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Br A^I^A T.(rAJ<DAJaI X)\t'kl 

*An art is Nature better understood.** 

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392139 A 



Jl 1928 L 

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1809, 'bj 


in the Clerk's Office of the District Conrt of the United States for the Northern 

District of New Yorlb ' 


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to V •• 

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To furnish choice selections of prose and poetry for School, 
Parlor, and Lyceum readings, accompanied by a comprehen 
sive method of teaching the Art of Elocution, with its under- 
lying principles, is the design of this book. 

That it may be used with success in our public and private 
schools, independently, or in connection with any Series of 
Readers, and may find its way to the table of many a pri- 
vate learner, is the hope of 








I. Obthoept 1 

1. Tonics 1 

2. Subtonics 1 

8. Atonies 2 


1. Pure 2 

2. Orotund.... 4 

8. Pectoral 6 

4. Gnttaral 6 

6. Plaintive 6 

6. Aspirate 7 

7. Falsetto 7 

m. FOBCB 11 

1. Deirrees 11 

1. Moderate 11 

2. Gentle 12 

8. Heavy 13 

4. Crescendo 13 

6. Diminnendo 13 

8. Variations or Stress 13 

1. Radical >- 13 

2. Pinal -< 14 

8. Median -<=** 14 

4. Thorough □ ... 15 

6. Componnd H 10 

6. Tremulous -'-^ 16 

IV. Tmb 19 

1. Movement 19 

1. Moderate 19 

2. Quick 20 

8. Rapid 20 

4. Slow 20 

6. Very slow 21 

8. Pause 23 

1. Sentential 23 

2. Rhetorical , 28 

^l. Subject word 23 

2. Subjectphase 23 

8. Subject Inverted 23 

2. Emphatic 24 

8. Prepositional 24 

4. Elliptical 24 

6. Effective 24 


Ti Contents. 


V. Mklodt ,. 25 

1. Pitch 25 

1. Middle 25 

2. High 26 

8. Low 26 

4. Transitions 26 

2. Monotone 27 

C. Diatone 27 

4. Semitone 23 

Waves or Circumflex 23 

TL Gestubic 29 

1. Position of the hand 29 

1. Supine 29 

2. Prone 29 

8. Vertical 29 

4. Clenched 29 

5. Pointing 29 

2. Direction 29 

1. Front 29 

2. Oblique 80 

8. Extended 80 

4. Backward 80 

VII. Methods for sklf-odlturk * 88 

VIII. Methods fos tbaohino Kbadiho 83 

1. Primary 85 

2. Programme for a week^s lessons «■. 85 

8. Methods for variety. , , ^,,, 85 

4. Analysis 86 

IX. Seleotions 89 

The Creeds of the Bells, Qeorqb W. Bungat 89 

Ode on the Passions, CoLLiNff , 89* 

High Tide, Jban Inqelow 4.1 

Gems from Buskin .„ 4tf 

The Vagabonds, J. T. Tbowbbidob 49 

A Sea Voyage, Washington Irving T 62 

Bible, John ix 64 

Death of Morris, Walter Scott... ,, 66 

Courtship under Difficulties , 6S 

The Front and Side Doors, O. W. Holmes 62 

The Relief of Lucknow, Bobbrt Lowell 62 

Boy Britton, Forobttuk Willson , 65 

Bugle Song, Alfred Tsnntson 68 

EollCall^ Anon 69 

Pyramus and Tblsbe, John G. Saxe 70 

Evening at the Farm, J T. Trowbridge , 73 

Putting up Stoves 74 

Tribute to Water, GouGu 75 

Claribers Prayer, Lvnde Palmer. 77 

The Skeleton in Armor, Longfellow ^ .,,, 78 

To Cecilia, Fredkbika Bukmer , 88 

Contents. vU 


The Face tgainet th« Pane, T. B. Aldbics 86 

Mother and Poet, Mbs. Brownino 88 

The Charge of the Light Brigade, Tskntsox 91 

Hay Days, Waybblt Maoazims 03 

Scrooge and Marley, Chas. Dickens OS 

Passing Away, John PiBRroirr 97 

Sheridan's Ride, T. B. Rbao 99 

The Nigiit Soene in Mftcbett, Shacspkars 191 

Short Extracts, Wkbstrr, Emebson and Houirs 103 

The Baminii: Prairie, Alice Cabt 104 

The Pied Piper of Hamelin, RoBBBT Baownin« 106 

Psalm xo Ill 

Ivry, T. B. Hacaulat 118 

GafferGray, Holcrott 114 

Attld Rohin Gray, Ladt Anna Babnabd lU 

Christian Mariner's Hymn, Mrs. SouTHET : us 

Scenes fVom the Light? and Sliadows of Scottish Life, John Wilson. 118 

The Battle, translated Arom ScHiLLBB hy BuLWES 12ft 

Over the River, Miss Pribst 12t 

The Wondcrfhl "One-HossShay," O. W. Holmes l^ 

Warren's Address, Rev. John PiEKPONT 128 

A Psalm of LifiB, H. W. Longfellow 129 

Tasso's Coronation, MR8..nEMANs 189 

Death of the Old Year, Alfred Tennyson 131 

Song of the Greeks, Campbell 138 

The Bell of the Atlantic, LydiaH. Siooubney 184 

Adams and JeflTerson, Daniel Webster I35 

Polish War SoBg, James G. Perciyal I37 

The Boys, O. W.Holmes 188 

An Order tor a Picture, Alice Cart I39 

Scene from the Merchant of Venice, SoASjpBABB 142 

The National Ensisn, Anon 145 

The Song of the Camp 146 

People will Talk, Anon I47 

Somelwdy's t)arting. War Lyrks of tbe Souts 148 

Zofaobia's Ambition, William Ware 155 

Poitia's Speech on Mercy, Shaespbarb 151 

TheBetls, Ei>aAR A. Pob .' 162 

Romeo and Juliet (Balcony Scene), Shakspeabb I55 

Jack Homer, Mother Goose FOB Grown People 160 

Bail>ara Frietchie, Whittier..... igi 

Which? Anon I63 

The Power of Habit, JohnB.Gouob les 

From Ivanhoe, Walter Scott I67 

Rip Van Winkle, WASttiNoTON Iryino 170 

Are the Children at Home, Atlantic Monthly I74 

Scene from the " School for Scandal," Sheridan 17S 

Liberty and Independence. Anon I8I 

Xary Maioney's Philosophy, PiiiLAj>SLrBLi BuLiiEmr 189 

Till Contents. 


Tbe Ballad of Bablc Bell, Thomas Baiuet Alpbicr 184 

The IriBh Womau's Letter, Akon 187 

From Ataloota in Calyd&n, Aloesnon Chab. Swinburn 189 

Darius Green and his Flying Machine, J. T. Trowbbidqb 190 

No Sect in Heaven, Mrs. Cleyelaitd 198 

Poetry, Pbbcivai. 801 

Wool Gathering and Monse Hunting, Gail Hamilton ... 206 

A Legend of Bregenz, Adelaide Proctkb 907 

The Grandmother's Apology, Tennyson 219 

What is Glory, What is Fame ? Motherwell 214 

The Progress of Poetry, Gray 215 

Prom the Toilers of the Sea, Victor Hugo 217 

The Singer, Florence Perot 222 

Dannecker, Mrs. Jameson 224 

The Vision of Sir Lamifal, J. R. Lowell 226 

Pan, Mrs. Browning 232 

Footsteps on the Other Side 288 

Little Nell, Dickens 284 

The Auction Extraordinary, Davidson 286 

The Coqnette, Saxb 236 

The New Year, Eager 238 

Marion Moore, James G. Clark 239 

The Well of St. Keyne, Robert SouTHET, 1793 240 

Tliank God I there's still a Vanguard, Mrs. H. £. G. Arky 242 

Through Death to Life, Habbt Habbaugh 248 

Minnie an* Me 244 

My Darling's Shoes ^t 

Unwritten Music, Willis 246 

The Wreck of the Hesperus, Longfellow 248 

God, Derzhavin ? 250 

AuntKindly, Theodore Parker 253 

The Great Bell Roland, Theodore Tilton 255 

The Young Gray Head, Caroline Ann« Southy 257 

The Suliote Mother, Hemans 260 

Sandalphon, Longpellow ^ 269 

The Soldier's Reprieve 263 

The Cynic, H. W. Beechbr , 267 

The Drummer's Bride 268 

The Isle of Long Ago, B. P. Taylor 269 

Excelsior, Longfellow ,', 270 

Poor Little Jim , I^g 

The Dawn of Redemption, Jab. G. Clark 273 

TheBplI. B. P. Taylor 274 

Declaration of Independence 276 

The Burial of Moses 279 

The Dying Christian to his Soul, Albz. Pope 283 

From the Honeymoon, John Tobin 282 

When, How, and Why, Gracb Brown • 287 

The Inchcape Rock, Robert Southey ^^ 28fi 

Contents. ix 

Horatins, Maoattlat 890 

The Soog of the Shirt, IIooD 897 

Athena, the Queen of the Air, BuaKui 800 

The Veto Power, HbnbtClat ! 801 

Harco Bozzaris, Haujegx 808 

The Teetotal Mill 806 

"Little Bonnie" 806 

Lady Clare, Tenntsoit 810 

The Child on the Jadtpnent Seat, By the Author of the **Cotta 

Family" !. 812 

Wanted, a Minister's Wife, X. Y. Z 815 

Maist Onle Day, Tixotht Sw^an 817 

The True Teacher, Holland 818 

New Year's Eve 818 

Gabriel Grub, DiCKXNB 821 

Dora, Tennyson 829 

Bevelations of Wall Street, Richard B. Kimball 334 

The Romance and Reality of the Law, L. J. BiaxLOW 838 

Grannie's Trust 840 

The Telegram, Sabah E. Hbnshaw 841 

The Swan's Nest, Mrs. Browning 842 

The Main Truck, oraLeap for Life, G.P. Morris 815 

iFromRose Clark, Pannt Fern 846 

From the American Note Book, Hawthorne 848 

Invocation to Light, Mrs. S. H. Db EROTf T 861 

Richelieu, Bulwer 853 

A Scotch Lady of the Old School, Mart Ferrieb 369 

Break,. Break, Break, Tennyson 873 

What is Life, John Clare 873 

Remarks on Reading, Gibbon 874 

Scene fh>m Yirginins, James Sheridan Enowlbs 876 

From the Dodge Club, or Italy in MDCCCLIX, James De Millb 882 

Pictures of Swiss Scenery and of ihe City of Yenice, Disraeli 894 

Joan of Arc, Thos. De Quinckt 895 

Death and Sleep, Shelley 397 

Death of Amelia Wentworth, Bryan W. Proctxb 398 

The Minstrel's Song in Ella, Chatterton 408 

Death of Long Tom Coffin, Cooper 405 

The Character of Falstaff, Hazlitt 407 

The Raven, PoB 409 

Death of Gawtrey, Bulwer 412 

Jeanie Morrison, Motherwell 414 

Fading— Dying, Ellen Schenck 417 

Sketches of Authors 419 



Aldrich, T. B l&l, 18C 

Arey, Mrs. H. E. G 249 

Barnard, Lady Anne 115 

Beecljer, Henry Ward 2G7 

Beers, Ethel L '79 

Bigelow, L. J 838 

Bremer, Frederika 83 

Brown, Grace 287 

Browning, Elizabeth B 88, 232, 343 

Browning, Bobert 106 

Bulwer, Edward L. 853, 412 

Campbell, Thomas .' 183 

Gary, Alice 104, 189 

Chatterton, Thomas 403 

Clare, John 874 

Clark, James G 289, 273 

Cleveland, Mrs 189 

Collins, William 89 

Davidson, Lucrelia 236 

DeKroyft, Helen S 851 

De Mille, James 889 

De Qnlncey, Thomas 894 

Derzhavin 250 

Dickens, Charles 94, 234, 321 

Disraeli, Benjamin 394 

Eager, CoraM 238 

Fern, Fanny 840 

Ferrier, Mary 809 

Gibbon, Edward 374 

Gough, John B 76, 165 

Gray, Thomas 215 

Halleck, Fitz-Greene 803 

Hamilton, Gail 205 

Hawthorne, Nathaniel 848 

Hazlitt, William 407 

Hemans, Felicia 130, 260 

Henshaw, Sarah E 341 

Holcroft 114 

Holmes, Oliver W 124, 138 

Hood, Thomas 297 

Hugo, Victor 60, 217 

Ingelow, Jean 41 

Irving, Washington 62, 170 

Jameson, Mrs. Anna 224 

xii List of Authors. 


Jefferson, Thomas 274 

Kimball, Kichard B 334 

Euowles, James S 376 

LongfeUow, Henry W 78, 129, 248, 262, 270 

Lowell, James R 226 

Lowell, Robert ^ 62 

Macaulay, Thomas B 112, 292 

Miller, Key. W. E 243 

Morris, George P. 345 

Motherwell, William 214, 414 

Palmer, Lynde 77 

Parker, Theodore , 253 

Pcrcival, James 137, 201 

Percy, Florence 222 

Pierpont, Rev. John 97, 128 

Poe,Edgar A 162, 409 

Pope, Alexander ; 282 

Priest, Nancy ". 123 

Procter, Adelaide 207 

Procter, Bryan W 898 

Proctor, Edna D 58 

Read, Thomas B 99 

Rolland ; 31t> 

Ruskin, John 46, 300 

Saxe, JohnO 70, 236 

Schenck, Ellen 417 

Schiller 121 

Scott, Walter 56, 167 

Shakspeare, William 101, 142, 151, 155 

Shelley, Percy Bysshe 897 

Slgonmey, LydiaH 13-1 

Sonthey, Caroline A 116, 257 

Sottthey, Robert 240, 288 

Swan, Timothy 817 

Swinbum, Algernon C 189 

Taylor, Bayard 146 

Taylor, Benjamin P 269, 274 

Tennyson, Alfred 68, 91, 181, 212, 810, 329, 873 

Tilton, Theodore 255 

Tobin, John 282 

Trowbridge, J. T 49, 191 

Ware, William W 150 

Webster, Daniel 135 

Whitlier, John G .*. 161 

Willis, NathanielP 246 

Willson, Forceythe 65 

Wilson, John 118 

Anonymous, 69, 93, 145, 147, 148, 160, 163, 174, 181, 183, 187, 233, 244, 246, 268, 272, 

279, 306*308, 312, 815, 818, 340 


yf^ Elocution IS the art of expressing thought by speech. 

Instruction in this branch properly begins with vocal cul- 
ture, and we find that systematic training and rigid practice 
develop the voice, and make it strong, flexible and melo- 
dious; just as athletic exercises give strength and pliability 
of muscle and grace of movement 

The pugilist imdergoes the most severe training for weeks 
and months to prepare himself for a contest of strength. 
And so, in ancient times, the gladiator exercised his muscles 
until the "strength of brass was in his toughened sinews," 
and he could rend the lion as if it were a kid. And that old 
oratorical gladiator, Demosthenes, practiced vocal gymnastics 
by the roaring sea, and left no means untried to remedy de- 
fects of voice and manner. Cicero studied oratory for thirty 
years, and traveled all over Asia to hear models of eloquence 
and to gain instruction. 

Curran, stuttering Jack Curran, cultivated his voice so 
industriously that he not only overcame the great defect, but 
was actually noted for the clearness and perfection of his 
articulation. He practiced before a mirror, and debated 
questions as if he were in a lyceum. 

But the development of the voice is only the beginning of 
the work. The student must be trained in the great school 
of nature. He must listen to her voice as she speaks in her 
children, and thus gather models for imitation. Rosa Bon- 
heur has the unmistakable inspiration of genius, but she 
studied the physiology and characteristics of animals long 
and faithfully before she was able to paint her sheep and 
oxen with such life-like fidelity. Garrick*s acting was so 

xiv Introduction. 

natural that the countryman who visited the theater, for the 
first time, and saw him in Hamlet, said, "if that little man is 
not fi%htened, I never saw a man frightened in my life; why, 
he acts just as I would if I were down there with a ghost." 

Booth, in Richelieu, does not seem to be acting the char- 
acter. The bowed figure, the wrinkles and the voice of age 
are there, and you can scarcely believe he is not the Car- 

And more wonderful still, Ristori, by the magic power of 
voice, her expressive face and her natural gesture, moves an 
audience to laughter or to tears at will, and all this, when 
speaking in an unknown tongue. 

The reader must be sympathetic, entering into the joy or 
grief of others as if it were his own. 

Mrs. Siddons once had a pupil who was practicing for the 
stage. The lesson was upon the " part" of a young girl whose 
lover had deserted her. The rendering did not please that 
Queen of Tragedy, and she said, " Think how you would feel 
under the circumstances. What would you do if your lover 
were to run off and leave you?" "I would look out for 
another one," said that philosophic young lady, and Mrs. Sid- 
dons with a gesture of intense disgust cried out, "Leave mel" 
and would never give her another lesson. 

There must be a lively imagination combined with artistic 
skill. The picture must not only be clear and distinct in the 
mind of the reader, but he must be able to hold it up before 
his audience as if it were on canvass. He must make the 
principal parts stand out in high relief; then he must with 
skillful fingers touch up the picture, showing a vivid light 
here and a shadow there, until the chiaro-oscuro is perfect. 

Such actors as Booth and Ristori, such readers as Fanny 
Kemble and Murdoch, and such singers as Jenny Lind and 
Parepa are really Raphaels and Michael Angelos. Their pic- 
ture cannot be purchased by connoisseurs and hung in stately 

V . 

Introduction. xv 

tialls, but in the heart of every listener the gems of art are 
hung, and memory forever after is enraptiured as she gazes. 

The judgment must be sound, else bombast may be mis- 
taken for eloquence, and rant for the true expression of fSeel- 
ing. And finally, in reading, as in everything else, common 
sense is a valuable acquisition, and he who has it not, though 
his voice may be, at his will, as strong as that of a lion or as 
gentle as that of a dove, will never please. 

In brief, the chief requisites of the reader are voice, imita- 
tion, feeUag, artistic skill and above all common sense. 

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: Orthoepy is the correct pronunciation of words. 

In order to fix habits of correct pronunciation and distinct 
enunciation, it is well to drill the voice upon the elementary 
sounds of the language. 

~ A Tonic is an unobstructed vocal tone, which is capable of 
indefinite prolongation. 



as in 



as in 










































y'A Subtonic has vocality, but is interrupted in its passage 
and is not capable of prolongation. 



as in 



as in 






































An Atonic is literally a sound without tone, an expulsion 
of whispered breath. 


as in 









Exercises in Elocution. 


pit. s as in sink, 

ton. sh " sharp, 

kate. h *^ hem. 

fate. wh " what, 

There are also a few " occasional " sounds, and also many 
combinations, which it is not thought necessary to give in the 
preceding tables. Let the pupil pronounce the elements with 
every variety of force, pitch, stress and time ; and to this add 
phonic spelling. These exercises will not only give correct pro- 
nunciation, but will give also flexibility to the organs of speech. 


Quality is the kind or tone of voice used in expressmg 
sentiment. Nature has so wisely formed the human voice 
and the human soul, that certain tones are associated with 
certain emotions. We readily recognize the cry of pain or 
fright, the language of joy or sorrow, command or entreaty, 
though the words spoken are in an unknown tongue. Intelli- 
gent animals and children obey tones rather than words ; and, 
as quality of voice is nature's own mode of giving us the key 
to her mind, particular and early attention should be given to 
this part of vocal culture. 

Rubens could, by one stroke of his brush, convert a laugh- 
ing into a weeping child; and we can color emotion with, 
qualities of voice so that the metamorphosis is not less sudden * 
or more complete. 

I. Pure Quality is that used in common conversation, sim- 
ple narrative or description. \ 

If the voice is not really and technically pure, exercise in 
vocal culture may make it so. Children's voices seem to be 
naturally pure. It is the utterance of evU passion, with bad 
reading and reciting in the schools, that makes the voice 

Exercises in Elocution. 3 

sharp and disagreeable. The teacher should see that all the 
exercises of the school are carried on in cheerful tones : 


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

Be not too tame neither, but let your own discretion be 
your tutor. Suit the action to the word; the word to the 
action; with this special observance — that you overstep not 
the modesty of nature : for anything so overdone is from the 
purpose of playing; whose end, both at the first and now, 
was, and is, to hold, as 'twere, the mirror up to nature; — to 
show virtue her own feature; scorn her own image ; and the 
very age and body of the time, his form and pressure. Now 
this, overdone or come tardy off, though it make the unskillful 
Jaugh, cannot but make the judicious grieve ; the censure of 
*• which one, must, in your allowance, o'erweigh a whole theater 
of others. Oh ! there be players, that I have seen play, and 
heard others praise, and that highly, not to speak it profanely, 
that neither having the accent of Christians, nor the gait of 
Christian, pagan, or man, have so strutted and bellowed, that 
I have thought some of nature's journeymen had made men, 
and not made them well, — they imitated humanity so abomi- 
nably! Shakspeare. 

4 Exercises in Elocution. 


Because you flourish in worldly affairs, 
Don*t be haughty, and put on airs, 

With insolent pride of station I 
Don*t be proud, and turn up your nose 
At poorer people in plainer clothes, 
But learn, for the sake of your mind's repose. 
That wealth's a bubble that comes — and goes I 
And that all proud flesh, wherever it grows, 

Is subject to irritation! 

/2. The Orotund is used in expressing the language of 
grandeur, sublimity, awe, reverence, coiwage, etc.) It is round 
and full, and may be said to be the maximum or pure quality. 
It was named are rotunda by the old poet, Horace, when 
speaking of the flowing eloquence of the Greeks : t 


thou that rollest above, round as the shield of my fathers I 
Whence are thy Ijeams, sun I thy everlasting light? Thou comest 
forth in thy awful beauty; the moon, cold and pale, sinks in tlia 
western wave, 


Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more; 
Or close the wall up with our English dead. 
Oh, when the blast of war blows in our ears. 
Then imitate the action of the tiger : 
Stiffen the sinew — summon up the blood — 
Disguise fair nature with hard favored rage ; 
Then lend to the eye a terrible aspect; 
Aye, set the teeth and stretch the nostrils wide. 
Hold hard the breath, and bend up every spirit 
To its full height I On, on, you noble English, 
Whose blood is set from fathers of war proof; 
Cry, Heaven for Harry, England and St. George f 

Exercises m Elocution. 5 

,^' 3. The Pectoral gives expression to deep-seated anger, 
despair, great solemnity, etc. It has its resonance in the 
chest; is low in pitch; is usually accompanied by slow time, 
and is, indeed, a very low orotund : -v - ' »♦ ^ • • 


Oh I I have passed a miserable nighty 
So full of fearful dreams^ of ugly sights, 
That, as I am a Christian faithful man, 
I would not spend another such a night, 
• Though 't were to buy a world of happy days* 

So full of dismal terror was the time I 


Ma^, Methought I heard a voice cry, SUep no man, 
Maobbth dolh murder sleep — ike innooeni sleep—' 
Sleep Ihai knits up the ravePd sleeve of eartj 
The death of each day*s lifsj sore labor's hath^ 
Balm of hurt minds^ great natare*s second course^ 
Chief nourisher in Ufe^s feasl:-^ 

Lady M. What do you mean ? 

Macb. Still it cried, Sleep no more, to all the house : 
Glamis haih murder' d sleep ; and iherefore Cawdor 
ShaU sleep no more — Macbeth shaU sleep no more I 



-^ 4. The Guttural (from guttur^ throat^ is used to express 
:J anger, hatred, contempt, loathing, eta) Its characteristic is 
an explosive resonance in the throat ^ 


How like a fawning publican he looks I 

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 usuance with us here in Venice. 

If I can catch him once upon the hip, 

I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him I 


6 Exercises in Elocution. 

He hates our sacred nation ; and he rails, 

Even there where merchants most do congregate, 

On me, my bargains, and my well-won thrifli 

Which he calls interest. — Cursed be my tribe 

If I forgive him I 


Thou slave^ thou wretch^ thou eotoard/ 

Thou cold-blooded slave! 

Thou wear a lion's hide ? 

Doff it, for shame, and hang 

A calf-sJdn on those recreant limbs. 

5. The Plaintive is used in the language of pity, grief, eta | 

/^ 1. / 

Oh I but to breathe the breath 

Of the cowslip and primrose sweet— 
With the sky above my head, 

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

To feel as I used to feel, 

Before I knew the woes of want 

And the walk that costs a meal 1 



"Farewell!" said he, "Minnehaha! 
Farewell, my Laughing Water ! 
All my heart is buried \vlth you, 
All my thoughts go onward with you ! 
Come not back again to labor, 
Gome cot back again to sufifer, 
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 !'* ZongfeUouK 

ExEBcisss IN Elocution, » 

6. The Aspirate gives the whispered utterance of secrecy, 
fear, etc.) Its characteristic is distinctness — indeed, whatever 
is lost in vocality is made up in distinctness. For this reason 
exercise upon this quality is of great value in vocal culture. 

The aspirate is usually combined with other qualities. 


Speak softly! 
All's hushed as midnight yet 

See'st thou here ? 

This is the mouth o* the cell : no noise I and enter 


I fear thee ancient mariner I 

I fear thy skinny hand I 
And thou art long and lank and brown, 

As is the ribb'd sea sand. Coleridge, 

SC 7. The Falsetto is used in expressing affectation, terror, pain, 

mockery, anger, etc\ It is pitched above the natural range 

of voice: ^ / J 


ru not endure it — Duke or no Duke— 

ril be a DttchesSj Sir I Honey Moon^ 


" How now ? 
Woman — where, woman, is your ticket, 
That ought to let you through our wicket? 
Says Woman, " Where is David^a Cow f ** 

Said Mr. H , with expedition, 

" There's no Cow in the Exhibition." 

" No Cow I — but here her tongue in verity, 

Set off with steam and rail celerity — 

** No Cow I there ainH no Cow, then the morels the shame and pity. 

Rang you and Vie R. AJ'Sj and aU the Hanging Committee/ 

No Cow — hut hold your tongue^ for you needn't talk to me — 

Tou canH talk up the Cow, you canH, to where it ought to 5e ^- 

/ havn*t seen a picture high or low, or any how^ 

Or in any of the rooms to he compared with Davids Cow " HoOd, 

8 Exercises in Elocutioit. 

The pupils will determme the Quality of voice to be used 

in reading the following examples, giving also the names of 

authors : 


Rejoice, you men of Anglers \ ring your bells : 

King John, your king and England's, doth approach ; — 

Open your gates, and give the victors way I 


Stoop, Bomans, stoop^ 
And let us bathe our hands in Csesar's blood; 
Then walk ye forth, eren to the market-place ; 
And, waving our red weapons o*er our heads, 
Let's all cry peace I freedom I and liberty I 

Call me their traitor I — Thou injurhtts tribune I 
Within thine eyes sat twenty ikotLsand death^^ 
In thine hands clutched as many Mn.Lioirs, in 
Thy lying tongue BOTH numbers, I would say, 

Thou LIEST. 

* • '> 4. 

But the deacon swore, (as deacons do. 

With an "I dew vum,*' or an "1 tell yeou,") 

He would build one shay to beat the taown 

'N* the keounty *n* all the kentry raoun; 

It should be so built that it could'n' break daown -« 

" Fur,** said the deacon, " *t*s mighty plain 

That the weakes* place mus* stan' the strain ; 

'N' the way t* fix it, uz I maintain, 

Is only jest 
T* make that uz strong uz the rest." 


When the lorn damsel, with a frantic screech 

And cheeks as hueless as a brandy-peach, 

Cries, ^^Help^ heind Heaven/** and drops upon her knees^ 

On the green — baize, beneath the — canvas — trees* 

Exercises in Elocution. 9 


" I wad ha'e kent it, Mr. North, on the tower o' Babel, on the 
day o* the great hubbub. I think Socrates maun ha*e had just sic a 
voice — ye canna weel ca *t sweet, for it is ower intellectual for 
that — ye canna ca 't saft, for even in itslaigh notes there's a sort o' 
birr, a sort o* dirl that betokens power — ye canna ca *t hairsh, for 
angry as ye may *be at times, it *s aye in tune frae the fineness o*^ 
your ear for music — ye canna ca 't sherp, for it *s aye sae natural — 
and flett it cud never be, gin you were even gi*en ower by the 
doctors. It 's maist the only voice I ever heard, that I can say is 
at ance persuawsive and commanding — you micht fear *t, but you 
maun love *t ; and there's no voice in all his Majesty's dominions, 
better framed by nature to hold communion with friend or foe." 

Mr. Orator Puff had two tones in his voice, 

The one squeaking tliun^ and the other down «o / 
In each sentence he uttered he gave you your choice ; 
For one half was B alt, and the rest G below. 
1 oh I Orator Puff, 
One voice for an orator 's surely enough I 

But he still talked away, 'spite of coughs and of frownay 

So distracting all ears with his ups and his downs. 

That a wag once, on hearing the orator say, — 

" My voice is for war," asked him, — " Which of them pray ? * 

0! oh I Orator Puff, 

One voice for an orator *s surely enough I 

Eeeling homeward one evening, top-heavy with gin, 

And rehearsing his speech on the weight of the crown, 
He tripped near a sawpit, and tumbled right in, 

" Sinking ftmd," the last words as his noddle came down, 
1 oh I Orator Puff, 
One voice for an orator *s surely enough I 

**0I save I" he exclaimed, in his he-and-she tones, 
"Help me out I help me out I I have broken my bones!** 
f*Help you outl" said a Paddy, who passed, " what a bother I 
Why, there's two of you there ; can't you help one another T 

1 oh I Orator Puff, 

One voice for an orator 's surely enough I 

. 1* 

10 Exercises in Elocution. 


Perishing gloomily, 
Spurred by contumely, 
Cold inhumanity, 
Burning insanity, 
Into her rest. 

— Cross her hands humbly, 
As if praying dumbly, 
Over her breast ! 
Owning her weakness, 
Her evil behavior. 
And leaving, with meeknes8| 
Her sins to her Saviour. 


Shivering! Hark I he mutters 
Brokenly now — that was a difficult breath — 
Another ? Wilt thou never come, Death ? 

Look ! how his temple flutters I 
Is his heart still? Aha! lifl up his head! 
He shudders — gasps — Jove help him — so— he's dead. 


Qra, — 0, upright judge ! — Mark, Jew ! — a learned judge I 

Shy, — ITremvlously^l — Is that the law ? 

Por. — Thyself shall see the act : 
For, as thou urgest justice, be assured 
Thou shalt have justice, more than thou desir*st. 

Ora, — learned judge ! — Mark, Jew ! — a learned judge. 

Shy. — I take this offer, then ; — pay the bond thrice, 
And let the Christian go. 

Bass. — Here is the money. 

>or. — Soft: 
The Jew shall have all justice ; — soft ! — no haste ; — 
He shall have nothing but the penalty. 

Qra. — 0, Jew! an upright judge, a learned judge! 

MxEBCiSBa IN IClocution. 11 


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

1. Adam, Dear master, I can go no farther : Oh, I die for food I 
Here lie I down and measure out my grave. Farewell, kind master. 


y Force denotes the strength or power of the voiccliK ftC^. in* \ 
I. Degrees. ^ ^ / 

I. Moderate. Used with pure quality. ) It is like the 
Inezzo and mezzo piano in music i , 


There are three classes of women. 

First, domestic Drudges, who are wholly taken up in the material 
details of their housekeeping, husband-keeping, child-keeping. 
Their housekeeping is a trade, and no more ; and, after they have 
done that, there is no more which they can do. In New England 
it is a small class, getting less every year. 

Next, there are domestic Dolls, wholly taken up with the Tain 
show which delights the eye and the ear. They are ornaments of 
the estate. Similar toys, I suppose, will one day be more cheaply 
manufactured at Paris and Nurnberg, at Frankfort-on-the-Maine, 
and other toy shops of Europe, out of wax and papier-mache, and 
sold in Boston at the haberdasher's, by the dozen. These ask 
nothing beyond their function as dolls, and hate all attempts to 
elevate womankind. 

12 ExBSCisss IN Elocution. 


So goes the world ; if wealthy, yoa may caQ 
This friend, that brother, friends and brothers all; 

Though yoa are worthless, witless, never mind it; 
You may hare been a stable-boy — what then? 
'Tis wealth, good sir, makes honorable men. 

You seek respect, no doubt, and you will find it. 
But if you're poor, Heaven help you I though your sire 

Had royal blood within him, and though you 

Possessed the intellect of angels, too, 
'Tis all in vain ; — the world will ne'er inquire 

On such a score; — why should it take the pains 7 

'TLs easier to weigh purses, sure, than brains. 
^ Jane Ihyhr. 

SC^2. Gentle. Very soft — like the piano and pianissimo of 
music ; used in expressing tenderness, love, secrecy, caution, etc. : ) 

Hush-a-bye, Lillian, 

Kock to thy rest ; 

Be thy life, little one, 

Evermore blest 

Once has the changing moon 

Waned in the skies 

Since little Lillian 

Opened her eyes. 

Once has the crescent moon 

Shone in the west, 

On little Lillian 

Taking her rest 


Is there a lone mother 
Wcteping dead hopes above, 
Who bade her boy do battle 
Tender with tears and love ? 
Mourns she over his ashes 
With many a bitter cry ? 
Pity her anguish Father, 
Who gavest thy Son to die. 

MIm Schendk 


Q Exercises in Elocution. 13 

l/X 3. ^€ftvy. The forte and fortissimo of ^ music — used in 
commaho) ibxultation, denunciation, etcr 


Stand I the ground's your own, m j brayeai 
Will ye giye it up to slaves ? 
Will ye look for greener graves ? 

Hope ye mercy still ? 
What's the mercy despots feel? 
Hear it in that battle peal, 
Bead it on yon bristling steel, 

Ask it, ye who will I Pitrpont 


I scorn for^veness, haughty man I 
You've injured me before the clan ; 
And nought but blood shall wipe away 
The shame I have endured this day. 

4. Crescendo < A gradually increasing volume of voice; J 

But lo I he is nearing his heart's desire — 

He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray, 

With Sheridan only five miles away. 


5. Diminuendo. A gradually decreasing volume of voice : j 

The loud wind dwindled to a whisper low. 


2. Variations of Force, or Stress. 




I. Radical ::s»- An explosive force upon the opening of 

the vowel ; used in lively description, command, fear, etc. : \ 


There's a dance of leaves in that aspen bower, 

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


14 ExsBCiSEs IN Elocution, 


Talk not to me of odds or match I 

When Comyn died, three daggers clashed within 

His side. Talk not to me of sheltering hall I 

The Church of God saw Comyn fall I 

On God's own altar streamed his blood; 

While o'er my prostrate kinsman stood 

The ruthless murderer, even as now, — 

With armed hand and scornful brow. " 

Up I all who love me I blow on, blow I 

And lay the outlawed felon low I 


2^ Final . -i c An explosive force upon the closing of the 
vowel; used in expressing determination, doggedness, dis- 
gust, etc. : /N 

'^ 1. 

A breath of submission we breathe not : 

The sword we have drawn we will sheathe not I 


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

You may, if it be God's will, gain our barren and rugged moun- 
tains. But, like our ancestors of old, we will seek refuge in wilder 
and more distant solitudes; and when we have resisted to the last, 
we will starve in the icy wastes of the glaziers. Aye I men, women 
and children, we will be frozen into annihilation together, ere one 
free Switzer will acknowledge a foreign master. 

3. Median — =C=— A swell of the voice upon the mid- 
dle of the vowel; used in the language of grandeur, sub- 
limity, etc. : ] 


Exercises in Ehocvrioff. 16 


O tbou that roUest above, round as the shield of my fathers I 
whence are thy beams, O sun I thy everlasting light? Thou comest 
forth in thy awful beauty : the stars hide themselres in the sky ; 
the moon, cold and pale, sinks in the western wave. 

Hear the mellow wedding bells, 
Golden bells 1 
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells! 
Through the balmy air of nighty 
How they ring out their delight I 
From the molten golden notes, 

And all in tune, 
What a liquid ditty floats 
To the turtle dove, that listens, while she gloats 

On the moon I 
Oh I from out the sounding cells, 
What a gush of euphony yoluminously wells, 

How it swells I 
How it dwells I 
On the future I — how it tells 
Of the rapture that impels 
To the swinging and the ringing 
Of the bells, 

To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells I 


Oh I sing unto the Lord a new song ; for he hath done marvel* 
ous things ; his right hand and his holy arm hath gotten him the 
victory. Make a joyful noise unto the Lord, all the earth; make a 
loud noise, and rejoice, and sing praise. Sing unto the Lord with 
the harp ; with the harp and the voice of a psalm. 

'*jL^A- Thorough □ An explosive force throughout the vowel, 
A used in emphatic command, braggadocio, etc. : 

Come one, come all, this rock shall fly^ 
From its firm base as soon as L SooiL 



2. . 

" Go," cried the mayor, " and get long poles I 

Poke out the nests and block up the holes 1 

Consult with carpenters and builders, 

And leave in our town not even a trace 

Of the rats I " Robert Browning, 

5. Compound X An explosive force upon the opening 
and closing of the vowel, indicating surprise ; ] 


Gone to be married I Oone to swear a peace / 

False blood to false blood joined ! Gone to be friends I 

Shall Lewis have Blanche, and Blanche these provinces t 


Julia, Why I do you think Til workf 

Duke, I think 'twill happen, wife. 

Jvlia, What, ruh and scrub your noble palace clean f 

Duke. Those taper fingers will do it daintly. 

Julia, And dress your victuals (if there be any) ? 0, 1 shall go 

mad. 1 ^ i ' Tobin. 

,iX^ 6. Tremulens .^.^^wr*-» A waving movement of voice, used 
in expressing excessive joy, grief, fear, old age, etc. : I . 

1. ' 

Oh ! then, I see queen Mab hath been with you. 

She comes 
In shape no bigger than an agate stone, 
On the forefinger of an alderman, 
Drawn by a team of little atomies 
Athwart men's noses, as they lie asleep ; 
Her wagon spokes made of long spinners* legs ; 
The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers ; 
The traces, of the smallest spider's web ; 
The collars, of the moonshine's watery beams; 
Her whip of cricket's bone ; the hah of film j 
Her wagoner, a small gray-coated gnat ; 
Her chariot is an empty hazel-nut, 
Made 1^ the joiner squirrel, or old grub, 
Time out of mind the fairies' coachmakers. 

Exercises in Elocution. 17 

And in this state she gallops, night by nighty 

Through lover's brains, and then they dream of love ; 

0*er lawyers' fingers, who straight dream on fees; 

O'er ladies' lips^ who straight on kisses dream : 

Sometimes she gallops o'er a coartier's nose, 

And then dreams he of smelling out a suit ; 

And sometimes comes she with a tithe-pig's tail. 

Tickling a parson's nose, as he lies asleep, 

Then dreams he of another benefice : 

Sometimes slie driveth o'er a soldier's neck, 

And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats, 

Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades, 

Of healths five fathom deep ; and then anon 

Drums in his ear ; at which he starts and wakes ; 

And, being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two. 

And sleeps again. Shakspeare* 

\>\ 'i -)^*'-^ 2. 

O, Christ of the seven wounds, who look'st thro* the dark 

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

Whose sons not being Christ*s, die with eyes turned away, 
And no last word to say I 


The little girl slid off his knee, 

And all of a tremble stood. 
" Good wife," he cried, " come out and see. 

The skies are as red as blood." 
" Gk)d save us I" cried the settler's wife, 

•* The prairie's a-fire, we must run for life I ** 

The pupil will determine the quality, degree of force and 

stress to be used in giving the following examples, also giving 

names of authors: 


The good ship Union's voyage is o'er, 

At anchor safe she swings, 
And loud and clear with cheer on cheer ^ 

Her joyous welcome rings : 

18 Exercises in Elocution. 

Hurrah ! hurrah 1 it shakes the wave. 
It thunders on the shore, — 

One flag, one land, one heart, one hand, 
One nation eyermore I 


Oh I I have passed a miserable night 


An hour passed on — the Turk awoke; 

That bright dream was his last ; 
He woke — to hear his sentries shriek, 
*' To arms I they come I the Greek I the Greek I" 
He woke — to die *midst flame, and smoke, 
And shout, and groan, and sabre stroke, 

And death-shots falling thick and fast 
As lightnings from the mountain-cloud ; 
And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, 

Bozzaris cheer his band : 
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 I 


I really believe some people save their bright thoughts as being 
too precious for conversation. What do you think an admiring 
friend said the other day to one that was talking good things — 
good enough to print? "Why," said he, " you are wasting mer- 
chantable literature, a cash article, at the rate, as nearly as I can 
tell, of fifty dollars an hour." The talker took him to the window, 
and asked him to look out and tell him what he saw. 

" Nothing but a very dusty street," he siaid, " and a man driving 
a sprinkling machine through it." 

" Why don*t you tell the man he is wasting that water ? What 
would be the state of the highways of life, if we did not drive 
our thought^rinklers through them with the valves open, some- 

Exercises in Elocution. 19 


Oh, when the blast of war blows in our eare, 
Then imitate the action of the tiger : 
Stiffen the sinew — summon up the blood — 
Disguise fair nature with hard favored rage ; 
Then lend to the eye a tenible aspect ; 
Aye, set the teeth and stretch the nostrils wide. 
Hold hard the breath, and bend up every spirit 
To its full height I On, on, you noble English, 
Whose blood is set from fathers of war proof; 
Cry, Heaven for Harry, England and St Oeorge ! 


There's a new foot on the floor, my friend, 
And a new face at the door, my friend, 
A new face at the door. 

As the dying man murmurs, the thunders swelL 

-f^ IV. TIME. 

^^f-^ 1. Movement or Measure of Speech. 

yj I. Moderate. The rate of unimpassioned language, used 
with pure quality : j 

/ 1. 

It is a strange thing how little in general people know about the 
sky. It is the part of creation in which Nature has done more for 
the sake of pleasing man, more for the sole and evident purpose of 
talking to him and teaching him, than in any other of her works, 
and it is just the part in which we least attend to her. 



It was the time when lilies blow, 

And clouds are highest up in air. 
Lord Ronald brought a lily white doe, 

To give his cousin, Lady Clare. 




20 Exercises in Elocution. 

wC — 3. Quick. The movement of joy, humor, etc, : J 

And see I she stirs 1 

She starts, — she moves, — she seems to feel 

The thrill of life along her keel, 

And, spurning with her foot the ground, 

With one exulting, joyous bound. 

She leaps into the ocean's arms 1 


i 3. Ri^id. Used in expressing haste, fear, etc. :1 

Hurrah I 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 — upon them with the lance I 

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. 


X-*^. Slow. Used in the language of grandeur, sublimity 
adoration, etc. : j 

And thou, 0, silent mountain, sole and bare, 
0, blacker than the darkness, all the night, 
And visited all night by troops of stars, — 
Or when they climb the sky, or when they sink, — 
Companion of the morning star at dawn, 
Thyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawn 
Co-herald I wake, oh I wake, and utter praise I 
Ye ice-falls I ye that from your dizzy heights 
Adown enormous ravines steeply slope, — 
Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty noise. 
And stopped at once amidst their maddest plunge I 
Motionless torrents I silent cataracts I 
Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven. 
Beneath the keen full moon ? Who bade the sun 


JSxsBCisss IN Elocution. 21 

Clothe you with rainbows ? Who with lovely flowers 

Of living blue spread garlands at your feet?-^ 

God 1 Gk)d I the torrents like a shout of nations 

Utter : the ice-plain bursts, and answers, God f CoUridgt, 

>+^ / 5- Very slow. The deepest emotion of horror, awe, gloom, 

etc: ^ 

tnad a dream which was not all a dream,— 

The bright sun was extinguished ; and the stars 

Did wander darkling in the eternal space, 

Ray less and pathless ; and the icy earth 

Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air ; 

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


Examples for determining Quality, Force, Stress, Time and 

names of authors : 


rU tell ye what I 
ril fly a few times around the lot, 
To see how *t seems, then soon *8 Fve got 
The hang o' the thing, ez likely *s not, 

I'll astonish the nation. 

An' all creation, 
By flyin' over the celebration I 
Over their heads Til sail like an eagle ; 
ril balance myself on my wings like a sea-gull; 
I'll dance on the chimbleys; Fll stand on the steeple; 
I'll flop up to winders an* scare the people I 
I'll light on the liberty-pole, an' crow ; 
An' I'll say to the gawpin' fools below, 

*' What world 's this 'ere 

That Fve come near ? ' 
Fur 111 make 'em Viieve I'm a chap f 'm the moon ; 
An' m try a race 'ith their ol' balloon I" 


Alas, what need you be so boisterous-rough ? 
I will not struggle, I will stand stone-still. 
For Heaven's sake, Hubert, let me not be bound ; 
Nay, hear me, Hubert, drive these men away 
And I will sit as quiet as a lamb ; 

22 Exercises in Elocution. 

I will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word. 
Nor look upon the iron angerly : 
Thrust but these men away, and PU forgive you 
Whatever torment you do put me to. 


Then my heart it grew ashen and sober 
As the leaves that were crisped and sere — 
As the leaves that were withering and sere, 

And I cried, — " It was surely October, 
On tlu3 very night of last year, 
That I journeyed — I journeyed down here— 
That I brought a dread burden down here, — 
On this night of all nights in the year, 
Ah, what demon hath tempted me here ? 

Well I know now this dim lake of Auber — 
This misty mid region of Weir, — 

Well I know now this dark tarn of Auber, 
This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir." 


Ye*re there, but yet I see you not I — forth draw each trusty 

And let me hear your faithful steel clash once around my board I 
I hear it faintly I — louder yet I What clogs my heavy breath? 
Up, all ! — and shout for Rudiger, " Defiance unto death 1 *^ 


Arm I arm I it is — it is the cannon's opening roar I 
Ah ! then and there was hurrying to and fro, 
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, 
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago 
Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness. 


And all I remember is friends flocking round, 

As I sate with his head *twixt my knees on the ground; 

And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine, 

As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine, 

Which (the burgesses voted by common consent) 

Was no more than his due who brought good news from Q-hent. 

JExEROisES IN Elocution. 23 

2. Pause or Grouping of Speech. 

"A pause is often more eloquent than words." 

I. SententiaL^nFounded upon the syntactical structure of 
the sentence and indicated by the marks of punctuation. 
It is addressed to the eye, and may or may not be used as a 
rest of the voice. 

The old-school fashion of stopping invariably at the 
comma long enough to count one, at a semicolon two, at a 
colon three, etc., has, we hope, with other relics of school 
barbarism, passed away. 

•'How did Q-arrick speak the soliloquy, last night?" — "Oh I 
against all rule, my lord, most ungrammatically I Betwixt the sub- 
stantive and the adjective, which should agree together in number, 
case and gender, he made a breach thus — stopping, as if the point 
wanted settling; and betwixt the nominative case, which, your 
lordship knows, should govern the verb, he suspended his voice in 
the epilogue a dozen times, three seconds and three-fifths by a 
stop-watch, my lord, each time." "Admirable grammarian I — 
But, in suspending his voice, — was the sense suspended ? — Did no 
expression of attitude or countenance fill up the chasm? — Was the 
eye silent? Did you narrowly look?" — "I looked only at the 
stop-watch, my lord I " — " Excellent observer I " 

Siemens sketch of the critic at the theatre, 

JL*i. 2. Rhetorical. Wholly dependent upon the sense and feel* 
' mg, and, while it rests the voice of the speaker, is addressed 
to the ear of the listener.j 

We give a few examples covering the principal ground of 
Rhetorical Pause. 

% I. (i.) After the subject of a sentence. J 
7^ Intemperance | is a vice* 

V (2.) After the subjective phrase.) , 
^ The pleasures of sin I are but for a season. 

,¥■ * 

L (3.) When the subject is inverted. / 
The meekest of men | was Moses. 

24 Exercises in ELOcunom 

^t. After every emphatic word) /^ 
Maty I is a good girl. 
Mary is \ a good girL 
Mary is a good \ girl, 

Jrg. Before the prepositional phrase.) 
We are going | into the country. 

\ 4. Wherever an ellipsis occurs. ] 

Boy Britton, | only a lad, | a fair-haired boy, | sixteen, ( 

In his uniform. 
Into the storm, into the roaring jaws of grim Fort Henry, 

Boldly bears the Federal flotilla, 
Into the battle storm. 

V5. In order to arrest the attention, j 

The sentence was | Death. 

The student will locate rhetorical pauses in the following 
examples, giving also names of authors: 


It was a maxim of Hafikelle's that the artistes object was to make 
things not as Nature makes them, but as she would make them ; as 
she ever tries to make them, but never succeeds, though her aim 
may be deduced from a comparison of her effects; just as if a 
number of archers had aimed unsuccessfully at a mark upon a wall, 
and this mark were then removed, we could by the examination 
of their arrow-marks point out the probable position of the spot 
aimed at^ with a certainty of being nearer to it than any of their 


I am not come 

To stay: to bid farewell, farewell forever, 
For this I come I 'Tis over I I must leave thee ! 
Thekla, I must — must leave thee I Tet thy hatred 
Let me not take with me. I pray thee, grant me 
One look of sympathy, only one look. 

JSxJBBcrsEs IN Slocoitok. t$ 


Ha! bind him on his back! 
Look I — as Prometheus ia my picture here I 
Quick — or he faints I — stand with the cordial aeftrl 

Now — bend him to the rackl 
Press down the poisoned links into his flesh 1 
And tear agape that healing wound afresh 1 

So — let him writhe I How long 
TTIl. he live thus? Quick, my good pencil, nowf 
What a fine agony works upon his brow t 

Ha! gray- haired, and so strong! 
How fearfully he stifles that short moan I 
Gods 1 if I oould but paint a dying groaa I 

I 4- V. MELODY. J 

4~ Pitch is the degree of the elevation or depression of sound, i 
In musicy exactness can be reached in regard to pitch, whUe/ 
in elocution, we can only use terms which are modified by dif- 
ferent voices and gradations of emotion with difierent persons. 

I. Middle. Used in conversational language : 



The first step towards becoming a good elocutionist^ is a correct 
articulation. A public speaker, possessed of only a moderate voice, 
if he articulates correctly, will be belter understood, and heard 
with greater pleasure, than one who vociferates without judgment 
The voice of the latter may indeed extend to a considerable dis- 
tance, but the sound is dissipated in confusion. Of the former 
voice not the smallest vibration is wasted, every stroke is perceived 
at the utmost distance to which it reaches ; and hence it has often 
the appearance of penetrating even farther than one which is loud, 

tmt badly articulated. Oomstock^ 


In slumbers of midnight, the sailor-boy lay ; 

His hammock swung loose at the sport of the wind ; 

But, watch-worn, and weary, his cares flew away ; 

And visions of happiness danced o*er his mind. 


26 Exercises in Elooutiok. 

X»«#. High. Indicates joy, grie^ astonishment, etc : ) 

" The slogan's ceased — but hark I din ye no hear 
The Campbeirs pibrock swell upon the breeze I 
They're coming, hark I " then falling on her knees, — 
" We're saved," she cries, " we're saved." Vandenhoff, 

Go ring the bells and fire the guns, 

And fling the starry banners out ; 
Shout " FREEDOM; • till your lisping ones 

Give back their cradle shout WhitUer. 

I 3. Low. Expresses grave, grand, solemn or reverential 

' /feeling.) The use of the low pitch is very effective in reading. 

Ruskin says of painting, " If you wish to express vivid light, 

you must make the shadows sharp and visible," and this rule 

will apply to word pictures as well. 

It will not do to give any particular rendering for the voice- 
effect alone, but if taste is not sacrificed, some shading will 
only bring out the beauty of the picture : 

And he hangs, he rocks between — and his nostrils curdle in,— 

ToU slowly ! 
And he shivers head and hoof — and the flakes of foam fall off; 

And his face grows fierce and thin, 
And a look of human woe, from his staring eyes did go — 

Ton slowly I 
And a sharp cry uttered he, in a foretold agony 

Of the headlong death below. 

Mri, Btotoning. 

I 4. Transitions, j It is very important that the student in vocal 
''culture be able to take any pitch at will, making sudden transi- 
tions. Who has not suffered agonies untold, when listening to 
a speaker whose voice was keyed upon and sustained, without 
variableness or shadow of turning, upon the highest and 
sharpest pitch possible? The minister who preaches upon 
an even pitch, whether high or low, lulls his audience to sleep. 
The high voice is at first offensive to the ear, but bye and bye 


the sameness is found to be a fetal opiate. Nothing rests the 
voice like transitions of pitch, time, force and quality. 

^iJU2. Monotone.^ 
V — Sameness of voice, indicating solemnity, power, reverence, 
^ vastness, or a 'Mead level" in sur£sice or sentiment ) 

Deep in the wave is a coral grove, 
Where the purple mullet and gold-fish rove, 
Where the sea-flower spreads its leaves of blue^ 
That never are wet with falling dew, 
Bnt in bright and changeful beauty shine 
Far down in the green and glassy brine. 


And the tun became black as sackcloth of hair, and the moon 
became as blood; and the stars of heaven fell unto the earth, even 
as a fig tree casteth her untimely figs, when she is shaken of a 
mighty wind. And the heaven departed as a scroll when it is 
rolled together ; and every mountain and island were moved out of 
their places. BibU, 

We must not confound monotony with the monotone. 
Much of the school room reading is monotonous in the ex- 
treme, and yet if the monotone would give the reading grand 
effect, without doubt the pupil will read in his most lively manner. 

The haste and monotony often exhibited in reading the 
beautiful words of the church service is to be deplored. Some 
one has said, that haste seems to be the only requisite of wor- 
ship. The clerk of the Assembly may read the bills so that 
no member can possibly know their import, but when the 
magistrate administers the sublime oath — ''Do you solemnly 
swear in the presence of Almighty God, etc.," as if he were 
reading an invoice of goods, and the person taking the oath 
** kisses the Bible with as much solemnity as he would a walk- 
ing stick," the whole transaction seems like a sacrilegious farce. 

t "f 3. DiATONE. ) 

X-The progress of pitch through the interval of a whole tone, 
, ' used in expressing lively emotion, or in common conversation. \ 

28 ExBBCisBS IN Elocution. 

Will the ITew Year come to-ni(^t| mammft? Tm tired of waiting so ; 
My stocking hung by the chimney side, full three long days ago. 
I run to peep within the door by moming*s«early light, 
*Ti8 empty BtiH oh I say, mamma^ will the New Year come to- 
night? f\ \ Miss Eager. 

I 4. Semitone. 1 
I Tb^ progress of pitch through the mterval of a half tone. 
It is called also the Chromatic melody, because it paints pity- 
grief, remorse, etcA It may color a single word, or be contin- 
ued through an entire passage or selection : 

The New Year comes to-night, mamma, '* I lay me down to sleep, 
I pray the Lord" — tell poor papa — " my soul to keep. 
If I '* — how cold it seems, how dark, kiss me, I cannot see, — 
The New Year comes to night, mamma, the old year dies with me. 

Miss Eager, 

The Semitone is very delicate, and must be produced by 
the nature of the emotion. An excess, when the mood or lan- 
guage does not warrant it, turns pathos into burlesque, and 
the scale may be turned from the sublime to the ridiculous 
by the weight of a hair. Strength, flexibility and melody of 
voice are of litde worth if the judgment and the taste are 

When readmg is considered and treated as a branch oi 
aesthetic culture, then, and not till then, will it be fully effective. 

When the beggar implores your alms, he knows full well that 
he must bring to his aid the melody of the semitone. We 
once passed four beggars upon Harlem bridge, the first said, 
" Pity the blind ! " the second, " Have mercy on the blind 1 " 
the third, « Help the blind ! " and the fourth, " Give to the 
poor blind man I " All had the same tune, made up of semi- 
tonic slides, but when a policeman ordered them away, th 
melody was changed to diatonic imprecations. 

Waves or Circumflex. 


Pity the sorrows of a poor old man. 

ExEBciasa nr Elocvteon. m 


Hail, holy light ! 

High on a throne of loyal state I 


I said he was my friend. 
Ah I is he y<mr Mend, then f 


Yes, I said he was my firiend. 
Is he solely yowr friend f 


Irony. All this f Aye, more 1 Fret till yoar protiu heart break* 
Go, show your slaves how choleric you are, and make your bond* 
man tremble. Must I budge? Must I observe you I Must I stand 
and crouch under your testy humor t 


Eidieule, Tou must take me for a fool to think I could do that 

Ifwty. For mine own part. I shall be glad to leani of noble men. 
For Brutus is an honorable man. 

Irony. Tou meant no harm ; oh, no ! your thoughts are innocent ; 
you have nothing to hide ; your breast is pure, stainless, all truth. 

Antithens. If you said so, then I said so. Let the galled jade 
wince, our withers are unwrung I 


r. Position of the Hand. 

^ I. Supine ; open hand, fingers relaxed, palm upward ; used 
in appeal, entreaty, in expressing light, joyous emotions, etc. 

X^ 2. Prone ; open hand, palm downward ; used in negative 
expressions, etc. 

4-« 3. Vertical ; open hand, palm outward ; for repelling, ward- 
ing off, etc. 
\^ 4. Clenched ; hand tightly closed ; used in defiance, cour- 
age, threatening, etc. 

\ 5. Pointing ; prone hand, loosely closed, with index finger 
extended ; used in pointing out, designating, etc. 

2. Direction. 
^ I. Front ; the hand descending below the hip, extending 


ExBRCiasa m Elocution. 

fhorizontally, or ascending to a level or above tlie head, at 

right angles with the speaker's body. 

t 2. Oblique ; at an angle of forty-five degrees from the 
Speaker's body. 

. 3. Extended ; direct from the speaker's side. 

4. Backward ; reversely corresponding to the obliquer 


R. H. S. Right Hand Snpine. 

R. H. P. Right Hand Prone. 

R. H. V. Right Hand Vertical. 

B. H. S. Both Hands Supine. 

B. H. P. Both Hands Prone. 

-' B. H. V. Both Hands Vertical. 

D. £ Descending Front. 

H. f. Horizontal Front 

A. £ Ascending Front. 

D. o. Descending Oblique. 

H. o. Horizontal Oblique. 

A a Ascending Oblique. 

D. e. Descending Extended. 

H. e. Horizontal Extended. 

A. e. Ascending Extended. 

D. b. Descending Behind. 

H. b. Horizontal Behind. 

A. b. Ascending Behind. 




The dotted words indicat 
where the hand is to be raised 
in preparation. 

The gesture is made upon the 
words in capitals. 

The hand drops upon the itali- 
cised wold or li^llabie. 

■ J -' \ 





The following examples have appeared in several works on 
Elocution — ^The New York Speaker and others. Despairing 
of furnishing better examples, I have taken the liberty to use 
them : » ^ - 

:''-^ • 

D, f. This sentiment I will maintain | with the last breath of 


H.f.l appeal | to you, sir, for your de cis ion. 

A. / I appeal | to the great Searcher of hearts for the truth of 
wiiat I ut ter! 

D. o. Of all mistakes | none are so/» tal as those which we incur 
tlirough prejudice! 

K o. Truth, honor, | jus tice were his mo tives. 

A, o. Fix your eye | on the prize of a truly no ble am hi tion. 


D. & A WAT I with, an idea so absurd I 

H. e. The breeze of morning | wafted in cense on the air. 

A, e. In dreams thro* camp and court he bore | the trophies of a 

coNqueror. ••' ♦ 

D, h. A.yrxT \ with an idea so abhorent to humanity I 

• • 

H. h. Search the records of the remotest an n quitj for a^^arallel 

to this. 

A, b. Then rang their proud hurrah I 

• • • • 

R. H. p. 

D. / Put DOWN I the unworthy feelingi 

• • • 

Kf, ResTRAiK the unhallowed propeTisity. 

Z>. o. Let every one who would merit the Christian name | re 
PRESS I such a feeling. 

H, 0. I charge you as men and as Christians | to lay a re straint 

• ••• «• 

on all such dispo si tions I 

A» o. Ye gods | with hold your ven geancel 

D. e. The hand of affection | shall smooth ike txtrf for your last 
^lowl • • 

Hi e. I^he cloud of adver | sity threw its gloom over aU his pros 

A. e» So darkly glooms yon thunder cloud that swathes | as with 
a purple shrouo Benledi*s distant htU, 

£[./. Arise I meet | and rePSL jour foe/ 

A /. For BID it, Almighty God! 

H. 0, He generously extended the arm of power | to ward OFr 
tlie hlow, 

A, 0. May Heaven a vert the cal am ity I 

Bi e. Out of my sight | thou serpent I 

• • 

K h. Thou tempting fiend, a vaunt! 

B. h. b. 

D, /. All personal feeHng he de pos ited on the oT tar of his country*s 

• • • 


H.f. Listen, I im plorv yon, to the T<uce of rta son I 

• • • • 

A,f. Hail I mfiTersal Lord. 

D, 0. Ererj personal adrantage | he anr sni dered to the commoa 

H. o. WELGOm ! onee more to Tour early horn* I 

• • • • 

A, 0. Hail! holy Light I 

D. e, 1 utterly reNOUNOi | aD the supposed adrantages of such a 

• • • • 

M, e. They yet slept | m the wide a BtSB d possi hUitj. 

A, e. Joy, joy I for eter. 

• • • • 

B. H. p. 

D,/. Lie LIGHT ly on him, earth — his step was light on thee. 

JET,/. Now aD the blessings of a glad father light on thtel 

A. /, Blessed be Thy name Lord, Most JEf^ 

D, 0. We are in Thy sight | but as the wottm of (he dust I 

If, 0, May the grace of Gk>d | tAide wUh you/or eteb. 

A. 0. And let the triple rainbow rest | oV oS the mountain Tom 

D. e. Here let the tumults of passion | forever cease I 

J9[ e. Spread vnde a bound the heayen-breathing calm/ 

• • • 

A. e, Heayen 1 opened wide her eyer during gatee, 

• • • • 

B. H.y. 

ff. f Henoe hideous specter / 

• • • 

A,f. AyEST Godf the frown of thy in^gnationl 

J3i 0, Far from oub hearts be so inhuman a feeling. 

• • • • 

A, 0, Let me not | name it to you ye chaste stars I 

Bi e. And if the night haye gathered aught of eyil or eoncealed 

dis PERSE it 

A, c Melt and dis pel, ye specter douhts / 

ExsRcisxs m Elocution. 33 


The living teacher, as a moddy is better than all books of 
rules upon elocution ; yet, if the pupil cannot be drilled by a 
master in the art, he may study carefully some good work 
upon the subject, and if he is observing and has no serious 
defect of voice, may still make much progress in self-cultiure. 
The following table of exercise^ are recommended as helps for 
developing and improving the voice : 

1. Breathing deeply and slowly, rapidly and explosively. 

2. Beading in a whisper so distinctly as to be readily heard 
throughout a large room. 

3. Reading loudly in ''doors, out of doors, and when running up 

4. Read slowly and rapidly alternately, 

5. Read high and low alternately. 

6. Read heavy and gentle alternately. 

7. Increase and diminish in force alternately. 

8. Read up and down the musical scale alternately. 


1. For strength of voice loud explosive exercises. 

2. For distinct enunciation the whisper or an aspirated voice. 

3. For smoothness the medium stress with slow time. 

4. For flexibility as rapidly as possible. 

5. For meeting with any measure of success, keep the eyes and 
p.ars open and practice, practice^ pradice, 


Probably no other branch in our schools is so poorly taught 
as that of reading. There are many reasons why this is so, 
erhaps the principal ones are these : 

1. Teachers cannot themselves read welL 

Now, it is possible, without doubt, for a person who cannot sing 
very well to teach others to make more music than he can himself, 

34 ExsRcisss m ELocxrrioir, 


and just so with reading , bat if b& is proficient in the practice as 
well as the theory, how much better can he teach. 

The teacher should be familiar with the lesson. He should have 
a well-defined plan in his mind concerning the manner in which it 
shall be taught He should decide previously what questions ho 
will ask to arouse attention — how he will fix the lesson in the 

2. The matter of the lessons is often far beyond the comprehen- 
sion of the pupil. 

Many a child blunders on over a dissertation upon the " Problems 
of the Universe** or the " Grandeur of the Ocean" without an idea 
concerning the meaning of a sentence. The name of the author of 
" Easy Lessons" should be honored during all time. Before the 
publication of this book, the child of six or seven years of age 
spelled out his lesson in the Testament or English Reader. Let the 
teacher make selections of those pieces which the child can under- 

3. The children do not study. 

The teacher should see that the lesson is well prepared before it 
is read. The knowledge of the child should be tested by question- 
ing, and he should be ready to define every word if necessary, and 
tell the story in his own language. 

4. The lesson is often too lengthy. 

Pupils are sometimes allowed to read a half dozen pages at a 
lesson, and then only once over, hurrying through from preface to 
finis as if an enemy were in full pursuit, and liable to overtake them 
at any moment. This is all wrong; a page or two is almost always 
sufficient ^or a lesson. Let the piece be read in sections and after- 
ward reviewed. 

5. Children read after the teacher in concert or otherwise, having 
no more intellectual drill than if they were so many parrots. 

The Pestilozzian rule — "Never tell a child any thing which ho 
C9n discover for himself," should be rigorously followed in teacliing 
•reading. Let them criticise each other — the teacher questioning 
adroitly until the correct rendering is given. 

The following order of exercises in conducting primary 
classes has been successfully followed : 

Exercises in Elocvtioit. 95 

1. Primary. 


(For calling the words at sight) 

1. Beversed manaer. Teacher and children alternating one word 


2. Reversed manner. Boys and girls alternating, one word each. 

3. Reversed manner. Careless pupils alternatingi with class. 

4. Reversed manner. Each pupil reading a line as rapidly as pos- 


5. Pupils spell and define difficult words. 


(After the lesson has been throughly studied.) 
1: Teacher asks questions upon the lesson. 

2. Children read and criticise each other, giving reasons. 

3. Teacher reads wrong, or without expression. Children criticise. 

4. Children read in concert after teacher. 

5. Books closed. Children give substance of lesson in their own 


2. Programme for the Week. 

Mr^r^A^xr J Topic pcrtaining to Reading, as emphasis, etc. 
Monaay. ^ Reading from book. 

i Examples brought by children from conversation 
Tuesday. < they have heard. 
( Reading from book. 

! Dictate some selection not in the Readers. Children 
Reading from book. 

Thursday. — Read lesson dictated on the day before. 

Friday. — ^Voluntary Reading. 

Let each read any thing which has been read during the week or 
month. Let the pupils volunteer in all cases, and when reading 
Cace the class. 

For acquiring independence in reading, and as a method of re- 
new, this exercise will be found invaluable. 

3. Methods for Variety in Teaching Reading, 

1. Coccett Reading, one pupil naming pauses. 

2. Individual Reading, class naming pauses. 

30 ExERCiSEB IN Elocution. 

3. Boys and girls alternate, reading a sentence each. 

4. Heading to mistake. 

5. Reading in couples. 

6. G-iying parts in dialognes. 

7. Choosing sides (similar to methods nsed in spelling). 

8. Looking-glass Reading (class imitate one pupil). 

9. Naming pupil who reads until some other name is called. 

10. Voting for best readers. 

11. Dictating lesson, which they copy one day and read the next 

12. Medley Reading (like a round in singing). 

13. Volunteer Reading. 

14. Giving examples gathered from the play ground. (Let the 
children read from the blackboard what they have uttered when at 
play. There is certainly no exercise better suited for teaching 
natural reading.) 

4. Analysis and Method of Teaching. 
Ode on thi Passions. — page 39.* 

1. Ask author's name. 

2. When written? 

3. What other writings of prose or poetry by same author? 

1, Stanza. 

1. Meaning of phrase "When Music was young"? 

2. What country was the cradle of arts and sciences ? 

3. Whose "shell"? 

4. Whence is the figure borrowed ? (Gods and goddesses were 
represented as making music upon sea shells. Triton was Nep* 
tune*s trumpeter, and he made music upon a silver sounding shell.) 

" Like the silvery tones of a fairy shell'* 

Passing away — Pietyont, 

6. Does any line of the first four lack a syllable? 

6. Was " ed" sounded originally ? 

7. How fill the rhythm if a syllable is wanting? 

8. What parenthetic expression in one of the first four lines ? 

9. How will you paint exultation, rage. etc. ? 

10. Who were the muses ? What is meant by muses' painting ? 

ExEBCisxa IN JBLOcxmoN. 87 

11. What kind of "fury" is meant? 
\% Meaning of •* rapt"? 

13. See that the pupil does not say " rap tin^ired." 

14. Have class seen myrtles upon which musical instruments 
might be hung ? 

15. Get or give description of the myrtle tree of the east 


1. How paint Fear ? 

2. How does fear exhibit itself 7 

3. The teacher or some pupil read in different ways; class say 
which is correct 

(Glass will always decide that an aspirated tremor is correct) 


1. With what quality of voice paint Anger T 
(Guttural explosive.) 

2. How paint clash 7 

3. What time upon last line 7 


1. How would you paint upon canvas a picture of Despair 7 

2. You would represent a person of what age? Why not youth 
or extreme old age 7 

3. Position of figure 7 (Bowed head) 

4. If the person were to speak, what tone would he use 7 

5. Would he speak slowly, or quickly, in high or low tone 7 

6. In last clause of last line, what other phase of despair is des- 

7. Does desoair induce insanity 7 


1. How paint Hope upon canvas? 

(Youth, beaming face, looking toward the future, voice pure, 
. ringing, high in pitch.) 

2. What force upon second and third line from the last? 


3. What time upon last line 7 

88 Exercises in Elocution. 


1. How read first half of first line ? 

2. How describe Rerenge by tone of roice ? 

3. How read third line? 
• 4. Quality on fourth ? 

5. Quality on fifth? 

6. How paint the beating of the drum? 

7. How paint Pity ? 

8. How read last line ? 


1. How give veering song of Jealousy ? 
(Nasal intonation — with scorn.) 

2. Changes in last line ? 

1. Tone used in expressing Melancholy? 

2. How read *' dashing soft from rocks around**? (Stacato.) 

3. Time on " Through glades, etc." ? 

4. How read last three lines ? 

(Delicate diminuendo, hollow voice, giving the idea of dbtance, 
Dy arching the throat) 


1. How describe Cheerfulness ? 

2. Meaning of buskins ? 

3. Meaning of Faun and Dryad ? 

4. Meaning of oak-crowned sisters, satyrs, sylvan boys, eta ? 

5. Do you see this creature who personates cheerfulness ? 

1. How will Joy differ from Cheerfulness ? 

2. Meaning of Tempe*8 vale ? 

3. What is the general time of this stanza ? 

The questions might be multiplied, and wopld, undoubtedly. 
This lesson has been given as a specimen. 

If the reading is an intellectual exercise^ sc^me such analy 
sis must be given. 



The Greeds of the Belk 

How sweet the chime of the Sabbath bells t 
Each one its creed in music tells, 
In tones that float upon the air, 
As soft as song, as pure as prayer, 
. And I will put in simple rhyme 
The language of the golden chime ; 
My happy heart with rapture swells 
Respoimve to the bells, sweet bells. 

" In deeds of love excel I excel I" 
Chimed out from iyied towers a bell ; 
" Thiar is the church not built on sands, 
Emblem of one not built with hands; 
Its forms and sacred rites rerere, 
Come worship here I come worship here 1 
In rituals and faith excel P' 
Chimed out the Episcopalian bell. 

'^ heed the ancient landmarks well 1** 
In solemn tones exclaimed a bell ; 
.'* No progress made by mortal man 
Can change the just eternal plan : 
With God there can be nothing new ; 
Ignore the false, embrace the true, 
While^all is well I is well I is well I" 
Pealed out the good old Dutch church belL 

40 Bxssciass IN ELocvnoN. 

« O swell I ye pnrifying wateis swell I" 
In mellow tones rang out a bell, 
" Though faith alone in Christ can savei 
Man must be plunged beneath the wavci 
To show the world unfaltering faith 
In what the Sacred Scriptures saith ; 
O swell I ye rising waters, swell I'' 
Pealed out the clear-toned Baptist bell. 

*' Not faith alone, but works as well, 
Must test the soul !*' said a soft bell ; 
^ Come here and cast aside your load. 
And work your way along the road, 
With faith in God, and faith in man, 
And hope in Christ, where hope began ; 
Bo well t do well I do well I do well 1'* 
Bang out the Unitarian belL 

** Farewell I £surewell t base world, fiirewell P 
In touching tones exclaimed a bell ; 
^ Ufe is a boon, to mortals given, 
To fit the soul for bliss in Heaven ; 
Do not invoke the avenging rod, 
Come here and learn the way to God; 
Say to the world. Farewell i farewell i" 
Pealed forth the Presbyterian belL 


«* To all the truth, we tell I we tell P 
Shouted in ecstacies a bell, 
«< Come all ye weary wanderers, see 1 
Our Lord has made salvation free ! 
Bepent, believe, have faith, and then 
Be saved, and praise the Lord, Amen I 
Salvation's free, we tell 1 we tell 1" 
Shouted the Methodistic belL 

vM0tff9 ff . Jntnfftiif^ 

Exercises in Elocxjtion. 89 » 

Oda eaihe Faodou 

When Music, Heavenly maid, wag younft 
While yet in early Greece sh e sung, 
The Passionsofl, to near her shelly 
ThrongeTaround her magic cell ; 
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, > 
Possessed beyon d the Muse's painting, 
By tumS) they felt the glowing mind 
Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined ; 
Till once, *t is said, when all were fired, 
Filled with fiiry, rapt, inspired, 
From the supporting myrtles round 
They snatched her instruments of sound ; 
And, as they oft had heard apart 
Sweet lessons of her forcefiil art. 
Each — for madness ruled the hour -^ 
Would prove his oaOL^^i'cssive power. 

First, Fear his hand, its skill to try, '"" 

Amid the chords bewildered laid; 
And back recoiled, he knew not why, 

E'en at the sound himself had made. 

Next, Anger rushed, his eyes on fire, ' 

In lijjbJiZUgg^ owned his secret stings: 
In one rudedash he struck the lyre. 

And swept^ with hurried hands, the stringsi 

measures, wan Despair — - / '* » - t I 

sn sounds!-* his g^ef beguiled f * ' ' 

With wofiil 

Low sullen 
A solemn, strange, and mingled air; 

'T was sad, by fits, — by starts, 't was wild 

But thou, Hope I with eyes so fair, A . . ^ 
What was thy ddighted measure ? ^/^ 
Still it whispered promised pleasure, 
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail ! 
Still would her touch the strain prolong ; 



40* Exercises in Elocution. 

And, from the rocksy the woods; the vale^ 

She called on Echo still through all her song; 
And, where her sweetest theme she chose, 
A soft responaJTe voice was heard at every close; 
And Hope, enchanted, smiled, and waved her golden hair. 

I ?And longer had she sung — bi|t, with a frown, 
^^> Revenge impatient rose. 

\ ^i He threw his blood-stained sword in thunder down ; 
\* And, with a withering look, ' 

IjA The war-denouncing trumpet took, 

And blew a blast, so loud and dread, 

Were ne*er prophetic sounds so full of woe ; 
And, ever and anon, he beat, 
The doubling drum with furious heat. 
And though, sometimes^ each dreary pause between, 
Dejected Pity, at his side, 
Her soul-subduing voice applied. 
Yet still he kept his wild unaltered mien ; 
While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting from his head» 

Thy numbers. Jealousy, to naught were fixed ; 

Sad proof of thy distressful state I 
Of different themes the veering song was mixed : 

And now it courted Love — now, raving, called on Hate. 


With eyes upriused, as one inspired, 
; Pale Melancholy sat retired ; 

And, from her wild sequestered seat^ 
v In notes, by distance made more sweet, 
Poured through the mellow horn her pensive soul : 
And, dashing sofl^ from rocks around^ 
Bubbling runnels joined the sound ; 
Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole: 
Or o*er some haunted streams, with fond delay — 
Round a holy calm difinsing. 
Love of peace and lonely musing — 
In hollow murmurs died away. 

ExsBcisBS IN Elocxjtton. 41 

But, 1 how altered was its sprightly tone. 
When Cheerfulaess, a nymph of healthiest hue, 

Her bow across her shoulder flung, 
Her buskins gemmed with morning dew 

Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung« 
The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known 1 
The oak-Ksrowned sisters, and their Chaste-eyed queen. 
Satyrs, and sylvan boys, were seen. 
Peeping from forth their alleys green ; 

Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear; 
And Sport leaped up, and seized his beechen spear. 

Last came Jot*s ecstatic trial : 

He, with viny crown advancing, 
First to the lively pipe his hand addressed ; 
But soon he saw the brisk, awakening vioL 
Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best 

They would have thought, who heard the strain, 
They saw, in Tempe's vale, her native maids, 

Amidst the festal sounding shades, 

To some unwearied minstrel dancing: 
While, as his flying fingers kissed the strings, 
Love framed with Mirth, a gay fantastic round, 
Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound : 

And he, amidst his frolic play. 
As if he would the charming air repay. 
Shook thousand odors from his dewy wings. 

^ The Brides of Enderhy: or, the High Tide. 

The old mayor climed the belfry tower. 
The ringers ran by two, by three; 

" PuU, if ye never pulled before; 
Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he. 

" Play uppe, play uppe, Boston bells! 

Play all your changes, all your swells. 
Play uppe *The Brides of Enderby.*" 

42 Exercises tn Elocution. 


Men say it was a stolen tyde -— 
The Lord tiiat sent it^ He knows all; 

But in myne ears doth still abide 
The message that the bells let %11 ; 

And there was naught of strange, beside 

The flights of mews and peewits pled 
By millions crouched on the old sea walL 

I sat and spun within the doore, 
My thread brake off, I raised myne eyes; 

The level sun, like ruddy ore, 
Lay sinking in the barren skies; 

And dark against day's golden death 

She moved where Lindis wandereth, 

My Sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth. 

<<GushaI Cusha! CushaP calling, 
Ere the early dews were falling, 
Farre away I heard her song. 
"Cusha I Gushar all along; 
Where the reedy Lindis floweth, 

Floweth, floweth, 
From the meads where meljck groweth. 
Faintly came her milking songi 

'^Gusha! Goshal Coshal" calling, 
" For the dews will soone be falling; 
Leave your meadow grasses mellow, 

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

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

JExEMCjSEs IN Elocution. 

If it be long, aye, long ago, 

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

Swift as an arrowe, sharpe and strong , 
And all the aire it aeemeth mee 
Bin full of floating bells (sayth i^^), 
That ring the tune of Enderby. 

Alle fresh the level paatare lay, 
And not a shadowe mote be aeene. 

Save where fuU fyve good miles away 
The steeple towered fi'om out the greene; 

And lo 1 the great bell farre and wide 

Was heard in all the country side 

That Saturday at eventide. 

Then some looked uppe into the sky, 
And all along where Lindis flows 

To where the goodly vessels lie, 
And where the lordly steeple shows. 

They sayde, ''And why should this thing be^ 

What danger lowers by land or sea? 

They ring the tune of Enderbyf 

'* For evil news from Mablethorpe, 

Of pyrate galleys warping down \ 
For shippes ashore beyond the seorpe, 

They have not spared to wake the townes 
But while the west bin red to see, 
And storms be none, and pyrates flee, 
Why ring * The Brides of Enderby ?' " 

I looked without, and lol my'sonne 
Came riding downe with might and maun : 

He raised a shout as he drew on, 
Till all the welkin rang again, 

"Elizabeth! Elizabeth r 

(A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath 

Than my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth.) 

44 Exercises in Elocution. 

*' The old sea wall (he cried) is downe, 

The riaiog tide comes on i^ace, 
And boats adrift in yonder towne 

Go sailin'g uppe the market-place." 
He shook as one that looks on death: 
'* God save you, mother 1" straight he saith; 
« Where is my wife, Elizabeth ?" 

^ Good Sonne, where Lindis winds away 
With her two bairns I marked her long; 

And ere yon bells beganne to play. 
Afar I heard her milking song." 

He looked across the grassy sea, 

To right, to left, "Ho Enderby I" 

They rang " The Brides of Enderby I" 

With that he cried and beat his breast ; 

For lo I along the river's bed 
A mighty eygre reared his crest, 

And up the Lindis raging sped. 
It swept with t hunderou s noises loud; 
Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud, ^ 
Or like ^ demon in a shroud, (i <^ > , ^ ' * \,\j 

And rearing Lindis backward pressed, 

Sh ook all her trembling bankes amaine; 
Then madly at the eygre*s breast 

Flung uppe her weltering walls again. 
Then bankes came down with ruin and rout— 
Then beaten f oam flew round about— > 
Then all the mighty floods were out. 

So farre, so fast the" eygre drave. 
The heart had hardly time to beat, 

Before a shallow seething wave 
Sobbed in the grasses at oure feet : 

The feet had hardly time to flee 

Before it b^kg jigainst the knee, 

And aU the world was in the setw 

^xs^ciSES IN JSlocution. 45 

Upon the roofe we sate that nighty 

The noise of beUs went sweeping by: 
I marked the lofty beaoon light 

Stream from the dmrch toweri red and high «• 
A lurid mark and dread to see ; 
And a wesome bells they were to mee, 
That in the dark rang "Enderby." ' 



They rang the sailor lads to guide 
From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed; 

And I — my sonne was at my side. 
And jgtuthe ruddy beacon glowed: 

And yet he moaned beneath his breath, 

" come in life, or come in death I i^ ^ . 

lost I my love, Elizabeth." -^ ' 

And didst thou visit him no more ? 

Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare ; 
The waters laid thee at his doore, 

Ere yet the early dawn was clear. 
Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace, 
The lifted sun shone on thy face, 
Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place. 

That flow strewed wrecks about the grasfl^ 
ThaT ebbe swept out the flocks to sea ; 

A fatal ebbe and flow, alas I 
To manye more than myne and me: 

But each will mourn his own (she saith). 

And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath 

Than my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth. 

I shall never hear her more 
By the reedy Lindis shore, 
" Cusha, Cusha, Guaha I" calling, 
Ere the early dews be falling ] 
1 shall never hear her song, 
" Cusha, Cusha I" all along. 
Where the sunny Lindis floweth, 
Goeth, floweth; 


46 Exercises in JEloci^tion. 

From the meads where ra^^lick groweth, 

When the water, winding down, 

Onward floweth to the town. 

I shall never see her more 

Where the reeds and rashes quiver, 

Shiver, quiver; 
Stand beside the sobbing river, 
Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling, 
To the sandy lonesome shore ; 
I shall never hear her calling, 
" Leave your meadow grasses mellow, 

Mellow, mellow; (F 

Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow ; V ' / 

Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot : 
Quit your pipes of parsley hollow; 

Hollow, hollow ; 
Come uppe Lightfoot, rise and follow ; 

Lightfoot, Whitefoot, 
From the clovers lift your head ; 
Come uppe Jetty, follow, follow. 
Jetty, to the milking shed." 

Jean InffeUrw* 

Gems from Buddn. 

It was a maxim of Raffaelle's that the artist's object was to make 
things not as Nature makes them, but as she would make them ; as 
she ever tries to make them, but never succeeds, though her aim 
may be deduced from a comparison of her effects; just as if a 
number of archers had aimed unsuccessfully at a mark upon a wall, 
and this mark were then removed, we could by the examination of 
their arrow-marks point out the probable position of the spot aimed 
at, with a certainty of being nearer to it than any of their shots. 

We have most of us heard of original sin, and may perhaps, in 
our modest moments, conjecture that we are not quite what God, 
or Nature, would have us to be. Rafiaelle had something to mend 
in humanity : I should like to have seen him mending a daisy, or a 
pease-blossom, or a moth, or a mustard-seed, or any other of God*s 
tlightest work I If he had accomplished that, one might have found 

Exercises in JElocution. 47 

fov him more respectable employment, to set the stars ia better 
order, perhaps (thej seem grievously scattered as they are, and to 
be of all manner of shapes and sizes^ except the ideal shape, and 
the proper size) ; or, to give us a corrected view of the ocean^ that at 
least seems a very irregular and improveable thing: the very fisher- 
men do not know this day how &r it will reach, driven up before 
the west wind. Perhaps some one else does, but that is not our 
business. Let us go down and stand on the beach by the sea — the 
great irregular sea, and count whether the thunder of it is not out 
of time — one, — two: — here comes a well-formed wave at last^ 
trembling a little at the top, but on the whole, orderly. So 1 Crash 
among the shingle, and up as far as tliis gray pebble I Now, stand 
by and watch. Another: — Ah, careless wave I why couldn't you 
have kept your crest on ? It is all gone away into spray, striking 
up against the cliffs there — I thought as much — missed the mark 
by a couple of feet ! Another : — How now, impatient one I couldn't 
you have waited till your friend's reflux was done with, instead of 
•rolling yourself up with it in tliat unseemly manner ? You go for 
nothing. A fourth, and a goodly one at last I What think we of 
yonder slow rise, and crystalline hollow, without a flaw ? Steady, 
good wave I not so fasti not so fasti Where are you coming to? 
This is too bad ; two yards over the mark, and ever so much of you 
in our face besides; and a wave which we had some hope of, behind 
there, broken all to pieces out at sea, and laying a great white 
tablecloth of foam all the way to the shore, as if the marine gods 
were to dine off it I Alas, for these unhappy *^ arrow-shots'' of 
Nature ! She will never hit her mark with those unruly waves 
of hers, nor get one of them into the ideal shape, if we wait for a 
thousand years. 

