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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Canadian Elocutionist, by Anna Kelsey Howard
+
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+
+Title: The Canadian Elocutionist
+
+Author: Anna Kelsey Howard
+
+Release Date: May, 2005  [EBook #8093]
+[This file was first posted on June 14, 2003]
+
+Edition: 10
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, THE CANADIAN ELOCUTIONIST ***
+
+
+
+
+E-text prepared by Juliet Sutherland, Jerry Fairbanks, Charles Franks, and
+the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
+
+
+
+THE CANADIAN ELOCUTIONIST
+
+DESIGNED FOR THE USE OF
+Colleges, Schools and for Self Instruction
+TOGETHER WITH A COPIOUS SELECTION,
+_IN PROSE AND POETRY, OF_
+PIECES ADAPTED FOR READING, RECITATION AND PRACTICE
+
+BY
+
+ANNA K. HOWARD, LL.B.,
+
+[MISS ANNA HALLECK KELSEY].
+
+Teacher of Elocution and English Literature.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+"The manner of speaking is as important as the matter."--CHESTERFIELD.
+
+
+PREFACE.
+
+The principal object the author had in view in the preparation of this
+work, was to place in convenient form for the use, both of teachers and
+others, the principles, rules, illustrations and exercises, that she has
+found most useful and practical for the purpose of instruction, and best
+calculated to make good readers, and easy, graceful and correct speakers.
+
+For this purpose the rules and advices have been simplified and divested,
+as much as possible, of all abstruse scientific terms, and made as simple
+and plain as could be done, having a due regard to the proper explanations
+requisite to make them easy to understand and not difficult to practise.
+
+It is hoped that this system of instruction, which has been for some years
+very successfully employed by the compiler in her own practice, may prove a
+valuable aid to those who wish to pursue the study of the art.
+
+The examples chosen to illustrate the rules have been taken with a due
+regard to their fitness to exemplify the principles involved, and to show
+the various styles of reading, declamation and oratory, and the selections
+have been made in such a manner as to adapt them for use in schools,
+colleges and for public reading.
+
+TORONTO, _September_ 24_th_, 1885.
+
+
+INTRODUCTION.
+
+Of the importance of the study of Elocution as part of a good education
+there can be no question. Almost every one is liable to be called upon,
+perhaps at a few minutes notice, to explain his views and give his opinions
+on subjects of various degrees of importance, and to do so with effect ease
+in speaking is most requisite. Ease implies knowledge, and address in
+speaking is highly ornamental as well as useful even in private life.
+
+The art of Elocution held a prominent place in ancient education, but has
+been greatly neglected in modern times, except by a few persons--whose fame
+as speakers and orators is a sufficient proof of the value and necessity of
+the study. The Ancients--particularly the Greeks and the Romans--were fully
+conscious of the benefits resulting from a close attention to and the
+practice of such rules as are fitted to advance the orator in his
+profession, and their schools of oratory were attended by all classes; nor
+were their greatest orators ashamed to acknowledge their indebtedness to
+their training in the art for a large portion of their success. The Welsh
+Triads say "Many are the friends of the golden tongue," and, how many a
+jury has thought a speaker's arguments without force because his manner was
+so, and have found a verdict, against law and against evidence, because
+they had been charmed into delusion by the potent fascination of some
+gifted orator.
+
+As Quintilian remarks: "A proof of the importance of delivery may be drawn
+from the additional force which the actors give to what is written by the
+best poets; so that what we hear pronounced by them gives infinitely more
+pleasure than when we only read it. I think, I may affirm that a very
+indifferent speech, well set off by the speaker, will have a greater effect
+than the best, if destitute of that advantage;" and Henry Irving, in a
+recent article, says: "In the practice of acting, a most important point is
+the study of elocution; and, in elocution one great difficulty is the use
+of sufficient force to be generally heard without being unnaturally loud,
+and without acquiring a stilted delivery. I never knew an actor who brought
+the art of elocution to greater perfection than the late Charles Mathews,
+whose utterance on the stage was so natural, that one was surprised to find
+when near him that he was really speaking in a very loud key." Such are
+some of the testimonies to the value of this art.
+
+Many persons object to the study of elocution because they do not expect to
+become professional readers or public speakers, but surely this is a great
+mistake, and they might as well object to the study of literature because
+they do not expect to become an author; and still more mischievous in its
+results is the fallacy, only too current even among persons of
+intelligence, that those who display great and successful oratorical
+powers, possess a genius or faculty that is the gift of nature, and which
+it would be in vain to endeavour to acquire by practice, as if orators
+"were born, not made," as is said of poets.
+
+The art of reading well is one of those rare accomplishments which all wish
+to possess, a few think they have, while others who see and believe that it
+is not the unacquired gift of genius, labour to obtain it, and it will be
+found that excellence in this, as in everything else of value, is the
+result of well-directed effort, and the reward of unremitting industry. A
+thorough knowledge of the principles of any art will enable a student to
+achieve perfection in it, so in elocution he may add new beauties to his
+own style of reading and speaking however excellent they may be naturally.
+But it is often said "Our greatest orators were not trained." But is this
+true? How are we to know how much and how laborious was the preliminary
+training each effort of these great orators cost them, before their
+eloquence thrilled through the listening crowds? As Henry Ward Beecher
+says: "If you go to the land which has been irradiated by parliamentary
+eloquence; if you go to the people of Great Britain; if you go to the great
+men in ancient times; if you go to the illustrious names that every one
+recalls--Demosthenes and Cicero--they all represent a life of work. You
+will not find one great sculptor, nor one great architect, nor one eminent
+man in any department of art, whose greatness, if you inquire, you will not
+find to be the fruit of study, and of the evolution which comes from
+study." So much for the importance of Elocution and the advantages of
+acquiring a proficiency therein.
+
+A few remarks to those who are ambitious of excelling in the art may now be
+given, showing how they may best proceed in improving themselves therein.
+
+The following rules are worthy of strict attention:--1. Let your
+articulation be distinct and deliberate. 2. Let your pronunciation be bold
+and forcible. 3. Acquire a compass and variety in the height of your voice.
+4. Pronounce your words with propriety and elegance. 5. Pronounce every
+word consisting of more than one syllable with its proper accent. 6. In
+every sentence distinguish the more significant words by a natural,
+forcible and varied emphasis. 7. Acquire a just variety of pause and
+cadence. 8. Accompany the emotions and passions which your words express,
+by corresponding tones, looks and gestures.
+
+To follow nature is the fundamental rule in oratory, without regard to
+which, all other rules will only produce affected declamation not just
+elocution. Learn to speak slowly and deliberately, almost all persons who
+have not studied the art have a habit of uttering their words too rapidly.
+It should be borne in mind that the higher degrees of excellence in
+elocution are to be gained, not by reading much, but by pronouncing what is
+read with a strict regard to the nature of the subject, the structure of
+the sentences, the turn of the sentiment, and a correct and judicious
+application of the rules of the science. It is an essential qualification
+of a good speaker to be able to alter the height as well as the strength
+and the tone of his voice as occasion requires, so accustom yourself to
+pitch your voice in different keys, from the highest to the lowest; but
+this subject is of such a nature that it is difficult to give rules for all
+the inflections of the voice, and it is almost, if not quite impossible to
+teach gesture by written instructions; a few lessons from a good and
+experienced teacher will do more to give a pupil ease, grace, and force of
+action than all the books and diagrams in the world. Action is important to
+the orator, and changes of action must accord with the language; the lower
+the language the slower should be the movements and _vice versa_,
+observing Shakespeare's rule: "Suit the action to the word, the word to the
+action, with this special observance--that you o'erstep not the modesty of
+nature." Study repose, without it, both in speech and action, the ears,
+eyes, and minds of the audience, and the powers of the speaker are alike
+fatigued; follow nature, consider how she teaches you to utter any
+sentiment or feeling of your heart. Whether you speak in a private room or
+in a great assembly, remember that you still speak, and speak
+_naturally_. Conventional tones and action have been the ruin of
+delivery in the pulpit, the senate, at the bar, and on the platform.
+
+All public speaking, but especially acting and reciting, must be heightened
+a little above ordinary nature, the pauses longer and more frequent, the
+tones weightier, the action more forcible, and the expression more highly
+coloured. Speaking from memory admits of the application of every possible
+element of effectiveness, rhetorical and elocutionary, and in the delivery
+of a few great actors the highest excellence in this art has been
+exemplified. But speaking from memory requires the most minute and careful
+study, as well as high elocutionary ability, to guard the speaker against a
+merely mechanical utterance. Read in the same manner you would speak, as if
+the matter were your own original sentiments uttered directly from the
+heart. Action should not be used in ordinary reading.
+
+Endeavour to learn something from every one, either by imitating, but not
+servilely, what is good, or avoiding what is bad. Before speaking in public
+collect your thoughts and calm yourself, avoiding all hurry. Be punctual
+with your audience, an apology for being late is the worst prologue.
+Leave off before your hearers become tired, it is better for you that they
+should think your speech too short than too long.
+
+Let everything be carefully finished, well-polished, and perfect. Many of
+the greatest effects in all arts have been the results of long and patient
+study and hard work, however simple and spontaneous they may have appeared
+to be.
+
+Remember, that the highest art is to conceal art, that attention to trifles
+makes perfection, and that perfection is no trifle.
+
+CONTENTS
+
+PART I.
+
+I.--PHYSICAL CULTURE.
+
+  Calisthenics
+  Walking
+  Sitting
+  Kneeling
+
+II.--BREATHING EXERCISES.
+
+  Directions for Breathing
+
+III.--ARTICULATION.
+
+  Articulation
+
+IV.--ELEMENTARY SOUNDS, ETC.
+
+  Elements
+  Pronunciation and Accent
+
+V.--QUALITIES OF VOICE.
+
+  I. Pure
+  II. Orotund
+  III. Guttural
+  IV. Tremor
+  V. Aspirate
+  VI. Falsetto
+
+VI.--FORCE.
+
+  I. DEGREES.
+    I. Gentle
+    II. Moderate
+    III. Heavy
+
+
+  II. VARIATIONS OF FORCE, OR STRESS.
+    I. Radical
+    II. Median
+    III. Vanishing
+    IV. Compound
+    V. Thorough
+    VI. Semitone
+    VII. Monotone
+
+VII.--TIME.
+
+  I. Moderate
+  II. Quick
+  III. Slow
+
+VIII.--PITCH.
+
+  I. Middle
+  II. High
+  III. Low
+  IV. Transition
+
+IX.--PAUSES, INFLECTIONS, ETC.
+
+  I. Rhetorical pause
+  II. Emphasis
+  III. Climax
+  IV. Inflection
+  V. Circumflex or Wave
+
+X.--PERSONATION.
+
+  I. Personation
+  II. Expression
+
+XI.--GESTURE.
+
+  I. Position of the Hand
+  II. Direction
+
+XII.--INTRODUCTION TO AUDIENCE.
+
+  I. Introduction
+  II. Advice to Students
+
+XIII.--GENERAL EXAMPLES FOR PRACTICE.
+
+
+PART II.
+
+SELECTIONS FOR READING.
+
+A Child's First Impression of a Star... _N. P. Willis._
+A Legend of Bregenz... _Adelaide A. Procter._
+A Modest Wit
+A Prayer... _James Russell Lowett._
+A Slip of the Tongue
+A Tarryton Romance
+Advice to a Young Lawyer... _Story._
+An Autumn Day... _Bryant._
+An Order for a Picture... _Alice Cary._
+Ask Mamma... _A. M. Bell._
+Aunty Doleful's Visit
+Baby's Visitor
+Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata
+Bells Across the Snow... _Frances Ridley Havergal._
+Brutus on the Death of Caesar... _Shakespeare._
+Calling a Boy in the Morning
+Cataline's Defiance... _Rev'd. George Croly._
+Christ Turned and Looked upon Peter... _Elisabeth B. Browning._
+Cuddle Doon... _Alexander Andersen._
+Curfew Must not Ring To-night
+Dios Te Guarde
+Domestic Love and Happiness... _Thomson._
+Drifting... _T. Buchanan Read._
+Elizabeth... _H. W. Longfellow._
+Eve's Regrets on Quitting Paradise... _Milton._
+Experience with European Guides... _Mark Twain._
+Fashionable Singing
+First Experience
+Gertrude of Wyoming... _Campell._
+Ginevra... _Rogers._
+God, the True Source of Consolation... _Moore._
+Good-Bye... _Whyte Melville._
+Guilty or Not Guilty
+Hagar in the Wilderness... _N. P. Willis._
+Hannah Binding Shoes... _Lucy Larcom._
+Highland Mary... _Burns._
+Home Song... _H. W. Longfellow._
+How We Hunted a Mouse... _Joshua Jenkins._
+How Women say Good-bye
+I Remember, I Remember... _T. Hood_
+I'll Take What Father Takes... _W. Boyle._
+In School Days... _Whittier._
+Jimmy Butler and the Owl
+Keys... _Bessie Chandler_
+King John... _Shakespeare._
+Landing of Columbus... _Rogers._
+Little Bennie... _Annie G. Ketchum._
+Little Mary's Wish... _Mrs. L. M. Blinn._
+Love in Idleness... _Shakespeare._
+Makin' an Editor Outen 0' Him... _Will. M. Carleton._
+Malibran and the Young Musician
+Marmion and Douglas... _Sir W. Scott._
+Mary Maloney's Philosophy
+Mary Stuart... _Schiler._
+Memory's Pictures... _Alice Cary._
+My Trundle Bed
+Nay, I'll Stay With the Lad... _Lillie E. Barr._
+Never Give Up
+Niagara... _John G. C. Brainard._
+No Kiss
+Ocean... _W. Wetherald._
+On His Blindness... _Milton._
+On the Miseries of Human Life... _Thomson._
+Only Sixteen
+Oration Against Cataline... _Cicero._
+Over the Hill from the Poor-House... _Will M. Carleton._
+Papa Can't Find Me
+Passing Away... _Pierpont._
+Paul's Defence before Agrippa... _Bible._
+Per Pacem ad Lucem... _Adelaide A. Procter._
+Poor Little Joe... _Peleg Arkwright._
+Poor Little Stephen Girard... _Mark Twain._
+Prayer... _Tennyson._
+Reading the List
+Reflections on the Tomb of Shakespeare... _Irving._
+Rock of Ages... _F. L. Stanton._
+Roll Call
+Romeo and Juliet... _Shakespeare_
+Sandalphon... _H. W. Longfellow._
+Santa Claus in the Mines
+Satisfaction
+Saved... _Mary B. Sleight._
+Scene at Niagara Falls... _Charlei Torson._
+Scenes from Hamlet... _Shakespeare._
+Scenes from Leah the Forsaken
+Scenes from Macbeth... _Shakespeare._
+Scenes from Pizarro... _Sheridan._
+Scene from Richelieu... _Sir Edward Lytton Bulwer._
+Sim's Little Girl... _Mary Hartwell._
+Slander
+Somebody's Mother
+Song of Birds... _H. W. Longfellow._
+Sonnet... _James Ritttell Lowell._
+St. Philip Neri and the Youth... _Dr. Byrom._
+Temperance... _Rev. John Ireland._
+The Ague
+The Approach to Paradise... _Milton._
+The Armada... _Macaulay._
+The Bald-Headed Man
+The Battle of Agincourt... _Shakespeare._
+The Bishop's Visit... _Emily Huntington Miller._
+The Bridal Wine-Cup... _Sidney Herbert._
+The Chimes of S. S. Peter and Paul
+The Dead Doll
+The Death-Bed... _Thomas Hood._
+The Engineer's Story
+The Faithful Housewife
+The Famine... _H. W. Longfellow._
+The Field of Waterloo... _Lord Byron._
+The Fireman... _George M. Baker._
+The Foolish Virgins... _Tennyson._
+The Hired Squirrel... _Laura Sanford._
+The Hypochondriac
+The Inexperienced Speaker
+The Jester's Choice... _Horace Smith._
+The Kiss
+The Last Hymn... _Marianne Farningham._
+The Last Station
+The Launch of the Ship... _H. W. Longfellow._
+The Little Hatchet Story... _R. N. Burdette._
+The Little Hero
+The Little Quaker Sinner
+The Miniature
+The Model Wife... _Ruskin._
+The Modern Cain... _E. Evans Edwards._
+The Newsboy's Debt
+The Old Man in the Model Church... _John H Yates._
+The Old Soldier of the Regiment... _G. Newell Lovejoy._
+The Opening of the Piano... _O. W. Holmes._
+The Painter of Seville... _Susan Wilson._
+
+The Patriot's Elysium... _Montgomery._
+The Polish Boy... _Mrs. Ann S. Stephens._
+The Potion Scene (Romeo and Juliet)... _Shakespeare._
+The Quaker Widow... _Bayard Taylor._
+The Quarrel of Brutus and Cassius... _Shakespeare._
+The Retort
+The Rift of the Rock... _Annie Herbert._
+The Seasons... _Thomson._
+The Serenade
+The Sioux Chief's Daughter... _Joaquin Miller._
+The Sister of Charity... _Owen Meredith._
+The Wedding Fee... _B. M. Streeter._
+The Whistler... _Robert Story._
+The World from the Sidewalk
+The Worn Wedding Ring... _W. C. Bennett._
+The Young Gray Head... _Mrs. Southey._
+There's Nothing True but Heaven... _Moore._
+Though Lost to Sight to Memory Dear... _Ruthven Jenkyns._
+Three Words of Strength... _Schiller._
+To Her Husband... _Anne Bradstreet._
+Tom... _Constance Fenimore Woolsen._
+Trial Scene from the Merchant of Venice... _Shakespeare._
+Trusting
+Wanted
+Waterloo... _Lady Morgan._
+Wounded
+Your Mission
+
+
+TESTIMONIALS.
+
+Miss Kelsey has given special attention to Reading and Elocution for a
+number of years. She has a powerful voice, with variety of expression.
+Miss Kelsey I know to be a lady of true Christian principles, ambitions to
+excel, and set a good example in Elocution and Literature. I commend
+her to those interested in this branch of learning.
+
+Allen A. Griffith,
+
+Author of "Lessons in Elocution,"
+And Professor of Elocution at State Normal School at Ypsilanti, Mich.
+
+
+I have long known Professor Griffith, whose communication is enclosed.
+Such is his ability in his profession, and so large are his acquirements,
+And so just and broad his critical faculty, that I cannot commend Miss
+Kelsey in any way so well as by saying that I accept the Professor's
+judgment as most satisfactory. His opinion of her is reliable beyond
+question.
+
+I have been pleased with Miss Kelsey's views on Elocution, as far as I can
+learn them from a single interview, and hope she may be successful in the
+profession she has chosen.
+
+W. Hogarth,
+
+_Late Pastor of Jefferson Ave. Presbyterian Church,_
+Detroit, Michigan.
+
+
+35 Union Square, New York.
+
+Miss Kelsey has been under my instruction in Elocution, and I take
+pleasure in saying that she was so earnest in study, and so faithful
+in practice, that her proficiency was very great. I bespeak for her
+added success as a teacher; and from the repertoire which her recent
+study has given, new triumphs as a public reader.
+
+Anna Randall Diehl,
+
+Author of "Randall's Elocution," and "The Quarterly
+Elocutionist."
+
+
+Ann Arbour, November 3rd, 1880.
+
+_To whom it may concern:_
+
+I have known Miss Kelsey (now Mrs. William J. Howard) for upwards
+of two years, and have a high respect for her as a conscientious,
+cultivated and agreeable lady, who is entitled to confidence and
+esteem. She has a good reputation as an Elocutionist, and I have
+no doubt would give valuable and faithful instruction to any one
+who may seek her aid.
+
+(Signed) THOMAS M. COOLEY.
+
+Professor of Law, Michigan University, and Judge of Supreme
+Court, Michigan.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+MICHIGAN UNIVERSITY,
+ANN ARBOR, MICH.
+November 13th, 1880.
+
+For several years Mrs. Anna K. Howard, (then Miss Kelsey) lived in Ann
+Arbor as a teacher of Elocution, and also as a student in one of our
+professional departments, and was known to me as very earnest in all her
+work.
+
+I never had the pleasure of hearing her read or of witnessing any of her
+instructions in Elocution; but of her proficiency in both directions, I
+frequently heard very favourable reports.
+
+MOSES COIT TYLER,
+
+Professor of History in Cornell University, and author of "History of
+American Literature."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+[_St. Catharines (Ont.) Times_.]
+
+MISS KELSEY fairly took the audience by storm, being heartily encored.
+She is one of the best professional readers we have ever listened to.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+[_Ann Arbor (Mich.) Courier_.]
+
+MISS KELSEY'S manner is simple and graceful, or full of vigour and fire;
+her voice singularly sweet and flexible, or deep and sonorous at will. Miss
+K. has given readings in many of our important cities, and she always holds
+her audience spell-bound.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+[_Grand Rapids (Mich.) Press._]
+
+MISS KELSEY is a lady of unusual talent; evidently understands her
+vocation. She fully sustained her reputation acquired elsewhere, and has
+made many friends in this city--her professional worth and professional
+merit being recognized--who will be pleased with another opportunity of
+listening to her readings should she thus favour them.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+[_St. Thomas (Ont.) Times_.]
+
+The readings of Miss Kelsey were the _piece de resistance_ of the evening.
+This lady has a very sweet voice, and flexible, pure accentuation, and is
+altogether as good an elocutionist as we have ever heard. It was wonderful
+how distinctly her voice was heard all over the hall, though apparently
+making no effort. She was applauded with enthusiasm.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER I.
+
+PHYSICAL CULTURE.
+
+
+Gymnastic and calisthenic exercises are invaluable aids to the culture and
+development of the bodily organs, for purposes of vocalization.
+
+The organs of the voice require vigour and pliancy of muscle, to perform
+their office with energy and effect.
+
+Before proceeding to the vocal gymnastics, it is indispensable, almost, to
+practice a series of muscular exercises, adapted to the expansion of the
+chest, freedom of the circulation, and general vitality of the whole
+system.
+
+First, stand firmly upon both feet, hands upon the hips, fingers in front,
+head erect, so as to throw the larynx directly over the wind-pipe in a
+perpendicular line; bring the arms, thus adjusted, with hands pressed
+firmly against the waist, back and down, six times in succession; the
+shoulders will be brought down and back, head up, chest thrown forward.
+Keeping the hands in this position, breathe freely, filling the lungs to
+the utmost, emitting the breath slowly. Now, bring the hands, clenched
+tightly, against the sides of the chest; thrust the right fist forward--
+keeping the head up and chest forward, whole body firm; bring it back, and
+repeat six times; left the same; then both fists; then right up six times;
+then left; then both; then right, down six times; left, the same; then
+both. Now clench the fists tightly, and press them under the arm-pits,
+throwing the chest as well forward as possible, shoulders down and back,
+head erect; thrust the fists down the sides, and return, six times, with
+the utmost energy. Now, keeping the head, shoulders, and chest still the
+same, extend the hands forward, palms open and facing, bring both back as
+far as the bones and muscles of the shoulders will admit, without bending
+arms at elbows. Now, thrust the body to the right, knees and feet firm, and
+strike the left side with open palms, vigorously, repeat with body to the
+left. Now, with arms akimbo, thrust the right foot forward (kicking) with
+energy, six times; left same. Now, place the clenched fist in the small of
+the back with great force; throw the whole body backwards, feet and knees
+firm, tilling the lungs to the utmost and uttering, as you go over, the
+alphabetical element, "_a_" then long "_o_," then long "_e_"
+If these movements have been made with great energy and precision, the
+blood is circulating freely, and the whole body is aglow, and you are ready
+now for vocal exercises.
+
+These should be repeated daily with increasing energy.
+
+The best time for practicing gymnastic exercises is either early in the
+morning or in the cool of the evening; but never immediately after meals.
+
+As the feet and lower limbs are the foundation, we shall begin by giving
+their different positions. The student should be careful to keep the body
+erect.
+
+A good voice depends upon the position, and the practice of Position and
+Gesture will prove a valuable aid in physical culture, and in acquiring a
+graceful address. There are two primary positions of the feet in speaking:
+
+_First._--The body rests on the left foot, right a little advanced,
+right knee bent.
+
+_Second._--The body rests on the right foot, the left a little
+advanced, left knee bent.
+
+There are two other positions which are called secondary. They are assumed
+in argument, appeal or persuasion.
+
+
+The first secondary position is taken from the first primary by advancing
+the unoccupied foot, and resting the body upon it, leaning forward, the
+_left_ foot brought to its support. The second secondary position is
+the same as the first with the body resting on the left foot. In assuming
+these positions the movements must be made with the utmost simplicity,
+avoiding all display or parade, and advancing, retiring or changing with
+ease and gracefulness, excepting when the action demands energy or marked
+decision. All changes must be made as lightly and as imperceptibly as
+possible, without any unnecessary sweep of the moving foot, and in all
+changes that foot should be moved first which does not support the weight
+of the body. All action should be graceful in mechanism and definite in
+expressiveness. The speaker should keep his place--all his motions may be
+easily made in one square yard, but the stage or dramatic action requires
+more extended movements.
+
+WALKING.
+
+In walking, the head and body should be carried upright, yet perfectly free
+and easy, with the shoulders thrown back, the knees should be straight, and
+the toes turned out. In the walk or march, the foot should be advanced,
+keeping the knee and instep straight, and the toe pointing downward; it
+should then be placed softly on the ground without jerking the body; and
+this movement should be repeated with the left foot, and the action
+continued until it can be performed with ease and elegance.
+
+"In a graceful human step," it has been well observed, "the heel is always
+raised before the foot is lifted from the ground, as if the foot were part
+of a wheel rolling forward, and the weight of the body, supported by the
+muscles of the calf of the leg, rests, for a time, on the fore part of the
+foot and toes. There is then a bending of the foot in a certain degree."
+
+
+SITTING.
+
+In reading, the student should sit erect, with both feet resting on the
+floor, and one foot slightly advanced, the head up so as to be able to use
+the whole trunk in respiration.
+
+KNEELING.
+
+To kneel gracefully, assume the first standing position resting the weight
+of the body on the right foot, then place the left knee gently down on the
+floor keeping the body perfectly erect, then bring the right knee down;--in
+rising, these motions are reversed, the right knee being raised first, the
+full weight of the body resting on it while rising, bring up the left knee
+and assume the first standing position. To be effective these motions
+should be very gracefully executed and a great deal of practice must be
+given to acquire freedom of action.
+
+HOLDING THE BOOK.
+
+The book should be held in the right hand by the side, standing in the
+first position then raise it and open it to place, pass it to the left hand
+letting the right hand drop by the side, the book being held so that the
+upper part of it is below the chin, so as to show the countenance, and
+permit the free use of the eyes, which should frequently be raised from the
+book and directed to those who are listening.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II.
+
+BREATHING EXERCISES.
+
+
+Deep breathing with the lips closed, inhaling as long as possible, and
+exhaling slowly, is very beneficial.
+
+Having inflated the lungs to their utmost capacity, form the breath into
+the element of long _o_, in its escape through the vocal organs. This
+exercise should be frequently repeated, as the voice will be strengthened
+thereby, and the capacity of the chest greatly increased. Do not raise the
+shoulders or the upper part of the chest alone when you breathe. Breathe as
+a healthy child breathes, by the expansion and contraction of abdominal and
+intercostal muscles. Such breathing will improve the health, and be of
+great assistance in continuous reading or speaking. Great care is necessary
+in converting the breath into voice. Do not waste breath; use it
+economically, or hoarseness will follow. Much practice on the vocal
+elements, with all the varieties of pitch, then the utterance of words,
+then of sentences, and finally of whole paragraphs, is necessary in
+learning to use the breath, and in acquiring judgment and taste in
+vocalizing. _Never speak when the lungs are exhausted. Keep them well
+inflated._
+
+SPECIAL DIRECTIONS FOR BREATHING.
+
+1. Place yourself in a perfectly erect but easy posture; the weight of the
+body resting on one foot; the feet at a moderate distance, the one in
+advance of the other; the arms akimbo; the fingers pressing on the
+abdominal muscles, in front, and the thumbs on the dorsal muscles, on each
+side of the spine; the chest freely expanded and fully projected; the
+shoulders held backward and downward; the head perfectly vertical.
+
+2. Having thus complied with the preliminary conditions of a free and
+unembarrassed action of the organs, draw in and give out the breath very
+fully and very slowly, about a dozen times in succession.
+
+3. Draw in a very full breath, and send it forth in a prolonged sound of
+the letter _h_. In the act of inspiration, take in as much breath as
+you can contain. In that of expiration, retain all you can, and give out as
+little as possible, merely sufficient to keep the sound of _h_
+audible.
+
+4. Draw in a very full breath, as before, and emit it with a lively,
+expulsive force, in the sound of _h_, but little prolonged in the
+style of a moderate, whispered cough.
+
+5. Draw in the breath, as already directed, and emit it with a sudden and
+violent explosion, in a very brief sound of the letter _h_, in the
+style of an abrupt and forcible, but whispered cough. The breath is, in
+this mode of expiration, thrown out with abrupt _violence_.
+
+6. Inflate the lungs to their utmost capacity and exhale the breath very
+slowly, counting rapidly up to ten, as many times as possible with one
+breath.
+
+Each of the above exercises should be repeated often, by the student, in
+his room, or while walking; and may be given with the gymnastic exercises
+previously introduced.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III.
+
+ARTICULATION.
+
+
+A good articulation consists in a clear, full, and distinct utterance of
+words, in accordance with the best standard of pronunciation, and this
+constitutes the basis of every other excellence in reading and oratory.
+Care and attention, with diligent practice, will keep young persons from
+falling into the bad habit of imperfect articulation, for most voices are
+good until domestic or local habits spoil them. Hence the great importance
+of careful training in early childhood, for if parents and instructors
+would direct their attention to this matter a manifest improvement would
+quickly follow; yet, to acquire a good articulation is not so difficult a
+task "as to defy the assaults of labour."
+
+"The importance of a correct enunciation in a public speaker is well known
+--for if he possesses only a moderate voice, if he articulates correctly,
+he will be better understood and heard with greater pleasure, than one who
+vociferates without judgment. The voice of the latter may indeed extend to
+a considerable distance,--but the sound is dissipated in confusion; of the
+former voice, not the smallest vibration is wasted, every stroke is
+perceived even at the utmost distance to which it reaches; and hence it
+often has the appearance of penetrating even farther than one which is
+loud, but badly articulated."
+
+In connection with this subject, a few words are necessary concerning
+impediment of speech, for in cases where a slight degree of hesitation
+breaks the fluent tenor of discourse much may be accomplished by due care
+and attention, and most defects of speech, voice, and manner may be
+modified or remedied by cultivation and diligent study and practice.
+
+In seeking for a remedy the first thing to be considered is the care of the
+health, for this is the foundation of every hope of cure, and all excesses
+should be avoided and all irregularities guarded against.
+
+All the mental powers should be enlisted in the combat with the defect, and
+the student should speak with deliberation and with an expiring breath, and
+when alone practice frequently the words and letters that he finds most
+difficult to pronounce, and should also furnish his mind with a copious
+vocabulary of synonyms, so that if he finds himself unable to utter a
+particular word, he may substitute some other in its place. But above all
+he must maintain a courageous command over himself and exert the energy of
+his own mind. By observing these rules, if the defect is not entirely
+eradicated, it will at least be palliated in a considerable degree.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IV.
+
+ELEMENTARY SOUNDS OF THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE.
+
+
+The number of elements in the language is thirty-eight.
+
+They are divided into _vowels_, _sub-vowels_, and
+_aspirates_; or, as classified by Dr. Rush in his "Philosophy of the
+Human Voice," into _tonics_, _sub-tonics_, and _atonics_.
+
+There are fifteen _vowels_, fourteen _sub-vowels_, and nine
+_aspirates_.
+
+_Table of the Elements._
+
+VOWELS
+
+A  as heard in _a_le, f_a_te, m_a_y.
+A  "    "   "  _a_rm, f_a_rm, h_a_rm.
+A  "    "   "  _a_ll, f_a_ll, _o_rb.
+A  "    "   "  _a_n, ide_a_, p_a_n.
+E  "    "   "  _e_asy, im_i_tate, m_e_.
+E  "    "   "  _e_nd, l_e_t, m_e_nd.
+I  "    "   "  _i_sle, _i_ce, fl_y_, m_i_ne.
+I  "    "   "  _i_n, p_i_n, _E_ngland.
+O  "    "   "  _o_ld, m_o_re, _o_ats.
+O  "    "   "  _oo_se, l_o_se, t_o_, f_oo_l
+O  "    "   "   _o_n, l_o_ck, n_o_t.
+U  "    "   "   m_ew_, f_ew_, t_u_be, p_u_pil.
+U  "    "   "   _u_p, t_u_b, h_e_r, h_u_rt.
+U  "    "   "   f_u_ll, p_u_ll, w_o_lf.
+OU "    "   "   _ou_r, fl_ou_r, p_ow_er.
+
+SUB-VOWELS.
+
+B  as heard in _b_ow, _b_oat, _b_arb.
+D  "    "   "  _d_ay, bi_d_, _d_are.
+G  "    "   "  _g_ay, fi_g_, _g_ilt.
+L  "    "   "  _l_ight, _l_iberty, a_ll_.
+M  "    "   "  _m_ind, stor_m_, _m_ate.
+N  "    "   "  _n_o, o_n_, _n_i_n_e.
+NG "    "   "  si_ng_, fi_ng_er, lo_ng_.
+R  "    "   "  _r_oe, _r_a_r_e, o_r_b.
+TH "    "   "  _th_en, wi_th_, benea_th_.
+V  as heard in _v_ice, _v_ile, sal_v_e.
+W  "    "   "  _w_oe, _w_ave, _w_orld.
+Y  "    "   "  _y_oke, _y_e, _y_onder.
+Z  "    "   "  _z_one, hi_s_, _Z_enophon.
+ZH "    "   "  a_z_ure, enclo_s_ure.
+
+ASPIRATES.
+
+F  as heard in _f_ame, i_f_, li_f_t.
+H  "    "   "  _h_e, _h_ut.
+K  "    "   "  _k_ite, ca_k_e.
+P  "    "   "  _p_it, u_p_, a_p_t.
+S  "    "   "  _s_in, _c_ell, ye_s_.
+SH "    "   "  _sh_ade, _sh_ine, flu_sh_ed.
+T  "    "   "  _t_ake, oa_t_s, i_t_.
+TH "    "   "  _th_in, tru_th_, mon_th_s.
+WH "    "   "  _wh_en, _wh_ich, _wh_at.
+
+There are many words in which there are difficult combinations of the
+elements; they, as well as those in which the combinations are easy, should
+be practiced upon until the pupil is able to articulate each element
+correctly.  The following is a table of the _analysis of words_, in
+which there are easy and difficult combinations of elements. Let the pupil
+spell the words, uttering separately each _element_, and not the
+_name_ of the word, as is the practice which generally obtains in our
+schools.
+
+_Table of the Analysis of Words._
+
+WORDS.      ELEMENTS.
+
+ale,        a-l.
+day,        d-a.
+fame,       f-a-m.
+crew,       k-r-u.
+call,       k-a-l.
+deeds,      d-e-d-z.
+wool,       w-u-l.
+isle,       i-l.
+dare,       d-a-r.
+ink,        i-ng-k.
+pause,      p-a-z.
+mow,        m-o.
+lose,       l-o-z.
+pray,       p-r-a.
+spell,      s-p-e-l.
+twists,     t-w-i-s-t-s.
+waste,      w-a-s-t.
+awful,      a-f-u-l.
+up,         u-p.
+mouths,     m-ou-th-z.
+sky,        s-k-i.
+lamb,       l-a-m.
+oak,        o-k.
+eve,        e-v.
+once,       w-u-n-s.
+awe,        a.
+power,      p-ou-u-r.
+mulcts,     m-u-l-k-t-s.
+John,       d-gh-a-n.
+objects,    o-b-d-jh-e-k-ts.
+thousandth, th-ou-z-a-n-d-th.
+wives,      w-i-v-z.
+softness,   s-o-f-t-n-e-s.
+shrugged,   sh-r-u-g-d.
+themselves, th-e-m-s-e-l-v-z.
+church,     t-sh-u-r-t-sh.
+
+They were _wrenched_ by the hand of violence.
+The _strength_ of his nostrils is _terrible_.
+A gentle current _rippled_ by.
+Thou _barb'd'st_ the dart by which he fell.
+Arm'd, say ye? Arm'd, my lord!
+He _sa_wed _six sl_eek, _sl_im _s_apling_s_.
+It was strongly _urged_ upon him.
+Ami_dst_ the mi_sts_, he thru_sts_ his fi_sts_ again_st_ the po_sts_.
+The swan swam over the sea; well swum, swan. The
+swan swam back again; well swum, swan.
+
+PRONUNCIATION AND ACCENT.
+
+Pronunciation is the mode of enouncing certain words and syllables. As
+pronunciation varies with the modes and fashions of the times, it is
+sometimes fluctuating in particular words, and high authorities are often
+so much at variance, that the correct mode is hard to be determined; hence
+to acquire a correct pronunciation, this irregularity, whatever be the
+cause, must be submitted to.
+
+Be very careful to give each letter its proper sound and avoid omitting or
+perverting the sound of any letter or syllable of a word, without some good
+authority.
+
+The unaccentuated syllables of words are very liable to be either omitted,
+slurred or corrupted, and there is no word in the language more frequently
+and unjustly treated in this respect than the conjunction--_and_. It
+is seldom half articulated, although it is properly entitled to
+_three_ distinct elementary sounds.
+
+       Heaven _a_nd earth will witness,
+    If Rome must fall, that we are innocent. I
+
+  The Assyrian came down, like the wolf on the fold,
+  And _h_is cohorts were gleaming in purple _a_nd gold.
+
+The word _and_, in these and similar examples, is commonly pronounced
+as if written _u_nd or _u_n, with an imperfect or partially occluded
+articulation of these elements; whereas, it ought always to be
+pronounced in such a manner that each of its own three elementary sounds,
+though in their combined state, may distinctly appear.
+
+In pronouncing the phrase, "and his," not only the _a_, but the
+_h_, is, also, frequently suppressed, and the sound of the _d_ is
+combined with that of the _i_ following it; as if written thus,
+_u_nd _diz_ cohorts, and so on. Many pronounce the phrase "are
+innocent," in the first example, as if written _a rinesunt_. This
+practice of suppressing letters, and as it were melting words into
+indistinct masses, cannot be too cautiously guarded against.
+
+Avoid the affectations and mis-pronunciations exemplified in the following
+list of words which are often mispronounced. Do not say--
+
+G_i_t       for g_e_t.
+H_e_v        "  h_a_ve.
+K_e_tch      "  c_a_tch.
+G_e_th'er    "  g_a_th'er.
+St_i_d'y     "  st_e_ad'y.
+Good'n_i_ss  "  good'n_e_ss.
+Hon'ist           "  hon'est.
+Hun'd_u_rd   "  hund'red.
+Sav'_i_j     "  sav'_a_ge.
+Ma_w_n'ing   "  mo_r_n'ing.
+Cli'm_i_t    "  cli'm_a_te.
+Si'l_u_nt    "  si'l_e_nt.
+Souns             "  soun_d_s.
+Fiels             "  fiel_d_s.
+Sof'ly            "  sof_t_'ly.
+Kindl'st          "  kindl'_d_st.
+Armst             "  arm'_d_st.
+Gen'ral           "  gen'_e_ral.
+Sep'rate          "  sep'_a_rate.
+Mis'ries          "  mis'_e_ries.
+Dif'frence        "  diff'_e_rence.
+Ex'lent           "  ex'c_el_lent.
+Comp'ny           "  com'p_a_ny.
+Liv'in            "  liv'i_ng_.
+Lenth'en          "  le_ng_th'en.
+Chastisemunt      "  chastisement.
+Bereavemunt       "  bereavement.
+Contentmunt       "  contentment.
+Offis             "  office.
+Hevun             "  heaven.
+Curosity          "  curiosity.
+Absolut           "  absolute, etc.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER V.
+
+QUALITIES OF VOICE.
+
+
+By Quality of Voice is meant the kind of voice used to express sentiment.
+
+There are two general divisions of quality: PURE and IMPURE. These are sub-
+divided into Pure, Deepened or Orotund, Guttural, Tremor, Aspirate, and
+Falsetto qualities.
+
+PURE QUALITY.
+
+The Pure or Natural tone is employed in ordinary speaking or descriptive
+language, and is expressed with less expenditure of breath than any other
+quality of voice. It is entirely free from any impure vocal sound.
+
+1.
+
+"How calm, how beautiful a scene is this,--
+When Nature, waking from her silent sleep,
+Bursts forth in light, and harmony, and joy!
+When earth, and sky, and air, are glowing all
+With gayety and life, and pensive shades
+Of morning loveliness are cast around!
+The purple clouds, so streaked with crimson light,
+Bespeak the coming of majestic day;--
+Mark how the crimson grows more crimson still,
+While, ever and anon, a golden beam
+Seems darting out its radiance!
+Heralds of day! where is that mighty form
+Which clothes you all in splendour, and around
+Your colourless, pale forms spreads the bright hues
+Of heaven?--He cometh from his gorgeous couch,
+And gilds the bosom of the glowing east!"
+
+_Margaret Davidson._
+
+2.
+
+Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's close
+Up yonder hill the village murmur rose;
+There, as I passed with careless steps and slow
+The mingling notes came softened from below;
+The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung,
+The sober herd that lowed to meet their young;
+The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool,
+The playful children just let loose from school;
+The watch-dog's voice that bayed the whispering wind,
+And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind;
+These all in sweet confusion sought the shade,
+And filled each pause the nightingale had made.
+But now the sounds of population fail,
+No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale,
+No busy steps the grass-grown footway tread,
+For all the blooming flush of life is fled.
+All but yon widowed, solitary thing,
+That feebly bends beside the plashy spring;
+She, wretched matron--forced in age, for bread,
+To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread,
+To pick her wintry fagot from the thorn,
+To seek her nightly shed and weep till morn--
+She only left of all the harmless train,
+The sad historian of the pensive plain!
+
+_Goldsmith._
+
+
+OROTUND QUALITY.
+
+The Orotund is a highly improved state of the Natural voice, and is the
+quality most used, being far more expressive, as it gives grandeur and
+energy to thought and expression. This voice is highly agreeable, and is
+more musical and flexible than the common voice.
+
+Dr. Rush defines the Orotund as that assemblage of eminent qualities which
+constitute the highest characteristic of the speaking voice. He describes
+it to be a full, clear, strong, smooth, and ringing sound, rarely heard in
+ordinary speech; but which is never found in its highest excellence, except
+by careful cultivation. He describes the fine qualities of voice
+constituting the Orotund in the following words:--
+
+By a fullness of voice, is meant the grave or hollow volume, which
+approaches to hoarseness.
+
+By a freedom from nasal murmur and aspiration.
+
+By a satisfactory loudness and audibility.
+
+By smoothness, or a freedom from all reedy or guttural harshness.
+
+By a ringing sonorous quality of voice resembling certain musical
+instruments.
+
+The possession of the power of this voice is greatly dependent on
+cultivation and management, and experiments have proved that more depends
+on cultivation than on natural peculiarity. Much care and labour are
+necessary for acquiring this improved condition of the speaking voice, the
+lungs must be kept well supplied with breath, there must be a full
+expansion of the chest, causing the abdomen gently to protrude, the throat
+and the mouth must be kept well open so as to give free course to the
+sound. Never waste the breath, every pause must be occupied in replenishing
+the lungs, and the inhalation should be done as silently as possible, and
+through the nostrils as well as by the mouth.
+
+Excellence in this quality of voice depends on the earnest and frequent
+practice of reading aloud with the utmost degree of force. The voice may be
+exerted to a great extent without fatigue or injury, but should never be
+taxed beyond its powers, and as soon as this strong action can be employed
+without producing hoarseness, it should be maintained for half an hour at a
+time.
+
+This practice is very beneficial to the health, especially if prosecuted in
+the open air, or in a large, well ventilated room, and if pursued
+regularly, energetically, and systematically, the pupil will be surprised
+and delighted at his rapid progress in this art, and his voice, from a
+condition of comparative feebleness, will soon develop into one of well-
+marked strength, fullness, and distinctness.
+
+1.
+
+Ye ice-falls! ye that from the mountain's brow
+Adown enormous ravines slope amain,--
+Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice,
+And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge!
+Motionless torrents! silent cataracts!
+Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven
+Beneath the keen, full moon? Who bade the sun
+Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers
+Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet!--
+God! let the torrents, like a shout of nations,
+Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, God!--
+And they, too, have a voice,--yon piles of snow,
+And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God!
+
+_Coleridge._
+
+2.
+
+The hoarse, rough voice, should like a torrent roar.
+
+3.
+
+Hurrah! the foes are moving. Hark to the mingled din
+Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin.
+The fiery duke is pricking fast across Saint Andre's plain,
+With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne.
+Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France,
+Charge for the golden lilies--upon them with the lance!
+A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest,
+A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white crest,
+And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a guiding star,
+Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre.
+
+_Macaulay_.
+
+
+4.
+
+"Up drawbridge, grooms!--What, warder, ho!
+Let the portcullis fall."--
+Lord Marmion turned,--well was his need!--
+And dashed the rowels in his steed,
+Like arrow through the archway sprung;
+The ponderous gate behind him rung:
+To pass there was such scanty room,
+The bars, descending, razed his plume.
+
+_Sir Walter Scott_.
+
+
+5.
+
+Fight, gentlemen of England! fight, bold yeomen!
+Draw, archers, draw your arrows to the head!
+Spur your proud horses hard, and ride in blood!
+Amaze the welkin with your broken staves!
+A thousand hearts are great within my bosom!
+Advance our standards, set upon our foes!
+Our ancient word of courage--fair Saint George--
+Inspire us with the spleen of fiery dragons!
+Upon them! Victory sits on our helms!
+
+_Shakespeare._
+
+
+6.
+
+And reckon'st thou thyself with spirits of heaven,
+_Hell-doomed_, and breath'st defiance here and scorn,
+Where I reign king? and to enrage the more
+_Thy_ King and Lord! _Back_ to thy _pun_ishment,
+_False fu_gitive, and to thy speed add wings,
+Lest with a whip of scorpions I pursue
+Thy lingering, or with one stroke of this dart
+Strange horrors seize thee, and pangs unfelt before.
+
+_Milton._
+
+
+7.
+
+These are Thy glorious works, Parent of Good!
+Almighty! Thine this universal frame,
+Thus wondrous fair!--Thyself how wondrous, then!
+Unspeakable! who sitt'st above these heavens,
+To us invisible, or dimly seen
+Midst these, thy lowest works!
+Yet these declare Thy goodness beyond thought,
+And power divine!
+
+8.
+
+An hour passed on:--the Turk awoke:--
+  That bright dream was his last;--
+He woke--to hear his sentries shriek,
+  "To arms!--they come!--the Greek, the Greek!"
+He woke--to die, 'midst flame and smoke,
+And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke,
+And death-shots felling thick and fast.
+
+Like forest-pines before the blast,
+  Or lightnings from the mountain-cloud;
+And heard, with voice as trumpet loud,
+  Bozzaris cheer his band;
+"Strike--till the last armed foe expires,
+Strike--for your altars and your fires,
+Strike--for the green graves of your sires,
+  Heaven--and your native land!"
+
+They fought like brave men, long and well,
+  They piled that ground with Moslem slain,
+They conquered--but Bozzaris fell
+  Bleeding at every vein.
+His few surviving comrades saw
+His smile, when rang their proud hurrah,
+And the red field was won;
+They saw in death his eyelids close,
+Calmly, as to a night's repose,
+  Like flowers at set of sun.
+
+_Halleck._
+
+
+GUTTURAL QUALITY.
+
+The Guttural Quality is used in expressing the strongest degree of
+contempt, disgust, aversion, revenge, etc. Its characteristic is an
+explosive resonance in the throat, producing a harsh and grating sound, and
+its expression can be used in all the various tones, giving to them its own
+peculiar character.
+
+This quality, is, however, of rare occurrence, and needs less cultivation
+than the other qualities.
+
+1.
+
+Avaunt! and quit my sight! Let the earth hide thee!
+Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold:
+Thou hast no speculation in those eyes
+Which thou dost glare with!
+                            Hence, horrible shadow!
+Unreal mockery, hence!
+
+_Shakespeare._
+
+2.
+
+How like a fawning publican he looks!
+I hate him, for he is a Christian:
+But more, for that, in low simplicity,
+He lends out money gratis, and brings down
+The rate of usance here with us in Venice:
+If I can catch him once upon the hip,
+I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him.
+He hates our sacred nation; and he rails,
+Even there where merchants most do congregate,
+On me, my bargains, and my well-won thrift,
+Which he calls interest:--Cursed be my tribe,
+If I forgive him!
+
+_Shakespeare._
+
+3.
+
+Thou stands't at length before me undisguised--
+Of all earth's grovelling crew, the most accursed.
+Thou worm! thou viper!--to thy native earth
+Return! Away! Thou art too base for man
+To tread upon! Thou scum! thou reptile!
+
+4.
+
+"And, Douglas, more I tell thee here,
+  Even in thy pitch of pride,
+Here in thy hold, thy vassals near,
+(Nay, never look upon your Lord,
+  And lay your hands upon your sword,)
+  I tell thee, thou'rt defied!
+And if thou said'st I am not peer--
+To any lord in Scotland here,
+Lowland or Highland, far or near,
+  Lord Angus, thou has't lied!"
+
+_Sir Walter Scott_.
+
+TREMOR QUALITY.
+
+The Tremor Quality is used in expressing pity, grief, joy, mirth, etc., and
+its characteristic is a frequent rise and fall of the voice, and a more
+delicate exercise of that particular vibration in the throat, known as
+"gurgling." It is apparent in extreme feebleness, in age, exhaustion,
+sickness, fatigue, grief, and even joy, and other feelings in which ardour
+or extreme tenderness predominate.
+
+1.
+
+Pity the sorrows of a poor old man
+  Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door;
+Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span;--
+  Oh, give relief, and heaven will bless your store!
+
+2.
+
+The king stood still till the last echo died; then, throwing off the
+sackcloth from his brow, and laying back the pall from the still features
+of his child, he bowed his head upon him, and broke forth in the resistless
+eloquence of woe:--
+
+"Alas! my noble boy! that thou should'st die! Thou, who wert made so
+beautifully fair! that death should settle in thy glorious eye, and leave
+his stillness in thy clustering hair! How could he mark thee for the silent
+tomb, my proud boy, Absalom!
+
+"Cold is thy brow, my son! and I am chill, as to my bosom I have tried to
+press thee! How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill, like a rich harp-
+string, yearning to caress thee, and hear thy sweet '_My father_!'
+from those dumb and cold lips, Absolom!
+
+"But death is on thee! I shall hear the gush of music and the voices of the
+young; and life will pass me in the mantling blush, and the dark tresses to
+the soft winds flung;--but thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shalt come
+to meet me, Absalom!"
+
+_N. P. Willis._
+
+3.
+
+Noble old man! He did not live to see me, and I--I--did not live to see
+_him_. Weighed down by sorrow and disappointment, he died before I was
+born--six thousand brief summers before I was born.
+
+But let us try to hear it with fortitude. Let us trust that he is better
+off where he is. Let us take comfort in the thought that his loss is our
+gain.
+
+_Mark Twain._
+
+4.
+
+Forsake me not thus, Adam, witness heav'n
+What love sincere, and reverence in my heart
+I bear thee, and unweeting have offended,
+Unhappily deceiv'd; thy suppliant
+I beg, and clasp thy knees; bereave me not,
+Whereon I live, thy gentle looks, thy aid,
+Thy counsel in this uttermost distress.
+My only strength and stay: forlorn of thee,
+Whither shall I betake me, where subsist?
+While yet we live, scarce one short hour, perhaps
+Between us two let there be peace, both joining,
+As joined in injuries, one enmity,
+Against a foe by doom express assign'd us,
+That cruel serpent!
+
+_Milton._
+
+
+ASPIRATE QUALITY.
+
+
+The Aspirate Quality is used in the utterance of secrecy and fear, and
+discontent generally takes this quality.
+
+Its characteristic is distinctness, therefore exercises on this voice will
+prove invaluable to the pupil and deep inhalations are indispensable.
+
+The aspirate is usually combined with other qualities and the earnestness
+and other expressive effects of aspiration may be spread over a whole
+sentence or it may be restricted to a single word.
+
+The aspirate quality is entitled to notice as a powerful agent in
+oratorical expression, and the whispered utterances of any well disciplined
+voice will be heard in the remotest parts of a large theatre, and the voice
+is greatly strengthened by frequent practice in this quality.
+
+1.
+
+Hark! I hear the bugles of the enemy! They are on their march along the
+bank of the river! We must retreat instantly, or be cut off from our boats!
+I see the head of their column already rising over the height! Our only
+safety is in the screen of this hedge. Keep close to it--be silent--and
+stoop as you run! For the boats! Forward!
+
+2.
+
+
+MACBETH. I have done the deed:--Did'st thou not hear
+a noise?
+
+LADY MACBETH. I heard the owl scream, and the crickets
+cry. Did not you speak?
+
+MACB. When?
+
+LADY M. Now.
+
+MACB. As I descended?
+
+LADY M. Ay.
+
+MACB. Hark! Who lies i' the second chamber?
+
+LADY M. Donaldbain.
+
+MACB. This is a sorry sight. [_Showing his hands._
+
+LADY M. A foolish thought, to say a sorry sight.
+
+MACB. There's one did laugh in his sleep, and one
+cried "Murder!"
+That they did wake each other; I stood and heard them:
+But they did say their prayers, and addressed them
+Again to sleep.
+
+
+_Shakespeare_
+
+3.
+
+"Pray you tread softly,--that the blind mole may not
+Hear a footfall: we are now near his cell.
+  Speak softly!
+All's hushed as midnight yet.
+  See'st thou here?
+This is the mouth o' the cell: no noise! and enter."
+
+ _Shakespeare._
+
+
+4.
+
+Ah' mercy on my soul! What is that? My old friend's ghost? They say none
+but wicked folks walk; I wish I were at the bottom of a coal-pit. See; how
+long and pale his face has grown since his death: he never was handsome;
+and death has improved him very much the wrong way. Pray do not come near
+me! I wish'd you very well when you were alive; but I could never abide a
+dead man, cheek by jowl with me.
+
+FALSETTO QUALITY.
+The Falsetto Quality is used in expressing terror, pain, anger, affection,
+etc. Some people speak altogether in falsetto, especially those who are not
+careful in pronunciation. It is harsh, rude, and grating, and is heard in
+the whine of peevishness, in the high pitch of mirth, and in the piercing
+scream of terror.
+
+1.
+
+I was dozing comfortably in my easy-chair, and dreaming of the good times
+which I hope are coming, when there fell upon my ears a most startling
+scream. It was the voice of my Maria Ann in mortal agony. The voice came
+from the kitchen, and to the kitchen I rushed. The idolized form of my
+Maria Ann was perched upon a chair, and she was flourishing an iron spoon
+in all directions, and shouting "_Shoo-shoo_," in a general manner to
+everything in the room. To my anxious inquiries as to what was the matter,
+she screamed, "_O, Joshua, a mouse, shoo--wha--shoo--a great--shoo--
+horrid mouse, and it ran right out of the cupboard--shoo--go away--shoo--
+Joshua--shoo--kill it--oh, my--shoo._"
+
+2.
+
+SIR PETER.--Lady Teazle, Lady Teazle, I'll not bear it.
+
+LADY TEAZLE.--Sir Peter, Sir Peter, you may bear it or not, as you please;
+but I ought to have my own way in everything, and, what's more, I will,
+too. What though I was educated in the country, I know very well that women
+of fashion in London are accountable to nobody after they are married.
+
+SIR P.--Very well, ma'am, very well!--so a husband is to have no influence,
+no authority?
+
+LADY T.--Authority! No, to be sure. If you wanted authority over me, you
+should have adopted me, and not married me; I am sure you were old enough.
+
+_Sheridan._
+
+3.
+
+"I've seen mair mice than you, guidman--
+  An' what think ye o' that?
+Sae haud your tongue an' say nae mair--
+  I tell ye, it was a rat."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VI.
+
+FORCE.
+
+
+Force refers to the strength or power of the voice, and is divided into
+forms and degrees. Very particular attention should be given to the subject
+of force, since that _expression_, which is so very important in
+elocution, is almost altogether dependent on some one or other modification
+of this attribute of the voice. It may truly be considered the light and
+shade of a proper intonation. Force may be applied to sentences or even to
+single words, for the purpose of energetic expression.
+
+The degrees of force are Gentle, Moderate, and Heavy.
+
+GENTLE FORCE.
+
+The Gentle Force is used in expressing tenderness, love, secrecy, caution,
+etc., and the lungs must be kept thoroughly inflated, especially in
+reverberating sounds.
+
+1.
+
+"Heard you that strain of music light,
+Borne gently on the breeze of night,--
+So soft and low as scarce to seem
+More than the magic of a dream?
+  Morpheus caught the liquid swell,--
+Its echo broke his drowsy spell.
+  Hark! now it rises sweetly clear,
+Prolonged upon the raptured ear;--
+Sinking now, the quivering note
+Seems scarcely on the air to float;
+It falls--'tis mute,--nor swells again;--
+Oh! what wert thou, melodious strain?"
+
+_Mrs. J. H. Abbot._
+
+2.
+
+Was it the chime of a tiny bell,
+  That came so sweet to my dreaming ear,
+Like the silvery tones of a fairy's shell,
+  That he winds on the beach so mellow and clear,
+When the winds and the waves lie together asleep,
+And the moon and the fairy are watching the deep,
+  She dispensing her silvery light,
+  And he his notes as silvery quite,
+While the boatman listens and ships his oar,
+To catch the music that comes from the shore?--
+  Hark! the notes on my ear that play,
+  Are set to words: as they float, they say,
+    "Passing away! passing away!"
+
+_Pierpont._
+
+3.
+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, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells,--
+From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.
+
+_E. A. Poe._
+
+MODERATE FORCE.
+
+The Moderate Force is used in ordinary conversation and unemotional
+utterances.
+
+1.
+
+She stood before her father's gorgeous tent
+To listen for his coming. Her loose hair
+Was resting on her shoulders like a cloud
+Floating around a statue, and the wind,
+Just swaying her light robe, reveal'd a shape
+Praxiteles might worship. She had clasp'd
+Her hands upon her bosom, and had raised
+Her beautiful dark Jewish eyes to heaven,
+Till the long lashes lay upon her brow.
+Her lips were slightly parted, like the cleft
+Of a pomegranate blossom; and her neck,
+Just where the cheek was melting to its curve,
+With the unearthly beauty sometimes there,
+Was shaded, as if light had fallen off,
+Its surface was so polish'd. She was stilling
+Her light, quick breath, to hear; and the white rose
+Scarce moved upon her bosom, as it swell'd,
+Like nothing but a lovely wave of light
+To meet the arching of her queenly neck.
+Her countenance was radiant with love,
+She looked like one to die for it--a being
+Whose whole existence was the pouring out
+Of rich and deep affections.
+
+_N. P. Willis._
+
+2.
+
+Oh! sing unto the Lord a new song, for He hath done marvellous things: His
+right hand and His holy arm hath gotten Him the victory. Make a joyful
+noise unto the Lord, all the earth: make a loud noise, and rejoice, and
+sing praise. Sing unto the Lord with the harp; with the harp, and the voice
+of a psalm.
+
+3.
+
+  POR. The quality of mercy is not strain'd;
+It droppeth, as the gentle rain from heaven
+Upon the place beneath: it is twice bless'd;
+It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes;
+'Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes
+The throned monarch better than his crown;
+His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,
+The attribute to awe and majesty,
+Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings:
+But mercy is above this sceptred sway,
+It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,
+It is an attribute to God himself;
+And earthly power doth then show likest God's,
+When mercy seasons justice.
+
+_Shakespeare._
+
+HEAVY FORCE.
+
+Heavy Force, is used in giving the language of command, exultation,
+denunciation, defiance, etc., and in using this force the lungs must be
+inflated to their utmost capacity. In giving the accompanying examples the
+student must exert every energy of the body and mind, and by earnest
+practice he will increase the power and flexibility of his voice to a
+surprising extent, and also acquire a distinctness of tone and earnestness
+of manner, that will serve him well, as a public speaker.
+
+1.
+
+  Banished from Rome! What's banished, but set free
+From daily contact with the things I loathe?
+"Tried and convicted traitor!" Who says this?
+Who'll prove it, at his peril, on my head?
+
+  Banished! I thank you for't! It breaks my chain!
+I held some slack allegiance till this hour--
+But now, my sword's my own. Smile on, my lords!
+I scorn to count what feelings, withered hopes,
+Strong provocations, bitter, burning wrongs,
+I have within my heart's hot cells shut up,
+To leave you in your lazy dignities!
+But here I stand and scoff you! here I fling
+Hatred and full defiance in your face!
+Your Consul's merciful--for this, all thanks:
+He dares not touch a hair of Cataline!
+
+  "Traitor!" I go--but I return. This--trial?
+Here I devote your senate! I've had wrongs
+To stir a fever in the blood of age,
+Or make the infant's sinews strong as steel!
+This day's the birth of sorrow! This hour's work
+Will breed proscriptions! Look to your hearths, my lords!
+For there henceforth shall sit, for household gods,
+Shapes hot from Tartarus!--all shames and crimes!--
+Wan treachery, with his thirsty dagger drawn;
+Suspicion, poisoning his brother's cup;
+Naked rebellion, with the torch and axe,
+Making his wild sport of your blazing thrones;
+Till anarchy comes down on you like night,
+And massacre seals Rome's eternal grave!
+
+_George Croly._
+
+2.
+
+But Douglas round him drew his cloak,
+Folded his arms, and thus he spoke:
+"My manors, halls, and bowers, shall still
+Be open, at my sovereign's will,
+To each one whom he lists, howe'er
+Unmeet to be the owner's peer.
+My castles are my king's alone,
+From turret to foundation stone;--
+The _hand_ of Douglas is his own,
+And never shall in friendly grasp,
+The hand of such as Marmion clasp!"
+Burned Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire,
+And shook his very frame for ire--
+  And "This to me!" he said--
+"And 'twere not for thy hoary beard,
+Such hand as Marmion's had not spared
+  To cleave the Douglas' head!
+And first I tell thee, haughty peer,
+He who does England's message here,
+Although the meanest in her state,
+May well, proud Angus, be thy mate!"
+
+_Sir Walter Scott._
+
+3.
+
+What man dare, I dare!
+Approach thou like the rugged Russian bear,
+The armed rhinoceros, or the Hyrcan tiger,
+Take any shape but that, and my firm nerves
+Shall never tremble: or, be alive again,
+And dare me to the desert with thy sword!
+Hence, horrible shadow! Unreal mockery, hence!
+
+_Shakespeare._
+
+
+VARIATIONS OF FORCE OR STRESS.
+
+These are known as the Radical, Median, Vanishing, Compound, and Thorough
+stress.
+
+RADICAL STRESS.
+
+This is used in expressing lively description, haste, fear, command, etc.,
+and consists of an abrupt and forcible utterance, usually more or less
+explosive, and falls on the first part of a sound or upon the opening of a
+vowel, and its use contributes much to distinct pronounciation. It is not
+common to give a strong, full and clear radical stress, yet this abrupt
+function is highly important in elocution, and when properly used in public
+reading or on the stage "will startle even stupor into attention." It is
+this tone that prompts children to obedience, and makes animals submissive
+to their masters.
+
+1.
+
+Out with you!--and he went out.
+
+2.
+
+There's a dance of leaves in that aspen bower,
+  There's a titter of winds in that beechen tree,
+There's a smile on the fruit, and a smile on the flower,
+  And a laugh from the brook that runs to the sea!
+
+_Bryant._
+
+3.
+
+  But hark! that heavy sound breaks in once more,
+  As if the clouds its echo would repeat;
+  And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!
+Arm! arm! it is! it is! the cannon's opening roar!
+
+  Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
+  And gathering tears and tremblings of distress,
+  And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago
+  Blush'd at the praise of their own loveliness;
+  And there were sudden partings, such as press
+  The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs
+  Which ne'er might be repeated! Who could guess
+  If ever more should meet those mutual eyes,
+Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise?
+
+_Byron._
+
+MEDIAN STRESS.
+
+The Median Stress is used in the expression of grandeur, sublimity,
+reverence, etc., and smoothness and dignity are its characteristics, for it
+gives emphasis without abruptness or violence. In using this stress, there
+is a gradual increase and swell in the middle of a sound, and a subsequent
+gradual decrease--thus giving a greater intensity of voice and dignity of
+expression than Radical Stress.
+
+1.
+
+_Roll on_, thou dark and deep blue ocean, _roll_.
+
+_Byron._
+
+2.
+
+We _praise_ thee, O God, we acknowledge _thee_ to be the
+_Lord_.
+
+3.
+
+          Father! Thy hand
+Hath reared these venerable columns; Thou
+Didst weave this verdant roof; Thou didst look down
+Upon the naked earth; and, forthwith, rose
+All these fair ranks of trees. They in Thy sun
+Budded, and shook their green leaves in Thy breeze,
+And  shot towards heaven. The century-living crow,
+Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and died
+Among  their branches, till, at last, they stood,
+As now they stand, massy, and tall, and dark,--
+Fit shrine for humble worshipper to hold
+Communion with his Maker!
+
+_Bryant._
+
+4.
+
+How are the mighty fallen! Saul and Jonathan were lovely and pleasant in
+their lives; and in their death they were not divided; they were swifter
+than eagles, they were stronger than lions. Ye daughters of Israel, weep
+over Saul, who clothed you in scarlet, with other delights; who put on
+ornaments of gold upon your apparel! How are the mighty fallen in the midst
+of battle! O Jonathan! thou wast slain in thine high places! How are the
+mighty fallen, and the weapons of war perished!
+
+THE VANISHING STRESS.
+
+The Vanishing Stress occurs as its name implies at the end or closing of a
+sound or vowel, and is used in expressing disgust, complaint, fretfulness,
+ardour, surprise, etc. The sound is guttural, and sometimes terminates in
+sobbing or hic-cough. It has less dignity and grace than the gradual swell
+of the Median Stress.
+
+1.
+
+Do you hear the rain, Mr.  Caudle? I say, do you hear it? But I don't care;
+I'll go to mother's to-morrow; I will; and what's more I'll walk every step
+of the way; and you know that will give me my death. Don't call me a
+foolish woman; 'tis you that's the foolish man. You know I can't wear
+clogs; and, with no umbrella, the wet's sure to give me a cold: it always
+does: but what do you care for that? Nothing at all. I may be laid up for
+what you care, as I dare say I shall; and a pretty doctor's bill there'll
+be. I hope there will. It will teach you to lend your umbrellas again. I
+shouldn't wonder if I caught my death: yes, and that's what you lent the
+umbrella for.
+
+_Douglas Jerrold._
+
+2.
+
+  CAS. Brutus, bay not me!
+I'll not endure it. You forget yourself,
+To hedge me in: I am a soldier, I,
+Older in practice, abler than yourself
+  To make conditions.
+
+  BRU. Go to! you are not, Cassius.
+
+  CAS. I am.
+
+  BRU. I say you are not!
+
+  CAS. Urge me no more: I shall forget myself:
+Have mind upon your health; tempt me no farther!
+
+  BRU. You say you are a better soldier:
+Let it appear so; make your vaunting true,
+And it shall please me well. For mine own part,
+I shall be glad to learn of noble men.
+
+  CAS. You wrong me every way, you wrong me, Brutus.
+I said, an elder soldier, not a better.
+Did I say better?
+
+  BRU. If you did, I care not!
+
+  CAS. When Caesar lived, he durst not thus have moved
+    me!
+
+  BRU. Peace, peace! you durst not so have tempted him?
+
+  CAS. I durst not?
+
+  BRU. No.
+
+  CAS. What! durst not tempt him?
+
+  BRU. For your life, you durst not!
+
+  CAS. Do not presume too much upon my love;
+I may do that I shall be sorry for.
+
+_Shakespeare._
+
+COMPOUND STRESS.
+
+Compound Stress is the natural mode of expressing surprise, and also--
+though not so frequently--of sarcasm, contempt, mockery, etc. In using this
+stress the voice, with more or less explosive force, touches strongly and
+distinctly on both the opening and closing points of a sound or vowel, and
+passes slightly and almost imperceptibly over the middle part.
+
+1.
+
+  Gone to be married! Gone to swear a peace!
+False blood to false blood joined! Gone to be friends!
+Shall Lewis have Blanche, and Blanche these provinces?
+It is not so; thou hast misspoke, misheard,--
+Be well advised, tell o'er thy tale again:
+It can not be;--thou dost but say 'tis so.
+
+_Shakespeare._
+
+2.
+
+JULIA. Why! do you think I'll work?
+
+DUKE. I think 'twill happen, wife.
+
+JULIA. What, rub and scrub your noble palace clean?
+
+DUKE. Those taper fingers will do it daintily.
+
+JULIA. And dress your victuals (if there be any)? O, I
+shall go mad.
+
+
+_Tobin._
+
+THOROUGH STRESS.
+
+Thorough Stress is used in expressing command, denunciation, bravado,
+braggadocio, etc. This stress has a degree of force a little stronger than
+the compound stress, and it is produced by a continuation of the full
+volume of the voice throughout the whole extent of the sentence. When the
+time is short the tone resembles that of uncouth rustic coarseness.
+
+1.
+
+These abominable principles, and this more abominable avowal of them,
+demand the most decisive indignation.
+
+2.
+
+Now strike the golden lyre again;
+A louder yet, and yet a louder strain':
+Break his bands of sleep asunder,
+And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder'.
+  Hark! hark! the horrid sound
+    Has raised up his head,
+    As awaked from the dead;
+  And amazed he stares around.
+Revenge! revenge.
+
+_Dryden._
+
+SEMITONE.
+
+The progress of pitch through the interval of a half tone. It is called
+also the Chromatic melody, because it expresses pity, grief, remorse, etc.
+It may colour a single word, or be continued through an entire passage or
+selection.
+
+
+1.
+The New Year comes to-night, mamma, "I lay me down to sleep,
+I pray the Lord"--tell poor papa--"my soul to keep,
+If I"--how cold it seems, how dark, kiss me, I cannot see,--
+The New Year comes to-night, mamma, the old year dies with me.
+
+The Semitone is very delicate, and must be produced by the nature of the
+emotion. An excess, when the mood or language does not warrant it, turns
+pathos into burlesque, and the scale may very easily be turned from the
+sublime to the ridiculous. Strength, flexibility, and melody of voice are
+of little worth if the judgment and taste are defective.
+
+MONOTONE
+
+Is a sameness of the voice, indicating solemnity, power, reverence, and
+dread. It is a near approach to one continuous tone of voice, but must not
+be confounded with monotony. Much of the reading we hear is monotonous in
+the extreme, while the judicious use of the monotone would sufficiently
+vary it, to render it attractive. Monotone is of great importance in
+reading the Bible, the beautiful words of the Church Service, and in
+prayer, and the haste with which these solemn words are often slurred over,
+is much to be deplored. Monotone is usually accompanied by slow time, and
+it is, in fact, a low Orotund.
+
+1.
+
+The heavens declare the glory of God, and the firmament showeth His handy
+work. Day unto day uttereth speech, and night unto night showeth knowledge.
+There is no speech nor language, where their voice is not heard.
+
+_Bible._
+
+2.
+
+These, as they change, Almighty Father! these
+Are but the varied God. The rolling year
+Is full of Thee.--
+And oft Thy voice in dreadful thunder speaks;
+And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve,
+By brooks and groves, in hollow-whispering gales.
+In Winter, awful Thou! with clouds and storms
+Around Thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest rolled--
+Majestic darkness! On the whirlwind's wing,
+Riding sublime, Thou bidd'st the world adore,
+And humblest Nature, with Thy northern blast.
+
+_Thomson._
+
+3.
+
+          Now o'er the one-half world
+Nature seems dead; and wicked dreams abuse
+The curtain'd sleep; now witchcraft celebrates
+Pale Hecate's off'rings; and wither'd murder,
+Alarum'd by his sentinel, the wolf,
+Whose howl's his watch,--thus with his stealthy pace,
+With Tarquin's ravishing strides, towards his design
+Moves like a ghost.--Thou sure and firm-set earth!
+Hear not my, steps, which way they walk; for fear
+The very stones prate of my whereabout,
+And take the present horror for the time
+Which now suits with it.
+
+_Shakespeare._
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VII.
+
+TIME.
+
+
+The varieties of movement in utterance are expressed by Time, which is the
+measure of the duration of the sounds heard in speech, and it is divided
+into three general divisions; viz.--Moderate, Quick and Slow time, these
+being sub-divided by the reader, according to the predominate feeling which
+the subject seems to require.
