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Normal Reader 










- - 4 i 


J. E. Sherrill, Proprietor 















The Author. 




Preface 1 

Introduction 3 


How to Teacha Child to Eead 5 



1. Pronunciation 17 

2. Key to Pronunciation 19 

3. Elementary Sounds - 22; 

4. Principles of Pronunciation 27 

5. Articulation , 30 

6. Words often Mispronounced 32 


1. How to Teach Eeading 34 

2. Examples for Practice 43 



1. Artof Delivery 49 

2. Outline of Elocution 51 

3. Plan of Studies 51 

4. Elements 52 

5. Eespiration 54 

6. Breathing 55 

7. Formulas 57 

8. Articulation 64 

9. Orthoepy 73 

10. Vocal Culture 88 

11. Exercises for Drill , 9fr 

12. Quality 106. 

13. Vocal Expression 112 

14. Volume lid 



15. Eate 119 

16. Gesture 123 

17. Suggestions , 138 

1. To Ministers 138 

2. To Lawyers , 139 



Forty Years Ago 143 

Annabel Lee... . 145 

If We Knew , 146 

Hock of Ages 147 

Abou Ben Adhem 148 

An Interesting Traveling Companion .... 148 

Bugle Song 150 

The Pilot 151 

Mark Twain and the Interviewer 152 

Marco Bozzaris , 157 

Over the Kiver 158 

►Speak Gently 159 

At Elberon 160 

The Seven Sticks 160 

Gray's Elegy 161 

Mrs. Lofty 164 

The Bells 165 

The Famine 166 

Kentucky Philosophy 170 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere — 171 

Little Jim 173 

Blacksmith's Story 173 

Fall of Pemberton Mill 175 

Uncle Daniel's Introduction to a Mississippi Steamer 179 

Kainy Day 183 

Curing a Cold 183 

The Eide of Jennie McNeal 185 

Barbara Fritschie 188 

Maud Muller 190 

A Man's a Man for a' That 193 

A Sequel — A Woman's a Woman for a' That 194 

Kentucky Belle 195 

Parrhasius 198 


Botany 200 

Paradise and the Peri 203 

Bangs 206 

The Baron's Last Banquet 209 

Naughty Little Girl 211 

Stay on the Farm 214 

Setting a Hen 215 

Brutus and Cassius 217' 

On the Shores of Tennessee 219* 

David's Lament over Absalom 222: 

Marmion and Douglas 223" 

Awfully Lovely Philosophy 224 

Owl Critic 226 

Green Mountain Justice 228- 

Coquette Punished 230 

Dot Baby of Mine 232, 

Chewing Gum 233 

Entertaining Sister's Beau 234 

Literary Nightmare 235 

Baby's First Tooth 24a 

Liberty and Union 242 

Schooling a Husband 243 

Bural Life in England 246 

Whistler 247 

Eising of 1776 247 

Model American Girl 249 

Gape-Seed 251 

Pitt's Eeply to Walpole 252 

Boot-Black 254 

Burr's Trial 255 

Too Late for the Train 256 

Fretting 260 

Bill and I 262 

Transportation of Mitchell 263 

Workingmen's Song 265 

The Grave 266 

Broken Hearts 267 

Dutchman's Serenade 269 

Last Hymn 270 

Water-Mill 271 

Dot Lambs Vot Mary Haf Got 272. 


My Trundle-Bed 273 

Oh! Why should the Spirit of Mortal be Proud 274 

Cato's Soliloquy ,. 276 

Spoopendyke's Burglars 276 

Uncle Tom and the Hornets , .. 279 

The Bells of Shandon 281 

The Freckled-Faced Girl 283 

Courtship under Difficulties 284 

The Western School-Ma'am 290 

How We Hunted a Mouse 291 

A Trial of Endurance 293 

How "Kuby" Played 297 

Scene from Hamlet 302 

The Ship on Fire 305 

The Little Hatchet Story 306 

The Moneyless Man I 309 

The Bald-Headed Man 310 

Our Folks 312 

Curfew Must not King To-night 313 

Spartacus to the Gladiator at Capua 315 

Katie Lee and Willie Gray 318 

Grattan's Keply to Mr. Cony 319 

Asleep at the Switch 321 

Supposed Speech of James Otis 323 

Riding on the Rail 325 

Tom, the Drummer Boy ... . 327 

MacLaine's Child 329 

Crime its Own Detecter 331 

The Bridge 334 

Brakeman at Church 336 

Ambition of a Statesman 340 

Polish Boy 341 

The Foxes' Tails 344 

Henry V. at Harfleur 352 

Eulogy on Garfield : 352 

South Carolina 354 

Massachusetts and South Carolina 355 

Thanatopsis « 357 


In teaching elocution the author has felt the need of a book dif- 
ferent from what he could secure. Many good books on theory 
are to be found. Choice selections are abundant. But to secure 
a book that contained proper exercises for drills, and also a variety 
of popular selections, is impossible. In order to select fifteen or 
twenty selections for a reading class, or an elocutionary contest, 
many books would have to be used. To meet this want this vol- 
ume has been prepared. 

In Part I. the author has given what he considers the best way 
to teach beginners how to read. Part II. gives a full discussion of 
Dictionary work. Part III. contains hints and suggestions to 
teachers of Reading. Part IV. is a full discussion of the elements 
of Elocution. Part V. contains the most popular selections now 
in use. Among them the entire programme of most of the popu- 
lar elocutionists and readers can be found. The author has col- 
lected all grades and sentiments of recitations — Humorous, Dra- 
matic, Oratorical, and Didactic. 

The author desires to make grateful acknowledgments for the 
assistance he has received. Prof. V. A. Pinkley prepared all of 
Part IV., and is entirely responsible for the same. This part is a 
condensed elocution, and it will certainly do much to elevate the art 
of elocution. Prof. Warren McBroom, of Crawfordsville, Ind., 
prepared the chapter on Elementary Sounds. The article, How 
to Teach Beading, was prepared by S. E. Thomas, President of 
Kentucky University, Paducah, Ky. 

That this book may aid teachers in their work is the sincere 
hope of the author. 




Elocution is the expression of thought by word and action. In 
order to become a good reader three things are necessary : A good 


To obtain a forcible voice is not difficult. Some say : "My voice 
is too feeble ; I can never become a speaker." Should they lie in 
the shade one year without exercise or sunshine, they would have 
feeble muscles. Practice will give any one a voice of sufficient 
force to be heard clearly in any hall in the land. Go to work at 
once and acquire a good voice. Put the voice to its severest test. 
In balmy weather, go out in the groves and practice on a high key. 
Then on a low key. Do not be alarmed should you get hoarse 
the first time. Try again. If a person has not been accustomed 
to walking, the first few hours' walk will greatly fatigue him. But 
let him practice walking each day and he will become accustomed 
to it. Occasionally the race-horse is put to his severest test. So 
the voice must occasionally be tested. This will give the voice 
flexibility and ease. 

The greater part of practice should be on a conversational key, 
but occasional practice in shouting tones will develop the voice 
rapidly. Many speakers find their voices harsh and uncontrollable 
at the beginning of an address, but at the close the voice is in " fine 
condition." Much annoyance may be avoided by practicing on 
different pitches of the voice for a half hour. The practice may 
be severe. Begin lightly and increase to shouting tones. The last 
part of the practice should also be moderate. This should be done 
one or two hours before the time for delivering the address. 

To break up bad articulation practice with the mouth full of 
pebbles, marbles, or smooth hickory nuts. The author has tried 
this plan often, and is satisfied that it is worthy attention. Fill 



the mouth full and attempt to read one or two pages. Then remove 
the pebbles and read a few pages. The organs of speech will now 
be as " sportive as the swallow and as versatile as the streamlet." 
Let public speakers who are annoyed with indistinct articulation 
try this plan. 

A correct pronunciation is a necessary element to good reading. 
Often an uncouth pronunciation ruins the effect of an entire ad- 
dress. Speakers should carefully guard against vulgar pronuncia- 
tions. This subject is fully discussed in Part II. 

A vivid expression is necessary. Thought is antecedent to 
everything. First get the thought. Expression is giving out. 
Many persons attempt to give out before they have anything to give 
out. Before reading a selection ask yourself the following ques- 
tions : 

1. Who wrote this selection? 

2. Why did he write it ? 

3. Under what surroundings did he write it ? 

4. What would be the condition of the mind of a person who 
would write such a selection? 

5. How would he express it ? 

6. How would I feel under similar surroundings ? 

7. How would I express that feeling were I under similar sur- 
roundings ? 

It is not enough to tell a person to read naturally. Suppose a 
man has walked in a stooped condition for ten years, and you tell 
him when he goes before an audience that he must stand up 
straight and be natural. He would certainly assume a very awk- 
ward and unnatural attitude. Before he can give your idea of 
naturalness you must elevate the creature. He must practice 
standing straight behind the counter, in the parlor, and walk 
straight upon the street. If a person never laughed it would be 
impossible to teach him elocutionarily how to laugh. On the con- 
trary, you would be compelled to place the person in cheerful so- 
ciety, and first have him laugh from the heart. To be natural is 
to be what you are. If you are not a model in naturalness you. 
must elevate the creature. 



Close observers conclude that the surest way to se- 
cure a nation of temperance people is to educate the 
children in the habits of sobriety. Neglected home 
training necessitates temperance laws. So the best way 
to secure good readers is to begin correctly in the pri- 
mary school. Bad teaching in primary grades neces- 
sitates elocutionists. The chief work of the elocution- 
ist is to undo what the primary teacher has done ; to 
right what has been thus made wrong. 

The child comes into the school room heralding the 
mastery of its first day's journey with that ringing 
laugh and sportive speech that challenge the admira- 
tion of the most gifted orator or polished elocutionist. 
The teacher makes rapid haste to destroy this natural 
sweetness of expression. In a few days this sportive 
expression is changed to a drawling school style. 

Ten years pass. The elocutionist comes forward to 
reap a rich harvest from the bad teaching in the pri- 
mary department. The child has learned to talk well. 
One thing I would impress upon the teacher; let the 
child continue to talk well ; let the silvery speech heard 
on the play-ground be heard in the reading class. 

The teacher who can not teach reading can not teach 



school, for reading is the key to knowledge. Most of 
the failures in reading can be traced to the bad teach- 
ing of primary and intermediate teachers. 

When the child gets thought by the eye (written 
words), it should express the sentiment in the same 
easy manner that it does when it gets the thought 
through the ear. I would have the teacher to remem- 
ber, and to keep on remembering, that the eye is as 
quick to know a word as is the ear, and if properly 
trained the child will comprehend the word cat just as 
quickly by seeing it as by hearing it. 


Learning to Talk. — The child learns to talk before it 
is sent to school. Its parents are its teachers. Happy 
is the child whose parent-teachers instruct it correctly ! 
The child's first lesson in language is learning to talk. 
It hears words used and learns them by imitation and 

How a Child Learns to Talk. — We have numerous 
methods of teaching children to read, but mothers do 
not meet in state associations and discuss the best meth- 
ods of teaching the child to talk. Common sense guides 
the mother. She certainly does her work well. She 
does not begin by teaching the child the elementary 
sounds of the language, neither does she begin with an 
entire sentence. How ludicrous it would be to see a 
mother attentively teaching the child the sounds of the 
word papa. Common sense tells her that the child first 
acquires ideas (words), then relations (sentences). 

The child learns the word as a whole. After it has 
learned a few object-words, papa, hat, book, cat, bed, 
etc., it begins to learn relations. It does not learn the 
spoken word cat by hearing it. It must see the object. 
You might repeat the word cat a thousand times, yet 
the child gets no idea. But say cat, and point to the 
cat, and the child will, in its baby way, say " catty." 


It gets the idea by association. It associates the spo- 
ken word cat, with the real object. After a few words 
have been learned the child begins to acquire thought. 
The mother says, "the cat is on the bed." The child 
sees the position of the cat and at once says, "cat on 
bed." Purely by hearing the words and seeing the re- 
lations it learns the sentence. No mother teaches a 
child such words as is, here, the. The child learns these 
in the sentence and by imitation. 

Learning to Read. — After the child has learned to talk 
fluently and acquired a vocabulary of spoken words, it 
may take a second lesson in language, learning to read. 
This work should not begin too early in life. It is not 
wise to begin teaching a child to read until it has ac- 
quired much knowledge of objects and relations of ob- 
jects. Children are greatly injured in being sent to 
school too early. The questions that now confront us 
are : How shall we begin ? What method shall we 
adopt ? Let me say right here, that the proper place 
to begin is where the mother left off. No new way is 
necessary. Let us here recapitulate : 

In learning to talk the child acquires knowledge, as 
follows : 1. It learns, ideas, the words as wholes. 2. 
Relations of words. 3. It associates the spoken word 
with the idea. 4. The child forms these words into 
sentences and has thoughts. 

In talking, the child has learned words by hearing ; 
now it is to learn by seeing. The child should not be 
permitted to read a sentence until it recognizes the writ- 
ten word by seeing it just as perfectly as it does the 
spoken word by hearing it. In one case the word is 
heard ; in the other it is seen. 

In teaching a child to read, there should be the 
slightest change possible from the general method of 
learning to talk. If we follow out this plan there will 
not be much dispute about methods. 

Methods. — There are several methods of teaching a 


child to read. Those most generally used are as fol- 
lows: 1. Alphabetic. 2. Phonic. 3. Sentence. 4. 
Word Method. 

1. Alphabetic— The alphabetic method begins by 
teaching the child the letters. The child repeats the 
letters from A to Z, and from Z to A. This method is 
objectionable ; it is in opposition to the plan used in 
learning to talk. Letters are fractions of words, and 
we should not begin with fractions. It would be just 
as sensible to begin the study of arithmetic at fractions. 
The word is the unit of language. 

2. Phonic Method. — The phonic method begins 
with the sound of the letters. This certainly is the 
correct way to learn pronunciation, but it is not the way 
to learn to read. The child learns to talk without think- 
ing of the elements of the word. It should learn to 
read in the same way. It would be as reasonable for 
the mother to begin to teach the child to talk by first 
giving it a lesson in the elementary sounds of the lan- 
guage as to begin teaching reading in that manner. 

3. Sentence Method. — The sentence method be- 
gins with the sentence as the unit of language. This 
is objectionable. It assumes that the sentence is the 
unit of language. Certainly the word is the unit. We 
should begin with units, and not with their combina- 

4. Woed Method. — The word method is the true 
method, for the following reasons : 

1. It coincides with the manner of learning to talk. 
The child first learns the word as a whole. You do not 
teach the child that this is a leg, this a head, this a foot, 
this a tail, and after learning all its parts say " these 
things make a cat." No ! You teach the word cat as 
a whole. 

2. Language begins with words, and not letters or 

3. This method proceeds from the known to the un- 


known. We begin with the spoken word and pass to 
the written. 

4. It passes from the whole to the part analytically. 

Learning a Vocabulary of Printed Words. — Learning 
to read is learning a vocabulary of words. The ques- 
tion is, what is the best way to learn a vocabulary of 
words ? It is plain common sense to continue as in 
learning to talk, by presenting the object to the eye of 
the child. The word must be learned as a whole. 
What words should be taught first? 

1. Familiar Spoken Words. — The child has ac- 
quired a vocabulary of spoken words, and these words 
should be the first to be presented. Meaningless words, 
ba, be, bi, etc., should be discarded. 

2. Object Words. — The first words taught should 
be the names of objects. 

Manner of Teaching a Vocabulary. — The teacher holds 
up a hat and says : "What is this?" The correct an- 
swer follows. Here a few words may be said to create 
an interest. The teacher now draws the picture of the 
hat on the board and continues: "What is this?" 
All will say, "That is a hat." Well enough. Do not 
worry the patience of pupils in making an elaborate 
explanation, showing the difference between a real hat 
and the picture of the hat. The child knows the dif- 
ference. Ideas are what you are after now. Once tell- 
ing a child is sufficient. With chalk in hand the teacher 
says : " Now, you watch me and I will make the word 
hat. This word here on the board is the word hat. 
When you see this (referring to the object hat) you 
think of what?" " We think of a hat." " When you 
see this picture, you think of what?" "We think of 
a hat also." " Yes, that is correct. Well, now, when 
you see this word you think of what?" "We think 
of a hat again." " Yes ; now watch me make the word. 
Do you think you can make it ? You may try it shortly. 
Will you know the word hat whenever you see it ? Let 


us see. I will write several words as follows : Cat, 
man, hat, cap, dog, fan, cap, hat, bat, hat. Who can 
show me the word hat?" Here let the children notice 
differences. Most of them will select the correct word. 
If some point out the wrong word, let the class get into 
debate about the matter. The teacher continues : " You 
may now go to your seats, take your slates and see if 
you can draw that word hat." In the same way teach 
other words. It is remarkable how rapidly children 
will learn these words. After ten or twelve words have 
been learned, the teacher may say : " Now let us have 
a chalk talk. You bring me what I write on the board." 
The teacher writes hat, cap, book, fan, and several ob- 
jects accessible, and different members of the class bring 
him the objects. After fifteen or twenty words have 
been perfectly learned, words that are not names of ob- 
jects may be presented. All words that are not names 
of objects should be learned in phrases and sentences. 
Never attempt to teach the article the, the adjectives, 
conjunctions or verbs by themselves, but always teach 
them in the sentence. The child, in learning to talk, 
was never taught the, is, run, etc. It simply learned 
these words by relations. 

The teacher, holding up a fan, says : " What kind of 
a fan is this ? " "A black fan," is the reply. " Now 
I will say, with the chalk, what you have said. What 
does the chalk say ? " "A black fan." " Yes, that is 
right. I will now change the word. What does the 
chalk say?" The teacher erases fan, and writes hat. 
The pupils will then say, a black hat. Several words 
may be substituted instead of fan, leaving A black the 
same all the time. I said before that after fifteen or 
twenty words are perfectly learned, the sentence might 
be introduced. I want to emphasize the word perfectly. 
The child must learn these object words so well that 
when it sees the word hat it knows it just as quickly as 
if you should have spoken the word. There is no 
reason why the child ought not to get the idea /unjust 


as quickly by seeing the word as by hearing the word. 
So see to it, that before the sentence is introduced, the 
child has learned perfectly fifteen or twenty names of 
objects. After a few words of quality, black, red, 
Avhite, etc., have been taught in phrases, lead the child 
to say, " The hat is black." Here you have introduced 
one new word. When the child has said the hat is 
black, write the sentence on the board and continue : 
"What does the chalk say ?" " The chalk said, < The 
hat is black.'" Very well. Tell me now what the 
chalk says: " The cat is black." "What does the 
chalk say ? " " The cat is black." This exercise may 
be continued to suit the teacher. Change one word, 
then the other, leaving is the same all the time. When 
fifteen or twenty changes have been made, call the 
child's attention to the new word. Ninety-nine times 
out of a hundred the child will tell you what the word 
is. It has learned is in the sentence just as it did in 
learning to talk. No one taught it. Never let the 
child stop to call a word. Let the words be thoroughly 
familiar. The child does not stop to think of the words 
in the sentence, " The man is in the house," when talk- 
ing. It must see the sentence as clearly as it hears 
it. When from one hundred- to one hundred and fifty 
words have been learned, let the teacher say to the 
children: " To-day we will have a chalk-talk. You 
may do just what the chalk says. Ready." The teacher, 
remaining perfectly silent, writes, and the children per- 
form : 

"Stand up," "Sit down," "Come here," "Go to 
your seat," " Lift your right hand," " Put your hand 
on your head," " On your nose," " Bring me a book." 
This exercise may be continued at the pleasure of the 
teacher. Never continue any exercise until it becomes 
irksome. When the child has learned its little vocabu- 
lary, write fifteen or twenty words on the board, and 
permit the child to make sentences. Here the child 
takes its first lesson in original composition. This is 


the proper place to begin composition. Should the 
teacher write cat, hat, black, tame, is, on, a table, the 
chair, the, a, runs, etc., the child will quickly learn to 
form sentences. Never write the articles without the 
nouns. Let the children tell (read) what they have 
written on the slate. Allow no drawling. Stop it. 


When the child has learned from one hundred to one 
hundred and fifty words perfectly, the First Reader may 
be introduced. Begin the first reading lesson with a 
chalk-talk. Teach all new words according to the word 
method. After all new words (if there be any) are 
taught, permit the children to copy two or three sen- 
tences on their slates. Let them, then read, in a pure 
conversational manner, these sentences. The reader 
may now be used. Be sure that the child reads natur- 
ally. Halting at words should not be tolerated un- 
der any consideration. If proper care has been taken 
in teaching the vocabulary of one hundred and fifty 
words, but few new words will need to be taught, and 
you will be surprised that the child will read fluently 
the first twenty pages of the First Reader. 

Before a lesson is read, have the pupils write it upon 
slates. Pay special attention to writing, spelling, capi- 
talization and punctuation. You will see that the First 
Reader, slate and pencil are all the child needs. You 
can teach spelling and writing better in this manner 
than by making them separate studies. Some may ask,, 
"What do you mean by saying teach the child to 
write?" I mean just what I say; I would begin the 
work with script. Let the child learn the script. When 
you desire to change to print write a short story on the 
board. Let it remain all day. Next morning print 
the same story and the children will read it off at once. 
If you prefer it, change a few words at first. Let these 
be words in which the script letters and print letters re- 


semble. These simple means will be sufficient to make 
the transition, yet many prefer to begin with the printed 
characters. With them I shall have no quarrel. Every 
one uses his own opinion. I do not know as one method 
has much advantage of the other. Question the child 
upon the lesson. Do not permit the child to give a 
thought before it gets the thought. 

Emphasis and Inflection. — Pay no attention to em- 
phasis and inflection. This may seem strange doctrine 
to some, but yet I think I am correct. When you 
hear the child make a wrong emphasis you know that it 
has missed the thought. Lead it to get the thought and 
it will use proper expression. Thought controls em- 
phasis. Children have enviable modulation in talk- 
ing. Let them see the thought and they will read it 
with the same charm. Do not mar their natural sweet 
expression by trying to teach mechanical emphasis. 
The mother says to the child: "Run into the room 
and tell papa that the knife is on the table." The 
child rushes into the room and says : " Papa, the 
knife is on the table." The mother does not pause to 
teach the little fellow to emphasize knife and table. It 
has the thought, and it gives the sentiment as perfectly 
as a Forest or a Keats. 

Reading is getting thought by means of printed 
words. The child may call the words fluently, and yet 
not read. The emphasis and inflection tell you whether 
the child has the thought. 

Every reading lesson ought to be a lesson in com- 
position. I hope to see the day when reading and 
composition will be taught together. One will aid the 
other. The child will express its own thoughts cor- 
rectly. When a story has been read, ask the class to 
write on the slate one thing that has been said. Per- 
mit each pupil to read what has been written. Give 
the class a picture, and ask each one to write one thing 
that she sees in the picture ; two things, three things^ 


The child has now learned to read the easy lessons 
in the First Eeader. Let some of the class bring lit- 
tle stories from other First Readers and read to the class. 
No reader affords sufficient easy reading lessons. 

Phonics. — When the child can read the easy lessons^ 
phonics should be introduced in order to aid the child 
in pronouncing new words. Henceforth, the Word 
Method and Phonic Method should be combined. Be- 
fore this the children will have learned all the letters.. 
When teaching the word hat, talk about h, a, and t. 
The child will learn the names by hearing them used. 
Now you must teach the sounds. I can not enlarge 
upon this point. If the teacher desires further in- 
struction, I refer him to the chapter on Dictionary 
Work in this volume. I would not tell pupils that I 
was teaching phonics. That sounds too big. Col- 
Parker calls the exercise slow pronunciation. Let the 
teacher say: "We will now have an exercise in slow 
pronunciation (or if preferred), spelling by sounds. 
You listen, and tell me what I say. C — a — t. " What 
did I say ? " Most of the pupils will' say "cat." Let the 
teacher pronounce slowly several words and ask the 
children to imitate. Arrange a list of words contain- 
ing similar sounds. Drill the class daily upon the 
elementary sounds. This exercise will serve a double 
purpose — a lesson in phonics, and a drill in voice cul- 



Oh, mamma; I see a hen and six little white chickens. 
They are under the rose-bush. May I go out and see the 
chickens and get me a red rose f ■ 

The art of questioning is of high value to the teacher. 
Let the teacher begin as follows : 1. Who are the per- 
sons talking in this lessons. (This lesson should be 


preceded by a picture containing a little girl, her moth- 
er, hen and chickens and a bunch of rose bushes.) 2. 
What are they talking about? 3. How many chick- 
ens? 4. What color are the chickens ? 5. Where are 
they ? 6. What is the color of the roses. 7. What did 
the little girl want to do? 8. Of whom did she ask 
this question ? 

After a thorough questioning the child is ready to 
read, and it can read with the understanding. These 
lines will be sufficient for one lesson. Strive to make 
the pictures as real as possible. Draw many mental 
pictures. See that the child has the same expression 
when it talks from the book that it has when it talks 
from pictures and real objects. 

The little girl is out at play. She sees the cat on 
the gate, and she runs into the house and says : " Oh, 
ma, I see the cat on the gate/" She has obtained the 
thought by seeing the objects. Now you draw the pic- 
ture, and looking at it the girl repeats the same thought, 
"the cat is on the gate." 

The next day her mother sees the cat on the gate and 
says to the littl girl : " Go tell Willie the cat is on the 
gate." The little girl runs out in the back yard and 
says to Willie : " The cat is on the gate." She has 
expressed the thought three times. Each time the ex- 
pression was faultless. Now, the mother writes on the 
slate "the cat is on the gate." The child gets the 
thought by written words, and she will say still in her 
cheerful way, "the cat is on the gate." She has ob- 
tained the thought in four ways: 1. By seeing the 
objects. 2. By seeing the picture. 3. By hearing the 
sentence spoken. 4. By seeing the sentence written. 
She should express the thought just as agreeably in one 
case as in the other, and she will unless some person 
attempts to drill her to read according to the rules of elo- 
cution. Let the teacher take little lessons like the fol- 
lowing and bring out all the mental pictures. Many 


teachers would be profited by going back and learning 
to read these easy lessons : 

" Kitty has a nice pet. It can sing a sweet song. 
She has just fed it. 

She will now put it in the cage, and hang the cage 
up. Then the cat can not catch it." 


" Mamma, I can see a pretty star. 
Did you ever go to a star, mamma ? 
O no, I never went to a star. 

If I get into the cars, and ride, ever so far, can I 
get to the star ? 

No, the cars never go to the star. 

If I had wings, like a bird, I would fly to the star. 

What? Go so far from mamma? 

O, but mamma, you would go too." 


u Do you see the chair ? 

What kind of chair is it ? 

It is an arm-chair. 

Can the boy sit on the chair ? 

The chair has four legs and a back. 

This chair has two arms. 

We have some chairs like this at home. 

We can sit on them when we want to rest. 

You must not cut the chair with your knife. 

Let the chair stand near the stove." 

Question pupils upon the lessons. What has Kitty ? 
What is she doing? Why does she keep the bird in 
a cage ? 

Occasionally write a funny little story on the board 
and let pupils read it. Permit children to copy their 
lessons. " Teach the child to do ; educate the hand." 




Pronunciation does not receive the attention which its impor- 
tance demands. Where one mistake in grammar occurs, ten occur 
in pronunciation. Very few persons can read a page of plain Eng- 
lish without making numerous errors in pronunciation. Indeed it 
is a rare thing to listen to a speaker who does not make several 
mistakes in an address of one hour. 

Persons who would be deeply mortified to make a mistake in 
grammar or spelling, go on mispronouncing ordinary words with- 
out any apparent shame. Correct pronunciation is of more im- 
portance than correct spelling. One offends the eye, the other the 
ear. Bad spelling offends the eye that sees the wrong spelling; 
bad pronunciation offends the ear of an entire audience. Again, 
pronunciation is in constant use; spelling is occasionally used. 
An untiring effort should, therefore, be made to break up incorrect 


The causes of incorrect pronunciation are three : Carelessness, 
Laziness, Ignorance, and the greatest of these three is Ignorance. 

Carelessness.— Many persons are careless in their pronunciation. 
They go treading the road their fathers have trod. They say idea, 
grass, root, c6st, etc., without one thought as to the correctness of 
the pronunciation. 

2 (17) 


Laziness. — Many persons are simply too confirmed lazy to consult 
the dictionary. For months they have been halting between two 
opinions, not sure that either is correct. Every time the word 
is met it is shunned or half pronounced. Yet there is the diction- 
ary, and these lazy people have not the energy to walk to the desk. 

Ignorance. — Ignorance is a prolific cause of incorrect pronuncia- 
tion. Many persons do not know what the correct pronunciation 
of a word is. They can not distinguish between sounds. 

Once a Boston lady came in a reading circle of which I was 
a member. I was much amused at her peculiar pronuncia* 
tion. She said to the manager of the circle : " What is the differ- 
ence in pronunciation between far fa, and for /a?" She pronounced 
them both alike, leaving off an r on both. I laughed at her and 
thought she was silly. The next day I was leading the reading 
and pronounced bird, burd, and the " Boston girls" laughed at me. 
It was purely ignorance on my part. I did not know there was 
any difference in sound between fir and fur, earn and urn. 

Some persons make no distinction between a in fame and a in care 
and fair. Others pronounce caret a and short a, just alike. Should 
they realize that caret a is diphthongal the difficulty would be re- 
moved. In the old English fair was spelled with two syllables, fa-Ir., 
and pronounced as marked, long a, and tilde I, or short u. 

These sounds were finally coalesced but still retain the diph- 
thongal sound. Long u suffers shamefully. We say tootor, for 
tutor; dooty, for duty; nooze, for news,— nuz; constitootion, in- 
stitoote, etc. Tooter is a fellow that blows a horn. If n-e-w-s spells 
nooze, why does not p-e-w-s spell pooze? 

Broad a is greatly neglected either through nicety or ignorance. 
Brod for broad ; coll for call. We have no more naughty boys but tie 
them up to (k)n5tty boys; no more daughters, but we reduce them 
to dotters. Let us have a race of broad a's. Much of this is 
affectation. Some go to the other extreme, and give broad a in 
many words where Italian a is needed. 

The writer once heard a normal girl say, " I laughed and I 
laughed, and I nearly died a ' laughin.' " 

To destroy these unpleasant pronunciations let pupils be thor- 
oughly drilled upon the elementary sounds. 





a, as in ate. 
a, " at. 
a, " far. 
a, " call, 
a, " ask. 


as in there. 

" they. 
" ice. 
" it. 

" sir. 

a, " care, 
a, " was. 
e, " me. 
e, " met. 
e, " term. 



" pique 
" no. 
" not. 
" for. 
" do. 


€, as in call. 
9, " cite, 
ch, " child, 
ch, " chorus. 
9I1, " chaise. 



as in get. 
" so. 
" has. 
, " with 

0, as 

in son. 

°> ' 

' wolf. 

00, ' 

' moon. 

06, ' 

' brook 

% ' 

' duty. 


' tub. 

u, ' 

1 rude. 


' urge. 


' put. 














The teacher will find that the above table contains all the dia- 
critical marks. Drill pupils thoroughly upon these sounds. Pro- 
nounce the word, then give the sound. Teach carefully all the 
sounds not in the table. Teach by imitation the consonants. 
Show the class how to produce the sound of b, c, t, etc. Follow 
up the alphabet, and give every consonant sound. Teach the 
names of the diacritical marks. 


- Macron. " Semi-diseresis. 

- Breve. ~ Tilde. 

A Caret. , Cidilla. 

Diaeresis. -'-Suspended bar. 

It is not enough to drill upon the tables. The class must be 
made to see the difference between sounds. 

1. a, a, and a. Pupils must see the difference between these 
sounds. Spell many words phonically, as follows : Pronounce bat 
slowly, b-a-t. Drop b, at. Drop t, a. Drill on the following : Mate, 
mat, care, fair, fame, map, dare, day, rat, pay-er, pan, fan. 


2. 6, 6. Alternate sounds as follows : Bot, bought, cost, cause, 
iarm, for. 

3. 6 and a. Far, for, or, are, form, farm. 

4. o, a. CSt, caught, n5t, naught, knotty, naughty, dotter, daugtu 
ter, 5n, awe. 

5. u and u (oo) rue, pure, rule, use, duty, ruby, new (nu, rude. 
8. oo and 66, moon, look, book, roof. 


The teacher will do well at this time to refer to the chapter on 
elementary sounds, prepared by Prof. Warren McBroom. Spell 
several words by sounds. When pupils can give the elementary 
sounds readily, begin work on diacritical marking. 

Pronounce ten or fifteen common words and request the pupils 
to mark them correctly. Mark vowels and consonants. 

1. Bat. 6. Form. 

2. Can. 7. prove. 

3. air. 8. n6t. 

4. tue. 9. his. 

5. game. 10. Qlte. 

This will be sufficient for one lesson. Next lesson give atten- 
tion to silent letters. Mark words diacritically and cross out all 
silent letters. 

1. Fame. 4. Boar. 

2. knife. 5. often. 

3. adieu. 6. coal. 

After a few lessons similar to the above have been given, it 
will be well to have a lesson in written phonic spelling. 


Write no representative sounds. To illustrate : Should the pu- 
pil make rue ru it would be incorrect, for u represents oo. So 
write oo, roo. 

1. Cat = Kat. 6. Phthisic = tizik. 

2. advertise = advertiz. 7. new = nu. 

3. knowledge = nol-dj. 8. cal-i-co = kal-i-ko. 

4. his = hiz. 9. they = tha. 

5. beau = bo.' 10. Said = sed. 


The teacher will now be prepared to show the class the import- 
ance of Dictionary Work. Write the word bat on the board and 
ask, "How many pronunciations can you give this word?" Some 
will guess one number, some another. Put the matter to test. 
Write the word several times, asking the class to pronounce as you 
mark. Bat, bat, bat, bat, bat, bat, bat. The class will see at once 
that the word has as many pronunciations as the letter a has 
sounds, which is seven. Ask how many pronunciations can be 
given to the word me. Mark the word five times. Continue as 
follows: "How many sounds has cat?" Some will say seven, 
others eight. Put it to test: 

Hard C — Cat, cat, cat, cat. cat, cat, cat = 7 
Qat, ^at, pat, pat, pat, pat, pat = 7 

The class will then see that the word has been written 14 times, 
and that every word has a different pronunciation ; hence the word 
cat can have 14 pronunciations. For amusement, to incite interest 
and to show the wonders of English pronunciations, introduce words 
of two and more syllables. 

Take the word fatal. Some will say that you can give it 7 sounds, 
some 14, still others will say 28. Try it. 

1. Fatal, fatal fatal, fatal, fatal, fatal, fatal=7 with long a in first syl- 

2. a in the first syllable will give 7 more. [lable. 

3. a " " " 

4. a " " " 

5. a " " " 

6. a " " " 

7. a " " " " " " 7 " Total 49. 

You will see then that we have 49 words all differently pro- 
nounced, all accented on the first syllable ; change the accent to 
the last syllable and we have 49 more, which added to the first list 
we have 49 + 49 = 98, the number of pronunciations that can ac- 
tually be given to the word fatal. While curiosity is on tip-toe 
derive a rule by which the number of pronunciations in any word 
may be found. 


Multiply all the vowel sounds together, multiply this result by 
the number of sounds any consonant may have, and this by the 






















number of syllables. If only one syllable, the product will not be 
changed by multiplying by 1. If a consonant has only one sound 
no multiplication is necessary. 

7X7X2 accent. 

1. Papal = 98. 

7X2 sounds of s. 

2. has = 14. 


3. Cos = 24. 


4. Cargo = 336 pronunciations. 


5. Massachusetts = 588,000. 

So if the pupil did not know something about pronunciation he 
might guess 587,000 times, and still be wrong. 



A knowledge of the Elementary Sounds of our language is of 
much importance to the student of Reading and Elocution. 

An Elementary Sound is one that can not be analyzed into 
two or more distinct sounds, just as an elementary substance is one 
that can not be analyzed into two or more distinct substances. 
Examples. — The sound known as long e is an elementary sound, 
just as carbon is an elementary substance. The sound known as long 
i is not an elementary sound, because it may be analyzed into Ital- 
ian a and long e, just as water is not an elementary substance, it 
may be analyzed into oxygen and hydrogen. 

The Elementary Sounds of the English language are forty in 
number. Other languages contain a few sounds not heard in Eng- 
lish, as the French u and the German ch. 

Elementary Sounds are divided into two classes, Vowels and 
Consonants. The two classes are very different from each other, 
both in their mode of formation and in their relation to words. 

The Consonants form the skeleton, the framework of words, and 



give to them strength and energy. The Vowels are the muscle 
and tissue of words and give to them individuality. The conso- 
nants brd form the common framework of bread, broad, bird, bride, 
bared, bard, beard and board. It is the vowels that make them 
different words. 


The elementary vowel sounds are sixteen in number. Each 
vowel has its own position of the vocal organs, just as each tone 
has its own position on the key-board of the piano. 

The diagram is designed to represent a section of the mouth. 
When the vocal current passes forward after leaving the vocal 
cords (where it is set into vibration) until it strikes the roof of the 
mouth just at the gums of the upper teeth, the sound of long e is 

"With the position of the vocal organs giving this direction to 
the vocal current this sound will always be produced, and no other 
vowel sound can be produced. 

But if the angle of direction be slightly changed so that the vo- 
cal current shall impinge a little farther back in the mouth, short 
i is produced. The angle is changed by dropping slightly the 
lower jaw, by the action of the tongue, by the rounding of the lips, 
until we have in succession short e, long a, caret a (heard in air), 


short Italian a (as in mask), Italian a, short broad a (as in what) 
broad a, long o, long double o, short double o, tilde i (as in fir), 
caret u (as in hurt), and, lastly, right up out of the throat, the 
guttural, short u. 

And these are all the elementary vowel sounds heard in our 
language. Long i is not found in the diagram, but draw a line 
from Italian a to long e (like a tie in music), and pass connectedly 
from one sound to the other, and a deep, rich, long i is produced. 
Passing in the same way from short a to short i and a flat, thin,, 
long i is produced. In the same way pass from long e to long 
double o. Note the result. Pass from broad a to short i. From 
Italian a to long double o. 

Notice also that in giving any one sound in the diagram the vo- 
cal organs hold one position. But no one can give long i or long u 
without passing from one position of the vocal organs to another. 
Try it and see. This is because they are not elementary sounds, 
but really diphthongs. Caret a may, also, be considered a diph- 
thong. Before taking up the subject of diphthongs it is best to 
explain the vowel substitutes. For the same elementary sound 
may be represented by two or three different letters. 

Long e (e) has two substitutes ; i, pique ; ay, quay. 

Short i (1) has five substitutes ; y, hymn ; e, England ; u, busy ; 
o, women ; ee, been. 

Short e (6) has three substitutes ; ay, says ; ai, said ; u, bury. 

Long a (a) has two substitutes ; ei, feint ; ey, they. 

Short a (a-) has no substitute. 

Caret a (a) has two substitutes ; e, there ; ei, their. 

Short and long Italian a (a, a) have no substitute. 

Short broad a (a) has one substitute; o, not. 

Broad a (a) has one substitute ; 6, nor. 

Long o (6) has two substitutes ; eau, beau ; ew, sew. 

Long double o (oo) has two substitutes; o, do; u, true. 

Short double o (do) has two substitutes; o, wolf ; u, pull. 

Tilde i (I) has one substitute; e, term. 

Caret u (u.) has one substitute ; o, word. 

Short u (ti) has one substitute; 6, love. 

(In studying the above let the diacritical marks be fixed in mind. 
It will assist the mind to note that the caret ( A ) is associated with 
the sound that a vowel has when r follows, as care, there, 6r, fur. 
The same is true of the tilde (~) fir, her.) 



The word diphthong is from two Greek words that, united, mean 
a double sound. Two elementary sounds uttered in a single im- 
pulse of the voice constitute a diphthong. 

In English words five diphthongs may be recognized : 
a -j- e = i, as in pine, 
e -f- oo = u, as in tube, 
i -|- oo = ew, as in new. 
a -)- oo = Su or ow, as in house, cow. 
a -f- i = 6i or 6y, as in boil, boy. 

Note. — It may be objected that long e and long double o do not 
give us long u. They do not exactly. This is because long e i& 
not an exact equivalent for the consonant y, but it is very nearly. 
So also long double o is almost identical with the consonant w. 
Phonetically, e-5-n is very nearly yon, and oo-a-n is very nearly 
wan. But e-e is not ye, and oo-oo is not woo. 

It would seem that the consonants y and w are the connecting 
links between the vowels and the consonants. 

the consonants. 

If we consider the organs employed in their utterance, the con- 
sonants maybe arranged naturally into four classes; the Labials, 
or lip sounds, the Linguo-dentals, or tongue-tooth sounds, the 
Linguo-palatals, or tongue-palate sounds, and the Gutturals, or 
throat sounds. 

Again, some consonants are mere whisperings, as the sound of 
p. Some are obstructed tones, or undertones, as the sound of d. 
From this fact as a basis of classification we have all consonants, 
divided into Aspirates, or whispered sounds, and Sub-vocals, or 
undertones. Let it be noticed that most Aspirates have a corres- 
ponding Sub-vocal, as the Aspirate p, and the Sub-vocal b, the 
Aspirate f, and the Sub-vocal v. 

Consonants are classified from still another point of view. Some 
consonants may be prolonged, as the sounds of f and s; but others 
can not be prolonged, as t and k. They are touch and go, like the 
explosion of gunpowder. Hence, consonants are divided into Ex- 
plosives and Continuants. By some authors the Explosives are 
called Mutes, and the Continuants, Semi-vowels. 

The following table shows clearly the three-fold classification of 



consonants, and should be placed on the board for vocal drill on 
the consonant sounds. Let the leader first follow the horizontal 
lines till all the sounds can be given accurately and readily, then 
let him follow the vertical lines. Every pupil should become able 
to reproduce this table from memory. 





Palatals or 

Explosives i 

or (8)« 

Mutes. ' 

r Aspirates. 





„ Sub-vocals. 





' Aspirates. 


th, s 




or (16)- 



th, z 




n 1 






Sometimes two letters are used to represent a single elementary 
sound, as ch, th, zh, etc. 

A list of consonant substitutes is important also; ch has one 
substitute ; ti, question ; k has three substitutes ; c, can ; ch, 
chorus, and q, quick ; j has two substitutes ; g, gem ; di, soldier ; 
f has two substitutes ; gh, tough ; ph, Philip. 

S has two substitutes; c, city; z, quartz. 

Sh has six substitutes ; ce, ocean ; ci, gracious ; si, losion ; ti, 
potion ; ch, chaise ; s, sugar. 

V has two substitutes ; f, of ; ph, Stephen. 

Z has three substitutes ; c, sacrifice ; s, hers ; x, Xerxes. 

Zh is a combination of letters never met with ; but the sound of 
zh is represented by si in fusion ; by zi in brazier ; by z in azure, 
and by s in rasure. 

Ng has one substitute ; n before most palatals, as in ink, uncle, 

W has one substitute ; u in quick ; it is understood before o in one. 

Y has one substitute ; i in onion. 

For valuable drill in vocal culture and phonic spelling, place 
the following diagram on the board. Let the leader of the exer- 



■cise point to any consonant on the circumference, then to the vowel 
at the center, then to any other consonant, the class giving in 
concert the sounds to which the leader points, and then pronounc- 
ing the word spelled. Spell each word twice. A great number of 
words may be formed thus, and the number may be multiplied by 
■changing the vowel at the center. 

It is not necessary that all the consonants be used in any one 
diagram. It is best that some be omitted. So also in placing the 
vowel diagram on the board for vocal drill, it is best to omit those 
sounds that are very similar to other sounds, such as caret a, short 
Italian a, short broad a, and tilde i. These finer distinctions con- 
fuse beginners. 


Pronunciation consists of two things : Articulation and accent. 
Articulation is the correct utterance of the elementary sounds. 


(1). a, e, 6 and u are always followed by r. Examples. — Care ? 
fare, parent, there, their, for, or, form, urn. 

(2). u (oo) is never heard unless it is preceded by the sound of 
r, sh, or zh. Sure is not an exception to this rule, for the sound 
sh is heard. Susan seems to be an exception. 

(3). u is atiphthong. When it begins a syllable it is equivalent 
to y + oo. When preceded by a consonant it is equivalent to e-}- 
oo. There are a few words in which the i\ is difficult to utter, and 
will likely become u (oo). Examples. — Blue, lute, flute. Blue is 
difficult, bloo is not. Pronounce rue, rule, fruit, dupe, dude, duty, 
constitution, tutor, student. 

(4). u has no equivalent. It differs from e and I. U is a gut- 
tural sound. Pronounce earn, urn, fir, fur, urge, verge. 

(5.) A constituting or ending an unaccented syllable has the 
sound of a. Exception, A is long when followed by a vowel or 
diphthong, as chaotic. Pronounce America, alas, Anna, Indiana, 

(6.) E and O constituting or ending a syllable is long. In the 
accented syllable the quantity is longer than in the accented. Ex- 
amples. — Memorial, event, the-sis, not5rious, society. 

(7.) E is silent before n. Given, token. 

(8.) C is soft before e, i and y and hard in other cases. Pro- 
nounce caret, cite, cider, celebrate, cot, cynic. 

(9.) G is generally soft before e, i and y and hard in other cases. 

(10.) X followed by an accented vowel or h has the sound of 
gz. When it begins a word it has the sound of z. In other posi- 
tions it has the sound of ks. 

(11.) Q standing alone has no sound. 

(12.) Ai when accented has the sound of a ; when not accented 
it has the sound of short i. Examples. — Aid, remain, fountain (in), 
captain, mountain. 


Accent is a stress of voice upon a syllable of a word. Accent is 
of two kinds, primary and secondary. The primary accent is the 
stronger. Primary accent is marked with' a heavy stroke, the 
secondary with a lighter stroke. Examples. — Legislature, Ava- 
lanche 7 . 

Let pupils accent clearly the following words: Inquiry, ac- 
cented, coquetry, artificer, complex, idea, execrable, pyramidal. 


My first lessons in elocution were received from Prof. J. I. Hop- 
kins. He gave special attention to accent, and the benefits of those 
lessons are highly valued. To break up difficult accents he would 
cause the class to accent forcibly all the syllables of a word, then 
return to the proper accent and give the pronunciation several 
times. I have found this simple exercise sufficient to correct any 
incorrect accent. Illustration. — Personification, personification, 
personification, personification, personification, personification'. 
]STow pronounce the word several times with the proper accent per- 

Take execrable and begin as follows : Execrable 7 , execrable, 
execrable, execrable. In same manner pronounce peculiarity, 
congratulation; emphatically, octogenarian. 


It is one thing to say that there are forty elementary sounds, and 
quite another thing to show by actual work that there are forty. 
Ask the class what is meant by saying forty elementary sounds. 
The probability is that the class will not have any definite mean- 
ing. Place a table of sounds on the board. Let this table con- 
tain all the vowels and consonants and number of sounds that each 
has. Then begin to erase or cross out all equivalents. 



1. bccdfgghjklmnpqrss soft 
tvwxxyz = 25. 


o oo ob u u u (oo) u u = 29. 

Now ask the class the number of sounds, and you will likely get 
the answer, 54. 

Rewrite and cut out all equivalents. 

b (c hard = k, c = s) d f g (g soft = 3) j k 1 m n 
p (q has no sound) r s (s = z) t u v w (x = ks, x 
= gz) y z = 18. 

a a a a a a (short broad a = 6) e 6 e (6 = a, e = a) 
(1 = a + 1) 1 (1 = e, i = e) 6 (6 = a) (o = 00) (o same 



as oo = u) (o as in wolf = do) oo 06 (u. = y -j- 00) ii (is 
as in rue = 60) u (u as in put = 00) = 16 vowel sounds. 

This, now, gives 18 consonants and 16 vowels, or 34 in all. Let 
children find out other sounds if possible. 


ch, as in child, ng, th, th, sh and zh = 6. 
Add this to 34 and we have 40, the number of elementary sounds 
in the English language. Some interest may be created by asking 
pupils to try to make other sounds. 

2. Drill often on the exercises in articulation. 

3. Have pronouncing matches. 

Pass over to the chapter on Words often Mispronounced, or 
to Test Words in Pronunciation. 

Bequest two pupils to arise and pronounce alternately. When 
one makes a mistake let the other try it. If he be successful an- 
other comes forward to contest. One person may pronounce down. 
several contestants. 


Sex, sects. 

Sense, cents. 

Tense, tents. 

False, faults, 
Ba be h 
Da de d 


folds, molds. 

obed, robed. 

fast, vast. 

whit, wit. 

twelve, twelfths, 
bu. boo boi. 
du doo doi. 

rob'dst, prob'dst, 
barbst, warmst. 
curvedst, loveth. 
settleth, remaineth. 










Ceaseth, approacheth, rejoiceth, ceaseth, 
Approacheth, rejoiceth, ceaseth, approacheth, 
Kejoiceth, ceaseth, approacheth, rejoiceth. 

1. Six brave maids sat on six broad beds braiding broad 

2. The rain ceaseth. 

3. I saw a saw that could outsaw any saw that I ever saw saw. 

4. Up the high hill he heaved a huge round stone. 


5. The listlessness and laziness of the government. 

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

7. Socks and shoes shock Susan. 

8. I said sex, not sects. 

9. Eight great gray geese gazing gayly into Greece. 

10. Bring me some ice every hour. 

11. Five wise wives weave withered withes. 

12. She sells sea-shells ; shall she sell sea-shells ? 

13. A big black bug bit a big black bear. 

14. Eound the rude ring the ragged rascals ran. 

15. Execrable Xantippe exhibited extraordinary and excessive* 

16. Thrice six thick thistle sticks thrust straight though three 
throbbing thrushes. 

17. Prithee, blithe youth, do not mouth your words when yoi* 
wreathe your face with smiles. 

18. He rules with regal reign. 

19. He sawed six long, slim, sleek, slender saplings- 

20. Whelply Whewell White was a whimsical, whining, whis- 
pering, whittling, whistler. 

21. Some shun sun-shine. Do you shun sun-shine ? 

22. I said, " a knap-sack strap," not a " knap-sack's strap." 

23. Henry Hingham has hung his harp on the hook where he 
hitherto hung his hope. 

24. Gibeon Gordon Grelglow, the great Greek grammarian,, 
graduated at Grilgrove College. 

25. Did you say you saw the spirit sigh, or the spirit's eye, or 
the spirit's sigh? I said I saw the spirit's eye, not the spirit sigh, 
nor the spirit's sigh. 

26. Theophilus Thistle, the successful thistle sifter, in sifting a 
sieve full of unsifted thistles, thrust three thousand thistles through 
the thick of his thumb ; now, if Theophilus Thistle, the successful 
thistle sifter, in sifting a sieve full of unsifted thistles, thrust three 
thousand thistles through the thick of his thumb, see that thou, in 
sifting a sieve full of unsifted thistles, thrust not three thousand 
thistles through the thick of thy thumb. Success to the successful 
thistle sifter. 

27. Seeing Sam she stopped starching and saluted Sam smilingly. 
Sam stammered shockingly : " Sp-sp-splendid summer season, 


Sophia." " Somewhat sultry," suggested Sophia. " Sar-sartin, 
Sophia," said Sam. (Silence seventeen seconds.) " Selling sad- 
dles still, Sam?" " Sar-sar-sartin," said Sam, starting suddenly. 
" Season's somewhat soporific," said Sam, stealthily staunching 
streaming sweat, shaking sensibly. " Sartin," said Sophia, smil- 
ing significantly. " Sip some sweet sherbet, Sam ? " (Silence sixty 
seconds.) " Sire shot sixty shel-drakes, Saturday," said Sophia. 
" Sixty ? sho ! " said Sam. (Silence seventy-seven seconds.) " See 
sister Susan's sunflowers," said Sophia, sociably scattering such 
stifFsilence. Sophia's sprightly sauciness stimulated Sam strangely; 
so Sam suddenly spoke sentimentally : " Sophia, Susan's sunflow- 
ers seem saying, ' Samuel Short and Sophia Sophronia Spriggs, 
stroll serenely and seek some sequestered spot, some sylvan shade. 
Some sparkling spring shall sing soul-soothing strains ; sweet song- 
sters 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 sin- 
cere. Sam's seeking some sweet spouse, Sophia. Speak, Sophia, 
speak ! Such suspense speeds sorrow." " Seek sire, Sam, seek 
sire." So Sam sought sire Spriggs. Sire Spriggs said, " Sartin." 
Seven short Sabbaths later saw Sophia Sophronia Spriggs the 
smiling spouse of Simon Short's son Samuel. 


1. Accepted, acclimate, accost, advertise, alibi, acorn, almoner, 
aeronaut, alms, alternate, analogous, Arab, aroma, aft, arrow, ap- 
palachian, allopathy, adult, area. 

2. Bastile, behemoth, beneficent, Belial, biography, bomb, bra- 
vado, Burgundy, bot, bought, bronchitis, bouquet. 

3. Calf, calliope, calm, Caucasian, chastisement, communist, 
consummate, concise, critique, contumely, coquetry, crochet, cost, 
courtesy, camelopard. 

4. Dahlia, Danish, deficit, defalcate, dew, due, diphthong, dis- 
arm, dolorous, debut. 

5. Eclat, epizootic, European, eyry, exponent. 

6. Finance, frankincense, franchise. 

7. Geyser, gallows. 

8. Haughty, herculean, hymeneal, half, horizon. 

9. Idea, illustrate, inquiry, institute, isothermal, implicable, in- 



10. Jocose. 

11. Lamentable, laths, leisure, lien. 

12. Magazine, maniacal, mirage, misanthropy, months, mouths, 

13. National, nomenclature. 

14. Or, on, orgies, orison, often, ogle, oaths, opponent, ought. 

15. Pageant, Palestine, palm, panorama, parquet, pedagogy, 
Persian, Philistine, piquant, plateau. 

16. Quadrupedal, quagy, quagmire. 

17. Radish, raillery, reparable, rinse, roof, root, routine. 

18. Sacrifice, salient, seine, sew, shire, shrub, sleek, slough (a 
scab), slough (mud hole), snout, soft, sough, strata, subtle, subtile. 

19. Uranus, usurp. 

20. Vagary. 

21. Were, wife's, wreaths. 

22. Xenophon. 

23. Yea, your. 

24. Zoology. 


1. Are 

■2. area 

3. accented 

4. all 

5. aye 

6. for 

7. far 
S. lost 
9. ally 

10. spirit 

11. baths 

12. truths 

13. dupe 

14. inquiry 

15. horizon 

16. finance 

17. zoology 

18. isothermal 

1. Aunt 

2. on 

3. tilde 

4. precise 

5. daughter 

6. Danish 

7. bomb 

8. bouquet 

9. courtesy 

10. geyser 

11. exponent 

12. opponent 

13. Persia 

14. bronchitis 

15. museum 

16. national 

17. impious 

18. vehemence 

1. Fir 

2. fur 

3. earn 

4. urn 

5. caught 

6. cot 

7. grass 

8. coquetry 

9. Appalachian 

10. allopathy 

11. indisputable. 

12. homoeopathy 

13. acclimate 

14. communist 

15. epizootic 

16. pyramidal 

17. illustrate 

18. contumely. 




President of Kentucky University, Paducah, Ky. 

The key to all learning is study. That method which 
causes the pupil to study what he reads is surely the 
true one. The mere calling of words advances the stu- 
dent but little. Class reading, where each pupil reads 
a different verse, has many serious defects and but few 
advantages. Many times there is no complete thought 
in a single verse. When the pupil reads such a verse 
he is compelled to do it in a machine-like way ; he has 
no mental picture, and hence there is nothing to in- 
spire him to make an effort. He soon has the idea that 
calling words is reading, and he further believes that 
the one who can call all the words in a verse the quick- 
est is the best reader. This kind of reading makes 
parrots and not thinkers. 

The teacher, by questioning his pupils, may bring out 
the thought of the selection, but that thought is naked 
and cold. There is but little in this plan to stimulate 
the pupil to secure the thought for himself, but merely 



for recitation. The grand object of a teacher's work 
is to make the pupil think for himself. There must be 
something about teaching reading that will make the 
pupil give careful attention to every word and sentence 
in his selection. In the study of words he must be 
constantly searching the dictionary for pronunciation 
and meaning. It is not, or should not be expected that 
the teacher is to pronounce every word on which the 
pupil may stumble. If he does, he takes self-reliance 
away from his pupils, and they resort to him for help 
under all circumstances. 

In teaching primary reading, the teacher is com- 
pelled to assist his pupils in pronouncing some words, 
but such help should be under the utmost discretion. 

Articulation is miserably neglected in many schools. 
There is no possible chance for a pupil to pronounce 
correctly when he has not yet learned the sounds of 
the letters and how to produce them. Too much at- 
tention can not be given to this part of the work. Not 
only should the sounds be given separately but com- 
bined. The pupil may find no trouble in making the 
sounds of s aud h separately and still be unable to pro- 
nounce correctly the words shrink, shriek and shrill. It 
is not really necessary that the student be supplied 
with a book containing articulating exercises. A 
teacher can have better interest in his classes, and his 
pupils will have more confidence in him, if he makes 
his own exercises and puts them on the black-board. 

Great attention should be given to final consonant 
words. Take such words as bat, cat, hat, content, and 
use particular care in giving the final t sound. In 
such words as back, rack, crack, and hack, the k sound 
should be distinctly uttered. The word insists is a 
good word on which to practice. Be sure and get the 
t sound where it belongs. Below are a few sentences 
for class or private drill. 



He rejoiceth when it raineth, and he laiigheth when 
it ceaseth. 

Some shun sunshine. 

She sells seashells. Shall she sell seashells? She 
shall sell six slick seashells. 

Swift the streamlet's soft struggles sent strong strings, 
stopt stuffs of stammering stones. 

He was amiable, respectable, formidable, unbearable, 
intolerable, unmanageable, terrible. 

A hint has been previously given in this article 
about dictionary work. A few more thoughts here 
would, no doubt, be useful. Many teachers are not 
very careful about pronunciation, and guess many 
times when assisting their pupils in pronouncing words. 
If we are in doubt about a word, we should not be sat- 
isfied until the doubt is removed. The only way to 
learn how to pronounce correctly is to make a constant 
use of the dictionary and do not allow yourself to be 
put off. Either make a memorandum of the word or 
seek authority at once. Teach the pupils that learn- 
ing to pronounce words is a part of the reading les- 
son, and when they study the reading lesson they must 
acquaint themselves with all the words in the lesson, 
must learn their pronunciation, their meaning and 
their use. Bad pronunciation is a crime / It is a sure 
test of ignorance. 

We give below a list of words which are generally 
mispronounced unless authority be consulted. If a 
student wants to find out the necessity of referring to 
a dictionary, let him use his own judgment in pro- 
nouncing these words, and then let hirn look up their 
pronunciation and find out how many he has missed. 
While the list is only a few out of the many which are 
often mispronounced, yet several of these have sent the 
writer to the dictionary as many as four times for each 



pronunciation. The words are all in general use, and 
are found in school books, histories and newspapers. 




















The manner of conducting a rea'ding class so as to 
bring out the principles already mentioned, is probably 
of the most importance. The larger a reading class the 
more interest there will be in it. All pupils, from the 
second reader up to the highest grade, can be put into 
one class. It is not necessary that each member of the 
class reads every day ; hence, if the class contains thirty 
pupils, arrange it into three sections of ten each. Have 
one section to read one day, another the next, and so 
on. Devote one hour to this class. Have each pupil 
to read a different selection. Let him choose his se- 
lection if he will. He has three days to study and 
practice on his selection. In that time he can look 
after the pronunciation and meaning of all doubtful 
words. He can study the thought and become famil- 
iar with it and the words which express it. When he 


comes to read it to the class he does not merely have 
to confine himself to the calling of words, but he can 
read in a clear, forcible and impressive manner. He is 
so familiar with his selection, and he feels so fully the 
thought which he is expressing, that he looks away from 
his book and casts his eyes into his " little audience," and 
as he gets deeper into the thought of his selection, he 
calls forth suitable expressions of his face and eyps and 
the next moment his hand paints a picture or adds em- 
phasis to a word, and in this creditable manner he fin- 
ishes his selection, and this progress has been made from 
the right kind of study and practice before coming to 
class. His articulation was clear, his pronunciation was 
good, and his hearers were entertained, because they 
understood the thought of his selection, and he had 
given it to them in a delivery that was pleasing and im- 
pressive. The whole section reads in like manner, all 
having their selections well studied and prepared. 
Those who belong to the other sections can be taking 
notes and criticisms on the reading. All should keep 
a watch for mispronounced words, wrong slides of the 
voice, lack of emphasis and energy, and ungraceful po- 
sition. Have these criticisms given when the section 
is done reading. Use the two sections not reading as 
an audience for the other section. This audience will 
stimulate the reader to make a more careful prepara- 
tion. Two months of this kind of reading is worth 
iive years of the old way, where pupils get up and read 
by verses and the teacher pronounces all the "hard 
words." There is never any interest in such classes, 
and their study of the lesson is a miserable farce. 

For five years the writer has been using the " sec- 
tion plan," of which he is the originator, and he has 
never failed in making good readers of all his pupils. 
The primary object of reading is to secure thought, 
and if the reader does not understand what he reads 
there must be something wrong in his training. Grasp- 
ing thought rapidly is the result of practice. If pu- 


pils are taught that they mast understand what they 
read before they can read it intelligently to any one 
else, and that they must study to get the thought when 
they are preparing their selection, then they are prac- 
ticing just what they will want to use all through life. 
That method which makes the pupils study for the 
thought of the author, and then practice how to ex- 
press that thought, is surely the true method of teach- 
ing reading. 


A child's first lesson in language is learning to talk ; 
the first lesson in school is learning to read. It is the 
source of all knowledge. Many methods have been 
given for teaching reading, some of which are good, 
while others are unnatural. The first lessons in read- 
ing are the same as those in language. 

The old ABC method, by which all the older teach- 
ers were taught to read, is now obsolete. It is no 
longer used by the progressive teacher. It is so abnor- 
mal that we wonder at what it has accomplished. It is 
well for the children of to-day that they are taught by 
more natural methods. 

The best method now in use is the word or object 
method. It is superior to all others in that it is the 
method of nature. Children in the country have a 
correct idea of a great many objects. They receive the 
idea as a, whole, and have not yet analyzed them into 
their component parts. A child can have no idea of 
what it has not seen. The race acquired the use of lan- 
guage by objects. There were no new words around 
until there was an idea for them to represent. Nature 
begins with objects, then the idea, then the sign, and 
the ability to make the sign. This is the manner in 
which language has been developed, and from this we 
may learn the method of teaching the use of it to a 

In teaching the word method, it is first necessary to 


have an object. It matters not what word is first usecL, 
but it should be an object with which the children are 
familiar. Words that do not represent an object should 
not be used first. Talk about the object. Encourage 
conversation. A pupil will not learn to read before it 
can talk. When they have a complete idea of the ob- 
ject, present the picture of the object. It is well to 
draw this on the board. After they have comprehended 
this, write the word on the board. Tell them the word 
represents the object the same as the picture. Have 
the pupils write the word on the slate. It is not nec- 
essary to have them print the word. It is best to teach 
the script letters, as they will use them in after life. 

The child knows nothing about the letters. The 
word is the word ! When it is once learned it is not 
likely to forget it. Teach several words in this man- 
ner, and then form sentences. Words that are not the 
signs of objects may be illustrated by examples. If 
you want to teach the word "old," show a new object. 
Use the real object wherever you can. 

When the sentences are formed, have the pupils 
read as they talk. Great care should be taken in this. 
A bad habit formed in the primary grades is hard to 
be broken. Insist upon correct pronunciation. It is 
well to drill pupils upon the elementary sounds, after 
they have learned several words. Do not stick too- 
closely to any one method, but try and use the best of 
all. Adapt the method to suit yourself and the school. 

It is not so much the method that is used in the 
primary grades as how it is used. The child is led in 
the path of knowledge, and all the difficulties antici- 
pated. If the child is interested in the work, it will 
learn to read, whatever method is used. In teaching 
primary pupils the teacher is superior to the methods. 