Go out some bright sunny day in winter, and look for a tree with 
a broad trunk, having rather delicate boughs hanging down on the 
sunny side, near the trunk. Stand four or five yards from it^ with 
your back to the sun. You will find that the boughs between you 
and the trunk of the tree are very indistinct, that you confound 
them in places with the trunk itself, and cannot possibly trace one 
of them from its insertion to its extremity. But the shadows 
which they cast upon the trunk, you will find clear, dark and dia- 


48 JSxERcisJss IN Elocution. 

tinct, perfectly traceable through their whole course, except when 
they are interrupted by the crossing boughs. And if you retire 
backwards, you will come to a point where you cannot see the 
intervening boughs at all, or only a fragment of them here and 
there, but can still see their shadows perfectly plain. Now, this 
may serve to show you the immense prominence and importance 
of shadows where there is anything like bright light They are,- in 
fact, commonly far more conspicuous than the thing which casts 
them, for being as large as the casting object, and altogether made 
up of a blackness deeper than the darkest part of the casting object 
(while that object is also broken up with positive and reflected 
lights), their large, broad, unbroken spaces, tell strongly on the eye, 
especially as all form is rendered partially, often totally invisible 
within them, and as they are suddenly terminated by the sharpest 
lines which nature ever shows. For no outline of objects whatso- 
ever IS so sharp as the edge of a close shadow-. Put your finger 
over a piece of white paper m the sun, and observe the difference 
between the softness of the outline of the finger itself and the deci- 
sion of the edge of the shadow. And note also the excessive gloom 
of the latter. A piece of black cloth, laid in the light, will not 
attain one-fourth of the blackness of the paper under the shadow. 

Hence shadows are in reality, when the sun is shining, the most 
conspicuous thing in a landscape, next to the highest lights. All 
forms are understood and explained chiefly by their agency : the 
roughness of the bark of a tree, for instance, is not seen in the 
light, nor in the shade; it is only seen between the two, where 
the shadows of the ridges explain it And hence, if we have to 
express vivid light, our very first aim must be to get the shadows 
sharp and visible. 

The second point to which I wish at present to direct attention 
has reference to the arrangement of light and shade. It is the con- 
stant habit of Nature to use both her highest lights and deepest 
shadows in exceedingly small quantity ; always in points, never in 
masses. She will give a large mass of tender light in sky or water, 
impressive by its quantity, and a large mass of tender shadow 
relieved against it, in foliage, or hill, or building; but the light is 
always subdued if it be extensive — the shadow always feeble if it 
be broad. She will then fill up all the rest of her picture with 
middle tints and pale grays of some sort or another, and on this 

Exercises in Elocvtion. 49 

quiet and harmonious whole, she will touch her high lights in spoil 
- the foam of an isolated wave — the sail of a solitary vessel — the 
flash of the sun from a wet roof — the gleam of a single white* 
washed cottage — or some such sources of local brilliancy, she will 
use so yividly and delicately as to throw everything else into 
definite shade by comparison. And then taking up the gloom, she 
will use the black hollows of some overhan^ng bank, or the black 
dress of some shaded figure, or the depth of some sunless chink of 
wall or window, so sharply as to throw everything else into definite 
light by comparison ; thus reducing the whole mass of her picture 
to a delicate middle tint, approaching, of course, here to light and 
there to gloom ; but yet sharply separated from the utmost degrees 
either of the one or the other. None are in the right road to real 
excellence, but those who are struggling to render the simplicity, 
purity, and inexhaustible variety of nature's own chiaroscuro in 
open, cloudless daylight, giving the expanse of harmonious light 
—the speaking, decisive shadow — and the exquisite grace, tender- 
ncss, and grandeur of aerial opposition of local color and equally 
illuminated lines. 

The Vagabonds. 
We are two travelers, Roger and I. 

Roger's my dog. Gome here you scamp. 
Jump for the gentleman — mind your eye I 

Over the table — look out for the lamp I 
The rogue is growing a little old : 

live years we've tramped through wind. and weather. 
And slept out doors when nights were cold, 

And ate^ and drank, and starved together. 

We've learned what comfort is, I tell you: 

A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin, 
A fire to thaw our thumbs (poor fellow, 

The paw he holds up there has been firosen), 
Plenty of catgut for my fiddle^ 
. (This out-door business is bad for strings). 
Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the griddle^ . 

And Roger and I set up for kingn 

50 Exercises in Elocution. 

No, th&nk 70U, sir, I neyer drink. 

Roger and I are exceedingly moral. 
Aren't we Roger? see him wink. 

Well, something hot then, we won't quarrel. 
He's thirsty too — see him nod his head, 

What a pity, sir, that dogs can't talk ; 
He understands every word that's said, 

And he knows good milk from water and chaUCt 

The truth is, sir, now I reflect^ 

Fve been so sadly given to grog, 
I wonder I've not lost the respect 

(Here's to you, sir) even of my dog. 
But he sticks by through thick and thin, 

And this old coat with its empty pockets^ 
And rags that smell of tobacco and gin. 

He'll follow while he has eyes in his sockets 

There is n't another creature living. 

Would do \% and prove, through every disaster, 
80 fond, so faithftil, and so forgiving. 

To such a miserable, thankless master. 
No, sir I see him wag his tail and grin — 

By George ! it makes my old eyes water — 
That is, there's something in this gin 

That chokes a fellow, but no matter* 

We'll have some music if you are willing, 

And Roger here (what a ph^e a oough is, tir) 
Shall march a little. Start^ you villain I 

Paws up 1 eyes front I salute your officer I 
'Bout face 1 attention I take your rifle I 

(Some dogs have arms you tee.) Now hold 
Tour cap while the gentlemen give a trifle 

To aid a poor old patriot soldier. 

March I Haiti Now show how tiie Rebel shakes 
When he stands up to hear his sentence ; 


Now tell how many drams it takes 

To honor a joUj new acquaintance. 
Five yelps, that's five — he's mighty knowing j 

The night's before us, fill the glasses; 
Quick, sir! I'm ill, my brain is going; 

Some brandy, thank yon; there, it passes 

Why not reform? That's easily said. 

But I've gone through such wretched treatment 
Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread, 

And scarce remembering what meat meant^ 
That my poor stomach's past reform. 

And there are times when, mad with thinking^ 
I'd sell out Heaven for something warm 

To prop a horrible inward sinking. 

Is there a way to forget to think? 

At your age, sir, home, fortune, friends, 
A dear girl's love; but I took to drink; 

The same old story, you know how it ends. 
If you could have seen these classic features — 

You needn't laugh, sir, I was not then 
Such a burning libel on God's creatures; 

I was one of yonr handsome men— 

If you had seen her, so ftiir, so young. 

Whose head was happy on this breast; 
If you could have heard the songs I sung 

When the wine went round, you wouldn't have gueas'd 
That ever I, sir, should be straying 

From door to door, with fiddle and dog, 
Ragged and penniless, and playing 

To you to-night for a glass of grog. 

She's married since, a parson's wife, 

Twas tetter for her that we should part; 
Better the soberest prosiest life 

Than a blasted home and a broken heart 

62 Exercises in Elocution. 

I have seen her? Once I I was weak and spent 

On the dusty road; a carriage stopped, 
But little she dreamed as on she went^ 

Who kissed the coin that her fingers dropped. . 

YouVe set me talking, sir, Fm sorry; 

It makes me wild to think of the change. 
What do you care for a beggar^s story? 

Is it amusing? you find it strange 7 
1 had a mother so proud of me, 

*Twas well she died before. Do you know, 
If the happy spirits in Heaven can see 

The ruin and wretchedness here below ? 

Another glass, and strong to deaden 

This pain ; then Roger and I will start 
1 wonder, has he such a lumpish, leaden, 

Aching thing, in place of a heart? 
He is sad sometimes, and would weep if he could, 

No doubt remembering things that were : 
A virtuous kennel with plenty of food, 

And himself a sober respectable cur. 

I^m better now ; that glass was warming. 

You rascal! limber your lazy feet! 
We must be fiddling and performing 

For supper and bed, or starve in the street 
Not a very gay life to lead you think ? 

But soon we shall go where lodgings are free, 

And the sleepers need neither victuals or drink, 

The sooner the better for Roger and me. 

J. r, Trowbridge. 

A Sea Toyage. 
To an American visiting Europe, the long voyage he has to make 
18 an excellent preparative. From the moment you lose sight of 
the land you have left, all is vacancy, until you step on the oppo* 


site snore, and are launched at onoe into the bustle and novelties 
of another world, y 

I have said that at sea all is vacancy. I should correct the 
expression. To one given up to day-^lreaming, and fond of losing 
himself in reveries, a sea- voyage is full of subjects for meditation ; 
but tiien they are the wonders of the deep, and of tlie air, and 
rather tend to abstract the mind fi*om worldly themessLl delighted 
to loll over Uie quarter-railing, or climb to the main-top on a calm 
day, and muse for hours together on the tranquil bosom of a sum- 
mer's sea ; for to gaze upon the piles of golden clouds just peering 
above the horizon, fancy them some fairy realms, and people them 
with a creation of my own ; or to watch the gentle undulating bil- 
lows rolling their silver volumes as if to die away on those happy 
shores. *^ 

There was a delicious sensation of mingled security and awe^ 
with which I looked down from my giddy height on the monsters 
of the deep at their uncouth gambols; shoals of porpoises tumbling 
about the bow of the ship ; ithe grampus slowly heaving his huge 
form above the surface; or the ravenous shark, darting like a 
spectre through the blue waters, p My imagination would conjure 
up all that I had heard or read of the watery world beneath me ; 
of the finny herds that roam its fathomless valleys ; of shapeless 
monsters that lurk among the very foundations of the earth ; and 
those wild phantasms that swell the tales of fishermen and sailors. 

Sometimes a distant sail gliding along the edge of tlie oceau 
would be another theme of idle speculg.tion.) How interesting this 
fragment of a world hastening to rejoin the great mass of exis- 
tence! V What a glorious monument of human invention, that has 
thus triumphed over wind and wave ; has brought the ends of the 
earth in communion ; has established an interchange of blessings, 
pouring into the sterile regions of the north all the luxuries of the 
south; Idiifused the light of knowledge and the charities of culti- 
vated life ; and has thus bound together those scattered portions of 
the human race, between which nature seemed to have thrown an 
insurmountable barrier 1 • 

We one day descried some shapeless object drifting at a distance. 
At sea, everything that breaks the monojony of the surrounding 
expanse, attracts attention. 4 It proved to be the mast of a ship 
that must have been completely wrecked; for there were the 

64 ExEKcisss iir ELocimoir. 

remains of handkerchiefs, by which some of the crew had fastened 
themselves to this spar, to prevent their being washed off by the 
waves. There was no trace by which the name of the ship could 
be ascertained. "i The wreck had evidently drifted about for many 
months, clusteris of shell-fish had. fastened about it, and long sea- 
weeds flaunted at its sides, i But where, thought I, is the crew? 
Their struggle has long been over j — they have gone down amidst 
the roar of the tempest; — their bones lie whitening in the caverns 
of the deep. Silence — oblivion — like the waves, have closed 
over them; and no one can tell the story of their end. V 

What sighs have been wafted after that ship I what prayers 
offered up at the deserted fire-side of home I How often has the 
mistress, the wife, and the mother, pored over the daily news, to 
catch some casual intelligence of this rover of the deep I -f How has 
expectation darkened into anxiety — anxiety into dread — and 
dread into despair ! Alas I not one memento shall ever return for 
love to cherish. All that shall ever be known is, that she sailed 

from her port^ " and was never heard of more." 

WatMnfflon Irving, 

Bible—St John, chapter IX 

And as Jesus passed by, he saw a man which was blind from 
his birth. 

And his disciples asked him, saying, Master, who did cnn, this 
man, or his parents, that he was bom blind ? 

Jesus answered, Neither hath this man sinned, nor his parents : 
but that the works of God should be made manifest in him. 

I must work the works of him that sent me, while it is day: 
the night cometh, when no man can work. 

As long as I am in the world, I am the light of the world. 

When he had thus spoken, he spat on the ground, and made 
clay of the spittle, and he anointed the eyes of the blind man with 
the clay. 

And said unto him, Qo, wash in the pool of Siloam (which is 
by interpretation, Sent). He went his way, therefore, and washed, 
and came seeing. 

The neighbors, therefore, and they which before had seen him 
that he was blind, said, Is not this he that sat and begged ? 

ExsRcisxa nr Elocution. 65 

Some said, This is he: others said, He is like him: but he said, 
I am he. 

Therefore said they unto him. How were thine eyes opened? 

He answered' Itnd said, A man that is called Jesus made a 
day, and loiointed mine eyes, and said unto me, Gk> to the pool 
of Siloam, and wash : and I went and washed, and I received sight 

Then said they unto him| Where is he? He said, I know 

They brought to the Pharisees him that aforetime was blind. 

And it was the Sabbath day when Jesus made the clay, and 
opened his eyes. 

Then again the Pharisees also asked him how he had received 
his sight He said unto them, He put day upon mine eyes, and I 
washed, and do see. 

Therefore said some of the Pharisees, This man is not of God, 
because he keepeth not the Sabbath day. Others said, How can a 
man that is a sinner do such miracles ? And there was a division 
among them. 

They say unto the blind man again, What sayest thou of him, 
that he hath opened thine eyes? He said. He is a prophet 

But the Jews did not believe concerning him, that he had been 
blind, and received his sight^ until they called the parents of him 
that had received his sight 

And then asked them, saying, Is this your son, who ye say- 
was bom blind ? how then doth he now see ? 

His parents answered them and said. We know that this is 
our son, and that he was born blind : 

But by what means he now seeth, we know not ; or who hath 
opened his eyes, we know not: he is of age; ask him: he shall 
speak for himself. 

These words spake his parents, because they feared the Jews : 
for the Jews had agreed already, that if any man did confess that 
he was Christ, he should be put out of the synagogue. 
^ Therefore said his parents, He is of age ; ask him. 

Then again called they the man that was blind, and said unto 
him, Qive God the praise : we know that this man is a sinner. 

He answered and said, Whether he be a sinner or no, I know 
not * one thing I know, that, whereas I was blind, now I see. 

66 ExjBBcissa IN Elocutiok. 

Death <tf Moim 

vivid Narratlye, exemplifying, after the Introdaotoiy sentence, Sym« 
pathetic Horror, then saccessively, Terror* Scorn, Revenge, Horror 
and Awe. 

It was under the burning influence of revenge that the wife of 
Macgregor commanded that the hostage, exchanged for her hus* 
band's safety, should be brought into her presence. I believe her 
sons had kept this unfortunate wretch out of her sight, for fear of 
the consequences ; but if it was so, their humane precaution only 
postponed his fate. They dragged forward, at her summons, a 
wretch, already half dead with terror, in whose agonized features, 
I recognized, to my horror and astonishment, my old acquaintance 

He fell prostrate before the female chief with an effort to clasp 
her knees, from which she drew back, as if his touch had been pol- 
lution, so that all he could do in token of the extremity of his 
humiliation, was to kiss the hem of her plaid. I never heard 
entreaties for life poured forth with such agony of spirit. Tho 
ecstasy of fear was such, that, instead of paralyzing his tongue, aa 
on ordinary occasions, it even rendered him eloquent; and, with 
cheeks as pale as ashes, hands compressed in agony, eyes that 
seemed to be taking their last look of all mortal objects, he pro- 
tested, with the deepest oaths, his total ignorance of any design on 
the life of Rob Roy, whom he swore he loved and honored as his 
own soul. In the inconsistency of his terror, he said he was but 
the agent of others, and he muttered the name of Rashleigh. He 
prayed but for life — for life he would give all he had in the world ; 
— it was but life he asked — life, if it were to be prolonged under 
tortures and privations, — he asked only breath though it should 
be drawn in the damps of the lowest caverns of their hills. 

It is impossible to describe the scorn, the loathing, and contempt, 
with which the wife of Macgregor regarded this wretched petitioner 
for the poor boon of existence. ^-^ 

" I could have bid you live," she said, " had life been to you the 
same weary and wasting burden that it is to me — that it is to 
every noble and generous mind. But you — wretch I you could 
creep through the world unaffected by its various disgraces, its 
ineffable miseries, its constantly accumulating masses of crime and 
sorrow, — you could live and enjoy yourself, while the noble-minded 

ISxERCiSEs IN Elocution. b*i 

are betrayed, — while nameless and birthless villaius tread on the 
neck of the bra^e and long-descended, — jou could enjoy yourseli^ 
like a butcher's dog in the shambles, battening on garbage, while 
the slaughter of the brave went on around you I This enjoyment 
you shall not live to partake of; you shall die, base dog, and that 
before yon cloud has passed over the sun." 

She gave a brief command, in Gaelic, to her attendants, two of 
whom seized upon the prostrate suppliant, and hurried him to the 
blink of a cliff which overhung the flood. He set up the most 
piercing and dreadful cries that fear ever uttered — I may well term 
them dreadful; for they haunted my sleep for years aflerwards. 
As the murderers, or executioners, call them as you will, dragged 
him along, he recognized me even in tliat moment of horror, and 
exclaimed, in the last articulate words I ever heard him utter, '^0, 
Mr. Osbaldistone, save me I — save me I" 

I was so much moved by this horrid spectacle, that, although in 
momentary expectation of sharing his fate, I did attempt to speak 
in his behalf but, as might have been expected, my interference 
was sternly disregarded. The victim was held fast by some, while 
others, binding a large heavy stone in a plaid, tied it around his 
neck, and others again eagerly stripped him of some part of 
his dress. Half naked, and thus manacled, they hurried him into 
the lake, there about twelve feet deep, drowning his last death- 
shriek with a loud halloo of vindictive triumph, over which, 
however, the yell of mortal agony was distinctly heard. The heavy 
burden splashed in the dark blue waters of the lake ; and the High- 
landers, with their pole-axes and swords, watched an instant, to 
guard, lest, extricating himself from the load to which he was 
attached, he might have struggled to regain the shore. But the 
knot had been securely bound ; the victim sunk without effort ; 
the waters, which his fall had disturbed, settled calmly over him ; 
and the unit of that life for which he had pleaded so strongly, wai 

forever withdrawn from the sum of human existence. 



Oonrtship imder Difficulties. 

SnobbUton. Yea, there k that fellow Jcpnes again. I declare, 
the man is nbiquitoas. Wfaereyer I go -with my coadn Prudence 
we stumble across him, or he follo?n» her like her shadow. Do we 
takb a boating f So does Jones. Do we wander on the beach t So . 
does Jones. Gk) where we will, that fellow follows or mores be- 
foi*e. I^ow, that was a cmel practical joke which Jones once 
played upon me at college. I haye never forgiven him. But I 
would gladly make a pretence 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 unacquainted. It 
may prove a match, if I cannot spoil it. Let me think. Ha ! I 
have it I A brilliant idea I Jones, beware I But here he comes. 

{Ehiter Jomcs.) 
Jones, {Not ieemg SnobtHeton^ and ddigMedly contemplating a 
fiower^ which he holds iii hie hand.) Oh, rapture I what a prize ! 
It was in her hair — ^I saw it fall from her queenly head. {Kieses it 
every now and then,) How warm are its tender leaves from having 
touched her neck I How doubly sweet is its perfume — afresh from 
tlie fragrance of her glorious locks I How beautiful I how — Bless 
me t here is Snobbleton, and we are enemies t 

SnMieton, Good-morning, Jones — that is, if you will shake 
Jonee. What I you — ^you forgive I You really — 
8noh. Yes, yes, old fellow I All is ibigotten. You played me 
a rough trick ; but, let bygotoes be bygones. Will you not bury 
the hatchet ? 
Jonee. 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 chcerftil, dashing, rollickicg 
fellow you were. 

Jones. Bless me, you don-t say so I (Aside.) Confound the man I 
Here have I been end^voring to appear romantic for the last 
month — and now to be called grumpy~it is unbearable I 

8ndb. But, never mind. Cheer up, old fellow I I soe it all. I 
know what it is to be in — 

ExEBCiSES IN Elocution. 69 

Jime$, Ah I yoa can then sympathize with me I Yon know 
what it is to be in— 

8nob. Of eourm I do ! Hearen pr^erre me fiom the toils 1 
And then the letters — ^the interminable letters I 
J<me9, Oh, yes, the letters I theMletdouxf 
Snob. And the bills — ^the endless bills 1 
Jones, The bills ! 

Snob. Yes; andthebailifilB,thelawyer8,^ejnage, and the jury. 
Jones. Why, man, what are yon talking about S I thonght you 
said you knew what it was to be in— 
Snob. In debt To be sure I did. 

Jones. Bless me 1 I'm not in debt — ^nerer borrowed a dollar in 
my life. Ah, me ! it's worse than that. 

Snob, Worse than that I Come, now, Jones, theiB is only one 
thing worse. Yon're suiely not in love ? 

Jones. Yes, I am. Oh, Snobby, help me, help me I Let mc con- 
fide in yon. 

Snob. Confide in me I Certainly, my dear fellow I See I I do 
not shrink — I Btand firm. 
Jones. Snobby, I— I love her. 
Snob. Whom ? 

JoTies. Your cousin. Prudence. 
Snob, Ha I Prudence Angelina Winter ? 
Jones. Now, don't be angry, Snobby t I don't mean any harm, 
you know. I — ^I — ^you know how it is. 

Snob. Harm I my dear fellow. Not a bit of it. Angry I Not 
at all. You have my consent, old fellow. ^ Take^er. She is yours. 
Heayen bless you both. 

JoTies. You are very kind, Snobby, but I haren't got her con^ 
sent yet. 

Snob. Well, that is something, to be sure. But, leare it aU to 
me. She may be a little coy, you know ; but, considering your 
generous overlooking of her unfortunate defect — 
Jones. Defect I You surprise me. 
Snob. What I and you did not know of it i 
Jones. Not at all. I am astonished ! Nothing serious, I hope. 
Snob. Oh, no I only a .little — {He taps his ear with his jfingery 
knowingly.) I see, you understand it. 

60 ExEBCisss IN Elocution. 

Janes. MerciM heaven 1 can it be t But really, is it serious t 

8mb, I should think it was. 

Jmet. YThat I But is she ever dangerous t 

Srwb, Dangerous I Why snould she be f 

Jones, Oh, I perceive 1 A mere airiness of brain — a gentle 
aberration— scorning the dull worid — a mild— 

Snob, Zounds, man I she's not crazy t 

Jones* My dear Snobby, you relieve me. What then ? 

8ncb, Slightly deal That's alL 

JoTies, Deaf I 

Bndb, As a lamp-post. That is, you must elevate your voice to 
a considerable pitch in speaking to her. 

Janes, Is it possible 1 However, I think I can manage. As, for 
instance, if it was my intention to make her a floral offering, and I 
should say {eleeating his voice ccmideralfly), " AGss, will you make 
me happy by accepting these flowers 9" I suppose she could hear 
me, eh t How would that do f 
. Snob, Pshaw I Do you call that elevated 

Janes, Well, how would this do f (JS^)eaks f>eryhu^,) **Mis8 
will you make me happy — ^ 

Snob. Louder, shriller, man I 

Janes, "Miss, will you — " 

Sm^. Louder, louder, or she will only- see your lips move. 

JajMs, {Almost serecmdng.) " Miss, will you oblige me by accept- 
ing these flowers ?" 

8n(^, There, that may do. Still, you want practice. I per- 
ceive the lady h^iself is approaching. Suppose you retire for a 
short time, and I will prepare her for the introduction. 

Janes. 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 Janes.) 

{Enter Pktjdencb.) 

Prudence, Good-morning, cousin. Who was that, speaking so 
loudly f 

Spob. 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 deaf ? 

Snob, Deaf as a stone fence. To be sure, he does not use an 

JSxEBCiSMS IN Elocution. 61 

ear-inimpet any more, but, one must speak ezeeanyely high. Un- 
fortunate, too, for I believe he's in loye, 

iVtt. In love 1 with whom t 

8no5. Can't you guess ? 

Pru. Oh, no ; I haven't the slightest idea. 

BndS, With yourself 1 He has been begging me to obtain him 
an introduction. 

Pru. Well, I have always thought him a nice-looking yotmg 
man. I suppose he would hear me if I should say (9peak» hvMy)^ 
** Gk)od-moming, Mr. Jones ? " 

Snob, Do you think he would hear thai, f 

Pru. Well, then, how would {ipeaki wry loudly) " Good-mom 
ing, Mr. Jones ?" How would that do ? 

.Snob. Tush t he would think you were speaking under your 

iVtt. (Almoit toreaming.) «* Good-morning 1" 

Snob, A mere whisper, my dear cousin. But here he comeSi 
Now, do try and make yourself audible. 

(Enter Joincs.) 

Snob. (Speahinginahighvoice,) Mr. Jones, cousin. Miss Win 
ter, Jones. You will please excuse me for a short time. {Ha retira 
but remains where he can tnew the speakers.) 

Jone$. {Speaking shrill and loud.) Miss, will you accept these 
flowers ? I plucked them from their slumber on the hill. 

Pru, (In an equally high 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 flow- 
ers — ^FLOWEBS ? I plucked them sleeping on the hill — ^hill. 

iVt^ (Also increasing her tone.) Certainly, Mr. Jones. They are 
beautiful — ^bbau-u-tipul. 

Jones, (Aside,) How she screams in my ear. (Aloud,) Yes, I 
plucked them from their slumber — blumbbb, on the hill-^HiLii. 

Pru, (Aside.) Poor man, what an effort it seems for him to 
speak. (Alofid.) I perceive you are poetical. Are you fond of 
poetry? (Aside.) He hesitates. I must speak louder. (In a 
scream.) Poetry— Poetry— POETRY 1 

Jones, (Aside,) Bless me, the woman would wake the dead I 
(Aloud,) Yes, Miss, I ad-o-r-e it. 

«2 ExsBcisss m Elocution. 

8mb, GlorionsI glorious I I wonder how loud they eon scream. 

Oh, yengeance, thou art sweet ! 

Pru, Can you repeat some poetry — ^pobtby f 

JoTiCB. I only know one poem. It is this : ^ 

Yoa^d scarce expect one of my age— Aos, 
To speak in pnbUc on tlie stage—STAas. 

Pru, Bravo — ^bravo I 
Janes, Thank you 1 Thai^k — 
Pru, Mercy on us 1 Do you think I'm dbaf, sir ? 
Jones, And do you fancy me deaf, Miss ? {Natural tone,) 
Pru, Are you not, sir ? you surprise me ! . 
Janes, No, Miss. I was led to belieye that you were deaf. 
Snobbleton told me so. 
Pru, Snobbleton I Why, he told me that you were dea£ 
Janes, Confound the fellow I he has been making game of us. 

......._ JBeadWs Dime Speaker. 

The Front and Side Boors. 

Every person's feelings have a front-door and a side-door by 
which they may be entered. The front-door is on the street. Some 
keep it always open ; some keep it latched ; some, locked ; some, 
bolted, — with a chain that will let you peep in, but not get in ; 
and some nail it up, so that nothing can pass its threshold. This 
front-door leads into a passage which opens into an ante-room, 
and this into the interior apartments. The side-door opens at 
once into the sacred chambers. 

There is almost always at least one key to this side-door. This 
is carried for yeal* hidden in a mother's bosom. Fathers, bro- 
thers, sisters, and friends, often, but by no means so universally, 

have duplicates of it. 

0. W,Bblmes» 

The Belief of Lucknow. 
O I that last day in Lucknow fort ; 

We knew that it was the last, 
That the enemy's mines had crept surely in, 

And the end was coming fast. 

To yield to that foe meant worse than death, 
And the men and we all worked on ; 

Exf!RCisES IN Elocution. 63 

It was one day more of smoke and roar, 
And then it would all be done. 

There was one of us, a corporal's wife^ 

A fair young gentle thing. 
Wasted with fever in the siege, 

And her mind was wandering: 

She lay on the ground, in her Scottish plaid, 

And I took her head on my knee ; 
" When my father comes hame frae the pleugli," she said, 

"^ Oh I please then waken me.*' 

She slept like a child on her father's floor. 

In the flecking of woodbine shade, 
When the house dog sprawls by the half open door, 

And the mother's wheel is stayed. 

It was smoke and roar and powder stench. 

And hopeless waiting for death ; 
But the soldier's wife, like a full tired child. 

Seemed scarce to draw her breath. 

I sank to sleep and I had my dream 

Of an English village lane 
And wall and garden — till a sudden scream 

Brought me back to the rear again. 

There Jessie Brown stood listening, 

And then a broad gladness broke 
All over her face, and she took my hand. 

And drew me near and spoke : 

'' The Highlanders! 1 dinna ye hear 

The slogan far awa? 
The McGregor's ? Ah ! I ken it weel ; 

It is the grandest of them a'. 

64 Exercises in Elocution. 

God bless the bonny Highlanders; 

We *re saved I we Ve saved I" she cried; 
And fell on her knees, and thanks to Gk)d 

Poured forth, like a Ml flood tide. 

Along the battery line her cry 

Had fallen among the men ; 
And they started; for they were there to die^ 

Was life so near them then ? 

They listened, for life, and the rattling fire 

Far off, and the far off roar 
Were all, — and the colonel shook his head, 

And they turned to their guns once more. 

Then Jessie said, " The slogan's dune, 
But can ye no hear them, noo ? 

The Campbells are comin I It's nae a dream. 
Our succors hae broken through I" 

We heard the roar and the rattle afar, 
But the pipers we could not hear ; 

So the men plied their work of hopeless war, 
And knew that the end was near. 

It was not long ere it must be heard, 

A shrilling, ceaseless sound ; 
It was no noise of the strife afar, 

Or the sappers under ground. 

It was the pipe of the Highlanders, 
And now they played " Auld Lang Syne ;*• 

It came to our men like the voice of God ; 
And they shouted along the line. 

And they wept and shook each other's handa^ 
And the women sobbed in a crowd ; 

JRxsBcisMS IN Elocution. Q& 

And every one knelt down where we stood, 
And we all thanked God aloud* 

That happy day, when we welcomed them in, 

Our men put Jessie first; 
And the General took her hand; and cheers 

From the men like a volley burst. 

And the pipers* ribbons and tartan streamed. 

Marching round and round our line ; 

And our joyful cheers were broken with tears, 

And the pipers played '* Avid Leung Syne,^^ 

Robert LowdL 

Boj Britton. 
Boy Britton, only a lad, a fidr-haired boy, sixteen 

In his uniform. 
Into the storm, into the roaring jaws of grim Fort Henry, 
Boldly bears the Federal flotilla, 
Into the battle storm. 


Boy Britton is Master's Mate aboard the Essex, 
There he stands, buoyant and eagle-eyed, 

By the brave Captain's side ; 
Ready to do or dare ; " Aye, aye, sir," always ready 

In his country's uniform I 
Boom ! boom I and now the flag-boat sweeps 
And now the Essex is plunged 

Into the battle's storm. 


Boom I boom I till river, and fort and field 
Are overclouded by the battle's breath; 
Then from the fort a gleam and a crashing gun, 
And the Essex is wrapped and shrouded 
In a scalding cloud of steam. 

66 Exercises in Elocution. 

, IV. 

But victory I victory I 
Unto God all praise be rendered^ 
Unto God all praise and glory be ; 
See, Boy Britton, see. Boy, see, 
They strike ! hurrah I the fort has surrendered I 
Shout I shout I my warrior boy, 
And wave your cap, and clap your hands for joy. 
Cheer answer cheer, and bear the cheer about. 
Hurrah I hurrah I for the fio'y fort is ours. 

" Victory 1" " victory!" "victory I*' 
Is the shout. 
Shout! for the fiery fort is ours, and the field. 
And the day are ours I 

The day is ours, thanks to the brave endeavor 
Of heroes, boy, like thee ! 
The day is ours, the day is ours I 
Glory and deathless love to all who shared with thee, 
And bravely endured and dared with thee, 
The day is ours, the day is ours forever ! 
Glory and love for one and all, but, for thee, 
Home! home! a happy welcome, welcome home, for thee^ 
And a mother's happy tears, and a virgin's 
Bridal wreath of flowers for thee. 


Victory! Victory! 
But suddenly wrecked and wrapped in seething steam 
The Essex slowly drifted out of the battle storm. 
Slowly, slowly, down, laden with the dead and dying, 
And there at the captain's feet, among the dead and dying 
The shot-marred form of a beautifiil boy is lying, 

There in his uniform. 

Laurels and tears for thee, boy. 
Laurels and tears for thee; 

ExEBcis&a IN Elocvtxoj. 67 

Laurels of light moist with the precious dew 
Of the* inmost heart of the nation's loving hearty 
And blest by the balmy breath of the beautiful and the tiue, 
Moist, moist with the luminous breath of the singing spherei^ 
And the nation's starry tears; 
And tremble touched by the pulse-like gush and starts 
Of the universal music of the hearty 
And all deep sympathy. 
Laurels and tears for thee, boy. 
Laurels and tears for thee, 
Laurels of light and tears of love^ 
Forevermore for thee. 


And laurels of light, and tears of truth, 
And the mantle of immortality ; 
And the flowers of love, and immortal youth. 
And the tender heart tokens of all true ruth. 

And the everlasting victory. 
And the breath and bliss of liberty, 
And the loving kiss of liberty. 
And the welcoming light of heavenly eyei^ 
And the* over calm of God's canopy; 
And the infinite love-span of the skies. 
That cover the valleys of Paradise, 
For all of the brave who rest with thee; 
And for one and all who died with thee^ 
And now sleep side by side with thee; 
And for every one who lives and dies 
On the solid land, or the heaving sea^ 
Dear warrior boy, like theel 


On, the Tictory, the victory 
Belongs to thee f 
God ever keeps the brightest crown for such as thou, 
He gives it now to thee. 

68 Exercises in Elocutioit. 

Young and brave, and early and thrice blest^ 

Thrice, thrice, thrice blest! 
Thy oonntr/ tarns once more to kiss thy youthful brow, 
And takes tliee gently, gently to her breast. 
And whispers lovingly, God bless thee, bless thee now, 

My darling thou shalt restl 

je^frceylhe IRUfon. 

Bugle Song; 


The 8plend(»r falls on castle walls. 

And snowy summits old in story; 
The long light shakes across the lakes. 
And the wild cataract leaps in glory. 
Blow, bugle blow; set the wild echoes flying; 
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, djring. 


hark, hear I how thin and clear. 

And thinner, clearer, farther going; 
O sweet and &r, from cliff and scar, 
The horns of Elf-land faintly blowing I 
Blow; let us hear the purple glens replying; 
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, ^7^°^ ^y^°& dying. 


love, they die in yon rich sky, 

They faint on field, on hill, 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. 

ExxBCiass IN Elocution. 69 

" Corporal Green I" the Orderly cried ; 

**HereI" was the answer, loud and dear 
From the lips of the soldier who stood near,— 

And " Here I" was the word the next replied. 


" Cyms Drew I" — then a silence fell, — 

This time no answer followed the call ; 

Only his rear-man had seen him fall, 
Killed or wounded, he could not teH 

There they stood in the faiHng light^ 

These men of battle, with grave, dark looks, 

As plain to be read as open books, 
Whilelslowly gathered the shades of night 

The fern on the hill-sides was splashed with blood, 
And down in the corn where the popples grew 
Were redder stains than the poppies knew ; 

And crimson-dyed was the riyer's flood. 

For the foe had crossed from the other side 

That day, in the face of a murderous lire 

That swept them down in its terrible ire; 
And their .life-blood went to color the tide. 

^ Herbert Kline I'* At the call there came 

Two stalwart soldiers into the line, 

Bearing between them this Herbert Kline, 
Wounded and bleeding, to answer his name. 

"Ezra Kerr I" — and a voice answered, " Here I" 

" EQram Kerr I" — but no man replied. 

They were brothers, these two, the sad winds fflghed. 
And a shudder crept through the cornfield near. 

" Ephraim Deane I" — then a soldier spoke : 
"Deane carried our Regiment's colors," he said; 
"Where our Ensign was shot, I left him dead, 

Just after the enemy wavered and broke." 

70 Exercises in Elocutioit. 

*' Close to the road-side his body lies; 

I paused a moment and gave him drink; 

He murmured his mother*s name, I think, 
And Death came with it and closed his eyes.*' 

'T was a victory ; yes, but it oost us dear, — 
For that company's roll, when called at nighty 
Of a hundred men who went into the fight^ 

Numbered but twenty that answered, '* Herel** 

j^yramns and Thisbe. 
This tragical tale, which, they say, is a true one. 
Is old ; but the manner is wholly a new one. 
One OMy a writer of some reputation, 
Has told it before in a tedious narration ; 
In a style, to be sure, of remarkable fullness. 
But which nobody reads on account of its duUneaa 

Young Peteb Ptbamxts — I call him Peter, 
Not for the sake of the rhyme of the meter; 
But merely to make the name completer — 
For Peter lived in the olden times, 
And in one of the worst of pagan climes 
That flourish now in classical fame. 
Long before either noble or boor 
Had such a thing as a Chrislian name — ^ 
Yoiing Peter, then, was a nice young bean 
As any young lady would wish to know: 
In years, I ween, he was rather green, 
That is to say, he was just eighteen-* 
A trifle too short, a shaving too lean, 
But '^ a nice young man " as ever was seen, 
And fit to dance with a May -day queen I 

Now Peter loved a beautiful girl 

As ever ensnared the heart of an earl. 

Exercises in JSlocution: >i 

In the magical trap of an auburn curl, — 

A little Mies Thisbe, who lived next door, 

(They lived, in fact, on the very same floor, 

With a wall between them and nothing more, — 

Those double dwellings were common of yore,) 

And they loved each other, the legends say, 

In that very beautiful, bountiful way, 

That every young maid and every young blad« 

Are wont to do befbre they grow staid, 

And leam to love by the laws of trade. 

But (a-lack-a-day, for the girl and boy I) 

A little impediment checked their joy. 

And gave them awhile, the deepest annoy. 

For some good reason, which history cloaks, 

The match didn*t happen to please the old folks I 


So Thisbe's father and Peter's mother 

Began the young couple to worry and bother, 

And tried their innocent passion to smother. 

By keeping the lovers from seeing each other I 

But who ever heard of a marriage deterred 

Or even deferred 

By any contrivance so very absurd 

As scolding the boy, and caging the bird ? 

Now, Peter, who was not discouraged at all 

By obstacles such as the timid appal. 

Contrived to discover a hole in the wall. 

Which wasn't so thick but removing a brick 

Made a passage —^ though rather provokingly small. 

Through this little chink the lover could greet her, 

And secrecy made their courting the sweeter. 

While Peter kissed Thisbe, and Thisbe kissed Peter— 

For kisses, like folks with diminutive souls. 

Will manage to creep through the smallest of holes I 

'T was here that the lovers, intent upon love. 
Laid a nice little plot to meet at a spot 
Near a mull?erry-tree in a neighboring grove ; 

73 ._ JbJxERcisES IN Hlocution 

Tot the plan was all laid by the youth and the maid, 
Whose hearts, it would seem, were uncommonlj bold onei^ 
To run off and get married in spite of the old onea 
In the shadows of evening, as still as a mouse, 
The beautiful maiden slipped out of the house. 
The mulberry-tree impatient to find; 
While Peter, the vigilant matrons to blind, 
Strolled leisurely out^ some minutes behind. 

While waiting alone by the trysting tree, 
A terrible lion as e*er you set eye on, 
Came roaring along quite horrid to see. 
And caused the young maiden in terror to flee, 
(A lion's a creature whose regular trade is 
Blood — and ** a terrible thing among ladies,**) 
And losing her veil as she ran from the wood,* 
The monster bedabbled it over with blood. 

Now Peter arriving, and seeing the veil 
All covered o*er and reeking with gore. 
Turned, all of a sudden, exceedingly pale, 
And sat himself down to weep and to wail. 
For, soon as he saw the garment, poor Peter, 
Made up his mind in very short meter. 
That Thisbe was dead, and the lion had eat her I 
So breathing a prayer, he determined to share 
The fate of his darling, " the loved and the lost,*' 
And fell on his dagger, and gave up the ghost I 

Now Thisbe returning, and viewing her beau, 
Lying dead by her veil (which she happened to know) 
She guessed in a moment the cause of his erring; 
And seizing the knife that had taken his life. 
In less than a jiffy was dead as a herring. 


Young gentleman I — pray recollect, if you please, 
Not to make appointments near mulberry-trees. 

ExEBCiSBs IN Elocution. ^Z 

Bhottld your mistress be missing, it shows a weak head 
To be stabbing yourself, till you know she is dead. 
Toung ladies I — you shouldn^t go strolling about 
When your anxious mammas don't know you are out ; 
And remember that accidents often befall 
From kissing young fellows through holes in the wall t 

Erening at the Fann. 

Oyer the hill the farm-boy goes, 
His shadow len gthens' along the land, 
A giant staff in a giant hand ; 
In the poplar-tree, above the spring. 
The katy-did begins to sing ; 

The early dews are falling ; — 
Into the stone-heap darts the mink ; 
The swallows skim the riyer's brink ; 
And home to the woodland fly the crows, 
When oyer the hill the farm-boy goes, 
Cheerily Q^Uing, 

" Co', boss I co', boss 1 co' 1 co' I co' 1** 
Farther, farther, oyer the hill. 
Faintly calling, calling still, 

** Co', boss I co', boss ! co' I co' I'* 

Now tb her task the milkmaid goes. 

The cattle come crowding through the gate, 

Looing, pushing, little and great ; 

About the trough, by the farm-yard pump, 

The frolicsome yearlings fiisk and jump, 

While the pleasant dews are falling; — 
The new milch heifer is quick and shy, 
But the old cow waits with tranquil eye, 
And the white stream into the bright pail flows, 
When to her task the milkmaid goes, 
Soothingly calling. 
^ So, boss 1 so, boss I so 1 sol so I" 

T4 Exercises in Elocution: 

The cheerfbl milkmaid takes her stool, 
AbcL sits and milks in the twiligiit cool. 
Saying, *^ So I so, boss I so 1 so T' 

To supper at last the farmer goes. 

The apples are pared, the paper read, 

The stories are told, then all to bed. 

Without, the crickets' ceaseless song 

Makes shrill the silence all night long; 

The heavy dews are falling. 

The housewife's hand has turned the lock; 

Drowsily ticks the kitchen clock ; 

The household sinks to deep repose, 

But still in sleep the farm-boy goes 


" Co', boss I co', boss I co' I co' I co' I" 

And oft the milkmaid, in her dreams. 

Drums in the pail with the dashing streams, 

Murmuring, '^ So, boss I so i" 

J,T, TrowbriOgt* 

Fatting up Stoves. 

One who has had considerable experience in the work of put* 
ting up stoves says the first step to be taken is to put on a very 
old and ragged coat, under the impression that when he gets his 
mouth full of plaster it will keep his shirt bosom clean. Next he 
gets his hands inside the place where the pipe ought to go, and 
blacks his fingers, and then he careAiUy makes a black mark down 
one side of his nose. It is impossible to make any headway, in 
doing this work, until this mark is made down the side of the nose. 
Having got his face properly marked, the victim is ready to begin 
the ceremony. The head of the &mily — ^who is the big goose of the 
sacrifice — grasps one side^of the bottom of the stove, and his wife 
and the hired girl take hold of the other side. In this way the load 
is started from the wood-shed toward the parlor. Going through 
the door the head of the family will carefully swing his side of the 
stove around, and jam his thumb-nail against the door-post This 
part of the ceremony is never omitted. Having got the stove 

ExsBciam in Elocvtios. 75 

comfortably in place, the next thing ia to find the legs. Two of 
these are left inside the store since the spring before. The other 
two must be hunted after for twoity-fiye minntes. They are 
nsaally found under the coaL Then the head of the family holds 
up one side of the stove while his wife puts two of the legs in 
place, and next he holds up the other side whrle the other two is 
fixed, and one of the first two falls out. By the time the stove is 
on its legs he gets reckless, and takes off his old coat regardless 
of his linen. Then he goes off for the pipe, and gets a cinder in 
his eye. It don't make any difference how well the pipe was put 
up last year, it will be found a little too short or a little too long. 
The head of the family Jams his hat over his eyes, and, taking a 
pipe under each arm, goes to the tin shop to have it fixed. When 
he gets back he steps upon one of the best parlor chairs to see if 
the pipe fits, and his wife makes him get down for fear he will 
scratch the varnish off from the chair with the nails in his boot- 
heel. In getting down he will surely step on the cat, and may 
thank his stars if it is not the baby. Then he gets an old chair, 
and climbs up to the chimney again, to find that in cutting the 
pipe off, the end has been left too big for the hole in the chimney. 
So he goes to the wood-shed, and splits one side of the end of the 
pipe with an old axe, and squeezes it in his hands to make it 
smaller. Finally he gets the pipe in shape, and finds that the 
stove does not stand true. Then himself and wife and the hired 
girl move the stove to the left, and the legs fall out again. Next 
it is to move to the right. More difficidty with the legs. Moved 
to the front a little. Elbow not even with the hole in the chimney, 
and he goes to the wood-shed after some little blocks. While 
putting the blocks under the legs, the pipe comes out of the 
chimney. That remedied, the elbow keeps tipping over to the 
great alarm of the wife. Head of the family gets the dinner-table 
out, puts the old chair on it, gets his wife to hold the chair, and 
balances himself on it to drive some nails into the ceiling. Drops 
the hammer on to wife's head. At last gets the nails driven, 
makes a wire-swing to hold the pipe, hammers a little here, pulls ' 
a little there, takes a long breath, and announces the ceremony 

Job never put up any sloves. It would have ruLicd his reputa- 
tion if he had. 

76 JSxERCisES IN Elocution. 

Tribnte to Water. 

Paul Denton, a Methodist preacher in Texas, advertised a barbecne. 
with better liqaor than is asaally ftimislied. when the people were as- 
sembled, a desperado in the crowd waljced up to him, and cried out: 
** Mr. Denton, your reverence has lied. Yon promised not only a good 
barbecue, bat better liqaor. Where's the liqaor ?*' 

** There!" answered the preacher, in tones of thnnder, and pointing 
bis motionless finger at a spring gashing up in two strong columns, with 
a sound like a shout of Jey, from the bosom of the earth. 

*' There I" he repeated, with a look terrible as lightning, while 
his enemy actually trembled at his feet; "there is the liquor which 
God, the Eternal, brews for all His children. Not in the simmerinp; 
still, over smoky fires, choked with poisonous gases, surrounded 
with the stench of sickening odors and corruptions, doth your 
Father in heaven prepare the precious essence of life— pure, cold 
water ; but in the green glade and grassy dell, where the red deer 
wanders, and the child loves to play, {here God brews it; and doum^ 
low down in the deepest valleys, where the fountain murmurs and 
the rills sing ; and high upon the mountain tops, where the naked 
granite glitters like gold in the sun, where the storm-cloud broods 
and the thunder-storms crash ; and far out on the wide, wild sea, 
where the hurricane howls music, and the big wave rolls the chorus, 
sweeping the march of God — ^lere He brews it, that beverage of 
life— health-giving water. 

" And everywhere it is a thing of life and beauty — gleaming in 
the dew-drop; singing in the summer rain ; shining in the ice-gem, 
till the trees all seem turned to living jewels; spreading a golden 
yeil over the setting sun, or a white gauze around the midnight 
moon; sporting in the glacier; folding its bright snow-curtain softly 
about the wintery world; and weaving the many-colored bow, that 
seraph's zone of the siren — ^whose warp is the rain-drops of earth, 
whose woof is the sunbeam of heaven, all checked over with celes- 
tial flowers, by the mystic hand of refraction. 

"Still always it is beautiful — that blessed life- water I No 
poisonous bubbles are on its brink ; its foam brings not madness and 
murder; no blood stains its liquid glass; pale widows and starving 
orphans weep not burning tears in its depths ; no drunkard's shrink- 
ing ghost, from the grave, curses it in the worlds of eternal despair I 
Speak out, my friends: would you exchange it for the demon's 
drink, alcohol?" A sJumt, like the roar of a tempest^ answered^ 
*Nor* Johns. Govgh, 

Exercises in Elocvtiok 77 

Olanbel'8 Prayer. 

The day, with cold, gray feet^ clang shivering to the hills, 
While o'er the valley still night's rain-cringed curtains fell ; 

Bat waking Blue Eyes smiled, '^'Tis ever as God wills; 
He knoweth hest; and be it rain or shine, 'tis welL 
Praise Grod !" cried always little ClaribeL 

Then sank she on her knees, with ea^r, lin;ed hands ; 

Her rosy lips made haste some dear request to tell: 
** O Father smile, and save this fairest of all lands, 

And make her free, whatever hearts rebeL 

Amen 1 Praise God I" cried little ClaribeL 

" And, Father," — still arose another pleading prayer,-^ 
''O, save my brother, in the rain of shot and shell; 

Let not the death-bolt, with its horrid, streaming hair, 
Dash light from those sweet eyes I love so welL 

^ But, Father, grant that when the glorious figlit is done, 
And up the crimson sky the shouts of Freedom swell) 

Grant that there be no nobler victor 'neath the sun 
Than he whose golden hair I love so welL 
Amen 1 Praise God ! " cried little ClaribeL 

When the gray and dreary day shook hands with grayer night| 
The heavy air was filled with clangor of a belL 

^O, shout 1" the herald cried, his worn eyes brimmed with light ; 
" 'Tis victory f O, what glorious news to tell ! " 
** Praise God ! He heard my prayer," cried ClaribeL 

*^ But^ pray you, soldier, was my brother in the fight? 

And in the fiery rain ? 0, fought he brave and well ? " 
" Dear child," the herald cried, " there was no braver sight 

Than his young form, so grand 'mid shot and shell." 

" Praise God 1 " cried trembling little ClaribeL 

'' And rides he now with victor's plumes of red, 
While trumpets' golden throats his coming steps foretell ? ** 

The herald dropped a tear. '^ Dear child," he softly said, 
" Thy brother evermore with cong[uerar8 shall dwell." 
"Praise God! He heard my prayer," cried ClaribeL 

IS ExEEcisss JN ELoovnoy. 

" With yictors wearing crotons and bearing palms,** he said, 
A snow of sudden fear upon the rose lips fell 

^ O, sweetest herald, saj mj brother Ihes/* she plead, 
"Dear child, he walks with angels, who in strength excel, 
Praise God, who gare this glorj, Claribel'* 

The cold, gray day died sobbing on the weary hills^ 
While bitter mourning on the night wind rose and fell 

^'O, child," — ^the herald wept^ — '**tis aa the dear Lord wills: 
He knoweth best, and, be it life or death, 'tis wdL" 
"^ Amen I Praise God I " sobbed Uttle ClaribeL 

The Skeleton in Armor 

This poem was saggested by the Round Tower at Newport, now 
elaimed by the Danes, as a work of their ancestors. 

^ Speak I speak I thou fearful guest 1 
Who, with thy hollow breast 
Still in rude armor drest 

Comest to daunt me I 
Wrapt not in Eastern balma^ 
But with thy fleshless palms 
Stretched, as if asking almsy 

Why dost thou haunt me T* 

Then, from those cayeraoiiis eyet 
Pale flashes seemed to rise. 
As when the Northern skies 

Gleam in December; 
And, Uke the water*s flow 
Under December's snow. 
Came a dull Toice of woe 

From the heart's chamber. 

**I was a Tikrog old I 
My deeds, though manifold^ 
No Scald in song has told, 
No Saga taught thee I 


Take heed, that m thy verao 
Thou dost the tale rehearse, 
Else dread a dead man's curse I 
for this I sought thee. 

'^Far in the Northern land. 
By the wild Baltic's strand, 
I, with my chadiah hand, 

Tamed the ger-fiilcon ; 
And, with my skates fast^bound, 
Skimm'd the half-frozen Sound, 
That the poor whimpering hound 

Trembled to walk on. 

^ Ofl to his frozen lair 
Track'd I the grizzly bear. 
While from my path the hare 

Fled like a shadow ; 
Oft through the forest dark 
Followed the were- wolf *s bark, 
Until the soaring lark 

Sang from the meadow. 

**But when I older grew. 
Joining a corsair's crew 
O'er the dark sea I flew 
With the marauders. 
Wild was the life we led ; 
Many the souls that sped, 
Many the hearts that bled, 
By our stem orders. 

** Once as I told in glee 
Tales of the stormy sea, 
Soft eyes did gaze on me. 

Burning out tender : 

80 Exercises in ELOcunow. 

And as the white stars shine 
On the dark Norway pine, 
On that dark heart of mine 
Fell their soft splendor. 

* Bright in her father's hall 
Shields gleam*d upon the wall, 
Loud sang the minstrels all. 

Chanting his glory ; 
When of old Hildebrand 
I ask'd his daughter's hand, 
Mute did the minstrel stand 

To hear my story. 


" While the brown ale he quaff'd 
Loud then the champion laugh'd 
And as the wind-gusts waft 

The sea-foam brightly, 

So the loud laugh of scorn, 

Out of those lips unshorn, 

From the deep drinking-horn 

Blew the foam lightly, 

" She was a Prince's child, 
I but a Viking wild, 
And though she blush'd and smiled, 

I was discarded I 
Should not the dove so white 
Follow the sea-mew's flight, 
Why did they leave that night 

Her nest unguarded ? 

" Scarce had I put to sea, 
Bearing the maid with me— 
Fairest of all was she 

Among the Norsemen I — 


ExjBBcisEs IN Elocution. t% 

When on the white sea-strand, 
Waiving his anned hand. 
Saw we old Hildebrand, 
With twenty horsemen. 

"Then launched they to the blasts 
Bent like a reed each masti 
Yet we were gaining fast^ 

When the wind fail'd us : 
And with a sudden flaw 
Came round the gusty Ska w, 
So that our foe we saw 

Laugh as he hatlM us. 

* And as to catch' the gale 
Round veer*d the flapping sail, 
Death I was the helmsman's hwl, 

Death without quarter I 
Mid-ships with iron keel 
Struck we her ribs of steel ; 
Down her black hull did reel 
Through the black water. 

* As with his wings aslant^ 
Sails the fierce cormorant^ 
Seeking some rocky haunt^ 

With his prey laden, 
So toward the open main. 
Beating to sea again, 
Through the wild hurricane^ 

Bore I the maiden. 

** Three weeks we westward bora^ 
And when the storm was o*er, 
Cloud-like we saw the shore 
Stretching to leeward ; 

<{2 SXSRCISES IN Ehocxmosf. 

There for my Iiidy*8 bower 
Built I the lofty tower, 
Whidi, to this very hour, 
Stands looking sea-ward. 

" There lired we many years ; 
Time dried the maiden's tears; 
She had forgot her fears, 

She was a mother-; 
Death closed her mOd blue eje% 
Under that tower she lies; 
Ne'er shall the sun arise 

On such another I 

^ Still grew my bosom then, 
Still as a stagnant fen ! 
Hateful to me were men, 
The sun-light hateful t 
In the Tast forest here, 
dad in my warlike gear, 
Fell I upon my spear, 
O, death was gratefull 

"Thus, seam'd with my many scars 

Bursting these prison bars, 

Up to its natire stars 

My soul ascended I 

There from the flowing bowl 

Deep drinks the warrior's soul, 

Skool! to the Northland I tkoair 

— Thus the tale ended. 


ExsRCisisa IN Elocution, 83 

[From Family Gorei and Family Joys.] 


I must giro joq portraits of all mj flock of chtldren; who now, 
having enjoyed their eyening meal, are laid to rest upon their soft 
pillowa. Ah I if I had only a really good portrait — I mean a 
painted one— of my Henrik, my first bom, my summer child, as I 
call him — because he was born on a midsummer-day, in the sum- 
mer hours both of my life and my fortune ; but only the pencil of 
a Correggio could represent those beautiful, kind, blue eyes, those 
golden locks^ that loving mouthy, and that all so pure and beautiful 
countenance I Goodness and Joyfulness beam out from his whole 
being; even although his buoyant animal life, which seldom allows 
his arms or legs to be quiet^ often expresses itself in not the most 
agreeable manner. My eleven-years-old boy is, alas! very — his 
father says -^ very unmanageable. Still, notwithstanding all his 
wildness, he is possessed of a deep and restless fund of sentiment, 
which makes me often tremble for his future fasppinessL God 
defend my darling, my summer child, my only son! Oh, how dear 
he is to me I Ernst warns me often of too partiid an affection for 
this child; and on that very account I will now pass on from 
No. Ito 

Ha 2. 

Behold then the little Louise, our eldest daughter, just turned ten 
years old ; and you will see a grave, fair girl, not handsome, but 
with a round, sensible face; fi'om which I hope, by degrees, to 
remove a certain iU-tempercd expression. She is uncommonly 
industrious, and kind toward her younger sisters, although very 
much disposed to lecture them ; nor will she allow any opportunity 
to pass in which her importance as *' eldest sister " is not observed; 
on which account the little ones give her already the title of " Your 
Majesty,'* and '* Mrs. Judge." The Httle Louise appears to me one 
of those who will always be still and sure ; and who, on this account, 
will go fortunately through the world. 

People say that my little nine-years-old Eva is very like hei 
mother. I hope it may be a real resemblance* See, then, a little, 
. soft^ round-about figure, which, amid laughter and merriment, rolls 

84 Exercises in Ehocxmonr. 

hither and thither lightly and nimbly, with an ever-varying phyri- 
ognomy, which is rather plain than handsome, although lit up by a 
pair of beautiful dark-blue eyes. Quickly moved to sorrow, quickly 
excited to joy ; good-hearted, flattering, confection-loving, pleased 
with new and handsome clothes, and with dolls and play ; greatly 
beloved, too, by brother and sisters, as well as by all the servants \ 
the best firiend and playfellow, too, of her brother. Such is the 
little Eva. 

ITa 4 

Nos. 3 and 4 ought not properly -to come together. Poor Lenore 
had a sickly childhood, and this rather, I believe, than nature, has 
given to her an unsteady and violent temper, and has unhappily 
sown the seeds of envy, toward her more fortunate sisters. She 
is not deficient in deep feeling, but the understanding is sluggish, 
and it is extremely difficult for her to learn anything. . All this 
promises no pleasure; rather the very opposite. The expression 
of her mouth, even in the uncomfortable time of teething, seemed 
to speak, "Let me be quiet T' It is hardly possible that she can be 
other than plain, but^ wij;h God's help, I hope to make her good 
and happy. 

''My beloved, plain child T' say I sometimes to her as I clasp her 

tenderly in my arms, for I would wUliugly reconcile her early to 

her fate. 

Ka 6. 

But whatever will fate do with the nose of my Petrea? This 
nose is at present the most remarkable thing about her; and if it 
were not so large, she really would be a pretty child. We hope, 
however, that it will moderate itself in her growth. 

Petrea is a little lively girl, with a turn for almost everything, 
whether good or bad, and with a dangerous desire to make herself 
remarkable, and to excite an interest Her activity shows itself in 
destructiveness ; yet she is good-hearted and most generous. In 
every kind of foolery she is a most willing ally with Henrik and 
Eva, whenever they will grant her so much favor; and if these 
three be heard whispering together, one may be quite sure that 
some roguery or other is on foot There exists already, however, 
%o much unquiet in her, that I fear her whole life will be such ; but 
I will early teach her to turn herself to that which can change 
unrest into rest 

Exercises in Elocution. 85 

Ko. 6. 

And now to the pet child of the house — for the youngest, the 
loveliest^ the so-called '^ little one" — to her who with her white 
hands puts the sugar into the &ther*8 and mother's cup — the cofiee 
without that would not taste good — to her whose little bed is not 
yet removed from the chamber of the parents, and who, every 
morning, creeping out of her own bed, lays her bright, curly little 
head on her father's shoulder, and sleeps again. 

Could you only see the little two-years-old Gabriele, with her- 
large, serious brown eyes; her refined, somewhat pale, but indes- 
cribably lovely countenance; her bewitching little gestures; you 
would be just as much taken with her as the rest, you would find 
it difiicult) as we all do, not to sho.w preference to her. She is a 
quiet little child, but very unlike her eldest sister. A predominating 
characteristic of Gabriele is love of the beautiful; she shows a 
decided aversion to what is ugly and inconvenient, and as decided 
a love for what is attractive. A most winning little gentility iu 
appearance and manners, has occasioned the brother and sisters to 
call her " the little young lady," or ** the little princess." Henrik 
is really in love with his little sister, kisses her small white hands 
with devotion, and in return she loves him with her whole heart. 
Towards the others she is very often somewhat ungracious, and our 
good friend the Assessor calls her frequently " the little gracious 
one," and frequently also " the little ungracious one," but then he 
has fbr her especially so many names ; my wish is that in the end 
she may deserve the surname of '* the amiable." 

Peace be with my young ones I There is not one of them which 
is not possessed of the material of peculiar virtue and excellence, 
and yet not also at the same time of the seed of some dangerous 
vice, which may ruin the good growth of God in them. May the 
endeavors both of their father and me be blessed in training these 
plants of heaven aright! 

frederika Sremer, 

89 ExEBcissa IN Mlocxition. 

The Face againrt the FanA 

Mabel, little Mabel, 

With her face against the pane. 

Looks out across the nighty 

And sees the beacon light 

A trembling in the rain. 

She hears the sea bird screech, 

And the breakers on the beach 

Making moan, making moan. 

And the wind about the eaves 

Of the cottage sobs and grieves. 

And the willow tree is blown 

To and fro, to and fro. 

Till it seems like some old crone 

Standing out there all alone with her woe^ 

Wringing as she stands 

Her gaunt and palsied hands; 

While Mabel, timid Mabel, 

With her face against the pane, 

Looks out across the night 

And sees the beacon light 

A trembling in the rain. 

Set the table, maiden Mabel, 

And make the cabin warm. 

Your little fisher lover 

Is out there in the storm ; 

And your father, you are weeping; 

0, Mabel, timid Mabel, 

Go spread the supper table. 

And set the tea a steeping; 

Your lover's heart is brave, 

His boat is staunch and tight^ 

And your father knows 

The perilous ree^ 

That makes the water white. 

But Mabel, Mabel darling, 

ExjERCiSES m Elocution. 87 

With her faoe^ Agunst the pane, 
Looks out across the night 
At the beacon in the rain. 

The heayens are veined with firel 
And the thunder how it rolls I 
In the lullings of the storm 
The solemn church bell tolls 

For lost souls! 
But no sexton SQunds the knell ; 
In that belfry old and high, 
Unseen fingers sway the bell 
As the wind goes tearing by I 
How it tolls, for the souls 
Of t}ie sailors on the sea^ 
God pity theml God pity them 1 
Whererer they may be. 
God pity wives and sweethearts 
Who wait and wait in vain, 
And pity little Mabel, 
With her face against the pane ! 

A boom I the light house gun. 
How it echoes, foils and rolls, 
*Tis to warn home bound ships 

Off the shoals. 
See, a rocket cleaves the sky 
From the fort, a shaft of light t 
See, it fades, and fading leaves 
Golden furrows on the night! 
What makes MabeVs cheek so pale? 
What makes Mabel's lips so white? 
Did she see the helpless sail 
That tossing here and there 
Like a feather in the air. 
Went down and out of sight, 
DowDi down and out of sight ? 

83 Exercises in Elocution. 

O, watch no more, jio morOi 
With face against the pane^- 
You cannot see the men that drown 
By the beacon in the rain I 

From a shoal of richest rubies 
Breaks the morning clear and cold, 
And the angel on the village spire, 
Frost touched, is bright as gold. 
Four ancient fishermen 
In the pleasant autumn air, 
Come toiling up the sands. 
With something in their hands. 
Two bodies stark and white, 
Ah I so ghastly in the light^ 
With sea weed in their hair. 
0, ancient fishermen 
Go up to yonder cot! 
You'll find a little child 
With face against the pane, 
Who looks toward the beach 
And looking sees it not 
She will never watch again, 
Never watch and wake at nighty 
For those pretty saintly eyes 
Look beyond the stormy skieSi 
And they see the beacon light 


Mother and Poet 
Dead! one of them shot by the sea in the east, 
And one of them shot in the west by the sea. 
Dead ! both my boys 1 when you sit at the feast. 
And are wanting a great song for Italy free, 
. Let none look at me I 

Yet I was a poetess only last year. 
And good at my art, for a woman, men said ; 

Exercises m Elocution. 89 

But this woman, this, who is agonized here, 

The east sea, and the west sea rhyme on in her head 
Forever instead I 

What 's art for a woman ? To hold on her knees 
Both darlings I to feel all their arms round her throat 

Cling, strangle a little 1 to sew by degrees, 
And 'broider the long clothes and neat little coat; 
To dream and to dote. 

To teach them. It stings there : I made them, indeed, 
Speak plain the word country, — I taught them, no doubt, 

That a country 's a thing men should die for at need. 
I prated of liberty, rights, and about 
The tyrant turned out 

And when their eyes flashed. 0, my beautiful eyes I 
I exulted I Nay, let them go forth at the wheels 

Of the guns, and denied not. But then the surprise 
When one sits quite alone I then one weeps, then one kneels I 
— GK>d I how the house feels 1 

At first happy news came, in gay letters moiled 
With my kisses, of camp life and glory, and how 

They both loved me, and soon, coming home to be spoiled, 
In return would fan off every fly from my brow 
With their green laurel bough. 

Then was triumph at Turin, Ancona was free. 
And some one came out of the cheers in the street, 

With a face pale as stone, to say something to me. 
My Guido was dead I I fell down at his feet 
While they cheered in tiie street 

I bore it I friends soothed me; my grief looked sublime 
As the ransom of Italy. One boy yet remained 

To be leant on, and walked with, recalling the time 
When the first grew immortal, while both of us strained 
To the height he had gained. 

90 Exercises in Elocution. 

And letters still came, shorter, sadder, more strong, 
Writ now but ^l one hand. I was not to faint 

One loved me for two ; wonld be with me ere long: 
And ''Viva Italia" he died for, our saint, 
" Who forbids our complaint" 

My Nanni would add he " was safe, and aware 

Of a presence that turned off the balls, was imprest 

It was Guido himself who knew what I could bear 
And how *twas impossible, quite dispossessed 
To live on for the rest" 

On which without pause up the telegraph line 

Swept smoothly the next news from Gaeta: 
Shot Tdl his mother. Ah ! ah I " his," " their" mother, not " mine. ' 

No voice says my mother again to me. Whatl 
You think Guido forgot? 

Are souls straight so happy that, dizzy with Heaven, 
They drop earth's affections, conceive not of woe? 

I think not Themselves were too lately forgiven 
Through that love and that sorrow that reconciles so 
The Above and Below. 

Christ of the seven wounds, who looVst thro' the dark 

To the face of thy mother I consider I pray. 
Sow we conmion mothers stand desolate, mark, 

Whose sons not being Christ's, die with eyes turned away. 
And no last word to say I 

Both boys dead I but that's out of nature. We all 
Have been patriots, yet each house must always keep one. 

'Twere imbecile hewing out roads to a wall 
And, when Italy's made, for what end is it done 
If we have not a son ? 

Ah I ah I ah I when Gaeta's taken, what then? . 
When the fair wicked queen sits no more at her sport 

Exercises in Elocution. 91 

Of ihe fire-balls of death, crashing souls out of men, 
When the guns of GavaUi with final retort^ 
Have cut the game short 

When Venice and Rome keep their new jubilee, 

When your flag takes all heaven for its green white and red, 

When you have a country from mountain to sea, 
When King Victor has Italy's crown on his head. 
And I have my dead 

What then ? Do not mock me. Ah I ring your bells low. 
And bum your lights faintly. My country is there, 

Above the star pricked by the last peak of snow ; 
My Italy's there, witn my brave civic pair, 
To disfranchise despair. 

Dead I one of them shot by the sea in the west^ 

And one of them shot in the east by the sea. 
Both I both my boys 1 If in keeping the feast 

You want a great song for your Italy free. 
Let none look at me. 

Jlfr«. Browning* 

The Ohorge of the Light Brigade at Balaklava, 

Half a league, half a league, 

Half a league onward. 
All in the Valley of Death 
Rode tlie Six Hundred. 
"Forward, the Light Brigade 1 
Charge for the guns I " he said :. 
Into the valley of Death 
Bode the Six Hundred. 


f* Forward, the Light Brigade I " 
Was there a man dismayed ? 
Not though the soldier knew 
Some one had blundered : 


1>2 Exercises in Elocution. 

Theirs not to make reply, 
Theirs not to reason why, 
Theirs but to do and die: 
Into the Valley of Death 
Bode the Six Hundred. 


Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them, 
Cannon in front of them, 

Volleyed -and thundered. 
Stormed at with shot and shell, 
Boldly they rode and weU; 
Into the jaws of Death, 
, Into the mouth of hell, 

Bode the Six Hundred. 


Flashed all their sabres bare. 
Flashed as they turned in air, 
Sabring the gunners there. 
Charging an army, while 

All the world wondered. 
Plunged in the battery smoke. 
Bight through the line they broke; 
Cossack and Bussian 
Beeled from the sabre-stroke. 

Shattered and sundered. 
Then they rode back, but not^ 

Kot the Six Hundred. 


Cannon to right of them. 
Cannon to left of them. 
Cannon behind them, 

Volleyed and thundered. 
Stormed at with shot and shell. 
While horse and hero fell, 

Exercises in Elocution. 93 

They that had fought so well 
Came through the jaws of Death 
Back from the mouth of hell. 
All that was left of them, 
Left of Six Qondred* 


When can their glory fade ? 
the wild charge they made I 

All the world wondered. 
Honor the charge they made I 
Honor the Light Brigade, 

Noble Six Hundred. 

Hay Days. 

In sweet May time, so long ago, 

I stood by the big wheel spinning tow, 

Buzz, buzz, so very slow ; 

Drrk, rough logs from the ancient trees, 

Fire-place wide for the children's glees. 

Above the smoky boards and beams, 

Down through the crevice poured golden gleams, 

Till the wheel dust glimmered like diamond dreams ; 

Mother busy with household care, 

Baby playing with upturned chairs, 

Old clock telling how fast time wears. 

These within. Out under the sky 
Flecked mists were sailing, birds flitting by. 
Joyous children playing "I spy." 
Up from the earth curled leaves were coming, 
Bees in the morning sunshine humming, 
Away in the woods the partridge drumming. 


94 Exercises m Elocution. 

0, how I longed to burst away 
From my dull task to the crater day ; 
But we were poor and I must stay. 
So busz I buzz ! — 'twas very slow, 
Drawing threads from the shining tow, 
When the heart was dancing so. 

Then hope went spinning a brighter thread, 
. On, on, through life's long lane it led, 
A path my feet riiould one day tread. 
So pleasant thoughts would time beguile. 
Till my mother said, with beaming smile, 
''My child may rest, I will reel awhile." 

Rest I ' twas the rest that childhood takes, 
Off over fences and fragrant brakes, 
To the wilds, where the earliest woodland flings 
Spring of the year, and life's sweet spring. 
Words are poor for the thoughts ye bring. 

But ye come together to me no more, 
Your twin steps rest on the field of yore, 
Ye are mine on yonder immortal shore. 
' Twas hard to leave those bright May days, 
The mossy path, and leafy maze 
For common work, and humdrum way& 

But my steps were turned, I was up the lane, 

Back to the buzzing wheel again, 

My yarn had finished the ten knot skein ; 

And my gentle mother stroked my head, 

" Your yam is very nice," she said, 

*' It will make a beautiful tablespread.'* 

" You are my good girl to work so well,'* 
Great thoughts my childish heart would swell, 
'Till the happy tears like rain drops fell 
I would toil for her, I would gather lore, 
From many books a mighty store, 
And pay her kindness o'er and o'er. 


She should work no more at wheel or loom, 
VLj earnings i^ould ghre her a oozy room, 
Bright and warm for the winter's gloom, 
A soft warm chair for her weary hours, 
Books and music, pictures, flowers. 

So the sweet dream ran, as the wheel bussed on, 
'Till the golden gleams of light w«re gone. 
And the chilling rain came dripping down, 
Ah 1 my heart has it e'er been so^ 
Cold clouds shading life's sunniest glow, 
Warm hopes drowned in the cold wave's flow. 

In the same low room my mother pressed, 
Each child to her sofUy heaving breast, 
And closed her eyes and went to rest 
The old walls crumbled long ago, 
Hushed the big wheePs buzzing slow, 
Worn to shreds is the shining tow. 

Yet with the bursting leaves and flowers, 
The gushing songs and pearly showers, 
Life brightens as in childhood's hours, 
And hope this golden morn in May 
Spins golden threads that float away 
To a heavenly home that is bright for aye. 

Scrooge and Marley. 

Marlbt was dead to begin with. There is no doubt whatever 
about that The register of his burial was signed by the clergy- 
man, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. Scrooge 
signed it: and Scrooge's name was good upon 'Change, for any- 
tliing he chose to put his hand to. Old Marley was as dead as a 

Mind I I don't mean to say that I know, of my own knowledge, 

what there is particularly dead about a door-naiL I might have 

been inclined, myself, to regard a coffin-nail as the deadest piece 

of ironmongery in the trade. But the wisdom of our ancestors is 


W Exercises in Elocution. 

in the simile ; and my unhallowed hands shall not disturb it, or the 
Country's done for. You will therefore permit me to repeat^ 
emphatically, that Marley was as dead as a door-naiL 

Scrooge knew he was dead 7 Of course he did. How could it 
be otherwise? Scrooge and he were partners for I don't know 
how many years. Scrooge was his sole executor, his sole adminia- 
trator ^his sole assign, his sole residuary legatee, his sole friend, and 
sole mourner. And even Scrooge waa not so dreadfully cut up by 
the sad event, but that he was an excellent man of business on the 
very day of the funeral, and solemnized it with an undoubted bar- 

Scrooge neyer painted out M. Marley's name. There it stood, 
years afterwards, above the warehouse door : Scrooge and Marley. 
The firm was known as Scrooge and Marley. Sometimes people 
new to the business called Scrooge Scrooge, and sometimes Marley, 
but he answered to both names : it was all the same to him. 

Oh I But he was a tight-fisted hand at the grindstone, Scrooge I 
a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous old 
sinner I Hard and sharp as flint, from which no steel had ever 
struck out generous fire ; secret and self-contained, and solitary as 
an oyster. The cold within him fi-oze his old features, nipped his 
pointed nose', shriveled his cheek, stiffened his gait ; made his eyes 
red, his thin lips blue ; and spoke out shrewdly in his grating voice. 
A frosty rime was on his head, and on his eyebrows, and his wiry 
chin. He carried his own low temperature always about with 
him; he iced his office in the dog-days; and didn't thaw it one 
degree at Christmas. 

External heat and cold had little influence on Scrooge. No 
warmth could warm, nor wintry weather chill him. No wind that 
blew was bitterer than he, no falling snow was more intent upon 
its purpose, no pelting rdn less open to entreaty. Foul weather 
didn't know where to have him. The heaviest rain, and snow, 
and haU, and sleet, could boast of the advantage over him in only 
one respect They often '' came down ** handsomely, and Scrooge 
never did. 

Nobody ever stopped him in the street to say, with gladsome 
looks, " My dear Scrooge, how are you ? when will you come to 
see me ? '* No beggars implored him to bestow a trifle, no children 

EXSSCI8S3 IN Elocution. 97 

asked him what it was o'clock, no man or woman ever once in all 
his life inquired the waj to such and such a place, of Scrooge. 
Even the blind-men's dogs appeared to know him ; and when the/ 
saw him coming on, would tug their owners into doorways and up 
courts; and then would wag their tails as though thej said, ''no 
eye at all is better than an evil eye, dark master I " 

But what did Scrooge care? It was the very thing he liked. 
To edge his way along the crowded paths of life, warning all 
human sympathy to keep its distance, was what the knowing ones 
call " nats " to Scrooge. 


'Szmag Away. 

Was it the chime of a tiny bell, 

That came so sweet to my dreaming ear, 

lake the silvery tones of a fairy's shell, 

That he winds on the beach so mellow and clear, 

When the winds and the waves lie together asleep, 

And the moon and tue fairy are watching the deep, 

She dispensing her silvery light, 

And he his notes as silvery quite. 

While the boatman listens and ships his oar. 

To catch the music that comes from the shore?— 

Hark I the notes on my ear that play. 

Are set to words: as they float, they say, 

"Passing away I passing away 1" 


But, no ; it was not a fairy's shell, 

Blown on the beach so mellow and clear: 
Kor was it the tongue of a silver bell 

Striking the hours that fell on my ear, 
Ail I lay in my dream : yet was it a chime 
That told of the flow of the stream of Time ; 
For a beautiful clock from the ceiling hung. 
And a plump little girl for a pendulum, swung ; 

98 ExsRcissa IN ELocxmoy. 

(As you've sometimes seen, in a little ring 
That hangs in his cage, a canary bird swing;) 
And she held to her bosom a budding bouquet^ 
And as she enjoyed it, she seemed to say, 
^ Passing away I passing away I" 


Oh, how bright were the wheels, that told 

Of the lapse of time as they moved round slow 1 
And the hands as they swept o*er the dial of gold 

Seemed to point to the girl below. 
And lol she had changed; — in a few short hours, 
Her bouquet had become a garland of flowers, 
That she held in her outstretched hands, and flung 
This way and that, -as she, dancing, swung 
In the fullness of grace and womanly pride, 
That told me she soon was to be a bride ; 

Yet then, when expecting her happiest day, 
In the same sweet voice I heard her say, 
^' Passing away I passing away 1" 


While I gazed on that fair one*8 cheek, a shade 

Of thought, or care, stole softly over. 
Like that by a cloud in a summer's day made. 

Looking down on a field of blossoming clover. 
The rose yet lay on her cheek, but its flush 
Had something lost of its brilliant blush ; 

And the light in her eye, and the light on the wheels^ 
That marched so calmly round above her. 

Was a little dimmed — as when evening steals 
Upon noon's hot face: — yet one couldn't but love her; 
For she looked like a mother whose first babe lay 
Rocked on her breast, as she swung all day ; 
And she seemed in the same silver tone to say, 
" Passing away I passing away T' 

ExsRcissa IN EhocvnoN. 99 


While yet I looked, wbat a change there came I 

Her eye was quenched, and her cheek was wan ; 
Stooping and stafifed was her withered frame^ 

Yet just as busily swung she on : 
The garland beneath her had fallen to dust; 
The wheels above her were eaten with rust; 
The hands, that over the dial swept, 
Grew crook'd and tarnished, but on they kept; 
And still there came that silver tone 
From the shriveled lips of the toothless crone, 
(Let me never forget, to my dying day, 
The tone or the burden of that lay) -* 
'* Passing awat] passing awat T 


Sheridaa's fiide. 

Up from the south at break of day, 
Brining to Winchester fresh dismay, 
The affrighted air with a shudder bore, 
Like a herald in haste, to the chieftain's door, 
The terrible grumble and rumble and roar, 
Telling the battle was on once more. 
And Sheridan — twenty miles away. 


And wilder still those billows of war 

Thundered along the horizon's bar. 

And louder yet into Winchester rolled 

The roar of that red sea uncontrolled, 

Making the blood of the listener cold 

As he thought <^ the stake in that fiery fi«y, 

And Sheridan — twenty miles away. 


But there is a road from Winchester town, 
A good, broad highway leading down; 

392139 A 

100 JSxERcisEs IN MLocunoir. 

And there, through the flush of the mommg light, 

A steed, as black as the steeds of night, 

Was seen to pass as with eagle flight— 

As if he knew the terrible need, 

He stretched away with the utmost speed ; 

Hills rose and fell — but his heart was gay. 

With Sheridan fifteen miles away. 


Still sprung from these swift hoof^ thundering South, 
The dust, like the smoke from the cannon's mouth, 
Or the trail of a comet sweeping faster and faster, 
Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster ; 
The heart of the steed and the heairt of the master 
Were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls. 
Impatient to be where the battle-field calls ; * 

Every nerre of the charger was strained to full play 
With Sheridan only ten miles away. 


Under his spuming feet, the road 
Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed, 
And the landscape sped away behind 
Like an ocean flying before the wind ; 
And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace ire. 
Swept on with his wild eyes full of fire. 
But lo 1 he is nearing his heart's desire — 
He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray. 
With Sheridan only five miles away. 


The first that tlie General saw were the groups 

Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops ; — 

What was done — what to do — a glance told him both. 

Then striking his spurs with a muttered oath, 

He dashed down the line 'mid a storm of huzzaha, 

And the wave of retreat checked its course there because 

The sight of the master compelled it to pause. 

With foam and with dust the black charger was gray ; 

ExERcrssa m Ehocunoir. loi 

By the flash of his eye, and his red nostrirs play, 
He seemed to the whole great army to say, 
^ I have hronght you Sheridan all tlie way 
JFhm^ Winchester down to save the day r* 


Hurrah, hurrah for Sheridan 1 
Hurrah, hurrah for horse and man I 
And when their statues are placed on high 
Under the dome of the Union sky, — • 
The American soldier^s temple of Fame, -— 
There, with the glorious GeneraFs name, 
Be it said in letters both bold and bright : 
^ Here is (he steed that saved ihs day 
By carrying Sheridan into (he fight 
JF)rom Winchester — twenty miles away P* 

The Night Soene in HacbetL 

Lctdy Mdcheth*s Room in die Oastle at Dunsinane, 

Enter Gentlewoman and Physician. 

Phy, I have two nights watched with you, but can perceire no 
truth in your report When was it she last walked ? 

Chid, Since his majesty went into the field, I have seen her rise 
from her bed, throw her night-gown upon her, unlock her closet, 
take forth paper, fold it^ write upon it, read it^ afterwards seal it, 
and again return to bed ; yet all this while in a most fast sleep. 

Phy. What at any time have you heard her say ? 

Qerd, That, sir, which I will not report after her. 

Phy. You may to me; and 'tis most meet you should. 

Qeni. Neither to you, nor any one ; having no witness to con- 
firm my speech. — Lo you, here she comes 1 This is her very guise ; 
and, upon my life, fast adeep. Observe her; stand close. 

Enter Ladt Maobeth, wi(h a Taper. 
Phy, How came she by that light ? 

Oent Why, it stood by her; she has light by her continually; 
'tis her command. 
Phy, You see her eyes are open? 

102 Exercises nr ELocujKm. 

Gent Aj, but their sense k ahnt* 

Phy, What is it she does now ? Look, how she rubs her handa 

OtnL It is an accustomed action with her, to seem thus washing 
her hands; I have known her continue in this a quarter of an 

Lady M, Yet here*s a spot 

Phy. Hark! she speaks. 

Lady M, Out, terrible spot! outy I say! — One: Two: Why, 
then, 'tis time to do*tI — Hell is murky! — Fie, my lord, fie I a 
soldier, and afeard ? what need we fear who knows it, when none 
can call our power to account? — Tetwho would have thought 
the old man to have had so much blood in him ? 

Phy, Do you mark that? 

Lady M. The Thane of Fife had a wife; where is she now? — 
What, will these hands ne'er be clean I — No more o' that, my 
lord; no more o' that; you mar all with this starting. 

Phy, (5o to, go to ; you have known what you should not, 

Qetd. She has spoke what she should not, I am sure of that; 
Heayen knows what she has known. 

Lady M. Here's the smell of the blood still : all the perfumes of 
Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. Oh I ohl oh I 

Phy, What a sigh is there 1 The heart is sorely charged. 

Qtni, I would not have such a heart in my bosom, for the dignity 
of the whole body. 

Lady M. Wash your hands, put on your night-gown ; look not 
80 pale : — I tell you yet again, Banquo's buried ; he cannot come 
out of his grave. 

Phy, Even sa 

Lady M, To bed, to bed : there's knocking at the gate. Come, 
come, come, come, give me your hand: what's done, cannot be 
undone : To bed, to bed, to bed. [.£2rtl 

Phy, WiU she go now to bed ? 

Gent Directly. 

Phy. More needs she the divine than the physician.— 
Look after her; 

Eemove from her the means of all annoyance^ 
And still keep eyes upon her.— 
Good Heaven, forgive us all I 

BxxRCisEs m EXiOCXjnoN. los 


The Kature of True Eloquenoe. 

True eloquence does not conidst in speech. It cannot be brought 
tsom far. Labor and learning may toil for it, but they will toil in 
Tain. Words and phrases may be marshaled in every way, but 
they cannot compass it It must exist in the man, in the subject, 
and in the occasion. Affected passion, intense expression, the 
pomp of declamation, all may aq^ire after it, — ^they cannot reach 
it It comes, if it come at all, like the outbreaking of a fountain 
from the earth, or the bursting forth of Tolcanic fires, with spon- 
taneous, original, native force. The graces taught in the schools, 
the costly ornaments and studied contrivances of speech, shock 
and disgust men, when their own lives, and the fiite of their wives, 
their children, and their country hang on the decision of the hour. 
Then words have lost their power, rhetoric is vain, and all elabo- 
rate oratory contemptible. Even genius itself then feels rebuked 
and subdued, as in the presence of higher qualities. Then patriot- 
ism is eloquent ; then self-devotion is eloquent The clear con- 
ception, outrunning the deductions of logic, the high purpose, the 
firm resolve, the dauntless spirit, speaking on the tongue, beaming 
from the eye, informing every feature, and ur^g the whole man 
onward, right onward, to his object, — this, this is eloquence ; or, 
rather, it is something greater and higher than all eloquence : it is 

action, noble, sublime, God-like action. 

Ikmid WeMer. 


Indst on yourself; never imitate. Your own gift you can pre- 
sent every moment with the cumulative force of a whole lifers 
cultivation ; but of the adopted talent of another you have only 
an extemporaneous, half possession. That which each can do 
best, none but his Maker can teach him. No man yet knows 
what it is, nor can, till that person has exhibited it. Where is 
the master who could have taught Shakspeare f Where is the 
master who could have instructed Franklin, or Washington, or 

Bacon, or Newton f Every great man is a unique. 

5* Halpk Waldo Emerwn, 

104 ExBBcissa IN ELocvnoir. 

The Brain. 

Oar brains are aeventy-year clocks* The Angel of Life winds 
fhem up once for all, then closes the case, and gives the key into 
the hands of the Angel of the Resurrection. 

Tic-tac ! tic-tao I go the wheels of thought ; our will cannot 
stop them ; they cannot stop themselves ; sleep cannot still them ; 
madness only makes them go faster ; death alone can break into 
the case, and, seizing the ever-swinging pendulum, which we call 
the heart, silence at last the clicking of the terrible escapement 
we have carried so long beneath our wrinkled foreheads. 