+
+Time and Stress, properly combined and marked, possesses two essential
+elementary conditions of agreeable discourse, upon which other excellences
+may be engrafted. If either be feebly marked, other beauties will not
+redeem it. A well-marked stress, and a graceful extension of time, are
+essential to agreeable speech, and give brilliancy and smoothness to it.
+
+MODERATE TIME.
+
+1. Moderate is the rate used in narrative or conversational style.
+
+1.
+
+O bright, beautiful, health-inspiring, heart-gladdening water! Every where
+around us dwelleth thy meek presence--twin-angel sister of all that is good
+and precious here; in the wild forest, on the grassy plain, slumbering in
+the bosom of the lonely mountain, sailing with viewless wings through the
+humid air, floating over us in curtains of more than regal splendour--home
+of the healing angel, when his wings bend to the woes of this fallen world.
+
+_Elihu Burritt._
+
+2.
+
+But thou, O Hope! with eyes so fair!
+    What was thy delighted measure?
+   Still it whispered promised pleasure,
+  And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail.
+   Still would her touch the strain prolong;
+  And, from the rocks, the woods, the vale,
+   She called on Echo still through all her song;
+    And, where her sweetest theme she chose,
+    A soft, responsive voice, was heard at every close;
+And Hope enchanted smiled, and waved her golden hair.
+
+_Collins._
+
+3.
+
+  Tell him, for years I never nursed a thought
+That was not his; that on his wandering way,
+Daily and nightly, poured a mourner's prayers.
+Tell him ev'n now that I would rather share
+His lowliest lot,--walk by his side, an outcast,--
+Work for him, beg with him,--live upon the light
+Of one kind smile from him, than wear the crown
+The Bourbon lost.
+
+_Sir E. Bulwer Lytton._
+
+QUICK TIME.
+
+Quick Time is used in haste, joy, humour, also in anger, and in exciting
+scenes of any kind.
+
+1.
+
+Look up! look up, Pauline! for I can bear
+Thine eyes! the stain is blotted from my name,
+I have redeemed mine honour. I can call
+On France to sanction thy divine forgiveness.
+Oh, joy! oh rapture! by the midnight watchfires
+Thus have I seen thee! thus foretold this hour!
+And 'midst the roar of battle, thus have heard
+The beating of thy heart against my own!
+
+_Sir E. Bulwer Lytton._
+
+2.
+
+Lord Marmion turned,--well was his need!--
+And dashed the rowels in his steed,
+Like arrow through the archway sprung;
+The ponderous gate behind him rung:
+To pass there was such scanty room,
+The bars, descending, razed his plume.
+
+The steed along the drawbridge flies,
+Just as it trembled on the rise;
+Not lighter does the swallow skim
+Along the smooth lake's level brim;
+And when Lord Marmion reached his band,
+He halts, and turns with clenched hand,
+And shout of loud defiance pours,
+And shook his gauntlet at the towers.
+
+_Sir Walter Scott._
+
+3.
+
+They bound me on, that menial throng,
+Upon his back with many a thong;
+Then loosed him with a sudden lash--
+Away!--away!--and on we dash!
+Torrents less rapid and less rash.
+
+Away!--away!--my breath was gone,
+I saw not where he hurried on:
+'Twas scarcely yet the break of day,
+And on he foamed--away!--away!
+The last of human sounds which rose,
+As I was darted from my foes,
+Was the wild shout of savage laughter,
+Which on the wind came roaring after
+A moment from that rabble rout:
+
+_Byron._
+
+SLOW TIME.
+
+Slow Time is used in all subjects of a serious, deliberate, and dignified
+character, in solemnity, and grandeur, reverential awe, earnest prayer,
+denunciation, and in all the deeper emotions of the soul.
+
+1.
+
+Is this a dagger which I see before me,
+The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee:--
+I have thee not!--and yet I see thee still!
+Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible
+To feeling, as to sight? or art thou but
+A dagger of the mind--a false creation,
+Proceeding from a heat-oppressed brain?
+I see thee yet, in form as palpable
+As this which now I draw!
+Thou marshll'st me the way that I was going!
+And such an instrument I was to use.
+Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses,
+Or else worth all the rest. I see thee still!
+And on thy blade and dudgeon, gouts of blood!
+
+_Shakespeare._
+
+2.
+
+_Alon._ (c.) For the last time, I have beheld the shadowed ocean close
+upon the light. For the last time, through my cleft dungeon's roof, I now
+behold the quivering lustre of the stars. For the last time, O Sun! (and
+soon the hour) I shall behold thy rising, and thy level beams melting the
+pale mists of morn to glittering dew-drops. Then comes my death, and in the
+morning of my day, I fall, which--No, Alonzo, date not the life which thou
+hast run by the mean reck'ning of the hours and days, which thou hast
+breathed: a life spent worthily should be measured by a nobler line; by
+deeds, not years. Then would'st thou murmur not, but bless the Providence,
+which in so short a span, made thee the instrument of wide and spreading
+blessings, to the helpless and oppressed! Though sinking in decrepit age,
+he prematurely falls, whose memory records no benefit conferred by him on
+man. They only have lived long, who have lived virtuously.
+
+_Sheridan._
+
+3
+
+O thou that rollest above, round as the shield of my fathers! whence are
+thy beams, O sun! thy everlasting light? Thou comest forth in thy awful
+beauty: the stars hide themselves in the sky; the moon, cold and pale,
+sinks in the western wave. But thou thyself movest alone: who can be a
+companion of thy course? The oaks of the mountains fall; the mountains
+themselves decay with years; the ocean shrinks and grows again; the moon
+herself is lost in the heavens; but thou art forever the same, rejoicing in
+the brightness of thy course. When the world is dark with tempests, when
+thunders roll and lightnings fly, thou lookest in thy beauty from the
+clouds, and laughest at the storm. But to Ossian thou lookest in vain; for
+he beholds thy beams no more; whether thy yellow hair floats on the eastern
+clouds or thou tremblest at the gates of the west. But thou art, perhaps,
+like me,--for a season; thy years will have an end. Thou wilt sleep in thy
+clouds, careless of the voice of the morning.
+
+_Ossian._
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VIII.
+
+PITCH.
+
+
+Pitch is the degree of elevation or depression of sound. On the proper
+pitching of the voice depends much of the ease of the speaker, and upon the
+modulation of the voice depends that variety which is so pleasing and so
+necessary to relieve the ear, but no definite rules can be given for the
+regulation of the pitch,--the nature of the sentiment and discriminating
+taste must determine the proper key note of delivery. He who shouts at the
+top of his voice is almost sure to break it, and there is no sublimity in
+shouting, while he who mutters below the proper key note soon wearies
+himself, becomes inaudible, and oppresses his hearers. Pitch is
+distinguished as Middle, High, and Low.
+
+MIDDLE PITCH.
+
+The Middle Pitch is used in conversational language, and is the note that
+predominates in good reading and speaking.
+
+1
+A free, wild spirit unto thee is given,
+  Bright minstrel of the blue celestial dome!
+For thou wilt wander to yon upper heaven,
+  And bathe thy plumage in the sunbeam's home;
+And, soaring upward, from thy dizzy height,
+On free and fearless wing, be lost to human sight.
+
+_Welby._
+
+2
+  Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend,
+And round his dwelling guardian saints attend!
+Blest be that spot, where cheerful guests retire
+To pause from toil, and trim their evening fire:
+Blest that abode, where want and pain repair,
+And every stranger finds a ready chair:
+Blest be those feasts with simple plenty crowned,
+Where all the ruddy family around
+Laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail,
+Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale;
+Or press the bashful stranger to his food,
+And learn the luxury of doing good.
+
+_Goldsmith._
+
+HIGH PITCH.
+
+High Pitch indicates command, joy, grief, astonishment, etc. To obtain a
+good control of the voice in a high pitch, practice frequently and
+energetically with the greatest force and in the highest key you can
+command. Do not forget to drop the jaw, so as to keep the mouth and throat
+well open, and be sure to thoroughly inflate the lungs at every sentence,
+and if the force requires it even on words. Do not allow the voice to break
+into an impure tone of any kind, but stop at once, rest for a short time
+and then begin again. The following examples are excellent for increasing
+the compass and flexibility of the voice, and the pupil must practice them
+frequently and with sustained force.
+
+1.
+             "The game's afoot,
+Follow your spirit, and upon this charge
+Cry 'God for Harry, England and Saint George!'"
+
+_Shakespeare._
+
+2.
+
+Ring! Ring!! Ring!!!
+
+3.
+
+MELNOTTE. Look you our bond is over. Proud conquerors that we are, we have
+won the victory over a simple girl--compromised her honour--embittered her
+life--blasted in their very blossoms, all the flowers of her youth. This is
+your triumph,--it is my shame! Enjoy that triumph, but not in my sight. I
+_was_ her betrayer--I _am_, her protector! Cross but her path--
+one word of scorn, one look of insult--nay, but one quiver of that mocking
+lip, and I will teach thee that bitter word thou hast graven eternally in
+this heart--_Repentance!_
+
+BEAUSEANT. His Highness is most grandiloquent.
+
+MELNOTTE. Highness me no more! Beware! Remorse has made me a new being.
+Away with you! There is danger in me. Away!
+
+_Sir E. Bulwer Lytton._
+
+4.
+Up, comrades, up!--in Rokeby's halls,
+Ne'er be it said our courage falls!
+
+_Sir Walter Scott._
+
+5.
+
+To arms! To arms!! a thousand voices cried.
+
+6.
+The combat _deepens!_ On ye _brave!_
+Who rush to _glory_ or the _grave_.
+
+_Campbell._
+
+7.
+
+Charcoal! Charcoal! Charcoal!
+
+8.
+
+Hurrah! Hurrah!! Hurrah!!!
+
+LOW PITCH.
+
+Low Pitch is used to express grave, grand, solemn, and reverential
+feelings, and is very effective in reading.
+
+To obtain a good control of the voice in Low Pitch, first practice the
+examples given under the High Pitch, until you are fatigued, then after
+resting the lungs and vocal organs, practice the lowest and deepest tone
+you can command, giving, however, a full clear and resonant sound.
+
+1.
+
+Seems, Madam! Nay, it is; I know not 'seems,'
+'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother,
+Nor customary suits of solemn black,
+Nor windy suspiration of forced breath;
+No, nor the fruitful river in the eye,
+Nor the dejected 'haviour of the visage,
+Together with all forms, moods, shapes of grief,
+That can denote me truly: these indeed, seem,
+For they are actions that a man might play;
+But I have that within that passes show;
+These but the trappings and the suits of woe.
+
+_Shakespeare._
+
+2.
+
+Then the earth shook and trembled: the foundations of Heaven moved and
+shook, because he was wroth. There went up a smoke out of his nostrils; and
+fire out his mouth devoured; coals were kindled by it. He bowed the
+heavens, also, and came down; and darkness was under his feet; and he rode
+upon a cherub, and did fly; and he was seen upon the wings of the wind; and
+he made darkness pavilions round about him, dark waters, and thick clouds
+of the skies. The Lord thundered from heaven, and the Most High uttered his
+voice; and he sent out arrows and scattered them; lightning and discomfited
+them. And the channels of the sea appeared; the foundations of the world
+were discovered at the rebuking of the Lord, at the blast of the breath of
+his nostrils.
+
+3.
+
+              I am thy father's spirit;
+Doomed for a certain term to walk the night,
+And for the day confined to fast in fires,
+Till the foul crimes done in my days of nature,
+Are burned and purged away.
+
+_Shakespeare._
+
+Unchanged through time's all-devastating flight;
+Thou only God! There is no God beside!
+Being above all beings! Three-in-One!
+Whom none can comprehend, and none explore;
+Who fill'st existence with Thyself alone;
+Embracing all--supporting--ruling o'er--
+Being whom we call God--and know no more!
+
+_Derzhaver._
+
+TRANSITION.
+
+Transition signifies a sudden change in the force, quality, movement, or
+pitch of the voice, as from a subdued to a very high tone, from a slow to a
+rapid rate of utterance, and also the reverse of these movements. It also
+refers to changes in the style of delivery, as from a persuasive to the
+declamatory, etc., and to the expression of passion or emotion, as from
+grief to joy, from fear to courage, etc.
+
+Transition thus forms a very important part in vocal culture, and public
+speakers often ask the question: "How can I modulate my voice?" for they
+are well aware that nothing relieves the ear more agreeably than a well
+regulated transition, for who has not been bored by listening to a speaker
+whose voice throughout has been pitched in one monotonous tone, either too
+high or too low? A change of delivery is also necessary when a new train of
+thought is introduced, for pitch, tone, quality, time, and force should all
+be changed in conformity with the changes of sentiment. No definite rules
+can be laid down in relation to the proper management of the voice in
+transition which would be intelligible without the living teacher to
+exemplify them. Constant practice must be persevered in to enable the pupil
+to make the necessary transitions with skill and ease.
+
+[This selection demands the entire range of the speaking voice, in pitch--
+all qualities, and varied force.]
+
+Hark! the alarm bell, 'mid the wintry storm!
+Hear the loud shout! the rattling engines swarm.
+Hear that distracted mother's cry to save
+Her darling infant from a threatened grave!
+That babe who lies in sleep's light pinions bound,
+And dreams of heaven, while hell is raging round!
+Forth springs the Fireman--stay! nor tempt thy fate!--
+He hears not--heeds not,--nay, it is too late!
+See how the timbers crash beneath his feet!
+O, which way now is left for his retreat?
+The roaring flames already bar his way,
+Like ravenous demons raging for their prey!
+He laughs at danger,--pauses not for rest,
+Till the sweet charge is folded to his breast.
+Now, quick, brave youth, retrace your path;--but lo!
+A fiery gulf yawns fearfully below!
+One desperate leap!--lost! lost!--the flames arise
+And paint their triumph on the o'erarching skies!
+Not lost! again his tottering form appears!
+The applauding shouts of rapturous friends he hears!
+The big drops from his manly forehead roll,
+And deep emotions thrill his generous soul.
+But struggling nature now reluctant yields;
+Down drops the arm the infant's face that shields,
+To bear the precious burthen all too weak;
+When, hark!--the mother's agonising shriek!
+Once more he's roused,--his eye no longer swims,
+And tenfold strength reanimates his limbs;
+He nerves his faltering frame for one last bound,--
+"Your child!" he cries, and sinks upon the ground!
+
+And his reward you ask;--reward he spurns;
+For him the father's generous bosom burns,--
+For him on high the widow's prayer shall go,--
+For him the orphan's pearly tear-drop flow.
+His boon,--the richest e'er to mortals given,--
+Approving conscience, and the smile of Heaven!
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IX.
+
+PAUSES.
+
+
+"A pause is often more eloquent than words." The common pauses necessary to
+be made, according to the rules of punctuation, are too well known to
+require any particular notice here, they serve principally for grammatical
+distinctions, but in public reading or speaking other and somewhat
+different pauses are required.
+
+The length of the pause in reading must be regulated by the mood and
+expression and consequently on the movement of the voice, as fast or slow;
+slow movements being accompanied by long pauses, and livelier movements by
+shorter ones, the pause often occurring where no points are found--the
+sense and sentiments of the passage being the best guides.
+
+"How did Garrick speak the soliloquy, last night?"--"Oh! against all rule,
+my lord, most ungrammatically! Betwixt the substantive and the adjective,
+which should agree together in number, case, and gender, he made a breach
+thus----stopping, as if the point wanted settling; and betwixt the
+nominative case, which, your lordship knows, should govern the verb, he
+suspended his voice in the epilogue a dozen times, three seconds and three-
+fifths by a stop-watch, my lord, each time." "Admirable grammarian!--But,
+in suspending his voice,--was the sense suspended?--Did no expression of
+attitude or countenance fill up the chasm?--Was the eye silent? Did you
+narrowly look?"--"I looked only at the stopwatch, my lord!"--"Excellent
+observer!"
+
+_Sterne._
+
+A Rhetorical Pause--is one not dependent on the grammatical construction of
+a sentence, but is a pause made to enable the speaker to direct attention
+to some particular word or phrase, and is made by suspending the voice
+either directly before or after the utterance of the important phrase. In
+humorous speaking the pause is generally before the phrase, as it awakens
+curiosity and excites expectation; while in serious sentiments it occurs
+after and carries the mind back to what has already been said.
+
+A pause of greater or less duration is always required whenever an
+interruption occurs in the progress of a thought, or the uniform
+construction of a sentence, as in the case of the dash, the exclamation,
+the parenthesis, etc. In these cases the mind is supposed to be arrested by
+the sudden change of sentiment or passion. It is necessary in most cases to
+make a short pause just before the parenthesis, which read more rapidly,
+and in a more subdued tone; when the parenthesis is concluded, resume your
+former pitch and tone of voice.
+
+EXAMPLES OF RHETORICAL PAUSES.
+
+(1.) After the subject of a sentence:
+Wine | is a mocker.
+
+(2.) After the subject-phrase:
+The fame of Milton | will live forever.
+
+(3.) When the subject is inverted:
+The best of books | is the Bible.
+
+(4.) Before the prepositional phrase:
+The boat is sailing | across the river.
+
+(5.) After every emphatic word:
+_William_ | is an honest boy.
+William _is_ | an honest boy.
+William is an _honest_ | boy.
+
+(6.) Whenever an ellipsis occurs:
+This | friend, that | brother,
+Friends and brothers all.
+
+(7.) In order to arrest the attention:
+The cry was | peace, peace!
+
+EMPHASIS.
+
+Emphasis generally may be divided into two classes--Emphasis of sense and
+Emphasis of feeling. Emphasis relates to the mode of giving expression;
+properly defined it includes whatever modulation of the voice or expedient
+the speaker may use, to render what he says significant or expressive of
+the meaning he desires to convey, for we may, by this means, give very
+different meanings to our sentences, according to the application of
+emphasis. For instance, take the sentence--"Thou art a man." When delivered
+in a cool and deliberate manner, it is a very plain sentence, conveying no
+emotion, nor emphasis, nor interrogation. But when one of the words is
+emphasized, the sentence will be very different from what it was in the
+first instance; and very different, again, when another word is made
+emphatic; and so, again, whenever the emphasis is changed, the meaning is
+also changed: as, "THOU art a man." That is _thou_ in opposition to
+another, or because _thou_ hast proved thyself to be one. "Thou art a
+MAN." That is a _gentleman_. "Thou ART a man." That is, in opposition
+to "thou _hast been_ a man," or "thou _wilt be_ one."  "Thou art
+A man." That is, in opposition to _the_ man, or a _particular_
+man.
+
+Then, again, the sentence may be pronounced in a very _low_ tone of
+voice, and with force or without force. It may be raised uniting a good
+deal of stress, or without stress; and then, again, it may be heard with
+the greatest force, or with moderate force. Each of these latter modes of
+intonation will make a very different impression on an audience, according
+to the employment of the other elements of expression, with that of the
+general pitch..
+
+In addition to these, the sentence may be pronounced in a very _low and
+soft_ tone, implying kindness of feeling. Then, in a _whisper_,
+intimating secrecy or mystery. It may be heard on the SEMITONE, high or
+low, to communicate different degrees of pathos. And then, again, the
+TREMOR nay be heard on one or all of the words, to give greater intensity
+to other elements of expression which may be employed. As, also, a GUTTURAL
+emphasis may be applied to express anger, scorn, or loathing. These are
+some of the different meanings which may be given to this sentence of four
+words by the voice. A good reader, or speaker, then, ought not only to be
+able to sound every word _correctly_; he ought to know, always, the
+EXACT _meaning_ of what he reads, and _feel_ the sentiment he
+utters, and also to know HOW to give the _intended_ meaning and
+emotion, when he _knows_ them.
+
+By _practice_ upon the different exercises herein, the student will
+not fail to recognize the emotion from the sentiment, _and will be able
+to give it_.
+
+Emphasis of feeling is suggested and governed entirely by emotion, and is
+not strictly necessary to the sense, but is in the highest degree
+expressive of sentiment.
+
+1. _On_! ON! you noble English.
+
+2. _Slaves_! TRAITORS! have ye flown?
+
+3. To _arms_! to ARMS! ye braves?
+
+4 Be _assured_, be ASSURED, that this declaration will stand.
+
+5. _Rise_, RISE, ye wild tempests, and cover his flight!
+
+6. To _arms_! to ARMS! to ARMS! they cry.
+
+7. _Hurrah_ for bright water! HURRAH! HURRAH!
+
+8. I _met_ him, FACED him, SCORNED him.
+
+9. _Horse_! HORSE! and CHASE!
+
+10. The charge is _utterly_, TOTALLY, MEANLY, false.
+
+11. Ay, cluster there! Cling to your master, _judges_, ROMANS, SLAVES.
+
+12. I defy the honourable _gentleman_; I defy the GOVERNMENT; I defy
+the WHOLE PHALANX.
+
+13. He has allowed us to meet you here, and in the name of the present
+_generation_, in the name of your COUNTRY, in the name of LIBERTY, to
+thank you.
+
+14 They shouted _France_! SPAIN! ALBION! VICTORY!
+
+
+CLIMAX.
+
+Climax, or cumulative emphasis, consists of a series of particulars or
+emphatic words or sentences, in which each successive particular, word, or
+sentence rises in force and importance to the last.
+
+INFLECTIONS.
+
+The inflections of the voice, consist of those peculiar slides which it
+takes in pronouncing syllables, words, or sentences.
+
+There are two of these slides, the upward and the downward. The upward is
+called the rising inflection, and the downward the falling inflection, and
+when these are combined it is known as the circumflex.
+
+The rising inflection is used in cases of doubt and uncertainty, or when
+the sense is incomplete or dependent on something following. The falling
+inflection is used when the sense is finished and completed, or is
+independent of anything that follows.
+
+Indirect questions usually require the falling inflection.
+
+Falling inflections give power and emphasis to words. Rising inflections
+give beauty and variety. Rising inflections may also be emphatic, but their
+effect is not so great as that of falling inflections.
+
+1.
+
+I _am_`.
+
+Life is _short_`.
+
+Eternity is _long_`.
+
+If they _return_`.
+
+Forgive us our _sins_`.
+
+Depart _thou_`.
+
+2.
+
+    What' though the field be lost`?
+All` is not` lost`: the unconquerable will`,
+And stud`y of revenge`, immor`tal hate`,
+And cour`age nev`er to submit` or yield`.
+
+3.
+
+And be thou instruc`ted, oh, Jeru`salem', lest my soul depart` from thee;
+lest I make thee' des`olate, a land not' inhab`ited.
+
+If the members of a concluding series are not emphatic, they all take the
+rising inflection except the _last_, which takes the falling
+inflection; but if emphatic, they all take the falling inflection except
+the _last_ but _one_, which takes the rising inflection.
+
+The dew is dried up', the star is shot', the flight is past', the man
+forgot`.
+
+He tried each art', reproved each dull delay', allured to brighter worlds'
+and led the way`.
+
+They will celebrate it with thanksgiving', with festivity' with bonfires',
+with illuminations`.
+
+He was so young', so intelligent', so generous', so brave so everything',
+that we are apt to like in a young man`.
+
+My doctrine shall drop as the rain', my speech shall distill as the dew',
+as the small rain upon the tender herb' and as the showers upon the grass`.
+
+THE CIRCUMFLEX OR WAVE.
+
+The Circumflex is a union of the two inflections, and is of two kinds;
+viz., the Rising and the Falling Circumflex. The rising circumflex begins
+with the falling, and ends with the rising inflection; the falling
+circumflex begins with the rising, and ends with the falling inflection.
+
+Positive assertions of irony, raillery, etc., have the falling circumflex,
+and all negative assertions of doubled meaning will have the rising. Doubt,
+pity, contrast, grief, supposition, comparison, irony, implication,
+sneering, raillery, scorn, reproach, and contempt, are all expressed by the
+use of the wave of the circumflex. Be sure and get the right feeling and
+thought, and you will find no difficulty in expressing them properly, if
+you have mastered the voice. Both these circumflex inflections may be
+exemplified in the word "so," in a speech of the clown, in Shakespeare's
+"As You Like It:"
+
+"I knew when seven justices could not take up a quarrel; but when the
+parties were met themselves, one of them thought but of an If; as if you
+said so, then I said sô. Oh, hô! did you say so*? So they shook hands, and
+were sworn friends."
+
+The Queen of Denmark, in reproving her son, Hamlet, on account of his
+conduct towards his step-father, whom she married shortly after the murder
+of the king, her husband, says to him, "_Hamlet_, you have your father
+_much_ offended." To which he replies, with a circumflex on
+_you_, "Madam, yô*u have my father much offended." _He_ meant his
+_own_ father; _she_ his _step_-father. He would _also_
+intimate that she was _accessory_ to his father's _murder_; and
+his peculiar reply was like _daggers_ in her _soul_.
+
+In the following reply of Death to Satan, there is a frequent occurrence of
+circumflexes, mingled with _contempt_: "And reckon's _thou
+thyself_ with _spirits_ of heaven, hell-doomed, and breath'st
+_defiance here_, and _scorn_ where _I_ reign king*?--and, to
+enrage thee _more, th*y_ king and _lord!_" The voice is
+circumflexed on _heaven_, _hell-doomed_, _king_, and
+_thy_, nearly an octave.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER X.
+
+PERSONATION.
+
+
+Personation is the representation, by a single reader or speaker, of the
+words, manners, and actions of one or several persons. The change of voice
+in personation in public reading is of great importance, but is generally
+overlooked, or but little practiced.
+
+The student must practice assiduously upon such pieces as require
+Personation in connection with narrative and descriptive sentences, and he
+must use the Time, Pitch, Force, and Gesture, which are appropriate to the
+expression of the required thought. For example, if it be the words uttered
+by a dying child, the Pitch will be low, Pure Voice, slightly Tremor, Time
+slow, with a pause between the narrative and the quoted words of the child,
+these last being given very softly and hesitatingly.
+
+1.
+
+"Tell father, when he comes from work, I said goodnight to him; and mother
+--now-I'll-go-to-sleep."
+
+The last words very soft, and hesitating utterance.
+
+Before this example, is another in the same selection, not quite so marked,
+which we give from the third verse. She gets her answer from the child;
+softly fall the words from him--
+
+"Mother, the angels do so smile, and beckon little Jim! I have no pain,
+dear mother, now,--but oh, I am so dry! Just moisten poor Jim's lips again
+--and, mother, don't you cry." With gentle, trembling haste, she held the
+liquid to his lips,----
+
+That which is quoted is supposed to be uttered by the dying child, and can
+not be given effectively without the changes in voice, etc., referred to
+above.
+
+If, however, the climax of the narrative is a battle scene, and the
+Personation represents an officer giving a command, then a most marked
+change must be made in the voice between the narrative and the personation,
+which demands Full Force, Quick Time, High Pitch, and Orotund Quality, and
+the narrative portion will commence with Moderate Pitch and Time
+(increasing), and Medium Force.
+
+1.
+
+"Forward, the Light Brigade!
+'Charge for the guns!' he said,
+Into the valley of death
+Rode the Six Hundred."
+
+2.
+
+(_desc_.) And when Peter saw it, he answered unto the people:
+(_per_.) "Ye men of Israel, why marvel ye at this? or why look ye so
+earnestly on us, as though by our own power or holiness, we had made this
+man to walk?" etc.
+
+To read the Bible acceptably in public, requires the application of every
+principle in elocution; for nowhere is Expression so richly rewarded, as in
+the pronunciation of the sacred text. The Descriptive and Personation
+should be so distinctly marked, that the attention will be at once
+attracted to the different styles, and the meaning understood.
+
+EXPRESSION.
+
+The study of Expression is one of the most important parts of elocution, as
+it is the application of all the principles that form the science of
+utterance. It is the ART of elocution. Expression then should be the chief
+characteristic of all public reading and speaking. The student must forget
+self, and throw himself entirely into the spirit of what he reads, for the
+art of feeling is the true art which leads to a just expression of the
+features:
+
+"To this one standard make you just appeal,
+Here lies the golden secret, learn to _feel_."
+
+The voice under the influence of feeling, gives the beautiful colouring,
+and breathes life and reality to the mental picture. Every turn in the
+current of feeling should be carefully observed and fully expressed. Not
+only the varied changes of the voice, however, but the indications by all
+the features of the countenance, contribute a share to give a good
+expression, and by far the greatest is derived from the eyes. The
+management of the eyes is, therefore, the most important of all--
+
+"A single look more marks the eternal woe,
+Than all the windings of the lengthened, oh!
+Up to the face the quick sensation flies,
+And darts its meaning from the speaking eyes;
+Love, transport, madness, anger, scorn, despair,
+And all the passions, all the soul is there."
+
+The eye of the orator, and the expressive movements of the muscles of his
+face, often _tell_ more than his words, his body or his hands, and
+when the eye is lighted up and glowing with meaning and intelligence, and
+frequently and properly directed to the person or persons addressed, it
+tends greatly to rivet the attention, and deepen the interest of the
+hearer, as well as to heighten the effect, and enforce the importance of
+the sentiments delivered. To the eyes belong the effusion of tears, and to
+give way to this proof of feeling should not be called a mark of weakness,
+but rather a proof of sensibility, which is the test of sincerity.
+
+Next to the eyes, the mouth is the most expressive part of the countenance.
+"The Mouth," says Cresallius, "is the vestibule of the soul, the door of
+eloquence, and the place in which the thoughts hold their highest debates."
+It is the seat of grace and sweetness; smiles and good temper play around
+it; composure calms it; and discretion keeps the door of its lips. Every
+bad habit defaces the soft beauty of the mouth, and leaves indelible traces
+of its injury, they should, therefore, be carefully avoided. The motion of
+the lips should be moderate, to moisten them by thrusting the tongue
+between them is very disagreeable, and biting the lips is equally
+unbecoming. We should speak with the mouth, more than with the lips.
+
+Unless the pupil is very careful, he will find some difficulty in keeping
+the mouth sufficiently wide open, he will gradually close the mouth until
+the teeth are brought nearly together, before the sound is finished, the
+inevitable consequence of which is a smothered, imperfect and lifeless
+utterance of the syllable or word. A good opening of the mouth is
+absolutely indispensable in giving the voice the full effect of round,
+smooth and agreeable tone.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XI.
+
+GESTURE.
+
+
+As more or less action must necessarily accompany the words of every
+speaker who delivers his sentiments in earnest, as they ought to be to move
+and persuade, it is of the utmost importance to him that that action be
+appropriate and natural--never forced and awkward, but easy and graceful,
+except where the nature of the subject requires it to be bold and vehement.
+If argument were necessary to enforce the importance of cultivation in
+gesticulation, one sufficiently cogent might be drawn from the graceful
+skill and power displayed in this art by the best actors on the stage. No
+truth is clearer than that their excellence in this is due to their own
+industry.
+
+But, in applying art to the aid of Oratory, and especially in copying the
+gesture of those who excel in it, great caution is to be observed. No true
+orator can be formed after any model. He that copies or borrows from any
+one, should be careful in the first place, not to copy his peculiarities or
+defects: and whatever is copied, should be so completely brought under
+command, by long practice, as to appear perfectly natural. Art should never
+be allowed to put any restraint upon nature; but should be so completely
+refined and subdued as to appear to be the work of nature herself; for
+whenever art is allowed to supersede nature, it is immediately detected,
+shows affectation, and is sure to disgust, rather than please and impress,
+the hearer.
+
+In general terms, force and grace may be considered the leading qualities
+of good action. In pleasing emotions the eye of the speaker follows the
+gesture, but in negative expressions the head is averted. The stroke of the
+hand terminates on the emphatic word. Be careful not to "saw the air" with
+the hands, but to move them in graceful curved lines. They should move
+steadily, and rest on the emphatic word, returning to the side after the
+emotion is expressed that called them into action.
+
+The following positions and directions are as good as any, that can be
+expressed in a small compass, and they are given here for practice. One
+caution must be noted, which is, that excess of action is nearly as
+detrimental in oratory as no action. It becomes the speaker, therefore, in
+this, as well as in everything else, that pertains to elocution and
+oratory, to _avoid extremes_.
+
+I. POSITION OF THE HAND.
+
+1. Supine; open hand, fingers relaxed, palm upward; used in appeal,
+entreaty, in expressing light, joyous emotions, etc.
+
+2. Prone; open hand, palm downward; used in negative expressions, etc.
+
+3. Vertical; open hand, palm outward; for repelling, warding off, etc.
+
+4. Clenched; hand tightly closed; used in defiance, courage, threatening,
+etc.
+
+5 Pointing; prone hand, loosely closed, with index finger extended; used in
+pointing out, designating, etc.
+
+II. DIRECTION.
+
+1. Front; the hand descending below the hip, extending horizontally, or
+ascending to a level or above the head, at right angles with the speaker's
+body.
+
+2. Oblique; at an angle of forty-five degrees from the speaker's body.
+
+3. Extended; direct from the speaker's side.
+
+4. Backward; reversely corresponding to the oblique.
+
+ABBREVIATIONS.
+
+R. H. S. Right Hand Supine.
+
+R. H. P. Right Hand Prone.
+
+R. H. V. Right Hand Vertical.
+
+B. H. S. Both Hands Supine.
+
+B. H. P. Both Hands Prone.
+
+B. H. V. Both Hands Vertical.
+
+D. f. Descending Front.
+
+H. f. Horizontal Front.
+
+A. f. Ascending Front.
+
+D. o. Descending Oblique.
+
+H. o. Horizontal Oblique.
+
+A. o. Ascending Oblique.
+
+D. e. Descending Extended.
+
+H. e. Horizontal Extended.
+
+A. e. Ascending Extended.
+
+D. b. Descending Backward.
+
+H. b. Horizontal Backward.
+
+A. b. Ascending Backward.
+
+DIRECTIONS.
+
+The dotted words indicate where the hand is to be raised in preparation.
+
+The gesture is made upon the words in capitals.
+
+The hand drops upon the italicized word or syllable following the word in
+capitals. If italicized words precede the word in capitals, it indicates
+that the hand is to follow the line of gesture.
+
+The following examples have appeared in several works on Elocution--"The
+New York Speaker," "Reading and Elocution," etc.
+
+R. H. S.
+
+_D.f._ This sentiment I* will* maintain* | with the last
+breath of LIFE.
+
+_H.f._ I* appeal* | to YOU, sir, for your de _cis_ ion.
+
+_A.f._ I* appeal* | to the great Searcher of HEARTS for
+the truth of what I _ut_ ter.
+
+_D. o._ Of* all* mistakes* | NONE are so _fa_ tal as those
+which we incur through prejudice.
+
+_H. o._ Truth*, honour*, | JUS tice were his _mo_ tives.
+
+_A. o._ Fix* your* eye* | on the prize of a truly NO ble am-
+_bi_ tion.
+
+_D. e._ AWAY* | with an idea so absurd!
+
+_H. e._ The* breeze* of* morning* | wafted IN cense on the
+_air_.
+
+_A. e._ In dreams thro'* camp* and* court* he* bore* | the
+trophies of a CON queror.
+
+_D. b._ AWAY* | with an idea so abhorrent to humanity!
+
+_H. b._ Search* the* records* of* the* remotest* an TI quity for
+a _par_allel to this.
+
+_A. b._ Then* rang* their proud HURRAH!
+
+R. H. P.
+
+_D. f._ Put* DOWN | the unworthy feeling!
+
+_H. f._ Re* STRAIN the unhallowed pro _pen_ sity.
+
+_D. o._ Let every one who* would* merit* the* Christian* name*
+| re PRESS | such a feeling.
+
+_H. o._ I* charge* you* as* men* and* as* Christians* | to lay a
+re STRAINT on all such dispo _si_ tions!
+
+_A. o._ Ye* gods* | with HOLD your _ven_ geance!
+
+_D. e._ The* hand* of* affection* | shall _smooth the_ TURF for
+your last _pil_ low!
+
+_H. e._ The* cloud* of* adver* | sity threw its gloom _over all
+his_ PROS pects.
+
+_A. e._ So* darkly* glooms* yon* thunder* cloud* that* swathes*
+| as with a purple SHROUD Benledi's distant _hill_.
+
+R. H. V.
+
+_H. f._ Arise!* meet* | and re PEL your _foe!_
+
+_A. f._ For* BID it, Almighty _God!_
+
+_H. o._ He generously extended* the* arm* of* power* | to
+ward OFF the _blow_.
+
+_A. o._ May* Heaven* a VERT the cal _am_ ity!
+
+_H. e._ Out* of* my* SIGHT, | thou serpent!
+
+_H. b._ Thou* tempting* fiend,* a VAUNT!
+
+
+B. H. S.
+
+_D. f._ All personal feeling he* de* POS ited on the _al_ tar
+of his country's good.
+
+_H. f._ Listen,* I* im PLORE you, to the voice of _rea_ son!
+
+_A. f._ HAIL, universal _Lord_!
+
+_D. o._ Every* personal* advantage* | he sur REN dered to
+the common _good_.
+
+_H. o._ WELCOME!* once more to your early _home_!
+
+_A. o._ HAIL! holy _Light_!
+
+_D. e._ I* utterly* re NOUNCE | all the supposed advantages
+of such a station.
+
+_H. e._ They* yet* slept* | in the wide a BYSS of possi _bil_ ity.
+
+_A. e._ Joy,* joy* | for EVER.
+
+
+B. H. P.
+
+_D. f._ Lie* LIGHT ly on him, _earth_--his step was light on
+thee.
+
+_H. f._ Now* all* the* blessings* of* a* glad* father* LIGHT on
+_thee!_
+
+_A. f._ Blessed* be* Thy* NAME, O Lord Most _High_.
+
+_D. o._ We* are* in* Thy* sight* | but as the _worms_ of the
+DUST!
+
+_H. o._ May* the* grace* of* God* | _abide with you for_ EVER.
+
+_A. o._ And* let* the* triple* rainbow* rest* | _o'er all the
+mountain_ TOPS.
+
+_D. e._ Here* let* the* tumults* of* passion* | _forever_ CEASE!
+
+_H. e._ Spread* _wide_ a ROUND the heaven-breathing _calm_!
+
+_A. e._ Heaven* | _opened_ WIDE her ever-during _gates_.
+
+B. H. V.
+
+_H. f._ HENCE*, hideous _spectre_!
+
+_A. f._ AVERT*, O _God_, the frown of Thy indignation!
+
+_H. o._ Far* from* OUR _hearts_ be so inhuman a feeling.
+
+_A. o._ Let* me* not* | NAME it to _you_, ye chaste stars!
+
+_H. e._ And* if* the* night* have* gathered* aught* of* evil* or*
+concealed*, dis PERSE it.
+
+_A. e._ Melt* and* dis* PEL, ye spectre _doubts_!
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XII.
+
+INTRODUCTION TO AN AUDIENCE.
+
+
+The speaker should present himself to the audience with modesty, and
+without any show of self-consequence, and should avoid everything opposed
+to true dignity and self respect; he should feel the importance of his
+subject and the occasion. He should be deliberate and calm, and should take
+his position with his face directed to the audience.
+
+A bow, being the most marked and appropriate symbol of respect, should be
+made on the last step going to his place on the platform. In making a
+graceful bow, there should be a gentle bend of the whole body, the eyes
+should not be permitted to fall below the person addressed, and the arms
+should lightly move forward, and a little inward. On raising himself into
+an erect position from the introductory bow, the speaker should fall back
+into the first position of the advanced foot. In this position he commences
+to speak. In his discourse let him appear graceful, easy, and natural, and
+when warmed and animated by the importance of his subject, his dignity and
+mien should become still more elevated and commanding, and he should assume
+a somewhat lofty and noble bearing.
+
+ADVICE TO STUDENTS.
+
+The student must ever bear in mind that there is no royal road of attaining
+excellence in Elocutionary art without labour. No matter under what
+favourable circumstances he may have been placed for observing good
+methods, or how much aid he may receive from good teachers, he never can
+make any _real_ improvement, unless he does the work for himself, and
+by diligence and perseverance he may achieve a great measure of success,
+and free himself from many blemishes and defects.
+
+As the highest attainment of art, is the best imitation of nature, to
+attain to excellence in art the student must study nature as it exists in
+the manner of the age,--
+
+"And catch the manners, living as they rise."
+
+The rules of every science, as far as they are just and useful, are founded
+in nature, or in good usage; hence their adoption and application tend to
+free us from our artificial defects, all of which may be regarded as
+departures from the simplicity of nature. Let the student, therefore, ever
+bear in mind that whatever is artificial is unnatural, and that whatever is
+unnatural is opposed to genuine eloquence.
+
+Good reading is exactly like good talking--one, therefore, who would read
+well or who would speak well, who would interest, rivet the attention,
+convince the understanding, and excite the feelings of his hearers--need
+not expect to do it by any extraordinary exertion or desperate effort; for
+genuine eloquence is not to be wooed and won by any such boisterous course
+of courtship, but by more gentle means. But, the pupil must not be tied
+down to a too slavish attention to rules, for one flash of genuine emotion,
+one touch of real nature, will produce a greater effect than the
+application of all the studied rules of rhetorical art.
+
+"He who in earnest studies o'er his part,
+Will find true nature cling around his heart,
+The modes of grief are not included all
+In the white handkerchief and mournful drawl."
+
+Before attempting to give a piece in public the pupil must practice it well
+in private, until the words and ideas are perfectly familiar, and it must
+be repeated o'er and o'er again, with perfect distinctness and clear
+articulation,--for more declaimers break down in consequence of forgetting
+the words of their piece, than from any other cause, and the pupil must
+practice assiduously until there is no danger of failure from this source.
+
+Do not be discouraged if your early attempts are not very successful ones,
+but persevere; the most renowned actors and orators were not at all
+remarkable in the commencement of their career, they all, with scarcely an
+exception, attained to eminence by untiring perseverance.
+
+Never rest satisfied with having done as you think--"well"--but be
+constantly trying to improve and to do better, and do not let the flattery
+of injudicious friends lead you to imagine you have a remarkable genius for
+oratory or for reading--such a foolish notion will be productive of great
+harm and effectually stop your further improvement, and those who are led
+to believe they are great geniuses and above the necessity of being guided
+by the rules suited for more commonplace mortals, rarely, if ever, attain
+to eminence, or become useful members of society.
+
+Do not rely too much on others for instruction or advice as to the way of
+reading or speaking a passage, think for yourself, read it over carefully
+until you have formed a definite opinion as to how it ought to be
+delivered, then declaim it according to your own idea of its meaning and
+character.
+
+Avoid everything like affectation; think of your subject and its
+requirements, not of yourself, and do not try to make a great display. Let
+your tone, look and gestures be all in harmony--be deliberate, yet earnest
+and natural; let nature be the mistress with art for her handmaiden.
+
+Do not be such a slavish imitator of others, that it can be said of you, as
+it is of many--"Oh! I know who taught him Elocution. Every gesture and
+every movement is in accordance with some specific rule, and a slavish
+mannerism that never breaks into the slightest originality, marks his whole
+delivery, and all of ----'s pupils do exactly the same way."
+
+Remember always that the GOLDEN RULE of Elocution is:--
+
+BE NATURAL AND BE IN EARNEST.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIII.
+
+GENERAL EXAMPLES FOR PRACTICE.
+
+QUICK TIME--INCREASE--HIGH PITCH--OROTUND.
+
+Still sprung from those swift hoofs, thundering South,
+The dust like the smoke from the cannon's mouth,
+Or the trail of a comet, sweeping faster and faster,
+Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster.
+The heart of the steed and the heart of the master
+Were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls,
+Impatient to be where the battle-field calls;
+Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play,
+With Sheridan only ten miles away!
+
+Under his spurning feet, the road
+Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed;
+And the landscape sped away behind,
+Like an ocean flying before the wind;
+And the steed, like a barque fed with furnace ire,
+Swept on, with his wild eyes full of fire;--
+But, lo! he is nearing his heart's desire!
+He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray,
+With Sheridan only five miles away!
+
+MIDDLE PITCH--PURE.
+
+How peaceful the grave--its quiet, how deep! Its zephyrs breathe calmly,
+and soft is its sleep, and flowerets perfume it with ether!
+
+ASPIRATE.
+
+How ill this taper burns!
+                          Ha! who comes here?
+I think it is the weakness of mine eyes
+That shapes this monstrous apparition.
+
+It comes upon me! Art thou any thing?
+Art thou some god, some angel, or some devil,
+That makest my blood cold, and my hair to stare?
+Speak to me what thou art.
+
+OROTUND--HIGH AND VARIED PITCH.
+
+  Confusion reigned below, and crowds on deck
+With ashen faces and wild questionings
+Rushed to her fated side; another crash
+Succeeded, then a pause, an awful pause
+Of terror and dismay. They see it all!
+There floats the direful cause 'longside them now!
+"Ahoy!" the seamen cry; "Ahoy! ahoy!
+Four hundred souls aboard! Ahoy! ahoy!"
+"All will be well!" "No, no, she heeds us not!"
+And shrieks of awful frenzy fill the air--
+"We sink! we sink!" but lo! the aid so near
+Slinks like a recreant coward out of sight.
+
+  No sign of succour--none! Now wild despair
+And cowardice, thy reign has come; the strong
+Are weak, the weak are strong.
+The captain cries aloud--"Launch yonder boat!"
+The maddened crowd press toward it, but he shouts:
+"Stand back, and save the women!" They but laugh
+With curses their response. Behold the waves
+Are gaping to receive them! still he cries
+"Back, back, or I will fire!"--their reply
+Comes in a roar of wild defiant groans.
+
+PLAINTIVE--PURE.
+
+_Pauline_. Thrice have I sought to speak: my courage fails me.
+Sir, is it true that you have known--nay, are you
+The friend of--Melnotte?
+
+_Melnotte_. Lady, yes!--Myself
+And Misery know the man!
+
+_Pauline_. And you will see him,
+And you will bear to him--ay--word for word,
+All that this heart, which breaks in parting from him
+Would send, ere still for ever.
+
+_Melnotte_. He hath told me
+You have the right to choose from out the world
+A worthier bridegroom;--he foregoes all claim
+Even to murmur at his doom. Speak on!
+
+_Pauline_. Tell him, for years I never nursed a thought
+That was not his; that on his wandering way
+Daily and nightly poured a mourner's prayers.
+Tell him ev'n now that I would rather share
+His lowliest lot,--walk by his side, an outcast,--
+Work for him, beg with him,--live upon the light
+Of one kind smile from him, than wear the crown
+The Bourbon lost!
+
+_Melnotte (aside)_. Am I already mad?
+And does delirium utter such sweet words
+Into a dreamer's ear? (_aloud_.) You love him thus
+And yet desert him?
+
+_Pauline_. Say, that, if his eye
+Could read this heart,--its struggles, its temptations--
+His love itself would pardon that desertion!
+Look on that poor old man--he is my father;
+He stands upon the verge of an abyss;
+He calls his child to save him! Shall I shrink
+From him who gave me birth? Withhold my hand
+And see a parent perish? Tell him this,
+And say--that we shall meet again in Heaven!
+
+SLOW--LOW OROTUND.
+
+The stars--shall fade away,--the sun--himself--
+Grow dim--with age,--and Nature--sink--in years;
+But thou--shalt flourish--in immortal youth,--
+Unhurt--amidst the war of elements,--
+The wreck of matter,--and the crash of worlds.
+
+MODERATE--PURE.
+
+  At church, with meek and unaffected grace,
+His looks adorned the venerable place;
+Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway,
+And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray.
+The service past, around the pious man,
+With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran;
+E'en children followed, with endearing wile,
+And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile:
+His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed,
+Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed;
+To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given,
+But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven.
+As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form,
+Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm.
+Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,
+Eternal sunshine settles on its head.
+
+ASTONISHMENT AND SURPRISE.
+
+Whence and what art thou, execrable shape!
+That dar'st, though grim and terrible, advance
+Thy miscreated front athwart my way
+To yonder gates? Through them, I mean to pass--
+That be assured--without leave asked of thee!
+Retire, or taste thy folly; and learn by proof,
+Hell-born! not to contend with spirits of heaven!
+
+ANGER.
+
+Next Anger rushed, his eyes on fire; in lightnings owned his secret stings;
+with one rude clash he struck the lyre, and swept with hurried hand, the
+strings.
+
+PITY.
+
+The Duchess marked his weary pace, his timid mien, and reverend face; and
+bade her page the menials tell, that they should tend the old man well; for
+she had known adversity, though born in such a high degree; in pride of
+power, in beauty's bloom, had wept o'er Monmouth's bloody tomb.
+
+REVENGE.
+
+And longer had she sung--but, with a frown, Revenge impatient rose; he
+threw his blood-stained sword in thunder down; and, with a withering look,
+the war-denouncing trumpet took, and blew a blast--so loud and dread, were
+ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe.
+
+COURAGE.
+
+"Fight on!" quoth he, undaunted, but our war-ships steered away;
+"She will burst," they said, "and sink us, one and all, beneath the bay;"
+But our captain knew his duty, and we cheered him as he cried,
+"To the rescue! We are brothers--let us perish side by side!"
+
+HORROR.
+
+Avaunt! and quit my sight! Let the earth hide thee!
+Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold:
+Thou hast no speculation in those eyes
+Which thou dost glare with! Hence, horrible shadow,
+Unreal mockery, hence!
+
+HOPE.
+
+All's for the best! set this on your standard,
+  Soldier of sadness, or pilgrim of love,
+Who to the shores of Despair may have wandered,
+  A way-wearied swallow, or heart-stricken dove;
+All's for the best!--be a man but confiding,
+  Providence tenderly governs the rest,
+And the frail barque of his creature is guiding
+  Wisely and wanly, all for the best.
+
+MERCY.
+
+The quality of mercy is not strain'd;
+It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
+Upon the place beneath; it is twice blessed;
+It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes:
+'Tis mightiest--in the mightiest; it becomes
+The throned monarch--better than his crown;
+His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,
+The attribute to awe--and majesty,
+Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;
+But mercy--is above this sceptered sway,
+It is enthroned--in the hearts of kings,
+It is an attribute--to God himself:
+And earthly power--doth then show likest God's,
+When mercy--seasons justice.
+
+LOVE.
+
+In peace, Love tunes the shepherd's reed;
+In war, he mounts the warrior's steed;
+In halls, in gay attire is seen;
+In hamlets, dances on the green.
+Love rules the court, the camp, the grove,
+And men below, and saints above;
+For love is heaven, and heaven is love.
+
+AWE, EXTENDING TO FEAR.
+
+It thunders! Sons of dust, in reverence bow!
+  Ancient of Days! thou speakest from above!
+Thy right hand wields the bolt of terror now--
+  That hand which scatters peace and joy and love.
+Almighty! trembling, like a timid child,
+  I hear Thy awful voice!--alarmed, afraid,
+I see the flashes of Thy lightning wild,
+  And in the very grave would hide my head!
+
+REVERENCE.
+
+O Lord, our Lord, how excellent is Thy name in all the earth! who hast set
+Thy glory above the heavens. When I consider the heavens, the work of Thy
+fingers; the moon and the stars, which Thou hast ordained; what is man that
+Thou art mindful of him? and the son of man, that Thou visitest him?
+
+For Thou hast made him a little lower than the angels, and hast crowned him
+with glory and honour. Thou madest him to have dominion over the works of
+Thy hands: Thou hast put all things under his feet. O Lord, our Lord, how
+excellent is Thy name in all the earth!
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+SELECTIONS.
+
+DOMESTIC LOVE AND HAPPINESS.
+
+O happy they! the happiest of their kind!
+Whom gentler stars unite, and in one fate
+Their hearts, their fortunes, and their beings blend.
+'Tis not the coarser tie of human laws,
+Unnatural oft, and foreign to the mind,
+That binds their peace, but harmony itself,
+Attuning all their passions into love;
+Where friendship full exerts her softest power,
+Perfect esteem, enliven'd by desire
+Ineffable, and sympathy of soul;
+Thought meeting thought, and will preventing will,
+With boundless confidence; for nought but love
+Can answer love, and render bliss secure.
+Let him, ungenerous, who, alone intent
+To bless himself, from sordid parents buys
+The loathing virgin, in eternal care,
+Well-merited, consume his nights and days:
+Let barbarous nations, whose inhuman love
+Is wild desire, fierce as the sun they feel;
+Let eastern tyrants from the light of Heaven
+Seclude their bosom-slaves, meanly possess'd
+Of a mere lifeless, violated form:
+While those whom love cements in holy faith,
+And equal transport, free as nature live,
+Disdaining fear. What is the world to them,
+Its pomp, its pleasure, and its nonsense all?
+Who in each other clasp whatever fair
+High fancy forms, and lavish hearts can wish,
+Something than beauty dearer, should they look
+Or on the mind, or mind-illumin'd face;
+Truth, goodness, honour, harmony and love,
+The richest bounty of indulgent Heaven.
+Meantime a smiling offspring rises round,
+And mingles both their graces. By degrees
+The human blossom blows; and every day,
+Soft as it rolls along, shows some new charm,
+The father's lustre, and the mother's bloom.
+Then infant reason grows apace, and calls
+For the kind hand of an assiduous care.
+Delightful task! to rear the tender thought,
+To teach the young idea how to shoot,
+To pour the fresh instruction o'er the mind,
+To breathe th' enlivening spirit, and to fix
+The generous purpose in the glowing breast.
+Oh, speak the joy! ye, whom the sudden tear
+Surprises often, while you look around,
+And nothing strikes your eye but sights of bliss,
+All various nature pressing on the heart:
+An elegant sufficiency, content,
+Retirement, rural quiet, friendship, books,
+Ease and alternate labour, useful life,
+Progressive virtue, and approving Heaven.
+These are the matchless joys of virtuous love:
+And thus their moments fly. The seasons thus,
+As ceaseless round a jarring world they roll,
+Still find them happy; and consenting spring
+Sheds her own rosy garland on their heads:
+Till evening comes at last, serene and mild;
+When, after the long vernal day of life,
+Enamour'd more, as more remembrance swells
+With many a proof of recollected love,
+Together down they sink in social sleep;
+Together freed, their gentle spirits fly
+To scenes where love and bliss immortal reign.
+
+_Thomson_.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+THE SEASONS.
+
+These, as they change, ALMIGHTY FATHER, these
+Are but the varied GOD. The rolling year
+Is full of THEE. Forth in the pleasing Spring
+THY beauty walks, THY tenderness and love
+Wide flush the fields; the softening air is balm,
+Echo the mountains round; the forest smiles;
+And every sense, and every heart is joy.
+Then comes THY glory in the Summer months,
+With light and heat refulgent. Then THY sun
+Shoots full perfection through the swelling year,
+And oft THY voice in dreadful thunder speaks;
+And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve,
+By brooks, and groves, in hollow-whispering gales
+THY bounty shines in Autumn unconfin'd,
+And spreads a common feast for all that lives.
+In Winter, awful THOU! with clouds and storms
+Around THEE thrown, tempest o'er tempest roll'd.
+Majestic darkness! on the whirlwind's wing,
+Riding sublime, THOU bids't the world adore,
+And humblest Nature with THY northern blast.
+
+_Thomson_.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+ON HIS BLINDNESS.
+
+When I consider how my light is spent
+   Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
+   And that one talent which is death to hide
+Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
+To serve therewith my Maker, and present
+   My true account, lest he returning chide--
+   "Doth God exact day-labor, light denied?"
+I fondly ask; but Patience, to prevent
+That murmur, soon replies: "God doth not need
+Either man's work, or his own gifts; who best
+Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best; his state
+Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed,
+And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
+They also serve who only stand and wait."
+
+_Milton_.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+THE PATRIOT'S ELYSIUM.
+
+There is a land, of every land the pride,
+Beloved by heaven o'er all the world beside;
+Where brighter suns dispense serener light,
+And milder moons imparadise the night:
+A land of beauty, virtue, valour, truth,
+Time-tutored age, and love-exalted youth.
+The wandering mariner, whose eye explores
+The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores;
+Views not a realm so bountiful and fair,
+Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air!
+In every clime, the magnet of his soul,
+Touched by remembrance, trembles to that pole;
+For in this land of heaven's peculiar grace,
+The heritage of nature's noblest race,
+There is a spot of earth supremely blest,
+A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest,
+Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside
+His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride;
+While, in his softened looks, benignly blend
+The sire, the son, the husband, father, friend.
+Here woman reigns; the mother, daughter, wife,
+Strews with fresh flowers the narrow way of life.
+In the clear heaven of her delightful eye,
+An angel guard of loves and graces lie;
+Around her knees domestic duties meet,
+And fireside pleasures gambol at her feet.
+Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found?
+Art thou a man?--a patriot?--look around!
+Oh! thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam,
+That land thy COUNTRY, and that spot thy HOME.
+
+_Montgomery_.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+THE APPROACH TO PARADISE.
+
+  So on he fares; and to the border comes
+Of Eden, where delicious Paradise,
+Now nearer, crowns, with her enclosure green,
+As with a rural mound, the champaign head
+Of a steep wilderness, whose hairy sides,
+With thicket overgrown, grotesque and wild,
+Access denied; and overhead up grew
+Insuperable height of loftiest shade,
+Cedar, and pine, and fir, and branching palm,--
+A sylvan scene; and, as the ranks ascend,
+Shade above shade, a woody theatre
+Of stateliest view. Yet higher than their tops
+The verd'rous wall of Paradise up sprung;
+Which to our general sire gave prospect large
+Into his nether empire neighbouring round:
+And, higher than that wall, a circling row
+Of goodliest trees, laden with fairest fruit,
+Blossoms and fruits, at once, of golden hue,
+Appeared, with gay enamelled colours mixed;
+On which the Sun more glad impressed his beams
+Than in fair evening cloud, or humid bow,
+When God hath showered the earth; so lovely seemed
+That landscape: and of pure, now purer air
+Meets his approach, and to the heart inspires
+Vernal delight and joy, able to drive
+All sadness but despair: now gentle gales,
+Fanning their odoriferous wings, dispense
+Native perfumes, and whisper whence they stole
+Those balmy spoils;--as when, to them who sail
+Beyond the Cape of Hope, and now are past
+Mozambique, off at sea north-east winds blow
+Sabean odours from the spicy shore
+Of Araby the blest; with such delay
+Well pleased they slack their course; and, many a league,
+Cheered with the grateful smell, old Ocean smiles.
+
+_Milton_.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+LOVE IN IDLENESS.
+
+  OBE. Well, go thy way; thou shalt not from this grove,
+Till I torment thee for this injury.
+My gentle Puck, come hither: Thou remember'st
+Since once I sat upon a promontory,
+And heard a mermaid, on a dolphin's back,
+Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath,
+That the rude sea grew civil at her song;
+And certain stars shot madly from their spheres,
+To hear the sea-maid's music.
+
+  PUCK. I remember.
+
+  OBE. That very time I saw (but thou could'st not),
+Flying between the cold moon and the earth,
+Cupid, all armed: a certain aim he took
+At a fair vestal, throned by the west;
+And loos'd his love-shaft smartly from his bow,
+As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts;
+But I might see young Cupid's fiery shaft
+Quench'd in the chaste beams of the watery moon;
+And the imperial votaress passed on,
+In maiden meditation, fancy-free.
+Yet mark'd I where the bolt of Cupid fell:
+It fell upon a little western flower,--
+Before, milk-white, now purple with love's wound,--
+And maidens call it love-in-idleness.
+Fetch me that flower; the herb I show'd thee once;
+The juice of it on sleeping eyelids laid,
+Will make or man or woman madly dote
+Upon the next live creature that it sees.
+Fetch me this herb: and be thou here again,
+Ere the leviathan can swim a league.
+
+  PUCK. I'll put a girdle round about the earth
+In forty minutes.
+
+_Shakespeare_.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+REFLECTIONS ON THE TOMB OF SHAKESPEARE.
+
+As I crossed the bridge over the Avon on my return, I paused to contemplate
+the distant church in which Shakespeare lies buried, and could not but
+exult in the malediction,
+
+"Good friend, for Jesus' sake forbear,
+To dig the dust enclosed here.
+Blest be the man that spares these stones;
+And cursed be he who moves my bones,"
+
+which has kept his ashes undisturbed in its quiet and hallowed vaults. What
+honour could his name have derived from being mingled in dusty
+companionship, with the epitaphs, and escutcheons, and venal eulogiums of a
+titled multitude? What would a crowded corner in Westminster Abbey have
+been, compared with this reverend pile, which seems to stand in beautiful
+loneliness as his sole mausoleum! The solicitude about the grave, may be
+but the offspring of an overwrought sensibility; but human nature is made
+up of foibles and prejudices; and its best and tenderest affections are
+mingled with these factitious feelings. He who has sought renown about the
+world, and has reaped a full harvest of worldly favour, will find, after
+all, there is no love, no admiration, no applause, so sweet to the soul as
+that which springs up in his native place. It is there that he seeks to be
+gathered in peace and honour, among his kindred and his early friends. And
+when the weary heart and the failing head begin to warn him that the
+evening of life is drawing on, he turns as fondly as does the infant to its
+mother's arms, to sink to sleep in the bosom of the scenes of his
+childhood.
+
+How would it have cheered the spirit of the youthful bard, when, wandering
+forth in disgrace upon a doubtful world, he cast back a heavy look upon his
+paternal home, could he have foreseen, that, before many years, he should
+return to it covered with renown; that his name would become the boast and
+the glory of his native place; that his ashes would be religiously guarded
+as its most precious treasure; and that its lessening spire, on which his
+eyes were fixed with tearful contemplation, would one day become the
+beacon, towering amidst the gentle landscape, to guide the literary pilgrim
+of every nation to his tomb!
+
+_Irving._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+ON THE MISERIES OF HUMAN LIFE.
+
+Ah! little think the gay licentious proud,
+Whom pleasure, power, and affluence surround;
+They, who their thoughtless hours in giddy mirth,
+And wanton, often cruel, riot waste;
+Ah! little think they, while they dance along,
+How many feel, this very moment, death
+And all the sad variety of pain.
+How many sink in the devouring flood,
+Or more devouring flame; how many bleed,
+By shameful variance betwixt man and man.
+How many pine in want, and dungeon glooms,
+Shut from the common air and common use
+Of their own limbs; how many drink the cup
+Of baleful grief, or eat the bitter bread
+Of misery. Sore pierc'd by wintry winds,
+How many shrink into the sordid hut
+Of cheerless poverty; how many shake
+With all the fiercer tortures of the mind,
+Unbounded passion, madness, guilt, remorse;
+Whence tumbling headlong from the height of life,
+They furnish matter for the tragic Muse.
+Even in the vale, where Wisdom loves to dwell,
+With friendship, peace, and contemplation join'd,
+How many rack'd, with honest passions droop
+In deep retir'd distress; how many stand
+Around the death-bed of their dearest friends
+And point the parting anguish.--Thought fond Man
+Of these, and all the thousand nameless ills,
+That one incessant struggle render life
+One scene of toil, of suffering, and of fate,
+Vice in his high career would stand appall'd,
+And heedless rambling Impulse learn to think,
+The conscious heart of Charity would warm,
+And her wide wish Benevolence dilate;
+The social tear would rise, the social sigh
+And into clear perfection, gradual bliss,
+Refining still, the social passions, work.
+
+_Thomson._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+PAUL'S DEFENCE BEFORE AGRIPPA.
+
+Then Agrippa said unto Paul, Thou art permitted to speak for thyself. Then
+Paul stretched forth his hand, and answered for himself: I think myself
+happy, King Agrippa, because I shall answer for myself this day before thee
+touching all the things whereof I am accused of the Jews: especially
+because I know thee to be expert in all customs and questions which are
+among the Jews wherefore I beseech thee to hear me patiently.
+
+My manner of life from my youth, which was at the first among mine own
+nation at Jerusalem, know all the Jews; which knew me from the beginning,
+if they would testify, that after the most straightest sect of our religion
+I lived a Pharisee. And now I stand and am judged for the hope of the
+promise made of God unto our fathers unto which promise our twelve tribes,
+instantly serving God day and night, hope to come. For which hope's sake,
+King Agrippa, I am accused of the Jews.
+
+Why should it be thought a thing incredible with you, that God should raise
+the dead? I verily thought with myself, that I ought to do many things
+contrary to the name of Jesus of Nazareth. Which thing I also did in
+Jerusalem: and many of the saints did I shut up in prison, having received
+authority from the chief priests; and when they were put to death, I gave
+my voice against them. And I punished them oft in every synagogue, and
+compelled them to blaspheme; and being exceedingly mad against them, I
+persecuted them even unto strange cities.
+
+Whereupon as I went to Damascus with authority and commission from the
+chief priests, at mid-day, O king, I saw in the way a light from heaven,
+above the brightness of the sun, shining round about me and them which
+journeyed with me. And when we were all fallen to the earth, I heard a
+voice speaking to me, and saying in the Hebrew tongue, Saul, Saul, why
+persecutest thou me? it is hard for thee to kick against the pricks. And I
+said, Who art thou, Lord? And he said, I am Jesus whom thou persecutest.
+But rise, and stand upon thy feet; for I have appeared unto thee for this
+purpose, to make thee a minister and a witness both of these things which
+thou hast seen, and of those things in the which I will appear unto thee;
+delivering thee from the people, and from the Gentiles, unto whom now I
+send thee, to open their eyes, and to turn them from darkness to light, and
+from the power of Satan unto God, that they may receive forgiveness of
+sins, and inheritance among them which are sanctified by faith that is in
+me.
+
+Whereupon, O King Agrippa, I was not disobedient unto the heavenly vision;
+but shewed first unto them of Damascus, and of Jerusalem, and throughout
+all the coasts of Judea, and then to the Gentiles, that they should repent
+and turn to God, and do works meet for repentance. For these causes the
+Jews caught me in the temple, and went about to kill me. Having therefore
+obtained help of God, I continue unto this day witnessing both to small and
+great, saying none other things than those which the prophets and Moses did
+say should come; that Christ should suffer, and that he should be the first
+that should rise from the dead, and should shew light unto the people and
+to the Gentiles.
+
+And as he thus spake for himself. Festus said with a loud voice, Paul, thou
+art beside thyself, much learning doth make thee mad.
+
+But he said, I am not mad, most noble Festus; but speak forth the words of
+truth and soberness. For the king knoweth of these things, before whom also
+I speak freely: for I am persuaded that none of these things are hidden
+from him; for this thing was not done in a corner King Agrippa, believest
+thou the prophets? I know that thou believest. Then Agrippa said unto Paul,
+Almost thou persuadest me to be a Christian. And Paul said I would to God,
+that not only thou, but also all that hear me this day, were both almost,
+and altogether such as I am, except these bonds.
+
+And when he had thus spoken, the king rose up, and the governor, and
+Bernice, and they that sat with them and when they were gone aside, they
+talked between themselves, saying, This man doeth nothing worthy of death
+or of bonds. Then said Agrippa unto Festus, This man might have been set at
+liberty, if he had not appealed unto Caesar.
+
+_Bible_.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+MALIBRAN AND THE YOUNG MUSICIAN.
+
+In a humble room, in one of the poorest streets of London, Pierre, a
+fatherless French boy, sat humming by the bed-side of his sick mother.
+There was no bread in the closet, and for the whole day he had not tasted
+food. Yet he sat humming, to keep up his spirits. Still, at times, he
+thought of his loneliness and hunger, and he could scarcely keep the tears
+from his eyes; for he knew nothing would be so grateful to his poor invalid
+mother as a good sweet orange, and yet he had not a penny in the world.
+
+The little song he was singing was his own--one he had composed with air
+and words; for the child was a genius.
+
+He went to the window, and looking out saw a man putting up a great bill
+with yellow letters, announcing that Madame Malibran would sing that night
+in public.
+
+"Oh, if I could only go!" thought little Pierre; and then, pausing a
+moment, he clasped his hands; his eyes lighted with a new hope. Running to
+the little stand, he smoothed down his yellow curls, and taking from a
+little box some old stained paper, gave one eager glance at his mother, who
+slept, and ran speedily from the house.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+"Who did you say is waiting for me?" said the lady to her servant. "I am
+already worn out with company."
+
+"It is only a very pretty little boy, with yellow curls, who says if he can
+just see you, he is sure you will not be sorry, and he will not keep you a
+moment."
+
+"Oh! well, let him come," said the beautiful singer, with a smile; "I can
+never refuse children."
+
+Little Pierre came in, his hat under his arm, and in his hand a little roll
+of paper. With manliness unusual for a child, he walked straight to the
+lady, and bowing said, "I came to see you because my mother is very sick,
+and we are too poor to get food and medicine. I thought that, perhaps, if
+you would only sing my little song at some of your grand concerts, may be
+some publisher would buy it for a small sum, and so I could get food and
+medicine for my mother."
+
+The beautiful woman rose from her seat; very tall and stately she was; she
+took the little roll from his hand, and lightly hummed the air.
+
+"Did you compose it?" she asked,--"you, a child! And the words? Would you
+like to come to my concert?" she asked, after a few moments of thought.
+
+"Oh, yes!" and the boy's eyes grew bright with happiness; "but I couldn't
+leave my mother."
+
+"I will send somebody to take care of your mother for the evening; and here
+is a crown, with which you may go and get food and medicine. Here is also
+one of my tickets; come to-night; that will admit you to a seat near me."
+
+Almost beside himself with joy, Pierre bought some oranges, and many a
+little luxury besides, and carried them home to the poor invalid, telling
+her, not without tears, of his good fortune.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+When evening came, and Pierre was admitted to the concert-hall, he felt
+that never in his life had he been in so grand a place. The music, the
+myriad lights, the beauty, the flashing of diamonds and rustling of silk,
+bewildered his eyes and brain.
+
+At last she came, and the child sat with his glance riveted upon her
+glorious face. Could he believe that the grand lady, all blazing with
+jewels, and whom everybody seemed to worship, would really sing his little
+song?
+
+Breathless he waited,--the band, the whole band, struck up a little
+plaintive melody; he knew it, and clapped his hands for joy. And oh, how
+she sang it! It was so simple, so mournful, so soul-subduing;--many a
+bright eye dimmed with tears, and naught could be heard but the touching
+words of that little song,--oh, so touching!
+
+Pierre walked home as if he were moving on the air. What cared he for money
+now? The greatest singer in all Europe had sung his little song, and
+thousands had wept at his grief.
+
+The next day he was frightened at a visit from Madame Malibran. She laid
+her hand on his yellow curls, and turning to the sick woman said, "Your
+little boy, madam, has brought you a fortune. I was offered, this morning,
+by the best publisher in London, three hundred pounds for his little song:
+and after he has realized a certain amount from the sale, little Pierre,
+here, is to share the profits. Madam, thank God that your son has a gift
+from heaven."
+
+The noble-hearted singer and the poor woman wept together. As to Pierre,
+always mindful of Him who watches over the tried and tempted, he knelt down
+by his mother's bedside, and uttered a simple but eloquent prayer, asking
+God's blessing on the kind lady who had deigned to notice their affliction.
+
+The memory of that prayer made the singer even more tender-hearted, and she
+who was the idol of England's nobility went about doing good. And in her
+early, happy death he who stood by her bed, and smoothed her pillow, and
+lightened her last moments by his undying affection, was the little Pierre
+of former days--now rich, accomplished, and the most talented composer of
+the day.
+
+All honour to those great hearts who, from their high stations, send down
+bounty to the widow and to the fatherless child.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+THE KISS.
+He kissed me--and I knew 'twas wrong,
+  For he was neither kith nor kin;
+Need one do penance very long
+  For such a tiny little sin?
+
+He pressed my hand--that was not right;
+  Why will men have such wicked ways?
+It was not for a moment quite,
+  But in it there were days and days!
+
+There's mischief in the moon, I know;
+  I'm positive I saw her wink
+When I requested him to go;
+  I meant it, too--I think.
+
+But, after all, I'm not to blame
+  He took the kiss; I do think men
+Are born without a sense of shame
+  I wonder when he'll come again!
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+ADVICE TO A YOUNG LAWYER.
+
+Whene'er you speak, remember every cause
+Stands not on eloquence, but stands on laws--
+Pregnant in matter, in expression brief,
+Let every sentence stand with bold relief;
+On trifling points nor time nor talents waste,
+A sad offence to learning and to taste;
+Nor deal with pompous phrase, nor e'er suppose
+Poetic flights belong to reasoning prose.
+
+Loose declamation may deceive the crowd,
+And seem more striking as it grows more loud;
+But sober sense rejects it with disdain,
+As nought but empty noise, and weak as vain.
+
+The froth of words, the schoolboy's vain parade,
+Of books and cases--all his stock in trade--
+The pert conceits, the cunning tricks and play
+Of low attorneys, strung in long array,
+The unseemly jest, the petulant reply,
+That chatters on, and cares not how, or why,
+Strictly avoid--unworthy themes to scan,
+They sink the speaker and disgrace the man,
+Like the false lights, by flying shadows cast,
+Scarce seen when present and forgot when past.