There is nothing so poorly taught in our country 
schools as reading. So much has this study been neg- 
lected that it is almost impossible to find a good reader 
anywhere. It is impossible for a teacher who can not 
read himself to teach others to read. A child talks 
natural enough, but when it begins to read it is no 
longer itself. That is the best reading which is near- 
est like common conversation. 

Talk to the pupils about what they are going to 
read. No one can read what they do not thoroughly 
understand. Ask questions until they know what 
ideas they should express, and then have them read as 
they talk. No two persons will read the same piece 
alike. That is good reading which conveys the idea 
clearly to the mind of another. Do not depend too 
much upon imitation to make a good reader. The 
teacher expresses his idea and the pupils express theirs* 

No one can read a selection with which he is not 
familiar. Every lesson should be thoroughly studied 
before being read. Teachers should prepare the read- 
ing lesson the same as arithmetic. There will never 
be good reading done until there is more interest 
aroused, aud there will not be increased interest until 
there is more study on the lesson. 

It is not expected that you shall make elocutionists 
out of your pupils, but intelligent readers. Most of 
the reading that is done in our schools is purely me- 
chanical, the pupils having no idea of what they are 
reading. It is necessary that pupils should be able to 
call words at first sight, but that is not the chief use 
of reading. Words are nothing only as they convey 
thoughts. Insist upon correct pronunciation, but do 
not lose sight of the thought. 

That pupils may give close attention to the reading 
lessons, it is well to have them copy a paragraph of 
each lesson on their slates in the intermediate grades. 


Teach the meaning of words in the connection in 
which they are used. See that they comprehend the 
meaning of all words in the lesson, and also know how 
to spell them. This is especially important in the 
lower grades. Have them use the dictionary in con- 
nection with the reading, but be careful that they se- 
lect the correct definition. 

Give frequent exercises in the pronunciation of dif- 
ficult words. Spare no pains to secure correct articula- 
tion. It is well to give frequent exercises in breathing 
and articulation. Have the pupil stand erect when 
reading. No one can read well in an unnatural posi- 

The greater part of the reading in the world is done 
silently and mentally. The object of the teaching in 
the higher grades is to teach the pupils to think as they 
read and gather in the thoughts from the printed page. 
To do this, it is well to give the pupil a selection to 
read silently, and then have him tell what he has read. 
Encourage a spirit of reading among your pupils. 
There is no way to learn how except to read. It is no 
use in having children read the same thing over and 
over after they have once learned it. Give them some- 
thing new to read. In the lower grades they should 
read at least two series of readers instead of one. In 
the higher grades let them read some story in the class 
or selections from the newspapers occasionally. The 
teacher should make the selections. Irving's " Sketch- 
book" would be good for the higher grades. They 
would not only learn to read, but would become famil- 
iar with some of the finest prose writings in the lan- 

Do not permit a pupil to be interrupted by criticisms 
while he is reading. Encourage pupils to criticise each 
other, but do not allow criticisms to run into needless 
fault-finding. Be careful how you criticise. All errors 
should be corrected, but be more anxious to commend 
than to find fault. 


Concert reading should be used occasionally as a drill. 
It will encourage the backward and restrain the for- 
ward. Concert reading will never take the place of 
individual instruction, however. In poetry it is well, 
sometimes, to have each pupil read only one line. It 
arouses attention. Do not call upon pupils to read in 
regular order. Let them read occasionally to a pause 
and then call on some one else to read. 

The class should be able to understand every word 
spoken by the pupil reading without looking on their 
books. There is no excuse for pupils not speaking so 
they can be heard. 

Take a short story of some kind and cut it into sec- 
tions, and distribute the parts to the members of the 
class. Call on the one who has the first part to read. 
As the story is new to them, it will require close atten- 
tion to tell which one will read next. 

In advanced reading, the same as primary reading, 
more depends upon the teacher than the method. It 
is your duty to interest the pupils in the reading les- 
son. Until the pupils are interested in their lessons, 
they will never become good readers. 



1. Slowly and sadly we laid him down, 

From the field of his fame, fresh and gory ; 
We carved not a line, we raised not a stone, 
But we left him alone in his glory. 


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, and heaven will bless your store. 

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day ; 

The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, 
The plowman homeward plods his weary way, 

And leaves the world to darkness and to me. — Gray. 


4 I come ! I come ! you have called me long, 
I come o'er the mountains with light and song, 
You may trace my steps o'er the wakening earth, 
By the winds which tell of the violet's birth, 
By the primrose stars in the shadowy grass, 
By the green leaves opening as I pass. — Hemans, 


5. 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 
Blinding and blackening in the moonless air ; 
Morn came and went and brought no day. 

The world was void. 

6. Io ! they come, they come. 

7. His extortion is not like the rapacity of the 
princely eagle that snatches away its living, struggling 
prey ; he is a vulture that feeds upon the prostrate, the 
dying, and the dead. —Burke. 

8. Forward the light brigade, 
Charge for the guns. 

9. I tell you, though you, though the whole world, 
though an angel from heaven, were to declare the truth 
of it, I would not believe it. 

10. Whence, and what art thou, execrable shape? 

11. Ah! mercy on my soul! What is that? My 
old friend's ghost ? No nearer, I pray ! 

12. Leave-me ! Thy footstep with its lightest sound, 
The very shadow of thy waving hair, 
Wakes in my soul a feeling too profound. 

13. Soldiers, you are now within a few steps of the 
enemy's outposts ! 

Our scouts report them slumbering around their 
watch fires, utterly unprepared. 

Swift and noiseless we are upon them, we capture 
them without resistance. 

14. O I have passed a miserable night ! 

So full of fearful dreams and ugly sights. 


15. The father came on deck, he gasped, 

" Oh, God ! thy will be done ! " 
Then suddenly a rifle grasped, 
And aimed it at his son ; 
"Jump far out boy, into the wave; 

Jump or I fire," he said ; 
" This chance alone your life can save, 
Jump, jump ! " the boy obeyed. 

16. Princes, potentates, warriors ! 
Awake, arise, or be forever fallen ! 

17. If I were an American, as I am an Englishman, 
while a single foreign troop remained in my country 
I would never lay down my arms, never, nevee, 

18. Thou too, sail on, O Ship of State ! 
Sail on, O Union, strong and great ! 
Humanity, with all its fears, 

Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, 
Are all with thee, are all with thee. 

19. We watched her breathing through the night, 

Her breathing soft and low, 
As in her breast the wave of life 
Kept heaving to and fro. 

20. Haste me to know it, so that 
With wings as swift as meditation, 
I may sweep to my revenge. 

21. "Good morning, Lizzie, I am glad to see you. 
When did you arrive ? " 

" I came on last train." 

"Are you well?" 

"Quite well; I thank you." 

22. Hamlet. Hold you the watch to-night ? 
All. We do, my lord. 

Ham. Armed, say you ? 
All. From head to foot. 
Ham. Then saw you not his face ? 
Hor. O ! yes, my lord, he wore his beaver up. 



23. I know the more one sickens, the worse at ease 
he is — that the property of rain is to wet, and fire to 
burn, and that the great cause of the night is the lack 
of the sun. Shakespeare. 

24. Children prattle, ladies smile, men talk, goats 
stamp, dogs yelp, and geese hiss. Accept your classifi- 

25. They are gone, they are gone, the glimmering sparks hath 

The wife and child are numbered with the dead. 

26. And now farewell ! 'Tis hard to give thee up, " 

With death so like a gentle slumber on thee ! 
And thy dark sin ! Oh ! I could drink the cup, 

If from this woe its bitterness had won thee. 
May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home, 

My lost boy, Absalom ! Willis. 

27. Then this ebony bird, beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,, 
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, 

" Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, " art 
sure no craven, 
Ghastly grim, and ancient raven, wandering from the nightly 

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night's Plutonian 
shore ! " 
Quoth the raven, " Nevermore." Poe. 

28. Have ye brave sons? Look in the next fierce brawl 
To see them die. Have ye fair daughters? Look 
To see them live, torn from your arms, distained, 
Dishonored ; and if ye dare call for justice, 
Be answered by the lash. 

Yet this — is Bome T 
That sat on her seven hills, and from her throne 
Of beauty, ruled the world! and we are Romans. 
Why, in elder day, to be a Roman, 
Was greater than a king! 

And once again — 
Hear me, ye walls, that echoed to the tread 
Of either Brutus ! Once again, I swear, 
The eternal city shall be free. 

29. O thou that rollest above, round as the shield 
of my fathers ? whence are thy beams, O sun ! thy ever- 
lasting light? Thou comest forth in thy awful beauty; 


the stars hide themselves in the sky ; the moon, cold, 
and pale, sinks in the western wave. — Ossian. 

30. The quality of mercy is not strained ; 

It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven 
Upon the place beneath ; it is twice blessed : 
It blesses him that gives and him that takes. 

31. Oh, young Lochinvar has come 
Out of the west ; 

Through all the wide 
Borders his steed was the best. 

32. 'Tis midnight's holy hour, and silence now 
Is brooding, like a gentle spirit o'er 

The still and pulseless world. — Prentice.. 

33. How like a fawning publican he looks, 
I hate him, for he is a Christian. 

34. Let the woman demand the same exactness of 
manners from the man that he demands of her. If 
woman offends against chastity, she goes down forever ;. 
but man offends against chastity, and yet with unblush- 
ing countenance, stalks over the land with uplifted 
head. Here society is at fault. That act that will 
banish woman from society, in the name of high heaven, 
let it banish man from society. C. 

35. Tell me I hate the bowl, 
Hate is a feeble word. 

I loathe, abhor, my very soul 
With strong disgust is stirred 
Whene'er I see, or hear, or tell 
Of the dark beverage of hell. 

36. Go from my sight, I hate 
And despise you. 

37. Hurrah! the life-boat clashes on, 
Though darkly the reef may frown ; 
The rock is there, the ship is gone — 
Full twenty fathoms down. 

But cheered by hope, the seaman cope 

With the billows single-handed, 

They are all in the life-boat. Hurrah ! they're afloat 

And now they are safely landed 

By the live-boat ! Cheer the life-boat ! 


38. Oh, tell me, where did Katy live ? 
And what did Katy do ? 

And was she very fair and young, 
And yet so wicked, too ! 
Did Katy love a naughty man 
Or kiss more cheeks than one ? 
I warrant Katy did no more 
Than many a Kate has done. 

39. "King 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." 

40. My soul to-day 
Is far away, 

Sailing the Vesuvian Bay ; 

My winged boat 

A bird afloat 

Swims round the purple peaks remote. 

41. If thou said'st I am not peer 
To any Lord in Scotland here, 
Lowland or Highland, far or near, 
Lord Angus, thou hast lied. 


1. "I give thee in thy teeth the lie ! " 

2. "Forward! Forward, let us range ! " 

3. " Eternal King ! author of all being." 

4. "Give your children food, O, Father! v 

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

6. "Thou shaft lie down with patriarchs of the in- 
fant world. 

7. " We have no concessions to make, my lord." 

8. " I prohibit the signing of such a paper." 

9. "The Angel of Death spread his wings on the 




Conductor of the Elocutionary Department of the College of Music, Music 

Hall, Cincinnati, Ohio, Gi^aduate of the National School 

of Elocution and Oratoiy. 


During the past six years the author having had, 
perhaps, not fewer than ten thousand voices under his 
direction, it may be claimed, we think, with modesty, 
that he has, by experience, learned somewhat of the 
needs and desires of students throughout the country. 
It will be the purpose of this division of the work to 
respond, practically, to those demands. 

One of the first questions a pupil asks when a work 
on elocution is commended, is, "does it contain select- 
ions?" They wish something more than theory and 
short extracts illustrative of the points as they appear. 
And yet, in the great majority of instances, they object 
to buying a separate book of selections. 

In all our subdivisions that will admit, after giv- 
iug brief extracts bearing upon the point in question, 

4 (49) 


selections in fall, emphasizing the same, are added. 
Many of these selections the author has publicly tested, 
thereby proving their popularity. 

Many selections, fresh and winsome in humor, pathos, 
impersonation, dialect, character-sketching and descrip- 
tion, the book will be found to contain. Other select- 
ions of less modern origin which, by their ever-increas- 
ing hold upon the public favor, attest their genuine 
merit, are also inserted. 

Especial endeavor has been made by the author to 
make it a lucid self-instructor for those who have no 
teaoher, or who have had but a few lessons in elocu- 


Elocution is the art of the vocal and visible express- 
ion of thought. Upon the voice depends vocal ex- 
pression. Upon the face, the action and the attitude, 
depends visible expression. 

Elocution is thus derived : "E," meaning out, "loqui," 
to speak, and " ion," the act of. Etymologically, then, 
elocution is the art, or the act, or the manner of speak- 
ing out. 

Thought is expressed or carried out along two great 
avenues, viz., speech and gesture. To the eye the for- 
mer appeals, to the ear the latter. 

Elocution, in its broadest sense, means more than 
manner. It is quite important that one have something 
to say as well as to be able to say something well. 

The teacher of elocution, while justly laying great 
stress upon vocal and physical culture, should also in- 
sist on good, choice English in right rhetorical order, 
according to the laws of grammar. Webster, in sub- 
stance, thus defines elocution : 1. Expression of thought 
by speech and gesture. 2. Art of delivery. 3. Dic- 
tion in written and spoken discourse. Wooster, in other 
words, says the same. It is to the art of delivery I 
shall largely devote this chapter. 


Elocution. [*—«"*■* |S, 

t latter to be delivered. { <$™ a ~ S" 

q , f Expression, vocal and visible. 

ra J' \ Expression, rhetorical. 

Eloquence. } ?f llve ^ 

What. { T» ou g ht - 
t L Arrangement. 


Composition. {^ ght - 
Art of delivery. {^ 

According to standard authorities the terms Elocu- 
tion, Oratory, Eloquence and Rhetoric are in the main 
synonymous. Formerly, the most prominent division 
of rhetoric was what is now known as elocution. 
However, it has so far drifted from that position as 
now to be confined almost wholly to written discourse. 

In a restricted sense, elocution refers to the delivery 
of the words of another. Oratory deals more particu- 
larly with the delivery of one's own thoughts. The 
training in the two is identical. Eloquence means 
more than either. Elocution and oratory are external. 
They are arts. Eloquence is both external and inter- 
nal. It is soul, quickened and projected by a magnetic 

Rhetoric is the silent theory underlying all the 

Elocution is the art of vocal and physical culture. 

Oratory is -the application of elocution in delivering 
one's own words. 

Eloquence combines and immortalizes them all. 


I. Ke S piration.{^P^; ■ 



1. Lateral expansion of chest. 

2. Vertical expansion of chest. 

3. Side expansion. 

4. Back expansion. 

5. Abdominal expansion. 

6. Waist expansion. 

7. Waist and chest expansion combined. 

8. Inhalation prolonged to the utmost. 

9. Full inhalation in quickest possible time. 


1. Prolonged to the utmost effusively. 

2. Prolonged to the utmost expulsively 

3. Quickly given out explosively. 

{Vocal Gymnastics. 
Breath Gymnastics. 
Body Movements. 

III. Articulation — 

1. Elemental Sounds. 

2. Special treatment of Consonants. 

3. Difficult combinations. 

4. Phonetic Drill. 

5. Fundamentals, applicable alike to all languages. 

TV O fh -f -^ aws w hich govern pronunciation, 

r oepy. ^ Practice in pronunciation. 

Expulsive control. 
Explosive control. 
Prolonged tones. 
[ Tremulous tones. 

V. Vocal Drill. 

Tones prolonged to 
the utmost. 

Evenness of tone. 
Smoothness of tone. 
Sameness of pitch. 
Equality of vibrations. 



VI. Quality. 

1. Pure in conversation. 

2. Pure in public address. 

3. Pectoral. 

4. Orotund. 

5. Guttural. 

6. Falsetto. 

7. Nasal. 

' 8. Aspirated. 

T Attitude. 
VII. Gesture. -I Action. 

(. Facial Expression. 

VIII. Delivery or Expression. 

| High. 


Character sketching. 
Dramatic, Heroic, 
Humorous and 
L Pathetic renditions. 

Pitch or Key. 1 Middle. 
( Low. 


C slight. 

Volume.^ Moderate. 







rause. | EhetoricaL 




In elocution, mastery of the breath is a fundamental 
and essential condition of success. 

The great actor, Talma, in his earlier efforts would, 
in the more violent passages, so exhaust himself that 
he would drop against the wings for support. One 
day he saw Dorival play in a part requiring much 
energy. He noticed that Dorival seemed to work Avith 
ease. "How does the man do it!" was his exclama- 
tion. "I am ten times stronger than he, but he gets 
ten times less tired than I." 

He asked Dorival why it was, but got no satisfac- 

Determining to know his secret, Talma, in disguise, 
visited DorivaPs next performance. During the sec- 
ond act Talma rushed out crying, " IVe got it ! " It 
was by skillful management of breath that Dorival 
husbanded his strength. His lungs were kept well 
supplied with air and his breath was given out eco- 


Ah ! how much weariness would be spared the teach- 
ers in our public schools, did they understand this 
matter of breath economy ! 

How many ministers might escape Monday morning 
prostration if they only understood the same! 

Breathing exercises, moreover, are medicinal. Through 
them the feeblest circulation is quickened; cold hands 
and feet grow warm ; the pallid face flushes ; the slug- 
gish pores will open, and the body will be thrown into 


a gentle perspiration. By them pure air is driven into 
lung-cells ; weak lungs are enlarged and strengthened ; 
indigestion is removed, and the entire being is invig- 



Fill the lungs quickly, deeply, reposefully. It is 
not necessary to lift the shoulders nor to gasp. The air 
will go into the lungs by virtue of its own weight, if 
given an opportunity. 

Do not try to keep the lungs over-extended with 
air. That is unnatural and tiresome, and cripples 


Practice prolonging the inhalation to the utmost. 
Beginners rarely succeed in surpassing twenty seconds 
in their early efforts. A few weeks, with ten minutes 
practice each day, will enable the student to reach a 
full minute in a single inhalation. 


Practice prolonged exhalations, after a quick, full 

After a quick, deep inhalation, give out the breath 
expulsively, prolonging it to the utmost. Take six 
such exercises in rapid succession, unless interrupted 
by dizziness, by faintness, or by palpitation of the 
heart. In such cases, cease the exercise for a time, but 
resume and re-resume until such symptoms wholly 

Inhaling as above, give out the breath explosively. 
Repeat the effort a half dozen times, taking great care 
to open well the throat before expelling the breath. 
Otherwise the throat would be irritated by this prac- 
tice. For those who are accustomed to reading and 
speaking with congested throats, producing, as it in- 


variably must, sore throat, the above practice will 
prove highly beneficial. 

Inhale noiselessly. To see a reader or speaker 
struggling, or to hear him gurgling over his inspira- 
tions, is most disagreeable. There are tragic, or deeply 
emotional passages, in the skillful rendering of which, 
audible inhalation enhances the effect. In this matter 
let " discretion be your tutor." 


Reading and speaking demand so much vitality that 
the strongest have no breath to fritter away. Convert 
all that escapes into voice, and you have learned the 
secret which Talma sought. That is the key-note to 
repose and reserve force. 


1. With tape measure around bust at rest, see how 
many inches in circumference you can expand. Re- 
peat six times. 


2. With tape around the waist at rest, inhale, noting 
the amount of expansion. In this exercise the lungs 
are lengthened vertically, their pushing down account- 
ing, in great part, for the waist enlargement. 


3. With fingers spread upon the sides, inhale deeply, 
swelling the costal muscles as much as possible. Repeat 
six times. Shoulders still. Chest passive. 


4. Spreading fingers upon the back, take full inha- 
lation six times, noting each time the effect on the dor- 
sal muscles. Quiet shoulders. Passive lungs. 



5. Fingers pointing forward and downward from the 
belt, inhale six times deeply, cultivating the greatest 
possible action of the abdominal muscles. Don't lift 
the shoulders. Keep the chest quiet. 

6. Combine the last three in a single inhalation, re- 
peating six times. Upon the tone and strength of these 
muscles depends projectile power in speech. Speakers 
of both sexes, large in chest and great in weight, sur- 
prise us often with their feeble voices. That their 
voices are so small and w T eak is due largely to the 
throwing of the burden of speech upon the throat and 
upper chest muscles. Diseases of the throat and lungs 
and exhaustion of the vital functions must follow. 

In the production of the voice, the fulcrum of power 
should lie in the muscles of the waist. 



1. Weight to be lifted — The voice. 

2. Fulcrum of power — A congested throat. 

3. Lever short. 

4. Quotient — Debility. Sore throat. Weak lungs. 
Feeble circulation. Torpid liver. Voice small and 
frail. Life short. 


1. Weight to be lifted — The voice. 

2. Fulcrum of power — Muscles of the waist. 

3. Lever long. 

4. Result — Strength. Health. Sound throat. Vig- 
orous lungs. Active circulation. Lively liver. Voice 
deep and resonant. Life prolonged. 

Choose ye which ye will. 

7th and finally — Combine in one thoroughly pro- 
longed inhalation the waist and lung expansion. Be- 
gin by gradual enlargement of the waist. Without 


allowing the waist to contract, continue the expansion 
throughout the entire range of the lungs. Invalids 
who, for years, have not experienced a healthful per- 
spiration will find this exercise causing to tingle their 
very finger's tips ; their feet to glow with warmth, and 
the lungs to thrill in every part with pleasure. Re- 
peated a half dozen times, it will scarcely fail to pro- 
duce some degree of perspiration. 



One form of physical culture, breath gymnastics, has 
already been treated. Another form, vocal gymnastics, 
will be defined, in the main, under the head of Vocal 


1. Place hands upon sides, fingers fronting forward. 
Give the vowels with full force and volume, with much 
costal action. 

2. Hands on sides, fingers pointing backward. Give 
vowels as above, with much dorsal action. 

3. Fingers pressing upon the abdominal muscles, 
bring them into active exercise by above methods. 

In all these exercises see that the shoulders remain 
quiet and the chest almost passive. The less they per- 
form the more active will be the waist. Even the most 
forcible utterances do not lift the shoulders unless some- 
thing in the nature of the sentiment demands it. Thou- 
sands are marred by this ungainly lifting and laboring 
with the shoulders. 


Body Movements is the name we have given the third 
form of physical culture. They may be divided into : 


1. Gesture. 2. Calisthenics. The former we will treat 
in a later division. 


1. Finger movements. 

2. Wrist movements. 

3. Elbow movements, 

4. Shoulder movements. 

5. Full arm movements. 

6. Head movements. 

7. Trunk movements. 

8. Ankle movements. 

9. Knee movements. 

10. Full limb movements. 


Arms extended. Front. Horizontal. Allowing the 
"hands to droop, put the fingers into rapid vibration, 
moving them freely at all the joints. This may be 
continued for at least one minute at each drill. 


Hands hanging limp from the wrists, move them 
rapidly up and down, from side to side, and in circles. 


With all the muscles relaxed from the elbows down, 
carry the fore-arms and hands through the above series 
of movements, 


Transferring the pivoted point to the shoulders, 
movements as above. 


Position. — Hands clinched and placed upon breast 
well back toward points of shoulders. 

1. Bring right hand forcibly down in front, resting 


for a moment at the side, and return forcibly to the 
starting point. Repeat four times, counting "one" 
"and," "two" "and," "three" and," "four" "and." 

2. Left hand through similar movements, counting, 
"five" "and," "six" "and," "seven" "and," "eight" 

3. Alternately four times, sending the right hand 
down on "one," bringing right hand back and thrust- 
ing left hand down simultaneously on " and," reversing 
on "two," reversing on "and," reversing on "three," 
reversing on "and," reversing on "four," bringing 
right hand back to join the left on chest on "and." 

4. Both down on "five," back on "and," down on 
"six," back on "and," down on "seven," back on 
"and," down on "eight" and back on "and." 


Position. — Hands clinched on chest. 

1. Both hands downward, forward, upward and back 
to starting point in an unbroken circular movement, 
counting "one," as the hands go down and completing 
the circuit on " and." Repeat through eight counts, 
or one strain of music. 


Position. — Hands clinched and arms extended hor- 

1. Bring rigid right arm up in line with the ear and 
back to starting point. Do this four times, counting 
as above. 

2. Left arm up and back four times. 

3. Alternately four times, lifting right arm on " one," 
returning right arm and lifting left arm simultaneously 
on "and," reversing until "four" is counted, then on 
" and" bring right arm back to keep company with the 
left in horizontal position. 

4. Both arms up and back four times. 



Position. — Eight hand clinched, horizontal, front. 

1. Describe a circle of two feet in diameter through 
"four," "and." 

2. Left hand as above, through "five," "and," 
"eight," "and," inclusive. 

3. Rotate both, simultaneously, right hand moving 
from right to left, and left hand the reverse, through 
"four," "and." 

4. Both hands, simultaneously, from right to left, 
through "five," "and," "eight," "and," inclusive. 


Repeat above movements with hands out at the sides. 


Position. — Arms extended horizontally, front, hands 
open, palms together. 

1. Throw arms straight back in the horizontal plane 
until backs of the hauds come together behind. Re- 
peat through "eight," "and," the hands coming to- 
gether in front each time on "and." 


Position. — Hands clinched and resting in the arm- 
pits, with the wrists bending outward from the sides. 

1. Thrust right arm straight down along the side on 
" one." Back to the starting point on " and." Do the 
same four times. 

2. Left hand the same. 

3. Alternately, four times, thrusting the right hand 
down on "one," bringing it back while thrusting left 
hand down, alternating until the count of "and" after 
"four" brings the right at rest in arm-pit. 

4. Both hands down and up, simultaneously, four 



Position. — Hand clinched, resting on shoulders,, 
thrusting up and bringing back, same order as above. 


Position. — Hands clinched and resting against the 
hips, arras rigid. 

1. Bring rigid right arm up at the side until it rests, 
against the head. Back on " and." This four times. 

2. Left arm, likewise, four times. 

3. Alternately, four times, first lifting the right arm 
on "one" — then dropping right arm as the left is 

4. Both up, simultaneously, bringing clinched hands; 
into contact, both back to starting points on " and." 
Four times. 


Eepeat above movements to the front, keeping head 
and body quiet, and not allowing the arms to bend at 
the elbows when brought to the front, head high. 


Position. — Hands clinched and resting on chest. 

1. Right hand to the front, resting at hip on "one," 
back on "and." Then up, vertically from the shoul- 
der, on "two," back on "and." Pour times, thus 
down and back, up and back. 

2. Left hand likewise. 

3. "Alternately four times, thrustiug right hand 
down and left hand up, simultaneously, on "one," 
both back to chest on "and." 

4. Both down on "one." Both back on "and." 
Both up on "two." Both back on "and." Four 


Position. — Both hands clinched, resting on chest. 


1. Both hands thrust to the right side as far as pos- 
sible without moving the feet, maintaining a perpen- 
dicular position with the* body and head. Both hands 
back to chest on "and," with the face to the front in 

Both hands thrust to the left, turning body a& 
far as possible without moving the feet, standing erect. 
Both hands back on " and," facing to front. Eepeat: 
four times. 

2. Both hands to the right side, turning body with 
the arms, feet stationary, on "one." Back to starting- 
point on "and." Four times. 

3. Same movements four time to the left. 


Position. — Hands clinched, resting on chest, feet 
firmly together. 

1. Without bending the knees forward, thrust both 
hands downward, touching the floor w T ith the finger 
tips. To the starting point on "and." Four times. 

chin and " adam's apple." 

Position. — Natural. 

1. Bring the two together on "one." To the start- 
ing point on "and." Push them far apart on "two" — 
starting point on " and." Four times. 

Position. — Natural. 

1. Thrust all three forward to the utmost on " one." 
Starting point on "and." 

2. Thrust all three as far back as possible on " two." 
Starting point on "and." Same movements four times. 


Position. — Natural. 

1. On "one" drop the head as nearly as you can to 


the right shoulder. Starting point on "and." Same 
movement to the left on "two." Starting point on 
"and." Four times. 

2. Drop the head forward on " one." Starting point 
on "and." Backward on "two." Starting point on 
"and." Four times. 

3. Right, back, left, front, left, back, right, up. 
Four times. 


Position. — Body erect, arms hanging loosely at the 
sides, hands open. 

1. Bend body from the hips to the right side on 
" one." Starting point on " and." Same movement to 
the left on "two." Starting point on "and." Four 

2. Bend body to the front from hips on "one." 
Erect on "and." Same movement backward on "two." 
Erect on " and." Four times. 

3. Right, back, left, front, left, back, right, up. 
Four times. 

These Calisthenic exercises, throughout, are intended 
to give tone and strength to all the muscles that should 
be used in vocal utterance. 

For many of them I am indebted to my alma mater, 
the "National School of Elocution and Oratory." 



In reading, in singing and in speech, distinct articu- 
lation is of the utmost importance. It is the duty of 
the performer to make himself easily understood. By 
so much as one absorbs the vitality of an audience in 
an effort to understand, by that much is one's effective- 
ness lessened. It is not only discourteous to an audi- 


ence to so put it on a strain, but suicidal to the best 
interests of the speaker. 

The singer, or speaker, has no more right to present 
an audience with a faulty articulation, than he has to 
appear in an unbecoming costume. 

A voice of moderate strength and volume, sustained 
by clear, distinct articulation, will make itself under- 
stood by a much larger number of people than could 
the most colossal volume, crippled by ill articulation. 

The only savior for those who inherit impetuosity, 
is careful articulation. Those who, by nature, do all 
things quickly, will find great safety in giving special 
attention to the consonants. Vowels frequently drown 
the consonants. Be sure you so vocalize the conso- 
nants that they will carry to the ears of the listeners. 
Then, however rapid the speech, you will surely make 
your words heard. 


1. Long a. 

Tongue somewhat elevated and thickened, the sides 
resting against the upper side teeth. By parting well 
the teeth and slightly projecting and rounding the lips, 
the quality of tone will be much improved. 

2. Short a. 

Made as is long a, except that the tongue is lowered 
and pushed further forward, accompanied by a similar 
change in the movement of the lower jaw. 

3. Long Italian a. 

Differs from long a in that the lips are somewnat 
more widely parted, and the tongue drawn further 
back with tip depressed. 


4. Short Italian a. 

Tongue almost at rest, teeth slightly apart and lips, 
more widely parted. 

5. Long Flat a. 

Teeth and lips farther apart, with tongue higher and 
broader than for short Italian a. 

6. Long e. 

Tongue elevated, flattened, and pressed against the 
upper side teeth. The sound is improved by widely 
parting the teeth and projecting and rounding the 
lips. In fact, this last suggestion is equally applicable 
to all the vowels. 

7. Short 8. 

Differs from long e, by a dropping of the tip of the 
tongue downward and forward, with a like action of 
the chin. 

8. Tilde e. 

Tongue thickened, forward part pressing against the 
upper side teeth ; lips and teeth widely parted. 

9. Long I. 

Compound movement of tongue and teeth. 1. Tongue 
pushed back, and thickened at the base, on the " ah" 
sound — teeth well apart. 2. Position as above de- 
fined for long e. 

10. Short 1. 

Like long e, except that the tip of the tongue is 
somewhat lower, and a little less broadened. 

11. Long 0. 

Tongue pressed far back into the roof of the mouth ; 
teeth very greatly parted; lips puffed and rounded^, 
leaving small opening. 


12. Short 8. 

Base of tongue less elevated, and lips much more 
widely parted than in long 6. 

13. Broad 6. 

Same as long 6, except a larger mouth-opening, and 
less elevation of the base of the tongue. This sound 
requires larger mouth-room than that of any other one 
in the language. 

14. Long u. 

Compound. For the first position see long 1 (No. 9). 
For the second see long 00 (No. 17). 

15. Short u. 

A wider opening of the lips, with a depression of 
the tip of the tongue, will convert long u into short u. 

16. Broad u. 

Like tilde e, only that the tongue is made shorter and 
thicker, and the teeth are more widely parted. 

17. Long 6b, also marked o. 

Differs from the long 6 position (see 11) in that the 
lips are more closely compressed and the lower jaws 
projected a little further forward. 

18. Short 06, marked also p. 

Lips more widely parted and teeth more nearly to- 
gether than in long 00. 

19. Diphthong oi. 

Compound movement. See broad 6 and short 1. 

20. Diphthong ou. 

Compound. See long Italian a and long 00. 


21. b. 

Lips compressed. Before parting them vocalize the 

22. d. 

Teeth parted ; tip of tongue pressed against base of 
upper front teeth. Vocalize before removing the 

23. g. 

Teeth apart; sides of tongue pressing against the 
middle-roof of the mouth. Vocalize while in that po- 

*4. j. 

Like g, except tongue is pressed further forward, and 
teeth are brought more nearly together. A slightly 
aspirated sound is heard at the close of vocalization. 

25. I. 

Teeth parted, and well covered by the lips ; tongue 
at tip against the upper front teeth. Vocalize. 

Lips slightly compressed. Vocalize. Tone par 
takes slightly of the nasal. 

Teeth apart; tip of tongue against base of upper 
front teeth. Vocalize. Nasal tone enters to some ex- 

28. Underlined n. 

Mouth opened ; tongue drawn back ; base of tongue 
so thickened and situated as to direct the air into the 
nasal passages. It is a commingling of the sounds of 
n and g. 

29. r. 

Chin projected and flattened — teeth parted — lower 


lip drawn tightly over lower teeth — sides of the for- 
ward part of the tongue pressed against the upper side 
teeth — tip of tongue free and vibratory at moment of 
vocalization. The simple r is made by being once 
driven from its position and once returning. A series 
of such movements produces the trill. The latter 
should be conscientiously avoided when not demanded 
by the sense. 

SO. Sonant th. 

Tip of tongue against tip of upper teeth. Vocalize. 

SI. v. 

Under lip against tip of upper teeth. While in this 
position vocalize. 

32. w. 

The letter as it stands is made up of the sounds of 
d, short u, b, 1, y, long double oo. When found in 
company with other letters it has but one sound, made 
with organs in almost precisely the position as already 
denned for long 6, there being a little less opening of 
the lips, and less lowering of the lower jaw. 

S3, y. 

For this sound, draw the lips further back with 
larger opening of the mouth than for w. 

34. z. 

Tip of tongue back of the upper front gums — side 
of tongue against upper side teeth — teeth uncovered 
and almost together — tone and breath united. 

35. zh. 

Differs from z by a slight retraction of the lower 
jaw and a similar movement of the tongue. 


36. ch. 

Differs little from position for j (see 24), only that 
the breath is aspirated instead of being vocalized. 

37. f. 

Same position as for v (see 31). Aspirating instead 
of vocalizing. 

38. h. 

As it stands it is equivalent to long a and ch. When 
found with other letters it consists of a single breath 
sound. Tongue drawn back and elevated ; teeth and 
lips parted ; drive out the aspirated breath by abdomi- 
nal action. 

39. k. 

Lips and teeth as in h ; middle part of tongue pressed 
against the mouth just in front of the palate. Force 
the breath out by a quick action of the diaphragm. 

40. p. 

Similar in position to b (see 21). Gather the breath 
against the lips. The pushing of them apart by the 
unvocalized breath gives the sound of p. 

41. s. » 

Little change from position of z (see 34). Teeth 
slightly wider apart and lower jaw a little more re- 
laxed. It is a hissing sound which, overdone, makes 
utterance highly unattractive. 

Position as for d (see 22). Explode the gathered 
breath aspirately by sudden removal of the tongue. 

43. Nonsonant th. 
The position for sonant th (see 30), changed by a 


slight removal of the tip of the tongue from the teeth, 
and forcing out of the aspirated breath. 

44- sh. 

With the organs in position for zh (see 35), part the 
teeth a trifle, and slightly relax the lower jaw. Aspi- 
rate, forcibly, the breath. 


1. Did you go to town? 

2. Would you fan the flame ? 

3. Could you count the cost ? 

4. Should you sell seashells ? 

5. Won't you turn his mind? 

6. Can't you come to-day ? 

7. Shan't you remain all year? 

8. He is a man of high culture. 

9. His gestures are somewhat florid. 

10. He ineffectually paves the way. 

11. His obituary has not been written. 

12. His fortune is virtually made. 
13 He is a man of broad education. 

14. The furniture in the room is costly. 

1 5. In form and feature he is handsome. 

16. In virtue she surpasseth them all. 

17. His baths, and oaths, and paths and wreaths are 

18. Many truths by many youths are spoken. 

19. In the matter of thought, he has been carefully 

20. A bright thought flashed into his mind. 

21. Premonitions avail but little. 

22. The communist cries — "Demolition." 

23. -The relaxation of the muscles is conducive to 
low pitch. 

24. He speaks of all that's good with utter detesta- 


25. He prematurely promulgated the prelude of his 

26. His protestation that his partner in matrimony 
should receive alimony prevented his molestation un- 
til his economical turn of mind was shown by his pre- 
sentation of a niggardly pittance. 

27. His adventure was a caricature on the creature. 

28. His fortune for the future was made by his 
election to the legislature. 

29. To ameliorate the condition of mankind the 
courtier sometimes contributes. 

30. To be a plebeian is, by some, considered a mis- 

31. Sculpture flourishes in the medium temperature, 
while the Pleiades shine brightest on a frosty air. 

32. It is absolutely true that he alluded to his 
aptitude with a dubious air, and opened anew the 
avenues of consuming passions. 

33. To deduce aright, one must not delude, be he 
duke or dupe, and to elucidate the truth he should ex- 
clude, with enthusiasm, all that is obscure. 

34. He intuitively introduced the Jew, and flew into 
a tumultuous review of the stupid institutions of the 

35. It is evident that while he is honest, and innocent,, 
and fluent, and gifted, that he is a remorseless aspirant 
for fame's resplendent crown. 

36. His pallid face, and faultless form, and ripeness 
of speech, and melancholy mien, would indicate that 
he was an aspirant for clerical honors. 

37. His declamatory style in the dedicatory remarks, 
was derogatory to his cause, and should teach him that, 
in prefatory statements, he should remain within the 
territory of conversational simplicity. 

38. From the fog sprang his noble dog. 

39. He will, at any cost, be gone. 

40. His cross was often heavy. 


41. Her pretty, soft hand, and her beautiful song,, 
entranced the vast throng. 

42. The duke was out of tune. 

43. She played her lute in the county institute. 

44. He was on the verge of doffing the ermine. 

45. His purpose was an earnest one. 

46. Mirth is a fertile source of health. 

47. He is exempt from preemption law. 

48. Would we were rational in all national matters, 

49. To advance his cause, he at last undertook the 
task of blasting the communistic class, who bask in the 
rays of others' prosperity. 

50. His form was laid beneath the yew-tree's shade, 
and in that narrow cell he lies, hidden forever from all 
mortal eyes. 



To be disregardful of little things, is no evidence' 
of greatness. There are those who say : " Let that 
man alone. Leave him as God made him. Don't 
touch his gesture, his voice, his speech. Let him be 
natural. When the crisis comes he will be equal to 
any emergency." There are men who think that though 
they daily talk in rasping tones, and in ignorance of 
all grammatical or rhetorical law, and in words ill- 
pronounced — that when the responsibility comes and 
they face a judge, or jury, or auclience, they will do all 
these things well. With as much reason we would ex- 
pect a man, ignorant of Physiology, Anatomy and 
Hygiene, to be able, skillfully, to handle the most com- 
plicated case of surgery, on the heat of the occasion. 

That is not the way in which we argue if we wish a 
pilot across the sea. We ask for an educated rather 
than an inspirational engineer. We apply common sense 


to almost any profession, save the one of Oratory. If 
yon will but observe, you will find that those who 
think that it matters little how they stand, or how they 
look, or in what voice they speak, or how they pro- 
nounce — men who would take offense were you to 
criticise them on one of those points — are holders of 
a $600 annual salary — when they can collect it. These 
things are not too small for a great man, but they 
are too large for a narrow man. 

The higher the position held and the greater the influ- 
ence wielded, the more conscientiously should the 
speaker pronounce his words correctly. 

" Oh ! he says ( der-read ' for dread, and he's a leader ; 
surely, I can say it who am a private." 

"He says 'culeh-er' for culture, and he is one of the 
most prominent speakers in the country." 

"He says 'inef-feck-chew-aP for ineffectual, and he 
has no small salary." 

"He says 'diju go?' for did you go?" and ' won chu 
stay?' for won't you stay? and 'education' for educa- 
tion, and he draws large houses." He draws the 
houses despite his butcheries, not because of them. 


The letter a, composing an unaccented syllable or an unempha- 
sized word, takes the sound of short Italian a. When accented or 
emphasized it is long a. 

Short Italian a. 

Such words as ask, task, past, grass, repast, are by multitudes in- 
correctly called ask, task, past, grass, repast. Others say ask, task, 
past, grass repast. 

Below is given a few of the words in common use, requiring the 
short Italian a. 

The short Italian a is frequently given as short 6, short i, or 
long a. 

Anna, not AnnS ; Alabama, not Alabamy; Dakota, not Dakota. 

The short Italian a is found mainly in monosyllables ending in 


ff, ft, nee, nch, nt, sk, sp, st, ss. Ask, task, bask, cask, flask, mask, 
asp, grasp, clasp, gasp, against, anew, asleep, aghast, repast, con- 
trast, among, advance, entrance, enhance, advantage, basket, cask- 
et, blanch, cranch, branch, blast, past, mast, hast, cast, passed, 
caste, fast, last, brass, grass, mass, class, glass, lass, pass, amass, 
alas, bombast, chaff, quaff, staff, chance, glance, prance, trance, 
dance, lance, chant, slant, grant, pant, ant, craft, graft, abaft, 
draught, draft, quaffed, baft, shaft, waft, ghastly, vastly, lastly, 
pasture, pastor, castor, plaster, vaster, rafter, grafter. 

Long Italian a. 

This sound is often perverted so much as to be given like short 
a. Say neither — 

flawnch, [aunt, f flaunt, fg&int, fcalf, f half, 
-j nor < nor -J nor < nor < nor « nor 

(.ianch, ( awnt, i fiawnt, (gawnt, [cawf, (hawf. 
Below is given a short list of words containing long Italian a: 
ah, pa, mii, bah, art, heart, part, mart, cart, tiirt, aunt, gaunt, flaunt, 
taunt, avaunt, balm, psalm, calm, calf, half, laugh, laughter, laugh- 
able, dauntless, avaunt, laundry. 

A, before terminal r, or rr, in monasyllabic words, unless itself 
be preceded by w, has the sound of long Italian a, as in far, tar, car, 
char, star. 

Long flat a. 

Many speak pear as though it were pronounced payer, and stare 
like stayer. Say pear, pair, care, stare, share, flare, tear, wear, 
fair, snare, etc. 

Long e. 

Near, not nare. Fear, not fare. Spear, not spare. 

Short 6. 

Giftgd, not giftid. Innocgnt, not innysunt. Hongst, not honist. 
Decent, not decunt. Eequiera, not requiu'm. Kipengss, not ripe- 

Tilde e. 

Earth, not urth. Girl is not gurl. Mirth, not murth. First, 
not furst. 

Pronounce girl, twirl, whirl, birth, earth, girth, earl, pearl, 
«arn, fern, discern, her, fir, myrrh, firm, rehearse, cracker, broker, 


maker, striker, nadir, southern, eastern, fertile, perfect, persuade, 
permanent, perform, permeate. 

Long i. 
Say fine, not foine. Shine, not shoine. Kind, not coyand. 

Short 1. 

Say pallid, not pallud. Inspiration, not insperation. Beautiful, 

not beautiiful. Dedicatory, not dedicatory. Deficit, not defiicet. 

P. S.— Let all the short vowels be given quickly, crisply, clearly. 

Long o. 

Say more, not mawr. Four, not for. Gore, not gawr. B5ard, 
not bawrd. Inndcent, not innicent. 

Short o. 

Avoid broad 6 and do not drawl the short 6. Say d5g, not dawg. 
Fdg, not fawg. SSd, not sawd. G5d, not gawd. 

Pronounce hog, off, often, soft, cross, cost, accost, gone, long, 
song, thong, prong, strong, moss, gloss, grog, frog, plod, nod, hod, 
pod, rod. 

Broad 6. 

Say thdught, not th5t. Caught, not cot. Fought, not f5t. 
Taught (tawt), not tttt. SSught, not s6t. Fraught (frawt), not 


Pronounce gaudy, pawn, morn, George, gorge, Gaul, pall, fall, 
stall, tall, shawl, mortgage, thought, caught, sought, taught. 

Long oo. 

Say root, not root. Food, not food. Soon, not soon. 

Pronounce rood, mood, brood, hoof, proof, truth, groom, bloom r 
tomb, boon, soon, moon, fool, pool, tool, room, noon, wound. U 
equals oo when preceded by r, s. sh, z, zh. Rude, sure, azure. 

Short do. 

Say good, not gild. Full (do), not fill. Pull (66), not pul. Foot, 
not fut. 
Pronounce book, took, nook, full, pull, hook, pullet, put, push. 


Long u. 

In many sections of the country this letter is sadly mutilated. 
It suffers at the hands of high and low, rich and poor, black and 
white. It is a handsome letter when properly pronounced. Per- 
haps nine-tenths, even among the educated classes, give long oo 
for long u. Very few people would say beautifnl (bootiful), but 
the same people who say beautiful (butiful), will pronounce dew 
(doo), new (noo), lute (loot), duke (dook) or (jook). 
Do not say toon, for tune. 

" " " plconi, for plume. 

" " " enthoosiasm, for enthusiasm. 

" " " dooly, for duly. 

" " " noo, for new. 

" " " allood, for allude. 

Short u. 

Say hiatus, not hiatis. Herbivorous, not herbivons. Gums, no 
g5mes nor gooms. 

Pronounce up, sup, tub, hub, cup, flood, blood, must, just, trust, 


Say deduce, not dejuce. Duly, not July. Deducible, not deju- 
cible. Duty, not juty. Induce, not injuce. 

Pronounce duty, duly, deduce, durable, endure, enduring, ver- 


Say fortune, not forchoon, or forchun, or forchin, or forchen. 
Say future (futyoor), not fucher. Say gesture (gestyoor), not jescher. 
Say sculpture (sculptyoor), not sculpchgr. Say plebeian (plebeyan), 
pleiads (pleyads). Say furniture (furnityoor), not furnichur. 

e. u. r. 

The above three letters, in their mastery, cost students more toil 
than any others in the list. Practice them frequently. 

earth, earl, earn, learn, stern, 

purge, furl, urn, burn, turn. 


a. a. a. 

This is another trinity of difficulties. To distinguish neatly, one 
from the other, requires much practice. 

ant, tash, plant, martha, 

mat, h3,nd, plaid, guaranty, 

air, pear, prayer, scarcely, 


The letter c never appears so in phonic writing. 
c = k, in care, 
c = s, in cent. 
c = sh, in ocean. 


ch = ch, in chain, 
ch = sh, in chaise, 
ch = k, in chaos. 
Do not say queschun for question. Ineffechual for ineffectual. 
Ejucation for education. Virchue for virtue. 


This combination is, quite often, equivalent to in. Mountain. 


In such words as and, hand, man, there are two errors to avoid: 
and, not and nor and ; hand, not hawnd nor hand ; man, not m5n 
nor man ; span, not spaen nor span. 

After m, in the same syllable, the letter b is usually silent, as 
bomb, comb, dumb, lamb, numb, tomb. Ehomb is one of a few 


c = k in sceptic and scirrhus. 

c = s in censure, cent and many other words. 

c = z in suffice, sacrifice and discern. 

c, before e, i and y, as a rule, has the sound of s. 

accent. cymbal. cygnet. 

decent. cinder. juicy. 

excite. celery. celebrate. 



In words, or syllables, ending with the sound of d, care should 
be taken not to allow the tongue to be pushed from its position by 
unvocalized breath, in which case it becomes t. Again, do not. 
prolong the sound, nor slight it. Find the golden mean. 

dread = drgd, not d6r-red. 

drive = driv, not der-riv. 

e. • 
With exception of a, e added to monosyllables in which r, or rr r 
is terminal preceded by a vowel, converts the vowel into its long 


car -f- e = care. her -f- e = here, 

far -f- e = fare. sir -f- e = sire, 

star-j- e = stare. for + e = fore. 

cur -f- e = cure, 

Usually, in verbs, ed = t, while ed retains the sound of e when, 
used adjectively. 

Verbs and Participles. 

blessed. worked, 

cursed. incensed. 

Participial Adjectives. 
blessed. abhorred. aged, 

cursed. condemned. famed. 


Terminal el ordinarily retains the e in utterance, as in rebel, bar- 
rel, bushel, camel, cancel, channel, chapel, chisel, gravel, gospel, 
hovel, novel, kennel, model, squirrel, tassel, travel, tunnel. 

Exceptions. — Barbel, betel, chattel, dragel, drivel, easel, grovel, 
hazel, mantel, mussel, navel, ousel, ravel, rivel, scovel, shovel, 
shrivel, shekel, snivel, swingel, swivel, teasel, toggel, towsel, 


Terminal en usually drops the e, as in chasen, driven, even, fast- 
en, given, heaven, leaven, often, riven, soften, taken. 

Among the exceptions are : Aspen, chicken, hyphen, gluten 
kitchen, lichen, linden, marten, miiten, jerken, latten, mynchen. 


patten, platen, rowen, sudden, pollen, omen, linen, siren, sloven, 
wicken, woolen, yewen. 


These two sounds, which freely coalesce, are by many separated, 
thus : 

fear is fer, not feer. 
terrible is teribl, not turubl. 
vernal is vernal, not viirnul. 

et. . 

The same may be said of this combination: 
set is sSt, not s6ut. 
met is m6t, not meut. 

Following e, i, or y, g almost always takes the sound of j. 
gentry. girl. gyration, 

gender. gin. gymnast, 

germane. giant. gympsum. 

Exceptions. — Gelding, geese, giving, girt, muggy, foggy. 
grew = groo, not gSr-roo. 
guard = gard, not ge-yard. 
grand = grand, not ger-rand. 
With h between g and e, i, or y, g has its hard sound. Gherkin. 

why = hwi. when = hwSn. 

where = hwar. what = hw#t, etc. 

Terminal il commonly sounds the i, as in civil and pencil. It 
is silent in dev : " evil and weavil. 

The same is true of the i, in terminal in, as in martin, replevin. 
It is silent in basin, cousin, raisin. 

In this combination the o is frequently pronounced short ii, as 
in bomb, bombast, come, comely, comfort. 


Likewise in the combination on, the o is often pronounced short 
iu. Briton, cordon, ebon, piston, ribbon, sexton, wanton. In hexa- 
gon, octagon, etc., the o is short. In bacon, beacon, beckon, etc., 
the e is silent. 


count = k-ou-nt, not ke-yount. 
kind = k-i-nd, not ke-yind. 

cow = kou, not ke-yow. 
now = nou, not na-yow. 

Say car, not caw, nor kear. Hair, not ha. Birth, not buth. Nor, 
not naw. Patter, not pattah. Scatter, not scattah. Bar, not 
bah. Forlorn, not fawlaun. Farm, not fahm. 

When two r's come together in the same word, but one is usually 
sounded. For no other reason should r ever be suppressed. 
Furry = furi. Carry = kari. 

Hurry = huri. Marry = mari. 


Betain the sound of s in the following words : Absorb, Asia, 
Asiatic, basalt, Bismark, cassimere, conservator, conversant, desig- 
nate, desist, desultory, etc. 

s = z in design, osier, composure. 

s = zh in collision, delusion, persuasion. 

s = sh in censure, commensurate. 

shriek = shrek, not srek. 

shrew = shroo, not sroo. 

strike = strik, not sterrike. 

she, under emphasis, is she. 

she, not under emphasis, is she. 

to, under emphasis, equals too. 

to, not under emphasis, equals too. 

tomorrow = toomorro, not termorrer. 



These exist in almost endless variety and intricacy. To master 
them in their multiplied combinations, is to render the lips and 
tongue exceedingly flexible and trustworthy. The failure to give 
them proper prominence is one of the most fruitful sources of in- 

Unless careful, the d in and will not be heard. 
" " " t in swift will not be heard. 

" " some mice will be some ice. 

" " r will not be heard in dower. 

" t will not be heard in crossed. 
" " pain no will be pain o. 

" " rests will be res. 

" " acts will be ax. 

" " swept will be swep. 

" " make clean will be make lean. 

" aeronaut will be arenaut. 
" " aerial will be arial. 

" wreath'dst will be wreathst. 
" imprison'dst will be imprisonst. 
" " attempdst will be attemst. 


too, under emphasis, is too. 
too, not under emphasis, is too* 


unknown is unknown, not Unknown- 
unseen is unseen, not onseen. 
untried is untried, not 5ntried. 


The vowels preceding r terminal, in a syllable, are short, if the 
next syllable begins with a vowel. 

arable, perish, miracle, foreign. 

Among the exceptions are : Alarum, flaring, glaring, curing,, 
staring, wearing, etc. 

The vowels are short before rr, not terminal, as : Carry, horror,, 
sorrow, parry, tarry, furry, cherry, etc. 



The vowels should not be allowed to overawe or vanquish the 
consonant sounds. 


x = ks. e. g. excuse = ekskus. 
x = gz. e. g. exist = egzist. 


This letter never constitutes an entire word. Y, I am going to- 
day — is bad. Y, I said so — is bad. 

prefers z in 

many words in 

which Webster prefers 




= ekshume 

== egzhume. 


= disarm 

= dizarm. 


= disaster 

= dizaster. 


= disdain 

= dizdain. 


= dishonor 

= dizhonor. 


= disown 

= dizown. 

The preferred pronunciations of the following words are t 


























In the following words omit the syllable indicated : 


'Conversation (al)ist. 



These vowel sounds which, under emphasis, are long, should be 
spoken with a tendency to the short sound when not under em- 

She, under emphasis. 

She, not under emphasis. 

The, under emphasis. 

The, not under emphasis. 

Their (a), under emphasis. 

Their (a), not under emphasis. 

They (a), under emphasis. 

They (a), not under emphasis. 

To (oo), under emphasis. 

To (o), not under emphasis. 

We, under emphasis. 

"We, not under emphasis. 

You (oo), under emphasis. 

You (o), not under emphasis. 

Your (oo), under emphasis. 

Your (p), not under emphasis. 

While Englishmen are more prone to drop letters and slight 
sounds in pronunciation, than are Americans, yet they possess 
points of superiority over us. They declaim, with little stress on 
the syllables of secondary accent. We, as a rule, put so much 
stress on this syllable that it is difficult to tell which is our pri- 
mary, and which is our secondary accent. These are a few of the 
many words of this nature: Migratory, inventory, matrimony, 
dedicatory, derogatory, category, parsimony, predatory, terri- 
tory, in all of which the English method is much smoother and 
more musical than ours. 

The Golden Mean. 

We should avoid extremes. New, as ne-yew is one extreme. 
New, as noo is another. In all such words strike the long u, 
neatly, trippingly, inoffensively. 


Guide, as ge-yde, is one extreme. 

Guide, as goide, is another extreme. 

Xature with the t and y widely separated and emphasized is 

Xature, as nacher, is offensive. 

O-bit-uary, with painful prominence given to the b and t, is bad. 

Obituary, as obich-u-ary, is worse. 

Did you, drawling out the d and y, is contrary to good taste. 

Did you, as diju, is in no better taste. 

Inspiration, with the short 1 snappishly uttered, is to be con- 

Inspiration, as insperation, should no less be condemned. 

In all these things, while not overstepping the bounds of mod- 
esty in an attempt at precision, yet one must not fall into a 
slovenly, unscholarly pronunciation. 

Ill Used Words. 

Do not say "lit" for lighted. 

Do not say " proven " for proved. 

Do not say " plead " for pleaded. 

Do not say " onto " for on or upon. 

Do not say " gents " for gentlemen. 

" Enthuse " is not in good taste. 

" In our midst " is a threadbare phrase, and means " in the midst 
of us." 

Do not say " partially " for partly. 

Do not say " lady " for wife. 

Do not say " helpmeet " for wife. 

Do not say " helpmate " for wife. 

Do not say " companion " for wife. 

Do not say "lady" for woman. 

"At one fell swoop" should rust into decay. 

If we say " that was a ' lengthy ' performance," may we not say 
"it was a 'strengthy' performance?" 

Do not say " leniency " when " lenity " means as much. 

Do not " jeopardize " your time by using so long a word, when 
"jeopard " is quite as good. 

A " reliable " witness may lie again, but a " creditable " one may 
be believed. 


His "pants" are all right if the man is out of breath, but 
i( trousers " are for wear. 

" Lunch " may satisfy the lowly, but " luncheon " is for him 
who speaks correctly. 

The student does not "graduate," but is "graduated." 

You are " mistaken " if you are taken for some one else. You 
" mistake" if you are in error. 

Do not say "authoress" and "poetess." 

There can be nothing " different to" any thing else. 

'" Grant " is shorter and neater than " donate." 

*-' Think " is shorter and better than " apprehend." 

■" Severe," rather than " condign " punishment. 

Do not say " casualty " for " accident." 

Do not say " predicate " for " declare." 

Do not say " alluded to " unless you merely made mention of. 

Do not say " individual" for " person." 

Do not say " portion " for " part." 

Do not say " balance " for " remainder." 

Do not say " bound " for " determined." 

Do not say " widow woman " for " widow." 

Do not say " own " for " confess." 

Do not say " less " for " fewer." 

Do not say " administer " for " dealt." 

Do not say " aggravate " for " provoke." 

Do not say " alone " for " only." 

Do not say "amateur" for "novice." 

Do not say " consider " for regard. 

Never say " got " if you can avoid it. There is no such word as 
" illy." He does not succeed " nicely." 

Do not say " overflown " for " overflowed." 

No one person ever ran " pell-mell." 

Present your inferiors ; introduce your equals. 

Do not say "promise" for j j^ure. 

Say " sitting hen," if she is sitting. 

So "high a tree," instead of "such" a high tree. 

An " underhand " act, not an " underhanded " act. 

Do not say " upward " for " more." 




The Accustomed. 

Asiatic (z) 
Chinese (s) 

Morphine (e) 


Vase (s) 

The Wonderful. 


Asiatic (sh) 

Chinese (z) 

Cog-nac (Konyah / ak) 




Morphine (fin) 

Opportune / 


Renaissance 7 (sangz) 






Vase (z) 


There is nothing more enervating than the bearing of a gigantean 
cognomen. His gondola glides o'er the legendary waters of the 
Lethean stream, carrying him further from his coadjutors and his 
allies, toward a combative country of aristocratic proclivities, 
where he may indulge his epicurean appetite in an indefatigable 
way ; where his vagaries will no longer prove revolting, and where 
his peremptory authority will take precedence in a manner 
wholly inexplicable. It is sacrilegious to exhaust one's self in 
making an example, in no way obligatory, of a friend, who will 
surely become an irrevocable enemy, and who will vehemently 
pronounce an irreparable anathema on his complaisant traducer, 
simultaneously making demonstrable the fact that, though he is 
crippled, he is not vanquished. 'T were better his friend had dealt 
in homceopathic doses, or waited a decade of years, than to have 
made himself amenable to his neighbor's anger in allopathic de- 
gree, for his opponent will not be slow to test the acoustics of the 


slanderer's head, in the most vehement manner, though an exem- 
plary Christian. Upon his assailant he will heap contumely and 
much scathing raillery, showing himself no amateur with his 
splenetic tongue, but, on the contrary, a man conversant with his 



I. Give the vowels in a pure, conversational tone. 
Do this until there is left no jot of hardness or harsh- 
ness in the tone. 

II. Taking the vowels in order, one by one, at a 
medium pitch, prolong the tones to the utmost. This 
is to teach economy of voice, management of voice, con- 
trol of breath, and reposeful attitude. Be sure, in the 
prolonged tone exercises, that your voice maintains the 
same volume throughout ; that the vibratory movements 
of the voice are equal in length, and that no impurity 
shall at any moment creep into the voice. Again in- 
sist on the conversion of all the breath into tone. In 
preparing for this exercise, take a quick, deep inspira- 
tion. See that the shoulders are not lifted much in 
this action. 

Do not allow a sudden collapse of the lungs at the 
first stroke of the voice as you begin to exhale. This 
sudden escape of breath at the very beginning is the 
chief cause of the beginner's inability to prolong tones. 
With ten minutes, practice daily the student can, in 
three months' time, carry a single tone a minute. 

III. Give the vowels with full volume. Gather 
your force from the abdominal muscles. Jostle the 
shoulder but little in the giving of the sounds. Keep 
the chest almost passive. 

IV. In the same exercise try, with a bit of tissue 
paper immediately in front of lips, to give the tones 


with fullest force, without causing the paper to stir. 
If you succeed, you have the breath under good control, 
and can husband your strength by speaking with ease. 

V. Take the vowels, step by step, from your con- 
versational key to the highest you can command, pre- 
serving the smoothness and purity of tones throughout. 
At no time tax or congest the throat. Let it rest. 
Make the body work. Send the tones out through the 
mouth, not through the nose. 

VI. Carry the vowels from your conversational key 
to the lowest you can reach, insisting on the same con- 
ditions as before. 

VII. Prolong the tones to the utmost in the conver- 
sational key ; in your highest, and in your lowest. The 
rapidity with which voices, by nature harsh and dis- 
cordant, grow smooth and pure under this simple drill, 
is amazing. No less surprising is the conversion of 
weak or piping voices, into voices of wondrous volume 
and roundness of tones. 

VIII. Strike the vowel with full volume and force, 
gradually allowing it to die away. 

In this exercise, take care not to contract or stiffen 
the throat, otherwise the soundest would quickly be- 
come irritated. Such congestion is perhaps the most 
prolific cause of chronic sore throat, and in many cases 
leads to troubles of the lungs. 

IX. With full force and volume strike the vowels 
suddenly and as suddenly cut off the voice. Again I 
warn the student against congestion of the throat. 
With a throat at repose and a body at work, this voice 
drill becomes at once a promoter of health and 

X . With voice at slightest audible tone, gradually 
enlarge it to your fullest volume. 

Aim to have the lungs exhausted at the moment of 
reaching your fullest volume. Do not continue the 
tone when it ceases to increase in volume. Do not 
alter the pitch during this effort. 


Few persons, on their first attempt, can attain much 
volume ; fewer can maintain the oneness of pitch, and 
not more than one in a thousand can exhaust his breath 
and reach the fullest volume simultaneously. 

Ordinarily, the beginner finds his voice failing him 
within twenty seconds. A few weeks systematic prac- 
tice will enable the same pupil to attain a half minute. 

XI. Opening on the vowel with full volume and 
force, without altering the key, carry the vowel to the 
slightest audible tone. Do not allow the voice to de- 
scend by jerks, nor to diminish very suddenly at first. 

XII. Combine tenth and eleventh exercises. 

To be able to reach one-third of a minute at the first 
attempt will be the lot of very few. 

XIII. Trill the vowels until breath is exhausted, 
preserving one pitch, one volume, and equal length of 
vibrations. Near to the lips, without jostling the paper, 
give the vowels as above. When you succeed in this, 
if you are a minister, you will not suffer from Monday 
prostrations ; and if a teacher, your day's work will not 
close, finding you in husky voice. One who can do this, 
and will persist daily in practice, will soon find himself 
the possessor of sound throat and lungs. 


1. Give the vowels as in common conversation. 

2. Pure, and prolonged to utmost. 

3. With full force and volume. 

4. Prolong No. 3 to the utmost. 

5. From conversational to highest key. 

6. From conversational to lowest key. 

7. Prolong 5 and 6 to the utmost. 

8. Full force and volume with vanish. 

9. Prolong the vanish. 


10. With voice at slightest audible tone, begin each vowel, 
gradually enlarging it to its fullest volume. 



11. Striking each vowel with the fullest volume, gradually let 
it die away to the slightest audible tone. 

12. Combine 10 and 11 ; thus, swell O. 

13. Trill the vowels, prolonging them to the utmost. 



1. There's a Magical Isle up the river Time, 
Where the softest airs are playing. 
There's a cloudless sky and a tropical clime, 
And a song as sweet as a vesper chime, 
And the Junes with the roses are straying. 

—B. F. Taylor. 
2. " Well, well, let him think so, the dear little elf, 
'Twould be cruel to tell him I did it myself." 

— Mrs. Snow. 

