare reached farther and wider, the negro's voice lifted 
up its supplications : 

"O Lord, we's ben mighty wicked, an' we knows dat 
we 'zerve to go to de bad place, but good Lord, deali 
Lord, we ain't ready yit, we ain't ready"-let dese po' 


chil'en liab one mo' chance, jes' one mo' chance. Take 
de ole niggah if you's got to hab somebody. Good Lord, 
good deah Lord, we don't know whah you's a gwine to, 
we don't know who you's got yo' eye on, but we knows 
by de way you's a comin', we knows by de way you's a 
tiltin' along in yo' charyot o' fiah dat some po' sinner's 
a gwine to ketch it. But good Lord, dese chil'en don't 
'blong heah, dey's f 'm Obedstown whah dey don't know 
niififiii, an' you knows yo' own sef, dat dey ain't 'sponsible. 
An' deah Lord, good Lord, it ain't like yo' mercy, it 
ain't like yo' pity, it ain't like yo' long-sufferin' lovin' 
kindness for to take dis kind o' 'vantage o' sich little 
chil'en as dese is when dey's so many grown folks chuck 
full o' cussedness dat wants roastin' down dah. O Lord, 
spah de little chil'en, don't tar de little chil'en away f'm 
dey frens, jes' let 'em off jes' dis once, and take it out'n 
de ole niggah. Heah I is. Lord, heah I is ! De ole 
niggah's ready. Lord, de ole — " 

The flaming and churning steamer was right abreast the 
party, and not twenty steps away. The awful thunder of 
a mud-valve suddenly burst forth, drowning the prayer, 
and as suddenly Uncle Dan'l snatched a child under each 
arm and scoured into the woods with the rest of the pack 
at his heels. And then, ashamed of himself, he halted in. 
the deep darkness and shouted (but rather feebly) : 

" Heah I is. Lord, heah I is !" 

There was a moment of throbbing suspense, and then, 
to the surprise and comfort of the party, it was plain that 
the august presence had gone by, for its dreadful noises 
were receding. Uncle Dan'l headed a cautious reconnois- 
sance in the direction of the log. Sure enough "The 
Lord" was just turning a point a short distance up the 
river, and while they looked, the lights winked out and 
the coughing diminished by degrees and presently ceased 

" H'wsh ! Well now dey's some folks says dey ain't no 
'ficiency in prah. Dis chile would like to know whah 
we'd a ben now if it warn't fo' dat prah? Dat's it. 

"Uncle Dan'l, do you reckon it was the prayer that 
saved us?" said Clay. 

"Does I reckon? Don't 1 know it! Whah was yo' 


eyes? Warn't de Lord jes' a comin' chow/ chow! chov^ ! 
an' a goin' on tumble — an' do de Lord carry on dat way 
'dout dey's sumfin don't suit him? An' warn't he a look- 
in' right at dis gang heah, an' warn't he jes' a reachin' 
f.oi 'em? An' d' you spec' he gwine to let 'em off 'dout 
somebody ast him to do it ? No indeedy !" 

''Do you reckon he saw us, Uncle Dan'l?" 

"De law sakes, chile, didn't I see him a lookin' at us?" 

" Did you feel scared, Uncle Dan'l?" 

" No sah ! • When a man is 'gaged in prah, he ain't 
'fraid o' nufifin — dey can't nuffin tech him." 

" Well, what did you run for?" 

"Well, I — I — Mars Clay, when a man is under de in- 
fluence ob de sperit, he dunno what he's 'bout — no sah; 
dat man dunno what he's 'bout. You mout take an' tah 
de head off'n dat man an' he wouldn't scasely fine it out. 
Dah's de Hebrew chil'en dat went frough defiah; dey 
was burnt considable — ob coase dey was; but dey didn't 
know nuffin 'bout it — heal right up agin; if dey'd ben 
galsdey'd missed dey long haah, maybe, but dey wouldn't 
felt de burn." 

" I don't know but what they were girls. I think they 

"Now, Mars Clay, you knows better'n dat. Sometimes 
a body can't tell whedder you's a sayin' what you means 
or whedder you's a sayin' what you don't mean, 'case 
you says 'em bofe de same way." 

"But how should / know whether they were boys or 

"Goodness sakes. Mars Clay, don't de good book say? 
'Sides, don't it call 'em de He-hrtw chil'en? If dey was 
gals wouldn't dey be de she-brew chil'en? Some people 
dat kin read don't pear to take no notice when dey da 

"Well, Uncle Dan'l, I think that — My! here comes 
another one up the river! There can't be two!" 

"We gone dis time — we done gone dis time, sho' ! 
Dey ain't two. Mars Clay — dat's de same one. De Lord 
kin 'pear eberywhah in a second. Goodness, how de fiah 
an' de smoke do belch up ! Dat mean business, honey. 
He comin' now like he fo'got sumfin. Come 'long, chil'en, 
time you's gwine to roos'. Go 'long wid you — ole Uncle 


Dan'l gwine out in de woods to rastle in prah — de ole 
niggah gwine to do what he kin to sabe you agin." 

He did go to the woods and pray; but he went so far 
that he doubted, himself, if the Lord heard him when he 
went by. 

Clemens and Warner. 


[This is an excellent piece for elocutionary practice, as the mood of 
the speaker changes with nearly every verse. Sometimes joyous, in a 
moment pleading ; now calm — now raving. Study carefully.] 

We are two travellers, Roger and I. 

Roger's my dog — Come here, you scamp ! 
Jump for the gentleman — 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 has been frozen). 
Plenty of catgut for my fiddle, 

{This out-door busmess is bad for strings). 
Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the griddle. 

And Roger and I set up for kings ! 

No, thank you. Sir, I never drink. 

Roger and I are exceedingly moral. 
Aien't we, Roger? see him wink. 

Well, something hot then, we won't quarrel. 
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 challu 

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 (hat smell of tobacco and gin. 

He'll follow while he has eyes in his sockets. 

There isn't another creature living 

Would do it, and prove, through every disaster, 
So fond, S9 faithful, and so forgiving, 

To such a miserable, thankless master. 
No, Sir ! see him wag his tail and grin — 

By Georgj I it makes my old eyes water — 
That is, there's something in this gin 

That chokes a fellow, but no matter ! 

We'll have some music, if you're willing. 

And Roger (hem ! what a plague a cough i^. Sir!) 
Shall march a little. — Start, you villain! 

Paws up 1 eyes front ! salute your officer ! 
'Bout face ! attention ! 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 shaV-^ 

When he stands up to hear his sentence : 
Now tell me 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 
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, fortune, 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 needn't laugh. Sir; I was not then 
Such a burning libel on God's creatures; 

I was one of your handsome men— 


If you had seen her, so fair, so 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 guess'd 
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, 

'Twas better for her that we should part; 
Better the soberest, prosiest life 

Than a blasted home and a broken heart, 
1 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 I 
What do you care for a beggar's story ? 

Is it amusing ? you find it strange .' 
I had a mother so proud of me ! 

'Twas well she died before — Do you know 
If the happy spirits in heaven can see 

The ruin and wretchedness here below? 

Another glass, 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, 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 gny life to lead, you think. 

But soon we shall go w here lodgings are free, 
And the sleepers need neither victuals or drink ;^ 

The sooner^ the better for Roger and me. 

J. T. Trowbrtdgk. 

ki.ADU\G3 AND liECllALS. 2'jT 


[A temperance reading.] 

A merry peal of marriage bells 
Steals softly on the evening air; 
Their silver harmony foretells 
The weal or woe of some fond pair. 

A festal throng had met at night, 
And joy beamed in the face of all ; 
A thousand gems were flashing bright 
Beneath the lamps within the hall, 
Which glared upon the festival. 
Music arose with dulcet swell. 
And strains of mirth were constant heaul- 
Peans of gladness rose and fell 
Like warbles of some forest bird, 
Or like the sound of limpid streams 
AVhich laugh adown the vale of dreams. 
The guests are seated here and there, 
On silken lounge and dnmask chair, 
And 'mid the din of laugh and song 
Soft words were whispered in the throng. 
And tender eyes a tale expressed. 
Which tongue had never yet conlessed. 
Fair forms tripped o'er the tufted floors. 
While smiling faces went and came 
Like figures in a melo-drame. 
And rustled through tlie oaken doors 
The robe of many a stately dame. 

The bride was young, the bride was fair. 
With laughing eyes and golden hair ; 
The groom was young, and'brave was he 
As e'er to maiden bent a knee; 
A nobler pair, in sooth, than they 
Have not been seen in many a day. 

" Come, pledge with wine ! Come, pledge v ilh wine J" 

A young and thoughless gallant cried ; 
"In amber juice of Gascon vine 

We'll pledge the happy groom and bride 1" 

A brimming chalice then was poured. 

And offered to the bridal twain ; 

While round the glad and festal board 

The proffered toast wa» passed again. 


The rose forsook the fair bride's face, 

And left a lily in its place ; 

For she had cause to dread the fell 

Distillments from the pi ess of hell, 

So fatal to the human race; 

Still she took up the goblet there, 

And viewed it in the lamp's red glare. 

Then slowly raised it to her lip. 

As if she was about to sip 

The purple vintage, rich and rare; 

And then she paused, and with an eye 

Which seemed through distant space lu pry. 

Gazed on the cup with eager stare. 

The amethystine goblet gleamed, 
And breathed soft iragrance on the air. 
Till Hermon's balmy dews, it seemed. 
With Eschol's clusters blended were. 
The merry jeer, the idle joke, 
Were hushed, as by a wizard's thrall; 
And through the lofty banquet h:.ll 
No sound the solemn stillness broke. 
One jeweled finger she upraised. 
Ornate with gems a queen might wear, 
And on the blushing cup she gazed, 
As though she saw a spectre there. 
And thus she spake : 

" I see a mountain range, whose purple busts 
Are lifted to the sky; while o'er its brows 
Gossamer clouds hang like a bridal veil. 
Bright flowers are blooming on its ragged sides. 
And joyous birds are caroling in the shade 
Of giant oaks and beeches. A crystal rill. 
Merrily laughing, leaps from cliff to clifi, 
Eager to gambol in the vale beneath ; 
And over all, a shadowy, cloud-like mist 
Mellows the harsher outlines of the crags. 
There ! there ! within a deep, cavernous gorge, 
I see the half-nude forms of savage men 
Flitting like phantoms, 'mong the umbrageous trees, 
And in their midst I see a manly form 
Stretched lowly on the cold and darksome sward, — 
How deathlike is the pallor of his cheek ! 
How gleams the fire of madness in his eye, 
As the wild fancies of delirium, 
Like Etna's flood, roll o'er his fevered brain ! 
One faithful friend kneels by him, and his head 
Is pillowed on his breast as tenderly 
As 'twere a mothei with a dying cliild. 


• Genius in ruins !' Oh, that noble youth ! 
Why should death single out a mnrk so young? 
See how he thnjws the damp Inclts from his brfnv 
Of marble whiteness ! See him ciasp his hands! 
Hear his appalling shrieks for help, lor life ! 
Mark how he clutches at Ihnt kneeling form. 
Imploring lo be saved ! Oh ! stones might weep 
A rivulet of tears to hear him call 
Upon his father's name! See him entwine 
His icy fingers, as he vainly shrieks 
For his loved sister, twin of his fond soul, 
Who weep^for him in a far distant land ! 
And now his arms are lifted up to heaven, 
Praying for mercy; and his language bears 
Such fearful agony upon its tones. 
The red men move away with noiseless feet. 
And leave them quite alone. 

" 'Tis evening now, 
And like a warrior's shield, the great white monn 
Stalks througti the eastern sky. One silver benm. 
Piercing the thickness of the clustering lenvps, 
Lights up the features of the dying youth. 
His eyes are fixed and dim ; he does not heed 
The kindly words his friend pours in his ear. 
And now his head sinks back, he gasps for breath. 
His pulse is still — ah, no, it beats again ! 
'Twas a mere fancy; it will beat no more. 
For death's cold hand is on him; he is dead! 

" They hollow out a grave within that glen ; 
Without a shroud they lay him in the earth, 
Where he shall sleep until the end of time. 
No sculptor's burin ever shall emboss 
A marble shaft to mark his lonely tomb. 
Dear friends, the youth who died in that strange land 
Was my twin brother; and he owed his death 
To ardent drink. Shall I now taste the cup?" 

She ceased to speak; and o'er the room 
There fell a deep and cryptic gloom. 
A silence reigned, so dead and still. 
The rustling of a cambric frill 
Jarred on the sense. The heart's quick throbs 
Were blended with the smothered sobs. 
And there was many a pallid face 
Amid the throng of young and fair; 
And many a cheek which showed the trace 
Oi' recent tears still clin!;ing there. 

2hfilO JiAADIAGS AM) Kt-Ll i ILS. 

" Say, shall 1 taste the cup ?" she cried ; 

" No ! no !" a score of tongues replied ; 
And he who first for wine did call, 
Cried " No !" the loudest of them all. 

" Then shun the cup," she cried again, 

" Twill brand you with the mark of Cain ; 
Forswear at once the tempting bowl. 
That ruins body, mind and soul ! 
Thmk of my brother's lonely grave. 
Far by the bland Pacific wave ; 
Think of the hungry infant's wail; 
Think of the mother's visage pale ; 
Think of the teeming prison's cell, 
Where rum-incited felons dwell; 
Think of our lovely sisters' doom, 
When wine has nipped them in their bloom j 
Ay! pause and think of every shame. 
Of every crime too dark to name; 
And let the wine-fiend's spell be riven, 
And turn your thoughts to home, and lleaveal 
Grave fathers all, whose foreheads sliow 
The weight of many a winter's snow. 
Abjure the wine-cup from to-night, 
And with the Temperance Army fight : 
Some sons may check their vam desires 
By good examples of their sires. 

Full many a noble youth is here, 
AVho scarce has felt a barber's shear; 
I charge you flee the demon's spell. 
As you would flee the curse of hell ! 
For in the sparkling vintage lies 
A monster dressed in tempting guise. 
Who'll lure you from the path of right. 
By wizard wiles, and false delight : 
A siren's song may charm your ear, 
A siren's hand may offer cheer; 
But, as you listen to the sound. 
The glamor arts will close around. 
And you will fall from your high stat« 
To be a ragged pauper's mate ; 
Rum will destroy your forms divine 
As Circe changed her guests to swine. 

f Oh lovely maids ! to whom are given 
The beauties that embellish Heaven I 
None of you are too pure or fair 
To dally with the dreadlul snare. 
Never for all Pactolus' wealth. 
In wine let lover drink your health; 
Beware the traitor who shall dare 


For you the cursed draught prepare. 
Who loves you truly never will 
Consent the crime fraught cup to fill. 
'Tis he, who like a wily foe, 
Watches to deal a stealthy lilow : 
For this he weaves his hellish snare, 
To fall upon you unaware. 
Oh ! shun the tempter, one and all — 
Who offers wine essays your fall !" 

They feasted late, they feasted long, 
The guests were loud in laugh and song, 
The tables groaned beneath the weight 
Of China, glass, and gorgeous plate; 
And luscious nuts, and dainty fare, 
Levantine fig, and orient date, 
Were seen among the viands rare. 
And pyramids of creamy ice. 
With frosted cakes ranged side by side ; 
While Syrian fruit and Indian spice 
To grace the bridal banquet vied. 
But no one touched a drop of wine, 
Though rich Champagne, and limpid Rhine, 
And Muscatel, — all sparkling briylit, — 
And purple Port, stood full in siglit. 
Among the crowd were those who'd fiuaff'd 
For years the soul-destroying drauglil ; 
They saw the black and Stygian brink. 
And horrid gulf which yawned beneaih. 
Filled with a thousand forms of death, 
All victims of the demon — Drink ! 
And then and there they soothly swore 
To touch the tempting cup no more. 
But ever drink what God had given. 
And sent them, on the clouds, from heaven 1 

F. C. LoNO. 


[Reflective conversational, Hope beaming through the last stania.] 

The day is cold, and dark, and dreary ; 
It rains, and the wind is never weary ; 
The vine still clings to the moldering wall. 
But at every gust the dead leaves fall. 
And the day is dark and dreary. 


My life is cold, and darl<, and dreary; 
It rains, and the wind is never weary ; 
My thoughts still cling to the moklering 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. 



[Conversational, with calling voice varied in adaptation to the sens* 
-loud or low, near or distant, as ; ecMired.] 

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 I" 
" Charco' !"• — " Hark, O !"— Such cheery sound* 
Attend him on bis daily rounds. 

The dust begrimes his ancient hat ; 

His coat is darker far than that ; 

'Tis odd to see his sooty form 

All speckled with the feathery storm. 

Yet in his honest bosom lies 

No spot, nor speck — though still he cries, 

" Charco' I charco' I" 
And many a roguish lad replies — 

"Ark, ho ark, ho!" 
' Charco' i" — " Ark, ho !" — Such various sounds 
Announce Mark Haley's morning rounds. 

Thus all the cold and wintry day 
He labors much for little pay. 
Vet feels no less of h.ippincss 


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 Maltha from the door replies — 

" Mark, ho ! Mark, ho !" 
« Charco' !" — " Mark, ho I" — 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 vhite. 

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 lavgh 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' I" 
While mocking echo still replies — 

"Hark, O! hark, O!" 
" Charco' !"— " Hark, O !" — Long may th* sounds 
Proclaim Mark Haley's daily rounds ! 

J. T. Trowb»«>ce. 


[This patriotic story should be told in a graphic mannet.J 

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 shril! note, the drum's loud beat. 
And through the wide land everywhere 

The aniwering tread of hurrying feet; 


While the first oath of Freedom's gun 
Came on the blast from Lexington : 
And Concord roused, no longer tame. 
Forgot her old baptismal name, 
Made bare her patriot arm of power, 
And 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 blooia, 
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 Da^ id's song ; 
The text, a few short words of might — 
'* The Lord of hosts shall arjn 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 the 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 wak« and hear. 
And there the startling drum and fife 
Fired the living with fiercer life; 
While overhead, with wild increase, 
Forgetting its ancient toll of peace, 

The great bell swung as ne'r 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 loices answered, " I !" 

Thomas Buchanan Read, 



[Impersonate. Barker should speak rapidly and confidently ; the 
major should become more and more impatient and excited.] 

While Major Slott was sitting in the office of the Patriot, 
writing an editorial about "Our Grinding Monopolies," 
he suddenly becan^e conscious of the presence of a fearful 
sraell. He stopped, snuffed the air two or three times, 
and at last lighted a cigar to fumigate the room. Then he 
Jieard footsteps upon the stairs, and as they drew nearer 
the smell grew stronger. When it had reached a degree 
of intensity that caused the major to fear that it might 
break some of the furniture, there was a knock at the door. 
Then a man entered with a bundle under his arm, and as 
he did so the major thought that he had never smelt such 
a fiendish smell in the whole course of his life. He held 
his nose ; and when the man saw the gesture, he said, 

"I thought so; the usual effect. You hold it tight 
while I explain." 

"What hab you god id that buddle?" asked the major. 

"That, sir," said the man, "is Barker's Carbolic Dis- 
infecting Door-mat. I am Barker, and this is the mat. I 
invented it, and it's a big thing." 

"Is id thad thad smells so thudderig bad?" asked the 
major, with his nostrils tightly shut. 

" Yes, sir; smells very strong, but it's a healthy Smell. 
It's invigorating. It braces the system. I'll tell you — " 

" Gid oud with the blabed thig !" exclaimed the major. 

" I must tell you all about it first. I called to explain 
it to you. You see I've been investigating the causes of 
epidemic diseases. Some scientists think they are spread 
by molecules in the air; others attribute them to gases 
generated in the sewers; others hold that they are con- 
veyed by contagion ; but I — " 

' ' Aid you goig to tague thad idferdal thig away from 
here?" asked the major. 

"But I have discovered that these diseases are spread 
by the agency of door-mats. Do you understand? Door- 
mats ! And I'll explain to you how its done. Here's a 
man who's been in a house where there's disease. He 
gets it on his boots. The leather is porous, and it be- 


comes saturated. He goes to another house and wipes his 
boots on the mat. Now, every man who uses that mat 
must get some of the stuff on his boots, and he spreads it 
over every other door-niat that he wipes them on. Now, 
don't he?" 

" Why dode you tague that shell frob udder by dose?" 

"Well, then, my idea is to construct a door-mat th-^t 
will disinfect those boots. I do it by saturating the mat 
with carbolic acid and drying it gradually. I have one 
here prepared 15y my process. Shall I unroll it?" 

" If you do, I'll blow your braids out !" shouted the 

" Oh, very well, then. Now, the objection to tliis beau- 
tiful invention is that it possesses a very strong and posi- 
tive odor." 

"I'll bed it does," said the major. 

"And as this is offensive to many persons, I give to 
each purchaser a ' nose-guard,' which is to be worn upon 
the nose while in a house where the carbolic mat is placed. 
The nose-guard is filled with a substance which completely 
neutralizes the smell, and it has only one disadvantage. 
Now, what is that?" 

" Are you goig to quid and let me breathe, or are you 
goig to stay here all day log?" 

"Have patience, now; I'm coming to the point. I 
say, what is that ! It is that the neutralizing substance in 
the nose-guard evaporates too quickly. And how do I 
remedy that ? I give to every man who buys a mat and a 
nose-guard two bottles of ' neutralizer.' What it is com- 
posed of is a secret. But the bottles are to be carried in 
the pocket, so as to be ready for every emergency. The 
disadvantage of this plan consists of the fact that the neu- 
tralizer is highly explosive, and if a man should happen to 
sit down on a bottle of it in his coat-tail pocket suddenly 
it might hist him through the roof. But see how beauti- 
ful my scheme is." 

" Oh, thudder add lightnig ! aid you ever going to quid?" 

" See how complete it is ! By paying twenty dollars 
additional, every man who takes a mat has his life pro- 
tected in the Hopelessly Mutual Accident Insurance Com- 
pany, so that it really makes no difference whether he is 
busted through the shingles or not. Now, does it?" 


"Oh, dode ask me. I dode care a ced about id, ady- 

"Well, then, what I want you to do is to give me a 
first-rate notice in your paper, describing the invention, 
giving the public some general notion of its merits and 
recommending its adoption in general use. You give me 
a half-column puff, and I'll make the thing square by leav- 
ing you one of the mats, with a couple of bottles of the 
neutralizer and a nose-guard; I'll leave them now." 


" I say I'll just leave you a mat and the other fixings for 
you to look over at your leisure." 

" You biserable scoundrel, if you lay wod ob those thigs 
down here, I'll burder you od the spod I I wod stad such 

"Won't you notice it, either?" 

" Certaidly nod. I woulded do id for ten thousand 
dollars a lide. " 

" Well, then, let it alone ; and I hope one of those epi- 
demic diseases will get you and lay you up for life." 

As Mr. Barker withdrew, Major Slott threw up the win- 
dows, and after catching his breath, he called down stairs 
to a reporter : 

"Perkins, follow that man and hear what he's got to 
say, and then blast him in a column of the awfulest vitu- 
peration you know how to write." 

Perkins obeyed orders, and now Barker has a libel suit 
pending against The Fatriot, while the carbolic mat has 
not ypt been introduced to this market. 

Max. Adeler. 


[Articulate clearly; avoid rhythm.] 

I sometimes have thought in my loneliest hours. 
That lie on my heart like the dew on the flowers, 
Of a ramble I took one bright afternoon. 
When my heart was as light as a blossom in June; 


The green earth was moist with the late fallen showers, 
The breeze fluttered down and blew open the flowers; 
While a single white cloud to its haven of rest, 
On the white wing of peace floated off' in the west. 

As I tlirew back my tresses to catch the cool breeze 
That scattered the rain-drops and dimpled the seas, 
Far up the blue sky a fair rainbow unrolled 
Its soft-tinted pinions of purple and gold ! 
'Twas born in a moment, yit, quick as its birth, 
It has stretched to the uttermost ends of the earth, 
And, fair as an angel, it floated all free. 
With a wing on the earth and a wing on the sea. 

How calm was the ocean ! how gentle its swell ! 
Like a woman's soft bosom, it rose and it fell. 
While its light sparkling waves, stealing laughingly j-ei-^ 
When they saw the fair rainbow, knelt down to thv oi.(,r«,t 
No sweet hymn ascended, no murmur of prayer. 
Yet I felt that the spirit of worship was there. 
And bent my young head in devotion and love, 
i 'Neath the form of the angel that floated above. 

How wide was the sweep of its beautiful wings ! 

How boundless its circle, how radiant its rings ! 

If I looked on the sky, 'twas suspended in air; 

If I looked on the ocean, the rainbow was therej 

Thus forming a girdle as brilliant and whole 

As the thoughts of the rainbow that circled my soul — 

Like the wing of the Deity, calmly unfurled, 

It bent from the cloud, and encircled the world. 

There are moments, I think, when the spirit receives 
Whole volumes of thought on its unwritten leaves; 
When the folds of the heart in a moment unclose, 
Like the innermost leaves from the heart of a rose; 
And thus, when the rainbow had passed from the sky. 
The thoughts it awoke were too deep to pass by; 
It left my full soul like the wing of a dove. 
And fluttering with pleasune, and fluttering with love. 

I know that each moment of rapture or pain 
But shortens the links in life's mystical chain; 
I know that my form, like that bow from the wave. 
May pass from the earth and lie cold in the grave ; 
Yet oh ! when death's shadows my bosom uncloud — 
When I shrink (rom the thought of the coffin and shroud,. 
May Hope, like the rainbow, my spirit unfold 
In her beautiful pinions of purple and gold 




[The following temperance reading or recitation is a union of Rum's 
Maniac by T. W. Nolt, and The Rum Fiend, written by William II. 
Burleigh and published by J. N. Steams of New York. Having 
secured full permission to use the Rum Fiend for this purpose, Tht 
Rum Maniac is presented as a powerful and effective reading.] 

I saw through the grates of a prison door. 
Handcuffed and chained to the granite floor, 
A man whose maniac eyes did glare 
Through the tangled veil of his matted hair; 
For the hot blood throbbed through every vein, 
And the fires of madness scorched his brain, 
And phantom fiends, a ghastly train, 

With every loathly seeming. 
Came crowding in pairs — in flocks — in swarms 
With laughters and curses, and taunts and jeers. 
To torture his soul and to deafen his ears, — 
And he gnawed his tongue in his fierce despair. 
And howled a curse, or muttered a prayer. 

Whose sad refrain was ever, 
* Blood I blood ! It foams in the cursed bowl ! 
It is on my hands I It stains my soul ! 

It crimsons the sky 

With its terrible dye. 
And the earth which drank it cries ' More ! give more! 
My thirst for the vintage of murder is sort. 

Let it flow — let it swell to a river!'" 
Then, in accents soft and low. 
Murmured he his tale of woe : 
'' Did I slay thee, dearest wife ? 
Thee ? — oh ! better loved than life — 
Thee, whose smile was like the light 
Flashing o'er my being's night, 
Making what was dark and dull 
BeautUul — how beautiful ! 
Thee, whose voice was like a bird's. 
Musical with loving words ; 
And whose heart poured out for me 
Love, exhaustless as the sea. 
Fresh as Eden's morning air. 
Guileless as a seraph's prayer. 
Pure as is the purest gem 
In the New Jerusalem ! 
Did I slay thee? Nay; though mine 

Was the hand that dealt the blow. 


'Twas the demon in the wine 

That has wrought this utter woe ! 
Curses on the wretch who gave 
Me the draught and thee a grave !" 
By his side a good man knelt to pray. 
And strove to lure his soul away 
From its fancies dark to the hope of heaven; 
But still to his every word of prayer 
Some imp would mutter, " Despair I despair 1" 
Till every wave of the pulsing air 

He deemed was stirred 

By a single word 
Reiterant ever — " Despair ! despair !" 
And the wretch gasped faintly, " Too late ! too late t 
I have wooed, so leave me to wed my fate — 
Bereft of hope and reprobate, 
To die unshrined, unforgiven !" 
' Nay," said the man of God, " His grace 
Exceeds our guilt; none seek his face 
Through penitence and prayer in vain." 
From his couch the maniac leaped, his hand 
Stretched with a gesture of command, 
And with a hoarse voice, whose intense 
Yet fierce and passionate eloquence 
Thrilled throngh the hearer's heart and brain, 
AVhile the beaded sweat on his forehead stood. 
And the foam on his lips was tinged with blood. 
He said, in his wild, despairing mood : 

Vex me no more with idle prayer ! 
For other ears your sermons keep ! 

I know the whole of hell's despair — 
Through all my veins its horrors creep! 

I stand within its burning caves, 
Beyond the reach of Mercy's call. 

And hear the dash of fiery waves 
Against its adamantine wall ! 

Why am I thus ? the maniac cried, 

Confined 'mid crazy people? Why? 
I am not mad — knave, stand aside! 

I'll have my freedom, or I'll die ; 
It's not for cure that here I've come; 
I tell thee, all I want is rum — 
I must have rum I 

Sane? yes, and have been all the while; 

Why, then, tormented thus ? 'Tis sad : 
Why chained, and held in duress vile ? 

The men who brought me here were mad; 


I will not stay where spectres come; 
Let me go home; I must have rum, — 
I must have rum ! 

'Tis he ! 'tis he ! my aged sire ! 

What has disturbed thee in tliy grave ? 
Why bend on me that eye of fire ? 

\Vhy torment, since tliou canst not save ? 
Back to the churchyard whence you've comet 
Return, return! but send me rum — 
Oh, send me rum ! 

Why is my mother musing there. 

On that same consecrated spot 
Where once she taught me words of prayer? 

But now she hears, she heeds me not. 
Mute in her winding-sheet she stands ; 
Cold, cold, I feel her icy hands, — 
Her icy hands! 

She's vanished ; but a dearer friend — 
I know her by her angel smile — 

Has come her partner to attend. 
His hours of misery to beguile; 

Haste, haste ! loved one, and set me free; 

'Twere heaven to 'scape from hence to thee,— - 
From hence to thee. 

She does not hear; away she flies. 

Regardless of the chain I wear. 
Back to her mansion in the skies. 

To dwell wiih kindred spirits there. 
Why has she gone ? Why did she come! 
O, I'm ruined ! Give me rum, — 
Oh, give me rum 1 

Hark, hark! for bread my children cry, 

A cry that drinks my spirits up; 
But 'tis in vain, in vain to try; 

Oh, give me back the drunlcard's cup ! 
My lips are parched, my heart is sad ; 
This cursed chain ! 'twill make me mad, — 
'Twill malce me mad! 

It won't wash out, that crimson stain! 

I've scoured those spots, and made them white ; 
Blood reappears again, again, 

Soon as the morning brings the light I 


When from my sleepless couch I come, 
To see, to feel — oh, give me rum ! 
I muGt have rum. 

'Twas there I heard his piteous cry, 

And saw his last imploring look; 
But steeled my heart, and bade him die. 

Then from him golden treasures took; 
Accursed treasure ! stinted sum ! 
Reward of guilt ! Give, give me rum, — - 
Oil, give me rum ! 

Hark ! still I hear ihat piteous wail ; 

Before my eyes his spectre stands; 
And when it frowns on me I quail ! 

Oh, I would fly to other lands; 
But, that pursuing, there 'twould come ; 
There's no escape ! Oh, give me rum,-^ 
Oh, give me rum ! 

Guard, guard those windows! bar that door' 

Yonder I armed bandits see ! 
They've robbed my house of all its store. 

And now return to murder me ; 
They're breaking in ; don't let them come! 
Drive, drive them hence 1 but give me rum,— 
Oh, give me rum ! 

See how that rug those reptiles soil; 

They're crawling o'er me in my bed; 
I feel their clammy, snaky coil 

On every limb — around my head ; 
With forked tongue I see them play ; 
I hear them hiss — tear them away, — 
Tear them away ! 

A fiend ! a fiend, with many a dart, 

Glares on me with his bloodshot eye. 
And aims his missiles at my heart — 

Oh ! whither, whither shall I fly ? 
Fly ? No, it is no time for flight ; 

I know thy wicked purpose well ; 
Avaunt I avaunt, thou hated sprite. 

And hie thee to thy native hell I 

He's gone, he's gone I and I am free : 

He's gone, the faithless, braggart liar; 
He said he'd come to summon me — 

See there again, my bed's on fire ! 


Fire ! water ! help ! Oh haste, I die I 
The flames are kindling round my head! 

This smoke! — I'm strangling! — cannot flyi 
Oh ! snatch me from this burning bed ! 

There, there again ! that demon's there. 

Crouching to make a fresh attack ; 
See how his flaming eyeballs glare I 

Thou fiend of fiends, what's brought thee back? 
Eack in thy car ? for whom ? for where ? 

J le smiles, he beckons me to come : 
What are those words thou'st written there? 

" Iti hell they never want for rum !" 

Not want for rum ? Read that again ! 

I feel the spell ! haste, drive me down 
Where rum is free, where revellers reign. 

And I can wear the drunkard's crown. 
Accept thy proffer, fiend ? I will ; 

And to thy drunken banquet come; 
Fill the great caldron from thy still 

^^■llh boiling, burning, fiery rum. 

There will I quench this horrid thirst; 

With boon companions drink and dweh 
Nor plead fur rum, as here 1 must — 

There's liberty to drink in hell. 
Thus raved the maniac rum had made ; 

Then, starting from his haunted bed, 
On, on ! ye demons, on ! he said. 

Then silent sunk, — his soul had fled. 

Scoffer, beware ! he in that shroud 
Was once a temperate drinker, too. 
And felt as safe, declaimed as loud 
Against intemperance as you ; 
And yet, ere long, I saw him stand 
Refusing, on the brink of hell, 
A pardon from his Saviour's hand, 
Then plunging down with fiends to dwell. 
From thence, methinks, I hear him say, 
•' Dash down the chalice, break the spell. 
Stop while you can and where you may; 
There's no escape when once in hell." 
O God, thy gracious spirit send 
That we the mocker's snares may fly. 
And thus escape that dreadful end — 
That death eternal drunkards die. 



[The fir«t half of each stanza should be subdued; the last h .If ef- 
ficient and full of assurance.] 

The w.iy is dark, my Father! Cloud on cloud 
's gathering thickly o'er my head, and loud 
he thunders roar above me. See, I stand 
ike one bewildered ! Kalher, take my hand, 
And through the gloom 
Lead safely home 
Thy child! 
The w.iy is dark, my child ! but leads to light. 
I would not always have thee walk by sight. 
My dealings now thou canst not understand. 
I meant it so ; but I will take thy, 
And through the gloom 
Lead safely home 
My child 1 

The day goes fast, my Father I and the night 
Is growing darkly down. My faithless sight 
Sees ghostly visions. Fears, a spectral band. 
Encompass me. O Father I take my hand, 
.\nd from the night 
Lead up to light 
Thy child ! 
The day goes fast, my child ! But is the night 
Darker to me than day ? In me is light ! 
Keep close to me, and every spectral band 
Of fears shall vanish. I will take thy haii!. 
And through the night 
Lead up to light 
My child I 

The way is long, my Father I and my soul 
Longs for the rest and quiet of the goal : — 
■While yet I journey through this weary land, 
Keep me from wandering. Father, take my hand; 

Quickly and straight 

Lead to Heaven's gate 
Thy childl 


The way is long, my child ! but it shall be 
Not one step longer than is best for thee ; 
And thou shalt know, at last, when thou shall stand 
Safe at the goal, how I did take thy hand. 
And quick and straight 
Lead to Heaven's gate 
My child ! 

The path is rough, my Father ! many a thorn 
Has pierced me ; and my weary feet, all torn 
And bleeding, mark the way. Yet thy command 
Bids me press forward. Father, take my hand ; 
Then, safe and blest, 
Lead up to rest 
Thy child ! 
The path is rough, my child ! But oh ! how sweet 
Will be the rest, for weary pilgrims meet. 
When thou shalt reach the borders of that land 
To which I lead thee, as I take thy hand; 
And safe and blest 
With me shall rest 
My child ! 

The throng is great, ray Father ! many a doubt, 
And fear, and danger, compass me about ; 
And foes oppress me sore. I cannot stand 
Or go alone. O Father ! take my hand. 
And through the throng 
Lead safe along 
Thy child! 
The throng is great, my child! But at thy side 
Thy father walks; then be not terri6ed, 
For I am wi(h thee ; will thy foes command 
To let thee freely pass ; — will take thy hand, 
And through the throng 
Lead safe along 
My child! 

The cross is heavy. Father ! I have borne 
It long, and still do bear it. Let my worn 
And fainting spirit rise to that blest land 
Wliere crowns aie given. Father, take my hand; 

And reaching down 

Lead to the crown 
Thy child! 


The cross is heavy, child ! Yet there was One 
Who bore a heavier cross for thee ; my Son , 
My wel!-belovecl. For him bear thine; and stand 
With him at la«t ; and from thy Father's hand. 
Thy cross laid down, 
Receive a crown, 
My child! 

Henry N. Cobb. 


[Simple description — pathos — impersonation.] 

The san was goincj down. 

And its rays o'er the landscape wen 

Standing upon an old tent 

That stood, tattered and brown. 

Half in the shade of a tree; 

And in the distance you could see 

Two miners coming irom their toil, and talking 

In low tones, while homeward walking. 

Look ! within the shelter lies a mnn 

On a rude couch, beneath a blanket. 

Hi"; suffering face desolate and wan; 

There near him is the tin pan 

Filled at moin with water; fevered, he drank it 

Soon as his companions left, after rough comfort spoken. 

For their toil. There lies his food all unbroken. 

And the little flask of spirits close at hand; 

And round about the canvas-shelter st.ind 

Shovels and miner's boots, earth-worn and stained. 

Stretched here, for weary days he had remained, 

Weak from the fever, helpless as a child. 

With naught to see without but rocky wild; 

Within, these objects in his canvas-room. 

The day was so long, would they never come ? 

And the visioii of his distant, happy home 

He saw wh^n he closet! his weary eyes. 

From which the tears trickled down his thin cheek; 

" Oh, God ! that I should leave dear ones, to seek 

Here in these barren wilds the golden prize." 

How his expectant, eager gaze ran o'er 

The little space 'twixt his couch and the tent door. 

*' Will they never come! — the sun is going dowu. 

And I am going too ; 'tis terrible to die alone, 

And no one here to take my message home; 


Ii's getting darker, too, — footsteps ! here they come, — 

Oh, Tom, you're here at last; I had be^un to fear 

That you forgot; — some water." Both come near. 

" I'm going, boys ! Carry this ring and curl, 

To my Mary, Jack, and her little girl; 

You'll do it? Thanks! Tom, good by." 

■• Cheer up, Joe; don't take on so, you mustn't die !" 

" I must; but remember — these to Mary — your — word — keejv 

It's getting dark — so tired, — yes — yes — I'll sleep. 

Tom, I can't see, but feel your hand the same." 

The smile of peace, his poor, wan face o'ercnme ; 

One deep, sad sigh ; — he slept, indeed, that blest repose 

That in this world no hour of waking knows. 

John Hanover. 


[This parody on Maud yl/?///,?/- should be read in a tone of simple 
norrotion, avoiding a measured style. Impersonate wherever neces- 

Kate Ketchem, on a winter's night. 
Went to a party, dressed in white. 

Her chignon in a net of gold 

Was about as large as ihcy ever sold. 

Gayly she went because her "pap" 
Was supposed to be a rich old chap. 

But when by chance her glances fell 

On a friend who had lately married well. 

Her spirits sunk, and a vague unrest 
And a nameless longing filled her breast — 

A wish she wouldn't have had made known. 
To have an establishment of her own. 

Tom Fudge came slowly through the throng. 
With chestnut hair, worn pretty long. 

lie saw Ka'e Ketchem in the crowd. 

And, linowing lier slightly, slopped and bowed; 


Then asked her to give him a single flower. 
Saying he'd think it a priceless dower. 

Out from those witli which she was decked 
She took the poorest she could select, 

And blushed as she fjave it, looking down 
To call attention to her gown. 

" Thanks," said Fudge, and he thought how dear 
Flowers must be at this time of year. 

Then several charming remarks he made, 
Asked if she sang, or danced, or played ; 

And being exhausted, inquired whether 

She thought it was going to be pleasant weather. 

And Kate displayed her jewelry. 
And dropped her lashes becomingly; 

And listened, wiih no attempt to disguise 
The admiration in her eyes. 

At last, like one who has nothing to say, 
He turned around and walked away. 

Kate Ketchem smiled, and said " You bet 
I'll catch that Fudge and his money yet. 

" He's rich enough to keep me in clothes, 
And I think 1 could manage him as I chose. 

" He could aid my falher as well as not. 
And buy my brother a splendid yacht. 

" My mother for money should never fret, 
And all that it cried for the baby should get ; 

" And after that, with what he could spare, 
I'd make a show at a charity fair." 

Tom Fudge looked back as he crossed the sill. 
And saw Kate Ketchem standing siill. 

" A girl more suited to my mind 
It isn't an easy thing to find ; 


" And everything that she has to wear 
Proves her as rich as she is fair. 

" Would she were mine, and that I to-day 
Had the old man's cash my debts to pay; 

" No creditors with a long account, 
No tradesmen waiting *that little amount;* 

" But all my scores paid up when due 
By a father-in-law as rich as a Jew !" 

Bat he thought of her brother, not worth a straw. 
And her mother, that would be his, in law; 

So, undecided, he walked along, 
And Kate was left alone in the throng. 

But a lawyer smiled, whom he sought by stealth. 
To ascertam old Ketcheni's wealth; 

And as for Kate, she schemed and planned 
Till one of the dancers claimed her hand. 

lie married her for her father's cash — 
.She married him to cut a dash. 

But as to paying his debts, do you know 
The father couldn't see it so ; 

And at hints for help Kate's hazel eyes 
Looked out in their innocent surprise. 

And when Tom thought of the way he had wed. 
He longed for a single life instead. 