+
+Begin with dignity; expound with grace
+Each ground of reasoning in its time and place;
+Let order reign throughout--each topic touch,
+Nor urge its power too little, nor too much;
+Give each strong thought its most attractive view,
+In diction clear and yet severely true,
+And as the arguments in splendour grow,
+Let each reflect its light on all below;
+When to the close arrived, make no delays
+By petty flourishes, or verbal plays,
+But sum the whole in one deep solemn strain,
+Like a strong current hastening to the main.
+
+_Judge Story._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+THE FOOLISH VIRGINS.
+
+Late, late, so late! and dark the night, and chill!
+Late, late, so late! but we can enter still.--
+  Too late, too late! ye cannot enter now!
+
+No light had we--for that do we repent;
+And learning this, the Bridegroom will relent.--
+  Too late, too late! ye cannot enter now!
+
+No light! so late! and dark and chill the night!
+Oh, let us in, that we may find the light!--
+  Too late, too late! ye cannot enter now!
+
+Have we not heard the Bridegroom is so sweet?
+Oh, let us in, though late, to kiss His feet!--
+  No, no, too late! ye cannot enter now!
+
+_Tennyson._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+SOMEBODY'S MOTHER.
+
+The woman was old, and ragged, and grey,
+And bent with the chill of the winter's day;
+
+The street was wet with a recent snow,
+And the woman's feet were aged and slow.
+
+She stood at the crossing and waited long
+Alone, uncared for, amid the throng
+
+Of human beings who passed her by,
+Nor heeded the glance of her anxious eye.
+
+Down the street, with laughter and shout,
+Glad in the freedom of school let out,
+
+Came the boys, like a flock of sheep,
+Hailing the snow piled white and deep,
+
+Past the woman so old and grey,
+Hastened the children on their way,
+
+Nor offered a helping hand to her,
+So meek, so timid, afraid to stir,
+
+Lest the carriage wheels or the horses' feet
+Should crowd her down in the slippery street.
+
+At last came one of the merry troop--
+The gayest laddie of all the group;
+
+He paused beside her, and whispered low,
+"I'll help you across if you wish to go."
+
+Her aged hand on his strong, young arm
+She placed, and so, without hurt or harm,
+
+He guided her trembling feet along,
+Proud that his own were firm and strong.
+
+Then back again to his friends he went,
+His young heart happy and well content.
+
+"She's somebody's mother, boys, you know,
+For all she's old, and poor, and slow;
+
+"And I hope some fellow will lend a hand
+To help my mother, you understand,
+
+"If ever so poor, and old, and grey,
+When her own dear boy is far away."
+
+And "somebody's mother" bowed low her head
+In her home that night, and the prayer she said
+
+Was--"God be kind to the noble boy,
+Who is somebody's son, and pride, and joy!"
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+THE FAMINE.
+
+O the long and dreary Winter!
+O the cold and cruel Winter!
+Ever thicker, thicker, thicker,
+Froze the ice on lake and river;
+Ever deeper, deeper, deeper,
+Fell the snow o'er all the landscape,
+Fell the covering snow, and drifted
+Through the forest, round the village.
+Hardly from his buried wigwam
+Could the hunter force a passage;
+With his mittens and his snow-shoes
+Vainly walk'd he through the forest,
+Sought for bird or beast and found none;
+Saw no track of deer or rabbit,
+In the snow beheld no footprints,
+In the ghastly, gleaming forest
+Fell, and could not rise from weakness,
+Perish'd there from cold and hunger.
+
+O the famine and the fever!
+O the wasting of the famine!
+O the blasting of the fever!
+O the wailing of the children!
+O the anguish of the women!
+All the earth was sick and famished;
+Hungry was the air around them,
+Hungry was the sky above them,
+And the hungry stars in heaven,
+Like the eyes of wolves glared at them!
+
+Into Hiawatha's wigwam
+Came two other guests, as silent
+As the ghosts were, and as gloomy,
+Waited not to be invited,
+Did not parley at the doorway,
+Sat there without word of welcome
+In the seat of Laughing Water;
+Looked with haggard eyes and hollow
+At the face of Laughing Water.
+And the foremost said: "Behold me!
+I am Famine, Bukadawin!"
+And the other said: "Behold me!
+I am Fever, Ahkosewin!"
+And the lovely Minnehaha
+Shudder'd as they look'd upon her,
+Shudder'd at the words they uttered,
+Lay down on her bed in silence,
+Hid her face, but made no answer;
+Lay there trembling, freezing, burning
+At the looks they cast upon her,
+At the fearful words they utter'd.
+
+Forth into the empty forest
+Rush'd the madden'd Hiawatha;
+In his heart was deadly sorrow,
+In his face a stony firmness,
+On his brow the sweat of anguish
+Started, but it froze and fell not.
+Wrapp'd in furs and arm'd for hunting,
+With his mighty bow of ash-tree,
+With his quiver full of arrows,
+With his mittens, Minjekahwun,
+Into the vast and vacant forest,
+On his snow-shoes strode he forward.
+
+"Gitche Manito, the Mighty!"
+Cried he, with his face uplifted
+In that bitter hour of anguish,
+"Give your children food, O Father!
+Give us food, or we must perish!
+Give me food for Minnehaha,
+For my dying Minnehaha!"
+
+Through the far-resounding forest,
+Through the forest vast and vacant,
+Rang that cry of desolation;
+But there came no other answer
+Than the echo of his crying,
+Than the echo of the woodlands,
+"MINNEHAHA! MINNEHAHA!"
+
+All day long roved Hiawatha
+In that melancholy forest,
+Through the shadow of whose thickets,
+In the pleasant days of summer,
+Of that ne'er forgotten summer,
+He had brought his young wife homeward
+From the land of the Dakotahs;
+When the birds sang in the thickets,
+And the streamlets laugh'd and glisten'd,
+And the air was full of fragrance,
+And the lovely Laughing Water
+Said with voice that did not tremble,
+"I will follow you, my husband!"
+
+In the wigwam with Nokomis,
+With those gloomy guests that watch'd her,
+With the Famine and the Fever,
+She was lying, the beloved,
+She the dying Minnehaha.
+"Hark!" she said, "I hear a rushing,
+Hear a roaring and a rushing,
+Hear the Falls of Minnehaha
+Calling to me from a distance!"
+"No, my child!" said old Nokomis,
+"'Tis the night-wind in the pine-trees!"
+"Look!" she said; "I see my father
+Standing lonely in his doorway,
+Beckoning to me from his wigwam
+In the land of the Dakotahs!"
+"No, my child!" said old Nokomis,
+"'Tis the smoke that waves and beckons!"
+
+"Ah!" she said, "the eyes of Pauguk
+Glare upon me in the darkness,
+I can feel his icy fingers
+Clasping mine amid the darkness!
+Hiawatha! Hiawatha!"
+And the desolate Hiawatha,
+Far away amid the forest,
+Miles away among the mountains,
+Heard that sudden cry of anguish,
+Heard the voice of Minnehaha
+Calling to him in the darkness,
+"HIAWATHA! HIAWATHA!"
+
+Over snow-fields waste and pathless,
+Under snow-encumber'd branches,
+Homeward hurried Hiawatha,
+Empty-handed, heavy-hearted,
+Heard Nokomis moaning, wailing;
+"Wahonowin! Wahonowin!
+Would that I had perish'd for you,
+Would that I were dead as you are!
+Wahonowin! Wahonowin!"
+And he rush'd into the wigwam,
+Saw the old Nokomis slowly
+Rocking to and fro and moaning,
+Saw his lovely Minnehaha
+Lying dead and cold before him,
+And his bursting heart within him
+Utter'd such a cry of anguish
+That the forest moan'd and shudder'd,
+That the very stars in heaven
+Shook and trembled with his anguish.
+
+Then he sat down still and speechless,
+On the bed of Minnehaha,
+At the feet of Laughing Water,
+At those willing feet, that never
+More would lightly run to meet him,
+Never more would lightly follow.
+With both hands his face he cover'd,
+Seven long days and nights he sat there,
+As if in a swoon he sat there,
+Speechless, motionless, unconscious
+Of the daylight or the darkness.
+Then they buried Minnehaha;
+In the snow a grave they made her,
+In the forest deep and darksome,
+Underneath the moaning hemlocks;
+Cloth'd her in her richest garments:
+Wrapp'd her in her robes of ermine,
+Cover'd her with snow like ermine:
+Thus they buried Minnehaha.
+And at night a fire was lighted,
+On her grave four times was kindled.
+For her soul upon its journey
+To the Islands of the Blessed.
+From his doorway Hiawatha
+Saw it burning in the forest,
+Lighting up the gloomy hemlocks;
+From his sleepless bed uprising,
+From the bed of Minnehaha,
+Stood and watch'd it at the doorway,
+That it might not be extinguish'd,
+Might not leave her in the darkness.
+
+"Farewell!" said he, "Minnehaha!
+Farewell, O my Laughing Water!
+All my heart is buried with you,
+All my thoughts go onward with you!
+Come not back again to labour,
+Come not back again to suffer,
+Where the Famine and the Fever
+Wear the heart and waste the body.
+Soon my task will be completed,
+Soon your footsteps I shall follow
+To the Islands of the Blessed,
+To the Kingdom of Ponemah,
+To the Land of the Hereafter!"
+
+_H. W. Longfellow._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+A SLIP OF THE TONGUE.
+
+It chanced one day, so I've been told
+(The story is not very old),
+As Will and Tom, two servants able,
+Were waiting at their master's table,
+Tom brought a fine fat turkey in,
+The sumptuous dinner to begin:
+Then Will appeared--superbly cooked,
+A tongue upon the platter smoked;
+When, oh! sad fate! he struck the door,
+And tumbled flat upon the floor;
+The servants stared, the guests looked down,
+When quick uprising with a frown,
+The master cried, "Sirra! I say
+Begone, nor wait a single day,
+You stupid cur! you've spoiled the feast,
+How can another tongue be dressed!"
+While thus the master stormed and roared,
+Will, who with wit was somewhat stored
+(For he by no means was a fool
+Some Latin, too, he'd learned at school),
+Said (thinking he might change disgrace
+For laughter, and thus save his place),
+"Oh! call me not a stupid cur,
+'Twas but a _lapsus linguae_, sir."
+"A _lapsus linguae_?" one guest cries,
+"A pun!" another straight replies.
+The joke was caught--the laugh went round;
+Nor could a serious face be found.
+The master, when the uproar ceased,
+Finding his guests were all well pleased,
+Forgave the servant's slippery feet,
+And quick revoked his former threat.
+Now Tom had all this time stood still;
+And heard the applause bestowed on Will;
+Delighted he had seen the fun
+Of what his comrade late had done,
+And thought, should he but do the same,
+An equal share of praise he'd claim.
+As soon as told the meat to fetch in,
+Bolted like lightning to the kitchen,
+And seizing there a leg of lamb
+(I am not certain, perhaps 'twas ham,
+No matter which), without delay
+Off to the parlour marched away,
+And stumbling as he turned him round,
+Twirled joint and dish upon the ground.
+For this my lord was ill-prepared;
+Again the astonished servants stared.
+Tom grinned--but seeing no one stir,
+"Another _lapsus linguae_, sir!"
+Loud he exclaimed. No laugh was raised.
+No "clever fellow's" wit was praised.
+Confounded, yet not knowing why
+_His_ wit could not one laugh supply,
+And fearing lest he had mistook
+The words, again thus loudly spoke
+(Thinking again it might be tried):
+"'Twas but a _lapsus linguae_," cried.
+My lord, who long had quiet sat,
+Now clearly saw what he was at.
+In wrath this warning now he gave--
+"When next thou triest, unlettered knave,
+To give, as thine, another's wit,
+Mind well thou knowest what's meant by it;
+Nor let a _lapsus linguae_ slip
+From out thy pert assuming lip,
+Till well thou knowest thy stolen song,
+Nor think a leg of lamb a tongue,"
+He said--and quickly from the floor
+Straight kicked him through the unlucky door.
+
+MORAL.
+
+Let each pert coxcomb learn from this
+True wit will never come amiss!
+But should a borrowed phrase appear,
+Derision's always in the rear.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+THE MODERN CAIN.
+
+           "Am I my brother's keeper?"
+                                       Long ago,
+When first the human heart-strings felt the touch
+Of Death's cold fingers--when upon the earth
+Shroudless and coffinless Death's first-born lay,
+Slain by the hand of violence, the wail
+Of human grief arose:--"My son, my son!
+Awake thee from this strange and awful sleep;
+A mother mourns thee, and her tears of grief
+Are falling on thy pale, unconscious brow;
+Awake and bless her with thy wonted smile."
+
+    In vain, in vain! that sleeper never woke.
+His murderer fled, but on his brow was fixed
+A stain which baffled wear and washing. As he fled
+A voice pursued him to the wilderness:
+"Where is thy brother, Cain?"
+
+            "Am I my brother's keeper?"
+
+O black impiety! that seeks to shun
+The dire responsibility of sin--
+That cries with the ever-warning voice:
+"Be still--away, the crime is not my own--
+My brother lived--is dead, when, where,
+Or how, it matters not, but he is dead.
+Why judge the living for the dead one's fall?"
+
+             "Am I my brother's keeper?"
+
+Cain, Cain,
+Thou art thy brother's keeper, and his blood
+Cries up to Heaven against thee; every stone
+Will find a tongue to curse thee; and the winds
+Will ever wail this question in thy ear:
+"Where is thy brother?" Every sight and sound
+Will mind thee of the lost.
+
+                            I saw a man
+Deal death unto his brother. Drop by drop
+The poison was distilled for cursèd gold;
+And in the wine cup's ruddy glow sat Death,
+Invisible to that poor trembling slave.
+He seized the cup, he drank the poison down,
+Rushed forth into the streets--home had he none--
+Staggered and fell and miserably died.
+They buried him--ah! little recks it where
+His bloated form was given to the worms.
+No stone marked that neglected, lonely spot;
+No mourner sorrowing at evening came,
+To pray by that unhallowed mound; no hand
+Planted sweet flowers above his place of rest.
+Years passed, and weeds and tangled briers grew
+Above that sunken grave, and men forgot
+Who slept there.
+
+                   Once had he friends,
+A happy home was his, and love was his.
+His Mary loved him, and around him played
+His smiling children. Oh, a dream of joy
+Were those unclouded years, and, more than all,
+He had an interest in the world above.
+The big "Old Bible" lay upon the stand,
+And he was wont to read its sacred page
+And then to pray: "Our Father, bless the poor
+And save the tempted from the tempter's art,
+Save us from sin, and let us ever be
+United in Thy love, and may we meet,
+When life's last scenes are o'er, around the throne."
+Thus prayed he--thus lived he--years passed,
+And o'er the sunshine of that happy home,
+A cloud came from the pit; the fatal bolt
+Fell from that cloud. The towering tree
+Was shivered by the lightning's vengeful stroke,
+And laid its coronal of glory low.
+A happy home was ruined; want and woe
+Played with his children, and the joy of youth
+Left their sweet faces no more to return.
+His Mary's face grew pale and paler still,
+Her eyes were dimmed with weeping, and her soul
+Went out through those blue portals. Mary died,
+And yet he wept not. At the demon's call
+He drowned his sorrow in the maddening bowl,
+And when they buried her from sight, he sank
+In drunken stupor by her new-made grave!
+His friend was gone--he never had another,
+And the world shrank from him, all save one,
+And he still plied the bowl with deadly drugs
+And bade him drink, forget his God, and die.
+
+He died.
+    Cain! Cain! where is thy brother now?
+Lives he still--if dead, still where is he?
+Where? In Heaven? Go read the sacred page:
+"No drunkard ever shall inherit there."
+Who sent him to the pit? Who dragged him down?
+Who bound him hand and foot? Who smiled and smiled
+While yet the hellish work went on? Who grasped
+His gold--his health--his life--his hope--his all?
+Who saw his Mary fade and die? Who saw
+His beggared children wandering in the streets?
+Speak--Coward--if thou hast a tongue,
+Tell why with hellish art you slew A MAN.
+
+    "Where is my brother?"
+        "Am I my brother's keeper?"
+
+Ah, man! A deeper mark is on your brow
+Than that of Cain. Accursed was the name
+Of him who slew a righteous man, whose soul
+Was ripe for Heaven; thrice accursed he
+Whose art malignant sinks a soul to hell.
+
+_E. Evans Edwards._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+OCEAN.
+
+_In Sunshine._
+
+My window overlooks thee,--and thy sheen of silver glory,
+  In musical monotony advances and recedes;
+Till I dimly see the "shining ones" of ancient song and story,
+  With aureoles of ocean-haze invite to distant meads,
+
+Where summer song and sunshine on placid waters play;--
+  Drifting dreamily, insensibly, on fragrance-laden breeze--
+Floating onward on the wavelets, without hurry or delay,
+  I reach some blissful haven in the bright Hesperides.
+
+_Overcast._
+
+How wearily and drearily the mist hangs over all!
+And dismally the fog-horn shrieks its warning o'er the wave!
+How sullenly the billows heave, beneath the funeral pall!
+An impenetrable solitude!--a universal grave!
+
+_In Storm._
+
+O! measureless and merciless! vindictive, wild, and stern!
+  Fire, Pestilence and Whirlwind all yield the palm to thee!
+Roar on in bad pre-eminence--a worse thou canst not earn,
+  Than clings in famine, wreck, and death, to thee, O cruel Sea!
+
+_Ocean's Lessons._
+
+I have seen thee in thy gladness, thy sullenness and wrath--
+  What lesson has thou taught, O Sea! to guide my daily path?
+I hear thy massive monotone, to me it seems to say,
+  "When summer skies are over thee, dream not thy life away.
+
+"In days of dark despondency, when either good or ill
+  "Seems scarcely worth the caring for, then wait and trust Him still;
+"Though mist and cloud surround thee, thou art safe by sea or land,
+  "For thy Father holds the  waters in the hollow of His hand.
+
+"Perchance a storm in future life thy fragile bark may toss,
+  "And every struggle, cry, or prayer, bring nought but harm and loss,
+"O tempest-tossed and stricken one! He comes His own to save,
+  "For not on Galilee alone, did Jesus walk the wave."
+
+_W. Wetherald._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+THE LITTLE HATCHET STORY.
+
+And so, smiling, we went on.
+
+"Well, one day, George's father--"
+
+"George who?" asked Clarence.
+
+"George Washington. He was a little boy, then, just like you. One day his
+father--"
+
+"Who's father?" demanded Clarence, with an encouraging expression of
+interest.
+
+"George Washington's; this great man we are telling you of. One day George
+Washington's father gave him a little hatchet for a--"
+
+"Gave who a little hatchet?" the dear child interrupted, with a gleam of
+bewitching intelligence. Most men would have got mad, or betrayed signs of
+impatience, but we didn't. We know how to talk to children. So we went on:
+
+"George Washington. His--"
+
+"Who gave him the little hatchet?"
+
+"His father. And his father--"
+
+"Whose father?"
+
+"George Washington's."
+
+"Oh!"
+
+"Yes, George Washington. And his father told him--"
+
+"Told who?"
+
+"Told George."
+
+"Oh, yes, George."
+
+And we went on, just as patient and as pleasant as you could imagine. We
+took up the story right where the boy interrupted, for we could see he was
+just crazy to hear the end of it. We said:
+
+"And he was told--"
+
+"George told him?" queried Clarence.
+
+"No, his father told George--"
+
+"Oh!"
+
+"Yes, told him he must be careful with the hatchet--"
+
+"Who must be careful?"
+
+"George must."
+
+"Oh!"
+
+"Yes, must be careful with his hatchet--"
+
+"What hatchet?"
+
+"Why, George's."
+
+"Oh!"
+
+"With the hatchet, and not cut himself with it, or drop it in the cistern,
+or leave it out in the grass all night. So George went round cutting
+everything he could reach with his hatchet. And at last he came to a
+splendid apple-tree, his father's favourite, and cut it down, and--"
+
+"Who cut it down?"
+
+"George did."
+
+"Oh!"
+
+"But his father came home and saw it the first thing, and--"
+
+"Saw the hatchet?"
+
+"No, saw the apple-tree. And he said, 'Who has cut down my favourite apple-
+tree?'"
+
+"What apple-tree?"
+
+"George's father's. And everybody said they didn't know anything about it,
+and--"
+
+"Anything about what?"
+
+"The apple-tree."
+
+"Oh!"
+
+"And George came up and heard them talking about it--"
+
+"Heard who taking about it?"
+
+"Heard his father and the men"
+
+"What were they talking about?"
+
+"About this apple-tree."
+
+"What apple-tree?"
+
+"The favourite tree that George cut down."
+
+"George who?"
+
+"George Washington"
+
+"Oh!"
+
+"So George came up and heard them talking about it, and he--"
+
+"What did he cut it down for?"
+
+"Just to try his little hatchet."
+
+"Whose little hatchet?"
+
+"Why, his own, the one his father gave him."
+
+"Gave who?"
+
+"Why, George Washington."
+
+"Oh!"
+
+"So, George came up, and he said, 'Father, I cannot tell a lie, I--'"
+
+"Who couldn't tell a lie?"
+
+"Why, George Washington. He said, 'Father, I cannot tell a lie. It was--'"
+
+"His father couldn't?"
+
+"Why, no; George couldn't?"
+
+"Oh! George? oh, yes!"
+
+"'It was I cut down your apple tree; I did--'"
+
+"His father did?"
+
+"No, no; it was George said this."
+
+"Said he cut his father?"
+
+"No, no, no; said he cut down his apple-tree."
+
+"George's apple-tree?"
+
+"No, no; his father's."
+
+"Oh!"
+
+"He said--"
+
+"His father said?"
+
+"No, no, no; George said, 'Father, I cannot tell a lie, I did it with my
+little hatchet.' And his father said, 'Noble boy, I would rather lose a
+thousand trees than have you tell a lie.'"
+
+"George did?"
+
+"No, his father said that."
+
+"Said he'd rather have a thousand apple-trees?"
+
+"No, no, no; said he'd rather lose a thousand apple-trees than--"
+
+"Said he'd rather George would?"
+
+"No, said he'd rather he would than have him lie."
+
+"Oh! George would rather have his father lie?"
+
+We are patient and we love children, but if Mrs. Caruthers hadn't come and
+got her prodigy at that critical juncture, we don't believe all Burlington
+could have pulled us out of the snarl. And as Clarence Alencon de
+Marchemont Caruthers pattered down the stairs, we heard him telling his ma
+about a boy who had a father named George, and he told him to cut down an
+apple-tree, and he said he'd rather tell a thousand lies than cut down one
+apple-tree.
+
+_R. N. Burdette._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+TRUSTING.
+
+I do not ask that God will always make
+    My pathway light;
+I only pray that He will hold my hand
+    Throughout the night.
+I do not hope to have the thorns removed
+    That pierce my feet,
+I only ask to find His blessed arms
+    My safe retreat.
+
+If He afflict me, then in my distress
+    Withholds His hand;
+If all His wisdom I cannot conceive
+    Or understand.
+I do not think to always know His why
+    Or wherefore, here;
+But sometime He will take my hand and make
+    His meaning clear.
+
+If in His furnace He refine my heart
+    To make it pure,
+I only ask for grace to trust His love--
+    Strength to endure;
+And if fierce storms beat round me,
+    And the heavens be overcast,
+I know that He will give His weary one
+    Sweet peace at last.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+THE LAST HYMN.
+
+The Sabbath day was ending in a village by the sea,
+The uttered benediction touched the people tenderly,
+And they rose to face the sunset in the glowing lighted West
+And then hasten to their dwellings for God's blessed boon of rest.
+But they looked across the waters and a storm was raging there.
+A fierce spirit moved above them--the wild spirit of the air,
+And it lashed, and shook, and tore them till they thundered,
+   groaned, and boomed,
+But alas! for any vessel in their yawning gulfs entombed.
+Very anxious were the people on that rocky coast of Wales,
+Lest the dawns of coming morrows should be telling awful tales,
+When the sea had spent its passion, and should cast upon the shore
+Bits of wreck, and swollen victims, as it had done heretofore.
+With the rough winds blowing round her a brave woman strained her eyes,
+And she saw along the billows a large vessel fall and rise.
+Oh! it did not need a prophet to tell what the end must be,
+For no ship could ride in safety near that shore on such a sea.
+Then the pitying people hurried from their homes and thronged the beach.
+Oh, for power to cross the waters, and the perishing to reach.
+Helpless hands were wrung in terror, tender hearts grew cold with dread,
+As the ship urged by the tempest to the fatal rock-shore sped.
+She has parted in the middle! Oh, the half of her goes down!
+God have mercy! Is His heaven far to seek for those who drown?
+So when next the white shocked faces looked with terror on the sea,
+Only one last clinging figure on a spar was seen to be.
+Nearer the trembling watchers came the wreck tossed by the wave,
+And the man still clung and floated, though no power on earth could save.
+"Could we send him a short message! Here's a trumpet, shout away!"
+'Twas the preacher's hand that took it, and he wondered what to say.
+Any memory of his sermon? Firstly? Secondly? Ah, no.
+There was but one thing to utter in that awful hour of woe.
+So he shouted through the trumpet, "Look to Jesus! Can you hear?"
+And "Aye, aye, sir!" rang the answer o'er the waters loud and clear,
+Then they listened, "He is singing, 'Jesus, lover of my soul,'"
+And the winds brought back the echo, "While the nearer waters roll."
+Strange indeed it was to hear him, "Till the storm of life is past."
+Singing bravely o'er the waters, "Oh, receive my soul at last."
+He could have no other refuge, "Hangs my helpless soul on thee;",
+"Leave, oh, leave me not!"--the singer dropped at last into the sea.
+And the watchers looking homeward, through their eyes, by tears made dim,
+Said, "He passed to be with Jesus in the singing of that hymn."
+
+_Marianne Farningham._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER.
+
+I remember, I remember
+The house where I was born--
+The little window where the sun
+Came peeping in at morn;
+He never came a wink too soon,
+Nor brought too long a day,
+But now I often wish the night
+Had borne my breath away!
+
+I remember, I remember
+The roses red and white,
+The violets and the lily-cups,
+Those flowers made of light;
+The lilacs where the robin built,
+And where my brother set
+The laburnum on his birthday--
+The tree is living yet!
+
+I remember, I remember
+Where I was used to swing,
+And thought the air must rush as fresh;
+To swallows on the wing;
+My spirit flew in feathers then,
+That is so heavy now,
+And summer pools could hardly cool
+The fever on my brow.
+
+I remember, I remember
+The fir trees dark and high;
+I used to think their slender tops
+Were close against the sky;
+It was a childish ignorance,
+But now 'tis little joy
+To know I'm further off from heaven
+Than when I was a boy.
+
+_Thomas Hood._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+NEVER GIVE UP.
+
+Never give up! it is wiser and better
+  Always to hope than once to despair:
+Fling off the load of Doubt's cankering fetter,
+  And break the dark spell of tyrannical care;
+Never give up! or the burden may sink you--
+  Providence kindly has mingled the cup;
+And, in all trials or trouble, bethink you
+  The watchword of life must be--Never give up!
+
+Never give up!--there are chances and changes
+  Helping the hopeful a hundred to one,
+And through the chaos High Wisdom arranges
+  Ever success--if you'll only hope on;
+Never give up!--for the wisest is boldest,
+  Knowing that Providence mingles the cup;
+And of all maxims the best, as the oldest,
+  Is the true watchword of--Never give up!
+
+Never give up!--though the grapeshot may rattle,
+  Or the full thunder-cloud over you burst,
+Stand like a rock--and the storm or the battle
+  Little shall harm you, though doing their worst.
+Never give up!--if adversity presses,
+  Providence wisely has mingled the cup;
+And the best counsel, in all your distresses,
+  Is the stout watchword of--Never give up.
+
+_Anon._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+MARMION AND DOUGLAS.
+
+Not far advanced was morning day,
+When Marmion did his troop array
+  To Surrey's camp to ride;
+He had safe-conduct for his band,
+Beneath the royal seal and hand,
+  And Douglas gave a guide:
+The ancient Earl, with stately grace,
+Would Clara on her palfrey place,
+And whispered in an undertone,
+"Let the hawk stoop, his prey is flown."--
+The train from out the castle drew,
+But Marmion stopped to bid adieu:--
+"Though something I might plain," he said,
+"Of cold respect to stranger guest,
+Sent hither by your King's behest,
+While in Tantallon's towers I stayed,
+Part we in friendship from your land,
+And, noble Earl, receive my hand."--
+But Douglas around him drew his cloak,
+Folded his arms, and thus he spoke:--
+"My manors, halls, and bowers shall still
+Be open, at my Sovereign's will,
+To each one whom he lists, howe'er
+Unmeet to be the owner's peer.
+My castles are my King's alone,
+From turret to foundation-stone,--
+The hand of Douglas is his own;
+And never shall in friendly grasp
+The hand of such as Marmion clasp."
+
+Burned Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire,
+And shook his very frame for ire,
+  And--"This to me!" he said,--
+"An 'twere not for thy hoary beard,
+Such hand as Marmion's had not spared
+  To cleave the Douglas' head!
+And, first, I tell thee, haughty Peer,
+He who does England's message here,
+Although the meanest in her state,
+May well, proud Angus, be thy mate;
+And, Douglas, more I tell thee here,
+  Even in thy pitch of pride,
+Here in thy hold, thy vassals near,
+(Nay never look upon your lord,
+And lay your hands upon your sword,)
+  I tell thee, thou'rt defied!
+And if thou saidst I am not peer
+To any lord in Scotland here,
+Lowland or Highland, far or near,
+  Lord Angus, thou hast lied!"--
+On the Earl's cheek the flush of rage
+O'ercame the ashen hue of age;
+Fierce he broke forth,--"And dar'st thou then
+To beard the lion in his den,
+  The Douglas in his hall?
+And hop'st thou hence unscathed to go?--
+No, by St. Bride of Bothwell, no!
+Up drawbridge, grooms,--what, Warder, ho!
+  Let the portcullis fall."--
+Lord Marmion turned,--well was his need!--
+And dashed the rowels in his steed,
+Like arrow through the archway sprung;
+The ponderous gate behind him rung;
+To pass there was such scanty room,
+The bars descending, razed his plume.
+
+The steed along the drawbridge flies,
+Just as it trembled on the rise;
+Nor lighter does the swallow skim
+Along the smooth lake's level brim;
+And when Lord Marmion reached his band,
+He halts, and turns with clenched hand,
+And shout of loud defiance pours,
+And shook his gauntlet at the towers.
+"Horse! horse!" the Douglas cried, "and chase!";
+But soon he reined his fury's pace;
+A royal messenger he came,
+Though most unworthy of the name.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+St. Mary, mend my fiery mood!
+Old age ne'er cools the Douglas blood,
+I thought to slay him where he stood.
+"'Tis pity of him, too," he cried;
+"Bold can he speak, and fairly ride;
+I warrant him a warrior tried."
+With this his mandate he recalls,
+And slowly seeks his castle halls.
+
+_Sir Walter Scott._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+CATILINE'S DEFIANCE.
+
+  Banished from Rome! What's banished, but set free
+From daily contact of the things I loathe?
+"Tried and convicted traitor!" Who says this?
+Who'll prove it, at his peril on my head?
+Banished? I thank you for't. It breaks my chain!
+I held some slack allegiance till this hour;
+But _now_ my sword's my own. Smile on, my lords;
+I scorn to count what feelings, withered hopes,
+Strong provocation, bitter, burning wrongs,
+I have within my heart's hot cells shut up,
+To leave you in your lazy dignities.
+But here I stand and scoff you! here I fling
+Hatred and full defiance in your face!
+Your Consul's merciful. For this all thanks:--
+He _dares_ not touch a hair of Catiline!
+"Traitor!" I go; but I _return_. This--trial!
+Here I devote your Senate! I've had wrongs
+To stir a fever in the blood of age,
+Or make the infant's sinews strong as steel.
+This day's the birth of sorrow! This hour's work
+Will breed proscriptions! Look to your hearths, my lords
+For there, henceforth, shall sit for household gods,
+Shapes hot from Tartarus!--all shames and crimes;--
+Wan Treachery, with his thirsty dagger drawn;
+Suspicion poisoning his brother's cup;
+Naked Rebellion, with the torch and axe,
+Making his wild sport of your blazing thrones;
+Till Anarchy comes down on you like night,
+And Massacre seals Rome's eternal grave.
+I go; but not to leap the gulf alone.
+I go; but when I come, 'twill be the burst
+Of ocean in the earthquake,--rolling back
+In swift and mountainous ruin. Fare you well!
+You build my funeral-pile; but your best blood
+Shall quench its flame.
+
+_Rev. George Croly._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+THE WORN WEDDING-RING.
+
+Your wedding-ring wears thin, dear wife; ah, summers not a few,
+Since I put it on your finger first, have passed o'er me and you;
+And, love, what changes we have seen--what cares and pleasures too--
+Since you became my own dear wife, when this old ring was new.
+
+O blessings on that happy day, the happiest in my life,
+When, thanks to God, your low sweet "Yes" made you my loving wife;
+Your heart will say the same, I know, that day's as dear to you,
+That day that made me yours, dear wife, when this old ring was new.
+
+How well do I remember now, your young sweet face that day;
+How fair you were--how dear you were--my tongue could hardly say;
+Nor how I doted on you; ah, how proud I was of you;
+But did I love you more than now, when this old ring was new?
+
+No--no; no fairer were you then than at this hour to me,
+And dear as life to me this day, how could you dearer be?
+As sweet your face might be that day as now it is, 'tis true,
+And did I know your heart as well when this old ring was new!
+
+O partner of my gladness, wife, what care, what grief is there,
+For me you would not bravely face,--with me you would not share?
+O what a weary want had every day if wanting you,
+Wanting the love that God made mine when this old ring was new.
+
+Years bring fresh links to bind us, wife--young voices that are here,
+Young faces round our fire that make their mother's yet more dear,
+Young loving hearts, your care each day makes yet more like to you,
+More like the loving heart made mine when this old ring was new.
+
+And bless'd be God all He has given are with us yet, around
+Our table, every little life lent to us, still is found;
+Though cares we've known, with hopeful hearts the worst we've struggled
+   through;
+Blessed be His name for all His love since this old ring was new.
+
+The past is dear; its sweetness still our memories treasure yet;
+The griefs we've borne, together borne, we would not now forget;
+Whatever, wife, the future brings, heart unto heart still true,
+We'll share as we have shared all else since this old ring was new.
+
+And if God spare us 'mongst our sons and daughters to grow old,
+We know His goodness will not let your heart or mine grow cold;
+Your aged eyes will see in mine all they've still shown to you,
+And mine in yours all they have seen since this old ring was new.
+
+And O when death shall come at last to bid me to my rest,
+May I die looking in those eyes, and leaning on that breast;
+O may my parting gaze be blessed with the dear sight of you,
+Of those fond eyes--fond as they were when this old ring was new.
+
+_W. C. Bennett._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+ROLL-CALL.
+
+The battle was over--the foemen were flying,
+But the plain was strewn with the dead and the dying,
+For the dark angel rode on its sulphurous blast,
+And had reaped a rich harvest of death, as he passed;
+For, as grass he mowed down the blue and the gray,
+With the mean and the mighty that stood in his way,
+While the blood of our bravest ran there as water,
+And his nostrils were filled with the incense of slaughter.
+
+The black guns were silent--hushed the loud ringing cheers,
+And the pale dead were buried, in silence and tears;
+And the wounded brought in on stretchers so gory,
+Broken and mangled but covered with glory,
+Whilst the surgeons were clipping with expertness and vim,
+From the agonised trunk each bullet-torn limb,
+And the patient, if living, was carefully sent
+To the cool open wards of the hospital tent.
+
+Within one of those wards a brave Highlander lay,
+With the chill dews of death on his forehead of clay,
+For a shell had struck him in the heat of the fray,
+And his right arm and shoulder were carried away;
+No word had he spoken--not a sound had he made,
+Yet a shiver, at times, had his anguish betrayed,
+And so calmly he lay without murmur or moan,
+The gentle-voiced sister thought his spirit had flown.
+
+The lamps burning dimly an uncertain light shed,
+While the groans of the wounded, the stare of the dead,
+Made an age of a night to the gentle and true,
+That had waited and watched half its long hours through;
+When the surgeon came in with a whisper of cheer,
+And a nod and a glance at the cot that stood near,
+When--"_Here_!" like a bugle blast, the dying man cried,
+"_It is roll-call in Heaven_!" He answered and died.
+
+_Anon._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+THE DEAD DOLL.
+
+You needn't be trying to comfort me--I tell you my dolly is dead!
+There's no use in saying she isn't--with a crack like that in her head.
+It's just like you said it wouldn't hurt much to have my tooth out that day;
+And then when the man most pulled my head off, you hadn't a word to say.
+
+And I guess you must think I'm a baby, when you say you can mend it with
+   glue!
+As if I didn't know better than that! Why, just suppose it was you?
+You might make her _look_ all mended--but what do I care for looks?
+Why, glue's for chairs and tables, and toys, and the backs of books!
+
+My dolly! my own little daughter! Oh, but it's the awfullest crack!
+It just makes me sick to think of the sound when her poor head went whack
+Against that horrible brass thing that holds up the little shelf,
+Now, Nursey, what makes you remind me? I know that I did it myself!
+
+I think you must be crazy--you'll get her another head!
+What good would forty heads do her? I tell you my dolly is dead!
+And to think I hadn't quite finished her elegant New Year's hat!
+And I took a sweet ribbon of hers last night to tie on that horrid cat!
+
+When my mamma gave me that ribbon--I was playing out in the yard--
+She said to me most expressly: "Here's a ribbon for Hildegarde."
+And I went and put it on Tabby, and Hildegarde saw me do it;
+But I said to myself, "Oh, never mind, I don't believe she knew it!"
+
+But I know that she knew it now, and I just believe, I do,
+That her poor little heart was broken, and so her head broke too.
+Oh, my baby! my little baby! I wish my head had been hit!
+For I've hit it over and over, and it hasn't cracked a bit.
+
+But since the darling _is_ dead, she'll want to be buried of course;
+We will take my little wagon, Nurse, and you shall be the horse;
+And I'll walk behind and cry; and we'll put her in this--you see,
+This dear little box--and we'll bury them under the maple tree.
+
+And papa will make a tombstone, like the one he made for my bird;
+And he'll put what I tell him on it--yes, every single word!
+I shall say: "Here lies Hildegarde, a beautiful doll who is dead;
+She died of a broken heart, and a dreadful crack in her head."
+
+_St. Nicholas._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+AUNTY DOLEFUL'S VISIT.
+
+How do you do, Cornelia? I heard you were sick and I stepped in to cheer
+you up a little. My friends often say, "It's such a comfort to see you,
+Aunty Doleful. You have such a flow of conversation, and _are_ so
+lively." Besides, I said to myself, as I came up the stairs, "Perhaps it's
+the last time I'll ever see Cornelia Jane alive."
+
+You don't mean to die yet, eh? Well, now, how do you know? You can't tell.
+You think you are getting better; but there was poor Mrs. Jones sitting up,
+and every one saying how smart she was, and all of a sudden she was taken
+with spasms in the heart, and went off like a flash. But you must be
+careful, and not get anxious or excited. Keep quite calm, and don't fret
+about anything. Of course, things can't go on just as if you were down
+stairs; and I wondered whether you knew your little Billy was sailing about
+in a tub on the mill-pond, and that your little Sammy was letting your
+little Jimmy down from the verandah roof in a clothes-basket.
+
+Gracious goodness! what's the matter? I guess Providence'll take care of
+'em. Don't look so. You thought Bridget was watching them? Well, no, she
+isn't. I saw her talking to a man at the gate. He looked to me like a
+burglar. No doubt she let him take the impression of the door-key in wax,
+and then he'll get in and murder you all. There was a family at Kobble Hill
+all killed last week for fifty dollars. Now, don't fidget so, it will be
+bad for the baby.
+
+Poor little dear! How singular it is, to be sure, that you can't tell
+whether a child is blind, or deaf and dumb or a cripple at that age. It
+might be _all_, and you'd never know it.
+
+Most of them that have their senses make bad use of them though;
+_that_ ought to be your comfort, if it does turn out to have anything
+dreadful the matter with it. And more don't live a year. I saw a baby's
+funeral down the street as I came along.
+
+How is Mr. Kobble? Well, but finds it warm in town, eh? Well, I should
+think he would. They are dropping down by hundreds there with sun-stroke.
+You must prepare your mind to have him brought home any day. Anyhow, a trip
+on these railroad trains is just risking your life every time you take one.
+Back and forth every day as he is, it's just trifling with danger.
+
+Dear! dear; now to think what dreadful things hang over us all the time!
+Dear! dear!
+
+Scarlet fever has broken out in the village, Cornelia. Little Isaac Potter
+has it, and I saw your Jimmy playing with him last Saturday.
+
+Well, I must be going now. I've got another sick friend, and I shan't think
+my duty done unless I cheer her up a little before I sleep. Good-bye. How
+pale you look, Cornelia. I don't believe you have a good doctor. Do send
+him away and try some one else. You don't look so well as you did when I
+came in. But if anything happens, send for me at once. If I can't do
+anything else, I can cheer you up a little.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+THE MINIATURE.
+
+William was holding in his hand
+  The likeness of his wife--
+Fresh, as if touched by fairy wand,
+  With beauty, grace, and life.
+He almost thought it spoke--he gazed,
+  Upon the treasure still;
+Absorbed, delighted, and amazed
+  He view'd the artist's skill.
+
+"This picture is yourself, dear Ann,
+  Tis' drawn to nature true;
+I've kissed it o'er and o'er again,
+  It is so much like you."
+"And has it kiss'd you back, my dear?"
+  "Why--no--my love," said he;
+"Then, William, it is very clear,
+  'Tis not at all like me!"
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+THE CHIMES OF S. S. PETER AND PAUL.
+
+Ring out, sad bells, ring out
+  Melody to the twilight sky,
+With echoes, echoing yet
+  As along the shore they die;
+      Chiming, chiming,
+Sweet toned notes upon the heart
+That one can ne'er forget.
+
+Ring louder! O louder!
+  Until the distant sea
+Shall send thy clear vibrations
+  Dying back to me;
+      Tolling, tolling,
+Beautiful, trembling notes
+Of sad sweet melody.
+
+Ring, ring, ring, a merry Christmas
+  And a glad New Year;
+Ring on Easter morning
+  And at the May-day dear;
+      Fling, fling
+Thy tones over woodland ways
+All the hills adorning.
+
+At the joyous marriage,
+  And at the gladsome birth
+Fling thy silvery echoes
+  Over all the earth,
+  But knell, O knell
+When death, the shadowy spectre
+  Shall kiss the lips of mirth
+
+O blessed bells, silver bells,
+  Thy notes are echoing still
+Like the song of an ebbing tide,
+  Or a mournful whip-poor-will.
+      As he sings, sings,
+In the crimson sunset light
+  That dies on the burnished hill
+
+Then ring, O softly ring
+  Musical deep-toned bells;
+Till harmony, sweet harmony
+  Throughout the woodland swells.
+      To bring, faintly bring,
+Thy dying echoes back to me,
+  Over fields and fells,
+      Bells, bells, bells.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+THE ENGINEER'S STORY.
+
+No, children, my trips are over,
+  The engineer needs rest;
+My hand is shaky; I'm feeling
+  A tugging pain i' my breast;
+But here, as the twilight gathers,
+  I'll tell you a tale of the road,
+That'll ring in my head forever
+  Till it rests beneath the sod.
+
+We were lumbering along in the twilight,
+  The night was dropping her shade,
+And the "Gladiator" laboured--
+  Climbing the top of the grade;
+The train was heavily laden,
+  So I let my engine rest,
+Climbing the grading slowly,
+  Till we reached the upland's crest.
+
+I held my watch to the lamplight--
+  Ten minutes behind time!
+Lost in the slackened motion
+  Of the up grade's heavy climb;
+But I knew the miles of the prairie
+  That stretched a level track,
+So I touched the gauge of the boiler,
+  And pulled the lever back.
+
+Over the rails a gleaming,
+  Thirty an hour, or so,
+The engine leaped like a demon,
+  Breathing a fiery glow;
+But to me--a-hold of the lever--
+  It seemed a child alway,
+Trustful and always ready
+  My lightest touch to obey.
+
+I was proud, you know, of my engine,
+  Holding it steady that night,
+And my eye on the track before us,
+  Ablaze with the Drummond light.
+We neared a well-known cabin,
+  Where a child of three or four,
+As the up train passed, oft called me,
+  A-playing around the door.
+
+My hand was firm on the throttle
+   As we swept around the curve,
+When something afar in the shadow,
+  Struck fire through every nerve.
+I sounded the brakes, and crashing
+  The reverse lever down in dismay,
+Groaning to Heaven--eighty paces
+  Ahead was the child at its play!
+
+One instant--one, awful and only,
+  The world flew round in my brain,
+And I smote my hand hard on my forehead
+  To keep back the terrible pain;
+The train I thought flying forever,
+  With mad, irresistible roll,
+While the cries of the dying night wind
+  Swept into my shuddering soul.
+
+Then I stood on the front of the engine--
+  How I got there I never could tell--
+My feet planted down on the crossbar,
+  Where the cow-catcher slopes to the rail,--
+One hand firmly locked on the coupler,
+  And one held out in the night,
+While my eye gauged the distance, and measured
+  The speed of our slackening flight.
+
+My mind, thank the Lord! it was steady;
+  I saw the curls of her hair,
+And the face that, turning in wonder,
+  Was lit by the deadly glare.
+I know little more, but I heard it--
+  The groan of the anguished wheels--
+And remember thinking, the engine
+  In agony trembles and reels.
+
+One rod! To the day of my dying
+  I shall think the old engine reared back,
+And as it recoiled, with a shudder,
+  I swept my hand over the track;
+Then darkness fell over my eyelids,
+  But I heard the surge of the train,
+And the poor old engine creaking,
+  As racked by a deadly pain.
+
+They found us, they said, on the gravel,
+  My fingers enmeshed in her hair,
+And she on my bosom a climbing,
+  To nestle securely there.
+We are not much given to crying--
+  We men that run on the road--
+But that night, they said, there were faces,
+  With tears on them, lifted to God.
+
+For years in the eve and the morning,
+  As I neared the cabin again,
+My hand on the lever pressed downward
+  And slackened the speed of the train.
+When my engine had blown her a greeting,
+  She always would come to the door,
+And her look with the fullness of heaven
+  Blesses me evermore.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+FASHIONABLE SINGING.
+
+
+Miss Julia was induced to give a taste of her musical powers, and this is
+how she did it. She flirted up her panniers, coquettishly wiggle-waggled to
+the piano and sang--
+
+"When ther moo-hoon is mi-hild-ly be-ahming
+  O'er ther ca-halm and si-hi-lent se-e-e-e,
+Its ra-dyance so-hoftly stre-heam-ing
+  Oh! ther-hen, Oh! ther-hen,
+    I thee-hink
+    Hof thee-hee,
+    I thee-hink,
+    I thee-hink,
+I thee-he-he-he-he-he-he-hink hof thee-e-e-e-e!"
+
+"Beautiful, Miss Julia! Beautiful!" and we all clapped our hands. "Do sing
+another verse--it's perfectly divine, Miss Julia," said Eugene Augustus.
+Then Julia raised her golden (dyed) head, touched the white ivory with her
+jewelled fingers, and warbled--
+
+"When ther sur-hun is bri-hight-ly glow-ing-how-ing
+  O'er the se-hene so de-hear to me-e-e,
+And swe-heat the wie-hind is blow-how-ing,
+  Oh! ther-hen, oh! ther-hen,
+    I thee-hink
+    Hof thee-hee,
+    I thee-hink
+    I thee-hink
+I thee-he-he-he-he-he-he-hink-ho-ho-ho-ho-ho-ho-hof
+the-e-e-e-e-e!"--
+
+_Baltimore Elocutionist._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+THE OLD SOLDIER OF THE REGIMENT.
+
+From the bold heights of the island, far up in the Huron Sea,
+Proudly waved that Summer morning the old flag of liberty;
+While close under that fair banner, which to him was love and law,
+Sat that hour a veteran soldier of the guard at Mackinaw.
+
+Bowed and wrinkled, thin and hoary, sat he there that Summer day,
+His form leaning 'gainst the flagstaff, while he watched the sunlight play
+On the waters of that inland ocean which, in beauty purled,
+Were to him--the scarred old soldier--fairest waters of the world.
+
+In the days when Peace no longer walked the land, a beauteous queen,
+Fragrance dropping from her garments, gladness beaming in her mien;
+When grim war strode forth thro' valley, and o'er hill from sea to sea,
+All along her pathway shedding, woe in its infinity.
+
+Although time and gallant service, for the land he loved the best,
+Had upon his manhood told already, and he needed rest,
+Brave, and trusting still, and loving, as a knight of ancient days,
+Forth he went with other comrades, caring not for fame or praise.
+
+Only eager, aye, for duty, as God made it plain to all,
+When upon the breath of Zephyrus, patriot heroes heard him call;
+Anxious to beat back the dread one, and thro' war bring sweet release,
+From the demon of the tempest, usher in the reign of peace!
+
+O, the hot and bloody conflicts, hour by hour, and day by day,
+'Mid those years of which the memory can never pass away!
+O, at last the hard-won triumph, aye, but glorious we may say,
+Since thro' tears and loss God's blessing comes to-day to "Blue and Gray!"
+
+And the soldier, the old soldier, sitting there that hour alone,
+Gazing out upon the waters, thought of those years long since flown,
+And, on many a field of strife, his humble part--his part sublime--
+When his comrades fell around him like leaves in the Autumn time!
+
+Sitting there that summer morning he thought, too, how since his youth,
+His whole life had ever been, as 'twere, a lone one, how in sooth
+He had never since that hour--and his years how great the sum!--
+He had never known the blessing of a wife, or child, or home.
+
+And, ah, now he fast was nearing--sad old man!--the end of life,
+Soon he should lay by his armour and go forth beyond the strife.
+And he tho't--"O, ere I go hence, if the one who gave me birth
+Could but come from yonder Heaven, only come once more to earth;
+
+"That again, as in my childhood, I might look upon her face,
+Feel once more, once more, the pressure of her loving, dear embrace,
+Hear her speak, ah, as she used to, those sweet words I so much miss,
+Feel upon my cheek and forehead the touch of her fragrant kiss!"
+
+And the sad old soldier's eyelids closed, his lips they moved no more;
+He had gone to sleep where often he had gone to sleep before!--
+So his comrades tho't that hour as they saw him sitting there,
+Leaning fondly 'gainst the flagstaff, on his face a look most fair!
+
+And they left him to his slumbers, with no wish to break the spell
+Which had come to him so gently--the old soul they loved so well!
+And the breezes so delightful played among his locks so white,
+While above him proudly floated the old flag of his delight.
+
+But ere long, when loved ones round him called the name of "Sergeant Gray,"
+Not a word the veteran answered, for his life had passed away.--
+Though a tear was on each pale cheek of the dead one whom they saw--
+The old soldier of the regiment on guard at Mackinaw.
+
+_Geo. Newell Lovejoy._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+POOR LITTLE STEPHEN GERARD.
+
+The man lived in Philadelphia who, when young and poor, entered a bank, and
+says he, "Please, sir, don't you want a boy?" And the stately personage
+said: "No, little boy, I don't want a little boy." The little boy, whose
+heart was too full for utterance, chewing a piece of liquorice stick he had
+bought with a cent stolen from his good and pious aunt, with sobs plainly
+audible, and with great globules of water rolling down his cheeks, glided
+silently down the marble steps of the bank. Bending his noble form, the
+bank man dodged behind a door, for he thought the little boy was going to
+shy a stone at him. But the little boy picked up something, and stuck it in
+his poor but ragged jacket. "Come here, little boy," and the little boy did
+come here; and the bank man said: "Lo, what pickest thou up?" And he
+answered and replied: "A pin." And the bank man said: "Little boy, are you
+good?" and he said he was. And the bank man said: "How do you vote?--excuse
+me, do you go to Sunday school?" and he said he did. Then the bank man took
+down a pen made of pure gold, and flowing with pure ink, and he wrote on a
+piece of paper, "St. Peter;" and he asked the little boy what it stood for,
+and he said "Salt Peter." Then the bank man said it meant "Saint Peter."
+The little boy said: "Oh!"
+
+Then the bank man took the little boy to his bosom, and the little boy said
+"Oh!" again, for he squeezed him. Then the bank man took the little boy
+into partnership, and gave him half the profits and all the capital, and he
+married the bank man's daughter, and now all he has is all his, and all his
+own, too.
+
+My uncle told me this story, and I spent six weeks in picking up pins in
+front of a bank. I expected the bank man would call me in and say: "Little
+boy, are you good?" and I was going to say "Yes;" and when he asked me what
+"St. John" stood for, I was going to say "Salt John." But the bank man
+wasn't anxious to have a partner, and I guess the daughter was a son, for
+one day says he to me: "Little boy, what's that you're picking up?" Says I,
+awful meekly, "Pins." Says he: "Let's see 'em." And he took 'em, and I took
+off my cap, all ready to go in the bank, and become a partner, and marry
+his daughter. But I didn't get an invitation. He said: "Those pins belong
+to the bank, and if I catch you hanging around here any more I'll set the
+dog on you!" Then I left, and the mean old fellow kept the pins. Such is
+life as I find it.
+
+_Mark Twain._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+THE LITTLE QUAKER SINNER.
+
+A little Quaker maiden, with dimpled cheek and chin,
+Before an ancient mirror stood, and viewed her form within;
+She wore a gown of sober grey, a cape demure and prim,
+With only simple fold and hem, yet dainty, neat, and trim.
+Her bonnet, too, was grey and stiff; its only line of grace
+Was in the lace, so soft and white, shirred round her rosy face.
+
+Quoth she, "Oh, how I hate this hat! I hate this gown and cape!
+I do wish all my clothes were not of such outlandish shape!
+The children passing by to school have ribbons on their hair;
+The little girl next door wears blue; oh, dear, if I could dare
+I know what I should like to do?"--(The words were whispered low,
+Lest such tremendous heresy should reach her aunts below).
+
+Calmly reading in the parlour sat the good aunts, Faith and Peace,
+Little dreaming how rebellious throbbed the heart of their young niece.
+All their prudent humble teaching wilfully she cast aside,
+And, her mind now fully conquered by vanity and pride,
+She, with trembling heart and fingers, on a hassock sat her down,
+And this little Quaker sinner _sewed a tuck into her gown_!
+
+"Little Patience, art thou ready? Fifth-day meeting time has come,
+Mercy Jones and Goodman Elder with his wife have left their home."
+'Twas Aunt Faith's sweet voice that called her, and the naughty little
+   maid--
+Gliding down the dark old stairway--hoped their notice to evade,
+Keeping shyly in their shadow as they went out at the door,
+Ah, never little Quakeress a guiltier conscience bore!
+
+Dear Aunt Faith walked looking upward; all her thoughts were pure and holy;
+And Aunt Peace walked gazing downward, with a humble mind and lowly.
+But "tuck--_tuck_!" chirped the sparrows, at the little maiden's side;
+And, in passing Farmer Watson's, where the barn-door opened wide,
+Every sound that issued from it, every grunt and every cluck,
+Seemed to her affrighted fancy like "a tuck!" "a tuck!" "a tuck!"
+
+In meeting Goodman Elder spoke of pride and vanity,
+While all the Friends seemed looking round that dreadful tuck to see.
+How it swelled in its proportions, till it seemed to fill the air,
+And the heart of little Patience grew heavier with her care.
+Oh, the glad relief to her, when, prayers and exhortations ended,
+Behind her two good aunts her homeward way she wended!
+
+The pomps and vanities of life she'd seized with eager arms,
+And deeply she had tasted of the world's alluring charms--
+Yea, to the dregs had drained them and only this to find;
+All was vanity of spirit and vexation of the mind.
+So repentant, saddened, humbled, on her hassock she sat down,
+And this little Quaker sinner _ripped the tuck out of her gown_!
+
+_St. Nicholas._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+HOW WE HUNTED A MOUSE.
+
+I was dozing comfortably in my easy chair, and dreaming of the good times
+which I hope are coming, when there fell upon my ears a most startling
+scream. It was the voice of my Maria Ann in agony. The voice came from the
+kitchen, and to the kitchen I rushed. The idolized form of my Maria was
+perched on a chair, and she was flourishing an iron spoon in all
+directions, and shouting "shoo," in a general manner at everything in the
+room. To my anxious inquiries as to what was the matter, she screamed: "O!
+Joshua, a mouse, shoo--wha--shoo--a great--ya, shoo--horrid mouse, and--
+she--ew--it ran right out of the cupboard--shoo--go way--O Lord--Joshua--
+shoo--kill it, oh, my--shoo."
+
+All that fuss, you see, about one little, harmless mouse. Some women are so
+afraid of mice. Maria is. I got the poker and set myself to poke that
+mouse, and my wife jumped down and ran off into another room. I found the
+mouse in a corner under the sink. The first time I hit it I didn't poke it
+any on account of getting the poker all tangled up in a lot of dishes in
+the sink; and I did not hit it any more because the mouse would not stay
+still. It ran right toward me, and I naturally jumped, as anybody would,
+but I am not afraid of mice, and when the horrid thing ran up inside the
+leg of my pantaloons, I yelled to Maria because I was afraid it would gnaw
+a hole in my garment. There is something real disagreeable about having a
+mouse inside the leg of one's pantaloons, especially if there is nothing
+between you and the mouse. Its toes are cold, and its nails are scratchy,
+and its fur tickles, and its tail feels crawly, and there is nothing
+pleasant about it, and you are all the time afraid it will try to gnaw out,
+and begin on you instead of on the cloth. That mouse was next to me. I
+could feel its every motion with startling and suggestive distinctness. For
+these reasons I yelled to Maria, and as the case seemed urgent to me I may
+have yelled with a certain degree of vigour; but I deny that I yelled fire,
+and if I catch the boy who thought that I did, I shall inflict punishment
+on his person.
+
+I did not lose my presence of mind for an instant. I caught the mouse just
+as it was clambering over my knee, and by pressing firmly on the outside of
+the cloth, I kept the animal a prisoner on the inside. I kept jumping
+around with all my might to confuse it, so that it would not think about
+biting, and I yelled so that the mice would not hear its squeaks and come
+to its assistance. A man can't handle many mice at once to advantage.
+
+Maria was white as a sheet when she came into the kitchen, and asked what
+she should do--as though I could hold the mouse and plan a campaign at the
+same time.
+
+I told her to think of something, and she thought she would throw things at
+the intruder; but as there was no earthly chance for her to hit the mouse,
+while every shot took effect on me, I told her to stop, after she had tried
+two flat-irons and the coal scuttle. She paused for breath, but I kept
+bobbing around. Somehow I felt no inclination to sit down anywhere. "Oh,
+Joshua," she cried, "I wish you had not killed the cat." Now, I submit that
+the wish was born of the weakness of woman's intellect. How on earth did
+she suppose a cat could get where that mouse was?--rather have the mouse
+there alone, anyway, than to have a cat prowling around after it. I
+reminded Maria of the fact that she was a fool. Then she got the tea-kettle
+and wanted to scald the mouse. I objected to that process, except as a last
+resort. Then she got some cheese to coax the mouse down, but I did not dare
+to let go for fear it would run up. Matters were getting desperate. I told
+her to think of something else, and I kept jumping. Just as I was ready to
+faint with exhaustion, I tripped over an iron, lost my hold, and the mouse
+fell to the floor very dead. I had no idea a mouse could be squeezed to
+death so easy.
+
+That was not the end of trouble, for before I had recovered my breath a
+fireman broke in one of the front windows, and a whole company followed him
+through, and they dragged hose around, and mussed things all over the
+house, and then the foreman wanted to thrash me because the house was not
+on fire, and I had hardly got him pacified before a policeman came in and
+arrested me. Some one had run down and told him I was drunk and was killing
+Maria. It was all Maria and I could do, by combining our eloquence, to
+prevent him from marching me off in disgrace, but we finally got matters
+quieted and the house clear.
+
+Now, when mice run out of the cupboard I go out doors, and let Maria "shoo"
+them back again. I can kill a mouse, but the fun don't pay for the trouble.
+
+_Joshua Jenkins._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+IN SCHOOL DAYS.
+
+Still sits the school-house by the road,
+  A ragged beggar sunning;
+Around it still the sumachs grow,
+  And blackberry vines are running.
+
+Within, the master's desk is seen,
+  Deep scarred by raps official;
+The warping floor, the battered seats,
+  The jack-knife's carved initial;
+
+The charcoal frescoes on its wall;
+  Its door's worn sill, betraying
+The feet that, creeping slow to school,
+  Went storming out to playing!
+
+Long years ago a winter sun
+  Shone over it at setting;
+Lit up its western window panes,
+  And low eaves' icy fretting.
+
+It touched the tangled golden curls,
+  And brown eyes full of grieving,
+Of one who still her steps delayed
+  When all the school were leaving.
+
+For near her stood the little boy
+  Her childish favour singled:
+His cap pulled low upon a face
+  Where pride and shame were mingled.
+
+Pushing with restless feet the snow
+  To right and left, he lingered;--
+As restlessly her tiny hands
+  The blue-checked apron fingered,
+
+He saw her lift her eyes; he felt
+  The soft hand's tight caressing,
+And heard the tremble of her voice,
+  As if a fault confessing.
+
+"I'm sorry that I spelt the word;
+  I hate to go above you,
+Because,"--the brown eyes lower fell,--
+  "Because, you see, I love you!"
+
+Still memory to a gray-haired man
+  That sweet child-face is showing.
+Dear girl! the grasses on her grave
+  Have forty years been growing.
+
+He lives to learn, in life's hard school,
+  How few who pass above him
+Lament their triumphs and his loss,
+  Like her,--because they love him.
+
+_Whittier._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+WATERLOO.
+
+It struck my imagination much, while standing on the last field fought by
+Bonaparte, that the battle of Waterloo should have been fought on a Sunday.
+What a different scene did the Scotch Grays and English Infantry present,
+from that which, at that very hour, was exhibited by their relatives, when
+over England and Scotland each church-bell had drawn together its
+worshippers! While many a mother's heart was sending up a prayer for her
+son's preservation, perhaps that son was gasping in agony. Yet, even at
+such a period, the lessons of his early days might give him consolation;
+and the maternal prayer might prepare the heart to support maternal
+anguish. It is religion alone which is of universal application, both as a
+stimulant and a lenitive, throughout the varied heritage which falls to the
+lot of man. But we know that many thousands rushed into this fight, even of
+those who had been instructed in our religious principles, without leisure
+for one serious thought; and that some officers were killed in their ball
+dresses. They made the leap into the gulf which divides two worlds--the
+present from the immutable state without one parting prayer, or one note of
+preparation!
+
+As I looked over this field, now green with growing corn, I could mark,
+with my eye, the spots where the most desperate carnage had been marked out
+by the verdure of the wheat. The bodies had been heaped together, and
+scarcely more than covered; and so enriched is the soil, that, in these
+spots, the grain never ripens. It grows rank and green to the end of
+harvest. This touching memorial, which endures when the thousand groans
+have expired, and when the stain of human blood has faded from the ground,
+still seems to cry to Heaven that there is awful guilt somewhere, and a
+terrific reckoning for those who caused destruction which the earth could
+not conceal. These hillocks of superabundant vegetation, as the wind
+rustled through the corn, seemed the most affecting monuments which nature
+could devise, and gave a melancholy animation to this plain of death.
+
+When we attempt to measure the mass of suffering which was here inflicted,
+and to number the individuals that fell, considering each who suffered as
+our fellow-man, we are overwhelmed with the agonizing calculation, and
+retire from the field which has been the scene of our reflections, with the
+simple, concentrated feeling--these armies once lived, breathed, and felt
+like us, and the time is at hand when we shall be like them.
+
+_Lady Morgan._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+THE FIELD OF WATERLOO.
+
+  There was a sound of revelry by night,
+  And Belgium's capital had gathered then
+  Her Beauty and her Chivalry; and bright
+  The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men;
+  A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
+  Music arose, with its voluptuous swell,
+  Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,
+  And all went merry as a marriage bell:--
+But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!
+
+  Did ye not hear it? No; 'twas but the wind
+  Or the car rattling o'er the stony street;
+  On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;
+  No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet
+  To chase the glowing hours with flying feet--
+  But hark!--that heavy sound breaks in once more,
+  As if the clouds its echo would repeat;
+  And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!
+Arm! arm! it is--it is--the cannon's opening roar!
+
+  Within a windowed niche of that high hall
+  Sat Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear
+  That sound the first amidst the festival,
+  And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear;
+  And when they smiled because he deemed it near,
+  His heart more truly knew that peal too well
+  Which stretched his father on a bloody bier,
+  And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell;
+He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell!
+
+  Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
+  And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,
+  And cheeks all pale, which, but an hour ago,
+  Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness;
+  And there were sudden partings, such as press
+  The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs
+  Which ne'er might be repeated; Who could guess
+  If ever more should meet those mutual eyes,
+Since, upon night so sweet, such awful morn could rise!
+
+  And there was mounting in hot haste; the steed,
+  The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,
+  Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
+  And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;
+  And the deep thunder, peal on peal, afar;
+  And near, the beat of the alarming drum
+  Roused up the soldier, ere the morning star;
+  While thronged the citizens with terror dumb.
+Or whispering with white lips--"The foe! they come, they come!"
+
+  And wild and high the "Cameron's gathering" rose--
+  The war note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills
+  Have heard--and heard too have her Saxon foes--
+  How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills,
+  Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills
+  Their mountain pipe, so fill the mountaineers
+  With the fierce native daring, which instils
+  The stirring memory of a thousand years;
+And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears.
+
+  And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,
+  Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass
+  Grieving--if aught inanimate e'er grieves--
+  Over the unreturning brave--alas!
+  Ere evening to be trodden like the grass,
+  Which now beneath them, but above shall grow
+  In its next verdure; when this fiery mass
+  Of living valour, rolling on the foe,
+And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low!
+
+  Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,
+  Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay;
+  The midnight brought the signal sound of strife;
+  The morn the marshalling of arms; the day
+  Battle's magnificently stern array!
+  The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which, when rent,
+  The earth is covered thick with other clay,
+  Which her own clay shall cover, heap'd and pent,
+Rider and horse--friend, foe--in one red burial blent!
+
+_Lord Byron._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+THE BRIDAL WINE-CUP.
+
+SCENE--_Parlour, with wedding party, consisting of_ JUDGE OTIS;
+MARION, _his daughter, the bride_; HARRY WOOD, _the bridegroom; a
+few relatives and friends; all gathered around the centre table, on which
+are decanters and wine-glasses_.
+
+_One of the company_--Let us drink the health of the newly-wedded
+pair. (_Turns to Harry_.) Shall it be in wine? (_turns to
+Marion_,) or in sparkling cold water?
+
+HARRY--Pledge in wine, if it be the choice of the company.
+
+_Several voices_--Pledge in wine, to be sure.
+
+MARION--(_With great earnestness_.)--O no! Harry; not wine, I pray
+you.
+
+JUDGE OTIS--Yes, Marion, my daughter; lay aside your foolish prejudices for
+this once; the company expect it, and you should not so seriously infringe
+upon the rules of etiquette. In your own house you may act as you please;
+but in mine, which you are about to leave, for this once please me, by
+complying with my wishes in this matter.
+
+[_A glass of wine is handed to Marion, which she slowly and reluctantly
+raises to her lips, but just as it reaches them she exclaims, excitedly,
+holding out the glass at arm's length, and staring at it_,]
+
+MARION--Oh! how terrible.
+
+_Several voices--(Eagerly)_--What is it? What do you see?
+
+MARION--Wait--wait, and I will tell you. I see _(pointing to the glass
+with her finger)_ a sight that beggars all description; and yet listen,
+and I will paint it for you, if I can. It is a lonely spot; tall mountains,
+crowned with verdure, rise in awful sublimity around; a river runs through,
+and bright flowers in wild profusion grow to the water's edge. There is a
+thick, warm mist, that the sun vainly seeks to pierce; trees, lofty and
+beautiful, wave to the airy motion of the birds; and beneath them a group
+of Indians gather. They move to and fro with something like sorrow upon
+their dark brows, for in their midst lies a manly form, whose cheek is
+deathly pale, and whose eye is wild with the fitful fire of fever. One of
+his own white race stands, or rather kneels, beside him, pillowing the poor
+sufferer's head upon his breast with all a brother's tenderness. Look!
+_(she speaks with renewed energy)_ how he starts up, throws the damp
+curls back from his high and noble brow, and clasps his hands in agony of
+despair; hear his terrible shrieks for life; and mark how he clutches at
+the form of his companion, imploring to be saved from despair and death. O,
+what a terrible scene! Genius in ruins, pleading for that which can never
+be regained when once lost. Hear him call piteously his father's name; see
+him clutch his fingers as he shrieks for his sister--his only sister, the
+twin of his soul--now weeping for him in his distant home! See! his hands
+are lifted to heaven; he prays--how wildly!--for mercy, while the hot fever
+rushes through his veins. The friend beside him is weeping in despair; and
+the awe-stricken sons of the forest move silently away, leaving the living
+and the dying alone together. _(The judge, overcome with emotion, falls
+into a chair, while the rest of the company seem awe-struck, as Marion's
+voice grows softer and more sorrowful in its_ _tones, yet remains
+distinct and clear.)_ It is evening now, the great, white moon, is
+coming up, and her beams fall gently upon his forehead. He moves not; for
+his eyes are set in their sockets, and their once piercing glance is dim.
+In vain his companion whispers the name of father and sister; death is
+there to dull the pulse, to dim the eye, and to deafen the ear. Death!
+stern, terrible, and with no soft hand, no gentle voice, to soothe his
+fevered brow, and calm his troubled soul and bid it hope in God. _(Harry
+sits down and covers his face with his hands)_ Death overtook him thus;
+and there, in the midst of the mountain forest, surrounded by Indian
+tribes, they scooped him a grave in the sand; and without a shroud or
+coffin, prayer or hymn, they laid him down in the damp earth to his final
+slumber. Thus died and was buried the only son of a proud father; the only,
+idolized brother of a fond sister. There he sleeps to-day, undisturbed, in
+that distant land, with no stone to mark the spot. There he lies--_my
+father's son_--MY OWN TWIN BROTHER! A victim to this _(holds up the
+glass before the company)_ deadly, damning poison! Father! _(turning
+to the judge,)_ father, shall I drink it now?
+
+JUDGE OTIS--_(Raising his bowed head and speaking with faltering
+voice)_--No, no, my child! in God's name, cast it away.
+
+MARION--_(Letting her glass fall and dash to pieces)_--Let no friend
+who loves me hereafter tempt me to peril my soul for wine. Not firmer the
+everlasting hills than my resolve, God helping me, never to touch or taste
+that terrible poison. And he _(turning to Harry,)_ to whom I have this
+night given my heart and hand, who watched over my brother's dying form in
+that last sad hour, and buried the poor wanderer there by the river, in
+that land of gold, will, I trust, sustain me in this resolve. Will you not,
+_(offers him her hand, which he takes,)_ my husband?
+
+HARRY--With the blessing of heaven upon my efforts, I will; and I thank
+you, beyond expression, for the, solemn lesson you have taught us all on
+this occasion.
+
+JUDGE OTIS--God bless you (_taking Marion and Harry by the hand and
+speaking with deep emotion_,) my children; and may I, too, have grace
+given me to help you in your efforts to keep this noble resolve.
+
+_One of the company_--Let us honour the firmness and nobleness of
+principle of the fair bride, by drinking her health in pure, sparkling
+water, the only beverage which the great Creator of the Universe gave to
+the newly-wedded pair in the beautiful Garden of Eden.
+
+_Dramatized by Sidney Herbert_.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+MARY STUART.
+
+ACT III. SCENE IV.
+
+THE PARK AT FOTHERINGAY.
+
+MARY. Farewell high thought, and pride of noble mind!
+    I will forget my dignity, and all
+    My sufferings; I will fall before _her_ feet,
+    Who hath reduced me to this wretchedness.
+                      [_She turns towards Elizabeth._
+    The voice of Heaven decides for you, my sister.
+    Your happy brows are now with triumph crown'd,
+    I bless the Power Divine, which thus hath rais'd you.
+                      [_She kneels._
+    But in your turn be merciful, my sister;
+    Let me not lie before you thus disgraced;
+    Stretch forth your hand, your royal hand, to raise
+    Your sister from the depths of her distress
+
+ELIZ. (_stepping back_).
+    You are where it becomes you, Lady Stuart;
+    And thankfully I prize my God's protection,
+    Who hath not suffer'd me to kneel a suppliant
+    Thus at your feet, as you now kneel at mine.