3. But while she was still very young — O, very, very young — the 
sister drooped, and came to be so weak that she could no longer 
stand in the window at night ; and then the child looked sadly out 
hy himself, and when he saw the star, turned round and said to 
the patient, pale face on the bed : " I see the star." And then a 
smile would come upon the face, and a little weak voice used to 
say : u God bless my brother and the star ! " — Dickens. 

4. Suit the action to the word ; the word to the action ; with this 
special observance — that you o'erstep not the modesty of nature : 
for any thing so overdone is from the purpose of playing; which 
end, both at the first and now, was, and is, to hold, as 'twere, the 
mirror up to nature: to show virtue her own feature; scorn her 
own image ; and the very age and body of the time, his form and 
pressure. — Shatopere. 

5. Ho, every one that thirsteth, come ye to the waters, and he 
that hath no money ; come ye, buy, and eat ; yea, come, buy wine 
and milk without money and without price. — Bible. 

6. The moon above the eastern wood 
Shone at its full ; the hill-range stood 
Transfigured in the silver flood, ! 
Its blown snows flashing cold and keen, 
Dead white, save where some sharp ravine 


Took shadow, or the somber green 
Of hemlocks turned to pitchy black 
Against the whiteness at their back. 
For such a world and such a night 
Most fitting that unwarming light, 
Which only seemed where'er it fell 
To make the coldness visible. 

Shut in from all the world without, 
We sat the clean-winged hearth about, 
Content to let the north wind roar 
In baffled rage at pane and door, 
While the red logs before us beat 
The frost line back with tropic heat ; 
And ever, when a louder blast 
Shook beam and rafter as it passed, 
The merrier up its roaring draught 
The great throat of the chimney laughed 

The house-dog on his paws outspread 
Laid to the fire his drowsy head, 
The cat's dark silhouette on the wall 
A'couchant tiger's seemed to fall ; 
And, for the winter fireside meet, 
Between the andiron's straddling feet, 
The mug of cider simmered slow, 
The apples sputtered in a row, 
And, close at hand, the basket stood 
With nuts from brown October's wood. 

What matter how the night behaved ? 

What matter how the north wind raved ? 

Blow high, blow low, not all its snow 

Could quench our hearth fire's ruddy glow. 

O, Time and change ! with hair as gray 

As was my sire's that winter day, 

How strange it seems, with so much gone 

Of life and love, to still live on ! 

Ah, brother ! only I and thou 

Are left of all that circle now,— 

The dear home faces whereupon 


That fitful firelight paled and shone. 
Henceforward, listen as we will, 
The voices of that hearth are still ; 
Look where we may, the wide earth o'er, 
Those lighted faces smile no more. 
We tread the paths their feet have worn, 
We sit beneath their orchard trees, 
We hear, like them, the hum of bees 
And rustle of the bladed corn ; 
We turn the pages thafe they read, 
Their written words we linger o'er, 
But in the sun they cast no shade, 
No voice is heard, no sign is made, 
No step is on the conscious floor ! 

Yet Love will dream and Faith will trust, 
(Since He who knows our need is just) 
That some how, some where, meet we must. 
Alas for him who never sees 
The stars shine through his cypress trees ! 
Who, hopeless, lays his dead away, 
Nor looks to see the breaking day 
Across the mournful marbles play ! 
Who hath not learned in hours of faith, 
The truth to flesh and sense unknown, 
That Life is ever lord of Death, 
And Love can never lose its own ! 

— Whittier. 


1. In spite of rock and tempest's roar, 
In spite of false lights on the shore, 

Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea ! — Longfellow. 

2. Hurrah ! hurrah ! a single field 
Hath turned the chance of war, 
Hurrah ! Hurrah ! for Ivry and 

King Henry of Navarre. — T. B. Macaulay. 

3. The armaments, which thunder-strike the walls 
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, 
And monarchs tremble in their capitals — 


The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make 

Their clay creator the vain title take 

Of lord of thee, an arbiter of war — 

These are thy toys ; and, as the snowy flake 

They melt into thy yeast of waves which mar 

Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar. 

4. " Pull, if ye never pulled before ; 

Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he ; 
" Play up, play up, O Boston bells ! 
Play all your changes, all your swells, 
Play up ' The brides of Enderby.'" 

— Jean Ingelow. 

5. And I heard, as it were, the voice of a great multitude, and 
as the voice of many waters, and as the voice of mighty thun- 
derings, saying, 'Alleluia! for the Lord God omnipotent reign- 
eth.'" — Bible. 

6. Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are ! 
And glory to our sovereign liege, King Henry of Navarre ! 
Now let there be the merry sound of music and the dance, 
Through thy cornfields green and sunny vines, O pleasant land of 

France ! 
And thou, Rochelle, our own Kochelle, proud city of the waters, 
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 wails annoy. 
Hurrah ! hurrah ! a single field hath turned the chance of war; 
Hurrah ! hurrah ! for Ivry and King Henry of Navarre ! 

Oh ! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day, 
We saw the army of the League drawn out in long array ; 
With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers, 
And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish spears. 
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. 

Eight graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing, 

Down all our line, in deafening shout, " God save our lord, the* 

"And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may — 
For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray — 
Press where you see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks of. 

And be your oriflamme to-day, the helmet of Navarre ! " 

Hurrah ! the foes are moving ! Hark to the mingled din 
Of fife and steed and trump and drum and roaring 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 now! upon them with the lance ! 
A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest, 
A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white crest ;- 
And in they burst, and on they rushed ; — while, like a guiding star,.. 
Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre ! 

Now God be praised, the day is ours ! Mayenne hath turned his- 

D'Aumale hath cried for quarter, the Flemish Count is slain. 
Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay gale; 
The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven mail.. 
And then we thought on vengeance, and all along our van, 
" Remember St. Bartholomew," was passed from man to man ; 
But out spake gentle Henry then, " 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 our sovereign lord, King Henry, the soldier of Navarre ! 

Ho ! maidens of Vienna ! Ho! matrons of Lucerne ! 
Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall return.. 
Ho ! Philip, send, for charity, the Mexican pistoles, 
That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spear-men's, 
souls ! 


Ho ! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be bright ! 
Ho ! burghers of St. Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night ! 
For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised the 

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 ! 

— T. B. Macaulay. 



1. 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 Saint Andre's plain, 
With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne. 
Now, by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France, 
Charge for the golden lilies now, upon them with the lance ! 

— T. B. Macaulay. 
2. Ha! above the foliage yonder 
Something flutters wild and free ! 
"Massa! Massa ! Hallelujah! 
The flag's come back to Tennessee !" — E. L. Beers. 

3. Now, in the name of all the gods at once, 
Upon what meat doth this our Caesar feed, 
That he is grown so great? Age, thou art shamed! 
Rome, thou hast lost the breed of noble blood ! 
When went there by an age, since the great flood, 
But it was famed with more than with one man? 
When could they say, till now, that talked of Rome, 
That her wide walls encompass'd but one man? 
Now is it Rome indeed, and room enough, 
When there is in it but one only man. 
O ! you and I have heard our fathers say 
There was a Brutus once, that would have brook'd 
Th' eternal devil to keep his state in Rome, 
As easily as a king. — Shakspere. 

4. Ay — though it bid me rifle 

My heart's last fount for its insatiate thirst — 


Though every life-strung nerve be maddened first— 

Though it should bid me stifle 
The yearning in my throat for my sweet child, 
And taunt my mother till my brain went wild — 

All — I would do it all — " 
Sooner than die, like a dull worm, to rot — 
Thrust foully into the earth to be forgot ! 

— N. P. Willis. 

5. Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend ! I shrieked, up 
starting — 
Get thee back into the tempest and the night's plutonian shore ! 
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath 

spoken ! 
Leave my loneliness unbroken ! Quit the bust above my door ! 
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off 
my door ! — Edgar A. Poe. 

(For selection see Speech of Cassius, page 217.) 


1. Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean, roll, 
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; 
Man marks the earth with ruin — his control 

Stops with thy shore ; upon the watery plain 
The wrecks are all thy dead ; nor doth remain 

A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, 
When, for a moment, like a drop of rain, 

He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, 
Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown. 

— Byron. 
2. For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways 
higher than your ways, and my thoughts than your thoughts. 

3. O, earth, so full of dreary noises ! 
O, men, with wailing in your voices ! 
O, delved gold, the wailers heap ! 
O, strife ; O, curse, that o'er it fall ! 
God strikes a silence through you all, 
And giveth his beloved sleep. — Elizabeth Browning. 


4. O, time and change ! 

How strange it seems, with so much gone 
Of life and love, to still live on ! 
Ah, brother ! only I and thou 
Are left of all that circle now. 

— Whiltier* 

5. Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear 

In all my miseries ; but thou hast forced me, 
Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman. 
Let's dry our eyes ; and thus far hear me, Cromwell : 
And, when I shall sleep in dull, cold marble, where 

no mention 
Of me more must be heard of — say, I taught thee ; 
Say, Wolsey, that once trod the ways of glory, 
And sounded all the depths and shoals of honor, 
Found thee a way, out of his wrack, to rise in, 
A safe and sure one, though thy master missed it. 

— Shakspere* 

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

Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain, 
Man marks the earth with ruin — his control 

Stops with the shore — upon the watery plain 

The wrecks are all thy deed ; nor doth remain 
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, 

When, for a moment, like a drop of rain, 
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, 
Without a grave, unknelled, uncoflined and unknown !. 

The armaments, which thunder strike the walls 

Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, 
• And monarchs tremble in their capitals— 

The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make 

Their clay creator the vain title take 
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war — 

These are thy toys ; and, as the snowy flake 
They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar 
Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar. 

Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee — 
Assyria, Greece, Eome, Carthage, what are they ? 


Thy waters wasted them while they were free, 
And many a tyrant since ; their shores obey 
The stranger, slave, or savage'; their decay 

Has dried up realms to deserts — not so thou, 
Unchangeable save to thy wild wave's play — 

Time writes no wrinkle on thy azure brow — 

Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now I 

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form 
Glasses itself in tempests ! — in all time — 

Calm or convulsed, in breeze or gale or storm, 
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime 
Dark heaving —boundless, endless, and sublime ! 

The image of Eternity ! — the throne 

Of the invisible, — even from out thy slime; 

The monsters of the deep are made ! Each zone 

Obeys Thee ! Thou goest forth ; dread ! fathomless ' alone ! 

— Byron. 


1. The bleak wind of March 

Made her tremble and shiver; 
But not the dark arch, 

Or the black, flowing river ; 
Mad from life's history, 
Glad to death's mystery. 

Swift to be hurled — 
Anywhere, anywhere 

Out of the world. — Thomas Hood. 

2. " It's time for me to go down to that there berryin' ground, 
sir, and ask to be put along with him. I wants to go there and be 
berried. He used fur to say to me, c I am as poor as you, to-day, 
Jo,' he sez. I wants to tell him that I am as poor as him now, 
and have come there to be laid along with him." — Dickens. 

3. "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 may be not. She's safe up there, 

And when his hands deal other strokes, 
She'll stand by Heaven's gate, I know, 

And wait to welcome in our folks." -Ethel Lynn. 

4. Alone in the dreary, pitiless street, 

With my torn, old dress, and bare, cold feet, 

All day I have wandered to and fro, 

Hungry and shivering and no where to go. — P. H. Case. 

5. Farewell, a long farewell to all my greatness ! 
This is the state of man ; to-day he puts forth 
The tender leaves of hope ; to-morrow blossoms 
And bears his blushing honors thick upon him. 

— Shakspere. 

6. "Well, Jo; what is the matter? Don't be frightened." 

" I thought," says Jo, who has started, and is looking round, 
" I thought I was in Tom-all- Alone's again. An't there nobody 
here but you, Mr. Woodcot?" 

" Nobody." 

"And I ain't took back to Tom-all- Alone's ; am I, sir?" 


Jo closes his eyes, muttering, " I am werry thankful." 

After watching him closely a little while, Allan puts his mouth 
very near his ear, and says to him in a low, distinct voice : " Jo, 
did you ever know a prayer?" 

" Never knowd nothink, sir." 

"Not so much as one short prayer?" 

"No, sir. Nothink at all. Mr. Chadbands, he wos a prayin 
wunst at Mr. Sangsby's and I heerd him, but he sounded as if he 
wos a speak in to hisself and not to me. He prayed a lot, but 1 
couldn't make out nothink on it. Different times there wos other 
genlmen come down Tom-all- Alone's a prayin, but they all mostly 
sed as the 'tother wuns prayed wrong, and all mostly sounded to 
be a talkin to theirselves, or a passin blame on the t'others and 
not a talkin to us. We never knowd nothink. J never knowd 
what it wos all about." 

It takes him a long time to say this ; and few but an experienced 
and attentive listener could hear, or, hearing, understand him. 


After a short relapse into sleep or stupor, he makes, of a sudden, a 
strong effort to get out of bed. 
Stay, Jo, stay! What now?" 

" It's time for me to go to that there berryin-ground, sir," he re- 
turns with a wild look. ; 

"Lie down and tell me. What burying-groond, Jo?" 

" Where they laid him as wos werry good to me ; werry good to 
me indeed, he wos. It's time for me to go down to that berryin- 
ground, sir, and ask to be put along with him. I wants to go 
there and be berried. He used fur to say to me, ' I am as poor as 
you to-day, Jo,' he ses. I wants to tell him that I am as poor as 
him now, and have come there to be laid along with him." 

" By and by, Jo ; by and by." 

" Ah ! P'raps they wouldn't do it if I wos to go myself. But 
will you promise to have me took there, sir, and laid along with 

"I will, indeed." 

"Thankee, sir! Thankee, sir! They'll have to get the key of 
the gate afore they can take me in, for it's alius locked. A nd 
there's a step there, as I used fur to clean with my broom. . It's 
turned wery dark, sir. Is there any light a comin? " 

" It is coming fast, Jo." 

Fast. The cart is shaken all to pieces, and the rugged road is 
very near its end. 

"Jo, my poor fellow!" 

" I hear you, sir, in the dark, but I'm a gropin — a gropin— let 
me c,atch hold of your hand." 

"Jo, can you say what I say?" 

" I'll say anythink as you say, sir, for I knows it's good." 

"Our Father." 

"Our Father! — yes, that's wery good, sir." 

" Which art in Heaven." 

"Art in Heaven! Is the light a comin, sir?" 

"It is close at hand. Hallowed be thy name." 

" Hallowed be — thy — name ! " 

The light is come upon the dark, benighted way. Dead. 

Dead, your Majesty. Dead, my lords and gentlemen. Dead y 
Eight Eeverends and Wrong Keverends of every order. Dead, men 
and women, born with heavenly compassion in your hearts. And 
dying thus around us every day ! — Charles Dickens. 



1. 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 ! — Longfellow. 
2. And, lo ! from the heart of that far floating gloom, 

What gleams on the darkness so swan-like and white? 
Lo ! an arm and a neck, glancing up from the tomb ! — 

They battle — the man's with the element's might. 
It is he — it is he! — in his left hand behold, 
As a sign — as a joy ! — shines the goblet of gold ! — Schiller. 

3. And the boy ! He has seen the danger, 
And, shouting a wild alarm, 
He forces back the weight of the sea 
With the strength of his single arm. 

— Phosbe Cary. 

4. 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 ear : 
" Where is thy brother ? " — E. E. Edivards. 

5. Signor Antonio, many a time and oft, 
In the Kialto, you have rated me 
About my moneys and my usances : 

Still have I borne it with a patient shrug; 
For sufferance is the badge of all our tribe. 
You call me misbeliever, cut-throat, dog. 
And spat upon my Jewish gaberdine, 
And all for use of that which is mine own. 
(See Marmion and Douglass, page 223.) 


1. Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form 
Glasses itself in tempest — in all time — 


Calm or convulsed, in breeze, or gale, or storm, 
Icing the pole, or in the torrid shine, 
Dark heaving — boundless, endless, and sublime! 

— Byron. 
2. And it bubbles and seethes, and it hisses and roars, 

As when fire is with water commixed and contending ; 
And the spray of its wrath to the welkin up-soars, 
And flood upon flood hurries on, never ending; 
And, as with the swell of the far thunder-boom, 
Bushes roaringly forth from the heart of the gloom. 

— Schiller. 

8. Vain pomp and glory of the world, I hate ye : 
I feel my heart new opened. O ! how wretched 
Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors. 

— Shahpere. 
4. Massa's berry kind to Pompey ; 
But old darkey's happy heah, 
Whar he's tended corn and cotton 

For dese many a long gone yeah. 
Ober yonder Missis' sleeping — 

No one tends her grabe like me ; 
Mebbe she would miss the flowers 

She used to lub in Tennessee. — E. L. Beers. 

5. I heard a great voice of much people in heaven saying, Al- 
leluia ; salvation and glory, and honor, and power, unto the Lord 

our God. — Bible. 

(See Apostrophe to the Ocean, page 98.) 



1. She was dead. Dear, gentle, patient, noble Nell was dead. 
Her little bird — a poor slight thing, the pressure of a finger would 
have crushed — was stirring nimbly in its cage ; and the strong 
heart of its child mistress was mute and motionless forever. 

— Dickens. 

2. Ho, every one that thirsteth, come ye to the water, and he 
that hath no money, come ye, buy wine and milk, without money 
and without price. — Bible. 


3. The Sabbath-day was ending, in a village by the sea, 
The muttered benediction touched the people tenderly, 
And they rose to face the sunset in the glowing lighted west, 
And then hastened to their dwellings for God's blessed boon 
of rest. — 31. Farringham. 

4. Yet Love will dream and Faith will trust 
Since He who knows our need is just — 
That somehow, somewhere, meet we must. 

— Whittier, 

5. Each year shall give this apple-tree ' 
A broader flush of roseate bloom, 
A deeper maze of verdurous gloom, 
And loosen, when the frost-clouds lower, 
The crisp, brown leaves in thicker shower. 

— W. G. Bryant. 
6. O ! a wonderful stream is the river Time, 
As it runs through the realm of tears, 
With a faultless rhythm and a musical rhyme, 
And a boundless sweep and a surge sublime, 
As it blends with the Ocean of Years. 

There's a magical isle in the river of Time, 
Where the softest of airs are playing ; 

There's a cloudless sky and a tropical clime, 

And a song as sweet as a vesper chime, 
And the Junes with the roses are staying. 

And the name of that Isle is the Long Ago, 

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

There are trinkets and tresses of hair. 

There are fragments of song that nobody sings, 

And a part of an infant's prayer ; 
There's a lute unswept, and a harp without strings ;. 
There are broken vows and pieces of rings, 

And the garments that she used to wear. 

There are hands that are waved, when the fairy shore 
By the mirage is lifted in air; 


And we sometimes hear, through the turbulent roar, 
Sweet voices we heard in the days gone before, 
When the wind down the river is fair. 

O, remember for aye, be the blessed Isle, 

All the day of our life till night — 
When the evening comes with its beautiful smile, 
And our eyes are closing to slumber awhile, 

May that " Greenwood " of Soul be in sight. 


1. Dead, your Majesty. Dead, my lords and gentlemen. Dead 
Eight Keverends and Wrong Reverends of every order. Dead r 
men and women, born with heavenly compassion in your hearts. 
And dying thus around us every day. — Dickens. 

2. " Den we dot up and payd dest well as ur tood, 

And Dod answered our payers ; now wasn't He dood?" 

—S. P. Snow. 

3. Or ever the silver cord be loosed, or the golden bowl be 
broken, or the pitcher be broken at the fountain, or the wheel be 
broken at the cistern. Then shall the dust return to the earth as 
it was. — Bible. 

4. On ! On ! Courage ! 

One effort more, and all is won ! 

The stair is passed — the blazing hall is braved! 

Still on ! Yet on ! Once more ! Thank heaven, 

She's saved ! — R. T. Conrad. 

5. Another year has parted, and its knell 

Is sounding now o'er the past's silent ocean. 
Ah, it is an hour for tears ! There is a specter-form 
In memory's voiceless chambers, pointing now 
Its dim, cold finger to the beautiful 
And holy visions that have passed away, 
And left no shadow of their loveliness 
On the dead waste of life. — George D. Prentice, 

(See The Fall of Pemberton Mill, page 175.) 





For exercises see section first, Vocal Culture. 



1. 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 ever- 
lasting, thou art God. — Bible. 

2. Am I, who have lived but for my country, and who have 
subjected myself to the dangers of the jealous and watchful op- 
pressor, and the bondage of the grave, only to give my country- 
men their rights, and my country her independence, and am I to 
be loaded with calumny, and not suffered to resent or repel it? 
No, God forbid ! — Robert Ernmett. 

3. O, Cromwell, Cromwell ! 

Had I but served my God with half the zeal 
I served my king, he would not in mine age 
Have left me naked to mine enemies. — Shaksperc. 

4. I can still drink in the unshadowed 
Beauty of the universe, gaze with a 

Swelling soul upon the blue magnificence above, 
And hear the hymn of Heaven in every 
Starlight ray, and fill glen, hill, and vale, 
And mountain, with the bright and 
Glorious visions poured from the deep home 
Of an immortal mind. Past year, farewell/ 

5. Sir, before God, I believe the hour is come. My judgment 
approves this measure, and my whole heart is in it. All that 1 
have, and all that I am, and all that I hope, in this life, I am now 
ready here to stake upon it, and I leave off as 1 began, that, live 
or die, survive or perish, I am for the Declaration. — Daniel Webster. 

(See Apostrophe to the Ocean, page 98.) 




1. 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. — E. E. Evans. 

2. Dead, your majesty. Dead, my lords and gentlemen. Dead, 
Eight Eeverends and Wrong Eeverends of every order. Dead, men 
and women born with heavenly compassion in your hearts. And 
dying thus around us every day. — Dickens. 

3. Perishing gloomily, 
Spurred by contumely, 
Cold inhumanity, 
Burning insanity, 

Into her rest ! 
Cross her hands humbly, 
As if praying dumbly, 

Over her breast ! — Thomas Hood. 

4. And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting 
On the pallid bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door ; 
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is 

And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow 

on the floor; 
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the 

floor shall be lifted— nevermore. — E. A. Poe. 

5. Now a shroud of snow and silence over every thing was 

spread ; 
And but for this old blue mantle and the old hat on my 

I should not have even doubted, to this moment, I was dead, 
Por my footsteps were as silent as the snow upon the dead. 

—F. Wilson. 
(See On the Shores of Tennessee, page 219.) 


1. Tell me, ye bloody butchers ! Ye villains, high and low ! 
Ye wretches who contrived, as well as you who executed the inhu- 


man deed ! Do you not feel the goads and stings of conscious guilt 
pierce through your savage bosoms ? — John Hancock. 

2. Ay down to the dust with them, slaves as they are ! 

From this hour let the blood in their dastardly veins 
That shrunk from the first touch of liberty's war, 
Be sucked out by tyrants, or stagnate in chains ! 

— Thomas Moore. 
3. I loathe ye in my bosom, 
I scorn ye with my eye \\ 
I'll taunt ye with my latest breath, 

And fight ye 'till I die ! — G. W. Patten, 

4. Ay, down to the dust with them, slaves as they are ! 
From this hour let the blood in their dastardly veins, 
That shrunk from the first touch of Liberty's war, 
Be sucked out by tyrants, or stagnate in chains ! 

On, on like a cloud, through their beautiful vales, 

Ye locusts of tyranny ! blasting them o'er : 
Fill, fill up their wide, sunny waters, ye sails, 

From each slave mart in Europe, and poison their shore. 

May their fate be a mock-word — may men of all lands 
Laugh out with a scorn that shall ring to the poles, 

When each sword that the cowards let fall from their hands 
Shall be forged into fetters to enter their souls ! 

And deep, and more deep, as the iron is driven, 

Base slaves ! may the whet of their agony be 
To think — as the damned haply think of the heaven 

They had once in their reach — that they might have been free. 

Shame! shame! when there was not a bosom whose heat 
Ever rose o'er the zero of Castlereagh's heart, 

That did not, like echo, your war hymn repeat, 

And send back its prayers with your Liberty's start ! 

Shame ! shame ! that in such a proud moment of life, 
Worth ages of history — when, had you but hurled 

One bolt at your bloody invader, that strife 

Between freemen and tyrants had spread through the world I 

That then — O, disgrace upon manhood ! e'en then 

You should falter, — should cling to your pitiful breath, 


Cower down into beasts, when you might have stood men, 
And prefer a slave's life to a glorious death ! 

It is strange! — it is dreadful ! Shout, Tyranny, shout 

Through your dungeons and palaces. " Freedom is o'er" — 

If there lingers one spark of her fire, tread it out, 
And return to your empire of darkness once more. 

For if such are the braggarts that claim to be free, 

Come, Despot of Kussia, thy feet let me kiss ; 
Far nobler to love the brute bondman of thee, 

Than sully e'en chains by a struggle like this. 

— Thomas Moore. 


1. "There's a providence in it. It is foreordained. He never 
was sick before — never." — Mark Tivain. 

2. And den I tom'd home and eated my tea, 
And I tlim'd on grandpapa's knee, 
And I's 'des as tired as tired 'tan be. — F. B. Smith. 

3. Ho! Cravens! Do you fear him? Slaves! Traitors! have 

ye flown? 
Ho ! cowards ! have ye left me to meet him here alone 

— A. G. Greene. 

4. Well, why tan't we p'ay dus as mamma did den, 
And ast Dod to send him with p'esents aden? 

— Mrs. Snow. 

5. Help! Help! Will no one aid ? I die! I die! 

— R. T. Conrad. 
6. John Davison and Tibbie, his wife, 
Sat toastin' their taes ae nicht, 
When something starlit in the fluir, 
And blinkit by their sicht. 

" Guid wife," quoth John, " did ye see that moose ? 

Whar sorra was the cat ? " 
" A moose? " — "Ay, a moose." " Na, na, guid man — 

It was na a moose, 'twas a rat." 

" Ow, ow, guid wife, to think ye've been 
Sae lang aboot the hoose, 



An na to ken a moose frae a rat ! 
Yon was na a rat ! 'twas a moose." 

" I've seen mair mice than ye, guid man — 
An' what think ye o' that? 
Sae haud your tongue an' sae nae mair — 
I tell ye, it was a rat." 

" Me haud my tongue for ye, guid wife ! 
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, guid wife, gae mak' the brose r 
An' ca' it what ye please." 
So up she rose, and made the brose, 
While John sat toastin' his toes. 

They supit, and supit, and supit the brose r 

And aye their lips play'd smack, 
They supit, and supit, and supit the brose r 

Till their lugs began to crack. 

" Sic fules we were to fa' oot, guid wife, 
Aboot a moose " — "A what ? 
It's a lee ye tell, and I say again, 
It was na a moose, 'twas a rat ! " 

" Wad ye ca' me a leear to me very face ? 
My faith, but ye graw croose! 
I tell ye, Tib, I ne'er will bear 't— 
'Twas a moose ! " — " 'Twas a rat ! " — " 'Twas a moose ! : 

Wi' her spoon she strack him ower the pow — 

" Ye dour auld doit, tak' that — 
Gae to yere bed, ye canker'd sumph, 

'Twas a rat!" "'Twas a moose!" "'Twas a rat!" 

She sent the brose caup at his heels, 
As he hirpled ben the hoose ; 


Yet he shoved oot his head as he steepit the door, 
And cried, "'Twas a moose! 'twas a moose!" 

But when the carl was fast asleep, 

She paid him back for that, 
And roar'd into his sleepin' lug, 

" 'Twas a rat ! 'Twas a rat ! 'Twas a rat ! " 

The de'il be wi me if I think 

It was a beast ava ! — 
Neist mornin' as she sweepit the fluir, 

She found wee Johnnie's ba' ! 


1. Nur I can't see 

What's the use o' wings to a bumble-bee, 
Fur to git a livin' with, more'n to me ; — 
Ain't my business 
Important 's his'n is? — Trowbridge. 

2. Ye see, Ike was allers 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 allers 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. — Mrs. Stowe. 

1. And soldiers whisper: " Boys, be still ; 

There's some bad news from Grainger's folks ! " 

— Ethel Lynn. 
2. And the next thing I remember you were sitting there, and I — 
Doctor — did you hear a footstep? Hark ! God bless you all f 

Good-bye ! 
Doctor, please to give my .musket and my knapsack, when I die, 
To my son— my son that's coming — he won't get here till I die j 

— F. Wilson. 

3. " I hear you, sir, in the dark, but I'm a gropin — a gropin. 
Let me catch hold of your hand." — Dickens. 


4. " Here's the paper signed that frees you, 
Give a freeman's shout with me— 
'God and Union ' be our watchword 
Evermore in Tennessee ! " 
5. "And Barton, I wish you'd let the children come when I'm 
buried. They'll come, if you'll jest let 'em know. Always trust 
the children." • H. W. Beeeher. 

(See The Baron's Last Banquet, page 209.) 



After deducting action and attitude, about all that 
remains in reading and in speech, is the harmonizing 
of sound and sense. This harmony is secured through 
the modulations of the voice. 




r Slight. 

Moral Force. -J Moderate. 
( Much. 

r Slight. 
Volume. < Ordinary. 
I Full. 

f Eate. 
Time. < Quantity. 
( Pause. 



f Prolonged. 

Quantity. < Average. 
I Brief. 

■d f Syntactical. 

Pause -\Khetorical. 



Sepulchral sentiments, sentiments of awe, supersti- 
tion, secrecy, grief, overwhelming fear, inexpressible 
contempt, etc., require low pitch. 

1. We turn the pages that they read, 

Their written words we linger o'er, 
But in the sun they cast no shade, 
No voice is heard, no sign is made, 

No step is on the conscious floor ! — Whittier. 

2. And — when I am forgotten, as I shall be, and sleep in dull, 
cold marble/where no more mention of me more must be made of — 
say, I taught thee. Shahpere. 

3. Vanity of vanities, saith the Preacher. Vanity of vanities ; 
all is vanity. — Bible. 

4. For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come, 
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, 
Must give us pause ! — Shahpere. 

5. O, the long and dreary winter ! 
O, the cold and cruel winter ! 
Ever thicker, thicker, thicker, 
Froze the ice on lake and river. — Longfellow. 

Conversational, unemotional, plain narration, ordin- 
ary description, and similar sentiments, demand medium 

Exercises in Middle Key. 
1. There is that scattereth, and yet increaseth ; and there is that 
withholdeth more than is meet, but it tendeth to poverty. — Bible. 


2. The Sabbath day was ending in a village by the sea, 
The uttered benediction touched the people tenderly, 
And they rose to face the sunset in the glowing, lighted west. 
And then hastened to their dwellings for God's blessed boon 
of rest. — M. Farringham. 

3. Whatever the lagging, dragging journey may have been to 
the rest of the emigrants, it was a wonder and delight to the chil- 
dren—a world of enchantment. Mark Twain. 

4. On the first day of March it was, that Tommy Taft had been 
unquietly sleeping in the forenoon to make up for a disturbed 
night. — Beecher. 

5. Listeners, will you please cast your minds over the following 
lines and see if you can find anything harmful in them : 

Conductor, when you receive a fare, 

Punch in the presence of the passenjare. 
A blue-trip slip for an eight-cent fare, 
A buff-trip slip for a six-cent fare, 
A pink-trip slip for a three-cent fare — 
Punch in the presence of the passenjare. 

— Mark Twain. 
(See The Literary Nightmare, page 235.) 

Sentiments of joy, spirituality, intense excitement,, 
exaltation, calling, command, fright, rage, etc., should 
be given in high key. 

Exercises in High Key. 

1. Hurrah ! Hurrah ! a single field hath turned the chance of 

Hurrah ! Hurrah ! for Ivry and King Henry of Navarre. 

— Macaulay. 

2. Give thanks, for your son has saved our land, 

And God has saved his life ! — Phoebe Caiy. 

3. Were I Brutus, and Brutus Antony, 
There were an Antony would ruffle up 
Your spirits, and put a tongue in 
Every wound of Csesar, that should 
Move the stones of Eome, to rise and mutiny. 

— Shakspere. 


4. ! you and I have heard our fathers say, 

There was a Brutus once, that would have brook'd 

The eternal devil to keep his state in Home, 

As easily as a king. — Shakspere. 

5. " Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend ! " I shriek'd, 

upstarting — 
" Get thee back into the tempest and Night's Plutonian shore ! 
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath 



Leave my loneliness unbroken — quit the bust above my 

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from 

off my door! " 
(For full selection, see "Battle of Ivry.") 


The two may coincide. Many times they do not. 
There are those who, while putting forth prodigious 
physical effort, render themselves only ridiculous or 
disgusting, because they are wanting in moral power. 

Again, there are those who are almost faultless in 
their artistic methods, but lack a living, breathing, 
vivifying soul. They can not move or magnetize the 

Earnestness, honesty, fervor, can not prudently dis- 
pense with art, learning, law, but were we driven to a 
choice we would say — give us the first named trinity. 

One may be earnest and honest, while at the same 
time he may be awkward and inefficient. A man may 
be honest and yet in error. 

Hence we would urge that all his warmth, and glow, 
and impetuosity, be put under the dominion of an in- 
telligent, educated spirit. For convenience, we will 
make the same illustrations serve both forms of force. 


f Great Moral Force. 
\ Subdued Physical Force. 
1. How like a fawning publican he looks ! 
I hate him, for he is a Christian, 


But more for that, in low simplicity, 

He lends out money gratis, and brings down 

The rate of usance here with us in Venice. — Shakspere. 

f Full Physical Force. 
\ Slight Moral Force. 
2. Let me play the fool : 

With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come, 

And let my liver rather heat with wine 

Than my heart cool with mortifying groans. — Shakspere. 

J Full Physical Force. 
I Full Moral Force. 

3. The blood which you seek is not congealed by the artificial 
terrors which surround your victim ; it circulates warmly and un- 
ruffled through the channels which God created for noble purposes, 
but which you are bent to destroy for purposes so grievous that 
they cry out to heaven. — Robert Emmett. 

f Slight Physical Force. 
\ Slight Moral Force. 

4. Love is merely a madness, and I tell you, deserves as well a 
dark house and a whip as madmen do ; and the reason why they 
are not so punished and cured is, that the lunacy is so ordinary 
that the whippers are in love too. — Shakspere's Rosalind. 

Physically, sentiments of majesty, dignity, heroism, 
dramatic fire, unbridled rage, stern command, shouting, 
calling aloud, etc., demand full force. The expression 
of intense passion, good or ill, demands much force. 

Moderation, in all its forms, would call for medium 
moral or physical force. 

Sentiments serene, reposeful, connected, trivial, play- 
ful, unemotional, would call for little physical force. 
Oppressiveness, exhaustion, the sepulchral, the super- 
stitious, the awe-inspiring, the secretive, the pathetic, 
etc., demand a subdued form of force 


The power to convince, or please, or persuade, is not 
always in proportion to the amount of noise that is 
made. There may be great volume with indistinct 


articulation, in which case the speaker aggravates this 
fault by his largeness of volume. There may be great 
volume with little sense, when this volume serves only 
as a background upon which nonsense may stand out 
in bold relief. There are those who do not believe in 
law ; who make a great plea for unpruned effort ; who 
think that when the crisis comes — a great noise, 
backed by what they are pleased to style divine afflatus, 
will carry everything. This is the argument of in- 
dolence and ignorance. Of no other profession do 
they reason so foolishly. If an arm be broken, they 
do not send for the divine afflatus man, who has been 
idly awaiting a crisis. Xo, a man will be called who 
is educated in surgery. Do they go to sea, they want 
a pilot who has learned the road, and who knows how 
to handle the wheel. They will have no engineer who 
has not served a strict apprenticeship. The use of 
good language, in good rhetorical order, in good voice, 
with skilled delivery, is as much the outgrowth of 
training and education, as is the use of scalpel, or 
plane, or telescope. 



1. Ah, my boy, you're back again; it's all right now. Don't 
you let me go wrong. I want you to tell me just where you're 
goin' and I'll bear right up for that port. — H. W. Beecher. 

2. I hear it faintly ; louder jet ! What clogs my heavy breath ? 
Up, all ! and shout for Kudiger. Defiance unto death ! 

— A. G. Greene. 
3. And den I jumped wiv my 'ittle jump-rope, 
An' I made out of some water an' soap 
Bootiful worlds, mamma's tastles of hope. — F. B. Smith. 
4. " Jessie tired, mamma ; good-night, papa ; Jessie see you in 
the morning." 

■5. " I hear you, sir, in the dark, but I'm gropin' — a gropin' — let 
me catch hold of your hand." 

'For selection in full, containing slight volume, see "Death of 
Little Joe," page 100.) 




1. The cricket dwells in the cold, cold ground, 

At the foot of the old oak tree, 
And all through the lengthened autumn night 

A merry song sings he. — Anonymous. 

2. And the name of this 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 — Oh ! we love them so — 
And there are trinkets and tresses of hair. 

—B. F. Taylor. 
3. Near by that spring, upon an elm, you know, I cut your 
Your sweetheart's just beneath it, Tom, and you did mine the 

Some heartless wretch has peeled the bark, 'twas dying 

sure but slow, 
Just as she died, whose name you cut, some forty years ago. 

4. To supper at last the farmer goes. 
The apples are pared, the paper read, 
The stories are told, then all to bed. 
"Without, the cricket's ceaseless song 
Makes shrill the silence all night long ; 

The heavy dews are falling. 

— J. T. Trowbridge. 

5. 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. 

— J. T. Trowbridge, 
(See Gray's Elegy, page 161.) . 


1. And rearing Lindis backward pressed, 

Shook all her trembling banks amaine, 
Then madly at the eygre's breast, 
Flung up her weltering walls again. — Jean Ingelow. 


2. And it lashed, and shook, and tore them, 

Till they thundered, groaned, and boomed, 
And, alas ! for any vessel 

In their yawning gulfs entombed. — M. Farmingham. 
3. 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? — E. E. Edwards. 
4. And the boy ! He has seen the danger, 
And, shouting a wild alarm, 
He forces back the weight of the sea 

With the strength of his single arm. — Phoebe Gary. 
5. You do me honor over much ; you have given to the subal- 
tern all the credit of a superior. There are men engaged in this 
conspiracy who are not only superior to me, but even to your own 
•conception of yourself, my Lord. — Robert Emmett. 

(See Apostrophe to the Ocean, page 98.) 


In reading and speaking, rate plays an important 
part. As there may be monotony of tone, and poverty 
of gesture, so there may be a lulling sameness of rate. 
A one-rate talk for a few minutes, acts as a powerful 
narcotic on the listener. We give life and warmth to 
utterance by the infinite variations of rate. 

Sentiments of great dignity, of majesty, of pomp- 
osity, of grandeur, of awe, of solemnity, of heroism, 
•etc., demand deliberate rate. 

The sentiments before defined as occupying the 
middle ground, will likewise come under the head of 
moderate rate. 

Sentiments of an exciting, of a joyful, of a nervous 
nature — sentiments showing sudden change of scenery 
or action, etc., call for rapid delivery. 



1. If the spirits of the illustrious dead participate in the con- 
cerns and cares of those who are dead to them in this transitory 


life, O, ever dear and venerated shades of my departed father, look 
down with scrutiny upon the conduct of your suffering son. 

— Robert Emmett. 

2. Henceforward, listen as we will, 
The voices of that hearth are still ; 
Look where we may, the wide earth o'er. 

Those lighted faces smile no more. — Whittier. 

3. 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. — Longfellow. 

4. All was ended now, the hope, and the fear, and the sorrow,. 
All the aching of heart, the restless, unsatisfied longing, 
All the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish of patience ! 
And as she pressed once more the lifeless head to her bosom,, 
Meekly she bowed her own, and murmured, " Father, I thank 

thee ? " — Longfellow. 

5. To die, — to sleep; — 

To sleep ! — perchance to dream — aye, there's the rub ! 
For, in that sleep of death, what dreams may come. 
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, 
Must give us pause. — Shakspere* 



1. But the singer feels it will better suit the ballad, 

If all should deem it right, 
To tell the story as if what it speaks of 

Had happened but last night. — F. Wilson* 

2. Talk of something that's nobler than living, 

Of a love that is higher than mine, 
And faith which has planted its banner 

Where the heavenly camp-fires shine. — H. L. Bostwick 

3. There's a Magical Isle up the river Time, 

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

And the Junes with the roses are straying. 

—B. F. Taylor, 


4. A-sought-everywhere, young girl ; 
A-future-most fair, young girl ; 
An ever discreet, 
We too seldom meet, 
This-queen-among-queens, young girl. 

— Virgil A. Pinkley. 

5. The heavens declare the glory of God; and the firmament 
showeth his handiwork. Day unto day uttereth speech, and night 
unto night sheweth knowledge. — Bible. 


1. She saw a gallant ship 

Aflame from deck to topmast, 
Aflame from stem to stern ; 
For there seemed no speck 
On all that wreck 
Where the fierce fire did not burn. 

2. Quick, brightening like lightning, it bore me along, 
Down, down, till the gush of a torrent at play, 
In the rock of its wilderness caught me— and strong 
As the wings of an eagle it whirled me away. 

— Schiller. 

3. See how fast you pass that point ! Up with the helm ! Now 
turn ! Pull hard ! Quick ! Quick ! Quick ! Pull for your lives ! 
Pull till the blood starts from your nostrils and the veins stand 
like whip-cords on your brow. — John B. Gough. 

4. Morgan's men are coming, Frau ; 
They're galloping on this way. 
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. 



5. " For evil news from Meblethorpe, 

Of pyrate galleys warping downe ; 
For shippes ashore beyond the scorpe, 

They have not spared to wake the towne. 
But while the west bin red to see, 
And storms be none, and pyrates flee, 
Why ring ' The Brides of Enderby.' " — Jean Ingelow. 

Rate is the time in which a collection of words is read. 


Quantity is time as applied to the utterance of a 
word or a part of a word. 

Words which, in themselves, signify continuity, 
prolongation, immensity, deliberation, gravity, pon- 
derosity, etc., would be dwelt upon, e. g., boundless, 
invincible, infinite, eternal, everlasting, requiem, lin- 
gering, languishing. 

There are other words which, by their very nature, 
suggest quick quantity, e. g., quick, cut, snap, whip, 
whirl, jump, run. 

Words occupying the ground midway between these 
two extremes should be given moderate quantity. 


Upward Slide. 

Downward Slide. 

The Combined Slide, 
Wave or Circumflex. 


Double dealing. 
[ Tantalization. 


Slide is the most generally abused element in the 
whole realm of elocution. It is of all the graces of 
oratory, the most spirituelle. After key, and force, and 
quantity, and rate have done all they can do, in steps 
slide and gives the finishing touch ; puts upon the entire 
effort the seal of certainty, and the listener remains 
no longer in doubt as to your meaning. 

A rhetorical pause is one made by the speaker. It 
is tongue punctuation. By it is made lucid what, 
otherwise, to the listener would remain meaningless. 
Rhetorical pauses appeal to the ear. A grammatical 
pause is one made by the writer or printer. It is pen 
punctuation. It decides the syntactical relationship 
of language. It appeals to the eye. 



Gesture is position or motion expressive of thought. 
Gesture is, to a large degree, anticipative. It should 
usually serve as a prelude to the voice. By it the 
listener should be informed of the nature of what is 
to follow. Thus a speaker may put his audience at 
the greatest ease, and himself in their highest favor. 

There are times when the nature of the sentiment 
demands that gesture shall accompany,- and not precede. 
Again, the sentiments call on gesture to follow it. 

In the command, " Get thee behind me, Satan ! " a 
backward, repellant action of the hand should precede 
the delivery of the words. 

In this phrase, "On yonder jutting cliff," the action 
should accompany utterance, and the gesture should 
reach its culmination as the word "jutting" is reached. 


To culminate sooner would be premature ; a later cul- 
mination would be inexcusable tardiness. 

After the deluge — what ? After this question may 
quite properly come a gesture of interrogation in the 
face and attitude. 

( Preparation, 
The parts of a Gesture are : \ Consummation, 
( Return. 

In a series of gestures, there is, between prepara- 
tion and consummation, an impulse at the wrist. After 
the last consummation in a series comes the first return. 
As a rule, no discernable pause should be made be- 
tween the parts of gesture. 

Sometimes the preparation will carry the hand to a 
very little height ; sometimes to a great height, and to 
all points between. 

" In the rippling Tennessee," would lift the hand 
but slightly, while the consummation would bear it a 
trifle lower in a wave-like movement. The return, 
in this case, would follow the sentence. 

" Lord Angus, thou hast lied," would bear the hand 
to the face in preparation. 

Gestures are made in straight 
lines to denote : 







f Joy, 
Gestures are made in curves to epose, 

denote: \ G° r f c e e ntment ' 

I Beauty, 
[ Veneration. 

Gestures, according to senti- ( Conversational, 
ment, are divided into ■ -| Oratoric, 



Conversational Gestures call for a limited area of 
action, and should center at the elbow. 

Oratoric and Dramatic Gestures pass through a 


broad field of movement, and should center at the 

Highly Impassioned. 
Intensely Active, 
f Elbow, 
Pivot of Action, -J Shoulder, 
(. Shoulder. 

Given — Conv. Sent, to find the other three. They 
are: 1. Elbow Action. 2. Unimp. Fac. Exp. 3. 
Passive Position. 

Let the instructor experiment with his pupils, until 
they can readily deduce the three unknown, as soon as 
the one is known. 

The only query which will puzzle is this — Given, 
Shoulder Action, to find the others. They can not tell 
whether the sentiment calling for such action is Ora- 
torio or Dramatic, until a second point be given. 

I will add another, and the pupil, or reader, may find 
the remaining points. The position required is active. 

{Upward, or Torrid. 
Middle, or Temperate. 
Downward, or Frigid. 

Upward Zone for 

Middle Zone for 

Descending Zone for 

The light, 
The joyous, 
The bright, 
The animated, 
The inspirational. 

Plain conversation, 

Plain narration, 

Unemotional language, 












The ascending gesture is used for the location of all 
objects, real or imaginary, material or ethereal, lying 
above the middle plane. 

The middle gesture is used for the location of all 
objects, real or imaginary, located in the horizontal 

The descending gesture is used for the location of all 
objects, real or imaginary, lying below the horizontal 

To the realm of the imagination belong ascending 
gestures. To the realm of reason belong middle move- 
ments. To the realm of determination belong descend- 
ing gestures. 

Ascension of action for the spiritual. Horizontal 
action for the moral. Descending action for debase- 

f Front, 
Directions are, feue, 

[_ Olique — Backward. 

As a rule, emphasis carries action to the front- 
Slightly generalizing, would extend the movement 
obliquely. The greatest breadth is indicated by the 
full-arm, lateral movement. Remoteness, indistinct- 
ness, scorn, repulsion, distrust, are shown by the back- 
ward-oblique action. 

The gesture takes its name from its termination. If 
it ends at the side it is lateral. If it ends upward it is 

It may flourish never so much, but terminating in 
the middle plane it is a horizontal gesture. 


The movements of the head should not be perpetual- 


{Concentric — inward, 
Eccentric — outward. 




f Determination, 
Concave Lips, j f^y, 

[ Physical pain. 




Condition of. j *£«£ 
[ Apart. 

f Fright, 
Eigid in. < Abhorrence, 
(. Repulsion. 

f Sorrow, 
[ Resignation. 
Apart m.i Excitement) 

f Grief, 
TWtherin \ Companionship, 
logetnerm.i Oppressiveness, 



f Open, 

lition of . -I ' 

Condition of. < Clinched, 

i. Index Finger. 


f Frankness, 

" * 1 Salutation, 

t Generalization. 

f Anger, 

Clinched in. \ V^nce, 

[ Emphasis. 



f Plain reasoning, 
| Unornamented discourse. 
Supine in. ] Infinitude, 
I Generosity, 
[ Ordinary conversation. 

f Death, 
j Destruction, 
-d • Burial, 







A single arm movement may combine all three, e. g. y 
u On yonder jutting cliff." By the direction of the in- 
dex-finger on the word "jutting" we locate the cliff. 

By the jutting of the finger, a description of the cliff 
is made. 

The strength of the gesture conveys emphasis. Any 
two of these purposes may be exemplified by a single 
gesture, e. g., " The ring-dove's notes were mingled 


with the rippling Tennessee." The extended arm will 
locate the river, and the vibratory action will illustrate 
the rippling of the waters. A single purpose may be 
served by a single gesture ; e. g., "See that horse." The 
index-finger in this case simply locates. 

Gestures are {compound. 

The examples above belong to the class of Simple 

An admirable illustration of the compound or Serial 
Gesture is the following : " 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, and I have 
thought of other lands, whose storms were 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," etc. 


On the word "'jutting" the index-finger movement 
culminates; when the w 7 ord "flat" is uttered the hand 
has opened and lies prone in the ascending plane. 
"And while gust" moves the hand from its position 
to the left and back to position, with a sweeping ac- 
tion. "Followed gust" calls for the last gesture em- 
phasized. "More furiously," a re-repetition, with ad- 
ditional emphasis. "As if to sweep me o'er the horrid 
brink," with the right hand same movement as before, 
while the left joins it in its final forward sweep, the 
fingers of both hands somewhat curved and pendant, 
as though conscious of the peril beyond. "And I 
have thought of other lands," both hands brought to 
a lateral-supine position. "Whose storms are summer 
flaws," both hands prone, lifted horizontally and 
pushed forward and aside. "And just have wished me 


there/' a continuation of the last into a supine, for- 
ward, longing movement of both hands. " The thought 
that mine was free," an ascending flight with both 
hands, climaxing in "free." "Has checked," both 
hands clinched and driven downward. "And I have 
raised my head" — at this point the hands return to rest 
for the first time since their initial movement. 

We have what is called flight of the voice. On 
such occasions, if gestures are demanded, they must 
keep exact pace with the vocal flight, and the two must 
culminate simultaneously. 


Eight foot advanced bearing the weight. 
Left " " " " " 

Eight " retired " " " 

Left " " " " " 

Both feet bearing the weight — 

f Enthusiasm, 

The advanced foot bears the weight in -J g ecrecy ' 

{ Pers 

I H 
The retired foot bears the weight in 

f Dignity, 
I Haughtiness, 

f Eepose, 
Both feet bear the weight in ^5 

[ Unemotional sentiments. 


These come under no law and are intuitional. A 
few instances will suffice to call to mind a multitude. 
The stamping of the foot — the wringing of the hands — 
the shrugging of the shoulders — the winking of the 
eye — the tossing of the head. 


deesarte's system of gesture. 

Loud claims, made by a few instructors in the 
country, are heard running thus: "I teach the Del- 
sarte System of Gesture;" "Prof. ( 8o and So' is the 
only teacher of the Delsarte System of Gesture." The 
probabilities are, that those who make such claims^ 
know as little, and teach as little of the great Delsarte, 
as those who are valiant enough to have a system of 
gesture of their own, drawn from all available sources, 
Delsarte, like many who preceded, and many who shall 
follow, was of human origin, and could doubtless say,, 
in common with us all, "to err is human." His "Art 
of Oratory" is a highly original work, and well worth 
more than a single perusal. 

After noting a few, at least seeming, contradictions 
in his work, we will make a condensed summary of his 
most valuable " System of Gesture." 

seeming absurdities. 

" If a friend promises me a service with his thumb 
drawn in, he deceives." 

"Consonants and vowels are gestures." 

" Force is always opposed to power." 

The man who was kicked by a mule, thinks this an 
exception to the above rule. 

" Mediocre speakers are always trying to enrich their 

" If you embrace me without elevating the should- 
ers, you are a Judas." He might have added : If you 
embrace me by elevating the shoulders, you are a Jew. 

" A cry is not a gesture." 

"A smile is a gesture." 

"Speech is inferior to gesture." 

"An audience must not be supposed to resemble an 

" If we possess nine, we possess twenty millions, 
which are no more than nine." 


"The shoulder, like all the agents, has three, hence 
nine distinct phases." 

" Haste is in inverse ratio to emotion." 

" Silence is the speech of God." So is noise. The 
thunder, no less than the dew-drop, speaks of God. 

"When a thing is true from one point of view, it is 
from all." 

" If a man's shoulders are raised very decidedly, we 
may know he is decidedly impressed." Perhaps, unless 
he's a Jew or a Frenchman. 

"The shoulder is one of the great powers of the 
orator." Yes, if he be Jew or French. 

" Liars do not elevate their shoulders to the required 

How can they lie, then? A Jew can raise his shoul- 
der to the required degree without lying, I suppose. 

Some of the foregoing statements, although startling 
and original, are entirely too broad; others are abso- 
lutely absurd. 


" The movements of the eye are between eight and 
nine hundred." 

" There are eighty-one movements of the hand im- 
possible to the face." 

If one more should ever be discovered or added, it 
will disarrange Delsarte's — "three and multiples of 
three" — foundation for everything in oratory. 

" The head and hand can not act simultaneously to 
express the same sentiment." 

" Movement must begin with the face." 

The infant is master of "four million inflections ere he 
can speak or gesticulate." The author had, perhaps been 
walking the floor the night before with a "colicky" babe. 

"There are precisely four million movements of the 
different agents of the arm." Although he uses the 
word precisely, one gesture, more or less, would not 
materially affect the estimate. 



"But one gesture is needed for the expression ^ 
of an entire thought." 

" When there are two gestures in the same idea, > 
one of them must come before the proposition ; the 
other in its midst." 

j " Gesture must always precede speech." ) 

\ " The other gesture in its midst." j 

!"Men of small brain habitually carry their 1 
heads high." I 

" Soldiers and men of robust physique carry j 
their heads high." J 

( " A demonstration of affection is not made with } 
< a forward movement." V 

( "The hand extends toward the beloved object."} 


Man says what he feels by inflection, what he loves 
by gesture, what he thinks by words. 

Gesture must be studied. Gesture has brought joy 
to thousands of deaf mutes. 

Gesture is the direct agent of the heart, the inter- 
preter of speech. Gestrue and inflection should har- 
monize. Sound is gesture of the larynx. Consonants 
and vowels are gestures of the mouth. Gestures are 
the product of the myological apparatus. Gestures, 
not ideas, move the masses. Gesture is magnetic; 
speech is not. Gesture is anticipative ; it makes lis- 
tening easy. Gesture suggests ; speech confirms. The 
sense is not in the words, it is in the inflection and 
gesture. When one speaks to others he advances; 
when to himself he recedes. 

T Contemplation, 
I Soliloquy, 
Betroaction in \ Distrust, 
I Fear, 
L Disgust. 


f Aggressiveness, 

Advancement in \ Anticipate 


In portraying sentiment, to carry the hand to the 
heart is oratorical crime. 


The Static treats of Laws of Gesture - 

Opposition of Forces, 
Opposition of Forces for Equilibrium. 

The man of intellect ges%ires with the head. 

The man of soul gestures with the shoulders. 

The man of vital temperament gestures with his 

Gesture should be so easy and truthful as to attract 
no attention. The suspension or prolongation of a 
movement is one of the great sources of effect. 

One effect must not counteract another. Without 
knowledge of law incoherence is inevitable, hence rules 
are indispensable. When the principles are known, 
each one must apply them in accordance with his own 

There is no freedom outside of law. Without law 
we could learn only by imitation. 

The Dynamic Apparatus is I Torso, 
(. Limbs. 


f Resignation, 

n 4, • -ex j Reflection, 

Concentric Head, j DouR 

[ Shame. 



Eccentric Head. 







C Vision, 

The Agents of the Eye. < Pupil, 


f Repulsion, 
Concentric, or lowered in^ f^arrassment, 
(, Soliloquy. 

f Contentment, 

-vr i Candor, 

Normal. Innoc ^ cy) 

t Generosity. 





f Sensualism, 

•Convex or Eccentric Face. \ boldness, 

t Self-sufficiency. 



; Vital Temperament, 


f Intellectual, 
Frontal or Forehead Zone. \ T. 00 .: ca i ' 
[ Mental. 

f Thoracic, 
Torso or Trunk, -J Epigastric, 
( Abdominal. 

Thoracic Belt. j^™' 
Epigastric Bel, { |— • 

f Concentric, 

Abdominal Belt. { S( 

Chest. -J Normal, 
I Eccentric. 

f Grief, 

Concentric, or Collapsed Chest, -J Fright, 


Eccentric, or Inflated Chest, -j ^™™y" d ' 
[ Defiance. 

The eccentric or convex chest is the sign of one who 


The concentric or concave chest is the sign of one 
Yv^ho receives. 

f Fingers, 
| Hand, 
| Wrist, 
Movements of the Arm are : ■{ Elbow, 

| Fore-arm, 
| Shoulder, 
[_ Full-arm. 


The wrist is concentric when the extensor muscles 
are in action. 

The wrist is normal when at rest. 

The wrist is eccentric when the flexor muscles are 
in action. 

{Dorsal aspect, 
Palmer aspect, 
Digital aspect. 



Position of I 3 - Weight upon the advaneed f ^ntZ^' 
Lower Limbs. ( Secrecy. 

f Exhaustion, 

5. Feet parallel. { "rLee. 

6. One foot behind the other. { °JW 

Gesture is the melody of the eve. Inflection is the 
melody of the ear. Speech is the crown of oratorical 
action. Speech elucidates and justifies gesture. The 
face first suggests. Gesture confirms the face. Speech 
clinches both. 

P. S. While this synopsis is founded on the system 


of Delsarte, the arrangement of the material is mine, 
and the writer has taken the liberty to make many ad- 

For selections on which to drill in Gesture, see 
" Speech of Cassius," " Hamlet's Soliloquy," " On the 
Shores of Tennessee," and " The Battle of Ivry." 


With these the writer closes the chapter and this di- 
vision of the work. 

The grandest gift of God to man is — voice. 

The voice in speech is power, than which there is 
none other so potent. At the summit of human 
achievement towers eloquence. The king of arts is 
Oratory. Would you convince the judgment, control 
the conscience, guide the heart — the voice is the royal 
road thereto. 


To the eye his manner appeals. To the ear his voice 

The eye and the ear are the outposts to the riches of 
the spiritual world within. 

How important, then, that clergymen should give at- 
tention to speech and action. 

No man has any moral right to inflict upon an au- 
dience a ragged, jagged, diluted voice. No leader of 
the people can righteously neglect his pronunciation, 
or articulation, or grammatical construction, or rhe- 
torical arrangement. 

Emotion, sympathy, sincerety, soul— better to have 
these and lack the art, than to possess the highest art 
and be deficient in these. Far better yet, to combine 
them all. 

Europe has her culture, her refinement, her schools 
of elocution and dramatic art. America will not fail 
to put herself abreast the times. 



This is a practical age. One of the first questions 
is, "Will it pa) 7 ?" In the legal profession, the art of 
Delivery carries with it so great and patent a money 
value that 'twere idle to discuss the question. The 
houses of Congress know this, and her leading mem- 
bers act accordingly. 

Prominent lawyers in every large city know this, 
and their success is largely due to their attention to 
details of delivery. 

The country at large is rapidly realizing the same 
fact, and the demand for master instructors in the art 
is growing great. 

Salesmen are learning this, and the increased skill 
with which they handle their wares is the sequel. 

Auctioneers have learned the same and thrive, phys- 
ically and financially, therefrom. 

Boole and Beecher, of Brooklyn ; Blaine, of Maine, 
and our orators of greatest power, the country over, 
are not so much the possessors of supernatural gifts, as 
they are men endowed with the genius of industry and 
modesty that makes them learners. 

With no exception, they have given careful attention 
to the " little things" that constitute the cultured speaker. 
Good ground and good seed, are not enough to grow a 
bountiful harvest. The manner of its sowing is of no 
little moment. Drop the grain in a heap, and it smoth- 
ers out its own life, through the richness of its profu- 
sion. Profound knowledge is of little worth, except 
as it may be made communicable to others. 


"I have a weak throat which is in constant irrita- 
tion," says one. 

Then, I would say, quit congesting the throat and 
put the labor of speech on the body muscle. Best is 
the great restorative. The throat will thus get well. 


"I am troubled with my lungs," says another* 
Whisper in his ear this fact — there is no relief so sure 
as through deep inspiration of pure air and right use 
of the voice in singing and in speech. 

Does he tell you he is timid ? Tell him he is fortu- 

Timidity, impetuosity, imagination, soul, are the four 
corner stones of successful speech. When they are 
put under the dominion of an intelligent spirit they 
are irresistible. 

If he tells you he can not afford it, tell him he can 
not afford to neglect it. It pays to prepare for broader 

Every dollar so expended is a seed dropped into 
good ground that will bear an hundred-fold. 

Are you told that it is a gift of nature, and is pres- 
ent at birth ? Nature presents us at birth with an av- 
erage of less than eight pounds avoirdupois, and a brain 
almost blank. From that moment all is acquisition. 
Inclination, adaptation, may be a God-given inherit- 
ance, but what we shall grow to, or become, is a prob- 
lem left for each one to solve for himself. 

We may be born with capacity, but not with con- 
tents. Hence the need of training and of culture; of 
imitation of the good, and not the bad. Does he ex- 
claim, " Be natural." If he means be correct, be God- 
like, — we subscribe. If he means be natural in the 
sense in which Indians, swine, knots on a tree, ex- 
crescences on the body, are natural, — we object. 

If he means a naturalness that is the outgrowth of 
ignorance and indolence, we object. Native simplicity 
is a charming quality, when based on right. Natural- 
ness, in its higher sense, is something to be sought, and, 
when found in accord with law, its unconsciousness 
stamps upon it the highest type of naturalness. He 
deceives himself who thinks he may daily drawl his 
words ; speak unseemly English ; outrage diction, pro- 
nunciation, articulation ; live in ignorance of dignified 


or graceful action, and, then, when the crises come, be 
able to do all things well under present pressure. Do 
these things right, habitually, and, in the heat of im- 
passioned speech, they will unconsciously take care of 
themselves. He, only, who does this, can afford to 
become self- forgetful. 

The infant learns to walk after many falls and squalls. 

A man with empty hands may fail to lift a weight ; 
w^ith a lever the thing may be easily done. The voice 
is the weight to be lifted ; but with a strained, congested 
throat, and idle waist, if lifted at all, it is with dire dis- 
tress. Given ; — a leverage on the muscles of the waist, 
and the work is done with ease and grace. 

Ninety-nine of every hundred will analyze more cor- 
rectly than they can execute. The intellect says, 
" that passage should be read in low key." Voice says 
"cant." Elocutionary training cuts off the "t," and 
"can" remains. This gives us a glimpse of the value 
of vocal culture. 

There are those who say, "We will read some work 
on elocution and save tuition ! " One might read all 
that has ever been written on swimming, and thereafter 
drown on the first exposure to water. 

Instruction from the lips of the living, is essential to 
the understanding and right application of what is 
found in the books. There are a multitude of little 
defects, of which we should never become conscious, 
save through the candid criticism of some one who is 
employed to observe and make them known. 

If an inferior or a peer should observe, and volun- 
tarilly tell us of them, we would repel or reproach 
them for their hardihood. It requires all our grace, to 
accept them at the hands of an acknowledged leader. 

Hoping that, through what has been written, many 
may add to their physical, mental, moral, and spiritual 
store, the writer modestly subscribes himself. 


Cincinnati, 0., Nov. 28, 18S3. 




I've wandered to the village, Tom, 

I've sat beneath the tree, 
Upon the school-house playing-ground, 

That sheltered you and me ; 
But none were left to greet me, Tom, 

And few were left to know, 
Who played with us upon the green 

Just forty years ago. 

The grass was just as green, Tom, 

Barefooted boys at play, 
Were sporting just as we did then, 

With spirit just as gay. 
But master sleeps upon the hill, 

Which, coated o'er with snow, 
Afforded us a sliding-place 

Some forty years ago. 

The old school-house is altered some, 

The benches are replaced 
By new ones, very like the same 

Our jack-knives had defaced; 
But the same old bricks are in the wall, 

And the bell swings to and fro, 
Its music's just the same, dear Tom, 

'Twas forty years ago. 

The boys were playing some old games 
Beneath that same old tree; 

I do forget the name just now — 
You've played the same with me 



On that same spot; 'twas played with knives 

By throwing so and so; 
The loser had a task to do 

There forty years ago. 

The river's running just as still, 

The willows on its side 
Are larger than they were, Tom ; 

The stream appears less wide ; 
But the grapevine swing is missing now, 

Where once we played the beau, 
And swung our sweethearts— pretty girls — 

Just forty years ago. 