And closed his eyes in a sulky mood, 
Regretting the days of his bachelorhood; 

And said in a sort of reckless vein, 
" I'd like to see her catch me again, 

" If I were free as on that night 
I saw Kate Ketchem dressed in white 1" 

She ivedded him to be rich and gay; 
But husband and children didn't pay. 


He wasn't the prize she hoped to draw, 
And wouldn't live with his mother-in-law. 

And oft when she had to coax and pout 
In order to get him to take her out. 

She thought how very attentive and bright 
He seemed at the party that winter's night— 

Of his l^gh, as soft as a breeze of the south, 
('Twas now ou the other side of his mouth :) 

How he praised her dress and gems in his talk. 
As he took a careful account of slock. 

Sometimes she hated the very walls- 
Hated her friends, her dinners, and calls: 

Till her weak affections to hatred turned. 
Like a dying tallow candle burned. 

And for him who sat there, her peace to mar. 
Smoking his everlasting cigar — 

He wasn't the man she thought she saw. 
And grief was duty, and hate was law. 

So she took up her burden with a groan. 
Saying only, " I might have known !" 

Alas for Kate ! and alas for Fudge ! 
Though I do not owe them any grudge j 

And alas for any that find to their shame 
That two can play at their little game ! 

For of all hard things to bear and grin. 
The hardest is knowing you're taken in. 

Ah well 1 as a general thing we fret 
About the one we didn't get; 

But I think we needn't make a fuss 
If the one we don't want didn't get ii-;. 

Pho;i!E Ca-RBY, in TIai-per's Bazar, 



[Impersonate. Let the interruptions be sudden, and the change! 
marked. The story should be told in a natural manner.] 

Mr. Fogg has a strong tendency to exaggeration in con- 
versation, and he gave a striking iUustration of this in a 
story that he related one day when I called at his house. 
Fogg was telling me about an incident that occurred in a 
neighboring town a few days before, and this is the way 
he related it : 

"You see old Bradley over here is perfectly crazy on 
the subject of gases and the atmosphere and such things — ■ 
absolutely wild ; and oca day he was disputing with Green 
about how high up in the air life could be sustained, and 
Bradley said an animal could live about forty million 
miles above the earth if — " 

" Not forty millions, my dear," interposed Mrs. Fogg; 
"only forty miles, he said." 

"Forty, was it? Thank you. Well, sir, old Green, 
you know, said that was ridiculous; and he said he'd bet 
Bradley a couple of hundred thousand dollars that life 
couldn't be sustained half that way up, and so — " 

" Wilberforce, you are wrong; he only oifered to bet 
fifty dollars," said Mrs. Fogg. 

"Well, anyhow, Bradley took him up quicker'n a wink, 
and they agreed to send up a cat in a balloon to decide 
tlie bet. So what does Bradley do but buy a balloon 
about twice as big as our barn and begin to — " 

"ft was only about ten feet in diameter, Mr. Adeler; 
Wilberforce forgets." 

" — Begin to inflate her. When she was filled, it took 
eighty men to hold her; and — " 

"Eighty men, Mr. Fogg!" said Mrs. F. "Why, you 
know Mr. Bradley held the balloon himself." 

"He did, did he? Oh, very well; what's the odds? 
And when everything was ready, they brought out Brad- 
ley's tomcat and put it in the basket and tied it in, so it 
couliln't jump, you know. There were about one hundred 
tiiousand peojjie looking on; and when they ie^ %o, yea 
never heard such — " 


" Tliere was not one more than two hundred people 
there, ' said Mrs. Fogg; " I counted them myself." 

" Oil, don't bother me ! — I say, you never heard such a 
yell as the balloon went scooting up into the sky, pretty 
near out of sight. Bradley said she went up about one 
thousand miles, and — now, don't interrupt me, Maria; I 
know what the man said — and that cat, mind you, howling 
like a hundred fog-horns, so's you could heard her from 
here to Peru. Well, sir, when she was up so's she looked 
as small as a phi-head something or other burst. I duniio 
know how it was, but pretty soon down came that balloon, 
a-hurtling toward the earth at the rate of fifty miles a 
minute, and old — " 

"Mr. Fogg, you know that balloon came down as 
gently as — " 

"Oh, do hush up ! Women don't know anything about 
such things. — .\n(l old Bradley, he had a kind of register- 
ing thermometer fixed in the basket along with that cat — 
some sort of a patent machine; cost thousands of dollars — 
and he was expecting to examine it; and Green had an 
idea he'd lift out a dead cat and take in the stakes. When 
all of a sudden, as she came pelting down, a tornado struck 
her — now, Maria, what in thunder are you staring at nie 
in that way for? It was a tornado — a regular cyclone — 
and it struck her and jainmed her against the lightning-rod 
on the Baptist church-steeple; and there she stuck — stuck 
on that spire about eight hundred feet up in the air, and 
looked as if she had come there to stay." 

"You may get just as mad as you like," said Mrs. Fogg, 
" but I am positively certain that steeple's not an inch 
over ninety-five feet." 

" Maria, I wish to gracious you'd go up stairs and look 
after the children. — Well, about half a minute after she 
struck, out stepped that tomcat onto the weathercock. It 
made Green sick. And just then the hurricane reached 
the weathercock, and it began to revolve six hundred or 
seven hundred times a minute, the cat howling until you 
couldn't hear yourself speak. — Now, Maria, you've had 
your put; you keep quiet. — That cat stayed on the weather- 
cock about two months — " 

"Ml-. Fogg, that's an awful story) it only happened 
last Tuesday." 


"Never mind her," said Mr. Fogg, confidentially. — 
" And on Sunday the way that cat carried on and yowled, 
with its fail pointing due east, was so awful that they 
couldn't have church. And Sunday afternoon the preacher 
told Br.idley if he didn't get that cat down he'd sue him 
for one million dollars damages. So Bradley got a gun 
and shot at the cat fourteen hundred times. — Now you 
didn't count 'em, Mai a, and I did. — And he banged the 
top of the steeple all to splinters, and at last fetched down 
the cat, shot to rags; »rd in her stomach he found his 
thermometer. She'd ate it on her way up, and it stood at 
eleven hundred degrees, so old — " 

"No thermometer ever rt^od at such a figure as that," 
exclaimed Mrs. Fogg. 

"Oh, well," shouted Mr. Fogg, indignantly, "if you 
think you can tell the story better than I can, why don't 
you tell it? You're enough t> worry the life out of a 

Tlien Fogg slimmed the door and went out, and I left. 
/ don't know ^hetlier Bradley go^ Uio stakes or not. 


[This exercise in articulation and jnodidaii&n should be read in 
such a manner as to make the sound seem an echo to *he sense. The 
poem is a reply to the questiun, " How does the wai^r cone down at 
Lodore ?"] 

Here it comes sparkling, 
And there it lies darkling; 
Here smoking and frothing, 
Its tumult and wrath in, 
It hastens along, conflicting, and strong. 
Now striking and raging, 
As if a war waging, 
* Its caverns and rocks among. 

Rising and leaping. 
Sinking and creeping, 
Swelling and dinging, 
Showering and springing, 

* A celebrated fall on Derwcnt-Water, in Cumberland, Enj^^ai* 


Eddying and whisking, 
Spouting and frisking, 
Twining and twisting 

Around and around, — 
Collecting, disjecting. 

With endless rebound; 
Smiting and hghting, 
A sight to delight in. 
Confounding, astounding, 
Dizzying and deafening the ear with its sound. 
Receding and speeding, 
And shocking and rocking. 
And whizzing and hissing. 
And dripping and skipping. 
And whitening and brightening. 
And quivering and shivering. 
And shining and twining, 
And rattling and battling. 
And shaking and quaking, 
And pouring and roaring. 
And waving and raving, 
And tossing and crossing, 
And flowing and growing. 
And hurrying and skurrying, 
And dinning and spinning. 
And foaming and roaming, 
And dropping and hopping, 
And heaving and cleaving. 

And driving and riving and striving, 

And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling 

And sounding and bounding and rounding. 

And bubbling and troubling and doubling, 

Dividing and gliding and sliding. 

And grumbling and rumbling and tumbling. 

And gleaming and streaming and steaming riid beaming. 

And rushing and flushing and brushing anc{ gushing, 

And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping. 

And curling and whirling and purling and twirling. 

Retreating and beating and meeting and sheeting. 

Delaying and straying aiid playingjand spraying, 

Advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing, 

Recoiling, turm oiling and toiling and boiling, 

And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing; 

And so never ending, but always descending. 
Sounds and motions forever and ever are 1)lending, 
All at once and all o'er, with a migliiy u]iroar ;— 
And this way the water comes down at Lodore. 

Robert Southet. 



[A vigorous action of the imagination will do much toward suggest, 
ing the proper form of expression.] 

^Vhen tlie humid showers gather over all the starry spheres. 
And the melancholy darkness gently weeps in rainy tears, 
'Tis a joy to press the pillow of a cottage chamber bed, 
And listen to the patter of the soft rain overhead. 

Every tinkle on the shingles has an echo in the heart. 

And a thousand dreary fancies into busy being start ; 

And a thousand recollections weave their bright hues into woof. 

As I listen to the patter of the soft rain on the roof. 

There in fancy comes my mother, as she used to years agone. 
To survey the infant sleepers ere she left them till the dawn. 
I can see her bending o'er me, as I listen to the strain 
Which is played upon the shingles by the patter of the rain. 

Then my little seraph sister, with her wings and waving hair. 
And her bright-eyed, cherub brother — a serene, angelic pair — • 
Glide around my wakeful pillow with the.r praise or mild reproof, 
As 1 listen to the murmur of the soft rain on the roof. 

And another comes to thrill me with her eyes' deliciou"^ blue. 
I forget, as gazing on her, that her heart was all untrue : 
I remember that I loved her as I ne'er may love again. 
And my heart's quick pulses vibrate to the patter of the rain. 

There is naught in art's bravuras that can work with such a spell 
In the spirit's pure, deep fountains, whence the holy passions swell. 
As that m.elody of nature — that subdued, subduing strain 
Which is played upon the shingles by the patter of the rain ! 

CoATES Kinney. 


[Thi '' two tones" should be clearly brought out.] 

Mr. Orator Puff had two tones in his voice. 

The one squeaking thus, and the other down so ; 
In each sentence he uttered he gave you your choice, 
For one half was B alt, and the rest G below. 
O. Or.-itor PuH, 
One voice lor an orator's surely enough 1 


But he still talked away, 'spite of coughs and of frowns. 
So distracting all ears with his ups and his downs, 
That a wag once, on hearing the orator say, — 
" My voice is for war" asked him,—" Which of them, pray ?" 
O, Orator Puff, 
One voice for an orator's surely enough ! 

Reeling homeward one evening, top-heavy with gin. 

And rehearsing his speech on the weight of the crown. 
He tripped near a sawpit, and tumbled right in, 

" Sinkingyi^jr/," the last words as his noddle came down. 
O, Orator Puff, 
One voice for an orator's surely enough ! 

"Oh! safe!" he exclaimed, in his he-and-she tones, 
" //elj> me out ! help me out ! I have broken my bones /" 
** Plelp you oui !" said a Paddy, who p.issed — " what a bother ! 
Why, there's two of you there; can't you help one another?" 
O, Orator Puff, 
One voice for an orator's surely enough ! 

Thomas Moore. 


[Affording opportunity for many varieties of the calling voice.'\ 

There is enjoyment in the pathless woods. 

The silent valleys yield a trnnquil treat. 
Thus thought I as I moved with all my goods 

To an apartment in a quiet street. 

No thoroughfare allured the busy throng; 

One end was finished off with railings neat; 
No public vehicles would pass along; 

It formed a culde-sac — this quiet street. 

I took possession of the second floor, 

A two-pair front — not elegant, but neat; 
What could a peaceful poet wish for more. 

Than humble lodgings in a quiet street? 

I wooed the Muse one sunny afternoon, 
I'd pen and ink and everything complete, 

Prepnred to write a sonnet to the moon,^ 
Fancy grows vigorous in a quiet street. 


'' Hail, Luna !" — But what is that ? A distant sound 
Appears my auditory sense to greel ; 
It cannot be — " Hail, Luna!" — I'll be bound, 
An organ's got into this quiet street. 

Ko matter, — 'twill be over very soon ; 

There's a policeman somewhere on the beat. 
Kurk ! — there's a trumpet, sadly out of tune. 

Waking the echoes of this quiet street. 

" Parian! pour la Syril" the organ plays; 

And now a voice more powerful than sweet 
Hoarsely invokes the "Light of Other Days'''— 
A ballad-singer's got into the street. 

The bands begin a Polka — sounds increase — 
** Sckiind edishun — Rooshians ?V. retreat.** 
" Hail, Luna !" — no, not that. — Hi, there, police. 
Is this permitted in a quiet street ? 

Silence your brazen throats, you grcen-baize band; 

Avaunt, you tra6ficker in feline meat; 
You organ-grinder, hold your impious hand. 

Nor dare to desecrate this quiet street. 

" Where the bright fountain, sparkling, never ceases 
Its gush of limpid music," — " IVa -ter — creeses /" 

" There let me linger, stretched beneath the trees, 
Tracing in air fantastic" — "Imageesl" 

*' What varied dreams the vagrant fancy hatches, 

A playful Leda v/ith her Juve-born" — " Alatchet P' 

" She opens her treasure-cells, like Portia's caskets. 

And bids me choose her" — "Baskets, any baskets !" 

" In thoughts so bright the aching sense they blind. 

In their own lustrous languor" — "ICnives to grind T* 

" Visions like those the Interpreter, of Bunyan's, 

Displayed to Mercy" and young Matlhew" — "Onions !'' 

" There is a spell that none can chase away, 

Frrjm scenes once visited by" [Sing.] ' Old Dog Tray f* 
j " There is a charm whose power must ever blend 

' The past and present in its" — " Chairs to mend!" 

" Still Pan and Syrinx wander thro' the groves, 

Still Zephyr moves" — " Shavings for your stoves !" 
"And still unbanished filters on the ear," — 

"Any beer! A-n-y B-e-e-r V* 


" Aye, and forever, while this planet rolls. 

To its sphere-music" — " Mackerel or Soles T' 

*' While crushed Enceladus in torment fjroans 

Beneath his Etna shrieking" — " Stones, hearthstones T' 

" While laves the tideless sea the glittering strand 

Of Grecia"— [Sing.] " ' Tis hard to give the hand r 

" Tlie spot they visited is holy ground, 

And echo answers" — [Sing.] " Bobbing all around P' 

" Hail, Luna!"— "y]/;(^«j.'"— " Goddess of the Night!" 
'^Charcoal!" — " Thou silver orb!" — Let me retreat ; 
Another line I'll not attempt to write : 
This very day I'll leave this quiet street. 


[Picture the scene — use care in the descriptive parts — impersonate.] 

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 deathbed of her child : 
A little worn-out creature, his once bright eyes grown dim : 
]t was a collier's wife and child, they called hirn Little Jim. 

And oh ! to see the briny tears fast hurrying down her cheek. 
As she offered up the prayer, in thought, she was afraid to speak 
Lest she might waken one she loved far better than her life; 
Fur she had all a mother's heart, had that poor collier's w ife. hands uplified, see, she kneels beside the sufferer's bed, 
And prays that He would spare her boy, and take hersell instead. 

She gets her answer from the child: soft fall 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 cry.'' 

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 d=a'. 
Had uttered the last words she njight 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 w;-- i. 


lie felt tliat all was over ; lie knew his child was dead , 
He tool< the candle in his hand and walked toward the bed; 
His quivering lips gave token of the grief he'd fain conceal. 
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. 


[Excellent for vocal culture. The second line of each stanza is an 
ii.dcx showing how it should be read. Be true to the spirit of the 
SLlclion, and pay great attention to bringing out the full power ot 
each word. Many repetitions in the piece have been omitted, believ- 
ing that it would be of advantage to the general reader.] 

Hear the sledges with the bells. 
Silver bells ! 
What a world of merriment their melody foretells! 
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle. 

In the icy air of night! 
While the stars that oversprinkle 
All the heavens seem to twinkle 
With a crystalline delight; 
Keeping time. 
In a sort of Runic rhyme, 
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells 

From the bells. 
From the jingling and the tinkling of tlie bells. 

Hear the mellow wedding bells. 
Golden bells ! 
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells I 
Through the balmy air of night. 
How they ring out their delight 
From the molten golden notes. 

And all in tune. 
What a liquid ditty floats 
To the turtle dove, that lis ens, while she gloats 
On the moon ! 
Oh! from out the sounding cells, 
ft'liat a gush of euphony voluminously wells, 
How it swells! 
How it dwells 
On the future ! — how it tells 
Of the rapture that impels 


To the swinging and the ringing 
Of the bells. 
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells I 

Hear the loud alarum bells, 
Brazen bells ! 
What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells I 
In the start'ed ear of night 
How they scream out their affright! 
Too much horrified to speak, 
Tljey can only shriek, shriek, 
Out of tune. 
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the flie. 
In a mad expostulation tvith the deaf and frantic fire. 
Leaping higher, higher, higher. 
With a desperate desire, 
And a resolute endeavor 
Now — now to sit, or never. 
By the side of the pale-faced moon. 
Oh ! the bells ! 
What a tale their terror tells 
Of despair! 

How they clang, and clash, and roar! 
What a horrid outpour 
On the bosom ol the palpitating air! 
Yet the ejr it fully knows. 
By the twanging 
And the clanging. 
How the danger ebbs and flows; 
Ye^the ear distinctly tells, 
In the jangling 
And the wrangling, 
How the danger sinks and swells, 
B) "^e sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bellsj 
In the clamor and the clangor of the bells ! 

Hear the tolling of the bells. 
Iron bells! 
What a world of solemn thought their monody compeUi 
In the silence of the night 
How we shiver with affright 
At the melancholy menace of their tone ! 
For every sound that floats 
Krom the rust within their throats 

Is a groan. 
And the people — ah! the people! 
They that dwell up in the steeple. 
All alone, 


And who, tolling, tolling, toiiitifj, 

In that muffled monotone, 
Feel a glory in so rolling 

On the human heart a stone : 
They are neither man nor woman. 
They aie neither brute nor human; 

They are ghouls; 
And their king it is who toU^ 
And he rolls 
A paean from the bells ! 
And his merry bosom swells 

With the psean of the bells I 
And he dances, ami he yells; 

Keeping time, 
In a sort of Runic rhyme. 
To the pfean of the bells, 
Keeping time 
As he knells, 
In a happy Runic rhyme. 
To the rolling of the bells. 
To the tolling of the bells, 
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. 

Edgar A. PoE. 


[The following alliterative exercise, aside from its novel character, 
will afford opportunity for practice in difiicult-^iticulalion.J 

Shrewd Simon Short sewed shoes. Seventeen summers' 
speeding storms, succeeding sunshine, successively saw 
Simon's small shabby shop standing staunch, saw Simon's 
self-same sign still swinging, silently specifying : "Simon 
Short, Smithfield's sole surviving shoemaker. Shoes 
sewed, soled superfinely." Simon's spry sedulous spouse, 
Sally Short, sewed shirts, stitched sheets, stuffed sofas. 
Simon's six stout sturdy sons, — Seth, Samuel, Stephen, 
Saul, Shadrach, Silas — sold sundries. Sober Seth sold 
sugar, starch, spices ; Simple Sam sold saddles, stirrups, 
screws; Sagacious Stephen sold silks, satins, shawls; Skep- 
tical Saul sold silver salvers, silver spoons; Selfish Shadrach 
sold shoe strings, soaps, saws, skates; Slack Silas sold 
Sally Short's stuffed sofas. 

Some seven summers since, Simon's second son, Simuel, 


saw Sophia Sophronia Spriggs somewhere. Sweet, sen- 
sible, smart Sophia Sophronia Spriggs. Sam soon showed 
strange symptoms. Sam seldom stayed storing, selling 
saddles. Sam sighed sorrowfully, sought Sophia Sophro- 
nia's society, sang several serenades slily. Simon stormed, 
scolded severely, said Sam seemed so silly, singing such 
shameful, senseless songs. 

"Strange Sam should slight such splendid summer 
sales," said Simon. "Strutting spendthrift! shatter- 
brained simpleton !" 

"Softly, softly, sire," said Sally; "Sam's smitten — 
Sam's spied sweetheart." 

" Sentimental schoolboy !" snarled Simon ; " Smitten ! 
Stop such stuff!" 

Simon sent Sally's snuff-box spinning, seizing Sally's 
scissors, smashed Sally's spectacles, scattering several 
spools. "Sneaking scoundrel ! Sam's shocking silliness 
shall surcease!" Scowling Simon stopped speaking, start- 
ing swiftly shopward. Silly sighed sadly. Summoning 
Sam, she spoke sweet sympathy. 

"Sam," said she, "sire seems singularly snappy; so, 
sonny, stop strolling sidewalks, stop smoking segars, 
spending specie superfluously ; stop sprucing so ; stop 
singing serenades — stop short: sell saddles,' sonny; sell 
saddles sensibly; see Sophia Sophronia Spriggs soon; 
she's sprightly, she's staple, so solicit, sure; so secure 
Sophia speedily, Sam." 

" So soon ; so soon ?" said Sam, standing stock still. 

"So soon I surely," said Sally, smiling, "specially 
since sire shows such spirit." 

So Sam, somewhat scared, sauntered slowly, shaking 
stupendously. Sam soliloquises: 

"Sophia Sophronia Spriggs Short — Sophia Sophronia 
Short, Samuel Short's spouse — sounds splendid ! Suppose 
she should say — she sha'n't !" 

Soon Sam spied Sophia starching shirts, singing softly. 
Seeing Sam she stopped starching; saluted Sam smilingly ; 
Sam stammered shockingly. 

" Sp-sp-splendid summer season, Sophia." 

"Somewhat sultry," suggested Sophia. 

" Sar-sartin, Sophia," said Sam. (Silence seventeen 


" Selling saddles still, Sam?" 

" Sar-sar-sartin," said Sam, starting suddenly. "Sea- 
son's somewhat soporific," said Sam, stealthily staunching 
streaming sweat, shaking sensibly. 

"Sartin," said Sophia, smiling significantly. "Sip 
some sweet sherbet, Sam." (Silence sixty seconds.) 

" Sire shot sixty sheldrakes, Saturday," said Sophia. 

"Sixty? sho!" said Sam. (Silence seventy-seven sec- 

"See sister Susan's sunflowers," said Sophia, sociably 
scattering such stiff silence. 

Sophia's sprightly sauciness stimulated Sam strangely: 
so Sam suddenly spoke sentimentally: "Sophia, Susan's 
sunflowers seem saying, ' Samuel Short, Sophia Sophronia 
Spriggs, stroll serenely, seek some sequestered spot, some 
sylvan shade. Sparkling spring shall sing soul-soothing 
strains; sweet songsters shall silence secret sighing; super- 
angelic sylphs shall — ' " 

Sophia snickered : so Sam stopped. 

"Sophia," said Sam, solemnly. 

"Sam," said Sophia. 

" Sophia, stop smiling. Sam Short's sincere. Sam's 
seeking some sweet spouse, Sophia." 

" Speak, Sophia, speak I Such suspense speculates sor- 

" Seek sire, Sam ; seek sire." 

So Sam sought sire Spriggs. Sire Spriggs said, " Sartin." 


[Let the characters be well drawn and Warren's amazement well 

*T\vas in my easy chair at home. 

About a week ago, 
I sat and puffed my light cigar, 

As usual, you must know. 

I mused upon the Pilgrim flock. 

Whose luck it was to land 
Upon almost the only Rock 

Among the Plymouth sand. 


In my mind's eye, I saw them leave 

Their weather-beaten bark — 
Before them spread the wintry wilds, 

Behind, rolled Ocean dark. 

Alone that noble handful stood 

While savage foes lurked nigh— 
Their creed and watchword, "Trust in God," 

And " keep your powder dry." 

Imagioation's pencil then 

That first stern winter painted, 
When more than half their number died. 

And stoutest spirits fainted. 

A tear unbidden filled one eye, 

My smoke had filled the other — 
One sees strange sights at such a time. 

Which quite the senses bother. 

I knew I was alone — but lo ! 

(Let him who dares, deride me); 
I looked, and drawing up a chair, 

Down sat a man beside me. 

His dress was ancient, and his air 

Was somewhat strange and foreign; 
He civilly returned my stare. 

And said, " I'm Richard Warren. 

"You'll find my name among the list 
Of hero, sage and martyr. 
Who, in the Mayflower's cabin, signed 
The first New England charter. 

" I could some curious facts impart — 
Terhaps, some wise suggestions — 
But ihen I'm bent on seeing sights. 
And running o'er with questions." 

" Ask on," said I , " I'll do my best 
To give you information, 
AVhether of private men you ask. 
Or our renowned nation." 

Said he, "First tell me what is that 

In your compartment narrow, 
Which seems to dry my eyeballs up. 

And scorch my very marrow." 


His finger pointed to the grate ; 

Sail! I, " Tiiat's Lehigh coal, 
Dug from the earth," — he shoolc his head-^ 

" It is, upon my soul !" 

I then took up a bit of sticlc. 

One end as black as night, 
And rubbed it quick across the hearth. 

When, lol a sudden light! 

My guest drew back, uprolled his eyes. 
And strove his breath to catch ; 
" What necromancy's that ?" he cried. 
Quoth I, " A friction match." 

Upon a pipe just overhead 

I turned a little screw, 
When forth, with instantaneous flash. 

Three streams of lightning flew. 

Up rose my guest : •' Now Heaven me save," 
Aloud he shouted ; then, 
" O, what is that ?" " 'Tis gas,'' said I, 
"We call it hydrogen." 

Then forth into the fields we strolled; 

A train came thundering by. 
Drawn by the snorting iron steed 

Swifter than eagles fly. 

Rumbled the wheels, the whistle shrieked. 
Far streamed the smoky cloud ; 

Echoed the hills, the valleys shook. 
The flying forest bowed. 

Down on his knees, with hand upraised 
In worship, Warren fell ; 
•■Great is the Lnrd our God," cried he; 
" He doeth all things well. 

" I've seen his chariots of fire. 
The horsemen, too, thereof; 
Oh may I ne'er forget his ire. 
Nor at his threatenings scoff." 

" Rise up, my friend, ri^e up," said I, 
" Your terrors all are vain. 
That was no chariot of the sky, 
'Twas the New Voik mail train.'' 


We stood within a chamber small — 

Men came the news to know 
From Worcester, Springfield and New York, 

Texas, and Mexico. 

It came — it went — silent and sure — 
lie stared, smiled, burst out laughing ; 
•"What witchcraft's that?" "It's what we call 
Magnetic telegraphing." 

And th^ji we stepped into the street; 

Said Warren, " What is that 
Which moves along across the way 

As smoothly as a cat ? 

" I mean the thing upon two legs, 
With feathers on its head — 
A monstrous hump helow its waist 
Large as a feather-bed. 

" It has the gift of speech, I hear; 

But sure it can't be human !" 
" My amiable friend," said I, 

" That's what we call a woman !" 

" A woman ! no — it cannot be," 

Sighed he, with voice that faltered ! 
" I loved the women in my day. 

But oh 1 they're strangely altered." 

I showed him then a new machine 

For turning eggs to chickens — 
A labor-saving henneiy 

That beats the very dickens ! 

Thereat he strongly grasped my hand, 

And said, " 'Tis plain to see 
This world is so transmogrified 

'Twill never do for me. 

" Your telegraphs, your railroad trains, 
Your gas lights, friction matches. 
Your hump-backed women, rocks for ci^al. 
Your thing which chickens hatches, 

«' Have turned the earth so upside down. 
No peace is left within it ;" 
Then whirling round upon his heel, 

He vanished in a minute. A. C- Spooner. 



[Pure tone — conversational.] 

They've left the school-house, Charley, where years ago we sat 
And shot our paper bullets at the master's time-worn hat; 
The hook is gone on which it hung, the master sleepeth now 
Where school-boy tricks can never cast a shadow o'er his brow. 

They've built a new, imposing one — the pride of all the town, 
And laughing lads and lasses go its broad steps up and down ; 
A tower crowns its summit with a new, a monster bell. 
That youthful ears, in distant homes, may hear its music swell. 

I'm sitting in the old one, with its battered, hingeless door; 
The windows are all broken, and the stones lie on the floor; 
I, alone, of all the boys who romped and studied here. 
Remain to see it battered up and left so lone and drear. 

I'm sitting on the same old bench where we sat side by side 
And carved our names upon the desk, when not by master eyed; 
Since then a dozen boys have sought their great skill to display. 
And, like the foot-prints on the sand, our names have passed away. 

'Twas here we learned to conjugate " amo^ amas^ amat^^ 

\Vhile glances from the lassies made our hearts go pit-a-pat; 

'Twas here we fell iu love, you know, with girls who looked us 

through — 
Yours with her piercing eyes of black, and mine with eyes of blue. 

Our sweethearts — p^-etty girls were they — to us how very dear — 
Bow down your head with me, my boy, and shed for them a tear; 
With them the earthly school is out; each lovely maid now stands 
Before the one Great Master, in the " house not made with hands." 

You tell me you are far out West; a lawyer, deep in laws. 
With Joe, who sat behind us here, and tickled us \\\\\\ straws ; 
Look out for number one, my boys; may weallh come at your touch; 
But with your long, strong legal straws don't tickle men too much. 

Here, to the right, sat Jimmy Jones — you must remember Jim^ 
He's teaching now, and punishing, as master punished him; 
What an unlucky lad he was ! his sky was dark with woes; 
Whoever did the sintting it was Jim who got the blows. 


Those days are all gone by, my boys ; life's hill we're going down. 
With here and there a silver hair amid the school-boy brown ; 
Put memory can never die, so we'll talk o'er the joys 
We shared together, in this house, when you and I were boys. 

Though ruthless hands may tear it down — thi^ old house lone and 

Tliey'Il not destroy the characters that started out from here ; 
Time's angry waves may sweep the shore and wash out all beside : 
Bright as the stars that shine above, they shall for aye abide. 

I've seen the new house, Charley : 'tis the pride of all the town, 
And laughing lads and lasses go its broad steps up and down ; 
But you nor I, my dear old friend, can't love it half so well 
As this condemned, forsaken one, with cracked and tongueless bell. 

John H. Yates. 


[Crimean War — Siege of Sevastopol, October 2?, 1854.] 

Half a league, half a league, 

Half a league onward, 
All in the Valley of Death, 

Rode the Six Hundred. 
"Forward, the Light Brigade! 
Charge for the guns !" he said; 
Into the Vnlley of Deatli 

Rode the Six Hundred. 

" Forward, the Light Brigade !" 
Was there a man dismayed ? 
Not though the soldier 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 lelt of them. 
Cannon in front of them, 
\'olleyed and thundered. 

250 READL\Gii AXD liEtlTALS. 

Stormed at with shot and shell. 
Boldly they rode and well; 
Into the jaws of Death, 
Into the mouth of Hell, 
Rode the. Six Hundred. 

Flashed all their sabres bare, 
Flashed as they turned in air. 
Sabring 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 sabre-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: 
Stormed at with shot and shell, 
AVhile 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 ? 
O the wild charge they made I 

All the world wondered. 
Honor the charge they made t 
Honor the Light Brigade — ■ 

Noble Six Hundred. 



[An excellent selection for vocal culture. Opportunity is here 
found for the expression of high elocutionary art. Begin with simple 
conversational voice, and read each stanza as indicated by the second 
line of that stanza. The voice should be rich and mellow. The last 
stanza should be omitted when not intended as a temperance reading.] 


How sweet the chime of the Sabbath bells I 
Each one its creed in music tells, 
In tones that float upon the air, 
As soft as song, as pure as prayer ; 
And I will put in simple rhyme 
The languaoe of the golden chime; 
My happy heart with rapture swells 
Responsive to the bells, sweet bells. 

" In deeds of love excel ! excel !" 

Chimefti out from ivied lowers a bell ; 
" This is the church njt built on sands, 

Emblem of one not built with hands ; 

Its forms and sacred rites revere. 

Come worship here ! come worship here! 

In rituals and faith excel !" 

Chimed out the Episcopalian bell. 

" O heed the ancient landmarks well !" 

In solemn tones exclaimed a bell ; 
" No progress made by mortal man 

Can change the just eternal plan : 

With God there can be nothing new; 

Ignore the false, embrace the true, 

Willie all is well ! is well ! is well !" 

Pealed out the good old Dutch church bell. 

" Ye purifying waters, swell !" 

In mellow tones rang'out a bell ; 
" Though faith alone in Christ can save, 

Man must be plunged beneath the wave. 

To show the world unfaltering faith 

In what the Sacred Scriptures saith: 

O swell ! ye rising waters, swell I" 

Pealed out the clear-toned Baptist bell. 

" Not faith alone, but works as well. 

Must test the soul I" said a soft bell ; 
•' Come here and cast aside your load, 

And work your way along the road, 

With faith in God, and faith in man. 

And hope in Christ, where hope began ; 

Do well 1 do well I do well ! do well I" 

Rang out the Unitarian bell. 

"Farewell! farewell! base world, farewell I" 

In touching tones exclaimed a bell ; 
" Life is a boon, to mortals given. 

To fit the soul for bliss in Heaven • 


Do not invoke the avenging rod, 
Come here and learn the way to God ; 
Say to the world, Farewell! farewell !" 
Pealed forth the Presbyterian bell. 

" To all, the truth, we tell ! we tell !" 

Shouted in ecstasies a bell ; 
** Come all ye weary wanderers, see ! 

Our Lord has made salvation free ! 

Repent, believe, have faith, and then 

Be saved, and praise the Lord, Amen ! 

Salvation's free, we tell) we tell!" 

Shouted the Methodistic bell. 

" In after life there is no hell !" 

In raptures rang a cheerful bell ; 
'* Look up to heaven tliis holy day. 

Where angels wait to lead the \\ay; 

There are no fires, no fiends to Might 

The future life; be just and right. 

No hell! no hell! no hell! no hell !" 

Rang out the Univeisalist bell. 

"The Pilgrim Fathers heeded well 
My cheerful voice," pealed forth a bell; 

** No fetters here lo clog the soul ; 
No arbitrary creeds control 
The free heart and progressive mind 
That leave the dusty past behind. 
Speed well, speed well, speed well, speed well!" 
Pealed out the Independent bell. 

"' No pope, no pope to doom to hell!" 

The Protestant rang out a bell ; 
•* Great Luther left his fiery zeal 

Within the hearls thit truly feel 

That loyalty to God will be 

The fealty that makes men free. 

No images where incense fell!" 

Rang out old Martin Luther's bell. 

"All hail, ye saints in heaven that d\\-ell 
Close by the cross !" exclaimed a l>e!l ; 

" Lean o'er the battlements ol I liss, 
And deign to bless a v orld like lliis ; 
Let mortals kneel before this shrint — 
Adore the water and the wine ! 
All hail ye saints, the chorus swell !" 
Chimed in the Roman Catholic Lell. 


Neatly attired, in manner plain, 
Behold a pilgrim — no spot, no stain — 
Slowly, vith soft and measured tread. 
In Quaker garb — no white, no red. 
To passing friend I hear him say, 
" Here worship thou, this is the way — 
No churchly form — it is not well — 
No bell, no bell, no bell, no bell !" 

" Ye workers who have toiled so well 

To save the race!" said a sweet bell; 
* With pledge, and badge, and banner, come. 

Each brave heart beating like a drum ; 

13e royal men of noble deeds. 

For love is holier than creeds ; 

Drink from the well, the well, the well!" 

\n rapture rang the Temperance bell. 

GtoRGE W. Bungay. 


[This touching little story should be related in a simple, conversa- 
tipnal mauner. Imitate the children's voices.] 

'Twas the eve before Christmas; "Good night" had been said. 

And Annie and Willie had crept into bed ; 

There were tears on their pillows, and tears in their eyes. 

And each little bosom was heaving with sighs — 

For to-night their stern father's command had been given 

That they should retire precisely at seven 

Instead of eight; for they troubled him more 

With questions unheard-of than ever before; 

He had told them he thought this delusion a sin. 

No such being as " Santa Claus" ever had been. 

And he hoped, after this, he should never more hear 

How he scrambled down chimneys with presents each year. 

And this was the reason that two little heads 

So restlessly tossed on their soft, downy beds. 

Eight, nine, and the clock on the steeple tolled ten — 

Not a word had been spoken by either till then ; 

When Willie's sad face from the blanket did peep. 

And whispered, " Dear Annie, is 'oo fast a'seep?" 

" Why, no, brother Willie," a sweet voice replies. 

" I've tried it in vain, but I can't shut my eyes; 

For, somehow, it makes me so sorry because 

Dear papa has said there is no ' Santa Claus:' 


Now we know there i^, and it can*t be denied 
For he came every before mamma died ; 
But, then, I've been thinking that she used to . */ 
And God would hear everything mamma wov^m say. 
And perhaps she asked him to send Santa Claus her( , 
With sacks full of presents he brought every year.' 
" Well, why tan't we p'ay dest as mamma did then 
And ask Him to send him with presents aden ?" 
"I've been thinking so, too." And, without a word more, 
Four little bare feet bounded out on the floor. 
And four litile knees the soft carpet pressed, 
And two tiny hands were clasped close to each breast, 
" Now, Willie, you know, we must firmly believe 
That the presents we ask lor we're sure to receive; 
You must wait just as still till I say the ' Amen,' 
And by that you will know that your turn has come then. 
Dear Jesus, look down on my brother and me, 
And grant us the favor we are asking of Thee; 
I want a wax dolly, a tea-set and ring. 
And an ebony work-box that shuts with a spring; 
Bless papa, dear Jesus, and cause him to see 
That Santa Claus loves us far better than he; 
Don't let him get fretful and angry again 
At dear brother Willie and Annie; Amen." 
" Please, Desus, 'et Santa Taus turn down to-night 
And b'ing us some p'esents before it is 'ight; 
I want he should dive 'me a nice 'itlle seii. 
With b'ight shiny 'unners, and all painted yed; 
A box full of tandy, a book and a toy, — 
Amen ; and then, Desus, I'll be a dood boy." 
Their prayers being ended, they raised up their head^, 
And, with hearts light and cheerful, they again sought their beds; 
They were soon lost in slumber, both peaceful and deep, 
And with fairies in dreamland were roaming in sleep. 
Eight, nine, and the little French clock had struck ten 
Ere the father had thought of his children again ; 
He seems now to hear Annie's half-suppressed sighs. 
And to see the big tears stand in Willie's blue eye.^^j 
" I was harsh with my darlings," he mentally said, 
" And should not have sent them so early to bed ; 
But then I was troubled — my feelings found vent. 
For bank stock to day has gone down ten per cent. 
But of course they've forgotten their troubles ere this, 
And that I denied them the thrice-asked-for-kiss; 
But, just to make sure, I'll steal up to the door. 
For I never spoke harsh to my darlings before." 
So saying, he softly ascended the stairs. 
And arrived »t the door to hear both of their prayers. 
His Annie's "bles?papa" draws forth the big tears. 
And Willie's grave f>roi»ise fell sweet on his e.irs. 


" Straiif^e, strange I'd forgotten," said he with a sigh, 

" Mow I longed, when a child, to have Christmas draw Bigh. 

I'll atone for my harshness," he inwardly said, 

" By answeiing their prayers ere I sleep in my bed." 

Then he turned to the stairs and softly went down. 

Threw off velvet slippers and silk dressing-gown — 

Donned hat, coat, and boots, and was out in the street, 

A millionaire facing the cold, driving sleet, 

Nor stopped until he had bought everything. 

From the box fuil of candy to thr tiny gold ring; 

Indeed, he kept adding so much to his store, 

That the various jDresents outnumbered a score; 

Then homeward he turned, with his holiday load. 

And with Aunt Mnry's help in the nursery 'twas stowed. 

Miss Dolly was seated beneath a pine tree 

By the side of a table -ipread out for her tea ; 

A work-box well filled in the centre was laid. 

And on it a ring f'r which Annie had prayed; 

A soldier in unifo"-rn stood by a sled, 

" With bright sl-ining runners, and ail painted red;" 

There were hell',, dogs and horses, books pleasing to see. 

And birds of all Colors were perched in the tree; 

When 5anta Claus, laughing, stood up in the top, 

As if gp'.ting ready more presents to drop. 

And^ as the fond father the picture surveyed, 

He thought for his trouble he had been amply paid. 

And he said to himself, as he brushed off a tear, 

'' I'm happier to-night than I've been for a year, 

I've enjoyed more true pleasure than ever before; 

What care I if bank stock falls ten per cent, morel 

Hereafter I'll make it a rule, I believe. 

To have Santa Claus visit us each Christmas Eve." 

So thinking, he softly extinguished the light. 

And tripped down the stairs to retire for the night. 

As soon as the beams of the bright morning sun 

Put the darkness to flight, and the stars one by one. 

Four little blue eyes out of sleep opened wide, 

And at the same moment the presents espied ; 

And out of their beds they sprang with a bound. 

And the very gifts prayed for were all of t'nem found. 

They laughed and they cried in their innocent glee, 

And shouted for " papa" to come quick and see 

What presents old Santa Clnus brought in the night 

(Just the things that they wanted), and left before light} 

" And now," added Annie, in a voice soft and low, 

" You'll believe there's a Santa Claus, papa, I knowj" 

While dear little Willie climbed up on his knee. 

Determined no secret between them should be. 

And told, in soft whispers, how Annie had said 

That their dear, blessed mamma, so long ago dead. 


U^ed to kneel down and pray by the side of her cTiair, 
And that God up in heaven had answered her prayer! 
•' Then we dot up, and p'ayed dest as well as we tould. 
And Dod answered our p'ayers; now wasn't he dood?" 
•' 1 should say that lie was, if He sent you all these. 
And knew just what presents my children would please,— 
Well, well, let him think so, the dear little elf, 
'Twould be cruel to tell him I did it myself" 
Blind father! who caused your stern heart to relent. 
And the hasty word spoken so soon to repent? 
'Twas the Being who bade you steal soflly up stairs. 
And made you His agent to answer their pr.iyers. 