+
+MARY. (_with increasing energy of feeling_).
+    Think on all earthly things, vicissitudes.
+    Oh! there are gods who punish haughty pride;
+    Respect them, honour them, the dreadful ones
+    Who thus before thy feet have humbled me!
+    Dishonour not
+    Yourself in me; profane not, nor disgrace
+    The royal blood of Tudor.
+
+ELIZ. (_cold and severe_).
+    What would you say to me, my Lady Stuart?
+    You wish'd to speak with me; and I, forgetting
+    The Queen, and all the wrongs I have sustained,
+    Fulfil the pious duty of the sister,
+    And grant the boon you wished for of my presence.
+    Yet I, in yielding to the gen'rous feelings
+    Of magnanimity, expose myself
+    To rightful censure, that I stoop so low,
+    For well you know, you would have had me murder'd.
+
+MARY. O! how shall I begin? O, how shall I
+    So artfully arrange my cautious words,
+    That they may touch, yet not offend your heart?--
+    I am a Queen, like you, yet you have held me
+    Confin'd in prison. As a suppliant
+    I came to you, yet you in me insulted
+    The pious use of hospitality;
+    Slighting in me the holy law of nations,
+    Immur'd me in a dungeon--tore from me
+    My friends and servants; to unseemly want
+    I was exposed, and hurried to the bar
+    Of a disgraceful, insolent tribunal.
+    No more of this;--in everlasting silence
+    Be buried all the cruelties I suffer'd!
+    See--I will throw the blame of all on fate,
+    'Twas not your fault, no more than it was mine,
+    An evil spirit rose from the abyss,
+    To kindle in our hearts the flames of hate,
+    By which our tender youth had been divided.
+
+             [_Approaching her confidently, and with a
+                   flattering tone._
+
+    Now stand we face to face; now sister, speak;
+    Name but my crime, I'll fully satisfy you,--
+    Alas! had you vouchsaf'd to hear me then,
+    When I so earnest sought to meet your eye,
+    It never would have come to this, nor would,
+    Here in this mournful place, have happen'd now
+    This so distressful, this so mournful meeting.
+
+ELIZ. My better stars preserved me. I was warn'd,
+    And laid not to my breast the pois'nous adder!
+    Accuse not fate! your own deceitful heart
+    It was, the wild ambition of your house.
+    But God is with me. The blow was aim'd
+    Full at my head, but your's it is which falls!
+
+MARY. I'm in the hand of Heav'n. You never will
+    Exert so cruelly the pow'r it gives you.
+
+ELIZ. Who shall prevent me? Say, did not your uncle
+    Set all the Kings of Europe the example
+    How to conclude a peace with those they hate.
+    Force is my only surety; no alliance
+    Can be concluded with a race of vipers.
+
+MARY. You have constantly regarded me
+    But as a stranger, and an enemy,
+    Had you declared me heir to your dominions,
+    As is my right, then gratitude and love
+    In me had fixed, for you a faithful friend
+    And kinswoman.
+
+ELIZ.               Your friendship is abroad.
+    Name _you_ my successor! The treach'rous snare!
+    That in my life you might seduce my people;
+    And, like a sly Armida, in your net
+    Entangle all our noble English youth;
+    That all might turn to the new rising sun,
+    And I--
+
+MARY. O sister, rule your realm in peace.
+    I give up ev'ry claim to these domains--
+    Alas! the pinions of my soul are lam'd;
+    Greatness entices me no more; your point
+    Is gained; I am but Mary's shadow now--
+  My noble spirit is at last broke down
+  By long captivity:--You're done your worst
+  On me; you have destroy'd me in my bloom!
+  Now, end your work, my sister;--speak at length
+  The word, which to pronounce has brought you hither;
+  For I will ne'er believe, that you are come,
+  To mock unfeelingly your hapless victim.
+  Pronounce this word;--say, "Mary, you are free;
+  You have already felt my pow'r,--Learn now
+  To honour too my generosity."
+  Say this, and I will take my life, will take
+  My freedom, as a present from your hands.
+  One word makes all undone;--I wait for it;--
+  O let it not be needlessly delay'd.
+  Woe to you, if you end not with this word!
+  For should you not, like some divinity,
+  Dispensing noble blessings, quit me now,
+  Then, sister, not for all this island's wealth,
+  For all the realms encircled by the deep,
+  Would I exchange my present lot for yours.
+
+ELIZ. And you confess at last that you are conquer'd
+  Are all you schemes run out? No more assassins
+  Now on the road? Will no adventurer
+  Attempt again for you the sad achievement?
+  Yes, madam, it is over:--You'll seduce
+  No mortal more--The world has other cares;--
+  None is ambitious of the dang'rous honour
+  Of being your fourth husband.
+
+MARY (_starting angrily_) Sister, sister--
+  Grant me forbearance, all ye pow'rs of heaven!
+
+ELIZ. (_regards her long with a look of proud contempt_).
+  These then, are the charms
+  Which no man with impunity can view,
+  Near which no woman dare attempt to stand?
+  In sooth, this honour has been cheaply gain'd,
+
+MARY. This is too much!
+
+ELIZ. (_laughing insultingly_).
+                        You show us, now indeed,
+  Your real face; till now 'twas but the mask.
+
+MARY, (_burning with rage, yet dignified and noble_).
+  My sins were human, and the faults of youth;
+  Superior force misled me. I have never
+  Denied or sought to hide it; I despis'd,
+  All false appearance as became a Queen.
+  The worst of me is known, and I can say,
+  That I am better than the fame I bear.
+  Woe to you! when, in time to come, the world
+  Shall draw the robe of honour from your deeds,
+  With which thy arch-hypocrisy has veil'd
+  The raging flames of lawless secret lust.
+  Virtue was not your portion from your mother;
+  Well know we what it was which brought the head
+  Of Anne Boleyn to the fatal block.
+                                 I've supported
+  What human nature can support; farewell,
+  Lamb-hearted resignation, passive patience,
+  Fly to thy native heaven; burst at length
+  Thy bonds, come forward from thy dreary cave,
+  In all thy fury, long-suppressed rancour!
+  And thou, who to the anger'd basilisk
+  Impart'st the murd'rous glance, O, arm my tongue
+  With poison'd darts!
+     (_raising her voice_). A pretender
+  Profanes the English throne! The gen'rous Britons
+  Are cheated by a juggler, [whose whole figure
+  Is false and painted, heart at well as face!]
+  If right prevail'd, you now would in the dust
+  Before me lie, for I'm your rightful monarch!
+
+      [Elizabeth _hastily retires_.
+
+MARY.                           At last, at last,
+  After whole years of sorrow and abasement,
+  One moment of victorious revenge!
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+SCENE FROM LEAH, THE FORSAKEN.
+
+ACT IV. SCENE III.
+
+SCENE.--_Night. The Village Churchyard. Enter Leah slowly, her hair
+streaming over her shoulders._
+
+LEAH--[_solus_]-What seek I here? I know not; yet I feel I have a
+mission to fulfil. I feel that the cords of my I being are stretched to
+their utmost effort. Already seven days! So long! As the dead lights were
+placed about the body of Abraham, as the friends sat nightly at his feet
+and watched, so have I sat, for seven days, and wept over the corpse of my
+love. What have I done? Am I not the child of man? Is not love the right of
+all,--like the air, the light? And if I stretched my hands towards it, was
+it a crime? When I first saw him, first heard the sound of his voice,
+something wound itself around my heart. Then first I knew why I was
+created, and for the first time, was thankful for my life. Collect thyself,
+mind, and think! What has happened? I saw him yesterday--no! eight days
+ago! He was full of love. "You'll come," said he. I came. I left my people.
+I tore the cords that bound me to my nation, and came to him. He cast me
+forth into the night. And yet, my heart, you throb still. The earth still
+stands, the sun still shines, as if it had not gone down forever, for me.
+By his side stood a handsome maid, and drew him away with caressing hands.
+It is _she_ he loves, and to the Jewess he dares offer gold. I will
+seek him! I will gaze on his face--that deceitful beautiful face.
+[_Church illuminated. Organ plays softly_.] I will ask him what I have
+done that--[_Hides face in her hands and weeps. Organ swells louder and
+then subsides again_.] Perhaps he has been misled by some one--some
+false tongue! His looks, his words, seem to reproach me. Why was I silent?
+Thou proud mouth, ye proud lips, why did you not speak? Perhaps he loves me
+still. Perhaps his soul, like mine, pines in nameless agony, and yearns for
+reconciliation. [_Music soft_.] Why does my hate melt away at this
+soft voice with which heaven calls to me? That grand music! I hear voices.
+It sounds like a nuptial benediction; perhaps it is a loving bridal pair.
+Amen--amen! to that prayer, whoever you may be. [_Music stops_.] I,
+poor desolate one, would like to see their happy faces--I must--this
+window. Yes, here I can see into the church. [_Looks into the window.
+Screams_.] Do I dream? Kind Heaven, that prayer, that amen, you heard it
+not. I call it back. You did not hear my blessing. You were deaf. Did no
+blood-stained dagger drop upon them? 'Tis he! Revenge!----No! Thou shalt
+judge! Thine, Jehovah, is the vengeance. Thou, alone, canst send it.
+[_Rests her arm upon a broken column.]
+
+Enter Rudolf from the sacristy door, with wreath in hand._
+
+RUD.--I am at last alone. I cannot endure the joy and merriment around me.
+How like mockery sounded the pious words of the priest! As I gazed towards
+the church windows I saw a face, heard a muffled cry. I thought it was her
+face,--her voice.
+
+LEAH.--(_coldly_.) Did you think so?
+
+RUD.--Leah! Is it you?
+
+LEAH.--Yes.
+
+RUD.--(_tenderly_.) Leah--
+
+LEAH.--Silence, perjured one! Can the tongue that lied, still speak? The
+breath that called me wife, now swear faith to another! Does it dare to mix
+with the pure air of heaven? Is this the man I worshipped? whose features I
+so fondly gazed upon! Ah! [_shuddering_] No--no! The hand of heaven
+has crushed, beaten and defaced them! The stamp of divinity no longer rests
+there! [_Walks away_.]
+
+RUD.--Leah! hear me!
+
+LEAH.--[turning fiercely.] Ha! You call me back? I am pitiless now.
+
+RUD.--You broke faith first. You took the money.
+
+LEAH.--Money! What money?
+
+RUD.--The money my father sent you.
+
+LEAH.--Sent me money? For what?
+
+RUD.--[_hesitating_.] To induce you to release me--to----
+
+LEAH.--That I might release you? And you knew it? You permitted it?
+
+RUD.--I staked my life that you would not take it.
+
+LEAH.--And you believed I had taken it?
+
+RUD.--How could I believe otherwise? I----
+
+LEAH.--[_with rage_] And you believed I had taken it, Miserable
+Christian, and you cast me off! Not a question was the Jewess worth. This,
+then, was thy work; this the eternity of love you promised me. Forgive me,
+Heaven, that I forgot my nation to love this Christian. Let that love be
+lost in hate. Love is false, unjust--hate endless, eternal.
+
+RUD.--Cease these gloomy words of vengeance--I have wronged you. I feel it
+without your reproaches. I have sinned; but to sin is human, and it would
+be but human to forgive.
+
+LEAH.--You would tempt me again? I do not know that voice.
+
+RUD.--I will make good the evil I have done; aye, an hundredfold.
+
+LEAH.--Aye, crush the flower, grind it under foot, then make good the evil
+you have done. No! no! an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a heart for
+a heart!
+
+RUD.--Hold, fierce woman, I will beseech no more! Do not tempt heaven; let
+it be the judge between us! If I have sinned through love, see that you do
+not sin through hate.
+
+LEAH.--Blasphemer! and you dare call on heaven! What commandant hast thou
+not broken? Thou shalt not swear falsely--you broke faith with me! Thou
+shalt not steal--you stole my heart. Thou shalt not kill--what of life have
+you left me?
+
+RUD.--Hold, hold! No more! [_Advancing_.]
+
+LEAH.--[_repelling him_.] The old man who died because I loved you,
+the woman who hungered because I followed you, may they follow you in
+dreams, and be a drag upon your feet forever. May you wander as I wander,
+suffer shame as I now suffer it. Cursed be the land you till: may it keep
+faith with you as you have kept faith with me. Cursed, thrice cursed, may
+you be evermore, and as my people on Mount Ebal spoke, so speak I thrice!
+Amen! Amen! Amen!
+
+[_Rudolf drops on his knees as the curtain descends on the tableau_.]
+
+      *       *       *       *       *
+
+SCENE FROM LEAH.
+
+ACT V. SCENE I.
+
+
+RUD.--(_Leah comes down stage gently and sad, listening_). Think,
+Madalena, of her lot and mine. While I clasp a tender wife, and a lovely
+child; she wanders in foreign lands, suffering and desolate. It is not
+alone her curse that haunts me, it is her pale and gentle face, which I
+seem to see in my dreams, and which so sadly says to me,
+
+"I have forgiven!" Oh, Madalena, could I but hear her say this, and tell
+her how deeply I feel that I have wronged her--could I but wet her hands
+with my repentent tears, then would I find peace.
+
+MAD.--Rudolf, a thought! In yonder valley camps a company of Jews who are
+emigrating to America; perhaps one of them may be able to give you news of
+Leah, and if you find her, she shall share the blessings of our home. She
+shall be to me a dear sister!  _(Leah hastily conceals herself.)_ Ha,
+that beggar woman, where is she? _(Looks around.)_ Perhaps she belongs
+to the tribe; perhaps she may tell you of her.
+
+RUD.--How say you? A beggar woman?
+
+MAD.--Yes, a poor Jewess, whom I rescued to-day. She must now be in the
+house. Oh, come, Rudolf, let us find her. All may yet be well! _[Exeunt
+in house._
+
+_Enter Leah from behind a hayrick._
+
+LEAH.--Have I heard aright? The iron bands seem melting, the cold dead
+heart moves, and beats once more! The old life returns. Rudolf!
+_(tears.)_ My Rudolf. No, no, he is no longer mine! The flame is
+extinguished, and only the empty lamp remains above the sepulchre of my
+heart. No, Madalena, no, I shall not remain to be a reproach to you both. I
+will wander on with my people, but the hate I have nourished has departed.
+I may not love, but I forgive--yes, I forgive him. But his child. Oh, I
+should so like to see his child!
+
+_Child comes to doorway from house._
+
+Fear not, little one, come hither.
+
+CHILD.--_(coming towards her)._ Is it you? Father seeks you.
+
+LEAH.--His very image. _(kisses her,)_ What is your name, my darling?
+
+CHILD.--Leah.
+
+LEAH.--What say you? Leah?
+
+CHILD.--Did you know the other Leah?--she whom mother and father speak of
+so often, and for whom every night I must pray?
+
+LEAH.--_(With emotion, kissing her, and giving her a withered rose-
+wreath, which she takes from inside her dress)_ Take this, my pretty
+one.
+
+CHILD.--A rose-wreath?
+
+LEAH--Take it, and give it your father. Say to him your little prayer has
+been heard, and that Leah--_(emotion)_--Leah forgives. _(going,
+returns again, kisses child, and with extended arms and choking voice.)_
+Bless, you, darling! _(extending arms to house.)_ And you, and you--
+and all--and all'. _(goes to fence, totters, and sinks down, endeavoring
+to exit.)_
+
+_Enter Rudolf and Madalena from house._
+
+RUD.--Not here!
+
+CHILD--_(running to Madalena.)_ See, mother, see what the strange
+woman gave me. _(showing wreath.)_
+
+MAD.--_(not noticing child)_ Where is she?
+
+CHILD.--She has gone away _(running to Rudolf with wreath.)_ See,
+father.
+
+RUD.--_(taking wreath.)_ A rose-wreath. Great heaven, Madalena, it
+must have been Leah; it is my wreath. Leah!
+
+MAD.--It was she!
+
+RUD.--Yes, it was Leah. By this token we are reconciled. _(Leah
+moans.)_ Ha, what sound is that?
+
+MAD.--_(going to the prostrate figure.)_ Quick, Rudolf! It is she.
+_(they run to her, raise her up, and bear her to front.)_
+
+LEAH.--_(feebly.)_ I tried to go, but my strength forsook me. I shall,
+at least, then, die here!
+
+RUD.--Die! No, no; speak not of dying, you shall live!
+
+LEAH.--No; I am too happy to live. See, Madalena, I take his hand, but it
+is to place it in yours. All is over. _(sinks into their arms.)_
+
+SCENE FROM PIZARRO.
+
+SCENE I.--A Dungeon.
+
+_Alonzo in chains--A sentinel walking near._
+
+ALONZO. (c.)--For the last time, I have beheld the quivering lustre of the
+stars. For the last time, O, sun! (and soon the hour), I shall behold thy
+rising, and thy level beams melting the pale mists of morn to glittering
+dew drops. Then comes my death, and in the morning of my day, I fall,
+which--no, Alonzo, date not the life which thou hast run, by the mean
+reckoning of the hours and days, which thou has breathed:--a life spent
+worthily should be measured by a nobler line; by deeds, not years. They
+only have lived long, who have lived virtuously. Surely, even now, thin
+streaks of glimmering light steal on the darkness of the East. If so, my
+life is but one hour more. I will not watch the coming dawn; but in the
+darkness of my cell, my last prayer to thee, Power Supreme! shall be for my
+wife and child! Grant them to dwell in innocence and peace; grant health
+and purity of mind--all else is worthless.
+
+[_Enters the cavern_, R. U. E.
+
+SEN.--Who's there? answer quickly! Who's there?
+
+ROL.--(_within._) A friar come to visit your prisoner. (_enters_,
+L. U. E. _disguised as a monk._) Inform me, friend, is not Alonzo, the
+Spanish prisoner, confined in this dungeon?
+
+SEN.--(c.) He is.
+
+ROL.--I must speak with him.
+
+SEN.--You must not. (_stopping him with his spear._)
+
+ROL.--He is my friend.
+
+SEN.--Not if he were your brother.
+
+ROL.--What is to be his fate?
+
+SEN.--He dies at sunrise.
+
+ROL.--Ha! Then I am come in time.
+
+SEN.--Just--to witness his death.
+
+ROL.--Soldier, I must speak to him.
+
+SEN.--Back, back--It is impossible.
+
+ROL.--I do entreat you, but for one moment.
+
+SEN.--You entreat in vain--my orders are most strict.
+
+ROL.--Look on this wedge of massive gold--look on these precious gems. In
+thy own land they will be wealth for thee and thine--beyond thy hope or
+wish. Take them--they are thine. Let me but pass one minute with Alonzo.
+
+SEN.--Away!--wouldst thou corrupt me? Me! an old Castilian! I know my duty
+better.
+
+ROL.--Soldier!--hast thou a wife?
+
+SEN.--I have.
+
+ROL.--Hast thou children?
+
+SEN.--Four--honest, lovely boys.
+
+ROL.--Where didst thou leave them?
+
+SEN.--In my native village; even in the cot where myself was born.
+
+ROL.--Dost thou love thy children and thy wife?
+
+SEN.--Do I love them! God knows my heart--I do.
+
+ROL.--Soldier! imagine thou wert doomed to die a cruel death in this
+strange land. What would be thy last request?
+
+SEN.--That some of my comrades should carry my dying blessing to my wife
+and children.
+
+ROL.--Oh! but if that comrade was at thy prison gate, and should there be
+told--thy fellow-soldier dies at sunset, yet thou shalt not for a moment
+see him, nor shalt thou bear his dying blessing to his poor children or his
+wretched wife, what would'st thou think of him, who thus could drive thy
+comrade from the door?
+
+SEN.--How?
+
+ROL.--Alonzo has a wife and child. I am come but to receive for her, and
+for her babe, the last blessing of my friend.
+
+SEN.--Go in. [_Shoulders his spear and walks to_ L. U. E.
+
+ROL. (c.)--Oh, holy Nature! thou dost never plead in vain. There is not of
+our earth a creature bearing form, and life--human or savage--native of the
+forest wild, or giddy air--around whose parent bosom thou hast not a cord
+entwined of power to tie them to their offspring's claims, and at thy will
+to draw them back to thee. On iron pinions borne, the blood-stained vulture
+cleaves the storm, yet is the plumage closest to her heart soft as the
+cygnet's down, and o'er her unshelled brood the murmuring ring-dove sits
+not more gently.--Yes, now he is beyond the porch, barring the outer gate!
+Alonzo! Alonzo, my friend! Ha! in gentle sleep! Alonzo--rise!
+
+ALON.--How, is my hour elapsed? Well, (_Returning from the recess_ R.
+U. E.) I am ready.
+
+ROL.--Alonzo, know me.
+
+ALON.--What voice is that?
+
+ROL.--'Tis Rolla's. [_Takes off his disguise._
+
+ALON.--Rolla, my friend (_Embraces him._) Heavens!--how could'st thou
+pass the guard?--Did this habit--
+
+ROL.--There is not a moment to be lost in words. This disguise I tore from
+the dead body of a friar as I passed our field of battle; it has gained me
+entrance to thy dungeon: now, take it thou and fly.
+
+ALON.--And Rolla--
+
+ROL.--Will remain here in thy place.
+
+ALON.--And die for me? No! Rather eternal tortures rack me.
+
+ROL.--I shall not die, Alonzo. It is thy life Pizarro seeks, not Rolla's;
+and from thy prison soon will thy arm deliver me. Or, should it be
+otherwise, I am as a blighted plantain standing alone amid the sandy
+desert--nothing seeks or lives beneath my shelter. Thou art--a husband and
+a father; the being of a lovely wife and helpless infant hangs upon thy
+life. Go! go, Alonzo! Go, to save, not thyself, but Cora and thy child!
+
+ALON.--Urge me not thus, my friend! I had prepared to die in peace.
+
+ROL.--To die in peace! devoting her thou'st sworn to live for to madness,
+misery, and death! For, be assured, the state I left her in forbids all
+hope, but from thy quick return.
+
+ALON.--Oh, God!
+
+ROL.--If thou art yet irresolute, Alonzo, now heed me well. I think thou
+hast not known that Rolla ever pledged his word, and shrunk from its
+fulfilment. And by the heart of truth, I swear, if thou art proudly
+obstinate to deny thy friend the transport of preserving Cora's life, in
+thee; no power that sways the will of man shalt stir me hence; and thoul't
+but have the desperate triumph of seeing Rolla perish by thy side, with the
+assured conviction that Cora and thy child--are lost forever.
+
+ALON.--Oh, Rolla! you distract me!
+
+ROL.--Begone! A moment's further pause, and all is lost. The dawn
+approaches. Fear not for me; I will treat with Pizarro, as for surrender
+and submission. I shall gain time, doubt not, whilst thou, with a chosen
+band, passing the secret way, may'st at night return, release thy friend,
+and bear him back in triumph. Yes, hasten, dear Alonzo! Even now I hear the
+frantic Cora call thee! Haste, Alonzo! Haste! Haste!
+
+ALON.--Rolla, I fear thy friendship drives me from honour and from right.
+
+ROL.--Did Rolla ever counsel dishonour to his friend?
+
+ALON.--Oh! my preserver! [_Embracing him._
+
+ROL.--I feel thy warm tears dropping on my cheek.--Go! I am rewarded.
+(_Throwing the Friar's garment over him._) There, conceal thy face;
+and that they may not clank, hold fast thy chains. Now, God be with thee!
+
+ALON.--At night we meet again. Then, so aid me Heaven! I return to save or
+perish with thee. [_Exit_ L.U.E.
+
+ROL. (_Looking after him._)--He has passed the outer porch--he is
+safe! He will soon embrace his wife and child! Now, Cora, did'st thou not
+wrong me? This is the first time throughout my life, I ever deceived man.
+Forgive me, God of Truth! if I am wrong. Alonzo flatters himself that we
+shall meet again! Yes, there! (_Lifting his hands to heaven._)--
+assuredly we shall meet again; there, possess in peace, the joys of
+everlasting love, and friendship--on earth imperfect and embittered. I will
+retire, lest the guard return before Alonzo may have passed their lines.
+[_Retires into the cavern._
+
+ACT V
+
+SCENE I.--_A thick forest. A dreadful storm._ CORA _has covered her
+child in a bed of leaves and moss,_ R. U. E.
+
+CORA. (_Sitting on bank by child,_ R.)--Oh, Nature! thou hast not the
+strength of love. My anxious spirit is untired in its march; my wearied
+shivering frame sinks under it. And for thee, my boy, when faint beneath
+thy lovely burden, could I refuse to give thy slumbers that poor bed of
+rest! Oh, my child! were I assured thy poor father breathes no more, how
+quickly would I lay me down by thy dear side!--but down--down forever!
+(_Thunder and lightning._) I ask thee not, unpitying storm to abate
+thy rage, in mercy to poor Cora's misery; nor while thy thunders spare his
+slumbers, will I disturb my sleeping cherub, though Heaven knows I wish to
+hear the voice of life, and feel that life is near me. But I will endure
+all while what I have of reason holds. (_Thunder and lightning._)
+Still, still implacable!--unfeeling elements! yet still dost thou sleep,
+my smiling innocent! Oh, Death! when wilt thou grant to this babe's mother
+such repose? Sure I may shield thee better from the storm: my veil may--
+
+ALON. (_Without_ L.)--Cora!
+
+CORA (_Runs to_ C.) Ha!
+
+ALON.--Cora!
+
+CORA--Oh, my heart. Sweet Heaven, deceive me not. Is it not Alonzo's voice?
+
+ALON. (_Louder_)--Cora!
+
+CORA (L. C.)--It is--it is Alonzo!
+
+ALON. (_Very loud_) Cora! my beloved!
+
+CORA (L.) Alonzo! Here!--here!--Alonzo!
+
+[_Runs out._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+THE BATTLE OF AGINCOURT.
+
+The King is reported to have dismounted before the battle commenced, and to
+have fought on foot.
+
+Hollinshed states that the English army consisted of 15,000, and the French
+of 60,000 horse and 40,000 infantry--in all, 100,000. Walsingham and
+Harding represent the English as but 9,000, and other authors say that the
+number of French amounted to 150,000. Fabian says the French were 40,000,
+and the English only 7,000. The battle lasted only three hours.
+
+The noble Duke of Gloucester, the king's brother, pushing himself too
+vigorously on his horse into the conflict, was grievously wounded, and cast
+down to the earth, by the blows of the French, for whose protection the
+King being interested, he bravely leapt against his enemies in defence of
+his brother, defended him with his own body, and plucked and guarded him
+from the raging malice of the enemy, sustaining perils of war scarcely
+possible to be borne.
+
+_Nicolas's History of Agincourt_.
+
+During the battle the Duke of Alençon most valiantly broke through the
+English lines, and advanced fighting near the King--inasmuch that he
+wounded and struck down the Duke of York. King Henry seeing this stepped
+forth to his aid, and as he was leaning down to aid him the Duke of Alençon
+gave him a blow on his helmet that struck off part of his crown. The King's
+guards on this surrounded him, when seeing he could no way escape death but
+by surrendering, he lifted up his arms and said to the King, "I am the Duke
+of Alençon, and yield myself to you." But as the King was holding out his
+hand to receive his pledge he was put to death by the guards.
+
+_Monstrelet._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+GLOSTER, BEDFORD, EXETER, SALISBURY, ERPINGHAM,
+_and_ WESTMORELAND _discovered_.
+
+  GLO. Where is the king?
+
+  BED. The king himself is rode to view their battle.
+
+  WEST. Of fighting men they have full threescore thousand.
+
+  EXE. There's five to one; besides they're all fresh.
+'Tis a fearful odds.
+If we no more meet till we meet in heaven,
+Then joyfully my noble lord of Bedford,
+My dear Lord Gloster, and my good Lord Exeter
+And my kind kinsman, warriors all--adieu!
+
+  WEST. O that we now had here
+
+        _Enter_ KING HENRY, _attended_.
+
+But one ten thousand of those men in England
+That do no work to-day!
+
+  K. HEN. What's he that wishes so?
+My cousin Westmoreland?--No, my fair cousin:
+If we are mark'd to die, we are enow
+To do our country loss; and if to live,
+The fewer men the greater share of honour.
+O, do not wish one more;
+Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,
+That he which hath no stomach to this fight
+Let him depart; his passport shall be made,
+And crowns for convoy put into his purse;
+We would not die in that man's company
+That fears his fellowship to die with us.
+This day is call'd the feast of Crispian:
+He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
+Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam'd,
+And rouse him at the name of Crispian,
+He that outlives this day, and sees old age,
+Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
+And say to-morrow is Saint Crispian:
+Then will he strip his sleeve, and show his scars;
+And say, these wounds I had on Crispin's day
+Then shall our names,
+Familiar in their mouths as household words,--
+Harry, the king, Bedford and Exeter,
+Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloster,--
+Be in their flowing cups freshly remember'd:
+This story shall the good man teach his son:
+And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,
+From this day to the ending of the world,
+But we in it shall be remember'd:
+We few, we happy few, we band of brothers:
+For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
+Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile
+This day shall gentle his condition;
+And gentlemen in England, now a-bed,
+Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here;
+And hold their manhoods cheap, whiles any speaks
+That fought with us upon St. Crispin's day.
+
+          _Enter_ GOWER.
+
+  GOWER. My sovereign lord, bestow yourself with speed
+The French are bravely in their battles set,
+And will with all expedience charge on us.
+
+  K. HEN. All things are ready, if our minds be so.
+
+  WEST. Perish the man whose mind is backward now!
+
+  K. HEN. Thou dost not wish more help from England,
+coz?
+
+  WEST. Heaven's will, my liege, I would you and I alone,
+Without more help could fight this royal battle!
+
+  K. HEN. Why, now thou hast unwish'd five thousand men;
+Which likes me better than to wish us one.--
+You know your places: God be with you all!
+
+         _Enter_ MONTJOY _and attendants._
+
+  MONT. Once more I come to know of thee, King Harry
+If for thy ransom thou wilt now compound,
+Before thy most assured overthrow:
+For, certainly, thou art so near the gulf
+Thou needs must be englutted. Besides, in mercy,
+The Constable desires thee thou wilt mind
+Thy followers of repentance; that their souls
+May make a peaceful and a sweet retire
+From off these fields, where (wretches) their poor bodies
+Must lie and fester.
+
+  K. HEN Who hath sent thee now?
+
+  MONT. The Constable of France.
+
+  K. HEN. I pray thee, bear my former answer back?
+Bid them achieve me, and then sell my bones.
+Good God! why should they mock poor fellows thus?
+The man that once did sell the lion's skin
+While the beast liv'd, was kill'd with hunting him.
+Let me speak proudly:--Tell the Constable,
+We are but warriors for the working-day;
+Our gayness and our gilt, are all besmirch'd
+With rainy marching in the painful field;
+There's not a piece of feather in our host
+(Good argument, I hope, we will not fly),
+And time hath worn us into slovenry;
+But, by the mass, our hearts are in the trim:
+And my poor soldiers tell me, yet ere night
+They'll be in fresher robes; or they will pluck
+The gay new coats o'er the French soldiers' heads,
+And turn them out of service. If they do this,
+(As if God please, they shall), my ransom then
+Will soon be levied. Herald, save thou thy labour;
+Come thou no more for ransom, gentle herald;
+They shall have none, I swear, but these my joints;
+Which if they have as I will leave 'em them
+Shall yield them little, tell the Constable.
+
+  MONT. I shall, King Harry. And so fare thee well:
+Thou never shalt hear herald any more. [_Exit._
+
+  K. HEN. I fear thou'lt once more come again for ransom.
+
+            _Enter the_ DUKE OF YORK.
+
+  YORK. My lord, most humbly on my knee I beg
+The leading of the vaward.
+
+  K. HEN. Take it, brave York--Now, soldiers, march away:--
+And how, thou pleasest God, dispose the day!
+
+              [_Exeunt._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+THE QUARREL OF BRUTUS AND CASSIUS.
+
+CASSIUS. That you have wronged me doth appear in this:
+You have condemned and noted Lucius Pella
+For taking bribes here of the Sardians;
+Wherein my letters (praying on his side,
+Because I knew the man) were slighted of.
+
+BRUTUS. You wronged yourself to write in such a case.
+
+CAS. In such a time as this it is not meet
+That every nice offence should bear its comment.
+
+BRU. Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself
+Are much condemned to have an itching palm;
+To sell and mart your offices for gold
+To undeservers.
+
+CAS. I an itching palm?
+You know that you are Brutus that speak this,
+Or by the gods! this speech were else your last.
+
+BRU. The name of Cassius honours this corruption,
+And chastisement doth therefore, hide its head.
+
+CAS. Chastisement!
+
+BRU. Remember March, the Ides of March remember!
+Did not great Julius bleed for justice sake?
+What! I shall one of us
+That struck the foremost man of all this world
+
+But for supporting robbers--shall we now
+Contaminate our fingers with base bribes,
+And sell the mighty space of our large honours
+For so much trash as may be graspéd thus?
+I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon,
+Than such a Roman.
+
+CAS. Brutus, bay not me.
+I'll not endure it. You forget yourself
+To hedge me in. I am a soldier, I,
+Older in practice, abler than yourself
+To make conditions.
+
+BRU. Go to, you are not, Cassius.
+
+CAS. I am.
+
+BRU. I say you are not.
+
+CAS. Urge me no more: I shall forget myself:
+Have mind upon your health; tempt me no farther.
+
+BRU. Away, slight man!
+
+CAS. I'st possible?
+
+BRU. Hear me, for I will speak.
+Must I give way and room to your rash choler?
+Shall I be frightened when a madman stares?
+
+CAS. Must I endure all this?
+
+BRU. All this! ay, more. Fret till your proud heart break.
+Go show your slaves how choleric you are,
+And make your bondmen tremble. Must I budge?
+Must I observe you? Must I stand and crouch
+Under your testy humour? By the gods!
+You shall digest the venom of your spleen,
+Though it do split you; for from this day forth
+I'll use you for my mirth, yea, for my laughter,
+When you are waspish.
+
+CAS. Is it come to this?
+
+BRU. You say you are a better soldier:
+Let it appear so; make your vaunting true;
+And it shall please me well. For mine own part,
+I shall be glad to learn of noble men.
+
+CAS. You wrong me every way, you wrong me, Brutus;
+I said an elder soldier, not a better.
+Did I say better?
+
+BRU. If you did, I care not.
+
+CAS. When Caesar lived, he durst not thus, have moved me.
+
+BRU. Peace, peace! You durst not so have tempted him.
+
+CAS. I _durst_ not?
+
+BRU. No.
+
+CAS. What _durst_ not tempt him?
+
+BRU. For your life you durst not.
+
+CAS. Do not presume too much upon my love;
+I may do that I shall be sorry for.
+
+BRU. You _have_ done that you _should_ be sorry for.
+There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats,
+For I am arm'd so strong in honesty,
+That they pass by me as the idle wind
+Which I respect not. I did send to you
+For certain sums of gold, which you denied me;
+For I can raise no money by vile means.
+By heavens! I had rather coin my heart,
+And drop my blood for drachmas, than wring
+From the hard hands of peasants their vile trash
+By any indirection. I did send
+To you for gold to pay my legions,
+Which you denied me! Was that done like Cassius?
+Should I have answered Caius Cassius so?
+When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous,
+To lock such rascal counters from his friends,
+Be ready, gods! with all your thunderbolts
+Dash him to pieces.
+
+CAS. I denied you not.
+
+BRU. You did.
+
+CA. I did not: he was but a fool
+That brought my answer back. Brutus hath rived my heart,
+A friend should bear a friend's infirmities;
+But Brutus makes mine greater than they are.
+
+BRU. I do not till you practise them on me.
+
+CAS. You love me not.
+
+BRU. I do not like your faults.
+
+CAS. A friendly eye could never see such faults.
+
+BRU. A flatterer's would not, though they did appear
+As huge as high Olympus.
+
+CAS. Come, Antony! and young Octavius, come!
+Revenge yourself alone on Cassius,
+For Cassius is a-weary of the world--
+Hated by one he loves; braved by his brother;
+Check'd like a bondman; all his faults observed,
+Set in a note-book, learn'd and conn'd by rote,
+To cast into my teeth. Oh, I could weep
+My spirit from mine eyes! There is my dagger,
+And here my naked breast--within, a heart
+Dearer than Plutus' mine, richer than gold:
+If that thou need'st a Roman's, take it forth!
+I, that denied thee gold, will give my heart.
+Strike as thou didst at Caesar; for I know
+When thou didst hate him worst, thou lovedst him better
+Than ever thou lovedst Cassius.
+
+BRU. Sheath your dagger;
+Be angry when you will, it shall have scope;
+Do what you will, dishonour shall be humour.
+O, Cassius, you are yokéd with a man
+That carries anger as the flint bears fire,
+Who, much enforcèd, shows a hasty spark,
+And straight is cold again.
+
+CAS. Hath Cassius lived
+To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus,
+When grief and blood ill-tempered vexeth him?
+
+BRU. When I spoke that, I was ill-tempered too.
+
+CAS. Do you confess so much? Give me your hand.
+
+BRU. And my heart too. (_Embracing._)
+
+CAS. O, Brutus!
+
+BRU. What's the matter?
+
+CAS. Have you not love enough to bear with me,
+When that rash humour which my mother gave me
+Makes me forgetful?
+
+BRIT. Yes, Cassius, and from henceforth,
+When you are over-earnest with your Brutus,
+He'll think your mother chides, and leave you so.
+
+_Shakespeare._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+SCENES FROM HAMLET.
+
+HAMLET _and_ GHOST _discovered_.
+
+  HAMLET, (C) Whither wilt thou lead me? speak!
+I'll go no further.
+
+  GHOST. (L. C.) Mark me.
+
+  HAM. (R. C.) I will.
+
+  GHOST. My hour is almost come
+When I to sulph'rous and tormenting flames
+Must render up myself.
+
+  HAM. Alas, poor ghost!
+
+  GHOST. Pity me not; but lend thy serious hearing
+To what I shall unfold.
+
+  HAM. Speak, I am bound to hear.
+
+  GHOST. So art thou to revenge, when thou shalt hear.
+
+  HAM. What?
+
+  GHOST. I am thy father's spirit:
+Doomed for a certain term to walk the night;
+And, for the day, confined to fast in fires,
+Till the foul crimes, done in my days of nature,
+Are burnt and purged away. But that I am forbid
+To tell the secrets of my prison-house,
+I could a tale unfold, whose lightest word
+Would harrow up thy soul; freeze thy young blood;
+Make thy two eyes, like stars, start from their spheres,
+Thy knotted and combined locks to part,
+And each particular hair to stand on end,
+Like quills upon the fretful porcupine:
+But this eternal blazon must not be
+To ears of flesh and blood: List, list, oh, list!--
+If thou didst ever thy dear father love--
+
+  HAM. Oh, heaven!
+
+  GHOST. Revenge his foul and most unnatural murder.
+
+  HAM. Murder!
+
+  GHOST. Murder most foul, as in the best it is;
+But this most foul, strange, and unnatural.
+
+  HAM. Haste me to know it, that I, with wings as swift
+As meditation, or the thoughts of love,
+May sweep to my revenge.
+
+  GHOST. I find thee apt.
+Now, Hamlet, hear:
+Tis given out, that sleeping in my orchard,
+A serpent stung me; so that the whole ear of Denmark
+Is, by a forged process of my death,
+Rankly abused: but know, thou noble youth,
+The serpent that did sting thy father's life
+Now wears his crown.
+
+  HAM. Oh, my prophetic soul! my uncle?
+
+  GHOST. Ay, that incestuous, that adulterate beast,
+With witchcraft of his wit, with traitorous gifts,
+Won to his shameful lust
+The will of my most seeming-virtuous queen:
+Oh, Hamlet, what a falling off was there!
+From me, whose love was of that dignity,
+That it went hand in hand, even with the vow
+I made to her in marriage; and to decline
+Upon a wretch, whose natural gifts were poor
+To those of mine!--
+But, soft, methinks I scent the morning air--
+Brief let me be:--sleeping within mine orchard,
+My custom always of the afternoon,
+Upon my secure hour thy uncle stole,
+With juice of cursed hebenon in a phial,
+And in the porches of mine ears did pour
+The leperous distilment: whose effect
+Holds such an enmity with blood of man,
+That swift as quicksilver it courses through
+The natural gates and alleys of the body;
+So it did mine.
+Thus was I, sleeping, by a brother's hand,
+Of life, of crown, of queen, at once despatched
+Cut off, even in the blossoms of my sin,
+No reck'ning made, but sent to my account
+With all my imperfections on my head.
+
+  HAM. Oh, horrible! Oh, horrible! most horrible!
+
+  GHOST. It thou hast nature in thee, bear it not;
+Let not the royal bed of Denmark be
+A couch for luxury and damned incest,
+But, howsoever thou pursu'st this act,
+Taint not thy mind, nor let thy soul contrive
+Against thy mother aught; leave her to Heaven,
+And to those thorns that in her bosom lodge,
+To goad and sting her. Fare thee well at once
+The glow-worm shows the matin to be near,
+And 'gins to pale his uneffectual fire.
+Adieu, adieu, adieu! remember me. (_Vanishes_, L. C)
+
+  HAM. (R.) Hold, hold, my heart;
+And you my sinews, grow not instant old,
+But bear me stiffly up. (C.) Remember thee?
+Ay, thou poor ghost, while memory holds a seat
+In this distracted globe. Remember thee?
+Yea, from the table of my memory
+I'll wipe away all forms, all pressures past,
+And thy commandment all alone shall live
+Within the book and volume of my brain,
+Unmixed with baser matter; yes, by heaven,
+I have sworn it.
+
+_Shakespeare._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+HAMLET'S ADVICE TO THE PLAYERS.
+
+HAMLET _and_ PLAYER _discovered._
+
+  HAMLET. Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced
+it to you, trippingly on the tongue; but if you mouth
+it, as many of our players do, I had as lieve the town-crier
+spoke my lines. Nor do not saw the air too much with your
+hand thus; but use all gently: for in the very torrent,
+tempest, and, as I may say, whirlwind of your passion,
+you must acquire and beget a temperance that may give
+it smoothness. Oh, it offends me to the soul, to hear a
+robustious, periwig-pated fellow tear a passion to tatters,
+to very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings; who,
+for the most part, are capable of nothing but inexplicable
+dumb shows, and noise! I would have such a fellow
+whipped for o'erdoing Termagant; it out-herods Herod
+pray you avoid it.
+
+  1ST ACT. (R.) I warrant your honour.
+
+  HAM. Be not too tame, neither; but let your own discretion
+be your tutor: suit the action to the word, and
+the word to the action; with this special observance, that
+you o'erstep not the modesty of nature: for anything so
+overdone is from the purpose of playing, whose end, both
+at the first and now, was and is, to hold, as 'twere, the
+mirror up to nature; to show virtue her own feature,
+scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the
+time, his form and pressure. Now this, over done, or
+come tardy off, though it make the unskillful laugh, can
+not but make the judicious grieve; the censure of which
+one, must, in your allowance, o'erweigh a whole theatre of
+others. Oh, there be players that I have seen play--and
+heard others praise, and that highly--not to speak it profanely,
+that neither having the accent of Christians, nor
+the gait of Christian, Pagan, or man, have so strutted,
+and bellowed, that I have thought some of nature's journeymen
+had made men, and not made them well, they
+imitated humanity so abominably.
+
+ 1ST ACT. I hope we have reformed that indifferently
+with us.
+
+  HAM. (C.) Oh, reform it altogether. And let those that
+play your clowns speak no more than is set down for
+them: for there be of them that will themselves laugh, to
+set on some quantity of barren spectators to laugh too;
+though, in the mean time, some necessary question of the
+play be then to be considered: that's villainous; and shows
+a most pitiful ambition in the fool that uses it. Go, make
+you ready. Horatio! (_Exit 1st Actor_, L.)
+
+               _Enter_ HORATIO, R.
+
+  HORATIO, (R.)--Here, sweet lord, at your service.
+
+  HAM.--Horatio, thou art e'en as just a man
+As e'er my conversation coped withal.
+
+  HOR.--Oh, my dear lord!--
+
+  HAM.--Nay, do not think I flatter:
+For what advancement may I hope from thee,
+That no revenue hast, but thy good spirits,
+To feed and clothe thee? Why should the poor be flattered?
+No, let the candid tongue lick absurd pomp,
+And crook the pregnant hinges of the knee,
+Where thrift may follow fawning. Dost thou hear?
+Since my dear soul was mistress of her choice,
+And could of men distinguish her election,
+She hath sealed thee for herself; for thou hast been
+As one, in suffering all, that suffers nothing;
+A man, that fortune's buffets and rewards
+Hast tae'n with equal thanks: and blessed are those
+Whose blood and judgment are so well commingled,
+That they are not a pipe for fortune's finger
+To sound what stop she please; give me that man
+That is not passion's slave, and I will wear him
+In my heart's core, aye, in my heart of heart,
+As I do thee. Something too much of this.
+There is a play to-night before the king
+One scene of it comes near the circumstance
+Which I have told thee of my father's death.
+I prithee, when thou seest that act afoot,
+Even with the very comment of thy soul
+Observe mine uncle; if his occulted guilt
+Do not itself unkennel in one speech,
+It is a damned ghost that we have seen,
+And my imaginations are as foul
+As Vulcan's stithy; give him heedful note.
+For I mine eyes will rivet to his face,
+And, after, we will both our judgments join
+In censure of his seeming.
+
+  HOR.--Well, my lord.
+
+  HAM--They are coming to the play, I must be idle.
+Get you a place         (_Goes and stands_, R)
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+ HAMLET AND HIS MOTHER.
+
+  HAMLET--Leave wringing of your hands, peace, sit you down,
+And let me wring your heart, for so I shall,
+If it be made of penetrable stuff;
+If damnéd custom have not brassed it so,
+That it be proof and bulwark against sense.
+
+  QUEEN--What have I done, that thou dar'st wag thy tongue
+In noise so rude against me?
+
+  HAM--Such an act,
+That blurs the grace and blush of modesty;
+Calls virtue, hypocrite, takes off the rose
+From the fair forehead of an innocent love,
+And sets a blister there; makes marriage-vows
+As false as dicers' oaths: O, such a deed
+As from the body of contraction plucks
+The very soul; and sweet religion makes
+A rhapsody of words: Heaven's face doth glow;
+Yea, this solidity and compound mass,
+With tristful visage, as against the doom,
+Is thought-sick at the act.
+
+  QUEEN.--Ah me, what act,
+That roars so loud, and thunders in the index?
+
+  HAM.--Look here, upon this picture, and on this;
+The counterfeit presentment of two brothers.
+See, what a grace was seated on this brow:
+Hyperion's curls; the front of Jove himself;
+An eye like Mars, to threaten and command;
+A station like the herald Mercury
+New-lighted on a heaven-kissing hill;
+A combination, and a form, indeed,
+Where every god did seem to set his seal,
+To give the world assurance of a man:
+This was your husband.--Look you now, what follows:
+Here is your husband; like a mildewed ear,
+Blasting his wholesome brother. Have you eyes?
+Could you on this fair mountain leave to feed,
+And batten on this moor? Ha! have you eyes?
+You cannot call it love: for, at your age,
+The hey-day in the blood is tame, it's humble,
+And waits upon the judgment: and what judgment
+Would step from this to this? Sense, sure, you have,
+Else, could you not have motion: but, sure, that sense
+Is apoplexed: for madness would not err;
+Nor sense to ecstacy was ne'er so thralled,
+But it reserved some quantity of choice,
+To serve in such a difference. What devil was't
+That thus hath cozened you at hoodman-blind?
+Eyes without feeling, feeling without sight,
+Ears without hands or eyes, smelling, sans all,
+Or but a sickly part of one true sense
+Could not so mope.
+O shame! where is thy blush? Rebellious hell,
+If thou canst mutine in a matron's bones,
+To flaming youth let virtue be as wax,
+And melt in her own fire: proclaim no shame,
+When the compulsive ardour gives the charge;
+Since frost itself as actively doth burn,
+And reason panders will.
+
+  QUEEN.                   O Hamlet, speak no more:
+Thou turn'st mine eyes into my very soul;
+And there I see such black and grainéd spots
+As will not leave their tinct.
+                     O, speak to me no more:
+These words, like daggers, enter in mine ears;
+No more, sweet Hamlet!
+
+  HAM.                   A murderer, and a villain:
+A slave, that is not twentieth part the tithe
+Of your precedent lord; a vice of kings;
+A cutpurse of the empire and the rule,
+That from a shelf the precious diadem stole,
+And put it in his pocket.
+
+  QUEEN.                              No more.
+
+                    _Enter_ GHOST.
+
+  HAM. A king of shreds and patches,--
+Save me, and hover o'er me with your wings,
+You heavenly guards!--What would your gracious figure?
+
+  QUEEN. Alas, he's mad!
+
+  HAM. Do you not come your tardy son to chide,
+That, lapsed in time and passion, lets go by
+The important acting of your dread command?
+O, say!
+
+  GHOST. Do not forget: this visitation
+Is but to whet thy almost blunted purpose.
+But look! amazement on thy mother sits:
+O, step between her and her fighting soul,
+Conceit in weakest bodies strongest works,
+Speak to her, Hamlet.
+
+  HAM.                  How is it with you, lady?
+
+  QUEEN. Alas, how is't with you,
+That you do bend your eye on vacancy,
+And with the incorporal air do hold discourse?
+Forth at your eyes your spirits wildly peep;
+And, as the sleeping soldiers in the alarm,
+Your bedded hair, like life in excrements,
+Starts up, and stands on end. O gentle son,
+Upon the heat and flame of thy distemper
+Sprinkle cool patience. Whereon do you look?
+
+  HAM. On him! on him! Look you, how pale he glares!
+His form and cause conjoined, preaching to stones,
+Would make them capable.--Do not look upon me;
+Lest, with this piteous action, you convert
+My stern effects: then what I have to do
+Will want true colour; tears, perchance for blood.
+
+  QUEEN. To whom do you speak this?
+
+  HAM. Do you see nothing there?
+
+  QUEEN. Nothing at all; yet all, that is, I see.
+
+  HAM. Nor did you nothing hear?
+
+  QUEEN. No, nothing, but ourselves.
+
+  HAM. Why, look you there! look, how it steals away!
+My father, in his habit as he lived!
+Look, where he goes, even now, out at the portal!
+
+               [_Exit_ GHOST.
+
+  QUEEN. This is the very coinage of your brain:
+This bodiless creation ecstasy
+Is very cunning in.
+
+  HAM. Ecstasy!
+My pulse, as yours, doth temperately keep time,
+And makes as healthful music: it is not madness
+That I have uttered: bring me to the test,
+And I the matter will re-word; which madness
+Would gambol from. Mother, for love of grace,
+Lay not that flattering unction to your soul,
+That not your trespass, but my madness, speaks:
+It will but skin and film the ulcerous place,
+Whilst rank corruption, mining all within,
+Infects unseen. Confess yourself to heaven;
+Repent what's past; avoid what is to come;
+And do not spread the compost on the weeds
+To make them ranker. Forgive me this my virtue;
+For in the fatness of these pursy times,
+Virtue itself of vice must pardon beg,
+Yea, curb and woo, for leave to do him good.
+
+  QUEEN. O Hamlet, thou hast cleft my heart in twain!
+
+  HAM. O, throw away the worser part of it,
+And live the purer with the other half.
+Good night: but go not to mine uncle's room;
+Assume a virtue, if you have it not
+Once more, good night:
+And when you are desirous to be blessed,
+I'll blessing beg of you.
+I must be cruel, only to be kind:
+Thus bad begins, and worse remains behind.
+
+_Shakespeare._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+MACBETH.
+
+ACT II.--SCENE I.
+
+  MACBETH. Is this a dagger which I see before me,
+The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee--
+I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.
+Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible
+To feeling, as to sight? or art thou but
+A dagger of the mind, a false creation,
+Proceeding from a heat-oppressed brain?
+I see thee yet, in form as palpable
+As this which now I draw.
+Thou marshal'st me the way that I was going,
+And such an instrument I was to use.
+Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses
+Or else worth all the rest: I see thee still;
+And on thy blade, and dudgeon, gouts of blood,
+Which was not so before,--There's no such thing:
+It is the bloody business, which informs
+Thus to mine eyes.--Now o'er the one-half world
+Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse
+The curtain'd sleep: witchcraft celebrates
+Pale Hecate's offerings: and wither'd murder,
+Alarum'd by his sentinel, the wolf,
+Whose howl's his watch thus with his stealthy pace,
+With Tarquin's ravishing strides, toward his design
+Moves like a ghost.--Thou sure and firm-set earth,
+Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear
+The very stones prate of my where-about,
+And take the present horror from the time,
+Which now suits with it.--Whilst I threat, he lives:
+Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives.
+
+                  [_A bell rings_.
+
+I go, and it is done; the bell invites me.
+Hear it not, Duncan; for it is a knell
+That summons thee to heaven, or to hell.       [_Exit_.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+SCENE II.--_The same._
+
+_Enter Lady Macbeth._
+
+  LADY M. That which hath made them drunk hath made me bold:
+What hath quench'd them hath given me fire:--
+Hark! Peace! It was the owl that shriek'd,
+The fatal bellman which gives the stern'st good night.
+He is about it: The doors are open;
+And the surfeited grooms do mock their charge with snores:
+I have drugged their possets,
+That death and nature do contend about them,
+Whether they live, or die.
+
+  MACB. [_Within,_] Who's there?--what, hoa!
+
+  LADY M. Alack! I am afraid they have awak'd,
+And 'tis not done:--the attempt, and not the deed,
+Confound us:--Hark!--I laid their daggers ready,
+He could not miss them.--Had he not resembled
+My father as he slept I had done't--My husband!
+
+                 _Enter Macbeth._
+
+  MACB. I have done the deed:--Didst thou not hear a noise?--
+
+  LADY M. I heard the owl scream, and the crickets cry.
+Did you not speak?         MACB. When?
+
+  LADY M. Now.
+
+  MACB. As I descended?
+
+  LADY M. Ay.             MACB. Hark!--
+Who lies i' the second chamber?
+
+  LADY M. Donalbain.
+
+  MACB. This is a sorry sight. [_Looking on his hands._
+
+  LADY M. A foolish thought, to say a sorry sight.
+
+  MACB. There's one did laugh in his sleep,
+And one cried "murther!" that they did wake each other;
+I stood and heard them: but they did say their prayers,
+And address'd them again to sleep.
+
+  LADY M. There are two lodg'd together.
+
+  MACB. One cried, "God bless us!" and "Amen," the other;
+As they had seen me, with these hangman's hands.
+Listening their fear, I could not say, "Amen,"
+When they did say, God bless us.
+
+  LADY M. Consider it not so deeply.
+
+  MACB. But wherefore could I not pronounce, "Amen?"
+I had most need of blessing, and "Amen"
+Stuck in my throat.
+
+  LADY M. These deeds must not be thought
+After these ways; so, it will make us mad.
+
+  MACB. Methought, I heard a voice cry, "Sleep no more!
+Macbeth does murther sleep,"--the innocent sleep;
+Sleep, that knits up the ravell'd sleeve of care,
+The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath,
+Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course,
+Chief nourisher in life's feast.
+
+  LADY M. What do you mean?
+
+  MACB. Still it cried, "Sleep no more!" to all the house:
+"Glamis hath murther'd sleep: and therefore Cawdor
+Shall sleep no more, Macbeth shall sleep no more!"
+
+  LADY M. Who was it that thus cried? Why, worthy thane,
+You do unbend your noble strength, to think
+So brainsickly of things--Go, get some water,
+And wash this filthy witness from your hand.--
+Why did you bring these daggers from the place?
+They must lie there: go, carry them; and smear
+The sleepy grooms with blood.
+
+  MACB.                         I'll go no more
+I am afraid to think what I have done;
+Look on't again I dare not.
+
+  LADY M.                     Infirm of purpose!
+Give me the daggers; the sleeping, and the dead,
+Are but as pictures: 'tis the eye of childhood
+That fears a painted devil. If he do bleed,
+I'll gild the faces of the grooms withal,
+For it must seem their guilt.
+
+                              [_Exit. Knocking within._
+
+  MACB.                         Whence is that knocking?
+How is't with me, when every noise appals me?
+What hands are here? Ha! they pluck out mine eyes!
+Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood
+Clean from my hand? No; this my hand will rather
+The multitudinous seas incarnardine,
+Making the green one red.
+
+                _Re-enter Lady Macbeth._
+
+  LADY M. My hands are of your colour; but I shame
+To wear a heart so white. [_Knock_.] I hear a knocking
+At the south entry:--retire we to our chamber;
+A little water clears us of this deed;
+How easy is it then! Your constancy
+Hath left you unattended.--[_Knocking_.] Hark! more knocking:
+Get on your nightgown, lest occasion call us,
+And show us to be watchers:--Be not lost
+So poorly in your thoughts.
+
+  MACB. To know my deed, 'twere best not to know myself.
+                        [_Knocking_
+Wake Duncan with thy knocking; I would thou could'st'
+                [_Exeunt._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+SLEEP-WALKING SCENE FROM MACBETH.
+
+ACT V.
+
+SCENE I.--_Dunsinane. A Room in the Castle.
+
+Enter a Doctor of Physic, and a waiting Gentlewoman._
+
+DOCT. I have two nights watched with you, but can perceive no truth in your
+report. When was it she last walked?
+
+GENT. Since his majesty went into the field, I have seen her rise from her
+bed, throw her nightgown upon her, unlock her closet, take forth paper,
+fold it, write upon it, read it, afterwards seal it, and again return to
+bed; yet all this while in a most fast sleep.
+
+DOCT. A great perturbation in nature! to receive at once the benefit of
+sleep, and do the effects of watching.--In this slumbery agitation,
+besides her walking and other actual performances, what, at any time, have
+you heard her say?
+
+GENT. That, sir, which I will not report after her.
+
+DOCT. You may to me; and 'tis most meet you should.
+
+GENT. Neither to you, nor any one; having no witness to confirm my speech.
+
+_Enter Lady Macbeth, with a taper._
+
+Lo you, here she comes! This is her very guise; and, upon my life, fast
+asleep. Observe her: stand close.
+
+DOCT. How came she by that light?
+
+GENT. Why, it stood by her: she has light by her continually; 'tis her
+command.
+
+DOCT. You see, her eyes are open.
+
+GENT. Ay, but their sense is shut.
+
+DOCT. What is it she does now? Look how she rubs her hands.
+
+GENT. It is an accustomed action with her, to seem thus washing her hands.
+I have known her continue in this a quarter of an hour.
+
+LADY M. Yet here's a spot.
+
+DOCT. Hark, she speaks: I will set down what comes from her, to satisfy my
+remembrance the more strongly.
+
+LADY M. Out, damned spot! out, I say!--One; Two: Why, then 'tis time to do
+'t!--Hell is murky!--Fie, my lord, fie! a soldier, and afeared! What need
+we fear who knows it, when none can call our power to account?--Yet who
+would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him!
+
+DOCT. Do you mark that?
+
+LADY M. The thane of Fife had a wife: where is she now?--What, will these
+hands ne'er be clean?--No more o' that, my lord, no more o' that: you mar
+all with this starting.
+
+DOCT. Go to, go to; you have known what you should not.
+
+GENT. She has spoke what she should not, I am sure of that: Heaven knows
+what she has known.
+
+LADY M. Here's the smell of the blood still; all the perfumes of Arabia
+will not sweeten this little hand. Oh! oh! oh!
+
+DOCT. What a sigh is there! The heart is sorely charged.
+
+GENT. I would not have such a heart in my bosom, for the dignity of the
+whole body.
+
+DOCT. Well, well, well,--
+
+GENT. Pray God it be, sir.
+
+DOCT. This disease is beyond my practice: yet I have known those which have
+walked in their sleep who have died holily in their beds.
+
+LADY M. Wash your hands, put on your nightgown; look not so pale:--I tell
+you yet again, Banquo's buried; he cannot come out on's grave.
+
+DOCT. Even so?
+
+LADY M. To bed, to bed; there's knocking at the gate. Come, come, come,
+come, give me your hand. What's done cannot be undone: To bed, to bed, to
+bed.
+
+_Exit Lady Macbeth._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+KING JOHN.
+
+ACT III.
+
+SCENE III.
+
+KING JOHN _and_ HUBERT.
+
+  K. JOHN. Come hither, Hubert. O my gentle Hubert.
+We owe thee much; within this wall of flesh
+There is a soul counts thee her creditor,
+And with advantage means to pay thy love:
+And, my good friend, thy voluntary oath
+Lives in this bosom, dearly cherished.
+Give me thy hand. I had a thing to say,--
+But I will fit it with some better time.
+By heaven, Hubert, I am almost asham'd
+To say what good respect I have of thee.
+
+  HUB. I am much bounden to your majesty.
+
+  K. JOHN. Good friend, thou hast no cause to say so yet;
+But thou shalt have; and creep time ne'er so slow,
+Yet it shall come for me to do thee good.
+I had a thing to say,--but let it go:
+The sun is in the heaven, and the proud day,
+Attended with the pleasures of the world,
+Is all too wanton and too full of gauds,
+To give me audience:--If the midnight bell
+Did, with his iron tongue and brazen mouth,
+Sound on into the drowsy race of night;
+If this same were a church-yard where we stand,
+And thou possessed with a thousand wrongs;
+Or if that surly spirit, melancholy,
+Had bak'd thy blood, and made it heavy--thick,
+(Which else, runs tickling up and down the veins,
+Making that idiot, laughter, keep men's eyes,
+And strain their cheeks to idle merriment,
+A passion hateful to my purposes;)
+Or if that thou could'st see me without eyes,
+Hear me without thine ears, and make reply
+Without a tongue, using conceit alone.
+Without eyes, ears, and harmful sound of words;
+Then, in despite of brooded, watchful day,
+I would into thy bosom pour my thoughts:
+But ah, I will not:--Yet I love thee well:
+And, by my troth, I think, thou lov'st me well.
+
+  HUB. So well, that what you bid me undertake,
+Though that my death were adjunct to my act,
+By heaven, I would do it.
+
+  K. JOHN. Do not I know thou would'st?
+Good Hubert, Hubert, Hubert, throw thine eye
+On yon young boy; I'll tell thee what, my friend,
+He is a very serpent in my way;
+And wheresoe'er this foot of mine doth tread
+He lies before me: Dost thou understand me?
+Thou art his keeper.      HUB. And I'll keep him so,
+That he shall not offend your majesty.
+
+  K. JOHN. Death.       HUB. My lord?
+
+  K. JOHN. A grave.      HUB. He shall not live.
+
+  K. JOHN. Enough.
+I could be merry now: Hubert, I love thee.
+Well, I'll not say what I intend for thee:
+Remember.--
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+ACT IV.
+
+SCENE I.
+
+HUBERT _and_ ARTHUR.
+
+  HUB. Heat me these irons hot; and look thou stand
+Within the arras; when I strike my foot
+Upon the bosom of the ground, rush forth,
+And bind the boy, which you will find with me,
+Fast to the chair: be heedful: hence, and watch.
+
+  1. ATTEND. I hope your warrant will bear out the deed.
+
+  HUB. Uncleanly scruples! Fear not you: look to't.--
+
+                    _Exeunt_ Attendants.
+
+Young lad, come forth; I have to say with you.
+
+               _Enter Arthur._
+
+  ARTH. Good morrow, Hubert.
+
+  HUB. Good morrow, little prince.
+
+  ARTH. As little prince (having so great a title
+To be more prince), as may be.--You are sad.
+
+  HUB. Indeed, I have been merrier.
+
+  ARTH. Mercy on me!
+Methinks, nobody should be sad but I:
+Yet, I remember, when I was in France,
+Young gentlemen would be as sad as night,
+Only for wantonness. By my christendom,
+So I were out of prison, and kept sheep,
+I should be as merry as the day is long;
+And so I would be here, but that I doubt
+My uncle practises more harm to me:
+He is afraid of me, and I of him:
+Is it my fault that I was Geffrey's son?
+No, indeed, is 't not; And I would to heaven
+I were your son, so you would love me, Hubert.
+
+  HUB. If I talk to him, with his innocent prate
+He will awake my mercy, which lies dead:
+Therefore I will be sudden, and despatch. [_Aside._
+
+  ARTH. Are you sick, Hubert? you look pale to-day:
+In sooth, I would you were a little sick;
+That I might sit all night, and watch with you;
+I warrant I love you more than you do me.
+
+  HUB. His words do take possession of my bosom.--
+Read here, young Arthur             [_Shewing a paper._
+
+How now, foolish rheum.            [_Aside._
+Turning dispiteous torture out of door!
+I must be brief; lest resolution drop
+Out at mine eyes, in tender womanish tears.
+Can you not read it? is it not fair writ?
+
+  ARTH. Too fairly, Hubert, for so foul effect:
+Must you with hot irons burn out both mine eyes?
+
+  HUB. Young boy, I must.       ARTH. And will you?
+
+  HUB. And I will.
+
+  ARTH. Have you the heart? When your head did but ake,
+I knit my hand-kercher about your brows,
+(The best I had, a princess wrought it me),
+And I did never ask it you again;
+And with my hand at midnight held your head;
+And, like the watchful minutes to the hour,
+Still and anon cheer'd up the heavy time;
+Saying, What lack you? and, Where lies your grief?
+Or, What good love may I perform for you?
+Many a poor man's son would have lain still,
+And ne'er have spoke a loving word to you;
+But you at your sick service had a prince.
+Nay, you may think my love was crafty love,
+And call it cunning; do, an if you will;
+If heaven be pleas'd that you must use me ill,
+Why, then you must.--Will you put out mine eyes?
+These eyes, that never did, nor never shall,
+So much as frown on you?
+
+  HUB. I have sworn to do it;
+And with hot irons must I burn them out.
+
+  ARTH. Ah, none, but in this iron age, would do it!
+The iron of itself, though heat red-hot,
+Approaching near these eyes, would drink my tears,
+And quench his fiery indignation,
+Even in the matter of mine innocence;
+Nay, after that, consume away in rust,
+But for containing fire to harm mine eye.
+Are you more stubborn-hard than hammer'd iron?
+And if an angel should have come to me,
+And told me, Hubert should put out mine eyes,
+I would not have believ'd him. No tongue but Hubert's--
+
+  HUB. Come forth. [_Stamps.
+
+       Re-enter_ Attendants, _with Cords, Irons, etc._
+
+Do as I bid you do.
+
+  ARTH. O, save me, Hubert, save me? my eyes are out,
+Even with the fierce looks of these bloody men.
+
+  HUB. Give me the iron, I say, and bind him here.
+
+  ARTH. Alas, what need you be so boist'rous rough?
+I will not struggle, I will stand stone-still.
+For heaven sake, Hubert, let me not be bound!
+Nay, hear me, Hubert! drive these men away,
+And I will sit as quiet as a lamb;
+I will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word,
+Nor look upon the iron angerly:
+Thrust but these men away, and I'll forgive you,
+Whatever torment you do put me to.
+
+  HUB. Go, stand within; let me alone with him.
+
+  IST. ATTEND. I am best pleas'd to be from such a deed.
+
+                        [_Exeunt_ Attendants.
+
+  ARTH. Alas! I then have chid away my friend;
+He hath a stern look, but a gentle heart:--
+Let him come back, that his compassion may
+Give life to yours.
+
+  HUB. Come, boy, prepare yourself.
+
+  ARTH. Is there no remedy?
+
+  HUB. None, but to lose your eyes.
+
+  ARTH. O heaven!--that there were a mote in yours,
+A grain, a dust, a gnat, a wandering hair,
+Any annoyance in that precious sense!
+Then, feeling what small things are boist'rous there,
+Your vile intent must needs seem horrible.
+
+  HUB. Is this your promise? go to, hold your tongue.
+
+  ARTH. Hubert, the utterance of a brace of tongues
+Must needs want pleading for a pair of eyes;
+Let me not hold my tongue; let me not, Hubert!
+Or, Hubert, if you will, cut out my tongue,
+So I may keep mine eyes. O, spare mine eyes;
+Though to no use, but still to look on you!
+Lo, by my troth, the instrument is cold,
+And would not harm me.
+
+  HUB. I can heat it, boy.
+
+  ARTH. No, in good sooth; the fire is dead with grief,
+Being create for comfort, to be us'd
+In undeserv'd extremes: See else yourself;
+There is no malice in this burning coal;
+The breath of heaven hath blown his spirit out,
+And strew'd repentant ashes on his head.
+
+  HUB. But with my breath I can revive it, boy.
+
+  ARTH. And if you do, you will but make it blush,
+And glow with shame of your proceedings, Hubert:
+Nay, it, perchance, will sparkle in your eyes;
+And, like a dog that is compelled to fight,
+Snatch at his master that doth tarre him on.
+All things that you should use to do me wrong
+Deny their office; only you do lack
+That mercy which fierce fire and iron extends,
+Creatures of note for mercy-lacking uses.
+
+  HUB. Well, see to live; I will not touch thine eyes
+For all the treasure that thine uncle owes;
+Yet I am sworn, and I did purpose, boy,
+With this same very iron to burn them out.
+
+  ARTH. O, now you look like Hubert! all this while
+You were disguised.
+
+  HUB. Peace: no more. Adieu;
+Your uncle must not know but you are dead;
+I'll fill these dogged spies with false reports.
+And, pretty child, sleep doubtless, and secure,
+That Hubert, for the wealth of all the world,
+Will not offend thee.
+
+  ARTH. O heaven!--I thank you, Hubert.
+
+  HUB Silence; no more: Go closely in with me.
+Much danger do I undergo for thee.        [_Exeunt_
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+ROMEO AND JULIET.
+
+BALCONY SCENE.
+
+  ROMEO. He jests at scars that never felt a wound.
+
+         [JULIET _appears on the Balcony, and sits down._
+
+But soft! What light through yonder window breaks?
+It is the east, and Juliet is the sun!
+Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,
+Who is already sick and pale with grief,
+That thou her maid, art far more fair than she.
+"It is my lady; Oh! it is my love:
+Oh, that she knew she were!"
+She speaks, yet she says nothing: what of that?
+Her eye discourses: I will answer it.
+I am too bold. Oh, were those eyes in heaven,
+They would through the airy region stream so bright,
+That birds would sing, and think it were not night.
+See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand!
+Oh, that I were a glove upon that hand,
+That I might touch that cheek!
+
+  JULIET. Ah, me!
+
+  ROMEO. She speaks, she speaks!
+Oh, speak again, bright angel! for thou art
+As glorious to this night, being o'er my head,
+As is a winged messenger of heaven
+To the upturned wond'ring eyes of mortals,
+When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds,
+And sails upon the bosom of the air.
+
+  JULIET. Oh, Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo?
+Deny thy father, and refuse thy name:
+Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,
+And I'll no longer be a Capulet.
+
+  ROMEO. Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?
+
+  JULIET. 'Tis but thy name that is my enemy!
+What's in a name? that which we call a rose,
+By any other name would smell as sweet;
+So Romeo would, were he not Romeo called,
+Retain that dear perfection which he owes
+Without that title! Romeo, doff thy name;
+And for that name, which is no part of thee,
+Take all myself.
+
+  ROMEO. I take thee at thy word!
+Call me but love, I will forswear my name
+And never more be Romeo.
+
+  JULIET. What man art thou, that, thus bescreened in night
+So stumblest on my counsel?
+
+  ROMEO. By a name I know not how to tell thee who I am!
+My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself,
+Because it is an enemy to thee.
+
+  JULIET. My ears have not yet drunk a hundred words
+Of that tongue's uttering, yet I know the sound!
+Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague?
+
+  ROMEO. Neither, fair saint, if either thee dislike.
+
+  JULIET. How cam'st thou hither?--tell me--and for what?
+The orchard walls are high, and hard to climb;
+And the place, death, considering who thou art,
+If any of my kinsmen find thee here.
+
+  ROMEO. With love's light wings did I o'er-perch these walls;
+For stony limits cannot hold love out;
+And what love can do, that dares love attempt;
+Therefore thy kinsmen are no stop to me.
+
+  JULIET. If they do see thee here, they'll murder thee.
+
+  ROMEO. Alack, there lies more peril in thine eye,
+Than twenty of their swords! look thou but sweet,
+And I, am proof against their enmity.
+
+  JULIET. I would not, for the world, they saw thee here.
+By whose direction found'st thou out this place?
+
+  ROMEO. By love, who first did prompt me to inquire;
+He lent me counsel, and I lent him eyes.
+I am no pilot; yet wert thou as far
+As that vast shore washed by the farthest sea,
+I would adventure for such merchandise.
+
+  JULIET. Thou know'st, the mask of night is on my face,
+Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek,
+For that which thou hast heard me speak to-night!
+Fain would I dwell on form; fain, fain deny
+What I have spoke! But farewell compliment!
