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THE 

STANDARD 
POPULAR 

RECITER 


THE   STANDARD    POPULAR 
RECITER 


THE 
STANDARD 

POPULAR 
RECITER 

Including  Selections  from  the  Works  of 

RUDYARD  KIPLING,  SIR  HENRY  NEWBOLT, 

E.  NESBIT,  GEORGE  R.  SIMS, 

MARK  TWAIN, 

and  many  others. 


WARD,    LOCK    &    CO.,    LIMITED 

LONDON  AND  MELBOURNE 


Printed  in  Great  Britain  by  Butler  &  Tanner  Ltd..  Frome  and  Londo. 


CONTENTS 

TITLE.  AUTHOR.  PAGE 

THE     BALLAD     OF    THE    CLAU- 

PBSRDOWS Rudyard  Kipling.      .      .  13 

DRAKE'S  DBUM Henry  NewboU      ...  16 

HE  FELL  AMONG  THIEVES    .      .  Henry  NewboU      ...  17 

THE  SINGING  OF  THE  MAGNIFICAT  E.  Neabit 19 

MY  KATE Mrs.  Barrett  Browning     .  24 

To  FLUSH,  MY  DOG   ....  Mrs.  Barrett  Browning     .  26 

THE  THREE  FISHERS  ....  Charles  Kingsley  ...  30 

THE  LIFEBOAT George  R.  Sims     .      .      .31 

••  PRINCE  "  :    A  STORY   op  THE 

AMERICAN  WAR     .      .      .      .  H.  L.  Childe-Pcmberton  37 
THE  WARDEN  OF  THE  CINQUE 

PORTS H.  W.  Longfellow       .      .  42 

DOING  NOTHING 44 

THE  WOMEN  OF  MUMBLES  HEAD  Clement  Scott  ....  45 

SHAMUS  O'BRIEN        .      .      .      .  J.  S.  Le  Fanu       ...  49 

THE  ARAB'S  RIDE  TO  CAIRO      .  O.  J.  Whyte-Melville  .      .  55 

THE  ELF-CHILD James  Whitcomb  Riley     ,  60 

THE  HIGH  TIDE Jean  Ingelow  ....  62 

THE  BELLS Edgar  A  llan  Poe  ...  66 

CURFEW  MUST  NOT  RING  TO- 
NIGHT       Rose  H.  Thorpe     ...  70 

BETSY  AND  I  ARE  Our   .      .      .  Will  Carleton  ....  73 

How  BETSY  AND  I  MADE  UP    .  Will  Carleton  ....  76 

s 


2022139 


6  CONTENTS 

TITLE.  AUTHOR.  PAO» 

To  A  MOUSE Robert  Burns  ....     80 

THE  WRECK  OF  THE  HESPERUS  H.  W.  Longfellov  .  .  82 
THE  SONG  OF  THE  SHIRT  .  .  Tom  Hood  ....  84 
BISHOP  HATTO  AND  THE  RATS  .  Robert  Southey  ...  87 

MAUD  MULLEH «/•  O-  Whittier        ...     89 

TURN  THE  CARPET     ....     Hannah  Moore      ...      94 

THE  INVITATION Oliver  Wendell  Holmes     .     96 

I'M  GROWING  OLD     .     .     .      .     J.O.  Saxe       ....     99 

THE  RAVEN Edgar  Allan  Poe  .      .      .101 

MODERN  LOGIC 106 

THE  NATURAL  BRIDGE  ;  OR,  ONE 

NICHE  THE  HIGHEST  .  ,  .  Elihu  Burritt  .  .  .  .108 
GONE  WITH  A  HANDSOMER  MAN  Will  Carleton  .  .  .  .112 
CARRYING  THE  BABY.  .  .  .  Ethel  Turner.  ,  .  .116 
THE  CHILDREN'S  HOUB  .  .  .  H.  W.  Longfellow  .  .120 
THE  INCHOATE  ROCK  .  .  .  Robert  Southey  .  .  .122 

THE  CHANGELING J.R.Lowell    .      .     .     .124 

THE    SCHOOLMASTER   AND    His 

APPLES 126 

JOHNNY  RICH Will  Carleton  .      .      .      .130 

WHAT  is  A  WOMAN  LIKE  ? 134 

JOHN  BBOWN 135 

BETTER  IN  THE  MORNING  .  .  Leander  S.  Coan  .  .  .137 
THE  ARAB'S  FAREWELL  TO  His 

STEED The  Hon.  Mrs.  Norton    .    140 

THE  WAY  TO  MEET  ADVERSITY  William  Cowper  .  .  .142 
THE  BRIDGE  OF  SIGHS  .  .  .  Tom  Hood  .  .  .  .144 

CHEAP  CLOTHING 147 

MOSES  AT  THE  FAIR  ....  Oliver  Goldsmith  .  .  .149 
THE  CANE-BOTTOM'D  CHAEB  .  W.  M.  Thackeray  .  .  153 
THU  OLD  ARM-CHAIR  .  .  .  Eliza  Cook  .  155 


CONTENTS  7 

TITLE.  AUTHOR.  PAOH 

MY  OWN  FIBESIDE    .     .     .     .     A.  A.  Watts    .     .     .     .156 

THB  BACHELOB'S  SOLILOQUY 158 

UNCLE  SAMMY Will  Carleton  .      .     .      .   159 

A  BACHELOR'S  COMPLAINT  .      .     H.  G.  Bell 163 

THB  PAUPEB'S  DBIVE  .  .  .  Thomas  Noel  .  .  .  .164 
THIS  LEGEND  01  THE  FOBGET- 

ME-NOT .     .. 166 

THE  SHADOW  ON  THE  BLIND 170 

THE  TlNKEB  AND  THE  MlLLEB'S 

DAUQHTEB Dr.  John  Wolcot  .  .  .  172 

THE  BOY N.  P.  Willis  ....  174 

THE  BATTLE  OF  BLENHEIM  .  .  Robert  Southey  .  .  .176 
A  Pious  EDITOB'S  CBEED  .  .  J.  R.  Lowell  .  .  .  .178 
THE  NEW  CHUBCH  OBGAN  .  .  Will  Carleton  .  .  .  .181 

How  THE  MONEY  GOES  .  .  J.O.  Saxe 184 

MY  UNCLE John  Taylor  .  .  .  .185 

SHALL  I,  WASTING  IN  DESPAIB.  O.  Wither 187 

THE  FBETFUL  MAN  ....  William  Cowper  .  .  .188 
THE  RAZOB-SELLEB  ....  Dr.  John  Wolcot  .  .  .189 

NEVEB  SAY  FAH, 190 

WHEBB  THERE'S  A  WILL  THERE'S 

A  WAY J.O.  Saxe  .  .  .  .192 

THB  WASHING-DAY 193 

THE  UNCOMMON  OLD  MAN 194 

How  TOM  SAWYEB  GOT  His 

FENCE  WHITEWASHED  .  .  Mark  Twain  .  .  .  .195 

GBACE  DABLXNO William  Wordsworth  .  .198 

LUCY  GBAY William  Wordsworth .  .  200 

MISCHEEF-MAKEBS 202 

A  MOBNINQ  CONVEBSATION  .  .  Maria  Edgeworth  ,  .  .  204 
THE  USE  or  FLOWEBS  .  .  .  Mary  Howitt  ....  206 


8  CONTENTS 

TITLE.  AUTHOR.  PAGE 

BULLUM  ».  BOATUM  .  .  .  .  O.  A.  Stephens  .  .  .  208 
ARNOLD  WINKELRIED  .  .  .  Jama  Montgomery  .  .210 

A  CLOSE,  HARD  MAN 212 

THE  GLOVE  AND  THE  LIONS      .     Leigh  Hunt      .      .      .      .213 

THE  WIDOWEB The  Hon.  Mrs.  Norton    .   214 

YAWCOB  STRAUSS       ....     Charles  P.  Adams      .      .216 

THE  TOE 217 

NOSE  AND  EYES William  Cowper   .      .     .219 

DEB  BABY Charles  P.  Adams     .     .  220 

THE  EDITOB'S  GUESTS  .  .  .  Will  Carleton  .  .  .  .221 
THE  YANKEE  BOY  ....  John  Pierpont  .  .  .  228 
THE  ADMIBAL'S  SON  ....  Mrs.  Hemans  ....  229 
NOTHING*  TO  WEAB  .  .  .  .  W.  A.  Butler  .  .  .  .231 

THE  CLEVER  IDIOT 235 

THE  JUSTICE  OP  THE  PEACE  .  Charles  Dickens  .  .  .  237 
SELECTIONS  FROM  SHAKESPEARE — 

ANTONY'S     ORATION     OVER 

QKSAR'S  BODY  (Julius  Caesar) 243 

CARDINAL  WOLSEY  AND  CROM- 
WELL (Henry  VIII) 245 

OTHELLO'S  ACCOUNT  OP  His 

COURTSHIP  (Othello) 249 

HENRY  V  BEFORE  AGIXCOURT 

(Henry  V) ,      .  252 


\ 
INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

PAGB 

A  boy,  as  nursery  records  tell  .....   235 

A  fellow  in  a  market  town      .          .          .          .          .          .189 

A  hard,  close  man  was  Solomon  Ray        .          .          .          .212 

A  miat  was  driving  down  the  British  Channel  .  .  .42 
A  woman  is  like  to — but  stay  .  .  .  .  .134 

All  night  the  storm  had  raged 198 

An  Eton  stripling  training  for  the  law  .  .  .  .100 
As  at  their  work  two  weavers  sat  .  .  .  .  .94 
Aa  we  were  now  to  hold  up  our  heads  a  little  higher  .  149 

Been  out  in  the  lifeboat  often  ?        i -  '       .          .  ,  .31 

Between  Nose  and  Eyes  a  strange  contest  arose  .  .219 

Between  the  dark  and  the  daylight  .'          .  .  .120 

Bring,  novelists,  your  note-book       .          .          .  .  .45 

Brother  John  Bates,  is  not  that  the  morning  ?  .  .   252 

Drake  he'i  in  his  hammock  .  .  .>  .^  .  .16 
Draw  up  the  papers,  lawyer  .  .  '  *  ••'•'•  •  •*  .  .73 

England's  sun  was  setting       .          .          .          .          .          .70 

Farewell,  a  long  farewell,  to  all  my  greatness  .  .  .  245 
Farewell !  my  true  and  loyal  knight !  .  .  .166 

Friends,  Romans,  Countrymen,  lend  me  your  ears     .          .   243 

Give  us  your  hand,  Mr.  Lawyer  .  .  .  .  .76 
God  might  have  bade  the  earth  bring  forth  .  .  .  206 

Hark  !  'tis  the  important  day  of  washing  !  .  .  .193 
Hassan's  brow  is  dark  and  troubled  .  .  .  .55 

Hear  the  gledges  with  the  bells 66 

How  goes  the  money  T — Well 184 


,0  INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

J  du  believe  in  Freedom's  cause J78 

I  had  a  little  daughter »** 

I  haf  von  funny  leedle  poy 2' 

I  love  it !  I  love  it !  And  who  shall  dare  T  .  .  -155 
In  the  midst  of  wide,  green  pasture  lands  .  .  .19 
I  saw  the  widower  mournful  stand  .  .  «  .214 

I  think  you  remember  a  man  we  knew  .          .          .          .37 

I  was  sitting  with  my  microscope 96 

I  wish  I  knew  what  was  the  matter  ....  204 
In  tattered  old  slippers  that  toast  at  the  bars  .  .153 
It  was  a  noble  Roman  .  .  .  .  •  •  •  1! 
It  was  a  summer  evening  .  .  .  .  •  .176 
It  was  the  schooner  Hesperus  .  .  .  •  .82 
It  was  our  war-ship  Clampherdown .  .  .  .  .13 
I've  a  guinea  I  can  spend  .  .  .  .  •  .135 
I've  worked  in  the  fields  all  day 112 

Jist  afther  the  war,  in  the  year  '98  .  .  .  .49 
King  Francis  was  a  hearty  king 213 

"  Lads,"  said  I,  "  why  sitting  still  ?  "  .  .  .  .44 
Larrie  had  been  carrying  it  for  a  long  way  .  .  .116 

Law  is  law — law  is  law 208 

Let  others  seek  for  empty  joys  .  .  .  .  .156 
Little  orphant  Annie's  come  to  our  house  to  stay  .  .  60 
Loving  friend,  the  gift  of  one  .  .  .  .  .26 

"  Make  way  for  liberty  !  "  he  cried            .          .          .  .210 

Maud  Miiller,  on  a  summer's  day     .          .          .          .  .89 

Mr.  Ferdinand  Plum  was  a  grocer              .          .          .  .170 

Mr.  Pickwick  and  his  friends  were  conducted              .  .   237 

Most  potent,  grave,  and  reverend  signiora          .          .  .   249 

My  beautiful !  my  beautiful  !  that  standest  meekly  by  .140 

My  days  pass  pleasantly  away 99 

No  stir  in  the  air,  no  stir  in  the  sea         .         .         .          .    122 

Oft  I  had  heard  of  Lucy  Gray 200 

Oh !  oould  there  In  this  world  be  found  ....  202 
Once  on  a  time — no  matter  when  .  .217 


INDEX  OF   FIRST  LINES  n 

PAOH 

Once  upon  a  midnight  dreary  .          .          .          .          .101 

One  Charlea  Mackenzie 147 

One  more  Unfortunate  .          .          .          .          .          .144 

Press  onward,  'tis  wiser  .          •          •         *          *  ".       .190 

Raise  the  light  a  little,  Jim 130 

Receive,  dear  friend,  the  truths  I  teach    .          .          .          .142 

Shall  I,  wasting  in  despair  T  .....    187 

She  was  not  as  pretty  as  women  I  know  .          .          .24 

So  help  me  gracious,  efery  day  .....  220 
Some  fretful  tempers  wince  at  every  touch  .  .  .188 
Some  men  were  born  for  great  things  .  .  .  .159 

The  boy  stood  on  the  burning  deck           •    •••••          .  .   229 

The  Editor  sat  in  his  sanctum 221 

The  meanest  creature  somewhat  may  contain   .          .  .172 

The  old  mayor  climbed  the  belfry  tower         '.''»          .  .     62 

The  scene  opens  with  a  view             «  108 

The  summer  and  autumn  had  been  so  wet        .          .  .87 

The  Yankee  boy,  before  he's  sent  to  school       .          .  .   228 

There  was  an  old  man,  and  though  'tis  not  common  .    194 

There's  a  grim  one-horse  hearse        .          .          .          .  .164 

There's  something  in  a  noble  boy     .          .          .          .  .174 

They're  stepping  off,  the  friends  I  kne\r              .          .  .163 

They've  got  a  brand-new  organ,  Sue          ."         •          .  .181 

Three  fishers  went  sailing  out  into  the   West  .          .  .30 

Tom  Sawyer,  having  offended  his  sole   guardian          .  .195 

To  wed,  or  not  to  wed  T 158 

Wee,  sleekit,  cowrin',  tim'rous  beastie       .          .  .80 

Well,  having  thus  wooed   Miss  M'Flimsy             .  .  .231 

What  is  a  schoolmaster  T     Why,  can't  you  tell  ?  .  .126 

Who  dwells  at  yonder  three  gold  balls  ?    .          .  .  .185 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn            .          .          .  .  .84 

"  Ye  have  robbed,"  said  he 17 

M  You  can't  help  the  baby,  parson  "         .         .         .         .137 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  "CLAMPHER- 
DOWN" 

BY  RUDYABD   KlPUNO. 

It  was  our   war-ship   Clampherdown 

Would  sweep  the  Channel  clean, 
Wherefore  she  kept  her  hatches  closed 
When  the  merry  Channel  chops  arose, 

To  save  the  bleached  marine. 

She  had  one  bow-gun  of  a  hundred  ton, 

And  a  great  stern-gun  beside  ; 
They  dipped  their  noses  deep  in  the  sea, 
They  racked  their  stays  and  stanchions  fre^ 

In  the  wash  of  the  wind-whipped  tide. 

It  was  our  war-ship  Clampherdoivn 

Fell  in  with  a  cruiser  light 
That  carried  the  dainty  Hotchkiss  gun 
And  a  pair  o'  heels  wherewith  to  run 

From  the  grip  of  a  close-fought  fight. 

She  opened  fire  at  seven  miles — 

As  ye  shoot  at  a  bobbing  cork — 
And  once  she  fired  and  twice  she  fired, 
Till  the  bow-gun  drooped  like  a  lily  tired 

That  lolls  upon  the  stalk. 

"  Captain,  the  bow-gun  melts  apace, 

The  deck-beams  break  below, 
'Twere  well  to  rest  for  an  hour  or  twain. 
And  botch  the  shattered  plates  again." 

And  he  answered,  "  Make  it  so." 

13 


,4  THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  '"  CLAMPHERDOWN  « 

She  opened  fire  within  the  mile— 

As  ye  shoot  at  the  flying  duck— 
And  the  great  stern-gun  shot  fair  and  triie, 
With  the  heave  of  the  ship,  to  the  stainless  blue, 

And  the  great  stern-turret  stuck. 

«'  Captain,  the  turret  fills  with  steam, 

The  feed-pipes  burst  below — 
You  can  hear  the  hiss  of  the  helpless  ram, 
You  can  hear  the  twisted  runners  Jam." 

And  he  answered,  "  Turn  and  go  !  " 

It  was  our  war-ship  Clampherdown, 

And  grimly  did  she  roll ; 
Swung  round  to  take  the  cruiser's  fire 
As  the  White  Whale  faces  the  Thresher's  ire 

When  they  war  by  the  frozen  Pole. 

"Captain,  the  shells  are  falling  fast, 

And  faster  still  fall  we  ; 
And  it  is  not  meet  for  English  stock 
To  bide  in  the  heart  of  an  eight-day  clock 

The  death  they  cannot  see." 

"  Lie  down,  lie  down,  my  bold  A.B., 

We  drift  upon  her  beam  ; 
We  dare  not  ram,  for  she  can  run  j 
And  dare  ye  fire  another  gun, 

And  die  in  the  peeling  steam  ?  " 

It  was  our  war-ship  Clampherdown 

That  carried  an  armour-belt ; 
But  fifty  feet  at  stern  and  bow 
Lay  bare  as  the  paunch  of  the  purser's  sow, 

To  the  hail  of  the  Nordenfelt. 

"  Captain,  they  hack  us  through  and  through  j 

The  chilled  steel  bolts  are   swift ! 
We  have  emptied  the  bunkers  in  open  sea, 
Their  shrapnel  bursts  where  our  coal  should  be." 

And  he  answered,  "  Let  her  drift." 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  "  CLAMPHERDOWN "    15 

It  was  our  war-ship  dampherdoum, 

Swung  round  upon  the  tide, 
Her  two  dumb  guns  glared  south  and  north, 
And  the  blood  and  the  bubbling  stream  ran  forth, 

And  she  ground  the  cruiser's  side. 

"  Captain,  they  cry,  the  fight  is  done, 

They  bid  you  send  your  sword." 
And  he  answered,  "  Grapple  her  stern  and  bow. 
They  have  asked  for  the  steel.    They  shall  have  it  now  j 

Out  cutlasses  and  board  !  ** 

It  was  our  war-ship  Clampherdown, 

Spewed  up  four  hundred  men  ; 
And  the  scalded  stokers  yelped  delight, 
As  they  rolled  in  the  waist  and  heard  the  fight, 

Stamp  o'er  their  steel-walled  pen. 

They  cleared  the  cruiser  end  to  end, 

From  conning-tower  to  hold. 
They  fought  as  they  fought  in  Nelson's  fleet ; 
They  stripped  to  the  waist,  they  were  bare  to  the  feet, 

As  it  was  in  the  days  of  old. 

It  was  the  sinking  Clampherdown 

Heaved  up  her  battered  side — 
And  carried  a  million  pounds  hi  steel 
To  the  cod  and  the  corpse-fed  conger-eel, 

And  the  scour  of  the  Channel  tide. 

It  was  the  crew  of  the  Clampherdown 

Stood  out  to  sweep  the  sea, 
On  a  cruiser  won  from  an  ancient  foe, 
As  it  was  in  the  days  of  long  ago, 

And  as  it  still  shall  be. 

From  "  Barrack  Room  Ballads."     By  arrangement  with  Messr* 
Methuen  <fe  Co.,  Ltd. 


16 

DRAKE'S  DRUM 
BY  HENRY  NEWBOLT. 

Drake  he's  in  his  hammock  an'  a  thousand  mile  away, 

(Capten,  art  tha  sleepin'  there  below  ?), 
Slung  atween  the  round  shot  in  Nombre  Dios  Bay, 

An'  dreamin'  arl  the  time  o'  Plymouth  Hoe. 
Yarnder  lumes  the  Island,  yarnder  lie  the  ships, 

Wi'  sailor  lads  a  dancin'  heel-an'-toe, 
An'  the  shore-lights  flashin',  an'  the  night- tide  dashin', 

He  sees  et  arl  so  plainly  as  he  saw  et  long  ago. 

Drake  he  was  a  Devon  man,  an'  rilled  the  Devon  seas, 

(Capten,  art  tha  sleepin'  there  below  ?), 
Rovin'  tho'  his  death  fell,  he  went  wi'  heart  at  ease, 

An'  dreamin'  arl  the  time  o'  Plymouth  Hoe. 
"  Take  my  drum  to  England,  hang  et  by  the  shore, 

Strike  et  when  your  powder's  runnin'  low  ; 
If  the  Dons  sight  Devon,  I'll  quit  the  port  o'  Heaven, 

An'  drum  them  up  the  Channel  as  we  drummed  them 
long  ago." 

Drake  he's  in  his  hammock  till  the  great  Armadas  come, 
(Capten,  art  tha  sleepin'  there  below  ?), 

Slung  atween  the  round  shot,  listenin'  for  the  drum, 
An'  dreamin'  arl  the  time  o'  Plymouth  Hoe. 

Call  him  on  the  deep  sea,  call  him  up  the  Sound, 
Call  him  when  ye  sail  to  meet  the  foe  ; 

Where  the  old  trade's  plyin'  an*  the  old  flag  flyin' 

They  shall  find  him  ware  an'  wakin',  as  they  founc 
him  long  ago  ! 

From  "  The  Island  Race,"  published  by  Mr.  Elkin  Mathewt. 


HE  FELL  AMONG  THIEVES 
BY  HENRY  NEWBOLT. 

"  Ye  have  robbed,"  said  he,  "  ye  have  slaughtered  and 

made  an  end, 

Take  your  ill-got  plunder,  and  bury  the  dead  : 
What  will  ye  more  of  your  guest  and  sometime  friend  ?  " 
"  Blood  for  our  blood,"  they  said. 

He  laughed  :    "  If  one  may  settle  the  score  for  five, 
I  am  ready  ;  but  let  the  reckoning  stand  till  day  : 

I  have  loved  the  sunlight  as  dearly  as  any  alive." 
"  You  shall  die  at  dawn,"  said  they. 

He  flung  his  empty  revolver  down  the  slope 

He  climbed  alone  to  the  Eastward  edge  of  he  trees  ; 

All  night  long  in  a  dream  untroubled  of  hope 
He  brooded,  clasping  his  knees. 

He  did  not  hear  the  monotonous  roar  that  fills 
The  ravine  where  the  Yassin  river  sullenly  flows ; 

He  did  not  see  the  starlight  on  the  Laspur  hills, 
Or  the  far  Afghan  snows. 

He  saw  the  April  noon  on  his  books  aglow, 
The  wistaria  trailing  in  at  the  window  wide ; 

He  heard  his  father's  voice  from  the  terrace  below 
Calling  him  down  to  ride. 

He  saw  the  gray  little  church  across  the  park, 
The  mounds  that  hide  the  loved  and  honoured  dead ; 

The  Norman  arch,  the  chancel  softly  dark, 
The  brasses  black  and  red. 

B 


i8  HE   FELL  AMONG  THIEVES 

He  saw  the  School  Close,  sunny  and  green, 

The  runner  beside  him,  the  stand  by  the  parapet  wall, 

The  distant  tape,  and  the  crowd  roaring  between 
His  own  name  over  all. 

He  saw  the  dark  wainscot  and  timbered  roof, 
The  long  tables,  and  the  faces  merry  and  keen; 

The  College  Eight  and  their  trainer  dining  aloof, 
The  Dons  on  the  dais  serene. 

He  watched  the  liner's  stem  ploughing  the  foam, 
He  felt  her  trembling  speed  and  the  thrash  of  her 
screw ; 

He  heard  her  passengers'  voices  talking  of  home, 
He  saw  the  flag  she  flew. 

And  now  it  was  dawn.     He  rose  strong  on  his  feet, 
And  strode  to  his  ruined  camp  below  the  wood ; 

He  drank  the  breath  of  the  morning  cool  and  sweet ; 
His  murderers  round  him  stood. 

Light  on  the  Laspur  hills  was  broadening  fast, 

The  blood-red  snow-peaks  chilled  to  a  dazzling  white  : 

He  turned,  and  saw  the  golden  circle  at  last, 
Cut  by  the  Eastern  height. 

"  0  glorious  Life,  Who  dwellest  in  earth  and  sun, 

I  have  lived,  I  praise  and  adore  Thee." 

A  sword  swept. 
Over  the  pass  the  voices  one  by  one 

Faded,  and  the  hill  slept. 

from  "  The  Island  Race,"  published  by  Mr.  EVcin  Mathewi. 


19 

THE  SINGING  OF  THE  MAGNIFICAT 
BY  E.  NESBIT. 

In  the  midst  of  wide,  green  pasture-lands,  cut  through 
By  lines  of  alders  bordering  deep-banked  streams, 

Where  bulrushes  and  yellow  iris  grew, 

And  rest  and  peace  and  all  the  flowers  of  dreams, 

The  Abbey  stood — so  still,  it  seemed  a  part 

Of  the  marsh-country's  almost  pulseless  heart. 

Where  grey-green  willows  fringed  the  stream  and  pool, 
The  lazy,  meek-faced  cattle  strayed  to  graze, 

Sheep  in  the  meadows  cropped  the  grasses  cool, 
And  silver-fish  shone  through  the  watery  ways, 

And  many  a  load  of  fruit  and  load  of  corn 

Into  the  Abbey  storehouses  was   borne. 

Yet  though  so  much  they  had  of  life's  good  things, 
The  monks  but  held  them  as  a  sacred  trust, 

Lent  from  the  storehouse  of  the  King  of  kings 
Till  they,  His  stewards,  should  return  to  dust. 

"  Not  as  our  own,"  they  said,  "  but  as  the  Lord's, 

All  that  the  stream  yields,  or  the  land  affords." 

And  all  the  villages  and  hamlets   near 

Knew  the  monks'  wealth,  and  how  their  wealth  was 

spent. 
In  tribulation,  sickness,  want,  or  fear, 

First  to  the  Abbey  all  the  peasants  went, 
Certain  to  find  a  welcome,  and  to  be 
Helped  in  the  hour  of  their  extremity. 

When  plague  or  sickness  smote  the  people  sore, 
The  Brothers  prayed  beside  the  dying  bed, 

And  nursed  the  sick  back  into  health  once  more, 
And  through  the  horror  and  the  danger  said  : 

"  How  good  is  God,  who  has  such  love  for  us, 

He  lets  us  tend  His  suffering  children  thus  !  '* 


20        THE  SINGING  OF  THE  MAGNIFICAT 

They  in  their  simple  ways  and  works  were  glad. 

Yet  all  men  must  have  sorrows  of  their  own, 
And  so  a  bitter  grief  the  Brothers  had, 

Nor  mourned  for  others'  heaviness  alone. 
This  was  the  secret  of  their  sorrowing, 
That  not  a  monk  in  all  the  house  could  sing ! 

Was  it  the  damp  air  from  the  lovely  marsh, 
Or  strain  of  scarcely  intermitted  prayer, 

That  made  their  voices,  when  they  sang,  as  harsh 
As  any  frog's  that  croaks  in  evening  air — 

That  made  less  music  in  their  hymns  to  lie 

Than  in  the  hoarsest  wild-fowl's  hoarsest  cry  ? 

If  love  could  sweeten  voice  to  sing  a  song, 
Theirs  had  been  sweetest  song  was  ever  sung  : 

But  their  hearts'  music  reached  their  lips  all  wrong, 
The  soul's  intent  foiled  by  the  traitorous  tongue 

That  marred  the  chapel's  peace,  and  seemed  to  scare 

The  rapt  devotion  lingering  in  the  air. 

The  birds  that  in  the  chapel  built  their  nests, 

And  in  the  stone-work  found  their  small  lives  fair, 

Flew  thence  with  hurried  wings  and  fluttering  breasta 
When  rang  the  bell  to  call  the  monks  to  prayer. 

"  Why  will  they  sing  ?  "  they  twittered,  "  why  at  all  ? 

In  heaven  their  silence  must  be  festival !  " 

The  Brothers  prayed  with  penance  and  with  tears 
That  God  would  let  them  give  some  little  part 

Out  of  the  solace  of  their  own  sad  ears 
Of  all  the  music  crowded  in  their   heart. 

Their  nature  and  the  marsh-air  had  their  way, 

And  still  the  Brothers  sang  more  vilely  every  day. 

And  all  their  prayers  and  fasts  availing  not 
To  give  them  voices  sweet,  their  souls'  desire, 

The  Abbot  said,  "  Gifts  He  did  not  allot 
God  at  our  hands  will  not  again  require  ; 

The  love  He  gives  us  He  will  ask  again 

In  love  to  Him  and  to  our  fellow-men. 


THE  SINGING  OF  THE  MAGNIFICAT         21 

"  Praise  Him  we  must,  and  since  we  cannot  "praise 
As  we  would  choose,  we  praise  Him  as  we  can. 

In  heaven  we  shall  be  taught  the  angels'  ways 
Of  singing — we  afford  to  await  a   span. 

In  singing,  as  in  toil,  do  ye  your  best ; 

God  will  adjust  the  balance— -do  the  rest !  " 

But  one  good  Brother,  anxious  to  remove 
This,  the  reproach  now  laid  on  them  so  long, 

Rejected  counsel,  and  for  very  love 
Besought  a  Brother,  skilled  in  art  of  song, 

To  come  to  them — his  cloister  far  to  leave — 

And  sing  Magnificat  on  Christmas  Eve. 

So  when  each  brown  monk  duly  sought  his  place, 
By  two  and  two,  slow  pacing  to  the  choir, 

Shrined  in  his  dark  oak  stall,  the  strange  monk's  face 
Shone  with  a  light  as  of  devotion's  fire, 

Good,  young  and  fair,  his  seemed  a  form  wherein 

Pure  beauty  left  no  room  at  all  for  sin. 

But  when  the  time  for  singing  it  had  come, 
Magnificat,  face  raised  and  voice,  he  sang  : 

Each  in  his  stall  the  monks  stood  glad  and  dumb, 
As  through  the  chancel's  dusk  his  voice  outrang, 

Pure,  clear,  and  perfect — as  the  thrushes  sing 

Their  first  impulsive  welcome  of  the  spring. 

At  the  first  notes  the  Abbot's  heart  spoke  low : 
"  Oh,  God,  accept  this  singing,  seeing  we, 

Had  we  the  power,  would  ever  praise  Thee  so — 
Would  ever,  Lord,  Thou  know'st,  sing  thus  for  Thee  ; 

Thus  in  our  heart  Thy  hymns  are  ever  sung, 

As  he  Thou  blessest  sings  them  with  his  tongue." 

But  as  the  voice  rose  higher  and  more  sweet, 
The  Abbot's  heart  said  :  "  Thou  hast  heard  us  grieve, 

And  sent  an  angel  from  beside  Thy  feet, 
To  sing  Magnificat  on  Christmas  Eve  ; 

To  ease  our  ache  of  soul,  and  let  us  see 

How  we  some  day  in  heaven  shall  sing  to  Thee." 


22        THE  SINGING  OF  THE  MAGNIFICAT 

Through  the  cold  Christmas  night  the  hymn  rang  out, 
In  perfect  cadence,  clear  as  sunlit  rain — 

Such  heavenly  music  that  the  birds  without 
Beat  their  warm  wings  against  the  window-pane, 

Scattering  the  frosted  crystal  snow  outspread 

Upon  the  stone-lace  and  the  window-lead. 

The  white  moon  through  the  window  seemed  to  gaze 
On  the  pure  face  and  eyes  the  singer  raised  ; 

The  storm-wind  hushed  the  clamour  of  its  ways, 
God  seemed  to  stoop  to  hear  Himself  thus  praised, 

And  breathless  all  the  Brothers  stood,  and  still 

Reached  longing  souls  out  to  the  music's  thrill. 

Old  years  came  back,  and  half-remembered  hours, 
Dreams  of  delight  that  never  was  to  be, 

Mother's  remembered  kiss,  the  funeral  flowers 
Laid  on  the  grave  of  life's  felicity ; 

An  infinite,  dear  passion  of  regret 

Swept  through  their  hearts,  and  left  their  eyelids  wet. 

The  birds  beat  ever  at  the  window,  till 
They  broke  the  pane,  and  so  could  entrance  win ; 

Their  slender  feet  clung  to  the  window-sill, 
And  though  with  them  the  bitter  air  came  in, 

The  monks  were  glad  that  the  birds  too  should  hear, 

Since  to  God's  creatures  all  His  praise  is  dear. 

The  lovely  music  waxed  and  waned,  and  sank, 
And  brought  less  conscious  sadness  in  its  train, 

Unrecognized  despair  that  thinks  to  thank 
God  for  a  Joy  renounced,  a  chosen  pain — 

And  deems  that  peace  which  is  but  stifled  life 

Dulled  by  a  too-prolonged  unfruitful  strife. 

When,  service  done,  the  Brothers  gathered  round 
^  To  thank  the  singer — modest-eyed,  said  he : 
"  Not  mine  the  grace,  if  grace  indeed  abound ; 
God  gave  the  power,  if  any  power  there  be  j 
If  I  in  hymn  or  psalm  clear  voice  can  raise 
As  His  the  gift,  so  His  be  all  the  praise  !  " 


THE  SINGING  OF  THE  MAGNIFICAT        23 

That  night — the  Abbot  lying  on  his  bed 
A  sudden  flood  of  radiance  on  him  fell, 

Poured  from  the  crucifix  above  his  head, 
And  cast  a  stream  of  light  across  his  cell ; 

And  in  the  fullest  fervour  of  the  light 

An  Angel  stood,  glittering,  and  great,  and  white. 

His  wings  of  thousand  rainbow  clouds  seemed  made, 
A  thousand  lamps  of  love  shone  in  his  eyes, 

The  light  of  dawn  upon  his  brows  was  laid, 
Odours  of  thousand  flowers  of  Paradise 

Filled  all  the  cell,  and  through  the  heart  there  stirred 

A  sense  of  music  that  could  not  be  heard. 

The  Angel  spoke — his  voice  was  low  and  sweet 
As  the  sea's  murmur  on  low-lying  shore, 

Or  whisper  of  the  wind  in  ripened  wheat : 
"  Brother,"  he  said,  "  the  God  we  both  adore 

Has  sent  rne  down  to  ask,  is  all  not  right  ? 

Why  was  Magnificat  not  sung  to-night  ?  " 

'Tranced  in  the  joy  the  Angel's  presence  brought, 
The  Abbot  answered  :  "  All  these  weary  years 

We  have  sung  our  best — but  always  have  we  thought 
Our  voices  were  unworthy  heavenly  ears  ; 

And  so  to-night  we  found  a  clearer  tongue, 

And  by  it  the  Magnificat  was  sung  !  " 

The  Angel  answered,  "  All  these  happy  years 
In  heaven  has  your  Magnificat  been  heard  j 

This  night  alone  the  angels'  listening  ears 
Of  all  its  music  caught  no  single  word. 

Say,  who  is  he  whose  goodness  is  not  strong 

Enough  to  bear  the  burden  of  his  song  ?  " 

The  Abbot  named  his  name.     "  Ah,  why,"  he  cried, 
"  Have  angels  heard  not  what  we  found  so  dear  ?  " 

"  Only  pure  hearts,"  the  Angel's  voice  replied, 
"  Can  carry  human  songs  up  to  God's  ear ; 

To-night  in  heaven  was  missed  the  sweetest  praise 

That  ever  rises  from  earth's  mud-stained  maze. 


24  MY  KATE 

"  The  Monk  who  sang  Magnificat  is  filled 
With  lust  of  praise  and  with  hypocrisy ; 

He  sings  for  earth— in  heaven  his  notes  are  stilled 
By  muffling  weight  of  deadening  vanity  ; 

His  heart  is  chained  to  earth,  and  cannot  bear 

His  singing  higher  than  the  listening  air ! 

"  From  purest  hearts  most  perfect  music  springs, 
And  while  you  mourned  your  voices  were  not  sweet, 

Marred  by  the  accident  of  earthly  things — 

In  heaven,  God  listening,  judged  your  song  complete. 

The  sweetest  of  earth's  music  came  from  you, 

The  music  of  a  noble  life  and  true !  " 
From  "  Lays  and  Legends."     By  arrangement  with  the  Author. 


MY  KATE 

BY  MRS.  E.  BAKRETT  BROWNING. 

i 

She  was  not  as  pretty  as  women  I  know, 
And  yet  all  your  best  made  of  sunshine  and  snow 
Drop  to  shade,  melt  to  nought  in  the  long-trodden  ways, 
While  she's  still  remembered  on  warm  and  cold  days — 

My  Kate. 


Her  air  had  a  meaning,  her  movements  a  grace ; 
You  turned  from  the  fairest  to  gaze  on  her  face  : 
And  when  you  had  once  seen  her  forehead  and  mouth, 
You  saw  as  distinctly  her  soul  and  her  truth — 

My  Kate. 

m 

Such  a  blue  inner  light  from  her  eyelids  outbroke, 
You  looked  at  her  silence  and  fancied  she  spoke : 
When  she  did,  so  peculiar  yet  soft  was  the  tone, 
Though  the  loudest  spoke  also,  you  heard  her  alone — 

My  Kate. 


MY  KATE  15 

IV 

I  doubt  if  she  said  to  you  much  that  could  act 
As  a  thought  or  suggestion  •  she  did  not  attract 
In  the  sense  of  the  brilliant  or  wise  :  I  infer 
'Twas  her  thinking  of  others  made  you  think  of  her — 

My  Kate. 


She  never  found  fault  with  you,  never  implied 
Your  wrong  by  her  right ;    and  yet  men  at  her  side 
Grew  nobler,  girls  purer,  as  through  the  whole  town 
The  children  were  gladder  that  pulled  at  her  gown — 

My  Kate. 

VI 

None  knelt  at  her  feet  confessed  lovers  in  thrall ; 
They  knelt  more  to  God  than  they  used, — that  was  all : 
If  you  praised  her  as  charming,  some  asked  what  you 

meant, 

But  the  charm  of  her  presence  was  felt  when  she  went — 

My  Kate. 

vn 

The  weak  and  the  gentle,  the  ribald  and  rude, 
She  took  as  she  found  them,  and  did  them  all  good ; 
It  always  was  so  with  her — see  what  you  have  ! 
She  has  made  the  grass  greener  even  here  .      .  with 
her  grave — 

My  Kate. 

vin 

My  dear  one ! — when  thou  wast  alive  with  the  rest, 
I  held  thee  the  sweetest  and  loved  thee  the  best : 
And  now  thou  art  dead,  shall  I  not  take  thy  part 
As  thy  smiles  used  to  do  for  thyself,  my  sweet  Heart — 

My  Kate  ? 


26 


TO  FLUSH,  MY  DOG 

BY  MBS.  E.  BARRETT  BROWNING. 


Loving  friend,  the  gift  of  one 
Who  her  own  true  faith  hath  run, 

Through  thy  lower  nature, 
Be  my  benediction  said 
With  my  hand  upon  thy  head, 

Gentle  fellow-creature ! 


Like  a  lady's  ringlets  brown, 
Flow  thy  silken  ears  adown 

Either  side  demurely 
Of  thy  silver-suited  breast, 
Shining  out  from  all  the  rest 

Of  thy  body  purely. 


Darkly  brown  thy  body  is, 
Till  the  sunshine  striking  this 

Alchemise  its  dulness, 
When  the  sleek  curls  manifold 
Flash  all  over  into  gold, 

With  a  burnished  fulness. 

IV 

Underneath  my  stroking  hand, 
Startled  eyes  of  hazel  bland 

Kindling,  growing  larger, 
Up  thou  leapest  with  a  spring, 
Full  of  prank  and  curveting, 

Leaping  like  a  charger. 


TO  FLUSH,  MY  DOG 


Leap  !  thy  broad  tail  waves  a  light  j 
Leap  !  thy  slender  feet  are  bright, 

Canopied  in  fringes. 
Leap — those  tasselled  ears  of  thine 
Flicker  strangely,  fair  and  fine, 

Down  their  golden  inches. 

VI 

Yet,  my  pretty,  sportive  friend, 
Little  is't  to  such  an  end 

That  I  praise  thy  rareness  ! 
Other  dogs  may  be  thy  peers 
Haply  in  these  drooping  ears, 

And  this  glossy  fairness. 

vn 

But  of  thee  it  shall  be  said, 
This  dog  watched  beside  a  bed 

Day  and  night  un weary, — 
Watched  within  a  curtained  room, 
Where  no  sunbeam  brake  the  gloom 

Round  the  sick  and  dreary. 


Roses,  gathered  for  a  vase, 
In  that  chamber  died  apace, 

Beam  and  breeze  resigning — 
This  dog  only,  waited  on, 
Knowing  that  when  light  is  gone, 

Love  remains  for  shining. 

IX 

Other  dogs  in  thymy  dew 

Tracked  the  hares  and  followed  through 

Sunny  moor  or  meadow — 
This  dog  only,  crept  and  crept 
Next  a  languid  cheek  that  slept, 

Sharing  in  the  shadow. 


TO  FLUSH,  MY  DOG 


Other  dogs  of  loyal  cheer 
Bounded  at  the  whistle  clear, 

Up  the  woodside  hieing — 
This  dog  only,  watched  in  reach 
Of  a  faintly  uttered  speech, 

Or  a  louder  sighing. 


And  if  one  or  two  quick  tears 
Dropped  upon  his  glossy  ears, 

Or  a  sigh  came  double, — 
Up  he  sprang  in  eager  haste, 
Fawning,  fondling,  breathing  fast, 

In  a  tender  trouble. 

xn 

And  this  dog  was  satisfied 

If  a  pale  thin  hand  would  glide 

Down  his  dewlaps  sloping, — 
Which  he  pushed  his  nose  within, 
After, — platforming  his  chin 

On  the  palm  left  open. 

xra 

This  dog,  if  a  friendly  voice 
Call  him  now  to  blyther  choice 

Than  such  chamber-keeping, 
"  Come  out !  "  praying  from  the  door,- 
Presseth  backward  as  before, 

Up  against  me  leaping. 

nv 

Therefore  to  this  dog  will  I, 
Tenderly  not  scornfully, 

Render  praise  and  favour  : 
With  my  hand  upon  his  head, 
Is  my  benediction  said 

Therefore,  and  for  ever. 


TO  FLUSH,  MY  DOG  29 

xv 

And  because  he  loves  me  so, 
Better  than  his  kind  will  do 

Often,  man  or  woman, — 
Give  I  back  more  love  again 
Than  dogs  often  take  of  men,— 

Leaning  from  my  Human. 

XVI 

Blessings  on  thee,  dog  of  mine, 
Pretty  collars  make  thee  fine, 

Sugared  milk  make  fat  thee  I 
Pleasures  wag  on  in  thy  tail — 
Hands  of  gentle  motion  fail 

Nevermore,  to  pat  thee  1 

xvn 

Downy  pillow  take  thy  head, 
Silken  coverlid  bestead, 

Sunshine  help  thy  sleeping  ! 
No  fly's  buzzing  wake  thee  up—- 
No man  break  thy  purple  cup, 

Set  for  drinking  deep  in. 

xvm 

Whiskered  cats  arointed  flee, 
Sturdy  stoppers  keep  from  thee 

Cologne  distillations  ; 
Nuts  lie  in  thy  path  for  stones, 
And  thy  feast-day  macaroons 

Turn  to  daily  rations ! 


Mock  I  thee,  in  wishing  weal  ? — 
Tears  are  in  my  eyes  to  feel 

Thou  art  made  so  straightly, 
Blessing  needs  must  straighten  too,- 
Little  canst  thou  Joy  or  do, 

Thou  who  lovest  greatly. 


THREE  FISHERS  WENT  SAILING 


Yet  be  blessed  to  the  height 
Of  all  good  and  all  delight 

Pervious  to  thy  nature, 
Only  loved  beyond  that  line, 
With  a  love  that  answers  thine, 

Loving  fellow-creature  1 


THE  THREE  FISHERS 
BY  CHARLES  KJNGSLEY. 

Three  fishers  went  sailing  out  into  the  West, 
Out  into  the  West  as  the  sun  went  down  J 

Each  thought  on  the  woman  who  loved  him  best, 
And  the  children  stood  watching  them  out  of  the  town  : 

For  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep, 

And  there's  little  to  earn,  and  many  to  keep, 
Though  the  harbour-bar  be  moaning. 

Three  wives  sat  up  in  the  lighthouse  tower, 

And  they  trimm'd  the  lamps  as  the  sun  went  down ; 

They  looked  at  the  squall,  and  they  looked  at  the  shower, 
And  the  night-rack  came  rolling  up  ragged  and  brown  ; 

But  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep, 

Though  storms  be  sudden,  and  waters  deep, 
And  the  harbour-bar  be  moaning. 

Three  corpses  lie  out  in  the  shining  sands, 

In  the  morning  gleam,  as  the  tide  went  down, 

And  the  women  are  weeping  and  wringing  their  hands, 
For  those  who  will  never  come  back  to  the  town. 

For  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep, 

And  the  sooner  it's  over,  the  sooner  to  sleep, 
And  good-bye  to  the  bar  and  its  moaning. 


THE   LIFEBOAT 
By  GEORGE  R.  SIMS. 

"  Been  out  in  the  life  boat  often  ?     Ay,  ay,  sir,  often 

enough  ! 
When  it's  rougher  than  this  ?     Lor'  bless  you  !  this  ain't 

what  we  calls  rough  ! 
It's  when  there's  a  gale  a-blowing,  and  the  waves  run  in 

and  break 
On  the  shore  with  a  roar  like  thunder  and  the  white 

cliffs  seem  to  shake; 
When  the  sea  is  a  hell  of  waters  and  the  bravest  holds  his 

breath 
As  he  hears  the  cry  for  the  lifeboat — his  summons  may 

be  to  death — 
That's  when  we  call  it  rough,  sir  ;   but,  if  we  can't  get 

her  afloat, 
There's  always  enough  brave  fellows  ready  to  man  the 

boat. 

"You've  heard  of  the  Royal  Helen,  the  ship  as  was 

wrecked  last  year  ? 
Yon  be  the  rock  she  struck  on — the  boat  as  went  out  be 

here  ; 
That  night  as  she  struck  was  reckoned  the  worst  as  ever 

we  had, 
And  this  is  a  coast  in  winter  where  the  weather  be  awful 

bad. 
The  beach  here  was  strewed  with  wreckage,  and  to  tell 

you  the  truth,  sir,  then 

Was  the  only  time  as  ever  we'd  a  bother  to  get  the  men. 
The  single  chaps  was  willin',  and  six  on  'em  volunteered, 
But  most  on  us  here  is  married,  and  the  wives  that  night 

was  skeered. 


32  THE  LIFEBOAT 

"  Our  women  ain't  chicken-hearted  when  it  comes  to 

savin*  lives, 
But  death  that  night  looked  certain — and  our  wives  be 

only  wives ; 
Their  lot  ain't  bright  at  the  best,  sir,  but  here,  when  a 

man  lies  dead, 
'Tain't  only  the  husband  missin',  it's  the  children's  daily 

bread ; 
So  our  women  began  to  whimper  and  beg  o'  the  chaps  to 

stay— 

I  only  heerd  on  it  after,  for  that  night  I  was  kept  away. 
I  was  up  at  my  cottage,  yonder,  where  the  wife  lay  nigh 

her  end, 
She'd  been  ailin'  all  the  winter,  and  nothin'  'ud  make  her 

mend. 


"  The  doctor  had  given  her  up,  sir,  and  I  knelt  by  her 

side  and  prayed, 
With  my  eyes  as  red  as  a  babby's,  that  death's  hand  might 

yet  be  stayed. 
I  heerd  the  wild  wind  howlin'  and  I  looked  on  the  wasted 

form, 
And  thought  of  the  awful  shipwreck,  as  had  come  in  the 

ragin'  storm ; 
The  wreck  of  my  little  homestead — the  wreck  of  my  dear 

old  wife, 
Who  sailed  with  me  forty  years,  sir,  o'er  the  troublous 

waves  of  life. 
And  I  looked  at  the  eyes  so  sunken,  as  had  been  my 

harbour  lights, 
To  tell  of  the  sweet  home  haven  in  the  wildest,  darkest 

nights. 

"  She  knew  she  was  sinkin'  quickly — she  knew  as  her 

end  was  nigh, 
But  she  never  spoke  o'  the  troubles  as  I  knew  on  her  heart 

must  lie, 


THE  LIFEBOAT  33 

For  we'd  had  one  great  big  sorrow  with  Jack,  our  only 

son — 
He'd  got  into  trouble  in  London,  as  lots  o'  lads  ha' 

done ; 
Then  he  bolted,  his  masters  told  us — he  was  allus  what 

folk  call  wild, 
From  the  day  as  I  told  his  mother,  her  dear  face  never 

smiled. 
We  heerd  no  more  about  him,  we  never  knew  where  he 

went, 
And  his  mother  pined  and  sickened  for  the  message  he 

never  sent. 

"  I  had  my  work  to  think  of ;  but  she  had  her  grief  to 

nurse, 
So  it  eat  away  at  her  heartstrings,  and  her  health  grew 

worse  and  worse. 
And  the  night  as  the  Royal  Helen  went  down  on  yonder 

sands, 

I  sat  and  watched  her  dyin',  holdin'  her  wasted  hands. 
She  moved  in  her  doze  a  little,  when  her  eyes  were  opened 

wide, 
And  she  seemed  to  be  seekin'  somethin',  as  she  looked 

from  side  to  side, 
Then  half  to  herself  she  whispered,  "  where's  Jack,  to  say 

good-bye  ? 
It's  hard  not  to  see  my  darlin',  and  kiss  him  afore  I  die  !  " 

"  I  was  stoopin'  to  kiss  and  soothe  her,  while  the  tears  ran 

down  my  cheek, 
And  my  lips  were  shaped  to  whisper  the  words  I  couldn't 

speak, 
When  the  door  of  the  room  burst  open,  and  my  mates 

were  there  outside 
With  the  news  that  the  boat  was  launchin'.     "  You're 

wanted  !  "  their  leader  cried. 
"  You've  never  refused  to  go,  John ;    you'll  put  these 

cowards  right, 
There's  a  dozen  of  lives  may  be,  John,  as  lie  in  our  hands 

to-night !  " 

S.P-R.  O 


34  THE  LIFEBOAT 

'Twas  old  Ben  Brown,  the  Captain  ;  he'd  laughed  at  the 

women's  doubt, 
We'd  always  been  first  on  the  beach,  sir,  when  the  boat 

was  goin'  out. 


'I  didn't  move,  but  I  pointed  to  the  white  face  on  the 

bed— 
'  I  can't  go,  mate,"  I  murmured,  "  in  an  hour  she  may 

be  dead, 

I  cannot  go  and  leave  her  to  die  in  the  night  alone." 
As  I  spoke  Ben  raised  his  lantern,  and  the  light  on  my 

wife  was  thrown ; 
And  I  saw  her  eyes  fixed  strangely  with  a  pleading  look 

on  me, 
While  a  tremblin'  finger  pointed  through  the  door  to  the 

ragin'  sea, 
Phen  she  beckoned  me  near,  and  whispered,  "  Go,  and 

God's  will  be  done  ! 
For  every  lad  on  that  ship,  John,  is  some  poor  mother's 

son." 


"  Her  head  was  full  of  the  boy,  sir — she  was  thinkin'  may 

be,  some  day 
For  lack  of  a  hand  to  help  him  his  life  might  be  cast 

away. 
"  Go,  John,  and  the  Lord  watch  o'er  you  !  and  spare  me 

to  see  the  light, 
And  bring  you  safe,"  she  whispered,  "  out  o'  the  storm 

to-night." 
Then  I  turned  and  kissed  her  softly,  and  tried  to  hide 

my  tears, 
And  my  mates  outside,  when  they  saw  me,  set  up  three 

hearty  cheers; 
But  I  rubbed  my  eyes  wi'  my  knuckles,  and  turned  to 

old  Ben  and  said, 
"  I'll  see  her  again,  may  be,  lads,  when  the  sea  gives  up 

its  dead." 


THE  LIFEBOAT  35 

"  We  launched  the  boat  in  the  tempest,  though  death  was 

the  goal  in  view, 
And  never  a  one  but  doubted  if  the  craft  could  live  it 

through  ; 
But  our  boat  she  stood  it  bravely,  and,  weary  and  wet 

and  weak, 
We  drew  in  hail  of  the  vessel  we  had  dared  so  much  to 

seek. 

But  just  as  we  came  upon  her  she  gave  a  fearful  roll, 
And  went  down  in  the  seethin'  whirlpool  with  every 

livin'  soul ! 
We  rowed  for  the  spot,  and  shouted,  for  all  around  was 

dark — 
But  only  the  wild  wind  answered  the  cries  from  our 

plungin'  bark. 

"  I  was  strainin'  my  eyes  and  watchin',  when  I  thought 

I  heard  a  cry, 
And  I  saw  past  our  bows  a  somethin'  on  the  crest  of  a 

wave  dash  by ; 
I  stretched  out  my  hand  to  seize  it.     I  dragged  it  aboard, 

and  then 
I  stumbled,  and  struck  my  forred,  and  fell  like  a  log  on 

Ben. 

I  remember  a  hum  of  voices,  and  then  I  knowed  no  more 
Till  I  came  to  my  senses  here,  sir — here  in  my  home 

ashore. 
My  forehead  was  tightly  bandaged,  and  I  lay  on  my  little 

bed, 
I'd  slipp'd.so  they  told  me  arter,and  a  rullock  had  struck 

my  head. 

"  Then  my  mates  came  in  and  whispered  ;  they'd  heard  I 

was  comin'  round  ; 
At  first  I  could   scarcely  hear  them,  it  seemed  like  a 

buzzin'  sound  ; 
But  as  soon  as  my  head  got  clearer,  and  accustomed  to 

hear  'em  speak. 
I  knew  as  I'd  lain  like  that,  sir,  for  many  a  long,  long 

week. 


36  THE  LIFEBOAT 

"I  guessed  what  the  lads  was  hidin',  for  their  poor  old 

shipmate's  sake, 
I  could  see  by  their  puzzled  faces  they'd  got  some  news  to 

So  I  lifts  my  head  from  the  pillow,  and  I  says  to  old  Ben, 

•'  Look  here ! 

