*b^

IMAGE EVALUATION
TEST TARGET (MT-3)

1.0 ^^ El

I.I

1.25

■3 l£

— 6"

2.0

1.8

14 IIIIII.6

% ^'/

Photographic

Sciences

Corporation

23 WEST MAIN STREET

WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580

(716) 872-4503

CIHM/ICMH

Microfiche

Series.

CIHIVI/ICMH
Collection de
microfiches.

Canadian Institute for Historical Microreproductions / Institut Canadian de microreproductions historiques

Technical and Bibliographic Notes/Notes techniques et bibliographiques

The Institute has attempted to obtain the best
original copy available for filming. Features of this
copy which may be bibliographically unique,
which may alter any of the images in the
reproduction, or which may significantly change
the usual method of filming, are checked below.

L'Institut a microfilm^ le meilleur oxemplaire
qu'il lui a 6td possible de se procurer. Les details
de cat axempiaire qui sont peut-dtre uniques du
point de vue bibliographique, qui peuvent modifier
une image reproduite, ou qui peuvent exiger une
modification dans la mdthode normale de filmage
sont indiquds ci-dessous.

Coloured covers/
Couverture de couleur

□ Coloured pages/
Pages de couleur

I I Covers damaged/

Couverture endommagee

□ Pages damaged/
Pages endommag6es

□ Covers restored and/or laminated/
Couverture restaur^e et/ou pellicul6e

□ Pages restored and/or laminated/
Pages restaurdes et/ou pellicul6es

Cover title missing/

I I Le titre de couverture manque

□ Coloured maps/
Cartes gdographiques en couleur

□ Coloured ink (i.e. other than blue or black)/
Encre de couleur (i.e. autre que bleue ou noire)

I "j/pages discoloured, stained or foxed/
I ^ Pages ddcolordes, tachet^es ou piqu^es

I I Pages detached/

Pages d6tach6es

Showthrough/
Transparence

I T Showthrough/

□ Coloured plates and/or illustrations/
Planches et/ou illustrations en couleur

□ Quality of print varies/
Quality in^gale de rimpression

Bound with other material/
Reli6 avec d'autres documents

□ Includes supplementary material/
Comprend du materiel supplementaire

Tight binding may cause shadows or distortion
along interior margin/

La reliure serr^e peut causer de I'ombre ou de la
distortion le long de la marge int6rieure

Blank leaves added during restoration may
appear within tho text. Whenever possible, these
have been omittod from filming/
II se peut que certaines pages blanches ajouties
lors d'une rest^uration apparaissent dans le texte.
mais, lorsque cela 6tait possible, ces pages n'ont
pas 6t6 filmies.

□ Only edition available/
Seule Edition disponible

Pages wholly or partially obscured by errata
slips, tissues, etc., have been refilmed to
ensure the best possible image/
Les pages totalement ou partiellement
obscurcies par un feuillet d'errata, une pelure,
etc., ont 6t^ filmdes d nouveau de facon i
obtenir la meilleure image possible.

Additional comments:/
Commentaires suppl^mentaires.-

This item is filmed at the reduction ratio checked below/

Ce document est film6 au taux de reduction indiqu6 ci-dessous

10X 14X 18X 22X

26X

30X

12X

16X

20X

24X

28X

32X

The copy filmed here has been reproduced thanks
to the generosity of:

National Library of Canada

L'exemplaire film6 fut reproduit grdce d la
g6n6rosit6 de:

Bibliothdque nationale du Canada

The images appearing here are the best quality
possible considering the condition and legibility
of the original copy and in keeping with the
filming contract specifications.

Original copies in printed paper covers are filmed
beginning with the front cover and ending on
the last page with a printed or illustrated impres-
sion, or the back cover when appropriate. All
other original copies are filmed beginning on the
first page with a printed or illustrated impres-
sion, and ending on the last page with a printed
or illustrated impression.

The last recorded frame on each microfiche
shall contain the symbol —♦►(meaning "CON-
TINUED"), or the symbol V (meaning "END"),
whichever applies.

Maps, plates, charts, etc., may be filmed at
different reduction ratios. Those too large to be
entirely included in one exposure are filmed
beginning in the upper left hand corner, left to
right and top to bottom, as many frames as
required. The following diagrams illustrate the
method:

Les images suivantes ont dt6 reproduites avec le
plus grand soin, compte tenu de la condition et
de la nettetd de l'exemplaire film6, et en
conformity avec les conditions du contrat de
filmage.

Les exemplaires originaux dont la couverture an
papier est imprimde sont film6s en commenpant
par le premier plat et en terminant soit par la
dernidre page qui comporte une empreinte
d'impression ou d'illustration, soit par le second
plat, selon le cas. Tous les autres exemplaires
originaux sont film6s en commenpant par la
premidre page qui comporte une empreinte
d'impression ou d'illustration et en terminant par
la dernidre page qui comporte une telle
empreinte.

Un des symboles suivants apparaitra sur la
dernidre image de cheque microfiche, selon le
cas: le symbole — ^ signifie "A SUIVRE", le
symbole V signifie "FIN ".

Les cartes, planches, tableaux, etc., peuvent dtre
filmis d des taux de reduction diff^rents.
Lorsque le document est trop grand pour dtre
reproduit en un seul clich6, il est film6 A partir
de I'angle sup6rieur gauche, de gauche d droite,
et de haut en bas, en prenant le nombre
d'images n6cessaire. Les diagrammes suivants
illustrent la m6thode.

^AJ) J- hllsJied hjj Davison Bros.

/\n 7>S<^ By professor ANDREW,

Of the University of McGill College.

The New Dramatic Reader ; Comprising a Selec-
tion of Pieces for Practice in Elocution, with intro-
ductory hints to Readers. Price, 75 cents.

By J. D. MORELL, LL.D.,
H. M, Inspector of Schools, England.

A Complete Manual of Spelling on the Prin-
ciples of Contrast and Comparison j with numerous
Exercises. Price, 30 cents.

Canadian Elementary School Atlas ; For the

use of Junior Classes, containing 16 Maps. Price, 25
cents.

A cheap and yet very complete elementary Atlas. The
Maps, which are similar to those in Keith Johnston's ele-
mentary Atlases, are clear and attractive.

The Spencerian Series of Copy Books; a

System of Penmanship very extensively used in the
United States and the Dominion of Canada. The
System is comprised in twelve Numbers, and divided
into four distinct Series, viz. : —

No«* 1« 2, 3, 4 & 5 Common School Serlea.

Nos, 6 Sc 7 Business Series*

Nos. 8 Sc 9 liadies' Series.

Nos. 10, 11 Sc 12 Exercise Series*

Lennie's English Grammar

Carpenter's Spelling.

Alphabet Card

Card of Tables; Multiplication, &o. ..,

I Boohs PaNisJied hy Dawson Bros,

Br PROFESSOR DAREY, M.A.,

Professor of (lie French Language and Literature in ihe
Unioersity of McGill College.

The Dominion Phrase Book, or the Student's

Companion for prj'ctically acquiring tho French tnd
English Languages. Price, 30 cents.

Cours de Lectures Francaises ; A Selection fwm

the Classic Wilteis of France, containing many from
the leading Authors of the present day, Tfith a copious
vocabulary. Prioe, 75 cents.

By N. DQVAL, B.A.,

Teacher of the French Language in the Schools of the Pro-
testant Commissioners of Education for the City

of Montreal.

An Elementary French Grammar ; Contaimng

a Selection of General Rules from the most approved
French Grammi^rs, with Exercises in French and Eng-
lish, illustrating the Rules given. Price, 40 cents.

A Juvenile French Course ; Comprising a CoUec.

tion of Phrases for acquiring the Rudiments of tho
French Language, with Exercises in French and
English. Price, 15 cents.

Juvenile French Course, first year. New and

revised edition. Price, 1 5o.

Juvenile French Course, second year. Naw

and revised edition. Price, 15c.

lectures Choisies pour la Jeunesse ; Contcnant

une foule d'Anecdotes amusantes, d'Historiettes, do
Cont'js ct do Fables, etc., aveo un Dictionnaire des
uiots FranyaiB, traduits en Anglais.

National Library
of Canada

Biblioth6que nationale
du Canada

THE

NEW DRAMATIC READER.

COMPRISING

A SELECTION;' 05 PIECES FOR PRACTICE

W i'^LOCUTION ;

• * *
• «

r t «

WITH

ODUCfOftY HINTS TO READERS.

• • • « •

BY JOHN ANDEEW,

Jmtt'uctor i7i Elocution in' the McOill University and Nonvial
and in the High Schools of Montreal^ dbc.

DAWSON BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS.

1876.

1816

» •

.' •••

• - » '

» >

* • > • »

*i *f S %

CONTENTS.

I. Hints to Readers.
II. Selections in Prose and Vebsb.

III. Dramatic Pieces.

IV. Pieces for Recitation.

PKEFACE.

This Reader is pje^onted to the public, not with a
view of superseding the books which are now used in
our schools, but in", brder to provide a fresh and
attractive collection, gf pieces especially adapted for
Practice in Elocutipi*.
The extracts are, therefore, as far as known, not

I ( * I I

published in any bf the Eeaders at present in use,
with the exception of a small number of pieces at the
end of the book." « vThese, it is suggested, may be
committed to memory, after careful analysis, and
used for the culti^atibn of the voice. Scenes from
Shakespeare have not been inserted, — the many School
Editions of his Plays seeming to render their intro-
duction unnecessary.

It will be observed that the prose selections are
complete in themselves, and not of the usual frag-
mentary character ; and that while they are instruc-
tive, they are not dry. Humorous pieces, always
favourites with young readers, have been freely
admitted.

BINTS TO READERS.

ART ICULATION.

Distinctness is of the first importance in readinc aloud. All
books on Elocution incibt upon it, aud give directions for
acquiring it ; yet thei'e i<4 no part of the art of speaking which
is more neglected. Distiuotness is not easy to learn, nor is it
readily taught. Few teachers are willing to undergo the
dru(^ery, lesson after lesson, and day after day, of insisting
on perfect enunciation.

It must be understood that distinct articulation depends
wholly on the organn of speech, and on the force and pre-
cision of their execu'tiba. The student, whose utterance !■
the result of casual habit only, requires therefore a thorough
organic training, before he can pass successfully to the firm
and exact mode of ud^ng his voice, which distinguishes public
reading and speaking from ordinary discourse. In connection
with the necessary physical training he must give strict
attention to elementary lounds, because exactness of articula-
tion cannot exist without close discrimination and careful
analysis ; for however inseparable the elements of a syllable
may seem to the ear, they are in reality separate aud wholly
independent formations.

When the syllabic elements are pronounced singly, each
may receive an undivided energy of organic efifort— a corres-
ponding clearness and firmness, and a well-defined outline,
which make an excellent preparation for distinct pronunciation
when they are combined in speech. Few persons, however,
will be able at first, to command a prompt utterance of these
sounds, particularly of the consonants or articulations (Table
II) ; indeed, it is remarkable that sounds which are pro-
nounced readily in combination, demand considerable practice
before they can be uttered separately. It should be, not-
withstanding, the first duty of the learner to give his earnest
attention to their acquirement. The readiest mode of mas-
tering an element, at first found difficult, is to pla«e it at the

^iii

HINTS TO READERS.

end of a syllabic, and observe carefully the position of the
lips and tongue when pronouncing it in connection with other
sounds ; for example, to acquire the exact formation of the
whispered consonant "t", pronounce the syllable "put",
and by dwelling upon it, the exact sound of *' t " will be
readily perceived. Note particularly that no consonant sound
is complete until the organs ai3 detached^ from their position.

The following tables of the elementary sounds in the Eng-
lish language form the most complete and; systematic arrange-
ment with which the writer is acquainted. They are from
the works of Mr. Melville Bell, the accoli\plighed Header, and
inventor of "Visible Speech." •

\ f

TABLE I. -

T 1

ENGLISH VOWEL SCHEME AND NUMEEICAL NOTATION.

No. 1
" 2
" 8
" 4
" 6

«< Q

efl(i) (p)tt(l ) (p)fi6G)

1(11) (0(^5(ld)
aOe) (&wc) 5(re)
6(11) C(re) (KrO ^^
kn) ti(p) a(rn)
ft(8k) (8)lr (li)er

18 No.
12 "
11 "
10 "
9 "
8 "

MO. 7 1. , . .
ilh \

r-'

'-'•,

AH^«e (i«

LO-1, AW^

COMBINATION».| ] '

le.; 7-18,'ah^^o
,ee (oil.) y-18-(u8

In order to bring this scheme into practical application, the
ittudent must commit it to memory, discarding letters as
names of the sounds, and adopting instead a numerical
nomenclature, in accordance with the arrangement in the
above Table. Thus, he must associate the sound ee with
Number 1, and speak of the vowel in the words be, fee, t«a,
key, c«l, field, people, pique, &•., as uniformly No. 1, inde-
pendently of the diverse vowel letterr which represent the
sound. And so with all the other vowels. He has to deal
with sounds, not letters.

HINTS TO READERS.

TABLE 11.
ARTICULATIONS.

1, 2, 3

Whispered. '

Vocalized.

Nasal.

Examples.

call, gall, gong.

yet.

5, 6

mission, vision.

far, rotigh.

light.

9, 10. 11

tame, dame, name.

12, 13

seal, zeal.

14, 15

thigh, thy

16, 17

fine, vine.

18, 19

whey, way
pay, bay, may.

20, 21, 22

A practice now fallen into disuse in schools, but which
might be revived with great benefit to pupils, is the resolving
of a syllable into its elementary sounds. Take, for instance,
the word "neighbour." It consists of the elements n, a,
(No. 3) 6, ir (No. 8). Let these sounds be uttered separately
in a distinct and forcible manner, and afterwards combined.
Words which hare been imperfectly pronounced may be se-
lected and " spelled" in tliis manner.

It is suggested also, that a sentence be selected and the
pupil subjected to the following drill, his attention being con>
nned as much as possible to the mere act of enunciation ;

1. Utter every element separately.

2. " •' syllable

3. •' " word "

4. Read the whole in a loud whisper.

The last exercise is a very valuable one. The reader, to be
heard, is obl^ed to pause frequently in order to recruit his
lungs with the extra air which is necestsary, and the larynx,
the primary organ of speech, being inactive, he is compelled
to exert the other organs to their mllest extent. It is proper
to caution the learner ag^iin^ t overdoing this exercise, as it is
fatiguing and might be injurious to persons of weak lungs.

It need scarcely be added, that the best conceived plan of
vocal training will be of little avail if not persistently followed.
The indolent will find the exercises irksome, and the capricious

T HINTS TO READERS.

will soon abandon them, but the learner who carries them
out faithfully, will attain what he desires — a precise and firm
articulation.

In connection with this part of the subject, it may be
necessary to warn the student against giving a strained and
unusual prominence to individual sounds when reading ; since
the least deviation from the assumed standard of pronunciation
will distract the attention of his audience from the subject of
the reading, and convert them into critics of his utterance..
In this, as in other branches of this Art, he must "acquire
and beget a temperance that may give it smoothnesg."

GROUPING.

The words in a sentence are not pronounced singly, nor are
they uttered continuously without break or rest. Words in
correct reading fall into expressive groups, which are separated
from each other, not always by a pause, but by some change
of tone or variety of style which clearly marks to the ear the
boundaries of each division. The commas and other points
will be of little service to the reader, as they are introduced
with no reference to their use in reading aloud ; they tell, in
fact, nothing more than that the author, or rather the printer,
is of opinion that at the places of insertion the sentence is
divisable into parts more or less perfectly. Neither does
grammar furnish a reliable guide ; for grammatical sequences
of words are often interrupted by a pause as an important
means of expressing emphasis. The reader must make his
own punctuation, both in place and length of pause, being
ifuided by the meaning of the words, by a sense of fitness,
Dy the ear and by the requirements of breathing.

Perhaps the readiest mode of acquiring a correct idea of
grouping is to consider every cluster of words as one
"oratorical" word, and that these oratorical words must be
distinguished by breaks, of greater or less duration, in the
same manner as words are separated on the printed page.

The learner must carefully avoid abrupt pauses between
the oratorical words, or disjunctive downward inflexions,
where the sense implies that the members of the sentence
should be connected. Indeed, as has been before hinted, the
pause is r we only of the modes of marking the group. Mr.
Sheridan says on this point ** The tones and inflections apper-
taining 1 these pauses, and the time taken up in them must
be left to the reader's own judgment ; and his best rule will
be to reflect what tones he would use, and what time he would
suspend his voice, were he to speak the words as his own
immediate sentiments."

HINTS TO READERS.

ACCENT AND EMPHASIS.

Every word of more than one syllable in the English lan-
guage has one of its syllables distinguished by force of
articulation or vocal effort. This is called verbal or syllabic
accent. There is also accent in sentences, which points out
the relative value of words, and which is named sentential
accent. The position of the sentential accent depends wholly
upon the perceptions of the reader, and forms the best test
of the accuracy of his judgment ; the regulation of the accent,
80 as perfectly to bring out the sense of a passage, being often
a very nice point, requiring much judgment and skill.

Emphasis is among sentential accents what syllabic accent
is among syllables, a prominence given to one accent at the
expense of the others. Mr. Bell remarks, "The words in a
sentence which express ideas new to the context are pro-
nounced with the first degree of emphasis, while all worda
involved in preceding terms are unemphatic. Words con-
trasted with preceding terms are more strongly emphasized,
and words suggestive cf unexpressed antithesis are emphatic
in the highest degree."*

The purpose of emphasis and accent is to impress upon ths
listener's mind the ideas on which it is desired to arrest tho
attention in proportion to their relative importance. Care
must, however, oe taken that due discrimination is made
between words which require accent only, and words which
ought to be made emphatic. Let it be kept in view tbat the
power of emphatic stress is lost if it is overlaid, and that the
reading which is all emphasis is, in reality, the reverse of
emphatic.

As this important branch of the subject will be most
readily understood by illustration, the attention of the reader
is speci&lly directed to the following masterly analysis by Mr.
Bell ;—

EXAMPLE OF EMPHASIS.

Lines on the burial of Sir John Moore.

At the commencement of a Composition everything is, of
course, ^ new ; and the first subject and predicate will be
emphatic unless either is in the nature of things implied in
the other.

•' Not a drum | was heard, | not a funeral note,
Aa I his corpse | to the ramparts | we hurried."

The subject *' drum" will be accented and the predicate

* Bell's Elocutionary Manual.— Also his Princioles of Speech and Dic-
tionary of Sounds. London ; Hamilton, Adams dc Co.

II'

HINTS TO READERS.

" wa8 heard" unaccented, because the mention of a ** drum"
involves, in the nature of things, recognition by the sense of
hearing. To accentuate "heard" would involve one of the
false antitheses,

•• Not a drum was heard " (because we were deaf),

or
" Not a drum was heard " (but only seen or felt).

The second subject "note" will be emphatic, because it is
contrasted with "drum" and suggests the antithesis "not a
note" (of any instrument). " Funeral" is unaccented, because
pre-understood from the title of the poem. In the next line,
"as " will be separately accented, because it has no reference
to the words immediately following, but to the verb " we
hurried." " His corpse" will be unaccented, became a
funeral implies a corpse, and there i3 no mention in the
context of any other than " his. " The principal accent of the
line may be given to " ramparts " or "hurried ;" the former
would perhaps be the better wor i, as it involves the anti-

theses

" To the ramparts " (and net to a cemetery).

In the next two lines,

"Soldier" is implied in connection with " drum" and " ram-

Earts," and the emphasis will fall on "shot," "discharged,"
eing involved in the idea of " t hot," and " farewell " being
involved in the occasion to which "shot," refers — a funeral.
In the next Hne the leading accent will be on " grave" — but
no word is emphatic, as a "grave" is of course implied.
" O'er" is implied in the nature of things, as the shot could
not be diicharged under the grave ; "our hero" is the same
as "his corpse," and "was buried" is involved in the men-
tion of " corpse" and " grave."
In the next lines,

the first clause will be unemphatic, as the fact has beer
already stated. To emphasize " buried " would suggest the
false antithesis

" We buried lim" (instead of leaving him on the battle-field)

" Darkly" and " at dead of night" convey the same idea j
the latter being the stronger expression will receive the
principal accent— on " night ;" — and " darkly " will be

HINTS TO READERS.

• • •

pronounced parenthetically. "Turning the sods" is, of
course, implied in tbe act of burying ; the word " bayonets,"
therefore, takes the principal accent of the line, because
involving the antithesis

" With our bayonets " (and not our spades).

" hy the struggling moonbeam's | misty light,
And the lantern | dimly burning."

In the first clause, " moonbeam's " will be accented, and
"misty light" unaccented, because implied in "the struy-
gling moonbeam." ** Lantern," in the second line, will take
the superior accent of the sentence, because cf the two
sources of light spoken of, it is the more immetliately liier-
vicoable on the occasion; and "dimly burning" will be
unaccented, unless the forced antithesis be suggested,

•* Dimly burning " (as with shrouded light, to escape observation).

" No useless coflSn | enclosed his breast ;
Not in sheet | nor in shroud | we wound him."

Emphasis on " coffin," because the word not only conveys a
new idea, but is suggestive of contrast :—

" No coflBn " (as at ordinary interments),

No accent on "useless," because it would suggest the false
antithesis.

" No tiseleas coffin " (but only one of the least dispensable kind).

"Enclosed his breast" without emphasis, because implied
in the mention of "coffin." Emphasis on "breast" would
convey the false antithesis

(Not) "his breast " (but merely some other part of his body).

" Sheet " and " shroud " in the second line express tbe same
idea ; the latter beine the stronger term, takes the leading
accent. "We wound him" unaccented, because implied in
the idea of "shroud." The tones in these lines should be
rising/ to carry on the attention to the leading facts of the
sentence predicated in the next lines,

" But I he lay | like a warrior | taking his rest,
With his martial cloak | around him."

** But " separately accented, because it does not refer to "he
lay," which is of course implied in the idea of the dead
warrior. To connect " but with " he lay" would indicate
the opposition to

" But he lay " (instead of assuming some other attitude).

The reference is rather

(In " no coffin" or •• shroud ") " but " in " his martial cloak."

ziy

HINTS TO READERS.

In the simile that follows, no accent on " warrior," because
he W(i8 a ii'arrior, and not merely was "like" one. The
principal emphasis of the whole stanza lies on "rest," which
suggests the antithesis,

(As If) " takiii'j his rest " (and not with the aspect of death).

In the next line, the principal accent on '* cloak ;" ** martial "
being implied, unless intended contrast could be supposed
between his "martial " and some othercloaks ; and " around
him " being included in the idea of a warrior taking rest in
his cloak.

♦ ♦•»••

THB SLUR.

Closely allied to and of equal importance with emphasis
and sentential accent, is the vocal subordination of words or
clauses which are mere rhetorical embellishments, or which
repeat ideas already expressed. All such expletive words or
clauses should be passed over lightly, though distinctly, and
without significant expression. This quality of effective
reading, which has been called "Slurring," is by no means
easy in practice. Readers who experience little diflficulty in
rendering words emphatic, being quite unable to command
the intonation required for the iuexpieisiveness of the
"Slur."

MANAGEMENT OF TEE BREATH.

The advice, sometimes given, to take in enough of air at the
commencement of a sentence to last until its conclusion, is
not only impracticable in long sentences, but the attempt to
do so might be injurious. The time required for the pauses,
and which must be observed, will be found quite sufficient to
enaiUe the reader to replenish his lungs. It is true that,
voice heimj breath made vocal, a larger supply of air is required
for reading than is necessary for vital wants — yet, if the chest
is raised, and the channels of entrance to the lungs (particu-
larly the nasal passage) kept free, the air will enter noise-
lessly and with little effort. The insufficiency of breath,
of which we sometimes hear young readers complain, arises
generally from nervousness, and can be avoided by taking two
or three full inspirations before attempting to speak. In
reading the first sentence or two, let the pauses between the
groups be made rather longer than usual, and the reader will
find, as he proceeds, that his breathing will become regular,
and that he will encounter no difficulty in uttering the long-
est sentence or series of sentences in his selection.

.:■!

HINTS TO BBADEKia.

INTONATION.

Oral example is absolutely neceas«ry to exhibit the varieties
of vocal expression, and to correct the faults in intonation to
which readers are liable. Books on elocution contain direc-
tions for the management of the voice which are more or less
correct in themselves, but it is doubtful if they are of practical
use to the learner. Certainly no one ever became an accom-
plished reader by merely following these precepts. It seems
impossible to convey by words, or by printed signs, full direc-
tions for correct and melodious vocal expression in reading.
Those who are curious about the mechanism of expression are
referred to Dr. Rush's Philosophy of the Voice,* uid to a lit-
tle treatise founded upon that work by the late Dr. Barber, t
In the writings of Mr. Melville Bell, already referred to, will
be found valuable directions deduced from certain principles
of expression there explained.

OBNERAL HINTS,

In order to give the right meaning, it is necessary for the
reader to invest himself with the thoughts of the author. It
is in vain for him to expect to do this without preliminary
study. Every one who has made reading aloud a practice,
will admit that he cannot deliver any piece of written compo-
sition so well at sight, or on the first reading, as on the
second ; nor on the second as on the third. He finds that he
improves in his manner at every repetition, as the thoughts
and the words in which they are conveyed grow more familiar
to him. After much practice a reader may indeed, by the
quick motion of the eye, comprehend the full meaning and
import of the words in compositions which have no obscurity
in their construction ; yet it by no means follows that the
exact intonation should be read^ at his will, or that his execu-
tion should at first answer his conception. If the learner
practise upon scenes from modern comedies, in which no tones
are required but those which he uses in every-day discourse,
he will find that it is one thing to conceive, and another to
perform ; that it will not be till after repeated attempts that
he can hit upon the exact manner in which the words should
be delivered, or be able to associate to them the just tones
that ought naturally to accompany them.

The following exercise may be found useful to beginners :
Read a sentence, ponder over its meaning, then, mark it by
placing a single line under accented, and a double line under
emphatic words. At first this exercise will appear easy, and

Philadelphia, 1869.

t Lovell, Montreal, 1860.

XVI

HINTS TO READERS.

(

!:1

I,'

Heeni of little use, but let the learner think over the sentence
again, he will then be^dn to doubt the correctness of some of his
markings, other meanmgs will present themselves, and he will be
obliged to question closely the author's intent. The more minute
inspection will reveal new difficulties, not so much of meaning as
of the proper mode of expressing the meaning, and he will find at
length, that much thought and study are required before he can
satisfy himself of the correctness of his notation. He may then
proceed to divide the sentences into groups. He will find in his
first attempts even less difficulty than he experienced in marking
for emphasis, and his pencil will jot oflE the oratorical words
with dashing rapidity, very flattering to his self-complacency.
But on the second or third reading he will again find that he has
been going too fast ; and it will not be until he has arrived at this
stage that he will begin to discover the true extent and difficulty
of the Art of Reading.

ERRORS OF READERS.

The mention of a few of the errors to which readers are liable,
will be of service as pointing out to the learner what he should
avoid.

Indistinct utterance has been already alluded to ; but there is
another cause of inaudibility, and that is the diminution in force,
and the lowering of pitch, at the end of clauses and sentences.
The general rule should be to sustain the pitch, and even slightly
to raise the voice at the termination of sentences. By this, not
only is audibility secured, but vigour and liveliness imparted to
the reading. In addressing large assemblies, the speaker should
direct his voice to that part of his audience which is at the great-
est distance from him.

Another cause of want of distinctness arises from speaking too
loud. An unpractised reader often falls into this error. Delibe-
rate utterance, a vocal power suited to the size of the room in
which he speaks, an attention to grouping:, and a well -sustained
pitch at tne periods, will make his reading better heard than
shouting at the utmost extent of his voice.

A very common fault in intonation is the practice most un-
pleasant to the ear, of making the voice rise and fall in meaning-
less undulations at almost regular periods. This is done with a
view of avoiding monotony ; but the perpetual unvarying recur-
rence of the rise and fall, is quite as tii'esome as the level pitch
from which the reader desires to escape. There is also a bira-like
succession of a certain run of melody, which, if not interrupted
by some forcible or peculiar expression, is repeated again and
again, until it can be anticipated oy the critical ear with almost
unerring certainty. This is often ludicrously apparent in the
reading of poetry.

Another fault is that of the reader executing all his emphasis
by "hammering" upon the accented syllables. Besides being
wearisome to the listener, this habit destroys the dignity of de-
liberate utterance. Bemember that the emphatic syllable can

HINTS TO R1AD£RS.

ZVU

nost un-

be distinguished by a variety of means besides force — by the
pause, the wave or circumflex, and other changes in intonation,
nay, even by the sudden diminution of force.

Although the principles which govern the reading of prose are
•Iso applicable to poetical composition, there are faults in the
recitation of the latter -.vhich require special notice.

The habit which iiianx have acc^uired of ** singing " instead of
reading iioetry is so couimofi that it must havj been observed by
all. ^ 'I'he child chants the nursery rhyme unforbidden, and the
pupil at school is toc'^f-'^^en etrengthened in the fault by the
example of his teacher, ^.ood readers of prose often fail most
signally when they atl^ei^p^ the interpretation of verse ; if they
avoid sin^-song, tnev fal>iuto the opposite error of ignoring the
versification altogether', 'aiid uttering the composition as if it were
written in prose. Of'thc'two evus the latter is, perhaps, tiie
more objectionable, " '

The metre, rhythm, and- rhyme must be made clearly sensible to
the ear, but the meaning qf the author should overricle alL The
reader should abandon himself to the spirit of the poem, and
make his intonation a taithfid echo of the sense. The fear of
over-doing, or, as it i^. sometimes called, "over-acting," is too
much dreaded by young readers. They are afraid of rendering
themselves ridiculous. , But the truth is, that the less the reader
thinks about himself and. his manner the better, when actually
engaged in reading before an audience. If he has familiarized
himself with the proper intonation by previous practice, he will
be more likely to succeed hy giving entire freedom to his imagina-
tion and powers of expi'es'sfon.

In conclusion, the learner is earnestly warned against imitating
^ne readers — readei-s who exhibit the fine quality and flexibility
of their voices by setting the words to meaningless melodies.
Every vocal movement should be prompted by the sense of the
passage, and the voice should convey the meaning with spirit and
sympatoetic expression, but no attempt should be made at orna-
mentation. The "fine" reading and "stilted" declamation of
some Elocutionists have done very much to prevent educated
men from cultivating the Art of Elocution.

The student is referred to two selections in this book, by Mr.
Cox, which contain useful information on this subject, and are
written in a clear and familiar style.

• • •» I

SELECTIONS IN- PROSE AND VERSE.

• » .'»

PUBLIC READli^GS IN ENGLAND.

• •• •

Edward H. Cox, Remiiviof Eelston, England ; author
of "The Arts of Wfiting^ Redding and Speaking."
One of the original promoters of " Penny Readings."

. . . The j]jrcatept -difficulty has been to procure
good Readers. These Public Readings have revealed
the results of the inattention with which the Art of
Reading is treated at our, schools, and the little care
given to its acquirement in after-life ; for not only is
there an astounding paucity of tolerable Readers, but
the vast majority read so badly as to be unendurable to
am audience.

Nor is the difficulty of procuring fit Readers the only
one with which the Societies have had to grapple.
Another trouble has attended this part of their duties,
which has been found far more unmanageable, and which
has proved, indeed, the single cause of failure with
many. Equally astonishing with the entire incapacity to
read properly is the ignorance of that incapacity on the
part of the Readers. The first step in knowledge is to
learn our ignorance ; the lowest deep of ignorance is
unconsciousness of itself. It is a proof of the neglect
into which the Art of Reading has fallen, that even
persons of educated taste may not only read execrably,
but believe, when they do so, that they are reading well.

This is everywhere the greatest trouble that besets the
Public Readings. What can be done with the incapa-

SONGS OF SEVEN.

bles Tvho offer themselves so liberally as Readers ? It is
awkward to say " You cannot read ; " it is ruinous to the
Society to suffer them to read, for they will inevitably
scare away the company. Whenever the Public Read-
ings have failed, it has been by reason of the influence of
bad Readers upon the audience. : Good Readers have
never failed to attract and keep/a\ crowded room. Let,
then, the Committee or Mana^eJfs.be firm in rejection of
incompetency, however respect&ble.'or influential. Thank
the volunteer for the proffeij .'oT service, but tell him
frankly, that he must give some<time to the study of the
Art of Reading, before he oaxi' t)^ admitted to read in
public ; remind him, good-tem'pef edly, that as he would
not dream of attempting to sih^ in public before he had
learned to sing, so neither, without serious and laborious
study of it, should he venture upon Reading, which
is an Art requiring eduoatioti equally with the Art of
Singing. . , • •■'.'•

I I

SONGS OF SEVEN.

Jean IngeloWy an English toriter; author of **A Story of
Doorrif and other Foems" "MopsUy the Fairy" &c.
She is best known by a volume ofFoems, entitled "Bouiid
of Days" which has gone through several editions in
England and the United States.

1:0

SEVEN TIMES ONE. EXULTATION.

There's no dew left on the daisies and clover,

There's no rain left in heaven :
I've said my " seven times " over and over,

Seven times one are seven.

I am old, so old, I can write a letter ;

My birthday lessons are done ;
The lambs play always, they know no better ;

They are only one times one.

BONOS OV SEVEN.

moon ! in tho night I have seen you sailing
And shining so round and low ;

You were bright ! ah bright ! but your light is failing-
You are nothing now but a bow.

You moun, have you done something wrong in heaven
That God has hidden your face ?

1 hope if you have you will soon be forgiven^

And shine again in your place.

velvet bee, you're a dusty fellow,
You've powdered your legs with gold !

brave marsh mary-buds, rich and yellow,
Give me your money to hold I

columbine, open your folded wrapper,
Where two twin turtle-doves dwell I

cuckoo pint, toll me the purple clapper
That hangs in your clear green bell I

And show me your nest with the young ones in it ;
I will not steal them away ;

1 am old ! you may trust me, linnet, linnet—-

I am ii^wen times one to-day.

SEVEN TIMES TWO. ROMANCE.

You bells in the steeple, ring, ring out your changes.

How many soever they be,
And let the brown meadow lark's note as he ranges

Come over, come over to me.

Yet bird's clearest carol by fall or by swelling

No magical sense conveys,
And bells have forgotten their old art of telling

The fortune of future days.

I i;

I ^

4 BONOS OF SEVEN.

" Turn ag?in, turn again," once they rang cheerily

While a boy listened alone ;
Made his heart yearn again, musing so wearily

All by himself on a stone.

Poor bells I I forgive you ; your good days are over,

And mine, they are yet to be ;
No listening, no longing shall aught, aught discover :

You leave the story to me.

The foxglove shoots out of the green matted heather,

And hangeth her hoods of snow ;
She was idle, and slept till the sunshiny weather :

0, children take long to grow.

I wish, and I wish that the spring would go faster,

Nor long summer bide so late ;
And I could grow on like the foxglove and aster.

For some things are ill to wait.

I wait for the day when dear hearts shall discover,
While dear hands are laid on my head ;

^^ The child is a woman, the book may close over,
For all the lessons are said."

I wait for my story — the birds cannot sing it,

Not one, ?s he sits on the tree ;
The bells cannot ring it, but long years, O bring it I

Such as I wish it to be.

* SEVEN TIMES THREE. LOVE.

I leaned out of window, I smelt the white clover,
Dark, dark was the garden, I saw not the gate ;

" Now, if there be footsteps, he comes, my one lover —
Hush, nightingale, hush I 0, sweet nightingale, wait

60NGS OF 8£Y£N. 6

Till I listen and hear
If a step draweth near,
For my love he is late I

" The skies in the darkness stoop nearer and nearer,

A cluster of stars hangs like fruit in the tree,
The fall of the water comes sweeter, comes clearer :
To what art thou listening, and what dost thou scu ?
Let the star-clusters glow.
Let the sweet waters flow.
And cross quickly to me.

" You night-moths that hover where honey brims over

From sycamore blossoms, or settle or sleep ;
You glowworms, shine out, and the pathway discover
To him that comes darkling along the rough steep.
Ah, my sailor, make haste.
For the time runs to waste.
And my love lieth deep —

" Too deep for swift telling : and yet my one lover

IVe conned thee an answer, it waits thee to-night."
By the sycamore passed he, and through the white
clover,
Then all the sweet speech I had fashioned took flight
But I'll love him more, more
Than e'er wife loved before.
Be the days dark or bright.

SEVEN TIMES POUR. MATERNITY,

Heigh ho ! daisies and buttercups.

Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall 1
When the wind wakes how they rock in the grasses,

And dance with the ouckoo-buds slender and small 1
Here's two bonny boys, and here's mother's own lasses,
Eager to gather them all.

6 SONQS OF SEV£N.

Heigh ho 1 daisies and buttercups 1

Mother shall thread them a daisy chain ;
Sing them a song of the pretty hedge-sparrow,

That loved her brown little ones, loved them full fain ;
Sing, " Heart, thou art wide, though the house be but
narrow " —

Sing once, and sing it again.

Heigh ho t daisies and buttercups.

Sweet wagging cowslips, they bend and they bow ;
A ship sailf) afar over warm ocean waters,

And haply one musing doth stand at her prow.
bonny brown sons, and sweet little daughters,
Maybe he thinks on you now !

Heigh ho ! daisies and buttercups.

Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall —
A sunshiny world full of laughter and leisure,

And fresh hearts unconscious of sorrow and thrall I
Ssnd down on their pleasure, smiles passing its measurCi
God that is over us all I

1 i

SEVEN TIMES FIVE. WIDOWHOOD.

I sleep and rest, my heart makes moan

Before I am well awake ;
** Let me bleed ! let me alone,

Since I must not break ! "

For children wake, though fathers sleep
With a stone at foot and at head ;

sleepless God, for ever keep,
Keep both living and dead I

1 lift mine eyes, and what to see
But a world happy and fair !

80KGS OF SEVEN.

♦

I have not wished it to mourn with me-
Comfort is not there.

what anear but golden brooms,
And a waste of reedy rills 1

what afar but the fine glooms
On the rare blue hills !

1 shall not die, but live forlore —
How bitter it is to part !

to mfcct tlee, my love, once more!
my heart, my heart I

No more to hear, no more to see I

that an echo might wake
And waft one note of thy psalm to mo

Ere my heart-strings break !

1 should know it how faint soe'er,
And with angel voices blent ;

once to feel thy spirit anear,
I could be content I

Or once between the gates of gold,
While an angel entering trod,

But once — thee sitting to behold
On the hills of God I

SEVEN TIMES SIX. GIVING IN MARRIAGE.

To bear, to nurse, to rear.

To watch, and then to lose :
To see my bright ones disappear,

Drawn up like morning aews —
To bear, to nurse, to rear.

To watch, and then to lose ;

BONOS OF S£Y£N.

This have I done when God drew near
Among His own to choose.

To hear, to heed, to wed,

And with thy lord depart
In tears that he, as soon as shed,

Will let no longer smart. —
To hear, to heed, to wed,

This Thile thou didst I smiled,
For now it was; not God who said,

** Mother, give me thy child."

fond, O fool, and Wind,

To God I gave with tears ;
But when a man like grace would find,

My soul put by her fears —
fond, fool, and blind,

God guards in happier spheres ;
That man will guard where he did bind

Is hope for unknown years.

To hear, to heed, to wed.

Fair lot that maideos choose,
Thy mother's tenderest words are said,

Thy face no more she views ;
Thy mother's lot, my dear.

She doth in nought accuse ;
Her lot to bear, to nurse, to rear,

To love — and then to lose.

SHYJBN TIMES SEVEN. LONQINQ FOB HOME*

A song of a boat : —
There was once a boat on a billow ;
Lightly she rocked to her port remote,

BONOS or BBVEN.

And tlie foam was white in her wake like snow,
And her frail mast bowed when the breeze would blow.
And bent like a wand of willow.

I shaded mine eyes one day when a boat

Went curtseying over the billow,
I marked her course till a dancing mote
She faded out on the moonlit foam,
And I stayed behind in the dear loved home ;
And my thoughts all day were about the boat,
And my dreams upon the pillow.

III.

I pray you hear my song of a boat,

For it is but short : —
My boat, you shall find none fairer afloat,

In river or port.
Long I looked out for the lad she bore,

On the open desolate sea,
And I think he sailed to the heavenly shore,
. For he came not back to me —

Ah met
IV.

A song of a nest : —
There was once a nest in a hollow :
Dowf^ in the mosses and knot-grass pressed,
Soft and warm, and full to the brim —
Vetches leaned over it purple and dim,
With buttercup buds to follow.

I pray you hear my song of a nest,
Jor it is not long : —

! !

SONQS OF S£Y£N.

You fihall never light, in a summeT quest

The bushes among —
Shall never light on a prouder sitter,

A fairer nestful, nor ever know
A softer sound than their tender twitter.

That wind-like did oome and go.

VI.

I had a nestful once of my own,

Ah happy, happy I !
Bight dearly I loved them ; but when they were grown

They spread out their wingB to fly—
O, one after one they flew away

Far up to the heavenly blue,
To the better country, the upper day.

And — I wish I was going too.

VII.

I pray you, what is the nest to me,

My em^ty nest ?
And what is the shore where I stood to see

My boat sail down to the west ?
Can I call that home where I anchor yet.

Though my good man has sailed ?
Can I call that home where my nest was set,

Now all its hope hath failed?
Nay, but the port where my sailor went.

And the land where my nestlings be :
There is the home where my thoughts are sent,

The only home for me —

Ah me I

'31

SAMUEL PEPTB TAKING NOTES.

SAMUEL PEPYS TAKING NOTES.

Wm. F. Collier y LL,D. ; author of " School History of the
British Empire" "History of English Literature"
&c. The following is taken from his larger ** History
of England"

Between New Year's Day, 1660, and May 31st, 1669,
a keen eye was looking upon the upper phases of English
society, and a ready pencil was jotting down in short-
hand the little incidents of every-day life. Samuel Pepys,
Esquire, was during that interval writing his very amus-
ing and very valuable Diary. I must first tell who
Samuel was.

The son of a retired London tailor, he went to school
at Huntingdon and St. Paul's ; became a sizar at Trini-
ty and a scholar at Magdalen College, Cambridge ; and
in 1655, being then twenty-three, married a wellborn
Somersetshire girl of fifteen, without a coin of fortune.
He rose in life by clinging to tl : skirts of his cousin,
Sir Edward Montagu, afterwards Earl of Sandwich, a
name well known in our naval history. His first public
appointment was a clerkship in some department of the
Exchequer, connected with the pay of the army. After
holding this for a couple of years, he had the good for-
tune to be selected for the post of Secretary to the
Generals of the Fleet that went to bring Charles II.
from exile to a throne. Out of this important trip
across the German Ocean grew his nomination as Clerk
of the Acts of the Navy, upon which office he entered in
June, 1660. In a time when the navy of England was
at its very lowest, Pepys came to its rescue. In a quiet
subordinate way he contrived to stem the tide of cor-
ruption, and to prevent the money devoted to thi3
branch of the service from being entirely squandered.
His power of work was prodigious and very marvellous,
when we know that he gave a good portion of his time

Ill

SAMUEL PEFYS TAKING NOTES.

to books and the lighter amusements of the theatre and
society. . . . It is an interesting point in the story
of his life that he wrote in short-hand from the King's
own lips, during a ten days' visit to Newmarket in 1680,
that account of the fugitive monarch's esc ape from the
field of Worcester, which has since been published. His
literary standing may be judged from the fact that he
was elected President of the Royal Society in 1684, and
held the chair for two years.

We find in this Diary the self-drawn portrait of a man
tinged with all the doubtful hues of the Kestoration era,
but possessing no shades of deep black in his nature.
We see him as he rises in the world, counting his gains,
and expressing his thankfulness for prosperity and health.
We learn his transactions with his tailor, and his wife's
dealings with the mercer. He likes the new fashion of
periwigs, until the Plague comes on, when people grow
afraid of the infection that may lurk in the false hair.
When his noble suit of rich silk camelott — costing £24 —
or his coloured ferrandin with lace for sleeve bands, or
his velvet with gold button?, comes in just as he is going
out to church on Lord's day, he puts it on and goes to
sermon with his wife, who may probably wear a modish
gown of light silk adorned with new point, and have her
patched face and fair wig encircled with a yellow bird's-
eye hood. Or, after dinner he may take boat for West-
minster, and, as he naively tells us, " there entertain
myself with my perspective glass up and down the
church, by which I had the great pleasure of seeing and
gazing at a great many very fine women ; and what with
that and sleeping, I passed away the time till sermon
was done." Then, rowing up to Barne Elmes, and read-
ing Evelyn against Solidone by the way, he lounged
among the Londoners who were enjoying their pic-nics
under the trees by the river in the soft May sunshine.
We know all the clothes he wears. We dine with him
nearly every day. At first in lodgings, with his wife
apd their single servant Jane, the fare is plain enough.

SAMUEL PEPY8 TAKING NOTES.

On washing day we get nothing but cold meat. A plain
leg of mutton must often content us, the host sometimes
losing temper a little because there is no '* sweet sawce/'
and dining in dudgeon oflf a marrow bone. But in later
days we have venison pasty, cygnets, and quilted par-
tridges in abundance, seasoned with the wittiest and
most musical, if not the very best, of company the Court
and theatres can give. Mingled with conversations on
the state of the navy and speculations on the fall and
rise of ministers, we find entries regarding the cutting of
his hair, and the taking of butter-ale for a cold. Loung-
ing in fashionable Covent Garden or among the glove-
shops on the Exchange — writing huge documents with
untiring patience at the office, which is never forgotten
in the gayest whirl of pleasure — alighting from a hack-
ney coach on London Bridge to pen a hurried business
note '' by the help of a candle at a stall, where some
pavers were at work "- -singing madrigals and glees in
boats, hackney coaches, private houses, taverns, every-
where that he can get an audience or an accompani-
ment — buyifig cloves and nutmegs on the sly, from dirty
sailors at Gravesend, for 5s. 6d. and 4s. a pound — com-
posing duos of counterpoint and playing on the viallin —
enjoying a " mighty neat dish of custards and tarts, and
good drink and talk " — sitting to Hales for his picture,
which is to cost £14, and for the pose of which he almost
breaks his neck looking over his shoulder— the moods in
which this courtier exhibits himself are too varied to be
more than glanced at. But we see the real man every-
where, as even his own wife never saw him, and we find
the life of the time mirrored with the most minute and
entertaining fidelity.

I may here condense one or two of the most important
descriptions which the Diary contains.

Having crossed to the sandy shore at Scheveling,
where the restored Stuart was to embark, Pepys and a
Mr. Creed took ooach to the Hague, '' a most neat place
in all respects." After they had viewed the May-poles

ii !■'

• I

SAMUEL PEPYS TAKIN<J NOTES.

which stood at every great man's door, and had visited
the little Prince of Orange, " a pretty boy " (belter
known to history as William III.), they supped oflf a
sallet and some bones of mutton, and lay down to sleep
in a press-bed. Next day (May 15), after having seen
the town under the guidance of a schoolmaster, and
having bought, " for love of the binding," three books —
the French Psalms, Bacon's Organon, and Farnab.
Rhetor — he returned to his ship at Scheveling. Not
until the 22nd did the royal personages begin to em-
bark. On that day a Dutch boat bore off the Duke of
York in yellow trimmings, the Duke of Gloucester in
grey and red. (The tailor's son seldom forgets the dress
of the people he describes.) The guns were fired all
over the fleet, and during the dinner in the cabin, at
which the Dutch Admiral Opdam was present, the music
of a harper who played was often drowned in the thun-
der of the ordnance. Loyal Pepys, acting after dinner
as an amateur artilleryman, "nearly spoils his right
eye " by holding it too much over the gun. The King
embarked on the 23rd of May, and after dinner — no in-
considerable event in the estimation of Sam — the names
of some of the sh\ps were changed — the Nasehy becoming
the Charles; the Winsley, the Happy Return; and so
forth. Walking up and down the quarter-deck, the
King told of his mud-wading after Worcester in a green
coat and country breeches, and of the risks he ran until
he got to Fecamp. On the 25th the King and the two
Dukes went ashore at Dover, after having breakfasted on
ship's diet — pease, pork and boiled beef. "I went,"
says Pepys, " and Mr. Mansell, and one of the King's foot-
men, and a dog that the King loved, in a boat by our-
selves, and so got on shore when the King did, who was
received by General Monk with all imaginable love and
respect. Infinite the crowd of people and the gallantry
of the horsemen. The mayor of the town came and gave
him his white staff, which the King did give him. again.
The mayor also presented him from the town a very rich

BAMUEL PEPTS TAKING NOTES.

Bible, which he took, and said it was the thing that he
loved above all things in the world. And so away towards
Canterbury, without making any stay at Dover."

The Plague and the Fire are depicted by Pepya in
graphic touches.

The misery of the sad year 1665 glooms out con-
tinually in this record of the trivialities that make up life.
Whether he walks the streets by night with a lanthorn,
or stops to speak to the watchman as he goes home late,
the awful burden — a corpse dead of the plague — goes by
with its wretched bearers. Walking from Woolwich,
where his wife is lodging during the time of sickness, he
sees an open coffin lying by Coome Farm with a dead
body, which none will bury. As he continues his walk
to Redriffe, he fears to go down the narrow lanes where
the plague is raging. In London almost all the shops
are shut, and 'Change is nearly deserted. And then we
have a glimpse, serving to explain the sorry stains which
these years brought upon the British flag at sea : " Did
business, though not much at the office, because of the
horrible crowd and lamentable moan of the poor seamen
that lie starving in the streets for lack of money, which
do trouble and perplex me to the heart ; and more at
noon when we were to go through them, for above a
whole hundred of th^m followed us, some cursing, some
swearing, and some praying to us." A similar scene
next year, with a comic touch: "July 10. 1666. To
the office ; the yard being full of women, I believe above
three hundred, coming to get money for their husbands
and friends that are prisoners in Holland ; and they
lay clamouring, and swearing, and cursing us, that my
wife and I were afraid to send a venison pasty that we
have for supper to-night to the cook's to be baked, for
fear of their offering violence to it; but it went, and no
harm done.**

The brilliant contrast to this noisy wretchedness may
be found in the following sketch of a Court ball. To
pay for the splendour of Lady Castlemaine, who in-

ill

SAMUEL PEPTS TAKING NOTES.

fested the saloons of Whitehall, sailors went without
pay, and merchants were robbed of their invested capi-
tal.

" To Mrs. Pierce's, where I find her as fine as possi-
ble, and Mr. Pierce going to the ball at night at Court,
it being the Queen's birthday. I also to the ball, and
with much ado got up to the loft, where with much trouble
I could see very well. Anon, the house grew full and
the candles bright, and the King and Queen and all the
ladies sat ; and it was indeed a glorious sight to see Mrs.
Stewart in black and white lace and her head and shoul-
ders dressed with diamonds, and the like many great
ladies more, only the Queen none ; and the King in bis
rich vest of some rich silk and silver trimming, as the
Duke of York and all the dancers were, some in cloth
of silver and others of other sorts, exceeding rich. Pre-
sently after the King was come in, he took the Queen,
and about fourteen more couples there was, and begun
the Bnmsles. After the Bransles then to a Corant, and
now and then a French dance ; but that so rare that the
Corants grew tiresome, and I wished it done. Only Mr.
Stewart danced mighty finely and many French dances,
especially one the King called the New Dance, which
was very pretty. About twelve at night it broke up.
So away home with my wife : was displeased with the
dull dancing, and satisfied with the clothes and persons.
My Lady Oastlemaine, without whom all is nothing, be-
ing there, very rich, though not dancing."

His account of the Great Fire is as follows : " Met
my wife and Creed, and walked to my boat, and then
upon the water again, so near the fire as we could for
smoke ; and all over the Thames, with one's faces in the
wind, you were almost burned with a shower of fire-
drops. When we could endure no more upon the water,
we to a little alehouse on the Bankf^lde, and there
staid till it was dark almost, and saw the fire grow ; and
in corners, and upon steeples, and between churches
and houses, as far as we could see uj:> the hill of the

SAMUEL PEPTS TAKING NOTES.

city, in n most horrid, malicioti«», bloody flame ; not like
the fine flame of an ordinary fire. We saw the fire ao
only one entire arch of fire from this to the other side of
the bridpje, and in a bow up the hill for an arch of
above a mile lonp; ; it made me weep to see it. The
churches, houses and all on fire, and flamint^ at once ;
and a horrid noise the flames made, and the cracking of
houses at their ruin. . . . The news cominr; every
moment of the growth of the fire, we were forced to be-
gin to pack up our own goods, and prepare for their re-
moval ; and did by moonshine, it being brave, dry and
moonshine, and wcrm weather, carry much of my goods
into the garden ; and Mr. Hailcs and I did remove my
money and iron chests into my cellar. And got my bags
of gold into my office, ready to carry away, and my
chief papers of accounts also there, and my tallies into
a box by themselves. About four o'clock in the morn-
ing, my Lady Batten sent me a cart to carry away all
my money and plate and best things to Sir W. Rider's,
at Bednall Green, which I did, riding myself in my night-
gown in the cart."

The Diary of Pepys should be read in conjunction
with a contemporary work, similar but purer, written
by his friend and correspondent, John Evelyn, the author
of a work on Forest-trees called Sylva, and another on
Agriculture called Terra. In these two Diaries the stu-
dent of the Restoration Era will find mirrored, as no
pure history can ever mirror them, the manners ^.f an
age whose follies and disasters make it, when rightly
read, fruitful in warning and instruction.

13 VHE BEYEN HEADS.

THE SEVEN HEADS.

A Spanish Ballad^ translated hy J. G. LocJchart; born
1794:, died 1843. Son-in-law and biographer of Sir
Walter Scott.

" Who bears such heart of baseness, a king I'll never

call"—
Thus spake Gunzalo Gustos within Almanzor's hall ;
To the proud Moor Almanzor, within his kingly hall,
The grey-haired knight of Lara thus spake before them

all :—

** In courteous guise, Almanzor, your messenger was

sent,
And courteous was the answer with which from me he

went ;
For why ? I thought the word he brought of a knight

and of a king, —
But false Moor henceforth never me to his feast shall

bring.