+Dost thou love me? I know thou wilt say--Ay;
+And I will take thy word! yet, if thou swear'st,
+Thou may'st prove false; at lover's perjuries,
+They say, Jove laughs. Oh, gentle Romeo,
+If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully!
+Or, if thou think'st I am too quickly won,
+I'll frown, and be perverse, and say thee nay,
+So thou wilt woo! but else, not for the world.
+In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond:
+And therefore thou may'st think my 'haviour light!
+But trust me, gentleman, I'll prove more true
+Than those that have more cunning to be strange.
+I should have been more strange, I must confess,
+But that thou overheard'st ere I was ware,
+My true love's passion; therefore, pardon me,
+And not impute this yielding to light love,
+Which the dark night has so discovered.
+
+  ROMEO. Lady, by yonder blessed moon I swear--
+
+  JULIET. Oh! swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon
+That monthly changes in her circled orb;
+Lest that thy love prove likewise variable.
+ROMEO. What shall I swear by?
+
+  JULIET. Do not swear at all;
+Or, if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self,
+Which is the god of my idolatry,
+And I'll believe thee.
+
+  ROMEO. If my true heart's love--
+
+  JULIET. Well, do not swear! Although I joy in thee,
+I have no joy of this contract to-night;
+It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden,
+Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be,
+Ere one can say--'It lightens.' Sweet, good-night!
+This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath,
+May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet.
+Good-night, good-night!--as sweet repose and rest
+Come to thy heart, as that within my breast!
+
+  ROMEO. Oh, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?
+
+  JULIET. What satisfaction canst thou have to-night?
+
+  ROMEO. The exchange of thy love's faithful vow for mine.
+
+  JULIET. I gave thee mine before thou didst request it;
+And yet I would it were to give again.
+
+  ROMEO. Would'st thou withdraw it? for what purpose, love?
+
+  JULIET. But to be frank, and give it thee again.
+My bounty is as boundless as the sea;
+My love as deep; the more I give to thee,
+The more I have; for both are infinite.
+I hear some noise within. Dear love, adieu!
+
+  NURSE. [_Within_]--Madam!
+
+  JULIET. Anon, good Nurse! Sweet Montague, be true.
+Stay but a little, I will come again. [_Exit from balcony_.
+
+  ROMEO. Oh! blessed, blessed night! I am afeard,
+Being in night, all this is but a dream,
+Too flattering sweet to be substantial.
+
+_Re-enter Juliet, above_.
+
+  JULIET. Three words, dear Romeo, and good-night indeed.
+If that thy bent of love be honourable,
+Thy purpose marriage, send me word to-morrow,
+By one that I'll procure to come to thee,
+Where, and what time, thou wilt perform the rite;
+And all my fortunes at thy foot I'll lay;
+And follow thee, my lord, throughout the world.
+
+  NURSE. [_Within_]--Madam!
+
+  JULIET. I come anon! But, if thou mean'st not well,
+I do beseech thee--
+
+  NURSE. [_Within_]--Madam!
+
+  JULIET. By and by, I come!--
+To cease thy suit and leave me to my grief.
+To-morrow will I send.
+
+  ROMEO. So thrive my soul--
+
+  JULIET. A thousand times good-night! [_Exit_.]
+
+  ROMEO. A thousand times the worse to want thy light.
+
+_Re-enter Juliet_
+
+  JULIET. Hist! Romeo, hist! Oh, for a falconer's voice,
+To lure this tassel-gentle back again!
+Bondage is hoarse, and may not speak aloud;
+Else would I tear the cave where Echo lies,
+And make her airy tongue more hoarse than mine,
+With repetition of my Romeo's name.
+
+  ROMEO. It is my love that calls upon my name!
+How silver-sweet sound lovers' tongues by night,
+Like softest music to attending ears!
+
+  JULIET. Romeo!
+
+  ROMEO. My dear!
+
+  JULIET. At what o'clock to-morrow
+Shall I send to thee?
+
+  ROMEO. At the hour of nine.
+
+  JULIET. I will not fail: 'tis twenty years till then.
+I have forgot why I did call thee back.
+
+  ROMEO. Let me stand here till thou remember it.
+
+  JULIET. I shall forget, to have thee still stand there
+Remembering how I love thy company.
+
+  ROMEO. And I'll still stay, to have thee still forget,
+Forgetting any other home but this.
+
+  JULIET. 'Tis almost morning; I would have thee gone,
+And yet no further than a wanton's bird;
+Who lets it hop a little from her hand,
+And with a silk thread plucks it back again,
+So loving-jealous of its liberty.
+
+  ROMEO. I would I were thy bird.
+
+  JULIET. Sweet, so would I!
+Yet I should kill thee with much cherishing
+Good-night, good-night! Parting is such sweet sorrow
+That I shall say--Good-night, till it be morrow.
+
+[_Exit from balcony_]
+
+  ROMEO. Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast!
+Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest!
+Hence will I to my ghostly father's cell;
+His help to crave, and my dear hap to tell.
+
+_Shakespeare_
+
+      *       *       *       *       *
+
+THE POTION SCENE.
+
+(_Romeo and Juliet_.)
+
+JULIET'S CHAMBER.
+
+_Enter Juliet and Nurse_.
+
+  JULIET. Ay, those attires are best;--but gentle nurse.
+I pray thee, leave me to myself to-night;
+For I have need of many orisons
+To move the heavens to smile upon my state,
+Which, well thou know'st, is cross and full of sin.
+
+_Enter Lady Capulet_.
+
+  LADY C. What are you busy? Do you need my help?
+
+  JULIET. No, madam; we have culled such necessaries.
+As are behoveful for our state to-morrow:
+So please you, let me now be left alone,
+And let the nurse this night sit up with you;
+For, I am sure, you have your hands full all,
+In this so sudden business.
+
+  LADY C. Then, good-night!
+Get thee to bed, and rest! for thou hast need.
+
+                [_Exeunt Lady Capulet and Nurse_.
+
+  JULIET. Farewell!--Heaven knows when we shall meet again--
+I have a faint cold fear, thrills through my veins,
+That almost freezes up the heat of life:
+I'll call them back again to comfort me.
+Nurse!--What should she do here?
+My dismal scene I needs must act alone.
+                      [_Takes out the phial_.
+Come, phial--
+What if this mixture do not work at all?
+Shall I of force be married to the Count?
+No, no;--this shall forbid it!--[_Draws a dagger_.]--Lie thou there.--
+What, if it be a poison which the friar
+Subtly hath ministered to have me dead,
+Lest in this marriage he should be dishonoured,
+Because he married me before to Romeo?
+I fear it is; and yet, methinks it should not;
+For he hath still been tried a holy man.
+I will not entertain so bad a thought.--
+How, if, when I am laid into the tomb,
+I wake before the time that Romeo
+Come to redeem me? there's a fearful point!
+Shall I not then be stifled in the vault,
+To whose foul mouth no healthsome air breathes in,
+And there die strangled ere my Romeo comes?
+Or, if I live, is it not very like,
+The horrible conceit of death and night
+Together with the terror of the place,--
+As in a vault, an ancient receptacle,
+Where, for these many hundred years, the bones
+Of all my buried ancestors are packed,
+Where bloody Tybalt, yet but green in earth,
+Lies fest'ring in his shroud; where, as they say,
+At some hours in the night spirits resort;--
+Oh, if I wake, shall I not be distraught,
+Environéd with all these hideous fears,
+And madly play with my forefathers' joints,--
+And pluck the mangled Tybalt from his shroud?
+And, in this rage, with some great kinsman's bone,
+As with a club, dash out my desperate brains?--
+Oh, look! methinks, I see my cousin's ghost
+Seeking out Romeo:--Stay, Tybalt, stay!--
+Romeo, I come; this do I drink to thee.--
+                   _[Drinks the contents of the phial._
+Oh, potent draught, thou hast chilled me to the heart!--
+My head turns round;--my senses fail me.--
+Oh, Romeo! Romeo!--         _[Throws herself on the bed._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+THE SISTER OF CHARITY.
+
+Oh, is it a phantom? a dream of the night?
+A vision which fever hath fashion'd to sight?
+The wind, wailing ever, with motion uncertain
+Sways sighingly there the drench'd tent's tatter'd curtain,
+To and fro, up and down.
+                              But it is not the wind
+That is lifting it now; and it is not the mind
+That hath moulded that vision.
+                              A pale woman enters,
+As wan as the lamp's waning light, which concentres
+Its dull glare upon her. With eyes dim and dimmer,
+There, all in a slumb'rous and shadowy glimmer,
+The sufferer sees that still form floating on,
+And feels faintly aware that he is not alone.
+She is flitting before him.  She pauses  She stands
+By his bedside all silent.  She lays her white hands
+On the brow of the boy.  A light finger is pressing
+Softly, softly, the sore wounds: the hot blood-stained dressing
+Slips from them. A comforting quietude steals
+Thro' the racked weary frame; and throughout it, he feels
+The slow sense of a merciful, mild neighbourhood.
+Something smoothes the toss'd pillow. Beneath a gray hood
+Of rough serge, two intense tender eyes are bent o'er him,
+And thrill thro' and thro' him. The sweet form before him,
+It is surely Death's angel Life's last vigil keeping!
+A soft voice says--'Sleep!'
+                         And he sleeps: he is sleeping.
+He waked before dawn. Still the vision is there:
+Still that pale woman moves not. A minist'ring care
+Meanwhile has been silently changing and cheering
+The aspect of all things around him.
+                                       Revering
+Some power unknown and benignant, he bless'd
+In silence the sense of salvation. And rest
+Having loosen'd the mind's tangled meshes, he faintly
+Sigh'd--'Say what thou art, blessed dream of a saintly
+'And minist'ring spirit!
+                                 A whisper serene
+Slid softer than silence--'The Soeur Seraphine,
+'A poor Sister of Charity. Shun to inquire
+'Aught further, young soldier. The son of thy sire,
+'For the sake of that sire, I reclaim from the grave.
+'Thou didst not shun death: shun not life. 'Tis more brave
+To live than to die. Sleep!'
+                              He sleeps: he is sleeping.
+He waken'd again, when the dawn was just steeping
+The skies with chill splendour. And there, never flitting,
+Never flitting, that vision of mercy was sitting.
+As the dawn to the darkness, so life seem'd returning
+Slowly, feebly within him. The night-lamp, yet burning,
+Made ghastly the glimmering daybreak.
+                                           He said:
+'If thou be of the living, and not of the dead,
+'Sweet minister, pour out yet further the healing
+'Of that balmy voice; if it may be, revealing
+'Thy mission of mercy! whence art thou?
+                                      'O son
+'Of Matilda and Alfred, it matters not! One
+'Who is not of the living nor yet of the dead;
+'To thee, and to others, alive yet'--she said--
+'So long as there liveth the poor gift in me
+'Of this ministration; to them, and to thee,
+'Dead in all things beside. A French nun, whose vocation
+'Is now by this bedside. A nun hath no nation.
+'Wherever man suffers, or woman may soothe,
+'There her land! there her kindred!'
+                            She bent down to smooth
+The hot pillow, and added--'Yet more than another
+'Is thy life dear to me. For thy father, thy mother,
+'I know them--I know them.'
+                              'Oh can it be? you!
+'My dearest, dear father! my mother! you knew,
+'You know them?'
+                  She bow'd, half averting her head
+In silence.
+               He brokenly, timidly said,
+'Do they know I am thus?'
+                  'Hush!'--she smiled as she drew
+From her bosom two letters; and--can it be true?
+That beloved and familiar writing!
+                                    He burst
+Into tears--'My poor mother,--my father! the worst
+'Will have reached them!'
+                   'No, no!' she exclaimed with a smile,
+'They know you are living; they know that meanwhile
+'I am watching beside you. Young soldier, weep not!'
+But still on the nun's nursing bosom, the hot
+Fever'd brow of the boy weeping wildly is press'd.
+There, at last, the young heart sobs itself into rest;
+And he hears, as it were between smiling and weeping,
+The calm voice say--'Sleep!'
+                                And he sleeps, he is sleeping'
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+SIM'S LITTLE GIRL.
+
+Come out here, George Burks. Put that glass down--can't wait a minute.
+Business particular--concerns the Company.
+
+I don't often meddle in other folks' business, do I? When a tough old
+fellow like me sets out to warn a body, you may know its because he sees
+sore need of it. _Just takin' drinks for good fellowship?_ Yes, I know
+all 'bout that. Been there myself. Sit down on the edge of the platform
+here.
+
+Of all the men in the world, I take it, engineers ought to be the last to
+touch the bottle. We have life and property trusted to our hands. Ours is a
+grand business--I don't think folks looks at it as they ought to. Remember
+when I was a young fellow, like you, just set up with an engine, I used to
+feel like a strong angel, or somethin', rushin' over the country, makin'
+that iron beast do just as I wanted him to. The power sort of made me think
+fast.
+
+I was doin' well when I married, and I did well long afterwards. We had a
+nice home, the little woman and me: our hearts were set on each other, and
+she was a little proud of her engineer--she used to say so, anyhow. She was
+sort of mild and tender with her tongue. Not one of your loud ones. And
+pretty, too. But you know what it is to love a woman, George Burks--I saw
+you walking with a blue-eyed little thing last Sunday.
+
+After a while we had the little girl. We talked a good deal about what we
+should call her, my wife and I. We went clean through the Bible, and set
+down all the fine story names we heard of. But nothin' seemed to suit. I
+used to puzzle the whole length of my route to find a name for that little
+girl. My wife wanted to call her Endora Isabel. But that sounded like
+folderol. Then we had up Rebeccar, and Maud, and Amanda Ann, and what not.
+Finally, whenever I looked at her, I seemed to see "Katie." She looked
+Katie. I took to calling her Katie, and she learned it--so Katie she was.
+
+I tell you, George, that was a child to be noticed. She was rounder and
+prettier made'n a wax figger; her eyes was bigger and blacker'n any grown
+woman's you ever saw, set like stars under her forehead, and her hair was
+that light kind that all runs to curls and glitter.
+
+Soon's she could toddle, she used to come dancin' to meet me. I've soiled
+a-many of her white pinafores buryin' my face in them before I was washed,
+and sort of prayin' soft like under the roof of my heart, "God bless my
+baby! God bless my little lamb!"
+
+As she grew older, I used to talk to her about engin'--even took her into
+my cab, and showed the 'tachments of the engin', and learned her signals
+and such things. She tuk such an interest, and was the smartest little
+thing! Seemed as if she had always knowed 'em. She loved the road. Remember
+once hearing her say to a playmate: "There's my papa. He's an engineer.
+Don't you wish he was your papa?"
+
+My home was close by the track. Often and often the little girl stood in
+our green yard, waving her mite of a hand as we rushed by.
+
+Well, one day I started on my home trip, full of that good fellowship you
+was imbibin' awhile ago. Made the engine whizz! We was awful jolly, the
+fireman and me. Never was drunk when I got on my engine before, or the
+Company would have shipped me. Warn't no such time made on that road before
+nor since. I had just sense enough to know what I was about, but not enough
+to handle an emergency. We fairly roared down on the trestle that stood at
+the entrance of our town.
+
+I had a tipsy eye out, and, George, as we was flyin' through the suburbs, I
+see my little girl on the track ahead, wavin' a red flag and standin' stock
+still!
+
+The air seemed full of Katies. I could have stopped the engine if I'd only
+had sense enough to know what to take hold of to reverse her! But I was too
+drunk! And that grand little angel stood up to it, trying to warn us in
+time, and we just swept right along into a pile of ties some wretch had
+placed on the track!--right over my baby! Oh, my baby! Go away, George.
+
+There! And do you want me to tell you how that mangled little mass killed
+her mother? And do you want me to tell you I walked alive a murderer of my
+own child, who stood up to save me? And do you want me to tell you the good
+fellowship you were drinkin' awhile ago brought all this on me?
+
+You'll let this pass by, makin' up your mind to be moderate. Hope you will.
+I was a moderate un.
+
+(Oh, God! Oh, my baby!)
+
+_Mary Hartwell._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+PRAYER.
+
+More things are wrought by prayer
+Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice
+Rise like a fountain for me night and day:
+For what are men better than sheep or goats,
+That nourish a blind life within the brain,
+If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer
+Both for themselves and those who call them friends?
+For so the whole round earth is every way
+Bound by gold chains about the feet of God.
+
+_Tennyson._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+EXPERIENCE WITH EUROPEAN GUIDES.
+
+European guides know about enough English to tangle everything up so that a
+man can make neither head nor tail of it. They know their story by heart,--
+the history of every statue, painting, cathedral, or other wonder they show
+you. They know it and tell it as a parrot would,--and if you interrupt and
+throw them off the track, they have to go back and begin over again. All
+their lives long they are employed in showing strange things to foreigners
+and listening to their bursts of admiration.
+
+It is human nature to take delight in exciting admiration. It is what
+prompts children to say "smart" things and do absurd ones, and in other
+ways "show off" when company is present. It is what makes gossips turn out
+in rain and storm to go and be the first to tell a startling bit of news.
+Think, then, what a passion it becomes with a guide, whose privilege it is,
+every day, to show to strangers wonders that throw them into perfect
+ecstacies of admiration! He gets so that he could not by any possibility
+live in a soberer atmosphere.
+
+After we discovered this, we never went into ecstacies any more,--we never
+admired anything,--we never showed anything but impassable faces and stupid
+indifference in the presence of the sublimest wonders a guide had to
+display. We had found their weak point. We have made good use of it ever
+since. We have made some of those people savage at times, but we never lost
+our serenity.
+
+The doctor asks the questions generally, because he can keep his
+countenance, and look more like an inspired idiot, and throw more
+imbecility into the tone of his voice than any man that lives. It comes
+natural to him.
+
+The guides in Genoa are delighted to secure an American party, because
+Americans so much wonder, and deal so much in sentiment and emotion before
+any relic of Columbus. Our guide there fidgeted about as if he had
+swallowed a spring mattress. He was full of animation,--full of
+impatience. He said:--
+
+"Come wis me, genteelmen!--come! I show you ze letter writing by
+Christopher Colombo!--write it himself!--write it wis his own hand!--come!"
+
+He took us to the municipal palace. After much impressive fumbling of keys
+and opening of locks, the stained and aged document was spread before us.
+The guide's eyes sparkled. He danced about us and tapped the parchment with
+his finger:--
+
+"What I tell you, genteelmen! Is it not so? See! handwriting Christopher
+Colombo!--write it himself!"
+
+We looked indifferent,--unconcerned. The doctor examined the document very
+deliberately, during a painful pause. Then he said, without any show of
+interest,--
+
+"Ah,--Ferguson,--what--what did you say was the name of the party who wrote
+this?"
+
+"Christopher Colombo! ze great Christopher Colombo!"
+
+Another deliberate examination.
+
+"Ah,--did he write it himself, or,--or, how?"
+
+"He write it himself!--Christopher Colombo! he's own handwriting, write by
+himself!"
+
+Then the doctor laid the document down and said,--
+
+"Why, I have seen boys in America only fourteen years old that could write
+better than that."
+
+"But zis is ze great Christo--"
+
+"I don't care who it is! It's the worst writing I ever saw. Now you mustn't
+think you can impose on us because we are strangers. We are not fools, by a
+good deal. If you have got any specimens of penmanship of real merit, trot
+them out!--and if you haven't, drive on!"
+
+We drove on. The guide was considerably shaken up, but he made one more
+venture. He had something which he thought would overcome us. He said,--
+
+"Ah, genteelmen, you come wis us! I show you beautiful, oh, magnificent
+bust Christopher Colombo!--splendid, grand, magnificent!"
+
+He brought us before the beautiful bust,--for it was beautiful,--and sprang
+back and struck an attitude,--
+
+"Ah, look, genteelmen!--beautiful, grand,--bust Christopher Columbo!--
+beautiful bust, beautiful pedestal!"
+
+The doctor put up his eye-glass,--procured for such occasions:--
+
+"Ah,--what did you say this gentleman's name was?"
+
+"Christopher Colombo! ze great Christopher Colombo!"
+
+"Christopher Colombo,--the great Christopher Colombo. Well, what did he
+do?"
+
+"Discover America!--discover America--oh, ze diable!"
+
+"Discover America? No,--that statement will hardly wash. We are just from
+America ourselves. Christopher Colombo,--pleasant name,--is--is he dead?"
+
+"Oh, corpo di Bacco!--three hundred year!"
+
+"What did he die of?"
+
+"I do not know. I cannot tell."
+
+"Small-pox, think?"
+
+"I do not know, genteelmen,--I do not know what he die of!"
+
+"Measles, likely?"
+
+"Maybe,--maybe. I do not know,--I think he die of something."
+
+"Parents living?"
+
+"Im-posseeble"
+
+"Ah,--which is the bust and which is the pedestal?"
+
+"Santa Maria!--zis ze bust!--zis ze pedestal!"
+
+"Ah, I see, I see,--happy combination,--very happy combination, indeed. Is
+--is this the first time this gentleman was ever on a bust."
+
+That joke was lost on the foreigner,--guides cannot master the subtleties
+of the American joke.
+
+We have made it interesting for this Roman guide.
+
+Yesterday we spent three or four hours in the Vatican again, that wonderful
+world of curiosities. We came very near expressing interest sometimes, even
+admiration. It was hard to keep from it. We succeeded, though. Nobody else
+ever did in the Vatican museums. The guide was bewildered, nonplussed. He
+walked his legs off, nearly, hunting up extraordinary things, and exhausted
+all his ingenuity on us, but it was a failure; we never showed any interest
+in anything. He had reserved what he considered to be his greatest wonder
+till the last,--a royal Egyptian mummy, the best preserved in the world,
+perhaps. He took us there. He felt so sure this time that some of his old
+enthusiasm came back to him:--
+
+"See, genteelmen!--Mummy! Mummy!"
+
+The eye-glass came up as calmly, as deliberately as ever.
+
+"Ah,--Ferguson,--what did I understand you to say the gentleman's name
+was?"
+
+"Name?--he got no name!--Mummy!--'Gyptian mummy!"
+
+"Yes, yes. Born here?"
+
+"No. 'Gyptian mummy!"
+
+"Ah, just so. Frenchman, I presume?"
+
+"No! Not Frenchman, not Roman! Born in Egypta!"
+
+"Born in Egypta. Never heard of Egypta before. Foreign locality, likely.
+Mummy,--mummy. How calm he is, how self-possessed! Is--ah!--is he dead?"
+
+"Oh, sacré bleu! been dead three thousan' year!"
+
+The doctor turned on him savagely:--
+
+"Here, now, what do you mean by such conduct as this? Playing us for
+Chinamen, because we are strangers and trying to learn! Trying to impose
+your vile secondhand carcasses on us! Thunder and lightning! I've a notion
+to--to--if you've got a nice, fresh corpse fetch him out!--or we'll brain
+you!"
+
+However, he has paid us back partly, and without knowing it. He came to the
+hotel this morning to ask if we were up, and he endeavoured, as well as he
+could, to describe us, so that the landlord would know which persons he
+meant. He finished with the casual remark that we were lunatics. The
+observation was so innocent and so honest that it amounted to a very good
+thing for a guide to say.
+
+Our Roman Ferguson is the most patient, unsuspecting, long-suffering
+subject we have had yet. We shall be sorry to part with him. We have
+enjoyed his society very much. We trust he has enjoyed ours, but we are
+harassed with doubts.
+
+_Mark Twain._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+FIRST EXPERIENCE.
+
+
+A very intelligent Irishman tells the following incident of his experience
+in America: I came to this country several years ago, and, as soon as I
+arrived, hired out to a gentleman who farmed a few acres. He showed me over
+the premises, the stables, the cow, and where the corn, hay, oats, etc.,
+were kept, and then sent me in to my supper. After supper, he said to me,
+"James, you may feed the cow, and give her corn in the ear." I went out and
+walked about, thinking, "what could he mean? Had I understood him?" I
+scratched my head, then resolved I would enquire again; so I went into the
+library where my master was writing very busily and he answered me without
+looking up: "I thought I told you to give the cow some corn in the ear."
+
+I went out more puzzled than ever. What sort of an animal must this Yankee
+cow be? I examined her mouth and ears. The teeth were good, and the ears
+like those of kine in the old country. Dripping with sweat, I entered my
+master's presence once more "Please, sir, you bid me give the cow some corn
+_in the ear_, but didn't you mean the _mouth?_" He looked at me a
+moment, and then burst into such a convulsion of laughter, that I made for
+the stable as fast as my feet could take me, thinking I was in the service
+of a crazy man.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+POOR LITTLE JOE.
+
+  Prop yer eyes wide open, Joey,
+    Fur I've brought you sumpin great.
+  Apples? No, a deal sight better!
+    Don't you take no interest, wait'
+  Flowers, Joe,--I know'd you'd like 'em--
+    Ain't them scrumptious, ain't them high
+  Tears, my boy, what's them fur, Joey?
+    There--poor little Joe--don't cry.
+
+  I was skippin' past a winder,
+    Where a bang-up lady sot,
+  All amongst a lot of bushes--
+    Each one climbin' from a pot.
+  Every bush had flowers on it;
+    Pretty! Mebbe' not! Oh no'
+  Wish you could a-seen'm growin',
+    It was such a stunnin show.
+
+  Well, I thought of you, poor feller,
+    Lyin' here so sick and weak,
+  Never knowin' any comfort,
+    And I puts on lots o' cheek;
+  "Missus," says I, "if yo please, mum,
+    Could I ax you for a rose?
+  For my little brother, missus,
+    Never seed one, I suppose."
+
+  Then I told her all about you--
+    How I bringed you up,--poor Joe!
+  (Lackin' women-folks to do it)
+    Sich a imp you was, you know--
+  Till yer got that awful tumble,
+    Jist as I had broke yer in
+  (Hard work, too), to earn yer livin'
+    Blackin' boots for honest tin.
+
+  How that tumble crippled of you--
+    So's you couldn't hyper much--
+  Joe, it hurted when I see you
+    For the first time with your crutch.
+  "But," I says, "he's laid up now, mum,
+    'Pears to weaken every day."
+  Joe, she up and went to cuttin'--
+    That's the how of this bokay.
+
+  Say! it seems to me, ole feller,
+    You is quite yourself to-night;
+  Kind o' chirk, it's been a fortnight
+    Sence your eyes have been so bright.
+  Better! well, I'm glad to hear it!
+    Yes, they're mighty pretty, Joe,
+  Smellin' of them's made you happy?
+    Well, I thought it would, you know.
+
+  Never see the country did you?
+    Flowers growin' everywhere!
+  Sometime when you're better, Joey,
+    Mebbe I kin take you there.
+  Flowers in heaven! 'M--I spose so;
+    Dunno much about it though;
+  Ain't as fly as wot I might be
+    On them topics, little Joe.
+
+  But I've heerd it hinted somewheres,
+    That in heaven's golden gates,
+  Things is everlastin' cheerful,
+    B'lieve that's wot the Bible states.
+  Likewise, there folks don't get hungry;
+    So good people when they dies,
+  Finds themselves well-fixed for ever--
+    Joe, my boy, wot ails your eyes?
+
+  Thought they looked a Jittle singler.
+    Oh no! don't you have no fear;
+  Heaven was made for such as you is--
+    Joe, what makes you look so queer?
+  Here--wake up! Oh, don't look that way!
+    Joe, my boy, hold up your head!
+  Here's your flowers you dropped 'em, Joey.
+    Oh, my Joe! can he be dead?
+
+_Peleg Arkwright._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+NIAGARA.
+
+  The thoughts are strange that crowd upon my brain
+  As I look upward to thee! It would seem
+  As if God poured thee from His hollow hand,
+  And hung His bow upon thine awful front,
+  And spake in that loud voice that seemed to him
+  Who dwelt in Patmos for his Saviour's sake,
+  The sound of many waters; and had bade
+  Thy flood to chronicle the ages back,
+  And notch His centuries in the eternal rock!
+
+  Deep calleth unto deep, and what are we
+  That hear the questions of that voice sublime?
+  O what are all the notes that ever rung
+  From war's vain trumpet, by thy thundering side?
+  Yea, what is all the riot man can make,
+  In his short life, to thine unceasing roar?
+  And yet, bold babbler, what art thou to Him
+  Who drowned a world, and heaped the waters far
+  Above its loftiest mountains? A light wave
+  That runs and whispers of thy Maker's might!
+
+_John G. C. Brainard._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+WOUNDED.
+
+    Let me lie down,
+  Just here in the shade of this cannon-torn tree,
+  Here low on the trampled grass, where I may see,
+  The surge of the combat, and where I may hear,
+  The glad cry of Victory, cheer upon cheer,
+    Let me lie down.
+
+    Oh! it was grand!
+  Like the tempest we charged in the triumph to share,
+  The tempest, its fury and thunder were there,
+  On! on! o'er entrenchments, o'er living, o'er dead,
+  With the foe under our feet, and our flag overhead,
+    Oh! it was grand!
+
+    Weary and faint,
+  Prone on the soldier's couch, ah! how can I rest,
+  With this shot-shattered head, and sabre-pierced breast?
+  Comrades, at roll-call, when I shall be sought,
+  Say I fought till I fell, and fell where I fought,--
+    Wounded and faint.
+
+    Dying at last!
+  My Mother, dear Mother, with meek tearful eye.
+  Farewell! and God bless you, forever and aye!
+  Oh, that I now lay on your pillowing breast,
+  To breathe my last sigh on the bosom first prest:
+    Dying at last!
+
+    I am no saint!
+  But, boys, say a prayer. There's one that begins,--
+  "Our Father;" and then says, "Forgive us our sins,"--
+  Don't forget that part, say that strongly, and then
+  I'll try to repeat it, and you'll say, Amen!
+    Ah, I'm no saint!
+
+    Hark! there's a shout!
+  Raise me up, comrades, we've conquered, I know,
+  Up, up, on my feet, with my face to the foe.
+  Ah! there flies our flag with its star-spangles bright,
+  The promise of victory, the symbol of might,
+    Well! may we shout.
+
+    I'm mustered out!
+  Oh! God of our Fathers, our freedom prolong,
+  And tread down oppression, rebellion, and wrong.
+  Oh! land of earth's hope, on thy blood-reddened sod,
+  I die for the Nation, the Union, and God.
+    I'm mustered out!
+
+_Anon._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+THE WHISTLER.
+
+  "You have heard," said a youth to his sweetheart, who stood
+  While he sat on a corn sheaf, at daylight's decline,--
+  "You have heard of the Danish boy's whistle of wood:
+  I wish that the Danish boy's whistle were mine."
+
+  "And what would you do with it? Tell me," she said,
+  While an arch smile played over her beautiful face,
+  "I would blow it," he answered, "and then my fair maid
+  Would fly to my side and would there take her place."
+
+  "Is that all you wish for? Why, that may be yours
+  Without any magic!" the fair maiden cried:
+  A favour so slight one's good-nature secures;"
+  And she playfully seated herself by his side.
+
+  "I would blow it again," said the youth; "and the charm
+  Would work so that not even modesty's check
+  Would be able to keep from my neck your white arm."
+  She smiled and she laid her white arm round his neck.
+
+  "Yet once more I would blow; and the music divine
+  Would bring me a third time an exquisite bliss,--
+  You would lay your fair cheek to this brown one of mine;
+  And your lips stealing past it would give me a kiss."
+
+  The maiden laughed out in her innocent glee,--
+  "What a fool of yourself with the whistle you'd make!
+  For only consider how silly 'twould be
+  To sit there and whistle for what you might take."
+
+_Robert Story_.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+TOM.
+
+  Yes, Tom's the best fellow that ever you knew.
+    Just listen to this:--
+  When the old mill took fire, and the flooring fell through,
+  And I with it, helpless there, full in my view
+  What do you think my eyes saw through the fire
+  That crept along, crept along, nigher and nigher?
+  But Robin, my baby-boy, laughing to see
+  The shining. He must have come there after me,
+  Toddled alone from the cottage without
+
+  Any one's missing him. Then, what a shout--
+  Oh! how I shouted, "For Heaven's sake, men,
+  Save little Robin!" Again and again
+  They tried, but the fire held them back like a wall.
+  I could hear them go at it, and at it, and call,
+  "Never mind, baby, sit still like a man!
+  We're coming to get you as fast as we can."
+  They could not see him but I could. He sat
+  Still on a beam, his little straw hat
+  Carefully placed by his side; and his eyes
+  Stared at the flame with a baby's surprise,
+  Calm and unconscious, as nearer it crept,
+  The roar of the fire up above must have kept
+  The sound of his mother's voice shrieking his name
+  From reaching the child. But I heard it. It came
+  Again and again. O God, what a cry!
+  The axes went faster. I saw the sparks fly
+  Where the men worked like tigers, nor minded the heat
+  That scorched them,--when, suddenly, there at their feet
+
+  The great beams leaned in--they saw him--then, crash,
+  Down came the wall! The men made a dash,--
+  Jumped to get out of the way,--and I thought,
+  "All's up with poor little Robin!" and brought
+  Slowly the arm that was least hurt to hide
+  The sight of the child there,--when swift, at my side,
+  Some one rushed by and went right through the flame,
+  Straight as a dart--caught the child--and then came
+  Back with him, choking and crying, but--saved!
+  Saved safe and sound!
+
+    Oh, how the men raved,
+  Shouted, and cried, and hurrahed! Then they all
+  Rushed at the work again, lest the back wall
+  Where I was lying, away from the fire,
+  Should fall in and bury me.
+
+    Oh! you'd admire,
+  To see Robin now: he's as bright as a dime,
+  Deep in some mischief too, most of the time.
+  Tom, it was saved him. Now, isn't it true
+  Tom's the best fellow that ever you knew?
+  There's Robin now! See he's strong as a log!
+  And there comes Tom too--
+    Yes, Tom is our dog.
+
+_Constance Fenimore Woolsen_
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+TEMPERANCE.
+
+The need of the hour is a grand tidal wave of total abstinence sweeping
+over the land. The strongest protest possible must be made against
+intemperance. Total abstinence is the protest. Will it be made with
+sufficient force to save the people? This is the vital question for the
+future of America, and I might add for the future of religion. What is to
+be done? I speak to those who by position, influence, talent, or office
+ought to take an interest in the people. In the name of humanity, of
+country, of religion, by all the most sacred ties that bind us to our
+fellow-men for the love of Him who died for souls, I beseech you, declare
+war against intemperance! Arrest its onward march! If total abstinence does
+not appear to you the remedy, adopt some other. If you differ from me in
+the means you propose, I will not complain. But I will complain in the
+bitterness of my soul if you stand by, arms folded, while this dreadful
+torrent is sweeping over the land, carrying with it ruin and misery. The
+brightest minds and the noblest hearts are numbered among the victims.
+Human wrecks whose fortune it has dissipated, whose intellect it has
+stifled, are strewn over the land as thick as autumnal leaves in the
+forest. Alcohol directly inflames the passions; it is oil poured on the
+burning fire. It turns man into an animal; it makes him the demon
+incarnate. One week's perusal of the daily paper fills the mind with horror
+at the shocking accidents, the suicides, the murders, the ruin of
+innocence, and the crimes of all kinds caused by intemperance.
+
+_Rt. Rev. John Ireland._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+THE BALD-HEADED MAN.
+
+The other day a lady, accompanied by her son, a very small boy, boarded a
+train at Little Rock. The woman had a careworn expression hanging over her
+face like a tattered veil, and many of the rapid questions asked by the boy
+were answered by unconscious sighs.
+
+"Ma," said the boy, "that man's like a baby, ain't he?" pointing to a bald-
+headed man sitting just in front of them.
+
+"Hush!"
+
+"Why must I hush?"
+
+After a few moments' silence: "Ma, what's the matter with that man's head?
+
+"Hush, I tell you. He's bald."
+
+"What's bald?"
+
+"His head hasn't got any hair on it."
+
+"Did it come off?"
+
+"I guess so."
+
+"Will mine come off?"
+
+"Some time, may be."
+
+"Then I'll be bald, won't I?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"Will you care?"
+
+"Don't ask so many questions."
+
+After another silence, the boy exclaimed: "Ma, look at that fly on that
+man's head."
+
+"If you don't hush, I'll whip you when we get home."
+
+"Look! There's another fly. Look at 'em fight; look at 'em!"
+
+"Madam," said the man, putting aside a newspaper and looking around,
+"what's the matter with that young hyena?"
+
+The woman blushed, stammered out something, and attempted to smooth back
+the boy's hair.
+
+"One fly, two flies, three flies," said the boy, innocently, following with
+his eyes a basket of oranges carried by a newsboy.
+
+"Here, you young hedgehog," said the bald-headed man, "if you don't hush,
+I'll have the conductor put you off the train."
+
+The poor woman, not knowing what else to do, boxed the boy's ears, and then
+gave him an orange to keep him from crying.
+
+"Ma, have I got red marks on my head?"
+
+"I'll whip you again, if you don't hush."
+
+"Mister," said the boy, after a short silence, "does it hurt to be bald-
+headed?"
+
+"Youngster," said the man, "if you'll keep quiet, I'll give you a quarter."
+
+The boy promised, and the money was paid over.
+
+The man took up his paper, and resumed his reading.
+
+"This is my bald-headed money," said the boy. "When I get bald-headed, I'm
+goin' to give boys money. Mister, have all bald-headed men got money?"
+
+The annoyed man threw down his paper, arose, and exclaimed: "Madam,
+hereafter when you travel, leave that young gorilla at home. Hitherto, I
+always thought that the old prophet was very cruel for calling the bears to
+kill the children for making sport of his head, but now I am forced to
+believe that he did a Christian act. If your boy had been in the crowd, he
+would have died first. If I can't find another seat on this train, I'll
+ride on the cow-catcher rather than remain here."
+
+"The bald-headed man is gone," said the boy; and as the woman leaned back a
+tired sigh escaped from her lips.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+A CHILD'S FIRST IMPRESSION OF A STAR.
+
+She had been told that God made all the stars
+That twinkled up in heaven, and now she stood
+Watching the coming of the twilight on,
+As if it were a new and perfect world,
+And this were its first eve. How beautiful I
+Must be the work of nature to a child
+In its first fresh impression! Laura stood
+By the low window, with the silken lash
+Of her soft eye upraised, and her sweet mouth
+Half parted with the new and strange delight
+Of beauty that she could not comprehend,
+And had not seen before. The purple folds
+Of the low sunset clouds, and the blue sky
+That look'd so still and delicate above,
+Fill'd her young heart with gladness, and the eve
+Stole on with its deep shadows, and she still
+Stood looking at the west with that half smile,
+As if a pleasant thought were at her heart.
+Presently, in the edge of the last tint
+Of sunset, where the blue was melted in
+To the first golden mellowness, a star
+Stood suddenly. A laugh of wild delight
+Burst from her lips, and, putting up her hands,
+Her simple thought broke forth expressively,--
+"Father, dear father, God has made a star."
+
+_Willis_.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+EVE'S REGRETS ON QUITTING PARADISE.
+
+Must I thus leave thee, Paradise? thus leave
+Thee, native soil, these happy walks and shades,
+Fit haunt of gods? where I had hope to spend,
+Quiet, though sad, the respite of that day
+That must be mortal to us both! O flowers,
+That never will in other climate grow,
+My early visitation and my last
+At even, which I bred up with tender hand
+From the first opening bud, and gave ye names!
+Who now shall rear ye to the sun, or rank
+Your tribes, and water from the ambrosial fount?
+Thee, lastly, nuptial bower! by me adorn'd
+With what to sight or smell was sweet!  from thee
+How shall I part, and whither wander down
+Into a lower world, to this obscure
+And wild? how shall we breathe in other air
+Less pure, accustom'd to immortal fruits?
+
+_Milton_.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+READING THE LIST.
+
+  "Is there any news of the war?" she said,
+  "Only a list of the wounded and dead,"
+    Was the man's reply,
+    Without lifting his eye
+    To the face of the woman standing by.
+  "Tis the very thing I want," she said;
+  "Read me a list of the wounded and dead."
+
+  He read her the list--'twas a sad array
+  Of the wounded and killed in the fatal fray:
+  In the very midst was a pause to tell
+  Of a gallant youth, who had fought so well
+  That his comrades asked, "Who is he, pray?"
+  "The only son of the widow Gray,"
+    Was the proud reply
+    Of his captain nigh.
+  What ails the woman standing near?
+  Her face has the ashen hue of fear.
+
+  "Well, well, read on: is he wounded? be quick
+  O God! but my heart is sorrow sick!"
+  "Is he wounded? no! he fell, they say,
+  Killed outright on that fatal day!"
+  But see! the woman has swooned away.
+
+  Sadly she opened her eyes to the light;
+  Slowly recalled the event of the fight;
+  Faintly she murmured, "Killed outright;
+  It has caused the death of my only son;
+  But the battle is fought and the victory won;
+  The will of the Lord, let it be done!"
+  God pity the cheerless widow Gray,
+  And send from the halls of eternal day
+  The light of His peace to illumine her way!
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+LITTLE MARY'S WISH.
+
+"I have seen the first robin of spring, mother dear,
+  And have heard the brown darling sing;
+You said, 'Hear it and wish, and 'twill surely come true;
+  So I've wished such a beautiful thing!
+
+"I thought I would like to ask something for _you_,
+  But I couldn't think what there could be
+That you'd want while you had all those beautiful things;
+  Besides, you have papa and me.
+
+"So I wished for a ladder, so long that 'twould stand
+  One end by our own cottage door,
+And the other go up past the moon and the stars
+  And lean against heaven's white floor.
+
+"Then I'd get you to put on my pretty white dress,
+  With my sash and my darling new shoes;
+Then I'd find some white roses to take up to God--
+  The most beautiful ones I could choose.
+
+"And you and dear papa would sit on the ground
+  And kiss me, and tell me 'Good-bye!'
+Then I'd go up the ladder far out of your sight,
+  Till I came to the door in the sky.
+
+"I wonder if God keeps the door fastened tight?
+  If but _one_ little crack I could see,
+I would whisper, 'Please, God, let this little, girl in,
+  She's as tired as she can be!
+
+"She came all alone from the earth to the sky,
+  For she's always been wanting to see
+The gardens of heaven, with their robins and flowers,
+  'Please, God, is there room there for me?'
+
+"And then, when the angels had opened the door,
+  God would say, 'Bring the little child here,'
+But he'd speak it so softly I'd not be afraid,
+  And he'd smile just like you, mother dear
+
+"He would put His kind arms round your dear little girl,
+  And I'd ask Him to send down for you,
+And papa, and cousin, and all that I love--
+  Oh, dear' don't you wish 'twould come true?"
+
+The next spring time, when the robins came home,
+  They sang over grasses and flowers
+That grew where the foot of the ladder stood,
+  Whose top reached the heavenly bowers.
+
+And the parents had dressed the pale, still child,
+  For her flight to the summer land,
+In a fair white robe, with one snow white rose
+  Folded tight in her pulseless hand.
+
+And now at the foot of the ladder they sit,
+  Looking upward with quiet tears,
+Till the beckoning hand and the fluttering robe
+  Of the child at the top appears.
+
+    _Mrs. L. M. Blinn._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+"GOOD-BYE."
+
+Did you ever hear two married women take leave of each other at the gate on
+a mild evening? This is how they do it:--"Good-bye!" "Good-bye! Come down
+and see us soon." "I will. Good-bye." "Good-bye! Don't forget to come
+soon." "No, I won't. Don't you forget to come up." "I won't. Be sure and
+bring Sarah Jane with you the next time." "I will. I'd have brought her
+this time, but she wasn't very well. She wanted to come awfully." "Did she
+now? That was too bad! Be sure and bring her next time." "I will; and you
+be sure and bring baby." "I will; I forgot to tell you that he's cut
+another tooth." "You don't say so! How many has he now?" "Five. It makes
+him awfully cross." "I dare say it does this hot weather. Well, good-bye!
+Don't forget to come down." "No, I won't. Don't you forget to come up.
+Goodbye!" And they separate.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+THE WEDDING FEE.
+
+  One morning, fifty years ago,--
+  When apple trees were white with snow
+  Of fragrant blossoms, and the air
+  Was spell-bound with the perfume rare--
+  Upon a farm horse, large and lean,
+  And lazy with its double load,
+  A sun-browned youth, and maid were seen
+  Jogging along the winding road.
+
+  Blue were the arches of the skies;
+  But bluer were that maiden's eyes.
+  The dew-drops on the grass were bright;
+  But brighter was the loving light
+  That sparkled 'neath the long-fringed lid,
+  Where those bright eyes of blue were hid;
+  Adown the shoulders brown and bare
+  Rolled the soft waves of golden hair,
+  Where, almost strangled with the spray,
+  The sun, a willing sufferer lay.
+  It was the fairest sight, I ween,
+  That the young man had ever seen;
+  And with his features all aglow,
+  The happy fellow told her so!
+  And she without the least surprise
+  Looked on him with those heavenly eyes;
+  Saw underneath that shade of tan
+  The handsome features of a man;
+  And with a joy but rarely known
+  She drew that dear face to her own,
+  And by her bridal bonnet hid--
+  I shall not tell you what she did!
+
+  So, on they ride until among
+  The new-born leaves with dew-drops hung,
+  The parsonage, arrayed in white,
+  Peers out,--a more than welcome sight.
+  Then, with a cloud upon his face.
+  "What shall we do," he turned to say,
+  "Should he refuse to take his pay
+  From what is in the pillow-case?"
+  And glancing down his eyes surveyed
+  The pillow-case before him laid,
+  Whose contents reaching to its hem,
+  Might purchase endless joy for them.
+  The maiden answers, "Let us wait;
+  To borrow trouble where's the need?"
+  Then, at the parson's squeaking gate
+  Halted the more than willing steed.
+
+  Down from the horse the bridegroom sprung;
+  The latchless gate behind him swung;
+  The knocker of that startled door,
+  Struck as it never was before,
+  Brought the whole household pale with fright;
+  And there, with blushes on his cheek,
+  So bashful he could hardly speak,
+  The farmer met their wondering sight.
+  The groom goes in, his errand tells,
+  And, as the parson nods, he leans
+  Far o'er the window-sill and yells,
+  "Come in! He says he'll take the beans!"
+  Oh! how she jumped! With one glad bound
+  She and the bean-bag reached the ground.
+  Then, clasping with each dimpled arm
+  The precious product of the farm,
+  She bears it through the open door;
+  And, down upon the parlour floor,
+  Dumps the best beans vines ever bore.
+
+  Ah! happy were their songs that day,
+  When man and wife they rode away.
+  But happier this chorus still
+  Which echoed through those woodland scenes:
+  "God bless the priest of Whitinsville!
+  God bless the man who took the beans!"
+
+_R. M. Streeter_.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+THE FIREMAN.
+
+'Tis a cold bleak night! with angry roar
+The north winds beat and clamour at the door;
+The drifted snow lies heaped along the street,
+Swept by a blinding storm of hail and sleet;
+The clouded heavens no guiding starlight lend,
+But o'er the earth in gloom and darkness bend;
+Gigantic shadows, by the night lamps thrown,
+Dance their weird revels fitfully alone.
+
+In lofty hails, where fortune takes its ease,
+Sunk in the treasures of all lands and seas;
+In happy homes where warmth and comfort meet.
+The weary traveller with their smiles to greet;
+In lowly dwellings, where the needy swarm
+Round starving embers, chilling limbs to warm,
+Rises the prayer that makes the sad heart light--
+"Thank God for home, this bitter, bitter night!"
+
+But hark! above the beating of the storm
+Peals on the startled ear the fire alarm!
+Yon gloomy heaven's aflame with sudden light,
+And heart-beats quicken with a strange affright;
+From tranquil slumbers springs, at duty's call,
+The ready friend no danger can appal;
+Fierce for the conflict, sturdy, true, and brave,
+He hurries forth to battle and to save.
+
+From yonder dwelling, fiercely shooting out,
+Devouring all they coil themselves about,
+The flaming furies, mounting high and higher,
+Wrap the frail structure in a cloak of fire.
+Strong arms are battling with the stubborn foe
+In vain attempts their power to overthrow;
+With mocking glee they revel with their prey,
+Defying human skill to check their way.
+
+And see! far up above the flames hot breath,
+Something that's human waits a horrid death;
+A little child, with waving golden hair,
+Stands, like a phantom, 'mid the horrid glare,
+Her pale, sweet face against the window pressed,
+While sobs of terror shake her tender breast.
+And from the crowd beneath, in accents wild,
+A mother screams, "O, God! my child! my child!"
+
+Up goes a ladder. Through the startled throng
+A hardy fireman swiftly moves along;
+Mounts sure and fast along the slender way,
+Fearing no danger, dreading but delay.
+The stifling smoke-clouds lower in his path,
+Sharp tongues of flame assail him in their wrath;
+But up, still up he goes! the goal is won!
+His strong arm beats the sash, and he is gone!
+
+Gone to his death. The wily flames surround
+And burn and beat his ladder to the ground,
+In flaming columns move with quickened beat
+To rear a massive wall 'gainst his retreat.
+Courageous heart, thy mission was so pure,
+Suffering humanity must thy loss deplore;
+Henceforth with martyred heroes thou shalt live,
+Crowned with all honours nobleness can give.
+
+Nay, not so fast; subdue these gloomy fears;
+Behold! he quickly on the roof appears,
+Bearing the tender child, his jacket warm
+Flung round her shrinking form to guard from harm.
+Up with your ladders! Quick! 'tis but a chance!
+Behold how fast the roaring flames advance!
+Quick! quick! brave spirits to his rescue fly;
+Up! up! by heavens! this hero must not die!
+
+Silence! he comes along the burning road,
+Bearing, with tender care, his living load;
+Aha! he totters! Heaven in mercy save
+The good, true heart that can so nobly brave.
+He's up again! and now he's coming fast!
+One moment, and the fiery ordeal's passed!
+And now he's safe! Bold flames, ye fought in vain!
+A happy mother clasps her child again!
+
+_George M. Baker._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+THE LAUNCH OF THE SHIP.
+
+"Build me straight, O worthy Master!
+Staunch and strong, a goodly vessel,
+That shall laugh at all disaster,
+And with wave and whirlwind wrestle!"
+The merchant's word
+Delighted the Master heard;
+For his heart was in his work, and the heart
+Giveth grace unto every art.
+And with a voice that was full of glee,
+He answered, "Ere long we will launch
+A vessel as goodly, and strong, and staunch
+As ever weathered a wintry sea!"
+
+All is finished! and at length
+Has come the bridal day
+Of beauty and of strength.
+To-day the vessel shall be launched!
+With fleecy clouds the sky is blanched;
+And o'er the bay,
+Slowly, in all his splendours dight,
+The great sun rises to behold the sight.
+
+The ocean old
+Centuries old,
+Strong as youth, and as uncontrolled,
+Paces restless to and fro,
+Up and down the sands of gold.
+His beating heart is not at rest;
+And far and wide,
+With ceaseless flow,
+His beard of snow
+Heaves with the heaving of his breast.
+
+He waits impatient for his bride.
+There she stands,
+With her foot upon the sands,
+Decked with flags and streamers gay,
+In honour of her marriage-day,
+Her snow-white signals fluttering, blending,
+Round her like a veil descending,
+Ready to be
+The bride of the gray old sea.
+
+Then the Master,
+With a gesture of command,
+Waved his hand;
+And at the word,
+Loud and sudden there was heard,
+All around them and below,
+The sound of hammers, blow on blow,
+Knocking away the shores and spurs,
+And see! she stirs!
+She starts,--she moves,--she seems to feel
+The thrill of life along her keel,
+And, spurning with her foot the ground,
+With one exulting, joyous bound,
+She leaps into the ocean's arms!
+
+And lo! from the assembled crowd
+There rose a shout, prolonged and loud,
+That to the ocean seemed to say,--
+"Take her, O bridegroom, old and gray,
+Take her to thy protecting arms,
+With all her youth, and all her charms!"
+
+How beautiful she is! how fair
+She lies within those arms that press
+Her form with many a soft caress
+Of tenderness and watchful care!
+Sail forth into the sea, O ship!
+Through wind and wave, right onward steer!
+The moistened eye, the trembling lip,
+Are not the signs of doubt or fear.
+
+Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State!
+Sail on, O Union, strong and great!
+Humanity, with all its fears,
+With all the hopes of future years,
+Is hanging breathless on thy fate!
+We know what Master laid thy keel,
+What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel,
+Who made each mast and sail and rope,
+What anvils rang, what hammers beat,
+In what a forge, and what a heat,
+Were shaped the anchors of thy hope!
+
+Fear not each sudden sound and shock;
+'Tis of the wave, and not the rock;
+'Tis but the flapping of the sail,
+And not a rent made by the gale!
+In spite of rock and tempest's roar,
+In spite of false lights on the shore,
+Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea;
+Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee:
+Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears,
+Our faith triumphant o'er our fears,
+Are all with thee,--are all with thee!
+
+_Longfellow._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+ROCK OF AGES.
+
+       _"Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
+        Let me hide myself in Thee!"_
+
+Sang the lady, soft and low,
+And her voice's gentle flow
+Rose upon the evening air
+With the sweet and solemn prayer:
+  "Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
+  Let me hide myself in Thee!"
+
+Yet she sang, as oft she had
+When her heart was gay and glad,
+Sang because she felt alone,
+Sang because her soul had grown
+Weary with the tedious day,
+Sang to while the hours away:
+  "Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
+   Let me hide myself in Thee!"
+
+Where the fitful gaslight falls
+On her father's massive walls.
+On the chill and silent street
+Where the lights and shadows meet,
+There the lady's voice was heard,
+As the breath of night was stirred
+With her tones so sweet and clear,
+Wafting up to God that prayer:
+  "Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
+  Let me hide myself in Thee!"
+
+Wandering, homeless thro' the night,
+Praying for the morning light,
+Pale and haggard, wan and weak,
+With sunken eye and hollow cheek
+Went a woman, one whose life
+Had been wrecked in sin and strife;
+One, a lost and only child,
+One by sin and shame defiled;
+And her heart with sorrow wrung,
+Heard the lady when she sung:
+  "Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
+  Let me hide myself in Thee!"
+
+Pausing, low her head she bent,
+And the music as it went
+Pierced her blackened soul, and brought
+Back to her (as lost in thought
+Tremblingly she stood) the past,
+And the burning tears fell fast,
+As she called to mind the days
+When she walked in virtue's ways.
+When she sang that very song
+With no sense of sin or wrong:
+  "Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
+  Let me hide myself in Thee!"
+
+On the marble steps she knelt,
+And her soul that moment felt
+More than she could speak, as there
+Quivering, moved her lips in prayer,
+And the God she had forgot
+Smiled upon her lonely lot;
+Heard her as she murmured oft,
+With an accent sweet and soft:
+  "Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
+  Let me hide myself in Thee!"
+
+Little knew the lady fair,
+As she sung in silence there,
+That her voice had pierced a soul
+That had lived 'neath sin's control!
+Little knew, when she had done,
+That a lost and erring one
+Heard her--as she breathed that strain--
+And returned to God again!
+
+_F. L. Stanton._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+BEETHOVEN'S MOONLIGHT SONATA.
+
+It happened at Bonn. One moonlight winter's evening I called on Beethoven,
+for I wanted him to take a walk, and afterward to sup with me. In passing
+through some dark narrow street he paused suddenly. "Hush!" he said, "what
+sound is that? It is from my symphony in F," he said eagerly. "Hark, how
+well it is played!"
+
+It was a little, mean dwelling; and we paused outside and listened. The
+player went on; but in the midst of the finale there was a sudden break,
+then the voice sobbing: "I can not play any more--it is so beautiful, it is
+so utterly beyond my power to do it justice. Oh! what would I not give to
+go to the concert at Cologne!"
+
+"Ah, my sister," said her companion, "why create regrets when there is no
+remedy? We can scarcely pay our rent."
+
+"You are right; and yet I wish, for once in my life, to hear some really
+good music. But it is of no use."
+
+Beethoven looked at me. "Let us go in," he said.
+
+"Go in!" I exclaimed. "What can we go in for?"
+
+"I will play to her," he said, in an excited tone. "Here is feeling--
+genius--understanding. I will play to her, and she will understand it!" And
+before I could prevent him his hand was upon the door.
+
+A pale young man was sitting by the table, making shoes; and near him,
+leaning sorrowfully upon an old-fashioned harpsichord, sat a young girl,
+with a profusion of light hair falling over her bent face. Both were
+cleanly but very poorly dressed, and both started and turned towards us as
+we entered.
+
+"Pardon me," said Beethoven, "but I heard music and was tempted to enter. I
+am a musician."
+
+The girl blushed and the young man looked grave--somewhat annoyed.
+
+"I--I also overheard something of what you said," continued my friend. "You
+wish to hear--that is, you would like--that is--shall I play for you?"
+
+There was something so odd in the whole affair, and something so comic and
+pleasant in the manner of the speaker, that the spell was broken in a
+moment, and all smiled involuntarily.
+
+"Thank you," said the shoemaker; "but our harpsichord is so wretched, and
+we have no music."
+
+"No music!" echoed my friend. "How, then, does the fraulein--"
+
+He paused and coloured up, for the girl looked full at him, and he saw that
+she was blind.
+
+"I--I entreat your pardon," he stammered; "but I had not perceived before.
+Then you play from ear?"
+
+"Entirely."
+
+"And where do you hear the music; since you frequent no concerts?"
+
+"I used to hear a lady practicing near us, when we lived at Bruhl two
+years. During the summer evenings her windows were generally open, and I
+walked to and fro outside to listen to her."
+
+She seemed shy, so Beethoven said no more, but seated himself quietly
+before the piano, and began to play. He had no sooner struck the first
+chord than I knew what would follow--how grand he would be that night! And
+I was not mistaken. Never, during all the years I knew him, did I hear him
+play as he then played to that blind girl and her brother. He was inspired;
+and from the instant that his fingers began to wander along the keys, the
+very tone of the instrument began to grow sweeter and more equal.
+
+The brother and sister were silent with wonder and rapture. The former laid
+aside his work; the latter, with her head bent slightly forward, and her
+hands, pressed tightly over her breast, crouched down near the end of the
+harpsichord as if fearful lest even the beating of her heart should break
+the flow of those magical sweet sounds. It was as if we were all bound in a
+strange dream, and only feared to wake.
+
+Suddenly the flame of the single candle wavered, sunk, flickered, and went
+out. Beethoven paused, and I threw open the shutters, admitting a flood of
+brilliant moonlight. The room was almost as light as before, and the
+illumination fell strongest upon the piano and player. But the chain of his
+ideas seemed to have been broken by the accident. His head dropped upon his
+breast; his hands rested upon his knees; he seemed absorbed in meditation.
+It was thus for some time.
+
+At length the young shoemaker rose, and approached him eagerly, yet
+reverently--"Wonderful man!" he said, in a low tone, "who and what are
+you?"
+
+The composer smiled as he only could smile, benevolently, indulgently,
+kingly. "Listen," he said, and he played the opening bars of the symphony
+in F.
+
+
+A cry of delight and recognition burst from them both, and exclaiming,
+"Then, you are Beethoven!" they covered his hands with tears and kisses.
+
+He rose to go, but we held him back with entreaties, "Play to us once more
+--only once more!"
+
+He suffered himself to be led back to the instrument. The moon shone
+brightly in through the window and lit up his glorious rugged head and
+massive figure. "I will improvise a sonata to the moonlight!" looking up
+thoughtfully to the sky and stars--then his hands dropped on the keys, and
+he began playing a sad and infinitely lovely movement, which crept gently
+over the instrument like the calm flow of moonlight over the dark earth.
+This was followed by a wild, elfin passage in triple time--a sort of
+grotesque interlude, like the dance of sprites upon the sward. Then came a
+swift _agitato finale_--a breathless, hurrying, trembling movement,
+descriptive of flight, and uncertainty, and vague impulsive terror, which
+carried us away on its rustling wings, and left us all emotion and wonder.
+
+"Farewell to you," said Beethoven, pushing back his chair, and turning
+towards the door; "farewell to you."
+
+"You will come again?" asked they, in one breath.
+
+He paused, and looked compassionately, almost tenderly, at the face of the
+blind girl. "Yes, yes," he said, hurriedly, "I will come again, and give
+the fraulein some lessons. Farewell! I will soon come again'"
+
+They followed us in silence more eloquent than words, and stood at their
+door till we were out of sight and hearing.
+
+"Let us make haste back," said Beethoven, "that I may write out that sonata
+while I can yet remember it!" We did so, and he sat over it till long past
+day-dawn. And this was the origin of that Moonlight Sonata with which we
+are all so fondly acquainted.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+OVER THE HILL FROM THE POOR-HOUSE.
+
+I, who was always counted, they say,
+Rather a bad stick any way,
+Splintered all over with dodges and tricks,
+Known as "the worst of the Deacon's six;"
+I, the truant, saucy and bold,
+The one black sheep in my father's fold,
+"Once on a time," as the stories say,
+Went over the hill on a winter's day--
+       _Over the hill to the poor-house._
+
+Tom could save what twenty could earn;
+But _givin'_ was somethin' he ne'er would learn;
+Isaac could half o' the Scriptur's speak--
+Committed a hundred verses a week;
+Never forgot, an' never slipped;
+But "Honour thy father and mother" he skipped;
+          So _over the hill to the poor-house!_
+
+As for Susan, her heart was kind
+An' good--what there was of it, mind;
+Nothin' too big, an' nothin' too nice,
+Nothin' she wouldn't sacrifice
+For one she loved; an' that 'ere one,
+Was herself, when all was said an' done;
+An' Charley, an' Becca meant well, no doubt,
+But any one could pull 'em about;
+
+An' all o' our folks ranked well, you see,
+Save one poor fellow, and that was me;
+An' when, one dark an' rainy night,
+A neighbour's horse went out o' sight,
+They hitched on me, as the guilty chap
+That carried one end o' the halter-strap.
+An' I think, myself, that view of the case
+Wasn't altogether out o' place;
+My mother denied it, as mothers do,
+But I'm inclined to believe 'twas true.
+Though for me one thing might be said--
+That I, as well as the horse, was led;
+And the worst of whiskey spurred me on,
+Or else the deed would have never been done.
+But the keenest grief I ever felt
+Was when my mother beside me knelt,
+An' cried and prayed, till I melted down,
+As I wouldn't for half the horses in town.
+I kissed her fondly, then an' there,
+An' swore henceforth to be honest and square.
+
+I served my sentence--a bitter pill
+Some fellows should take who never will;
+And then I decided to go "out West,"
+Concludin' 'twould suit my health the best;
+Where, how I prospered, I never could tell,
+But Fortune seemed to like me well,
+An' somehow every vein I struck
+Was always bubbling over with luck.
+An' better than that, I was steady an' true,
+An' put my good resolutions through.
+But I wrote to a trusty old neighbour, an' said,
+"You tell 'em, old fellow, that I am dead,
+An' died a Christian; 'twill please 'em more,
+Than if I had lived the same as before."
+
+But when this neighbour he wrote to me,
+"Your mother's in the poor house," says he,
+I had a resurrection straightway,
+An' started for her that very day.
+And when I arrived where I was grown,
+I took good care that I shouldn't be known;
+But I bought the old cottage, through and through,
+Off some one Charley had sold it to;
+And held back neither work nor gold,
+To fix it up as it was of old.
+The same big fire-place, wide and high,
+Flung up its cinders toward the sky;
+The old clock ticked on the corner-shelf--
+I wound it an' set it agoin' myself;
+And if everything wasn't just the same,
+Neither I nor money was to blame;
+       Then--_over the hill to the poor-house!_
+
+One blowin', blusterin', winter's day,
+With a team an' cutter I started away;
+My fiery nags was as black as coal;
+(They some'at resembled the horse I stole);
+I hitched, an' entered the poor-house door--
+A poor old woman was scrubbin' the floor;
+She rose to her feet in great surprise,
+And looked, quite startled, into my eyes;
+I saw the whole of her trouble's trace
+In the lines that marred her dear old face;
+"Mother!" I shouted, "your sorrows is done!
+You're adopted along o' your horse-thief son,
+        Come _over the hill from the poor-house!_"
+
+She didn't faint; she knelt by my side,
+An' thanked the Lord, till I fairly cried.
+An' maybe our ride wasn't pleasant an' gay,
+An' maybe she wasn't wrapped up that day;
+An' maybe our cottage wasn't warm an' bright,
+An' maybe it wasn't a pleasant sight,
+To see her a-gettin' the evenin's tea,
+An' frequently stoppin' an' kissin' me;
+An' maybe we didn't live happy for years,
+In spite of my brothers and sisters' sneers,
+Who often said, as I have heard,
+That they wouldn't own a prison-bird;
+(Though they're gettin' over that, I guess,
+For all of them owe me more or less;)
+But I've learned one thing; an' it cheers a man
+In always a-doin' the best he can;
+That whether on the big book, a blot
+Gets over a fellow's name or not,
+Whenever he does a deed that's white,
+It's credited to him fair and right.
+An' when you hear the great bugle's notes,
+An' the Lord divides his sheep and goats;
+However they may settle my case,
+Wherever they may fix my place,
+My good old Christian mother, you'll see,
+Will be sure to stand right up for me,
+    With _over the hill from the poor-house_.
+
+_Will Carleton_.
+
+       *       *        *       *        *
+
+THE WORLD FROM THE SIDEWALK.
+
+Did you ever stand in the crowded street,
+  In the glare of a city lamp,
+And list to the tread of the millions feet
+  In their quaintly musical tramp?
+As the surging crowd go to and fro,
+  'Tis a pleasant sight, I ween,
+To mark the figures that come and go
+  In the ever-changing scene.
+
+Here the publican walks with the sinner proud,
+  And the priest in his gloomy cowl,
+And Dives walks in the motley crowd
+  With Lazarus, cheek by jowl;
+And the daughter of toil with her fresh young heart
+  As pure as her spotless fame,
+Keeps step with the woman who makes her mart
+  In the haunts of sin and shame.
+
+How lightly trips the country lass
+  In the midst of the city's ills,
+As freshly pure as the daisied grass
+  That grows on her native hills;
+And the beggar, too, with his hungry eye,
+  And his lean, wan face and crutch,
+Gives a blessing the same to the passer-by
+  As they give him little or much.
+
+Ah me! when the hours go joyfully by,
+  How little we stop to heed
+Our brothers' and sisters' despairing cry
+  In their woe and their bitter need!
+Yet such a world as the angels sought
+  This world of ours we'd call,
+If the brotherly love that the Father taught;
+  Was felt by each for all.
+
+Yet a few short years and this motley throng
+  Will all have passed away,
+And the rich and the poor and the old and the young
+  Will be undistinguished clay.
+And lips that laugh and lips that moan,
+  Shall in silence alike be sealed,
+And some will lie under stately stone,
+  And some in the Potter's Field.
+
+But the sun will be shining just as bright,
+  And so will the silver moon,
+And just such a crowd will be here at night,
+  And just such a crowd at noon;
+And men will be wicked and women will sin,
+  As ever since Adam's fall,
+With the same old world to labour in,
+  And the same God over all.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+HIGHLAND MARY.
+
+Ye banks, and braes, and streams around
+  The castle o' Montgomery,
+Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,
+  Your waters never drumlie!
+There simmer first unfauld her robes,
+  And there the langest tarry!
+For there I took the last farewell
+  O' my sweet Highland Mary.
+
+How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk!
+  How rich the hawthorn's blossom!
+As, underneath their fragrant shade,
+  I clasped her to my bosom!
+The golden hours, on angel wings,
+  Flew o'er me and my dearie;
+For dear to me as light and life
+  Was my sweet Highland Mary.
+
+Wi' monie a vow, and locked embrace
+  Our parting was fu' tender';
+And, pledging aft to meet again,
+  We tore ourselves asunder;
+But oh! fell death's untimely frost,
+  That nipt my flower sae early!
+Now green's the sod and cauld's the clay,
+  That wraps my Highland Mary!
+
+O pale, pale now, those rosy lips
+  I aft hae kissed sae fondly!
+And closed for aye the sparkling glance
+  That dwelt on me sae kindly!
+And mouldering now, in silent dust
+  That heart that lo'ed me dearly!
+But still, within my bosom's core,
+  Shall live my Highland Mary.
+
+_Robert Burns._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+CALLING A BOY IN THE MORNING.
+
+Calling a boy up in the morning can hardly be classed under the head of
+"_pastimes_," especially if the boy is fond of exercise the day
+before. And it is a little singular that the next hardest thing to getting
+a boy out of bed is getting him into it. There is rarely a mother who is a
+success at rousing a boy. All mothers know this; so do their boys. And yet
+the mother _seems_ to go at it in the right way. She opens the stair
+door and insinuatingly observes, "Johnny.", There is no response.
+"Johnn_y_." Still no response. Then there is a short, sharp,
+"_John_," followed a moment later by a long and emphatic "John Henry."
+A grunt from the upper regions signifies that an impression has been made;
+and the mother is encouraged to add, "You'd better be getting down here to
+your breakfast, young man, before I come up there, an' give you something
+you'll feel." This so startles the young man that he immediately goes to
+sleep again; and the operation has to be repeated several times. A father
+knows nothing about this trouble. He merely opens his mouth as a soda-water
+bottle ejects its cork, and the "JOHN HENRY" that cleaves the air of that
+stairway goes into that boy like electricity, and pierces the deepest
+recesses of his nature, and he pops out of that bed, and into his clothes,
+and down the stairs, with a promptness that is commendable. It is rarely a
+boy allows himself to disregard the paternal summons. About once a year is
+believed to be as often as is consistent with the rules of health. He saves
+his father a great many steps by his thoughtfulness.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+AN ORDER FOR A PICTURE.
+
+O good painter, tell me true,
+  Has your hand the cunning to draw
+  Shapes of things that you never saw?
+Aye? Well, here is an order for you.
+
+Woods and cornfields a little brown,--
+  The picture must not be over bright,--
+  Yet all in the golden and gracious light
+Of a cloud when the summer sun is down.
+
+Alway and alway, night and morn,
+Woods upon woods, with fields of corn
+  Lying between them, not quite sere,
+And not in the full, thick, leafy bloom,
+When the wind can hardly find breathing room
+  Under their tassels,--cattle near,
+Biting shorter the short green grass,
+And a hedge of sumach and sassafras,
+With bluebirds twittering all around,--
+Ah, good painter, you can't paint sound!
+
+These and the little house where I was born,
+Low, and little, and black, and old,
+With children, many as it can hold,
+All at the windows, open wide,--
+Heads and shoulders clear outside,
+And fair young faces all ablush;
+  Perhaps you may have seen, some day,
+  Roses crowding the self-same way,
+Out of a wilding, way-side bush.
+
+Listen closer. When you have done
+  With woods and cornfields and grazing herds;
+A lady, the loveliest ever the sun
+Looked down upon, you must paint for me;
+Oh, if I only could make you see
+  The clear blue eyes, the tender smile,
+The sovereign sweetness, the gentle grace,
+The woman's soul and the angel's face
+  That are beaming on me all the while!
+  I need not speak these foolish words;
+Yet one word tells you all I would say,--
+  She is my mother: you will agree
+That all the rest may be thrown away.
+
+Two little urchins at her knee
+You must paint, sir; one like me,--
+  The other with a clearer brow,
+And the light of his adventurous eyes
+Flashing with boldest enterprise;
+  At ten years old he went to sea,--
+God knoweth if he be living now,--
+He sailed in the good ship "Commodore,"
+  Nobody ever crossed her track
+  To bring us news, and she never came back.
+Ah, 'tis twenty long years and more
+Since that old ship went out of the bay
+  With my great-hearted brother on her deck;
+  I watched him till he shrank to a speck,
+And his face was toward me all the way.
+  Bright his hair was, a golden brown,
+    The time we stood at our mother's knee;
+  That beauteous head, if it did go down,
+    Carried sunshine into the sea!
+
+Out in the fields one summer night
+  We were together, half afraid,
+Of the corn leaves' rustling, and of the shade
+  Of the high hills, stretching so still and far,--
+Loitering till after the low little light
+Of the candle shone through the open door,
+  And, over the hay-stack's pointed top,
+  All of a tremble and ready to drop
+    The first half hour the great yellow star
+  That we, with staring, ignorant eyes,
+Had often and often watched to see
+  Propped and held in its place in the skies
+By the fork of a tall, red mulberry tree,
+Which close in the edge of our flax field grew,
+  Dead at the top,--just one branch full
+  Of leaves, notched round, and lined with wool,
+From which it tenderly shook the dew
+  Over our heads, when we came to play
+  In its handbreath of shadow, day after day,--
+    Afraid to go home, sir; for one of us bore
+A nest full of speckled and thin-shelled eggs,--
+The other, a bird, held fast by the legs,
+Not so big as a straw of wheat:
+The berries we gave her she wouldn't eat,
+But cried and cried, till we held her bill,
+So slim and shining, to keep her still.
+
+At last we stood at our mother's knee.
+  Do you think, sir, if you try,
+  You can paint the look of a lie?