The spring that bubbled 'neath the hill, 

Close by the spreading beach, 
Is very low ; 'twas once so high 

That we could scarcely reach ; 
And kneeling down to take a drink, 

Dear Tom, I started so, 
To think how very much I've changed 

Since forty years ago. 

Near by the spring upon an elm, 

You know I cut your name, 
Your sweatheart's just beneath it, Tom, 

And you did mine the same. 
Some heartless wretch had peeled the bark ; 

'Twas dying sure but slow, 
Just as she died whose name you cut 

There forty years ago. 

My lids have long been dry, Tom, 

But tears came in my eyes; 
I thought of her I loved so well, 

Those earthly broken ties. 
I visited the old church-yard, 

And took some flowers to strew 
Upon the graves of those we loved 

Just forty years ago. 

Some are in the church-yard laid, 

Some sleep beneath the sea; 
But none are left of our old class 

Excepting you and me. 
And when our time shall come, Tom, 

And we are called to go, 
I hope we'll meet with those we loved 

Some forty years ago. 



It was many and many a year ago, 

In a kingdom by the sea, 
That a maiden there lived, whom you may know 

By the name of Annabel Lee ; 
And this maiden she lived with no other thought 

Than to love, and be loved by me. 

I was a child, and she was a child, 

In this kingdom by the sea ; 
But we loved with a love that was more than love, 

I and my Annabel Lee — 
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven 

Coveted her and me. 

And this was the reason that, long ago, 

In this kingdom by the sea, 
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling 

My beautiful Annabel Lee ; 
So that her high-born kinsmen came 

And bore her away from me, 
To shut her up in a sepulchre 

In this kingdom by the sea. 

The angels, not half so happy in heaven, 

Went envying her and me, 
Yes! that was the reason (as all men know, 

In this kingdom by the sea) 
That the wiud came out of the cloud by night, 

Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. 

But our love it was stronger by far than the love 

Of those who were older than we — 

Of many far wiser than we ; 
And neither the angels in heaven above, 

Nor the demons down under the sea, 
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul 

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. 

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams 

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee, 
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes 

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; 
And so all the night-time, I lie down by the side 
Of my darling — my darling — my life and my bride, 
In the sepulchre there by the sea, 
In her tomb by the sounding sea. 

—Edgar A. Poe. 




If we knew the woe and heartache 

Waiting for us down the road, 
If our lips could taste the wormwood^ 

If our hacks could feel the load ; 
Would we waste the day in wishing 

For a time that ne'er can be ? 
Would we wait with such impatience 

For our ship to come from sea? 

If we knew the baby fingers 

Pressed against the window pane, 
Would be cold and stiff to-morrow, 

Never trouble us again ; 
Would the bright eyes of our darling 

Catch the frown upon our brow? 
Would the print of rosy fingers 

Vex us then as they do now? 

Ah, these little ice-cold fingers ! 

How they point our memories back 
To the hasty words and actions 

Strewn along our backward track* 
How these little hands remind us, 

As in snowy grace they lie, 
Not to scatter thorns, but roses, 

For our reaping by and by. 

Strange we never prize the music 

Till the sweet-voiced bird has flown ; 
Strange that we should slight the violets 

Till the lovely flowers are gone ; 
Strange that summer skies and sunshine 

Never seem one-half so fair, 
As when winter's snowy pinions 

Shake their white down in the air. 

Let us gather up the sunbeams, 

Lying all around our path; 
Let us keep the wheat and roses, 

Casting out the thorns and chaff; 
Let us find our sweetest comfort 

In the blessings of to-day ; 
With the patient hand removing 

All the briars from our way. — Anon, 



" Eock of ages cleft for rue," 

Thoughtlessly the maiden sung ; 
Fell the words unconsciously 

From the girlish, gleeful tongue ; 
Sang as little children sang ; 

Sang as sing the birds of June; 
Fell the words as light leaves down 

On the current of the tune. 
" Eock of ages cleft for me, 
Let me hide myself in Thee." 

" Eock of ages cleft for me," 

'Twas a woman sung them now, 
Pleadingly and prayerfully, 

Every word her heart did know, 
Eose the song as storm tossed bird — 

Beats with weary wing the air, 
Every note with sorrow stirred, 

Every syllable a prayer. 

" Eock of ages cleft for me, 

Let me hide myself in Thee." 

" Eock 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, 
Eun the sweet strain peacefully, 

Like a river in its flow, 
Sang as only they can sing 

Who life's thorny path have pressed, 
Sang as only they can sing 

Who behold the promised rest, 
" Eock of ages cleft for me, 
Let me hide nwself in Thee." 

" Eock of ages cleft for me," 

Sung above a coffin lid; 
Underneath all restfully, 

All life's joys and sorrows hid ; 
Nevermore, O, storm-tossed soul ! 

Nevermore from wind or tide, 
Nevermore from billows 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 Avords would be, 
" Let me hide myself in Thee. — Anon. 


Abou Ben-Adhem (may his tribe increase!) 
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, 
And saw within the moonlight in his room, 
Making it rich and like a lily in bloom, 
An angel, writing in a book of gold, 
Exceeding peace has made Ben-Adhem bold ; 
And to the presence in the room he said, 

" What writest thou ? " The vision raised its head, 
And with a look made all of sweet accord, 
Answered, " The names of those who love the Lord." 

"And is mine one? "said Abou. "Nay, not so," 
Answered the angel. Abou spake more low, 
But cheerily still, and said, " I pray thee, then, 
Write me as one who loves his fellow-men." 

The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night 
It came again, with a great wakening light, 
And showed the names whom love of God had blessed, 
And lo ! Ben-Adhem's name led all the rest. 

— Leigh Hunt. 


Many men think a railroad journey is rendered re- 
ally pleasant by the companionship of an unprotected 
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 count- 
ing 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 positive of the fact. The brakeman here 
called out the name of a station in such an indistinct 
manner that the lady wanted me to go and see what 
the name really was. I went. It was Calumet. She 
wanted to know if I was sure 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 her traveling bag counted, and 
I counted her. She figured up as before. I had just- 
finished counting wheu 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 T she got lost in the w T oods 
eighteen years before, but as soon as she finished it she 
wanted to know if I was sure we were on the right 
road to Detroit. I told her I hoped to perish with the 
liars if we were not, and she was satisfied. Then the 
parasol fell down; she wanted me to 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 Xiles, in- 
stead of Marshall. 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 blis- 
tered, arranged that parasol thirty-two 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 things three 
times over, and helped her off the cars, got her a hack, 
directed her to a hotel, told her the street, price, name 
of the landlord, head waiter, porter and cook ; assured 
her that she would not be robbed or murdered; that 
it had been a hot day ; that Detroit had a population 
of one hundred thousand ; that the fall term of school 
had commenced ; that all Detroit hack-drivers were 
honest and obliging. Poor woman, I hope the land- 
lord did not get out of patience with her artless ways. 

— MQuad. 


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 j 
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 

Oh hark, oh hear ! how thin and clear, 

And thinner, clearer, farther going; 
Oh ! sweet and far, from cliff and scar, 

The horns of Elfland faintly blowing. 
Blow; let us hear the purple glens replying; 
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 

Oh ! love, they die in yon rich sky, 

They faint on hill, on field, on river ; 
Our echoes roll from soul to soul, 

And grow forever and forever. 
Blow, bugle, blow; set the wild echoes flying; 
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. 

— Alfred Tennyson. 



John Maynard was well known in the lake district 
as a God-fearing, honest and intelligent pilot. He was 
pilot on a steamboat from Detroit to Buffalo. One 
summer afternoon — at that time these steamers seldom 
carried boats — smoke was seen ascending from below 
and the captain called out : 

" Simpson, go below and see what the matter is down 

Simpson came up with his face as pale as ashes, and 
said, " Captain, the ship is on fire." 

Then " Fire ! fire ! fire ! " on shipboard. 

All hands were called up. Buckets of water were 
dashed on the fire, but in vain. There were large quan- 
tities of rosin and tar on board, and it was found useless 
to attempt to save the ship. The passengers rushed 
forward and inquired of the pilot : 

"How far are we from Buffalo?" 

" Seven miles." 

" How long before we can reach there ? " 

" Three-quarters of an hour at our present rate of 

" Is there any danger ? " 

" Danger here — see the smoke bursting out — go for- 
ward if you would save your lives." 

Passengers and crew — men, women and children — 
-crowded the forward part of the ship. John Maynard 
stood at the helm. The flames burst forth in a sheet 
of fire ; clouds of smoke arose. The captain cried out 
through his trumpet : 

" John Maynard ! " 

" Aye, aye, sir ! " 

"Are you at the helm?" 

" Aye, aye, sir ! " 

" How does she head?" 

u Southeast by east, sir." 


" Head her southeast and run her on shore," said the 

Nearer, nearer, yet nearer, she approached the shore. 
Again the captain cried out : 

"John Maynard!" 

The response came feebly this time, "Aye, aye, sir ! "' 

"Can you hold on five minutes longer, John?" he 

"By God's help, I will." 

The old man's hair was scorched from the scalp, one 
hand disabled ; his knee upon the stanchion, and his 
teeth set, with his other hand upon the wheel, he stood 
firm as a rock. He beached the ship ; every man, wo- 
man and child was saved, as John Maynard dropped 
and his spirit took its flight to its God. 

—John B. Gough. 


The nervous, dapper, "peart" young man took the 
chair I offered him, and said he was connected with 
"The Daily Thunderstorm," and added: 

" Hoping it's no harm, I've come to interview you." 

"Come to what?" 

u Interview you." 

"Ah ! I see. Yes-— yes. Um ! Yes — yes." 

I was not feeling bright that morning. Indeed, my 
powers seemed a bit under a cloud. However, I went 
to the bookcase, and, when I had been looking six or 
seven minutes, I found I was obliged to refer to the 
young man. I said, — 

" How do you spell it ? " 

"Spell what?" 

" Interview." 

" Oh, my goodness ! What do you want to spell it 

" I don't want to spell it ; I want to see what it 


" Well, this is astonishing, I must say. J can tell 
you what it means, if you — if you" — 

" Oh, all right ! That will answer, and much 
obliged to you, too." 

" I n, in, t e r, ter, inter" — 

" Then you spell it with an If" 

" Why, certainly ! " 

"Oh, that is what took me so long!" 

" Why, my dear sir, what did you propose to spell 
it with ? " 

" Well, I — I — I hardly know. I had the un- 
abridged ; and I was ciphering around in the back 
end, hoping I might tree her among the pictures. But 
it's a very old edition." 

" Why, my friend, they wouldn't have a jncture of 

it in even the latest e . My dear sir, I beg your 

pardon, I mean no harm in the world ; but you do not 
look as — as — intelligent as I expected you would. No 
harm, — I mean no harm at all." 

"Oh, don't mention it ! It has often been said, and 
by people who would not natter, and who could have 
no inducement to flatter, that I am quite remarkable 
in that way. Yes — yes ; they always speak of it with 

" I can easily imagine it. But about this interview* 
You know it is the custom, now, to interview any man 
who has become notorious." 

" Indeed ! I had not heard of it before. It must be 
very interesting. What do you do it with?" 

"Ah, well — well — well — this is disheartening. It 
ought to be done with a club, in some cases ; but cus- 
tomarily it consists in the interviewer asking ques- 
tions, and in the interviewed answering them. It is 
all the rage now. Will you let me ask you certain 
questions calculated to bring out the salient points of 
your public and private history ? " 

" Oh, with pleasure — with pleasure. I have a very 
bad memory; but I hope you will not mind that.. 


That is to say, it is an irregular memory, singularly 
irregular. Sometimes it goes on a gallop, and then 
again it will be as much as a fortnight in passing a 
given point. This is a great grief to me." 

" Oh ! it is no matter, so you will try to do the best 
you can." 

" I will. I will put my whole mind on it." 

" Thanks ! Are you ready to begin ? " 

" Keady." 

Question. How old are you? 

Ansiver. Nineteen in June. 

Q. Indeed ! I would have taken you to be thirty- 
five or six. Where were you born ? 

A. In Missouri. 

Q. When did you begin to write ? 

A. In 1836. 

Q. Why, how could that be, if you are only nine- 
teen now? 

A. I don't know. It does seem curious, somehow. 

Q. It does indeed. Whom do you consider the 
most remarkable man you ever met ? 

A. Aaron Burr. 

Q. But you never could have met Aaron Burr, if you 
are only nineteen years — 

A. Now, if you know more about me- than I do, 
what do you ask me for? 

Q. Well, it was only a suggestion ; nothing more. 
How did you happen to meet Burr? 

A. Well, I happened to be at his funeral one day ; 
and he asked me to make less noise, and — 

Q. But, good heavens ! If you were at his funeral, 
he must have been dead ; and, if he was dead, how 
could he care whether you made a noise or not? 

A. I don't know. He was always a particular kind 
of man that way. 

Q. Still, I don't understand it at all. You say he 
spoke to you, and that he was dead ? 

A. I didn't say he was dead. 


Q, But wasn't he dead ? 

A. Well, some said he was, some said he wasn't. 

Q. What do you think? 

A. Oh, it was none of my business ! It wasn't any 
of my funeral. 

Q. Did you — However, we can never get this mat- 
ter straight. Let me ask about something else. What 
was the date of your birth ? 

A. Monday, October 31, 1693. 

Q. What ! Impossible ! That would make you a 
hundred and eighty years old. How do you account 
for that? 

A. I don't account for it at all. 

Q. But you said at first you were only nineteen, and 
now you make yourself out to be one hundred and 
eighty. It is an awful discrepancy. 

A. Why, have you noticed that ? (Shaking hands.) 
Many a time it has seemed to me like a discrepancy ; 
but somehow I couldn't make up my mind. How quick 
you notice a thing! 

Q. Thank you for the compliment, as far as it goes. 
Had you, or have you, any brothers or sisters ? 

A. Eh ! I — I — I think so, — yes — but I don't re- 

Q. Well, that is the most extraordinary statement I 
ever heard. 

A. Why, what makes you think that? 

Q. How could I think otherwise ? Why, look here ! 
Who is this a picture of on the wall? Isn't that a 
brother of yours ? 

A. Oh, yes, yes, yes ! Now you remind me of it, 
that was a brother of mine. That's William, Bill we 
called him. Poor old Bill. 

Q. Why, is he dead, then? 

A. Ah, well, I suppose so. We never could tell. 
There was a great mystery about it. 

Q. That is sad, very sad. He disappeared, then? 


A. Well, yes, in a sort of general way. We buried 

Q. Buried him ! Buried ^him without knowing 
whether he was dead or not? 

A. Oh, no ! Not that. He was dead enough. 

Q. Well, I confess that I can't understand this. If 
you buried him, and you knew he was dead 

A. No, no ! We only thought he was. 

Q. Oh, I see ! He came to life again ? 

A. I bet he didn't ! 

Q. Well, I never heard anything like this. Some- 
body was dead. Somebody was buried. Now, where 
was the mystery? 

A. Ah, that's just it ! That's it exactly. You see 
we were twins,— defunct and I ; and we got mixed in 
the bath-tub when we were only two weeks old, and 
one of us was drowned. But we didn't know which. 
Some think it was Bill ; some think it was me. 

Q. Well, that is remarkable. What do you think ? 

A. Goodness knows ! I would give whole worlds to 
know. This solemn, this awful mystery has cast a gloom 
over my whole life. But I will tell you a secret now, 
which I never have revealed to any creature before. 
One of us had a peculiar mark, a large mole, on the 
back of his left hand ; that was me. That child was the 
one that was drowned. 

Q. Very well, then, I don't see that there is any 
mystery about it, after all. 

A. You don't ; well J do. Anyway, I don't see how 
they could ever have been such a blundering lot as to 
go and bury the wrong child. But, 'sh ! don't mention 
it where the family can hear of it. Heaven knows they 
have heart-breaking troubles enough without adding 

Q. Well, I believe I have got material enough for 
the present ; and I am very much obliged to you for 
the pains you have taken. But I was a good deal in- 
terested in that account of* Aaron Burr's funeral. 


Would you mind telling me what particular circum- 
stance it was that made you think Burr was such a re- 
markable man. 

A. Oh, it was a mere trifle ! Not one man in fifty 
would have noticed it at all. When the sermon was 
over and the procession all ready to start for the ceme- 
tery, and the body all arranged nice in the hearse, he 
said he wanted to take a last look at the scenery ; so he 
got up and rode with the driver. 

Then the young man reverently withdrew. He was 
very pleasant company, and I was sorry to see him go. 


At midnight, in his guarded tent, 

The Turk lay dreaming of the hour, 
When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent, 

Should tremble at his power. 
In dreams, through camp and court, he bore 

The trophies of a conquerer ; 
In dreams, his song of triumph heard : 

As wild his thoughts and gay of wing 
As Eden's garden bird. 

At midnight, in the forest shades, 

Bozzaris ranked his Suliote band, 
True as the steel of their tried blades, 

Heroes in heart and hand, 
There, had the Persian's thousands stood; 
There, had the glad earth drunk their blood, 

In old Platsea's day: 
And now, there breathed that haunted air. 
The sons of sires who conquered there, 
With arms to strike, and souls to dare, 

As quick, as far as they. 

An hour passed on ; the Turk awoke ; 

That bright dream was his last : 
He woke to hear his sentries shriek 
" To arms ! they come ! the Greek ! the Greek ! : 
He woke, to die 'mid flame and smoke, 
And shout, and groan, and saber-stroke, 

And death-shots falling thick and fast, 


And lightning from the mountain-cloud; 
And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, 

Bozzaris cheer his band ; 
" 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 ! " 

They fought like brave men, long and well; 

They piled the ground with Moslem slain ; 
They conquered, but Bozzaris fell, 

Bleeding at every vein. 
His few surviving comrades saw 
His smile, when rung their proud hurrah, 

And the red field was won : 
They saw in death his eyelids close, 
Calmly as to a night's repose, 

Like flowers at set of sun. 

Come to the bridal-chamber, Death ; 

Come to the mother, when she feels, 
For the first time, her first born's breath ; 

Come, when the blessed seals 
Which close the pestilence are broke, 
And crowded cities wail its stroke ; 
Come, in consumption's ghastly form, 
The earthquake's shock, the ocean storm, 
Come, when the heart beats high and warm, 

With banquet song, and dance, and wine, 
And thou art terrible ; the tear, 
The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier, 
And all we know, or dream, or fear 

Of agony, are thine. 


Over the river they beckon to me ; 

Loved ones who've passed to the farther side, 
The gleam of their snowy robes I see — 

But their voices are lost in the dashing tide. 
There was one with ringlets of sunny gold, 

And eyes the reflection of heaven's own blue; 
He passed 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 ready to welcome 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 to the sound of the boatman's oar. 
I shall catch a gleam of the snowy sail, 

I shall hear the boat as it nears the strand, 
I shall pass with the boatman cold and 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... 


Speak gently ; it is better far 

To rule by love than fear : 
Speak gently ; let no harsh words mar 

The good we might do here. 

Speak gently to the little child; 

Its love be sure to gain; 
Teach it in accents soft and mild ; 

It may not long remain. 

Speak gently to the aged one ; 

Grieve not the care-worn heart : 
The sands of life are nealy run ; 

Let such in peace depart. 

Speak gently, kindly, to the poor; 

Let no harsh tone be heard; 
They have enough they must endure, 

Without an unkind word. 

Speak gently to the erring ; know 

They must have toiled in vain ; 
Perhaps unkindness made them so; 

Oh, win them back again. 

Speak gently ; 't is a little thing 

Dropped in the heart's deep well; 
The good, the joy, which it may bring, 

Eternity shall tell. — G. W. Hangford. 



If through the portals opening toward the light, 
E'er walked a man in armor clear and bright, 
That man untrammeled, outward passed that night 
From Elberon. 

Firm-lipped, clear-eyed, clean-souled, he met his fate. 
Leaving behind no rancor and no hate, 
And strode, high-browed, undaunted through the gate 
At Elberon. 

In deeds resplendent and in honor bright, 
In high example, shining as the light, 
He lives immortal, he who died that night 

At Elberon. — D. L. Paine. 


A man had seven sons, who were always quarreling. 
They left their studies and work, to quarrel among 
themselves. Some bad men were looking forward to 
the death of their father, to cheat them out of their 
property by making them quarrel about it. 

The good old man, one day, called his sons around 
him. He laid before them seven sticks, which were 
bound together. He said, "I will pay a hundred dol- 
lars to the one who can break this bundle." 

Each one strained every nerve to break the bundle. 
After a long but vain trial, they all said that it could 
not be done. 

"And yet, my boys," said the father, "nothing is 
easier to do." He then untied the bundle, and broke 
the sticks, one by one, with perfect ease. 

"Ah ! " said the sons, " it is easy enough to do it so ; 
anybody could do it in that way. " 

Their father replied, "As it is with these sticks, so 
is it with you, my sons." 



The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, 

The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, 
And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, 

And all the air a solemn stillness holds, 
•Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight 

And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds . 

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower, 
The moping owl does to the moon complain 

Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, 
Molest her ancient solitary reign. 

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, 
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, 

Each in his narrow cell forever laid, 

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, 

The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, 

The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, 
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, 

Or busy housewife ply her evening care ; 
No children run to lisp their sire's return, 

Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. 

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, 

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke ; 

How jocund did they drive their team a-field ! 

How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke ! 

Let not ambition mock their useful toil, 

Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; 
Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile 

The short and simple annals of the poor. 

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, 

And all that beauty, and all that wealth e'er gave, 

Await alike th' inevitable hour — 

The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 

Nor you, ye proud ! impute to these the fault, 
If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, 

Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault, 
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 



Can storied urn or animated bust, 

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? 

Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust, 
Or flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death? 

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire ; 

Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed,. 
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre. 

But knowledge to their eyes her ample page, 
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll ; 

Chill penury repressed their noble rage, 
And froze the genial current of the soul. 

Full many a gem of purest ray serene 

The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear; 

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 
And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 

Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast, 
The little tyrant of his fields withstood, 

Some mute inglorious Milton, here may rest, 
Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood, 

Th' applause of listening senates to command, 
The threats of pain and ruin to despise, 

To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, 

And read their history in a nation's eyes, 

Their lot forbade : nor circumscribed alone 

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined ; 

Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, 
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind ; 

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, 
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, 

Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride 
With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. 

Far from the mad'ning crowd's ignoble strife, 

Their sober wishes never learned to stray ; 
Along the cool, sequestered vale of life, 
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 

Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect, 
Some frail memorial still, erected nigh, 

With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, 
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 

Their names, their years, spelt by th' unlettered Muse,, 

The place of fame and elegy supply ; 
And many a holy text around she strews, 

That teach the rustic moralist to die. 


For who, to dumb forgetf ulness a prey, 
This pleasing, anxious being e'er resigned, 

Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, 
Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind ? 

On some fond breast the parting soul relies, 
Some pious drops the closing eye requires ; 

E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, 
E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. 

For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonored dead, 
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate , 

If chance, by lonely contemplation led, 

Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, — 

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, 
"Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn, 

Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, 
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn, 

" There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, 
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, 
His listless length at noontide would he stretch, 
And pour upon the brook that bubbles by. 

" Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 

Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove ; 
Now drooping, woeful, wan, like one forlorn, 
Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. 

" One morn I missed him on the 'customed hill, 
Along the heath, and near his favorite tree ; 
Another came — nor yet beside the rill, 
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he ; 

" The next, with dirges due, in sad array, 

Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne : 
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay 
Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." 


Here rests his head upon the lap of earth 
A youth to fortune and to fame unknown ; 

Fair science frowned not on his humble birth, 
And melancholy marked him for her own. 

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, 
Heaven did a recompense as largely send : 

He gave to misery all he had — a tear, 

He gained from heaven ('twas all he wished) a friend. 


No farther seek his merits to disclose, 

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode 

(There they alike in trembling hope repose), 

The bosom of his Father and his God. — Thomas Gray. 


Mrs. Lofty keeps a carriage, 

So do I; 
She has dapple grays to draw it, 

None have I ; 
She's no prouder with her coachman 

Than am I ; 
With my blue-eyed laughing baby, 

Trundling by ; 
I hide his face, lest she should see 
The cherub boy, and envy me. 

Her fine husband has white fingers, 

Mine has not; 
He could give his bride a palace — 

Mine a cot ; 
Hers comes home beneath the starlight — 

Ne'er cares she ; 
Mine comes in the purple twilight, 

Kisses me, 
And prays that He who turns life's sands 
Will hold his loved ones in His hands. 

Mrs. Lofty has her jewels, 

So have I; 
She wears hers upon her bosom — 

Inside I; 
She will leave hers at death's portal 

By-and by ; 
I shall bear my treasure with me 

When I die ; 
For I have love and she has gold ; 
She counts her wealth — mine can't be told. 

She has those who love her station, 

None have I ; 
But I've one true heart beside me; 

Glad am I ; 
I'd not change it for a kingdom, 

No, not I; 
God will weigh it in His balance, 

And the difference define 
'Twixt Mrs. Lofty's wealth and mine. 



Hear the sledges with the bells, silver bells^- 

What a world of merriment their melody foretells ! 

How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, in the icy air of night ! 

While the stars that oversprinkle all the heavens, seem to twinkle 

With a crystalline delight, 
Keeping time, time, time, in a sort of Eunic rhyme, 
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells 
From the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells — 
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. 

Hear the mellow wedding bells, golden bells — 

What a world of happiness their harmony foretells ! 

Through the balmy air of night how they ring out their delight I 

From the molten-golden notes, all in tune, 

What a liquid ditty floats 
To the turtle-dove that listens while she gloats on the moon. 

O, from out the sounding cells, 
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells! 
How it swells, how it dwells 

On the future ! how it tells of the rapture that impels 
To the swinging and the ringing of the bells, bells, bells, 
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells. 

Hear the loud alarm bells, brazen bells — 

What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency foretells ! 

In the startled ear of night how they scream out the affright! 

Too much horrified to speak, they can only shriek, shriek, 

Out of tune, 
In the clamorous appealing to the mercy of the 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. 
O, the bells, bells, bells, what a tale their terror tells of despair! 
How the clang and clash and roar ! what a horror they outpour 
On the bosom of the palpitating air ! 

Yet, the ear distinctly tells, 
In the jangling, and the wrangling, how the danger sinks and swells, 
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells, of the bells, 
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells — 
In the clamor and the clangor of the bells. 

Hear the tolling of the bells, iron bells, iron bells — 
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels ! 
In the silence of the night, how we shiver with affright 

At the melancholy menace of their tone ! 
For every sound that floats from 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, tolling, in that muffled monotone, 
Feel a glory is so rolling on the human heart a stone — 
They are neither man or woman ; they are neither brute or human, 

They are ghouls ; 
And their king it is who tolls ; and he rolls, rolls, rolls, rolls, 
A psean from the bells ; and his merry bosom swells 
With the psean of the bells ; and he dances and he yells ; 
Keeping time, time, time, in a sort of Runic rhyme, 
Of the bells, bells, bells, to the tolling of the bells, 
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. — E. A. Poe. 


Oh the long and dreary winter ! 
Oh 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 walked 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. 
Perished there from cold and hunger. 

Oh the famine and the fever! 
Oh the wasting of the famine ! 
Oh the blasting of the fever ! 
Oh the wailing of the children ! 
Oh the anguish of the women ! 
All the earth was sick and famished ; 
Hungry was the air around them, 
Hungry was the sky above them, 
And the hungry stars in heaven 
Like the eyes of wolves glared at them ! 

Came two other guests, as silent 
As the ghosts were, and as gloomy ; 
"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 me ! 
I am Fever, Ahkosewin ! " 
And the lovely Minnehaha 
Shuddered as they looked upon her, 
Shuddered at the words they uttered, 
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 uttered. 

Forth into the empty forest 
Hushed the maddened 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. 
Wrapped in furs and armed for hunting 
With his mighty bow of ash-tree, 
With his quiver full of arrows, 
Wfith his mittens, Minjekahwun, 
Into the vast and vacant forest 
On his snow-shoes strode he forward. 

" Gitche Manito, the mighty ! " 

Cried he with his face uplifted 

In that bitter hour of anguish, 
" Give your children food, O Father ! 

Give us food, or we must perish ! 

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, 
" Mestxehaha ! Mixxehaha ! " 

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 young wife homeward 
From the land of the Dacotahs ; 
When the birds sang in the thickets, 
And the streamlets laughed and glistened, 
And the air was full of fragrance, 
And the loving Laughing Water 
Said with voice that did not tremble, 
" I will follow you, my husband ! " 

In the wigwam with Nokomis, 
With those gloomy guests that watched her 
With the Famine and the Fever, 
She was 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 ! " she said, " 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 1 ,r 
" Ah !" she said, " the eyes of Pauguk 
Glare upon me in the darkness, 
I can feel his icy fingers 
Clasping mine amid the darkness! 
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-encumbered branches, 
Homeward hurried Hiawatha, 
Empty-handed, heavy hearted, 
Heard Nokomis moaning, wailing ; 
" Wahonowin ! Wahonowin ! 
Would that I had perished for you, 
Would that I were dead as you are I 
Wahonowin ! Wahonowin ! " 


And he rushed 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 

Uttered such a cry of anguish, 

That the forest moaned and shuddered, 

That the very stars in heaven 

Shook and trembled with his anguish. 

Then he sat down still and speechless, 
On the bed of Minnehaha, 
At the feet of Laughing Water, 
At those willing feet, that never 
More would lightly run to meet him, 
Never more would lightly follow. 
With both hands his face he covered. 
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; 
In the snow a grave they made her, 
In the forest deep and darksome, 
Underneath the moaning hemlocks; 
Clothed her in her richest garments, 
Wrapped her in her robes of ermine, 
Covered her with snow, like ermine : 
Thus they buried Minnehaha. 
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 watched it at the doorway, 
That it might not be extinguished, 
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 waste the body. 
Soon my task will be completed, 
Soon your footsteps I shall follow 
To the Islands of the Blessed, 
To the Kingdom of Ponemah, 
To the Land of the Hereafter! " 

— H. W. Longfellow. 


You Wi'yam, cum 'ere, suh, dis instunce. Wu' dat you got under 

dat box ? 
I do' want no foolin' — you hear me? Wut you say? Ain't nu'h'n 

but rocks ? 
Teahs ter me you's owdashus p'ticler. S'posin' dey's uv a new 

I'll des take a look at dem rocks. Hi yi ! der you think dat I's 


J calls dat a plain water-million, you scamp, en I knows whah it 

growed ; 
It come fum de Jimmerson cawn fiel', dah on ter side er de road. 
You stole it, you rascal —you stole it ! I watched you fum down 

in de lot, 
En time I gets th'ough wid you, nigger, you won't eb'n be a grease 


I'll fix you. Mirandy ! Mirandy ! go cut me a hick'ry — make 'ase! 
En cut me de toughes' en keenes' you c'n fine any whah on de place. 
I'll larn you, Mr. Wi'yam Joe Vetters, ter steal en ter lie, you 

young sinner, 
Disgracin' yo' ole Christian mammy, en makin' her leave cookin' 

dinner ! 

Now ain't you ashamed er yo'se'f, sur? I is. I's 'shamed you's 

my son 

En de holy accorjan angel, he's 'shamed er wut you has done ; 
En he's tuk it down up yander in coal-black, blood-red letters — 
" One water-million stoled by Wi'yam Josephus Vetters." 

En wut you s'posen Brer Bascom, yo' teacher at Sunday-school, 

'Ud say ef he knowed how you's broke de good Lawd's Gol'n Pule? 

Boy, whah's de raisin' I give you ? Is you boun' fuh ter be a black 

I's s'prised dat a chile er yo' mammy 'ud steal any man's water- 


En I's now gwiner cut it right open, en you shan't have nary bite, 
Fuh a hoy who'll steal water-millions — en dat in de day's broad 

Ain't — Lawdy! it's green! Mirandy! Mi-ran-dy ! come on wi 'dat 

switch ! 
Well, stealin' a g-r-e-e-n water-million ! who ever yeered tell er 

des sich ? 

Cain't tell w'en dey's ripe? "W'y, you thump 'urn, en we'n dey go 

pank dey is green ; 
But we'n dey go punk, now you mine me, dey's ripe — en dat's des 

wut I mean. 
En nex' time you hook water-millions — youheered me, you ign'ant, 

you hunk, 
Ef you do' want a lickin' all over, be sho dat dey allers go " punk ! " 

— Harrison Robertson. 


Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

Of me you shall not win renown ; 
You thought to break a country heart 

For pastime, ere you went to town. 
At me you smiled, but unbeguiled 

I saw the snare and I retired ; 
The daughter of a hundred Earls. 

You are not one to be desired. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

I know you proud to bear your name, 
Your pride is yet no mate for mine, 

Too proud to care from whence I came. 
!Nor would I break for your sweet sake 

A heart that dotes on truer charms, 
A simple maiden in her flower 

Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

Some meeker pupil you must find, 
For were you queen of all that is, 

I could not stoop to such a mind. 
You sought to prove how I could love, 

And my disdain is my reply, 
The lion on your old stone gates 

Is not more cold to you than I. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

You put strange memories in my head, 
!Not thrice your branching lines have blown 

Since I beheld young Laurence dead. 


Oh, your sweet eyes, your low replies ; 

A great enchantress you may be ; 
But there was that across his throat 

Which you had hardly cared to see. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

When thus he met his mother's view, 
She had the passions of her kind, 

She spake some certains truths of you. 
Indeed, I heard one bitter word 

That scarce is fit for you to hear; 
Her manners had not that repose 

Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere„ 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

There stands a spectre in your hall ; 
The guilt of blood is at your door, 

You changed a wholesome, heart to gall. 
You held your course without remorse, 

To make him trust his modest worth, 
And, last, you fixed a vacant stare, 

And slew him with your noble birth. 

Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, 

From yon blue heaven above us bent, 
The grand old gardener and his wife 

Smile at the claims of long descent. 
Howe'er it be, it seems to me, 

'Tis only noble to be good ; 
Kind hearts are more than coronets, 

And simple faith than Norman blood. 

I know you, Clara Vere de Vere, 

You pine among your halls and towers ; 
The languid light of your proud eyes 

Is wearied of the rolling hours. 
In glowing health, with boundless wealth, 

But sickening of a vague disease, 
You know so ill to deal with time, 

You need must play such pranks as these. 

Clara, Clara Vere de Vere, 

If time be heavy on your hands, 
Are there no beggars at your gate, 

Nor any poor about your lands ? 
Oh ! teach the orphan boy to read, 

Or teach the orphan gill to sew, 
Pray heaven for a human heart, 

And let the foolish yeoman go. — Alfred Tennyson. 



The cottage was a thatched one, the outside old and mean, 
But all within that little cot was wondrous neat and clean ; 
The night was dark and stormy, the wind was howling wild, 
As a patient mother sat beside the death-bed of her child : 
A little worn-out creature, his once bright eyes grown dim : 
It was a collier's wife and child, they called him little Jim. 

And oh! to see the briny tears fast hurrying down her cheek, 
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 ; 
For she had all a mother's heart, had that poor collier's wife. 
With hands uplifted, see, she kneels beside the sufferer's bed, 
And prays that He would spare her boy, and take herself instead. 

She gets her answer from the child : soft 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 dear 
Had uttered the last words that she might ever hope to hear : 
The cottage door is opened, the collier's step is heard, 
The father and the mother meet, yet neither speak a word. 

He felt that all was over, he knew his child was dead, 
He took the candle in his hand, and walked 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. 


Well, no ! My wife ain't dead, sir, but I've lost her all the same : 
She left me voluntarily, and neither was to blame. 
It's rather a queer story, and I think you will agree — 
When you hear the circumstances — 'twas rather rough on me. 

She was a soldier's widow. He was killed at Malvern Hill ; 
And when I married her she seemed to sorrow for him still ; 
But I brought her here to Kansas, and I never want to see 
A better wife than Mary was for five bright years to me. 


The change of scene brought cheerfulness, and soon a rosy glow 
Of happiness warmed Mary's cheeks and melted all their snow. 
I think she loved me some — I'm bound to think that of her, sir. 
And as for me — I can't begin to tell how I loved her ! 

Three years ago the baby came our humble home to bless ; 
And then I reckon I was nigh to perfect happiness ; 
'Twas hers — 'twas mine — ; but I've no language to explain to you 
How that little girl's weak fingers our hearts together drew ! 

Once we watched it through a fever, and with each gasping breath. 
Dumb with an awful, wordless woe, we waited for its death ; 
And, though I'm not a pious man, our souls together there, 
For Heaven to spare our darling, went up in voiceless prayer. 

And when the doctor said 'twould live, our joy what words could 

Clasped in each other's arms, our grateful tears together felL 
Sometimes, you see, the shadow fell across our little nest, 
But it only made the sunshine seem a doubly welcome guest. 

Work came to me a plenty, and I kept the anvil ringing ^ 
Early and late you'd find me there a hammering and singing; 
Love nerved my arm to labor, and moved my tongue to song, 
And though my singing wasn't sweet, it was tremendous strong ! 

One day a one-armed stranger stopped to have me nail a shoe, 
And while I was at work, we passed a compliment or two ; 
I asked him how he lost his arm. He said 'twas shot away 
At Malvern Hill. "At Malvern Hill ! Did you know Eobert May?" 

" That's me," said he. " You, you ! " I gasped, choking with hor- 
rid doubt ; 
" If you're the man, just follow me ; we'll try this mystery out ! n 
With dizzy steps, I led him to Mary. God ! 'Twas true ! 
Then the bitterest pangs of misery, unspeakable, I knew. 

Frozen with deadly horror, she stared with eyes of stone, 
And from her quivering lips there broke one wild, despairing moan. 
'Twas he ! the husband of her youth, now risen from the dead, 
But all too late— and with bitter cry, her senses fled. 

What could be done? He was reported dead. ( On his return 
He strove in vain some tidings of his absent wife to learn. 
'Twas well that he was innocent! Else I'd 've killed him, too, 
So dead that he never would have riz till Gabriel's trumpet blew I 

It was agreed that Mary then between us should decide, 
And each by her decision would sacredly abide. 
No sinner, at the judgment-seat, waiting eternal doom, 
Could suffer what I did, while waiting sentence in that room. 


Rigid and breathless, there me stood, with nerves as tense as steel, 
While Mary's eyes sought each white face, in piteous appeal. 
God ! could not woman's duty be less hardly reconciled 
Between her lawful husband and the father of her child ! 

Ah, how my heart was chilled to ice, when she knelt down and said : 
" Forgive me, John ! He is my husband ! Here ! Alive ! not dead !" 
I raised her tenderly, and tried to tell her she was right, 
But somehow, in my aching breast the prisoned words stuck tight ! 

" But, John, I can't leave baby"— "What ! wife and child!" cried I; 
" Must I yield all ! Ah, cruel fate ! better that I should die. 
Think of the long, sad, lonely hours, waiting in gloom for me — 
No wife to cheer me with her love — no babe to climb my knee ! 

"And yet — you are her mother, and the sacred mother love 
Is still the purest, tenderest tie that Heaven ever wove. 
Take her, but promise, Mary — for that will bring no shame — 
My little girl shall bear, and learn to lisp her father's name ! n 

It may be, in the life to come, I'll meet my wife and child ; 
But yonder, by my cottage gate, we parted for this life ; 
One long hand-clasp from Mary, and my dream of love was done ! 
One long embrace from baby, and my happiness was gone ! 

— Frank Olive. 


The silent city slumbered. The day broke softly, 
the snow melted and the wind blew warm from the 

Sene was a little dizzy that morning. 

Del Ivory, working beside her, said : " How the 
mill shakes ! What's going on ? " 

" It's the new machinery they're putting in below," 
observed the overseer, carelessly. 

At noon Sene was out with her dinner, found a place 
on the stairs away from the rest, and sat there with 
her eyes upon the river, thinking. 

In the afternoon Sene said : "Del, I think to-mor- 
row " — she stopped. Something strange happened to 
her frame ; it jarred, buzzed, snapped, the thread un- 
twisted and flew out of place. 


"Curious," she said, and looked up — looked up to 
see her overseer turn wildly ; to hear a shriek from 
Del that froze her blood ; to see the solid ceiling gape 
above her; to see the walls and windows stagger; to 
see iron pillars reel, and vast machinery throw up its 
giant arms, and a tangle of human faces blanch and 
writhe ! She sprang as the floor sunk. As pillar after 
pillar gave way, she bounded up an inclined plane, 
with the gulf yawning after her. It gained upon her, 
leaped at her, caught her; she threw out her arms and 
struggled on with hands and knees, tripped in the gear- 
ing and fell. 

At ten minutes before five, on Tuesday, the tenth of 
January, the Pemberton Mill, all of the seven hundred 
and fifty hands being at that time on duty, fell to the 
ground. At ten minutes before five, Sene's father 
heard what he thought to be the rumble of an earth- 
quake under his very feet, and stood with bated breath 
waiting for the crash. As nothing further appeared to 
happen, he took his stick and limped out into the 
street. A crowd surged through it from end to end. 
Women with white lips were counting the mills — Pa- 
cific, Atlantic, Washington — Pemberton. Where was 
Pemberton? Where Pemberton had blazed with its 
lamps last night, and hummed with its iron lips, this 
evening a cloud of dust — black, silent, horrible — now 
puffed a hundred feet into the air. 

Asenath opened her eyes after a time. Beautiful 
green and purple lights had been dancing about her. 
The church clocks were striking " eight." One of her 
fingers she saw was gone ; it was the finger which held 
Dick's little engagement ring. A broad piece of floor- 
ing, that had fallen slantwise, roofed her in, and saved 
her from the mass of iron-work overhead. Some one 
whom she could not see was dying just behind her. A 
little girl who worked in her room — a mere child — was 
crying, between her groans, for her mother. Del 
Ivory sat in a little open space, cushioned about with 


reels of cotton ; she had a shallow gash upon her cheek ; 
she was wringing her hands. They were at work from 
the outside, sawing entrances through the labyrinth of 
planks. A dead woman lay close by, and Sene saw 
them draw her out. The other side of the slanting 
flooring some one prayed aloud. She had a little baby 
at home ; she was asking God to take care of it for 
her, "for Christ's sake," she said. Sene listened long 
for the " amen," but it was never spoken. Del cried 
presently that they were cutting them out. The glare 
of the bonfire struck through an opening; saws and 
axes flashed, voices grew distinct. The opening broad- 
ened, brightened ; the sweet night wind blew in ; the 
clear night sky shone through. Sene's heart leaped 
within her. Out in the wind and under the sky she 
should stand again after all. She worked her head 
from under the beam and raised herself up on her el- 
bow. At that moment she heard a cry-—" Fire ! fire ! 
God Almighty help them ! The ruins are on fire ! " 
A man had dropped a candle and the ruins were on 
fire. That was at nine o'clock. What there was to 
be seen, from then till morning, could never be forgot- 
ten. A network, twenty feet high, of rods, of beams, 
pillars, stairways, roofing, ceiling, walling ; wrecks of 
looms, shafts, bobbins, mules — locked and intertwined ; 
wrecks of human creatures wedged in ; a face that you 
knew, turned up at you from some pit, which twenty- 
four hours' hewing could not open ; a voice you knew 
crying after you from God knows where ; a mass of 
long fair hair visible here, a foot there ; three fingers 
of a hand over there; charred limbs and helpless 
trunks tossed about ; the little yellow jet that flared 
up, and died in smoke, and flared again, leaped out, 
licked the cotton bales, tasted the old machinery, 
crunched the netted wood, danced on the heaped-up 
stone, thre¥/ its cruel arms high into the night, roared 
for joy at helpless firemen, and swallowed wreck, 


death and life together out of your sight — the lurid 
things stand alone in the gallery of tragedy. 

The child who had called for her mother began to 
sob out that she was afraid to die alone. 

"Come here, Mollie, ' said Sene; "can you crawl 
around?" Molly crawled around. 

" Put your head in my lap, and your arms about my 
waist — so, there." 

But they had not given them up yet. In the still 
unburned rubbish at the right, some one had wrenched 
an opening within a foot of Sene's face. They clawed 
at the solid iron pintles like savage things. A fire- 
man fainted in the smoke. 

" Give it up ! " cried the crowd from behind. " It can't 
be done ! fall back" — then hushed, awe-struck.' An old 
man was crawling along on his hands and knees over 
the heated bricks. He was a very old man. His gray 
hair blew about in the wind. It was Sene's father. 

"I want my little girl!" he said. "Can't anybody 
tell me where to find my little girl?" 

A rough fellow pointed in perfect silence through 
the smoke. 

" I'll have her out yet. I am an old man, but I 
can help. Hand me that dipper of water ; it'll keep 
her from choking, maybe. Now, keep cheery, Sene, 
your old father'U get you out. Keep up good heart, 
child. That's it." 

" It's no use, father. Don't feel so bad, father. I don't 
mind it very much." He hacked at the timber ; he tried 
to laugh ; he bewildered himself with his cheerful words. 

"No more ye needn't, Senath ; for it'll be over in a 
minute. Don't be downcast yet. We'll have ye safe 
at home before ye know it. Drink a little more water ; 
do now. They'll get at ye now, sure." 

But out above the crackle and the roar a woman's, 
voice rang like a bell : 

" We're going home to die no more." 


A child's notes quivered in the chorus. From sealed 
and unseen graves white young lips swelled the glad 
refrain : 

The crawling smoke turned yellow, turned red ; voice 
after voice broke and hushed utterly. One only sang 
on like silver. It flung defiance down at death. It 
chimed into the lurid sky without a tremor. For one 
stood beside her in the furnace, and his form was like 
unto the form of the Son of God. Why should not 
Asenath sing? 

" ; Senath/" cried the old man, out upon the burning 
bricks; he was scorched now from his gray hair to 
his patched boots. The answer came triumphantly, 

" To die no more, no more, no more." 

"Sene, little Sene ! " 

Some one pulled him back, and her spirit went up 
in the flames. — Elizabeth Stuart Phelps. 


Whatever the lagging, dragging journey 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 cav- 
ing, house by house, into the hungry Mississippi. 
The river astonished the children beyond measure. 
Its mile-breadth of water seemed an ocean to them, in 
the shadowy twilight, and the vague riband of trees 


on the further shore the verge of a continent which 
surely none but they had ever seen before. 

" 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 
marvellous river and discussed it. The moon rose and 
sailed aloft through a maze of shredded cloud-wreaths ; 
the sombre river just perceptively brightened under 
the veiled light; a deep silence pervaded the air and 
was emphasized, at intervals, rather than broken, by 
the hooting of an owl, the baying of a dog, or the 
muffled crash of a caving bank in the distance. 

The little company assembled on the log were all 
children (at least in simplicity and broad and compre- 
hensive ignorance). Their voices were subdued to a low 
and reverent tone. Suddenly Uncle Dan'l exclaimed : 
" Chil'en, dah's sumfin a comin' ! " 
All crowded close together and every heart beat fas- 
ter. Uncle Dan'l pointed down the river with his bony 

A deep coughing sound troubled the stillness, way to- 
ward a wooded cape that jutted into the stream a mile 
distant. All in an instant a fierce eye of fire shot out 
from behind the cape and sent a long brilliant pathway 
quivering 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 tumbling 
away into the farther darkness. Nearer and nearer the 
thing came. 

"What is it? Oh ! what is it, Uncle Dan'l?" 

With deep solemnity the answer came : 

" It's de Almighty ! Git down on yo' knees ! " 

It was not necessary to say it twice. They were all 


kneeling in a moment. And then 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, deah 
Lord, we ain't ready yit — let dese po' chil'en hab one 
mo' chance. Take de ole niggah if you's got to hab 
somebody. O Lord, spah de little chil'en, don't tar de 
little chil'en away f'm dey frens, and take it out'n de 
old niggah. He ah 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 thun- 
der 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. 

" Well, now dey's some folks say day aint 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 I know it ! Whah was yo* 
eyes ? Warn't de Lord jes' a comin' chow! choio! chow ! 
an' a goin' on tumble — an' do the Lord carry on dat 
way 'dout dey's sumfin don't suit him? An' warn't he 
a lookin' right at dis gang heah, an' warn't he jes' a 
reachm' for '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 


" Did you feel scared, Uncle Dan'l ? " 

" No sah ! When a man is 'gaged in prah, he aint 
Afraid o' nuffin — day can't nuffin tetch him." 

"Well what did you run for? " 

" Well I — I — Mars Clay, when a man is under de 
influence ob de sperit, he do-no what he's 'bout. You 
mout take an 7 tah de head off'n dat man an' he would'nt 
scarcely fine it out. Dah's de Hebrew chil'en dat went 
fro ugh de fiah ; dey was burnt considable — ob coase 
dey was ; but day didn't know nuffin 'bout it — heal 
right up again ; if dey'd been gals dey'd missed dey 
long haah, maybe, but day wouldn't felt de burn." 

"J don't know but what they were girls. I think 
they were." 

" Now, Mars Clay, you knows better'n dat. Some- 
times a body can't tell whedder you's a say in' 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 I know whether they were boys 
or girls ? " 

" Goodness sakes, Mars Clay, don't de good book 
say? 'Sides, don't it call 'em iJe-brew 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 notice 
when dey do read." 

" Well, Uncle Dan'l, I think that — My ! here comes 
another one up the river ! There can't be two ! " 

" We gone dis time — we done gone dis time sho' ! 
Dey aint two, Mars Clay — dats de same one. Good- 
ness, how de fire and smoke do belch up ! Dat mean 
business, honey. He comin' now like fo'got sumfin. 
Come 'long, chil'en, time you's gwin 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 again." 

He did go to the wood and pray, but he went so far 
that he doubted, himself, if the Lor«d heard him when 
he went by. — Clemens and Warner. 



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 days are dark and dreary. 

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary ; 
It rains, and the wind is never weary ; 
My thoughts still cling to the mouldering past, 
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast, 
And the days are dark and dreary. 

Be still, sad heart, and cease repining; 
Behind the cloud 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. 

— Longfellow. 


The first time that I began to sneeze, a friend told 
me to go and bathe my feet in hot water, and go to bed. 
I did so. Shortly after, a friend told me to get up and 
take a cold shower-bath. I did that also. Within the 
hour another friend told me it was policy to feed a 
cold and starve a fever. I had both ; so I thought it 
"best to fill up for the cold, and let the fever starve 
awhile. In a case of this kind I seldom do things by 
halves; I ate pretty heartily. I conferred my custom 
upon a stranger who had just opened a restaurant on 
Cortland street, near the hotel, that morning, paying 
him so much for a full meal. He waited near me in 
respectful silence until I had finished feeding my cold, 
when he inquired whether people about New York 
were much afflicted with colds. I told him I thought 
they were. He then went out and took in his sign. 
I started up toward the office, and on the walk en- 
countered another bosom friend, who told me that a 
quart of warm salt-water would come as near curing 


a cold as anything in the world. I hardly thought I 
had room for it, but I tried it anyhow. The result 
was surprising. I believe I threw up my immortal 
soul. Now, as I give my experience only for the ben- 
efit of those of my friends who are troubled with this 
distemper, I feel that they will see the propriety of 
my cautioning them against following such portions 
of it as proved inefficient with me ; and acting upon 
this conviction, I warn them against warm salt-water. 
It may be a good enough remedy, but I think it is rather 
too severe. If I had another cold in the head, and 
there was no course left me — to take either an earth- 
quake or a quart of warm salt-water, I would take my 
chances on the earthquake. After this, everybody in 
the hotel became interested ; and I took all sorts of 
remedies — hot lemonade, cold lemonade, pepper tea, 
boneset, stewed Quaker, hoarhound syrup, onions and 
loaf-sugar, lemons and brown sugar, vinegar and lau- 
danum, five bottles fir balsam, eight bottles cherry pec- 
toral, and ten bottles of Uncle Sam's remedy ; but all 
without effect. One of the prescriptions given by an 
old lady was — well, it was dreadful. She mixed a de- 
coction composed of molasses, catnip, peppermint, aqua- 
fortis, turpentine, kerosene, and various other drugs, 
and instructed me to take a wineglassful of it every fif- 
teen minutes. I never took but one dose ; that was 
enough. I had to take to my bed, and remain there 
for two entire days. When I felt a little better, more 
things were recommended. I was desperate, and will- 
ing to take anything. Plain gin was recommended, 
and then gin and molasses, then gin and onions. I 
took all three. I detected no particular result, how- 
ever, except that I had acquired a breath like a turkey- 
buzzard, and had to change my boarding place. I had 
never refused a remedy yet, and it seemed poor policy 
to commence then ; therefore I determined to take a 
sheet-bath, though I had no idea what sort of an ar- 
rangement it was. It was administered at midnight, 


and the weather was frosty. My back and breast were 
stripped; and a sheet (there appeared to be a thou- 
sand yards of it), soaked in ice-water was wound 
around me until I resembled a swab for a columbiad. 
It is a cruel expedient. When the chilly rag touches 
one's warm iiesh, it makes him start with a sudden 
violence, and gasp for breath, just as men do in the 
death-agony. It froze the marrow in my bones, and 
stopped the beating of my heart. I thought my time 
had come. When I recovered from this, a friend or- 
dered the application of a mustard-plaster to my breast. 
I believe that would have cured me effectually, if it 
had not been for young Clemens. When I went to 
bed, I put the mustard-plaster where I could reach it 
when I should be ready for it. But young Clemens 
got hungry in the night, and ate it up. I never saw 
any child have such an appetite. I am confident that 
he would have eaten me if I had been healthy. 

— Mark Twain, 


Paul Severe was a rider bold — 

Well has his valorous deed been told ; 

Sheridan's ride was a glorious one — 

Often it has been dwelt upon. 

But why should men do all the deeds 

On which the love of a patriot feeds ? 

Harken to me, while I reveal 

The dashing ride of Jennie McNeal. 

On a spot as pretty as might be found 

In the dangerous length of the Neutral Ground, 

In a cottage cozy, and all their own, 

She and her mother lived alone. 

Safe were the two, with their frugal store, 

From all of the many who passed their door; 

For Jennie's mother was strange to fears, 

And Jennie was large for fifteen years ; 

With fun her eyes were glistening, 

Her hair was the hue of a blackbird's wing. 

And while the friends who knew her well 

The sweetness of her heart could tell ; 


A gun that hung on the kitchen wall, 
Looked solemnly quick to heed her call; 
And they who were evil-minded knew 
Her nerve was strong and her aim was true, 
So all kind words and acts did deal 
To generous, black-eyed Jennie McNeal. 

One night, when the sun had crept to bed, 

And rain clouds lingered overhead, 

And sent their pearly drops for proof 

To drum a tune on the cottage roof, 

Close after a knock at the outer door, 

There entered a dozen dragoons or more. 

Their red coats, stained by the muddy road, 

That they were British soldiers showed ; 

The captain his hostess bent to greet, 

Saying: " Madam, please give us a bit to eat; 

We will pay you well, and if may be, 

This bright-eyed girl for pouring our tea ; 

Then we must dash ten miles ahead, 

To catch a rebel colonel abed. 

He is visiting home, as doth appear; 

We will make his pleasure cost him dear." 

And they fell on the hasty supper with zeal, 

Close watched the while by Jennie McNeal. 

For the gray-haired colonel they hovered near, 
Had been her true friend — kind and dear; 
And oft, in her younger days, had he 
Eight proudly perched her upon his knee, 
And told her stories, many a one 
Concerning the French war lately done. 
And oft together the two friends were, 
And many the arts he taught to her; 
She had hunted by his fatherly side, 
He had shown her how to fence and ride ; 
And once had said, " The time may be 
Your skill and courage may stand by me." 
So sorrow for him she could but feel, 
Brave, grateful-hearted Jennie McNeal. 

With never a thought or a moment more, 
Bareheaded she slipped from the cottage-door. 
Ean out where the horses were left to feed, 
Unhitched and mounted the captain's steed, 
And down the hilly and rock-strewn way 
She urged the fiery horse of gray. 
Around her slender and cloakless form 
Pattered and moaned the ceaseless storm ; 
Secure and tight, a gloveless hand 
Grasped the reins with stern command; 


And full and black her long hair streamed, 
Whenever the ragged lightning gleamed, 
And on she rushed for the colonel's weal, 
Brave, lioness-hearted Jennie McNeal. 

Hark ! from the hills, a moment mute, 

Came a clatter of hoofs in hot pursuit ; 

And a cry from the foremost trooper said, 
" Halt ! or your blood be on your head ! " 

She heeded it not, and not in vain 

She lashed the horse with the bridle-rein. 

So into the night the gray horse strode ; 

His shoes heaved fire from the rocky road ; 

And the high-born courage, that never dies, 

Flashed from his rider's coal-black eyes. 

The pebbles flew from the fearful race ; 

The raindrops splashed on her glowing face. 
"On — on, brave beast!" with loud appeal, 

Cried eager, resolute Jennie McNeal. 

" Halt ! " once more came the voice of dread ; 
u Halt ! " or your blood be on your head ! " 

Then, no one answering to the calls, 

Shed after her a volley of balls. 

They passed her in their rapid flight, 

They screamed to her left, they screamed to her right. 

But, rushing still o'er the slippery track 

She sent no token of answer back, 

Except a silvery laughter-peal, 

Brave, merry-hearted Jennie McNeal. 

So on she rushed, at her own good will, 

Through wood and valley, o'er plain and hill ; 

The gray horse did his duty well, 

Till at once he stumbled and fell, 

Himself escaping the nets of harm, 

But flinging the girl with a broken arm. 

Still undismayed by the numbing pain, 

She clung to the horse's bridle-rein, 

And gently bidding him to stand, 

Petted him with her able hand ; 

Then sprung again to the saddle-bow, 

And shouted : " One more trial now ! " 

As if ashamed of the heedless fall, 

He gathered his strength once more for all. 

And, galloping down a hillside steep, 

Gained on the troopers at every leap ; 

No more the high-bred steed did reel, 

But ran his best for Jennie McNeal. 


They were a furlong behind or more, 
When the girl burst through the colonel's door, 
Her poor arm, helpless hanging with pain, 
And she all drabbled and drenched with rain. 
But her cheeks as red as firebrands are, 
And her eyes as bright as a blazing star, 
And shouted : " Quick ! be quick, I say ! 
They come ! they come ! Away ! away ! " 
Then sank on the rude white floor of deal. 
Poor, brave, exhausted Jennie McNeal. 

The startled colonel sprung and pressed 

The wife and children to his breast, 

And turned away from his fireside bright, 

And glided into the stormy night; 

Then soon and safely made his way 

To where the patriot army lay. 

But first he bent, in the dim firelight, 

And kissed the forehead broad and white, 

And blesssed the girl who had ridden so well 

To keep him out of a prison cell. 

The girl roused up at the martial din, 
Just as the troopers came rushing in, 
And laughed, e'en in the midst of a moan 
Saying "Good sirs, your bird has flown. 
? Tis I who have scared him from his nest, 
So deal with me now as you think best." 
But the grand young captain bowed, and said — 
"Never you hold a moment's dread, 
Of womanhood I must crown you queen ; 
So brave a girl I have never seen, 
Wear this gold ring as your valor's due; 
And when peace comes I will come for you." 
But Jennie's face an arch smile wore, 
As she said, "There's a lad in Putman's corps, 
Who told me the same, long time ago ; 
You two would never agree, I know, 
I promised my love to be true as steel," 
Said good, sure-hearted Jennie McNeal. 


Up from the meadows rich with corn, 
Clear in the cool September morn, 

The clustered spires of Frederick stand, 
Green-walled by the hills of Maryland. 


Bound about them orchards sweep, 
Apple and peach tree fruited deep, 

Fair as a garden of the Lord, 

To the eyes of the famished rebel horde. 

On that pleasant morn of the early Fall, 
When Lee marched over the mountain wall, 

Over the mountains winding down, 
Horse and foot, into Frederick town. 

Forty flags with their silver stars, 
Forty flags with their crimson bars, 

Flapped in the morning wind : the sun 
Of noon looked down, and saw not one. 

Up rose old Barbara Frietchie, then, 
Bowed with her four score years and ten ; . 

Bravest of all in Frederick town, 

She took up the flag the men hauled clown. 

In her attic-window the staff she set, 
To show that one heart was loyal yet. 

Up the street came the rebel tread, 
Stonewall Jackson riding ahead. 

Uuder his sLouched hat left and right 
He glanced : the old flag met his sight. 

"Halt!" — the dust-brown ranks stood fast; 
"Fire!"— out blazed the rifle-blast. 

It shivered the window, pane and sash, 
It rent the banner with seam and gash. 

Quick, as it fell from the broken staff, 
Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf; 

She leaned far out on the window-sill, 
And shook it forth with a royal will. 

" Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, 
But spare your country's flag," she said. 

A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, 
Over the face of the leader came; 

The nobler nature within him stirred 
To life at that woman's deed and word. 

""Who touches a hair of yon gray head 
Dies like a dog ! March on ! " he said. 

All day long through Frederick street 
Sounded the tread of marching feet ; 


All day long that free flag tossed 
Over the heads of the rebel host. 

Ever its torn folds rose and fell 

On the loyal winds that loved it well ; 

And through the hill-gaps sunset light 
Shone over it with a warm good-night. 

Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er, 

And the rebel rides on his raids no more. 

Honor to her ! and let a tear 

Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier. 

Over Barbara Frietchie's grave, 
Flag of Freedom and Union, wave ! 

Peace and order and beauty draw 
Eound thy symbol of light and law ; 

And ever the stars above look down 
On thy stars below in Frederick town. 

— John G. Whittier. 


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 flowed 
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 humming bees; 

Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether 
The cloud in the west would bring foul weather. 

And Maud forgot her briar- torn 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 Muller looked and sighed : "Ah, me! 
That I the Judge's bride might be ! 

" He would dress me up in silks 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 should bless me who left our door." 

The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill, 
And saw Maud 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, 
When 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. 

Yet oft, in his marble 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 maiden raked her hay." 

She wedded a man unlearned and poor, 
And many children played round her door. 

But care and sorrow, and child-birth pain, 
Left their traces on heart and brain. 

And oft, when the summer sun shone hot 
On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot, 

And she heard the little spring brook fall, 
Over the roadside, through the wall, 

In the shade of the apple-tree 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 only, " It might have been." 

Alas for maiden, alas for Judge, 

For rich repiner and household 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 

JRoll the stone from its grave away ! — J. G. Whittier. 



Is there for honest poverty, 

That hangs his head and a' that? 
The coward-slave, we pass him by, 
And dare be poor, for a' that! 
For a' that, and a' that ; 

Our toils obscure, and a' that ; 

The rank is but the guinea's stamp ; 

The man's the gowd for a' that. 

What tho' on namely fare we dine, 
Wear hodden-gray, and a' that ; 
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, 
A man's a man, for a' that. 
For a' that, and a' that, 

Their tinsel show, and a' that ; 
The honest man, tho' ne'er sae poor, 
Is king o' men for a' that. 


Ye see yon birkie, ca'ed a lord, 

Wha struts, and stares, and a' that; 
Tho' hundreds worship at his word, 
He's but a coof, for a' that. 
For a' that, and a' that, 

His riband, star, and a' that; 
The man of independent mind, 
He looks and laughs at a' that. 

A king can mak a belted knight, 
A marquis, duke, and a' that ; 
But an honest man's aboon his might, 
Guid faith, he maunna fa' that! 
For a' that, and a' that, 

Their dignities, and a' that ; 
The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth, 
Are higher rank than a' that. 

Then let us pray that come it may, 

As come it will for a' that, 
That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, 
May bear the gree, and a' that ; 
For a' that, and a' that ; 

It's coming yet, for a' that; 
When man to man, the warld o'er, 
Shall brothers be for a' that. 

— Robert Burns, 


Is there for simple purity, 

That hangs his head, and a' that ; 
A cowardly slave, we pass him by, 

And dare be poor for a' that; 
For a' that, and a' that, 

Through toils obscure, and a' that; 
Proud rank is but a dollar's stamp, 

The woman's the gold for a' that ! 

What though a house-wife she may be, 

Wear home-spun garb, and a' that; 
Give belles their silks and fools their wine,. 

A woman's a woman for a' that! 
For a' that, and a' that, 

Their dazzling show, and a' that; 
The virt'us woman, though e'er so poor, 

Is queen of women for a' that. 