CUicer WendeB SMma, 

The Brnning Frairie. 

The prairie stretched as smooth as a floor. 

As far as the eye could se<^ 
And the settler sat at his cabin door, 

With his little girl on his knee ; 
Striving her letters to repeat-— 
And pulling her apron over her feet 


His face was wrinkled but not old, 

For he bore an upright form, 
And his shirt sleeves back to the elbow rolled. 

They showed a brawny arm. 
And near in the grass with toes upturned, 
Was a pair of old shoes cracked and burned. 


A dog with his head betwixt his paws^ 

Lay lazily dozing near, 
Now and then snapping his tar black jaws^ 
At the fly that buzzed in his ear. 
And near was the cow-pen made of rails, 
And a bench that held two milking pails. 

ExERciass m ELoovnov. iOf 


In the open door an ox yoke lay, 

The mother*s odd redoubt^ 
To keep the little one at her play 

On the floor from falling o'lt^ 
While she swept the hearth with a turkey wing^ 
And filled her tea kettle at the spring. . 


The little giri on her Other's knee, 

With eyes so bright and blue, 
From A, B, 0, to X, Y, Z, 

Had said her lesson through. 
When a wind came over the praine land. 
And caught the primer out of her hand. 


The watch dog whined, the cattle lowed. 

And tossed their horns about^ 
The air grew gray as if it snowed, 

^ There will be a storm no doubt,** 
So to himsdf the settler said, 
** But, father, why is the sky so red f 

The little girl slid off his knee, 

And aU of a tremble stood. 
"' €k>od wife," he cried, " come out and se^ 

The skies are as red as blood.** 
^ Gk>d save us 1" cried the settler's wife, 
'* The prairie*s a-fire, we must run for life!** 

She caught the baby up, ^ Gome, 

Are ye mad? to your heels my man. 
He followed terror stricken, dumb. 

And so they ran and ran, 
Gose upon them was the snort and iwing, 
Of buffaloes madly galloping. 



The w3d winds like ft sower sows, 

The ground with sparkles red, 
And the flapping wings of bats and crows^ 

And the ashes overhead ', 
And the bellowing deer, and the hissing snakc^ 
What a swirl of terrible sounds they make. 


No gleam of the river water yet, 

And the flames leap on and on, 
A m8h and a fiercer whirl and jet, 

And the settler's house is gone. 
The air grows hot; " this fluttering curl, 
Would bum like flax," said the little girL 


And as the smoke against her drif^ 

And the lizard slips close by her 
She tells how the little cow uplifts 
Her speckled face from the fire. 
For she cannot be hindered from looking back^ 
At the flery dragon on their track. 


They hear the crackling grass and sedge^ 

The flames as they whir and rave. 
On I on I they are close to the water's edge; 

They are there breast deep in the wave, 
And lifting their little ones high o'er the tide, 
" We're saved, thank God, we're saved," they cried I 


The Pied Piper of Eamdin. 
Hamelin Town's in Brunswick, 

By famous Hanover city ; 
The river Weser, deep and wide, 
Washes its wall on the southern side; 


A pleasanter spot you never spied; 

But, when begins my ditty, 
Almost five hundred years ago, 
To see the townsfolk suffer so 

From vermin, was a pity. 

They fought the dogs, and killed the cats, 

And bit the babies in the cradles, 

And ate the cheeses out of the vats, 

And licked the soup from the cook's own ladlei, 

Split open the kegs of salted sprats. 

Made nests inside men's Sunday hats, 

And even spoiled the women's chats, 

By drowning their speaking 

With shrieking and squeaking 

In fifly different sharps and flats. 

At last the people in a body 

To the Town Hall came flocking: 
*f *T is dear," cried they, " our Mayor's a node)/ ; 

And as for our Corporation, — shocking 
To think we buy gowns lined with ermine 
For dolts that can't or won't determine 
What's best to rid us of our vermin I 
You hope, because you're old and obese, ^ 

To find in the flirry ciidc robe ease ? 
Bouse up, Sirs I Give your brains a racking 
To find the remedy we're lacking, 
Or, sure as fkte, we'll send you packing !" 
At this the Mayor and Corporation 
Quaked with a mighty consternation. 
An hour they sat in council, 

At length -the Mayor broke Silence ; 
*• For a guilder Fd my ermine gown sell; 

I wish I were a mile hence I 
It's easy to bid one rack one's brain, 
Fm sure my poor head aches again, 
I've scratched it so, and all in vain. 

b .. 


for a trap, a trap, a trap I" 

Just as he said this, what should hap 
At the chamber door, but a gentle tap! 
"Bless us," cried the Mayor, ^'what's that? 
Anything like the sound of a rat 
Makes my heart go pit a pat 1*' 
"Come in!" the Mayor cried, looking bigger: 
And in did come the strangest figure ; 
His queer, long coat from heels to head 
Was half of yellow and half of red; 
And he himself was tall and thin, 
With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin, 
And light, loose hair, yet swarthy skin, 
No tuft on cheek nor beard on chin. 
But lips where smiles went out and in. 
There was no guessing his kith or kin; 
And nobody could enough admire 
l^he tall man and his quaint attire ; 
Quoth one: "It's as my great-grand-sire, 
Starting up at the Trump of Doom's tone. 
Had walked this way from his painted tomb stone f 
He advanced to the council-table : 
And, " Please your honors^" said he, " Fm able, 
By means of a secret diarm, to draw 
All creatures living beneath the sun, 
That creep, or swim, or fly, or run, 
After me so as you never saw I 
.-"And I chiefly use my charm 
On creatures that do people harm, 
The mole, and toad, and newt, and viper ; 
And people call me the Pied Piper," 
•* Yet," said he, *^poor piper as I am, 
In Tartary I freed the Cham 
Last June from his huge swarms of gnats; 

1 eased in Asia the Nizam 

Of a monstrous brood of vampyre-bats: 
And, as for what your brain bewilders, 
If I can rid your town of rats 
Will you give me a thousand guilders V 

ExsRcissa IN EhocvnoN. 109 

" One ? fifty thousand I" — - was the exclamation 
Of the astonished Major and Corporation* 

Into the street the Piper stept^ 

Smiling first a little smile, 
As if he knew what magic slept 

In his quiet pipe the while ; 
And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered. 
You heard as if an army muttered ; 
And the muttering grew to a grumbling; 
And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling, 
And out of the houses the rats came tumbling, 
Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats. 
Brown rats, black rats, gray rats, tawny rata, 
Grave old plodders, gray young friskera, 
Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins. 
Families by tens and dozens. 
Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives — 
Followed the piper for their lives. 
From street to street he piped advancing, 
And step for step they followed dancing, 
Until they came to the river Weser 
Wherein all plunged and perished. 
You should have heard the Hamelin people 
Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple ; 
" Go," cried the Mayor, " and get long poles I 
Poke out the nests and block up the holes I 
Consult with carpenters and builders. 
And leave in our town not even a trace 
Of the rats I" — when suddenly up the face 
Of the Piper perked in the market-place, 
With, " first, if you please, my thousand guildera.** 
A thousand guilders ; the Mayor looked blue 
And so did the corporation too, 
" Beside/* quoth the Mayor, with a knowing wink, 
" Our business was done at the river brink. 
We saw with our eyes the vermin sink. 
And what*s dead can't come to life, I think. 
A thousand guilders I Come take fift^r " 

110 Exercises tn JShocunoir^ 

The Piper's face fell, and be cried, 

" No trifling I Folks who put me in a passion 

May find me pipe to another fashion,'* 

Once more he stept into the street; 

And to his lips again 

Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane; 

And ere he blew three notes, 

There was a rustling, that seemed like a bustling 

Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling, 

Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering, 

Little hands clapping, and little tongues chattering, 

And, like fowls in a farm-yard when barley is scattermg^ 

Out came the children running. 

All the little boys and girls, 

With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls, 

And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls, 

Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after 

The wondered music with shouting and laughter. 

When lo I as they reached the mountain's side, 

A wondrous portal opened wide, 

As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed ; 

And the Piper advanced and the children followed, 

And when all were in to the very last. 

The door in the mountain side shut fast^ 

Alas t alas for Hamelin I 

There came into many a burgher's pate 

A text which says, that Heaven's Gate 

Opes to the Rich at as easy rate 
As the needle's eye takes a camel in 1 
The Mayor sent East, West, North and South 
To offer the Piper by word of mouth, 

Wherever it was men's lot to find him, 
Silver and gold to his heart's content, 
If he'd only return the way he went, 

And bring the children behind him. 
But soon they saw 't was a lost endeavor. 
And Piper and dancers were gone forever. 

Exercises in Elocution. Ill 

And the better in memory to fix 
The place of the Children*8 last retreat, 
They called it^ the Pied Piper's Street, — 
Where any one playing on pipe or tabor 
Was sure for the future to lose his labor. 
And opposite the place of the cavern 
They wrote the story on a column, 
And on the Great Church Window painted 
The same, to make the world acquainted 
How their chUdren were stolen away; 
And there it stands to this very day. 

Psalm za 

LoBD, 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 everlast- 
ing, thou art God. 

Thou tumest man to destrucUon ; and sayest, Return, ye children 
of men. 

For a thousand years in thy sight are but as yesterday when it 
is past, and as a watch in the night. 

Thou carriest them away as with a flood ; they are as a sleep ; 
in the morning they are Uke graaa which groweth up. 

In the morning it fiourisheth, and groweth up; in the evening 
it is cut down, and withereth. 

For we are consumed by thine anger, and by thy wrath are we 

Thou hast set our iniquities before thee, our secret sins in the 
light of thy countenance. 

For all our days are passed away in thy wrath : we spend our 
years as a tale that is told. 

The days of our years are threescore years and ten; and il 
by reason of strength they be fourscore years, yet is their strength 
labor and sorrow ; for it is soon cut off, and we fly away. 

Wbo knoweth the power of thine anger? even according to thy 
fear, so is thy wrath. 

So teach us to number our days, that we may apply our hearts 
unto wisdom. 

112 MxERciSES nr Elocution. 

Return^ Lord, how long? and let it repent thee concerning 
tny servants. 

satisfy us early with thj mercy ; that we may rejoice and be 
glad all our days. 

Make us glad according to the days wherein thou hast afflicted 
us, and the years wherein we have seen erL 

Let thy work appear unto thy servants, and thy glory unto their 

And let the beauty of the Lord our God be upon us : icnd estab* 
lish thou the work of our hands upon us; yea^ the work of our 
hands establish thou it 


19 ow glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories i^et 
And glory to our sovereign liege, King Henry of Navarre 1 
Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance. 
Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vines, pleasant land ol 

France I 
And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters, 
Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy murmuring daughters ; 
As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy ; 
For cold and stiff and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy. 
Hurrah ! Hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war! 
Hurrah I Hurrah I for Ivry, and 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 AppenzeFs 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 ot <^eine*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 crestk 

ExERCissa IN ELocvnoK. lis 

He locked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye , 
He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high. 
Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing, 
Down all our line, a deafening shout^ God save our lord the King? 
''And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall foil well he may — 
For never I saw promise yet of such a bloody fray- 
Press where ye see my white plume shine amidst the ranks of war. 
And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre,** 

Hurrah f 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. 

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

Charge for the golden lilies — upon them with the lance! 

A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest^ 

A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white crest; 

And in they bursty 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 Saint Bartliolomew ! was passed from man to man. 
But out spake gentle Henry — "No Frenchman is my foe: 
Down, down with every foreigner, but let your brethren go"— 
Oh I was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war, 
As our sovereign lord. King Henry, the soldier of Navarre ? 

Right well fought all the Frenchmen who fought for France to-day; 

And many a lordly banner God gave them for a prey. 

But we of the religion have borne us best in fight ; 

And the good Lord of Rosny hath ta*en the comet white — 

Our own true Maximilian the comet white hath ta*en. 

The comet white w^'th crosses black, the flag of false Lorrame^ 


Up with it high; usfurl it wide — that all the hoat may know 
How Gh)d hath humbled the proud house which wrought his church 

such woe. ' 

Then on the ground, while trumpets sound their loudest point of 

Fliug the red shreds, a foot-cloth meet for Henry of Navarre. 

Hoi maidens of Vienna I hoi matrons of Lucerne — 

Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall return. 

Ho ! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles, 

That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for £hy poor spearmen*a 

Ho I gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be bright ; 
Ho I burghers of St Gknevieve, keep watch and ward to-night ; 
For our God hath crushed the tyrant^ our God hath raised the slave 
And mocked the counsel oT 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 I 

GftSer Gray. 

f" Ho ! why dost thou shiver and shake, Gaffer Gray ? 
And why does thy nose look so blue ?"— 




■ "*Tis the weather that's cold, 
" Tis Tm grown very old, 
And my doublet is not very new; Well-a-day P 

"Then line thy warm doublet with ale, Gaffer Gray, 
And warm thy old heart with a glass T' 
*• Nay, but credit I've none. 
And my money's all gone ; 
Then say how may that come to pass? — ^Well-a-day I 

" Hie away to the house on the brow. Gaffer Gray, 
And knock at the jolly priest's door." 
" The priest often preaches 
" Against worldly riches, 
But ne'er gives a mite to the poor, — Well-a-day I " 

ICxMRCiaEs IN Elocvnoit. 115 

^ The lawyer lives under Uie hill, Gaffer Gray; 
Warmly fenoed both in back and in front" 
''He will &8ten hia Ibcka 
And threaten the stocks, 
Should he ever more find me in want; — Well-a-day I *• 

*^ The squire has fat beeves and brown ale, Gaffer Gray ; 
And the season will welcome yon there." 
'' His fat beeves and his beer 

And his merry new year. 
Are all for the flush and the fur, — ^Well-a-day 1 " 

''My keg lis but low, I confess, Gaffer Gray; 
What then ? while it lasts, man, we'll live I " 
" The poor man alone, 

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

Aold Bobin Gray. 
When the sheep are in the fiiuld, and the kye at hame, 
And a* the warld to sleep are gane. 
The waes o* my heart fa' in showers frae my ee, 
When my gudeman lies sound by me. 

Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and socht me for his bride, ^ 
But, saving a croun,he had naething else beside : 
To mak* that croun a pund, young Jamie gaed to sea, 
And the croun and the pund were baith for me. 

He hadna* been awa a week but only twa. 
When my mother she fell sick, and the cow was stown awa ; 
My father brak his arm, and young Jamie at the sea^ 
And Auld Robin Gray cam* a-courtin me. 

My father couldna work, and my mother couldna spin, 
I toiled day and nicht, but their bread I couldna win, 
Auld Rob maintained them baith, and wi' tears in his ee. 
Said, " Jennie, for their sakes, oh, marry mel" 


My heart it said nay, for I looked for Jamie back , 
But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wrack ! 
The ship it was a wrack — why didna Jennie dee ? 
Or why do I live to say, " Wae*s me ?" 

My father argued sair; my mother didua speak, 
But she lookit in my &ce till my heart was like to break ; 
Sae tiiey gied him my hand, though my heart was in the sea , 
And Auld Kobin Gray was gudeman to me. 

I hadna been a wife a week but only four| 

When sitting sae mournfully at the door, 

I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I couldna think it he — 

Till he said, " Fm come back for to marry thee.** 

sair did we greet, and muckle did we say; 

We took but ae kiss, pud we tore ourselves away ; 

1 wish I were dead I but I'm no like to dee ; 
And why do I live to say, " Wae's me ?" 

I gang like a ghaist, and I care na to spin ; 
I daur na think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin; 
But 111 do my best a gude wife to be. 
For Auld Robin Gray is kind unto me. 

Ohristian Honner's Hymn. 
Launch thy bark. Mariner ; 

Christian, God speed thee I 
Let loose the rudder-bands ; 

Good angels lead thee! 
Set thy sails warily, 

Tempest will, come ; 
Steer thy course steadily ; 

Christian, steer home 1 

Look to the weather-bow, 
Breakers are round thee; 

Let fall the plummet now, 
Shallows may ground thee. 

ExsBCisss IN Elocution. 1^' 

Beef in the foresail there ; 

Hold the helm fast I 
So-- let the yeesel wear; 

There swept the blast 

"What of the night, watchman, 

What of the night r 
** Cloudy — all quiet ; 

No land yet — all's right** 
Be wakeful, be vigilant; 

Danger may be 
At an hour when all seemeth 

Securest to thee. 

How gains the leak so fast? 

Clean out the hold; 
Hoist up thy merchandise^ 

Heave out thy gold ; 
There I let the ingots go ; 

Now the ship rights ; 
Hurrah! the harbor's near,— 

Lol theredUghtsI 

Slacken not sail yet, 

At inlet or island ; 
Straight for the beacon steer. 

Straight for the high land ; 
Crowd all thy canvas on ; 

Cut through the foam : — 
Christian I cast anchor, now; 

Heaven id thy homel 

113 ExEBcisss IN Elocxjtiok. 

Scenes from the Liglits and SliadowB of Scottish Lifei 

The rite of baptism bad not been performed for sereral months at 
the kirk of Lanark. It was now the hottest time of persecution ; 
and the inhabitants of that parish found other places in which to 
worship Qod, and celebrate the ordinances of religion. It was the 
Sabbath day, — ^and a small congregation, of about a hundred souls, 
had met for divine service in a place of worship more magnificent 
than any temple that human hands had ever built to Deity. Here, 
too, were three children about to be baptized. The congregation 
had not assembled at the toll of the bell ; but each heart knew the 
hour and observed it ; for there are a hundred sun-dials among 
the hills, woods, moors and fields, and the shepherds and the peas- 
ants see the hours passing by them in sunshine and shadow. 

The church in which they were assembled was hewn by Grod*s 
hand out of the eternal rocks. A river rolled its way through a 
mighty chasm of cliffs, several hundred feet high, of which one side 
presented enormous masses, and the other corresponding recesses, 
as if the great stone girdle had been rent by a convulsion. The 
channel was overspread with prodigious fragments of rocks or large 
loose stones, some of them smooth and bare, others containing soil 
and verdure in their rents and fissures, and here and there crowned 
with shrubs and trees. 

The eye could at once command a long stretching vista, seem- 
ingly closed and shut up at both extremities, by tiie coalescing clil& 
This majestic reach of river contained pools, streams, rushing shelves, 
and waterfalls innumerable ; and when the water was low, which it 
now was in the common drought, it was easy to walk up this scene 
with the calm blue sky overhead, an utter and sublime solitude. 

On looking up, the soul was bowed down by the feeling of that 
prodigious heighth of unscalable and often overhanging cliffs. Winged 
creatures alone could inhabit this region. The fox and wild-cat 
chose more accessible haunts. Yet, here came the persecuted 
Christians, and worshiped God^ whose hand hung over their heads 
those magnificent pillars and arches, scooped out those galleries 
from the solid rock, and laid at their feet the calm water in Its 
transparent beauty, in which they could see themselves sitting in 
reflected groups, with their Bibles in their hands. 


The rite of baptism was over, and the religious service of the day 
closed by a psalm. The mighty rocks hemmed in the holy sound, 
and sent it, in more compacted volume, clear, sweet, and strong, up 
to heaven* When the psalm ceased, an echo, like a spirit's voice, 
was heard dying away high up among the magnificent architecture 
of the cliffs, and once more might be noticed in the silence the 
reviving voice of the waterfall 

Just then a large stone fell from the. top of the cliff into the pool, 
a loud voice was heard, and a plaid hung over on the point of a 
&hepherd*s staff. Their watchful sentinel had descried danger, and 
this was his warning. Forthwith the congregation rose. There 
were paths dangerous to unpracticed feet, along the ledges of the 
rocks, leading up to several caves and places of concealment. The 
more active and young assisted the elder, more especially the old 
pastor, and the women with infants ; and many minutes had not 
elapsed till not a living creature was visible in the channel of the 
stream, but all of them hidden, or nearly so, in the clefts of 
the caverns. 

The shepherd who had given the alarm had laid down agam in 
his plaid instantly on the green sward upon the summit of these 
precipices. A party of soldiers were immediately upon him. and 
demanded what signals he had been making, and to whom ; when 
one of them, looking over the edge of the cliff, exclaimed, " See, 
see ! Humphrey, we have caught the whole tabernacle of the Lord 
in a net at last There they are, praising God among the stones of 
the river Mouss. These are the CarLland Craigg. By my souPs 
salvation, a noble cathedral I** " Fling the lying sentinel over the 
clifis. Here is a canting covenanter for you, deceiving honest sol- 
diers on the very Sabbath day. Over with him, over with him ; 
out of the gallery into the pit." ^^ 

But the shepherd had vanished like a shadow ; and, mixing with 
the tall green broom and bushes, was making his unseen way 
toward a wood. " Satan has saved his servant; but come, my lads, 
follow me ; I know the way down into the bed of the stream — ^and 
the steps up to Wallace's Cave. They are cJled the ' Kittle Nine 
Stanes.' The hunt's up. We'll all be in at the death. Halloo, my 

boys, halloo ! " 


The soldiers dashed down a less precipitous part of the wooded 
bank, a little below the ''craigs," and hurried up the chanuel But 
when they reached the altar where the old gray-haired minister had 
been seen standing, and the rocks that had been coTered with 
people, all were silent and soHtary; not a creature to be seen. 
" Here is a Bible dropped bjsome of them/* cried a soldier, and, with 
his foot, spun it away into the pool ^ A bonnet^ a bonnet," cried 
another ; " now for the pretty sanctified face that rolled its demure 
eyes below it." 

But after a few jests and oaths, the soldiers stood still, eying 
with a kind of mysterious dread the black and silent walls of the 
rock that hemmed them in, and hearing only the small voice of 
the stream that sent a profounder stillness through the heart of that 
majestic solitude. "Curse these cowardly covenanters — what if 
they tumble down upon our heads pieces of rock from their hiding- 
places ? Advance ? or retreat ? " 

There was no reply. For a slight fear was upon every man ; 
musket or bayonet could be of little use to men obliged to clamber 
up rocks, along slender paths, leading, they knew not where ; and 
they were aware that armed men, now-a-days, worshiped God— - 
men of iron hearts, who feared not the glitter of the soldier's arms, 
neither barrel nor bayonet — ^men of long stride, firm step, and broad 
breast, who, on the open field, would have overUirown the mar- 
shalled line, and gone first and foremost, if a city had to be taken 
by storm. 

As the soldiers were standing together irresolute, a noise came 
upon their ears like distant thunder, but even more appalling; and 
a slight current of air, as if propelled by it, passed whispering along 
the sweet-briars, and the broom, and the tresses of the birch trees. 
It came deepening, and rolling, and roaring on, and the very Cart- 
land Craigs shook to their foundation, as if with an earthquake. 
" The Lord have mercy upon us — ^what is this ?" And down fell 
many of the miserable wretches on their knees, and some on their 
faces, upon the sharp-pointed rocks. Now, it was like the sound 
of many myriads of chariots rolling on their iron axles down the 
stony channel of the torrent. 

The old gray-haired minister issued from the mouth of Wallace's 
Cave, and said, with a loud voice, " The Lord God terrible reign 

ExsBCiasa m JSLOcanoif. 121 

eth.** A water-epout had bunt up among the moor-landi^ and the 
river in its power waa at hand. There it came, tumbling along into 
that long reach of dlfb, and in a moment fitted it with one mass of 
waves. Huge, agitated clouds of fiiam rode on the surfiice of a 
blood-red torrent An army must have been swept oflf by that 
flood. The soldiers perished in a moment; but high up in the 
clifisy above the sweep of destruction, were the covenanters— ^men, 
women, and children, uttering prayers to Qod, unheard by them- 
selves in that raging thunder* 

John Wilson. 


Heavy and solemni ^T^f*^' 

A cloudy column. Ir 
Through the green plain they marching G|me / 
Measureless spread, like a table dread. 
For the wild grim dice of the iron^game. 
Looks are^tent on the shaki ng ground , F 
Heart s beat lowflvith a knelling sound ; 
SwifLb v the breast that must bear the brunt. 
Gallops the Major, a long the front 

'^"'^^^^ Hal t.!'* 
And fettered^ hey stand at the stark command. 
And the warriors, silent, halt 

Proud in the blush of morning glowing. 

What o n the hill-top shiny in flowing ? 

" See you the foeman's banners waving ? 

" We ^g^the foeman*s banners waving I" 

'' God be with^UCchildren and wifeT' 

Hark to the mife — ^the drum and fife— > 

How they ringj t hrough the ranks, which they rouse to the strife I 

Thrilling they sound, with their glorious tone. 

Thrilling they go through the marrow and bone ! 

Brothers, God grant when this life is o'er. 

In the life to come that we meet once more I 

122 Exercises nr EhocvnoN. 

See the smoke, how the K ghtning is cleav ing asunder 1 

Hark I the ^uns, peal on peal, how thej boom, in their thunder 

From host to host with kindling floand| 

The Routed sign^ circles round ; 

Freer already breathes the breath I 

The war is waging* slaughter raging^ 

And heavy through the reeking pall 

The iron death-die^ fall I 
Nearer they close — foes upon fyea-^ 
" Beady 1 " — ^from square to square it goes. 

They kneel asj)ne q«i from flank to flank, 

And the fire comes sharp from the foremost rank. 

Many a soldier to earth is sent, 

Many a gap by balFis rent ; 

O'er the corpse before springs the hinde st man^ 

That the line may*no tJall to the fearless van. 

To the right^ to th e left, and a round and ar ound. 

Death whjrl^in its dance on the bloody ground. 

God*s sunlight is quenched in the fiery fighl^ 

Over the hosts falls a brooding night I 

Brothers, God grant, wnen this ufe is o*er, 

In the life to come we may meet once more. 

The dead men are bathed in the weltering blood 

And the living are blent m the slippery flood, 

And the feet, as they reeling and sliding go, 

Stumble still on the corpsethat sjeeps below. 

" What? Francis I **— " ^^TJharlotte my last farewell 

As the dying man murmurs, the ^unde rs swells 

" I'll give — God ! are the guns so near ? 

Ho! c omra des ! — ^yon volley I — ^look sharp to the rear I - 

I'll give t o thy Charlotte thy last farewell I " 

Sleep soil I where death t hickest descendeth in rain^ 

The friend thou forsaketh thy side may regain I " 

Bitherward, t hither ward reels the fight; 

Dark and more darkly day glooms into night. 

Brethren, God gran^ when this life is o'er, 

In the life to come that we meet once more! 

ExsRciasa ur Elocution. 123 

J^ark to the hoo& that gaUopiDg go I 

The a djutan ts flying^ 
The horsemen press hard on the panting foe^ 

Their thunder booms in djing^ ^^ , 

Victory I ^' 

Tfgmor has seized on the dastards all, " 

And their leaders fall I 

^^ Victory! 

Closed 18 the brunt of the glorious fight; 

And Hie day, like a conqueror, bursts on the night ! 

Ti^um^t and fife swelling choral alon g. \ ' 

The triumph already sweepsmairching in song. 

Farewell, fallen brothers : though this life be o*er, 

There's anothe r, in which we shall meetjou once more! 

~^ TrmSSSed fnm SchfUer by BuXwet* 

(hrer tbe BiYer. 
Over the river they beckon to me— 

Loved ones who've crossed to the further side; 
The gleam of their snowy robes I see, 

But their voiqes are drowned in the rushing tide. 
There's one with ringlets of sunny gold. 

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

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

The gates of the city we could not see; 
Over the river, over the river, 

My brother stands waiting to welcome met 

Over the river, the boatman pale 

Carried another — the household pet; 
Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale-^ 

Darling Minnie ! I see her yet. 
She crossed on her bosom her dimpled handily 

And fearlessly entered the phantom bark; 
We watched it glide firom the silver sandSy 

And all our sunshine grew strangely dark. 

124 Exercises in Elocution. i 

We know she is safe on the farther nde. 

Where all the ransomed and-angels be; 
Over the river, the mystic river, 

My childhood's idol is waiting for me. 

For none return from those quiet shores, 

Who cross with the boatman cold and pale ; 
We hear the dip of the golden oars, 

And catch a gleam of the snowy sail,-— 
And lo I they have passed from our yearning heart; 

They cross the stream, and are gone for aye; 
We may not sunder the veil apart 

That hides from our vision the gates of day ; 
We only know that their bark no more 

May sail with us over life's stormy sea; 
Yet somewhere, I know, on the unseen shore^ 

They watch, and beckon, and wait for me. 

And I sit and think, when the sunset's gold 

Is flushing river, and hill, and shore, 
I shall one day stand by the water cold, 

And list for the sound of the boatman's oar; 
I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail; 

I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand ; 
I shall pass from sight with the boatman pale, 

To the better shore of the spirit land ; 
I shall know the loved who have gone before. 

And joyfully sweet will the meeting be, 
When over the river, the peaceful river, 

The Angel of Death shall carry me. 

The WonderM "One-Hoas Shay." 


Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay^ 

That was built in such a logical way 

It ran a hundred years to a day, 

And then, of a sudden, it ^Ah, .but stay, 

ExEBvisES IN Elocution. 12S 

ril tell you yi(h»X happened, without delay— 
Scariag the parson into fits. 
Frightening people oat of tb«ir wita— 
Have you erer heard of that, I say? 

Seventeen hundred and fifty-five, 
Georgita Secundus was then alive- 
Snuffy old drone from the Q«rmaa hivel 
That was the year when Lisbon town 
Saw the earth open and gulp her down, 
And Braddock's army was done so browC| 
Left without a scalp to its crown. 
It was on the terrible Sarthquake-day 
That the Deacon finished the one-hoss shay. 

Now, in building of chaises, I tell you what^ 
There is always, somewhere^ a weakest spot- 
In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill. 
In panel or cross-bar, or floor, or sill, 
In screw, bolc^ thorough-brace— lurking sUll, « 

Find it somewhere you must and will^ 
Above or below, or within or without — 
And that's the reason, beyond a doubt, 
A chaise hreakB down^ but doesn't wear oui. 

But the Deacon swore — (as Deacons do, 
With an "I dew vum" or an "I tell yeot*'*)— 
He would build one shay to beat the taown 
*N* the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun' ; 
It should be so built that it couldn' break daown:— 
''Fur," said the Deacon, '"t's mighty plain 
Thut the weakes' place must stan' the strain; 
'N' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain, 

Is only jest 
T* make that place uz strong uz the rest" 

So the Deacon inquired of the village folk 
Where he could find the strongest oak. 
That couldn't be split, nor bent, nor broke— > 
That was for spokes, and floor, and sills; 


He sent for Iancewoo(), to make the thills ; 

The cross-bars were ash, from the straightest trees; 

The panels of white-wood, that cnts like cheese, 

Bat lasts like iron for things like these ; 

The hubs from logs from the " Setler's ellum **-^ 

Last of its timber — ^Ihey couldn't sell *em^ 

Never an axe had seen their chips, 

And the wedges flew from between their lips, 

Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips; 

Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw, 

Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too. 

Steel of the finest, bright and blue ; 

Thoroughbrace- bison-skin, thick and wide ; 

Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide, 

Found in the pit where the tanner died. 

That was the way he "put her through.'* 

" There I " said the Deacon, " naow she'll dew I ** . 

Do 1 1 tell you, I rather guess 

She was a wonder, and nothing less I 

Colts grew horses, beards turned gray, 

Deacon and deaconess dropped away. 

Children and grandchildren— where were they 7 

But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay, 

As fresh as on Idsbon-earthquake-day 1 

Eighteen Hunpiuei)— it came, and found 
The Deacon's masterpiece strong and sound. 
Eighteen hundred, increased by ten-~ 
''Hahnsum kerridge " they called it then. 
Eighteen hundred and twenty came ;— - 
Bunning as usual — much the same. 
* Thirty and forty at last arrive; 
And then came fifty — and Fiftt-fivs. 

Little of all we value here 
Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year 
Without both feeling and looking queer. 
In fact, there's nothing that keeps its youth, 

Exercises in Elocution. 127 

So far as I know, but a tree and truth. 

(This is a moral that runs at large : 

Take it-— You're webome. — ^No extra charge.) 

First or Noyihber — ^the Earthquake-day. — 
There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay, 
A general flavor of mild decay-* 
But nothing local, as one may say. 
There couldn't be — ^for the Deacon's art 
Had made it so like in every part 
That there wasn't a chance for one to start. 
For the wheels were just as strong as the thills 
And the floor was just as strong as the sillsi 
And the panels just as strong as the floor, 
And the whippletree neither less nor more, 
And the back crossbar as strong as the fore. 
And spring, and axle, and hub encore. 
And yet) as a whoU^ it is past a doubt 
In another hour it will be worn out/ 

First of November, 'Fifty-five I 
This morning the parson takes a drive. 
Now, small boys, get out of the way I 
Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay, 
Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay. 
"Hud up I " said the parson. — Off went they. 

The parson was working his Sunday text—- 
Had got to fiflMifj and stopped perplexed 
At what the— Moses — ^waa coming next 
All at once the horse stood still, 
Olose by the meet'n' house on die hill 
^-First a shiver, and then a thrill, 
Then something decidedly like a spill— 
And the parson was sitting upon a rook^ 
At half-past nine by the meet'n*-house clock-— 
Just the hour of the earthquake shock! 

What do you think the parson found, 
When he got up and stared around ? 


The poor old chaise in a heap or moundi 
As if it had been to the mill and ground 1 
You see, of course, if you're not a dunoe, 
How it went to pieces all at once- 
All at once, and nothing first — 
Just as bubbles do when they burst — 
End of the wonderful one-hoss shay. 
Logic IS logic That's all I say. 

(7. W. BAnm. 

WbxkA Addnak 

Stand I the ground's your own, my braves, 
Will ye ^ve it up to slaves ? 
Will ye look for greener graves ? 

Hope ye mercy still ? 
What's the mercy despots feel ? 
Hear it in that battle peal, 
Head it on yon bristling steel, 

Ask it, ye who will 1 

Pear ye foes who kill for hire ? 
Will ye to your homes retire ? 
Look behind you I they're a-fire I 

And before you, see 
Who have done it ! From the vale 
On they come! and will ye quail?— 
Leaden rain and iron hail 

Let their welcome be I 

In the God of battles trust 1 

Die we may— 4tnd die we mast; 

But, oh, where can dust to dust 

Be consigned so well. 

As where heaven its dews shall shed 

On the martyred patriot's bed, 

And the rocks shall raise their head, 

Of his deeds to tell ? 

Rev, John PierponL 



Exercises in Elocxjtion. 129 

A Fsalm of life. 
Tell me not, in mournful numberS| 

Life is but an empty dream 1 
For the soul is dead that slumbers ; 

And things are not what they seenu 

Life is real t Life is earnest t 

And the grave is not its goal ; 
^Dust thou art, to dustreturnest^ 

Was not spoken of the souL 

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, 

Is our destined end or way ; 
But to act that each to-morrow 

Find us farther than to-day. 

Art is long, and time is fleeting;* 
And our hearts, though stout and brave, 

Still, like muffled drums, are beating 
Funeral marches to the grave. 

In the world's broad field of battle, 

In the bivouac of life, 
Be not like dumb, driven cattle t 

Be a hero in the strife, 

Tmst no fUture, howe*er pleasant! 

Let the dead past bury its dead I 
Act, — act in the living present 1 

Heart within, and Gk>d o'erhead t 

Lives of great men all remind us 

We can make our lives sublime, 
And, departing, leave behind us 

Footprints oa the sands of time ;--• 

Footprints, that perhaps another, 

Sailing o*er life's solemn main, 
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, 

Seeing, shall take heart again. 

13§ JExERCiSES IN Elocvtion, \ 

Let us, then, be up and doing, 

With a heart for any fate ; 
Still achieving, still pursuing, 

Learn to labor and to wait. 

H, W* LongfeHouh 

lasao's OoKttatioik 

A trumpet's note is i^Ji^e sky, in the glorious Boman sky, 
Whose dome hath rung, so many an age, to the voice of victory ; 
There is crowding to the capitol, the imperial streets along. 
For again a conqueror must be crowned, — a kingly child of song ! 


Yet his chariot lingers. 

Yet around his home 
Broods a shadow silently, 

'Mid the joy of Rome. 

A thousand thousand laurel-boughs are waving wide and far. 
To shed out their triumphal gleams around his rolling car; 
A thousand haunts of olden gods have given their wealth of flowen^ 
To scatter o'er his path of fame bright hues in genv-like showers. 


Peace I within his chamber 

Low the mighty lies ; 
With a cloud of dreams on his noble brow. 

And a wandering in his eyes. 

7 ■ \ 



Sing, sing for him, the lord of song, for him, whoae rushing strain 
In mastery o'er the spirit sweeps, like a strong wind o'er the main I 
Whose voice lives deep in burning hearts, forever there to dwell. 
As full-toned oracles are shrined in a temple's holiest celL 


Yes! for him, the victor, 

Sing, — ^but low, sing low I 
' A soft sad mu-e^e-re chant, 
For a soul about to got 


The sun, the sun of Italy is pooriDg o'er his way, 
Where the old three hundred triumphs moved, a flood of golden day ; 
Streaming through every haughty arch of the Csesars* past renown : 
Bring forth, in that exulting light, the conqueror for his crown I 

Shut the proud, bright sunshme 

From the fading sight I 
There needs no ray by thej^d of death, 

Save the holy taper's light. 


Tlie wreath is twined, the way is strewn, the lordly train are met. 
The streets are hung with coronals^ — why stays the minstrel yet? 
Shout I as an army shouts in joy around a royal chief, — 
Bring forth the bard of chivalry, the bard of love and grief 1 

Silence I forth we bring him, 

In his last array; 
Prom love and grief the freed, the flown, — 

Way for the bier, — make way ( 

Death of the Old Tear. 
Full knee-deep lies the winter-snow, 

And the winter-winds are wearily sighing : 
Toll ye the church-bell, sad and sloW| 
And tread softly and speak low, 
For the old year lies a-dying. 
Old year you must not die; 
You came to us so readily, 
You lived with us so steadily, 
Old year, you shall not die. 

He lieth still: he doth not move: 
He will not see the dawn of day :— 

He hath no other life above. 

He gave me a friend and a true, true love, • 
And the new year will take them away. 

132 ExsRciasa in Elocvtion. 

Old year you must not go ; 
So long as you have been with us, 
Such joy as you hare seen with us, 

Old year you shall not go. 

He frothed his bumpers to the brim ; 

A jollier year we shall not see. 
But though his eyes are waxing dim, 
And though his foes speak ill of him, 
He was a friend to me. 

Old year you shall not die ; 
We did so laugh and cry with you, 
IVe half a mind to die with you, 
Old year if you must die. 

He was full of joke and jest; 

But all his merry quips are o*er. 
To see him die, across the waste 
His son and heir doth ride post-haste, 
But he* 11 be dead before. 
Every one for his own. 
The night is starry and cold my friend 
And the New Year blithe and bold, my friend, 
Gomes up to take his own. 

How hard he breathes I o*er the snow 
I heard just now the crowing cock, 
The shadows flicker to and fro: 
The cricket chirps — ^the light bums low-» 
'Tis nearly twelve o'clock. 

Shake hands before you die I 
Old year we'll dearly rue for you: 
What is it we can do for you?^ 
Speak out before you die. 

His face is growing sharp and thin ;— 

Alack I our friend is gone. 
Close up his eyes — ^tie»up his chin— 
Step from the corpse, and let him in 

That standeth there alone, 

ExsBCisES IN Elocution. 133 

And waiteth at the door. 

There's a new foot on the floor, my friend, 

And a new face at the door, my friend, 

A new face at the door, 

Alfred Ttrmifmm. 

Song of the QieekB. 

Again to the battle, AchaiansI 

Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance ; 
Our land — ^the first garden of Liberty's tree- 
It has been, and shall yet be, the land of the free : 

For the cross of our faith is replanted, 

The pale dying crescent is daunted, 
And we march that the footprints of Mahomet's slayes 
May be washed out in blood from our forefathers' graves. 

Their spirits are hovering o'er us, 

And the sword shall to glory restore vx 


Ah I what though no succor advances. 
Nor Christendom's chivalrous lances 
Are stretched in our aid ? Be the combat our own I 
And we'll perish or conquer more proudly alone ; 
For we 've sworn by our country's assaulters, 
By the virgins they've dragged firom our altars, 
By our massacred patriots, our children in chains, 
By our heroes of old, and their blood in our veins, 
That, living, we mil be victorious, 
Or that, dying, our deaths shall be glorious. 


A breath of submission we breathe not : 

The sword we have drawn we will sheathe not I 
Its scabbard is lefl where our martyrs are laid, 
And the vengeance of ages has whetted its blade. 

Earth may hide, waves engulf, fire consume us ; 

But they shad not to slavery doom us : 

184 Exercises in Elocution, 

If they rule, it shall be o*er our ashes and graves : 
But we've smote them already with fire on the wavt$^ 

And new triumphs on land are before us ; 

To the charge 1 Heaven's banner is o'er us; 

This day — shall ye blush for its story , 
Or brighten your liyei with its glory ?— 
Our women — 0, say, shall they shriek in despair. 
Or embrace us from conquest, with wreaths in their hair ? 
Accursed may his memory blacken, 
If a coward there be that would slacken 
Till we've trampled the turban, and shown ourselves worth 
Being sprung from and named for, the godlike of earth ! 
Strike home I and the world shall revere us 
As heroes descended from heroes. 

Old Greece lightens up with emotion I 

Her inlands, her isles of the ocean. 
Fanes rebuilt, and fair towns, shall with jubilee ring, 
And the Nine shall new hallow their Helicon's spring; 

Our hearths shall be kindled in gladness, 

That were cold and extinguished in sadness ; 
Whilst our maidens shall dance with their white waving arms. 
Singing joy to the brave that delivered their charms,-— 

When the blood of yon Musselman cravens 

Shall have crimsoned the beaks of our ravens I 


TheBeilof the Atlaatia 
Toll, toll, toll, thou bell by billows swung; 

And, night and day, thy warning words repeat with mournful tongue! 
Toll for the queenly boat, wrecked on yon rocky shore 1 
Sea>weed is in her palace walls ; she rides the surge no more. 

Toll for the master bold, the high-souled and the brave, 

Who ruled her like a thing of hfe amid the crested wave t 

Toll for the hardy crew, sons of the storm and blast, 

Who long the tyrant ocean dared ; but it vanquished them at last 


Toll for the man of Qod, whose hallowed voice of prayer 

Rose cahn above the stifled groan of that intense despair ! 

How precious were those tones on that sad verge of life, 

Amid the fierce and freezing storm, and the mountain billows' strife I 

Toll for the lover lost to the summoned bridal train I 

Bright glows a picture on his breast^ beneath th' unfathomed main. 

On 3 from her casement gazetb long o'er the mistj sea: 

lie Cometh not^ pale maiden — ^his heart is cold to thee. 

Toll for the absent sire, who to his home drew near, 
To bless a glad expecting group— fond wife and children dear ! 
They heap the blazing hearth ; the festal board is spread ; 
But a fearful guest is at the gate : room for the pallid dead I 

Toll for the loved and fair, the whelmed beneath the tide — 
The broken harpd around whose strings the dull sea-monsters glide ! 
Mother and nursling sweet, reft from their household throng. 
There's bitter weeping in the nest where breathed the soul of song. 

Toll for the hearts that bleed 'neath misery's furrowing trace I 
Toll for the hapless orphan left, the last of all his race! 
Yea, with thy heaviest knell, from surge to rocky shore. 
Toll for the living, — not the dead, whose mortal woes are o'er I 

Toll, toll, toll, o'er breeze and billow free. 
And with thy startling lore instruct each rover of the sea : 
Tell how o'er proudest joys may swifl destruction sweep. 
And bid him build his hopes on high — lone teacher of the deep. 

Adams and Jefferson. 

Adams and Jefferson, I have said, are no more. As human 
beings, indeed, they are no more. They are no more, as in 1776^ 
bold and fearless advocates of independence ; no more, as on sub- 
sequei^t periods, the head of the government; no more, as we have 
recently seen them, aged and venerable objects of admiration and 
regard. They are no more. They are dead. 

But how little is there of the great and good which can die ! To 
their country they yet live, and live forever. They live in all that 



136 - Exercises in Elocution. 

perpetuates the remembrance of men on earth; in the recorded 
proofs of their own great actions, in the offspring of their intellect^ 
in the deep engraved lines of public gratitude, and in the respect 
and homage of mankind. They live in their example ; and they 
live, emphatically, and will live, in the influence which their lives 
and efibrtSy their principles and opinions, now exercise, and will 
continue to exercise, on the affairs of men, not onlv in their own 
country, but throughout the civilized world. 

A superior and commanding human intellect, a truly great man , 

when Heaven vouchsafes so rare a gift, is not a temporary flame, 

burning bright for a while, and then expiring, giving place to 

returning darknesa It is rather a spark of fervent heat^ as well as 

radiant light, with power to enkindle the common mass of humaa 

mind ; so that, when it glimmers, in its own decay, and finally goes 

out in death, no night follows ; but it leaves the world all light, all 

on fire, fi<om the potent contact of its own spirit 

.jl, ,^ Bacon died; but the human understanding, loused by the touch y y''^ 

*'-'''' of his miraculous wand to a perception of the true philosophy and / . ^ 

/ iu the just mode of inquiring after truth, has kept on its course sue- / ^ 

cessfuUy and gloriously. Newton died; yet the courses of the ' 

spheres are still known, and they yet move on, in the orbits which 

he saw and described for them, in the infinity of space. 

No two men now live — perhaps it may be doubted whether any 
two men have ever lived in one age — who, more than those we now 
commemorate, have impressed their own sentiments, in regard to 
politics and government, on mankind, infused their own opinions 
more deeply into the opinions of others, or given a more lasting 
direction to the curre);it of human thought. Their work doth not 
perish with them. (The tree which they assisted to plant will 
flourish, although they water it and protect it no longer ; for it has 
struck its roots deep; it has sent them to the very center; no storm, 
not of force to burst the orb, can overturn it; its branches spread 
wide ; they stretch their protecting arms broader and broader, and 
its top is destined to reach the heavens. 

We are not deceived. There is no delusion here. No age will 
come in which the American revolution will appear less than it is, 
one of the greatest events in human history. No age will come in 
which it will cease to be seen and felt^ on either continent^ that a 

ExsROiSES nr Elocution. 137 

mighty step, a great advance, not onlj in American affairs, but in 
human affairs, was made on the 4th of July, 1776. And no age 
will come, we trust, so ignorant, or so unjust, as not to see and 
acknowledge the efficient agency of these we now honor in pro- 
ducing that momentous event 

f dish War Song. 

Freedom calls you I Quick, be ready,— 

Rouse ye in the name of God,— 
Onward, onward, strong and steady,— 
Dash to earth the oppressor's rod. 
Freedom calls, ye brave I 
Rise, and spurn the name of slave. 

Grasp the sword I — ^its edge is keen, 

Seize the gun I — ^its ball is true : 
Sweep your land from tyrant clean,- 
Haste, and scour it through and through I 
Onward, onward! Freedom cries, 
Rush to arms, — the tyrant iliea. 

By the souls of patriots gone. 

Wake, — arise,— your fetters break, 
Kosciusko bids you on,— 
Sobieski cries awake I 
Rise, and front the despot czar, 
Rise, and dare the unequal war. 

Freedom calls youl Quick,, be ready, — 
Think of what your sires have been,— 
Onward, onward 1 strong and steady,— 
Drive the tyrant to his den. 
On, and let the watchwords be, 
Country, home, and liberty I 

Tamei 0,PerctvaL 

138 Exercises in Elocvtion. 

Tlie Boys. 

This selection Is a poem addressed to the class of 1829, in Harvard 
College, some thirty yeani after their graduation. ^ 

Has there any oM fellow got mixed with the boys ? 
If there has, take him out, without making a noise. 
Hang the almanac's cheat and the catalogue's spite I 
Old Time is a liar; we're twenty to-night. 

We 're twenty I We're twenty I Who says we are more ? 
He's tipsey, — ^young jackanapes! — show bim the door I 
"Gray temples at twenty?" — ^YesI white if we please; 
Where the snow-flakes &11 thickest there's nothing can frecEel 

Was it snowing I spoke of? Excuse the mistake I 
Look close, — ^you will see not a sign of a flake I 
We want some new garlands for those we have shed, 
And these are white roses in place of the red 

We 've a trick, we young fellows, you may have been told, 
Of talking (in public) as if we were old ; 
That boy we call " Doctor " and this we call " Judge" I 
It 's a neat little fiction,— of course it's all fudge. 

That fellow 's the ** Speaker," the one on the right ; 

" Mr. Mayor," my young one, how are you to-night ? 

That 's our " Member of Congress," we say when we chaff ; 

There 's the **Keverend" — ^what 's his name?-rdon't make me laugh. 

That boy with the grave mathematical look 

Made believe he had written a wonderful book. 

And the Royal Society thought it Was true ! 

So they chose him nght in, — a good joke it was, too I 

There 's a boy, we pretend, with a three-decker brain. 

That could harness a team with a logical chain ; 

When he spoke for our manhood in syllabled fire, 

We called him ** The Justice," but now he 's the " Squire.** 

And there 's a nice youngster of excellent pith ; 
Fate tried to conceal him by naming him Smith ; 
But he shouted a song for the brave and the free, — 
Just read on his medal, " My country," ** of thee " I 

ExsRCiSKS IN Elocution. 18^ 

Y oa hear that boy laughing ? You think he *8 all fun ; 
But the angels laugh, too, at the good he has done; 
The children laugh loud as they troop to his call, 
And the poor man that knows him laughs loudest of all. 

Yea, we're boys, — ^always playing with tongue or with pen; 
And I sometimes have asked, Shall we ever be men ? 
Shall we always be youthful, and laughing, and gay, 
Till the last dear companion drops smiling away ? 

Then here's to our boyhood, its gold and its gray ! 

The stars of its winter, the dews of its May I 

And when we liave done with our life-lasting toys. 

Dear Father, take care of Thy children, thk boys ! 

diver W Ubimtai 

All Order Ibr a Fiotuxti 

0, good painter, tell me true. 

Has your hand tlie cunning to draw 
Shapes of things that you never saw 7 

Aye ? Well, here is an order for you. 

Woods and cornfields a little brown, — 
The picture must not be over-bright,-— 
Yet all in the golden and gracious light^ 

Of a cloud when the summer sun is down. 

Alway and alway, night and mom, 
Woods upon woods, with fields of corn 

Lying between them, not quite sere. 
And not in the full, thick, leafy bloom, 
When the wind can hardly find breathing room 

Under their tassels,— cattle near. 
Biting shorter the short green grass. 
And a hedge of sumach and sassafras, 
With bluebirds twittering all around, — 
Ah, good painter, you can't paint sound ! 

These and the little house where I was born, 
Low and little and black and old^ 

140 Exercises in Elocution. 

With children, many as it caa hold, 
All at the windows, open wide,— 
Heads and shoalders dear outside, 
And fair yonng faces all ablnsh ; 
Perhaps ycu may have seen, some day, 
Roses crowding the self-same way, 
Out of a wilding^ way-side bush. 

Listen closer. When you have done 

With woods and cornfields and grazing herdi^ 

A lady, the loveliest ever the sun 

Looked down upon, you must paint for me; 

Oh, if I only could make you see 
The clear blue eyes, the tender smile, 

The sovereign sweetness, the gentle grace. 

The woman's soul and the angel's face 
That are beaming on qfie all the while I 
I need not speak these foolish words: 

Yet one word tells you all I would say,— 
She is my mother: you will agree 

That all the rest may be thrown away. 

Two little urchins at her knee 
You must paint, sir; one like me,— 

The other with a clearer brow. 
And the light of his adventurous eyes 
Flashing with boldest enterprise : 

At ten years old he went to sea,— 
God knoweth if he be living now,— 
He sailed in the good ship ** Commodore,"— 

Nobody ever crossed her track 

To bring us news, and she never came back. 
Ah, 'tis twenty long years and more 
Since that old ship went out of the bay 

With my great-hearted brother on her deck: 

I watched him till he shrank to a speck. 
And his face was toward me all the way. 


ExEBOJSES IN Elocution. 141 

Bright his hair was, a golden brown, 
The time we stood at our mother's knee; 

That beauteous head, if it did go down. 
Carried sunshine into the seal 

Out in the fields one summer night 

We were together, half afhiid, 
Of the corn-leaves' rustling, and of the shade 

Of the high hills, stretching so still and far,-^ 
Loitering till after the low little light 
Of the candle shone through the open door. 

And, over the hay-stack's pointed top, 

All of a tremble, and ready to drop 
The first half-hour, the great yellow star 

That we, with staring, ignorant eyes, 
Had oflen and often watched to see 

Propped and held in its place in the skies 
By the fork of a tall red mulberry tree, 
Which close in the edge of our flax- field grew,— 

Dead at the top, — -just one branch full 

Of leaves, notched round, and lined with wool, 
From which it tenderly shook the dew 

O^er our head, when we came to play 

In its handbreadth of shadow, day after day. 
Afraid to go home, sir; for one of us bore 
A nest full of speckled and thin-shelled eggs,— 
The other, a bird, held fast by the legs, 
Not so big as a straw of wheat! 
The berries we gave her she wouldn't eat. 
But cried and cried, till we held her bill, 
So slim and shining, to keep her still 

At last we stood at our mother's knee. 
Do you think, sir, if you try, 
You can paint the Ipok of a lie ? 

If you can, pray have the grace 

To put it solely in the face 
Of the urchin that is likest me; 
I think 'twas solely mine, indeed : 

142 Exercises in Elocution. 

But that's no matter, — ^paint it so ; 
The eyes of our mother — (take good heed)^ 
Looking not on the nest-fuU of eggs, 
Nor the fluttering bird, held so fast by the legs, 
But straight through our faces, down to our lies, 
And oh, with such injured, reproachful surprise, 

I felt my heart bleed where that glance went^ as though 
A sharp blade struck through it 

You, sir, know, 

That you on the canvas are to repeat 

Things that are fairest, things most sweety— 

Woods and cornfields and mulberry tree,— * 

The mother, — the lads, with their birds, at her knee, 

But, oh that look of reproachful woe I 

High as the heavens your name I'll shout, 

If you |>aint me the picture, and leave that out 

AUce Oxry, 

Scene from the Marohant of Tenica 
Belmont A Boom in Portions House, 

For, By my troth, Nerissa, my little body is aweary of this great 

Ker, You would be, sweet madam, if your miseries were in the 
same abundance as your good fortunes are; and yet, for aught I 
see, they are as sick that surfeit witli too much as they that starve 
with nothing. It is no mean happiness, therefore, to be seated in 
the mean ; superfluity comes sooner by white hairs, but competency 
lives longer. 

Por. Good sentences and well pronounced. 

Ner. They would be better if well followed. 

Por. If to do were as easy as to know what were good to do, 
chapels had been churches, and poor men's cottages princes' palaces. 
It is a good divine that follows his own instructions. I can easier 
teach twenty what were good to be done than be one of the twenty 
to follow mine own teaching. The brain may devise laws for the 
olood; but a hot temper leaps over a cold decree; such a hare 
is madness, the youth, to skip o'er the meshes of good counsel, the 
cripple. But this reasoning is not in the fashion to choose me a 

Exercises in Elocution. 143 

husband. me I the word choose I I may neither choose whom 1 
would, nor refuse whom I dislike ; so is the will of a living daughtei 
curbed by the will of a dead father. Is it not hard, Neiissa, that ) 
cannot choose one, nor refuse none ? 

Ner, Your father was ever virtuous ; and holy men at their deatfc 
have good inspirations ; therefore the lottery that he hath devised in 
these three chests of gold, silver, and lead (whereof who choosei 
his meaning, chooses you), will, no doubt, never be chosen by any 
rightly, but one whom you shall rightly love. Bat what warmth is 
there in your affection toward any of these princely suitors that 
are already come ? 

Por. I pray thee overname them ; and as thou namest them, I 
will describe them ; and according to my description, level at my 

Ner, First^ there is the Neapolitan prince. 

Por. Ay, that's a colt, indeed, for he doth nothing but talk of hia 
horse; and he makes it a great appropriation to his own good parts 
that he can shoe him himself. 

Ner, Then, is there the county Palatine. 

Por, He doth nothing but frown ; as who should say, " And you 
will not have me choose ; " he hears merry tales and smiles not , 
I fear he will prove the weeping philosopher, when he grows old, 
being so full of unmannerly sadness in his youth. I had rather 
be married to a death's-head with a bone in his mouth, than to 
either of these. God defend me from these two 1 

Ner, How say you by the French lord, Monsieur Le Bon ? 

Por, God made him, and therefore let him pass for a man. Id 
truth, I know it is a sin to be mocker; but, he! why he hath t 
horse better than the Neapolitan's ; a better bad habit of frowning 
than the count Palatine. He is every man in no man ; if a throstle 
sing he falls straight a capering ; he will fence with his own shadow. 
If I should marry him I should marry twenty husbands. If he 
would despise me, I would forgive him ; for if he love me to mad • 
ness, I should never requite him. 

Ner, What say you then to Faulconbridge, the young baron o( 
England ? 

Por, You know I say nothing to him, for he understands not me 
nor I him ; be hath neither Latin, French, nor Italian ; and you 


144 Exercises in Elocxition. 

will come into the court and swear that I have a poor pennyworia 
in the English. He is a proper man*s picture ; but, alas 1 who can 
converse with a dumb show ? How oddly he is suited ; I think he 
bought his doublet in Italy, his round-hose in France, his bonnet in 
Germany and his behavior everywhere. 

Ner. What think you of the Scottish lord, his neighbor? 

Par, That he hath neighborly charity in him, for he borrowed a 
ox of the ear, of the Englishman, and swore he would pay him 
again when he was able. I think the Frenchman became his surety, 
and sealed und^r for another. 

iVer. How like you the young German, the Duke of Saxony's 
nephew ? 

Pot, Very vilely in the morning, when he is sober; and most 
vilely in the afternoon when he is drunk ; when he is best, he is a 
little worse than a man ; and when he is worst, he is HttlQ better 
tlian a beast And the worst &I1 that ever fell, I hope I shall make 
shift to go without him. 

Ner. If he should make offer to choose, and choose the right casket, 
you would refuse to perform your father's will if you should refuse 
to accept him. 

Pot, Therefore, for fear of the worst, I pray thee set a deep glass 
of Rhenish wine on the contrary casket : for if the devil be within, 
and that temptation without, I know he will choose it. I will do 
any thing, Nerissa, ere I will be married to a sponge. 

Ner, You need not fear, lady, the having any of these lords ; they 
have acquainted me with tlieir determinations ; which is, indeed, to 
return to their home and to trouble you with no more suit, unless 
you may be won by some other sort than yohr father's imposi- 
tion, depending on the caskets. 

P<yr, If I live to be as old as Sibylla, I will die as chaste as 
Diana, unless I be obtained by the manner of my father's will. I 
am glad this parcel of wooers are so reasonable ; for there is not 
one among them but I dote on his very absence, and I pray God 
grant them a fair departure. 

N&r, Do you not remember, lady, in your father's time a Vene- 
tian, a scholar and a soldier, that came hither in company of the 
Marquis of Montferrat? 

Par, Yes, yes ; it was Bassanio ; as I think, so he was called 

Exercises in Elocution. 145 

Ner, True, madam ; he, of all the men that ever my foolish eyes 
looked upon, was the best deserving a fair lady. 

Par, I remember him well, and I remember him worthy of thy 
praise. How now ! What news? 

Servant. The four strangers seek for you, madam, to take their 
leave; and there is a forerunner come from a fifth, the prince of 
Morocco, who brings word, the prince, his master, will be here 

Por, If I could bid the fifth welcome with so good a heart 
as I can bid the other four farewell, I should be glad of his approach ; 
if he have the condition of a saint and the complexion of a devil, I 
had rather he should shrive me than wive me. Come, Nerissa. 

Sirrah, go before. Whiles we shut the gate upon one wooer, 

another knocks at the door. ^ 


The National Eniign. 

Sir, I must detain you no longer. I have said enough, and more 
than enough, to manifest the spirit in which this Hag is now com- 
mitted to your charge. It is the national ensign, pure and simple ; 
dearer to all our hearts at this moment, as we li A; it to the gale, and 
see no other sign of hope upon the storm cloud which rolls and 
rattles above it, save that which is reflected from its own radiant 
hues; dearer, a thousand-fold dearer to us all, than ever it was 
befijre, while gilded by the sunshine of prosperity, and playing with 
the zephyrs of peace. It will speak for itself far more eloijuently 
than I can speak for it 

Behold it I Listen to it! Every star has a tongue ; every stripe 
is articulate. There is no language or speech where their voices 
are not heard. There *s magic in the web of it It has an answer 
for every question of duty. It has a solution for every doubt and 
perplexity. It has a word of good cheer for every hour of gloom 
or of despondency. 

Behold it I Listen to it I It speaks of earlier and of later strug- 
gles. It speaks of victories, and sometimes of reverses, on the sea 
and on the land. It speaks of patriots and heroes among the living 
and the dead : and of him the first and greatest of them all, around 
whose consecrated ashes this unnatural and abhorrent strife has so 

146 ExsRcissa IN EhocvnoN. 

long been ra^ng — '' the abomination of desolation standing whers 
it ought not" But before all and above all other associations and 
memories — ^whether of glorious men or glorious deeds, or glorious 
places— its Toice is ever of Union and libertyi of the Constitution 
and the Laws. 

The Song of the Gamp. 

^ Giye us a song I" the soldiers criedt 

The outer trenches guarding, 
When the heated guns of Ihe camps allied 

Grew weaiy of bombarding. 

The dark Redan, in silent scofE^ 
Lay, grim and threatening, under; 

And the tawny mound of the Malakoff 
Ko longer belched its thunder. 

There was a pause. A guardsman said \ 
" We storm the forts to-morrow ; 

Sing while we may, another day 
Will bring enough of sorrow.'' 

They lay along the battery's side, 

Below the smoking cannon : 
Brave hearts, from Severn and firom Olyde^ 

And from the banks of Shannon. 

They sang of love, and not of fame ; 

Forgot was Britain's glory : 
Each heart recalled a different name, 

But all sang *^ Annie Lawrie." 

Voice after voice caught up the song. 

Until its tender passion 
Bose like an anthem, rich and strong,^- 

Their battle-eve confession. 

EXERctsBs IN ELocunoir. 147 

Beyond the darkening ocean burned 

The bloody snnsefa embers, 
While the Crimean yalleya learned 

How English love remembers. 

And once again a fire of hell 

Rained on the Russian quarters, 
With scream of shot, and burst of sheDy 

And bellowing of the mortars I 

And Irish Nora's eyes are dim 

For a singer, dumb and gory ; 
And English Mary mourns for him 

Who sang of " Annie Lawrie." 

Sleep, soldiers t still in honored rest 

Tour truth and valor wearing : 
The bravest are the lenderest, — 

The loving are the daring. 

People Will Talk. 

We may go through the world, but it will be slow, 
If we listen to all that is said as we go. 
We will be worried and fretted and kept in a stew ; 
Too meddlesome tongues must have something to do. 

For people will talk, you know, people will talk; 

Oh, yes, they must talk, you know. 

If quiet and modest, youll have it presumed 
Your humble position is only assumed-* 
You're a wolf in sheep's clothing, or else you*re a fool ; 
But don't get excited, keep perfectly cool.. 
For people will talk, etc. 

If generous and noble, they'll vent out their spleen— 
You'll hear some loud hints that you're sellkh and mean ; 
If upright and honest and fair as the day, 


They^ll call you a rogue in a sly, sneaking way. 
For people will talk, etc. 

And then if you show the least boldness of hearty 
Or slight inclination to take your own part, 
They'll call you an upstart, conceited and vain; 
But keep straight ahead, and don't stop to complain. 
For people will tails, etc. 

If threadbare your coat, and old-fashioned your hat^ 
Some one of course will take notice of that^ 
And hint rather strong that you can't pay your way. 
But don't get ^excited, whatever you say. 
For people will talk, etc 

If you dress in the fashion, don't think to escape. 
For they will criticise then in a di£ferent shape ; 
You're ahead of your means, or your tailor's unpaid ; 
But mind your own business, there's nought to be made. 
For people will talk, etc. 

They'll talk fine before you; but then at your back^ 
Of venom and slander there's never a lack ; 
How kind and polite in all that they say. 
But bitter as gall when you are away. 
For people will talk, etc. 

The best way to do is to do as you please, 
For your mind (if you hare one) will then be at ease ; 
Of course you will meet with all sorts of abuse. 
But don't think to stop them, it isn't any use, 

For people will talk, you know, people wiU talk, 

0, yes, they must talk, you know. 

Somebody's Darling; 

Into a ward of the v/hitewashefd wJllfl^ 
Where the dead and dying lay, 


E XBRcrsES IN Blocvttox. li^ 

Wounded by bayonets, shells and balls, 

Somebody's darling was borne one day. 
Somebody's darling, so young and so brave^ 

Wearing yet on his pale, sweet face, 
Soon to be hid by the dust of the grave, 

The lingering light of his boyhood gra^se. 

Matted and damp are the curls of gold, 

Kissing the snow of that fair young brow; 
Pale are the lips, cf delicate mold — 

Somebody's darling is dying now. 
Back from his beautiful blue-veined brow, 

Brush all the wandering waves of gold; 
Cross his hands on his bosom now, 

Somebody's darling is stiff and cold. 

Kiss him once for somebody's sake. 

Murmur a prayer, sofl and low ; 
One bright curl from its fair mates take, 

They were somebody's pride you know* 
Somebody's hand hath rested there ; 

Was it a mother's, soft and white 7 
And have the lips of a sister fair 

Been baptized in the waves of light? 

Gk)d knows bestt He was somebody's lo^e^ 

Somebody's heart enshrined him there; 
Somebody wafled his name above, 

Night and nooa on the wicgs of prayer. 
Somebody wept when he tnarched away, 

Looking BO handsome, brave and grand 
Somebody's kiss on his forehead lay. 

Somebody clung to his parting hand. 

Somebody 's waiting and watching for him. 
Yearning to hold him again to their hearty 

And there he liKs, with his blue eyes dim. 
And the smihng, child-like lips apart 


Tenderly bury the fair young dead, 

Pausing to drop on his grave a tear. 
Carve on the wooden slab at his head, 

** Somebody's darling slumbers here." 

Wor Lifries qT th€ SouOL 

ZenoUa's Ambition 

I am charged with pride and ambition. The charge » true, and 
I glory in its truth. Who ever achieved any thing great in letters, 
arts or arms, who was not ambitious ? Caesar was not more ambi- 
tious than Cicero. It was but in another way. All greatness is 
bom of ambition. Let the ambition be a noble one, and who shall 
blame it 7 I confess I did once aspire to be queen, not only of 
Palmyra, but of the East That I am. I now aspire to remain so. 
Is it not an honorable ambition ? Does it not become a descendant 
of the Ptolemies and of Cleopatra ? I am applauded by you all 
for what I have already done. You would not it should have been 

But why pause here? Is so much ambition praiseworthy, and 
more criminal ? Is it fixed in nature that the limits of thia empire 
should be Egypt on the one hand, the Hellespont and the Engine 
on the other? Were not Suez and Armenia more natural limits? 
Or hath empire no natural limit, but is broad as the genius that can 
devise, and the power that can win ? Home has the West Let 
Palmyra possess the East Not that nature prescribes this and no 
more. The gods prospering, and I swear not that the Mediterra- 
nean shall hem me in upon the west, or Persia on the east Longi- 
nus is right — I would that the world were mine. I feel, within, the 
will and the power to bless it were it so. 

Are not my people happy ? 1 ior.k upon the past and the present^ 
upon my nearer and remoter subjects, and ask nor fear the answer. 
Whom have I wronged? — ^what province have I oppressed? — what 
city pillaged? — ^what region drained with taxes? — whose life have 
I unjustly taken, or estates coveted or robbed ? — whose honor have 
I wantonly assailed? — whose rights, though of the weakest and 
poorest, have I trenched upon? — ^I dwell, where I would ever 
dwell, in the hearts of my people. It is written in your faces, that 

Exercises in JSlocution: 151 

I reign not more <njer you than wiihin 7011. The foundation of my 
throne is not more power than love* 

Suppose now my ambition add another provinoe to our realm. 
Is it an evil ? The kingdoms already bound to us by the joint acts 
of ourself and the late royal Odenatus, we found discordant and at 
war. They are now united and at peace. One harmonious whola 
has grown out of hostile and sundered parts. At Uiy hands they 
receive a common justice and equal benefits The channels of their 
commerce have I opened^ and dug them deep and sure. Prosperity 
and plenty are in ail their borders. The streets of our capital bear 
testimony to the distant and various industry which here seeks its 

This is no rain boasting; receive it not so^ good friends. It is 
but truth. He who traduces himself, sins with him who traduces 
another. He who is unjust to himself, or less than just, breaks a 
law, as well as he who hurts his neighbor. I tell you what I am, 
and what I have done, that your trust for the future may not rest 
upon ignorant grounds. K I am more than just to myself, rebuke 
mo. If I have overstepped the modesty that became me, I am open 
to your censure, and will bear it. 

But I have spoken that you may know your queen, not only by 
her acts, but by her admitted principles. I tell you then that I am 
ambitious, that I crave dominion, and while I live will reign. 
Sprung from a line of kings, a throne is my natural seat I love it 
Biit I strive, too, you can bear me witness that I do, that it shall be, 
while I sit upon it, an honored, unpolluted seat. If I can, I will , 
hang a yet brighter glory around it. 

Portia's Speech on Uen^. 

The quality of mercy is not strained, 
It droppeth as the gentle rain from Heaven 
Upon the place beneath. It is twice blessed-* 
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes. 
*Tis mightiest in the mightiest ; it becomes 
The throned monarch better than his crown. 

162 Exercises in Elocution, 

His scepter shows the force of temporal power, 
The attribute to awe and majesty, 
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kingSi 
But mercy is above this soeptered sway, 
It is enthroned in the heart of kings— 
It is an attribute to God himself, y 
And earthly power doth then show likest Gk>d'i^ 
When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew, 
. Though justice be thy plea, consider this, 
That, in the course of justice, none of us 
Should see salvation. We do pray for mercy. 
And that same prayer doth teach us all 
To render the deeds of mercy. 

Hear the sledges with the bells, 
Silver bells I 
What a world of merriment their melody foretelbl 
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle. 

In the icy air of night I 
While the stars, that oversprinkle 
All the heavens, seem to twinkle 
With a crystalline delight; 
Keeping time. 
In a sort of Bunic rhyme. 
To the tintinnabulation that so musically weOf 

From the bells, 
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. 

Hear the mellow wedding bellS| 
Golden bells I 
What a world of happiness their harmony foretellal 
Through the balmy air of nighty 
How they ring out their delight I 
From the molten golden notes^ 

And all in tune, 
What a liquid ditty floats 

• The compiler has taken the liberty of omitting many repetitions, believing that the ordinary 
reader will have less trouble in the rendering, while the elocutionist roMiy Insert them at will. 

Exercises in Elocution. 153 

To the turtle dove, tbat listens, while she gloats 
On the moon I 
Oh I from out the sounding cells, 
What a gush of euphony yoluminouslj weDsi 
How it swells I 
How it dwells! 
On the future I — ^how it tells 
Of the rapture that impels 
To the swinging and the ringing 
Of the bells, 
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells I 

Hear the loud alarum bells, ^ 

Brazen bells I 
What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells ! 
In the startled ear of night 
How they scream out their afiright I 
Too much horrified to speak, 
They can only shriek, shriek, 
Out of tune, 
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire^ 
In a mad exposti^^tion with the deaf and frantic fln^ 
Leaping higher, higher, higher, 
With a desperate desire. 
And a resolute endeavor 
Now — ^now to sit, or never, 
By the side of the pale-faced moon. 
Oh 1 the bells 1 
What a tale their terror tells 
Of despair I 

How they clang, and clash, and roar I 
What a horror they outpour 
On the bosom of the palpitating air I 
Tet the ear it fully knows. 
By the twanging 
And the clanging. 
How the danger ebbs and flows; 

154 Exercises m ELOcvnoN. 

Yet the ear d istinctl y telb^ 
In the jangling 
And the wraDgling, 
How the danger sinks and swells, 
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells^ 
In the clamor and the dangor of the bells I 

Hear the tolling of the bells. 
Iron bells I 
VThat a world of solenan thought their monody compels I 
In the silence of the night. 
How we shiver with affright 
At the m^ncholy menace of their tone! % 
For every somid that floats 
Prom the rust within their throats, 

Is a groan. 
And the people— ah I the people I 
They that dwell up in the steeple, 

All alone, 
And who, tolling, tolling, tolling, 

In that muffled monotone, 
Feel a glory in so rolling, ^ 

On the human heart a stone : 
They are neither man nor woman, 
They are neither brute nor human; 

They are ghouls; 
And their king it is who tolls; ■ (,^ \ }j 

And he rolls, -^, \ n {', a' 

A psean from the bells! ^ v ^^'^'^ ^ 
And his merry bosom swells 

With the paean of the bells 1 
And he dances, and he yells; 

Keeping time, 
In a sort of Runic rhyme^ 
To the psean of the bell% 
Keeping time, Vy^v 
As he knells, ^ )^-. \ I. 

>.> \ 

I V ;N"^' *■ 

ExsRctsjBS ijf JSlocution. 165 

In a happy Runic rhyme^ 

To the rolling of the bells^ 

To the tolling of the bells. 

To the moaning and the groaning of the bella 

Bigor A» Foe. 

Borneo and Juliet 
Balcony Scene. 

Bom, He jests at scars that never felt a wound. 

Juliet appears on ihe Bakony^ and siU down. 

But sofl I What light through yonder window breaks I 

It is the east, and Juliet is the sun I 

^.rise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, 

Who is already sick and pale with grief, 

That thou, her maid, art far more fair than she. 

" It is my lady ; Oh I it is my love: 

*' Oh, that she knew she were I" 

She speaks, yet she says nothing: what of that? 

Her eye discourses : I will answer it. 

I am too bold. Oh, were those eyes in heaven, 

They would through the airy region stream so bright| 

That birds would sing, and think it were the mom. 

See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand I 

Oh, that I were a glove upon that hand, 

That I might touch that cheek I 

JilL Ah, me I 

Rom, She speaks, she speaks I 
Oh, speak again, bright angel I for thou art 
As glorious to this sight, being o*er my head. 
As is a winged messenger of heaven 
To the up-turned wond*ring eyes of mortals, 
When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds, 
And sails upon the bosom of the air, 

Jul. Oh, Romeo, Romeo I wherefore art thou Romeo f 
Deny thy father, and refuse thy name: 

166 Exercises in Elocvtion. 

Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, 
And ril no longer be a Capulet 

Rom, Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this? 

JvL *Tis but thy name that is my enemy I 
What's in a name ? That which we call a rose^ 
By any other name would smell as sweet ; 
So Romeo would, were he not Romeo called, 
Retain that dear perfection which he owes 
Without that title I Romeo, quit thy name; 
And for that name, which is no part of thee, 
Take all myself. 

Rom, I take thee at thy word I 
Call me but love, I will forswear my name 
And never more be Romeo. 

JvL What man art thou, that, thus bescreened in night 
So stumblest on my counsel ? 

Rom. I know not how to tell thee who I ami 
My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself 
Because it is an enemy to thee. 

JvX, My ears have not yet drunk a hundred words 
Of that tongue's uttering, yet I know the sound 1 
Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague ? 

Rom, Neither, fair saint, if either thee displease. 

Jul, How cam'st thou hither ? — tell me — and for what ? 
The orchard walls are high, and hard to climb ; 
And the place, death, considering who thou art, 
If any of my kinsmen find thee here. 

Rm^, With love's light wings did I o'er-perch these walls , 
For stony limits cannot hold love out; 
And what love can do, that dares love attempt; 
Therefore thy kinsmen are no stop to me. 

JvX, If they do see thee here, they'll murder thee. 

Rom, Alack, there lies more peril in thine eye, 
Than twenty of their swords ! look thou but sweety 
And I am proof against their enmity. 

JvL I would not, for the world, they saw thee here. 
By whose direction found'st thou out this place ? 

Rom, By love, who first did prompt me to inquire; 

Exercises in Elocution. 167 

He lent me counsel, and I lent him eyes. 

I am no pilot ; yet, wert thou as far 

As that vast shore washed with the furthest sea, 

I would adventure for such merchandise. 

JviL Thou know*st, the mask of night is on my face, 
Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek, 
Por that which thou hast heard me speak to-night. 
Fain would I dwell on form ; fain, fain deny 
What I have spoke I But farewell compliment I 
Dost thou love me? I know thou wilt say — Ay, 
And I will take thy word! yet, if thou swear'st, 
Thou may'st prove false j at lovers* perjuries, 
They say, Jove laughs. Oh, gentle Bomco, 
If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully 1 
Or, if thou think'st I am too quickly won, 
1*11 frown, and be perverse, and say thee nay, 
So thou wilt woo I but else, not for the world. 
In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond : 
And therefore thou may*st think my *haviour light I 
But trust me, gentleman, I'll prove more true 
Than those that have more cunning to be strange. 
I should have been more strange, I must confess 
But that thou overheard'st, ere I was *ware, 
My true love*s passion ; therefore, pardon me, 
And not impute this yielding to light love. 
Which the dark night has so discovered. 

Rom^ Lady, by yonder blessed moon I vow— 

JvX, Ohl swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon 
That monthly changes in her circled orb ; 
Lest that thy love prove likewise variable. 

Bxym, What shall I swear by ? 

Jvl, Do not swear at all ; 
Or, if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self, 
Which is the god of my idolatry, 
And I'll believe thee. , . 

Rom, If my true heart's love— 

JyH, Well, do not swear I Although I joy in thee, 
I have no joy of this contract to-night ; 

168 Exercises in Elocutioit, 

It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden^ 
Too like the h'ghtning, which doth cease to he^ 
'Ere one can say — It lightens. Sweet, good night! 
This bud of love, by summer^s ripening breath, 
May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet. 
Good night, good night !— as sweet repose and rest 
Gome to thy heart, as that within my breast! 

Rom, Gh, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied ? 

JuL What satisfaction canst thou have to-night ? 

Born. The exchange of thy love's faithful vow for mine. 

Jtd. I gave thee mine, before thou didst request it: 
And yet I would it were to give again. 

Rom. Would'st thou withdraw it ? for what purpose, lore ? 

JuL But to be frank, and give it thee again. 
My bounty is as boundless as the sea, 
My love as deep ; the more I give to thee, 
The more I have ; for both are infinite, 
I hear some noise within. Dear love, adieu I 

Nurse, \ Wilhin,^ Madam t 

Jul, Anon, good Nurse I Sweet Montague, be true. 
Stay but a little, I will come again. [Exiifrom balcony, \ 

Rom, Ghl blessed, blessed night I I am afeard. 
Being in night, all this is but a dream. 
Too flattering sweet to be substantial. 

Re-enter Juuet, above. 

JuL Three words, dear Romeo, and good nighty indeed 
If that thy bent of love be honorable. 
Thy purpose marriage, send me word to-m<irrow, 
By one that I'll procure to come to thee. 
Where, and what time, thou wilt perform the rite ; 
And all my fortunes at thy foot I'll lay ; 
And follow thee, my lord, throughout the world. 

Nurse IWUhin.] Madam I 

JuL 1 come anon I But^ if thou mean'st not well, 
I do beseech thee— 
Nurse, [Within,] Madam I 

JuL By and by, I come ! 
To cease thy suit, and leave me to my grieC 

Exercises in EhocvTioif. 169 

To-morrow will I aend. 

Rom, So thrive my soal— 

JvJL A thousand times good night I 

Roin. A thousand times the worse, to want thy light, f JSn'/.] 

Re-enter Juliet. 

Jul Hist I Romeo, hist I Oh, for a falconer's voice, 
To lure this tassel gentle back again t 
Bondage is hoarse, and may not speak aloud ; 
Else would he fear the cave where Echo lies, 
And make her airy tongue more hoarse than mine. 
With repetition of my Romeo's name. 

Romeo entering, 

Rom. It is my love that calls upon my name t 
How silver-sweet sound lovers* tongues by nighty 
Like soflest music to attending ears I 

Jul Romeo I 

Rom. My sweet I 

Jul At what o'clock to-morrow 
Shall I send to thee ? 

Rom, At the hour of nine. 

Jul I will not fail : 'tis twenty years till then. 
I nave forgot why I did call thee back. 

Rom, Let me stand here till thou remember it 

Jul I shall forget, to have thee still stand there, 
Rememb'ring how I love thy company. 

Rom, And I'll still stay, to have thee still forget, 
Forgetting any other home but this. 

Jul 'Tis almost morning; I would have thee gone 
And yet no further than a wanton's bird ; 
Who lets it hop a little from her hand. 
And with a silk thread plucks it back agun. 
So loving-jealous of its liberty. 

Rom. I would I were thy bird. 

Jul, Sweet, so would 1 1 
Yet I should kill thee with much cherishing. 
Good night, good night 1 Parting is such sweet sorroTK 
That I shall say — Good night, 'till it be morrow. 

[Exit from bahfny. 

led BxsRoisss m Blocvtion. 

Rom, Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast I 
Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest I 
Hence will I to my ghostly father's cell; 
His help to crave, and my dear hap to telL 

Jack Homer. 
** Little Jack Horner sat in a corner, 

£ating a Christmas pie ; 
He put in his thumb 
And pulled out a plum. 

And said, ' What a great boy am L' ** 

Ah I the world has many a Horner^ 

Who, seated in his comer, 
Finds a Christmas pie provided for his thumb, 

And cries out with exultation, 

When successful exploration 
Doth discover the predestined plum. 

Little Jack outgrows his tire, 

And becometh John, Esquire, 
And he finds a monstrous pastry ready-made, 

Stuffed with notes and bonds and bales, 

With invoices and sales. 
And all the mixed ingredients of trade. 

And again it is his luck. 

To be just in time to pluck, 
By a ** clever operation," from the pie 

An unexpected plum ; 

So he glorifies his thumb. 
And says, proudly, '* What a mighty man am L* 

* Or, perchance, to science turning, 
And, with weary labor, learning 

All the formulas that oppress her, 
For the fruit of others baking. 
So a firesh diploma taking, 

Comes he forth a full accredited professor. 


Or he's not too nice to mix 

In the dish of politics ; 
And the dignity of office he puts on; 

And feels as big again 

As a dozen nobler men, 
While he writes himself the " Honorable John.* 

Not to hint at female Horners, 

Who, in their exclusive corners, 
Think the world is only made of upper crusty 

And in the funny pie 

That we call society^ 
Their dainty fingers delicately thrust. 

Till it sometimes comes to pass, 

In the spiced and sugared mass, 
One may compass (donH they call it so ?) a catch; 

And the gratulation given, 

Seems as if the very heaven 
Had outdone itself in making such a match. 

Oh, the world keeps Christmas day 

In a queer perpetual way ; 
Shouting always, " What a great, big boy am II *• 

Yet how many of the crowd, 

Thus vociferating loud. 
And all its accidental honors lifting high. 

Have really more than Jack, 

With all their lucky knack. 
Had a finger in the making of the pie. 

Mother Qootefcr Grown FeopUm 

Barbara Frietchie. 

Up from the meadows rich with com, 
Clear in the cool September mom, 
The clustered spires of Frederick stand, 
Green-walled by the hills of Maryland. 
Bound about them orchards sweep, 



162 Exercises in Elocvtion. 


Apple and peach-trees fruited deep, 

Fair as a garden of the Lord, 

To the eyes of the famished Rebel horde. 

On that pleasant day 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 the silvery 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 fourscore years and ten, 
Bravest of all in Frederick town, 
She took up the flag the men hauled down. 
In her attic window the stafl* she set, 
To show that on« heart was loyal yet. 
Up the street came the Rebel tread, 
Stonewall Jackson riding ahead. 

Under his slouched hat left and right 
He glanced ; the old flag met his sight. 
" Halt!" — the dust-brown ranks stood fast 
" Fire I" — 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 gray old 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 noble nature within him stirred 
To life at Barbara's deed and word : 

ExEBCisjss nf ELOtunoN. 163 

'* Who* touches a hair of yon gnj head, 
Dies like a dogl March onl" 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 Rehel 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 Kebel rides on his raids no more; 

Honor to her I and let a tear 

Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier. 

Over Barbara Frietchie's grave. 

Flag of Freedom and Union wave I 

Peace and order and beauty draw 

Round thy symbol of light and law ; 

And ever the stars above look down 

On thy stars below at Frederick town. 



The following tells its own story, and a beautiful one it is too— read* 
ing best an 'I sounding sweetest, when the fEkZully circle have gathered 
around the evening lamp, perhaps : 

" Which shall it be? which shall it be?" 
I looked at John — John looked at me 
, (Dear, patient John, who loves me yet 
As well as tho' my locks were jet). 
And when I found that I must speak, 
My voice seemed strangely low and weak j 
** Tell me again what Robert said? " 
And then I listening bent my head. 
This is his letter : 

" I will give 
A house and land while you shall live, 

164 ExERCissa IN Elocution. 

I^ in return, from out yoar seyen, 
One child to me for aye is given." 

I looked at John's old garments worn, 

I thou^t of all that John had borne 

Of poverty, and work and care. 

Which I, though willing, could not ssarel 

Of seven hungry mouths to feed, 

Of sev^n little' children's need, 

And then of this. 

" Come, John," said I, 
*• We'll choose among them as they lie 
Asleep ; " so walking hand in hand, 
Dear John and I surveyed our band. 

First to the cradle lightly stepped, 
Where Lilian, the baby, slept ; 
Her damp curls lay like gold alight, 
A glory 'gainst the pillow white, 
Soflly her father stooped to lay 
His rough hand down in loving way. 
When dream or whisper made her stir, 
And huskily he said, "Not her — not her.* 

We stooped beside the trundle-bed, 

And one long ray of lamp-light shed 

Athwart the boyish faces there 

In sleep so pitiful and fair ; 

I saw on Jamie's rough, red cheek 

A tear undried. Ere John could speak, 

** He's but a baby, too," said I, 

And kissed him as we hurried by. 