+    If you can, pray have the grace
+    To put it solely in the face
+  Of the urchin that is likest me;
+  I think 'twas solely mine indeed;
+But that's no matter,--paint it so;
+  The eyes of our mother--(take good heed)--
+  Looking not on the nest-full of eggs,
+  Nor the fluttering bird held so fast by the legs,
+  But straight through our faces, down to our lies.
+  And, oh, with such injured, reproachful surprise,
+I felt my heart bleed where that glance went, as though
+  A sharp blade struck through it.
+                               You, sir, know
+  That you on the canvas are to repeat
+  Things that are fairest, things most sweet,--
+  Woods, and cornfields, and mulberry tree,--
+  The mother,--the lads with their birds at her knee;
+    But, oh, the look of reproachful woe!
+High as the heavens your name I'll shout,
+If you paint me the picture, and leave that out.
+
+_Alice Cary._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+"CHRIST TURNED AND LOOKED UPON PETER."
+
+I think that look of Christ might seem to say--
+"Thou, Peter! art thou then a common stone,
+Which I at last must break my heart upon,
+For all God's charge to His high angels may
+Guard my foot better? Did I yesterday
+Wash thy feet, my beloved, that they should run
+Quick to deny me, 'neath the morning sun?
+And do thy kisses, like the rest, betray?
+The cock crows coldly. Go and manifest
+A late contrition, but no bootless fear!
+For when thy deadly need is bitterest,
+Thou shall not be denied as I am here;
+My voice, to God and angels, shall attest--
+_Because I knew this man let him be clear!_"
+
+_Elizabeth B. Browning._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+THE JESTER'S CHOICE.
+
+One of the kings of Scanderoon,
+  A royal jester,
+Had in his train, a gross buffoon,
+  Who used to pester
+The Court with tricks inopportune,
+Venting on the highest of folks his
+Scurvy pleasantries and hoaxes.
+It needs some sense to play the fool,
+Which wholesome rule
+  Occurred not to our jackanapes,
+Who consequently found his freaks
+  Lead to innumerable scrapes,
+And quite as many kicks and tweaks,
+Which only seemed to make him faster
+Try the patience of his master.
+
+Some sin, at last, beyond all measure,
+Incurred the desperate displeasure
+  Of his serene and raging highness:
+Whether he twitched his most revered
+And sacred beard,
+  Or had intruded on the shyness
+Of the seraglio, or let fly
+An epigram at royalty,
+None knows: his sin was an occult one,
+But records tell us that the Sultan,
+Meaning to terrify he knave,
+  Exclaimed, "'Tis time to stop that breath:
+Thy doom is sealed, presumptuous slave!
+  Thou stand'st condemned to certain death:
+Silence, base rebel! no replying!
+  But such is my indulgence still,
+  That, of my own free grace and will,
+I leave to thee the mode of dying."
+"Thy royal will be done--'tis just,"
+Replied the wretch, and kissed the dust;
+  "Since my last moments to assuage,
+Your majesty's humane decree
+Has deigned to leave the choice to me,
+  I'll die, so please you, of old age!"
+
+_Horace Smith_
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+THE OPENING OF THE PIANO.
+
+In the little southern parlour of the house you may have seen
+With the gambrel-roof, and the gable looking westward to the green,
+At the side toward the sunset, with the window on its right,
+Stood the London-made piano I am dreaming of to-night.
+
+Ah me! how I remember the evening when it came!
+What a cry of eager voices, what a group of cheeks in flame,
+When the wondrous box was opened that had come from over seas,
+With its smell of mastic-varnish and its flash of ivory keys!
+
+Then the children all grew fretful in the restlessness of joy,
+For the boy would push his sister, and the sister crowd the boy,
+Till the father asked for quiet in his grave paternal way,
+But the mother hushed the tumult with the words, "Now, Mary, play."
+
+For the dear soul knew that music was a very sovereign balm;
+She had sprinkled it over sorrow and seen its brow grow calm,
+In the days of slender harpsichords with tapping tinkling quills
+Or carolling to her spinet with its thin metallic trills.
+
+So Mary, the household minstrel, who always loved to please,
+Sat down to the new "Clementi," and struck the glittering keys.
+Hushed were the children's voices, and every eye grew dim,
+As, floating from lip and finger, arose the "Vesper Hymn."
+
+--Catherine, child of a neighbour, curly and rosy-red,
+(Wedded since, and a widow,--something like ten years dead,)
+Hearing a gush of music such as none before,
+Steals from her mother's chamber and peeps at the open door.
+
+Just as the "Jubilate" in threaded whisper dies,
+--"Open it, open it, lady!" the little maiden cries,
+(For she thought 'twas a singing creature caged in a box she heard,)
+"Open it, open it, lady! and let me see the _bird_!"
+
+_Oliver Wendell Holmes._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+THE HIRED SQUIRREL.
+
+(A RUSSIAN FABLE.)
+
+    A Lion to the Squirrel said:
+        "Work faithfully for me,
+And when your task is done, my friend,
+        Rewarded you shall be
+With barrel-full of finest nuts,
+        Fresh from my own nut-tree."
+"My Lion King," the Squirrel said,
+        "To this I do agree."
+
+    The Squirrel toiled both day and night,
+        Quite faithful to his hire;
+So hungry and so faint sometimes
+        He thought he should expire.
+But still he kept his courage up,
+        And tugged with might and main.
+"How nice the nuts will taste," he thought,
+        "When I my barrel gain."
+
+    At last, when he was nearly dead,
+        And thin and old and grey,
+Quoth Lion: "There's no more hard work
+    You're fit to do. I'll pay."
+A barrel-full of nuts he gave--
+        Ripe, rich, and big; but oh!
+The Squirrel's tears ran down his cheeks.
+        He'd _lost his teeth_, you know!
+
+_Laura Sanford._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+                 THE DEATH-BED.
+
+We watched her breathing through the night,
+  Her breathing soft and low,
+As in her breast the wave of life
+  Kept heaving to and fro.
+
+So silently we seemed to speak,
+  So slowly moved about,
+As we had lent her half our powers
+  To eke her living out.
+
+Our very hopes belied our fears,
+  Our fears our hopes belied--
+We thought her dying when she slept,
+  And sleeping when she died.
+
+For when the morn came, dim and sad,
+  And chill with early showers,
+Her quiet eyelids closed--she had
+  Another morn than ours.
+
+_Thomas Hood._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+LANDING OF COLUMBUS.
+
+The sails were furl'd; with many a melting close,
+Solemn and slow the evening anthem rose,--
+Rose to the Virgin. 'Twas the hour of day
+When setting suns o'er summer seas display
+A path of glory, opening in the west
+To golden climes and islands of the blest;
+And human voices on the silent air
+Went o'er the waves in songs of gladness there!
+Chosen of men! 'Twas thine at noon of night
+First from the prow to hail the glimmering light?
+(Emblem of Truth divine, whose secret ray
+Enters the soul and makes the darkness day!)
+"Pedro! Rodrigo! there methought it shone!
+There--in the west! and now, alas, 'tis gone!--
+'Twas all a dream! we gaze and gaze in vain!
+But mark and speak not, there it comes again!
+It moves!--what form unseen, what being there
+With torch-like lustre fires the murky air?
+His instincts, passions, say, how like our own!
+Oh, when will day reveal a world unknown?"
+Long on the deep the mists of morning lay;
+Then rose, revealing as they rolled away
+Half-circling hills, whose everlasting woods
+Sweep with their sable skirts the shadowy floods:
+And say, when all, to holy transport given,
+Embraced and wept as at the gates of heaven,--
+When one and all of us, repentant, ran,
+And, on our faces, bless'd the wondrous man,--
+Say, was I then deceived, or from the skies
+Burst on my ear seraphic harmonies?
+"Glory to God!" unnumber'd voices sung,--
+"Glory to God!" the vales and mountains rung,
+Voices that hail'd creation's primal morn,
+And to the shepherds sung a Saviour born.
+Slowly, bareheaded, through the surf we bore
+The sacred cross, and kneeling kiss'd the shore.
+
+_Rogers._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+THREE WORDS OF STRENGTH.
+
+There are three lessons I would write--
+  Three words as with a burning pen,
+In tracings of eternal light
+  Upon the hearts of men.
+
+Have Hope. Though clouds environ round
+  And gladness hides her face in scorn,
+Put off the shadow from thy brow--
+  No night but hath its morn.
+
+Have Faith. Where'er thy bark is driven--
+  The calm's disport, the tempest's mirth--
+Know this; God rules the hosts of heaven--
+  The inhabitants of the earth.
+
+Have Love. Not love alone for one,
+  But man, as man, thy brother call;
+And scatter like the circling sun,
+  Thy charities on all.
+
+Thus grave these lessons on thy soul--
+  Hope, Faith, and Love--and thou shalt find
+Strength, when life's surges rudest roll,
+  Light, when thou else wert blind.
+
+_Schiller._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+BRUTUS ON THE DEATH OF CĈSAR.
+
+Romans, countrymen, and lovers! Hear me for my cause; and be silent, that
+you may hear. Believe me for mine honour; and have respect to mine honour,
+that you may believe. Censure me in your wisdom; and awake your senses,
+that you may the better judge. If there be any in this assembly--any dear
+friend of Cĉsar's--to him I say, that Brutus' love to Cĉsar was no less
+than his. If, then, that friend demand why Brutus rose against Cĉsar, this
+is my answer:--Not that I loved Cĉsar less, but that I loved Rome more. Had
+you rather Cĉsar were living, and die all slaves, than that Cĉsar were
+dead, to live all freemen? As Cĉsar loved me, I weep for him; as he was
+fortunate, I rejoice at it; as he was valiant, I honour him; but, as he was
+ambitious, I slew him. There are tears, for his love; joy, for his fortune;
+honour, for his valour; and death for his ambition! Who is here so base,
+that would be a bondman? If any, speak; for him have I offended. Who is
+here so rude that would not be a Roman? If any, speak; for him have I
+offended. Who is here so vile that will not love his country? If any,
+speak; for him have I offended. I pause for a reply.
+
+None? Then none have I offended. I have done no more to Cĉsar than you
+shall do to Brutus. The question of his death is enrolled in the Capitol;
+his glory not extenuated, wherein he was worthy; nor his offences enforced,
+for which he suffered death.
+
+Here comes his body, mourned by Mark Antony; who, though he had no hand in
+his death, shall receive the benefit of his dying, a place in the
+commonwealth: as which of you shall not? With this I depart:--that, as I
+slew my best lover for the good of Rome, I have the same dagger for myself,
+when it shall please my country to need my death.
+
+_Shakespeare._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+THE SERENADE.
+
+A youth went out to serenade
+  The lady whom he loved the best,
+And passed beneath the mansion's shade,
+  Where erst his charmer used to rest.
+
+He warbled till the morning light
+  Came dancing o'er the hill-tops' rim,
+But no fair maiden blessed his sight,
+  And all seemed dark and drear to him.
+
+With heart aglow and eyes ablaze,
+  He drew much nearer than before,
+When, to his horror and amaze,
+  He saw "To Let" upon the door.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+GINEVRA.
+
+If thou shouldst ever come, by choice or chance,
+To Modena, where still religiously
+Among her ancient trophies is preserved
+Bologna's bucket (in its chain it hangs
+Within that reverend tower, the Guirlandine),
+Stop at a Palace near the Reggio-gate.
+Dwelt in of old by one of the Orsini.
+Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace,
+Its sparkling fountains, statues, cypresses,
+Will long detain thee; through their arched walks,
+Dim at noonday, discovering many a glimpse
+Of knights and dames, such as in old romance,
+And lovers, such as in heroic song,
+Perhaps the two, for groves were their delight,
+That in the spring-time, as alone they sat,
+Venturing together on a tale of love,
+Read only part that day. A summer sun
+Sets ere one-half is seen; but, ere thou go,
+Enter the house--prithee, forget it not--
+And look awhile upon a picture there.
+  'Tis of a lady in her earliest youth,
+The very last of that illustrious race,
+Done by Zampieri--but by whom I care not.
+He who observes it--ere he passes on,
+Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again,
+That he may call it up, when far away.
+She sits, inclining forward as to speak,
+Her lips half open, and her finger up,
+As though she said, "Beware!" Her vest of gold
+Broidered with flowers, and clasped from head to foot,
+An emerald stone in every golden clasp;
+And on her brow, fairer than alabaster,
+A coronet of pearls. But then her face,
+So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth,
+The overflowings of an innocent heart--
+It haunts me still, though many a year has fled,
+Like some wild melody!
+                        Alone it hangs
+Over a mouldering heirloom, its companion,
+An oaken chest, half-eaten by the worm,
+But richly carved by Antony of Trent
+With Scripture stories from the Life of Christ,
+A chest that came from Venice, and had held
+The ducal robes of some old ancestor.
+That by the way--it may be true or false--
+But don't forget the picture: and thou wilt not,
+When thou hast heard the tale they told me there.
+  She was an only child; from infancy
+The joy, the pride of an indulgent sire.
+Her mother dying of the gift she gave,
+That precious gift, what else remained to him?
+The young Ginevra was his all in life,
+Still as she grew, for ever in his sight;
+And in her fifteenth year became a bride,
+Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria,
+Her playmate from her birth, and her first love.
+  Just as she looks there in her bridal dress,
+She was all gentleness, all gaiety;
+Her pranks the favourite theme of every tongue.
+But now the day was come, the day, the hour;
+Now frowning, smiling, for the hundredth time,
+The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum;
+And, in the lustre of her youth, she gave
+Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco.
+  Great was the joy; but at the bridal feast,
+When all sat down, the bride was wanting there,
+Nor was she to be found! Her father cried,
+"'Tis but to make a trial of our love!"
+And filled his glass to all; but his hand shook,
+And soon from guest to guest the panic spread.
+'Twas but that instant she had left Francesco,
+Laughing and looking back and flying still,
+Her ivory-tooth imprinted on his finger,
+But now, alas! she was not to be found;
+Nor from that hour could anything be guessed,
+But that she was not!
+                      Weary of his life,
+Francesco flew to Venice, and forthwith
+Flung it away in battle with the Turk.
+Orsini lived; and long mightst thou have seen
+An old man wandering as in quest of something,
+Something he could not find--he knew not what.
+When he was gone, the house remained awhile
+Silent and tenantless--then went to strangers.
+  Full fifty years were past, and all forgot,
+When on an idle day, a day of search
+'Mid the old lumber in the gallery,
+That mouldering chest was noticed; and 'twas said
+By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra,
+"Why not remove it from its lurking place?"
+'Twas done as soon as said; but on the way
+It burst, it fell; and lo, a skeleton,
+With here and there a pearl, an emerald-stone,
+A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold.
+All else had perished--save a nuptial ring,
+And a small seal, her mother's legacy,
+Engraven with a name, the name of both,
+"GINEVRA."
+
+         There, then, had she found a grave!
+Within that chest had she concealed herself,
+Fluttering with joy the happiest of the happy;
+When a spring lock that lay in ambush there,
+Fastened her down for ever!
+
+_Samuel Rogers._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+THE LAST STATION.
+
+He had been sick at one of the hotels for three or four weeks, and the boys
+on the road had dropped in daily to see how he got along, and to learn if
+they could render him any kindness. The brakeman was a good fellow, and one
+and all encouraged him in the hope that he would pull through. The doctor
+didn't regard the case as dangerous; but the other day the patient began
+sinking, and it was seen that he could not live the night out. A dozen of
+his friends sat in the room when night came, but his mind wandered and he
+did not recognize them.
+
+It was near one of the depots, and after the great trucks and noisy drays
+had ceased rolling by, the bells and the short, sharp whistles of the yard-
+engines sounded painfully loud. The patient had been very quiet for half an
+hour, when he suddenly unclosed his eyes and shouted:
+
+"Kal-a-ma-zoo!"
+
+One of the men brushed the hair back from the cold forehead, and the
+brakeman closed his eyes and was quiet for a time. Then the wind whirled
+around the depot and banged the blinds on the window of his room, and he
+lifted his hand and cried out:
+
+"Jack-son! Passengers going north by the Saginaw Road change cars!"
+
+The men understood. The brakeman thought he was coming east on the Michigan
+Central. The effort seemed to have greatly exhausted him, for he lay like
+one dead for the next five minutes, and a watcher felt for his pulse to see
+if life had not gone out. A tug going down the river sounded her whistle
+loud and long, and the dying brakeman opened his eyes and called out:
+
+"Ann Arbor!"
+
+He had been over the road a thousand times, but had made his last trip.
+Death was drawing a spectral train over the old track, and he was brakeman,
+engineer, and conductor.
+
+One of the yard-engines uttered a shrill whistle of warning, as if the
+glare of the headlight had shown to the engineer some stranger in peril,
+and the brakeman called out:
+
+"Yp-silanti! Change cars here for the Eel River Road!"
+
+"He's coming in fast," whispered one of the men.
+
+"And the end of his 'run' will be the end of his life," said a second.
+
+The dampness of death began to collect on the patient's forehead, and there
+was that ghastly look on the face that death always brings. The slamming of
+a door down the hall startled him again, and he moved his head and faintly
+said:
+
+"Grand Trunk Junction! Passengers going east by the Grand Trunk change
+cars!"
+
+He was so quiet after that, that all the men gathered around the bed,
+believing that he was dead. His eyes closed, and the brakeman lifted his
+hand, moved his head, and whispered:
+
+"De--"
+
+Not "Detroit," but Death! He died with the half-uttered whisper on his
+lips. And the headlight on death's engine shone full in his face, and
+covered it with such pallor as naught but death can bring.
+
+_Detroit Free Press._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+ST. PHILIP NERI AND THE YOUTH.
+
+St. Philip Neri, as old readings say,
+Met a young stranger in Rome's streets one day;
+And being ever courteously inclined
+To give young folks a sober turn of mind,
+He fell into discourse with him; and thus
+The dialogue they held comes down to us.
+
+  ST. Tell me what brings you, gentle youth, to Rome?
+  Y. To make myself a scholar, sir, I come.
+  ST. And when you are one, what do you intend?
+  Y. To be a priest, I hope, sir, in the end
+  ST. Suppose it so,--what have you next in view?
+  Y. That I may get to be a canon, too.
+  ST. Well; and how then?
+  Y.                      Why, then, for aught I know
+I may be made a bishop.
+  ST.                     Be it so--
+What then?
+  Y.                      Why, cardinal's a high degree--
+And yet my lot it possibly may be.
+  ST. Suppose it was, what then?
+  Y.                             Why, who can say
+But I've a chance of being pope one day?
+  ST. Well, having worn the mitre and red hat,
+And triple crown, what follows after that?
+  Y. Nay, there is nothing further, to be sure,
+Upon this earth that wishing can procure;
+When I've enjoyed a dignity so high,
+As long as God shall please, then I must die.
+  ST. What! must you die? fond youth! and at the best
+But wish, and hope, and maybe all the rest!
+Take my advice--whatever may betide,
+For that which must be, first of all provide;
+Then think of that which may be, and indeed,
+When well prepared, who knows what may succeed?
+But you may be, as you are pleased to hope,
+Priest, canon, bishop, cardinal, and pope.
+
+_Dr. Byrom_.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+NO KISS.
+
+"Kiss me, Will," sang Marguerite,
+  To a pretty little tune,
+Holding up her dainty mouth,
+  Sweet as roses born in June.
+Will was ten years old that day,
+  And he pulled her golden curls
+Teasingly, and answer made--
+  "I'm too old--I don't kiss girls."
+
+Ten years pass, and Marguerite
+  Smiles as Will kneels at her feet,
+Gazing fondly in her eyes,
+  Praying, "Won't you kiss me, sweet?"
+'Rite is seventeen to-day,
+  With her birthday ring she toys
+For a moment, then replies:
+  "I'm too old--I don't kiss boys."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+KEYS.
+
+Long ago in the old Granada, when the Moors were forced to flee,
+Each man locked his home behind him, taking in his flight the key.
+
+Hopefully they watched and waited for the time to come when they
+Should return from their long exile to those homes so far away.
+
+But the mansions in Granada they had left in all their prime
+Vanished, as the years rolled onward, 'neath the crumbling touch of time.
+
+Like the Moors, we all have dwellings where we vainly long to be,
+And through all life's changing phases ever fast we hold the key.
+
+Our fair country lies behind us; we are exiles, too, in truth,
+For no more shall we behold her. Our Granada's name is Youth.
+
+We have our delusive day-dreams, and rejoice when, now and then,
+Some old heartstring stirs within us and we feel our youth again.
+
+"We are young," we cry triumphant, thrilled with old-time joy and glee,
+Then the dream fades slowly, softly, leaving nothing but the key!
+
+_Bessie Chandler_.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+DRIFTING.
+
+My soul to-day is far away
+Sailing the Vesuvian Bay;
+My winged boat, a bird afloat,
+Skims round the purple peaks remote.
+
+Round purple peaks it sails and seeks
+Blue inlets and their crystal creeks,
+Where high rocks throw, through deeps below,
+A duplicated golden glow.
+
+Far, vague, and dim the mountains swim;
+While on Vesuvius' misty brim,
+With outstretched hands, the gray smoke stands
+O'erlooking the volcanic lands.
+
+Here Ischia smiles o'er liquid miles,
+And yonder, bluest of the isles,
+Calm Capri waits, her sapphire gates
+Beguiling to her bright estates.
+
+I heed not, if my rippling skiff
+Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff:
+With dreamful eyes my spirit lies
+Under the walls of Paradise.
+
+Under the walls where swells and falls
+The Bay's deep breast at intervals,
+At peace I lie, blown softly by
+A cloud upon this liquid sky.
+
+The day so mild is heaven's own child,
+With earth and ocean reconciled:
+The airs I feel around me steal
+Are murmuring to the murmuring keel.
+
+Over the rail my hand I trail,
+Within the shadow of the sail;
+A joy intense, the cooling sense,
+Glides down my drowsy indolence.
+
+With dreamful eyes my spirit flies
+Where summer sings and never dies--
+O'erveiled with vines, she glows and shines
+Among her future oils and wines.
+
+Her children, hid the cliffs amid,
+Are gamboling with the gamboling kid;
+Or down the walls, with tipsy calls,
+Laugh on the rock like waterfalls.
+
+The fisher's child, with tresses wild,
+Unto the smooth, bright sand beguiled,
+With glowing lips sings as she skips,
+Or gazes at the far-off ships.
+
+Yon deep bark goes where traffic blows,
+From lands of sun to lands of snows;
+This happier one its course has run,
+From lands of snow to lands of sun.
+
+Oh! happy ship, to rise and dip,
+With the blue crystal at your lip!
+Oh! happy crew, my heart with you
+Sails, and sails, and sings anew!
+
+No more, no more the worldly shore
+Upbraids me with its loud uproar!
+With dreamful eyes my spirit lies
+Under the walls of Paradise!
+
+_T. Buchanan Read_.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+ELIZABETH.
+
+Now was the winter gone, and the snow; and Robin the Red-breast
+Boasted on bush and tree it was he, it was he and no other
+That had covered with leaves the Babes in the Wood, and blithely
+All the birds sang with him, and little cared for his boasting,
+Or for his Babes in the Wood, or the Cruel Uncle, and only
+Sang for the mates they had chosen, and cared for the nests they
+   were building.
+With them, but more sedately and meekly, Elizabeth Hadden
+Sang in her inmost heart, but her lips were silent and songless.
+Thus came the lovely spring, with a rush of blossoms and music,
+Flooding the earth with flowers, and the air with melodies vernal.
+Then it came to pass, one pleasant morning, that slowly
+Up the road there came a cavalcade, as of pilgrims,
+Men and women, wending their way to the Quarterly Meeting
+In the neighbouring town; and with them came riding, John Estaugh.
+At Elizabeth's door they stopped to rest, and alighting
+Tasted the currant wine, and the bread of rye, and the honey
+Brought from the hives, that stood by the sunny wall of the garden,
+Then re-mounted their horses, refreshed, and continued their journey,
+And Elizabeth with them, and Joseph, and Hannah the housemaid.
+But, as they started, Elizabeth lingered a little, and leaning
+Over her horse's neck, in a whisper said to John Estaugh:
+"Tarry awhile behind, for I have something to tell thee,
+Not to be spoken lightly, nor in the presence of others;
+Them it concerneth not, only thee and me it concerneth."
+And they rode slowly along through the woods, conversing together.
+It was a pleasure to breathe the fragrant air of the forest;
+It was a pleasure to live on that bright and happy May morning
+Then Elizabeth said, though still with a certain reluctance,
+As if impelled to reveal a secret she fain would have guarded:
+"I will no longer conceal what is laid upon me to tell thee;
+I have received from the Lord a charge to love thee, John Estaugh."
+And John Estaugh made answer, surprised by the words she had spoken:
+"Pleasant to me are thy converse, thy ways, thy meekness of spirit;
+Pleasant thy frankness of speech, and thy soul's immaculate whiteness,
+Love without dissimulation, a holy and inward adorning,
+But I have yet no light to lead me, no voice to direct me.
+When the Lord's work is done, and the toil and the labour completed
+He hath appointed to me, I will gather into the stillness
+Of my own heart awhile, and listen and wait for His guidance."
+
+Then Elizabeth said, not troubled nor wounded in spirit,
+"So is it best, John Estaugh, we will not speak of it further,
+It hath been laid on me to tell thee this, for to-morrow
+Thou art going away, across the sea, and I know not
+When I shall see thee more; but if the Lord hath decreed it,
+Thou wilt return again to seek me here, and to find me."
+And they rode onward in silence, and entered the town with the others.
+
+_Longfellow_.
+
+
+"ASK MAMMA."
+
+A bachelor squire of no great possession, long come to what should have
+been years of discretion, determined to change his old habits of life, and
+comfort his days by taking a wife. He had long been the sport of the girls
+in the place,--they liked his good, simple, quiet, cheery, fat face; and
+whenever he went to a tea-drinking party, the flirts were in raptures--our
+friend was so hearty! They'd fasten a cord near the foot of the door, and
+bring down the jolly old chap on the floor; they'd pull off his wig while
+he floundered about, and hide it, and laugh till he hunted it out; they
+would tie his coat-tails to the back of his seat, and scream with delight
+when he rose to his feet; they would send him at Christmas a box full of
+bricks, and play on his temper all manner of tricks. One evening they
+pressed him to play on the flute, and he blew in his eyes a rare scatter of
+soot! He took it so calmly, and laughed while he spoke, that they hugged
+him to pardon their nasty "black joke." One really appeared so sincere in
+her sorrow, that he vowed to himself he would ASK her tomorrow,--and not
+one of the girls but would envy her lot, if this jolly old bachelor's offer
+she got; for they never had dreamed of his playing the beau, or doubtless
+they would not have treated him so. However, next day to fair Fanny's
+amazement, she saw him approach as she stood at the casement; and he very
+soon gave her to know his desire, that she should become the dear wife of
+the squire. "La! now, Mr. Friendly, what would they all say?" but she
+thought that not one of them all would say nay: she was flustered with
+pleasure, and coyness, and pride to be thus unexpectedly sued for a bride.
+She did not refuse him, but yet did not like, to say "Yes," all at once--
+the hot iron to strike; so to give the proposal the greater _eclat_,
+she said, "Dear Mr. Friendly,--you'd best, ask mamma!" Good morning, then,
+Fanny, I'll do what you say; as she's out, I shall call in the course of
+the day. Fanny blushed as she gave him her hand for good-bye, and she did
+not know which to do first--laugh or cry; to wed such a dear darling man,
+nothing loth; for variety's sake in her joy, she did both! "O, what will
+mamma say, and all the young girls?" she thought as she played with her
+beautiful curls. "I wish I had said Yes at once,--'twas too bad--not to
+ease his dear mind--O, I wish that I had! I wish he had asked me to give
+him a kiss,--but he can't be in doubt of my feeling--that's bliss! O, I
+wish that mamma would come for the news; such a good dear kind soul, she
+will never refuse! There's the bell--here she is.... O, mamma!"--"Child,
+preserve us! What ails you dear Fanny? What makes you so nervous?" "I
+really can't tell you just now,--bye and bye Mr. Friendly will call--and
+he'll tell you--not I." "Mr. Friendly, my child what about him, pray?" "O,
+mamma,--he's to call--in the course of the day. He was here just this
+minute,--and shortly you'll see he'll make you as happy as he has made me.
+I declare he has seen you come home--that's his ring; I will leave you and
+him, now to settle the thing" Fanny left in a flutter: her mother--the
+gipsy--she'd made her as giddy as though she'd been tipsy! Mr. Friendly
+came in, and the widow and he, were soon as delighted as Fanny could be; he
+asked the dear _widow_ to change her estate;--she consented at once,
+and a kiss sealed her fate. Fanny came trembling in--overloaded with
+pleasure--but soon she was puzzled in as great a measure. "Dear Fanny,"
+said Friendly, "I've done what you said," but what he had done, never
+entered her head--"I've asked your mamma, and she's given her consent;"
+Fanny flew to his arms to express her content. He kissed her and said,--as
+he kissed her mamma,--"I'm so glad, my dear Fan, that you like your papa!"
+Poor Fanny now found out the state of the case, and she blubbered outright
+with a pitiful face; it was all she could do, under heavy constraint, to
+preserve herself conscious, and keep off a faint! She determined, next time
+she'd a chance, you may guess, not to say, "Ask mamma," but at once to say
+"Yes!"
+
+_A. M. Bell._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+GUILTY OR NOT GUILTY.
+
+She stood at the bar of justice,
+  A creature wan and wild,
+In form too small for a woman,
+  In features too old for a child,
+For a look so worn and pathetic
+  Was stamped on her pale young face,
+It seemed long years of suffering
+  Must have left that silent trace.
+
+"Your name," said the judge, as he eyed her
+  With kindly look yet keen,
+"Is Mary McGuire, if you please, sir,"
+  "And your age?"--"I am turned fifteen."
+"Well, Mary," and then from a paper
+  He slowly and gravely read,
+"You are charged here--I'm sorry to say it--
+  With stealing three loaves of bread."
+
+"You look not like an offender,
+  And I hope that you can show
+The charge to be false. Now, tell me,
+  Are you guilty of this, or no?"
+A passionate burst of weeping
+  Was at first her sole reply,
+But she dried her tears in a moment,
+  And looked in the judge's eye.
+
+"I will tell you just how it was, sir,
+  My father and mother are dead,
+And my little brother and sisters
+  Were hungry and asked me for bread.
+At first I earned it for them
+  By working hard all day,
+But somehow times were bad, sir,
+  And the work all fell away.
+
+"I could get no more employment;
+  The weather was bitter cold,
+The young ones cried and shivered--
+  (Little Johnny's but four years old;)--
+So, what was I to do, sir?
+  I am guilty, but do not condemn,
+I _took_--oh, was it _stealing_?--
+  The bread to give to them."
+
+Every man in the court-room--
+  Grey-beard and thoughtless youth--
+Knew, as he looked upon her,
+  That the prisoner spoke the truth,
+Out from their pockets came kerchiefs.
+  Out from their eyes sprung tears,
+And out from old faded wallets
+  Treasures hoarded for years.
+
+The judge's face was a study--
+  The strangest you ever saw,
+As he cleared his throat and murmured
+  _Something_ about the _law_.
+For one so learned in such matters,
+  So wise in dealing with men,
+He seemed, on a simple question,
+  Sorely puzzled just then.
+
+But no one blamed him or wondered
+  When at last these words they heard,
+"The sentence of this young prisoner
+  Is, for the present, deferred."
+And no one blamed him or wondered
+  When he went to her and smiled,
+And tenderly led from the court-room,
+  Himself the "guilty" child.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+MEMORY'S PICTURES.
+
+Among the beautiful pictures
+  That hang on Memory's wall,
+Is one of a dim old forest,
+  That seemeth best of all;
+Not for its gnarled oaks olden,
+  Dark with the mistletoe;
+Not for the violets golden
+  That sprinkle the vale below;
+Not for the milk-white lilies
+  That lean from the fragrant ledge,
+Coquetting all day with the sunbeams,
+  And stealing their golden edge;
+Not for the vines on the upland,
+  Where the bright red berries rest;
+Nor the pinks, nor the pale, sweet cowslips,
+  It seemeth to me the best.
+
+I once had a little brother
+  With eyes that were dark and deep;
+In the lap of that old dim forest
+  He lieth in peace asleep;
+Light as the down of the thistle,
+  Free as the winds that blow,
+We roved there the beautiful summers,
+  The summers of long ago;
+But his feet on the hills grew weary,
+  And one of the autumn eves
+I made for my little brother
+  A bed of the yellow leaves.
+Sweetly his pale arms folded
+  My neck in a meek embrace,
+As the light of immortal beauty
+  Silently covered his face;
+And when the arrows of sunset
+  Lodged in the tree-tops bright,
+He fell, in his saint-like beauty,
+  Asleep, by the gates of light.
+Therefore, of all the pictures
+  That hang on Memory's wall,
+The one of the dim old forest
+  Seemeth the best of all.
+
+_Alice Cary._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+PAPA CAN'T FIND ME.
+
+  No little step do I hear in the hall,
+  Only a sweet little laugh, that is all.
+  No dimpled arms round my neck hold me tight,
+  I've but a glimpse of two eyes very bright,
+  Two little hands a wee face try to screen,
+  Baby is hiding, that's plain to be seen.
+  "Where is my precious I've missed So all day'"
+  "Papa can't find me!" the pretty lips say.
+
+  "Dear me, I wonder where baby can be!"
+  Then I go by, and pretend not to see.
+  "Not in the parlour, and not on the stairs'
+  Then I must peep under sofas and chairs."
+  The dear little rogue is now laughing outright,
+  Two little arms round my neck clasp me tight.
+  Home will indeed be sad, weary and lone,
+  When papa can't find you, my darling, my own.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+THE PAINTER OF SEVILLE.
+
+Sebastian Gomez, better known by the name of the Mulatto of Murillo, was
+one of the most celebrated painters of Spain. There may yet be seen in the
+churches of Seville the celebrated picture which he was found painting, by
+his master, a St. Anne, and a holy Joseph, which are extremely beautiful,
+and others of the highest merit. The incident related occurred about the
+year 1630:
+
+'Twas morning in Seville; and brightly beamed
+   The early sunlight in one chamber there;
+Showing where'er its glowing radiance gleamed,
+   Rich, varied beauty. 'Twas the study where
+Murillo, the famed painter, came to share
+   With young aspirants his long-cherished art,
+To prove how vain must be the teacher's care,
+   Who strives his unbought knowledge to impart
+   The language of the soul, the feeling of the heart.
+
+The pupils came and glancing round,
+Mendez upon his canvas found,
+Not his own work of yesterday,
+But glowing in the morning ray,
+A sketch, so rich, so pure, so bright,
+  It almost seemed that there were given
+To glow before his dazzled sight,
+  Tints and expression warm from heaven.
+
+'Twas but a sketch--the Virgin's head--
+Yet was unearthly beauty shed
+Upon the mildly beaming face;
+The lip, the eye, the flowing hair,
+Had separate, yet blended grace--
+  A poet's brightest dream was there!!
+
+Murillo entered, and amazed,
+On the mysterious painting gazed;
+"Whose work is this?--speak, tell me!--he
+Who to his aid such power can call,"
+Exclaimed the teacher eagerly,
+  "Will yet be master of us all;
+Would I had done it!--Ferdinand!
+Isturitz! Mendez!--say, whose hand
+Among ye all?"--With half-breathed sigh,
+Each pupil answered,--"'Twas not I!"
+
+"How came it then?" impatiently
+Murillo cried; "but we shall see,
+Ere long into this mystery.
+Sebastian!"
+           At the summons came
+  A bright-eyed slave,
+Who trembled at the stern rebuke
+  His master gave.
+For ordered in that room to sleep,
+And faithful guard o'er all to keep,
+Murillo bade him now declare
+What rash intruder had been there,
+And threatened--if he did not tell
+The truth at once--the dungeon-cell.
+  "Thou answerest not," Murillo said;
+(The boy had stood in speechless fear.)
+  "Speak on!"--At last he raised his head
+And murmured, "No one has been here."
+"'Tis false!" Sebastian bent his knee,
+  And clasped his hands imploringly,
+And said. "I swear it, none but me!"
+
+"List!" said his master. "I would know
+  Who enters here--there have been found
+  Before, rough sketches strewn around,
+By whose bold hand, 'tis yours to show;
+  Nor dare to close your eyes in sleep.
+  If on to-morrow morn you fail
+    To answer what I ask,
+The lash shall force you--do you hear?
+  Hence! to your daily task."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+'Twas midnight in Seville, and faintly shone
+  From one small lamp, a dim uncertain ray
+Within Murillo's study--all were gone
+  Who there, in pleasant tasks or converse gay,
+Passed cheerfully the morning hours away.
+  'Twas shadowy gloom, and breathless silence, save,
+That to sad thoughts and torturing fear a prey,
+  One bright eyed boy was there--Murillo's little slave.
+
+Almost a child--that boy had seen
+  Not thrice five summers yet,
+But genius marked the lotty brow,
+  O'er which his locks of jet
+Profusely curled; his cheek's dark hue
+Proclaimed the warm blood flowing through
+Each throbbing vein, a mingled tide,
+To Africa and Spain allied.
+
+"Alas! what fate is mine!" he said
+   "The lash, if I refuse to tell
+Who sketched those figures--if I do,
+  Perhaps e'en more--the dungeon-cell!"
+He breathed a prayer to Heaven for aid;
+It came--for soon in slumber laid,
+He slept, until the dawning day
+Shed on his humble couch its ray.
+
+"I'll sleep no more!" he cried; "and now
+  Three hours of freedom I may gain,
+Before my master comes, for then
+  I shall be but a slave again.
+Three blessed hours of freedom! how
+Shall I employ them?--ah! e'en now
+The figure on that canvas traced
+Must be--yes, it must be effaced."
+
+  He seized a brush--the morning light
+    Gave to the head a softened glow;
+  Gazing enraptured on the sight,
+    He cried, "Shall I efface it?--No!
+  That breathing lip! that beaming eye
+  Efface them?--I would rather die!"
+
+  The terror of the humble slave
+    Gave place to the o'erpowering flow
+  Of the high feelings Nature gave-
+    Which only gifted spirits know.
+
+  He touched the brow--the lip--it seemed
+    His pencil had some magic power;
+  The eye with deeper feeling beamed--
+    Sebastian then forgot the hour!
+  Forgot his master, and the threat
+    Of punishment still hanging o'er him;
+  For, with each touch, new beauties met
+    And mingled in the face before him.
+
+  At length 'twas finished; rapturously
+  He gazed--could aught more beauteous be'
+  Awhile absorbed, entranced he stood,
+  Then started--horror chilled his blood!
+  His master and the pupils all
+    Were there e'en at his side!
+  The terror-stricken slave was mute--
+    Mercy would be denied,
+  E'en could he ask it--so he deemed,
+  And the poor boy half lifeless seemed.
+  Speechless, bewildered--for a space
+  They gazed upon that perfect face,
+    Each with an artist's joy;
+  At length Murillo silence broke,
+  And with affected sternness spoke--
+    "Who is your master, boy?"
+  "You, Senor," said the trembling slave.
+  "Nay, who, I mean, instruction gave,
+  Before that Virgin's head you drew?"
+  Again he answered, "Only you."
+  "I gave you none," Murillo cried!
+  "But I have heard," the boy replied,
+    "What you to others said."
+  "And more than heard," in kinder tone,
+  The painter said; "'tis plainly shown
+    That you have profited."
+
+  "What (to his pupils) is his meed?
+    Reward or punishment?"
+  "Reward, reward!" they warmly cried,
+    (Sebastian's ear was bent
+  To catch the sounds he scarce believed,
+  But with imploring look received.)
+  "What shall it be?" They spoke of gold
+    And of a splendid dress;
+  But still unmoved Sebastian stood,
+    Silent and motionless.
+  "Speak!" said Murillo kindly; "choose
+    Your own reward--what shall it be?
+  Name what you wish, I'll not refuse:
+    Then speak at once and fearlessly."
+  "Oh! if I dared!"--Sebastian knelt
+    And feelings he could not control,
+  (But feared to utter even then)
+    With strong emotion, shook his soul.
+
+"Courage!" his master said, and each
+Essayed, in kind, half-whispered speech,
+To soothe his overpow'ring dread.
+He scarcely heard, till some one said,
+  "Sebastian--ask--you have your choice,
+Ask for your _freedom_!"--At the word,
+  The suppliant strove to raise his voice:
+At first but stifled sobs were heard,
+And then his prayer--breathed fervently--
+  "Oh! master, make my _father_ free!"
+"Him and thyself, my noble boy!"
+  Warmly the painter cried;
+Raising Sebastian from his feet,
+  He pressed him to his side.
+"Thy talents rare, and filial love,
+  E'en more have fairly won;
+Still be thou mine by other bonds--
+  My pupil and my son."
+
+Murillo knew, e'en when the words
+  Of generous feeling passed his lips,
+Sebastian's talents soon must lead
+  To fame that would his own eclipse;
+And, constant to his purpose still,
+  He joyed to see his pupil gain,
+As made his name the pride of Spain.
+
+_Susan Wilson._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+ONLY SIXTEEN.
+
+  Only sixteen, so the papers say,
+  Yet there, on the cold, stony ground he lay;
+  'Tis the same sad story, we hear every day--
+  He came to his death in the public highway.
+  Full of promise, talent and pride;
+  Yet the rum fiend conquered him--so he died.
+  Did not the angels weep over the scene?
+  For he died a drunkard--and only sixteen,--
+                         Only sixteen.
+
+  Oh! it were sad he must die all alone;
+  That of all his friends, not even one
+  Was there to list to his last faint moan,
+  Or point the suffering soul to the throne
+  Of grace. If, perchance, God's only Son
+  Would say, "Whosoever will may come--"
+  But we hasten to draw a veil over the scene,
+  With his God we leave him--only sixteen,--
+                          Only sixteen.
+
+  Rumseller, come view the work you have wrought!!
+  Witness the suffering and pain you have brought
+  To the poor boy's friends. They loved him well,
+  And yet you dared the vile beverage to sell
+  That beclouded his brain, did his reason dethrone,
+  And left him to die out there all alone.
+  What, if 'twere _your_ son, instead of another?
+  What if your wife were that poor boy's mother,--
+                    And he only sixteen?
+
+  Ye freeholders, who signed the petition to grant
+  The license to sell, do you think you will want
+  That record to meet in that last great day,
+  When heaven and earth shall have passed away.
+  When the elements, melting with fervent heat,
+  Shall proclaim the triumph of RIGHT complete?
+  Will you wish to have his blood on your hand.
+  When before the great throne you each shall stand,--
+                 And he only sixteen?
+
+  Christian men! rouse ye to stand for the right,
+  To action and duty; into the light
+  Come with your banners, inscribed, "Death to rum!"
+  Let your conscience speak. Listen, then, come;
+  Strike killing blows; hew to the line;
+  Make it a felony even to sign
+  A petition to license, you would do it, I ween,
+  If that were your son, and he only sixteen,
+                           Only sixteen.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+THE RETORT.
+
+  Old Birch, who taught the village school,
+    Wedded a maid of homespun habit;
+  He was stubborn as a mule,
+    And she was playful as a rabbit.
+  Poor Kate had scarce become a wife
+    Before her husband sought to make her
+  The pink of country polished life,
+    And prim and formal--as a Quaker.
+
+  One day the tutor went abroad,
+    And simple Katie sadly missed him;
+  When he returned, behind her lord
+    She slyly stole, and fondly kissed him.
+  The husband's anger rose, and red
+    And white his face alternate grew:
+  "Less freedom, ma'am!" Kate sighed and said
+    "O, dear, I didn't know 'twas you."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+"LITTLE BENNIE."
+
+A CHRISTMAS STORY.
+
+  I had told him, Christmas morning,
+    As he sat upon my knee,
+  Holding fast his little stockings,
+    Stuffed as full as full can be,
+  And attentive listening to me
+    With a face demure and mild,
+  That old Santa Claus, who filled them,
+    Did not love a naughty child.
+
+  "But we'll be good, won't we, moder,"
+    And from off my lap he slid,
+  Digging deep among the goodies
+    In his crimson stockings hid.
+  While I turned me to my table,
+    Where a tempting goblet stood
+  Brimming high with dainty custard
+    Sent me by a neighbour good.
+
+  But the kitten, there before me,
+    With his white paw, nothing both,
+  Sat, by way of entertainment,
+    Lapping off the shining froth;
+  And, in not the gentlest humour
+    At the loss of such a treat,
+  I confess, I rather rudely
+    Thrust him out into the street.
+
+  Then, how Bennie's blue eyes kindled;
+    Gathering up the precious store
+  He had busily been pouring
+    In his tiny pinafore,
+  With a generous look that shamed me
+    Sprang he from the carpet bright,
+  Showing by his mien indignant,
+    All a baby's sense of right.
+
+  "Come back, Harney," called he loudly,
+    As he held his apron white,
+  "You shall have my candy wabbit,"
+    But the door was fastened tight,
+  So he stood abashed and silent,
+    In the centre of the floor,
+  With defeated look alternate
+    Bent on me and on the door.
+
+  Then, as by some sudden impulse,
+    Quickly ran he to the fire,
+  And while eagerly his bright eyes
+    Watched the flames grow higher and higher,
+  In a brave, clear key, he shouted,
+    Like some lordly little elf,
+  "Santa Kaus, come down the chimney,
+    Make my Mudder 'have herself."
+
+  "I will be a good girl, Bennie,"
+    Said I, feeling the reproof;
+  And straightway recalled poor Harney,
+    Mewing on the gallery roof.
+  Soon the anger was forgotten,
+    Laughter chased away the frown,
+  And they gamboled round the fireside,
+    Till the dusky night came down.
+
+  In my dim, fire-lighted chamber,
+    Harney purred beneath my chair,
+  And my playworn boy beside me
+    Knelt to say his evening prayer;
+  "God bess Fader, God bess Moder,
+    God bess Sister," then a pause,
+  And the sweet young lips devoutly
+    Murmured, "God bess Santa Kaus."
+
+  He is sleeping; brown and silken
+    Lie the lashes, long and meek,
+  Like caressing, clinging shadows,
+    On his plump and peachy cheek,
+  And I bend above him, weeping
+    Thankful tears, O defiled!
+  For a woman's crown of glory,
+    For the blessing of a child.
+
+_Annie C. Ketchum._
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+SLANDER.
+
+     'Twas but a breath--
+  And yet a woman's fair fame wilted,
+  And friends once fond, grew cold and stilted;
+    And life was worse than death.
+
+      One venomed word,
+  That struck its coward, poisoned blow,
+  In craven whispers, hushed and low,--
+    And yet the wide world heard.
+
+      Twas but one whisper--one--
+  That muttered low, for very shame,
+  That thing the slanderer dare not name,--
+    And yet its work was done.
+
+      A hint so slight,
+  And yet so mighty in its power,--
+  A human soul in one short hour,
+    Lies crushed beneath its blight.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+THE HYPOCHONDRIAC.
+
+Good morning, Doctor; how do you do? I haint quite so well as I have been;
+but I think I'm some better than I was. I don't think that last medicine
+you gin me did me much good. I had a terrible time with the ear-ache last
+night; my wife got up and drapt a few draps of walnut sap into it, and that
+relieved it some; but I didn't get a wink of sleep till nearly daylight.
+For nearly a week, Doctor, I have had the worst kind of a narvous head-
+ache; it has been so bad sometimes that I thought my head would bust open.
+Oh, dear! I sometimes think that I'm the most afflictedest human that ever
+lived.
+
+Since this cold weather sot in, that troublesome cough, that I have had
+every winter for the last fifteen year, has began to pester me agin.
+_(Coughs.)_ Doctor, do you think you can give me anything that will
+relieve this desprit pain I have in my side?
+
+Then I have a crick, at times, in the back of my neck, so that I can't turn
+my head without turning the hull of my body. _(Coughs.)_
+
+Oh, dear! What shall I do! I have consulted almost every doctor in the
+country, but they don't any of them seem to understand my case. I have
+tried everything that I could think of; but I can't find anything that does
+me the leastest good. _(Coughs.)_
+
+Oh, this cough--it will be the death of me yet!  You know I had my right
+hip put out last fall at the rising of Deacon Jones' saw mill; its getting
+to be very troublesome just before we have a change of weather. Then I've
+got the sciatica in my right knee, and sometimes I'm so crippled up that I
+can hardly crawl round in any fashion.
+
+What do you think that old white mare of ours did while I was out ploughing
+last week? Why, the weacked old critter, she kept backing and backing on,
+till she back'd me right up agin the coulter, and knocked a piece of skin
+off my shin nearly so big. _(Coughs.)_
+
+But I had a worse misfortune than that the other day, Doctor. You see it
+was washing-day--and my wife wanted me to go out and bring in a little
+stove-wood--you know we lost our help lately, and my wife has to wash and
+tend to everything about the house herself.
+
+I knew it wouldn't be safe for me to go out--as it was a raining at the
+time--but I thought I'd risk it any how. So I went out, pick'd up a few
+chunks of stove-wood, and was a coming up the steps into the house, when my
+feet slipp'd from under me, and I fell down as sudden as if I'd been shot.
+Some of the wood lit upon my face, broke down the bridge of my nose, cut my
+upper lip, and knocked out three of my front teeth. I suffered dreadfully
+on account of it, as you may suppose, and my face aint well enough yet to
+make me fit to be seen, specially by--the women folks. _(Coughs.)_ Oh,
+dear! but that aint all, Doctor, I've got fifteen corns on my toes--and I'm
+feared I'm going to have the "yallar janders." _(Coughs.)_
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+YOUR MISSION
+
+If you cannot on the ocean
+  Sail among the swiftest fleet,
+Rocking on the highest billows,
+  Laughing at the storms you meet.
+You can stand among the sailors,
+  Anchor'd yet within the bay,
+You can lend a hand to help them,
+  As they launch their boats away
+
+If you are too weak to journey,
+  Up the mountain steep and high,
+You can stand within the valley,
+  While the multitudes go by
+You can chant in happy measure,
+  As they slowly pass along;
+Though they may forget the singer,
+  They will not forget the song.
+
+If you have not gold and silver
+  Ever ready to command,
+If you cannot towards the needy
+  Reach an ever open hand,
+You can visit the afflicted,
+  O'er the erring you can weep,
+You can be a true disciple,
+  Sitting at the Saviour's feet
+
+If you cannot in the conflict,
+  Prove yourself a soldier true
+If where fire and smoke are thickest
+  There's no work for you to do,
+When the battle-field is silent,
+  You can go with careful tread.
+You can bear away the wounded,
+  You can cover up the dead.
+
+Do not, then, stand idly waiting
+  For some greater work to do,
+Fortune is a lazy goddess,
+  She will never come to you.
+Go and toil in any vineyard,
+  Do not fear to do or dare,
+If you want a field of labour,
+  You can find it anywhere.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+SATISFACTION.
+
+  They sent him round the circle fair,
+  To bow before the prettiest there;
+  I'm bound to say the choice he made
+  A creditable taste displayed;
+  Although I can't see what it meant,
+  The little maid looked ill-content.
+
+  His task was then anew begun,
+  To kneel before the wittiest one.
+  Once more the little maid sought he
+  And bent him down upon his knee;
+  She turned her eyes upon the floor;
+  I think she thought the game a bore
+
+  He circled then his sweet behest
+  To kiss the one he loved the best;
+  For all she frowned, for all she chid,
+  He kissed that little maid--he did.
+  And then--though why I can't decide--
+  The little maid looked satisfied.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+MY TRUNDLE BED.
+
+As I rummaged through the attic,
+  List'ning to the falling rain,
+As it pattered on the shingles
+  And against the window pane,
+Peeping over chests and boxes,
+  Which with dust were thickly spread,
+Saw I in the farthest corner
+  What was once my trundle bed.
+
+So I drew it from the recess,
+  Where it had remained so long,
+Hearing all the while the music
+  Of my mother's voice in song,
+As she sung in sweetest accents,
+  What I since have often read--
+"Hush, my babe, lie still and slumber,
+  Holy angels guard thy bed"
+
+As I listened, recollections,
+  That I thought had been forgot,
+Came with all the gush of memory,
+  Rushing, thronging to the spot;
+And I wandered back to childhood,
+  To those merry days of yore,
+When I knelt beside my mother,
+  By this bed upon the floor.
+
+Then it was with hands so gently
+  Placed upon my infant head,
+That she taught my lips to utter
+  Carefully the words she said;
+Never can they be forgotten,
+  Deep are they in mem'ry riven--
+"Hallowed be thy name, O Father!
+  Father! thou who art in heaven."
+
+Years have passed, and that dear mother
+  Long has mouldered 'neath the sod,
+And I trust her sainted spirit
+  Rests within the home of God:
+But that scene at summer twilight
+  Never has from memory fled,
+And it comes in all its freshness
+  When I see my trundle bed.
+
+This she taught me, then she told me
+  Of its import great and deep--
+After which I learned to utter
+  "Now I lay me down to sleep."
+Then it was with hands uplifted,
+  And in accents soft and mild,
+That my mother asked--"Our Father!
+  Father! do thou bless my child!"
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+THE RIFT OF THE ROCK.
+
+In the rift of the rock He has covered my head,
+  When the tempest was wild in the desolate land
+Through a pathway uncertain my steps He has led,
+  And I felt in the darkness the touch of His hand
+Leading on, leading over the slippery steep,
+  Where came but the echoing sound of the shock,
+And, clear through the sorrowful moan of the deep,
+  The singing of birds in the rift of the rock.
+
+In the rift of the rock He has sheltered my soul
+  When at noonday the toilers grew faint in the heat,
+Where the desert rolled far like a limitless scroll
+  Cool waters leaped up at the touch of His feet
+And the flowers that lay with pale lips to the sod
+  Bloom softly and fair from a holier stock;
+Winged home by the winds to the mountains of God,
+  They bloom evermore in the rift of the rock.
+
+In the rift of the rock Thou wilt cover me still,
+  When the glow of the sunset is low in the sky,
+When the forms of the reapers are dim on the hill,
+  And the song dies away, and the end draweth nigh;
+It will be but a dream of the ladder of light,
+  And heaven drawing near without terror or shock,
+For the angels, descending by day and by night,
+  Will open a door through the rift of the rock.
+
+_Annie Herbert._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+THE SIOUX CHIEF'S DAUGHTER
+
+Two gray hawks ride the rising blast;
+Dark cloven clouds drive to and fro
+By peaks pre-eminent in snow;
+A sounding river rushes past,
+So wild, so vortex-like, and vast.
+
+A lone lodge tops the windy hill;
+A tawny maiden, mute and still,
+Stands waiting at the river's brink,
+As weird and wild as you can think.
+
+A mighty chief is at her feet;
+She does not heed him wooing so--
+She hears the dark, wild waters flow;
+She waits her lover, tall and fleet,
+From far gold fields of Idaho,
+Beyond the beaming hills of snow.
+
+He comes! The grim chief springs in air--
+His brawny arm, his blade is bare.
+She turns; she lifts her round, dark hand;
+She looks him fairly in the face;
+She moves her foot a little pace
+And says, with coldness and command,
+"There's blood enough in this lorn land.
+But see! a test of strength and skill,
+Of courage and fierce fortitude,
+To breast and wrestle with the rude
+And storm-born waters, now I will
+Bestow you both.... Stand either side!
+Take you my left, tall Idaho;
+And you, my burly chief, I know
+Would choose my right. Now peer you low
+Across the waters wild and wide.
+See! leaning so this morn, I spied
+Red berries dip yon farther side.
+See, dipping, dripping in the stream,
+Twin boughs of autumn berries gleam!
+
+"Now this, brave men, shall be the test.
+Plunge in the stream, bear knife in teeth
+To cut yon bough for bridal wreath.
+Plunge in! and he who bears him best,
+And brings yon ruddy fruit to land
+The first, shall have both heart and hand."
+
+Then one threw robes with sullen air,
+And wound red fox tails in his hair.
+But one with face of proud delight
+Entwined a crest of snowy white.
+
+                 She sudden gave
+The sign, and each impatient brave
+Shot sudden in the sounding wave;
+The startled waters gurgled round,
+Their stubborn strokes kept sullen sound.
+
+O then awoke the love that slept!
+O then her heart beat loud and strong!
+O then the proud love pent up long
+Broke forth in wail upon the air;
+And leaning there she sobbed and wept,
+With dark face mantled in her hair.
+
+Now side by side the rivals plied,
+Yet no man wasted word or breath;
+All was as still as stream of death.
+Now side by side their strength was tried,
+And now they breathless paused and lay
+Like brawny wrestlers well at bay.
+
+And now they dived, dived long, and now
+The black heads lifted from the foam,
+And shook aback the dripping brow,
+Then shouldered sudden glances home.
+And then with burly front the brow
+And bull-like neck shot sharp and blind,
+And left a track of foam behind....
+They near the shore at last; and now
+The foam flies spouting from a face
+That laughing lifts from out the race.
+
+The race is won, the work is done!
+She sees the climbing crest of snow;
+She knows her tall, brown Idaho.
+
+She cries aloud, she laughing cries,
+And tears are streaming from her eyes:
+"O splendid, kingly Idaho,
+I kiss his lifted crest of snow;
+I see him clutch the bended bough!
+'Tis cleft--he turns! is coming now!
+
+"My tall and tawny king, come back!
+Come swift, O sweet; why falter so?
+Come! Come! What thing has crossed your track
+I kneel to all the gods I know.
+O come, my manly Idaho!
+Great Spirit, what is this I dread?
+Why there is blood! the wave is red!
+That wrinkled Chief, outstripped in race,
+Dives down, and hiding from my face,
+Strikes underneath!... He rises now!
+Now plucks my hero's berry bough,
+And lifts aloft his red fox head,
+And signals he has won for me....
+Hist softly! Let him come and see.
+
+"O come! my white-crowned hero, come!
+O come! and I will be your bride,
+Despite yon chieftain's craft and might.
+Come back to me! my lips are dumb,
+My hands are helpless with despair;
+The hair you kissed, my long, strong hair,
+Is reaching to the ruddy tide,
+That you may clutch it when you come.
+
+"How slow he buffets back the wave!
+O God, he sinks! O heaven! save
+My brave, brave boy. He rises! See!
+Hold fast, my boy! Strike! strike for me.
+Strike straight this way! Strike firm and strong!
+Hold fast your strength. It is not long--
+O God, he sinks! He sinks! Is gone!
+His face has perished from my sight.
+
+"And did I dream, and do I wake?
+Or did I wake and now but dream?
+And what is this crawls from the stream?
+O here is some mad, mad, mistake!
+What you! The red fox at my feet?
+You first and failing from a race?
+What! you have brought me berries red?
+What! You have brought your bride a wreath?
+You sly red fox with wrinkled face--
+That blade has blood, between your teeth!
+
+"Lie still! lie still! till I lean o'er
+And clutch your red blade to the shore....
+Ha! Ha! Take that! and that! and that!
+Ha! Ha! So through your coward throat
+The full day shines!... Two fox tails float
+And drift and drive adown the stream.
+
+"But what is this? What snowy crest
+Climbs out the willows of the west,
+All weary, wounded, bent, and slow,
+And dripping from his streaming hair?
+It is! it is my Idaho!
+His feet are on the land, and fair
+His face is lifting to my face,
+For who shall now dispute the race?
+
+"The gray hawks pass, O love! two doves
+O'er yonder lodge shall coo their loves.
+My love shall heal your wounded breast,
+And in yon tall lodge two shall rest."
+
+_Joaquin Miller_.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+I'LL TAKE WHAT FATHER TAKES.
+
+'Twas in the flow'ry month of June,
+  The sun was in the west,
+When a merry, blithesome company
+  Met at a public feast.
+
+Around the room rich banners spread,
+  And garlands fresh and gay;
+Friend greeted friend right joyously
+  Upon that festal day.
+
+The board was filled with choicest fare;
+  The guests sat down to dine;
+Some called for "bitter," some for "stout,"
+  And some for rosy wine.
+
+Among this joyful company,
+  A modest youth appeared;
+Scarce sixteen summers had he seen,
+  No specious snare he feared.
+
+An empty glass before the youth
+  Soon drew the waiter near;
+"What will you take, sir?" he inquired,
+  "Stout, bitter, mild, or clear?
+
+"We've rich supplies of foreign port,
+  We've first-class wine and cakes."
+The youth with guileless look replied,
+  "_I'll take what father takes_."
+
+Swift as an arrow went the words
+  Into his father's ears,
+And soon a conflict deep and strong
+  Awoke terrific fears.
+
+The father looked upon his son,
+  Then gazed upon the wine,
+Oh, God! he thought, were he to taste,
+  Who could the end divine?
+
+Have I not seen the strongest fall,
+  The fairest led astray?
+And shall I on my only son
+  Bestow a curse this day?
+
+No; heaven forbid! "Here, waiter, bring
+  Bright water unto me;
+My son will take what father takes,
+  My drink shall water be."
+
+_W. Hoyle._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+THE LITTLE HERO.
+
+From Liverpool 'cross the Atlantic,
+  The good ship floating o'er the deep,
+The skies bright with sunshine above us,
+  The waters beneath us asleep;
+Not a bad-temper'd mariner 'mongst us,
+  A jollier crew never sail'd,
+'Cept the first mate, a bit of a savage,
+  But good seaman as ever was hail'd.
+One day he comes up from below deck,
+  A-graspin' a lad by the arm,
+A poor little ragged young urchin,
+  As ought to bin home with his marm.
+An' the mate asks the boy pretty roughly
+  How he dared for to be stow'd away?
+A-cheating the owners and captain,
+  Sailin', eatin', and all without pay.
+
+The lad had a face bright and sunny,
+  An' a pair of blue eyes like a girl's,
+An' looks up at the scowling first mate, boys,
+  An' shakes back his long shining curls.
+An' says he in a voice clear and pretty,
+  "My stepfather brought me a-board,
+And hid me away down the stairs there,
+  For to keep me he could not afford.
+And he told me the big ship would take me
+  To Halifax town, oh, so far;
+An' he said, 'Now the Lord is your Father,
+  Who lives where the good angels are!'"
+"It's a lie," says the mate,--"Not your father,
+  But some o' these big skulkers here,
+Some milk-hearted, soft-headed sailor,
+  Speak up! tell the truth! d'ye hear?"
+
+Then that pair o' blue eyes bright and winn'n',
+  Clear and shining with innocent youth,
+Looks up at the mate's bushy eyebrows,
+  An' says he, "Sir, I've told you the truth!"
+Then the mate pull'd his watch from his pocket,
+  Just as if he'd bin drawing his knife,
+"If in ten minutes more you don't tell, lad,
+  There's the rope! and good-bye to dear life!"
+Eight minutes went by all in silence,
+  Says the mate then, "Speak, lad, say your say!"
+His eyes slowly filling with tear-drops,
+  He falteringly says, "May I pray?"
+An' the little chap kneels on the deck there,
+  An' his hands he clasps o'er his breast,
+As he must ha' done often at home, lads,
+  At night time when going to rest.
+
+And soft came the first words, "Our Father,"
+  Low and clear from that dear baby-lip,
+But low as they were, heard like trumpet
+  By each true man aboard o' the ship.
+Every bit o' that pray'r then he goes through,
+  To "for ever and ever. A-men!"
+An' for all the bright gold in the Indies,
+  I wouldn't ha' heard him agen!
+Off his feet was the lad sudden lifted,
+  And clasp'd to the mate's rugged breast,
+An' his husky voice muttered, "God bless you,"
+  As his lips to his forehead he press'd.
+"You believe me now?" then said the youngster,
+  "Believe you!" he kissed him once more,
+"You'd have laid down your life for the truth, lad;
+  I believe you! from now, ever-more."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+WANTED.
+
+The world wants men--light-hearted, manly men--
+Men who shall join its chorus and prolong
+The psalm of labour and the song of love.
+
+The times wants scholars--scholars who shall shape
+The doubtful destinies of dubious years,
+And land the ark that bears our country's good,
+Safe on some peaceful Ararat at last.
+
+The age wants heroes--heroes who shall dare
+To struggle in the solid ranks of truth;
+To clutch the monster error by the throat;
+To bear opinion to a loftier seat;
+To blot the era of oppression out,
+And lead a universal freedom in.
+
+And heaven wants souls--fresh and capacious souls,
+To taste its raptures, and expand like flowers
+Beneath the glory of its central sun.
+It wants fresh souls--not lean and shrivelled ones;
+It wants fresh souls, my brother--give it thine!
+
+If thou, indeed, wilt act as man should act;
+If thou, indeed, wilt be what scholars should;
+If thou wilt be a hero, and wilt strive
+To help thy fellow and exalt thyself,
+Thy feet at last shall stand on jasper floors,
+Thy heart at last shall seem a thousand hearts,
+Each single heart with myriad raptures filled--
+While thou shalt sit with princes and with kings,
+Rich in the jewel of a ransomed soul.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+ GOD, THE TRUE SOURCE OF CONSOLATION.
+
+O Thou, who driest the mourner's tear,
+  How dark the world would be,
+If, when deceived and wounded here,
+  We could not fly to Thee!
+The friends who in our sunshine live,
+  When winter comes, are flown;
+And he who has but tears to give,
+  Must weep those tears alone.
+But Thou wilt heal the broken heart,
+  Which, like the plants that throw
+Their fragrance from the wounded part,
+  Breathes sweetness out of woe.
+
+When joy no longer soothes or cheers,
+  And e'en the hope that threw
+A moment's sparkle o'er our tears,
+  Is dimmed and vanished, too!
+Oh! who would bear life's stormy doom,
+  Did not Thy wing of love
+Come brightly wafting through the gloom
+  Our peace-branch from above!
+Then, sorrow, touched by Thee, grows bright
+  With more than rapture's ray,
+As darkness shews us worlds of light,
+  We never saw by day.
+
+_Moore._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+SANTA CLAUS IN THE MINES.
+
+In a small cabin in a Californian mining town, away up amid the snow-clad,
+rock-bound peaks of the Sierra Nevada Mountains, sat a woman, in widow's
+weeds, holding upon her knee a bright-eyed, sunny-faced little girl, about
+five years old, while a little cherub of a boy lay upon a bear-skin before
+the open fireplace. It was Christmas Eve, and the woman sat gazing
+abstractedly into the fireplace. She was yet young, and as the glowing
+flames lit up her sad face they invested it with a wierd beauty.
+
+Mary Stewart was the widow of Aleck Stewart, and but two years before they
+had lived comfortably and happy, in a camp on the American River. Aleck was
+a brawny miner; but the premature explosion of a blast in an exploring
+tunnel had blotted out his life in an instant, leaving his family without a
+protector, and in straitened circumstances. His daily wages had been their
+sole support, and now that he was gone, what could they do?
+
+With her little family Mrs. Stewart had emigrated to the camp in which we
+find them, and there she earned a precarious livelihood by washing clothes
+for the miners. Hers was a hard lot; but the brave little woman toiled on,
+cheered by the thought that her daily labours stood between her darling
+little ones and the gaunt wolf of starvation.
+
+Jack Dawson, a strong, honest miner, was passing the cabin this Christmas
+Eve, when the voice of the little girl within attracted his attention. Jack
+possessed an inordinate love for children, and although his manly spirit
+would abhor the sneaking practice of eavesdropping, he could not resist the
+temptation to steal up to the window just a moment to listen to the sweet,
+prattling voice. The first words he caught were:
+
+"Before papa died we always had Christmas, didn't we, mamma?"
+
+"Yes, Totty, darling; but papa earned money enough to afford to make his
+little pets happy at least once a year. You must remember, Totty, that we
+are very poor, and although mamma works very, very hard, she can scarcely
+earn enough to supply us with food and clothes."
+
+Jack Dawson still lingered upon the outside. He could not leave, although
+he felt ashamed of himself for listening.
+
+"We hung up our stockings last Christmas, didn't we, mamma?" continued the
+little girl.
+
+"Yes, Totty; but we were poor then, and Santa Claus never notices real poor
+people. He gave you a little candy then, just because you were such good
+children."
+
+"Is we any poorer now, mamma?"
+
+"Oh! yes, much poorer. He would never notice us at all now."
+
+Jack Dawson detected a tremor of sadness in the widow's voice as she
+uttered the last words, and he wiped a suspicious dampness from his eyes.
+
+"Where's our clean stockings, mamma? I'm going to hang mine up anyhow;
+maybe he will come like he did before, just because we try to be good
+children," said Totty.
+
+"It will be no use, my darling, I am sure he will not come," and tears
+gathered in the mother's eyes as she thought of her empty purse.
+
+"I don't care, I'm going to try, anyhow. Please get one of my stockings,
+mamma."
+
+Jack Dawson's generous heart swelled until it seemed bursting from his
+bosom. He heard the patter of little bare feet upon the cabin floor as
+Totty ran about hunting hers and Benny's stockings, and after she had hung
+them up, heard her sweet voice again as she wondered over and over if Santa
+really would forget them. He heard the mother, in a choking voice; tell her
+treasures to get ready for bed; heard them lisp their childish prayers, the
+little girl concluding: "And, O, Lord! please tell good Santa Claus that we
+are very poor; but that we love him as much as rich children do, for dear
+Jesus' sake--Amen!"
+
+After they were in bed, through a small rent in the plain white curtain he
+saw the widow sitting before the fire, her face buried in her hands, and
+weeping bitterly.
+
+On a peg, just over the fire-place, hung two little patched and faded
+stockings, and then he could stand it no longer. He softly moved away from
+the window to the rear of the cabin, where some objects fluttering in the
+wind met his eye. Among these he searched until he found a little blue
+stocking which he removed from the line, folded tenderly, and placed in his
+overcoat pocket, and then set out for the main street of the camp. He
+entered Harry Hawk's gambling hall, the largest in the place, where a host
+of miners and gamblers were at play. Jack was well known in the camp, and
+when he got up on a chair and called for attention, the hum of voices and
+clicking of ivory checks suddenly ceased. Then in an earnest voice he told
+what he had seen and heard, repeating every word of the conversation
+between the mother and her children. In conclusion he said:
+
+"Boys, I think I know you, every one of you, an' I know jist what kind o'
+metal yer made of. I've an idee that Santy Claus knows jist whar thet
+cabin's sitiwated, an' I've an idee he'll find it afore mornin'. Hyar's one
+of the little gal's stock'n's thet I hooked off'n the line. The daddy o'
+them little ones was a good, hard-working miner, an' he crossed the range
+in the line o' duty, jist as any one of us is liable to do in our dangerous
+business. Hyar goes a twenty-dollar piece right down in the toe, and hyar I
+lay the stockin' on this card table--now chip in much or little, as ye kin
+afford."
+
+Brocky Clark, a gambler, left the table, picked the little stocking up
+carefully, looked at it tenderly, and when he laid it down another twenty
+had gone into the toe to keep company with the one placed there by Dawson.
+
+Another and another came up until the foot of the stocking was well filled,
+and then came the cry from the gambling table:
+
+"Pass her around, Jack."
+
+At the word he lifted it from the table and started around the hall. Before
+he had circulated it at half a dozen tables it showed signs of bursting
+beneath the weight of gold and silver coin, and a strong coin bag, such as
+is used for sending treasure by express, was procured, and the stocking
+placed inside of it. The round of the large hall was made, and in the
+meantime the story had spread all over the camp. From the various saloons
+came messages saying:
+
+"Send the stockin' 'round the camp; boys are a-waitin' for it!"
+
+With a party at his heels, Jack went from saloon to saloon. Games ceased
+and tipplers left the bars as they entered each place, and miners,
+gamblers, speculators, everybody, crowded up to tender their Christmas gift
+to the miner's widow and orphans. Any one who has lived in the far Western
+camps and is acquainted with the generosity of Western men, will feel no
+surprise or doubt my truthfulness, when I say that after the round had been
+made, the little blue stocking and the heavy canvas bag contained over
+eight thousand dollars in gold and silver coin.
+
+Horses were procured, and a party despatched to the larger town down on the
+Consumnes, from which they returned near daybreak with toys, clothing,
+provisions, etc., in almost endless variety. Arranging their gifts in
+proper shape, and securely tying the mouth of the bag of coin, the party
+noiselessly repaired to the widow's humble cabin. The bag was first laid on
+the steps, and other articles piled up in a heap over it. On the top was
+laid the lid of a large pasteboard box, on which was written with a piece
+of charcoal:
+
+"Santy Clause doesn't allways Giv poor Folks The Cold Shoulder in This
+camp."
+
+Christmas day dawned bright and beautiful.
+
+Mrs. Stewart arose, and a shade of pain crossed her handsome face as the
+empty little stockings caught her maternal eye. She cast a hurried glance
+toward the bed where her darlings lay sleeping, and whispered:
+
+"O God! how dreadful is poverty!"