Mrs. Sophia V. Snow. 


[Impersonate, and throw much feeling into the latter part of the 

And sure, I was tould to come in till yer honor, 

To see would ye write a few lines to me Pat ; 
He's gone for a soger is Misiher O'Conner, 

Wid a slhripe on his arm, and a band on his hat. 

And what 'ill ye tell him? shure it must be aisy 
For the likes of yer honor to spake with the pen, 

Tell him I'm well, and mavourneen Daisy 
(The baby, yer honor), is better again. 

For when he wint off so sick was the crayther. 

She niver hilt up her blue eyes till his face; 
And when I'd he cryin' he'd look at me wild like. 

And ax would I " wish for the counthry's disgrace?" 

So he left her in danger, an' me sorely gravin*. 

And followed the flag wid an Irishman's joy; 
And it's often I drame of the big drums a batin', 

And a bullet gone straight to the heart of my boy. 

Tell him to sind us a bit of his money. 

For the rint and the dochtor's bill, due iti a wak<^ 

jLii', shure there's a tear on yer eyelashes, honey ; 
1' faith I've no right with such fradom to spake. 


I'm over much thrifling, Til not give ye trouble, 

I'll find ioine one willin' — oh, vhat can it lie? 
What's that in the newspaper folded up double? 

Yer honor, don't hide it, but lade it to me. 

Dead! Patrick O'Conner! O God, it's some ither. 

Shot dead ! shure 'tis a wake scarce gone by, 
An' the kiss on the cliake of his sorrowin' mother, 

Tt hasn't had lime yet, yer honor, to dhry. 

Dead ! dead 1 deSd 1 Am I crazy ? 

Shure it's brakin' my heart ye are telling me so. 
An' what en the world will I do wid poor Daisy? 

what can I do? where can I go? 

This room is so dark — I'm not seein' yer honor, 

1 think I'll go home — And a sob hard and dry 
Rose up from the bosom of Mary O'Conner, 

But never a tear drop welled up to her eye. 


[To be rendered in a simple, earnest, natural manner.^ 

O, good painter, tell me true, 

lias your hand the cunning to draw 

Shapes of things that you never saw ? 
Aye ? 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. 

Always and always, right and morn. 
Woods upon woods, with fields of corn 

Lying between them, not quite sere. 
And not in the full, thick, leafy bloom ; 
When ihe 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 l.'luebirds twittering all around,— 
Ah, good painter, you can't paint sound I 


These and the little house where I was bom. 

I.ow and little and black and old. 

With children, many as it can hold. 

All at the windows, open wide, — 

Heads and shoulders clear outside. 

And fair young faces all ablush ; 

Perhaps yuu may have seen, some day, 
Roses crowding the self-same way. 
Out of a wilding, wayside bush. 

Listen closer. When you have done 

With woods and cornfields and grazing herd% 
A lady, the loveliest ever the sun 
Looked down upon, you must paint for me; 
Oh, if I only could make you see 

The clear blue eyes, the tender smile. 
The sovereign sweetness, the gentle grace, 
'i he 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 v.ilh a clearer brow. 
And the light of his adventurous eyei 
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, 'tis 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 t 

Out in the fields one summer night 

We were together, half afrai<l 
Of the corn-leaves' rustling, and of the shide 

Of the high hills, stretching so still and far,— 


Loitering I ill 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 

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, natched round, and lined with wool. 

From which it tenderly shook the dew- 
Over our head, 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 slitn and shining, to keep her still. 

At last we stood at our mother's knee. 

Do you think, sir, if you tiy, 

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 nest-fuU of eggs. 
Nor the fluttering bird, held so fast by the legs. 
But straight through our faces, down to our lies. 
And oh, with such injured, reproachful surprise, 

I felt my heart bleed where that glance went, as tbo'ogb 
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 birds at her knee. 

But, oh, that look of reproachful woe ! 
High as the heavens your name I'll shout. 
If you paint me the picture, and leave that out. 

Alice Caret. 



[Avoid a rythmical, measured lone in reading. Let the voice swell 
in the forcible passages.] 

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. 

On this I ponder 
AVhere'er I wander, 
And thus grow fonder, 

Sweet Cork, of thee, — 
AViih 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 ; 
AVhile at a glib rale 
Brass tongues would vibrate; 
But all their music 

Spoke naught like thine. 

For memory, dwelling 
On each proud swelling 
Of thy belTry, 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 o( Peter 
Flings o'er the Tiber, 

Pealing solemnly. 
O, the bells of Shandon 
Sound far more grand, on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 

There's a bell in Moscow ; 
Where on tower and kiosk O 
In Saint Sophia 

The Turkman gets. 
And loud in air 
Calls men to prayer. 
From the tapering summits 

Of tall minarets. 

Such empty phantom 
I freely grant them ; 
But there's an anthem 

More dear to me ; 
'Tis the bells of Shandon, 
That sound so grand, on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 

Francis Mahony. 


[The story of Laura Savio, of Turin, after news from Gaeta in 1861. 
It should be given in a manner strongly emotional, marked by grief 
and tremor.] 

Dead ! One of them shot by the sea in the east. 

And one of them shot in the west by the sea. 
Dead ! both my boys ! Wlien you sit at the feast. 

And are wanting a great song for Italy free. 
Let none look at me ! 

Yet I was a poetess only last year, 

And good at my art, for a woman, men said; 
But this woman, THIS, who is agonized here, 

The east sea, the west sea rhyme on in her head 
Forever instead. 


What's art -r^,- a woman? To hold on her knees 

Both darlings ; to feel all their arms round her throat 

Cling, strangle a little; to sew by degrees. 

And 'broider the long clothes and neat little coat; 
To dro,»m and to dote. 

To teach them. It stings there : I made them, indeed. 
Speak plain the wo.d country, — I taught them, no doubt. 

That a countr)-'s a thing men should die for at need. 
I prated of liberty, lights, and about 
The tyrant casi out. 

And when their eyes flashtd — O, my beautiful eyes ! 

I exulted; nay, let then, go Jorta at the wheels 
Of the guns, and denied noi. But then the surprise 

When one sits quite alone ! then one weeps, then one kneels! 
Oh ! how the house leels ! 

At first happy news came, — in gay letters, moiled 
With my kisses, — of camp-liit and glory, and how 

They both loved me; and soon, coining home to be spoiled. 
In retura would fan off eveiy fly from my brow 
With their green laurel bough. 

Then was triumph at Turin. Ancona was free ! 

And some one came out of the cl.eers in the street, 
With a face pale as stone, to say son.i.thing to me. 

My Guido was dead! I fell down at his feet. 
While they cheered in the screet. 

I bore it; friends soothed me; my griet' looked sublime 

As the ransom of Italy. One boy reinait.ed 
To be leant on, and walked with, recalling the time 

When the first grew immortal, while loth of us strained 
To the height he had gained. 

And letters still came, shorter, sadder, more strong. 
Writ now but in one hand. I was not to faint. 

One loved me for two ; would be with me ere long : 
And " Viva V Italia !" he died for, — our !>aint, — 
Who forbids our complaint. 

My X.inni would add : he was safe, and aware 

Of a presence that turned off the balls, — was impressed 

It was Guido himself, who knew what I couKl bear. 
And how 'twas impossible, quite dispossessed. 
To live on for the rest. 


On which, without pau^e, up the telegraph line 
Swept smoothly the next news from Gaeta : — shot. 

Tel! his mother. Ah, ah ! his, their mother, not mine. 
No voice says " My mother" again to me. What I 
You think Guido forgot ? 

Are souls straight so happy that, dizzy with Heaven, 
They drop earth's affections, conceive not of woe ? 

1 think not. Themselves were too lately forgiven 
Through that love and that sorrow that reconciles so 

The Above and Below. 


O Christ of the seven wounds, who look'st thro' the dark 

To the face of thy mother ! consider, I pray. 
How we common mothers stand desolate, mark. 

Whose sons not being Chrisis, die with eyes turned away. 
And no last word to say ! 

Both boys dead ! but that's out of nature. We all 

Have been patriots, yet each house must always keep one. 

'Twere imbecile hewing out roads to a wall ; 
And, when Italy's made, for what end is it done 
If we have not a son? 

Ah! ah! ah! when Gaeta's taken, what then ? 

When the fair wicked queen sits no more at her sport 
Of the fire-balls of death, crashing souls out of men. 

When the guns of Cavalli with final retort. 
Have cut the game short. 

When Venice and Rome keep their new jubilee. 

When your flag takes all heaven for its green, white, and reu. 

When you have a country from mountain to sea. 
When King Victor has Italy's crown on his head, 
(And I have my dead) ■ 

What then? Do not mock me. Ah ! ring your bells low. 
And burn your lights faintly. My country is there. 

Above the star pricked by the last peak of snow; 
My Italy's there, with my brave civic pair. 
To disfranchise despair. 

Dead I one of them shot by the sea in the west. 

And one of them shot in the east by the sea. 
Both ! both my boys! If, in keeping the feast. 
You want a great song for your Italy free, 
Let none louk at me. 

Mrs. Browning. 



[This exquisite selection should receive much study. The closing 
lines of the first stanza should be sung in a cheerful, sprightly ro;vnnerj 
those of the third stanza, sad and with much feeling; those <»<' the 
*burth stanza, in the weak, broken, trembling voice of age.] 

" Rock of ages, cleft for me," 

Thoughtlessly the maiden sung; 
Fell the words unconsciously 

From her girlish, gleeful tongue; 
Sang as little children sing; 

Sang as sing the birds in June; 
Fell the words like light leaves down 

On the current of the tune— 
" Rock of ages, cleft for me, 

Let me hide myself in Thee." 

" 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 they might be 

On some other lips a prayer. 

" Rock of ages, cleft for me," — 

'Twas a woman sung them now, 
Pleadingly and prayerfully. 

Every word her heart did know. 
Rose the song as stormed-tossed bird 

Beats with weary wing the air. 
Every note with sorrow stirred. 

Every syllable a prayer — 
** Rock of ages, cleft for me. 

Let me hide myself in Thee." 

" Rock of ages, cleft for me," — 

Lips grown aged sung the hymn 
Trustingly and tenderly. 

Voice grown weak and eyes grown dim— 
"Let me hide myself in Thee," 

Trembling though the voice and low. 
Ran the sweet strain peacefully. 

Like a river in it-; flow ; 
Sang as only they can sing 

Who life's thorny path have prest; 


Sang as only they can sing 

Who behold the promised rest— 
" Rock of ages, cleft for me. 

Let me hide myself in Thee." 

"Rock of ages, cleft for me," — 

Sung above a coffin lid; — 
Underneath, all reslfully, 

AH life's joys and sorrows hid; 
Nevermore, O storm- tossed soul I 

Nevjfmore from wind or tide. 
Nevermore from liillow's roll 

Wilt thou need thyself to hide. 
Could 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,— 
"Let me hide myself in Thee." 



Well, wife, I've found the model church ! I worshipped there lo-day I 
It made me think of good old times before my haii*s were gray; 
The meetin' house was fixed up more than they were years ago. 
But then I felt, when I went in, it wasn't built for show. 

The sexton didn't seat me away back by the door; 
He knew that I was old and deaf, as well as old and poor; 
He must have been a Christian, for he led me boldly through 
The long aisle of that crowded church to find a pleasant pew. 

I wish you'd heard the singin' ; it had the old-time ring ; 
The preacher said, with trumpet voice : " Let all the people sing I" 
The tune was " Coronation," and the music upward rolled. 
Till I thought I heard the angels striking all their harps of gold. 

My deafness seemed to melt away ; my spirit caught the fire ; 
I joined my feeble, trembling voice with that melodious choir. 
And sang as in my youthful days : " Let angels prostrate fall; 
Bring forth the royal diadem, and crown hi n Lord of all." 

.1 tell you, wife, it did me good to sing that hymn once more; 
I felt like some wrecked mariner who gets a glimpse of shore; 
I almost wanted to lay down this weather-beaten form. 
And anchor in that blessed port, forever from the slorra. 


The precVen? Well, I can't just tell all that the preacher said; 

I know it wasn't written; 1 know it wasn't read; 

Me hadn't time to read it, for the lightnin' of his eye 

Went flashin' 'long from pew to pew, nor passed a sinner by. 

The sermon wasn't flowery ; 'twas simple gospel truth ; 
It fitted poor old men like me; it fitted hopeful youth; 
'Twas full of consolation for weary hearts that bleed; 
'Twas full of invitations to Christ and not to creed. 

How swift the golden moments fled, within that holy place; 
How brightly beamed the light of heaven from every happy face ; 
Again I longed for that sweet time when friend shall meet with friend, 
*' When congregations ne'er break up, and Sabbath has no end." 

I hope to meet that minister — that congregation, too — 

In that dear home beyond the stars that shine from heaven's blue; 

I doubt not I'll remember, beyond life's evenin' gray. 

The happy hour of worship in that model church to-day. 

Dear wife, the fight will soon be fought — the victory soon be won; 
The shinin' goal is just ahead ! the race is nearly run ; 
O'er the river we are nearin', they are throngin' to the shore 
To shout our safe arrival where the weary weep no more. 

John II. Yates. 


[Let the emotions be detected in the voice.Q 

' Hi ! Harry Holly ! Halt,— and tell 

A fellow ju.->t 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 trom Fair Oaks. 
When you were home, — old comrade, say. 

Did you see any of our folks ? 
You did ? Shake hands, — Oh, aint 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. 


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, you sny ; 

It's lijtely, for they're always there. 
Not Sunday ? no ? A funeral ? Who ? 

Who, Hnrry ? how you shake and s.Lire! 
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 »M 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, 
And soldiers whimper : " Boys, be still ; 

There's some bad news from Granger's folks." 
He turns his back — the only foe 

That ever saw it — on this grief. 
And, as men will, keeps down the tears 

Kind Nature sends to Woe's relief. 
Then answers he, " Ah, Hal, I'll 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 His hand deals other strokes, 
She'll stand by Heaven's gate, I kno«-. 

And wait to welcome in our folks." 

Ethel Lvnm. 



[An excellent opportunity is here afforded for gesture.] 

Oh, with what pride I used 

To walk these hills, and look up to my God, 

And bless him that the land was free ! 'Twas free — ■ 

From end to end, from cliff to lake, 'twas free 1 

Free as-our torrents are that leap our rocks, 

And plow our valleys, without asking leave ! 

Or as our peaks, that wear their caps of snow 

In very presence of the regal sun ! 

How happy was it then ! I loved 
Its very storms. Yes, I have sat 
In my boat at night, when, midway o'er the lake. 
The stars went out, and down the mountain gorge 
The wind came roaring. I have sat 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 ! 

On yonder jutting cliff, o'ertaken there 

By the mountain blast, I've laid me flat along. 

And, while gust followed gust more furiously. 

As if to sweep me o'er the horrid brink, 

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. 

And cried in thraldom to that furious wind, 

Blow on ! — this is the land of liberty ! 



{<i»reful study will enable the reader to decide how this may best be 
»<rndered. Let the spirits be light or depressed, as required by each 
passage. Frequent changes of style should be made throughout. J 

Come over, come over the river to me. 

If ye are my laddie, bold Charlie Machree. 

Here's Mary McPherson and Susy O'Linn, 

Who say ye're faint-hearted, and dare not plunge in. 


But the dark rolling river, though deep as the sea, 
I know cannot scare you, nor keep you from me; 

For stout is your back and strong is your arm, 
And the heart in 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. 

O the dark rolling water shoots swift as the sea, 
But blithe is the glance of his bonny blue e'e; 

His cheeks are like roses, two buds on a bough ; 
Who says ye're faint-hearted, my brave laddie, now. 

flo, ho, foaming river, ye may roar as ye go. 

But ye canna bear Charlie to the dark locli below I 

Come over, come over the river to me. 

My true-hearted laddie, my Charlie Machree. 

He's sinking, he's sinking, O whit shall I do! 

Strike oiit, 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 boon 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 you forever, dear Charlie Machree. 

He's sinking, he's gone, — O God, it is I, 

't is I, who have killed him — help, help — he must die. 

Help, help! — ah, he rises, — strike out and ye're free. 
IIo, bravely done, Charhe; once more now, for me! 

low cling to the rock, now give me your hand, — 
/e're safe, dearest Charlie, ye're safe on the landl 


Come rest on my bosom, if there ye can sleep; 
I canna speak to ye ; I only can weep. 

Ye have crossed the wild river, ye've risked all for me, 
And I'll part from ye never, dear Charlie Machree ! 

William J. Hoppin. 


[Enter into the spirit of the piece, and strive to paint the scene in 
strong colors. The calling voice should be used with great care.] 

'Twas on Lake Erie's broad expanse. 

One bright midsummer day, 
The gallant steamer Ocean Queen 

Swept proudly on her way. 
Bright faces clustered on the deck, 

Or, leaning o'er the side, 
AVatched carelessly the feathery foam 

That flecked the rippling tide. 

Ah, who beneath that cloudless sky. 

That smiling bends serene, 
Could dream that danger, awful, vast. 

Impended o'er the scene — 
Could dream that ere an hour had sped, 

That frame of sturdy oak 
AVould sink beneath the lake's blue waves. 

Blackened with fire and smoke? 

A seaman sought the captain's side, 

A moment whispered low ; 
The captain's swarthy face grew pale. 

He hurried down below. 
Alas, too late ! Though quick and sharp 

And clear his orders came, 
No human efforts could avail 

To quench th' insidious flame. 

^ The bad news quickly reached the deck, 

I It sped from lip to lip. 

And ghastly faces everywhere 
Looked from the doomed ship. 
" Is there no hope — no chance of life?" 

A hundred lips implore; 
" But one," the c.iptain made reply, 
" To run the ship on shore." 


A sailor, whose heroic soul 

Tliat hour should yet reveal, — 
By name John Maynard, eastern born, — 
Stood calmly at the wheel. 
" Head her southeast !" the captain shouts 

Above the smothered roar, — 

" Head her southeast without delay ! 

Make for the nearest shore!" 

No terror pales the helmsman's cheek, 

Or clouds his dauntless eye, 
As in a sailor's measured tone 

His voice responds, "Ay, Ay !" 
Three hundred souls, — the steamer's freight, — 

Crowd forward wild with fear, 
While at the stern the dreadful flames 

Above the deck appear. 

John Maynard watched the nearing flames. 

But still, with steady hand. 
He grasped the wheel, and steadfastly 

He steered the ship to land. 
"John Maynard," with an anxious voice 

The captain cries once more, 
" Stand by the wheel five minutes yet. 

And we will reach the shore." 
Through flames and smoke that dauntlerf heart 

Responded firmly, still 
Unawed, though face to face with death, 
" With God's good help I will!" 

The flames approach with giant strides. 

They scorch his hands and brow ; 
One arm disabled seeks his side, 

Ah, he is conquered now 1 
But no, his teeth are firmly set, 

He crushes down the pain, — 
His knee upon the stanchion pressed. 

He guides the ship again. 

One moment yet ! one moment yet! — 

Brave heart, thy task is o'er ! 
The pebbles grate beneath the keel, 

The steamer touches shore. 
Three hundred grateful voices rise 

In praise to God, that He 
Hath saved them from the fearful fire. 

And from th' inrrulfini' sea. 


But where is he, that helmsman bold? 

The captain saw him reel^ 
His nerveless hands released their task. 

He sunk beside the wheel. 
The wave received his lifeless corpse, 

Blackened with smoke and fire. 
God rest him ! Hero never had 

A nobler funeral pyre ! 


[Play upon the words and bring out their full expression. Employ 
the calling voice in the last lines oi each stanza, and let it die away 
at the close.] 

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 cliif and scar. 
The horns of Elf-land 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 field, on hill, on river; 
Our echoes roll from soul to sou!, 
And grow forever and forever. 
Blow, bugle, blow; set the wild echoes flying, 
And answer, echoes, answer dying, dying, dying. 




[Full force, with spirit and energy.] 

Again to the battle, Achaians ! 

Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance ; 
Our land — the first garden of Liberty's tree — 
It has been, and %\\a\S.yet be, the land of the free : 

For the cross of our faith is replanted. 

The pale dying crescent is daunted. 
And we march that the footprints of Mahomet's slaves 
May be washed out in blood from our forefathers' yrivei. 

Their spirits are hovering o'er us, 

A nd the sword shall to glory restore us. 

Ah ! what though no succor advances. 

Nor Christendom's chivalrous l.inces 
Are stretched in our aid? Be the combat our own I 
And we'll perish or conquer more proudly alone ; 

For we've sworn by our country's assaulters. 

By the virgins they've dragged from our altars. 
By our massacred patriots, cur children in chains, 
By our heroes of old, and their blood in our veins. 

That, living, we will be victorious. 

Or that, dying, our deaths shall be glorious. 

A breath of submission we breathe not : 

The sword we have drawn we will sheathe notl 
Its scabbard is left where our martyrs are laid. 
And the vengeance of ages has whetted its blade. 

Enrth may hide, waves engulf, fire consume us; 

But they shall not to slavery doom us : 
If they rule, it shall be o'er our ashes and graves : 
But we'v£ smote them already with fire on the waves. 

And new triumphs on land are before us ; 

To the charge 1 Heaven's banner is o'er us. 

This day shall ye blush for its story. 

Or brighten your lives with its glory ? — 
Our women — O, say, shall they shriek in despair. 
Or embrace us from conquest, with wreaths in their hair? 

Accursed may his memory blacken. 

If a coward there be that would slacken 
Till we've trampled the turban, and shown ourselves wortk 
Being sprung from and named for, the godlike of earth I 

Strike home! and the world shall revere us 

A.S heroes descended from heroes. 


Old Greece lightens up with emotion ! 
Her inlands, her isles of the ocean, 
Fanes rebuilt, and fair towns, shall with jubilee ring, 
And the Nine shall new hallow their Helicon's spring. 
Our hearths shall be kindled in gladness. 
That were cold and extinguished in sadness; 
Whilst our maidens shall dance with their white waving arms, 
Singing joy to the brave that delivered their charms,— 
When th" blood cf yon Musselman cravens 
bball have crimsoned the beaks of our ravens I 



[This story of the hero-m?rtyr of the battle of Sempach, in the 
fourteenth century, should be told in an animated manner, strongly 
bringing out all the points ] 

" Mal<e way for liberty!" he cried — 
Made way for liberty, and died t 

In arms the Austrian phalanx stood, 

A living wall, a human wood; 

Impregnable their front appears. 

All hoiTcnl with projected spears. 

Opposed to these, a hovering band 

Contended for their fatherland. 

Peasants, whose new-found strength hi' hro^ 

From manly necks the ignoble yoke; 

Marshaled once more at freedom's call. 

They came to conquer — or to fall. 

And now the work of life and death 

Hung on the passing of a breath ; 

The fire of conflict burned within; 

The battle trembled to begin : 

Yet, while the Austrians held their ground, 

Point for assault was nowhere found; 

Where'er the impatient Switzers gazed. 

The unbroken line of lances blazed; 

That line 't were suicide to meet, 

And perish at their tyrants' feet. 

How could they rest within their graves. 

To leave their homes the haunts of slaves ? 

Would they not feel their children tread. 

With clinking chains, above their head? 


It must not be: this day, this hour, 
Annihilates the invader's power ! 
All Switzerland is in the field — 
She will not fly; she cannot yield; 
She must not fall ; her better fate 
Here gives her an immortal date. 
Few were the numbers she could boast. 
But every freeman was a host, 
And felt as 't were a secret known 
That one should turn the scale alone. 
While each unto himself was he 
On whose sole arm hung victory. 

It did depend on one, indeed ; 

Behold him — Arnold Winkelried 1 

There sounds not to the trump of Fame 

The echo of a nobler name. 

Unmarked, he stood amid the throng. 

In rumination deep and long, 

Till you might see, with sudden grace. 

The very thought come o'er his face; 

And, by the motion of his form. 

Anticipate the bursting storm ; 

And, by the uplifting of his brow, 

Tell where the bolt would strike, and how. 

But 't was no sooner thought than done— 

The field was in a moment won I 
" Make way for liberty!" he cried. 

Then ran, with arms extended wide. 

As if his dearest friend to clasp; 

Ten spears he swept within his grasp. 
" Make way for liberty 1" he cried ; 

Their keen points crossed from side to side; 

He bowed among them like a tree. 

And thus made way for liberty. 

Swift to the breach his comrades fly — 
•' Make way for liberty 1" they cry, 
And through the Austrian phalanx dart. 
As rushed the spears through Arnold's heart; 
While, instantaneous as his fall, 
Rout, ruin, panic seized them all. 
An earthquake could not overthrowr 
A city with a surer blow. 

Thus Switzerland again was free — 
Thus death made way for liberty. 

James Montgomery. 



[Francois de Bonnivard, a French writer and politician, bom 149ft, 
died 1570, was arrested and imprisoned in the Castle of Chillon in 
1530, on account of his having espoused the cause of t;he Republic 
against the Duke of Savoy. He was restored to liberty six years 
later, when Chillon fell into the hands of his countrymen.] 

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 bowed, though not with toil. 

But rusted with a vile repose ; 
For they have been a dungeon's spoil, 

And mine has been the fate of those 
To whom the goodly earth and air 
Are banned and barred — forbidden fare. 
But this was for my father's failh 
I suffered chains and courted death. 
That father perished 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. 
Finished as they had begun, 

Proud of persecution's rage ; 
One in fire, and two in field. 
Their belief with blood have sealed — 
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. 

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 joined in heart ; 
'T was still some solace, in the dearth 
Of the pure elements of earih, 
To hearken to each other's speech. 


And each turn comforter to each — 
With some new hope, or legend old. 
Or song heroically bold ; 
But even these at length grew cold. 
Our voices took a dreary tone, 
\n 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. 

1 said my nearer brother pined, 
I said his mighty heart declined, 
lie loathed and put away his food; 
It was not that 't was coarse and rude. 
For we were used to hunter's fare. 
And for the like had little care. 
The milk drawn from the mountain goat 
Was changed for water from the moat; 
Our bread was such as captives' tears 
Have moistened many a thousand years. 
Since man first pent liis fellow-men. 
Like brutes, within an iron den. 
But what were these to us or him ? 
These wasted not his heart or limb; 
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 vaia. 
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 earlh above 
The being we so much did love; 
His empty chain above it leant — 
Such murder's fitting mimumenil 


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, 
His martyred father's dearest thought. 
My latest care — for whom I sought 
To hoard my life, that his might l)e 
Le.^s wretched now, and one day fiee— 
He, too, who yet had held untired 
A spirit natural or inspired — 
He, too, was struck, and day by day 
Was withered on the stalk away. 

God ! it is a fearful thing 

To see the human soul take wing 

In any shape, in any mood : 

I've seen it rushing forth in blood ; 

I've seen it on the breaking ocean 

Strive with a swollen, convulsive motion; 

I've seen the sick and ghastly bed 

Of sin, delirious with its dread ; 

But these were horrors — this was woe 

Unmixed with such — but sure and slow. 

He faded, and so calm and meek. 

So softly worn, so sweetly weak. 

So tearless, yet so tender — kind, 

And grieved for those he left behind ; 

With all the while a cheek whose bloom 

Was as a mockery of the tomb, 

Whose tints as gently sunk away 

As a departing rainbow's ray — 

An eye of most transparent light. 

That almost made the dungeon bright. 

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. 

And then the sighs he would suppress 

Of fainting nature's feebleness. 

More slowly drawn, grew less and less. 

1 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. 
I only stirred in this black spot; 


I only lived — I only drew 

The accursed breath of dungeon-dew; 

The last, the sole, the dearest link 

Between me and the eternal brinlv. 

Which bound me to my failing race, 

Was broken in this fatal place. 

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 had not strength to stir or strive, 

But felt that I was still alive — 

A frantic feeling, when we know 

That what we love shall ne'er be so. 

I know not why 

I could not die, 
I had no earthly hope — but faith, 
And that forbade a selfish death. 

What next befel 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 ; 
And was, scarce conscious what 1 wist. 
As shrubless crags within the mist; 
For all was blanl<, and bleak, and gray; 
It was not night — it was not day ; 
It was not even the dungeon-light, 
So hateful to my heavy sight; 
But vacancy absorbing space. 
And fixedness, without a place; 
There were no stars, no earth, no time. 
No check, no change, no good, no crime. 
But silence, and a stirless breath 
Which neither was of life nor death — 
A sea of stagnant idleness. 
Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless. 

A light broke in upon my brain — 

It was the carol of a bird ; 
It ceased, and then it came again — 

The sweetest song ear ever heard; 
And mine was thankful till my eyes 
Ran over with tlie glad surpri-^e. 
And tl.ey that moment could nut see 


I was the mr.te of niiseiy ; 

But then, by dull degrees came back 

My senses lo their wonted track: 

I saw the dungeon walls and floor 

Close slowly round me as before; 

I saw the glimmer of the sun 

Creeping as it before had done; 

But through the crevice where it f^me 

That bird war- perched as fond ?.nd tame. 

And tamer than upon the tree— 
A lovely bird with azure W'ngs, 
And song that said a thoi-^and things. 

And seemed to say them all for me 1 
I never saw its liVe before — 
I ne'er shall see \\.% likeness more. 
It seemed, liVe ne, to want a mate. 
But was not half so desolate; 
And it vas come to love me when 
None lived to love me so again, 
A.nd, cheering from my dungeon's brinlc. 
Had irought me back to feel and think. 
I know not if it late were free. 

Or broke its cage to perch on mine; 
But knowing well captivity. 

Sweet bird ! I could not wish for thine>— 
Or if it were, in winged guise, 
A visitant from Paradise ; 
For — heaven forgive that thought, the whils 
Which made me both to weep and smile 1— 
\ sometimes deemed that it might be 
My brother's soul come down to me; 
But then at last away it flew, 
And then 't was mortal well I knew; 
For he would never thus have flown. 
And left me twice so doubly Lme^ 
Lone as the corse within its shroud. 
Lone as a solitary cloud, 

A single cloud on a sunny day, 
While all the rest of heaven is clear, 
A frown upon the atmosphere. 
That hath no business to appear 

When skies are blue and earth is gay. 

A kind of change came in my fate— . 
My keepers grew compassionate. 
I know not what had made them so— 
They were inured to sights of woe; 
But so it was — my broken chain 


With links unfastened did remain; 
And it was liberty to stride 
Along my cell from side to side. 
And up and down, and then athwart, 
And tread it over every part; 
And round the pillars one by one, 
Returning where my walk begun — 
Avoiding only, as I trod. 
My brothers' graves without a sod ; 
For if I thought with heedless tread 
My steg profaned their lowly bed. 
My breath came gaspingly and thick, 
And my crushed heart fell blind and sick. 

It might be months, or years, or days— 

I kept no count, I look no note — 
I had no hope my eve-i to raise. 

And clear them of their dreary mote; 
At last came men to set me free, 

I asked not wliy, and recked not where} 
It was at leni;lh the s^me to me. 
Fettered or fttterless to be; 

I learned to love despair. 
And thus, when they appeared at last. 
And all my bonds aside were cast. 
These heavy walls to me had grown 
A hermitage — and all my own! 
And half I felt as they were come 
To tear me from a sacred hcmie. 
With spiders I had friendship made. 
And watched them in their sullen trade,-™ 
Had seen the mice by moonlight play^ 
And why should I feel less than they? 
We were all inmates of one place. 
And I, the monarch of each race. 
Had power to kill ; yet, strange to tell! 
In quiet we had learned to dwell. 
My very chains and I grew friends. 
So much a long communion tends 
To make us what we are : — even I 
Regained my freedom with a sigh. Loro Byrow, 


f The beauty here lies in the natural mr.nner in which the calling 
voice IS used. Picture the scene in the mind, and be true to the spirit 
of the piece.] 


Over the hill the farm-boy goes ; 
His shadow lengtliens along the land, 
A giant staff in a giant hand ; 
In the poplar-tree, aliove 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; 
And home to the woodland fly the crows. 
When over the hill the farm-boy goes, 
Cheerily calling, 

"Co', boss! Co', boss! co' ! co' ! co'I" 
Farther, farther, over the hill. 
Faintly calling, calling still, 

"Co' boss! co', boss ! co'! co'I" 

Into the yard the farmer goes. 

With grateful heart, at the close of day; 

Harness and chain are hung away; 

In the wag(3n-shed stand yoke and plow; 

The straw's in the stack, the hay in the mow. 

The cooling dews are failing: 
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 /stray— 
"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co' !" 

Now to her task the milkmaid goes. 

The cattle come crowding through the gate, 

Looing, pushing, little and great ; 

About the trough, by the farm-yard pump. 

The frolicsome yearlings frislc 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 p.nper read. 


The stories are told, then all to bed. 
\Vithout, the crickets' ceaseless song 
Miikes shrill the silence all night long; 

The heavy dews are falling. 
The housewife's hir.d has turned the lock; 
Drowsily ticks the kitchen clock ; 
The household sinks to deep repose. 
But still in sleep the faimboy goes 
Singing, calling, — ■ 
"Co", boss! on', boss! Co'! co'! co'I" 
And oft ibe milkmaid, in ner dreams, 
Drums in the pail with the flashing streams, 
Murmuring^ "So, boss 1 sol" 

J. T. Trowbridge. 


t&i imagining yourself to be placed in the position of the actors ii 
llus twilling scene, an effective rendering will be secured. J 

" Maclaine ! you've scourged me like a hound ; — 
Vou should have struck me to the ground; 
Vou should have played a chieftain's part ; 
You should have stabbed me to the heart. 

" Von should have crushed me unto death;-— 
But here I swear with living breath 
That for this wrong which you have done 
I'll wreak my vengeance on your son, — 

" On him, and you, and all your race !" 
He said, and bounding from his place. 
He seized the child with sudden hold — 
A smiling infant, three years old — 

And, starting like a hunted stag. 
He scaled the rock, he clomb the crag. 
And reached, o'er a many wide abyss. 
The beetling seaward precipice j 

And leaning o'er its topmost ledge, 
He held the infant o'er the edge : — 
•• In vain thy wrath, thy sorrow vain ; 
No hand shall save it, proud JIaclaine!" 


With flashing eye and burning hrow, 
The mother followed, heedless how. 
O'er crags with mosses overgrown, 
And stair-like juts of slippery stone. 

But midway up the rugged sleep 
She found a chasm she could not leap. 
And kneeling on ils 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 vith prie'e 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 oefore the clan ; 
And nought but blood shall wipe away 
The shame I have endured today." 

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 : 

" 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 ynur 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 burne," 
Said Evan, speaking loud in scorn ; 

"You've heard my answer, proud Maclaine; 
I will not fight you, — think again." 


rhe 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 pa-isions 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, Lochbuy, shall be complete." 

Ere hand could stir, with sudden shock 
He threw the infant o'er the rock. 
Then followed with a desperate leap, 
Down fifty fathoms to the deep. 

They found their bodies in the tide; 
And never till the day she died 
Was that sad mother known to smile — 
The Niobe of MuUa's isle. 

They dragged false Evan from the sea. 
And hanged him on a gallows tree; 
And ravens fattened on his brain. 
To sate the vengeance of Maclaine. 

Charles Mackav. 



[Paint the scene as vividly as possible, and avoid monotony in time, 
force or rhythm. Employ the calling voice in its proper place.] 

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 of dance, 

Through thy cornfields green, and sunny vines, O pleasant land of 

France ! 
And thou Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the watei-s. 
Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters ; 
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 I 
Hurrah 1 Hurrah ! for Ivry, and Henry of Navarre. 

Ok ! 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 Egniont's Flemish spears ! 
There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our land; 
And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand ; 
And, as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled flood. 
And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his blood ; 
And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of war. 
To fight for His own holy name, and Henry of Navarre. 

The King is come to marshal us, in all his armor dressed ; 

And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest. 

He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye; 

He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high. 

.Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing, 

Down all our line, a deafening shout, "God save our lord, the King!" 

" And if my standard-bearer fall, — as fall full well he may, 

For never I saw 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 1 the foes are moving! Hark to the mingled din 

Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin ! 

The fiery Duke is pricking fast across Saint Andre's plain, 

^\'ith 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, — 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 'hey burst, and on they rushed, while, like a guiding star, 

Airidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre. 


Now, God be praised, the day is ours ! Mayenne hath turned hii rein, 
D'Aumale hath cried for quarter — the Flemish count is slain ; 
Their ranks are breaking hke thin clouds before a Biscay gale ; 
The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and fiags, and cloven mail. 
And then we thought on vengeance, and, all along our van, 
" Remember St. Bartholomew !" was passed from man to man j 
But out spake gentle Henry, — " No Frenchman is my foe : 
Down, down with every foreigner, but let your brethren go." — 
Oh, was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war, 
As onr sovereign lord. King Henry, the soldier of Navarre ? . 

Right well fought all the Frenchmen who fought for France today ; 

And many a lordly banner God gave them for a prey. 

But we of the religion have borne us best in fight ; 

And the good Lord of Rosny hath ta'en the cornet white — 

Our own true Maximilian the cornet white hath ta'en. 

The cornet white with crosses black, the flag of false Lorraine. 

Up with it high ; unfurl it wide — that all the host may know 

How God hath humbled the proud house which wrought his church 

such woe. 
Then on the ground, while trumpets sound their loudest point of war. 
Fling the red shreds, a foot-cloth meet for Henry of Navane. 

Ho ! maidens of Vienna I ho I matrons of Lucerne — 

Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall return ! 

Ho! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles. 

That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen's souls. 

Ho ! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be bright ! 

Ho 1 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 ! 



[Imagine the scene to be taking place; then give natural rxpra*- 

'Tis a cold bleak night 1 with angry roar 
The north winds beat and clamor at the door ; 
The drifted snow lies heaped along the street, 
Swept by a blinding storm of hail and sleet ; 
The clouded heavens no guiding starlight lend. 
But o'er the earth in gloom and darkness bend; 
Gigantic shadows, by the night lamps thrown. 
Dance their weird revels fiifuMy alone. 


In lofty halls, where fortune takes its ease. 
Sunk in the treasures of all lands and seas; 
In happy homes, where warmth and comfort meet. 
The weary traveler with their smiles to greet; 
In lowly dwellings, where the needy swarm 
Kound starving embers, chilling limbs to warm, — 
Rises the prayer that makes the sad heart light — 
'■ Thank God for home, this bitter, bitter night!" 

But hark ! above the beating of the storm 
Peals on the startled ear the fire alarm. 
Yon gloomy heaven 's aflame with sudden light. 
And heartbeats quicken with a strange affright; 
From tranquil slumber springs, at duty's call. 
The rea<ly friend no danger can afyill ; 
Fierce for the conflict, sturdy, true, and brave. 
He hurries forth to battle and to save. 

From yonder dwelling, fiercely shooting out, 
Devouring all they coil themselves about, 
The flaming furies, mounting high and higher. 
Wrap the frail structure in a cloak of fire. 
Strong arms are battling with the stubborn foe 
In vain attempts their power to overthrow ; 
With mocking glee they revel with their prey. 
Defying human skill to check their way. 

And seo ! far up above the flame's hot breath. 
Something that's human waits a horrid death; 
A little child, with waving golden hair, 
Stands, like a phantom, 'mid the horrid glare, — 
Her pale, sweet face against the window pressed. 
While sobs of terror shake her tender breast. 
And from the crowd beneath, in accents wild, 
A mother screams, "OGodl my child 1 my child P 

Up goes a ladder. Through the startled throng 
A hardy fireman swiftly moves along; 
Mounts sure and fast along the slender way. 
Fearing no danger, dreading but delay. 
The stifling smoke-clouds lower in his path. 
Sharp tongues of flame assail him in their wrath; 
But up, still up he goes ! the goal is won I 
His strong arm beats the sash, and he is gone! 

Gone to his death. The wily flames surround 
And burn and beat his ladder to 'he ground. 
In flaming columns move with quickened beat 
To rear a massive wall 'gainst his retreat. 


Courageous heart, thy missiion was so pure, 
SuHeriiig iiuinanity must thy loss deplore ; 
Henceforth with martyred heioes thou shall live. 
Crowned with all honors nobleness can give. 

Nay, not so fast; subdue these gloomy fears; 
Behold 1 he quickly otj the roof appears, 
Bearing the tender child, his jacket warm 
Flung round her shrinking form to guard from harm. 
Up with your ladders 1 Quick! 'tis but a chancel 
Behold, how fast the roaring flames advance I 
Quick 1 quiilk I brave spirits, to his rescue fly ; 
Up! upl by heavens, this hero must not die 1 

Silence t he comes along the burning road. 
Bearing with tender care his living load; 
Aha! he totters I Heaven in mercy save 
The good, true heart that can so nobly brave t 
He's up again I and now he's coming fast — 
One moment, and the fiery ordeal 's passed — 
And now he's safe I Bold flames, ye fought in vain. 
A happy mother clasps her child again. 

George M. Baker, 


[Subdued reflective conversation.] 

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 (he ocean- 
Seemed to lift and bear them awayf 



As, sweeping and eddying through them. 

Rose the belated tide. 
And, streaming into the moonlight, 

The seaweed floated wide. 

And like those waters rushing 
Among the wooden piers, 

A flood of thoughts came oVr me 
That filled my eyes with tears. 

How often, oh, 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, oh, how often, 

I had wished that the ebbing tide 

Would bear me away on its bosom 
O'er the ocean wild and widel 

for my heart was hot and restless. 
And my life was full of care. 

And the burden laid upon me 

Seemed gi eater than I could t>ear. 

But now it has fallen from me. 

It is buried in the sea; 
And only the sorrow of others 

Throws its shadows over me. 

Yet, whenever I cross the river 
On its bridge with wooden piers. 