" Ye bade me to your banquet, and I at your bidding

came,
And accursed be the villany, and eternal be the shame —
For ye have brought an old man forth, that he your

sport might be : —
Thank God I cheat you of your joy — Thank God, no

tear you see.

" My gallant boys," quoth Lara, " it is a heavy sight,
These dogs have brought your father to look upon this

night ;
Seven gentler boys, nor braver, were never nursed in

Spain,
And blood of Moors, God rest your souls, ye shed on her

like rain.

•vJU-

THE SEVEN HEADS.

''Some Gurrish plot, some triok (God wot) hath laid

you all so low,
Ye died not altogether in one fair battle so ;
Not all the misbelievers ever pricked upon yon plain
The sever brave boys of Lara in open field had slain.

"The youngest and the weakest, Gonzalez dear, wert thou,
Yet well this false Almanzor remembers thee, I trow ;
Oh, well doth he remember how en his helmet rung
Thy fiery mace, Gonzalez, altho' thou wert so youuff.

'' Thy gallant horse had fallen, and thou hadst mounted

thee
Upon a stray one in the field — his own true barb had he ;
Oh, hadst thou not pursued his flight upon that runaway,
Ne'er had the caitiflF 'scaped that night, to mock thy

sire to-day I

" False Moor, I am thy captive thrall j but when thou

badest me forth.
To share the banquet in thy hall, I trusted in the worth
Of kingly promise. — Think'st thou not my God will

hear my prayer ? —
Lord ! branchless be (like mine) his tree, yea, branchless,

Lord, and bare 1 "

So prayed the Baron in his ire, but when he looked

again.
Then burst the sorrow of the sire, and tears ran down

like rain ;
Wrath no more could check the sorrow of the old and

childless man,
And like waters in a furrow, down his checks the salt

tears ran.

He took their heads up one by one — he kibsed them o'er

and o'er.
And aye he saw the tears down run— I wot that grief

was sore.

'it

It) ■ i'

THE SEVEN HEADS.

He closed the lids on their dead eyes all with his fingers

frail,
And handled all their bloody curls, and kissed their lips

so pale.

" 0, had they died all by my side upon some famous

day,
My fair young men, no weak tears then had wash'd your

blood away !
The trumpet of Castile had drowned the misbeliever's

horn,
And the last of all the Laras' line a Gothic spear had

borne."

Wi th that it chanced a Moor drew near, ■ lead him
from the place,

Old Lara stooped him down once more, and kissed Gon-
zalez* face ;

But ere the man observed him, or could his gesture
bar,

Sudden he from his side had grasped that Moslem's
scimitar.

Oh! swiftly from its scabbard the crooked blade he

drew,
And, like some frantic creat'ire, among them all he

flew —
" Where, where is false Almanzor ? back, dast^u^ >f

Mahoun I"
And here and there, in his despair, the old man hewed

them down.

A hundred hands, a hundred brands, are ready in the

hall,
But ere they mastered Lara, thirteen of them did fall ;
He hag sent, I ween, a good thirteen of dogs that

spurned his God,
To keep his children company, beneath the Moorish sod.

- U.iiifg.^mf,. ' lUjiiii

■nWBRBW^W

SNOW FIELDS AND GLACIERS.

SNOW-FIELDS AND GLACIERS.

Proj. Archibald GeiJcie, F.B.S. ; born in 1835. Author
of the ^^Life of Forbes" ** Phenomena of the Glacial
Drift" " Memoir of Sir Roderick Murchison" dtcy
Director of Geological Survey of Scotland, and Pro-
fessor of Geology in the University of Edinburgh.

On the tops of some of the highest mountains in
Britain snow lies for a great part of the year. On some
of them, indeed, there are shady clefts wherein you may
meet with deep snow-wreaths even in the heat of summer.
It is only in such cool and sheltered spots, however, that
the snow remains unmelted.

But in other parts of Europe, where the mountains
are more lofty, the peaks and higher shoulders of the
hills gleam white all the year with unmelted snow.
Hardly anything in the world will impress you so much
as the silence and grandeur of these high snowy regions.
Seen from the valleys, the mountains look so vast and
distant, so white and pure yet catching up so wonder-
fully all the colours which glow in the sky at morn or
even, that they seem to you, at first, rather parts of the
heaven above than of the solid earth on which we live.
But it is when you climb up fairly into their midst
that their wonde.ful stateliness comes full before you.
Peaks and pinnacles of the most dazzling whiteness
glisten against the dark blue of the sky, streaked here
and there with lines of purple shadow, or with knobs of
the dark rock projecting through the white mantle, which
throws far and wide its heavy folds over ridge and slope,
and sends long tongues of blue ice down to the meadows
and vineyards of the valleys. There is a deep silence
over this high frozen country. Now and then a gust of
wind brings up from the far distance the sound of soine
remote waterfall or the dash of a mountain torrent. At
times, too, there comes a harsh roai* as of thunder, when

SNOW FIELDS AND QLAOIERS.

Ui '

H if

some mass of ice or snow, loosened from the rest, slio^*-
down the precipices. But these noises only make the
silence the deeper when they have passed away.

Let us see why it is that perpetual snow should occur
in such regions, and what part this snow plays in the
general machinery of the world.

You have learnt that the higher parts of the atmo-
spliere are extremely cold. You know also that in the
far north and the far south, around those two opposite parts
of the earth's surface called the Poles, the climate is ex-
tremely cold — so cold as to give rise to dreary expanses
of ice and snow, where sea and land are frozen, and
where the heat of summer is not enough to thaw all the
ice and drive away all the snow. Between these two
polar tracts of cold, wherever mountains are lofty enough
to get into the high parts of the atmosphere, where the
temperature is usually helow the freezing-point, the va-
pour condensed from the air falls upon them, not as rain,
but as snow. Their heads and upper heights are thus
covered with perpetual snow. In such high mountainous
regions the heat of the summer always melts the snow
from the lower hills, though it leaves the higher parts
still covered. From year to year it is noticed that there
is a line or limit below which the ground gets freed of
its snow, and above which the snow remains. This limit
is called the mow line, or the limit of perpetual snow.
Its height varies in different parts of the world. It is
highest in the warmer regions on either side of the equa-
tor, where it reaches to 15,000 feet above the sea. In
the cold polar tracts, on the other hand, it approaches
the sea-level. In other words, while in the polar tracts
the climate is so cold that perpetual snow is found even
close to the sea-level, the equatorial regions are so warm
that you must climb many thousand feet before you can
reach the cold layers of the air where snow can remain
all the year.

You have no doubt watched a snow-storm. You have
seen how at first a few flakes be^in to show themselves

SNOW FIELD6 AKD OLAOIERS.

drifting through the air ; how they get more in number
and larger in size, until the ground begins to grow white ;
and how, as hours go on, the whole country becomes
buried under a white pall, perhaps six inches or more in
thickness. You see one striking diiTerence between rain
and snow. If rain had been falling for the same length
of time, the roads and fields would still have been visible,
for each drop of rain, instead of remaining where it fell,
would either have sunk into the soil, or have flowed off
into the nearest brook. But each snow-flake, on the con-
trary, lies where it falls, unless it happens to be caught
up and driven on by the wind to some other spot where
it can finally rest. Rain disappears from the ground as
soon as it can ; snow stays still as long as it can.

You will see at once that this marked difference of be-
haviour must give rise to some equally strong differences
in the further procedure of these two kinds of mois-
ture. You have followed the progress of the rain ; now
let us try to find out what becomes of the snow.

In such a country as ours, where there is no perpetual
snow, you can without much diflSculty answer this ques-
tion. Each fall of snow in winter-time remains on
the ground as long as the air is not warm enough to melt
it. Evaporation, indeed, goes on from the surface of
snow and ice, as well as from water ; so that a layer of
snow would in the end disappear, by being absorbed
into the air as vapour, even though none of it had pre-
viously been melted into running water. But it is by
what we call a thaw that our snow is chiefly dissipated ;
that is, a rise in the temperature, and a consequent melt-
ing of the snow. When the snow melts, it sinks into the
soil and flows off into brooks in the same way as rain.
Its after course needs not to be followed, for it is the same
as that of rain. You will only bear in mind that if a
heavy fall of snow should be quickly thawed, then a
large quantity of water will be let loose over the country,
and the brooks and rivers will rise rapidly in flood.
Great destruction may thus be caused by the sudden rise
of rivers and the overflowing of their banks.

SNOW FIELDS AND GLACIERS.

In the regions of perpetual snow the heat of summer
cannot melt all the snow which falls there in the year.
What other way of escape, then, can the frozen moisture
find ? That it must have some means of taking itself off
the mountains is clear enough ; for if it had not, and if it
were to accumulate there from year to year and from
century to century, then the mountains would grow into
vast masses of snow, reaching far into the sky, and
spreading out on all sides, so as to bury by degrees the
low lands around. But nothing of this kind takes place.
These solemn snowy heights wear the same unchanged
look from generation to generation. There is no bury-
ing of their well-known features under a constantly in-
creasing depth of snow.

You will remember that the surplus rainfall flows off
by means of rivers. Now the surplus snow-fall above
the snow-line has a similar kind of drainage. It flows
off by means of what are called glaciers.

When a considerable depth of snow has accumulated,
the pressure upon the lower layers from what lies above
them squeezes them into a firm mass. The surface of
the ground is usually sloped in some direction, seldom
quite flat. And among the high mountains the slopes
are often, as you know, very steep. When snow gathers
deeply on sloping ground, there comes a time when the
force of gravity overcomes the tendency of the pressed
snow to remain where it is, and then the snow begins to
slide slowly down the slope. From one slope it passes
on downwards to the next, joined continually by other
sliding masses from neighbouring slopes until they all
unite into one long tongue which creeps slowly down
some valley to a point where it melts. This tongue from
the snow-fields is the glacier ; it really drains these
snow-fields of their excess of snow as much as a river
drains a district of its excess of water.

But the glacier which comes out of the snow-fields is
itself made, not of snow, but of ice. The snow, as it
elidei downward, is pressed together into ice. You

SliOW FIELDS AND GLACIERS,

?row into

have learned that each snow-flake is made of little crystal?
of ice. A mass of snow is thus only a mass of minute
crystals of ice with air between. Hence when the snow
gets pressed togetlier, the air is squeezed out, and the
separated crystals of ice freeze together into a solid mass.
You know that you can make a snowball very hard by
squeezing it firmly between the hands. The more tightly
you press it the harder it gets. Yovl are doing to it just
what happens when a glacier is formed out of the eter-
nal snows. You are pressing out the air, and allowing
the little particles of ice to freeze to each other and form a
compact piece of ice. But you cannot squeeze nearly
all the air out ; consequently the ball, even after all your
efforts, is still white from the imprisoned air. Among
the snow-fields, however, the pressure is immensely
greater than yours ; the air is more and more pressed
out, and at last the snow becomes clear transparent ice.

A glacier, then, is a river, not of water, but of ice,
coming down from the snow- fields. It descends some-
times a long way below the snow-line, creeping down
very slowly along the valley which it covers from side to
side. Its surface all the time is melting during the day
in summer, and streams of clear water are gushing
along the ice, though when night comes these streams
freeze. At last it reaches some point in the valley be-
yond which it cannot go, for the warmth of the air there
is melting the ice as fast as it advances. So the glacier
ends, and from its melting extremity streams of muddy
water unite into a foaming river, which bears down the
drainage of the snow-fields above.

A river wears down the sides and bottom of its chan-
nel, and thus digs out a bed for itself in even the hardest
rock, as well as in the softest soil. It sweeps down, too,
a vast quantity of mud, sand, and stones from the land
to the sea. A glacier performs the same kind of work,
but in a very different way.

When stones fall into a river they sink to the bottom,
and are pushed along there by the current. When mud

BNOW FIELDS AND GLACIERS.

enters a river it remains suspended in the water, and is
thus carried along. But the ice of a glacier is a solid
substance. Stones and mud which fall upon its surface
remain there, and are borne onward with the whole mass
of the moving glacier. They form long lines of rub-
bish upon the glacier, and are called moraines. Still
the ice often gets broken up into deep cracks, opening
into yawning clefts or crevasses, which sometimes receive
a good deal of the earth and stones let loose by frost or
otherwise from the sides of the valley. In this way loose
materials fall to the bottom of the ice, and reach the solid
floor of the valley down which the ice is moving ; while
at the same time similar rubbish tumbles between the
edge of the glacier and the side of the valley.

The stones and grains of sand which get jammed be
tween the ice and the rock over which it is moving are
made to score and scratch this rock. They form a kind
of rough polishing powder, whereby the glacier is continu-
ally grinding down the bottom and sides of its channel.
If you creep in below the ice, or catch a sight of some
part of the side from which the ice has retired a little,
you will find the surface of the rock all rubbed away
and covered with long scratches made by the sharp
points of the stones and sand. You will now see the
reason why the river, which escapes from the end of a
glacier is always muddy. The bottom of the glacier is
stuck all over with stones, which are scraping and wear-
ing down the rock underneath. A great deal of fine mud
is thus produced, which, carried along by streams of
water flowing in channels under the glacier, emerges at
the far end in the discoloured torrents which there sweep
from under the ice.

A glacier is not only busy grinding out a bed for it-
self through the mountains ; it bears on its back down
the valley enormous quantities of fallen rock, earth, and
stones, which have tumbled from the cliff's on either side.
In this way blocks of rock as big as a house may be car-
ried for many miles, and dropped where the ice melts.

i '

81V0W FIELDS AND GLAOIEKS.

Thousands of tons of loose stones and nmd are every
year moved on the ice from the far snowy mountains
away down into the valleys to which the glaciers reach.

The largest glaciers in the world are those of the po-
lar regions. North Greenland, in truth, lies buried un-
der one great glacier, which pushes long tongues of ice
down the valleys and away out to sea. When a glacier
advances into the sea, portions of it break ofif and float
away as icebergs. So enormous are the glaciers in these
cold tracts that the icebergs derived from them often
rise several hundred feet above the waves which beat
against their sides. And yet, in all such cases, about seven
times more of the ice is immersed under water than the
portion, large as it is, which appears above. You can
realize how this happens if you take a piece of ice, put
it in a tumbler of water, and watch how much of it
rises out of the water. Sunk deep in the sea, therefore,
the icebergs float to and fro until they melt, sometimes
many hundreds of miles away from the glaciers which
supplied them.

You will come to learn afterwards that, oneo upon a
time, there were glaciers in Britain. You will be able
with your own eyes to see rocks which have been ground
down and scratched by the ice, and big blocks of rock
and piles of loose stones which the ice carried upon its
surface. In Wales and Cumberland, in many parts of
Scotland, and also in Ireland, these and many other
traces of the ice are to be found. So that, in learning
about glaciers, you are not merely learning what takes
place in other and distant lands — you are gaining know-
ledge which you will be able by-and-by to make good use
of, even in your own country.

THE MOSQUITO.

\ ;

if::

THE MOSQUITO.

William Cullen Bryant; horn 3rd of November ^ 1794, in
Cummington, Mass. At the age of thirteen ^puhliahed
a clever satire*

Fair insect ! that, with thread-like legs spread out
And blood-extracting bill, and filmy wing,

Dost murmur as thou slowly sail'st about,
In pitiless cars full many a ]j)laintive thing.

And tell how little our large veins should bleed

Would we but yield them to thy bitter need.

Unwillingly, I own, and, what is worse.
Full angrily, men hearken to thy plaint ;

Thou gettept many a brush and many a curse
For saying thou art gaunt, and starved and faint :

Even the old beggar, while he asks for food,

Would kill thee, hapless stranger, if he could,

I call thee stranger, for the town, I ween,
Has not the honour of so proud a birth ;

Thou com'gt from Jersey meadows, fresh and green,
The offspring of the gods, though born on earth ;

For Titan was thy sire, and fair was she,

The ocean-nymph, that nursed thy infancy.

That bloom was made to look at, not to touch ;

To worship — not approach — that radiant white 3
And well might sudden vengeance light on such

As dared, like thee, most impiously to bite.
Thou should'st have gazed at distance and admired,
Murmured thy admiration, and retired.

Thou'rt welcome to the town, but why come here
To bleed a brother poet, gaunt, like thee ?

Alas I the little blood I have is dear.

And thin will be the banquet drawn from me.

THE MOSQUITO.

Look round — the pale-eyed sisters in my cell,
Thy old acquaintance, &ong and Famine, dwell.

I'ry some plump alderman, and suck the blood,
Enriched by generous wine and costly meat ;

On well-fill'd skins, sleek as thy native mud,
Fix thy light pump, and press thy freckled feet :

Go to the man for whom in ocean's halls,

The oyster breeds, and the green turtle sprawls.

There corks are drawn, and the red vintage flows'
To fill the swelling veins for thee, and now

The ruddy cheek, and now the ruddier nose
Shall tempt thee, as thou flittest round the brow ;

And when the hour of sleep its quiet brings,

No angry hand shall rise to brush thy wings.

Beneath the rushes was thy cradle swung,

And when at length thy gauzy wings grew strong,

Abroad to gentle airs their folds were flung.
Rose in the sky, and bore thee soft along ;

The south wind breathed to waft thee on thy way,

And danced and shone beneath the billowy bay.

Calm rose afar the city spires, and thence
Came the deep murmur of its throng of men,

And as its grateful odours meet thy sense.
They seem the perfumes of thy native fen.

Fair lay its crowded streets, and at the sight

Thy tiny song grew shriller with delight.

At length, thy pinion fluttered in Broadway,

Ah I there were fairy steps, and white necks kissed

By wanton airs, and eyes whose killing ray
Shone through the snowy veils like stars through
mist ;

And fresh as mom on many a cheek and chin,

Bloomed the bright blood through the transparent skin.

FOUNDATION OF MONTREAL.

Sure these were sights to tempt au aoohorite f
What ! do I hear thy slender voice complain ?

Thou wailest when I talk of beauty's light,
As if it brought the memory of pain :

Thou art a wayward being — well, come near

And pour thy tale of sorrow in my ear.

And say'st thou, "slanderer 1 rouge makes thee sick ?

And China bloom :*t best is sorry food ?
And Rowland's Kalydor, if laid on thick,

Poisons the thirsty wretch that bores for blood ?
Go t 'twas a just reward that met thy crime.
But shun the sacrilege another time.

FOUNDATION OF MONTREAL.

! J

6! '

Francis ParkmaTif a native of Boston ; aut'i f " The
Old Regime in Canada" and other works on the early
history of America,

On the 17th of May, 1642, Maisonneuve's little flo-
tilla — a pinnace, a flat-bottomed craft moved by sails,
and two row-boats — approached Montreal; and all on
board raised in unison a hymn of praise. Montmagny
was with them, to deliver the island, in behalf of the
Company of the Hundred Associates, to Maisonneuve,
representative of the Associates of Montreal. And here,
too, was F&lher Vimont, Superior of the missions ; for
the Jesuits had been prudently invited to accept the
spiritual charge of the young colony. On the following
day, they glided along the green and solitary shores now
thronged with the life of a busy city, and landed on the
spot which Champlain, thirty-one years before, had chosen
as the fit site of a settlement. It was a tongue or tri-
angle of land, formed by the junction of a rivulet with
the St. Lawrence, and known afterwards as Point Cal-

!►

^^> mm

F0T7NDAT1ON OF MONTRIAL.

li^re. The rivulet was bordered by a meadow, and be-
yoDd rose the forest with its vanguard of scattered trees.
Earlv spring flowers were blooming in the young grass,
and birds of varied plumage flitted among the boughs.

Maisonneuve sprang ashore, and fell on his knees. His
followers imitated his example ; and all joined their
voices in enthusiastic songs of thanksgiving. Tents, bag-
gage, arms and stores were landed. An altar was raised
on a pleasant spot, near at hand ; and Mademoiselle
Mance, with Madame de la Peltrie, aided by her servant,
Charlotte Barr^, decorated it with a taste which was the
admiration of the beholders. Now all the company
gathered before the shrine. Here stood Vimont in the
rich vestments of his office. Here were the two ladies,
with their servant ; Montmagny, no very willing spec-
tator ; and Maisonneuve, a warlike figure, erect aud tall,
his men clustering around ^im — soldiers, sailors, artisans,
and labourers — all alike soldiers at need. They kneeled
in reverent silence as the Host was raised aloft ; and
when the rite was over, the priest turned and addressed
them: — "You are as a grain of mustard seed, that shall
rise and grow till its branches overshadow the earth.
You are few, but your work is the work of God. His
smile is on you, and your children shall fill the land."

The afternoon waned ; the sun sank behind the western
forest, and twilight came on. Fireflies were twinkling
over the darkened meadow. They caught them, tied
them with threads into shining festoons, and hung them
before the altar, where the Host remained exposed.
Then they pitched their tents, lighted their bivouac fires,
stationed thnr guards. Such was the birth-night of
Montreal.

p I

32 ^. A OH ARMING WOMAN.

A CHARMING WOMAN.

John G. Saxe ; an American writer of huraorous poetry.
Born in 1815.

A charming woman, I've heard it said

By other women as light as she ;
But all in vain I puzzle my head

To find wherein the charm may be.
Her face, indeed, is pretty enough,

And her form is quite as good as the best^
Where nature has given the bony stuff,

And a clever milliner all the re<3t.

Intelligent ? Yes — in a certain way ;

With the feminine gift of ready speech ;
And knows very well what not to say

Whenever the theme transcends her reach.
But turn the topic on things to wear,

From an opera cloak to a robe de nuit —
Hata, basques or bonnets — 'twill make you stare

To see how fluent the lady can be.

Her laugh is hardly a thing to please ;

For an honest laugh must always start
From a gleesome mood, like a sudden breeze,

And her's is purely a matter of art —

To her seat in church — a good half mile — '-

Wiien the day is fine she is sure to go,
Arrayed, af course, in the latest style

La mode de Paris has got to show ;
And she puts her hands on the velvet pew,

(Can hands so white have a taint of sin ?)
And thinks how her prayer-book's tint of blua

Must harmonize with her milky skin !

A DISSERTATION UPON RoAST PIO.

Ah ! what shall we say of one who walks

In fields of flowers to choose the weeds ?
Reads authors of whom she never talks,

And talks of authors she never reads ?
She's a charming woman, I've heard it jraid

By other women as light as she ;
But all in vain I puzzle my head

To find wherein the charm may be.

A DISSERTATION UPON ROAST PIG.

Charles Lamb; horn in London in 1775; friend and
school-fdlow of Coleridge. The following extract is from
the " Essays of Elia,'* ujpon which his literary fame
chiefly rests.

Mankind, says a Chinese manuscript, which my friend
M. was obliging enough to read and explain to me, for
the first seventy thousand ages ate their meat raw, claw-
ing or biting it from the living animal, just as they do
in Abyssinia to this day. This period is not ob-
scurely hinted at by their great Confucius in the second
chapter of his Mundane Mutations, where he designates
a kind of golden age by the term Cho-fang, literally the
Cooks' Holiday. The manuscript goes on to say that
the art of roasting^ or rather broiling (which I take to be
the elder brother) was accidentally discovered in the
manner followinsr: — The swine-herd, Ho-ti, having gone
out into the woods one morning, as his manner was, to
collect mast for his hogs, left his cottage in the care of
his eldest son, Bo-bo, a great lubberly boy, who being
fond of playing with fire, as younkers of his age com-
monly are, let some sp.trks escape into a bundle of straw,
which kindling quickly, spread the conflagration over
every part of their poor mansion, till it was reduced to
ashes. Together with the cottage (a sorry antediluvian
C

I'' i

A DISSERTATION UPON ROAST PIQ.

maV shift of a building, you may think it), what was
of much more importance, a fine litter of new-farrowed
pigs, no less than nine in number, perished. China pigs
have been esteemed a luxury all over the East, from the
remotest periods that we read of. Bo-bo was in the
•itmost consternation, as you may think, not so much
for the sake of the tenement, which his father and he
could easily build up again with a few dry branches and
the labour of an hour or two, at any time, as for the loss
of the pigs. While he was thinking what he should say
to his father, and wringing his hands over the smoking
remnants of one of those untimely sufferers, an odour
issailed his nostrils, unlike any scent which he had be-
fore experienced. What could it proceed from? — not
from the burnt cottage — he had smelt that smell befoi'e
— indeed, this was by no means the first accident of the
kind which had occurred through the negligence of tliis
unlucky young firebrand. Much less did it lesemble that
of any known herb, weed or flower. A premonitory
moistening at the same time overflowed his nether lip.
He knew not what to think. He next stooped down to feel
the pig, if there were any signs of life in it. . He bui'nt
his fingers, and to cool them he applied them in his booby
fashion to his mouth. Some of the crumbs of the
scorched skin had come away with his fingers, and for
the first time in his life (in the world's life, indeed, for
before him no man had known it) he tasted — crackUnff 1
Again he felt and fumbled at the pig. It did not burn
him so much now ; still he licked his fingers from a sdft
of habit. The truth at length broke into his slow undtir-
(Standiug, that it was the pig that smelt so, and the pijg
that tasted so delicious ; and surrendering himself up lo
the new-born pleasure, he fell to tearing up whole han<l-
fuls of the scorched skin with the flesh next it, and wjis
cramming it down his throat in his beastly fafchioii,
when his sire entered amid the smoking rafters, armed
with retributory cudgel, and finding how affairs stood,
begun to rain blows upon the young rogue's shoulders as

A DISSERTATION UPON BOAST PIO.

thick as hailstones, which Bo-bo heeded not any more
than if they had been flies. The tickling pleasure which
he experienced in his lower regions had rendered him
quiite callous to any inconveniences he might feel in those
remote quarters. His father might lay on, but he could
not beat him from his pig till he had fairly made an end
of it, when, becoming a little more sensible of his situa-
tifln, something like the following dialogue ensued : —

" You graceless ^help, what have you got there de-
vouring ? Is it not enough that you have burnt me
down three houses with your dog's tricks, and be hanged
to you ? But you must be eating fire, and I know not
what. What have you got there, I say ? "

" 0, father, the pig, the pig ! do come and taste how
nice the burnt pig eats."

The ears of Ho-ti tingled with horror. He cursed his
son, and he cursed himself that ever he should beget a
son that should eat burnt pig.

Bo-bo, whose scent was wonderfully sharpened since
morning, soon raked out another pig, and fairly rending
it asunder, thrust the lesser half by main forco into the
fists of Ho-ti, still shouting out, "Eat, eat, eat the burnt
pig, father ; only taste- -Oh ! " — with such-like barbtir-
ous ejaculations, cramming all the while as if be would
choke.

Ho-ti trembled in every joint while he grasped the
abominable thing, wavering whether he should not put
his son to death for an unnatural young monster, when
the crackling scorching his fingers, as it had done his
son's, and applying the same remedy to them, he in his
turn tasted some of its flavour, which, make what sour
mouths he would for a pretence, proved not altogether
displeasing to him. In conclusion (for the manuscript
hero is a little tedious), both father and son fairly set
down to the mess, and never left off till they had des-
patched all that remained of the litter.

Bo-bo was strictly enjoined not to let the secret es-
cape, for the neighbours would certainly have stoned

I!! i

M '■ h

J\>

A DISSERTATION UPON EOAST PIG.

them for a couple of abominable wretches, who could
think of improving upon the good meat which God had
sent them. Nevertheless, strange stories got about. It
was observed that Ho-ti's cottage was burnt down now
more frequently than ever. Nothing but fires from this
time forward. Some would break out in broad day, others
in the night-time. As often as the sow farrowed, so sure
was the house of Ho-ti to be in a blaze ; and Ho-ti him-
self, which was the more remarkable, instead of chastis-
ing his son, seemed to grow more indulgent to him than
ever. At length they were watched, the terrible mys-
tery discovered, and father and son summoned to take
their trial at Pekin, then an inconsiderable assize town.
Evidence was given, the obnoxious food itself produced
in court, and verdict about to be pronounced, when the
foreman of the jury begged that some of the burnt pig
of which the culprits stood accused might be handed
into the box. He handled it, and they all handled it ;
and burning their fingers as Bo-bo and his father had
done before them, and nature prompting to each of them
the same remedy, against the face of all the facts and
the clearest charge which judge had ever given, — to the
surprise of the whole court, townsfolk, strangers, re-
porters, and all present —without leaving the box, or any
manner of consultation whatever, they brought in a sim-
ultaneous verdict of Not Guilty.

The judge, who was a shrewd fellow, winked at the
manifest iniquity of the decision : and when the court
was dismissed, went privily and bought up all the pigs
that could be had for love or money. In a few days his
lordship's town-house was observed to be on fire. The
thing took wing, and now there was nothing to be seen
but fires in every direction. Fuel and pigs grew enor-
mously dear all over the district. The insurance-offices
one and all shut up shop. People built slighter and
slighter every day, until it was feared that the very
science of architecture would in no long time be lost to
the world. Thus this custom of firing houses continued,

A DISSERTATION UPON ROAST PIO.

till in process of time, says my manuscript, a sajxe arose, like
our Locke, who made a discovery that thcflosh of swine,
or indeed of any other animal, might be cooked (bnrnt,
as they called it) without the necessity of consuming a
wliole house to dress it. Then first began the rude
form of a gridiron. Roasting by the string or spit came
in a century or two later, I forget in whose dynasty.
By such slow degrees, concludes the manuscript, do the
most useful, and seemingly the most obvious, arts make
their way among mankind.

Without placing too implicit faith in the account
above given, it must be agreed that if a worthy pretext
for so dangerous an experiment as setting houses on fire
(especially in these days) could be assigned in favour of
any culinary object, that pretext and excuse might be
found in roast pig.

Of all the delicacies in the whole mundus cdihilisy I
will maintain it to be the most delicate-»-j?nwce^s ohsoni-
orum.

I speak not of your grown porkers — things between
pig and pork — those hobbledehoys — but a young and
t/fiuder suckling — under a moon old — guiltless as yet of
the sty — with no original speck of the amor iwmundiiite,
the hereditary failing of the firs*^ parent, yet manifest —
hm voice as yet not broken, but something between a
childish treble and a grumble — the mild forerunner or
prceludium of a grunt.

lie must be roasted. I am not ignorant that our an-
cestors ate them seethed, or boiled — but what a sacrifice
of the exterior tegument !

There is no flavour comparable, I will contend, to
that of the crisp, tawny, well- watched, not over-roasted,
crackling, as it is well called — the very teeth are invited
to their share of the pleasure at this banquet in over-
coming the coy brittle resistance — with the adhesive
oleaginous — 0, call h not fat ! but an indefinable
sweetness growing up to it— the tender blossoming of
fat— fat cropped in the bud — taken in the shoot — in the

S' !

A DISSERTATION UPON KOAST PIG.

first inDocoiiCu — the cream and quintes enco of the
child pig's yet pure food - the lean, not lean, but a kind
of animal manna — or, rather, fat and lean (if it must bo
so) so blended and running into each other, that both
together make but one ambrosian result or common sub-
stance.

Behold him while he is " doing " — it seemeth rather
a refreshing warmth, than a scorching heat, that he is so
passive to. How equably he twirleth round the string !
Now he is just done. To see the 'extreme sensibility of
that tender age ! he hath wept out his pretty eyes —
radiant jellies — shooting stars —

See hiu in the dish, his second cradle, how meek, he
lieth ! — wouldst th\)u have had this innocent grow up to
the grossness and Id docility which too often accompany
maturer swinehood ? Ten to one he would have proTod
a glutton, a sloven, an obstinate, disagreeable animal —
wallowing in all manner of filthy conversation — from
these sins he is happily snatched away —

Ere sin coul-' Might or sorrow fade,
Death came with timely care —

his memory is odoriferous — »io clown curseth, while his
stomach half rejecteth, the rank bacon— no coalheaver
bolteth him in recking sausages — he hath a fair sep-
ulchre in the grateful stomach of the judicious epicure —
and for such a tomb might be content to die.

He is the best of sapors. Pine-apple is great. She is in-
deed almost too transcendent — a delight, if not sinful, yet
so like to sinning, that really a tender-conscienced person
would d« well to pause — too ravishing for mortal taste,
she woundeth and excoriateth the lips that approach her
— like lovers' kisses, she biteth — she is a pleasure bor-
dering on pain from the fierceness and insanity of her
relish — but she stoppeth at the palate — she meddleth
not with the appetite — and the coarsest hunger might
barter her consistently for a mutton-chop.

Pig — let me speak his praise — is no less provocative

A DISBEIITATION UPON ROAST PFG.

of the appetite than he is satisfactory to the criticalnoss
of the censorious palate. The strong man may batten
on him, and the weakling refu.^eth not his mild juices.

Unlike to mankind's mixed characters, a bundle of
virtues and vices, inexplicably intertwisted, and not to
be unravelled without hazard, he is — good throughout.
No part of him is better or worse than another. He
helpeth, as far as his little means extend, all around. Tic
is the least envious of banquets. He is all neighbours'
fare.

I am one of thrse who freely and ungrudgingly im-
part a share of the good things of this life which fall to
their lot (few as mine are in this kind) to a friend. I
protest I take as great an interest in my friend's pleasures,
his relishes and proper satisfactions, as in mine own.
"Presents," I often say, "endear Absents." Hares,
pheasants, partridges, snipes, barn-door chickens (those
" tame villatic fowl "), capons, plovers, brawn, barrels of
oysters, I dispense as freely as I receive them. I
love to taste them, as it were, upon the tongue of my
friend. But a stop must be put somewhere. One
would not, like Lear, " give everything ." I make my stand
upon pig. Methinks it is an ingral tude to the Giver
of all good flavours to extra-don. iciliiite, or send out of
the house slightingly (under pretext of friendship, or I
know not what), a blessing so particularly adapted,
predestined I may say, to my individual palate. It
argues i a insensibility.

I remember a touch of conscience in this kind at
school. My good old aunt, who never parted from me
at the end of a holiday without stuflBng a sweetmeat, or
some nice thing, into my pocket, had dismissed me one
evening with a smoking plum-cake, fresh from the oven.
In my way to school (it was over London Bridge) a grey-
headed old beggar saluted me (I have no doubt, at this
time of day, that he was a counterfeit), I had no pence to
console him with, and in the vanity of self-denial,
and the very coxcombry of charity, schoolboy like I

■^:

A DISSERTATION UPON ROAST PIO.

made him a present of — the whole ♦jake I I walked on
a little, buoyed up, as one is on such occasions, with a
sweet soothinp^ of self-satisfaction ; bat, before I had got
to the end of the brid^^e, my better feelings returned, and
I burst into tears, thinking how ungrateful I had been
to my good aunt, to go and give her good gift away to a
stranger that I had never seen before, and who might be
a bad man lor aught I knew ; and then I thought of the
pleasure my aunt would be taking in thinking that I —
I myself, and not another — would eat her nice cake —
and what should I say to her the next time I saw her —
how naughty I was to part with her pretty present!—
and the odour of that spicy cake came back upon
my recollection, and the pleasure and the curiosity I had
taken in seeing her make it, and her joy when she snjiat
it to the oven, and how disappointed she would feel t'liat
I had never had a bit of it in my mouth at last — and i
blamed my impertinent spirit of alms-giving, and out-(»f-
place hypocrisy of goodness ; and above all, I wished
never to see the face again of that insidious, good-for-
nothing, old grey impostor.

Our ancestors were nice in their method of sacrificing
these tender victims. We read of pigs whipt to death
with something of a shock, as we hear of any other obso-
lete custom. The age of discipline is gone by, or it would
be curious to inquire (in a philosophical light merely)
what effect this process might have towards intenerating
and dulcifying a substance, naturally so mild and dultet
as the flesh of young pigs. It looks like refining' a
violet. Yet we should be cautious, while we condemn
the inhumanity, how we censure the wisdom of the prac-
tice. It might impart a gusto.

I remember an hypothesis argued upon by the yoiiwg
students, when I was at St, Omcrs', and maintained with
much learning and pleasantry on both aides, " Whethifir,
supposing that the flavour of a pig who obtained his
death by whipping {^er flagellation cm extremam), super-
added a pleasure upon the palate of a man more inteu/se

LADY JANE OREY.

than any possible suffering we can conceive in the animal,
is man justified in using that method of putting the
animal to death ? " I forget the decision.

His sauce should be considered. Decidedly, a few
bread crumbs, done up with his liver and brains, and a
dash of mild sage. But banish, dear Mrs. Cook, I be-
seech you, the whole onion tribe. Barbecue your whole
hogs to your palate, steep them in shallots, stuff them
out with plantations of the rank and guilty garlic ; yea
cannot poison them, or make them stronger than they
are — but consider, he is a weakling — a flower.

LADY JANE GUEY.

Alfred Tennyson^ D.C.L., the poet-laureatey horn in 1809.
The following is taken from his latest work, ** Qmmr
Mary."

Seventeen — and knew eight languages — in music

Peerless — her needle perfect, and her learning

Beyond the churchman ; yet so meek, so modest, ^

So wife-like bumble to the trivial boy

Mismatch'd with her for policy I I have heard <.

She would not take a last farewell of him.

She fear'd it might unman him for his end.

She could not be unmanD>'d — no, nor outwoman'd—

Seventeen — a rose of grace !

Girl never breathed to rival sue! a rose ;

Rose never blew that eq; ill'd such a bud.

She came upon the scaffold,
And said she was oondemn'd to die for treason ;
She had but follow'd the device of those
Her nearest kin : she thought they knew the low?.
But for herself, she knew but little law.
And nothing of the titles to the orown ;

;

•

i
!

1
f

•1

SOUND.

She had no desire for that, and wrung her hands,
And trusted God would save her thro' the blood
Of Jesus Christ alone.

Then knelt and said the Miserere Mei —
But all in English, mark you ; rose again,
And, when the headsman pray'd to be forgiv'n,
Said, " You will give me my true crown at last,
But do it quickly;" then all wept but she,
Who changed not colour when she saw the block,
But ask'd him, childlike : " Will you take it oflf
Before I lay me down 1 " " No, madam," he said,
Gasping ; and when her innocent eyes were bound,
She, with her poor blind hands feeling — " where is it?
Where is it ?" — You must fancy that which follow'd,
If you have heart to do it !

SOUND.

now SOUND TRAVELS, AND HOW PAST IT TRAVELS--
ECHOES — MUSICAL NOTES.

Professor Tyndal, LL.D.^ F.R.S., born about 1820 ; Frr^
sident of British Association in 1874, successor to Davy
and Faraday.

Sect. 1. How does sound travel through the air?
Let me try to answer this question. Imagine a row of
boys standing close side by side, and that the last b&y
of the row stands close beside a wall or a glass windoTF.
Suppose somebody to give the first boy a push in the
direction of the line of boys ; the first boy knocks against
the second and recovers himself, the second knocks
against the third, the third against the fourth, and so
on, each boy recovering himself after he has sent on the
push to the boy next him. The last boy of the row

SOUND.

would be pushecl up against the wall or through the
window, as the case might be.

Now, when a gun is tired, a percussion cap exploded,
a bubble of explosive gas ignited, or when a peal oJP
thunder occurs, the air at the ^ace of explosion receives
a sudden shock, and this shock is transmitted from par-
ticle to particle through the air, in a manner closely re-
sembling the transmission of the push from boy to boy.
There is a passage leading from the ear towards the
brain ; at a certain place a thin membrane, called the
tympanum, is drawn across this passage, the membrane
and the cavity which it stops being called the drum ^f
the eat. Well, the air is pushed against the head of this
drum, just as we have supposed the last boy of our row
to be pushed against the wall or the window, only with
infinitely greater rapidity. The membrane is thus
thrown into motion, and this motion is communicated to
the nerve of hearing. It is thus transmitted along the
nerve to the brain, and there produces the sensation of
sound. Nobody understands how this motion is con-
verted into a sensation ; it is one of the mysteries of
life, regarding which the youngest boy who reads this
page knows just as much as I do myself.

How fast does the shock travel through the air ; or, in
other words, what is the velocity of sound ? The an-
swer is, about 1,100 feet a second. It travels more
quickly in warm than in cold weather. Through water
it travels about five times as fast as through air, and
through wood it travels more than twice faster than it
does through wnter. I once took a man and a hammer
with me into Hyde Park, London, where there are very
long iron rails. I placed my ear close to a rail, sent the
man to a distance, and caused him to strike the rail with
the hammer. For every blow he gave the rail / heard
two, and the reason is that the sound of each stroke tra-
velled through the air and the iron at the same time ;
but through the iron it travelled with greater rapidity,
and reached the ear sooner, the shock transmitted by the

SOUND.

m f

air arriving a little while afterwards. If the air were
obscnt there could be no transmission of sound as at
present ; and where the air is very, thin, as up on the tops
of high mountains, the sound is much weakened.
I fired a little cannon at the top of Mont Blanc last sum-
mer, and found the sound much weaker than when a
similar cannon was fired on one of the Hampshire downs.
This experiment was first made by the celebrated travel-
ler, De Saussure. I may add that sound travels just as
quickly in thin air as in dense air ; it is only the intensity
of the sound that is affected.

Sect. 2. Let us now seek to apply the little bit of
knowledge we have gained in the foregoing section. Have
you ever stood close beside a man when he has fired a
gun ? If so, you will have seen the flash and heard
the explosion at one and the same time. But if you
stand at a distance from the man^ you see the flash first,
and hear the sound afterwards. The reason is, that
while the light of the flash moves almost instantaneously,
the sound requires some time to travel to your ear. Now,
let me ask you a question or two. Suppose you have a
good watch, which informs you that the time which
elapses between the flash and the sound is three seconds,
at what distance would 'ou be from the man who fires
the gun ? Of course you could tell me in a moment.
These three seconds are the time required by the sound
to travel from the man to you, and as the velocity of
Etound through air is 1,100 feet a second, the man
must be 3,300 feet distant. An equally simple calcula-
tion enah^as you to tell at once whether a thunder storm
is dangerous or not. Each peal of thunder appears to be
preceded by a flash of lightning ; but if you were up in
the clouds, close to the place where the peal occurs, you
would see the flash and hear the peal at the same mo-
ment, for they really occur together. If therefore a few
seconds elapse between the flash and peal, it is a proof that
the danger is distant ; but if the peal follow hot upon

SOUND.

the flash, it shows that the danger is near. Never dread
the sound ; if the flash pass without iujury, the subse-
quent peal can do no harm.

Sect. 3. I want you now to turn your thoughts for
a moment to the row of boys, of which I have spoken in
tho first section. Suppose, when the last boy is pushed
u)) against the wall, that he, in recovering himself, pushes
back against the boy next him, this second push, like the
first, would propagate itself from the end to the begin-
ning of the line of boys. In a similar way, when the
pulse of air, which produces sound, strikes against a
wall, it is rtfleded back and constitutes an echo. The
reflected wave of sound moves with exactly the same ve-
locity as the direct one. Now, suppose a gun to be fired
at a distance of 2,200 feet from the side of a house or of
a mountain which reflects the sound, what time will elapse
between the sound and the echo ? Here the sound has
to travel from the gun to the wall and back again, or a
distance of 4,400 feet ; and as the velocity of sound is
1,100 feet a second, four seconds will elapse before the
echo is heard. If you reflect upon the matter you will
easily see that a wave of sound, after it has been onoo
reflected, may strike upon a second object, which will
reflect it a second time, and thus constitute a second
echo. It is customary, when travelling up the Rhine,
to fire a cannon at a certain place where the banks of the
river rise in steep, high rocks ; the waves of sound are
reflected several times from side to side, thus producing
a perfect babble of echoes, resembling the roll of thunder.
The echoes which may be aroused in some of the moun-
tain glens in Switzerland, even by the human voice, are per-
fectly wonderful. I have known a valley to be filled
with the wildest melody by a little boy singing the
mountain jodel as he sat upon a rock and watched
his goats.

Not ' aly do solid bodies reflect sound in this way,
but cU uvls do it also ; and this is undoubtedly one

SOUND.

1 ■'!

1»

cause of the rumbling we hear after a peal of thunder.
In firing cannon, it has been observed that when the
sky was clear, the sound was sharp and echoless, but
that as soon as clouds appeared above the horizon, the
sonorous waves striking against the clouds were reflected
back again, and produced echoes. Sound is always re-
flected, wholly or partially, in passing from one medium
to another. Even when sound passes from light to
heavy air, a portion of it is reflected. This explains a
singular effect which was observed by the celebrated
traveller Humboldt. Being stationed some miles distant
from the great falls of the River Orinoco, in South
America, he found that during he night the sound of
the waterfall was so loud that he could imagine him-
self close beside it. During the day, the sound was
much feebler. You will perhaps think that this was
quite natural, owing to the greater stillness of the night,
but the fact was actually far otherwise. In those regions
the night is far more noisy than the day. Under the
noon-day sun the forest beasts cease their yelling and
roaring and retire to sleep, while the innumerable
swarms of insects, which fill the air with their humming
during the night, are all stilled. Now pay attention to
the true explanation.

A large plain stretched between the place where M.
de Humboldt was stationed and the waterfall, this plain
being covered partially with grass, through which, how-
ever, a great number of rocks protruded. During the
day these rocks became very hot — much hotter than the
grass — and the consequence was, that over each rock
during the day there was a column of light air — for you
know that air swells and becomes light when heated.
Hence the sound of the waterfall in passing through the
atmosphere over the plain, crossed perpetually from
heavy to light, and from light to heavy air. At each
passage a small portion of the sound was reflected, and
this occurred so often that before it reached the place
where M. de Humboldt waa stationed, the sdund was

SOUND.

greatly enfeebled. At night the rocks became cooled ;
there was no longer that great dififcrence of tempera-
ture between them and the grass ; the atmosphere was
more homogeneous, and the sound passed through it
without reflection ; the consequence was that the roar
of the cataract was much louder during the night than
during the day.

Sect. 4. In the first section I explained to you how
a single pulse of sound was transmitted through the at-
mosphere, and what it di4 in the ear. I have said that
the tympanum is thrown into motion by the shock. Now,
every motion in nature, when once excited, takes time to
subside. In the case of the tympanum the motion sub-
sides very speedily, but still it requires time ; and if yv^u
cause two shocks to follow each other with sufficient
speed, the last of them may reach the ear before the mo-
tion excited by the first has been extinguished, and thus
a prolonged sound may be produced. Here I have
to announce to you a most interesting fact, — a musical
sound is a sound which is prolonged in this way. It is
produced by a series of impulses which strike the ear at
regular intervals, and in quick succession. In producing
a musical sound, therefore, we make use of a body which
is capable of sending a succession of waves to the ear, —
a vibrating string or belt ; a vibrating tongue, as in the
Jew's harp and the concertina ; a vibrating column of
air, as in a flute or organ-pipe. The organs of voice also
are capable of being thrown into vibration, like the reed
of a clarionette, by the air passing from the lungs. But
now I have to draw your attention to a peculiarity of
these musical sound.^ or notes. They differ in pitch —
some notes are hipfh and othei ^ low ; and the height or
pitch of the note depends solely upon the number of im-
pulses which the tyinyjinini receives in a second. Th'>
greater the number of impulses per second, the higher
the note. A string which vibrates 500 times in a second,
produces a higher note than ol'^ which vibrates only 400

^! ..

I ^ '!

•I t

SOUND.

times a second. The shorter a string is, tht more quickly
it vibrates, and the higher the note that it produces. In
like manner, the shorter the organ-pipe or the flute —
and you really shorten a flute when you take your fingers
ofiF its holes — the quicker are its vibrations, and tbe high-
er its note. If space permitted, I might state to yoii the
relative lengths of the strings or of the organ-pipes, ne
cessary for producing all the notes of the gamut. I will
content myself by saying, that when one string is half
the length of another, it vibrates twice as quickly ^ sup-
posing both to be screwed up equally tight, and the note
it produces is the octave of that produced by the longer
string. Thus it is that by judiciously varying the lengths
of a few strings, by pressing upon them with his fingers,
a violin player is able to produce a great variety of
notes.

; A succession of taps^ if they only follow each other
speedily enough, will produce a musical note. When a
slate pencil, held loosely in the hand and perfectly up-
right, is drawn along a slate, every boy knows that a
jumping motion of the pencil, and a dotted line upon the
slate, are produced. A series of distinct taps of the pen-
cil is also heard, but the sound is a mere rattle. By
pressing upon the pencil, these taps can be caused to
succeed each other more quickly, until finally a musical
note is produced. Most people, it is true, shut th«ir
ears against this melody, and complain that it gives them
the toothache ; but it is nevertheless a good illustration
of our present subject. If a card be held against the
circumference of a toothed wheel, it is struck bv the
teeth as they pass, and the distinct taps are heard ; but
if the wheel rotate rapidly enough, the separate taps are
no longer datitinguishable, but melt into a continuous
musical note. A series o^ puffs can also produce a muei-
cal note. If a locomotive could send out its puffs quick-
ly enough, we should have a musical sound of deafening
intensity. Instruments Lave been made for the express
purpose of producing taps or puffj^. and such instruments

1 ,

THE MAIDEN MARTYR.

are provided with machinery which tells us the exact
number ofpuiFs or taps accomplished ina.second. Bymeans
of such instruments we can tell the exact number of vi-
brations produced by the organs of a singer. We have
only to bring the instrument and the voice to the same
pitch ; the number of puffs there recorded by the instru-
ment is the number of vibrations accomplished by the
singer. In the same way the number of times a bee flaps
its wings in a second can be accurately determined from
the hum of the insect. In this way, indeed, it has been
ascertiiinod that gnats sometimes flap their little wings
filteen iii usand times in a second !

How wonderful all this is, my boys, and how well
worthy of your attention ! And how beautiful does the
arrangement appear, that Nature should possess such
wonders, and that man should possess the power of
investigating and understanding them !

THE MAIDEN MARTYR.

((

Sunday Magazine.*^

A troor of soldiers waited at the door,
A crowd of people gathered in the street,
Aloof a little ii\ the sabres bared
And flashed into taeir faces. Then the door
Was opened, and tv/o women meekly step
Into the sunshine of the sweet May-noon,
'Jut of the prison. One was weak and old —
A woman full of years and lull of woes —
The other was a maiden m her morn.
And they were one in name acd one in faith,
Mother and daughter ir tb-^ b nvis of Christ, •
That bound them cloiier .iiaa the Lies of blood.

The troop moved on, and down the sunny street

■

■ !i

' ill

I ii

I •.

' a

THE MAIDEN MARTYR. .

The people followed, ever fallinji; back
As in their faces flashed the naked blades ;
But in the midst the women simply went
As if they two were walking, side by side,
Up to God's house on some still Sabbath morn ;
Only they were not clad for Sabbath day.
But as they went about their daily tasks :
They went to prison, and they went to death
Upon their Master's service.

On the shore
The troopers halted : all the shining sands
Lay bare and glistening ; for the tide had drawn
Back to its farthest margin's weedy mark,
And each succeeding wave, with flash and curve,
That seemed to mock the sabres on the shore,
Drew nearer by a sand-breadth. " It will be
A long day's work," murmured those murderous mcii(
As they slackened rein — the leaders of the troop
Dismounting, and the people pressing near
To hear the pardon proffered, with the oath
Renouncing and abjuring part with all
The persecuted, covenanted folk.
And both refused the oath: "because," they said,
" UnlesL with Christ's dear servants we have part,
We have iio part with Him."

Oil this they took
The elder Margaret and led her out
Over the sliding sand*, the weedy sludge,
The pebbly ahoals, far out, and faatened her
Uato the iferthest Hitnke. already reached
By every rising wave : and left her then.
Aw tl)« waves crept about her feet, in prayer
Tkat H« would firm uphold hor in their midst,
Who holdrt them in the hollow of His hand.

The tide flowed in. And up and down the shore
There paced the Pmvost, and the Laird of Lag —
Grim Griersou with Wiiidram and with Graham;

THE MAIDEN MAiiTTB. 51

And the rude soldiers jested, with rude oaths.
An in the midst the maiden meekly stood
Waiting her doom delayed, — said she would turn
Before the tide — seek refuge in their arms
From the chill waves. And ever to her lips
There came the wondrous words of life and peice :
" If God be for us who can be against ! "
'•Who shall divide us from the love of Christ ? "
" Nor height, nor depth "

A voice cried from tlio ctow«' —
A woman's voice, a very bitter cry —
" Margaret 1 my bonnie Margaret !
Gie in, gie in, and dinna break my heart ;
Gie in, and take liie oath.''

The tide flowed in :
And so wore on the junny afternoon ;
And every fire went out upon the hearth ;
And not a meal was tasted in the town
That day.

And still the tide was flowing in :
Her mother's voice yet sounding in her ears,
They turned young Margaret's face toward the sea,
Where something white was floating — something white
As the sea-mew that sits upon the wave :
But as she looked it sank ; then showed again ;
Then disappeared. And round the shoreward stake
The tide stood ankle-deep.

Then Grierson,
With cursing, vowed that he would wait no more ;
And to the stake the soldiers led her down.
And tied her hands ; and round her slender waist
Too roughly cast the rope, for Windram came
And eased it, while he whimpered in her ear,
" Come, take the test." And one cried, " Margaret,
Say but * God save the king.' " " God save the kicjg
Of His great grace," she answered ; but the oath
She would not take.

i t

THE WAKING OF RIP VAN WINKLE.

>: ; 'i

And still the tide flowed id,
And drove the people back and silenced them.
The tide flowed in, and rising to her knee,
She sang the psalm, " To Thee I lift my soul."
The tide flowed in, and rising to her waist,
" T© Thee, my God, I lift my soul," she sang.
And the tide flowed, and rising to her throat,
She sang no more, but lifted up her face —
And there was glory over all the sky ;
And there was glory over all the sea —
A flood of glory — and the lifted face
Swam in it till it bowed beneath the flood.
And Scotland's Maiden Martyr went to God.

THE WAKING OF RIP VAN WINKLE.

! i-

I !

AFTER A SLEEP OP TWENTY YEARS IN THE CATSKILL

MOUNTAINS.