I'm  able  to  bear  it  now,  lad— tell  me,  and  never  fear. 
"Not  one  of  'em'ever  answered,  but  presently  Ben  goes  out, 
And  the  others  slinks  away  like,  and  I  says,  "  What's  this 

about  ? 
Why  can't  they  tell  me  plainly  as  my  poor  old  wife  is 

dead  ?  " 
Then  I  fell  again  on  the  pillows,  and  I  hid  my  achin 

head; 
I  lay  like  that  for  a  minute  till  I  heard  a  voice  cry, 

"  John !  " 
And  I  thought  it  must  be  a  vision  as  my  weak  eyes  gazed 

upon ; 
For  there  by  the  bedside  standin'  up  and  well  was  my 

wife ; 
And  who  do  ye  think  was  with  her  ?     Why,  Jack,  as 

large  as  life. 
"  It  was  him  as  I'd  saved  from  drownin'  the  night  as  the 

lifeboat  went 
To  the  wreck  of  the  Royal  Helen  ;  'twas  that  as  the  vision 

meant. 
They'd  brought  us  ashore  together,  he'd  knelt  by  his 

mother's  bed, 
And  the  sudden  joy  had  raised  her  like  a  miracle  from 

the  dead  ; 

And  mother  and  son  together  had  nursed  me  back  to  life, 
And  my  old  eyes  woke  from  darkness  to  look  on  my  son 

and  wife. 
Jack  ?     He's  our  right  hand  now,  sir ;  'twas  Providence 

pulled  him  through —  [crew. 

He's  allus  the  first  aboard  her  when  the  lifeboat  wants  a 
From  "  The  Dagonet    Battida",     by    kind  permission  of  tho 
Author,  and  of  Messra.  George  Routkdge  <S>  Sons,  Ltd. 


'•PRINCE":  A  STORY  OF  THE 
AMERICAN  WAR 

BY  HAEBIBT  L.  CHILDE-PEMBBBTON. 

I  think  you  remember  a  man  we  knew,  who  went  by  the 

name  of  "  Prince," 
With  sinews  of  iron  and  nerves  of  steel  that  never  were 

known  to  wince  ? 
How  came  he  to  win  that  nickname  ?     Well,  that's  more 

than  I  now  can  say 
Because,  perhaps,  he  was  given  to  rule,  and  all  of  us 

liked  his  sway ; 
Because  he  was  free  with  his  cash,  perhaps,  or  maybe 

because,  like  Saul, 
He  looked  a  king,  and  stood,  without  boots,  head  and 

shoulders  out-topping  us  all. 
Oh  yes,  there  were  stories  afloat,  I  know  ;  he  was  wicked 

and  wild,  they  said. 
Tis  slander,  I  tell  you  ;  and  what  so  base  as  a  slander 

against  the  dead  ? 

I  don't  deny  that  he  wasted  time  at  billiards  and  cards 

and  dice, 
And  "  folly  "  is  only  a  friendly  name  for  a  passion  that 

smacks  of  vice ; 
I  know  how  he  trifled  with  shot  and  steel,  and  deathi 

have  been  laid  at  his  door, 


38     PRINCE:    A  STORY  OF  THE  AMERICAN  WAR 

But  he  never  was  guilty  of  murderous  deed  to  settle  a 
private  score. 

He  was  quick  to  avenge  a  comrade's  wrong,  or  a  com- 
rade's right  defend, 

And  never  was  known  to  break  his  word,  nor  ever  to  fail 
a  friend. 

I  see  him  now  as  I  saw  him  then — and  yet  'tis  a  long 
while  since — 

A  hero,  if  ever  a  hero  lived,  was  he  whom  we  nicknamed 
"  Prince.'1 


Well,  "  Prince  "  had  a  friend — his  pal,  his  mate, 

A  little  chap,  curly  and  brown  ; 
They  both  of  them  hailed  from  Virginia  State, 

And  were  born  in  the  selfsame  town  ; 
And  "  Prince  "  would  have  died  for  Charley,  I  know 

And  Charley'd  have  died  for  him ; 
And  if  luck  was  high  or  if  luck  was  low, 

Together  they'd  sink  or  swim. 
But  there  came  a  time  when  their  path  was  crossed 

By  a  girl  with  an  angel  face, 
And  the  love  of  the  friends  was  swamped  and  lost 

In  the  passion  that  filled  its  place  ; 
'Twas  a  secret  at  first  each  kept  from  each, 

And  neither  would  dare  disclose, 
Till  they  broke  the  ice  with  a  heedless  speech, 

And  fronted  each  other  as  foes. 


It  wasn't  her  fault,  I  will  take  my  oath, 

She  didn't  flirt  even  in  fun ; 
She  only  tried  to  be  kind  to  both 

For  the  love  that  she  bore  to  one. 
'Twould  have  gone  to  her  heart,  I  know,  to  offend 

By  speaking  the  truth  pat  down  ; 
For  she  liked  the  "  Prince,"  though  she  loved  his  friend, 

The  little  chap,  curly  and  brown. 


PRINCE:    A  STORY  OF  THE  AMERICAN  WAR     39 

It  was  strange,  you  say,  she  should  care  for  him — 

You  think  most  women  prefer 
The  stalwart  form  and  the  lengthy  limb — - 

Well,  it  wasn't  the  case  with  her. 
Oh,  "  Prince  "  was  the  better  man  of  the  two 

By  far,  I  don't  deny ; 
Yet  her  love  for  Charley  was  tender  and  true, 

A.nd  it's  no  good  asking  why. 


But  a  letter  was  left  at  Charley's  door 

In  a  hand  he  knew,  which  said  : 
"  The  days  that  are  past  can  return  no  more, 

And  nothing  can  raise  what's  dead  ; 
For  Faith  and  Love  they  have  lied  to  me, 

While  I  was  the  dupe  of  each, 
And  honour,  in  woman  or  man,  I  see, 

Is  only  a  figure  of  speech." 


Hard  words  enough — .they  might  have  been  worse; 

I  am  glad  he  stopped  short  there  ; 
Thank  God  he  didn't  denounce  a  curse  ! 

For  he  went,  and  we  knew  not  where ; 
To  the  Southerners'  camp  he  went,  they  said, 

To  the  war  that  had  just  begun ; 
If  he  couldn't  love  he  would  fight  instead, 

For  the  joy  of  his  life  was  done. 


The  war  that  ended  in  '65 

Maybe  if  we  could  we  wouldn't  revive. 

What  matters  it  now  to  prate  and  rave 

Of  the  rights  and  wrongs  of  the  nigger  slave! 

The  thing  has  been  settled  and  long  gone  by, 

Though  you  fought  for  it  once,  and  so  did  I ; 

We've  all  of  us  fought  both  once  and  again — 


40     PRINCE:    A  STORY  OF  THE  AMERICAN  WAR 

For  the  pick  of  the  lot  were  Virginia  men — 
And  in  twenty  years  one  has  ceased  to  fret ; 
But  there's  one  day's  fighting  I  can't  forget ! 
Balls  and  bullets,  and  shot  and  shell, 
Musketry  rattling,  powder  smell ; 
Clouds  of  smoke  and  rivers  of  blood- 
Life  choked  out  on  a  field  of  mud ; 
Horses  and  riders  dying— dead, 
And  a  scorching  sun  in  the  sky  o'erhead ; 
And  the  van  of  our  troops  was  led  that  day 
By  one  whom  nothing  could  stop  nor  stay ; 
When  last  I  saw  him  'twas  six  months  since— 
He  had  changed  in  the  time,  yet  I  knew  the  "  Prince." 


The  Virginia  men  were  all  to  the  front, 

To  lead  their  comrades  and  bear  the  brunt  J 

But  when  the  night  fell,  cold  and  damp, 

There  were  twenty  down  in  the  enemy's  camp 

Ten  to  return  in  exchange  for  ten 

The  Southerners  had  of  the  Northerners'  men, 

Six  for  the  prison,  four  to  be  shot — 

And  the  fate  of  each  to  be  drawn  by  lot ! 


And  "  Prince  "  was  one  of  that  fated  row 

Close  guarded  the  long  night  through ; 
And  Charley,  who'd  Joined  but  a  week  ago, 

Was  one  of  the  prisoners  too. 
'Twas  strange  that  they  thus  should  meet  again 

Each  waiting  for  death  or  life ; 
None  knew  what  the  one  was  thinking  then, 

But  the  other — he  thought  of  his  wife  ! 
And  never  a  word  was  spoke  that  night  j 
But  when  the  day  broke  fair  and  bright, 

By  the  glare  of  the  morning  sky 


PRINCE:    A  STORY  OF  THE  AMERICAN  WAR     41 

The  lots  were  drawn— and  the  "  Prince  "  was  free 
To  go  once  more  to  his  home  by  the  sea, 
And  Charley  was  doomed  to  die  1 


Then  "  Prince,"  when  he  hears  how  the  lots  have  gone, 

goes  straight  where  the  General  he  sees. 
14  A  word  with  you,  General,"  says  he,  like  a  king, 

"  apart  from  the  rest,  if  you  please. 
There's  one  of  our  lot  who  is  drawn  for  death,  a  little 

chap,  curly  and  brown  : 
Now  'tis  nothing  to  you  who  goes  or  who  stays,  for  your 

soldiers  to  shoot  him  down, 
And  whether  /  die  or  whether  /  live,  don't  matter  a  curse 

to  me  ; 
But,  General,  it  matters  a  deal  to  him,  for  the  little 

chap's  married,  you  see. 
So  if  it's  a  death  you  needs  must  have,  there's  mine,  you 

can  take  my  life; 
But  tell  him  he's  drawn  for  exchange,  not  death — -and  let 

him  return  to  his  wife." 


I  reckon  the  General  did  not  demur  ;  from  the  soldier's 

point  of  view 
The  "  Prince  "  was  a  nobler  prize  by  far,  as  the  better 

man  of  the  two. 
There  were  three  led  out  in  the  sun  that  day  and  shot  by 

the  men  of  the  North, 
And  a  fourth  was  shot  in  the  rank  with  them — but 

Charley  was  not  that  fourth. 


He  never  was  told  till  the  deed  was  done  and  "  You're 

free  to  go,"  they  said : 
And  they  bade  him  look,  as  he  weat  his  way,  on  his  four 

companions  dead  : 


l»      THE  WARDEN  OF  THE  CINQUE  PORTS 

And  he  saw  the  corpse— they  were  strong  in  death,  those 

arms  and  that  sinewy  chest ! — • 
Of  the  man  he  had  loved,  who  loved  him  too — and  for— 

and  he  knew  the  rest ! 
Oh,  aye  !  the  story  is  true  enough  ;  I'm  likely  to  know, 

Jou  see, 
was  the  little  chap,  curly  and  brown—his  friend— 
and  he  died  for  me. 


THE  WARDEN  OF  THE  CINQUE 
PORTS 

BY  H.  W.  LONGFELLOW. 

A  mist  was  driving  down  the  British  Channel, 

The  day  was  just  begun, 
And  through  the  window-panes,  on  floor  and  panel, 

Streamed  the  red  autumn  sun. 

It  glanced  on  flowing  flag  and  rippling  pennon, 

And  the  white  sails  of  ships  ; 
And,  from  the  frowning   rampart,    the   black   cannon 

Hailed  it  with  feverish  lips. 

Sandwich  and  Romney,  Hastings,  Hythe,  and  Dover, 

Were  all  alert  that  day 
To  see  the  French  war-steamers  speeding  over, 

When  the  fog  cleared  away. 

Sullen  and  silent,  and  like  couchant  lions, 

Their  cannon  through  the  night, 
Holding  their  breath,  had  watched,  in  grim  defiance 

The  sea-coast  opposite. 


THE  WARDEN  OF  THE  CINQUE  PORTS       43 

And  now  they  roared  at  drum-beat  from  their  stations 

On  every  citadel ; 
Each   answering  each,   with  morning  salutations, 

That  all  was  well. 

And  down  the  coast,  all  taking  up  the  burden, 

Replied  the  distant  forts, 
As  if  to  summon  from  his  sleep  the  Warden 

And  Lord  of  the  Cinque  Ports. 

Him  shall  no  sunshine  from  the  fields  of  azure, 

No  drum-beat  from  the  wall, 
No  morning  gun  from  the  black  fort's  embrasure, 

Awaken  with  its  call ! 

No  more,  surveying  with  an  eye  impartial 

The  long  line  of  the  coast, 
Shall  the  gaunt  figure  of  the  old  Field-Marshal 

Be  seen  upon  his  post ! 

For  in  the  night,  unseen,  a  single  warrior, 

In  sombre  harness  mailed, 
Dreaded  of  man,  and  surnamed  the  Destroyer, 

The  rampart  wall  had  scaled. 

He  passed  into  the  chamber  of  the  sleeper, 

The  dark  and  silent  room, 
And  as  he  entered,  darker  grew,  and  deeper, 

The  silence  and  the  gloom. 

He  did  not  pause  to  parley  or  dissemble, 

But  smote  the  Warden  hoar  ; 
Ah !  what  a  blow  !  that  made  all  England  tremble 

And  groan  from  shore  to  shore. 

Meanwhile,  without,  the  surly  cannon  waited, 

The  sun  rose  bright  o'erhead  ; 
Nothing  in  Nature's  aspect  intimated 

That  a  great  man  was  dead. 


44 


DOING  NOTHING 

"  Lads,"  said  I,  "  why  sitting  still, 

Doing  nothing  1  " 
M  Oh,"  says  John,  "  I'm  helping  Will, 

Doing  nothing." 
"  Well,  that  seems  a  weary  task ; 

Doing  nothing ; 
Don't  it  tire  you,  let  me  ask, 

Doing  nothing  ? 

"Tell  me  what  you  hope  to  learn, 

Doing  nothing  ? 
Will  it  help  your  bread  to  earn, 

Doing  nothing  ? 
Pray,  to  those  who  choose  this  trade, 

Doing  nothing, 
How  much  wages  should  be  paid, 

Doing  nothing  ? 

"  Shall  I  say  what  makes  you  fret  ! 

Doing  nothing. 
That  which  keeps  some  folks  in  debt — 

Doing  nothing! 
Would  you  prosper  in  estate, 

Doing  nothing  1 
Then  a  long  time  you  must  wait, 

Doing  nothing  ! 

"Idle  bones,  I've  heard  it  said, 

Doing  nothing, 
Indicate  an  empty  head, 

Doing  nothing. 
With  no  useful  aim  in  view, 

Doing  nothing, 
Soon  you'll  find  your  friends  for  yoir 

Doing  nothing." 


45 


THE  WOMEN  OF  MUMBLES  HEAD 

BY  CLEMENT  SCOTT. 

Bring,   novelists,   your  note-book;    bring,   dramatists, 

your  pen  ; 

And  I'll  tell  you  a  simple  story  of  what  women  do  for  men. 
It's  only  a  tale  of  a  lifeboat,  the  dying  and  the  dead, 
Of  a  terrible  storm  and  shipwreck  that  happened  off 

Mumbles  Head. 
Maybe  you  have  travelled  in  Wales,  sir,  and  know  it 

north  and  south ; 
Maybe  you  are  friends  with  the  "  natives  "  that  dwell  at 

Oystermouth. 
It  happens,  no  doubt,  that  from  Bristol  you've  crossed 

in  a  casual  way, 
And  have  sailed  your  yacht  in  the  summer,  in  the  blue  of 

Swansea  Bay. 


Well,  it  isn't  like  that  in  the  winter,  when  the  lighthouse 

stands  alone, 
In  the  teeth  of  Atlantic  breakers,  that  foam  on  its  face  of 

stone ; 
It  wasn't  like  that  when  the  hurricane  blew,  and  the 

storm  bell  tolled,  or  when 
There  was  news  of  a  wreck,  and  the  lifeboat  launched, 

and  a  desperate  cry  for  men. 
When  in  the  world  did  the  coxswain  shirk  ?     A  brave  old 

salt  was  he  ; 
Proud  to  the  bone  of  as  four  strong  lads  as  ever  had  tasted 

the  sea. 
Welshmen  all  to  the  lungs  and  loins,  who,  about  the  coast 

'twas  said, 
Had  saved  some  hundred  lives  apiece — at  a  shilling  or  so 

a  head  ! 


46  THE  WOMEN  OF  MUMBLES  HEAD 

So  the  father  launched  the  lifeboat,  in  the  teeth  of  the 

tempest's  roar, 
And  he  stood  like  a  man  at  the  rudder,  with  an  eye  on 

his  boys  at  the  oar. 
Out  to  the  wreck  went  the  father  ;  out  to  the  wreck  went 

the  sons ; 
Leaving  the  weeping  of  women,  and  the  booming  of 

signal  guns, 
Leaving  the  mother  who  loved  them,  and  the  girls  that 

the  sailors  love, 

Going  to  death  for  duty,  and  trusting  to  God  above  ! 
Do  you  murmur  a  prayer,  my  brothers,  when  cosy  and 

safe  in  bed, 
For  men  like  these,  who  are  ready  to  die  for  a  wreck  off 

Mumbles  Head  ? 


It   didn't  go   well  with  the   lifeboat ;    'twas  a  terrible 

storm  that  blew, 
And  it  snapped  the  rope  in  a  second  that  was  flung  to  the 

drowning  crew  : 
And  then  the  anchor  parted — 'twas  a  tussle  to  keep 

afloat ! 
But  the  father  stuck  to  the  rudder,  and  the  boys  to  the 

brave  old  boat. 
Then  at  last  on  the  poor  doomed  lifeboat  a  wave  broke 

mountains  high  ! 
"  God  help  us  now,"  said  the  father.     "  It's  over,  my 

lads  !    Good-bye." 
Half  of  the  crew  swam  shoreward,  half  to  the  sheltered 


But  father  and  sons  were  fighting  death  in  the  foam  of  the 
angry  waves. 

Up  at  a  lighthouse  window  two  women  beheld  the  storm, 
And  saw  in  the  boiling  breakers  a  figure — a  fighting 

form, 
It  might  be  a  grey-haired  father,  then  the  women  held 

their  breath, 


THE  WOMEN  OF  MUMBLES  HEAD  47 

It  might  be  a  fair-haired  brother,  who  was  having  a 

round  with  death  ; 
It  might  be  a  lover,  a  husband,  whose  kisses  were  on  the 

lips 
Of  the  women  whose  love  is  the  life  of  men  going  down  to 

the  sea  in  ships ; 
They  had  seen  the  launch  of  the  lifeboat,  they  had  heard 

the  worst,  and  more  ; 
Then  kissing  each  other,  these  women  went  down  from 

the  lighthouse,  straight  to  shore. 

There  by  the  rocks  on  the  breakers  these  sisters,  hand  in 

hand, 
Beheld  once  more  that  desperate  man  who  struggled  to 

reach  the  land. 

'Twas  only  aid  he  wanted  to  help  him  across  the  wave, 
But  what  are  a  couple  of  women  with  only  a  man  to  save? 
What  are  a  couple  of  women  ?  Well,  more  than  three 

craven  men 
Who  stood  by  the  shore  with  chattering  teeth,  refusing  to 

stir — and  then 
Off  went  the  women's  shawls,  sir ;   in  a  second  they're 

torn  and  rent, 
Then  knotting  them  into  a  rope  of  love,  straight  into  the 

sea  they  went ! 

"  Come  back,"  cried  the  lighthouse-keeper,  "  for  God's 

sake,  girls,  come  back  !  " 
As  they  caught  the  waves  on  their  foreheads,  resisting 

the  fierce  attack. 
"  Come  back  !  "  moaned  the  grey-haired  mother,  as  she 

stood  by  the  angry  sea, 
"  If   the  waves   take  you,  my  darlings,  there's  nobody 

left  to  me." 
"  Come  back  !  "  said  the  three  strong  soldiers,  who  still 

stood  fain*  and  pale  ; 
"  You  will  drown  if  you  face  the  breakers  ;  you  will  fall 

if  you  brave  the  gale  !  " 


48  THE  WOMEN  OF  MUMBLES  HEAD 

"  Come  back,"  said  the  girls,  "  we  will  not !  go,  tell  it  to 

all  the  town ; 
We'll  lose  our  lives,  God  willing,  before  that  man  shall 

drown  !  " 


"  Give  one  more  knot  to  the  shawls,  Bess ;    give  one 

strong  clutch  of  your  hand ; 
Just  follow  me  brave  to  the  shingle,  and  we'll  drag  him 

safe  to  land. 

Wait  for  the  next  wave,  darling ;  only  a  minute  more, 
And  I'll  have  him  safe  in  my  arms,  dear,  and  we'll  drag 

him  safe  to  shore." 

Up  to  the  arms  in  the  water,  fighting  it  breast  to  breast, 
They  caught  and  saved  a  brother  alive  !     God  bless  us  ! 

you  know  the  rest — 
Well,  many  a  heart  beat  stronger,  and  many  a  tear  was 

shed, 
And  many  a  glass  was  tossed  right  off  to  "  The  Women 

of  Mumbles  Head  !  " 

From  "  Lays  and  Lyrics"  by  kind  permission  of  Mrs.  Clement 
Scott. 


49 

SHAMUS  O'BRIEN 

BY  J.  S.  LE  FANU. 

Jist  afther  the  war,  in  the  year  '98, 
As  soon  as  the  boys  wor  all  scattered  and  bate, 
'Twas  the  custom,  whenever  a  pisant  was  got, 
To  hang  him  by  thrial — barrin'  sich  as  was  shot. 
There  was  trial  by  jury  goin'  on  by  daylight, 
And  the  martial-law  hangin'  the  lavins  by  night. 
It's  them  was  hard  times  for  an  honest  gossoon  : 
If  he  missed  in  the  judges — he'd  meet  a  dragoon ; 
An'  whether  the  sodgers  or  judges  gev  sentence, 
The  divil  a  much  time  they  allowed  for  repentance. 
An'  it's  many's  the  fine  boy  was  then  on  his  keepin' 
Wid  small  share  iv  restin',  or  atin',  or  sleepin', 
An'  because  they  loved  Erin,  an'  scorned  to  sell  it, 
A  prey  for  the  bloodhound,  a  mark  for  the  bullet, — 
Unsheltered  by  night,  and  unrested  by  day, 
With  the  heath  for  their  barrack,  revenge  for  their  pay ; 
An'  the  bravest  an'  hardiest  boy  iv  them  all 
Was  Shamu*1  O'Brien,  from  the  town  iv  Glingall. 
His  limbs  were  well  set,  an'  his  body  was  light, 
An'  the  keen-f  anged  hound  had  not  teeth  half  so  white  j 
But  his  face  was  as  pale  as  the  face  of  the  dead, 
And  his  cheek  never  warmed  with  the  blush  of  the  red  j 
An'  for  all  that  he  wasn't  an  ugly  young  bye, 
For  the  divil  himself  couldn't  blaze  with  his  eye, 
So  droll  an'  so  wicked,  so  dark  and  so  bright, 
Like  a  fire-flash  that  crosses  the  depth  of  the  night  I 
An'  he  was  the  best  mower  that  ever  has  been, 
An'  the  illigantest  hurler  that  ever  was  seen. 
An'  his  dancin'  was  sich  that  the  men  used  to  stare, 
An'  the  women  turn  crazy,  he  done  it  so  quare  ; 
An',  by  gorra,  the  whole  world  gev  it  into  him  there. 
An'  it's  he  was  the  boy  that  was  hard  to  be  caught, 
An'  it's  often  he  run,  an'  it's  often  he  fought, 
An'  it's  many  the  one  can  remember  right  well 
S.P.R.  D 


5o  SHAMUS  O'BRIEN 

The  quare  things  he  done  :    an'  it's  often  I  heerd  tell 
How  he  lathered  the  yeomen,  himself  agin'  four, 
An'  stretched  the  two  strongest  on  old  Galtimore. 

But  the  fox  must  sleep  sometimes,  the  wild  deer  must  rest, 
An'  treachery  prey  on  the  blood  iv  the  best ; 
Afther  many  a  brave  action  of  power  and  pride, 
An'  many  a  hard  night  on  the  mountain's  bleak  side, 
An'  a  thousand  great  dangers  and  toils  overpast, 
In  the  darkness  of  night  he  was  taken  at  last. 
Now,  Shamus,  look  back  on  the  beautiful  moon, 
For  the  door  of  the  prison  must  close  on  you  soon, 
An'  take  your  last  look  at  her  dim  lovely  light, 
That  falls  on  the  mountain  and  valley  this  night ; 
One  look  at  the  village,  one  look  at  the  flood, 
An'  one  at  the  shelthering,  far-distant  wood ; 
Farewell  to  the  forest,  farewell  to  the  hill, 
An'  farewell  to  the  friends  that  will  think  of  you  still ; 
Farewell  to  the  pathern,  the  hurlin'  an'  wake, 
And  farewell  to  the  girl  that  would  die  for  your  sake. 
An'  twelve  sodgers  brought  him  to  Maryborough  jail, 
An'  the  turnkey  resaved  him,  refusin'  all  bail ; 
The  fleet  limbs  wor  chained,  an'  the  sthrong  hands  wor 

bound, 

An'  he  laid  down  his  length  on  the  cowld  prison  ground, 
An'  the  dreams  of  his  childhood  kem  over  him  there 
As  gentle  an'  soft  as  the  sweet  summer  air ; 
An'  happy  remembrances  crowding  on  ever, 
As  fast  as  the  foam  flakes  dhrift  down  on  the  river, 
Bringing  fresh  to  his  heart  merry  days  long  gone  by, 
Till  the  tears  gathered  heavy  and  thick  in  his  eye. 
But  the  tears  didn't  fall,  for  the  pride  of  his  heart 
Would  not  suffer  one  drop  down  his  pale  cheek  to  start ; 
An'  he  sprang  to  his  feet  in  the  dark  prison  cave, 
An'  he  swore  with  the  fierceness  that  misery  gave, 
By  the  hopes  of  the  good,  an'  the  cause  of  the  brave, 
That  when  he  was  mouldering  in  the  cold  grave 
His  enemies  never  should  have  ifc  to  boast 


SHAMUS  O'BRIEN  51 

His  scorn  of  their  vengeance  one  moment  was  lost ; 
His  bosom  might  bleed,  but  his  cheek  should  be  dhry, 
For  undaunted  he  lived,  and  undaunted  he'd  die. 

Well,  as  soon  as  a  few  weeks  was  over  and  gone, 
The  terrible  day  iv  the  thrial  kem  on ; 
There  was  sich  a  crowd  there  was  scarce  room  to  stand, 
An'  sodgers  on  guard,  an'  dhragoons  sword  in  hand  ; 
An'  the  court-house  so  full  that  the  people  were  bothered, 
An'  attorneys  an'  criers  on  the  point  iv  bein'  smothered  j 
An'  counsellors  almost  gev  over  for  dead, 
An'  the  jury  sittin'  up  in  their  box  overhead  ; 
An'  the  judge  settled  out  so  detarmined  an'  big, 
With  his  gown  on  his  back  and  an  illegant  new  wig  ; 
An'  silence  was  called,  an'  the  minute  it  was  said 
The  court  was  as  still  as  the  heart  of  the  dead, 
An'  they  heard  but  the  openin'  of  one  prison  lock, 
An'  Shamus  O'Brien  kem  into  the  dock. 
For  one  minute  he  turned  his  eye  round  on  the  throng, 
An'  he  looked  at  the  bars,  so  firm  and  so  strong, 
An*  he  saw  that  he  had  not  a  hope  nor  a  friend, 
A  chance  to  escape,  nor  a  word  to  defend ; 
An'  he  folded  his  arms  as  he  stood  there  alone, 
As  calm  and  as  cold  as  a  statue  of  stone  ; 
And  they  read  a  big  writin',  a  yard  long  at  laste, 
An'  Jim  didn't  understand  it,  nor  mind  it  a  taste ; 
An*  the  judge  took  a  big  pinch  iv  snuff,  and  he  says, 
"  Are  you  guilty  or  not,  Jim  O'Brien,  av  you  plase  1  " 

An'  all  held  their  breath  in  the  silence  of  dhread, 

An'  Shamus  O'Brien  made  answer  and  said  : 

"  My  lord,  if  you  ask  me,  if  in  my  life- time 

I  thought  any  treason,  or  did  any  crime 

That  should  call  to  my  cheek,  as  I  stand  alone  here, 

The  hot  blush  of  shame,  or  the  coldness  of  fear, 

Though  I  stood  by  the  grave  to  receive  my  death-blow^ 

Before  God  and  the  world  I  would  answer  you,  no  1 

But  if  you  would  ask  me,  as  I  think  it  like, 

If  in  the  rebellion  I  carried  a  pike, 


5«  8HAMUS  O'BRIEN 

An'  fought  for  ould  Ireland  from  the  first  to  the  close  j 
An'  shed  the  heart's  blood  of  her  bitterest  foes, 
I  answer  you,  yes  ;  and  I  tell  you  again, 
Though  I  stand  here  to  perish,  it's  my  glory  that  then 
In  her  cause  I  was  willing  my  veins  should  run  dhry, 
An'  that  now  for  her  sake  I  am  ready  to  die." 

Then  the  silence  was  great,  and  the  jury  smiled  bright, 

An'  the  judge  wasn't  sorry  the  job  was  made  light ; 

By  my  sowl,  it's  himself  was  the  crabbed  ould  chap  1 

In  a  twinklin'  he  pulled  on  his  ugly  black  cap. 

Then  Shamus'  mother  in  the  crowd  standin'  by, 

Called  out  to  the  judge  with  a  pitiful  cry  : 

"  0  judge  !  darlin',  don't,  0,  don't  say  the  word  ! 

The  crathur  is  young,  have  mercy,  my  lord ; 

He  was  foolish,  he  didn't  know  what  he  was  doin* ; 

You  don't  know  him,  my  lord, — 0,  don't  give  him  to 

ruin  ! 

He's  the  kindliest  crathur,  the  tendherest-hearted ; 
Don't  part  us  forever,  we  that's  so  long  parted. 
Judge,  mavourneen,  forgive  him,  forgive  him,  my  lord, 
An'  God  will  forgive  you — 0,  don't  say  the  word  !  " 
That  was  the  first  minute  that  O'Brien  was  shaken, 
When  he  saw  that  he  was  not  quite  forgot  or  forsaken ; 
An'  down  his  pale  cheeks,  at  the  word  of  his  mother, 
The  big  tears  wor  runnin'  fast,  one  afther  th'  other ; 
An*  two  or  three  times  he  endeavoured  to  spake, 
But  the  sthrong,  manly  voice  used  to  falther  and  break  ; 
But  at  last,  by  the  strength  of  his  high-mounting  pride, 
He  conquered  and  masthered  his  grief's  swelling  tide, 
An',  says  he,  "  mother,  darlin',  don't  brea>  your  poor 

heart 

For,  sooner  or  later,  the  dearest  must  part ; 
And  God  knows  it's  better  than  wandering  in  fear 
On  the  bleak,  trackless  mountain,  among  the  wild  deer, 
To  lie  in  the  grave,  where  the  head,  heart,  and  breast, 
From  thought,  labour,  and  sorrow  forever  shall  rest. 
Then,  mother,  my  darlin',  don't  cry  any  more, 
Don't  make  me  seem  broken,  in  this,  my  last  hour  ; 


SHAMUS  O'BRIEN  53 

For  I  wish,  when  my  head's  lyin*  undher  the  raven, 
No  thrue  man  can  say  that  I  died  like  a  craven !  " 
Then  towards  the  judge  Shamus  bent  down  his  head, 
An'  that  minute  the  solemn  death-sentince  was  said. 


The  mornin'  was  bright,  an'  the  mists  rose  on  high, 

An'  the  lark  whistled  merrily  in  the  clear  sky  ; 

But  why  are  the  men  standin'  idle  so  late  ? 

An'  why  do  the  crowds  gather  fast  in  the  street  ? 

What  come  they  to  talk  of  ?  what  come  they  to  see  ? 

An'  why  does  the  long  rope  hang  from  the  cross-tree  ? 

O  Shamus  O'Brien  !  pray  fervent  and  fast, 

May  the  saints  take  your  soul,  for  this  day  is  your  last ; 

Pray  fast  an'  pray  sthrong,  for  the  moment  is  nigh, 

When,  sthrong,  proud,  an'  great  as  you  are,  you  must  die. 

At  last  they  threw  open  the  big  prison  gate, 
An'  out  came  the  sheriffs  and  sodgers  in  state, 
An'  a  cart  in  the  middle,  an'  Shamus  was  in  it, 
Not  paler,  but  prouder  than  ever,  that  minute. 
An'  as  soon  as  the  people  saw  Shamus  O'Brien, 
Wid  prayin*  and  blessin',  and  all  the  girls  cryin', 
A  wild  wailin*  sound  kem  on  by  degrees, 
Like  the  sound  of  the  lonesome  wind  blowin'  through 

trees. 

On,  on  to  the  gallows  the  sheriffs  are  gone, 
An'  the  cart  an'  the  sodgers  go  steadily  on ; 
An'  at  every  side  swellin'  around  of  the  cart, 
A  wild,  sorrowful  sound,  that  id  open  your  heart. 
Now  under  the  gallows  the  cart  takes  its  stand, 
An'  the  hangman  gets  up  with  the  rope  in  his  hand  ; 
An'  the  priest,  havin'  blest  him,  goes  down  on  the  ground, 
An'  Shamus  O'Brien  throws  one  last  look  round. 
Then  the  hangman  dhrew  near,  an'  the  people  grew  still, 
Young  faces  turned  sickly,  and  warm  hearts  turned  chill ; 
An'  the  rope  bein*  ready,  hia  neck  was  made  bare, 
For  the  gripe  iv  the  life-strangling  cord  to  prepare ; 


54  SHAMUS  O'BRIEN 

An'  the  good  priest  has  left  him,  havin'  said  his  last 

prayer. 

But  the  good  priest  done  more,  for  his  hands  he  unbound, 
And  with  one  daring  spring  Jim  has  leaped  on  the  ground ; 
Bang !  bang !  goes  the  carbines,  and  clash  goes  the  sabres ; 
He's  not  down  !  he's  alive  still !  now  stand  to  him,  neigh- 
bours ! 

Through  the  smoke  and  the  horses  he's  into  the  crowd, — 
By  the  heavens,  he's  free  ! — than  thunder  more  loud, 
By  one  shout  from  the  people  the  heavens  were  shaken, — 
One  shout  that  the  dead  of  the  world  might  awaken. 
The  sodgers  ran  this  way,  the  sheriffs  ran  that, 
An'  Father  Malone  lost  his  new  Sunday  hat ; 
To-night  he'll  be  sleepin'  in  Aherloe  Glin, 
An'  the  divil's  in  the  dice  if  you  catch  him  ag'in. 
Your  swords  they  may  glitter,  your  carbines  go  bang, 
But  if  you  want  hangin',  it's  yourself  you  must  hang. 


He  has  mounted  his  horse,  and  soon  he  will  be 
In  America,  darlint,  the  land  of  the  free. 


55 

THE  ARAB'S  RIDE  TO  CAIRO 

A  LEGEND  OF  THE  DESERT 

BY  G.  J.  WHYTB-MBLVILLB. 

Hassan's  brow  is  dark  and  troubled, 
Hassan's  cheek  is  wan  and  pale, 

For  the  father's  heart  is  aching 
Sore  beneath  the  warrior's  maiL 

In  his  Harem  they  are  weeping, 
Hush'd  and  low  the  mourner's  wail. 

Fairest  of  the  Moslem's  daughters, 

On  her  couch  is  Zillah  lying, 
Sick  and  wasted : — through  the  lattice 

Sad  the  evening  breeze  is  sighing — 
Dews  are  on  her  forehead  gathering, 

Azrael  beckons — she  is  dying. 

Hush  !  she  speaks,  that  broken  Lily, — 
Treasure  well  each  accent  dear — 

In  her  fevered  dream  she  murmurs 
Of  a  fountain  fresh  and  clear, 

And  an  orange-grove  that  mocks  her, 
Thirsting  for  its  golden  cheer. 

Calm  and  sad  the  Leech  is  listening, 
She  is  past  the  Leech's  skill — 

"  Since  her  very  soul  is  craving, 
If  it  should  be  Allah's  will, 

Give  the  maid  the  fruit  she  longs  for, 
And  she  may  recover  still." 

Thousands  ten  of  mounted  warriors 

Wait  the  wave  of  Hassan's  hand- 
Thousands  ten  of  gleaming  sabres 
Leap  to  light  at  his  command — 
But  a  golden  grove  of  Orange 
Hath  not  Hassan  in  the  land. 


56  THE  ARAB'S  RIDE  TO  CAIRO 

Nearer  than  the  spires  of  Cairo, 
Full  two  hundred  miles  away, 

Not  a  leaf  adorns  the  desert. 
Fever  thirst  brooks  no  delay, 

Hassan's  darling  child  may  perish 
Pining  through  another  day. 

He — the  man  of  blood — the  spoiler, 

Cursed  by  man,  by  woman  feared- 
He,  before  whose  march  of  terror 

Wells  are  choked  and  orchards  cleared 
Now  for  one  poor  simple  orange 
Fain  would  give  his  very  beard ! 

Who  is  this,  that  night  and  morning 
'Neath  the  wall  is  seen  to  wait ! 

Who  is  this,  that  late  and  early, 
Tidings  seeks  of  Zillah's  fate  ? 

Braving  dreaded  Hassan's  anger — 
Watching  ever  at  the  gate  ? 

Breathlessly  the  Leech  he  questions, 
Owns  the  sage  his  art  is  vain. 

Ere  the  last  red  streak  of  sunset 
Sinks  behind  the  dusky  plain, 

Nadir's  foot  is  in  the  stirrup, 
Nadir's  hand  is  on  the  rein. 

Ere  the  moon  the  sand  hath  silvered^ 
Many  a  mile  upon  his  way 

Hath  he  sped — that  hurrying  horseman, 
Through  the  night  till  dawn  of  day. 

O'er  the  trackless  desert  flying, 
Sore  he  plies  the  gallant  bay. 

Steed  whose  mettle  never  fails  him, 
Pure  of  blood,  of  quenchless  fire, 

Steed  whose  long,  unfalt'rmg  gallop 
Not  those  desert  sands  can  tire. 


THE  ARAB'S  RIDE  TO  CAIRO  57 

Worthy  of  his  kingly  breeding, 
Priceless  dam,  and  matchless  sire. 


Through  the  lapse  of  countless  ages, 
That  enduring,  generous  race, 

Unpolluted  by  the  stranger, 
Boasts  the  Bedouin  to  trace, 

Still  within  his  tented  dwelling 
Finds  the  colt  a  comrade's  place. 


Now,  thou  "  Star  that  glads  the  Desert 
(Such  the  Bedouin  named  the  steed) 

Thou  shalt  prove  thy  lasting  vigour, 
Thou  shalt  tax  thine  utmost  speed. 

Ere  thou  reach  the  distant  city 
All  thy  mettle  shalt  thou  need ! 


In  bazaar  of  busy  Cairo, 

Merchants  sleek  their  traffic  ply; 
Much  they  marvel  at  the  stranger, 

Travel-worn,  with  haggard  eye, 
Gazing  on  the  ripened  Orange, 

Proffering  gold  the  fruit  to  buy. 

Stays  he  not  ?  that  eager  horseman, 
Scorns  he  rest,  and  food,  and  prayer  ? 

Mad  the  pious  merchant  deems  him, 
"  Allah  keep  him  in  his  care  !  " 

See  !  he  homeward  wheels  his  courser, 
Snorting  to  the  desert  air. 


Like  a  phantom  fleeting  dimly, 

O'er  the  trackless,  boundless  plain, 

Man  and  horse  are  labouring  onward, 
Man  and  horse  to  rest  are  fain — 


THE  ARAB'S  RIDE  TO  CAIRO 

Urge  him  not !  the  steed  is  reeling— 
Haggard  rider !  draw  the  rein ! 

Since  he  left  his  stall  for  Cairo 
Twice  hath  set  the  desert  sun ; 

Sparing  food  hath  been  his  portion, 
Water  hath  he  tasted  none — 

Blood  and  sinew  are  but  mortal, 
Now  his  race  is  almost  run. 

Hadst  thou  rested  in  the  city, 
Weary  horseman,  wan  and  pale ! 

He  had  borne  thee  home  in  triumph — 
Now  his  limbs  begin  to  fail ; 

Love  and  fear  may  goad  the  rider, 
Little  shall  his  haste  avail, 

For  the  gallant  steed  is  sickening, 
Still  he  strives  to  meet  the  rein, 

Glazed  his  eye — his  neck  is  stiffening 
E'en  his  master's  voice  is  vain, 

And  the  "  Star  that  glads  the  Desert " 
Rolls  upon  the  burning  plain  ! 

Woe  to  thee  !  the  ruthless  rider  ! 

Woe  to  thee  !  the  hapless  steed  ! 
Lonely  pair,  the  waste  is  round  ye, 

Who  shall  help  ye  at  your  need  ? 
Warning  true  the  Sage  hath  spoken, 

"  Fiery  haste  makes  failing  speed." 

Shrieks  of  women  fill  the  harem, 
Hassan's  tears  fall  thick  and  fast, 

Weeps  the  warrior  like  a  maiden 
Now  that  hope  and  fear  are  past, 

And  to  anguish  wakes  the  father, 
And  the  daughter  sleeps  her  last. 


THE  ARAB'S  RIDE  TO  CAIRO  59 

To  her  virgin-grave  bewailing, 

Zillah's  form  shall  virgins  bear, 
O'er  her  tomb  in  fond  remembrance 

Train  the  spotless  rose  with  care  ; 
Night  and  morning  flowers  shall  scatter 

Mournful  fragrance  on  the  air. 

Many  a  mile  within  the  desert, 
Scorched  and  withering  in  the  sun 

Nadir  and  his  steed  are  lying, 
Perished  ere  the  task  be  done, 

Through  the  sultry  air  the  vultures 
Gather  round  them  one  by  one. 

Bones  of  man  and  horse  are  bleaching 
Heaped  together  where  they  fell — 

In  his  shawl  untouched  the  orange. 
Wandering  Bedouins  long  shall  tell 

How  the  ruthless  rider  perished, 
How  he  loved  his  Zillah  well ! 

From   "  Songs  and  Vertex",  published  by  Meaart.  Word,  Lock 
<  Co.,  Ltd. 


6o 


THE    ELF    CHILD;    OR,    LITTLE 
ORPHANT  ANNIE 

BY  JAMES  WHTTCOMB  RILEY. 

Little  orphant  Annie's  come  to  our  house  to  stay, 
And  wash  the  cups  and  saucers  up,  an*  brush  the  crumbs 

away, 
An'  shoo  the  chickens  off  the  porch,  an'  dust  the  hearth, 

an'  sweep, 
An'  make  the  fire,  and  bake  the  bread,  an'  earn  her 

board  an'  keep  ; 

An'  all  us  other  children,  when  the  supper  things  is  done, 
We  set  around  the  kitchen  fire,  an'  has  the  mostest  fun 
A-list'ning  to  the  witch  tales  'at  Annie  tells  about, 
An'  the  gobble-uns  'at  gits  you 
Ef  you 
Don't 
Watch 
Out! 

Onc't  they  was  a  little  boy  wouldn't  say  his  pray'rs ; 
An'  when  he  went  to  bed  'at  night,  away  upstairs, 
His  mammy  heard  him  holler,  and  his  daddy  heard 

him  bawl, 
An'  whin  they  turn'd  the  kivvers  down  he  wasn't  there 

a  tall! 
An'  they  seeked  him  in  the  rafter  room,  and  cubby 

hole  and  press, 
An'  seeked  him  up  the  chimbly  flue  an'  ever'wheres,  I 


But  all  they  ever  found  was  thist  his  pants  an'  round- 
about ! 

An'  the  gobble-uns  '11  git  you 
Ef  you 
Don't 
Watch 
Out! 


THE  ELF  CHILD  61 

An'  one  time  a  little  girl  'ud  allus  laugh  and  grin, 
An'  make  fun  of  ever' one,  an'  all  her  blood  an'  kin  ; 
An'  onc't  when  they  was  company  an'  ole  folks  was  there, 
She  mocked  'em  an'  shocked  'em,  an'  said  she  didn't 

care  ! 
An1  thist  as  she  kicked  her  heels,  an'  turn'fc  to  run  an' 

hide, 
They  was  two  great  big  Black  Things  a-standin'  by  her 

side, 
An'  they  snatched  her  through  the  ceilin'   'fore  she 

know'd  what  she's  about, 
An'  the  gobble-uns  '11  git  you 
Ef  you 
Don't 
Watch 
Out! 

An'  little  orphant  Annie  says,  when  the  blaze  is  blue, 
An'  the  lamp-wick  sputters,  an'  the  wind  goes  woo-oo  ! 
An'  you  hear  the  crickets  quit,  an'  the  moon  is  grey, 
An'  the  lightnin'  bugs  hi  dew  is  all  squelched  away, 
You  better  mind  yer  parents,  an'  yer  teachers  fond  an' 

dear, 
An'  cherish  them  *t  loves  you,  and  dry  the  orphant's 

tear, 

An'  he'p  the  pore  an'  needy  ones  'at  cluster  all  about, 
Er  the  gobble-uns  '11  git  you 
Ef  you 
Don't 
Watch 
Out! 

From   "  Old-Fashioned  Roses,"   by  kind  permission  of  Messrs. 
Longmans,  Green  &  Go. 


THE  HIGH  TIDE 

ON  THE  COAST  OF  LINCOLNSHIRE,  1571. 
BY  JEAN  INQELOW. 

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

M  Pull  if  ye  never  pulled  before  ; 

Good  ringers,  pull  your  best,"  quoth  he : 

"  Play  uppe,  play  uppe,  0  Boston  Bells  ! 

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

Men  say  it  was  a  stolen  tyde — 

The  Lord  that  sent  it,  He  knows  all  ; 

But  in  myne  ears  doth  still  abide 
The  message  that  the  bells  let  fall : 

And  there  was  nought  of  strange,  beside 

The  flights  of  mews  and  peewits  pied 

By  millions  crouched  on  the  old  sea  wall. 

I  sat  and  spun  within  the  doore, 

My  thread  brake  off,  I  raised  myne  eyes ; 
The  level  sun,  like  ruddy  ore, 

Lay  sinking  in  the  barren  skies  : 
And  dark  against  day's  golden  death 
She  moved  where  Lindis  wandereth, 
My  sonne's  fair  wife,  Elizabeth. 

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

Floweth,  floweth, 

From  the  meads  where  melick  groweth 
Faintly  came  her  milking  song — 


THE  HIGH  TIDE 

"Cusha  I   Cusha!   Cusha  !  "   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,  Lightfoot ; 
Quit  the  stalls  of  parsley  hollow, 

Hollow,  hollow ; 

"Come  uppe,  Jetty,  rise  and  follow, 

From  the  clovers  lift  your  head  ; 

Come  uppe,  Whitefoot,  come  uppe,  Lightfoot, 

Come  appe,  Jetty,  rise  and  follow, 

Jetty,  to  the  milking  shed." 

If  it  be  long,  ay,  long  ago, 

When  I  beginne  to  think  howe  long, 

Againe  I  hear  the  Lindis  flow, 

Swift  as  an  arrow,  sharpe  and  strong  j 

And  all  the  aire,  it  seemeth  mee 

Bin  full  of  floating  bells  (sayeth  shee), 

That  ring  the  tune  of   Enderby. 

Alle  fresh  the  level  pasture  lay, 
And  not  a  shadowe  mote  be  scene, 

Save  where  full  fyve  good  miles  away 
The  steeple  towered  from  out  the  greene  j 

And  lo  !  the  great  belle  farre  and  wide 

Was  heard  in  all  the  country-side 

That  Saturday  at  eventide. 

The  swanherds  where  their  sedges  are 
Moved  on  in  sunset's  golden  breath, 

The  shepherde  lads  I  heard  afarre, 
And  my  sonne's  wife,  Elizabeth ; 

Till  floating  o'er  the  grassy  sea 

Came  downe  that  kyndly  message  free 

The  "  Brides  of  Mavis  Enderby." 


THE  HIGH  TIDE 

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  1 

They  ring  the  tune  of  Enderby  ! 

"  For  evil  news  from  Mablethorpe, 
Of  pyrate  galleys  warping  down ; 
For  shippes  ashore  beyond  the  scorpe, 

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

I  looked  without,  and  lo  !  my  sonne 

Came  riding  downe  with  might  and  main  : 
He  raised  a  shout  as  he  drew  on, 
Till  all  the  welkin  rang  again. 
"  Elizabeth  !  Elizabeth  !  " 
(A  sweeter  woman  ne'er  drew  breath 
Than  my  sonne's  wife,  Elizabeth.) 

"  The  olde  sea  wall,"  he  cried,  "  is  downe, 

The  rising  tide  comes  on  apace, 
And  boats  adrift  in  yonder  towne 
Go  sailing  uppe  the  market-place." 
He  shook  as  one  that  looks  on  death  : 
"  God  save  you,  mother  !  "  straight  he  saith  ; 
"  Where  is  my  wife  Elizabeth  ?  " 

"  Good  sonne,  where  Lindis  winds  away, 
With  her  two  bairns  I  marked  her  long ; 

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

He  looked  across  the  grassy  lea, 

To  right,  to  left,  "  Ho  Enderby  ! " 

They  rang,  "  The  Brides  of  Enderby  !  " 


THE  HIGH  TIDE  i 

With  that  he  cried  and  beat  his  breast; 

For  lo  !  along  the  river's  bed 
A  mighty  eygre  reared  bis  crest, 

And  uppe  the  Lindis  raging  sped. 
It  swept  with  thunderous  noises  loud  J 
Shaped  like  a  curling  snow-white  cloud, 
Or  like  a  demon  in  a  shroud. 

And  rearing  Lindis  backward  pressed, 
Shook  all  her  trembling  bankes  amaine ; 

Then  madly  at  the  eygre' s  breast 

Flung  uppe  her  weltering  walls  again. 

Then  bankes  came  downe  with  ruin  and  rout — 

Then  beaten  foam  flew  round  about — 

And  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  cure  feet ! 

The  feet  had  hardly  time  to  flee 

Before  it  brake  against  the  knee, 

And  all  the  world  was  in  the  sea. 

Upon  the  roofe  we  sate  that  night, 
The  noise  of  bells  went  sweeping  by  J 

I  marked  the  lofty  beacon  light 
Stream  from  the  church  tower,  red  and  high— 

A  lurid  mark,  and  dread  to  see  ; 

And  awsome  bells  they  were  to  mee, 

That  in  the  dark  rang  "  Enderby." 

They  rang  the  sailor  lads  to  guide 

From  roofe  to  roofe  who  fearless  rowed  J 

And  I  ? — my  sonne  was  at  my  side, 
And  yet  the  ruddy  beacon  glowed  : 

And  yet  he  moaned  beneath  his  breath, 

"  0  come  in  life,  or  come  in  death  ! 

O  lost !  my  love,  Elizabeth." 

B.P.B.  E 


66  THE  BELLS 

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  grass, 
That  ebb  swept  out  the  flocks  to  sea ; 

A  fatal  ebbe  and  flow,  alas  ! 

To  manye  more  than  myne  and  mee  : 

But  each  will  mourne  his  own  (she  saith), 

And  sweeter  woman  ne'er  drew  breath — 

Than  my  sonne's  wife,  Elizabeth. 
By  kind  permission  of  Messrs  Longmans,  Green  Sc.  Co, 


THE  BELLS 
BY  EDGAR  ALLAN  POTO. 

Hear  the  sledges  with  the  bells — 

Silver  bells  ! 

What  a  world  of  merriment  their  melody  foretells  ! 
How  they  tinkle,  tinkle,  tinkle, 

In  the  icy  air  of  night ! 
While  the  stars  that  oversprinkle 
All  the  heavens,  seem  to  twinkle 
With  a  crystalline  delight. 

Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  tintinnabulation  that  so  musically  wells 
From  the  bells,  bells,  beUs,  bells, 

Bells,  bells,  bells— 
From  the  jingling  and  the  tinkling  of  the  bells. 


THE  BELLS  67 

Hear  the  mellow  wedding  bells, 

Golden  bells  ! 

What  a  world  of  happiness  their  harmony  toretells ; 
Through  the  balmy  air  of  night 
How  they  ring  out  their  delight ! 
From  the  molten-golden  notes, 

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

On  the  moon  ! 

Oh,  from  out  the  sounding  cells, 
What  a  gush  of  euphony  voluminously  wells ! 
How  it  swells  ! 
How  it  dwells 

On  the  Future  !  how  it  tells 
Of  the  rapture  that  impels 
To  the  swinging  and  the  ringing 

Of  the  beUs,  bells,  bells, 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Bells,  bells,  bells— 

To  the  rhyming  and  the  chiming  of  the   bells 

/ 

Hear  the  loud  alarum  bells — 

Brazen  bells  ! 

What  a  tale  of  terror,  now,  their  turbulency  tells ! 
In  the  startled  ear  of  night 
How  they  scream  out  their  affright ! 
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  expostulation  with  the  deaf  and  frantic  fire 
Leaping  higher,  higher,  higher, 
With  a  desperate  desire, 
And  a  resolute  endeavour, 
Now — now  to  sit  or  never, 
By  the  side  of  the  pale-faced  moon. 
Oh,  the  bells,  beUs,  bells  ! 


68  THE  BELLS 

What  a  tale  their  terror  tells 
Of  Despair ! 

How  they  clang,  and  clash,  and  roar! 
What  a  horror  they  outpour 
On  the  bosom  of  the  palpitating  air. 
Yet  the  ear  it  fully  knows, 
By  the  twanging, 
And  the  clanging, 
How  the  danger  ebbs  and  flows ; 
Yet  the  ear  distinctly  tells, 
In  the  jangling 
And  the  wrangling, 
How  the  danger  sinks  and  swells, 
By  the  sinking  or  the  swelling  in  the  anger  of  the  bells  ; 

Of  the  bells — 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 
In  the  clamour  and  the  clangour  of  the  bells. 

Hear  the  tolling  of  the  bells — 

Iron  bells  ! 

What  a  world  of  solemn  thought  their  monody  compels  ! 
In  the  silence  of  the  night, 
How  we  shiver  with  affright 
At  the  melancholy  menace  of  their  tone  ! 
For  every  sound  that  floats 
From  the  rust  within  their  throats 

Is  a  groan. 

And  the  people — ah,  the  people — 
They  that  dwell  up  in  the  steeple, 

All  alone, 
And  who  toiling,  toiling,  toiling, 

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 — 


THE  BELLS  69 


They  are  Ghouls 
And  their  king  it  is  who  tolls ; 
And  he  rolls,  rolls,  rolls, 
Rolls 


A  psean  from  the  bells  ! 
And  his  merry  bosom  swells 

With  the  psean  of  the  bells  J 
And  he  dances  and  he  yells ; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
la  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  paean  of  the  bells — 

Of  the  beUs : 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  throbbing  of  the  bells — 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 

As  he  knells,  knells,  knells, 
In  a  happy  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  rolling  of  the  bells— 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells— 

To  the  tolling  of  the  bells— 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells— 

Bells,  bells,  bells— 
To  the  moaning  and  the  groaning  of  the  bells. 


70 
CURFEW  MUST  NOT  RING  TO-NIGHT 

BY  ROSE  H.  THORPE. 
England's  sun  was  setting 

O'er  the  hills  so  far  away, 
Filled  the  land  with  misty  beauty 

At  the  close  of  one  sad  day  : 
And  the  last  rays  kissed  the  forehead 

Of  a  man  and  maiden  fair ; 
He  with  step  so  slow  and  weary, 

She  with  sunny,  floating  hair  ; 
He  with  bowed  head,  sad  and  thoughtful, 

She  with  lips  so  cold  and  white, 
Struggling  to  keep  back  the  murmur, 

"  Curfew  shall  not  ring  to-night." 
"  Sexton,"  Bessie's  white  lips  faltered, 

Pointing  to  the  prison  old, 
With  its  walls  so  tall  and  gloomy, 

Walls  so  dark,  and  damp,  and  cold,— 
"  I've  a  lover  in  that  prison, 

Doomed  this  very  night  to  die 
At  the  ringing  of  the  Curfew, 

And  no  earthly  help  is  nigh  : 
Cromwell  will  not  come  till  sunset," 

And  her  face  grew  strangely  white, 
As  she  spoke  in  husky  whispers, — 

"  Curfew  shall  not  ring  to-night." 
"  Bessie,"  calmly  spoke  the  sexton, — 

Every  word  pierced  her  young  heart 
Like  a  thousand  gleaming  arrows, 

Like  a  deadly  poisoned  dart, — 
"  Long,  long  years  I've  rung  the  Curfew 

From  that  gloomy  shadowed   tower; 
Every  evening,  just  at  sunset, 

It  has  told  the  twilight  hour. 
I  have  done  my  duty  ever, 

Tried  to  do  it  just  and  right ; 
Now  I'm  old,  I  will  not  miss  it, 

Girl,  the  Curfew  rings  to-night." 