Like the odor of brine from the oceaa 
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 slowl 

And forever and forever. 
As long as the river flows. 

As long as tlie heart has passiou. 
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. 

II. Vv'. Longfellow. 


[This pathetic litfle story should be told in a touching manner, wty» 
much feeling and delicate expression.] 

Utile Gretchen, little Gretchen wanders up and down the street; 
The snow is on her yellow hair, the frost is at her feet. 
The rows of long, dark houses without look cold and damp, 
I'y the struggling of the moonbeam, by the flicker of the lamp. 
The clouds ride fast as horses, the wind is from the north, 
r>ut no one cares for Gretchen, and no one looketh forth. 
Within those dark, damp houses are merry faces bright. 
And happy hearts are watching out the old year's latest night. 

With the little box of matches she could not sell oil day. 
And the tliin,thin tattered mantle the wind l)Iows every way. 
She clingeth to the railing, she shivers in the gloom, — 
There are parents sitting snugly by firelight in the room; 
And children with grave faces are whispering one another 
Of presents for the new year, for father or for mother. 
Hut no one talks to Gretchen, and no one hears her speak, 
No breath of little whispers comes warmly to her cheek. 

No little .'rms around her: ah me! that there should be, 
With so much happiness on earth, so much of miseiy ! 
Sure they of many blessings should scatter blessings round. 
As laden boughs in autumn fling their ripe fruits to the ground. 
And the best love man can ofier to the God of love, be sure. 
Is kindness to his little ones, and bounty to his poor. 
Lillle Gretchen, little Gretchen goes coldly on ber way; 
There 's no one looked out on her, there 's no one bids her stay, 

Iler home is cold and desolate ; no smile, no food, no fire, 
lUit children clamorous for bread, and an impatient sire. 
So she sits down in an angle where two great houses meet. 
And she curled up beneath her, for warmth, her lutle feet; 
And she looketh on the cold wall, and on the colder sky. 
And wonders if the little stars are bnght fires up on high. 
She hears a clock strike slowly, up in a far church tower. 
With such a sad and solemn tone, telling the midnight houi. 


And she remembered her of tales her motlier used to tell, 
And of the cradle-songs she sang, when summer's twilight fell ; 
Of good men and of angels, and of the Holy Child, 
Who was cradled in a manger, when winter was m<><:t wild ; 
Who was poor, and cold, and hungry, and desolate and lone ; 
And she thought the song had told he was ever with his own; 
And all the poor and hungry and forsaken ones are his, — 
*' How good of Him to look on me in such a place as this !" 

Colder it grows and colder, but she does not feel it now, 
For the pressure at her heart, and the weight upon her brow; 
But she struck one little match on the wall so cold and bare, 
That she might look around her, and see if He were there. 
The single match has kindled, and by the light it threw 
It seemed to little Gretchen the wall was rent in two ; 
And she could see folks sealed at a table richly spread. 
With heaps of goodly viands, red wine and pleasant bread. 

She could smell the fragrant savor, she could hear what lliey did say, 
Then all was darkness once again, the match had burned away. 
She struck another hastily, and now she seemed to see 
Within thesame warm chamber a glorious Christmas tree. 
The branches were all laden with things that children prize, 
Bright gifts for boy and maiden — she saw thf^m with her eye"^. 
And she almost seemed to touch them, and to join the welcome shout, 
When darkness fell around her, and the little match was out. 

Another, yet another, she has tried — they will not light; 
Till all her little store she took, and struck with all her might : 
And the whole miserable place was lighted with the glare. 
And she dreamed there stood a little child before her in the air. 
There were blood-drops on his forehead, a spear-wound in his side. 
And cruel nail-prints in his feet, and in his hands spread wide; 
And he looked upon her gently, and she felt that he had known 
Pain, hunger, cold, and sorrow — ay, equal to her own. 

And he pointed to the laden board and to the Christmas tree. 

Then up to the cold sky, and said, " Will Gretchen come with me ?" 

The poor child felt her pulses fail, she felt her eyeballs swim. 

And a ringing sound was in her ears, like her dead mother's hymn : 

And she folded both her thin white hands, e^d turned from that bright 

And from the golden gifts, and said, "Will Ihee, with thee, O Lord? " 
I he chdiy winter morning breaks up in the dull skies 
On the city wrapt in vapor, on the spot where Gretchen lies. 


In her scant and tattered garment, with her back against the wall. 

She sitteth cold and rigid, she answers to no call. 

They have lifted her up fearfully, they shuddered as they said, 

" It was a bitter, bitter night! the child is frozen dead." 

The angels sang their greeting for one more redeemed from sin ; 

Men said, " It was a bitter night; would no one let her in?" 

And they shivered as they spoke of her, and sighed. They could not 

How much of happiness there was after that misery. 


[An impersonation.] 

Och ! don't be talkin'. Is it howld on, ye say? An' 
didn't I howld on till the heart of me was clane broke 
entirely, and me wastin' that thin you could clutch me 
wid yer two hands? To think o' me toilin' like a nager 
for the six year I've been in Ameriky — bad luck to the 
day I iver left the owld counthry ! to be bate by the likes o' 
them! (faix an I'll sit down when I'm ready, so I will, 
Ann Ryan, an' ye'd better be list'nin' than drawin' jour 
remarks); an' is it mysel, with five good characters from 
respectable places, would be herdin' wid the haytnens? 
The saints forgive me, but I'd be buried alive sooner'n 
put up wid it a day longer. Sure an' I was the grane- 
horn not to be lavin' at onct when the missus kim into 
me kitchen wid her perlaver about tiie new waiter man 
which was brought out from Californy. " He'll be here 
the night," says she; "and, Kitty, it's meself looks to 
you to be kind and patient wid him, for he's a furriner," 
says she, a kind o' lookin' off. "Sure an' it's little I'll 
hinder nor interfare wid him nor any other, mum," says 
I, a kind o' stiff, for I minded me how these French 
waiters, wid their paper collars and brass rings on their 
fingers, isn't company for no gurril brought up dacint and 
honest. Och ! sorra a bit I knew what was comin' till the 
missus walked into me kitchen smilin', and says kind o' 
schared: "Here's Fing Wing, Kitty, an' you'll have too 
much sinse to mind his bein' a little strange." Wid that 
she shoots the doore, and I, misthrusting if I was tidied 


up sufficient for me fine b'y wid his paper collar, looks up 
and — Howly fathers ! may I niver bratlie another breath, 
but there stud a rale haythen Chineser a-grinnin' like he'd 
just come off a tay-box. If you'll belave me, the craytur' 
was that yeller it 'ud sicken you to see him ; and sorra 
stitch was o i him but a black night-gown over his trowsers, 
and the front of his head shaved clanernor a copper biler, 
and a black tail a-hangin' down from it behind, wid his 
two feet stook into the heatlienest shoes you ever set eyes 
on. Och ! but I was up stairs afore you could turn about, 
a givin' the missus warnin', an' only stopt wid her by her 
raibin' me wages two dollars, and playdin' wid me how it 
was a Christian's duty to bear wid haythins and taitch 
'em all in our power — the saints save us ! Well, the wajs 
<»nd trials I had wid that Chineser, Ann Ryan, 1 couldn't 
be teliin'. Not a blissed thing could I do but he'd be 
lookin' on wid his eyes cocked up'ard like two poomp- 
handles, an' he widdout a speck or smitch o' whiskers on 
him, an' his finger nails full a yard long. it's dyin' 
you'd be to see the missus alarniu' him, and he grinnin' 
an' waggin' his pig-tail (which was pieced out long wid 
some black stoof, the haythen chate!), and getlin' into 
her ways wonderful quick, I don't deny, imitatin' that 
sharp, you'd be shurprised, and ketchin', an' copyin' things 
the best of us will do a-hurried wid work, yet don't want 
comin' to the knowledge of the family — bad luck to him I 
Is it ate wid him? Arrah, an' would I be sittin' wid a 
haythen an' he a-atin' wid drum-sticks — yes, an' atin' 
dogs an' cats unknownst to me, I warrant you, which it is 
the custom of them Chinesers, till the thoucrbt made me 
that sick I could die. An' didn't the craythur' proffer to 
help me a wake ago come Toosday, an' me a foUlin' down 
me clane clothes for the ironin', an' fill his haythin mouth 
wid water, an', afore I could hinder, squirrit it through 
his teeth stret over the best linen table cloth, and fold :t 
up tight as innercent now as a baby, the dirrity baste ! 
But the worrest of all was the copyin' he'd be doin' till 
ye'd be dishtracted. It's yersel' knows the tinder feet 
that's on me since ever I've been in this rountliry. Well 
owin' to that, I fell into a way o' slippin' nie shoes off 
when I'd be settin' down to pale the praities or the likes 
o' that, and, do ye mind 1 that haythen wouhl do the same 


thing after me whinivir the missus set him to parin' apples 
or tomaterses. The saints in heaven couldn't have made 
him belave he cud kape the shoes on him when he'd be 
paylin' anything. 

Did I lave fur that ? Faix an' I didn't. Didn't he get 
me into throuble wid my missus, the haythin ? You're 
aware yersel' how the boondles comin' in from the grocery 
often contains more'n'll go into anything dacently. So, 
for that matter, I'd now and then take out a sup o' sugar, 
or flour, or taj', an' wrap it in paper and put it in me bit 
of a box tucked under the ironin' blankit, the how it 
cuddent be bodderin' any one. Well, what shud it be, 
but this blessed Sathurday morn the missus was a spakin* 
pleasant and respec'ful wid me in me kitchen when the 
grocer boy comes in an' stands fornenst her wid his boon- 
dies, an' she motions like to Fing Wing (which I never 
would call him by that name ner any other but just hay- 
thin), — she motions to him, she does, for to take the 
boondles an' empty out the sugar an' what not where they 
belongs. If you'll belave me, Ann Ryan, what did that 
blatherin' Chineser do but take out a sup o' sugar, an' a 
handful o' tay, an' a bit o' chaze right afore the missus, 
wrap them into bits o' paper, an' I spacheless wid shur- 
prize, an' he the next minute up wid the ironin' blankit 
and pullin' out me box wid a show o' bein' sly to put 
them in. Och, the Lord forgive me, but I clutched it, 
and the missus sayin', "O Kitty 1" in a way that 'uit 
cruddle your blood. "He's a haythin nager," says I. 
"I've found you out," says she. "I'll arrist him," says 
I. "It's you ought to be arristed," says she. " Yoit 
won't," says I. "I will," says she — and so it went till 
she give me such sass as I cuddent take from no lady — an* 
1 give her warnin' an' left that instant, an' she a-pointia"" 
to the doore. Mary Mapes Dodge. 


[Extract from Macaulay's " Lays of Ancient Rome," abriciged fr>T 
reading or recitation. Simple narration to grand, impassioned descrlp»- 
tion and characteriiation.] 


To Rome a scout came flying, all wild with haste and fears 
**To amis! to arms 1 Sir Consul; Lars Porsena is here." 
On the low hills to westward the Consul fixed his eye, 
And saw the swarthy storm of dust ride fast along the sky. 

The ConsuPs 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 out spake brave Horatius, 

The Captain of the gate : 
"To every man upon this earth 

Death cometh soon or late. 
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 out spake S|>uiius Lartius; 
A Ramnian proud was he: 
" Lo, I will stand at thy right hand. 
And keep the bridge with thee." 

And out spake strong Herminiu5 ; 
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. 

Meanwhile the Tuscan army, 

Right glorious to behold. 
Came flashing back the noonday 11 "ht. 

Like a broad sea of gold. 
Four hundred trumpets sounded 

A peal of warlike glee, 
As that great host, vviili measured tread. 

Opposed the dauntless Thiee. 


But meanwliile axe and lever 
Have manfully been plied, 
And now the bridge hangs tottering 
Above the boiling tide. 
" Come back, come back, Horatius I" 

l.oud cried the Fathers all. 
" Back, Lartius ! back, HerminiusJ 
Back, ere the ruin fall !" 

Back darted Spurius Lartius; 

Herminius darted b.ick : 
And, as they passed, beneath their feet 

They felt the timbers crack. 
But when they turned their faces, 

And on the farther shore 
Saw brave Horalius 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 : 
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 Koratius, 
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. 

"Oh, Tiber! Father Tiber! 
To whom the Romans pray, 
A Roman's life, a Roman's arms, 
Take thou in charge this day 1" 


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, 

Stood gazing where he sank ; 
And when above the surges 

They saw his crest appear, 
Rome shouted, and e'en Tuscany 

Could scarce forbear to cheer. 

" Curse on him!" quoth false Sextus: 
" Will not the villain drown ? 
But for this stay, ere close of day 
We should have sacked the town !" 
"Heaven help him!" quoth Lars Porsena, 
" And bring him safe to shore ; 
For such a gallant feat of arms 
Was never seen before." 

And now he feels the bottom; 

Now on dry earth he stands; 
NuW 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. 



[Read with spirit and energy. Study carefully, and bring out the 
full force of the piece.] 

Whence come those shrieks so wild and shrill. 

That cut, like blades of steel, the air. 
Causing the creeping blood to chill 

With the sharp cadence of despair? 

Again they come, as if a heart 

Were c'e''t in twain by one quick blow. 

And every string had voice apart 
To utier its peculiar woe. 


Whence came they ? From yon temple, where 
An altar, raised fur private prayer, 
Now forms the warrior's marble bed 
Who Warsaw's gallant armies led. 

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 haughiy brow and eye 
Of a young boy that's kneeling by. 

What hand is that, whose icy pre'is 

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. 

With pallid lip and stony brow 
She murmurs forlh her anguish now. 
But hark ! the tramp of heavy feet 
Is heard along the bloody street; 
Nearer and nearer yet they come. 
With clanking arms and noiseless drum. 
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 clasped her child; 
Then, with pale cheek and flashing eye. 
Shouted with fearful energy, 
"Back, ruffi.ins, 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. 
Take me, and bind these arms — these hands,— 
With Russia's heaviest iron bands. 
And drag me to Siberia's wild 
To perish, if 't will save my child !" 

' Peace, woman, peace !" the leader cried. 
Tearing the pale boy from her side. 
And in his ruffian grasp he bore 
His victim to the temple door. 


"One moment!" shrieked the mother; "one I 
Will land or gold redeem my son ? 
Take heritage, take name, take all, 
Lut leave him free from Russian thrall! 
Take these !" and her white arms and hands 
She stripped of rings and diamond bands, 
And tore from braids of long black hair 
The gems that gleamed like starlight there : 
Her cross of blazing rubies, last, 
Down at 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 mortal agony. 

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 bole' 
Proudly he towers ; his flashing eye. 

So blue, and yet so bright. 
Seems kindled from the eternal sky. 

So brilliant is its light. 
His curling lips and crimson cheeks 
Foretell the thought before he speak";; 
AVith a full voice of proud command 
He turned upon the wondering bands 
"Ye hold me not ! no ! no, nor can ; 
This hour has made the boy a man. 
I knelt before 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, 
Hath done the work of years for me !" 

He drew aside his broidered vest, 
And there, like slumbering serpent's crest, 
The jeweled haft of poniard bright 
Glittered a moment on the sight. 
"Ha! start ye back? Fool! coward! knave t 
Think ye my noble father's glaive 
Woijld 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 the tyrant's chain. 
And fling him back a boy's disdain !" 

A moment, and the funeral light 

Flashed on the jeweled weapon bright : 

Another, and his young heart's blood 

Leaped to the floor, a crimson flood. 

Quiclc 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 thy son ! 

His freedom is forever won ; 
And now he waits one holy kiss 
To bear his father home in bliss; 
One last embrace, one blessing, — one ! 
To prove thou knowest, approvest tliy son. 
What I silent yet ? Canst thou not feel 
My warm blood o'er thy heart congeal ? 
Speak, mother, speak ! lift up thy head ! 
What I silent still? Then art thou dead ! 

Great God, I thank thee! Mother, I 

Rejoice with thee, — and thus — to die." 
One long, deep breath, and his pale head 
Lay on his mother's bosom, — dead. 

Ann S. Stephens. 


[Excellent opportunity for a good reading will be found in the 
following "tale of the Southern city, proud Charleston by the sea."] 

It was long ago it happened, ere ever the signal gun 
That blazed above Fort Sumpter had wakened the North as one ; 
Long ere the wondrous pillar of battle-cloud and fire 
Had marked where the unchained millions marched on to their hearts' 

m the roofs and the glittering turrets, that night, as the sun went 

The mellow glow of the twilight shone like a jeweled crown ; 
And, bathed in the living gloiy, as the people lifted their eyes. 
They saw ine pride of the city, the scire of St. Michael's, rise 


High over the lesser steeples, tipped with a golden ball, 
That hung like a radiant planet caught in its earthward fall, — 
First glimpse of home to the sailor who made the harbor-round. 
And last slow-fading vision dear to the outward bound. 

The gently gathering shadows shut out the waning light; 
The children prayed at their bedsides, as you will pray to-night; 
The noise of buyer and seller from the busy mart was gone ; 
And in dreams of a peaceful morrow the city slumbered on. 

But another light than sunrise aroused the sleeping street; 
Fnr a cry was heard at midnight, and the rush of trampling feet ; 
Men stared in each other's faces through mingled fire and smoke. 
While the frantic bells went clashing, clamorous stroke on stroke. 

By the glare of her blazing roof-tree the houseless mother fled. 
With the babe she pressed to her bosom shrieking in nameless dread. 
While the fire-king's wild battalions scaled wall and capstone high. 
And planted their flaring banners against an inky sky. 

For the death that raged behind them, and the crash of ruin loud. 
To the great square of the city were driven the surging crowd ; 
Where yet, firm in all the tumult, unscathed by the fiery flood. 
With its heavenward-pointing finger the Church of St. Michael stood. 

But e'en as they gazed upon it there rose a sudden wail, — 
A cry of horror, blended with the roaring of the gale. 
Oil whose scorching wings up-driven, a single flaming brand 
Aloft on the towering steeple clung like a bloody hand. 

" Will it fade ?" The whisper trembled from a thousand whitening 

Far out on the lurid harbor, they watched it from the ships, — 
A baleful gleam that brighter and ever brighter shone. 
Like a flickering, trembling will-o'-wisp to a steady beacon grown. 

" Uncounted gold shall be given to the man whose brave right hand. 
Fur the love of the periled city, plucks down yon burning brand !" 
S ) cried the mayor of Charleston, that all the people heard ; 
But they looked each one at his fellow ; and no man spoke a word 

Who is it leans from the belfry, with face upturned to the sky. 
Clings to a column, and measures the dizzy spire with his eye? 
Will he date it, the hero undaunted, that terrible sickening height? 
Or will the hot blood of his courage freeze in his veins at the sight ? 


But see! he has stepped on the railing; he climbs with his feet an<J 

his hands; 
And firm on a narrow projection, with the belfry beneath him, he 

stands ; 
Now once, and once only, they cheer him, — a single tenipestuuus 

And there falls on the multitude gazing a hush like the stillness of 


Slow, steadily mounting, unheeding aught save the goal of the fire, 

Still higher and higher, an atom, he moves on the face of the S]iire. 

He stops! Will h» fall? Lo ! for answer, a glean, like a meteor's 

And, hurled on the stones of the pavement, the red brand lies shat- 
tered and black. 

Once more the shouts of the people have rent the quivering air : 

At the church-door mayor and council wait with their feet on the 

And the eager throng behind them press for a touch of his hand, — 
The unknown savior, whose daring could compass a deed so grand. 

But why does a sudden tremor seize on them while they gaze ? 
And what meaneth that stifled murmur of wonder and amaze ? 
He stood in the gate of the temple he had periled his life to save; 
And the (ace of the hero undaunted, was the salile face of a slave ! 

With folded arms he was speaking, in tones that were clear, not loud, 
And his eyes, ablaze in their sockets, burnt into the eyes of the 

crowd ; — 
" You may keep your gold : I scorn it ! — but answer me, ye who can. 
If the deed I have done before you be not the deed of a vtan .^" 

He stepped but a short space backward ; and from all the women and 

There were only sobs for answer; and the mayor called for a pen. 
And the great seal of the city, that he might read who ran : 
And the slave who saved St. Michael's went out from its duor, a man. 


[Use a pure conversational tone, and avoid monotony.] 

Girt 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 peace 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 ahove Lake Constance 

A thousand years and more. 

Her battlements and towers. 

From otf 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 iiigfat. 

Three hundred years ago. 

Far from her home and kindred, 

A Tyrol maid had fled, 
To serve in the Swiss valle3rs. 

And toil for daily bread ; 
She heeded not the rumors 

Of Austrian war and strife ; 
Each day she rose contented, 

To the calm toils of life. 

And so she dwelt : the valley 

More peaceful year by year; 
When suddenly strange portents 

Of some great deed seemed near. 
All talk of flax, or spinning, 

Or work, was put away ; 
The very children seemed afraid 

To go alone to play. 

At eve they all assembled. 

Then 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 foemens' 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 ; 
Whaf 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. 

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 forih, 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 

Toward her native lay- 
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 upon his neck 
To watch the flowing darkness ; 

The bank is high and steep; 
One pause — he staggers forward. 

And plunges in the deep. 

She strives to pierce the blnckness. 

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 come 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 ; 

"Nine," "ten," " eleven," he cries aloud. 

And then (O crown of Fame) ! 

When midnight pauses in the skies, 

He calls the maiden's name 1 

Adelaide Procter. 


[This requires careful study. Its beauty lies in the impersonations, 
Bud in the expression of word-individuality or play upon woi'Js.] 

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, 
] ler cheeks like the dawn of day ; 
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 flow 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 the hurricane. 

Last night the moon had a golden ring. 
And to-night no moon we see." 
But the skipper he blew a whifFfrom his pipCi 
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 frotlied like yeast. 


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 wind did blow." 

He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat 

Against the stinging blast; 

He cut a rope from a brolten spar. 

And bound her to the mast. 

"O father! I hear the church bells ring; 

O say ! what may it be ?" 
" 'Tis a 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 angry 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 
Toward the reef of Norman's Woe. 

And ever the fitful gusts between 
A sound came from the land, — 
It was the sound of the trampling surf 
On ihe rocks and the hard sea sand. 


The breakers were right beneath her bows ; 
She drifted a dreary wreck. 
And a whoopinf; billow swept the crew 
Like icicles frcm the deck. 

She struck whci-e the white and fleecy waves 
Looked soft r? carded wool, 
But the crucf rocks they gored her sides 
Like the hcTivs of an angry bull. 

Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice. 
With the masts went by the board : 
Like a ve'sel of glass she stove — and sank, 
" Ho ! Ho 5" the breakers roared. 

At dayVrtak, on a bleak sea beach, 
A fisherman stood aghast. 
To se-; (he form of a maiden fair 
Lash"?'! close to a drifting mast. 

The ^'dt sea was frozen on her breast. 

The salt tears in her eyes ; 

A rifll he saw her hair, like the brown sea weed. 

On ihe billows fall and rise. 

Sn'.h was the wreck of the Hesperus, 
In the midnight and the snow; 
Vhrist save us all from a death like this, 
On the reef of Norman's Woe. 



[A bushman's story.] 

Well, mate, you've asked me about a fellow 
You met to-day, in a black and yellow 
Chain-gang suit, with a peddler's pack. 
Or with some such burden, strapped to his back. 
Did you meet him square ? No ; passed you by ? 
Well, if you had, and had looked in his eye. 
You'd have felt for your irons then and there. 
For the light of his eye is a madman's glare. 
Ay, mad, poor fellow ! I know him well. 
And, if you're not sleepy just yet, I'll tell 
His story, — a strange one as ever you heard 
Or read; but I'll vouch for it every word. 


Yes, this same fellow, poor Dave Sloane, 

Was a settler once, and a friend of my own. 

Some time back, in the spring of the year, 

Dave came from Scotland, and settled here. 

A splendid young man he was just then, 

And one of the bravest and truest of men. 

I lived up there with him days and days. 

And I loved the lad for his honest ways. 

Dave worked so hard that it seemed his will 

Was too much settled on wealth, and still 

When I looked on the lad's brown face and eye 

My heart gave such a thought the lie. 

But one day — he read my mind — he laid 

His hand on my shoulder : " Don't be afraid," 

Said he, " that I'm seeking alone for pelf; 

I work hard, friend, but 'tis not for myself." 

And he told me Ihen in his quiet tone. 

Of a girl in Scotland, who was his own, — 

His wife, — 'twas for her : 'twas all he could say. 

And his clear eye brimmed as he turned away. 

After that he told me the simple tale : 

They had married for love, and she was to sail 

For Australia, when he wrote home and told 

The oft-wished-for story of finding gold. 

In a year he wrote, and his news was good; 

He hnd bought some cattle and sold his wood. 

He wrote, " Darling, I've only a hut, — but come." 

Friend, a husband's heart is a true wife's home. 

And he knew she'd come. Then he turned his hand 

To make neat the house and prepare the land 

For his crops and vines : and he made that place 

Put on such a smiling and homelike face. 

That when she came, and he showed her round 

His sandal- wood and crops in the ground. 

And spoke of the future, they cried for joy* 

The husband's arm clasping his wife and boy. 

Well, friend, if a little of heaven's best bliss 

Ever came from the upper world to this. 

It came into that manly bushman's life 

And circled him round with the arms of his wife. 

God bless that bright memory ! Ever to me, 

A rough, lonely man, did she seem to be 

While living, an angel of God's pure love, 

And now I could pray to her face above. 

And David he loved her as only a man 

With a heart as large as his heart can. 

I wondered how they could have lived apart, 

For he was her idol, and she his heart. 

Friend, there isn't much more to tell, 

I was talking of angels a while since. Well, 


Now I'll change to a devil, — ay, to a devil; 

You needn't start; if a spirit of evil 

Ever came to this world its hate to slake 

On mankind, it came as a Dukite Snake. 

Like ? Like the pictures you've seen of Sin, 

A long red snake, — as if what was within 

Wns fire that gleamed through his glistening skin. 

And his eyes : if you could go down to hell. 

And come back to your fellows here, and tell 

What the fire was like, though hanl you should try, 

You'd find nothing on earth or up in the sky 

To compare it to but a Dukite's eye. 

Now mark you, these Dukites don't go alone; 

There's another near when you see but one ; 

And beware of killing that one you see 

Without finding the other, for you may be 

More ih in twenty miles from the spot ihct night, 

But you're sure to be traclced by the lone Dukite. 

It will follow your trail like Death or Fate, 

And kill you as sure as you killed its mate. 

Well, poor Dave Sloane had his young wife here 
'I liree months, — 'twas just this time oi tlie year. 
He had teamed some sandal-wood to the Yasse, 
And was homeward bound, when he saw in the grass 
A long red snake (he had never been told 
or the Dukite's ways) ; he jumped to the road, 
And smashed its flat head with the bullockgoad. 
He was proud of the red skin, so he tied 
Its tail to the cart, and the snake's blood dyed 
The Imsh on the path he followed that night. 
He was early home, and the dead Dukite 
Was flung at the door to be skinned next day. 
At sunrise next morning he started away 
To hunt up his cattle. A three hours' ride 
Brought him back ; he gazed on his home with pride 
And joy in his heart ; he jumped from his horse 
And entered — to look on his young wife's corse. 
His dead child was clutching its mother's clothes 
As in fright; and there, as he gazed, arose 
From her breast, where 'twas resting, the gleaming head 
Of the terrible Dukite, as if it said, 
' I've had vengeance, my foe ; you took all i had." 
And so had the snake — David Sloane was mad! 
I rode to his hut by chance that night. 
And there on the threshold the clear moonlight 
Showed the two snakes dead. I pushed in the door. 
With an awful feeling of coming woe : 
The dead were stretched on the moonlit floor ; 
The man held the hand of his wife — his pride. 


His poor life's treasure — and crouched by her sid«. 

God, I sanlt wilh the weight of the blow. 

1 touched and called him : he heeded me not. 
So I dug her grave in a quiet spot, 

And lifted them both — her boy on her breast — 
And laid them down in the shade to rest. 
Then I tried to take my poor friend away. 
But he bitterly cried, " Let me stay ! Let me stay 
Till she conies again !" and I had no heart 
To try to persuade him then to part 
From all that was left to him here, — her grave; 
So I stayed by his side that night, and, save 
One heart-cutting cry, he uttered no sound, — 
O God ! that wail — lilie the wail of a hound. 

'Tis six long years since I heard that cry, 
But 'twill ring in my ears till the day I die. 
Since that fearful night no one has heard 
Poor Dave Sloane utter sound or word. 
You have seen to-day how he always goes; 
He's been given that suit of convict's clothes 
By some prison officer. On his back 
You noticed a load like a peddler's pack ? 
Well, that's what he lives for : when reason went. 
Still memory lived, for his days are spent 
In searching for Dukites; and year by year 
That bundle of skins is growing. 'Tis clear 
That the Lord out of evil some good still takes, 
For he's clearing this bush of Dukite snakes. 

J. Boyle O'Rmlly. 


[The incidents here woven into verse relate to William Scott, a 
young soldier from the State of Vermont, who, while on duty as a 
sentinel at night, fell asleep, and, having been condemned to die, was 
pardoned by the President. They form a brief record of his humble 
life at home and in the field, and of his glorious death.] 

'Twas in the sultry summer-time, as war's red records show. 
When patriot armies rose to meet a fratricidal foe — 
When, from the North and East and West, like the upheaving sea. 
Swept forth Columbia's sons, to make our country truly free. 

Within a prison's dismal walls, where shadows veiled decay- 
In fetters, on a heap of straw, a youthful soldier lay : 
Heart-broken, hopeless, and forlorn, with short and feverish breath. 
He waited but the appointed hour to die a culprit's death. 


Yet, but a few brief weeks before, untroubled with a care. 
He roamed at will, and freely drew his native mountain air — 
Where sparkling streams leap mossy rocks, from many a woodland 

And waving elms, and grassy slopes, give beauty to Vermont. 

Where, dwelling in a humble cot, a tiller of the soil, 
Encircled by a mother's love, he shared a father's toil — 
Till, borne upon the wailing winds, his suffering country's cry 

Fired his young heart with fervent zeal, for her to live or die. 


Then left he all : a few fond tears, by firmness half concealed, 

A blessing, and a parting prayer, and he was in the field — 

The field of strife, whose dews are blood, whose breezes war's hot 

Whose fruits are garnered in the grave, whose husbandmaF is Death I 

Without a murmur, be endured a service new and hard ; 
But, wearied with a toilsome march, it chanced one night, T p»»ard, 
lie sank, exhausted, at his post, and the gray morning found 
His prostrate form — a sentinel asleep upon the ground. 

So in the silence of the night, aweary, on the sod. 
Sank the disciples, watching near the suffering Son of God ; 
Yet Jesus, with compassion moved, beheld their heavy eyes, 
And though betray'd to ruthless foes, forgiving, bade them rise. 

But God is love, — and finite minds can faintly comprehend 
How gentle mercy, in His rule, may with sterr justice blend; 
And this poor soldier, seized and bound, tound none to justify, 
While war's inexorable law decreed that he must die. 

'Twas night. — In a secluded room, with measured tread, and slc"" 
A statesman of commanding mien paced gravely to and fro ; 
Oppressed, he pondered on a land by civil discord rent ; 
On brothers armed in deadly strife : — it was the President. 

The woes of thirty millions filled his burdened heart with grief; 
Embattled hosts, on land and sea, acknowledged him their chief; 
And yet, amid the din of war, he heard the plaintive cry 
Of that poor soldier, as he lay in prison, doomed to die. 

'Twas morning. — On a tented field, and through the heated haze. 
Flashed back Irom lines of burnished arms, the sun's effulgent blazei 
While, from a sombre prison-house, seen slowly to emerge, 
A sad procession, o'er the sward, moved to a muffled dirge. 


And in the midst, with faltering step, and pale and anxious face, 
In manacles, between two guards, a soldier had his place. 
A youth — led out to die ; — and yet, it was not death, but shame. 
That smote his gallant heart with dread, and shook his manly frame. 

Still on, before the marshall'd ranks, the train pursued its way 
Up to the designated spot, whereon a coffin lay — 
His coffin ! And with reeling brain, despairing — desolate^ 
He took his station by its side, abandoned to his fate. 

Then came across his wavering sight strange pictures in the air : 
He saw his distant mountain home; he saw his mother there; 
He saw his father bowed with grief, thro' fast-declining years ; 
He saw a nameless grave ; and then the vision closed — in tears. 

Yet once again. In double file advancing, then, he saw 
Twelve comrades, sternly set apart to execute the law — 
But saw no more : his senses swam — deep darkness settled round — 
And, shuddering, he awaited now the fatal volley's sound. 

Then suddenly was heard the noise of steeds and wheels approach. 
And, rolling through a cloud of dust, appeared a stately coach. 
On, past the guards, and through the field, its rapid course was bent. 
Till, halting, 'mid the lines was seen the nation's President. 

He came to save that stricken sou!, now waking from despair; 

And from a thousand voices rose a shout which rent the air! 

The pardoned soldier understood the tones of jubilee. 

And, bounding from his fetters, blessed the hand that made him free. 

*Twas spring. — Within a verdant vale, where Warwick's crystal tide 
Reflected, o'er its peaceful breast, fair fields on either side — 
Where birds and flowers combined to cheer a sylvan solitude — 
Two threatening armies, face to face, in fierce defiance stood. 

Two threatening armies ! One invoked by injured Liberty — 
^\'hich bore above its patriot ranks the Symbol of the Free ; 
And one, a rebel horde, beneath a flaunting flag of bars, 
A fragment, torn by traitorous hands from Freedom's Stripes and 

A sudden shock which shook the earth, 'mid vapor dense and dun. 
Proclaimed, along the echoing hills, the conflict had begun ; 
And shot and shell athwart the stream with fiendish fury sped. 
To strew among the living lines the dying and the dead. 


Then, louder than the roaring storm, pealed forth the stern command, 
" Charge ! soldiers, charge !" and, at the word, with shouts, a fearless 

Two hundred heroes from Vermont, rushed onward, through the flood, 
And upward o'er the rising ground, they marked their way in blood. 

The smitten foe before them fled, in terror, from his post — 
While, unsustained, two hundred stood, to battle with a host ! 
Then, turning as the rallying ranks with murd'rous fire replied. 
They bore the fallen o'er the field, and through the purple tide. 

The fallen ! And the first who fell in that unequal strife. 
Was he whom mercy sped to save when justice claimed his life — 
The pardon'd soldier 1 And while yet the conflict raged around. 
While yet his life-blood ebbed away through every gaping wound — . 

While yet his voice grew tremulous, and death bedimmed his eye — 
He called his comrades to attest he had not feared to die. 
And in his last expiring breath, a prayer to heaven was sent. 
That God, with His unfailing grace, would bless our President. 

Francis De Haes Janvier. 


[This ex']ui3ite poem was written after a visit to Vesuvius. It 
should be read in a manner adapted to its soft, rich Oriental magnifi- 

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. 


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 clifif;— 

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 1 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 keei. 

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 gamboling with the gamboling kid r 

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 gaees at the far-off ships. 

Yon deep baric 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. 

O happy ship. 

To rise and dip, 
"With the blue crystal at your lip I 

O happy crew. 

My heart with you 
Sails, and sails, and sings anew I 

No more, no more 

The worldly shore 
Upbraids me with its loud uproar! 

With dreamful eyes 

My spirit lies 
Under the walls of Paradise I 

T. Buchanan Reab 


[A Thanksgiving Poem.] 

It is Thanksgiving morning, and near, and far away. 
The glad church bells are ringing to hail Thanksgiving day; 
With their silvery entreaty they call the heart to prayer. 
From traffic and from labor, from merriment and care. 

And in one ancient dwelling, whose walls, time-stained and gray. 

Remember in their silence the bullets of that day 

When from Lexington to Concord a thrilling message ran. 

And behind each hedge and tree-boll there lurked an earnest man, 


A man whose life was ready, held in unshrinking hand. 
To be offered up for Liberty, for God, and Native Land ; 
In that time-honored dwelling an ancient couple wait, 
To hear their children's voices make music at the gate. 

•• Are all things ready, Mary?" the old man's eyes were dim 
And the face he sees is lovely with girlhood's flush to him. 
It was Thanksgiving morning, just fifty years ago. 
When o'er that ancient threshold in raiment white as snow. 

With cheeks rose-bud with blushes, and eyes as violets blue. 
And face so fresh and innocent, and heart so leal and true ; 
A fragile little blossom, that blossomed at his side. 
She came there first beside him— he brought her home his bride. 

" All things are ready, Richard," she said, and then she thought 
Of their fifty years together, and the changes they had brought. 
She remembered how her babes had played about her there. 
With the sunshine's shifting splendor in their curling, golden hair. 

And when they'd tired of playing, and slept upon her brenst, 
What prayers she said above them, while she lulled them to rest. 
Where are those children's faces ? She almost thought to see 
Blue eyes and golden ringlets stil! glinting at her knee. 

The years have wrought strange marvels — the children are no more. 
No more their frolic footsteps fly through the open door. 
Five men, toil-worn and weary, five women bowed with care — 
Are these the merry children, witfi sunshine in their hair? 

She tries to smile. Thanksgiving is the time for joyous cheer — 

And the old man does not see her as she wipes away a tear. 

" Had you thought about it, Richard, how the children have grown 

How they've left their youth behind them, like a story that is told? 

" Last time I saw our Martha her hair was gray as mine ; 
Will's chestnut curls are turning, and Ralph is forty-nine . 
It's all the better, Richard, we shan't be long apart ; 
In the land where we are going I sometimes think my heart 

" Will miss the children's voices, and be lonely till they come ; 

liut we shan't have long to wait, dear, for the children coming home." 

They sat a little longer, in a silence like a prayer. 

Waiting together, hand in hand — God's angel found them there. 

In the bright Thanksgiving morning, fifty changeful years ago. 
She had crossed that ancient threshold, in her raiment white as snow. 
Now her husband led her onward, as in youlh-lime, hand in hand. 
Till they crossed another threshold — entered on that other land. 


Where the Tcuntains flow forever, where the many mansions be, 
And the fruit of life hangs glowing from the boughs of every tree. 
In the colj November sunshine in the middle of the day. 
Sons and daughters stood in silence, gathered there from far away, 

'\eath the old familiar roof-tree ; but they dared not mourn or weep 
For the two they found together — those dead faces calm as sleep. 
Silently they kissed each other, silently they kneeled to pray. 
Lifting up their hearts to heaven on the blest Thanksgiving day. 

Vears are short and cares are heavy — soon they'll lay their burden 

down ; 
He who helps the cross to carry shall be firet to wen,- ilie crown. 
They shall keep their best Thanksgiving when their tired feet ceas» to 

Where the parents still are waiting for the chiiaieu coming home. 


[This admirable poem may be used ai !» single reading or i' may 
be divided into two or three, as desired.] 

Come from the woods with the citron -flowers. 

Come with your lyres for the festal hours, 

Maids of bright Scio! They came, and the breeze 

Bore their sweet songs o'er the Grecian seas ; — 

They c.nme, and Eudora stood robed and crowned. 

The bride of ihe morn, with her train around. 

Jewels flashed out from her braided hair, 

Like starry dews midst Ihe roses there; 

Pearls on her bosom quivering shone, 

Heaved by her heart through its golden zone; 

But a brow, as those gems of the ocean pile. 

Gleamed from beneath her transparent veil; 

Changeful and faint was her fair cheek's hue, 

Tho' clear as a flower which the light looks through , 

And the glance of her dark resplendent eye, 

For the aspect of woman at times too high, 

Lay floating in mists, which the troubled s-treara 

Of the soul sent up o'er its fervid beam. 

She looked on the vine, at her father's door. 
Like one that is leaving his native shore ; 
She hung o'er the myrtle once called her own. 
As it greenly waved by the threshold tone: 


She ftirned — and her mother's gaze brought back 
Each Ime of her childhood's faded track. 
Oh ! hush the song, and let her tears 
Flow to the dream of her early years 1 

Holy and pure are the drops that fait 
When the young bride goes from her father's hall-, 
5he goes unto love yet untried and new, 
She parts from love that hath still been true; 
Mute be the song and the choral strain, 
Till her heart's deep well-spring is clear again 
She wept on her mother's faithful breast, 
Lfke a babe that sobs itself to rest ; 
She wept, yet laid her hand a while 
In his that wailed her dawning smile. 
Her soul's affianced, nor cherished less 
For tlie gush of nature's tenderness 1 
She lifted her graceful head at last — 
The choking swell uf her heart was past; 
And her lovely thoughts from their cells found way 
In the sudden flow of a plaintive lay. 

Why do I weep ? — to leave the viie 

Whose clusters o'er me bend,— 
The myrtle — yet, oh ! call it minel— • 

The flowers I love to tend. 
A thousand thoughts of all things dear 

Like shadows o'er me sweep, 
I leave my sunny childhooil here. 

Oh, therefore let me weep 1 

I leave thee, sister! we have played 

Through many a joyous hour. 
Where the silvery green of the olive shade 

Hung dim o'er fount and bower. 
Yes, thou and I, by stream, by shore. 

In song, in prayer, in sleep, 
Have been as we may be no more—. 

Kind sister, let me weep 1 

1 leave thee, father ! Eve's bright moon 

Must now light other feet, 
With the gathered grapes, and the lyre in tnn^ 

Thy homeward step to greet. 
Thou in whose voice, to liless thy child. 

Lay tones of love so deep. 
Whose eye o'er all my youth hath smiled— 

I leave thee 1 Let me weeo I 


Mother, I leave thee ! On thy breast 

Puuiing out joy and wue, 
I have found ihjt holy place of rest 

Siill changeless, — yet I (jo! 
Lip^, that have lulled me with your strain, 

Kyes that have watched my sleep ! 
Will earth give love like yours again ? 

Sweet ir.other ! Let me weep 1 

And like a slight young tree, that throws 
'I'he weight t)f rain from its dripping boughs, 
(Jrice more she wept. But a changeful thing 
Is the human heart, as a mountain spring 
That works its way through the torrent's foam 
To the bright pool near it, the lily's home. 