Washington Irving ; horn in New York in 1783, author
of " Life of Mahomet," " Sketch Book," " Life of Gotd-
smith," " Life of Columbus," &c. Veryp&pular in Eng-
land. Died 1859.

On waking, he found himself on the green knoll from
whence he had first seen the old man of the glen. He
rubbed his eyes. It was a bright sunny morning. The
birds were hopping and twittering among the bushes,
and the eagle was wheeling aloft, and breasting the pure
mountain breeze. " Surely," thought Rip, "I have not
slept here all night." He recalled the occurrences before
he fell asleep — the strange man with a keg of liquor, the
mountain ravine, the wild retreat among the rocks, the
woe-begone party at nine-pins, thft flagon. " Oh ! that
flagon ! that wicked flagon ! " thought Rip ; " what ex-
cuse shall I make to Dame Van Winkle 1 " He looked

THE WAKING OF RIP VAN WINKLE.

round for his gun, but in place of the clean, well-oiled
fowlin^'-piece, he found an old firelock lying by him, the
barrel encrusted with rust, the lock falling off, :ind the
stock worm-eaten. He now suspected that the grave
roysterers of the mountain had put a trick upon him,
and, having dosed him with liquor, had robbed him of
his gun. Wolf, too, had disappeared, but he might
have strayed away after a squirrel or a partridge. He
whistled after him and shouted his name, but all in vain ;
the echoes repeated his whistle and shout, but no dog
was to be seen. He determined to revisit the scene of
the last evening's gambol, and if he met with .ay of the
party, to demand his dog and gun. As he arose to wfilk,
he found himself stiff in the joints, and wanting in his
usual activity. *' These mountain beds do not agree
with me," thought Rip ; " and if this frolic should lay
me up with a fit of rheumatism, I shall have a blessed
time with Dame Van Winkle." With some difficulty
he got down into the glen. He found the gully up
which he and his companion had ascended the preced-
ing evening, but, to his astonishment, a mountain stream
was now foaming down it, leaping from rock to rock, and
filling the glen with babbling murmurs.

At length he reached to where the ravine had
opened through the cliffs to the amphitheatre, but no
traces of ^uch opening remained. The rocks presented
a high impenetrable wall, over whicli the torrent came
tumbling in a sheet of feathery foam, and fell into a
broad, deep basin, black from the shadows of a surround-
ing forest. Here, then, poor Rip was brought to a
stand. What was to be done ? The morning was pass-
ing away, and Rip felt famished. He grieved to give
up his dog and gun ; he dreaded to meet his wife ; but
it would not do to starve among the mountains. He
shook his head, shouldered the rusty firelock, and, with
a heart full of trouble and anxiety, turned his steps
homeward. As he approached the village he met a
oumbor of people, but none whom he knew, which some-

■ -I

I 111

THE WAKING OP RIP VAN WINKLE.

what surprised him, for he had thought himfclf ac-
quainted with every one in the country round. Their
diess, too, was of a diflFerent fashion from that to which
ho was accustomed. They all utared at him with equal
marks of surprise, and whenever th«^y cast eyes upon
him, invariably stroked their chinr The constant re-
currence of the gesture induced! Rip, involuntarily, to
do the same, when, to his astr^iishment, he found his
beard had grown a foot long 1 He had now entered the
skirts of the village. A troop of strange children ran
at his heels, hooting after him, and pointing at his grey
beard. The dogs, too, not one of which he recognised
for an old acquaintance, barked at him as he passed.
The very village was altered ; it was larger and more
populous. There were rows of houses which he had
never seen before, and those which had been his familiar
haunts had disappeared. Surely this was his native
village, which he had left but the day before. There
stood the Kaatskill Mountains; there ran the silver
Hudson at a distance ; there was every hill and dale
precisely as it had always beeii. Rip was sorely per-
plexed. " That flagon last night," thought he, " has
addled my poor head sadly ! " It was with some diffi-
culty he found the way to his own house, which he ap-
proached with silent awe, expecting every moment to
hear the shrill voice of Dame Van Winkle. He found
the house gone to decay — the roof fallen in, the windows
shattered, and the doors off the hinges. A half-starved
dog, that looked like Wolf, was skulking about it. Rip
called him by name, but the our snarled, showed his
teeth, and passed on. This was an unkind out indeed.
*' My very dog," sighed poor Rip, " has forgotten me ! "
He entered the house. It was empty, forlorn, and ap-
parently abandoned. He now hurried forth and hastened
to his old resort, the village inn ; but it, too, was gone.
A large, rickety wooden building stood in its place, with
great gaping windows, some of them broken, with, old
Eats and petticoats stuffed in the chasms, and ovor the

THE WAKINO OF RIP VAN WINKLE.

<3Mor was painted ** Tho Union Hotel, by Jonathan
lyoolittle." He recognised on the sign, however, the
ruby lace of King George, under which he had smoked
so many a peaceable pipe ; but even this was singularly
metamorphosed. The red coat was changed for one of
blue and butf, and a sword was held in the hand instead
of a sceptre ; the head was decorated with a cocked hat.
and underneath was painted in large characters,
" General Washington." There was, as usual, a crowd
of folk about the door, but none that Rip recollected.
The very character of the people seemed changed.
There was a busy, bustling, disputatious tone about it,
instead of the accustomed phlegm and drowsy tran-
quillity. The appearance of Rip, with his long griz-
zled beard, his rusty fowling-piece, his uncouth dress,
and the army of women and children that had gathered
at his heels, soon attracted the attention of the tavern
politicians. They crowded round him, eyeing him from
head to foot with great curiosity.

One orator bustled up to him, and drawing him partly
aside, inquired " on which side he voted ? " Rip started
in vacant stupidity. Another short but busy little fellow
pulled him by the arm, and, rising on tiptoe, inquired
in his ear *' whether he was a Federal or Democrat ? "

" Alas ! gentlemen," cried Rip, somewhat dismayed,
" T am a poor, quiet man ; a native of the place, and a
loyal subject of the king, God bless him ! "

Here a general shout burst from the bystanders :
*' A Tory ! a Tory ! a spy ! a refugee 1 Hustle him I
away with him ! "

It was with the great difficulty that a self-important
man in a cocked hat restored order ; and, having as-
sumed a tenfold ansi^^rity of brow, demanded of the
unknown culprit what ht came there for, and whom he
was seeking.

The poor man humbly assured him that he meant no
harm, but merely came there in search of some of his
neighbours, who used to keep about the tavern.

i III

f. «
I

! ^:

THE WAKINQ OF ttll' ^an WINKLE.

" Well, who are they? Name them."
Rip bethought himself a momeat, aud inquired,
« Where's Nicholas Vedder ? "

There was silence for a little while, when an old man
replied, in a thin, piping voice, " Nicholas Vedder !
Why, he's dead and gone these eighteen years. There
was a wooden tombstone in the churchyard, and that
used to tell all about him ; but that's rotten, aud gone
too."

" Where's Van Bummcl, the schoolmaster ? "
" He went oflF to the wars, too ; was a great militia
general, and is now in Congress."

Kip's heart died away at hearing of these sad changes
in his home and friends, and finding himself thus al 'ne.
He had no courage to ask after any more friends, but
cried out, in despair, *' Does nobody here know Kip Vjiin
Winkle ]"

''Oh, Rip Van Winkk . " exclaimed two or three.
** Oh, to bo sure ! That's Kip Van Winkle yonder,
.eaning against the tree."

Rip looked, and beheld a preciRO couaterpart of him
<elf as he went up to the mountain, apparently as lazy,
and certainly as ragged. The poor fellow was now com-
pletely confounded. He doubted his own identity, and
whether he was himself or another man. In the midst
of his bewilderment, the man in the cocked hat demanded
who he was, and what was his name ? ** God knowj*,"
exclaimed he, at his wits' end. " I'm not myself; I'm
fomebody else ; 'hat's me yonder — no ; that's some-
body else got into my shoes. I was myself hist
night, but I fell asleep on the mountain, and they've
changed my gun, and everything's changed, and I'm
changed, and I can't tell what's my name, or whci I
am!"

The bystanders began now to look at each other, nod,
wink siguiticantly, and tap their fingers against their
foreheads ; there was a whisper, also, about securing the
gun, and keeping the old fellow from doing mischief.

THE WAKING OF Rir VAN WINKLE.

At this critical noinent, a fresh comely woiuad pressed
through the thiong to get a peep at the grey bearded
man. She had a chubby child in her arms, which,
frightened at his looks, began to cry. ** Hush, Kip,"
cried she; "hu?<h, you little fool; the old man won't
hurt you." Tlic name of the child, the air of the mother,
the tone of her voice, all awakened a train of recollections
in his mind. " What is your name, my good woman ? "
asked ho. ''Judith Gardenier." "And your father's
numc?" "Ah, poor man, his name was Rip Van
\V inkle. It's twenty years since he went away with his
gun, and never has been heard of since. His dog came
home without him ; but whether he shot himself or was
carried away by the Indians, nobody, nobody can tell.
I was then but a little girl." Rip had but one more
question to ask ; but ho put it with a faltering voice.
"Where's your mother?" "Oh, she died but a
short time since ; she broke a blood-vessel in a fit of
passion at a New English pedlar." There was a drop of
comfort, at least, at this intelligence. The honest man
could contain himself no longer. He caught his daughter
and her child in his arms." " I'm your father ! " cried
he. "Young Rip Van Winkle once — old Rip Van
Winkle now ' Does nobody know poor Rip Van
Winkle ? " Kip's story was soon told, for the whole
twenty - ^ars had been to him but as one night. The
i. IP''" . rs stared when they heard it ; some were seen
to wiul at each other, and put their tongues in their
cheeks. It was determined, however, to take the opin-
ion of old Peter Vanderdonk, who was seen slowly ad-
vancing up the road. Peter was the most ancient in-
habitant of the village, and well versed m all the
wonderlul events and traditions of the neighbourhood.
He recollected Rip at once, and corroborated his story
in the most satisfactory manner. He assured the com-
pany that it was a fact, handed down from his ancestor,
the historian, that the Kaatskill Mountains had always
beeu haunted by strange beings ; that it was af[irme4

i!.

I I

THE VULTURE.

that the great Hondrick Hudson, the first dipcovercr of
the river and country, kept a kind of vij:il there every
twenty years, with his crew of the HalJ Moon, beinj^
accustomed in this way to revisit the scenes of his en-
terprise, and keep a guardian eye upon the river and
the great city called by his name ; that his father had
once seen them in their old Dutch dresses, playing at
nine pins in the hollow of the mountain ; and that ho
himself had heard, one summer's afternoon, the sound of
their balls, like distant peals of thunder.

Kip now resumed his old walks and habits ; he soon
found many of his former cronies, though all rather
worse for the wear and tear of time, and preferred mak-
ing friends among the rising generation, with whom he
soon grew into great favour.

THE VULTURE.

AN ORNITHOT.OaiOAL STUDY.
\fter the late Edgar A. Poe.
Robert Brough.

The vulture is the most cruel, deadly, and voracious of birds of
prey. He is remarkable for his keen scent, and for the tenacity
with which he invariably clink's to the victim on whom he has fixed
his gripe. He is not to be shaken off whilst the humblest pick-
ings remain. He is usually to be foimd in an indifferent state of
feather. — New Translation of Cuvier.

Once upon a midnight chilling, as I held my feet un-
willing

O'er a tub of scalding water, at a heat of ninety-four I

Nervously a toe in dipping, dripping, slipping, then ou'i-
skipping.

Suddenly there came a ripping whipping at m^ cham^
bers' door.

THE VULTDRE.

" 'Tis the second floor " I mutter'd, " flipping at iny
chambers' door —

Wants a liglit — and nothing more !'*

Ah ! distinctly I remember, it was in the chill Novem-
ber,

And each cuticle and member was with influenza sore ;

Falt'ringly 1 stirr'd the gruel, steaming creaming o'er
the fuel,

And anon removed the jewel that each fronted nostril
bore,

Wiped away the trembling jewel that each redden'd
nostril bore —

Nameless here for evermore I

And I recollect a certaiu draught that fann'd the win-
dow curtain

Chill'd me, fiU'd me with a horror of two steps upon
the floor.

And, besides, I'd got my feet in, and a most refreshing
heat in,

To myself I sat repeating — " If 1 answer to the door —

Rise to let the ruffian in who seems to want to burst
the door,

I'll be hanged, that and something more."

Presently the row grew stronger; hesitating then no
longer,

" Really, Mister Johnson, blow it ! — your forgiveness I
implore

Such an observation letting slip, but when a man's just
crettinj?

Into bed, you come upsetting nerves and posts of cham-
bers' door.

Making such a row, forgetting " — Spoke a voice beyond
the door :

" 'Tisn't Johnson " — nothing more !

^ ft

THE VULTURE.

Quick a perspiration clammy bathed me, and I uttered,
" Hang mo !"

(Observation wrested from me, like the one I made be-
fore)

Back upon the cushions sinking, hopelessly my eyes,
like winking,

On some stout for private drinking, ranged in rows upon
the floor,

Fix'd — and on an oyster barrel (full) beside them on the
floor, ,

Look'd and groan'd, and nothing more i

Open then was flung the portal, and in stepp'd a hated

mortal,
By the moderns call'd a Vulture (known as Sponge in

days of yore),
Well I knew his reputation ! cause of all my agitation —
Scarce a nod or salutation changed, he pounced upon

the floor ;
Coolly lilted up the oysters and some stout from off the

floor,

Help'd himself and took some more !

Then this hungry beast untiring fix'd his gaze with fond
admiring

On a piece of cold boil'd beef I meant to last a week or
more

Quick, he Sdt to work devouring — plates, in quick suc-
cession, scouring —

Stout with evL^y mouthful show'ring — made me ask, to
see it pour.

It he quite eojoy'd his supper, as I watchM tl\e liquid
pour ;

Said the Vulture, '* Never more."

Much disgusted at the ppaciou« vacuum by this bruto
yorucious

THE VULTURE.

Excavated in the beef — (he'tl eaten qu'te enouL;h ibi

four) —
Still, I felt relief surprising when at lemth I saw him

rising,
That he meant to go surmising, said I, glancing at the

door —
" Goinir? well, I won't detain you — mind the stairs and

shut the door — "

" Leave you, Tomkins ! — never more."

Startled by an answer di'opping hints that he intended

stopping
All his life — I knew him equal to it if ho liked, or more —
Half in dismal earnest, half in joke, with an attempt at

laughing,
I remarked that he was chaffing, and demanded of the

bore,
Ask'd what this disgusting, nasty, greedy, vile, intrusive

bore.

Meant in croaking " Never more ? '*

But tlie Vulture not replying, took my bunch of keys aiid

trym

Sev'ral, found at length the one to fit my private cup-
board door ;

Took the gin out, filled the kettle ; and, with a sang
froid to nettle

Any saint, began to settle calmly down the grate before,

lieally ab he meant departing at the date I named
before,

Of never, never more 1

Then I snt engaged in guessing what this circumstancb

distressing
Would be likely to result in, for I knew that long before
Once (it served me right for drinking) I had told him

that if sinking

THE VULTUEH.

■ 'ii • i!

1 1

Id the world, my fortunes linking to his own, he'd find

my door
Always open to receive him, and it struck me now that

door

He would pass, p'raps never more I

Suddenly the air was clouded, all the furniture en-

bhrcuded
With the smoke of vile tobacco — this was worse than

all before ;
" Smith ! " I oried (in not offensive tones, it might have

been expensive,
For ho knew the art defensive, and could costormongers

floor) ;
" Recollect it's after midnight, are you going ? — mind

the floor."

Quoth the Vulture, " Never more,"

" Smith ! " I CNod (the gin was going, down his throat

in i'ivers flowing),
** If you want a bed, you know there's quite a nice

hotel next door.
Very cheap. I'm ill — and joking set apart, your horrid

smoking
Irritates my cough to choking. Having mentioned it

before,
Really, you should not compel one — Will you mizzle —

as before ? "

Quoth the Vulture, *' Never more."

" Smith ! " I cried, " that joke repeating merits little

better treating
For you than a condemnation as a nuisance and a bore :
Drop it, pray, it isn't funny ; I've to mix some rum and

honey —
If you want a little money, take some and be off next

door ;

THE BULL FIQHT OF OAZUL.

Eun a bill up ibr me if you like, but do be off next
door."

Quoth the Vulture, " Never more 1 "

" Smith ! " I shriek'd — the accent humbler dropping as

another tumbler
I beheld him mix, " be off ! you drive me mad — it's

striking four.
Leave the house and something in it ; if you go on at

the gin, it
Won't hold out another minute. Leave the house and

shut the door —
Take your beak from out my gin, and take your body

through the door I "

Quoth the Vulture, " Never more."

And the Vulture never flitting- still is sitting, still is

sitting,
Gulping down my stout by gallons, and my oysters by

the score :
And the beast, with no more breeding than a heathen

savage feeding,
The new carpet's tints unheeding, throws his shells upon

the floor,
And his smoke from out my curtains, and his stains

from out mj' floor,

Shall be sifted ttefir BloVe.

THE BULLFIGHT OF GAZUL.

A Moorish Ballad translated by J. O. Lockhart.

Ring Alninnzor of Granada, he hath bid the trumpet

sound,
He hath sutnmoned all the Moorish lords, from the

hills and plains around ;

Il I ^

i I :
i ;

i
I)

THE BULL-FIGHT OF OAZUL.

I I

i i

:\ '■!

I 'I .'

From Vega and Sierra, from Betis and Xcnil,
They have come with helm and cuirass of gold and
twisted steel.

'Tis the holy Baptist's feast they hold in royalty and

state,*
And they have closed the spacious lists, beside the

Alhambra's gate ;
In gowns of black, with silver laced, within the tented

ring,
Eight Moors to fight the bull are placed in presence of

the King.

Eight Moorish lords of valour tried, with stalwart arm

and true,
The onset of the beasts abide, come trooping furious

through ;
The deeds they've done, the spoils they've won, fill all

with hope and trust.
Yet ere high in heaven appears the sun, the^ U have

bit the dust.

Then sounds the trumpet clearly, then clangs the loud

tambour.
Make room, make room for Gazul — throw wide, throw

wide the door ;
Blow, blow the trumpet clearer still, more loudly strike

the drum.
The Alcayde of Agalva to tight the bull doth come.

And first before the King he passed, with reverence

stooping low,
And next he bowed him to the Queen, ana thelnftintas

all a-rowe ;

* The day (»f the Baptist is a festival amouvr thu Mana, ImsmB,
as well as among Ciiri&tians.

THE BUL FIQHT OP GAZUL.

Then to his lady's grace he turned, and she to him did

throw
A scarf from out her balcony was whiter than the snow.

With the life-blood of the slaughtered lords all slippery

is the sand,
Yet proudly in the centre hath Gazul ta'en his stand ;
And ladies look with heaving breast, and lords with

anxious eye,
But the lance is firmly in its rest, and his look is calm

and high.

Three bulls against the knight are loosed, and two come
re ing on, ^

He rises high in stirrup, forth stretching his rej6n ;

Each furious beast upon the breast he deals him such a
blow,

He blindly totters and gives back across the sand to go.

" Turn, Gazul, turn 1 " the people cry — the third comes

up behind,
Low to the sand his head holds he, his nostrils snuff the

wind ;
The mountaineers that lead the steers, without stand

whispering low,
" Now thinks this proud Alcayd^ to stun Harpado so."

From Gv ^iana comes he not, he comes not from Xenil,
From Guadalarif of the plain, or Barves of the hill ;
But vrhere from out the forest bursts T.arama's waters

clear,
Beneath the oak trees was he nursed, this proud and

stately steer.

Dark is his hide on either side, but the blood within

doth boil,
And the dun hide glows, as ii' on fire, as he paws to the

turmoil.

■fi^'^^-

!•

.-,

:f li

;

1 M

: 1

THE BULL-FIGHT OF GAZUL

His eyes are jet, and they are set in crystal rings of

snow ;
But now they stare with one red glare of brass upon

the foe.

Upon the forehead of the bull the horns stand close and

near,
From out the broad and wrinkled skull, like daggers

they appear ;
His neck is massy, like the trunk of some old knotted

tree,
Whereon the monster's shagged mane, like billows curled,

ye seo.

His legs are short, his hr,ms are thiek, his hoofs aro

black as night ;
Like a strong flail he hold^ his tail in fierceness of his

might ;
Like something molten oat of iron, or hewn from forth

the rock,
Harpado of Xarama stands, to bide the Alcayd^'s shock.

Now stops the drum — close, close they come — thrice

meet, and thrice give back ;
The white foam of Harpado lies on the charger's breast

of black ;
The white foam of the charger on Harpado's front of

dun —
Once more advance upon his lance — onoe more, thou

fearless one I

Once more, once more ; — in dust and gore to ruin mast

thou reel —
In vain, in vain thou tearest the sand with furious heel ;
In vain, in vain, thou noble beast, I see, I see thee

stagger.
Now keen and cold thy neck must hold the stern

Alcayd^'s dagger.

EXPLOIT OP MAISONNEUVE.

TLej have slipped a noose around his ieet ; six horses

are brought in ;
And away they drag Harpado with a loud and joyful

din.
Now stoop thee, lady, from thy stand, and the ring of

price bestow
Upon Gazul of Agalva, that hath laid Harpado low.

EXPLOIT OF MAISONNEUVK

Parkman.

At Villemarie, it was usually dangerous to pass beyond

the ditch of the fort or the palisades of the hospital.

Sometimes a solitary warrior would lie hidden for days,

without sleep and almost without food, behind a log in

the forest, or in a dense thicket, watching like a lynx for

some rash straggler. Sometimes parties of a hundred or

more made ambuscades near by, and sent a few of their

number to lure out the soldiers by a petty attack and a

flight. The danger was much diminished, however, when

the colonists received from France a number of dogs,

which proved most eflBcient sentinels and scouts. Of the

instinct of these animals, the writers of the time speak

with astonishment. Chief among them was a bitch

named Pilot, who every morning made the rounds of the

forests and fields about the fort, followed by a troop of

her oflFspi'ing. If one of them lagged behind, she bit him

to remind him of his duty ; and if any skulked and ran

home, she punished them severely in the siime manner

on her return. When she discovered the Iroquois — which

she was sure to do by the scent, if any were near — she

barked furiously, and ran at once straight to the fort,

follo\7ed by the rest. The Jesuit chronicler adds, with an

amusing ndiveU^ that while this was her duty, " her

natural inclination was for hunting squirrels."

,1.. Ill

^l 1
:

pii !

u' i

,11

EXPLOIT OP MAISONNEUVE.

Maisonneuve was as brave a knight of the Cross as
ever fought in Palestine for the sepulture of Christ ; but
he could temper his valour with discretion. He knew
that he and his soldiers were but indiflferent woodsmen ;
that their crafty foe had no equal in ambuscades and
surprises; and that, while a defeat might ruin the
French, it would only exasperate an enemy whose
resources in men were incomparably greater. Therefore,
when the dogs sounded the alarm, he kept his followers
close, and stood patiently on the defensive. They chafed
under this Fabian policy, and at length imputed it to
cowardice. Their murmurings grew louder, till they
reached the ears of Maisonneuve. The religion which
animated him had not destroyed the soldierly pride which
takes root so readily and so strongly in a manly nature ;
and an imputation of cowardice from his own soldiers
stung him to the quick. He saw, too, that such an
opinion of him must needs weaken his authority, and
impair the discipline essential to the safety of the
colony.

On the morning of the thirtieth of March, Pilot was
heard barking with unusual fury in the forest eastward
from the fort ; and in a few moments they saw her
running over the clearing, where the snow was still deep,
followed by her brood, all giving tongue together. The
excited Frenchmen flocked about their commander.

** Monsieur^ les ennemis sont dans le hois; ne Us irons-
noufi jamais voir ? "

Maisonneuve, habitually composed and calm, answered
■hurply —

"Yes, yrni will nno the enemy. Get yourselves ready
at once, and laku euro Ui«l you are as brave as you pro-
foHS to bo. T shall lead you myself."

All was bustle in the foil. (Iiiiih wnro loaded, pouches
filled, and hiikw hIiohh tied on by those who had them, and
know liow to use them. There wore not enough, how-
ever, and many were forced to go without tliem. When
bU was ready, Maisonneuve sallied forth at the head of

XXPLOIT OV MAISO .«NEUVX«

thirty men, leaving d*Aillebout with the remainder, to
hold the fort. They crossed tiic SBOwy olearing and
entered the forest, where all v as silent as the grave.
They pushed on, wading through the deep snow, with
the countless pitfalls hidden benoath it, when suddenly
they wure greeted with the screeches of eighty Iroquois,
who sprang up from their lurking-piuccs, and showered
bullets and arrows upon the advancing French. The
emergency called, not for chivalry, but for woodcraft ;
and Maisonneuve ordered his men to take shelter, like
their assailants, behind trees. They stood their ground
resolutely for a long time ; but the Iroquois pressed them
close, three of their number were killed, oihers were
wounded, and their ammunition began to fail. Their
only alternatives were destruction or retreat; and to
retreat was not so easy. The order was given. Though
steady at first, the men soon became confused, and over-
eager to escape the galling fire which the Iroquois sent
after them. Maisonneuve directed them towards a sledge
track which had been used in dragging timber for build-
ing the hospital, and where the snow was firm beneath
the foot. He himself remained to the last, encouraging
his followers and aiding the wounded to escape. The
French, as they struggled through the snow, faced about
from time to time, and fired back to check the pursuit ;
but no sooner had they reached the sledge-track than they
gave way to their terror, and ran in a body for the fort.
Those within, seeing this confused rush of men from the
distance, mistook them for the enemy ; and an over-
zealous soldier touched the match to a cannon which had
been pointed to rake the sledge-track. Had not tlie piece
missed fire, from dampness of the priming, he would have
done more execution at one shot than the Iroquois in all
the fight that morning.

Maisonneuve was left alone retreating backwards from
the track, and holding his pursuers in check, with a
pistol in each hand. They might easily have shot him ;
bat recognising him as the coiamander of the French,

r !

THE BURIAL MARCH OF DUNDEE.

'' r

s
1 'it

tlioy were bent on taking him alive. Their chief coyeted
this honour lor himnclf, and his followers held aloof to
give him the opportunity. Ue pressed close upon Mai-
Bonneuve, who snapped a pistol at him, which missed
fire. The Iroquois, who had ducked to avoid the shot,
rose erect, and sprang forward to seize him, when Mai-
sonueuve with his remaining pistol shot him dead. Then
ensued a curious speciucle, not infrequent in Indian
battles. The Iroquois seemed to forget their enemy in
their anidety to secure and carry off the body of their
chief ; and the French commander continued his retreat
unmolested, till he was safe under the cannon of the fort.
From that day, he was a hero in the eyes of his men.

THE BURIAL-MARCH OF DUNDEE.

W. Edmondstoun Aytmn ; a poet and essayist. Was
horn in 1813, and educated in Edinburgh. Froftssor
of Rhetoric J &c,j in University of Edinburgh. Best
known as author of " Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers^"
which has passed throvgh many editions. Died in 1865.

Sound the fife, and cry the slogan —

Let the pibroch shake the air
With its wild triumphal music,

Worthy of the freight we bear.
Let the ancient hills of Scotland

Hear once more the battle-song
Swell within their glens and valleys

As the clansmen march along 1
Never from the field of combat,

Never from the bloody fray.
Was a nobler trophy carried

Than we bring with us to-day —
Never, since the valiant Douglas

On his dauntless bosom bore

THE BUBIAL MAROH OF DUNDSR.

Good King Robert's heart— the priceless-

To our dejir Redeemer's shore 1
}jO ! we bring with us the hern—

Lo ! we bring the conquering Graeme,
Crowned as best becomes a victor

From the altar of his fame ;
Frcsjh and bleeding from the battle

Whence his spirit took its flight,
'Midst the crashing charge of squadronSj

And the thunder of the fight !
Strike, I say, the notes of triumph,

As we march o'er moor and lea I
Is there any here will veature

To bewail our dead Dundee ?
Let the widows of the traitors

Weep until their eyes are dim !
Wail ye may full well for Scotland-
Let none dare to mourn for him 1
See I above his glorious body

Lies the royal banner's fold —
See ! his valiant blood is mingled

With its crimson and its gold —
See how calm he looks, and stately.

Like a wan or on his shield,
Waiting till the flush of morning

Breaks along the battle fleld !
See — oh I never more, my comrades,

Shall we see that falcon eye
Redden with its inward lightning,

As the hour of fight drew nigh.
Never shall we hear the voice that,

Clearer than the trumpet's call,
Bade us strike for King and Country,

Bade us win the field, or fall !

On the heights of Killiecrankie
Yester-morn our army lav :

IMAGE EVALUATION
TEST TARGET (MT-3)

v*'^*
.V4:

yj^y^'

1.0

1^ IM 12.2

i "^ IIIM

1.4 1 1.6

1.25

<5t'

c^J/

.f^

^•^v^'

^,-*

Photographic

Sciences

Corporation

23 WEST MAIN STREET

WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580

(716) 872-4503

^^-.J'4^f^

THK BUaiAL MARCH OF DUNDfiB.

tins

Slowly rose the mist in columns

From the river's broken way ;
Hoarsely roared the swollen current,

And the Pass was wrapt in gloom,
When the clansmen rose together

From their lair amidst the broom.
Then we belted on our tartans,

And our bonnets down we drew,
And we felt our broadswords' edges,

And we proved them to be true ;
And we prayed the prayer of soldiers,

And we cried the gathering cry,
And we clasped the hands of kinsmen.

And we swore to do or die.
Then our leader rode before us

On his war-horse black as night —
Well the Cameronian rebels

Knew that charger in the fight I
And a cry of exultation

From the bearded warriors rose ;
For we loved the house of Claver'se,

And we thought of good Montrose.
But he raised his hand for silence —

" Soldiers 1 I have sworn a vow ;
Ere the evening star shall glisten

On Schehallion's lofty brow,
Either we shall rest in triumph,

Or another of the Grasmes
Shall have died in battle- harness

For his Country and King James !
Think upon the Royal Martyr —

Think of what his race endure —
Think of him whom butchers murdered

On the field of Magus Muir : —
By his sacred blood I charge ye,

By the ruined hearth and shrine-
By the blighted hopes of Scotland,

By your injuries and mine —

THE BUBIAL M/.RCH OF DUNDEE.

Strike this day as if the anvil

Lay beneath your blows the while,
Be they covenanting traitors,

Or the brood of false Argyle I
Strike ! and drive the trembling rebels

Backwards o'er the stormy Forth ;
Let them tell tlieir pr:le Convention

How they fared within the North.
Let them tell that Highland honour

Is not to be bought or sold ;
That we scorn their prince's anger

As we loathe his foreign gold.
Strike ! and when the fight is over,

If ye look in vain for me,
Where the dead are lying thickest

Search for him that was Dundee I "

Loudly then the hills re-echoed

With our answer to his call,
But a deeper echo sounded

In the bosoms of us all.
For the land of wild Breadalbane,

Not a man who heard him speak
Would that day have left the battle.

Burning eye and flashing cheek
Told the clansmen's fierce emotion,

And they harder drew their breath ;
And their souls were strong within them,

Stronger than the grasp of death.
Soon we heard a challenge-trumpet

Sounding in the pass below,
And the distant tramp of horses.

And the voices of the foe :
Down we crouched amid the brackens.

Till the Lowland ranks drew near.
Panting like the hounds in summer.

When they scent the stately doer.

:W.

THE BURIAL MAROH OF DUNDEE.

fil !

From the dark defile emerging,

Next we saw the squadrons come,
Leslie's foot and Leven's troopers

Marching to the tuck of drum ;
Through the scattered wood of birches,

O'er the broken ground and heath,
Wound the long battalion slowly,

Till they gained the plain beneath ;
Then we bounded from our covert ;

Judge how looked the Saxons then,
When they saw the ragged mountain

Start to life with arm^d men 1
Like a tempest down the ridges

Swept the hurricane of steel,
Rose the slogan of Macdonald —

Flashed the broadsword of Lochiel I
Vainly sped the withering volley

'Mongst the foremost of our band-
On we poured until we met them

Foot to foot, and hand to hand.
Horse and men went down like driftwood

When the floods are black at Yule,
And their carcases are whirling
In the Garry's deepest pool.
Horse and man went down before us,

Living foe there tarried none
On the field of Killieorankie,

When that stubborn fight was done I

And the evening star was shining

On Schehrllion's distant head.
When we wiped our bloody broadswords,

And returned to count the dead.
There we found him gashed and gory,

Stretehed upon the cumbered plain,
As he told us where to seek him

Jq the thiokest of the slain,

■ ;;.« JBEUat£Xt5xriK.tjn;-iwtsrine«il

MMiiMiliilliiii

CAL1IN0 UP A TRAVEL! EK.

And a smile was on his visage,

For within his dying ear
Pealed the joyful note of triumph

And the clansman's clamorous cheer :
So, amidst the battle's thunder,

Shot, and steel, and scorching flame,
In the glory of his manhood,

Passed the spirit of the Graeme I

Open wide the vaults of Atholl,

Where the bones of heroes rest-
Open wide the hallowed portals

To receive another guest!
Last of Scots, and last of freemen-
Last of all that dauntless race,
Who would rather die unsullied

Thau outlive the land's disgrace I
thou lion-hearted warrior !

Reck not of the after- time :
Honour may be deemed dishonour,

Loyalty be called a crime.
Sleep in peace with kindred ashes

Of the noble and the true.
Hands that never failed their country,

Hearts that never baseness knew.
Sleep ! — and till the latest trumpet

Wakes the dead from earth and sea,
Scotland shall not boast a braver

Chieftain than our own Dundee.

CALLING UP A TRAVELLER.

John, Poole ; dramatist, and author of " Comic Sketches."

I returned to Reeve's Hotel, College Green, where I
was lodging.

Hi 1

i i;
1 1

!
I

CALLING UP A TRAVELLER.

The individual who, at this time, so ably filled the
important office of " Boots " at the hotel was a charac-
ter. Be it remembered that, in his youth, he had been
discharged from his place for omitting to call a gentle-
man who was to go by one of the morning coaches, and
who, in consequence of such neglect, missed his journey.
This misfortune made a lasting impression on the intel-
ligent mind of Mr. Boots.

" Boots," said I, in a mournful tone, " you must call
me at four o'clock."

" Do'ee want to get up, zur ? " inquired he, with a
broad Somersetshire twang.

" Want to, indeed ! No ; but I must."

" Well, zur, I'll carVee ; if you be as sure to get up
as I be to carl'ee, you'll not knoa what two minutes
arter vore means in your bed. Sure as ever clock strikes,
I'll have 'ee out, dauged if I doant ! Good night, zur : "
— ard exit Boots.

"And now I'll pack my portmanteau."

. It was a bitter cold night, and my bedroom fire had
gone out. Except t^e rush candle, in a pierced tin box,
I had nothing to cheer the gloom of a very large apart-
ment, the walls of which (now dotted all over by the
melancholy rays of the rushlight, as they struggled
through the holes of the box) wore a dark brown wain-
scot, but one solitary wax taper. There lay coats, trou-
sers, linen, books, papers, dressing materials, in dire con-
fusion^ about the room. In despair, I sat me down at
the foot of the bed, and contemplated the chaos around
me. My energies were paralyzed by the scene. Had
it been to gain a kingdom, I could not have thrown a
glove into the portmanteau ; so resolving to defer the
packing till to-morrow, I got into bed.

My slumbers were fitful — disturbed. Horrible dreams
assailed me. Series of watches, each pointing to the hour
of FOUR, passed slowly before me — then, time-pieces —
dials of a larger size — and at last, enormous steeple
clocks, all pointing tcr four — four — four.

CALLING UP A TH iVELLER.

** A change came o'er the spirit of my dream,"

and endless processions of watchmen moved along, each
mournfully dinning in my ears, "Past four o'clock."
At length I was attacked by the nightmare. Methought
I was an hour-^ass — old Father Time bestrode me —
he pressed upon me with unendurable weight — fearfully
and threateningly did he wave his scythe over my head
— he grinned at me — struck me three blows, audible
blows, with the handle of his scythe, on my breast —
stooped his huge head, and shrieked in my ear —

** Vore o'clock, zur ; I zay it be vore o'clock."

It was the awful voice of Boots.

" Well, I iiear you," groaned 1.

" But I don't hear you. Vore o'clock, zur."

" Very well, very well ; that'll do."

" Begging your pardon, but it woan't do, zur. *Ee
must get up — past vore, zur."

And here he thundered away at the door ; nor did he
cease knocking till I was fairly up, and had shown my-
self to him in order to satisfy him of the fact.

" That'll do, zur ; *ee told I to carl 'ee, and I ha* carl
'ee proper/y."

I lit my taper at the rushlight. On opening the win-
dow shutter, 1 was regaled with the sight of a fog, a
parallel to which London itself, on one of its most per-
fect November days, could scarcely have produced. A
dirty, drizzling rain was falling. My heart sunk within
me. It was now twenty minutes past four. I was
master of no more than forty disposable minutes, and,
in that brief space, what had I not to do ? The duties of
the toilet were indispensable — the portmanteau must be
packed — and, run as fast as I might, I could not get to
the ooach office in less than ten minutes. Hot water
was a luxury not to be procured at that villanous hour ;
not a human being in the house (nor, do I firmly believe
in the universe entire) bad risen — my unfortunate self,
and my companion in wretchedness, poor Boots excepted.
The water in the jug was frozen ; but, by dint of ham-

CALLING UP A TRAVELLER.

II 11

mering upon it with the handle of the poker, I suc-
ceeded hi enticing out about as much as would have
filled a l«a-cup. Two towels which had b( on left wet
in the room, were standing on a chair, holt upright, as
stiff as the poker itself, which you might about as easily
have beni/. The tooth-brushes were riveted to the glass
in which 1 had left them, and of which (in my haste to
disengage them from their stronghold) they carried
away a fragment ; the soap was cemented to the dish,
my shaving brush was a mass of ice. In short, more
appalling Discomfort had never appeared on earth. I
approached the looking-glass. Even had all the ma-
terials for the operation been tolerably thawed, it was
impossible to use a razor by such a light.

"Who's there?"

"Now, if'ee please, zur; no time to lose; only
twenty -vive minutes of vive."

I lost my self-possession — I have often wondered that
morning did not unsettle my mind.

There was no time for the performance of anything
like a comfortable toilet. I resolved therefore to defer
it altogether till the coach should stop to breakfast. "I'll
pack my portmanteau ; that must be done." In w€«t
whatever happened to come first to hand. In my haste
I had thrust in, among my own things, one of my host's
frozen towels. Everything must come out again.

" Who's there ? "

" Now, zur ; 'ee'll be too late, zur 1 '*

« Coming."

Everything was now gathered together — the portman-
teau would not lock. No matter, it must be consent to
travel to town in a dishabille of straps. Where were my
boots ? In my hurry, I had packed away both pairs.

It was impossible to travel to London, on such a day
in slippers. Again was everything to be done.

"Now, 2.ur, coach be going."

The most unpleasant part of the ceremony of hanging
(soaroely cxocpt the closing act) must be the hourly

THE CLOSING SCENE.

notice given to the culprit of the exact length of time he
has to live. Could any circumstance have added much
to the miseries of my situation, most assuredly it would
have been those unfeeling reminders.

" I'm coming," again replied I with a groan. " I have
only to pull on my boots."

They were both left-footed I Then I must open that
rascally portmanteau again.

** Please zur — "

" What in the name of do you want now ? "

" Coach be gone, please zur."

" Gone 1 Is there no chance of overtaking it ? "

" Bless 'ee ! noa, zur ; not as Jim Robins do drive.
He be vive miles oflFby now."

" You are certain of that ? "

" I warrant 'ee, zur."

At this assurance I felt a throb of joy, which was
almost a compensation for all my sufferings past.

** Boots," said I, " you are a kind-hearted creature,
and I will give you an additional half-crown. Let the
house be kept perfectly quiet, and desire the chamber-
maid to call me

"At what o'clock, zur?"

" This day three months at the earliest.**

THE CLOSING SCENE.

T. Buchanan Bead ; justly celebrated both as a painter and
a poet. Born in Pennsyluania, in 1S22. The follow-
ing poem has been highly praised in the " Westminster
Beview^

Within this sober realm of leafless trees,
The russet year inhaled the dreamy air ;

Like some tanned reaper in his hour of ease,
When all the fields are lying brown and bare.

TH£ OLOSING SCENl,

The grey barns looking from their hazy hills,
O'er the dun waters widening in the vales,

Sent down the air a greeting to the mills,
On the dull thunder of alternate flails.

All sights were mellowed, and all sounds subdued,
The hills seemed further, and the streams sang low,

As in a dream the distant woodman hewed
His winter log with many a muffled blow.

The embattled forests, erewhile armed with gold,
Their banners bright with every martial hue,

Now stood like some sad, beaten host of old,
Withdrawn afar in Time's remotest blue.

■:.

On slumberous wings the vulture tried his flight ;

The dove scarce heard his sighing mate's complaint ;
And like a star slow drowning in the light,

The village churoh-vane seemed to pale and faint

The sentinel cock upon the hill-side crew —
Crew thrice — and all was stiller than before ;

Silent till some replying wanderer blew

His alien horn, and then was heard no more.

Where erst the jay within the elm's tall crest,

Made garrulous trouble round her unfledged young ;

And where the oriole hung her swaying nest,
By every light wind like a censer swung ;

Where sang the noisy martins of the eaves ;

The busy swallows circling ever near —
Foreboding, as the rustic mind believes,

An early harvest and a plenteous year ;

Where every bird which charmed the vernal feast,
Shook the sweet slumber from its wings at morn,

TU£ CLOSING SCENE.

To warn the rcr pers of the rosy east, —
Ali DOW was 80Dgle.s8, empty and forlorn.

Alone, from out the stubble, piped the quail ;

And croaked the crow through all the dreary gloom *
Alone, the pheasant, drumuiini^ in the vale,

Made echo to the distant cottage loom.

There was no bud, no bloom upon the flowers ;

l^he spiders wove their thin shrouds night by night ;
The thistledown, the only ghost of flowers,

Sailed slowly by — passed noiseless out of sight.

A.mid all this — in this most dreary air.
And where the woodbine ?hcds upon the pore.

Its crimson leaves, as if the year stood there,
Firing the floor with his inverted torch ; —

A.mid all this, the centre of the scene,
The white-haired matron with monotonous tread,

Plied the swift wheel, and with her joyless mien
Sat like a fate, and watched the flying thread.

She had known sorrow. He had walked with her,
Oft supped, and broke with her the ashen crust ;

And in the dead leaves still she heard the stir
Of his black mantle trailing in the dust.

While yet her cheek was bright with summer bloom
Her country summoned and she gave her all ;

And twice War bowed to her his sable plume —
Re-gave the sword to rust upon her wall —

Re-gave the sword — but not the hand that drew —

And struck for liberty the dying blow ;
Nor him, who to his sire and country true,

Fell 'mid the ranks of the iuvacUag foe.
F

fil

'I-

1 M^

t:ht

THE SEA,

LoDg, but not loud, the droning wheel went on,
Like the low murmur of a hive at noon ;

Lonj^, but not loud, the memory of the gone

Breathed through her lips a sad and 'remulous tune ;

At last the thread was snapped — her head was bowed ;

Life dropped the distaff through her hands serene ;
And loving neighbours smoothed her careful shroud,

While death and winter closed the autumn scene.

THE SEA.

Prof. Archibald GeiJcie, F.R.S. ; bom in 1835. Author
of the '* Life of Forbes,^* " Phenomena of the Glacial
Drift" " Memoir of Sir Roderick Murchison," (&c.
Director of Geological Survey of Scotland, and Professor
of Geology in the University of Edinburgh.

You have been told that the moisture of the air comes
in great part from the sea ; that the rivers of the land
are continually flowing into the same reservoir of water,
which is likewise the great basin into which all the soil
which is worn from the surface of the land is carried.
We must now look a little more closely at some of the
more important features of the sea.

When you come to examine the water of the sea, you
find that it differs from the water with which you are fami-
liar on the land, inasmuch as it is salt. It contains some-
thmg which you do not notice in ordinary spring or river
water. If you take a drop of clear spring-water, and
allow it to evaporate from a piece of glass, you will find
no trace left behind. The water of springs always con-
tains some mineral substances dissolved in it, and these
not being capable of rising in vapour are left behind
when the water evaporates. But the quantity of them

THE SEA.

ID a single drop of water is so minute that, when the
drop dries up, it leaves no perceptible speck or film.
Take, however, a drop of sea-water, and allow it to
evaporate. You find a little white point or film left
behind, and on placing that film under a microscope you
see it to consist of delicate crystals of common or sea
salt. It would not matter from what ocean you took
the drop of water, it would still show the crystals of salt
on being evaporated.

There are some other things besides common salt in
sea-water. But the salt is thie most abundant, and we
need not trouble about the rest at present. Now, where
did all this mineral matter in the sea come from ? The
salt of the sea is all derived from the waste of the rocks.

Both under ground and on the surface of the land,
water is always dissolving out of the rocks various miTi-
eral substances, of which salt is one. Hence the water
of springs and rivers contains salt, and this is borne
away into the sea. So that all over the world there
must be a vast quantity of salt carried into the ocean
every year.

The sea gives off again by evaporation as much water
as it receives from rain and from the rivers of the land.
But the salt carried into it remains behind. If you
take some salt water and evaporate k, the pure water
disappears, and the salt is left. So it is with the sea.
Streams are every day carrying fresh supplies of salt
into the sea. Every day, too, millions of ton^j of water
nre passing from the ocean into vapour in the atmosphere.
The waters of the sea must consequently be getting
Salter by degrees. The process, however, is an extremely
slow one.

Although sea- water has probably been gradually grow-
ing in saltness ever since rivers first flowed into the great
sea, it is even now by no means as salt as it might be.
In the Atlantic Ocean, for example, the total quantity of
the different salts amounts only to about three and a
half parts in every hundred parts of water. But in the

THE SEA.

Dead Sea, which is extremely salt, the proportion is a«
much as twentj-four parts in the hundred of water.

Standing by the shore of any part of Britain, and
watching for a little the surface of the sea, you notice
how restless it is. Even on the calmest summer day, a
slight ripple or a gentle heaving motion will be seen ;
at other times little wavelets curl towards the land, and
break in long lines upon the beach ; but now and then,
when storms arise, you may watch how the water has
been worked up into huge billows, which, crested with
spray, come in, tossing and foaming, to burst upon the
shores.

Again, if you watch a little longer, you will find that
whether the sea is calm or rough, it does not remain al-
ways at the same limit upon ihe beach. At one part of
the day the edge of the water reaches to the upper part
of the sloping beach ; some six houro afterwards it has
retired to the lower part. You may watch it falling and
rising, day after day, and year after year, with so much
regularity that its motion can be predicted long before-
hand. This ebb and flow of the sea forms what are
called tides.

If you cork up an empty bottle and throw it into the
sea, it will of couise float, But it will not remain long
where it fell. It will begin to move away, and may
travel for a long distance until thrown upon some shore
again. Bottles oast upon mid-ocean have been known to
be carried in this way for many hundreds of miles. This
surface-drifib of the sea-water corresponds generally with
the direction in which the prevalent winds blow.

But it is not merely the surface-water which moves.
You have learned a little about icebergs, and one fact
about them which you must remember is that, large as
they may seem, there is about seven times more of their
mass below water than above it. Now, it sometimes
happens that an iceberg is seen sailing on, even right in
the face of a strong wind. This shows that it is mov-
ing, not with the wind, but with a strong under-carrent

THE SEA.

in the sea. In short, the sea is found to be traversed
by many currents, some flowing from cold to warm
regions, and others from warm to cold.

Here, then, are four facts about the sea: — 1st, it has
a restless surface, disturbed by ripples and waves; 2ndly,
it is constantly heaving with the ebb and flow of the
tides ; 3rdly, its surface-waters drift with the wind ; and
4thly, it possesses currents like the atmosphere.

For the present it will be enough if we learn some-
thing regarding the first of these facts — the waves of the
sea.

Here again you may profitably illustrate by familiar
objects what goes on upon so vast a scale in nature.
Take a basin or a long trough of water, and blow upon
the water at one edge. You throw its surface into rip-
ples, which, as you will observe, start from the place
where your breath first hits the water and roll onward
until they break in little wavelets upon the opposite
margin of the basin.

What you do in a small way is the same action by
which the waves of the sea are formed. All these dis-
turbances of the smoothntiss of the sea are due to distur-
bances of the air. Wind acts upon the water of the sea
as your breath does on that of the basin. Striking the
surface, it throws the water into ripples or undulations,
and in continuing to blow along the surface it gives these
additional force, until driven on by a furious gale they
grow into huge billows.

When waves roll in on the land, they break one after
another upon the shore, as your ripples break upon the
side of the basin. And they continue to roll in after the
wind has fallen, in the same way that the ripples in the
basin will go on curling for a little after you have ceased
to blow. The surface of the sea, like that of water gen-
erally, is very sensitive. If it is thrown into undula-
tions, it does not become motionless the moment the
cause of disturbajaoe has passed away, but continues mov-

THK 8KA.

ing in the same way, but in a gradually lessening dec^ree,
until it comes to rest.

The restlessness of the surf; ice of the sea becomes in
this way a reflection of the restlessness of the air. It is
the constant moving to and fro of currents of air, either
gentle or violent, which roughens the sea with waves.
When the air for a time is calm above, the sea sleeps
peacefully below ; when the sky darkens, and a tempest
bursts forth, the sea is lashed into waves, which roll in
and break with enormous force upon the land.

You have heard, perhaps you have even seen, some-
thing of the destruction which is worked by the waves
of the sea. Every year piers and sea-walls are broken
down, pieces of the coast are washed away, Mid the
shores are strewn with the wreck of ships. So that, be-
sides all the waste which the surface of the land under-
goes from rain, and frost, and streams, there is another
form of destruction going on along the eoast-line.

On rocky shores the different stages in the eating
away of the land by the sea can sometimes be strikingly
seen. Above the beach perhaps rises a cliff, sorely bat-
tered about its base by the ceaseless grinding of the
waves. Here and there a cavern has been drilled in the
solid wall, or a tunnel h8S been driven through some
projecting headland. Not far off we may note a tall
buttress of rock, once a pai t of the main cliff, but now
separated from it by the falling in and removal of the
connecting archway. And then, further off from the
cliffj isolated, half-tide rocks rise to show where still
older detached buttresses stood ; while away out in the
sea the dash of breakers marks the site of some sunken
reef, in which we see the relics of a still more ancient
coast-line. On such a shore the whole process whereby
the sea eats into the land seems to be laid open to our
eyes.

On some parts of the coast-line of the east of England,
where the rock is easily worn away, the sea advances on
the land at the rate of two or three feet every year.

THE S^Am

Towns and villages which existed a few centuries
ago have one by one disappeared, and their sites are now
a long way out under the restless waters of the North
Sea. On the west coast of Ireland and Scotland, how-
ever, where the rocks are usually hard and resisting, the
the rate of waste has been comparatively small.

It would be worth your while, the first time you hap-
pen to be at the coast, to ascertain what means the sea
takes to waste the land. This you can easily do by
watching what happens on a rocky beach. Get to some
sandy or gravelly part of the beach, over which the
waves are breaking, and keep your eye on the water
when it runs back after a wave has burst. You see all the
grains of gravel and sand hurrying down the slope with
the water ; and if the 'gravel happens to be coarse, it
makes a harsh grating noise as its stones rub against
each other — a noise sometimes loud enough to be heard
miles away. As the next wave comes curling along, you
will mark that the sand and gravel, after slackening their
downward pace, are caught up by the bottom of the ad-
vancing wave and dragged up the beach again, only to
be hurried down once more as the water retires to allow
another wave to do the same work.

By this continual up and down movement of the
water, the sand and stones on the beach are kept grind-
ing against each other, as in a mill. Consequently they
are worn away. The stones become smaller, until they
pass into mere sand, and the sand, growing finer, is swept
away out to sea and laid down at the bottom.

But not only the loose materials on the shore suffer
in this way an incessant wear and tear — the solid rocks
underneath, wherever they come to the surface, are
ground down in the same process. When the waves
dash against a cliff they hurl the loose stones forward,
and batter the rocks with them. Here and there in some
softer part, as in some crevice of the cliff, these stones
gather together, and when the sea runs high they are
kept whirling and grinding at the base of the cliff till,

A TALE OF THE TROPICS.

in the end, a cave is actually bored by the sea in the
solid rock, very much in the same way as holes are
bored by a river in the bed of its channel. The stones
of course are ground to sand in the process, but their

?lace is supplied by others swept up by the waves,
f you enter one of these sea-caves when the water is
low, you will see how smoothed and polished its sides and
roof are, and how well rounded and worn are the stones
lying on its floor.

A TALE OP THE TROPICS.

Tom Bond, son of Thomas Hood, the poet ; a eontrihutei
to the magazines; died 1875.

Titti Fftl Lay was a lovely maid —
The white of her eye was like marmalade,
Her skin was the blackest of inky blacks,
And her lips were as scarlet as sealing wax.

She wore her hair in a fuzx-a-top,
Like a swab (the nautical term for mop) ;
Her ivory teeth were two gleaming rows,
And she cairied a skewer in her oomely nose.

She loved a sailor (did Titti Fal Lay),
Who had been on that island east away.
Titti Fal Lay was the child of a king,
But she loved Jack Deadeyes like anything.

She loved Jack Deadeyes ; but — woe is me I—
Jack Deadeyes he wasn't in love with she ;
For he fondly thought of his lovely Nan
(Who lived at Wapping), did that young man.

And so, alas, and alack-a-day I

When an English ship sailed into th^ \yij

THE CAPTURE OF QUEBEC,

g"lie Lively Betty ^ a seventy four),
e took a berth in that man-of-war I

Then Titti Fal Lay (her heart was broke^
Wept — but never a word she spoke ;
But she skewered herself, did the mournful maid,
On the native weapon, a sword-fish blade.

They buried her under the Bo-bo tree,
With her favourite kitten along o' she ;
And the purple-nosed monkeys sadly rave,
And chew their tails o'er the maiden's grave

THE CAPTURE OF QUEBEC.