CURFEW  MUST  NOT  RING  TO-NIGHT       71 

Wild  her  eyes,  and  pale  her  features, 

Stern  and  white  her  thoughtful  brow, 
And  within  her  heart's  deep  centre 

Bessie  made  a  solemn  vow ; 
She  had  listened  while  the  judges 

Read,  without  a  tear  or  sigh  : 
"  At  the  ringing  of  the  Curfew — 

Basil  Underwood  must  die." 
And  her  breath  came  fast  and  faster, 

And  her  eyes  grew  large  and  bright- 
One  low  murmur,  scarcely  spoken, 

"  Curfew  must  not  ring  to-night !  " 

She  with  light  step  bounded  forward, 

Sprung  within  the  old  church-door, 
Left  the  old  man  coming  slowly 

Paths  he'd  trod  so  oft  before  ; 
Not  one  moment  paused  the  maiden, 

But,  with  cheek  and  brow  aglow, 
Staggered  up  the  gloomy  tower, 

Where  the  bell  swung  to  and  fro; 
Then  she  climbed  the  slimy  ladder, 

Dark,  without  one  ray  of  light, 
Upward  still,  her  pale  lips  saying, 

"  Curfew  shall  not  ring  to-night.'1 

She  has  reached  the  topmost  ladder, 

O'er  her  hangs  the  great  dark  bell, 
And  the  awful  gloom  beneath  her, 

Like  the  pathway  down  to  hell ! 
See,  the  ponderous  tongue  is  swinging, 

'Tis  the  hour  of  Curfew  now — 
And  the  sight  has  chilled  her  bosom, 

Stopped  her  breath  and  paled  her  brow. 
Shall  she  let  it  ring  ?     No,  never. 

Her  eyes  flash  with  sudden  light, 
And  she  springs  and  grasps  it  firmly- 

"  Curfew  shall  not  ring  to-night !  " 


72        CURFEW  MUST  NOT  RING  TO-NIGHT 

Out  she  swung,  far  out ; — the  city 

Seemed  a  tiny  speck  below, 
There,  'twixt  heaven  and  earth  suspended, 

As  the  bell  swung  to  and  fro  ; 
And  the  half-deaf  sexton  ringing, 

(Years  he  had  not  heard  the  bell,) 
And  he  thought  the  twilight  Curfew 

Rung  young  Basil's  funeral  knell ; 
Still  the  maiden,  clinging  firmly, 

Cheek  and  brow  so  pale  and  white, 
Stilled  her  frightened  heart's  wild  beating— 

"  Curfew  shall  not  ring  to-night  !  " 

It  was  o'er — the  bell  ceased  swaying, 

And  the  maiden  stepped  once  more 
Firmly  on  the  damp  old  ladder, 

Where  for  hundred  years  before 
Human  foot  had  not  been  planted  : 

And  what  she  this  night  had  done 
Should  be  told  long  ages  after — 

As  the  rays  of  setting  sun 
Light  the  sky  with  mellow  beauty, 

Aged  sires  with  heads  of  white 
Tell  the  children  why  the  Curfew 

Did  not  ring  that  one  sad  night. 

O'er  the  distant  hills  came  Cromwell ; 

Bessie  saw  him,  and  her  brow, 
Lately  white  with  sickening  horror, 

Glows  with  sudden  beauty  now. 
At  his  feet  she  told  the  story, 

Showed  her  hands  all  bruised  and  torn  j 
And  her  sweet  young  face  so  haggard, 

With  a  look  so  sad  and  worn, 
Touched  his  heart  with  sudden  pity, 

Lit  his  eyes  with  misty  light. 
"  Go,  your  lover  lives,"  cried  Cromwell  j 

"  Curfew  shall  not  ring  to-night !  " 


73 


BETSY  AND  I  ARE  OUT 

BY  WILL  CABLETON. 

Draw  up  the  papers,  lawyer,  and  make  'em  good  and 

stout, 
For  things  at  home  are  crossways,  and  Betsy  and  I  are 

out. 

We,  who  have  worked  together  so  long  as  man  and  wife, 
Must  pull  in  single  harness  for  the  rest  of  our  nat'ral  life. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  say  you.     I  guess  it's  hard  to 

tell! 

Most  of  the  years  behind  us  we've  passed  by  very  well ! 
I  have  no  other  woman,  she  has  no  other  man — 
Only  we've  lived  together  as  long  as  we  ever  can. 

So  I  have  talked  with  Betsy,  and  Betsy  has  talked  with 

me, 

And  so  we've  agreed  together  that  we  can't  never  agree  ; 
Not  that  we've  catched  each  other  in  any  terrible  crime, 
We've  been  a-gathering  this  for  years,  a  little  at  a  time. 

There  was  a  stock  of  temper  we  both  had  for  a  start, 
Although  we  never  suspected  'twould  take  us  two  apart ; 
I  had  my  various  failings,  bred  in  the  flesh  and  bone ; 
And  Betsy,  like  all  good  women,  had  a  temper  of  her 
own. 

The  first  thing  I  remember  whereon  we  disagreed 
Was  something  concerning  heaven — a  difference  in  our 

creed  ; 
We  arg'ed  the  thing  at  breakfast,  we  arg'ed  the  thing  at 

tea, 
And  the  more  we  arg'ed  the  question,  the  more  we  didn't 

agree. 


74  BETSY  AND  I  ARE  OUT 

And  the  next  that  I  remember  was  when  we  lost  a  cow ; 
She  had  kicked  the  bucket  for  certain,  the  question  was 

only — How  ? 

I  held  my  own  opinion,  and  Betsy  another  had ; 
And  when  we  were  done  a-talkin',  we  both  of  us  was  mad. 

And  the  next  that  I  remember,  it  started  in  a  joke  : 
But  full  for  a  week  it  lasted,  and  neither  of  us  spoke  ; 
And  the  next  was  when  I  scolded  because  she  broke 

a  bowl ; 
And  she  said  I  was  mean  and  stingy,  and  hadn't  any  soul. 

And  so  that  bowl  kept  pourin'  dissensions  in  our  cup ; 
And  so  that  blamed  cow  creature  was  always  a-comin' 

up; 

And  so  that  heaven  we  arg'ed  no  nearer  to  us  got, 
But  it  gave  us  a  taste  of  something  a  thousand  times  as 

hot. 

And  so  the  thing  kept  workin',  and  all  the  self -same  way  ; 
Always  somethin'  to  arg'e,  and  somethin'  sharp  to  say  : 
And  down  on  us  came  the  neighbours,  a  couple  dozen 

strong, 
And  lent  their  kindest  service  for  to  help  the  thing  along. 

And  there  has  been  days  together — and  many  a  weary 

week — 
We  was  both  of  us  cross  and  touchy,  and  both  too  proud 

to  speak  ; 
And  I  have  been  thinkin'  and  thinkin',  the  whole  of  the 

winter  and  fall, 
If  I  can't  live  kind  with  a  woman,  why,  then,  I  won't  at 

all. 

And  so  I  have  talked  with  Betsy,  and  Betsy  has  talked 

with  me, 

And  we  have  agreed  together  that  we  can't  never  agree  ; 
And  what  is  hers  shall  be  hers,  and  what  is  mine  shall  be 

mine  ; 
And  I'll  put  it  in  the  agreement,  and  take  it  to  her  to  sign. 


BETSY  AND  I  ARE  OUT  75 

Write  on  the  paper,  lawyer — the  very  first  paragraph — 
Of  all  the  farm  and  life-stock  that  she  shall  have  her  half  ; 
For  she  has  helped  to  earn  it,  through  many  a  weary  day, 
And  it's  nothing  more  than  justice  that  Betsy  has  her 

pay- 
Give  her  the  house  and  homestead — a  man  can  thrive  and 

roam, 

But  women  are  skerry  critters  unless  they  have  a  home  ; 
And  I  have  always  determined,  and  never  failed  to  say, 
That  Betsy  should  never  want  a  home  if  I  was  taken 

away. 

There  is  a  little  hard  money  that's  drawin'  tol'rable  pay  : 
A  couple  of  hundred  dollars  laid  by  for  a  rainy  day  ; 
Safe  in  the  hands  of  good  men,  and  easy  to  get  at ; 
Put  in  another  clause  there,  and  give  her  hah*  of  that. 

Yes,  I  see  you  smile,  sir,  at  my  givin'  her  so  much  ; 
Yes,  divorce  is  cheap,  sir,  but  I  take  no  stock  in  such  ! 
True  and  fair  I  married  her,  when  she  was  blithe  and 

young ; 
And  Betsy  was  al'ays  good  to  me,  exceptin'  with  her 

tongue. 

Once,  when  I  was  young  as  you,  and  not  so  smart, 

perhaps, 

For  me  she  turn'd  up  a  lawyer,  and  several  other  chaps  ; 
And  of  all  them  was  flustered,  and  fairly  taken  down, 
And  I  for  a  time  was  counted  the  luckiest  man  in  town. 


Once  when  I  had  a  fever — I  won't  forget  it  soon — 
I  was  hot  as  a  basted  turkey,  and  crazy  as  a  loon  : 
Never  an  hour  went  by  me  when  she  was  out  of  sight — 
She  nursed  me  true  and  tender,  and  stuck  to  me  day  and 
night. 


76  HOW  BETSY  AND  I  MADE  UP 

And  if  ever  a  house  was  tidy,  and  ever  a  kitchen  clean, 
Her  house  and  kitchen  was  as  tidy  as  any  I  ever  seen  ; 
And  I  don't  complain  of  Betsy,  or  any  of  her  acts, 
Excepting  when  we've  quarrelled  and  told  each  other 
facts. 

So  draw  up  the  paper,  lawyer,  and  I'll  go  home  to-night, 
And  read  the  agreement  to  her,  and  see  if  it's  all  right ; 
And  then,  in  the  mornin',  I'll  sell  to  a  tradin'  man  I  know, 
And  kiss  the  child  that  was  left  to  us,  and  out  in  the 
world  I'll  go. 

And  one  thing  put  in  the  paper,  that  first  to  me  didn't 

occur, 

That  when  I  am  dead  at  last  she'D  bring  me  back  to  her  : 
And  lay  me  under  the  maples  I  planted  years  ago, 
When  she  and  I  was  happy  before  we  quarrelled  so. 

And  when  she  dies  I  wish  that  she  would  be  laid  by 

me, 

And,  lyin'  together  in  silence,  perhaps  we  will  agree ; 
And  if  ever  we  meet  in  heaven  I  wouldn't  think  it 

queer 
If  we  loved  each  other  the  better  because  we  quarrelled 

here. 


HOW  BETSY  AND  I  MADE  UP 
BY  WILL  CARLETON. 

Give  us  your  hand,  Mr.  Lawyer  :  how  do  you  do  to-day  ? 
You  drew  up  that  paper — I  s'pose  you  want  your  pay  ; 
Don't  cut  down  your  figures  ;    make  it  an  X  or  a  V ; 
For  that  'ere  written  agreement  was  just  the  makin'  of  me. 

Goin'  home  that  evenin'  I  tell  you  I  was  blue, 
Thinkin'  of  all  my  troubles,  and  what  I  was  goin'  to  do  : 
And  if  my  horses  hadn't  been  the  steadiest  team  alive, 
They'd  've  tipped  me  over,  certain,  for  I  couldn't  see 
where  to  drive. 


HOW  BETSY  AND  I  MADE  UP  77 

No — for  I  was  labourin'  under  a  heavy  load  ; 
No — for  I  was  travellin'  an  entirely  different  road  ; 
For  I  was  a-tracin'  over  the  path  of  our  lives  ag'in, 
And  seein'  where  we  missed  the  way,  and  where  we  might 
have  been. 

And  many  a  corner  we'd  turned  that  just  to  a  quarrel  led, 
When  I  ought  to  've  held  my  temper,  and  driven  straight 

ahead ; 
And  the  more  I  thought  it  over  the  more  these  memories 

came, 
And  the  more  I  struck  the  opinion  that  I  was  the  most 

to  blame. 

And  things  I  had  long  forgotten  kept  risin'  in  my  mind, 
Of  little  matters  betwixt  us,  where  Betsy  was  good  and 

kind  ; 
And  these  things  flashed  all  through  me,  as  you  know 

things  sometimes  will 
When  a  feller's  alone  in  the  darkness,  and  everything  is 

still. 

"  But,"  says  I,  "  we're  too  far  along  to  take  another 

track, 
And  when  I  put  my  hand  to  the  plough,  I  do  not  oft  turn 

back ; 
And  'tain't  an  uncommon  thing  now  for  couples  to 

smash  in  two  ;  " 
And  so  I  set  my  teeth  together,  and  vowed  I'd  see  it 

through. 

WTien  I  come  in  sight  o'  the  house,  'twas  some'at  in  the 

night, 

And  just  as  I  turned  a  hill-top  I  see  the  kitchen  light ; 
Which  often  a  han'some  pictur'   to  a  hungry  person 

makes, 
But  it  don't  interest  a  feller  much  that's  goin'  to  pull  up 

stakes. 


78  HOW  BETSY  AND  I  MADE  UP 

And  when  I  went  in  the  house,  the  table  was  set  for 

me — 

As  good  a  supper's  I  ever  saw,  or  ever  want  to  see  ; 
And  I  crammed  the  agreement  down  my  pocket  as  well 

as  I  could, 
And  fell  to  eatin'  my  victuals,  which  somehow  didn't 

taste  good. 

And  Betsy,  she  pretended  to  look  about  the  house, 
But  she  watched  my  side  coat-pocket  like  a  cat  would 

watch  a  mouse  ; 

And  then  she  went  to  foolin'  a  little  with  her  cup, 
And  intently  readin'  a  newspaper,  a-holdin'  it  wrong  side 

up. 

And  when  I'd  done  my  supper,  I  drawed  the  agreement 

out, 
And  gave  it  to  her  without  a  word,  for  she  knowed 

what  'twas  about ; 

And  then  I  hummed  a  little  tune,  but  now  and  then  a  note 
Was  busted  by  some  animal  that  hopped  up  in  my  throat. 

Then  Betsy  she  got  her  specs  from  off  the  mantel-shelf, 
And  read  the  article  over  quite  softly  to  herself  ; 
Read  it  by  little  and  little,  for  her  eyes  is  gettin'  old, 
And  lawyers'  writin'  ain't  no  print,  especially  when  it's 
cold. 

And  after  she'd  read  a  little  she  give  my  arm  a  touch, 
And  kindly  said  she  was  afraid  I  was  '  lowin'  her  too 

much ; 
But  when  she  was  through,  she  went  for  me,  her  face 

a-streamin'  with  tears, 
And  kissed  me  for  the  first  time  in  over  twenty  years  ! 

I  don't  know  what  you'll  think,  sir — I  didn't  come  to 

inquire — 
But  I  picked  up  that  agreement  and  stuffed  it  in  the 

fire; 


HOW  BETSY  AND  I  MADE  UP  79 

And  I  told  her  we'd  bury  the  hatchet  alongside  of  the 

cow  ; 
And  we  struck  an  agreement  never  to  have  another  row. 

And  I  told  her  in  the  future  I  wouldn't  speak  cross  or 

rash 
If  half  the  crockery  in  the  house  was  broken  all  to 

smash  ; 
And  she  said,  in  regards  to  heaven,  we'd  try  and  learn 

its  worth 
By  startin'  a  branch  establishment  and  runnin'  it  here 

on  earth. 

And  so  we  sat  a-talkin'  three-quarters  of  the  night, 
And  opened  our  hearts  to  each  other  until  they  both  grew 

light; 
And  the  days  when  I  waa  winnin'  her  away  from  so 

many  men 
Was  nothin'  to  that  evenin'  I  courted  her  over  again. 

Next  mornin'  an  ancient  virgin  took  pains  to  call  on  us, 
Her  lamp  all  trimmed  and  a-burnin'  to  kindle  another 

fuss  ; 

But  when  she  went  to  pryin'  and  openin'  of  old  sores, 
My  Betsy  rose  politely  and  showed  her  out  of  doors. 

Since  then  I  don't  deny  but  there's  been  a  word  or  two ; 
But  we've  got  our  eyes  wide  open,  and  know  just  what 

to  do  : 
When  one  speaks  cross  the  other  just  meets  it  with  a 

laugh, 
And  the  first  one's  ready  to  give  up  considerable  more 

than  half. 

Maybe  you'll  think  me  soft,  sir,  a-talkin'  in  this  style, 
But  somehow  it  does  me  lots  of  good  to  tell  it  once  in  a 

while  ; 

And  I  do  it  for  a  compliment — 'tis  so  that  you  can  see 
That  that  there  written  agreement  of  yours  was  just  the 

makin'  of  me. 


8o 


TO  A  MOUSE 

ON  TURNING  UP  HER  NEST  WITH  THE  PLOUGH, 
NOVEMBER,  1785 

BY  ROBERT  BURNS. 

Wee,  sleekit,  cowrin',  tim'rous  beastie, 
Oh,  what  a  panic's  in  thy  breastie  ! 
Thou  needna  start  awa'  sae  hasty, 

Wi'  bickering  brattle! 
I  wad  be  laith  to  rin  and  chase  thee, 

Wi'  murd'ring  pattle  ! 

I'm  truly  sorry  man's  dominion 
Has  broken  nature's  social  union, 
And  justifies  that  ill  opinion 

Which  maks  thee  startle 
At  me,  thy  poor  earth-born  companion, 

And  fellow-mortal ! 

I  doubt  na,  whyles,  but  thou  may  thieve ; 
What  then  ?  poor  beastie,  thou  maun  live  1 
A  daimen  icker  in  a  thrave 

*S  a  sma'  request : 
I'll  get  a  blessin'  wi'  the  lave, 

And  never  miss't  I 

Thy  wee  bit  housie,  too,  in  ruin  ! 
Its  silly  wa's  the  win's  are  strewin'  I 
And  naething  now  to  big  a  new  ane 

O'  foggage  green  ! 
And  bleak  December's  winds  ensuin*, 

Bath  snell  and  keen  ! 


TO  A  MOUSE  81 

Thou  saw  the  fields  laid  bare  and  waste, 
And  weary  winter  comin'  fast, 
And  cozie  here,  beneath  the  blast, 

Thou  thought  to  dwell 
Till,  crash  !  the  cruel  coulter  past 

Out  through  thy  cell. 


That  wee  bit  heap  o'  leaves  and  stibble 
Has  cost  thee  mony  a  weary  nibble  ! 
Now  thou's  turn'd  out  for  a'  thy  trouble, 

But  house  or  hauld, 
To  thole  the  winter's  sleety  dribble, 

And  cranreuch  cauld ! 


But,  Mousie,  thou  art  no  thy  lane, 
In  proving  foresight  may  be  vain  : 
The  best-laid  schemes  o'  mice  and  men 

Gang  aft  a-gley, 
And  lea'e  us  nought  but  grief  and  pain 

For  promised  joy. 


Still  thou  art  blest,  compared  wi'  me  ! 
The  present  only  toucheth  thee  : 
But,  och  !  I  backward  cast  my  ee 

On  prospects  drear  I 
And  forward,  though  I  canna  see, 

I  guess  and  fear. 


S.P.B. 


THE  WRECK  OF  THE  HESPERUS 
BY  IL  W.  LONGFELLOW. 

It  was  the  schooner  Hesperus, 

That  sailed  the  wintry  sea ; 
And  the  skipper  had  taken  his  little  daughter, 

To  bear  him  company. 

Blue  were  her  eyes  as  the  fairy-flax, 

Her  cheeks  like  the  dawn  of  day, 
And  her  bosom  white  as  the  hawthorn  buds, 

That  op©  in  the  month  of  May. 

*  *  *  *  * 

Down  came  the  storm,  and  smote  amain 

The  vessel  in  its  strength  ; 
She  shuddered  and  paused,  like  a  frighted  steed, 

Then  leaped  her  cable's  length. 

"  Corne  hither  !  come  hither  !  my  little  daughter, 

And  do  not  tremble  so; 
For  I  can  weather  the  roughest  gale 

That  ever  wind  did  blow." 

He  wrapped  her  warm  in  his  seaman's  coat 

Against  the  stinging  blast ; 
He  cut  a  rope  from  a  broken  spar, 

And  bound  her  to  the  mast. 

"  O  father  !  I  hear  the  church-bells  ring, 

Oh  say,  what  may  it  be  ?  " 
"  'Tis  a  fog-bell  on  a  rock-bound  coast !  " — 

And  he  steered  for  the  open  sea. 

"  0  father  !  I  hear  the  sound  of  guns  ; 

Oh  say,  what  may  it  be  ?  " 
"  Some  ship  in  distress,  that  cannot  live 

In  such  an  angry  sea  !  " 


THE  WRECK  OF  THE  HESPERUS  83 

"  0  father  !  I  see  a  gleaming  light, 

Oh  say,  what  may  it  be  ?  " 
But  the  father  answered  never  a  word, 

A  frozen  corpse  was  he. 

Then  the  maiden  clasped  her  hands  and  prayed 

That  saved  she  might  be  ; 
And  she  thought  of  Christ,  who  stilled   the  wave, 

On  the  Lake  of  Galilee. 

And  fast  through  the  midnight  dark  and  drear, 
Through  the  whistling  sleet  and  snow, 

Like  a  sheeted  ghost,  the  vessel  swept 
Tow'rds  the  reef  of  Norman's  Woe. 

The  breakers  were  right  beneath  her  bows, 

She  drifted  a  dreary  wreck, 
And  a  whooping  billow  swept  the  crew 

Like  icicles  from  her  deck. 

She  struck  where  the  white  and  fleecy  waves 

Looked  soft  as  carded  wool, 
But  the  cruel  rocks,  they  gored  her  side 

Like  the  horns  of  an  angry  bull. 

At  daybreak,  on  the  bleak  sea-beach, 

A  fisherman  stood  aghast, 
To  see  the  form  of  a  maiden  fair, 

Lashed  close  to  a  drifting  mast. 

The  salt  sea  was  frozen  on  her  breast, 

The  salt  tears  in  her  eyes ; 
And  he  saw  her  hair,  like  the  brown  seaweed, 

On  the  billows  fall  and  rise. 

Such  was  the  wreck  of  the  Hesperus, 

In  the  midnight  and  the  snow ! 
Christ  save  us  from  a  death  like  this, 

On  the  reef  of  Norman's  Woe  ! 


84 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  SHIRT 
BY  TOM  HOOD. 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn, 

With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 
A  woman  sat,  in  unwomanly  rags, 

Plying  her  needle  and  thread — 

Stitch  !  stitch  !  stitch  ! 
In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt, 

And  still  with  a  voice  of  dolorous  pitch 
She  sang  the  "  Song  of  the  Shirt." 


"  Work !  work  !  work  ! 
While  the  cock  is  crowing  aloof ! 

And  work — work — work, 
Till  the  stars  shine  through  the  roof ! 
It's  Oh  !  to  be  a  slave 

Along  with  the  barbarous  Turk, 
Where  woman  has  never  a  soul  to  save, 

If  this  is  Christian  work  ! 


"  Work — work— work 
Till  the  brain  begins  to  swim  J 

Work — work — work 
Till  the  eyes  are  heavy  and  dim  ! 
Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band, 

Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam. 
Till  over  the  buttons  I  fall  asleep, 

And  sew  them  on  in  a  dream  ! 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  SHIRT  : 

"  Oh,  Men,  with  Sisters  dear  ! 

Oh,  men,  with  Mothers  and  Wives ! 
It  is  not  linen  you're  wearing  out, 

But  human  creatures'  lives  ! 
Stitch — stitch — stitch, 

In  poverty,  hunger  and  dirt, 
Sewing  at  once,  with  a  double  thread, 
A  Shroud  as  well  as  a  Shirt. 

"  But  why  do  I  talk  of  Death  I 

That  Phantom  of  grisly  bone, 
I  hardly  fear  its  terrible  shape, 

It  seems  so  like  my  own — 

It  seems  so  like  my  own, 

Because  of  the  fasts  I  keep  ; 
Oh,  God  !  that  bread  should'  be  so  dear, 

And  flesh  and  blood  so  cheap  ! 

"  Work— work— work  ! 

My  labour  never  flags  ; 
And  what  are  its  wages  ?     A  bed  of  straw, 

A  crust  of  bread — and  rags. 
That  shatter'd  roof — and  this  naked  floor — 

A  table — a  broken  chair — 
And  a  wall  so  blank,  my  shadow  I  thank 

For  sometimes  falling  there  I 

"  Work — work — work  ! 
From  weary  chime  to  chime, 

Work  — work — work — 
As  prisoners  work  for  crime  ! 

Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam, 

Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band, 
Till  the  heart  is  sick,  and  the  brain  benumb'd, 

As  well  as  the  weary  hand. 

"  Work— work— work, 
In  the  dull  December  light, 


86  THE  SONG  OF  THE  SHIRT 

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  !  but  to  breathe  the  breath 
Of  the  cowslip  and  primrose  sweet— 

With  the  sky  above  my  head, 
And  the  grass  beneath  my  feet, 
For  only  one  short  hour 

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

And  the  walk  that  costs  a  meal  I 

"  Oh  !  but  for  one  short  hour  ! 

A  respite  however  brief  ! 
No  blessed  leisure  for  Love  or  Hope, 

But  only  time  for  Grief  ! 
A  little  weeping  would  ease  my  heart, 

But  in  their  briny  bed 
My  tears  must  stop,  for  every  drop 

Hinders  needle  and  thread  !  " 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn, 

With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 
A  woman  sat  in  unwomanly  rags, 

Plying  her  needle  and  thread- 
Stitch  !   stitch  !  stitch  ! 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt, 
And  still  with  a  voice  of  dolorous  pitch, — 
Would  that  its  tone  could  reach  the  Rich  !- 

She  sang  this  "  Song  of  the  Shirt  t " 


BISHOP  HATTO  AND  THE  RATS 

BY  ROBERT  SOUTHEY. 

The  summer  and  autumn  had  been  so  wet, 
That  in  winter  the  corn  was  growing  yet, 
'Twas  a  piteous  sight  to  see  all  around 
The  corn  lie  rotting  on  the  ground. 

Every  day  the  starving  poor 
They  crowded  around  Bishop  Hatto's  door, 
For  he  had  a  plentiful  last  year's  store, 
And  all  the  neighbourhood  could  tell 
His  granaries  were  furnished  well. 

At  last  Bishop  Hatto  appointed  a  day 

To  quiet  the  poor  without  delay, 

He  bade  them  to  his  great  barn  repair, 

And  they  should  have  food  for  the  winter  there. 

Rejoiced  the  tidings  good  to  hear, 
The  poor  folks  flocked  from  far  and  near, 
The  great  barn  was  full  as  it  could  hold 
Of  women  and  children,  and  young  and  old. 

Then  when  he  saw  it  could  hold  no  more, 
Bishop  Hatto  he  made  fast  the  door, 
And  whilst  for  mercy  on  Christ  they  call, 
He  set  fire  to  the  barn  and  burnt  them  alL 

I'  faith,  'tis  an  excellent  bonfire  !  quoth  he, 
And  the  country  is  greatly  obliged  to  me, 
For  ridding  it  in  these  times  forlorn 
Of  rats  that  only  consume  the  com. 

So  then  to  his  palace  returned  he, 

And  he  sate  down  to  supper  merrily, 

And  he  slept  that  night  like  an  innocent  man  J 

But  Bishop  Hatto  never  slept  again. 


88  BISHOP  HATTO  AND  THE  RATS 

In  the  morning  as  he  entered  the  hall, 
Where  his  picture  hung  against  the  wall, 
A  sweat  like  death  all  over  him  came, 
For  the  rats  had  eaten  it  out  of  the  frame. 

As  he  look'd,  there  came  a  man  from  his  farm, 
He  had  a  countenance  white  with  alarm. 
My  lord,  I  opened  your  granaries  this  morn, 
And  the  rats  had  eaten  all  your  corn. 

Another  came  running  presently, 
And  he  was  as  pale  as  pale  could  be, 
Fly  !  my  lord  bishop,  fly  !  quoth  he, 
Ten  thousand  rats  are  coming  this  way — 
The  Lord  forgive  you  for  yesterday  ! 

I'll  go  to  my  tower  on  the  Rhine,  replied  he, 
'Tis  the  safest  place  in  Germany  ; 
The  walls  are  high,  and  the  shores  are  steep, 
And  the  tide  is  strong,  and  the  water  deep. 

Bishop  Hatto  fearfully  hastened  away, 
And  he  cross'd  the  Rhine  without  delay, 
And  reach'd  his  tower  in  the  island,  and  barr'd 
All  the  gates  secure  and  hard. 

He  laid  him  down  and  closed  his  eyes — 

But  soon  a  scream  made  him  arise. 

He  started,  and  saw  two  eyes  of  flame 

On  his  pillow,  from  whence  the  screaming  came. 

He  listen'd  and  look'd ; — it  was  only  the  cat ; 
But  the  bishop  he  grew  more  fearful  for  that, 
For  she  sate  screaming,  mad  with  fear, 
At  the  army  of  rats  that  were  drawing  near. 

For  they  have  swum  over  the  river  so  deep, 
And  they  have  climb'd  the  shores  so  steep, 
And  now  by  thousands  up  they  crawl 
To  the  holes  and  windows  in  the  wall. 


MAUD  MULLER  89 

'Down  on  his  knees  the  bishop  fell, 

And  faster  and  faster  his  beads  did  he  tell, 

As  louder  and  louder  drawing  near 

The  saw  of  their  teeth  without  he  could  hear. 

And  in  at  the  windows,  and  in  at  the  door, 
And  through  the  walls,  by  thousands  they  pour, 
And  down  from  the  ceiling,  and  up  through  the  floor, 
From  the  right  and  the  left,  from  behind  and  before, 
From  within  and  without,  from  above  and  below, 
And  all  at  once  to  the  bishop  they  go. 

They  have  whetted  their  teeth  against  the  stones, 
And  now  they  pick  the  bishop's  bones, 
They  gnawed  the  flesh  from  every  limb, 
For  they  were  sent  to  do  judgment  on  him ! 


MAUD  MULLER 
BY  J.  G.  WHITTIEB. 

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

Beneath  her  torn  hat  glowed  the  wealth 
Of  simple  beauty  and  rustic  health. 

Singing,  she  wrought,  and  her  merry  glee 
The  mock-bird  echoed  from  his  tree. 

But  when  she  glanced  to  the  far-off  town, 
White  from  its  hill-slope  looking  down, 

The  sweet  song  died,  and  a  vague  unrest 
And  a  nameless  longing  filled  her  breast, — 


90  MAUD  MULLER 

A  wish,  that  she  hardly  dared  to  own, 
For  something  better  than  she  had  known. 

The  Judge  rode  slowly  down  the  lane, 
Smoothing  his  horse's  chestnut  mane. 

He  drew  his  bridle  in  the  shade 

Of  the  apple-trees,  to  greet  the  maid, 

And  ask  a  draught  from  the  spring  that  flowed 
Through  the  meadow  across  the  road. 

She  stooped  where  the  cool  spring  bubbled  up, 
And  filled  for  him  her  small  tin  cup, 

And  blushed  as  she  gave  it,  looking  down 
On  her  feet  so  bare,  and  her  tattered  gown. 

"  Thanks  !  "  said  the  Judge,  "  a  sweeter  draught 
From  a  fairer  hand  was  never  quaffed." 

He  spoke  of  the  grass  and  flowers  and  trees, 
Of  the  singing  birds  and  the  humming  bees ; 

Then  talked  of  the  haying,  and  wondered  whether 
The  cloud  in  the  west  would  bring  foul  weather. 

And  Maud  forgot  her  briar-torn  gown, 
And  her  graceful  ankles  bare  and  brown  J 

And  listened,  while  a  pleased  surprise 
Looked  from  her  long-lashed  hazel  eyes. 

At  last,  like  one  who  for  delay 
Seeks  a  vain  excuse,  he  rode  away. 

Maud  Miiller  looked  and  sighed  :    "Ah  me ! 
That  I  the  Judge's  bride  might  be  ! 

"  He  would  dress  me  up  in  silks  so  fine, 
And  praise  and  toast  me  at  his  wine. 


MAUD  MULLER 

"  My  father  should  wear  a  broadcloth  coat ; 
My  brother  should  sail  a  painted  boat. 

"  I'd  dress  my  mother  so  grand  and  gay, 

And  the  baby  should  have  a  new  toy  each  day. 

"And  I'd  feed  the  hungry  and  clothe  the  poor, 
And  all  should  bless  me  who  left  our  door." 

The  Judge  looked  back  as  he  climbed  the  hill, 
And  saw  Maud  Miiller  standing  still. 

"  A  form  more  fair,  a  face  more  sweet, 
Ne'er  hath  it  been  my  lot  to  meet. 

"  And  her  modest  answer  and  graceful  air 
Show  her  wise  and  good  as  she  is  fair. 

"  Would  she  were  mine,  and  I  to-day, 
Like  her,  a  harvester  of  hay  : 

"  No  doubtful  balance  of  rights  and  wrongs, 
And  weary  lawyers  with  endless  tongues, 

"  But  low  of  cattle  and  song  of  birds, 
And  health  and  quiet  and  loving  words." 

But  he  thought  of  his  sisters,  proud  and  cold, 
And  his  mother  vain  of  her  rank  and  gold. 

So,  closing  his  heart,  the  Judge  rode  on, 
And  Maud  was  left  in  the  field  alone. 

But  the  lawyers  smiled  that  afternoon, 
When  he  hummed  in  court  an  old  love-tune  j 

And  the  young  girl  mused  beside  the  well, 
Till  the  rain  on  the  unraked  clover  fell. 


»  MAUD  MULLER 

He  wedded  a  wife  of  richest  dower, 
Who  lived  for  fashion,  as  he  for  power. 

Yet  oft,  in  his  marble  hearth's  bright  glow, 
He  watched  a  picture  come  and  go  : 

And  sweet  Maud  Miiller's  hazel  eyes 
Looked  out  in  their  innocent  surprise. 

Oft,  when  the  wine  in  his  glass  was  red, 
He  longed  for  the  wayside  well  instead ; 

And  closed  his  eyes  on  his  garnished  rooms, 
To  dream  of  meadows  and  clover-blooms. 

And  the  proud  man  sighed,  with  a  secret  pain, 
"  Ah,  that  I  were  free  again ! 

"  Free  as  when  I  rode  that  day, 

Where  the  barefoot  maiden  raked  her  hay." 

She  wedded  a  man  unlearned  and  poor, 
And  many  children  played  round  her  door. 

But  care  and  sorrow,  and  childbirth  pain, 
Left  their  traces  on  heart  and  brain. 

And  oft,  when  the  summer  sun  shone  hot 
On  the  new-mown  hay  in  the  meadow  lot, 

And  she  heard  the  little  springbrook  fall 
Over  the  roadside,  through  the  wall, 

In  the  shade  of  the  apple-tree  again 
She  saw  a  rider  draw  his  rein, 

And,  gazing  down  with  timid  grace, 
She  felt  his  pleased  eyes  read  her  face. 


MAUD  MULLER  93 

Sometimea  her  narrow  kitchen  walla 
Stretched  away  into  stately  halls ; 

The  weary  wheel  to  a  spinnet  turned, 
The  tallow  candle  an  astral  burned, 

And  for  him  who  sat  by  the  chimney  lug, 
Dozing  and  grumbling  o'er  pipe  and  mug, 

A  manly  form  by  her  side  she  saw, 
And  joy  was  duty,  and  love  was  law. 

Then  she  took  up  her  burden  of  life  again, 
Saying  only,  "  It  might  have  been." 

Alas  for  maiden,  alas  for  Judge, 

For  rich  repiner  and  household  drudge  ! 

God  pity  them  both  !  and  pity  us  all, 
Who  vainly  the  dreams  of  youth  recall. 

For  of  all  sad  words  of  tongue  or  pen, 

The  saddest  are  these  :    "It  might  have  been  ! " 

Ah,  well !  for  us  all  some  sweet  hope  lies 
Deeply  buried  from  human  eyes  ; 

And,  in  the  hereafter,  angels  may 
Roll  the  stone  from  its  grave  away ! 


94 

TURN  THE  CARPET 
BY  HANNAH  MOORE. 

As  at  their  work  two  weavers  sat, 
Beguiling  time  with  friendly  chat, 
They  pick'd  upon  the  price  of  meat, 
So  high  a  weaver  scarce  could  eat. 

"  What  with  my  brats  and  sickly  wife," 
Quoth  Dick,  "  I'm  almost  tired  of  life ; 
So  hard  my  work,  so  poor  my  fare, 
'Tis  more  than  mortal  man  can  bear. 

"How  glorious  is  *  the  rich  man's  state! 
His  house  so  fine,  his  wealth  so  great ! 
Heaven  is  unjust,  you  must  agree  ; 
Why  all  to  him,  and  none  to  me  ? 

"  In  spite  of  what  the  Scripture  teaches, 
In  spite  of  all  the  parson  preaches, 
This  world  (indeed,  I've  thought  so  long) 
Is  ruled,  methinks,  extremely  wrong. 

"  Where'er  I  look,  howe'er  I  range, 
'Tis  all  confused,  and  hard,  and  strange ) 
The  good  are  troubled  and  oppress'd, 
And  all  the  wicked  are  the  bless'd." 

Quoth  John,  "  Our  ignorance  is  the  cause, 
Why  thus  we  blame  our  Maker's  laws ; 
Parts  of  His  way  alone  we  know ; 
'Tis  all  that  man  can  see  below. 

"  Seest  thou  that  carpet,  not  half  done, 
Which  thou,  dear  Dick,  hast  well  begun  t 
Behold  the  wild  confusion  there, 
So  rude  the  mass  it  makes  one  stare. 


TURN  THE  CARPET  95 

*'  A  stranger  ignorant  of  the  trade, 
Would  say  no  meaning's  there  conveyed  ; 
For  where's  the  middle,  where's   the  border 
Thy  carpet  now  is  all  disorder." 

Quoth  Dick,  "My  work  is  yet  in  bits, 
But  still  in  every  part  it  fits. 
Besides,  you  reason  like  a  lout : 
Why,  man,  that  carpet's  inside  out." 

Says  John,  "  Thou  say'st  the  thing  I  mean, 
And  now  I  hope  to  cure  thy  spleen  : 
This  world  that  clouds  thy  soul  with  doubt, 
Is  but  a  carpet  inside  out. 

"  As  when  we  view  these  shreds  and  ends, 
We  know  not  what  the  whole  intends  ; 
So  when  on  earth  tilings  look  but  odd, 
They're  working  still  some  scheme  of  God. 

"  No  plan,  no  pattern,  can  we  trace, 
All  wants  proportion,  truth,  and  grace  J 
The  motley  mixture  we  deride, 
Nor  see  the  beauteous  upper  side. 

"  But  when  we  reach  the  world  of  light, 
And  view  these  works  of  God  aright, 
Then  shall  we  see  the  whole  design, 
And  own  the  workman  is  Divine. 

"  What  now  seem  random  strokes  will  there 
All  order  and  design  appear ; 
Then  shall  we  praise  what  here  we   spurn' d, 
For  then  the  carpet  shall  be  turn'd." 

"  Thou're  right,"  quoth  Dick  ;  "  no  more  I'll  grumble, 
That  this  sad  world's  so  strange  a  jumble ; 
My  impious  thoughts  are  put  to  flight, 
For  my  own  carpet  sets  me  right." 


96 

THE  INVITATION 

BY  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 

I  was    sitting  with  my  microscope,  upon  my  parlour 

rug, 

With  a  very  heavy  quarto  and  a  very  lively  bug ; 
The  true  bug  had  been  organised  with  only  two  antennae, 
But  the  humbug  in  the  copper-plate  would  have  them 

twice  as  many. 

And  I  thought,  like  Dr.  Faustus,  of  the  emptiness  of  art, 
How  we  take  a  fragment  for  the  whole,  and  call  the 

whole  a  part ; 
When  I  heard  a  heavy  footstep  that  was  loud  enough  for 

two, 
And  a  man  of  forty  entered,  exclaiming — "  How  d'ye 

do?" 

He  was   not  a  ghost,  my  visitor,  but   solid  flesh  and 

bone: 

He  wore  a  Palo  Alto  hat,  his  weight  was  twenty  stone. 
(It's  odd  how  hats  expand  their  brims  as  riper  years 

invade, 
As  if  when  life  had  reached  its  noon  it  wanted  them  for 

shade  !) 

I  lost  my  focus,  dropped  my  book,  the  bug,  who  was  a 

flea, 

At  once  exploded,  and  commenced  experiments  on  me. 
They  have  a  certain  heartiness  that  frequently  appals — 
Those  mediaeval  gentlemen  in  semiulnar  smalls  ! 

"My    boy,"    he    said — (colloquial    ways — the    vast, 

broad-hatted  man) — 
"  Come  dine  with  us  on  Thursday  next — you  must,  you 

know  you  can ; 
We're  going  to  have  a  roaring  time,  with  lots  of  fun  and 

noise, 
Distinguished  gents,  et  cetera,  the  Judge,  and  all  the 

boys." 


THE  INVITATION  97 

"  Not  so,"   I   said,  "  my  temporal  bones  are  showing 

pretty  clear 
It's  time  to  stop — just  look  and  see  that  hair  above  this 

ear ; 
My  golden  days  are  more  than  spent,  and,  what  is  very 

strange, 
If  these  are  real  silver  hairs  I'm  getting  lots  of  change. 

"  Besides — my  prospects — don't  you  know  that  people 

won't  employ 

A  man  that  wrongs  his  manliness  by  laughing  like  a  boy  ? 
And  suspect  the  azure  blossom  that  unfolds  upon  a  shoot, 
As  if  wisdom's  old  potato  could  not  nourish  at  its  root ! 

"  It's  a  very  fine  reflection,  when  you're  etching  out  a 

smile 
On  a  copper-plate  of  faces  that  would  stretch  at  least  a 

mile, 
That,  what  with  sneers  from  enemies,  and  cheapening 

shrugs  of  friends, 
It  will  cost  you  all  the  earnings  that  a  month  of  labour 

lends! 

"  It's  a  vastly  pleasing  prospect,  when  you're  screwing 

out  a  laugh, 
That  your  very  next  year's  income  is  diminished  by  a 

half, 

And  a  little  boy  trips  barefoot  that  Pegasus  may  go, 
And  the  baby's  milk  is  watered  that  your  Helicon  may 

flow! 

"  No  ;  the  joke  has  been  a  good  one,  but  I'm  getting  fond 

of  quiet, 

And  I  don't  like  deviations  from  my  customary  diet ; 
So  I  think  I  will  not  go  with  you  to  hear  the  toasts  and 

speeches, 
But  stick  to  old  Montgomery  Place,  and  have  some  pig 

and  peaches." 
S.P.R.  G 


98  THE  INVITATION 

The  fat  man  answered  : — "  Shut  your  mouth  and  hear 
the  genuine  creed ; 

The  true  essentials  of  a  feast  are  only  fun  and  feed; 

The  force  that  wheels  the  planets  round  delights  in  spin- 
ning tops, 

And  that  young  earthquake  t'other  day  was  great  at 
shaking  props. 

"  I  tell  you  what,  philosopher,  if  all  the  longest  heads 
That  ever  knocked  their  sinciputs  in  stretching  on  their 

beds 
Were  round  one  great  mahogany,  I'd  beat  those  fine  old 

folks 
With  twenty  dishes,  twenty  fools,  and  twenty  clever 

jokes ! 

"  Why,  if  Columbus  should  be  there,  the  company  would 

beg 

He'd  show  that  little  trick  of  his  of  balancing  the  egg ; 
Milton  to  Stilton  would  give  in,  and  Solomon  to  Salmon, 
And  Roger  Bacon  be  a  bore,  and  Francis  Bacon  gammon ! 

"  And  as  for  all  the  !  patronage '  of  all  the  clowns  and 

boors, 

That  squint  their  little  narrow  eyes  at  any  freak  of  yours, 
Do  leave  them  to  your  prosier  friends,  such  fellows  ought 

to  die, 
When  rhubarb  is  so  very  scarce  and  ipecac  so  high  !  " 

And  so  I  come,  like  Lochinvar,  to  tread  a  single  measure, 
To  purchase  with  a  loaf  of  bread  a  sugar-plum  of  pleasure, 
To  enter  for  the  cup  of  glass  that's  run  for  after  dinner, 
Which  yields  a  single  sparkling  draught,  then  breaks  and 
cuts  the  winner. 

Ah,  that's  the  way  delusion  comes ;  a  glass  of  old  Madeira, 
A  pair  of  visual  diaphragms  revolved  by  Jane  or  Sarah, 
And  down  go  vows  and  promises  without  the  slightest 
question, 


I'M  GROWING  OLD  99 

If  eating  words  won't  compromise  the  organs  of  diges- 
tion ! 

And  yet,  among  my  native  shades,  beside  my  nursing 

mother, 
Where  every  stranger  seems  a  friend,  and  every  friend  a 

brother, 

I  feel  the  old  convivial  glow  (unaided)  o'er  me  stealing, 
The  warm,  champagny,  old  particular,  brandy-punchy 

feeling. 

We're  all  alike  :  Vesuvius  flings  the  scoriae  from  his  foun- 
tain, 

But  down  they  come  in  volleying  rain  back  to  the  burning 
mountain ; 

We  leave,  like  those  volcanic  stones,  our  precious  Alma 
Mater, 

But  will  keep  dropping  in  again  to  see  the  dear  old  crater. 


I'M  GROWING  OLD 

BY  J.  G.  SAXE. 
My  days  pass  pleasantly  away ; 

My  nights  are  blest  with  sweetest  sleep 
I  feel  no  symptoms  of  decay ; 

I  have  no  cause  to  mourn  or  weep  ; 
My  foes  are  impotent  and  shy ; 

My  friends  are  neither  false  nor  cold, 
And  yet,  of  late,  I  often  sigh, 

I'm  growing  old ! 

My  growing  talk  of  olden  times, 
My  growing  thirst  for  early  news, 

My  growing  apathy  to  rhymes, 
My  growing  love  of  easy  shoes, 

My  growing  hate  of  crowds  and  noise, 
My  growing  fear  of  taking  cold, 

All  whisper  in  the  plainest  voice, 

I'm  growing  old  ! 


100 


I'M  GROWING  OLD 

I'm  growing  fonder  of  my  staff ; 

I'm  growing  dimmer  in  the  eyes ; 
I'm  growing  fainter  in  my  laugh  ; 

I'm  growing  deeper  in  my  sighs ; 
I'm  growing  careless  of  my  dress ; 

I'm  growing  frugal  of  my  gold ; 
I'm  growing  wise  ;    I'm  growing — yes — • 
I'm  growing  old ! 

I  see  it  in  my  changing  taste ; 

I  see  it  in  my  changing  hair ; 
I  see  it  in  my  growing  waist ; 

I  see  it  in  my  growing  heir ; 
A  thousand  signs  proclaim  the  truth, 

As  plain  as  truth  was  ever  told, 
That,  even  in  my  vaunted  youth, 

I'm  growing  old ! 

Ah  me !  my  very  laurels  breathe 
The  tale  in  my  reluctant  ears, 

And  every  boon  the  hours  bequeath 
But  makes  me  debtor  to  the  years  ! 

E'en  Flattery's  honeyed  words  declare 
The  secret  she  would  fain  withhold, 

And  tells  me  in  "  How  young  you  are  ! w 
I'm  growing  old  ! 

Thanks  for  the  years,  whose  rapid  flight 
My  sombre  Muse  too  sadly  sings  ; 

Thanks  for  the  gleams  of  golden  light 
That  tint  the  darkness  of  their  wings ; 

The  light  that  beams  from  out  the  sky 
Those  heavenly  mansions  to  unfold, 

Where  all  are  blest,  and  none  may  sigh, 
"  I'm  growing  old  !  " 


THE  RAVEN 

BY  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 

Once  upon  a  midnight  dreary,  while  I  pondered,  weak 

and  weary, 
Over  many  a  quaint  and  curious  volume  of  forgotten 

lore — 
While  I  nodded,  nearly  napping,  suddenly  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  !  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." 


102  THE  RAVEN 

Presently  my  soul  grew  stronger ;    hesitating  then  no 

longer, 
"  Sir,"    said  I,  "  or  madam,  truly  your  forgiveness  I 

implore ; 
But  the  fact  is,  I  was  napping,  and  so  gently  you  came 

rapping, 
And  so  faintly  you  came  tapping,  tapping  at  my  chamber 

door, 
That  I  scarce  was  sure  I  heard  you  " — here  I  opened  wide 

the  door; — 

Darkness  there,  and  nothing  more. 

Deep  into  that  darkness  peering,  long  I  stood  there, 

wondering,  fearing, 
Doubting,  dreaming  dreams  no  mortal   ever   dared  to 

dream  before ; 
But  the  silence  was  unbroken,  and  the  stillness  gave  no 

token, 
And  the  only  word  there  spoken,  was  the  whispered  word 

"  Lenore  !  " — 
Thus  I  whispered,  and  an  echo  murmured  back  the  word 

"  Lenore  !  " 

Merely  this,  and  nothing  more. 

Back  into  the  chamber  turning,  all  my  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  this  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  Raven,  of  the  saintly  days  of 

yore  : 


THE  RAVEN  103 

Not  the  least  obeisance  made  he ;  not  a  minute  stopped  or 

stayed  he  ; 
But,   with  mien  of  lord  or  lady,   perched  above  my 

chamber  door — 
Perched  above  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  craven, 
Ghastly,  grim,  and  ancient  Raven,  wandering  from  the 

nightly  shore — 
Tell  me  what  thy  lordly  name  is,  on  the  night's  Plutonian 

shore  !  "— 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "Nevermore." 

Much  I  marvelled  this  ungainly  fowl  to  hear  discourse  so 

plainly, 

Though  its  answer  little  meaning — little  relevancy  bore  ; 
For  we  cannot  help  agreeing  that  no  living  human  being 
Ever  yet  was  blessed  with  seeing  bird  above  his  chamber 

door — 
Bird  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  out- 
pour ; 

Nothing  further  then  he  uttered  ;  not  a  feather  then  he 
fluttered— 

Till  I  scarcely  more  than  muttered — "  Other  friends  have 
flown  before — 

On  the  morrow  he  will  leave  me,  as  my  hopes  have  flown 
before." 

Then  the  bird  said,  "Nevermore." 


io4  THE  RAVEN 

Startled  at  the  stillness  broken  by  reply  so  aptly  spoken, 

"  Doubtless,"  said  I,  "  what  it  utters  is  its  only  stock 
and  store, 

Caught  from  some  unhappy  master,  whom  unmerciful 
disaster 

Followed  fast  and  followed  faster,  till  his  songs  one  bur- 
den bore — 

Till  the  dirges  of  his  hope  that  melancholy  burden  bore, 
Of  "  Never — nevermore." 

But  the  raven  still  beguiling  all  my  sad  soul  into  smiling, 
Straight  I  wheeled  a^cushioned  seat  in  front  of  bird  and 

bust  and  door ; 

Then  upon  the  velvet  sinking,  I  betook  myself  to  linking 
Fancy  into  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, 

But  whose  velvet  violet  lining,  with  the  lamp-light  gloat- 
ing o'er, 

She  shall  press,  ah,  nevermore  ! 

Then  methought  the  air  grew  denser,  perfumed  from  an 

unseen  censer 
Swung  by  seraphim,  whose  footfalls  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  ! 


THE  RAVEN  105 

Quaff,  oh,  quaff,  this  kind  nepenthe,  and  forget  this  lost 
Lenore  !  " 

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 — tell  me  truly,  I 

implore — 
Is  this — is  there  balm  in  Gilead  ? — tell  me  !  tell  me,  I 

implore  !  " 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 

"  Prophet,"  said  I,   "  thing  of  evil ! — prophet  still,  if 

bird  or  devil ! 
By  that  heaven  that  bends  above  us — by  that  God  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  !  "— 

Quoth  the  Raven    "Nevermore." 

"  Be  that  word  our  sign  of  parting,  bird  or  fiend  ! "  I 
shrieked,  up-starting — 

**  Get  thee  back  into  the  tempest  and  the  night's  Plu- 
tonian shore  ; 

Leave  no  black  plume  as  a  token  of  that  lie  thy  soul 
hath  spoken, 

Leave  my  loneliness  unbroken — quit  the  bust  above  my 
door ; 

Take  thy  beak  from  out  my  heart,  and  take  thy  form 
from  off  my  door  !  " 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "Nevermore." 


106  MODERN  LOGIC 

And  the  Raven,  never  flitting,  still  is  sitting,  still  is 

sitting, 
On  the  pallid  bust  of  Pallas,  just  above  my  chamber 

door ; 
And  his  eyes  have  all  the  seeming  of  a  demon's  that  is 

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

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

the  floor, 

Shall  be  lifted — nevermore. 


MODERN  LOGIC 

An  Eton  stripling  training  for  the  law, 

A  dunce  at  syntax  but  a  dab  at  taw, 

One  happy  Christmas  laid  upon  the  shelf 

His  cap,  his  gown,  and  store  of  learned  pelf, 

With  all  the  deathless  bards  of  Greece  and  Rome, 

To  spend  a  fortnight  at  his  uncle's  home. 

Arrived,  and  past  the  usual  "  How  d'ye  do's  ?  " 

Inquiries  of  old  friends,  and  College  news, 

*'  Well,  Tom — the  road,  what  saw  you  worth  discerning, 

And  how  goes  study,  boy — what  is't  your  learning  ?  " 

"Oh,  logic,  Sir — but  not  the  worn-out  rules 

Of  Locke  and  Bacon — antiquated  fools  ! 

'Tis  wit  and  wrangler's  logic — thus  d'ye  see, 

I'll  prove  to  you  as  clear  as  A,  B,  C, 

That  an  eel-pie's  a  pigeon ; — to  deny  it, 

Were  to  swear  black's  white."—"  Indeed  !  "— "  Let's 

try  it. 

An  eel-pie  is  a  pie  of  fish." — "Well — agreed." 
"  A  fish-pie  may  be  a  Jack-pie." — "  Proceed." 
"  A  Jack-pie  must  be  a  John-pie — Thus,  'tis  done, 
For  every  John-pie  is  a  pi-ge-on  ! " 


MODERN  LOGIC  107 

"  Bravo  !  "  Sir  Peter  cries,  "  Logic  for  ever  ! 

It  beats  my  grandmother — and  she  was  clever. 

But  zounds,  my  boy — it  surely  would  be  hard 

That  wit  and  learning  should  have  no  reward ; 

To-morrow,  for  a  stroll,  the  park  we'll  cross, 

And  then  I'll  give  you  "— "  What  ?  "— "  My  chestnut 

horse." 