It is well ! The cloud on her soul that lay 
llaih melted in glittering drops away. 
Wake again, mingle, sweet flute and lyre I 
She turns to her lover, she leaves her sire. 
Mother, on earth it must still be so, 
Thou rearest the lovely to see them go. 

Still and sweet was the home that stood 
In the flowering depths of a Grecian wood. 
With the soft green light o'er its low roof spread. 
As if from the glow of an emerald shed, 
Pouring through lime-leaves that mingled on highj 
Asleep in the silence of noon's clear sky. 
Citrons amidst their dark foliage glowed. 
Making a gleam round the lone abode; 
Laurels o'erhung it, whose faintest shiver 
Scattered out rays like a glancing river; 
Stars of the jasmine its pillars crowned. 
Vine-stalks its lattice and walls had bound. 
And brightly before it a fountain's play 
Flung showers through a thicket of glossy bay. 
To a cypress, which rose in that flashing rain. 
Like one tall shaft of some fallen fane. 

And thither lanthis had brought his bride. 
And the guests were met by that fountain-side; 
They lifted the veil from Eudora's face. 
It smiled out softly in pensive grace, 
With lips of love, and a brow serene. 
Meet for the soul of the deep wood scene. — 
Bring w ine, bring odors ! — The board is spread^ 
Bring roses I a chnplet fxr every head I 


Tlie wine-cups foamed, and the rose was showered 
On the young and fair from the world embowered. 
The sun looked not on them in that sweet shade. 
The winds amid scented boughs were laid; 
But lliere came by fits, through some wavy tree, 
A sound and a gleam of the moaning sea. 

Hush ! be still ! — Was that no more 

Than the murmur from the shore ? 

Silence 1 — Did thick rain-drops beat 

C)n the t;r:iss like trampling feet ? — 

Fling down the goblet, and draw the sword! 

The groves are filled with a pirate-horde ! 

Through the dim olives their sabres shine ; — 

Now mu^t the red blood stream for wine! 

The youth from the banquet to battle sprang, 

The woods with the shriek of the maidens rang; 

Under the goUlen-t'ruited boughs 

There were flashing poniards and darkening brow^ 

Footsteps o'er garland and lyre that fled, 

And the dyinp strewn on a greensward bed. 

Eudora, Kudora ! thou dost not fly ! — ■ 

She saw but lanlhis before her He, 

\Vith the Mood from his l)reast in a gushing flow, 

Like a child's large tears in its hour of woe, 

And a gathering film in his lifted eye, 

'1 hat s.)u;^ht his young bride mournfully. — 

She knelt down beside him, her arms she wound, 

Like tendrils, his drooping neck around. 

As if the passion of that fond grasp 

Wight chain in life with its ivy-clasp. 

But they ture her thence in her wild despair. 

The sea's iierce rovers — they left him there; 

They left to the fountain a dark-red vein, 

And on the wet violets a pile of slain, 

And a hush of fear through the summer grove : 

So closed the triumph of youth and love ! 

Gloomy lay the shore that night, 
When the moon, with sleeping light. 
Bathed each purple Sciote hill, — 
Gloomy lay the shore, and still. 
O'er the wave no gay guitar 
Sijnt its floating music far; 
No glad sound of dancing feet 
WoUe. the starry hours to greet. 
But a voice of murlal woe, 


In ils changes wild or low, 
Through the midnight's blue repose 
From the sea-beat roclcs arose, 
As Eudora's mollier stood 
Gazing on th'^gean flood. 
With a fixed and straining eye — 
Oh! was the spoiler-.' vessel nigh? 
Yes! there, becalmed in silent sleep. 
Dark and alone on a breathless deep. 
On a sea of molten silver dark, 
Brooding it frowned that evil bark ! 
There its brSad pennon a shadow cast. 
Moveless and black from the tall still mast; 
And the heavy sound of ils flapping sail 
Idly and vainly wooed the gale. 
Hushed was all else — had ocean's breast 
Rocked e'en Eudora that hour to rest? 

To rest ? — The waves tremble ! What piercing cry 

Bursts from the heart of the ship on high ? 

What light through the heavens, in a sudden spire. 

Shoots from the deck up ? Fire ! 'tis fire ! 

There are wild forms hurrying to and fro, 

Seen darkly clear in th it lurid glow ; 

There are shout, and si glial qun, and call, 

And the dashing of water, — Ijut fruitless all ! 

Man may not fetter, nor ocean tame 

The might and wrath of the lushing flame ! 

It hath twined the like a glittering snake 

That coils up a tree from a dusky brake ; 

It hath touched the sails, and their canvas rolls 

Away from ils breath into shriveled scrolls; 

It hath taken the flag's high place in air. 

And reddened the stars with its wavy glare. 

And sent out bright arrows, and soared in glee 

To a burning mount midst the moonlit sea. 

The swimmers are plunging from stern and^jrow — • 

Eudora, Eudora ! where, where art thou ? 

The slave and his master alike are gone. — • 

Mother ! who stands on the deck alone ? 

The child of thy bosom! And lo! a brand 

Blazing up high in her lifted hand ! 

And her veil flung back, and her freed dark hair 

Swayed by the flames as they rock and flare. 

And her fragile form to ils loftiest height 

Dilated, as if by the spirit's might. 

And her eye with an eagle-gladness fraught, — 

Oh ! could this work be of woman wrought? 

Yes ! 't was her deed ! By that haughty smile 

It was hers! She hath kindled her pile! 


Never miglit shame on that bright head be; 

Her blood was the Greelc's, and hath made her free. 

Proudly she stands, like an Indian bride 

On the pyre with the holy dead beside; 

But a shriek from her mother halh caught her ear. 

As the flames to her marriage-robe draw near. 

And starting, she spreads her pale arms in vain 

To the form they must never enfold again. 

One moment more, and her hands are clasped, 

Fallen is the torch they had wildly grasped. 

Her sinking knee unto heaven is bowed. 

And her last look raised through the smoke's dim shroud, 

And her lips as in prayer for her pardon move — 

Now the night gathers o'er youth and love ! 

Mrs. Felicia Hemans. 


[The Yankee character should be well sustained. Tone long- 
drawn and nasal.] 

AVe were in disgrace, we boys, and the reason of it was 
this: we had laughed out in meeting time! To be sure, 
the occasion was a trying one, even to more disciplined 
nerves. But by Sunday evening, as we gathered around 
the fire, the reaction from undue gayety to sobriety had 
taken place, and we were in a pensive and penitent state. 
Grandmother was gracious and forgiving, but Aunt Lois 
still preserved that frosty air of reprobation which she held 
to be a salutary means of quickening our consciences for 
tlie future. It was, therefore, with unusual delight that 
we saw our old friend Sam come in and set himself quietly 
down on the block in the chimney corner. With Sam we 
felt assured of indulgence and patronage, for, though 
always rigidly moral and instructive in his turn of mind, 
he had that fellow-feeling for transgressors which is char- 
acteristic of the loose-jointed, easy-going style of his indi- 

"Lordy massy, boys — yis," said Sam, virtuously, iii 
view of some of Aunt Lois's thrusts, "ye ought never to 
laugh right out in meetin' ; that are 's so, but then there 
is tiines when the best on us gets took down. We gets 
took unawares, ye see — even ministers does. Yis, natur 
v/ill git the upper hand afore they know it." 


"Why, Sam, ministers don't ever laugh in meetin', do 

We put the question with wide eyes. Such a supposi- 
tion bordered on profanity, we thought ; it was approach- 
ing the sin of Uzzah, who unwarily touched the ark of 
the Lord. 

" Laws, yes. Why, havn't you never heard how there 
was a council held to try Parson Morrell for laughin' out 
in prayer-time?" 

"Laughin' in prayer-time!" we both repeated, with 
uplifted hands and eyes. 

My grandfather's mild face became luminous with a 
suppressed smile, which brightened it as the moon does a 
cloud, but he said nothing. 

"Yes, yes," said my grandmother, "that affair did 
make a dreadful scandal in the time on 't. But Parson 
Morrell was a good man, and I'm glad the council wasn't 
hard on him." 

" Wal," said Sam Lawson, "after all, it was more Ike 
Babbitt's fault than 't was any body's. Ye see, Ike was 
aliers for gettin' what he could out o' the town, and he 
would feed his sheep on the meetin'-house green. Some- 
how or other Ike's fences aliers contrived to give out, 
come Sunday, and up would come his sheep, and Ike was 
too pious to drive 'em back, Sunday, and so there they 
was. He was talked to enough about it, 'cause, ye see, to 
have sheep and lambs a baa-n' and a b'.atin' all prayer 
and sermon time wa'n't the thing. 'Member, that are old 
meetin'-house up to the north end, down under Blueberry 
Hill, the land sort o' sloped down, so as a body had to 
come into the meetin'-house steppin' down instead o' up. 

"Fact was, they said 't was put there 'cause the land 
wa'n't good for nothin' else, and the folks thought puttin' 
a meetin'-house on 't would be a clear savin' — but Parson 
Morrell he didn't like it, and was free to tell 'em his mind 
on 't, that 't was like bringin' the lame and the blind to 
the Lord's service — but there 't was. 

" There warn't a better minister nor no one more set by 
in all the State than Parson Morrell. His doctrine was 
right up and down and good and sharp, and he gives saints 
and sinners their meat in due season, and for consolin' 
and comfortin' widders and orphans Parson Morrell hadn't 


his match. The women sot lots by him, and he was alius' 
ready to take tea round, and make things pleasant and 
comfortable, and he had a good story for every one, an' a 
word for the children, and maybe an apple or a cookey 
in his pocket for 'em. Wal, you know there ain't no 
])leasi!i' every body, and ef Gabriel himself, right down 
out o' heaven, was to come and be a minister, I expect 
there 'd be a pickin' at his wings, and sort o' fault-findin'. 
Now Aunt Jerushy Scran and Aunt Polly Hokum, they 
sed Parson Morrell wa'n't solemn enough. Ye see there's 
them that thinks that a minister ought to be jest like the 
town-hearse, so that ye think of death, judgment, and 
eternity, and nothin' else, when you see him round ; and 
if they see a man rosy and chipper, and havin' a pretty 
nice sociable sort of time, why they say he ain't ipiritooal- 
minded. But in my times I've seen ministers that the 
most awakenin' kind in the pulpit was the liveliest when 
they was out on 't. There is a time to laugh, Scriptur' 
says, tho' some folks never seem to remember that are." 

"But, Sam, how came you to say it was Ike Babbitt's 
fault? What was it about the sheep?" 

"O wal, yis — I'm a coniin' to that are. It was all 
about them sheep — I expect they was the instrument t''" 
devil sot to work to tempt Parson Morrell to laugh .^ 

" Ye see there was old Dick, Ike's bell-wether, was the 
fightin'est old crittur that ever yer see. Why Dick would 
butt at his own shadder, and every body said it was a 
shame the old critter should be left to run loose, 'cause he 
run at the children and scared the women half out of their 
wits. Wal, I used to live out in that parish in them days, 
and Lem Sudoc and I used to go out sparkin' Sunday 
nights to see the Larkin gals — and we had to go right 
'cross the lot where Dick was — so we used to go and stand 
at the fence and call, and Dick would see us and put down 
his head and run at us full chisel, and come bunt agin the 
fence, and then I'd ketch him by the horns and hold him 
while Lem run and got over the fence t'other si(ie the lot, 
and then I'd let go and Lem would holler and shake a 
stick at him, and away he'd go full butt at Lem, and Lem 
would ketch his horns and hold him till I came over — that 
was the way we managed Dick — but ef he ome sudden 


up behind a fellow, he'd give him a butt in the small of 
his back that would make him run on all fours one while — 
he was a great rogue, Dick was. Wal, that summer 1 
remember they had old Deacon Titkins for tithing-man, 
and I can tell you he give it to the boys lively. There 
warn't no sleepin' nor no playin', for the Deacon had eyes 
like a gimblet, and he was quick as a cat, and the young- 
sters hed to look out for themselves. It did really seem as 
if the Deacon was like them four beasts in the Revelation 
that was full o' eyes behind and before, for which ever 
way he was standin' if you gave only a wink he was down 
on you and hit you a tap with his stick. I know once 
Lem Sudoc jist wrote two words in the psalm-book and 
passed to Keziah Larkin, and the Deacon give him such a 
tap that Lem grew red as a beet, and vowed he'd be up 
with him some day for that. 

" Well, Lordy massy I folks that is so chipper and high- 
steppin' has to have their come -downs, and the Deacon he 
had to hev his. 

"That ar Simday, I remember it now jest as well as if 
't was yesterday. The parson he giv us his gret sermon, 
reconcilin' decrees and free agency — every body said that 
ar sermon was a masterpiece. He preached it up to Cam- 
bridge at Commencement, but it so happened it was one 
o' them bilin' hot days that come in August, when you 
can fairly hear the huckleberries a sizzling and cookin' on 
the bushes, and the locust keeps a gratin' like a red-hot 
saw. Wal, such times, decrees or no decrees, the best on 
us will get sleepy. The old meetin'-house stood right 
down at the foot of a hill that kep' off all the wind, and 
the sun blazed away at them gret west winders, and there 
was pretty sleepy times there. Wal, the Deacon he flew 
round a spell, and woke up the children and tapped the 
boys on the head, and kep' every thing straight as he 
could till the sermon was most through, when he railly 
got most tuckered out, and he took a chair, and he sot 
down in the door right opposite the minister, and fairly 
got to sleep himself, jest as the minister got up to make 
the last prayer. 

"Wal, Parson Morrell had a way o' prayin' with his 
eyes open. Folks said it wa'n't the best way, but it was 
Parson Morrell's anyhow, and so as he was prajin' he 


couldn't help seein' that Deacon Titkins was a nodditi* 
and a bobbin' out towards the place where old Dick was 
feedin' with the sheep, front o' the meetin'-house door. 

" Lem and me we was sittin' where we could look out, 
and we could jest see old Dick stop feedin' and look at 
the Deacon. The Deacon had a little round head as 
smooth as an apple, with a nice powdered wig on it, and 
he sot there makin' bobs and bows, and Dick begun to 
think it was suthin' sort o' pussonel. Lem and me was 
sittin' jest where we could look out and see the whole 
picter, and Lem was fit to split. 

" ' Good, now," says he, ' that crittur'll pay the Deacon 
off lively, pretty soon.' 

"The Deacon bobbed tt\" head a spell, and old Dick he 
shook his horns and stamped at him sort o' threatnin'. 
Finally the Deacon he gave a great bow and brought his 
head right down at him, and old Dick he sot out full tilt 
and come down on him ker chunk, and knocked him head 
over heels into the broad aisle, and his wig flew one way 
and he t'other, and Dick made a lunge at it as it flew, and 
carried it off on his horns. 

" Wal, you may believe, that broke up the meetin' for 
one while, for Parson Morrell laughed out, and all the girls 
and boys they stamped and roared, and the old Deacon he 
got up and begun rubbing his shins — 'cause he didn't see 
the joke on't. 

"'You don't orter laugh,' says he; 'it's no laughin' 
matter — it's a solemn thing,' says he ; ' I might have been 
fcent into 'tarnity by that crittur,' says he. Then they all 
roared and haw-hawed the more to see the Deacon dancin' 
round with his little shiny head, so smooth a fly would trip 
up on't. ' I believe, on my soul, you'd laugh to see me in 
my grave,' says he ! 

" Wal, the truth on't was, 'twas just one of them bustin' 
up times that natur' has, when there ain't nothin' for it but 
to give in ; 'twas jest like the ice breakin' up in the 
Charles River — it all come at once and no whoa to 't. 
Sunday or no Sunday, sin or no sin, the most on 'em 
laughed until they cried, and couldn't help it. 

"But the Deacon he went home feelin' pretty sore about 
it. Lem Sudoc he picked up his wig and handed it to 
him. Says he ' Old Dick wa;. playing tithing-man, wa'n't 


he, Deacon? Teach you to make allowance for other 
folks that get sleepy.' 

"Then Mrs. Titkins she went over to Aunt Jerushy 
Scran's and Aunt Polly Hokum's, and they had a pot o' 
tea over it, and 'greed it was awful of Parson Morrell to 
set sich an example, and suthin' had got to be done about 
it. Miss Hokum said she allers knew that Parson Morrell 
hadn't no spiritooality, and now it had broke out into open 
sin, and led all the rest of 'em into it; and Mrs. Titkins 
she said such a man wa'n't fit to preach ; and Miss Hokum 
said she couldn't never hear him ag'in, and the next Sun- 
day the Deacon and his wife they hitched up and driv 
eight miles over to Parson Lothrop's, and took Aunt Polly 
on the back seat. 

" Wal, the thing growed and growed till it seemed as if 
there warn't nothing el::e talked about, 'cause Aunt Polly 
and Mrs. Titkins and Jerushy Scran they didn't do nothin' 
but talk about it, and that sot every body else a talkin'. 

"Finally, it was 'greed they must hev a council to settle 
the hash. So all the wimmen they went to chopping 
mince, and making up pumpkin pies and cranberry tai ts, 
and bilin' doughnuts, gettin' reddy for the ministers and 
delegates — 'cause councils always eats powerful — and they 
had quite a stir, like a gineral trainin'. The bosses, they 
was hitched all up and down the stalls, a stompin' and 
switchin' their tails, and all the wimmen was a talkin', 
and they hed up every body round for witnesses, and 
finally Parson Morrell he says, 'Brethren,' says he, 'jest, 
let me tell you the story jest as it happened, and if you 
don't every one of you laugh as hard as I did, why, then 
I'll give up.' 

" The parson he was a master hand at settin' off a stnry, 
and afore he'd done he got 'em all in sich a roar they 
didn't know where to leave off. Finally, they give sen- 
tence that there hadn't no temptation took him but sucli 
as is common to man; but they advised him afterward 
allers to pray with his eyes shut, and the parson he con- 
fessed he orter 'a done it, and meant to do better in future, 
and so they settled it. 

" So, boys," said Sam, who always drew amoral, "yesee 
it lams you you must take care what you look at, ef ye waat 
to keep from laughin' in meetin'." — Mrs. 11. h. Stowe. 



[Read in a light, girlish manner.] 

Would you laugh, or would you cry? 
Would you break your heart and die. 
If you had a dashing lover 
Like my handsome Archie Dean, 
And he should forget his vowing 
By the moon, the stars, the sun, 
To love me evermore. 
And should go to Kiltie Carrol, 
Who has money, so they say — 
And with eyes love-filled as ever 
Win her heart, that's like a feather. 
Vowing all he had before ? 
Prithee, tell me, would you cry. 
And grow very sad, and die ? 


Always in the old romances 
That dear Archie read to me. 
Those that pleased my girlish fancy. 
There was always sure to be 
One sweet maiden with a lover 
Who was never, never true ; 
And when they were widely parted. 
Then she died, poor broken-hearted. 
And did break with grief at last, 
Like a lily in the blast — 
Say, would you, if you were me ? 

True, I do love Archie Dean, 
Love him, love him, oh ! how true; 
But see, my eyes are bright, 
And my lips and cheeks are red 
(Archie Dean put that m my head). 
And I don't know what to do, 
Whether to lie down and weep 
Till the red is faded out, 
And my eyes are dull and dim. 
Maybe blind, and all for him ; 
(I could do it, I've no doubt). 
Or loop up my pretty h.iir 
With the brightest knots of ribbon 
And the very sweetest roses. 


And go to the village fair, 
Where he'll be with Kiltie Carrol, 
And will see me dance the wildest 
With some bonny lad that's there, 
Just to show how much I care. 


Archie Dean ! Archie Dean ! 

'Tis the sweetest name I know; 

It is writ on my heart, but o'er it now 

Is drifting*the cold snow. 

Archie Dean I Archie Dean ! 

There's a pain in my heart while I speak ; 

I wonder if always the thought of your name 

Will make me so saddened and weak. 

Archie Dean ! Archie Dean I 

I remember that you said 

Your name should be mine, and I should be 

The happiest bride e'er wed. 

I little thought of a day like this 

When I could wish I were dead. 

But there goes the clock, the hour is near 

When I must be off to the fair; 

I'll go and dance and dance and dance 

With the bonny lads who are there, 

In my dress of blue with crimson sash 

Which he always liked me to wear. 

I'll whirl before him as fast as I can, 

I'll laugh and chatter, yes, that is my plan. 

And I know that before the morn 

He'U A'ish that Kittie Carrol had never been bom. 

And that he could be sitting again 

Close by my side in the green meadow lane, 

Vowing his love in a tender strain. 

But when I see him coming 

I'll turn my eyes with softest glance 

On somebody else — then off in the dance — 

And if he should happen to get the chance 

For saying how heartily sorry he is 

For having been false to me he loves true, 

I won't hear z vvoru that he says, would you ? 

What you'd better do, Jennie Marsh. 
Break your heart for Archie Dean ? 
Jennie Marsh ! Jennie Mar»h ! 

Not a bit. 
'Tis the very thing he's after. 
He would say to Kitttie Carrol, 


With careless, mocking laughter, 
" Here's a pretty Utile chick 
Who has died for love of me, 

Tis a pity. 
But what is a man to do 
When the girls beset him so ? 
If he gives a nosegay here. 
If he calls another dear, 
If he warbles to a third 

A love-ditty. 
Why the darling little innocents 
Take it all to heait. 
Alack-a-day ! 
Ah ! she was a pretty maiden, 

A little too fond-hearted. 
Eyes a little too love-laden, 

But really, when we parted — 
Well, she died for love of me. 
Kiltie Carrol." Don't you see 
You are giving him to Kiltie 
Just as sure as sure can be ? 
'Tis the way he takes to woo her. 
By slyly showing to her 
What a dashing, slashing beau is at her feet 
Hie away to Kittie Cariul, — 
Your loss is but a gain. 
Aren't there fishes still a-swimming 

Just as luscious every way 
As those that hissed and sputtered 

In the saucepan yesterday? 
But Jennie, charming Jennie, 
When you are at the fair 
Don't flirt too far with bonny lads. 

Because, perhaps, you'll rue it; 
And do not dance too merrily, 

Because he may see through it ; 
And don't put on an air as if 

You're mortally offended; 
You'll be a feather in his cap. 

And then your game is ended. 
And if, with Kiltie on his arm. 

You meet him on the green. 
Don't agonize your pretty inouth 

With Mr. Arthur Dean ; 
But every throb of pride or love 

Be very sure to stifle, 
As if your intercourse with him 

Were but the merest trifle ; 
And make believe, with all your might. 

You'd not care a feather 
For all the Carruls ill the world, 


And Archie Deans together. 
Take this advice, and get him back, 

My darling, if you can ; 
But if you can't, why, right about. 

And take another man. 

I went to the fair with Charlie — 
With handsome Charlie Green, 
Who has loved me many a year. 
And vowed his loving with a tear— 

A tear of the heart, I mean. 
But I never gave a smile to him 


When full in sight 
Of Kittie Carrol and Archie Dean. 
Now, Archie knows that Charlie has 
A deal of money, and has lands. 
And his wealth is little to him 
Without my heart and hand. 
So I smiled on Charlie, 
And I danced with Charlie, 
When I knew that Archie's eyes 
Were fixed on me as in a trance, 
I once caught them in the dance. 
And I could liave fallen at his feet. 

Dear Aichie Dean ! 
But there were Kittle Carrol and Charlie Green. 
And when Archie came to me. 
As I was sure he would. 
And with softest tone and glance. 
Do you think I dropped my eyes. 
With a glad surprise ? 

No, no, indeed ! 

That would not do. 
Straight I looked into his face, 
With no broken hearted grace. 
Oh, he could not see my pain — 
And I told him he must wait 

A little while 
Till I had danced with Charlie Green; 

Then I cast a smile 
On Harry Hill and Walter Brown. 
Oh, the look he cast on me 
As his eyes fell sadly dowji. 
He said he something had to say. 
But I laughed and turned away. 

For my sight was growing dim. 
Saying, I would not forget 

That I was to dance with him. 
He did not go to Kittie Carrol, 


Who was sitting alone, 
Watching U5 with flashing eyes, 
Bnt he slowly turned away 
To a corner in the dark. 
There he waited patiently. 
And, he said, most wearily, 

For the dancing to be done ; 
And, although my heart was aching. 
And very nigh to breaking. 

It was quite a bit of fun 

Just to see him standing there 
Watching me. Oh, Archie Dean, 

What a picture of despair; 
Why not hie to Kittie Carrol? 

She has money, so they say, 
And has held it out for lovers 

Many and many a weary day. 
She is rather plain, I know — 
Crooked nose and reddish hair. 
And her years are more than yours. 
Archie Dean ! Archie Dean ! 
(lie is not rich, like Cliailie Green.) 
What does love for beauly care ? 
Hie away to Kitlie C.irrol; 

Ask her out to dance with you, 
Or she'll think that you are fickle 

And your vows of love untrue, 
And maybe you'll get the mitten 

Then, ah then, what will you do ? 

Well, he sighed at me and I laughed at him 

As we danced away together. 
He pressed my ham), but I heeded not. 

And whirUd off like a feather. 
He whispered s nnetliing about the past, 

But I did not heed at all 
For my heart was throbbing loud and fast, 

And the tears began to fall. 
He led me out beneath the stars, 

I told him it was vain 
For him to vow. I had no faith 

To pledge with him again. 
His voice was sad and thrilling and deep. 

And my pride flew away, 
And left me to weep. 

And when he snid he loved me most true. 
And ever should love me, 
" Ves, love only you," he said, 
I could not help trusting Archie, 

Say, could you ? Gail Hamilton. 



[To be read in a simple, playful, conversational manner.] 

Two brown heads with tossing curls, 
Red lips shutting over pearls. 
Bare feet, white and wet wilh dew. 
Two eyes black and two eyes blue — ■ 
Little boy and girl were they 
Katie l^ee and WiUie Gray. 

They were standing where a brook. 
Bending like a shepherd's crook, 
Flashed its silver, and thick ranks 
Of willow fringed its mossy banks- 
Half in thought and half in play, 
Katie Lee and Willie Gray. 

They had cheeks like cherry red,— 
lie was taller, 'most a head ; 
She with arms like wreaths of snow 
Swung a basket to and fro. 
As they loitered, h.ilf in play, 
Katie Lee and Willlie Gray. 

" Pretty Katie," Willie said, 

And there came a dash of red 

Through the brownness of the cheelc, 
" Boys are strong and girls are weak. 

And I'll carry, so I will, 

Katie's basket up the hill." 

Katie answered with a laugh, 
" You shall only carry half;" 

Then said, tossing back her curls, 
" Boys are weak as well as girls." 

Do you think that Katie guessed 

Half the wisdom she expressed ? 

Men are only boys grown tall ; 
Hearts don't change much, after all; 
And when, long years from that day, 
Katie Lee and Willie Gray 
Stood again beside the brook 
Bending like a shepherd's crooks- 


Is it strange that Willie said, 
Wliile again a dash of red 
Crowned the brovvimess of his cheek, 
" I am strong and you are \veal<; 
Life is but a slippery steep, 
Hung with shadows cold and deep. 

Will you trust me, Katie dear ? 
Walk lieside me without fear? 
May I carry, if I will, 
All your burdens up the hill ?" 
And she answered, with a laugh, 
*' No, but you may carry half." 

Close beside the little brook. 
Bending like a shephertl's crook. 
Working with its silver hands 
Lite and enrly at the sands. 
Stands a cottage, where, to-day, 
Katie lives with Willie Gray. 
In the porch she sits, and lo! 
Swings a basket to and fro, 
Vastly different from the one 
That she swung in years agone; 
This is long, and deep, and wide. 
And has rockers at the side. 


[In this selection excellent opportunity is afforded for the practics 
of high orotund and effusive, or plaintive, expression.] 

Boy Britton, only a lad, a fair-haired boy, sixteen 

In his uniform. 
Into the storm, into the roaring jaws of grim Fort Henry, 
Boldly bears the Federal flotilla. 
Into the battle storm. 

Boy Britton is Master's Mate aboard the Essex; — 
There he stands, buoyant and eagle-eyed. 

By the brave Captain's side. 
Ready to do or dare ; " Aye, aye, sir," always ready 

In his country's uniform. 
Boom! boom! and now the flag-boat sweeps. 
And now the Essex is plunged 

Into the battle's storm. 


Boom ! boom ! till river, and fort, and field 
Are overclouded by the battle's breath ; 
Then from the fort a gleam and a crashing gun. 
And the Essex is wrapped and shrouded 
In a scalding cloud of sieam. 

But victory I victory ! 
Unto God all praise be rendered, 
UnlQ (iod all praise and glory be ; 
See, Boy Britlon, see. Boy, see, 
They strike ! hurrah ! the fort has surrendered ! 
Shout ! shout ! my warrior boy, 
And wave your cap, and clap your hands for joy. 
Cheer answer cheer, and bear the cheer about 
Hurrah ! hurrah 1 for the fiery fort is ours. 

" Victory 1" "victory!" "victory!" 
Is ihe shout. 
Shout ! for the fiery fort is ours, and the field, 
And the day are ours I 

The day is ours, thanks to the brave endeavor 
Of heroes, boy, like thee I 
The day is ours, the day is ours ! 
Olory and deathless love to all who shared with thee. 
And bravely endured and dared with thee. 
The day is ours, the day is ours forever ! 
Glory and love for one and all, but, for thee. 
Home ! home ! a happy welcome, welcome home, for thee. 
And a mother's happy tears, and a virgin's 
Bridal wreath of flowers fur thee. 

Victory 1 Victory ! 
But suddenly wrecked and wrapped in seething steam 
The Essex slowly drifted out ot the battle storm ; 
Slowly, slowly, down, laden with the dead and dying, 
And tlicre at the captain's feet, among the dead and dying. 
The shot-marred form of a beautiful boy is lying. 

There in his uniform. 

Laurels and tears for thee, boy, 
Laurels and tears for thee; 
Laurels of light moist wiih the precious dew 
Of the inmost heart, of the nation's loving heart. 
And blest by the balmy breath of the beautiful and the true ; 
Moist, moist with the luminous breath of the singing spheres. 
And the nation's starry tears; 

And tremble touched by the pulse-like gush and start 
Of the universal music of the heart. 
And all deep sympathy. 
Laurels and tears for thee, boy, 
Laurels and tears for thee. 
Laurels of light and tears of Icve, 
Forevermore for thee. 


And laurels of light, and tears of truth. 
And the mantle of immortality ; 
And the flowers of love, and immortal youth. 
And the tender heart tol<ens of all true ruth. 

And the everlasting victory. 
And the breatli and bliss of liberty. 
And the loving kiss of liberty. 
I And the v^elcoming light of heavenly eyes. 

And the over calm of God's canopy ; 
And the infinite love-span of the skies. 
That cover the valleys of Paradise, 
For all of the brave who rest vvith thee ; 
And for one and all who died with thee. 
And now sleep side by side with thee; 
And for every one who lives and d',es 
On the solid land, or the heaving sea. 
Dear warrior boy, like theel 
On, the victory, the victory 

Belongs to thee! 
God ever keeps the brightest crown for such as thou. 
He gives it now to thee. 
Young and brave, and early and thrice blest, 

Thrice, thrice, thrice blest 1 
Thy country turns once more to kiss thy youthful brow, 
And takes thee gently, gently to her breast. 
And whispers lovingly, God bless thee, bless thee now. 

My darling thou shall rest 1 



[Great attention should be paid to the impersonations — study 

There was tumult in the city. 

In the quaint old Quaker town, 
And the streets were rife with people 

Pacing restless up and down; 
People gathering at corners, 

Where they whispered each to each. 
And the sweat stood on their temples. 

With the earnestness of speech. 

As the bleak Atlantic currents 

Lash the wild Newfoundland shore. 
So they beat against the State- House, 

So they surged against the door ; 


And the mingling of their voices 

Made a harmony profound, 
Till the quiet street of Chestnut 

Was all turbulent with sound. 

" Will they do it?" " Dare they do it ?" 

" Who is speaking?" " What's the news ?" 
" What of Adams ?" " What of Sherman ?" 

" Oh ! God grant they won't refuse ;" 
" Make some way there!" " Let me nearer 1" 

" I am stifling !" " Stifle, then ! 

When a nation's life's at hazard, 
We've no time to think of men." 

So they surged against the State-House, 

While all solemnly inside 
Sat the Continental Congress, 

Truth and reason for their guide. 
O'er a simple scroll debating. 

Which, though simple it might be, 
Yet should shake the clifls of England 

With the thunders of the free. 

So they beat against the portal, 

Man and woman, maid and child; 
And the July sun in heaven 

On the scene looked down and smiled. 
The same sun that saw the Spartan 

Shed his patriot blood in vain, 
Now beheld the soul of freedom. 

All unconquered rise again. 

Far aloft in that high steeple 

Sat the bellman, old and gray; 
He was weary of the tyrant 

And his iron-sceptred sway. 
So he sat, with one hand ready 

On the clapper of the bell. 
When his eye could catch the signal. 

The long-expected news to tell. 

See ! see ! the dense crowd quivers 

Through all its lengthy line, 
As the boy beside the portal 

Looks forth to give the sign; 
With his little hands uplifted. 

Breezes dallying with his hair. 
Hark ! with deep, clear intonation 

Breaks his young voice on the air. 


Hushed th« people's swelling murmur, 

As the boy cries joyously ! 
Ring !" he shouts, " ring ! grandpapa, 

Rng! oh, ring for Liberty!" 
Quickly at the given signal 

The old bellman lifts his hand, 
Forth he sends the good news, making 

Iron music through the land. 

How they shouted ! what rejoicing ! 

How the old bell shook the air. 
Till the clang of freedom ruffled 

The calmly gliding Delaware. 
How the bonfires and the torches 

Lighted up the night's repose. 
And from flames, like fabled Phoenix^ 

Our glorious liberty arose. 

That old State- House bell is silent. 

Hushed is now its clamorous tongue j 
But the spirit it awakened 

Still is living— ever young ; 
And when we greet the smiling sunlight. 

On the Fourth of each July, 
We will ne'er forget the bellman, 

Who, betwixt the earth and sky. 
Rang out loudly " Independence," 

Which, plense God, shall never die. 



I would not die in May : 
When orchards drift vi^ith bloom of white, like billows on the deep. 
And whispers from the lilac bush across my senses sweep. 
That 'mind me of a girl I knew, when life always May, 
Who filled my nights with starry hopes that faded out by day,- 
When time is full of wedding days, and nests of robins brim. 
Till overflows their wickei sides the old familiar hymn. 
The window brightens like an eye, the cottage door swings wide. 
The boys come homeward one by one, and bring a smiling bride. 
The fire-fly shows her signal light, the partridge beats his drum, 
And all the world gives promise of something sweet to come. 

Air ! who would die on such a day ? 

Ahl who would die in M.iy ? 


I would not die in June : 
When, looking up with faces quaint, the pansies grace the sod ; 
And, looking down, the willows see their doubles in the flood. 
When, blessing God, we breathe again the roses in the air; 
And lilies light the fields along with their immortal wenr, 
As once they lit the sermon of the Saviour on the mount. 
And glorified the story they evermore recount. 
Through pastures green the flocks of God go trooping one by one. 
And turn their golden fleeces round to dry them in the sun. 
When, calm as Galilee, the grain is rippling in the wind. 
And nothing dying anywhere but something that is sinned. 

Ah 1 who would die in life's own noon ? 

Ah! who would die in June? 

But when October comes, 
And poplars drift their leafage down in flakes of gold below. 
And beeches burn like twihght fires, that used to tell of snow; 
And maples bursting into flame, set all the hills afire. 
And summer, from the evergreens, sees paradise draw nigher. 
A lliousaiid sunsets all at once distill like Hermon's dew, 
And linger on the waiting woods, and stiin them through and thi.^gh. 
As if all earth had blossomed out one grand Corinthian flower. 
To crown Time's graceful cnpital for ju-t one gorgeous hour! 
They strike their colors to tlie king of all tlie stately throng — • 
He comes in pomp, October! To him all times belong: 
The frcist is on his sandals, but the flush is on his cheeks, 
September sheaves are in his arms; June voices, when he speaki; 
The elms lit bravely like a torch within a Grecian hand, — 
See where they light the monarch on through all the splendid land ! 
The sun puts on a human look behind the hazy fold, 
The mid-year moon of silver is stuck anew in gold, 
In honor of the very day that Moses saw of old ; 
For in the burning bush that blazed as quenchless as a sword. 
The Old Lieutenant first beheld October and the Lord ! 

Ah ! then October let it be, 

I'll claim my dying day for thee ! 

Benjamin F. Tavlor. 


[A Scottish Impersonation.] 

John Davidson and Tibbie, his wife. 
Sat toastin' their taes ae nicht. 

When something starlit in the fluir 
And blinkit by their sicht. 


" Guidwife," quoth John, '' did you see that moose? 

Whar sorra was the cat ?" 
" A moose ?" " Ay, a moose." " Na, na, Guidman,— 

It wasiia a moose, 'twas a rat." 

" Ow, ow, Guidwife, to think ye've been 
Sae lang about the hoose, 
An' no to ken a moose frae a rat ! 
Yon wasna a rat! 'twas a moose !" 

•' I've seen mair mice than you, Guidman— 
An' what think ye o' that ? 
Sae hand your tongue an' say nae mair — 
I tell ye, it was a rat." 

'•Me baud my tongue (or j'ou, Guidwife 1 
I'll be mester o' this hoose — 
I saw 't as plain as een could see 't. 
An' I tell ye, it was a moose !" 

" If you're the mester o' the hoose. 
It's I'm the mistress o' 't; 
An' I ken best what's in the hoose— 
Sae I tell ye, it was a rat." 

"Weel, weel, Guidwife, gae mak' the brose. 
An' ca' it what ye please." 
So up she rose, and made the brose. 
While John sat toastiii' his taes. 

They supit, and supit, and supit the brose. 
And aye their lips play'd smack ; 

They supit, and supit, and supit the brose. 
Till their lugs began to crack. 

" Sic fules we were to fa' oot, Guidwife, 
Aboot a moose." " A what ? 
It's a lee ye tell, an' I say again 
It wasna a moose, 'twas a rat !" 

" Wad ye ca' me a leear to my very face ? 
My faith, but ye craw croose ! 
1 tell ye, Tib, I never will bear 't— 

'Twas a moose!" " 'Twas a rat 1" " 'Twas a moose!" 


Wi' her spoon she struck him ovver the pow' — 
" Ye dour' auld doit,' tak' that — 
Gae to your bed, ye cankered sumph* — 

'Twas a rat !" " Twas a moosel" " 'Twas a rat I" 

She sent the brose-caup at his heels, 

As he hirpled* ben the hoose ; 
Yet he shooed cot his head as he steekit' the door, 

And cried, " 'Twas a moose 1 'twas a moosel" 

But, when the carle ' was fast asleep, 

She paid him back for that. 
And roar'd into his sleeping lug,* 
" 'Twas a rat ! 'twas a rat 1 'twas a rat I" 

The de'il be wi' me if I think 

It was a beast at a' I — 
Neist mornin', as she sweepit the flulr, 

She faund wee Johnny's ba' I 


(A touching incident in the history of the Scotch Covenanters.] 

A traop of soldiers waited at the door, 
A crowd of people gathered in the street. 
Aloof a little from them bared sabres gleamed 
And flashed into their faces. Then the door 
Was opened, and two women meekly stepped 
Into the sunshine of the sweet May-noon, 
Out of the prison. One was weak and old, 
A woman full of tears and full of woes ; 
The other was a maiden in her morn, 
And they were one in name, and one in faith. 
Mother and daughter in the bond of Christ, 
That bound them closer than the ties of blood. 

The troop moved on ; and down the sunny street 
The people followed, ever falling back 
As in their faces flashed the naked blades. 
But in the midst the women simply went 
As if they two were walking, side by side. 
Up to God's house on some still Sabbath mom, 

■Head. SStubbora. 'Dolt. < [ll-natured fool 

» Limped. 'Shut 'Man filir 


Only they were not clad for Sabbath day, 
But as they went about their daily tasks: 
They went to prison and they went to death 
Upon their Master's service. 

On the shore 
The troopers haked ; all the shining sands 
Lay bare and glistening ; for the tide had 
Drawn back to its farthest margin's weedy marV, 
And each succeeding wave, with flash and curve. 
That seemed to mock the sabres on the shore. 
Drew nearer by a hairbreadth. " It will he 
A long day's work," murmured those murderous men 
As they slacked rein. The leader of the troops 
Dismounted, and the people passing near 
Then heard the pardon offered, witli the oath 
Renouncing and adjuring part with all 
The persecuted, covenanted fold. 
But both refused the oath : " Because," they said, 
" Unless with Clirist's dear servants we have part, 
We have no part with Him." 

On this they look 
The elder Margaret, and led her out 
Over the sliding sands, the weedy sludge. 
The pebbly shoals, far out, and fastened her 
Unto the farthest stake, already reached 
By every rising wave, and left her there ; 
And as the waves crept about her feet, she prayed 
That He would firm uphold her in their midst 
Who holds them in the hollow of His hand. 

The tide flowed in. And up and down the shore 
There paced the Provost and the Laird of Lag- 
Grim Grierson — with Windram and with Graham; 
And the rude soldiers, jesting with coarse oaths, 
As in the midst the maiden meekly stood 
Waiting her doom delayed, said she would 
Turn before the tide — seek refuge in their arms 
From the chill waves. But ever to her lips 
There came the wondrous words of life and peaces 
*' If God be for us, who can be against ?' 
" Who shall divide us from the love of Christ ?" 
" Nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature." 

From the crowd 
A woman's voice cried a very bitter cry — 
"O, Margaret ! My bonnie, bonnie Margaret ! 
Gie in, gie in, my bairnie, dinna ye drown, 
Gie in, and tak' the oath!" 