William Makepeace Tliachray ; OMthor of " Vanity Fair*^
and other novels; a contrihutor to "Punch." Born
1811, died 18C3. The following is from " The Vir-
ginians"

Arriving in the St. Lawjence in June, the fleet
which brought Wolfe and his army had landed them, on
thelastday of themonth,on the Island of Orleans, opposite
which rises the great cliflF of Quebec. From his position
on the island, which lies in the great channel of the
river to the north of the town, the General was ever
hungrily on the look-out for a chance to meet and attack
his enemy. Above the city and below it he landed —
now here and now there ; he was bent upon attacking
wherever he saw an opening. It was surely a fault on
the part of the Marquis of Montcalm to accept a battle
from Wolfe on equal terms, for the British General had
no artillery, and when he had made his famous escalade
of the heights, and was on the Plains of Abraham, he
was a little nearer the city certainly, but as far off as
ever from being within it.

TH£ CAPTURE OF QUEBEC.

The game that was played between the bravo chiefs
of thoso two gallant little armies, and which lasted from
July until Wolfe won the crowning hazard in Septem-
ber, must have been as interesting a match as ever eager
players engaged in. On the very first night after the
landing the sport began. At midnight the French sent
a flaming squadron of fire-ships down upon the British
ships which were discharging their stores at Orleans.
Our seamen thought it was good sport to tow the fire-
ships clear of the fleet, and ground them on the shore,
where they burned out.

As soon as the French commander heard that our
ships had entered the river, he marched to Beau port, in
advance of the city, and there took up a strong position.
When our stores and hospitals were established, our
General crossed over ftom the island to the left shore,
and drew nearer to his enemy. He had the ships in the
river behind him, but the whole country in face of him
was in arms. The Indians in the forest seized our ad-
vanced parties as they strove to clear it, and murdered
them in horrible tortures. The French were as formid-
able as their Indian friends. The Montmorenci Eiver
rushed between Wolfe and the enemy. He could neither
attack these nor the city behind them.

Bent on seeing whether there was no other point at
which his foe might be assailable, the General passed
round the town of Quebec, and skirted the left shore
beyond. Everywhere it waa guarded, as well as in his
immediate front, and having run the gauntlet of the
batteries, up and down the river, he returned to his post
at Montmorenci. On the right c-f the French position,
across the Montmorenci River, which was fordable at
low tide, was a redoubt of the enemy. He would have
that. Perhaps, to defend it, the French chief would be
forced out from his lines, and a battle be brought on.
Wolfe determined to play these odds. He would fetch
over the body of his army from the Island of Orleans,
and attack from the St. Lawrence. He would time his

THE CAPTURE OF QUEBEC.

attack so that, at shallow water, his lieutenants, Murray
and Townshend, might cross the Montmorcnci ; ana, it
the last day of July, he played this desperate game.

He first, and General Monokton, his second in com-
mand (setting out from Point Levi, which he occupied),
crossed over the St. Lawrence from their respective
stations, being received with a storm of shot and artillery
as they rowed to the shore. No sooner were the troops
landed than they rushed at the French redoubt without
order, were shot down before it in great numbers, and
were obliged to fall back. At the preconcerted signal,
the troops on the other side of the Montmorcnci advanced
across the river in perfect order. The enemy even
evacuated the redoubt, and fell back to their lines ; but
from these the assailants were received with so severe
a fire that an impression on them was hopeless, and the
General had to retreat.

That battle of Montmorenci formed th> dismal burden
of the first dispatch from General Wolfe which reached
England, and plunged us all in gloom. What more
might be expected of a commander so rash ? W^hat
disasters might one not foretell ? Was ever scheme so
wild as to bring three great bodies of men across broad
rivers, in the face of murderous batteries, merely on the
chance of inducing an enemy strongly intrenched and
guarded to leave his position, and come out and engage
us? 'Twas the talk of London. No wonder grave
people shook their heads and prophesied fresh disaster.
The General, who took to his bed after this failure,
shuddering with fever, was to live barely six weeks
longer, and die immortal !

" By the list of disabled oflicers (many of whom are of
rank) you may perceive. Sir, that the a«my is much
weabened. By the nature of this river, the most formid-
able part of the armament is deprived of the power of
acting, yet we have almost the whole force of Canada to
oppose. In this situation there is such a choice of diffi-
culties that I own myself at a loss how to determine.

THE CAPTURE OF QUEBEC.

The aflfairs of Great Britain, I know, require the most
vigorous measures ; hut then the courai^e of a handful
of brave men should be exerted only where there is
some hope of a favourable event. The admiral and I
have examined the town with a view to a general assault ;
and he would readily join in this or any other measure
for the public service ; but 1 cannot propose to him an
undertaking of so dangerous a nature, and promising so

little success I found myself so ill, and

am still so weak, that I begged the general officers to
consult together for the public utility. They are of
opinion that they should try, by conveying up a corps of
4,000 or 6,000 men (which is nearly the whole strength
of the army, after the points of Levi and Orleans are
put in a proper state of defence), to draw the enemy from
their present position, and bring them to an action. I
have acquiesced in their proposal, and we are preparing
to put it into execution."

So wrote the General from his head-quarters at Mont-
morenci Falls on the 2nd day of September ; and on the
14th of October following, the Rodney cutter arrived with
the sad news in England. The attack had failed, the
chief was sick, the army dwindling, the menaced city so
strong that assault was almost impossible ; '' the only
chance was to fight the Marquis of Montcalm upon
terms of less disadvantage than attacking; his intrench-
ments, and, if possible, to draw him from his present
position." Would the French chief, whose great military
genius was known in Europe, fall into such a snare 1
No wonder there were pale looks in the city at the news,
and doubt and gloom wheresoever it was known.

Three days after this first melancholy intelligence
came the famous letters announcing that wonderful con-
summation of Fortune with which Wolfe's wonderful
career ended. If no man is to be styled happy till his death,
what shall we say of this one ? His end was so glorious
that I protest not even his mother nor his betrothed
ought to have deplored it, or at any rate have wished him

THS OAPTURI OF QUESSO.

alive again. I know it is a hero we speak of ; and yet
I vow I scarce know whether, in the last act of his life,
I admire the result of genius, invention or daring, or
the boldness of a gambler winning surprising odds.
Suppose his ascent discovered a half hour sooner, and
his people, as they would have been assuredly, beaten
back ? Suppose the Marquis of Montcalm not to quit his
intrenched lines to accept that strange challenge ? Sup-
pose these points — and none of them depend upon Wolfe
at all — and what becomes of the glory of the young
hero, of the great minister who discovered him, of the
intoxicated nation whi>.h rose up frantic with self-gratu-
lation at the victory ? I say, what fate is it that shapes
our ends, or those of nations ? In the many hazardous
games which my Lord Chatham played, he won this
prodigious one. And as the greedy British hand seized
the Cauadas, it let fall the United States out of its
grasp. ^ ^ .

To be sure, this wisdom d^aprhs coup is easy. We
wonder at this man's rashness now the deed is done, and
marvel at the other's fault. What generals some of us
are upon paper t what repartees come to our mind when
the talk is finished ! and, the game over, how well we
see how it should have been played ! Writing of an
event after a long interval of time, it is not difficult to
criticise and find fault. But at the time when the news
arrived of Wolfe's glorious deeds upon the Plains of
Abraham — of that army marshalled in darkness, and
carried silently up the midnight river — of those rocks
scaled by the intrepid leader and his troops— of that
miraculous security of the enemy, of his present accept-
ance of our challenge to battle, and of his defeat on the
open plain by the sheer valour of his conqueror — we
were aU intoxicated in England by the news. The
whole nation rose up and felt itself the stronger for
Wolfe's victory. Not merely all men engaged in the
battle, but those at home who had condemned its rash-
ness, felt themselves heroes. Our spirit rose as that of

THE NEW CHURCH ORGAN.

our enemy faltered. Friends embraced each Other when
they met. Coffee-houses and public places were thronged
with people eager to talk the news. Courtiers rushed to the
King and the great Minister by whose wisdom the cam-
paign had been decreed. When he showed himself the
people followed him with shouts and blessings. People
did not deplore the dead warrior, but admired his eu-
thanasia. Should James Wolfe's friendi weep and wear
mourning because a chariot had come from the skies to
fetch him away ? Let them watch with wonder, and see
him departing, radiant ; rising above us, superior. To
have a friend who had been near and about him, was to
be distinguished. Every soldier who fought with bim
was a hero.

'tit

ISi

THE NEW CHURCH OEGAN.

WHl Carleton, an American; author of *' Farm Ballads^*
<&c., which have had a wide- spread popularity.

They've got a brand-new organ, Sue,

For all their fuss and search ;
They've done just as they said they'd do,

And fetched it into church.
They're bound the CBitter shall be sden.

And on the preacher's right
They've hoisted up their new machine.

In everybody's sight.
They've got a chorister and choir,

Ag'in my voice and vote ;
For it was never my desire

1^0 praise the Lord b^ note I

I've been a sister good an' truo

For five-an'-thirty year ;
I've done what seemed my part to do,

An' prayed my duty clour ;

THE NEW CHUHOH ORGAN.

I've suDg the hymns both slow and quick,

Just as the preacher read,
And twice, when Deacon Tubbs was sick,

I took the fork an' led !
And now, their bold, new-fangled ways

Is comin' all about ;
And I, right in my latter days,

Am fairly crowded out !

To-day the preacher, good old dear.

With tears all in his eyes.
Bead, ** I can read my title clear

To mansions in the skies."
I al'ays liked that blessed hymn—

I s'pose I al'ays will ;
It somehow gratifies my whim.

In good old Ortonville ;
Buu when that choir got up to sing,

I couldn't catch a word ;
They sung the most dog-gondest thing

A body ever hoard !

Some worldly chaps was standin' near ;

An' when I see them, grin,
I bid farewell to every fear,

And boldly waded in.
I thought I'd chase their tune along,

An' tried with all my might ;
But though my voice is good an' strong,

I couldn't steer it right ;
When they was high, then I was low.

An' also oontrawise \
An' I too fast, or they too slow,

To '' mansions in the skies."

An' after every verse, you know,
They play a little tune ;

THB N£W ouuaoH orqam;

I didn't understand, an' so

I started in too soon.
I pitched it pretty middlin' high,

I fetched a lusty tone ;
But oh, alas 1 I found that I

Was singin' there alone !
They laughed a little, I am told ;

Hut I had done my hest ;
And not a wave of trouble rolled

Across my peaceful breaat.

And Sister Brown — I could but look— ^

She sits right front of me ;
She never was no singin'-book,

An' never went to be ;
But then she al'ays tried to do

The best she could, she said ;
She understood the time right througliy

An' kep' it with her head ;
But when she tried this momin', oh,

I had to laugh or cough I
It kep' her head a bobbin' so,

It e'en a'most came off 1

■' I'd

An* Deacon Tubbs — ^he all broke down,

As one might well suppose ;
He took one look at Sister Brown,

And meekly scratched his nose.
He looked his hymn book through and through,

And laid it on the seat,
And then a pensive sigh he drew.

And looked completely beat
And when they took another bout,

He didn't even rise ;
But drawed his red bandanner out.

An' wiped his weepin' eyes.

THS ART OF THl ACTOR AND THE RIADIR. 97

I've been a sister, good an' true,

For five-am' thirty year ;
I've done what seemed my part to do,

An' prayed my duty clear ;
But Death will stop my voice, I know,

For he is on my track ;
An' some day I to church will go,

And never more' b6^e back ;
And when the folks 'jjets up to sing —

Whene'er that iiiae shall be —
I do not want no pOite.it thing

Asquealin' over'iiJe !

THE ART OF THE AtlTOR AND THE READER.

Edward H. Cox, Eetorder of Belston^ England ; author
of " The Arts of Writing, Reading and Speaking.^'
One of the original iTromoters of " Penny Readings.^*

The actor reads froih his memory instead of reading
from a book, and hfe adds action to expreaaimi. The
reader reads from the book, and not from his oien.ory.
but he should recite what he reads in precisely the same
manner as does the actor. You have often heard it said
of a man that he reads in a theatrical manner, as if that
Wt3 a fault in him ; but before it is admitted to be a
fault, we must understand precisely in what sense the
phrase is used. The term might be employed to indi-
cate reading like a bad actor, or like a good one. Some
persons, educated in evil haMts of reading, unaceustomed
to hear good reading, and who have never contemplated
reading as an art and an accomplishment, might ignorant-
ly denounce as *' theatrical " any reading that rises above
gabbling, and all attempts to give natural expression
to the words and thoughts. Such reading is theatri-
cal, indeed, but only in a commendable sense. There
a

THE ART OF THE ACTOR AND THE READER.

f 4.i

is, however, a theatrical manner ^ that is called so re-
proachfully, and with justice, for it means reading
like a bad actor — ranting, mouthy and declamatory, or
lugubrious and droning; tearing a passion to tatters,
swelling into sing song, or lapsing into a monotonous
drawl. Exaggerated expressiop in reading is like a part
over-acted on the stage, but it h preferable to the ab-
sence of expression ; and therefore see that you do not
fall into the fault of monotory through fear of being
called " theatrical."

The faculty by which an actor is enabled to accom-
plish his task is that which p^fc^j to him the power of for-
getting himself, and becoming bomebody else. Reflect
for a moment what a man must dc in order to play some
part in a drama — Hamlet, for instance. He must be-
come Hamlet for the time, an,d for that time he must
cease to be himself ; he must think and feel as Hamlet,
or he cannot look and move lite Hamlet. He does not
this by a process of argument : he does not read a sceue
in the play, and then say to himself, " Here Hamlet is
awe-stricken at the appearancfi of the Ghost, and to look
as if I was awe-stricken I must stand in this posture
and open my eyes this wide, and make my voice quiver
— so, and speak in such a tone. All this would be im-
possible of acquirement as a matter of teaching, for the
memory could never carry such a multitude of directions,
and recall them at the right moment. The actual pro-
cess is more simple. The true actor reads the play ; he
ascertains what was the character of Hamlet; he learns
the language put into Hamlet's mouth. When he repro-
duces it, he becomes Hamlet, feels and thinks as Hamlet.
The words have entered into his mind, and excited there
the precise emotions Hamlet was imagined to feel by the
genius that created him. He feels them, not >>y rule,
or by an effort of his own, but instinctively. The mind
being moved, the voice, the aspect, the action, express
tho mind's emotions. It was thus that the dramatist
wrote. He, too, did not artfully construct the thoughts

THE ART OF THE ACTOR AND THE READER. 99

JO re-
iading
ry, or
alters,
lonous
a part
he ab-
do not
being

accom-
of for-
Reflect
i,y some
ust bc-
e must
lamlet,
loes not
a sccuc
imler is
to look
posture
quiver
be im-
for the
ections,
aal pro-
ay J he
learns
repro-
lamlet.
}d there
1 by the
y rule,
■le mind
express
'amatist
oughts

and emotions conveyed by the words spoken by his per-
sonages. Placing his own mind in their positions, he felt
the feelings and thought the thoughts that such persons
in such cases would have felt and thought, and these he
clothed in appropriate language. The actor seizes upon
the same personages, performs the same process of plac-
ing himself, in imaginatiDn, in the same positions, feels
and thinks thus, and thwfefore rightly expresses the emo-
tions and thoughts of^ the author. The difference be-
tween the genius of thfe' actor and the genius of the
author is this — that tUe actor does not create, he mere-
ly expresses the creatioiis of the author. Although the
creative genius is the'^eatest, great is the genius that
can embody those crepirons and make them live before
our eyes. When the process is contemplated, we can-
not but marvel much at« the power that can so identify
itself with the emotio^^ of another mind as to become
that mind for a season, feel all that it felt, think all that
it thought, and then /express those thoughts and feelings
as the creator of the 'dharacter would have expressed
them had he possessed the power to do so.

To be a good reader, yati must possess a portion of this
faculty of the actor. The great actor has two mental
powers that are perfectly distinct — each of which might
exist without the other. He must be able to read
truly and to act rightly. It is not enough for him that
he can read the part as it ought to be read ; he must
also be able to act it as it ought to be acted. Herein is
the difference between the actor and the reader. The
reader requires to be only half an actor ; he needs but
to be accomplished in the first portion of the actor*s art.
Hence it is more easy to be a good reader than a good
aotor ; hence it is that although a good actor must be a
p;ood reader, you may be a very good reader without being
also a good actor. But bear this in mind, that you
should endeavour to accomplish yourself even to the
actor's skill in reading, and that tne test of your excel-
icnce will be precisely that which would be applied to

'm .

100 THE ART OF THE AOTOR AND THE READER.

ii J

tbe reading of his part by the actor upon the stage. As
the critic would sit in judgment on the manner in ^hich
an actor reads Hamlet when he acts it — that is to say
how he expresses the words, apart from the acting — so
would a judicious critic judge your reading of it when
seated in the drawing room. The rules to be observed
by both are the same ; the satne .effects are to be studied,
the same intonations to be '.ueei}. Yon should so read
that if the listener's eyes werV.jJ^'ndaged he could not tell
that you were not acting, s4vfc.by perceiving that your
voice is stationary. " . :

I have dwelt on this conn^eotion and distinction be-
tween acting and reading, because they are seldom right-
ly understood even by 8iose.wKo.have studied the art of
reading. Some, fearing to*'b6 thought "theatrical,"
make a positive endeavour to avoid reading as an actor
should read ; and, on tho oth^r hand, some think that
acting and reading are identical!,' knd rush into a manner-
ism that imperfectly unites the t\7o and spoils both ; and
these are the readers to whoiilthe reproach of being
" theatrical " properly applies. By clearly understand-
ing what is the precise boundary between reading and act-
ing — how nearly they approach biit never touch — you will,
I hope, educate yourself to advance boldly to the bound-
ary of your art, without trespassing beyond it into the
territory that belongs exclusively to the actor.

I cannot too often repeat to you that the foundations
of the art of reading are understanding and feeling. If
you do not clearly see the writer's meaning you cannot
interpret truly his thoughts ; and unless you can feel
the emotions he is painting you oannot give the right
expression to the words that breathe them. If you
are deficient in either of these faculties, no study will
make you a good reader. Having these natural gifts, all
the rest may be acquired by diligence and training. I
do not assert that without these qualifications it is use-
less to learn the art of reading. I desire only to warn
you that wanting them or either of them you may not
hope to become an accomplished reader. But you may

THE ART OF THE AOTOB AND THE READEB. 101

As
^hich
:o say
g—m
when
jerved
iidied,
5 read
lot tell
t your

on be-
right-
I art ol
trical,"
n actor
,k that
lanner-
1 ; and
■ being
irstand-
,nd act-
ouwill,
bound-
&to the

Pg-

acquire suflScient of the art for all the ordinary purposes
of business or recreation ; you may read easily to yourself
and pleasantly to others — more pleasantly, indeed, than
many who possess the natural qualifications you want, but
want the training you have received. Do not, therefore,
be disheartened should yod discover that you cannot
throw your mind instantly into the conceptions of the
author so as to think and feel them as if they had been
your own, but manfully resolve to learn to do that which
not one educated man in ten can do, nameiy, to read a
page of prose '^r poetry with common propriety, to say
nothing of reading it with effect.

And do not so hastily conclude that you have not the
faculties in question. Rarely are they quite absent from
any mind. Often they lie dormant for want of cultiva-
tion and stimulus, unknown even to the possessor, until
some accident reveals to himself and others the capaci-
ties of which he was not before conscious. They may be
awakened from sleep ; they may be stimulated into
action ; they may be cultivated into excellence. Be
assured that they are quite wanting in vou before you
despair. Do not resign on the first trial. Persevere
until conviction is forced upon you.

How may you ascertain this important fast ? Take
some dramatic composition, some play of Shakespere's
which you have not seen on the stage, or a chapter of
dialogue in a novel, and read it aloud. Are you con-
scious that you understand the author's meaning ] Do
you feel the emotions he expresses, or do they go into
your ear and out at your lips without passing through
your mind, and there becoming instinct with soul,
so that you speak living words, and not mere inanimate
sounds ? Your own feelings will soon tell you if you
have any sympathies with the author

Thus we arrive at the conclusion that reading is an
art which all may acquire sufficiently for the daily uses
of life at home or abroad. As an accomplishment, where
the pleasure of the audience is the object, reading must
be something more than tolerable — it must be good.

iii!

i'li

102

THE KINO'S TEMFLO.

THE KING'S TEMPLE.

A mighty king on his ooueh reclined,
With a haughty thought in his lonely mind :
" Has not God prospered me more than all ?
A nation would rise at my single call,
And its fairest maid would be proud to wear
A crown by the side of my crowned gray hair ;
I'll rear him a house for my greatness' sake,
And nobody's aid will I claim or take ;
From the gilded spire to the great crypt stone
It shall be my offering, and mine alone."

Then the site was chosen, the builders wrought
To find a shape for the monarch's thought ;
Soon the abbey rose 'gainst the calm blue sky,
And they built it broad, and they built it high ;
But if any offered with spade or hod,
To give his labour for naught to God,
Then the poor man's mite by the king was spurned,
And he paid him for every stone he turned.

Till at last, on a gorgeous autumn day,
All the solemn priests in their white array,
With prayers, and anthems, and censers came,
And opened the abbey in God's great name.

Now there lay in the chancel a great white stone,
With the king's name on it, and his alone j
And the king stood near it with haughty brow,
And pondered, " The future will know me now
By the glorious temple I have made.
Unsullied by any plebeian aid."

And far away where the melody came
But softly, there lingered an aged dame ;
Her garment was worn, and her hair was thin,

THE king's temple.

103

And shd looked like the kst of all her kin, —
Who had none to love, who had uone to blame,
Who would start at the sound of her Christian name,
Yet she said, as the music o'er her passed,
'< Thank God that His house is complete at last."

The monarch, that night, on his couch reclined,

With a proud content in his lonely mind ;

But when he slept, he strangely dreamed ; —

In the abbey chancel alone he seemed,

And he sought his own royal name to read,

But lo 1 another was there instead ;

'Twas a woman's name he never had heard,

And his heart with wonder and wrath was stirred.

And when he awoke, throughout his land

By mouth of heralds he sent command

If a woman bearing a certain name,

Within a month, to his presence came,

She should have a cup with a jewelled rim, —

Besides the honour of seeing him.

On the second day, as he sat alone,

The courtiers who stood about his throne

Informed him the woman was at the gate ;

And they thought, of course, she would have to wait

(For even so did the royal kin,)

For the kingly pleasure to let her in ;

But he stamped his foot with a stern " Begone I

And straightway bring her, and leave us alone."

Then, slowly and trembling, in there came,

In her poor best weeds, a poor old dame,

And the king himself (there were none to stare,)

Kindly led her up to a velvet chair ;

And when she grew used to the splendid place,

And found she eould gaze on a royal face,

He begged^ if she could, she would make it knowQ

104

THK S£A.

Why he dreamed her name on the chancel stone.

" For what work have yorji done ?" the monarch said :

<< I've built all the abbey, and asked no aid."

A.nd the old dame lifted her streaming eyes,
And held up her hands in her great surprise.
" My liege," she answered, " how much could
At a great, good work that was meet for you ?

* If the king had asked us,' I often thought,

* I could not have given, for I have naught ; '
But in works for God, how it seems his plan,
There's something to do that any one can.

So when the builders were ready to sink,

I carried some water and gave them to drink,"

The king said nothing.

Ere morning shone
His name was gone from the chancel stone ;
And with looks of wonder the courtiers read
The name of the woman writ there instead.

I do

:t» i

THE SEA.

Bryan Proctor (Barry Cornwall), barrister ; horn 1790,
dud 1868. In addition to Ms poetical works, he has
published essays and tales in prose, " Life of Edmund
Kean," an essay on " The Genius of Shakespeare," Sc.

The sea I the sea I the open sea !

The blue, the fresh, the ever free !

Without a mark, without a bound,

It runneth the earth's wide, regions round ;

It plays with the clouds ; it mocko ^he skies ;

Or like a cradled creature lies.

THE SEA. 105

I'm on the sea t I'm on the sea !

I am where I would ever be ;

With the blue above, and the blue below,

And silence wheresoe'er I go ;

If a storm should come and awake the deep,

What matter ? / shall ride and sleep.

I love, oh, how I love to ride
On the fierce foaming burf^ting tide,
When every mad wave drowns the moon,
Or whistles aloft his tempest tune,
And tells how goeth the world below,
And why the sou'-west blasts do blow,

I never was on the dull tame shore,
But I lov'd the great sea more and more,
And backwards flew to her billowy breast,
Like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest ;
And a mother she was^ and is to me j
For I was born on the open sea !

The waves were white, and red the morn,
In the noisy hour when I was born ;
And the whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled.
And the dolphins bared their backs of gold j
And never was heard such an outcry wild
As welcomed to life the ocean-child !

I've lived since then, in calm and strife,
Full fifty summers a sailor's life.
With wealth to spend and a power to range ;
But never have sought, nor sighed for a change \
And Death, whenever he come to me.
Shall come on the wild unbounded sea |

106

LIVINQ IN THE COUNTRY.

I r

LIVING IN THE COUNTRY.

Adapted for public reading from the ** Sparrowgrass

Paperc.^*

It is a good thing to live in the country. To escape
from the prison walls of the metropolis — the great
brickery we call " the city," and to live amid blossoms
and leaves, in shadow and in sunshine, in moonlight
and starlight, in rain, mist, dew, hoar frost and drouth,
out in the open campaign, and under the blue dome
that is bounded by the horizon only.

It is a good thing to have a well with dripping buckets,
a porch with honey-buds and sweet-bells, a hive embroi-
dered with nimble bees, a sun-dial mossed over, ivy up to
the eaves, curtains of dimity, a tumbler of fresh flowers
in your bedroom, a rooster on the roof and a dog under
the piazza.

When Mrs. Sparrowgrass and I moved into the coun-
try, with our heads full of fresh butter, and cool, crisp
radishes for tea; with ideas entirely lucid respecting
milk, and a looseness of calculation as to the number in
family it would take a good laying hen to supply fresh
eggs every morning ; when Mrs. S. and I moved into
the country, we found some of our preconceived notions
had to be abandoned, and some departures made from
the plans we had laid down in the little back parlour of
Avenue G.

One of the first achievements in the country is — early
with the lark — with the sun — while dew is on
the grass, " under the opening eyelids of the morn,'' and
so forth.

Early rising I With the hoe, the rake, the dibble, the
spade, the watering-pot !

Early rising ! To plant, to prune, to drill, to trans-
plant, to graft, to grain, to train, to sprinkle 1
^' Biphard and Kobin were two pretty men,

rising I

LIVING IN 1H£ COUNTBT.

107

They laid in their bed till the clock struck ten ;
Up jumped Richard and looked at the sky.
*0h, brother Robin I the sun's very high I'"

£arly rising in the country is not an instinct ; it is a
sentiment, and must be cultivated.

A friend recommended me to send to the south side
of Long Island for some very prolific potatoes — the real
hippopotamus breed. Down went my man, and what
with expenses of horse hire, tavern bills, toll-gates, and
breaking a waggon, the hippopotami cost as much as pine-
apples.

They were fine potatoes, though, with comely features,
and large languishing eyes, that promised increase of
family without delav. As I worked my own garden
(for which I hired a landscape gardener at $2 a day to
give me instructions) I concluded that the object of my
first experiment in early rising should be the planting
of the hippopotamuses.

I accordingly rose next morning a,t Jive, and it rained 1
I rose 7iext morning at five, and it rained I The next,
and it grained. It lained for two weeks. We had splen-
did potatoes every day for dinner.

" My dear," said I to Mrs. S. " where did you get
those fine potatoes 1 '*

''Why," said she innocently, " out of that basket,
from Long Island."

The last of the hippopotamuses were before me, peeled
and boiled and mashed and baked, with a nice thin
brown crust on the top.

Mrs. S., who is a notable housewife, said to me one
day, " Now my dear, we shall soon have plenty of eggs,
for T have been buying a lot of young chickens."
There they were, each one with as many feathers as a
grasshopper, and a chirp not louder. They grew finely,
and one day I ventured to remark that our hens had re-
markably large combs.

" Yes, indeed," said Mrs, S. — ^yes, she had observed

108

LIVING IN THE COUNTRY.

i ^'

if8

that ; but if I wanted to have a real treat, I ought to
get up early in the ihorning and hear them — Crow !

" Crow!" said I, faintly, **our hens crowing ! Then
* by the cock that crowed in the morn, to wake the
priest all shaven and shorn,' we may give up all hope of
having any eggs," said I, "for, as sure as you live, Mrs.
S., our hens are all roosters."

And so they were — they grew up and fought with
the neighbours' chickens, until there was not a whole
pair of eyes on either side of the fence.

A dog is a good thing to have in the country. I have
one which I raised from a pup. He is a good stout
fellow, and a great barker, and a huge feeder.

He is a good watch-dog too, for the moment he sees
any suspicious-looking person about the premises, he
comes right into the kitchen, and gets behind the stove.

First we kept him in the house, and he scratched all
night to get out.

Then we turned him out, and he scratched all night
to get in.

Then we tied him up at the back of the garden, and
he howled so that our neighbour shot at him twice be-
fore daybreak.

Finally we gave him away — and he came back — and
now he is just recovering from a fit, in which he has
torn up the patch that has been sown for our spring
radishes.

We were worried about our cucumbers. Mrs. S. is
fond of cucumbers, so I planted enough for ten families.

The more they are picked, the faster they grow ; and
if you do not pick them, they turn yellow and look ugly.
Our neighbour has plenty too. He sent us some oue
morning by way of a present.

What to do with them we did not know. To give
them away was not polite ; to throw them away was
wasteful ; to eat them was impossible.

Mrs. S. said, " Save them for seed." So we did.

Next day our neighbour sent us a dozen more. We

LIVING IN THE COUNTRY.

109

tbankod the messenger and took them in. Next morn-
ing, another dozen came. It was getting to bo a serious
matter ; so I rose betimes on the following morning,
and when my neighbour's cucumbers came, I filled his
man's basket with some of my own by way of exchange.

This bit of pleasantry was resented by my neighbour,
who told his man to throw them to the hogs. His man
told our girl, and our girl told Mrs. S., and, inconse-
quence, all intimacy between the two families ceased.
The ladies do not speak — even at church.

We had a dumb-waiter in our house. A dumb
waiter is a good thing to have in the country, on account
of its convenience. If you have company, everything
can be sent up from the kitchen without any trouble, and,
if the baby gets to be unbearable, on account of his teeth,
70U can dismiss the complainant, by stuffing him in one
of the shelves, and letting him down upon the help.

To provide for contingencies, we had the floors deaf-
ened. In consequence, you cannot hear anything that is
going on in the story below ; and when you are in the
upper room of the house there might be an election for
the House of Commons in the cellar, and you wouldn't
know it. Therefore, if anyone should break into the
basement, it would not disturb us ; but to please Mrs.
S. I have put stout iron bars in all the lower windows.
Besides, Mrs. S. has bought a rattle — such a rattle as
watchmen carry. This is to alarm our neighbour, who,
upon the signal, is to come to the rescue with his revolver.

He is a rash man, prone to pull trigger first, and
make enquiries afterwards.

One evening, Mrs. S. had retired, and I was busy,
writing, when it struck me a glass of ice-water would be
palatable.

So I took the candle and a pitcher and went down
to the pump. Our pump is in the kitchen. First, I
had to open a bolted door that lets you into the base-
ment-hall, and then I went to the kitchen door, which
proved to be locked. Then I remembered that our girl

LIVING IN THE COUNTRY.

i !

always carried the key to bed with her, and slept with it
under her pillow.

Then I retraced my steps ; bolted the basement door
and went up into the diniog-room.

As is always the case, I found, when I could not get
water, that I was thirstier than I supposed I was. Then
I thought I would wake our girl up. Then I conclud-
ed not to do it. Then I thought of the well, but gave
tliat up on account of its flavour. Then I opened the
closet-doors; there was no water there. And then, I
thought of the dumb waiter !!

The novelty of the idea made me smile. I took out
two of the moveable shelves — stood the pitcher on the
bottom of the dumb waiter — got in myself, with the
lamp — let myself down, until I supposed I was within a
foot of the floor below — and then let go.

We — that is, the dumb waiter and I — came down so
suddenly, that I was shot out of the apparatus as if it
had been a catapult. It broke the pitcher — it extinguished
the lamp, and landed me in the middle of the kitchen
at midnight, with no fire, and the air not much above
zero. The truth is, I had miscalculated the distance of
the descent — instead of falling one foot, I had fallen five.

My first impulse was to ascend by the way I had
come up, but I found that impracticable. Then I tried
the kitchen door — it was locked; I tried to force it
open ; it was made of two-inch stuff, and held its own.

And then I hoisted a window — and there '.vas the
rigid iron bars.

If ever I felt angry at anybody, it was at myself,
for putting up those bars to please Mrs. S. I put them
up, not to keep people in, but to keep people out.

I laid my cheek against the ice-cold barriers, and looked
out at the sky ; not a star was visible — it was as black as
ink overhead. Then I thought of Baron Trenck and
the Pi'isoner of Chillon.

Then I made a noise. I shouted until I was hoarse,
and ruined our preserving kettle with the poker.

LIYINQ IN THE COUNTRY.

Ill

That brought our dogs out in full bark, and between
us we made night hidcouH.

Then I thought I heard a noise, and listened. It wan
Mrs. S. calling to me from the top of the stairs. I tried
to make her hear me, but the confounded dogs united
with howl and growl and bark, so as to drown my voice,
which is naturally plaintive — and tender.

Besides, there were two bolted doors and double
deafened floors between us ; how could she recognise
my voice, even if she did hear it %

Mrs. S. called once or twice and then got frightened.
The next I heard was a sound as if the earth had fallen
in ; by which I undtrstood that Mrs. S. was springing
the rattle !

That called out our neighbour, already wide awake ;
he came to the rescue with a bull terrier, a Newfound-
land pup, a lantern and a revolver.

The moment he saw me at the window, he shot at me,
but, fortunately, he missed me.

I threw myself under the kitchen table and ventured
to expostulate with him, but he would not listin to rea-
son. In the excitement I had forgotten his name, and
that made matters worse.

It was not until he had aroused everybody around —
broken in the basement door with an axe, got into the
kitchen with his beastly savage dogs and shooting-iron,
and seized me by the collar — that he recognised me, and
then —

He wanted me to explain it.

But what kind of explanation could I mrke to him %
I told him he could wait till my mind was composed and
then I would let him understand the whole matter fully.

But he never would have had the particulars from me,
for I do not approve of neighbours that shoot at you,
break in your door, and treat you in your own house as
if you were a convicted felon.

)^fi knows all about it, however, somebody has told
him. Somebody tells everything in our village.

112

ROBIN GOODFBLLOW.

ROBIN GOODFELLOW.

An old Ballad f originally published by the antiquarian
Peckf who attributes it, but without sufficient authority,
to Ben Jonson.

From Oberon in fairy land,

The King of ghosts and shadows there,
Mad Robin I, at his command,

Am sent to view the night-sports here.
What revel rout
Is kept about,
In every corner where I go,

I will o'ersee, and merry be.
And make good sport, with ho, ho, ho !

More swift than lightning can I fly

About this aSry welkin soon,
And, in a minute's space, descry

Each thing that's done below the moon.
There's not a hag
Or ghost shall wag.
Or cry, *' 'Ware goblins ! " where I go ;

But Robin I their feats will spy,
And send them home with ho, ho, ho !

Whene'er such wanderers I meet.

As from their night-sports they trudge home,
With counterfeiting voice I greet.
And call them on with me to roam.
Thro' woods, thro' lakes,
Thro' bogs, thro' brakes \
Or else unseen with them I go,

All in the nick to play some trick,
And frolick it with ho, ho, ho I

ROBIN aOODFELLOW. 113

Sometimes I meet them like a man ;

Sometimes an ox, sometimes a hound ;
And to a horse I turn me can ;

To trip and trot about them round ;
But if, to ride,
My back they stride,
More swift than wind, away I go,

O'er hedge and lands, thro' pools and ponds,
I whirry, laughing, ho, ho, ho !

When lads and lasses merry be,

With possets and with juncates fine,
Unseen of all the company,
I eat their cakes and sip their wine
And to make sport,
I snore and snort ;
And out the candles I do blow ;

The maids I kiss ; they shr.^k, "Who's tbist"
I answer nought, but ho, ho, ho I

Yet now and then, the maids to please,

At midnight I card up their wool •
And while they sleep and take their ease.
With wbeel, to thre ;ds their flax I pull ;'
I grind at mill
Their malt up still ;
I dress their hemp, I spin their tow ;

If any 'wake and would me take,
I wend me, laughing, ho, ho, ho !

When house or hearth doth sluttish lie,
I pinch the maidens black and blue ;
The bedclothes from the bed pull I,
And lay them all uncovered too.
'Twixt sleep and wake
I do them take.
And on the key -cold floor them throw ,

If out they cry, then forth I fly,
And loudly laugh out, ho, ho, ho !

r:|

114 ROBIN aOODPELLOW.

When any need to borrow aupjht,

We lend them what they do require,
And for the use demand we nought —
Our own is all we do desire.
If to repay
They do delay,
Abroad amongst them then I go,

And night by night I them affright,
With pinchings, dreams and ho, ho, ho I

When lazy queans have nought to do

But study how to cheat and lie,,
To make debate and mischief too,
^ 'Twixt one another secretly,
I mark their gloze,
And it disclose
To them whom they have wronged so 5;

When I have done, I get me goae.
And leave them scolding, ho, ho, ho !

When men do traps and engines set

In loopholes wh< r« the vermin creep,
Who from their folds and houses get

Their ducks and geese, and lambs and sheep^
I spy the gin,
And '^nter in,
And seem a vermin taken so ;

But when they there approach me n 3as,
I leap out, laughing ho, ho, ho 1

By wells and rills, in meadows green,
We nightly dance in heyday guise.
And to our fairy king and queen

We chant our moonlight minstrelsies.
When larks 'gin sing,
Away we fling.
And babes newborn steal as we go.
And elf in bed we leave instead ;
Then wend us, laughing, ho, ho, ho !

THE BALL-BOOM BELLES.

115

From hag-bred Merlin's time have I
Thus nightly revelled to and fro,
And for my pranks men call me by
The name of Robin Goodfellow.

Elves, ghosts and sprites,
Who haunt by nights —
The hags and goblins do me know,

And beldams old my feats have told .'
So vale / vale I ho, ho, ho !

leep.

THE BALL-ROOM BELLES.

(From " Fun.")

See the ball-room full of belles.
Merry belles ;
What an evening of flirtation their meriimeut foretells.
How they chatter, chatter, chatter,

Through the mazy Mabel valse.
Mothers glancing, but what matter !
Pleasant partners how they flatter,

Never dreaming girls are false
When they sigh, sigh, sigh,
And pretend that they would die —
But they dream of expectations of the golden -studded
swells ;

Hear the belles, belles, belles, belles,
Belles, belles, belles,
Hear the laughing and the chaffing of the belles.

See the richly dowered belles,
Golden belles,
How they cotton to the stupid-headed swells.

With what grace and matchless art ,

They can play their pretty part
For the quartered coats of arms 1

116

THE BAIL-BOOM BELLES.

t, ;! i

Chaperuaes,
How they advertise the charms
Of their darlings, — with au eyer ready alarm's

Undertones !
Oh ! and then these high-born swells,
What a want of education their conversation tells.

How it sells,
How it dwells
Upon bathos ! how it telln
Of the lesson that impels
All the sighing and the lying
Of the belles, belles, belles.
C (he belles, belies, belles, belles,
Belles, be'les, belles.
All the glancing and the dancing of the belles.

Hear the loudly-talking belles,
Prancing belles.
How we sorrowfully gaze upon their costume, siace ittelb
Of the latest Paris fashion !
And the dark eyes how they flash on
Every simple-looking girl !
They can only whirl, whir'
To the tune.
With a noisy ezplanation of their doings in the Row,
With a careless declaration that the ball is very slow^
Dancing round, round, round,
To the meny music's sound.
Never pausing for a breath,
Tho' their partners, pale as death,
Look and gasp as if they'd fall inlx> a swoon.
Oh, you belles, belles, belles,
What a tale your muslin tells ;

And your hair.
How you sneer and pick to pieces
Major Maberly's six nieces.
How you flirt upon the flfty-seventh stair ;
Yet the people guess at last,

FACIAL ANOMALIES.

117

By your laughing,
And your chaflfing,
/our vocabulary's fast,
And the ear distinctly tells
You are slangy,
And slap-bangy,
Prom your joking with the swells,
And their easy conversation with the loudly-talking
belles,

With the belles, -
With the belles, belles, belles, belles,
Belles, belles, belles.
From the grinning and the dinning of the belles I

FACIAL ANOMALIES.

Dr. Karl Mvller.

I was once sitting in a cool underground saloon at
Leipsic, while, without, people were ready to die from
the heat, when a new guest entered, and took a seat op-
posite to me. The sweat rolled in great drops down his
face, and he was kept busy with his handkerchief, till at
last he found relief in the exclamation, " Fearfully hot ! '*
I watched him attentively as he called for a cool drink,
for I expected every moment that he would fall from his
chair in a fit of apoplexy. The man must have noticed
that I was observing him, for he turned towards me sud-
denly, saying, '^I am a curious sort of person, am I not? "
" Why ? " I asked. ** Because I perspire only on the
right side.'' And so it was ; his right cheek and the
right half of his forehead were as hot as fire, while the
left side of his face bore not a trace of perspiration. I had
never seen the like, and in my astonishment was about
to enter into conversation with him regarding this phy-
siological curiosity, when his neighbour on the left broke

; .

118

FAOIAL ANOMALIES.

in with the remark, " Then we are the opposites and
counterparts of each other, for I perspire only on the
left side." This, too, was the feet. So the pair took
seats opposite to each other, and shook hands like two
men who had just found each his other half. " Well !
this makes an end of natural history," exclaimed another
guest, who hitherto had quietly gazed on this strange
performance as though it were a play ; and every one
that had overheard what was said came to look at this
novel wonder.

" This makes an end of natural history 1 " This ex-
pression excited me to laughter, and involuntarily I ex-
claimed : ^' No, sir, this is just the beginning of natural
history ; for Nature has many strange caprices even as
regards her symmetry." I then mentioned the case of a
man I had known in my boyhood, who, Janus-like, had
two totally different faoes — on one side laughing, on the
other crying. Naturally I dreaded this strange double
face with its one side smooth, plump, and comely, like a
girl's cheek, while the other side was all soarred by the
small-pox. This side of his face denoted churlishness ;
and, while the other side wore a smile, this boded mis-
chief. In this instance disease had been unsymme-

Seated again in a different place, I mentioned to a
friend, a physiologist, the wonderful anomaly I had seen.
"Why,"' said he, "only look at the young Assessor von
Th6, yonder ; he will show you an asymmetry such as you
will not meet with every day." Sure enough, this man
had a nose which was situated by no means in the mid-
dle of his face. I had seen this young man often before,
but had never clearly made out what it was in his face
that impressed me. Now I saw it at once ; it was the
man's nose ; and since then I have come to see that only
a minority of mankind have their noses right in the mid-
dle of their faoes ; and most of us have our noses very
much out of place without suspecting it.

But the eyes I Surely, these windows of the soul can

FACIAL ANOHAtltJS.

119

never be charged ynth asymmetiy ! I used to think
nature had too correct an SQsthetic sense to do such a
thing as that. But I know two persons, one of whom, a
man, has one eye brown and one blue ; the other of them,
a woman, has one eye blue and one black — her hair
being brown. In the face of these facts, what are we to
think of the eye as tht " mirror of the soul ? " Here,
one eye threatens and flashes, and the other is as mild
as the spring-time, the while only one heart beats and
throbs in the bosom. Nay, the heart itself is not always
in its own place ; it sometimes occupies the right side of
the chest. But it is of the eyes I was speaking and not
of the heart. I do not propose to discuss the whole
question of the colour of the eyes, down to albinism ; I
would simply observe that, as seen through them, the
world wears a very diflFerent aspect for different indivi-
duals — a circumstance which, however, has nothing to
do with symmetry. Some eyes see only complementary
colours, e. g. red instead of green ; others see no colour
at all, everything appearing to them like copperplate
engraving.

But colour, too, has its caprices, as shown in the hair.
I once asked an acquaintance why he did not allow his
moustache to grow. His reply was, because on one side it
was light brown, and on the other white ; and he bade me
look at his eyebrows, where I would find at least a par-
tial Confirmation of what he said. In fact, my friend had
not stated the whole truth, for the dualism was faintly
discernible, even in the hair of his head. When a boy,
I knew a whole family, the younger members of which
had each on the poll one or two locks of white hair. It
was but yesterday I discovered among my neighbours, a
descendant of Abraham having black, curly hair, but
blue eyes and light eyebrows and moustache — the latter
being as becoming to its handsome wearer as if his hair
had been brown. Clearly a reversion from Western race-
mixture to the oriental type ! I am confident that similar
anomalies ought often be noted if the attention were
directed to them.

120

FACIAL ANOMALIES.

!»!

IH I

(

There are many other facial anomalies which fail to
attract attention, because we have grown accustomed to
them. We should expect the convex cast of one side of
the face to fit, line for line, into the concave cast of the
other ; but it is doubtful if there is to be anywhere found
one single head of this ideal description. Neither the
contour of the cheeks, nor the lines of the countenance,
are the same on both sides, and they are all less so, be-
cause every one unconsciously tends to perform many
unilateral facial movements, which in time cause a
divergence between the two sides of the face. Besides,
the head, projecting, as it does, freely into air, is
more dependent than we imagine on wind and weather.
Suppose a person were to sit cocRtantly at a window, turn-
ing one side to the cooler atmosphere out of doors, and
the other towards a hot stove — the result would be a
{wofold growth of the facial muscles. One side of the
face might become rounded, the other flat or concave ;
and though such faces are not unfrequent, we do not no-
tice the anomaly, simply because we are accustomed to
it. In the Lapp we have a good illustration of this un-
equal development. Just as the trees of his native land
are stunted, so, too, his features become monstrous, ir-
regular and one-sided ; the frontal bones are forced, as
though by spasm, down on the maxillaries, producing
the most singular combinations and contortions of the
features. A not uncommon form of asymmetry, in more
favoured lands, is the presence of a dimple on one cheek,
while the other has no sueh indentation, or but a very
faint one. In such cases the face has, as it were, a sum-
mer and a winter side, just as the apple, which is round
and ruddy on its summer side, but on the shade-side
flattened and wan.

We are too much inclined to regard these phenomena
of asymmetry as merely accidental, whereas they are in
fact the result of a universal law. Take, for instance,
the case where the moustache is longer and thicker on
one side of the lip than on the other ; the law is every-

WHICH '{

121

ir-

where the same — nothing is like anything else, as Goothe
has said. Throughout the entire organic world, and
even down to the inorganic creation, down to the world
of crystal.}, nothing that wears a specific form attains
the full perfection of that form. 1 once requested a
friend of mine, a mathematician, to reduce to a single
formula the curves of an ivy-leaf. He spent weeks in
measuring and calculating, but at last gave up the un-
dertaking as an impossibility — no leaf was like another.
Indeed, were Nature's forms ideally perfect, the result
would be primness rather than beauty. Observe how
powerfully the expression of the face is affected by the
asymmetry between the upper and lower rows of the teeth.
The position of the eyes at equal distances on each side
of the median line of the face — the nose might seem to be
indispensable for beauty, and yet how rarely are the eyes
placed with perfect symmetry ! The wonder is that these
asymmetries of the face should be, after all, so slight as
they are, considering how serious are the impediments
placed in its way by the requirements of bodily growth.
That the two halves of our body should grow so uniformly
as they do, except in a very few instances, is the best
evidence of the absolute unity of this i >rm of organism,
which is based on the vertebral column and developed
along with it.

WHICH?

" Which shall it be? which shall it be?'
I looked at John — John looked at me
(Dear, patient John, who loves me yet
As well as tho* my locks were jet).
And when I found that I must speak.
My voice seemed strangely low and weak
" Tell me again what Robert said ? "
And then I list'ning bent my head.
This is his letter:

122 WHICH ?

" I will give
A house and land while you shall lire,
If, in return, from out your seven,
One child to me for aye is given."

I looked at John's old garments worn,

I thought of all that John had borne

Of poverty, and work and care.

Which I, though willing, could not spare I

Of seven hungry mouths to feed,

Of seven little children's need,

And then of this.

" Come, John," said I,
" We'll choose among them as they lit
Asleep 4" 80 walking hand in hand,
Dear John and I surveyed our band.

First to the cradle lightly stepped.
Where Lilian, the baby slept ;
Her damp curls lay like gold alight,
A glory 'gainst the pillow white,
Softly her father stooped to lay
His rough hand down in loving way.
When dream or whisper made her stir,
And huskily he said, **Not her — not her."

We stooped beside the trundle-bed.
And one long ray of lamp-light shed
Athwart the boyish faces there
In sleep so pitiful and fair ;
I saw on Jamie's rough, red cheek
A tear undried. Ere John could speak,
" He'Vi but a baby, too," said I,
And kissed him as we hurried by.
Pale, patient Robby's angel face
Still in his sleep bore suffering's trace.
" No, for a thousand crowns, not him,"
He whispered, while our eyes were dim.

THE CURATE S WALK.

Poor Dick ! aaA Dick ! our wayward soiij

Turbulent, recklefls, idle one —

Could he be spared 1 " Nay, He who gave

Bids us befriend him to the grave ;

Only a mother's heart can be

Patient enough for such as he ;

And so," said John, " I would not dare

To send him from her bedside prayer."

Then stole we softly up above,

And knelt by Mary, child of love,

" Perhaps for her 'twould better be,"

I said to John. Quite silently

He lifted up a curl that lay

Across her cheek in wilful way.

And shook his head. " Nay, love, not thee."

The while my heart beat audibly,

Only one more, our eldest lad,

Trusty and truthful, good and glad —

So like his father. " No, John, no^

I cannot, will not, let him go ! "

And so we wrote, in courteous way,
We could not give one child away ;
And afterward toil lighter seemed.
Thinking of that of which we dreamed.
Happy in truth that not one face
We missed from its accustomed place ;
Thankful to work for all the seven.
Trusting then to One in Heaven !

123

THE CURATE'S WALK.

Thackeray.

[When we were associated in remembrance of the late Mr.
Douglas Jerrold, he delivered a lectvre in London, in the course
of which he read his best contribution to Punch, describing the
grown-up cares of a poor family of young children. No one hear*

'll I

i 11

i I ( s

124

THE CURATES WALK.

ing him could have doul)ted his natural gentlenegR, or his thorou^'h-
iy unaflfectwl, manly Hjrmpathy with the weak and lowly. He read
tuo paper most pathetically, and with a Bimplitnty of tenderness
that certainly moved one of his audience to tears.— C%ar/e< JJickena*
In Memoriam of Thackerai/.]

It was the third out of the four beH-buttons at the
door at which my friend the curate pulled ; and the
summons was answered after a brief interval.

I must premise that the house before which we stopped
was No. 14 8edan Buildings, leading out of Great Guelph
Street, i)?ttingen Street, Culloden Street, Minden
Square j and Upper and Lower Caroline Row form part
of the same quarter — a very queer and solemn quarter
to walk in, I think, and one which always suggests Field-
ing's novels to me. I can fancy Captain Booth strutting
out of the very door at which we were standing, in
tarnished lace, with his hat cocked over his eye, and his
hand on his hanger; or Lady Bellaston's chair and
bearers coming swinging down Great Guelph Street,
which we have just quitted to enter Sedan Buildings.

Sedan Buildings is a little flaggy square, ending ab-
ruptly with the huge walls of B' ^ Brewery. The
houses, by many degrees smaller than the large decayed
tenements in Great Guelph Street, are still not uncom-
fortable, although shabby. There are brass plates on
the doors ; two on some of them ; or simple names, as
" Lunt," " Padgemore," &c. (as if no other statement
about Lunt and Padgemore were necessary at all), under
the bells. There are pictures of mangles before two of
the houses, and a gilt arm with a hammer sticking out
from one. I never saw a goldbeater. What sort of a
being is he that he always sticks out his ensign in dark,
mouldy, lonely, dreary, but somewhat respectable places 1
What powerful Mulciberian fellows they must bo, those
goldbeaters, whacking and thumping with huge mallets
at the precious metals all day. I wonder what is gold-
beaters' skin ? and do they get impregnated with the
metal ? and are their great arms under their clean shirts
on Sundays all gilt and shining ?

THE CURATES WALK.

125

It is a quiot, kind, respoctablo place somehow, in spite
of its sbabbiness. Two pewter pints and a jolly little half
pint are hanging on the railings in perfect confidence,
basking iu what little sun comes into the court. A group
of small children are making an ornament of oyster-shells
in one corner. Who has that half pint ? Is it for one
of these small ones, or for some delicate female recom-
mended to take beer ? The windows in the Court, upon
some of which the sun glistens, are not cracked, and
pretty clean ; it is only the black and dreary look be-
hind which gives them a poverty-stricken appearance.
No curtain or blinds. A bird-cage and very few pots of
flowers here and there. This — with the exception of a
milkman talking to a whitey-brown woman, made up of
bits of flannel and strips of faded chintz and calico, seem-
ingly, and holding a long bundle which cried— this was
all I saw in Sedan Buildings while we were waiting un-
til the door should open.

At last the door was opened, and by a porteress so
small that I wondered how she ever could have lifted
up the latch. SI c bobbed a courtesy, and smiled at the
curate, whose face gleamed with benevolence, too, in re-
ply to that salutation.

" Mother not at home 1 " says Frank Whitestock, pat-
ting the child on the head.

" Mother's out charring, sir," replied the girl ; '' but
please to walk up, sir." And she led the way up one
and two pair of stairs to that apartment in the house
which is called the second-floor front ; in which was the
abode of the charwoman.