You see yon lassie, called a belle, 

Though rich in gear, and a' that, 
Though hundreds worship at her shrine, 

She's but a flirt, for a' that ! 
For a' that, and a' that, 

Her ribbons, grace, and a' that ; 
The woman of sense, and cultured mind, 

She looks and laughs at a' that. 

A worthless flirt can make a queen, 

A princess proud, and a' that, 
But an honest woman's above her might, 

Good, faithful, true, and a' that ! 
For a' that, and for a' that, 

Their airs and pride, and a' that ; 
The gift of sense and pride of worth, 

Are higher rank than a' that. 

Then let us pray that come it may — 

As come it will for a' that — 
That woman's worth o'er all the earth, 

May reign supreme, and a' that, 
For a' that, and a' that, 

It's coming yet, for a' that, 
That woman to woman, the world o'er, 

Shall sisters be, for a' that. — J. F. Hartley, 


Summer of 'sixty-three, sir, and Conrad was gone away — 
Gone to the county-town, sir, to sell our first load of hay — 
We lived in the log-house yonder, poor as ever you've seen ; 
Eoschen 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 North 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 kind as kind could be; 
But I kept longing, longing, for the hills of the Tennessee. 

Oh, for a sight of water, the shadowed slope of a hill! 
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 breathless 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 Eouf'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 way. 

"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 on the floor ; 
Kentuck was out in the pasture; Conrad, my man, was gone; 
Near, nearer Morgan's men were galloping, galloping on ! 

Sudden I picked up baby, and ran to the pasture-bar ; 
" Kentuck ! " I called ; " Kentucky ! " She knew me ever so far ! 
I led her down the gully that turns off there to the right, 
And tied her to the bushes ; her head was just out of sight. 

As I ran back to the log-house, at once there came a sound — 
The ring of hoofs, galloping hoofs, trembling over the ground — 
Coming into the turnpike out from the White- Woman Glen — 
Morgan, Morgan the raider, and Morgan's terrible men. 

As near they drew and nearer, my heart beat fast in alarm ; 

But still I stood in the doorway, with baby on my arm. 

They came ; they passed ; with spur and whip in haste they sped 

along — 
Morgan, Morgan the raider, and his band six hundred strong. 

Weary they looked and jaded, riding through night and through 

Pushing on east to the river, many long miles away, 
To the border-strip where Virginia runs up into the west, 
And ford 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 

And I 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 dare look in his face, 
As he asked for a drink of water, and glanced around the place; 
I 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 could 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 ; 
" Do you know the Blue-Grass country ? " he wistfully began to say ; 
Then swayed like a willow sapling, and fainted dead away. 

I had him into the log-house, and worked and brought him to ; 
I fed him, and 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. 

" O, I must go," he muttered; "I must be up and away! 
Morgan, Morgan is waiting for me ! O, 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 


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 west, 
Through river-valleys and corn-land farms, sweeping away her 


A bold ride and a long ride ! But they 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 — 
But 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 star on 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 both 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 ; 
He cared for her, and kept her, nor touched her with whip or spur- 
Ah! we've had many horses, but never a horse like her! 

— Constance Fenimore Woolson. 


Parhasius stood, gazing forgetfully 
Upon his canvas. There Prometheus lay, 
Chained to the cold rocks of Mount Caucasus, 
The vultures at his vitals, and the links 
Of the lame Lemnian festering in his flesh; 
And, as the painter's mind felt through the dim, 
Rapt mystery, and plucked the shadows wild 
Forth with his reaching fancy, and with form 
And color clad them, his fine, earnest eye 
Flashed with a passionate fire, and the quick curl 
Of his thin nostril, and his quivering lip, 
Were like the winged god's breathing from his flight. 


" Bring me the captive now ! 
"My hand feels skillful, and the shadows lift 
Prom my waked spirit airily and swift ; 

And I could paint the bow 
Upon the bended heavens; around me play 
Colors of such divinity to-day. 

" Ha! bind him on his back! 
Look ! as Prometheus in my picture here ! 
Quick ! or he faints ! stand with the cordial near ! 

Now, bend him to the rack ! 
Press down the poisoned links into his flesh ! 
And tear agape that healing wound afresh ! 

"So ! let him writhe ! How long 
Will he live thus? Quick, my good pencil, now! 
What a fine agony works upon his brow! 

Ha! gray-haired, and so strong! 
How fearfully he stifles that short moan ! 
Gods ! if I could but paint a dying groan ! 

"'Pity' thee? Soldo; 
I pity the dumb victim at the altar ; 
But does the robed priest for his pity falter? 

I'd rack thee, though I knew 
A thousand lives were perishing in thine ; 
What were ten thousand to a fame like mine ? 

"Ah ! there's a deathless name ! 
A spirit that the smothering vault shall spurn, 
And, like a steadfast planet, mount and burn ; 

And though its crown of flame 
Consumed my brain to ashes as it won me, 
By all the fiery stars! I'd pluck it on me! 

"Ay, though it bid me rifle 
My heart's last fount for its insatiate thirst; 
Though every life-strung nerve be maddened first ; 

Though it should bid me stifle 
The yearning in my throat for my sweet child, 
And taunt its mother till my brain went wild. 

"All ! I would do it all, 
Sooner than die, like a dull worm, to rot; 
Thrust foully in the earth to be forgot. 

O heavens ! but I appall 
Your heart, old man ! forgive — ha ! on your lives 
Let him not faint ! rack him till he revives ! 


" Vain — vain — give o'er. His eye 
Glazes apace. He does not feel you now. 
Stand back ! I'll paint the death-dew on his brow !' 

Gods ! if he do not die 
But for one moment — one — till I eclipse 
Conception with the scorn of those calm lips ! 

" Shivering ! Hark ! he mutters 
Brokenly now ; that was a difficult breath ; 
Another? Wilt thou never come, O Death? 

Look ! how his temple nutters ! 
Is his heart still? Aha ! lift up his head ! 
He shudders — gasps — Jove help him — so, he's dead ! " 

How like a mountain devil in the heart 

Bules this unreined ambition ! Let it once 

But play the monarch, and its haughty brow 

Glows with a beauty that bewilders thought 

And unthrones peace forever. Putting on 

The very pomp of Lucifer, it turns 

The heart to ashes, and with not a spring 

Left in the desert for the spirit's lip, 

We look upon our splendor, and forget 

The thirst of which we perish ! — Willis. 


Violets, sweet violets, 
I love you as I love my pets. 
Let me see, — 
One, two, three, 
Four, five, — ever five leaves ; 
Always the same — never deceives. 
What care I for your family ? 
What did you say? 

Botany ? 
Fling it in Botany Bay. 

Daisies, daisies, 

Scattered in endless mazes 
Over the meadows, under the hedges, 
Not in the path, but close to its edges ; 
As stars gem the blue of the sky with their sheen, 
Ye gem and besprinkle the velvety green. 
What care I for your pedigree? 
Pistils or stamens, how many there be ! 

What did you say ? 
Botany ? 

Fling it in Botany Bay. 



Hey, johnny-jump-up! 
Johnny will tell if I pull you apart — 
If I pick you to pieces and tear out your heart. 

Johnny will tell, 

I know him well, 
So keep your heart in its golden bell. 
What care I how rich it be ! 
I love you, and that is enough for me. 

What did you say? 

Fling it in Botany Bay. 


I love the spot 
Where grows the fairy forget-me-not. 

How like to a star 

Its pale blossoms are ! 
And its bonny bright eyes I love to see, 
W T hat care I how many they be ? 

What did you say? 
Botany ? 

Fling it in Botany Bay. 

Mignonette ! 

I'll never forget 
Thy fragrance, it lingers about me yet. 

Delicate blossom, 

Best on my bosom ; 
Shed a sweet incense, when dying, o'er me, 
When no longer thy fairy-like blossoms I'll see. 

What did you say? 
Botany ? 

Fling it in Botany Bay. 

Lily so fair! 

Purity's there, 
You have beautiful raiment and never a care. 

Oh, would I might be 

So lovely as thee, 
And have never a thought about " nothing to wear! '^ 
I'd belong to your " tribe," whatever it be. 

What did you say? 
Botany ? 

Fling it in Botany Bay. 

Cowslips ! 
Dewy lips ! 
Thy name recalls bright childhood scenes ; 
For thy blossoms I look, 
In the mead by the brook, 


Through the vista of time that intervenes; 
Again I chase the winged hours 
And gather thy yellow unfolding flowers, 
Golden boats all afloat on a green leafy sea. 

What did you sav? 

Fling it in Botany Bay. 

Bluebells, bluebells, 
What have you hid in your airy cells? 

Azure of heaven, 

Dewdrops of even — 
Whisper, bluebells, whisper to me; 
I only know how fair you be, 
Without a thought of your family. 

What did you say? 

Fling it in Botany Bay. 

Fair budding rose, 

I may not close 
Without a tribute in verse to thee. 

" First love ! " 

May it prove 
Source of joy like flowers to me, 
Whatever their names or their family. 

What did you say? 

Fling it in Botany Bay. 

Orange blossom ! 

Adorning the bosom, 
Or twined in the curl of a fair lady's hair; 

Ah, sometimes you be 

But a mockery ; 
Her lips may be false, though her brow seem so fair, 
Then so many heart-aches you blossoms are. 
Joy, trouble, or care is your progeny — 
A various, wonderful family. 

What did you say? 

Fling it in Botany Bay. 

Pansies are fraught 

With beautiful thought ; 
Bright thought and golden, and brilliant in hue; 
Give me the blue one, that is the true one. 

I'll have nothing to do — 

Pansy, would you — 


With " genus," or " classes," or " family." 
You bring a thought, a dear thought to me. 

A thought, did I say? 
For my botany ? 

No, fling it in Botany Bay. 

Poppy — nepenthe — 

Tell me who sent thee, 
To lull me to sleep o'er my botany ? 

So drowsy am I — 

I can not tell why — 
Nor how — many — stamens — or — poppies I see; 
When I wake I'll remember how many there be ; 

What did you say? 

Go fling it in Botany Bay. 


One morn a Peri at the gate 
Of Eden stood, disconsolate ; 
And as she listened to the Springs 
Of Life within, like music flowing, 
And caught the light upon her wings, 
Through the half-opened portal glowing, 
She wept to think her recreant race 
Should e'er have lost that glorious place ! 

" How happy," exclaimed the child of air, 
" Are the holy Spirits who wander there 
^Mid flowers that shall never fade and fall ; 
Though mine are the gardens of earth and sea, 
And the stars themselves have flowers for me, 
One blossom of heaven outblooms them all ! 

" Though sunny the lake of cool Cashmere, 
With its plane-tree isle reflected clear, 
And sweetly the founts of that valley fall ; 
Though bright are the waters of Sing-su-hay, 
And the golden floods that thitherward stray ; 
Yet — oh ! 'tis only the blest can say 
How the waters of heaven outshine them all!" 

<l Go, — wing your flight from star to star, 
From world to luminous world, as far 
As the universe spreads its flaming wall, 
Take all the pleasures of all the spheres, 
And multiply each through endless years, 
One minute of heaven is worth them all ! " 


The glorious Angel who was keeping 
The gates of Light, beheld her weeping ; 
And, as he nearer drew and listened 
To her sad song, a tear-drop glistened 
Within his eyelids like the spray 
From Eden's fountain, when it lies 
On the blue flower, which — Brahmins say— = 
Blooms nowhere but in Paradise. 

" Nymph of a fair but erring line ! " 
Gently he said — " One hope is thine. 
'Tis written in the book of fate 
That Peri may yet be forgiven 
Who brings to this eternal gate 
The gift that is most dear to Heaven/ 
Go, seek it, and redeem thy sin, 
'Tis sweet to let the Pardoned in." 

Rapidly as comets run 
To the embrace of the sun ; 
Fleeter than the starry brands 
Flung at night from angel hands, 
> At those dark and daring sprites 
Who would climb th' empyrical heights, 
Down the blue vault the Peri flies 
And, lighted earthward by a glance 
That just then broke from Morning's eyes, 
Hung hovering o'er the world's expanse. 

But whither shall the Spirit go 

To find this gift from Heaven ? " I know 

The wealth " she cries, " of every urn 

In which unnumbered rubies burn, 

Beneath the pillars of Chilminar: 

I know where the Isles of Perfume are, 

Many a fathom down in the sea 

To the south of sun-bright Araby ; 

I know, too, where the Genii hid 

The jewel'd cup of their King Janeshid, 

With Life's elixir sparkling high : 

But gifts like these are not for the sky. 

Where was there ever a gem that shone 

Like the steps of Alla's wonderful Throne ? 

And the Drops of Life — oh ! what would they be. 

In the boundless deep of Eternity?" 

While thus she mused, her pinions fann'd 
The airs of the sweet Indian land, 
Whose air is balm, whose ocean spreads 
O'er coral rocks and amber beds ; 


"Whose sandal groves and bowers of spice 
Might be a Peri's Paradise ! 
But crimson now her rivers ran 
"With human blood ; the smell of death 
Came reeking from those spicy bowers ; 
And man — the sacrifice of man — 
Mingled his taint with every breath 
Unwafted from the innocent flowers. 

Land of the Sun ! What foot invades 

Thy pagods and thy pillared shades — 

The cavern-shrines, and idol-stones, 

Thy monarchs and their thousand thrones? 

'Tis he of Gazna — fierce in wrath 

He comes, and India's diadems 

Die scattered in his ruinous path. 

His bloodhounds he adorns with gems 

Torn from the violated necks 

Of many a young and loved Sultana ; 

Maidens, within their pure Zenemia ; 

Priests, in the very fane he slaughters, 

And chokes up with glittering wrecks 

Of golden shrines and sacred waters ! 

Downward the Peri turns her gaze, 

And through the war-field's bloody haze 

Beholds a youthful warrior stand 

Alone, beside his native river, 

The red blade broken in his hand, 

And the last arrow in his quiver. 

" Live," said the Conqueror ; " live to share 

The trophies of the crowns to bear ! " 

Silent that youthful warrior stood ; 

Silent he pointed to the flood, 

All crimson with his country's blood, 

Then sent his last remaining dart, 

For answer, to the invader's heart. 

False flew the shaft, though pointed well ; 
The Tyrant lived, the Hero fell ! 
Yet marked the Peri where he lay; 
And when the rush of wars was past, 
Swiftly descending on a ray 
Of morning light, she caught the last, 
Last glorious drop his heart had shed 
Before his free-born spirit fled ! 

" Be this," she cried, and winged her flight, 
" My welcome gift at the Gates of Light. 


Though foul are the drops that oft distill 

On the field of warfare, blood like this 

For liberty shed, so holy is 

It would not stain the purest rill 

That sparkles among the Bowers of Bliss ! 

Oh ! if there be on this earthly sphere 

A boon, an offering heaven holds dear, 

'Tis the last libation Liberty draws 

From the heart that bleeds and breaks in her cause ! " 

" Sweet," said the Angel, as she gave 

The gift into his radiant hand, 

" Sweet is our welcome of the brave 

Who die thus for their native land ; 

But see, alas ! the crystal bar 

Of Eden moves not ; holier far 

Than even this drop the boon must be 

That opes the gates of heaven for thee ! " — Moore. 


To have bangs or not to have bangs, that's the ques- 
tion. Whether it is better to suffer the outrageous 
bangs or take up arms against the sea of troubles and 
end them, is a serious consideration. You may take a 
pious Christian girl, bang her hair, and she will do some 
hideous deviltry in nine hours. The girl is no more 
responsible for her meanness than is any other lunatic. 
She can't help it. Bangs completely derange the little 
sinner and are the sole cause of her impudence. Samp- 
son's strength lay in his hair. A girl's deviltry is in 
her bangs ; they change the whole nature of her and 
lead her whithersoever they will. 

Dislodge the bangs and the girl will return to the 
path of rectitude. The longer the bangs the meaner 
the possessor, and the — uglier. 

Some of us boys once put a board over the face of 
the gentlest cow on the farm, a cow that had a wide 
reputation for order, sobriety and quietude. In an 
hour that cow was tearing through the fences like a tor- 
nado, shook her head at everything and seemed to say : 


"Look out for me, I'll hook." So with the girl. Bangs 
give her an unruly look. She looks like she would 
hook. You are afraid that she will run at you. Were 
I compelled to fight a duel with a mad cow or a 
banged girl, I would take my chances with the cow. 

Girls wear bangs to attract attention from their ugly 
faces. Pretty girls do not wear bangs. 

A Chinaman is pretty by the side of a Hottentot. 
An ugly face under bangs is not noticed. 

A girl with bangs looks like tangled sunbeams in a. 
bewildered forest. 

My dear girls, if you must wear bangs, don't you do 
it. If it will just kill you not to wear bangs, then die 
a martyr. You will make a prettier corpse than a live 
girl. You will fill a more useful place in the grave 
than you fill in life. You could not die in a nobler 

The girl with bangs is constantly doing hateful things 
that a sleek-haired girl, or a girl with frizzes even, 
would not think of doing. She may belong to the 
church, but she is not a Christian. At church she al- 
ways sings the top line of the hymn-book. 

In England there was an army of Roundheads. In 
America there is an army of Soft-heads. If I were 
compelled to marry either a girl with bangs or an In- 
dian squaw, I wouldn't do it. No, sir, I wouldn't. A 
girl with bangs is no companion for a man, but is a fit 
wife for a balky mule. 

Meet a banged girl on the streets and she bows at 
you like a jumping-jack. If she is on your right she 
looks over her left shoulder at you. She seems to say : 
"Don't you breathe twice in my presence. Look at 
me and die. All creation, attention !" 

All devils of mischief do not wear bangs, but all 
that wear bangs are imps of meanness. 

The Kentucky belle who eloped with a negro bar- 
ber wore bangs. The Indianapolis girl who murdered 
the wife of a Chinaman in order to marry her husband 


wore bangs. The last act of Miss Ida Stipes, of Buf- 
falo, before committing suicide, was to bang her hair. 
That woman who stole a silver cup from the Palmer 
House, at Chicago, wore bangs. Poodle dogs, Ute 
Indians, and mean girls, wear bangs. I hate bangs 
w T ith an unappeasable hatred. They are the remote 
cause of three-fourths of the feminine mischief, and 
the direct cause of one-fourth of all the deviltry. I 
once knew a sweet-faced girl, in whose eyes heaven's 
own blue seemed to melt. Could you have seen her, 
lithe and elastic, you would have thought her the 
tidiest figure under the stars. You could hardly think 
of joys more thrilling than the pleasure of living with 
her all your life, far, far away amid the primeval for- 
ests, where there are no railroads, steamboats, or post- 
offices ; where you could wander and gather wild roses 
for her hair, and in some dark shade, read, from gilt- 
edged books, sweet poetry to her all day long. Of 
evenings, leave the cold room, and, contrary to the 
rules of college, gather warmth from the cheering rays 
of pale moonshine. 

Excepting her nightingale voice there is no music 
below the skies half so sweet as the gentle rustling of 
her dress as she passes. You could trace her footsteps 
over the stony pavement. Her eyes were like the 
blazing stars, her lips like two twin cherries, her 
cheeks semi-transparent, her hair smooth and glossy 
like a fairy's, her form and beauty combined, where 
every god did seem to set his seal and give the world 
assurance of an angel. 

But the tempter came. That very night her Boston 
cousin set foot in our village. She told this wingless 
angel that all the Boston girls wore bangs, and that 
they were two awfully lovely for any use. In one 
short hour that pretty, gentle, timid girl was banged. 
Then look you what follows. Look upon the former 
angel; then upon this, the counterfeit presentment 
of the same creature. See what a grace was seated on 


the first brow. Bangs blur the grace and blush of 
modesty ; call beauty hypocrite, take off the rose of 
beauty and set bangs there. I saw the features, those 
mangled features, and then I cried for vengeance. 
Rouse ye lovers, if ye have fair girls, look in the next 
fierce brawl to see them banged, torn from your arms, 
distorted and disfigured. After that sight, how weary, 
stale, flat and unprofitable seemed this world. It is 
&n unweeded garden. Fie on it. Oh, fie. 

"Frailty, thy name is woman." 
Bangs are not, and they can not come to good. 
But break my heart, for I must hold my tongue. 

— J. V. Coombs. 


O'er a low couch the setting sun 

Had thrown its latest ray, 
Where, in his last strong agony, 

A dying warrior lay — 
The stern old Baron Rudiger, 

Whose frame had ne'r been bent 
By wasting pain, till time and toil 

Its iron strength had spent. 

"They come around me here, and say 

My days of life are o'er — 
That I shall mount my noble steed 

And lead my band no more; 
They come, and to my beard they dare 

To tell me now, that I, 
Their own liege lord and master born — 

That I — ha ! ha ! — must die ! 

"And what is death ? I've dared him oft, 

Before the Paynim's spear — 
Think ye he's entered at my gate, 

Has come to seek me here? 
I've met him, faced him, scorned him, 

When the fight was raging hot — 
I'll try his might — I'll brave his power — 

Defy, and fear him not ! 



" Ho ! sound the tocsin from the tower, 

And fire the culverin ! 
Bid each retainer arm with speed, 

Call every vassal in ! 
Up with my banner on the wall ! 

The banquet board prepare ! 
Throw wide the portal of my hall,. 

And bring my armor there ! " 

A hundred hands were busy then ; 

The banquet forth was spread, 
And rang the heavy oaken floor 

With many a martial tread ; 
While from the rich, dark tracery, 

Along the vaulted wall, 
Lights gleamed on harness, plume, and spear, 

O'er the proud Gothic hall. 

Fast hurrying through the outer gate, 

The mailed retainers poured 
On through the portal's frowning arch, 

And thronged around the board ; 
W T hile at its head, within his dark, 

Carved, oaken chair of state, 
Armed cap-a-pie, stern Rudiger, 

With girded falchion sate. 

" Fill every beaker up, my men ! 

Pour forth the cheering wine ! 
There's life and strength in every drop. 

Thanksgiving to the vine ! 
Are ye all there, my vassals true? — 

Mine eyes are waxing dim: 
Fill round, my tried and fearless ones, 

Each goblet to the brim ! 

" Ye're there, but yet 1 see you not ! 

Draw forth each trusty sword, 
And let me hear your faithful steel 

Clash once around my board ! 
I hear it faintly — louder yet ! 

What clogs my heavy breath? 
Up, all! and shout for Kudiger, 

1 Defiance unto death ! ' " 

Bowl rang to bowl, steel clanged to steel, 

And rose a deafening cry, 
That made the torches flare around, 

And shook the flags on high : 


u Ho ! cravens ! do ye fear him ? 
Slaves ! traitors ! have he flown 
Ho ! cowards, have ye left me 
To meet him here alone? 

" But I defy him ! let him come ! " 

Down rang the massy cup, 
While from its sheath the ready blade 

Came flashing half way up ; 
And with the black and heavy plumes 

Scarce trembling on his head, 
There, in his dark, carved, oaken chair, 

Old Hudiger sat — dead ! — A. G. Greene. 


Pm only a very little girl, but I think I have just 
as much right to say what I want to about things as a 
boy. I hate boys, they are so mean ; they grab all the 
strawberries at the dinner-table, and never tell us when 
they're going to have any fun. Only I like Gus Rog- 
ers. The other day Gus told me he was going to let 
off some fireworks, and he let Bessie Nettle and me go 
and lopk at them. All of us live in a hotel, and his 
mother's room has a window with a balcony. And it 
was there we had the fireworks, right on the balcony. 
His mother had gone out to buy some creme de lis to put 
on her face, and he'd went and got eleven boxes of 
lucifer matches, and ever so many pieces of Castile 
soap; he stealed them from the housekeeper. Just 
when she was going to put them in her closet, Gus 
went and told her Mrs. Nettle wanted her directly a 
minute, and while she was gone he grabbed the soap, 
and the matches, and when she came back we watched 
her, and she got real mad, and she scolded Delia, that's 
the chambermaid, and said she know'd she did it; and 
I was real glad, because when I was turning somersets 
on my mother's bed the other day, Delia slapped me, 
and she said she wasn't going to make the bed two 
times to please me; then Bessie and me sticked the 


matches in the soap like tenpins, and Gus fired them off, 
and they blazed like anything, and they made an awful 
smell, and Gus went and turned a little of the gas on 
so's his mother would think it was that. 

We get our dinner with the nurses, 'cause the man 
that keeps the hotel charges full price for children if 
they sit at the table in the big dining-room. Once 
my mother let me go there with her, and I talked a 
heap at the table, and a gentleman that sat next to us 
said "Little girls should be seen and not heard." The 
mean old thing died last week, and I was real glad, and 
I told Delia so, and she said if I went and said things 
like that I couldn't go to heaven. Much she knows 
about it. I wouldn't want to go if dirty things like 
she went there. Yesterday Mary, our nurse, told Bes- 
sie Nettle's nurse that she heard Larry Finnegan was 
going to marry her. Larry is one of the waiters, and 
he saves candies for me from the big dining-room. 
And Bessie Nettle's nurse said, " Oh, Lord ! what a 
lie ! " and Bessie Nettle went in her mother's room, and 
her little brother said she nipped him, and Bessie said, 
" Oh, Lord ! what a lie ! " and you should have heard 
how her mother did talk to her, and went and shut her 
up in a dark room where she kept her trunks, and 
didn't let her have nothing but bread and water, and 
Gus Koger.s went and yelled through the key-hole, 
and said, " Bessie, the devil is coming to fetch you," 
and Bessie screamed and almost had a fit, and her 
mother told Mrs. Rogers, and got Gus licked, and Gus 
says he's a good mind to set the house on fire some day 
and burn her out. 

One day I went in the parlor and creeped under a 
sofa, and there wasn't anybody there. They don't let 
dogs or children go in the parlor, and I think it's real 
mean — and I creeped under the sofa, so's nobody could 
see me ; and Mr. Boyce came in and Miss Jackson. I 
don't like Miss Jackson ; she said one day childrens 
was a worse nuisance than dogs was. And Mr. Boyce 


and Miss Jackson came and sitted down on the sofa, 
and he said, "Oh, Louisa, I love you so much," and 
then he kissed her. I heard it smack. And she said, 
" Oh, Thomas, I wish I could believe you ; don't you 
never kiss anybody else?" and he said, "No, dearest," 
and I called out, " Oh, what a big story, for I saw him 
kiss Bessie Nettle's nurse in the hall one night when 
the gas was turned down." Didn't he jump up; you 
bet — Gus always says you bet — and he pulled me out 
and tored my frock, and he said, "Oh, you wicked 
child, where do you expect to go for telling stories?" 
and I told him, "You shut up, I ain't going anywhere 
with you." I wish that man would die like the other 
did, so I do, and I don't care whether he goes to heaven 
or not. 

Gus Rogers' mother had a lunch party in her parlor, 
and they had champagne, and they never gave him 
any, and when his mother wasn't looking he found a 
bottle half full on the sideboard, and he stealed it and 
took it in our nursery, and Mary wasn't there, and Gus 
and me drinked it out of the glass Mary brushes her 
teeth in, and it was real nice, and. we looked in Mary's 
wardrobe and finded her frock she goes to church in, 
and Gus put it on, and Mary's bonnet, too, and went 
in the hall, and we tumbled down and tored Mary's 
frock, and made my nose bleed, and Gus said, " Oh, 
there's a earthquake," 'cause we couldn't stand up, and 
you should see how the house did go up and down,, 
awful; and Gus and me laid down on the carpet, and 
the housekeeper picked me up and tooked me to my 
mother, and my mother said, " Oh, my, whatever have 
you been doing?" and I said, "Oh, Lord ! I drinked 
champagne out of Gus Rogers' mother's bottle in the 
glass Mary brushes her teeth in," and the housekeeper 
says, " Oh, my goodness gracious, that child's as tight 
as bricks," and I said, " You bet, bully for you," and 
then I was awful sick, and I have forgotten what else. 



You are leaving the farm to seek wealth and fame 

In the city so grand and gay ; 
To win you a fortune and gain you a name, 

And be somebody, you say. 
A farmer's life is too plodding and tame — 

You can not get rich in a day ! 
And you can't bear the thought of thus ever the same 

Plodding slowly along till you're gray. 

You will start as a clerk, but you say by and by 

You expect to own a large store, 
And rapidly sell what you carefully buy, 

With clerks to assist by the score. 
You will build a fine mansion, full three stories high, 

With your gilt-lettered name on the door; 
You'll be rich some fair day just as easy as try, 

Leaving fools on the farm to stay poor. 

But hold on, my young friend; not so sudden, I pray; 

Don't be in such haste to begin; 
Remember that Rome was not built in a day, 

And sometimes the tortoises win. 
If you knew what you will on the farm you would stay- 

What you will after years spent in vain; 
Years of toil, years of heart-aches, hair growing gray 

In wretchedness, poverty, sin. 

You will find for each toiler grown rich and esteemed, 

A thousand have died in despair ; 
In the garrets of misery those who had dreamed 

As you dream, to find happiness there ; 
But had found instead what they little had dreamed, 

Fierce hunger, and cold, and care ; 
You will wish you were back where the glad sun-rays 

By the brook in the sweet country air. 

There are culture and wealth in the city no doubt, 

And beauty, and music, and mirth ; 
But you will find from their circles securely shut out 

All those not in from their birth, 
Or those who for years have patiently wrought 

And gained them a place by their worth, 
And refinement and wealth may as safely be sought 

By patiently tilling the earth. 


It is right, is it not, to reflect, my young friend, 

Before risking yourself and your all, 
Where the chance is so slender for gaining your end, 

And so great that you stumble and fall ? 
That you will get rich I do not pretend, 

But plenty your own you may call 
If you stay on the farm ; and I do recommend 

Such a course as the most rational. 

There is need for you here, for strong hands and brave hearts, 

For the nobly ambitious and true; 
The plow of the husbandman vigor imparts, 

And life and prosperity too, 
To all trades, to all progress in science and arts, 

To all that men think or men do. 
For me, I'll ne'er leave it for the sin-crowded marts — 

Your hand, my boy ! neither will you. 

—J. W. McBroom. 


Meester Verris : I see dot mosd efferpoty wrides 
someding for de shicken bapers nowtays, and I tought 
meppe I can do dot too, as I wride all apout vat dook 
hlace mit me lasht summer; you know — odor of you 
don'd know, den I dells you — dot Katrina (dot is mine 
vrow) und me, ve keep some shickens for a long dime 
ago, und von tay she sait to me, " Sockery " (dot is 
mein name), "vy dond you put some uf de aigs under 
dot olt plue hen shickens, I dinks she vants to sate." 
" Veil," J sait, " meppe I guess I vill ; " so I bicked 
out some uf de best aigs und dook um oud do de parn 
fere de olt hen make her nesht in de side uf do hay- 
mow, poud five six veet up ; now, you see, I nefer vos 
ferry pig up und town, but I vos putty pig all de vay 
arount in de mittle, so I koodn't reach up dill I vent 
und get a parrel do stant on ; veil, I klimet on de par- 
rel, und ven my hed rise up by de nesht, dot olt hen 
gif me such a bick dot my nose runs all ofer my face 
mit plood, und ven I todge pack dot plasted olt parrel 
he preak, und I vent town kershlam ; I didn't tink I 
kood go insite a parrel pefore, put dere I vos, und I 


fit so dite dot I koodn't get me oud efferway, my fest 
vos bushed vay up unter my arm-holes. Ven I fount 
I vos dite shtuck, I holler, "Katrina! Katrina!" und 
ven she koom und see me shtuck in de parrel up to 
my arm-holes, mit my face all plood and aigs, she shust 
lait town on de hay und laft und laft, till I got so mat 
I sait, " Yot you lay dare und laf like a olt vool, eh ?" 
Yy dond you koom bull me oud?" und she set up 
und sait, "Oh, vipe off your chin, und bull your fest 
town ;" den she lait back und laft like she vood shblit 
herself more as efer. Mat as I vas, I tought to myself, 
Katrina, she sbeak English pooty goot, put I only sait, 
mit my cratest dignitude, "Katrina, vill you bull me 
oud dis parrel?" und she see dot I look booty red, so 
she said, "Uf course I vill, Sockery;" den she lait 
me und de parrel town on our site, und I dook holt de 
door sill, und Katrina she bull on de parrel, but de 
first bull she mate I yellet, "Donner und blitzen, shtop 
dat ; dere is nails in de parrel ! " You see de nails 
bent town ven I vent in, but ven I koom oud dey 
schticks in me all de vay rount; veil, to make a short 
shtory long, I dold Katrina to go und dell nayper 
Hausman to pring a saw und saw me dis parrel off; 
veil, he koom, und he like to shblit himself mit laf too, 
but he roll me ofer und saw de parrel all de vay around 
off, und I get up mit haf a parrel around my vaist ; den 
Katrina she say, " Sockery, vait a little till I get a bat- 
tern uf dat new oferskirt you haf on," put I didn't sait 
a vort. I shust got a nife oud und vittle de hoops off 
und shling dot confountet olt parrel in de voot-pile. 

Pimeby, ven I koom in de house Katrina she sait, 
so soft like, "Sockery, don'd you goin ? to but some 
aigs under dot olt plue hen ?" Den I sait in my deep- 
est woice, " Katrina, uf you efer say dot to me again, 
I'll got a pill uf wriding from de lawyer from you," 
und I deli you she didn't say dot any more. Yell, 
Mr. Yerris, ven I shtep on a parrel now, I don'd shtep 
on it, I get a pox. — Sockery. 



Cassius. — That you have wrong'd me doth appear in this : 
You have condemn'd and noted Lucius Pella 
For taking bribes here of the Sardians, 
Wherein my letters, praying on his side, 
Because I knew the man, were slighted off. 
Brutus. — You wrong'd yourself to write in such a case. 
Cassius. — In such a time as this, it is not meet 

That every nice offense should bear his comment. 
Brutus. — Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself 

Are much condemn'd to have an itching palm, 
To sell and mart your offices for gold 
To undeservers. 
Cassius. — I an itching palm ? 

You know that you are Brutus that speak this, 
Or, by the gods, this speech were else your last. 
Brutus. — The name of Cassius honors this corruption, 

And chastisement doth therefore hide his head. 
Cassius. — Chastisement ! 

Brutus. — Remember March, the Ides of March remember I 
Did not great Julius bleed for justice's sake? 
What villain touch'd his body, that did stab, 
And not for justice? What, shall one of us, 
That struck the foremost man of all this world 
But for supporting robbers ; shall we now 
Contaminate our fingers with base bribes, 
And sell the mighty space of our large honors 
For so much trash as may be grasped thus ? 
I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon, 
Than such a Roman. 
Cassius. — Brutus, bay not me. 

I'll not endure it; you forget yourself, 
To hedge me in ; I am a soldier, I, 
Older in practice ; abler than yourself 
To make conditions. 
Brutus. — Go to ; you are not, Cassius. 

Cassius.— I am. 
Brutus. — I say you are not. 
Cassius. — Urge me no more, I shall forget myself ; 

Have mind upon your health, tempt me no further. 
Brutus. — Away, slight man ! 
Cassius. — Is't possible ? 
Brutus. — Hear me, for I will speak. 

Must I give way and room to your rashcholer? 
Shall I be frighted when a madman stares? 
Cassius. — O ye gods ! ye gods ! must I endure all this? 
Brutus. — All this ? Ay, more ; fret till your proud heart break y 
Go, show your slaves how choleric you are, 


And make your bondmen tremble. Must I budge? 
Must I observe you ? Must I stand and crouch 
Under your testy humor? By the gods, 
You shall digest the venom of your spleen, 
Though it do split you ; for, from this day forth 
I'll use you for my mirth, yea, for my laughter, 
When you are waspish. 

Cassius. — Is it come to this? 

Brutus. — You say you are a better soldier : 

Let it appear so ; make your vaunting true, 
And it shall please me well ; for mine own part 
I shall be glad to learn of noble men. 

Cassius. — You wrong me every way, you wrong me, Brutus : 
I said an elder soldier, not a better ; 
Did I say "better?" 

Brutus. — If you did, I care not. 

Cassius. — When Caesar lived, he durst not thus have moved me. 

Brutus. — Peace, peace ! you durst not so have tempted him. 

Cassius. — I durst not? 

Brutus. — No. 

Cassius. — What? Durst not tempt him? 

Brutus. — For your life you durst not. 

Cassius. — Do not promise too much upon my love ; 
I may do that I shall be sorry for. 

Urutus. — You have done that you should be sorry for. 
There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats; 
For I am arm'd so strong in honesty, 
That they pass by me as the idle wind, 
Which I respect not. I did send to you 
For certain sums of gold, which you denied me ; 
For I can raise no money by vile means ; 
By heaven, I had rather coin my heart, 
And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring 
From the hard hands of peasants their vile trash 
By any indirection. I did send 
To you for gold to pay my legions, 
Which you denied me. Was that done like Cassius ? 
Should I have answer'd Caius Cassius so? 
When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous, 
To lock such rascal counters from his friends, 
Be ready, gods, with all your thunder-bolts; 
Dash him to pieces ' 

Cassius. — I denied you not. 

Brutus. — You did. 

{Jassius. — I did not: he was but a fool that brought 

My answer back. Brutus hath rived my heart. 
A friend should bear his friend's infirmities, 
But Brutus makes mine greater than they are. 

JBrutus. — I do not, till you practice them on me. 


Cassius. — You love me not. 

Brutus. — I do not like your faults. 

Cassius. — A friendly eye could never see such faults. 

Brutus. — A flatterer's would not, though, they do appear 
As huge as high Olympus. 

Cassius. — Come, Antony, and young Octavius, come ! 
Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius, 
For Cassius is aweary of the world : 
Hated by one he loves ; braved by his brother ; 
Check'dlike a bondman; all his faults observed, 
Set in a note-book, learn'd, and conn'd by rote, 
To cast into my teeth. Oh, I could weep 
My spirit from mine eyes ! There is my dagger 
And here my naked breast; within, a heart, 
Dearer than Plutus' mine, richer than gold : 
If that thou be'st a Roman, take it forth; 
I, that denied thee gold, will give my heart: 
Strike as thou didst at Caesar; for, I know, 
When thou didst hate him worst, thou lovedst him better 
Than ever thou lovedst Cassius. 

Brutus. — Sheathe your dagger : 

Be angry when you will, it shall have scope; 
Do what you will, dishonor shall be humor. 
O Cassius, you are yoked with a lamb 
That carries anger as the flint bears fire : 
Who, much enforced, shows a hasty spark, 
And straight is cold again. 

Cassius. — Hath Cassius lived 

To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus 
When grief and blood ill-temper'd vexeth him? 

Brutus. — When I spoke that I was ill-temper'd, too. 

Cassius. — Do you confess so much ? Give me your hand. 

Brutus. — And my heart, too. (Embracing.) 

Cassius. — O Brutus ! 

Brutus.— What's the matter ? 

Cassius. — Have you not love enough to bear with me 

When that rash humor which my mother gave me 
Makes me forgetful ? 

Brutus. Yes, Cassius ; and, from henceforth, 

W T hen you are over-earnest with your Brutus, 
He'll think your mother chides, and leave you so. 

— Shakspere. 


'- Move my arm-chair, faithful Pompey, 
In the sunshine, bright and strong, 
For this world is fading, Pompey, 
Massa won't be with you long ; 


And I fain would hear the south wind 
Bring once more the sound to me, 

Of the wavelets softly breaking 
On the shores of Tennessee. 

" Mournful though the ripples murmur, 

As they still the story tell, 
How no vessels float the banner 

That I've loved so long and well. 
I shall listen to their music, 

Dreaming that again I see 
Stars and Stripes on sloop and shallop 

Sailing up the Tennessee. 

" And, Pompey, while old Massa's waiting 

For Death's last dispatch to come, 
If that exiled starry banner 

Should come proudly sailing home, 
You shall greet it, slave no longer — 

Voice and hand shall both be free 
That shout and point to Union colors 

On the waves of Tennessee." 

" Massa's berry kind to Pompey ; 

But old darkey's happy here, 
Where he's tended corn and cotton 

For dese many a long gone year. 
Over yonder Missis' sleeping — 

No one tends her grave like me. 
Mebbe she would miss the flowers 

She used to love in Tennessee. 

"'Pears like she was watching Massa— » 

If Pompey should beside him stay, 
Mebbe she'd remember better 

How for him she used to pray; 
Telling him that way up yonder 

White as snow his soul would be, 
If he served the Lord of heaven 

While he lived in Tennessee." 

Silently the tears were rolling 

Down the poor old dusky face, 
As he stepped behind his master, 

In his long accustomed place. 
Then a silence fell around them 

As they gazed on rock and tree 
Pictured in the placid waters 

Of the rolling Tennessee. 


Master, dreaming of the battle 

Where he fought by Marion's side, 
When he bid the haughty Tarlton 

Stoop his lordly crest of pride. 
Man, remembering how yon sleeper 

Once he held upon his knee, 
Ere she loved the gallant soldier, 

Ealph Vervair, of Tennessee. 

Still the south wind fondly lingers 

'Mid the veteran's silver hair ; 
Still the bondman close beside him 

Stands behind the old arm-chair. 
With his dark-hued hand uplifted, 

Shading eyes, he bends to see 
Where the woodland boldly jutting 

Turns aside the Tennessee. 

Thus he watches cloud-born shadows 

Glide from tree to mountain-crest, 
Softly creeping, aye and ever 

To the river's yielding breast. 
Ha ! above the foliage yonder 

Something flutters wild and free! 
"Massa! massa! halleluliah ! 

The flag's come back to Tennessee! 

" Pompey, hold me on your shoulder, 

Help me stand on foot once more, 
That I may salute the colors 

As they pass my cabin door. 
Here's the paper signed that frees you — 

Give a freeman's shout with me : 
' God and Union ! ' be our watchword 

Evermore in Tennessee." 

Then the trembling voice grew fainter, 

And the limbs refused to stand ; 
One prayer to Jesus — and the soldier 

Glided to the better land. 
When the flag went down the river 

Man and master both were free, 
While the ring-dove's note was mingled 

With the rippling Tennessee. 

— Ethel ie Beers. 



The king stood still 

Till the last echo died ; then, throwing off 
The sack-cloth from his brow, and laying back 
The pall from the still features of his child, 
He bowed his head upon him, and broke forth 
In the resistless eloquence of woe : 

"Alas ! my noble boy, that thou shouldst die ! 

Thou, who wert made so beautifully fair! 
That death should settle in thy glorious eye, 

And leave his stillness in this clustering hair! 
How could he mark thee for the silent tomb 

My proud boy, Absalom ! 

" Cold is thy brow, my son, and I am chill, 
As to my bosom I have tried to press thee. 

How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill, 

Like a rich harp-string, yearning to caress thee,, 

And hear thy sweet ' my father/ from these dumb 
And cold lips, Absalom ! 

" The grave hath won thee. I shall hear the gush 
Of music, and the voices of the young ; 
And life will pass me in the mantling blush, 

And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung ; 
But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shalt come 
To meet me, Absalom ! 

" But, oh ! when I am stricken, and my heart, 
Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken, 

How will its love for thee, as I depart, 

Yearn for thine ear, to drink its last, deep token, 

It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom, 
To see thee, Absalom ! 

"And now farewell ! 'Tis hard to give thee up, 
With death, so like a gentle slumber, on thee ; 

And thy dark sin ! oh ! I could drink the cup, 
If, from this woe, its bitterness had won thee. 

May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home, 
My erring Absalom ! " 

He covered up his face, and bowed himself, 

A moment, on his child ; then, giving him 

A look of melting tenderness, he clasped 

His hands convulsively, as if in prayer ; 

And, as a strength were given him of God, 

He rose up calmly, and composed the pall, 

Firmly and decently, and left him there, 

As if his rest had been a breathing sleep. — Willis. 



The train from out the castle drew; 
But Marmion stopped to bid adieu — 

" Though something I might 'plain," he said, 
" Of cold respect to stranger guest, 
Sent hither by your king's behest, 

While in Tantallon's towers I stayed — 
Part we in friendship from your land, 
And, noble earl, receive my hand." 

But Douglas round him drew his cloak, 
Folded his arms, and thus he spoke : 
" My manors, halls, and bowers shall still 
Be open, at my sovereign's will, 
To each one whom he lists, howe'er 
Unmeet to be the owner's peer. 
My castles are my king's alone, 
From turret to foundation-stone — 
The hand of Douglas is his own; 
And never shall in friendly grasp 
The hand of such as Marmion clasp ! " 

Burned Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire, 
And shook his very frame for ire, 

And — "This to me!" he said ; 
" An 'twere not for thy hoary beard, 
Such hand as Marmion's had not spared 

To cleave the Douglas' head ! 
And first I tell thee, haughty peer, 
He who does England's message here, 
Although the meanest in her state, 
May well, proud Angus, be thy mate! 
And, Douglas, more I tell thee here, 

Even in thy pitch of pride, 
Here, in thy hold, thy vassals near, 
(Nay, never look upon your lord, 
And lay your hands upon your sword), 

I tell thee thou 'rt defied'! 
And if thou saidst I am not peer 
To any lord in Scotland here, 
Lowland or Highland, far or near, 

Lord Angus, thou hast lied !" 

On the earl's cheek the flush of rage 
O'ercame the ashen hue of age; 
Fierce he broke forth : "And darest thou, then,. 
To beard the lion in his den — 
The Douglas in his hall? 


And hopest thou hence unscathed to go? 
No, by Saint Bride of Bothwell, no ! 
Up drawbridge, grooms '. — what, warder, ho! 
Let the portcullis fall." 

Lord Marmion turned — well was his need- 

And dashed the rowels in his steed ; 

Like arrow through the archway sprung, 

The ponderous gate behind him rung : 

To pass, there was such scanty room, 

The bars, descending, razed his plume. 

The steed along the drawbridge flies, 

Just as it trembled on the rise: 

Nor lighter does the swallow skim 

Along the smooth lake's level brim : 

And when Lord Marmion reached his band, 

He halts, and turns with clenched hand, 

A shout of loud defiance pours, 

And shakes his gauntlet at the towers ! — Walter Scott. 


A few days ago a Boston girl, who had been attend- 
ing the School of Philosophy at Concord, arrived in 
Brooklyn on a visit to a seminary chum. After can- 
vassing thoroughly the fun and gum-drops that made 
up their education in the seat of learning at which 
their early scholastic efforts were made, the Brooklyn 
girl began to inquire the nature of the Concord enter- 

"And so you are taking lessons in philosophy? 
How do you like it?" 

" Oh, it's perfectly lovely ! It's about science, you 
know, and we all just dote on science." 

"It must be nice. What is it about?" 

" It's about molecules as much as anything else, and 
molecules are just too awfully nice for anything. If 
there's anything I really enjoy it's molecules." 

"Tell me about them, my dear. What are mole- 

" Oh, molecules ! They are little wee things, and 


it takes ever so many of them. They are splendid 
things. Do you know, there ain't anything but what's 
got molecules in it. And Mr. Cook is just as sweet as 
he can be, and Mr. Emerson, too. They explain 
everything so beautifully. " 

"How I'd like to go there!" said the Brooklyn 
girl, enviously. 

"You'd enjoy it ever so much. They teach proto- 
plasm, too, and if there's one thing perfectly heavenly 
it's protoplasm. I really don't know which I like 
best, protoplasm or molecules." 

"Tell me about protoplasm. I know I should 
adore it." 

"'Deed you would. It's just too sweet to live. You 
know it's about how things get started, or something 
of that kind. You ought to hear Mr. Emerson tell 
about it. It would stir your very soul. The first 
time he explained about protoplasm there wasn't a 
dry eye in the house. We named our hats after him. 
This is an Emerson hat. You see the ribbon is drawn 
over the crown and caught with a buckle and a bunch 
of flowers. Then you turn up the side with a spray 
of forget-me-nots. Ain't it just too sweet? All the 
girls in the school have them." 

"How exquisitely lovely! Tell me some more 

" Oh ! I almost forgot about differentiation. I am 
really and truly positively in love with differentiation. 
It's different from molecules and protoplasm, but it's 
every bit as nice. And Mr. Cook ! You should hear 
him go on about it. I really believe he's perfectly 
bound up in it. This scarf is the Cook scarf. All 
the girls wear them, and we named them after him, 
just on account of the interest he takes in differentia- 

"What is it, any way?" 

" This is mull, trimmed with Languedoc lace " 



" I don't mean that — that other." 

" Oh, differentiation ! Ain't it sweet ? It's got 
something to do with species. It's the way you tell 
one hat from another, so you'll know which is becom- 
ing. And we learn all about ascidians, too. They 
are the divinest things ! I'm absolutely enraptured 
with ascidians. If I only had an ascidian of my own 
I wouldn't ask anything else in the world." 

"What do they look like, dear? Did you ever see 
one?" asked the Brooklyn girl, deeply interested. 

" Oh, no ; nobody ever saw one except Mr. Cook 
and Mr. Emerson ; but they are something like an 
oyster with a reticule hung on its belt. I think they 
are just heavenly." 

"Do you learn anything else besides?" 

" Oh, yes ! We learn about common philosophy 
and logic, and those common things like metaphysics ; 
but the girls don't care anything about those. We are 
just in ecstasies over differentiations and molecules, 
and Mr. Cook and protoplasms, and ascidians and 
Mr. Emerson, and I really don't see why they put in 
those vulgar branches. If anybody besides Mr. Cook 
and Mr. Emerson had done it, we should have told 
him to his face that he was terribly, awfully mean." 
And the Brooklyn girl went to bed that night in the 
dumps, because fortune had not vouschafed her the 
advantages enjoyed by her friend. 


" Who stuffed that white owl ! " No one spoke in the shop. 
The barber was busy, and he couldn't stop ; 
The customers, waiting their turn were all reading 
The Daily , the Herald, the Post, little heeding 
The young man who blurted out such a blunt question, 
Not one raised a head, or even made a suggestion ; 
And the barber kept on shaving. 

° Don't you see, Mister Brown," cried the youth with a frown, 
" How wrong the whole thing is, how preposterous each wing is,. 


How flattened the head is, how jammed down the neck is. 
In short, the whole owl, what an ignorant wreck 'tis ! 
I make no apology; I've learned owl-eology. 
I've passed days and nights in a hundred collections, 
And can not be blinded to any deflections 
Arising from unskillful fingers that fail 
To stuff a bird right, from his beak to his tail. 
Mister Brown ! Mr. Brown ! Do take that bird down, 
Or you'll soon be the laughing stock all over town!" 
And the barber kept on shaving. 

" I've studied owls and other night fowls, 
And I'll tell you what I know to be true : 
An owl can not roost with his limbs so unloosed. 
No owl in the world ever had his claws curled, 
Ever had his legs slanted, ever had his bill canted, 
Ever had his neck screwed into that attitude — 
Can't do it, because 'tis against all bird laws. 
Anatomy teaches, ornithology preaches, 
An owl has a toe that can't turn out so ! 
I've made the white owl my study for years, 
And to see such a job almost moves me to tears ! 
Mister Brown, I'm amazed you should be so gone crazed 
As to put up a bird in that posture absurd ! 
To look at that owl really brings on a dizziness ; 
The man who stuffed him don't half know his business !" 
And the barber kept on shaving. 

Examine those eyes ; I'm filled with surprise 
Taxidermists should pass off on you such poor glass; 
So unnatural they seem, they'd make Audubon scream 
And John Burroughs laugh, to encounter such chaff. 
Do take that bird down, have him stuffed again. Brown ! " 
And the barber kept on shaving. 

" "With some saw-dust and bark, I could stuff in the dark 
An owl better than that. I could make an old hat 
Look more like an owl than that horrid fowl, 
^tuck up there so stiff like a side of coarss leather. 
In fact, about him there'.- atural feather." 

Just then with a wink and a sly, normal lurch, 
The owl very gravely got down from the perch, 
Walked round and regarded his fault-finding critic 
(Who thought he was stuffed) with a glance analytic, 
And then fairly hooted, as if he should say : 
" \our learning's at fault this time, any way; 
Don't waste it, again on a live bird, I pray. 
I'm an owl ; you're another. Sir Critic, good day i " 
And the barber kept on shaving. 

— James T. Fields. 



" The snow is deep," the Justice said ; 

" There's mighty mischief overhead." 

" High talk, indeed ! " his wife exclaimed ; 

""What, sir! shall Providence be blamed?" 
The Justice, laughing, said, "Oh no ! 
I only meant the .loads of snow 
Upon the roofs. The barn is weak ; 
I greatly fear the roof will break. 
So hand me up the spade, my dear, 
I'll mount the barn, the roof to clear." 

"No ! " said the wife ; " the barn is high, 
And if you slip, and fall, and die, 
How will my living be secured? — 
Stephen, your life is not insured. 
But tie a rope your waist around, 
And it will hold you safe and sound." 

" I will," said he. " Now for the roof — 
All snugly tied, and danger-proof! 
Excelsior! Excel — But no ! 
The rope is not secured below!" 
Said Rachel, "Climb, the end to throw 
Across the top, and I will go 
And tie that end around my waist." 

" Well, every woman to her taste ; • 
You always would be tightly laced. 
Eachel, when you became my bride, 
I thought the knot securely tied ; 
But lest the bond should break in twain, 
I'll have it fastened once again." 

Below the arm-pits tied around, 
She takes her station on the ground, 
While on the roof, beyond the ridge, 
He shovels clear the lower edge. 
Bat, sad mischance ! the loosened snow 
Comes sliding down, to plunge below. 
And as he tumbles with the slide, 
Up Bachel goes on t'other side. 
Just half-way down the Justice hung; 
Just half-way up the woman swung. 

"Good land o' Goshen ! " shouted she ; 

"Why, do you see it?" answered he. 

The couple, dangling in the breeze, 
Like turkeys hung outside to freeze, 
At their rope's end and wit's end, too, 
Shout back and forth what best to do. 


Cried Stephen, "Take it coolly, wife; 

All have their ups and downs in life." 

Quoth Kachel, " What a pity 'tis 

To joke at such a time as this ! 

A man whose wife is being hung 

Should know enough to hold his tongue." 
" Now, Rachel, as I look below, 

I see a tempting heap of snow. 

Suppose, my dear, I take my knife, 

And cut the rope to save my life." 

She shouted, " Don't ! 'twould be my death — 

I see some pointed stones beneath. 

A better way would be to call, 

With all our might, for Phebe Hall." 
u Agreed ! " he roared. First he, then she 

Gave tongue: "O Phebe! Phebe! Phe-e- 

be Hall ! " in tones both fine and coarse, 

Enough to make a drover hoarse. 

Now, Phebe, over at the farm, 

Was sitting, sewing, snug and warm ; 

But hearing, as she thought, her name. 

Sprang up, and to the rescue came, 

Beheld the scene, and thus she thought : 
" If, now, a kitchen chair were brought, 

And I could reach the lady's foot, 

I'd draw her downward by the boot, 

Then cut the rope, and let him go; 
• He can not miss the pile of snow." 

He sees her moving towards his wife, 

Armed with a chair and carving-knife, 

And, ere he is aware, perceives 

His head ascending to the eaves; 

And, guessing what the two are at, 

Screams from beneath the roof, " Stop that I 

You make me fall too far, by half ! " 

But Phebe answers with a laugh, 
*'* Please tell a body by what right 

You've brought your wife to such a plight! " 

And then, with well-directed blows, 

She cuts the rope and down he goes. 

The wife untied, they walk around, 
When lo ! no Stephen can be found. 
They call in vain, run to and fro; 
They look around, above, below ; 
No trace or token can they see, 
And deeper grows the mystery. 
Then Rachel's heart within her sank 
But, glancing at the snowy bank, 


She caught a little gleam of hope — 
A gentle movement of the rope. 
They scrape away a little snow ; 
What's this ? A hat ! Ah ! he's below. 
Then upward heaves the snowy pile, 
And forth he stalks in tragic style, 
Unhurt, and with a roguish smile ; 
And Kachel sees, with glad surprise, 
The missing found, the fallen rise. 


Ellen was fair, and knew it, too, 
As other village beauties do, 
Whose mirrors never lie ; 
Secure of any swain she chose, 
She smiled on half a dozen beaux, 
And, reckless of a lover's woes, 
She cheated these and taunted those, 
" For how could any one suppose 

A clown could take her eye?" 

But whispers through the village ran 
That Edgar was the happy man 

The maid designed to bless ; 
For, wheresoever moved the fair, 
The youth was, like her shadow, there, 
And rumor boldly matched the pair, 

For village folks will guess. 

Edgar did love, but was afraid 
To make confession to the maid, 

So bashful was the youth : 
Certain to meet a kind return, 
He let the flame in secret burn, 
Till from his lips the maid should learn 

Officially the truth. 

At length one morn to take the air, 
The youth and maid, in one-horse chair, 

A long excursion took. 
Edgar had nerved his bashful heart 
The sweet confession to impart, 
For ah ! suspense had caused a smart 

He could no longer brook. 

He drove, nor slackened once his reins, 

Till Hempstead's wide-extended plains 

Seemed joined to skies above; 


Nor house, nor tree, nor shrub was near 
The rude and dreary scene to cheer, 
Nor soul within ten miles to hear, 
And still poor Edgar's silly fear 
Forbade to speak of love. 

At last one desperate effort broke 
The bashful spell, and Edgar spoke 

"With most persuasive tone ; 
-Recounted past attendance o'er, 
And then, by all that's lovely, swore 
That he would love forever more, 

If she'd become his own. 

The maid in silence heard his prayer, 
Then, with a most provoking air, 

She tittered in his face ; 
And said, " 'Tis time for you to know 
A lively girl must have a beau, 
Just like a reticule— for show ; 
And at her nod to come and go ; 

But he should know his place. 

"Your penetration musf be dull 
To let a hope within your skull 

Of matrimony spring. 
Your wife ? ha ! ha ! upon my word, 
The thought is laughably absurd 
As anything I ever heard — 

I never dreamed of such a thing l n 

The lover sudden dropp'd his rein 
"When on the center of the plain ; 

" The linch-pin's out ! " he cried ; 
"Be pleased one moment to alight, 
Till I can set the matter right, 
That we may safely ride," 

He said, and handed out the fair; 
Then laughing, cracked his whip in air, 
And wheeling round his horse and chair, 
Exclaimed, "Adieu, I leave you there 
In solitude to roam." 
"What mean you, sir?" the maiden cried, 
" Did you invite me out to ride, 
To leave me here without a guide? 
Xay, stop, and take me home." 

" "What ! take you home ! " exclaimed the beau: 
" Indeed, my dear, I'd like to know 
How such a hopeless wish could grow, 


Or in your bosom spring. 
What ! take Ellen home ! ha ! ha ! upon my woro% 
The thought is laughably absurd 
As anything I ever heard — 

I never dreamad of such a thing ! " 


Mine cracious ! Mine cracious ! shust look here und see 

A Deutcher so habby as habby can pe. 

Der beoples all dink dat no prains I haf got, 

Vas grasy mit drinking, or someding like dot; 

Id vasn't pecause I trinks lager und vine, 

Id vas all on aggount of dot baby off mine. 

Dot schmall leedle vellow I dells you vas queer ; 
Not mooch pigger round as a goot glass off beer, 
Mit a bare-footed hed, and nose but a schpeck, 
A mout dot goes most to der pack of his neck, 
And his leedle pink toes mid der rest all combine 
To gife sooch a charm to dot baby of mine. 

I dells you dot baby was von off der poys, *■ 

Und beats leedle Yawcob for making a noise; 

He shust has pegun to shbeak goot English, too, 

Says " Mamma," and " Bapa," and somedimes " ah-goo ! " 

You don't find a baby den dimes oudt off nine 

Dot vas quite so schmart as dot baby off mine. 

He grawls der vloor over, und drows dings aboudt, 

Und puts efryding he can find in his mout; 

He dumbles der shtairs down, und falls vrom his chair, 

Und gifes mine Katrina von derrible schare. 

Mine hair stands like shquills on a mat borcupine 

Ven I dinks of dose pranks of dot baby off' mine. 

Dere was someding, you pet, I don't likes pooty veil ; 
To hear in der nighdt dimes dot young Deutcher yell, 
Und dravel der ped-room midout many clo'es, 
Vhile der chills down der shpine off mine pack quickly goes- 
Does leedle shim m asdic dricks vasn't so fine 
Dot I cuts oop at nighdt mit dot baby off mine. 

Veil, dese leedle schafers vos goin' to pe men, 
Und all off dese droubles vill peen ofer den ; 
Dey vill vear a vhite shirt-vront inshted of a bib, 
Und voudn't got tucked oop at nighdt in deir crib. 
Veil ! veil ! ven I'm feeple und in life's decline, 
May mine oldt age pe cheered by dot baby off mine. 

— Charles F. Adams. 



The bright-red sun was setting on the egg of morrow's dawn, 
As a Vassar girl strolled, pigeon-toed, adown the level lawn ; 
And the fading rays with roses wreathed the hair of one who lay 
In the gathering twilight lonely, filled with terror and dismay. 
"She may cry, and howl, and kick up ; but she wouldn't do my sum, 
And I'll never, never, never let her chew my chewing gum ! " 

" Teacher," Bessie's white lips faltered, as she pointed to the maid, 
" Did you hear that horrid creature? Do you know what she has 

said? _ - 

In her dark and gloomy pocket she is carrying her loose 
• Boarding-school companion, much as twenty sticks of spruce, 
And she says that I shall have none — I! her only friend, her 

chum; " 
And she spoke in husky whispers, " I must have her chewing gum ! " 

" Bessie," calmly spoke the teacher (every word froze in her ear),. 
" For years I've taught at Vassar, and I will not interfere. 
I know the regulations, and respect the rules and laws; 
I am here to educate your mind, and not supply your jaws. 
I have done my duty ever; I've been cool, discreet and mum ; 
Bat I can't make Bertha Underwood give you her chewing gum." 

Wild the girl's eyes, pale her features, as she totters up the stair y 
And the dews fall in soft pity as the stars see her despair. 
Not a moment stops the maiden till she gains the upper flight, 
And stands out in the darkness like an angel carved in night. 
Now she enters Bertha's chamber, and pants, " Now let her come ; " 
Stills her frightened heart's wild beating, "I must have her chew- 
ing gum?" 

Far out, the distant city seems a tiny, sparkling speck. 

Where she well remembers often buying spruce gum by the peck. 

Above, the throbbing heavens seemingly reflect her soul, 

In which the spheres of vengeance their mighty music roll 

Shall she still their diapason ? Shall she smite their anthems 

dumb ? , 

She crushes swift the feeling ; she must have that chewing gum. 

Quick she strips the bed of clothing; quick she wraps her in a 

And the garment winding tenderly, clothes her from head to feet. 
Then, in a darkened corner, like a member of the host 
Who sometimes wander back to earth, she stands, a rigid ghost. 
And, panting, still she listens till she hears the fairy drum 
Of Bertha's fairy footsteps, bringing up that chewing gum. 

Such a yell ! a quivering figure lies fainting on the floor 

The very winds stop sighing as they shrink back from the dooiv 


Swift the ghostly Bessie steals from where the gath'ring shadows 

And bends in flattering triumph above the prostrate girl. 
With trembling hands she searches in the pocket of her chum, 
And cries out in her madness, " I must have her chewing gum." 

The pale, soft moon rose slowly ; each bright star bent her head. 
As the patron orb of Vassar threw her rays around the dead, 
And, like another moon, the teacher climbed the winding stair, 
To find fair Bertha robed in death, and Bessie kneeling there, 
With no remorse on that pale face, as she whispered softly, "Come ! 
The Angels have got Bertha, but I've got her chewing gum ! " 

— Brooklyn Eagle. 


" My sister'll be down in a minute, and says you're to wait, if you 

please ; 
And says I might stay till she came, if I'd promise never to tease, 
Nor speak till you spoke to me first. But that's nonsense, for how 

would I know 
What she told me say, if I didn't? Don't you really and truly 

think so? 

"And then you'd feel strange here alone ! And wouldn't know just 

where to sit ; 
For that chair isn't strong on its legs, and we never use it a bit. 
We keep it to match with the sofa. But Jack said it would be 

just like you 
To flop yourself right down upon it, and knock out the very last 


"'Spose you try? I won't tell. You're afraid to! Oh! you're 

afraid they would think it was mean ! 
Well, then, there's the album — that's pretty, if your fingers are 

My sister says sometimes I daub it; but she only says that when 

she's cross ; 
There's her picture. You know it ? It's like her ; but she ain't 

as good looking, of course ! 