Pale, patient Robby's angel face 

Still in his sleep bore suffering's trace. 

" No, for a thousand crowns, not him," 

He whispered, ^vrhile our eyes were dinj, , 

Poor Dick I sad Dick I our wayward son. 

Turbulent, reckless, idle one — 

Could he be spared 7 "Nay, He who gave 


Exercises in EisOcvtion. 165 

Bids us befriend him to the gr&Te; 

Only a mother's heart can be 

Patient enough for such as he ; 

And so/* said John, '' I would not dare 

To send him from her bedside prayer." 

Then stole we softly up above, 

And knelt by Mary, child of lore, 

" Perhaps for her 'twould better be," 

I said to John. Quite silently 

He lifted up a curl that lay 

Across her cheek in willful wa^ 

And shook his head. ''Nay, love, not thee^' 

The while my heart beat audibly, 

Only one more, our eldest lad, 

Trusty and truthful, good and glad •*• 

So hke his father. " No, John, no— 

I cannot^ will not, let him got " y 

And so we wrote, in courteous way, 
We could not give one child away ; 
And afterward toil lighter seemed, 
Thinking of that of which we dreamed. 
Happy in truth that not one face 
We missed from its accustomed place; 
Thankful to work for all the seven, 
Trusting then to One in Heaven I 

The Power of Habit. 

I remember once riding from Buffalo to the Niagara FalK I said 
to a gentleman, " What river is that, sir?" 

** That," said he, " is Niagara river." 

" Well, it is a beautiful stream," said I ; " bright, and fair, and 
glassy. How far off are the rapids ?" 

" Only a mile op two," was the reply. 

" Is it possible that only a mile from us, we shall find the water in 
the turbulence which it must show near the Falls ?" 

166 Exercises in Elocution. 

" You will find it so, sir." And so I found it; and the first sight 
of Niagara I shall never forget 

Now, launch your bark on that Niagara river; it is bright^ 
smooth, beautiful and glassy. There is a ripple at the bow; the 
silver wake you leave behind, adds to your enjoyment. Down the 
stream you glide, oars, sails, and helm in proper trim, and you set 
out on your pleasure excursion. 

Suddenly, some one cries out from the bank, '* Toung men^ 

"What is it?" 

" The rapids are below yon /" 

'^ Ha I ha 1 we have heard of the rapids ; but we are not such 

fools as to get there. If we go too fast^ then we shall up with the 

helm, and steer to the shore; we will set the mast in the socket, 

hoist the sail, and speed to the land. Then on, boys; don't be 

.>«iMpned, there is no danger." 

I Toung mtn^ ahoy there I ^* 
■^^-^What is it?" 

" The rapids are below you I " 

" Ha 1 ha I we will laugh and qnaff ; all things delight us. What 
care we for the future I No man ever saw it Suflficient for the 
day is the evil thereoC We will enjoy life while we may, will 
catch pleasure as it flies. This is enjoyment ; time enough to steer 
9ut of danger when we are sailing swiftly with the current" 

" YOUNO MEN, ahoy!" 

"What is it?" 

"Beware! beware! The rapids are below you ! " 

" Now you see the water foaming all around. 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 upon your 
brow! Set the mast in the socket! hoist the sail! Ah! ah! it is 
too late ! Shrieking, howling, blaspheming ; over they go." 

Thousands go over the rapids of intemperance every year, through 
ihe power of habit, crying all the while, " When I find out that it is 
injuring me^ I wiU give it up /" 

J<^n B. Qough. 

Exercises in Elocution. 16? 


From lyanhoe 

Following with wonderful promptitude thfe directions of Ivanhoe, 
and availing herself of the protection of the large ancient shield, 
which she placed against the lower part of the window, Rebecca, 
with tolerable security to herself, could witness part of what was 
passing without the castle, and report to Ivanhoe the preparations 
which the assailants were making for the storm. 

'* The skirts of the wood seem lined with archers, although only, 
a few are advanced from its dark shadow." 


" Under what banner ? " asked Ivanhoe. 

'* Under uo ensign of war which I can observe,** answered Re- 

** A singular novelty," muttered the knight, " to advance to storm 
such a castle without pennon or banner displayed I Seest thou who 
they be that act as leaders ? '* 

'*A knight^ clad in sable armor, is the most conspicuous,** said 
the Jewess; '^he alone is armed from head to heel, and seems to 
assume the direction of all around him.** 

" What device does he bear on his sshieH ? ** replied Ivanhoe. 

' Something resembling a bar of iron, and a padlock painted blue 
on the black shield.** 

**A fetterlock and shacklebolt azure,** said Ivanhoe; "I know 
not who may bear the device, but well I ween it might now be 
mine own. Canst thou not see the motto?*' 

" Scarce' the device itself, at this distance,** replied Rebecca ; " but 
when the sun glances fair upon his shield, it shows as I tell you.'* 

"Seem there no other leaders?** exclaimed the anxious inquirer. 

"None of mark and distinction that I can behold from this sta- 
tion,'* said Rebecca ; " but, doubtless, the other side of the castle is 
also assailed. They appear even now preparing to advance.** 

Her description was here suddenly interrupted by the signal for 
assault, which was given by the blast of a shrill bugle, and at once 
answered by a flourish of the Norman trumpets from the battle- 

^ And I must lie here like a bedridden monk," exclaimed Ivan- 
hoe, ** while the game that gives me freedom or death is played out 
by the hand of others ! Look from the window once again, kind 


168 Exercises in Elocution. • 

maiden, but beware that you are not marked by the archers be 
neath, look out once more, and tell me if they yet adyauce to thai 

With patient courage, strengthened by the interval which she 
had employed in mental devotion, Rebecca again took post at the 
lattice, sheltering herself, however, so as not to be visible from 

"What dost thou see, Rebecca?" again demanded the wounded 

" Nothing but the cloud of arrows flying so thick as to dazzle 
mine eyes, and to hide the bowmen who shoot tliem." 

"That cannot endure," saidlvanhoe; "if they press not right 
on to carry the castle by pure force of arms, the archery may avail 
but little against stone walls and bulwarks. Look for the Knight 
of the Fetterlock, fair Rebecca, and see how he bears himself; for, 
jRS the leader is, so will his followers be." 

" I see him not," said Rebecca. 

"Foul craven 1" exclaimed Ivanhoe; "does he blench from the 
helm when the wind blows highest?" 

"He blenches not I he blenches not! " said Rebecca; "I see him 
now; he leads a body of men close under the outer barrier of the 
barbican. They pull down the piles and palisades ; they hew down 
the barriers with axes. His high black plume floats abroad over the 
throng, like a raven over the field of the slain. They have made a 
breach in the barriers — they rush in — they are thrust backl 
Front-de-Boeuf heads the defenders ; I see his gigantic form above 
the press. They throng again to the breach, and the pass is dis- 
puted hand to hand, and man to man. It is the meeting of two 
fierce tides — the conflict of two oceans, moved by adverse winds I" 

She turned her head from the lattice, as if unable longer to endure 
a sight so terrible. 

" Look forth again, Rebecca," said Ivanhoe, mistaking the cause 
of her retiring; "the archery must in some degree have ceased 
since they are now fighting hand to hand. Look again ; there is 
now less danger." 

Rebecca again looked forth, and almost immediately exclaimed: 

"Front-de-Boeuf and the Black Knight fight hand to hand on the 
breach, amid the roar of their followers, who watch the progress 

Exercises in Elocvtioit. 169 

of the strife. Heaven strike with the CMise of the oppressed, and 
of the captive I*' 

She then uttered a loud shriek, and exclaimed : 

** He is down ! — he is downl " 

*'Who is down?" cried Ivanhoe. ''For our dear lady's sake, 
ten me which has fallen ? " 

'^ The Black Knight,** answered Rebecca, funtly; then instantly 
again shouted, with joyful eagerness, ^But no — but no I — he is 
on foot again, and fights as if there were twenty men's strength in 
his single arm — his sword is broken — he snatches an axe from a 
yeoman — he presses Front-de-Boeuf with blow on blow — the 
giant stoops and totters, like an oak under the steel of the wood- 
man — he falls — he falls I ** 

" Front-de-Boeuf ? ** exclaimed Ivanhoe. 

"Front-de-BoeufI" answered the Jewess. **His men rush to 
the rescue, headed by the haughty Templar — their united force 
compels the champion to pause— -they drag Front-de-Boeuf within 
the walla.** 

''The assailants have won the barriers, have they not?** said 

" They have — they have I ** exclaimed Rebecca, " and they press 
the beseiged hard upon the outer wall ; some plant ladders, some 
swarm like bees, and endeavor to ascend upon the shoulders of each 
other — down go stones, beams, and trunks of trees upon their 
heads; and as fkst as they bear the wounded men to the rear, fresh 
men supply their place in the assault Great God I hast thou given 
men thine own imi^e, that it should be thus cruelly defaced by the 
bands of their brethren I ** 

" Think not of that,'* said Ivanhoe | 'Uhis is no time for such 
thoughts. Who yield ? — ^who push their way ? ** 

"The ladders are thrown down,** replied Rebecca, shuddering. 
" The soldiers lie groveling under them like crushed reptiles — the 
besieged have the better I ** 

"Saint George strike for us I** exclaimed the knight; "do the 
false yeomen give way ? ** 

"No I*' exclaimed Rebecca; "they bear themselves right yeo- 
manly— the Black Knight approaches the postern with his huge 
axe — the thundering blows which he deals, you may hear them 

170 Exercises in Elocution. 

above all the din and shonts of the battle — stones and beams are 
hailed down on the bold champion — he regards them no more than 
if they were thistledown or feathers I " 

** By Saint John of Acre I " said Ivanhoe, raising himself joy- 
fully on his couch ; '* methought there was but one man in England 
that might do such a deed 1 " 

"The postern gate shakes," continued Rebecca; *Mt crashes— 
it is splintered by his blows — they rush in — the outwork is won — 
they hurl the defenders from the. battlements — they throw them 
into the moat I Oh, men — if ye be indeed men — spare them that 
can resist no longer ! " 

" The bridge, the bridge which communicates with the castle, 
have they won that pass ? " exclaimed lyanhoe. 

**No," replied Rebecca; " the Templar has destroyed the plank 
on which they crossed — few of the defenders escaped with him 
into the castle — the shrieks and cries which you hear, tell the fate 
of the others 1 Alas I I see it is still more difficult to look upoa 
victory than upon battle I " 

" What do ihey now, maiden ? " sidd Ivanhoe ; '* look forth yet 
again — this is no time to faint at bloodshed." 

"It is over for the time," answered Rebecca. "Our friends 
strengthen themselves within the outwork which they have mas- 
tered, and it affords them so good a shelter from the foeman*s shot, 
that the garrison only bestow a few bolts on it, from interval to 
interval, as if rather to disquiet than effectually to injure them." 

Waiter aoalU 

/^'' I 

Ep Van Winkle. 

He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old resort, the village 
inn — but it too was gone. A large rickety wooden building stood 
in its place, with great gaping windows, some of them broken and 
mended with old hats and petticoats, and over the door was painted, 
•* The Union Hotel, by Jonathan Doolittle." Instead of the great 
tree that used to shelter the quiet little Dutch inn of yore, there 
now was reared a tall, naked pole, with something on the top that 
looked like a red night-cap, and from it was fluttering a flag, on 

KsjsRcisms IN Elocution. 171 

which was a singular assemblage of stars and stripes — all this was 
strange and incomprehensible. He recognized on the sign, how- 
ever, the ruby face of King George, under which he had smoked so 
many a peaceful pipe ; but even this was singularly metamorphosed. 
The red coat was changed for one of blue and buff, a sword was 
held in the hand instead of a scepter, the head was decorated with 
a cocked hat, and underneath was painted in large characters, 
General Washington. 

There was, as usual, .a crowd of folk^bout the door, but none 
that Rip recollected. The very character of the people seemed 
changed. There was a busy, bustling, disputatious tone about it, 
instead of the accustomed phlegm and drowsy tranquillity^ He 
looked in vain for the sage Nicholas Vedder, with his broad face, 
double chin, and fair long pipe, uttering clouds of tobaoco smoke 
instead of idle speeches ; or Van Buramel, the schoolmaster, doling 
forth the contents of an ancient newspaper. In place of these, a 
lean, bilious-looking fellow, with his pockets full of handbills, v/as 
haranguing vehemently about rights of citizens — elections — mem- 
bers of Congress — liberty — Bunker's Hill — heroes of seventy- 
six — and other words, which were a perfect Babylonish jargon to 
the bewildered Yan Winkle. 

The appearance of Rip, with his long grizzled beard, his rusty 
fowling-piece, his uncouth dress, and an army of women and child- 
ren at his heels, soon attracted the attention of the tavern politicians. 
They crowded around him, eying him from head to foot with great 
curiosity. The orator bustled up to him, and, drawing him partly 
aside, inquired " on which side he voted ? *' Rip stared in vacant 
stupidity. Another short but busy little fellow pulled him by the 
arm, and, rising on tiptoe, inquired in his ear, "whether he was 
Federal or Democrat? '* Rip was equally at a loss to comprehend 
the question ; when a knowing, self-important old gentleman, in a 
sharp cocked hat, made his way through the crowd, putting them 
to the right and left with his elbows as he passed, and planting 
himself before Van Winkle, with one arm akimbo, the other resting 
on his cane, his keen eyes and sharp hat penetrating, as it were, 
into his very soul, demanded, in an austere tone, " what brought 
him to the election with a gun on his shoulder, and a mob at his 
heels, and whether he meant to breed a riot in the village?" 

172 Exercises in Elocution. 

"Alas I gentlemen,** cried Bip, somewhat dismayed, "I am a poor 
quiet mau, a native of tlie place, and a loyal subject of the king, 
God bless him 1 " 

Here a general shout burst from the bystanders — "A toryl a 
tory I a spy I a refugee 1 hustle him I away with him I " It was 
with great difficulty that the self-important man in the cocked hat 
restored order; and, having assumed a tenfold austerity of brow, 
demanded again of the unknown culprit, what he came there for 
and whom he was seeking? The poor man humbly assured hin 
that he meant no harm, but merely came there in search of some 
of his neighbors, who used to keep ab^ut the tavern. 

'* Well, who are they ? Name them.** 

"Rip bethought himself a moment^ and inquired, "Whereas 
Nicholas Vedder?*' 

There was a silence for a little while, when an old man replied, 
in a thin, piping voice, "Nicholas Vedder I why, he is dead and 
gone these eighteen years I There was a wooden tombstone in the 
churchyard that used to tell all about him, but that's rotten and 
gone too." 

" Where's Brom Dutcher ? ** 

" Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of the war ; some 
say he was killed at the storming of Stony Points-others say he 
was drowned in a squall at the foot of Antony's Nose. I don't 
know — he never came back again.** 

"Where's Van Bummel, the schoolmaster?" 

" He went off to the wars too, was a great militia general, and is 
now in Congress.** 

Hip's heart died away at hearing of these sad changes in his home 
and friends, and finding himself thus alone in the world. Every 
answer puzzled him too, by treating of such enormous lapses of 
time, and of matters which he could not understand : war — Con- 
gress — Stony Point; he had no courage to ask after any more 
friends, but cried out in despair, " Does nobody here know Rip Van 
Winkle ? " 

"Oh, Rip Van Winkle!" exclaimed two or three, "Oh, to be 
sure I that*s Rip Van Winkle yonder, leaning against the tree.*' 

Rip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of himself, as he 
went up the mountain : apparently as lazy, and certainly as ragged. 


Tbe poor fellow was now completely confounded. He doubted hia 
own identity, and whether he was himself or another man. In the 
midst of his bewilderment, the man in the cocked hat demanded 
who he was, and what was his name ? 

" God knows," exclaimed he, at his wit*s end ; " Fm not myself — 
I'm somebody else — that's me yonder — no — that's somebody else 
got into my shoes — I was myself last night, but I fell asleep on the 
mountain, and they've changed my gun, and every thing's changed, 
and I'm changed, and I can't tell what's ray name, or who I am ! " 

The by-standers began now to look at each other, nod, wink 
significantly, and tap their fingers against their foreheads. There 
was a whisper, also, about securing tlie gun, and keeping the old 
fellow from doing mischiefj at the very suggestion of which the 
self-important man in the cocked hat retired with some precipitation. 
At this critical moment a fresh, comely woman pressed through the 
throng to get a peep at the gray-bearded man. She had a chubby 
child in her arms, which, frightened at his looks, began to cry 
" Hush, Rip," cried she, " hush, you little fool ; the old man won't 
hurt you." The name of the child, the air of the mother, the tone 
of her voice, all awakened a train of recollections in his mind. 
" What is your name, my good woman ? " asked he. 

** Judith Gardenier." 

'* And your father's name ? " 

"Ah! poor man, Rip Van Winkle was his name, but it's twenty 
years since he went away from home with his gun, and never has 
been heard of since — his dog came home without him ; but whether . 
he shot himself, or was carried away by the Indians, nobody can 
tell. I was then but a little girl." 

Rip had but one question more to ask ; but he put it with a fal- 
tering voice: 

*' Where's your mother?'* 

'' Oh, she too had died but a short time since ; she broke a blood* 
vessel in a fit of passion at a New England peddler." 

There was a drop of comfort, at least, in this intelligence. The 
honest man could contain himself no longer. He caught his daugh- 
ter and her child in his arms. "I am your father!" cned he — 
** Young Rip Van Winkle once^old Rip Van Winkle now I Does 
nobody know poor Rip Van Winkle ? " 

1^4 Exercises in Elocutiott. 

All stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering out from among 
the crowd, put her hand to her brow, and peering under it in his 
face for a moment, exclaimed, " Sure enough! it is Rip Van Win- 
kle — it is himself I Welcome home again, old neighbor. Why, 
where have you been these twenty long years ? ** 

Bip*s story was soon told, for the whole twenty long years had 
been to him but as one night. 

To make a long story short, the company broke up, and returned 
to the more important concerns of the election. Kip's daughter 
took him home to liye with her; she had a snug, well-furnished 
house, and a stout, cheery farmer for a husband, whom Hip recol- 
lected for one of the urchins that used to climb upon his back. 

The old Dutch inhabitants almost universally gaye it full credit. 
Even to this day they never hear a thunder-storm of a summer 
afternoon about the Kaatskill, but they say Hendrick Hudson and 
his crew, are at their game of nine-pins ; and it is a common wish 
of all hen-pecked husbftnds in the neighborhood, when life hanga 
heavy on their hands, that they might have a quieting draught out 
of Kip Yan Winkle's flagon. inrino. 

Are the Children at Home? 

Each day when the glow of sunset 

Fades in the western sky. 
And the wee ones, tired of playing^ 

Go tripping lightly by, 
I steal away from my husband, 

Asleep in his easy-chair, 
And watch from the open doorway 

Their faces fresh and fair. 

Alone in the dear old homestead 

That once was full of life, 
Hinging with girlish laughter. 

Echoing with boyish strife. 
We two are waiting together; 

And oil, as the shadows come, 
With tremulous voice he calls me, 

" It is night I are the children home ? 

Exercises in Elocutiox. 175 

** Yes, love I" I answer him gently, 

" They're all home long ago ;" 
And sing, in my qaivering treble, 

A song so soft and low, 
Till the old man drops to slumber^ 

With his head upon his hand, 
And I tell to myself the number 

Home in the better' land— 

Home, where neVer il sorrow 

Bhall dim thejr ^yes with tears I 
Where the srhile of God is on them 

Through all th§ onmmer years I 
I know I — yet my arms are empty, 

That fondly folded seven, 
And the mother heart within me 

Is almost starved for heaven. 

Sometimes, in the dusk of evening, 

I only shut my eyes, 
And the children ai^ all about me-^ 

A vision from the skies ; 
The babes whose dimpled fingers 

Lost the way to my breast. 
And Jthe beauttiful ones, the angels. 

Passed to the world of the blessed. 

With never a cloud upon them, 

I see their radiant brows ; 
My boys tliat I gave to freedom— 

The red sword sealed their vows I 
In a tangled Southern forest, 

Twin brotliers, bold and brave, 
They fell ; and the flag they died for. 

Thank Q-od ! floats o'er their grave, 

A breath, and the vision is lifted 

Away on the wings of light, 
And again we two are together, 

All alone in the night; 


176 Exercises in j^locution. 

They tell me his mind is failing, 

But I smile at idle fears ; 
He is only back with the children. 

In the dear and peaceful yearb 

And still as the summer sunset 

Fades away in the west, 
And the wee ones, tired of playing, 

Go trooping home to rest, 
My husband calls from his corner, 

" Say, love, have the children come r* 

And I answer, with eyes uplifted, 

** Yes, dear, they are all at home !** 

AUamHo Monthly, 

From the "School for SoandaL' 

Sir Peter. Lady Teazle, Lady Teazle, I'll not bear it 

Lady Teazle, Sir Peter, Sir Peter, you may bear it or not, as you 
please ; but I ought to have my own way in every thing ;* and 
what's more, I will too. What I though I was educated in the 
country, I know very well that women of fashion in London are 
accountable to nobody after they are married. 

Sir P. Very well, ma'am, very well — so a husband is to have no 
influence, no authority ? 

Lady T» Authority 1 No, to be sure : if you wanted authority over 
me you should have adopted me, and not married me. I am sure 
you were old enough. 

Sir P. Old enough I — ay — there it is. Well, well, Lady Teazle, 
though my life may be made unhappy by your temper, I'll not be 
ruined by your extravagance. 

Lady T. My extravagance I I am sure I am not more extrava- 
gant thau a woman ought to be. 

Sir P. No, no, madam, you shall throw away no more sums 
upon such unmeaning luxury. You spend as much to furnish your 
dressing-room with flowers in winter as would suffice to turn tlie 
Pantheon into a green-house. 

Lady T, Sir Peter, am I to blame because flowers are dear in 
cold weather? You should find fault with tlie climate, and not with 

. Exercises in Elocution. 11*J 

me. For my part, Fin sure, I wish it were spring all the year 
round, and that roses grew under our feet 

Sir P, Zounds I Madam ; if you had been born to this, I should 
not wonder at your talking thus; but you forget what your situa- 
tion was when I married you. 

Lady T, No, no, I don't; 'twas a very disagreeable one — or I 
should never have married you. 

Sir P, Yes, yes, madam, you were then in a somewhat humbler 
style — the daughter of a plain country squira Recollect, Lady 
Teazle, when I saw you first sitting at your tambour, in a pretty 
figured linen gown, with a bunch of keys at your side ; your hair 
combed smooth over a roll, and your apartment hung round with 
fi-uits in worsted of your own working. 

Lady T, Oh yes I I remember it very well, and a curious life I 
led — my daily occupation to inspect the dairy, superintend the 
poultry, make extracts from the family receipt-book, and comb my 
aunt Deborah's lap-dog. 

Sir P. Yes, yea, ma'am 'twas so indeed. 

Lady 7!^ And then, you know, my evening amnsements, to draw 
patterns for ruffles, which I had not the materials to make up ; to 
play Pope Joan with the curate; to read a novel to my aunt; or to 
be stuck down to an old spinnet to strum my father to sleep after a 
fox chase. 

Sir P. I am glad you have so good a memory. Yes, madarai, 
these were the recreations I took you from ; but now you must 
have your coach — vis-a-vis — and three powdered footmen before 
your chair; and, in summer, a pair of white cats to draw you to 
Kensington Gardens. No recollection, I suppose, when you were 
content to ride double behind the butler, on a docked coach-horse. 

Lady T, No — ^I never did that; I deny the butler and the 

Sir P. This, madam, was your situation ; and what have I done 
for you ? I have made you a woman of fashion, of fortune, of rank ; 
in short, I have made you my wife. 

XcwJy T, Well then; and- there is but one thing more you can 
make me, to add to the obligation, and that is — 

Sir P. My widow, I suppose. 

Lady T. Hem I hem I 

178 J£xERCiSES IN Mlocvtion. 

Sir P. I thank you, madam ; but don't flatter yourself, for though 
your ill conduct may disturb my peace of mind, it shall never break 
my heart, I promise you. However, I am equally obliged to you 
for the hint 

Lady T. Then why will you endeavor to thwart me in every little 
expense, and make yourself so disagreeable to me ? 

Sir P, Had you any of these little elegant expenses when you 
married me ? 

Lady T, Sir Peter, would you have me out of the fashion ? 

Sir P, The fashion, indeed I What had you to do with the fashion 
before you married me ? 

Lady T, For my part, I should think you would like to have your 
wife thought a woman of taste. 

Sir P, Ay ; there again — taste. Zounds I Madam, you had no 
taste when you married me 1 . 

Lady T, That's very true, indeed, Sir Peter ; and having married 
you, I should never pretend to taste again, I allow. But now. Sir 
Peter, since we hskse finished our daily jangle, I presume I may go 
to ray engagement at Lady Sneerwell's. 

Sir P. Ay, there's another precious circumstance — a charming set 
of acquaintances you have made there. 

Lady T, Nay, Sir Peter, they are all people of rank and fortune, 
and remarkably tenacious of reputation. 

Sir P, Yes, they are tenacious of reputation with a vengeance ; 
for they don't choose any body should have a character but them- 
selves I Such a crew I Ah I many a poor wretch has rid on a 
hurdle who has done less mischief than these utterers of forged 
tales, coiners of scandal, and clippers of reputation. 

Lady T. What! would your restrain the freedom of speech? 

Sir P, Ah I they have made you as bad as any one of the society. 

Lady T, Why, I believe I do bear a part with a tolerable grace. 

Sir P, Grace, indeed I 

Lady T, But I declare I bear no malice against the people I abuse 
When I say an ill-natured thing, 'tis out of pure good humor; and 

take it for granted, they deal exactly so.with me. But, Sir Peter, 
you know you promised to come to Lady Sneerwell's too. 

Sir P. Well, well, I'll call in just to look after my own charac 

E XEBCI8ES IN Elocution. 170 

Lady T, Then indeed jou must make haste afler me, or youll be 
too late. So, good-bye to you. \Exii Lady T.'\ 

Sir P, So— I have gained much by my intended expostulation ; 
yet with what a charming air she contradicts every thing I say, and 
Low pleasingly she shows her contempt for my autliorityl Well, 
I can't make her love me, but there is a satisfaction in quarreling 
with her; and I think she never appears to such advantage as when 
she is doing every thing in her power to plague me, 


Lady T. Sir Peter, I hope you haven't been quarreling with 
Maria ? It is not using me well to be ill-humored when I am not 

Sir P, Ah I Lady Teazle, you might have the power to make me 
good-humored at all times. 

Lady Ti lam sure I wish I had; for I want yon to be in charm- 
ing sweet temper at this moment Do be good-humored now, and 
let me have two hundred pounds, will you ? 

Sir P, Two hundred pounds I What! ain't I to. be in a good 
humor without paying for it? But speak to me thus, and i' faith 
there's nothing I could refuse you. You shall have it; but seal me 
a bond of re-payment. 

Lady T. Oh, no ; there — ^my note of hand will do as welL (Of- 
fering her hand.) 

Sir P, And you shall no longeir reproach me with not giving you 
an independent settlements I mean shortly to surprise you; but 
shall we always live thus, hey ? 

Lady T, — If you please, I'm sure I don't care how soon we 
leave off quarreling, provided you'll own you're tired out first 

Sir P. Wei! ; then let our future contest be, who shall be most 

Lady T, I asnsure you. Sir Peter, good nature becomes you ; you 
look now as you did before we were married, when you used to 
walk with me under the elms, and tell me stories of what a gallant 
you were in your youth, and chuck me under the chin, you would ; 
and ask me if I thought I could love an old fellow who would deny 
me nothing — didn't you ? 

Sir P. Yes, yes, and you were kind and attentive — 


Lady T. Aye, so I was, and would always take year part wlien 
my acquaintance would abuse you, and turn you into ridicule. 

Sir P. Indeed I 

Lady T, Aye, and when my conan Sophy has called you a stifi^ 
peevish old bachelor, and laughed at me for thinking of marrying 
one who might be my father, I have always defended you, and said 
I didn't think you ugly by any means. 

Sir P. Thank you. 

Lady T, And I dared say would make a very good sort of 

Sir P. And you prophesied right; and we shall be the happiest 

Lady T, And never differ again ? 

Sir P, No, never I though at the same time, indeed, my dear Lady 
Teazle, you must watch your temper very seriously ; for in all Our 
little quarrels, my dear, if you recollect, my love, you always begin 

Lady T. I beg your pardon, my dear Sir Peter; indeed you 
always gave the provocation. 

Sir P. Now see, my angel, take care— contradicting isn't the way 
to keep friends. 

Lady T, Then don't you begin it, my love. 

Sir P. There now I you — ^you — are going on. You don't per- 
ceive, my life, that you are doing the very thing which you know 
always makes me angry. 

Lady T. Nay, you know if you will be angry without any reason, 
my dear — 

Sir P, There, now, you want to quarrel again. 

Lady T, You are just what my cousin Sophy said you would be. 

Sir P, Your cousin Sophy is a forward, impertinent gypsy. 

Lady 71 You are a great bear, I'm sure, to abuse my rela- 

Sir P, Now may all the plagues of marriage be doubled on me 
if ever I try to be friends with you any more. 

Lady T, So much the better. 

Sir P, No, no, madam ; 'tis evident you never cared a pin for 
me, and I was a madman to marry you — ^a pert rural coquette, that 
had refused half a dozen honest squires in the neighborhood. 


Lady T, And I was a fool to marry you, an old dangling bachelor, 
who was single at fifty, only because no one would have him. 

Sir P. You were pleased enough to listen to me. You never had 
such an offer before. 

JUidy T. No I didn't I refuse Sir Tivy Terrier, who every body 
said would have been a better match? for his estate is just as good 
as yours, and he has broke his neck since we have been married. 

Sir P. I have done with you, madam I You are an unfeeling, 
ungrateful — ^but there's an end of every thing. A separate m^unte- 
nance as soon as you please. Yes, madam, or a divorce I I'll make 
an example of myself lor tlie benefit of all old bachelors. 

Lady T, Agreed I agreed I And now, my dear Sir Peter, we are 
of a mind once more, we may be the happiest couple in the world — 
and never differ again, you know — ha! hal ha I Well, you are 
going to be in a passion, I see, and I shall only interrupt you ; so 
bye-bye. (EsU Lady T) 

Sir P. Plagues and tortures I Can't I make her angry either I 0, 

I am the most miserable fellow ! But I'll not bear her presuming to 

keep her temper; no 1 she may break my heart, but she shan t keep 

her temper. 


Liberty and Independence* 
July 4, 177a 

There was tumult in the city, 

In the quaint old Quaker town. 
And the streets were rife with people 

Pacing restless up and down ; 
People gathering at corners, 

Where they whispered each to each| 
And the sweat stood on their templei^ 

With the earnestness of speech. 

As the bleak Atlantic currents 
Lash the wild Newfoundland shore, 

So'they beat against the State House, 
So they surged against the door ; 


181 J Exercises in Slocution. 

And the mingling of their voices 

Made a harmony profound, 
Till the quiet street of Chestnut 

Was all turbulent with sound. 

« WiU they do it?" "Dare they do it?" 

« Who is speaking ? " " What's the news T • 
« What of Adams?" "What of Sherman ?•• 

" Oh! God grant they won't refuse; ** 
"Make some way there I " '^Let me nearer 1" 

" I am stifling I" " Stifle, then 1 
When a nation's life's at hazard, 

We've no time to think of men*** 

So they beat against the portal, 

Man and woman^ maid and chOd; 
And the July sun in heaven 

On the scene looked down and smiled. 
The same sun that saw the Spartan 

Shed his patriot blood in vain, 
Now beheld the soul of freedom, 

All unconquered rise again. 

See ! see I the dense crowd quivers 

Through all its lengthy line, 
As the boy beside the portal 

Looks forth to give the sign \ 
With his little hands uplifted, 

Breezes dallying with his hair, 
Harkl with deep, clear intonation 

Breaks his young voice on the air. 

Hushed the people's swelling murmur, . 

List the boy's exulting cry I 
"Ring I" he shouts, "ring I grandpa^ 

Ring ! oh, ring for Liberty I'* 
Quickly at the given signal 

The old bellman lifts his hand, 
Forth he sends the good news, making 

Iron music through the land. 


Exercises in Hlocution. 188 

How they shouted I what rejoicing I 

How the old bell shook the air, 
Till the clang of freedom ruffled 

The calmly gliding Delaware. 
How the bonfires and the torches 

Lighted up the night's repose, 
And from flames, hke fabled PhoeniZ| 

Our glorious liberty arose. 

That old State House bell is silent^ 

Hushed is now its clamorous tongue; 
But the spirit it awakened 

Still is living — ever young; 
And when we greet the smiling sunlight^ 

On the fourth of each July, 
We will ne*er forget the bellman, 

Who, betwixt the earth and sky. 
Bang out loudly *' ImDependenoe," 

Which, please God, shall never die. 

ICaij Ualoney'B Fliilosoph j. 

** What are you singing for ? ** said I to Mary Maloney. 

" Oh, I don't know, ma'am, without it's because my heart feels 

" Happy, are you, Mary Maloney? Let me see; yoa don't own 
a foot of land in the world ? " 

"Foot of land, is it ?'* she cried, with a hearty Irish laugh; •' oh^ 
what a hand ye be ailer joking ; why, I haven't a penny, let alone 
the land." 

" Tour mother is dead I " 

•* God rest her soul, yes," replied Mary Maloney, with a touch of 
genuine pathos; " may the angels make her bed in heaven." 

*' Your brother is still a hard case, I suppose." 

"Ah, you may well say that. It's nothing but drink, drink, 
drink, and beating his poor wife, that she is, the creature " 

" You have to pay your little sister's board." 

184 ExEBCiSES iii> jElocutioit. 

"Sure, the bit creature, and she's a good. little girl, is Hinny, 
willing to do whatever I axes her. I don't grudge the money what 
goes for that" 

'' You haven't many fashionable dresses either, Mary Maloney.*' 

"Fashionable, is it? Oh, yes, I put a piece of whalebone in my 
skirt^ and me calico gown looks as big as the great ladies'. But 
then ye says true, I hasn't but two gowns to me back, two shoes to 
me feet, and one bonnet to me head, barring the old hood ye gave 

"You haven't any lover, Mary Maloney." 

" Oh, be oflf wid ye — Sketch Mary Maloney getting a lover these 
days, when the hard times is come. Ko, no, thank Heaven I 
haven't got that to trouble me yet, nor I don't want it" 

" What on earth, then, have you got to make you happy ? A 
drunken brother, a poor helpless sister, no mother, no father, no 
lover ; why, where do you get all your happiness from ?" 

" The Lord be praised. Miss, it growed up in me. Give me a bit 
of sunshine, a clean flure, plenty of work, and a sup at th.e right 
time, and Fm made. That makes me laugh and sing, and then if 
deep trouble comes, why, God helpin' me, Fll try to keep my heart 
up. Sure, it would be a sad thing if Patrick McGrue should take it 
icto his head to come an ax me, but^ the Lord willin', I'd try to bear 
up under it" 

The Ballad of Babie BelL 

Have you not heard the poets tell 
How came the dainty Babie Bell 

Into this world of ours ? 
The gates of heaven were left ajar: 

With folded hands and dreamy eyes^ 

Wandering out of Par&dise, 
She saw this planet, like a star. 

Hung in the glittering depths of even. 
Its bridges, running to and fro, 


J^xERCiSES IN Elocution les 

O'er which the white-winged angels go, 

Bearing the holy dead to heaven I 
She touched a bridge of flowers, those fee^ 

So light they did not bend the bells 

Of the celestial asphodels I 
They fell like dew upon the flowers, 

Then all the air grew strangely swe^t; 
And thus came dainty Babie Ball 

Into this world of ours. 


She came and brought delicious May, 

Tlie swallows built beneath the eayes; 

Like sunlight in and out the leayes, . f' 

The robins went, the livelong day ; 
The lily swung its noiseless bell, 

And o'er the porch the trembling vine 

Seemed bursting with its veins of wine; 
How sweetly, softly, twilight fell I 
Oh, earth was full of singing birds, 

And opening spring-tide flowers^ 
When the dainty Babie Bell 

Came to this world of ours ! 


Babie, dainty Babie Bell, 
How fair she grew from day to day I 

What woman-nature filled her eye^ 
What poetry within them lay I 
Those deep and tender twilight eyea, 

So full of meaning, pure and brightp 

As if she yet stood in the light 
Of those opened gates of paradise 1 
And so we loved her more and more; 
Ah, never in our hearts before 

Was love so lovely bom ; 
We felt we had a link between 
This real world and that unseen, 

The land beyond the mom*" 

186 Exercises in Elocution. 

And for the love of those dear eyes 

For love of her whom Qod led forth 
(The mother*8 being ceased on earth 
When Babie came from Paradise )— 
For love of him who smote our liTeS| 

And woke the chords of joy and pain. 
We said, '* Dear Christ 1 ** our hearts bent down 
Like violets after rain. 


And now the orchards, which were white 

And red with blossoms when she came^ 
Were rich in autumn's mellow prime, 

The clustered apples burnt like flame, 
The sofWheeked peaches blushed and feU, 
The ivory chestnut burst its shell, 
The grape hung purpling in the grange, 
And time wrought just as rich a change 

In little Babie Bell. 
Her lissome form more perfect grew, 

And in her features we could trace, 

In softened curves, her molher^s faoe^ 
Her angel-nature ripened too, 
We thought her lovely when she came^ 

But she was holy, saintly now. 

Around her pale angelic brow 
We saw a slender ring of flame I 



God's hand had taken away the seal 
That held the portals of her speech; 

And oft she said a few strange words, 
Whose meaning lay beyond our reach. 

She never was a child to us, 
We never held her being's key ; 

TTe could not teach her holy things^ 

She was Christ's self in purity. 

E xsBCJSBS IN Elocution. 187 


It eiime upon us by degrees^ 

We saw its shadow 'ere it fell. 
The knowledge that our Gk)d had sent 

His messenger for Babie BelL 

We shuddered with unlanguaged piio, 
And all our thoughts ran into tean^ 

Like sunshiue into rain. 

We cried aloud in our belief 
^ Oh, smite us gently, gently, Qod I 
Teach us to bend and kiss the rod, 

And perfect grow through grie^** 
Ah, how we loved her, God can tell; 
Her heart was folded deep in ours ; 

Our hearts are broken Babie BelL 


At last he came, the mesaenger, 

The messenger from unseen lands. 
And what did dainty Babie Bell ? 

She only crossed her hands, 
She only looked more meek and fair I 
We parted back her silken hair; 
We wove the roses round her brow, 
White buds, the summer's drifted snow, 

Wrapped her from head to foot in flowem^ 

And thus went dainty Babie Bell 

Out of this world of ours I 

Thomcu BaUey AUM^ 

The IrishwomaQ's Letter. 
And sure, I was tould to come in till yer honer. 

To see would ye write a few lines to me Pat, 
He's gone for a soger is Misther O'Conner, 

Wid a sthripe on his arm, and a band on his hat 

And what *ill ye tell him ? shure it must be aisy 
For the likes of yer honor to spake with the pen, 

188 Exercises in Elocution. 

Tell him Fm well, and mayourneen Daisjr 
(The babj yer honor), is better again. 

For when iie wint off so sick was the craytheri 
She niver hilt up her blue eyes till his face ; 

And when Pd be cryin he'd look at me wild like, 
And ax '' would I wish for the counthry's disgrace.** 

So he left her in danger, an me sorely gravin, 
And followed the flag wid an Irishman's joy ; 

And its often I drame of the big drums a batin, 
And a bullet gone straight to the heart of my boy. 

Tell him to sind us a. bit of his money, 
' For the rint and the docther's bill, due in a wake, 

An, shure there's a tear on yer eyelashes honey, 
I* faith I've no right with such fradom to spake. 

I'm over much thrifling, I'll not give ye trouble, 
I'll find some one willin— oh what can it be ? 

What's that in the newspaper folded up double? 
Yer honor, don't hide it, but rade it to me. 

Dead! Patrick O'Connerl oh Qod its some ither. 
Shot dead I share 'tifi^a wake scarce gone by, 

An the kiss on the chake of his sorrowin mother, 
It hasn't had time yet yer honor to dhry. 

Dead I dead I Gk)d, am I crazy ? 

Shure its brakin my heart ye are telling me so, 
An what en tlie world will I do wid poor Daisy? 

what can I do ? where can I go ? 

This room is so dark — I'm not seein yer honor, 

1 think I'll go home — And a sob hard and dry, 
Rose up from the bosom of Mary O'Conner, 

But never a tear drop welled up to her eye. 

Exercises in Elocution. 189 

Prom Atalaata in Oalydon* 

Before the beginning of years 

There came to the making of man, 
■Time, with a gift of tears; 

Grie^ with a glass that ran ; 
Pleasure, with pain for leaven; 

Summer, with flowers tliat fell ; 
Bemembrance fallen from Heaven| 

And madness risen from hell ; 
Strength without hands to smite; 

Lore that endures for a breath ; 
Night, the shadow of light, 

And life, the shadow of death. 

And the high gods took in hand 

Fire, and the failing of tears. 
And a measure of sliding sand 

From under the/eet of the years; 
And froth and drift of the sea ; 

And dust of the laboring earth; 
And bodies of things to be 

In the houses of death and of birth ; 
And wrought with weeing and laughter, 

And fashioned with loathing and love, 
With life before and after, 

And death beneath and above. 
For a day and a night and a morrow, 

That his strength might endure for a spati 
With travail and heavy sorrow, 

The holy spirit of man. 

From the winds of the north and the south 

They gathered as unto strife ; 
They breathed upon his mouth, 

They filled his body with life ; 
Eyesight and speech they wrought 

For the veils of the soul therein. 

190 Exercises in Elocutioit. 

A time for labor and thought^ 

A time to serre and to sin ; 
They gave him light in his ways. 

And love and a space for delight. 
And beauty and length of days. 

And night, and sleep in the night 
, His speech is a burning fire ; 

With his lips he travaileth ; 
In his heart is a blind desire, 

In his eyes foreknowledge of death ; 
He weaves, and is clothed with derision ; 

Sows, and he shall not reap ] 
His life is a watch or a vision 

Between a sleep and a sleep. 

AJ4jtmon Quit. SuHnbwnk 

DarioB Qreen and his Hying Mftahinab 

If ever there lived a Yankee lad, 
Wise or otherwise, good t)r bad, 
Who, seeing the birds fly, did n*t jump 
With flapping arms from stake or stump, 

Or spreading the tail 

Of his coat for a sail, 
Take a soaring leap from post or rail. 

And wonder why 

He could n't fly. 
And flap and flutter and wish and try, — 
If ever you knew a country dunce 
Who did n*t try that as oflen as once. 
All I can say is, that 's a sign 
He never would do for a hero of mine» 

An aspiring genius was D. Green : 
The son of a farmer, — age fourteen ; 
His body was long and lank and lean, -* 
Just right for flying, as will be seen ; 




Exercises in ELoctnoir. in 

He had two eyes as bright as a bean, 

And a freckled nose that grew between, 

A little awry, — for I must mentioa 

That he had riveted his attention 

Upon his wonderful invention, 

Twisting his tongue as be twisted the strings^ 

And working his faoe as he worked the wisg% 

And with every turn of gimlet and screw 

Turning and screwing his mouth round too^ 

Tiil hts nose seemed bent 

To catch the scent, 
Aronnd some comer, of new-baked pies, 
And his wrinkled cheeks and squinting eyes 
Grew puckered into a queer grimace, 
That made him look very droll In the &06^ ' 

And also very wise. 

And wise he must have been, to do mora 
Than ever a genius did before, 
Excepting Dsedalus of yore, 
And his son Icsrus, who wore 

Upon their backs 

Those wings of wax 
He had read of in the the old almanacks 
Darius was clearly of the opinion. 
That the air is also man's dominion. 
And that, with paddle, or fin or pinion, 

We soon or late 

Shall navigate 
The azure as now we sail the sea. 
The thing looks simple enough to me; 

And if you doubt it^ 
Hear how Darius reasoned about it 

<< The birds can fly. 
An* why can't I ? 
Must we give in," 


192 JExsECiSES IN Ehocunos. 

Says he with a grin, 

^ That the bluebird an' phoebe 

Are smarter 'a we be ? 
Jest fold our bauds an' see the swaller 
An' blackbird an' catbird beat us holler ? 
Doos the little chattering sassy wren, 
No bigger *n my thumb, know more than men 7 

Jest show me that ? 

Ur prove 't the bat 
Hez got more brains than 's in my hat, 
An' I '11 back down, an' not till th«n ?" 

He argued further: ^ Nor I can't see 
What *8 th' use o' wings to a bumble-bee, 
Fur to git a Uvin' witli, more 'n to me;— 

Ain*t my business 

Important 's his 'n is 7 

That Icarus 

Made a perty muss, — • 
Him an' his daddy Dsedidus. 
They might 'a' knowed wings made o' wax 
Would 'nt stand sun-heat an' hard whacks. 

I '11 make mine o' luther, 

Ur Sttthin' ur other." 

And he said to himself as he tinkered and planned : 

" But I ain't goin' to chow my hand 

To nummies that never can understand 

The fust idee that 's big an' grand." 

So he kept his secret from all the rest^ 

Safely buttoned within his vest ; 

And in the loft above the shed 

Himself he locks, with thimble and thread. 

And wax* and hammer and buckles and screws, 

And all such things as geniuses use ; — 

Two bats for patterns, curious fellows 1 

A charcoal-pot and a pair of bellows ; 

Exercises in Elocutioit. 193 

Some wire, and several old umbrellas ; 

A carriage-cover for tail and wings ; 

A piece of a harness ; and straps and strings; 

And a big strong box. 

In which he locks 
These and a hundred other things. 

His grinning brothers^ Beuben and Burke 

And Nathan and Jotham and Solomomtork 

Around the comer to see him work, — 

Sitting cross-legged, like a Turk, 

Drawing the waxed-end through with a jerk, 

And boring the holes with a comical quirk 

Of his wise old head, and a knowing smirk. 

But vainly they mounted each other^s backs, 

And poked through knot-holes and pried through cracks, 

With wood from the pile and straw from the stacks 

He plugged the knot-holes and calked the cracks ; 

And a dipper of water, which one would think 

He had brought up into the loft to drink 

When he chanced to be dry. 

Stood always nigh. 

For Darius was sly I 
And whenever at work he happened to spy 
At chink or crevice a blinking eyoi 
He let the dipper of water fly. 

So day after day 
He stitched and tinkered and hammered away. 

Till at last 't was done, — • 
The greatest invention under the sun I 
* An* now,** says Darius, " hooray fur some fun ! •• 

•T was the Fourth of July, 

And the weather was dry. 
And not a cloud was on all the sky, 
Save a few light fleeces, which here and there^ 

1^4 Exercises in Elocution. 

Half mist, half air, 
Like foam on the ocean went floating bjr, — 
Just, as loyelj a morning as eyer was seen 
For a nice little trip in a flying-machine. 

Thought cunning Darius : ^ Now I sha' n*t go 
Along *ith the fellers to see the show. 
I '11 say I 've got sicfa a terrible cough I 
An' then, when the folks 'are all gone o£^ 

I '11 have fiill swing 

Fur to try the thing, 
An' practice a little on the wing.** 

^ Ain't goin' to see the celebration 1^ 
Says brother Nate. ''No; botheration! 
I * ve got sich a cold — a toothache — I — 
My gracious I — feel 's though I should fly I " 

SaidJotham, <"Sho! 

Guess ye better go.'* 

But Darius said, <'Nol 
Should n't wonder *f you migl^t see me, though, 
'Long 'bout noon, ef I get red 
0' this jumpin', thumpin' pain 'n my head." 
For all the while to himself he said : — 

" I tell ye what I 
I '11 fly a few times around the lot, 
To see how 't seems, tnen soon 's I 've got 
The hang o' the thing, ez likely 's not^ 

I '11 astonish the nation, 

An' all creation, 
By flyin' over the celebration I 
Over their heads I '11 sail like an eagle ; 
I II balance myself on my Vings like a sea-gull ; 
I '11 dance on the chimbleys ; I '11 stand on the steeply 
I '11 flop up to winders an' scare the people I 

Exercises in Elocution. 196 

I '11 light on the liberty-pole, an* crow ; 
An* I *11 say to the gawpin* fools below, 

* What world *8 this 'ere 

That I 'ye come near ? * 
For I '11 make 'em b'lieve I 'm a chap f 'm the moon ; 
An 1 11 try a race 'ith their ol' balloon 1 " 

He crept from hi8 bed ; 
And seeing the others were gone, he said, 4 

I *m gittin* over the cold 'n my head." 

And away he sped, 
To open the wonderful box in the shed. 

His brothers had walked but a little way, 

When Jotham to Nathan chanced to say, 

" What is the feller up to, hey ? " 

" Don'o', — the 's suthin' ur other to pay, 

Ur he would n't 'a' stayed to hum to-day." 

Says Burke, '* His toothache's all 'n his eye ! 

Ht never 'd miss a Fo'th-o'-July, 

Ef he hed n't got some machine to try.'* 

Then Sol, the little one, spoke : 

'* Le 's hurry back an' hide 'n the bam, 

An' pay him fur tellin' ns that yam I " 

** Agreed I " Through the orchard they creep back, 

Along by the fences, behind the stack. 

And one by one, through a hole in the wall, 

In under the dusty barn they crawl, 

Dressed in their Sunday garments all ; 

And a very astonishing sight was that, 

When each in his oobwebbed coat and hat 

Came up through the floor like an ancient rat. 

And there they hid ; 

And Reuben slid 
The fastenings back, and the door undid. 

** Keep dark I " said he, 
'' While I squint an' see what the' is to see." 

106 Exercises in Elocution. 

As knights of old put on their mai]|— 

From head to foot 

An iron suit^ 
Iron jacket and iron boot. 
Iron breeches, and on the head 
No hat^ but an iron pot iDstead, 

And under the chin the bail, 
(I believe they called the thing a helm,) 
Then sallied forth to overwhelm 
The dragons and pagans that plagued the realm,-— 

So this modem knight, 

Prepared for flighty 
Put on his wings and strapped them tight, — 
Jointed and jaunty, strong and light, — 
Buckled them fast to shoulder and hip, — 
Ten feet they measured from tip to tip I 
And a helm had he, but that he wore. 
Not on his head, like those of yore, 

But more Uke the helm of a ship. 

" Hush ! " Reuben said, 

'^ He *s up in the shed I 
He *s opened the winder, — I see his head I 

He stretches it out, 

An* pokes it about, 
Lookin* to see T the coast is clear, 

An' nobody near ; — 
Guess he don'o* who 's hid in here 1 
He 's riggin* a spring-board over the sill I 
Stop laffin', Solomon 1 Burke, keep still I 
He 's a climbin* out now — Of all the things I 
What 's he got on ? I van, it *s wings ! 
An* that 't other thing ? I yum, it *s a tail I 
An* there he sets like a hawk on a rail I 
Steppin* careful, he travels the length 
Of his spring-board, and teeters to try its strength. 
Now he stretches his wings like a monstrous bat ; 



Peeks over his shoulder, this way an* that, 
Fur to see 'f the' 's any one passin' by ; 
But the' 'b on'y a ca'f an' a goslin' nigh. 
They turn np at him a woaderin' eye, 
To see — The dragon 1 he 's goin' to fly ( 
Away he goes I Jimminy ! what a jump I 

Flop — flop — an' plump 

To the ground with a thump ! 
Flutt'rin' an' flound'rm', all 'n a lump I ** 

As a demon is hurled by an angel's spear 
Heels oyer head, to his proper sphere, -^ 
Heels over head, and head over heels, 
Dizzily down the abyss he wheels, — 
So fell Darius. Upon his crown, 
In the midst of the bara-yard, he came down, 
In a wonderful whirl of tangled strings, 
Broken braces and broken springs, 
Broken tail and broken wings. 
Shooting-stars, and various things, — 
Barn-yard litter of straw and chaff, 
And much that was n't so nice by hal£ 

Away with a bellow fled the cal^ 

And what was that ? Did the gosling laugh ? 

'T is a merry roar 

From the old barn-door. 
And he hears the voice of Jotham crying, 
" Say^ D'rius I how do you like fly in' ?" 

Slowly, ruefully, where he lay, 

Darius just turned and looked that way. 

As he stanched his sorrowful nose with his cu/t 

« Wal, I like flyin' well enough," 

He said ; '' but the' ain't sich a awful sight 

O' fun in 't when ye come to ligW* 



I just haye roorn for the moraThere: 
And this is the moral, — Stick to joor sphere. 
Or if joQ insist^ as you have the right^ 
On spreading your wings for a loftier flight, 
The moral is, — Take care how you lighL 

"So Seat in Eeayen. 

Talking of sects till late one ere, 
Of the Yarious doctrines the saints beliere, 
That night I stood in a troubled dream, 
By the side of a darkly-flowing stream. 

And a " Churchman " down to the riyer came. 
When I heard a strange voice call his name, 
" Good father, stop ; when you cross this tide, 
You must leave your robes on the other side.** 

But the aged father did not mind. 
And his long gown floated ont behind. 
As down to the stream his way he took, 
His pale hands clasping a gilt-edged book. 

•Tm bound for Heaven, and when I'm there 
I shall want my book of Common Prayer; 
And though I put on a starry crown, 
I should feel quite lost without my gown.** 

Then he fixed his eyes on the shining track, 
But his gown was heavy, and held him back ; 
And the poor old father tried in vain, 
A single step in the flood to gain. 

I saw him again on the other side, 
But his silk gown floated on the tide ; 
And no one asked in that blissful spot^ 
Whether he belonged to " ti^ Church " or not 

'Exercises in Elocvtiom. 199 

When down to the river a Quaker strayed, 
His dress of a sober hue was made ; 
<' My coat and bat must be all gray, 
I cannot go any other way." 

Then he buttoned his coat straight up to his chin. 
And staidly, solemnly, waded in, 
And his broad-brimmed hat he pulled down tight 
Over his forehead, so cold and white. 

But a strong wind carried away his hat ; 
A moment he silently sighed over that, 
And then, as he gazed on the farther shore, 
The coat, slipped off, and was seen no more. 

As he entered Heaven, his suit of gray 
Went quietly sailing away, away. 
And none of the angels questioned him 
About the width of his beaver^s brim. 

Next came Dr. Watts with a bundle of Psalms, 

Tied nicely up in his aged arms, 

And hymns as many, a very wise thing. 

That the people in Heaven, *' all round," might sing. 

But I thought that he heaved an anxious sigh, 
As he saw that the river ran broad and high. 
And looked rather surprised as, one by one 
The Psalms and Hymns in the wave went down. 

And after him with his MSS., 

Came Wesley, the pattern of godliness ; 

But he cried, " Dear me, what shall I do 7 

The water has soaked them through and through.** 

And there on the river, far and wide. 
Away they went down the swollen tide, 
And the saint astonished passed through alone. 
Without his manuscripts up to the throne. 


Then gravely walking, two siunts by name, 
Down to the stream together came ; 
Bat as they stopped at the river's brink, 
I saw one saint from the other shrink. 

*' Sprinkled or plunged, may I ask you,, friend, 
How you attained to life's great end?'* 
" ThuSj with a few drops on my brow," 
"But /have been dipped, as you'll see me now 

" And I really think it will hardly do, 
As Tm ' dose communion,' to cross with you ; 
You're bound, I know, to the realms of blis<^ 
But you must go that way, and I'll go this." 

Then straightway plunging with all his might, 
Away to the lefl — his friend at the right, 
Apart they went from this world of sin. 
But at last together they entered in. 

And, now, when the river is rolling on, 

A Presbyterian Church went down ; 

Of women there seemed an innumerable throng, 

But the men I could count as they passed along. 

And concerning the road, they could never agree, 
The old or the new way, which it could be^ 
Nor even a moment paused to think 
That both would lead to the river's brink. 

And a sound of murmuring long and loud 

Came ever up from the moving crowd, 

" You're in the old way, and I'm in the new 

That is the false, and this is the true ;" 

Or, " I'm in the old way, and you're in the new, 

That is the false, and iJm is the true." 

But the hrethren only seemed to speak. 
Modest the sisters walked, and meek. 
And if ever one of them chanced to say 

Exercises in Elocution. 201 

What troubles she met with on the way, 
How she longed to pass to the other side, 
Nor feared to cross over the swelling tide, 
A voice arose from the brethren then : 
" I^t no one speak but the * holy men ; ' 
For have ye not heard the words of Paul, 
•0 let the women keep silence all?*" 

I watched them long in my curious dream, 

Till they stood by the borders of the stream, 

Then, just as I thought, the two ways met, 

But all the brethren were talking yet, 

And would talk on, till the heaving tide 

Carried them over side by side ; 

Side by side, for the way was one, 

The toilsome journey of life was done. 

And all who in Christ the Saviour died 

Come out alike on the other side ; 

No forms, or crosses, or books had they, 

No gowns of silk, or suits of gray, 

No creeds to guide them, or MSS., 

For all had put on Christ's righteousness. 

Mrs, Cleveland, 


I consider Poetnr in a twofold view, as a spirit and a manifestation. Perhaps 
the poetic spirit has never been more jnstly defined, tlian by Byron in his 
Prophecy of Dante,— a creation 

" Prom overfeeling good or ill, an aim 
At an external life beyond our fate." 


This spirit may be manifested by langnage, metrical or prose, by declamation, 
by masical sounds, by expression, by gesture, by motion, and by imitating forms, 
colors and shades; so that literature, oratory, music, physiognomy, acting, and 
the arts of painting and sculpture may all have their poetry ; but that peculiar 
spirit, which alone gives the great life and charm to all the efforts of genius, 
is as distinct from the measure and rhyme of poetical composition, as from iho 
•cientiAc principles of drawing and perspective. 

The world is full of poetry ; — the air 

Is living with its spirit ; and the waves ♦ 

Dance to the music of its melodies, 

And sparkle in its brightness. Earth is veiled. 

And mantled with its beauty ; and the walls 

That close the universe with crystal in, 

202 HxERcissa IN Ehocvnoif. 

Are eloquent with Toices, that proclaim 
The UDseen glgries of immeDsity, 
Inr harmonies, too perfect, and too high. 
For aught but beings of celestial mould. 
And speak to man in one eternal hymn, 
Unfading beauty, and unyielding power. 

The year leads round the seasons, in a choir 
For ever charming, and for ever new, 
Blending the grand, the beautiful, the gay, 
The mournful, and the tender, in one strain, 
Which steals into the heart, like sounds that iise 
Far off, in moonlight eyenings, on the shore 
Of the wide ocean restiug after storms ; 
Or tones that wind around the vaulted roof, 
And pointed arches, and retiring aisles 
Of some old, lonely minster, where the hand, 
Skillful, and moved with passionate love of art. 
Plays o'er the higher keys, and bears aloft 
The peak of bursting thunder, and then calls, 
By mellow touches, from the softer tubes. 
Voices of melting tenderness, that blend 
With pure and gentle musings, till the soul, 
Commingling with the melody, is borne, 
Rapt, and dissolved in ecstasy, to Heaven. 

'T is not the chime and flow of words, that more 
In measured file, and metrical array ; 
•T is not the union of returning sounds, 
Nor all the pleasing artifice of rhyme, 
And quantity, and accent, that can give 
This all-pervading spirit to the ear, 
Or blend it with the movings of the soul. 
'T is a mysterious feeling, which combines 
Man with the^world around him, in a chain 
Woven of flowers, and dipped in sweetness, till 
He taste the high communion of his thoughts, 
With all existences, in earth and Heaven, 
That meet him in the charm of grace and power. 


'T is not the noisj bftbbler, who displays, 
In studied phrase, and ornate epithet^ 
And rounded period, poor and vapid thoughts^ 
Which peep from out the cumbrous ornaments 
That' overload their littleness. Its words 
Are few, but deep and solemn ; and they break 
. Fresh from the fount of feeling, and are full 
Of all that passion, which, on Carmel, fired 
The holy prophet, when his lips were coals, 
His language winged with terror, as when bolts 
Leap from the brooding tempest, armed with wrath, 
Commissioned to affright us and destroy. 

Well I remember, in my boyish days. 
How deep the feeling when my eye looked forth 
On Nature, in her lovehness, and storms. 
How my heart gladdened, as the light of spring 
Came from the sun, with zephyrs, and with showers. 
Waking the earth to beauty, and the woods 
To music, and the atmosphere to blow. 
Sweetly and calmly, with its breath of balm, 
0, how I gazed upon the dazzling blue 
Of summer's Heaven of glory, and the waves. 
That rolled, in bending gold, o'er hill and plain; 
And on the tempest, when it issued forth. 
In folds of blackness, from the northern sky, 
And stood above the mountains, silent, dark. 
Frowning, and terrible ; then sent abroad 
The lightning, as its "herald, and the peal, 
That rolled in deep, deep volleys, round the hills> 
The warning of its coming, and the sound 
That ushered in its elemental war I 
And, oh I I stood, in breathless longing fixed. 
Trembling, and yet not fearful, as the clouds 
Heaved their dark billows on the roaring winds. 
That sent, from mountain top, and bending wood, 
A long hoarse murmer, like the rush of waves, 
That burst, in foam and fury, on the shore. ' 

204 Exercises in Elocxjtion. 

Nor less the swelling of my hearty when high 
Rose the blue arch of autumn, cloudless, pure 
As Nature, at her dawning, when she sprang 
Fresh from the hand that wrought her ; where the eye 
Caught not a speck upon the soft serene, 
To stain its deep cerulean, but the cloud, 
That floated, like a lonely spirit, there, 
White as the snow of Zemla, or the foam 
That on the mid-sea tosses, cinctured round, 
In easy undulations, with a belt. 
Woven of bright Apollo's golden hair. 
Nor, when that arch, in winter's clearest night. 
Mantled in ebon darkness, strewed with stars 
Its canopy, that seemed to swell, and swell 
The higher, as I gazed upon it, till, 
Sphere after sphere, evolving, on the height 
Of heaven, the everlasting throne shone through. 
In glory's full effulgence, and a wave, 
Intensely bright, rolled, like a fountain, forth 
Beneath its sapphire pedestal, and streamed 
Down the long galaxy, a flood of snow, 
Bathing the heavens in light, the spring that gushed, 
In overflowing richness, from the breast 
Of all-maternal nature. These I saw. 
And felt to madness ; but my full heart gave 
No utterance to the ineffable within. 
Words were too weak ; they were unknown , but still 
The feeling was most poignant : it has gone , 
And all the deepest flow of sounds, that e'er 
Poured, in a torrent fullness, from the tongne 
Rich with the wealth of ancient bards, and stored 
With all the patriarchs of British song 
Hallowed and rendered glorious, cannot tell 
Those feelings, which have died, to live no more. 

Exercises in Elocution. 205 

Wool Oathermg and Monse Hunting. 

Here we stop for the night You are shown into a room that 
has not been opened since its occupant left it, and is unsavorj and 
untidy to the last degree. An appeal to the gentlemanly derk 
secures a change for the better ; but there is a hole by the fireplace 
in Number Two that looks suspicious*/ You cross-examine the 
porter, who assures you that it has no significance whatever. A 
^ mouse in that room is an event of which history gives no recorr^. 
Nevertheless, you take the precaution to stuff the hole with an old 
New York Herald, and are awakened at midnight by the dreadful 
rustling of paper. A dreadful gnawing succeeds the dreadful rust- 
ling, and away goes a boot in the direction of the sound. There is 
a pause broken only by heart throbs I Then another gnawing, fol- 
lowed by a boot till the supply is exhausted. Then you begin on 
the pillows. A longer pause gives rise to the hope that order is 
about to reign in Warsaw, and you are just falling asleep again, 
when a smart scratching close to your ear, shoots you to the other 
side of the room with the conviction that the mouse is running up 
the folds of the curtain at the head of your bed. In a frenzy you 
ring violently, and ask through the door for a chambermaid. 

"Can^t have no chambermaid this time o' night," drawli> the 
porter sleepily. 

" Then send up a mouse-trap." 

" Aint no mouse-trap in the house.** 

"Then bring a cat I" 

" Dunno nothin* about it,** and he scuffs his slippered feet down 
the long gallery, growling audibly, poor fellow, half suspecting 
evidently that he is the victim of a joke ; but alas I it is no joke. 

You mount sentry on the foot of the bed, facing the enemy. He 
emerges from the curtain, runs up and down the slats of the blind 
in innocent glee, flaunts across the window-seat, flashing every now 
and then into obscurity; and this is the worst of all. When you 
see him he is in one place, but when you do not see him he is every- 
where. You hold fast your umbrella, and from time to time mai<c 
vigorous raps on the floor to keep him out of your immediate 
vicinity, and so the night wears wearily away. Your refreshinjj 
sleep turns into a campaign against a mouse, for which agreeable 
entertainment you pay in the morning three dollars and a half; and 


the geotlemanly clerk, with a pitying smile, informs you, '0, we 
cannot help that I There are mice all over the house I" 

Moral reflection : If ever the education of a soaring human boy 
be intrusted to my care, I will endeavor to model his manners on 
those of a clerk in a hotel. For conscious superiority, tempered 
with benevolence and swathed in suavity; for perfect self-posses- 
sion ; for high-bred condescension to the ignorance and toleration 
of the weakness of others; for absolute equality to circumstances, 
and a certain grace, assurance, and flourish of bearing, — give me a 
clerk in a hotel We may see generals, poets and philosophers, 
indistinguishable from the common herd; but a true hotel clerk 
wears on his beauteous brow, and in his noble mien, the indubitable 
sign of greatness. 

From Albany to iTiagara is a pleasant day*8 journey, and the 
Niagara mice are not quite so large, nor quite so lively, as those of 
Eastern New York. They do not appear till the second day. 
Then, resting quietly after a walk, you see a mouse creep timidly 
from under the bureau. You improvise a sort of pontoon bridge to 
the bell, out of your chairs and tables, and, as it is day-time, secure 
a chambermaid and superintend a mouse hunt She whisks about 
the room enthusiastically, peers under all the furniture, assuring you 
the while that it is four years now she has been in the house and 
never saw a mouse in the chambers, though she confesses to having 
seen them in the kitchen, and, being hard pressed, well, she htu 
seen them in the passages; but in the chambers, no I never! and 
you are led to believe that, though a mouse might stand shivering 
on the brink of your room, he would fear to step foot over the 
threshold. No, there is no mouse here, not a sign of a mouse, 

"No sign of a mouse, except the mouse itself," you suggest. 

" A.h I but you must have been mistaken. It was a shadow. 
Why" (with a grand flourish of the valance with her right hand, 
and in the air with her left), " you can see for yourself there is no 
mouse here," — and she thinks she has made her point. 

You look at her, debating within yourself whether it is worth 
while to attempt to acquaint her with the true province of nega- 
tives, the proper disposition of the burden of proof, and the sophis- 
try of an undue assumption of the major premise, and decide that it 
is not. 

Exercises jn Elocvtiow. 207 

Moral and philological reflection : We 8ee now the reason why 
trunks and traveling^bags are called traps. Synecdoche : Because 
the mouse-traps are the most important part of your luggage. 

QqiSL BamOUm. /PS^' 

A Legend of Bregen& 
Girt round with rugged mountains, 

The fair Lake Constance lies; 
In her blue heart reflected 

Shine back the starry skies; 
And, watching each white cloudlet 

Float silently and slow, 
You think a piece of Heaven 

Lies on our earth below I 

Midnight is there : and Silence^ 

Enthroned in Heaven, looks down 
Upon her own calm mirror, 

Upon a sleeping towDLL^ 
For Bregenz, that quaint city 

Upon the Tyrol shore, 
Has stood above Lake Constance 

A thousand years and more. 

Her battlements and towers. 

From off their rocky steep, 
Have cast their trembling shadow 

For ages on the deep : 
Mountain, and lake, and valley, 

A sacred legend know. 
Of how the town was saved, one nigh^ 

Three hundred years ago. 

Far from her home and kindred, 

A Tyrol maid had fled, 
To serve in the Swiss valleys, 

And toil for daily bread ; 
And every year that fleeted 

So silently and fast, 
Seemed to bear farther from her 

The memory of the Past 

£08 Exercises m Elocvtion. 


She served kind, gentle masters, 

Nor asked for rest or change; 
Her friends seemed no more new ones^ 

Their speech seemed no more strange; 
And when she led her cattle 

To pasture every day, 
She ceased to look and wonder 

On which side Bregenz lay. 

She spoke no more of Bregenz, 

With longing and with tears ; 
Her Tyrol home seemed faded 

In a deep mist of years ; 
She heeded not the rumors 

Of Austrian war and strife; 
Each day she rose contented, 

To the calm toils of life. 

Yet, when her master's children 

Would clustering round her stand, 
She sang them ancient ballads 

Of her own native land ; 
And when at morn and evening 

She knelt before Q-od*s throne, 
The accents of her childhood 

Rose to her lips alone. 

And so she dwelt : the valley 

More peaceful year by year; 
When suddenly strange portents 

Of some great deed seemed near. 
The golden com was bending 

Upon its fragile stalk, 
While farmers, heedless of their fields^ 

Paced up and down in talk. 

The men seemed stem and altered, — 
With looks cast on the ground ; 

With anxious faces, one by one, 
The women gathered round ; 


All talk of flax, or spmning, 

Or work, was put away; 
The very children Bcemed afraid 

To go alone to plaj. 

One day, out in the meadow 

With strangers from the town, 
Some secret plan discussing, 

The men walked up and down. 
Yet now and then seemed watching 

A strange uncertain gleam, 
Thait looked like lances *mid the trees 

That stood below the stream. 

At eve they all assembled, 

Then care and doubt were fled ; 
With jovial laugh they feasted ; 

The board was nobly spread. 
The elder of the village 

Rose up, his glass in hand, 
And cried^ " We drink the downfall 

Of an accursed land I 

"The night is growing darker, 

Ere one more day is flown, 
Bregenz, our foemens* stronghold, 

Bregenz shall be our own I " 
The women shrank in terror 

(Yet Pride, too, had her part), 
But one poor Tyrol maiden 

Felt death within her heart. 

Before her stood fsur Bregenz ; 

Once more her towers arose; 
What were the friends beside her? 

Only her country's foes I 
The faces of her kinsfolk. 

The days of childhood flown. 
The echoes of her mountains. 

Reclaimed her as their own. 

210 Exercises in ELOcxmonf. 

Nothing she heard around her 

(Though shouts rang forth againX 
Gone were the green Swiss ralleysi 

The pasture, and the plain; 
Before her eyes one yision, 

And in her heart one cry, 
That said, '^ (jk) forth, save Bregena^ 

And then, if need be, diel '* 

With trembling haste and breathlesfl. 

With noiseless step, she sped; 
Horses and weary cattle 

Were standing in the shed ; 
She loosed the strong, white charger, 

That fed from out her hand, 
She mounted, and she turned his head 

Toward her native land* 

Out — out into the darkness— 

Faster, and still more fast; 
The smooth grass flies behind her, 

The chestnut wood is past; 
She looks up; clouds are heavy; 

Why is her steed so sic w ? — 
Scarcely the wind beside them 

Can pass them as they ga 

" Faster I " she cries, " faster I *• 

Eleven the church-bells chime : 
" God," she cries, " help Bregen% 

And bring me there in timel" 
But louder than bells* ringing. 

Or lowing of the kine, 
Grows nearer in the midnight 

The rushing of the Rhine. 

Shall not the roaring waters 
Their headlong gallop check? 

The steed draws back in terror,*-* 
She leans upon his neck 

Exercises in JELOcunoir. Ull 

To watch the flowing darkness ; 

The bank is high and steep; 
One pause —he staggers forward. 

And plunges in the deep. 

She strives to pierce the blaekneM^ 

And looser throws the rein ; 
Her steed must breast the waters 

That dash above his mane. 
How gallantly, how nobly, 

He struggles through the foam, 
And see— in the far distance 

Shine out the lights ofiiomel 

Up the steep bank he bears her. 

And now, they rush again 
Towards the heights of Bregena^ 

That tower above the plain. 
They reach the gate of Bregens < 

Just as the midnight rings. 
And out come serf and soldier 

To meet the news she brings. 


Bregenz is saved I Ere daylight 

Her battlements are manned; 
Defiance greets the army 

That marches on the land* 
And if to deeds heroic 

Should endless fame be paid, 
Bregenz does well to honor 

The noble Tyrol maid. 

Three hundred years are vanished. 

And yet upon the hill 
An old stone gateway rises, 

To do her honor stilL 
And there, when Bregenz women 

Sit spinning in the shade, 
They see in quaint old carving 

The Charger and the Maid. 

812 Exercises in Elocution. 

And when, to guard t>Id Bregen^ 

By gateway, street and tower, 
. The warder paces all night long 

And calls eaoh passing hour; 
**Nine,'* "ten," "eleven," he cries aloud. 

And then (0 crown of Fame I) 

When midnight pauses in the skies, 

He calls the maiden's name I 

Addaidt Ptoder, 

The Orandmothei's Apology. 
And Willy, my eldest born, is gone, you say, little Annie ? 
Buddy and white, and strong on his legs, he looks like a man« 
And Willy's wife has written : she never was overwise, 
Never the wife for Willy : he wouldn't take my advice. 

For, Annie, you see, her father was not the man to save ; 
Hadn't a bead to manage, and drank himself into his grave. 
Pretty enough, very pretty I but I was against it for one. 
Eh! — but he wouldn't hear me — and Willy, you say, is gone. 

Why do you look at me, Annie ? you think I am hard and cold ; 
But all my children have gone before me, I am so old : 
I cannot weep for Willy, nor can I weep for the rest ; 
Only at your age, Annie, I could have wept with the best 

For I remember a quarrel I had with your father, my dear. 
All for a slanderous story, that cost me many a tear. 
I mean your grandfather, Annie : it cost me a world of woe, 
Seventy years ago, my darling, seventy years ago. 

Willy had not been down to the farm for a week and a day ; 
And all things look'd half-dead, tho' it was the middle of May. 
Jenny, to slander me, who knew what Jenny had "been I 
But soiling another, Annie, will never make oneself clean. 

And I cried myself well-nigh blind, and all of an evening late 
I ciimb'd to the top of the garth, and stood by the .road at the gatet. 
The moon like a rick on fire was rising over the dale, 
And whit^ whit, whit, in the bush beside me, chirrupt the night* 

Exercises in Elocution. 213 

All of a sudden he stopt : there past by the gate of the farm, 
Willy, — he didn't see mo, — and Jenny hong on his arm. 
Out into the road I started, and spoke I scaree knew how ; 
Ah, there's no fool like the old one — it makes me angry now. 

Willy stood up like a man, and look'd the thing that he meant ; 
Jenny, the viper, .made me a mocking courtesy and went 
And I said, '^ Let us part: in a hundred years it'll all be the same, 
Tou cannot love me at all, if you love not my good name." 

And he turned, and I saw his eyes all wet, in the sweet moonshine : 
^ Sweetheart^ I love you so well that your good name is mine. 
And what do I care for Jane, let her speak of you well or ill; 
But marry me out of hand : we two shall be happy stilL" 

* Marry you, Willy I '* said I, " but I needs must speak my mind, 
I fear you will listen to tales, be jealous and hard and unkind.'* 
But he turn'd and claspt me in his arms, and answer'd, "No, 

love, no ; •* 
Seventy years ago, my darling, seventy years ago. 

So Willy and I were wedded : I wore a lilac gown ; 

And the ringers rang with a will, and he gave the ringers a crown. 

Never jealous — not he: we had many a happy year; 

And he died, and I could not weep — my own time seem'd so near. 

But I wish*d it had been God's will that I, too, then could have 

I began to be tired a little, and fain had slept at his side. 
And that was ten years back, or more, if I don't forget: 
But as to the children, Annie, they're all about me yet. 

Pattering over the boards, my Annie who left me at two. 
Patter she goes, my own little Annie, an Annie like you: 
Pattering' over the boards, she comes and goes at her will. 
While Harry is in the five-acre and Charlie ploughing the hilL 

And Harry and Charlie, I hear them too— they sing to their team: 
Often they come to the door in a pleasant kind of a dream ; 
They come and sit by my chair, they hover about my bed — 
I am not always certain if they be alive or dead. 

214 Exercises in Elocution: 

And yet I know for a tnith| there's none of them left alive; 
For Harry went at sixty, your father at sixty- five, 
And Willy, my eldest bom, at nigh threescore and ten ; 
I knew them all as babieS| and now they're elderly men. 

So Willy has gone, my beauty, my eldest-bom, my flower ; 
But how can I weep for Willy, he has but gone for an hour,— 
Gk)ne for a minute, my son, from this room into the next ; 
I too, shall go in a minute. What time have I to be vext? 

And Willy's wife has written, she never was overwise. 
Get me my glasses, Annie : thank Gk)d that I keep my eyes. 
There is but a trifle left you, when I shall have past away. 
But stay with the old woman now : you cannot have long to stay* 


What is Glory? What is Fame? 
What is Glory ? What is Fame ? 
The echo of a long-lost name ; 
A breath, an idle hour's brief talk; 
The shadow of an arrant naught ; 
A flower that blossoms for a day, 

Dying next morrow; 
A stream that hurries on its way, 

Singing of sorrow ; 
The last drop of a bootless shower, 
Shed on a sere and leafless bower ; 
A rose, stuck in a dead man's breast— 
This is the World's fame at the best I 

What is Fame? and what is Glory? 
A dream, — a jester's lying story, 
To tickle fools withal, or be 
A, theme for second infancy; 
A joke scrawled on an epitaph ; 
A grin at Death's own ghastly laugh ; 
A visioning that tempts the eye. 
But mocks the touch — nonentity ; 

Exercises sn Elocution: nt 

A rainbow, substanceless as bright, 

Flitting forever 
0*er hill-top to more distant heigiit| 

Nearing us never ; 

A bubble blown by fond oonceit| 

In very sooth itself to cheat ; 

The witch-fire of a frenzied brain , 

A fortune that to lose were gain ; 

A word of praise, perchance of bfarae ; 

The wreck of a time-bandied name, — 

Ay, this is Glory I — this is Fame 1 


The Progress of Poesy, 

In climes beyond the solar road, 
Where shaggy forms o'er ice-built mountains roanii 
The Muse has broke the twilight gloom 

To cheer the shivering native's dull abode. 
And oft, beneath the odVous shade 
Of Chili's boundless forests laid, 
She deigns to hear the savage youth repeat, 
In loose numbers wildly sweet, 
Tiieir feather-cinctured chiefs, and dusky loves. 
Her track, where'er the goddess roves, 
r I lory pursue, and gen'rous Sham^ 
Th' unconquerable Miud, and freedom's holy flamcii 

Woods, that wave o'er Delphi's steep, 
Isles, that crown th' ^gean deep, 

Fields, that cool Ilissus laves. 

Or where Maeander's amber waves 
In lingering lab'rinths creep. 

How do your tuneful echoes languish, 

Mitte, but to the voice of anguish 1 
Where each old poetic mountain 

Inspiration breathed around ; 
Ev'ry shade and hallow'd fountain 

Murmur'd deep a solemn sound; 
Till the sad Nine, in Grreece's evil hour. 

Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains. 

216 ExsRcisES IN JbJLocunoif. 

Alike they scorn the pomp of tjraai Power, 

And coward Vice, that revels in her diaina. 
When Latium had her lofty spirit lost. 
They sought, Albion I next thy sea-encircled 

Far from the sun and summer-gale^ 
In thy green lap was Nature's darling laid, 
What time, where ludd Avon stray *d, 

To him the mighty mother did unveil 
Her awful face: the dauntless child 
Stretch*d forth his little arms and smiled. 
'* This pencil take (she said), whose colors dear 
Richly paint the vernal year: 
Thine too these golden keys, immortal Boy I 
This can unlock the gates of joy; 
Of horror that, and thrilling fears^ 
Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic tearsL** 

Nor second He, that rode sublime 
Upon the seraph- wings of ecstasy, 
Tlie secrets of th' abyss to spy. 

He passed the flaming bounds of place and time: 
The living throne, the sapphire blaze, 
Where angels tremble while they gaze, 
He saw; but, blasted with excess of light. 
Closed his eyes in endless night 
Behold, where Dryden*s less presumptnons car 
Wide o'er the fields of glory bear 
Two coursers of ethereal race. 
With necks in thunder clothed, and long-resounding pace 

Hark, his hands the lyre explore ! 
Bright-eyed Fancy, hov'ring o*er. 
Scatters from her pictured urn 
Thoughts that breathe, and words that bum. 
But ah I 'tis heard no more — 

O lyre divine I what daring spirit 

Wakes thee now 7 Though he inherit 
Nor the pride, nor ample pinion, 

That the Theban eagle bear, 


Exercises in Elocution. 21? 

Sailing with supreme dommion 

Through the azure deep of air: 
Yet oft before his infant ejes would run 

Such forms as glitter in the Muse's ray. 
With orient hues, unborrow'd of the sun : 

Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way 
Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate^ 
Beneath the Grood how far, — but far above the Great 

Qray. 17"- 

rrom The Toilen of the Sea. 


Gilliatt ascended to the summit of the Great Douvre. 

From hence he could see around the horizon. 

The western side was appalling. A wall of cloud spread .across 
it, barring the wide expanse from side to side, and ascending 
slowly from the horizon towards the zenith. This wall, straight- 
lined, ' vertical, without a crevice in its height, without a rent 
in its structure, seemed built by the square, and measured by 
the plumb-liue. It was cloud in the likeness of granite. Its 
escarpment) completely perpendicular at the southern extremity, 
curved a little towards the north, like a bent sheet of iron, pre- 
senting the steep, slippery face of an inclined plane. The dark 
wall enlarged and grew; but its entablature never ceased for 
a moment to be parallel with the horizon line, which was almost 
indistinguishable in the gathering darkness. Silently, and alto- 
gether, the airy battlements ascended. No undulation, no wrinkle, 
no projection changed its shape or moved ita place. The aspect of 
this immobility in movement was impressive. The sun, pale in the 
midst of a strange, sickly transparence, lighted up this outline of 
the Apocalypse. Already the cloudy bank had blotted out one- 
half the space of the sky, shelving like the fearful tatus of the 
abyss. It was the uprising of a dark mountain between earth and 

It was night falling suddenly upon midday. 

There was a heat in the air as from an ovendoor, coming from 
that mysterious mass on mass. The sky, which from blue had be- 

218 ExEUCiSES ^^ Elocutidn. 

come white, was now turning from white to a slaty gray. The sea 
beneath, leaden-hued and dulL No breath, no wave, no noise. 
Far as eye could reach, the desert ocean. No sail was visible on 
any side. The birds had disappeared. Some monstrous treason 
seemed abroad. 

The wall of cloud grew visibly larger. 

This moving mountain of vapors, which was approaching the 
Douvres, was one of those which might be called the clouds of 
battle Sinister appearances ; some strange, furtive glance seemed 
cast upon the beholder through that obscure mass up-piled. 

The approach was terrible. 

Gilliatt observed it closely, and muttered to himself "I am 
thristy enough, but you will give me plenty to drink." 

He stood there motionless a few moments^ his eye fixed upon 
the cloud-bank, as if mentally taking a sounding of the tempest 

His gdUrienne was in the pocket of his jacket ; he took it out 
and placed it on his head. Then he fetched from the cave, which 
had so long -served him for a sleeping-place, a few tilings which he 
had kept there in reserve ; he put on his overalls, and attired him- 
self in his water-proof overcoat, like a knight who puts on his 
armour at the moment of battle. He had no shoes, but his naked 
feet had become hardened to the rocks. 

This preparation for the storm being completed, he looked down 
upon his breakwater, grasped the knotted cord hurriedly, descended 
from the plateau of the Douvre, stepped on to the rocks below, 
and hastened to his store cavern, A few moments later he was at 
work. The vast silent cloud might have h^ard the strokes of his 
hammer. With the nails, ropes, and beams which still remained, 
he constructed for the eastern gullet a second frame, which he suc- 
ceeded in fixing at ten or twelve feet from the other. 

The silence was still profound. The blades of grass between the 
cracks of the rocks were not stirred. 

The sun disappeared suddenly, Gilliatt looked up. 

The rising cloud had just reached it. It was like the blotting 
out of day, succeeded by a mingled pale reflection. 

The immense wall of cloud had changed its appearance. It no 
longer retained its unity. It had curved on reaching the zenith, 
whence it spread horizontally over the rest of the heavens. It 

Exercises in Elocvtion, 219 

had now its various stages. Th^ tempest formation was visible, 
like the strata in the side of a trench. It was possible to distin- 
guish the layers of the rainr from the beds of hail. There was no 
lightning, but a horrible, diffused glare; for the idea of horror may 
be attached to lighti The vague breathing of the storm was audi- 
ble; the silence was broken by an obscure palpitation, Gilliatt^ 
silent, also, watched the giant blocks of vapor grouping them- 
selves overhead, forming the shapeless mass of clouds. Upon the 
horizon brooded and lengthened out a band of mist of ashen hue ; 
in the zenith, another band of lead color. Pale, ragged fragments 
of cloud hung from the great mass above upon the mist below. The 
pile of cloud which formed the background was wan, dull, gloomy. 
A thin, whitish, transverse cloud, coming, no- ono could tell whither, 
cut the high dark wall obliqtrely from north to south. One of the' 
extremities of this cloud trailed along the surface of the sea. At 
the point where it touched the waters a dense red vapor was 
visible in the midst of the darkness. Below it^ smaller clouds, 
quite black and very low, were flying as if bewildered or moved 
by opposite currents of air. The immense cloud behind increased 
from all points at once, darkened the eclipse, and continued to 
spread its somber palL In the east, behind Gilliatt, there was only 
one clear porch in the heavens, which was rapidly being closed. 
Without any feeling of wind abroad, a strange flight of gray downy 
particles seemed to pass; they were fine, and scattered as if some 
gigantic bird had been plucked of its plumage behind the bank of 
cloud. A dark, compact roof had gradually formed itself, which 
on the verge of the horizon touched the sea, and mingled in dark- 
ness with it The beholder had a vague sense of something 
advancing steadily towards him. It was vast^ heavy, ominous. 
Suddenly an immense peal of thunder burst upon the air. 