"  A  horse  !  "  cries  Tom,  "  blood,  pedigree,  and  paces  ! 
Oh  !  what  a  dash  I'll  cut  at  Epsom  races  !  " 
He  went  to  bed  and  wept  for  downright  sorrow 
To  think  the  night  must  pass  before  the  morrow ; 
Drearn'd  of  his  boots,  his  cap,  his  spurs,  and  leather 

breeches, 

Of  leaping  five-barr'd  gates  and  crossing  ditches  : 
Left  his  warm  bed  an  hour  before  the  lark, 
Dragg'd  his  old  uncle  fasting  through  the  park  : — 
Each  craggy  hill  and  dale  in  vain  they  cross, 
To  find  out  something  like  a  chestnut  horse. 
But  no  such  animal  the  meadows  cropp'd  ; 
At  length,  beneath  a  tree  Sir  Peter  stopp'd, 
Took  a  bough — shook  it— and  down  fell 
A  fine  horse-chestnut  in  its  prickly  shell. 
"  There,  Tom— take  that."—"  Well,  Sir,  and  what  be- 
side ?  " 

"  Why,  since  you're  booted,  saddle  it  and  ride  !  " 
"  Ride  what  ? — a  chestnut  ?  "     "  Ay,  come  get  across, 
I  tell  you,  Tom,  the  chestnut  is  a  horse, 
And  all  the  horse  you'll  get — for  I  can  show 
As  clear  as  sunshine  that  'tis  really  so — 
Not  by  the  musty,  fusty,  worn-out  rules 
Of  Locke  and  Bacon,  addle-headed  fools ! 
All  logic  but  the  wranglers'  I  disown, 
And  stick  to  one  sound  argument — your  own. 
Since  you  have  proved  to  me,  I  don't  deny, 
That  a  pie-John  is  the  same  as  a  John-pie  ; 
What  follows,  then,  but  as  a  thing  of  course, 
That  a  horse-chestnut  is  a  chestnut-horse  1 " 


io8 

THE  NATURAL  BRIDGE  ;    OR,  ONE 

NICHE  THE  HIGHEST 

BY  ELIHU  BURRITT. 

The  scene  opens  with  a  view  of  the  great  Natural 
Bridge  in  Virginia.  There  are  three  or  four  lads  standing 
in  the  channel  below,  looking  up  with  awe  to  that  vast 
arch  of  unhewn  rocks  which  the  Almighty  bridged  over 
those  everlasting  butments,  "  when  the  morning  stars 
sang  together."  The  little  piece  of  sky  spanning  those 
measureless  piers  is  full  of  stars,  although  it  is  mid-day. 
It  is  almost  five  hundred  feet  from  where  they  stand, 
up  those  perpendicular  bulwarks  of  limestone  to  the 
key  of  that  vast  arch,  which  appears  to  them  only  the 
size  of  a  man's  hand.  The  silence  of  death  is  rendered 
more  impressive  by  the  little  stream  that  falls  from 
rock  to  rock  down  the  channel.  The  sun  is  darkened, 
and  the  boys  have  uncovered  their  heads,  as  if  standing 
in  the  presence-chamber  of  the  majesty  of  the  whole 
earth.  At  last  this  feeling  begins  to  wear  away ; 
they  look  around  them,  and  find  that  others  have  been 
there  before  them.  They  see  the  names  of  hundreds 
cut  in  the  limestone  butments.  A  new  feeling  comes 
over  their  yonng  hearts,  and  their  knives  are  in  their 
hands  in  an  instant.  ' '  What  man  has  done,  man  can  do," 
is  their  watchword,  while  they  draw  themselves  up,  and 
carve  their  names  a  foot  above  those  of  a  hundred  full- 
grown  men  who  have  been  there  before  them. 

They  are  all  satisfied  with  this  feat  of  physical  exer- 
tion, except  one,  whose  example  illustrates  perfectly 
the  forgotten  truth  that  there  is  "no  royal  road  to 
learning."  This  ambitious  youth  sees  a  name  just 
above  his  reach — a  name  which  will  be  green  in  the 
memory  of  the  world  when  those  of  Alexander,  Caesar, 
and  Bonaparte  shall  rot  in  oblivion.  It  was  the  name 
of  Washington.  Before  he  marched  with  Braddock  to 
that  fatal  field,  he  had  been  there  and  left  his  name,  a 
foot  above  any  of  his  predecessors.  It  was  a  glorious 


THE  NATURAL  BRIDGE  109 

thought  to  write  his  name  side  by  side  with  that  great 
father  of  his  country.  He  grasps  his  knife  with  a  firmer 
hand,  and,  clinging  to  a  little  jutting  crag,  he  cuts  again 
into  the  limestone,  about  a  foot  above  where  he  stands  ; 
he  then  reaches  up  and  cuts  another  for  his  hands. 
'Tis  a  dangerous  adventure ;  but  as  he  puts  his  feet 
and  hands  into  those  gains,  and  draws  himself  up  care- 
fully to  his  full  length,  he  finds  himself  a  foot  above 
every  name  chronicled  in  that  mighty  wall.  While 
his  companions  are  regarding  him  with  concern  and 
admiration,  he  cuts  his  name  in  wide  capitals,  large  and 
deep,  in  that  flinty  album.  His  knife  is  still  in  his  hand 
and  strength  in  his  sinews,  and  a  new  created  aspiration 
in  his  heart.  Again  he  cuts  another  niche,  and  again 
he  carves  his  name  in  larger  capitals.  This  is  not 
enough  ;  heedless  of  the  entreaties  of  his  companions, 
he  cuts  and  climbs  again.  The  gradations  of  his  as- 
cending scale  grow  wider  apart.  He  measures  his 
length 'at  every  gain  he  cuts.  The  voices  of  his  friends 
wax  weaker  and  weaker,  till  their  words  are  finally  lost 
on  his  ear.  He  now  for  the  first  time  casts  a  look  be- 
neath him.  Had  that  glance  lasted  a  moment,  that 
moment  would  have  been  his  last.  He  clings  with  a 
convulsive  shudder  to  his  little  niche  in  the  rock.  An 
awful  abyss  awaits  his  almost  certain  fan.  He  is  faint 
with  severe  exertion,  and  trembling  from  the  sudden 
view  of  the  dreadful  destruction  to  which  he  is  exposed. 
His  knife  is  worn  half-way  to  the  haft.  He  can  hear  the 
voices,  but  not  the  words  of  his  terror-stricken  com- 
panions below.  What  a  moment !  what  a  meagre  chance 
to  escape  destruction  !  There  is  no  retracing  his  steps. 
It  is  impossible  to  put  his  hands  into  the  same  niche 
with  his  feet  and  retain  his  slender  hold  a  moment. 
His  companions  instantly  perceive  this  new  and  fearful 
dilemma,  and  await  his  fall  with  emotions  that  "  freeze 
their  young  blood."  He  is  too  high  to  ask  for  his  father 
and  mother,  his  brothers  and  sisters,  to  come  and  wit- 
ness or  avert  his  destruction.  But  one  of  his  com- 
panions anticipates  his  desire.  Swift  as  the  wind,  ha 


no  THE  NATURAL  BRIDGE 

bounds  down  the  channel,  and  the  situation  of  the  fated 
boy  is  told  upon  his  father's  hearthstone. 

Minutes  of  almost  eternal  length  roll  on,  and  there  are 
hundreds  standing  in  that  rocky  channel,  and  hun- 
dreds on  the  bridge  above,  all  holding  their  breath, 
and  awaiting  the  fearful  catastrophe.  The  poor  boy 
hears  the  hum  of  new  and  numerous  voices  both  above 
and  below.  He  can  just  distinguish  the  tones  of  his 
father,  who  is  shouting  with  all  the  energy  of  despair — 
"  William  !  William  !  Don't  look  down  !  Your  mother, 
and  Henry  and  Harriet,  are  all  here,  praying  for  you  ! 
Don't  look  down  !  Keep  your  eyes  towards  the  top  !  " 
The  boy  didn't  look  down.  His  eye  is  fixed  like  a  flint 
towards  Heaven,  and  his  young  heart  on  Him  who  reigns 
there.  He  grasps  again  his  knife.  He  cuts  another 
niche,  and  another  foot  is  added  to  the  hundreds  that 
remove  him  from  the  reach  of  human  help  below. 
How  carefully  he  uses  his  wasting  blade  !  How  anxi- 
ously he  selects  the  softest  places  in  that  vast  pier  ! 
How  he  avoids  every  flinty  grain  !  How  he  economizes 
his  physical  powers,  resting  a  moment  at  each  gain  he 
cuts.  How  every  motion  is  watched  from  below ! 
There  stand  his  father,  mother,  brother  and  sister,  on 
the  very  spot  where,  if  he  falls,  he  will  not  fall  alone. 

The  sun  is  half-way  down  in  the  west.  The  lad  has 
made  fifty  additional  niches  in  that  mighty  wall,  and 
now  finds  himself  directly  under  the  middle  of  that  vast 
arch  of  rock,  earth,  and  trees.  He  must  cut  his  way 
in  a  new  direction,  to  get  from  this  overhanging  moun- 
tain. The  inspiration  of  hope  is  in  his  bosom  ;  its 
vital  heat  is  fed  by  the  increasing  shout  of  hundreds 
perched  up  on  cliffs  and  trees,  and  others  who  stand  with 
ropes  in  then*  hands  upon  the  bridge  above,  or  with 
ladders  below.  Fifty  more  gains  must  be  cut  before  the 
longest  rope  can  reach  him.  His  wasting  blade  strikes 
against  the  limestone.  The  boy  is  emerging  painfully 
foot  by  foot  from  under  that  lofty  arch.  Spliced  ropes 
are  in  the  hands  of  those  who  are  leaning  over  the  outer 
edge  of  the  bridge.  Two  minutes  more,  and  all  will  be 


THE  NATURAL  BRIDGE  in 

over.  That  blade  is  worn  to  the  last  half-inch.  The 
boy's  head  reels ;  his  eyes  are  starting  from  their 
sockets.  His  last  hope  is  dying  in  his  heart,  his  life 
must  hang  upon  the  next  gain  he  cuts.  That  niche  is 
his  last.  At  the  last  flint  gash  he  makes,  his  knife — his 
faithful  knife — falls  irom  his  little  nerveless  hand,  and 
ringing  along  the  precipice  falls  at  his  mother's  feet. 
An  involuntary  groan  of  despair  runs  like  a  death-knell 
through  the  channel  below,  and  all  is  still  as  the  grave. 
At  the  height  of  nearly  three  hundred  feet,  the  devoted 
boy  lifts  his  devoted  heart  and  closing  eyes  to  commend 
his  soul  to  God.  'Tis  but  a  moment — there  !  one 
foot  swings  off  ! — he  is  reeling — trembling — toppling 
over  into  eternity  ! — Hark  ! — a  shout  falls  on  his  ears 
from  above  !  The  man  who  is  lying  with  half  his  length 
over  the  bridge  has  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  boy's  head 
and  shoulders.  Quick  as  thought,  the  noosed  rope  is 
within  reach  of  the  sinking  youth.  No  one  breathes. 
With  a  faint  convulsive  effort,  the  swooning  boy  drops 
his  arm  into  the  noose.  Darkness  comes  over  him, 
and  with  the  words  "  God  !  "  and  "  mother  !  "  whispered 
on  his  lips  just  loud  enough  to  be  heard  in  Heaven — 
the  tightening  rope  lif  ts  him  out  of  his  last  shallow  niche. 
Not  a  lip  moves  while  he  is  dangling  over  that  fearful 
abyss  ;  but  when  a  sturdy  Virginian  reaches  down  and 
draws  up  the  lad,  and  holds  him  up  in  his  arms  before 
the  tearful,  breathless  multitude — such  shouting  and 
such  leaping  and  weeping  for  joy  never  greeted  a  human 
being  so  recovered  from  the  yawning  gulf  of  eternity  1 


112 


GONE  WITH  A  HANDSOMER  MAN 
BY  WILL  CARLETON. 

John.    I've  worked  in  the  fields  all  day,  a  ploughin1 

the  "  stony  streak  "  ; 
I've  scolded  my  team  till  I'm  hoarse ;  I've  tramped  till 

my  legs  are  weak ; 

I've  choked  a  dozen  swears  (so's  not  to  tell  Jane  fibs) 
When  the  plough-pint  struck  a  stone,  and  the  handles 

punched  my  ribs. 

I've  put  my  team  in  the  bam  and  rubbed  their  sweaty 

coats ; 

I've  fed  'em  a  heap  of  hay,  and  half  a  bushel  of  oats  ; 
And  to  see  the  way  they  eat  makes  me  like  eatin'  feel, 
And  Jane  won't  say  to-night  that  I  don't  make  out  a  meal. 

Well  said  !  the  door  is  locked  !  but  here  she's  lef fc  the  key, 
Under  the  step,  in  a  place  known  only  to  her  and  me. 
I  wonder  who's  dyin'  or  dead,  that  she's  hustled  off  pell- 
mell : 
But  here  on  the  table's  a  note,  and  probably  this  will  tell. 

Good  God !  my  wife  is  gone !  my  wife  is  gone  astray ! 
The  letter  it  says,  "  Good-bye,  for  I'm  a-going  away  ; 
I've  lived  with  you  six  months,  John,  and  so  far  I've 

been    true ; 
But  I'm  going  away  to-day  with  a  handsomer  man  than 

you." 

A  han'somer  man  than  me !  Why,  that  ain't  much  to 
say; 

There's  han'somer  men  than  me  go  past  here  every  day. 

There's  han'somer  men  than  me — I  ain't  of  the  hand- 
some kind, 

But  a  lovin'er  man  than  I  was  I  guess  she'll  never  find. 


GONE  WITH  A  HANDSOMER  MAN          113 

Curse  her  !  curse  her  !  I  say,  and  give  my  curses  wings  1 
May  the  words  of  love  I've  spoke  be  changed  to  scorpion 

stings  ! 
Oh,  she  filled  my  heart  with  joy,  she  emptied  my  heart 

of  doubt, 
And  now,  with  a  scratch  of  a  pen,  she  lets  my  heart's- 

blood  out  1 

Curse  her  !  curse  her  !  say  I ;   she'll  some  time  rue  this 

day, 
She'll  some  time  learn  that  hate  is  a  game  that  two  can 

play; 

And  long  before  he  dies  she'll  grieve  she  ever  was  born ; 
And  I'll  plough  her  grave  with  hate,  and  seed  it  down 

to  scorn  ! 


As  sure  as  the  world  goes  on,  there'll  come  a  time  when 

she 
Will  read  the  devilish  heart  of  that  han'somer  man  than 

me ; 

And  there'll  be  a  time  when  he  will  find,  as  others  do, 
That  she  who  is  false  to  one  can  be  the  same  with  two. 

And  when  her  face  grows  pale,  and  when  her  eyes  grow 

dim, 

And  when  he's  tired  of  her  and  she  is  tired  of  him, 
She'll  do  what  she  ought  to  have  done,  and  coolly  count 

the  cost ; 
And  then  she'll  see  things  clear,  and  know  what  she  has 

lost. 

And  thoughts  that  are  now  asleep  will  wake  up  in  her 

mind, 

And  she  will  mourn  and  cry  for  what  she  has  left  behind  ; 
And  maybe  she'll  sometimes  long  for  me — for  me — but 

no  ! 
I've  blotted  her  out  of  my  heart,  and  I  will  not  have  it  so. 

8.P.B.  H 


ii4         GONE  WITH  A  HANDSOMER  MAN 

And  yet  in  her  girlish  heart  there  was  somethin'  or  other 

she  had 

That  fastened  a  man  to  her,  and  wasn't  entirely  bad ; 
And  she  loved  me  a  little,  I  think,  although  it  didn't  last ; 
But  I  mustn't  think  of  these  things — I've  buried  'em  in 

the  past. 

I'll  take  my  hard  words  back,  nor  make  a  bad  matter 


She'll  have  trouble  enough — she  shall  not  have  my  curse  : 
But  I'll  live  a  life  so  square — and  I  well  know  that  I  can — 
That  she  always  will  sorry  be  that  she  went  with  that 
han'somer  man. 

Ah,  here  is  her  kitchen  dress !  it  makes  my  poor  eyes 
blur; 

It  seems,  when  I  look  at  that,  as  if  'twas  holding  her. 

And  here  are  her  week-day  shoes,  and  there  is  her  week- 
day hat, 

And  yonder's  her  weddin'  gown :  I  wonder  she  didn't 
take  that. 

'Twas  only  this  mornin'  she  came  and  called  me  her 

"  dearest  dear," 
And  said  I  was  makin'  for  her  a  regular  paradise  here  ; 

0  God  !  if  you  want  a  man  to  sense  the  pains  of  hell, 
Before  you  pitch  him  in  just  keep  Mm  in  heaven  a  spell  I 

Good-bye  !     I  wish  that  death  had  severed  us  two  apart. 
You've  lost  a  worshipper  here — you've  crushed  a  loving 

heart. 
I'll  worship  no  woman  again ;    but  I'll  guess   I'll  learn 

to  pray, 
And  kneel  as  you  used  to  kneel  before  you  ran  away. 

And  if  I  thought  I  could  bring  my  words  on  heaven  to 

bear, 
And  if  I  thought  I  had  some  little  influence  there, 

1  would  pray  that  I  might  be,  if  it  only  could  be  so, 
As  happy  and  gay  as  I  was  a  half  an  hour  ago. 


GONE  WITH  A  HANDSOMER  MAN          115 

Jane  (entering).     Why,  John,  what  a  litter  here  !  you've 

thrown  things  all  around  ! 
Come,  what's  the  matter  now  ?  and  what've  you  lost  or 

found  ? 

And  here's  my  father  here,  a-waitin'  for  supper,  too, 
I'v  been  a-riding  with  him — he's  that  "  handsomer  man 

than  you." 

Ha !  ha !  Pa,  take  a  seat,  while  I  put  the  kettle  on, 
And  get  things  ready  for  tea,  and  kiss  my  dear  old  John. 
Why,  John,  you  look  so  strange  !  Come,  what  has  crossed 

your  track  ? 
I  was  only  a- joking,  you  know ;   I'm  willing  to  take  it 

back. 

John  (aside).     Well,  now,  if  this  ain't   a  joke,   with 

rather  a  bitter  cream  ' 

It  seems  as  if  I'd  woke  from  a  mighty  ticklish  dream  ; 
And  I  think  she  "  smells  a  rat,"  for  she  smiles  at  me  so 

queer  ; 
I  hope  she  don't ;   good  Lord  !  I  hope  that  they  didn't 

hear! 

'Twas  one  of  her  practical  drives — she  thought  I'd  under- 
stand ; 

But  I'll  never  break  sod  again  till  I  get  the  lay  of  the  land. 

But  one  thing's  settled  with  me — to  appreciate  heaven 
well, 

'Tis  good  for  a  man  to  have  some  fifteen  minutes  of 
hell 


1 10 

CARRYING  THE  BABY 

BY  ETHEL  TUBNER. 

Larrie  had  been  carrying  it  for  a  long  way,  and  said 
it  was  quite  time  Dot  took  her  turn. 

Dot  was  arguing  the  point. 

She  reminded  him  of  all  athletic  sports  he  had  taken 
part  in,  and  of  all  the  prizes  he  had  won  ;  she  asked  him 
what  was  the  use  of  being  six-foot-two  and  an  impossible 
number  of  inches  round  the  chest  if  he  could  not  carry  a 
baby. 

Larrie  gave  her  an  unexpected  glance  and  moved  the 
baby  to  his  other  arm ;  he  was  heated  and  unhappy, 
there  seemed  absolutely  no  end  to  the  red,  red  road  they 
were  traversing,  and  Dot,  as  well  as  refusing  to  help  to 
carry  the  burden,  laughed  aggravatingly  at  him  when  he 
said  it  was  heavy. 

"  He  is  exactly  twenty-one  pounds,"  she  said,  "  I 
weighed  him  on  the  kitchen  scales  yesterday.  I  should 
think  a  man  of  your  size  ought  to  be  able  to  carry  twenty- 
one  pounds  without  grumbling  so." 

"  But  he's  on  springs,  Dot,"  he  said  ;  "  just  look  at 
him,  he's  never  still  for  a  minute  ;  you  carry  him  to 
the  beginning  of  Lee's  orchard,  and  then  I'll  take  him 
again." 

Dot  shook  her  head. 

"  I'm  very  sorry,  Larrie,"  she  said,  "  but  I  really  can't. 
You  know  I  didn't  want  to  bring  the  child,  and  when 
you  insisted,  I  said  to  myself  you  should  carry  him  every 
inch  of  the  way,  just  for  your  obstinacy." 

"  But  you're  his  mother,"  objected  Larrie. 

He  was  getting  seriously  angry,  his  arms  ached  un- 
utterably, his   clothes  were  sticking  to  his  back,  and 
twice  the  baby  had  poked  a  little  fat  thumb  in  his  eye 
and  made  it  water. 
.    "  But  you're  its  father,"  Dot  said  sweetly. 

"  It's  easier  for  a  woman  to  carry  a  child  than  a  man  " 
—poor  Larrie  was  mopping  his  hot  brow  with  his  disen- 


CARRYING  THE  BABY  117 

hand — "  every  one  says  so  ;  don't  be  a  little 
sneak,  Dot ;  my  arm's  getting  awfully  cramped  ;  here, 
for  pity's  sake  take  him." 

Dot  shook  her  head  again. 

"  Would  you  have  me  break  my  vow,  St.  Lawrence  ?  " 
she  said. 

She  looked  provokingly  cool  and  unruffled  as  she 
walked  along  by  his  side  ;  her  gown  was  white,  with 
transparent  puffy  sleeves,  her  hat  was  white  and  very 
large,  she  had  little  white  canvas  shoes,  long  white 
Suede  gloves,  and  she  carried  a  white  parasol. 

"  I'm  hanged,"  said  Larrie,  and  he  stopped  short  in 
the  middle  of  the  road  ;  "  look  here,  my  good  woman, 
are  you  going  to  take  your  baby,  or  are  you  not  ?  " 

Dot  revolved  her  sunshade  round  her  little  sweet  face. 

"  No,  my  good  man,"  she  said  ;  "  I  don't  propose  to 
carry  your  baby  one  step." 

"  Then  I  shall  drop  it,"  said  Larrie.  He  held  it  up  in 
a  threatening  position  by  the  back  of  its  crumpled  coat, 
but  Dot  had  gone  sailing  on. 

"  Find  a  soft  place,"  she  called,  looking  back  over  her 
shoulder  once  and  seeing  him  still  standing  in  the  road. 

"  Little  minx,"  he  said  under  his  breath. 

Then  his  mouth  squared  itself ;  ordinarily  it  was  a 
pleasant  mouth,  much  given  to  laughter  and  merry 
words  ;  but  when  it  took  that  obstinate  look,  one  could 
see  capabilities  for  all  manner  of  things. 

He  looked  carefully  around.  By  the  roadside  there 
was  a  patch  of  soft  green  grass,  and  a  wattle  bush,  yellow- 
crowned,  beautiful.  He  laid  the  child  down  in  the 
shade  of  it,  he  looked  to  see  there  were  no  ants  or  other 
insects  near  ;  he  put  on  the  bootee  that  was  hanging 
by  a  string  from  the  little  rosy  foot,  and  he  stuck  the 
india-rubber  comforter  in  its  mouth.  Then  he  walked 
quietly  away  and  caught  up  to  Dot. 

"  Well  ?  "  she  said,  but  she  looked  a  little  startled 
at  his  empty  arms  ;  she  dropped  the  sunshade  over  the 
shoulder  nearest  to  him,  and  gave  a  hasty,  surreptitious 
glance  backward.  Larrie  strode  along. 


ii8  CARRYING  THE  BABY 

"  You  look  fearfully  ugly  when  you  screw  up  your 
mouth  like  that,"  she  said,  looking  up  at  his  set  side  face. 

"  You're  an  unnatural  mother,  Dot,  that's  what  you 
are,"  he  returned  hotly.  "  By  Jove,  if  I  was  a  woman, 
I'd  be  ashamed  to  act  as  you  do.  You  get  worse  every 
day  you  live.  I've  kept  excusing  you  to  myself,  and 
saying  you  would  get  wiser  as  you  grew  older,  and 
instead,  you  seem  more  childish  every  day." 

She  looked  childish.  She  was  very,  very  small  in 
stature,  very  slightly  and  delicately  built.  Her  hair 
was  in  soft  gold-brown  curls,  as  short  as  a  boy's  ;  her 
eyes  were  soft,  and  wide,  and  tender,  and  beautiful  as  a 
child's.  She  was  not  particularly  beautiful,  only  very 
fresh,  and  sweet,  and  lovable.  Larrie  once  said  she 
always  looked  like  a  baby  that  has  been  freshly  bathed 
and  dressed,  and  puffed  with  sweet  violet  powder  and 
sent  out  into  the  world  to  refresh  tired  eyes. 

That  was  one  of  his  courtship  sayings,  more  than  a 
year  ago,  when  she  was  barely  seventeen.  She  was 
eighteen  now,  and  he  was  telling  her  she  was  an  unnatural 
mother. 

"  Why,  the  child  wouldn't  have  had  its  bib  on,  only  I 
saw  to  it,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  that  increased  in  excite- 
ment as  he  dwelt  on  the  enormity. 

"  Dear  me,"  said  Dot,  "  that  was  very  careless  of 
Peggie  ;  I  must  really  speak  to  her  about  it." 

"  I  shall  shake  you  some  day,  Dot,"  Larrie  said,  "  shake 
you  till  your  teeth  rattle.  Sometimes  I  can  hardly  keep 
my  hands  off  you." 

His  brow  was  gloomy,  his  boyish  face  troubled,  vexed. 

And  Dot  laughed.  Leaned  against  the  fence  skirting 
the  road  that  seemed  to  run  to  eternity,  and  laughed 
outrageously. 

Larrie  stopped  too.  His  face  was  very  white  and 
square-looking,  his  dark  eyes  held  fire.  He  put  his  hands 
on  the  white  exaggerated  shoulders  of  her  muslin  dresa 
and  turned  her  round. 

"  Go  back  to  the  bottom  of  the  hill  this  instant,  and 
pick  up  the  child  and  carry  it  up  here,"  he  said. 


CARRYING  THE  BABY  119 

"  Go  and  insert  your  foolish  old  head  in  a  receptacle 
for  pommes-de-terre,"  was  Dot's  flippant  retort. 

Larrie's  hands  pressed  harder,  his  chin  grew  squarer. 

"  I'm  in  earnest,  Dot,  deadly  earnest.  I  order  you 
to  fetch  the  child,  and  I  intend  you  to  obey  me,"  he  gave 
her  a  little  shake  to  enforce  the  command.  "  I  am  your 
master,  and  I  intend  you  to  know  it  from  this  day." 

Dot  experienced  a  vague  feeling  of  surprise  at  the  fire 
in  the  eyes  that  were  nearly  always  clear,  and  smiling, 
and  loving,  then  she  twisted  herself  away. 

"  Pooh,"  she  said,  "you're  only  a  stupid  over-grown, 
passionate  boy,  Larrie.  You  my  master !  You're 
nothing  in  the  world  but  my  husband." 

"  Are  you  going  ?  "  he  said  in  a  tone  he  had  never 
used  before  to  her.  "  Say  Yes  or  No,  Dot,  instantly." 

"  No,"  said  Dot,  stormily. 

Then  they  both  gave  a  sob  of  terror,  their  faces 
blanched,  and  they  began  to  run  madly  down  the  hill. 

Oh  the  long,  long  way  they  had  come,  the  endless 
stretch  of  red,  red  road  that  wound  back  to  the  gold- 
tipped  wattles,  the  velvet  grass,  and  their  baby  ! 

Larrie  was  a  fleet,  wonderful  runner.  In  the  little 
cottage  where  they  lived,  manifold  silver  cups  and 
mugs  bore  witness  to  it,  and  he  was  running  for  life 
now,  but  Dot  nearly  outstripped  him. 

She  flew  over  the  ground,  hardly  touching  it,  her  arms 
were  outstretched,  her  lips  moving.  They  fell  down 
together  on  their  knees  by  their  baby,  just  as  three 
furious,  hard-driven  bullocks  thundered  by,  filling  the 
air  Math  dust  and  bellowing. 

The  baby  was  blinking  happily  up  at  a  great  fat  golden 
beetle  that  was  making  a  lazy  way  up  the  wattle.  It 
had  lost  its  "  comforter  "  and  was  sucking  its  thumb 
thoughtfully.  It  had  kicked  off  its  white  knitted  boots, 
and  was  curling  its  pink  toes  up  in  the  sunshine  with 
great  enjoyment. 

"  Baby  !  "  Larrie  said.  The  big  fellow  was  trembling 
in  every  limb. 

"  Baby  I  "  said  Dot.     She  gathered  it  up  in  her  little 


lao  THE  CHILDREN'S  HOUR 

shaking  arms,  she  put  her  poor  white  face  down  upon  it, 
and  broke  into  such  pitiful  tears  and  sobs  that  it  wept 
too.  Larrie  took  them  both  into  his  arms,  and  sat  down 
on  a  fallen  tree.  He  soothed  them,  he  called  them  a 
thousand  tender,  beautiful  names  ;  he  took  off  Dot's  hat 
and  stroked  her  little  curls,  he  kissed  his  baby  again  and 
again ;  he  kissed  his  wife.  When  they  were  all  quite 
calm  and  the  bullocks  ten  miles  away,  they  started 
again. 

"  I'll  carry  him,"  said  Larrie. 

"Ah,  no,  let  me,"  Dot  said. 

"  Darling,  you're  too  tired — see,  you  can  hold  his  hand 
across  my  shoulder." 

"  No,  no,  give  him  to  me — my  arms  ache  without  him." 

"  But  the  hill — my  big  baby  !  " 

"  Oh,  I  must  have  him — Larrie,  let  me — see,  he  is  so 
light — why,  he  is  nothing  to  carry." 

From  "  The  Story  of  a  Baby,"  published  by  Messrs.  [Ward, 
Lock  <k  Co.,  Ltd. 


THE  CHILDREN'S  HOUR 
BY  H.  W.  LONGFELLOW. 

Between  the  dark  and  the  daylight, 
When  the  night  is  beginning  to  lower, 

Comes  a  pause  in  the  day's  occupations, 
That  is  known  as  the  Children's  Hour. 

I  hear  in  the  chamber  above  me 

The  patter  of  little  feet, 
The  sound  of  a  door  that  is  opened, 

And  voices  soft  and  sweet. 


THE  CHILDREN'S  HOUR  i»i 

From  my  study  I  see  in  the  lamplight, 

Descending  the  broad  hall  stair, 
Grave  Alice,  and  laughing  Allegra, 

And  Edith  with  golden  hair. 

A  whisper,  and  then  a  silence  : 

Yet  I  know  by  their  merry  eyes 
They  are  plotting  and  planning  together 

To  take  me  by  surprise. 

A  sudden  rush  from  the  stairway, 

A  sudden  raid  from  the  hall ! 
By  three  doors  left  unguarded 

They  enter  my  castle  wall ! 

They  climb  up  into  my  turret 

O'er  the  arms  and  back  of  my  chair ; 

If  I  try  to  escape  they  surround  me ; 
They  seem  to  be  everywhere. 

They  almost  devour  me  with  kisses, 

Their  arms  about  me  entwine, 
Till  I  think  of  the  Bishop  of  Bingen 

In  his  Mouse-Tower  on  the  Rhine  I 

Do  you  think,  0  blue-eyed  banditti, 
Because  you  have  scaled  the  wall, 

Such  an  old  mustache  as  I  am 
Is  not  a  match  for  you  all ! 

I  have  you  fast  in  my  fortress, 

And  will  not  let  you  depart, 
But  put  you  down  into  the  dungeon 

In  the  round-tower  of  my  heart.  '•  £ 

And  there  will  I  keep  you  for  ever 

Yes,  for  ever  and  a  day, 
Till  the  walls  shall  crumble  to  ruin, 

And  moulder  in  dust  away  1 


122 


THE  INCHCAPE  ROCK 

BY  ROBERT  SOUTHEY. 

No  stir  in  the  air,  no  stir  in  the  sea, 
The  ship  was  as  still  as  she  could  be, 
Her  sails  from  heaven  received  no  motion, 
Her  keel  was  steady  in  the  ocean. 

Without  either  sigh  or  sound  of  their  shock 
The  waves  flow'd  over  the  Inchcape  Rock ; 
So  little  they  rose,  so  little  they  fell, 
They  did  not  move  the  Inchcape  bell. 

The  worthy  Abbot  of  Aberbrothok 
Had  placed  that  bell  on  the  Inchcape  Rock ; 
On  a  buoy  in  the  storm  it  floated  and  swung, 
And  over  the  waves  its  warning  rung. 

When  the  rock  was  hid  by  the  surge's  swell, 
The  mariners  heard  the  warning  bell ; 
And  then  they  knew  the  perilous  rock, 
And  blest  the  Abbot  of  Aberbrothok. 

The  sun  in  heaven  was  shining  gay, 

All  things  were  joyful  on  that  day  ; 

The  sea-birds  scream'd  as  they  wheel'd  round, 

And  there  was  joyance  in  their  sound. 

The  buoy  of  the  Inchcape  Bell  was  seen 
A  dark  speck  on  the  ocean  green  ; 
Sir  Ralph  the  Rover  walk'd  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  sing; 
His  heart  was  mirthful  to  excess, 
But  the  rover's  mirth  was  wickedness. 


THE  INCHCAPE  ROCK  123 

His  eye  was  on  the  Inchcape  float ; 
Quoth  he,  "  My  men  put  out  the  boat, 
And  row  me  to  the  Inchcape  rock, 
And  I'll  plague  the  Abbot  of  Aberbrothok." 

The  boat  is  lower'd,  the  boatmen  row, 

And  tc  the  Inchcape  rock  they  go ; 

Sir  Ralph  bent  over  from  the  boat, 

And  he  cut  che  bell  from  the  Inchcape  float. 

Down  sunk  the  bell  with  a  gurgling  sound, 
The  bubbles  rose  and  burst  around ; 
Quoth  Sir  Ralph,  "  The  next  who  comes  to  the  rock 
Won't  bless  the  Abbot  of  Aberbrothok." 

Sir  Ralph  the  Rover  sail'd  away, 
He  scour'd  the  seas  for  many  a  day ; 
And  now  grown  rich  with  plunder'd  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  of  the  rising  moon." 

"  Canst  hear,"  said  one,  "  the  breakers'  roar  ? 
For  me  thinks  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, — 
"  Oh  !  heavens  !  it  is  the  Inchcape  rock  !  " 


zf  THE  CHANGELING 

Sir  Ralph  the  Rover  tore  his  hair  j 
He  curst  himself  in  his  despair  ; 
The  waves  rush  in  on  every  side, 
The  ship  is  sinking  beneath  the  tide. 

But  even  now,  in  his  dying  fear 

One  dreadful  sound  could  the  rover  hear, 

A  sound  as  if  with  the  Inchcape  bell 

The  devils  in  triumph  were  ringing  his  knell. 


THE  CHANGELING 
BY  J.  R.  LOWELL. 

I  had  a  little  daughter, 

And  she  was  given  to  me 
To  lead  me  gently  backward 

To  the  Heavenly  Father's  knee, 
That  I,  by  the  force  of  nature, 

Might  in  some  dim  wise  divine 
The  depth  of  His  infinite  patience 

To  this  wayward  soul  of  mine. 

I  know  not  how  others  saw  her, 

But  to  me  she  was  wholly  fair, 
And  the  light  of  the  heaven  she  came  from 

Still  lingered  and  gleamed  in  her  hair ; 
For  it  was  as  wavy  and  golden, 

And  as  many  changes  took, 
As  the  shadows  of  sun-gilt  ripples 

On  the  yellow  bed  of  a  brook. 

To  what  can  I  liken  her  smiling, 

Upon  me,  her  kneeling  lover, 
How  it  leaped  from  her  lips  to  her  eyelids, 

And  dimpled  her  wholly  over, 


THE  CHANGELING  its 

Till  her  outstretched  hands  smiled  also, 

And  I  almost  seemed  to  see 
The  very  heart  of  her  mother 

Sending  sun  through  her  veins  to  me ! 

She  had  been  with  us  scarce  a  twelvemonth, 

And  it  hardly  seemed  a  day, 
When  a  troop  of  wandering  angels 

Stole  my  little  daughter  away ; 
Or  perhaps  those  heavenly  Zingari 

But  loosed  the  hampering  strings, 
And  when  they  had  opened  her  cage-door 

My  little  bird  used  her  wings. 

But  they  left  in  her  stead  a  changeling, 

A  little  angel  child, 
That  seems  like  her  bud  in  full  blossom, 

And  smiles  as  she  never  smiled  : 
When  I  wake  in  the  morning,  I  see  it 

Where  she  always  used  to  lie, 
And  I  feel  as  weak  as  a  violet 

Alone  'neath  the  awful  sky. 

As  weak,  yet  as  trustful  also  ; 

For  the  whole  year  long  I  see 
All  the  wonders  of  faithful  Nature 

Still  worked  for  the  love  of  me ; 
Winds  wander,  and  dews  drip  earthward, 

Rain  falls,  suns  rise  and  set, 
Earth  whirls,  and  all  but  to  prosper 

A  poor  little  violet. 

This  child  is  not  mine  as  the  first  was, 

I  cannot  sing  it  to  rest, 
I  cannot  lift  it  up  fatherly, 

And  bless  it  upon  my  breast ; 
Yet  it  lies  in  my  little  one's  cradle 

And  sits  in  my  little  one's  chair, 
And  the  light  of  the  heaven  she's  gone  to 

Transfigures  its  golden  hair. 


126 


THE  SCHOOLMASTER  AND  HIS 
APPLES 

What  is  a  schoolmaster  ?     Why,  can't  you  tell  ? 
A  quizzical  old  man 
Armed  with  a  rattan ; 
Wears  a  huge  wig, 

And  struts  about ; 
Strives  to  look  big, 

With  spectacles  on  snout, 
And  most  important  pout, 
Who  teaches  little  boys  to  read  and  spelL 

Such  my  description  is  of  a  man, 
If  not  a  clergyman,  a  layman. 
So  much  by  way  of  definition, 
And,  to  prevent  dull  disquisition. 
We'll  shortly  take  a  new  position. 

A  schoolmaster  (it  mostly  follows) 

Who  keeps  a  school  must  have  some  scholars  j 

Unless,  indeed  (which  said  at  once  is), 

Instead  of  scholars  they  are  all  dunces  ; 

Or,  if  this  fancy  more  should  tickle, 

Suppose  them  mixed — like  Indian  pickle. 

One  Dr.  Larrup,  as  depicted  here, 
Who  little  boys  had  flogged  for  many  a  year—- 
Not that  they  wouldn't  learn  their  A,  B,  0, 
Their  hie,  hcec,  hoc — Syntax,  or  Prosody, 
But  that  despite 
Of  all  his  might 
And  oft-enforced  rules  of  right, 
They  would  contrive,  by  day  or  night, 
To  steal — oh  !  flinty-hearted  sparks, 
Worse  than  to  little  fish  are  sharks — 


THE  SCHOOLMASTER  AND  HIS  APPLES     1*7 

(Alas  !  to  tell  it  my  muse  winces) 
To  steal  his  apples,  pears,  and  quinces. 
Put  them  where'er  he  would,  alike  their  dooms, 
His  efforts  proved  as  fruitless  as  his  rooms. 
As  a  pert  dunghill  cock,  inflamed  with  ire, 
Erects  his  feathers  and  his  comb  of  fire, 
When  of  some  grains,  his  own  by  right, 
He's  robb'd  by  foes  that  take  to  flight, 
So  stood  the  Doctor — 
With  face  as  red 
As  coral  bed, 

His  wig  cock'd  forward  in  his  eye, 
As  if  it  there  the  cause  would  spy. 
Had  his  wife  been  there, 
I  do  declare, 
It  would  have  shocked  her. 

After  long  buffeting  in  mental  storm, 

His  brain's  thermometer  fell  from  hot  to  warm. 

At  many  plans  by  turns  he  grapples, 

To  save  his  quinces,  pears,  and  apples ; 

When  luckily,  into  his  noddle 

His  recollection  chanced  to  toddle. 

This  sage  informant  told  poor  Larrup, 

If  he'd  convey  his  fruit  so  far  up, 

That  on  his  house's  top  there  stood 

A  room,  well  floored,  I  think  with  wood— 

'Twas  what  some  folks  a  loft  would  call — • 

The  entrance  through  a  trap-door  small, 

Fix'd  in  the  ceiling  of  his  chamber, 

To  which  he  up  a  rope  must  clamber ; 

Unless  a  ladder  was  prepared, 

And  then  the  rope's-end  might  be  spared  ] 

But  he'd  a  long,  well-practised  knack, 

Of  sparing  neither  rope  nor  back. 

Ye  who  in  proper  titles  glory, 

Will  think,  I  hope,  as  I  have  oft, 
That  as  this  story's  of  a  loft, 

It  should  be  called  a  "  lofty  story." 


128     THE  SCHOOLMASTER  AND  HIS  APPLES 

Well,  Larrup,  without  more  disputing, 
Fixed  on  this  loft  to  put  his  fruit  in, 
And  quickly  had  it  thither  moved, 
How  far  securely  must  be  proved. 

From  one  apartment,  so  erected 
That  with  the  very  trifling  risk 

Of  dislocating  neck  or  shoulder, 
Which  boys  ne'er  think  of  in  a  frisk 

(Nay,  oft  it  makes  the  urchins  bolder), 
Advent'rous  spirits  might  contrive 
To  reach  the  Doctor's  apple-hive. 
In  this  room  rested  four  or  five 

Of  these  young  pilferers,  undetected. 

Whilst  laden  sleep  sat  on  the  Doctor's  shutters, 
(By  shutters  I  would  here  imply 
The  lids  that  shut  light  from  the  eye) 
These  daring  rogues  explored  the  tiles  and  gutteri 
In  search  of  trap  or  casement — but  alack  ! 
They  found  not  e'en  a  small,  a  gracious  crack. 
When  one,  'gainst  ev'ry  disappointment  proof, 
Proposed  that  they  should  just — untile  the  roof : 
At  least,  sufficient  space  t'  admit 
A  basket,  in  which  one  might  sit ; 
And  thus,  by  rope  to  handle  tied, 
Be  lower'd  down  with  gentle  ride. 
This  being  approved  of,  'twas  decided 
That  next  night  should  be  provided 

A  basket  and  a  rope ; 
Which  being  in  due  time  effected, 
A  supercargo  was  selected, 
Who,  raised  by  hope, 
Was  gradually  lower'd  through  the  hole, 
From  whence  he  sent  up  apples  by  the  shoaL 
This  plan  they  often  put  in  force 
(Not  oft'ner  than  they  could — of  course), 
And  when  their  pilfering  job  was  ended, 
The  untiled  roof  they  always  mended. 


THE  SCHOOLMASTER  AND  HIS  APPLES     129 

The  Doctor  frequent  visits  made, 
And  soon  perceived  his  apples  stray'd ; 
And  oft  upon  the  school-room  floor 
Lay  many  a  pear  and  apple  core  : 
With  grief  he  viewed  these  sad  remains, 
Of  what  to  keep  he  took  such  pains. 
Despair  now  made  his  heart  its  prey, 
When,  entering  the  loft  one  day, 
His  ears  had  pretty  ample  proof 
The  rogues  were  breaking  thro'  the  roof. 
He  wisely  then  conceal'd  himself, 
When  lo  !  down  came  one  little  elf ; 
But  he  no  sooner  reach  the  ground  did 
Then  at  him  out  the  Doctor  bounded, 
And  threaten' d,  if  he  said  a  sentence, 
He'd  give  him  cause  for  years'  repentance. 
The  boy  stood  mute  as  pewter  pot, 
While  Larrup  in  the  basket  got ; 
When,  being  seated  snug  and  steady, 
He  made  his  pris'ner  cry,  "  All's  ready." 
The  boys  above  began  to  pull — 
"  Bless  me  !  the  basket's  very  full." 
"  He's  got  a  swingeing  lot  this  time, 
And  I'll  be  bound  he's  pick'd  the  prime.'* 
"To  it  again 
With  might  and  main, 

Another  haul  will  do  the  job  ;  " 
"  Yo  !  yo  ho  ! 
Up  we  go  !  " 

When  lo  !  up  popp'd  the  Doctor's  nob. 
How  they  all  look'd  I  can't  express, 
So  leave  that  part  for  you  to  guess  ; 
But  you,  perhaps,  may  think  it  right 
To  know  the  end  of  Larrup's  flight. 
Well,  when  they'd  drawn  him  to  the  top, 
Where  he,  most  likely,  wish'd  to  stop, 
The  wicked  rascals — let  the  Doctor  drop  t 


130 

JOHNNY  RICH 

BY  WILL  CARLETON. 

Raise  the  light  a  little,  Jim, 
For  it's  getting  rather  dim, 

And  with  such  a  storm  a-howlin',  'twill  not  do  to  douse 
the  glim. 

Hustle  down  the  curtains,  Lu  ; 
Poke  the  fire  a  little,  Su  ; 

This  is  somethin'  of  a  flurry,  mother,  somethin'  of  a — 
whew  ! 

Goodness  gracious,  how  it  pours  ! 
How  it  beats  ag'in  the  doors  ! 

You  will  have  a  hard  one,  Jimmy,  when  you  go  to  do  the 
chores  ! 

Do  not  overfeed  the  gray ; 
Give  a  plenty  to  the  bay  ; 

And  be  careful  with  your  lantern  when  you  go  among 
the  hay. 

See  the  horses  have  a  bed 
When  you've  got  'em  fairly  fed ; 

Feed  the  cows  that's  in  the  stable,  and  the  sheep  that'a 
in  the  shed; 

Give  the  spotted  cow  some  meal, 
Where  the  brindle  cannot  steal ; 

For  she's  greedy  as  a  porker  and  as  slipp'ry  as  an  eeL 

Hang  your  lantern  by  the  ring, 
On  a  nail,  or  on  a  string  ; 

For  the  Durham  calf'll  bunt  it,  if  there's  any  such  a 
thing: 

He's  a  handsome  one  to  see, 
And  a  knowin'  one  is  he  : 

I  stooped  over  t'other  morning,  and  he  up  and  went  for 
me  ! 


JOHNNY  RICH  131 

Rover  thinks  he  hears  a  noise  ! 

Just  keep  still  a  minute,  boys ; 

Nellie,  hold  your  tongue  a  second,  and  be  silent  with 
your  toys. 

Stop  that  barkin',  now,  you  whelp, 

Or  I'll  kick  you  till  you  yelp  ! 
Yes,  I  hear  it ;  'tis  somebody  that's  calling  out  for  help. 

Get  the  lantern,  Jim  and  Tom, 
Mother,  keep  the  babies  calm, 

And  we'll  follow  up  that  halloa,  and  we'll  see  where  it  is 
from. 

'Tis  a  hairy  sort  of  night 
For  a  man  to  face  and  fight ; 

And  the  wind  is  blowin' — Hang  it,  Jimmy,  bring  another 
light! 

***** 

Ah  !  'twas  you,  then,  Johnny  Rich, 
Yelling  out  at  such  a  pitch, 

For  a  decent  man  to  help  you,  while  you  fell  into  the 
ditch: 

'Tisn't  quite  the  thing  to  say, 
But  we  ought  to've  let  you  lay, 

While  your  drunken  carcass  died  a-drinkin'  water  any- 
way. 

And  to  see  you  on  my  floor, 
And  to  hear  the  way  you  snore, 

Now  we've  lugged  you  under  shelter,  and  the  danger  is 
all  o'er ; 

And  you  lie  there,  quite  resigned, 
Whisky  deaf,  and  whisky  blind, 

And  it  will  not  hurt  your  feelin's,  so  I  guess  I'll  free  my 
mind. 

Do  you  mind,  you  thievin'  dunce, 
How  you  robbed  my  orchard  once, 
Takin'  all  the  biggest  apples,  leavin'  all  the  littlest  runts  ? 
Do  you  mind  my  melon-patch — 


1 32  JOHNNY  RICH 

How  you  gobbled  the  whole  batch, 
Stacked  the  vines,  and  sliced  the  greenest  melons,  just  to 
raise  the  scratch  ? 

Do  you  think,  you  drunken  wag, 

It  was  anything  to  brag, 
To  be  cornered  in  my  hen-roost  with  two  pullets  in  a  bag  ? 

You  are  used  to  dirty  dens  ; 

You  have  often  slept  in  pens  ; 

I've  a  mind  to  take  you  out  there  now  and  roost  you  with 
the  hens  ! 

Do  you  call  to  mind  with  me 
How,  one  night,  you  and  your  three 

Took  my  waggon  all  to  pieces  for  to  hang  it  on  a  tree  ? 
How  you  hung  it  up,  you  eels, 
Straight  and  steady,  by  the  wheels  ? 

I've  a  mind  to  take  you  out  there  now  and  hang  you  by 
your  heels  ! 

How  the  fourth  of  last  July, 
When  you  got  a  little  high, 

You  went  back  to  Wilson's  counter  when  you  thought  he 
wasn't  nigh  ? 

How  he  heard  some  specie  chink, 
And  was  on  you  in  a  wink, 

And  you  promised  if  he'd  hush  it  that  you  never  more 
would  drink  ? 


Do  you  mind  our  temperance  hall  ? 
How  you're  always  sure  to  call, 

And  recount  your  reformation  with  the  biggest  speech  of 
all  ? 

How  you  talk,  and  how  you  sing 
That  the  pledge  is  just  the  thing — 
How  you  sign  it  every  winter  and  then  smash  it  every 
spring  1 


JOHNNY  RICH  133 

Do  you  mind  how  Jennie  Green 

Was  as  happy  as  a  queen 

When  you  walked  with  her  on  Sunday,  looking  sober, 
straight,  and  clean  ? 

How  she  cried  out  half  her  sight, 

When  you  staggered  by,  next  night, 
Twice  as  dirty  as  a  serpent  and  a  hundred  times  as  tight  ? 


How  our  hearts  with  pleasure  warmed 
When  your  mother,  though  it  stormed, 
Ran  up  here  one  day  to  tell   us   that   you   truly   had 
reformed  ? 

How  that  very  self-same  day, 
When  upon  her  homeward  way, 

She  ran  on  you,  where  you'd  hidden,  full  three-quarters 
o'er  the  bay  ? 


Oh,  you  little  whisky-keg ! 
Oh,  you  horrid  little  egg  ! 

You're  goin'  to  destruction  with  your  swiftest  foot  and 
leg! 

I've  a  mind  to  take  you  out 
Underneath  the  water-spout, 

Just  to  rinse   you   up   a   little,  so   you'll   know   what 
you're  about ! 


But  you've  got  a  handsome  eye, 
And,  although  I  can't  tell  why, 

Somethin'  somewhere  in  you  always  lets  you  get  another 
try: 

So,  for  all  that  I  have  said, 

I'll  not  douse  you  ;    but,  instead, 

I  will  strip  you,  I  will  rub  you,  I  will  put  you  into  bed  ! 


134 


WHAT  IS  A  WOMAN  LIKE  ? 

A  woman  is  like  to — but  stay— 

What  a  woman  is  like,  who  can  say  ? 

There  is  no  living  with  or  without  one. 
Love  bites  like  a  fly, 
Now  an  ear,  now  an  eye, 

Buzz,  buzz,  always  buzzing  about  one. 
When  she  is  tender  and  kind 
She  is  like,  to  my  mind 

(And  Fanny  was  so,  I  remember), 

She's  like  to 0  dear  ! 

She's  as  good,  very  near, 

As  a  ripe  melting  peach  in  September. 
If  she  laugh  and  she  chat, 
Play,  joke,  and  all  that, 

And  with  smiles  and  good  humour  she  meet  me. 
She  is  like  a  rich  dish 
Of  venison  or  fish, 

That  cries  from  the  table,  Come  eat  me ! 

But  she'll  plague  you  and  vex  you, 

Distract  and  perplex  you  ; 

False-hearted  and  ranging, 

Unsettled  and  changing, 

What  then  do  you  think  she  is  like  ? 
Like  a  sand,  like  a  rock  ? 
Like  a  wheel,  like  a  clock  ? 

Ay,  a  clock  that  is  always  at  strike. 

Her  head's  like  the  island  folks  tell  on, 

Which  nothing  but  monkeys  can  dwell  on. 

Her  heart's  like  a  lemon — so  nice, 

She  carves  for  each  lover  a  slice ; 
In  truth  she's  to  me 
Like  the  wind,  like  the  sea, 

Whose  rage  will  hearken  to  no  man ; 
lake  a  mill,  like  a  pill, 
Like  a  flail,  like  a  whale, 
Like  an  ass,  like  a  glass, 


JOHN  BROWN  135 

Whose  image  is  constant  to  no  man ; 

Like  a  shower,  like  a  flower, 

Like  a  fly,  like  a  pie, 

Like  a  pea,  like  a  flea, 

Like  a  thief,  like — in  brief, 
She's  like  nothing  on  earth — but  a  woman. 


JOHN  BROWN 

I've  a  guinea  I  can  spend, 
I've  a  wife  and  I've  a  friend, 
And  a  troop  of  little  children  at  my  knee, 

John  Brown. 

I've  a  cottage  of  my  own, 
With  the  ivy  overgrown, 
And  a  garden,  with  a  view  of  the  sea, 

John  Brown. 

I  love  the  song  of  birds, 
And  the  children's  early  words, 
And  a  loving  woman's  voice,  low  and  sweet, 

John  Brown. 

And  I  hate  a  false  pretence, 
And  the  want  of  common  sense, 
And  arrogance,  and  fawning,  and  deceit, 

John  Brown. 

I  love  the  meadow  flowers, 
And  the  briar  in  the  bowers, 
And  I  love  an  open  face  without  guile, 

John  Brown. 

And  I  hate  a  selfish  knave, 
And  a  proud  contented  slave, 
And  a  lout  who'd  rather  borrow  than  he'd  toil, 

John  Brown. 


136  JOHN  BROWN 

I  love  a  simple  song, 
That  makes  emotions  strong, 

And  the  word  of  hope  that  raises  him  who  faints, 

John  Brown. 

And  I  hate  the  constant  whine, 
Of  the  foolish  who  repine, 
And  turn  their  good  to  evil  by  complaints, 

John  Brown. 

But  even  when  I  hate, 
If  I  seek  my  garden  gate, 
And  survey  the  world  around  and  above, 

John  Brown, 

The  hatred  flies  my  mind, 
And  I  sigh  for  human  kind, 
And  excuse  the  faults  of  those  I  cannot  love, 

John  Brown. 

So  if  you  like  my  ways, 
And  the  comfort  of  my  days, 
I  can  tell  you  how  I  live  so  unvexed, 

John  Brown. 

I  never  scorn  my  health, 
Nor  sell  my  soul  for  wealth, 
Nor  destroy  one  day  the  pleasure  of  the  next, 

John  Brown. 

I've  parted  with  my  pride, 
And  I  take  the  sunny  side, 
For  I've  found  it  worse  than  folly  to  be  sad, 

John  Brown. 

I  keep  my  conscience  clear, 
I've  a  hundred  pounds  a  year, 
And  I  manage  to  exist  and  to  be  glad, 

John  Brown. 


»37 

BETTER  IN  THE  MORNING 

BY  REV.  LEANDER  S.  COAN. 

"  You  can't  help  the  baby,  parson ; 

But  still  I  want  ye  to  go 
Down  an'  look  in  upon  her, 

An'  read  an'  pray,  you  know. 
Only  last  week  she  was  skippin'  round, 

A-pullin'  my  whiskers  'n'  hair, 
A-climbin'  up  to  the  table 

Into  her  little  high-chair. 

"The  first  night  that  she  took  it, 

When  her  little  cheeks  grew  red, 
When  she  kissed  good-night  to  papa 

And  went  away  to  bed, 
Sez  she  :    '  'Tis  headache,  papa, 

Be  better  in  mornin' — bye  !  ' 
An'  somethin'  in  how  she  said  it 

Jest  made  me  want  to  cry. 