" That is me. It's the best of 'em all. Now, tell me you'd never 

have thought 
That once I was little as that? It's the only one that could be 

bought — 
For that was the message to pa from the photograph man where 

I sat — 
That he wouldn't print off any more till he first got his money for 



u What ? Maybe you're tired of waiting. Why, often she's longer 

than this. 
There's ail her back hair to do up, and all her front hair to friz. 
JBut it's nice to be sitting here talking like grown people, just you 

and me. 
Do you think you'll be coming here often ? Oh, do ! But don't 

come like Tom Lee. 

" Tom Lee? Her last beau. Why, my goodness ! He used to be 

here day and night. 
Till the folks thought he'd soon be her husband ; and Jack says 

that gave him a fright. 
You won't run away, then, as he did ? for you're not a rich man, 

thev say ; 
Pa says you're as poor as a church mouse. Now, are you ? And 

how poor are they ? 

"Ain't you glad that you met me ? Well, I am ; for I know your 

hair isn't red ; 
But what there is left of it's mousy, and not what that naughty 

Jack said. 
But there ! I must go ! Sister's coming. But I wish I could wait, 

just to see 
If she ran up to you and kissed you in the way she used to kiss 

Lee." — Bret Harte. 


"Will the reader please cast bis eyes over the follow- 
ing verses and see if he can discover anything harmful 
in them? 

" Conductor, when you receive a fare, 
Punch in the presence of the passenjare! 
A blue trip slip for an eight-cent fare, 
A buff trip slip for a six-cent fare, 
A pink trip slip for a three-cent fare, 
Punch in the presence of the passenjare ! 


Punch, brothers ! punch with care ! 
Punch in the presence of the passenjare!" 

I came across these jingling rhymes in a newspaper 
a little while ago, and read them a couple of times. 
They took instant and entire possession of me. All 
through breakfast they went waltzing through my 


brain. I had carefully laid out my clay's work the day 
before. I took up my pen ; but all I could get it to 
say was, " Punch in the presence of the passenjare." I 
fought hard for an hour, but it was useless. My head 
kept humming, "A blue trip slip for an eight-cent fare, 
a buff trip slip for a six-cent fare," and so on and so 
on, without peace or respite. The day's work was ru- 
ined — I could see that plainly enough. I gave up and 
drifted down town, and presently discovered that my 
feet were keeping time to that relentless jingle. When 
I could stand it no longer I altered my step. But it 
did no good ; those rhymes accommodated themselves 
to the new step, and went on harrassing me just as be- 
fore. I returned home, and suffered all the afternoon; 
suffered all through an unconscious and unrefreshing v 
dinner; suffered, and cried, and jingled all through 
the evening; went to bed, and rolled, tossed and jing- 
led right along, the same as ever; got up at midnight 
frantic, and tried to read ; but there was nothing visi- 
ble upon the whirling page except "Punch ! punch in 
the presence of the passenjare ! " By sunrise I was 
out of my mind, and everybody marveled and was dis- 
tressed at the idiotic burden of my ravings : " Punch ! 
oh, punch ! punch in the presence of the passenjare ! " 

Two days later, on Saturday morning, I arose, a tot- 
tering wreck, and went forth to fulfill an engagement 

with a valued friend, the Be v. Mr. , to walk ten 

miles distant. He stared at me, but asked no questions. 

We started. Mr. talked, talked, talked — as is 

his wont. I said nothing; I heard nothing. At the 
end of a mile, Mr. said : 

" Mark, are you sick ? I never saw a man look so 
haggard and worn and absent-minded. Say something ; 

Drearily, without enthusiasm, I said : " Punch, 
brothers ! punch with care ! Punch in the presence of 
the passenjare!" 


My friend eyed me blankly, looked perplexed, then 
said : 

" I do not think I get your drift, Mark. There does 
not seem to be any relevancy in what you have said, 
certainly nothing sad ; and yet — maybe it was the way 
you said the words — I never heard anything that soun- 
ded so pathetic. What is — " 

But I heard no more. I was already far away with 
my pitiless, heart-breaking " blue trip slip for an eight- 
cent fare, buff trip slip for a six-cent fare, pink trip 
slip for a three-cent fare ; punch in the presence of the 
passenjare." I do not know what occurred during the 

other nine miles. However, all of a sadden, Mr. — 

laid his hand on my shoulder and shouted : 

"O, wake up! wake up! wake up! Don't sleep all 
day ! Here we are at the Tower, man ! I have talked 
myself deaf and dumb and blind, and never get a re- 
sponse. Just look at this magnificent autumn land- 
scape ! What do you say to this?" 

I sighed wearily, and murmured : 

"A buff trip slip for a six-cent fare, a pink trip slip 
for a three-cent fare, punch in the presence of the pas- 

Rev. Mr. — stood there, very grave, full of con- 
cern, apparently, and looked long at me ; then he said : 

" Mark, there is something about this that I can not 
understand. Those are about the same words you said 
before; there does not seem to be anything in them, 
and yet they nearly break my heart when you say 
them. Punch in the — how is it they go?" 

I began at the beginning and repeated all the lines. 
My friend's face lighted with interest. He said : 

"Why, what a captivating jingle it is ! It is almost 
music. It flows along so nicely. I have nearly caught 
the rhymes myself. Say them over just once more, 
and then Pll have them, sure." 

I said them over. Then Mr. said them. He 

made one little mistake, which I corrected. The next 


time and the next he got them right. Now a great 
burden seemed to tumble from my shoulders. That 
torturing jingle departed out of my brain. I was 
light-hearted enough to sing; and I did sing for half 
an hour. Then my freed tongue found blessed speech 
again. As I wrung my friend's hand at parting, I 
said : 

" Haven't we had a royal good time ! But now I 
remember, you haven't said a word for two hours. 
Come, come, out with something!" 

The Rev. Mr. turned a lack-lustre eye upon me > 

drew a deep sigh, and said, without animation, without 
apparent consciousness : 

" Punch, brothers ! punch with care ! Punch in the 
presence of the passe nj are ! " 

A pang shot through me as I said to myself, " Poor 
fellow, poor fellow ! he has got it now." 

I did not see Mr. for two or three days after 

that. Then, on Tuesday evening, he staggered into 
my presence, and sank dejectedly into a seat. He was 
pale, worn ; he was a wreck. He lifted his faded eyes 
to my face, and said : 

"Ah, Mark, it was a ruinous investment that I made 
in those heartless rhymes. They have ridden me like 
a nightmare, day and night, hour after hour, to this 
very moment. Since I saw you I have suffered the 
torments of the lost. Saturday evening I had a sud- 
den call by telegraph, and took the night train for Bos- 
ton. The occasion was the death of a valued old friend, 
who had requested that I should preach his funeral 
sermon. I took my seat in the cars and set myself to 
framing the discourse. But I never got beyond the 
opening paragraph ; for then the train started and the 
car- wheels began their ' clack-clack-clack-clack ! clack- 
clack-clack-clack ! ' and right away those odious rhymes, 
fitted themselves to that accompaniment. For an hour 
I sat there and set a syllable of those rhymes to every 
separate and distinct clack the car-wheels made. Why., 


I was as fagged out then as if I had been chopping 
wood all day. My skull was splitting with headache. 
It seemed to me that I must go mad if I sat there any 
longer ; so I undressed and went to bed. I stretched 
myself out in my berth, and—well, you know what 
the result was. The thing went right along, just the 
same. ' Clack-clack-clack, a blue trip slip, clack- 
clack-clack, for an eight-cent fare ; clack-clack-clack, 
a buff trip slip, clack-clack-clack, for a six-cent fare — 
and so on, and so on, and so on — punch in the pres- 
ence of the passenjare ! ' Sleep ? Not a single wink L 
I was almost a lunatic when I got to Boston. Don't 
ask me about the funeral. I did the best I could ; 
but every solemn individual sentence was meshed and 
tangled and woven in and out with ' Punch, brothers ! 
punch with care ! Punch in the presence of the pas- 
senjare.' - And the most distressing thing was that my 
delivery dropped into the undulating rythra of those 
pulsating rhymes, and I could actually catch absent- 
minded people nodding time to the swing of it with 
their stupid heads. And, Mark, you may believe it 
or not, but before I got through, the entire assemblage 
were placidly bobbing their heads in solemn unison, 
mourners, undertaker, and all. The moment I had 
finished, I fled to the ante-room in a state bordering 
on frenzy. Of course, it would be my luck to find a 
sorrowing and aged maiden aunt of the deceased there, 
who had arrived from Springfield too late to get into 
the church. She began to sob and said : 

" ' Oh, oh, he is gone, and I didn't see him before 
he died S '* 

ii( Yes V I said, f he is gone, he is gone, he is gone— 
oh, will this suffering never cease ? ' 

"' You loved him, then ! Oh, you too loved him P 

" ' Loved him ! Loved who f ' 

" i Why, my poor George ! my poor nephew ! ' 

"'Oh — him! Yes — oh, yes, yes. Certainly— cer- 
tainly. Punch — punch — oh, this misery will kill me ! * 


<(< Bless you! bless you, sir, for those sweet words! 
I, too, suffer in this dear loss. Were you present dur- 
ing his last moments ?' 

" ' Yes ! I — ivhose last moments f ' 

" i His. The dear departed's/ 

l(i Yes! Oh, yes — yes — yes! I suppose so, I think 
so. I don't know ! Oh, certainly — I was there — I 
was there ! ' 

" ' Oh, what a privilege! what a precious privilege. 
And his last words — oh, tell me — tell me his last 
words ! What did he say V 

" i He said — he said — oh, my head, my head, my head ? 
He said — he said — he never said anything but Punch, 
punch, punch in the presence of the passenjare ! Oh, 
leave me, madam ! In the name of all that is gener- 
ous, leave me to my madness, my misery, my despair ! — 
a buif trip slip for a six-cent fare, a pink trip slip for 
a three-cent fare — endurance can no further go !— 
punch in the presence of the passenjare !' " 

My friend's hopeless eyes rested on mine a pregnant 
minute, and then he said impressively : 

a Mark, you do not say anything You do not 
offer me any hope. But, oh, me, it is just as well — 
it is just as well. You could not do me any good. 
The time has long gone by when words could comfort 
me. Something tells me that my tongue is doomed 
to wag forever to the jigger of that remorseless jingle. 
There — there it is coming on me again : a blue trip 
slip for an eight-cent fare, a buff trip slip for a — " 

Thus murmuring faint and fainter, my friend sank 
into a peaceful trance, and forgot his sufferings in a 
blessed respite. — Mark Twain. 


Mr. and Mrs. Jones had just finished their break- 
fast. Mr. Jones had pushed back his chair and was 
looking under the lounge for his boots. Mrs. Jones 


sat at the table, holding the infant Jones and mechan- 
ically working her fingers in its mouth. Suddenly 
she paused in the motion, threw the astonished child 
on its back, turned as white as a sheet, pried open its 
mouth, and immediately gasped "Ephraim!" Mr. 
Jones, who was yet on his knees with his head under 
the lounge, at once came forth, rapping his head sharp- 
ly, on the side of the lounge as he did so, and getting 
on his feet, inquired what was the matter. "O, Eph- 
raim," said she, the tears rolling down her cheeks and 
the smiles coursing up. "Why, what is it, Arama- 
thea?" said the astonished Mr. Jones, smartly rubbing 
his head where he had come in contact with the lounge. 
"Baby!" she gasped. Mr. Jones turned pale and 
commenced to sweat. "Baby! O — O — O Ephraim ! 
Baby has — baby has got — a little toothey, oh! oh?" 
"No!" screamed Mr. Jones. "I tell you it is," per- 
sisted Mrs. Jones, with a slight evidence of hysteria. 
"Oh it can't be!" protested Mr. Jones, preparing to 
swear it wasn't. "Come here and see for yourself," 
said Mrs. Jones. "Open its 'ittle mousy-wousy for 
its own muzzer ; that's a toody-woody ; that's a blessed 
'ittle 'ump o' sugar." Thus conjured, the heir opened 
it's mouth sufficiently for the father to thrust in his 
finger, and that gentleman having convinced himself 
by the most unmistakable evidenee that a tooth was 
there, immediately kicked his hat across the room, 
buried his fist in the lounge, and declared with much 
feeling that he could lick the individual who would 
dare to intimate that he was not the happiest man on 
the face of the earth. Then he gave Mrs. Jones a 
hearty smack on the mouth and snatched up the heir, 
while that lady rushed tremblingly forth after Mrs. 
Simmons, who lived next door. In a moment Mrs. 
Simmons came tearing in as if she had been shot out 
of a gun, and right behind her came Miss Simmons 
at a speed that indicated that she had been ejected 


from two guns. Mrs. Simmons at once snatched the 
heir from the arms of Mr. Jones and hurried it to 
the window, where she made a careful and critical ex- 
amination of its mouth, while Mrs. Jones held its 
head and Mr. Jones danced up and down the room, 
and snapped his fingers to show how calm he was. 
It having been ascertained by Mrs. Simmons that the 
tooth was a sound one, and also that the strongest 
hopes for its future could be entertained on account 
of its coming in the new moon, Mrs. Jones got out 
the necessary material and Mr. Jones at once pro- 
ceeded to write seven different letters to as many per- 
sons, unfolding to them the event of the morning and 
inviting them to come on as soon as possible. 

— Banbury News Man. 


While the Union lasts we have high, exciting, grat- 
ifying prospects spread out before us, for us and our 
children. Beyond that I seek not to penetrate the 
veil. God grant that in my day, at least, that curtain 
may not rise. God grant that on my vision may never 
be opened what lies behind. When my eyes shall be 
turned to behold, for the last time, the sun in heaven^, 
may I not see him shining on the broken and dis- 
honored fragments of a once glorious Union ; on states 
dissevered, discordant, belligerent ; on a land rent with 
civil feuds, or drenched, it may be, in fraternal blood I 
Let their last feeble and lingering glance, rather be- 
hold the gorgeous ensign of the republic, now known 
and honored throughout the earth, still full high ad- 
vanced, its arms and trophies streaming in their origi- 
nal luster, not a stripe erased or polluted, not a single 
star obscured, bearing for its motto no such miserable 
interrogatory as — What is all this worth ? Nor those 
other words of delusion and folly — Liberty first and 


Union afterward ; but everywhere, spread all over, iri 
characters of living light, blazing on all its ample folds, 
as they float over the sea and over the land, and in 
every wind under the whole heavens, that other senti- 
ment, dear to every true American heart, — Liberty 
and Union, now and forever, one and inseparable ! 


Mrs. Centre was jealous. She was one of those dis- 
contented women who are never satisfied unless some- 
thing goes wrong. When the sky is bright and pleas- 
ant they are annoyed because there is nothing to 
grumble at. The trouble is not with the outward 
world, but with the heart, the mind. 

{ler husband was a very good sort of person, though 
he probably had his peculiarities. At any rate, he 
had a cousin whose name was Sophia Smithers, and 
who was very pretty, very intelligent, and very amia- 

Centre and his wife boarded at a private establish- 
ment. At the same house also boarded Centre's par- 
ticular, intimate, and confidential friend Wallis. 

Wallis could not help observing that Mrs. Centre 
watched her husband very closely, and Centre at last 
confessed that there had been some difficulty. So they 
talked the matter over together and came to the con- 
clusion that it was very stupid for any one to be jeal- 
ous. What they did, I don't know, but one evening 
Centre entered the room and found Mrs. Willis there. 

" My dear, I am obliged to go out a few moments to 
call upon a friend/' said Centre. 

"To call upon a friend!" sneered Mrs. Centre. 

" Yes, my dear, I shall be back presently." 

a The old story." 

"If it was my husband I would follow him," said 
Mrs. Wallis. 


"I will! Sophia Smithers lives very near and I 
am sure he is going there." 

Centre had gone up stairs to put on his hat and 
overcoat, and in a moment she saw him on the stairs. 
She could not mistake him, for there was no other 
gentleman in the house who wore such a peculiarly 
shaped Kossuth as he wore. 

He passed out and Mrs. Centre passed out after him. 
She followed the queer shaped Kossuth of her hus- 
band and it led her to C street, where she had 

expected it would lead her. And further, it led her 
to the house of Smithers, the father of Sophia. 

She was shown into the sitting-room where the 
beautiful girl of many virtues was engaged in sewing. 

"Is my husband here?" she demanded. 

"Mr. Centre? Bless you, no ! He hasn't been here 
for a month." 

Gracious ! Hadn't she followed that unmistakable 
hat to the house ? 

She was amazed at the coolness of her husband's fair 
cousin. Before she had believed it was only a flirta- 
tion ; now, she was sure it was something infinitely 
worse, and she thought about a divorce ; or at least a 

She was astonished and asked no more questions. 
Hid the guilty pair hope to deceive her — her, the argus- 
eyed wife? She had some shrewdness, and she had the 
cunning to conceal her purpose by refraining from any 
appearance of distrust. After a few words upon com- 
mon-place topics, she took her leave. 

Y/hen she reached the sidewalk there she planted 
herself, determined to wait till Centre came out. For 
more than an hour she stood there nursing the yellow 
demon of jealousy. He came not. 

She was catching her death -cold. What did he care. 
He was bestowing his affections upon her who had no 
legal right to them. 

The wind blew, and it began to rain. She could 


stand it no longer. She should die before she got the 
divorce. She must preserve her precious life for the 
present, and she reluctantly concluded to go home. 

She rushed into the house. Mrs. Wallis was there 
still. Throwing herself upon the sofa she wept like a 
great baby. While weeping, Mr. Centre entered the 
room, looking just as though nothing had happened. 

"You wretch ! " sobbed the lady. 

" What is the matter, my dear ? " coolly inquired the 

"You wretch!" 

"What has happened?" 

" You insult me, abuse me, and then ask me what the 

matter is ! Haven't I been waiting in C street for 

two hours for you to come out of Smithers' house?" 

"Have you?" 

" I have, you wretch ! " 

"And I didn't come out?" 

" No ! You know you didn't ! " 

" There was an excellent reason for that, my dear* 
I wasn't there." 

" You wasn't there, you wretch ! How dare you tell 
me such an abominable lie ! But I have found you out. 
You go there every day, yes, twice, three times a day ! 
I know your amiable cousin, now! She can lie as 
well as you." 

" Sophia tell a lie ! Oh no, my dear ! " 

"But she did. She said you were not there." 

" That was very true ; I was not." 

" How dare you tell me such a lie ! You have been 
with Sophia all the evening." 

"Nay, Mrs. Centre, you are mistaken," interposed 
Mrs. Wallis, " Mr. Centre has been with me in this 
room all the evening." 

"What! Didn't I see him go out, and follow him 
to C street?" 

" No, my dear, I haven't been out this evening. I 
changed my mind." 


Just then Wallis entered the room with that peculiar 
Kossuth on his head, and the mystery was explained. 
Mrs. Centre was not a little confused, and very much 
ashamed of herself. 

Wallis had been in Smithers' library smoking a cigar, 
and had not seen Sophia. 

But Centre should have known better than to tell his 
wife what a pretty, intelligent, amiable and kind-hearted 
girl Sophia was. No husband should speak well of 
any lady but his wife. 


In rural life there is nothing mean and debasing. It 
leads a man forth among scenes of natural grandeur 
and beauty ; it leaves him to the workings of his mind, 
operated upon by the purest and most elevating of ex- 
ternal influences. Such a man may be simple and 
rough, but he can not be vulgar. The man of refine- 
ment, therefore, finds nothing revolting in an inter- 
course with the lower orders in rural life, as he does 
when he casually mingles with the lower orders of 
cities. He lays aside his distance and reserve, and is 
glad to waive the distinctions of rank, and to enter 
into the honest, heartfelt enjoyments of common life. 
Indeed, the very amusements of the country bring 
men more and more together. 

It is a pleasing sight, of a Sunday morning, when 
the bell is sending its sober melody across the quiet 
fields, to behold the country folk, in their best finery, 
with ruddy faces and modest cheerfulness, thronging 
tranquilly along the green lanes to church ; but it is 
still more pleasing to see them in the evenings, gath- 
ering about their cottage doors, and appearing to exult 
in the humble comforts and embellishments which 
their own hands have spread around them. 

— Irving. 



*' You have heard," said a youth to his sweetheart, who stood 
While he sat on a corn-sheaf at daylight's decline ; 

<l You have heard of the Danish boy's whistle of wood : 
I wish that that Danish boy's whistle was mine ! " 

■"And what would you do with it? Tell me," she said, 
While an arch smile played over her beautiful face. 

41 1 would blow it," he answered, " and then my fair maid 
Would fly to my side, and would there take her place." 

"Is that all you wish it for? That may be yours 
Without any magic," the fair maiden cried ; 

■"A favor so light one's good nature secures," 
And she playfully seated herself by his side. 

* l I would blow it again," said the youth, " and the charm 
Would work so that not even modesty's check 
Would be able to keep from my neck her fair arm." 
She smiled and placed her fair arm round his neck. 

u Yet once more would I blow, and the magic divine 
Would bring me a third time an exquisite bliss, 
You would lay your fair cheek to this brown one of mine, 
And your lips stealing past it would give me a kiss." 

The maiden laughed out in her innocent glee — 

" What a fool of yourself with the whistle you'd make ; 

For only consider how silly 't would be 

To sit there and whistle for what you might take." 

THE EISING, 1776. 

Out of the North the wild news came, 
Far flashing on its wings of flame, 
Swift as the boreal light which flies, 
At midnight through the startled skies. 

And there was tumult in the air, 
The fife's shrill note, the drum's loud beat, 
And through the wide land everywhere 
The answering tread of hurrying feet; 
While the first note 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 bloom, 
And eyery 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 flock 
He led into the house of prayer. 

Jhe pastor rose ; The prayer was strong; 
The psalm was warrior David's song ; 
The text, a few short words of might — 
" The Lord of hosts shall arm the right ! " 
He spoke of wrongs too long endured, 
Of sacred rights to be secured ; 
Then from his patriot tongue of flame 
The startling words for freedom came. 
The stirring sentences he spake, 
Compelled the heart to glow or quake, 
And, rising on his theme's broad wing, 
And grasping in his nervous hand 
The imaginary battle-brand, 
In face of death he dared to fling 
Defiance to a tyrant king. 

Even as he spoke, his frame, renewed 
In eloquence of attitude, 
Rose, as it seemed, a shoulder higher; 
Then swept his kindling glance of fire 
From startled pew to breathless choir; 
When suddenly his mantle wide, 
His hands impatient flung aside, 
And, lo ! he met their wondering eyes 
Complete in all a warrior's guise. 


A moment there was awful pause — 

When Berkley cried : " Cease, traitor ! cease, 

God's temple is the house of peace! " 

The other shouted, " Nay, not so, 

When God is with our righteous cause; 

His holiest places then are ours. 

His temples are our forts and towers 

That frown upon the tyrant foe; 

In this, the dawn of Freedom's day, 

There is a time to fight and pray ! " 

And, now before the open door — 
The warrior priest had ordered so — 
The enlisting trumpet's sudden roar 
Rang through the chapel, o'er and o'er, 
Its long reverberating blow, 
So loud and clear, it seemed the ear 
Of dusky death must wake and hear. 
And there the startling drum and fife 
Fired the living with fiercer life ; 
While overhead, with wild increase, 
Forgetting its ancient toll of peace, 
The great bell rung as ne'er before, 
It seemed as it would never cease; 
And every word its ardor flung 
From off its jubilant iron tongue 
Was " War ! war ! war!" 

"Who dares" this was the patriot's cry, 

As striding from his desk he came — 
" Come out with me, in Freedom's name, 

For her to live, for her to die?" 

A hundred hands flung up reply, 

A hundred voices answered, " I ! " — T. B. Read. 


A practical, plain young girl ; 
Not-afraid-of-the-rain, young girl; 

A poetical posy, 

A ruddy-and rosy, 
A helper-of-self, young girl. 

At-home-in-her-place, young girl; 
A never-will-lace, young girl ; 

A toiler serene, 

A life pure and clean, 
A princess-of-peace, young girl. 


A wear-her- own-hair, young girl ; 

A free-from-a stare, young girl; 
Improves every hour, 
No sickly sun-flower, 

A wealth-of rare-sense, young girl. 

Plenty -room-in-the-shoes, young girl; 
A free-from-the-blues, young girl; 

Not a bang on her brow, 

To fraud, not a bow ; 
She's-just-what- she-seems, young girl. 

Not-a-reader-of-trash, young girl ; 

Not-a-cheap-jeweled-fiash, young girl : 
Not a sipper of rum, 
Not a chewer of gum, 

A marvel-of-sense, young girl. 

An early-retiring, young girl ; 
An active- aspiring, young girl; 

A morning ariser, 

A dandy despiser, 
A progressive- American girl. 

A lover-of-prose, young girl ; 

Not a-turn up-your-nose, young girl; 

Not given to splutter, 

Not " utterly utter," 
But a-matter-of-fact, young girl. 

A rightly-ambitious, young girl; 

Ued lips-most-delicious, young girl; 
A sparkling clear eye, 
That says, " I will try," 

A sure-to-succeed, young girl. 

An honestly-courting, young girl ; 
A never-seen-flirting, young girl; 

A quiet and pure, 

A modest, demure, 
A fit-for-a-wife, young girl. 

A sought-everywhere, young girl ; 
A future-most-fair, young girl; 

An ever discreet, 

We too seldom meet, 
This queen-aniong-queens, young girl. 

irgil A. Pinkley* 



A Yankee, walking the streets of London, looked 
through a window upon a group of men writing very 
rapidly ; and one of them said to him in an insulting 
manner, " Do you wish to buy some gape-seed ?" Pass- 
ing on a short distance, the Yankee met a man and 
asked him what the business of those men was in the 
office he had just passed. He was told that they wrote 
letters dictated by others, and transcribed all sorts of 
documents ; in short, they were writers. The Yan- 
kee returned to the office, and inquired if one of the 
men would write a letter for him, and was answered 
in the affirmative. He asked the price, and was told 
one dollar. After considerable talk, the bargain was 
made; one of the conditions of which was that the 
scribe should write just what the Yankee told him to, 
or he should receive no pay. The scribe told the Yan- 
kee he was ready to begin ; and the latter said — 

" Dear marm : " and then asked, " Have you got that 

" Yes," was the reply, " go on" 

" I went to ride t'other day ; have you got that 

" Yes ; go on, go on" 

"And I harnessed up the old mare into the wagon ; 
have you got that deown ? " 

" Yes, yes, long ago ; go on." 

" Why, how fast you write ! And I got into the 
wagon, and sat deown, and drew up the reins, and took 
the whip in my right hand ; have you got that deown ?" 

" Yes, long ago ; go on" 

" Dear me, how fast you write ! I never saw your 
equal. And I said to the old mare, ' Go 'long/ and 
jerked the reins pretty hard ; have you got that deown?" 

"Yes; and I am impatiently waiting for more. I 
wish you wouldn't bother me with so many foolish 
questions. Go on with your letter." 


" Well, the old mare wouldn't stir out of her tracks, 
and I hollered, ' Go Hong, you old jade I go 'long/ 
Have you got that deown ? " 

"Yes, indeed, you pestiferous fellow ; go on." 

"And I licked her, and licked her, and licked her — 
[continuing to repeat these words as rapidly as possible.^ 

"Hold on there! I have written two pages of 
1 licked her/ and I want the rest of the letter." 

" Well, and she kicked, and she kicked, and she 
kicked — [continuing to repeat these words with great 

" Do go on with your letter ; I have several pages 
of ' she kicked/ " 

[The Yankee clucks as in urging horses to move, and 
continues the clucking noise with rapid repetition for 
same time.~\ 

The scribe throws down his pen. 

" Write it deown ! write it deown ! " 

"I can't!" 

" Well, then, I won't pay you." 

[The scribe, gathering up his papers^ " What shall 
I do w T ith all these sheets upon which I have written 
your nonsense?" 

"You may use them in doing up your gape-seed. 


The atrocious crime of being a young man, which 
the honorable gentleman has, with such spirit and de- 
cency, charged upon me, I shall neither attempt to 
palliate nor deny, but content myself with hoping that 
I may be one of those whose follies cease with their 
youth, and not of that number who are ignorant in 
spite of experience. Whether youth can be imputed 
to a man as a reproach, I will not assume the province 
of determining; but, surely age may become justly 


contemptible, if the opportunities which it brings have 
passed away without improvement, and vice appears to 
prevail when the passions have subsided. The wretch 
who, after having seen the consequences of a thousand 
errors, continues still to blunder, and whose age has 
only added obstinacy to stupidity, is surely the object 
either of abhorrence or contempt, and deserves not that 
his gray hairs should secure him from insult. Much 
more is he to be abhorred who, as he has advanced in 
age, has receded from virtue, and become more wick- 
ed — with less temptation; who prostitutes himself for 
money which he can not enjoy, and spends the remains 
of his life in the ruin of his country. 

But youth is not my only crime ; I am accused of 
acting a theatrical part. A theatrical part may either 
imply some peculiarity of gesture, or a dissimulation 
of my real sentiments and an adoption of the opinions 
and language of another man. In the first sense, the 
charge is too trifling to be confuted, and deserves only 
to be mentioned that it may be despised. I am at lib- 
erty, like every other man, to use my own language ; 
and though, perhaps, I may have some ambition to 
please this gentleman, I shall not lay myself under any 
restraint, nor very solicitously copy his diction or his 
mein, however matured by age or modeled by experi- 

But, if any man shall, by charging me with theatri- 
cal behavior, imply that I utter any sentiments but 
my own, I shall treat him as a calumniator and a vil- 
lain, nor shall any protection shelter him from the 
treatment he deserves. I shall, on such an occasion, 
without scruple, trample upon all those forms with 
which wealth and dignity intrench themselves, nor shall 
anything but age restrain my resentment; age, — which 
always brings one privilege, that of being insolent and 
supercilious without punishment. 

But, with regard to those whom I have offended, I 
am of opinion that, if I had acted a borrowed part, I 


should have avoided their censure ; the heat that of- 
fended them was the ardor of conviction and that zeal 
for the service of my country which neither hope nor 
fear shall influence me to suppress. I will not sit un- 
concerned while my liberty is invaded, nor look in si- 
lence upon public robbery. I will exert my endeavors, 
at whatever hazard, to repel the aggressor and drag 
the thief to justice, whoever may protect him in his 
villainies, and whoever may partake of his plunder. 


A day or two ago, two boot-blacks, one white and 
one black, were standing at the corners, when the 
white boot-black agreed to black the black boot-black's 
boots. The black boot-black was, of course, willing 
to have his boots blacked by his fellow boot-black, 
and the boot-black who had agreed to black the black 
boot-black's boots went to work. 

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

This made the boot-black who had blacked the black 
boot-black's boot as angry as a boot-black often gets, 
and he vented his black wrath by spitting upon the 
blacked boot of the black boot-black. This roused 
the latent passions of the black boot-black, and he pro- 


ceeded to boot the white boot-black with the boot 
which the white boot-black had blacked. A fight en- 
sued, in which the white boot-black who had refused 
to black the unblacked boot of the black boot-black,, 
blacked the black boot-black's eye, and in which the 
black boot-black wore all the blacking off his blacked 
boot in booting the white boot-black. 


In proceeding to answer the argument of the gen- 
tleman, I will treat him with candor. If I misrepre- 
sent him, it will not be intentional. I will not follow 
the example which he has set me on a very recent oc- 
casion. I will endeavor to meet the gentleman's 
propositions in their full force, and to answer them 
fairly. I will not, as I am advancing toward them, 
with my mind's eye measure the height, breadth and 
power of the proposition; if I find it beyond my 
strength, halve it ; if still beyond my strength, quar- 
ter it ; if still necessary, subdivide it into eighths ; and 
when, by this process, I have reduced it to the proper 
standard, take one of these sections and toss it with 
an air of elephantine strength and superiority. If I 
find myself capable of conducting, by a fair course of 
reasoning, any one of his propositions to an absurd 
conclusion, I will not begin by stating that absurd 
conclusion as the proposition itself which I am going 
to encounter. I will not, in commenting on the gen- 
tleman's authorities, thank the gentleman, with sarcas- 
tic politeness, for introducing them, declare that they 
conclude directly against him, read just so much of 
the authority as serves the purpose of that declaration, 
omitting that which contains the true point of the case, 
which makes against me; nor, if forced by a direct 
call to read that part also, will I content myself by 
running over it as rapidly and inarticulately as I can, 


throw down the hook with a theatrical air, and exclaim, 
" Just as I said ! " when I know it is just as I had not 

I know that, by adopting these arts, I might raise 
a laugh at the gentleman's expense; but I should 
be very little pleased with myself if I were capable of 
enjoyiug a laugh procured by such means. I know, 
too, that, by adopting such arts ; there will always be 
those standing around us who have not comprehended 
the whole merits of the legal discussion, with whom I 
might shake the character of the gentleman's science 
and judgment as a lawyer. I hope I shall never be 
capable of such a wish ; and I had hoped that the 
gentleman himself felt so strongly that proud, that 
high, aspiring and ennobling magnanimity, which I 
had been told conscious talents rarely fail to inspire, 
that he would have disdained a poor and fleeting tri- 
umph gained by means like these. 

— William Wirt. 


When they reached the depot, Mr. Mann and his 
wife gazed in unspeakabel disappointment at the re- 
ceding train, which was just pulliug away from the 
bridge switch at the rate of a mile a minute. Their 
first impulse was to run after it, but as the train was 
out of sight and whistling for Sagetown before they 
could act upon the impulse, they remained in their car- 
riage and disconsolately turned their horses' heads 

Mr. Mann broke the silence, very grimly: "It all 
comes of having to wait for a woman to get ready." 

" I was ready before you were," replied his wife. 

"Great heavens," cried Mr. Mann, with great im- 
patience, nearly jerking the horses' jaws out of place, 
"just listen to that! And I sat in the buggy ten 


minutes yelling at you to come along until the whole 
neighborhood heard me." 

" Yes," acquiesced Mrs. Mann, with the provoking 
placidity which no one can assume but a woman, " and 
every time I started down stairs you sent me back 
for something you had forgotten." 

Mr. Mann groaned. " This is too much to bear," 
he said, " when everybody knows that if I were going 
to Europe I would just rush into the house, put on a 
clean shirt, grab up my grip-sack, and fly, while you 
would want at least six months for preliminary prepa- 
rations, and then dawdle around the whole day of 
starting until every train had left town." 

Well, the upshot of the matter was that the Manns 
put off their visit to Aurora until the next week, and 
it was agreed that each one should get himself or her- 
self ready and go down to the train and go, and the 
one who failed to get ready should be left. The day 
of the match came around in due time. The train 
was going at 10 : 30, and Mr. Mann, after attending to 
his business, went home at 9 : 45. 

"Now, then," he shouted, "only three-quarters of 
an hour's time. Fly around ; a fair field and no fa- 
vors, you know." 

And away they flew. Mr. Mann bulged into this 
room and flew through that one, and dived into one 
closet after another with inconceivable rapidity, chuck- 
ling under his breath all the time to think how cheap 
Mrs. Mann would feel when he started off alone. He 
stopped on his way up stairs to pull off his heavy 
boots to save time. For the same reason he pulled 
off his coat as he ran through the dining-room, and 
hung it on the corner of the silver closet. Then he 
jerked off his vest as he rushed through the hall and 
tossed it on the hat-rack hook, and by the time he had 
reached his own room he was ready to plunge into his 
clean clothes. He pulled out a bureau drawer and 


began to paw at the things like a Scotch terrier after 
a rat. 

" Eleanor," he shrieked, " where are my shirts ? " 

" In your bureau drawer," calmly replied Mrs. Mann, 
who was standing before a glass calmly and deliberately 
coaxing a refractory crimp into place. 

" Well, but they ain't ! " shouted Mr. Mann, a little 
annoyed. " I've emptied everything out of the drawer, 
and there isn't a thing in it I ever saw before." 

Mrs. Mann stepped back a few paces, held her head 
on one side, and after satisfying herself that the crimp 
would do, replied : " These things scattered around 
on the floor are all mine. Probably you haven't been 
looking into your own drawer." 

"I don't see why you couldn't have put my things 
out for me when you had nothing else to do all the 

" Because nobody put mine out for me. A fair field 
and no favors, my dear." 

Mr. Mann plunged into his shirt like a bull at a red 

"Foul!" he shouted, in malicious triumph, "No 
buttons on the neck ! " 

"Because," said Mrs. Mann, sweetly, after a deliber- 
ate stare at the fidgeting, impatient man, during which 
she buttoned her dress and put eleven pins where they 
would do the most good, " because you have got the 
shirt on wrong side out." 

When Mr. Mann slid out of the shirt he began to 
sweat. He dropped the shirt three times before he got 
it on, and while it was over his head he heard the clock 
strike ten. When his head came through he saw Mrs. 
Mann coaxing the ends and bows of her nicktie. 

" Where are my shirt studs?" he cried. 

Mrs. Mann went out into another room and presently 
came back with gloves and hat, and saw Mr. Mann 
emptying all the boxes he could find in and around the 


bureau. Then she said, "In the shirt you just pulled 
off.' 7 

Mrs. Mann put on her gloves, while Mr. Mann hunt- 
ed up and down the room for his cuff-buttons. 

" Eleanor," he snarled, at last, "I believe you must 
know where those cuff-buttons are." 

" I haven't seen them," said the lady, settling her 
hat; "didn't you lay them down on the window-sill in 
the sitting-room last night?" 

Mr. Mann remembered, and he went down stairs on 
the ran. He stepped on one of his boots and was im- 
mediately landed in the hall at the foot of the stairs 
with neatness and dispatch, attended in the transmission 
with more bumps than he could count with Webb's 
Adder, and landed with a bang like the Hell Gate ex- 

"Are you nearly ready, Algernon?" sweetly asked 
the wife of his bosom, leaning over the banisters. 

The unhappy man groaned. " Can't you throw me 
down the other boot?" he asked. 

Mrs. Mann, pityingly, kicked it down to him. 

" My valise?" he inquired, as he tugged at the boot. 

" Up in your dressing room," she answered. 


" I do not know ; unless you packed it yourself, pro- 
bably not," she replied, with her hand on the door 
knob; "I had barely time to pack my own." 

She was passing out of the gate when the door opened, 
and he shouted, "Where in the name of goodness did 
you put my vest? It has ail my money in it !" 

" You threw it on the hat rack," she called. " Good- 
bye, dear." 

Before she got to the corner of the street she was 
hailed again. 

" Eleanor ! Eleanor ! Eleanor Mann ! Did you wear 
off my coat ? " 

She paused and turned, after signaling the street 


car to stop, and cried, "You threw it in the silver 

The street car engulfed her graceful form and she 
was seen no more. But the neighbors say that they 
heard Mr. Mann charging up and down the house, 
rushing out of the front door every now and then, 
shrieking after the unconscious Mrs. Mann, to know 
where his hat was, and where she put the valise key, 
and if she had his clean socks and undershirts, and 
that there wasn't a linen collar in the house. And 
when he w T ent away at last, he left the kitchen door, 
the side door and the front door, all the down stairs 
windows and the front gate, wide open. 

The loungers around the depot were somewhat 
amused, just as the train was pulling out of sight down 
in the yards, to see a flushed, enterprising man, with 
his hat on sideways, his vest unbuttoned and necktie 
flying, and his grip-sack flapping open and shut like a 
demented shutter on a March night, and a door key 
in his hand, dash wildly across the platform and halt 
in the middle of the track, glaring in dejected, impo- 
tent, wrathful mortification at the departing train, and 
shaking his fist at a pretty woman who was throwing 
kisses at him from the rear platform of the last car. 


A few years ago, a friend and myself were traveling, 
on horseback, in Southern Illinois. The day was cold 
and stormy, hence we stopped at a farm-house on the 
wayside to warm. We saw, as we approached, ten or 
twelve children, all of whom looked like twins, pres- 
sing their noses against the window panes. We en- 
tered, and found a real bedlam. The children were 
rude and noisy, and were bounding over the floor like 

The father scolded, and the mother fretted. They 


said the dear ones were usually quite agreeable to 
strangers. The children had been eating molasses and 
jelly, and were visibly sweet. Now, I do really love 
sweet children, but in this case I disliked the sweet- 
ness, for there was too much of it. They climbed 
upon the back of my chair, and affectionately printed 
the pictures of their honey hands upon my shirt front. 
One of these promising boys slipped a snow-ball into 
my boot. In a few moments I found my boot full of 
water. That water was wet, it generally is in that lo- 
cality ; but in this case it was exceedingly wet. My 
surroundings were growing more frightful. I longed 
for a missionary or a policeman. But relief came at 
last, for the father shouted : " Get out of that, you 
little knaves." They got. They darted away like 
terrified rats. In a few moments these " little knaves " 
came forth from their hiding places and the following 
dialogue ensued : 

" Ma," said boy number one, " how long will these 
men stay here ? " 

The boy spoke in semi-aspirate, and the mother 
whispered, " Billy, hush, or I will put you in the 

" Will the men be gone when I get out ? " 

"Do hush." 

"Why must I hush?" 

My friend was lame, and wore a high-heeled boot. 
The boy noticed it and said in full voice, and laugh- 
ing as he spoke : 

" Oh, ma, look at that man's foot. He has a pep- 
per-box on his heel. He walks just like Sam's old 

" Billy," exclaimed the father, " come here, and I 
will stop your mouth." 

The boy cowered by the side of his sire. In a mo- 
ment the boy murmured : 

" Pa, what is the matter with Sam's mule ? " 

" String-haltered," whispered the father. 


u Is that man string-haltered?" 

My friend began to sweat, and moved toward the 
door. I appointed myself a committee of one to with- 
draw from the room. Amid the cheering yells of the 
father, the sweet notes of the boy, and the melodious 
shrieks of the mother, we took our departure. 

We stopped at the next house. A boy met us at the 
door; pulling off three-fourths of a hat, he told us to 
come in. The two little girls sat quietly by the win- 
dow. The mother smiled pleasantly, and everything 
was in good order. Now, what made the noticeable 
difference? Simply one household was continually 
fretting and whining. 

The peculiar characteristic of some people is whin- 
ing. They whine because they are poor, and they 
whine because they are sick and can not enjoy their 
riches ; they whine because they are out of employ- 
ment, and no sensible man will give them employment 
because they whine ; they fret until they take the 
headache, and of course take the headache on account 
of fretting ; they whine because they are ugly, and 
they are painfully ugly because they whine. I would 
have such persons taken out and whipped until they 
laugh. — /. V. G. 


The moon had just gone down, sir, 

But the stars lit up the sky ; 
All was still in tent and town, sir, 

Not a foeman could we spy. 
It was our turn at picket, 
So we marched into the thicket, 
To the music of the cricket 
Chirping nigh. 

Oh, we kept a sharp lookout, sir, 
But no danger could we spy, 

And no foeman being about, sir, 
We sat down there by-and-by ; 


And we watched the brook a-brawlin', 
And counted the stars a-fallin', 
Old memories overhauling 
Bill and I. 

And says he, "Won't it be glorious 

When we throw our muskets by, 
And home again, victorious, 

We hear our sweethearts cry, 
' Welcome back ! ' " A step ! Who goes there ? 
A shot—by Heaven, the foe's there ! 
Bill sat there, all composure, 
But not I. 

By the red light of his gun, sir, 

I marked the daring spy. 
In an instant it was done, sir — 

I had fired and heard a cry. 
I sprang across a stream, sir — 
Oh, it seems just like a dream, sir, 
The dizzy, dving gleam, sir, 
Of that eye ? 

A youth, a very boy, sir, 

I saw before me lie ; 
Some pretty school-girl's toy, sir, 

Had ventured here to die. 
We had hated one another, 
But I heard him murmer, "Mother/" 
So I stooped and whispered, "Brother ! " 
No reply. 

I crossed the stream once more, sir, 

To see why Bill warn't by ; 
He was sittin' as before, sir, 

But a film was o'er his eye. 
I scarce knew what it meant, sir, 
Till a wail broke from our tent, sir, 
As into camp we went, sir, 
Bill and I. 


There is a black ship upon the southern sea this 
night. Far from his own, old land — far from the sea, 
and soil, and sky, which, standing here, he used to 


claim for you with all the pride of a true Irish prince — 
far from that circle of fresh, young hearts, in whose 
light, and joyousness, and warmth, his own drank in 
each evening new life and vigor — far from that young 
wife, in whose heart the kind hand of heaven has kin- 
dled a gentle heroism — sustained by which she looks 
with serenity and pride upon her widowed house, and 
in the children that girdle her with beauty, beholds but 
the inheritors of a name, which, to their last breath, 
will secure to them the love, the honor, the blessing 
of their country — far from these scenes and joys, 
clothed and fettered as a felen, he is borne to an island, 
whereon the rich, and brilliant, and rapacious power 
of which he was the foe, has doomed him to a dark 
existence. That sentence must be reversed — reversed 
by the decree of a nation, arrayed in arms and in glory ! 

Think ! oh, think ! of how, with throbbing heart 
and kindling eye, he will look out across the waters 
that imprison him, searching in the eastern sky for the 
flag that will announce to him his liberty, and the tri- 
umph of sedition ! 

Think ! oh, think ! of that day, when thousands and 
tens of thousands will rush down to the water's edge, 
as a distant gun proclaims his return — mark the ship 
as it dashes through the waves and nears the shore — - 
behold him standing there upon the deck — the same 
calm, intrepid, noble heart — his clear, quick eye runs 
along the shore, and fills with the light which flashes 
from the bayonets of the people — a moment's pause, 
and then, amid the roar of the cannon, the fluttering 
of a thousand flags, the pealing of the cathedral bells, 
the triumphant felon sets his foot once more upon his 
native soil — hailed, and blessed, and worshiped as the 
first citizen of our free and sovereign state ! 

—I. F. Meagher. 



Whom do we call our heroes? 

To whom our praises sing? 
The pampered child of fortune, 

The titled lord or king ! 
They live by others' labor, 

Take all and nothing give. 
The noblest types of manhood 

Are those who work to live. 

Chobus. Then, honor to our workingmen, 
The hardy sons of toil, 
The heroes of the workshop, 
The monarchs of the soil. 

Who spans the earth with iron? 

Who rears the palace dome ? 
Who creates for the rich man 

The comforts of his home ? 
It is the patient toiler: 

All honor to him, then ; 
The true wealth of the nation 

Is in her workingmen. 

For many barren ages 

Earth hid her treasures deep 
And all her giant forces 

Seemed bound as in a sleep ; 
Then Labor's anvil chorus 

Broke on the startled air, 
And, lo ! the earth in rapture 

Laid all her riches bare. 

'Tis toil that over nature 

Gives man his proud control; 
It purifies and hallows 

The temple of the soul; 
It scatters foul diseases, 

With all their ghastly train ; 
Puts iron in the muscle, 

And crystal in the brain. 

The great Almighty builder 

Who fashioned out this earth, 
Has stamped his seal of honor 

On Labor from her birth. 
In every angel flower 

That blossoms from the sod, 
Behold the master touches — 

The handiwork of God. — Henry Clay Preuss. 



The sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from 
which we refuse to be divorced. Every other wound 
we seek to heal ; every other affliction, to forget ; but 
this wound we consider it a duty to keep open. This 
affliction we cherish, and brood over in solitude. Where 
is the mother who would willingly forget the infant 
■that has perished like a blossom from her arms, though 
•every recollection is a pang? Where is the child that 
would willingly forget a tender parent, though to re- 
member be but to lament? Who, even in the hour of 
agony, would forget the friend over whom he mourns. 
No, the love which survives the tomb is one of the 
noblest attributes of the soul. If it has its woes, it has 
likewise its delights; and when the overwhelming 
burst of grief is calmed into the gentle tear of recol- 
lection ; when the sudden anguish and the convulsive 
agony over the present ruins of all that we most loved, 
is softened away into pensive meditation on all that it 
was in the days of its loveliness, who would root out 
such a sorrow from the heart? Though it may, some- 
times, throw a passing cloud over the bright hour of 
gayety, or spread a deeper sadness over the hour of 
gloom, yet, who would exchange it even for the song 
of pleasure or the burst of revelry ? No, there is a 
voice from the tomb sweeter than song. There is a 
remembrance of the dead to which we would turn even 
from the charms of the living. 

Oh, the grave ! the grave ! It buries every error, 
■covers every defect, extinguishes every resentment! 
From its peaceful bosom spring none but fond regrets 
and tender recollections. Who can look down upon 
the grave even of an enemy, and not feel a compunc- 
tious throb, that he should have warred with the poor 
handful of earth that lies moldering before him? But 
the grave of those we loved — what a place for medita- 
tion ! There it is, that we call up, in long review, the 


whole history of virtue and gentleness, and the thou- 
sand endearments lavished upon us, almost unheeded in 
the daily intercourse of intimacy. 

Aye, go to the grave of buried love, and meditate ! 
There settle the account with thy conscience for every 
past benefit unrequited; every past endearment unre- 
garded, of that departed being, who can never — never 
— never return. 

Then weave thy chaplet of flowers, and strew the 
beauties of nature about the grave ; console thy bro- 
ken spirit, if thou canst, with these tender, yet futile 
tributes of regret; but take warning by the bitterness 
of this, thy contrite affliction over the dead, and hence- 
forth, be more faithful and affectionate in the discharge 
of thy duties to the living. — Washington Irving. 


Man is the creature of interest and ambition. His 
nature leads him forth into the struggle and bustle of 
the world. Love is but the embellishment of his 
early life, or a song piped in the intervals of the acts. 
He seeks for fame, for fortune, for space in the world's 
thought, and dominion over his fellow-men. But a 
woman's whole life is a history of the affections. The 
heart is her world ; it is there her ambition strives for 
empire ; it is there her avarice seeks for hidden treas- 
ures. She sends forth her sympathies on adventure ; 
she embarks her -whole soul in the traffic of affection ; 
and if shipwrecked, her case is hopeless, for it is a 
bankruptcy of her heart. 

To a man, the disappointment of love may occasion 
some bitter pangs ; it wounds some feelings of tender- 
ness — it blasts some prospects of felicity ; but he is an 
active being; he may diss' pate his thoughts in the 
whirl of varied occupation, or may plunge into the 
tide of pleasure; or, if the scene of disappointment be 


too full of painful associations, he can shift his abode 
at will, and taking, as it were, the wings of the morn- 
ing, can "fly to the uttermost part of the earth, and 
be at rest." 

But woman's is comparatively a fixed, a secluded, 
and a meditative life. She is more the companion of 
her own thoughts and feelings; and if they are turned 
to ministers of sorrow, where shall she look for con- 
solation ? Her lot is to be wooed and won ; and if 
unhappy in her love, her heart is like some fortress 
that has been captured, and sacked, and abandoned, 
and left desolate. 

How many bright eyes grow dim—how many soft- 
cheeks grow pale — how many lovely forms fade away 
into the tomb, and none can tell the cause that blighted 
their loveliness ! As the dove will clasp its wings to 
its side, and cover and conceal the arrow that is prey- 
ing on its vitals, so it is the nature of woman to hide 
from the world the pangs of wounded affection. 

The love of a delicate female is always shy and 
silent. Even when fortunate, she scarcely breathes it 
to herself; but when otherwise, she buries it in the 
recesses of her bosom, and there lets it cower and 
brood among the ruins of her peace. With her the 
desire of the heart has failed. The great charm of 
existence is at an end. She neglects all the cheerful 
exercises which gladden the spirits, quicken the pulses, 
and send the tide of life in healthful currents through 
the veins. Her rest is broken ; the sweet refreshment 
of sleep is poisoned by melancholy dreams ; " dry 
sorrow drinks her blood/ 7 until her enfeebled frame 
sinks under the slightest external injury. 

Look for her, after a little while, and you will find 
friendship weeping over her untimely grave, and won- 
dering that one who but lately glowed with all the 
radiance of health and beauty should so speedily be 
brought down to " darkness and the worm." You 
will be told of some wintry chill, some casual indispo- 


sition, that laid her low; but no one knows of the 
mental malady that previously sapped her strength, 
and made her so easy a prey to the spoiler. 

She is like some tender tree, the pride and beauty 
of the grove ; graceful in its form, bright in its foliage, 
but with the worm preying at its heart. We find it 
suddenly withering when it should be most fresh and 
luxuriant. We see it drooping its branches to the 
earth, and shedding leaf by leaf, until, wasted and per- 
ished away, it falls even in the stillness of the forest ; 
and as we muse over the beautiful ruin, we strive in 
vain to recollect the blast or thunderbolt that could 
have smitten it with decay. — Washington Irving. 


Vake up, my schveet ! Vake up, my lofe ! 
Der moon dot can't been seen abofe. 
Vake oud your eyes, und dough it's late, 
I'll make you oud a serenate. 

Der shtreet dot's kinder dampy vet, 
Und dhere vas no goot blace to set; 
My fiddle's getting oud of dune, 
So blease get vakey wery soon. 

O my lofe ! my lofely lofe ! 
Am you avake ub dhere abofe, 
Feeling sad und nice to hear 
Schneider's fiddle schrabin near? 

Veil, anyvay, obe loose your ear, 
Und try to saw uf you kin hear 
Frorn dem bedclose vat you'm among, 
Der little song I'm going to sung : 

O lady ! vake ! Get vake ! 

Und hear der tale I'll tell; 
Oh ! you vot's schleepin' sound ub dhere 

I like you pooty veil ! 

Your plack eyes dhem don't shine 
Ven you'm ashleep— so vake ! 

(Yes, hurry ub und voke ub quick, 
For gootness cracious sake ! ) 


My schveet imbatience, lofe, 

I hobe you vill oxcuse ; 
I'm singing schveetly (dhere, py Jinks ! 

Dhere goes a shtring proke loose ! ) 

putiful, schveet maid ! 
Oh ! vill she efer voke ? 

Der moon is mooning — (Jimminy ! dhere 
Anoder shtring vent proke ! ) 

Oh ! say, old schleeby head ! 

(Now I vas getting mad — 
I'll holler now und I don't care 

Uf I vake up her dad ! ) 

1 say, you schleeby, vake ! 

Vake oud ! Vake loose ! Vake ub ! 
Fire! Murder! Police! Vatch! 
O cracious ! do vake ub ! 

Dot girl she schleebed — dot rain it rained 
Und I looked shtoopid like a fool, 

Vhen mit my fiddle I shneaked off 
So vet und shlobby like a mool ! 


The sacred day was ending in a village by the sea ; 

The uttered benediction touched the people tenderly, 

And they rose to face the sunset in the golden glowing west, 

And then hastened to their dwellings for God's blessed boon of rest 

But they looked across the waters, and a storm was raging there ; 
A fierce spirit moved above them — the wild spirit of the air ; 
And it lashed and shook and tore them, till they thundered, 

groaned, and boomed. 
And, alas ! for any vessel in their yawning gulfs entombed ! 

Sad and anxious were the people, on that rocky coast of Wales, 
Lest the dawns of coming morrows should be telling fearful tales,. 
When the sea had spent its passion, and should cast upon the shore 
Tangled wreck and swollen victims, as it had done heretofore. 

With the rough winds blowing round her, a brave woman strained 

her eyes, 
And she saw along the billows a large vessel fall and rise. 
Oh, it did not need a prophet to tell what the end must be, 
For no ship could ride in safety near that shore on such a sea. 


Then the pitying people hurried from their homes and thronged 

the beach. 
Oh 7 for power to cross the waters and the perishing to reach ! 
Helpless hands were wrung for sorrow ; tender hearts grew cold 

with dread, 
And the ship, urged by the tempest, to the fatal rock-shore sped. 

" She has parted in the middle! Oh, the half of her goes down ! 
God have mercy ! is his heaven far to seek for those who drown?" 
Lo ! when next the white shocked faces looked with terror on the 

Only one last clinging figure on a spar was seen to be. 

Nearer the trembling watchers came the wreck across the wave, 
And the man still clung and floated, though no power on earth 

could save. 
"Could we send him a short message ! Here's a trumpet. Shout 

away." • 
'Twas the preacher's hand that took it, and he wondered what to 


Any memory of his sermon? Firstly? Secondly ? Ah, no ! 
There was but one thing to utter in the awful hour of woe; 
So he shouted through the trumpet, "Look to Jesus. Can you. 

And "Ay, ay, sir ! " rang the answer o'er the waters, loud and clear. 

Then they listened : " He is singing ' Jesus, Lover of my soul.' " 
And the winds brought back the echo, " While the nearer waters 

Strange, indeed, it was to hear him, " Till the storm of life is past," 
Singing bravely from the waters. " Oh, receive my soul at last ! " 

He could have no other refuge. "Hangs my "helpless soul on Thee; 
Leave, ah ! leave me not " — the singer dropped at last into the sea. 
And the watchers, looking homeward through their eyes by tears. 

made dim, 
Said, "He passed to be with Jesus in the singing of that hymn." 


Oh ! listen to the water-mill, through all the live-long day, 
As the clicking of the wheels wears hour by hour away ; 
How languidly the autumn wind doth stir the withered leaves, 
As on the field the reapers sing, while binding up the sheaves ! 
A solemn proverb strikes my mind, and as a spell is cast, 
" The mill will never grind again with water that is past." 


The summer winds revive no more leaves strewn o'er earth and 

The sickle never more will reap the yellow garnered grain ; 
The rippling stream flows ever on, aye, tranquil, deep and still, 
But never glideth back again to busy water-mill. 
The solemn proverb speaks to all, with meaning deep and vast, 
" The mill will never grind again with water that is past." 

Oh ! clasp the proverb to thy soul, dear loving heart and true, 
For golden years are fleeting by, and youth is passing too ; 
Ah ! learn to make the most of life, nor lose one happy day, 
For time will ne'er return sweet joys neglected, thrown away; 
Nor leave one tender word unsaid, thy kindness sow broadcast — 
" The mill will never grind again with water that is past." 

Oh ! the wasted hours of life, that have swiftly drifted by, 
Alas ! the good we might have done, all gone without a sigh ; 
Love that we might once have saved by a single kindly word, 
Thoughts conceived but ne'er expressed, perishing unpenned, un- 
Oh ! take the lesson to thy soul, forever clasp it fast, 
" The mill will never grind again with water that is past." 

Work on while yet the sun doth shine, thou man of strength and 

The streamlet ne'er doth useless glide by clicking water-mill ; 
Nor wait until to-morrow's light beams brightly on thy way, 
For all that thou canst call thine own lies in the phrase " to-day ; 
Possessions, power, and blooming health, must all be lost at last — 
u The mill will never grind again with water that is past." 

Oh ! love thy God and fellow man, thyself consider last, 
For come it will when thou must scan dark errors of the past; 
Soon will this fight of life be o'er, and earth recede from view, 
And heaven in all its glory shine where all is pure and true. 
Ah ! then thou'lt see more clearly still the proverb deep and vast, 
" The mill will never grind again with water that is past." 

— D. C. McCallum. 


Mary haf got a leetle lambs already ; 
Dose vool vas vite like shnow ; 
Und efery times dot Mary did vend oued, 
Dot lambs vent also oued vid Mary. 

Dot lambs did follow Mary von day of der school-house, 
Vich vas obbosition to der rules of der schoolmaster, 
Also, vich it dit caused dose schillen to schmile out loud, 
Ven dey did saw dose lambs on der insides of der school-house. 


TJnd zo dot schoolmaster did kick dot lambs quick oued, 
Likevize, dot lambs dit loaf around on der outsides, 
XJnd did shoo der flies mit his tail off patiently aboud, 
Until Mary did come also from dot school-house oued. 

Und den dot lambs did run right away quick to Mary, 
Und dit make his het on Mary's arms, 
Like he would say, " I dond vas schared, 
Mary would keep from drouble ena how." 

' Vot vas der reason aboud it, of dot lambs und Mary ? " 
Dose schillen did ask it dot schoolmaster ; 
Veil, doand you know it, dot Mary lov dose lambs already, 
Dot schoolmaster did zaid. 


Und zo, alzo, dot moral vas, 
Boued Mary's lambs' relations ; 
Of you lofe dese like she lofe dose, 
Dot lambs vas obligations. 



As I rummaged through the attic, 

List'ning to the falling rain, 
As it pattered on the shingles 

And against the window pane; 
Peeping over chests and boxes, 

Which with dust were thickly spread : 
Saw I in the farthest corner 

What was once my trundle bed. 

So I drew it from the recess, 

Where it had remained so long, 
Hearing all the while the music 

Of my mother's voice in song ; 
As she sung in sweetest accents, 

What I since have often read — 
"Hush, my dear, lie still and slumber, 

Holy angels guard thy bed." 

As I listen'd, recollections, 

That I thought had been forgot, 
Came with all the gush of memory, 

Rushing, thronging to the spot ; 
And I wandered back to childhood, 

To those merry days of yore, 
When I knelt beside my mother, 

By this bed upon the floor. 


Then it was with hands so gently- 
Placed upon my infant head, 

That she taught my lips to utter 
Carefully the words she said ; 

Never can they be forgotten, 

Deep are they in mem'ry riven — 
" Hallowed be thy name, O Father ! 
Father ! thou who art in heaven." 

Years have passed, and that dear mother 

Long has moldered 'neath the sod, 
And I trust her sainted spirit 

Revels in the home of God : 
But that scene at summer twilight 

Never has from memory fled, 
And it comes in all its freshness 

When I see my trundle bed. 

This she taught me, then she told me 

Of its import, great and deep — 
After which I learned to utter 

" Now I lay me down to sleep ; " 
Then it was with hands uplifted, 

And in accents soft and mild, 
That my mother asked — " Our Father! 

Father ! do thou bless my child ! " 


Oh ! why should the spirit of mortal be proud ? 
Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast-flying cloud, 
A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave, 
Man passeth from life to his rest in the grave. 

' The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade, 
Be scattered around, and together be laid ; 
And the young and the old, and the low and the high 
Shall molder to dust and together shall lie. 

The infant a mother attended and loved ; 
The mother that infant's affection who proved; 
The husband that mother and infant who blessed,— 
Each, all, are away to their dwellings of rest. 

The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye, 
Shone beauty and pleasure, — her triumphs are by; 
And the memory of those who loved her and praised 
Are alike from the minds of the living erased. 


The hand of the king that the scepter hath borne ; 
The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn ; 
The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave, 
Are hidden and lost in the depth of the grave. 

The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap ; 
The herdsman who climbed with his goats up the steep ; 
The beggar who wandered in search of his bread, 
Have faded away like the grass that we tread. 

The saint who enjoyed the communion of heaven ; 
The sinner who dared to remain unforgiven ; 
The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just, 
Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust. 

So the multitude goes like the flowers or the weed 
That withers away to let others succeed ; 
So the multitude comes, even those we behold, 
To repeat every tale that has often been told. 

For we are the same our fathers have been ; 
"We see the same sights our fathers have seen ; 
We drink the same stream, and view the same sun, 
And run the same course our fathers have run. 

The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think; 
From the death we are shrinking our fathers would shrink; 
To the life we are clinging they also would cling; 
But it speeds for us all, like a bird on the wing. 

They loved, but the story we can not unfold; 
They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold ; 
They grieved, but no wail from their slumbers will come; 
They joyed, but the tongue of their gladness is dumb. 

Thy died, aye ! they died ; and we things that are now, 

"Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow, 

"Who make in their dwelling a transient abode, 

Meet the things that they met on their pilgrimage road. 

Yea ! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain, 
"We mingle together in sunshine and rain ; 
And the smiles and the tears, the song and the dirge, . 
Still follow each other, like surge upon surge. 

'Tis the wink of an eye, 'tis the draught of a breath, 
From the blossom of health to the paleness of death, 
From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud, — 
Oh ! why should the spirit of mortal be proud? 

— William Knox, 



Cato s'tting in a thoughtful posture, with Plato's hook on the Immortality 
of the Soul in his hand, and a drawn sword on the table by him. 

It must be so. — Plato, thou reasonest well ! 

Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire 

This longing after immortality ? 

Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror, 

Of falling into naught? Why shrinks the soul 

Back on herself, and startles at destruction ? 

'Tis the divinity that stirs within us; 

'Tis heaven itself, that points out a hereafter, 

And intimates eternity to man. 