Gilliatt himself felt the shock. The rude reality in the midst of 
that visionary region has something in it terrifia The listener fan- 
cies that he hears something falling in the chamber of giants. No 
electric flash accompanied the report. It was a blind peal. The 
silence was profound again. There was an interval, as when com- 
batants take up their position. Then appeared slowly, one after 
the other, great shitless flashes; these flashes were silent The 
wall of cloud was now a vast cavern, with roofs and arches. Out- 

220 Exercises in Elocution 

lines <^ forms were traceable among them ; monstrous heads were 
vaguely shadowed forth ; rocks seemed to stretch ^ot ; elephants 
bearing turrets, seen for a moment^ vanished. A column of vapor, 
strught, round, and dark, and surmounted by a white mist, simu- 
lated the form of a colossal steam-vessel engulfed and hissing and 
smoking beneath the waves. Sheets of cloud undulated like folds 
of giant flagSL In the center, under a thick purple pall, a nucleus 
of dense fog sunk motionless, inert^ impenetrable by the electric 
fires : a sort of hideous foetus in the bosom of the tempest 

Suddenly Gilliatt felt a breath moving his hair. Two or three 
large drops of rain fell heai^ly around him on the rock. Then 
there was a second thunder-clap. The wind was rising. 

The terror of darkness was at its highest point The firsf peal of 
thunder had shaken the sea ; the second rent the wall of cloud from 
top to base ; a breach was visible ; the pent-up deluge rushed to- 
wards it ; the rent became like a gulf filled with rain. The out* ' 
pouring of the tempest had begun. 

The moment was terrible. 

Hain, wind, lightnings, thunder, waves swirling upwards to the 
clouds, foam, hoarse noises, whistlings, mingled together, like mon- 
sters suddenly unloosened. 

For a solitary man, imprisoned with an overloaded bark between 
two dangerous rocks in mid-ocean, no crisis could have been more 
menacing. The danger of the tide, over which he had triumphed, 
was nothing compared with the danger of the tempest 



Some hours passed. 

The sun rose in an unclouded sky. 

Its first ray shone upon a motionless form upon the Great 
Douvre. It was Gilliatt 

He was still outstretched upon the rock. 

He was naked, cold, and stiff, but he did not shiver. His closed 
eyelids were wan. It would have been difficult for a beholder to 
say whether the form before him was a corpse. 

The sun seemed to look upon him. 

If he were not dead, he was already so near death that the 
slight cold would have sufficed to extinguish life. 

ExBRcissa IN JElocdtioit. 221 

The wind began to breathe, irarm and animating — the opening 
breath of May. 

Meanwhile the sun ascended in Uie deep blue sky ; its rays, less 
horizontal, flashed the sky. Its light became warmth. It en- 
veloped the slumbering form. 

Gilliatt moved not. If he breathed, it was only that feeble 
respiration which could scarcely tarnish the surfiice of a mirror. 

The sun continued its ascent^ its rays striking less and less 
obliquely upon the naked man. The gentle breese, which had 
been merely tepid, became hot 

The rigid and naked body remained still without movement, but 
the skin seemed less livid. 


The sun, approaching the cenith, shone almost perpendicularly 
upon the plateau of the Douvres. A flood of light descended ftom 
the heavens; the vast reflection from the glassy sea increased its 
splendor : and the rock itsdf imbibed the rays and warmed the 

A sigh raised his breast. 

He lived. 

The sun continued its gentle offices. The wind, which was 
already the breath of summer and of noon, approached him hke 
loving lips that breathed upon him softly. 

Gilliatt moved; 

The peaceful calm upon the sea was perfect. Its murmur was 
like the droning of the nurse beside the sleeping infimt The rock 
seemed cradled in the waves. 

The sea-birds, who knew that ferra, fluttered above it ; not with 
their old, wild astonishment, but with a sort of fraternal tender- 
ness. They uttered plaintive cries — they seemed to be calling to 
him. A sea-mew, who no doubt knew him, was tame enough to 
come near him. It began to caw as if speaking to him. The 
sleeper seemed not to hear. The bird hopped upon his shoulder, 
and pecked his lips softly. 

Gilliatt opened his eyes. 

The birds dispersed, chattering wildly. 

Gilliatt arose, stretched himself like a roused lion, ran to the 
edge of the platform, and looked down into the space between (he 
two Douvres. 


The sloop was there, intact ; the stoppage had held oat; the sea 
had probably disturbed it but little. « 

All was saved. 

He was no longer weary. His powers bad returned. His swoon 
had ended in a deep sleep. 

He descended and baled out the sloop, emptied the hold, raised 
the leakage above the water-line, dressed himself, ate, drank soioe 
water, and was joyful 

The gap in the side of his ressei, examined in broad daylight, 
proved to require more labor than he had thought It was a 
serious fracture. The entire day was too long for its repair. 

At daybreak on the morrow, afler removing the barrier and re- 
opening the entrance to the defile, dressed in the tattered clothing^ 
which had served to stop the leak, having about him Clubin's girdle 
and the seventy-five thousand francs, standing erect in the sloop, 
now repaired, by the side of the machinery which he had rescued, 
with a favorable breeze and a good sea, Qilliatt pushed off from the 

He put the sloop's head for Guernsey. 

At the moment of his departure from the rocks, any one who 
bad been there might have heard him singing in an undertone tlie 
air of "Bonny Dundee.** Vidor Hugo, 

The Singer. 
In this world, so wide and lonesome, 

One dear friend have I,— 
One whose loving presence cheers me 

Under every sky : 
Never care, nor pain, nor sorrow 

Comes when she. is nighj — 

Who so blest as I ? 

She has neither wealth nor station, 

Gems nor precious things ; 
She has only long, fair tresses^ 

And most glorious wings; 
She can neither strive nor labor: 

What of that? she sings, — 

Wondrously she sings ! 

ExsRcisES m JSlocution. 22.1 

Once, as wearily we wandered 

Over moor and plain, 
Up the hill and down the' valleys, 

In the sun and rain, 
Said I, softly, " Let some other 

Hear this marvelous strain, 

Else you sing in vain. 

*^ Sing until the deaf ones listen,-*- 

Sing and win a name ; 
Sing till human hearts, awakened, 

Yield you all you claim ; — - 
Sing and make the worldlings wonder^ 

Angel, sing for Fame I 

Prithee sing for Fame ! ** 

Then she tried a simple measure. 

Faint and quivering; 
But her sweet voice failed and trembled 

Till, poor timid thing ! 
All the wise ones sneered and whispered. 

And she would not sing,-* 

No, she would not sing. 

Then I said, *' We two are friendless^ 

Poor and unconsoled; 
I am growing sad and hungry, 

Weary, faint, and cold ; * 

Since you will not sing for GHory, 

Angel, sing for Gk>ld,— 

Prithee sing for Gold I " 

So the throng stood still and listened 

With expectant ears ; 
But the sweet-voiced singer faltered. 

Full of doubts and fears, 
And the soul-enchanting music 

Failed in sobs and tears,-— 

Bitter sobs and tears I 


S24 Exercises in Elocution. 

'' Fairer tha^ a momiog blossom, 

Gentler than a dove, 
Purer than the sky when Hesper 

Bears his brow above, — 
Since you crave not Gold nor Glory, 

Angel, sing for Love,— 

Prithee nng for Love ! '* 

Then she sang, most divinely I 

With no pause or fear, — 
Sang until the best and proudest 

Lent an eager ear : 
But the true soul of her music 

Only one can hear, — 

One alone can hear I 


" I grow old," said he, looking from his work to the bust of the 
late queen, which stood opposite. '* I have carved the effigies of 
three generations of poets, and as many of princes. Twenty years 
ago I was at work on the tomb of the Duke of Oldenburg, and now 
I am at work upon hers who gave me that order. All die away: 
soon I shall be left alone. Of my early friends none remain but 
Goethe. I shall die before him, and perhaps he will write my 
epitaph.*' He spoke with a smile, not foreseeing that he would be 
the survivor. 

Three years afler, I again paid Dannecker a visit, but a change 
bad come over him ; his feeble, trembling hand could no longer grasp 
the mallet or guide the chisel ; his eyes were dim ; his fine benevo- 
lent countenance wore a childish, vacant smile, now and then 
crossed by a gleam of awakened . memory or thought — and yet he 
seemed so perfectly happy I He walked backwards and forwards, 
from his Christ to his bust of Schiller, with an unwearied self-com- 
placency, in which there was something mournful, and yet delight- 
ful. While I sat looking at the magnificent head of Schiller, the 
original of the multifarious casts and copies which are dispersed 
through all Germany, he sat down beside me, and taking my hands 


Exercises in Elocution. 225 

between his own, which trembled with age and neryous emotion, 
he began to speak of his friend. '* Nous etions ami^ des I'enfance ; 
aussi j*y ai travaille' avec amour, avec douleur — on ne peut pas 
plus faire." He then went on — " When Schiller came to Louisberg, 
he sent to tell me that he was very ill — that he should not live very 
long, and that he wished me to execute his bust. It was the first 
wish of my heart. I went immediately. Wlien I entered the house, 
I found a lady sitting on the canape' — it was Schiller's wife, and 
I did not know her ; but she knew me. She said, 'Ah 1 you are 
Panneckerl — Schiller expects you;* then she ran into the next 
room, where Schiller was lying down on a couch, and in a moment 
after he came in, exclaiming as he entered, * Where is he ? where is 
Danneckerl* That was the moment — the expression I caught — 
you see it here — the head raised, the countenance full of inspira- 
tion, and affection, and bright hope I I told him that to keep up 
tills expression he must have some of his best friends to converse 
with him while I took the model, for I could not talk and work 
too. O if I could but remember what glorious things then fell 
from those lips I Sometimes I stopped in my work — I could not 
go on — I could only listen." And here the old man wept; then 
suddenly changing his mood, he said — ''But I must cut off that 
long hail ; he never wore it so; it is not in the fashion, you know I" 
I begged him for Heaven's sake not to touch it; he then, with a 
sad smile, turned up the sleeve of his coat and showed me his wrist, 
swelled with the continual use of his implements ^— '^ You see I can- 
not/** And I could not help wishing, at the moment^ that while 
his mind was thus enfeebled, no transient return of physical strength 
might enable him to put his wild threat in execution. What a 
noble bequest to posterity is the effigy of a great man, when exe- 
cuted in such a spirit as this of Schiller ! I assure you I could not 
look at it without feeling my heart "overflow in silent worship" of 
moral and intellectual power, till the deification of great men in 
old times appeared to me rather religion than idolatry. I have 
been affected in the same manner by the busts of Goethe, Scott^ 
Homer, Milton, Howard, Newton ; never by the painted portraits 
of the same men however perfect in resemblance and admirable in 


Ifrs, Jameson^ 



226 Exercises iir Elocution. 

The Tision of ffir Laion&L 
And what is so rare as a day in June ? 

Then, if ever, come perfect days; " 
Then Heaven tries the eai'th if it be in tune, 

And aver it softly her warm ear lays ; 
Whether we look, or whether we listen, 
We hear life murmur, or see it glisten, 
Every clod feels a stir of mighty 

An instinct within it that reaches and towers^ 
And, groping blindly above it for light, 

Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers; 
The flush of life may well be seen 
p Thrilling back over hills and valleys; 

The cowslip startles in meadows green ; 

The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice. 
And there*8 never a leaf nor a blade too mean 

To be some happy creature's palace ; 
The little bird sits at his door in the sun, 

Atilt like a blossom among the leaves, 
And lets his illumined being o'errun 

With the deluge of summer it receives, 
His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings, 
. And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings ; 
He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest, — 
In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best? 

Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how; 
Every thing is happy now, 

Every thing is upward striving ; 
'Tis as easy now for the heart to be true 
As for grass to be green or skies to be bIae^-«* 

*Tis the natural way of living: 
What wonder if Sir Launfal now 
Bemembered the keeping of his tow* 

** My golden spurs now bring to toe, 
And bring to me my richest mail, 
* Por to-morrow I go over land and sea 
In search of the Holy Grail ; 

ExERcissa br JSLocuTioir. 221 

Shall never a bed for me be spread, 

Nor shall a pillow be under my head, 

Till I begin mj tow to keep; 

Here on the rushes will I sleep, 

And perchance there may come a yision true 

Ere day create the world anew." 

Slowly Sir Latenfal*^ eyes grew dim. 

Slumber fell like a cloud on him^ 
And into his soul the vision fle\)r; 

The crows flapped over by twos and threes. 
In the pool drowsed the cattle up to their knees, 

The little birds sang as if it were 

The one day of summer in all the year, 
And the very leaves seemed to sing on the trees; 
The castle alone in the landscape lay 
Like an outpost of winter, dull and gray ; 
'Twas the proudest hall in the North Countree, 
And never its gates might opened be. 
Save to lord or lady of high degree; 
Summer besieged it on every side, 
But the churlish stone her assaults defied ; 
She could not scale the chilly wall. 
Though round it for leagues her pavilions taU 
Stretched left and right, 
Over the hills and out of sight; 

Green and broad was every tent, 

And out of each a murmur went 
Till the breeze fell off at night 

The drawbridge dropped with a surly clang, 
And through the dark arch a charger sprang, 
Bearing Sir Launfal, the maiden knight, 
In his gilded mail, that flamed so bright 
It seemed the dark castle had gathered all 
Those shafts the fierce sun had shot over its wall 

In his siege of three hundred summers long, 
And, binding them all in one blazing sheaf. 

Had cast them forth : so, young and strong, 
And lightsome as a locust-leaf, 
Sir Launfal flashed forth in his unscarred mail, 
To seek in all climes for the Holy GraiL 

328 SxsRciass IN Elocution. 

As Sir Launfal made mom throagh the darksome gate, 

He was 'ware of a leper, crouched hj the same, 
Who begged with his hand and moaned as he sate ; 

And a loathing over Sir Launfal came; 
The sunshine went out of his soul with a thrill, 

The flesh 'neath his armour *gan shrink and crawl, 
And midway its leap his heart stood still 

Like a frozen waterfall; 
For this man, so foul and bent of stature, 
Rasped harshly against his dainty nature. 
And seemed the one blot on the summer morn, — 
So he tossed &im a piece of gold in scorn. 

The leper raised not the gold from the dust : 
** Better to me the poor man^s crust, 
Better the blessing of the poor, 
Though I turn me empty from his door; 
''^at is no true alms which the hand can hold; 
He gives nothing but worthless gold 

Who gives from a sense of duty ; 
But he who gives a slender mite. 
And gives to that which is out of sight, 

That thread of the all-sustaining Beauty 
Which runs through all and doth all unite, — 
The hand cannot clasp the whole of his alms. 
The heart outstretches its eager palms, 
For a god goes with it and makes it store 
To the soul that was starving in darkness before." 


Within the hall are song and laughter, 

The cheeks of Christmas glow red and jolly, 
And sprouting in every corbel and rafter 
With lightsome green of ivy and holly. 
Bat the wind without was eager and sharp. 
Of Sir Launfal*8 gray hair it makes a harp. 
And rattles and wrings 
The icy strings, 


Singing, in dreary monotone, 
A Christmas carol of its ovrn, 
Whose burden still, as he might guess. 
Was —*' Shelterless, shelterless, shelterless I** 

Sir Launfal turned from his own hard gate^ 

For another heir in his earldom sate ; 

An old, bent man, worn out and frail, 

He came back from seeking the Holy Grail ; 

Little he wrecked of his earldom's loss, 

No more on his surcoat was blazoned the crosi, 

But deep in his soul the sign he wore, 

The badge of the suffering and the poor. 

Sir LaunfaFs raiment thin and spare 

Was idle mail 'gainst the barbed air, 

For it was just at the Christmas time ; 

So he mused, as he sat, of a sunnier clime, 

And sought for a shelter from cold and snow 

In the light and warmth of long ago ; 

He sees the snake-like caravan crawl 

O'er the edge of the desert, black and small, 

Then nearer and nearer, till, one by one. 

He can count the camels in the sun, 

As over the red-hot sands they pass 

To where, in its slender necklace of g[rass. 

The little spring laughed and leapt in the shade, 

And waved its signal of palms. 

** For Christ's sweet sake, I beg an alms; " 
The happy camels may reach the spring, 
But Sir Launfal sees only the grewsome thing, 
The leper, lank as the rain-blanched bone. 
That cowers beside him, a thing as lone 
And white as the ice^isles of Northern seas 
In the desolate horror of his disease. 

And Sir Launfal said, — " I behold in thee 

An image of him who died on the tree ; 

Thou also has had thy crown of thorns, — 

Thou also hast had the world's buffets and scorns,— 

2ao ExBRCiaEa inJSlocutio^* 

And to thy life were not denied 
The wounds in the hands and feet and side : 
Mild Mary's Son, acknowledge me ; 
Behold, through him I give to thee 1 " 

Then the soul of the leper stood up in his ejes 

And looked at Sir Launfal, and straightway he 
Remembered in what a haughtier guise 

He had flung an alms to leprosie, 
When he girt his young life up in gilded mail 
And set forth in search of the Holy Grail. 
The heart within him was ashes and dust ; 
He parted in twain his single crust, 
He broke the ice on the streamlet's brink, 
And gave the leper to eat and drink, 
'Twas a mouldy crust of coarse brown bread, 

*Twas water out of a wooden bowl,-^ 
Yet with fine wheaten bread was the leper fed. 

And was red wine he drank with his tliirsty souL 

As Sir Launfal mused with a downcast face, 
- A light shone round about the place ; 
The leper no longer crouched at his side, 
But stood before him glorified. 
Shining and tall and fair and straight 
As the pillar that stood by the Beautiful Gate,— 
Himself the Gate whereby men can 
Enter the temple of God in Man. 

His words were shed softer than leaves from the pine^ 

And they fell on Sir Launfal as snows on the brine, 

Which mingle their soilness and quiet In one 

With the shaggy unrest they float down upon ; 

And the voice that was calmer than silence said, 

'* Lo it is I, be not afraid I 

In many climes, without avail, 

Thou hast spent thy life for the Holy Grail ; 

Behold it is here, — this cup which thou 

Didst fill at the streamlet for me but now ; 

This crust is my body broken for thee, 

ExMBCJSES IN Elocution. 231 

This water his blood that died on the tree ; 

The Holy Supper b kept, indeed, 

In whatso we share with another*8 need ; 

Not what we give^ but wiytt we «fear<^— 

For the gift without the giver is bare; 

Who gives himsdf with his alms feeds three,-* 

Himself, his hungering neighbor, and me." 

Sir Launfal awoke as from a awound : — 
" The Q-rail in ray castle here is found I 
Hang my idle armor up on the wall, 
Let it be the spider's banquet hall ; 
He must be fenced with stronger mail 
Who would seek and find the Holy Grail* 

The castle gate stands open now, 

And the wanderer is welcome to the hall 
As the hangbird is to the elm-tree bough ; 

No longer scowl the turrets tall. 
The Summer's long siege at last is o*er ; 
When the first poor outcast went in at the door 
She entered with him in disguise, 
And mastered the fortress by surprise ; 
There is no spot she loves so well on ground, 
She lingers and smiles there the whole year round 
The meanest serf on Sir Launfal's land 
Has hall and bower at his command; 
And there is no poor man in the North Gountree 
But is lord of the earldom as much as he. 

Note. -> According to the mythology of the Komancers, the San Greal, or 
Holy Grail, was the cap out of which Jeras partook of the last enpper with his 
dieiciples. It was brought into England br Joseph of Arimathea, and remained 
there, an object of pilgrimage ano^adoratlon, for many years in the keeping of 
his lineal descendants. It was incumbent npon those who had charge of it to 
be chaste in thought, word, and deed ; bat one of the keepers having broken 
this <5ondition, the Holy Grail disappeared. From that time it was a £iTorite 
enterprise of the knights orArthor^s coart to go £a search of it. 

JaTMS R, Low A 

282 ExsRczsES IN Elocution. 


What was he doing, the great god Pan, 

Down in the reeds by the river? 
Spreading ruin and scattering ban, 
Splashing and paddling with hoo& of a goat^ 
And breaking the golden lilies afloat 
With the dragon-fly on the river. 


He tore out a reed, the great god Pan, 
From the deep cool bed of the river: 
The limpid water turbidly ran, 
And the broken lilies a*dying lay. 
And the dragon-fly had fled away, 
Ere he brought it out of the river. 


High on the shore sate the great god Pan, 

While turbidly flowed the river ; 
And hacked and hewed as a great god can, 
With his hard bleak steel at the patient reed, 
Till there was not a sign of a leaf indeed 
To prove it fresh from the river. 

He cut it short, did the great god Pan, 

(How tall it stood in the river 1) 
Then drew the pith, like the heart of a man, 
Steadily from the outside ring. 
And notched the poor dry empty tiling 

In holes, as he sate by the river. 


''This is the way,** laughed the great god Pan, 

(Laughed while he sate by the river,) 
** The only way, since gods began 
To make sweet music, they could succeed.** 
Then, dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed, 
He blew in power by the river. 


Exercises in Elocution. 238 


Sweet, sweet) Bweet, O Pan I 

Piercing sweet by the river I 
Blinding sweet, great god Fan I 
The sun on the hill forgot to die, 
And the lilies revived, and the dragon-fly 

Game back to dream on the river. 

Yet half a beast is the great g6d PaOi 

To laugh as he sits by the river, 
Making a poet out of a man : 
The true gods sigh for the cost and pam,— 
For the reed which grows nevermore again 
As a reed with the jreeds in the river. 

Mrs, Browning. 

Footsteps on the Other Side. 
Sitting in my humble doorway, 

Gazing out into the night, 
Listening to the stormy tumult 

With a kind of sad delight — 
"Wait I for the loved who comes not, 

One whose step I long to hear; 
One who, though he lingers from me. 

Still is dearest of the dear. 
Soft I he comes — now heart be quick — 

Leaping in triumphant pride I 
Oh I it is a stranger footstep, 

Qone by on the other side. ^ 

All the night seems filled with weeping, 

Winds are wailing mournfully^ 
And the rain-tears together 

Journey to the restless sea. 
I can fancy, sea, your murmur, 

As they with your waters flow, 
Like the griefs of single beings. 

Making up a nation's woe I 

834 JExEBCissa IN Elocution. 


Branches, bid your guests be silent; 

Hush a moment, fretful rain ; 
Breeze,^ stop sighing — let me listen, 

God grant not again in vain I 
In my cheek the blood is rosy. 

Like the blushes of a bride. 
Joy 1 alas I a stranger footstep 

Goes on by the other sida 

Ah I how many wait forever 

For the steps that do not come ! 
Wait until the pitying angels 

Bear them to a peaceful home ! 
Many in the still of midnight 

In the streets have lain and died. 
While the sound of human footsteps 

Went by on the other side. 

Death of Little Fell 
From " The Old Ourionty Skopr 

By little and little, the old man drew back towards the inner 
chamber, while these words were spoken. He pointed there, as he 
replied, with trembling lips, — 

" You plot among you to wean my heart from her. You will 
never do that — never while I have life. I have no relative or 
Mend but her — I never had — I never will have. She is all in all 
to me. It is too late to part us now." 

Waving them off with his hand, and calling softly to her as he 
went, he stole into the room. They who were left behind drew 
close together, and after a few whispered words, — not unbroken 
by emotion, or easily uttered, — followed him. They moved so 
gently, that their footsteps made no noise, but there were sobs 
from among the group, and sounds of grief and mourning. 

For she was dead. There, upon her little bed, she lay at rest 
The solemn stillness was no marvel now. 

She was dead. No sleep so beautiful and calm, so free from trace 
of pain, so fair to look upon. She seemed a creature fresh from 
the hand of God, and waiting for the breath of life ; not one who 
had lived and suffered death. 

Exercises in Elocution. 235 

Her couch was dressed with, here and there*, some winter berries 
and green leaves, gathered in a spot she had been used to favor. 
'^ When I die, put near me something that has loved the light, and 
had the sky above it always." These were her words. 

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 chHd-mistress was mute and motionless forever. \^ 

Where were the traces of her early oares, her sufferings and 
fatigues ? All gone. This was the true death before their weeping 
eyes. Sorrow was dead indeed in her, but peace and perfect hap- 
piness were born; imaged in her tranquil beauty and profound 
repose. • 

And still her former self lay there, unaltered in this change. 
Fes. The old fireside had smiled on that same sweet face ,* it had 
passed like a dream through haunts of misery and care ; at the 
door of the poor schoolmaster on the summer evening, before the 
furnace fire upon the cold, wet night, at the still, dying boy, there 
had been the same mild, lovely look. So shall we know the angels 
in their majesty, after death. 

The old man held one languid arm in his, and kept the small hand 
tight folded to his breast, for warmth. It was the hand she had 
stretched out to him with her last smile — the hand that had led 
him on through all their wanderings. Ever and anon he passed it 
to his lips ; then hugged it to his breast again, murmuring that it 
was warncer now ; and as he said it, he looked, in agony, to those 
who stood around, as if imploring them to help her. 

She was dead and past all help, or need of it. The ancient rooms 
she had seemed to fill with life, even while her own was ebbing fast 
— the garden she had tended — the eyes she had gladdened — the 
noiseless haunts of many a thoughtless hour — the paths she had 
trodden as if it were but yesterday — could know her no more. 

'' It is not," said the schoolmaster, as he bent down to kiss her 
on her cheek, and give his tears free vent — "it is not in this world 
that, Heaven's justice ends. Think what it is compared with the 
world to which her young spirit has winged its early flight, and 
say, if one deliberate wish expressed in solemn terms above this 
bed could call her back to life, which of us would utter itl" 




Auction Eitnuirdiiiaije 
I dreamed a dream in the midst of m j slumbers^ 
And as fast as I dreamed it^ it came into numbers; 
My thoughts ran along in such beautifbl meter, 
Tm sure I ne*er saw any poetry sweeter : * 
It seemed that a law had been recently made, 
That a tax on old bachelors* pates should be laid; 
And in order to make them all willing to marry, 
The tax was as large as a man could well carry. 
The bachelors grumbled and said 'twas no use — 
*Twas horrid injustice and horrid abuse, 
And declared that to save their own heart's blood from spilling^ 
Of such a vile tax they would not pay a shiUing. 
But the rulers determined them still to pursue, 
So they set all the old bachelors up at vendue : 
A crier was sent through the town to and fro. 
To rattle his bell and a trumpet to blow, 
And to call out to all he might meet in his way, ^ 
" Ho ! forty old bachelors sold here to day : " 
And presently all the old maids in the town, 
Each in her very best bonnet and gown, ; 

From thirty to sixty, fair, plain, red, and pale, ! 
Of every description, all flocked to the sale. 
The auctioneer then in his labor began. 
And called out aloud, as he held up a man, 
'* How much for a bachelor ? who wants to buy ? 
In a twink, every maiden responded, "I — L** 
In short, at a highly extravagant price. 
The bachelors all were sold off in a trice : 
And forty old maidens, some younger, some older, 
Sach lugged an old bachelor home on her shoulder. 

The Ooquette. 


" You're clever at drawing, I own,** 
Said my beautiful cousin Lisette, 

As we sat by the window alone, 
" But say, can you paint a Coquette ? '* 


ExBBCiass IN Ehocvnon. 237 

^ She's painted already," quoth I; 

'^Naj, naj I " said the laughing Lisette, 
** Now none of your joking, — but try 

And paiut me a thorough Coquette," 

^ Well, cousin," at once I began 

In the ear of the eager lisette^ 
*^ ini paint you as well as I can 

That wonderful thing a Coquette. 

She wears a most beautiful face 

(Of course I — said the pretty Lisette), 
And is n't deficient in grace, 

Or else she were not a Coquette. 

And then she is daintily made 

(A smile from the dainty Lisette) 
By people expert in the trade 

Of forming a proper Coquette. 

She's the winningest ways with the beaux 

(Go on ! — said the winning Lisette), 
But there is n*t a man of them knows 

The mind of the fickle Coquette 1 

She knows how to weep and to sigh 

(A sigh from the tender Lisette), 
But her weeping is all in my eye,-^ 

Not that of the cunning Coquette I 

In short, she's a creature of art 

(0 hush 1 — said the frowning Lisette), 
With merely the ghost of a heart,— 

Enough for a thorough Coquette. 


And yet I could easily proTO 

(Now don't I — said the angry Lisette), 
The lady is always in love,— 

In love with herself — the Coquette! 

There, — do not be angry I — you know. 

My dear little cousin Lisette, 
You told me a moment ago 

To paint you — a thorough Coquette ! " Soasn, 

238 Exercises in Elocution. 

Will the ITew Tear Oome To^niglit, Mamma? 

Will the New Tear come to-night, mamma ? I'm tired of wait- 
ing so, 

My stocking hung by the chimney sicje full three long days ago. 

I run to peep within the door, by moraing*3 early light, 

'Tis empty still — Oh, say, mamma, will the New Tear come 
to-night ? 

Will the New Tear come to-night, mamma? the snow is on the hill, 

The ice must be two inches thick upon the meadow rilL 

I heard you tell papa last night, his son must have a sled 

(I did n*t mean to hear, mamma), and a pair of skates you said. 

I prayed for just those things, mamma, 0, 1 shall be full of glee. 
And the orphan boys in the village school will all be envying me ; 
But I'll give them toys, and lend them books, and make their New 

Tear glad, 
For God, you say, takes back his gifts when littlci folks are bad. 

And won't you let me go, mamma, lipon the New Tear's day, 
And carry something nice and warm to poor old widow Gray ? 
I'll leave the basket near the door, within the garden gate, — 
Will the New Tear come to-night, mamma? it seems so long to 

The New Tear comes to-night, mamma, I saw it in my sleep. 
My stocking hung so full, I thought — mamma, what makes yoa 

But it only held a little shroud — a shroud and nothing more : 
An open coffin — open for me — was standing on the floor. 

It seemed so very strange, indeed, to find such gifts instead 
Of all the toys I wished so much, the story-book and sled: 
But while I wondered what it meant, you came with tearful joy 
And said, '^ Thou'lt find the New Tear first ; God calleth thee my 

It is not all a dream, mamma, I know, it must be true ; 
But have I been so bad a boy God taketh me from you? 
I don't know what papa will do when I am laid to rest^— - 
And you will have no Willie's head to fold upon your breast 

Exercises m ELocvnoir. 239 

The New Year comes to-night, mamma,— your cold hand on my 

And raise my head a little more — it seems so hard to speak ; 
You need not fill my slocking now, I cannot go and peep, 
Before to-morrow's sun is up^ I'll be so sound asleep. 

1 shall not want the skates, mamma, Til never need the sled ; 
But won't you give them both to Blake, who hurt me on my head ? 
He used to hide my books away, and tear the pictures too, 
But now he'll know that I forgive, ts then I tried to do. 

And, if you please, mamma, I'd like the story-book and slate. 
To go to Frank, the drunkard's boy, you Would not let me hate ; 
And, dear mamma, you won't forget, upon the New Year day, 
The basket full of something nice for poor old widow Gray. 

The New Year comes to-night, mamma, it seems so very soon, 
I think Gk>d did n't hear me ask for just another June; 
I know Tve been a thoughtless boy, and made you too much care, 
And may be for your sake, mamma. He does n't hear my prayer. 

It cannot be ; but you will keep the summer flowers green. 
And plant a few — don't cry, mamma — a very few I mean. 
When I'm asleep, I'd sleep so sweet beneath the apple tree, 
Where you and robin, in the mom, may come and sing to me. 

The New Year comes— good-night, mamma — " I lay me down to 

I pray the Lord " — tell poor papa — ** my soul to keep ; 
If I" — how cold it seems — how dark — kiss me, I cannot see — 
The New Year comes to-night, mamma, the old year— dies with meu 

Cora M, Eager. 

Marion Moore. 

Qone, art thou, Marion, Marion Moore, 

Gk>ne, like the bird in the autumn that singeth ; 

Gone, like the flower by the way-side that springeth ; 

Gone, like the leaf of the ivy that clingeth 

Round the lone rock on the storm-beaten shore. 

240 EXSRCISES IN Ehocunojf. 

Dear wert tbou, Marion, Marion Moore, 
Dear aa the tide in my broken heart throbbing |' 
Dear as the soul o'er thy memory sobbing; 
Sorrow my life of its rosea is robbing: 

Wasting is all the glad beauty of yore, 

I will remember thee, Marion Moore ; 
I shall remember, alas I to regret thee I 
I will regret when all others forget thee ; 
Deep in my breast will the hour that I met thee 

Linger i^ixd bum till life's fever is o'er. 

Gone, art thon, Marion, Marion Moore! 
Gone, like the breeze o'er the billow that bloweth ; 
Gone, like the rill to the ocean that floweth ; 
* Gone, as the day from the gray mountain goeth. 

Darkness behind thee, but glory before. 

Peace to thee, Marion, Marion Moore, 
Peace which the queens of the earth cannot borrow; 
Peace from a kingdom that crowned thee with sorrow ; 
1 to be happy with thee on the morrow. 

Who would not fly from this desolate shore. 

•Tbmef Q. ClarH 

The Vdl of St Eeyna 

There Is a well in CJomwall, the water of which possesses rare ylrtnee. 
If the huBband drinks first after the marriage, he gets the mastery tot 
*if e, and vtoe veracu 

A well there is in the west country, 

And a clearer one never was seen ; 
There's not a wife in the west country 

But has heard of the well of St. Keyne, 

A traveler came to the well of St. Keyne; 

Joyfully he drew nigh, 
For from cock-crow he had been traveling, 

And there was not a cloud in the sky. 

Exercises in Elocution. 241 

He drank of the water, so cold and dear. 

For thirsty and hot was he ; 
And he sat down upon the bank 

Under the willow tree. 

There came a man from the house hard bj. 

At the well to fill his pail; 
On the well side he rested it^ 

And he bade the stranger haiL 

''Art thou a bachelor, stranger?** quoth he; 

''For an' if thou hast a wife, 
The happiest draught thou hast drank this day 

That ever thou didst in thj life. 

" Or hast thy good woman, if one thou hast^ 

Sver here in Oomwall been? 
For an' if she haye. Til venture my life 

She has drank of the well of St Keyne." 

" I have a good woman who never was here," 

The stranger made reply ; 
" But why should she be the better for thal^ 

I pray you, answer why ? " 

"St Keyne," quoth the Cornish-man, "many a time 

Drank of this crystal well. 
And before the angel summoned her, 

She laid on the water a spelL 

"If the husband of this gifted well 

Shall drink before his wife, 
A happy man henceforth is he. 

For he shall be master for life. 

'But if the wife should drink of it firsl^ 

Qod help the husband then ;" 
The stranger stoop'd to the well of St Keyne, 

And drank of the water again. 

242 Exercises in Elocution. 

'^Ton drank of the well, I warrant, betimes t'' 

He to the ComiBh-man said ; 
But the Cornish-man smiled as the stfanger q>oke| 

And sheepishly shook his head 

^I hastened as soon as the wedding was done. 

And left my wife in the porch ; 
But, i' faith, she had been wiser than me. 

For she took a bottle to choich,*' 

Thank Ood I there's still a Tongaaid. 

Thank God t there^s still a vanguard 

Fighting for the right ! 
Though the throng flock to rearward, 

Lifting, ashen white, 
Flags of truce to sin and error, 
Clasping hands, mute with terror. 
Thank God I there's still a vanguard 

Fighting for the right 

Through the wilderness advancing. 

Hewers of the way ; 
Forward far their spears are glancing. 

Flashing back the day : 
**• Back 1" the leaders cry, who fear them ; 
^ Back 1" from all the army near them ; 
They, with steady tread advancing. 

Cleave their certain way. 

Slay them — ^from each drop that fiilleth 

Springs a hero armed : 
Where the martyr's fire appalleth, 

Lot they pass unharmed : 
Crushed beneath thy wheel. Oppression, 
How their spirits hold possession. 
How the dross-puiged voice out-calleth, 

By the doath-throes warmed t 

Exercises m Elocution. 248 

Thank God I there^s still a yangnard 

Fighting for the right ( 
Error^B legions know their standard. 

Floating in the light ; 

When the league of sin rejoices, 

Quick outring the rallying voices. 

Thank God I there's still a vanguard 

Fighting for the right \ 

Jffv. J7. B. Q, Jbtif, 

Through Death to Life. 

Have you heard the tale of the Aloe plant. 

Away in the sunny clime ? 
By humble growth of a hundred years 

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

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

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

Have you further heard of this Aloe plant 

That grows in the sunny clime, 
How every one of its thousand flowers. 

As they drop in the blooming time. 
Is an infant plant that fastens its roots 

In the place where it falls on the ground ; 
And, fast as they drop from the dying stem, 

Grow lively and lovely around ? 
By dying it liveth a thousand-fold 
In the young that spring from the death of the old. 

Have you heard the tale of the Pelican, 

The Arab's Gimel el Bahr, 
That lives in the African solitudes, 

Where the birds that live lonely are t 

944 ExEBcisEs IN Elocution: 

Have you heard how it loves its tender young, 
And cares and toils for their good f 

It brings them water from fountains afar, 
And fishes the seas for their food. 

In famine it feeds them — ^what love can deyise I*— 

The blood of its bosom, and feeding them dies. 

Have you heard the tale they tell of the swan, 

The snow-white bird of the lake ? 
It noiselessly floats on the silvery wave, 

It silently sits in the brake ; 
For it saves its song till the end of life, 

And then, in the soft, still even, 
^Mid the golden' light of the setting sun, 

It sings as it soars into heaven 1 
And the blessed notes fall back fiom the skies ; 
'Tis its only soi^, for in singing it dies. 

You have heard these tales ; shall I tell you one 

A greater and better than all ? 
Have you heard of Him whom the heavens adore, 

Before whom the hosts of them fall ? 
How He left the choirs and anthems above, 

For earth in its wailings and woes, « 

To suffer the shame and pain of the cross, 

And die fbr the life of His foes ? 
O prince of the noble t O sufferer divine I 
What aoitow and eaorifice equal to Thine I 

Barry HartHmglL 


ICnnie an' He. 

The following little poem Is fbll of gennfie feeling m well m of poetic beatitj. Tus 
almost see the wee thing as she follows her grandfather over the fields, cheering 
his loneliness with the music of her childish prattlci or at night toying with his wUto 
locks and ** keeking** through his spectacles. 

The spring time had come ; we were sowing the com ; 

When Minnie — ^wee Minnie — my Minnie was bom ; 
She came when the sweet blossoms burst for the bee^ 

An* a sweet bud of beauty was Minnie to me. 




The harvest was ower, an* yellow the lea^ 
When Mary, my daughter, was smitteQ wf grkf; 

0, little thought I my dear Mary wad dee, 
Aa' le«ve as a blessiog wee Minnie to me. 

Her hair's like the lang trailing tresses o' night; 

Her face is the dawn o* day, rosy and bright; 
Sae bashfu*, sae though tfu*, yet cheery an' free; 

She just ts a wonder my Minnie to me. 

Her smile is sae sweet, an* sae glancin' her eeo, 
They bring back the face o* my un bonny Jean, 

Mair clear than the Unties that sing on the tree 
Is the Toioe o* my Minnie when ringing to me. 

For mony long years Fd been doiting alane. 
When Minnie reveal'd the old foelings again; 

In the bam or the byre, on the hill or the lea^ 
My bonnie wee Minnie is seldom frae me. 

Wherever she moves she lets slip a wee crumb. 
To beasties or birdies, the helpless and dumb ; 

How she feeds them, and leads, it*s bonny to see; 
Oh I a lesson o' loving is Minnie to me. 

Whenever she hears my slow step on the floor, 
She stands wi' her han* on the sneck o' the door, 

An' welcomes me ben wi' a face fu' o' giee, 
nane jtre sae happy as Minnie an' me. 

She trots to the comer, an' sets me a chair. 
She plays wf my haSets, and cames down ray hair; 

Or keeks through my speck, as she sits on ray knee ; 
O were 't not for Minnie, I think I wad dee. 

But I '11 nae talk o' deeing while work 's to be done^ 

But potter about, or sit still in the sun ; 
Till Providence pleases my spirit to free. 

Oh I nae power shall sever my Minnie frae me. 

/ - .Fixmcte £mmjdL 


246 ExEncisEs IN JElocuxioit. 

ytj Darling's Shoea 

God bless the little feet that can never go astray, 
For the litUe shoes ara empt/ in the closet laid awaj ; 

Sometimes I take one in mj hand, forgetting till I see. 
It is a little half- worn shoe not large enough for me ; 

And all at once I feel a sense of bitter loss and pain, 
As sharp as when, two jears ago, it cut my heart in twain. 

little feet, that wearied not, I wait for them no more. 

For lam drafting on the tide, but ihey haye reachtd the shore; 
And while the blinding tear-drops wet these little shoes so old, 

They walk unsandalled in the streets that pearly gates enfold; 
And so I lay them down again, but always turn to say, 

" God bless the little feet that now surely cannot stray.** 

And while I am thus standing, I almost seem to see 
Two little forms beside me, just as they used to be,— 

Two little faces lilled, with their sweet and tender eyes. 

Ah, me 1 1 might have known that look was born of Paradise. 

1 reach my arms out fondly, but they clasp the empty air ; 

There *s nothing of my darlings but the shoes they used to wear. 

Oh I the bitterness of parting can ne'er be done away 
Till I see my darlings walking where their feet can neyer stray. 

When I no more am drifting upon the surging tide, 
But with them safely landed upon the rirer side; 

Be patient, heart, while waiting to see their shining way, 
For the little feet, in the golden street, can nerer gq astray. 

Unwritten Mnsio. 

There is unwritten music. The world is full of it I bear it 
every hour that I wake ; and my waking sense is surpassed some- 
times by my sleeping, though that is a mystery, j There is no sound 
of simple nature that is not music. It is all God's work, and so 
harmony. > You may mingle, and divide, and strengthen the pass- 
ages of its great anthem ; and it is still melody, — melody^ 

The low winds of summer blow over the waterfalls and the 
brooks, and bring their Toices to your ear, as if their sweetness 
were linked by an accurate finger;] yet the wind is but a fitful 

JExERCiSES IN Elocution. 247 

player ; and you may go out when the tempest is up, and hear the 
strong trees moaning as they lean before it, and the long grass hiss- 
ing as it sweeps through, and its own solemn monotony over all ;] 
and the dimple of that' same brook, and the waterfall's unaltered 
bass shall still reach you, in the intervals of its power, as much in 
harmony as before, and as much a part of its perfect and perpetual 
hymn. ) 

There is no accident of nature*s causing which can bring in 
discord. The loosened rock may fall into the abyss, and the over- 
blown tree rush down through the branches of the wood, and the 
thunder peal awfully in the sky |) and sudden and violent as these 
changes seem, their tumult goes up with tlie aound of wind and 
waters, and the exquisite ear of the musician can detect no jar. 

I have read somewhere of a custom in the Highlands, which, in* 
connection with the principle it involves, is exceedingly beautiful 
It is believed that, to the ear of the dying (which, just before death 
becomes always exquisitely acute), the perfect harmony of the 
voices of nature is so ravishing, as to make him forget his suffering, 
and die gently, like one in a pleasant trance. And so, when the 
last moment approaches, they take him from the close shieling, and 
bear him out into the open sky, that he may hear the familiar rush- 
ing of the streams. I can believe that it is not superstition. I do 
not think we know how exquisitely nature^s many voices are 
attuned to harmony, and to each other. 

The old philosopher we read of might not have been dreaming 
when he discovered that the order of the sky was like a scroll of 
written music, and that two stars (which are said to have appeared 
centuries after his death, in the very places he mentioned) were 
wanting to complete the harmony. We know how wonderful are 
the phenomena of color; how strangely like consummate art the 
strongest dyes are blended in the plumage of birds, and in the cups 
of flowers ; so that, to the practiced eye of the painter, the harmony 
is inimitably perfect It is natural to suppose every part of the 
universe equally perfect; and it is a glorious and elevating thought, 
that the stars of heaven are moving on continually to music, and 
that the sounds we daily listen to are but part of a melody that 
reaches to the very center of God's illimitable spheres. 

248 XlxEBCiSES IN Elocution. 


The Wreck of tbe Hespenu. 

It was the schooner ^esperu8, 

That sailed the wintry sea ; 

And the skipper had taken his little daughter 

To bear him company. 

Blue were her eyes as the fairy flax, 
Her cheeks like the dawn of day ; 
Her bosom white as the hawthorn buds, 
Vhat ope in the month of May. 

The skipper he stood beside the helm 

His pipe was in his mouth, 

And he watched how the veering flow did blow 

The smoke, now west, now south. 

Then up and spake an old sailor, 
Had sailed the Spanish main ; — 
" I pray thee put into yonder port 
For I fear the hurricane.'* 

" Last night the moon had a golden ring, 
And to-night no moon we see." 
But the skipper he blew a whifi^ from his pipe, 
And a scornful laugh laughed he. 

Colder and louder blew the wind 
A gale from the northeast, 
The snow fell hissing in the brine. 
And the billows frothed like yeast. 

Down came the storm and smote amain 

The vessel in its strength ; 

She shuddered and paused like a frightened steed, 

Then leaped her cable's length. 

"Come hither I come hither; my little daughter 

And do not tremble so ; 

For I can weather the roughest gale 

That ever wind did blow." 


Exercises in JElocution. 2i9 

He wrapped her warm in bis seaman's ooat 

Against the stinging blast. 

He cut a rope fix>m a broken spar 

And bound her to the mast. 

^O father 1 I hear the churdi bells ring 

O say I what may it be ?" 

** Tis a fog bell on a rock-bound coast," 

And he steered for the open sea. « 

'^O father 1 I hear the sound of guns, 
O say! what may it be?" 
** Some ship in distress that cannot live 
In such an angry sea." 

" father, I see a gleaming light; 
O say what may it be? " 
But the father answered never a word, 
A frozen corpse was he. 

La.shed to the helm all stiff and stark. 

With his face turned to the skies, 

The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow. 

On his fixed and glassy eyes. 

Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed 
That saved she might be — 
And she thought of Christ who stilled the wars 
On the Lake of Galilee. 

And fast through the midnight dark and drear, 
Through the whistling sleet and snow, 
Like a sheeted ghost the vessel swept. 
Toward the reef of Norman's Woe. 

And. ever the fitful gusts between 
A sound came from the land, 
It was the sound of the trampling surf 
On the rocks ajid the hard sea sand. 

The breakers were right beneath her bows, 
She drifted a dreary wreck, 
And a whooping billow swept the crew 
Like icicles from the deck. 

250 Exercises in Elocution. 

She struck where the white and fleecj waTOS 
Looked sofl as carded wool. 
But the cruel rocks, they gored her sides 
Like the horns of an angry bull. 

Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, 
With the masts went by the board ; 
Like a vessel of glass, she store — and sank, 
t' Ho I Ho I " the breakers roared. 

At day-break on a bleak sea beach, 
A fisherman stood aghast, 
To see the form of a maiden fair 
Lashed close to a driflmg mest 

The salt sea was frozen on her breast 

The salt tears in her eyes ; 

And he saw her hair like the brown sea weed 

On the billows fall and rise. 

Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, 
In the midnight and the snow ; 
Christ save us all from a death like this, 
On the reef of Norman's Woe. 



The following poem Is a translation from the Russian. It has been 
translated into Japanese, by order of the emperor, aod is hung up. em- 
broidered with gold, in the temple of Jeddo. It has also been translated 
into the Chinese and Tartar languages, written on a piece of rich silk, 
and suspended in the imperial palace at Pekin. 

Thou eternal One I whose presence bright 
All space doth occupy, all motion guide ; 
Unchanged through time's all-devastating flight ; 
Thou only God I There is no God beside I 
Being above all beings I Three-in-One I 
Whom none can comprehend, and nolle explore; 
Who fill'st existence with Thyself alone ; 
£mbracing all — supporting — ruling o'er— 
Being whom we call Gbd — and know no more I 



In its sublime research, philosophj 
May measare out the ocean deep — may count 
The sands or the sun's rays — but Gkdl for Thee 
There is no weight nor measure ; — none can mount 
Up to Thy mysteries. Reason's brightest spark, 
Thpugh kindled by Thy light, in vain would try 
To trace Thy counsels, infinite and dark; 
And thought is lost ere thought can soar so high— 
E'en like past moments in eternity. 

Thou from primeval nothingness didst call. 
First chaos, then existence; — Lord! on Thee 
Eternity had its foundation; — all 
Sprung forth from Thee; — of light, joy, harmony, 
Sole origin ; — all life, all beauty, Thine. 
Thy word created all, and doth create ; 
Thy splendor fills all space with rays dirine ; 
Thou art, and wert, and shalt bel Glorious, 
Light-giving, life-sustaining Potentate 1 

Thy chains the unmeasured universe surround ; 
Upheld by Thee, by Thee inspired with breath I 
Thou the beginning with the end hast bound, 
And beautifully mingled life and death! 
As sparks mount upward from the ^ery blaze. 
So suns are born, so worlds spring forth from Thee^ 
And as the spangles in the sunny rays 
Shine around the silver snow, the pageantry 
Of heaven's bright army glitters in Thy praise. 

A million torches lighted by Thy hand 
Wander unwearied through the blue abyss; 
They own Thy power, accomplish Thy command, 
All gay with life, all eloquent with bliss. 
What shall we call them? Pyres of crystal light — 
A glorious company of golden streams— 
Lamps of celestial ether burning bright- 
Suns lighting systems with their joyful beams? 
But Thou to these art as the noon to night 

Yes I as a drop of water in the sea^ 
All this magnificence in Thee is lost; — 
What are ten thousand worlds compared to Thee ? 

262 ExERcmss IN Elocution. 

And what am / then ? Heaven's unnumbered host^ 
Though multiplied by myriadSi and arrayed 
In all the glory of sublimest thought, 
Is but an atom In the balance weighed 
Against Thy greatness, is a cipher brought 
Against in finity t What am / then ? Kaugh 1 1 
Naught 1 But the effluence of Thy light divine, 
Pervading worlds, hath reached my bosom too ; 
Yes, in my spirit doth Thy spirit shine, 
As shines the sunbeam in a drop of dew. 

Naught I but I live, and on hope's pinions fly 
Eager toward Thy presence ; for in Thee 
I live, and breathe, and dwell ; aspiring high 
Even to the throne of Thy divinity. 
I am, God I and surely Thou must be I 
Thou art I directing, guiding all, Thou art! 
Direct my uuderstanding then to Thee ; 
Control my spirit, guide my wandering heart; 
Though but an atom midst immensity, 
Still I am something, fashioned by Thy hand I 
I hold a middle rank, 'twixt heaven and eartliy 
On the last verge of mortal being stand, 
Close to the realm where angels have their birth. 
Just on the boundaries of the spirit land I 
The chain of being is complete in me ] 
In me is matter's last gradation lost. 
And the next step is spirit — Deity I 
I can command the lightning and am dust I 
A monarch, and a slave; a worm, a god I 
Whence came I here, and how? so marvellously 
Constructed and conceived ? unknown t this clod 
Lives surely through some higher energy ; 
For from itself alone it could not be I 
Creator, yes! Thy wisdom and Thy word 
Created me ! Thou source of life and good I 
Thou spirit of my spirit, and my Lord I 
Thy ligl-t, Thy love, in the bright plenitude. 
Filled me with an immortal soul, to spring 
Over the abyss of death, and bade it wear 

Exercises in Elocution. 258 

The garments of eternal day, and wing 

Its heavenly flight beyond the little sphere. 

Even to its source — to Thee — its author there. 

thoughts ineffable! visions blest! 

Though worthless our. conception all of Thee, 

Yet shall Thy shadowed image fill our breast. 

And waft its homage to Thy Deity. 

God! thus alone ray lonely thoughts can soar; 

Thus seek Thy presence — Being wise and good, 

Midst Thy vast works admire, obey, adore ; 

And, when the tongue is eloquent no more, 

The soul shall speak in tears of gratitude. 


Aunt Eindly. 

Miss Kindly is aunt to every body, and has been so long that 
none remember to the contrary. The little children love her ; she 
helped their grandmothers to bridal ornaments three-score years 
ago. Nay, this boy's grandfather found his way to college through 
her pocket. Q^nerations not her own rise up and call her blessed. 
To this man's father her patient toil gave the first start in life. 
That great fortune — when it was a seed she carried it in her hand. 
That wide river of reputation ran out of the cup her bounty filled. 
Now she is old ; very old. The little children, who cling about her, 
with open mouth and great round eyes, wonder that anybody 
should ever be so old ; or that Aunt Kindly ever had a mother to 
kiss her mouth. To them, she is coeval with the sun, and, Uke that, 
an institution of the country. At Christmas they think she is the 
wife of Saint Nicholas himself, such an advent of blessings is there 
from her hand. She has helped to lay a blessing in many a poor 
man's crib. 

Now these things are passed by. No, they are not passed by ; 
they are remembered in the memory of the dear God, and every 
good deed she has done is treasured in her own heart The bulb 
shuts up the summer in its breast which in winter will come out a 
fragrant hyacinth. Stratum after stratum her good works are laid 
up, imperishable in the geology of her character. 

It is near noon. She is alone. She has been thoughtful all day, 
talking inwardly to herself. The family notice it, and say nothing. 

254 Exercises in Elocution. 

In a chamber, from a private drawer, she takes a little casket, and 
from thence a book, gilt-edged and clasped ; but the clasp is worn, 
the gilding is old, the binding is faded by long use. Her hands 
tremble as she opens it. First she reads her own name on the fly- 
leaf; only her Christian name, " Agnes,'* and the date. Sixty-eight 
years ago this day it was written there, in a clear, youthful, clerkly 
hand — with a little tremble in it, as if the heart beat over it quick. 
It is a very well worn, dear old Bible. It opens of its own accord 
at the fourteenth chapter of John. There is a little folded piece of 
paper there; it touches the first verse and the twenty-seventh. 
She sees neither; she reads both out of her soul; "Let not your 
heart be troubled ; ye believe in God ; believe also in me." " Peace 
I leave with you. My peace give I unto you. Not as the world 
giveth give I unto you." She opens the paper. There is a little 
brown dust in it; perhaps the remnant of a flower. She takes the 
precious relic in her hand, made cold by emotion. She drops a 
tear on it, and the dust is transfigured before her eyes ; it is a red 
rose of the spring, not quite half blown, dewy fresh. She is old 
no longer. It is not Aunt Kindly now ; it is sweet Agnes, as the 
maiden of eighteen was eight-and-sixty years ago, one day in May, 
when all nature was woosome and winning, and every flower-beU 
rung in the marriage of the year. Her lover had just put that red 
rose of the spring into her hand, and the good GK>d another in her 
cheek, not quite half-blown, dewy fresh. The young man's arm is 
round her; her brown curls fall on his shoulder; she feels his 
breath on her face, his cheek on hers ; their lips join, and, like two 
morning dew-drops in that rose, their two loves rush into one. 
But the youth must wander ta a far land. They will think of each 
other as they look at the North Star. She bids him take her Bible. 
He saw the North Star hang over the turrets of many a foreign 
town. His soul went to God -^ there is as straight a road from 
India as from any other spot — and his Bible came back to her — 
the divine love in it, without the human lover; the leaf turned 
down at the blessed words of John, first and twenty-seventh of the 
fourteenth chapter. She put the rose there to note the spot ; what 
marks the thought holds now the symbol of their youthful love. 
Now to-day her soul is with him, her maiden soul with his angel 
soul; and one day the two, like two dew-drops, will rush into one 
immortal wedlock, and the old age of earth shall become eternal 
youth in the Kingdom of Heaven. 


JExERcisEs IN Elocution. 255 

The Great Bdl Boland 

Toll I Roland, toll! 
Iq old 3t. Bavon's tower, 
At midnight hour, 
The great bell Roland spoke ; 
' And all that slept in Ghent awoke I 
What meant the thunder stroke? 
Why trembled wife and maid ? 
Why caught each man his blade? 
Why echoed every street 
With .tramp of thronging feet, 

All flying to the city's wall ? 

It was the warniog eall 
That Freedom stood in peril of a foe I 
And even timid hearts grew bold 
Whenever Roland tolled, 
And every hand a sword conld hold I 
And every arm could bend a bow I 

So acted men 

like patriots then — 
Three hundred years ago t 

Tolll Roland, toll! 
Bell never yet was hung, 
Between whose lips there swung 
So grand a tongue t 

If men be patriots stilli 

At thy first sound 

True hearts will bound, 

Great souls will thrill I 
Then toll! and let thy test 
Try each man's breast^ 
And let him stand confest. 

Toll I Roland, toll ! 

Not now in old St Bavon*8 tower ; 

Not now at midnight hour; 

Not now from river Scheldt to Zuyder Zee^ 
But here,— this side the seal- 
Toll here, in broad, bright day I — 

850 JBIxERciSES IN Elocution. 

For not by night awaits 
A noble foe without the gates. 
But perjured friends within betraj, 
And do the deed at noon I 

Toll I Roland, tollf 
Thy sound is not too soon I 
To Arms I Ring out the Leader^s call I 
Re-echo it from East to West^ 
Tdl every hero's breast 
Shall swell beneath a soldier's crest I 

Toll I Roland, toll I 
Till cottager from cottage-wall 
Snatch ponch and powder-horn and gon ! 
The heritage of sire to son 
Ere half of Freedom's work was done 1 

Toll! Roland, toll! 
Till swords from scabbards leap I 

Toll I Roland, toll! 
What tears can widows weep 
Less bitter than when brave men fall I 

Toll! Roland, toll! 
In shadowed hut and hall 
Shall lie the soldier's pall, 
And hearts shall break while graves are filled f 
Amen I So God hath willed I 
And may His grace anoint us alll 

Toll! Roland, toll! 
The Dragon on thy tower 
Stands sentry to this hour, 
And Freedom now is safe in Ghent I 
And merrier bells now ring, 
And in the land's serene content, 
Men shout ** God save the King I* 

Until the skies are rent \ 
So let it be I 
A kingly king is he 
Who keeps his people free ! 

Toll! Roland, toll! 
Ring out across the sea I 

ExsBciSBS IN Elocution. 257 

No longer They but We 
Have DOW such need of thee ! 

ToUl Roland, toU I 
Nor ever let thy throat 
Keep dumb its warning note 
Till Freedom's perils be outbrayed 1 

Toll I Roland, toll I 
Till Freedom's flag, wherever waved. 
Shall shadow not a man enslaved 1 

ToUl Roland, toll 1 
From Northern lake to Southern strand I 

ToUl Roland, toU I 

Till friend and fqe, at thy command, 

Shall clasp once more each other's hand, 

And shout, one-voiced, '* Gk>d save the land 1" 

And love the land that Gk>d hath saved 1 

ToUl Roland, toUl 

Theodore Taton, 

The Tonng Gray Head. 
Tm thinking that to-night, if not before, 
There 'U be wild work. Dost hear old Chewton roar ? 
It's brewing up, down westward ; and look there ! 
One of those sea gulls 1 ay, there goes a pair; 
And such a sudden thaw I If rain comes on 
As threats, the water will be out anon. 
That path by the ford is a nasty bit of way. 
Best let the young ones bide from school to-day. 

The children join in this request; but the mother resolves that 
they shaU set out — the two girls, Lizsde and Jenny, the one five, 
the other seven. As the dame's wiU was law, so— 
One last fond kiss— 

" God bless my Uttle maids, ** the father said, 
And cheerily went his way to win their bread. 

Prepared for their journey they depart, with the mother's admo- 
nition to the elder— > 
" Now, mind and bring 
Jenny safe home," the mother said. " Don't stay 

258 ExEBCisss IN Elocution. ^ 

To pull a bough or berry by the way ; 

And when you come to eross the ford, hold fast 

Your little sister's hand till you're quite past; 

That plank is so crazy, and so slippery, 

If not overflowed the stepping stones will be ; 

But you're good children — steady as old folk, 

I'd trust ye anywhere." Then Lizzie's doak 

(A good gray duffle) lovingly she tied. 

And amply little Jenny's lack supplied 

With her own warmest shawl. "Be sure," said she, 

** To wrap it round, and knot it carefully, 

(Like this) when you come home —just leaving free 

One hand to hold by. Now, make haste away — 

Good will to school and then ^ood right to play." 

The mother watches them with foreboding, though she knows 
not why. In a little while the threatened storm sets in. Night 
comes, and with it comes the father from his daily toil — There's a 
treasure hidden in his hat — 
A plaything for his young ones, he has found — 
A dormouse nest; the living ball coil'd round 
For its long winter sleep ; all his thought 
As he trudged stoutly homeward, was of naught 
But the glad wonderment in Jenny's eyes, 
And graver Lizzie's quieter surprise, 
When he should yield, by guess and kiss and prayer, 
Hard won, the frozen captive to their care. 

No little faces greet him as wont at the threshold; and to his 
hurried question — 
" Are they come ? " — t* was " no," 
To throw his tools down, hastily unhook 
The old crack'd lantern from its dusty nook 
And, while he lit it^ speak a cheering word 
That almost choked him, and was scarcely heard,— 
Was but a moment's act, and he was gone 
To where a fearful foresight led him on. 

A neighbor goes with him, and the faithful dog follows the 
children's tracks. 


Exercises in Elocution. 2e59 

« Hold the light "^ 

Low down, he*8 mftking for the water. Hark I 

I know that whine ; the old dog's found them, Mark; " 

So speaking, breathlessly he hurried on 

Toward the old crazy foot bridge. It was gone I 

And all his dull contracted light could show 

Was the black, void, and dark swollen stream below ; 

" Yet there's life somewhere — more than Tinker's whine — 

That's sure/' said Mark. ^ So, let the lantern shine 

Down yonder. There's the dog — and hark t '* 


And a low sob oome faintly on the ear, 

Mocked by the sobbing gust Down quick as thought^ 

Into the stream leaped Ambrose, where he caught 

Fast hold of something— a dark huddled heap — 

Half in the water, where 'twas scarce knee deep 

For a tall man ; and half above it propped 

By some old ragged side-piles that had stop't 

Endways the broken plank when it gave way 

With the two little ones, that luckless day I 

'' My babes I my lambkins 1 " was the Other's cry. 

One little voice made answer, *^ Here am I ;" 

'Twas Lizzy's, There she crouched with face as white, 

More ghastly, by the flickering lantern light^ 

Than sheeted corpse. The pale blue lips drawn tight^ 

Wide parted, showing all the pearly teeth, 

And eyes on some dark object underneath, 

Washed by the turbid waters, fix'd like stone -^ 

One arm and hand stretched out, and rigid grown, 

Grasping, as in the death-gripe, Jenny's frock. 

There she lay drown'd. 

They lifted her from out her watery bed— 

Its covering gone, the lovely little head 

Hung like a broken snowdrop all aside, 

And one small hand. The mother's shawl was tied 

Leaving that free about the child's small form, 

As was her last injunction — "fast and warm," 

Too well obeyed — too fast I A fatal hold, 

I . 

260 ExERciass IN Elocution. . 

Affording to the scrag, by a thick fold 

That caaght and pinned her to the river's bed. 

While through the reckless water overhead, - 

Her life breath babbled up. 

'* She might have lived, 

Struggling like Lizzy," was the thought that rived 

The wretched mother's heart when she heard all, 

*' But for my foolishness about that shawL" 

" Who says I forgot? 

Mother I indeed, indeed I kept fast hold, 

And tied the shawl quite close — she 

Can't be cold ^ 

But she won't move — we slept — I don't know how — 

But I held on, and I'm so weary now— 

And its so dark and cold I Oh dear I oh dear I 

And she won't move — if father were but here 1" 

All night long from side to side she tum'd, 

Piteously plaining like a wounded dove, > 

With now aud then the murmur " She won't move," 

And lo 1 when morning, as in mockery, bright 

Shone on that pillow — passing strange the sight^ 

The young head's raven hair was streaked with white I 

The Buliote Mother. 

She stood upon the lofliest peak, 

Amidst the clear blue sky ; 
A bitter smile was on her cheek. 

And a dark flash in her eye. 

" Dost thou see them, boy? — through the dusky pines? 
Dost thou see where the foeman's armor shines ? 
Hast thou caught the gleam of the conqueror's crest? 
My babe, that I cradled on my breast ! 
Wouldst thou spring from my mother's arms with joy ? 
—That sight hath cost thee a father, boy V* 

Exercises in Elocution. 2dl 

For in the rockj strait beaeath^ 

Lay Suliote sire and son; 
They had heapM high the piles of death 

Before the pass was won, 

''They have croasM the torrent, and on they cornel 
Woe for the mountain hearth and home I 
There, where the hunter laid by his spear, 
There, where the lyre hath been sweet to hear, 
There, where I sang thee, fair babe I to sleep, 
Naught but the blood-stain our trace shall keep I" 

And now the hom*s loud blast was heard, 

And now. the cymbaPs clang, 
Till even the upper air was stirr'd. 

As cliff and hollow rang.. 

" Hark I they bring music, my joyous child I 

What saith the trumpet to Suli's wild I 

Doth it light thine eye with so quick a fire 

As if at a glance of thiue armed sire ? — 

Still I — be thou still I — there are brave men low — 

Thou wouldst not smile couldst thou see him now f 

But nearer came the dash of steel. 

And louder swell'd the horn, 
And farther yet the tambour*s peal 

Through the dark pass was borne. 

" Hear*st thou the sound of their sayage mirth ?— 
Boy 1 thou wert free when I gave thee birth,— 
Free, and how cherish'd, my warrior's son ! 
He, too, hath bless'd thee, as I haye done 1 
Aye, and unchain'd must his loyed ones be — 
Freedom, young Suliote I for thee and me 1" 

And from the arrowy peak she sprung. 

And fast the fur child bore ;^ 
A yeil upon the wind was flung, 

A cry — and all was o*er I 

262 Exercises in Elocvtion. 

Hayft you read in the Talmud of old. 
In the Legends the Rabbins have told. 
Of the limitless realms of the air, — 
Have you read it, — the marvelous story 
Of Sandalphon, the angel of Glory, 
Sandalpbon, the angel of Prayer? 

How erect, at the outermost gates 
Of the Oity Oelestial, he waits, 
With his feet on the ladder of light. 
That, crowded with angels unnumbered 
By Jacob was seen, as he slumbered 
Alone in the desert at night ? 

The Angels of Wind and of Fire 
Chant only one hymn, and expire 
With the song's irresistible stress ; 
Expire in their rapture and wonder, 
As harp strings are broken asunder 
By music they throb to express. 

But serene in the rapturous throng. 
Unmoved by the rush of the song, 
With eyes unimpassioned and slow. 
Among the dead angels, the deathless 
Sandalphon stands listening breathless 
To sounds that ascend from below ;— 

From the spirits on earth that adore. 
From the souls that entreat and implore, 
In the ferver and passion of prayer; 
From the hearts that are broken with 1 
And weary with dragging the crosses 
Too heavy for mortals to bear. 

And he gathers the prayers as he stands, 
And they change into flowers in his haadi^ 
Into garlands of purple and red ; 
And beneath the great arch of the portal. 
Through the streets of the City Immortal, 
Is wafted the fragrance they shed. 


It 18 but a legend I know, — 
A fable, a phantom, a show, 
Of the ancient Rabbinical lore; 
Yet the old mediaeval tradition. 
The beautiful strange superstition, 
But haunts me and holds me the more. 

When I look from my window at nighty 
And the welkin above is all white. 
All throbbing and panting with star8| 
Among them majestic is standing^ 
Sandalphon, the angel, expanding 
His pinions in nebulous bars. 

And the legend, I feel, is a part 
Of the hunger and thirst of the heart, 
The frenzy and fire of the brain. 
That grasps at the fruitage forbidden, 
The golden pomegranates of Eden, 
To quiet its fever and pain. 

The Soldiei's Beprieve. 

Arrtngtd by Mr. C. W. Sandbss for th« Union Fifth Reader. 

"I thought, Mr. Allan, when I gave my Bennie to his <50nntry,' 
that not a father in all this broad land made so precious a gift,— no, 
not one. The dear boy only slept a minute, just one little minute, 
at his post; I know that was all, for Bennie never dozed over a 
duty. How prompt and reliable he wasl I know he only fell 
asleep one little second; — ^be was so young, and not strong, that 
boy of mine 1 Why, he was as tall as I, and only eighteen I i^nd 
now they shoot him because he was found asleep when doing sen- 
tinel duty! Twenty-four hours, the telegram said, — only twenty- 
four hours. Where is Bennie now ?'* 

"We will hope with his heavenly Father," said Mr. Allan, 

" Yes, yes ; let ug hope ; God is very merciful I 

'' * I should be ashamed, father 1 ' Bennie said, ' when I am a man, 
to think I never used this great right arm,* — and he held it out so 


264 Exercises in Elocution. 

proudly before ine,"7-* for my country, when it needed it I Palsy il 
rather than keep it at the plow I ' 

" 'Gk), then, go, my boy,* I said, *and Gk)d keep you I ' Gk)d has 
kept him, I think, Mr. Allan t '' and the farmer repeated these last 
words slowly, as if, in spite of his reason, his heart donbted thcnu 

*' Like the apple of hi^ eye, Mr. Owen, doubt it not I" 

Blossom sat near them listening, with blanched cheek. She had 
not shed a tear. Her anxiety had been so concealed that no one 
bad noticed it She had occupied herself mechanieally in the 
household cares. Now she answered a gentle tap at the kitchen 
door, opening it to receive from a neighbor's hand a letter. "It is 
from him,*' was all she said. 

It was like a message from the dead I Mr. Owen took the letter 
but could not break the envelope^ on account of his trembling 
fingers, and held it toward Mr. Allan, with the helplessness of a 

The minister opened it, and read as follows : — 

" Dear Father : — When this reaches you, I shall be in eternity. 
At first, it seemed awful to me; but I have thought about it so 
much now, that it has no terror. They say they will not bind me, 
nor blind me ; but that I may meet my death like a man. I thought, 
father, it might have been on the battle-field, for my country, and 
that, when I fell, it would be fighting gloriously ; but to be shot 
down like a dog for nearly betraying it, — to die for neglect of duty I 
'O, father, I wonder the very thought does not kill me I But I shall 
not disgrace you. I am going to write you all about it; and when 
f am gone, you may tell my comrades. I can not now. 

"You know I promised Jemmie Carr's mother, I would look 
after her boy ; and, when he fell sick, I did all I could for him. He 
was not strong when he was ordered back into the ranks, jind the 
day before that night, I carried all his luggage, besides my own, on 
our march. Toward night we went in on double-quick, -and though 
the luggage began to feel very heavy, every body else was tired 
too ; and as for Jemmie, if I had not lent him an arm now and then, 
he would have dropped by the way. I was all tired out when we 
came into camp, and then it was Jemmie's turn to be sentry, and I 
would take his place; but Twas too tired, father. I could not nave 
kept awake if a gun had been pointed at my head ; but I did not 
know it until — well, until it was too late." 


"Gk)d be thanked I *• interrtipted Mr. Owen, reyerently. •*! 
knew Bennie was not the boy to sleep carelessly at his post" 

*' They tell me to-day that I^have a short reprieve, — ^given to me 
by circumstanceSy — ' time to write to yoOi' our good C!olonel says. 
Forgive him, father, he only does his duty; he would gladly save 
me iP he could ; and do not lay my death up against Jemmie. The 
> ^oor boy is broken-hearted, and does nothing but beg and entreat 
them to let him die in my stead. 

'- 1 can't bear to think of mother and Blossom. Comfort them, 
^ father I Tell them 1 die as a brave boy should, and that, when the 
war is over, they will not be ashamed of me, as they must be now. 
God ''help me; it is very hard to bear I GK>od-by, father! God 
seems near and dear to me ; not at all as if He wished me to perish 
forever, but as if He felt sorry for his poor, sinful, broken-hearted 
child, piad would take me to be with Him and my Savior in a 
better-;>^tter life.** 

A deep sigh burst from Mr. Owen's heart. ''Amen," he said 
bolenlnly, — " Amen." 

''To-night, in the early twilight, I shall see the cows all coming 
home from pasture, and precious little Blossom stand on the back 
stoop, waiting for me, — but I shall never, never comel God bless 
you all ! Forgive your poor Bennie." 

Late that nighty the door of the " back stoop " opened sofUy, and 
a little figure glided out, and down the foot-path that led to the 
road by the mill She seemed rather flying than walking, turning 
her heaa neither to the right nor the left, looking only now and 
then to Heaven, and folding her hands, as if in prayer. Two hours 
later, the same young girl stood at the Mill Depot^ watching the 
coming of the night train ; and the conductor, as he reached down 
to lid her into the car, wondered at the tear-stained face that was 
upturned toward the dim lantern he held in his hand. A few 
questions and ready answers told him all; and no father could have 
cared more tenderly for his only child, than he for our little Blossom 

She was on her way to Washington, to ask President Lincoln for 
her brother's life. She had stolen away, leaving only a note to tell 
her father where and why she had gone. She had brought Bennie's 
letter with her: no good, kind hearty like the President's, could 
refuse to be melted by it The next morning they reached New 
York, and the conductor hurried her on to Washington. Every 


minute, now, might be the means of saying her brother's life. And 
BO, in an incrediblj short time, Blossom readied the Capital, and 
hastened immediately to the White House. 

The President had but just seated himself to his morning's task, 
of overlooking and signing important papers, when, without one 
word of announcement^ the door softly opened, and Blossom, with 
downcast eyes,- and folded hands, stood before hira. 

*' Well, my child," he said in his pleasant, cheerful tonei^ '' what 
do you want so bright and early in the morning ?** 

^ Bennie's life, please, sir,'* faltered BIossodl 

'' Bennie ? Who is Bennie ?" 

<' My brother, sir. They are going to shoot him for sleeping at 
his posU** 

'' Oh, yes," and Mr. Lincoln ran his eye oyer the papers before 
him. ''I remember I It was a fatal sleep. You see, child, it was 
at a time of special danger. Thousands of lives might have been 
lost for his culpable negligence." 

*' So my father said," replied Blossom gravely, " but poor Bennie 
was so tired, sir, and Jemmie so weak. He did the work of two, 
sir, and it was Jemmie's night, not his ; but Jemmie was too tired, 
and Bennie never thought about himself, that he was tired too.*' 

'* What is this you say, child ? Come here ; I do not understand/' 
and the kind man caught eagerly, as ever, at what seemed to be a 
justification of an offense. 

Blossom went to him : he put his hand tenderly on her shoulder, 
and turned up the pale, anxious face toward his. How tall he 
seemed, and he was President of the United States too 1 A dim 
thought of this kind passed for a moment through Blossom's mind ; 
but she told her simple and straightforward story, and handed Mr« 
Lincoln Bennie's letter to read. 

He read it carefully ; then, taking up his pen, wrote a few hasty 
lines, and rang his bell. 

Blossom heard this order given : " Ssaro this dispatch at onck." 

The President then turned to the girl and said : " Go home, my 
child, and tell that father of yours, who could approve his country's 
sentence, even when it took the life of a child like that, that Abraham 
Lincoln thinks the life far too precious to be lost. Go back, or-— 
wait until to-morrow ; Sennie will need a change after he has so 
bravely faced death ; he shall go with you." 

ExxBcisxa iir Elocjjtion. 2C7 

"Gh>d bless you, sir/' sud Blossom; and who shall doubt that 
God heard and registered the request ? 

Two days afler this iuterriew, the young soldier came to the 
White House with his little sister. He was called into the Presi- 
dent's private room, And a strap fastened ''upon the shoulder.*' 
Mr. Lincoln then said: ^^The eoldier that could carry a sick com- 
rade*8 baggage, and die for the act so uncomplainingly, deserves 
well of his country/* Then Bennie and Blessom took their way to 
their Green Mountain home. A crowd gathered at the Mill Depot 
to weflcome them back ; and, as farmer Owmi's hand grasped that 
of his boy, tears flowed down his chedcs, and he was heard to say 

fervently, " Thb Lobd bi praised 1 " 

N. T. Observer, 


The Cynic is one who never sees a good quality in a man, and 
never fails to see a bad one. He is the human owl, vigilant in 
darkness and blind to light, mousing for vermin, and never seeing 
noble game. ' 

The Cynic puts all human acdons into only two classes — openly 
bad, and secretly bad. All virtue, and generosity, and disinter- 
estedness, are merely the appearance of good, but selfish at the 
bottom/) He holds that no man does a good thing except for profit. 
The effect of his conversation upon your feelings is to chill- and sear 
them ; to send you away sour and morose.) 

His criticisms and innuendoes fall indiscriminately upon every 
lovely thing, like frost upon the flowers. If Mr. A. is pronounced 
a religious man, he will reply : yes, on Sunday8/\ Mr. B. baa just 
joined the church: certainly; the elections are coming on. The 
minister of the gospel . is called an example of diligence : it is his 
trade/ Such a man is generous: of other men's money. This 
man is obliging: to lull suspicion and cheat you. That man is 
upright : because he is green. ) ^ 

Thus his eye strains out every good quality, and takes in only 
the bad. To him religion is hypocrisy, honesty a preparation for 
fraud, virtue only a want of opportunity, and undeniable purity, 
asceticism. The livelong day he will coolly sit with sneering lip, 
transfixing every character that is presented. ^ 

268 Exercises in Elocution. 

It is impossible to indulge in such habitual eeyerity of opinion 
upon our feliow-men, without injuring the tenderness and delicacy 
of our own feelings. A man will be what his most cherished 
feelings are. ^ If he encourage a noble generosity, every feeling will 
be enriched by it ; if he nurse bitter and envenomed thoughts, his 
own spirit will absorb the poison, and he will crawl among men as 
a burnished adder, whose life is mischief| and whose errand la 

He who hunts for flowers, will find flowers ; and he who loves 
weeds, may find weeds. 

Let it be remembered that no man, who is not himself morally \ 
diseased, will have a relish for disease in others. Eeject then the 
morbid ambition of the Cyuic^ or cease to call yourself a man. s^ 

K W. Beech^r. y 

The Dmmmei'B Bride. 
Hollow-eyed and pale at the window of a jail, 
Thro' her soil disheveled hair, a maniac did stare, stare, stare 1 
At a distance, down the street, making music with their feet, 
Came the soldiers from the wars, all embellished with their scars^ 
To the tapping of a drum, of a drum ; 
To the pounding and the sounding of a drum I 
Of a drum, of a drum, of a drum I drum, drum, drum t 

The womfan heaves a sigh, and a fire fills her eye. 

When she hears the distant dram, she cries, '^Here they come I 

here they come I** 
Then, clutching fast the grating, with eager, nervous waiting, 
See, she looks into the air, through her long and silky hair, 
For the echo of a drum, of a drum ; 
For the cheering and the hearing of a drum I ' 
Of a drum, of a drum, of a drum 1 drum, drum, drum I 

And nearer, nearer, nearer, comes, more distinct and clearer, 

The rattle of the drumming ; shrieks the woman, " He is coming, 

He is coming now to me ; quick, drummer, quick, till I see ! " 

And her eye is glassy bright, while she beats in mad delight 

To the echo of a drum, of a drum ; 

To the rapping, tapping, tapping of a drum 1 

Of a drum, of a drum, of a drum I drum, drum, drum I 

Exercises in Elocutioit. 26» 

Uow gbe sees them, in the street, march along with dusty feet, 

As she looks through the spaces, gazing madly. in their faces; 

And she reaches out her hand, screaming wildly to the band ; 

But her words, like her lover, are lost beyond recover, 

'Mid the beating of a drum, of a drum ; 

*Mid the clanging and the banging of a drum I 

Of a drum, of a drum, of a drum 1 drum, drum, drum I 

So the pageant passes by, and the woman's flashing eye 

Quickly loses all its stare, and fills with a tear, with a tear; 

As, sinking from her place, with her hands upon her face, 

'^ Hear! " she weeps and sobs as wild as a disappointed child ; 

Sobbing, "He will never come, never come I 

Now nor ever, never, never, will he come 

With his drum, with his drum, with his drum 1 drum, drum, drumP 

Still the drummer, up the street, beats his distant, dying beat. 

And she shouts, within her cell, " Ha I they're marching down to hell, 

And the devils dance and wait at ^e open iron gate : 

Harkl it is the dying sound, as they march into the groand| 

To the sighing and the dying of the drum ! 

To the throbbing and the sobbing of the drum 1 

Of a drum, of a drum, of a drum ! drum, drum, drum!** 

The Ida of Long Ago. 
O, a wonderful stream is the river Time, • 

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

As it blends with the Ocean of Years. 

How the winters are drifting, like flakes of snow. 

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

As it glides in the shadow and sheen. 

There 's a magical isle up the river 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. 

270 JExsBcisES IN ELOCVnoir. 

And the name of tbaft Isle is ibe Loiag Ago, 

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

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 tows 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. 

0, 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 swhile, 

May that " Greenwood " of Soul be in sight I 

B. R Tajflar. 

Exoelnor I 

- The shades of sight were falling fast. 
As through an Alpine village passed 
A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice^ 
A banner with the strange device, 
" Excelsior r' 

His brow was sad ; his eye, beneath. 
Flashed like a falchion from its sheath; 
And like a silver clarion rung 
The accents of that unknown tongue^ 

In happy homes he saw the light 
Of household fires gleam warm and bright : 
Above, the spectral glaciers shone; 
And from his lips escaped a groan, 
" Excelsior r' 

Exercises in Elocution. 271 

''Try not the pass! " the old man said, 
''Dark lowers the tempest overhead; 
The roaring torreat 's deep and wide ! ^ 
And loud that clarion voice replied| 
"Excelsior I" 

'* Oh I stay/* the maiden said, '' and rest 
Thy weary head upon this breast I "*— 
A. tear stood in his bright blue eye ; 
But still he answered, with a sigh, 
" Excelsior r* 

" Beware the pine-tree's withered branch I 
Beware the awful avalanche 1 " 
This was the peasant's last good-night ;^ 
A voice replied, far up the height, 
** Excelsior I" 

At break of day, as heavenward 
The pious monks of Saint Bernard 
Uttered the ofUrepeated prayer, 
A voice cried through the startled air, 
" Excelsior 1" 

A traveler, by the faithful hound, . 
Half buried in the snow was found, 
Still grasping in his hand of ice 
That banner with the strange device, 

There, in the twilight cold and gray. 
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay ; 
And from the sky, serene and far, 
A voice fell, like a falling star — 



272 Exercises in EhocxmoN. 

Poor Little l^Bu 

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 uplifled, 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 1 1 am so dry. 

Just moiFten 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 I poor little Jim I 
She knew that he was dying ; that the child she loved so dear, 
Had uttered the last words she might ever hope to hear : 
The cottage door is opened, the collier's step is heard, 
The father and the mother meet, yet neither speak a word. 

He felt that all was over, he knew his child was dead. 
He took the candle in his hand and walked 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. 

Exercises in Elocltion. 273 

The Dawn of Bedemption. 

See them go forth like the floods to the occaii, 

Gathering might from each mountain and glen,— 
Wider and deeper the tide of devotion 

Rolls up to God from the bosoms of men : 
Hear the great multitude, mingling in chorus, 

Groan, as they gaze from their crimes to the sky :— 
'^ Father! the midnight of death gathers o*er us. 

When will the dawn of redemption draw nigh ?" 

"Look on us, wanderers, sinful and lowly, 

Struggling with grief and temptation below ; 
Thiue is the goodness o*er every thing holy, — 

Thine is the mercy to pity our woe, — 
Thine is the power to cleanse and restore us. 

Spotless and pure as the angels on high : — 
Father I the midnight of death gathers o*er us, 

When will the dawn of redemption draw nigh ?" 

Gray hair and golden youth, matron and maiden. 

Lovers of mammon, and followers of fame, 
All with the same solemn burden are laden, 

Lifling their souls to that one mighty name : — 
** Wild is the pathway that surges before us. 

On the broad waters the black shadows lie, — 
Father 1 the midnight of death gathers o*er us, 

When will the dawn of redemption draw nigh V 

Lo I the vast depths of futurity's ocean 

Heave with Jehovah's mysterious breath ; 
Why should we shrink from the billows* commotion? 

Jesus is walking the waters of death. 
Angels are mingling with men in the chorus,^- 

Rising) like incense, from earth to the sky :— • 
** Father I the billows grow brighter before us. 

Heaven with its mansions eternal draws nigh.*' 

James 0, Chrh 

274 Exercises in Elocution. 


A selection of prose poetry, written during the Inte wnr. 

The Roman knight who rode, "all accoutred as he tVas," into tli^ 
gulf, and the hungry forum closed upon him, and was satisfied, 
slew, in his own dying, that great Philistine, Oblivion, which, 
sooner or later, ,will conquer us all. 

We neyer thought, when we used to read his story, that the 
grand classic tragedy of patriotic devotion would be a Uityasand 
thnea repeated in our own day and presence ; that the face of the 
neighbor, who had walked by our aide all the. while, should be 
transfigured, in the twinkling of an eye, like the face of an angel ; 
that the old gods, who thundered in Greek and lightened in Latin, 
should stand aside while common men, of plain English speech, 
upon whose shoulders we had laid a familiar band, should keep in 
motion the machinery of the grandest epic of the world — the war 
for the American Union.. 