+
+She built a glowing fire, set about preparing the frugal breakfast, and
+when it was almost ready she approached the bed, kissed the little ones
+until they were wide awake, and lifted them to the floor. With eager haste
+Totty ran to the stockings, only to turn away sobbing as though her heart
+would break. Tears blinded the mother, and clasping her little girl to her
+heart, she said in a choking voice:
+
+"Never mind, my darling; next Christmas I am sure mamma will be richer, and
+then Santa Claus will bring us lots of nice things."
+
+"O mamma!"
+
+The exclamation came from little Benny, who had opened the door and was
+standing gazing in amazement upon the wealth of gifts there displayed.
+
+Mrs. Stewart sprang to his side and looked in speechless astonishment. She
+read the card, and then, causing her little ones to kneel down with her in
+the open doorway, she poured out her soul in a torrent of praise and
+thanksgiving to God.
+
+Jack Dawson's burly form moved from behind a tree a short distance away,
+and sneaked off up the gulch, great crystal tears chasing each other down
+his face.
+
+The family arose from their knees, and began to move the stores into the
+room. There were several sacks of flour, hams, canned fruit, pounds and
+pounds of coffee, tea and sugar, new dress goods, and a handsome, warm
+woollen shawl for the widow, shoes, stockings, hats, mittens, and clothing
+for the children, a great big wax doll that could cry and move its eyes for
+Totty, and a beautiful red sled for Benny. All were carried inside amidst
+alternate laughs and tears.
+
+"Bring in the sack of salt, Totty, and that is all," said the mother. "Is
+not God good to us?"
+
+"I can't lift it, mamma, it's frozen to the step!"
+
+The mother stooped and took hold of it, and lifted harder and harder, until
+she raised it from the step. Her cheek blanched as she noted its great
+weight, and breathlessly she carried it in and laid it upon the breakfast
+table. With trembling fingers she loosened the string and emptied the
+contents upon the table. Gold and silver--more than she had ever thought of
+in her wildest dreams of comfort, and almost buried in the pile of treasure
+lay Totty's little blue stocking.
+
+We will not intrude longer upon such happiness; but leave the joyful family
+sounding praises to Heaven and Santa Claus.
+
+_Anon._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+A LEGEND OF BREGENZ.
+
+Girt round with rugged mountains
+  The fair Lake Constance lies;
+In her blue heart reflected
+  Shine back the starry skies;
+And, watching each white cloudlet
+  Float silently and slow,
+You think a piece of Heaven
+  Lies on our earth below!
+
+Midnight is there: and Silence,
+  Enthroned in Heaven, looks down
+Upon her own calm mirror,
+  Upon a sleeping town:
+For Bregenz, that quaint city
+  Upon the Tyrol shore,
+Has stood above Lake Constance
+  A thousand years and more.
+
+Her battlements and towers,
+  From off their rocky steep,
+Have cast their trembling shadow
+  For ages on the deep:
+Mountain, and lake, and valley,
+  A sacred legend know,
+Of how the town was saved, one night,
+  Three hundred years ago.
+
+Far from her home and kindred,
+  A Tyrol maid had fled,
+To serve in the Swiss valleys,
+  And toil for daily bread;
+And every year that fleeted
+  So silently and fast,
+Seemed to bear farther from her
+  The memory of the Past.
+
+She served kind, gentle masters,
+  Nor asked for rest or change;
+Her friends seemed no more new ones,
+  Their speech seemed no more strange
+And when she led her cattle
+  To pasture every day,
+She ceased to look and wonder
+  On which side Bregenz lay.
+
+She spoke no more of Bregenz,
+  While longing and with tears;
+Her Tyrol home seemed faded
+  In a deep mist of years;
+She heeded not the rumours
+  Of Austrian war and strife;
+Each day she rose, contented,
+  To the calm toils of life.
+
+Yet, when her master's children
+  Would clustering round her stand,
+She sang them ancient ballads
+  Of her own native land;
+And when at morn and evening
+  She knelt before God's throne,
+The accents of her childhood
+  Rose to her lips alone.
+
+And so she dwelt: the valley
+  More peaceful year by year;
+When suddenly strange portents
+  Of some great deed seemed near.
+The golden corn was bending
+  Upon its fragile stalk,
+While farmers, heedless of their fields,
+  Paced up and down in talk.
+
+The men seemed stern and altered--
+  With looks cast on the ground;
+With anxious faces, one by one,
+  The women gathered round;
+All talk of flax, or spinning,
+  Or work, was put away;
+The very children seemed afraid
+  To go alone to play.
+
+One day, out in the meadow
+  With strangers from the town,
+Some secret plan discussing,
+  The men walked up and down.
+Yet now and then seemed watching
+  A strange uncertain gleam,
+That looked like lances 'mid the trees
+  That stood below the stream.
+
+At eve they all assembled,
+  Then care and doubt were fled;
+With jovial laugh they feasted;
+  The board was nobly spread.
+The elder of the village
+  Rose up, his glass in hand,
+And cried, "We drink the downfall
+  Of an accursed land!
+
+"The night is growing darker,
+  Ere one more day is flown,
+Bregenz, our foemens' stronghold,
+  Bregenz shall be our own!"
+The women shrank in terror
+  (Yet Pride, too, had her part),
+But one poor Tyrol maiden
+  Felt death within her heart.
+
+Before her stood fair Bregenz;
+  Once more her towers arose;
+What were the friends beside her?
+  Only her country's foes!
+The faces of her kinsfolk,
+  The days of childhood flown,
+The echoes of her mountains,
+  Reclaimed her as their own.
+
+Nothing she heard around her
+  (Though shouts rang forth again),
+Gone were the green Swiss valleys,
+  The pasture, and the plain;
+Before her eyes one vision,
+  And in her heart one cry,
+That said, "Go forth, save Bregenz,
+  And then, if need be, die!"
+
+With trembling haste, and breathless,
+  With noiseless step, she sped;
+Horses and weary cattle
+  Were standing in the shed;
+She loosed the strong, white charger,
+  That fed from out her hand,
+She mounted, and she turned his head
+  Toward her native land.
+
+Out--out into the darkness--
+  Faster, and still more fast;
+The smooth grass flies behind her,
+  The chestnut wood is past;
+She looks up; clouds are heavy;
+  Why is her steed so slow?
+Scarcely the wind beside them
+  Can pass them as they go.
+
+"Faster!" she cries, "O faster!"
+  Eleven the church-bells chime:
+"O God," she cries, "help Bregenz,
+  And bring me there in time!"
+But louder than bells' ringing,
+  Or lowing of the kine,
+Grows nearer in the midnight
+  The rushing of the Rhine.
+
+Shall not the roaring waters
+  Their headlong gallop check?
+The steed draws back in terror--
+  She leans upon his neck
+To watch the flowing darkness;
+  The bank is high and steep;
+One pause--he staggers forward,
+  And plunges in the deep.
+
+She strives to pierce the blackness,
+  And looser throws the rein;
+Her steed must breast the waters
+  That dash above his mane.
+How gallantly, how nobly,
+  He struggles through the foam,
+And see--in the far distance
+  Shine out the lights of home!
+
+Up the steep bank he bears her,
+  And now, they rush again
+Towards the heights of Bregenz,
+  That tower above the plain.
+They reach the gate of Bregenz
+  Just as the midnight rings,
+And out come serf and soldier
+  To meet the news she brings.
+
+Bregenz is saved! Ere daylight
+  Her battlements are manned;
+Defiance greets the army
+  That marches on the land.
+And if to deeds heroic
+  Should endless fame be paid,
+Bregenz does well to honour
+  That noble Tyrol maid.
+
+Three hundred years are vanished,
+  And yet upon the hill
+An old stone gateway rises.
+  To do her honour still.
+And there, when Bregenz women
+  Sit spinning in the shade,
+They see in quaint old carving
+  The Charger and the Maid.
+
+And when, to guard old Bregenz,
+  By gateway, street, and tower,
+The warder paces all night long
+  And calls each passing hour:
+"Nine," "ten," "eleven," he cries aloud,
+  And then (O crown of Fame!)
+When midnight pauses in the skies,
+  He calls the maiden's name!
+
+_Adelaide A. Procter._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+A TARRYTOWN ROMANCE.
+
+'Twas in ye pleasant olden time,
+  Oh! many years ago,
+When husking bees and singing-schools
+  Were all the fun, you know.
+
+The singing-school in Tarrytown,
+  A quaint old town in Maine--
+Was wisely taught and grandly led
+  By a young man named Paine.
+
+A gallant gentleman was Paine,
+  Who liked the lasses well;
+But best he liked Miss Patience White,
+  As all his school could tell.
+
+One night the singing-school had met;
+  Young Paine, all carelessly,
+Had turned the leaves and said: "We'll sing
+  On page one-seventy."
+
+"'See gentle patience smile on pain.'"
+  On Paine they all then smiled,
+But not so gently as they might;
+  And he, confused and wild.
+
+Searched quickly for another place,
+  As quickly gave it out;
+The merriment, suppressed before,
+  Rose now into a shout.
+
+These were the words that met his eyes
+  (He sank down with a groan);
+"Oh! give me grief for others' woes,
+  And patience for my own!"
+
+_Good Cheer._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+THE BISHOPS VISIT.
+
+  Tell you about it? Of course, I will!
+    I thought 'twould be dreadful to have him come,
+  For Mamma said I must be quiet and still,
+    And she put away my whistle and drum--
+
+  And made me unharness the parlour chairs,
+    And packed my cannon and all the rest
+  Of my noisiest playthings off up stairs,
+    On account of this very distinguished guest.
+
+  Then every room was turned upside down,
+    And all the carpets hung out to blow;
+  For when the Bishop is coming to town,
+    The house must be in order you know.
+
+  So out in the kitchen I made my lair,
+    And started a game of hide-and-seek;
+  But Bridget refused to have me there,
+    For the Bishop was coming--to stay a week--
+
+  And she must make cookies and cakes and pies,
+    And fill every closet and platter and pan,
+  Till I thought this Bishop so great and wise,
+    Must be an awfully hungry man.
+
+  Well, at last he came; and I do declare,
+    Dear grandpapa, he looked just like you,
+  With his gentle voice and his silvery hair,
+    And eyes with a smile a-shining through.
+
+  And whenever he read, or talked, or prayed,
+    I understood every single word;
+  And I wasn't the leastest bit afraid,
+    Though I never once spoke or stirred;
+
+  Till, all of a sudden, he laughed right out
+    To see me sit quietly listening so;
+  And began to tell us stories about
+    Some queer little fellows in Mexico.
+
+  All about Egypt and Spain--and then
+    He wasn't disturbed by a little noise,
+  But said that the greatest and best of men
+    Once were rollicking, healthy boys.
+
+  And he thinks it no great matter at all
+    If a little boy runs and jumps and climbs;
+  And Mamma should be willing to let me crawl
+    Through the bannister-rails, in the hall, sometimes.
+
+  And Bridget, she made a great mistake,
+    In stirring up such a bother, you see,
+  For the Bishop--he didn't care for cake,
+    And really liked to play games with me.
+
+  But though he's so honoured in words and act--
+    (Stoop down, for this is a secret now)--
+  He couldn't spell Boston! That's a fact!
+    But whispered to me to tell him how.
+
+_Emily Huntington Miller_.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+HANNAH BINDING SHOES.
+
+    Poor lone Hannah,
+  Sitting at the window, binding shoes!
+    Faded, wrinkled,
+  Sitting, stitching, in a mournful muse.
+   Bright-eyed beauty once was she,
+   When the bloom was on the tree;--
+    Spring and winter,
+  Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.
+
+    Not a neighbour
+  Passing, nod or answer will refuse
+    To her whisper,
+  "Is there from the fishers any news?"
+   Oh, her heart's adrift with one
+   On an endless voyage gone;--
+    Night and morning,
+  Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.
+
+    Fair young Hannah,
+  Ben the sunburnt fisher, gaily woos;
+    Hale and clever,
+  For a willing heart and hand he sues
+   May-day skies are all aglow,
+   And the waves are laughing so!
+    For her wedding
+  Hannah leaves her window and her shoes.
+
+    May is passing;
+  'Mid the apple-boughs a pigeon coos;
+    Hannah shudders,
+  For the wild south-wester mischief brews.
+   Round the rocks of Marblehead,
+   Outward bound a schooner sped;
+    Silent, lonesome,
+  Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.
+
+    'Tis November:
+  Now no tear her wasted cheek bedews,
+    From Newfoundland
+  Not a sail returning will she lose,
+    Whispering hoarsely: "Fishermen,
+    Have you, have you heard of Ben?"
+      Old with watching,
+  Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.
+
+      Twenty winters
+  Bleak and drear the ragged shore she views,
+      Twenty seasons!
+  Never one has brought her any news.
+    Still her dim eyes silently
+    Chase the white sails o'er the sea;--
+      Hopeless, faithful,
+  Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.
+
+_Lucy Larcom._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+BELLS ACROSS THE SNOW.
+
+O Christmas, merry Christmas!
+  Is it really come again?
+With its memories and greetings,
+  With its joy and with its pain
+There's a minor in the carol,
+  And a shadow in the light,
+And a spray of cypress twining
+  With the holly wreath to-night.
+And the hush is never broken,
+  By the laughter light and low,
+As we listen in the starlight
+  To the bells across the snow!
+
+O Christmas, merry Christmas!
+  'Tis not so very long
+Since other voices blended
+  With the carol and the song!
+If we could but hear them singing,
+  As they are singing now,
+If we could but see the radiance
+  Of the crown on each dear brow;
+There would be no sigh to smother,
+  No hidden tear to flow,
+As we listen in the starlight
+  To the bells across the snow!
+
+O Christmas, merry Christmas!
+  This never more can be;
+We cannot bring again the days
+  Of our unshadowed glee.
+But Christmas, happy Christmas!
+  Sweet herald of good-will,
+With holy songs of glory
+  Brings holy gladness still.
+For peace and hope may brighten,
+  And patient love may glow,
+As we listen in the starlight
+  To the bells across the snow!
+
+_Frances Ridley Havergal._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+A MODEST WIT.
+
+A supercilious nabob of the East--
+  Haughty, being great--purse-proud, being rich--
+A governor, or general, at the least,
+  I have forgotten which--
+Had in his family a humble youth,
+  Who went from England in his patron's suite,
+An unassuming boy, and in truth
+  A lad of decent parts, and good repute.
+
+This youth had sense and spirit;
+  But yet, with all his sense,
+  Excessive diffidence
+  Obscured his merit.
+
+One day, at table, flushed with pride and wine,
+  His honour, proudly free, severely merry,
+Conceived it would be vastly fine
+To crack a joke upon his secretary.
+
+"Young man," he said, "by what art, craft, or trade,
+  Did your good father gain a livelihood?"
+"He was a saddler, sir," Modestus said,
+  "And in his time was reckon'd good."
+
+"A saddler, eh! and taught you Greek,
+  Instead of teaching you to sew!
+Pray, why did not your father make
+  A saddler, sir, of you?"
+
+Each parasite, then, as in duty bound,
+The joke applauded, and the laugh went round.
+  At length Modestus, bowing low,
+Said (craving pardon, if too free he made),
+  "Sir, by your leave, I fain would know
+Your father's trade!"
+
+"My father's trade! by heaven, that's too bad!
+  My father's trade? Why, blockhead, are you mad?
+My father, sir, did never stoop so low--
+  He was a gentleman, I'd have you know."
+
+"Excuse the liberty I take,"
+  Modestus said, with archness on his brow,
+"Pray, why did not your father make
+  A gentleman of you?"
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+"NAY, I'LL STAY WITH THE LAD."
+
+Six hundred souls one summer's day,
+  Worked in the deep, dark Hutton seams;
+Men were hewing the coal away,
+  Boys were guiding the loaded teams.
+Horror of darkness was everywhere;
+  It was coal above, and coal below,
+Only the miner's guarded lamp
+  Made in the gloom a passing glow.
+
+Down in the deep, black Hutton seams
+  There came a flowery, balmy breath;
+Men dropped their tools, and left their teams,
+  They knew the balmy air meant death,
+And fled before the earthquake shock,
+  The cruel fire-damp's fatal course,
+That tore apart the roof and walls,
+  And buried by fifties, man and horse.
+
+"The shaft! the shaft!" they wildly cried;
+  And as they ran they passed a cave,
+Where stood a father by his son--
+  The child had found a living grave,
+And lay among the shattered coal,
+  His little life had almost sped.
+"Fly! fly! For there may yet be time!"
+  The father calmly, firmly said:
+"Nay; I'll stay with the lad."
+
+He had no hurt; he yet might reach
+  The blessed sun and light again.
+But at his feet his child lay bound,
+  And every hope of help was vain.
+He let deliverance pass him by;
+  He stooped and kissed the little face;
+"I will not leave thee by thyself,
+  Ah! lad; this is thy father's place."
+
+So Self before sweet Love lay slain.
+  In the deep mine again was told
+The story of a father's love.
+  Older than mortal man is old;
+For though they urged him o'er and o'er,
+  To every prayer he only had
+The answer he had found at first,
+  "Nay; I'll stay with the lad."
+
+And when some weary days had passed,
+  And men durst venture near the place,
+They lay where Death had found them both,
+  But hand in hand, and face to face.
+And men were better for that sight,
+  And told the tale with tearful breath;
+There was not one but only felt,
+  The man had died a noble death,
+And left this thought for all to keep--
+  If earthly fathers can so love,
+Ah, surely, we may safely lean
+  Upon the Fatherhood above!
+
+ _Lillie E. Barr._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+MARY MALONEY'S PHILOSOPHY.
+
+"What are you singing for?" said I to Mary Maloney.
+
+"Oh, I don't know, ma'am, without it's because my heart feels happy."
+
+"Happy are you, Mary Maloney? Let me see; you don't own a foot of land in
+the world?"
+
+"Foot of land, is it?" she cried, with a hearty Irish laugh; "oh, what a
+hand ye be after joking; why I haven't a penny, let alone the land."
+
+"Your mother is dead!"
+
+"God rest her soul, yes," replied Mary Maloney, with a touch of genuine
+pathos; "may the angels make her bed in heaven."
+
+"Your brother is still a hard case, I suppose."
+
+"Ah, you may well say that. It's nothing but drink, drink, drink, and
+beating his poor wife, that she is, the creature."
+
+You have to pay your little sister's board."
+
+"Sure, the bit creature, and she's a good little girl, is Hinny, willing to
+do whatever I axes her. I don't grudge the money what goes for that."
+
+"You haven't many fashionable dresses, either, Mary Maloney."
+
+"Fashionable, is it? Oh, yes, I put a piece of whalebone in my skirt, and
+me calico gown looks as big as the great ladies. But then ye says true, I
+hasn't but two gowns to me back, two shoes, to me feet, and one bonnet to
+me head, barring the old hood you gave me."
+
+"You haven't any lover, Mary Maloney."
+
+"Oh, be off wid ye--ketch Mary Maloney getting a lover these days, when the
+hard times is come. No, no, thank Heaven I haven't got that to trouble me
+yet, nor I don't want it."
+
+"What on earth, then, have you got to make you happy? A drunken brother, a
+poor helpless sister, no mother, no father, no lover; why, where do you get
+all your happiness from?"
+
+"The Lord be praised, Miss, it growed up in me. Give me a bit of sunshine,
+a clean flure, plenty of work, and a sup at the right time, and I'm made.
+That makes me laugh and sing, and then if deep trouble comes, why, God
+helpin' me, I'll try to keep my heart up. Sure, it would be a sad thing if
+Patrick McGrue should take it into his head to come an ax me, but, the Lord
+willin', I'd try to bear up under it."
+
+_Philadelphia Bulletin._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+THE POLISH BOY.
+
+Whence came those shrieks, so wild and shrill,
+That like an arrow cleave the air,
+Causing the blood to creep and thrill
+With such sharp cadence of despair?
+Once more they come! as if a heart
+Were cleft in twain by one quick blow,
+And every string had voice apart
+To utter its peculiar woe!
+
+Whence came they? From yon temple, where
+An altar raised for private prayer
+Now forms the warrior's marble bed,
+Who Warsaw's gallant armies led.
+The dim funereal tapers throw
+A holy lustre o'er his brow,
+And burnish with their rays of light
+The mass of curls that gather bright
+Above the haughty brow and eye
+Of a young boy that's kneeling by.
+
+What hand is that whose icy press
+Clings to the dead with death's own grasp,
+But meets no answering caress--
+No thrilling fingers seek its clasp?
+It is the hand of her whose cry
+Rang wildly late upon the air,
+When the dead warrior met her eye,
+Outstretched upon the altar there.
+
+Now with white lips and broken moan
+She sinks beside the altar stone;
+But hark! the heavy tramp of feet
+Is heard along the gloomy street;
+Nearer and nearer yet they come,
+With clanking arms and noiseless drum.
+They leave the pavement. Flowers that spread
+Their beauties by the path they tread
+Are crushed and broken. Crimson hands
+Rend brutally their blooming bands.
+Now whispered curses, low and deep,
+Around the holy temple creep.
+
+The gate is burst. A ruffian band
+Rush in and savagely demand,
+With brutal voice and oath profane,
+The startled boy for exile's chain.
+
+The mother sprang with gesture wild,
+And to her bosom snatched the child;
+Then with pale cheek and flashing eye,
+Shouted with fearful energy,--
+"Back, ruffians, back! nor dare to tread
+Too near the body of my dead!
+Nor touch the living boy--I stand
+Between him and your lawless band!
+No traitor he--but listen! I
+Have cursed your master's tyranny.
+I cheered my lord to join the band
+Of those who swore to free our land,
+Or fighting, die; and when he pressed
+Me for the last time to his breast,
+I knew that soon his form would be
+Low as it is, or Poland free.
+He went and grappled with the foe,
+Laid many a haughty Russian low;
+But he is dead--the good--the brave--
+And I, his wife, am worse--a slave!
+Take me, and bind these arms, these hands,
+With Russia's heaviest iron bands,
+And drag me to Siberia's wild
+To perish, if 'twill save my child!"
+
+"Peace, woman, peace!" the leader cried,
+Tearing the pale boy from her side;
+And in his ruffian grasp he bore
+His victim to the temple door.
+
+"One moment!" shrieked the mother, "one;
+Can land or gold redeem my son?
+If so, I bend my Polish knee,
+And, Russia, ask a boon of thee.
+Take palaces, take lands, take all,
+But leave him free from Russian thrall.
+Take these," and her white arms and hands
+She stripped of rings and diamond bands,
+And tore from braids of long black hair
+The gems that gleamed like star-light there;
+Unclasped the brilliant coronal
+And carcanet of orient pearl;
+Her cross of blazing rubies last
+Down to the Russian's feet she cast.
+
+He stooped to seize the glittering store;
+Upspringing from the marble floor;
+The mother, with a cry of joy,
+Snatched to her leaping heart the boy!
+But no--the Russian's iron grasp
+Again undid the mother's clasp.
+Forward she fell, with one long cry
+Of more than mother's agony.
+
+But the brave child is roused at length,
+And breaking from the Russian's hold,
+He stands, a giant in the strength
+Of his young spirit, fierce and bold.
+
+Proudly he towers, his flashing eye,
+So blue and fiercely bright,
+Seems lighted from the eternal sky,
+So brilliant is its light.
+His curling lips and crimson cheeks
+Foretell the thought before he speaks.
+With a full voice of proud command
+He turns upon the wondering band.
+
+"Ye hold me not! no, no, nor can;
+This hour has made the boy a man.
+The world shall witness that one soul
+Fears not to prove itself a Pole.
+
+"I knelt beside my slaughtered sire,
+Nor felt one throb of vengeful ire;
+I wept upon his marble brow--
+Yes, wept--I was a child; but now
+My noble mother on her knee,
+Has done the work of years for me.
+Although in this small tenement
+My soul is cramped--unbowed, unbent
+I've still within me ample power
+To free myself this very hour.
+This dagger in my heart! and then,
+Where is your boasted power, base men?"
+
+He drew aside his broidered vest,
+And there, like slumbering serpent's crest,
+The jewelled haft of a poinard bright,
+Glittered a moment on the sight.
+"Ha! start ye back? Fool! coward! knave!
+Think ye my noble father's glaive,
+Could drink the life blood of a slave?
+The pearls that on the handle flame,
+Would blush to rubies in their shame.
+The blade would quiver in thy breast,
+Ashamed of such ignoble rest!
+No; thus I rend thy tyrant's chain,
+And fling him back a boy's disdain!"
+
+A moment, and the funeral light
+Flashed on the jewelled weapon bright;
+Another, and his young heart's blood
+Leaped to the floor a crimson flood.
+Quick to his mother's side he sprang,
+And on the air his clear voice rang--
+"Up, mother, up! I'm free! I'm free!
+The choice was death or slavery:
+Up! mother, up! look on my face,
+I only wait for thy embrace.
+One last, last word--a blessing, one,
+To prove thou knowest what I have done,
+No look! No word! Canst thou not feel
+My warm blood o'er thy heart congeal?
+Speak, mother, speak--lift up thy head.
+What, silent still? Then thou art dead!
+Great God, I thank thee! Mother, I
+Rejoice with thee, and thus to die."
+Slowly he falls. The clustering hair
+Rolls back and leaves that forehead bare.
+One long, deep breath, and his pale head
+Lay on his mother's bosom, dead.
+
+_Mrs. Ann S. Stephens._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+THOUGH LOST TO SIGHT, TO MEMORY DEAR.
+
+Sweetheart, good-bye! the flutt'ring sail
+  Is spread to waft me far from thee,
+And soon before the favouring gale
+  My ship shall bound upon the sea.
+Perchance, all desolate and forlorn,
+  These eyes shall miss thee many a year;
+But unforgotten every charm--
+  Though lost to sight, to memory dear.
+
+Sweetheart, good-bye! one last embrace;
+  O, cruel fate, two souls to sever!
+Yet in this heart's most sacred place
+  Thou, thou alone shalt dwell forever;
+And still shall recollection trace
+  In fancy's mirror, ever near,
+Each smile, each tear--that form, that face--
+  Though lost to sight, to memory dear.
+
+_Ruthven Jenkyns._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+THE AGUE.
+
+  Once upon an evening bleary,
+  While I sat me dreaming, dreary,
+  In the parlour thinking o'er
+    Things that passed in days of yore,
+  While I nodded, nearly sleeping,
+  Gently came something creeping,
+    Creeping upward from the floor.
+  "'Tis a cooling breeze," I muttered,
+    "From the regions 'neath the floor:
+    Only this and nothing more."
+
+  Ah! distinctly I remember--
+  It was in that wet September,
+  When the earth and every member
+    Of creation that it bore,
+  Had for weeks and months been soaking
+  In the meanest, most provoking,
+  Foggy rain, that without joking,
+    We had ever seen before.
+  So I knew it must be very
+    Cold and damp beneath the floor,
+    Very cold beneath the floor.
+
+  So I sat me, nearly napping,
+  In the sunshine, stretching, gaping,
+  With a feeling quite delighted
+    With the breezes 'neath the floor,
+  Till I felt me growing colder,
+  And the stretching waxing bolder,
+  And myself now feeling older,
+    Older than I felt before;
+  Feeling that my joints were stiffer
+    Than they were in days of yore,
+    Stiffer than they'd been before.
+
+  All along my back, the creeping
+  Soon gave place to rustling, leaping,
+  As if countless frozen demons
+    Had concluded to explore
+  All the cavities--the varmints!--
+  'Twixt me and my nether garments,
+    Through my boots into the floor:
+  Then I found myself a shaking,
+    Gently shaking more and more,
+    Every moment more and more.
+
+  'Twas the ague; and it shook me
+  Into heavy clothes, and took me
+  Shaking to the kitchen, every
+    Place where there was warmth in store,
+  Shaking till the china rattled,
+  Shaking till the morals battled;
+  Shaking, and with all my warming,
+    Feeling colder than before;
+  Shaking till it had exhausted
+    All its powers to shake me more.
+    Till it could not shake me more.
+
+  Then it rested till the morrow,
+  When it came with all the horror
+  That it had the face to borrow,
+    Shaking, shaking as before,
+  And from that day in September--
+  Day which I shall long remember--
+  It has made diurnal visits,
+    Shaking, shaking, oh! so sore,
+  Shaking off my boots, and shaking
+    Me to bed if nothing more,
+    Fully this if nothing more.
+
+  And to-day the swallows flitting
+  Bound my cottage see me sitting
+  Moodily within the sunshine
+    Just inside my silent door,
+  Waiting for the ague, seeming
+  Like a man forever dreaming,
+  And the sunlight on me streaming,
+    Casts no shadow on the floor,
+  For I am too thin and sallow
+    To make shadows on the floor,
+    Never a shadow any more.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+THE OLD MAN IN THE MODEL CHURCH.
+
+  Well, wife, I've found the model church! I worshipped there to-day!
+  It made me think of good old times before my hairs were gray;
+  The meetin' house was fixed up more than they were years ago,
+  But then I felt, when I went in, it wasn't built for show.
+
+  The sexton didn't seat me away back by the door;
+  He knew that I was old and deaf, as well as old and poor;
+  He must have been a Christian, for he led me boldly through
+  The long aisle of that crowded church to find a pleasant pew.
+
+  I wish you'd heard the singin'; it had the old-time ring;
+  The preacher said, with trumpet voice: "Let all the people sing!"
+  The tune was "Coronation," and the music upward rolled,
+  Till I thought I heard the angels striking all their harps of gold.
+
+  My deafness seemed to melt away; my spirit caught the fire;
+  I joined my feeble, trembling voice with that melodious choir,
+  And sang as in my youthful days: "Let angels prostrate fall;
+  Bring forth the royal diadem, and crown Him Lord of all."
+
+  I tell you, wife, it did me good to sing that hymn once more;
+  I felt like some wrecked mariner who gets a glimpse of shore;
+  I almost wanted to lay down this weather-beaten form,
+  And anchor in that blessed port, forever from the storm.
+
+  The prech'en? Well, I can't just tell all that the preacher said;
+  I know it wasn't written; I know it wasn't read;
+  He hadn't time to read it, for the lightnin' of his eye
+  Went flashin' 'long from pew to pew, nor passed a sinner by.
+
+  The sermon wasn't flowery; 'twas simple gospel truth;
+  It fitted poor old men like me; it fitted hopeful youth;
+  'Twas full of consolation, for weary hearts that bleed;
+  'Twas full of invitations to Christ and not to creed.
+
+  How swift the golden moments fled, within that holy place;
+  How brightly beamed the light of heaven from every happy face;
+  Again I longed for that sweet time, when friend shall meet with friend,
+  "When congregations ne'er break up, and Sabbath has no end."
+
+  I hope to meet that minister--that congregation, too--
+  In that dear home beyond the stars that shine from heaven's blue;
+  I doubt not I'll remember, beyond life's evenin' gray,
+  The happy hour of worship in that model church to-day.
+
+  Dear wife, the fight will soon be fought--the victory soon be won;
+  The shinin' goal is just ahead; the race is nearly run;
+  O'er the river we are nearin', they are throngin' to the shore,
+  To shout our safe arrival where the weary weep no more.
+
+_John H. Yates_.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+THE YOUNG GRAY HEAD.
+
+  I'm thinking that to-night, if not before,
+  There'll be wild work. Dost hear old Chewton roar.
+  It's brewing up, down westward; and look there!
+  One of those sea-gulls! ay, there goes a pair;
+  And such a sudden thaw! If rain comes on
+  As threats, the water will be out anon.
+  That path by the ford is a nasty bit of way,
+  Best let the young ones bide from school to-day.
+
+    The children join in this request; but the mother
+  resolves that they shall set out--the two girls, Lizzie and
+  Jenny, the one five, the other seven. As the dame's will
+  was law, so--
+
+  One last fond kiss--
+  "God bless my little maids," the father said,
+  And cheerily went his way to win their bread.
+
+    Prepared for their journey they depart, with the
+  mother's admonition to the elder--
+
+  "Now mind and bring
+  Jenny safe home," the mother said. "Don't stay
+  To pull a bough or berry by the way;
+  And when you come to cross the ford hold fast
+  Your little sister's hand till you're quite past,
+  That plank is so crazy, and so slippery
+  If not overflowed the stepping stones will be;
+  But you're good children--steady as old folk,
+  I'd trust ye anywhere." Then Lizzie's cloak
+  (A good gray duffle) lovingly she tied,
+  And amply little Jenny's lack supplied
+  With her own warmest shawl. "Be sure," said she,
+  "To wrap it round, and knot it carefully,
+  (Like this) when you come home--just leaving free
+  One hand to hold by. Now, make haste away--
+  Good will to school, and then good right to play."
+
+The mother watches them with foreboding, though she knows not why. In a
+little while the threatened storm sets in. Night comes, and with it comes
+the father from his daily toil--There's a treasure hidden in his hat--
+
+  A plaything for the young ones he has found--
+  A dormouse nest; the living ball coil'd round
+  For its long winter sleep; all his thought
+  As he trudged stoutly homeward, was of naught
+  But the glad wonderment in Jenny's eyes,
+  And graver Lizzie's quieter surprise,
+  When he should yield, by guess, and kiss, and prayer,
+  Hard won, the frozen captive to their care.
+
+No little faces greet him as wont at the threshold; and to his hurried
+question--
+
+ "Are they come?"--t'was, "No,"
+  To throw his tools down, hastily unhook
+  The old crack'd lantern from its dusky nook
+  And, while he lit it, speak a cheering word
+  That almost choked him, and was scarcely heard,--
+  Was but a moment's act, and he was gone
+  To where a fearful foresight led him on.
+
+A neighbour goes with him, and the faithful dog follows
+the children's tracks.
+"Hold the light
+Low down, he's making for the water. Hark!
+I know that whine; the old dog's found them, Mark;"
+So speaking, breathlessly he hurried on
+Toward the old crazy foot bridge. It was gone!
+And all his dull contracted light could show
+Was the black void, and dark swollen stream below;
+"Yet there's life somewhere--more than Tinker's whine--
+That's sure," said Mark, "So, let the lantern shine
+Down yonder. There's the dog and--hark!"
+"O dear!"
+And a low sob came faintly on the ear,
+Mocked by the sobbing gust. Down, quick as thought,
+Into the stream leaped Ambrose, where he caught
+Fast hold of something--a dark huddled heap--
+Half in the water, where 'twas scarce knee deep
+For a tall man: and half above it propped
+By some old ragged side piles that had stop't
+Endways the broken plank when it gave way
+With the two little ones, that luckless day!
+"My babes! my lambkins!" was the father's cry,
+_One little voice_ made answer, "Here am I;"
+'Twas Lizzie's. There she crouched with face as white,
+More ghastly, by the flickering lantern light,
+Than sheeted corpse. The pale blue lips drawn tight,
+Wide parted, showing all the pearly teeth,
+And eyes on some dark object underneath,
+Washed by the turbid waters, fix'd like stone--
+One arm and hand stretched out, and rigid grown,
+Grasping, as in the death-grip, Jenny's frock.
+There she lay, drown'd.
+They lifted her from out her watery bed--
+Its covering gone, the lovely little head
+Hung like a broken snowdrop all aside,
+And one small hand. The mother's shawl was tied
+Leaving that free about the child's small form,
+As was her last injunction--"fast and warm,"
+Too well obeyed--too fast! A fatal hold,
+Affording to the scrag, by a thick fold
+That caught and pinned her to the river's bed.
+While through the reckless water overhead,
+Her life breath bubbled up.
+"She might have lived,
+Struggling like Lizzie," was the thought that rived
+The wretched mother's heart when she heard all,
+"But for my foolishness about that shawl."
+"Who says I forgot?
+Mother! indeed, indeed I kept fast hold,
+And tied the shawl quite close--she
+Can't be cold--
+But she won't move--we slept--I don't know how--
+But I held on, and I'm so weary now--
+And its so dark and cold! Oh, dear! oh, dear!
+And she won't move--if father were but here!"
+All night long from side to side she turn'd,
+Piteously plaining like a wounded dove.
+With now and then the murmur, "She won't move,"
+And lo! when morning, as in mockery, bright
+Shone on that pillow--passing strange the sight,
+The young head's raven hair was streaked with white!
+
+_Mrs. Southey._
+
+        *        *        *       *       *
+
+SCENE AT NIAGARA FALLS.
+
+It is summer. A party of visitors are just crossing the iron bridge that
+extends from the American shore to Goat's Island, about a quarter of a mile
+above the Falls. Just as they are about to leave, while watching the stream
+as it plunges and dashes among the rocks below, the eye of one fastens on
+something clinging to a rock, caught on the very verge of the Falls.
+Scarcely willing to believe his own vision, he directs the attention of his
+companions. The terrible news spreads like lightning, and in a few minutes
+the bridge and the surrounding shore are covered with thousands of
+spectators. "Who is he?" "How did he get there?" are questions every person
+proposed, but answered by none. No voice is heard above the awful flood,
+but a spy-glass shows frequent efforts to speak to the gathering multitude.
+Such silent appeals exceed the eloquence of words; they are irresistible,
+and something must be done. A small boat is soon upon the bridge, and with
+a rope attached sets out upon its fearless voyage, but is instantly sunk.
+Another and another are tried, but they are all swallowed up by the angry
+waters. A large one might possibly survive; but none is at hand. Away to
+Buffalo a car is despatched, and never did the iron horse thunder along its
+steel-bound track on such a godlike mission. Soon the most competent life-
+boat is upon the spot. All eyes are fixed upon the object, as trembling and
+tossing amid the boiling white waves it survives the roughest waters. One
+breaker past and it will have reached the object of its mission. But being
+partly filled with water and striking a sunken rock, that next wave sends
+it hurling to the bottom. An involuntary groan passes through the dense
+multitude, and hope scarcely nestles in a single bosom. The sun goes down
+in gloom, and as darkness comes on and the crowd begins to scatter,
+methinks the angels looking over the battlements on high drop a tear of
+pity on the scene. The silvery stars shine dimly through their curtain of
+blue. The multitude are gone, and the sufferer is left with his God. Long
+before morning he must be swept over that dreadful abyss; he clings to that
+rock with all the tenacity of despair, and as he surveys the horrors of his
+position strange visions in the air come looming up before him. He sees his
+home, his wife and children there; he sees the home of his childhood; he
+sees that mother as she used to soothe his childish fears upon her breast;
+he sees a watery grave, and then the vision closes in tears. In imagination
+he hears the hideous yells of demons, and mingled prayers and curses die
+upon his lips.
+
+No sooner does morning dawn than the multitude again rush to the scene of
+horror, Soon a shout is heard: he is there; he is still alive. Just now a
+carriage arrives upon the bridge, and a woman leaps from it and rushes to
+the most favourable point of observation. She had driven from Chippewa,
+three miles above the Falls; her husband had crossed the river night before
+last, and had not returned, and she fears he may be clinging to that rock.
+All eyes are turned for a moment toward the anxious woman, and no sooner is
+a glass handed to her fixed upon the object than she shrieks, "Oh, my
+husband!" and sinks senseless to the earth. The excitement, before intense,
+seems now almost unendurable, and something must again be tried. A small
+raft is constructed, and, to the surprise of all, swings up beside the rock
+to which the sufferer had clung for the last forty-eight hours. He
+instantly throws himself full length upon it. Thousands are pulling at the
+end of the rope, and with skillful management a few rods are gained toward
+the nearest shore. What tongue can tell, what pencil can paint, the anxiety
+with which that little bark is watched as, trembling and tossing amid the
+roughest waters, it nears that rock-bound coast? Save Niagara's eternal
+roar, all is silent as the grave. His wife sees it and is only restrained
+by force from rushing into the river. Hope instantly springs into every
+bosom, but it is only to sink into deeper gloom. The angel of death has
+spread his wings over that little bark; the poor man's strength is almost
+gone; each wave lessens his grasp more and more, but all will be safe if
+that nearest wave is past. But that next surging billow breaks his hold
+upon the pitching timbers, the next moment hurling him to the awful verge,
+where, with body, erect, hands clenched, and eyes that are taking their
+last look of earth, he shrieks, above Niagara's eternal roar, "Lost!" and
+sinks forever from the gaze of man.
+
+_Charles Tarson._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+"CURFEW MUST NOT RING TO-NIGHT."
+
+Slowly England's sun was setting o'er the hilltops far away,
+Filling all the land with beauty at the close of one sad day,
+And the last rays kissed the forehead of a man and maiden fair,--
+He with footsteps slow and weary, she with sunny, floating hair;
+He with bowed head, sad and thoughtful, she with lips all cold and white,
+Struggled to keep back the murmur,--
+    "Curfew must not ring to-night."
+
+"Sexton," Bessie's white lips faltered, pointing to the prison old,
+With its turrets tall and gloomy, with its walls dark, damp and 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 lips grew strangely white
+As she breathed the husky whisper,--
+    "Curfew must not ring to-night"
+
+"Bessie," calmly spoke the sexton, every word pierced her young heart
+Like the piercing of an arrow, 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 still must do it,
+          Curfew it must ring to-night."
+
+Wild her eyes and pale her features, stern and white her thoughtful brow,
+And within her secret bosom, Bessie made a solemn vow.
+She had listened while the judges read without a tear or sigh,
+"At the ringing of the curfew, Basil Underwood must die."
+  And her breath came fast and faster, and her eyes grew large and bright--
+  In an undertone she murmured,--
+           "Curfew must not ring to-night."
+
+She with quick steps bounded forward, sprung within the old church door,
+Left the old man treading slowly paths so oft he'd trod before;
+Not one moment paused the maiden, but with eye and cheek aglow,
+Mounted up the gloomy tower, where the bell swung to and fro;
+And she climbed the dusty ladder on which fell no ray of light,
+Up and up--her white lips saying--
+          "Curfew shall not ring to-night."
+
+She has reached the topmost ladder, o'er her hangs the great dark bell;
+Awful is the gloom beneath her, like a pathway down to hell.
+Lo, the ponderous tongue is swinging, 'tis the hour of curfew now
+And the sight has chilled her bosom, stopped her breath, and paled her brow.
+Shall she let it ring? No, never! Flash her eyes with sudden light,
+And she springs and grasps it firmly--
+       "Curfew shall not ring to-night."
+
+Out she swung, far out, the city seemed a speck of light below,
+'Twixt heaven and earth her form suspended, as the bell swung to and fro,
+And the sexton at the bell rope, old and deaf, heard not the bell,
+But he thought it still was ringing fair young Basil's funeral knell.
+Still the maiden clung most firmly, and with trembling lips and white,
+Said to hush her heart's wild beating,--
+       "Curfew shall not ring to-night."
+
+It was o'er, the bell ceased swaying, and the maiden stepped once more
+Firmly on the dark old ladder, where for hundred years before,
+Human foot had not been planted. The brave deed that she had done
+Should be told long ages after, as the rays of setting sun
+Should illume the sky with beauty; aged sires with heads of white,
+Long should tell the little children,
+        Curfew did not ring that night.
+
+O'er the distant hills came Cromwell; Bessie sees him and her brow,
+Full of hope and full of gladness, has no anxious traces now.
+At his feet she tells her story, shows her hands all bruised and torn;
+And her face so sweet and pleading, yet with sorrow pale and worn,
+Touched his heart with sudden pity, lit his eye with misty light:
+  "Go, your lover lives," said Cromwell,
+          "Curfew shall not ring to-night!"
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+GERTRUDE OF WYOMING.
+
+    Here were not mingled, in the city's pomp,
+      Of life's extremes the grandeur and the gloom;
+    Judgment awoke not here her dismal trump,
+      Nor sealed in blood a fellow-creature's doom;
+      Nor mourned the captive in a living tomb.
+    One venerable man, beloved of all,
+      Sufficed, where innocence was yet in bloom,
+    To sway the strife, that seldom might befall;
+  And Albert was their judge in patriarchal hall.
+
+    How reverend was the look, serenely aged,
+      He bore, this gentle Pennsylvanian sire,
+    Where all but kindly fervours were assuaged,
+      Undimmed by weakness' shade, or turbid ire!
+      And though, amidst the calm of thought, entire,
+    Some high and haughty features might betray
+      A soul impetuous once, 'twas earthly fire
+    That fled composure's intellectual ray,
+  As Aetna's fires grow dim before the rising day.
+
+    I boast no song in magic wonders rife;
+      But yet, O Nature! is there naught to prize,
+    Familiar in thy bosom scenes of life?
+      And dwells in daylight truth's salubrious skies
+      No form with which the soul may sympathize?--
+    Young, innocent, on whose sweet forehead mild
+      The parted ringlet shone in sweetest guise,
+    An inmate in the home of Albert smiled,
+  Or blessed his noonday walk;--she was his only child.
+
+  The rose of England bloomed on Gertrude's cheek:--
+    What though these shades had seen her birth, her sire
+  A Briton's independence taught to seek
+    Far western worlds; and there his household fire
+    The light of social love did long inspire;
+  And many a halcyon day he lived to see,
+    Unbroken but by one misfortune dire,
+  When fate had reft his mutual heart--but she
+Was gone;--and Gertrude climbed a widowed father's knee.
+
+  A loved bequest;--and I may half impart
+    To them that feel the strong paternal tie,
+  How like a new existence to his heart
+    That living flower uprose beneath his eye,
+    Dear as she was from cherub infancy,
+  From hours when she would round his garden play,
+    To time when, as the ripening years went by,
+  Her lovely mind could culture well repay,
+And more engaging grew, from pleasing day to day.
+
+  I may not paint those thousand infant charms;
+    (Unconscious fascination, undesigned!)
+  The orison repeated in his arms,
+    For God to bless her sire and all mankind;
+    The book, the bosom on his knee reclined;
+  Or how sweet fairy-lore he heard her con,
+    (The playmate ere the teacher of her mind!)
+All uncompanioned else her heart had gone,
+Till now, in Gertrude's eyes, their ninth blue summer shone.
+
+_Campbell._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+AN AUTUMN DAY.
+
+But now a joy too deep for sound,
+  A peace no other season knows,
+Hushes the heavens, and wraps the ground,--
+  The blessing of supreme repose.
+Away! I will not be, to-day,
+  The only slave of toil and care;
+Away! from desk and dust, away!
+  I'll be as idle as the air.
+Beneath the open sky abroad,
+  Among the plants and breathing things,
+The sinless, peaceful works of God,
+  I'll share the calm the season brings.
+Come thou, in whose soft eyes I see
+  The gentle meaning of the heart,--
+One day amid the woods with thee,
+  From men and all their cares apart;--
+And where, upon the meadow's breast,
+  The shadow of the thicket lies,
+The blue wild flowers thou gatherest
+  Shall glow yet deeper near thine eyes.
+Come,--and when 'mid the calm profound,
+  I turn those gentle eyes to seek,
+They, like the lovely landscape round,
+  Of innocence and peace shall speak.
+Rest here, beneath the unmoving shade;
+  And on the silent valleys gaze,
+Winding and widening, till they fade
+  In yon soft ring of summer haze.
+The village trees their summits rear
+  Still as its spire; and yonder flock,
+At rest in those calm fields, appear
+  As chiselled from the lifeless rock.
+One tranquil mount the scene o'erlooks,
+  Where the hushed winds their Sabbath keep,
+While a near hum from bees and brooks,
+  Comes faintly like the breath of sleep.--
+Well might the gazer deem, that when,
+  Worn with the struggle and the strife,
+And heart-sick at the sons of men,
+  The good forsake the scenes of life,--
+Like the deep quiet, that awhile
+  Lingers the lovely landscape o'er,
+Shall be the peace whose holy smile
+  Welcomes them to a happier shore!
+
+_Bryant._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+SONNET.
+
+  Our love is not a fading earthly flower:
+Its wingèd seed dropped down from Paradise,
+And, nursed by day and night, by sun and shower
+Doth momently to fresher beauty rise.
+To us the leafless autumn is not bare,
+Nor winter's rattling boughs lack lusty green:
+Our summer hearts make summer's fullness where
+No leaf or bud or blossom may be seen:
+For nature's life in love's deep life doth lie,
+Love,--whose forgetfulness is beauty's death,
+Whose mystic key these cells of Thou and I
+Into the infinite freedom openeth,
+And makes the body's dark and narrow grate
+The wide-flung leaves of Heaven's palace-gate.
+
+_James Russell Lowell._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+BABY'S VISITOR.
+
+My baby boy sat on the floor;
+  His big blue eyes were full of wonder
+For he had never seen before
+That baby in the mirror door--
+  What kept the two, so near, asunder?
+He leaned toward the golden head
+  The mirror border framed within,
+Until twin cheeks, like roses red,
+Lay side by side; then softly said,
+  "I can't get out; can you come in?"
+
+_Atlanta Constitution._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+A PRAYER.
+
+  God! do not let my loved one die,
+    But rather wait until the time
+  That I am grown in purity
+    Enough to enter Thy pure clime
+  Then take me, I will gladly go,
+  So that my love remain below!
+
+  Oh, let her stay! She is by birth
+    What I through death must learn to be,
+  We need her more on our poor earth
+    Than Thou canst need in heaven with Thee;
+  She hath her wings already: I
+  Must burst this earth-shell ere I fly.
+
+  Then, God, take me! we shall be near,
+    More near than ever, each to each:
+  Her angel ears will find more clear
+    My earthly than my heavenly speech;
+  And still, as I draw nigh to Thee,
+  Her soul and mine shall closer be.
+
+_James Russell Lowell._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+THERE'S NOTHING TRUE BUT HEAVEN.
+
+  This world is all a fleeting show,
+    For man's illusion given;
+  The smiles of joy, the tears of woe,
+  Deceitful shine, deceitful flow--
+    There's nothing _true_ but Heaven.
+
+  And false the light on glory's plume,
+    As fading hues of even;
+  And love, and hope, and beauty's bloom,
+  Are blossoms gathered for the tomb--
+    There's nothing _bright_ but Heaven.
+
+  Poor wanderers of a stormy day,
+    From wave to wave we're driven;
+  And fancy's flash, and reason's ray,
+  Serve but to light the troubled way--
+    There's nothing _calm_ but Heaven.
+
+_Moore._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+HOME SONG.
+
+  Stay, stay at home, my heart, and rest;
+  Home-keeping hearts are happiest,
+  For those that wander they know not where
+  Are full of trouble and full of care;
+        To stay at home is best.
+
+  Weary and homesick and distressed,
+  They wander east, and they wander west,
+  And are baffled and beaten and blown about
+  By the winds of the wilderness of doubt;
+        To stay at home is best.
+
+  Then stay at home, my heart, and rest;
+  The bird is safest in its nest;
+  O'er all that flutter their wings and fly
+  A hawk is hovering in the sky;
+        To stay at home is best.
+
+_H. W. Longfellow._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+SAVED.
+
+  Crouching in the twilight-gray,
+  Like a hunted thing at bay,
+  In his brain one thought is rife:
+  Why not end the bootless strife?
+
+  Who in God's wide world would weep,
+  Should he brave death's dreamless sleep?
+  Hark! a child's voice, soft and clear,
+  Pulsing through the gloaming drear;
+
+  And the word the singer brings
+  Like a new evangel rings;
+  "Jesus loves me! this I know,"
+  Swift his thoughts to childhood go.
+
+  Memories of a mother's face
+  Bending to her boy's embrace,
+  And the boy at eventide
+  Kneeling by the mother's side,
+
+  Like "sweet visions of the night"
+  Fill the lonesome place with light,
+  While the singer's tender trill--
+  "Jesus loves me! loves me still"--
+
+  Hovers in the dreamlit air
+  Like an answer to the prayer.
+  Offered in those happy days
+  When he walked in sinless ways.
+
+  "Jesus loves me!" Can it be
+  His, this _benedicite_?
+  Is there One who knows and cares?
+  One who all his sorrow shares?
+
+  "Jesus loves me!" While the song
+  Guileless lips with joy prolong,
+  Lo! a soul has ceased its strife,
+  Reconciled to God and life.
+
+_Mary B. Sleight._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+SONG OF BIRDS.
+
+Did you ne'er think what wondrous beings these?
+  Did you ne'er think who made them, and who taught
+The dialect they speak, where melodies
+  Alone are the interpreters of thought?
+Whose household word are songs in many keys,
+  Sweeter than instrument of man e'er caught;
+Whose habitations in the tree-tops even
+Are half-way houses on the road to heaven!
+
+Think, every morning, when the sun peeps through
+  The dim, leaf-latticed windows of the, grove,
+How jubilant the happy birds renew
+  Their old melodious madrigals of love!
+And, when you think of this, remember, too,
+  'Tis always morning somewhere, and above
+The awakening continents, from shore to shore,
+Somewhere the birds are singing evermore!
+
+ _Longfellow._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+JIMMY BUTLER AND THE OWL.
+
+'Twas in the summer of '46 that I landed at Hamilton, fresh as a new pratie
+just dug from the "old sod," and wid a light heart and a heavy bundle I sot
+off for the township of Buford, tiding a taste of a song, as merry a young
+fellow as iver took the road. Well, I trudged on and on, past many a
+plisint place, pleasin' myself wid the thought that some day I might have a
+place of my own, wid a world of chickens and ducks and pigs and childer
+about the door; and along in the afternoon of the sicond day I got to
+Buford village. A cousin of me mother's, one Dennis O'Dowd, lived about
+sivin miles from there, and I wanted to make his place that night, so I
+enquired the way at the tavern, and was lucky to find a man, who was goin'
+part of the way an' would show me the way to find Dennis. Sure, he was very
+kind indade, and when I got out of his wagon, he pointed me through the
+wood and told me to go straight south a mile an' a half, and the first
+house would be Dennis's.
+
+"An' you have no time to lose now," said he, "for the sun is low, and mind
+you don't get lost in the woods."
+
+"Is it lost now," said I, "that I'd be gittin, an' me uncle as great a
+navigator at iver steered a ship across the thrackless say! Not a bit of
+it, though I'm obleeged to ye for your kind advice, an thank yez for the
+ride."
+
+An' wid that he drove off an' left me alone. I shouldered my bundle
+bravely, an' whistling a bit of tune for company like, I pushed into the
+bush. Well, I went a long way over bogs, and turnin' round among the bush
+and trees till I began to think I must be well nigh to Dennis's. But, bad
+cess to it! all of a sudden, I came out of the woods at the very identical
+spot where I started in, which I knew by an ould crotched tree that seemed
+to be standin' on its head an' kicking up its heels to make divarsion of
+me. By this time it was growing dark, and as there was no time to lose, I
+started in a second time, determined to keep straight south this time and
+no mistake. I got on bravely for awhile, but och hone! och hone! it got so
+dark I couldn't see the trees, and I bumped me nose and barked me shins,
+while the miskaties bit me hands and face to a blister; and after tumblin'
+and stumblin' around till I was fairly bamfoozled, I sat down on a log, all
+of a trimble, to think that was lost intirely, and that maybe a lion or
+some other wild craythur would devour me before morning.
+
+Just then I heard somebody a long way off say, "Whip poor Will!" "Bedad!"
+sez I, "I'm glad it isn't Jamie that's got to take it, though it seems its
+more in sorrow than in anger they're doin' it, or why should they say,
+'poor Will?' and sure they can't be Injin, haythen, or naygur, for its
+plain English they're afther spakin?"
+
+Maybe they might help me out o' this, so I shouted at the top of my voice,
+"A lost man!" Thin I listened. Prisintly an answer came.
+
+"Who: Whoo! Whooo!"
+
+"Jamie Butler, the waiver," sez I, as loud as I could roar, an' snatchin'
+up me bundle an' stick, I started in the direction of the voice. Whin I
+thought I had got near the place I stopped and shouted again, "A lost man!"
+
+"Who! Whoo! Whooo!" said a voice right over my head.
+
+"Sure," thinks I, "it's a quare place for a man to be at this time of
+night; maybe it's some settler scrapin' sugar off a sugar bush for the
+childher's breakfast in the mornin'. But where's Will and the rest of
+them?" All this wint through me head like a flash, an' thin I answered his
+enquiry.
+
+"Jamie Butler, the waiver," sez I; "and if it wouldn't inconvanience your
+honour, would yez be kind enough to step down and show me the way to the
+house of Dennis O'Dowd?"
+
+"Who! Whoo! Whooo!" sez he.
+
+"Dennis O'Dowd!" sez I, civil enough, "and a dacent man he is, and first
+cousin to me own mother."
+
+"Who! Whoo! Whooo!" sez he again.
+
+"Me mother!" sez I, "and as fine a woman as ever peeled a biled pratie wid
+her thumb nail, and her maiden name was Molly McFiggin."
+
+"Who! Whoo! Whooo!"
+
+"Paddy McFiggin! bad luck to your deaf ould head, Paddy McFiggin, I say--do
+you hear that? And he was the tallest man in all the county Tipperary,
+excipt Jim Doyle, the blacksmith."
+
+"Who! Whoo! Whooo!"
+
+"Jim Doyle the blacksmith," sez I, "ye good for nothin' naygur, and if yez
+don't come down and show me the way this min't I'll climb up there and
+break ivery bone in your own skin, ye spalpeen, so sure as me name is Jimmy
+Butler!"
+
+"Who! Whoo! Whooo!" sez he, as impident as iver.
+
+I said niver a word, but layin' down me bundle, and takin' me stick in me
+teeth, I began to climb the tree. Whin I got among the branches I looked
+quietly round till I saw a pair of big eyes just forninst me.
+
+"Whist," sez I, "and I let him have a taste of an Irish stick," an' wid
+that I let drive an' lost me balance an' came tumblin' to the ground,
+nearly breaking me neck wid the fall. Whin I came to me sinsis I had a very
+sore head wid a lump on it like a goose egg, and half me Sunday coat-tail
+tore off intirely. I spoke to the chap in the tree, but could get niver an
+answer at all, at all.
+
+Sure, thinks I, he must have gone home to rowl up his head, for I don't
+throw me stick for nothin'.
+
+Well, by this time the moon was up and I could see a little, and I
+detarmined to make one more effort to reach Dennis's.
+
+I went on cautiously for awhile, an' thin I heard a bell. "Sure," sez I,
+"I'm comin' to a settlement now, for I hear the church bell." I kept on
+toward the sound till I came to an ould cow wid a bell on. She started to
+run, but I was too quick for her, and got her by the tail and hung on,
+thinkin' that maybe she would take me out of the woods. On we wint, like an
+ould country steeple chase, till, sure enough, we came out to a clearin'
+and a house in sight wid a light in it. So leavin' the ould cow puffin and
+blowin' in a shed, I wint to the house, and as luck would have it, whose
+should it be but Dennis's?
+
+He gave me a raal Irish, welcome, and introduced me to his two daughters--
+as purty a pair of girls as iver ye clapped an eye on. But whin I tould him
+me adventure in the woods, and about the fellow who made fun of me, they
+all laughed and roared, and Dennis said it was an owl.
+
+"An ould what," sez I.
+
+"Why, an owl, a bird," sez he.
+
+"Do you tell me now!" sez I. "Sure it's a quare country and a quare bird."
+
+And thin they all laughed again, till at last I laughed myself, that hearty
+like, and dropped right into a chair between the two purty girls, and the
+ould chap winked at me and roared again.
+
+Dennis is me father-in-law now, and he often yet delights to tell our
+children about their daddy's adventure wid the owl.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+THE QUAKER WIDOW.
+
+Thee finds me in the garden, Hannah,--come in! 'Tis kind of thee
+To wait until the Friends were gone, who came to comfort me.
+The still and quiet company a peace may give indeed,
+But blessed is the single heart that comes to us in need.
+
+Come, sit thee down! Here is the bench where Benjamin would sit
+On First-day afternoons in spring, and watch the swallows flit:
+He loved to smell the sprouting box, and hear the pleasant bees
+Go humming round the lilacs and through the apple-trees.
+
+I think he loved the spring: not that he cared for flowers: most men
+Think such things foolishness,--but we were first acquainted then,
+One spring: the next he spoke his mind: the third I was his wife,
+And in the spring (it happened so) our children entered life.
+
+He was but seventy-five! I did not think to lay him yet
+In Kennett graveyard, where at Monthly Meeting first we met.
+The Father's mercy shows in this: 'tis better I should be
+Picked out to bear the heavy cross--alone in age--than he.
+
+We've lived together fifty years. It seems but one long day,
+One quiet Sabbath of the heart, till he was called away;
+And as we bring from meeting-time a sweet contentment home,
+So, Hannah, I have store of peace for all the days to come.
+
+I mind (for I can tell thee now) how hard it was to know
+If I had heard the spirit right, that told me I should go;
+For father had a deep concern upon his mind that day,
+But mother spoke for Benjamin,--she knew what best to say.
+
+Then she was still; they sat awhile: at last she spoke again,
+"The Lord incline thee to the right!" and "Thou shalt have him, Jane!"
+My father said. I cried. Indeed it was not the least of shocks,
+For Benjamin was Hicksite, and father Orthodox.
+
+I thought of this ten years ago, when daughter Ruth we lost;
+Her husband's of the world, and yet I could not see her crossed.
+She wears, thee knows, the gayest gowns, she hears a hireling priest!
+Ah, dear! the cross was ours; her life's a happy one, at least.
+
+Perhaps she'll wear a plainer dress when she's as old as I,--
+Would thee believe it, Hannah? once _I_ felt temptation nigh!
+My wedding-gown was ashen silk, too simple for my taste:
+I wanted lace around the neck, and ribbon at the waist.
+
+How strange it seemed to sit with him upon the women's side!
+I did not dare to lift my eyes: I felt more fear than pride;
+Till, "in the presence of the Lord," he said, and then there came
+A holy strength upon my heart, and I could say the same.
+
+I used to blush when he came near, but then I showed no sign;
+With all the meeting looking on, I held his hand in mine.
+It seemed my bashfulness was gone, now I was his for life;
+Thee knows the feeling, Hannah,--thee, too, hast been a wife.
+
+As home we rode, I saw no fields look half so green as ours;
+The woods were coming to leaf, the meadows full of flowers;
+The neighbours met us in the lane, and every face was kind,--
+'Tis strange how lively everything comes back upon my mind.
+
+I see, as plain as thee sits there, the wedding-dinner spread;
+At our own table we were guests, with father at the head,
+And Dinah Passmore helped us both,--'twas she stood up with me,
+And Abner Jones with Benjamin,--and now they're gone, all three!
+
+It is not right to wish for death, the Lord disposes, best.
+His spirit comes to quiet hearts, and fits them for His rest;
+And that He halved our little flock was merciful, I see:
+For Benjamin has two in heaven and two are left with me.
+
+Eusebius never cared to farm,--'twas not his call, in truth,
+And I must rent the dear old place, and go to daughter Ruth.
+Thee'll say her ways are not like mine,--young people now-a-days
+Have fallen sadly off, I think, from all the good old ways.
+
+But Ruth is still a Friend at heart; she keeps the simple tongue,
+The cheerful, kindly nature we loved when she was young;
+And it was brought upon my mind, remembering her, of late,
+That we on dress and outward things perhaps lay too much weight.
+
+I once heard Jesse Kersey say, a "spirit clothed with grace,
+And pure, almost, as angels are, may have a homely face.
+And dress may be of less account; the Lord will look within:
+The soul it is that testifies of righteousness or sin."
+
+Thee mustn't be too hard on Ruth: she's anxious I should go,
+And she will do her duty as a daughter should, I know.
+'Tis hard to change so late in life, but we must be resigned;
+The Lord looks down contentedly upon a willing mind.
+
+_Bayard Taylor_.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+CUDDLE DOON.
+
+The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht,
+  Wi' mickle faucht an' din;
+"Oh, try and sleep, ye waukrife rougues,
+  Your faither's comin' in."
+They never heed a word I speak;
+  I try to gie a froon,
+But aye I hap them up, an' cry,
+  "Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon."
+
+Wee Jamie wi' the curly head--
+  He aye sleeps next the wa',
+Bangs up an' cries, "I want a piece"--
+  The rascal starts them a'.
+I rin' an' fetch them pieces, drinks;
+  They stop awee the soun',
+Then draw the blankets up an' cry,
+  "Noo, weanies, cuddle doon."
+
+But ere five minutes gang, wee Rab
+  Cries out frae' neatn the claes,
+"Mither, mak' Tarn gie ower at ance,
+  He's kittlin wi' his taes.",
+The mischief's in that Tam for tricks,
+  He'd bother half the toon,
+But aye I hap them up an' cry,
+  "Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon."
+
+At length they hear their faither's fit,
+  An' as he steeks the door
+They turn their faces to the wa',
+  While Tam pretends to snore.
+"Hae a' the weans been gude?" he asks
+  As he pits off his shoon,
+"The bairnies, John, are in their beds,
+  An' lang since cuddle doon."
+
+An' just afore we bed oursel's,
+  We look at oor wee lambs;
+Tam has his airm roun' wee Rab's neck,
+  An' Rab his airm roun' Tam's.
+I lift wee Jamie up the bed,
+  An' as I straik each croon
+I whisper, till my heart fills up,
+  "Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon."
+
+The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht.
+  Wi' mirth that's dear to me;
+But sune the big warl's cark an' care
+  Will quaten doon their glee.
+Yet come what will to ilka ane
+  May He who sits aboon,
+Aye whisper, though their pows be bauld,
+  "Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon."
+
+_Alexander Anderson._
+
+       *       *        *       *        *
+
+PER PACEM AD LUCEM.
+I do not ask, O Lord! that life may be
+   A pleasant road;
+I do not ask that Thou wouldst take from me
+   Aught of its load:
+I do not ask that flowers should always spring
+   Beneath my feet;
+I know too well the poison and the sting
+   Of things too sweet.
+For one thing only, Lord, dear Lord! I plead:
+   Lead me aright--
+Though strength should falter, and though heart should bleed--
+  Through Peace to Light.
+I do not ask, O Lord! that Thou shouldst shed
+  Full radiance here;
+Give but a ray of peace, that I may tread
+  Without a fear.
+I do not ask my cross to understand,
+  My way to see,--
+Better in darkness just to feel Thy hand,
+  And follow Thee.
+Joy is like restless day, but peace divine
+  Like quiet night.
+Lead me, O Lord! till perfect day shall shine,
+  Through Peace to Light.
+
+                     _Adelaide Anne Procter._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+THE NEWSBOY'S DEBT.
+
+Only last year, at Christmas time, while pacing down the city street,
+I saw a tiny, ill clad boy--one of the many that we meet--
+As ragged as a boy could be, with half a cap, with one good shoe,
+Just patches to keep out the wind--I know the wind blew keenly too:
+
+A newsboy, with a newsboy's lungs, a square Scotch face, an honest brow,
+And eyes that liked to smile so well, they had not yet forgotten how:
+A newsboy, hawking his last sheets with loud persistence; now and then
+Stopping to beat his stiffened hands, and trudging bravely on again.
+
+Dodging about among the crowd, shouting his "Extras" o'er and o'er;
+Pausing by whiles to cheat the wind within some alley, by some door.
+At last he stopped--six papers left, tucked hopelessly beneath his arm--
+To eye a fruiterer's outspread store; here, products from some country farm;
+
+And there, confections, all adorned with wreathed and clustered leaves
+   and flowers,
+While little founts, like frosted spires, tossed up and down their mimic
+   showers.
+He stood and gazed with wistful face, all a child's longing in his eyes;
+Then started as I touched his arm, and turned in quick, mechanic wise,
+
+Raised his torn cape with purple hands, said, "Papers, sir? _The
+   Evening News!"_
+He brushed away a freezing tear, and shivered, "Oh, sir don't refuse!"
+"How many have you? Never mind--don't stop to count--I'll take them all;
+And when you pass my office here, with stock on hand, give me a call."
+
+He thanked me with a broad Scotch smile, a look half wondering and half
+   glad.
+I fumbled for the proper "change," and said, "You seem a little lad
+To rough it in the streets like this." "I'm ten years old on Christmas-day!"
+"Your name?" "Jim Hanley." "Here's a crown, you'll get change there across
+   the way.
+
+"Five shillings. When you get it changed come to my office--that's the
+   place.
+Now wait a bit, there's time enough: you need not run a headlong race.
+Where do you live?" "Most anywhere. We hired a stable-loft to day.
+Me and two others." "And you thought, the fruiterer's window pretty, hey?"
+
+"Or were you hungry?" "Just a bit," he answered bravely as he might.
+"I couldn't buy a breakfast, sir, and had no money left last night."
+"And you are cold?" "Ay, just a bit; I don't mind cold." "Why, that is
+   strange!"
+He smiled and pulled his ragged cap, and darted off to get the "change."
+
+So, with a half unconscious sigh, I sought my office desk again;
+An hour or more my busy wits found work enough with book and pen.
+But when the mantel clock struck six I started with a sudden thought,
+For there beside my hat and cloak lay those six papers I had bought.
+
+Why where's the boy? and where's the 'change' he should have brought an
+   hour ago?
+Ah, well! ah, well! they're all alike! I was a fool to tempt him so,
+Dishonest! Well, I might have known; and yet his face seemed candid too.
+He would have earned the difference if he had brought me what was due.
+
+"But caution often comes too late." And so I took my homeward way.
+Deeming distrust of human kind the only lesson of the day.
+Just two days later, as I sat, half dozing, in my office chair,
+I heard a timid knock, and called in my brusque fashion, "Who is there?"
+
+An urchin entered, barely seven--the same Scotch face, the same blue eyes--
+And stood, half doubtful, at the door, abashed at my forbidding guise.
+"Sir, if you please, my brother Jim--the one you give the crown, you know--
+He couldn't bring the money, sir, because his back was hurted so.
+
+"He didn't mean to keep the 'change.' He got runned over, up the street;
+One wheel went right across his back, and t'other forewheel mashed his feet.
+They stopped the horses just in time, and then they took him up for dead,
+And all that day and yesterday he wasn't rightly in his head.
+
+"They took him to the hospital--one of the newsboys knew 'twas Jim--
+And I went, too, because, you see, we two are brothers, I and him.
+He had that money in his hand, and never saw it any more.
+Indeed, he didn't mean to steal! He never stole a pin before.
+
+"He was afraid that you might think, he meant to keep it, anyway;
+This morning when they brought him to, he cried because he couldn't pay.
+He made me fetch his jacket here; it's torn and dirtied pretty bad;
+It's only fit to sell for rags, but then, you know, it's all he had.
+
+"When he gets well--it won't be long--if you will call the money lent.
+He says he'll work his fingers off but what he'll pay you every cent."
+And then he cast a rueful glance at the soiled jacket where it lay,
+"No, no, my boy! take back the coat. Your brother's badly hurt you say?
+
+"Where did they take him? Just run out and hail a cab, then wait for me.
+Why, I would give a thousand coats, and pounds, for such a boy as he!"
+A half-hour after this we stood together in the crowded wards,
+And the nurse checked the hasty steps that fell too loudly on the boards.
+
+I thought him smiling in his sleep, and scarce believed her when she said,
+Smoothing away the tangled hair from brow and cheek, "The boy is dead."
+Dead? dead so soon? How fair he looked! One streak of sunshine on his hair.
+Poor lad! Well it is warm in Heaven: no need of "change" and jackets there.
+
+And something rising in my throat made it so hard for me to speak,
+I turned away, and left a tear lying upon his sunburned cheek.
+
+_Anon._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+SANDALPHON.
+
+Have you read in the Talmud of old,
+In the Legends the Rabbins have told,
+  Of the limitless realms of the air,--
+Have you read it,--the marvellous story
+Of Sandalphon, the Angel of Glory,
+  Sandalphon, the Angel of Prayer?
+
+How erect, at the outermost gates
+Of the City Celestial he waits,
+  With his feet on the ladder of light,
+That, crowded with angels unnumbered,
+By Jacob was seen, as he slumbered
+  Alone in the desert at night?
+
+The Angels of Wind and of Fire
+Chant only one hymn, and expire
+  With the song's irresistible stress;
+Expire in their rapture and wonder,
+As harp strings are broken asunder
+  By music they throb to express.
+
+But serene in the rapturous throng,
+Unmoved by the rush of the song,
+  With eyes unimpassioned and slow,
+Among the dead angels, the deathless
+Sandalphon stands listening breathless
+  To sounds that ascend from below;--
+
+From the spirits on earth that adore,
+From the souls that entreat and implore;
+  In the fervour and passion of prayer;
+From the hearts that are broken with losses,
+And weary with dragging the crosses
+  Too heavy for mortals to bear.
+
+And he gathers the prayers as he stands,
+And they change into flowers in his hands,
+  Into garlands of purple and red,
+And beneath the great arch of the portal,
+Through the streets of the City Immortal,
+  Is wafted the fragrance they shed.
+
+It is but a legend I know,--
+A fable, a phantom, a show,
+  Of the ancient Rabbinical lore;
+Yet the old mediaeval tradition,
+The beautiful, strange superstition,
+  But haunts me and holds me the more.
+
+When I look from my window at night,
+And the welkin above is all white,
+  All throbbing and panting with stars,
+Among them majestic is standing,
+Sandalphon, the angel, expanding
+  His pinions in nebulous bars.