There were two young persons in the room, of the re-
spective ages of eight and five, I should think. She oi
five years of age was hemming a duster, being perched
on a chair at the table in the middle of the room. The
elder, of eight, politely wiped a chair with a cloth for
the accommodation of the good-natured curate, and came
and stood between his knees, immediately alongside of
his umbrella, which also reposed there, and which she by
no means equalled in height

126

THE OU&ATE'S walk.

" These childrea attend my school at St. Timothy's/'
Mr. Whitestock said, "and Betsy keeps the house
v»Liie her mother is from home."

Anything cleaner or neater than this house it is im-
possible to conceive. There was a big bed, which must
have been the resting place of the whole of this little
family. There were three or four religious prints on the
walls ; besides two framed and glazed, of Prince Cobourg
and the Princess Charlotte. There were brass candle-
sticks and a lamb on the chimney-piece, and a cupboard in
the corner, decorated with near half a dozen plates, yellow
bowls and crockery. And on the table there were two
or three bits of dry bread and a jug with water, with
which these three young people (it being then nearly
three o'clock) were about to take their meal called tea.

That Little Betsy, who looks so small, is nearly ten
years old ; and has been a mother ever since the age of
about five. I mean to say that her own mother having to
go out on her charring operations, Betsy assumes com-
mand of the room during her parent's absence ; has nursed
her sisters from babyhood up to the present time ; keeps
order over them, and the house clean as you see it ^ and
goes out occasionally and transacts the family purchases
of bread, moist sugar and mother's tea. They dine
upon bread ; tea and breakfast upon bread when they
have it, or go to bed without a morsel. Their holiday
is Sunday, which they spend at church and Sunday
school. The younger children scarcely ever go out, save
on that day, but sit sometimes in the sun, which comes
in pretty pleasantly ; sometimes blue ir the cold, for
they very seldom see a fire except to heat irons by, when
mother has a job of linen to get up. Father was a
journeyman bookbinder, who died four years ago, and is
buried among thousands and thousands of the nameless
dead who lie crowding the black churchyard of St.
Timothy's parish.

The curate evidently took especial pride in Victoria,
the youngest of these three children of the charwoman,

THB OURATE's walk.

127

and caused Betsy to fetch a book which lay at the win>
dow, and bade her read. It was a Missionary Register,,
which the curate opened haphazard, and this baby be-
gan to read out in an exceedingly clear and resolute
voice about —

" The Island of Raritongo is the least frequented of
all the Caribbean Archipelago, Wankyfungo is at four
leagues S.E. by E., and the peak of the Crater of
Shuagnahua is distinctly visible. The * Irascible ' en-
tered Raritongo Bay on the evening of Thursday, 29th,
and the next day the Rev. Mr. Flethers, Mrs. Flethers
and their nine children, and Shangpooky, the native
converted at Cacabawgo, landed and took up their resi-
dence at the house of Ratatatua, the principal chief, who
entertained us with yams and a pig," &c., &c., &o.

" Raritongo, Wankyfungo, Archipelago." I protest
this little woman read off each of these long words with
an ease which perfectly astonished me. Many a
lieutenant in Her Majesty's Heavies would be puzzled
with words half the length. Whitestock, by way of
reward for her scholarship, gave her another pat on the
head, having received which present with a courtesy, she
went and put the book back into the window, and
clambering back into the chair, resumed the hemming
of the blue duster.

I suppose it was the smallness of these people, as well
as their singular, neat and tidy behaviour, which inter-
ested me so. Here were three creatures not so high as
the table, with all the labours, duties and cares of life
upon their little shoulders, working and doing their duty
like the biggest of my readers ; regular, laborious, cheer-
ful — content with small pittances — practising a hundred
virtues of thrift and order.

Elizabeth, at ten years of age, might walk out of this
houE3 and take the command of a small establishment. She
can wash, get up linen, cook, make purchases, and buy
bargains. If I were ten years old and three feet in
height, I would marry her, and we would go and live in

128

TH£ curate's walk.

. I

a cupboard, and share the little half-pint pot for dinner I
xVlttlia, eight years of age, though inferior in accompliah-
ments to her sister, i» her equal in size, and can wash,
scrub, hem, go errands, put her hand to the dinner, and
make herself generally useful. In a word, she is fit to be
a little housemaid, and to make everything but the beds,
which she cannot as yet reach up to. As for Victoria's
qualifications, they have been mentioned before. I
wonder whether the Princess Alice can read off
^'Baritongo," &c., as glibly as this surprising little animal.

I asked the curate's permission to make these young
ladies a present, and accordingly produced the sum of
sixpence to be divided amongst the three. *' What will
you do with it ? " I said, laying down the coin.

They answered, all three at once, and in a little chorus,
" We'll give it to mother." This verdict caused the dis-
bursement of another sixpence, and it was explained to
them that the sum was for their own private pleasures,
and each was called upon to declare what she would pur-
chase.

Elizabeth says, " I would like two penn'orth of meat,
if you please, sir."

' Melia : " Ha-porth of treacle, three-farthings worth of
milk, and the same of fresh bread."

Victoria, speaking very quick, and gasping in an agi-
tated manner : ** Ha'pny — aha — orange, and ha'pny —
aha — apple — aha — treacle, and — and " — here her imag-
ination failed her. She did not know what to do with
the rest of the money.

At this 'Melia actually interposed : " Suppose she and
Victoria subscribed a farthing apiece out of their money,
so that Betsey might have a quarter of a pound of meat?"
She added that her sister wanted it, and that it would do
her good. Upon my word, she made the proposal and
the calculations in an instant, and all of her own accord.
And before we left them, Betsey had put on the queerest
little black shawl and bonnet, and had a mug and a bas-
ket ready to receive the purchases in question.

PYRAMUS AND TIIISBE

120

Sedan Buildings has a particularly friendly look to me
since that day. Peace be with you, O thrifty, kindly,
simple, loving little uiaidens ! May their voyage in life
prosper ! Think of the great journey before them, and
the little cook-bont manned by babies venturing over the
great stormy ocean.

PYRAMUS AND THISBE.

John G. Saxe ; an American writer of humorous poetry.

Born in 1815.

Tnis tragical tale, which, they say, is a true one,

Is old ; but the manner is wholly a new one.

One Ovid, a writer of some reputation.

Has told it before in a tedious narration ;

In a style, to be sure, of remarkable fulness,

But wtiioh nobody reads on account of its dulncsa.

young Peter Pyramus — I call him Peter,
Not for the sake of the rhyme or the motre ;
But merely to make the name completer —
For Peter lived in the oldon times,
And in one of the worst of pagan climes
That flourish now in classical fame,
Long before either noble or boor
Had such a thing as a Christian name —
Young Peter, then, was a nice young beau
As any 3K)ung lady would wish to know ;
In years, I ween, he was rather green,
That is to say, he was just eighteen —
A trifle too short, a shaving too lean,
But " a nice young man" as ever was seen,
And fit to dance with a May-day queen !

Now Peter loved a beautiful girl
As over ensnared the heart of an earl,
I

130

PYRAMUS AND THISBE.

'^1,;'

In the magical trap of an auburn curl, —

A little Miss Thisbe, who lived next door,

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

With a wall between them and nothing more, —

Those double dwellings were common of yore,)

And they loved each other, the legends say,

In that very beautiful, bountifiil way.

That every young maid and every young blade

Are wont to do before they grow staid,

And learn to love by the laws of trade.

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

A little impediment checked their joy,

And gave them awhile, the deepest annoy :

For some good reason, which history cloaks,

The match didn't happen to please the old folks !

So Thisbe's father and Peter's mother

Began the young couple to worry and bother

And tried their innocent passion to smother.

By keeping the lovers from seeing each other I

But who ever heard of a marriage deterred,

Or even deferred.

By any contrivance so vwy absurd

As scolding the boy, and caging the bird ?

Now Peter, who was not discouraged at all

By obstacles such as the timid appal.

Contrived to discover a hole in the wall.

Which wasn't so thick but removing a brick

Made a passage — though rather provokingly small.

Through this little chink the lover could greet her.

And secrecy made their courting the sweetei.

While Peter kissed Thisbe, and Thisbe kissed Petef-

For kisses, like folks with diminutive souls,

Will manage to creep through the smallest of holeg I

'Twas here that the lovers, intent upon love,

Laid a nice little plot to meet at a spot

Near a mulberry-tree in a neipchbouring grove ;

fYRAMUS AND THISBE.

131

her,
Peter-
holes 1

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

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

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

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

MORAL.

Young gentleman ! — pray recolieot, if you pleasoi

132

THE BOY LIFE OF CHAI^LES D«01L£NS.

Not to make appointments near mulberry- trees.
Should your mistress be missing, it shows a weak head
To be stabbing yourself, till you know she is dead.
Young ladies ! — you shouldn't go strolling about
When your anxious mammas don't know you are out ;
And remember that accidents often befall
From kissing young fellows through holes in the wall 1

THE BOY-LIFE OF CHABLE8 DICKENS.

From Forster'i Life of Dickens.

James yjamert, the relative who had lived with us in
Bayham Street, seeing how I was employed from day to
day, and knowing whst our domestic circumstances then
were, proposed that I should go into the blacking ware-
house, to be as useful as I could, at a salary, I think, of
six shillings a week. I ami not clear whether it was six
or seven. I am inclined to believe, from my uncertainty
on this head, that it was six at first and seven afterwards.
At any rate, the oflFer was accepted very wiUiagly by my
father and mother, and on a Monday morning I went to
the blacking warehouse to begin my business life.

It is wonderful to me how I could have been so easily
cast away at such an age. It is wonderful to me that,
even after my descent into the poor little drudge I had
been sbce we came to London, no one had compassion
enough on me — a child of singular abilities, quick, eager,
delicate, and soon hurt, bodily or mentally — to sugges'
that something might have been spared, as certainly it
might have been, to place me at any common school. Our
friends, I take it, were tired out. No one made a sign.
My father and mother were quite satisfied. They could
hardly have been more so if I had been twenty years of
age, distinguished at a grammar-school, and going to
Cambridge.

PHB BOY LIFE OF CHARLES DICKENS.

133

The blacking warehouse was the last house on the left-
hand side of the way, at old Hungerford Stairs. It was
a crazy, tumble-down old house, abutting of course on the
river, and literally overrun with rats. Its wainscoted
rooms, and its rotten floors and staircase, and the old gray
rats swarming down in the cellars, &nd the sound of their
squeaking and scuffling coming up the stairs at all times,
and the dirt and decay of the place, rise up visibly before
me, as if I were there again. The counting-house was
on the first floor, looking over the coal-barges and the
river. There was a recess in "it, in which I was to sit and
work. My work was to cover the pots of paste-blacking ;
first, with a piece of oil-paper, and ^eo with a piece of
blue paper ; to tie them round with a string, and then
to clip the paper close and neat all round, until it looked
like a pot of ointment from an apothecary's shop. When
i certain number of grosses of pots had attained tbis
pitch of perfection, I was to paste on ek^h a printed label,
md then go on again with more pots. Two or three
ither boys were kept at similar duty down stairs on
limilar wages. One of them camo up, in a ragged apron
md a paper cap, on the first Monday moaning, to show
ne the trick of using and t;ing the knot. His name was
Bob Fagm, and I took the liberty of using his name long
ifterwards in Oliver Twist.

Our relative had kinily uranged to teach me some-
thing in the dinner-houi — from twelve to one, I think it
^as, eve»y day. But an arrangement so incompatible
^ith eounting-house business soon died away from no
fault of his or mine ; and, for the same reason, my small
work-table, and my grosses of pots, my paper, string,
scissors, paste-pot, and labels, by little and little, vanished
out of the recess in the counting-house, and kept company
with the other small work-tables, grosses of pots, papers,
string, scissors and paste pots, down stairs. It was not
long before Bob Fagin and I, and another b9y, whose name
was Paul Green, but who was earnestly believed to have
been christened Poll (a belief which I transferred, long

Ifl^fi '

! ' n

^^^Hi

; "

134

THE BOT-LIF£ OF CHARLES DIOKENS.

afterwards, to Mr. Sweedlepipe, in Martin Chuzzlewit)^
worked generally side by side. Bob Fagin was an orphan,
«nd lived with his brother-i.i-law, a waterman. Poll
Green's father had the additional distinction of being a
fireman, and was employed at Drury Lane Theatre j
where another relation of Poll's, I think his little sister,
did imps in the pantomimes

My mother and my brothers anl sisters were still en-
camped with a young servant girl from Chatham work-
house, in the two parlours in the emptied house in
Gower Street. It was a long way to go and return within
the dinner hour, and usually I either carried my dinner
with me or went and bought it at some neighbouring
shop. In the latter case, it was commonly a saveloy and
a penny loaf;' sometimes, a fourpenny plate of beef from
a cook's shop ; sometimes, a plate or bread and cheese,
and a glass of beer, from a miserable old public-house
over the way — the Swan, if I remember right, or the
Swan and something else that I have forgotten. Once, I
remember tucking my own bread (which I had brought
from home in the morning) under my arm, wrapped up
in a piece of paper like a book, and going into the best
dining-room in Johnson's alamode beef-shop in Charles
Court, Drury Lane, and magnificently ordering a small
plate of alamode oeof to eat with it. Whiit the waiter
thought of sueh a strange little appaiition, coming in all
alone, I don't know ; but I can see him n<jw staring at
me as I ate my dinner, and bringing up the other waiter
to look. I gave him a halfpenny, and I wish, now, that
he hadn't taken it

The key of the house was sent back to the landlord,
who was very glad to get it, and I (small Cain that I
was, except that I had never done harm to any one)
was handed over as a lodger to ^ reduced old lady, long
known to our family, in Little College Street, Camden-
town, who took children in to board, and had once done
80 at Brighton \ and who, with a few alterations and

THE BOY-LIFE OF CHARLES DICKENS.

135

embellishments, unoonr^ciously began to sit for Mrs.
Pipchin, in Domhey, when she took in me.

Sundays Fanny and I passed in the prison.* I wa
in the academy in Tenterden Street, Hanover Square, at
nine o'clock in the morning, to fetch her ; and we walked
back there together at night.

I was so young and childish, and so little qualified — how
could I be otherwise ?— to undertake the whole charge of
my existence, that, on going to Hungerford Stairs of a
morning, I could not resist the stale pastry put out at half-
price on trays at the confectioaers' doors at Tottenham
Court Road ; and I often spent io that the money I
should have kept for my dinner. Then I went without
my dinner, or bought a roll or a slice of pudding. There
were two pudding shops between which I was divided,
according to my finances. One was in a court, close to
St. Martin's Church (at the back of the church), which
is now removed altogether. The pudding at that shop
was made with currants, and was rather a special pud-
ding, but was dear, two penn'orth not being larger than
a penn'orth of more ordinary pudding. A good shop
for the latter was in the Strand, somewhere near where
the Lowther Arcade is now. It was a stout, hale pud-
ding, heavy and flabby, with great raisins in it, stuck in
whole, at great distances apart. It came up hot at
about noon every day; and many and many a day did I
dine off it.

We had half an hour, I think, for tea. When I had
money enough, I used to go to a coffee-shop and have
half a pint of coffee and a slice of bread and-butter.
When I had no money, I took a turn in Covent Garden
market and stared at th** pine-apples. The coffee-shops
to which I most r sorted were one in Maiden Lane, one
in a court (non-ei. Istent now) close to Hungerford Mar-
ket, and one in St. Martin's Lane, of which I only recollect
that it stood near the church, and that in the door there

• Where his father was a prisoner for debt.

■1

'. i

136

OUEFEW MUST NOT KINO TO-NIQHT.

*l 1

was an oval glass plate, with "coflfee-room " pniDted on
it, addressed towards the street. If I ever find mysell
in a very different kind of coffee-room now, but where
there is such an inscription on glass, and read it back-
ward on the wrong side " moor-eeffoc," as I often used
to do then in a dismal reverie, a shock goes through my
blood.

I know I do not exaggerate, unconsciously and unin-
tentionally, the scantiness of my resources and the diffi-
eulties of my life. I know that if a shilling or so were
given me by any one, I spent it in a dinner or a tea. I
know that I worked from morning to night with common
men and boys, a shabby child. I know that I tried, but
ineffectually, not to anticipate my money, and to make
it last the week through, by putting it away in a drawer
I had in the counting house, wrapped in six little par-
cels, each parcel containing the same amount, and la-
belled with a different day. I know that I have louoged
about the streets insufficiently and unsatisfactoi ily fed.
I know that but for the mercy of God I might easily
have been, for any care that was taken of me, a little
robber or a little vagabond.

CURFEW MUST NOT RING TO-NIGHT.

England's sun was setting o'er the hills so far away^

Filled the land with misty beauty at the close of one sad
day;

And the last rays kiss'd the forehead of a man and
maiden fair —

He with step so slow and weary ; she with sunny float-
ing hair ;

He with bowed head, sad and thoughtful ; she with lips
so cold and white,

Struggled to keep back the murmur, " Curfew must not
ring to-night."

OURPBW MUST NOT RING TO-NIGHT.

137

" Sexton," Bossio's white lips faltered, pointing to the

prison old,
With its walls so tall and gloomy, walls so dark and

damp and cold,
" I've a lover in that prison, doomed this very night to

die
At the ringing of the Curfew, and no earthly help is

ni^'h ;
Cromwell will not come till sunset," and her face grew

strangely white,
And she spoke in husky whispers — " Curfe*? must not

ring to-night."

" Bessie," calmly spoke the sexton— every word pierced

her young heart
Like a thousand gleaming arrows — like a deadly poisoned

dart :
" Long years I've rang the Curfew from that gloomy,

shadowed tower ;
Every evening just at sunset it has tolled the twilight

hour ;
I have done my duty ever, tried to do it just and right ;
Now I'm old I will not miss it ; girl, the Curfew rings

to-night."

Wild her eyes and pale her features, stern and white her

thoughtful brow.
And within her heart's deep centre Bessie made a solemn

vow ;
She had listened while the judges read, without a tear

or sigh,
" At the ringing of the Curfew, Basil Underwood must

die."
And her breath came fast and faster, and her eyes grew

large and bright —
One low murmur, scarcely spoken — " Curfew must not

ring to-night ! "

'■' t

138

OURFEW MUST NOT RING TO-NIQHT.

fi:

■ ■

iiS

She with light step bounded forward, sprang within the

old church door.
Lefl the old man coming slowly, paths he'd trod so ofl

before ;
Not one moment paused the maiden, but with cheek and

brow aglow,
Staggered up the glooio^r tower where the bell swung to

and fro ;
Then she climbed the slimy ladder, dark, without one

ray of light.
Upward still, her pale lips saying, *^ Curfcw shall not

ring to-night 1"

She has reached the topmost ladder, o'er her hangs the

great dark bell.
And the awful gloom beneath her, like the pathway down

to hell ;
See, the ponderous tongue is swinging, 'tis the hour of

Curfew now —
And the sight has chilled her bosom, stopped her breath

and paled her brow.
Shall she let it ring ? No, never 1 her eyes flash with

sudden light.
And she springs and grasps it firmly — " Curfew shall

not ring to-night."

Out she bv.ung, far out, the city seemed a tiny speck be-
low ;

There, 'twixt heaven and earth suspended, as the bell
swung 10 and fro ;

And the half-deaf sexton ringing (years he had not
heard the bell);

And he thou<^ht the twilight Curfew rang young Basil's
funeral knell ;

Still the maiden, clinging firmly, cheek and brow, too,
pale and white.

Still her frightened heart's wild beating — '* Curfew shall
not ring to-night I "

THE MAD ENOINBIR.

139

It was o'er — the bell ceased swaying, and the maiden

stepped one^ more
Firmly on the damp old ladder where, for a hundred

years before,
Human foot had not been planted ; and what this night

had done
Should be told long ages after — as the rays of setting

sun
Light the sky with mellow beauty, and aged sires with

heads of white
Tell the children why the Curfew did not ring that one

sad night

O'er the distant hills came Cromwell ; Bessie saw him,

and her brow.
Lately white with sickening horror, glows with sudden

beauty now ;
At his feet she told her story, showed her hands all

bruised and torn ;
And her sweet young face so haggard, with a look so

sad and worn.
Touched his heart with sudden pity — lit his eyes with

misty light ;
" Go 1 your iover lives," cried Cromwell: " Curfew shall

not ring to-nigh t."

THE MAD ENGINEER.

Mv train left Dantzic in the morning generally about
eight o'clock : but once a week we had to wait for the
arrival of the steamer from Stockholm. It was the
morning of the steamer's arrival that I came down from
the hotel, and found that my engineer bad been so
seriously iniured that he could not perform his work.
A railway carriage had run over him, and broken one of
his legs. I went immediately to the engine-house to

fcitjiiiiiiiritiVitffWiiii

i J

140

THE MAD ENGINEER.

procure another engineer, for I knew there were three or
four in reserve there, but I was disappointed. I in-
quired for Westphal, but was informed that he had gone
to Sreegen to see his mother. Gondolphu had been sent
to Konigsberg on the road. But where was Mayne?
He had leave of absence for two days, and had gone no
one knew whither.

Hero was a fix. I heard the puffing of the steamer,
and the passengers would be on hand in fifteen minutes.
I ran to the guards and asked them if they knew where
there was au engineer, but they did not. I then went
to the &*emen, mid asked them if any one of them felt
competent to run the engine to Bromberg. No one
dared to attempt it, The distance was nearly one hun-
dred miles. What was to be done 1

The steamer stopped at the wharf, and those who
were going on by rail came flocking to the station.
They had eaten breakfast on board the boat, and were
all ready for a fresh start. The baggage was checked
and registered, the tickets bought, the different carriages
assigned to the various classes of pa^ssengers, and the
passengers themselves seated. The train was in readiness
in the long station-house, and the engine was steaming
and puffing away impatiently In the distant firing-
house.

It was past nine o'clock.

" Come, why don't we start ? " growled an old fat
Swede, who had been watching me nanrowly for the
last fifteen minutes.

And upon this there waa a general chorus of anxious
inquiry, which soon settled todownright murmuring. A.t
this juncture some one touched me on the elbow. I
turned, and saw a stranger by my side. I expected that
he was going to remonstrate with me for my backward-
ness. In fact, I began to have strong temptations to
pull off my uniform, for every anxious eye was fixed upon
the glaring badges which marked me as the obief office!
of the train.

THE MAD ENQINBER.

141

firing-

Iiowever, this stranger was a middle-aged man, tall
and stoat, with a face of great energy and intelligence.
His eye was black and brilliant, — so brilliant that I
could not for the life of me gaze steadily into it ; and his
lips, which were very thin, seemed more like polished
marble than human flesh. His dress was black through-
out, and not only set with exact nicety, but was scrupu-
lously clean and neat.

*^ You want an engineer, I understand," he said in a
low, cautious tone, at the same time gazing quietly ar>out
him, as though hf; wanted no one to hear what he s&id.

" I do," I replied. " My train is all ready, and we
have no engineer within twenty miles of this place "

" Well, sir, I am going to Bromberg ; I must go, and
I will run the engine for you."

** Ha I " I uttered, " are you an en^neer ?"

'* I am, sir, — one of the oldest in the country, ->and
am now on my way to make arrangements for a great
improvement I have invented for the application of
steam to a locomotive. My name is Martin Kroller.
If you wish, I will run as far as Bromberg ; and I will
show you running that is running."

Was I not fortunate 1 I determined to accept the
man's offer at once, and so I told him. He received my
answer with a nod and a smile. I went with him to the
house, where we found the iron horse in charge of the
fireman, and all ready for a start. Kroller got upon the
platform, and I followed him. I had never seen a man
betray such a peculiar aptness amid machinery as he
did. He let on the steam in an instant, bat yet with
care and judgment, and he backed up to the baggage-
oa:riag« with the most exact nicety. I had seen enough
to assure me that ^ 3 was thoroughly acquainted with
the hvLBiu^m, aod X felt composed once more. I gave
my engine up to the new man, and then hastened away
to the office. Word was passed for all the passengers to
take their seats, and mou afterwards I waved my hand to
the engineer. There was a puff — a groaning of the

t ' ■ *"

■ : ^i «,

142

THE MAD ENQ NEER.

heavy axletrees, — a trembling of 'he building, — and the
train was in motion. I leaped upon the platform of the
guard-carriage, and in a few minuses more the station-
bouse was far behind us.

In less than an hour we reached Dirsham, where we
took up the passengers who had come on the Konigsberg
Railway. Here I went forward and asked Kroller how he
liked the engine. He replied that he liked it very much.

" But," he added, with a strange sparkling of the eye,
"wait until I get my improvement, and then you will
see travelling. I could run an engine of my construction
to the moon in four-and- twenty hours."

I smiled at what I thought his enthusiasm, and went
back to my station. As soon as the Konigsberg passen-
gers were all on board, and their baggage-carriage at-
tached, we started on again. Soon after, I went into the
guard-carriage, and sat down. An early train from Ko-
nigsberg had been through two hours before reaching
Bromberg, and that was at Little Oscue, where we took
on board the Western mail.

" How we go," uttered one of the guards, some fif-
teen minutes after we had left Dirsham.

" The new engineer is trying the speed," I replied,
not yet having any fear.

But ere long I began to apprehend he was running a
little too fast. The carriages began to sway to and fro,
and I could hear exclamations of fright from the passen-
gers.

" What ! " cried one of the guards, coming in at that
moment, " what is that fellow doing ? Look, sir, and see
how we are going."

I looked at the window, and found that we were dash-
ing along at a speed never before travelled on that road.
Posts, fences, rocks, and trees flew by in one undistin-
guishable mass, and the carriages now swayed fearfully.
I started to my feet, and met a passenger on the platform.
He was one of the chief owners of our road, and was
just on his way to Berlin. He was pale and excited.

THB MAD ENOINEEIU

143

"Sir," he gasped, " is Martin Kroller on the engine."

"Yes," I told him.

" Didn't you know him ? "

" Know ? " I repeated, somewhat puzzled ; " what do
you mean ? He told me that his name was Kroller, and
that he was an engineer. We had no one to run the
engine, and — "

" You took him / " interrupted the man. " Sir, he is
as crazy as a man can be ! He turned his brain over a
new plan for applying steam power. I saw him at the
station, but did not fully recognise him, as I was in a
hurry. Just now one of your passengers told me that
your engineers were all gone this morning, and that you
found one that was a stranger to you. Then I knew
that the man whom I had seen was Martin iCroller. He
had escaped from the hospital at Stettin. You must get
him oflF somehow."

The whole fearful truth was now open to me. The
{>pced of the train was increasing ever^r moment, and I
knew that a few more miles per hour would launch us
all into destruction. I called to the guard, and then
made my way forward as quickly as possible. I reached
the after platform of the after tender, and there stood
Kroller upon the engine-board, his hat and coat off, his
long black hair floating wildly in the wind, his shirt un-
buttoned at the front, his sleeves rolled up, with a pistol
in his teeth, and thus glaring upon the fireman, who lay
moi. riless upon the fuel. The famace was btuffed till
the very latch of the door was red hot, and the whole
engine was quivering and swaying as though it would
shiver to pieces.

" Kroller. Kroller 1 " I cried at the top of my voice.

The crazy engineer sUuted and caught the pistol in
his hand. Oh, how those great black eyes glared, and
how ghastl^ aod fris^htful the face looked !

^ Ha 1 iMi! ha ! " he yelled demonitcally^, glaring up-
on me like a roused lion.

" They swore that I could not make it I But see I

144

THE MAD ENQINEAR.

see ! See my new power ! See my new engine ! I
made it, and they are jealous of me ! I made it, and
when it was donr, they stole it from me. But I have
found it ! For years I have been wandering in search of
my great engine, and they swore it was not made. But I
have found it. I knew it this morning when I saw it at
Dantzic, and I was determined to have it. And I've
got it ! Ho ! ho ! ho ! we're on the way to the moon,
I say ! We'll be in the moon in fonr-and-twenty hours.
Down, down, villain ! If you move, I'll shoot you."

This was spoken to the poor fireman, who at that
moment attempted to rise, and the fiightened man sank
back again.

" Here's Little Oscue just before us,'* cried out one
of the guards. But even as he spoke the buildings were
at hand. A sickening sensation settled upon my heart,
for I supposed that we were now gone. The houses
flew by like lightning. I knew if the officers here bad
turned the switch as usual, we should be hurled into
et^nity in one fearful crash. I saw a flash, — it wag
another engine, — I closed my eyes ; but still we thun-
dered on ! The officers had seen our speed, and knowing
tiiat we would not head up in that distance, they had
changed the switch, so that we went forward.

But there was sure death ahead if we did not stop.
Only fifteen miles from us was the town of Schwartz, on
the Vistula ; and at the rate we were going we should be
there in a few minutes, for each minute carried us over
a mile. The shrieks of the passengers now rose above
the crash of the rails, and more terrific than all else
arose the demoniac yells of the uiad engineer.

" Merciful Heavens ! " gasped the guardsman, "there's
not a moment to lose ; Schwartz is close. But hold,"
he addevi, *< let's shoot him."

At that moment a tall, stout German student came
over the platform where we stood, and we saw that the
madman had his heavy pistol aimed at us. He grasped
a huge stick of wood, and, witp a steadiness of nerve

THE MAD ENGINEER.

145

which I could not have commanded, he hurled it with
such force and precision that he knocked the pistol from
the maniac's hand. I saw the movement, and on the
instant that the pistol fell I sprang forward, and the
Q«rman followed me. I grasped the man by the arm f
but I should have been nothing in his mad power had I
been alone. He would have hurled me from the plat-
form, had not the student at that moment struck him
upon the head with a stick of wood which he caught as
he came over the tender.

Kroller settled down like a dead man, and on the next
instant I shut off the steam and opened the valve. As
the freed steam shrieked and howled in its escape, the
speed began to decrease, and in a few minutes more the
danger was passed. As I settled back, entirely over-
come by the wild emotions that had raged within me,
we began to turn the river ; and before I was fairly
recovered the fireman had stopped the train in the
station-house at Schwartz.

Martin Kroller, still insensible, was taken from the
platform ; and, as we carried him to the guard-room, one
of the guard recognised him, and told us that he had
been there about two weeks before.

'* He came," said the guard, " and swore that an
engine which stood near by was his. He said it was one
he had made to go to the moon in, and that it had been
stolen from him. We sent for more help to arrest him,
and he fled."

" Well," I replied with a shudder, " I wish he had
approached me in the same way ; but he was more cau-
tious at Dantzic."

At Schwartz we found an engineer to run the engine
to Bromberg ; and having taken out the Western mail for
the next Northern mail to carry along, we saw that
Kroller would be properly attended to, and then started
on.

The rest of the trip we ran in safety, though I could
see the passengers were not wholly at ease, and would
J

146

THE TAEN OP THE " NANOT BELL."

"; Hi

not be until they were entirely clear of the railway. A
heavy purse was made up by them for the German stu-
dent, and he acoepted it with much gratitude, and I
was glad of it ; for the current of gratitude to him may
•have prevented a far different current of feeling whioh
might have poured upon my head for having engaged a
madman to run a railroad train.

But this is not the end. Martin EroUer remained
insensible from the effects of the blow nearly two weeks ;
and when he recovered from that, he was sound again ;
his insanity was all gone. I saw him about three weeks
afterward, but he had no recollection of me. He re-
membered nothing of ihe past year, not eveu his mad
freak on my engine.

But I remembered it, and I remember k still ; and
the people need never fear that I shaU be imposed upon
again by a crazy cuylneer.

THE YARN OF THE " NANCY BELL."

W. S, QUbertf a successful dramatisty and author of the

" Bab Ballads," &c.

'Twas on the shores that round our coast

From Deal to Eamsgate span, '
That I found alone on a piece of stone

An elderly naval man.

His hair was weedy, his beard was long.

And weedy and long was he,
And I heard this wight on the shore recite.

In a singular minor key :

'' Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold.

And the mate of the Nancy brig,
And a bo'sun tiQ:ht, and a midshipmite.

And the crew of the captain'e gig 1 "

THB TABN OF THE "NANCY BELL."

147

I BtU-
Qd 1

may
red a

lained
reeks ;
again ;
weeks
Se re-
is mad

1 ; and
id upon

L."

of the

And he shook his fists and he tore his hair.

Till I really felt afraid,
For I couldn't help thinking the man had been drinking,

And so I simply said :

" 0, elderly man, it's little I know

Of the duties of men of the sea,
And I'll eat my hand if I understan

How you can possibly be

" At once a cook, and a captain bold,

And the mate of the Nancy brig,
And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,

And the crew of the oaptain'f gig 1 "

Then he gave a hitch to his trousers, which

Is a trick all seamen lam.
And having got rid of his baccy quid.

He spun this painful yam :

" 'Twas in the good ship Nancy Bell

That we sailed to the Indian Sea,
And there on a reef we oame to grief,

Which has often occurred to me.

" And pretty nigh all o' the crew was drowned

(There was seventy-seven o' soul)
And only ten of the Nancy's men

Said ' Here 1 ' to the muster-roll.

" There was me and ths cook and the captain bold,

And the mate of the Nancy brig.
And the bo'sun tight and a midshipmite,

And the crew of the captain's gig.

« For a month we'd neither wittles nor drink.

Till a hungry we did feel.
So we drawed a lot, and accordin' shot

The captain for our meal

148

TUB YARN OF THB "NANOr BELL."

" The next lot fell to the Nancy's mate,

And a delicate dish he made ;
Then our appetite with the midshipmitd

We seven survivors stayed.

'* And then we murdered the ho'sun tight

And he much resembled pig ;
Then we wittled free, did the cook and oifli,

On the crew of tht captain's gig.

" Then only fhd cook and me was left,

And the delicate question, ' which
Of us two goes to the butcher ?' arose,

And we argued it out as sich.

" For I loved the cook as a brother, I did,

And the cook he worshipped me ;
But we'd both be blowed if we'd either be stowe''

In the other chap's hold, you see 1

" * I'll be eat if you dines off me,' says Tom,

* Yes, that,' says I, * you'll be,'—
* I'm boiled if I die, my friend,' quotb I,

And ' Exactly so,' quoth he.

<' Says he, ' Dear James, to murder me

Were a foolish thing to do,
For don't you see that yor* can't cook me,

While I can — and will — cook you I '

'^ So, he boils the water, and takes the salt

And the pepper in portions true
(Which he never forgot), and some chopped shalot,

And some sage and parsley too.

" ' Come here,' says he, with a proper pride

Which his smiling features tell,
' 'Twill soothing be if I let you see

How extremely nice you'll smell.'

MR. PERKINS HELPS TO MOVE A 8T0VF, 149

'* And he stirred it round and round and round,

And he sniffed at the foaming froth ;
When I ups with his heels, and I smothers his squeals

In the scum of the boiling broth I

'' And I eat that cook in a week or loss,

And, as I a-eating bo
The lafit of his chops, why I almost drops.

For a vessel in sight I see I

" And T never grieve, and I never smile,

And I never larf nor play,
But I sit and croak, and a single joke

I have — which is to say :

^' Oh ! I am a cook and a captain bold.
And the mate of the Nancy brig.

And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,
And the crew of the captain's gig ! "

MR. PERKINS HELPS TO MOVE A STOVE.

•James M. Bailey. {Banbury News Man.)

It seems a pity that the glory of these bright May
days should be marred by the materialism of soap and
brush, mop and broom ; that the fragrant and delicate per-
fumes of budding nature and atmospherical freshness
should be harnessed to the doubtful aroma of an up-
turned house. But over our broad and beautiful land
the terrors of domestic reform holds sway, and the mas-
culine mind is harrowed by spectacles the little happi-
ness we aio allotted in this world does not warrant.

Mrs. Perkins has devoted this week to the onerous
duty of cleaning house. Since six o'clock Monday mom-

150

MR. PERKINS HELPS TO MOVE A STOVE.

ing that cstimabi lady has been the motive power of
many brushes anc loths, and of much water and soap.
At various hou?s when I have made my appearance
near the house, I have caught sight of her portly form
through several windows, a flaring handkerchief con-
cealing her temples, and covering the site of her chignon.

There was an expression of deep redness upon her
features that pained mo while I beheld, but which at
the same time led me to remark to myself that it was
not the most favourable thne for making a call, and thus
looking and apprehending, I would turn sadly away.

Monday 4norning we had our breakfast in our com-
fortable dining room. At noon I took my dinner from
the lid of the iae-chest. It was dreadful cold, and
tasted clammy and disagreeable. In tho evening I
stood back >f the stove, and partook tfa slice of bread
(the butter had got mislaid), and drank some of last
year's tea from the irregular spout of the milk pitcher.

In the n rning we ate breakfast in the sink (there wis
no fire in the stove, as it was to be kept cold for moving).
The victuals had a flavour of great dampness, and tasted
as though they had been fished out of the soap barrel.
After astonishing my iuternal structure with the meal,
I accepted an invitation from Mrs. Perkins to take down
the stove. In justice to myself it may be well to re-
mark that I never took down a stove, nor was present
when that intricate performance was going on, and this,
in a measure, accounts for the slight misgiving I may
have entertained when brought face to face with the tre-
mendous range.

The conversation that ensued was something like
this : —

*' You want to use great care, Mr. Perkins, and not
let the whole thing fall on you, and kill yourself."

This appeared reasonable enough, and I readily
promised to use my best endeavours to keep the whole
thing from falling upon me.

An^, Mr. Perkins, don't get nervous with the pipe.

MB. PERKINS HELPS MOVl A 8T0VE.

151

not

because Mary Ann has just scrubbed the floor, and that
stuff fringes in awfully.'

I iiadn't the remotest idea of what the stuff could bo
that gringes in awfully, but I didn't like to show ig-
norance before Mary Ann, and so I confidently re-
sponded, —

*' Certainly not."

" And be very careful about your clothes, Mr. Per-
kins ; now won't you ?" This appeal was delivered with
so much confidence mingled with doubt, that I hardly
knew whether to treat it as a compliment, or a suBpi-
cion, and concluded it was best to split the difference,
and preserve silence.

" We are all ready now, Mr. Perkins. Mary Ann,
you come here and steady the pipe while Mr. Perkins
gets on the chair and takes it down."

Upon this I mounted a chair and grasped the pipe ;
Mrs. Perkins grasped my legs,

" Goodness gracious, Cyrus Davidson Perkins ! don't
you know better than to stand on one of the best
chairs in the house, and break right through the
canes 1 "

I had to admit that I didn't know any better, but
cheerfully got down and mounted another chair. This
time I caught the pipe by its neck, and gave it a gentle
pull from the chimney. It didn't move a bit, which
encouraged me to believe I could bring a little more
muscle into play, and under this impression I gave an
extra twist. It came this time, and po much more
readily than I had reason to expect, that I stepped
down to the floor with it, passing over the top of the
stove, and rubbing off an inch or so of skin from Mary
Ann's nose.

'* Oh, Moses! " screamed thai lady.

" What have you done 1 Oh, what have you done ?"
cried Mrs. Perkins.

Singularly enough, I didn't say anything, but got
upon my feet as quick as I could, and rubbed my head,

;«♦'

152 MR. PERKINS HELPS TO MOVE A HTOVE.

and looked all around where Mrs. Perkins and her weep-
ing aid were Btandin^.

''It's just like a man. You have made ten times
more work than you have helped. Mary Ann, p;ct the
floor cloth. And there's a great spot on that floor wc
ean never get ofif. I'd like to make a fool of myself, I
know I should. I knew when you stuck yourself on that
chair, you would kill somebody. Does it hurt you, Mary
Ann ? I wouldn't rub it too hard ; we'll have to take it
up dry and soap it over. You awkward man, didn't you
know what you were doing ? Now take the pipe out of
doors, and don't look more foolish than you can help."

The manner in which this last was uttered left no
room to doubt that 1 was the person referred to, and I
picked up the pipe, and sorrowfully propelled it out
doors ; although I am compelled to admit that six links
of pipe varied by two elbows at opposite angles, is not
the most desirable thing in the world to escort out doors.

When I came back, Mrs. Perkins had dressed the
wound on Mary Ann's face with a strip of brown paper,
and told me I might help ti> carry the stove into the
shed, if I was sure of being quite sober.

Upon this invitation I took hold of the range with
the two ladies, and by loosening half a dozen joints in
my spine, I was finally successful in getting the thing
out of the room. But the pleasure of the occasion was
irretrievably lost. Mrs. Perkins was ominously silent.
Mary Ann's air was one of reproach, which, combined
with the brown paper, gave her aa appearance of un-
earthly uncertainty.

At dinner that day I ate some cold cabbage and a couple
of soda crackers, carefully picking ofi^ the flakes of soap that
adhered thereto. This morning I ate my breakfast on
the stoop, and got my dinner through the milk-room
window, eating it from the sill. It consisted of the last
slice from yesterday's loaf, and two decrepit herrings.

What we are to have for supper, and whether it will
be necessary to go home after it, are questions that de<
press me this P. m.

THE nURNINlJ OF THE " OOLIATH." 153

THE BURNING OF THE "GOLIATH.

(Times, December 27th, 1875.)

The Goliath was a vessel of the Royal Navy, lent by
the Admiralty to the Forest Gate District lioard of
Mauagers, for the training of pauper boys from an asso-
ciation of metropolitan parishes, }iccording to a system
established when Mr. Gosohen was First Lord of the
Admiralty. She was moored in the estuary of the Thames
oflF the Village of Grays, and was commanded by StaflF-
Commander Bourohier, of the Royal Navy, and a large
staff of subordinate officers. On Wednesday morning,
shortly before eight o'clock, a fire broke out in the lamp-
room on the main deck. There is no doubt this was
caused by the dropping of one of the lamps, which were
at the time being extinguished and carried into the lamp
room, to be cleaned and retrimmed for future use. A
boy named Loeber, charged with this duty, dropped one
of the lamps, which, unfortunately, had not been extin-
guished. The oil which was spilt caught fire at once, and
the flames quickly spread over the floor of the lamp-room,
(yhich was saturated with oil. Loeber, with great promp-
titude and courage, tore off his coat, and, throwing it on
the flames, sat down on it, in the hope, which soon proved
unavailing, of extinguishing them. The fire was at once
reported to Mr. Hall, the chief officer, and to Captain
Bourchier, and though the fire-bell was rung imme-
diately, and the boys rushed to their stations and pumps
on the lower deck without confusion or delay, yet the
fire had spread all over the main -deck, even before the
bell bad ceased ringing. Nevertheless, the boys stuck to
their work on the lower deck till the fire began to reach
them. The boats, most of which were hanging from the
upper deck, could scarcely be reached on account of the
flames, and it would have been almost impossible to lower
them with safety, as the falls at one end or the other had

154

THE BURNING OF THE " OCLlATn.

\l fc vl

'j! 1..

in most cases been burnt through, and they were coi*-
sequently hanging end on to the wat' r. The boys had to
save themselves by jumping into the water from the ports
and decks. Unfortunately, a fresh breeze was blowing at
the time, and this not only fanned the flames through the
open ports, but chilled the water and rendered swimming
difficult. Happily, nearly all the boys had been taught
to swim, and, as the Tcssel was not above a thousand feet
from the shore, many managed to reach the land unaided.
Others were picked up in boats, but no less than fifteen
of the boys are still missing, though only five are up to
this time known to be dead. Unfortunately, there is too
much reason to believe that one of the teachers, named
Wheeler, has also been drowned. He disappeared
from a boat which capsized as he jumped into it, and,
though its other occupants seem to have been picked up,
he has not since been heard of. Captain Bourchier was
the last to leave his ship, and his wife and daughters, with
two female servants, who were on board, owed their
escape to their own promptitude and courage. A barge
was moored to the ship when the fire broke out, and many
of the boys made their way into it ; a few of the youngef
ones, soared by the smoke and the scorching flames, tried
to push off from the ship before the barge was full ; but
an older boy, named Bolton, whose courage and endur-
ance deserve to be commemorated, held on manfully to
the ship till he had taken all on board who were within
his reach. Finally, Captain Bourchier and the crew of
the boat in which he had been rescued rowed up to the
bows, under the blazing rigging, and, at imminent risk
of their lives, carried off a little fellow who was seen
hanging in the chains. The ship burnt to the water's
edge, and drifted from her moorings on to the mud of
the river bank.

THE BURNING OP THE "GOLIATH." 155

THE BURNING OF THE "GOLIATH."

(As told by an old Gravesmd Salt to a Messmate in

Greenwich Hospital.)

(Punch.)

A dirty, foggy morning, 'twas ;

Grays loomed large, close alee ;
The wnt'jh was holystoning decks

As white as decks could be :
There were five hundred workhouse lad^

A training for the sea.

Goliath was a giant hulk

Built in the days of yore :
And more than one small David

Upon her books she bore,
No iron in her ; knees of oak.

And oak-heart at the core.

The bell had just struck half-past eight,

As broke the winter's day —
On the muin-deck 'twas dousing glims

And stowing them away.
Darn that new-fangled paraffino ! —

Whaic-ile's the stuff, I say !

Young LoEBEE had the lamps in charge^

A steady boy, I'm told —
One on 'em burnt hh fingers, till

He couldn't keep his hold ;
Down fell the lamp ; along the decks

The blazing oil it roiled.

"Fire!" "Beat to quarters. 1" " Man the pumps I"—
I could cry like a fool

156

THE BURNING OF THE '' GOLIATH."

To read how them lads mustered all,

As if for morniog school.
In their sky-larking at Christmas

They wasn't half as cool.

I've heerd of Balaclava —

But those were bearded men,
And these were little fellows,

Most part 'twixt twelve and ten.
Some calls 'em gutter children —

God bless our gutters, then !

The Capt'n he was at his post,

A smile upon his face ;
And not one officer or lad

But knew and kept his place.
Though soon 'twas plain as plain could be.

The fire must win the race.

Most of the little chaps could swim ;

But, swim or not, they made
And kept their lines as regular

As soldiers on parade.
BoURCHiER had wife and girls aboard—

But by them lads he stayed.

Till when the pumps no longer sucked,

Boat-tackles scorched, inboard ;
Ship lost ! no lowering the boats !

The Captain gave the word,
" Leap from the ports ; swim, them that can :

The rest, trust in the Lord ! "

One little chap hung round his neck
A blubb'ring, " Burnt you'll be.

Jump over first — and then ^cdll jump.**
**No, no, my boy," says ho.

" The Skipper's last to leave the ship-
That is our way at sea."

THE BUENINO OP THE "GOLIATH."

So young and old their duty did,

Like sailors and like men :
There was Hall, and there was Norris,

There was Gunton, Tte, and Fenn —
Who swore he'd save the women,

And did it, there and then.

The Captain's wife jumped thirty feet-
Needs must when Wulcan drives -

Hand over hand — in sailor style —
His daughters saved their lives ; —

Brave girls, you see, and well brought up.
The stuff for a sailor's wife !

On the tank-barge some twenty boys

Had climbed dear life to save ;
The flames flared OTit, the pitehed top-sides

Yawned like a fiery grave ;
And some set up the cry, " Shove off ! '* —

Lads will like lads behave.

157

But Billy Bolton's boyish voice
Was hoard — " I'm mate in charge :

There's room enough for plenty more ;
Hold on there with the barge.'

That Billy Bolton may run small.
The heart in him looms large.

But I can't tell you half the tale^

How, when they got ashore,
The kind, good women kissed and hugged.

And stripped the clothes they wore,
To wrap the boys as mothers will —

Or what is mothers for ?

There was a little soldier lad
His shipmates come to see,

158

THE MOirSTEB GANNON.

He's gone, and some half-dozen more,
And Master Wheeler, he

Is with them little lads in heaven-
All rated there A. B.

As long as English workhouse lads
Work up to such good stuflP,

Britannia still will rule the waves-^
Though here and there a muff

At Whitehall, or afloat, may make
Old John Bull cut up rough !

' > i

THE MONSTER CANNON.

Victor Hugo ; a French poet and writer ^ horn at Besan^on,
1802. Was exiled from France in 1852, when A« took
up his residence in the Channel Islands, from which he
wrote Philippics against Navoleon III. He is a prolific
writer ; many of his wor have been translated into
English. The following is taken from hi» novel,
" Ninety-three"

They heard a noise unlike anything usually heard. The
cry and the noise came from inside the vessel.

One of the carronades of the battery, a twenty-four
pounder, had become detached.

This, perhaps, is the most formidable of ocean events.
Nothing more terrible can happen to a war vessel, at sea
and under full sail.

A cannon which breaks its moorings becoi^es suddenly
come indescribable, supernatural beast. It is a machine
which transforms itself into a monster. This mass runs
on its wheels like billiard balls, inclines with the rolling,
plunges with the pitching, goes, comes, stops, seems to
meditate, resumes its course, shoots from one end of the
ship to the other like an a^ lov^r, ^.'}Jrls, steals away, evades.

THE MONSTEB CANNON.

159

#*>"

prances, strikes, breaks, kills, exterminates. It is a ram
which capriciously assails a wall. Add this — the ram is
of iron, the wall is of wood. This furious bulk has the
leaps of the panther, the weight of the elephant, the
agility '»f the mouse, the pertinacity of the axe, the un-
exi)ec;;aQess of the surge, the rapidity of lightning, the
silence of the sepulchre. It weighs ten thousand pounds,
and it rebouDds like a child's ball. Its whirlings are sud-
denly cut at right angles. What is to bo done ? How
shall an end be put to this ? A tempest ceases, a cyclone
passes, a wind goes down, a broken mast is replaced, aleak
is stopped, a ^/o put out ; but what shall be done with this
enormous brute of bronze ? How try to secure it ? You
can reason with a bull-dog, astonish a bull, fascinate a
boa, frighten a tiger, soften a lion ; no resource with
such a monster as a loose cannon. You cannot kill it :
it is dead ; and at the same time it lives with a sinister
life which comes from the infinite. It is moved by the
ship, which is moved by the sea, which is moved by the
wind. This exterminator is a plaything. The horrible
cannon struggles, advances, retreats, strikes to the right,
strikes to the left, flees, passes, disconcerts expectation,
grinds obstacles, crushes men like flies.

The carronade, hurled by the pitching, made havoc in
the group of men, crushing four at the first blow ; then re-
ceding and brought back by the rolling, it cut a fifth un-
fortunate man ki two, and dashed against the larboard
side a piece of the battery which it dismounted. Thence
came the cry of distress which had been heard. All the
men rushed towards the ladder. The battery was
emptied in a twinklin^ of an eye.

The captain and l.^-.ul;enant, although both intrepid
men, had halted at the head of the ladder, and, dumb,
pale, hesitating, looked down into the lower deck. Some
one pushed them to one side with his elbow and descended.

It was an old man, Tx passenger.

Once at the foot of the ladder, he stood still.

H'ther and thither along the lower deck came the can-

160

THE MONSTER CANNON.

non. One might have ti )ught it the living chariot of
the Apocalypse.

The four wheels passed and repassed over the dead
men, cutting, carving, and slashing them, and of the five
corpses made twenty fragments which rolled across the
battery ; the lifeless heads seemed to cry out ; streams
of blood wreathed on the floor following the rolling of
the ship. The ceiling, damaged in several p'aces, com-
menced to open a little. All the vessel was filled with a
monstrous noise.

Tho captain promptly regained bis presence of mind,
and caused to be thrown into the lower deck all that
could allay and fetter the unbridled course of the cannon,
— mattresses, hammocks, spare sails, rolls of cordage,
bags of equipments, and bales of counterfeit assignats, of
which the corvette had a full cargo.

But of >fhat avail these rags ? Nobody daring to go
down and place them properly, in a few minutes they
were lint.

There was just sea enough to make the accident as
complete as possible. A tempest would have been de-
sirable ; it might have thrown the cannon upside down,
and, once the four wheels were in the air, it could have
been mastered. As it was, the havoc increased. There
were chafings and even fractures in the masts, which,
jointed into the frame of the keel, go through the floors
of vessels and are like great round pillars. Under the
convulsive blows of the cannon, the foremast had cracked,
the mainmast itself was cut. The battery was disjointed.
Ten pieces out of the thirty were hors de combat ; the
breaches in the sides multiplied, and the corvette com-
menced to take in water.

The old passenger who had gone down to the lower
deck seemed a man of stone at the bottom of the ladder.
He oast a severe look on the devastation. He did not
stir. It seemed impossible to take a stop in the battery.

They must perish, or cut short the disaster ; something
must be done, but what?

THE MONSTER CANNON.

101

What a combatant that carronade was !

That frightful maniac must be stopped.

That lightning must be averted.

That thunder-bolt must be conquered.

The captain said to the lieutenant :

" Do you believe in God, Chevalier ?"

"Yes."

"In the tempest?"

" Yes. And in moments like these. "

"In reality God only can rid us of this trouble."

All were hushed, leaving the cannon to do its horrible
work.

Outside, the billows beating the vessel answered the
blows of the cannon. It was like two hammers alternat-

ing.

All of a sudden, in that kind of unapproachable cir-
cuit wherein the escaped cannon bounded, a man ap-
peared, with uD iron bar in his hand. It was the author
of the catastrophe, the chief gunner, guilty of negligence
and the cause of the accident, the master of the carron-
ade. Having done the harm, he wished to repair it.
He had grasped a handspike in one hand, some gun-
tackle with a slip-knot in the other, and jumped upon the
lower deck.

Then a wild exploit commenced ; a Titanic spectacle ;
the combat of the gun with the gunner ; the battle of
matter and intelligence ; the duel of the animate and
the inanimate.

The man bad posted himself in a comer, and with his
bar and rope in his two fists, leaning against one of the
riders, standing firmly on his legs, which seemed like two
pillars of steel, livid, calm, tragic, as though rooted to
the floor, he waited.

He was waiting for the cannon to pass near him.

The gunner knew his piece, and it seemed to him that
it must know him. Ho had lived for some time with it.
How many times he had thrust his hand into its jaws !

162

TMS MONSTER CANNON.

It was his tamed monster. He commenced talking to
it as he would to his do^.

" Come," said he. He loved it, may be.

He seemeed to wish that it would come towards him.

But to come towards him would be to come upon him.
And then he was lost. How avoid the crush ? That
was the question. All looked upon the scene, terrified.

Not a breast breathed freely, except, perhaps, that of
the old man who alone was on the lower deck with th(j
two combatants, a sinister witness.