The tide flowed in ; 
And so wore on the sunny afternoon ; 
And every fire went out upon the hearth, 
And not a meal was tasted in the town that day. 
And still the tide was flowing in ; 
Her mother's voice yet sounding in her ear, 
They turned young Margaret's face towards the sea, 
Where something while was floating — something 
White as the sea-mew that sits upon the wave ; 
But as she looked it sank ; then showed again ; 
Then disappeared ; and round the shore 
And stake the tide stood ankle-deep. 

Then Grierson 
With cursing vowed that he would wait 
No more, and to the slake the soldier led her 
Down, and tied her hands; and round her 
Slender wai.->t loo roii'^hiy cast the rope, for 
Windram came and loused it while he whimpered 
in her ear, " Come take the test, and ye are free," 
\nd one cried, " Margaret, say but 'God save 
The King!' " "God save the King of His greu grace," 
ihe answered, but the oath she would not lake. 

And slill the tide flowed in, 
And drove the people back an I silenced them. 
Vhe tide flowed in, and rising to her knee*;, 
She sang the psalm, " To Tliee I lift my soul ;" 
The tide flowed in, and rising to her waist, 
" To I'hee, my God, I lift my soul," she sang. 
The tide flowed in, and rising to her throat, 
^lie sang no more, but lifted up her face, — 
And tliere was glory over all the sky, 
And there was glory over all the sea — 
A flood of glory,— and the lifted face 
Swam in it till it bowed beneath the flood, 
And Scotland's Maiden Martyr went to God. 

Baltimore Elocutionist. 


[Intense description. Picture the scene, and give expression to ths 
jurying emotions. Employ the Scottish accent.] 

Oh, that last day in Lucknow fort ! 

We knew that it was the last. 
That the enemy's mines had crept surely in, 

And the end was coming fasi. 


To yield to that foe meant worse than death, 

And the mtn and we all worked on; 
It was one day mure of smoke and roar. 

And then it would all be done. 

There was one of us, a corporal's wife, 

A fair, young, gentle thing, 
Wasted with fever in the siege, 

And her mind was wandering. 

She lay on the ground, in her Scottish plaid. 
And I took her head on my knee ; 
"When my father comes hame frae the pleugh," she said, 
" Oh ! please then waken me." 

She slept like a child on her father's floor 

In the flecking of woodbine shade, 
When the house dog sprawls by the half-open door. 

And the mother's wheel is stayed. 

It was smoke, and roar, and powder stench. 

And hopeless waiting for death ; 
But the soldier's wife, like a full-tired child. 

Seemed scarce to draw her breath, 

I sank to sleep ; and T had my dream 

Of an English village lane, 
And wall and garden — till a sudden scream 

Brought me back to the rear again. 

There Jessie Brown stood listening. 

And then a broad gladness broke 
All over her face, and she took my hand, 

And drew me near, and spoke : 

" The Hielanders ! O ! dinna ye hear 
The slogan far awa ? 
The McGregor's? Ah ! I ken it weel; 
It is the grandest o' them a'. 

God bless the bonny Hielanders! 

We're saved ! we're saved!" she cried; 
And fell on her knees, and thanks to God 

Poured forth, like a full flood-tide. 

Along the battery line her cry 

Had fallen among the men. 
And they started; for they were there to die; 

Was life so near them then? 


They listened, for life; and the rattling fire 

Far off, and the far-off roar 
Were all, — and the colonel shook his head. 

And they turned to their guns once more. 

Then Jessie said, " The slogan's dune, 

But can ye no hear them, noo ? 
The Campbells are comin' ! It's nae a dream. 

Our succors hae broken through ! " 

We heard the roar and rattle afar. 

But the pipers we could not hear; 
So the men plied their work of hopeless war. 

And knew that the end was near. 

It was not long ere it must be heard, — 

A shrilling, ceaseless sound; 
It was no noise of the strife afar. 

Or the sappers under ground. 

It was the pipes of the Highlanders! 

And now they played Auld Lang Syne,- 
It came to our men like the voice of God; 

And they shouted along the line. 

And they wept and shook each other's hands, 

And the women sobbed in a crowd; 
And every one knelt down wheie we stood. 

And we all thanked God aloud. 

That happy day when we welcomed them in. 

Our men put Jessie first; 
And the General took her hand ; and cheers 

From the men like a volley burst. 

And the pipers' ribbons and tartan streamed, 

Marching round and round our line ; 
And our joyful cheers were broken with tears. 

And the pipers played Auld Lang Syne. 

Robert Lowell. 


(Simple narration, marked by pathos near the close.] 

Yes, that's my business, sir — a down. 

The saw-dust ring is life to me. 
And spinning that old white hat by the crown 

Is a sort of second nature, you see. 


For thirty years I've been in the ring — 

Thirty years, and I'll be bound ; 
This flight of time is a curious thing, 

And here, another season's 'round. 

No, nothing to do. Be seated, sir ; 

I'm fond of an hour's quiet chat; 
And what with show-life's bustle and stir 

It isn't a thing to be wondered at. 

We've been on the road four months to-day. 
The road, with its varied pleasure and strife ; 

And — beg your pardon, sir, what did you say?— 
How do I like my calling in life ? 

Well, 't isn't the easiest thing in the world — 
At least I haven't found it lo be ; 

A man is tossed about and hurled 
Here and there, like a bottle at sea. 

But a fellow must live somehow, you know. 
And pick up his bread as best he can; 

And how could I do outside the show ? 
I think it would prove a difficult plan. 

Then, too, in spite of the hardship and strife. 
Of which, no doubt, it has its share, 

There's a certain charm about the life 
That steals upon me unaware. 

Why, sir, as soon as the winter's past, 

And I feel tlie warmer breath of spring,— 

My pulses, even now, beat fast, 
To scent again the air of the ring ! 

The canvas, sir, is the only place 
In which I feel at home, you see ; 

Ami a brownstune front, with Brussels and lace, 
Would be as bad as the Tombs for me J 

Singular, isn't it ?■ Yet I suppose 
Whatever the life a man has led. 

He learns to like it — the more when he knows 
That by it he gets his butter and bread. 

Always a clo7vn ? Well , no sir, no ; 

I've done a little in every line — 
Was principal ri.ler, years ago. 

But fell one night and injured my spine. 


Performed on the bar for a season or more, 

And tumbled a while — till I hurt my hip; 
That left me always a little sore — 

I could clear twelve horses once, like a whip 1 

And then for a time I did the trapeze 

With Tom — the show bills called us "brothers," 

And 'twasn't, by Jove, much out of the way, 

Though we did have different fathers and mothers 1 

I wish thai some of these pious chaps. 

Who'd think it a sin to shake hands with me. 

Could have known poor Tom, and then, perhaps. 
They'd have, in the future, more charity. 

It happened that we were south that year,— 

The fever was raging bad, they said; 
And yet I had no thought of fear, 

Until I saw Tom lying dead ! 

He seemed too young, too strong and brave. 

To be thus early stricken down ; 
But strength don't count against the grave ; 

So poor Tom went, and 1 turned clown. 

That's more than twenty years ago; 

And since that sad time — let me see — 
I've stuck with patience to the show, 

And done what seemed the best to me. 

I married, after poor Tom died. 

As good a girl, as kind and true. 
As ever pledged herself a bride, — 

I count that more than looks, don't you ? 

But she was beautiful as well. 

With such rich, glorious, golden hair, 
And eyes that held you like a spell, — ■ 

Such eyes! — like that blue heaven there! 

Well, we were wed, and for a time 

Our lives seemed one long summer day— 
' As merry as a marriage chime," — 
1 think that's what the stories say. 

But ah, how soon it ended, sir ! 

Tlie and canvas — life to me — 
Proved all too rough and hard for her. 

She drooped beneath the weight, you see. 


I watched her, heavy-hearted fail ; 

I tried to thinlc she would not die; 
I saw her rounded cheek grow pale, — 

The lustre fade from out her eye ; 

And then I knew all hope was past; 

The days dragged by, with snail-like pace,— 
Such days of anguish! — till, at last, 

Death clasped her in his cold embrace. 

Since then the years have come and gone; 

I've scarcely marked them as they fled; 
For from the day on which she died, 

It seemed as though time, too, were dead. 

My griefs, sometimes, have crushed me down. 
But the world, of course, knows naught of that> 

Who'd think of sorrow in a clown ? 
My business is to spin that hatl 

I don't complain. The life I've led 
Has had its dark and sunny page; 

'Twas Shakspeare, wasn't it ? who said 
That " all the world is but a stage." 

Well, that, I think, 's about my creed, 

And 't wouldn't much have changed the thing 

If Shakspeare had made the passage read 
That " all the world is but a ring." 

And so it is, sir! you and I 

Are only playing different parts; 
The Manager who rules on high 

I think will judge men by their hearts. 

I don't believe he'll even ask 

What their calling was down here ; 
But only if they bore their task. 

And kept a conscience straight and clear. 

So, when the season here is through. 

And I go to meet Him face to face, 
If he finds a heart that has tried to be true. 

Perhaps he'll give even the clown a place. 

Vamiyke r.ROWN. 



[The Buld Boy of Glingall.] 

Jist afther the war, in Ihe year '98, 
As soon as the boys wor all scattered and bate, 
'Tvvas the custom, whenever a pisant was got, 
To hang him by thrial — barrin' sich as was shot. 
There was thrial by jury goin' on by daylight, 
And the martial-law hangin' the lavins by night. 
It's lliem was hard times for an honest gossoon : 
If he missed in the judges — he'd meet a dragoon; 
All' whether the sodgers or judges gev sentencL-, 
The deil a much time they allowed for repentance. 
An' it's many's the fine lioy was then on his keepin' 
Wid small share iv reslin', 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 buy iv them all 
Was Shamus O'Brien, 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 re J; 
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 illiganlest hurler that ever was seen. 
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 it into 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 lathered the yeomen, himself agin' four, 
An' stretched the two strongest on old Galtimoro. 
But the fox must sleep sometimes, the wild deer must res^ 
And treachery prey on the blood of 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 everpast. 
In the darkness of night he was taken at last. 

Now, Shamus, look back on the beautiful moon. 
For the door of the prison must clo^e on ycu 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 shelthering, far-distant wood; 

Farewell to the forest, farewell to the hill. 

An' farewell to the friend-; 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 ; 

The fleet limbs wor chained, an' the sthrong hands wor bound. 

An' he laid down his length on the cowld prison ground, 

An' the dreams of his childhood kera over him there 

As gentle an' soft as the sweet summer air; 

An' happy remembrances crowding on ever. 

As fa'^t as the foam-flaUes dhtift down on the river. 

Bringing fresh to his heart merry days long gone by. 

Till tlie tears gathered heavy and thick in his eye 

But the tears didn't fall, for the pride of his heart 

Would not suffer one drop down his pile cheek to start; 

An' he sprang to his feet in the dirk prison cave. 

An' he swore with the fierceness that misery gave. 

By the hopes of the good, an* the cause of the brave. 

That when he was mouldering in the cold grave 

His enemies never should have it to boast 

His scorn of their vengeance one moment was lost; 

His bosom might bleed, but his cheek should be dry. 

For undaunted he lived, and undaunted he'd die. 

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 and 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 and 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 sldl as the heart of the dead. 
An' they heard but the openin' of one prison lock. 
An' Shamus O'Brien 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 Jim di<ln't understand it, nor mind it a taste; 
An' the judge took a bijj 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 check, 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 X tell you again. 
Though I stand here to perish, it 's my glory that then 
In her cause 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, oh, don't say the word ! 
The crathur is ycung, have mercy, my lord ; 
He was foolish, he didn't know what he was doin' 
You don't know him, my lord, — oh, don't give him to r<in. 
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 — oh, don't say the wordl" 
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 falter and break ; 
But at last, by the strength of his high-mounting pride. 
He conquered and masthered his grief's swelling tide, 

"An'," says he, "mother, darlin', don't break your poor heart. 
For sooner or later, the dearest must part ; 
And God knows it's better 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 «'ish, when my head 's lyin' undher the raven, 
No thvue man can say that I died like a craven !" 
Then tovfards the judge Shamus bent down his head. 
An' that minute the solemn death-sentince was said. 

The mornin' was bright, and the mi?ts rose on high. 
An' the lark whistled merrily in the clear sky; 
BiU 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 Sh:imus O'Brien ! 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. 
When, sthrong, proud, an' great as you are you must die. 
An' fasther an' fasther the crowd gathered there, 
Boys, horses, and gingerbread, just like a fair; 
An' whisky was sellm', an' cussamuck too, 
An' ould men and young women enjoying the view. 
An' ould Tim Mulvany, he med the remark, 
There wasn't sich a sight since the time of Noah's ark. 
An' be gorry, 't was thrue for him, for de'il sich a scruge, 
Sich divarshin and crowds, was known since the deluge. 
For thousands were gathered there, if there was one, 
Waitin' till such time as the hangin' 'd come on. 

At last they threw open the big prison gate. 
An' out came the sheriffs 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'Brien, 
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, havin' blest him, goes down on the ground. 
An' Shamus O'Brien throws one last look around. 
Then the hangman drew near, an' the people grew still. 
Young faces turned sickly, and warm hearts turned chill ; 
An' the rope bein' ready, his neck was made bare. 
For the gripe iv the life-strangling cord to prepare ; 
An' the good priest has left him, havin' said his last prayer. 
But the good priest done more, fpr his hands he unbound, 
And with one daring spring Jim has leaped to the ground; 


Bang^. bang! go the carbines, and clash go the sabres ; 
He's not down ! he's alive still ! now stand to him, neighlmrs \ 
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. 
And Father Malone lost his new Sunday hat; 
To-night he'll besleepin' in Aherloe Glin, 
And the de'il'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. 

He has mounted his horse, and soon he will be, 
In America, darlint, the land of the free. 

Samuel Lover. 


[The rustic character .should be well drawn and sustained. Coo* 
cealed emotion should manifest itself slightly at the close.] 

Draw up the papers, lawyer, and make 'em good and stout, 
For things at home are cross-ways, and Betsey and I are out— 
We who have worked together so long as man and wife, 
Mu^t pull in single harness the rest of our nat'ral life. 

" What is the matter?" says you ? I swan ! it's hard to tell ; 
Most of the years behind us we've passed by very well ; 
I have no other woman, — she has no other man ; 
Only we've lived together as long as ever we can. 

So I have talked with Betsey, and Betsey has talked with me ; 
S(i, we've agreed together that we can't never agree ; 
Not that we've catched each other in any terrible crime — 
We've been gathering this for years, a little at a time. 

There was a stock of temper we both had for a start, 
Although we ne'er suspected 'twould take us two apart; 
I had my various failings, bred in the flesh and bone. 
And Betsey, like all good women, had a temper of her own. 

The first thing I remember, whereon we disagreed. 
Was somethin' concerning heaven, a difference in our creed— 
We arg'ed the thing at breakfast, we arg'ed the thing at tea. 
And the mor:: we arg'ed the question, the more we did'nt agree. 

o.jC readings and recitals. 

And the next that I remember was when we lost a cow ; 

She had kicked the bucket, for certain — the question was only^How? 

I held my own opinion, and Betsey another had ; 

And when we were done a talkin' we both of us was mad. 

And the next that I remember, it started in a joke. 
But full for a week it lasted, and neither of us spoke ; — 
And the next was when I scolded because she broke a bowl ; 
And she said I was mean and stingy, and had'nt any soul. 

And so the thing kept workin', and all the self-same way; 
Always somethin' to arg'e, and somethin' sharp to say — 
And down on us come the neighbors, a couple o' dozen strong, 
And lent their kindest sarvice to help the thing along. 

And there have been days together, and many a weary week, 
"iVhen both of us were cross and spunky, and both too proud to speak ; 
And 1 have been thinkin' and thinkin', the whole of the summer and fall, 
If I can't live kind with a woman, why, then I won't at all. 

And so I have talked with Betsey, and Betsey his talked with me. 
And we have agreed together that we can't never agree ; 
And what is hers shall be hers, and what is mine shall be mine. 
And I'll put in the agreement, and take it to her to sign. 

Write on the paper, lawyer, the very first paragraph, 
Of all the farm and live-stoclc, she shall have her half — 
For she has helped to earn it, through many a weary day. 
And it's nothin' more than justice that Betsey has her pay. 

Give her the house and homestead — a man can thrive and roam. 
But women are wretched critters, unless they have a home ; 
. And I have always determined, and never failed to say, 
That Betsey should never want a home, if I was taken away. 

There is a little hard money that's drawin' tolerable pay — 
A couple of hundred dollars laid by for a rainy day, 
Safe in the hands of good men, and easy to get at — 
Put in another clause there, and give her all of that. 

T see you're smilin', sir, at my givin' her so much ; 
Yes, divorce is cheap, sir, but I take no stock in such. 
True and fair I married her, when she was blithe and young, 
And Betsey was always good to me, exceptiii' with her tongue. 

Once, when I was young as you, and not so smart, perhaps, 
For me she mittened a lawyer, and several other chaps; 
And all of 'em was flustered, and fairly taken down. 
And 1 for a time was counted the luckiest" ni^n in town. 


Once, when I had a fever — I won't forget it soon, — 

I was hot as a basted turkey, and crazy as a loon, — 

Never an hour went by me when she was out of sight- • 

She nursed me true and tender, and stuck to me day and night. 

And if ever a house was tidy, and ever a kitchen clean, 
Her house and kitchen was tidy as any I ever seen; 
And I don't complain of Betsey, or any of her acts, 
Exceptin' when we've quarreled, and told each other facts. 

So, draw up the paper, lawyer, and I'll go home tonight. 

And read the agreement to her and see if it's all right ; 

And then in the mornin' I'll sell to a tradin' man I know. 

And kiss the child that was left to us, and out in the world I'll go. 

And one thing put in the paper, that first to me didn't occur. 
That when I am dead at last she will bring me back to her. 
And lay me under the maple we planted years ago. 
When she and I were happy, before we quarreled so. 

And when she dies, I wish that she would be laid by me. 
And lyin' together in silence, perhaps we'll then agree ; 
And, if ever we meet in heaven, I wouldn't think it queer 
If we loved each other the belter because we've quarreled here. 

W. M. Carleton. 


[Picture the scene in the mind, and give it true expression.] 

Like spectral hounds across the sky 
The white clouds scud before the storm. 
And naked in the howling night 
The red-eyed lighthouse lifts its form. 
The waves with slippery fingers chitch 
The massive tower, and climb and fall. 
And muttering growl with baffled rage 
Their curses on the sturdy wall. 

Up in the lonely tower he sits. 
The keeper of the crimson light, — 
Silent and awe-struck does he hear 
The imprecations of the night. 
The white spray beats against the pane* 
Like some wet ghost that down the air 
Is hunted by a troop of fiends 
And seeks a shelter anywhere. 


He prays aloud — the lonely man — 
For every soul that night at sea; 
But more than all for that brave boy 
Who used to gayly climb his knee, — 
Young Charlie with his chestnut hair 
And hazel eyes and laughing lip, — 
" May heaven look down," the old man cries, 
" Upon my son, and on his ship." 

While thus with pious heart he prays. 
Far in the distance sounds a boom, — 
He pauses, and again there rings 
That sullen thunder through the room. 
A ship upon the shoals to-niyhl ! 
She cannot hold for one half-hour; 
But clear the ropes and grappling-hooks. 
And trust in the Almighty Power. 

On the drenched gallery he stands 

Striving to pierce the solid night; 

Across the sea the red-eye throws 

A steady crimson wake of light, 

And where it falls upon the waves 

He sees a human head float by, 

With long drenched curls of chestnut hair. 

And wild but fearless hazel eye. 

Out with the hooks ! One mighty fling! 
Adown the wind the long rope curls. 
Oh ! will it citch ? Ah, dread suspense I 
While the wild oce.m wilder whirls. 
A steady pull — It lightens now ! 
Oh, his old heart will burst with joy, 
As on the slippery rocks he pulls 
The breathing body of his boy ! 

Still sweep the spectres through the sky. 
Still scud the clouds before the storm, 
Still naked in the howling niyht 
The red-eyed lighthouse lifts its form. 
Without, the world is wild with rage. 
Unkenneled demons are abroad ; 
But with the father and the snu 
Within, there is the peace of God. 

FiTZ James O'Brien. 



[To be read in an earnest, sprightly manner. Avoid a rhythmic 

A boy drove into the city, his wagon loaded down 
With food to feed the people of the Bri'ish-governed town : 
And the little black-eyed rebel, so cunning and so sly. 
Was watching for his coming Irora the corner of her eye. 

His face looked broaS and honest, his hands were brown and tough. 
The clothes he wore upon him were homespiin, coarse and rough. 
But one there was who watched him, who long time lingered nigh. 
And cast at him sweet glances from the corner of her eye. 

He drove up to the market, he waited in the line — 

His apples and potatoes were fresh and fair and fine ; 

But long and long he wailed, and no one came to buy, 

Save the black-eyed rebel, watching from the corner of her eye. 

"Now who will buy my apples ?" he shouted long and loud; 
And " Who wants my potatoes ?" he repeated to the crowd; 
But from all the people round him came no word of reply. 
Save the black-eyed rebel, answering from the corner of her eye. 

For she knew that 'neath the lining of the coat he wore that day 
Were long letters from the husbands and the fathers far away. 
Who were fighting for the freedom that they meant to gain or die; 
And a tear like silver glistened in the corner of her eye. 

But the treasures — how to get them ? crept the question througli her 

Since keen enemies were watching for what prizes they might fiml ; 
And she pausea awhile and pondered, with a pretty little sigh ; 
Then resolve crept through her features, and a shrewdness tired her 


So she resolutely walked up to the wagon old and red; 

" May I have a dozen apples for a kiss?" she sweetly said ; 

And the brown face flushed to scarlet, for the boy was somewhat shy, 

.'Vnd he saw her laughing at him from the corner of her eye. 

"You may have them all for nothing, and more, if you want," quoth 

"I will have them, my good fellow, but can pay for them," said she; 
And she clambered on the wagon, minding not who all were by, 
With a laugh of rerkl"-" 'omping in the corner of her eye. 


Clinging round his brawny neck, she clasped her fingers white and 

And then whispered, "Quick! the letters! thrust them underneath ray 

shawl I 
Carry back again this package, and be sure that you are spry !" 
And she sweetly smiled upon him from the corner of her eye. 

Loud the motley crowd were laughing at the strange, ungirlish freak. 
And the boy was scared and panting, and so dashed he could not 

speak ; 
And, ** Miss, / have good apples," a holder lad did cry ; 
But she answered, " No, I thank you," from the corner of her eye. 

With the news from loved ones absent to the dear friends they would 

Searching them who hungered for them, swift she glided through the 

" There is nothing worth doing that it does not do to try," 
Thought the little black-eyed rebel from the corner of her eye. 

Will Carleton. 


[To be read with great determination and defiance. Employ 
Thorough and Final Stress.'\ 

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 ; 
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, 

YeVe 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 herel 

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! 
1 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 I 

G. \l. Patten. 


[The simple philosophy and originality exemplified in the following 
capital description of the habits and peculiarities of the African race 
furnish a reason lor its insertion.] 

When merry Christmas-day is done. 
And Christmas-night is just begun ; 
While clouds in slow procession drift 
To wish the moon-man " Christmas gift," 
Yet linger overhead, to know 
What causes all the stir below ; 
At Uncle Johnny Booker's ball 
The darkeys hold high carnival. 
From all the country-side they throng, 
Witn laughter, shouts, and scraps of song — 
Their whole deportment plainly showing 
That to the frolic they are going. 
Some take the path with shoes in hand, 


To Inverse muddy bottom-land ; 
Aristocrats their steeds bestride — 
Four on a mule, behold them ride ! 
And ten great oxen draw apace 
The wagim from " de oder place," 
With forty guests, whose conversation 
Betokens glad anticipation. 
Not so with him who drives : old Jim 
Is sagely solemn, hard and grim, 
And frolics have no joys for him. 
He seldom speaks, but to condemn — 
Or utter some wise apothegm — 
Or else, some crabbed thought pursuing. 
Talk to his team, as now he's doing : 

Come up heah. Star! Yee bavveel 

You alluz is a-laggin'~ 
Mus' be you think I's dead. 

An' dis de buss you's draggin' — 
You's mos' too lazy to draw yo' bref. 

Let 'lone drawin* de waggin, 

Dis team — quit bel'rin, sah ! 

De ladies don't submit 'at — 
Dis team — you ol' fool ox, 

^'ou heah me tell you quit 'at? 
Dis loam's des like de 'Nited States; 

Dot's what I's tryin' to git at! 

De people rides behind 

De poUytishners haulin* 
Sli'u'd be a well-bruk ox 

To foller dat ar c.illin* 
An' sometimes nuffiii won't do dem steers. 

But what dey mus' be stallin' ! 

Woo bahgh ! Buck-kannon ! Yes, sah. 
Sometimes dey will be stickin'; 

An' den, fus ting dey knows, 
Dey takes a rale good lickin' — 

De folks gits down : an' den watch out 
For hammerin' an' kickm'. 

Dey blows upon dey hands. 

Den flings 'em wid de nails up, 

Jumps up an' cracks dey heels, 
An' pruzntly dey sails up, 

An' makes dem oxen hump deysef. 
By twistin' all dey tails up! 


In this our age of printer's ink, 

'Tis books that show us how to think — 

The rule reversed, and set at naught. 

That held that books were born of thought; 

We form our minds by pedants' rules ; 

And all we know is from the schools ; 

And when we work, or when we play, 

We do it in an ordered way — 

And Nature's self pronounce a ban on. 

Whene'er she dares transgress a canon. 

Untr^pimeled thus the simple race is 

That " works the craps" on cotton-places I 

Original in act and thought. 

Because unlearned and untaught. 

Observe them at their Christmas party. 

How unrestrained their mirth — how hearty! 

How many things they say and do. 

That never would occur to you ! 

See Brudder Brown — whose saving grace 

Would sanctify a quarter-race — 

Out on the crowded floor advance, 

To " beg a blessin' on dis dance." 

Mahsr! let dis gatherin' fin' a blessin' in yo' sight! 

Don't jedge us hard for what we does — you knows it's Christmas* 

night ; 
An' all de balance ob de yeah we does as right's we kin — 
Ef dancin's wrong — oh, Mahsr ! let de time excuse de sin ! 

We labors in de vineya'd — workin' hard, an' workin' true — 
Now, shorely you won't notus ef we eats a grape or two. 
An' takes a leettle holiday — a leettle restin'-spell — 
Bekase, nex' week, we'll start in fresh, an' labor twicet as welL 

Remember, Mahsr — min' dis, now — de sinfulness ob sin 
Is 'penilin' 'pon de sperrit what we goes an' does it in : 
An' in a righchis frame of min' we's gwineto dance an' sing; 
A feelin' like King David, when he cut de pigeon-wing. 

It seems to me — indeed it do — I mebbe mout be wrong — 
That people raly ought to dance when Chrismus comes along; 
Des dance bekase dey's happy — like de birds hops in de trees : 
De pine-top fiddle soundin' to de bowin' ob de breeze. 

We has no ark to dance afore, like Isruel's prophet King; 
We has no harp to soun' de chords, to help us out to sing; 
But 'cordin' to de gif's we has we does de best' we knows — ■ 
An" folks don't 'spise de vi'let-flowe'r bekase it aint de rose 


You bless us, please sah, eben ef we's doin' wrong to-night; 
Kase den we'll need de blessin' more'ii ef we's doin' right; 
An' let de blessin' stay wid us untell wc comes to die. 
An' goes to keep our Chiismus wid dem sheriffs in de sky! 

Yes, tell dem preshus anjuls we's a-gwine to jine 'em soon : 
Our voices we's a-trainin' fer to singde glory tune; 
We's rearl/ when you wants us, an' it aint no matter when— 
Mahsr I call yo' chillen soon, an' take 'em home ! Ameo. 

The rev'rend man is scarcely through. 
When all the noise begins anew. 
And with such force assaults tlie ears. 
That through the din one hardly hears 
Old Fiddling Josey " sound his A" — 
Correct the pitch— begin to pkiy — 
Stop, satisfied — then, with the IJow, 
Rap out the signal dancers know. 

Git yo' pardners, fust kwattilion I 

Stomp yo' feet, an' raise 'em high; 
Tune is: "Oh! dat water-million! 

Gwine to git to home bimeby." 
S'lute yo' pardners I — scrape perlitely— i 

Don't be bumpin' 'gin de res' — 
Balance all ! — now, step out rightly; 

Alluz dance yo' lebbel bes'. 
Fo'uia'd foah ! — whoop up, niggers! 

Back agin ! — don't be so slow — 
Swing cornahs I — min' de figgers ; 

When I hollers, den yo' go. 
Top ladies cross ober 1 

Hoi' on, till I takes a dram — 
Gemmen solo I — yes, /'j sober — 

Kaint say how de fiddle am — 
Hands around ! — hoi' up yo' faces. 

Don't be lookin' at yo' feet ! 
Swing yo' pardners to yo' places ! 

Dat's de way — dat's hard to beat. 
Sides fo'wa'd ! — when you's ready- 
Make a bow as low 's you kin I 
Sming act ost vnd opfsite lady ! 

Now we'll let you swap agin : 
Ladies change ! — shet up dat talkin'; 

Do yo' talkin arler while — 
Right an' lef 1 — don't want no walkin'" 

Make yo' steps, an' show yo' style I 


And so the " sel" proceeds — its length 

Determined by tlie dancers' stiengtli; 

And all agree to yield tlie palm 

F'.r grace and skill, to " Georgy Sam," 

Who stamps so hard, and leaps so high, 
" Des watch him !" is the wond'ring cry— . 
" De nigger mus' be, for a fac'. 

Own cousin to a jumpin'-jack !" 

On, on, the restless fiddle sounds — 

Slill chorused by the curs and hounds- 
Dance after dance succeeding fast, 

Till supper is announced at last. 

That scene — but why attempt to show it ? 

The most inventive modern poet, 

In fine new words, whose hope and trust is. 

Could form no phrase to do it justice! 

When supper ends — that is not soon — • 

The fiddle strikes the same old tune; 

The dancers pound the floor again. 

With all they have of might and nuaiij ; 

Old gossips, almost turning pale. 

Attend Aunt Cassy's gruesome tale 

Of conjurors, and ghosts, and devils, 

That in the smoke-house hold their revels; 

Each drowsy baby droops its head, 

Yet scorns the very thought of bed : — 

So wears the night ; and wears so fas,!. 

All wonder when they find it passed, 

And hear the signal sound, to go. 

From whai few cocks are left to crow. 

Then, one and all, you hear them shout : 
" Hi ! Booker 1 fotch de banjo out. 

And gib us one song 'fore we goes- 
One ob de berry bes' you knows!" 

Responding to the welcome call. 

He takes the banjo from the wall, 

And tunes the strings with skill and care- 
Then strikes them with a master's air; 

And tells in melody and rhyme, 

This legend of the olden time : 

Go'way, fiddle ! — folks is tired o' hearin' you a-squawkin*. 
Keep silence fur yo' betters — -don't yo' heah de banjo talkin'? 
About de 'possums tail she's goin' to lecter — ladies, listen! — 
About de ha'r what isn't dar, an' why de ha'r is missin'. 

" Dar's gwine to be a oberflow," said Noah, lookin' solemn- 
Fur Noah took de Herald, an' he read de ribber column — 
An' so he sot his hands to work a'clarin' timber-patches. 
An' 'lowed he's gwine to build a boat to beat de ste.imah " Natchez." 


or Noah kep' a-nailin', an' a-chippin', an' a-sawin' ; 
An' all de wicked neighbors kep' a-laughin, an' a-pshawin'; 
But Noah didn't min' *em — knowin' whut waz gwine to happen : 
An' forty days an' forty nights de rain it kep' adroppin.' 

Now, Noah had done catched a lot ob eb'ry sort o' beas'es — 

Ob all de shows a-trabbelin', it beat 'em all to pieces ! 

He had a Morgan colt, an' sebral head o' Jarsey cattle — 

An' drew 'em board de ark as soon's he heered de thunder rattle. 

Den sech anoder fall ob rain ! — it come so awful hebby, 

De ribber riz immejitly, an' busted troo de lebbee ; 

De people all wuz drownded out — 'cep' Noah an' de critters. 

An' men he'd hired to work de boat — an' one to mix de bitters. 

De ark she kep' a-sailin', an' a-sailing', (7«' a-sailin' ; 

De lion got his dander up, an like to bruk de palin' — 

De sarpints hissed — de painters yelled — tell, what wid all de fussiu'. 

You c'u'dn't hardly heah de mate a-bossin' loun' an' cussin'. 

Now, Ham, de only nigger what was runnin' on de packet. 
Got lonesome in de bavber-shop, an' c'vi'dn't stan' de ricket ; 
An' so, for to amuse he-se'f, he steamed some wood an' bent it, 
An' soon he had a banjo made — de fust dat waz invented. 

He wet de ledder, stretched it on; made br'dge, an' srr'^ws, ^*i* apron: 

An' fitted in a proper neck^'twas berry long an' tap'rin' ; 

He tuk some tin, and twisted him a thimble for to ring it ; 

An' den de mighty question riz: how wuz he gwine to string i. ? 

De possum had as fine a tail as dis dat I's a-singin' ; 
De ha'rs so long, an' thick an' strong, — des fit for banjo-stringin' ; 
Dat nigger shaved 'em off as short as wash-day-dinner graces ; 
An' sorted ob 'em by de size, frum little E's to basses. 

He strung her, tuned her, struck a jig, — 'twuz " Nebber min' df 

wedder" — 
She soun' like forty-lebben bands a-playin' all togedder; 
Some went to pattin' ; some to dancin' ; Noah called de figgers — 
An' Ham he sot an' knocked de tune, de happiest ob niggers ! 

Now, sence dat time — it's mighty strange — dere's not de slightes' 

Ob any ha'r at all upon de possum's tail a-growin' ; 
An' curi's, too, — dat nigger's ways: his people nebber los' 'em — 
For whar you finds de nigger — flar'o rie banjo an' de 'possum. 


The night is spent ; and as the day 
Throws up the first faint flash of gray, 
The guests pursue their homeward way ; 
And through the field beyond the gin, 
Just as the stars are going in. 
See Santa Claus departing— grieving — 
His own dear Land of Cotton leaving. 
His work is done — he fain would rest, 
Where people know and love him best — 
He pauses — listens — looks about — 
But go he must : his pass is out ; 
So, coughing down the rising tears. 
He climbs the fence and disappears. 
And thus, observes a colored youth — 
(The common sentiment, in sooth) : 
'Oh, what a blessin' 'tw'u'd ha' been 
Ef Santy had been born a twin ! 
We'd hab two Chrismusses a yeah — 
Or p'r'aps one brudder 'd settle heah !" 

1rwi.\ Russell. 


[Purely conversational. Impersonate the several characters, and 
let the interruptions be sudden and wholly unexpected.] 

Mary Ann went to the front door, last evening, to see 
if the paper had come. She had been delivering a short 
address to me concerning what she is pleased to term my 
"cold molasses style" of moving around. As she had 
opened the door she remarked, "I like to see a borly 
move quickly, prompt, emphatic," — that was all ; but I 
heard some one bumping down the steps in a most prompt 
and emphatic manner, and I reached the door just in time 
to see my better half sliding across the sidewalk, in a 
sitting posture. I suggested, as she limped back to the 
door, that there might be such a thing as too much 
celerity ; but she did not seem inclined to carry on the 
conversation, and I started for my office. 

Right in front of me on the slippery sidewalk, strode 
two independent knights of St. Crispin. They were talk- 
ing over their plans for the future, and as I overtook 
them, I heard one of them say: "I "have only my two 
hands to depend on ; but that is fortune enough for any 
man who is not afraid to work. I intend to paddle my 


own canoe. I believe 1 can make my own way through 
the world" — his feet slipped out from under him, and he 
came down in the shape of a big V. I told him he could 
never make his way through the world in that direction, 
unless he came down harder, and that if he did he would 
come through among the " heathen Chinee," and he was 
grateful for the interest I manifested. He invited me to 
a place where ice never forms on the sidewalk- 
Then I slid along behind a loving couple on their way 
to hear Madame Anna Bishop. Their hands w;re frozen 
together. Their hearts beat as one. Said he: "My 
own, I shall think nothing of hard work if I can make 
you happy. It shall be my only aim to surround you 
with comfort. My sympathy shall lighten every sorrow, 
and through the path of life I will be your stay and sup- 
port; your — " he stopped. His speech was too flowery 
for this climate ; and as I passed by she was trying to lift 
him up. 

Two lawyers coming from the court-house next at- 
tracted my attention. "Ah," said one, "Judge Foster 
would rule that out. We must concede the two first 
points. We can afford to do it if evidence sustains us in 
the third, but on this position we must make our firm 
stand, and — " his time was up. I left him moving for a 
new trial. 

I mused. What a lesson the ice teaches us. How 
easily is humanity controlled by circumstances — and the 
attraction of gravitation. What a sermon might be based 
— I got UD and took the middle of the street to prevent 
ftiithrr i-ccidents. 


[Effusive — gentle force^slow time.] 

Into a ward of the whitewashed halls 

Where the dead and dying lay, 
Wounded by bayonets, shells and balls. 

Somebody's darling was borne one day. 
Somebody's darling, so young and so brave, 

Wearing yet on his pale, sweet face. 
Soon to be hid by the dust of the grave. 

The lingering light of his boyhood grace. 


Matted and damp are the curls of gold, 

Kissing the snow of that fair young brow; 
Pale are the lips, of delicate mould — 

Somebody's darling is dying now. 
Back from his beautiful blue-veined brow. 

Brush all the wandering waves of gold ; 
Cross his hands on his bosom now, 

Somebody's darling is stiff and cold. 

Kiss him once for somebody's sake. 

Murmur a prayer, soft and low ; 
One bright curl from its fair mates take, 

THfey were somebody's pride you know 
Somebody's hand hath rested there ; 

Was it a mother's, soft and white ? 
And have the lips of a sister fair 

Been baptized in the waves of light? 

God knows best ! He was somebody's love. 

Somebody's heart enshrined him there ; 
Somebody wafted his name above. 

Night and noon on the wings of prayer. 
Somebody wept when he marched away. 

Looking so handsome, brave and grand. 
Somebody's kiss on his forehead lay. 

Somebody clung to his parting hand. 

Somebody's waiting and watching for him, 

Yearning to hold him again to her heart. 
And there he lies, with his blue eyes dim. 

And the smiling, childlike lips apart. 
Tenderly bury the fair young dead. 

Pausing to drop on his grave a tear, 
Carve on the wooden slab at his head, 

" Somebody's darling slumbers here." 

War Lyrics vif the South. 


[A prize poem. When used as a recitation, a sprig of blossoms 
in the hand will heighten the effect.]' 

Hush I the world is in a dream. 

All her winter grief forgetting ; 
Faintly sighs the hidden stream, 

Through the o'-chard-grasses fretting. 


Low beneath our loitering feet 
Trickling dews are softly sinking; 

Never was a draught so sweet 
As the apple roots are drinking. 

Here, among the violets blue, 

Just at noon I lay a-musing; 
Overhead the robins flew, 

With their songs the winds confusing? 
Here and there a lark I heard, 

Some new solo gaily trying; 
Half I thought I was a bird, 

Lazy-winged and tired of flying. 

While I lay and watched a mist, 

White and feathery, roll above me, 
Suddenly my lips were kissed — ■ 

"Ah I" said I, "the fairies love me!" 
So I looked around to see : 

Lo ! a little golden lady 
Flitted past me, swift and free. 

To an arbor, green and shady. 

There I lost the sprightly elf; 

Golden ladies all around her 
Fluttered, till the King himself 

Never, never could have found her J 
Every fairy had a crown. 

Dazzling as a lighted taper; 
Every fairy had a gown, 

Fleecy as a morning vapor. 


Every fairy's veil of virhite 

Glistened through the orchard-sp»ceS| 
And their eyes were all so bright 

That I could not see their faces. 
Flying, flickering, floating high. 

All my sleepy senses dazing, — 
Just as if the sunlit sky 

'Neath the apple-tree were blazing J 

Straightway all the boughs began 

Such a wavy, gentle motion. 
As if rushing ripples ran 

O'er them from an airy ocean 


Then I saw their leaves uncurl, — 

Green, with little, ruddy tinges. 
Many a silver-shining pearl 

Dripping from their glossy fringes. 

Floating, flaming, flickering far — 

Who a fairy's flight could hinder? 
Downward like a shooting star. 

Upward like a fiery cinder ! 
All at once — a golden flock — 

On a verdant bough tliey centred ; 
I couM see it rock and rock, 

Like a flower a bee has entered. 

Why, the very waves below. 

Round the roots in darkness creeping. 
Up the tree made haste to go. 

Out among the branches leaping ! 
Warm and warmer at the heart 

Of the bough such tides went rushing, 
Ruby buds began to start — 

Oh, you should have seen them blushing! 

All the green leaves crowding through. 

Till the very shades looked sunny — 
Wondrously they grew and grew, 

Every bud a cup of honey ! 
Then I saw them open slow, 

Loth to leave their dreamy dozing. 
Crimson petals edged with snow 

Lightly, tenderly unclosing. 


Ah ! how fragrant every one ! 

Here's the bough — the fairies found it; 
For I siw them in the sun 

Float and flicker all around it. 
Downward like a falling star. 

Upward like a flaming cinder. 
Flying fast and flitting far — 

Who a flash of light could hinder ? 

Steeped in sunshine, bathed in dew. 
Rosy-rich with life and leisure — ■ 

See, I pluck the branch for you ; 
Was there ever such a treasure ? 


There will come a day of gloom. 
Autumn-winds will hurry hither; 

Other boughs will lose their bloom— 
This will never fade or wither. 