Eternity! — thou pleasing, dreadful thought! 
Through what variety of untried being, 
Through what new scenes and changes must we pass! 
The wide, the unbounded prospect lies before me ; 
But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it. 
Here will I hold. If there's a Power above us, — 
And that there is, all Nature cries aloud 
Through all her works, — he must delight in virtue * 
And that which he delights in must be happy. 
But when ? or where? This world was made for Csesar. 
I'm weary of conjectures, — this must end them. 
[Laying his hand on his sword.'] 

Thus am I doubly armed. My death and life, 
My bane and antidote, are both before me. 
This in a moment brings me to my end ; 
But this informs me I shall never die. 
The soul, secure in her existence, smiles 
At the drawn dagger, and defies its point. 
The stars shall fade away, the sun himself 
Grow dim with age, and Nature sink in years ; 
But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth, 
Unhurt amid the war of elements, 
The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds. 

— Addison-. 


" Say, my dear," ejaculated Mr. Spoopendyke, sit- 
ting bolt upright in bed with a sudden jerk ; "say, my 
dear, wake up ! I hear burglars in the house." 

"Who? what burglar?" demanded Mrs. Spoopen- 


dyke, as she popped up beside her husband. "Who's 
in the house ? " 

" Hush ! Quiet, will ye ? I don't know which burg- 
lar, but I hear some one moving around." 

" Oh, my! What shall we do?" inquired Mrs. 
Spoopendyke. "Let's cover up our heads." 

" Why don't you get up and light the gas ! " pro- 
pounded Mr. Spoopendyke in a hoarse whisper. " S'pose 
you can see who it is in the dark ! Strike a light, 
can't ye ? If you had your way we'd both be mur- 
dered in bed. Going to light up before we're killed ? " 

"Fm afraid," whispered Mrs. Spoopendyke, stick- 
ing one foot out of bed and hauling it in as if she had 
caught a fish with it. 

" Going to sit there like a shot-tower and have our 
throats cut ? " interrogated Mr. Spoopendyke. "How'm 
I going to find a burglar without a light? Find a 
match and light that gas now, quick ! " 

Mrs. Spoopendyke crawled out of bed and hunted 
around for a skirt. 

" What's the matter with you ? Can't you find a 
match ! Why don't you move ? " hissed Mr. Spoop- 

" I am, as fast as I can," replied his wife, her teeth 
chattering. " I'm looking for a pin." 

"Oh! you're moving like a railroad, ain't ye? I 
never saw anything fly like you do. All you want is 
to be done up in white and blue papers to be a seidlitz 
powder. What d'ye want of a pin ? Going to stick 
a pin in the burglar ? Why don't you light that gas ? " 

Mrs. Spoopendyke broke half a dozen matches, and 
finally got a light. 

" That's something like it," continued Mr. Spoop- 
endyke. " Now hand me my pantaloons." 

"You won't go down where they are, will you ? " 
anxiously inquired Mrs. Spoopendyke, handing over 
the garment. 


Mr. Spoopendyke vouchsafed no reply, but donned 
the habiliments. 

" Now, you open the door," said he, " and go to the 
head of the stairs and ask who's there, while I find 
my stick. Hurry up, or they'll get away." 

" Suppose they are there. What'll I do then ? " 

" Tell 'em I'm coming. Go ask 'em, will ye ? What's 
the matter with you?" 

Mrs. Spoopendyke opened the door about an inch, 
squealed " Who's there ? " slammed the door again, and 
popped into bed. 

" What ails ye?" demanded her husband. "What 
d'ye think you are, anyway — a conical shot ? Get up, 
can't ye, and look out. Where's my big stick ? What 
have you done with it? Sent it to school, haven't ye? 
Go out and ask who's there, will ye, before they come 
up and slaughter us." 

Once more Mrs. Spoopendyke approached the door 
and tremulously demanded what was going on. There 
was no response, to her incalculable relief, and she 
went to the head of the stairs. 

" See anybody ? " whispered Mr. Spoopendyke, look- 
ing over her shoulder. 

" Who's there ? " squealed Mrs. Spoopendyke. " Go 
right away, because my husband is here." 

" Oh, you've done it ! " exclaimed Mr. Spoopendyke, 
as he hauled her back into the room. "Now, how 
d'ye s'pose I'm going to catch 'em? What do you 
want to scare 'em for? What'd you say anything 
about me for? Think this is a nomiDating conven- 
tion ? What made you leave the house open ? Come 
on down with me, and I'll show you how to lock up." 

Down they went, and a careful scrutiny demon- 
strated that everything was fast. 

" I don't believe there was anybody there," said Mrs. 
Spoopendyke, as they returned to their chamber. 

" It wasn't your fault," retorted Mr. Spoopendyke. 


"If you'd got up when I told you and kept your 
mouth shut, we'd have got 'em." 

" But you said for me " 

" Didn't say anything of the sort ! " howled Mr. 
Spoopendyke ; " never mentioned your name. We 
might have been killed, the way you went to work." 

" I think we'd caught them if they'd been there/' 
said Mrs. Spoopendyke, taking down her hair and pro- 
ceeding to put it up again. 

"You'd caught 'em," sneered Mr. Spoopendyke. 
"Another time a burgler gets into the house you stay 
abed, and don't you wake me up again. I won't have 
any cowardly, fussy woman routing me out this time 
of night, ye hear ? " 

" Yes, dear," and Mrs. Spoopendyke wound her 
hand in the collar of her liege lord's shirt and went to 
sleep, secure in his protection. 


There is an old woman down town who delights to 
find a case that all the doctors have failed to cure and 
then go to work with herbs and roots and strange 
things and try to effect at least an improvement. A 
few days ago she got hold of a girl with a stiff neck, 
and she offered an old negro named Uncle Tom Kelly 
fifty cents to go to the woods and bring her a hornet's 
nest. This was to be steeped in vinegar and applied 
to the neck. The old man spent several days along 
the Holden road, and yesterday morning he secured 
his prize and brought it home in a basket. When he 
reached the Central Market he had a few little purcha- 
ses to make, and after getting some few articles at a 
grocery, he placed his basket on a barrel near the stove 
and went out to look for a beef bone. 

It was a dull day for trade. The grocer sat by the 
stove rubbing his bald head. His clerk stood at the 


desk balancing accounts, and three or four men lounged 
around talking about the new party that is to be found- 
ed on the ruins of the falling ones. It was a serene 
hour. One hundred and fifty hornets had gone to roost 
in that nest for the winter. The genial atmosphere 
began to limber them up. One old veteran opened his 
eyes, rubbed his legs, and said it was the shortest win- 
ter he had ever known in all his hornet days. A sec- 
ond shook off his lethargy and seconded the motion, 
and in five minutes the whole nest was alive and its 
owners were ready to sail out and investigate. You 
don't have to hit a hornet with the broadside of an ax 
to make him mad. He's mad all over all the time, 
and he doesn't care a picayune whether he tackles a 
humming-bird or an elephant. 

The grocer was telling one of the men that he and 
General Grant were boys together, when he gave a sud- 
den start of surprise. This was followed by several 
other starts. Then he jumped over a barrel of sugar 
and yelled like a Pawnee. Some smiled, thinking he 
w T as after a funny climax, but it was only a minute be- 
fore a solemn old farmer jumped three feet high and 
came down to roll over a job lot of washboards. Then 
the clerk ducked his head and made a rush for the 
door. He didn't get there. One of the other men 
who had been looking up and down to see what could 
be the matter, felt suddenly called upon to go home. 
He was going at the rate of forty miles an hour when 
he collided with the clerk, and they rolled on the floor. 
There was no use to tell the people in that store to 
move on. They couldn't tarry to save 'em. They all 
felt that the rent was too high, and that they must va- 
cate the premises. A yell over by the cheese box was 
answered by a war-whoop from the showcase. A howl 
from the kerosene barrel near the back door was an- 
swered by wild gestures around the show window. 

The crowd went out together. Uncle Tom was just 
coming in with his beef bone. When a larger body 


meets a smaller one, the larger body knocks it into 
the middle of next week. The old man lay around in 
the slush until everybody had stepped on him all they 
wanted to, and then he sat up and asked : 
"Hev dey got the fiah all put out yit?" 
Some of the hornets sailed out of doors to fall by the 
wayside, and the others waited around on tops of bar- 
rels and baskets and jars to be slaughtered. It was 
half an hour before the last one was disposed of, and 
then Uncle Tom walked in, picked up the nest, and said : 
" Mebbe dis will cure the stiffness in dat gaPs neck 
jist the same, but I tell you Fze got banged, an* 
bumped, an' sot down on till it will take a hull medi- 
cal college all winter long to git me so I kin jump off 
a street kyar ! " — Detroit Free Press. 


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 
Where'er I wander, 
And thus grow fonder, 

Sweet Cork, of thee, — 
With thy bells of Shandon. 
That sound so grand, on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 

I've heard bells chiming 
Full many a clime in, 
Tolling sublime in 

Cathedral shrine ; 
While at a glib rate 
Brass tongues would vibrate; 
But all their music 

Spoke naught like thine. 


For memory, dwelling 
On each pround swelling 
Of thy belfry, knelling 

Its bold notes free, 
Made the bells of Shandon 
Sound far more grand, on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 

I've heard bells tolling 
Old Adrian's Mole in, 
Their thunder rolling 

From the Vatican ; 
And cymbals glorious 
Swinging uprorious 
In the gorgeous turrets 

Of Notre Dame ; 

But thy sounds were sweeter 
Than the dome of 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 ; 
While 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 sounds so grand, on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. —Francis Mahony, 




i; Ma's up-stairs changing her dress/' said the freck- 
led-faced little girl, tying her doll's bonnet-strings and 
casting her eye about for a tidy large enough to serve 
as a shawl for that double-jointed young person. 

" Oh ! your mother needn't dress up for me/' replied 
the female agent of the missionary society, taking a 
self-satisfied view of herself in the mirror. " Run up 
and tell her to come down just as she is in her every- 
day clothes, and not stand on ceremony." 

" Oh ! but she hasn't got on her everyday clothes. 
Ma was all dressed up in her new brown silk, 'cause 
she expected Miss Dimmond to-day. Miss Dimniond 
always comes over here to show off her nice things, 
and ma don't mean to get left. When ma saw you 
coming, she said, ' The Dickens ! ' and I guess she was 
mad about something. Ma said if you saw her new 
dress she'd have to hear all about the poor heathen, 
who don't have silk, and you'd ask her for more money 
to buy hymn-books to send 'em. Say, do the nigger 
ladies use hymn-book leaves to do their hair up and 
make it frizzy? Ma says she guesses that's all the 
good the books do 'em, if they ever get any books. I 
wish my doll was a heathen ! " 

" Why, you wicked little girl, what do you want of 
a heathen doll ? " inquired the missionary lady, taking 
a mental inventory of the new things in the parlor to 
get material for a homily on worldly extravagance. 

" So folks would send her lots of nice things to wear, 
and feel sorry to have her going about naked. I aim 
a wicked girl, either, 'cause Uncle Dick — you know 
Uncle Dick, he's been out West, and he says I'm a 
holy terror, and he hopes I'll be an angel pretty soon. 
Ma'll be down in a minute, so you needn't take your 
?ioak off. She said she'd box my ears if I asked you 


to. Ma's putting on that old dress she had last year, 
'cause she said she didn't want you to think she was able 
to give much this time, and she needed a new muff 
worse than the queen of the cannon ball islands needed 
religion. Uncle Dick says you ought to go to the 
islands, 'cause you'd be safe there, and the natifs'd be 
sorry they was such sinners anybody would send you 
to 'em. He says .he never seen a heathen hungry 
enough to eat you, 'less 'twas a blind one, and you'd 
set a blind pagan's teeth on edge so he'd never hanker 
after any more missionary. Uncle Dick's awful funny, 
and makes pa and ma die laughing sometimes." 

" Your Uncle Eichard is a bad, depraved man, and 
ought to have remained out West, where his style is 
appreciated. He sets a bad example for little girls 
like you." 

" Oh ! I think he's nice. He showed me how to 
slide down the banisters, and he's teaching me to whis- 
tle when ma aint round. That's a pretty cloak you've 
got, aint it ? Do you buy ally our good clothes with mis- 
sionary money? Ma says you do." 

Just then the freckled-faced little girl's ma came into 
the parlor and kissed the missionary lady on the cheek, 
and said she was delighted to see her, and they pro- 
ceeded to have a real sociable chat. The little girl's 
ma can't understand why a person who professes to be 
so charitable as the missionary agent does, should go 
right over to Miss Dimmond's and say such ill-natured 
things as she did, and she thinks the missionary is a 
double-faced gossip, — Boston Globe. 


Snobbleton solas. 

Snobbleton. — Yes, there is that fellow Jon^s again. 
I declare, the man is ubiquitous. Wherever I go with 
my cousin Prudence we stumble across him, or he fol- 


lows her like her shadow. Do we take a boating, so 
does Jones. Do we wander on the beach, so does Jones. 
Go where we will, that fellow follows or moves before. 
Now that was a cruel practical joke which Jones 
once played upon me at college. I have never for- 
given him. But I would gladly make a pretense of 
doing so if I could have my revenge. Let me see. 
Can't I manage it ? He is head over ears in love with 
Prudence, but too bashful to speak. I half believe 
she is not indifferent to him, though altogether unac- 
quainted. It may prove a match if I can not spoil it. 
Let me think. Ha ! I have it. A brilliant idea ! Jones, 
beware ! But here he comes. 

Enter Jones. 

Jones. — (Not seeing Snobbleton, and delightedly con- 
templating a flower which he holds in his hand.) Oh, 
rapture ! what a prize ! It was in her hair ; I saw it 
fall from her queenly head. (Kisses it every now and 
then.) How warm are its tender leaves from having 
touched her neck ! How doubly sweet is its perfume — 
fresh from the fragrance of her glorious locks ! How 
beautiful ! how — Bless me, here is Snobbleton, and 
we are enemies ! 

Snob. — Good morning, Jones — that i§, if you will 
shake hands, 

Jones. — What ! you — you forgive ? You really — 

Snob. — Yes, yes, old fellow ! All is forgotten. You 
played me a rough trick ; but let bygones be bygones. 
Will you not bury the hatchet? 

Jones. — With all my heart, my dear fellow ! 

Snob. — -What is the matter with you, Jones? You 
look quite grumpy — not by any means the same cheer- 
ful, dashing, rollicking fellow you were. 

Jones. — Bless me, you don't say so ! (Aside) Con- 
found the man ! Here have I been endeavoring to 
appear romantic for the last month— and now to be 
called grumpy — it is unbearable ! 


Snob. — But never mind. Cheer up, old fellow ! I 
see it all. I know what it is to be in — 

Jones. — Ah ! you can then sympathize with me. You 
know what it is to he in — 

Snob. — Of course I do ! Heaven preserve me from 
the toils ! And then the letters — the interminable let- 
ters ! * 

Jones — Oh, yes, the letters ! the billet-doux ! 

Snob. — And the bills — the endless bills ! 

Jones. — The bills ! 

Snob. — Yes; and the bailiffs, the lawyers, the judge, 
and the jury. 

Jones. — Why, man, what are you talking about ? I 
thought you said you knew what it was to be in — 

Snob. — In debt. To be sure I did. 

Jones. — Bless me ! I'm not in debt — never borrowed 
a dollar in my life. Ah me ! it's worse than that. 

Snob. — Worse than that ! Come, now, Jones, there 
is only one thing worse. You're surely not in love ? 

Jones. — Yes lam. Oh, Snobby, help me, help me ! 
Let me confide in you. 

Snob. — Confide in me ! Certainly, my dear fellow. 
See ! I do not shrink — I stand firm. 

Jones.— -Snobby, I — I love her. 

Snob.— Whom ? 

Jones.— Your cousin Prudence, 

Snob.— Hal Prudence Angelina Winter? 

Jones.- — Now don't be angry, Snobby ; I don't mean 
any harm, you know. I— I — you know how it is. 

Snob.— -Harm ! my dear fellow. Not a bit of it. 
Angry ! Not at all. You have my consent, old fel- 
low. Take her. She is yours. Heaven bless you 

Jones.- — You are very kind, Snobby, but I haven't 
got her consent yet. 

Snob. — Well, that' is something, to be sure. But 
leave it all to me. She may be a little coy, you know ; 


but, considering your generous overlooking of her un- 
fortunate defect— 

Jones. — Defect ! You surprise me. 

Snob. — What ! and you did not know it ? 

Jones. — Not at all. I am astonished ! Nothing se- 
rious, I hope. 

Snob. — Oh no ; only a little — (He taps his ear with his 
finger knowingly.) I see you understand it. 

Jones. — Merciful heaven ! can it be ? But, really, 
is it serious ? 

Snob. — I should think it was. 

Jones. — What! But is she ever dangerous? 

Snob. — Dangerous! Why should she be? 

Jones. — Oh, I perceive. A mere airiness of brain — 
a gentle aberration — scorning the dull world — a mild — 

Snob. — Zounds! man, she's not crazy! 

Jones. — My dear Snobby, you relieve me. What 

Snob. — Slightly deaf — that's all. 

Jones. — Deaf! 

Snob. — As a lamp-post. That is, you must elevate 
your voice to a considerable pitch in speaking to her. 

Jones. — Is it possible? However, I think I can 
manage. As, for instance, if it was my intention to 
make her a floral offering, and I should say (elevating 
his voice considerably), " Miss, will you make me happy 
by accepting these flowers?" I suppose she could 
hear me, eh ? How would that do ? ■ 

Snob. — Pshaw ! Do you call that elevated ? 

Jones. — Well, how would this do? (Speaks very 
loudly.) "Miss, will you make me happy™" 

Snob. — Louder, shriller, man ! 

Jones. — " Miss, will you — " 

Snob. — Louder, louder, or she will only see your 
lips move. 

Jones. — (Almost screaming). "Miss, will you oblige 
me by accepting these flowers ? " 

Snob. — There, that may do. Still, you want prac- 


tice. I perceive the lady herself is approaching. Sup- 
pose you retire for a short time, and I will prepare her 
for the introduction. 

Jones. — Very good. Meantime I will go down to 
the beach, and endeavor to acquire the proper pitch. 
Let me see : " Miss, will you oblige me — " 

[Exit Jones, 
Enter Prudence. 

Prudence. — Good morning, cousin. "Who was that 
speaking so loudly ? 

Snob.— Only Jones. Poor fellow, he is so deaf that 
I suppose he fancies his own voice to be a mere whisper. 

Pru. — Why, I was not aware of this. Is he very 

Snob. — Deaf as a stone fence. To be sure, he does 
not use an ear-trumpet any more, but one must speak 
excessively high. Unfortunate, too, for I believe he's 
in love. 

Pru. — In love! with whom? 

Snob.— Can't you guess ? 

Pru. — Oh, no ; I haven't the slightest idea. 

Snob. — With yourself! He has been begging me to 
obtain him an introduction. 

Pru. — Well, I have always thought him a nice look- 
ing young man. I suppose he would hear me if I should 
say (speaks loudly) " Good morning, Mr. Jones?" 

Snob. — Do you think he would hear that?" 

Pru. — Well, then, how would (speaks very loudly) 
" Good morning, Mr. Jones ? " How would that do ? 

Snob. — Tush ! he would think you were speaking un- 
der your breath. 

Pru. — (Almost screaming.) " Good morning ? " 

Snob. — A mere whisper, my dear cousin. But here 
he comes. Now do try and make yourself audible. 

Enter Jones. 
Snob. — (Speaking in a high voice.) Mr. Jones, cousin. 

selections. 289 

Miss Winter, Jones. You will please excuse me for a 
short time. (He retires, but remains where he can view 
the speakers?) 

Jones. — (Speaking in a loud orotund voice) Miss, will 
you accept these flowers? I plucked them from their 
slumber on the hill. 

Pru. — (In a high falsetto voice) Really sir, I — I — 

Jones. — (Aside.) She hesitates. It must be that she 
does not hear me. (Increasing his tone.) Miss, will you 
accept these flowers — flowers ? I plucked them sleep- 
ing on the hill — hill. 

Pru. — (Also increasing her tone.) Certainly, Mr. 
Jones. They are beautiful — beau-tt-tiful. 

Jones. — (Aside.) How she screams in my ear. (Aloud.) 
Yes, I plucked them from their slumber — slumber, on 
the hill — hill. 

Pru. — (Aside.) Poor man, what an effort it seems 
for him to speak. (Aloud.) I perceive you are poeti- 
cal. Are you fond of poetry ? (Aside.) He hesitates. 
I must speak louder. (In a scream.) Poetry — Poetry 

Jones. — (Aside.) Bless me, the woman would wake 
the dead ! (Aloud.) Yes, miss, I ad-o-r-e it. 

Snob. — Glorious ! glorious ! I wonder how loud they 
can scream. Oh, vengeance, thou art sweet ! 

Pru. — Can you repeat some, poetry — poetry ? 

Jones. — I only know one poem. It is this : 

You'd scarce expect one of my age — Age, 
To speak in public on the stage — Stage. 

Pru. — Bravo ! bravo ! 
Jones. — Thank you ! Thank — 
Pru. — Mercy on us ! Do you think I'm deaf, sir? 
Jones. — And do you fancy me deaf, miss ? (Natural 

Pru. — Are you not, sir ! You surprise me ! 



Jones,-— "No, miss. I was led to believe that you were 
deaf. Snobbleton told me so. 

Pru. — Snobbleton ! Why, he told me that you were 

Jones. — Confound the fellow ! he has been making 
game of us. _____ 


Not bashful nor yet overbold, 

And only twenty-two, 
With hair like threads of gleaming gold, 

With eyes of azure blue, 
With little hands, with pretty face 

Just tanned a healthy brown, 
She is the daisy of the place 

The flower of all the town. 

The village boys when she goes by 

Can scarcely speak or stir, 
She is the object of each eye — 

They fairly worship her. 
Like some sweet fairy sprite she seems 

A breath might blow away, 
The spirit of their midnight dreams, 

Their idol all the day. 

She draws them to the village church 

Far more than sermon strong: 
With anxious eyes the choir they search, 

They look at her and long; 
And when with splendid voice she sings 

They lose their heads in love, 
Their feverish fancies float on wings 

Beyond the clouds above. 

Her soul is like a sparkling brook 

That babbles on its way 
Through sunny field, through shady nook, 

By banks with blossoms gay. 
All day at school with patient grace 

She rules the noisy crowd, 
Then homeward walks with happy face 

And soul without a cloud. 

In simple hat of plaited straw, 

In tasteful muslin gown, 
Her pretty face and form I saw 

While passing through the town ; 


I watched her while she sweetly smiled 

When children were dismissed ; 
I wished I were once more a child, 

A cherub to be kissed. 

— From "Away Out West," by Eugene J. Hall. 


I was dozing comfortably in my easy chair, and 
dreaming of the good times which I hope are coming, 
when there fell upon my ears a most startling scream. 
It was the voice of my Maria Ann in agony. The 
voice came from the kitchen, and to* the kitchen I 
rushed. The idolized form of my Maria was perched 
on a chair, and she was flourishing an iron spoon in all 
directions, and shouting "shoo," in a general manner 
at everything in the room. To my anxious inquiries 
as to what was the matter, she screamed, " O, Joshua I 
a mouse, shoo — wha— shoo — -a great — ya — shoo — hor- 
rid mouse, and — she — ew — it ran right out of the cup- 
board — shoo — go way— Oh, mercy ! — Joshua — shoo — ■ 
kill it, oh my, shoo." 

All that fuss, you see, about one little, harmless 
mouse. Some women are so afraid of mice. Maria is, 
I got the poker and set myself to poke that mouse, and 
my wife jumped down. and ran off into another room. 
I found the mouse in the corner under the sink. The 
first time I hit it, I didn't poke it any on account of 
getting the poker all tangled up in a lot of dishes in 
the sink; and I did not hit it any more because 
the mouse would not stay still. It ran right toward 
me, and I naturally jumped, as anybody would, but I 
am not afraid of mice, and when the horrid thing ran 
up inside the leg of my pantaloons, I yelled to Maria 
because I was afraid it would gnaw a hole in my gar- 
ment. There is something real disagreeable about 
having a mouse inside the leg of one's pantaloons, es- 
pecially if there is nothing between you and the mouse. 


Its toes are cold, and its nails are scratchy, and its fur 
tickles, and its tail feels crawly, and there is nothing 
pleasant about it, and you are all the time afraid it 
will try to gnaw out, and begin on you instead of the 
cloth. That mouse was next to me. I could feel its 
every motion with startling and suggestive distinct- 
ness. For these reasons I yelled to Maria, and as the 
case seemed urgent to me, I may have yelled with a 
certain degree of vigor, but I deny that I yelled fire, 
and if I catch the boy who thought that I did, I shall 
inflict punishment on his person. 

I did not lose my presence of mind for an instant. 
I caught the mouse just as it was clambering over my 
knee, and by pressing it firmly on the outside of the 
cloth, I kept the animal a prisoner on the inside. I 
kept jumping around with all my might to confuse it, 
so that it would not think about biting, and I yelled 
so that the mice would not hear its squeaks and come 
to its assistance. A man can't handle many mice at 
once to advantage. 

Maria was white as a sheet when she came into the 
kitchen, and asked what she should do — as though I 
could hold a mouse and plan a campaign at the same 
time. I told her to think of something, and she 
thought she could throw things at the intruder; but 
as there was no earthly chance for her to hit the mouse, 
while every shot took effect on me, I told her to stop, 
after she had tried two flat-irons and the coal-scuttle. 
She paused for breath ; but I kept bobbing around. 
Somehow I felt no inclination to sit down anywhere. 
" Oh, Joshua," she cried, " I wish you had not killed 
the cat." Now, I submit that the wish was born of 
the weakness of woman's intellect. How on earth did 
she suppose a cat could get where that mouse was? — 
rather have a mouse there alone, anyway, than to have 
a cat prowling around after it. I reminded Maria of 
the fact that she was a fool. Then she got the tea- 
kettle and wanted to scald the mouse. I objected to 


that process, except as a last resort. Then she got 
some cheese to coax the mouse down, but I did not 
dare to let go for fear he would run up. Matters were 
getting desperate. I told her to think of something 
else, and I kept jumping. Just as I w T as ready to faint 
with exhaustion, I tripped over an iron, lost my hold, 
and the mouse fell to the floor very dead. I had no 
idea that a mouse could be squeezed to death so easy. 

This was not the end of trouble, for before I had 
recovered my breath a fireman broke in one of the 
front windows, and a whole company followed him 
through, and they dragged hose around and mussed 
things all over the house, and then the foreman wanted 
to thrash me because the house w r as not on fire, and I 
had hardly got him pacified before a policeman came 
in and arrested me. Some one had run down and told 
him I was drunk and was killing Maria. It was all 
Maria and I could do, by combining our eloquence, to 
prevent him from marching me ofp in disgrace, but 
we finally got matters quieted and the house clear. 

Now, when mice run out of the cupboard I go out 
doors, and let Maria "shoo " them back again. I can 
kill a mouse, but the fun don't pay for the trouble. 

— Joshua Jenkins, 


" My dear," queried Mr. Spoopendyke, " did you 
put those oysters on the cellar floor with the round 
shells down, as I told you to ? " 

"I did most of 'em," replied Mrs. Spoopendyke. 
" Some of 'em wouldn't stay that way. They turned 
right over." 

" Must have been extraordinary intelligent oysters ! " 
muttered Mr. Spoopendyke, eying her with suspicion. 
"Didn't any of 'em stand up on end and ask for the 
morning paper, did they ? " 


"You know what I mean," fluttered Mrs. Spoopen- 
dyke. " They tipped over sideways, and so I laid them 
on the flat shell." 

"That's right," grunted Mr. Spoopendyke. "You 
want to give an oyster his own way, or you'll hurt his 
feelings. Suppose you bring us some of those gifted 
oysters and an oyster knife, and we'll eat 'era." 

Mrs. Spoopendyke hurried away and pattered back 
with the feast duly set out on a tea waiter, which she 
placed before Mr. Spoopendyke with a flourish. 

" Now," said she, drawing up her sewing-chair, and 
resting her elbows on her knees and her chin on her 
hands, "when you get all you want you may open me 

Mr. Spoopendyke whirled the knife around his head 
and brought it down with a sharp crack. Then he 
clipped away at the end for a moment, and jabbed at 
what he supposed was the opening. The knife slipped 
and plowed the bark off his thumb. 

" Won't come open, will ye ? " he snorted, fetching 
it another lick, and jabbing away again. " Haven't 
completed your census of who's out here working at 
ye, have ye?" and he brought it another whack. 
" P'raps ye think I haven't fully made up my mind to 
call within, don't ye?" and he rammed the point of 
the knife at it, knocking the skin off his knuckle. 

"That isn't the way to open an oyster," suggested 
Mrs. Spoopendyke. 

"Look here," roared Mr. Spoopendyke, turning 
fiercely on his wife, " have you got any private under- 
standing with this oyster ? Has the oyster confided in 
you the particular way in which he wants to be 
opened ? " 

" No-o ! " stammered Mrs. Spoopendyke. " Only I 
thought -" 

"This is no time for thought ! " shouted Mr. Spoop- 
endyke, banging away at the edge of the shell. "This 
is the moment for battle, and if I've happened to 


oatch this oyster during office hours, he's going to en- 
ter into relations with the undersigned. Come out, 
will ye ? " he yelled, as the knife flew up his sleeve. 
" Maybe ye don't recognize the voice of Spoopendyke. 
Come out, ye dod gasted coward, before ye make an 
enemy of me for life ! " and he pelted away at the 
shell with the handle of the knife, and spattered mud 
like a dredging machine. 

" Let me get you a hammer to crack him with," 
recommended Mrs, Spoopendyke, hovering over her 
husband in great perturbation. 

"Don't want any hammer!" howled Mr. Spoopen- 
dyke, slamming around with his knife. "S'pose I'm 
going to use brute force on a dod gasted fish that I 
could swallow alive if I could only get him out of his 
house ? Open your measly premises ! " raved Mr. 
Spoopendyke, stabbing at the oyster vindictively, and 
slicing his shirt sleeve clear to the elbow. " Come 
forth and enjoy the society of Spoopendyke ! " and the 
worthy gentleman foamed at the mouth as he sank back 
in his chair and contemplated his stubborn foe with 
glaring eyes. 

" I'll tell you what to do ! " exclaimed Mrs. Spoop- 
endyke, radiant with a profound idea. "Crack him in 
the door." 

"That's the scheme!" grinned Mr. Spoopendyke, 
with horrible contortions of visage. "Fetch me the 
door. Set that door right before me on a plate. This 
oyster is going to stay here. If you think this oyster 
is going to enjoy any change of climate until he strikes 
the tropics of Spoopendyke, you don't know the do- 
mestic habits of shell-fish. Loose your hold ! " squealed 
Mr. Spoopendyke, returning to the charge, and fetch- 
ing the bivalve a prodigious whack. " Come out and 
let me introduce you to my wife;" and Spoopendyke 
laid the oyster on the arm of his chair and slugged him 

"Wait!" squealed Mrs. Spoopendyke, "here is one 


with his mouth open ! " and she pointed cautiously at 
a gaping oyster who had evidently taken down the 
shutters to see what the row was about. 

"Don't care a dod gasted nickle with a hole in it ! " 
protested Mr. Spoopendyke, thoroughly impatient. 
" Here's one that's going to open his mouth, or the 
resurrection will find him still wrestling with the os- 
tensible head of his family. Ow ! " and Mr. Spoopen- 
dyke, having rammed the knife into the palm of his 
hand, slammed the oyster against the chimney-piece^ 
where it was shattered, and danced around the room,, 
wriggling with wrath and agony. 

"Never mind the oyster, dear," cried Mrs. Spoopen- 
dyke, following him around and trying to disengage 
his wounded hand from his armpit. 

"Who's minding 'em?" roared Mr. Spoopendyke^ 
standing on one leg and bending up double. "I tell 
ye that when I start to inflict discipline on a narrow- 
minded oyster that won't either accept an invitation or 
send regrets, he's going to mind me ! Where's the 
oyster? Show me the oyster. Arraign the oyster." 

"Upon my word you've opened him," giggled Mrs. 
Spoopendyke, picking up the smashed bivalve between 
the tips of her thumb and forefinger. 

" Won't have him ! " sniffed Mr. Spoopendyke, eye- 
ing the broken shell and firing his defeated enemy into 
the grate. "If I can't go in the front door of an oys- 
ter, I'm not going down the scuttle ! That all comes 
of laying 'em on the flat shell," he continued, suddenly 
recollecting that his wife was to blame for the whole 
business. "Now you take the rest of 'em down and 
lay 'era as I told you to." 

"Yes, dear." 

"And another time you want any oysters, you sit 
around in the cellar, and when they open their mouths 
you put sticks in. You hear?" 

" Yes, dear." 

And Mrs. Spoopendyke took the bivalves back, re- 


solving that the next time they were in demand they 
would crawl out of their shells and walk up stairs arm 
in arm before she would have any hand in the mutila- 
tion of her poor, dear, suffering husband by bringing 
them up herself. — Brooklyn Eagle, 


Jud Brownin, when visiting New York, goes to 
hear Rubinstein, and gives the following description 
of his playing : 

Well, sir, he had the blamedest, biggest, catty-cor- 
nedest pianner you ever laid eyes on ; somethin' like 
a distracted billiard-table on three legs. The lid was 
hoisted, and mighty well it was. If it hadn't been 
he'd a tore the entire insides clean out, and scattered 
'em to the four winds of heaven. 

Play wellf You bet he did; but don't interrupt 
me. When he first sit down, he 'peared to keer mighty 
little 'bout playin', and wisht he hadn't come. He 
tweedle-leedle'd a little on the treble, and twoodle- 
oodled some on the base- — -just foolin' and boxin' the 
thing's jaws for bein' in his way. And I says to a 
man settin' next to me, says I : " What sort of fool 
playin' is that?" And he says, "Heish!" But 
presently his hands commenced chasin' one another up 
and down the keys, like a passel of rats scamperin' 
through a garret very swift. Parts of it was sweety 
though, and reminded me of a sugar squirrel turnin' 
the wheel of a candy cage. 

"Now," says I to my neighbor, "he's shown' off. 
He thinks he's a-doin' of it, but he ain't got no idee, 
no plan of nothin'. If he 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 begin- 
ning to take some interest in his business, and I sit 
down again. It was the peep of day. The light 
came faint from the east, the breezes blowed gentle 
and fresh, some more birds waked 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 split their little throats; all the leaves was 
moving and flashing diamonds of dew, and the whole 
wide word 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 anywhere. 
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 began to thicken up, 
and a kind of gray mist came over things ; I got low- 
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 streams, 
running between golden gravels, and then the streams 
joined each other at the bottom of the hill, and made 
a brook that flowed silent, except that you could kinder 
see the music, 'specially when the bushes on the banks 
moved as the music went along down the valley. I 
could smell the flowers in the meadow. But the sun 
didn't shine, nor the birds sing ; it was a foggy day, 
but not cold. 

The most curious thing was the little white angel- 


boy, like you see in pictures, that run ahead of the 
music brook and led it on, and on, away out of the 
world, where no man ever was, certain. I could see 
that boy just as plain as I see you. Then the moon- 
light came, without any sunset, and shone on the grave- 
yards, where some few ghosts lifted their hands and 
went over the wall, and between the black, sharp-top 
trees splendid marble houses rose up, with fine ladies 
in the lighted-up windows, and men that loved 'era, 
but could never get a-nigh 'em, who played on guitars 
under the trees, and made me that miserable I could 
have cried, because I wanted to love somebody, I don't 
know who, better than the men with the guitars did. 

Then the sun went down, it got dark, the wind 
moaned and wept like a lost child for its dead mother, 
and I could a got up then and there and preached a 
better sermon than any I ever listened to. There 
wasn't a thing in the world left to live for, not a blame 
thiug, and yet I didn't want the music to stop one bit. 
It was happier to be miserable than to be happy with- 
out being miserable. I couldn't understand it. 1 
hung my head and pulled out my handkerchief, and 
bio wed my nose loud to keep me from cryin'. My 
eyes is weak any way ; I didn't want anybody to be a- 
gazin' at me a-sniv'lin', and it's nobody's business what 
I do with my nose. It's mine. But some several 
glared at me mad as blazes. Then, all of a sudden, 
old Rubin changed his tune. He ripped out and he 
rared, he tipped and he tared, he pranced and he 
charged like the grand entry at a circus. 'Peared to 
me that all the gas in the house was turned on at once, 
things got so bright, and I hilt up my head, ready to 
look any man in the face, and not afraid of not bin'. 
It was a circus, and a brass band, and a brass band and 
a big ball all goin' on at the same time. He lit into 
them keys like a thousand of brick ; he gave 'em no 
rost day or night; he set every livin' joint in me a- 


goin', and not bein' able to stand it no longer, I 
jumped, sprang onto my seat, and jest hollered: 

" Go it, my Rube ! " 

Every blamed man, woman, and child in the house 
riz on me, and shouted, " Put him out ! put him out !" 

"Put your great-grandmother's grizzly gray green- 
ish cat into the middle of next month ! " I says. " Tetch 
me if you dare ! I paid my money, and you jest come 
a-nigh me ! " 

With that some several policemen run up, and I had 
to simmer down. But I would a fit any fool that laid 
hands on me, for I was bound to hear Ruby out or die. 

He had changed his tune again. He hop-light la- 
dies and tip-toed fine from end to end of the key- 
board. He played soft and low and solemn. I heard 
the church bells over the hills. The candles of heaven 
was lit, one by one ; I saw the stars rise. The great 
organ of eternity began to play from the world's end 
to the world's end, and all the angels went to prayers. 
* * * * Then the music changed to water, full 
of feeling that couldn't be thought and began to drop — 
drip, drop — drip, drop, clear and sweet, like tears of 
joy falling into a lake of glory. It was sweeter than 
that. It was as sweet as a sweetheart sweetened with 
white sugar mixt with powdered silver and seed dia- 
monds. It was too sweet. I tell you the audience 
cheered. Rubin he kinder bowed, like he wanted to 
say, " Much obleeged, but I'd rather you wouldn't in- 
terrup' me." 

He stopt a moment or two to ketch breath. Then 
he got mad. He run his fingers through his hair, he 
shoved up his sleeve, he opened his coat-tails a leetle 
further, he drug up his stool, he leaned over, and, sir, 
he just went for that old pianner. He slapt her face, 
he boxed her jaws, he pulled her nose, he pinched her 
ears, and he scratched her cheeks until she fairly 
yelled. She bellowed, she bleated like a calf, she 
howled like a hound, she squealed like a pig, she 


shrieked like a rat, and then he wouldn't let her up. 
He run a quarter stretch down the low grounds of the 
base, till he got clean in the bowels of the earth, and 
you heard thunder galloping after thunder, through the 
hollows and caves of perdition ; and then he fox-chased 
his right hand with his left till he got way out of the 
treble into the clouds, whar the notes was finer than the 
pints of cambric needles, and you couldn't hear nothhr 
but the shadders of 'em. And then he wouldn't let the 
old pianner go. He far'ard two'd, he crost over first 
gentleman, he chassed right and left, back to your 
places, he all hands'cl aroan', ladies to the right, prome- 
nade all, in and out, here and there, back and forth, up 
and down, perpetual motion, double twisted and turned 
and tacked and tangled into forty-eleven thousand 
double bow knots. 

By jinks ! it was a mixtery. And then he wouldn't 
let the old pianner go. He fecht up his right wing, 
he fecht up his left wing, he fecht up his center, he 
fecht up his reserves. He fired by file, he fired by 
platoons, by company, by regiments, and by brigades. 
He opened his cannon — siege guns down thar, Napo- 
leons here, twelve-pounders yonder — big guns, little 
guns, middle-sized guns, round shot, shells, shrapnels, 
grape, canister, mortar, mines, and magazines, every 
livin' battery and bomb agoin' at the same time. The 
house trembled, the lights danced, the walls shuk, the 
iloor come up, the ceilin' come down, the sky split, the 
ground rokt — heavens and earth, creation, sweet pota- 
toes, Moses, ninepences, glory, tenpenny nails, Samp- 
son in a 'simmon tree, Tump, Tompson in a tumbler- 
cart, roodle-oodle-oodle-oodle — ruddle-uddle-uddle- 
uddle — raddle-addle-addle-addle — riddle-iddle-iddle- 
iddle — reedle-eedle-eedle-eedle — p-r-r-r-rlank ! Bang ! 
lang ! perlang ! p-r-r-r-r-r ! Bang ! ! ! 

With that bang ! he lifted himself bodily into the 
a'r, and he come down with his knees, his ten fingers, 
his ten toes, his elbows, and his nose, striking every 


single solitary key on the pianner at the same time. 
The' thing busted and went off into seventeen hundred 
and fifty-seven thousand five hundred and forty-two 
hemi-demi-semi quivers, and I know'd no mo'. 

When I come to I were under ground about twenty 
foot, in a place they call Oyster Bay, treatin' a Yankee 
that I never laid eyes on before, and never expect to 
agin. Day was breakin' by the time I got to the St. 
Nicholas Hotel, and I pledge you my word I did not 
know my name. The man asked me the number of 
my room, and I told him " Hot music on the half-shell 
for two ! " 


Act III. Scene III. 
[Enter Queen and Polonius.] 

Polonius. — He will come straight. Look, you lay home to him 
Tell him his pranks have been too broad to bear with ; 
And that your grace hath screened and stood between 
Much heat and him. I'll scounce me even here. 
Pray you be round with him. 

Queen. — I'll warrant you — 
Fear me not. Withdraw, I hear him coming. 

[Polonius conceals himself behind the arras.'] 

Hamlet. — Now, mother, what's the matter? 

Queen. — Hamlet, thou hast thy father much offended. 

Hamlet. — Mother, you have my father much offended. 

Queen. — Come, come, you answer with an idle tongue. 

Hamlet — Go, go, you question with a wicked tongue. 

Queen. — Why, how now, Hamlet? 

Hamlet. — What's the matter now? 

Queen. — Have you forgot me? 

Hamlet. — No, by the rood,not so : 

You are the queen : your husband's brother's wife ; 
And— would it were not so ! — you are my mother. 

Queen. — Nay, then I'll set those to you that can speak. 

Hamlet— Come, come, and sit you down ; you shall not budge, 
You go not till I set you up a glass 
Where vou may see the inmost part of you. 

Queen.— What wilt thou do?— thou wilt not murder me? 

Hamlet. — Leave wringing of your hands : peace ; sit you down, 
And let me wring your heart : for so I shall 


If it be made of penetrable stuff; 

If damned custom have not brazed it so 

That it is proof and bulwark against sense. 

Queen. — What have I done, that thou darest wag thy tongue 
In noiee so rude against me ? 

Hamlet. — Such an act, 

That blurs the grace and blush of modesty ; 
Calls virtue, hypocrite ; takes off the rose 
From the fair forehead of an innocent love 
And sets a blister there; makes marriage vows 
As false as dicer's oath ! Oh, such a deed 
As from the body of contraction plucks 
The very soul ; and sweet religion makes 
A rhapsody of words. Heaven's face doth glow; 
Yea, this solidity and compound mass, 
With tristful visage, as against the doom, 
Is thought-sick at the act. 

Queen. — Ay me ! what act, 

That roars so loud, and thunders in the index ? ' 

Hamlet.- — Look here, upon this picture, and on this ; 
The counterfeit presentment of two brothers. 
See what a grace was seated on this brow : 
Hyperion's curls ; the front of Jove himself ; 
An eye like Mars, to threaten and command ; 
A station like the Herald Mercury, 
New-lighted on a heaven-kissing hill ; 
A combination, and a form, indeed, 
Where every god did seem to set his seal, 
To give the world assurance of a man. 
This was your husband. Look you, now, what follows: 
Here is your husband; like a mildewed ear, 
Blasting his wholesome brother. Have you eyes? 
Could you on this fair mountain leave to feed, 
And batten on this moor? Ha ! have you eyes? 
You can not call it love, for at your age 
The heyday in the blood is tame, it's humble, 
And waits upon the judgment ; and what judgment 
Would step from this to this? 

Queen. — Oh, speak no more ! 

Thou turnest mine eyes into my very soul; 
And there I see such black and grained spots, 
As will not leave their tinct. Oh, speak to me no more !-'. 
These words like daggers, enter in mine ears; 
No more, sweet Hamlet ! 

Hamlet. — A murderer and a villain : 

A slave that is not twentieth part the tithe 
Of your precedent lord: — a vice of kings : 
A cut-purse of the empire and the rule ; 
That from a shelf the precious diadem stole 
And put it in his pocket ! 


Queen. — No more ! 

Hamlet. — A king 

Of shreds and patches ; [Enter Ghost.] 

Save me and hover o'er me with your wings 

You heavenly guards ! What would your gracious figure? 

Queen. — Alas, he's mad ! 

Hamlet. — Do you not come your tardy son to chide, 
That, lapsed in time and passion, lets go by 
The important acting of your dread command ? 
Oh, say ! 

Ghost. — Do not forget ; this visitation 
Is but to whet thy almost blunted purpose. 
But, look! amazement on thy mother sits: 
Oh, step between her and her fighting soul ; 
Conceit in weakest bodies strongest works : 
Speak to her, Hamlet. 

Hamlet. — How is it with you, lady? 

Queen. — Alas ! how is't with you, 
That you do bend your eye on vacancy, 
And with the incorporeal air do hold discourse? 
Whereon do you look ? 

Hamlet. — On him ! on him ! Look yon, how pale he glares. 
His form and cause conjoined, preaching to stones, 
Would make them capable. Do not look on me, 
Lest with this piteous action you convert 
My stern effects : then what I have to do 
Will want true color ; tears, perchance, for blood. 

Queen. — To whom do you speak this ? 

Hamlet — Do you see nothing there? 

Queen. — Nothing at all; yet all that is I see. 

Hamlet. — Nor did you nothing hear? 

Queen. — No, nothing, but ourselves. 

Hamlet. — Why, look you there ! look, how it steals away ! 
My father, in his habit as he lived ! 
Look, where he goes, even now, out at the portal ! 

[Exit Ghost.] 

Queen. — This is the very coinage of your brain : 
This bodiless creation ecstasy 
Is very cunning in. 

Hamlet. — Ecstasy ! 

My pulse, as yours, doth temperately keep time, 
And makes as healthful music. It is not madness 
That I have uttered : bring me to the test, 
And I the matter will re-word, which madness 
Would gambol from. Mother, for love of grace, 
Lay not that flattering unction to your soul, 
That not your trespass, but my madness, speaks: 
It will but skin and film the ulcerous place, 
Whilst rank corruption, mining all within, 
Infects unseen. Confess yourself to heaven ; 


Hepent what's past; avoid what is to come; 
And do not spread the compost on the weeds 
To make them ranker. 

Queen. — O Hamlet ! thou hast cleft my heart in twain. 
. Hamlet. — Oh, throw away the worser part of it 
And live the purer with the other half. 
•Good-night : once more, good-night ! 
And when you are desirous to be blest, 
I'll blessing beg of you. 


There was joy in the ship, as she furrowed the foam ; 
For fond hearts within her were dreaming of home. 
The young mother pressed fondly her babe to her breast, 
And sang a sweet song as she rocked it to rest ; 
And the husband sat cheerily down by her side, 
And looked with delight in the face of his bride. 

" O, happy ! " said he, " when our roaming is o'er, 
We'll dwell in a cottage that stands by the shore? 
Already, in fancy, its roof I descry, 
And the smoke of its hearth curling up to the sky ; 
Its garden so green, and its vine-covered wall, 
And the kind friends awaiting to welcome us all." 

Hark ! hark ! what was that? Hark ! hark to the shout ! — 
"Fire/ fire ! " then a tramp and a rush and a rout, 
And an uproar of voices arose in the air. 
And the mother knelt down ; and the half-spoken prayer 
That she offered to God in her agony wild, 
Was, " Father, have mercy ! look down on my child ! " 
She fiew to her husband, she clung to his side: 
O, there was her refuge, whatever betide ! 

Fire! fire! it is raging above and below; 

And the smoke and hot cinders all blindingly blow. 

The cheek of the sailor grew pale at the sight, 

And his eyes glistened wild in the glare of the light. 

The smoke, in thick wreathes, 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 ! 

They prayed for the light; and at noontide about, 

The sun o'er the waters shone joyously out. 
'" A sail, ho ! a sail ! " cried the man on the lee ; 
" 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 ! Thank heaven ! We are saved ! " 

20 —Charles Mackay. 




And so, smiling, we went on. 

" Well, one day, George's father — " 

" George who ? " asked Clarence. 

" George Washington. He was a little boy, then, 
just like you. One day his father — " 

" Whose father ? " demanded Clarence, with an en- 
couraging expression of interest. 

" George Washington's ; this great man we are tell- 
ing you of. One day George Washington's father gave 
him a little hatchet for a — " 

" Gave who a little hatchet?" the dear child inter- 
rupted with a gleam of bewitching intelligence. Most 
men would have got mad, or betrayed signs of impa- 
tience, but we didn't. We know how to talk to chil- 
dren. So we went on : 

" George Washington. His — " 

"Who gave him the little hatchet?" 

" His father. And his father—" 

"Whose father?" 

" George Washington's." 

" Oh ! " 

"Yes, George Washington. And his father told 

"Told who?" 

" Told George." 

" Oh, yes, George." 

And we went on, just as patient and as pleasant as 
you could imagine. We took up the story right where 
the boy interrupted, for we could see he was just crazy 
to hear the end of it. We said : 

"And he was told— " 

" George told him ? " queried Clarence. 

" No, his father told George — " 

" Oh ! " 


"Yes; told him he must be careful with his 

" Who must be careful ? " 

" George must." 

" Oh ! " 

" Yes ; must be careful with his hatchet — " 

"What hatchet?" 

" Why, George's." 

" Oh ! " 

" With the hatchet, and not cut himself with it, or 
drop it in the cistern, or leave it out in the grass all 
night. So George went round cutting everything he 
could reach with his hatchet. And at last he came to 
a splendid apple tree, his father's favorite, and cut it 
down and — " 

" Who cut it down ? " 

" George did." 

" Oh ! " 

" But his father came home and saw it the first 
thing, and — " 

"Saw the hatchet?" . 

" No, saw the apple-tree. And he said, = Who has cut 
down my favorite apple-tree?'" 

"What apple-tree?" 

" George's father's. And everybody said they didn't 
know anything about it, and — " 

"Anything about what?" 

" The apple-tree." 

" Oh ! " 

" And George came up and heard them talking about 

"Heard who talking about it?" 

" Heard his father and the men." 

" What were they talking about?" 

" About this apple-tree." 

"What apple-tree?" 

" The favorite tree that George cut down." 

"George who?" 


"George Washington." 


" So George came up and heard them talking about 
it, and he — " 

" What did he cut it down for?" 

" Just to try his little hatchet." 

" Whose little hatchet ? " 

" Why, his own, the one his father gave him." 

"Gave who?" 

" Why, George Washington." 

" Oh ! " 

" So George came up and he said, ( Father, I can not 
tell a lie, I—' " 

"Who couldn't tell a lie?" 

" Why, George Washington. He said, ' Father, I 
can not tell a lie. It was — ' " 

" His father couldn't," 

" Why, no ; George couldn't." 

" Oh ! George ? oh, yes ! " 

" 'It was I cut down your apple-tree ; I did — ■ " 

"His father did?" 

" No, no ; it was George said this." 

"Said he cut his father?" 

" No, no, no ; said he cut down his apple-tree." 

" George's apple-tree ? " 

" No, no ; his father's." 

" Oh ! " 

« He said—" 

"His father said?" 

" No, no, no ; George said : ' Father, I can not tell 
a lie, I did it with my little hatchet.' And his father 
said : ' Noble boy, I would rather lose a thousand 
trees than have you tell a lie.' " 

"George did?" 

" No, his father said that," 

"Said he'd rather have a thousand apple-trees?" 

" No, no, no ; said he'd rather lose a thousand apple- 
trees than—" 


"Said he'd rather George would?" 
"Xo, said he'd rather he would than have him lie." 
" Oh ! George would rather have his father lie?" 
We are patient, and we love children, but if Mrs. 
Caruthers hadn't come and got her prodigy at that 
critical juncture, we don't believe all Burlington could 
have pulled us out of the snarl. And as Clarence 
Alencon de Marchemont Caruthers pattered down the 
stairs we heard him telling his ma about a boy who had 
a father named George, and he told him to cut down 
an apple-tree, and he said he'd rather tell a thousand 
lies than cut down one apple-tree. 

— Burlington Haivkeye. 


Is there no secret place on the face of the earth 
Where charity dwelleth, where virtue has birth, 
Where bosoms in mercy and kindness will heave, 
When the poor and the wretched shall ask and receive' 
Is there no place at all, where a knock from the poor 
Will bring a kind angel to open the door? 
Oh ! search the wide world, wherever you can, 
There is no open door for a moneyless man. 

Go, look in yon hall where the chandelier's light 
Drives off with its splendor the darkness of night ; 
Where the rich hanging velvet, in shadowy fold, 
Sweeps gracefully down with its trimmings of gold ; 
And the mirrors of silver take up and renew, 
In long-lighted vistas, the wildering view, 
Go there at the banquet, and find, if you can, 
A welcoming smile for a moneyless man. 

Go, look in yon church of the cloud-reaching spire, 
Which gives to the sun his same look of red fire ; 
W T here the arches and columns are gorgeous within, 
And the walls seem as pure as a soul without sin; 
Walk down the long aisles ; see the rich and the great 
In the pomp and the pride of their wordly estate ; 
Walk down in your patches, and find, if you can, 
Who opens a pew for a moneyless man. 

Go, look in the banks, where Mammon has told 
His hundreds and thousands of silver and gold ; 


Where, safe, from the hands of the starving and poor 

Lie piles upon piles of the glittering ore ; 

Walk up to their counters — ah! there you may stay 

Till your limbs shall grow old and your hair shall grow gray, 

And you'll find at the bank not one of the clan 

With money to lend to a moneyless man. 

Go, look to your judge, in his dark, flowing gown, 
With the scales wherein law weigheth equity down ; 
Where he frowns on the weak and smiles on the strong 
And punishes right whilst he justifies wrong; 
Where juries their lips to the Bible have laid 
To render a verdict they've already made ; 
Go there in the court-room and find if you can 
Any law for the cause of a moneyless man. 

Then go to your hovel — no raven has fed 

The wife that has suffered too long for her bread; 

Kneel down by her pallet and kiss the death-frost 

From the lips of the angel your poverty lost ; 

Then turn in your agony upward to God 

And bless, while it smites you, the chastening rod ; 

And you'll find at the end of your life's little span, 

There's a "welcome" above for — a moneyless man. 

— H. T. Stanton. 


The other day a lady, accompanied by her son, a 
very small boy, boarded a train at Little Rock. The 
woman had a careworn expression hanging over her 
face lik a tattered vail, and many of the rapid ques- 
tions asked by the boy were answered by unconscious 

" Ma," said the boy, " that man's like a baby, ain't 
he?" pointing to a bald-headed man sitting just in 
front of them. 


"Why must I hush?" 

After a few moments' silence : " Ma, what's the 
matter with that man's head ? " 

" Hush, I tell you. He's bald." 

"What's bald?" 

" His head hasn't got any hair on it." 


" Did it come off? " 

" I guess so." 

« Will mine come off?" 

'" Some time, maybe." 

" Then Til be bald, won't I?" 

" Yes." 

"Will you care?" 

" Don't ask so many questions." 

After another silence, the boy exclaimed: "Ma, 
look at that fly on that man's head." 

" If you don't hush, I'll whip you when you get 

" Look ! There's another fly. Look at 'em fight ; 
look at 'em ! " 

" Madam," said the man, putting aside a newspaper 
and looking around, "what's the matter with that 
young hyena ? " 

The woman blushed, stammered out something, and 
attempted to smooth back the boy's hair. 

" One fly, two flies, three flies," said the boy inno- 
cently, following with his eyes a basket of oranges 
carried by a newsboy. 

" Here, you young hedgehog," said the bald-headed 
man, " if you don't hush, I'll have the conductor put 
you off the train." 

The poor woman, not knowing what else to do, 
boxed the boy's ears, and then gave him an orange to 
keep him from crying. 

" Ma, have I got red marks on my head ? " 

"I'll whip you again if you don't hush." 

" Mister," said the boy, after a short silence, "does 
it hurt to be bald-headed?" 

" Youngster," said the man, " if you'll keep quiet, 
I'll give you a quarter." 

The boy promised, and the money was paid over. 

The man took up his paper, and resumed his read- 

"This is my bald-headed money," said the boy. 


""When I get bald-headed, I'm go-in' to give boys 
money. Mister, have all bald-headed men got money ?" 

The annoyed man threw down his paper, arose, and 
exclaimed: "Madam, hereafter when you travel, 
leave that young gorilla at home. Hitherto, I always 
thought that the old prophet was very cruel for calling 
the bears to kill the children for making sport of his 
head, but now I am forced to believe that he did a 
Christian act. If your boy had been in the crowd he 
would have died first. If I can't find another seat on 
this train, I'll ride on the cow-catcher rather than re- 
main here." 

"The bald-headed man is gone," said the boy; and 
as the woman leaned back a tired sigh escaped from 
her lips. — Little Rock Gazette. 


" Hie, Harry ! Harry, halt, 

And tell a soldier just a thing or two; 
Had a furlough ? been to see 

How all the folks in Jersey do. 
It's a year ago since I was there, 

Aye, with a bullet from Fair Oaks ; 
But since you've been home, old comrade, dear. 

Say, did you see any of our folks? 
You did ! oh, I am so glad ! 

For if I do look grim and gruff, 
I've got some feeling. People think 

A soldier's heart is mighty tough, 
But when the bullets fly, and hot saltpetre smokes 

And whole battalions lie afield, 
One is apt to think about his folks. 

And so you saw them — when and where? 
The old man, is he lively yet? 

And little sis, has she grown tall ? 
And then you know her friend, that Anna Ross — 

Confound it, how this pipe chokes ! 
Come, Hal, and tell me, like a man, 

All the news about our folks ; 
You saw them at the church, you say ? 

It's very likely, they are always there on Sunday - 
What ! no, no ! a funeral, why 

Harry, how you halt and stare ! 


And all were well, and all were out? 

Come, truly, this can't be a hoax ; 
Why don't you tell me, like a man, 

All the news about our folks ? " 

"I say all's well, old comrade, dear, 

I say all's well, for he knows best, 
Who takes his young lambs in his arms. 

Ere the sun sinks in the west. 
The soldier's strokes deal left and right, 

And flowers fall as well as oaks; 
And fair Anna blooms no more, 

And that's the matter with your folks. 
Bear up, old friend." 
Well, nobody speaks, only the dull camp raven croaks. 

Then soldiers whisper, " Boys, be still, 
There's some bad news from Granger's folks." 

He turns his back upon his grief, 
And vainly sought to hide the tears 

Kind nature sends to woe's relief, 
Then answering said, "Ah, well ! Hal, I'll try, 

But in my throat there's something chokes ; 
Because, you see, I'd thought so long 

To count her in among our folks. 
All may be well, still I can't help thinking, 

I might have kept this trouble off 
By being gentle, kind and true ; 

But may be not ! she's safe up there, 
And when his hand deals other strokes, 

She'll stand at heaven's gates, I know, 

And wait, and welcome ail our folks." 

— Ethel Lynn. 


Slowly England's sun was setting o'er the hilltops 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, — 
He with footsteps slow and weary, she with sunny, floating hair; 
He with bowed head, sad and thoughtful, she with lips all cold 

and white, 
Struggled to keep back the murmur,— - 

" Curfew must not ring to-night." 

"Sexton," Bessie's white lips faltered, pointing to the prison old, 
With its turrets tall and gloomy, with its walls dark, damp, and 

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 lips grew strangely 

As she breathed the husky whisper, — 

" Curfew must not ring to-night." 

" Bessie," calmly spoke the sexton — every word pierced her young 

Like the piercing of an arrow, like a deadly, poisoned dart — 

" Long, long years I've rung the curfew from that gloomy, shad- 
owed tower; 

Every evening, just at sunset, it has told the twilight hour; 

I have done my duty ever, tried to do it just and right, 

Now I'm old I still must do it, 

Curfew it must ring to-night." 

Wild her eyes and pale her features, stern and white her thought- 
ful brow, 
And within her secret bosom 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 — 
In an undertone she murmured, — 

" Curfew must not ring to-night." 

She with quick steps bounded forward, sprung within the old 

church door, 
Left the old man threading slowly paths so oft he'd trod before; 
Not one moment paused the maiden, but with eye and cheek aglow, 
Mounted up the gloomy tower, where the bell swung to and fro ; 
And she climbed the dusty ladder on which fell no ray of light, 
TJp and up — her white lips saying — 

"Curfew shall not ring to-night." 

She has reached the topmost ladder, o'er her hangs the great dark 

bell ; 
Awful is the gloom beneath her, like a pathway down to hell. 
Lo, the ponderous tongue is swinging, 'tis the hour of curfew now, 
And the sight has chilled her bosom, stopped her breath, and paled 

her brow. 
Shall she let it ring? No, never! Flash her eyes with sudden 

And she springs and grasps it firmly — 

" Curfew shall not ring to-night." 

Out she swung, far out, the city seemed a speck of light below, 
'Twixt heaven and earth her form suspended, as the bell swung to 
and fro, 


And the sexton at the bell-rope, old and deaf, heard not the bell, 
Bat he thought it still was ringing fair young Basil's funeral 

Still the maiden clung most firmly, and with trembling lips and 

Said, to hush her heart's wild beating, — 

" Curfew shall not ring to-night." 

It was o'er, the bell ceased swaying, and the maiden stepped once 

Firmly on the dark old ladder, where for hundred years before 
Human foot had not been planted. The brave deed that she had 

Should be told long ages after, as the rays of setting sun 
Should illume the sky with beauty ; aged sires with heads of white, 
Long should tell the little children, 

Curfew did not ring that night. 

O'er the distant hills came Cromwell ; Bessie sees him, and her 

Full of hope and full of gladness, has no anxious traces now. 
At his feet she tells her story, shows her hands all bruised and 

torn ; 
And her face so sweet and pleading, yet with sorrow pale and 

Touched his heart with sudden pity, lit his eye with misty light: 
il Go, your lover lives," said Cromwell, 

" Curfew shall not ring to-night ! " 


Ye call me chief; and ye do well to call him chief 
who for twelve long years has met upon the arena every 
shape of man or beast the broad empire of Rome could 
furnish, and who never yet lowered his arm. If there 
be one among you who can say that ever, in public 
fight or private brawl, my actions did belie my tongue, 
let him stand forth and say it. If there be three in 
all your company dare face me on the bloody sands, let 
them come on. And yet I was not always thus — a 
hired butcher, a savage chief of still more savage man ! 

My ancestors came from old Sparta, and settled 


among the vine-clad rocks and citron groves of Cyra- 
sella. My early life ran quiet as the brooks by which 
I sported ; and when, at noon, I gathered the sheep 
beneath the shade, and played upon the shepherd's 
flute, there was a friend, the son of a neighbor, to join 
me in the pastime. We led our flocks to the same 
pasture, and partook together our rustic meal. 

One evening, after the sheep had been folded, and 
we were all seated beneath the myrtle which shaded our 
cottage, my grandsire, an old man, was telling of Mara- 
thon and Leuctra ; and how, in ancient times, a little 
band of Spartans, in a defile of the mountains, had 
withstood a whole army. I did not then know what 
war was ; but my cheeks burned, I knew not why, and 
I clasped the knees of that venerable man, until my 
mother, parting the hair from off my forehead, kissed 
my throbbing temples, and bid me go to rest and think 
no more of those old tales and savage wars. That very 
night the Romans landed on our coast. I saw the breast 
that had nourished me trampled by the hoofs of the war 
horse ; the bleeding body of my father flung amid the 
burning rafters of our dwelling ! 