He might himself be crushed by the piece. H<
stirred not.

Under them the blinded sea directed the combat.

At the moment when, accepting this dreadful hand-to-
hand encounter, the gunner challenged the cannon, a
chance rolling of the sea kept it immovable as if stupe-
fied. " Come then I " said the man. It seemed to
listen.

Suddenly it jumped towards him. The man escaped
the shock.

The struggle began. A struggle unheard of. The
fragile wrestling with the invulnerable. The monster of
flesh attacking the brazen beast. On one side force, on
the other a soul.

All this was passing in a shadow. It was like the
indistinct vision of a prodigy.

A soul ! a strange thing ! one would have thought the
cannon had one also, but a soul of hate and rage. This
sightless thing seemed to have eyes. The monster ap
peared to watch the man. There was — one would have
thought so at least — cunning in this mass. It also chose
its moment. It was a kind of gigantic insect of iron,
h/iving, or seeming to have, the will of a demon. At
tiliK M, IliJH colossal grasshopper would strike the low ceil-
ing of tho battery, then fall back on its four wheels like a
tiger on its four claws, and tomnicnci; again to dart upon
the man. He, supple, agile, adroit, writhid liko an addci
^0 guarding against all tlie.se lightning like movement*'

THE MONSTER CANNON.

IG3

He avoided enjountcrs, but the blows he shunned were
received by th'j vessel, and conHnued to dcuioli.<h it.

An end of broken chain had remained hanging to the
carronade. C'ne end of it was fastened to the carriage ;
the other, froe, turned desperately around the cannon
and exaggeraied all its shocks. The chain, multiplying
the blows of the ram by its lashings, caused a terrible
whirl around the cannon —an iron whip in a fist of brass
— and complicated the combat.

Yet the man struggled. At time?, even, it was the
man who attacked the cannon; he crcu:5hed along the
side, holding his bar and his rope ; and the cannon
seemed to understand, and, as though divining a snare,
fled. The man, formidable, pursued it.

Such things cannot last Img. The cannon seemed to
say all at once — " Come ! there must be an end to this ! "
and it stopped. The approach of the denouement was felt.
The cannon, as in suspense, seemed to have, or did have
— because to all it was like a living thing — a ferocious
premeditation. Suddenly, it precipitated itself on the
gunner. The gunner drew to one side, let it pass, and
called to it, laughing — " Try again." The cannon, as
though furious, broke a carronade to larboard ; then,
seized again by the invisible sling which held it, bounded
to starboard towards the man, v/bo escaped. Three car-
ronades sunk down under the pressure of the cannon ;
then as though blind, and knowing no longer what it
was doing, it turned its back to the man, rolled back-
ward and forward, put the stem out of order, and made
a breach in the wall of the prow. The man had taken
refuge at the foot of the ladder, a few steps from the old
man who was present. The gunner held his handspike at
rest. The cannon seemed to perceive him, and without
taking the trouble to turn round, fell back on the man
with the promptness of an axe-stroke. The man if driven
against the side was lost. All the crew gave a cry.

But the old passenger, till then immovable, sprang
forward, and more rapidly than all those wild rapidities.

iil

|i '!

I.: ni

1' ;..

104

LOOK AT THE CLOCK.

He had Bcizctl a bale of false assic;nats, and, at the risk
of being crashed, ho had sueceeded in throwing it be-
tween the wheels of the cannon. This decisive and peril-
ous movement could not have been executed with more
promptness and precision by a man accustomed to all the
manoeuvres of sea gunnery.

The bale had the eflfect of a plug. A pebble stops a
bulk ; a branch of a tree diverts an avalanche. The
cannon stumbled. The gunner in his turn, taking ad-
vantage of this terrible juncture, plunged his iron bar
between the spokes of one of the hind wheels. The can-
non stopped.

It leaned forward. The man using his bar as a lever,
made it rock. The heavy mass turned over, with the
noise of a bell tumbling down, and the man, rushing
headlong, trickling with sweat, attached the slip-knot of
the gun tackle to the bronze neck of the conc^uered
monster.

It was finished. The man had vanquished. The ant
had subdued the mastodon ; the pigmy had made a
prisoner of the thunderbolt.

LOOK AT THE CLOCK.

Richard Barham ; horn at Canierhury^ 1788, died 1845.
Author of *^ Ingoldsby Legends," and "My Cousin
Nicholas," a novel.

" Look at the clock ! " quoth Winifred Pryce,

As she open'd the door to her husband's knock.
Then paus'd to give him a piece of advice,
" You nasty Warmint, look at the Clock ^
Is this the way, you
Wretch, every day you
Treat her who vow'd to love and obey you ? —
Out all night 1

LOOK AT THE CLOCK.

165

Mo in a fright ;
Staggering homo as it's just getting light I
You intoxificd brute ! — you insensible block ! —
Louk at the Clock !— Do !— Look at the Clock ! "

Winifred Pryce was tidy and clean,
Her gown was a flower'd one, her potticoat ^reen,
Her buckles were bright as her milking cans,
And her hat was a beaver, and made like a man's ;
Her little red eyes were deep s< in their socket-holes,
Her gown-tail was iv rned up and tucked through the
pocket-holes ;

A face like a ferret

Betokened her spirit :
To conclude, Mrs. Pryce was not over young,
Had very short legs, and a very long tongue.

Now David Pryce

Had one darling vice ;
Remarkably partial to anything nice.

Especially ale —

If it was not too stale
I really believe he'd have emptied a pail ;

Not that in Wales

They talk of their Ales :
To pi enounce the word they make use of might trouble

you,
Being spelt with a C, two R's, and a W.

That particular day,

As I've heard people say,
Mr. David Pryce had been soaking his clay,
And amusing himself with his pipe and cheroots,
The whole afternoon at the Goat-in-boots.

And then came that knock.

And the sensible shock
David felt when his wife cried, " Look at the Clock 1 "
For the hands stood as crooked as crooked might be.

IMAGE EVALUATION
TEST TARGET (MT-3)

1.0

i.i

lii

|40

tti

1.8

1.25 1.4 .6

— = III — =

-^ 6"

►

Hiotogr^nic

ScieTices

Corporation

;-C

23 WEST MAIN STREET

WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580

(716) 87r4S03

166

LOOK AT THE CLOCK,

iV"

''If ''

Tho loncc at the Twelve, and the short at the Three I

Mrs. Pryce's tongue ran long and ran fast ;

But patience is apt to wear out at last,

And David Pryce in temper was quick,

So he stretch 'd out his hand, and caught hold of a stick ;

Perhaps in its use he might mean to be lenient,

But walking just then wasn't very convenient,

So he threw it, instead,

Direct at her head ;

It knock'd off her hat ;

Down she fell flat ;
Her case, perhaps, was not much mended by that :
But whatever it was, — whether rage and pain
Produced apoplexy, or burst a vein.
Or her tumble induced a concussion of brain,
T can't say for certain — but this I can,
When, sober'd by fright, to assist her he ran,
Mrs. Winifred Price was as dead as Queen Anne !

Mr. Pryce, Mrs. Winifred Pryce being dead.
Felt lonely, and moped ; and one evening he said
He would marry Miss Davis at once in her stead.
Not far from his dwelling,
From the vale proudly swelling,
Rose a mountain ; its name you'll excuse me from

telling,
For the vowels made use of in Welsh are so few
That the A and the E, tiie I, 0, and the U,
Have really but little or nothing to do ;
And the duty, of course, falls the heavier by far
On the L, and the H, and the N, and the R.
Its first syllable « Pen,"
Is pronounceable ; — then
Come two L Ls, and two H Hs, two F Fs, and an N ;
About half a score Rs, and some Ws follow.
Beating all my best efforts at euphony hollow :
But we shan't have to mention it often, so when
We do, with your leave, we'll curtail it to '* Pen/'

LOOK AT THE CLOCK.

167

Well — the moon shone bright

Upon " Pen " that night,
When Pryce, being quit of his fuss and his frig ,

Was scaling its side

With that sort of a stride
A man puts on when walking in search of a bride.

Mounting higher and higher,

He began to perspire,
Till finding his legs were beginning to <ire,

And feeling opprest

By a pain in his chest.
He paus'd and turn'd round to take breath, and to rest ;
When a lumbering noise from behind made him start,
And sent the blood back in full tide to hin heart.

Which went pit-a-pat

As he cried out " What's that?"

That very queer sound ?

Does it come from the ground ?
Or the air, — from above, — or below, — or around ? —

It is not like Talking,

It is not like Walking,
It's not like the clattering of pot or of pan.
Or the tramp of a horse, — or the tread of a man, — ■
Or the hum of a crowd, — or the shouting of boys, —
It's really a very odd sort of a noise !

Mr. Pryce had begun

To " make up " for a run,
As in such a companion he saw no great fun, *

When a single bright ray

Shone out on the way
He had passed, and he saw, with no little dismay,
Coming after him bounding o'er crag and o'er rock.
The deceased Mrs. Winifred's " Grandmother's Clock ! "
'Twas so ! — it had certainly moved from its place,
And come, lumbering on thus, to hold him in chase ;
^Twas the very same Head, and the very same Case,
And nothing was altered at all — but the Face I

p I

J :(

r«

I i

^h-i i

168

LOOK AT THE CLOCK.

Id that lie perceived, with no little surprise,
T he two little winder-holes turned into eyes

Blazing with ire,

Like two coals of fire ;
And the " Name of the Maker " was changed to a Lip,
And the Hands to a Nose with a very red tip.
No ! — he could not mistake it, — 'twas she to the life !
The identical face of his poor defunct Wife !

One glance was enough.

Completely " Quant Suff."
As the doctors write down when they send you their

" stuff,"—
Like a weather cock whirled by a vehement puff,

David turned himself round ; ♦

Ten feet of ground
He clear'd, in his start, at the very first bound I

All I ever heard of boys, women, or men,
Falls far short of Pryce as he ran over " PEN ! "

He now reaches its brow, —

He has past it, — and now
Having once gained the summit, and managed to cross

it, he
Rolls down the side with uncommon velocity.

But, run as he will,

Or roll down the hill,
That bugbear behind him is after him still !
And close at his heels, not at all to his liking.
The terrible clock keeps on ticking and striking.

Till exhausted and sore.

He can't run any more,
But f lis as he reaches Miss Davis's door.
And screams when they rush out, alarmed at his knock,
" Oh I Look at the Clock ! - Do !— Look at the Clock ! !"

Mr. David has since had a *' serioun call,"
He never drinks ale, wine, or spirits at all,

Lip,
cl

their

THE STORY OF RICHARD DOUBLEDICK. 169

And they say he is going to Exeter Hall
To make a grand speech,
And to preach and to teach
People that "they can't brew their malt liquor too
small I "

A nd " still on each evening when pleasure fills up,"
At the old Goat-in-Boots, with Metheglin, each cup,

Mr. Pryce, if he's there,

Will get into " The Chair,"
And make all his quondam associates stare
By calling aloud to the Landlady's daughter,
'' Patty, bring a cigar, and a glass of Spring Water ! "
The dial he constantly watches, and when
The long hand's at the •' XII," and the shor*: at the " X,"

He gets on his legs.

Drains his glass to the dregs.
Takes his hat and greatcoat off their several pegs.
With the President's hammer bestows his last knock,
And says solemnly — " Gentlemen I

Look at the Clock ! ! I "

ross

THE STORY OF RICHARD DOUBLEDICK.

ick,

Charles Dickens,

, . . One day, when Private Richard Doubledick
came out of the Black Hole, where he had been passing
the last eight-and-forty hours, and in which retreat he
spent a good deal of his time, he was ordered to betake
himself to Captain Taunton'o quarters. In the stale
and squalid state of a man just out of the Black Hole,
he had less fancy than ever for being seen by the cap-
tain ; but he was not so mad yet as to disobey orders,
and consequently went up to the terrace overlooking the
parade-ground, where the officers' quarters were j twist-

"^m

fi t :

'^U

. «

1 1

m'W^i'^

f!.-

U«

5 il

IM;

4»t . i

iiS

170

THE STORY OF RICHARD DOUBLEDICK.

ing and breaking in his hands, as he went along, a bit
of the straw that had formed the decorative furniture of
the Black Hole.

" Come in I " cried the Captain, when he knocked
with his knuckles at the door. Private Richard Double-
dick pulled off his cap, took a stride forward, aad felt
very conscious that he stood in the light of the dark,
bright eyes.

There was a silent pause. Private Richard Double-
dick had put the straw in his mouth, and was gradually
doubling it up into his windpipe and choking himself.

" Doubledick," said the Captain, " do you know where
you are going to ? "

'* To the devil, sir ! " faltered Doubledick.
"Yes," returned the Captain, "and very fast."
Private Richard Doubledick turned the straw of the
Black Hole in his mouth, and made a miserable salute of
acquiescence.

" Doubledick," said the Captain, " since I entered His
Majesty's service, a boy of seventeen, I have been pained
to see many men of promise going that read ; but I have
never been so pained to see a man determined to make
the shameful journey as I have been, ever since you
joined the regiment, to see you."

Private Richard Doubledick began to find a film steal-
ing over the floor at which he looked ; also to find the
L^. of the Captain's breakfast- table turning crooked, as
if he saw them through water.

" I am only a common soldier, sir," said he. " It sig-
nifies very little what such a poor brute comes to."

"You are a man," returned the Captain, with grave
indignation, " of education and superior advantages; and
if you say that, meaning what you say, you have sunk
lower than I had believed. How low that must be, I
leave you to consider ; knowing what I know of your dis-
grace, and seeing what I see."

" I hope to ^et shot soon, sir^" said Private Richard

THE STORY OF RICHARD DOUBLSDICK. 171

Doubledick ; " and then the regimeot and the world to-
gether will be rid of me."

The legs of the table were becoming very crooked.
Doubledick, looking up to steady his vision, met the
eyes that had so strong an influence over him. He put
his hand before his own eyes, and the breast of hia dis-
grace-jacket swelled as if it would fly asunder.

" I would rather," said the young Captain, " see this
in you, Doubledick, than I would see five thousand
guineas counted out upon this table for a gift to my good
mother. Have you a mother ? "

" I am thankful to say she is dead, sir."

" If your praises," returned the Captain, ''were sound-
ed from mouth to mouth through the whole regiment,
through the whole army, through the whole country, you
would wish she had lived to say, with pride and joy, ' He
is my son ! ' "

" Spare me, sir," said Doubledick. " She would never
have heard any good of me. She would never have had
any pride and joy in owning herself my mother. Love
and compassion she might have had, and would have al-
ways had, 1 know ; but not — Spare me, sir ! I am a
broken wretch, quite at your mercy ! " And he turned
his face to the wall, and stretched out his imploring hand.

" My friend " — began the Captain.

" God bless you, sir! " sobbed Private Richard Double-
dick.

" You are at the crisis of your fate. Hold your course
unchanged a little longer, and you know what must hap-
pen. / know even better thaa you can imagine, that,
after that has happened, you are lost. No man who
couJd shed those tears could bear those marks."

" I fully believe it, sir," in a low, shivering voice, said
Private Kichard Doubledick.

" But a man in any station can do his duty," said the
young Captain, " and, in doing it, can earn his own re-
spect, even if his case should "^e so very unfortunate and
so very rare that he can earn no other man's, A common

'fUi

\ \

\i '

I I

172

THE STORY OF RICHARD DOUBLEDICK.

soldier, poor brute though you called him just now, has
this advantage, in the stormy times we live in, that he
always does hi?» duty before a host of sympathizing wit-
nesses. Do you doubt that he may so do it as to be ex-
tolled through a whole regiment, through a whole army,
through a whole country ? Turn ^hile you may yet
retrieve the past, and try."

" I will ! I ask for only one witness, sir," cried Rich-
ard, with a bursting heart.

" I understand you. I will be a watchful and a faith-
ful one."

I have heard from Private Richard Doubledick's own
lips, that he dropped down upon his knee, kissed that
officer's hand, arose, and went out of the light of the
dark, bright eyes, an altered man.

In that year, one thousand seven hundred and ninety-
nine, the French were in Egypt, in Italy, in Germany,
where not ? Napoleon Bonaparte had likewise begun to
stir against us in India, and most men could read the
signs of the great troubles that were coming on. In the
very next year, when we formed an alliance with Austria
against him. Captain Taunton's regiment was on service
in India. And there was not a finer non-commissioned
officer in it — no, nor in the whole line — than Corporal
Richard Doubledick.

In eighteen hundred and one, the Indian army were
on the coast of Egypt. Next year was the year of the
proclamation of the short peace, and they were recalled,
It had then become well known to thousands of men, that
wherever Captain Taunton, with the dark, bright eyes,
led, there, close to him, ever at his side, firm as a rock,
true as the sun, and brave as Mars, would be certain to
be found, while life beat in their hearts, that famous
soldier. Sergeant Richard Doubledick.

Eighteen hundred and five, besides being the great
year of Trafalgar, was a year of hard fighting m India.
That year saw such wonders done by a sergeant-major,
who cut his way single-handed through a solid mass of

THE STORY OP RICHARD DOUBLEDICK.

173

men, recovered the colours of his regiment, which had
been seized from the hand of a poor boy shot through
the heart, and rescued his wounded captain, who was
down, and in a very jungle of horses' hoofs and sabres, —
saw such wonders done, I say, by this brave sergeant-
major, that he was specially made the bearer of the
colours he had won ; and Ensign Richard Doubledick
had risen from the ranks.

Sorely cut up in every battle, but always reinforced
by the bravest of men, — for the fame of following the
old colours, shot through and through, which Ensign
Richard Doubledick had saved, inspired all breasts, —
this regiment fought its way through the Peninsular war,
up to the investment of Badajos in eighteen hundred and
twelve. Again and again it had been cheered through
the British ranks until the tears had sprung into men's
eyes at the mere hearing of the mighty British voice so
exultant in their valour ; and there was not a drummer-boy
but knew the legend, that wherever the two friends,
Major Taunton, with the dark, bright eyes, and Ensign
Richard Doubledick, who was devoted to him, were seen
to go, there the boldest spirits in the English army be-
came wild to follow.

One day at Badajos, — not in the great storming, but
in repelling a hot sally of the besieged upon our men at
work in the trenches, who had given way, — the two ofl&-
cers found themselves hurrying forward, face to face,
against a party of French infantry, who made a stand.
There was an officer at their head, encouraging his men,
— a courageous, handsome, gallant ofi&cer of five-and-
thirty, whom Doubledick saw hurriedly, almost moment-
arily, but saw well. He particularly noticed this offi-
cer waving his sword, and rallying his men with an
eager and excited cry, when they fired in obedience to
his gesture, and Major Taunton dr->pped.

It was over in ten minutes more, and Doubledick re-
turned to the spot where he had laid the best friend
man ever had on a cos

■1

jpread upon

clay.

1} -r-V^iF

:i'

174 THE MAIN TRUCK, OR A LEAP FOR LIFE.

jor Taunton's uniform was opened at the breast, and
on his shirt were three little spots of blood.

** Dear Doubledick," said he " I am d)'ing."

" For the love of Heaven, no!" exclaimed tlie other,
kneeling down beside him, and passing his arm round
his neck to raise his head. " Taunton ! My preserver,
my guardian angel, my witness ! Dearest, truest, kind-
est of human beings ! Taunton ! "

The bright, dark eyes — so very, very dark now, in the
pale face — smiled upon him ; and the hand that he had
kissed thirteen years ago laid itself fondly on his breasc.

" Write to my mother. You will see Home again.
Tell her how we became friends. It will comfort her,
as it comforts me."

He spoke no more, but faintly signed for a moment
towards his hair as it fluttered in the wind. The En-
sign understood him. He smiled again when he saw
that, and, gently turning his face over on the supporting
arm as if for rest, died, with his hand upon the breast
in which he had revived a soul. * * *

•A

\i hi

) I If

'1! ^

'' \

THE MAIN TKUCK, OR A LEAP FOR LIFE.

G. P. Morris.

Old Ironsides at anchor lay.

In the harbour of Mahon ;
A dead calm rested on the bay.

The waves to sleep had gone ;
When little Hal, the captain's son,

A lad both brave and good,
In sport, up shroud and rigging ran,

And on the main- truck stood !

k. shudder shot through every vein ;
All eyes were turned on high !

THE MAIN TRUCK, OR A LEAP FOR LIFE. 17D

There stood the boy, with dizzy brain,

Between the sea and sky ;
No hold had he above, below ;

Alone he stood in air ;
To that far height none dared to go ;

No aid could reach him there.

We gazed, — but not a man could speak !

With horror all aghast,
In groups, with pallid brow and cheek,

We watched the quivering mast.
The atmosphere grew thick and hot,

And of a lurid hue ;
As riveted, unto the spot,

Stood officers and crew.

The father came on deck, — he gasped,

" Oh God ! Thy will be done ! "
Then suddenly a rifle grasped.

And aimed it at his son :
" Jump far out, boy, into the wave !

Jump, or I fire ! " he said ;

That only chance thy life can save !

Jump 1 jump, boy ! " — he obeyed.

He sunk, — he rose, — he lived, — he moved,-

And for the chip struck out ;
On board we hailed the lad beloved,

With many a manly shout.
His father drew in silent joy,

Those wet arms round his neck, —
Then folded to his heart his boy,

And fainted on the d^cJc.

'f^^p

1 -,,- (

If. / f

\ II

i ' '

I'f.

:;r

!:wi

b*:

176 THE AMBITIOUS GUEST.

THE AMBITIOUS GUEST.

Nathaniel ITaivthornc, an American writer, horn at Salem,
Mass., .1807 ; author of " Twice-told Talcs," " Mosses
from an Old Manse,^' " The Scarlet Letter," a romance
of deep interest, " The House of Seven Gables" &c. Was
American Consul at Liverpool.

One September night, a family had gathered round
their hearth, and piled it high with the drift-wood of
mountain streams, the dry cones of the pine, and the
splintered ruins of great trees, that had come crashing
down the precipice. Up the chimney roared the fire, and
brightened the room with its broad blaze. The faces of
the father and mother had a sober gladness ; the chil-
dren laughed ; the eldest daughter was the image of
Happiness at seventeen ; and the aged grandmother, who
sat knitting in the warmest place, was the image of Hap-
piness grown old. They had found the " herb heart's-
ease," in the bleakest spot of all New England. This
family were situated in the Notch of the White Hills,
where the wind was sharp throughout the year, and
pitilessly cold in the winter, giving their cottage all its
fresh inclemency, before it descended on the valley of the
Saco. They dwelt in a cold spot and a dangerous one ;
for a mountain towered above their heads, so steep, that
the stones would often rumble down its sides, and startle
them at midnight.

The daughter had just uttered some simple jest, that
filled them all with mirth, when the wind came through
the Notch, and seemed to pause before their cottage —
rattling the door with a sound of wailing and lamenta-
tion, before it passed into the valley. For a moment it
saddened them, though there was nothing unusual in the
tones. But the family were glad again, when they per-
ceived that the latch was lifted by some traveller, whose
footsteps had been unheard amid the dreary blast which

TUK AMBITIOUS (^UEST.

177

mis

heralded his approach, and wailed as he was entering, and
went moaninjj; away from the door.

Though they dwelt in such a solitude, these people held
daily converse with the world. The romantic pass of the
Notch is a great artery, through which the lii'e-blood of
internal commerce is continually throbbing between
Maine on one side, and the Green Mountains and the
shores of the St. Lawrence on the other. When the
footsteps were heard, therefore, between the outer door
and the inner one, the whole family rose up, grandmother,
children, and all, as if about to welcome some one who
belonged to them, and whose fate was linked with theirs.

The door was opened by a young man. His face at
first wore the melancholy expression, almost despondency,
of one who travels a wild and bleak road at nightfall
and alone, but soon brightened up when he saw the
kindly warmth of his reception. He felt his heart spring
forward to meet them all, from the old woman who wiped
a chair with her apron, to the little child that held out
its arms to him. One glance and smile placed the stranger
on a footing of innocent familiarity with the eldest daugh-
ter.

" Ah, this fire is the right thing ! " cried he ; " espe-
cially when there is such a pleasant circle round it. I
am quite benumbed ; for the Notch is just like the pipe
of a great pair of bellows ; it has blown a terrible blast
in my face, all the way from Bartlett."

** Then you were going towards Vermont ? " said the
master of the house, as he helped to take a light knap-
sack oflf the young man's shoulders.

" Yes ; to Burlington, and far enough beyond," re-
plied he. ''I meant to have been at Ethan Crawford's
to-night; but a pedestrian lingers along such a road as
this. It is no matter ; for when I saw this good fire,
and all your cheerful faces, I felt as if you had kindled
it on purpose for me, and were waiting my arrival. So
I shall sit down among you and make myself at home."

The frank-hearted stranger had just drawn his chair
L

I
'il

m\M^

178

THE AMBITIOUS GUESi\

to the fire, when something like a heavy footstep was
heard without, rushing down the steep side of the moun-
tain, as with long and rapid strides, and taking such a
leap in passing the cottage, as to strike the opposite pre-
cipice. The family held their breath, because they knew
the sound, and their guest held his by instinct.

" The old mountain has thrown a stone at us, for fear
we should forget him," said the landlord, recovering him-
self. " He sometimes nods his head, and threatens to
come down ; but we are old neighbours, and agree together
pretty well upon the whole. Besides, we have a sure
place of refuge hard by, if he should be coming in good
earnest.^'

Let us now suppose the stranger to have finished his
supper of bear's meat ; and, by his natural felicity of
manner, to have placed himself on a footing of kindness
with the whole family, so that they talked as freely to-
gether as if he belonged to their mountain brood. He
was of a proud, yet gentle spirit — haughty and reserved
among the rich and great ; but ever ready to stoop his
head to the lowly cottage-door, and be like a brother or
a son at the poor man's fireside. In the household of the
Notch he found warmth and simplicity of feeling, the
pervading intelligence of New England, and a poetry ot
native growth, which they had gathered, when they little
thought of it. from the mountain peaks and chasms, and
at the very threshold of their romantic and dangerous
abode. He had travclh d far and alone ; his whole life,
indeed, had been a solitary path ; for with the lofty cau-
tion of his nature, he had kept himself apart from those
who might otherwise have been his companions. The
i'aniily, too, though so kind and hospitable, had that con-
ciousness of unity among themselves, and separation from
t he world at large, which, in every domestic circle, should
still keep a holy place, where no stranger may intrude.
Jiut this evening a prophetic sympathy impelled the re-
fined and educated youth to pour out his heart before the
simple mountaineers, and coustsained them to answer him

ife

THE AMBITIOUS GUEsT.

179

with the same free confidence. And thus it shouU have
been. Is not the kindred of a common fate a closer tie
than that of birth ?

The secret of the young man's character was a high
and abstracted ambition. He could have borne to live
an undistinguished life, but not to be forgotten in the
grave. Yearning desire had been transformed to hope ;
and hope, long cherished, had become like certainty, that,
obscurely as he journeyed now, a glory was to beam on
all his pathway, though not, perhaps, while he was tread-
ing it. But when posterity should gaze back into the
gioom of what was now the present, they would trace the
brightness of his footsteps, brightening as meaner glories
faded, and confess that a gifted one hud passed from his
cradle to his tomb, with none to recognise him.

" As yet," cried the stranger, his cheek glowing and
his eye flashing with enthusiasm, " as yet, I have done
nothing. Were I to vanish from the earth to-morrow,
none would know so much of me as you ; that a nameless
youth came up at nightfall from the valley of the Saco,
and opened his heart to you iu the evening, and passed
through the Notch by sunrise, and was seen no more.
Not a soul would ask — ' Who was he ? —Whither did
tne wanderer go ? ' But I cannot die till I have achieved
my destiny. Then let Death come ! I shall have built
my monument ! "

There was a continual flow of natural emotion, gush-
ing forth amid abstracted reverie, which enabled the
family to understand this young man's sentiments, though
so foreign from their own. With quick sensibility ot the
ludicrous, he blushed at the ardour intp which he had
been betrayed.

" You laugh at me," said he, taking the eldest daugh-
ter's hand, and laughing himself. " You think my am-
bition as nonsensical as if I were to freeze myself to death
on the top of Mount Washington, only that people
might spy at me from the country round about. And
truly that would be a noble pedestal for a man's statue ! "

!**

U ' «• .'

ii.J

■^>

r f

180

THE AMBITIOUS GUEST.

'' It is better to sit here by >iie fire," answered tiie
girl, blushing, "and be comfoi table and contented,
though nobody thinks about us."

" I suppose," said her father, after a fit of musing,
" there is something natural in what the young man says ;
and if my mind had been turned that way, I might have
felt just the same. It is strange, wife, how his talk has
set my head running on things that are pretty certain
never to come to pass."

•' Perhaps they may," observed the wife. '^ Is the
man thinking what he will do when he is a widower?"

" No, no ! " cried he, repelling the idea with reproach-
ful kindness. " When I think of your death, Esther,
I think of mine, too. But I was wishing we had a good
farm in Bartlett, or Bethlehem, or Littleton, or some
other township around the White Mountains ; but not
where they could tumble on our heads. I should want
to staiid well with my neighbours, and be called 'Squire,
and sent to General Court for a term or two; for a plain,
honest man may do as much good there as a lawyer. And
when I should be grown quite an old man, and you an
old woman, so as not to be long apart, I might die happy
enough in my bed, and leave jou all crying pround me.
A slate gravestone would suit me as well as a marble one,
with just my name and age, and a verse of a hymn, and
something to let people know that I lived an honest man
and died a Christian."

" Thera now ! " exclaimed the stranger ; "it is our
nature to desire a monument, be it slate, or marble, or a
pillar of granite, or a glorious memory in the universal
heart of man."

" We're in a strange way to-night," said the wife, with
tears in her eyes. " They say it's a sign of something
when folks' minds go a-wandering so. Hark to the chil-
dren i "

They listened accordingly. The younger children had
been put to bed in another room, but with an open door
between, so that they could be heard talking busily among

THE AMBITIOUS QUEST.

181

themselves. One and all seemed to have caught the in-
fection from the fireside circle, and were outvying each
other io wild wishes and childish projects of what they
would do when they came to be men and women. At
length a little boy, instead of addressing his brothers and
sisters, called out to his mother —

" I'll tell you what I wish, mother," cried he. " I
want you and father and grandma'm, and all of us, and
the stranger too, to start right away, and go and take a
drink out of the basin of the Flume ! "

Nobody could help laughing at the child's noMon of
leaving a warm bed, and dragging them from a cheerful
fire, to visit the basin of the Flume — a brook which
tumbles over the precipice, deep within the Notch.

But it happened that a light cloud passed over the
daughter's spirit ; she looked gravely into the fire, and
drew a breath that was almost a sigh. It forced its way,
in spite of a little struggle to repress it. Then starting
and blushing, she looked quickly round the circle, as if
they had caught a glimpse into her bosom. The stran
ger asked what she had been thinking of.

" Nothing," answered she, with a downcast smile.
" Only I felt lonesome just then."

" Oh, I have always had a gift of feeling what is in
other people's hearts," said he, half seriously. " Shall
I tell the secrets of yours ? For I know what to think
when a young girl shivers by a warm hearth, and com-
plains of lonesomeness at her mother's side. Shall I put
these feelings into words ? "

/* They would not be a girl's feelings any longer, if
they could be put into words," replied the mountain
nymph, laughing, but avoiding his eye.

All this was said apart. Perhaps a germ of love was
springing in their hearts, so pure that it might blossom
in Paradise, since it could not be matured on earth ; for
women worship such gentle dignity as his ; and the
proud, contemplative, yet kindly soul is oftenest captiva-
ted by simplicity like hers. But whil^ ^^^'^v snoke softly,

I I

^h'l

I !

\i¥

. i »j

182

THE AMBITIOUS GUEST.

and he was watching the happy sadness, the lightsome
shadows, the shy yearnings of a maiden's nature, the
wind, through the Notch, took a deeper and drearier
sound. It seemed, as the fanciful stranger said, like
the choral strain of the spirits of the blest, who, in old
Indian times, had their dwelling among these mountains,
and made their heights and recesses a sacred region.
There was a wail along the road, as if a funeral were
passing. To chase away the gloom, the family threw
pine branches on their fire, till the dry leaves crackled,
and the flame arose, discovering once again a scene of
peace and humble happiness. The light hovered about
them fondly, and caressed them all. There were the
little faces of the children, peeping from their bed apart,
and here the father's frame of strength, the mother's
subdued and careful mien^ the high-browed youth, the
budding girl, the good old grandam, still knitting in the
warmest place. 'J' he aged woman looked up from her
task, and, with fingers ever busy, was the next to speak.

" Old folks have their notions," said she, "as well as
young ones. You've been wishing and planning, and
letting your heads run on one thing and another, till
you've set my mind a-wandering too. Now, what should
an old woman wish for when she can go but a step or
two before she comes to her grave ? Children, it will
haunt me night and day, till I tell you."

" What is it, mother ? " cried the husband and wife at
once.

Then the old woman, with an air of mystery, which
drew the circle closer round the fire, informed them that
she had provided her grave-clothes some years before —
a nice linen shroud, a cap with a muslin ruff", and every-
thing of a finer sort than she had worn since her wedding-
day. But this evening an old superstition had strangely
recurred to her. It used to be said in her younger days,
that if anything were amiss with a corpse , if only the
ruff were not smooth, or the cap did not sot right, the
corpse, in the coffin and beneath the clods, would strive

THE AMBITIOUS GUEST.

183

to put up its cold hands and arrange it. The bare
thought made her nervous.

" Don't talk so, grandmother I " said the girl, shud-
dering.

" Now," continued the old woman, with singular
earnestness, yet smiling strangely at her own folly, " I
want one of you, my children — when your mother is
dressed, and in the coflBn — I want one of you to hold a
looking-glass over my face. Who knows but I may take
a glimpse at myself, and see whether all's right 1 "

" Old and young, we dream of graves and monuments,"
murmured the stranger youth. " I wonder liow mariners
feel when the ship is sinking, and they, unknown and un-
distinguished, are to be buried together in the ocean —
that wide ciud nameless sepulchre ! "

For a moment the old woman's ghastly conception so
engrossed the minds of her hearers, that a sound, abroad
in the night, risings like the roar of a blast, had grown
broad, deep and terrible, before the fated group were
conscious of it. The house, and all within it, trembled ;
the foundations of the earth seemed to be shaken, as if
this awful sound were the peal of the last trump. Young
and old exchanged one wild glance, and remained an in-
stant pale, affrighted, without utterance, or power to
move. Then the same shriek burst simultaneously from
all their lips —

"The slide! the slide ! "

The simplest words must intimate, but not portray,
the unutterable horror of the catastrophe. The victims
rushed from their cottage, and sought refuge in what
they deemed a safer spot — where, in contemplation of
' such an emergency, a sort of barrier had been reared.
Alas ! they had quitted their security, and fled right in-
to the pathway of destruction. Down came the whole
side of the mountain in a cataract of ruin. Just before
it reached the house the stream broke into two branches,
shivering not a window there, but overwhelming the
whole vicinity, blocked up the road, and annihilated

f I

184

THE CANE-BOTTOMED OHAltt.

/I ■ ^

\ '

'^^l!;is ;

! i

■i I •

everything in its dreadful course. Long ere the thunder
of that great slide had ceased to roar among the moun-
tains, the mortal agony had been endured, and the vic-
tims were at peace. Their bodies were never found.

The next morning the light smoke was seen stealing
from the cottage chimney up the mountain -side. With-
in, the fire was yet smouldering on the hearth, and the
chairs in a circle round it, as if the inhabitants had but
gone forth to view the devastation of the slide, and
would shortly return to thank Heaven for their miracu-
lous escape. All had left separate tokens, by which
those who had known the family were made to shed a tear
lor each. Who has not heard their name *? The story
has been told far and wide, and will for ever be a legend
of these mountains. Poets have sung their fate.

There were circumstances which led some to suppose
that a stranger had been received into the cottage on
this awful night, and had shared the catastrophe of all
its inmates. Others denied that thei'e were sufficient
grounds for such a conjecture. Woe for the high-souled
youth, with his dream of earthly immortality! His name
and person utterly unknown ; his history, his way of life,
his plans — a mystery never to be solved ; his death and
his existence equally a doubt ! Whose was the agony of
that death-moment ?

THE CANE-BOTTOMED CHAIR.

Thackeray.

In tattered old slippers that toast at the bars,
And a ragged old jacket perfumed with cigars,
Away from the world, and its toils and its cares,
I've a snug little kingdom up four pair of stairs.

To mount to this realm is a toil, to be sure,

But the fire there is bright, and the air rather pure ;

THE CANE-BOTTOMED CHAIH.

18^

And the view I behold on a sunshiny day

Is grand, through the chimney-pots over the way.

This snug little chamber is crammed in all nooks,
With worthless old nick-knacks, and silly old books,
And foolish old odds, and foolish old ends,
Cracked bargains from brokers, cheap keepsakes from
friends,

Old armour, prints, pictures, pipes, china (all cracked),

Old rickety tables, and chairs, broken-backed ;

A twopenny treasury, wondrous to see ;

What matter ? 'tis pleasant to you, friend, and me.

No better divan need the Sultan require,
Than the creaking old sofa that basks by the fire ;
And 'tis wonderful, surely, what music you get
From the rickety, ramshackle, wheezy spinet.

That praying-rug came from a Turcoman's camp ;
By Tiber once twinkled that brazen old lamp ;
A Mameluke fierce, yonder dagger has drawn ;
Tis a murderous knife to toast muffins upon.

Long, long through the hours, and the night, and the

chimes.
Here we talk of old books, and old friends, and old

times ;
As we sit in a fog made of rich Latakie,
This chamber is pleasant to you, friend, and me.

^ut of all the cheap treasures that garnish my nest,
There's one that I love and I cherish the best ;
For the finest of couches that's padded with hair,
I never could change thee, my cane-bottomed chair.

'Tis a bandy-legged, high-shouldered, worm-eaten seat,
With a creaking old back, and twisted old feet ;

' V:

:^i-.''

Mil V ' S

ill 'f j . Sfcll;

186

CALLING A. BOY IN THE MORNING.

But, since the fair morning when Fanny sat there,
I bless thee and love thee, old cane-bottomed chair.

It was but a moment she sat in this place ;
She'd a scarf on her neck, and a smile on her face !
A smile on her face, and a rose in her hair,
And she sat there, and bloomed in my oane-bcittomed
chair.

And so I've valued my chair ever since.

Like the shrine of a saint, or the throne of a prince ;

Saint Fanny, my patroness sweet I declare,

The queen of my heart and my cane-bottomed chair.

When the candles burn low, and the company's gone,
In the silence of night, as I sit here alone —
I sit here alone, but we yet are a pair —
My Fanny I see in my cane-bottomed chair.

She comes from the past, and revisits my room ;
She looks as she then did, all beauty and blooii. ;
So smiling and tender, so fresh and so fair ;
And yonder she sits in my cane-bottomed chair.

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 sin-
gular 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 mothera 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 re-
sponse. " Johnny." Still no response. Then there is

THE CHARCOAL-MAN.

187

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 re-
peated several times. / father knows nothing about
this trouble. He merely opens his mouth as a soda-
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 pater-
nal 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.

THE CHARCOAL-MAN.

Though rudely blows the wintry blast.
And sifting snows fall white and fast,
Mark Haley drives along the street,
Perched high upon his waggon seat ;
His sombre face the storm defies.
And thus from morn till eve he cries, —

" Charco ! Charco ! "
While echo famt and far replies, —

" Hark, 1 Hark, !
Charco ! Hark ! "—such cheery sounds
Attend him on his daily rounds.

The dust begrimes his ancient hat ;
His ooai is darker far than that ;

,! * •

■•' 1.

!5,

'^H

) t

Ill 'U

i M J

'%\

( '

i .'

^^ ff 4'! '' i

III 'f H *

M^ -Mi

188 THE CHARCOAL-MAN.

'Tis odd to see his sooty form

All speckled with the feathery storm.

Yet in his honest bosom lies

Nor spot nor speck, — though still he cries,— i.

"Charco! Charco ! "
And many a roguish lad replies, —

" Ark, ho I Ark, ho !
Charco ! Ark, ho ! " — such various sounds
A.nnounoe Mark Haley's morning rounds.

Thus all the cold and wintry day,
He labours much for little pay ;
Yet feels no less of happiness,
Than many a richer man, I guess,
When through the shades of eve he spies
The light of his own home, and cries —

" Charco ! Charco ! "
And Martha from the door replies —

" Mark, ho ! Mark, ho !
Charco ! Mark ho ! " — such joy abounds
When he has closed his daily rounds.

The hearth is warm, the fire is bright.

And while his hand, washed clean and white

Holds Martha's tender hand once more.

His glowing face bends fondly o'er

The crib wherein his darling lies.

And in a coaxing tone he cries —

"Charco! Charco!"
And baby with a laugh replies —

" Ah go ! Ah go !
Ah go ! Ah go I'* — while at the bounds
The mother's heart with gladness boundc.

Then honoured be the Charcoal-man !
Though dusky as an African.
*Tis not for us that chance to be
A little better clad than he,

THE HEROES OP THE LONG SAULT.

189

His honest m.inhood to despise,
Although from morn till eve he cries—

"Charco! Charco !"
While mocking echo still replies —

" Hark, ! Hark, !
Charco ! Hark, ! " — Long may the sounds
Proclaim Mark Haley's daily rounds !

THE HEROES OF THE LONG SAULT.

Francis JV. Farkman.

Adam Daulac, or Dollard, Sieur des Ormaux, was a
jroung man of good family, who had come to the colony
ihree years before, at the age of twenty-two. He had
leld some military rank in France, though what rank
Iocs not appear. It was said that he had been involved
in some affair which made him anxious to wipe out the
aiemory of the past by a noteworthy exploit ; and he
bad been busy for some time among the young men of
Montreal, inviting them to join him in the enterprise he
meditated. Sixteen of them caught his spirit, struck
hands with him, and pledged their word. They bound
themselves by oath to accept no quarter ; and having
gained Maisonneuve's consent, they made their wills,
confessed, and received the sacraments. As they knelt
for the last time before the altar in the chapel of HOtel
Dieu, that sturdy little population of pious Indian
fighters gazed on them with enthusiasm, not unmixed
with an envy which had in it nothing ignoble. Some
of the chief men of Montreal, with the brave Charles
Le Moyne at their head, begged them to wait till the
spring sowing was over, that they might join them ; but
Daulac refused. He was jealous of the glory and the
danger, and he wished to command, which he could not
have done had Le Moyne been present. ,

190

TU£ UEROES OF THE LONG SAULT

> 1 i

4 :■!!'• i

The spirit of the enterprise was purely mediaeval.
The enthusiasm of honour, the enthusiasm of adventure,
iiud the enthusiasm of faith were its motive forces.
Daulac was a knight of the etirly crusades among the
forests and savages of the New World. Yet the incidents
of this exotic heroism are definite and clear as a tale of
yesterday. The names, ages and occupations of the
«(wenteen young men may still be read on the ancient
register of Montreal ; and the notarial acts of that year,
preserved in the records of the city, contain minute
accounts of such property as each of them possessed.
The three eldest were of twenty-eight, thirty, and thirty-
one years respectively. The age of the rest varied from
twenty-one to twenty-seven. They were of various call-
ings, — soldiers, armourers, locksmiths, lime-burners, or
settlers without trades. The greater number had come
to the colony as part of the reinforcement brought by
M aisonneuve in 1653.

After a solemn farewell, they embarked in several
canoes well supplied with arms and ammunition. They
were very indifferent canoemen ; and it is said that they
lost a week in vain attempts to pass the swift current of
St. Anne, at the head of the Island of Montreal. At
length they were more successful, and entering the
mouth of the Ottawa, crossed the Lake of the Two
Mountains, and slowly advanced against the current.

Meanwhile, forty warriors of that remnant of the
Hurons, who,, in spite of Iroquois persecutions, still
lingered at Quebec, had set out on a war-party, led by
the brave and wily Etienne Annahotaha, their most
noted chief. They stopped by the way at Three Rivers,
where they found a band of Christian Algonquins, under
a chief named Mituvemeg. Annahotaha challenged
him to a trial of courage, and it was agreed that they
should meet at Montreal, where they were likely to find
a speedy opportunity of putting their metal to the test.
Thither accordingly they repaired, the Algonquin with
three followers, and the Huron with thirty-nine.

THI HEROES OF THE LONG SAULT.

191

mts

the

It was not lonjij before they learned the departure of
Daulac and liin companions. " For," observes the honest
DoUier de Casson, " the princi{);il fault of our French-
men is to talk too much." 'i ho wish seized them to
share the adventure, and to that end the Huron chief
asked the Governor for a letter to Daulac, to serve as
credentials. Maisonneuve hesitated. His faith in Huron
valour was not great, and he feared the proposf^d alliance.
Nevertheless, he at len<2;th yielded so far as to t;ive Anna-
hotaha a letter in which Daulac was told to accept or
reject the proffered reinforcement as he shculd see fit.
The Hurons and Algonquins now embarked and pad-
died in pursuit of the seventeen Frenchmen.

They meanwhile had passed with difficulty the swift
current at Carillon, and about the 1st of ^Tay reached
the foot of the more formidable rapid called the Long
Sault, where a tumult of waters, foaming among ledges
and boulders, barred the onward way. It was needless
to go farther. The Iroquois were sure to pass the Sault,
and could be fought here as well as elsewhere. Just
below the rapid, where the forest sloped gently to the
shore, among the bushes and stumps of the rough clear-
ing made in constructing it, stood a palisade fort, the
work of an Algonquin war-party in the past autumn. It
was a mere enclosure of trunks of small trees planted in
a circle, and was already ruinous. Such as it was, the
Frtuchmen took possession of it. Their first care, one
would think, should have been to repair and strengthen
it ; but this they seem not to have done — possibly, in the
exaltation of their minds, they scornel such precaution.
They made their firfes, and slung their kettles on the
neighbouring shore ; and here they were soon joined by
the Hurons and Algonquins. Daulac, it seems, made no
objection to their company, and they all bivouacked to-
gether. Morning, noon and night they prriyed in three
different tongues ; and when at sunset the long reach of
forests on the farther shore basked peacefully in the level

Ililii

>.;

'!;:

192

THE HEROES OF THE LONG SAULT.

rays, the rapids joined their hoarse music to the notes
of their evening hymn.

In a day or two their scouts came in with tidings that
two Irocjuois canoes were coming down the Saut. Dau-
lac had time to set his men in ambush among the bushes
at a point where he thought the strangers likely to land.
He judged aright. The canoes, bearing five Iroquois,
approached, and were met by a volley fired with sucb
precipitation that one or more of them escaped the shot,
fled into the forest, and told their mischance to theii
main body, two hundred in number, on the river above.
A fleet of canoes suddenly appeared, bounding down the
rapids, filled with warriors eager for revenge. The allies
had barely time to escape to their fort, leaving their
kettles still slung over the fires. The Iroquois made
a hasty and desultory attack, and were quickly repulsed.
They nexi opened a parley, hoping, no doubt, to gain
some advantage by surprise. Failing in this, they set
themselves, after their custom on such occasions, to build-
ing a rude fort of their own in the neighbouring forest.

This gave the French a breathing-time, and they used
it for strengthening their defences. Being provided
with tools, they planted a row of stakes within their pali-
sade, to form a double fence, and filled the intervening
space with earth and stones to the height of a man, leav-
ing some twenty loop-holes, at each of which three
marksmen were stationed. Their work was still unfin-
ished when the Iroquois were upon them again. They
had broken to pieces the birch canoes of the French and
their allies, and, kindling the bark, rushed up to pile it
blazing against the palisade ; but so brisk and steady a
fire met them that they recoiled and at last gave way.
They came on again, and again were driven back, leaving
many of their number on the ground, among theu the
principal chief of the Senecas. Some of the French
dashed out, and, covered by the fire of their comrades,
hacked off his head, and stuck it oja the palisade, while

THE HEROES OF THE LONG SAULT.

193

notes

s that
Dau-

)ushcs
land.

the Iroquois howled in a frenzy of helpless rage. They
tried another attack, and were beaten off a third time.

This dashed their spirits, and they sent a canoe to
call to their aid five hundred of their warriors who were
mustered near the mouth of ihc Richelieu. These were
the allies whom, but for this untoward check, they were
on their way to join for a combined attack on Quebec,
Three Rivers and Montreal. It was maddening to see
their grand project thwarted by a few French and Indians
ensconced in a paltry redoubt scarcely better than a cattle
pen ; but they were forced to digest the affront as best
they might.

Meanwhile, crouched behind trees and logs, they be-
set the fort, harassing its defenders day and nisht with
a spattering fire and a constant menace of attack. Thus
five days passed. Hunger, thirst and want of sleep
wrought fatally on the strength of the French and their
allies, who, pent up together in their narrow prison,
fought and prayed by turns. Deprived as they were of
water, they could not swallow the crushed Indign corn,
or " hominy," which was their only food. Some of them,
under cover of a brisk fire, ran down to the river and
filled such small vessels as they had ; but this pittance
only tantalized their thirst. They dug a hole in the
fort, and were rewarded at last by a little muddy water
oozing through the clay.

Among the assailants were a number of Hurons
adopted by the Iroquois and fighting on their side.
These renegades now shouted to their countrymen in the
fort, telling them that a fresh army was close at hand ;
that they would soon be attacked by seven or eight hun-
dred warriors ; and that their only hope was in joining
the Iroquois, who would receive them as friends. An-
nahotaha's followers, half dead with thirst and famine,
listened to their seducers, took the bait, and, one, two,
or three at a time, climbed the palisade and ran over to
the enemy, amid the hootings and execrations of those
whom they deserted. Their chief stood firm ; and when

im'

194

THE HEROES OF THE LOMQ SAULT.

he saw his nephew, La M cache, join the other fugitives,,
he fired his pistol at him iu a rage. The four Algon-
quins, who had no mercy to hope for, stood fast, with
the courage of despair.

On the fifth day an uproar of unearthly yells from
seven hundred savage throats, mingled With a clattering
salute of musketry, told the Frenchmen that the expected
reinforcements had come ; and soon, in the forest and on
the clearing, a crowd of warriors mustered for the attack.
Knowing from the Huron deserters the weakness of their
enemy, they had no doubt of an easy victory. They
advanced cautiously, as was usual with the Iroquois be-
fore their blood was up, screeching, leaping from side to
side, and firing as they came on ; but the French were at
their posts, and every loophole darted its tongue of fire.
Besides muskets, they had heavy musketoons of large
calibre, which, scattering scraps of lead and iron among
tlie throng of savages, often maimed several of them at
one discharge. The Iroquois, astonished at the per-
sistent vigour of the defence, fell back discomfited. The
fire of the French, who were themselves completely under
cover, had told upon them with deadly efiect. Three days
more wore away in a series of futile attacks, made with
little concert or vigour ; and during all this time Daulac
and his men, reeling with exhaustion, fought and prayed
as before, sure of a martyr's reward.

The uncertain, vacillating temper common to all In-
dians now began to declare itself. Some of the Iroquois
were foi' going home. Others revolted at the thought,
and declared that it would be an eternal disgrace to lose
so many at the hands of so paltry an enemy, and yet
fail to take revenge. It was resolved to make a general
assault, and volunteers were called for to lead the attack.
After the custom on such occasions, bundles of small
sticks were thrown upon the ground, and those picked
them up who dared, thus accepting the gage of battle,
and enrolling themselves in the forlorn hope. No pre-
caution was neglected. Large and heavy shields, four or

THE HEROES OP THE LONG SAULT.

195

iives..

IgOD-

with

from

five feet high, were made by lashing together three split
logs with the aid of cross-bars. Covering themselves
with these mantelets, the chosen baud advanced, fol-
lowed by the motley throng of warriors. In spite of a
brisk fire, they reached the ^ialisade, and, crouching be-
low the range of shot, hewed furiously with their hatchets
to cut their way through. The rest followed close, and
swarmed like angry hornets around the little fort, hack-
ing and tearing to get in.

Daulac had cranmed a large musketoon with powder,
and plugged up tue muzzle. Lighting the fuse inserted
in it, he tried to throw it over the barrier, to burst like
a grenade among the crowd of savages without ; but it
struck the ragged top of one of the palisades, fell back
among the Frenchmen and exploded, killing and wound-
ing several of them, and nearly blinding others. In the
confusion that followed, the Iroquois got possession of
the loop holes, and, thrusting in their guns, fired on those
within. In a moment more they had torn a breach in
the palisade ; but, nerved with the energy of desperation,
Daulac and his followers spra^ig to defend it. Another
breach was made, and then another. Daulac was struck
dead, but the survivors kept up the fight. With a sword
or a hatchet in one hand and a knife in the other, they
threw themselves against the throng of enemies, striking
and stabbing with the fury of madmen ; till the Iroquois,
despairing of taking them alive, fired volley after volley
and shoL them down. All was over, and a burst of tri-
umphant yells proclaimed the dear-bought victory.

Searching the pile of corpses, the victors found four
Frenchmen still breathing. Three had scarcely a spark
of life, and as no time was to be lost, they burned them on
the spot. The fourth, less fortunate, seemed likely to
survive, and they reserved him for future torments. As
for the Huron deserters, their cowardice profited them
little. The Iroquois, regardless of their promises, fell
upon them, burned some at once, and carried the rest
to their villages for a similar fate. Five of the number

M '

196

THE drummer's BRIDE.

'*.^*5

..Mil

H I ^ '
if ' ;.

had the good fortune to escape, and it was from them,
aided by admissions made long afterwards by the Iro-
quois themselves, that the French of Canada derived
all their knowledge of this glorioub disaster.

To the colony it proved a salvation. The Iroquois
had had fighting enough. If seventeen Frenchmen, four
Algonquins, and one Huron, behind a picket fence, could
hold seven hundred warriors at bay so long, what might
they expect from many such, fighting behind walls of
stone ? For that year they thought no more of captur-
ing Quebec and Montreal, but went home d^eeted and
amazed, to howl over their losses, and nurse their dashed
courage for a day of vengeance.

THE DRUMMER'S BRIDE, .