When the birds forget their glee, 

When the winter frowns above you. 
You may smile these buds to see, 

Thinking how the fairies love you. 
Nay— the idle dream put by — 

For the bough hath greater glory ; 
With the angels, by and by, 

You shall hear a sweeter story. 

Such a beating heart of love. 

Set the hidden waters flowing. 
Sent their gentle tides above, 

Through the apple-branches going. 
Such a smile of golden light 

Kissed their fragrant lips asunder, 
That you see them red and white. 

Half for love and half for wonder. 

Ama-'Tja T. Jones. 


[Purely conversational style.] 

Summer of 'sixty-three, sir, and Conrad was gone awiy— 
Gone to the county-town, sir, to sell our first load of bay— ^ 
We lived 'n the log house yonder, poor as ever you've seen; 
Roschen there was a baby, and I was only nineteen. 

Conrad, he took the oxen, but he left Kentucky Belle. 
How much we thought of Kentuck, I couldn't begin to tell— - 
Came from the Blue-Grass country ; my father gave her to me 
When I rode forth with Conrad, away from the Tennessee. 

Conrad lived in Ohio — a German he is, you know — 
The house stood in broad corn-fields, stretching on, row after row. 
The old folks made me welcome; they were as kind as kind could bo; 
But I kept longing, longing, for the hills of the Tennessee. 


Oh ! for a sight of water, the shadowed slope of a hill I 
Clouds that hang on the summit, a wind that never is still ! 
But the level land went stretching away to meet the sky — 
Never a rise, from north to south, to rest the weary eye ! 

From east to west, no river to shine out under the moon, 
Nothing to make a shadow in the yellow afternoon : 
Only the Ijreathless sunshine, as I looked out, all forlorn ; 
Only the rustle, rustle, as I walked among the corn. 

When I fell sick with pining, we didn't wait any more, 
But moved away from the corn-lands, out to this river shore — 
The Tuscarawas it's called, sir — off there's a hill, you see — 
And now I've grown to like it next best to the Tennessee. 

I was at work that morning. Some one came riding like mad 
Over the bridge and up the road — Farmer Rouf's little lad. 
Bareback he rode; he had no hat; he hardly stopped to say, 
" Morgan's men are coming, Frau ; they're galloping on this waj 

" I'm sent to warn the neighbors. He isn't a mile behind ; 
He sweeps up all the horses — every horse that he can find. 
Morgan, Morgan the raider, and Morgan's terrible men. 
With bowie-knives and pistols, are galloping up the glen !" 

The lad rode down the valley, and I stood still at the door; 
The baby laughed and prattled, playing with spools en the woor; 
Kentiick was out in the pasture ; Conrad, my man was gone. 
Nearer, nearer, Morgan's men were galloping, galloping on ! 

Sudden I picked up baby, and ran to the pasturfc-Lsr. 

" Kentuck !" I called — " Kentucky !" She kuew me ever so fa»{ 

I led her down the gully that turns off there tj the right, 

And tied her to the bushes ; her head was j jS'. out of sight. 

As I ran back to the log house, at once >hare came a sound — 
The ring of hoofs, galloping hoofs, tren.bling over the ground- 
Coming into the turnpike out from the 'iVhite-Woman Glen — 
Morgan, Morgan the raider, and Moif,an's terrible men. 

As near they drew and nearer, my I.eart beat fast in alarm; 

But still I stood in the door-way vi-ith baby on my arm. 

They came; they passed; with .ipur and whip in haste tntrj' st^d 

Morgan, Morgan the raider, and his band, six hundred itrong. 

Weary they looked and jaded, riding through night and day: 
Pushing on East to the river, many long miles away. 
To the border-strip where Virginia runs up into the West, 
And fording the Upper Ohio before they could stop to rest. 


On like the wind they hurried, and Morgan rode in advance; 
Bright were his eyes like live coals, as he gave me a sideways glance; 
And 1 was just breathing freely, after my choking pain, 
When the last one of the troopers suddenly drew his rein. 

Frightened I was to death, sir; I scarce dared look in his lace. 
As he asked for a drink of water, and glanced around the place, 
1 gave him a cup, and he smiled — 'twas only a boy, you see ; 
Faint and worn, with dim-blue eyes; and he'd sailed on the Ten- 

Only sixteen he was, sir — a fond mother's only son — 

Off and away with Morgan before his life had begun ! 

The damp drops stood on his temples; drawn was the boyish mouth; 

And I thought me of the mother waiting down in the South. 

Oh ! pluck was he to the backbone, and clear grit through and 

through ; 
Boasted and bragged like a trooper; but the big words wouldn't do; — 
The boy was dying, sir, dying, as plain as plain couUl be. 
Worn out by his ride with Morgan up from the Tennessee. 

But when I told the laddie that I too was from the South, 
Water came in his dim eyes, and quivers around his mouth. 
' Di you know the Blue-Grass country ?" he wistful began to say ; 
Then swayed like a willow-sapling, and fainted dead away. 

1 had him into the log house, and worked and brought him to; 
I fed him, and I coaxed him, as I thought his mother 'd do ; 
And when the lad got better, and the noise in his head was gone, 
Morgan's men were miles away, galloping, galloping on. 

" Oh, I must go," he muttered ; " I must be up and away ! 
Morgan — Morgan is waiting for me ! Oh, what will Morgan say?" 
But I heard a sound of tramping and kept him back from the door — 
The ringing sound of horses' hoofs that I had heard before. 

And on, on, came the soldiers — the Michigan cavalry^ 

And fast they rode, and black they looked, galloping rapidly, — 

They had followed hard on Morgan's track ; they had followed day 

and night; 
But of Morgan and Morgan's raiders they had never caught a sight. 

And rich Ohio sat startled through all those summer days ; 

For strange, wild men were galloping over her broad highways — 

Now here, now there, now seen, now gone, now north, now east, now 

Through river-valleys and corn-land farms, sweeping away her best. 


A bold ride and a long ride ! but Ihey were taken at last. 

They almost reached the river by galloping hard and fast ; 

But the boys in blue were upon them ere ever they gained the ford. 

And Morgan, Morgan the raider, laid down his terrible sword. 

Well, I kept the boy till evening — kept him against his will — 
lijt he was too weak to follow, and sat there pale and still. 
When it was cool and dusky — you'll wonder to hear me tell — 
But I stole down to that gully, and brought up Kentucky Belle. 

I kissed the stare, her forehead — my pretty gentle lass — 
But I knew that she'd be happy back in the old Blue-Grass. 
A suit of clothes of Conrad's, with all the money I had. 
And Kentuck, pretty Kentuck, I gave to the worn-out lad. 

I guided him to the southward as well as I knew how ; 

The boy rode off with many thanks, and many a backward bow ; 

And then the glow it faded, and my heart began to swell. 

As down the glen away she went, my lost Kentucky Belle ! 

When Conrad came in the evening, the moon was shining high ; 

Baby and I were crying — I couldn't tell him why — 

But a battered suit of rebel gray was hanging on the wall. 

And a thin old horse, with drooping head, stood in Kentucky's stall. 

Well, he was kind, and never once said a hard word to me; 
He knew I couldn't help it — 'twas all for the Tennessee. 
But, after the war was over, just think what came to pass — 
A letter, sir; and the two were safe back in the old Blue-Grass. 

The lad had got across the border, riding Kentucky Belle; 
And Kentuck she was thriving, and fat, and hearty, and well ; 
lie cared for her, and kept her, nor touched her with whip or spur. 
Ah ! we've had many horses since, but never a liorse like her ! 



[To be read in a vivid, intense descriptive style, with impersonation 
at the close.] 

'Twas off the Wash — the sun went down — the sea looked black and 

For stormy clouds, with murky fleece, were mustering at the brim; 
Titanic shades ! enormous gloom ! — as if the solid night 
<3f Erebus rose suddenly to seize upon the light I 
It was a time for mariners to bear a wary eye. 
With such a dirk conspiracy between the sea and sky ! 


Down went my helm — close reef'd — the tack held freely in my hand — 

With ballast snug — I put about, and scudded for the land. 

Loud hiss'd the sea beneath her lee — my little boat flew fast, 

But faster still the rushing storm came borne upon the blast. 

Oh ! what a roaring hurricane beset the straining sail ! 

WJiat furious sleet, with level drift, and fierce assaults of hail ! 

What darksome caverns yawned before ! what jagged steeps behind ! 

Like battle-steeds, with foamy manes, wild tossing in the wind. 

Each after each sank down astern, exhausted in the chase. 

But where it sank another rose and galloped in its place ; 

As black as night — they turned to white, and cast against the cloud 

A snowy sheet, as if each surge upturned a sailor's shroud : — 

Still flew my boat ; alasl alas! her course was nearly run .' 

Behold yon fatal billow rise — ten billows heaped in one ! 

With fearful speed the dreary mass came rolling, rolling fast. 

As if the scooping sea contained one only wave at last ! 

Still on it came, with horrid roar, a swift pursuing grave ; 

It seemed as though some cloud had turned its hugeness to a wave ! 

Its briny sleet began to beat beforehand in my face — 

I felt the rearward keel begin to climb its swelling base ! 

I saw its Alpine hoary head impending over mine ! 

Another pulse — and down it rushed — an avalanche of brine ! 

Brief pciuse had I on God to cry or think of wife and home ; 

The waters closed — and when I shrieked, I shrieked below the foam ! 

Beyond that rush I have no hint of any after deed — 

For I was tossing on the waste, as senseless as a weed. 

" Where am I ? in the breathing world, or in the world of death ?" 
With sharp and sudden pang I drew another birth of breath ; 
My eyes drank in a doubtful light, my ears a doubtful sound — 
And was that ship a era/ ship whose tackle seemed around? 
A moon, as if the earthly moon, was shining up aloft ; 
But were those beams the very beams that I had seen so oft ? 
A face that mocked the human face before me watched alone ; 
But were those eyes the eyes of man that looked against my own ? 

Oh ! never may the moim again disclose me such a sight 
As met my gaze, when first I looked, on that accursed night ! 
I've seen a thousand horrid shapes begot of fierce extremes 
Of fever; and mobt frightful things have haunted in my dreams- 
Strong enemies, with Judas' looks, of treachery and spite — 
Detested features, hardly dimmed and banished by the light ! 
Pale sheeted ghosts, with gory locks, upstarting from their tombs ; 
All phantasies and images that flit in midnight glooms — 
Hags, goblins, demons, lemures, have made me all aghast, — 
But nothing like that Grimly One who stood beside the mast I 

His cheek was black, his brow was black, his eyes and hair as dark: 
His hand was black, and where it touched, it left a sable mark ; 


Ilis throat was black, his vest the same, and when I looked beneath. 

His breast was black — all, all was black, except his grinning teelh. 

His sooty crew were like in hue, as black as Afric slaves! 

Oh, horror! e'en the ship was black that plowed the inky waves! 

" Alas ! I cried, " for love of truth and blessed mercy's sake. 

Where am I ? in what dreadful ship ? upon what dreadful lake ? 

What shape is that so very grim, and black as any coal ? 

It is Mdhound, the Evil One, and he has gained my soul ! 

Oh, mother dear ! my tender nurse ! dear meadows that beguiled 

My happy days, when I was yet a little sinless child, — 

My mother dear — my native fields, I never more shall see : 

I'm sailing in the Devil's ship, upon the Devil's sea !" 

Loud laughed that sable mariner, and loudly in return 
His sooty crew sent forth a laugh that rang from stem to stern ; 
A dozen pair of grimly cheeks were crumpled on the nonce. 
As many sets of grinning teeth came shining out at once : 
A dozen gloomy shapes at once enjoyed the merry fit. 
With shriek and yell, and oaths as well, like demons of the pit. 
They crowed their fill, and then the chief made answer for the whole : 
' Our skins," said he, " are black ye see, because we carry coal ; 
Vciu'U find your mother sure enough, and see your native fields, 
I'or this here ship has picked you up^the Mary Ann of Shields I" 

Thomas Hood. 


[Simple narration — gentle force.] 

Dear Grannie is with us no longer ; 

Her hair, that was while as the snow. 
Was parted one morning forever. 

On her head lying soft and low ; 
Her hands left the Bible wide open, 

To tell us the road she had trod, 
With waymarks like footsteps to tell us 

The path she had gone up to God. 

No wonderful learning had Grannie ; 

She knew not the path of the stars. 
Nor aught of the comet's wide cycle, 

Nor of Nebula's dim cloudy bars ; 
But she knew how the wise men adoring. 

Saw a star in the East long ago ; 
She knew how the first Christmas anihems 

Came down to the shenherds below. 


She had her own test, I remember, 

For the people whoe'er they might be. 
When we spoke of the strangers about us 

But lately come over the sea. 
Of " Laura," and " Lizzie," and " Jamie," 

And stately old " Essellcy OaUes," 
She listened and whispered it softly, 

" My dear, aie these friends meetin'-folks ?" 

When our John went away to the city 

With patrons, whom all the world knew 
To be sober and honest great merchants, 

For Grannie this all would not do ; 
Till she pulled at John's sleeve in the twilight. 

To be certain, before he had gone; 
And he smiled as he heard the old question, 

" Are you sure they are meetin'-folks, John ?" 

When Minnie came home from the city. 

And left heart and happiness there, 
I saw her close kneeling by Grannie, 

With her dear wrinkled hands on her hair; 
And amid the low sobs of the maiden. 

Came softly the tremulous tone, 
"He wasn't like meetin'-folks, Minnie; 

Dear child, you are better alone." 

And now from the corner we miss her. 

And hear thai reminder no more; 
But still, imforgotten, the echo 

Comes back from that far-away shore. 
Till Sophistry slinks in the corner, 

Though Charity sweet has her due. 
Vet we feel, if we want to meet Grannie, 

'Twere best to be meetin'-folks too. 


[An incident of the flood in Massachusetts, May i6th, 1874. Iiri' 
passioned style.] 

No song of a soldier riding down 
To the raging fight of Winchester town ; 
No song of a time that shook the earth 
With the nation's throe at a nation's birth; 


But the song of a brave man, free from fear 
As Sheridan's self, or Paul Revere ; 
Who risked what they risked, — free from strife 
And its promise of glorious pay, — his life. 

The peaceful valley has waked and stirred, 
And the answering echoes of life are heard; 
The dew still clings to the trees and grass. 
And the earlier toilers smiling pass, 
As they glance aside at the white-walled homes. 
Or up I he valley where merrily conies 
The brook that sparkles in diamond rills 
As the sun comes over the Hampshire hills. 

What was it that pissed like an ominous breath? 
Like a shiver o( fear or a touch of death ? 
What was it? The valley is peaceful still. 
And the leaves are afire on the top of the hill ; 
It was not a sound, nor a thing of sense — 
But a pain, like a pang in the short suspense 
That wraps the being of those who see 
At their feet the gulf of eternity. 

The air of the valley has felt the chill ; 
The workers pause at the door of the mill; 
The housewife, keen to the shivering air. 
Arrests her foot on the cottage stair, 
Instinctive taught by the mother-love, 
And thinks of the sleeping ones above. 

Why start the listeners ? Why does the course 
Of the mill-stream widen ? Is it a horse — 
" Hark to the sound of his hoofs," they say — 
That gallops so wildly Williamsburg way ? 

God ! What was that, like a human shriek, 
From the winding valley? Will nobody speak; 
Will nobody answer those women who cry 
As the awful warnings thunder by ? 

Whence come they? IJsten ! And now they hea» 
The sound of the galloping horse-hoofs near; 
They watch the trend of the vale, and see 
The rider, who thunders so menacingly. 
With waving arms and warning scream 
To the home-filled banks of the valley stream. 
He draws no rein, but he shakes the street 
With a shout and the ring of the galloping feet. 
And this the cry that he flings to the wind : 
- To the hills for your lives I The flood is behind P' 


He cries and is gone ; but they know the worst— 
The treacherous Williamsburg dam has burst 1 
The basin that nourished their happy homes 
Ts changed to a demon — It comes ! it comes ! 
A monster in aspect, with shaggy front 
Of shattered dwellings to take the brunt 
Of the dwellings they shatter, — white-maned and hoarse. 
The merciless terror fills the course 
Of the narrow valley, and rushing raves. 
With death on the first of its hissing waves. 
Till cottage and street and crowded mill 
Are crumbled and crushed. But onward still, 
In front of the roaring flood is heard 
The galloping horse and the warning word. 
Thank God, that the brave man's life is spared! 
From Williamsburg town he nobly dared 
To race with the flood and to take the road 
In front of the terrible swath it mowed. 
For miles it thundered and crashed behind. 
But he looked ahead with a steadfast mind ; 
"They must be warned !" was all he said, 
As away on his terrible ride he sped. 

When heroes are called for, bring the crcwn 
To this Yankee rider ; send him down 
On the stream of lime with the Curtius old : 
His deed, as the Roman's was brave and bold. 
And the tale can as noble a thrill awake, 
For he offered his life for the people's sake. 

J. Boyle O'Reilly. 


[From "Legal Lyrics," a Scottish book published for private dis- 
tribution. Employ a lilight accent, and strongly bring out the points 
of humor.] 

I gaed to spend a week in Fife — 

An unco week it proved to be^ 
For there I met a waesome wife 

Lamentin' her viduity. 
Her grief brak out sae fierce and fell, 
I thought her heart wad burst the shell ; 
And, — I was sae left to niysel', — 

I sell't her an annuity. 


The bargain lookit fair eneugh — 

She just was turned o' saxty-three — 
I couldna guessed she'd prove sae teugh. 

By human ingenuity. 
But years have come, and years have gaue. 
And there she's yet as stieve as stane — 
The limmer's growin' young again, 

Since she got her annuity. 

She's crined' awa' to bane and skin. 

But that, it seems, is nought to me ; 
Sho's like to live — although she's in 

The last stage o' tenuity. 
She munches wi' her wizen'd gums. 
An' stumps about on legs o' thrums ; 
But comes — as sure as Christmas comes-^ 

To ca' for her annuity. 

I read the tables drawn wi' care 

For an insurance company; 
Her chance o' life was stated there, 

Wi' perfect perspicuity. 
But tables here or tables there. 
She's lived ten years beyond her share, 
An's like to live a dozen mair. 

To ca' for her annuity. 

Last Yule she had a fearfu' hoast, 

1 thought a kink might set me free- 
I led her out, 'mang snaw and frost, 

Wi' constant assiduity. 
But de'il ma' care — the blast gaed by 
And miss'd the auld anatomy — 
It just cost me a tooth, forbye 

Discharging her annuity. 

If there's a sough o' cholera. 

Or typhus, — wha sae gleg as she ? 
She buys up baths, an' drugs, an' a'. 

In siccan superfluity ! 
She doesna need — she's fever proof— 
The pest walked o'er her very roof — 
She tauld me sae — an' then her loof 

Held out for her annuity. 

Ae day she fell — her arm she brak — 

A compound fracture as could be— 
Nae leech the cure wad undertak, 

Whate'er was the gratuity. 


It's cured ! She handles't like a flail — 
It does as weel in bits as hale — 
But I'm a broken man mysel' 
Wi' her and her annuity. 

Her broozled flesh and broken banes 

Are weel as flesh and banes can be ; 
She beats the toads that live in stanes, 

An' fatten in vacuity ! 
They die when they're exposed to air^ 
They canna thole the atmosphere — 
But her ! — expose her onywhere — 
She lives for her annuity. 

If mortal means could nick her thread, 

Sma' crime it wad appear to me — 
Ca't murder — or ca't homicide — 

I'd justify 't — an' do it tae. 
But how to fell a withered wife 
That's carved out o' the tree of life — 
The timmer limmer dares the knife 
To settle her annuity. 

I'd try a shot — but whar's the mark? 

Her vital parts are hid frae me ; 
Her backbone wanders through her sark 

In an unkenn'd corkscrewity. 
She's palsified — an' shakes her head 
Sae fast about, ye scarce can see 't, 
It's past the power o' steel or lead 

To settle her annuity. 

She might be drowned ; but go she'll not 
Within a mile o' loch or sea ; 

Or hanged — if cord could grip a throat 
O' siccan exiguity. 

It's fitter far to iiang the rope — 

It draws out like a telescope ; 

'Twad tak' a dreadfu' length o' drop 
To settle her annuity. 

Will poison do it ? It has been tried ; 

But, be 't in hash or fricasse. 
That's just the dish she can't abide, 

Whatever kind o* gout it hae. 
It's needless to assail her doubts. 
She gangs by instinct — like the brutes,— 
An' only eats and drinks what suits 

Hersel' and her annuity. 


The Bible says the age o' man 

Threescore and ten, perchance, may be ; 
She's ninety-four. Let them who can 

Explain the incongruity. 
She should hae lived afore the flood — 
She's come o' patriarchal blood. 
She's some auld Pagan mummified 

Alive for her annuity. 

She's been embalmed inside and oot — 

She's sauted to the last degree — 
There's pickle in her very snoot 

Sae caper like an' cruety. 
Lot's wife was fresh compared to her— 
They've kyanized the useless knir. 
She canna decompose — nae mair 

Than her accursed annuity. 

The water-drop wears out the rock, 

As this eternal jaud wears me ; 
I could withstand the single shock. 

But not the continuity. 
It's pay me here — an' pay me there — 
An' pay me, pay me, evermair — 
I'll gang demented wi' despair — 

I'm charged for her annuity. 

George OaTRAM. 


[Make a broad distinction between the description and llie suppli- 
cation, and let the change in the last stanza be marked.] 

See them go forth like the floods to the ocean. 

Gathering might from each mountain and glen, — 
Wider and deeper the tide of devotion 

Rolls up to God from the bosoms of men : 
Hear the great multitude, mingling in chorus, 

Groan, as they gazed from their crimes to the sky =— 
" Father ! the midnight of death gathers o'er us. 

When will the dawn of redemption draw nigh ?" 

" Look on us, wanderers, sinful and lowly, 

Struggling with grief and temptation below; 
Thine is the goodness o'er everything holy, — 
Thine is the mercy to pity our woe, — 


Thine is the power to cleanse and restore us. 
Spotless and pure as the angels on high : — 

F.ither ! the midnight of death gathers o'er us. 
When will the dawn of redemption draw nigh?" 

Gray hair and golden youth, matron and maiden. 

Lovers of mammon, and followers of fame, 
All with the same solid burden are laden. 

Lifting their souls to that one mighty name: — 
" Wild is the pathway that surges before us, 

On the broad waters the black shadows lie, — 
Father ! the midnight of death gathers o'er us. 

When will the dawn of redemption draw nigh?" 

Lo ! the vast depths of futurity's ocean 

Heave with Jehovah's mysterious breath ; 
Why should we shrink from the billows' commotion ? 

Jesus is walktng the waters of death. 
Angels are mingling with men in the chorus, — 
Rising, like incense, from earth to the sky : — 
" Father ! the billows grow brighter helore us, 

Heaven with its mansions eternal draws nigh." 

James G. Clark. 


[Saladin, the celebrated Sultan of Syria and Egypt, was a man of 
noble, generous disposition, which characteristic feature is finely 
brought out in this touching scene. He lived in the twelfth centiiry.^ 

Alreiuhint — A stranger craves admittance to your Highness. 

Saladin — Whence comes he? 

Attendant — That I know not. 
Enveloped with a vestment of strange form. 
His countenance is hidden; but his step, 
His lofty port, his voice in vain disguised. 
Proclaim, — if that I dare pronounce it,— 

Saladin — Whom ? 

Attendant — Thy royal brother ! 

Saladin — Bring him instantly. [Exit attendant.'] 

Now, with his specious, smooth, persuasive tongue. 
Fraught with some wily subterfuge, he thinks 
To dissipate my anger. He shall die ! 

\ Enter attendant and Malek Adhel,'\ 
Leave us together. \^Exit attendant.] [Aside.] I should know 
^hat form. 


Now summon all tliy fortitude, my soul. 
Nor, though thy blood cry for him, spare the guilty I 
[Ahud.'\ Well, stranger, speak ; but first unveil tiiyself. 
For Saladin must view the form that fronts him. 

Malek ^fl7«/— Behold it, then 1 

Satadin — I see a traitor's visage. 

Malek Adhel — A brother's ! 

Saladin — No ! 
Saladin owns no kindred with a villain. 

Malek Adhel — O, patience. Heaven ! Had any tongue but tliin 
Uttered that word, it ne'er should speak another. 

Saladin — And why not now ? Can this heart be more piciced 
By Malek Adhel's' sword than by his deeds? 
O, thou hast made a desert of this bosom ! 
For open candor, planted sly disguise ; 
For confidence, suspicion; and the glow 
Of generous friendship, tenderness and love. 
Forever banished! Whither can I turn. 
When he, by blood, by gratitude, by faith. 
By every tie, bound to support, forsakes me? 
Who, who can stand, when Malek Adhel falls? 
Henceforth I turn me from the sweets of love. 
The smiles of friendship ; and this glorious world. 
In which all find some heart to rest upon, 
Shall be to Saladin a cheerless void, — 
His brother has betrayed him ! 

Malek Adhel — Thou art softened ; 
I am thy brother, then ; but late thou saidst, — 
My tongue can never utter the base title ! 

Saladin — Was it traitor ? True ! 
Thou hast betrayed me in my fondest hopes ! 
Villain? 'Tisjust; the title is appropriate I 
Dissembler? 'Tis not written in thy face; 
No, nor imprinted on that specious brow; 
But on this breaking heart the name is stamped. 
Forever stamped, with that of Malek Adhel! 
Thinkest thou I'm softened ? By Mohammed ! these hands 
Should cru^h these aching eye-balls, ere a tear 
Fall from them at thy fate I O monster, monster I 
The brute that tears the infant from its nurse 
Is excellent to thee ; for in his form 
The impulse of his nature may be read ; 
Hut thuu, so beautiful, so proud, so noble, 
O what a wretch art thou! O ! can a term 
In all the various tongues of man be found 
To match thy infamy ? 

Malek Adhel — Go on ! go on ! 
'Tis but a little time to hear thee, Saladin ; 
And, bursting at thy feet, this heart will prove 
Its penitence, at least. 


Saladin — That were an end 
Too noble for a traitor I The bowstrinjr is 
A more appropriate finish ! Thou shnit die ! 

Malek Adhel — And death were welcome at another's mandate : 
VVhat, what have I to live for ? Be it so, 
If that ill all thy armies can be found 
An executing hand. 

Saladin — O, doubt it not ! 
They're eager for the office. Perfidy, 
So black as thine, effaces from their minds 
All memory of thy former excellence. 

Malek Adhel — Defer not, then, their wishes. Saladin. 
^f e'er this form was joyful to thy sight, 

his voice seemed grateful to thine ear, accede 
lo my last prayer: — O, lengthen not this scene. 
To wliich the agonies of death were pleasing ! 
Let me die speedily I 

Saladin — This very hour ! 
[Aside] — For, O, the more I look upon that face, 
The more I hear the accents of that voice. 
The monarch softens, and the judge is lost 
In all the brother's weakness; yet such guilt, — 
Such vile ingratitude, — it calls fur venjjeance ; 
And vengeance it shall have ! What, ho ! who w.iits there? 

\_£nter allendan:^ 

Attendant — Di.d your Highness call ? 

Saladin — Assemble quickly 
My forces in the cour*. Tell them they come 
To view the death of yonder bosom traitor ; 
And, bid them mark, that he who will not spare 
His brother when he errs., expects obedience, 
Silent obedience, from his followers. [Exit "!lei:dant.'\ 

Malek Adhel — Now, Saladin, 
The word Is given ; I have mthing more 
To fear from thee, my brother. 1 am not 
About to crave a miserable life. 
Without thy love, thy honor, thy ^s'eem, 
Life were a burden to me. Think not, either. 
The justness of thy sentence I would -juestion. 
But one request now trembles on my tongue — 
One wish still clinging round the heait ; which soon 
Not even that shall torture. Will it, then, 
Thinkest thou, thy slumbers render quieter, 
Tliy waking thoughts more pleasing to refle<:t. 
That when thy voice had doomed a brother » death, 
Tlie last request which e'er was his to utter 
'liiy harshness made him carry to the grave ? 

Saladin — Speak, then, but ask thyself if tbo'i ^»1• rea«o» 
To look for much indulgence here. 

Malek Adhel — I have not 1 


Yet will I ask for it. We part forever; 

This is our last farewell ; the king is sati--fie(l ; 

The judge has spoke the irrevocable sentence. 

None sees, none hears, save that Omniscient Power, 

Which, trust me, will not frown to look upon 

Two brothers part like such. When, in the face 

( )f forces once my own, I'm led to death. 

Then be thine eye unmoistened ; let thy voice 

Then speak my doom untrembling; then, 

Unmoved, behold this stiff and blackened cor^e. 

But now I ask, — nay, turn not, Saladin ! — 

I ask one single pressure of thy hand ; 

From that stern gye, one solitary tear, — 

O, torturing recollection ! — one kind word 

Yxom the loved tongue which once breathed naught but kimlness. 

Still silent? Brother! friend! beloved companion 

(If all my youthful sports ! — are they forgotten ?— 

Strike me with deafness, make me blind, O Heaven ! 

Let me not see this unforgiving man 

Smile at my agonies! nor hear that voice 

Pronounce my doom, which would not say one word. 

One li lie word, whose cherished memory 

Woultl soothe the struggles of departing life ! 

Vtt, yet thou wilt ! O, turn thee, Saladin ! 

Look on my face, — thou canst not spurn me then; 

Look on the once-loved face of Malek Adhel 

For the last time, and call him — 

Saladin — [Seizing his hand, — Brother ! brother I 

Malek Adhel — [Breaking away) — Now call ihy followers; 

Death has not now 

A single pang in store. Proceed ! I'm ready. 

Saladin — O, art thou ready to forgive, my brother ? 

To pardon him who found one single error. 

One little failing, 'mid a splendid throng 

Of glorious qualities — 

Malek Adhel — O, stay thee, Saladin ! 

I did not ask for life. I only wished 

To carry thy forgiveness to the grave. 

No, Emperor, the losi of Cesarea 

Cries loudly for the blood of Malek Adhel. 

Thy soldiers, too, demand that he who lost 

Wliat cost them many a weary hour to gain, 

.Sliould expiate his offences with his life. 

Lo! even now they crowd to view my death, 

Thy just impartiality. I go. 

Pleased by my fate to add one other leaf 

To thy proud wreath of glory. \Coin^. \ 

Saladin — Thou shalt not. [Enter af!i-nda::.' ] 

Attendant — My lord, the troops assembled by your order 

TumuUuous throng the courts. The prince's death 


Not one of tliem but vows he will not suffer. 
Tlie mutes have fled; the very guards rebel. 
Nor thhik I, in this city's spacious round, 
Can e'er be found a hand to do the office. 

Malek Adhel—O faithful friends !— ( To attendant)~1\im<t shall. 

Attendant — Mine ? Never ! 
The other first shall lop it from the body. 

Saladin — They teach the Emperor his duty well. 
Tell them he thanks them for it. Tell them, too, 
Thit ere their opposition reached our ears, 
Saladin had forgiven Malek Adhel. 

Attendant — O joyful news ! 
I haste to gladden many a gallant heart. 
And dry the tear on many a hardy cheek. 
Unused to such a visitor. \Exit.'\ 

Saladin — These men, the meanest in society. 
The outcasts of the earth, — by war, by nature, 
Hardened, and rendered callous, — these who claim 
No kindred with thee, — who have never heard 
The accents of affection from thy lips, — 

0, these can cast aside their vowed allegiance. 
Throw off their long obedience, risk their lives. 
To save thee from destruction. While I, 

1, who cannot, in all my memory. 

Call back one danger which thou hast not shared. 

One day of grief, one night of revelry. 

Which thy resistless kindness hath not soothed. 

Or thy gay smile and converse rendered sweeter,— 

I, who have thrice in the ensanguined field. 

When death seemed certain, only uttered — " Brother 1" 

And seen that form, like lightning, rush between 

Saladin and his foes, and that brave breast 

Dauntless exposed to many a furious blow 

Intended for my own, — I could forget 

That 't was to thee I owed the very breath 

Which sentenced thee to perish ! O, 't is shamefuU 

Thou canst not pardon me ! 

Malek Adhel — ^By these tears, I can ! 
O brother ! from this very hour, a new, 
A glorious life commences ! I am all thine ! 
Again the day of gladness or of anguish 
Shall Malek Adhel share; and oft again 
May this sword fence thee in the bloody field. 
Menceforth, Saladin, 
Jily heart, my soul, my sword, »>•<■ '^ine forever' 



[.Sec Apostrophe to Cold Waltr for an iiicideiit in the life of the elo- 
quent Paul Denton, author of the following stirring lines.] 

Siicaiiiing down the ages, blighting the rosebuils, 
shriveling the grasses, scorching the heart and blistering 
the soul, liiis come a lurid tongue of flame whioh, heated 
by tlic niddness of hell, has hissed out the terror.-, of death 
ami dropped over the earth a sea of uniitterahle woe. In 
tlif darkness of midnight it has gathered intensity of 
briglitness, and glared about tlie hearthstones, wet with 
the weeping of wives, mothers, and children, and bronzed 
the beauty of earth with the horrid cast of hell. Twist- 
ing around the altar of the church, it has wreathed the 
sweetest flowers that ever attempted to bloom for the 
adornment of heaven, and has fed death from the very 
waters of life ; at the very door of heaven itself it has 
glowed with appalling madness and been almost an im- 
passable wall of flame between misery and bliss. 

Dripping burning drops of agony into the tenderest 
•leptiis of writhing souls, they have wailed and wept and 
hissed unutterable despair, and pleaded with God to blot 
them from existence forever. This blighting, glowing, 
burning, damning curse of the world is the demon Intem- 
perance. Language hiis never been made that can depict 
it ill all its hideousness. Look on that stack of skeletons 
that rears its ghastly f()rm — an insult to God — high in the 
clouds, and shapes the whistling winds into an utterance 
of withering denunciation of the fiery monster that gnawed 
and scalded and burned and tore the mangled, bleeding 
flesh ti-om those bones and tossed them into that revolting 
pile ! 

Come, ye writhing, pleading, suffering souls that were 
robbed of heaven by this sparkling tempter, and cast the 
black shadow of your wretchedness upon the faces of the 
living ! Oh, graves, give up your bloated, festering mil- 
lions, and stretch them, in all their rum-scorched ghastli- 
ness, over the plains and mountain-tops ! Come forth, ye 
torn, haggard, and bleeding souls, from the time of Noah 
until to-night! Hold up your bony, withered, skeletou 


hands, ye countless millions of starved and starving women 
and children! Come, all the floods of agonizing tears 
that scorched as the lurid fires of hell where'er they 
touched, and boil, and blubber, and foam, and hiss in 
one vast steaming, seething ocean ! Come, death, and 
hell, and agony, with yonr harvest, garnered from the 
still and the brewery, and let us mass them in one black, 
horrifying portraiture of the damned. And let it tell to 
the shi'dderiug, trembling souls what language never cau. 

Paul Denton. 


[Endeavor to give this thrilling sketch in a natural manner, with 
clearness, force and energy. Strive to make your hearers /ei/ as well 
at- ande,nland,.'\ 

Stillness reigned in the vast amphitheatre, and from the 
countless thousands that thronged the spacious inclosure 
not a breath was heard. Every tongue was mute with 
suspense, and every eye strained with anxiety toward the 
ploomy portal where the gladiator was momentarily ex- 
pected to enter. At length the trumpet sounded, and 
tliey led him forth into the broad arena. There was no 
mark of fear upon his manly countenance, as with majestic 
step and fearless eye he entered. He stood there, like 
annther Apollo, firm and unbending as the rigid oak. 
Ills fine proportioned form was matchless, and his turgid 
muscles spoke his giani strength. 

" I am here'" he cried, as his proud lip curled in scorn, 
" to glut the savage eyes of Rome's proud populace. Ayp, 
like a dog you throw me to a beast; and what is niv 
offence ? Why, forsooth ! I am a Christian. But know, 
ye cannot fright my soul, for it is based upon a founda- 
tion stronger than the adamantine rock. Know ye, whns ■ 
liearts are harder than the flinty stone, my heart quak; - 
not with fear; and here I aver, I would not change con- 
ditions with the blood-stained Nero, crowned tiiough lu- 
be, not for the wealth of Rome. Blow ye your trumpet — 
I am ready." 

The trumpet soumled, and a long, low gmwl was lieara 


to proceed fmii the ca-ij of a half famished Numidian 
lion, situated at tlie farthest end of tlie aieiia. The growl 
deepened into a roar of tremendous volume, which shook 
the enormous edifice to its very centre. At that moment 
the door was thrown open, and the huge riion>tcr of the 
forest sprang from his den with one mighty bound to the 
opposite side of the arena. Hi.s eye.-- blazed with the bril- 
liancy of fire, as he slowly drew liis length along the .sand, 
and prepared to make a spring upon his formidable antago- 
nist. The gladiator's eye quailed not; his lip paled not; 
but he stood immovable as a statue, waiting the approach 
of his wary foe. 

At length the lion crouched himself into an attitude for 
springing, and with the quickness of liubtning leaped full 
at the throat of the gladiator. But he was prepared for 
him, and bounding lightly on one s^ide, his falchion flashed 
for a moment over his head, and in the next it was deeply 
dyed in the purple blood of the monster. A roar of re- 
doubled fury again resounded through the .spacious anqihi- 
theatre, as the enraged animal, mad with anguish ti( ni the 
wound he had just received, wheeled hastily round, and 
sprang a second time at the Nazercne. 

Again was the falchion of the cool and intrepid gladia- 
tor deeply planted in the breast of his terrible adversary ; 
but so sudden had been the second attack, that it was im- 
possible to avoid the full impetus of his bound, and he 
staggered and fell upon his knee. The nionsteis paw was 
upon his shoulder, and he felt his hot fiery breath upon 
his cheek, as it rushed through his wide distended nostrils. 
The Nazarene drew a short dagger from his girdle, and 
endeavored to regain his feet. But his foe, aware of his 
design, precipitating himself upon him, threw him v. ith 
violence to the ground. 

The excitement of the populace w'as now wrought up to 
a high pitch, and they waited the result with breathless 
suspense. A low growl of satisfaction now announced liic 
noble animal's triumph, as he sprang fiercely upon his 
prostrate enemy. But it was of short duration ; the dag- 
ger of the gladiator pierced his vitals, and together tlicy 
rolled over and over, across the broad arena. Again the 
dagger drank deep of the monster's blood, and again a 
roar of anguish reverberated through the stately edifice. 


The Nazarene, now watching his opportunity, sprang 
with the velocity of thought from the terrific embrace of 
his enfeebled antagonist, and regaining his falchion which 
had fallen to the ground in the struggle, ho buried it dcop 
in the heart of the infuriated beast. The noble king of 
the forest, faint from the loss of blood, concentrated all 
his remaining strength in one mighty bound ; but it was 
too late ; the last blow had been driven home to the 
centre of life, and his huge form fell with a mighty crash 
upon the arena, amid the thundering acclamations of the 


(November 24, 1877.) 

[Extract from a lecture by the Eev. T. De Witt Talmage, at the 
Brooklyn Tabernacle.] 

A few days ago there went out from our Brooklyn Navy 
Yard a man-ofwar, the Huron. She steamed down to 
Hampton Roads, dropped anchor for further orders, and 
then went on southward— one hundred and thirty-six souls 
on board — and the life of the humblest boy in sailor's 
jacket as precious as the life of the commander. 

There were storms in the air, the jib-stay had been 
carried away ; but what cares such a monarch of the deep 
for a hurricane! All's well at twelve o'clock at night! 
Strike eight bells ! All's well at one o'clock in the morn- 
ing! Strike two bells! How the water tosses from the 
iron prow of the Huron as she seems moving irresistibly 
on ! If a fishing smack came in her way she would ride 
it down and not know she touched it. 

But, alas! through the darkness she is aiming for Nag's 
Head ! What is the matter with the compasses ? At one 
o'clock and forty minutes there is a harsh grating on the 
bottom of the ship, and the cry goes across the ship, 
"What's the matter?" Then the sea lifts up the ship to 
let her fall cm the breakers — shock ! shock ! shock ! The 
dreadful command of the captain rings across the deck 
Riid is repeated among the h.amraocks, " All hands save 


the ship !" Then cOmes the thud of the axe in answer to 
the order to cut away the mast. Overboard go the guns. 
They are of no use in this battle with the wind and wave. 

Heavier and heavier the vessel falls till the timbei-s 
begin to crack. The work of death goes on, every surge 
of the sea carrying more men from the forecastle, and 
reaching up its briny fingers to those hanging in the 
rigging. Numb and frozen, they hold on and hish them- 
selves fast, while some, daring each other to the under- 
taking, ])lung« into tiie beating surf and struggle for the 
land. Oh, cruel sea ! Pity them, as bruised, and man- 
gled, and witli broken bones, they make desperate efforts 
for dear life. For thirty miles along the beach the dead 
of the Huron are strewn, and throughout the land there is 
weeping and lamentation and great woe. 

A surviving officer of the vessel testifies that the con- 
duct of the men was admirable. It is a magnificent thing 
to see a man dying at his post, doing his whole duty. It 
seems that every shipwreck must give to the world an 
illustration of the doctrine of vicarious sacrifice — men 
darini: all things to save their fellows. Who can .see .such 
tliiiii^s without thinking of the greatest deed of these 
nineteen centuries, the pushing out of the Chieftain of 
tlie u inverse to take the human race off the wreck of the 
world ? 


[Study to give natural expression to tlie following terrible, vivid 
pen-picture, which may well illustrate the poiier of Aaftit.] 