"  But  the  mornin'  brought  the  fever, 

And  her  little  hands  were  hot, 
An'  the  pretty  red  uv  her  little  cheeks 

Grew  into  a  crimson  spot. 
But  she  laid  there  jest  ez  patient 

Ez  ever  a  woman  could, 
Takin'  whatever  we  give  her 

Better'n  a  grown  woman  would. 

"  The  days  are  terrible  long  an'  slow, 

An'  she's  growin'  wus  in  each  ; 
An'  now  she's  just  a-slippin' 

Clear  away  out  uv  our  reach. 
Every  night  when  I  kiss  her, 

Tryin'  hard  not  to  cry, 
She  says,  in  a  way  that  kills  me  : 

'  Be  better  in  mornin' — bye  !  ' 


i38  BETTER  IN  THE  MORNING 

"  She  can't  get  thro'  the  night,  parson, 

So  I  want  ye  to  come  an'  pray, 
An'  talk  with  mother  a  little — 

You'll  know  just  what  to  say. 
Not  that  the  baby  needs  it, 

Nor  that  we  make  any  complaint 
That  God  seems  to  think  He's  needin" 

The  smile  uv  the  little  saint." 


I  walked  along  with  the  corporal 

To  the  door  of  his  humble  home, 
To  which  the  silent  messenger 

Before  me  had  also  come. 
And  if  he  had  been  a  titled  prince, 

I  would  not  have  been  honoured  more 
Than  I  was  with  his  heartfelt  welcome 

To  his  lowly  cottage-door. 

Night  falls  again  in  the  cottage ; 

They  move  in  silence  and  dread 
Around  the  room  where  the  baby 

Lies  panting  upon  her  bed. 
"  Does  baby  know  papa,  darling  ?  " 

And  she  moves  her  little  face 
With  answer  that  shows  she  knows  him ; 

But  scarce  a  visible  trace 


Of  her  wonderful  infantile  beauty 

Remains  as  it  was  before 
The  unseen,  silent  messenger 

Had  waited  at  their  door. 
•'  Papa — kiss — baby — I's — so — tired- 

The  man  bows  low  his  face, 
And  two  swollen  hands  are  lifted 

In  baby's  last  embrace. 


BETTER  IN  THE  MORNING  139 

And  into  her  father's  grizzled  beard 

The  little  red  fingers  cling, 
While  her  husky  whispered  tenderness 

Tears  from  a  rock  would  wring  : 
"  Baby — is — so — sick — papa — 

But — don't — want — you — to — cry." 
The  little  hands  fall  on  the  coverlet ; 

"  Be — better in mornin' — bye  !  " 


And  night  around  baby  is  falling, 

Settling  down  dark  and  dense  ; 
Does  God  need  their  darling  in  heaven, 

That  He  must  carry  her  hence  ? 
I  prayed,  with  tears  in  my  voice, 

As  the  corporal  solemnly  knelt, 
With  grief  such  as  never  before 

His  great,  warm  heart  had  felfc. 

Oh  !  frivolous  men  and  women  ! 

Do  you  know  that  round  you,  and  nigh, 
Alike  from  the  humble  and  haughty 

Goeth  up  evermore  the  cry  : 
"My  child,  my  precious,  my  darling, 

How  can  I  let  you  die  ?  " 
Oh  !  hear  ye  the  white  lips  whisper  : 

"Be better in  mornin' — bye"? 


140 

THE   ARAB'S  FAREWELL  TO  HIS 

STEED 
BY  THE  HON.  MBS.  NORTON. 

My  beautiful !  my  beautiful !   that  standest  meekly  by. 
With  thy  proudly  arch'd  and  glossy  neck,  and  dark  and 

fiery  eye, 
Fret  not  to  roam  the  desert  now  with  all  thy  winged 

speed, 
I  may  not  mount  on  thee  again,  thou  art  sold,  my  Arab 

steed, 
Fret  not  with  that  impatient  hoof,  snuff  not  the  breezy 

wind — 

The  further  that  thou  fliest  now,  so  far  am  I  behind. 
The  stranger  hath  thy  bridle  rein — thy  master  hath  his 

gold — 
Fleet  limbed  and  beautiful,  farewell,  thou'rt  sold,  my 

steed,  thou'rt  sold. 
Farewell !  these  free  untired  limbs  full  many  a  mile  must 

roam, 
To  reach  the  chill  and  wintry  sky,  which  clouds  the 

stranger's  home. 
Some  other  hand,  less  fond,  must  now  thy  corn  and  bed 

prepare — 

The  silky  mane  I  braided  once,  must  be  another's  care 
The  morning  sun  shall  dawn  again,  but  never  more  with 

thee 
Shall  I  gallop  through  the  desert  paths  where  we  were 

wont  to  be. 
Evening  shall  darken  on  the  earth,  and  o'er  the  sandy 

plain 
Some  other  steed,  with  slower  step,  shall  bear  me  home 

again. 
Yes,  thou  must  go,  the  wild  free  breeze,  the  brilliant  sun 

and  sky, 
Thy  master's  home,  from  all  of  these  my  exiled  one  must 

fly. 


THE  ARAB'S  FAREWELL  TO  HIS  STEED     141 

Thy    proud  dark    eye  will  grow  less  proud,  thy  step 

become  less  fleet, 
And  vainly  shalt  thou  arch  thy  neck,  thy  master's  hand 

to  meet. 

Only  in  sleep  shall  I  behold  that  dark  eye  glancing  bright; 
Only  in  sleep  shall  hear  again  that  step  so  firm  and  light ; 
And  when  I  raise  my  dreaming  arm,  to  check  and  cheer 

thy  speed, 
Then  must  I  startling  wake,  to  feel  thou'rt  sold,  my  Arab 

steed. 
Ah  !   rudely  then,  unseen  by  me,  some  cruel  hand  may 

chide, 

Till  foam  wreaths  he,  like  crested  waves,  along  thy  pant- 
ing side, 
And  the  rich  blood  that  is  in  thee  swells  in  thy  indignant 

pain  ; 
Till  careless  eyes,  which  rest  on  thee,  may  count  each 

started  vein. 
Will  they  ill  use  thee  ?     If  I  thought — but  no  it  cannot 

be— 

Thou  art  so  swift,  yet  easy  curbed,  so  gentle,  yet  so  free. 
And  yet,  if  haply  when  thou'rt  gone,  my  lonely  heart 

should  yearn, 
Can  the  hand  which  casts  thee  from  it,  now  command 

thee  to  return. 

Return,  alas  !  my  Arab  steed,  what  shall  thy  master  do, 
When  thou  who  wert  his  all  of  joy  hath  vanished  from  his 

view  ; 
When  the  dim  distance  cheats  mine  eye,  and  through  the 

gathering  tears 
Thy  bright  form  for  a  moment  like  the  false  Mirage 

appears,     » . 

Slow  and  unmounted  will  I  roam,  with  weary  foot  alone, 
Where  with  fleet  step  and  joyous  bound,  thou  oft  has 

borne  me  on. 
And  sitting  down  by  that  green  well,  I'll  pause  and  sadly 

think, 
It  was  here  he  bowed  his  glossy  neck  when  last  I  saw 

him  drink. 


i42  THE  WAY  TO  MEET  ADVERSITY 

When  last  I  saw  thee  drink  ?     Away  !  the  fevered  dream 

is  o'er, 
I  could  not  live  a  dav,  and  know  that  we  should  meet 

no  more. 
They  tempted  me,  my  beautiful !  for  hunger's  power  is 

strong, 
They  tempted  me,  my  beautiful !  but  I  have  loved  too 

long, 
Who  said  that  I'd  giv'n  thee  up,  who  said  that  thou  wert 

sold? 
'Tis  false,  'tis  false,  my  Arab  steed,  I  fling  them  back 

their  gold  ; 
Thus,  thus,  I  leap  upon  thy  back,  and  scour  the  distant 

plains, 
Away,  who  overtakes  us  now,  shall  claim  thee  for  bis 

pains. 


THE  WAY  TO  MEET  ADVERSITY 

Horace,  Book  II,  Ode  X. 
BY  WILLIAM  COWPER. 

Receive,  dear  friend,  the  truths  I  teach, 
So  shalt  thou  Mve  beyond  the  reach 

Of  adverse  fortune's  power  ; 
Not  always  tempt  the  distant  deep, 
Nor  always  timorously  creep 

Along  the  treacherous  shore. 

He  that  holds  fast  the  golden  mean, 
And  lives  contentedly  between 

The  little  and  the  great, 
Feels  not  the  wants  that  pinch  the  poor, 
Nor  plagues  that  haunt  the  rich  man's  door, 

Imbittering  all  his  state. 


THE  WAY  TO  MEET  ADVERSITY  143 

The  tallest  pines  feel  most  the  power 
Of  winter's  blast,  the  loftiest  tower 

Comes  heaviest  to  the  ground  ; 
The  bolts  that  spare  the  mountain's  side, 
His  cloud-capt  eminence  divide 

And  spread  the  ruin  round. 


The  well-informed  philosopher 
Rejoices  with  a  wholesome  fear, 

And  hopes  in  spite  of  pain ; 
If  winter  bellow  from  the  north, 
Soon  the  sweet  spring  comes  dancing  forth, 

And  nature  laughs  again. 


What  if  thy  heaven  be  overcast, 
The  dark  appearance  will  not  last, 

Expect  a  brighter  sky  ; 
The  God  that  strings  the  silver  bow 
Awakes  sometimes  the  muses  too, 

And  lays  his  arrows  by. 


If  hindrances  obstruct  thy  way, 
Thy  magnanimity  display, 

And  let  thy  strength  be  seen ; 
But  oh  !  if  Fortune  fill  thy  sail 
With  more  than  a  propitious  gale, 

Take  half  thy  canvas  in  I 


THE  BRIDGE  OF  SIGHS 

BY  TOM  HOOD. 

One  more  Unfortunate, 

Weary  of  breath, 
Rashly  importunate, 

Gone  to  her  death  ! 

Take  her  up  tenderly, 

Lift  her  with  care  ; 
Fashion'd  so  slenderly, 

Young,  and  so  fair  ! 

Look  at  her  garments 
Clinging  like  cerements  ; 
Whilst  the  wave  constantly 

Drips  from  her  clothing ; 
Take  her  up  instantly, 

Loving,  not  loathing. — 

Touch  her  not  scornfully  ; 
Think  of  her  mournfully : 

Gently  and  humanly  ; 
Not  of  the  stains  of  her, 
All  that  remains  of  her 

Now  is  pure  womanly. 

Make  no  deep  scrutiny 
Into  her  mutiny 

Rash  and  undutiful ; 
Past  all  dishonour, 
Death  has  left  on  her 

Only  the  beautiful. 


THE  BRIDGE  OF  SIGHS  145 

Still,  for  all  slips  of  hers, 

One  of  Eve's  family — 
Wipe  those  poor  lips  of  hers 

Oozing  so  clammily. 

Loop  up  her  tresses 

Escaped  from  the  comb, 
Her  fair  auburn  tresses  ; 
Whilst  wonderment  guesses 

Where  was  her  home  ? 

Who  was  her  father  ? 

Who  was  her  mother  ! 
Had  she  a  sister  ? 

Had  she  a  brother  ? 
Or  was  there  a  dearer  one 
Still,  or  a  nearer  one 

Yet,  than  all  other  I 

Alas  !  for  the  rarity 
Of  Christian  charity 

Under  the  sun  ! 
Oh  !  it  was  pitiful ! 
Near  a  whole  city  full, 

Home  had  she  none. 

Sisterly,  brotherly, 
Fatherly,  motherly, 

Feelings  had  changed: 
Love,  by  harsh  evidence 
Thrown  from  its  eminence; 
Even  God's  providence 

Seeming  estranged. 

Where  the  lamps  quiver 
So  far  in  the  river, 

With  many  a  light 
From  window  and  casement, 
From  garret  to  basement, 


146  THE  BRIDGE  OF  SIGHS 

She  stood,  with  amazement, 
Houseless  by  night. 

The  bleak  wind  of  March 

Made  her  tremble  and  shiver  j 
But  nob  the  dark  arch, 

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

Swift  to  be  hurl'd— 
Any  where  !  any  where 

Out  of  the  world  ! 

In  she  plunged  boldly, 
No  matter  how  coldly 

The  rough  river  ran, — • 
Over  the  brink  of  it, 
Picture  it — think  of  it, 

Dissolute  Man ! 
Lave  in  it,  drink  of  it, 

Then,  if  you  can ! 

Take  her  up  tenderly, 
Lift  her  with  care; 

Fashion'd  so  slenderly, 
Young,  and  so  fair  ! 

Ere  her  limbs  frigidly 
Stiffen  too  rigidly, 

Decently, — kindly, — 
Smoothe,  and  compose  them 
And  her  eyes,  close  them 

Staring  so  blindly  ! 

Dreadfully  staring 

Thro'  muddy  impurity, 
As  when  with  the  daring 
Last  look  of  despairing 
Fix'd  on  futurity, 


CHEAP  CLOTHING  147 

Perishing  gloomily, 
Spurr'd  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  behaviour, 
And  leaving,  with  meekness, 

Her  sins  to  her  Saviour ! 


CHEAP  CLOTHING 

One  Charles  Mackenzie,  who  with  bra'  Scotch  face 

Like  sunshine  frying  on  a  raw  beef-steak, 
Held  in  the  House  of  Somerset  a  place, 

By  which  some  annual  moneys  he  did  make. 
Now,  Charles  Mackenzie's  was  a  saving  plan — 
'Tis  the  concomitant  of  clerkly  man — 
And  rather  than  bestow  a  sixpence  right 

Would  do  a  good  deal  wrong, 

So  says  the  song, 

Perhaps  more  truly  than  is  deemed  polite. 
This  Charley  had  a  tailor  of  his  own, 
Some  human  five  feet  two  of  skin  and  bone  ; 
Who  made  cheap  clothes, — so  cheap  I  grieve  to  utter 
He  scarce  could  buy  his  bread,  much  less  his  butter ; 
Forsooth  the  Scotchman  was  the  greatest  cutter ; 

Who  never  let  the  Snip  obtain 
Much  profit  on  his  stuff, 

Seeming,  as  paying  was  against  his  grain, 

To  think  his  order  was  enough. 
Well,  'twas  but  like  the  dandies  of  his  age, 
But  saints  preserve  us  from  such  patronage! 


148  CHEAP  CLOTHING 

Now,  one  day  Charley  to  his  Schneider  said, 

"  I  want  some  trousers — not  exactly  stout — 
Not  in-door  wearing,  light  as  thine  own  head, 

For  walking  while  the  summer  is  about." 
But  Snip,  not  liking  jokes  upon  his  sconce, 
Vowed  to  be  quits  at  least  for  once ; 

And  made  such  natty  brogues, 
None  could  imagine,  when  they  saw, 
Within  the  glossy  cloth  a  flaw, 

Unless  themselves  were  of  the  tailor  rogues. 

Pleased  at  their  elegance,  now  Charley  walked 
Some  three  yards  bigger  than  he  talked ; 
But,  oh  !  I  grieve,  Mackenzie 

Scarce  had  a  fortnight's  wearing 

Ere  the  new  trousers  tearing 
With  old  age,  put  him  in  a  perfect  frenzy! 
He  found,  oh,  direful  fate  !  he  found  ! 
What  ?  that  the  gay  cloth  wasn't  sound. 

All  in  a  towering  passion  forth  he  went, 
To  row  the  knavish  man's  ninth  part  intent ; 
And  fit  to  choke, 
Thus  silence  broke  : — 
"  You  tailor  lout,  our  dealings  hence  shall  cease ;  " 

And  then  an  adjective  his  lip  releases. 
"  Never  expect  another  moment's  peace, 
You've  made  my  trousers,  and  they've  gone  to  pieces.*' 

"Sir,"  said  the  tailor,  and  he  bow'd  his  head, 
"  I  follow'd  full  your  orders — make  no  rout — 

Not  in-door  wearing,  as  you  plainly  said, 
Of  course  I  thought  you  meant  them  to  WEAR 

OUT." 


I49 

MOSES  AT  THE  FAIR 
BY  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

As  we  were  now  to  hold  up  our  heads  a  little  higher  in 
the  world,  my  wife  proposed  that  it  was  proper  to  sell  our 
colt,  which  was  grown  old,  at  a  neighbouring  fair,  and 
buy  us  a  horse  that  would  carry  single  or  double  upon 
occasion,  and  make  a  pretty  appearance  at  church,  or 
upon  a  visit.  This  at  first  I  opposed  stoutly,  but  it  was 
as  stoutly  defended.  However,  as  I  weakened  my  an- 
tagonists gained  strength,  till  at  length  it  was  resolved 
to  part  with  him.  As  the  fair  happened  on  the  following 
day,  I  had  intentions  of  going  there  myself  ;  but  my  wife 
persuaded  me  that  I  had  got  a  cold,  and  nothing  could 
prevail  upon  her  to  permit  me  from  home.  "  No,  my 
dear,"  said  she  ;  "  our  son  Moses  is  a  discreet  boy,  and 
can  buy  and  sell  to  very  good  advantage  ;  you  know  all 
our  great  bargains  are  of  his  purchasing.  He  always 
stands  out  and  higgles,  and  actually  tires  them  till  he 
gets  a  bargain." 

As  I  had  some  opinion  of  my  son's  prudence,  I  was 
willing  enough  to  entrust  him  with  this  commission  ;  and 
the  next  morning  I  perceived  his  sisters  mighty  busy  in 
fitting  out  Moses  for  the  fair  ;  trimming  his  hair,  brush- 
ing his  buckles,  and  cocking  his  hat  with  pins.  The 
business  of  the  toilet  being  over,  we  had,  at  last,  the 
satisfaction  of  seeing  him  mounted  upon  the  colt,  with 
a  deal  box  before  him  to  bring  home  groceries  in.  He 
had  on  a  coat  made  of  that  cloth  called  thunder  and 
lightning,  which,  though  grown  too  short,  was  much  too 
good  to  be  thrown  away.  His  waistcoat  was  of  gosling 
green,  and  his  sisters  had  tied  his  hair  with  a  broad  black 
ribbon  We  all  followed  him  several  paces  from  the 
door,  bawling  after  him,  "  Good  luck  !  good  luck  !  " 
till  we  could  see  him  no  longer. 

He  was  scarce  gone  when  Mr.  ThornhilTs  butler  came 
to  congratulate  us  upon  our  good  fortune,  saying  that 
he  overheard  his  young  master  mention  our  names  with 
great  commendation.  Good  fortune  seemed  resolved 


1 50  MOSES  AT  THE  FAIR 

not  to  come  alone.  Another  footman  from  the  same 
family  followed,  with  a  card  for  my  daughters,  importing 
that  the  two  ladies  had  received  such  pleasing  accounts 
from  Mr.  Thomhill  of  us  all,  that,  after  a  few  previous 
inquiries,  they  hoped  to  be  perfectly  satisfied.  "  Ay," 
cried  my  wife,  "  I  now  see  it  is  no  easy  matter  to  get 
into  the  families  of  the  great ;  but  when  one  once  gets  in, 
then  as  Moses  says,  one  may  go  to  sleep."  To  this  piece 
of  humour,  for  she  intended  it  for  wit,  my  daughters 
assented  with  a  loud  laugh  of  pleasure.  In  short,  such 
was  her  satisfaction  at  this  message  that  she  actually  put 
her  hand  in  her  pocket  and  gave  the  messenger  seven- 
pence-halfpenny. 

This  was  to  be  our  visiting  day.  The  next  that  came 
was  Mr.  Burchell,  who  had  been  at  the  fair.  He  brought 
my  little  ones  a  pennyworth  of  gingerbread  each,  which 
my  wife  undertook  to  keep  for  them,  and  give  them  by 
letters  at  a  time.  He  brought  my  daughters  also  a  couple 
of  boxes,  in  which  they  might  keep  wafers,  snuff,  patches, 
or  even  money  when  they  got  it.  My  wife  was  usually 
fond  of  a  weasel-skin  purse,  as  being  the  most  lucky  ; 
but  this  by  the  by.  We  had  still  a  regard  for  Mr. 
Burchell,  though  his  late  rude  behaviour  was  hi  some 
measure  displeasing  ;  nor  could  we  now  avoid  communi- 
cating our  happiness,  and  asking  his  advice  ;  although  we 
seldom  followed  advice,  we  were  all  ready  enough  to  ask 
it.  When  he  read  the  note  from  the  two  ladies  he  shook 
his  head,  and  observed  that  an  affair  of  this  sort  de- 
manded the  utmost  circumspection.  This  air  of  diffi- 
dence highly  displeased  my  wife.  "  I  never  doubted,  sir," 
cried  she,  "  your  readiness  to  be  against  my  daughters 
and  me.  You  have  more  circumspection  than  is  wanted. 
However,  I  fancy  when  we  come  to  ask  advice,  we  shall 
apply  to  persons  who  seem  to  have  made  use  of  it  them- 
selves." "  Whatever  my  own  conduct  may  have  been, 
madam,"  replied  he,  "is  not  the  present  question; 
though,  as  I  have  made  no  use  of  advice  myself,  I  should, 
in  conscience,  give  it  to  those  that  will."  As  I  was 
apprehensive  this  answer  might  draw  on  a  repartee, 


MOSES  AT  THE  FAIR  151 

making  up  by  abuse  what  it  wanted  in  wit,  I  changed  the 
subject  by  seeming  to  wonder  what  could  keep  our  son  so 
long  at  the  fair,  as  it  was  now  almost  nightfall.  "  Never 
mind  our  son,"  cried  my  wife  ;  "  depend  upon  it  he 
knows  what  he  is  about.  I'll  warrant  we'll  never  see 
him  sell  his  hen  on  a  rainy  day.  I  have  seen  him  buy 
such  bargains  as  would  amaze  one.  I'll  tell  you  a  good 
story  about  that,  that  will  make  your  sides  split  with 
laughing,  t  But,  as  I  live,  yonder  comes  Moses,  without  a 
horse,  and  the  box  at  his  back."  As  she  spoke  Moses 
came  slowly  on  foot,  and  sweating  under  the  deal  box, 
which  he  had  strapped  round  his  shoulders  like  a  pedlar. 
"  Welcome  !  welcome,  Moses  !  Well,  my  boy,  what  have 
you  brought  us  from  the  fair  ?  "  "I  have  brought  you 
myself,"  cried  Moses,  with  a  sly  look,  and  resting  the 
box  on  the  dresser.  "  Ah,  Moses,"  cried  my  wife, 
"  that  we  know,  but  where  is  the  horse  ?  "  "I  have 
sold  him,"  cried  Moses,  "  for  three  pounds  five  shillings 
and  twopence."  "  Well  done,  my  good  boy,"  return- 
ed she ;  I  knew  you  would  touch  them  off.  Between 
ourselves,  three  pounds  five  shillings  and  twopence 
is  no  bad  day's  work.  Come,  let  us  have  it  then." 
"  I  have  brought  back  no  money,"  cried  Moses  again ; 
"  I  have  laid  it  all  out  in  a  bargain,  and  here  it  is," 
pulling  out  a  bundle  from  his  breast ;  "  here  they  are — 
a  gross  of  green  spectacles,  with  silver  rims  and  shagreen 
cases."  "  A  gross  of  green  spectacles  !  "  repeated  my 
wife,  in  a  faint  voice.  "  And  you  have  parted  with  the 
colt,  and  brought  us  back  nothing  but  a  gross  of  green 
paltry  spectacles  !  "  "  Dear  mother,"  cried  the  boy, 
"  why  won't  you  listen  to  reason  ?  I  had  them  a  dead 
bargain,  or  I  should  not  have  bought  them.  The  silver 
rims  alone  will  sell  for  double  the  money."  "  A  fig  for 
the  silver  rims,"  cried  my  wife,  in  a  passion  ;  "  I  dare 
swear  they  won't  sell  for  above  hah*  the  money  at  the 
rate  of  broken  silver,  five  shillings  an  ounce."  "  You 
need  be  under  no  uneasiness,"  cried  I,  "  about  selling 
the  rims,  for  they  are  not  worth  sixpence,  for  I  perceive 
they  are  only  copper  varnished  over."  "  What  ' " 


1 52  MOSES  AT  THE  FAIR 

cried  my  wife,  "  not  silver ;  the  rims  not  silver  ?  "  "  No,'* 
cried  I ;  "no  more  silver  than  your  saucepan."  "  And 
so,"  returned  she,  "  we  have  parted  with  the  colt,  and 
have  only  got  a  gross  of  green  spectacles,  with  copper 
rims  and  shagreen  cases  !  A  murrain  take  such  trumpery. 
The  blockhead  has  been  imposed  upon,  and  should  have 
known  his  company  better  !  "  "  There,  my  dear,"  cried 
I,  "  you  are  wrong  ;  he  should  not  have  known  them  at 
all."  "  Marry,  hang  the  idiot !  "  returned  she,  "  to  bring 
me  such  stuff  ;  if  I  had  them  I  would  throw  them  in  the 
fire."  "  There,  again,  you  are  wrong,  my  dear,"  cried 
I ;  "  for  though  they  be  copper,  we  will  keep  them  by  us, 
as  copper  spectacles,  you  know,  are  better  than  nothing." 
By  this  time  the  unfortunate  Moses  was  undeceived. 
He  now  saw  that  he  had  indeed  been  imposed  upon  by  a 
prowling  sharper,  who,  observing  his  figure,  had  marked 
him  for  an  easy  prey.  I  therefore  asked  him  the  circum- 
stances of  his  deception.  He  sold  the  horse,  it  seems, 
and  walked  the  fair  in  search  of  another.  A  reverend- 
looking  man  brought  him  to  a  tent,  under  pretence  of 
having  one  to  sell.  "  Here,"  continued  Moses,  "  we 
met  another  man  very  well  dressed,  who  desired  to 
borrow  twenty  pounds  upon  these,  saying  that  he 
wanted  money,  and  would  dispose  of  them  for  the  third 
of  their  value.  The  first  gentleman,  who  pretended  to 
be  my  friend,  whispered  me  to  buy  them,  and  cautioned 
me  not  to  let  so  good  an  offer  pass.  I  sent  for  Mr. 
Flamborough,  and  they  talked  him  up  as  finely  as  they 
did  me ;  and  so  at  last  we  were  persuaded  to  buy  the 
two  gross  between  us." 


153 

THE  CANE-BOTTOM'D  CHAIR 
BY  W.  M.  THACKERAY. 

In  tattered  old  slippers  that  toast  at  the  bars, 
And  a  ragged  old  jacket  perfumed  with  cigars, 
Away  from  the  world  and  its  toils  and  its  cares, 
I've  a  snug  little  kingdom  up  four  pairs  of  stairs. 

To  mount  to  this  realm  is  a  toil,  to  be  sure, 
But  the  fire  there  is  bright  and  the  air  rather  pure ; 
And  the  view  I  behold  on  a  sunshiny  day 
Is  grand  through  the  chimney-pots  over  the  way. 

This  snug  little  chamber  is  cramm'd  in  all  nooks 
With  worthless  old  knick-knacks  and  silly  old  books, 
And  foolish  old  odds  and  foolish  old  ends, 
Crack'd  bargains  from  brokers,  cheap  keepsakes  from 
friends. 

Old  armour,  prints,  pictures,  pipes,  china  (all  crack'd), 

Old  rickety  tables,  and  chairs  broken-backed ; 

A  twopenny  treasury,  wondrous  to  see  ; 

What  matter  1  'tis  pleasant  to  you,  friend,  and  me. 

No  better  divan  need  the  Sultan  require, 
Than  the  creaking  old  sofa,  that  basks  by  the  fire ; 
And  'tis  wonderful,  surely,  what  music  you  get 
From  the  rickety,  ramshackle,  wheezy  spinet. 

That  praying-rug  came  from  a  Turcoman's  camp  ; 
By  Tiber  once  twinkled  that  brazen  old   lamp  ; 
A  Mameluke  fierce  yonder  dagger  has  drawn  : 
'Tis  a  murderous  knife  to  toast  muffins  upon. 

Long,  long  through  the  hours,  and  the  night,  and  the 

chimes, 
Here  we  talk  of  old  books,  and  old  friends,  and  old 

times; 


154  THE  CANE-BOTTOM'D  CHAIR 

As  we  sit  in  a  fog  made  of  rich  Latakie 

This  chamber  is  pleasant  to  you,  friend,  and  me. 

But  of  all  the  cheap  treasures  that  garnish  my  nest, 
There's  one  that  I  love  and  I  cherish  the  best : 
For  the  finest  of  couches  that's  padded  with  hair 
I  never  would  change  thee,  my  cane-bottom'd  chair. 

'Tis  a  bandy-legg'd,  high-shoulder'd,  worm-eaten  seat 
With  a  creaking  old  back,  and  twisted  old  feet ; 
But  since  the  fair  morning  when  Fanny  sat  there, 
I  bless  thee  and  love  thee,  old  cane-bottom'd  chair. 

If  chairs  have  but  feeling,  in  holding  such  charms, 
A  thrill  must  have  pass'd  through  your  wither'd  old 

arms  ! 

I  look'd  and  I  long'd,  and  I  wish'd  in  despair ; 
I  wish'd  myself  turn'd  to  a  cane-bottom'd  chair. 

It  was  but  a  moment  she  sat  in  this  place, 
She'd  a  scarf  on  her  neck,  and  a  smile  on  her  face  ! 
A  smile  on  her  face,  and  a  rose  in  her  hair, 
And  she  eat  there,  and  bloom'd  in  my  cane-bottom'd 
chair. 

And  so  I  have  valued  my  chair  ever  since, 

Like  the  shrine  of  a  saint,  or  the  throne  of  a  prince  ; 

Saint  Fanny,  my  patroness  sweet  I  declare, 

The  queen  of  my  heart  and  my  cane-bottom'd  chair. 

When  the  candles  burn  low,  and  the  company's  gone 
In  the  silence  of  night  as  I  sit  here  alone — 
I  sit  here  alone,  but  we  yet  are  a  pair — 
My  Fanny  I  see  in  my  cane-bottom'd  chair. 

She  comes  from   the  past   and   revisits   my   room ; 
She  looks  as  she  then  did,  all  beauty  and  bloom, 
So  smiling  and  tender,  so  fresh  and  so  fair, 
And  yonder  she  sits  in  my  cane-bottom'd  chair. 


'55 

THE  OLD  ARM-CHAIR 
BY  ELIZA  COOK. 

I  love  it !     I  love  it !     And  who  shall  dare 

To  chide  me  for  loving  that  old  arm-chair  ? 

I've  treasured  it  long  as  a  sainted  prize  ; 

I've  bedewed  it  with  tears,  and  embalmed  it  with  sighs. 

'Tis  bound  by  a  thousand  bands  to  my  heart ; 

Not  a  tie  will  break,  not  a  link  will  start. 

Would  ye  learn  the  spell  ? — a  mother  sat  there ; 

And  a  sacred  thing  is  that  old  arm-chair. 

In  childhood's  hour  I  lingered  near 

The  hallowed  seat  with  listening  ear; 

And  gentle  words  that  mother  would  give, 

To  fit  me  to  die,  and  teach  me  to  live. 

She  told  me  shame  never  would  betide 

With  truth  for  my  creed  and  God  for  my  guide; 

She  taught  me  to  lisp  my  earliest  prayer, 

As  I  knelt  beside  that  old  arm-chair. 

I  sat  and  watched  her  many  a  day, 

When  her  eye  grew  dim,   and  her  locks  were  grey ; 

And  I  almost  worshipped  her  when  she  smiled, 

And  turned  from  her  Bible  to  bless  her  child. 

Years  rolled  on  ;  but  the  last  one  sped — 

My  idol  was  shattered ;  my  earth-star  fled. 

I  learnt  how  much  the  heart  can  bear, 

When  I  saw  her  die  in  that  old  arm-chair. 

'Tis  past !  'tis  past !     But  I  gaze  on  it  now 
With  quivering  breath  and  throbbing  brow  : 
'Twas  there  she  nursed  me ;  'twas  there  she  died : 
And  memory  flows  with  lava  tide. 
Say  it  is  folly,  and  deem  me  weak, 
While  the  scalding  drops  start  down  my  cheek ; 
But  I  love  it !   I  love  it '   and  cannot  tear 
My  soul  from  a  mother's  old  arm-chair. 


I56 

MY  OWN  FIRESIDE 
BY  A.  A.  WATTS. 

Let  others  seek  for  empty  joys, 

At  ball  or  concert,  rout  or  play ; 
Whilst  far  from  fashion's  idle  noise, 

Her  gilded  domes  and  trappings  gay, 
I  while  the  wintry  eve  away, 

'Twixt  book  and  lute  the  hours  divide, 
And  marvel  how  I  e'er  could  stray 

From  thee — my  own  Fireside  ! 

My   own  Fireside  !     Those  simple  words 

Can  bid  the  sweetest  dreams  arise, 
Awaken  feeling's  tenderest  chords, 

And  fill  with  tears  of  joy  mine  eyes. 
What  is  there  my  wild  heart  can  prize 

That  doth  not  in  thy  sphere  abide, 
Haunt  of  my  home-bred  sympathies, 

My  own,  my  own  Fireside  ? 

A  gentle  form  is  near  me  now — 

A  small  white  hand  is  clasped  in  mine ; 
I  gaze  upon  her  placid  brow, 

And  ask  what  joys  can  equal  thine  ? 
A  babe  whose  beauty's  hah*  divine, 

In  sleep  his  mother's  eyes  doth  hide : 
Where  may  love  seek  a  fitter  shrine 

Than  thou,  my  own  Fireside  ? 

What  care  I  for  the  sullen  roar 

Of  winds  without  that  ravage  earth  ? 
It  doth  but  bid  me  prize  the  more 

The  shelter  of  thy  hallowed  hearth  ; 
To  thoughts  of  quiet  bliss  give  birth. 

Then  let  the  churlish  tempest  chide, 
It  cannot  check  the  blameless  mirth 

That  glads  my  own  Fireside  ! 


MY  OWN  FIRESIDE  157 

My  refuge  ever  from  the  storm 

Of  this  world's  passion,  strife,  and  care ; 
Though  thunder-clouds  the  sky  deform, 

Their  fury  cannot  reach  me  there. 
There  all  is  cheerful,  calm,  and  fair  ; 

Wrath,  Malice,  Envy,  Strife,  or  Pride 
Hath  never  made  its  hated  lair 

By  thee,  my  own  Fireside ! 

Thy  precincts  are  a  charmed  ring, 

Where  no  harsh  feeling  dares  intrude ; 
Where  life's  vexations  lose  their  sting, 

Where  even  grief  is  half  subdued, 
And  peace,  the  halcyon,  loves  to  brood. 

Then  let  the  pamper'd  fool  deride  ; 
I'll  pay  my  debt  of  gratitude 

To  thee,  my  own  Fireside  ! 

Shrine  of  my  household  deities, 

Fair  scene  of  home's  unsullied  joys, 
To  thee  my  burden'd  spirit  flies, 

When  fortune  frowns  or  care  annoys ; 
Thine  is  the  bliss  that  never  cloys, 

The  smile  whose  truth  has  oft  been  tried : 
What,  then,  are  this  world's  tinsel  toys 

To  thee,  my  own  Fireside  ? 

Oh,  may  thy  yearnings,  fond  and  sweet, 

That  bid  my  thoughts  be  all  of  thee, 
Thus  ever  guide  my  wandering  feet 

To  thy  heart-soothing  sanctuary  ! 
Whate'er  my  future  years  may  be, 

Let  joy  or  grief  my  fate  betide, 
Be  still  an  Eden  bright  to  me, 

My  own,  my  own  Fireside  ! 


158 


THE  BACHELOR'S  SOLILOQUY 

To  wed,  or  not  to  wed  ? — that  is  the  question : 
Whether  'tis  nobler  in  the  mind  to  suffer 
The  stings  and  arrows  of  outrageous  love, 
Or  to  take  arms  against  the  pow'rful  flame, 
And  by  opposing,   quench  it.     To  wed — to  marry- 
No  more — and  by  a  marriage  say  we  end 
The  heart-ache,  and  the  thousand  painful  shocks 
Love  makes  us  heir  to — 'tis  a  consummation 
Devoutly  to  be  wish'd  ! — to  wed — to  marry — 
To   marry — perchance   a   scold — ay,    there's    the   rub. 
For  in  that  wedded  life  what  ills  may  come, 
When  we  have  shuffled  off  our  single  state, 
Must  give  us  serious  pause — there's  the  respect 
That  makes  the  Bachelors  a  num'rous  race — 
For  who  would  bear  the  dull,  unsocial  hours 
Spent  by  unmarried  men — cheer'd  by  no  smile, 
To  sit  like  hermit  at  a  lonely  board 
In  silence  ? — who  would  bear  the  cruel  gibes 
With  which  the  Bachelor  is  daily  teased, 
When  he  himself  might  end  such  heart-felt  griefs 
By  wedding  some  fair  maid  ?     Oh  !   who  would  live 
Yawning  and  staring  sadly  in  the  fire, 
Till  celibacy  becomes  a  weary  life, 
But  that  the  dread  of  something  after  wedlock 
(That  undiscover'd  state  from  whose  strong  chains 
No  captive  can  get  free)  puzzles  the  will, 
And  makes  us  rather  choose  those  ills  we  have 
Than  fly  to  others  which  a  wife  may  bring  ? 
Thus  caution  does  make  Bachelors  of  us  all, 
And  thus  our  natural  wish  for  matrimony 
Is  sicklied  o'er  with  the  pale  cast  of  thought— 
And  love-adventures  of  great  pith  and  moment 
With  this  regard  their  currents  turn  awry, 
And  miss  the  name  of  wedlock. 


159 

UNCLE  SAMMY 
BY  WILL  CAKLETON. 

Some  men  were  born  for  great  things, 

Some  were  born  for  small ; 
Some — it  is  not  recorded 

Why  they  were  born  at  all ; 
But  Uncle  Sammy  was  certain  he  had  a  legitimate  call. 

Some  were  born  with  a  talent, 

Some  with  scrip  and  land; 
Some  with  a  spoon  of  silver, 

And  some  with  a  different  brand ; 
But  Uncle  Sammy  came  holding  an  argument  in  each 
hand. 

Arguments  sprouted  within  him, 

And  twinkled  in  his  eye  ; 

He  lay  and  calmly  debated 

When  average  babies  cry, 

And  seemed  to  be  pondering  gravely  whether  to  live  or 
to  die. 

But  prejudiced  on  that  question 

He  grew  from  day  to  day, 
And  finally  he  concluded 

'Twas  better  for  him  to  stay  ; 

And  so  into  life's  discussion  he  reasoned  and  reasoned 
his  way. 

Through  childhood,  through  youth,  into  manhood, 

Argued  and  argued  he  ; 
And  he  married  a  simple  maiden, 

Though  scarcely  in  love  was  she ; 
But  he  reasoned  the  matter  so  clearly  she  hardly  could 
help  but  agree. 


160  UNCLE  SAMMY 

And  though  at  first  she  was  blooming, 

And  the  new  firm  started  strong, 
And  though  Uncle  Sammy  loved  her, 

And  tried  to  help  her  along, 

She  faded  away  in  silence,  and  'twas  evident  something 
was  wrong. 

Now  Uncle  Sammy  was  faithful, 

And  various  remedies  tried  ; 
He  gave  her  the  doctor's  prescriptions, 

And  plenty  of  logic  beside  ; 

But  logic  and  medicine  failed  him,  and  so  one  day  she 
died. 

He  laid  her  away  in  the  churchyard, 
So  haggard  and  crushed  and  wan ; 
And  reared  her  a  costly  tombstone 

With  all  of  her  virtues  on  ; 

And  ought  to  have  added,  "  A  victim  to  arguments  pro 
and  con." 

For  many  a  year  Uncle  Sammy 

Fired  away  at  his  logical  forte : 
Discussion  was  his  occupation, 

And  altercation  his  sport ; 

He  argued  himself  out  of  churches,  he  argued  himself  into 
court. 

But  alas  for  his  peace  and  quiet, 

One  day,  when  he  went  it  blind, 
And  followed  his  singular  fancy, 
And  slighted  his  logical  mind, 

And  married  a  ponderous  widow  that  wasn't  of  the 
arguing  kind  ! 

Her  sentiments  all  were  settled, 

Her  habits  were  planted  and  grown. 


UNCLE  SAMMY  161 

Her  heart  was  a  starved  little  creature 

That  followed  a  will  of  her  own ; 

And  she  raised  a  high  hand  with  Sammy,  and  proceeded 
to  play  it  alone. 

Then  Sammy  he  charged  down  upon  her 

With  all  of  his  strength  and  his  wit, 
And  many  a  dext'rous  encounter, 
And  many  a  fair  shoulder-hit ; 

But  vain  were  his  blows  and  his  blowing :    he   never 
could  budge  her  a  bit. 

He  laid  down  his  premises  round  her, 

He  scraped  at  her  with  his  saws ; 
He  rained  great  facts  upon  her, 

And  read  her  the  marriage  laws  ; 
But  the  harder  he  tried  to  convince  her,  the  harder  and 
harder  she  was. 

She  brought  home  all  her  preachers, 

As  many  as  ever  she  could — 
With  sentiments  terribly  settled, 
And  appetites  horribly  good — 

Who  sat  with  him  long  at  his  table,  and  explained  to  him 
where  he  stood. 

And  Sammy  was  not  long  in  learning 

To  follow  the  swing  of  her  gown, 
And  came  to  be  faithful  in  watching 

The  phase  of  her  smile  and  her  frown ; 
And  she,  with  the  heel  of  assertion,  soon  tramped  all 
his  arguments  down. 

And  so  with  his  life-aspirations 

Thus  suddenly  brought  to  a  check— 
And  so,  with  the  foot  of  his  victor 

Unceasingly  pressing  his  neck, 
He  wrote  on  his  face,  "  I'm  a  victim,"  and  drifted  a 

logical  wreck. 
S.P.R.  t, 


162  UNCLE   SAMMY 

And  farmers,  whom  he  had  argued 

To  corners  tight  and  fast, 
Would  wink  at  each  other  and  chuckle, 

And  grin  at  him  as  he  passed, 

As  to  say,  "  My  ambitious  old  fellow,  your  whiffletree'a 
straightened  at  last." 

Old  Uncle  Sammy  one  morning 

Lay  down  on  his  comfortless  bed, 
And  Death  and  he  had  a  discussion, 

And  Death  came  out  a-head ; 

And   the  fact  that  she  failed  to  start  him  was  only 
because  he  was  dead. 

The  neighbours  laid  out  their  old  neighbour, 

With  homely  but  tenderest  art, 
And  some  of  the  oldest  ones   faltered, 

And  tearfully  stood   apart ; 

For  the  crusty  old  man  had  often  unguardedly  shown 
them  his  heart. 

But  on  his  face  an  expression 

Of  quizzical  study  lay, 
As  if  he  were  sounding  the  angel 

Who  travelled  with  him  that  day, 
And  laying  the  pipes  down  slyly  for  an  argument  on  the 
way. 

And  one  new-fashioned  old  lady 

Felt  called  upon  to  suggest 
That  the  angel  might  take  Uncle  Sammy, 

And  give  him  a  good  night's  rest, 
And  then  introduce  him  to  Solomon,  and  tell  him  to  do 
his  best. 


i63 

A  BACHELOR'S  COMPLAINT 
BY  H.  G.  BELL. 

They're  stepping  off,  the  friends  I  knew, 

They're  going  one  by  one  : 
They're  taking  wives  to  tame  their  lives, 

Their  jovial  days  are  done. 
I  can't  get  one  old  crony  now 

To  join  me  in  a  spree  ; 
They've  all  grown  grave  domestic  men ; 

They  look  askance  on  me. 

I  hate  to  see  them  sobered  down — 

The  merry  boys  and  true  ; 
I  hate  to  hear  them  sneering  now 

At  pictures  fancy  drew  ; 
I  care  not  for  their  married  cheer 

Their  puddings  and  their  soups, 
And  middle-aged  relations  round 

In  formidable  groups. 

And  though  their  wife  perchance  may  have 

A  comely  sort  of  face, 
And  at  the  table's  upper  end 

Conduct  herself  with  grace — 
I  hate  the  prim  reserve  that  reigns, 

The  caution  and  the  state  ; 
I  hate  to  see  my  friend  grow  vain 

Of  furniture  and  plate. 

How  strange  !  they  go  to  bed  at  ten, 

And  rise  at  half-past  nine  ; 
And  seldom  do  they  now  exceed 

A  pint  or  so  of  wine  : 
They  play  at  whist  for  sixpences, 

They  very  rarely  dance, 
They  never  read  a  word  of  rhyme, 

Nor  open  a  romance. 


THE  PAUPER'S    DRIVE 

They  talk,  indeed,  of  politics, 

Of  taxes,  and  of  crops, 
And  very  quietly,  with  their  wives, 

They  go  about  to  shops. 
They  get  quite  skilled  in  groceries, 

And  learned  in  butcher-meat, 
And  know  exactly  what  they  pay 

For  everything  they  eat. 

And  then  they  all  have  children,  too, 

To  squall  through  thick  and  thin, 
And  seem  quite  proud  to  multiply 

Small  images  of  sin. 
And  yet  you  may  depend  upon't, 

Ere  half  their  days  are  told, 
Their  sons  are  taller  than  themselves, 

And  they  are  counted  old. 

Alas  !  alas  !  for  years  gone  by, 

And  for  the  friends  I've  lost, 
When  no  warm  feeling  of  the  heart 

Was  chilled  by  early  frost. 
If  these  be  Hymen's  vaunted  joys, 

I'd  have  him  shun  my  door, 
Unless  he'll  quench  his  torch,  and  live 

Henceforth  a  bachelor. 


THE  PAUPER'S  DRIVE 
BY  THOMAS  NOEL. 

There's  a  grim  one-horse  hearse  in  a  jolly  round  trot  J 
To  the  churchyard  a  pauper  is  going,  I  wot ; 
The  road  it  is  rough  and  the  hearse  has  no  springs, 
And  hark  to  the  dirge  that  the  sad  driver  sings  : — 

"  Rattle  his  bones  over  the   stones  ; 

He's  only  a  pauper,  that  nobody  owns  I " 


THE  PAUPER'S  DRIVE  165 

Oh,  where  are  the  mourners  ?  alas  !  there  are  none  ; 
He  has  left  not  a  gap  in  the  world  now  he's  gone  ; 
Not  a  tear  in  the  eye  of  child,  woman,  or  man  ; 
To  the  grave  with  his  carcase  as  fast  as  you  can  : 

"  Rattle  his  bones  over  the  stones  ; 

He's  only  a  pauper,  that  nobody  owns  I " 

What  a  jolting  and  creaking  and  splashing  and  din  ! 
The  whip,  how  it  cracks  !  and  the  wheels  how  they  spin  J 
How  the  dirt,  right  and  left,  o'er  the  hedges  is  hurl'd  ! 
The  pauper  at  length  makes  a  noise  in  the  world  ! 

"  Rattle  his  bones  over  the  stones  ; 

He's  only  a  pauper,  that  nobody  owns  I " 

Poor  pauper  defunct !  he  has  made  some  approach 
To  gentility,  now  that  he's  stretch'd  in  a  coach  ; 
He's  taking  a  drive  in  his  carriage  at  last ; 
But  it  will  not  be  long,  if  he  goes  on  so  fast ! 

"  Rattle  his  bones  over  the  stones  ; 

He's  only  a  pauper,  that  nobody  owns  \  " 

You  bumpkin  !   who  stare  at  your  brother  convey'd, 
Behold  what  respect  to  a  cloddy  is  paid, 
And  be  joyful  to  think,  when  by  death  you're  laid  low, 
You've  a  chance  to  the  grave  like  a  gemman  to  go. 

"  Rattle  his  bones  over  the  stones  ; 

He's  only  a  pauper,  that  nobody  owns  I " 

But  a  truce  to  this  strain,  for  my  soul  it  is  sad, 
To  think  that  a  heart  in  humanity  clad 
Should  make,  like  the  brutes,  such  a  desolate  end, 
And  depart  from  the  light  without  leaving  a  friend  ! 

Bear  softly  his  bones  over  the  stones  ; 

Though  a  pauper,  he's  one  whom  his  Maker  yet  owns  I 


i66 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  FORGET- 
ME-NOT 

Farewell !  my  true  and  loyal  knight !  on  yonder  battle- 
field 

Many  a  pearl  and  gem  of  price  will  gleam  on  helm  and 
shield : 

But  bear  thou  on  thy  silver  crest  this  pure  and  simple 
wreath, 

A  token  of  thy  lady's  love — unchanging  to  the  death. 


They  seem,  I  know,  these  fragrant  flowers,  those  fairy 

stars  of  blue, 
As  maiden's  eyes  had  smiled  on  them,  and  given  them 

that  bright  hue, 

As  only  fitting  but  to  bind  a  lady's  hair  or  lute, 
And  not  with  war  or  warrior's  crest  in  armed  field  to  suit. 


But  there's  a  charm  in  every  leaf,  a  deep  and  mystic  spell ; 
Then  take  the  wreath,  my  loyal  knight — our  Lady  shield 

thee  well ; 
And  though  still  prouder  favours  deck  the  gallant  knights 

of  France, 
Oh,  be  the  first  in  every  field  la  fteur  de  souvenance  ! 

How  bland,  how  still  this  summer  eve — sure,  never 
gentler  hour 

For  lay  of  love,  or  sigh  of  lute,  to  breathe  in  lady's 
bower  ; 

Then  listen  with  a  lover's  faith,  as  spellbound  to  the  spot, 

To  the  legend  of  my  token  flower,  the  charmed  forget-me- 
not. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  FORGET-ME-NOT  167 

Young  Albert  led  his  Ida  forth  when  the  departing  sun 

Still  lingered  in  the  golden  west,  and  shone  like  treasures 
won 

From  some  far  land  of  old  romance — some  genii's 
diamond  throne — 

As  wreck  of  bright,  enchanted  gems,  in  triumph  over- 
thrown. 

"  Love,  look  towards  those  radiant  clouds,  so  like  to  fairy 
bowers  : 

How  proudly  o'er  a  sea  of  gold  are  raised  their  ruby 
towers ; 

And  now,  as  if  by  magic  spell,  a  bright  pavilion  seems, 

With  its  folds  of  sapphire  light,  where  the  parting  sun- 
ray  gleams." 

To  that  bright  heaven  with  smiles  she  looked  ;    one 

gleam  of  her  blue  eyes, 
And  Albert's  heart  forgot  the  clouds  and  all  their  radiant 

dyes; 
All,  all,  but  that  young  smiling  one,  whose  beauty  well 

might  seem 
A  fairy  form  of  loveliness  imagined  in  a  dream. 

She  took  a  chaplet  from  her  brow,  which,  gleaming  soft 

and  fair, 
Like  orient  veil  of  amber  light  streamed  down  her  silken 

hair, 
Shedding  fragrance  and  emitting  brightness  from  its 

glittering  rings, 
As  if  halo'd  by  Love's  breath  and  the  glancing  of  his 

wings. 

"  These  maiden  roses,  love,  appear  like  pearls  kissed  by 

the  sun 
With  last  rich  gleam  of  crimson,  ere  his  western  throne 

be  won ; 


168  THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  FORGET-ME-NOT 

But  should  there  not  be  some  bright  flower  to  deck  our 

bridal  wreath, 
Whose  hue  might  speak  of  constancy,  unchanging  to  the 

death  ?  " 

*'  My  Ida !  from  a  thousand  wreaths  thy  own  sweet 

fancy  chose, 

For  pure  unfading  loveliness,  this  garland  of  the  rose  ; 
And  what  can  speak  of  truer  faith,  my  own  beloved 

one, 
Than  the  flower  whose  fragrance  lasts  even  when  its  life 

is  gone  ? 

*'  Look  to  yon  lone  enchanted  isle,  which  'mid  the  silvery 

foam 
Of  the  blue  water  seems  to  float,  the  wild  swan's  elfin 

home ; 

A  very  cloud  of  azure  flowers  in  rich  profusion  bloom  : 
Winds  of  the  lake  !  your  passing  sighs  breathe  of  their 

rich  perfume. 

"  In  nameless  beauty  all  unmasked,  in  solitude  they 

smile, 
As  if  they  bloomed  but  for  the  stars,  or  birds  of  that  lone 

isle: 
For  never  yet  hath  mortal  foot  touched  that  enchanted 

shore, 
Long  hallowed  by  the  wildly  imagined  tales  of  yore." 

"  Full  well  I  love  those  distant  flowers,  whose  pure  and 

tender  blue 
Seems  fitting  emblem  of  a  faith   unchanging  as   their 

hue  ; 
And  would'st  thou  venture  for  my  love  as  thou  would'st 

for  renown, 
To  win  for  me  those  azure  flowers,  to  deck  my  bridal 

crown  ?  " 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  FORGET-ME-NOT  169 

One  parting  kiss  of  his  fair  bride,  and  swiftly  far  away, 
Like  the  wild  swan  whose  home  he  sought,  young  Albert 

met  the  spray 
Of  rising  waves,  which  foamed  in  wrath,  as  if  some 

spirit's  hand 
Awoke  the  genii  of  the  lake  to  guard  their  mystic  land. 

The  flowers  were  won,  but  devious  his  course  lay  back 

again  ; 
To  stem  the  waters  in  their  tow'ring  rage  he  strove  in 

vain ; 
Fondly  he  glanced  to  the  yet  distant  shore,  where  in 

despair 
His  Ida  stood  with  outstretched  hands,  'mid  shrieks  and 

tears  and  pray'r. 

Darker  and  fiercer  gathered  on  the  tempest  in  its  wrath, 
The  eddying  waves  with  vengeful  ire  beset  the  fatal  path  : 
With  the  wild  energy  of  death  he  well-nigh  reached  the 

spot, 

The  azure  flowers  fell  at  her  feet — "  Ida,  forget  me  not ! " 
The  words  yet  borne  upon  his  lips,  the  prize  seem'd 

almost  won, 
When  'mid  the  rush  of  angry  waves  he  sank — for  ever 

gone! 

Within  a  proud  cathedral  aisle  was  raised  a  costly  tomb, 
Whose  pure  white  marble  like  ethereal  light  amid  the 

gloom 

Shone — and  no  other  trace  it  bore  of  [lineage  or  of  lot, 
But  Ida's  name,  with  star-like  flowers  ensculped  forget- 
me-not. 

There  Ida  slept,  the  desolate,  the  last  of  all  her  name, 
Parted  from  him  who  perished  for  her  love  'mid  dawn  of 

fame ; 
But  when  shall  their  fond  legend  die  ?  or  when  shall  be 

forgot 
The  flower  that  won  its  name  in  death,  Love's  theme — 

forget-me-not  ? 


170 

THE    SHADOW    ON   THE    BLIND 

Mr.  Ferdinand  Plum  was  a  grocer  by  trade  ; 
By  attention  and  tact  he  a  fortune  had  made  ; 
No  tattler,  nor  maker  of  mischief,  was  he, 
But  as  honest  a  man  as  you'd  e'er  wish  to  see. 
Of  a  chapel,  close  by,  he  was  deacon,  they  say, 
And  his  minister  lived  just  over  the  way. 