Hollow-eyed and pale at the window of a jail,

Thro' her soft dishevelled hair, a maniac did stare, stare,

stare !
At a distance, down the street, making music with their

feet,
Came the soldiers from the wars, all embellished with

their scars,
To the tapping of a drum, of a drum ;
To the pounding and the sounding of a drum !
Of a drum, of a drum, of a drum ! drum, drum, drum !

The woman heaves a sigh and a fire fiils her eye.
When she hears the drum, she cries, " Here they come !

here they come ! "
Then clutching fast the grating with eager, nervous

waiting.
See, she looks into the air, through her long and silky

hair.
For the echo of a drum, of a drum ;

THE drummer's BRIDE,

197

For the cheering and the hearing of a drum (

Of a drum, of a drum, of a drum ! drum, drum, drum !

And nearer, nearer, nearer, comes, more distinct and

clearer,
The rattle of the drumming; shrieks the woman, " He,,

is coming.
He is coming now to me ; quick, drummer, quick, till

I see ! "
And her eye is glassy bright, while she beats in mad

delight
To the echo of a drum, of a drum ;
To the rapping, tapping, tapping of a drum !
Of a drum, of a drum, of a drum ! drum, dium, drum !

Now she sees them, in the street, march along with

dusty feet,
As she looks through the spaces, gazing madly in their

faces ;
And she reaches out her hand, screaming wildly to the

band ;
But her words, like her lover, are lost beyond recover,
'Mid the beating of a drum, of a drum ;
'Mid the clanging and the banging of a drum !
Of a drum, of a drum, of a drum ! drum, drum, drum I

So the pageant passes by, and the woman's flashing eye
Quickly loses all its stare, and fills with a tear, with a

tear ;
As, sinking from her place, with her hands upon her

face,
" Hear ! " she weeps and sobs as wild as a disappointed

child ;
Sobbing, " He will never come, never come I
Now nor ever, never, never, will he come
With his drum, with his drum, with his drum I ditrm,

drum, drum I "

198

THE "HAMMERTOORS.

Still the drummer, up the street, beats his distant, dying

beat,
And she shouts, within her cell, " Ha ! they're marcli-

ing down to hell.
And the devils dance and wait at the open iron gate :
Hark ! it is the dying sound, as they march into the

ground,
To the sighing and the dying of the drum !
To the throbbing and the sobbing of the dvu^j. !
Of a drum, of a drum, of a drum ! drum, drum, drum ! "

MRS. GAMP'S ACCOUNT OF THE " HAMMER-
TOORS."

A Fragment.

Chas. Dickens.

Which Mrs. Harris's own words to me was these .
" Sairey Gamp," she says, '' why not go to Margate ?
Srimps," says that deercreetur, "is to your liking, Sairey;
why not go to Margate for a week, bring your constitu-
tion up with srimps, and come baak to them loving arts
as knows and wallies of you, blooming ? Sairey," Mrs.
Harris says, "you are but poorly. Don'i denige it,
Mrs. Gamp, for books is in your looks. You must
have rest. Your »:iind," says shfi, "is too strong for
you J it gets you dwon and treads upon you, Sairey.
It is useless to disguise the fact — the blade is a-wear-
ing out the sheets." " Mrs. Harris," says I to her, " I
could not undertake to say, and I will not deceive you,
ma'am, that I am the woman I could wi^^ to be. The
time of worrit as I had with Mrs. Colliber, the baker's
lady, that she would not so much as look at bottled
stout, and kept to gruel, has agued me, Mrs. Harris.
But, ma'am," I says to her, " talk not of Margate,

THE "HAMMERTOOHS."

199

for if I go anywheres, it iselsewheres and not there."
'' Sairey," says Mrs. Harris, solemn, " whence this
msytery ? If I hav ever deceived the hardest workino-,
soberest, and best of women, which her name is well be-
known is S. Gamp, Knightsgate Street, High Holborn,
mention it. If not," says Mrs. Harris with the tears
a-standing in her eyes, " reweal your intentions." " Yes,
Mrs. Harris," I says, '' I will. Well I knows you, Mrs!
Harris ; well you knows me ; well we both knows what
the characters of one another is. Mrs. Harris, then," I
says, " I have heerd as there is a expedition going dovrn to
Manjester and Liverspool, a play-acting. If I goes
anywheres for change, it is along with that." Mrs.
Harris clasps her hands, and drops into a chair. " And
have I lived to hear," she says, "of Sairey Gamp, as
always kep' herself respectable, in company with play-
actors ?" " Mrs. Harris," I says to her, "be not alarmed
— not reg'lar play actors — hammertoors." " Thank
Evans ! " says Mrs. Harris, and bustiges into a flood of
tears.

When the sweet creetur had compoged herself, I pro-
ceeds in these words : " Mrs. Han-is, I am told as these
hammertoors aie litter'ry and artistickle." "Sairey," says
that best of wimmin, with a shiver and a slight relasp,
"go on; it might be worse." "I likewise hears," I
says to her, " that they're goin play-acting for the bene-
fit of two litter ry men ; one as has had his wrongs a
long time ago, and has got his rights at last,'^ and one as
has made a many people merry in his time, but is very
dull and sick and lonely his own self, indeed."f
"Sairey," says Mrs. Harris, "you're an Inglish wo
man, and that's no business of yourn."

" No, Mrs. Harris," I says, " that's very true ; I hope
1 knows my dooty and my country. But," I says, " I
am informed as there is ladies in this party. Mrs.
Harris, you and me well knows what Ingeins often does.

* Leigh Hunt.

+ John Poole.

I !;■ !'

t "4 *

1 ■

.1^

I: :

, «

200

THE "HAMMERTOORS.

i»

If I accompanies this expedition, unbeknown and
second class, may I not combine business with chans^e of
air, and prove a service to my feller-creeturs ? " "Sairey,"
was Mrs. Harris's reply, " you was born to be a bless-
ing to your sex. Good go with you ! But keep your
distance till called in. Bless you, Mrs. Gamp ; for
people is known by the company they keeps, and littery
and artiskle society might be the ruin of you, bfore you
was aware, with your best customers."

Mrs. Gamp is Descriptive.

■■i I

;li
• ii

111

h '

i <

'■^ i

I t

't!

f r-
1.

,it:

Ril ?! { '

The number of the cab had a seven in it, I think,
and a ought I know— and if this should meet his eye
(which it was a black 'un, new done, that he saw with ;
the other was tied up). I give him warnin' that he'd
better take that umbereller and patten to the Hackney
coach office before he repents it. He was a young man
in a weskit with sleeves to it and strings behind, and
needn't flatter himself with a suppogition of escape, as
I gave this description of him to the police the mo-
ment I found he had drove off with my property : and
if he thinks there an't laws enough, he's much mistook
— I tefl h^m that.

I do assure you, Mrs. Harris, when I stood in the
railways office that morning with my bundle on my arm,
and one patten in my hand, you might have knocked
me down with a feather, far less porkmangers which was
a-lumpin' against me continual and sewere all round.
I was drove about like a brute animal, and almost
wcrritted ihto fits, when a gentleman* with a large shirt
collar and a hook nose, and an eye like one of Mr.
Sweedlepipe's hawks, and long locks of hair, andwiskers
that I wouldn't have no lady as I was engaged to meet sud-
denly a-turning round a corner, for any sum of money you
could offer me, says, laughing, " Hall#a, Mrs. Gamp,

* George Cruikshank.

THE " HAMMERT00R8."

201

and
eof

ess-
rour
tor
tery
you

what are you up to ? " I didn't know him ; but I sayt
fainDly, *' If you're a Christian man, show me where to
get a second class ticket for Manjester, and have mo
put in a carriage, or I shall drop ! " Which he kindly
did, in a cheerful kind of a way, skipping about in the
strangest manner as ever I see, making all kinds of
actions, and looking and vinking at me from under
fhe brim of his hat (which was a good deal turned up),
to that extent, that I should have thought he meant
something but for being so flurried as not to have no
thoughts at all until I was put in a carriage along with
a individgle — the politest 1 ever see — in a shepherd's
plaid suit, with a long gold watch-guard hanging round
his neck, and his hand a tremblin' through nervousness
worse than an aspian leaf.

" I'm werry appy, ma'am," he says — the politest vice
as ever I heerd 1 — " to go down with a lady belonging
to our party."

" Our party, sir ! " I says.

** Yes, 'm," he says ; " I'm Mr. Wilson, I*m going
down with the wigs."

Mrs. H arris, wen he said he was going down with the
wigs, such was my state of confugion and worrit that I
thought he must be connected with the Government in
some ways or another, but directly moment he explains
himself, for he says : " There's five-and-twenty wigs in
these boxes, ma'am," he says, a-pointing towards a heap
of luggage, *' as was worn at the Queen's Fancy Ball.
There's a flaxen wig as was got up express for Jenny
Lind the night she came out at the Italian Opera. It
was very much appiauded was that wig, ma'am, through
the evening. It had a great reception. The audience
broke out, the moment they see it."

"Are you in Mr. Sweedlepipe's line, sirl" I says.

" Which is that, ma'am ?" he says — the softest and
genteelest vice I ever heerd, I do declare^ Mr&. Harris I

" Hair dressing," I says.

" Yes, ma'am," he replies, *'I have that honour. Do

202

THE " HAMMERTOORS.

>)if

':ti t''

KUt

* (

iMi ■ •':

you see this, ma'am?" he says, holding up is right hand.

" I never see such a trembling," I says to him. And
I never did.

" All along of Her Majesty's Costume Ball, ma'am,"
he says. "The excitement did it. Two hundred and
fifty-seven ladies of the first rank and fashion had their
heads got up on that occasion by this hand, and my
t'other one. I was at it eight-and-forty hours on my
feet, ma'am, without rest. It was a powder-ball, ma'am.
We have a powder piece at Liverpool. Have I not the
pleasure," he says, looking at me curious, " of address-
ing Mrs. Gamp 1 "

" Gamp I am, sir," I replies, " both by name and
natur."

" Would you like to see your beograffer's moustache
and whiskers, ma'am ?" he says ; "I've got 'em in this
box."

" Drat my beograflFer, sir,'* I says; " he has given me
no ree;ion to wish to know anythiak about hkn."

" Oh, Missus Gamp, I ask yourparden " — I never see
such a perlite man, Mrs. Harris. " P'raps," he says,
" if you're not of the party, you don't know who it was
assisted you into this carriage ! "

" No, sir," I says, " I don't, indeed."

"Why, ma'am," he says, a-wisperin, "that was George,
ma'am. "

" What George, sir? I don't know no George," says I.

" The great George, ma'am," says he. " The Crook
ihanks."

If you'll believe me, Mrs. Harris, I turns my head,
and see the wery man a-making a picture of me on his
thumbnail, at the winder! while another of 'em — a
tall, melancholy gent, with dark hair and a bass vice* —
looks over his shoulder, with his head o' one side at if
he understood the subject, and coolly says, ** I've draw'd

*John Le«th.

THE '' UAMMERTOOKB.

203

lier several tlmeB —in Punch " he says too ! The owda-
cious wretch I

*' Which I never touches, Mr. Wilson," I remarks out
loud — I couldn't help it, Mrs. Harris, if you had took
my life for it ! — '* which I never touches, Mr. Wilson,
on account of the lemon ! "

" Hush ! " says Mt. Wilson, ** There he is I"

" I only see a fat gentleman with curly black hair and a
merry face, a-standing on the platform, rubbing his two
hands over one another, as if he was washing of 'em, and
shaking his head and slioulders wery much ; and I was
wondering wot Mr. Wilson meant, wen he snys, " There's
Dougladge,* Mrs. Gamn! " he says, " There's him as
wrote the life of Mrs. Caudle ! "

Mss. Harris, wen I isee that little villain bodily be-
fore me, it give me such a turn that I was all in a trem-
ble. If I hadn't lost my umbrellar in the cab, I must
have done him an injury with it ! Oh, the bragian little
traitor ! right among the ladies, Mrs. Harris ; looking
his wickedest and deceitfulest of eyes while he was
a-talking to 'em ; laughing at his own jokes as loud as
you please ; holding his hat in one hand to cool himself,
and tossing back his iron-grey mop of a head of hair
with the other, as if it was so much shavings. There,
Mrs. Harris, I see him, getting encouragement from
the pretty delooded ereeturs, which never knowed that
sweet saint, Mrs. C, as I did, and being treated with
as much confidence as if he had never wiolated none of the
domestic ties, and never showed up nothing ! Oh the
aggravation of that Dougladge ! Mrs. Harris, if I hadn't
apologiged to Mr. Wilson, and put a little bottle to my
lips which was in my pocket for the journey, and which
it is very rare indeed I have about me, I could not have
a-bared the sight of him — there, Mrs. Harris! I could
not !— I must have tore him, or have give way and
fainted.

Douglas Jerrold.

■si

^C; fi ;■? -^ '

mm'

204

THE ** UAMMERTOOAS."

While the bell was a-ringing, and the luggage of the
hammertoors in great confugion — all a littery indeed —
was handled up, Mr. Wilson demeenshis-sef politer than
ever. ** That," he says, " Mrs. Gamp," a pinting to a
officer-looking gentleman, that a lady with a little basket
wai a taking cfare on, " is another of our party ; he's a
author too — continually a-goit>g up the walley of the
Muses, Mrs. Gamp. There," he says, alloodin' to a fine-
looking, portly gentleman, with a face like a amiable full
moon, and a short m41d gent, with a pleasant smile, ''is
two more of our artists,* Mrs G., well beknowed at the
Royal Academy, as sure as stones is stones, and eggs is
eggs. This resolute gent,"t he says, " a-comiug along
here, as is apparently going to take the railways by storm
— him with the tight legs, and his weskit very much
buttoned, and his mouth very much shut, and hie; coat
a-flying open, and his heels a-giving it to the platform,
is a cricket and beograflfer and our principal tragegian."
" But who," says I when the bell had left off, and the
train had begun to move, *' who, Mr. Wilson, is the wild
gent in the perspiration, that's been a-tearing .up and
down all this time with a great box of papers under his
arm, a-talking to everybody wery indistinct, and exciting
of himself dreadful ? " " Why ? " says Mr. Wilsoa with
a smile. *' Because, sir," I says, '- he's being left behmd."
" Good gracilis ! " cries Mr. Wilson, turning pale and
putting out his head, " it's your beograffer— the Man-
ager — and he has got the money, Mrs. Gamp ! " Hows-
ever, some one chucked him into the train and we went
off. At the first shreek of the whistle, Mrs. Harris, I
turned white, for I had took notice of some of them dear
creetUTS as was the cause of my being in company, and

I know'd the danger that -But Mr. Wilson, which is

a married man, puts his hand on mine, and says, " Mri.
Gamp, calm yourself, its only the Ingein.'*

* Frank Stone and Augustus Egg. f John Forster.

THE ROMANCE OF THE SWAN's NEST.

205

THE ROMANCE OF THE SWAN'S NEST.

Mrs. Browning ; born 1809, married to Mr. Robert
Browning^ ihepoety in 1846. Mrs. Browning's poems
contain a rich mine of poetical ideas. She died at
Florence, 1861.

Little Ellie sits alone
'Mid the beeohes of a meadow

By a stream-side on the grass,

And tht trees are showering down
Doubles of their leaves in shadow

On her shining hair and face.

She has thrown her bonnet by,
And her feet she has been dipping,

In the shallow water's flow :

Now she holds them nakedly
In her hands, all sleek and dripping,

While she rocketh to and fro.

Little Ellie sits alone,
And the smile she softly uses

Fills the silence like a speech

While she thinks what shall be done^
And the sweetest pleasure chooses

For her future within reach.

Little Ellie in her smile
Chooses — " I will have a lover,

Riding on a steed of steeds :

He shall love me without guile,
And to him I will discover

The swan's nest among the reeds.

'' And the steed shall be red-roan,
And the lover shall be noble,

206 THE ROMANCE OP THE SWAN'S NEST.

With an eye that takes the breath :
And the lute he plays upon
Shall strike ladies into trouble,
As his sword strikes men to deaths

" And the steed it shall be shod
All in silver, housed in azure,

And the mane shall swim the wind ,

And the hoofs along the sod
Shall flash onward and keep measure.

Till the shepherds look behind.

r 1 '

"But my lover will not prize
All the glory that he rides in.

When he gazes in my face :

He will say, ' Love, thine eyes
Build the shrine my soul abides in,

And I kneel here for thy grace I '

\ I '

1 1

'' Then, ay, then ks shall kneel low.
With the red-roan steed anear him,

Which shall seem to understand,

Till I answer, ' Rise and go !
For the world must love and fear him

Whom I gift with heart and hand.'

" Then he will arise so pale,
I shall feel my own lips tremole

With a yes I must not say ;

Nathless maiden-brave, * Farewell,*
I will utter and dissemble —

* Light to-morrow with to-day 1 '

" Then he'll ride among the hills
To the wide world past the river,
There to put away all wrong ;
To make straight distorted wills,.

THE ROMANCE OP THE SWAN'S NEST. 207

And to empty the broad quiver
Which the wicked bear along.

" Three times shall a young foot page
Swim the stream and climb the mountain

And kneel down beside my feet —

' Lo, my master sends this gage,
La'iy, for thy pity's counting !

What wilt thou exchange for it ? '

" And the first time, I will send
A white rosebud for a guerdon,

And the second time, a glove ;

But the third time — I may bead
From my pride, and answer — ' Pardon,

If he comes to take my love.'

" Then the young foot-page wili run,
Then my lover will ride faster.

Till he kneeleth at my knee :

' I am a duke's eldest son,
Thousand serfs do call me master,

But, Love, I love but thee t '

** He will kiss me on the mouth
Then, and lead me as a lover

Through the crowds that praise his deeds t

And when soul-tied by one troth.
Unto him I will discover ^

That swan's nest among the reeds."

Little EUie, with her smile
Not yet ended, rose up gaily,

Tied the bonnet, donned the shoe,

And went homeward, round a mile,
Just to see, as she did daily,

What more eggs were with the two.

li >"

208

•ivi i

1 !

'■i

1 ;' ', ;

THE SA.GUENAY.

Pushing through the elm-tree copse,
Winding up the stream, light-hearted.

Where the osier pathway leads,

Past the boughs she stoops — and stops.
Lo, the wild swan had deserted.

And a rat had gnawed the reeds !

Ellie went home sad and slow.
If she found the lover ever.

With his red-roan steed of steeds,

Sooth I know not ; but I know
She could never sho57 him — never.

That swan's nest among the reeds !

THE SAGUENAY.

From *' A Chance Acquaintance" by W. D. Howells, an

American writer.

There have been, to be sure, some human agencies at
work, even under the shadow of Cape Eternity, to re-
store the spirit to self-possession, and perhaps none turns
from it wholly dismayed. Kitty, at any rate, took heart
from some works of art which the cliff wall dis layod
near the water's edge. One of these was a lively fn -co
portrait of Lieutenant-General Sherman, with the in sign a
of his rank ; and the other was an even more striking
effigy of General O'Neil, of the armies of the Irish Re-
public, wearing a threatening aspect, and designed in a
bold conceit of his presence there as conqueror or Canada
in the year 1875. Mr. Arbuton was inclined to resent
these intrusions on the sublimity of nature, and he could
not conceive, without disadvantage to them, how Miss
Ellison and the colonel should accept them so cheerfully
as part of the pleasure of the whole. As he listened
blankly to their exchanges of jests, he found himself

THE SAQUENAY.

209

awfully beset by a temptation which one of the boat's crew
placed before the passengers. This was a bucket-full of
pebbles of inviting size ; and the man said, •' Now, see
-which can hit the cliff. It's farther than any of you can
throw, though it looks so near."

The passengers cast themselves upon the store of mis-
siles, Colonel Ellison most actively among them. None
struck the cliff, and suddenly Mr. Arbuton felt a blind,
stupid, irresistible longing to try his chance. The spirit
of his college days, of his boating and ball-playing youth,
came upon him He picked up a pebble, while Kitty
opened her eyes in a stare of dumb surprise. Then he
wheeled and threw it, and as it struck against the cliff
with a shock that seemed to have broken all the windows
on the Back Bay, he exulted in a sense of freedom the
havoc caused him. It was as if, for an instant, he had
rent away the ties of custom, thrown off the bonds of social
allegiance, broken down and trampled upon the conven-
tions which, his whole life long, he had held so dear and
respectable. In that moment of frenzy, he feared himself
capable of shaking hands with the shabby Englishman in
the Glengarry cap, or of asking the whole admiring com-
pany of passengers down to the bar. A cry of applause
had broken from them at his achievement, and he had
for the first time tasted the sweets of popular favour. Of
course a revulsion must come, and it must be of a corres-
ponding violejoe ; and the next moment Mr. Arbuton
hated them all, and ndost of all Colonel Ellison, who had
l)een loudest in his praise. Him he thought for that
moment everything that was aggressively and intrusively
vulgar. But he could not utter these friendly impres-
sions, nor is it so easy to withdraw from any concession,
and he found it impossible to repair his broken defences.
. . . . He was not a dull man ; he had quite on
apt wit of his own, and a neat way of saying things ; but
humour always seemed to him something not perfectly
well bred ; of course he helped to praise it in some old-
established diner-out, or some woman of good fashion,

■ »; W

' ''. '

' h 'ii

:i"

>' '

i i. ■*

210

THE SAOU^NAT.

whose mots it was customary to repeat, and He evQi«
tolerated it in books; but he was at a loss with th"^'*
people, who looked at life in so bizarre a temper, yet with-
out airiness or pretension, nay, with a whimsical readi-
ness to acknowledge kindred in every droll or laughable
thing.

The boat stopped atTadousac on her return, and amoug
the spectators who came down to the landing was a cer-
tain very pretty, conscious-looking, silly, bridal-faced
young woman — imaginably the belle of the season at that
forlorn watering-place — who before coming on board
stood awhile, attended by a following of those eltJerly
imperial and colonial British whc heavily flutter round
the fair at such resorts. She had an air of utterly satis-
fied vanity, in which there was no harm in the world ;
and when she saw that she had fixed the eyes of the
shoreward gazing passengers, it appeared as if she fell
into a happy trepidation too blissful to be passively
borne ; she moistened her pretty red lips with her
tongue, she twitched her mantle, she settled the bow at
her lovely throat, she bridled and tossed her graceful
head.

" What should you do next, Kitty ?'' asked the colonel,
who had been sympathetically intent upon all this.

" 0, I think I should pat my foot," answered Kitty ;
and in fact the charming simpleton on shore, having per-
fected her attitude, was tajpiug the ground nervously
with the toe of her adorable siipper.

After the boat started, a Canadian lady of ripe age, yet
of a vivacity not to be reconciled with the notion of the
married state, capered briskly about among her sor^e
what stolid and indiflferent friends, saying, " They're
going to fire it as soon as we are round the point ;" and
presently a dull boom, as of a small piece of ordnance
discharged in the neighbourhood of the hotel, struck
through the gathering fog, and this elderly sylph clapped
her hands and exulted : " They've fired it, they've fiied
it! and now the captain will blow the whistle in answer."

tl^i^i

COMIC MISERIES.

211

But the captain did nothing of the kind, and the lady,
after some more girlish effervescence, upbraided him for
an old owl, and an old muff, and so sank into such a flat
and spiritless calm that she was sorrowful to see.

"Too bad, Mr. Arbuton, isn't it?" said the
colonel ; and Mr. Arbuton listened in vague doubt
while Kitty built up with her cousin a touching romance
for the poor lady, supposed to have spent the one brilliant
and successful summer of her life at Tadousac, where
her admirers had agreed to bemoan her loss in this ex-
plosion of gunpowder. They asked him if he did not wish
the captain had whistled; and *' Oh ! " shuddered Kitty,
"doesn't it all make you feel just as if you had been
loing it yourself? " a question which he hardly knew
how to answer, never having to his knowledge done a
ridiculous thing in his life, much less been guilty of such
behaviour as that of the disappointed lady.

COMIC MISEIilES.

Oliver Wendell Holmes,

My dear young friend, whose shining wit

Sets the whole room a-blaze,
Don't think yourself a " happy dog,"

For all your merry ways ;
But learn to wear a sober phiz,

Be stupid if you can :
It's such a very serious thing

To be a funny man !

You're at an evening party, with

A group of pleasant folks,
You venture quietly to crack

The least of little jokes.

I!:;

[i *

212 COMIO MISERIES.

A lady doesn't catch the point,

And begs you to explain :
Alas ! for one that drops a jest

And takes it up again.

You're talking deep philosophy

With very special force,
To edify a clergyman

With suitable discourse ;
You think you've got him, when he telli
• A friend across the way,

And begs you'll say that funny thing

You said the other day.

You drop a pretty " jeu-de-mot "

Into a neighbour's ears, ^

Who likes to give you credit for

The clever things he hears ;
And so he hawks your jest about,

The old authentic one,
J"st breaking off the point of it,

And leaving out the pun.

By sudden change in politics,

Or sudden change in Polly,
You lose your love or loves, and fall

A prey to melancholy ;
While everybody marvels why

Your mirth is under ban,
They think your very grief a joko,

You're such a funny man.

You follow up a stylish card,
That bids you come and dine,

And bring along your freshest Wit
(To pay for musty wine).

You're looking very dismal, when
My lady bounces in.,

A BOARDING SCHOOL IN 1570.

And wonders what you're thinking of,
And why you don't begin !

You're telling to a knot of friends

A fancy tale of woes
That cloud your matrimonial sky,

And banish all repose.
A solemn lady overheara

The story of your strife,
And tells the town the pleasant news,

You quarrel with your wife I

My dear young friend, whose shining wit

Sets all the room a-blaze.
Don't think yourself a " happy dog,"

For all your merry ways ;
But learn to wear a sober phiz,

Be stupid if you can :
It's such a very serious thing

To be a funny man !

213

A BOARDING SCHOOL IN 1570.

In the days of good Queen Bess, schools were few and
far between, as angels' visits are said to be, but in the
Town of Norwich, England, there existed a celebrated
" training school " for the youths of both sexes.

An old abbey furnished the requisite room, for high-
born maidens slept in tlie cells where nuns had once re-
peated their Ave Marias, and were gathered by day in a
school-room which had fownerly been used as a refectory
or dining-hall. Separated from this building by a
crumbling stone wall of great height was the ancient
monastery, which was now transformed into an academy
for the boys of Albion. Both buildings were well nigh
covered with beautiful clambering ivy.

11! ,

II!

B': i

iBri

A BOARDING SCHOOL IN 1570.

The cliHclren of that day, in dress and appearance,
were exact miniature copies of grown-up people.

Queen Elizabeth numbered three thousand robes in
her wardrobe, and the daughters of noblemen carried
with them to school from thirty to three hundred dresses,
according to th« wealth and station of their parents.

Young misses of six and ten years wore trains on im-
portant occasions, and at all times appeared in loni.^,
pointed waists, with deep ruffles around the neck. Silk
robes were embroidered with serpents and birds, and os-
triches in bright colours. Handkerchiefs were trimmed
with gold lace, and sometimes ornamented with a dozen
solid gold or silver buttons, which must have been par
ticularly nice for young noses. Sleeves were worn sep'j-
rate from the dresses, and often of different material.
Ijadies' and children's boots were made with heels two
inches high, which was called pantodes, and boots and
sli]^pers were frequently trimmed with artificial flowers.

Young lads also wore sleeves of gay colours. Wigs
had not, in 1570, become faf?hionable for- children ^ but
their hair was often dyed. Garters were worn conspicu-
ously by men and boys, and were a test of rank and
fashion. It is on record that these articles, for State
occasions, sometimes cost " four score pound a pair,"
equal to some three hundred and fifty dollars of our
money.

The tops of boots were of embroiderid linen, and
shirts were often embroidered in gold thread. In such
apparel as this, the school-boys of that day played leap-
frog and hunt the slipper, and other ancient games.

The beds were the only furniture known, and were
frequently of such size as to accommodate from twelve
to twenty persons. Thus, a teacher could sleep with
all his pupils around him. How would you like that,
boys ? One specimen of these bedsteads, the great bed
of Ware — of which Shakespeare makes mention — is still
preserved in England as a curiosity, and was, at one time,
the property of the late Charles Dickens.

A BOARDING SCHOOL IN 1570.

215

raucc.

Hashes and stews formed the principal food set be-
fore the school children whose mode of life we are de-
picting, and, as forks were not brought from Italy till
1 580, and did not come into general use for fifty years,
they ate their stews and hashes with the aid of pewter
spoons and — their fingers.

Table linen was unknown, but on feast days narrow
strips of Turkey carpeting extended the length of the
dining-table, this being the only purpose for which car-
peting was used when brought to England. Rushes
were scattered upon tJie floor and the remnants of each
meal were thrown down to the dogs upon these rushes,
which were renewed, as history tells us, three or four
times a year.

And now, perhaps, you will inquire what were the
studies pursued by the pupils of Norwich Academy iu
the year 1570?

Education was esteemed of much less importance
than dress and amusements, and, therefore, we mention
this topic last of all in our account of the '' good old
times."

The boys were taught "Latin, Greek, and figures,"
but we are told that the young ladies could scarcely
read. Embroidery and working tapestry was the prin-
cipal occupations of the fair sex, and the school girls
were taught " to prepare physic and make pastry ; to
dry herbs and bind up wounds ; to make banners and
scarfs, and to be obedient to their fathers, brothers and
lords."

Early marriages were frequent, and many of these
Norwich school girls were wedded wives, and were taken
home to keep the keys and cut the bread, and rule a
retinue of servants — duties which would be required of
them in the castles of their husbands.

Knitting became customary, and on the occasion of
the visit of Queen Elizabeth to Norwich, in 1570, eight
young girls walked in the procession that welcomed her,
knitting yarn hose, which were then a great curiosity.

Hi'

ipt.f

>> '.

■A r' ] ■ {

' ■ ft P- f ! '

11 -I I r ' i

216

THE CHRISTMAS BABY.

fVill Carleion.

Hoots f ye little rascal 1 Come in on me, this way —
Crowdin' yourself amongst us this bkstering winter's

day;
Knowing that we already had three of ye, an' seven.
And trying to make yourself out a Christmas present

of Heaven ! !

Ten of you we have now, sir, for this world to abuse ;
And Tobbie, he have no waistcoat ; and Nellie, she have

no shoes ;
And Sammio, he have no shirt, sir (I tell it to his

shame) ;
And the one that was just before you, we ain't had

time to name !

» '

And all o' the banks be smashin', and on us poor folk

fall ;
And Boss he whittles the wages, when work's to be had

at all ;
And Tom, he have cut his foot off, and lies in a woeful

plight.
And all of us wonders at mornin' as what wo shall eat

at night ;

And but for your father and Sandy a-findin' somewhat

to do,
And but for the preacher's woman, who often helps us

thro'.
And but for your poor dear mother a-doin' twice her

part,
Te'd ha' seen us all in Heaven afore ye was ready to

start I

THE CHRISTMAS BABY.

217

An' now ye have come, ye rascal ! chick so healthy and

fat and sound,
A-weighin,' I'll wasrcr a dollar, the full of a dozen pound !
With your mothers eyes a-flashm', yer father's flesh

and build,
And a good big mouth and stomach, all ready to be

filled!

No, no, don't cry, my baby ; hush up, my pretty one I
Don't get my chaff in yer eye, boy— I only was just in

fun ;
Ye'U like us when ye know us, although we're curious

folks ;
But we don't get much victual, and half our living is

jokes 1

Why, boy, did ye take me in earnest ? Come, sit upon my

knee ;
I'll tell you a secret, youngster — I'll name ye after me.
Ye shall have all yer brothers and sistess with ye to

play.
An' ye shall have your carriage, an' ride out every day I

Why, boy, do you think ye'U suffer ? — I am getting a

trifle old.
But it'll be many years yet, before I lose my hold ;
An' if I should fall on the road, boy, still them's yer

brothers there.
An' not a rogue of them all would see you harmed a

hair I

Say 1 when ye came down from Heaven, my little name-
sake dear.

Did you see, 'mongst the little girls there, ^ face like
this one here ?

That was yer little sister — she died a year ago,

And all of us cried like babies when they laid her under
the snow !

m I*'

h:; i

|l!r,

218

TIDES IN THE BAY OP FUNDT.

Hang it 1 if all the rich men I ever see or knew,
Came here with all their traps, boy, and offered 'em for

you,
I'd show 'em the door, sir, so quick they'd think it odd,

Before I'd sell to another my Christmas gift from God 1

i .

;: ■

TIDES IN THE BAY OF FUNDY.

/. fV. Dawson, LL.D., F.R.S., rdncipal of McGill Uni-
versity, Montreal ; Author of " Acadian Geology,''
" Archaia," &c.

Those parts of Nova Scotia and New Brunswick bor-
dering on the Bay of Fundy present some interesting
examples of marine alluvial soils, which, ' ' ile of great
practical value to the inhabitants, are e( y fertile in
material of thought to the geologist. The tide-wave
that sweeps to the north-east, along the Atlantic coast
of the United States, entering the funnel-like mouth ot
the Bay of Fundy, becomes compressed and elevated as
the sides of the bay gradually approach each other,
until in the narrower parts the water runs at the rate
of six or seven miles an hour, and the vertical rise of
the tide amounts to sixty feet or more. In Cobeqjiid
and Ohiegnecto Bays, these tides, to an unaccustomed
spectator, have rather the aspect of some rare convul-
sion of nature than of an ordinary daily phenomenon.
At low tide, wide flats of brown mud are seen to extend
for miles, as if the sea had altogether retired from its
bed ; and the distant channel appears as a mere stripe
of muddy water. At the commencement of flood, a
«light ripple is seen to break over the edge of the flats.
It rushes swiftly forward, and, covering the lower flats
almost instantaneously, gains rapidly on the higher
swells of mud, which appear as if they were being dis-
olved in the turbid waters. At the same time the tor-

TIDES IN THE BAY OP FUNDY.

219

for

odd,
[od!

rent of red water enters all the ohbnnelM, creeks, and
estuaries; surging, whirling and foaming, and often
having in its front a white, breaking wave, or ** bore,"
which runs steadily forward, meeting and swallowing up
the remains of the ebb still trickling down the clian-
nels. The mud flats are soon covered ; and then, as the
.stranger sees the water gaining with noiseless andsteadr
rapidity on the steep sides of banks and cliffs, a sense
of insecurity creeps over him, as if no limit could be set
to th« advancing deluge. In a little time, however, he
sees that the fiat, *' Hitherto shalt thou come, and no
farther," has been issued to the great bay of tide ; its
retreat commences, and the waters rush back as rapidly
as they entered.

The rising tide sweeps away the fine material from
every exposed bank md cliff, and becomes loaded with
mud and extremely tine sand, which, as it stagnates at
high water, it deposits in a thin layer on the surface of
the flats. This layer, which may vary in thickness from
a quarter of an inch to a quarter of a line, is coarser and
thicker at the outer edge of the flats than nearer the
shore ; and hence these flats, as well as the marshes, are
usually higher near the channels than at their inner
edge. From the same cause — the more rapid deposition
of the coarser sediment — the lower side of the layer is
arenaceous (sandy), and sometimes dotted over with films
of mica, while the upper side is fine and slimy, and when
dry has a shining and polished surface. The falling
tide has little efiect on these deposits, and hence the
gradual growth of the flats, until they reach such a
height that they can be overtiowed only by the high
sprii^ tides. They then become natural or salt marsh,
covered with the coarse grasses and Carices which grow
in such places. So far the process is carried on by the
hand of nMure j and before the colonization of Nova
Scotia, there were large tracts of this grassy alluvium to
excite the wonder and delight of the first settleie on the
shores of the Bay of Fundy. Man, however, carries

U R

^'f""i „..-,...

220

TIDES IN THE BAY OP FUNDT.

?"!»■

*?;(■

■J

M^4i

the land-making process farther ; and by diking and
draining, excludes the sea water, and produces a soil
capable of yielding for an indefinite period, without
manure, tiie most valuable cultivated grains and grasses.
Already there are in Nova Scotia more than forty thou-
sand acres of diked marsh, or " dike," as it is more
shortly called, the average vakie of which cannot be esti-
mated at less than twenty pounds currency per acre.
The undiked flats, bare at low tide, are of immensely
greater extent

Much geological interest attaches to the marine allu-
vium of the Bay of Fundy, from the great breadth of it
laid bare at low tide, and the facilities which it in con-
sequence affords for the study of sun-cracks, impres-
sions of rain-drops, foot-prints of animals, and other ap-
pearances which we find imitated on many ancient rocks.
The genuineness of these ancient traces, as well as their
mode of preservation, can be illustrated and proved only
by the study of modern deposits. I quote a summary
of facts of this kind from a paper on rain -prints by Sir
Ohai'lea Lyell, who was the first to direct attention to
these phenomena as exhibited in the Bay of Fundy.

"The sediment with which the waters are charged is
extremely fine, being derived from the destruction of
oliffs of red sandstone and shale, belonging chiefly to the
coal measures. On the borders of even the snvallest
estuaries communicating with a bay, in which the tide
rises siity feet and upwards, large areas are laid dry
for nearly a fortnight between the spring and nean tides,
and the mud is then baked in «?iummer by a hot sun, so
that it becomes solidifled, and traversed by cracks caused
by shrinkage. Portions of the hardened mud may then
be taken up and removed without injury. On examin-
ing the edges of each slab, we observe numerous layers,
formed by successive tides, usually very thin, sometimes
only one-tenth of an inch thick, — of unequal thickness,
however, because, according to Dr. Webster, the night-
tides rising a foot higher than the day-tideS; throw down

TIDES IN THE BAY OP iUNDT.

221

more sediment. When a shower of rain falls, the highest
portion of the mud covered flat is usually too liard to
receive any impressions ; while that recently uncovered
by the tide, near the water's edge, is too soft. Between
these areas a gore occurs almost as smooth and even as
a looking glass, on which every drop forms a cavity of
circular or oval form, and if the shower be transient,
these pits retain their shape permanently, being dried by
the sun, and being then too firm to be clBFaced by the
action of the succeeding tide, which deposits upon them
a new layer of mud. Hence we find on splitting open a
slab an inch or more thick, on the upper surface of
which the marks of recent rains occur, that an inferior
layer, deposited perhaps ten or fifteen tides previously,
exhibits on its under surface perfect casts of rain prints
which stand out in relief, the moulds of the same being
seen in the layer below."

After mentioning that a continued shower of rain ob-
literates the more regular impressions, and produces a
blistered or uneven surface, and describing minutely the
characteristics of true rain-marks in their most perfect
state, Sir Charles adds : —

" On some of the specimens the winding tubular tracks
of worms are seen, which ^ave been boped just beneath
the surface. Sometimes the worms have dived beneath
the surface and then reappeared. Occasionally the same
mud is traversed by the foot-prints of birds and roosk
rats, minks, dogs, sheep and cats. The leaves also of
the elm, maple and the oak trees, have been settled by
the winds over the soft mud, and having been buried
under the deposits of succeeding tides, are found on
dividing the layers. When the leaves themselves are re-
moved, very faithful impressions, not only of their out-
line, hvn> of their minutest veins, are left imprinted on
the cl>»y."

We have here a perfect instance, in a m«dern deposit
of phenomena, which we shall have to notice in some of
the most ancient rocks ; and it is only by such minute

J.
■.\i

222

THE GLOVE.

studies of existing nature that we can hope to interpret
these older appearances. In some very ancient rocks,
we have impressions of rain-marks, or their casts, on the
under surface of the overlying beds, quite similar to those
which occur in the alluvial mud of the Bay of Fundy.
In these old rocks, also, and especially in the coal fc-
mation, we find surfaces netted with sun cracks, precisely
like those on the dried surfaces of the modern mud flats,
and faithful casts of these taken by the beds next de-
posited. A still more curious appearance is presented
by the rill marks produced by the flowing of the preced-
ing tide, or of rain down incUoed surfaces of mud. The
lititle streamlets flowing together into larger channels,
form singular patterns, which may be compared to grace-
ful foliage, or the ramification of roots, and which have
often been mistaken for fossils.

THE GLOVE.

Schiller,

Before his lion-garden gate,

The wild-beast combat to await,

King Francis sate :

Around him were his nobles placed,

The balcony above was graced

By ladies of the court, in gorgeous state :

And, as with his finger a sign he made,

The iron grating was open laid,

And with stately step and mien

A lion to enter was seen.

With fearful look

His mane he shook,

And, yawning wide,

Stared around him on every side ;

And stretched his giant limbs of strength,

And laid himself down at his fearful length.

THE GLOVE.

223

And the king a second sij^nal made,—*
And instant was opened wide
A second gate, on the other side,
From which, with fiery bound,
A tiger sprung.

Wildly the wild one yelled.

When the lion he beheld ;

And, bristling at the look.

With his tail his sides he strook,

And rolled his rabid tongue.

And, with glittering eye,

Crept round the lion slow and shy.

Then, horribly howling,

And grimly growling,

Down by his side himself he laid.

And the king another signal made :

The opened grating vomited then

Two leopards forth from their dreadful den, —

They rush on the tiger with signs o:^ rage,

Eager the deadly fight to wage.

Who, fierce, with paws uplifted stood.

And the lion sprang up with an awful roar —

Then were still the fearful four :

And the monsters on the ground

Crouched in a circle round.

Greedy to taste of blood.

Now, from the balcony above,
A snowy hand let fall a glove :
Midway between the beasts of prey,
Lion and tiger, — there it lay,
The winsome lady's glove I

And the Lady Kunigund, in bantering mood,
Spoke to Knight Delorges, who by her stood :
*' If the flame which but now to me you swore.

224

A CURIOUS HISTORICAL PARALLEL.

.1' li'i <

Burns as strong as it did before,
Go, pick up my glove. Sir Knight.'^
And he, with action quick as eighty
In the horrible place did stand ;
And with dauntless mien,
From the beasts between
Took up the glove with fearless hand ;
And as ladies and nobles the bold deed saw,
Their breath they held through fear and awe.
The glove he brings back, composed and light.
His praise was announced by voice and look,
And Kunigund rose to receive the knight
With a smile that promised the deed to requite;
But straight in her face he flung the glove, —
*' I neither desire your thanks nor love ;"
And from that same hour the lady forsook.

A CURIOUS HISTORICAL PARALLEL.

I'om Hood,

Jack Wysington was the messenger-lad

Of a mercantile house in the city.
Five shillings a week for wage he had —

That he didn't get more was a pity !
But how he grew rich is an anecdote which

You shall hear if you list to my ditty.

His possessions, with ease I could reckon them up,

But I'll name one thing — and that's
A bandy-legged, stump-tailed terrier pup,

Such a regular turk for the cats,
That old maids used to greet, as he walked in the
street,

His appearance with numerouB *' drats."

A CURIO UB HISTORICAL PARALLEL.

225

But on all things of Jack's, fell a Government tax —
His food, and his drink, and his raiment.

Oh, the people of Somerset House were not lax,
But e'en for the puppy to claim meant,

For they taxed him, poor man, at twelve shillings per
ami. —
Of the which he avoided the payment.

But at length one Government sternly designed

The tax upon dogs to be strict with ;
They avowed that whoever to pay it declined,

Heavy penalties they would afflict with.
Said he, " To show my sense, I'll purchase no license —

That dodge I'm too old to be tricked with 1"

Next day to the Bank he had money to take

For the mercantile house in the City.
So he shipped him on board of the " Scaly-nosed
Snake,"

Which lay in the docks of St. Kitty.*
And him for to rate as the cabin-boy's mate

He prevailed on the owner's committee, f

They wrote him down as the cabin-boy's mate
In the good ship's papers and books : —

And furthermore, I . ii bound to state,
That struck with the animal's looks.

They entered the dog in the vessel's log
As a deputy-help of the cook's.

Now the captain was terribly prone to rum —

His habits were truly a scandal,
So when a hurricane happened to come

He his ship was unable to handle —

* Supposed to be St. Katharine's Docks,
t A legal term, implying the captain to whom the ship was
intrusted.
O

226

A CURIOUS HISTORICAL PARALLEL.

And so she was lost, on a coral-reef tost,
Off the coast of Coromaudel.

And out of the '' Scaly-nosed Snake s " whole crew

(They numbered in all a score),
The terrier and Jack were the only two

That managed to swim to shore : —
For Jack, I suppose, is not one of those

For whom there is drowning in store !*

But when Jack and the terrier r ^.ohed the land,

To the former's consternation,
He discovered the natives, a mighty band,

Drawn up like i deputation,
With prompt designs (so he judged by their signs)

To make of him cold collation.

But he speedily found that his guess was wrong,
For they showed him the greatest civility,

And wriggled and writhed as they led hhn along
With a superabundant agility.

To explain they would bring him at once to the king
To the best of their poor ability.

But when he arrived at the Majesty's court,

Where were seated the King and Prime Minister,

He found them by no means addicted to sport,
But to wearing a countenance sinister ;

For they both kept on keeping incessantly weeping —
Quite strangers their cheeks to a grinny stir 1

The Minister greeted our friend with a tear,
And the King with a groan of " Alack ! "

But *' Shiver my topsail- lee-scuppers, what cheer?
Look lively, my hearties!" cried Jack ;

i t*

• A delicate allusion to the proverb, ** Those who are bom to
be hanged will never be drowned."

A CURIOUS HISTORICAL PARALLEL. 22^

" Please your Majesty, 'lon't get piping your eye,"
And he lent him a slap on the back I

Thereat the Prime Minister gravely arose,
Looking fierce and forbidding as Fhocion,

Then sadly and solemnly blew he his nose,
With a view to conceal his emotion.

Said he, " If you'd know the cause of our woo,
I'll endeavour to give you a notion.

" And first, let me state, for your full information,
When our great-great-(/rea^ grandsires were brats,

That from sunrise to sundown the whole of the nation
Was sorely infested with rats.

But at last of mus rattus a riddance we gat us —
And then our affliction was cats !

" One Whittington, he was the man who brought

To our rat-eaten country a kitten.
When it cleared olf our pest, how little we thought

With a n^T kind of plague we were smitten ;
For about his good hap this imprudent young chap

To his friends and relatio is had written :

" And lo ! thenceforth every merchantman here

Brought a shipload of cats for a cargo ;
Till, our cat-ridden nation beginning to fear

Such importing would rather too far go,
On ships that would deal in commodities feline

His Majesty laid an embargo.

ir<'. I

•■■;■' C

■I

fii

m
m

'* But alas 1 the precaution was only a mockery !

For the oats now o'er all hold the sway —
They shatter our windows and throw down the crockery,

And carry our victuals away ;
They kill our canaries, and clear out our dairies—
They keep us awake with their nightly vagaries —

. (

228

A CURIOUS HISTORICAL PARALLEL.

'}-,'(■

-i' if'

v^ 1

And the cold loins of lamb they purloin from oui
* aireys' —
In fact there's the mischief to pay ! "

Jack winked his eye with a cheery smile,
And '* Old fellow," he chuckled, " if that's

The only cause of your sadness, I'll
Effect a clean sweep of the cats !

This bandy-legged terrier will soon make you merrier ;
If he doesn't — I'll eat up your hats !"

So his bandy-legged, stumpy-tailed terrier cur,

Those cats he incited to worry.
There was spitting and scratching and flying of fur,

With a great caterwauling and scurry —
But the end of the fray was — the dog had the day,

For the cats had decamped in a hurry I

Then Jack he was loaded with silver and gold,
Pearls, emeralds, sapphires, and rubies —

Of the sum of his millions of millions, I'm told,
Twenty-seven exactly the cube is,

But he breathed in no ear how he'd won them, for fear
Of the weak imitation of boobies.

MURAL.

He returned, it is said, to the City, and there

Took a house, but afraid of disgraces,
When he learnt 'twas intended to make him Lord May'r,

Disappeared from it, leaving no traces ;
But, by latest advices, retails penny ices.

And was seen t'other day at the Races.

TROTTY VEOK,

229

TKOTTY VECK.

Arranged for public reading^ from Dickens' *'Ch'ines"

High up in the steeple of an old church, far abovo
the murmur of the town, and far below the flying clouds
that shadow it, dwelt the Chimes I tell of.

They were old Chimes, trust me. Centuries ago,
these Bells had been baptized by bishops ; so many cen-
turies ago that the register of their baptism was lost,
long, long before the memory of man, and no one knew
their names. They had their Godfathers and God-
mothers, these Bells (for my own part, by the way, I
would rather incur the responsibility of being Godfather
to a Bell than a Boy), and had their silver mugs, no
doubt, besides. But Time had mowed down their
sponsors, and Henry the Eighth had melted down their
mugs ; and they now hung, nameless and mugless, in the
church-tower.

Not speechless, though. Far from it. They had
clear, loud, lusty, sounding voices had these Bells ; and
far and wide they might be heard upon the wind ; they
had sometimes been known to beat a blustering *'Nor'-
Wester ; " aye, "all to tits," as Toby Yeck said ; for
though they chose to call him Trotty Veck, his name
was Toby, and nobody could make it anything else,
either (except Tobias), without a special Act of Parlia-
ment ; he having been as lawfully christened, in his
day, as the Bell? had ueen in theirs, though with not
quite so much of olemnity or public rejoicing.

For my part, I confess myself of Toby Veck's belief,
for I am sure he had opportunities enough of forming a
correct one. And whatever Toby Veck said, I say.
And I take my stand by Toby Veck, although he did
stand (all day long, and weary work it was) just outside
the church door. In fact, he was a ticket porter, Toby
Veck, and waited there for jobs.

■ / CtA.^. C^.

If}'

^ v?^.

':.:iU

230

TROTTY VECK.

And abrcezy, goose-skinned, blue-nosed, lod eyed, stony
>.oed, tooth-chatter jng place it was to wait in, in the winter-
time, as Toby Veck well knew. The wind came tearinp;
round the corner — especially the east wind — as if it had
sallied forth, express, from the confines of the earth, to
have a blow at Toby. And oftentimes it seemed to come
upon him sooner than it had expected, for bouncing round
the corner, and passing Toby, ii would suddenly wheel
round again, as if it cried, " Why, where is he 1" In-
continently, his little white apron wouM be caught up
over his head, like a naughty boy's garments, and his
feeble little cane would be seen to wrestle and struggle,
unavailingly, in his hand, and his legs would undergo
tremendous agitation, and Toby himself, all aslant, and
facing now in this direction, now in that, would be so
banged, and buffeted, and touzled, and worried, and
hustled, and lifted off his feet, as to render it a state of
thir}g<5 but one degree removed from a positive miracle
that he wasn't canned off bodily into the air, as a colony
of frogs or snails or other very portable creatures some-
times are, and rained down again, to the great astonish-
ment of the natives, on some strange corner of the world
where ticket porters are unkoown.

They called him Trotty from his pace, which meant
speed if it didn't make it. He could have walked faster
— perhaps ; most likely ; but rob him of his trot, and
Toby would have taken to his bed and died. It be-
spattered him with mud in dirty weather ; it cost him a
world of trouble ; he could have walked with infinitely
greater ease ; but that was one reason for his clinging to
it so tenaciously. A weak, small, spare old man, he was
a very Hercules, this Toby, in his good intentions. He
loved to earn his money. He delighted to believe — Toby
was very poor, and couldn't well afford to part with a
delight — that he was worth his salt. With a shilling or
eighteenpenriy message or smell parcel in hand, his courage
(always high) rose higher. As he trotted on, he would
call out to lust postmen ahead of him to get out of the

si :

TROTTY VECK.

231

way ; devoutly believing that in the natural course of
things he must inevitably overtake and run them down ;
and he had perfect faith — not often tested — in his being
able to carry anything that any other man could lift.

Thus, even when he came out of his nook to warm himself
on a wet day, Toby trotted, making, with his leaky shoes, a
crooked line of slushy footsteps in the mire ; and blowing
on his chilly hands and rubbing them against each other,
poorly defended from the searching cold by threadbare
mufflers of grey worsted, with a private apartment for
the thumb only, and a common room for the rest of the
fingers ; Toby, with his knees bent and his cane beneath
his arm, still trotted. Falling out into the road to look
up at the belfry when the chimes resounded, Toby
trotted still.

In short, these same bells were very often in his ears,
and very often in his thoughts, but always in his good
opinion ; and he very often got such a crick in his ueck
by staring with his mouth wide open, at the steeple where
they hung, that he was fain to take an extra trot or two
afterwards, to cure it.

The very thing he was in the act of doing one cold day,
when the last drowsy sound of twelve o'clock just struck,
was humming like a melodious monster of a bee, and not
by any means a busy bee, all through the steeple !

" Dinner-time — eh ! " said Toby, trotting up and down
before the church. " Ah-h !"

Toby's nose was very red, and his eyelids were very
red, and he winked very much, and his shoulders were
very noar his ears, and his legs were very stiff, and al-
together he was evidently a long way upon the frosty
side of— Cool.

*' Dinner-time— eh 1 " repeated Toby, using his right-
hand muffler like an infantine boxing-glove, and punish-
ing his chest for being cold. " Ah-h-h ! "

He took a silent trot after that for a minute or two.

"There's nothing," said Toby, breaking in afresh —
but here he stopped short in his trot, and with a face

If *,.,'!

233

TROTTY VECK.

of great interest and some alarm, felt his nose care-
fully all the way up. It was but a little way (not being
much of a nose), and he had soon finished.

" I — I thought it was gor.e," said Toby, trotting ofi
again ; " it — it's all right, however. I am sure 1
couldn't blame it if it was to go. It has a precious hard
service of it in the bitter weather, and precious little to
look forward to, for I don't take snuflf myself. It's a
good deal tried, poor creetur, at the best of times ;
for when it does get hold of a pleasant whifF or so (which
ain't too often), it's generally from somebody else's dinner
a-comin' from the baker's."

The reflection reminded him of that other reflection
which he had left unfinished.

" There's nothing," said Toby, " more regular in its
coming round than dinner time, and nothing less regular
in its coming round than dinner. That's the great dif-
ference between 'em. It's took me a long time to find
it out. I wonder whether it would be worth any gen
tleman's while to buy that obserwation for the papers now
or the Parliament."