To-day I killed a man in the arena ; and, when I 
broke his helmet-clasps, behold ! he was my friend. 
He knew me, smiled faintly, gasped, and died — the 
same sweet smile upon his lip that I had marked when, 
in adventurous boyhood, we scaled the lofty cliff to 
pluck the first ripe grapes and bear them home in child- 
ish triumph. I told the pretor that the dead man had 
been my friend, generous and brave ; and I begged 
that I might bear away the body, to burn it on a fu- 
neral pile, and mourn over its ashes. Ah ! upon my 
knees, amid the dust and blood of the arena, I begged 
that poor boon, while all the assembled maids and ma- 
trons, and the holy virgins they call Vestals, and the 
rabble, shouted in derision, deeming it rare sport, for- 
sooth, to see Rome's gladiator turn pale and tremble 
at sight of that piece of bleeding clay ! And the pre- 


tor drew back as I were pollution, and sternly said, 
" Let the carrion rot ; there are no noble men but Ro- 
mans!" And so, fellow-gladiators, must you, and so 
must I, die, like dogs. 

Oh, Rome ! Rome ! thou has been a tender nurse to 
me. Ay ! thou has given to that poor, gentle, timid 
shepherd-lad, who never knew a harsher tone than a 
flute-note, muscles of iron and a heart of flint; taught 
him to drive the sword through plaited mail and links 
of rugged brass, and warm it in the marrow of his foe ; 
to gaze into the glaring eye-balls of the fierce Numi- 
dian lion ; even as a boy upon a laughing girl ! And 
he shall pay thee back until the yellow Tiber is red as 
frothing wine, and in its deepest ooze, thy life-blood 
lies curdled ! 

Ye stand here now like giants, as ye are ! The 
strength of brass is in your toughened sinews ; but to- 
morrow some Roman Adonis, breathing sweet perfume 
from his curly locks, shall, with his lily fingers, pat 
your red brawn, and bet his sesterces upon your blood. 
Hark ! hear ye yon lion roaring in his den ? ; Tis 
three days since he tasted flesh ; but to-morrow he 
shall break his fast upon yours — and a dainty meal for 
him ye will be ! 

If ye are beasts, then stand here like fat oxen, wait- 
ing for the butcher's knife ! If ye are men, follow me ! 
Strike down yon guard, gain the mountain passes, and 
there do bloody work, as did your sires at old Ther- 
mopylae ! Is Sparta dead? Is the old Grecian spirit 
frozen in your veins, that you do crouch and cower 
like a belabored hound beneath his masters lash ? O, 
comrades ! warriors ! Thracians ! — if we must fight, let 
us fight for ourselves ! If we must slaughter, let us 
slaughter our oppressors ! If we must die, let it be 
under the clear sky, by the bright waters, in noble, 
honorable battle J — E. Kellogg. 



Two brown heads with tossing curls, 
Eed lips shutting over pearls, 
Bare feet, white, and wet with dew, 
Two eyes black, and two eyes blue — 
Little boy and girl were they, 
Katie Lee and Willie Gray. 

They were standing where a brook, 
Bending like a shepherd's crook, 
Flashed its silver, and thick ranks 
Of willow fringed its banks — 
Half in thought and half in play, 
Katie Lee and Willie Gray. 

They had cheeks like cherries red; 

He was taller 'most a head ; 

She, with arms like wreaths of snow, 

Swung a basket to and fro 

(As they loitered, half in play), 

Chattering to Willie Gray. 

" Pretty Katie," Willie said— 

And there came a dash of red 

Through the brownness of the cheek — 
" Boys are strong, and girls are weak, 

And I'll carry, so I will, 

Katie's basket up the hill." 

Katie answered with a laugh, 
" You shall carry only half ; " 

Then said, tossing back her curls, 
" Boys are weak as well as girls." 

Do you think that Katie guessed 

Half the wisdom she expressed ? 

Men are only boys grown tall ; 
Hearts don't change much, after all ; 
And when, long years from that day, 
Katie Lee and Willie Gray 
Stood again beside the brook 
Bending like a shepherd's crook, 

Is it strange that Willie said, 
While again a dash of red 
Crowned the brownness of his cheek, 
" I am strong, and you are weak ; 
Life is but a slippery steep, 
Hung with shadows cold and deep. 


Will you trust me, Katie dear — 
Walk beside me without fear ? 
May a 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 shepherd's crook, 
Working with its silver hands 
Late and early at the sands, 
Stands a cottage, where to-day 
Katie lives with Willie Gray. 

In the porch she sits, and, lo ! 
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 ! 


[Henry Grattan, an eminent Irish orator and statesman, was 
born at Dublin in 1750, and died at London in 1820.] 

Has the gentleman done? He has completely done ? 
He was unparliamentary from the beginning to the end 
of his speech. There was scarce a word that he ut- 
tered that was not a violation of the privileges of the 
House; but I did not call him to order. Why? Be- 
cause the limited talents of some men render it impos- 
sible for them to be severe without being unparliament- 
ary ; but, before I sit down, I shall show him how to- 
be severe and parliamentary at the same time. 

On any other occasion I should think myself justifi- 
able in treating with silent contempt anything which 
might fall from that honorable member; but there are 
times when the insignificance of the accuser is lost in 
the magnitude of the accusation. I know the difficulty 
the honorable gentleman labored under when he at- 
tacked me ; conscious that, on a comparative view of 
our characters, public and private, there is nothing he 


could say which would injure me. The public would 
not believe the charge. I despise the falsehood. If 
such a charge was made by an honest man, I would 
answer it in the manner I shall do before I sit down. 
But I shall first reply to it, when not made by an honest 

The right honorable gentleman has called me an 
" unimpeached traitor." I ask, why not traitor unqual- 
ified by an epithet ? I will tell him: it was because 
he dare not. It was the act of a coward who raises his 
arm to strike, but has not the courage to give the blow. 
I will not call him villain, because it is unparliament- 
ary, and he is a privy counselor. I will not call him 
fool, because he happens to be Chancellor of the Ex- 
chequer ; but I say he is one who has abused the priv- 
ileges of Parliament and freedom of debate, to the 
uttering of language which, if spoken out of the House, 
I should answer only with a blow. 

I care not how high his situation, how low his char- 
acter, how contemptible his speech; whether a privy coun- 
selor or a parasite, my answer would be a blow. He 
has charged me with being connected with the rebels. 
The charge is utterly, totally, and MEANLY false. 
Does the honorable gentleman rely on the report of 
the House of Lords for the foundation of his asser- 
tion ? If he does, I can prove to the committee there 
was a physical impossibility of that report being true. 
But I scorn to answer any man for my conduct, whether 
he be a political coxcomb, or whether he brought him- 
self into power by a false glare of courage or not. 

I have returned, not, as the right honorable mem- 
ber has said, to raise another storm; I have returned 
to discharge an honorable debt of gratitude to my 
country, that conferred a great reward for past services, 
which, I am proud to say, was not greater than my 
desert. I have returned to protect the constitution of 
which I was the patent and the founder, from the 
assassination of such men as the honorable gentleman 


and his associates. They are corrupt; they are sedi- 
tious; and they, at this very moment, are in a conspiracy 
against their country. 

I have returned to refute a libel, as false as it is 
malicious, given to the public under the appellation of 
a report of the committee of the Lords. Here I stand, 
ready for impeachment or trial. I dare accusation. I 
defy the honorable gentlemen; I defy the goveenment ; 
I defy the WHOLE PHALANX; let them come 
forth. I tell the ministers I will neither give them 
quarter nor take it. I am here to lay the shattered 
remains of my constitution on the floor of this house, 
in defense of the liberties of my country. 


The first thing that I remember was Carlo tugging away 
With the sleeve of my coat fast in his teeth, pulling as much as 

to say: 
"Come, master, awake, attend to the switch, lives now depend 

upon you, 
Think of the souls in the coming train, and the graves you are 

sending them to. 
Think of the mother and the babe at her breast, think of the 

father and son, 
Think of the lover and loved one too, think of them doomed every 

To fall (as it were by your very hand) into yon fathomless ditch, 
Murdered by one who should guard them from harm, who now 

lies asleep at the switch." 

I sprang up amazed — scarce knew where I stood, sleep had o'er- 
mastered me so; 

I could hear the wind hollowly howling, and the deep river dash- 
ing below, 

I could hear the forest leaves rustling, as the trees by the tempest 
were fanned, 

But what was that noise in the distance? That I could not un- 

I heard it at first indistinctly, like the rolling of some mufiled 

Then nearer and nearer it came to me, till it made my very ears 


What is this light that surrounds me and seems to set fire to my 

brain ? 
What whistle's that, yelling so shrill? Ah! I know now; it's the 


We often stand facing some danger, and seem to take root to the 
place ; 

So I stood — with this demon before me, its heated breath scorch- 
ing my face ; 

Its headlight made day of the darkness, and glared like the eyes 
of some witch — 

The train was almost upon me before I remembered the switch. 

I sprang to it, seizing it wildly, the train dashing fast down the 
track ; 

The switch resisted my efforts, some devil seemed holding it back ; 

On, on came the fiery-eyed monster, and shot by my face like a 

I swooned to the earth the next moment, and knew nothing after 
the crash. 

How long I lay there unconscious 'twas impossible for me to tell ; 

My stupor was almost a heaven, my waking almost a hell — 

For I then heard the piteous moaning and shrieking of husbands 
and wives, 

And I thought of the day we all shrink from, when I must ac- 
count for their lives ; 

Mothers rushed by me like maniacs, their eyes glaring madly and 

Fathers, losing their courage, gave way to their grief like a child ; 

Children searching for parents, I noticed, as by me they sped, 

And lips that could form naught but "Mamma" were calling for 
one perhaps dead. 

My mind was made up in a moment, the river should hide me away. 
When, under the still burning rafters, I suddenly noticed there lay 
A little white hand ; she who owned it was doubtless an object of 

To one whom her loss would drive frantic, 'tho she guarded him 

now from above ; 
I tenderly lifted the rafters and quietly laid them one side ; 
How little she thought of her journey when she left for this dark,. 

fatal ride! 
I lifted the last log from off her, and while searching for some 

spark of life, 
Turned her little face up in the starlight, and recognized — Maggie, 

my wife ! 

O Lord ! thy scourge is a hard one, at a blow thou hast shattered 
my pride; 


My life will be one endless nightmare, with Maggie away from my 

How often I'd sat down and pictured the scenes in our long, 

happy life ; 
How I'd strive through all my life-time to build up a home for 

my wife; 
How people would envy us always in our cozy and neat little nest ; 
How I should do all of the labor, and Maggie should all the day 

rest ; 
How one of God's blessings might cheer us, how some day I p'raps 

should be rich — 
But all of my dreams have been shattered, while I lay there asleep 

at the switch ! 

I fancied I stood on my trial, the jury and judge I could see, 
And every eye in the court-room was steadily fixed upon me; 
And fingers were pointed in scorn, till I felt my face blushing- 

And the next thing I heard were the words, "Hanged by the neck 

until dead." 
Then I felt myself pulled once again, and my hand caught tight 

hold of a dress, 
And I heard, " What's the matter, dear Jim ? You've had a bad 

nightmare, I guess!" 
And there stood Maggie, my wife, with never a scar from the ditch, 
I'd been taking a nap in my bed, and had not been " asleep at the 

switch." — George Hoey. 


[James Otis, a distinguished American patriot, was born at West 
Barnstable, May, 1724, and was killed by lightning in 1783. He 
was an eminent lawyer, statesman and scholar.] 

England may as well dam up the waters of the Nile 
with bulrushes as fetter the step of freedom, more 
proud and firm in this youthful land than where she 
treads the sequestered glens of Scotland, or couches 
herself among the magnificent mountains of Switzer- 
land, Arbitrary principles, like those against which 
we now contend, have cost one king of England his 
life, another his crown, and they may yet cost a third 
his most flourishing colonies. 

We are two millions ; one-fifth fighting men. We 
are bold and vigorous, and we call no man master. To 


the nation from whom we are proud to derive our ori- 
gin we ever were, and we ever will be, ready to yield 
unforced assistance ; but it must not, and it never can 


Some have sneeringly asked, "Are the Americans too 
poor to pay a few pounds on stamped paper?" No ! 
America, thanks to God and herself, is rich. But the 
right to take ten pounds implies the right to take a 
thousand; and what must be the wealth that avarice, 
aided by power, can not exhaust f True, the specter is 
small, but the shadow he casts before him is huge 
enough to darken all this fair land. 

Others, in a sentimental style, talk of the immense 
debt of gratitude which we owe to England. And what 
is the amount of this debt? Why, truly, it is the same 
that the young lion owes to the dam, which has brought 
it forth on the solitude of the mountain, or left it amid 
the winds and storms of the desert. 

We plunged into the wave with the great charter of 
freedom in our teeth, because the fagot and torch were 
behind us. We have waked this new world from its 
savage lethargy ; forests have been prostrated in our 
path ; towns and cities have grown up suddenly as the 
ilowers of the tropics ; and the fires in our autumnal 
woods are scarcely more rapid than the increase of our 
wealth and population. And do we owe all this to the 
kind succor of the mother country f No! we owe it to 
the tyranny that drove us from her, to the pelting storms 
which invigorated our helpless infancy. 

But perhaps others will say, " We ask no money from 
your gratitude ; we only demand that you should pay 
your own expenses" And who, I pray, is to judge of 
their necessity? Why, the king; and, with all due 
reverence to his sacred majesty, he understands the 
real wants of his distant subjects as little as he does 
the language of the Choctaws ! Who is to judge con- 
cerning the frequency of these demands ? The ministry. 
Who is to judge whether the money is properly ex- 


pended? The Cabinet behind the throne. In every 
instance, those who take are to judge for those who pay. 
If this system is suffered to go into operation we shall 
have reason to esteem it a great privilege that rain and 
dew do not depend upon Parliament ; otherwise, the]/ 
would soon be taxed and dried. 

But, thanks to God, there is freedom enough left upon 
earth to resist such monstrous injustice. The flame of 
liberty is extinguished in Greece and Home; but the 
light of its glowing embers is still bright and strong 
on the shores of America. Actuated by its sacred in- 
fluence, we will resist unto death. But we will not 
countenance anarchy and misrule. The wrongs that a 
desperate community have heaped upon their enemies 
shall be amply and speedily repaired. Still, it may be 
well for some proud men to remember that a fire is 
lighted in these colonies which one breath of their king 
may kindle into such fury that the blood of all England 
can not extinguish it. — Mrs. L. M. Child. 


Singing through the forest, 

Rattling over ridges, 
Shooting under arches, 

Rumbling over bridges, 
Whizzing through the mountains, 

Buzzing o'er the vale, 
Bless me ! this is pleasant, 

Riding on the rail ! 

Men of different stations, 

In the eye of Fame, 
Here are very quickly 

Coming to the same ; 
High and lowly people, 

Birds of every feather, 
On a common level, 

Traveling together ! 

Gentlemen in shorts, 

Looming very tall; 
Gentlemen at large, 

Talking very small ; 


Gentlemen in tights, 
With a loose-ish mien ; 

Gentlemen in gray, 
Looking rather green ! 

Gentlemen quite old, 

Asking for the news ; 
Gentlemen in black, 

In a fit of blues; 
Gentlemen in claret, 

Sober as a vicar ; 
Gentlemen in tweed, 

Dreadfully in liquor ! 

Stranger on the right, 

Looking very sunny, 
Obviously reading 

Something rather funny. 
Now the smiles are thicker, 

Wonder what they mean? 
Faith, he's got the Knicker- 

Bocker Magazine ! 

Stranger on the left, 

Closing up his peepers; 
Now he snores amain, 

Like the seven sleepers ; 
At his feet a volume 

Gives the explanation, 
How the man grew stupid 

From " association ! " 

Ancient maiden lady 

Anxiously remarks, 
That there must be peril 

'Mong so many sparks ; 
Roguish-looking fellow, 

Turning to the stranger, 
Says 't is his opinion, 

She is out of danger ! 

Woman with her baby, 

Sitting vis-a-vis ; 
Baby keeps a-squalling, 

Woman looks at me; 
Asks about the distance ; 

Says 't is tiresome talking, 
Noises of the cars 

Are so very shocking ! 


Market woman careful 

Of the precious casket, 
Knowing eggs are eggs, 

Tightly holds her basket ! 
Feeling that a smash, 

If it came, would surely 
Send her eggs to pot, 

Rather prematurely ! 

Singing through the forests, 

Rattling over ridges, 
Shooting under arches, 

Rumbling over bridges, 
Whizzing through the mountains, 

Buzzing o'er the vale, 
Bless me, this is pleasant, 

Riding on the rail ! — John G. Saxe. 


An incident of the late war as related in " Song Victories of 
The Bliss and Sankey Hymns," — published by D. Lothrop & Co. 

A chaplain in our army one morning found Tom, 
the drummer-boy, a great favorite with all the men, 
and whom, because of his sobriety and religious ex- 
ample, they called "the young deacon/' sitting alone 
under a tree. At first he thought him asleep, but, as 
he drew near, the boy lifted up his head, and he saw 
tears in his eyes. 

" Well, Tom, my boy, what is it ; I see your thoughts 
are sad? What is it?" 

" Why, sir, I had a dream last night, which I can't 
get out of my mind." 

"What was it?" 

"You know that my little sister Mary is dead — died 
when ten years old. My mother was a widow, — poor, 
but good. She never seemed like herself afterwards. 
In a year or so, she died, too ; and then I, having no 
home, and no mother, came to the war. But last night 
I dreamed the war was over, and I went back to my 
home, and just before I got. to the house, my mother 


and little sister came out to meet me. I didn't seem 
to remember they were dead ! How glad they were I 
And how my mother, in her smiles, pressed me to her 
heart ! Oh, sir, it was just as real as you are real now ! n 

" Thank God, Tom, that you have such a mother, 
not really dead, but in heaven, and that you are 
hoping, through Christ, to meet her again ! " The boy 
wiped his eyes and was comforted. 

The next day there was terrible fighting. Tom's 
drum was heard all day long, here and there. Four 
times the ground was swept and occupied by the two 
contending armies. But as the night came on, both 
paused, and neither dared to go on the field lest the 
foe be there. Tom, " the young deacon/ 7 it was known, 
was wounded and left on the battle-field. His com- 
pany encamped near the battle-field. In the evening, 
when the noise of battle was over, and all was still, 
they heard a voice singing, away off on the field. They 
felt sure it was Tom's voice. Softly and beautifully" 
the words floated on the wings of night, — 

"Jesus ! lover of ray soul, 

Let me to thy bosom fly, 
While the billows near me roll, 

While the tempest still is high. 
Hide me, O my Savior, hide, 

Till the storm of life is past ! 
Safe into the haven guide, 

Oh, receive my soul at last. 

"Other refuge have I none, 

Hangs my helpless soul on thee ! 
Leave, ah ! leave me not alone, 
Still support and comfort me ! " 

The voice stopped here, and there was silence. In the 
morning the soldiers went out and found Tom sitting 
on the ground, and leaning against a stump — dead! 
His soul went up in the song. Did his mother and 
Mary meet him ? Who can say ? 



"Madame! you've scourged me like a hound 
You should have struck me to the ground ; 
You should have play'd a chieftain's part; 
You should have stabb'd me to the heart. 

" You should have crushed me into death ; 
But here I swear, with living breath, 
That, for this wrong which you have done, 
I'll wreak my vengeance on your son : 

" On him, and you, and all your race ! '' 
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 climbed the crag, 
And reach'd o'er many a wide abyss, 
The beetling seaward precipice. 

And, leaning o'er its topmost ledge, 
He held the infant o'er the edge : 
"In vain thy wrath, thy sorrow vain ; 
No hand shall save it, proud Maclaine 

! » 

With flashing eye and burning brow, 
The mother follow'd, heedless how. 
O'er crags with mosses overgrown, 
And stair-like juts of slippery stone : 

But, midway up the rugged steep, 
She found a chasm she could not leap, 
And, kneeling on its brink, she raised 
Her supplicating hands, and gazed. 

" Oh, spare my child, my joy, my pride ! 

Oh give me back my child ! " she cried : 
" My child ! my child ! " with sobs and tears, 

She shriek'd upon his callous ears. 

"Come, Evan," said the trembling chief, 
His bosom wrung with pride and grief, 

" Kestore the boy, give back my son, 
And I'll forgive the wrong you've done ! " 

" I scorn forgiveness, haughty man ! 
You've injured me before the clan ; 


And naught hut blood shall wipe away 
The shame I have endured to-day." 

And, as he spoke, he raised the child, 
To dash it 'mid the breakers wild ; 
But, at the mother's piercing cry, 
Drew back a step and made reply: — 

" Fair lady, if your lord will strip, 
And let a clansman wield the whip, 
Till skin shall flay, and blood shall run ; 
I'll give you back your little son." 

The lady's cheek grew pale with ire, 
The chieftain's eye flash'd sudden fire ; 
He drew a pistol from his breast, 
Took aim, — then dropp'd it, sore distress'd. 

"I might have slain my babe instead. 
Come, Evan, come," the father said, — 
And through his heart a tremor ran, — 

"We'll fight our quarrel man to man." 

" Wrong unavenged I've never borne," 
Said Evan, speaking loud in scorn ; 

" You've heard my answer, proud Maclaine : 
I will not fight you : think again." 

The lady stood in mute despair, 
With freezing blood and stiffening hair; 
She moved no limb, she spoke no word ; 
She could not 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 passion shook his mind, — 
Anger, and shame, and love combined : 
But love prevail'd, 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 beam'd hate and joy : 
Close to his breast he hugg'd 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 follow'd with a desperate leap, 
Down fifty fathoms to the deep. 

They found their bodies in the tide; 
And" never, till the day she died, 
Was that sad mother known to smile, — 
The Niobe of Mulla's isle. 

They dragg'd false Evan from the sea, 

And hang'd him on a gallows tree ; 

And ravens fatten'd on his brain, 

To sate the vengeance of Maclaine. — Charles Mackey. 


Against the prisoner at the bar, as an individual, I 
can not have the slightest prejudice. I would not do 
him the smallest injury or injustice. But I do not af- 
fect to be indifferent to the discovery and the punish- 
ment of this deep guilt. I cheerfully share in the 
opprobrium, how much soever it may be, which is cast 
on those who feel and manifest an anxious concern that 
all who had a part in planning, or a hand in executing, 
this deed of midnight assassination, may be brought 
to answer for their enormous crime at the bar of public 

Gentlemen, it is a most extraordinary case. In 
some respects, it has hardly a precedent anywhere; 
certainly none in our New England history. This 
bloody drama exhibited no suddenly excited, ungov- 
ernable rage. The actors in it were not surprised by 
any lion-like temptation springing upon their virtue, 
and overcoming it before resistance could begin. Nor 
did they do the deed to glut savage vengeance, or sa- 
tiate long-settled and deadly hate. It was a cool, cal- 
culating, money-making murder. It was all " hire and 
salary, not revenge/' It was the weighing of money 


against life ; the counting out of so many pieces of 
silver against so many ounces of blood. 

An aged man, without an enemy in the world, in his 
own house, and in his own bed, is made the victim of 
a butcherly murder for mere pay. Truly here is a 
new lesson for painters and poets! "Whoever shall 
hereafter draw the portrait of a murder, if he will 
show it as it has been exhibited in one example, where 
such example was last to have been looked for, in the 
very bosom of our N#w England society, let him not 
give it the grim visage of Moloch, the brow knitted 
by revenge, the face black with settled hate, and the 
bloodshot eye emitting livid fires of malice. 

Let him draw, rather, a decorous, smooth-faced, 
bloodless demon ; a picture in repose, rather than in 
action ; not so much an example of human nature in 
its depravity and in its paroxysms of crime, as an in- 
fernal nature, a fiend, in the ordinary display and de- 
velopment of his character. 

The deed was executed with a degree of self-pos- 
session and steadiness equal to the wickedness with 
which it was planned. The circumstances, now clearly 
in evidence, spread out the whole scene before us. 
Deep sleep had fallen on the destined victim, and on 
all beneath his roof. A healthful old man, to whom 
sleep was sweet — the first sound slumbers of the night 
held him in their soft but strong embrace. 

The assassin enters, through the window already 
prepared, into an unoccupied apartment. With noise- 
less foot he paces the lonely hall, half lighted by the 
moon ; he winds up the ascent of the stairs, and reaches 
the door of the chamber ; of this he moves the lock, 
by soft and continued pressure, till it turns on its 
hinges ; and he enters, and beholds his victim before 
him. The room was uncommonly open to the admis- 
sion of light. 

The face of the innocent sleeper was turned from the 
murderer, and the beams of the moon, resting on the 


gray locks of his aged temple, showed him where to 
strike. The fatal blow is given ! and the victim passes, 
without a struggle or a motion, from the repose of sleep 
to the repose of death ! It is the assassin's purpose to 
make sure work, and he yet plies the dagger, though 
it w r as obvious that life had been destroyed by the blow 
of the bludgeon. 

He even raises the aged arm, that he may not fail in 
his aim at the heart, and replaces it again over the 
wound of the poniard ! To finish the picture, he ex- 
plores the wrist for the pulse ! he feels it, and ascer- 
tains that it beats no longer ! It is accomplished — 
the deed is done ! He retreats, retraces his steps to 
the window, passes out through it as he came in, and 
escapes. He has done the murder ; no eye has seen 
him; no ear has heard him; the secret is his own, and 
he is safe ! 

Ah, gentlemen, that was a dreadful mistake ! Such 
a secret can be safe nowhere. The whole creation of 
God has neither nook nor corner where the guilty can 
bestow it, and say it is safe ! Not to speak of that 
Eye which glances through all disguises, and beholds 
everything as in the splendor of noon ; such secrets of 
guilt are never safe from detection, even by man. 
True it is, generally speaking, that "murder will out." 

True it is, that Providence hath so ordained, and 
doth so govern things, that those who break the great 
law of Heaven, by shedding man's blood, seldom suc- 
ceed in avoiding discovery; especially, in a case ex- 
citing so much attention as this, discovery must and 
will come, sooner or later. A thousand eyes turn at 
once to explore every man, everything, every circum- 
stance connected with the time and place ; a thousand 
ears catch every whisper ; a thousand excited minds 
intensely dwell on the scene, shedding all their light, 
and ready to kindle the slightest circumstance into a 
blaze of discovery. Meantime, the guilty soul can not 
keep its own secret. 


It is false to itself — or, rather, it feels an irresistible 
impulse of conscience to be true to itself; it labors un- 
der its guilty possession, and knows not what to do with 
it. The human heart was not made for the residence 
of such an inhabitant; it finds itself preyed on by a 
torment, which it dares not acknowledge to God or 
man. A vulture is devouring it, and it asks no sym- 
pathy or assistance either from heaven or earth. The 
secret which the murderer possesses soon comes to pos- 
sess him ; and, like the evil spirits of which we read, 
it overcomes him, and leads him whithersoever it wilh 

He feels it beating at his heart, rising to his throat,, 
and demanding disclosure. He thinks the whole world 
sees it in his face, reads it in his eyes, and almost hears 
its workings in the very silence of his thoughts. It 
has become his master; it betrays his discretion; it 
breaks down his courage ; it conquers his prudence. 
When suspicion from without begins to embarrass him,, 
and the net of circumstances to entangle him, the fatal 
secret struggles with still greater violence to burst 
forth. It must he confessed; it will be confessed. 
There is no refuge from confession but suicide ; aud 
suicide is confession ! —Daniel Webster. 


I stood on the bridge at midnight, 
As the clocks were striking the hour, 

And the moon rose o'er the city, 
Behind the dark church tower. 

I saw her bright reflection 

In the waters under me, 
Like a golden goblet falling 

And sinking into the sea. 

And far in the hazy distance 
Of that lovely night in June, 

The blaze of the flaming furnace 
Gleamed redder than the moon. 


Among the long, black rafters 

The wavering shadows lay, 
And the current that came from the ocean 

Seemed to lift and bear them away ; 

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 o'er 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 wide ! 

For my heart was hot and restless, 

And my life was full of care, 
And the burden laid upon me 

Seemed greater than I could bear. 

But now it has fallen from me, 

It is buried in the sea ; 
And only the sorrow of others 

Throws its shadows over me. 

Yet, whenever I cross the river 

On its bridge with wooden piers, 
Like the odor of brine from the ocean 

Comes the thought of other years. 

And I think how many thousands 

Of care-encumbered men, 
Each bearing his burden of sorrow, 

Have crossed the bridge since then. 

I see the long procession 

Still passing to and fro, 
The young heart hot and restless, 

And the old, subdued and slow ! 

And forever and forever, 
As long as the river flows, 


As long as the heart has passions, 
As long as life has woes ; 

The moon and its broken reflection 
And its shadows shall appear, 

As the symbol of love in heaven, 
And its wavering image here. 

— H. W. 


On the road once more, with Lebanon fading away 
in the distance, the fat passenger drumming idly on the 
window-pane, the cross passenger sound asleep, and the 
tall, thin passenger reading "General Grant's Tour 
Around the World/' and wondering why " Green's 
August Flower" should be printed above the doors of 
"A Buddhist Temple at Benares." To me comes the 
brakeman, and seating himself on the arm of the seat, 
says: "I went to church yesterday." 

"Yes?" I said, with that interested inflection that 
asks for more. "And what church did you attend?" 

"Which do you guess?" he asked. 

" Some union mission church," I hazarded. 

"No," he said, " I don't like to run on these branch 
roads very much. I don't often go to church, and when 
I do, I want to run on the main line, where your run 
is regular and you go on schedule time and don't have 
to wait on connections. I don't like to run on a branch. 
Good enough, but I don't like it." 

"Episcopal?" I guessed. 

"Limited express, he said, "all palace-cars and $2 
extra for seat, fast time and only stop at big stations. 
Nice line, but too exhaustive for a brakeman. All 
train men in uniform, conductor's punch and lantern 
silver-plated, and no train-boys allowed. Then the 
passengers are allowed to talk back at the conductor, 
and it makes them too free and easy. No, I couldn't 
stand the palace-cars. Rich road, though. Don't often 


hear of a receiver being appointed for that line. Some 
mighty nice people travel on it, too." 

" Universalis!?" I suggested. 

" Broad gauge," said the brakeman, " does too much 
complimentary business. Everybody travels on a pass. 
Conductor doesn't get a fare once in fifty miles. Stops 
at flag stations, and won't run into any thing but a 
union depot. No smoking-car on the train. Train 
orders are rather vague, though, and the train men don't 
get along well with the passengers. No, I don't go to 
the Universalist, but I know some good men who run 
on that road." 

" Presbyterian ? " I asked. 

"Narrow gauge, eh?" said the brakeman, "pretty 
track, straight as a rule ; tunnel right through a moun- 
tain rather than go around it ; spirit-level grade ; pas- 
sengers have to show their tickets before they get on 
the train.. Mighty strict road, but the cars are a little 
narrow; have to sit one in a seat, and no room in the 
aisle to dance. Then there is no stop-over tickets 
allowed; got to go straight through to the station 
you're ticketed for, or you can't get on at all. When 
the car is full no extra coaches ; cars built at the shops 
to hold just so many and nobody else allowed on. But 
you don't often hear of an accident on that road. It's 
rira right up to the rules." 

"Maybe you joined the Free-Thinkers ? " I said. 

" Scrub road," said the brakeman, " dirt road-bed 
and no ballast; no time-card and no train dispatcher. 
All trains run wild, and every engineer makes his own 
time, just as he pleases. Smoke if you want to ; kind 
of go-as-you-please road. Too many side-tracks, and 
every switch is wide open all the time, with the switch- 
man sound asleep, and the target-lamp dead out. Get 
on as you please, and get off when you want to. Don't 
have to show your tickets, and the conductor isn't ex- 
pected to do any thing but amuse the passengers. No, 


sir. I was offered a pass, but I don't like the line. I 
don't like to travel on a road that has no terminus. 
Do you know, sir, I asked a division superintendent 
where that road run to, and he said he hoped to die if 
he knew. I asked him if the general superintendent 
could tell me, and he said he didn't believe they had a 
general superintendent, and if they had he didn't know 
any thing more about the road than the passengers. I 
asked him who he reported to, and he said ' nobody/ 
I asked a conductor who he got his orders from, and 
he said he didn't take orders from any living man or 
dead ghost. And when I asked the engineer who he 
got his orders from, he said he'd like to see anybody 
give him orders ; he'd run the train to suit himself, or 
he'd run it into the ditch. Now, you see, sir, I'm a 
railroad man, and I don't care to run on a road that 
has no time, makes no connections, runs nowhere, and 
has no superintendent. It may be all right, but I've 
railroaded too long to understand it." 

"Maybe you went to the Congregational Church?"" 

" Popular road," said the brakeman ; " an old road, 
too — one of the very oldest in the country. Good road- 
bed and comfortable cars. Well-managed road, too ; 
directors don't interfere with division superintendents 
and train orders. Road's mighty popular, but it's pretty 
independent, too. Yes, didn't one of the division su- 
perintendents down East discontinue one of the oldest 
stations on this line two or three years ago ? But it's 
a mighty pleasant road to travel on— always has such 
a pleasant class of passengers." 

"Did you try the Methodist?" I said. 

" Now, you're shouting ! " he said with some enthusi- 
asm. " Nice road, eh? Fast time and plenty of passengers. 
Engines carry a power of steam, and don't you forget 
it ; steam-gauge shows a hundred, and enough all the 
time. Lively road; when the conductor shouts 'all 
aboard,' you can hear him at the next station. Every 
train-light shines like a head-light. Stop-over checks 


are given on all through tickets ; passenger can drop 
off the train as often as he likes, do the station two or 
three days, and hop on the next revival train that comes 
thundering along. Good, whole-souled, companionable 
conductors ; ain't a road in the country where the pas- 
sengers feel more at home. INTo passes ; every passen- 
ger pays full traffic rates for his ticket. Wesleyan- 
house air-brakes on all trains, too ; pretty safe road, 
but I didn't ride over it yesterday." 

"Perhaps you tried the Baptist?" I guessed once 

" Ah ! ha ! " said the brakeman, " she's a daisy, isn't 
she? River road; beautiful curves; sweep around 
anything to keep close to the river, but it's all steel 
rail and rock ballast, single track all the way, and not 
a side-track from the round-house to the terminus. 
Takes a heap of water to run it, though ; double tanks 
at every station, and there isn't an engine in the shops 
that can pull a pound or run a mile with less than two 
gauges. But it runs through a lovely country ; those 
river roads always do ; river on one side, and hills on 
the other, and it's a steady climb up the grade all the 
way till the run ends where the fountain-head of the 
river begins. Yes, sir; I'll take the river road every 
time for a lovely trip ; sure connections and a good 
time, and no prairie dust blowing in at the windows. 
And yesterday, when the conductor came around for 
the tickets with a little basket-punch, I didn't ask him 
to pass me, but I paid my fare like a little man — 
twenty-five cents for an hour's run, and a little concert 
by the passengers thrown in. I tell you, pilgrim, you 
take the river road when you want " 

But just here the long whistle from the engine an- 
nounced a station, and the brakeman hurried to the 
door, shouting: 

" Zionsville ! The train makes no stops between 
here and Indianapolis ! " — Burlington Hawkeye. 



I have been accused of ambition in presenting this 
measure— ambition ; inordinate ambition. If I had 
thought of myself only, I should have never brought 
it forward. I know well the perils to which I expose 
myself; the risk of alienating faithful and valued 
friends, with but little prospects of making new ones, 
if any new ones could compensate for the loss of those 
we have long tried and loved ; and the honest miscon- 
ception both of friends and foes. Ambition ? If I 
had listened to its soft and seducing whispers; if I 
had yielded myself to the dictates of a cold, calculating 
and prudential policy, I would have stood still and 
unmoved. I might even have silently gazed on the 
raging storm, enjoyed its loudest thunders, and left 
those who are charged with the care of the vessel of 
state to conduct it as they could. I have been hereto- 
fore, often unjustly, accused of ambition. Low, grov- 
eling souls, who are utterly incapable of elevating 
themselves to the higher and nobler duties of pure 
patriotism — beings who, forever keeping their own 
selfish ends in view, decide all public measures by 
their presumed influence on their aggrandizement — 
judge me by the venal rule which they prescribe to 
themselves. I have given to the winds those false ac- 
cusations, as I consign that which now impeaches my 
motives. I have no desire for office, not even the 
highest. The most exalted is but a prison, in which 
the incarcerated incumbent daily receives his cold, 
heartless visitants, marks his weary hours, and is cut 
off from the practical enjoyment of all the blessings 
of genuine freedom. I am no candidate for any office 
in the gift of the people of these states, united or 
separated; I never wish, never expect to be. Pass 
this bill, tranquilize the country, restore confidence 
and affection in the Union, and I am willing to go 
home to Ashland, and renounce public service forever. 


I should there find, in its groves, under its shades, on 
its lawns, midst my flocks and herds, in the bosom of 
my family, sincerity and truth, attachment, and fidelity, 
and gratitude, which I have not always found in the 
walks of public life. Yes, I have ambition ; but it is 
the ambition of being the humble instrument, in the 
hands of Providence, to reconcile a divided people ; 
once more to revive concord and harmony in a dis- 
tracted ]and — the pleasing ambition of contemplating 
the glorious spectacle of a free, united, prosperous, and 
fraternal people. — Henry Clay, 


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 cleft in twain by one quick blow, 

And every string had voice apart 
To utter its peculiar woe. 

Whence came they ? from yon temple, where 
An altar, raised for private prayer, 
Now forms the warrior's marble bed 
Who Warsaw's gallant armies led. 

The dim funeral tapers throw 

A holy luster o'er his brow, 

And burnish with their rays of light 

The mass of curls that gather bright 

Above the haughty brow and eye 

Of a young boy that's kneeling by. 

What hand is that, whose icy press 

Clings to the dead with death's own grasp, 
But meets no answering caress? 

No thrilling fingers seek its clasp. 
It is the hand of her whose cry 

Rang wildly, late, upon the air. 
When the dead warrior met her eye 

Outstretched upon the altar there. 


With pallid lip and stony brow 
She murmurs forth her anguish now. 
But hark! the tramp of heavy feet 
Is heard along the bloody street ; 
Nearer and nearer yet they come, 
With clanking eyes 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, ruffians, back! nor dare to tread 
Too near the body of rny dead ; 
Nor touch the living boy ; I stand 
Between him and your lawless band. 
Take me, and bind these arms, these hands, 
With Eussia's heaviest iron bands, 
And drag me to Siberia's wild 
To perish, if 'twill save my child ! " 

"Peace, woman, peace ! " the leader cried, 
Tearing the pale boy from her side, 
And in his ruffian grasp he bore 
His victim to the temple door. 

"One moment ! " shrieked the mother ; " one! 
Will land or gold redeem my son ? 
Take heritage, take name, take all, 
But 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 bold. 
Proudly he towers j 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 speaks ; 
With a full voice of proud command 
He turned upon the wondering band : 
" 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 jewelled haft of poniard bright 
Glittered a moment on the sight. 
*Ha! start ye back? Fool! coward! knave! 
Think ye my noble father's glaive 
"Would drink the life-blood of a slave? 
The pearls that on the handle flame 
"Would blush the rubies in their shame; 
"The blade would quiver in thy breast 
Ashamed of such ignoble rest. 
aSTo ! 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. 
Quick to his mother's side he sprang, 
And on the air his clear voice rang : 
u 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 thy son. 


What ! silent yet ? Canst thou not feel 
My warm blood o'er my heart congeal ? 
Speak, mother, speak ! lift up thy head ! 
What ! silent still ? Then art thou dead I 

Great God, I thank thee! Mother, I 

Eejoice with thee, — and thus — to die." 
One long, deep breath, and his pale head 
Lay on his mother's bosom— dead. 

— Ann S. Stephens, 


Minister. — Weel, Sandy, man, and how did ye like 
the sermon the day ? 

Precentor.— Eh ? 

Minister. — I say, how did ye like the sermon ? 

Precentor. — Oh ! the sermon — weel — a — a — the ser- 
mon — 'od — a — I maist forget how I likit it. 

Minister. — D' ye no mind the sermon, Sandy? 

Precentor. — Weel — I — wadna jeest like to say that I 
didna mind it, but — 

Minister. — Weel, d' ye no mind the text, then ? 

Precentor. — Ou, ay — I mind the text weel eneuch — 
aye mind the text. 

Minister. — Weel d'ye no mind the sermon? 

Precentor. — Bide a meenit,bide a meenit — I'm think- 
in' — ay ! I mind the sermon noo — ay, I mind it fine. 

Minister. — What d'ye mind about it? 

Precentor. — Ye said the world was lyin' in wicked- 

Minister. — Toots, man ! any fule kens that. What 
did ye think of the discourse as a whole ? 

Precentor. — I thocht it was owre lang. 

Minister. — Tut — tut— tut ! Weel, what did ye think 
o't in the abstract? 

' Precentor. — The abstract — weel, I thocht the abstract 
was not clear noo and then, as a whole, like. 

Minister. — Man, d'ye understand your ain language ? 
I ask you, what was your opeenion o' the nature — the 
gist ; pith, marrow o' the discourse ? 


Precentor. — Ay, jeest that. Weel, it was — it was 

Minister. — Evangelical ! Of course it was evangeli- 
cal — was't no more than that ? 

Precentor. — Ou, ay, it was conneckit. 

Minister. — You thick-head ! Was the sermon good, 
bad, or indifferent? There, can you fathom that? 

Precentor. — Oh ! that's what ye've been speirin' a' 
the time, is't ? What for did ye no speak plain afore ? 
Weel, it was a gude sermon — 'deed it was the best I 
ever heard ye preach. 

Minister. — Hoot — toot! Sandy, now you're gaun 
owre far. 

Precentor. — A weel, aweel, I never saw sae few folk 
sleepin' afore. 

Minister. — Oh ! And are ye in the habit, sir, o' 
fallin' asleep during my pulpit ministrations? 

Precentor. — I wadna say but what I tak a blink noo 
and then. 

Minister. — Oh ! but still ye thought it was a gude 
sermon ? 

Precentor. — Aye, it was a mooch better than ony 

Minister. ~Vm much obieeged to ye, Sandy, for your 
gude opinion. 

Precentor. — -You're perfectly welcome. Bat, at the 
same time, if ye'll excuse me, I wad jeest like to mak 
one observation aboot the discoorse the day— and, in 
fack, aboot a' your discoorses. 

Minister. — Aye, what's that ? 

Precentor. — Weel, it's rather a venturesome pint tae 
handle; but, if ye'll forgie the freedom, I was joost 
gaun to say that in your discoorse the day — we'll no 
gang any farther than the one the day — in the midst 
o't, like — when ye was on the tap of an illystration — 
it struck me that every noo and then — but ye'll no feel 
offended at what I'm gaun to say? 

Minister. — Say awa, man, and I'll tell ye after. 


Precentor.— Aye, weel, in your discoorse the day — 
every noo and again— in the midst o't like — when ye 
was explennin' some kittle pint out o" the scriptures — 
or when ye was in the heat o' an argyment, or that — or 
else when ye — -a — but noo, ye're sure ye'll no be of- 

Minister. — Ye idiot ! wull ye either say what ye've 
gotten to say, or else lit it alane? 

Precentor. — Fm comin' to the pint directly. All I 
wras gaun to say was jeest this, that every noo and then 
in your discoorse the day — I clinna say oftener than 
noo and then — -jeest occasionally — it struck me that 
there was maybe — frae time to time — -jeest a wee bit o' 
exaggeration ! 

Minister. — Exagger— what, sir ? 

Precentor. — Weel, maybe that's owre strong a word. 
I dinna want to offend ye. I mean jeest — amplifica- 
tion, like. 

Minister. — Exaggeration ! amplification ! What the 
mischief d'ye mean, sir? Where got ye haud o' sic 
lang words as these ? 

Precentor. — There, there, there ! I'll no say anither 
word. I didna mean to rouse ye like that. All I 
meant to say was that ye jeest stretched the pint a wee 

Minister. — Stretched the pint! D'ye mean to say, 
sir, that I tell lees? 

Precentor. — Weel — a — but I didna gang sae far as 

Minister. — Ye went quite far enough, sir. Sandy, 
answer me this : Are ye savin' this a' out o' your ain 
head, or did somebody else put ye up till't? Did ye 
ever hear the Laird say I was in the habit o' exagger- 
atin' ? 

Precentor. — I wadna say but what he has. 

Minister. — Did ever ye hear the elders say I ampli- 
fied, or streetched the pint, or whatever ye like to call 


Precentor. — I wadna say but what they hae, too. 

Minister. — Oh ! So the Laird, and the elders, and 
the ■ whole o' ye, call me a leear, do ye ? Haud yer 
tongue, Sandy, ye've said owre muckle already; it's 
my turn to speak now. Sandy, although Pm your min- 
ister, still Pm perfectly willing to admit that Pm a sin- 
ful, erring creature, like any one o' ye ; and the only 
difference between me and the rest o' ye is just this: 
I've been to colleges and universities and seats o' 
learnin,' and I've got some sense in my hed ; but as for 
the rest o' ye, ye're a puir, miserable, ignorant set o' 
creatures, that don't know your right hand frae your 
left ; that's all the difference between us. At the same 
time, as I said before, I am free to admit that I my- 
self am a human being, Sandy — only a human being ; 
and it's just possible that being obleegecl, Sawbbath 
after Sawbbath, to expound the word to sic a doited set 
o' naturals — for if I wasna to mak ilka thing as big as 
a barn door ye wadna see it ava — I say it's just possi- 
ble that I may have slippit into a kind o' habit o' 
magnifying things; and it's a bad habit to get into, 
Sandy, and it's a waur thing to be accused o't, and 
therefore, Sandy, I call upon you, if ever ye should 
hear me say another word out o' joint, to pull me up 
there and then. 

Precentor. — Losh ! sir ; but how could I pull ye up 
i' the kirk? 

Minister. — Ye can give me some sort o' a signal. 

Precentor. — A signal i' the kirk? 

Minister. — Ay. Ye're sittin' just down aneath me, 
ye ken; so ye might just put up your heid, and give a 
bit whustle (whistles) like that. 

Precentor. — A whustle ! 

Minister. — Ay, a whustle ! What ails ye ? 

Precentor. — What ; whustle i' the Lord's hoose on the 
Lord's day? I never heard o' sic a thing in a' my 
days ! 

Minister.— -Ye needna mak such a disturbance about 


it. I dirma want ye to blaw off a great overpowering 
whustle, and frighten the folks out o' the kirk, but just 
a wee bit o ? a whustle that naebody but our two selves 
could hear. 

Precentor.— But would it no' be an awful sin ? 

Minister. — Hoot's, man ; doesna the wind whustle on 
the Sawbbath ? 

Precentor. — Ay ; I never thocht o' that afore. Yes, 
the wind whustles. 

Minister. — Weel, just a wee bit soughing whustle like 
the wind (whistles softly). 

Precentor.— Weel, if ther's nae harm in't I'll do my 

So, ultimately, it was agreed between the minister 
and the precentor that the first word of exaggeration 
from the pulpit was to elicit the signal from the desk 

Next Sunday came ; the sermon had been rigorously 
trimmed, and the parson seated himself in the pulpit 
with a radiant smile as he thought of the prospective 
discomfiture of Sandy. Sandy sat down as impertur- 
bable as usual, looking neither to the right hand nor to 
the left. Had the minister only stuck to his sermon 
that day, he would have done very well, and have had 
the laugh against Sandy, which he anticipated at the 
end of the service. But it was his habit, before the 
sermon, to read a chapter from the Bible, adding such 
remarks and explanations of his own as he thought 
necessary. He generally selected such passages as con- 
tained a number of difficult points, so that his marvel- 
ous powers of "eloocidation" might be called into 
play. On the present occasion he had chosen one that 
bristled with difficulties. It was that chapter which 
describes Samson as catching three hundred foxes, 
tying them tail to tail, setting fire-brands in their midst, 
starting them among the standing corn of the Philis- 
tines, and burning it down. As he closed the descrip- 


tion, he shut the book, and commenced the " eloocida- 
tion " as follows : 

" My dear friends, I dare say you have been wonder- 
ing in your minds how it was possible that Samson 
could catch three hundred foxes. You or me couldna 
catch one fox, let alone three hundred — the beasts run 
so fast. It takes a great company of dogs and horses 
and men to catch a fox, and they do not always catch it 
then — the cra'ter whiles get away. But lo and behold ! 
here we have one single man, all by himself, catching 
three hundred of them ! Now, how did he do it? — 
that's the pint ; and at first sight it looks a gey an' kit- 
tle pint. But it's not so kittle as it looks, my freends ! 
and if you give me your undivided attention for a few 
minutes I'll clear away the whole difficulty, and make 
what now seems dark and iucomprehensible to your 
uninstructed minds as clear as the sun in his noonday 

" Well, then, we are told in the Scriptures that Sam- 
son was the strongest man that ever lived ; and, fur- 
thermore, we are told in the chapter next after the one 
we have been reading, that he was a very polite man ; 
for when he was in the house of Dagon he bowed with 
all his might — and if some of you, my freends, would 
only bow with half your might it would be all the bet- 
ter for you. But, although we are told all this, we are 
not told that he was a great runner. But if he catched 
those three hundred foxes he must have been a great 
runner, an awful runner — in fact, the greatest runner 
that ever was born. But, my freends — an' here's the eloo- 
cidation o' the matter — ye'll please bear this in mind, 
that although we're not told that he was the greatest 
runner that ever lived, still we're not told he wasna ; 
and therefore I contend that we have a perfect right to 
assume, by all the laws of logic and scientific history, 
that he was the fastest runner that ever was born ; and 
that was how he catched the three hundred foxes ! 

a But after we get rid of this difficulty, my freends, 


another crops up — after he has catched his three hun- 
dred foxes, how does he manage to keep them all to- 
gether ? This looks almost as kittle a pint as the other — - 
to some it might look even kittler ; but if you will only 
bring your common sense to bear on the question, the 
difficulty will disappear like the morning cloud and the 
early dew that withereth away. Well, then, please to 
mind, in the first place, that it was foxes that Samson 
catched. Now, we do not catch foxes, as a general rule, in 
the streets of a toun ; therefore, it is more than probable 
that Samson catched them in the country ; and if he 
catched them in the country, it is natural to suppose that 
he bided in the country ; and if he bided in the country, it 
is not unlikely that he lived at a farm-house. Now, at 
farm-houses you have stables and barns and other kinds- 
of out-houses, and therefore we may now consider it a 
settled pint that, as he catched his foxes one by one, 
he stapped them into a good-sized barn, and steekit 
the door, and locked it. Here we overcome the second 
stumbling-block; but no sooner have we done that 
than a third rock of offense loups up to fickle us. Af- 
ter" he has catched his foxes — after he has got them all 
snug in the barn under lock and key — how in the 
world did he tie their tails together ? There's a fick- 
ler ! You or me couldna tie two of their tails to- 
gether, let alone three hundred of them ; for, not to 
speak about the beasts girnin' and biting us all the 
time we were tying them, the tails themselves are not 
long enough. How, then, was Samson able to tie 
them all ? Ah ! that's the question ; and it's about the 
kittlest pint you or me has ever had to eloocidate. 
Common sense is no good till't; no more is Latin, or 
Greek, or Hebrew either ; no more is Logic or Meta- 
pheesics; no more is Natural Philosophy or Moral 
Philosophy; no more is Rhetoric or Belles Lettres 
even — and I've studied them all myself. But it is a 
great thing for poor ignorant folk like you that there's 
been great and learned men that have been to colleges 


and universities and seats o' learnin' — the same as my- 
self ye ken — and that, instead of going into the kirk 
like me, or into pheesics like the doctor, or into law like 
the lawyer, they have gone traveling into foreign parts. 
And they have written books o' their travels, and we 
can read their books. Now, among other places, some 
o' those learned men have traveled into Canaan, and 
some into Palestine, and some few into the Holy Land, 
and these last mentioned travelers tell us that, in these 
Eastern or Oriental climes, the foxes there are a total 
different breed o' cattle altogether from our foxes — 
that they are great big beasts ; and what's the more 
astonishing thing about them, and what helps to ex- 
plain this wonderful feat of Samson's, is that they 
have all got most extraordinary long tails; in fact, 
these Eastern travelers tell us that these foxes' tails 
are actually forty feet long ! " (Sandy whistles.) 

(Minister aghast.) "At the same time I ought to 
mention that there are other travelers, and later ones 
than the ones I have just been speaking to you about, 
and they say that this statement is rather an exagger- 
ation, on the whole, and that these foxes' tails are 
never more than twenty feet long ! " (Sandy whistles.) 

"Before I leave this subject altogether, my freends, 
I may just add that there has been a considerable di- 
versity o' opeenion about the length of those animals' 
tails, so that the question has come to be regarded as 
a moot pint. One man, you see, says one thing, and 
another another ; and I've spent a good lot o' learned 
research in the matter mysel', and after examining one 
authority and another authority, and putting one 
against the other, I have come to the conclusion that 
these foxes' tails, on on average, are seldom more than 
ten feet long." (Sandy ivhistles.) 

"Sandy Macdonald ! I'll no tak' another inch off 
thae beasts' tails, even gin ye should whustle every 
tooth out o' your heid ! " 



Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more ; 
Or close the wall up with our English dead. 
In peace, there's nothing so becomes a man 
As modest stillness and humility ; 
But when the blast of war blows in our ears, 
Then imitate the action of the tiger ; 
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, 
Disguise fair nature with hard favored rage; 
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect ; 
Let it pry through the portage of the head 
Like the brass cannon ; let the brow o'erwhelm it, 
As fearfully as doth a galled rock 
O'erhang and jutty his confounded base, 
Swilled with the wild and wasteful ocean. 

Now set the teeth, and stretch the nostrils wide, 
Hold hard the breath, and bend up every spirit 
To his full height. Now on, you noblest English, 
Whose blood is fetched from fathers of war-proof : 
Fathers, that, like so many Alexanders, 
Have, in these parts, from morn till even fought, 
And sheathed their swords from lack of argument ; 
Be copy now to men of grosser blood, 
And teach them how to war ! 

And you, good yeomen, 
Whose limbs are made in England, show us here 
The mettle of your pasture ; let us swear 
That you are worth your breeding, which I doubt not: 
For there is none of you so mean and base 
That hath not noble luster in your eye; 
I see you stand, like greyhounds in the slips, 
Straining upon the start : the game's afoot ; 
Follow your spirit ; and, upon this charge, 
Cry, Heaven for Harry, England, and St. George ! 

— Shakspere. 


Great in life, he was surpassingly great in death. 
For no cause, in the very frenzy of wantonness and 
wickedness, by the red hand of murder, he was thrust 
from the full tide of this world's interest, from its 
hopes, its aspirations, its victories, into the visible 
presence of death — and he did not quail. Not alone 


for the one short moment in which, stunned and dazed, 
he could give up life, hardly aware of its relinquish- 
ments, but through days of deadly languor, through 
weeks of agony, that was not less agony because si- 
lently borne, with clear sight and calm courage, he 
looked into his open grave. What blight and ruin 
met his anguished eyes, whose lips may tell — what 
brilliant, broken plans, what baffled, high ambitions, 
what sundering of strong, warm, manhood's friendships, 
what bitter rending of sweet household ties ! Behind 
him a proud, expectant nation, a great host of sustain- 
ing friends, a cherished and happy mother, wearing 
the full rich honors of her early toil and tears ; the 
wife of his youth, w T hose whole life lay in his ; the lit- 
tle boys not yet emerged from childhood's day of frolic ; 
the fair young daughter; the sturdy sons just spring- 
ing into closest companionship, claiming every day 
and every day rewarding a father's love and care ; and 
in his heart the eager, rejoicing power to meet all de- 
mand. Before him, desolation and great darkness! 
And his soul was not shaken. 

His countrymen were thrilled with instant, profound, 
and universal sympathy. Masterful in his mortal weak- 
ness, he became the center of a nation's love, enshrined 
in the prayers of a world. But all the love and all the 
sympathy could not share with him his suffering. He 
trod the wine-press alone. With unfaltering front he 
faced death. With unfailing tenderness he took leave 
of life. Above the demoniac hiss of the assassin's bul- 
let he heard the voice of God. With simple resigna- 
tion he bowed to the Divine decree. 

As the end drew near, his early craving for the sea 
returned. The stately mansion of power had been to 
him the wearisome hospital of pain, and he begged to 
be taken from its prison walls, from its oppressive, 
stifling air, from its homelessness and hopelessness. 
Gently, silently, the love of a great nation bore the 


pale sufferer to the longed-for healing of the sea, to 
live or to die, as God should will, within sight of its 
heaving billows, within sound of its manifold voices. 
With wan, fevered face tenderly lifted to the cooling 
breeze, he looked out wistfully upon the ocean's chang- 
ing wonders ; on its fair sails, whitening in the morn- 
ing light ; on its restless waves, rolling shoreward to 
break and die beneath the noonday sun ; on the red 
clouds of evening arching low to the horizon ; on the 
serene and shining pathway of the stars. Let us think 
that his dying eyes read a mystic meaning which only 
the rapt and parting soul may know. Let us believe 
that in the silence of the receding world he heard the 
great waves breaking on a further shore, and felt 
already upon his wasted brow the breath of the eternal 
morning. — James G. Blaine. 


If there be one State in the Union, Mr. President, 
that may challenge comparison with any other for a 
uniform, zealous, ardent, and uncalculating devotion to 
the Union, that State is South Carolina. Sir, from the 
very commencement of the revolution, up to this hour, 
there is no sacrifice, however great, she has not cheer- 
fully made ; no service she has ever hesitated to perform. 

She has adhered to you in your prosperity ; but in 
your adversity she has clung to you with more than 
filial affection. No matter what was the condition of 
her domestic affairs ; though deprived of her resources, 
divided by parties, or surrounded by difficulties, the 
call of the country has been to her as the voice of God. 
Domestic discord ceased at the sound ; every man be- 
came at once reconciled to his brethren, and the sons 
of Carolina were all seen, crowding together to the 
temple, bringing their gifts to the altar of the common 

What, sir, was the conduct of the South during the 


revolution ? Sir, I honor New England for her con- 
duct in that glorious struggle, but great as is the praise 
which belongs to her, I think at least equal honor is due 
to the South. Never were there exhibited in the his- 
tory of the world higher examples of noble daring, 
dreadful suffering and heroic endurance, than by the 
whigs of Carolina, during the revolution. The whole 
State, from the mountains to the sea, was overrun by an 
overwhelming force of the enemy. The fruits of in- 
dustry perished on the spot where they were produced, 
or were consumed by the foe. 

The plains of South Carolina drank up the most pre- 
cious blood of her citizens. Black, smoking ruins 
marked the places which had been the habitation of 
her children. Driven from their homes in the gloomy 
and almost impenetrable swamps, even there, the spirit 
of liberty survived, and South Carolina, sustained by 
the example of her Sumters and her Marions, proved 
by her conduct, that though her soil might be overrun, 
the spirit of her people was invincible. — Hayne. 


The eulogium pronounced on the character of the 
State of South Carolina, by the honorable gentleman, 
for her revolutionary and other merits, meets my hearty 
concurrence. I shall not acknowledge that the honor- 
able member goes before me in regard for whatever 
distinguished talent or distinguished character South 
Carolina has produced, I claim part of the honor; I 
partake in pride of her great names. I claim them 
for countrymen, one and all — the Laurenses, the Rut- 
ledges, the Pickneys, the Sumters, the Marions — Amer- 
icans all — whose fame is no more to be hemmed in by 
State lines, than their talents and patriotism were ca- 
pable of being circumscribed within the same narrow 


In their day and generation, they served and hon- 
ored the country, and the whole country, and their re- 
nown is of the treasures of the whole country. Him, 
whose honored name the gentleman himself bears — 
does he suppose me less capable of gratitude for his 
patriotism, or sympathy for his suffering, than if his 
eyes had first opened upon the light in Massachusetts, 
instead of South Carolina ! Sir, does he suppose it in his 
power to exhibit in South Carolina a name so bright 
as to produce envy in my bosom ? No, sir — increased 
gratification and delight rather. Sir, I thank God, that, 
if I am gifted with little of the spirit which is said 
to raise mortals to the skies, I have yet none, as I 
trust, of that other spirit which would drag angels 

When I shall be found, sir, in my place here in the 
Senate, or elsewhere, to sneer at public merit, because 
it happened to spring up beyond the little limits of 
my own State or neighborhood ; when I refuse for any 
such cause, or for any cause, the homage due to Amer- 
ican talent, to elevated patriotism, to sincere devotion, 
to liberty and the country ; or if I see an uncommon 
endowment of Heaven ; if I see extraordinary capac- 
ity or virtue in any son of the South ; and if, moved 
by local prejudice, or gangrened by State jealousy, I 
get up here to abate a tithe of a hair from his just char- 
acter and just fame, may my tongue cleave to the roof 
of my mouth. 

Mr. President, I shall enter on no encomium upon 
Massachusetts. She needs none. There she is; be- 
hold her, and judge for yourselves. There is her his- 
tory ; the world knows it by heart. The past, at least, 
is secure. There is Boston, and Concord, and Lexing- 
ton, and Bunker Hill ; and there they will remain for- 
ever. And, sir, where American liberty raised its first 
voice, and where its youth was nurtured and sustained, 
there it still lives, in the strength of its manhood, and 
full of its original spirit. If discord and disunion 


shall wound it; if party strife and blind ambition 
shall hawk at and tear it; if folly and madness, if un- 
easiness under salutary restraint, shall succeed to sep- 
arate it from that Union, by which its existence is also 
made sure, it will stand, in the end, by the side of that 
cradle in which its infancy was rocked ; it will, stretch 
forth its arm with whatever of vigor it may still re- 
tain, over the friends who gathered around it ; and it 
will fall at last, if fall it must, amid the proudest mon- 
uments of its glory, and on the very spot of its origin. 

— Webster, 


To him, who in the love of nature holds 

Commnnion with her visible forms, she speaks 

A various language ; for his gayer hours 

She has a voice of gladness, and a smile 

And eloquence of beauty ; and she glides 

Into his darker musings, with a mild 

And healing sympathy, that steals away 

Their sharpness ere he is aware. When thoughts 

Of the last bitter hour come like a blight 

Over thy spirit, and sad images 

Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, 

And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, 

Make thee to shudder and grow sick at heart — 

Go forth, under the open sky, and list 

To Nature's teaching, while from all around — 

Earth and her waters, and the depths of air, — 

Comes a still voice — Yet a few days, and thee 

The all-beholding sun shall see no more 

In all his course ; nor yet in the cold ground, 

Where thy pale form was laid with many tears, 

Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist 

Thy image. 

Earth that nourish'd thee, shall claim 
The growth, to be resolved to earth again ; 
And, lost, each human trace, surrendering up 
Thine individual being, shalt thou go 
To mix forever with the elements. 
To be a brother to th' insensible rock 
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain 
Turns with his share and treads upon. The oak 


Shall send his roots abroad, aud pierce thy mold. 
Yet not to thine eternal resting-place 
Shalt thou retire alone, — nor couldst thou wish 
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down 
With patriarchs of the infant world, — with kings, 
The powerful of the earth, — the wise, the good, 
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past. 
All in one mighty sepulchre. 

The hills, 
Hock-ribb'd, and ancient as the sun ; the vales, 
Stretching in pensive quietness between ; 
The venerable woods ; rivers that move 
In majesty, and the complaining brooks 
That make the meadows green ; and pour'd round all, 
Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste, 
Are but the solemn decorations all, 
Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, 
The planets, all the infinite hosts of heaven, 
Are shining on the sad abodes of death, 
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread 
The globe are but a handful, to the tribes 
That slumber in its bosom. 

Take the wings 
Of morning, traverse Barca's desert sands, 
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods 
"Where rolls the Oregon and hears no sound 
Save her own dashings — yet — the dead are there: 
And millions in those solitudes, since first 
The flight of years began, have laid them down 
In their last sleep — the dead reign there alone. 
So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw 
In silence from the living, and no friend 
Take note of thy departure ? All that breathe 
Will share thy destiny. 

The gay will laugh 
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care 
Plod on, and each one, as before, will chase 
His favorite phantom ; yet all these shall leave 
Their mirth and their employment, and shall come 
And make their bed with thee. As the long train 
Of ages glides away, the sons of men, 
The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes 
In the full strength of years, matron, and maid, 
And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man, — 
Shall, one by one, be gather'd to thy side, 
By those who in their turn shall follow them. 


So live, that when the summons comes to join 
The innumerable caravan, which moves 
To that mysterious realm, where each shall take 
His chamber in the silent halls of death, 
Thou go not, like the quarry slave at night, 
Scourged to his dungeon, but sustain'd and soothed 
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave 
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch 
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. 

— W. C. Bryant.