Mr.  Plum  was  retiring  to  rest  one  night, 

He  had  just  undressed  and  put  out  the  light, 

And  pulled  back  the  bund 

As  he  peeped  from  behind 
('Tis  a  custom  with  many  to  do  so  you'll  find), 

When,  glancing  his  eye, 

He  happened  to  spy 

On  the  blinds  on  the  opposite  side — 0,  fie  ! 
Two  shadows  ;  each  movement  of  course  he  could  see, 
And  the  people  were  quarrelling  evidently. 
"  Well,  I  never  !  "  said  Plum,  as  he  witnessed  the  strife, 
"  I  declare,  'tis  the  minister  beating  his  wife  !  " 
The  minister  held  a  thick  stick  in  his  hand, 
And  his  wife  ran  away  as  he  shook  the  brand, 
While  her  shrieks  and  cries  were  quite  shocking  to  hear, 
And  the  sounds  came  across  most  remarkably  clear. 

"  Well,  things  are  deceiving, 

But — '  seeing's  believing,'  " 
Said  Plum  to  himself,  as  he  turned  into  bed ; 

"  Now,  who  would  have  thought 

That  man  would  have  fought 
And  beaten  his  wife  on  her  shoulders  and  head 

With  a  great  big  stick, 

At  least  three  inches  thick  ? 
I  am  sure  her  shrieks  quite  filled  me  with  dread. 

I've  a  great  mind  to  bring 

The  whole  of  the  thing 

Before  the  church  members  ;  but,  no,  I  have  read 
A  proverb,  which  says,  '  Least  said  soonest  mended.'  " 
And  thus  Mr.  Plum's  mild  soliloquy  ended. 


THE  SHADOW  ON  THE  BLIND  171 

But,  alas  !  Mr.  Plum's  eldest  daughter,  Miss  Jane, 
Saw  the  whole  of  the  scene,  and  could  not  refrain 
From  telling  Miss  Spot,  and  Miss  Spot  told  again 
(Though  of  course  in  strict  confidence)  every  one 
Whom  she  happened  to  know,  what  the  parson  had  done. 
So  the  news  spread  abroad,  and  soon  reached  the  ear 
Of  the  parson  himself,  and  he  traced  it,  I  hear, 
To  the  author,  Miss  Jane.    Jane  could  not  deny, 
But  at  the  same  time  she  begged  leave  to  defy 
The  parson  to  prove  she  had  uttered  a  lie. 
A  church  meeting  was  called  :  Mr.  Plum  made  a  speech. 
He  said,  "Friends,  pray  listen  a  while,  I  beseech. 
What  my  daughter  has  said  is  most  certainly  true, 
For  I  saw  the  whole  scene  on  the  same  evening,  too  ; 
But,  not  wishing  to  make  an  unpleasantness  rife, 
I  did  not  tell  either  my  daughter  or  wife. 
But,  of  course,  as  Miss  Jane  saw  the  whole  of  the  act, 
I  think  it  but  right  to  attest  to  the  fact." 
"  'Tis  remarkably  strange  !  "  the  parson  replied  : 
"It  is  plain  Mr.  Plum  must  something  have  spied ; 
Though  the  wife-beating  story,  of  course,  is  denied  : 
And  in  that  I  can  say  I  am  grossly  belied." 
While  he  ransacks  his  brain,  and  ponders,  and  tries 
To  recall  any  scene  that  could  ever  give  rise 
To  so  monstrous  a  charge,  just  then  his  wife  cries. 
"  I  have  it,  my  love ;  you  remember  that  night 
When  I  had  such  a  horrible,  terrible  fright. 
We  both  were  retiring  that  evening  to  rest — 
I  was  seated,  my  dear,  and  but  partly  undressed — 
When  a  horrid  old  rat  jumped  close  to  my  feet ; 
My  shrieking  was  heard,  I  suppose,  in  the  street ; 
You  caught  up  the  poker,  and  ran  round  the  room, 
And  at  last  knocked  the  rat,  and  so  sealed  its  doom. 
Our  shadows,  my  love,  must  have  played  on  the  blind  ; 
And  this  is  the  mystery  solved  you  will  find." 

MORAL. 

Don't  believe  every  tale  that  is  handed  about ; 
We  have  all  enough  faults  and  real  failings,  without 
Being  burdened  with  those  of  which  there's  a  doubt. 


172 

THE  TINKER  AND  THE  MILLER'S 
DAUGHTER 

BY  DR.  JOHN  WOLCOT. 

The  meanest  creature  somewhat  may  contain, 
As  Providence  ne'er  makes  a  thing  in  vain. 

Upon  a  day,  a  poor  and  traveling  tinker, 

In  Fortune's  various  tricks  a  constant  thinker, 

Pass'd  in  some  village  near  a  miller's  door, 
Where  lo  !  his  eye  did  most  astonish'd  catch 
The  miller's  daughter  peeping  o'er  the  hatch, 
Deform'd  and  monstrous  ugly  to  be  sure. 
Struck  with  the  uncommon  form,  the  tinker  started 
Just  like  a  frighten'd  horse,  or  murd'rer  carted, 

Up-gazing  at  the  gibbet  and  the  rope  ; 
Turning  his  brain  about,  in  a  brown  study 
(For,  as  I  have  said,  his  brain  was  not  so  muddy), 
"  Zounds  !  "  quoth  the  tinker,  "  I  have  now  some  hope 
Fortune,  the  jade,  is  not  far  off,  perchance," 
And  then  began  to  rub  his  hands  and  dance. 

Now,  all  so  full  of  love,  o'erjoyed  he  ran, 

Embraced  and  squeezed  Miss  Grist,  and  thus  began  : 

"  My  dear,  my  soul,  my  angel,  sweet  Miss  Grist, 
Now  may  I  never  mend  a  kettle  more, 
If  ever  I  saw  one  like  you  before  !  " 

Then  nothing  loth,  like  Eve,  the  nymph  he  kiss'd. 

Now,  very  sensibly  indeed,  Miss  Grist 
Thought  opportunity  should  not  be  miss'd ; 
Knowing  that  prudery  oft  let  slip  a  joy  ; 
Thus  was  Miss  Grist  too  prudent  to  be  coy. 

For  really  'tis  with  girls  a  dangerous  farce 
To  flout  a  swain  when  offers  are  but  scarce. 
She  did  not  scream  and  cry,  "  I'll  not  be  woo'd  : 
Keep  off,  you  dingy  fellow — don't  be  rude  ; 


THE  TINKER  AND  THE  MILLER'S  DAUGHTER   173 

I'm  fit  for  your  superiors,  tinker." — No, 
Indeed,  she  treated  not  the  tinker  so. 
But  lo  !  the  damsel,  with  her  usual  squint, 
Suffered  her  tinker-lover  to  imprint 

Sweet  kisses  on  her  lips,  and  squeeze  her  hand, 
Hug  her,  and  say  the  softest  things  unto  her, 
And  in  love's  plain  and  pretty  language  woo  her, 

Without  a  frown,  or  even  a  reprimand. 

Soon  won,  the  nymph  agreed  to  be  his  wife, 
And,  when  the  tinker  chose,  to  be  tied  for  life. 

Now  to  the  father  the  brisk  lover  hied, 
Who  at  his  noisy  mill  so  busy  plied, 
Grinding  and  taking  handsome  toll  of  corn, 
Sometimes,  indeed,  too  handsome  to  be  borne. 
"  Ho  !  Master  Miller  ! "  did  the  tinker  say  ; 

Forth  from  his  cloud  of  flour  the  miller  came ; 
"  Nice  weather,  Master  Miller — charming  day — 

Heaven's  very  kind." — The  miller  said  the  same. 
"  Now,  miller,  possibly  you  may  not  guess 

At  this  same  business  I  am  come  about  : 
Tis  this,  then — know  I  love  your  daughter  Bess  : — 

There,  Master  Miller  ! — now  the  riddle's  out. 
I'm  not  for  mincing  matters,  sir  !  d'ye  see — 
I  like  your  daughter  Bess,  and  she  likes  me.*' 

"  Pooh  ! "  quoth  the  miller,  grinning  at  the  tinker, 

"  Thou  dost  not  mean  to  marriage  to  persuade  her  ? 
Ugly  as  is  old  Nick  I  needs  must  think  her, 

Though,  to  be  sure,  she  is  as  heav'n  has  made  her. 
No,  no,  though  she's  my  daughter,  I'm  not  blind  ; 
But,  tinker,  what  hath  now  possessed  thy  mind  ? 
Thou'rt  the  first  offer  she  has  met,  by  dad— 
But  tell  me,  tinker,  art  thou  drunk  or  mad  ?  '* 
"  No — I'm  not  drunk  nor  mad,"  the  tinker  cried, 
"  But  Bet's  the  maid  I  wish  to  make  my  bride ; 

Xo  girl  in  these  two  eyes  doth  Bet  excel." 
"  Why,  fool  !  "  the  miller  said,  "  Bet  hath  a  hump  ! 


'74 


THE  BOY 


And  then  her  nose  ! — the  nose  of  my  old  pump." 
"  I  know  it,"  quoth  the  tinker,   "  know  it  well." 

"  Her  face,"  quoth  Grist,  "  is  freckled,  wrinkled,  flat 

Her  mouth  as  wide  as  that  of  my  torn  cat ; 
And  then  she  squints  a  thousand  ways  at  once. 

Her  waist  a  corkscrew ;    and  her  hair  how  red  ! 

A  downright  bunch  of  carrots  on  her  head — 
Why,  what  the  deuce  has  got  into  thy  sconce  ?  '* 

"  No  deuce  is  in  my  sconce,"  rejoined  the  tinker ; 
"  But,  sir,  what's  that  to  you,  if  fine  I  think  her  ?  " 
"  Why,  man,"  quoth  Grist  "  she's  fit  to  make  a  show, 

And  therefore  sure  I  am  that  thou  must   banter." 
"  Miller,"  replied  the  tinker,  "  right,  for  know 

'Tis  for  that  very  thing,  a  show,  I  want  her." 


THE  BOY 

BY  N.  P.  WILLIS. 

There's  something  in  a  noble  boy, 

A  brave,  free-hearted,  careless  one, 
With  his  uncheck'd,  unbidden  joy, 

His  dread  of  books  and  love  of  fun, 
And  in  his  clear  and  ready  smile 
Unshaded  by  a  thought  of  guile, 

And  unrepress'd  by  sadness, 
Which  brings  me  to  my  childhood  back, 
As  if  I  trod  its  very  track, 

And  felt  its  very  gladness. 

And  yet,  it  is  not  in  his  play, 

When  every  trace  of  thought  is  lost, 

And  not  when  you  would  call  him  gay, 
That  his  bright  presence  thrills  me  most 


THE  BOY  175 

Hia  shout  may  ring  upon  the  hill, 

His  voice  be  echo'd  in  the  hall, 
His  merry  laugh  like  music  trill, 

And  I  in  sadness  hear  it  all : 
For,  like  the  wrinkles  on  my  brow, 
I  scarcely  notice  such  things  now. 

But  when,  amid  the  earnest  game, 

He  stops,  as  if  he  music  heard, 
And,  heedless  of  his  shouted  name 

As  of  the  carol  of  a  bird, 
Stands  gazing  on  the  empty  air, 
As  if  some  dream  were  passing  there  ; 

'Tis  then  that  on  his  face  I  look — 
His  beautiful  but  thoughtful  face— 

And,  like  a  long-forgotten  book, 
Its  sweet  familiar  meanings  trace. 

Remembering  a  thousand  things 

Which  passed  me  on  those  golden  wings. 

Which  time  has  fetter'd  now ; 
Things  that  came  o'er  me  with  a  thrill, 
And  left  me  silent,  sad,  and  still, 

And  threw  upon  my  brow 
A  holier  and  a  gentler  cast, 
That  was  too  innocent  to  last. 

'Tis  strange  how  thoughts  upon  a  child 

Will,  like  a  presence,  sometimes  press, 
And  when  his  pulse  is  beating  wild, 

And  life  itself  is  in  excess — 
When  foot  and  hand,  and  ear  and  eye, 
Are  all  with  ardour  straining  high — 

How  in  his  heart  will  spring 
A  feeling  whose  mysterious  thrall 
Is  stronger,  sweeter  far  than  all ! 

And  on  its  silent  wing, 
How,  with  the  clouds,  he'll  float  away, 
As  wandering  and  as  lost  as  they  ! 


I* 

THE  BATTLE  OF  BLENHEIM 
BY  ROBERT  SOUTHEY. 

It  was  a  summer  evening, 

Old  Rasper's  work  was  done, 
And  he  before  his  cottage  door 

Was  sitting  in  the  sun ; 
And  by  him  sported  on  the  green, 
His  little  grandchild,  Wilhelmine. 

She  saw  her  brother  Peterkin 
Roll  something  large  and  round, 

That  he  beside  the  rivulet 
In  playing  there  had  found  ; 

She  ran  to  ask  what  he  had  found, 

That  was  so  large,  and  smooth,  and  round. 

Old  Kasper  took  it  from  the  boy, 

Who  stood  expectant  by ; 
And  then  the  old  man  shook  his  head, 

And  with  a  natural  sigh — 
"  'Tis  some  poor  fellow's  skull,"  said  he, 
"Who  fell  in  the  great  victory. 

"  I  find  them  in  my  garden,  for 

There's  many  hereabout ; 
And  often  when  I  go  to  plough 

The  ploughshare  turns  them  out ; 
For  many  thousand  men,"  said  he, 
"  Were  slain  in  that  great  victory." 

"Now  tell  us  what  'twas  all  about," 

Young  Peterkin  he  cries, 
And  little  Wilhelmine  looks  up 

With  wonder- waiting  eyes  ; 
"Now  tell  us  all  about  the  war, 
And  what  they  killed  each  other  for  !  " 


THE  BATTLE  OF  BLENHEIM      177 

'*  It  was  the  English,"  Kasper  cried, 

"  Who  put  the  French  to  rout ; 
But  what  they  kill'd  each  other  for 

I  could  not  well  make  out. 
But  everybody  said,"  quoth  he, 
"  That  'twas  a  famous  victory  ! 

"  My  father  lived  at  Blenheim  then, 

Yon  little  stream  hard  by  ; 
They  burn'd  his  dwelling  to  the  ground, 

And  he  was  forced  to  fly : 
So  with  his  wife  and  child  he  fled, 
Nor  had  he  where  to  rest  his  head  ! 

*'  With  fire  and  sword  the  country  round 

Was  wasted  far  and  wide  ; 
And  many  a  childing  mother  then 

And  new-born  baby  died  ! 
But  things  like  that,  you  know,  must  be 
At  every  famous  victory. 

*'  They  say  it  was  a  shocking  sight 

After  the  field  was  won  ; 
For  many  thousand  bodies  there 

Lay  rotting  in  the  sun  ! 
But  things  like  that,  you  know,  must  be 
After  a  famous  victory. 

"  Great  praise  the  Duke  of  Marlborough  won, 

And  our  good  Prince  Eugene." 
"  Why,  'twas  a  very  wicked  thing  !  *' 

Said  little  Wilhelmine. 
"  Nay,  nay,  my  little  girl,"  quoth  he, 
"  It  was  a  famous  victory  ! 

"And  everybody  praised  the  Duke 

Who  this  great  fight  did  win." 
"  But  what  good  came  of  it  at  last  ?  " 

Quoth  little  Peterkin. 
"  Why,  that  I  cannot  tell,"  said  he, 
"  But  'twas  a  famous  victory." 
S.P.B.  M 


A  PIOUS  EDITOR'S  CREED 
BY  J.  R.  LOWELL. 

I  du  believe  in  Freedom's  cause, 

Ez  fur  away  ez  Payris  is  ; 
I  love  to  see  her  stick  her  claws 

In  them  infanial  Phayrisees  ; 
It's  wal  enough  agin  a  king 

To  dror  resolves  an'  triggers,— 
But  libbaty's  a  kind  o'  thing 

That  don't  agree  with  niggers. 

I  du  believe  the  people  want 

A  tax  on  teas  an'  coffees, 
Thet  nuthin'  ain't  extra vygunt, — 

Purvidin'  I'm  in  office ; 
Fer  I  hev  loved  my  country  sence 

My  eye-teeth  filled  their  sockets, 
An'  Uncle  Sam  I  reverence, 

Partic'larly  his  pockets. 

I  du  believe  in  any  plan 

0'  levyin'  the  taxes, 
Ez  long  ez,  like  a  lumberman, 

I  git  jest  wut  I  axes  : 
I  go  free-trade  thru  thick  an'  thin, 

Because  it  kind  o'  rouses 
The  folks  to  vote,— an'  keeps  us  in 

Our  quiet  custom-houses. 

I  du  believe  it's  wise  and  good 

To  sen'  out  furrin  missions, 
Thet  is,  on  sartin  understood 

An*  orthydox  conditions  ; — 
I  mean  nine  thousan'  dols.  per  arm., 

Nine  thousan'  more  fer  outfit, 
An'  me  to  recommend  a  man 

The  place  'ould  jest  about  fit. 


A  PIOUS  EDITOR'S  CREED  179 

I  du  believe  in  special  ways 

O'  prayin'  an'  convartin' ; 
The  bread  comes  back  in  many  days, 

An'  buttered,  tu,  fer  sartin ; 
I  mean  in  preyin'  till  one  busts 

On  wut  the  party  chooses, 
An'  in  convartin'  public  trusts 

To  very  privit  uses. 

I  du  believe  hard  coin  the  stuff 

Fer  'lectioneers  to  spout  on ; 
The  people's  oilers  soft  enough 

To  make  hard  money  out  on ; 
Dear  Uncle  Sam  pervides  fer  his, 

An'  gives  a  good-sized  junk  to  all, 
I  don't  care  how  hard  money  is, 

Ez  long  ez  mine's  paid  punctooal. 

I  du  believe  with  all  my  soul 

In  the  gret  Press's  freedom, 
To  pint  the  people  to  the  goal 

An'  in  the  traces  lead  'em  ; 
Palsied  the  arm  thet  forges  yokes 

At  my  fat  contract's  squintin', 
An'  withered  be  the  nose  that  pokes 

Inter  the  gov'ment  printin'  ! 

I  du  believe  that  I  should  give 

Wut's  his'n  unto  Caesar, 
Fer  it's  by  him  I  move  an'  live, 

Frum  him  my  bread  an'  cheese  air  ; 
I  du  believe  that  all  o'  me 

Doth  bear  his  superscription, — 
Will,  conscience,  honour,  honesty, 

An'  things  o'  thet  description. 

I  du  believe  in  prayer  an'  praise 

To  him  thet  hez  the  grantin' 
O'  jobs, — in  every  thin'  thet  pays, 

But  mos*  of  all  in  can  tin'. 


i8o  A  PIOUS  EDITOR'S  CREED 

This  doth  my  cup  with  marcies  fill, 
This  lays  all  thought  o'  sin  to  rest,— • 

I  don't  believe  in  princerple, 
But  O,  I  du  in  interest. 

I  du  believe  in  bein'  this 

Or  thet,  ez  it  may  happen 
One  way  or  t'other  hendiest  is 

To  ketch  the  people  nappin' ; 
It  aint  by  princerples  nor  men 

My  preudunt  course  is  steadied, — 
I  scent  wich  pays  the  best,  an'  then 

Go  into  it  baldheaded. 

I  du  believe  thet  holdin'  slaves 

Comes  nat'ral  to  a  Presidunt, 
Let  'lone  the  rowdedow  it  saves 

To  hev  a  wal-broke  precedunt ; 
Fer  any  office,  small  or  gret, 

I  couldn't  ax  with  no  face, 
Without  I'd  bin,  thru  dry  an'  wet, 

Th'  unrizzest  kind  o'  doughface. 

I  du  believe  wutever  trash 

'11  keep  the  people  in  blindness, — 
Thet  we  the  Mexicans  can  thrash 

Right  inter  brotherly  kindness, 
Thet  bombshells,  grape,  an'  powder'n'  ball 

Air  good-will's  strongest  magnets, 
Thet  peace,  to  make  it  stick  at  all, 

Must  be  druv  in  with  bagnets. 

In  short,  I  firmly  du  believe 

In  Humbug  generally, 
Fer  it's  a  thing  thet  I  perceive 

To  hev  a  solid  vally  ; 
This  heth  my  faithful  shepherd  ben. 

In  pasture  sweet  heth  led  me. 
An'  this'll  keep  the  people  green 

To  feed  ez  they  hev  fed  me 


It] 

THE  NEW  CHURCH  ORGAN 

BY  WILL  CARLETON. 

They've  got  a  brand-new  organ,  Sue, 

For  all  their  fuss  and  search  ; 
They've  done  just  as  they  said  they'd  do, 

And  fetched  it  into  church. 
They're  bound  the  critter  shall  be  seen, 

And  on  the  preacher's  right 
They've  hoisted  up  their  new  machine, 

In  everybody's  sight. 
They've  got  a  chorister  and  choir, 

Ag'in  my  voice  and  vote  ; 
For  it  was  never  my  desire, 

To  praise  the  Lord  by  note  ! 

I've  been  a  sister  good  an'  true 

For  five-an'-thirty  year  ; 
I've  done  what  seemed  my  part  to  do, 

An'  prayed  my  duty  clear ; 
I've  sung  the  hymns  both  slow  and  quick, 

Just  as  the  preacher  read, 
And  twice,  when  Deacon  Tubbs  was  sick, 

I  took  the  fork  an'  led  ! 
And  now,  their  bold,  new-fangled  ways 

Is  comin'  all  about ; 
And  I,  right  in  my  latter  days, 

Am  fairly  crowded  out ! 

To-day,  the  preacher,  good  old  dear, 

With  tears  all  in  his  eyes, 
Read,  "  I  can  read  my  title  clear 

To  mansions  in  the  skies." 
I  al'ays  liked  that  blessed  hymn— 

I  s'pose  I  al'ays  will; 
It  somehow  gratifies  my  whim, 

In  good  old  Ortonville ; 


1 82  THE  NEW  CHURCH  ORGAN 

But  when  that  choir  got  up  to  sing, 

I  couldn't  catch  a  word  ; 
They  sung  the  most  dog-gondest  thing 

A  body  ever  heard  ! 

Some  worldly  chaps  was  standin'  near ; 

An'  when  I  see  them  grin, 
I  bid  farewell  to  every  fear, 

And  boldly  waded  in. 
I  thought  I'd  chase  their  tune  along, 

An'  tried  with  all  my  might ; 
But  though  my  voice  is  good  and  strong, 

I  couldn't  steer  it  right ; 
When  they  was  high,  then  I  was  low, 

An'  also  contrawise  ; 
An'  I  too  fast,  or  they  too  slow, 

To  "  mansions  in  the  skies." 

An'  after  every  verse,  you  know, 

They  play  a  little  tune  ; 
I  didn't  understand,  an'  so 

I  started  in  too  soon. 
I  pitched  it  pretty  middlin'  high, 

I  fetched  a  lusty  tone, 
But  oh,  alas  !  I  found  that  I 

Was  singing  there  alone  ! 
They  laughed  a  little,  I  am  told ; 

But  I  had  done  my  best ; 
And  not  a  wave  of  trouble  rolled 

Across  my  peaceful  breast. 

And  Sister  Brown— I  could  but  look-- 
She sits  right  front  of  me  ; 

She  never  was  no  singin'  book, 
An'  never  went  to  be ; 

But  then  she  al'ays  tried  to  do 
The  best  she  could,  she  said  ; 

She  understood  the  time  right  through, 
An'  kep'  it  with  her  head  ; 


THE  NEW  CHURCH  ORGAN  183 

But  when  she  tried  this  mornin',  oh, 

I  had  to  laugh,  or  cough  ! 
It  kep'  her  head  a-bobbin'  so, 

It  e'en  a'most  came  off ! 

An'  Deacon  Tubbs — he  all  broke  down. 

As  one  might  well  suppose ; 
He  took  one  look  at  Sister  Brown, 

And  meekly  scratched  his  nose. 
He  looked  his  hymn-book  through  and  through, 

And  laid  it  on  the  seat, 
And  then  a  pensive  sigh  he  drew, 

And  looked  completely  beat. 
An'  when  they  took  another  bout, 

He  didn't  even  rise  ; 
But  drawed  his  red  bandanner  out, 

An'  wiped  his  weeping  eyes. 

I've  been  a  sister,  good  an'  true, 

For  five-an'-thirty  year  : 
I've  done  what  seemed  my  part  to  do, 

An'  prayed  my  duty  clear  ; 
But  Death  will  stop  my  voice,  I  know, 

For  he  is  on  my  track ; 
And  some  day  I  to  church  will  go, 

And  never  more  come  back. 
And  when  the  folks  gets  up  to  sing— 

Whene'er  that  time  shall  be- 
I  do  not  want  no  patent  thing 

A-squealin'  over  me  1 


I84 


HOW  THE  MONEY  GOES 
BY  J.  G.  SAXB. 

How  goes  the  money  ? — Well, 

I'm  sure  it  isn't  hard  to  tell ; 

It  goes  for  rent,  and  water-rates, 

For  bread  and  butter,  coal  and  grates, 

Hats,  caps,  and  carpets,  hoops  and  hose, 

And  that's  the  way  the  money  goes  I 

How  goes  the  money  ? — Nay, 
Don't  everybody  know  the  way  ? 
It  goes  for  bonnets,  coats,  and  capes, 
Silks,  satins,  muslins,  velvets,  crapes, 
Shawls,  ribbons,  furs,  and  furbelows, 
And  that's  the  way  the  money  goes  1 

How  goes  the  money  ? — Sure, 

I  wish  the  ways  were  something  fewer ; 

It  goes  for  wages,  taxes,  debts ; 

It  goes  for  presents,  goes  for  bets, 

For  paint,  pommade,  and  eau-de-rose, 

And  that's  the  way  the  money  goes ! 

How  goes  the  money  ? — Now 

I've  scarce  begun  to  mention  how ; 

It  goes  for  laces,  feathers,  rings, 

Toys,  dolls,  and  other  baby-things, 

Whips,  whistles,  candies,  bells,  and  bows, 

And  that's  the  way  the  money  goes  1 


MY  UNCLE  185 

How  goes  the  money  ? — Come, 

I  know  it  doesn't  go  for  rum; 

It  goes  for  schools  and  Sabbath  chimes, 

It  goes  for  charity — sometimes  ; 

For  missions  and  such  things  as  those, 

And  that's  the  way  the  money  goes ! 

How  goes  the  money  ? — There  ! 
I'm  out  of  patience,  I  declare  ; 
It  goes  for  plays  and  diamond-pins 
For  public  alms  and  private  sins, 
For  hollow  shams  and  silly  shows, — 
And  that's  the  way  the  money  goes ! 


MY  UNCLE 

BY  JOHN  TAYLOR. 

Who  dwells  at  yonder  three  gold  balls, 
Where  Poverty  so  often  calls, 
To  place  her  relics  in  his  walls  ? 
My  uncle. 

Who  cheers  the  heart  with  "  money  lent ' 
When  friends  are  cold,  and  all  is  spent, 
Receiving  only  cent,  per  cent.  ? 
My  uncle. 

Who  cares  not  what  distress  may  bring, 
If  stolen  from  beggar  or  from  king, 
And,  like  the  sea,  takes  everything  1 
My  uncle. 


i86  MY  UNCLE 

Who,  wiser  than  each  sage  of  yore, 
Who  alchemy  would  fain  explore, 
Can  make  whate'er  he  touches  ore  t 

My  uncle. 

Who,  when  the  wretch  is  sunk  in  grief, 
And  none  besides  will  yield  relief, 
Will  aid  the  honest  or  the  thief  ? 
My  uncle. 

Who,  when  detection  threatens  law, 
His  secret  stores  will  open  draw, 
That  future  rogues  may  stand  in  awe  ! 
My  uncle. 

Bought  wisdom  is  the  best,  'tis  clear, 
And  since  'tis  better  as  more  dear, 
We,  for  high  usance,  should  revere 
My  uncle. 

And  though  to  make  the  heedless  wise, 
He  cheats  in  all  he  sells  or  buys, 
To  work  a  moral  purpose  tries 
My  uncle. 

Who,  when  our  friends  are  quite  withdrawn, 
And  hypocrites  no  longer  fawn, 
Takes  all  but  honour  into  pawn  ? 
My  uncle. 


187 

SHALL  I,  WASTING  IN  DESPAIR 

BY  G.  WITHEB. 

Shall  I,  wasting  in  despair, 

Die  because  a  woman's  fair  ? 

Or  make  pale  my  cheeks  with  care 

'Cause  another's  rosy  are  ? 

Be  she  fairer  than  the  day, 

Or  the  flowery  meads  in  May, 
If  she  be  not  so  to  me, 
What  care  I  how  fair  she  be  ? 

Should  my  heart  be  griev'd  or  pin'd 

'Cause  I  see  a  woman  kind  ? 

Or  a  well-disposed  nature 

Joined  with  a  lovely  feature  ? 

Be  she  meeker,  kinder  than 

Turtle-dove  or  pelican, 
If  she  be  not  so  to  me, 
What  care  I  how  kind  she  be  ? 

Shall  a  woman's  virtues  move 
Me  to  perish  for  her  love  ? 
Or  her  well-deservings,  known, 
Make  me  quite  forget  my  own  ? 
Be  she  with  that  goodness  blest 
Which  may  gain  her  name  of  best, 
If  she  be  not  such  to  me, 
What  care  I  how  good  she  be  ? 

'Cause  her  fortune  seems  too  high, 
Shall  I  play  the  fool  and  die  ? 
Those  that  bear  a  noble  mind, 
Where  they  want  of  riches  find, 
Think  what  with  them  they  would  do 
That  without  them  dare  to  woo  ; 
And  unless  that  mind  I  see, 
What  care  I  how  great  she  be  ! 


!88  THE  FRETFUL  MAN 

Great,  or  good,  or  kind,  or  fair, 
I  will  ne'er  the  more  despair ; 
If  she  love  me,  this  believe, 
I  will  die  ere  she  shall  grieve ; 
If  she  slight  me  when  I  woo, 
I  can  scorn  and  let  her  go  ; 
For  if  she  be  not  for  me, 
What  care  I  for  whom  she  be  ? 


THE  FRETFUL  MAN 
BY  WILLIAM  COWPEB. 

Some  fretful  tempers  wince  at  every  touch ; 
You  always  do  too  little  or  too  much  ; 
You  speak  with  life,  in  hopes  to  entertain  ; 
Your  elevated  voice  goes  through  the  brain. 
You  fall,  at  once,  into  a  lower  key  ; 
That's  worse,  the  drone-pipe  of  a  bumble-bee. 

The  southern  sash  admits  too  strong  a  light ; 
You  rise  and  drop  the  curtain — now  'tis  night. 
He  shakes  with  cold  ;   you  stir  the  fire,  and  strive 
To  make  a  blaze ;    that's  roasting  him  alive. 
Serve  him  with  venison,  and  he  chooses  fish  ; 
With  sole — that's  just  the  sort  he  would  not  wish. 

He  takes  what  he,  at  first,  professed  to  loathe, 
And,  in  due  time,  feeds  heartily  on  both  ; 
Yet  still  o'erclouded  with  a  constant  frown, 
He  does  not  swallow,  but  he  gulps  it  down. 
Your  hope  to  please  him  vain  on  every  plan, 
Himself  should  work  that  wonder,  if  he  can. 

Alas !  his  efforts  double  his  distress, 
He  likes  yours  little,  and  his  own  still  less  ; 
Phus,  always  teasing  others,  always  teased, 
His  only  pleasure  is — to  be  displeased. 


i89 

THE  RAZOR-SELLER 
BY  Dr.  JOHN  WOLCOT. 

A  fellow  in  a  market  town 

Most  musical  cried  "  Razors  "  up  and  down, 

And  offered  twelve  for  eighteenpence ; 
Which  certainly  seem'd  wondrous  cheap, 
And  for  the  money  quite  a  heap, 

As  every  man  should  buy,  with  cash  and  sense. 

A  country  bumpkin  the  great  offer  heard  ; 

Poor  Hodge  !   who  suffer'd  by  a  thick  black  beard, 

That  seem'd  a  shoebrush  stuck  beneath  his  nose ; 
With  cheerfulness  the  eighteenpence  he  paid, 
And  proudly  to  himself,  in  whispers,  said, 

"  The  rascal  stole  the  razors,  I  suppose  I 

"  No  matter  if  the  fellow  be  a  knave, 
Provided  that  the  razors  shave  : 

It  sartinly  will  be  a  monstrous  prize." 
So  home  the  clown  with  his  good  fortune  went, 
Smiling,  in  heart  and  soul  content, 

And  quickly  soap'd  himself  to  ears  and  eyes. 

Being  well  lather'd  from  a  dish  or  tub, 
Hodge  now  began  with  grinning  pain  to  grub, 

Just  like  a  hedger  cutting  furze ; 
'Twas  a  vile  razor  ! — then  the  rest  he  tried — 
All  were  impostors — "  Ah  !  "  Hodge  sigh'd, 

"  I  wish  my  eighteenpence  were  in  my  purse." 

In  vain  to  chase  his  beard,  and  bring  the  graces, 
He  cut,  and  dug,  and  winced,  and  stamp'd,  and  swore, 

Brought  blood,  and  danced,  reviled,  and  made  wry  faces, 
And  cursed  each  razor's  body  o'er  and  o'er  ! 


190  NEVER  SAY  FAIL 

His  muzzle  fonn'd  of  opposition  stuff, 
Finn  as  a  Foxite,  would  not  lose  its  ruff ; 

So  kept  it — laughing  at  the  steel  and  suds : 
Hodge,  in  a  passion,  stretch'd  his  angry  jaws, 
Vowing  the  direst  vengeance,  with  clench'd  claws, 

On  the  vile  cheat  that  sold  the  goods. 
"  Razors  !    a  base  confounded  dog, 
Not  fit  to  scrape  a  hog  !  " 

Hodge  sought  the  fellow — found  him,  and  begun — 
"  Perhaps,  Master  Razor -rogue,  to  you  'tis  fun 

That  people  flay  themselves  out  of  their  lives ; 
You  rascal !    for  an  hour  I've  been  grubbing, 
Giving  my  whiskers  here  a  scrubbing 

With  razors  just  like  oyster-knives. 
Sirrah,  I  tell  you,  you're  a  knave, 
To  cry  up  razors  that  can't  shave." 

"  Friend,"  quoth  the  razor-man,  "  I'm  no  knave  ; 

As  for  the  razors  you  have  bought, 

Upon  my  word  I  never  thought 
That  they  would  shave." 

"  Not  think  they'd  shave  !  "  quoth  Hodge,  with  wonder- 
ing eyes, 

And  voice  not  much  unlike  an  Indian  yell, 
"  What  were  they  made  for,  then,  you  dog  ?  "  he  cries. 
"  Made  !  "  quoth  the  fellow,  with  a  smile,  "  to  selL'' 


NEVER  SAY  FAIL 

Press  onward,  'tis  wiser 

Than  sitting  aside, 
And  dreaming  and  sighing, 

And  waiting  the  tide  : 
In  life's  earnest  battle 

They  only  prevail 
Who  daily  march  onward, 

And  never  say  fail. 


NEVER  SAY  FAIL  191 

With  eye  ever  open, 

A  tongue  that's  not  dumb, 
And  heart  that  will  never 

To  sorrow  succumb, 
We'll  battle  and  conquer, 

Though  thousands  assail : 
How  strong  and  how  mighty 

Who  never  say  fail. 

The  spirit  of  angels 

Is  active,  I  know, 
As  higher  and  higher 

In  glory  they  go. 
Methinks  on  bright  pinions 

From  heaven  they  sail, 
To  cheer  and  encourage 

Who  never  say  fail. 

Then  onward  keep  pushing, 

And  press  on  your  way, 
Unheeding  the  envious 

Who  would  you  betray. 
All  obstacles  vanish, 

All  enemies  quail, 
In  fear  of  their  wisdom 

Who  never  say  fail. 

In  life's  rosy  morning, 

In  manhood's  firm  pride, 
Let  this  be  the  motto 

Our  footsteps  to  guide  : 
In  storm  and  in  sunshine, 

Whatever  assail, 
We'll  onward  and  conquer, 

And  never  say  fail. 


»9* 

WHERE  THERE'S  A  WILL  THERE'S 
A  WAY 

BY  J.  G.  SAXB. 

It  was  a  noble  Roman, 

In  Rome's  imperial  day, 
Who  heard  a  coward  croaker, 

Before  the  Castle,  say  : 
'*  They're  safe  in  such  a  fortress ; 

There  is  no  way  to  shake  it  t  w 
««  On — on  !  "  exclaimed  the  hero, 

"  I'll  find  a  way,  or  make  it  ! " 

Is  Fame  your  aspiration  ? 

Her  path  is  steep  and  high ; 
In  vain  he  seeks  her  temple, 

Content  to  gaze  and  sigh  ! 
The  shining  throne  is  waiting, 

But  he  alone  can  take  it 
Who  says,  with  Roman  firmness, 

"  I'll  find  a  way,  or  make  it ! " 

Is  Learning  your  ambition  ! 

There  is  no  royal  road ; 
Alike  the  peer  and  peasant 

Must  climb  to  her  abode. 
Who  feels  the  thirst  of  knowledge 

In  Helicon  may  slake  it, 
If  he  has  still  the  Roman  will 

To  "  find  a  way,  or  make  it !  " 

Are  Riches  worth  the  getting  ? 

They  must  be  bravely  sought ; 
With  wishing  and  with  fretting 

The  boon  cannot  be  bought. 
To  all  the  prize  is  open, 

But  only  he  can  take  it 
Who  says,  with  Roman  courage, 

"  I'll  find  a  way,  or  make  it !  " 


THE  WASHING-DAY  193 

In  Love's  impassioned  warfare 

The  tale  has  ever  been, 
That  victory  crowns  the  valiant — 

The  brave  are  they  who  win. 
Though  strong  is  Beauty's  castle, 

A  lover  still  may  take  it, 
Who  says,  with  Roman  daring, 

"  I'll  find  a  way,  or  make  it ! " 

THE  WASHING-DAY 

Hark  !  'tis  the  important  day  of  washing  ! 
Discord,  clack,  incessant  splashing, 
Soap-suds  all  around  are  dashing — 
Unceasing. 

The  rooms  all  tumbling  inside  out, 
Linen  in  heaps  is  thrown  about, 
And  all  is  racket,  noise,  and  rout — 
Displeasing. 

See  close  around  the  fireside 
Wet  garments  hanging  to  be  dried, 
Hose,  and  a  hundred  things  beside— 
Wet  dropping. 

Oh  !  wretched  day  beyond  expressing, 
To  me  a  day  the  most  distressing, 
Though  'tis  our  women's  greatest  blessing— 
This  slopping. 

In  vain  we  seek  for  comfort  round ; 
Comfort  is  nowhere  to  be  found ; 
On  these  days  'tis  forbidden  ground — 
To  any. 

And  when  one  washing-day  is  o'er, 
Our  pleasure  damped  by  dread  of  more, 
Oh  !  joy  to  some,  but  sorrow  sore — 
To  many. 

8.P.B.  N 


i94 


THE  UNCOMMON  OLD  MAN 

There  was  an  old  man,  and  though  'tis  not  common, 
Yet  if  he  said  true,  he  was  born  of  a  woman  ; 
And  though  'tis  incredible,  yet  I've  been  told 
He  was  once  a  mere  infant,  but  age  made  him  old. 

Whene'er  he  was  hungry  he  long'd  for  some  meat, 
And  if  he  could  get  it,  'twas  said  he  would  eat ; 
When  thirsty  he'd  drink,  if  you  gave  him  a  pot, 
And  his  liquor  most  commonly  ran  down  his  throat. 

He  seldom  or  never  could  see  without  light, 
And  yet  I've  been  told  he  could  hear  in  the  night : 
He  has  oft  been  awake  in  the  daytime,  'tis  said, 
And  has  fallen  fast  asleep  as  he  lay  in  his  bed. 

Tis  reported  his  tongue  always  mov'd  when  he  talk'd, 
And  he  stirr'd  both  his  arms  and  his  legs  when  he  walk'd  ; 
And  his  gait  was  so  odd,  had  you  seen  him  you'd  burst, 
For  one  leg  or  t'other  would  always  be  first. 

His  face  was  the  saddest  that  ever  was  seen, 
For  if  'twere  not  wash'd  it  was  seldom  quite  clean ; 
He  show'd  most  his  teeth  when  he  happened  to  grin, 
And  his  mouth  stood  across  'twixt  his  nose  and  his  chin. 

At  last  he  fell  sick,  as  old  chronicles  tell, 
And  then,  as  folks  said,  he  was  not  very  well ; 
But  what  is  more  strange,  in  so  weak  a  condition, 
As  he  could  not  give  fees  he  could  get  no  physician. 

What  pity  he  died  !  yet  'tis  said  that  his  death 
Was  occasioned  at  last  by  the  want  of  his  breath  ; 
But  peace  to  his  bones,  which  in  ashes  now  moulder, 
Had  he  liv'd  a  day  longer  he'd  been  a  day  older. 


'95 


HOW  TOM  SAWYER  GOT  HIS  FENCE 
WHITEWASHED 

BY  MAKK  TWAIN. 

Tom  Sawyer,  having  offended  his  sole  guardian, 
Aunt  Polly,  is  by  that  sternly  affectionate  dame  pun- 
ished by  being  set  to  whitewash  the  fence  in  front  of 
the  garden.  The  world  seemed  a  hollow  mockery  to 
Tom,  who  had  planned  fun  for  that  day,  and  he  knew 
that  he  would  be  the  laughing-stock  of  all  the  boys  as 
they  came  past  and  saw  him  set  to  work  like  a  "  nigger." 
But  a  great  inspiration  burst  upon  him,  and  he  went 
tranquilly  to  work.  What  that  inspiration  was  will 
appear  from  what  follows. 

One  of  the  boys,  Ben  Rogers,  comes  by  and  pauses, 
eating  a  particularly  fine  apple.  Tom  does  not  see 
him.  Ben  stared  a  moment,  and  then  said, — 

"  Hi-yi !    you're  a  stump,  ain't  you  1  " 

No  answer.  Tom  surveyed  his  last  touch  with  the 
eye  of  an  artist,  then  he  gave  another  gentle  sweep, 
and  surveyed  the  result  as  before.  Ben  ranged  up 
alongside  of  him.  Tom's  mouth  watered  for  the  apple, 
but  he  stuck  to  his  work.  Ben  said, — 

"  Hello,  old  chap ;    you  got  to  work,  hey  !  " 

"  Why,  it's  you,  Ben ;    I  wasn't  noticing." 

"  Say,  I'm  going  in  a-swimming,  I  am.  Don't  you 
wish  you  could  ?  But,  of  course,  you'd  rather  work, 
wouldn't  you  ?  Course  you  would  !  " 

Tom  contemplated  the  boy  a  bit,  and  said, — 

"  What  do  you  call  work  ?  " 

"  Why,  ain't  that  work  ?  " 

Tom  resumed  his  whitewashing,  and  answered  care- 
lessly,— 

"  Well,  maybe  it  is,  and  maybe  it  ain't.  All  I  know 
is,  it  suits  Tom  Sawyer." 


196  TOM  SAWYER'S  FENCE 

"  0,  come  now,  you  don't  mean  to  let  on  that  you  like 
it?" 

The  brush  continued  to  move. 

"  Like  it  ?  Well,  I  don't  see  why  I  oughtn't  to  like 
it.  Does  a  boy  get  a  chance  to  whitewash  a  fence 
every  day  ?  " 

That  put  the  thing  in  a  new  light.  Ben  stopped 
nibbling  his  apple.  Tom  swept  his  brush  daintily  back 
and  forth— stepped  back  to  note  the  effect — added  a 
touch  here  and  there — criticised  the  effect  again.  Ben 
watching  every  move,  and  getting  more  and  more  inter- 
ested, more  and  more  absorbed.  Presently  he  said, — 

"  Say,  Tom,  let  me  whitewash  a  little." 

Tom  considered  ;  was  about  to  consent,  but  he  altered 
his  mind.  "  No,  no  ;  I  reckon  it  wouldn't  hardly  do, 
Ben.  You  see,  Aunt  Polly's  awful  particular  about 
this  fence — right  here  on  the  street,  you  know — but  if 
it  was  the  back  fence  I  wouldn't  mind,  and  she  wouldn't. 
Yes,  she's  awful  particular  about  this  fence  ;  it's  got 
to  be  done  very  careful ;  I  reckon  there  ain't  one  boy 
in  a  thousand,  maybe  two  thousand,  that  can  do  it 
in  the  way  it's  got  to  be  done." 

"  No — is  that  so  ?  0,  come  now  ;  lemme  just  try, 
only  just  a  little.  I'd  let  you,  if  you  was  me,  Tom." 

"  Ben,  I'd  like  to  ;  honest  Injun  ;  but  Aunt  Polly- 
well,  Jim  wanted  to  do  it,  but  she  wouldn't  let  him. 
Sid  wanted  to  do  it,  but  she  wouldn't  let  Sid.  Now,  don't 
you  see  how  I  am  fixed  ?  If  you  was  to  tackle  this 
fence,  and  anything  was  to  happen  to  it " 

"  0,  shucks  !  I'll  be  just  as  careful.  Now  lemme  try. 
Say — I'll  give  you  the  core  of  my  apple." 

"  Well,  here.     No,  Ben  ;  now  don't ;  I'm  afeard " 

"  I'll  give  you  all  of  it !  " 

Tom  gave  up  the  brush  with  reluctance  in  his  face, 
but  alacrity  in  his  heart.  And  while  Ben  worked  and 
sweated  in  the  sun,  the  retired  artist  sat  on  a  barrel  in 
the  shade  close  by,  dangling  his  legs,  munched  his  apple, 
and  planned  the  slaughter  of  more  innocents.  There 
was  no  lack  of  material ;  boys  happened  along  every 


TOM  SAWYER'S  FENCE  197 

little  while  ;  they  came  to  jeer,  but  remained  to  white- 
wash. By  the  time  Ben  was  fagged  out,  Tom  had 
traded  the  next  chance  to  Billy  Fisher  for  a  kite  in 
good  repair  ;  and  when  he  played  out,  Johnny  Miller 
bought  it  for  a  dead  rat  and  a  string  to  swing  it  with  ; 
and  so  on,  and  so  on,  hour  after  hour.  And  when  the 
middle  of  the  afternoon  came,  from  being  a  poor  poverty- 
stricken  boy  in  the  morning,  Tom  was  literally  rolling 
in  wealth.  He  had,  besides  the  things  I  have  mentioned, 
twelve  marbles,  part  of  a  jews-harp,  a  piece  of  blue  bottle- 
glass  to  look  through,  a  spool  cannon,  a  key  that  wouldn't 
unlock  anything,  a  fragment  of  chalk,  a  glass  stopper 
of  a  decanter,  a  tin  soldier,  a  couple  of  tadpoles,  six 
fire-crackers,  a  kitten  with  only  one  eye,  a  brass  door- 
knob, a  dog  collar — but  no  dog — the  handle  of  a  knife, 
four  pieces  of  orange  peel,  and  a  dilapidated  old  window 
sash.  He  had  had  a  nice,  good,  idle  time  all  the  while 
— plenty  of  company — and  the  fence  had  three  coats 
of  whitewash  on  it !  If  he  hadn't  run  out  of  whitewash, 
he  would  have  bankrupted  every  boy  in  the  village. 

Tom  said  to  himself  that  it  was  not  such  a  hollow 
world  after  all.  He  had  discovered  a  great  law  of 
human  action  without  knowing  it,  namely,  that  in  order 
to  make  a  man  or  a  boy  covet  a  thing,  it  is  only  necessary 
to  make  it  difficult  to  attain. 


I98 


GRACE  DARLING 

BY  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 

All  night  the  storm  had  raged,  nor  ceased,  nor  paused, 

When,  as  day  broke,  the  Maid,  through  misty  air, 

Espies  far  off  a  Wreck,  amid  the  surf, 

Beating  on  one  of  those  disastrous  isles — 

Half  of  a  Vessel,  half — no  more  ;  the  rest 

Had  vanished,  swallowed  up  with  all  that  there 

Had  for  the  common  safety  striven  in  vain, 

Or  thither  thronged  for  refuge.     With  quick  glance 

Daughter  and  sire  through  optic-glass  discern, 

Clinging  about  the  remnant  of  this  Ship, 

Creatures — how  precious  in  the  Maiden's  sight ! 

For  whom,  belike,  the  old  man  grieves  still  more 

Than  for  their  fellow-sufferers  engulfed 

Where  every  parting  agony  is  hushed, 

And  hope  and  fear  mix  not  in  further  strife. 

"  But  courage,  Father !    \et  us  out  to  sea — 

A  few  may  yet  be  saved."     The  Daughter's  words, 

Her  earnest  tone,  and  look  beaming  with  faith, 

Dispel  the  Father's  doubts  :  nor  do  they  lack 

The  noble-minded  Mother's  helping  hand 

To  launch  the  boat ;  and,  with  her  blessing  cheered, 

And  inwardly  sustained  by  silent  prayer, 

Together  they  put  forth,  Father  and  Child  ! 

Each  grasps  an  oar,  and  struggling  on  they  go — 

Rivals  in  effort ;  and,  alike  intent 

Here  to  elude  and  there  surmount,  they  watch 

The  billows  lengthening,  mutually  crossed 

And  shattered,  and  re-gathering  their  might; 

As  if  the  tumult,  by  the  Almighty's  will, 

Were,  in  the  conscious  sea,  roused  and  prolonged 


GRACE  DARLING  199 

That  woman's  fortitude — so  tried,  so  proved— 
May  brighten  more  and  more  ! 

True  to  the  mark, 

They  stem  the  current  of  that  perilous  gorge, 
Their  arms  still  strengthening  with  the  strengthening 

heart, 

Though  danger,  as  the  Wreck  is  neared,  becomes 
More  imminent.     Not  unseen  do  they  approach  ; 
And  rapture,  with  varieties  of  fear 
Incessantly  conflicting,  thrills  the  frames 
Of  those  who,  in  that  dauntless  energy, 
Foretaste  deliverance  ;  but  the  least  perturbed 
Can  scarcely  trust  his  eyes,  when  he  perceives 
That  of  the  pair — tossed  on  the  waves  to  bring 
Hope  to  the  hopeless,  to  the  dying,  life — 
One  is  a  Woman,  a  poor  earthly  sister, 
Or  be  she  Visitant  other  than  she  seems, 
A  guardian  Spirit  sent  from  pitying  Heaven, 
In  woman's  shape.      But  why  prolong  the  tale, 
Casting  weak  words  amid  a  host  of  thoughts 
Armed  to  repel  them  ?     Every  hazard  faced 
And  difficulty  mastered,  with  resolve 
That  no  one  breathing  should  be  left  to  perish, 
This  last  remainder  of  the  crew  are  all 
Placed  in  the  little  boat,  then  o'er  the  deep 
Are  safely  borne,  landed  upon  the  beach, 
And,  in  fulfilment  of  God's  mercy,  lodged 
Within  the  sheltering  Lighthouse.— Shout,  ye  waves  ! 
Send  forth  a  song  of  triumph.     Waves  and  Winds, 
Exult  in  this  deliverance  wrought  through  faith 
In  Him  whose  Providence  your  rage  hath  served  ! 
Ye  screaming  Sea-mews,  in  the  concert  join  ! 
And  would  that  some  immortal  Voice — a  Voice 
Fitly  attuned  to  all  that  gratitude 
Breathes  out  from  floor  or  couch,  through  pallid  lips 
Of  the  survivors — to  the  clouds  might  bear- 
Blended  with  praise  of  that  parental  love, 
Beneath  whose  watchful  eye  the  Maiden  grew 
Pious  and  pure,  modest  and  yet  so  brave, 


too  LUCY  GRAY 

Though  young  so  wise,  though  meek  so  resolute — 

Might  carry  to  the  clouds  and  to  the  stars, 

Yes,  to  celestial  Choirs,  GRACE  DARLING'S  name  t 


LUCY  OKAY 
BY  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 

Oft  I  had  heard  of  Lucy  Gray : 
And,  when  I  cross'd  the  wild, 

I  chanced  to  see  at  break  of  day 
The  solitary  child. 

No  mate,  no  comrade  Lucy  knew ; 

She  dwelt  on  a  wide  moor, 
— The  sweetest  thing  that  ever  grew 

Beside  a  human  door  ! 

You  yet  may  spy  the  fawn  at  play, 

The  hare  upon  the  green  ; 
But  the  sweet  face  of  Lucy  Gray 

Will  never  more  be  seen. 

"  To-night  will  be  a  stormy  night — • 

You  to  the  town  must  go  ; 
And  take  a  lantern,  Child,  to  light 

Your  mother  through  the  snow." 

"That,  Father!  will  I  gladly  do: 

'Tis  scarcely  afternoon — 
The  minster-clock  has  just  struck  two, 

And  yonder  is  the  moon !  " 


LUCY  GRAY  201 

At  this  the  Father  raised  his  hook, 

And  snapped  a  faggot-band ; 
He  plied  his  work ; — and  Lucy  took 

The  lantern  in  her  hand. 

Not  blither  is  the  mountain  roe : 

With  many  a  wanton  stroke 
Her  feet  disperse  the  powdery  snow, 

That  rises  up  like  smoke. 

The  storm  came  on  before  its  time : 

She  wandered  up  and  down  ; 
And  many  a  hill  did  Lucy  climb : 

But  never  reached  the  town. 

The  wretched  parents  all  that  night 

Went  shouting  far  and  wide ; 
But  there  was  neither  sound  nor  sight 

To  serve  them  for  a  guide. 

At  day-break  on  a  hill  they  stood 

That  overlooked  the  moor ; 
And  thence  they  saw  the  bridge  of  wood, 

A  furlong  from  their  door. 

They  wept — and,  turning  homeward,  cried, 
"  In  heaven  we  all  shall  meet ;  " 

— When  in  the  snow  the  mother  spied 
The  print  of  Lucy's  feet. 

Then  downwards  from  the  steep  hill's  edge 
They  tracked  the  footmarks  small; 

And  through  the  broken  hawthorn  hedge, 
And  by  the  long  stone-wall ; 

And  then  an  open  field  they  crossed : 
The  marks  were  still  the  same  ; 

They  tracked  them  on,  nor  ever  lost; 
And  to  the  bridge  they  came. 


MISCHIEF-MAKERS 

They  followed  from  the  snowy  bank 
Those  footmarks,  one  by  one, 

Into  the  middle  of  the  plank ; 
And  further  there  were  none! 

— Yet  some  maintain  that  to  this  day 

She  is  a  living  child ; 
That  you  may  see  sweet  Lucy  Gray 

Upon  the  lonesome  wild. 

O'er  rough  and  smooth  she  trips  along, 

And  never  looks  behind; 
And  sings  a  solitary  song 

That  whistles  in  the  wind. 


MISCHIEF-MAKERS 

Oh !  could  there  in  this  world  be  found 
Some  little  spot  of  happy  ground, 
Where  village  pleasures  might  go  round 

Without  the  village  tattling  ! 
How  doubly  blest  that  place  would  be 
Where  all  might  dwell  in  liberty, 
Free  from  the  bitter  misery 

Of  gossips'  endless  prattling. 

If  such  a  spot  were  really  known, 
Dame  Peace  might  claim  it  as  her  own ; 
And  in  it  she  might  fix  her  throne, 

For  ever  and  for  ever  : 
There,  like  a  queen,  might  reign  and  live, 
While  everyone  would  soon  forgive 
The  little  slights  they  might  receive, 

And  be  offended  never. 


MISCHIEF-MAKERS  103 

'Tis  mischief-makers  that  remove 

Far  from  our  hearts  the  warmth  of  love, 

And  lead  us  all  to  disapprove 

What  gives  another  pleasure  ; 
They  seem  to  take  one's  part — but  when 
They've  heard  our  cares,  unkindly  then 
They  soon  retail  them  all  again, 

Mix'd  with  their  poisonous  measure. 