It sometimes happens that a man, traveler or fisherman, 
walking on the beach at low tide, far from the Ijank, sud- 
denly notices that for several minutes he has been walking 
with some diflBculty. The strand beneath his feet is like 
pitch; his soles stick In it; it is sand no longer; it is 

The beach is perfectly dry, but at every step he takes, 
as soon as he lifts his foot, the print which he leaves fills 
with water. The eye, however, has noticed no change ; 
'die immense strand is smooth and tranquil ; all the s;iud 


has tlic same appearance ; nothing distinguishes the sur- 
face which is solid from that which is no longer so; the 
joyous little crowd of sand-flies continue to leap tumultu- 
ously over the wayfarer's feet. The man pursues his way, 
goes forward, inclines to the land, endeavors to get nearer 
the upland. 

He i.s not anxious. Anxious about what? Only he 
feels, somehow, as if the weight of his feet increases with 
every step he takes. Suddenly he sinks in. 

He sinks in two or three inches. Decidedly he is not 
on the right road ; he stops to take his bearings ; now lie 
looks at his feet. They have disappeared. The .sand 
covers them. He draws them out of the sand ; he will 
retrace his steps. He turns back, he sinks in deeper. 
The sand comes up to his ankles ; he pulls himself out 
and throws himself to the left — the sand half-leg deep. 
He throws himself to the right ; the sand comes up to hia 
shins. Then he recognizes with unspeakable terror tliat 
he is caught in the quicksand, and that he has beneath 
him tiie terrible medium in which man can no more walk 
thau the fish can swim. He throws off his load if he has 
one, lightens himself as a ship in distress; it is already 
too late ; the sand is above his knees. He calls, he waves 
his hat or his handkerchief; the sand gains on him more 
and more. If the beach is deserted, if the land is too far 
off, if there is no help in sight, it is all over. 

He is condemned to that appalling burial, long, infalli- 
ble, implacable, and impossible to slacken or to hasten ; 
which endures for hours, which seizes you erect, free, and 
in full health, and which draws you by the feet ; which, at 
every effort that you attempt, at every shout you utter, 
drags you a little deeper, sinking you slowly into the 
earth while you look upon the horizon, the sails of the 
siiips upon the sea, the birds flying and singing, the sun- 
siiiiic and the sky. The victim attempts to sit down, to 
lir down, to creep; every movement he makes inters him ; 
he straightens up, he sinks in ; he feels that he is being 
swallowed. He howles, implores, cries to the clouds, de- 

Behold him waist deep in the sand, The sand reaches 
liis breast ; he is now only a bust. He rai.-es his arms, 
utters furious groans, clutches the beach with his nails, 


would hold by that straw, leans upon his elbows to pull 
himself out of this soft sheath ; sobs frenziedly ; the sand 
ri.sos ; the sand reaches his shoulders ; the sand reaches 
hi.-i neck ; the face alone is visible now. The mouth cries, 
the ^and fills it — silence. The eyes still gaze, the sand 
shuts them — night. Now the forehead decreases, a little 
hair flutters ubove the sand ; a hand comes to the surface 
of the beach, moves and shakes, disappears. It is the 
earth drowning man. The earth filled with the ocean 
becomes a trap. It presents itself like a plain and opens 
like a wave. Victor Hugo. 


[M. Quad, a literary gentleman connected with the Detroit Free 
Press, having taken charge of a lady in a railroad car, gives the 
following account of the pleasures of his journey.] 

Many men think a railroad journey is rendered really 
pleasant by the companionship of an unpi'otected female. 
•She insisted on counting her bandbox and traveling bag 
as we got seated. She counted. There were just two. I 
counted and made no more nor less. Then she wanted 
her parasol put into the rack, her shawl folded up, and her 
bandbox counted again. I counted it. There was just 
exactly one bandbox of it. As we got started she wanted 
to know if I was sure that we were on the right road to 
Detroit. I was sure. Then she wanted her traveling bag 
counted. I counted it once more. By this time she 
wanted the window up, and asked me if it was not a very 
hot day. I said it was. Then she felt for her money and 
found it was safe, though she was sure she had lost it. 
While counting it she related how Mrs. Graff, in going 
East five years ago, lost her purse and three dollars. She 
wound up the story by asking me if it wasn't a hot day. 
I said it was. Then she wanted that bandbox counted, 
and I counted him. He was still one bandbox. There 
was a pause of five minutes, and then she wanted a drink. 
I got it for her. Then she wanted to know if we were on 
the right road to Detroit. I assured her that I was posi- 
tive oi the fact. The brakeman here c-'''Hd out the name 


of a station in such an indistinct manner that tin jddy 
wanted me to go and see what the name really was. I 
went. It was Calumet. She wanted to know if I was 
Kure that it was Calumet, and I put my hand on my sacred 
heart and assured her that I would perish sooner than 
deceive her. By this time she wanted the traveling bap- 
counted, and I counted her. She figured up as before. 
I had just finished counting when she wanted to know if 
I didn't think it was a hot day. I told her I did. We 
got along very well for the next half hour, as I got her to 
narrating a story about how she got lost in the woods 
eighteen years before; but as soon as she finished it she 
wanted to know if I were sure that we vere on the right 
road to Detroit. I told her that I hoped to perish with 
the liars if we were not, and she was satisfied. Then the 
parasol fell down ; she wanted me tc change a ten-cent 
piece, and the window had to go down. When we got 
down to Marshall she wanted to know if the place wasn't 
named after court-martial, and whether it wasn't barely 
possible that the station was Niles, instead of Marshail. 
The bandbox was counted again, and he was just one. 
Then the window went up, and she asked me if, in my 
opinion, it wasn't a hot day. I replied that it was. Then 
she related a story about her uncle, another about a young 
lady who had been deaf several years. During that day I 
counted that bandbox three hundred times, raised the 
window thirty times, said it was a hot day until my 
tongue was blistered, arranged that parasol twenty -one 
times, got her sixteen drinks of water, and inquired the 
names of thirteen stations. She said it was so nice to 
have a man in whom a stranger could place confidence, 
and I dared not reply, for fear of bringing out another 
story. When we reached Detroit, I counted the thing* 
tliree times over, and helped her off the cars, got her a 
hack, directed her to a hotel, told her the street, price, 
luiine of the landlord, head waiter, porter, and cook; 
i;-sured her that she would not be robbed or murdered ; 
that it liad been a hot day ; that Detroit had a population 
of one hundred thousand; that the fall term of school had 
commonced ; that all Detroit hack drivers were honest 
and obliging. Poor woman, I hope the landlord did not 
get out of piitience with lier artless ways. 



[Tlie following extract is a nioht eloquent passage of descriptive 
reading. Employ the highest qualities of voice in itt. rendition.] 

As we proceeded, the timid approach of twilight became 
more perceptible; the iutense blue of the sky Itj^ini to 
eofteu ; the smaller stars, like little children, went first to 
rest; the sister beams of the Pleiades soon melted together; 
but the bright constellations of the wei-t and norih re- 
mained unchanged. Steadily the wondrous transfigura- 
tion went on. Hands of angels hidden from mortal eyes 
shitted the scenery of the heavens; the glories of night 
disoulved into the glories of the dawn. The blue sky now 
turned more softly gray ; the great watch-stars shut up 
their holy eyes; the east began to kindle. Faint streaks 
of puiplc soon blushed along the sky ; the whole celestial 
concave was filled with the inflowing tides of the morning 
light, which came pouring down from above in one gre.'t 
occnn of radiance; till at length, as we reached the Blue 
Hills, a flash of purple fire blazed out from above the 
horizon, and turned the dewy tear-drops of flower and 
leaf into rubies and diamonds. In a few seconds the 
everlasting gates of the morning were thrown wide open, 
and the lord of day, arrayed in glories too severe for the 
gaze of man, began his state. Edward Everett. 


[This should be given in a natural manner, and in such a way as 
will bring out all the strokes of humor in the piece.] 

"When I was the dirtiest little towhead — and I am sure 
that dirt is no disgrace — that tramped to the village 
school, a traveling phrenologist declared that my bump 
of imitation covered two-thirds of my cranium, and as the 
days waned the aforesaid bump fully developed itseit 
My father used to tell nie that 

" Lives of great men all remind us 
We can make our lives sublime," 


aiicl I at once proceeded to imitate great men, that my 
existence might be as sublime as anybody's. 

I l)egan on Washington upon whose acts I enlarged 
M)mewhat. I took my little hatchet, crejit to the j'oung 
orchard of cherry and peach and leveled it to the ground. 
!My bump of imitation was at work. My sire discovered 
the deed, and when he asked me regarding the authorship 
I forgot a portion of the Washington story and swore 
1 did n't know anything about it. Bnt my " little hatchet" 
condemned me. Particles of the soft young bark adhered 
to it, and you wouldn't take the application of peach and 
cherry that I got for all the lives of G. W. published since 
the death of old Weems. 

Then I resolved to imitate Alexander. AVe had a fine 
colt, as fiery as Vesuvius and as untamed as Mazeppa's 
Tartar. He should be Bucephalus, I his Alexander. 
While the old folks were absent I bridled the colt with 
difiiculty, led him from the stable, and drove my spurs 
into his flanks. He snoj-ted ; his posterior extremities 
shot upward at the sun, and 1 described a faultlsss para- 
bola over his head. Bucephalus had conquered his Alex- 
ander. Ancient histoiy had been reversed. An hour 
afterward they picked me up with a broken arm, a dislo- 
cated collar-bone, almost scalped, and a nose knocked 
forty miles for Sunday. The physicians hoped, for my 
own good, that the bump of imitation had been spoiled ; 
but subsequei't actions decleared its faculties unimpaired. 

When quite youni,^ father had impressed upon my 
childish mind the life of Benjamin Frauklin, how worthy 
of imitation it was ; and when I recovered from tlie Buce- 
phalian exploit, I resolved to please the old man by imitat- 
ing Ben. I made a kite, painted B. F.'s nice sayings all 
over it, stole the door key and went out into the fields 
to jerk the lightning from the clouds. I succeeded ; a 
little flash of fire ran down the string and knocked me 
senseless. For hours they thought me dead ; but I re- 
covered with a hairless cranium. I wasn't done with 
Franklin yet. You know he walked through Philadelphia 
once with six loaves of bread under his arm, three loaves 
in his mouth and a handful of ginger cakes. I resolved 
to thus imitate the postmaster sage: I got my sister to 
stand in the door and play the voung lady who lauglied at 


Ben. But -where was I to get the bread. Our cupboard 
happened to be as bare as Mother Hubbard's faiiioiis 
larder. A lucky thought struck me. 1 resorted to iho 
bakery, sent the baker into the oven to see if the niiiice 
pies were done, grabbed my paraphernalia and started. 
I tell you I cut a figure going down town with six loaves 
of bread under my arms, and .sister i-hamed me just like 
the girl shamed Franklin. Suddenly somebody cried 
"Stop thief!" and I saw the baker coming at me. 1 ran 
under the bed pnci let the curtain down; but it was no 
use. The brute broke up the didactic entertainment, and 
it cost our folks about fifty dollars to keep me from going 
v/ith the sheriff. It taught them a lesson, however, to 
furnish their offspring with bread. That moral .saveil me 
a birching. The bump of imitation was still " up to 

Then I fell back on Columbus for want of modern ex- 
amples. I read how he made the egg stand en end. It 
was near Easter, and the boys had laid in the usual su])ply 
of ovate " bivalves." I bet that I could make an egg 
stand on its beam ends. They staked a dozen of bivalves 
on the proposition. I simply played Columbus, and the 
little rascals swore it wasn't fair. I reached for the stakes, 
and got them, too — all over me. I was a walking speci- 
men of unadulterated egg-nog. Then they licked me, 
and that dilapitated ear had been whole were it not f<ir 
Columbus's foolishness. The imitation bump will never 
leave me. 


[This beautiful piece of prose, though old, will be new to many of 
the readers of this volume. Years ago it was found in tlie sulinol 
books, and it is on this account familiar to many older peojjle, while 
but few of our youth have had the oportunity to enjoy the beauties 
of thought contained therein.] 

On the fifth day of the moon, which, according to the 
custom of my forefathers, I always keep holy, after having 
washed myself and offered up my morning devotions, I 
ascended the high hills of Bagdad, in order to pass the 
rest of the day ii\ meditation and prayer. As I was here 


rel'icsliiug myself on the tops of the mountains, I fi ' into 
a profound contemplation of the vanity of liuniaii life ; 
aiiti pjissing from one thought to another, surely, i-ui'l I, 
man is but a shadow, and life a dream. Whilst I was thus 
musing, I cast my eye toward the summit of a rock tliat 
was not far from me, where I discovered one in the habit 
of a shepherd, but who was in reality a beiug of superior 
nature. I drew near with profound reverence, and fell 
down at his feet. The genius smiled upon me with a 
look of compai-sion and aifability that familiarized him to 
my imagination, and at once dispelled all the fears and 
apprehensions with which I approached him. He lifted 
me from the ground, aud taking me by the hand, " Mirza," 
said he, "I have heard thee in thy soliloquies; follow mc." 

He then led me to the highest pinnacle of the rock ; 
and placing me on the top of it, " Cast thine eyes east- 
ward," said he, " and tell me what thou see.^t." " I 
IOC," said I, " a huge valley, and a prodigious tide of 
water rolling through it." " The valley that thou seest," 
said he, " is the vale of misery ; and the tide of water that 
tliou seest, is part of the great tide of eternitv." "AVhat 
is the reason," said I, " that the tide I see, rises out of a 
thick mist at one end, and agaiu loses itself in a thick mis\ 
at the other end?" " AVhat thou seest," said he, " is that 
portion of eternity which is called time, measured out by 
the sun, and reaching from the beginning of the world to 
its consummation. Examine now," said he, " this sea 
that is bounded with darkness at both ends, and tell me 
what thou discoverest in it." " I see a bridge," said I, 
" standing in the midst of the tide." " The bridge thou 
seest," said he, " is human life ; consider it attentively." 
Upon a more leisurely survey of it, I found that it con- 
sisted of three-score and ten entire arches, with several 
broken arches, which, added to those that were entire, 
made up the number about a hundred. 

As I was counting the arches, the genius told me that 
this bridge consisted at first of a thousand; but that a 
great flood swept away the rest, and left thebiidge in the 
runious condition I now beheld it. " But tell me further," 
i-ai(l he, "what thou discoverest on it." " I see multi- 
tudes of ])eople passing over it, said I, "and a black cloud 
hanging on each end of it." As I looked more atten- 


tivL'ly, I saw several of tlie passengers dropping tliroiigli 
the bridge into the great tide that flowed underneath it ; 
and, upon further examination, perceived Ihere were in- 
luinierable trap-doors that lay concealed in the biiilge, 
which the passengers no sooner trod upon, than they tell 
through them into the tide, and immediately disappeared 
Tliese hidden pitfalls were set very thick at the entrance 
of the bridge, so that throngs of people no sooner broke 
through the cloud than many fell into them. Tliey grew 
thinner towards the middle, but multiplied and lay closer 
together towards the ends of the arches that were entire. 
There were indeed some persons, but their number was 
very small, that continued a kind of hobbling match on 
the broken arches, but fell through one after another, 
being quite tired and spent with so long a walk. 

I passed some time in the contemplation of this won- 
derful structure, and the great variety of ol)jects which it 
presented. My heart was filled with a deep melancholy, 
to see several dropping unexpectedly in the midst of mirth 
and jollity, and catching at everything that stood by them, 
to save themselves. Some were looking up toward th« 
heavens iu a thoughtful posture, and, in the midst of a 
speculation, slunibled and fell out of sight. Multitudes 
were very busy in the pursuit of bubbles that glittered in 
their eyes and danced before them ; but often, when they 
thought themselves within the reach of them, their footing 
failed and down they sank. In this confusion of objects, 
I observed some with scimitars in their hands, and others 
with weapons, who ran to and fro on the bridge, thrusting 
several persons on trap-doors which did not seem to lie in 
their way, and which they might have escaped had they 
not been thus forced upon them. 

The genius seeing me indulge myself in this melancholy 
prospect, told me that I had dwelt long enough upon it. 
■"Take thine eyes off the bridge," said he, "and tell me 
jf thou seest anything thou dost not comprehend." Upon 
looking up, " What mean," said I, "those great flights of 
birds that are perpetually hovering ab6ut the bridge, and 
settling upon it from time to time ? I see vultures, har- 
pies, ravens, cormorants, and, among many other feath- 
ered cieatures, several little winged boys that perch in 
great numbers upon the middle-arches." "These," said 


tlie genius, " are envy, avarice, superstition, despair, and 
love, with the like cares and passions that infest human 

I here fetched a deep sigh. " Alas," said I, " man 
was made in vain ! how is he given away to misery and 
mortality, tortured in life, and swallowed up in death ?" 
The genius being moved with compassion toward me, bid 
me quit so uncomfortable a prospect. "Look no more,'' 
said he, "on man in the first stage of his existence, in his 
setting out for eternity ; but cast thine eye on that thick 
mist into which the tide bears the several generations of 
mortals that fall into it." I directed my sight as I was 
ordered, and (whether or not the good genius strength- 
ened it with any supernatural force, or dissipated part of 
the mist that was before too thick for the eye to pene- 
trate. I saw the valley opening at the further end, and 
spreading forth in an immense ocean, that had a huge 
rock of adamant running through the midst of it, and 
dividing it into two equal parts. The clouds still listed 
on one-half of it, insomuch that I could discover nothing 
in it; but the other appeared to me a vast ocean, planted 
with innumerable islands, that were covered with fruits 
and flowers, and interwoven with a thousand little shining 
seas that ran among them. I could see persons dressed 
in glorious habits, with garlands upon their heads, passing 
among the trees, lying down by the sides of fountains, or 
resting on beds of flowers. 

Gladness grew in me at the discovery of so delightful a 
scene. I wished for the wings of an eagle, that I might 
fly away to those happy seats ; but the genius told me 
there was no passage to them, except through the gates of 
death that I saw opening every moment upon the bridge. 
" The islands," said he, " that lie so fresh and green 
before thee, and with which the whole face of the ocean 
appears dotted as far as thou canst see it, are more in 
number than the sands on the seashore. There are 
myriads of islands behind those which thou here dis- 
coverest, reaching farther than thine eyes, or even thine 
imagination can extend itself. These are the mansions of 
good men after death, who, according to the degrees and 
kinds of virtue in which they excelled, are distributed 
among these several islands, which abound with pleasure 


of different kinds and degrees, suitable to the relishes and 
perfections of those who are settled in them ; every island 
is a paradise accommodated to its respective inhabitant.-;. 
Are not these, O, Mirza, habitations worth contending 
for? Does life appear miserable, that gives the opportu- 
nities of earning such a reward ? Is death to be feared, 
that will convey thee to so happy an existence? Think 
not man was made in vain, who has such an eternity re- 
served for him." I gazed with inexpressible pleasure on 
these happy islands. At length, said I, "Show nie now, 
1 beseech thee, the secrets that lie hid under tlio>L' dark 
clouds which cover the ocean on the other side of tiie nick 
of adamant." The genius making no answer, I turned 
about to address myself to him a second time, but I found 
that he had left me. I then turned again to the vision 
which I had been so long contemplating ; but instead of 
the rolling tide, the arched bri<lge, and the happy island.s, 
1 saw nothing but the long, hollow valley of Bagdad, with 
oxen, sheep, and camels grazing upon the sides of it. 

Joseph Addison, /» the Spectator. 


[Jiid Biownin, when visiting New York, goes to hear Kubenstein, 
and gives the following description of liis phiying :] 

Well, sir, he had the biggest, catty-cornedest planner 
you ever laid eyes on ; somethin' like a distracted bi'liard 
table on three legs. The lid was hoisted, and mighty 
ft-ell it was. If it hadn't been he'd a tore the entire 
inside clean out, and scattered 'em to the four winds of 

Played well? You bet he did ; but don't interrupt me. 
When he first sit down, he 'peared to keer mighty little 
'bout playin' and wish't he hadn't come. He tweedle- 
leede'd a little on the treble, and twoodle-oodled some oii 
the base— just foolin' and boxin' the thing's jaws for bein' 
in his way. And I says to a man settin' next to me, says 
I : "What sort of fool playin' is that?" And he says, 
" Heish !" But presently his hands commenced chasin' 


one uuotlier up and do'vn tlie keys, like a passel of rats 
scamperin' through a garret very swift. Parts of it was 
sweet, though, and reminded me of a sugar squirrel 
turnin' the wheel of a candy cage, 

" Now," I says to my neighbor, " he's showin' off. 
He thinks he's a do'in of it; but he ain't got no idee, no 
plan of nothin'. If he'd play me a tune of some kind or 
other I'd—" 

But my neighbor says " Heish !" very impatient. 

I was just about to git up and go home, bein' tired of 
that foolishness, when I heard a little bird waking up 
away off in the woods, and call sleepy-like to his mate, 
and I looked up and see that Rubin was begining to 
take some interest in his business, and I sit down again. 
It was the peep of day. The light came faint from the 
east, the breezes blowed gentle and fresh, some more 
biriis wakfd up in the orchard, then some more in the 
trees near the house, and all begun singin' together. 
People began to stir, and the gal opened the shutters. 
Just then the first beam of the sun fell upon the blossoms 
a, leetle more, and it techt the roses on the bushes, and 
the next thing it was broad day; the sun fairly blazed, 
the birds sung like they'd splilt their little throats ; all the 
leaves was movin,' and flashin' diamonds of dew, and the 
whole wide world was bright and happy as a king. 
Seemed to me like there was a good breakfast in every 
house in the land, and not a sick child or woman any- 
where. It was a fine mornin.' 

And I says to my neighbor : " That's music, that is." 

But he glared at me like he'd like to cut my throat. 

Presently the wind turned ; it begun to thicken up, and 
a kind of gray mist came over things ; I got h)\v-spirited 
directly. Then a silver rain began to fall. I could see 
the drops touch the ground ; some flashed up like long 
pearl ear-rings, and the rest rolled away like round rubies. 
It was pretty, but melancholy. Then the pearls gathered 
themselves into long strands and necklaces, and then they 
melted into thin silver stresnns, running between golden 
gravels, and then the streams joined each other at the 
bottom of the hill, and made the brook that flowed silent, 
except that you could kinder see the music, specially when 
the bushes on the banks moved as the music went along 


down tlie valley. I could smell the flowers in tfie raeadow. 
But the sun didn't shine, nor the birds sing; it was a 
foggy day, but not cold. 

The most curious thing was the little white angel boy, 
like you see in pictures, that run ahead of the music brook 
and led it on and on, away out of tiie world, where no 
man ever was, certain. I could see that boy just as plain 
as I see you. Then the moonlight came, without any 
sunset, and shone on the graveyards, wliere some tew 
ghosts lifted their hands and went over the wall, and be- 
tween the black, sharp top trees splendid marble houses 
rose up, with fine ladies in the lit-up windows, and meu 
that loved 'em, but could never get a-nigh 'em, who 
played on guitars under the trees, and made me that 
miserable I could have cried, because I wanted to love 
somebody, I don't know who, better than the men with 
the guitars did. 

The sun went down, it got dark, the wind moaned 
and wept like a lost child for its dead mother, and I could 
a-got up then and there and preached a better sermon 
than any I ever listened to. There wasn't a thing in the 
world left to live for, not a blamed thing, and yet I 
did n't want the music to stop one bit. It was happier to 
be miserable than to be happy without being miserable. 
I couldn't understand it. I hung my head and pulled 
out my handkerchief, and blowed my nose loud to keep 
me from cryin'. My eyes is weak, anyway. I didn't 
want anybody to be gazen at me a-snivlin', and it's 
nobody's business what I do with my nose. It's mine. 
But several glared at me mad as blazes. Then, all 
of a sudden, old Rubin changed his tune. He ripped out 
and he rared, he tipped and he tared, he prauced and he 
charged like the grand entry to a circus. 'Peared to me 
that all the gas in the house was turned on at once, things 
got so bright, and I hilt up my head, ready to look any 
man i.i the face, and not afraid of nothin'. It vas a 
circus, and a brass band, and a big ball all goin' on at the 
same time. He lit into them keys like a thousand oi 
brick ; he give 'em no rest day or night ; he set every 
livin' joint in me a-goin', and not beiu' able to stand it 
no longer, I jumped spang onto my seat, and jest hoi' 
lered : " Go it, my Rube !" 


Every blamed man, woman and cliild in the house ria 
on me, and sliouted, " Put him out! put hira out!" 

"Put your great grandmother's grizzly gray greenish 
cat into the middle of next month!" I says. " Tech me 
if you dare.' I paid my money, and you jest come a-nigh 

With that several policemen run up, and I had to 
simmer down. But I would a-fit any fool that laid hands 
on me, for I was bound to hear Ruby out or die. 

He had changed his tune again. He hop-light ladies 
flud tip-toed fine from end to end of the key-board. He 
played soft and low and solemn. I heard the church 
bells over the hills. The candies of heaven was lit, one 
by one ; I saw the stars rise. The great organ of eternity 
be^'an to play from the world's end to the world's end, 

and all the angels went to prayers Then the 

music changed to water, full of feeling that could n't be 
thought, and began to drop — drip, drop — drip, drop, 
clear and sweet, like tears of joy falling into a lake of 
glory. It was sweeter than that. It was as sweet as a 
sweet-heart sweetened with white sugar, mixt with pow- 
dered silver and seed diamonds. It was too sweet. I tell 
you the audience cheered. Rubin he kinder bowed, like 
he wanted to say " ]Much obleegcd ; but I'd rather you 
would n't iuterup' me." 

He stopt a moment or two to ketch breath. Then he 
got mad. He run his fingers through his hair, he shoved 
up his sleeve, he opened his coat tails a leetle further, he 
drug up his stool, he leaned over, and, sir, he just went 
for that old planner. He slapt her face, he boxed her 
jaws, he pulled her nose, he pinched her ears, and he 
scratched her cheeks until she fairly yelled. He knocht 
her down and he stampt on her shameful. She bellowed 
like a bull, she bleated like a calf, she howled like a 
liound, she squealed like a pig, she shrieked like a rat, 
and th;n he would n't let her up. He run a quarter stretch 
down the low grounds of the bass til Ihe got clean iu the 
bowels of the earth, and you heard thunder galloping 
after thunder, through the hollows and caves of perdition ; 
and then he fox chased his right hand with his left till he 
got way out of the treble into the clouds, whar the notes 
was finer than the pints of cambric needles, and you 


<"«ukl n't hear nothin' but the shadders of 'em. And then 
he wouhl n't let the old piauner go. He tbr'ard two'd, 
lie crost over first gentleman, he cliassade right and left, 
o.ick to your places, he all hands'd arouu', ladies to the 
rigiit, promenade all, iu and out, here and there, back and 
Torth, up and down, perpetual motion, double twisted and 
turned and tacked and tangled into forty-eleven thousand 
-louble bow knots. 

By jinks ! it was a mixtery. And then he would n't let 
the old planner go. He fecht up his right wing, he fecht 
up his left wing, he fecht up his centre, he fecht up his 
reserves. He fired by file, he fired by platoons, by coui- 
pany, by regiments, and by brigades. He opened his 
taunou — siege guns down thar. Napoleons here, twelve 
pounders yonder — big guns, little guns, middle-sized guns, 
round shot, shells, shrapnels, grape, canister, mortar, 
mines and magazines, every liviu' battery and bomba-goin' 
at the same time. Tiie house trembled, the lights danced, 
the walls shuk, the floor come up, the ceilin' came down, 
the sky split, the ground rokt — heavens and earth, crea- 
tion, sweet potatoes, Moses, ninepences, glory, ton-penny 
nails, Sampson in a 'simmou tree. Tump, Tompson in a 
tumbler cart, roodle-oodle-oodle-oodle — ruddle-uddle- 
uddle-uddle — raddle-addle-addle-addle — riddle-iddle-id- 
dle-iddle — reedle-eedle-eedle-eedle — p-r-r-r-r-r-r — lank ! 
Bang! ! ! lang! perlaug! p-r-r-r-r-r! ! Bang! ! ! 

With that bang! he lifted himself bodily into the a'r 
aud he come down with his knees, his ten fiugers, his ten 
toes, ilia elbows, and his nose, striking every single soli- 
tary key on the planner at the same time. The thing 
busted and went off into seventeen hundred and fifty- 
seven thousand five hundred and forty-two heme-denii- 
tenii quivers, and I know'd no mo'. 

When I come to, I were under ground about twenty 
foot, in a place they call Oyster Bay, treatin' a Yankee 
that I never laid eyes on before, and never expect to agin. 
Day was breakin' by the time I got to the St. Nicholas 
Hotel, and I pledge you my word I did not know my 
name. The man asked me the number of my roi)m, autJ 
I told him, " Hot music on the half shell for two I" 



[It is exceedingly difficult to give proper expression to a renlly 
humorous prose article. Tiie Hue touches of humor must hejelt by 
the reader, and he nuisl thoroughly appreciate them befere he can give 
them with effect. At the close ol' the selection, when impersonating 
the man in the edily, the voice should be used with great etiort — 
breathlessly — with frequent pauses, catching the breath. This wiU 
secure an effective rendering of the piece.] 

Niagara Falls is one of the finest structures in the knmvn 
world. I have been visiting this favorite watering-place 
recently for the first time and was well pleased. A gen- 
tleman who was with nie said it was customary to be dis- 
appointed in the Fails, but that subsequent vi>its were 
sure to set that all right. He said that the firet time he 
went, the hack fares were so much higher than the Falls, 
that the Falls appeared insignificant. But that is all 
regulated now. The hackmen have been tamed, num- 
bered, and placarded and blackguarded, and brought 
into subjection to the law, and dosed with moral prin- 
ciple till they are as meek as missionaries. There are no 
more outrages and extortions. That sort of thing cured 
itself It made the Falls unpopular by getting into the 
newspapers; and wlienever a public evil achieves that sort 
of success for itself, its days are numbered. It became 
apparent that either the Falls had to be discontinued, or 
the hackmen had to subside. They could not dam the 
Falls, and so they did the hackmen. One can be com- 
fortable and happy there now. 

I drank up most of the American Fall before I learned 
that the waters were not considered medicinal. Why are 
people left in ignorance that way? I might have gone on 
and ruined a fine property, merely for the want of a little 
trifling information. And yet the sources of information 
at Niagara Falls are not meagre. You are sometimes in 
doubt there, about what you ought to do, but you are sel- 
dom in doubt about what you must not do. No, the signs 
keep you posted. If an infant can read, that infant is 
measurably safe at Niagara Falls. In your room at the 
hotel you will find your course marked out for you in the 
most convenient way, by means of placards on the wall 
like these : 


"Pull the bell-rope gently, but don't jerk." 

" Bolt your door." 

" Don't scrape matches on the wall." 

"Turn off your gas when you retire.'' 

"Tie up your dog." 

"If you place your boots outside the door, they will be 
blacked, but the house will not be responsible for their re- 
turn." (This is a confusing and tanglesome proposition, 
because it moves you to deliberate long aud painfully as 
to whether it will really be any object to you to have your 
boots blacked unless they are returned.) 

" Give your key to the omnibus driver, if you forget 
aud carry it off with you." 

Outside the hotel, wherever you wander, you aic intel- 
ligently assisted by the signs. You cannot come id grief 
as long as you are in your right mind. But the difficulty 
is to ^y in your right mind with so much instructions to 
keep track of. For instance : 

" Keep off the grass." 

" Don't climb the trees." 

" Hands oflf the vegetables." 

"Do not hitch your horses to the shrubbery." 

" Visit the Cave of the Winds." 

" Have your portrait taken in your carriage. 

" Forty per cent in gold levied on all peanuts or other 
Indian curiosities purchased in Canada." 

" Photographs of the Falls taken here." 

" Visitors will please notify the superintendent of any 
neglect on the part of employees to charge for commodities 
or services." 

" Don't throw stones down ; they may hit people below." 

■' The proprietors will not be responsible foi parties 
who jump over the Falls." 

To tell the plain truth, the multitude of signs annoyed 
nic. It was because I noticed at last that thoy always 
happened to prohibit exactly the very thing I was just 
wanting to do. I desired to roll on the grass ; the sign 
]iic)hibited it. I wished to climb a tree; a sign pro- 
hibited it. I longed to smoke; the sign prohibited it. 
And I was just in the act of throwing a stone over to 
astonish and pulverize such parties as might be pi en ic- 
Id" below, when a sign I have just mentioned forbade 


that. Even tluit satisfaction was deuied me (and I a 
friendless orphan). There was no resource now but to 
.■-eek consolation in the flowing bowl. I drew my flask 
from my pocket, but it was all in vain. A sign cnii- 
fronted me, which said : 

"jS^o drinking allowed on these premises." 

On that spot I might have perished of thirst but for the 
saving words of an honored maxim that flitted through my 
memory at that criticical moment, " All signs fail in a dry 
time." Common law takes precedence of the statutes. I 
was saved. 

The noble Red Man has always been a darling of mine. 
I love to read about him in tales and legends and ro- 
mances. I love to read of his inspired sagacitv ; and of 
his love of the wild, free life of mountain and forest ; and 
his grand truthfulness; his hatred of treachciy ; and hi- 
general nobility of character ; and his stately metaphori- 
Cid manner of speech ; and his chivalrous love tor his 
du^ky maiden ; and the picturesque pomp of his dress and 
accourtrenient, — especially the picturesque pomp of his 
dress and acconrtrement. AVhen I found the shops at 
Niagara Falls full of dainty Indian bead work and stun- 
ning moccasins, and equally stunning toy figures repre- 
senting human beings who carried their weapons in hokj 
bored through their arms and bodies, and had feet shaped 
like a pie, I was filled with emotion. I knew that now, at 
last, I was going to come face to face with the noble red 
man. A lady clerk in the shop told me, indeed, that all 
her grand array of curiosities were made by the Indians, 
and that there were plenty about the Falls, and that they 
were friendly, and it wouki not be dangerous to speak to 
them. And su>'c enough, as I approached the bridge lend- 
ing over to Luna Island, I came upon a noble old son of 
the forest silting under a tree, diligently at work on a 
bead reticule. He wore a slouch hat and brogans, and 
had a short black pipe in his mouth. Thus does the bnno- 
ful contact with our effeminate civilization dilute the pic- 
turesque pomp which is so natural to the Indian when far 
removed from us in his native haunts. I addressed the 
relic as follows : 

" Does the great Speckled Thunder sigh for the war- 
path, or is his heart contented with dreaming of the dusky 


maiden, the pride of the Forest. Does the iiiigiity sachem 
yearn to drink the blood of his enemies, or is he satisfied 
to make bead reticules for the papooses of the paleface ? 
iSpeak, Miblime relic of by -gone grandeur — venerable ruin, 

The relic said : 

" An' is it nieself, Dinuis Hooligan, that ye'd be takin' 
for a bloody Injin, ye drawliu', lantern-jawed, spider- 
legged ruffin? By the piper that played before Moses, 
'Heat ye?"* 

I went away. 

I made one more attempt to fraternize with them, and 
only one. I came upon a camp of them gathered in the 
shaile of a great tree, making wampum and moccasins, 
and addressed them in the language of friendship: 

" Noble Red Men, Braves, Grand Sachems, M^ar chiefs. 
Squaws, and High-you-Muck-a-Mucks, the paleface from 
the land of the setting sun greets you ! You, Bencticout 
Polecat — you, Devourer of Mountains — you, Koaririg 
Thundergust — the paleface from beyond the great waters 
greets you all! War and pestilence have thinned your 
ranks and destroyed your once proud nation. Poker, and 
seven up, and a vain modern expense for soap unknown 
to your glorious ancestors have depleted your purses. 
Appropriating, in your simplicity the property of others, 
has gotten you into trouble. Misrepresenting facts, in 
your sinless innocence, has damaged your reputation with 
the soulless usurper. Trading for forty-rod whiskey, to 
enable you to get drunk and happy and tomahawk your 
families, has played the everlasting mischief with the pif- 
turesque pomp of your dress, and here you are, in tlip 
broad light of the nineteenth century, gotten up like the 
nig-tag and bobtail of the purlieus of New York! Fur 
shame! Remember your ancestors ! Recall their mighty 
deeds ! Remember Uncas ! — and Red Jacket ! — and Hoie- 
in-the-day ! — and Horace Greely ! Emulate their achieve- 
ments ! Unfurl yourselves under my banner, noble savages, 
illustrious gutter snipes" — 

" Down wid him !" 

" Scoop the blagyard 1" 

Hang hin 
Dlirownd him !" 


It was the quickest operation that ever was. I simply 
saw a suddeu flash in the air of clubs, brickbats, fists, 
hLad-l)askets and moccasins — a single flash, and they all 
aj)peai'ed to hit me at once, and uo two of them in the 
same place. In the next instant the entire tribe was upon 
inc. i'liey tore all the clothes otf' nie, they broke my arms 
and legs, they gave mo a thump that dented the top of 
head till it would hold coffee like a saucer; and to 
<.rown their disgraceful proceedings, and add insult to 
injury, they threw me over the Horse-shoe Fall, and I got 

About ninety-nine or a liundred feet from the top the 
remains of my vest caught on a projecting rock, and I was 
almost drowned before I could get loose. 1 finally fell, 
and brought up in a world of white foam at the foot of 
the Fall, whose celled and bubbly masses towered up 
everal inches above my head. Of course, I got into the 
eddy. I sailed round and round in it forty-four times — 
chasing a chip, and gaining on it — each round trip a half 
mile — reaching for the same bush on the bank forty-four 
times, ard just exactly missing it by a hair's breadth every 
time. At last a man walked down and sat close to that 
bush, and put a pipe in his mouth and lit a match, and 
followed me with one eye and kept the other on the match 
while he sheltered it in his hands from the wind. Pre- 
sently a puff' of wind blew it out. The next time I swept 
round him he said : 

" Got a match ?" 

"' Yes — in my other vest. Help me out, please?" 

" Not for Joe." 

When I came round again, I said : 

" Excuse the seemingly impertinent curiosity of a 
<lrowning man, but will you explain this singular conduct 
■of yours?" 

" With pleasure. I am the coroner. Don't hurry on 
my account. I can wait for you. But I wish I had a 

I said, " Take my place and I'll go and get you one." 

lie declined. This lack of confidence on his part 
t-reatcd a coolness between us, and from that time forward 
I av idid hira. It was my idea, in case anything hap- 
pened to me, to so time th^ occurrence as to throw my 


custom into the hands of the opposition coroner over on 
the American side. At last a policeman came along and 
arrested me for disturbing the peace by yelling at people 
on shore for help. The judge .fined me; but I had the 
advantage of him. My money was with my pantaloons, 
and my pantaloons were with the Indians. 

Thus I escaped. I am now lying in a very critical con- 
dition. At least I am lying, anyway — critica' or not 

I am hurt all over ; but I cannot tell the full extent yet, 
because the. doctor is not done taking the inventory. He 
will make out my manifest this evening. However, thus 
far, he thinks only six of my wounds are fatal. I don't 
mind the others. 

1 shall not be able to finish my remarks about Niagara 
Falls until I get better. Samuel L. Clemens. 


[The reading of this, to be effective, must show on the part of the 
reader some degree of excitement. A slight display of nervousness, 
added to a dolelul tone, will give greater empliasis.] 

How do you do, Cornelia ? I heard you were sick, and 
I stepped in to cheer you up a little. My friends often 
say, "It's such a comfort to see you, Auuty Doleful. You 
have such a flow of conversation, and are no lively." 
Besides, I said to myself, as I came up the stairs, " IVrhajjs 
its the last time I'll ever see Cornelia Jane alive. 

You don't mean to die yet, eh f Well, now, how do you 
know ? You can't tell. You think you are getting better ; 
but there was poor Mrs. Jones sitting up, and every one 
saying how smart she was, and all of a sudden t^lie wa* 
taken with spasms in the heart, and went off" like a flash. 
But you must be careful, and not get anxious or e.xcited. 
Keep quite calm, and don't fret about anything. Of 
course, things can't go on just as if you were down staii-s : 
and I wondered whether you knew your little Billy wa.* 
sailing about in a tub en the mill-pond, and thai yo<ir 
little Sammy was letting your little Jimmy down from the- 
■'•eranda roof in a clothes-baskp^- 


Gracious Goodness! what's the matter? I guess Provi- 
dence '11 take care of 'em. Don't look so. Yon tJwuffM 
Bridget iras ivatching them? Well, no, she isn't. I saw 
lier talking to a man at the gate. He lookefl to me like a 
burglar. No doubt she let him take the impression of the 
door-key in wax, and then he'lJ get in and murder you all. 
There was a family at Kobble Hill all killed last week for 
fifty dollars. Now, don't fidget so; it will be bad for 
the baby. 

Poor little dear ! How singular it is, to be sure, that 
you can't tell whether a child is blind, or deaf and dumb, 
or a criple, at that age. It might be all, and you'd never 
know it. 

Most of them that have their senses make bad use of 
them though : tJiat ought to be your comfort, if it does 
turn out to have anything dreadful the matter with it. 
And more don't live a year. I saw a baby's funeral down 
the street as I came along. 

How is j\Ir. Kobble? Well, but finds it warm hi town , 
ell? Well, I should think he would. They are dropping 
down by hundreds there with sun-stroke. You must pre- 
pare your mind to have him brought home any day. Any- 
how, a trip on these railroad trains is just risking your life 
every time you take one. Back and forth every day as he 
is, its just trifling with danger. 

Dear ! dear ! now to think what dreadful things hang 
over us all the time ! Dear ! dear ! 

Scarlet fever has broken out in the village, Cornelia. 
Little Isaac Potter has it, and I saw your Jimmy playing 
with him last Saturday. 

Well, I must be going now. I've got another sick 
friend, and I shan't think my duty done unless I cheer her 
up a little before sleep. Good-bye. How pale you look, 
Cornelia. I don't believe you have a good doctor. Do 
^■nd him away and try some one else. You don't look so 
well as you did when I came in. But if anything iiappens, 
•-end for me at once. If I can't do anything else, I can 
«heer you up a little. 

Mary Kyle Dallas. 

Cornell University Library 

The science and art of elocution, 

3 1924 031 386 794