But there is an old story that always charmed us more : ^ ' 

In some strange land and time — for so the story^runs — they 
were about to found a bell for a midnight tower — a hollow, starless 
heaven of iron. It should toll for dead monarchs, "The king is 
dead ;" and make glad clamor for the new prince, "Long live the 
king/' It should proclaim so great a passion or so grand a pride 
that either would be worship, or wanting these, forever hold its 
peace. Now this bell was not to be dug out of the cold mountains* 
it was to be made of something that had been warmed by a human 
touch and loved with a human love ; and so the people came, like 
pilgrims to a shrine, and cast their offerings into the furnace, and 
went away. There were links of chains that bondsmen had worn 
bright, and fragments of swords that had broken in heroes* hands ; 
there were crosses and rings and bracelets of fine gold ; trinkets of 
silver and toys of poor red copper. They even brought things that 
were licked up in an instant by the red tongues of flame, good words 
they had written and flowers they had cherished, perishable things 
that could never be heard in the rich tone and volume of the bell. 
And by and by, the bell was alone in its chamber, and its four windows 
looked forth to the four quarters of heaven. For many a day it 
hung dumb. The winds came and went, but they only set it sigh- 
ing; the birds came and sang undef its eaves, but it was an iron 



ExsRCisss IN Elocution. 275 

horizon of dead melody still : all the meaner strifes and passions of 
men rippled on below it; they outgroped the ants and outwrought 
the bees and outwatched the shepherds of Chaldea, but the cham* 
bers of the bell were as dumb as the cave of Macpelah. ' 

At last there came a time when men grew grand for right and 
truth, and stood shoulder to shoulder over all the land, and went 
down like reapers to the harvest of death ; looked in the graves of 
them that slept^ and beliered there was something grander than 
living; glanced on into the far future, and discovered there was 
something bitterer than dying; and so, standing between the quick 
and the dead, they acquitted themselves like men. Then the bell 
awoke in its chamber, and the great waves of its music rolled 
gloriously out and broke along the blue walls of the world like an 
anthem ; and every tone in it was familiar as an household word to 
somebody, and he heard it and knew it with a solemn joy. Poured 
into that fiery heart together, the humblest gifts were bleht in one 
great wealth, and accents^ feeble as a sparrow's song, grew eloquent 
and strong ; and lo I a people's stately soul heaved on the waves of 
a mighty voice. 

We thank God, in this our day, for the furnace and the fire ; for 
the ofiferings of gold, and the trinkets of silver, and the broken links 
of iron; for the good sword and the true word ; for the great triumph 
and the little song. We thank God for the loyal Ruths, who have 
taken up the words of their elder sister and said to the Naomi of a 
later time, " Where thou goest I will go ; thy people shall be my 
people, and thy God my God.** By the memory of the Ram ah, into 
which, rebellion has turned the land ; for the love of the Rachels 
now lamenting within it; for the honor of heaven and the hope of 
mankind, let us who stand here — past and present^ clasping hands 
over our heads, the broad age dwindled to a line beneath our feet, 
and bridged with the graves of dead martyrs — let us declare before 
God and these witnesses — 

We will finish the work that the fathers began ; 

Then those to their sleeping. 

And these to their weeping. 

And one faith and one flag, for the Federal Union. 

RF. Ihyhr. 


' Declaration of Independenoei 

When, in the course of human events, it becomes necessary for 
one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected 
them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth 
the separate and equal station to which the laws of nature and of 
nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of man- 
kind requires that they should declare the causes which impel theEn 
to the separation. 

We hold these truths to be self-evident : that all men are created 
equal; that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalien- 
able rights ; that, among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of 
happiness. That, to secure these rights, governments are instituted 
among men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the 
governed ; that, whenever any form of government becomes des- 
tructive of these ends, it is the right of the people to alter or 
abolish it, and to institute a new government, laying its foundation 
on such principles, and organizing its powers in such form, as to 
them shall seem most likely to effect their safety and happiness. 

Prudence, indeed, will dictate that governments long established, 
should not be changed for light and transient causes ; and, accord- 
ingly, all experience hath shown that mankind are more disposed 
to suffer, while evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by 
abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed. But, when a 
long train of %^uses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same 
object, evinces a design to reduce them under absolute despotism, 
it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such government, and 
to provide new guards for their future security. 

Such has been the patient sufferance of these colonies, and such 
is now the necessity which constrains them to alter their former 
systems of government. The history of the present king of Great 
Britain is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations, all having, 
in direct object^ the establishment of an absolute tyranny over 
these states. To prove this, let facts be submitted to a candid 
world : 

He has refused his assent to laws the most wholesome and neces- 
sary for the public good. 

He has forbidden his governors to pass laws of immediate and 
pressing importance, unless suspended in their operation till his 


ExEBCisEa IN Elocution. 277 

assent should be obtained ; and, when so suspended, he has utterly 
neglected to attend to them. 

He has refused to pass other laws for the accommodation of 
large districts of people, unless those people would reliuquish the 
right of representation in the legislature; a right inestimable to 
them, and formidable to tyrants only. 

He has called together legislative bodies at places unusual, uncom- 
foi table, and distant from the depository of their public records, 
for the sole purpose of fatiguing them into compliance with his 

He has dissolved representative houses repeatedly, for opposing, 
with manly firmness, his invasions on the rights of the people. 

He has refused for a long time after such dissolutions to cause 
others to be elected; whereby the legislative powers, incapable of 
annihilation, bave returned to the people at large for their exercise ; 
the state remaining, in the meantime, exposed to all the danger of 
invasion from without, and convulsions within. 

He has endeavored to prevent the population of these states; 
for that purpose, obstructing the laws for naturalization of foreign- 
ers; refusing to pass others to encourage their migration hither, 
and raising the conditions of new appropriations of lands. 

He has obstructed the administration of justice, by refusing his 
assent to laws for establishing judiciary powers. 

He has made judges dependent on his will alone, for the tenure 
of their offices, and the amount and payment of their salaries. 

He has erected a multitude of new offices, and sent hither 
swarms of officers to harass our people and eat out their substance. 

He has kept among us, in times of peace, standing armies with- 
out the consent of our legislature. 

He has afiected to render the military independent of, and 
superior to, the civil power. 

He has combined, with others, to subject us to a jurisdiction 
foreign to our constitution, and unacknowledged by our laws; 
giving his assent to their acts of pretended legislation ; 

For quartering large bodies of armed troops among us ; 

For protecting them, by a mock trial, from punishment, for any 
murders which they should commit on the inhabitants of these 
states ; 



For cutting off our trade with all parts of the world ; 

For impcsing taxes on us without our consent ; 

For depriving us^ in many cases, of the benefits of trial bj jury; 

For transporting us beyond seas to be tried for pretended 

For abolishing the free system of English laws in a neighboring 
province, establishing therein an arbitrary government, and enlarg- 
ing its boundaries^ so as to render it at once an example and fit 
instrument for introducing the same absolute rule into * these 

For taking away our charters, abolishing our most valuable laws, 
and altering, fundamentally, the powers of our goTernments; 

For suspending our own legislatures, and dedaring themselves 
invested with power to legislate for us in all cases whatsoeyer. 

He has abdicated government here, by declaring us out of his 
protection and waging war against us. 

He has plundered our seas, ravaged our coasts, burnt our towns, 
and destroyed the lives of our people. 

He is, at this time, transporting large armies of foreign merce- 
naries to complete the works of death, desolation, and tyranny, 
already begun, with circumstances of cruelty and perfidy scarcely 
paralleled in the most barbarous ages, and totally unworthy the 
head of a civilized nation. 

He has constrained our fellow-citizens, taken captive on the high 
seas, to bear arfns against their country, to become the executioners 
of their friends and brethren, or to fall themselves, by their hands. 

He has excited domestic insurrections amongst us, and has 
endeavored to bring, on the inhabitants of our frontiers, the merci- 
less Indian savages, whose known rule of warfare is an undistin- 
guished destruction of all ages, sexes, and conditions. 

In every stage of these oppressions, we have petitioned for redress 
in the most humble terms; our repeated petitions have been 
answered only by repeated injury. A prince whose character is 
thus marked by every act which may define a tyrant, is unfit to be 
the ruler of a free people. 

Nor have we been wanting in attention to our British brethren. 
We have warned them, from time to time, of attempts made by 
their legislature to extend an unwarrantable jurisdiction over us. 


Exercises in Elovtjtion. 279 

We have reminded them of the circumstances of our emigration and 
settlement here. We have appealed to their native justice and 
magnanimity, and we have conjured them, by the ties of our com- 
mon kindred, to disavow these usurpations, which would inevitably 
interrupt our connections and correspondence. They, too, have 
been deaf to the voice of justice and consanguinity. We must, 
therefore, acquiesce in the necessity which denounces our separa- 
tion, and hold them, as we hold the rest of mankind, enemies in 
war, in peace, friends. 

We, therefore, the representatives of the United States of 
America, in general congress assembled, appealing to the Supreme 
Judge of the world for the rectitude of our intentions, do, in the 
name and by the authority of the good people of these colonies, 
solemnly publish and declare. That these United Colonies are, and 
of right ought to be. Free and Independent States ; that they are 
absolved from all allegiance to the British crown, and that all poli- 
tical connection between them and the State of Great Britain is, 
and ought to be, totally dissolved ; and that, as Free and Independ- 
ent States, they have full power to levy war, conclude peace, con- 
tract alliances, establish commerce, and to do all other acts and 
things which Independent States may of right do. And for the 
support of this declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection 
of Divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our lives, 
our fortunes, and our sacred honor. 

The Burial of Moses. 

** And be Irarled Mm in a valler in the land of Moab, over against Beth«peor ; 
but no mac knoweth of bis sepalcber to this day.'*— i>0tt<. xxziv : 6. 

By Nebo's lonely mountain. 

On this side Jordan's wave, 
In a vale in the land of Moab, 

There lies a lonely grave ; 
But no man dug that sepulcher. 

And no man saw it e'er, 
For the angels of God upturned the sod. 

And laid the dead man there 

280 Exercises in Elocvtiok 

That was the grandest funeral 

That ever passed on earth; 
But no man heard the tramping, 

Or saw the train go forth ; 
Noiselessly as the day-light 

Gomes when the night is done, 
And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek 

Grows into the great sun,— 

Noiselessly as the spring-time 

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

Open their thousand leaves, — 
So, without sound of music 

Or voice of them that wept, 
Silently down from the mountain crown 

The great procession swept. 

Perchance the bald old eagle. 

On grey Beth-peor's height, 
Out of his rocky eyrie. 

Looked on the wondrous sight ; 
Perchance the lion, stalking, 

Still shuns the hallowed spot: 
For beast and bird have seen and heard 

That which man knoweth not. 

liO when the warrior dieth, 

His comrades in the war. 
With arms reversed and muffled drum, 

Follow the fimeral car. 
They show the banners taken, 

They tell his battles won, 
And after him lead his masterless steed. 

While peals the minute gun. 

Amid the noblest of the land 

Men lay the sage to rest. 
And give the bard an honored place, 

With costly marble dressed. 

ExsRCiSES IK Elocution. 281 

In the great minster transept, 

Where lights like glories fall, 
And the choir sings and the organ rings 

Along the emblazoned wall. 

This was the bravest warrior 

That ever buckled sword ; 
This the most gifted poet 

That ever breathed a word ; 
And never earth's philosopher 

Traced, with his golden pen, 
On the deathless page^ truths half so sage 

As he wrote down for meiL 

And had he not high honor ? 

The hill side for his pall ; 
To lie in state while angels wait 

With stars for tapers tall ; 
And the dark rock pines, like tossing plumes, 

Over his bier to wave ; 
And God's own hand in that lonely land. 

To lay him in the grave, — 

In that deep grave, without a name, 

Whence his uncoffined clay 
Shall break again — wondrous thought I — 

Before the judgment day, 
And stand with glory wrapped around 

On the hills he never trod, 
And speak of the strife that won our life 

With the incarnate Son of GK>d. 

O lonely tomb in Moab's land, 

dark Beth-peor's hill, 
Speak to these curious hearts of ours, 

And teach them to be still 
God hath his mysteries of grace, — 

Ways that we cannot tell; 
He hides them deep, like the secret sleep 

Of him he loved so well 

282 ExsRcissa IN Eloqvtiqn. 

The Dying COnittiaa to Iub SoiiL 

Vital spark of heavenly flame 1 
Quit, O quit this mortal frame : 
Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying, 
the pain, the bliss of dying 1 * 
Cease, fond .nature, cease thy strife. 
And let me languish into life 1 

Hark I they whisper ; angels say, 
" Sister spirit^ come away 1 " 
'What is this absorbs me quite? 
Steals my senses, shuts my sight. 
Drowns my spirit, draws my breath ? \ 
Tell me, my soul, can this be death ? 

The world recedes ; it disappears 1 

Heaven opens on my eyes I my ears 

With sounds seraphic ring ; 

Lend, lend your wings I I mount I I fly I 

Grave I where is thy victory ? 

Death I where is thy sting ? 

AUxandcr Pope 

From the HonejinooOa 

Duke, You are welcome home. 

JtiL Home! You are merry ; this retired spot 
Would be a palace for an owll 

Duke, *Tis ours. — 

JvL Ay, for the time we stay in iU 

Dukt, By Heaven, 
This is the noble mansion that I spoke of I 

JuL This I —You are not in earnest, though you bear it 
With such a sober brow, — Come, come, you jest, 

DtJce. Indeed I jest not; were it ours in jest^ 
We should have none, wife, 

JuL Are you serious, sir? 

Ihike, I swear, as Fm your husband, and no duke. 

Jul No duke? 

ExBBOiaBS IN Elocution. 28S 

Dvkt. But of mj own creation, lady. 

JuU Am I betrayed? Nay, do not plaj the fool I 
It is too keen a joke. 

Duhe. You'll find it trae. 

JuL You are no duke, then ? 

Dvke, None. 

Jvi, Have I been cozened? 
And have you no estate, sir? 
No palaces, nor houses? 

Duke, None but this :-~ 
A small snug dwelling, and in good repair. 

i/uZ. Nor money, nor effects? 

Duke. None that I know of. 

JaU And the attendants who have waited on us-^ 

Dvkt, They were my friends ; who, having done my business, 
Are gone about their own. 

JuL Why, then, 'tis clear. — 
That I was ever born I — What are you, sir? 

Dvke. I am an honest man — that may content you. 
Young, nor ill-favour'd — should not that content you ? 
I am your husband, and that must content you. 

JuL I will go home I 

Duke. You are at home, already. 

JuL m not endure it 1 — But remember this— 
Duke, or no duke, I'll be a duchess,- sirl 

Duke, A duchess 1 You shall be a queen,— to all 
Who, by the courtesy, will call you so. 

JvX, And I will have attendance I 

Duke, So you shall, ^ 

When you have learned to wait upon yourselC 

JuL To wait upon myself I Must I bear this? 
I could tear out my eyes, that bade you woo me. 
And bite my tongue in two, for saying yes I 

Duke. And if you should, 'twould grow again.— 
I think, to be an honest yeoman's wife 
(For such my would-be duchess, you will find me). 
You were cut out by nature. 

Jul You will find, then, 


S84 ExEBCisss IN Elocution. 

That education, sir, has spoilt me for it. — 
Why! do you think Til work? 

Dukt, I think 'twill happen, wife, 

JuL What 1 Bub and scrub 
Your noble palace dean ? 

DiJce, Those taper fingen 
Will do it daintily. 

JuL And dress your victuals 
(If there be any) 7 — Oh ! I could go mad I 

Dvke, And mend my hose, and darn my nightcaps neatly : 
Wait, like an echo, till you're spoken to — 

JuJL Or like a dock, talk only once an hour ? 

Duke. Or like a dial ; for that quietly 
Performs its work, and never speaks at all 

JuL To feed your poultry and your hogs I — Oh, monstrous 1 
And when I stir abroad, on great occasions 
Garry a squeaking tithe pig to the vicar ; 
Or jolt with higglers' wives the market trot 
To sell your eggs and butter I 

Duke. Excellent I 
How well you sum the duties of a wife 1 
Why, what a blessing I shall have in you ! 

JuL A blessing I 

Duke. When they talk of you and me. 
Darby and Joan shall no more be remembered :-*• 
We shall be happy 1 

JuL Shall we ? 

Duke. Wondrous happy I 
Oh^ou wiU make an admirable wife! 

Jul. I will make a vixen. 

Dvke. What ? 

JuL A very vixen. 

Duke. Oh, no! We'll have no vixeng. 

JuL ril not bear itl 
I'll to my father's I — 

Duke. Gently : you forget 
You are a perfect stranger to the road. 

JvL My wrongs will find a way, 'or make one. 

EXSBCJSE8 IN Elocution. 285 

Bvikt, Softly I 
You stir not hence, except to take the air ; 
And then FU breathe it with you. 

JvX, What, confine me ? 

Dvkt, *T would be unsafe to trust you yet abroad. 

JvX, Am I a truant schoolboy ? 

Dtthb, Nay, not so ; 
But you must keep your bounda. 

J\jX. And if I break them 
Perhaps you 'II beat me, — 

Ihtkt, Beat you ! 
The man that lays his hand upon a woman. 
Save in the way of kindness^ is a wretch * 
Whom 't were gross flattery to name a coward— 
I '11 talk to you, lady, but not beat you. 

JviL Well, if I may not travel to my father 
I may write to him, surely I — And I will — 
If I can meet within your spacious dukedom 
Three such unhoped-for miracles at once, 
As pens, and ink, and paper. 

Dukt^ You will find them 
In the next room. — A word, before you go — 
You are my wife, by every tie that 's sacred ; 
The partner of my fortune — 

t/ttZ. Your fortune I 

Dukt, Peace I — No fooling, idle woman I 
Beneath th* attesting eye of Heaven I 've sworn 
To love, to honour, cherish, and protect you. 
No human power can part us. What remains, then? 
To fret, and worry and torment each other, * 

And give a keener edge to our hard fate 
By slrnrp upbraidings, and perpetual jars?— - 
Or, like a loving and a patient pair 
(Waked from a dream of grandeur, to depend 
Cpon their daily labor for support), 
To soothe the taste of fortune's lowliness 
With sweet consent, and mutual fond endearment ? — 
Now to your chamber — write whatever you please ; 

286 ExEBOissa IN Elocution. 

But pause before jou stain the spotless paper, 
With words that maj inflame, but cannot heal I 

JuL Why, what a patient worm you take me for I 

Dvkt, I took you for a wife ; and ere I 've done, 
I '11 know yoji for a good one. 

JuL You shall know me 
For a right woman, full of her own sex ; 
Who, when she suffers wrong, will speak her anger : 
Who feels her own prerogative, and sooms. 
By the proud reason of superior man. 
To be taught patience, when her swelling heart 
Cries out revenge 1 [ExiL 

Duke. Why, let the ^od rage on I 

There is no tide in woman's wildest passion 

But hath an ebb. — I Ve broke the ice, however. — 

Write to her father I — She may write a folio — ' 

But if she send it I — *T will divert her spleen, — 

The flow of ink may save her blood-letting. 

Perchance she may have fits I — They are seldom mortal^ ^ 

Save when the Doctor's sent for. — 

Though I have heard some husbands say, and wisely, 

A woman's honor is her safest guard. 

Yet there 's some virtue in a lock and key. 

So, thus begins our honeymoon. — *T is well I 

For the first fortnight, ruder than March winds, 

She '11 blow a hurricane. The next, perhaps. 

Like April she may wear a changeful face 

Of storm and sunshine : and when that is past^ 

She will break glorious as unclouded May ; 

Anywhere the thorns grew bare, the spreading blossoms 

Meet with no lagging frost to kill their sweetness. — 

Whilst others, for a month's delirious joy 

Buy a dull age of penance, we, more wisely, 

Taste first the wholesome bitter of the cup, 

That after to the very lees shall relish ; 

And to the close of this frail life prolong 

The pure delights of a well-governed marriage. 

John Tolbin, 


When did »rohQiiie die, birdie— 

When did Johnnie die? 
The earth was aglow with blossomi^ 

And violets bloomed in the iky, • 

The ficented air was aquiyer 

With music of countless birds; 
And the beautiful, sunlit river 

Seemed murmuring loving words. 
Fair lambs, like breathing lilies, 

Dotted the green hillside; 
And earth was filled with beau(jr, 

When little Johnnie died. 

How did Johnnie die, bhrdie? 

How did Johnnie die? 
His dear, blue eyes, that Mridened 

From long gasing on the sky, 
And filled with Heaven's glory, 

All suddenly grew dim. 
Ah! well we knew the angels 

Were looking down on him I 
Without one glance at ua mortals, 

Who knelt in grief by his side, 
But with hands outstretched to those angeii^ 

Our little Johnnie died. 

Why died our little Johnnie? 

Does birdie ask me why ? 
To show how much of sorrow 

One may bear, and yet not die. 
To lift our faint hearts upward 

To the Gracious One on High, 
Who blessed the little children 

When He dwelt beneath the sky; 
To make us drop all earth props 

For the hand of the Crucified, 

Ah 1 not in vain, dear birdie. 

Our little Johnnie died I 
23 QrcM Brown. 

388 ExxBci8£8 iir JShocvnosf. 

Ike iBfihcape Xodb 

No stir in the Mr, no stir in the sea, 
The ship was still as she could be; 
fier sails from heaven reeeived no motion , 
Her keel was steady in the ocean. 

Without either mgn or sound of th«r shod^ 
The waves flowed over the Incbcape Boek; 
So little they rose, so little they fell, 
They 4i<i not move the Inchca^ Bell 

The Abbot of Aberbrothodc 
Had placed that bell on the Inchcape Rodt; 
On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung^ 
And over the waves its warning rung. 

When the rock was lud by the surge's swell 
The mariners heard the warning b^ ; 
And then they knew the perilous rock. 
And blessed the Abbot of Aberbrothock. 

The sun in heaven was shining gay; 

AJl things were joyful on that day ; 

The sea-birds screamed as they wheeled round 

And there was joyance in their sound. 

The buoy of the Inchcape Bell was seen, 
A darker speck on the ocean green ; 
Sir Balph the Rover walked his deck, 
And he fixed his eye on the darker speck. 

He felt the cheering power of spring ; 
It made him whistle, it made him siog; 
His heart was ^irthful to excess. 
But the Rover's mirth was wickedness. 

His eye was on the Inchcape float; 
Quoth he, '* My men, put out the boat, 
And row me to the Inchcape Rock, 
And I '11 plague the Abbot of Aberbrothock.'* 

Exercises in Elocution. 289 

The boat is lowered, the boatmen row, 
And to the Inohcape Bock thej go; 
Sir Ralph bent OTer from the boat. 
And ho cut the bell from the Inchcape floa^ 


Down sunk the bell with a gurgling sound; 

The bubbles rose and burst around; 

Quoth Sir Balph, '' The next who comes to the rock, 

Won't bless the Abbot of Aberbrothock." 

Sir Ralph the Rover sailed away ; 
He scoured the seas for many a day; 
And now, grown rich with plundered store, 
He steers his course for Scotland's shore. 

So thick a haze o*erspreads the sky, 
They cannot see the sun on high ; • 
The wind hath blown a gale all day; 
At evening it hath died away. 

On the deck the Rover takes his stand ; 
So dark it is they see no land. 
Quoth Sir Ralph, ^ It will be lighter soon, 
For there is the dawn oi the rising moon." 

^ Canst hear,*' said one, '* the breaker's roar ? 
For methinks we should be near the shore." 
" Now where we are I cannot tell. 
But I wish I could hear the Inchcape BelL" 

They hear no sound; the swell is strong; 
Though the wind hath fallen, they drift along 
Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock, — - 
'<0h Oodl it is the Inchcape Rockt " 

Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair ; 
He cursed himself in his despair; 
The waves rush in on every side ; 
The ship is sinking beneath the tide. 



But even in his dying fbai^ 

One dreadful sonod conld the BoTer hear, — 

A sound, as ii^ with the Inobcape Bell, ^ ^~~ 

The fiend below was ringing his knelL Nv 

Expert SmOiey. 


Lara Porsena of Clusium 

By the Nine Gods he swore 
That the great house of Tarquin 

Should sufifer wrong no more. 
By the Nine Gods he swore it^ 

And named a trysting day, 
And bade his messengere ride forth, 
East and west and south and north, 

To summon his array. 

East and west and south and north 

The messengers ride fast, 
And tower and town and cottage 

Have heard the trumpet's blast 
Siiame on the false Etruscan 

Who lingers in his home 
When Porsena of Clusium 

Is on the march for Bome. 

But by the yellow Tiber 

Was tumult and afiright: 
From all the spacious champaign 

To Bome men took their flight 
A mile around the city, 

The throng stopped up the ways; 
A fearful sight it was to see 

Through two long nights and dayn 

Now from tiie rock Tarpeian, 

Could the wan burghera spy 
The line of blazing villages 

Red in the midnight sky. 



The Fathers of the Gty, 

They sat all night and day, 
For every hoar aome horseman eame 

With tidings isi dismay. 

They held a council standing 

Before the River-gate; 
Short time was there, ye well may gncMi 

For musing or debate. 
.Out spake the Consul roundly: 

''The bridge must straight go down; 
For, since Janiculum is lost, 

Naught else can save the town.** 

Just then a scout came flying, 

All wild with haste and fear: 
''To armsl to arms! Sir Consul; 

Lars Porsena is here." 
On the low hills to westward 

The Consul fixed his eye, 
And saw the swarthy storm of dust 

Rise fast along .the sli^. 

Fast by the royal standard, 

O'erlooking all the war, 
Lars Forsena of Clusium 

Sat in his ivory car. 
By the right wheel rode Mamilius^ 

Prince of the Latian name; 
And by the left false Sextus, 

That wrought the deed of shamew 

But when the fiice of Seztus 

Was seen among the foes^ 
A yell that rent the firmament 

From all the town arose. 
On the house-tops was no woman 

But spat toward him and hissed; 
No child but screamed out curses, 

And shook its little fist 


802 jExsbcjsbs in JSlocvtion: 

But the Consul's brow was sad, 

And the Oonsul's speech was low, 
And darkly looked he at the wall, 

And darkly at the foe, 
** Their van will be upon us 

Before the bridge goes down ; 
And if they once may win the bridge^ 

What hope to save the town? ** 

Then out spake brave Horatius^ 

The Captain of the gate: 
<' To every man upon this earth 

Death oometh soon or late. 
And how can man die better 

Than facing fearful odds. 
For the ashes of his fathers 

And the temples of his GK>d9L 

" And for the tender mother 

Who dandled him to rest, 
And for the wife who nurses 

His baby at her breast, 
And for the holy maidens 

Who feed the eternal flame. 
To save them from false Sextus 

That wrought the deed of shame? . 

*^ Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul, 

With all the speed ye may ; 
I, with two more to help me, 

WiU hold the foe in play. 
In yon strait path a thousand 

May well be stopped by three. 
Now who will stand on either hand. 

And keep the bridge with me? " 

Then out spake Spurius Lartius; 

A Bamnian proud was he: 
<'Lo, I will stand at thy right hand. 

And keep the bridge with thee." 

Exercises m JSLocunojr. tW 

And out tfptka strong Herminius; 

Of Titian blood was he : 
^^I will abide oa thy left side, 

And keep the bridge with thee/" 

^ HoratiuSy*' quoth the Consul, 

^ As thou sajesty so let it be.** 
And straight against that great anraj 

Forth went the dauntless Three. 
For Romans in Rome's quarrd 

Spared neither land nor gold, 
Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor l£fi% 

In the brave days of old. 

Meanwhile the Tuscan army. 

Right glorious to behold, 
Came flashing back the noonday light, 
Bank behind rank, like surges bright 

Of a broad sea of gold. 
Four hundred trumpets sounded 

A pe^il of warlike glee, 
As that great host, with measured tread, 
And spears advanced, and ensigns spread, 
Rolled slowly toward the bridge's head. 

Where atood the dauntless Three. 

The Three stood ealm and silent 

And looked upon the foes^ 
And a great shout of laughter 

From all the Tangmard rose^ 
And forth three ehiefii eame sparring 

Before that deep array ; 
To earth they sprang, their swords they drew, 
And lifted high their shields, and flew 

To win the narrow way; 

Herminius smote down Aruns: 

Lartkis laid Ocnns low : 
Right to the heart of Lausnlus 

Horatius sent a blow. 
** Lie there,*' he cried, ^ fell pirate I 

tt4 MxsRotasa in Elocvtiox 

No more, aghast and pale, 
Jrom Ostia's walls the crowd riiall mark 
The track of thy destroying bark. 
No more Campania*s binds shall fly 
To wood«i and carerns when they 9^y 

Thy thrice accursed sail*' 

Bat now no sound of laughter 

Was beard among the foes, 
A wild and wrathful damor 

From all the vanguard rose. 
Six spears' length from the entranee 

Halted that deep array, 
And for a spaoe no man came fcH'th 

To win the narrow way. 

Yet one man for one montent 

Strode oat before the erowd ; 
Well known was he to all the Three, 

And they gare him greeting loud. 
^Now welcome, welcome, Sextos I 

Now welcome to thy home! 
Why dost thou stay, and turn away T 

Here lies the road to Home." 

But meanwhile axe and lerer / 

Hare manfully been plied, 
And now the bndge bangs totiermg 

Aboye the boiling tide. 
•• Come back, come back, Horatius ! ** 

Loud cried the Fathers alL 
*^Back, Lartius I back, Herminius 1 

Back, ere the ruin fall I ** 

Back darted Spurios Lartius; 

Herminius darted baek : 
And, as they passed, beneath their feel 

They felt the limbers crack. 
But when they turned their faoes^ 

And on the farther shore 
Saw brare Horatius stand alofoe, 

They would have crossed once more. 

ExjBRcisss IN Elocution. * 2&i 

But with a4;ri«h like thunder 

Fell every loosened beamy 
And, likd a dam^ the mighty wreck 

Lay right athwart the stream: 
And a long shout of triumph 

Bose from the walls of Rome, 
As to the highest turret-tops 

Was splashed the yellow foam. 

Alone stood brave HoratinSy 

But constant still in mind ; 
Thrice thirty thousand foes before. 

And the broad flood behind. 
*^ Down with him I " cried false Sextrs, 

With a smile on his pale face. 
" Now yield^thee/* cried Lars Porsenai 

*' Now yield thee to our grace," 

Round turned he, as not deigning 

Those craven ranks to see-; 
Naught spake he to Lars Porsena^ 

To Sextus naught spake he : 
But he saw on Palatinus 

The white porch of his home ; 
And he spake to the noble river 

That rolls by the towers of Rome. 

"Oh, Tiber! Father Tiber I 

To whom the Romans pray, 
A Roman's life, a Roman's arms, 

Take thou in charge this day I " 
So he sp&ke, and, speaking, sheathed 

The good sword by his side, 
And with his harness on hiB back. 

Plunged headlong in the tide. 

No sound of joy or sorrow 

Was heard from either bank ; 

But friends and foes in dumb surprise^ 

With parted lips and straining eyes, 

Stood gazing where he sank ; 

206 ' JExsscisss IN ELOcunoh. 

And when above the surges 
Thej saw his crest appear, 

All Borne sent forth a rapturous cry, 
A^d even the ranks of Tuseany 

Could scarce forbear to cheer. 

'' Curse on him I '* quoth false Sextus: 

"Will not the villain drown ? 
But for thb stay, ere close of day 

We should have sacked the town I " 
^ Heaven help him I '* quoth Lars Porsena, 

*' And bring him safe to shore j 
Por such a gallant feat of arms 

Was never seen before." 

And now he feels the bottom ; 

Now on dry earth he stands; 
Now round him throng the Fathers 

To press his gory hands ; 
And now, with shouts and dapping, 

And noise of weeping loud, 
He enters through the River-Gate, 

Borne by the joyous crowd. 

They gave him of the corn-land 

That was of public right 
As much as two strong oxen 

Could plough from morn till night; 
And they made a molten image, 

And set it up on high, 
And there it stands unto this day 

To witness if I lie. 

It stands in the Comitium, 

Plain for all folk to see ; 
Horatius in his harness. 

Halting upon one knee : 
And underneath is written. 

In letters all of gold, 
How valiantly he kept the bridge 

In the brave days of old. 

Exercises in Elocution Wi 

And in the nights of winter, 

When the cold north winds blow, 
And the long howling of the wolyes 

Is beard amidst the snow ; 
When round the kmely cottage 

Roars loud the tempest's dio. 
And the good logs of Algidus 

Roar louder yet within ; 

When the oldest cask is opened. 

And the largest lamp is lit ; 
When the chestnuts glow in the emberS| 

And the kid turns on the spit; 
When young and old in circle 

Around the firebrands dose; 
When the girls ai»e weaving baskets, 

And the lads are shaping bows; 

When the good man mends his armor, 

And trims his helmet's plume ; 
When the good wife's shuttle merrily 

Goes flashing through the loom ; 
With weeping and with laughter 

Still is the story told, 
How well Horatius kept the bridge 

In the brave days of old. 

The Song of the Shirt 

With fingers weary and worn, 

With eyelids heavy and red, 
A woman sat in unwomanly rags, 

Plying her needle and thread, 
Stitch 1 stitch 1 stitch 1 

In poverty, hunger, and dirt, 
And still, with a voico of dolorous pitch, 

She sang the " Song of the Shirt! " 

799 MxsBCiasB JN MhocunoK 

"Work I work I work I 

While the cock is crowing aloof I 
And wofk — work — work — 

Till the start shine through the roof 1 
It 's oh I to be a slare 

Along with the barbarous Turk^ 
Where woman has nerer a soul to save^ 

If this is Christian work I 

" Work — work — work 

Till the brain begins to swim ; 
Work -— work — work 

Till the eyes are heavy and dim I 
Seam and gusset and band, 

Band and gusset and seam, 
Till over the buttons I fall asleep^ 

And sew them on in a dream 1 

'* Oh, men with sisters dear I 

Ob, men with mothers and wives I 
It is not )inen you 're wearing out^ 

But human creatures' lives 1 
Stitch — stitch — stitch 

In poverty, hunger, and dirt^ 
Sewing at once, with a double thread, 

A shroud as well as a shirt I 

** But why do I talk of death. 

That phantom of grisly bone 1 
I hardly fear his terrible shape, 

It seems so like my own — 
It seems so like my own. 

Because of the fasts I keep ; 
O Gk>d ! that bread should be so dear, 

And flesh and blood so cheap 1 

** Work — work — work I 

My labor never flags ; 
And what are its wages ? A bed of straw, 

A crust of bread — and rags ; 

ExsRciSES IN Elocution. 290 

That shattered roof— and this naked floor «- 

A table-'-^a broken chair— 
And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank 

For sometimes faHing there I 

" Work — work — work 

From wearj chime to chime ; 
Work — work — work 

As prisoners work for crime I 
Band and gusset and seam 

Seam and gusset and band, 
Till the heart is sick and the brain benumbed. 

As well as the weary hand I 

** Work — work — work 

In the dull December light ; 
And work — work — work 

When the weather. is warm and bright; 
While underneath the eaves 

The brooding swallows cling, 
As if to show me their sunny backs 

And twit me with the spring. 

^ Oh 1 but to breathe the breath 

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

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

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

And the walk that costs a meal 1 

^ Oh I but for one short hour 1 

A respite however brief I 
No blessed leisure for love or hope, 

But only time for grief I 
A little weeping would ease my heart; 

But in their briny bed 
My tears must stop, for every drop 

Hinders needle and thread I *' 

MO JSxEBcisxa IS Elocvtioil 

With fingers weaiy and worn, 

With eyelids heary and red, 
A woman sat^ in nnwomaoly ragi^ 

Plying her needle and thread ; 
Stitch! Btitchl stitch I 

In poverty, hunger, and dirt ; 
And still with a voice of doloroas pitch — 

Would that its tone could reach the rich I *- 
She sang this '' Song of the Shirt I ** 


Athena, the Qneen of the Air, 

We will take the hird first It is little more than a drift of the 
air brought into form by plumes; the air is in all its quills, it 
breathes through its whole fi'ame and flesh, and glows with air in 
its flying, like blown flame i it rests upon the air, subdues it, sur- 
passes it, outraces it; — ia the air, conscious of itself conqueriug 
itself, ruling itself. 

Also, into the throat of the bird is given the voice of the air. 
All that in the wind itself is weak, wild, useless in sweetness, is 
knit together in its songj As we may imagine the wild form of the 
cloud closed into the perfect form of the bird's wings, so the wild 
voice of the cloud into its ordered and commanded voice; un- 
wearied, rippling through the clear heaven in its gladness, inter- 
preting all intense passion through the soft spring nights, bursting 
into rapture of acclaim and rapture of choir at daybreak, or lisping 
and twittering among the boughs and hedges through heat of day, 
like little winds that only make the cowslip bells shake, and ruffle 
the petals of the wild rose. ' 

Also, upon the plumes of the bird are put the colors of the air : 
on these the gold of the cloud that cannot be gathered by any 
covetousness ; the rubies of the clouds, that are not the price of 
Athena, but are Athena ;| the vermilion of the cloud-bar, and the 
flame of the cloud-crest, and the snow of the cloud, and its shadow, 
and the melted blue of the deep wells of the sky — all these, seized 
oy the creating spirit, and woven by Athena herself into films and 
threads of plume ; '<< with wave on wave following and fading along 
breast, and throat, and opened wings, infinite as the dividing of the 

JExvnciSES ixr Elocution. 801 

foam and the sifting of the sea-sand; — even the white down of 

the cloud seeming to flutter up between the stronger plumes, seen, 

but too soft for touchj 

And so the Spirit of the Air is put into, and upon, this created 

form; and it becomes, through twenty centuries, the symbol of 

divine help, descending, as the Fire, to speak, but as the Dove, to 



The Veto Power. 

Mr. President, I protest against the right of any chief to come 
into either House of Congress, and scrutinize the motives of its 
members; to examine whether a measure has been passed with 
promptitude or repugnance; and to pronounce upon the willing- 
ness' or unwillingness with which it has been adopted or rejected. 
It is an interference in concerns which partakes of a domestic 
nature. The official and constitutional' relations between the Presi- 
dent and the two ^Houses of Congress subsist with them as organ- 
ized bodies. His action is confined to their consummated proceed- 
ings, and does not extend to measures in their incipient stages, 
during their progress through the Houses, nor to the motives by 
which th<)y are actuated. 

There are some parts of this message that ought to excite deep 
alarm ; and that especially in which the President announces that 
each public officer may interpret the constitution as he pleases. 
His language is, " Each public officer who takes an oath to support 
the constitution, swears that he will support it as he understands it, 
and not as it is understood by others." " The opinion of the judges 
has no more authority over Congress than the opinion of Congress 
has over the judges ; and on that point the President is independ- 
ent of both." Now, Mr. President, I conceive, with great defer- 
ence, that the President has mistaken the purport of the oath to 
support the constitution of the United States. No one swears to 
«nipport it as he understands it, but to support it simply as it is in 
truth. All men are bound to obey the laws, of which the consti- 
tution is the supreme ; but must they obey them as they are, or as 
they understand them ? 

802 ExsnotaES ly ELocunox. 

If the obligation of obedience is limited and controlled by che* 
measure of information ; in other words, if the party is bound to 
obey the constitution only aa Ae vnd&ntands U, what will be the 
consequence? The judge of an inferior court will disobey the 
mandate of a superior tribunal, because it is not in conformity to 
the constitution as ht vndentanda U; ti custom-house officer will 
disobey a circular from the treasury department^ because contrary 
to the constitution as As wideratanda U; bh American minister will 
disregard an instruction from the President, communicated from 
the department of state^ because not agreeable to the constitution 
aa he underatands it; and. a subordinate officer in the army or navy 
will violate the orders of his superiors, because they are not in ac- 
cordance with the constitution aa Tie understands iL 

We shall have nothing settled, nothing stable, nothing fixed. 
There will be general disorder and confusion throughout every 
braikch of the administration, from the highest to the lowest officer 
— universal nullification. For, what is the doctrine of the Presi- 
dent but that of South Carolina applied throughout the Union ? The 
President independent both of Congress and the Supreme Court I 
Only bound to execute the laws of the one and the decisions of the 
other as far as they conform to the constitution of the United 
States flu he understands it/ Then it should be the duty of every 
President, on his installation into office, carefully to examine all the 
acts in the statute book, approved by his predecessors, and mark 
out those which he is resolved not to execute, and to which he 
means to apply this new species of veto, because they are repug- 
nant to the constitution as he understands it. And, afler the expira- 
tion of every term of the Supreme Court, he should send for the 
record of its decisions, and discriminate between those which he 
will, and those which he will not, execute, because they are or are 
not agreeable to the constitution as he understands it 

Mr. President, we are about to close one of the longest and most 
arduous sessions of Congress under the present constitution ; and 
when we return among our constituents what account of the opera- 
tions of their government shall we be bound to communicate? 
We shall be compelled to say that the Supreme Court is paralyzed, 
and the missionaries retained in prison in contempt of its authority 
and in defiance of numerous treaties and laws of the United States; 

ExsBCiSES IN Elocution. 303 

thftt the executive, through the secretary of the Treasury, sent to 

Ck)ngress a tariff bill which would have destroyed numerous 

branches of our domestic industry ; and, to the final destruction 

of all, that the veto has been applied to the bank of the United 

States, our only reliance for a sound and uniform currency ; that 

the Senate has been yiolently attadced for the exercise of a clear 

constitutional power;, that the House of Representatives have been 

unnecessarily assailed ; and that the President has promulgated a 

rule of action for those who have taken the oath to support the 

constitution of the United States, that must^ if there be practical 

conformity to it^ introduce general nullification and end in the 

absolute subversion of the governments 

Henry Clay. 


At midnight, in his guarded tent, 

The Turk was dreaming of the hour 
When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent^ 

Should tremble at his power: 
In dreams, through camp and court, he bore 
The trophies of a conqueror; 

In dreams his song of triumph heard; 
Then wore his monarch's signet ring : 
Then pressed that monarch's throne — a king; 
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing, 

As Eden's gurden bird. 


At midnight) in the forest shades, 

Bozzaris ranged 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 

On old Platsea's day ; 
And now there breathed that haunted air . 
The sons of sires who conquered there^ 
With arm to strike and soul 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 I they come ! the Greek I the Greek t 
He woke — to die midst flame, and smoke, 
And shout^ and groan, and sabre-fitroke. 

And death shots falling thick and fast 
As lightnings from the mountfduH^oud ; 
And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, 

Bozsaris 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 1 " 

They fought — like brave men, long and well; 

They piled that ground with Moslem slain, 
They conquered — but Bozzaris fell, 

Bleeding at every vein. 
His few surviving comrades saw 
His smile when rang their proud hurrah, 

And the red field was won ; 
Then saw in death his eyelids dose 
Calmly, as to a night's repose. 

Like flowers at set of sun« 

Come to the bridal-chamber, Death I 

Come to the mother's, when she feels, 
For the first time, her first-born's breath : 

Come when the blessed seals 
That dose the pestilence are broke. 
And crowded cities wail its stroke ; 
Come in consumption's ghastly form. 
The earthquake shock, the ocean-storm ; 
Come when the heart beats high and warm, 

With banquet-song, and dance and wine : 
And thou art terrible — the tear. 
The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier; 
And all we know, or dream, or fear 

Of agony, are thine. 

ExBSCiSEa IN Elocution. 906 

But to the hero, when his sword 

Has won the battle for the tree, 
Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word ; 
And in its hollow tones are heard 

The thanks of millions yet to be. 
Ck>me, when his task of £une is wrought—- 
Come, with her laurel-lea^ blood bought— 

Come in her crowning hour — and then 
Thy sunken eye's unearthly light 
To him is welcome as the sight 

Of sky and stars to prisoned men: 
Thy grasp is welcome as the hand 
Of brother in a foreign. land; 
Thy summons welcome as the cry 
That told the Indian isles were nigh 

To the world-seeking Genoese. 
When the land wind, from woods of palm. 
And orange-groves, and -fields of balm, 

Blew o'er the Haytian seas. 

Bozzaris I with the storied brave 

Greece nurtured in her glory's time, 
Best thee — there \9 no prouder grave. 

Even in her own proud clime. 
She wore no funeral-weeds for thee, 

Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume 
Like torn branch from death's leafless tree 
In sorrow's pomp and pageantry. 

The heartless luxury of the tomb : 
But she remembers thee as one 
Long loved and for a season gone ; 
For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed, 
Her marble wrought^ her music breathed; 
For thee she rings the birthday bells; 
Of thee her babes' first lisping tells ; 
For thee her evening prayer is said 
At palace-couch and cottage-bed; 
Her soldier, closing with the foe, 
Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow : 


His plighted maiden, when she fears 
For him the joj of her youog years, 
Thinks of thy fate^ and checks her tears: 

And she, the mother of thy boys. 
Though in her eye and fiided cheek 
Is read the grief she will not speak. 

The memory of her buried joys. 
And eyea she who gave thee bir th. 
Will, by their pilgrita'-eireled hearth. 

Talk of thy doom without a sigh : 

For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's; 

One of the few^ the immortal names, . 

That were not bom to die. 

Fits-Ghreene EdUeck 

1%e Teetotal IGIL 

Two jolly old topers sat once in an inn. 
Discussing the merits of brandy and ^n ; 
Said one to the other, " I '11 tell you what, Bill, 
I 'to been learning to-day of the Teetotal Mill. 

" Yon must know that this comical Mill has been built 
Of old broken casks, where the liquor 's been spilt ; 
You go up some high steps, and when at the sill. 
You 've a paper to sign at the Teetotal Mill 

•* You promise, by signing this paper (I think), 
That ale, wine and spirits you never will drink ; 
You give up (as they call it) such rascally swi!]. 
And then you go into the Teetotal MilU 

" There 's a wheel in this Mill that they call 'self-denial,' 
They turn it a bit, just to give you a trid ; 
Old clothes are made new, and if you Ve been ill, 
You are rery soon cured at the Teetotal Mill," 

Bill listened and wondered — at lengih he cried out, 
" Why, Tom, if its true, what you 're telling about, 
What fools we must be to be here sitting still. 
Let us go and wo '11 look at this Teetotal Mill" 

ExsRcissa IN MLocunoH. sof 

They gazed with astonishmant; there came in a man, 
With excess and disease his Tisage was wan ; 
He mounted the steps, signed the pledge with good will, 
And went for a tarn in the Teetotal Mill. 

He quicklj came out^ the picture of health. 
And walked briskly on the highway to wealth ; 
And, as onward he pressed, he shouted out still, 
** Success to the wheel of the Teetotal Mill" 

The next that went In were a man and his wife. 
For many long years they 'd been living in strife ; 
He had beaten her shamefully, swearing he *d kill. 
But his heart took a turn in the Teetotal Mill 

And when he came out how altered was he, 
Steady, honesty and sober — how happy was she; 
They no more contend, "No you shan't; *• " Yes I will" 
They were blessing together the Teetotal Mill 

Next came a rough fellow* as grim as a Turk, 
To curse and to swear seemed his principal work ; 
He swore that that morning himself he would fill| 
And drunk as he was he reeled into the Mill 

And what he saw there, I nerer could tell, 
But his conduct was changed, and his language as well ; 
I saw, when he turned round the brow of the hill, 
That he knelt and thanked Gk>d jfbr the Teetotal Mill 

The poor were made rich, the weak were made strong. 
The shot was made shorty and the purse was made long— 
These miracles puzzled both Thomas and Bill, 
At length they went in for a turn in the MilL 

A little time after, I heard a great shout^ 

I turned round to see what the noise was about ; 

A flag was conveyed to the top of the hill, 

And a crowd, amongst which were both Thomas and Bill, 

Were shouUng, " Hurrah for the Teetotal Mill** 

308 ExEBCisss IN Elocution. 

'^Idtile Beonie-* 


I had told him, Christmas morning^ 

As he sat upon my knee, 
Holding fast his fittle stockings^ 

Stuffed as fbll as fhll can be, 
And attentiTe listening to me^ 

With a foee demure and mild, 
That old Santa Glaus, who filled theo^ 

Did not love a naughty child. 

^ But we'll be good, won*t we, moder," 

And from off my lap he slid, 
Digging deep among the goodies 

In his crimson stockings hid. 
While I turned me to my table, 

Where a tempting goblet stood 
Brimming high with dainty custard 

Sent me by a neighbor good. 

But the kitten, there before me^ 

With his white paw, nothing loth, 
Sat, by way of entertainment^ 

Lapping off the shining froth; 
And, in not the gentlest humor 

At the loss of such a treat, 
I confess I rather rudely 

Thrust him out into the street 

Then how Bennie's blue eyes kindled ; 

(fathering up the precious store 
He had busily been pouring 

In his tiny pinafore. 
With a generous look that shamed me 

Sprang he from the carpet bright| 
Showing by his mien indignant^ 

All a baby's sense of right 

JExsBCisEs IN Elocution. 809 

'' Gome back, Harney/' called he loudly, 

As he held his apron white, 
^ You shall have my candy wabbit^** 

Bat the do<Mr was fastened tight^ 
So he stood abashed and silent^ 

In the center of the floor, 
With defeated look alternate 

Bent on me and on the floor. 

Then, as by some sadden impulse^ 

Quickly ran he to the fire^ 
And while eagerly his bright eyes 

Watched the flames grow higher and higher^ 
In a brave, clear key, he shouted. 

Like some lordly little elf, 
^ Santa Kaus, come down the chimney, 

Make my Mudder 'have herself." 

^ I will be a good girl, Bennie," 

Said I, feeling the reproof; 
And straightway recalled poor Harney, 

Mewing on the gallery roo£ 
Soon the anger was forgotten, 

Laughter chased away the frown, 
And they gamboled 'neath the live oaka^ 

Till the dusky night came down. 

In my dim, fire-lighted chamber, 

Harney purred beneath my ohiur| 
And my play worn boy beside me 

Knelt to say his evening prayer* 
^Gk>d bess Fader, Gk>d bess Moder, 

Qod bess Sister," then a pause. 
And the sweet young lips devoutly 

Murmured, '^ God bess Santa Kaus." 

He is sleeping; brown and silken 

Lie the lashes, long and meek, 
Like caressing, clinging shadows, 

On his plump and peachy cheek , 

810 ExsRcisss m Elocution. 

And I bend above him, weeping 

Thankful tears. O undefiled I 
For a woman's crown of glory, 

For the blessing of a child. 

Annie Chcmben Ketchum, 

Lady Glarei 

It was the time when lilies blow, 
And the clouds are highest up in air, ' 

Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe 
To give his cousin, Lady Clare. 

I trow they did not part in scorn ; 

Lovers long betroUied were they : 
They two will wed the morrow mom; 

God's blessing on the day I 

''He does not love me for my birth, 

Kor for my lands as broad and fair; 
He loves me for my own true worth, 

And that is well," said Lady Glare. 

In there came old Alice, the nurse, 
Said, '' Who was this that went from thee V 

^ It was my cousin," said Lady Glare, 
" To-morrow he weds with me." 

''O God be thanked I " said Alice the nurse, 
^ That all comes round so just and fair. 

Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands. 
And you are not the Lady Glare." 

" Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, my nurse ? * 
Said Lady Glare, '' that ye speak so wild T 

** As God 's above," Bsid Alice the nurse, 
^ I speak the truth ; you are my child." 

*' The old earl's daughter died at my breast; 

I speak the truth as I live by bread ; 
I buried her like my own sweet child, 

And put my child in her stead." 



^ Falsely, falgelj haye ye done, 

O mother/' she said, '' if this be true^ 
To keep the best maa under the sua 

So many years from his due.!' 

^ Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse, 

" But keep the secret for your life. 
And all you have will be Lord Eonald*«, 

When you are man and wife." 

*^irTm a beggar born," she said, 

" I will speak out^ for I dare not lie: 
Pull off, pull off the brooch of gold. 

And fling the diamond necklace by." 

^ Nay now, ray child," said. Alice the nurse, 

** But keep the secret all you can ;" 
8he said, ** Not so ; but I will know, 

If there be any faith in man." 

** Nay now, what faith 7 " said Alice the nurse, 

" But keep the secret all you can," 
8he said, '^Not so; but I will know, 

If there be any faith in man." 

^ Nay now, what faith ? " said Alice the nursa^ 

** The man will cleave unto hia right" 
** And he shall have it," the lady replied, 

«* Though I should die to-night" 

•'Yet give one kiss to your mother dear; 

Alas, my child, I sinned for theel " 
** O mother, mother, mother," she said, 

'* So strange it seems to me." 

** Yet here 's a kiss for my mother dear, 

My mother dear, if this be so ; 
And lay your hand upon my head. 

And bless me, mother, ere I go." 

She clad herself in a russet gown. 

She was no longer Lady Clare, 
She went by dale and she went by down. 

With a single rose in her hair 


The lilj-whiie doe Lord Ronald had brong^l^ 
Leapt up from where she lay, 

Dropt her head in the maiden's band 
And followed her all the waj. 

Down stept Lord Bonald from his tower, 
*'Lady Clare, yoa shame your wortb. 

Why oome you drest like a village mai^ 
That are the flower of the earth ? " 

*' If I come drest like a Tillage maid, 
I am but as my fortunes are; 

I am a beggar bom,** she said, 
*' And not the Lady Glare.*' 

" Play me no tricks," said Lord Bonald, 
^ For I am yours in word and deed ; 

Flay me no tricks," said Lord Bonald^ 
^ Your riddle is hard to read.'* 

Oh, and proudly stood she up ; 

Her heart within her did not fail : 
She looked into Lord Bonald's eyes 

And told him all her nurse's tale. 

He laughed a laugh of merry scorn, 
He turned and kissed her where she stood. 

^ If you are not the heiress bom, 
And I," said be, " the next of blood — 

'* If you are not the heiress bom, 
And I/' said he, " the lawful heir. 

We two will wed to-morrow mom, 
And you shall still be Lady Clare." 


The Child on the Judgment Seat. 

Where hast thou been toiling all day, sweetheart| 
That thy brow is burdened and sad ? 

The Master's work may make weary feet, 
But it leaves the spirit glad. 

ExEBoisBs IN Elocution. 813 

Was thy garden nipped with the midoight fro6t| 

Or scorched with the mid-day glare ? 
Were thy vines laid l6w, or thy lilies crushed^ 

That thy face is so full of care ? 

''No pleasant garden toils were mine^ 

I have sate on the judgment seat^ 
Where the Master sits at eve, and calls 

The children arocuid his feet** 

How earnest thou on the judgment seat. 

Sweetheart, who set thee there ? 
T is a lonely and lofty seat for thee, 

And well might fill thee with care. 

'^I climbed on the judgpnent seat myself; 

I have sate there alone all day, 
For it grieved me to see the children around, 

Idling their life away« 

** They wasted the Master's precious seed. 

They wasted the precious hours ; 
They trained not the vines, nor gathered the fiiii^ 

And they trampled the sweet meek flowers." 

And what didst thou on the judgment seat^ 

Sweetheart) what didst thou there ? 
Would the idlers heed thy childish voice ? 

Did the garden mend for thy care 7 

*' Nay, that grieved me more ; I called and I cried, 

But they left me there forlorn ; 
My voice was weak, and they heeded not^ 

Or they laughed my words to soora." 

Ah I the judgment seat was not for thee, 

The servants were not thine; 
And the eyes which fix the praise and the blame^ 

See farther than thine or mine. 

814 Exercises m Elocution. 

The Toice that shall sound there at eve, sweetheaii^ 

Will not striye nor cry to be heard ; 
It will hush the earth, and hnsh the beartfl^ 

And none will resist its word. 

' Should I see the Master's treasures lost^ 

The gifts that should feed his poor. 
And not lift mj voice (be it as weak as it maj), 

And not be grieved sore ? ** 

Wait till the evening &lls» sweetheart^ 

Wait till the evening &lls ; 
The Master is near and knoweth all. 

Wait till the Master calls. 

But how fared thy garden plot^ sweetheart^ 
Whilst thou sat on the judgment seat ? 

Who watered thy roses, and trained thy rine^ 
And kept them from careless feet ? 

^ T^Bj I that is saddest of all to me. 

That is saddest of all ! 
My vines are trailing, my roses are parche^ 

My lilies droop and fall" 

Gk> back to thy garden plot, 8weetheart| 

Gk> back till the evening falls, 
And bind thy lilies, and train thy vines. 

Till for thee the Master calls. 

Go make thy garden fair as thou canst, 

Thou workest never alone ; 
Perchance he whose plot is next to thine^ 

Will see it, and mend his own. 

And the next shall copy his, sweetheart, 

1^11 all grows fair and sweet ; 
And when the Master comes at eve, 

Happy faces his coming win greet. 

Then shall thy joy be full, sweeAeart^ 

In thy garden so fair to see. 
In the Master's voice of praise to all, 

In a look of his own for thee. 

By ft« Author of (hit " OoHa Family: 

ExjsRcissa IN Elocution. 815 

Wanted, a Hmistei's Wife. 

At length we have settled a pastor: 

I am sure I cannot tell why 
The people should grow so restless, 

Or candidates grow, so shy ; 
But after a two years searching 

For the ** smartest " man in the land. 
In a fit of desperation 

We took the nearest at hand. 

And really, he answers nicely 

To " fill up the gap," you know ; 
To " run the machine," and " bring up arrears," 

And make things generally go ; 
He has a few little failings, 

His sermons are common-place quite, 
But his manner is very charming. 

And his teeth are perfectly white. 

And so, of all the " dear people," 

Not one in a hundred complains, 
For beauty and grace of manner 

Are so much better than hraiviM, 
But the parish have all conclnded 

He needs a partner for lifb^ 
To shine a gem in the parlor: 

•* Wanted, a minister's wife I " 

Wanted, a perfect lady. 

Delicate, gentle, refined. 
With every beauty of person, 

And every endowment of mind ; 
Fitted by early culture 

To move in fashionable life — 
Please notice our advertisement: 

" Wanted," etc 

Wanted, a thoroughbred worker. 

Who well to her household looks j 
(Shall we see our money wasted 

By extravagant Irish cooks?) 

816 ExBRCiass IN EhocxmoN. 

Who cuts the dailj expenses 
With economy sharp as a knife ; 

And washes and scrubs in the kitchen : 
^ Wanted," etc. 

A very " domestic person,** 

To callers she must not be " oat,** 
It has such a bad appearance 

For her to be gadding about : 
Only to visit the parish 

Every year of her life, 
And attend the funerals and weddings : 

" Wanted," eta 

To conduct the " ladies* meeting,'* 

The '* sewing circle " attend ; 
And when we work for the soldiersi^ 

Her ready assistance to lend. 
To clothe the destitute children 

When sorrow and want are rife, 
And look up Sunday-school scholars : 

" Wanted," eta 

Careful to entertain strangers, 

Traveling agents, and ** such,** 
Of this kind of angel visits, 

The deacons have had so mucft 
As to prove a perfect nuisance. 

And hope these plagues of their lilb 
Can soon be sent to the parson's : 

" Wanted," eta 

A perfect pattern of prudence, 

Than all others spending less, 
But never disgracing the parish 

By looking shabby in dress ; 
Playing the organ on Sunday 

Would aid our laudable strifii 
To Bave the society money : 

" Wanted," eta 




ExsRcrsBS in Elocution. tVi 

And wlien we have found the person, 

We hope, bj working the two. 
To lift our debt^ and build a new churcb| 

Then we shall know what to do ; 
For they will be worn and weary, * 

And we *11 advertitse : ** Wanted^ . 

A minister and his wife 1 ** 

ICaist Ode Bay* 
Timothy Swan — aged 73. 

T^ ken, dear bairn, that we maun part, 
When death, cauld death, shall bid us 8tar<^ 
But when he 11 send his dreadfu' cart 

We canna say, 
8a we ni be ready for his dart 

Maist OQie Day. 

We '11 keep a' right and gude wi* in. 
Our work will then be free fra' sin ; 
Upright we *1I step thro' thick and thin. 

Straight on our way ; 
Deal just wT a' the prise we *tt win 

Maist onie Day. 

Ye ken there *s «ne wha *8 just and wise, 
Ha' said that all his bairns should rise 
An' soar aboon liie lofty skies. 

And there shall stay ; 
Being well prepared, we '11 gain tlie priae^ 

ICaist onie Day. 

When he who made a' things jnst right 
Shall ea' us hence to realms of light, 
Be it morn, or noon, or e'en or night, 

We will obey, 
We '11 be prepared to tak' oar flight 

Maist onie Day. 

$IB Exercises in Elocution. 

Our lamps we 'U fill brimfii* o' oil 

That '8 gude an* pure — that wiU na qwi]. 

We 'U keep them barnin' a' the while 

To light our way, 
Our work bein* done we 'U quit the BOil 

Maist onie Daj. 

The Tme Teaoher. 

I hold the teacher*s position second to none. The Christian 
teacher of a band of children combiDes the office of the preacher 
and the parent, and has more to do in shaping the mind iand the 
morals of the community than preacher and parent united^ The 
teacher who spends six hours a day with my child, spends three 
times as many hours as I do, and twenty fold more time than my 
pastor does. I have no words to express my sense of the import- 
ance of your office. ' 

Still less have I words to express my sense of the importance 
of having that office filled by men and women of the purest motives, 
the noblest enthusiasm, the finest culture, the broadest charities, 
and the most devoted Christian purpose. Why, sir, a teacher 
should be the strongest and most angelic man that breathes. No 
man living is intrusted with such precious material Ko man living 
can do so much to set human life to a noble tune. No man living 
needs higher qualifications for his work. ' Are you "fitted for teach- 
ing " ? I do not ask yon this question to discourage you, but to 
stimulate you to an efibrt at preparation which shall continue as 

long as you continue to teacKj 


Little Gretchen, little Gretohen wanders np and down the street 
The snow is on her yellow hair, the frost is at her feet. 
The rows of long, dark houses without look cold and damp, 
By the struggling of the moonbeam, by the flicker of the lamp. 
The clouds ride fast as horses, the wind is from the north, 
But no one cares for Gretchen, and no one looketh forth. 
Within those dark, damp houses are merry faces bright, 
And happy hearts are watching out the old year's latest night 

Exercises in Elocution. fil9 

With the littlo box of matches she could not sell all day, 
And the thin, thin tattered mantle the wind blows every way, 
She clingeth to the railing, she shivers in the gloom, — 
There are parents sitting snugly by firelight in the room; 
And children with grave faces are whispering one another 
Of presents for the new year, for father or for mother. 
But no one talks to Gretchen, and no one hears her speak; 
No breath of little whispers comes warmly to her cheek. 

Nc little arms are round her : ah me ! that there should be, 
With 80 much happiness on earth, so much of misery ! 
Sure they of many blessings should scatter blessings round, 
As laden boughs in autumn fling their ripe fruits to the grouncL 
And the best love man can offer to the God of love, be sure, 
Is kindness to his little ones, and bounty to his poor. 
Little Gretchen, little Gretchen goes coldly on her way; 
There 's no one looked out on her, there 's no one bids her stay. 

Her home is cold and desolate ; no smile, no food, no fire, 
But children clamorous for bread, and an impatient sire. 
So she sits down in an angle where two great houses meet, 
And she curled up beneath her, for warmth, her little feet ; 
And she looketh on the cold wall, and on the colder sky. 
And wonders if the little stars are bright 0res up en higli. 
She hears a clock strike slowly, up in a far church tower, 
With such a sad and solemn tone, telling the midnight hour. 

And she remembered her of tales her mother used to tell. 
And of the cradle-songs she sang, when summer's twilight fell ; 
Of goed men and of angela, and of the Holy Child, 
Who was cradled in a manger, when winter was most wild ; 
Who was poor, and cold, and hungry, and desolate and lone ; 
And she thought the song had told he was ever with his own ; 
And all the poor and hungry and forsaken ones are his, — 
** How good of Him to look on me in such a place as this ? " 

Colder it grows and colder, but she does not feel it now, 

For the pressure at her heart, and the weight upon her brow ; 

But she struck one little match on the wall so cold and bare, 

That she might look around her, and see if He were thera 

820 . Exercises m Elocxjtxon. 

The single match has kindled, and by the light it threw 
It seemed to little Gretchen the wall was rent in two ; 
And she could see folks seated at a table richlj spread, 
With heaps of goodly viands, red wine and pleasant bread. 

She oould smell the fragrant savor, she could hear what they did 

Then all was darkness once again, the match had burned away. 
She struck another hastily, and now she seemed to see 
Within the same warm chamber a glorious Christmas tree. 
The branches were all laden with things that children prize, 
Bright gifts for boy and maiden — she saw them with her eyes. 
And she almost seemed to touch them, and to join the welcome 

When darkness fell around her, for the little match was out 

Another, yet another, she has tried — they will not light ; 
Till all her little store jshe took, and struck with all her might : 
And the whole miserable place was lighted with the glare. 
And she dreamed there stood a little child before her in the air. 
There were blood-drops on his forehead, a spear-wound in his side, 
And cruel nail-prints in his feet, and in his hands spread wide ; 
And he looked upon her gently, and she felt that he had known 
Pain, hunger, cold, and sorrow — ay, equal to her own. 

And he pointed to the laden board and to the Christmas tree. 
Then up to the cold sky, and said, " Will Gretchen come with me? " 
The poor child felt her pulses fail, she felt her eyeballs swim. 
And a ringing sound was in her ears, like her dead mother's hymn : 
And she folded both her thin white hands, and turned from that 

bright board, 
And from the golden gifts, and said, " Witli thee, with thee, Lord ? " 
The chilly winter morning breaks up in the dull skies 
On the city wrapt in vap6r, on the spot where Gretchen lies. 

In her scant and tattered garment, with her back against Uie wall, 
She sitteth cold and rigid, she answers to no call. 
They have lifted her up fearfully, they shuddered as they said, . 
" It was a bitter, bitter night t the child is frozen dead." 

JSXBRCISES IN EhocxmoN. 821 

The angels sang their greeting fbr one more redeemed from sin; 
Men said, " It was a bitter night ; would no one let her in ? '* 
And they shivered as they spoke of her, and sighed. They oould 

not see 
How mtich of happiness there was after that misery. 

Qabiid Grab. 

In an old abbey town, down in this part of the country, a long, 
long while ago — there officiated as sexton and grave-digger one 
Gabriel Grub. 

A little before twilight one Christmas eve, Gabriel shouldered his 
spade, lighted his lantern, and betook himself towards the old 
churchyard, for he had got a grave to finish by next morning ; and 
feeling very low, he thought it might raise his spirits perhaps, if he 
went on with his work at once. As he wended his way up the 
ancient street, he saw the cheerful light of the blazing fires gleam 
through the old casements, and heard the loud laugh and the cheer- 
ful shouts of those who were assembled around them ; he marked 
the bustling preparations for next day*s good cheer, and smelt the 
numerous savory odors consequent thereupon, as they steamed up 
from the kitchen windows in clouds. All this was gall and worm- 
wood to the heart of Gabriel Grub ; and as groups of children 
bounded out of the houses, tripped across the road, and were met^ 
before they could knock at the opposite door, by half a dozen curly- 
headed little rascals, who crowded round them as they flocked up 
stairs to spend the evening in their Christmas games, Gabriel smiled 
grimly, and plutched the handle of his spade with a firmer grasp, as 
he thought of measles, scarlet-fever, thrush, whooping-cough, and 
a good many other sources of consolation beside. 

In this happy frame of mind, Gabriel strode along, returning a 
short, sullen growl to the good-humoured greetings of such of his 
neighbors as now and then passed him, until he turned into the 
dark lane which led to the churchyard. Now he had been looking 
forward to reaching the dark lane, because it was, generally speak- 
ing, a nice gloomy, mournful place, and he was not a little indignant 
to hear a young urchin roaring out some jolly song about a merry 
Christmas in this very sanctuary. So Gabriel waited till the bot 

ft22 Exercises in ELocimoir. 

came up, and then dodged him into a corner, and rapped him over 
the head with his lantern five or six times, just to teach him to 
modulate his voice. And as the boy hurried away with his hand 
to his head singing quite a different sort of tune, Gabriel Grub 
chuckled very heartily to himself and entered the churchyard, lock- 
ing the door behind him. 

He took off his coat, set down his lantern, and getting into the 
unfinished grave, worked at it for an hour or so, with right good- 
will. But the earth was hardened with the frost, and it was no 
very easy matter to break it up, and shovel it out j and although 
there was a moon, it was a very young one, and shed little light 
upon the grave, which was in the shadow of the church. At any 
other time these obstacles would have made Gabriel Grub very 
moody and miserable, but he was so well pleased with haying 
stopped the small boy's singing, that he took little heed of the scanty 
progress he had made^ and looked down into the grave when he had 
finished work for the night with grim satisfaction, murmuring, as he 
gathered up his things — 

** Brave lodgings for one, brave lodgings for one, 
A few feet of cold earth when life is done. 

" Ho I ho I " laughed Gabriel Grub, as he sat himself down on a 
flat tombstone, which was a favorite resting-place of his, and drew 
forth his wicker bottle; "a coffin at Christmas — a Christmas box. 
Hoi ho! ho!" 

" Ho ! ho ! ho ! " repeated a voice, which sounded close behind 

Gabriel paused in some alarm, in the act of raising tlj^ wicker 
bottle to his lips, and looked round. The bottom of the oldest 
grave about him was not^raore still and quiet than, the churchyard 
in the pale moonlight. The frost glistened on the tombstones, and 
sparkled like rows of gems among the stone carvings of the old 
church. Not the faintest rustle broke the profound tranquillity of 
the solemn scene. Sound itself appeared to be frozen up, — all was 
so cold and still. 

" It was the echoes," said Gabriel Grub, raising the bottle to hi« 
lips again. - 

" It was no(," said a deep voice. 

JExERCisss IN Elocution. 823 

Gabriel started up, and stood rooted to the spot, with astonish- 
ment and terror ; for his eyes rested on a form which made his 
blood run cold. 

Seated on an upright tombstone, close to him, was a strange un- 
earthly figure, whom Gabriel felt at once was no being of this world. 
His long fantastic legs which might have reached the ground, were 
cocked up, and crossed after a quaint fantastic fashion ; his smewy 
arms were bare, and his hands rested on his knees. On his short 
round body he wore a close covering, ornamented with small slashes; 
and a short cloak dangled on his back; the collar was cut into curi- 
ous peaka, which served the goblin in lieu of ruff or neckerchief; 
and his shoes curled up at the toes into long points. On his head 
he wore a broad-brimmed sugar-loaf hat, garnished with a single 
feather. The hat was covered with the white frost, and the goblin 
looked as if he had sat on the same tombstone very comfortably for 
two or three hundred years. He was sitting perfectly still; his 
tongue was put out, as if in derision ; and he was grinning at 
Gabriel Grpb with such a grin as only a goblin could call up. 

" It was not the echoes,** said the goblin. 

Gabriel Grub was paralyssed,* and could make no reply. 

"What do you do here on Christmas eve?" said the goblin 

** I came to dig a grave, sir," stammered Gabriel Grub. 

" What man wanders among graves and churchyards, on such a 
night as this ?" said the goblin. 

** Gabriel Grub ! Gabriel Grub I " screamed a wild chorus of voices 
that seemed to fill the churchyard, Gabriel looked fearfully round — 
nothing was to be seen. 

** What have you got in that bottle ? " said the goblin. 

"Hollands, sir," replied the sexton, trembling more than ever; 
for he had bought it of the smugglers, and he thought that perhaps 
his questioner might be in the excise department of the goblins. 

" Who drinks Hollands in ai churchyard, on such a night as this? " 
said the goblin. 

*' Gabriel Grtib ! Gabriel Grub ! " exclaimed the wild voices again. 

The goblin leered maliciously at the terrified sexton ; and then, 
raising his voice, exclaimed — 

" And who, then, is our fair and lawful prize ? " 


324 Exercises m Elocutxojt. 

To this inquiry, the invisible chorus replied, — in a strain lihat 
sounded like the voices of many choristers singing to the mighty 
swell of the old church organ — a strain that seemed borne to the 
sexton's ears upon a gentle wind, and to die away as its soft breath 
passed onward ; but the burden of the reply was still the same,— 
« Gabriel Grub I Gabriel Grub I " 

The goblin grinned a broader grin than before, as he said, " Well, 
Gabriel, what do you say to this? ** 

The sexton gasped for breath. 

'*It*s — it's— very curious, sir, very curious, and very pretty; 
but I think Til go back and finish my work, sir, if you please.*' 

** Work I " said the goblin, " what work ? " 

'' The grave, sir: making the grave,'* stammered the sexton. 

'' Oh, the grave, eh ? " said the goblin : " who makes graves at a 
time when all other men are men-y, and takes a pleasure in it ?" 

Again the mysterious voices replied, "Q«briel Grub! Gabriel 
Grub I " 

'' I'm afraid my friends want you, Gabriel," " Vm afraid my friends 
want you." 

" Under favor, sir," " I don't think they can, sir ; they don't 
know me, sir ; I don't think the gentlemen have ever seen me, sir." 

" Oh, yes they have." ** We know the man with the sulky face 
and the grim scowl that came down the street to-night, throwing 
his evil looks at the children, and grasping his burying- spade the 
tighter.* We know the man that struck the boy, in the envious 
malice of his heart, because the boy could be merry, and he could 
not, We know him — we know him." 

" I — I — am afraid I must leave you, sir." 

** Leave us 1 " — " Gtibriel Grub going to leave us. Ho I ho I ho I " 

As the goblin laughed, the sexton observed for one instant a 
brilliant illumination within the windows of the church, as if the 
whole building were lighted up ; it disappeared, the organ pealed 
forth a lively air, and whole troops of goblins, the very counterpart 
of the first one, poured into the churchyard, and began playing at 
leap-frog with the tombstones, never stopping for an instant to take 
breath, but overing the highest among them, one after the other, 
with the most marvelous dexterity. The first goblin was a most 
astonishing leaper, and none of the others could come near him. 


Even in the extremity of his terror, the sexton could not help ob< 
serving, that while his friends were content to leap over the com- 
mon-sized gravestones, the first one took the family-vanlts, iron 
railings and all, with as much ease as if they had been so many 
street posts. 

At last, the game reached to a most exciting pitch ; the organ 
played quicker and quicker, and the goblins leaped faster and faster, 
coiling themselves up, rolling head over heels upon the ground, and 
bounding over the tombstones like foot-balls. The sexton's brain 
whirled round with ^ the rapidity of the motion he beheld, and his 
legs reel^ui beneath him, as the spirits flew before his eyes, when 
the gobliA king, suddenly darted towards him, laid his hand upon 
his collar, and sank with him through the earth. 

When Gabriel Grub had had time to fetch his breath, which the 
rapidity of his descent had, for the moment, taken away, he found 
himself in what appeared to be a large cavern, surrounded on all 
sides by crowds of goblins^ ugly and grim. In the centre of the 
room, on an elevated seat^ was stationed his friend of the church- 
yard; and close beside him, stood Gabriel Grub himself, without 
the power of motion. 

*' Cold, to-night," said the king of the goblins, — " very cold. 
A g1a8s of something warm, here." 

At this command, half a dozen officious goblins, with a perpetual 
smile upon their faces, whom Gabriel Grub imagined to be coivtiers, 
on that account, hastily disappeared, and presently retufnedi9^ & 
goblet of liquid fire, which they presented to the king. 

'' Ah I " said the goblin, whose cheeks and throat were quite . 
transparent, as he tossed down the flame. '' this warms one indeed; 
bring a bumper of the same for Mr. Grub." 

It was in vain for the unfortunate sexton to protest that he was 
not in the habit of taking anything warm at night; for one of the 
goblins held him, while another poured the blazing liquid down his 
throat; and the whole assembly screeched with laughter, as he 
coughed and choked, and wiped away the tears which gushed plen- 
tifully from his eyes, after swallowing the burning draught. 

" And now," said the king, fantastically poking the taper corner 
of his sugar-loaf hat into the sexton's eye, and thereby occasioning 
him the most exquisite pain, — " And now, show the man of mis- 
ery and gloom a few of the pictures from our own great storehouse." 


026 Exercises in Mhocxmo^. 

As the goblin said this, a thick cloud, which obscured the further 
end of the cavern, rolled gradually away, and disclosed, apparently 
at a great distance, a small and scantily-furnished, but neat and 
clean apartment A crowd of liUle children were gathered round 
a bright fire, clinging to their mother's gown, and gamboling round 
her chair. The mother occasionally rose, and drew aside the win- 
dow-curtain, as if to look for some expected object A frugal meal 
was ready spread upon the table, and an elbow-chair was placed 
near the fire. A knock was heard at the door; the mother opened 
it, and the children crowded round her, and clapped their hands fo: 
joy, as their father entered. He was wet and weary, and shook 
the snow from his garments, as the children crowded round him, 
and, seizing his cloak, hat, stick and gloves, with busy zeal, ran 
with them from the room. Then, as he sat down to his meal before 
the fire, the children climbed about his knee, and the mgther sat by 
his side, and all seemed happiness and comfort 

But a change came upon the view, almost imperceptibly. The 
scene was altered to a small bedroom, where the fairest and young- 
est child lay dying ; the roses had fled from his cheek, and the light 
from his eye ; and even as the sexton looked upon him, with an 
interest he had never felt or known before, he died. His young 
brothers and sisters crowded round his little bed, and seized his 
tiny hand, so cold and heavy ; but they shrank back from its touch, 
and looked with awe on his infant face ; for calm and tranquil as it 
was, and sleeping in rest and peace, as the beautiful child seemed to 
be, they saw that he was dead, and they knew that he was an 
angel, looking down upon them, and blessing them, from a bright 
and happy heaven. 

Again the light cloud passed across the picture, and again the 
subject changed. The father and mother were old and helpless 
now, and the number of those about them was diminished more 
than half; but content and cheerfulness sat on every face, and 
beamed in every eye, as they crowded round the fireside, and told 
and listened to old stories of earlier and bygone days. Slowly and 
peacefully the father sank into the grave, and, soon after, the sharer 
of all his cares and troubles followed him to a place of rest and 
peace. The few who yet survived them knelt by their tomb, and 
watered the green turf which covered it with their tears; then rose^ 

Exercises in Elocution. 827 

and turned away, sadly and mournfully, but not with bitter cries, 
or despairing lamentations, for they knew that they should one day 
meet again ; and once more they mixed with the busy world, and 
their content and cheerfulness were restored. The cloud settled 
upon the picture, and concealed it from the sexton^s view. 

'* What do you think of ihcA f " said the goblin, turning his large 
face toward Gabriel Grub. 

Gabriel murmured out something about its being rery pretty, 
and looked somewhat ashamed, as the goblin bent his fiery eyes 
upon him. 

^ Tou a miserable man I " said the goblin, in a tone of excessive 
contempt. *' You ! " He appeared disposed to add more, bnt in- 
dignation choked his utterance; bo he lifted up one of his yery 
pliable legs, and, flourishing it above his head a little, to insure his 
aim, administered a good sound kick to Gabriel Grub; immediately 
after which, all the goblins-in-waiting crowded round the wretched 
sexton, and kicked him without mercy, according to the established 
and invariable custom of courtiers upon earth, who kick whom roy- 
alty kicks, and hug whom royalty huga. 

" Show him some more," said the king of the goblins. 

At these words the cloud was again dispelled, and a rich and 
beautiful landscape was disclosed to view. The sun shone from out 
the clear blue sky, the water sparkled beneath his rays, and the 
trees looked greener, and the flowers more gay, beneath his cheer- 
ful influence. The water rippled on, with a pleasant sound, the trees 
rustled in the light wind that murmured among their leaves, the 
birds sang upon the boughs, and the lark caroled on high her wel- 
come to the morning. Yes, it was morning, the bright, balmy 
morning of summer; the minutest lea^ the smallest blade of grass, 
was instinct with life. Man walked forth, elated with the scene ; 
and all was brightness and splendor. 

*' You A miserable man I " said the king of the goblins, in a more 
contemptuous tone than before. And again the king of the goblins 
gave his leg a flourish; again it descended on the shoulders of the 
sexton ; and again the attendant goblins imitated tlie examples of 
their chief. 

Many a time the cloud went and came, and many a lesson it 
taught to Gabriel Grub, who, although his shoulders smarted with 


pain from the frequent applications of the goblin's feet thereuntOi 
looked on with an interest which nothing could diminish. He saw 
that men who worked hard, and earned their scanty bread with 
lives of labor, were cheerful and happy; and that to the most igno- 
rant, the sweet face of nature was a never-fiuliDg source of cheerful- 
ness and joy. Above all, he saw that men like himself, who snarled 
at the mirth and cheerfulness of others, were the foulest weeds on 
the fair surface of the earth; and, setting all the good of the world 
against the evil, he came to the conclusion that it was a very decen 
and respectable sort of a world after all No sooner had he formed 
it^ than the cloud which had dosed over the last picture, seemed to 
settle on his senses^ and lull him to repose. One by one the gob- 
lins faded from his stght^ and as the last one disappeared, be sank 
to sleep. 

The day had broken when (Gabriel Grub awoke, and found him- 
self lying at full length on the flat gravestone in the churchyard, 
with the wicker bottle lying empty by his side, and his coat, spade, 
and lantern, well whitened by the last night's frosty scattered on the 
ground. The stone on which he had first seen the goblin seated, 
stood bolt upright before him, and the grave at which he had worked 
the night before, was not far off. At first he began to doubt the 
reality of his adventures; but the acute pain in his shoulders, when 
he attempted to rise, assured him that the kicking of the goblins 
was certainly not ideal He was staggered again, by observing no 
traces of footsteps in the snow on which the goblins had played at 
leap-frog with the gravestones; but he speedily accounted for this 
circumstance when he remembered that, being spirits, they would 
leave no visible impression behind them. So Gabriel Griib got on 
his feet as well as he could for the pain in his back ; and brushing 
the frost off his coat, put it on, and turned his face toward the town. 

But he was an altered man, and he could not bear the thought 
of returning to a place where his repentance would be scoffed at, 
arid his reformation disbelieved. He hesitated for a few moments; 
and then turned away to wander where he might, and seek his 
bread elsewhere. 

The lantern, the spade and the wicker bottle, were found that 
day in the churchyard. There were a great many speculations about 
the sexton's fate at first, but it was speedily determined that he had 

JExsRCifSMS IN Elocution. 329 

been carried away by the goblins; and there were not wanting 
8ome very credible witnesses who had distinctly seen him whisked 
through the air on the back of a chestnut horse blind of one eye, 
with the hind quarters of a lion, and the tail of a bear. At length 
all this was devoutly believed ; aud the new sexton used to exhibit 
to the curious for a trifling emolument, a good-sized piece of the 
church weathercock which had been accidently kicked off by the 
aforesaid horse in his sorial flight, and picked up by himself in 
the churchyard, a year or two afterward. 

Unfortunately these stories were somewhat disturbed by the un- 
looked-for reappearance of Oabriel Grub himself, some ten years 
afterward, a ragged, contented, rheumatic old man. He told his 
story to the clergyman, and also to the mayor: and in course of 
time it began to be received as a matter of history, in which form 
it has continued down to this very day. The believers in the 
weathercock tale, having misplaced their confidence once, were not 
easily prevailed upon to part with it again, so they looked as wise 
as they could, shrugged their shoulders, touched their foreheads, 
and murmured something about Gabriel Grub's having drunk all 
the Hollands, and then fallen asleep on the flat tombstone ; and they 
affected to explain what he supposed he had witnessed in the gob- 
lin's cavern, by saying he had seen the world and grown wiser. 
But this opinion, which was by no means a popular one at any 
time, gradually died off; and be the matter how it may, as Gabriel 
Grub was afflicted with rheumatism to the end of his days, this 
story has at least one moral, if it teach no better one -^ and that is, 
that if a man turns sulky and drinks at Christmas time, he may 
make up his mind to be not a bit the better for it, let the spirits be 
ever so good, or let them be even as many degrees beyond proo^ 
99 those which Gubriel Grub saw in the goblin's cavern. 



With farmer Allan at the farm abode 

William and Dora. William was his son. 

And she his niece. He often looked at them, 

And often thought^ " I *11 make them man and wife.** 

330 Exercises in Elocution. 

Wow Dora felt her uncle's will in all, 
And yearned toward William ; but the jouth, becf nio 
He bad been always with her in the house, 
Thought not of Dora. 


Then there came a day 
When Allan called his son, and said, '^ My son, 
I married late, but I would wish to. see 
My grandchild on my knees before I die ; 
And I have set my heart upon a match. 
Now, thereforei loo]^ to Dora ; she is well 
To look to ; thrifty too beyond her age. 
She is my brother's daughter ; he and I 
Had once hard words, and parted, and he (lied 
In foreign lands; but for his sake I bred 
His daughter Dora : take her for your wife ; 
For I have wished this marriage, night and day^ 
For many years." 

But William answered short : 
" I cannot marry Dora ; by my life, 
I will not marry Dora." Then the old man 
Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said : 
" You will not, boy I you dare to answer thus I 
But in my time a father's word was law, 
And so it shall be now for me. Look to 't ; 
Consider, William : take a month to think, 
And let me have an answer to my wish ; 
Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall pack. 
And never more darken my doors again I " 

But William answered madly ; bit his lips. 
And broke away. The more he looked at her, 
The less he liked her ; and his ways were harsh ; 
But Dora bore them meekly. Then before 
The month was out^ he left his father's house, 
And hired himself to work within the fields ; 
And half in love, half spite, he wooed and wed 
A laborer's daughter, Mary Morrison. 


JSxBBCJSBS IN Elocution. 381 

Then, when the bella were ringing, Allan called 
His niece and said: ^ Mj girl, I loYe you well; 
But if you speak with him that was my son. 
Or change a word with her he calls his wife, 
My home is none of yours. My will is law." 
And Dora promised, being meek. She thought, 
'* It can not be ; my uncle's mind will change 1 " 

And days went on, and there was born a boy 
To William ; then distresses came on him ; 
And day by day he passed his father's gate, 
Heart-broken, and his father helped him not 
But Dora stored what little she could save. 
And sent it to them by stealth, nor did they know 
Who sent it ; till at last a fever seized 
On Wflliam, and in harvest time he died. 

Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat 

And looked with tears upon her boy, and thought 

Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said : 

" I have obeyed my uncle until now, 

And I have sinned, for it was all through me 

This evil came on William at the first 

But, Mary, for the sake of him that *s gone. 

And for your sake, the woman that he chose. 

And for this orphan, I am come to you. 

You know there has not been for these five years 

So full a harvest : let me take the boy. 

And I will set him in my nucleus eye 

Among the wheat ; that when his heart is glad 

Of the full harvest, he may see the boy, 

And bless him for the sake of him that 's gone." 

And Dora took the child, and went her way 
Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound 
That was unsown, where many poppies grew. 
Far off the farmer came into the field 
And spied her not ; for none of all his men 
Dare tell him Dora waited with the child ; 
And Dora would have risen and gone to him, 
But her heart failed her ; and the reapers reaped, 
And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. 

3S2 ExEBCissa IN ELocvnoir. 

But when the morrow came, she rose and took 

The child once more^ and sat npon the mound; 

And made a little wreath of all the flowers 

That grew about, and tied it on his hat 

To make him pleasing in her uncle's eye. 

Then, when the farmer passed into the field, 

He spied her, and he left his men at work, 

And came and said, ^ Where were you yesterday f 

Whose child is that 7 What are you doing here 7 ** 

So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground, 

And answered aofdy, ^ This is William's child ! " 

« And did I not^" said Allan, « did I not 

Forbid you, Dora ? ** Dora said again : 

'* Do with me as you will, but take the child 

And bless him for the sake of him that 's gone ! " 

And Allan said, " I see it is a trick 

Got up betwixt you and the woman there. 

I must be taught my duty, and by you I 

You knew my word was law, and yet you dared 

To slight it Well, — - for I will take the boy ; 

But go you hence, and never see me more.*' 

So saying, he took the boy, that cried aloud 
And struggled hard. The wreath of flowers fell 
At Dora's feet She bowed upon her hands^ 
And the boy's cry came to her from the field. 
More and more distant She bowed down her head, 
Remembering the day when first she came, 
And all the things that had been. She bowed down 
And wept in secret ; and the reapers reaped. 
And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. 

Then Dora went to Mary's house, and stood 
Upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy 
Was not with Dora. She broke out in praise 
To God, that helped her in her widowhood. 
And Dora said, ^ My uncle took the boy ; 
But, Mary, let me live and work with you ; 
He says that he will never sea me more." 


Then answered Mary, ^ This shall never be, 
That thoa shouldst take my trouble on thyself; 
And, now, I think, he shall not have the boy. 
For he will teach him harshness^ and to slight 
His mother ; therefore thou and I will go^ 
And I will have my boy, and bring him home ; 
And I will beg of him to take thee back; 
Bat if he will not take thee back again. 
Then thou and I will live within one house, 
And work for William's child until he grows 
Of age to help us.** 

So the women kissed 


Each other, and set out and reached the farm. 
The door was off the latch ; they peeped, and saw 
The boy set up betwixt his grandsire*s knees. 
Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm, 
And clapt him on the hands and on the cheeks. 
Like one that loved him j and the lad stretched out 
And babbled for the golden seal that hung 
From Allan's watch and sparkled by the fire. 
Then they came in ; but when the boy beheld 
His mother, he cried out to come to her ; 
And Allan sat him down, and Mary said : 

" O father f — if you let me call you so, — 

I never came a-begging for myself) 

Or William, or this child ; but now I come 

For Dora : take her back ; she loves you well. 

0, sir ! when William died, he died at peace 

With all men ; for I asked him, and he said, 

He could not ever rue his marrying me, — 

I had been a patient wife : but, sir, he said 

That he was wrong to cross his father thus ; 

* God bless him I * he said, ' and may he never know 

The troubles I have gone through ! ' Then he turned 

His face and passed, — unhappy that I am I 

But now, sir, let me have my boy, for you 

Will make him hard, and he will learn to slight 

His father's memory ; and take Dora back, 

And let all this be as it was before.'* 

834 Exercises in Elocution. 

So Mary said, and Dora hid her &oe 

By Mary. There was silence in the room ; 

And all at once the old man burst in sobs:— 

^ I have been to bUme — to blame I I have killed my son I 

I have killed him, — but I loved him, ~- my dear son I 

May Qod forgive me I — I have been to blame. 

Kiss me, my children 1 " 

Then they clung about 

The old man's neck, and kissed him many times. 

And all the man was broken with remorse ; 

And all his love came back a hundred-fold; 

And for three hours he sobbed o*er William's child, 

Thinking of William. -^ So those four abode 

Within one house together ; and as years 

Went forward, Mary took another mate ; 

But Dora lived unmarried till her death. 


Beyelations of Wall-street 

It proved to be a night of adventure. 

I had four avenues to traverse, and the storm coming from the 
north-east, drove violently in my teeth. I buttoned my overcoat 
about my ears, settled my hat close over my face, and presenting 
my head combatively to the tempest, I pushed on. I had in this 
way crossed from the Eighth to the Sixth Avenue, scarcely con- 
scious of the progress made, when I struck against an object in the 
middle of the side-walk, and was saluted by the exclamation: 

Whatever alarm I experienced was immediately dissipated when 
I raised my h«^ad and got sight of the person who stood in my 
way. It was a girl, bare-headed, without cloak or shawl ; perhaps 
sixteen years old. 

Before I could question her, she exclaimed: 'Mother is dying. 
Won't you come, quick?' 

Without a word being said, for she hurried me on too rapidly for 
conversation, I followed down the avenue to the next street, and 
turning into it, went perhaps half a block, when my companion 
entered a two-story wooden house, and ran rapidly up the stairs to 

Exercises in Elocution. 885 


the front-room. . Here on a bed lay a woman moaning and gasping 
and exhibiting symptoms resembling epilepsy. 

*Do n't be frightened/ I said, 'your mother is not dying — is not 
going to die.' 

— * Are you sure of that?* said the girl. 

Something in the sound of her 7oice strange and startling — a 
masculine vigor, coupled with an extraordinary maturity, caused me 
to turn and regard her. Large black eyes were fixed on me with 
a firm but unsatisfied look, as if they would say: 'Do not amuse 
me : I am no child. Tell me the truth.' 

To these imaginary observations, rather than to the direct ques- 
tion, I replied: *I repeat, your mother is not dying, but evidently 
has had a fit of some kind. Is she subject to such attacks ? ' 


She looked at me almost defiantly. 

I was at a loss what to say or do when I was relieved by hearmg 
the poor woman, who had regained her consciousness, exclaim, 
* Matilda.' ' 

Matilda, with entire composure, went to the bed-side of her 
mother, who asked what was the matter. 

I replied that I believed she had been taken suddenly ill, and her 
daughter in alarm ran out for aid and met me. ' And now that I 
am here,' I continued, ' I shall be happy if I can do any thing to 
Yelieve you.' 

' Give the gentleman a chair, my daughter,' said the sick woman, 
for although I had shaken the snow from my hat and coat, I was 
still standing. 

The daughter obeyed, and I sat down. Meanwhile I had glanced 
about the room and taken a closer look at its inmates. The appear- 
ance was that of biting poverty without squalidness or misery. The 
girl was very handsome and well formed, but exhibited in her de- 
meanor no softness — indeed, little that was feminine. When I sat 
down, she seated herself at the window and looked out on the 
storm. There was something in the expression of her face which 
brought back some old association, but what I could not telL The 
mother was evidently a lady and possessed of natural refinement 
and delicacy. She explained to me that she had been very closely 
at work all day with the needle, and as she was getting into bed 


336 Exercises in ELOcunoir. 

she had been seized in a most alarming manner, and was for ti ;» 
time insensible. When she recovered she saw me standing ov^r 

It was the old tale of destitntion^ hard work, and a final break- 
ing down of a naturally strong constitution. .Yesi the familiar 
story, so much so that the novel-reader who has persevered thus 
far, in the belief that some extraordinary incident would yet turn 
Dp, will exclaim : ' Pshaw 1 how very stale and common-place this 
meeting a girl in the street and being conducted up a pair of stairs 
to a sick-room, and so-forth and so-forth.' To be sure, all this is 
very common -* would it were otherwise, but Ood permits one class 
of his creatures to fare sumptuously every day, while another class 
starves, and the mystery of this we may not undertake to fathom. 

The poor lady seemed so nearly recovered that there was nothing 
to be done for her. I asked if I could render her any assistance, 
and if she was sufifering from any pressing want. She said she wac 
not, and regretted that I should be taken out of my way. 

There was no reason why I should stay longer, yet I felt irresis- 
tibly impelled to speak to the young girl, who maintained her seat 
by the window, looking fixedly out of it. I rose to depart. Then 
I said, turning to her : 

' You see I was right, your mother will be quite well by morning.* 

She assented by a nod. 

* Where were you going when I met you ?* I asked. 

* I thought mother was dying, and I started to find somebody to 
come to her. I did not dare stay to see her die.' And she looked 
again with that expression which had touched me, and which called 
up a strange feeling, like the memory of a half-forgotten dream. 

' I think I must call and see you to-morrow,' I said to the lady, 
'for we are in the midst of a heavy storm. I reside not far from 
here, and I shall see if I can*t be of some use to you. Pray, may I 
inquire your name?' 

*Mrs, Hitchcock.* 

'And your husband? 

' Has been dead for a long time.' 

'Hewas ' 

'A physician; Dr. Ralph Hitchcock.' 

* Who graduated at Yale College, thirty years ago? 

ExjsRciSEs IN Elocution. 387 


' Who resided in Cincinnati, and died there ? 

• The same.* 

* And you are Ealph Hitchcock's widow?* 

•And this young person?' 

' His daughter. The only surviving of five children.' 

The room swam round. Frank Hitchcock, my class-mate, my 
room-mate in college, my beloved friend, my cherished correspond* 
ent, so long as he lived, cut off in the flower of his life ; while 
already acquiring fame, and laying the foundation for a grand suc- 
cess, death had snatched him away. 

I stood oppressed with these thoughts, not speaking, not moving. 
Mrs. Hitchcock lay waiting calmly for some explanation. She had 
been too long schooled by trouble to become easily excited. Not 
so the daughter; she rose from her chair, came into the middle of 
the room, and burst into a hysterical sobbing, which was so violent 
that it alarmed me. I had made no explanation, but my questions 
showed I was well acquainted with the one whose decease had 
caused such a revolution in their fortunes. 

After a short pause, I said : ' My dear lady, I knew your husband 
well : more than that, we were the best of friends. It is now late ; 
you are just recovering from this sudden attack. I shall be sure to 
see you to-morrow. Gk)d bless you both ! * And I came away. 

Desperate as my own affairs had been, here were circumstances 
much more discouraging. Reader, if you yourself are unfortunately 
borne down by the weight of what seems a calamitous destiny, cast 
about for some more afflicted, and take on you the office of aid and 
adviser. Assume a part of their burdens, it will help to lighten your 
own. You will be surprised what strength you will gain beside. 
It is so. For thus marvelously has G-od established the paradox : 
^ There is that maketh himself poor, yet hath great riches.' 

Richard B. KtmbaU, 

S38 Exercises in Elocution. 

Tha Bamancd and the Sealitj of the Law. 

Among the learned or liberal professions, the one that oAenesft 
tempts and dazzles the yoatbful mind is that of the law. 

This fact has its reason, and is susceptible of explanation. 

The profession of the law is venerable for iU antiquity, rich in 
the illustrious names which adorn its history, and unequaled for the 
aggregate of talent and eloquence which hare in ail ages character^ 
ized its leading members. 

Far back in the dim yista of the past, the fancy of the legal en- 
thusiast may behold the commanding form of the inspired Cicero, 
his toga falling gracefully about him, his eye glowing with pathetic 
emotion, as he stands there on the Roman forum pleading the cause 
of his early friend and tutor, the poet Archius. 

It must be with no small degree of pride that the advocate thus 
traces his professional lineage back to the greatest orator of andent 

There is a kind of ancestral congratulation that he, too, like 
Cicero, is empowered to use his country's laws, when occasion re- 
quires, to defend the innocent and relieye the oppressed. 

Then again there is romance connected with the practice of the 
law. Should every lawyer of long experience keep a journal, 
wherein he might detail the stories of all his clients, their strange 
grievances, their complicated affairs, and confidential disclosures, it 
would form a book only surpassed for variety and novelty by the 
famous 'Arabian Nights.' 

The amount of heart-history with which he becomes acquainted 
seems strangely in contrast with the lack of sentiment for which 
his character is so generally noted. He becomes familiar with 
domestic difficulties, disappointed affections, atrocious crimes, and 
daring schemes ; and finds out more of the inner life of humanity 
than can be discovered from any other stand-point in society. His 
council-room is a kind of secular confessional, where clients reveal 
reluctant secrets, and tell of private wrongs. To him, what the 
world is accustomed to regard as fiction, constitutes the common- 
place facts of his legal practice. 

But in our country the more seductive phrase of the law is this : 
it has ever been the natural avenue to political preferment and judi- 
cial honors. Hence it is that young men of fine abilities and am- 

Exercises in Elocution. '339 

bilious of distinction, so frequently choose this profession as the 
proper field whereon to meet * the high endeavor and the glad suc- 
cess.' And perhaps it is sometimes a misfortune that such a reason 
decides them raUier than a sense of any peculiar fitness for the call- 
ing which they so hastily espouse. But of that hereafter. 

Lawyers, as a class, are, or were, much respected and revered, 
exerting as they do a very controlling influence over society and 
affairs. I know full well that novels and plays abound in a certain 
stereotyped character called an attorney, who is made to do all the 
dirty work of the plot or story. He is represented usually as a 
cadaverous-looking individual, with a swinish propensity to thrust 
his nose into every one's business, who is willing to damn his 
soul for a fee, and whose heart is devoid of all sympathy for 
suffering or distress. The worst of all these human fiends is Uriah 
Heep, whose freckled, hairy hand, with its cold clammy touch, so 
often makes the reader shudder as he turns the pages of * David 
Copperfield.' Then there is Oily Gammon, who figures in * Ten 
Thousand a Year,' and whose qualities are very plainly suggested 
by his name. And among the more recent types of this character, 
we have the 'Marks' of Harriet Beecher Stowe, who, when asked 
to do a small favor, or to perform a common act of politeness with- 
out the tender of a fee, rolls out his eyes in wonderment, and to 
explain his refusal drawls out: ^Ohl Fm a lawyer/* The muses 
too have conspired against these poor, persecuted fellows; and there 
is extant a little poem, called ' Law versus Saw,' in which a very 
invidious comparison is sought to be made between a lawyer and 
that small operator in the lumber business commonly known as a 
sawyer. In usefulness and dignity the poet confers the palm on the 
vocation of the latter. The last verse sums up the whole mattei 


* TUs conclnslon tben I dxmw* 
That no oxercise of jaw, 
Twifftlng ladia-rabber law. 

Id as good 
As the exercise of paw 
On the handle of a saw. 

Sawing wood.* 

But these pictures of law-attorneys, found so frequently in light 
literature, furnish the unknowing with a very erroneous estimate of 
the average character of the legal profession. These seeming caric- 
atures have had, and still have, originals in fact, but they are as 

840 IsxERciSES IN Elocution. 

much haled and despised by the more respectable members of the 
bar as by the world at large. Indeed, to a person of experience in 
life, there need be no argument to prove that lawyers as a body are 
quite as honorable, intelligent, liberal and public-spirited as the 
fame number of men selected from any class which has a distinctiyo 

Graoaie^s Trnst 
Dear Grannie is with us no longer ; 

Her hair, that was white as the snow 
Was parted one morning forever. 

On her head lying soft and low ; 
Her hands left the Bible wide open. 

To tell us the road sl\e had trod. 
With way marks like footsteps to tell us 

The path she had gone up to God. 

No wonderful learning had Grannie; 

She knew not the path of the stars, 
Nor aught of the comet's wide cycle^ 

^or of Nebula's dim cloudy bars; 
But she knew how the wise men adoring, 

Saw a star in the East long ago ; 
She knew how the first Christmas anthems 

Came down to the shepherds below. 

She had her own test, I remember, 

For the people whoe'er they might be. 
When we spoke of the strangers about us 

But lately come over the sea ; 
Of "Laura," and "Lizzie," and "Jamie,- 

And stately old <' Essellby Cakes," 
She listened and whispered it softly, 

" My dear, are these friends meetin*-folks ? " 

When our John went away to the dty 
With patrons, whom all the world knew 

To be sober and honest great merchants, 
For Grannie this all would not do; 

ExsRVisES IN Elocution. 341 

Till she pulled at John's sleeve in the twilight, 

To be certain, before he had gone; 
And he smiled as he heard the old question, 

"Are you sure they are meetin*-folks, John?' 

When Minnie came home from the city, 

And left heart and happiness there, 
I saw her close kneeb'ng by Grannie, 

With her dear wKnkled hands on her hair ; 
And amid the low sobs of the maiden. 

Game softly the tremulous tone, 
^ He wasn*t like meetin'-folks, Minnie ; 

Dear child, you are better alone.** 

And now from the corner we miss her. 

And hear that reminder no more ; 
But still, unforgotten, the echo 

Comes back from that far-away shore; 
Till Sophistry slinks in the corner, 

Though Charity sweet has her due, 
Yet we feel, if we want to meet Granme, 

'Twere best to be meetin' -folks too* 

The Telegram. 
Dead I did you say ? he I dead in his prime 1 

Son of my mother 1 my brother 1 my friend t 
While the horologue points to the qoon of his time, 
Has his sun set in darkness? is all at an end ? 
(" By a iudden accident:') 

Dead I it is not, it cannot, it must not be true t 
Let me read the dire words for myself if I can ; 

Relentless, hard, cold, they rise on my view — 
They blind me 1 how did you say thtX they ran ? 
(" J30 was fMTtaXLy injured^*) 

Dead I around me I hear the singing of birds 
And the breath of June roses comes in at the pane, 

Nothing — nothing is changed by thos(e terrible worda^ 
They cannot be true t let me see them again; 
(" And died yesterday,*^ 

342 Exercises in ELocunoir. 

Dead I a letter but yesterday told of his love! 

Another to-morrow the talc will repeat; 
Outstripped by this thanderbolt flung from aborc^ 

Scathing my heart as it falls at my feet I 
(" FwMToH to-morrow,**) 

Oh, terrible Telegraph I srbtle and still I 

Darting thy lightnings with pitiless haste I 
No kind warning thunder — no storm-boding thrill — 
But one fierce deadly flash, and the heart lieth waste I 
{^Inform hiaJHends") 

Sarah K HeruhavK 

Tho Swan's NesL 

Little Ellie sits alone 

Mid the beeches of a meadow. 

By a stream-side, on the grass ; 

And the trees are showering down 
Doubles of their leaves in shadow. 

On her shining hair and faceu 

She has thrown her bonnet by ; 

And her feet she has been dipping 
In the shallow water's flow ; — 
Now she holds them nakedly 

In her hands, all sleek and dripping^ 
While she rocketh to and fro. 

Little Ellie sits alone ; 

And the smile she softly nsea^ 

Fills the silence like a speech ; 

While she thinks what shall be done, 
And the sweetest pleasure chooses, 

For her future within her reach. 

Little Ellie in her smile 

Chooseth — "I will have a lover, 
Riding on a steed of steeds t 
He shall love me without guile; 

And to him I will discover 
The swan*s nest among the reeds. 

MxsRcisES IN Elocution. 343 

** And the steed shftll be red-roan| 
And the lover shall be noble, 

With an eye that takes the breath; 

And the lute he plays upon 
Shall strike ladies into trouble, 

As his sword strikes men to death* 

'* And the steed it shall be shod 
All in silver, housed in azure, 

And the mane shall swim the wind : 

And the hoofs along the sod 
Shall flash onward and keep measure^ 

Till the shepherds look behind. 

* But my lover will not prize 
All the glory that he rides in, 

When he gazes in my face. 

He will say, * Love, thine eyes 
Build the shrine my soul abides in ; 

And I kneel here for thy grace.' 

" Then, ay I then ]^ shall kneel low, 
With the red-roan steed anear him, 

Which shall seem to understand — 

Till I answer, * Rise and go I 
For the world must love and fear him 

Whom I gift with heart and hand.' 

" Then he will arise so pale, 
I shall feel my own lips tremble 

With Kyesl must not say — 

Nathless maiden brave, ' Farewell,* 
I will utter and dissemble — 

* Light to-morrow with to-day.' 

" Then he *11 ride among the hills 
To the wide world past the river, 

There to put away all wrong : 

To make straight distorted wills. 
And to empty the broad quiver 

Which the wicked bear along. 


344 Exercises in Elocution, 

^ Three times shall a young foot-page 
Swim the stream and climb the mountain 
And kneel down beside my feet — 
' Lo I my master sends this gage, 
Lady, for thy pity's counting I 
What wilt thoa exchange for it 7 * 

** And the first time I will send 
A white rosebud for a guer,don — 
And the second time a glove : 
But the third time — I may bend 
From my pride, and answer — * Pardon — 
If he comes to take my love.' 

** Then the young foot-page will run — 
Then my lover will ride faster, 

Till he kneeleth at my knee : 

' I am a duke's eldest son 1 
Thousand serfs do call me master, — 

But^ Love, I love but ihee/ ' 

'* He will kiss me on'the mouth 
Then ; and lead me as a lover, 
Through the crowds that praise his deeds : 

And, when soul-tied by one troth, 


Unto him I will discover 
That swan's nest among the reeds.** 

Little Ellie, with her smile 

Not yet ended, rose up gayly, 

Tied the bonnet, donned the shoe — - 
And went homeward, round a mile, 

Just to see, as she did daily. 
What more eggs were with tbe two. 

Pushing through the elm-tree copse 
Winding by the stream, light-hearted, 
Where the ozier pathway leads — 
Past the boughs she stoops — and stops ! 
Lo I the wild swan had deserted, — 
And a rat had gnawed the reeds. 

HxERCisES IN Elocution. 345 

Ellie went home sad and slow : 
If she found the lover ever, 

With his red-roan steed of steedSi 

Sooth I know not I but I know 
She could never show him — never, 

That swan's nest among the reeds 1 

Mr^, Btowning, 

The Main Trnok^ or a Leap ton Id&i 
Old Ironsides at anchor lay, 

In the harbor of Mahon ; 
II dead calm rested on the bay, 

The waves to sleep had gone ; 
When little Hal, the captain's son, 

A lad both brave and good, 
In sport, up shroud and rigging ran. 

And on the main-truck stood I 

A shudder shot through every vein. 

All eyes were turjned on high 1 
There stood the boy, with diezy brainy 

Between the sea and sky ; 
No hold had he above, below, 

Alone he stood in air ; 
To that far height none dared to go ; 

No aid could reach him there. 

We gazed, — but not a man could speak I 

With horror all aghast, 
In groups, with pallid brow and cheek, 

We watched the quivering mast. 
The atmosphere grew thick and hot. 

And of a lurid hue ; 
As riveted unto the spot. 

Stood officers and crew. 

The father came on deck, — he gasped, 

"Oh Gk)d! thy will be done I " 
Then suddenly a rifle grasped. 

And aimed it at his son ; 

846 JEJxEECisss IN Elocxjtion. 

" Jump far out, boy, into the waye ! 

Jump or I fire I " he said ; 
" That only chance thy life can saye I 

•* Jump I jump, boy I " — he obeyed. 

He snnk, — he rose, — he lived, — he moyed, — 

And for the ship struck out ; 
On board, we hailed the lad beldyed. 

With many a manly shout 
His father drew, in silent joy. 

Those wet arms round his neck, — 
Then folded to his heart his boy. 

And famkd on (he dedc 

Q. P, Morm, 

From Bose Glarlu 

•For mercy's sake, what are you thinking about?' asked Dolly, 
*wiih that curious look in your eyes, and the color coming and 
going in your face that way ? ' 

'I was thinking,' said the child, her eyes still fixed on the silver 
lake, ' how beautiful God made the earth, and how sad it was there 
should be * 

* WJiatf now ? ' asked Dolly tartly. 
•Any sorrow in it,' said Rose. 

* The earth is well euough, I s'pose,' said Dolly. ' I never looked 
at it much ; and as to the rest of your remark, I hope you will 
remember it when you get home, and not plague my life out when 
I want you to work. Let's see : you will have the shop to sweep 
out, the window-shutters to take down and put up night and morn- 
ing, errands to run, sewing^ Washing, ironing, and scrubbing to dc, 
dishes to wash, besides a few other little things. 

* Of course, you will have your own clothes to make and to mend, 
the sheets and towels to hem, and be learning, meanwhile, to wait 
on customers in the shop; I shan't trust you with the money-drawer 
till I know whether you are honest.' 

Rose's face became crimson, and she involuntarily moved furfaer 
away from Dolly. 

Exercises m Elocution. 347 

'None of that, now,* said that ladj; 'such airs won't go down 
with me. It is a pity if I can't speak to my own sister's child/ 

Kose thought this was the only light in which she was likely to 
Tie w the relationship ; but she was too wise to reply. 

* There's no knowing,* said Dolly * what you may have learned 
among those children at the asylum.' 

' You put me there, Aunt Dolly,' said Rose. 

'Of course I put you there; but did I tell you to learn all the bad 
things you saw?* 

' You did n't tell me not ; but I never would take what belonged 
to another.' 

*Shut up now — you are just like your mother, ex-actly.* And 
Dolly stopped here, considering that she would go no further in the 
way of invective. 

' Aunt Dolly,' said Rose, timidly, about a month after the events 
above related, *Aunt Dolly ' and here Rose stopped short. 

* Out with it,' said Dolly, * if you've got any thing to say. You 
make me as nervous as an eel, twisting that apron-string, and Aunt 
DoUy-ing such an eternity: if you have got any thing to say, out 
with it.' 

'May I go to the evening-school?' asked Rose. 'It is a free- 

* Well, you are not free to go, if it is ; you know how to read 
and write, and I have taught you how to make change pretty well- 
that is all you need for my purposes.' 

' But I should like to learn other things. Aunt Dolly.* 

' What other things, I'd like to know ? That's your mother all 

over. She never was content without a book at the end of her 

nose. She could n't have earned her living to have saved her life, 

if she had n't got married.' 

' It was partly to earn my living I wanted to learn, Aunt Dolly : 

perhaps I could be a teacher.' 

'Too grand to trim caps and bonnets, like your Aunt Dolly, I 

suppose,' added she, sneeringly ; * it is quite beneath a charity-orphan, 

I suppose.' 

'No,' said Rose; 'but I should like to teach better.' 

'Well, you won't do it — never no time. So there's all there ia 

848 Exercises m Elocution. 

to that : now take that ribbon, and make the bows to old MnL 
Griffin's cap. The idea of wanting to be a school-teacher when 
you have it at your fingers' ends to twist up a ribbon so easy — it 
is ridikiUs 1 Did Miss Snow come here last night, after I went out, 
for her bonnet?' 

* Yes,' answered Rose. 

' Did you tell her it was all finished but the cap-frill? ' asked 

' No ; because I knew that it was not yet b^gun, and I could not 
tell a — a—' 


*LieI I suppose,' screamed Dolly, putting her face very close to 
Hose's, as if to defy her to say the obnoxious word ; * is that it ?' 

* Tes,' said Rose, courageously. 

'Good girl I good girl I 'said Dolly; 'shall have a medal, so it 
shall ; ' and cutting a large oval out of a bit of pasteboard, and pass- 
ing a twine string through it, she hung it round her neck : * Good 
little Rosy-Posy — just like its conscientious mamma 1 ' 

' I wish I were half as good as my mamma,' said Rose, with a 
trembling voice. 

' I suppose you think that Aunt Dolly is a great dnner ! ' said 
that lady. 

* We are all great sinners, are we not?' answered Rose. 

*A11 but little Rosy-Posy,' sneered Dolly: ^skt is perfect — only 
needs a pair of wings to take her straight up to heaven.' 

Fanny Fern. 

rrom the American Hote-books. 

An article to be made of telling the stories of the tiles of an old- 
£ishioned chimney-piece to a child. 

A person conscious that he was soon to die, the humor in which 
he would pay his last visit to familiar persons and things. 

A description of the various classes of hotels and taverns, and 
the prominent personages in each. There should be some story 
connected with it, — as of a person commencing with boarding at 
a great hotel, and gradually, as his means grow less, descending in 
life, till he got below ground into a cellar. 

Exercises in Elocution. 849 

A person to be in the possession of something as perfect as mor- 
tal man has a right to demand; he tries to make it better and ruins 
it entirely. 

A person to spend all his life and splendid talents in trying to 
achieve something naturally impossible, — as to make a conquest 
over Nature. 

Meditations about the main gas-pipe of a great city, — if the 
supply were to be stopped, what would happen ? How many dif- 
ferent scenes it sheds light on ? It might be made emblematical of 

A fairy tale about chasing Echo to her hiding-piace. Echo is the 
voice of a reflection in a mirror. 

A house to be built over a natural spring of inflammable gas, and 
to be constantly illuminated therewith. What moral could be drawn 
from this ? It is a carburetted hydrogen gas, and is cooled from a 
soft shale or slate, which is sometimes bituminous, and contains 
more or less carbonate of lime. It appears in the vicinity of Lock- 
port and Niagara Falls, and elsewhere in New York. I believe it 
indicates coaL At Fredonia, the whole village is lighted by it. 
Elsewhere, a farm-house was lighted by it, and no other fuel used 
in the coldest weather. 

Gnomes, or other mischievous little fiends, to be represented as 
burrowing in the hollow teeth of some person who has subjected 
himself to their power. It should be a child's story. This should 
be one of niany modes of petty torment. They should be contrasted 
with beneficient fairies, who minister to the pleasures of the good. 

A man will undergo great toil and hardship for ends that muf t be 
many years distant, — as wealth or fame, — but none for an end 
that may be close at hand, — as the joys of heaven. 

Insincerity in a man*s own heart must make all his enjoyments, 
all that concerns him, unreal ; so that his whole life must seem like 
a merely dramatic. representation. And this would be the case, 
even though he were surrounded by true-hearted relatives and 

360 Exercises in Elocvtion. 

A company of men, none of whom have anything worth hoping 
for on earth, yet who do not look forward to anything beyond 
earth I 

Sorrow to be personified, and its effect on a family represented 
by the way in which the members of the family regard this dark- 
clad and sad-browed inmate. 

A story to show how we are all wronged and wrongers, and 
avenge one another. 

To personify winds of various characters. 

A man living a wicked life in one place, and simultaneously a 
virtuous and religious one in another. 

An ornament to be worn about the person of a lady, -* as a jew- 
elled heart Afler many years, it happens to be broken or un- 
screwed, and a poisonous odor comes out 

A company of persons to drink a certsdn medicinal preparation, 
which would prove a poison, or the contrary, according to their 
different characters. 

Many persons, without a consciousness of so doing, to contribute 
to some one end ; as to a beggar's feast, made up of broken victuals 
from many tables; or a patch carpet, woven of shreds from innu- 
merable garments. 

Some very famous jewel or other thing, much talked of all over 
the world. Some person to meet with it, and get possession of it 
in some unexpected manner, amid homely circumstances. 

A cloud in the shape of an old woman kneeling, with arms ex- 
tended toward the moon. 

On being transported to strange scenes, we feel as if all were 
unreal. This is but the perception of the true unreality of earthly 
things, made evident by the want of congruity between ourselves 
and them. By and by we become mutually adapted, and the per- 
ception is lost. 

Exercises in Elocution. S5i 

An old looking-pflass. Somebody finds out the secret of making . 
all the images that have been reflected in it pass back again across 
its surface. 

Our Indian races having reared no monuments, like the Greeks, 
Romans and Egyptians, when they have disappeared from the earth 
their history will appear a fable, and they misty phantoms. 

A woman to sympathize with all emotioni^ but to have none of 
her own. 

A letter, written a century or more ago, but which has never yet 
been unsealed. 

A dreadful secret to be communicated to several people of vari- 
ous characters, — grave or gay, — and they all to become insane, 
according to their characters, by the influence of the secret 

Stories to be told of a certain person's appearance in public, of 
his having been seen in various situations, and of his making visits 
in private circles ; but finally, on looking for this person, to come 
upon his old grave and mossy tombstone. 

The influence of a peculiar mind, in close communion with an- 
other, to drive the latter to insanity. 

To look at a beautiful girl, and picture all the lovers, in difierent 
situations, whose hearts are centered upon her. 

Nathaniel Hawthorne. 

LiYocation to Light. 

holy light I thou art old as the look of God, and eternal as 
His word. The angels were rocked in thy lap, and their infant 
smiles were brightened by thee. Creation is in thy memory. By 
thy torch the throne of Jehovah was set, and thy hand burnished 
the myriad stars that glitter in His crown. Worlds new from His 
omnipotent hand were sprinkled with beams from thy baptismal 
font At thy golden urn, pale Luna comes to fill her silver horn ; 
Saturn bathes his sky-girt rings ; Jupiter lights his waning moons, 
and Venus dips her queenly robes anew. Thy fountains are 


shoreless as the ocean of heavenly love, thy center is everywhere, 
and thy boundary no power has marked. 

Thy beams gild the illimitable fields of space, and gladden the 
farthest verge of the universe. The glories of the seventh heaven 
are open to thy gaze, and thy glare is felt in the woes of lowest 
"Erebus." The sealed books of heaven by thee are read, and 
thine eye, like the Infinite, canst pierce the dark veil of the future, 
and glance backward through the mystic cycles of the past. Thy 
touch gives the lily its whiteness, the rose its tint^ and thy kindling 
ray makes the diamond's light. Thy beams are mighty as the 
power that binds the spheres. 

Thou canst change the sleety winds to soothing zephyrs; and 
thou canst melt the icy mountains of the poles to gentle rains 
and dewy vapors. 

The granite rocks of the hills are upturned by thee, volcanoes 
bursty islands sink and rise, rivers roll and oceans swell at thy 
look of command. And oh I thou monarch of the skies, bend now 
thy bow of millioned arrows and pierce, if thou canst, this 
darkness that thrice twelve moons has bound me. 

Burst now thine emerald gates, oh I Morn, and let thy dawning 

Mine eyes roll in vain to find thee, and my soul is weary of this 
interminable gloom. The past comes back robed in a pall which 
makes all things dark, and covers the future with but a rayless 
night of years. My heart is the tomb of blighted hopes, and all 
the misery of feelings unemployed has settled on me. I am 
misfortune's child, and sorrow long since marked me for her own. 

Mrs. J5. E. DeKrou/t. 

Exercises, nr Elocution. 353 

From BiobelieTL 

Richelieu, And so you think this new conspiracy 
The craftiest trap yet laid for the old fox ? — 
Pox 1 — Well, I like the nickname I What did Plutarch 
Say of the Greek Lysander? 

Joseph, I forget 

Rich. That where the lion's skin fell short, he eked it 
Out with the fox*sI A great statesman, Joseph, 
That same Lysander I 

JosepK Orleans heads the traitors. 

Rich, A very wooden head then I WellT 

Joseph, The favorite ; 
Count Baradas^- 

Rich, A weed of hasty growth, 
First gentleman of the chamher, — titles, lands, 
And the King's earl It cost me six long winters 
To moimt as high, as in six little moons 
This painted lizard — But I hold the ladder, 
And when I shake he falls I What more ? 

Joseph, A scheme 
To make your orphan ward an instrument 
To aid your foes you placed her with the Queen, 
One of the royal chamber, as a watch 
r th* enemy's quarters — 

Rich, And the silly child 
Visits me daily, calls me " Father,** — prays 
Kind Heaven to bless me. Senseless puppet 
No ears nor eyes I And yet she says : " She loves me I ^ 
GK> on — 

Joseph, Tour ward has charmed the King. 

Rich, The King is weak — whoever the King loves 
Must rule the King; the lady loves another, 
The other rules the lady, thus we are balked 
Of our ♦wn proper sway. The King must have 
No goddess but the State : — the State ! That's Richelieu I 

Joseph. This is not the worst; Louis, in all decorous, 
And deeming you her least compliant guardian. 
Would veil his suit by marriage with his minion, 
Your prosperous foe, Count Baradas I 

854 Exercises xn Elocution. 

Rich. Ha! hal 
I have another bride for BaradasI 

Enter Francois. 

Francois, Mademoiselle De Mortemarl 

Rich, Most opportune — admit her. [EjcU Fbancou* 

In mj closet 
You'll find a rosary, Joseph ; ere you tell 
Three hundred beads, I'll summon you. — Stay, Joseph; 
I did omit an Ave in my matins — 
A grievous fault; atone it for me, Joseph. 

EnUr Julu ds Mortemab. 

RichtUeu, That's my sweet Julie I why, upon this face 
Blushes such daybreak, one might swear the morning 
Were come to visit Tithon. 

Jtdic (placing herself cU his fed). Are you gracious? 
May I say "Father?" 

Rich, Now and ever I 

JtUie, Father! 
A sweet word to an orphan. 

Rich, No ; not orphan 
While Richelieu lives; thy father loved me well; 
My friend, ere I had flatterers (now Fm great. 
In other phrase, I'm friendless) — he died young 
In years, not service, and bequeathed thee to me; 
And thou shalt have a dowry, girl, to buy 
Thy mate amid the mightiest Drooping ? — sighs 7 -^ 
Art thou not happy at the court? 

Julie, Not often. 

Rich, (aside). Can she love Baradas? Ah! at thy heart 
There's what can smile and sigh, blush and grow pale, 
All in a breath I Thou art admired -^ art young ; 
Does not his Majesty commend thy beauty^ 
Ask thee to sing to- him ? — and swear such sounds 
Had smoothed the brow of Saul 7 

JtUie, He's very tiresome, 
Our worthy King. 

Rich, Fie I Kings are never tiresome 
Save to their ministers. What courtly gallants 

Exercises in Elocution. 855 

Charm ladies most? — De Sourdiac, Longaeyille, or 
The favorite Baradas? 

JuUe, A smileless man — 
Fear and shun him. 

RicK Yet he courts thee I 

JvXie, Then 
He is more tiresome than his Majesty. 

Rich, Right, girl, shun Baradas. Yet of the flowers 
Of France, not one, in whose more honeyed breath 
Thy heart hears summer whisper? 

EnUr HnouKT. 

ffugueL The Chevalier 
De Mauprat waits below. 

JiUie (starting up). De Mauprat I 

Rich. Hem I 
He has been tiresome too I — Anon. [ExU Hroun. 

Jtdie. What doth he ? 
I mean — I — Does your Eminence — that is — 
Know you Messire de Mouprat ? 

Rich. Well I — and you — 
Has he addressed you often ? 

Julie. Often! No — 
Nine times: nay, ten; — the last time by the lattice 
Of the great staircase. {In a melancholy tene.) The Court 
sees him rarely. 

Rich. A bold and forward royster I 

JiilML Het nay, modest, 
G«ntle and sad, methinks. 

Rich. Wears gold and azure? 

JuUe. No; sable. 

Rich. So you note his colors, Julie ? 
Shame on you, child, look loftier. By the mass, 
I have business with this modest gentleman. 

Julie. YouVe angry with poor Julie. There's no cause. 

Rich. No cause — you hate my foes ? 

JtiUe. I do I 

Rich. Hate Mauprat? 

JuUe. Not Mauprat. No, not Adrien, father. 

356 . Exercises in Elocvtioh. 

Rich, AdrienI 
Familiar ! — Go, child ; no, — not thai way ; wait 
In the tapestry chamber; I will join you, — go. 

JulU. His brows are knit; I dare not call him father I 
But I mwt speak. Tour Eminence — 

Rich, {atendy). Well, girll 

Julie, Nay, 
Smile on me — one smile more; there, now Fm happy. . 
Do not rank Mauprat with your foes; he is not^ 
I know he it not; he loves France too welL 

Rich, Not rank De Mauprat with my foes? 
So be it 
m blot him from that lisU 

Julie, That's my own father. [Exit JuLih, 

Rich. Huguetl 

ErUer Huguet. 

De Mauprat struggled not nor murmur'd ? 

Huguet No: proud and passive. 

Rich, Bid him enter. — Hold : 
Look that he hide no weapon. Humph, despair 
Makes victims sometimes victors. When he has enter'd. 
Glide round unseen; place thyself yonder; watch him; 
If he show violence — (l^^ ^^ ^^ ^7 carbine ; 
So, a good weapon ; ) if he play the lion, 
Why — the dog's death. 

Eicil Huguet ; Richelieu eeaU himself at the table. Enter Di 


Rich, Approach, sir. Can you call to mind the hour. 
Now three years since, when in this room, methinks, 
Your presence honored me 7 

De Mauprat It is, my lord, 
One of my most — 

Rich, (dryly). Delightful recollections. 

De Maup, (aside). St Denis 1 doth he make a jest of axo 
and headsman ? 

Rich, (sternly), I did then accord you 
A mercy ill requited I — you still live ? 

Exercises in Elocutioit. 357 

Messire de Mauprat^ 
Doom'd to sure death, how hast since consumed 
The time allotted thee for serious thought 
And solemn penance ? 
De Maup, (embarrassed,) The time, my Lord ? 
Rich. Is not the question plain? I'll answer for thee. 
Thou hast sought nor priest nor shrine ; no sackcloth chafed 
Thy delicate flesh. The rosary and the death's-head 
Have not^ with pious meditation, purged 
Earth from the carnal gaze. What thou hast not done. 
Brief told; what done, a yolumel Wild debauch^ 
Turbulent riot:— for the mom the dice-box— 
Noon claimed the duel — and the night the wassail: 
These, your most holy pure preparatives 
For death and judgment I Do I wrong you, Sir ? 

De Maup. I was not always thus : — if changed my nature^ 
Blame that which changed my fate. — Alas, my Lord, 
Were this your fate, perchance. 
You would have err'd like me I 

Rich. 1 mighty like you^ 
Have been a brawler and a reveler;— not^ 
Like you, a trickster and a thief, — 

De Maup, (advancing threakningly,) Lord Cardinal I 
Unsay those words I — 

Rich, (waving hia hand) Not quite so quick, friend Huguel; 
Messire de Mauprat is a patient man. 
And he can wait I — 

You have outrun your fortune ; 
I blame you not that you would be a beggar — • 
Each to his taste I — but I do charge you, Sir, 
That being beggarM, you would coin false moneys 
Out of that crucible, called debt. — To live 
On means not yours — be brave in sil£:s and laces, 
Gallant in steeds, splendid in banquets; — all 
Not yours — ungiven, unherited — unpaid for; 
This is to be a trickster ; and to filch 
Men*s art and labor, which to them is wealth, 
Life, daily bread, —quitting all scores with — " Friend, 

858 Exercises in Elocution. 

You're troublesome I " — Why this, forgive me, 

la what— when done with a less dainty grace — 

Plain folks call " Theft! " — You owe eight thousand pistolei. 

Minus one crown, two lairds I I tell you, Sir, 

That you must pay your debts — 

Dejiaup. With all my heart, 
^Mfljov^ Where shall I borrow, then, the money ? 

Rich, {aside and laughing.) A humorous ft How, 
— The very man 
To suit my purpose — ready, frank, and bold I 
Adrien de Mauprat, men have called me cruel ; 
I am not; I am just I — I found France rent asunder,- 
The rich men despots, and the poor banditti ; — 
Sloth in the mart, and schism within the temple ; 
Brawls festering to Rebellion ; and weak Laws 
Rotting away with rust in antique sheaths — 
I have re-created France ; and from the ashes 
Of the old feudal and decrepid carcase, 
Civilization on her luminous wings 
Soars, — phoenix-like, to Jove I — What was my art? 
Genius, some say, — some Fortune, — Witchcraft, some. 
Not so; my art was Justice! — Force and fraud 
Misname it cruelty — you shall confute them I 
My champion you I — You met me as your foe. 
Depart my friend — you shall not die — France needs you. 
You shall vs ipe off all stains, — be rich, be honored. 

Be great [De Mauprat /a2& on his knee — Rioheueu raises him,] 

I ask, Sir, in retup>, this hand, 
To gift it with a bride, whose dowry shall match, 
Yet not exceed her beiuty. 

De Maup. I, my Lord — 
I have no wish to marry, 

BieK Surely, Sir, 
To die were worse. 

De Maup, Scarcely ; the poorest coward 
Must die, — but knowingly to march to marriage— 
My Lord, it asks the courage of a lion 1 

Rich. Traitor, thou triflest with me I — I know 
Thou hast dared to love my ward — my charge. 

Exercises in Elocution Wf 

Dt Maup, As rivers 
May love the sunlight — basking in the beams, 
And hurrying on ! — 

Ric^ Thou hfts told her of thy love? 

De Maup: My Lord, if I had dared to love a maid| 
Lowliest in France, I would not so have wrong'd her. 
As bid her link rich life and virgin hope 
With one, the deathman's gripe might, from her side, 
Pluck at the nuptial altar. 

Ruh, I believe thee ; 
Yet since she knows not of thy love, renounce her; 
Take life and fortune with another 1 — Silent? 

De Maup, Your faith has been one triumph. You know not 
How blessM a thing it was in my dark hour <* 
To nurse the one sweet thought you bid me banish. 
Love hath no need of words ; — nor less within 
That holiest temple — the heaven-builded soul — 
Breathes the recorded vow — Base night — false lover 
Were he, who bartered all that brighten'd grie^ 
Or sanctified despair, for life and gold. 
Revoke your mercy ; I prefer the fate 

Rich, Huguet to the tapestry chamber 
Conduct your prisoner. 
{To Mauprat.) You will there behold 
The executioner: — your doom be private — 
And Heaven have mercy on you! 

De Maup, When Fm dead, 
Tell her, I loved her. 

Rich, Keep such follies. Sir, 
For fitter ears ; — go — 

De Matip, Does he mock me ? 

[Exeunt De Mauprat and HnouKT.] 
Rich, Joseph, 
Gome forth. 

Enier Joseph. 
Methinks your cheek has lost its rubies ; 
I fear you have been too lavish of the flesh ; 
The scourge is heavy. 

160 SxEMCiasa uf JElol vnoir. 

Joseph, "PvKj joUy chaDge the subject 

RUh, You good men are so modest I — Well, to businem 
Go instantly — deeds — notaries I — bid my stewards 
Arrange my house by the Luxembourg — my house 
No more 1 — a bridal present to my ward. 
Who weds to-morrow. 

Ja8q>h, WedSy with whom? 

Bich. De Mauprat 

JoMph. Penniless husband ? 

Rich. Bah I the mate for beauty 
Should be a man and not a money-chestt 
When her brave sire lay on his bed of death, 
I vowed to be a father to his Julie ; -* 
And when he died — ; the smile upon his lips I — • 
And when I spared the life of her young lover, 
Methought I saw that smile again I — Who else. 
Look you, in all the court — who else so well, 
Brave, or supplant the fiivorite ; — balk the King «• 
Baffle their schemes ? — I have tried him : — he has honor 
And courage ; qualities that eagle-plume 
Men's souls, — and fit them for the fiercest sun 
Which ever melted the weak waxen minds 
That flutter in the beams of gaudy Power I 

Joseph, And yet your foe. 

Rich, Have I not foes enow ? •— 
Great men gain doubly when they make foes friends. 
Remember my grand maxims I — First employ 
All methods to conciliate, 

Joseph. Failing these 7 

Rich, {fiercely.) All means to crush ; as with the opening, and 
The clenching of this little hand, I will 
Crush the small venom of these stin^ng courtiera. 
So, so, we've baffled Baradas. 

Joseph, And when 
Check the conspiracy ? 

Rich, Check, check I Full way to it 
Let it bud, ripen, flaunt i* the day, and burst 
To fruit — the Dead Sea's fruit of ashes; ashef 
Which I will scatter to the winds. 

Go, Joseph. 


EnUr Dk Mauprat and Juui. 

De Maup, Oh, speak, my Lord I I dare not think you mock me. 
And yet — 

Bich. (recultng,) Hush, hush — this line must be considered! 

Julie. Are we not both your children ? 

Hich, What a couplet 1 — 
Uow now 1 Oh, Sir — you Kve 1 

De Maup. Why, no, methinks^ 
Eiysium is not life. 

Julie, He smiles I you smile^ 
My father 1 From my h^art for ever, now, 
I'll blot the name of orphan I 

Rich, Rise, my children, 
For ye are mine — mine both ; and in your sweet 
And young delight^ your love — life's first-born glory, 
My own lost youth breathes musical I 

De Maup, I'll seek 
Temple and priest henceforward: — were it but 
To learn heaven's choicest blessings. 

Rich, Thou shalt seek 
Temple and priest right soon ; the morrow^s sun 
Shall see across these barren thresholds pass 
The fairest bride in Paris. Go, my children; 
Even /loved once I — Be lovers while ye may. 
How is it with you, sir ? You bear it bravely : 
You know it asks the courage of a lion. 

[Bkeuni Dk Maupbat and JxnvL 
Oh, godlike power I Wo, Rapture, Penury, Wealth — 
Marriage and Death, for one infirm old man 
Through a great empire to dispense — withhold — 
As the will whispers 1 And shall things, like motes 
That live in my daylight; lackeys of court wages, 
Dwarf M starvelings ; manikins upon whose shoulders 
The burthen of a province were a load 
More heavy than the globe on Atlas — cast 
Lots for my robes and scepter 7 France, I love thee 1 
All earth shall never pluck thee from my heart I 
My mistress, France ; my wedded wife, sweet France ; 
Who shall proclaim divorce for thee and me ( 

862 Exercises in Elocvtioit. 

Enier FBAir(x>i8 hoMy, and in part disguised. 

Rich. Quick — the despatch I — Power — Empire ! Boy — tho 
packet 1 

Draficois, Kill me, mj lord I 

Eick, They knew thee — they sospected — 
They gave it not — 

Francois, He gave it — he — the Count 
De Baradas — with his own hand gave ik 

Rich, Baradas 1 Joy I out with it 1 

Francois, Listen, 
And then dismiss me to the headsman. 

Rich. Hal 
Go on! 

I^aneois. They led me to a chamber. There 
Orleans and Baradas— and some half-score, 
Whom I knew not — were met — 

Rich, Not more 1 

Jihincois, But from 
Th* adjoining chamber broke the din of yoices. 
The clattering tread of armed men ; -~ at times 
A shriller cry, that yelled out, *' Death to Richelieu 1 ** 

Rich, Speak not of mef thy country is in danger I 
Th' adjoining room ^ So, so ^ a separate treason 1 
The one thy ruin, France ! — the meaner crime, 
Left to their tools — my murder 1 

Francois, Baradas 
Questioned me close — demurr'd — until, at last^ 
O'erruled by Orleans — gave the packet — told me 
That life and death were in the scroll : — This gold -* 

Rich, Gold is no proofs- 

Francois — And Orleans promised thousands, 
When Bouillon's trumpets in the streets of Paris 
Rang out the shrill answer : hastening from the houM 
My footstep in the stirrup, Marion stole 
Across the threshold, whispering, ^ Lose no moment 
Ere Richelieu have the packet: tell him, too — 
Murder is in the winds of Night, and Orleans 
Swears, ere the dawn the Cardinal shall be clay." 



Exercises in Elocvtio r. 363 

She said, and trembling fled within: when lol 
A hand of iron griped me I Thro* the dark^ 
Gleam'd the dim shadow of an armed man : 
Ere I could draw, the prize was wrested from me, 
And a hoarse voice gasp*d — " Spy, I spare thee, for 
This steel is virgin to thy lord '* — with that 
He vanished. — Scared and trembling for thy safetyy 
I mounted, fled, and, kneeling at thy feet, 
Implore thee to acquit my faith — but not^ 
Like him, to spare my life. 

Rich, Who spake of lift f 
I bade thee grasp that treasure as thine lionor — 
A jewel worth whole hecatombs of lives 1 
Begone I redeem thine honor I Back to Marion — 
Or Baradas — or Orleans — track the robber — 
Begain the packet — or crawl on to Age — 
Age and gray hairs like mine — and know thou hast lost 
That which had made thee great and saved thy country. 
See me not till thou*8t bought the right to seek me. 
Away I Nay, cheer thee I thou hast not fail'd yet— 
There'^ no such word as *^/ailf *• 

IVancois, Bless you, my Lord, 
For that one smile I Fll wear it in my heart 
To light me back to triumph. {JEb>U.) 

Rich, The poor youth I 
An elder had ask'd life I I love the young I 
For as great men live not in their own time 
But the next race, — so in the young my soul 
Makes many Richelieus. He will win it yet 
Francois? He's gone. My murder! Marion's warning! 
This bravo's threat I Q for the mon'ow's dawnt 
I'll set my spies to work -^ Til make all space 
(A.S does the sun) an Universal Eye — 
Huguet shall track —Joseph confess — ha I ha: 
Strange, while I laugh*d I shudder'd, and ev*n now 
Thro* the chill air the beating of my heart 
Sounds like a death-watch by a sick man*s pillow ; 
If Huguet cotdd deceive me — hoofs without — 
The gates unclose — steps, near and nearer I 

964 JSxjssorsss IN Eloqvtiojk. 


Fran, My Lord — — 

Bar. Ha, traitor I 
In Paris still I 

Fran. The packet — the deeipaich — 
8ome knave play'd spy without^ and refl it from me^ 
Ere I could draw my sword. 

Bit. Play*d spy without I 
Did he wear armor ? 

FVan. Aye, from head to heel. 

Orleans, One of our band. Oh, heavens ! 

Bar. Could it be Maaprat? 
Kept guard at the door — knew naught of (he despatch'^ 
How HB? — and yet, who other? 

Fran. Ha, De MaupratI 
The night was dark his Talour closed. 

Bar. 'Twas he I 
How could he guess ? — 'sdeath I if he should betray us. 
His hate to Richelieu dies with Richelieu — and 
He was not great enough for treason. Hence I 
Find Mauprat — beg, steal, filch, or force it back. 
Or, as I live, the halter 

jFVan. By the morrow 

I will regain it, {asidCf) and redeem my honor 1 

[Ecit Francois. 
Orleans, Oh I we are lost — 

Bar, Not sol But cause on cause 
For Mauprat*s seizure — silence — death ! Take courage. 

Orleans, Should it once reach the King, the Cardinal's arm' 
Could smite us from the grave. 

Bar, Sir, think it notl 
I hold De Mauprat'in my grasp. To-morrow, 
And France is ours I Thou dark and fallen Angel, 
Whose name on earth's Ambitiok — thou that mak*st 
Thy throne on treasons, stratagems, and murder— 
And with thy fierce and blood-red smile canst quench 
The guiding stars of solemn empire — hear us — 
(For we are thine) — and light us to the goal I 

Fhin, All search, as yet, in vain for Mauprat I Not 
At home since yesternoon — a soldier told me 

ExsBcmss IN Elocution^ ZW 

He saw him pass this way with hasty stridea; 
Should he meet Baradas theyM rend it from hint— - 
And then benignant Fortune smiles upon me — 
I am thy son. If thou desert'st me now. 
Come Death and snatch me from disgrace. But no I 
There's a great Spirit ever in the air 
That from prolific and far-spreading wings 
Scatters the seeds of honor — yea^ the walls 
And moats of castled forts, the barren seas, 
The cell wherein the pale-eyed student holds 
Talk with melodious science — all are sown 
With everlasting honors if our souls 
Will toil for fame as boors for bread — 

Enier De Maufrat. 

Maup, Oh, let me — 
Let me but meet him foot to foot — Til dig 
The Judas from, his heart ; — albiet the King 
Should o'er him cast the purple 1 

Fran, MaupratI hold: — 

Where is the 

, Maup. Weill What would'st thou ? 

JF^an, The despatch ! 
The packet. Look ok mb — I serve the Cardinal — 
You know me. Did you not keep guard last nighty 
By Marion's House ? 

Maup, I did : — no matter now I 
They told me he was here t 

Fran, joy! quick — quick — 
The packet thou didst wrest from me ? 

Maup, The packet? 
What, art thou he I deemed the Cardinal's spy 
(Dupe that I was) — and overhearing Marion — 

JFVan. The same — restore it I haste! 

Maup, I have it not: 
Methought it but revealed our scheme to Richelieo. 

Enter Basadas. 
Stand back! 

Now, villian! now, I have thee! 

M6 MxERCJSEs nr Elocution. 

{To i'Vanof^.) — Hence, Sir I Dnml 

Fran, Art mad > the King's at hand I leave him to Richelieu I 
Speak — the despatch to whom — - (A few ptuges,) 

Fly— fly! 
The King I 

De Mavp, Fare jon well t 
Save Julie, and console her. 

Fran, {aside io MoMproL) The Despatch \ 
Your fate, foes, life, hangs on a word I to whom 7 

De Maup, To Huguet^ 

Ih'an, Hush — keep council I silence — hope I 

\jEkeuni Mauprat and OumxL 

Bar, (aside io Francois.) Has he the packet? 

Ihan, He will not reveal— 
(Aside,) Work, brain I beat heart I '' Therms no such wmd as faiU 

Fran, 1 my Lord I 

Rich, Thou art bleeding I 

Fran, A scratch — I have not failM! \g%ves the packet. 

Rich, Hush I [looking at the contents. 

Third Secretary, (to Kino.) Sire, the Spaniards 
Have reinforced their army on the frontiers^ 
The Due de Bouillon 

i^ic^. Hold I In this department— 
A paper — here. Sire, — read yourself — then take 
The Count's advice in't 

Enter De Berin<3he5 hastily^ and draws aside Baradasl 

(RiCHELiEir, io Secretary, giving an open parchment,) 

Bar, {bursting fr(ym De Beringhen.) What! and reft itl from 
thee I 
Hal — hold I 

Joseph, Fall back ; son, it is your turn now I 

Bar, Death 1 — The Despatch 1 

Louis, (reading^ To Bouillon — and sign'd Orleans I — 
Baradas too — league with our foes of Spain I — 
Lead our Italian armies — what! to Paris I 
Capture the King — my health requires repose ! 

Exercises in Elocution. 367 

Make me subscribe my proper abdication! 
Orleans, my brother, Regent 1 Saints of Heaven 1 
These are the men I loved I [Baradas draws^ — ixUempU io rush 
out, — is arrested, Orlean8| endeavoring to escape more quickli/, 
meets Joseph's eye^ and stops short 
RjOHEUEiT faUs back, 

Joseph, See to the Cardinal! 

Bar. He's dying! — and I yet shall dupe the King! 

Louis, (rushing io Richelubu.) Richelieu!. — Lord Cardinal! — ^Us 
I resign I ' •*• 

Reign thou I 

Joseph, Alas! too late! — he faints' 

Louis Reign, Richelieu! 

Rich, (feebly,) With absolute power?-- 

Louis, Most absolute! — Oh, live 1 
If not for me — for France ! 

Rich, France! 

Louis, Oh ! this treason I 
The army — Orleans — Bouillon— Heavens! the Spaniard! 
Where will they be next week ! — 

Rich, (starting up.) There, — at my feet ! 
(To J^rst and Second Secretary.) Ere the clock strike ! — The En- 
voys have their answer ! 
(lb Third Secretary, with a ring.) This to De Chavigny — he knows 

the rest — 
No need of parchment here — - he must not halt 
For sleep — for food — In my name, — mine — he will 
Arrest the Due de Bouillon at the head 
Of his army ! — Ho ! there. Count de Baradas 
Thou hast lost the stake I — Away with him ! 
Hal — ha! — 

[Snatching De Mauprat's death warrant from the Officer, 
See here, De Mauprat's death- writ, Julie ! — 
Parchment for battledores — Embrace your husband ! 
At last the old man blesses you ! 

Julie. Ojoy! 
You are saved, you live — I hold you in these arms. 

De Maup. Never to part — 

368 Exercises in Elocution. 

JutU, No — never, Adrian — nerer I 

Louis, (peevishly,) One moment makes a startling cure. Lord Car* 

Rich. Aj, Sire, for in one moment there did pass 
Into this withered frame the might of Francel — - 
My own dear France — I have thee yet — I have saved thee I 
I clasp thee still 1 — it was thy voice that callM me 
Back from the tomb I What mistress like our country ? 

Louis, For Mauprat*8 pardon I -— well I But Julie, — Eichelieu I 
Leave me one thing to FSve I 

Mich, A subject's luxury I 
Yetf if you must love something, Sire, — lotfe me f 

Louis, {smiling in spite of himself,) Fair proxy for a young fresh 
Demoiselle I 

Rith, Your heart speaks for my clients : — kneel, my children, 
And thank your King — - 

JviUe, Ah, tears like these, my liege, 
Are dews that mount to Heaven, 

Louis, Rise — rise — be happy. 

f RiCHEUEu hecfcons to Ds Beringhen. 

De Ber, (faJteringJy.) My Lord — you are most happily recovered. 
Rich. But you are pale, dear Beringhen : — this air 

Suits not your delicate frame — * I long have thought so. 

Sleep not another night in Paris : — Go, — 

Or else your precious life may be in danger. 

Leave France, dear Beringhen I \JS3Bit, 

{lb Orleans.) For you, repentance — absence, and confession I 
(7& Francois.) Never say /it7 again. Brave Boy I 
{lb Louis, cw De Mauprat and Julie converse apart,) 

See, my liege — see thro' plots and counterplots — 

Thro* gain and loss — thro* glory and disgrace — 

Along the plains, where passionate Discord rears 

Eternal Babel — still the holy stream 

Of human happiness glides on I 
Louis, And must we 

Thank for that also — our prime minister ? 

Rich, No — let us own it : — there is One above 

Sways the harmonious mystery of the world 


J5,XER0i8S8 m JElocutton. * 369 

Ev'n better than prime ministers. 


Our glories float between the earth and heaven 

Like clouds that seem pavilions of the sun, 

And are the playthings of the casual wind ; 

Still, like the cloud which drops on unseen crags 

The dews the wild flower feeds oil, our ambition 

May from its airy height drop gladness down 

On unsuspected virtue ; and the flower 

May bless the cloud when it hath pass'd away. 

Sir Edward LytUm Bvlwer^ 

A Sootoh Lady of the Old School 

As soon as she recognised Mr. Douglas, she welcomed him with 
much cordiality, shook him long and heartily by the hand, patted 
him on the back, looked into his face with much seeming satisfac- 
tion ; and, in short, gave all the demonstration of gladness usual 
with gentlewomen of a certain age. Her pleasure, however, 
appeared to be rather an impromptu than a habitual feeling ; for, as 
the surprise wore off, her visage resumed its harsh and sarcastic- 
expression, and she seemed eager to efface any agreeable impres- 
sion her reception might have excited. 

'' And wha thought o* seein' ye enoo ? '* said she, in a quick, 
gabbling voice ; " what's brought you to the toon ? Are you come 
to spend your honest faither's siller ere he* s weel cauld in his grave, 
puir man ? " 

Mr. Douglas explained that it was on account of his niece's 

** Health I" repeated she, with a sardonic smile, "it wad make 
an ool laugh to hear the wark that *s made aboot yonng fowk's 
health noo-a-days. I wonder what ye Ve a' made o',*' grasping 
Mary's arm in her great bony hand — "a wheen puir feckless 
windlestraes — ye maun awa* to Ingland for your healths. Set ye 
up I X wonder what cam o' the lasses T my time that bute 
[behovedj to bide at hame ? And whilk o* ye, I sude like to ken, 
•11 e'er leive to see ninety-sax, like me. Health ! he, he ! " 

Mary, glad of a pretense to indulge the mirth the old lady's man- 
ner and appearance had excited, joined most heartily in the laugh. 

910 ExjsRcissa Jjf Elocution. 

" Tak aff ycr bannet, bidm, an' let me see your face ; wha can 
tell what like ye are wi' that snule o' a thing on your head?" 
Then after taking an accurate surrey of her face, she pushed aside 
her pelisse : " Weel its ae mercy I see ye hae neither the red head 
nor the muckle cuita o' the Douglases. I kenna whuther your 
faither has them or no. I ne*er set een on him : neither him nor 
his braw leddy thought it worth their while to speer after me ; but 
I was at nae loss, by a' accounts." 

" You have not asked afler any of your Glenfern friends," said 
Mr. Douglas, hoping to touch a more sympathetic chord. 

*' Time enough — wull ye let me draw my breath, man — fowk 
f»inna say awthing at ance. An* ye bute to hae an Inglish wife tu, 
a Scotch lass wadna ser* ye. An* yer wean, I *8e warran* it ane o* 
the warlds wonders — it' s been unca long o* comin* — he, he! 

" He has begun life und^ very melancholy auspices, poor fel- 
low 1 " said Mr. Douglas, in allusion to his father's death. 

*' An' wha's faut was that ? I ne'er heard tell o' the like o't, to 
hae the bairn kirsened an* its grandfaither dein* I But fowk are 
naither born, nor kirsened, nor do they wed or dee as they used to 
du — awthing 's changed.*' 

"You must indeed, have witnessed many changes?" observed 
Mr. Douglas rather at a loss how to utter any thing of a concilia* 
tory nature. 

"Changes! — weel a wat I sometimes wonder if it 's the same 
warld, an' if it 's my aia heed that *8 upon my shoothers.'* 

" But with these changes you must also have seen many improve- 
ments?'* said Mary in a tone of diffidence. 

" Impruvments ? " turning sharply round upon her ; "what ken 
ye about impruvements bairn? A bonny impruvement, or ens no, 
to see tyleyors and sclaters leavin* whar I mind jewks and yerls. 
An' that great glowerin' New Toon there," pointing out of her* 
windows, *' whar I used to sit an* look out at bonny green parks, 
an* see the coos milket, an* the bits o* bairnie? rowin* an* tumlin', 
an* the lasses trampin' i' their tubs — what see I noo but stane an* , 
lime, an* stoor an' dirt, an* idle cheels an* dinkit out madams 
prancin*. Impruvements, indeed.** 

Mary found she was not likely to advance her uncle's fortune by 
the judiciousness of her remarks, therefore prudently resolved to 
hazard no more. Mr. Douglas, who was more au fait to the preju- 

^Exercises in Elocvtion. 871 

dices of old age, and who was alwtys amused with her bitter 
remarks, when they did not touch himself, encouraged her to con- 
tinue the conrersation by some obserration on the prevailing man- 

"MainersI** repeated she, with a contemptuous laugh; **what 
ca* ye mainers noo, for I dinna ken ? ilk ane gangs bang intill their 
neebcr s hoos, an' bang oot o% as it war a chynge-hoos ; an* as for 
the maister o% he 's no o' sae muckle vaalu as the flunky ahint his 
chyre. r my grandfaither's time, as I hae heard him tell, ilka 
maister o' a family had his ain sate in his ain hoOs; ay I an' sat wi 
his hat on his heed afore the best o' the land, an' had his ain dish, 
an' was ay helpit first, an' keepit up his owthority as a man sude 
du. Paurents war paurents then — bairns dardna set up their gabs 
afore them than as they du noo. They ne'^r presumed to say their 
heeds war their ain i' thae days — wife an' servants, reteeners an' 
childer, a' trummelt i' the presence o' their heed." 

Here a long pinch of snufiT caused a pause in the old lady's 
harangues * * 

Mr. Douglas availed himself of the opportunity to rise and take leave. 

" Oo, what's takin ye awa', Archie, in sic a hurry ? Sit doon 
there," laying her hand upon his arm, " an' rest ye, an' tak a glass o' 
wine an' a bit breed ; or maybe," turning to Mary, " ye wad rather 
hae a drap broth to warm ye ? What gars ye look sae blae, bairn ? 
I'm sure it 's no cauld ; but ye 're just like the lave : ye gang a' 
skiltin' about the streets half naked, an' then ye maun sit and birsle 
yoursels afore the fire at hame." 

She had now shuffled along to the farther end of the room, and 
opening a press, took out wine and a plateful of various-shaped 
articles of bread, which she handed to Mary. 

•* Hae, bairn — tak a cookie — tak it up — what are you feared 
for I it'll no bite ye. Here 's t' ye Glenfern, an' your wife, an' your 
wean; puii tead, it 's no had a very chancy outset, weel a wat." 

The wine being drank, and the cookies discussed, Mr. Douglas 
made another attempt to withdraw, but in vain. 

" Canna ye sit still a wee man, an let me speer after my auld 
freens at Glenfern? Hoo 's Grizzy, an' Jacky, an' Nicky? — aye 
workin' awa' at the peels an' the drogs — he, he ! I ne'er swal- 
lowed a peel nor gied a doit for drogs a' my days, an' see an on}' o 
them '11 rin a race wi' me whan they 're naur fivescore.*' 

872 Exercises in Elocution. 

Mr. Doaglas here paid some compliments upon her appearance, 
which were pretty graciously received ; and added that he was the 
bearer of a letter from his aunt Griszy, which he would send along 
with a roebuck and brace of moor-game. 

'^ G-in your roebuck 's nae better than your last, atweel it 's no 
worth the sendin*: poor dry fushinless dirt, no worth the chowin'; 
weel a wat I begrudged my teeth on *t Your muirfowl war nay 
that ill, but they 're no worth the carryin' ; they *re doug cheap i* 
the market enoo, so it 's nae great compliment Gin ye had 
brought me a leg o' gude mutton, or a cauler sawmont^ there would 
hae been some sense in *t ; but ye're ane o' the fowk that MI ne *er 
harry yourself wi* your presents ; it 's but the pickle powther they 
cost ye, an* I*se warran* yo *re thinkin' mair o' your ain diversion 
than o* my stamick whan ye *re at the shootin' o* them puir beasts." 

Mr. Douglas had borne the various indignities levelled against 
himself and his family with a philosophy that had no parallel in his 
life before, but to this attack upon his game he was not proof. His 
color rose, his eyes flashed fire, and something resembling an oath 
burst from his lips, and he strode indignantly toward the door. 

His friend, however, was too nimble for him. She stepped 
before him, and, breaking into a discordant laugh as she patted him 
on the back: ''So I see ye Ve just the auld man, Archie — aye 
ready to tak the strums an' ye dinna get a' thing your ain wye. 
Many a time I had to fleech ye oot o' the dorts when ye was a 
callant Do ye mind hoo ye was affronted because I set ye doon 
to a cauld pigeon-pye an' a tanker o' tippenny ae night to your 
fowerhoors afore some leddies — he, he, he I Weel a wat yere wife 
maun hae her ain adoos to manage ye, for ye 're a cumstairy chield| 

Mr. Douglas still looked as if he was irresolute whether to laugh 
or be angry. 

" Come, come, sit ye doon there till I speak to this bairn," said 
•he, as she pulled Mary into an adjoining bedchamber, which wore 
the same aspect of chilly neatness as the one they had quitted 
Then pulling a huge bunch of keys from her pocket, she opened a 
drawer, out of which she took a pair of diamond ear-rings. " Hae, 
bairn," said she, as she stuffed them into Mary's hand ; they 
belanged to your faither's grandmother. She was a gude woman, 
au' had four-and-twenty sons an' dochters, an* I wuss ye nae waur 

Exercises in Elocuticn. 878 

fortin than jast to hae as mony. Bat mind ye/' with a shake of her 
bony finger, *' they maun a* be Soota. Oin I thought ye wad mairry 
ony pock-puddin', fient head wad ye hae gotten frae me. Noo had 
your tongue and dinna deive me wi' thanks,' almost pushing her 
into the parlor again : '' and sin ye 're gawn awa the morn^ TU see 
nae mair o' ye enoo — so fare-ye-weel. But, Archie, ye maun come 
an' tak your breakfast wi' me. I hae muckle to say to you ; but 
ye mauna be sae hard upbn my baps as ye used to be," with a 
facetious grin to her mollified fayorite as they shook hands and 
parted. Mary Ferrierm 

Break! Break! Break! 
Break, break, break, 

On thy cold gray stones, Sea I 
And I would that my tongue, could utter 

The thoughts that arise in me. 

well for the fisherman's boy, 
* That he shouts with his sister at play 1 

Q well for the sailor lad, 
That he sings in his boat on the bay I 

And the stately ships go on 

To their haven under the hill ,* 
But for the touch of a vanish'd hand, 

And the sound of a voice that is still. 

Break, break, break. 

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea ! 
But the tender grace of a day that is dead 

Will never come back to me. Tsnnyatm^ 

What is Life? 
And what is life ? An hour-glass on the run, 
A mist retreating from the morning sun, 
A busy, bustling, still-repeated dream. 

Its length ? A minute's pause, a moment's thought 
And Happiness ? A bubble on the stream. 

That in the act of seizing shrinks to nought 

874 JExsBCisJss m Elocutjox 

And what is Hope ? The puffing gale of morn. 
That robs each floweret of its gem — and dies ; 

A cobweb, hiding disappointment's thorn. 
Which stings more keenly through the thin disguise. 

And what is Death ? Is still the cause unfound ? 
That dark mysterious name of horrid sound 7 

A long and lingering sleep the weary crave. 
And Peace ? Where can its happiness abound ? 

Nowhere at all, save heaven and the grave. 

Then what is life ? When stripped of its disguise ? 

A thing to be desired it cannot be ; 
Since everything that meets our foolish eyes 

Gives proof sufficient of its vanity. 
*Tis but a trial all must undergo, 

To teach unthankful mortal how to prize 
That happiness vain man's denied to know, 

Until he's called to claim it in the skies. John Clan. 

Bemarks <m Beading- 

*^ Reading is to the mind,'* said the Duke of Yivonne to Louis 
XIV, ** what your partridges are to my chops." It is, in fact, the 
nourishment of the mind ; for by reading we know our Creator, his 
works, ourselves chiefly, and our fellow-creatures. But this nour- 
ishment is easily converted into poison. Salmasius had read as 
much as Grotius, perhaps more ; but their different modes of read- 
ing made the one an enlightened philosopher, and the other, to 
speak plainly, a pedant, puffed up with a useless erudition. 

Let us read with method, and propose to ourselves an end to 
which ail our studies may point. Through neglect of this rule, 
gross ignorance oflen disgraces great readers; who, by skipping 
hastily and irregularly from one subject to another, render them- 
pelves incapable of combining their ideas. So many detached par- 
cels of knowledge cannot form a whole. This inconsistency weakens 
the energies of the mind, creates in it a dislike to application, and 
even robs it of the advantages of natural good sense. 

Yet let us avoid the contrary extreme, and respect method, with- 
out rendering ourselves its slaves. While we propose an end in our 
reading, let not this end be too remote ; and when once we have 

ExMRCisES IN Elocution 375 

attained it^ let our attention be directed to a different subject. In- 
constancy weakens the understanding; a long and exclusive appli* 
cation to a single object hardens and contracts it. Our ideas no 
longer change easily into a different channel, and the course of read- 
ing to which we have too long accustomed ourselves is the only 
one that we can pursue with pleasure. 

We ought^ besides, to be careful not to make the order of our 
thoughts subservient to that of our subjects ; this would be to sacri- 
fice the principle to the accessory. The use of our reading is to aid 
us in thinking. The perusal of a particular work gives birth, per- 
haps, to ideas unconnected with the subject of which it treats. I 
wish to pursue these ideas; they withdraw me from my pro- 
posed plan of reading, and throw me into a new track, and from 
thence, perhaps, into a second and a third. At length I begin to 
perceive whither my researches tend. Their result, perhaps, may 
be profitable ; it is worth while to try ; whereas, had I followed the 
high road, I should not have been able, at the end of my long jour- 
ney, to retrace the progress of my thoughts. 

This plan of reading is not applicable to our early studies, since 
the severest method is scarcely sufficient to make us conceive objects 
altogether new. Neither can it be adopted by those who read in 
order to write, and who ought to dwell oo their subject till they 
have sounded its depths. These reflections, however, I do not 
absolutely warrant. On Uie supposition that they are just, they 
may be so, perhaps, for myself only. The constitution of minds 
differs like that of bodies ; the same regimen will not suit all Each 
individual ought to study his own. 

To read with attention, exactly to define the expressions of our 
author, never to admit a conclusion without comprehending its rea- 
son, often to pause, reflect, and interrogate ourselves, — these are so 
many advices which it is easy to give, but difficult to follow. The 
flame may be said of that almost evangelical maxim of forgetting 
friends, country, religion, of giving merit its due praise, and embrac- 
ing truth wherever it is to be found. 

But what ought We to read ? Each individual must answer this 
question for himself, agreeably to the object of his studies. The 
only general precept that I would venture to give, is that of Pliny, 
" to read much, rather than many things ; " to make a careful 
selection of the best works, and to render them familiar to us by 
attentive and repeated perusals. Qihhon, 

376 Mjobbcisbs in Elocution. 

Soene from ''Tirgimiu-" 
Appius, Claudius and Liotors. 

Appius, Weill Claudius, are the forces 
At hand? 

Claudius, They are, and timdTy, too; the people 
Are in unwonted ferment. 

App. There's something awes me at 
The thought of looking on her father! 

Claud, Look 
Upon her, my AppiusI Fix your gaze upon 
The treasures of her beauty, nor avert it 
Till they are thine. Haste 1 Your tribunal I 
Haste I ' [Ajbvitj^ cucends the tribum^, 

[Enter Numitorius, Iciuus, Luqius, CmzEKSy Viroiniub leading hi» 
daugTUer^ Seryia and Citizens. A dead silence prevaib,] 

Virginius. Does no one speak? I am defendant here. 
Is silence my opponent? Fit opponent 
To plead a cause too foul for speech ! What brow 
Shameless gives front to this most valiant cause, 
That tries its prowess 'gainst the honor of 
A girl, yet lacks the wit to know, that he 
Who casts off shame, should likewise cast off Tear — 
And on the verge o* the combat wants the nerve 
To stammer forth the signal ? 

App, You had better, 
Virginius, wear another kind of carnage; 
This is not of the fashion that will serve yon. 

Ftr. The fashion, Appius! Appius Claudius tell 
The fashion it becomes a man to speak in, 
Whose property in his own child — the offspring 
Of his own body, near to him as is 
His hand, his arm — yea,rnearer — closer far, 
Knit to his heart — I say, who has his property 
In such a thing, the very self of himself, 
Disputed — and Til speak so, Appius Claudius - 
I'll speak so — Pray you tutor me I 

App, Stand forth 
Claudius I If you lay claim to any interest 

Exercises in Elocution. 377 

In the question now Wore U8| speak ; if not| 
Bring on some other cause. 

Claud, Most noble Appins — — 

Ftr. And are you the man 
That claims my daughter for his slareT^Look at me 
And I will give her to thee. 

Claud, She is mine, then: 
Do I not look at you? 

Vvr, Your eye does, truly, 
But not your souL I see it through your eye 
Shifting and shrinking — turning every way 
To shun me. You surprise me, that your eye, 
So long the bully of its master, knows not 
To put a proper face upon a lie, ^ 
But gives the port of impudence to falsehood 
When it would pass it off for truth. Your soul 
Dares as soon shew its face to me. Go on, 
I had forgot ; the fashion of my speech 
May not please Appius Claudius. 

Claud, I demand 
Protection of the Decemvir I 

App. You shall have it, 

Ftr. Doubtless 1 

App. Keep back the people, Lictors I What's 
Your plea ? You say the girl's your slave. Produce 
Your proofs. 

Claud, My proof is here, which, if they can, 
Let them confront The mother of the girl 

[ViRGnnus, stepping forward^ is withhdd by NuMrroRivai 

Numitorius, Hold, brother 1 Hear them out^ or suffer me 
To speak. 

Vir, Man, I must speak, or else go mad I 
And if I do go mad, what then will hold me 
From speaking ? She was thy sister, too I 
Well, well, speak thou. PU try, and if I can. 
Be silent [Retirei. 

Niim, Will she swear she is her child ? 


378 ExERCisss IN Elocution. 

Vvr. (starting forward,) To be sure she will — almost wise ques* 
tion that I 
Is she not his slave 7 Will his tongue lie for him — 
Or his hand steal — - or the finger of his hand 
Beckon, or pointy or shut, or open for him 7 
To ask him if she'll swear I Will she walk or mn, 
Sing, dance, or wag her head ; do anything 
That is most easy done 7 She'll as soon swear I 
What mockery it is to have one's life 
In jeopardy by such a barefaced trick I 
Is it to be endured 7 I do protest 
Against her oath 1 

App, No law in Rome, Yirgrinius, 
Seconds you. If she swear the girl's her child^J 
The evidence is good, unless confronted 
By better evidence. Look you to that, 
Yirginius. I shall take the woman's oath. 

VirgintcL Icilius! 

Icilius. Fear not^ love ; a thousand oaths 
Will answer her. 

App, You swear the girl's your child, 
And that you sold her to Yirginius' wife, 
Who passed her for her own. Is that your oath 7 

Slave, It is my oath. 

App, Your answer now, Yirginius. 

Hr. Here it is! [Brings Yiboinia forward 

Is this the daughter of a slave 7 I know 
'Tis not with men as shrubs and trees, that by 
The shoot you know the rank and order of 
The stem. Yet who from such a stem would look 
For such a shoot My witnesses are these ■ - 
The relatives and friends of Numitoria! 
Speak for me, my friends; 
Have I not spoke the truth? 

Women and CfiUzens. You have, Yirginius. 

App, Silence! Keep silence there! No more of that! » 

You're very ready for a tumult, citizens. 

IT^ocps appear behind. 


Lictors, make way to let these troops advance I 
We have had a taste of your forbearance, mastem^ 
And wish not for another. 

Fir. Troops in the Forum t 

App. Virgin ius have you spoken f 

Hr. If you have heard me, * 

I have ; If not, III speak again.^ 

App, You need not, 
Yirginius ; I had evidence to give, 
Which, should you speak a hundred times again, 
Would make your pleading vain. 

Hn Your hand, Yirginia 1 
Stand close to me. - [Ajdde. 

App. VLj conscience will not let me 
Be silent 'Tis notorious to you all, 
That Claudius' father at his death, declared me 
The guardian of his son. This cheat has long 
Been known to me. I know the girt is not 
Virginius* daughter. ^ 

Fir. Join your friends, Icilius, 
And leave Virginia to my care. fibulfli 

App. The justice 
I should" have done my client unrequired, 
Kow cited by him, how shall I refuse ? 

Vvr. Don't tremble, girl 1 don't tremble. f A«u2flt. 

App. Virginius, 
I feel for you ; but though you were my father, 
The majesty of justice should be sacred •— 
Claudius must take Virginia home with him. 

Ttr. And if he must, I should advise him, Appiu% 
To take her home in time, before his guardian 
Complete the violation which his eyes 
Already have begun, — friends I fellow-citizens I 
Look not on Claudius — look on your Decemvir I 
He is the master claims Virginia I 
The tongues that told him she was not my child 
Are these — the costly charms he cannot purchase 
Except by making her the slave of Claudius, 

380 ExsBCisES IN ELocvnoy: 

His client, his parvejor, that caters for 

His pleasure — markets for him — picks, and scents. 

And tastes, that he may banquet ^- serves him up 

His sensual feast^ and is not now ashamed, 

In the open common street before your eyes — 

Frighting your daughters'^md your matrons* cheeks 

With blushes they ne 'er thought to meet — to help him 

To the honor of a Roman maid 1 my child I 

Who now clings to me, as you see, as if 

Ttiis second Tarquin had already coiled 

His arms around her. Look upon her Romans I 

Befriend her I succor her I see her not polluted 

Before her father's eyes I — He is but one. 

Tear her from Appius and his Lictors while 

She is unstained. — Your hands ! your hands \ your hands 1 

Ciiizena. They are yours, Virginiua. 

App, Keep the people back — 
Support my Lictors soldiers 1 Seize the girl, 
And drive the people back. 

IcUiua, Down with the slaves ! 

\ The people make a show of resistance; hut upon ihe advance of ih^ 
soldiers^ retreat^ and leave Ioilius, Yiroinius and his daughter^ ete^ 
in the hands of Appius and his party. 

Deserted 1 — Cowards I traitors 1 Let me free 

But for a moment 1 I relied on you ; 

Had I relied upon myself alone, 

I had kept them still at bay 1 I kneel to yoa — 

Let me but loose a moment, if 'tis only 

To rush upon your swords. 

Vtr. Icilius, peace I 
You see how 'tis, we are deserted, left 
Alone by our friends, surrounded by our enemiei^ 
Nerveless and helpless. 

App, Separate them, Lictors I 

Vtr. Let them forbear awhile, I pray you, Appius : 
It is notTery easy. Though her arms 
Are tender, yet the hold is strong by which . 
She grasps me, Appius — forcing them will hurt them ; 

JExBMOisss uf Elocution: 381 

Tl:ey 'II soon unclasp themselves Wait but a little — 
You know you *re sure of her I 

App, I have not time 
To idle with thee ; give her to my Lictora. 

Vir, Appiua, I pray you wait I If she is not 
My child, she hath been like a child to me 
For fifteen years. If I am not her father, 
I have been like a father to her, Appius, 
-For even such a time. They that have lived 
So long a time together, in so near 
And dear society, may be allowed 
A little time for parting. Let me take 
The maid aside, I pray you, and confer 
A moment with her nurse ; perhaps she '11 give me 
Some token will unloose a tie so twined 
And knotted round my hearty that, if you break it| 
My heart breaks with it 

App, Have your wish. Be brief 1 
Lictors, look to them. 

Virginia, Do you go from me ? 
Do you leave ? Father I Father 1 

Vir, No, my child — 
No, my Virginia — come along with me. 

Virginia, Will you not leave me ? Will you take me with you ? 
Will you take me home again ? 0, bless you ? bless you 1 
My father I my dear father ! Art thou not 
My father ? 

[YiRaiNius, perfecOy ai a loss what to do, looks anxiously round ihs 

Forum; at length his eye falls on a butchct^s stdUf with a hnifs 

vpon iL 

Vir, This way, my child— Ko, no ; I am not going 
To leave thee, my Virginia I I '11 not leave thee. 

App, Keep back the people, soldiers I ' Let them not 
Approach Virginiusl Keep the people back. 

[Vtrginius secures the hnifi. 
Well, hare you done ? 

Vir, Short Ume for converse, Appius, 
But I have. 

S82 JSzaucisxa in jElocution. 