And  then  they've  such  a  cunning  way 

Of  telling  ill-meant  tales  :    they  say, 

"  Don't  mention  what  I've  said,  I  pray ; 

I  would  not  tell  another." 
Straight  to  your  neighbour's  house  they  go, 
Narrating  every  thing  they  know  ; 
And  break  the  peace  of  high  and  low, 

Wife,  husband,  friend,  and  brother. 

Oh  !  that  the  mischief-making  crew 
Were  all  reduced 'to  one  or  two, 
And  they  were  painted  red  or  blue, 

That  everyone  might  know  them  ! 
Then  would  our  villagers  forget 
To  rage  and  quarrel,  fume  and  fret, 
And  fall  into  an  angry  pet, 

With  things  so  much  below  them. 

For  'tis  a  sad,  degrading  part 
To  make  another's  bosom  smart, 
And  plant  a  dagger  in  the  heart 

We  ought  to  love  and  cherish  ! 
Then,  let  us  evermore  be  found 
In  quietness  with  all  around, 
While  friendship,  joy,  and  peace  abound, 

And  angry  feelings  perish  ! 


A  MORNING  CONVERSATION 

BY  MAKIA  EDOEWORTH. 

Mrs.  Bolingbroke.  I  wish  I  knew  what  was  the  matter 
with  me  this  morning.  Why  do  you  keep  the  newspaper 
all  to  yourself,  my  dear  ? 

Mr.  B.  Here  it  is  for  you,  my  dear  ;  I  have  finished  it. 

Mrs.  B.  I  humbly  thank  you  for  giving  it  to  me  when 
you  have  done  with  it — I  hate  stale  news.  Is  there  any- 
thing in  the  paper  ?  for  I  cannot  be  at  the  trouble  of 
hunting  it. 

Mr.  B.  Yes,  my  dear,  there  are  the  marriages  of  two 
of  our  friends. 

Mrs.  B.  Who  ?  who  ? 

Mr.  B.  Your  friend,  the  widow  Nettleby,  to  her 
cousin,  John  Nettleby. 

Mrs.  B.  Mrs.  Nettleby  !     But  why  did  you  tell  me  ? 

Mr.  B.  Because  you  asked  me,  my  dear. 

Mrs.  B.  But  it  is  a  hundred  times  pleasanter  to 
read  the  paragraph  one's  self.  One  loses  all  the  pleasure 
of  the  surprise  by  being  told.  Well,  whose  was  the  other 
marriage  ? 

Mr.  B.  Oh,  my  dear,  I  will  not  tell  you.  I  will 
leave  you  the  pleasure  of  the  surprise. 

Mrs.  B.  But  you  see  I  cannot  find  it.  How  provok- 
ing you  are,  my  dear  !  Do  pray  tell  it  me. 

Mr.  B.  Our  friend  Mr.  Granby. 

Mrs.  B.  Mr.  Granby !  Dear !  Why  did  you  not 
make  me  guess  !  I  should  have  guessed  him  directly. 
But  why  do  you  call  him  our  friend  ?  I  am  sure  he  is 
no  friend  of  mine,  nor  ever  was.  I  took  an  aversion  to 
him,  as  you  may  remember,  the  very  first  day  I  saw  him. 
I  am  sure  he  is  no  friend  of  mine. 

Mr.  B.  I  am  sorry  for  it,  my  dear,  bub  I  hope  you 
will  go  and  see  Mrs.  Granby. 

Mrs.  B.  Not  I,  indeed,  my  dear  !     Who  was  she  1 

Mr.  B.  Miss  Cooke. 

Mrs.  B.  But  there  are  so  many  Cookes — can't  yon 
distinguish  her  in  any  way  ?  Has  she  no  Christian  name  1 


A  MORNING  CONVERSATION  205 

Mr.  B.  Emma,  I  think.     Yes,  Emma. 

Mrs.  B.  Emma  Cooke  !  No  ;  it  cannot  be  my  friend 
Emma  Cooke  ;  for  I  am  sure  she  was  cut  out  for  an  old 
maid. 

Mr.  B.  This  lady  seems  to  me  to  be  cut  out  for  a  good 
wife. 

Mrs.  B.  May  be  so — I  am  sure  I  shall  never  go  to  see 
her.  Pray,  my  dear,  how  came  you  to  see  so  much  of 
her? 

Mr.  B.  I  have  seen  very  little  of  her,  my  dear.  I 
only  saw  her  two  or  three  times  before  she  was 
married. 

Mrs.  B.  Then,  my  dear,  how  could  you  decide  that 
she  was  cut  out  for  a  good  wife  ?  I  am  sure  you  could 
not  judge  of  her  by  seeing  her  only  two  or  three  times, 
and  before  she  was  married. 

Mr.  B.  Indeed,  my  love,  that  is  a  very  just  obser- 
vation. 

Mrs.  B.  I  understand  that  compliment  perfectly,  and 
thank  you  for  it,  my  dear.  I  must  own  I  can  bear  any- 
thing better  than  irony. 

Mr.  B.  Irony  !     My  dear,  I  was  perfectly  in  earnest. 

Mrs.  B.  Yes,  yes ;  in  earnest — so  I  perceive  ;  I 
may  naturally  be  dull  of  apprehension,  but  my  feelings 
are  quick  enough.  I  comprehend  you  too  well.  Yes ;  ife 
is  impossible  to  judge  of  a  woman  before  marriage,  or 
guess  what  sort  of  a  wife  she  will  make.  I  presume  you 
speak  from  experience  ;  you  have  been  disappointed 
yourself,  and  repent  your  choice. 

Mr.  B.  My  dear,  what  did  I  say  that  was  like  this  t 
Upon  my  word,  I  meant  no  such  thing.  I  really  was 
not  thinking  of  you  in  the  least. 

Mrs.  B.  No  ;  you  never  think  of  me  now.  I  can 
easily  believe  that  you  were  not  thinking  of  me  in  the 
least. 

Mr.  B.  But  I  said  that  only  to  prove  to  you  that  I 
could  not  be  thinking  ill  of  you,  my  dear. 

Mrs.  B.  But  I  would  rather  that  you  thought  ill  of 
me  than  that  you  did  not  think  of  me  at  all. 


206  THE  USE  OF  FLOWERS 

Mr.  B.  Well,  my  dear,  I  will  even  think  ill  of  you,  if 
that  will  please  you. 

Mrs.  B.  Do  you  laugh  at  me  ?  When  it  comes  to 
this  I  am  wretched  indeed.  Never  man  laughed  at  the 
woman  he  loved.  As  long  as  you  had  the  slightest  re- 
mains of  love  for  me,  you  could  not  make  me  an  object 
of  derision.  Ridicule  and  love  are  incompatible — abso- 
lutely incompatible.  Well,  I  have  done  my  best,  my 
very  best,  to  make  you  happy,  but  in  vain.  I  see  I  am 
not  cut  out  to  be  a  good  wife.  Happy,  happy  Mrs. 
Granby  ! 

Mr.  B.  Happy  I  hope  sincerely  that  she  will  be  with 
my  friend ;  but  my  happiness  must  depend  on  you,  my 
love  ;  so,  for  my  sake,  if  not  for  your  own,  be  composed, 
and  do  not  torment  yourself  with  such  fancies. 

Mrs.  B.  I  do  wonder  whether  this  Mrs.  Granby  is 
really  that  Miss  Emma  Cooke  ?  I'll  go  and  see  her 
directly ;  see  her  I  must. 

Mr.  B.  I  am  heartily  glad  of  it,  my  dear  ;  for  I  am 
sure  a  visit  to  his  wife  will  give  my  friend  Granby  real 
pleasure. 

Mrs.  B.  I  promise  you,  my  dear,  I  do  not  go  to  give 
him  pleasure,  or  you  either  ;  but  to  satisfy  my  own — 
curiosity. 


THE  USE  OF  FLOWERS 
BY  MARY  HOWITT. 

God  might  have  bade  the  earth  bring  forth 

Enough  for  great  and  small, 
The  oak-tree,  and  the  cedar-tree, 

Without  a  flower  at  all. 

He  might  have  made  enough — enough 

For  every  want  of  ours, 
For  luxury,  medicine,  and  toil, 

And  yet  have  made  no  flowers. 


THE  USE  OF  FLOWERS  207 

The  ore  within  the  mountain  mine 

Requireth  none  to  grow  ; 
Nor  doth  it  need  the  lotus-flower 

To  make  the  river  flow. 

The  clouds  might  give  abundant  rain, 

The  nightly  dews  might  fall, 
And  the  herb  that  keepeth  life  in  man, 

Might  yet  have  drunk  them  all. 

Then  wherefore,  wherefore,  were  they  made, 

All  dyed  with  rainbow  light, 
All  fashioned  with  supremest  grace, 

Upspringing  day  and  night ; 

Springing  in  valleys  green  and  low, 

And  on  the  mountains  high, 
And  in  the  silent  wilderness, 

Where  no  man  passeth  by  ? 

Our  outward  life  requires  them  not, 
Then,  wherefore  had  they  birth  ?— 

To  minister  delight  to  man, 
To  beautify  the  earth  ; 

To  whisper  hope — to  comfort  man 

Whene'er  his  faith  is  dim  ; 
For  whoso  careth  for  the  flowers, 

Will  care  much  more  for  him  I 


208 

BULLUM  v.  BOATUM 
BY  G.  A.  STEPHENS. 

Law  is  law — law  is  law  ;  and  as  such  and  so  forth  and 
hereby,  and  aforesaid,  provided  always,  nevertheless, 
notwithstanding.  Law  is  like  a  country  dance — people 
are  led  up  and  down  in  it  till  they  are  tired.  Law  is 
like  a  book  of  surgery — there  are  a  great  many  desperate 
cases  in  it.  It  is  also  like  physic — they  that  take  the 
least  of  it  are  best  off.  Law  is  like  a  homely  gentle- 
woman— very  well  to  follow.  Law  is  also  like  a  scolding 
wife — Very  bad  when  it  follows  us.  Law  is  like  a  new 
fashion — people  are  bewitched  to  get  into  it.  It  is 
also  like  bad  weather — most  people  are  glad  when  they 
get  out  of  it. 

We  shall  now  mention  a  cause,  "  Bullum  versus  Boat- 
urn  "  :  it  was  a  cause  that  came  before  me.  The  cause 
was  as  follows  : — 

There  were  two  farmers :  Farmer  A.  and  Fanner  B. 
Farmer  A.  was  seized  or  possessed  of  a  bull ;  farmer  B. 
was  seized  or  possessed  of  a  ferry-boat.  Now,  the  owner 
of  the  ferry-boat,  having  made  his  boat  fast  to  a  post  on 
shore  with  a  piece  of  hay  twisted  rope-fashion  (or,  as 
we  say  vulgo  vocato,  a  hay-band) — after  he  had  made 
his  boat  fast  to  a  post  on  shore,  as  it  was  very  natural  for 
a  hungry  man  to  do,  he  went  up  to  town  to  dinner  ; 
farmer  A. 's  bull,  as  it  was  very  natural  for  a  hungry  bull 
to  do,  came  down  town  to  look  for  a  dinner  ;  and,  observ- 
ing, discovering,  seeing,  and  spying  out  some  turnips 
in  the  bottom  of  the  ferry-boat,  the  bull  scrambled  into 
the  ferry-boat ;  he  ate  up  the  turnips,  and,  to  make  an 
end  of  his  meal,  fell  to  work  on  the  hay-band.  The  boat, 
being  eaten  from  its  moorings,  floated  down  the  river, 
with  the  bull  in  it ;  it  struck  against  a  rock,  beat  a  hole 
in  the  bottom  of  the  boat,  and  tossed  the  bull  overboard  : 
whereupon  the  owner  of  the  bull  brought  his  action  against 


BULLUM  v.  BOATUM  209 

the  boat,  for  running  away  with  the  bull ;  the  owner  of 
the  boat  brought  his  action  against  the  bull,  for  running 
away  with  the  boat ;  and  thus  notice  of  trial  was  given, 
Bullum  versus  Boatum — -Boatum  versus  Bullum. 

Now,  the  counsel  for  the  bull  began  with  saying,  "  My 
lord,  and  you,  gentlemen  of  the  jury,  we  are  counsel  in 
this  cause  for  the  bull.  We  are  indicted  for  running  away 
with  the  boat.  Now,  my  lord,  we  have  heard  of  running 
horses,  but  never  of  running  bulls  before.  Now,  my  lord, 
the  bull  could  no  more  run  away  with  the  boat  than  a  man 
in  a  coach  may  be  said  to  run  away  with  the  horses; 
therefore,  my  lord,  how  can  we  punish  what  is  not  pun- 
ishable ?  How  can  we  eat  what  is  not  eatable  ?  Or  how 
can  we  drink  what  is  not  drinkable  ?  Therefore,  my 
lord,  as  we  are  counsel  in  this  cause  for  the  bull,  if  the 
jury  should  bring  the  bull  in  guilty,  the  jury  would  be 
guilty  of  a  bull." 

Now,  the  counsel  for  the  boat  observed  that  the  bull 
should  be  nonsuited  ;  because,  in  his  declaration,  he  had 
not  specified  what  colour  he  was  of  ;  for  thus  wisely,  and 
thus  learnedly,  spoke  the  counsel — "  My  lord,  if  the  bull 
was  of  no  colour,  he  must  be  of  some  colour ;  and  if  he 
was  not  of  any  colour,  what  colour  could  the  bull  be  of  ?  " 

I  overruled  this  motion  myself  by  observing  that  the 
bull  was  a  white  bull,  and  that  white  is  no  colour  ;  be- 
sides, as  I  told  my  brethren,  they  should  not  trouble 
their  heads  to  talk  of  colour  in  the  law,  for  the  law  can 
colour  anything. 

This  cause  being  afterwards  left  to  a  reference,  upon 
the  award  both  bull  and  boat  were  acquitted,  it  being 
proved  that  the  tide  of  the  river  carried  them  both  away  ; 
upon  which  I  gave  it  a-s  my  opinion  that,  as  the  tide  of  the 
river  carried  both  bull  and  boat  away,  both  bull  and  boat 
had  a  good  action  against  the  water-bailiff. 

My  opinion  being  taken,  an  action  was  issued ;  and 
upon  the  traverse,  this  point  of  law  arose  : — "  How, 
wherefore,  and  whether,  why,  when,  and  what,  whatso- 
ever, whereas,  and  whereby,  as  the  boat  was  not  a  compos 
mentis  evidence,  how  can  an  oath  be  administered  ? 


210  ARNOLD  WINKELRIED 

That  point  was  soon  settled  by  Boatum's  attorney  de- 
claring that,  for  his  client,  he  would  swear  anything. 

The  water-bailiff's  charter  was  then  read,  taken  out 
of  the  original  record,  in  true  law  Latin  ;  which  set  forth, 
in  their  declaration,  that  they  were  carried  away  either 
by  the  tide  of  the  flood,  or  the  tide  of  the  ebb.  The  charter 
of  the  water-bailiff  was  as  follows  : — Aquas,  bailiffi  &s£ 
magistrates  in  choisi  super  omnibus  fishibus  qui  habuer- 
unt  finnos  et  scalos,  claws,  shetts,  et  talos  qui  sicimmare  in 
freshibus,  vel  saltibus  riveris,  lakis,  pondis,  canalebus,  et 
wett  boats ;  sive  oysteri,  prawni,  whitini,  shrimpi,  turbu- 
tus,  solus ;  that  is,  not  turbots  alone,  but  turbots  and  soles 
both  together. 

But  now  comes  the  nicety  of  the  law ;  the  law  is  as  nice 
as  a  new-laid  egg,  and  not  to  be  understood  by  addle- 
headed  people.  Bullum  and  Boatum  mentioned  both 
ebb  and  flood,  to  avoid  quibbling ;  but  it  being  proved 
that  they  were  carried  away  neither  by  the  tide  of  flood 
nor  by  the  tide  of  ebb,  nor  exactly  upon  the  top  of  high 
water,  they  were  nonsuited  !  but  such  was  the  lenity  of 
the  court,  upon  their  paying  all  costs  they  were  allowed 
to  begin  again  de  novo. 


ARNOLD  WINKELRIED 

BY  JAMBS  MONTGOMERY. 

"  Make  way  for  liberty  !  "  he  cried  ; 
Made  way  for  liberty,  and  died  ! 
It  must  not  be  :    this  day,  this  hour, 
Annihilates  the  oppressor's  power  ! 
All  Switzerland  is  in  the  field, 
She  will  not  fly,  she  cannot  yield — 
She  must  not  fall :    her  better  fate 
Here  gives  her  an  immortal  date. 


ARNOLD  WINKELRIED  an 

Few  were  the  numbers  she  could  boast, 
But  every  freeman  was  a  host, 
And  felt  as  though  himself  were  he 
On  whose  sole  arm  hung  victory. 
It  did  depend  on  one,  indeed  : 
Behold  him— Arnold  Winkelried  ! 
There  sounds  not  to  the  trump  of  fame 
The  echo  of  a  nobler  name. 

Unmarked  he  stood  amid  the  throng, 

In  rumination  deep  and  long, 

Till  you  might  see,  with  sudden  grace, 

The  very  thought  come  o'er  his  face ; 

And  by  the  motion  of  his  form 

Anticipate  the  rising  storm  ; 

And,  by  the  uplifting  of  his  brow, 

Tell  where  the  bolt  would  strike  and  how. 

But  'twas  no  sooner  thought  than  done  i 
The  field  was  in  a  moment  won  : — 
"  Make  way  for  liberty  !  "  he  cried, 
Then  ran,  with  arms  extended  wide, 
As  if  his  dearest  friend  to  clasp. 
Ten  spears  he  swept  within  his  grasp  : 
"  Make  way  for  liberty  !  "  he  cried, — 
Their  keen  points  met  from  side  to  side ; 
He  bowed  among  them  like  a  tree, 
And  thus  made  way  for  liberty. 

Swift  to  the  breach  his  comrades  fly — • 

"  Make  way  for  liberty  !  "  they  cry, 

And  through  the  Austrian  phalanx  dart, 

As  rushed  the  spears  through  Arnold's  heart  j 

While  instantaneous  at  his  fall, 

Bout,  ruin,  panic,  scattered  all ; 

An  earthquake  could  not  overthrow 

A  city  with  a  surer  blow. 

Thus  Switzerland  again  was  free  ; 

Thus  death  made  way  for  liberty ! 


2ia 


A  CLOSE,  HARD  MAN 

A  hard,  close  man  was  Solomon  Ray, 
Nothing  of  value  he  gave  away ; 

He  hoarded  and  saved  ; 

He  pinched  and  shaved  ; 
And  the  more  he  had  the  more  he  craved. 

The  hard-earned  gold  he  toiled  to  gain 
Brought  him  little  but  care  and  pain ; 

For  little  he  spent ; 

And  all  he  lent 
He  made  it  bring  him  twenty  per  cent. 

Such  was  the  life  of  Solomon  Ray  ; 

The  years  went  by  and  his  hair  grew  gray  ; 

His  cheeks  grew  thin, 

And  his  soul  within 
Grew  hard  as  the  gold  he  worked  to  win. 

But  he  died  one  day,  as  all  men  must, 
For  life  is  fleeting,  and  man's  but  dust. 

The  heirs  were  gay 

That  laid  him  away, 
And  that  was  the  end  of  Solomon  Ray. 

They  quarrelled  now  who  had  little  cared 
For  Solomon  Ray  while  his  life  was  spared ; 

His  lands  were  sold, 

And  his  hard-earned  gold 
All  went  to  the  lawyers,  I  am  told. 

Yet  men  will  cheat,  and  pinch,  and  save, 
Nor  carry  their  treasures  beyond  the  grave  j 

All  their  gold  some  day 

Will  melt  away 
Like  the  selfish  savings  of  Solomon  Ray. 


213 

THE  GLOVE  AND  THE  LIONS 

BY  LEIGH  HUNT. 

King  Francis  was  a  hearty  king,  and  loved  a  royal  sport, 
And  one  day,  as  his  lions  fought,  sat  looking  on  the  court. 
The  nobles  filled  the  benches  round,  the  ladies  by  their 

side, 
And  'mongst  them  sat  the  Count  de  Lorge,  with  one  for 

whom  he  sighed  ; 

And  truly  'twas  a  gallant  thing  to  see  that  crowning  show, 
Valour  and  love,  and  a  king  above,  and  the  royal  hearts 

below. 

Ramped  and  roared  the  lions,  with  horrid  laughing  jaws  ; 
They  bit,  they  glared,  gave  blows  like  beams,  a  wind 

went  with  their  paws  ; 
With  wallowing  might  and  stifled  roar  they  roll'd  on  one 

another, 
Till  all  the  pit,  with  sand  and  mane,  was  in  a  thund'rous 

smother ; 
The  bloody  foam  above  the  bars  came  whizzing  thro'  the 

air  : 
Said  Francis  then,  "  Faith  !  gentlemen,  we're  better  here 

than  there  !  " 

De  Lorge's  love  o'erheard  the  king,  a  beauteous  lively 

dame, 
With  smiling  lips  and  sharp  bright  eyes  which  always 

seem'd  the  same ; 
She  thought, — The  Count  my  lover  is  brave  as  brave  can 

be; 
He  surely  would  do  wondrous  things  to  show  his  love  of 

me  : 

Kings,  ladies,  lovers,  all  look  on  ;  the  occasion  is  divine  ! 
I'll  drop  my  glove  to  prove  his  love  ;  great  glory  will  be 

mine ! 


n4  THE  WIDOWER 

She  dropped  her  glove  to  prove  his  love,  then  looked  ab 

him  and  smiled ; 

He  bow'd,  and  in  a  moment  leaped  among  the  lions  wild. 
The  leap  was  quick,  return  was  quick — he  has  regained 

the  place — 
Then  threw  the  glove — but  not  with  love — right  in  the 

lady's  face. 
"  By  heaven  !  "  cried  Francis,  "  rightly  done  !  "  and  he 

rose  from  where  he  sat : 
"  No  love,"  quoth  he,  "  but  vanity  sets  love  a  task  like 

that ! " 


THE  WIDOWER 

BY  THE  HON.  MBS.  NORTON. 

I  saw  the  widower  mournful  stand, 

Gazing  out  on  the  sea  and  land  ; 

O'er  the  yellow  corn  and  the  waving  trees, 

And  the  blue  stream  rippling  in  the  breeze ! 

Oh  !  beautiful  seems  the  earth  and  sky  ; 

Why  doth  he  heave  that  bitter  sigh  ? 

Vain  are  the  sunshine  and  brightness  to  him, 

His  heart  is  heavy,  his  eyes  are  dim  ; 

His  thoughts  are  not  with  the  moaning  sea, 

Though  his  gaze  be  fixed  on  it  vacantly. 

His  thoughts  are  far,  where  the  dark  boughs  wave 

O'er  the  silent  rest  of  his  dear  wife's  grave ; 

He  starts,  and  brushes  away  a  tear, 

For  the  still  small  voices  are  in  his  ear 

Of  the  bright-haired  angels  his  dear  wife  left, 

To  comfort  her  lonely  and  long- bereft. 

With  a  gush  of  sorrow  he  turns  to  press 

Her  little  ones  close  with  a  fond  caress ; 

And  they  sigh — oh,  not  because  mother  sleeps, 

For  she  is  forgotten,  but  that  he  weeps  ; 

Yes,  she  is  forgotten  !  the  patient  love, 

The  tenderness  of  that  meek-eyed  dove, 


THE  WIDOWER  215 

The  voice  that  rose  on  the  evening  air 

To  bid  them  kneel  to  the  God  of  Prayer  : 

The  joyous  tones  that  greeted  them  when, 

After  a  while,  she  came  again  ; 

The  pressure  soft  of  her  rose-leaved  cheek, 

The  touch  of  her  hand  as,  white  and  weak, 

She  laid  it  on  each  shining  head, 

And  blessed  the  sons  of  the  early  dead  ; 

All  is  forgotten — all  pass'd  away, 

Like  the  fading  close  of  a  hot  summer's  day  ; 

Or  the  sound  of  her  voice  (though  they  scarce  can  tell 

Whose  voice  it  was  they  loved  so  well), 

Comes  with  their  laughter,  a  short,  sweet  dream, 

As  the  breeze  blows  over  the  gentle  stream, 

Rippling  a  moment  its  quiet  breast, 

And  leaving  it  then  to  its  sunny  rest. 

But  he — oh,  deep  in  his  inmost  soul, 

Which  has  drunk  to  the  dregs  of  sorrow's  bowl, 

Her  look,  and  her  smile,  and  the  lightest  word 

Of  the  musical  voice  he  so  often  heard, 

And  never  will  hear  on  earth  again 

(Though  he  love  it  more  than  he  loved  it  then), 

Are  buried  to  rise  at  times  unbid, 

And  force  hot  tears  to  the  burning  lid. 

The  mother  that  bare  her  may  learn  to  forget, 

But  he  will  remember  and  weep  for  her  yet : 

Oh,  while  the  heart  where  her  head  hath  lain 

In  its  hours  of  joy,  in  its  sighs  of  pain, 

While  the  hand  which  so  oft  hath  been  clasped  in  hers, 

In  the  twilight  hour,  when  nothing  stirs, 

Beat  with  the  deep,  full  pulse  of  life, 

Can  he  forget  his  gentle  wife  ? 

Many  may  love  him,  and  he  in  truth 

May  love,  but  not  with  the  love  of  his  youth ; 

Ever  around  his  joy  will  come 

A  stealing  sigh  for  that  long-loved  home, 

And  her  step  and  her  voice  will  go  glidingly  by, 

In  the  desolate  halls  of  his  memory. 


xi6 

YAWCOB  STRAUSS 
BY  CHABLES  F.  ADAMS. 

I  haf  von  funny  leedle  poy, 

Vot  gomes  schust  to  mine  knee  ; 

Der  queerest  schap,  der  Greatest  rogue, 
As  efer  you  dit  see. 

He  runs,  und  schumps,  und  schmashea  dings 

In  all  barts  of  der  house  ; 
But  vot  off  dot  ?  he  vas  mine  son, 

Mine  leedle  Yawcob  Strauss. 

He  get  der  measles  und  der  mumbs, 

Und  eferyding  dot's  oudt ; 
He  sbills  mine  glass  of  lager  bier 

Foots  schnuff  indo  mine  kraut. 

He  fills  mine  pipe  mit  Limburg  cheese, — 

Dot  vas  der  roughest  chouse  : 
I'd  dake  dot  vrom  no  oder  poy 

But  leedle  Yawcob  Strauss. 

He  dakes  der  milk-ban  for  a  dhrum, 

Und  cuts  mine  cane  in  dwo, 
To  make  der  schticks  to  beat  it  mit,— 

Mine  gracious,  dot  vos  drue  ! 

I  dinks  mine  bed  was  schplit  abart, 

He  kicks  oup  sooch  a  touse  : 
But  never  mind  ;  der  poys  vas  few 

Like  dot  young  Yawcob  Strauss. 

He  asks  me  questions,  sooch  as  dese  j 

Who  baints  mine  nose  so  red  ? 
Who  vas  it  cuts  dot  schmoodth  blace  oudt 

Vrom  der  hair  ubon  mine  bed  ? 


THE  TOE  217 

Und  vhere  der  plaze  goes  vrom  der  lamp 

Vene'er  der  glim  I  douse. 
How  gon  I  all  dose  dings  eggsblain 

To  dot  schmall  Yawcob  Strauss  ? 

I  somedimes  dink  I  schall  go  vild 

]\Iit  sooch  a  grazy  poy, 
Und  vish  vonce  more  I  could  haf  rest, 

Und  beaceful  dimes  enshoy  : 

But  ven  he  vash  asleep  in  ped, 

So  guiet  as  a  mouse, 
I  prays  der  Lord,  "  Dake  anyding, 

But  leaf  dot  Yawcob  Strauss." 


THE  TOE 

Once  on  a  time — no  matter  when, 

Whether  of  recent  date  or  long  ago— 
A  potentate,  the  pride  of  British  men, 

Felt  direful  twinges  in  his  royal  toe  ; 
And  quick  consulted  his  physicians 

Upon  the  cause  of  the  complaint, 

Which  certainly  was  bad  enough  to  vex  a  saint, 

Or  make  a  lady  faint. 
Ay,  or  a  parson  swear,  if  giv'n  to  wrathful  ebullitions. 

Not  that  I  mean  to  say  this  truly  great 

And  all  accomplish'd  potentate 
Did  ever  swear — far  be  it  from  my  tongue 

To  do  such  mildness  and  such  virtue  wrong  j 
Oh,   no  !   he   merely   said,   in   accents   mild 
(Nay,  some  assert  that,  while  he  spoke,  he  smiled, 

So  very  patiently  he  bore  the  pain), 

"  Dear  Doctor,  I  am  very  ill, 


ai8  THE  TOE 

None  ever  suffer' d  so,  I  do  believe  ; 
My  toe  !  my  toe  ! — exert  your  utmost  skill, 
And  find  out  something  that  will  quick  relieve, 
For,  oh  !  the  gout  has  seized  my  toe  again." 
The  doctor,  as  in  duty  bound,  look'd  sad, 
And  stooping  low, 
Peep'd  at  the  toe, 

Then  felt  the  pulse  of  his  right  royal  master. 
"  Indeed,"  said  he,  "  your  majesty  is  bad, 
And  pain,  we  know,  will  drive  a  wise  man  mad. 
But  your  complaint  is  not  the  gout." 

"  Indeed  !  "     "  Oh  !  no  ;    I've  found  it  out, 
And  speedily  I  will  apply  a  plaster. 
Meanwhile,  with  your  permission, 
I'll  show  the  cause  of  all  your  pain, 
And  trust  it  never  can  occur  again, 
If  you'll  be  guided  by  your  old  physician. 
Your  shoes  have  been  too  tight — too  tight  by  half, 
So  that  you've  quite  compress'd  your  royal  toes, 
And  giv'n  a  wrong  direction 
To  the  corneous  substance  call'd  the  naiL 
Now,  as  your  toes  support  so  large  a  calf, 

'Tis  evident  upon  reflection 
That  the  corneous  substance  inward  grows, 
And  must  be  rooted  out,  or  else  we  fail. 

The  fact  is,  sire, 
That  men  of  goodly  size  and  certain  ages 

Must  not  aspire 

To  pass  for  youths  in  ladies'  eyes ; 
It  ne'er  will  do.     Therefore,  be  wise, 
And  leave  such  dandy  tricks  to  boys  and  pages." 


219 

NOSE  AND  EYES 

BY  WILLIAM  COWPBR. 

Between  Nose  and  Eyes  a  strange  contest  arose, 
The  spectacles  set  them  unhappily  wrong  ; 

The  point  in  dispute  was,  as  all  the  world  knows, 
To  which  the  said  spectacles  ought  to  belong. 

So  the  tongue  was  the  lawyer,  and  argued  the  cause 
With  a  great  deal  of  skill,  and  a  wig  full  of  learning  ; 

While  Chief  Baron  Ear  sat  to  balance  the  laws, 
So  famed  for  his  talent  in  nicely  discerning. 

"  In  behalf  of  the  Nose,  it  will  quickly  appear, 
And  your  lordship,"  said  Tongue,  "  will  undoubtedly 
find 

That  the  Nose  has  had  spectacles  always  in  wear, 
Which  amounts  to  possession,  time  out  of  mind." 

Then  holding  the  spectacles  up  to  the  court — 

"  Your  lordship  observes  they  are  made  with  a  straddle, 

As  wide  as  the  ridge  of  the  nose  is ;  in  short, 
Designed  to  sit  so,  just  like  a  saddle. 

"  On  the  whole  it  appears,  and  my  argument  shows, 
With  a  reasoning  the  Court  will  never  condemn, 

That  the  spectacles  plainly  were  made  for  the  Nose, 
And  the  Nose  was  as  plainly  intended  for  them." 

Then  shifting  his  side,  as  the  lawyer  knows  how, 
He  pleaded  again  in  behalf  of  the  Eyes  ; 

But  what  were  his  arguments  few  people  know, 
For  the  world  did  not  think  they  were  equally  wise. 

So  his  lordship  decreed,  with  grave  solemn  tone, 
Decisive  and  clear,  without  one  if  or  but, 

That  whenever  the  Nose  put  his  spectacles  on, 
By  day-light  or  candle-light,  Eyes  should  be  shub  f 


DER  BABY 
BY  CHARLES  F.  ADAMS. 

So  help  me  gracious,  efery  day 
I  laugh  me  wild  to  see  der  vay 
My  schmall  young  baby  drie  to  play- 
Dot  funny  leetle  baby. 

Vhen  I  look  on  dhem  leetle  toes, 
Und  saw  dot  funny  leetle  nose, 
Und  heard  der  vay  dot  rooster  crows, 
I  schmile  like  I  was  grazy. 

Und  vhen  I  heard  der  real  nice  vay 
Dhem  beoples  to  my  wife  dhey  say, 
"  More  like  his  fater  every  day," 
I  vas  so  proud  like  blazes. 

Sometimes  dhere  oomes  a  leetle  schquall, 
Dot's  vhen  der  vindy  vind  vill  crawl 
Righd  in  its  leetle  schtomach  schmall, — 
Dot's  too  bad  for  der  baby. 

Dot  makes  him  sing  at  night  so  schveet, 
Und  gorrybarric  he  must  eat, 
Und  I  must  chump  shpry  on  my  feet, 
To  help  dot  leetle  baby. 

He  bulls  my  nose,  and  kicks  my  hair, 
Und  grawls  me  ofer  everywhere, 
Und  schlobbers  me — but  vat  I  care  ? 
Dot  vas  my  schmall  young  baby. 

Around  my  head  dot  leetle  arm 
Vas  schqueezin'  me  so  nice  and  varm — 
O  !  may  dhere  never  coom  some   harm 
To  dot  schmall  leetle  baby. 


211 

THE  EDITOR'S  GUESTS 
BY  WILL  CARLBTON. 

The  Editor  sat  in  his  sanctum,  his  countenance  furrowed 
with  care, 

His  mind  at  the  bottom  of  business,  his  feet  at  the  top 
of  a  chair, 

His  chair-arm  an  elbow  supporting,  his  right  hand  up- 
holding his  head, 

His  eyes  on  his  dusty  old  table,  with  different  documents 
spread. 

There  were  thirty  long  pages  from  Howler,  with  under- 
lined capitals  topped, 

And  a  short  disquisition  from  Growler,  requesting  his 
newspaper  stopped  ; 

There  were  lyrics  from  Gusher,  the  poet,  concerning 
sweet  flow'rets  and  zephyrs, 

And  a  stray  gem  from  Plodder,  the  farmer,  describing  a 
couple  of  heifers ; 

There  were  billets  from  beautiful  maidens,  and  bills  from 
a  grocer  or  two, 

And  his  best  leader  hitched  to  a  letter  which  inquired 
if  he  wrote  it,  or  who  ? 

There  were  raptures  of  praises  from  writers  of  the  weekly 

mellifluous  school, 
And  one  of  his  rival's  last  papers,  informing  him  he  was 

a  fool ; 
There  were  several  long  resolutions,  with  names  telling 

whom  they  were  by, 
Canonising  some  harmless  old  brother  who  had  done 

nothing  worse  than  to  die  ; 
There  were  traps  on  that  table  to  catch  him,  and  serpents 

to  sting  and  to  smite  him  ; 

There  were  gift  enterprises  to  sell  him,  and  biters  attempt- 
ing to  bite  him  ; 
There  were  long  staring  "  ads  "  from  the  city,  and  money 

with  never  a  one, 


222  THE  EDITOR'S  GUESTS 

Which  added,  "  Please  give  this  insertion,  and  send  in 
your  bill  when  you're  done  ;  " 

There  were  letters  from  organizations — their  meetings, 
their  wants,  and  their  laws — 

Which  said,  "  Can  you  print  this  announcement  for  the 
good  of  our  glorious  cause  ?  " 

There  were  tickets  inviting  his  presence  to  festivals, 
parties,  and  shows, 

Wrapped  in  notes  with  "  Please  give  us  a  notice  "  de- 
murely slipped  in  at  the  close. 

In  short,  as  his  eye  took  the  table,  and  ran  o'er  its  ink- 
spattered  trash, 

There  was  nothing  it  did  not  encounter,  excepting,  per- 
haps, it  was  cash. 

The  Editor  dreamily   pondered   on   several   ponderous 

things, 
On  different  lines  of  action,  and  the  pulh'ng  of  different 

strings ; 
Upon  some  equivocal  doings,   and  some  unequivocal 

duns ; 

On  how  few  of  his  numerous  patrons  were  quietly  prompt- 
paying  ones ; 
On  friends  who  subscribed    "  just  to  help    him,"    and 

wordy  encouragement  lent, 
And  had  given  him  plenty  of  counsel,  but  never  had  paid 

him  a  cent ; 
On  vinegar,  kind-hearted  people  were  feeding  him  every 

hour, 
Who  saw  not  the  work  they  were  doing,  but  wondered 

that  "  printers  are  sour  "  ; 
On  several  intelligent  townsmen,  whose  kindness  was  so 

without  stint 
That  they  kept  an  eye  on  his  business,  and  told  him  just 

what  he  should  print ; 
On  men  who  had  rendered  him  favours,  and  never  pushed 

forward  their  claims, 


THE  EDITOR'S  GUESTS  123 

So  long  as  the  paper  was  crowded  with  "  locals  "  con- 
taining their  names  ; 
On  various  other  small  matters,  sufficient  his  temper  to 

roil, 
And  finely  contrived  to  be  making  the  blood  of  an  editor 

boil; 
And  so  one  may  see  that  his  feelings  could  hardly  be  said 

to  be  smooth, 
And  he  needed   some  pleasant  occurrence  his  ruffled 

emotions  to  soothe. 
He  had  it ;   for  lo  !  on  the  threshold,  a  slow  and  reliable 

tread, 
And  a  farmer  invaded  the  sanctum,  and  these  are  the 

words  that  he  said  : 

"  Good  mornin',  sir,  Mr.  Printer  ;   how  is  your  body  to- 
day ? 
I'm  glad  you're  to  home,  for  you  fellers  is  al'ays  a  runnin' 

away. 
Your  paper  last  week  wa'n't  so  spicy  nor  sharp  as  the  one 

week  before  : 
But  I  s'pose  when  the  campaign  is  opened,  you'll  be 

whoopin'  it  up  to  'em  more. 
That  feller  that's  printin'  The  Smasher  is  goin'  for  you 

pretty  smart ; 
And   our   folks   said   this   mornin'    at   breakfast,    they 

thought  he  was  gettin'  the  start. 
But  I  hushed  'em  right  up  in  a  minute,  and  said  a,  good 

word  for  you ; 
I  told  'em  I  b'lieved  you  was  tryin'  to  do  just  as  well  as 

you  knew  ; 
And  I  told  'em  that  someone  was  sayin',  and  whoever 

'twas  it  is  so, 
That  you  can't  expect  much  of  no  one  man,  nor  blame 

him  for  what  he  don't  know. 
But,  layin'  aside  pleasure  for  business,  I've  brought  you 

my  little  boy  Jim  ; 
And  I  thought  I  would  see  if  you  couldn't  make  an  editor 

outen  of  him. 


a*4  THE  EDITOR'S  GUESTS 

"  My  family  stock  is  increasing  while  other  folks'  seems 

to  run  short ; 

I've  got  a  right  smart  of  a  family — it's  one  of  the  old- 
fashioned  sort : 
There's  Ichabod,  Isaac  and  Israel,  a-workin'  away  on  the 

farm — 
They  do  'bout  as  much  as  one  good  boy,  and  make  things 

go  off  like  a  charm. 
There's  Moses  and  Aaron  are  sly  ones,  and  slip  like  a 

couple  of  eels  ; 
But  they're  tol'able  steady  in  one  thing — they  al'ays 

git  round  to  their  meals. 
There's  Peter  is  busy  inventin'  (though  what  he  invents  I 

can't  see), 
And  Joseph  is  studyin'   medicine — and   both  of  'em 

boardin'  with  me. 
There's  Abram  and  Albert  is  married,  each  workin'  my 

farm  for  myself, 
And  Sam  smashed  his  nose  at  a  shootin',  and  so  he  is  laid 

on  the  shelf. 
The  rest  of  the  boys  are  all  growin',  'cept  this  little  runt, 

which  is  Jim, 
And  I  thought  that  perhaps  I'd  be  makin'  an  editor 

outen  o'  him. 

44  He  ain't  no  great  shakes  for  to  labour,  though  I've 

laboured  with  him  a  good  deal, 
And  give  him  some  strappin'  good  arguments  I  know  he 

couldn't  help  but  to  feel : 
But  he's  built  out  of  second-growth  timber,  and  nothin' 

about  him  is  big 
Exceptin'  his  appetite  only,  and  there  he's  as  good  as  a 

Pig- 
44 1  keep  him  a-carryin'  luncheons,  and  fillin'  and  bringin* 

the  jugs, 
And  take  him  among  the  pertatoes,  and  set  him  to  pickin* 

the  bugs; 
And  then  there  is  things  to  be  doin'  a-helpin'  the  women 

indoors; 


THE  EDITOR'S  GUESTS  225 

There's  churnin'  and  washin'  of  dishes,  and  other  descrip- 
tions of  chores ; 

But  he  don't  take  to  nothin'  but  victuals,  and  he'll  never 
be  much,  I'm  afraid, 

So  I  thought  it  would  be  a  good  notion  to  larn  him  the 
editors'  trade. 

His  body's  too  small  for  a  farmer,  his  judgment  is  rather 
too  slim, 

But  I  thought  we  perhaps  could  be  makin'  an  editor 
outen  o'  him  ! 

"  It  ain't  much  to  get  up  a  paper — it  wouldn't  take  him 

long  for  to  learn ; 
He  could  feed  the  machine,  I'm  thinkin',  with  a  good 

strappin'  fellow  to  turn. 
And  things  that  was  once  hard  in  doin',  is  easy  enough 

now  to  do ; 
Just  keep  your  eye  on  your  machinery,  and  crack  your 

arrangements  right  through. 
I  used  for  to  wonder  at  readin'  and  where  it  was  got  up, 

and  how  ; 
But  'tis  most  of  it  made  by  machinery — I  can  see  it  all 

plain  enough  now. 
And  poetry,  too,  is  constructed  by  machines  of  different 

designs, 
Each  one  with  a  gauge  and  a  chopper  to  see  to  the  length 

of  the  lines  ; 
And  I  hear  a  New  York  clairvoyant  is  runnin'  one  sleeker 

than  grease, 
And  a-rentin'  her  heaven-born  productions  at  a  couple  of 

dollars  a-piece ; 
An'  since  the  whole  trade  has  growed  easy,  'twould  be 

easy  enough,  I've  a  whim, 
If  you  was  agreed,  to  be  makin'  an  editor  outen  of  Jim  !  " 

The  Editor  sat  in  his  sanctum,  and  looked  the  old  man 

in  the  eye, 
Then  glanced  at  the    grinning     young     hopeful,     and 

mournfully  made  his  reply  : 
S.P.R.  P 


226  THE  EDITOR'S  GUESTS 

"  Is  your  son  a  small  unbound  edition  of  Moses  and 

Solomon  both  ? 
Can  he  compass  his  spirit  with  meekness,  and  strangle  a 

natural  oath  ? 
Can  he  leave  all  his  wrongs  to  the  future,  and  carry  his 

heart  in  his  cheek  ? 

Can  he  do  an  hour's  work  in  a  minute,  and  live  on  a  six- 
pence a  week  ? 
Can  he  courteously  talk  to  an  equal,  and  brow-beat  an 

impudent  dunce  ? 
Can  he  keep  things  in  apple-pie  order,  and  do  half  a  dozen 

at  once  ? 
Can  he  press  all  the  springs  of  knowledge,  with  quick  and 

reliable  touch, 
And  be  sure  that  he  knows  how  much  to  know,  and  knows 

how  to  not  know  too  much  ? 

"  Does  he  know  how  to  spur  up  his  virtue,  and  put  a 

check-rein  on  his  pride  ? 
Can  he  carry  a  gentleman's  manners  within  a  rhinoceros' 

hide? 
Can  he  know  all,  and  do  all,  and  be  all,  with  cheerfulness, 

courage,  and  vim  ? 
If  so,  we  perhaps  can  be  makin'  an  editor  '  outen  of 

him.'  " 
The  farmer  stood  curiously  listening,  while  wonder  his 

visage  o'erspread  ; 
And  he  said,  "  Jim,  I  guess  we'll  be  goin' ;  he's  probably 

out  of  his  head." 

But  lo  !   on  the  rickety  staircase,  another  reliable  tread, 
And  entered  another  old  farmer,  and  these  are  the  words 

that  he  said  : 

"»Good  morning,  sir,  Mr.  Editor,  how  is  the  folks  to-day  ? 
I  owe  you  for  next  year's  paper  ;   I  thought  I'd  come  in 

and  pay. 

And  Jones  is  a-goin'  to  take  it,  and  this  is  his  money  here  ; 
I  shut  down  on  lendin'  it  to  him,  and  coaxed  him  to  try 

it  a  year. 


THE  EDITOR'S  GUESTS  227 

And  here  is  a  few  little  items  that  happened  last  week  in 

our  town  : 
I  thought  they'd  look  good  for  the  paper,  and  so  I  just 

jotted  'em  down. 
And  here  is  a  basket  of  cherries  my  wife  picked  expressly 

for  you ; 
And  a  small  bunch  of  flowers  from  Jennie — she  thought 

she  must  send  somethin'  too. 

"  You're  doin'  the  politics  bully,  as  all  of  our  family 

agree  ; 
Just  keep  your  old  goose-quill  a-floppin',  and  give  'em  a 

good  one  for  me. 
And  now  you  are  chock  full  of  business,  and  I  won't  be 

takin'  your  time ; 
I've  things  of  my  own  I  must  'tend  to — good-day,  sir,  I 

b'lieve  I  will  climb." 

The  Editor  sat  in  his  sanctum  and  brought  down  his  fist 

with  a  thump  : 
"  God  bless  that  old  farmer,"  he  muttered, "  he's  a  regular 

Editor's  trump." 
And  'tis  thus  with  our  noble  profession,  and  thus  it  ever 

will  be ;    still 
There  are  some  who  appreciate  its  labours,  and  some  who 

perhaps  never  will. 
But  in  the  great  time  that  is  coming,  when  loudly  the 

trumpet  shall  sound, 
And  they  who  have  laboured  and  rested  shall  come  from 

the  quivering  ground  ; 
When  they  who  have  striven  and  suffered  to  teach  and 

ennoble  the  race, 
Shall  march  at  the  front  of  the  column,  each  one  in  his 

God-given  place  ; 
As  they  pass  through  the  gates  of  The  City  with  proud 

and  victorious  tread, 
The  editor,  printer  and  "  devil  "  will  travel  not  far  from 

the  head. 


223 

THE  YANKEE  BOY 
BY  JOHN  PIERPONT. 

The  Yankee  boy,  before  he's  sent  to  school, 

Well  knows  the  mysteries  of  that  magic  tool, 

The  pocket-knife.     To  that  his  wistful  eye 

Turns  while  he  hears  his  mother's  lullaby  ; 

His  hoarded  cents  he  gladly  gives  to  get  it, 

Then  leaves  no  stone  unturned  till  he  can  whet  it ; 

And,  in  the  education  of  the  lad, 

No  little  part  that  implement  hath  had. 

His  pocket  knife  to  the  young  whittler  brings 
A  growing  knowledge  of  material  things. 
Projectiles,  music,  and  the  sculptor's  art, 
His  chestnut  whistle,  and  his  shingle  dart, 
His  elder  pop-gun,  with  his  hickory  rod, 
Its  sharp  explosion  and  rebounding  wad, 
His  corn-stalk  fiddle,  and  the  deeper  tone 
That  murmurs  from  his  pumpkin-leaf  trombone, 
Conspire  to  teach  the  boy. 

To  these  succeed 

His  bow,  his  arrow  of  a  feathered  reed, 
His  wind-mill,  raised  the  passing  breeze  to  win, 
His  water-wheel,  that  turns  upon  a  pin  : 
Or,  if  his  father  lives  upon  the  shore, 
You'll  see  his  ship,  beam  ends  upon  the  floor, 
Full  rigged,  with  raking  masts  and  timbers  staunch, 
And  waiting,  near  the  wash-tub,  for  a  launch. 

Thus,  by  his  genius  and  his  jack-knife  driven, 
Ere  long  he'll  solve  you  any  problem  given; 
Make  any  gim-crack,  musical  or  mute, 
A  plough,  a  coach,  an  organ,  or  a  flute; 
Make  you  a  locomotive,  or  a  clock, 
Cut  a  canal,  or  build  a  floating  dock. 


THE  ADMIRAL'S  SON  129 

Or  lead  forth  beauty  from  a  marble  block ; 
Make  anything,  in  short,  for  sea  or  shore, 
From  a  child's  rattle  to  a  seventy-four. 
Make  it,  said  I  ?     Ay,  when  he  undertakes  it, 
He'll  make  the  thing,  and  the  machine  that  makes  il 

And,  when  the  thing  is  made,  whether  it  be 
To  move  on  earth,  in  air,  or  on  the  sea, 
Whether  on  water,  o'er  the  waves  to  glide, 
Or  upon  land,  to  roll,  revolve,  or  slide ; 
Whether  to  whirl  or  jar,  to  strike  or  ring, 
Whether  it  be  a  piston  or  a  spring, 
Wheel,  pulley,  tube  sonorous,  wood  or  brass, 
The  thing  designed  shall  surely  come  to  pass  j 
For,  when  his  hand's  upon  it,  you  may  know 
That  there's  "  go  "  in  it,  and  he'll  make  it  go. 


THE  ADMIRAL'S  SON 
BY  MRS.  HEMANS. 

The  boy  stood  on  the  burning  deck, 

Whence  all  but  he  had  fled ; 
The  flame  that  lit  the  battle's  wreck, 

Shone  round  him  o'er  the  dead. 
Yet  beautiful  and  bright  he  stood, 

As  born  to  rule  the  storm ; 
A  creature  of  heroic  blood, 

A  proud,  though  child-like  form. 

The  flames  roll'd  on — he  would  not  go 
Without  his  father's  word ; 

That  father,  faint  in  death  below, 
His  voice  no  longer  heard. 


THE  ADMIRAL'S  SON 

He  called  aloud  :— "  Say,  father  !  say 
If  yet  my  task  is  done  ?  " 

He  knew  not  that  the  chieftain  lay 
Unconscious  of  his  son. 


"  Speak,  father  !  "  once  again  he  cried, 

"  If  I  may  yet  be  gone  ! 
And  " — but  the  booming  shots  replied, 

And  fast  the  flames  roll'd  on. 
Upon  his  brow  he  felt  their  breath, 

And  in  his  waving  hair, 
And  look'd  from  that  lone  post  of  death 

In  still  yet  brave  despair  ! 


And  shouted  but  once  more  aloud, 

"  My  father,  must  I  stay  ?  " 
While  o'er  him  fast,  through  sail  and  shroud, 

The  wreathing  fires  made  way  ; 
They  wrapt  the  ship  in  splendour  wild. 

They  caught  the  flag  on  high, 
And  streamed  above  the  gallant  child, 

Like  banners  in  the  sky. 


Then  came  a  burst  of  thunder  sound— 

The  boy — oh  !  where  was  he  ? 
Ask  of  the  winds,  that  far  around 

With  fragments  strew'd  the  sea — 
With  mast,  and  helm,  and  pennon  fair, 

That  well  had  borne  their  part ; 
But  the  noblest  thing  which  perish'd  there 

Was  that  young  faitliful  heart  1 


231 

NOTHING  TO  WEAR 
By  W.  A.  BUTLER. 

Well,  having  thus  wooed  Miss  M'Flimsy  and  gained  her, 
With  the  silks,  crinolines,  and  hoops  that  contained  her, 
I  had,  as  I  thought,  a  contingent  remainder 
At  least  in  the  property,  and  the  best  right 
To  appear  as  its  escort  by  day  and  by  night ; 
And  it  being  the  week  of  the  Stuckups'  grand  ball— 

Their  cards  had  been  out  a  fortnight  or  so, 

And  set  all  the  Avenue  on  the  tip-toe — 
I  considered  it  only  my  duty  to  caU 

And  see  if  Miss  Flora  intended  to  go. 
I  found  her,  as  ladies  are  apt  to  be  found, 
When  the  time  intervening  between  the  first  sound 
Of  the  bell  and  the  visitor's  entry  is  shorter 
Than  usual — I  found — I  won't  say  I  caught  her — 
Intent  on  the  pier-glass,  undoubtedly  meaning 
To  see  if,  perhaps,  it  didn't  want  cleaning. 
She  turned  as  I  entered — "  Why,  Harry,  you  sinner, 
I  thought  that  you  went  to  the  Flashers'  to  dinner  !  " 
"  So  I  did,"  I  replied,  "  but  the  dinner  is  swallowed, 

And  digested,  I  trust,  for  'tis  nine  now  and  more ; 
So,  being  relieved  from  that  day  duty,  I  followed 

Inclination,  which  led  me,  you  see,  to  your  door. 
And  now,  will  your  ladyship  so  condescend 
As  just  to  inform  me  if  you  intend 
Your  beauty,  and  grace,  and  presence  to  lend 
(All  which,  when  I  own,  I  hope  no  one  will  borrow) 
To  the  Stuckups',  whose  party,  you  know,is  to-morrow  ? M 

The  poor  Flora  looked  up  with  a  pitiful  air, 
And  answered  quite  promptly,  "  Why,  Harry,  man  cher, 
I  should  like,  above  all  things,  to  go  with  you  there, 
But  really  and  truly  I've  nothing  to  wear." 


*3*  NOTHING  TO  WEAR 

"  Nothing  to  wear  !     Go  just  as  you  are  ; 
Wear  the  dress  you  have  on,  and  you'll  be  by  far, 
I  engage,  the  most  bright  and  particular  star 
On  the  Stuckup  horizon."     I  stopped,  for  her  eye, 
Notwithstanding  this  delicate  onset  of  flattery, 
Opened  on  me,  at  once,  a  most  terrible  battery 
Of  scorn  and  amazement.     She  made  no  reply, 
But  gave  a  slight  turn  to  the  end  of  her  nose 

(That  pure  Grecian  feature),  as  much  as  to  say, 
"  How  absurd  that  any  sane  man  should  suppose 
That  a  lady  would  go  to  a  ball  in  the  clothes, 

No  matter  how  fine,  that  she  wears  every  day  !  " 


So  I  ventured  again  :   "  Wear  your  crimson  brocade." 
(Second  turn  up  of  nose)  "  That's  too  dark  by  a  shade." 
'  Your  blue  silk."     "  That's  too  heavy." 
'  Your  pink."     "  That's  too  light." 
'  Wear  tulle  over  satin."     "  I  can't  endure  white." 
4  Your  rose-coloured,  then,  the  best  of  the  batch." 
'  I  haven't  a  thread  of  point-lace  to  match." 
'  Your  brown  moire  antique."     "  Yes,  and  look  like  a 

Quaker." 
"  The   pearl-coloured."     "  I    would,    but   that   plaguy 

dressmaker 

Has  had  it  a  week."     "  Then,  that  exquisite  lilac, 
In  which  you  would  melt  the  heart  of  a  Shylock." 
(Here  the  nose  took  again  the  same  elevation) — 
"  I  wouldn't  wear  that  for  the  whole  of  creation." 
"  Why  not  ?     It's  my  fancy  ;    there's  nothing  could 

strike  it 
As  more  comme  il  favi."     "  Yes,  but  dear  me,  that  lean 

Sophronia  Stuckup  has  got  one  just  like  it. 
And  I  won't  appear  dressed  like  a  chit  of  sixteen." 
"  Then,  that  splendid  purple,  that  sweet  mazarine, 
That  superb  point  d'aiguille,  that  imperial  green. 
That  zephyr-like  tarlatan,  that  rich  grenadine." 
"  Not  one  of  all  is  fit  to  be  seen," 
Said  the  lady,  becoming  excited  and  flushed. 