+
+And the legend, I feel, is a part
+Of the hunger and thirst of the heart,
+  The frenzy and fire of the brain,
+That grasps at the fruitage forbidden,
+The golden pomegranates of Eden,
+  To quiet its fever and pain.
+
+_Longfellow._
+
+       *       *        *       *        *
+
+HAGAR IN THE WILDERNESS
+
+The morning broke.--Light stole upon the clouds
+With a strange beauty.--Earth received again
+Its garment of a thousand dyes; and leaves,
+And delicate blossoms, and the painted flowers,
+And every thing that bendeth to the dew,
+And stirreth with the daylight, lifted up
+Its beauty to the breath of that sweet morn.
+  All things are dark to sorrow; and the light
+And loveliness, and fragrant air, were sad
+To the dejected Hagar. The moist earth
+Was pouring odours from its spicy pores;
+And the young birds were singing as if life
+Were a new thing to them: but oh! it came
+Upon her heart like discord; and she felt
+How cruelly it tries a broken heart,
+To see a mirth in any thing it loves.
+  The morning passed; and Asia's sun rode up
+In the clear heaven, and every beam was heat.
+The cattle of the hills were in the shade,
+And the bright plumage of the Orient lay
+On beating bosoms, in her spicy trees.
+It was an hour of rest!--But Hagar found
+No shelter in the wilderness; and on
+She kept her weary way, until the boy
+Hung down his head, and opened his parched lips
+For water; but she could not give it him.
+She laid him down beneath the sultry sky;--
+For it was better than the close, hot breath
+Of the thick pines,--and tried to comfort him;
+But he was sore athirst; and his blue eyes
+Were dim and bloodshot; and he could not know
+Why God denied him water in the wild.--
+She sat a little longer; and he grew
+Ghastly and faint, as if he would have died.
+It was too much for her. She lifted him,
+And bore him farther on, and laid his head
+Beneath the shadow of a desert shrub;
+And, shrouding up her face, she went away,
+And sat to watch, where he could see her not,
+Till he should die; and watching him, she mourned:--
+
+"God stay thee in thine agony, my boy!
+I cannot see thee die; I cannot brook
+    Upon thy brow to look,
+And see death settle on my cradle joy.
+How have I drunk the light of thy blue eye
+    And could I see thee die?
+
+"I did not dream of this, when thou wast straying
+Like an unbound gazelle, among the flowers,
+    Or wiling the soft hours,
+By the rich gush of water-sources playing,
+Then sinking weary to thy smiling sleep,
+    So beautiful and deep.
+
+"Oh no! and when I watched by thee, the while,
+And saw thy bright lip curling in thy dream,
+    And thought of the dark stream
+In my own land of Egypt, the far Nile,
+How prayed I that my fathers' land might be
+    A heritage for thee!
+
+"And now the grave for its cold breast hath won thee,
+And thy white delicate limbs the earth will press;
+    And oh! my last caress
+Must feel thee cold, for a chill hand is on thee--
+How can I leave my boy, so pillowed there
+    Upon his clustering hair"
+
+*      *      *      *      *
+
+  She stood beside the well her God had given
+To gush in that deep wilderness, and bathed
+The forehead of her child until he laughed
+In his reviving happiness, and lisped
+His infant thought of gladness at the sight
+Of the cool plashing of his mother's hand.
+
+_N. P. Willis_
+
+       *       *        *       *        *
+
+THE MODEL WIFE
+
+  His house she enters there to be a light,
+  Shining within when all around is night,
+  A guardian angel o'er his life presiding,
+  Doubling his pleasures and his cares dividing:
+  Winning him back when mingling with the throng
+  Of this vain world we love, alas, too long,
+  To fireside's happiness and hours of ease,
+  Blest with that charm, the certainty to please;
+  How oft her eyes read his! Her gentle mind
+  To all his wishes, all his thoughts inclined;
+  Still subject--ever on the watch to borrow
+  Mirth of his mirth and sorrow of his sorrow.
+
+_Ruskin_
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+"GOODBYE."
+
+  Falling leaf and fading tree,
+  Lines of white in a sullen sea,
+  Shadows rising on you and me--
+    The swallows are making them ready to fly.
+    Goodbye, Summer! Goodbye!
+      Goodbye!
+
+  Hush! A voice from the far away!--
+  "Listen and learn," it seems to say,
+  "All the to-morrows shall be as to-day."
+  The cord is frayed and the cruse is dry.
+  The ink must break and the lamp must die.
+    Goodbye, Hope! Goodbye!
+      Goodbye!
+
+  What are we waiting for? Oh! my heart,
+  Kiss me straight on the brows and part!
+  Again! again! My heart! my heart!
+    What are we waiting for, you and I?
+    A pleading look--a stifled cry--
+    Goodbye forever! Goodbye!
+      Goodbye!
+
+_Whyte Melville_.
+
+MAKIN' AN EDITOR OUTEN 0' HIM.
+
+"Good morning, sir, Mr. Printer; how is your body today?
+I'm glad you're to home, for you fellers is al'ays a runnin' away.
+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 o' him.
+He aint 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.
+I 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;
+There's churnin' and washin' o' dishes, and other descriptions 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 editor's 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 aint much to get up a paper, it wouldn't take him long for to learn;
+He could feed the machine, I am 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;
+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 o' 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 a reply:
+"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 sixpence 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 not to 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 o' 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."
+
+_Will M. Carleton._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+THE ARMADA.
+
+Attend, all ye who list to hear our noble England's praise;
+I tell of the thrice famous deeds she wrought in ancient days,
+When that great fleet invincible against her bore in vain,
+The richest spoils of Mexico, the stoutest hearts of Spain.
+
+  It was about the lovely close of a warm summer day,
+There came a gallant merchant ship full sail to Plymouth Bay;
+Her crew had seen Castile's black fleet, beyond Aurigny's isle,
+At earliest twilight, on the waves lie heaving many a mile,
+At sunrise she escaped their van, by God's especial grace;
+And the tall _Pinta_, till the noon, had held her close in chase.
+Forthwith a guard at every gun was placed along the wall;
+The beacon blazed upon the roof of Edgecombe's lofty hall;
+Many a light fishing bark put out to pry along the coast;
+And with loose rein, and bloody spur, rode inland many a post.
+
+  With his white hair unbonneted, the stout old sheriff comes,
+Behind him march the halberdiers, before him sound the drums;
+The yeomen, round the market cross, make clear an ample space,
+For there behoves him to set up the standard of her Grace;
+And haughtily the trumpets peal, and gaily dance the bells,
+As slow upon the labouring wind the royal blazon swells.
+Look how the Lion of the sea lifts up his ancient crown,
+And underneath his deadly paw treads the gay lilies down!
+So stalked he when he turned to flight, on that famed Picard field,
+Bohemia's plume, and Genoa's bow, and Caesar's eagle shield:
+So glared he when at Agincourt, in wrath he turned to bay,
+And crushed and torn, beneath his claws, the princely hunters lay.
+Ho! strike the flagstaff deep, sir knight! Ho! scatter flowers, fair maids!
+Ho, gunners! fire a loud salute! Ho, gallants! draw your blades!
+Thou, sun, shine on her joyously; ye breezes, waft her wide;
+Our glorious _semper eadem_, the banner of our pride.
+The fresh'ning breeze of eve unfurled that banner's massy fold--
+The parting gleam of sunshine kissed that haughty scroll of gold:
+Night sank upon the dusky beach, and on the purple sea;
+Such night in England ne'er had been, nor ne'er again shall be.
+From Eddystone to Berwick bounds, from Lynn to Milford bay,
+That time of slumber was as bright, as busy as the day;
+For swift to east, and swift to west the warning radiance spread--
+High on St Michael's Mount it shone--it shone on Beachy Head;
+Far o'er the deep the Spaniard saw, along each southern shire,
+Cape beyond cape, in endless range, those twinkling points of fire.
+The fisher left his skiff to rock on Tamar's glittering waves,
+The rugged miners poured to war, from Mendip's sunless caves;
+O'er Longleat's towers, o'er Cranbourne's oaks, the fiery herald flew,
+And roused the shepherds of Stonehenge--the rangers of Beaulieu.
+Right sharp and quick the bells all night rang out from Bristol town;
+And, ere the day, three hundred horse had met on Clifton Down.
+
+The sentinel on Whitehall gate looked forth into the night,
+And saw o'erhanging Richmond Hill, the streak of blood-red light;
+Then bugle's note, and cannon's roar, the death-like silence broke,
+And with one start, and with one cry, the royal city woke;
+At once, on all her stately gates, arose the answering fires;
+At once the wild alarum clashed from all her reeling spires;
+From all the batteries of the Tower pealed loud the voice of fear,
+And all the thousand masts of Thames sent back a louder cheer;
+And from the furthest wards was heard the rush of hurrying feet,
+And the broad streams of pikes and flags dashed down each roaring street:
+
+And broader still became the blaze, and louder still the din,
+As fast from every village round the horse came spurring in;
+And eastward straight, from wild Blackheath, the warlike errand went;
+And roused, in many an ancient hall, the gallant squires of Kent:
+Southward, from Surrey's pleasant hills, flew those bright couriers forth;
+High on bleak Hampstead's swarthy moor, they started for the north;
+And on, and on, without a pause, untired they bounded still;
+All night from tower to tower they sprang, they sprang from hill to hill;
+Till the proud peak unfurled the flag o'er Derwent's rocky dales;
+Till like volcanoes, flared to heaven the stormy hills of Wales;
+Till twelve fair counties saw the blaze on Malvern's lonely height;
+Till streamed in crimson on the wind, the Wrekin's crest of light;
+Till broad and fierce, the star came forth, on Ely's stately fane,
+And town and hamlet rose in arms, o'er all the boundless plain;
+
+Till Belvoir's lordly terraces the sign to Lincoln sent,
+And Lincoln sped the message on, o'er the wide vale of Trent:
+Till Skiddaw saw the fire that burned on Gaunt's embattled pile,
+And the red glare on Skiddaw roused the burghers of Carlisle.
+
+_Lord Macaulay._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+TRIAL SCENE FROM THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.
+
+  DUKE. You hear the learned Bellario, what he writes;
+And here, I take it, is the doctor come.--
+
+    _Enter_ PORTIA, _dressed like a doctor of laws._
+
+Give me your hand: Came you from old Bellario?
+
+  POR. I did, my lord.
+
+  DUKE.          You are welcome: take your place.
+Are you acquainted with the difference
+That holds this present question in the court?
+
+  POR. I am informed thoroughly of the cause.
+Which is the merchant here, and which the Jew?
+
+  DUKE. Antonio and old Shylock, both stand forth.
+
+  POR. Is your name Shylock?
+
+  SHYLOCK.                 Shylock is my name.
+
+  POR. Of a strange nature is the suit you follow;
+Yet in such rule that the Venetian law
+Cannot impugn you, as you do proceed.--
+You stand within his danger, do you not? [_To_ ANT.
+
+  ANTONIO. Ay, so he says.
+
+  POR.            Do you confess the bond?
+
+  ANT. I do.
+
+  POR.        Then must the Jew be merciful.
+
+  SHY. On what compulsion must I? tell me that.
+
+  POR. The quality of mercy is not strain'd;
+It droppeth, as the gentle rain from heaven
+Upon the place beneath: it is twice bless'd;
+It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes:
+'Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes
+The throned monarch better than his crown;
+His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,
+The attribute to awe and majesty,
+Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;
+But mercy is above this sceptred sway,
+It is enthroned in the heart of kings,
+It is an attribute to God himself;
+And earthly power doth then show likest God's
+When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew,
+Though justice be thy plea, consider this--
+That in the course of justice, none of us
+Should see salvation: we do pray for mercy;
+And that same prayer doth teach us all to render
+The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much,
+To mitigate the justice of thy plea;
+Which if thou follow, this strict court of Venice
+Must needs give sentence 'gainst the merchant there.
+
+  SHY. My deeds upon my head: I crave the law,
+The penalty and forfeit of my bond.
+
+  POR. Is he not able to discharge the money?
+
+  BASSANIO. Yes, here I tender it for him in the court
+Yea, twice the sum: if that will not suffice,
+I will be bound to pay it ten times o'er,
+On forfeit of my hands, my head, my heart:
+If this will not suffice, it must appear
+That malice bears down truth. And I beseech you,
+Wrest once the law to your authority:
+To do a great right do a little wrong:
+And curb this cruel devil of his will.
+
+  POR. It must not be; there is no power in Venice
+Can alter a decree established:
+'Twill be recorded for a precedent;
+And many an error, by the same example,
+Will rush into the state: it cannot be.
+
+  SHY. A Daniel come to judgment! yea, a Daniel
+O wise young judge, how do I honour thee!
+
+  POR. I pray you, let me look upon the bond.
+
+  SHY. Here 'tis, most reverend doctor, here it is.
+
+  POR. Shylock, there's thrice thy money offer'd thee.
+
+  SHY. An oath, an oath, I have an oath in heaven:
+Shall I lay perjury upon my soul?
+No, not for Venice.
+
+  POR.            Why, this bond is forfeit;
+And lawfully by this the Jew may claim
+A pound of flesh, to be by him cut off
+Nearest the merchant's heart:--be merciful;
+Take thrice thy money; bid me tear the bond.
+
+  SHY. When it is paid according to the tenour.
+It doth appear you are a worthy judge;
+You know the law, your exposition
+Hath been most sound: I charge you by the law
+Whereof you are a well-deserving pillar,
+Proceed to judgment: by my soul I swear
+There is no power in the tongue of man
+To alter me: I stay here on my bond.
+
+  ANT. Most heartily I do beseech the court
+To give the judgment.
+
+  POR.             Why then, thus it is:
+You must prepare your bosom for his knife.
+
+  SHY. O noble judge! O excellent young man!
+
+  POR. For the intent and purpose of the law
+Hath full relation to the penalty,
+Which here appeareth due upon the bond.
+
+  SHY. 'Tis very true: O wise and upright judge!
+How much more elder art thou than thy looks.
+
+  POR. Therefore, lay bare your bosom.
+
+  SHY.                             Ay, his breast.
+So says the bond;--Doth it not, noble judge?
+Nearest his heart, those are the very words.
+
+  POR. It is so. Are there balance here, to weigh
+The flesh?
+
+  SHY.             I have them ready.
+
+  POR. Have by some surgeon, Shylock, on your charge
+To stop his wounds, lest he should bleed to death.
+
+  SHY. Is it so nominated in the bond?
+
+  POR. It is not so express'd; but what of that?
+'Twere good you do so much for charity.
+
+  SHY. I cannot find it; 'tis not in the bond.
+
+  POR. Come, merchant, have you anything to say?
+
+  ANT. But little; I am arm'd, and well prepar'd,--
+Give you your hand, Bassanio; fare you well!
+Grieve not that I am fallen to this for you;
+For herein fortune shows herself more kind
+Than is her custom: it is still her use,
+To let the wretched man outlive his wealth,
+To view with hollow eye, and wrinkled brow,
+An age of poverty; from which lingering penance
+Of such a misery doth she cut me off.
+Commend me to your honourable wife;
+Tell her the process of Antonio's end,
+Say, how I lov'd you, speak me fair in death;
+And, when the tale is told, bid her be judge
+Whether Bassanio had not once a love.
+Repent not you that you shall lose your friend,
+And he repents not that he pays your debt;
+For, if the Jew do cut but deep enough,
+I'll pay it instantly with all my heart.
+
+  BASS. Antonio, I am married to a wife,
+Which is as dear to me as life itself;
+But life itself, my wife, and all the world,
+Are not with me esteem'd above thy life;
+I would lose all, ay, sacrifice them all
+Here to this devil, to deliver you.
+
+  POR. Your wife would give you little thanks for that,
+If she were by, to hear you make the offer.
+
+  GRATIANO. I have a wife, whom I protest I love;
+I would she were in heaven, so she could
+Entreat some power to change this currish Jew.
+
+  NER. 'Tis well you offer it behind her back;
+The wish would make else an unquiet house.
+
+  SHY. These be the Christian husbands: I have a daughter;
+Would any of the stock of Barrabas
+Had been her husband, rather than a Christian! [_Aside_.
+We trifle time: I pray thee pursue sentence.
+
+POR. A pound of that same merchant's flesh is thine;
+The court awards it, and the law doth give it.
+
+  SHY. Most rightful judge.
+
+  FOR. And you must cut this flesh from off his breast;
+The law allows it, and the court awards it.
+
+  SHY. Most learned judge!--A sentence; come, prepare.
+
+  POR. Tarry a little;--there is something else.--
+This bond doth give thee here no jot of blood;
+The words expressly are a pound of flesh:
+Then take thy bond, take thou thy pound of flesh;
+But, in the cutting it, if thou dost shed
+One drop of Christian blood, thy lands and goods
+Are, by the laws of Venice, confiscate
+Unto the state of Venice.
+
+  GRA. O upright judge!--Mark, Jew!--O learned judge!
+
+  SHY. Is that the law?
+
+  POR.                  Thyself shall see the act:
+For as thou urgest justice, be assur'd
+Thou shalt have justice, more than thou desirest.
+
+GRA. O learned judge!--mark, Jew; a learned judge!
+
+  SHY. I take this offer then,--pay the bond thrice,
+And let the Christian go.
+
+  BASS.                 Here is the money.
+
+  POR.                                      Soft.
+The Jew shall have all justice;--soft;--no haste;--
+He shall have nothing but the penalty.
+
+  GRA. O Jew! an upright judge, a learned judge!
+
+  POR. Therefore prepare thee to cut off the flesh.
+Shed thou no blood; nor cut thou less nor more,
+But just a pound of flesh; if thou tak'st more,
+Or less, than just a pound,--be it so much
+As makes it light, or heavy, in the substance,
+Or the division of the twentieth part
+Of one poor scruple,--nay, if the scale do turn
+But in the estimation of a hair,--
+Thou diest, and all thy goods are confiscate.
+
+  GRA. A second Daniel, a Daniel, Jew!
+Now, infidel, I have thee on the hip.
+
+  POR. Why doth the Jew pause? take thy forfeiture.
+
+  SHY. Give me my principal, and let me go.
+
+  BASS. I have it ready for thee; here it is.
+
+  POR. He hath refus'd it in the open court;
+He shall have merely justice, and his bond.
+
+  GRA. A Daniel, still say I; a second Daniel!--
+I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word.
+
+  SHY. Shall I not have barely my principal?
+
+  POR. Thou shalt have nothing but the forfeiture,
+To be so taken at thy peril, Jew.
+
+  SHY. Why then the devil give him good of it!
+I'll stay no longer question.
+
+  POR.                      Tarry, Jew;
+The law hath yet another hold on you.
+It is enacted in the laws of Venice,--
+If it be proved against an alien,
+That by direct or indirect attempts
+He seeks the life of any citizen,
+The party 'gainst the which he doth contrive
+Shall seize one half his goods: the other half
+Comes to the privy coffer of the state;
+And the offender's life lies in the mercy
+Of the duke only, 'gainst all other voice.
+In which predicament, I say, thou stand'st:
+For it appears by manifest proceeding,
+That, indirectly, and directly too,
+Thou hast contriv'd against the very life
+Of the defendant; and thou hast incurr'd
+The danger formerly by me rehears'd.
+Down, therefore, and beg mercy of the duke.
+
+  GRA. Beg that thou may'st have leave to hang thyself:
+And yet, thy wealth being forfeit to the state,
+Thou hast not left the value of a cord;
+Therefore, thou must be hanged at the state's charge.
+
+  DUKE. That thou shalt see the difference of our spirit,
+I pardon thee thy life before thou ask it
+For half thy wealth, it is Antonio's;
+The other half comes to the general state,
+Which humbleness may drive unto a fine.
+
+  POR. Ay, for the state; not for Antonio.
+
+  SHY. Nay, take my life and all, pardon not that:
+You take my house, when you do take the prop
+That doth sustain my house; you take my life,
+When you do take the means whereby I live.
+
+  POR. What mercy can you render him, Antonio?
+
+  GRA. A halter gratis; nothing else, for God's sake.
+
+  ANT. So please my lord the duke, and all the court,
+To quit the fine for one half of his goods;
+I am content, so he will let me have
+The other half in use, to render it,
+Upon his death, unto the gentleman
+That lately stole his daughter;
+Two things provided more,--That for this favour,
+He presently become a Christian;
+The other, that he do record a gift
+Here in the court, of all he dies possess'd
+Unto his son Lorenzo and his daughter.
+
+  DUKE. He shall do this; or else I do recant
+The pardon that I late pronounced here.
+
+  POR. Art thou contented, Jew; what dost thou say?
+
+  SHY. I am content.
+
+  POR. Clerk, draw a deed of gift.
+
+  SHY. I pray you give me leave to go from hence:
+I am not well; send the deed after me,
+And I will sign it.
+
+  DUKE. Get thee gone, but do it.
+
+  GRA. In christening, thou shalt have two godfathers;
+Had I been judge, thou should'st have had ten more,
+To bring thee to the gallows, not the font.
+
+[Exit SHYLOCK.
+
+_Shakespeare._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+THE FAITHFUL HOUSEWIFE.
+
+I see her in her home content,
+  The faithful housewife, day by day,
+Her duties seem like pleasures sent,
+  And joy attends her on her way.
+
+She cares not for the loud acclaim
+  That goes with rank and social strife.
+Her wayside home is more than fame;
+  She is its queen--the faithful wife.
+
+When summer days are soft and fair,
+  And bird-songs fill the cottage trees,
+She reaps a benison as rare,
+  As her own gentle ministries.
+
+Peace shrines itself upon her face,
+  And happiness in every look;
+Her voice is full of charm and grace,
+  Like music of the summer brook.
+
+In winter when the days are cold,
+  And all the landscape dead and bare,
+How well she keeps her little fold,
+  How shines the fire beside her chair!
+
+The children go with pride to school,
+  The father's toil half turns to play;
+So faithful is her frugal rule,
+  So tenderly she moulds the day.
+
+Let higher stations vaunt their claim,
+  Let others sing of rank and birth;
+The faithful housewife's honest fame
+  Is linked to the best joy on earth.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+SCENE FROM RICHELIEU.
+Enter JULIE DE MORTEMAR
+
+  RICHELIEU. That's my sweet Julie! why, upon this face
+Blushes such daybreak, one might swear the morning
+Were come to visit Tithon.
+
+  JULIE (_placing herself at his feet_). Are you gracious?
+May I say "Father?"
+
+  RICH. Now and ever!
+
+  JULIE. Father!
+A sweet word to an orphan.
+
+  RICH. No; not orphan
+While Richelieu lives; thy father loved me well;
+My friend, ere I had flatterers (now I'm great,
+In other phrase, I'm friendless)--he died young
+In years, not service, and bequeathed thee to me;
+And thou shalt have a dowry, girl, to buy
+Thy mate amid the mightiest. Drooping?--sighs?--
+Art thou not happy at the court?
+
+  JULIE. Not often.
+
+  RICH, (_aside_). Can she love Baradas? Ah! at thy heart
+There's what can smile and sigh, blush and grow pale,
+All in a breath! Thou art admired--art young;
+Does not his Majesty commend thy beauty--
+Ask thee to sing to him?--and swear such sounds
+Had smoothed the brow of Saul?
+
+  JULIE. He's very tiresome,
+Our worthy King.
+
+  RICH. Fie! Kings are never tiresome
+Save to their ministers. What courtly gallants
+Charm ladies most?--De Sourdioc' Longueville, or
+The favorite Baradas?
+
+  JULIE. A smileless man--
+I fear and shun him.
+
+  RICH. Yet he courts thee!
+
+  JULIE. Then
+He is more tiresome than his Majesty.
+
+  RICH. Right, girl, shun Baradas. Yet of these flowers
+Of France, not one, in whose more honeyed breath
+Thy heart hears Summer whisper?
+
+  _Enter_ HUGUET.
+
+  HUGUET. The Chevalier De Mauprat waits below.
+
+  JULIE. (_starting up_). De Mauprat!
+
+  RICH. Hem! He has been tiresome too!--Anon. [_Exit_ HUGUET.
+
+  JULIE: What doth he?
+I mean--I--Does your Eminence--that is--
+Know you Messire de Mauprat?
+
+  RICH. Well!--and you--
+Has he addressed you often?
+
+  JULIE. Often? No--
+Nine times: nay, ten;--the last time by the lattice
+Of the great staircase.(_In a melancholy tone_.) The
+Court sees him rarely.
+
+  RICH. A bold and forward royster!
+
+  JULIE. _He_? nay, modest,
+Gentle and sad, methinks,
+
+  RICH. Wears gold and azure?
+
+  JULIE. No; sable.
+
+  RICH. So you note his colours, Julie?
+Shame on you, child, look loftier. By the mass,
+I have business with this modest gentleman.
+
+  JULIE. You're angry with poor Julie. There's no
+cause.
+
+  RICH. No cause--you hate my foes?
+
+  JULIE. I do!
+
+  RICH. Hate Mauprat?
+
+  JULIE. Not Mauprat. No, not Adrien, father.
+
+  RICH. Adrien!
+Familiar!--Go, child; no,--not _that_ way;--wait
+In the tapestry chamber; I will join you,--go.
+
+  JULIE. His brows are knit; I dare not call him
+father! But I _must_ speak. Your Eminence--
+
+  RICH. (_sternly_). Well, girl!
+
+  JULIE. Nay,
+Smile on me--one smile more; there, now I'm happy.
+Do not rank Mauprat with your foes; he is not,
+I know he is not; he loves France too well.
+
+  RICH. Not rank De Mauprat with my foes?
+So be it.
+I'll blot him from that list.
+
+  JULIE. That's my own father. [_Exit_ JULIE.
+
+_Sir Edward Lytton Bulwer._
+
+       *       *        *       *        *
+
+"DIOS TE GUARDE."
+
+FROM THE SPANISH.
+God keep thee safe, my dear,
+  From every harm,
+Close in the shelter of
+  His mighty arm!
+So, when thou must look out
+Over earth's noise and rout
+May thy calm soul be free
+  From all alarm.
+
+Or if He shall ordain,
+  He, the Most Wise,
+That woe shall come, that tears
+Shall dim thine eyes,
+May He still hold thee near,
+Dispelling doubt and fear,
+Giving thy prostrate heart
+  Strength to arise.
+
+And when His night comes, love,
+  And thou must go,
+May He still call to thee,
+  Tenderly, low,
+Cradled upon His breast
+Sinking to sweetest rest,
+God have thee safe, my dear,
+  And keep thee so.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+TO HER HUSBAND;
+
+_Written in the prospect of death_, 1640.
+
+How soon, my dear, death may my steps attend,
+How soon't may be thy lot to lose thy friend,
+We both are ignorant. Yet love bids me
+These farewell lines to recommend to thee,
+That, when that knot's untied that made us one,
+I may seem thine, who in effect am none.
+And, if I see not half my days that's due,
+What Nature would God grant to yours and you.
+The many faults that well you know I have
+Let be interred in my oblivious grave;
+If any worth or virtue is in me;
+Let that live freshly in my memory.
+And when thou feel'st no grief, as I no harms,
+Yet love thy dead, who long lay in thine arms;
+And, when thy loss shall be repaid with gains,
+Look to my little babes, my dear remains,
+And, if thou lov'st thyself or lovest me,
+These oh, protect from stepdame's injury!
+And, if chance to thine eyes doth bring this verse,
+With some sad sighs honour my absent hearse,
+And kiss this paper, for thy love's dear sake,
+Who with salt tears this last farewell doth take.
+
+_Anne Bradstreet_
+
+       *       *        *       *        *
+
+PASSING AWAY
+
+Was it the chime of a tiny bell,
+  That came so sweet to my dreaming ear,
+Like the silvery tones of a fairy's shell,
+  That he winds on the beach so mellow and clear,
+When the winds and the waves lie together asleep,
+And the moon and the fairy are watching the deep,
+    She dispensing her silvery light,
+    And he his notes as silvery quite,
+While the boatman listens and ships his oar,
+To catch the music that comes from the shore?--
+    Hark! the notes on my ear that play,
+    Are set to words! as they float, they say,
+      "Passing away! passing away!"
+
+But, no; it was not a fairy's shell,
+  Blown on the beach so mellow and clear:
+Nor was it the tongue of a silver bell
+  Striking the hours that fell on my ear,
+As I lay in my dream: yet was it a chime
+That told of the flow of the stream of Time,
+For a beautiful clock from the ceiling hung,
+And a plump little girl for a pendulum, swung,
+    (As you've sometimes seen, in a little ring
+    That hangs in his cage, a canary bird swing)
+    And she held to her bosom a budding bouquet,
+    And as she enjoyed it, she seemed to say,
+      "Passing away! passing away!"
+
+Oh, how bright were the wheels, that told
+  Of the lapse of time as they moved round slow!
+And the hands as they swept o'er the dial of gold
+  Seemed to point to the girl below.
+And lo! she had changed;--in a few short hours,
+Her bouquet had become a garland of flowers,
+That she held in her outstretched hands, and flung
+This way and that, as she, dancing, swung
+In the fullness of grace and womanly pride,
+That told me she soon was to be a bride;
+  Yet then, when expecting her happiest day,
+  In the same sweet voice I heard her say,
+    "Passing away! passing away!"
+
+While I gazed on that fair one's cheek, a shade
+  Of thought, or care, stole softly over,
+Like that by a cloud in a summer's day made,
+  Looking down on a field of blossoming clover.
+The rose yet lay on her cheek, but its flush
+Had something lost of its brilliant blush;
+  And the light in her eye, and the light on the wheels,
+That marched so calmly round above her,
+  Was a little dimmed--as when evening steals
+Upon noon's hot face:--yet one couldn't but love her;
+  For she looked like a mother whose first babe lay
+  Rocked on her breast, as she swung all day;
+  And she seemed in the same silver' tone to say,
+    "Passing away! passing away!"
+
+While yet I looked, what a change there came!
+  Her eye was quenched, and her cheek was wan;
+Stooping and staffed was her withered frame,
+  Yet just as busily swung she on:
+The garland beneath her had fallen to dust;
+The wheels above her were eaten with rust;
+The hands, that over the dial swept,
+Grew crook'd and tarnished, but on they kept;
+And still there came that silver tone
+From the shrivelled lips of the toothless crone,
+  (Let me never forget, to my dying day,
+  The tone or the burden of that lay)--
+    "PASSING AWAY! PASSING AWAY!"
+
+_Pierpont_.
+
+
+FROM THE FIRST ORATION AGAINST CATILINE.
+
+How far wilt thou, O Catiline, abuse our patience? How long shall thy
+madness outbrave our justice? To what extremities art thou resolved to push
+thy unbridled insolence of guilt! Canst thou behold the nocturnal arms that
+watch the palatium, the guards of the city, the consternation of the
+citizens; all the wise and worthy clustering into consultation; this
+impregnable situation of the seat of the senate, and the reproachful looks
+of the fathers of Rome? Canst thou, I say, behold all this, and yet remain
+undaunted and unabashed? Art thou sensible that thy measures are detected?
+
+Art thou sensible that this senate, now thoroughly informed, comprehend the
+full extent of thy guilt? Point me out the senator ignorant of thy
+practices, during the last and the proceeding night: of the place where you
+met, the company you summoned, and the crime you concerted. The senate is
+conscious, the consul is witness to this: yet mean and degenerate--the
+traitor lives! Lives! did I say? He mixes with the senate; he shares in our
+counsels; with a steady eye he surveys us; he anticipates his guilt; he
+enjoys his murderous thoughts, and coolly marks us out for bloodshed. Yet
+we, boldly passive in our country's cause, think we act like Romans if we
+can escape his frantic rage.
+
+Long since, O Catiline!  ought the consul to have doomed thy life a forfeit
+to thy country; and to have directed upon thy own head the mischief thou
+hast long been meditating for ours. Could the noble Scipio, when sovereign
+pontiff, as a private Roman kill Tiberius Gracchus for a slight
+encroachment upon the rights of this country; and shall we, her consuls,
+with persevering patience endure Catiline, whose ambition is to desolate a
+devoted world with fire and sword?
+
+There was--there was a time, when such was the spirit of Rome, that the
+resentment of her magnanimous sons more sternly crushed the Roman traitor,
+than the most inveterate enemy. Strong and weighty, O Catiline! is the
+decree of the senate we can now produce against you; neither wisdom is
+wanting in this state, nor authority in this assembly; but we, the consuls,
+we are defective in our duty.
+
+_Cicero._
+
+       *       *        *       *        *
+
+THE INEXPERIENCED SPEAKER.
+
+The awkward, untried speaker rises now,
+And to the audience makes a jerking bow.
+He staggers--almost falls--stares--strokes his chin--
+Clears out his throat, and.. ventures to begin.
+"Sir, I am.. sensible"--(some titter near him)--
+"I am, sir, sensible"--"Hear! hear!" (they cheer him).
+Now bolder grown--for praise mistaking pother--
+He pumps first one arm up, and then the other.
+"I am, sir, sensible--I am indeed--
+That,.. though--I should--want--words--I must proceed
+And.. for the first time in my life, I think--
+I think--that--no great--orator--should--shrink--
+And therefore,--Mr. Speaker,--I, for one--
+Will.. speak out freely.--Sir, I've not yet done.
+Sir, in the name of those enlightened men
+Who sent me here to.. speak for them--why, then..
+To do my duty--as I said before--
+To my constituency--I'll ... say no more."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+SKETCHES OF AUTHORS.
+
+
+ADDISON, JOSEPH, born May 1st, 1672, at Milston, Wiltshire, son of the Rev.
+Lancelot Addison, was educated at the Charterhouse and at Magdalen College,
+Oxford. He was destined for the church, but turned his attention to
+political life, and became eventually a member of parliament, and in 1717,
+one of the principal Secretaries of State. He first rose into public
+notice, through his poem on the battle of Blenheim, written in 1704, and
+entitled, _The Campaign_. He was chief contributor to _The
+Spectator_. His tragedy of _Cato_, produced in 1713, achieved a
+great popularity, which, however, has not been permanent. He died on June
+17th, 1719. As an observer of life, of manners, of all shades of human
+character, he stands in the first class.
+
+ALDRICH, THOMAS BAILEY, an American poet, born at Portsmouth, New
+Hampshire, 1836. He has been an industrious worker on the newspaper press,
+and is the author of Baby Bell, a beautiful poem of child-death. He has
+published his collected poems under the title of _Cloth of Gold_, and
+of _Flower and Thorn_. He is also a prose writer of considerable note,
+having an exquisite humour. His published novels are _Prudence
+Palfrey_, _The Queen of Sheba_, _The Still-water Tragedy_,
+etc.
+
+AYTOUN, WILLIAM EDMONDSTOUNE, an eminent critic and poet, born in
+Fifeshire, Scotland, in 1813. He studied law, and was appointed Professor
+of Rhetoric in Edinburgh University in 1845, and was closely connected with
+_Blackwood's Magazine_ for many years. He was a poet of the highest
+order, and his _Execution of Montrose_, and the _Burial March of
+Dundee_, are two noble historical ballads. He was author of the
+celebrated _Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers_, _Bon Gaultier
+Ballads_, _Firmilian_, _a Spasmodic Tragedy_, _Bothwell_,
+_Poland, and other Poems_, _The Life and Times of Richard Coeur de
+Lion_, etc. Died August 4th, 1865.
+
+BEECHER, HENRY WARD, a celebrated author and divine, born at Litchfield,
+Connecticut, on the 24th of January, 1813. He studied at Amherst College,
+where he graduated in 1834. In 1847, he became pastor of Plymouth Church
+(Congregational), Brooklyn. He is one of the most popular writers, and most
+successful lecturers of the day in the United States. He has published,
+_Lectures to Young Men, Life Thoughts_, a novel entitled
+_Norwood_, etc.
+
+BRONTE, CHARLOTTE (Currer Bell). A popular English novelist, born at
+Thornton, Yorkshire, April 21st, 1816, was a daughter of the Rev. Patrick
+Bronté. In 1846, in conjunction with her sisters--Anne and Emily--
+published a small volume of poems. It was as a writer of fiction, however,
+that Charlotte achieved her great success, and in 1848, her novel of
+_Jane Eyre_, obtained great popularity, and brought the talented
+author well merited fame. She afterwards published _Shirley_ and
+_Villette_, both very successful works. In June, 1854, she married the
+Rev. Arthur B. Nicholls, but after a brief taste of domestic happiness, she
+died at Haworth, March 31st, 1855. _The Professor_, her first
+production (written in 1846), was published in 1856, after her death.
+
+BROWNING, ELIZABETH BARRETT, one of the most gifted female poets that have
+ever lived, the daughter of Mr. Barrett, an opulent London merchant, born
+near Ledbury, Herefordshire, about 1807. She began to write verse when only
+ten years of age, and gave early proofs of great poetical genius. At the
+age of seventeen, she published _An Essay on Mind, with other Poems_,
+and her reputation was widely extended by _The Seraphim and other
+Poems_, published in 1838. In 1846, she was married to Robert Browning,
+the poet, and they lived for many years in Italy. In 1851, she published
+_Casa Guidi Windows_, the impressions of the writer upon events in
+Tuscany, and in 1856, appeared _Aurora Leigh_, a poem, or novel in
+verse, which is greatly admired. "The poetical reputation of Mrs.
+Browning," says the _North British Review_ (February, 1857), "has been
+growing slowly, until it has reached a height which has never before been
+attained by any modern poetess." She died at Florence, June 29th, 1861.
+
+BROWNING, ROBERT, a distinguished English poet, born at Camberwell, London,
+in 1812. He was educated at the University of London, and in 1836 published
+his first poem, _Paracelsus_, which attracted much attention by its
+originality. He has been a voluminous writer, and of all his works,
+_Pippa Passes_, and _The Blot in the Scutcheon_, are perhaps the
+best. The _Ring and the Book_ appeared in 1868. He is considered by
+some critics as one of the greatest English poets of his time, but is not
+very popular.
+
+BRYANT, WILLIAM CULLEN, an American poet, born at Cummington,
+Massachusetts, November 3rd, 1794. At the age of ten years he made very
+creditable translations from the Latin poets, which were printed, and at
+thirteen he wrote _The Embargo_, a political satire which was never
+surpassed by any poet of that age. He wrote _Thanatopsis_ when but
+little more than eighteen, and it is by many considered as his finest poem.
+In 1826 he became one of the editors of the _Evening Post_, which he
+continued to edit until his death. He published a complete collection of
+his poems in 1832, and in 1864. Among his prose works are, _Letters of a
+Traveller_, and in 1869 he published a translation of Homer's
+_Iliad_, which is an excellent work. Washington Irving says of Bryant:
+"That his close observation of the phenomena of nature, and the graphic
+felicity of his details, prevent his descriptions from becoming
+commonplace." He died June 12th, 1878.
+
+BURNS, ROBERT, the national poet of Scotland, was the son of a small
+farmer, and was born near the town of Ayr, on January, 25th, 1759. His
+early life was spent in farming, but he was about emigrating to the West
+Indies, when the publication of a volume of his poems, in 1786, which were
+very favourably received, determined him on remaining in his native land,
+and he proceeded to Edinburgh, where he made the acquaintance of the
+distinguished men of letters of that famous city. His reception was
+triumphant, and a new edition of his poems was issued, by which he realised
+more than £500. In 1788 he was married to Miss Jean Armour (Bonnie Jean),
+and soon after obtained a place in the excise, and in 1791 he removed to
+Dumfries, where he spent the remainder of his life. He died on July 21st,
+1796. Nature had made Burns the greatest among lyric poets; the most
+striking characteristics of his poetry are simplicity and intensity, in
+which qualities he is scarcely, if at all, inferior to any of the greatest
+poets that have ever lived. "No poet except Shakespeare," says Sir Walter
+Scott, "ever possessed the power of exciting the most varied and discordant
+emotions with such rapid transitions."
+
+BYROM, DR. JOHN, an English poet, born at Kersal, near Manchester, in 1691.
+He contributed several pieces to the _Spectator_, of which the
+beautiful pastoral of _Colin and Phoebe_, in No. 603, is the most
+noted. He invented a system of shorthand, which is still known by his name.
+Died at Manchester in 1763.
+
+BYRON, GEORGE GORDON NOEL (Lord), an English poet and dramatist of rare
+genius, was born in London, January 22nd, 1788. He was educated partly at
+Harrow, and in 1805 proceeded to Trinity College, Cambridge. While at
+College he published, in 1807, his _Hours of Idleness_, a volume of
+juvenile poems, which was severely criticised in the _Edinburgh
+Review_. Two years later he published his reply, _English Bards_
+and _Scotch Reviewers_, a satire which obtained immediate celebrity.
+In 1812 he gave the world the fruits of his travels on the continent, in
+the first two Cantos of _Childe Harold's Pilgrimage_. The success of
+this was so extraordinary that, as he tells us, "he awoke one morning and
+found himself famous." He then took his seat in the House of Lords, but
+soon lost his interest in politics. In 1813 he published _The Giaour_,
+and _The Bride of Abydos_, and in 1814, _The Corsair_. In
+January, 1815, he married Anne Isabella Milbank, only daughter of Sir Ralph
+Milbank, but the marriage was an unhappy one, and she returned to her
+father's in the January of 1816. In April, 1816, Byron left his country
+with the avowed intention of never seeing it again, and during his absence
+he published, in rapid succession, the remaining cantos of _Childe
+Harold_, _Mazeppa_, _Manfred_, _Cain_,
+_Sardanapalus_, _Marino Faliero_, _The Two Foscari_,
+_Werner_, and _Don Juan_, besides many other smaller poems.
+During his residence on the Continent, his sympathies for Grecian liberty
+became strongly excited, and he resolved to devote all his energies to the
+cause, and left Italy in the summer of 1823. He arrived in Missolonghi on
+January 10th, 1824. On February 15th he was seized with a convulsive fit,
+which rendered him senseless for some time. On April 9th he got wet, took
+cold and a fever, on the 11th he grew worse, and on the 19th he died,
+inflammation of the brain having set in. Among the most remarkable
+characteristics of Byron's poetry, two are deserving of particular notice.
+The first is his power of expressing intense emotion, especially when it is
+associated with the darker passions of the soul. "Never had any writer,"
+says Macaulay, "so vast a command of the whole eloquence of scorn,
+misanthropy and despair.... From maniac laughter to piercing lamentation,
+there is not a single note of human anguish of which he was not master."
+
+CAMPBELL, THOMAS, an eminent British poet, born at Glasgow in 1777. In 1799
+he published _The Pleasures of Hope_, of which the success has perhaps
+had no parallel in English literature. He visited the continent in 1800 and
+witnessed the battle of Hohen-linden, which furnished the subject of one of
+his most exquisite lyrics. _Gertrude of Wyoming_, published in 1809,
+is one of his finest poems. He wrote several spirited odes, etc., and other
+literary work, has placed his fame on an enduring basis. He died at
+Boulogne, in 1844, and was buried in Westminster Abbey.
+
+CARY, ALICE, an American author, born near Cincinnati, Ohio, about 1822.
+She first attracted attention by her contributions to the _National
+Era_, under the name of Patty Lee; she afterwards published several
+volumes of poems and other works, including _Hagar_, _Hollywood_,
+etc. Her sketches of Western Life, entitled _Clovernook_, have
+obtained extensive popularity. She died, February 12th, 1871.
+
+CARY, PHOEBE, a sister of Alice, has also contributed to periodical
+literature and in 1854 published a volume entitled _Poems and
+Parodies_. She died July 31st, 1871.
+
+COLERIDGE, SAMUEL TAYLOR, an eminent English poet and critic, born at
+Ottery St. Mary, Devonshire, October 21st, 1772. In 1796, he published a
+small volume of poems and in 1797, in conjunction with Mr. Wordsworth, he
+formed the plan of the Lyrical Ballads, for which he wrote the _Ancient
+Mariner_. In 1800 he removed to Keswick, where he resided in company
+with Wordsworth and Southey, the three friends receiving the appellation of
+the Lake Poets. He wrote several excellent works, of which
+_Christabel_ is the best. He led a somewhat wandering life and died on
+July 25th, 1834. As a poet, he was one of the most imaginative of modern
+times, and as a critic his merits were of the highest order.
+
+COLLINS, WILLIAM, an eminent English lyric poet, born at Chichester, in
+1720. He was a friend of Dr. Johnson, who speaks well of him. His best
+known work is his excellent ode on, _The Passions_, which did not
+receive the fame its merits deserve. Before his death, which occurred in
+1756, he was for some time an inmate of a lunatic asylum.
+
+COWPER, WILLIAM, a celebrated English poet, originally intended for a
+lawyer, and appointed as Clerk of the Journals in the House of Lords at the
+age of 31 years, but his constitutional timidity prevented him from
+accepting it. He had to be placed in a lunatic asylum for some time. He was
+born at Berkhampstead in 1731. In 1767 he took up his abode at Olney, in
+Buckinghamshire, where he devoted himself to poetry, and in 1782 published
+a volume of poems, which did not excite much attention, but a second
+volume, published in 1785, stamped his reputation as a true poet. His
+_Task, Sofa, John Gilpin_, are works of enduring excellence. In 1794
+his intellect again gave way, from which he never recovered, and he died at
+Dereham, in Norfolk, April 25th, 1800.
+
+CROLY, REV. GEORGE, a popular poet, born in Dublin in 1780. He was for many
+years rector of St. Stephen's, Wallbrook, London, and was eminent as a
+pulpit orator. His principal works are: _The Angel of the World_; a
+tragedy, entitled _Cataline_, _Salathiel,_ etc. He died November
+24th, 1860.
+
+DICKENS, CHARLES, one of the most successful of modern novelists, was born
+at Landport, Portsmouth, February 7th, 1812. Intended for the law, he
+became a most successful reporter for the newspapers, and was employed on
+the _Morning Chronicle_, in which paper first appeared the famous
+_Sketches by Boz_, his first work. The _Pickwick Papers_ which
+followed, placed him at once in the foremost rank of popular writers of
+fiction. His novels are so well known that any list of their titles is
+superfluous. In 1850 he commenced the publication of _Household
+Words_, which he carried on until 1859 when he established _All the
+Year Round_, with which he was connected until his death, which occurred
+very suddenly at his residence. Gad's Hill, Kent, on June 9th, 1870. He
+left his latest work, _The Mystery of Edwid Drood_, unfinished, and it
+remains a fragment. It was not merely as a humorist, though that was his
+great distinguishing characteristic, that Dickens obtained such unexampled
+popularity. Be was a public instructor, a reformer and moralist. Whatever
+was good and amiable, bright and joyous in our nature, he loved, supported
+and augmented by his writings; whatever was false, hypocritical and
+vicious, he held up to ridicule, scorn and contempt.
+
+DRYDEN, JOHN, a celebrated English poet, born at Aldwinckle,
+Northamptonshire, August 9th, 1631. He was educated at Trinity College,
+Cambridge, where he received his degree of M.A. He removed to London in
+1657, and wrote many plays, and on the death of Sir William Davenport he
+was made poet laureate. On the accession of James II. Dryden became a Roman
+Catholic and endeavoured to defend his new faith at the expense of the old
+one, in a poem entitled The Hind and the Panther. At the Revolution he lost
+his post, and in 1697 his translation of _Virgil_ appeared, which, of
+itself alone is sufficient to immortalize his name. His ode, _Alexander's
+Feast_, is esteemed by some critics as the finest in the English
+language. He died May 1st, 1700.
+
+GOLDSMITH, OLIVER, one of the most distinguished ornaments of English
+literature, born at Pallas, Ireland, in 1728. He studied at Trinity
+College, Dublin and afterward at Edinburgh. He traveled over Europe, on
+foot, and returned to England in 1756, and settled in London. It was not
+until 1764 that he emerged from obscurity by the publication of his poem
+entitled _The Traveller_. In the following year appeared his beautiful
+novel of the _Vicar of Wakefield_.  In 1770 he published _The
+Deserted Village_, a poem, which in point of description and pathos, is
+beyond all praise. As a dramatist he was very successful and he produced
+many prose works. He died in London on the 4th of April, 1774.
+
+GRAY, THOMAS, an English poet of great merit, born in London in 1716. He
+was educated at Eton and Cambridge and in 1738 entered the Inner Temple,
+but never engaged much in the study of the law. In 1742 he took up his
+residence in Cambridge, where, in 1768, he became professor of modern
+history. The odes of Gray are of uncommon merit, and his _Elegy in a
+Country Churchyard_ has long been considered as one of the finest poems
+in the English language. He died in July, 1771. He occupied a very high
+rank in English literature, not only as a poet, but as an accomplished
+prose writer.
+
+HALLECK, FITZ-GREENE, an American poet, born at Guildford, Conn., July 8th,
+1790. He became a clerk in the office of J. J. Astor, and employed his
+leisure moments in the service of the Muses. In 1819, in conjunction with
+his friend, Joseph R. Drake, he wrote the celebrated _Croaker Papers_,
+a series of satirical poems which brought him into public notice. On his
+martial poem, _Marco Bozzaris_, published in 1827, his fame
+principally rests, although he has written other pieces of great merit. He
+died November 19th, 1867.
+
+HARTE, FRANCIS BRET, a native of Albany, N.Y., has written short stories
+and sketches of Californian life, and several poems in dialect, of which
+_The Heathen Chinee_, is the most celebrated. He possesses great wit
+and pathos, and has been very successful in novel writing, and also in
+writing for the stage.
+
+HEMANS, FELICIA DOROTHEA, an excellent English poet, born at Liverpool,
+September 25th, 1794, was the daughter of a merchant named Browne. Her
+first volume of poems was published in 1808. In 1812 she married Capt.
+Hemans, but the marriage was a very unhappy one and they separated in 1818.
+She is the most touching and accomplished writer of occasional verse that
+our literature has yet to boast of. "Religious truth, moral purity and
+intellectual beauty, ever meet together in her poetry." She died in Dublin,
+in 1835.
+
+HOLMES, OLIVER WENDELL, M.D., a distinguished American poet, author and
+wit, was born at Cambridge, Mass., August 29th, 1809. He studied law, but
+soon left it for medicine, and took his degree of M.D. in 1836. In 1847, he
+was appointed Professor of Anatomy and Physiology in Harvard University. He
+early began writing poetry, publishing a collected edition of his poems in
+1836. He is a genuine poet, and as a song writer, has few if any superiors
+in America, excelling in the playful vein. He is best known by his series
+of excellent papers, contributed to the _Atlantic Monthly_, under the
+title of _The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table_, published in 1857-8;
+_The Professor at the Breakfast Table_ and the _Poet at the
+Breakfast Table_. He has also written some successful novels, one of
+which, _The Guardian Angel_, is one of the best American novels yet
+produced. He has also written able works on subjects connected with his
+profession.
+
+HOOD, THOMAS, a famous poet, humorist and popular author, born in London in
+1798. He was the son of a bookseller, served an apprenticeship as an
+engraver, but soon betook himself to literature.  In 1821 he was sub-editor
+of the _London Magazine_. His novels and tales were less successful than
+his humorous works. Among his most popular poems are:--_The Song of the
+Shirt, The Bridge of Sighs_ and the _Dream of Eugene Aram_. In the
+latter years of his life--which was one of prolonged suffering--he was
+editor of _The New Monthly Magazine_. As a punster he is unrivalled,
+and some of his serious poems are exquisitely tender and pathetic. In all
+his works a rich current of genial humour runs, and his pleasant wit, ripe
+observation and sound sense have made him an ornament to English
+literature. He died March 3rd, 1845.
+
+HUNT, J. H. LEIGH, a popular English poet, born at Southgate, near London
+October 19th, 1784. He early turned his attention to literature, and
+obtained a clerkship in the War Office, which he resigned in 1808, to
+occupy the joint editorship (along with his brother John) of the
+_Examiner_. Their boldness in conducting this paper led to their being
+imprisoned for two years and fined £500 each, for some strictures on the
+Prince Regent which appeared in its columns. He was a copious writer and
+his productions occupy a wide range. _Rimini_, written while in
+prison, is one of his best poems. Prof. Wilson styles Hunt "as the most
+vivid of poets and the most cordial of critics." He died August 28th, 1859.
+
+INGELOW, JEAN, a native of Ipswich, Suffolk, born about 1826, is the author
+of several volumes of poems, the first of which ran through 14 editions in
+five years. She wrote _A Story of Doom_ and other poems, published in
+1867, _Mopsa the Fairy_ in 1869, and several prose stories, etc.
+
+IRVING, WASHINGTON, a distinguished American author and humorist, born in
+New York City, April 3rd, 1783. He studied law and was admitted to the bar,
+but soon abandoned the legal profession for literature. In 1809 he
+published his Knickerbockers History of New York, a humorous work which was
+very successful. His works, are very numerous, including the famous
+_Sketch Book, The Alhambra, Conquest of Granada, Life of Columbus, Life
+of Washington_, etc., etc. For easy elegance of style, Irving has no
+superior, perhaps no equal, among the prose writers of America. If
+Hawthorne excels him in variety, in earnestness and in force, he is,
+perhaps, inferior to Irving in facility and grace, while he can make no
+claim to that genial, lambent humour which beams in almost every page of
+Geoffrey Cravon. He died November 28th, 1859.
+
+LAMB, CHARLES, a distinguished essayist and humorist, born in London, Feby.
+18th, 1775, and educated at Christ's Hospital. In 1792 he became a clerk in
+the India House, a post he retained for 33 years. He was a genial and
+captivating essayist and his fame mainly rests on his delightful _Essays
+of Elia_, which were first printed in the _London Magazine_. His
+complete works include two volumes of verse, the _Essays of Elia,
+Specimens of the English Dramatic Poets_, etc., etc. For quaint, genial
+and unconventional humour, Lamb has, perhaps, never been excelled. He died
+December 27th, 1834.
+
+LONGFELLOW, HENRY WADSWORTH, the most popular and artistic of all American
+poets, was born in Portland, Maine, Feby. 27th, 1807. He graduated at
+Bowdoin College in 1825, and one year afterwards was offered the
+professorship of Modern Languages at that Institution, which he occupied
+until 1835, when he accepted that of professor of Modern Languages at
+Harvard, which he continued to hold until 1854, when he resigned the chair.
+His poetical works are well known and are very numerous, the most noted of
+his longer pieces being _Evangeline, The Golden Legend, Hiawatha,
+Courtship of Miles Standish_, etc. All his poetical works are
+distinguished by grace and beauty, warmed by a greater human sympathy than
+is displayed in the writings of the majority of eminent poets. He relies
+chiefly for his success on a simple and direct appeal to those sentiments
+which are common to all mankind, to persons of every rank and of every
+clime. He wrote only three prose works, _Outre-Mer, Hyperion and
+Kavanagh_, and a few dramas, all of which deserve to rank with the best
+American productions.  _Evangeline_ is considered "to be the most
+perfect specimen of the rhythm and melody of the English hexameter." He
+died at Cambridge, Mass., March 24th 1882.
+
+LOWELL, JAMES RUSSELL, a distinguished American poet, critic and scholar,
+born in Cambridge, Mass., February 22nd, 1819. He graduated from Harvard,
+in 1838, and was admitted to the bar, but soon abandoned law as a
+profession and devoted himself to literature. His _Biglow Papers_
+first made him popular, in 1848. In 1857, on the establishment of the
+_Atlantic Monthly_, he was made editor of that popular magazine. His
+prose works consisting chiefly of critical and miscellaneous essays, "show
+their author to be the leading American critic, are a very agreeable union
+of wit and wisdom, and are the result of extensive reading, illuminated by
+excellent critical insight." His humour is rich and unrivalled and he seems
+equally at home in the playful, the pathetic, or the meditative realms of
+poetry. In 1880, he was appointed Envoy Extraordinary to Great Britain,
+which office he held until 1885.
+
+LYTTON, LORD, Edward George Earle Lytton Bulwer Lytton, a distinguished
+novelist, poet, dramatist and politician, was born May, 1805. He was the
+son of William Earle Bulwer, and owes his chief fame to his novels, some of
+which are among the best in the English language, notably _The Caxtons,
+My Novel, What will He do with It?_ and _A Strange Story_. As a
+playwright he was equally successful; he was the author of The Lady of
+Lyons--the most popular play of modern days;--_Richelieu, Not so Bad as we
+Seem_, the admirable comedy of _Money_, etc. A man of prodigious
+industry he showed himself equal to the highest efforts of literature;
+fiction, poetry, the drama, all were enriched by his labours. As a
+politician he was not quite so successful. In 1866 he was raised to the
+peerage as Baron Lytton. He assumed the name of Lytton, his mother's maiden
+name, in 1844, on succeeding to the Knebworth estates. He died January
+18th, 1873, and was buried in Westminster Abbey.
+
+LYTTON, EDWARD ROBERT BULWER, The son of the preceding author, better known
+perhaps by his _nom de plume_, Owen Meredith, born November 8th, 1831.
+He entered the diplomatic service in 1849. and has represented the British
+Government with great distinction. His chief works are _Clytemestra,
+Lucile, The Wanderer, Fables in Song, The Ring of Amasis_, a prose
+romance, etc.
+
+MACAULAY, THOMAS BABINGTON, a celebrated historian, orator, essayist and
+poet, was born at Rothley Temple, Lincolnshire, October 26th, 1800. From
+his earliest years he exhibited signs of superiority and genius, and earned
+a great reputation for his verses and oratory. He studied law and was
+called to the Bar, commencing his political career in 1830, and in 1834 he
+went to India, as a member of the Supreme Council, returning in 1838 to
+England, where for a few years he pursued politics and letters,
+representing Edinburgh in the House of Commons, but being rejected, on
+appearing for re-election, he devoted himself to literature. During the
+last twelve years of his life his time was almost wholly occupied with his
+_History of England_, four volumes of which he had completed and
+published, and a fifth left partly ready for the press when he died.
+Besides the _History_ and _Essays_, he wrote a collection of
+beautiful ballads, including the well-known _Lays of Ancient Rome_. In
+1849 he was elected Lord Rector of the University of Glasgow, and in 1857,
+his honours culminated in his elevation to the peerage as Baron Macaulay.
+He died on the 28th of December, 1869.
+
+MILTON, JOHN, An immortal poet, and with the exception of Shakespeare, the
+most illustrious name in English Literature, was born in Bread Street,
+London, on December 9th, 1608. He graduated at Cambridge, and was intended
+for the law or the Church, but did not enter either calling. He settled at
+Horton in Buckinghamshire, where he wrote his _Comus, L'Allegro, Il
+Penuroso_, and _Lycidas_. He took the side of the Parliament in the
+dispute with King Charles I. and rendered his party efficient service with
+his pen. About 1654 he became totally blind, and after serving the
+Protector as Latin Secretary for four or five years, he retired from public
+life in 1657. In 1665, the time of the Great Plague, he first showed the
+finished manuscript of his great poem, _Paradise Lost_, which was
+first printed in 1667, this immortal work being sold to a bookseller for
+£5! He afterwards wrote _Paradise Regained_, but it is, in all
+respects, quite inferior to _Paradise Lost_. He died in London, on the
+8th of November, 1674.
+
+MOORE, THOMAS, a celebrated poet, born in Dublin, May 28th, 1779, and was
+educated at Trinity College in that city. He studied law but never
+practised. He published two volumes of poems previous to the production of
+_Lalla Rookh_, his masterpiece, which was highly successful and was
+published in 1817. His works are very numerous and some of them are
+extremely popular, the best being _Lalla Rookh_ and _Irish
+Melodies_. As a poet he displays grace, pathos, tenderness and
+imagination, but is deficient in power and naturalness. He died February
+26th, 1852.
+
+POE, EDGAR ALLAN, a distinguished American poet and prose writer, born in
+Baltimore in 1809. He was an entirely original figure in American
+literature, his temperament was melancholy, he hated restraint of every
+kind and he gave way to dissipation, and his life is a wretched record of
+poverty and suffering. But the _Bells, The Raven_ and _Annabel
+Lee_, his principal poetical works, are wonderfully melodious,
+constructed with great ingenuity, and finished with consummate art. He
+wrote several weird prose tales and some critical essays. He died at
+Baltimore, under circumstances of great wretchedness, October 7th, 1849.
+
+POPE, ALEXANDER, a popular English poet and critic, born in London, May
+22nd, 1688. During his childhood he displayed great ability and resolved to
+be a poet. His _Pastorals_ were written at the age of sixteen. He
+wrote a large number of poems, the most celebrated being; the _Essay on
+Criticism, The Rape of the Lock_ and the _Essay on Man_. He also
+published translations of Homer's _Iliad_ and _Odyssey_. His
+talent for satire is conspicuous in the _Duncaid_. He possessed little
+originality or creative imagination, but he had a vivid sense of the
+beautiful, and an exquisite taste. He owed much of his popularity to the
+easy harmony of his verse, the keenness of his satire, and the brilliancy
+of his antithesis. He has, with the exception of Shakespeare, added more
+phrases to the English language than any other poet. He died on the 30th of
+May, 1744.
+
+PROCTER, ADELAIDE ANNE, an English poet, born in London, October 30th,
+1825. She was a daughter of Bryan Waller Procter (Barry Cornwall). She was
+a contributor to _Household Words_ and _All the Year Round_, and
+published in 1858, a volume of poetry, _Legends and Lyrics_. A second
+volume was issued in 1861. She died February 3rd, 1864.
+
+READ, THOMAS BUCHANAN, a distinguished American artist and poet, born in
+Pennsylvania, March 12th, 1822. He visited England and also spent several
+years in Florence and Rome. He wrote several good poems, but his
+_Sheridan's Ride_, brought him more popularity than any of his
+previous works. He died May 11th, 1872.
+
+ROGERS, SAMUEL, an eminent English poet, born in London, July 30th, 1763.
+He was a rich banker and enabled to devote much leisure time to literature,
+of which he was a magnificent patron. His best works are _Pleasures of
+Memory, Human Life_, and _Italy_, the last appeared in a
+magnificent form, having cost £10,000 in illustrations alone. Died December
+18th, 1855.
+
+SAXE, JOHN GODFREY, a humorous American poet, born in Vermont, in 1816. He
+has been most successful in classical travesties and witty turns of
+language, and he has won a good place as a sonneteer. A complete edition of
+his poems (the 42nd) was published in 1881.
+
+SCOTT, SIR WALTER. An illustrious Scotch author, novelist and poet, born in
+Edinburgh, August 15th, 1771. He was called to the bar in 1792, and being
+in circumstances favourable for the pursuit of literature, he commenced his
+poetical career, by translating several poems from the German. In 1805, he
+published the _Lay of the Last Minstrel_, and became at once one of
+the most distinguished poets of the age. It was speedily followed by
+_Marmion_ and the _Lady of the Lake_ (1810), and many other
+poems, all of which added to his fame. In August, 1813, he was offered the
+position of poet-laureate, which he declined. But he was destined to add to
+his already great reputation as a poet, by a success equally as great in
+the realms of prose fiction. In 1814 appeared _Waverley_, published
+anonymously, and its success was enormous. It was quickly followed by the
+other volumes of the "Great Unknown," as Scott was now designated,
+amounting in all to twenty-seven volumes. In 1820 he was created a baronet
+and his degree of success had been unparalleled and had raised him to
+apparent affluence, but, in 1826, by the failure of two publishing houses
+with which he was connected, he was reduced to bankruptcy. He set himself
+resolutely to redeem himself from the load of debt (£147,000) but, although
+successful, his faculties gave way before the enormous mental toil to which
+they were subjected. He died at Abbotsford, Sept. 21st, 1832. In addition
+to the poetical works and the Waverley Novels, Scott was the author of many
+other popular works, too well known to need mentioning here.
+
+SHAKESPEARE, WILLIAM.--The greatest poet of England, born at Stratford-on-
+Avon, Warwickshire, April 23rd, 1564. Unfortunately the materials for a
+biography of the poet are very meagre, and are principally derived from
+tradition. He appears to have been well educated, married very early, when
+about nineteen years of age, his wife, Anne Hathaway, being then twenty-
+six. Shortly after this he left Stratford for London, where he became an
+actor and eventually a writer of plays. His first printed drama (Henry VI.,
+part II.) was issued in 1594. In 1597, he purchased the best house in his
+native town, and about 1604 he retired to Stratford, where he spent the
+last twelve years of life, and where he is supposed to have written many of
+his plays, but we have no means of determining the exact order in which
+they were composed. He died April 23rd, 1616. His works are of world-wide
+fame, and need not be enumerated here. The name is often spelled
+SHAKSPEARE.
+
+SHELLEY, PERCY BYSSHE.--An eminent English poet, born near Horsham, Sussex,
+August 4th, 1792. He studied at Oxford, from whence he was expelled for
+publishing a _Defence of Atheism_. He made an unhappy marriage and
+soon separated from his wife. He published _Queen Mab, Alsator_, and
+in 1817 the _Revolt of Islam_. In 1818 he left England, to which he
+was destined never to return. In July, 1822, (July 8th), while residing at
+Leghorn, he went out on the Gulf of Spezzia, in a sail boat, which was
+upset in a squall, and the poet perished. In addition to the poems already
+mentioned he wrote _The Cenci_, _Adonais_, _Prometheus_, and
+a number of smaller pieces. As a poet he was gifted with genius of a very
+high order, with richness and fertility of imagination, but of a vague and
+partly unintelligible character.
+
+SHERIDAN, RICHARD BRINSLEY BUTLER.--A celebrated Irish orator and
+dramatist, born in Dublin in 1751. He directed his attention to literature,
+and in 1775 produced the comedy of _The Rivals_, and several other
+pieces. In 1777, his celebrated comedy of _The School for Scandal_,
+established his reputation as a dramatic genius of the highest order. He
+managed Drury Lane Theatre for some time, and also entered Parliament. His
+speech on the impeachment of Warren Hastings is regarded as one of the most
+splendid displays of eloquence in ancient or modern times. He died in
+London, in July, 1816.
+
+SOUTHEY, ROBERT.--An eminent author and poet, born at Bristol, August 12th,
+1774. Intended for the church, he studied at Oxford, but abandoned divinity
+for literature. His first poem was _Joan of Arc_, published in 1796.
+He was a most voluminous writer, being the author of more than 100 volumes
+of poetry, history, travels, etc., and also of 126 papers, upon history,
+biography, politics and general literature. His principal works are
+_Madoc, Thalaba the Destroyer, The Curse of Kehama_, lives of
+_Nelson, Bunyan, John Wesley_, etc., etc. He was appointed poet
+laureate in 1813. He died at Keswick, Cumberland, March 21st, 1843.
+
+TENNYSON, ALFRED (Lord Tennyson), a distinguished and the most popular
+English poet, born at Somersby, Lincolnshire, August 5th, 1809. He early
+displayed poetic genius, his first volume (written in conjunction with his
+brother Charles) entitled, _Poems by Two Brothers_, having been issued
+in 1827. In 1842, a volume of his poems was published and was most
+enthusiastically received, since which period his well-known productions
+have been issued at intervals. We need only mention _The Princess, In
+Memoriam_, (a record of the poet's love for Arthur Hallam), _Maud,
+Idyls of the King, Enoch Arden_, and the dramas of _Queen Mary,
+Harold_, etc. In 1833 he was appointed poet-laureate. Refined taste and
+exquisite workmanship are the characteristics of all he has written. His
+range of poetic power is very wide, and as a describer of natural scenery
+he is unequalled, while his rich gift of imagination, his pure and elevated
+diction, and his freedom from faults of taste and  manner, give him a high
+place amongst those who are the great masters of song. He was elevated to
+the peerage in January, 1884, as Baron Tennyson.
+
+THACKERAY, WILLIAM MAKEPEACE.--A distinguished English novelist and
+humourist, was born in Calcutta, July 18th, 1811. He I was educated at
+Cambridge, and at first inclined to be an artist, but after a few years,
+devoted himself to literature. He gained popularity as a contributor to
+_Punch_, but his progress in popular favour was not rapid, until in
+1846, when he published his _Vanity Fair_, one of his best works,
+which raised him into the first rank of English novelists. His subsequent
+works all tended to enhance his popularity. We need only mention
+_Pendennis, the Newcomes, History of Henry Esmond_, the
+_Virginians_, etc. He was also a popular lecturer, and his lectures on
+the _Four Georges_, and _The English Humourists of the Eighteenth
+Century_, were very successful. He edited the _Cornhill Magazine_
+from 1860 until April, 1862, when he relinquished it, continuing however to
+write for the Magazine. He died somewhat suddenly on December 24th, 1863,
+leaving a novel, _Denis Duval_, unfinished. His inimitably graceful
+style, in which he has been excelled by no novelist, may be in part due to
+his familiarity with Addison, Steele, Swift and their contemporaries. His
+pathos is as touching and sincere as his humour is subtle and delicate. His
+fame as a novelist has caused his poems to be somewhat neglected, but his
+admirable ballads and society verses attain a degree of excellence rarely
+reached by such performances.
+
+THOMSON, JAMES.--A celebrated poet, born in Roxburghshire, Scotland,
+September 11th, 1700. He went to London to seek his fortune in 1725, and
+his poem of _The Seasons_, published in 1726-30, was an important era
+in the history of English poetry, as it marked the revival of the taste for
+the poetry of nature. Besides the _Seasons_, Thomson wrote some
+tragedies, which were failures, also what some critics consider his best
+work, _The Castle of Indolence_, published in 1748. He is often
+careless and dull, his poetry disfigured by classic allusions to Ceres,
+Pomona, Boreas, etc., but he had a genuine love of nature, and his
+descriptions, despite their artificial dress, bear the stamp of reality. He
+was successful in obtaining a comfortable competence by his literary
+exertions, and died August 27th, 1748.
+
+TWAIN, MARK (Samuel Langhorne Clemens.) An American humourist, who has
+achieved great popularity, was born in Florida, Missouri, in 1835, and
+after an apprenticeship on the "Press," sprang into notice on the
+publication of his _Innocents Abroad_, published in 1869, a semi-
+burlesque account of the adventures of a party of American tourists in
+Europe and the East. _Roughing It_, and other works of his published
+subsequently, have been equally successful. The qualities of his style are
+peculiar, slyness and cleverness in jesting being his predominant
+qualities.
+
+WHITTIER, JOHN GREENLEAF.--The Quaker Poet of America, born December 17th,
+1807, near Haverhill, Mass. He passed his early years on his father's farm,
+but in 1829 he began to be connected with the "Press" and edited newspapers
+until 1839. He early identified himself with the Anti-Slavery movement and
+rendered it noble service by his pen and influence. His first work,
+_Legends of New England_, was published in 1831. His works are very
+numerous, _Maud Müller_ being the best known of his poems, and
+_Barbara Frietchie_ of his poems connected with the Civil War. As a
+writer of prose he unites strength and grace in an unusual degree, and his
+poetic effusions are characterized by intense feeling and by all the spirit
+of the true lyric poet.
+
+WILLIS, NATHANIEL PARKER.--A distinguished American poet and writer,
+born at Portland, Maine, January 20th, 1806. He graduated from Yale in
+1827 and devoted himself to literature, publishing a volume in that year
+which was well received. He wrote between thirty and forty separate
+publications, in addition to editing the _Evening Mirror_ and other
+periodicals including the _Home Journal_. Though marred by occasional
+affectation, the sketches of Willis are light, graceful compositions,
+but the artificiality of his poems have caused them to be neglected.
+He died at Idlewild, New York, January 20th, 1867.
+
+WORDSWORTH, WILLIAM.--An illustrious English poet, born at Cockermouth,
+Cumberland, April 7th, 1770. He studied at Cambridge and took his B. A.
+degree in 1791. In 1793 (after a residence for a short time in France) he
+produced his first verses, entitled An Evening Walk. In 1798, a small
+volume entitled _Lyrical Ballads_, was published in conjunction with
+ST. Coleridge, but was not a success. In 1800, he settled in Grasmere,
+Westmoreland, where also resided Southey, Coleridge, de Quincy, and Wilson,
+to whom the critics applied the term "Lake School." In 1813 he removed to
+Rydal Mount, where he published _The Excursion_ in 1814, _The White
+Doe of Rylston, Peter Bell, The Waggoner, The Prelude_, etc. In 1843 he
+was appointed to succeed Southey as poet-laureate. He is undoubtedly a poet
+of the first rank. Regarding Nature as a living and mysterious whole,
+constantly acting on humanity, the visible universe and its inhabitants
+were alike to him full of wonder, awe and mystery. His influence on the
+literature and poetry of Britain and America has been immense, and is yet
+far from being exhausted. He died April 23rd, 1850.
+
+YOUNG, EDWARD, An English divine and poet, born at Upham, Hampshire, in
+1684. He was educated at Oxford, and in 1727 was ordained and appointed to
+the living of Welwyn, Hertfordshire. As a poet he excels most in his
+_Night Thoughts_, which abound with ornate images, but are often very
+obscure. He wrote several other works. Died in 1765.
+
+
+
+
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