App, I hope you are satisfled. 
Vir, I am — 
I am — that she is mj daughter I 
App. Take her, Lictors ! 

[YiRQiNiA ihrieks, andfaOs hatf-dead upon her/aiker*s shoulder,] 

Vir. Another moment^ pray yotu Bear with me 
A little — *Tis my last embrace. *T won't try 
Your patience beyond bearing, if you 're a man 1 
Lengthen it as I may, I cannot make it 

Long. My dear child I My dear Virginia! IKisging her. 

There is only one way to save thine honor I 
•Tis this. 

[Stabs her, and draws out (he hni/e. Ioilhts IreaJcs from the soldiers 

that held him, and catches Aer.J 

Loy Appius, with this innocent blood 
I do devote thee to the infernal godsl 
Make way there I 

ii2>p. StophimI Seize him 1 

Vir. If they dare 
To tempt the desperate weapon that is maddened 
With drinking my daughter's blood, why, let them: 
It rushes in amongst them. Way there I Way ! 

lUijcii through the soldiers. 

James Sheridan KhowUs. 

From the Dodge dab: or, Italy in HDCOGLEL 
La Cfica did not speak the best English in the world; yet that 
could not account for all the singular remarks whidi she made. 
Still less could it account for the tender interest of her manner. She 
had remarkably bright eyes. Why wandered those eyes so often 
to hiS| and why did they beam with such devotion— beaming for a 
moment only to &11 in sweet innocent confusion ? La Cica had the 
most fascinating manners, yet they were often perplexing to the 
Senator's soul. 

^* The Countess,'' he thought, ^^ is a most remarkable fine woman ; 
but she does use her eyes uncommon, and I do wish she wouldn't 
be quite so demonstrative." 

EXJBRCISBS IN ELOcxjnoir. 883 

At last the Senator came to this conclusion : La Oka was des- 
perately in love with him. 

She appeared to be a widow. Now if the poor Cica was hope- 
lessly in love, it must be stopped at once. For he was a married 
man, and his good lady still lived, with a rery large family, most 
of the members of which had grown up. 

La Cica ought to know this. She ought indeed. But let the 
knowledge be given delicately, not abruptly. 

On the following evening they walked on the balcony of La Cica^t 
noble residence. She was sentimental, devoted, charming. 

The conversation of a fascinating woman does not look so well 
when reported as it is when uttered. Her power is in her tone, her 
glance, her manner. Who can catch the evanescent beauty of her 
expression or the deep tenderness of her well-znodulated voice f 
Who indeed ? 

"Does ze scene please you, my Senator?*' 

" Very much indeed." 

''Youar countrymen haf tol me sey would like to stay here 

^ It is a beautiful place." 

'* Did you aiver see any thin moaire loafely ?" And the Countesu 
looked full in his face. 

'< Never," said the Senator, earnestly. The next instant hn 
blushed. He had been betrayed into a compliment 

The Countess sighed. 

''Helas! my Senator, that it is not pairmitted to moartals to 
sociate as zey would laike." 

" * Tour Senator,' ** thought the gentlemen thus addressed ; " how 
fond, how tender — poor thing! poor thing I" 

" I wish that Italy was nearer to the States," said he. 

** How I adamiar youar style of mind, so differente from ze Itali- 
ana. You are so stong — so nobile. Yet would I laike to see moar 
of ze poetic in you." 

** I always loved poetry, marm," said the Senator, desperately. 

"Ah-— good — nais — eccelente. lam plees at zat," cried the 
Countess, with much animation. " You would loafe it more eef 
you knew Italiauo. Your langua ees not sufficiente muslcale for 


i64 ExsBGisK XiY ELocunoir. 

''It 1ft not 80 soft a laogaage as the /-talian." 

'* Ah — no — not so soft. Yeiy well. And what Uieenka you d 
f e lullano 7" 

** The sweetest language I erer heard in all m j born days.** 

" Ah, now — you hey not heard much of ae Italiano, my Senator." 

"I haTe heard you speak often," said the Senator, naively* 

^ Ah, yon compliment I I sot you was abooTe flattera," 

And the Ck>untess playfuUy tapped his arm with ker little An. 

^ What Ingelis poet do you loafe best?" 

"Poet? English poet?" said the Senator, with some surprises 
"Oh — why, marm, I think Watts is about the best of the lot!" 

" Watt ? Was he a poet ? I did not know zat He who in. 
Tented ze stim-injaine ? And yet if he was a poet it is naturalo 
sat you loafe him best." 

" Steam-engine ? Oh no I This one was a minister." 

"A meeneestaire? Ah I an abbe? I know him not. Yet I 
haf read mos of all youar poets." 

*^ He made up hymns, marm, and psalms — for instance : ' Watt a 
Divine Hymns and Spiritual Songs.' " 

"Songs? Spirituelle? Ah, I mus at once procuaire ze works 
of Watt, which was favorit poet of my Senator." 

" A lady of such intelligence as you would like the poet Watts,** 
said the Senator, firmly. "He is the best known by far of all our 

"What? better zan Shakespeare, Milton, Bairon? You much 
surprass me." 

" Better known and better loved than the whole lot. Why, his 
poetry is known by heart through all England and America." . 

" Merciful Heaven ! what you tell me I ees eet possibl I An yet 
he is not known here efen by name. It would please me mooch, 
my Senator, to haire you make one quotatione. Know you Watt? 
Tell me some words of his which I may remembaire." 

" I have a shocking bad memory." 

"Bad memoral Oh, but you remember somethin, zis most 
beautiful charm nait — you haf a nobile soul — you must bQ aSecta 
by beauty — by ze ideal. Make for me one quotatione." 

And she rested her little hand on the Senator's arm, and looked 
vp imploringly in his face. 


The Senator looked foolish. He felt even more so. Here was a 
beaudful woman, by act and look showing a tender interest in him. 
Perplexing — but very flattering after all. So he replied : 

"You will not let me refuse' you any thing." 

*' Aha 1 yoa are vera wtUin to reftiae. It ia difficulty for me to 
excitare youar regards. You are fill with the grands- ideas. But 
ocme — will you spik for me iom ftdm your favorit Watt ? ** 

^ Well, if you wi^ it so mueby** teid Uie Senator, kindly, and he 

^ Ah— I do wish it so much 1 '* 

« Ehem I - 

''Begin," said the Countess. '^ Behold me. I listen. I heap 
ererysin, and will remember it forara." 

The only thing that the Senator could think of was the Ter?e 
which had beeb running in his head for the last few days, its 
measured rhymth keeping time with erery occupation : 

** * My willing soul would stay — ' *• 

''Stop one moment,*' said the Countess. "Iweesh to learn it 
from you ; ** and she looked fondly and tenderly up, but instantly 
dropped her eyesL 

" ' Ma willina sol wooda sta — * '* 

" ' In such a frame as this/ *' prompted the Senator. 

«*Een Bocha framas sees.* Wait -^' Ma willina sol wooda sta 
in socha framas scees.' Ah, appropriat! but could I hope zat you 
were true to zose lines, my Senator ? Well ? " 

'^ ' And »t and sing herself away/ ** said the Senator, in a falter- 
ing voice, and breaking out into a oold perspiration for fear of 
committing himself by such uncommonly strong language. 

'' ' Ansit ansin hassaf awai,' *' repeated the Countess, her &oe 
lighting up with a sweetly conscious expression. 

The Senator paused. 

"I — ehem 1 I forget.'* 

" Forget ? Impossible I *• 

"I do really." 

"Ah now I Forget? I see by your face -^ you desave. Say 

The Countess again gently touched his arm with both her little 
hands, and held it as though she would daap it 

S86 JExEScissB IN JELocvnon. 

^ Have you fear 7 Ah, crael ! " 

The Senator tarned pale, but finding refusal impossible, boldljr 
finished : 

« « To everl^ting bliss ' — there I " 

« « To affarlastin blees thar.' Stop. I repeat It all : ' My williiia 
sol wooda sta in socha firame as aeee, ansit ansin hassaf awai to 
affarlastin blees thar.' Am I right? ** 

^ Yes," said the Senator meekly. 

" I knew you were a poetic sola,** said the Countess, confidingly. 
** You air honesto — true ^ you cannot desave. When you spik I 
can beliy you. Ah, my Senator ! an you can spik zis poetry I — at 
soch a toime 1 I nefare knew befoare sat you so impassione I — an 
you air so artaful I You breeng eo oonfersazione to beauty — to 
poatry — to ze poet Watt — so you may spik verses mos impas- 
sione ! Ah I what do you mean ? Santissima madre I how I wish 
you spik Italiano." 

The Countess drew nearer to him, but her approach only deep- 
ened his perplexity. 

'* How that poor thing does love me ! *' sighed the Senator. 
"Law bless it I she can*t help it — can't help it nohow. She is 
a goner; and what can I do ? I *11 have to leave Florence." 

The Countess was standing close beside him in a tender mood 
waiting for him to break the silence. How could he? He had 
been uttering words which sounded to her like love; and she— "a 
widow ! a widow I wretched man that I am ! " 

There was a pause. The longer it lasted the more awkward the 
Senator' felt What upon earth was he to do or say ? What 
business had he to go and quote poetry to widows ? What an old 
fool he must bel But the Countess was very far from feeling 
awkward. Assuming an elegant attitude she looked up, her face 
expressing the tenderest solicitude. 

" What ails my Senator ? " 

" Why the fact is, marm — I feel sad — at leaving Tlorence. I 
ffiust go shortly. My wife has written summoning me home. The 
children are down with the measles." 

Oh, base fabrication ! Ob, false Senator ! There wasn't a word 
of truth in that last remark. You spoke so because you wished 
La Cica to know that you had a wife and family. Yet it was very 
badly done. 

ExBBCisss IN Elocution. 887 

La Cica changed neither her attitude nor her expression. Evi- 
dently the existence of his wife, and the melancholy situation of 
his unfortunate children, awaked no sympathy. 

'' But my Senator — did you not say you wooda seeng yousellef 
away to affarlasteen belees 7 '* 

** Oh, marm, it was a quotation— only a quotation.** 

But at this critical juncture the oonversatioa was broken up by 
the arrival of a number of ladies and gentlemen. 

But could the Senator have known 1 

Gould he have known how and where those words would con* 
front him again i 

" Do you know La Cica T* asked the General, with the air of a 
man who was putting a home-thrust^ and speaking with uncommon 

** I do,'* said the Senator, mildly. 

"You know her well? You are one of her intimate. friends?" ' 


"Are you not?" 

''I4im friendly with her. She is an estimable woman, with much 
feeling and penetration" — and a fond regret exhibited itself in the 
face of the speaker. 

" Well, Sir, you may as well confess. "We know you, Sir. We 
know you. You are one of the chosen associates of that infamous 
Garibaldian plotter and assassin, whose hotel is in the hot-bed of 
conspiracy and revolution. We know yoiu Do you dare to come 
here and deny it V* 

*'I did not come here; I was brought. I do not deny that you 
know me, though I haven't the pleasure of knowing you. But I do 
deny that I am the associate of conspirators." 

" Are you not the American whom La Cfica so particularly distin- 
guished with her favor ?" 

" I have reason to believe that she was partial to me — somewhat." 

** He confesses I" said the General. " You came from her to this 
place, communicating on the way with her emissaries." 

'^I communicated on the way with none but brigands among the 
mountains. If they were her emissaries I wish her joy of them. 
My means of communication," said the Senator, while a grim smile 


pMsed orer bis ha^ ^w» an iron crow-bar, and my lemtilcB kfl 
some deep impreflsioii od them, I do beUere." 

** Tell me now — and tell me truly/' said the €lenenJ aft^ m panae^ 
fn which he seemed trying to make oat whether the Senator was 
joking or not ** To whom are yon sent in this city 7" 

"To no one." 

*'SirI I warn yon that I wiH not be trifled with." 

'^I tell yon/* said the Senator, with no apparent excitement^ "I 
tell yon that I haye come here to no one* What more can I say T 

•*You must confess." 

** I have nothing to confess." 

** Sir I you have much to confess," cried the General, angrily, 
** and I will wring it out of you. Beware how you trifle with my 
patience. If you wish to regain your liberty confess at once, and 
you may escape your just punishment. But if you refuse, Til shut 
you up in a dungeon for ten years!*' 

" You will do no such thing." 

" What I" roared the General " Won't I ?" 

** You will not On the contrary, you will have to make apolo* 
gies for these insults." 

"1 1 — Apologi es I Insults." 

The General gnawed his mustache, and his eyes blazed in fury. 

" You have arrested us on a false charge, based on some slander* 
ons or stupid information of some of your infernal spies," said the 
Senator. ^^ What right have you to pry into the private affairs of 
an American traveler? We have nothing to do with you." 

" You are associated with conspirators. You are charged with 
treasonable correspondence with rebels. You countenanced revolu* 
tion in Florence. You openly took part with Bepublicans. You 
are a notorious friend of La Oca, And you came here with the 
intention of fomenting treason in Venice I" 

** Whoever told you that," replied the Senator, " told miserable 
lies *- most horrid lies. I am no emissary of any party. I am a 
private traveler." 

'* Sir, we have correspondents in Florence on whom we can rely 
better than on you. They watched you." 

'* Then the best thing you can do is to dismiss those correppond- 
ents and get rogues who have half an idea." 

A'xsBcisus nr Elocvtion. 9%^ 

"Sir, I tell you that they watched you well You had better 
confess alL Your antecedents in Florence are known. You are in 
a position of imminent danger. I tell you — beware P 

The (General said this in an awful voice, which was meuit to 
strike terror into the soul of his captive. The Senator looked back 
into his eyes with an expression of calm scorn. His form seemed 
to grow larger, and his eyes dilated as be spoke: 

"Hien you, General, I tell you — hewarel Do you know who 
youVe got hold o(?— No conspirator; no contemptible /talian ban- 
dit^ or Dutchman either; but an American citizen. Your Government 
has already tried the temper of Americans on one or two remarkable 
occasions. Don't try it on a third time, and don't try it on with 
me. Since you want to know who I am, 1*11 tell you. I, Sir, am 
an American Senator. I take an active and prominent part in the 
government of that great and glorious country. I represent a con- 
stituency of several hundred thousand. Yen tell me to heware, I 
tell you — Beware I for, if you don't let me go, you'll have to give 
me up at the cannon's mouth. If you don't let me off by evening 
I won't go at all till I am delivered up with humble and ample 
apologies, both to us and to our country, whom you have insulted 
in our persons." 

"Sir, you are bold r 

" Bold I Send for the American Consul of this city and see if he 
don't corroborate this. But you had better make haste, for if you 
subject me to further disgrace it will be the worse for your Govern- 
ment, and particularly for you^ my friend. You'll have the town 
battered down about your ears. Don't get another nation down on 
you, and above all, don't let that nation be the American. What I 
tell you is the solemn truth, and if you don't mind it you will know 
it some day to your sorrow." 

Whatever the cause may have been the company present^ includ- 
ing even the General, were impressed by the Senator's words. The 
announcement of his dignity; the venerable title of Senator; the 
mention of his " constituency," a word the more formidable from 
not being at all understood — all combined to fill them with respect 
and even awe. 

So at his proposal to send for the American Consul the General 
gave orders to a messenger who went off at once in search of that 

990 ExEBCisss IN Elocution. 

The American Consul soon made his appearance. Upon entenng 
the hall he cast a rapid look around, and seemed surprised at so 
august a tribunal, for in the QeneraFs martial form he saw no less a 
person than the Austrian Commandant 

The Consul bowed and then looked at the prisoners. As his eye 
fell upon the Senator it lighted up, and his face assumed an expres- 
sion of the most friendly interest. Evidently a recognition. The 
Austrian Commandant addressed the Consul directly in Qerman* 

**Do you know the prisoners?" 

'* I know one of them." 

^He is here under a very heavy accusation. I hare well sub- 
stantiated charges by which he is implicated in treason and con- 
spiracy. He has been connected with Bevolutionists of the worst 
stamp in Florence, and there is strong proof that (le has come here 
to communicate with Revolutionists in this city." 

''Who accuses him of this? Are they here?" 

'* No, but they have written from Florence warning me of his 
journey here." 

"Does the prisoner confess?" 

" Of course not. He denieSb He requested me to send for yon. 
I don't want to be unjust, so if you have anything to say, say on."^ 

'* These charges are impossible." 


" He is altogether a different man from what yon snppose. He 
IS an eminent member of the. American Senate. Any charges made 
against one like him will have to be well substantiated ; and any 
injury done to him will be dangerous in the highest degree. Unless 
you have undeniable proofs of his guilt it will be best to free him at 
once — or else — " 

"Or else what?" 

**0r else there will be very grave complications." 

The Commandant looked doubtful. The others impassive. But- 
tons and Dick interested. The Senator calm. Again the Com* 
mandant turned to the Senator, his remarks being interpreted as 

" How does it happen that you were so particularly intimate with 
all the Revolutionists in Florence, and an habitue of La Okd* salon ? 
that your mission was well known throughout the city ? that you 

ExERCTasa in Elocution. 391 

publicly acknowledged the Florentine rebellion in a speech? that 
the people carried yon home in triumph? and that immediately 
before leaving you received private instructions from La dcaV* 
• " To your questions/' said the Senator, with unabated dignity, 
^ I will reply in brief: First, I am a free and independent citizen 
of the great and glorious American Republia If I associated with 
Revolutionists in Florence, I did so because I am accustomed to 
choose my own society, and not to recognize any law or any mas- 
tdr that can forbid my doing so. I deny, however, that I w as in 
any way connected with plots, rebellions or conspiracies. Secondly, 
I was fiiendly with the Countess because I considered her a most 
remarkably fine woman, and because she showed a disposition to 
be friendly with me — a stranger in a strange land* Thirdly, I 
have no mission of any kind whatever. I am a traveler for self- 
improvement I have no business, political or commercial. So 
that my mission could not have been known. If people talked 
about me they talked nonsense. Four&ily, I confess I made a 
speech, but what of that ? It's not the first time, by a long chalk. 
I don't know what you mean by * acknowledging.' As a private 
citizen I congratulated them on their success, and would do so 
again. If a crowd calls on me for a speech, I*m there. The people 
of Florence dragged me home in a carriage. Well, I don't know 
why they did so. I can't help it if people will take possession of 
me and pull me abouU Fifthly^ and lastly, I had an interview with 
the Countess, had I ? Well, is it wrong for a man to bid good-bye 
to a friend ? I ask you, what upon earth do you mean by such a 
diarge as that? Do you take me for a puling infant ? " 

*' On that occasion," sud the Commandant^ she taught you some 
mysterious words which were to be repeated among the Hevolu- 
tionists here." 

" Never did any thing of the kind. That's a complete full-blown 

" I have the very words.** 

*^ That's impossible. You've got hold of the wrong man I see.' 

'* I will have them read," said the General solemnly. 

And he beckoned to the Interpreter. Whereupon the Interpreter 

gravely took out a formidable roll of papers from his breast^ and 

opened it. Every gesture was made as if his hand was heavy with 

the weight of crushing proof. At last a paper was produced. The 


892 ExxRciaES IN Elocvtioit. 

Interpreter took one look at the prisoner, then glanoed triumpbantlj 
at the Consul, and said : 

*' It is a mysterious language with no apparent meanings nor 
have I been able to find the key to it in any way. It is very skill* 
fully made, for all the usual tests of cipher writing fail in this. The 
person who procured it did not get near enough till the latter part 
of the interview, so that he gained no explanation whatever from 
the conversation." 

'* Read/' said the Commandant The Senator waited, wonder-* 
ingly. The interpreter read : 

** Ma omUma sola ouda $te ensoce/remaa dis armt anstn ossayaotM 
tu affd lastinna belis,^* 

Scarcely had the first words been nttered in the Italian voice of 
the reader than the Senator started as though a shot had struck 
him. His face flushed. Finally a broad grin spread itself over his 
countenance, and down his neck, and over his chest, and over- his 
form, and into his boots, till at last his whole colossal frame shook 
with an earthquake of laughter. 

The Commandant stared and looked uneasy. All looked at the 
Senator — all with amazement — the General, the Interpreter, the 
Officials, the Guards, Buttons, Dick and the American Consul. 

" Oh dear I Oh de-ar ! Oh deb-ar I '* cried the Senator, in the 
intervals of his outrageous peals of laughter. " OH I " and a new 
peal followed. 

What did all this mean? Was he crazy? Had misfortunes 
turned his brain ? 

But at last the Senator, who was ialways remarkable for his self- 
control, recovered himself. He asked the Commandant if he might 
be permitted to explain. 

** Certainly," said the Commandant, dolefully. He was afraid 
that the thing would take a ridiculous turn, and nothing is so terri- 
ble as that to an Austrian officiaL 

'' Will you allow me to look at the paper?" asked the Senator. 
*' I will not injure it at all." 

The Interpreter politely carried it to him as the Commandant 
nodded. The Senator beckoned to the Consul. They then walked 
up to the Commandant All four looked at the paper. 

''You see, gentlemen," said the Senator, drawing a lead pencil 
from his pocket, " the Florence correspondent has been too sharp. 

ExsRcisES IN ELOcrmoN. 393 

I can explain all this at once. I was with the Countess, and we 
got talking of poetry. Now, I don't know any more about poetry 
than a horsel*' 

" Well ? " 

" Well, she insisted on my making a quotation. I had to give in. 
The only one I could think of was a line or two from Watts." 

^^WaUaf Ah I I don't know him/' said the interpreter. 

" He was a minister — a parson." 

" Ah I " 

" So I said it to her, and she repeated it These friends of yours, 
Ckneral, have taken it down, but their spellin' is a little unusual," 
said the Senator, with a tremendous grin that threatened a new 

'* Look. Here is the true key which this gentleman tried so hard 
to find." 

And taking his pencil the Senator wrote under the strange words 
the true meaning : 

'' My wUUng aotd would stay 
In such a frame as thiSj 
And sit and sing herself away 
To everlasUng bliss," 

The interpreter saw it all He looked profoundly foolish. The 
whole thing was elear. The Senator's innocence was plain. He 
turned to explain to the Commandant The Consul's face exhibited 
a variety of expressions, over which a broad grimace finally pre- 
dominated, like sunshine over an April sky. In a few words the 
whole was made plain to the Commandant He looked annoyed, 
glared angrily at the Interpreter, tossed the papers on the floor and 
rose to his feet 

" Give these gentlemen our apologies," said he to the Interpreter, 
•* In times of trouble, when States have to be held subject to mar- 
tial law, proceedings are abrupt Their own good sense, will, I 
tmi^ig enable them to appreciate the difficulty of our position." 

James De MiUe — Harper dt Brothers. 


Fiotmes of Swiss Scenery and of the (Hty of Tenioe. 

It was in Switzerland that I first felt how constantly to contem- 
plate sublime creation develops the poetic power. It was here that 
I first began to study nature. Those foreste of black gigantic pines 
rising out of the deep snows; those tall white cataracts, leaping like 
headstrong youth into the world, and dashing from their precipices, 
as if allured by the beautiful delusion of their own rainbow mist; 
those mighty clouds sailing beneath my feet, or clinging to the 
bosoms of the dark green mountains, or boiling up like a spell from 
the iuTisible and unfathomable depths; the fell avalanche, fieet as a 
spirit of evil, terrific when its sound suddenly breaks upon the 
almighty silence, scarcely less terrjble when we gaze upon its crumb- 
ling and pallid frame, varied only by the presence of one or two 
blasted firs ; the head of a mountain loosening from its brother peak, 
rooting up, in the roar of its rapid rush, a whole forest of pines, and 
covering the earth for miles with elephantine masses ; the superna- 
tural extent of landscape that opens to us new worlds; the strong 
eagles, and the strange wild birds that suddenly cross you in your 
path, and stare, and shrieking fly — and all the soft sights of joy and 
loveliness that mingle with these sublime and savage spectacles, the 
rich pastures and the numerous flocks, and the golden bees and the 
wild flowers, and the carved and painted cottages, and the simple 
manners and the primeval grace — wherever I moved, I was in turn 
appalled or enchanted.; but whatever I beheld, new images ever 
sprang up in my mind, and new feelings ever crowded on my fancy. 

If I were to assign the particular quality which conduces to that 
dreamy and voluptuous existence, which men of high imagination 
experience in Venice, I should describe it as the feeling of abstrac* 
tion, which is remarkable in that city, and peculiar to it. Venice is 
the only city which can yield the magical delights of solitude. All 
is still and silent. No rude sound disturbs your reveries; fancy, 
therefore, is not put to flight. No rude sound distracts your self- 
consciousness. This lenders existence intense. We feel every thing. 
And we feel thus keenly jn a city not only eminently beautiful, not 
only abounding in wonderful creations of art, but each step of which 
is hallowed ground, quick with associations, that in their more Vari- 
ous nature, their nearer relation to ourselves, and perhaps their more 
picturesque character, exercise a greater influence over the imagina- 
tion than the more antique story of Greece and Rome. We feel all 

Exercises in Elocution. 395 

this in a dty too, whicb, although her luster be indeed dimmed, can 
still count among her daughters maidens fairer than the orient pearls 
with which her warriors once loved to deck them. Poetry, Tradi- 
tion, and Love, these are the Graces that have inyested with an 
ever-charming cestus this Aphrodite of cities. 

I^ft. J)isradL\f 

Joan' of Arc 
What is to be thought of Aer? What is to be thought of the 
poor shepherd-girl from the hills and forests of Lorraine, that — 
like the Hebrew shepherd-boy from the hills and forests of Judea 
— rose suddenly out of the quiet^ out of the safety, out of the relig* 
ious inspiration, rooted in deep pastoral solitudes, to a station in the 
van of armies, and to the more perilous station at the right hand of 
kings ? The Hebrew boy inaugurated his patriotic mission by an 
act, by a victorious act^ such as no man could deny. But so did the 
girl of Lorraine, i( we read her story as it was read by those who 
saw her nearest,^ Adverse armies bore witness tp the boy as no 
pretender: but so they did to the gentle girl Judged by the 
voices of all who saw them from a station of goodywill^ both were 
found true and loyal to any promises involved in their first acts. 
Enemies it was that made the difference between their subsequent 
fortunes. The boy rose — to a splendor and a noonday prosperity, 
both personal and public, that rang through the records of his people, 
and became a by- word amongst his posterity for a thousand years, 
until the sceptre was departing from Judah. The poor, forsaken 
girl, on the contrary, drank not herself from that cup of rest which 
she had secured for France.^:: She never sang together with the 
songs that rose in her native Domremy, as echoes to the departing 
steps of invaders. She mingled not in the festal dances of Yaucou- 
leurs which celebrated in rapture the redemption of France. No 1 
for her voice was then silent. No I for her feet were dust. Pure, 
innocent, noble hearted girl I whom, from earliest youth, ever I 
believed in as full of truth and self-sacrifice, this was amongst the 
strongest pledges for thy side, that never once — no, not for a mo- 
ment of weakness — didst thou revel in the vision of coronets and 
honor from man. Coronets for thee I Oh, no I Honors, if they 
come when all is over, are for those that share thy blood. Daughter 

\^l ' 


of Domremy, when the gratitude of thy king shall awaken, thou 
wOt be sleeping the sleep of the dead.xGall her, king of France, but 
she will not hear thee I Cite her by thy apparitors to come and 
receive a robe of honor, but she will be found ea oontumace. When 
the thunders of universal France, as even yet may happen, shall pro- 
claim the grandeur of the poor shepherd-girl that gave up all for her 
country "^ thy ear, young shepherd-girl, will have been deaf for hwe 
centuries. To suffer and to do, that was thy portion in this life ; to 
do — never for thyself, always for others; to suffer — never in the 
persons of generous champions, always in thy own; that was thy 
destiny ; and not for a moment was it hidden from thyself. ' Life,' 
thousaidst, Ms short, and the sleep which is in the grave is long. 
Let me use that life, so transitory, for the glory of those heavenly 
dreams destined to comfort the sleep which is so long.'NJljThis pure 
creature — pure from every suspiciion of even- a visionary self-interest^ 
even as she was pure in senses more obvious — never once did this 
holy child, as regarded herself, relax from her belief in the darkness 
that was traveling to meet her. She might not prefigure the very 
manner of her death ; she saw not in vision, perhaps, the aerial 
altitude of the fiery scaffold, the spectators without end on every 
road pouriag into Rouen as to a coronation, the surging smoke, the 
volleying flames, the hostile faces all around, the pitying eye that 
lurked but here and there until nature and imperishable truth broke 
loose from artificial restraints; these might not be apparent through 
the mists of the hurrying future. But the voice that called her to 
death, that she heard for ever. "^ 

Great was the throne of France even in those days, and great 
was he that sat upon it; but well Joanna knew that not the throne, 
nor he that sat upon it, was for her; but, on the contrary, that she 
was for ihem; not she by them, but they by her, should rise from 
the dust Gorgeous were the lilies of France, and for centuries had 
the privilege to spread their beauty over land and sea, until, in 
another century, the wrath of God and man combined to wither 
tnem ; but well Joanna knew, early at Domremy she had read that 
bitter truth, that the lilies of France would decorate no garland for 
her. Flower nor bud, bell nor blossom would ever bloom for her. 

Thomas De Quincey, 


Death aad Sloepi 

How wonderful is Death, 

Death and his brother Sleep I 
One pale as yonder waning moon. 

With lips of lurid Uue ; 
The other rosy as the mom 

When, throned on ooean waT^i 

It blushes o'er the world : 
Yet both so pasung wonderful I 

Hath then the gloomy Power, 
Whose reign is in the tainted sepQlchrea^ 
Seized on her sinless soul ? 
Must then that peerless form 
Which loye and admiration cannot view 
Without a beating heart, those asure veins ^ 
Which steal like streams along a field of snow. 
That lovely ontline, which is fair 
As breathing marble, perish ? 
Must putrefaction's breath 
Leave nothing of this heavenly sight 

But loathsomeness and ruin ? 
Spare nothing but a gloomy theme 
On which the lightest heart might moralize 7 
Or is it only a sweet slumber 
Stealing o'er sensatioUf 
Which the breath of roseate morniog 
Ohaseth into darkness ? 

Will lanthe wake again, ^ 

And give that faithful bosom joy 
Whose sleepless spirit waits to catch 
Light, life and rapture from her smile? 

Her dewy eyes are closed. 
And on their lids, whose texture fine 
Scarce hides the dark-blue orbs beneathi 

The baby Sleep is pillowed : 

Her golden tresses shade 

The forehead's stainless pride, 
Curling like tendrils of the parasite 

Around a marble column. 



Hark I whenoe that rushing sound? 

Tis like the wondrous strain 
That round a lonely ruin swells, 
Which wandering on the echoing shore^ 

The enthusiast hears at evening : 
VTis softer than the west wind*s sigh ; 
'Tis wilder than the unmeasured notes 
Of that strange lyre whose strings 
The genii of the breezes sweep ; 

Those lines of rainbow light 
Are Uke the moonbeams when they fall 
Through some cathedral window, but the tints 

Are such as may not find 

Comparison on earth. 

Behold the chariot of the fairy queen I 
Celestial coursers paw the unyielding air ; 
Their filmy pennons at her word they furl, 
And stop obedient to the reins of light : 

These the queen of spells drew in ; 

She spread a charm around the spot. 
And leaning graceful from the ethereal car, 

Long did she gaze, and silently, 
Upon the slumbering maid. Shdle^, 

Death of Amelia WentworUi. 
Ahkua — Marian. 

Marian, Are you awake, dear lady ? 

AmtUa, Wide awake. 
There are the stars abroad, I see. I feel 
As though I had been sleeping many a day. 
What time o' the night is it? 

Mar, About the stroke 
or midnight 

iimeZ. Let it come. The skies are calm 
And bright ; and so, at last my spirit is. 
Whether the heavens have influence on the mind 
Through life, or only in our days of death, 

MxsBCisES IN Elocution. 89t 

I know not; yet beforci ne'er did my soul 
Look upwards with such hope of joy, or pine 
For that hope's deep completion, Marian 1 
Let me see more of heaven. There — enough. 
Are you not well, sweet girl ? 

Mar, Oh I yes: but you 
Speak now so strangely : you were wont to talk 
Of plain familiar things, and cheer me: now 
You set my spirit drooping. 

Amd, I have spoke 
Nothing but cheerfiil words, thou idle girl. 
Look; look I above : the canopy of the sky, 
Spotted with stars, shines like a bridaUdress: 
A queen might envy that so regal blue 

WHich wraps the world o* nights. Alas, alas I / 

I do remember in my follying days 
What wild and wanton wishes once were mine, 
Slaves — radiant gems— and beauty with no peer 
And friends (a ready host) — but I forget 
I shall be dreaming soon, as once I dreamt, 
When I had hope to light me. Have you no song. 
My gentle girl, for a sick woman's ear ? 
There's one I've heard you sing : " They said his eye " — 
No, that's not it: the words are hard to hit. 
** His eye like the mid-day sun was bright " — 

Mar, *Tis so. 

You *ve a good memory. Well, listen to me. 

I must not trip, I see. 

Amel, I hearken. Now. 


His eye like the mid-day sun was bright 
Hers had a proud but a milder light, 
Clear and sweet like the cloudless moon • 
Alas! and must it fade as soon ? 

His voice was like the breath of war. 
But hers was fainter — softer far ; 
And yet, when he of his long love sighed, 
She laughed in scorn : — he fled and died. 

400 ExEBCissa nr Elocvtion. 


Mar, There is another Terse, of a different air. 
Bat indistinct — like the low moaning 
Of summer winds in the evening air; thus it runs— 

They said he died upon the wave, 

And his bed was the wild and bounding billow; 
Her bed shall be a dry earth grave : 

Prepare it quick, for she wants her pillow. 

Amd, How slowly and how silently doth timo 

Float on his starry journey. Slill he go«s, 

And goes, and goes, and dotli not pass away. 

He rises with the golden morning, calmly. 

And with the moon at night. Methinks I see 

Him stretching wide abroad his mighty wings. 

Floating for ever o'er the crowds of men, 

Like a huge vulture with its prey beneath. 

Lo I I am here, and time seems passing on : 

To-morrow I shall be a breathless thing— « 

Yet he will still be here ; and the blue hours 

Will laugh as gaily on the busy world 

As though I were alive to welcome them. 

There's one will shed some tears. Poor Charles! 

[Charles enters.] 
Charles. I am here. 

Did you not call ? 

AmeL You come in time. My thoughts 

Were full of you, dear Charles. Your mother^ now 

I take that title — in her dying hour 

Has privilege to speak unto your youth. 

There's one thing pains me, and I would be ealm. 

My husband has been harsh unto me — yet 

He 18 my husband ; and you'll tl^ink of this 

If any sterner feeling move your heart ? 

Seek no revenge for me. You will not ? — Nay, 

Is it so hard to grant my last request ? 

He is my husband : he was father, too, 

Of the blue-eyed boy you were so fond of oncot 

Do you remember how his eyelids closed 

ExsRciSBS nr Elocution. 401 

When the first summer rose was opening ? 
'Tis now two years ago — more, more : and I— 
I now am hastening to him. Pretty boy I 
He was my only child. How fair he looked 
In the white garment that encircled him — 
'Twas like a marble slumber ; and when we 
Laid him beneath the green earth in his bed, 
I thought my heart was breaking — yet I lived: 
But I am weary now. 

Mar. You must not talk, 
Indeed, dear lady ; nay— 

Ch, Indeed you must not 

Amel Well, then, I will be silent; yet not so. 
For ere we journey, erer should we take 
A sweet leave of our fHends, and wish them well, 
And tell them to take heed, and bear in mind 
Our blessings. So, in your breast, dear CharleS| 
Wear the remembrance of Amelia. 
She ever loved you — ever ; so as might 
Become a mother's tender love — n6 more. 
Charles, I have lived in this too bitter world 
Now almost thirty seasons : you have been 
A child to me for one-third of that time. 
I took you to my bosom, when a boy, 
Who scarce had seen eight springs come forth and vanish. 
You have a warm heart, .Charles, and the base crowd 
Will feed upon it^ if^ — but you must make 
That heart a grave, and in it bury deep 
Its young and beautiful feelings. 

Ch. 1 will do 
All that you wish — all ; but yon cannot die 
And leave me ? 

AmeL You shall see how calmly Death 
Will come and press his finger, cold and pale, 
On my now smiling lip : these eyes men swore 
Were brighter than the stars that fill the sky, 
And yet they must grow dim: an hour— ~ 

Ch. OhI no. 

402 ExEBCisEB iir Elocutzon. 

No, no : oh I say not so. I cannot bear 

To hear you talk thaa. Will you break my heart ? 

AtmL No : I would caution it against a change^ 
That soon must happen. Calmly let us talk. 
When I am dead - — 

CK Alas, alas! 

AmeL This is 
Not as I wish : you had a brayer spirit 
Bid it come forth. Why, I have heard you talk 
Of war and danger — Ah I -^^ 

[Wkntworth enier8,\ 

Mar, She's pale— speak, speak. 

Ch. Oh I my lost mother. Howl You here? 

Went I am come 
To pray her pardon. Let me touch her hand. 
Amelia I she faints: Amelia! * [She 

Poor faded girl I I was too harsh — unjust. 

Ch. Look I 

Mar, She has lefl us. 

Ch, It is false. Bevive ! 
Mother, revive, revive I 

Mar. It is in vain. 

Ch. Is it then so ? My soul is sick and faint» 

Oh I mother, mother. I — I cannot weep. 
Oh for some blinding tears to dim my ajes^ 
So I might not gaze on her. And has death 
Indeed, indeed struck Aer— so beautiful? 
So wronged, and never erring; so beloved 
By one — who now has nothing left to love. 
Oh ! thou bright heaven, if thou art calling now 
Thy bright angels to thy bosom — rest. 
For lo ! the brightest of thy host is gone — 
Departed — and the earth is dark below. 
And now — Til wander far and far away, 
Like one that hath no country. I shall find 
A sullen pleasure in that life, and when 
I say " I have no friend in all the world," 
My heart will swell with pride and make a show 

Exercises m Elocution. idZ 

Unto itself of happiness; and in truth 

There is. in that 8am« solitude a taste 

Of pleasure which the social never know. 

From land to land FII roam, in all a stranger, 

And, as the hodjr gains a hrarer look, 

By staring in the face of all the winds, 

So from the sad aspect of different things 

My soul shall pluck a courage, and hear up 

Against the past And now — for Hindostan. 

Bryan W, Procter, 

The Uinstrel's Song in Ella. 
Oh I sing unto my roundelay ; 

Ohl drop the briny tear with me; 
Dance no more at holiday, 
Like a running river be; 
My love is dead, 
Gone to his death*bed, 
All under the willow-tree. 

Black his hair as the winter night, 
Whit^e his neck as summer snow, 
Buddy his face as the morning light, 
Cold he lies in the grave below : 
My love is dead. 
Gone to his death-bed, 
All under the willow-tree. 

Sweet his tongue as throstle's note, 

Quick in dance as thought was he; 
Deft his tabor, cudgel stout; 
Oh I he lies by the willow-tree; 
My love is dead, 
Gone to his death-bed, 
All under the willow-tree. 

Hark I the raven flaps his wing, 

In the briered dell below: 
Hark I the death-owl loud doth sing. 

To the nightmares as tliey go. 


My lore is dead. 
Gone to his deftth-bed. 
All under the wiUow-tre0i 

Seel the white moon shines on high. 

Whiter is my true-love*s shroud; 
Whiter than the morning sky, 
Whiter than the evening cloud. 
My love is dead, 
Gone to his death-bed, - 
All under the wilTow-tree. 

Here, upon my true-love's grave, 
Shall the garish flowers be laid, 
Kor one holy saint to save 
All the sorrows of a maid. 
My love is dead/ 
Gone to his death-bed. 
All under the willow-tree. 

With my hands FlI bind the briers^ 

Round his holy corse to gre ; 
Elfin-fairy, light your fires, 
Here my body still shall be. 
My love is dead. 
Gone to his death-bed. 
All under the willow-tree. 

Come with acorn cup and thorn. 

Drain my heart's blood all away; 
Life and all its good I scorn. 
Dance by night, or feast by day. 
My love is dead, 
Gone to his death-bed, 
All under the willow-tree. 

Water-witches, crowned with reytes^ 

Bear me to your deadly tide. 
I die — I come — my true-love waits. 

Thus the damsel spake, and died. ChaUerUm^ 

ExMRCjass IN Elocution. 405 

Death of Ii(»ig Tom Ooffin. 

Lifting hia broad bands bigfa into the air, bis Toioe was heard in 
the tempest ' God*s will be done with me/ he cried : ' I saw the 
first timber of the Arid laid, and shall live just long enough to see 
It turn out of her bottom ; after which I wish to live no longer.' 
But his shipmates were far beyond the sounds of his voice before 
these were half uttered. All command of the boat was rendered 
impossible, by the numbers it contained, as well as the raging of the 
surf; and as it rose on the white crest of a wave, Tom saw his 
beloved little craft for the last time. It fell into a trough of the sea, 
and in a few moments more its fragments were ground into spliiiters 
on the adjoining rocks. The cockswain [Tom] still remained where 
he had cast off the rope, and beheld the numerous heads and arms 
that appeared rising, at short intervals, on the waves, some making 
powerful and well-directed efforts to gain the sands, that were 
becoming visible as the tide fdl, and others wildly tossed, in the 
frantic movements of helpless despair. The honest old seaman gave 
a cry of joy as he saw Barnstable f the commander whom Tom had 
forced into the boatj issue from the surf, where one by one several 
seamen soon appeared also, dripping and exhausted. Many others 
of the crew were carried in a similar manner to places of safety . 
though, as Tom returned to his seat on the bowsprit, he could not 
conceal from his reluctant eyes the lifeless forms that were, in other 
spots, driven against the rocks with a fury that soon left them but 
few of the outward vestiges of humanity. 

Dillon and the cockswain were now the sole occupants of their 
dreadful station. The former stood in a kind of stupid despair, a 
witness of the scene ; but as his curdled blood began again to flow 
more warmly to his heart, he crept dose to the side of Tom, with 
that sort of selfish feeling that makes even hopeless misery more 
tolerable, when endured in participation with another. 

*• When the tide falls,' he said in a voice that betrayed the agony 
of fear, though his words expressed the renewal of hope, 'we shall 
be able to walk to land.' 

* There was One and only One to whose feet the waters were the 
same as a dry deck,' returned the cockswain; *and none but such 
as have His power will ever be able to walk from these rocks to the 
sands.' The old seaman paused, and turui ug his eyes, which ezhlb* 

406 ' Exercises in Elocution. 

ited a mingled expression of disgust and compassion, on Lis com- 
panion, he added with reverence : ' Had you thought more of Him 
in fair weather, your case would be less to be pitied in this tempest* 

' Do you still think there is much danger ?* asked Dillon. 

' To them that have reason to fear death. Listen I Do you hear 
that hollow noise beneath ye?' 

*Tis the wind driving by the vessel I' 

'*Tis the poor thing herself' said the affected cockswain, ' giving 
her last groans. The water is breaking up her decks, and in a few 
minutes more, the handsomest model that ever cut a wave, will be 
like the chips that fell from her in framing!* 

•Why then did you remain here?* cried Dillon wildly. 

' To die in my coffin, if it should be the will of God,' returned 
Tonu ' These waves are to me what the land is to you: I was born 
on them, and I have always meant that they should be my grave.* 

'But I — I,* shrieked Dillon, 'I am not ready to die I ^— I cannot 
die I — I will not die I * 

' Poor wretch I ' muttered his companion, 'you must go like the 
rest of us ; when the death-watch is called, none can skulk from 
the muster.* 

' I can swim,* Dillon continued, rushing with frantic eagerness to 
the side of the wreck. 'Is there no billet of wood, no rope, that I 
can take with me ? ' 

' None ; everything has been cut away, or carried off by the sea^ 
If ye are about to strive for your life, take with ye a stout heart 
and a clean conscience, and trust the rest to Gkd.' 

' God 1 ' echoed Dillon, in the madness of his frenzy, ' I know no 
God I there is no Gk)d that knows me I * 

'Peace!* said the deep tones of the cockswain, in a voice that 
seemed to speak in the elements; * blasphemer, peace!' 

The heavy groaning, produced by the water in the timbers of the 
Arid^ at that moment added ita impulse to the raging feelings of 
Dillon, and he cast himself headlong into the sea. The water, 
thrown by the rolling of the surf on the beach, was necessarily 
returned to the ocean, in eddies, in different places favorable to such 
an action of the element Into the edge of one of these counter- 
currents, that was produced by the very rocks on which the schooner 
Uy, and which the watermen call the ' under-tow,' Dillon had un- 

Exercises in Elovvtion. * 407 

knowingly thrown his person ; and when the waves had driven 
him a short distance from the wreck, he was met by a stream that 
his most desperate efforts could not overcome. He was a light and 
powerful swimmer, and the struggle was hard and protracted. Withi 
the shore immediately before his eyes, and at no great distance, he 
was led, as by a false phantom, to continue his efforts, although they 
did not advance him a foot. The old seaman, who at first had 
watched his motions with careless indifference, understood the dan- 
ger of his situation at a glance, and, forgetful of his own fate, he 
shouted aloud, in a voice that was driven over the strugglinsr victim 
to the ears of his shipmates on the sands: 

' Sheer to port^ and clear the under-tow I Sheer to the south- 

Dillon heard the sounds, but his faculties were too much obscured 

by terror to distinguish their object ; he, however, blindly yielded 

to the call, and gradually changed his direction until his face was 

once more turned toward the vessel. Tom looked around him for a 

rope, but all had gone over with the spars, or been swept away by 

the waves. At this moment of disappointment, his eyes met those 

of the desperate Dillon. Calm and inured to horrors as was the 

veteran seaman, he involuntarfly passed his hand before his brow to 

exclude the look of despair he encountered ; and when, a moment 

afterward, he removed the rigid member, he beheld the sinking form 

of the victim as it gradually settled in the ocean, still struggling with 

regular but impotent strokes of the arms and feet to gain the wreck, 

and to preserve an existence that had been so much abused m its 

hour of allotted probation. ' He will soon meet his God, and learn 

that his God knows him I * murmured the cockswain to himselC 

As he yet spoke, the wreck of -the Arid yielded to an overwhelm* 

ing sea, and after a universal shudder, her timbers and planks gave 

way, and were swept toward the cliffs, bearing the body of the 

simple-hearted cockswain among the ruins. 

James P, Cooper, 

The Oharacter of FalstaS 
Falstaff *s wit is an emanation of a fine constitution ; an exubera- 
tion of good-humor and good-nature ; an overflowing of his love 
of laughter and good-fellowship ; a giving vent to his heart's ease 

408 ' ExERcisEa IN ELoctmoy. 

•nd over-contentment with himself and others. He would not t>e 
in charftcter if he were not so fat as he is ; for there is the greatest 
keeping in the boundless luxury of his imagination, and the pam* 
pered self-indulgence of his physical appetites. He enriches and 
nourishes his mind with jests, as he does his body with sack and 
sugar. He carves out his jokes as he would a capon or a haunch 
of venison, where there is cut and come again ; and pours out upon 
them the oil of gladness. His tongue drops fatness, and in the 
chambers of his brain Mt snows of meat and drink.* He keeps 
up perpetoal holiday and open house, and we live with him in a 
round of invitations to a rump and dozen. Yet we are not to sup- 
pose that he was a mere sensualist All this is as much in imagina- 
tion as in reality. His sensuality does not engross and stupify his 
other faculties, but ' ascends me into the brain, clears away all the 
dull crude vapors that eaviron it, and makes it full of nimble, fiery, 
and delectable shapes.' His imagination keeps up the ball after his 
senses have done with it He seems to have even a greater enjoy- 
ment of the freedom from restraint, of good cheer, of his ease, of his 
vanity, in the ideal exaggerated description which he gives of them, 
than in fact He never fails to enrich his discourse with allusions 
to eating and drinking; but we never see him at table. He carries 
his own larder about with him, and he is himself 'a tun of man.' 
His pulling out the bottle in the field of battle is a joke to show his 
contempt for glory accompanied with danger, his systematic adher- 
ence to his Epicurean philosophy in the most trying circumstances. 
Again, such is his deliberate exaggeration of his own vices, that it 
does not seem quite certain whether the account of his hostesses bill, 
found in his pocket, with such an out-of-the-way charge for capons 
and sack, with only one half-penny-worth of bread, was not put 
there by himself as a trick to humor the jest upon his favorite pro- 
pensities, and as a conscious caricature of himself. He is repre- 
sented as a liar, a braggart, a coward, a glutton, eta, and yet we are 
not offended, but delighted with him ; for he is all these as much to 
amuse others as to gratify himself. He openly assumes all these 
characters to show the humorous part of them. The unrestrained 
indulgence of his own ease, appetites, and convenience, has neither 
malice nor hypocrisy in it. In a word, he is an actor in himself 
almost as much as upon the stage, and we no more object to tha 

ExMRCisJBS IN Elocution. 400 

character of Fabtaff in a moral point of view, than we shoald think 
of bringing an excellent comedian, who should represent him to the 
life, before one of the police offices. 

The Bayen. 
Once upon % midnight dreary, while I pondereOi weak and weary, 
Over many a qtiaint and curious Tolume of forgotten lore -~ 
While I nodded nearly napping, snddenly there came a tapping. 
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber-door ; 
'*'Tis some visitor,** I muttered, '^tapping at my chamber-door — 

Only this, and nothing more.** 

Ah I distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, 
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. 
Eagerly I wished the morrow ; vainly I had sought to borrow 
From my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for the lost Lenore — 
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore — 

Nameless here for evermore. 

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain 
Thrilled me— filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; 
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating : 
"Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber-door — 
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber-door; 

This it is, and nothing more. 

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, 

** Sir," said I, " or madam, truly your forgiveness I impfore ; 

But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, 

'And so faintly yon came tapping, tapping at my chamber-door, 

That I scarce was sure I heard you ** •— here I opened wide the 


Darkness there, and nothing more. 

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, 

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before; 
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness ^ve no token, 

410 ExEBdsxa nr Elocution 

▲ad th« only word there spoken wtf the whispered word, 


This I whispered, and an echo murmured hack the word, 


Merely this, and nothing more. 

Back into the chamber turning, all mj soul within me burning, 
Soon again I heard a tapping something louder than before. 
*^ Surely," said I -— " surely that is something at my window lattice 
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and ibis mystery explore— 
Let my heart be still a moment^ and this mystery explore. 

Tis the wind, and nothing more.** 

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, 

In there stepped a stately Baven of the suntly days of yore. 

Not the least obeisance made he ; not a minute stopped or stayed 

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber-door— 
Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber-door-* 

Perched and sat, and nothing more. 

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 craveHi 
Ghastly, grim and ancient Raven, wandering from the nightly 

shore— > 
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night's Plutonian shore I ' 

Quoth the Baven : ** Nevermore." 


Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear dlsooarse so plainly^ 
Though its answer little meaning-*— little relevancy bcnre; 
7or we cannot help agreeing that no living human being 
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber-door— 
Birl or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber*door, 

With such name as " Nevermore." 

But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only 
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour* 
Nothing further then he uttered; not a feather then be fluttered— 

ExEBCisss IN Ema>cutiok. '411 

Till I scarcely more th*ii muttered: ^< Other fiiends bftve flown 

before — 
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes hare flown before.** 

Then the bird said: "Nevermore." 

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, 
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utter? is its only stock and store, 
Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster 
Followed fast and followed faster^ till his songs one burden bore — 
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore, 

Of "Never — nevermore.** 

But^ the Raven still begniling all my sad soul into smiling; 
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat ia front of bird and bust and 

Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking 
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore— 
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore 

Meant in croaking " Nevermore." 

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing 
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core ; 
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining 
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er, 
Bat whose velvet violet lining wiih the lamp-light gloating o'er 

She shall press, ah, nevermore I 

Then, methonght, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen 

Swung by seraphim, whose footfklls tinkled on the tufted floor. 
" Wretch! " I cried, " thy God hath lent thee— * by these angels he 

hath sent thee 
Respite— > respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore I 
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore I " 

Quoth the Raven : " Nevermore." 

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!— prophet still, If bird or devil! 
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, 
Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted — 


On this home by horror haunted -^teU me truly, I implore — 

Is there — tf there balm in Gilead? — tell me — tell me, I im* 


Quoth the Baven : " Nevermore/* 

"Prophet I" Baid I, "tlung of evil— prophet still, if bird or 

devil 1 
By that heaven that bends above us — by that Qod we both adore^ 
Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if, within the distant Aidenn, 
It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels name Lenore— - 
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Lenore ? " 

Quoth the Raven : •* Nevermore." 

" Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend ! " I shrieked, 


" Oct thee back into the tempest and the night's Plutonian shore I 

Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken 1 

Leave my loneliness unbroken! — quit the bust above my door! 

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my 


Quoth the Raven : " Nevermore." 

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sittingj 
On the pallid bust of Pallas, just above my chamber-door ; 
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon*s that is dreaming. 
And the lamp-light o*er him streaming, throws his shadow on tb# 

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

8hall be lifted — nevermore! 

Death of Gawtrey the Ooinen 

At both doors now were heard the sounds of voices. ' Open in 
the king's name, or expect no mercy 1* , 'Hist!' said Qawtrey. 
* One way yet — the window — the rope.* 

Morton opened the casement — Gawtrey uncoiled the rope. The 
dawn was breaking ; it was light in the streets, but all seemed quiet 
witliout The doors reeled and shook benefith the pressure of the 
pursuers. G-awtrey flung the rope across the street to the opposite 

JSXERCISE8 m JSLocvnoin 4is 

parapet ; af^er two or three efforts, the grappling-hook caught firm 
hold — the perilous path was made. 

' Go first,* said Morton; ' I will not leave you now; you will be 
longer getting across than I shalL I will keep guard till you are 

' Hark I hark ! — are you mad 7 Ton keep guard I What is your 
strength to mine 7 Twenty men shall not move that door, while 
my weight is against it. Quick, or you destroy us both 1 Besides^ 
you will hold the rope for me, it may not be strong enough for my 
bulk of itselC Stay I — stay one moment If you escape, and I 
fiedl — Fanny — my father, he will take care of her — you remember 
— thanks I Forgive me all I Go ; that's right ! * 

With a firm pulse, Morton threw himself on that dreadful bridge; 
it swung and crackled at his wetghti Shifting his grasp rapidly — 
holding his breath — with set teeth —-with closed eyes — he moved 
on — he gained the parapet — he stood safe on the opposite side. 
And now, straining his eyes across, he saw through the open case- 
ment into the chamber he had just quitted. Gawtrey was still 
standing against the door to the principal staircase, for that of the 
two was the weaker and the more assailed. Presently the explo- 
sion of a firearm was heard ; they had shot through the panel. 
Gawtrey seemed wounded, for he staggered forward, and uttered a 
fierce cry; a moment more and he gained the window — he seized 
the rope—- he hung over the tremendous depth! Morton knelt by 
the parapet, holding the grappling-hook in its place, with convulsive 
grasp, and fixing his eyes, bloodshot with fear and suspense, on the 
huge bulk that clung for life to that slender cord t 

*Le voUal It voilaP cried a voice from the opposite side. Mor- 
ton raised his gaze from Gawtrey ; the casement was darkened by 
the forms of the pursuers— they had burst into the room — an 
officer sprung upon the parapet, and Gawtrey, now aware of his 
danger, opened his eyes, and, as he moved on, glared upon the foe. 
The policeman deliberately raised his pistol — Gawtrey arrested 
himself — from a wound in his side the blood trickled slowly aud 
darkly down, drop by drop, upon the stones below; even the offi- 
cers of law shuddered as they eyed him; his hair bristling — his 
cheek white — his lips drawn convulsively from his teeth, and his 
eyes glaring from beneath the fix>wn of agony and menace in which 

414 ExsRGisss IN Elocvtxoit. 

jet spoke the indomitable power and fierceness of the man. 1^ 

look, so fixed — so intense— so stern, awed the policeman; his 

hand trembled as he fired, and the bail struck the parapet an inch 

below the spot where Morton knelt. An indistinct, wild, gurgling 

sound — ^half laugh, half yell — of scorn and glee, broke from Gawt- 

rej*s lips. He swung himself on — near — near — nearer — a yard 

Irom the parapeU 

' You are saved I' cried Morton ; when at that moment a yolley 

burst from the fatal casement — the smoke rolled oyer both the 

fiigitives — a groan, or rather howl, of rage, and despair, and agony, 

appalled even the hardiest on whose ear it came. Morton sprang to 

his feet, and looked below. He saw on the rugged stones, far down, 

a dark, formless, motionless mass — the strong man of passion and 

levity — the giant who had played with life and soul, as an infant 

with the baubles that it prizes and breaks — was what the Gsesar 

and the leper alike are, when all clay is without God's breath -^ 

what glory, genius, power, and beauty, would be for ever and for 

ever, if there were no God 1 


I've wandered east, Fve wandered west^ 

Through many a weary way; 
But never, nerer can forget 

The love of life's young day ! 
The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en, 

May weel be black gin Yule; 
But blacker fa' awaits the heart 

Where first fond love grows cooL 

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, 

The thochts o' bygane years 
Still fling their shadows owre my path. 

And blind my een wi' tears I 
They blind my een wi' saut^ saut ie«i% 

And sair and sick I pine, 
As memory idly summons up 

Theblithe blinks o' langsyne. 


'TwM then we loved ilk ither weel, 

'Twas then we twa did part; 
Sweet time I —-sad time I — twa bairns at schale, 

Twa bairns, and but ae heart! 
*Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink, 

To lear ilk ither lear ; 
And tones, and looks, and smiles were shed. 

Remembered ever mair. 

I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet^ 

When sitting on that bink, 
Cheek touchin* cheeky loof locked in loo^ 

What our wee heads could think. 
When baith bent doun owre ae braid page, 

Wi* ae buik on our knee, 
Thy lips were on thy lesson, but 

My lesson was in thee. 

mind ye how we hung our heads. 

How cheeks brent red wi' shame, 
Whene'er the schule-weans, laughin', said. 

We cleeked thegither hame? 
And mind ye o* the Saturdays — 

The schule then skailed at noon — 
When we ran aff to speel the braes — 

The broomyajb^aes b' June? 


My head rins ronnd and round about. 

My heart flows like a sea, 
As ane by ane the thochts rush back 

0* schule-time and o' thee. 
Oh, mornin* life I oh, mornin' love 1 

Oh, lightsome days and lang, 
When hinnied hopes around our hearty 

Like simmer blossoms, sprang l^ 

mind ye, love, Low aft we left 

The deavin' dinsome toun, 
To wander by the green bumside. 

And hear its water croon ? 


iia ExERcisBB IN Elocution. 

The simmer leaves hung owre our headi^ 
The flowers burst round our feet, 

And in the gloamin' o' the wood 
The throssil whistled Sweet 

The throssil whistled in the wood, 

The bum sung to the trees, 
And we with Nature's heart in tune^ 

Concerted harmonies ; 
And on the knowe aboon the bum, 

For hours thegither sat 
In the silentness o' joy, till baitb 

Wi* very gladness grati 

Aye, aye, dear Jeanie Morrison, 

Tears trinkled doun your cheek. 
Like dew*beads on a rose, yet nane 

Had ony power to speak 1 
That was a time, a blessed time, 

When hearts were fresh and young, 
When freely gushed all feelings forth, 

Unsyllabled^ unsung I 

I marvel, Jeanie Morrison, 

Gin I hae been to thee 
As closely twined wi' earliest thochts 

As ye hae been to me 7 
Oh I tell me gin their music fills 

Thine ear as it does mine ; 
Oh 1 say gin e'er your heart grows great 

Wi' dreamings o' langsyne ? 

Tve wandered east, I've wandered wes^ 

Fve borne a weary lot; 
But in my wanderings, far or near, 

Ye never *were forgot 
The fount that first burst frae this heart, 

Still travels on its way ; 
And channels deeper as it rins. 

The love o' life's young day. 

ExsRcisBS IN Elocvtion. 41t 

dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, 

Since we were sindered young, 
Fve never seen your face, nor heard 

The music o' your tongue ; 
But I could hug all wretdiedness. 

And happy could I dee, 
Did I but ken your heart still dreamed 

0* bygane days and me ! 

Fading— Dying. 
The autumn winds are swelling high, 

And autumn leaves are lying low ; 
And playing through the murky sky, 

I see the flocks of wild-birds go. 
*Twas on a sunny, bright May day, 

Ah I long ago it seemeth now — 
I turned me from the world away 

With weary feet and throbbing brow. 

And ever since that fatal hour 

Has my life's lamp been waning dim, 
And fading with the autumn flower, — 

I soon shall sing my evening hymn ; 
I soon shall sing my evening hymn. 

And lay me down alone to rest, 
Then Death, the spirit cold and grim. 

Will come in clouds of darkness drest. 

Through all the night so long and still. 

In my shadowy chamber alone I lie — 
While the moon shines pale on the window sill. 

And the mystic hours go slowly by — 
I think o'er all the glad, bright way 

My life hath passed its few short years ; 
They are gone, like one long summer day, 

And night has come with gloom and tears 

416 Exercises m Elocvttok 

Bat surely, soon ttiII break the morn »— 

The fair light of the Better Land, 
When, unto angel glories borne. 

Before the great white throne I'll stand. 
Oh I I have dreamed, in dajs gone by, 

Ambition's dream of pride and fame^ 
Of days and years to come, when I 

Should gain a minstrel's glorious name. 

Now coldly blows the autumn wind, 

And darker grows the autumn sky— > 
And, withered on the damp, cold ground. 

Summer's bright leares and flowers lie : 
ITen thus within my heart are strewn 

The wrecks of each bright hope and dreamy 
Like withered leaves and flowers, grown, 

Precious no more to me, they seem. 

All faded are those visions bright^ 

And crushed those dreams of eartUy fame^ 
And I would only seek to write 

Within the book of life, my name. 
Now life is no more bright to me, 

For fairer forms my soul shall greet- 
When I go up the shining way, 

The pearly gate, and golden street. 

Oh t I am longing to go home, 

For earth is growing cold and dim; 
And soon will my Redeemer come— 

I soon shall sing ray evening hymn. I 

And so she sang her hymn at even. 

And laid her down in peace to rest: 
She woke next morn, away in Heaven, 

To dwell for aye among the blest. 

Mm SchmcK 

ExsRCTSsa IN Elocutioh. 419 

Aldricb, T. B., a popular American writer, a contributor to the 
Atlantic Monthly. 

Aret, Mrs. H. £. G., a lady of fine literary talent, who was edu- 
cated at Oberlin, Ohio. She published, a few years ago, a volume 
of poems entitled Household Songs; riie edited for a long time The 
Home Monthly and a juyenile magazine called the Youth's Oom« 
pauion, and has written much for the New York Independent, and 
many other newspapers and periodicals. She has also been much 
interested in educational work, lecturing upon methods of teach- 
ing and literary subjects at Teachers* Institutes in several States. 
At present she is associated with her husband, Prof. Oliver Arey, in 
conducting the Normal School at Whitewater, Wisw 

Browiono, Robert, an English poet, author of Bells and Pome- 
grantes, The SouFs Tragedy, etc. 

Browning, Elizabeth Barrett, was bom in London in 1809, was 
a very remarkable child, writing verses at ten years of age, and 
publishing '' An Essay on Mind " at seventeen. 

She had a very thorough education, studying the classics, phil- 
osophy, etc.; but her favorite study was the Greek language and 
its literature. 

Mrs. Browning's life was early saddened by the loss of an idol- 
ized brother, and then followed years of illness. But when others 
would have sunken under the load of infirmity and pain, this sub- 
lime woman wrote impassioned poetry and translated Greek. In 
1846 she was married to Bobert Browning, and the last years of 
her life were spent in Italy. Under its sunny skies, and in the 
brightness of her home, she was somewhat restored to health. She 
died at Florence on the 29th of June, 1861. In the English burial 
ground in that city the traveler will find a white marble tablet bear- 
ing this inscription: "Here wrote and died Elizabeth Barrett 
Browning, vrho, in her woman's heart, united the wisdom of the 
sage and the eloquence of the poet; with her golden verse she 
linked Italy to Englaid. Grateful Florence places this memorial, 
A. D. 1862." 

420 Mxsncrssa m Elocutzoit, 

Bremer, Frederika, a Swedish story writer, bom in 1800. Her 
works have been yery ably translated by Mary Howitt| of England. 
She wrote Family Cares and Family Joys, The President's Daugh- 
ter, Nina, eto. A few years since, and but a short time previous to 
her death, she visited America. She received great attention from 
the literary people of this country, and her book, Homes in the 
New World, published after her return to Sweden, is an interesting 
history of her travels. She visited her people who had settled in 
the West, commending them for their industry and thrift ^e died 
in 1864. 

Browk, Graoi, a native of Comao, Long Island, and a young 
writer of promise. 

Bulwer, Sir Edward, was born in 1805. He was the youngest 
son of Gen. Bulwer, of Heydon Hall, Norfolk, England. Afler 
the death of his father he succeeded to his mother's estate, and took 
her ancient family name-^Lytton. This gentleman's full name is, 
Edward George Earle Lytton Bulwer Lytton. His first volume 
was published at the age of fifteen, and he has written almost con- 
stantly ever since. He is interested in politics as well as literature, 
and has been several years in the House of Commons. In 1853 the 
University of Oxford conferred the degree of D. C. L. upon Sir Bul- 
wer Lytton, in 1856 he was elected rector of the University of Glas- 
gow, and in 1858 was made Secretary for Colonial Affairs. 

Collins, William, the son of a hatter, was born on Christmas 
day, 1721, at Chichester, England. He began his education at 
Winchester college, but finally took his degree at Magdalen college, 
Oxford. Afler leaving school he took clerical orders, but soon 
abandoned the gown and prayer - book to apply himself more 
closely to literature. 

He was not successful, at first, in attracting much attention as a 
writer, and it is said that he sank under the disappointment, and be- 
came indolent and dissipated. For a few years before liis deatli, 
which occurred in 1759, he frequented the aisles and cloisters of 
Chichester Cathedral, night and day, accompanying the music with 
wbs and moans. The poor poet died of melancholy, and a gener- 
ation after his poems became popular. 


Some one has said that the ^ Ode on the Pasnons is a magnificent 
gallery of allegorical painting/' and certainly no poet has ever been 
his superior in the nse of metaphor and personation. 

Cart, Auck, was born in 1820, at Hamilton, Ohio. She began 
to write for the press at the age of eighteen, and her sister Phebe 
at seventeen. They published a joint volume in 1850, and in 1851 
Alice wrote the Olovornook Sketches. She has written much for 
the Atlantic, Harper's, The New York Ledger, The Independent, 
Packard's, etc. The sisters removed to New York city, in 1850, 
where they still reside. 

Campbell, Thomas, was bom in the city of Glasgow, July 27, 
1777. Though the family belonged to the ancient Scottish nobility, 
the poet's father was a trader with Virginia, and failing in this busi- 
ness, he kept a boarding-house for college students. Thomas was 
educated at Glasgow, and was distinguished, while still in the Uni- 
versity, for his translations from the Greek and for his poetic writ- 
ings. He published poetry at the age of fourteen. He wrote some 
of the grandest battle pieces which have been produced — Lochiel's 
Warning, Hohenlinden, The Battle of the Baltic, Song of the Greeks, 
etc. He should be especially admired by Americans, for his Ger- 
trude of Wyoming, in which he sketches with the pencil of a true 
artist, pictures of Pennsylvania scenery, throwing a new halo over 
the beautiful valley in which the scenes are laid. He died in 1844, 
and his remains lie in Westminster Abbey. A history of his life 
was written by his friend. Dr. BeatUe, and published in 1849. 

Chattertok, Thomas, a boy of strange genius, was born in 1753. 
He deceived all the literary world, by producing what he declared 
were translations of ancient manuscripts, consisting of the sermons 
of priests, sketches in art, and the poetical writings of those who 
had been dead for hundreds of years. He committed suicide by 
taking arsenic, when a little more than seventeen years of age. 

Cleveland, Mrs., has written a few poems, none of which have 
been particularly admired, except No Sect in Heaven. This is pub- 
lished by the American Tract Society, and is a universal favorite. 

Clare, John, an English peasant, born at Helpstone, near Peters- 
burg, in 1793. At thirteen he walked seven miles one morning, to 

482 EjasRCJSsa in Elocxjttoi^, 

buy Thomson's Seasonsy paying ibr the book a shilling, -which he 
had earned by hard labor. That very day he began to write poetry. 
His first volume was bought for twenty pounds, and was published 
in 1820. He came into possession of a fortune from the sale of hia 
books, and the contributions made by noblemen and others; gave 
up his plow ; married a farmer's daughter, and settled down in his 
library to the pleasures of study. But in an unlucky moment he 
lefl his books to speculate in farming, and lost not only all his hard 
earnings, but his mind also, and he is now in a private asylum for 
the insane. 

OoLERioaK, Samttel Taylor, bom at Devonshire, England, in 1772. 
He was a schoolmate of Charles Lamb at Christ's hospital In a 
fit of desperation after the death of his father, he enlisted as a sol- 
dier in the light dragoons, London, and served four months before 
his release was procured. He officiated later as a Unitarian clergy- 
man, and afterward as the secretary to the governor of Malta. 

His poetic writings have great variety in style and character. 
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner is a wonderful poem, preternatural 
and fascinating. There is nothing at all resembling it in literature. 

Cr«AT, Hbnrt, an American statesman, born in Virginia in 1777, 
and died at Washington in 1852. He wiftlteo minent in politics for 
fifty years, distinguishing himself ^'in ^rSBL position which he 

He was sent to the Legislature of Kentucky, was in the United 
States Senate, was the American Minister to Ghent, etc. 

Clark, James G., was bom in Oswego county, N. Y., in 1830. 
He has the rare gift of wedding his poetry to most beautiful musicj 
and, also, of giving it expression in song. As a poet, he is noted 
for the beauty and perfection of his rhythm; as a composer, for the 
wonderful adaptation of the music to the sentiment, and as a bal- 
lad singer, he has, probably, no superior. 

Cooper, James Feotmore, was bora in Burlington, New Jersey, 
but lived nearly all his life in New York. He was for a short time 
in early life a sailor, and was thereby enabled to paint his sea-scenes 
as none but a genuine itae could do. He also delineated Indian 
character and habits with wonderful fidelity. He wrote many 
novels, sketches of European character, etc., etc 

ExERCisMS IN JBJLOcunoir, 4ft8 

Ds Krotft, Mrs. Helen, a ladj of rare genius and checkered for- 
tune. She had perfect sight, and in one brief month was a bride, 
a widow and was blind. She has written much for magasdnes, 
newspapers, etc., and a few years since published a volume which 
has had a yery large sale. A juvenile stoiy of rare interest — Little 
Jakey — is now in press. For more than twenty years the darkness 
of night has shrouded her vision, but in that time she has performed 
a herculean labor in literature, studying Latin as a pastime and read- 
ing Cicero's orations with the help of an amanuensis. 

De Mille, James, author of the Dodge Club, or Italy in 
MDCCCLXIY, a humorous satire published by Harper Brothers. 

De Qoincet, Thomas, was bom at Manchester, England, in 1786, 
and was educated at Eaton and Oxford. 

Disraeli, Bight Hon. Benjamin, born in London in the year 1805. 
Has mingled much in politics, and as a speaker is noted for his sar- 
castic eloquence. 

DiOKENS, Charles, is the son of a paymaster in the Navy Depart- 
ment, England, and was born at Landport, Portsmouth, in 1812. 
In early life he was a Parliamentary reporter, writing, in addition, 
sketches for the Morning Chronicle, Monthly Magazine, etc., under 
the nom de plume of " Boz." His Pickwick Papers have been trans- 
lated in many languages, and read almost the world over. He has 
visited America twice ; the last time, in 1867, he gave a tour of 
" Headings " through the country. His elocution is by no means 
perfect, but his facial expression and gestures are inimitable. He is 
at the head of novelists in England. 

PxRRiEB, Mart, an English writer, born in 1782 ; died in 1854. 

Fern, Fanny (Sarah Payson Willis), was bom in Portland, Me,, in 
1811. Her father removed to Boston in 1817, and became the edi- 
tor of the " Recorder " and the " Youth's Companion." She was 
educated at Hartford, at the celebrated seminary of Catharine 
Beecher. Harriet Beecher was at that time a teacher in the school. 
Soon after leaving school, Miss Willis was married to Mr. Eldridge, 


of Boston ; but in a few years she found herself a widow, and de- 
pendent upon her own exertions for support. In 1851 her literary 
life began. For a long time the real name of the author of the 
dashing little sketches which appeared in Tarious newspapers was 
not known ; seventy thousand copies of Fern Leaves were sold in 
in this country alone, and shortly afterward there were found tliirty* 
two thousand purchasers for Little Ferns. Ruth Hall and Rose 
Clark soon followed, and our author was in a full tide of prosperity. 
In 1856, Fanny Fern was married to James Parton, the popular 
biographer. For the last fifteen years she has written for the 
New York Ledger, never failing to furnish the stipulated article 
each week. 

GK)nGH, John B., a celebrated temperance orator. No man in the 
country is able to draw such crowds of people to his lectures, an^ 
for years his popularity has been unabated. 

Q-iBBOK, Edward, was bom at Putney, in Surry, Eng. He wrote 
the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, and other historical 
works. He died at the house of Lord Sheffield, in London, Jan. 
16, 1794. 

■ Halleck, Fitz-Grbenk, an American poet, who died in 1868. He 
was associated with his friend, J. Rodman Drake, in writing a series 
of sprightly and somewhat satirical poems, entitled " The Croak- 
ers,*' which attracted considerable attention in the literary world 
Marco Bozzaris, a martial lyric, is undoubtedly his best production. 

Hamilton, Gaiu The real name of this racy writer is Abigail y 
Dodge, and her home is at Hamilton, Mass. She has written mudi^J' v-^^^ 
for the Atlantic and other magazines, and has published several | vol- 
umes^ which have been eagerly rea4 by thousandg of people, a 

Hawthorkb, Nathaniel, was noted for the quaintness of fiis 
writings and the purity of his language. He wrote much for the f 
Atlantic Monthly and other periodicals. 

Hazutt, William, was first a painter, but, failing of success in 
art^ he turned his attention to literature. He was a native of Eng- 
land, and died in London in 1830. 



Exercises nr Elocution. 425 

HcMANSy Felicia (Felicia Dorothea Browne), was bom at Liver- 
pool, England, on the 26th of September, 1793. She published her 
first volume at fifteen. This childish attempt at poetry was not suc- 
cessful, but oar young author did not despair, and the next publi- 
cation placed her upon a firm literary footing. In 1812 she was 
married to Captain Hemans; but the union was far from being a 
happy one, and in 1818 he removed to Italy, while his wife remained 
in England, and they never met again. Mrs. Hemans died May \% 
1835, and was buried at St Ann's church, Dublin. 

HoLiacs, Oliver Wkndell, was born in Portland, Me., in 1809. 
He was professor of anatomy and physiology at Harvard for many 
years. His poetry sparkles with humor and his prose is quaint and 
witty. He has contributed for the Atlantic Monthly and for various 
periodicals, and is much admired both by American and English 

Hugo, Yiotor, a French writer of great dramatic power, has 
written a whole librafy of books. 

Hoon, Thomas, who was born in 1798, and who died in 1845, was 
chiefly known as a comic writer and satirist, but he excelled also in 
sentimental and pathetic poetry, thus showing a versatility of talent 
8eldom seen. Hood's works are published in four volumes: Poems, 
Poems of Wit and Humor, Hood's Own, or Laughter from Tear to 
Year, and Whims and Oddities in Prose and Verse. 

iRYiNa, WASHiNOTOir. This much admired American writer was 
born in New York in 1783. He wrote voluminously. Books upon 
travel, history and romance poured firom his pen. He took great 
interest in studying the manners and customs of the original Dutch 
inhabitants of New York. The Tappan Zee, Sleepy Hollow and 
the Eaatskills are made classical by his tale of Rip Van Winkle. 
This story has been dramatised and has been successfully played in 
Booth's theater, the inimitable Joe Jefferson taking the part of tho 
poor, old, Dutch sleeper. Irving was very popular in England, and 
his works have been translated into many languages. His house at 
Snnnyside, where he lived for many years and where he died, can be 
seen by travelers over tb«> Hudson River Railroad, or from the steam* 

426 Exercises in Elocution. 

era which ply np and down the riter. It is a low cottage, covered 
with iry, which was brought^ originally, from Melrose Abbey, and 
planted by the roaster's own hand. Irving is buried in the cem- 
etery at TarrytowD, and a simple stone, a few feet in height, with 
the brief inscription of his name and age, marks the spot. 

Jefferson, Thomas, a distinguished American statesman, during 
the period of the Revolution, author of the Declaration of Independ- 
ence, and third President of the United States. 

Kkowles, James SnERroAN, an English dramatic writer, born in 
1794. His first play of Caius Gracchus was performed in 1815. 

Longfellow, Henry Waosworth, was bom in Portland, Maine, 
in 1807. He was professor of modem languages and belle lettres 
at Harvard University for many years. He resides at Cambridge, 
near Boston, and occupies a house which was originally Washing- 
ton's headquarters. Mr. L. has written much poetry, and some 
prose, and his translation of Dante throws a classic halo around bis 
name. He visited Europe in 1868, returning in 1869. The poet 
was enthusiastically received by the English people. His poetry is 
not startling, but is quaint and beautiful 

Lowell, Jameb Russell, was bom in Cambridge, Mass., 1819. 
He is now professor of modem language, rhetoric, etc., at Harvard 
University. As a humorist, satirist, or essayist, he is deservedly 

Lowell, Robert, a writer of good repute, a member of the cele- 
brated family by this name. 

Lamb, Cbarles, a poet and essayist, bom in London, February 
11, 1775. His father was in humble circumstances, and Charles, 
was presented with a scholarship in Christ's Hospital. There was a 
taint of insanity in the family, and the poet himself was once con- 
fined for a few weeks in an asylum at Hoxton. His sister Mary 
was insane at intervals, and he devoted his life to her comfort and 
protection. In her lucid intervals, they wrote and published some 
volumes conjointly. His style is quaint and fanciful He died in 
1834, and his poor sister survived him only three year& 

'MxERcisES IN Elocution. 429 

MAOAULA.T, Thos. Babinoton, txk EngHsh Baron, was bom at Lei- 
cestershire in 1800, and died at Kensington in 1859. He wrote a 
History of England, which is deservedly popular. His Lays of 
Ancient Borne have been greatly admired by lovers of classic 
poetry. He displayed brilliant powers, both in politics and litera- 

MoTHEBWELL, WiLLiAM, a native of Q-lasgow, Scotland, born in 
1797. He assisted Hogg in editing the works of Bums. He died 
suddenly, at the age of thirty-eight 

Prootsr, Brtak, known in the reading world by tlie name of 
Barry ComwalL He published a small volume of dramatic scenes, 
in 1815. HiB style is elegant and graceful. 

Pbooteb, Adelaide Avne, the author of Legends and Lyrics, pub- 
lished in 1858. She was a daughter of Barry Cornwall, and a 
native of England, 

Pbootob, Edna Dean, was bom in New Hampshire, but of late 
years has made her residence in Brooklyn. Her war poems were 
largely circulated in the newspapers of the time. 

FiERPONT, Rev. John, born at Litchfield, Connecticut, and died 
in 1866. He wrote much upon reform, and was noted for his radi- 
cal views. 

Peboival, James G-ates, was born in Kensington parish, in the 
town of Berlin, Connecticut, September 15, 1795. As soon as the 
alphabet was mastered, he seemed to have an insatiable thirst for 
knowledge, never engaging in play with his mates, but always por- 
ing over books or studying nature. We find the boy invoking the 
muse with passionate pleadings, at the age of fourteen or fifteen : 
writing sometimes in smooth, beautiful rhythm, and then again 
descending -to a childish doggerel In 1811 he entered Yale Col- 
lege, New Haven, as a member of the Freshman's class, and in due 
time completed the course of study In that institution. After leav- 
ing college he studied medicine, but his practice in the profession 
was limited to a few days. A malignant fever took away several 
of his patients, and, shrinking from the responsibility of holding 

426 Exercises in Elocution. 


haman lires in hu hands, our jonng physician closed hi^risaddle- 
bags'^nd resnmed the pen. He was nnsuccessful in business and 
nnhappy in mind, sometimes even attempting self-destruction. At 
the little village of Hazel Q^reen, Wisconsin, the poor poet lies 
buried, and no stone marks his grave. 


Fob, Edgar Allak This strange, reckless son of genins first 
saw the light in Baltimore, in 181 L He died in a hospital in his 
native city, at the early age of thirty-eig^t^ 

Read, Thomas Buohanait, is justly celebrated both as a painter 
and a poeU He was bom in Chester county,* Pennsylvania, in 

RuBKiN, John, art critic, was bom in London, in 18#9. The work, 
^ Modem Painters, by an Oxford Graduate," was published when 
the author was but twenty-four years of age. %g^^ Ruskin is the 
moving sprit of the Pre-Ri^hael school of arjij^Cs. / 

Saxb, John G., is an American writer of htmwrous poetry. He 
has also made some fine translations from the dead languages. He 
was born in 1815. 

Sqhbnck, Ellen, was a young lady of rare scholarship and prom- 
ise, a native of Fulton, New York. She graduated at the Falley 
Seminary, in that village, in 1854. She wrote many poems which 
gave a glimmering of what her capabilities might be ; but the icy 
finger of consumption was laid upon her, and she died when 
scarcely twenty years of age. 

Scott, Sir Walter, was born in Edinburgh, on the 15th ol 
August, 1771. He had the rare gift of writing poetry and prose 
with equal skill He inaugurated a style of historic romance and 
poetry which has had many imitators. He died in 1832. 

Shakspeare, Williau, bom at Stratford on Avon, England. As 
a dramatic writer, he has never been equalled ; and the versatility 
of his knowledge and his skill in delineation has been the wonder 
of the world for a century past. 

Shellst Perot Btsshx, the son of a baronet of England, Sir 
Timothy Shelley, of pastle Garring; was born Augusts, 1702. 

Exercises in Elocution. 429 

While yet a school boy, he seemed to have an equal attachment fof 
poetry and metaphysics^ and nearly every page of his writings gives 
evidence of the strange union. His idealisms are sometimes gr&ndljr 
beautiful, sometimes ghastly repulsive. He met an accidental death, 
by drowning, off the coast of Italy. 

SioomtmET, Ltdia Humtlet, was bom In Norwich, Oonnecticut| 
Sept 1, 1791. At the age of eight years, the child tried her hand 
St story writing. For many years she was a very popular teacher 
in the city of Hartford, establishing her reputation as a pioneer 

• ^^^ 

educator. The volume entitled Pieces in Prose and Verse, was 
published in 1815. In 1819 she was married to Mr. Charles Sig- 
oume^, a merchant of the town where the school was established. 
The last words she wrote were, 

" Heaven's peace be with you all I 
Farewell 1 Farewell I" 

She died in 1866. 


SouTHKT, Robert, poet-laureate of England, was bom August 12, 
1774, at Bristol His first wife, a sister of the wife of Coleridge, 
died in 1834, and in a year and a half afterward, he was married 
to his life-long friend, Caroline Anne Bowles. During the last few 
years of his life the poor poet's mind was clouded, and his friends 
could scarcely regret his death. He died in 1843, and was buried 
in the church yard of Crosthwaite. 

SouTHET, Caroline Anke Bowles, was justly celebrated, both as 
a poet and story writer. She contributed for Blackwood's Maga- 
sine for many years, and the sketches were afterwards published in 
book form. She was married to the poet, Robert Southey, June 5, 
1839. He had written more than twelve hundred letters to her, 
upon literary and other subjects. After the death of her husband, 
she spent the last few years of her life in strict retirement 

Stowe, Harriet Beecher, was bora in Connecticut, in 1812. 
She, with the somewhat numerous family of Beechers, inherited a 
love for piety, freedom, etc., fbom her stanch New England ances- 
tors. She has written much, and her works have been translated 
into French, German. and other languages. She was in early life asso- 
ciated with her sidtei; Catharine Beecher, in conducting a school for 

490 ExsBciSBS IN Elocutioit. 

young ladies, at Hartford, Gonnecticat Uncle Tom's Cabin was 
published in 1852, and nothing she has since written has been so 
extensiyelj read. 

SwiNBURir, Algerkor Goablks, author of the Greek tragedy, 
Atalanta in Calydon, etc 


Tatlor, Batard, has written books of travel, romance and poetry. 
He has been engaged moeh as a public lecturer. He was bom in 

. Tatlor, Bekjaiov F., a native of Lowville, K. T. ; is a popular 
writer and lecturer. 

TiLTOK, TsBODORE, R wcll kuowu reformer, editor of the Inde- 

Tbowbridob, J. T. His n^m de plume, when writing juvenile 
stories, is Father Brighthopes. Darius Ghreen and his Flying Ma- 
chine, inimitable in its roUicking humor, was written for Our Young 
Folks, March, 1866 ; and The Vagabonds has justly achieved a 
great popularity. 

Tenntsov, Alfred, the present poet-laureate of England, the son 
of a Lincolnshire clergyman, was born in 1810. He gave, promise 
of superior talent in youth, taking a prize for a poem while still an 
undergraduate. He is known and loved as! much in America as in 
England. He writes carefully, reviewing and correcting his proofs 
many times. 

ToBiN, JoHK, wrote many plays, which were rejected by mana* 
gers; the Honeymoon being the first production of his pen which 
was accepted. The play has been, and still is, very popular, but 
the poor writer died without the pleasure of seeing it performed. 
He was bom at Salisbury, in the year 1770, and died in 1804. 

WiLSOK, FoRCETTHE, Ru AmcHcan poet, who died in 1866. 

Webster, Daniel, celebrated as a statesman and orator. 


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