NOTHING  TO  WEAR  233 

"  Then   wear,"   I   exclaimed,   in   a   tone   which   quite 

crushed 
Opposition,  "  that  gorgeous  toilette  which  you  sported 

In  Paris  last  spring,  at  the  grand  presentation, 

When  you  quite  turned  the  head  of  the  head  of  the 

nation ; 
And  by  all  the  grand  court  were  so  very  much  courted." 

The  end  of  the  nose  was  portentiously  tipped  up, 
And  both  the  bright  eyes  shot  forth  indignation  : 
**  I   have  worn   it  three   times,   at   the   least   calcula- 
tion, 

And  that  and  the  most  of  my  dresses  are  ripped  up  !  " 
Here  I  ripped  out  something,  perhaps  rather  rash, 

Quite  innocent  though  ;    but  to  use  an  expression 
More  striking  than  classic,  it  "  settled  my  hash," 

And  proved  very  soon  the  last  act  of  our  session. 
"  Fiddlesticks,  is  it,  sir  ?     I  wonder  the  ceiling 
Doesn't  fall  down  and  crush  you.     O,  you  men  have  no 

feeling ; 

You  selfish,  unnatural,  illiberal  creatures, 
Who  set  yourselves  up  as  patterns  and  preachers. 
Your  silly  pretence — why  a  mere  guess  it  is  ! 
Pray,  what  do  you  know  of  a  woman's  necessities  ? 
I  have  told  you  and  shown  you  I've  nothing  to  wear, 
And  it's  perfectly  plain  you  not  only  don't  care, 
But  you  do  not  believe  me  "  (here  the  nose  went  still 

higher). 

"  I  suppose  if  you  dared  you  would  call  me  a  liar. 
Our  engagement  is  ended,  sir, — yes,  on  the  spot : 
You're  a  brute,  and  a  monster,  and  I  don't  know  what." 
I  mildly  suggested  the  words,  "  Hottentot, 
Pickpocket,  and  cannibal,  Tartar,  and  thief," 
As  gentle  expletives,  which  might  give  relief ; 
But  this  only  proved  as  spark  to  the  powder, 
And  the  storm  I  had  raised  came  faster  and  louder  : 
It  blew  and  it  rained,  thundered,  lightened,  and  hailed 
Interjections,  verbs,  pronouns,  till  language  quite  failed 
To  express  the  abusive,  and  then  its  arrears 
Were  brought  up  all  at  once  by  a  torrent  of  tears, 


234  NOTHING  TO  WEAR 

And  my  last,  faint,  despairing  attempt  at  an  obs- 
Ervation  was  lost  in  a  tempest  of  sobs. 

Well,  I  felt  for  the  lady,  and  felt  for  my  hat,  too  : 
Improvised  on  the  crown  of  the  latter  a  tattoo, 
In  lieu  of  expressing  the  feelings  which  lay 
Quite  too  deep  for  words,  as  Wordsworth  would  say 
Then,  without  going  through  the  form  of  a  bow, 

Found  myself  in  the  entry — I  hardly  knew  how — 
On  doorstep,  and  sidewalk,  past  lamp-post  and  square 
At  home  and  upstairs  in  my  own  easy  chair  ; 

Poked  my  feet  into  slippers,  my  fire  into  blaze, 
And  said  to  myself,  as  I  lit  my  cigar, 
Supposing  a  man  had  the  wealth  of  the  Czar 

Of  the  Russians  to  boot,  for  the  rest  of  his  days, 
On  the  whole,  do  you  think  he  would  have  much  to  spare, 
If  he  married  a  woman  with  nothing  to  wear  ? 

Since  that  night,  taking  pains  that  it  should  not  be 

bruited 

Abroad  in  society,  I've  instituted 
A  course  of  inquiry,  extensive  and  thorough, 
On  this  vital  subject,  and  find,  to  my  horror, 
That  the  fair  Flora's  cause  is  by  no  means  surprising 

But  that  there  exists  the  greatest  distress 
In  our  female  community,  solely  arising 

From  this  unsupplied  destitution  of  dress, 
Whose  unfortunate  victims  are  filling  the  air 
With  the  pitiful  wail  of  "  Nothing  to  wear." 
*  *  *  *  * 

Oh  ladies,  dear  ladies,  the  next  sunny  day 
Please  trundle  your  hoops  just  out  of  Broadway, 
From  its  whirl  and  its  bustle,  its  fashion  and  pride, 
And  the  Temples  of  Trade  which  tower  on  each  side, 
To  the  alleys  and  lanes,  where  Misfortune  and  Guilt 
Their  children  have  gathered,  their  city  have  built ; 
Where  hunger  and  vice,  like  twin  beasts  of  prey, 
Have  hunted  their  victims  to  gloom  and  despair  ; 
Raise  the  rich,  dainty  dress,  and  the  fine  broidered  skirl, 
Pick  your  delicate  way  through  the  dampness  and  dirfe, 


THE  CLEVER  IDIOT  235 

Grope  through  the  dark  dens — climb  the  rickety  stair 
To  the  garret,  where  wretches,  the  young  and  the  old, 
Half-starved  and  half-naked,  lie  crouched  from  the  cold. 
See  those  skeleton  limbs,  those  frost-bitten  feet, 
All  bleeding  and  bruised  by  the  stones  of  the  street ; 
Hear  the  sharp  cry  of  childhood,  the  deep  groans  that 
swell 

From  the  poor  dying  creature  who  writhes  on  the. 

floor ; 
Hear  the  curses  that  sound  like  the  echoes  of  hell, 

As  you  sicken  and  shudder,  and  fly  from  the  door  ; 
Then  home  to  your  wardrobes  and  say,  if  you  dare, 
Spoiled  children  of  Fashion — you've  nothing  to  wear. 
And  oh  !    if  perchance  there  should  be  a  sphere 
Where  all  is  made  right  that  so  puzzles  us  here, 
Where  the  glare,  and  the  glitter,  and  tinsel  of  Time 
Fade  and  die  in  the  light  of  that  region  sublime  ; 
Where  the  soul,  disenchanted  of  flesh  and  of  sense, 
Unscreened  by  its  trappings,  and  shows,  and  pretence, 
Must  be  clothed  for  the  life  and  the  service  above 
With  purity,  truth,  faith,  meekness,  and  love  ; 
Oh,  daughters  of  earth,  foolish  virgins,  beware, 
Lest  in  that  upper  realm  you've  nothing  to  wear. 


THE  CLEVER  IDIOT 

A  boy,  as  nursery  records  tell, 
Had  dropp'd  his  drumstick  in  a  well : 
He  had  good  sense  enough  to  know 
He  would  be  beaten  for't,  and  so 
Sh'ly  (tho*  silly  from  his  cradle) 
Took  from  the  shelf  a  silver  ladle, 
And  in  the  water  down  it  goes, 
After  the  drumstick,  I  suppose. 


THE  CLEVER  IDIOT 

The  thing  was  miss'd,  the  servants  blamed, 
But  in  a  week  no  longer  named. 
Now  this  not  suiting  his  designs, 
A  silver  cup  he  next  purloins 
(To  aid  his  plan,  he  never  stopp'd), 
And  in  the  water  down  it  dropped. 

This  caused  some  words  and  much  inquiry, 
And  made  his  parents  rather  iry  ; 
Both  for  a  week  were  vex'd  and  cross, 
And  then — submitted  to  the  loss. 
At  length,  to  follow  up  his  plan, 
OUT  little  clever  idiot  man 
His  father's  favourite  silver  waiter 
Next  cast  into  the  wat'ry  crater. 

Now  this,  indeed,  was  what  the  cook 
And  butler  could  not  overlook  ! 
And  all  the  servants  of  the  place 
Were  searched,  and  held  in  much  disgrace. 
The  boy  now  called  out,  "Cook,  here — Nell, 
What's  this  so  shining  in  the  well  ?  " 

This  was  enough  to  give  a  hint 
That  the  lost  treasures  might  be  in't ; 
So  for  a  man  with  speed  they  sent, 
Who  down  the  well  directly  went. 
They  listened  with  expectant  ear ; 
At  last  these  joyful  words  they  hear : 
"  Oh,  here's  the  ladle,  and  the  cup, 
And  waiter  too — so  draw  me  up." 

"  Hold,"  quoth  the  boy,  "  a  moment  stay, 
Bring  something  else  that's  in  your  way ;  '* 
Adding  (with  self -approving  grin), 
"  My  drumstick,  now  your  hand  is  in." 


THE  JUSTICE  OF  THE  PEACE 

BY  CHAKLBS  DICKBNS. 

Mr.  Pickwick  and  his  friends  were  conducted  into  the 
hall,  whence,  having  been  previously  announced  by 
Muzzle,  and  ordered  in  by  Mr.  Nupkins,  they  were 
ushered  into  the  worshipful  presence  of  that  public- 
spirited  officer. 

The  scene  was  an  impressive  one,  well  calculated  to 
strike  terror  to  the  hearts  of  culprits,  and  to  impress  them 
with  an  adequate  idea  of  the  stern  majesty  of  the  law. 
In  front  of  a  big  book-case,  in  a  big  chair,  behind  a  big 
table,  and  before  a  big  volume,  sat  Mr.  Nupkins,  looking 
a  full  size  larger  than  any  one  of  them,  big  as  they  were. 
The  table  was  adorned  with  piles  of  papers  ;  and  above 
the  further  end  of  it  appeared  the  head  and  shoulders 
of  Mr.  Jinks,  who  was  busily  engaged  in  looking  as  busy 
as  possible.  The  party  having  all  entered,  Muzzle 
carefully  closed  the  door,  and  placed  himself  behind  his 
master's  chair  to  await  his  orders.  Mr.  Nupkins  threw 
himself  back,  with  thrilling  solemnity,  and  scrutinised 
the  faces  of  his  unwilling  visitors. 

"  Now,  Grummer,  who  is  that  person  ?  "  said  Mr. 
Nupkins,  pointing  to  Mr.  Pickwick,  who,  as  the  spokes- 
man of  his  friends,  stood  hat  in  hand,  bowing  with  the 
utmost  politeness  and  respect. 

"  This  here's  Pickvick,  your  wash-up,"  said  Grummer. 

"  Come,  none  o'  that  'ere,  old  Strike- a-light,"  inter- 
posed Mr.  Weller,  elbowing  himself  into  the  front  rank. 
"  Beg  your  pardon,  sir,  but  this  here  officer  o'  yourn 
in  the  gamboge  tops  'ull  never  earn  a  decent  livin'  as 
a  master  o'  the  ceremonies  any  vere.  This  here,  sir," 
continued  Mr.  Weller,  thrusting  Grummer  aside,  and 
addressing  the  magistrate  with  pleasant  familiarity, 
"  this  here  is  S.  Pickvick,  Esquire  ;  this  here's  Mr.  Tup- 
man  ;  that  ere's  Mr.  Snodgrass ;  and  furder  on,  next 
him  on  the  t'other  side,  Mr.  Winkle — all  wery  nice 
gen'l'm'n,  sir,  as  you'll  be  wery  happy  to  have  the 
acquaintance  on  ;  so  the  sooner  you  commits  these  here 


*38  THE  JUSTICE  OF  THE  PEACE 

officers  o'  yourn  to  the  tread-mill  for  a  month  or  two, 
the  sooner  we  shall  begin  to  be  on  a  pleasant  under- 
standing. Business  first,  pleasure  arterwards,  as  King 
Richard  the  Third  said  wen  he  stabbed  the  t'other  king 
in  the  Tower,  afore  he  smothered  the  babbies." 

At  the  conclusion  of  this  address,  Mr.  Weller  brushed 
his  hat  with  his  right  elbow,  and  nodded  benignly  to 
Jinks,  who  had  heard  him  throughout  with  unspeakable 
awe. 

"  Who  is  this  man,  Grummer  ?  "  said  the  magistrate. 

"  Wery  desp'rate  ch'racter,  your  wash-up,"  replied 
Grummer.  "  He  attempted  to  rescue  the  prisoners, 
and  assaulted  the  officers  ;  so  we  took  him  into  custody, 
and  brought  him  here.'* 

**  You  did  quite  right,"  replied  the  magistrate.  "  He 
is  evidently  a  desperate  ruffian." 

"  He  is  my  servant,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  angrily. 

"  Oh  !  he  is  your  servant,  is  he  ?  "  said  Mr.  Nupkins. 
"  A  conspiracy  to  defeat  the  ends  of  justice,  and  murder 
its  officers.  Pickwick's  servant.  Put  that  down,  Mr. 
Jinks." 

Mr.  Jinks  did  so. 

"  What's  your  name,  fellow  ?  "  thundered  Mr.  Nupkins. 

"  Veller,"  replied  Sam. 

"  A  very  good  name  for  the  Newgate  Calendar,"  said 
Mr.  Nupkins. 

This  was  a  joke  ;  so  Jinks,  Grummer,  Dubbley,  all  the 
specials,  and  Muzzle,  went  into  fits  of  laughter  of  five 
minutes'  duration. 

"  Put  down  his  name,  Mr.  Jinks,"  said  the  magistrate. 

"  Two  L's,  old  feller,"  said  Sam. 

Here  an  unfortunate  special  laughed  again,  whereupon 
the  magistrate  threatened  to  commit  him  instantly. 
It  is  a  dangerous  thing  to  laugh  at  the  wrong  man  in  these 


"  Where  do  you  live  ?  "  said  the  magistrate. 
"  Vare-ever  I  can,"  replied  Sam. 
"Put  that  down,  Mr.  Jinks,"  said  the  magistrate, 
rho  was  fast  rising  into  a  rage. 


THE  JUSTICE  OF  THE  PEACE  239 

"  Score  it  under,"  said  Sam. 

"  He  is  a  vagabond,  Mr.  Jinks,"  said  the  magistrate. 
"  He  is  a  vagabond  on  his  own  statement ;  is  he  not,  Mr. 
Jinks  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  sir." 

"  Then  I'll  commit  him.  I'll  commit  him  as  such," 
said  Mr.  Nupkins. 

"  This  is  a  wery  impartial  country  for  justice,"  said 
Sam.  "  There  ain't  a  magistrate  goin'  as  don't  commit 
himself  twice  as  often  as  he  commits  other  people." 

At  this  sally  another  special  laughed,  and  then  tried 
to  look  so  supernaturally  solemn,  that  the  magistrate 
detected  him  immediately. 

"  Grummer,"  said  Mr.  Nupkins,  reddening  with  pas- 
sion, "  how  dare  you  select  such  an  inefficient  and  disre- 
putable person  for  a  special  constable  as  that  man  ? 
How  dare  you  do  it,  sir  ?  " 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  your  wash-up,"  stammered  Grum- 
mer. 

"  Very  sorry  !  "  said  the  furious  magistrate.  "  You 
shall  repent  of  this  neglect  of  duty,  Mr.  Grummer  ;  you 
shall  be  made  an  example  of.  Take  that  fellow's  staff 
away.  He's  drunk.  You're  drunk,  fellow." 

"  I  am  not  drunk,  your  worship,"  said  the  man. 

"  You  are  drunk,"  returned  the  magistrate.  "  How 
dare  you  say  you  are  not  drunk,  sir,  when  I  say  you  are  ? 
Doesn't  he  smell  of  spirits,  Grummer  ?  " 

"  Horrid,  your  wash-up,"  replied  Grummer,  who  had 
a  vague  impression  that  there  was  a  smell  of  rum  some- 
where. 

"  I  knew  he  did,"  said  Mr.  Nupkins.  "  I  saw  he  was 
drunk  when  he  first  came  into  the  room,  by  his  excited 
eye.  Did  you  observe  his  excited  eye,  Mr.  Jinks  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  sir." 

"  I  haven't  touched  a  drop  of  spirits  this  morning," 
said  the  man,  who  was  as  sober  a  fellow  as  need  be. 

"  How  dare  you  tell  me  a  falsehood  ?  "  said  Mr. 
Nupkins.  "  Isn't  he  drunk  at  this  moment,  Mr.  Jinks  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  sir,"  replied  Jinks. 


240  THE  JUSTICE  OF  THE  PEACE 

"  Mr.  Jinks,"  said  the  magistrate,  "  I  shall  commit 
that  man  for  contempt.  Make  out  his  committal,  Mr. 
Jinks." 

And  committed  the  special  would  have  been,  only 
Jinks,  who  was  the  magistrate's  adviser  (having  had  a 
legal  education  of  three  years  in  a  country  attorney's 
office)  whispered  the  magistrate  that  he  thought  it 
wouldn't  do  ;  so  the  magistrate  made  a  speech,  and 
said,  that  in  consideration  of  the  special's  family  he 
would  merely  reprimand  and  discharge  him.  Accord- 
ingly, the  special  was  abused,  vehemently,  for  a  quarter 
of  an  hour,  and  sent  about  his  business  ;  and  Grummer, 
Dubbley,  Muzzle,  and  all  the  other  specials,  murmured 
their  admiration  of  the  magnanimity  of  Mr.  Nupkins. 

"  Now,  Mr.  Jinks,"  said  the  magistrate,  "  swear 
Grummer." 

Grummer  was  sworn  directly ;  but  as  Grummer 
wandered,  and  Mr.  Nupkins'  dinner  was  nearly  ready, 
Mr.  Nupkin's  cut  the  matter  short  by  putting  leading 
questions  to  Grummer,  which  Grummer  answered  as 
nearly  in  the  affirmative  as  he  could.  So  the  examina- 
tion went  off,  all  very  smooth  and  comfortable,  and  two 
assaults  were  proved  against  Mr.  Weller,  and  a  threat 
against  Mr.  Winkle,  and  a  push  against  Mr.  Snodgrass. 
When  all  this  was  done  to  the  magistrate's  satisfaction, 
the  magistrate  and  Mr.  Jinks  consulted  in  whispers. 

The  consultation  having  lasted  about  ten  minutes, 
Mr.  Jinks  retired  to  his  end  of  the  table  ;  and  the  magis- 
trate, with  a  preparatory  cough,  drew  himself  up  in  his 
chair,  and  was  proceeding  to  commence  his  address, 
when  Mr.  Pickwick  interposed. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  for  interrupting  you,"  said 
Mr.  Pickwick  :  "  but  before  you  proceed  to  express, 
and  act  upon,  any  opinion  you  may  have  formed  on  the 
statements  which  have  been  made  here,  I  must  claim 
my  right  to  be  heard,  so  far  as  I  am  personally  con- 
cerned." 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  sir,"  said  the  magistrate,  peremp- 
torily. 


THE  JUSTICE  OF  THE  PEACE  241 

"  I  must  submit  to  you,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick. 
"  Hold  your  tongue,  sir,"  interposed  the  magistrate, 
"  or  I  shall  order  an  officer  to  remove  you." 

"  You  may  order  your  officer  to  do  whatever  you  please, 
sir,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick  ;  "  and  I  have  no  doubt,  from 
the  specimen  I  have  had  of  the  subordination  preserved 
amongst  them,  that  whatever  you  order  they  will  execute, 
sir  ;  but  I  shall  take  the  liberty,  sir,  of  claiming  my  right 
to  be  heard,  until  I  am  removed  by  force." 

"  Pickvick  and  principle  !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Weller, 
in  a  very  audible  voice. 

"  Sam,  be  quiet,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick. 

"  Dumb  as  a  drum  vith  a  hole  in  it,  sir,"  replied  Sam. 

Mr.  Nupkins  looked  at  Mr.  Pickwick  with  a  gaze  of 
intense  astonishment  at  his  displaying  such  unwonted 
temerity  ;  and  was  apparently  about  to  return  a  very 
angry  reply,  when  Mr.  Jinks  pulled  him  by  the  sleeve, 
and  whispered  something  in  his  ear.  To  this  the  magis- 
trate returned  a  half  audible  answer,  and  then  the  whis- 
pering was  renewed.  Jinks  was  evidently  remonstrating. 

At  length  the  magistrate,  gulping  down,  with  a  very 
bad  grace,  his  disinclination  to  hear  anything  more, 
turned  to  Mr.  Pickwick,  and  said  sharply,  "  What  do  you 
want  to  say  ?  " 

"  First,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  sending  a  look  through 
his  spectacles,  under  which  even  Nupkins  quailed,  "  first, 
I  wish  to  know  what  I  and  my  friend  have  been  brought 
here  for  ?  " 

"  Must  I  tell  him  ?  "  whispered  the  magistrate  to  Jinks. 

"  I  think  you  had  better,  sir,"  whispered  Jinks  to  the 
magistrate. 

"  An  information  has  been  sworn  before  me"  said  the 
magistrate,  "  that  it  is  apprehended  you  are  going  to 
fight  a  duel,  and  that  the  other  man,  Tupman,  is  your 
aider  and  abettor  in  it.  Therefore — eh,  Mr.  Jinks  ?  " 

"Certainly,  sir." 

"  Therefore,  I  call  upon  you  both,  to — I  think  that's 
the  course,  Mr.  Jinks  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  sir." 

8.F.R.  Q 


242  THE  JUSTICE  OF  THE  PEACE 

"  To— to — what,  Mr.  Jinks  ?  "  said  the  magistrate* 
pettishly. 

"  To  find  bail,  sir." 

"  Yes.  Therefore,  I  call  upon  you  both — as  I  was 
about  to  say,  when  I  was  interrupted  by  my  clerk — to 
find  bail." 

"  Fifty  pounds  each,"  whispered  Jinks,  "  and  house- 
holders, of  course." 

"  I  shall  require  two  sureties  of  fifty  pounds  each,'* 
said  the  magistrate  aloud,  with  great  dignity,  "  and  they 
must  be  householders,  of  course." 

"  But,  bless  my  heart,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  who, 
together  with  Mr.  Tupman,  was  all  amazement  and 
indignation  ;  "we  are  perfect  strangers  in  this  town. 
I  have  as  little  knowledge  of  any  householders  here  as  I 
have  intention  of  fighting  a  duel  with  anybody." 

"  I  dare  say,"  replied  the  magistrate,  "  I  dare  say — 
don't  you,  Mr.  Jinks  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  sir. 

"  Have  you  anything  more  to  say  ?  "  inquired  the 
magistrate. 

Mr.  Pickwick  had  a  great  deal  more  to  say,  which  he 
would  no  doubt  have  said,  very  little  to  his  own  advan- 
tage or  the  magistrate's  satisfaction,  if  he  had  not,  the 
moment  he  ceased  speaking,  been  pulled  by  the  sleeve 
by  Mr.  Weller,  with  whom  he  was  immediately  engaged 
in  so  earnest  a  conversation  that  he  suffered  the  magis- 
strate's  inquiry  to  pass  wholly  unnoticed.  Mr.  Nupkins 
was  not  the  man  to  ask  a  question  of  the  kind  twice 
over  ;  and  so,  with  another  preparatory  cough,  he  pro- 
ceeded, amidst  the  reverential  and  admiring  silence  of 
the  constables,  to  pronounce  his  decision. 

He  should  fine  Weller  two  pounds  for  the  first  assault, 
and  three  pounds  for  the  second.  He  should  fine  Winkle 
two  pounds,  and  Snodgrass  one  pound,  besides  requiring 
them  to  enter  into  their  own  recognisances  to  keep  the 
peace  towards  all  his  Majesty's  subjects,  and  especially 
towards  his  liege  servant,  Daniel  Grummer. 


243 


Selections   from   Shakespeare 

ANTONY'S  FUNERAL  ORATION  OVER 
CESAR'S  BODY 

(Julius  Ccesar,  Act  III,  Scene  II.) 

Friends,  Romans,  countrymen,  lend  me  your  ears ; 
I  come  to  bury  Caesar,  not  to  praise  him. 
The  evil  that  men  do  lives  after  them  ; 
The  good  is  oft  interred  with  their  bones  ; 
So  let  it  be  with  Caesar.     The  noble  Brutus 
Hath  told  you  Caesar  was  ambitious  : 
If  it  were  so,  it  was  a  grievous  fault ; 
And  grievously  hath  Caesar  answer'd  it. 
Here,  under  leave  of  Brutus,  and  the  rest, 
(For  Brutus  is  an  honourable  man ; 
So  are  they  all,  all  honourable  men,) 
Come  I  to  speak  in  Caesar's  funeral. 
He  was  my  friend,  faithful  and  just  to  me  : 
But  Brutus  says  he  was  ambitious ; 
And  Brutus  is  an  honourable  man. 
He  hath  brought  many  captives  home  to  Rome, 
Whose  ransoms  did  the  general  coffers  fill : 
Did  this  in  Caesar  seem  ambitious  ? 
When  that  the  poor  have  cried,  Caesar  hath  wept : 
Ambition  should  be  made  of  sterner  stuff : 
Yet  Brutus  says  he  was  ambitious ; 
And  Brutus  is  an  honourable  man. 
You  all  did  see,  that  on  the  Lupercal, 
I  thrice  presented  him  a  kingly  crown, 
Which  he  did  thrice  refuse.     Was  this  ambition  1 
Yet  Brutus  says  he  was  ambitious ; 
And,  sure,  he  is  an  honourable  man. 


*44          SELECTIONS  FROM  SHAKESPEARE 

I  speak  not  to  disprove  what  Brutus  spoke, 
But  here  I  am  to  speak  what  I  do  know. 
You  all  did  love  him  once,  not  without  cause ; 
What  cause  withholds  you,  then,  to  mourn  for  him  ? 
0  judgment,  thou  art  fled  to  brutish  beasts, 
And  men  have  lost  their  reason  ! — Bear  with  me  ; 
My  heart  is  in  the  coffin  there  with  Caesar, 
And  I  must  pause  till  it  come  back  to  me. 


If  you  have  tears,  prepare  to  shed  them  now. 
You  all  do  know  this  mantle  :    I  remember 
The  first  time  ever  Caesar  put  it  on  ; 
'Twas  on  a  summer's  evening,  in  his  tent  : 
That  day  he  overcame  the  Nervii : — 
Look  !   in  this  place  ran  Cassius'  dagger  through  } 
See,  what  a  rent  the  envious  Casca  made  : 
Through  this,  the  well-beloved  Brutus  stabb'd; 
And,  as  he  pluck'd  his  cursed  steel  away, 
Mark  how  the  blood  of  Caesar  follow'd  it ; 
As  rushing  out  of  doors,  to  be  resolv'd 
If  Brutus  so  unkindly  knock'd,  or  no ; 
For  Brutus,  as  you  know,  was  Caesar's  angel : 
Judge,  0  you  gods,  how  dearly  Caesar  loved  him  ! 
This  was  the  most  unkindest  cut  of  all : 
For  when  the  noble  Caesar  saw  him  stab, 
Ingratitude,  more  strong  than  traitors'  arms, 
Quite  vanquish'd  him  :   then  burst  his  mighty  heart ; 
And  in  his  mantle  muffling  up  his  face, 
Even  at  the  base  of  Pompey's  statue, 
Which  all  the  while  ran  blood,  great  Caesar  felL 
O,  what  a  fall  was  there,  my  countrymen  ! 
Then  I,  and  you,  and  all  of  us  fell  down, 
Whilst  bloody  treason  flourish'd  over  us. 
O,  now  you  weep ;    and,  I  perceive,  you  feel 
The  dint  of  pity/    these  are  gracious  drops. 
Kind  souls,  what,  weep  you  when  you  but  behold 
Our  Caesar's  vesture  wounded  ?     Look  you  here ! 
Here  is  himself,  marr'd,  as  you  see,  with  traitors. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  SHAKESPEARE          245 

Good  friends,  sweet  friends,  let  me  not  stir  you  up 
To  such  a  sudden  flood  of  mutiny. 
They  that  have  done  this  deed  are  honourable ; 
What  private  griefs  they  have,  alas,  I  know  not, 
That  made  them  do  't ;  they  are  wise  and  honourable, 
And  will,  no  doubt,  with  reasons  answer  you. 
I  come  not,  friends,  to  steal  away  your  hearts  ; 
I  am  no  orator,  as  Brutus  is  : 
But,  as  you  know  me  all,  a  plain  blunt  man, 
That  love  my  friend  ;   and  that  they  know  full  well 
That  gave  me  public  leave  to  speak  of  him. 
For  I  have  neither  wit,  nor  words,  nor  worth, 
Action,  nor  utterance,  nor  the  power  of  speech, 
To  stir  men's  blood  :    I  only  speak  right  on ; 
I  tell  you  that  which  you  yourselves  do  know ; 
Show  you    sweet  Caesar's  wounds    (poor,  poor  dumb 

mouths !) 

And  bid  them  speak  for  me  :   But  were  I  Brutus, 
And  Brutus  Antony,  there  were  an  Antony 
Would  ruffle  up  your  spirits,  and  put  a  tongue 
In  every  wound  of  Coesar,  that  should  move 
The  stones  of  Rome  to  rise  and  mutiny. 


CARDINAL  WOLSEY  AND  CROMWELL 

(Henry  VIII,  Act  III,  Scene  II) 
[Dialogue  for  two.] 

Wol.  Farewell,  a  long  farewell,  to  all  my  greatness ! 
This  is  the  state  of  man  :  To-day  he  puts  forth 
The  tender  leaves  of  hope  ;  to-morrow  blossoms, 
And  bears  his  blushing  honours  thick  upon  him  : 
The  third  day,  comes  a  frost,  a  killing  frost ; 
And, — when  he  thinks,  good  easy  man,  full  surely 
His  greatness  is  a  ripening, — nips  his  root, 
And  then  he  falls,  as  I  do.     I  have  ventur'd. 
Like  little  wanton  boys  that  swim  on  bladders, 


246          SELECTIONS  FROM    SHAKESPEARE 

This  many  summers  in  a  sea  of  glory ; 
But  far  beyond  my  depth  :  my  high-blown  pride 
At  length  broke  under  me  ;  and  now  has  left  me, 
Weary,  and  old  with  service,  to  the  mercy 
Of  a  rude  stream,  that  must  for  ever  hide  me. 
Vain  pomp  and  glory  of  this  world,  I  hate  ye ; 
I  feel  my  heart  new  open'd :  O,  how  wretched 
Is  that  poor  man  that  hangs  on  princes'  favours  ! 
There  is,  betwixt  that  smile  we  would  aspire  to, 
That  sweet  aspect  of  princes,  and  their  ruin, 
More  pangs  and  fears  than  wars  or  women  have ; 
And  when  he  falls,  he  falls  like  Lucifer 
Never  to  hope  again. — 

Enter  CROMWELL,  amazedly, 

Why,  how  now,  Cromwell  ? 

Crom.     I  have  no  power  to  speak,  sir. 

Wol  What,  arnaz'd 

At  my  misfortunes  ?   can  thy  spirit  wonder, 
A  great  man  should  decline  ?     Nay,  an  you  weep, 
I  am  fallen  indeed. 

Crom.  How  does  your  grace  ? 

Wol.  Why,  well; 

Never  so  truly  happy,  my  good  Cromwell. 
I  know  myself  now ;    and  I  feel  within  me 
A  peace  above  all  earthly  dignities, 
A  still  and  quiet  conscience.     The  king  has  cur'd  me, 
I  humbly  thank  his  grace  ;  and  from  these  shoulders, 
These  ruin'd  pillars,  out  of  pity,  taken 
A  load  would  sink  a  navy,  too  much  honour  : 
O,  'tis  a  burden,  Cromwell,  'tis  a  burden, 
Too  heavy  for  a  man  that  hopes  for  heaven. 

Crom.  I  am  glad  your  grace  has  made  that  right  use 
of  it. 

Wol.    I  hope  I  have  :   I  am  able  now,  metliinks, 
(Out  of  a  fortitude  of  soul  I  feel,) 
To  endure  more  miseries,  and  greater  far, 
Than  my  weak-hearted  enemies  dare  offer. 
What  news  abroad  ? 


SELECTIONS  FROM  SHAKESPEARE          247 

Crom.  The  heaviest,  and  the  worst, 

Is  your  displeasure  with  the  king. 

W ol  God  bless  him  ! 

Crom.     The  next  is,  that  Sir  Thomas  More  is  chosen 
Lord  Chancellor  in  your  place. 

Wol.  That's  somewhat  sudden  : 

But  he's  a  learned  man.     May  he  continue 
Long  in  his  highness'  favour,  and  do  justice 
For  truth's  sake,  and  his  conscience  ;  that  his  bones, 
When  he  has  run  his  course,  and  sleeps  in  blessings, 
May  have  a  tomb  of  orphans'  tears  wept  on  'em  ! 
What  more  ? 

Crom.     That  Cranmer  is  return'd  with  welcome, 
Install'd  Lord  Archbishop  of  Canterbury. 

Wol.     That's  news  indeed. 

Crom.  Last,  that  the  Lady  Anne, 

Whom  the  king  hath  in  secrecy  long  married, 
This  day  was  view'd  in  open,  as  his  queen, 
Going  to  chapel ;    and  the  voice  is  now 
Only  about  her  coronation. 

Wol.     There  was  the  weight  that  pull'd  me  down.  O 

Cromwell, 

The  king  has  gone  beyond  me  :    all  my  glories 
In  that  one  woman  I  have  lost  for  ever  : 
No  sun  shall  ever  usher  forth  mine  honours, 
Or  gild  again  the  noble  troops  that  waited 
Upon  my  smiles.     Go,  get  thee  from  me,  Cromwell; 
I  am  a  poor  fallen  man,  unworthy  now 
To  be  thy  lord  and  master  :    Seek  the  king  ; 
That  sun,  I  pray,  may  never  set !     I  have  told  him 
What,  and  how  true  thou  art :  he  will  advance  thee  ; 
Some  little  memory  of  me  will  stir  him, 
(I  know  his  noble  nature,)  not  to  let 
Thy  hopeful  service  perish  too  :    Good  Cromwell, 
Neglect  him  not ;    make  use  now,  and  provide 
For  thine  own  future  safety. 

Crom.  0  my  lord, 

Must  I  then  leave  you  ?    must  I  needs  forego 
So  good,  so  noble,  and  so  true  a  master  ? 


148          SELECTIONS  FROM  SHAKESPEARE 

Bear  witness,  all  that  have  not  hearts  of  iron, 
With  what  a  sorrow  Cromwell  leaves  his  lord. — 
The  king  shall  have  my  service  ;  but  my  prayers 
For  ever,  and  for  ever,  shall  be  yours. 

Wol<    Cromwell,  I  did  not  think  to  shed  a  tear 
In  all  my  miseries ;    but  thou  hast  forc'd  me 
Out  of  thy  honest  truth  to  play  the  woman. 
Let's  dry  our  eyes  :  and  thus  far  hear  me,  Cromwell ; 
And, — when  I  am  forgotten,  as  I  shall  be; 
And  sleep  in  dull  cold  marble,  where  no  mention 
Of  me  more  must  be  heard  of,  say  I  taught  thee, 
Say,  Wolsey, — that  once  trod  the  ways  of  glory, 
And  sounded  all  the  depths  and  shoals  of  honour,— 
Found  thee  a  way,  out  of  his  wreck,  to  rise  in  ; 
A  sure  and  safe  one,  though  thy  master  miss'd  it. 
Mark  but  my  fall,  and  that  that  ruin'd  me. 
Cromwell,  I  charge  thee,  fling  away  ambition  ; 
By  that  sin  fell  the  angels  ;    how  can  man,  then, 
The  image  of  his  Maker,  hope  to  win  by  't  ? 
Love  thyself  last :  cherish  those  hearts  that  hate  thee  ; 
Corruption  wins  not  more  than  honesty. 
Still  in  thy  right  hand  carry  gentle  peace, 
To  silence  envious  tongues.     Be  just,  and  fear  not : 
Let  all  the  ends  thou  aim'st  at  be  thy  country's, 
Thy  God's,  and  truth's  ;  then  if  thou  fall'st,  0  Cromwell, 
Thou  fall'st  a  blessed  martyr.     Serve  the  king ; 
And, — Prythee,  lead  me  in  : 
There  take  an  inventory  of  all  I  have, 
To  the  last  penny ;    'tis  the  king's  :    my  robe, 
And  my  integrity  to  heaven,  is  all 
I  dare  now  call  mine  own.     O  Cromwell,  Cromwell  t 
Had  I  but  serv'd  my  God  with  half  the  zeal 
I  serv'd  my  king,  he  would  not  in  mine  age 
Have  left  me  naked  to  mine  enemies. 


249 

OTHELLO'S  ACCOUNT  OF  HIS 
COURTSHIP 

Dialogue,  or   can  be   given   as  one   address   by  omitting  part* 
marked  [  ]. 

(Othello,  Act  /,  Scene  HI.) 
Oth.  Most  potent,  grave,  and  reverend  signiors, 
My  very  noble,  and  approved  good  masters, — 
That  I  have  ta'en  away  this  old  man's  daughter, 
It  is  most  true  ;    true,  I  have  married  her  ; 
The  very  head  and  front  of  my  offending 
Hath  this  extent,  no  more.     Rude  am  I  in  my  speech, 
And  little  bless'd  with  the  set  phrase  of  peace  ; 
For  since  these  arms  of  mine  had  seven  years'  pith, 
Till  now  some  nine  moons  wasted,  they  have  us'd 
Their  dearest  action  in  the  tented  field  ; 
And  little  of  this  great  world  can  I  speak, 
More  than  pertains  to  feats  of  broil  and  battle  ; 
And  therefore  little  shall  I  grace  my  cause, 
In  speaking  for  myself  :  Yet,  by  your  gracious  patience, 
I  will  a  round  unvarnish'd  tale  deliver 
Of  my  whole  course  of  love  ;   what  drugs,  what  charms, 
What  conjuration,  and  what  mighty  magic, 
(For  such  proceeding  I  am  charg'd  withal,) 
I  won  his  daughter  with. 

[Bra.  A  maiden  never  bold  ; 
Of  spirit  so  still  and  quiet,  that  her  motion 
Blush'd  at  herself.     And  she, — in  spite  of  nature, 
Of  years,  of  country,  credit,  every  thing, — 
To  fall  in  love  with  what  she  feared  to  look  on  ! 
It  is  a  judgment  maim'd,  and  most  imperfect, 
That  will  confess — perfection  so  could  err 
Against  all  rules  of  nature  ;  and  must  be  driven 
To  find  out  practices  of  cunning  hell, 
Why  this  should  be.     I  therefore  vouch  again, 
That  with  some  mixtures  powerful  o'er  the  blood, 
Or  with  some  dram  conjur'd  to  this  effect, 
He  wrought  upon  her. 


aso          SELECTIONS  FROM  SHAKESPEARE 

Duke.  To  vouch  this,  is  no  proof; 
Without  more  certain  and  more  overt  test, 
Than  these  thin  habits,  and  poor  likelihoods 
Of  modern  seeming,  do  prefer  against  him. 

1st.  Sen.  But,  Othello,  speak  ; — 
Did  you  by  indirect  and  forced  courses 
Subdue  and  poison  this  young  maid's  affections  t 
Or  came  it  by  request,  and  such  fair  question 
As  soul  to  soul  aflordeth  ?] 

Oth.  I  do  beseech  you, 
Send  for  the  lady  to  the  Sagittary, 
And  let  her  speak  of  me  before  her  father: 
If  you  do  find  me  foul  in  her  report, 
The  trust,  the  office,  I  do  hold  of  you, 
Not  only  take  away,  but  let  your  sentence 
Even  fall  upon  my  life. 

[Duke.  Fetch  Desdemona  hither. 

Oth.  Ancient,  conduct  them :    you    best    know   the 
place.  [Exeunt  IAGO  and  ATTENDANTS.] 

And,  till  she  come,  as  truly  as  to  heaven 
I  do  confess  the  vices  of  my  blood, 
So  justly  to  your  grave  ears  I'll  present 
How  I  did  thrive  in  this  fair  lady's  love, 
And  she  in  mine. 

[Duke.  Say  it,  Othello.] 

Oth.  Her  father  lov'd  me ;  oft  invited  me ; 
Still  question'd  me  the  story  of  my  life, 
From  year  to  year  ;    the  battles,  sieges,  fortunes 
That  I  have  pass'd. 

I  ran  it  through,  even  from  my  boyish  days, 
To  the  very  moment  that  he  bade  me  tell  it. 
Wherein  I  spoke  of  most  disastrous  chances, 
Of  moving  accidents  by  flood  and  field  ; 
Of  hair-breadth  'scapes  i'  the  imminent  deadly  breach  ; 
Of  being  taken  by  the  insolent  foe, 
And  sold  to  slavery;  of  my  redemption  thence, 
And  portance  in  my  travel's  history  : 
Wherein  of  antres  vast,  and  deserts  idle,  [heaven, 

Rough   quarries,   rocks,   and  hills  whose  heads  touch 


SELECTIONS  FROM  SHAKESPEARE          251 

It  was  my  hint  to  speak,  such  was  the  process; 

And  of  the  Cannibals  that  each  other  eat, 

The  Anthropophagi,  and  men  whose  heads 

Do  grow  beneath  their  shoulders.     These  things  to  hear 

Would  Desdemona  seriously  incline  : 

But  still  the  house  affairs  would  draw  her  thence  ; 

Which  ever  as  she  could  with  haste  despatch, 

She'd  come  again,  and  with  a  greedy  ear 

Devour  up  my  discourse  ;    Which  I  observing, 

Took  once  a  pliant  hour ;    and  found  good  means 

To  draw  from  her  a  prayer  of  earnest  heart, 

Tli at  I  would  all  my  pilgrimage  dilate, 

Whereof  by  parcels  she  had  something  heard, 

But  not  intentively ;  I  did  consent ; 

And  often  did  beguile  her  of  her  tears, 

When  I  did  speak  of  some  distressful  stroke, 

That  my  youth  suffer'd.     My  story  being  done, 

She  gave  me  for  my  pains  a  world  of  sighs  : 

She  swore — In  faith,  'twas  strange,'twas  passing  strange; 

'Twas  pitiful,  'twas  wondrous  pitiful: 

She  wish'd  she  had  not  heard  it ;  yet  she  wish'd 

That  heaven  had  made  her  such  a  man  :  she  thank'd  me ; 

And  bade  me,  if  I  had  a  friend  that  lov'd  her, 

I  should  but  teach  him  how  to  tell  my  story, 

And  that  would  woo  her.     Upon  this  hint,  I  spake  : 

She  lov'd  me  for  the  dangers  I  had  pass'd ; 

And  I  lov'd  her,  that  she  did  pity  them. 

This  only  is  the  witchcraft  I  have  us'd ; 

Here  comes  the  lady,  let  her  witness  it. 

[Duke.  I  think  this  tale  would  win  my  daughter  too. — 
Good  Brabantio, 

Take  up  this  mangled  matter  at  the  best : 
Men  do  their  broken  weapons  rather  use, 
Than  their  bare  hands. 

Bra.  I  pray  you,  hear  her  speak  ; 
If  she  confess  that  she  was  half  the  wooer, 
Destruction  on  my  head,  if  my  bad  blame 
Light  on  the  man.] 


HENRY  V.  BEFORE  AGINCOURT 

(Henry  V,  Act  IV,  Scene  I.) 

Enter  three  soldiers,  BATES,  COURT,  and  WILLIAMS. 

Court.  Brother  John  Bates,  is  not  that  the  morning 
which  breaks  yonder  ? 

Bates.  I  think  it  be  :  but  we  have  no  great  cause  to 
desire  the  approach  of  day. 

Witt.  We  see  yonder  the  beginning  of  the  day,  but,  I 
think,  we  shall  never  see  the  end  of  it. — Who  goes  there  ? 

King  Henry.  A  friend. 

Will.  Under  what  captain  serve  you  ? 

K.  Hen.  Under  Sir  Thomas  Erpingham. 

Will.  A  good  old  commander,  and  a  most  kind  gentle- 
man :  I  pray  you,  what  thinks  he  of  our  estate  ? 

K.  Hen.  Even  aa  men  wrecked  upon  a  sand,  that  look 
to  be  washed  off  the  next  tide. 

Bates.  He  hath  not  told  his  thought  to  the  king  ? 

K.  Hen.  No ;  nor  is  it  not  meet  he  should.  For, 
though  I  speak  it  to  you,  I  think  the  king  is  but  a  man,  as 
I  am  :  the  violet  smells  to  him  as  it  doth  to  me  ;  the  ele- 
ment shows  to  him  aa  it  doth  to  me  ;  all  his  senses  have 
but  human  conditions ;  his  ceremonies  laid  by,  in  his 
nakedness  he  appears  but  a  man  ;  and  though  his  affec- 
tions are  higher  mounted  than  ours,  yet,  when  they  stoop, 
they  stoop  with  the  like  wing  ;  therefore,  when  he  sees 
reason  of  fears,  as  we  do,  his  fears,  out  of  doubt,  be  of 
the  same  relish  as  ours  are.  Yet,  in  reason,  no  man  should 
possess  him  with  any  appearance  of  fear,  lest  he,  by  show- 
ing it,  should  dishearten  his  army. 

Bates.  He  may  show  what  outward  courage  he  will : 
but,  I  believe,  as  cold  a  night  as  'tis,  he  could  wish  himself 
in  Thames  up  to  the  neck  ;  and  so  I  would  he  were,  and 
I  by  him,  at  all  adventures,  so  we  were  quit  here. 

K.  Hen.  By  my  troth,  I  will  speak  my  conscience  of 
the  king ;  I  think  he  would  not  wish  himself  anywher* 
but  where  he  is. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  SHAKESPEARE          153 

Bates.  Then  'would  he  were  here  alone ;  so  should 
he  be  sure  to  be  ransomed,  and  a  many  poor  men's  li ves 
saved. 

K.  Hen.  I  dare  say  you  love  him  not  so  ill  to  wish 
him  here  alone ;  howsoever  you  speak  of  this  to  feel 
other  men's  minds :  Methinks  I  could  not  die  anywhere 
so  contented  as  in  the  king's  company  ;  his  cause  being 
just,  and  his  quarrel  honourable. 

Will.  That's  more  than  we  know. 

Bates.  Ay,  or  more  than  we  should  seek  after ;  for  we 
know  enough,  if  we  know  we  are  the  king's  subjects ;  if 
his  cause  be  wrong,  our  obedience  to  the  king  wipes  the 
crime  of  it  out  of  us. 

Witt.  But,  if  the  cause  be  not  good,  the  king  himself 
hath  a  heavy  reckoning  to  make  ;  when  all  those  legs, 
and  arms,  and  heads,  chopped  off  in  a  battle,  shall  join 
together  at  the  latter  day  and  cry  all — We  died  at  such 
a  place  ;  some  swearing  ;  some  crying  for  a  surgeon  ; 
some  upon  their  wives  left  poor  behind  them  ;  some 
upon  the  debts  they  owe  ;  some  upon  their  children 
rawly  left.  I  am  afeard  there  are  few  die  well  that  die 
in  battle  ;  for  how  can  they  charitably  dispose  of  any 
thing,  when  blood  is  their  argument  ?  Now,  if  these  men 
do  not  die  well,  it  will  be  a  black  matter  for  the  king  that 
led  them  to  it ;  whom  to  disobey,  were  against  all  pro- 
portion of  subjection. 

K.  Hen.  So,  if  a  son,  that  is  by  his  father  sent  about 
merchandise,  do  sinfully  miscarry  upon  the  sea,  the  im- 
putation of  his  wickedness,  by  your  rule,  should  be  im- 
posed upon  his  father  that  sent  him  :  or  if  a  servant, 
under  his  master's  command,  transporting  a  sum  of 
money,  be  assailed  by  robbers,  and  die  in  many  irrecon- 
ciled  iniquities,  you  may  call  the  business  of  the  master 
the  author  of  the  servant's  damnation  : — But  this  is  not 
so  :  the  king  is  not  bound  to  answer  the  particular  end- 
ings of  his  soldiers,  the  father  of  his  son,  nor  the  master 
of  his  servant ;  for  they  purpose  not  their  death  when 
they  purpose  their  services.  Besides,  there  is  no  king, 
be  his  cause  never  so  spotless,  if  it  come  to  the  arbitrement 


*54          SELECTIONS  FROM  SHAKESPEARE 

of  swords,  can  try  it  out  with  all  unspotted  soldiers. 
Some,  peradventure,  have  on  them  the  guilt  of  premedi- 
tated and  contrived  murder  ;  some,  of  beguiling  virgins 
with  the  broken  seals  of  perjury  ;  some  making  the  wars 
their  bulwark,  that  have  before  gored  the  gentle  bosom  of 
peace  with  pillage  and  robbery.  Now,  if  these  men  have 
defeated  the  law,  and  outrun  native  punishment ;  though 
they  can  outstrip  men,  they  have  no  wings  to  fly  from  God: 
war  is  his  beadle,  war  is  bis  vengeance  ;  so  that  here  men 
are  punished  for  before-breach  of  the  king's  laws,  in  now 
the  king's  quarrel :  where  they  feared  the  death  they 
have  borne  life  away  ;  and  where  they  would  be  safe  they 
perish ;  Then  if  they  die  unprovided,  no  more  is  the  king 
guilty  of  their  damnation,  than  he  was  before  guilty  of 
those  impieties  for  the  which  they  are  now  visited.  Every 
subject's  duty  is  the  king's  ;  but  every  subject's  soul  is 
his  own.  Therefore  should  every  soldier  in  the  wars  do 
as  every  sick  man  in  his  bed,  wash  every  mote  out  of 
his  conscience  :  and  dying  so,  death  is  to  him  advantage  ; 
or  not  dying,  the  time  was  blessedly  lost  wherein  such 
preparation  was  gained  :  and,  in  him  that  escapes,  it 
were  not  sin  to  think,  that  making  God  so  free  an  offer, 
he  let  him  outlive  that  day  to  see  his  greatness,  and  to 
teach  others  how  they  should  prepare. 

Will.  'Tis  certain,  every  man  that  dies  ill,  the  ill  is 
upon  his  own  head ;  the  king  is  not  to  answer  for  it. 

Bates.  I  do  not  desire  he  should  answer  for  me  ;  and 
yet  I  determine  to  fight  lustily  for  him. 

K.  Hen.  I  myself  heard  the  king  say  he  would  not 
be  ransomed. 

Will.  Ay,  said  he  so,  to  make  us  fight  cheerfully : 
but  when  our  throats  are  cut,  he  may  be  ransomed,  and 
we  ne'er  the  wiser. 

K.  Hen.  If  I  live  to  see  it,  I  will  never  trust  his 
word  after. 

Will.  'Mass,  you'll  pay  him  then  !  That's  a  perilous 
shot  out  of  an  elder  gun,  that  a  poor  and  private  dis- 
pleasure can  do  against  a  monarch  I  You  may  as  well 
go  about  to  turn  the  sun  to  ice,  with  fanning  in  his  face 


SELECTIONS  FROM  SHAKESPEARE          155 

with  a  peacock's  feather.     You'll  never  trust  his  word 
after  !  come,  'tis  a  foolish  saying. 

K.  Hen.  Your  reproof  is  something  too  round ;  I 
should  be  angry  with  you  if  the  time  were  convenient. 

Will.     Let  it  be  a  quarrel  between  us,  if  you  live. 

K.  Hen.     I  embrace  it. 

Will.     How  shall  I  know  thee  again  ? 

K.  Hen.  Give  me  any  gage  of  thine,  and  I  will  wear 
it  in  my  bonnet :  then,  if  ever  thou  darest  acknowledge 
it,  I  will  make  it  my  quarrel. 

Will.     Here's  my  glove  ;    give  me  another  of  thine. 

K.  Hen.     There. 

Will.  This  will  I  also  wear  in  my  cap  :  if  ever  thou 
come  to  me  and  say,  after  to-morrow,  "  This  is  my 
glove,"  by  this  hand,  I  will  take  thee  a  box  on  the  ear. 

K.  Hen.     If  ever  I  live  to  see  it,  I  will  challenge  it. 

Will.     Thou  darest  as  well  be  hanged. 

K.  Hen.  Well,  I  will  do  it,  though  I  take  thee  in  the 
king's  company. 

Will.     Keep  thy  word,  fare  thee  well. 

[Exeunt  SOLDIERS.] 

Upon  the  king  !  let  us  our  lives,  our  souls, 
Our  debts,  our  careful  wives,  our  children,  and 
Our  sins,  lay  on  the  king  ; — we  must  bear  all. 
0  hard  condition  !  twin-born  with  greatness, 
Subjected  to  the  breath  of  every  fool, 
Whose  sense  no  more  can  feel  but  his  own  wringing  ! 
What  infinite  heart's  ease  must  kings  neglect, 
That  private  men  enjoy  ! 

And  what  have  kings,  that  privates  have  not  too, 
Save  ceremony,  save  general  ceremony  ? 
And  what  art  thou,  thou  idol  ceremony  ? 
What  kind  of  god  art  thou,  that  suffer'st  more 
Of  mortal  griefs  than  do  thy  worshippers  ? 
What  are  thy  rents  ?  what  are  thy  comings-in  t 
O  ceremony,  show  me  but  thy  worth  ! 
What  is  the  soul  of  adoration  ? 
Art  thou  aught  else  but  place,  degree,  and  form, 
Creating  awe  and  fear  in  other  men  ? 


156          SELECTIONS  FROM  SHAKESPEARE 

Wherein  them  art  less  happy  being  fear'd 

Than  they  in  fearing. 

What  drink'st  them  oft,  instead  of  homage  sweet, 

But  poison'd  flattery  ?     O  be  sick,  great  greatness, 

And  bid  thy  ceremony  give  thee  cure ! 

Think'st  thou  the  fiery  fever  will  go  out 

With  titles  blown  from  adulation  ? 

Will  it  give  place  to  flexure  and  low  bending  ? 

Canst  thou,  when  thou  command'st  the  beggar's  kne 

Command  the  health  of  it  ?    No,  thou  proud  dream, 

That  play'st  so  subtly  with  a  king's  repose  ; 

I  am  a  king  that  find  thee  ;  and  I  know 

"Tis  not  the  balm,  the  sceptre,  and  the  ball, 

The  sword,  the  mace,  the  crown  imperial, 

The  inter-tissued  robe  of  gold  and  pearl, 

The  farced  title  running  'fore  the  king, 

The  throne  he  sits  on,  nor  the  tide  of  pomp 

That  beats  upon  the  high  shore  of  this  world, 

No,  not  all  these,  thrice-gorgeous  ceremony, 

Not  all  these,  laid  hi  bed  majestical, 

Can  sleep  so  soundly  as  the  wretched  slave ; 

Who,  with  a  body  fill'd,  and  vacant  mind, 

Gets  him  to  rest,  cramm'd  with  distressful  bread ; 

Never  sees  horrid  night,  the  child  of  hell, 

But,  like'  a  lackey,  from  the  rise  to  set 

Sweats  in  the  eyes  of  Phoebus,  and  all  night 

Sleeps  in  Elysium  ;  next  day,  after  dawn, 

Doth  rise,  and  help  Hyperion  to  his  horse  J 

And  follows  so  the  ever-running  year, 

With  profitable  labour,  to  his  grave  : 

And,  but  for  ceremony,  such  a  wretch, 

Winding  up  days  with  toil  and  nights  with  sleep, 

Had  the  fore-hand  and  vantage  of  a  king. 

The  slave,  a  member  of  the  country's  peace, 

Enjoys  it ;  but,  in  gross  brain,  little  wots 

What  watch  the  king  keeps  to  maintain  the  peace, 

Whose  hours  the  peasant  best  advantages. 


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