Toby was only joking, for he gravely shook his head
in self-depreciati )n. " Why, bless us, the papers is full
of obserwations as it is, and so's the Parliament. It
frightens me a'most. I don't know what we poor people
are a-coming to. Heaven send we may be coming to
something better in the new year nigh upon us. After
all, I can't make out whether we poor people have an,y
uusiness on the earth or not."

*' Why, father, father," said a pleasant voice hard by.

Toby started, stopped, and, looking round, found him-
self face to face with his own child, and looking close
into her eyes.

Bright eyes they were. Eyes that would bear a world
of looking in before their depth was fathomed. Dark
eyes, that reflected back the eyes which searched them ;
not flashingly or at the owner's will, but with a clear,
calm, honest, patient radiance, claiming kindred with that

TROTTT VECK.

233

light which heaven called into beini;. Kyes that were
beautiful and true, and beaming with hope. With hope
80 young and fresh: with hope so buoyant, vigorous
and bright, despite the twenty years of work and poverty
on which they had looked, that they became a voice to
Trotty Vock, and said, " I think we have some business
here — a little."

Trotty kissed the lips belonging to the eyes, and
squeezed the blooming face between his hands.

" Why, pet," said Trotty, *' what's to do ? 1 didn't
expect you to-day, Meg."

*' Neither did I expect to come, father ; but here
I am. And not alone — not alone."

" Why, you don't mean to say," observed Toby, look-
ing curiousliy at a covered basket which she carried in
her hand, " that you — "

" Smell it, father dear — only smell it ! "

Trotty was going to lift up the cov€r at once in a
great hurry, when she gaily iutetposed her hand.

" No ! no ! no ! Lengthen it out a little. Let me just
lift up the corner; just the lit-tle ti-uy cor-ner, you
know. There, now. What's that ? "

Toby took the =?hortest possible sniff, and cried out,
" Why, it's hot."

** It's burning hot. It — it — it's scalding hot."

" Ha ! ha ! ha ! " said Toby, with a sort of kick.
<* Scalding hot?"

" But what is it, father ? " said Meg. " Come, you
haven't guessed what it is, and you must guess what it
is. I can't think of taking it out till you guess what it
is. Don't be in such a hurry. Wait a minute. A
little more of the cover. There — r^ow guess."

Toby, putting a hand on each knee, bent down his
nose to the basket, and took a long inspiration at the
lid, the grin upon his withered face expanding in the
process, as if he were inhaling laughing gas.

" Ah ! it's very nice. It ain't — I suppose it ain't
polonies ? "

234

TROTTY VECK.

T'i'.

'' No! no ! no ! nothing like polonies."

" No ; it's mellower than polonies. It's very nice.
It improves every moment. It's — it's — it's too decided
for trotters. Ain't it 1"

Meg was in ecstacies. He could not have gone wider
of the mark than trotters, except polonies.

'• Liver ? No — there's a mildness about it that don't
answer to liver. Pettitoes ? No I it ain't faint enough
for pettitoes. It wants the stringiness of cocks' heads.
And I know it ain't sausages. I'll tell you what it is —
it's chitterlings."

'* No, it ain't — no, it ain't -no, it ain't."

" Why, what am I a-thiukin' on ? I shall forget my
own name next. It's tripe !"

Tripe it was ; and Meg in great joy protested he
would say, in half a minute more, it was the best tripe
ever stewed.

" And so," said Meg, " I'll lay the cloth at once,
father ; for I have brought the tripe in a basin, and tied
the basin up in a pocket-handkerchief, and if I like to
be proud for once and spread that for a cloth, and call
it a cloth, there's no law to prevent me; is there, iPather ? "

" Not that I know of, my dear. But they're always
a-bringin' up some new law or another."

" Well, now, father, make haste, for there's a hoe potato
besides, and half a pint of fresh drawn beer in i bottle.
Where will you dine, father ? On the posts, or on the
steps ? Dear, dear, how grand we are. Two places to
choose from !"

" The steps to-day, my pet ; steps in dry weather, po.st
in wet. There is a greater conveniejficy in the steps at
all times, because of the sitting do»rn ; but they're rheu-
matic in the damp."

** Then, here — here it is, all ready t And beautiful it
looks. Come, father, come ! "

As he was stooping to sit down, the chimes rang.

" Amen !" said Toby, pulling off his hat and looking
up towards them.

nice,
icided

IS —

TROTTY VECK.

235

"An. on to the Bells, father?"

" Thoy broke in like a ^race, my dear. They'd say
a good one, I'm sure — if they could. Alany's the kind
thing they say to me."

** The Bells do, father? Well- "

" Seem to, my pet. And where's the difference ? If
I hear 'cm, what does it matter whether they speak or
not 1 Why, bless you, my dear, how often have I heard
them say, ' Toby Veck, Toby Veck, beep a good heart,
Toby; Toby Veck, Toby Veck, keep a good heart,
Toby.' A million times? More."

" Well, I never''

She had, though — over and over a^inin.

" When things is very bad — very b;id indeed, I mean,
almost at the worst — then it's ' Toby Veck, Toby Veck,
job coming soon, Toby ; Toby Veck, Toby Veck, job
coming soon, Toby.' That way."

" And it comes— at last, father ? "

" Always. Never fails."

"Why, Lord forgive me," s-aid Toby, dropping his
knife and fork, " my dear — Meg — why didn't you tell
me what a beast I was ? "

" Father !"

" Sitting here, crammin' and stuffin' and gorgin' my-
self ; and you before me there, never so much as break-
ing your precious fast, nor wanting to, when "

" But I have broken it, father — all to bits. I have
had my dinner."

" ^orjHense! Two dinners in one day ! It ain't possible !
You might as well tell me that two New Year's days will
come to</ether, or that I have had a gold head all my
life, and never chan* ^.d it."

** I have had my dinner, father, for all that, and if
you'll go on with yours, I'll tell you how r.nd where ;
and how your dinner came to be brought ; and — and —
and something]: else l>f8ides."

Toby still appeared incredulous, but resumed his

■m

236

TROTTY VECl

lit

1;' Hit''

knife anrl fork, shaking his head as if he wore not at all
pleased with himself

"I had my dinner, father, with— with — Richard.
His dinner-time was early, and as he broijght his dinner
with him when he came to see me, we — v^e had it to-
gether, father."

"Oh !"

" And Richard says, father." Meg stopped — then re-
sumed — then stopped.

" What did Richard say, Metr ? "

** Richard says, father " — another stoppage.

^' Richard's a long time in saying it."

"■ He says, father, another yenr is nearly gone, and
where is the use of waiting on from year to year, wIumi
it is so unlikely we shall ever be better off than we are
now ? He says we are poor now, father, and we shall
be poor then, but we are young now, and years will make
us old before we know it. He says that if we wait —
people in our condition — until we see our way quite
clearly, the way will be a narrow one indeed — the com-
mon way — the grave, father.

" So Richard says, will I marry him on New Yt^ar's
day — the best and happiest day, he says, in the wliolc
year, and one that is almost sure to bring good fortune
with it. It's a short notice — isn't it, father 1 But 1
haven't my fortune to be settled, like the great ladies,
father, have 1 1 And I said I'd come and talk with
you, father. And as they paid the money for that work
of mine this morning (unexpectedly, I am sure), and as
you have fared very poorly for a whole week, and as
I cousin 't help wishing there would be something to
make this day a sort of holiday for you, as well as a dear
and happy day to me, father, I made a Utile treat and
brought it to surprise you."

THE THISTLE.

^o i

"THE THISTLE."

A LEGENDARY BALLAD,

George Mnr ray, B.A., Oxon, First Classical Master in
the High School of Montreal.

' Twas midnight ! Darkness, like the gloom of some

funereal pall,
Hung o'er the battlements of Slaines, — a fortress strong

and tall.
The moon and stars vrere veiled in olouds, and from the

Castle's height
No gleam of torch or taper pierced the shadows of the

night ;
Only +he rippling of the Dee blent faintly with the

sound
Of weary sentry-feet that paced their slow unvarying

round.

The Earl was sleeping like a child that hath no cause
for fear ;

The Warder hummed a careless song, his lonely watch
to cheer ;

Knigl squire and p:ige, on rush-strewn floors, were
stri^ Lched in sound repose,

While spears and falchions, dim with dust, hung round
in idle rows, —

And none of all those vassals bold, who calmly dream-
ing lay,

Dream'd that a i'oe was lurking near, impatient for the
fray.

But in tfafljAHD-. — when Nature's self serenely seemed to

sleep, —
In the dim valley of the Dee, a bow-shot from the

Keep,

^ :■■;'
)" ■-'■

238

THE THISTLE.

A ghost-likc multitude defiled, in sileace, from the

wood
That, with its stately pines, concealed the Fort for

many a rood, —
The banner of that spectral host is soiled with murd'roiw

stains, —
They are the " Tigers of the Sea,"* the cruel-hearted

Danes I

Far o'er the billows they have swept to Caledonia's

strand, —
They carve the record of their deeds with battle-axe and

brand, —
Their march each day is tracked with flame, their path

with carnage strown,
For Pity is an augel-guest their hearts have never known ;
And now the caitiffs steal by night to j»torm the Fort of

Slaines —
They reck not of the tiery blood that leaps in Scottish

veins !

'If if:

•1.

Onward they creep with noiseless tread — their treach'rous

feet are bare,
L«Bt the harsh clang of iron heels their slumb'ring prey

should scare ;
"Yon moat,' they vow, " shall soon be cross'd, ,yon

rampart aoe® be scaled.
And all who hunger for the spoil, with spoil shall be

regaled.

Press on — press on — and high in air the Raven Stand-
ard wav* ,
Those drowsy Scots this night shall end their sleep —

within the grave ! "

*In Turner's ''Anglo-Saxons,'' Book iv. Chap vi,, the Danta
are called " The Tiyers of the Baltic."

THL TlilSTLE.

239

Silent as shadows, on they glide — the gloomy fosse is
nigh—

" Glory to Odin, victory's Lord ! its shelving depths arc
dry;

Speed, warriors, speed" — but, hark ! a shriek of agoniz-
ing pain

Bursts from a hundred Danish throats — again it rings,
again !

Rank weeds had overgrown the moat, now drained by
summer's heat,

And bristling crops of thistles pierced the raiders' naked
feet I

That cry, like will of pibroch, stirred the sentry's kind-
ling soul,

And, shouting " Arms ! to arms ! " he sped the Castle
bell to toll ;

But ere its echoes died away upon the ear of night.

Each clansman started from his couch, and armed him
for the fight ;

The draw-bridge falls, — and, side by side, the banded
heroes fly

To grapple with the pirate-horde, and conquer them or
die !

As eagles, on avenging wings, from proud Ben Lomond's

crest
Swoop fiercely down, and dash to earth the spoilers of

their nest ; —
As lions bound upon their prey, — or as the burning

tide
Sweeps onward with resistless might from some volcano's

side, —
So rushed that gallant band of Scots — the Garrison of

Slaines —
Upon the *' Tigers of the Sea" — the carnage-loving

Banes.

Iff

kit::.

itfllJ

I* • iG

:'4-'\,J

;t i -■■ ■]■

» !

240

Jack, in the pulpit.

The lurid glare of torches serred to light them to their
foes —

They hewed those felons, hip and thigh, with stern, re-
lentless blows —

Claymore, and battle-axe, and spear were steeped in
slaughter's flood.

While every thistle in the moat was splashed with crim-
son blood ;

And when the light of morning broke, the legions of the
Banes

Lay stiff and stark, in ghastly heaps, around the Fort ol
Slaines !

Nine hundred years have been engulfed within the grave

of Time,
Since those grim Vikings of the North by death atoned

their crime.
In memory of that awful night, the thistle's hardy

grace
Was chosen as the emblem meet of Albin's dauntless

race ;
And never since, in battle's storm, on land or on the

sea,
Hath Scotland's honour tarnished been ', — God grant it

ne'er may be I

i' ■■

JACK IN THE PULPIT.

/. G. Whittier,

Under the green trecL, just over the way,
Jack in the pulpit preaches to-day ;
Squirrel and song-sparrow, high on their perch,
Hear the sweet lily bells ringing to church.

JACK IN THE PULPIT.

241

Come hear what his reverence rises to say,

In his queer little pulpit this fine Sabb ith day.

Fair is the canopy over him seen,

Painted by nature's hand black, brown and green.

Green is his pulpit, green are his hands ;

In his queer little pulpit the little priest stands

In black and white velvet, so gorgeous to see,
Comes with his bass voice the chorister bee ;
Green fingers playing unseen on wind lyres,
Bird voices singing, these are his choirs.
The violets are deacons ; I know by this sign.
The cups that they carry are purplt with wine.
The columbines bravely as sentinels stand
On the look-out, with all their red trumpets in hand.

Meek-faced anemones drooping and sad, ^

Great yellow violets smiling out glad ;
Buttercups' faces beaming and bright.
Clovers with bonnets, some red, some white ;
Daisies, their fingers half clasped in prayer.
Dandelions, proud of the gold of their hair ;
Innocents, children, guileless and frail,
Their meek little faces upturned and pale ;
Wild wood geraniums all in their best.
Languidly leaning in purple gauze dressed ;
All are assembled this sweet Sabbath day
To hear what the priest in his pulpit will say.

Lo, white Indian pipes on the green mosses lie ;
Who has been smoking profanely, so nigh ?
Rebuked by the preacher, the mischief is stopped.
But the sinnei-'S in haste have their little pipes dropped ;
Let the wind with the fragrance of fern and black birch
Blow the smell of the smoking clear out of the church.

So much for the preacher — tlie sormuo comes next ;

242

BUGLE SONG.

i; V-

8hall we tell how he preached it, and where was the

text?
Alas ! like too many grown-up folks who worship
In churches man builded, to-day,
We heard not the preacher expound or discuss ;
We looked at the people and they looked at us ;
We saw all their dresses, lueir colours and shapes,
The trim of their bonnats, the cut of their capes ;
We heard the winrJ organ, the bee and the bird,
But of Jack ir. the Pulpit we heard not a word.

« .y

'•, <

r. :i I

BUGLE SONG.

Alfred Tennyson.

The splendour falls on castle walls

And snowy summits old in story ;
The long light sh?kes across the lak^s.
And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying :
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

hark, hear ! how thin and clear.

And thinner, clearer, further going ;
sweet and far, from cliff and scar,
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing !
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dyin

dying.

love, they die in yon rich sky,

They faint on hill or field or river
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
And grow for ever and for ever.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
And answer echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.

DRAMATIC READING. 243

DRAMATIC READING.

Edward W. Cox.

By the term "Dramatic Reading" I do not intend
merely the reading of drama, but reading dramatically
whatever is dramatic, whether it be or be not a drama
in name or form. There is scarcely any kind of compo-
sition that does not contain something dramatic, for
there are few writings so dull as to be unenlivened by
an anecdote, an episode or apologue, a simile or an
illustration, and these are for the most part more or less
dramatic. Wherever there is a dialogue there is drama.
No matter what the subject of the discourse — whether it
be grave or gay, or its object be to teach or only to
amuse, — if it assume to speak through any agency other
than the writer in his own proper person, there is drama.
As, in music, we have heard Mendelssohn's exquisite
SongB without Words, wherein the airs by their expres-
siveness suggest the thoughts and feelings the poet
would have embodied in choicest language and desired
to marry to such music, so, in literature, there is to be
found drama without the ostensible shape of drama ; as
in a narrative whose incidents are so graphically de-
scribed that we see in the mind's eye the actions of all
the characters, and from these actions learn tlie words
they must have spoken when so acting and feeling.

Moreover, drama belongs exclusively to humanity. It
attaches to the " qukquid agunt homines.^' It is difficult
to conceive, and almost impossible to describe, any doings
of men tha*. are not dramatic. All the external world
might be accurately painted in words, without a particle
of drama, though with plenty of poetry ; but, certainly,
two human beings cannot be brought into communica-
tion without a drama being enacted. Their intercourse
could only be described dramatically, and that which is
so described requires to be re 1 1 dramatically. Of this

244

Duxy

'IC READING.

(

I !■ i

art the tcundation is an accurate conception of the variouH
character.^ and the perfection of the art is to express
their characteristics truly, each one as such a person
would have spoken had he really existed at such a time
and in such circumstances. The dramatist and the
novelist conceive certain ideal personages ; they place
them in certain imaginary conditions ; then they are
enabled, by a mental process which is not an act of
reasoning but a special faculty, to throw their own minds
into the state that would be the condition of such per-
sons so situated, and forthwith there arises within them
the train of feelings and thoughts natural to that situa-
tion. It is difficult to describe this mental process
clearly in unscii otific language, but it wiil be at once
admitted that something very like it must take place
before Genius, ; ting in a lonely room, could give pro-
bable speech and emotion to creatures of the imagina-
tion. That is the dramatic art of the author, and,
because it is so difficult and rare, it is the most highly
esteemed of all the accompliohments of authorship.

For the right reading of dialogue very nearly the
same process is required. You must, in the first place,
comprehend distinctly the characters supposed to be
speaking in the drama. You must have in your mind's
eye a vivid picture of them, as suggested by the author's
sketch in outline. Next, you must thoroughly under-
stand the meaning of the words tlie author has put into
their mouths — that is to say, what thoughts those words
were designed to express. This fancy portrait will sug
gest the manner of speaking ; and then, clearly compre
bending the meaning of the words, you will naturally
utter them with the right tones and emphasis.

As the great author, having conceived a character an(3
invented situations for it, by force of his genius, and
without an effort of reason, makes him act and talk pre-
cisely as such a person would have acted and talked in
real life ; so the great actor, mastcFing the author's de
sign, rightly and clearly comprehending the character

arious
xprcss
person
a time
d the
place
ey are
act of
minds
ch per-
ihem
t situa-
process
at once
e place
ive pro-
uagina-
►r, and,
b highly
lip.

sirly the
st place,
d to be
r mind's
author's
f under-
put into
se words
will sug
compre
laturally

ticter an(?
lius, and
talk pre-
talked in
;hor's de
character

DRAMATIC RIAIMNO.

245

he aHBunie«, and learning the words that character is
Rupposed to speak, is able to give to those words the
correct expression, not as the result of a proctss of
reasoning, bat instinctively, by throwing his mind into
the position of the character he is personating. So does
the ^ood reader become for the time the personages of
whom he is reading, and utters their thoughts as them-
selves would have uttered them. A reader must be an
orator without the action.

Until you have attained to the ready use of this fa-
culty of personation, you cannot be a good reader of dia-
logue ; but it is a faculty capable of cultivHtion, and
certain to improve by practice. Bash fulness is a very
frequent cause of failures that are supposed to result
from apparent lack of the faculty itself. Almost every
reader shrinks at first from reading in character. He
fears failure ; he wants the courage to break down and
try again ; he is scared by his own voice, and hasnocou-
fidence in his own capacities.

But I desire to impress upon you that dialogue must
be read dramatically, or it had better not be read at all ;
and, that there may be no tendency to read it otherwise,
make it a rule from the beginning of your practice of
the art to read dranrntically, whatever the book in your
hand, and however unsatisfactory the manner in which
you may do so at first. . . .

Dialogue is the very best practice for students of the
art of reading. Nothing so rapidly and effectually de-
stroys personal mannerisms. In other readings, it is
yourself that speaks, and you speak according to your
habits, which are more likely to be bad than good. But
in dialogue you speak, not as yourself, but as some other
person, and often as half a dozen different persons, so
that you arc unconsciously stripped of your own man-
nerisms. You must infuse into your style so much life
and spirit— you must pass so rapidly from one mode of
utterance to another, that the most inveterate habits are
rudely shaken.

I i-

>ri. :i

',!t

; !'
J,

240

DRAMATIC READING.

Dialop;ue is not only excellent practice for yourself,
but, well read, it is the most pleasant of all forms of
composition to listen to. It never wearies the ear by
monotony, for the tones of the voice change with every
sentence ; nor the mind by overtaxing thought, for each
speaker suggests a new train of ideas.

Being such, how should dialogue be read ]
Dialogue must everywhere and at all times be read in
character. Whensoever what you read assumes the
form of a conversation between two or more perpons, all
that is represented as spoken should be read precisely as
such descriptions, sentiments or arguments would have
been uttered by such persons as the supposed speakers.
I repeat, that you must read these in character, chang-
ing the character with each part in the dialogue, and
preserving throughout the same manner of reading each
of the parts, so that it shall not be necessary for you to
name the speaker, but the audience shall know, from
your utterance of the fi»et half dozen words, which of
the characters is supposed to be speaking. And the
change must be instantaneous. There must be no
pause to think who the next speaker is, and what he
is, and how you would represent him, or how you
have already represented him ; but you must pass
from one to the other without hesitation and appa-
rently without an eflfort. There is no emotion of the
mind which you may not thus be required to express
without any preparation, and the changes to opposite
emotions are often most abrupt. In short, as I have
before observed, a good reader will read as a good actor
speaks, only in more subdued fashion, as speech is, na-
turally, when not accompanied by action.

This is what you should do ; but how may you ac-
quire the art of doing it ?

Its difficulty cannot be denied. It demands some
physical qualifications, wanting which success is impos-
sible. You must possess a certain degree of flexibility
of voice, or you will be unable to modify it for the dif-

«^iP-

DRAMA I iC R£ADlN(i.

247

forent personages in the dialogue. All who have emo-
tions can express them, but something more than that is
necessary for the reading of dialogue. It would not
do to express the emotions of a clown in the tones of a
gentleman, and rice versa.

But apart from the true expressio i of the emotion,
there is a manner "' expression that is quite as re-
quisite to be observed. If, for instance, you read the
Trial Scene in <* Pickwick," the speech of Sepgeant Buz-
fuz should not only rightly express the ideas put into
an advocate's mouth, but also the characteristic manner
of his utterance of them. So with the examination of
Sam Weller and the other witnesses. Some persons are
physically inoompeteot to this ; they cannot mould their
voices, nor put off the a* own cliaraoters, nor assume other
characters than their own.

But although there is no hope where the faculty is
wholly wanting, if it exists, however feebly, it is capable
of great improvement ; not without limit, indeed, but
the terminus cannot be assigned. So, unless you are
conscious of entire incapacity, address yourself to the
task hopefully and resolutely, uudeterrred by failure,
because through failure you wiil best leain how to suc-
ceed. And the first qualification is courage. . . .

Until you can do this, you will not have learned the
art of reading dialogue ; in which, as I asserted at the
beginning of this letter, is compiised the whole art ot
Reading.

J ']

i p

IT.

DRAMATIC PIECES.

FROM ''IVANHOE."

THE BLACK KNfOHT (TCING RICHARD 1.) AND FRIAR
TUCK (THE CLERK OF COPMANHIWST).

Scene : The Hermit's Cell.

The Knight (knocking loudly without).

The Clerk. Prss on, whosoever thou art, and disturb
not the servant of God and Saint Dunstan in his evening
devotions.

Knight. Worthy father, here is a poor wanderer be-
wildered in these woods, who gives thee the opportunity
of exercising thy charity and hospitality.

Clerk. Good brother, it has pleased Our Lady and
St. Dunstan to destine me for the object of these vir-
tues, instead of the exercise thereof. I have no provi-
sions here whicli even a dog would share with me, and a
hoira of any tenderness of nature would despise my
POuch ; pass therefore on thy way, and God speed thee.

Knight. But how is it possible for me to find my
way tlirougli such a wood as this, when darkness ia com-
ing on ? I pray you, reverend father, as you are a
Christian, to undo your door, and at least point out to
mo my road.

Clfi.rk. And I pray you. good Chrisbian brother, to
disturb me no more. You have already interrupted one
jpater, two aves Mid a credo, which I, miserable sinner
that i am, should, according to my vow, have said be-
fore moonrise.

IVANHOE.

249

Knight. The road — the road ! Give me directions
for the road, if I am to expect no more froni thee.

Clerk. The road is easy to hit. The path from the
wood leads to a morass, and from thence to a ford, which,
as thf> rains have abated, may now be passable. When
thou hast crossed the ford, thou wilt take care of thy
footing up the left bank, as it is somewhat precipitous ;
and the path which hangs over the river has lately, as
I learn (for I seldom leave the duties of my chapel),
given way in sundry places. Thou wilt then keep straight
forward — - —

Knight. A broken path — a precipice — a ford, and a
morass ! Sir Hermit, if you were the holiest that ever
wore beard, or told bead, you shall scarce prevail on me
to hold this road to-night. I tell thee, that thou, who
livest by the charity of the country — ill deserved, as I
doubt it is — hast no right to refuse shelter to the way-
farer when in distress. Either open the door quickly,
or, by the rood, I will beat it down and make entry for
myself.

Clerk, Friend wayfarer, be not importunate. If
thou puttest me to the use of carnal weapon, in my own
defence, it will be e'en the worse for you. But patience
— patience ; spare thy strength, good traveller, and I
will pfesently undo the door, though, it may be, my
doing so will be little to thy pleasure.

Knight {entering), The poverty of your cell, good
father, should seem, a sufficient defence against any risk
of thieves, not to mention the aid of these two trusty
dogs, large and strong enough, I think, to pull down a
stag, and, of course, to match with most men.

Clerk. The good keeper of the forest hath allowed
me the use of these animals, to protect my solitude until
the times shall mend. (Places a stool for each^ and they
sit.)

Knight. Reverend hermit, were it not to interrupt
your devout meditations, I would pray to know three
tilings of your holiness : first, where am I to put my

250

IVANHOE.

P' ' k if

'tis ■•
1 h

■-I '

;

p f .} I' t '.

' ■' ,-1 '

I 4 • 1 1
11^ •-I ■ I

It it .; i *
11

horse ? — secondly, what can T have for wsuppcr ? — thirdly,
where am 1 to take up ray couch for the night ?

Clerk. I will reply to you with my finger, it being
against my rule to speak by words where signs can
answer the purpose. (Pointing successivdy to two corners
of the hut.) Your stable is there — your bed there ; and
{reaching down a platter of parched peas) your supper is
he^e. This water is from the well of Saint Dunstan, in
which, betwixt sun and sun, he baptized five hundred
heathen jjanes and Britons — blessed be his name !

Knight. It seems to me, reverend father, that the
small morsels which you eat, together with this holy,
but somewhat thin beverage, have thriven with you
marvellously. You appear a man more fit to win the
ram at a wrestling match, or the ring at a bout at quarter
stafi", or the bucklers at a sword-play, than to linger out
your time in this desolate wilderness, saying masses,
and living upon parched peas and cold water.

Clerk Sir Knight, your thoughts, like those of the
ignorant laity, are according to the flesh. It has pleased
Our Lady and my patron saint to bless the pittance to
which I restrain myself, even as the pulse and water
was blessed to the children Shadrach, Meshech, and
Abednego, who drank the same rather than defile them-
selves with the wine and meats which were appointed
them by the King of the Saracens.

Knight. Holy father, upon whose countenance it
hath pleased Heaven to work such a miracle, permit a
sinful layman to crave thy name ?

Clerk. Thou mayst call me the Clerk of Copman-
hurst, for so I am termed in these parts ; they add, it ie
true, the epithet holy, but I stand not upon that, as being
unworthy of such addition. — And now, valiant Knight,
may I pray ye for the name of my honourable guest ?

Knight. Truly, Ho'y Clerk of Copmanhurst, men
call me in these parts the Black Knight, — many, sir,
add to it the epithet of Sluggard, whereby I am no way
ambitious to be distinguished.

IVANHOE.

251

Clerk. I see, Sir Sluggish Knight, that thou art a man
of prudence and of counsel ; and moreoyer, I see that
my poor monastic fare likes thee not, accustomed, per-
haps, as thou hast been to the licence of courts and camps,
and the luxuries of cities ; and now I bethink me, Sir
Sluggard, that when the charitable keeper of this forest-
walk left these dogs for my protection, and also those
bundles of forage, he left me also some food, which being
unfit for my use, the very recollection of it had escaped
me amid my more weighty meditations.

Knight. I dare be sworn he did so ; I was convinced
that there was better food in the cell, holy (Jlerk, since
you first doffed your cowl. — Y'our keeper is ever a jovial
follow ; and none who beheld thy grinders contending
v)ith these peas, and thy throat flooded with this un-
genial element, could see thee doomed to such horse pro-
vender and horse beverage (pointiug to the provisions uimn
the table), and refrain from mending thy cheer. Let us
see the keeper's bounty, therefore, without delay.

[IVie hermit^ with a comic expression of hesitation, pro-
duces a large pcisty and places it before his guest.']

Knight. How long is it since the good keeper has
been here ?

Clerk. About two months.

Knight. Everything in your hermitage is miracu-
lous, holy Olork ! for I would have been sworn that the
fat buck which furnished this venison had been
running on foot within the week. 1 have been
in Palestine, Sir Clerk, and I bethink me it is
a custom there that every host who entertains a
guest shall assure him of the wholesomeness of his food
by partaking of it along with him. Far be it from me
to suspect so holy a man of aught inhospitable ; neverthe-
less, I will be highly bound to you would you comply with
this Eastern custom.

Clerk. To ease your unnecessary scruples, Sir Knight,
I will for once dep;irt from my rule.

Knight, ^lloly Clerk, 1 would gage my good horse

252

IVANHOi:.

yonder against a zecchin, that the same honest keeper to
whom we are obliged for the venison has lei't then a stoup
of wine or a runlet of canary, or some such trifle, by way
of ally to this noble pasty. This would be a circum-
stance, doubtless, totally unworthy to dwell in the mem-
ory of so rigid an anchorite ; yet, I think, were you to
search yonder crypt once more, you would find that I am
right in my conjecture. Ha! ha! I thought so. Thanks,
reverend father.

Clerk, Waes hael, Sir Sluggish Knight.

Knight. Drink hael, holy Clerk of Copmanhurst.
Holy Clerk, I cannot but marvel that a man possessed of
such thews and sinews as thine, and who wherewithal
shows the talent of so goodly a trencher-man, should
think of abiding by himself in the wilderness. In my
judgment, you are fitter to keep a castle or a fort, eating
of the fat and drinking of the strong, than to live here
upon pulse and water, or even upon the charity of the
keeper. At least, were I as thou, T should find myself
both disport and plenty out of the k 's deer. There
is many a goodly herd in these forests, and a buck will
never be missed that goes to the use of St. Duostan's
chaplain.

Clerk. Sir Sluggish Knight, these are dangerous
words, and I pray you to forbear them. 1 am true her-
mit to the king and law, and were I to spoil my liege's
game, I should be sure of the prison, and, an' my gown
saved me not, were in some peril of hanging.

Knight. Nevertheless, were I as thou, I would take
my walk by moonlight, when foresters and keepers were
warm in bed, and ever and anon, — as I pattered my piay-
ers, — I would let fly a shaft among the herds of dun
deer that feed" in the glades. Pesolve me, holy Clerk,
hast thou never practised such a pastime ?

Clerk. Friend Sluggard, thou hast seen all that can
concern thee of my housekeepin<j;, and something more
than he deserves who takes up V'^ qu.u lers by violence
Credit me, it is better to enjuy ho good'-^hich God

IVANHOE.

per to
stoup
yway
rcum-
mem-
ou to
I am
lanks,

fiends thee, than to be impertinently curiowhow it comes
Fill thy cup and welcome ; and do not, 1 pray thee, by
farther impertinent inquiiies, put me to show that thou
couldst hard'y have made good thy locking had I been
earnest to o^.-pose thee.

Knight. By my faith, thou makest me more curious
than ever ! Thou art tho most mysterious hermit I ever
met ; and I will know more of thee ere I part As for
thy threats, know, holy man, thou speakest to one whose
trade it is to find out danger wherever it is to be met
with.

Clerk. Sir Sluggish Knight, I drink to thee, respect-
ing thy valoirr much, but deeminfj woodrous slightly ot
thy discretion. If thou wilt take equal arms with me,
I will give thee, in ail friendship and brotherly love, such
sufficing penance and complete absolution, that thou
shalt not for the next twelve months sin the sin of excesi
and curiosity.

Knight. Thy health, most valiant Clerk ; name thy
weapons.

Clerk. There is none, from the scissors of Delilah
and the tenpenny nail of Jael to the scimitar of Goliath,
at which I am not a match for thee. But, if I am to
make the selection, what saycst Hiou, good friend, to these
trinkets ?

(Produces a couple of broadswords and bucklers.)

Knight. I promise thee, brother Clerk, I will ask
thee no more ofiFensive weapons. The contents of that
cupboafd are an answer to all my inquiries, and I see a
wc'^on here {stoops ana Uikes out a harp) on which I
would more gia.lly prove Hiy skill with thee, than at the
sword and buckler.

Clerk. I hope, Sir Knight, thou hast given no good
reason for thy surname of Sluggard. I do promise I
suspect thee grievously. Nevertheless, thou art my guest,
and I will not put thy manhood to the proof wUhout
thine own free will. Sit thee down, then, and fill thy
cup ', let usdriuik, sing and be merrv. If thou kaowest

'i\%

I i

> *'■■}

}

254

IVANHOE.

e?er a good lay, thou shalt be welcome to a nook of
pasty at Copmanhurst as long as 1 serve the chapel of
St. Dunstan, which, please Heaven, shall be till I change
my grey covering for one of green turf But come, fill
a flagon, for it will crave some time to tune the harp ;
and nought pitches the voice and sharpens the ear like a
oup of wine. For my part, I love to feel the grape at
my very finger ends before they make the harp-strings
tinkle. {Tuner the harp.)

Knight. Methinks, holy father, the instrument wants
one strkag, and the rest have been somewhat misused.

Clerk. Ay, mark'st tho« that 'i that shows thee a mas-
ter of the craft. Wine and wassail — all the fault of wine
and wassail ! I told Allan-a-Dale, the northern minstrel,
that he would damf ge the harp if he touched it after the
seventh cup, but he would not be controlled. Friend, I
drink to thy successful performance.

Knight. I will essay, then, a ballad composed by a
Saxon glee-man, whom I knew in Holy Land. (Sings.)

THE crusader's RETUaN.

High deeds achieved of knightly fame,
From Palestine the champion came ;
The cross upon his shoulders borne,
Battle and blast had dimm'd and torn.
Each dint upon his batter'd shield
Was token of 2 foughten field ;
And thus, beneath his lady's bower,
He sung, as fell the twilight hour : —

11.

"Joy to the fair ! — thy knight behold,
Retarn'd from yonder land of gold ;
No wealth he brings, nor wealth can neid,
Save his good arms and battle-steed ;

IVANHOE.

256

His spurs, to dash against a foe,
His lance and sword to lay him low ;
Such all the trophies of his toil,
Such— and the hope of Tekla's smile

III.

"Joy to the fair ! whose constant knight
Her favour fired to feats of might ;
Unnoted shall she not remain,
Where meet the bright and noble train ,
Minstrel shall sing and herald tell —
* Mark yonder maid of beauty well,
'Tis she for whose bright eyes was won
The listed field at Askalon !'

IV.

" * Note well her smile ! — it edged the blade

Which fifty wives to widows made,

When, vain his strength and Mahound's spell,

Iconium's turban'd Soldan fell.

Seest thou her locks, whose sunny glow

Half shows, half shades, her neck of snow

Twines not of them one golden thread,

But for its sake a Paynim bled.'

" Joy to the fair ! — my name unknown,
Each deed, and all its praise thine owo :
Then, oh ! unbar this churlish gate,
The night dew falls, the hour is late.
Inured to Syria's glowing breath,
I feel the north breeze chill as death ;
L"et grateful love quell maiden shame,
And grant him bliss who brings thee fame.*

Clerk. By my halidame, a good song and well sung.
And yet, I think my Saxon countrymen had herded long

256

IVANHOE.

enough with the Normans, to fall into the tone of their
melancholy ditties. What took the honest knight from
home 1 or what could he expect but to find his mistress
agreeably engaged with a rival on his return, and his
serenade, as they call it, as little regarded as the cater-
wauling of a cat in the gutter ? Nevertheless, Sir
Knight, I drink this cup to thee, to the success of all
true lovers — I fear you are none, or thou wouldst not
spoil this good wine with water.

Knight. Why, did you not tell me that this water was
from the well of your blessed patron, St. Dunstan 1

Clerk. Ay, truly, and many a hundred of pagans did
he baptize there, but I never heard that he drank any of
it. Everything should be put to its proper use in this
world. St. Dunstan knew, as well as any one, the pre-
rogatives of a jovial friar.

Knight Well, now for thy ditty.

Clerk. (^Sings.)

THE BAREFOOTED FRIAR.

;' i

ri\

i^X

I'll give thee, good fellow, a twelvemonth or twain,
To search Europe through from Byzantium to Spain ;
But ne'er shall you find, should you search till you tire,
So happy a man as the Barefooted Jb'iiar.

II,

Your knight for his lady pricks forth in career, [a spear,
And is brought home at eren-song prick 'd through with
I (5(Mi(«ss him in haste — for his lady desirei
Nu UDiiilurt oji fuirth save the Barefooted Friar's.

III.

Your monarch ■?- -Pshaw ' many a prince has been kuowu

To barter his robo'^ for our cowl and our gown.

Hut N?hich of UM e'or F(>lt the idlr desire

'IV» oxchttugo for u cn»vu the grey hood of a Friar i

IVANHOE.

257

IV.

The Friar has wnlk'd out, and where'er he has gone.
The land and its fatnf ss is mark'd lor his own ;
He can roam wlvere ht lists, he can stop when he tires,
For every man's house is the Barefooted Friar's.

He's expected at noon, and no wight till he con.c8
May profane the great chair, or the porridge of plums ;
For the best of the cheer, and the seat by the fire,
Is the undenied right of the Barefooted Friar.

VI.

He's expected at night, and the pasty's made hot,
They broach the brown ale, and they fill the black pot,
And the goodwife would wish the goodman in the mire,
Ere he lack'd a soft pillow, the Barefooted Friar.

VII.

Long flourish the sandal, the cord, and the cope
The dread of the devil and trust of the Pope ;
For to gather life's roses, unscathed by the briar,
Is granted alone to the Barefooted Friar.

Knight. By my troth, thou hast sung well and lustily,
and in high praise of thine order. And, talking of the
devil. Holy Clerk, are you not afraid he may pay you a
visit during some of your uncanonical pastimes ?

Clerk. I uncanonical ! I scorn the charge — I scorn
it with my heels ! — I serve the duty of my chapel duly
and truly. Two masses daily, morning and evening,
primes, noons, and vespers, aves, credos, pate7's "

Knight. Excepting moonlight nights, when the venison
is in season.

Clerk. Exceptis excipimdis, as our old abbot taught me
to say, when impertinetit Inymen should ask me if I kept
every punctilio of mine order

«.••

WU ': ^ '

258

THE HEIR-AT-LAW.

Knight True, holy father, but the devil is apt to keep
an eye on such exceptions ; he goes about, thou knowest,
like a roaring lion.

Clerk. Let him roar here if he dares ; a touch of my
cord will make him roar as loud as the tongs of St.
Dunstan himself did. 1 never feared man, and I as
little fear the devil and his imps. Suint Dunstan, Saint
Dubric, Saint Winibald, Saint Winifred, Saint Swibert,
Saint Willick, not forgetting Saint Thomas a Kent, and
my own poor merits to speed, I defy every devil of them,
come cut and long tail. — But to let you into a secret, I
never speak upon such subjects, my friend, until aftei
morning vespers.

Knight. *Tis near morning now, and I'll e'en rest for
an hour before sunrise. So, mine hospitable father,
pleasant dreams to you.

4^K-VV

I:--'!

:m\

FKOM "THE HEIR-AT LAW."

George Colmariy Jr,

LADY DUBERLY, HER SON RICHARD, AND DR. PANQLOSS.

Lady D. And how does my lord come on with his
learning, doctor?

Pang. Apt, very apt, indeed, for his age. Defective
in nothing now but words, phrases and grammar.

Lady D I wish you could learn him to follow my
example, and be a little genteel ; bui there is no making
a silk purse out of a sow's ear, they say.

Pang. Time may do much. But, as to my lord,
everybody hasn't your ladyship's exquisite elegance.
" My soul, a lie." — Shakespeare. Hem ! \_Aside.

Lady 1). A mighty pretty spoken man ! — And you
are made tutor, I'm told, doctor, to ray Dicky ?

Pang. That honour has accrued to your obsequious

THE HEIR-AT-LAW.

259

servant, Peter Pangloss. I have now the felicity of
superintending your ladyship's Picky.

Lady D. I must not have my son thwarted, doctor ;
for when he has his way in everything, he's the swccicst-
tcmpered youth in Christendom.

Pang. An extraordinary instance of mildness !

Lady D. Oh, as mild as mother's milk, I assure you.
And what is he to learn, doctor ?

Pang, Our readings will be various : logic, ethics and
mathematics ; history, foreign and domestic ; geography,
ancient and modern j voyage>^ <ii 1 travels ; antiquities,
British and foreign ; natural history ; natural and moral
philosophy ; classics ; arts and sciences ; belles lettres
and miscellanies.

Lady D. Bless me ! 'tis enough to batter the poor
boy's brains to a mummy.

Pang. " A little learning — *'

Lady D. Little ? A load !

Pang. " Is a dangerous thing." — Pope. Hem!

Lady D. And you have left out the main article.

Pang. What may your ladyship mean ?

Lady D. Mean ! Why, dancing, to be sure.

Pang. Dancing? Dr. Pangloss, the philosopher,
teach to uance 1

Lady D. Between whiles, you might give Dick a
lesson or two in the hall. As my lord's valet plays on
the kit, it will be quite handy to have you both in the
house, you know.

Fang. With submission to your ladyship, my busi-
ness is with the head, and not with the heels of my
pupil.

Lady D. Fiddle faddle ! Lady Betty tells me that
the heads of young men of fashion, now-a-days, are by
no means overloaded. They are all left to the barber
and dentist.

Pa7ig. 'T would be daring to dispute so self-evident an
axiom. But if your ladyship —

Lady D. Look ye, doctor ; — he. must learn to dance

IMAGE EVALUATION
TEST TARGET (MT-3)

•^

1.0

I.I

1.25

■^ 1^ ill 2.2

1.4

!.6

<^3

^ ^4^ ^

c7^ ^1

^;^^ .<^ "-/a

Photographic

Sciences
Corporation

,-\

•SJ

^. ^\ WrS

%yz^

23 WEST MAIN STREET

WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580

(716) 872-4503

i^z

J-l

i . \Vi\

|?l

'i f "

^ I I

F' i

if '

260

THE HBIR-AT-LAW.

and jabber French ; and I wouldn't give a brass farden
for anything else. T know what's elegance ; — and you'll
find the gray mare the better horse, in this house, I pro-
mise you.

Fang. Her ladyship is paramount. " Dux foemina
facUy — Virgil. Hem ! [Aside.

Lady D. What's your pay here, Mr. Tutorer ?

Pang. Three hundred pounds per annum : — that is
— six — no, three — no — ay — no matter : — the rest is be-
tween me and Mr. Dowlas. [Aside.

Lady D. Do as I direct you in private, and, to pre-
vent words, I'll double it.

Fang, Double it ! What, again ! Nine hundred
per annum ! [Aside.^ I'll take it. " Your hand ; a
covenant.^' — Shakespeare. Hem I Bless me, I've got
beyond the reading at last I

** I've often wished that I had, eleai\
For life—"

[Lord D. speaks without

1 hear, my lord —

" Nine hundred pounds a year."
Swift. Hem !

\ I

IInte7' Lord Dubbrly and Dick Dowlas.

Lord D. Come along, Dick ! Here he is again, my
lady. Twist, the tailor, happen' d to come in promiscu-
ously, as I may say, and —

Fang. Accidentally, my lord, would be better.

Lord I). Ay, accidentally — with a suit of my Lord
Dooktail's under his arm; and, as we was in a bit of a
rumpus to rig out Dick, why —

Fangy Dress, not rig — unless metaphorically.

Lord H Well — to dress out — why, we — hump I
doctor, don't bother — in short, we popp'd Dick into 'em ;
and. Twist says, they fit to a hair.

Dick. Yes, they are quite the dandy — aren't they,

tL'

THE

HEIR-AT-LAW.

261

mother ? This is all the go, they say— cut straight —
that's the thing — square waist — wrap over the knee, and
all that. Slouch is the word now, you know.

Lady D. Exceeding genteel, I declare ! Turn about,
Dick. They don't pinch — do they ?

Dick. Oh no ! just as if I'd been measured.

Lord B. Pinch? Why, my lady, they sit like a
sack. But why don't you stand up ? The boy rolls
about like a porpus in a storm.

Dick. That's the fashion, father ! — that's modern
ease. Young Vats, the beau brewer, from the Borough,
brought it down, last Christmas, to Castleton. A young
fellow is nothing now without the Bond Street roll, a
tooth-pick between his teeth, and his knuckles crammed
into his coat pocket. Then away you go, lounging
lazily along. "Ah, Tom! What! Will rolling away,
you see I How are you, J ack ? What ! my little
Dolly ! " — that's the way — isn't it, mother ?

Lady D. That's the very air and grace of our young
nobility !

Lord D. Is it ? Grace must have got plaguy lim-
ber and lopt, of late. There's the last Lord Duberly's
father, done in our dining-room, with a wig as wi'le as a
wash-tub, and stuck up as stiff as a poker. He was one
of your tip-tops, too, in his time, they tell me ; he car-
ried a gold stick before George the First.

Lady D. Yes ; and looks, for all the world, as straight
as if he had swallowed it.

Lord D. No matter for that, my lady. What signi-
fies dignity without its crackeristick ? A man should
know how to bemean himself, when he is as rich as
Pluto.

Pang. Plutus, if you please, my lord. Pluto, no
doubt, has disciples, and followers of fashion j but Plutus
is the ruler of riches.

Lord D. There, Dick I d'ye hear how the tutorer
talks ? Odd rabbit, he can ladle you out Latin by the
quart ; and grunts Greek like a pig. I've gin him three

^ '

' »

f fit
.> )

■1:
li.

h- s

■ '

, 1

3^'

' ■'■' ii f

» J fc > I T

262

LONDON ASSURANCE.

hundred a year, and settled all he's to lam you. Ha'o'i

T, doctor?

Pang. Certainly, my lord. " Thrice to thine — "
Dick. Yes, we know all about that. Don't we,

doctor 1

Pang. Decidedly — " and thrice to thine — *'

Lady D. Aye, aye ; clearly understood. Isn't it,

doctor ?

Pang. Undoubtedly — " And thrice again to make up

nine.'' — Shakespeare. Hem I

SCENE FROM " LONDON ASSURANCE.**

Dion BoucicauU, author and actor.

Sir Harcourt Courtly, in an elegant dressing-gown,
and Greek skull-cap and tassels, (&c.

Sir H, Cool, is breakfast ready ?

Cool. Quite ready, Sir Harcourt.

Sir H. Apropos. I omitted to mention that I ex-
pect Squire Harkaway to join us this morning, and you
must prepare for my departure to Oak Hall immediately.

Cool. Leave town in the middle of the season, Sir
Harcourt ? So unprecedented a proceeding !

Sir H. It is 1 I confess it ; there is but one power
could effect such a miracle — that is divinity.

Cool How ?

Sir H. In female form, of course. Cool, I am about
to present society with a second Lady Courtly ; young —
blu hing eighteen ; lovely ! I have her portrait ; rich !
I have her banker's account — an heiress and a Venus !

Cool. Lady Courtly could be none other.

Sir H. Ha ! ha ! Cool, your manners are above
your statien. Apropos, I shall find no further use for
my brocade dressing-gown.

LONDON ASSURANCE.

263

Cool. I thank you, Sir Harcourt ; mi^ht I ask who
the fortunate lady is ?

Sir H. Certainly ; Miss Grace Harkaway, the niece
of my old friend, Max.

Coo^. Have you never seen the lady, sir ?

Sir H. Never — that is, yes — eight years ago. Hav-
ing been, as you know, on the Continent for the last
seven years, I have not had the opportunity of paying
my devoirs. Our connection and betrothal was a very
extraordinary one. Her father's estates were contiguous
to mine ; — being a penurious, miserly, ugly old scoun-
drel, he made a market of my indiscretion, and supplied
my extravagance with large sums of money on mort-
gages, his great desire being to unite the two properties.
About seven years ago, he died — leaving Grace, a girl,
to the guardianship of her uncle, wi^ii this will: — if, on
attaining the age of nineteen, she would consent to marry
me, I should receive those deeds, and all his property,
as her dowry. If she refused to comply with this con-
dition, they should revert to my heir presumptive or
apparent. She consents.

Cool. Who would not ?

Sir H. I consent to receive her 15,000/. a year.

Cool. Who would not ?

Sir H. So prepare. Cool, prepare ; — but where is
my boy, where is Charles ?

Cool. Why — oh, he is gone out, Sir Harcourt ; yes,
gone out to take a walk.

Sir H. Poor child ! A perfect child in heart— a
sober, placid mind — the simplicity and verdure of boy-
hood, kept fresh and unsullied by any contact with
society. Tell me, Cool, at what time was he in bed last
night ?

Cool. Half-past nine. Sir Harcourt.

Sir H. Half-past nine! Beautiful! What an
original idea ! Reposing in cherub slumbers, while all
around him teems with drinking and debauchery !
Primitive sweetness of nature ! no pilot-coated, bear-
pikiuned brawling I

• I

Ill'
§1 >

i ' I f ! i

264

LONUON ASSURANCE.

Cool. Oh, Sir Harcourt !

Sir H. No cigar- smoking —

Cool. Faints at the smell of one.

Sir H. No brandy-and-water bibbing —

Cool, Doesn't know the taste of any thing stronger
than barley-water.

Sir H. No night parading —

Cool, Never heard the clock strike twelve, except at
noon.

Sir H. In fact, he is my son, and became a gentle-
man by right of paternity — he inherited my manners.

E7iUr Max Harkawat.

Max, Ha ! ha ! Sir Harcourt, I'm glad to see you !
Gi' me your fist — Dang it, but I'm glad to see you !
Let me see : six — seven years, or more, since we have
met. How quickly they have flown !

Sir H. Max, Max ! give me your hand, old boy. —
[^hide.] Ah ! he is glad to see me ; there is no fawning
pretence about that squeeze. Cool, you may retire.

[Exit Cool.

Max. Why, you are looking quite rosy.

Sir H. Ah ! ah ! rosy ! Am I too florid ?

Max. Not a bit ; not a bit.

Sir H. I thought so. — [Aside.'] Cool said I had put
too much on.

Max. How comes it. Courtly, you manage to retain
your youth ? See, I'm as grey as an old badger, or a
wild rabbit ; while you are — are as black as a young
rook. I say, whose head grew your hair, eh ?

Sir H. Permit me to remark, that all the beauties
of my person are of home manufacture. Why should
you be surprised at my youth ? I have scarcely thrown
off the giddiness of a very boy — elasticity of limb —
buoyancy of soul ! Remark this position — [throws him-
.self itito an attitude.] I held that attitude for ten min-
utes at Lady Acid's last rt-unltn, at the express desire

LONDON ASSURANCE.

265

of one of our first sculptors, ^hile he was making a
sketch of me for the Apollo.

Max. [aside.'] Making a butt of thee for their gibes.

Sir H. Lady Sarah Sarcasm started up, and, point-
ing to my face, ejaculated, " Good gracious ! does not
Sir Harcourt remind you of the countenance of Ajax, in
the Pompeian portrait ? "

Max. Ajax ! — humbug !

Sir U. You are complimentary.

Max. I'm a plain man, and always speak my mind.
What's in a face or figure ? Does a Grecian nose entail
a good temper ? Does a vraspish waist indicate a good
heart ? Or, do oily perfumed locks necessarily thatch
a well-furnished brain ?

Sir H. It's an undeniable fact, — plain people always
praise the beauties of the mind.

Max. Excuse the insinuation : I had thought the
first Lady Courtly had surfeited you with beauty.

Sir 11. No ; she lived fourteen months with me, and
then she left me.

Max. That, certainly, was flattering.

Sir H. I felt so, as I pocketed the ten thousand
pounds damages.

Max. That must have been a great balm to your
sore honour.

Sir H. It was — Max, my honour would have died
without it; for on that year the wrong horse won the
Derby — by some mistake. It was one of the luckiest
chances — a thing that does not happen twice in a man's
life — the opportunity of getting rid of his wife and hia
debts at the same time.

Max. Tell the truth, Courtly — did you not feel a
little frayed in your delicacy — your honour, now ? Eh ?

Sir II. Not a whit. Why should I ? I married
money, and I received it — virgin gold ! My delicacy
and honour had nothing to do with it. The world
pities the bereaved husband, when it should congratu-
late. No: the affair IT Ade a sensation, and I was the

i m

■3

I . !

fli

U.. I

• f *

■'J 1 "»

' t •
411'" '"

MM:

Ui i ''r

!}■'.■ '

r };■ ^

}

'1 .(

!?i

.1^

1^^

266

LONDON ASSURANCE.

object. Besides, it is vulgar to make a parnde of one's
feelings, however acute they may be : impenetrability of
countenance is the sure sign of your highly-bred man of
fashion.

Max. So a man must, therefore, lose his wife and
his money with a smile — in fact, everything he possesses
but his temper.

Sir IT. Exactly ; and greet ruin with vive la baga-
telle ! For example : your modish beauty never dis-
composes the shape of her features with convulsive
laughter. A smile rewards the hon mot, and also shews
the whiteness of her teeth. She never weeps impromptu —
tears might destroy the economy of her cheek. Scenes
are vulgar, hysterics obsolete ; she exhibits a calm,
placid, impenetrable lake, whose surface is reflection, but
of unfathomable depth — a statue, whose life is hypo-
thetical, and not a prima facie fact.

Max. Well, give me the girl that will fly at your
eyes in an argument, and stick to her point.

Sir H. But etiquette. Max ! remember etiquette !

Max. Hang etiquette ! I have seen a man who
thought it sacrilege to eat fish with a knife, that would
not scruple to rise up and rob his brother of his birth-
right in a gambling-house. Your thorough -bred, well-
blooded heart will seldom kick over the traces of good
feeling. That's my opinion, and I don't care who knows
it.

Sir H. Pardon me — etiquette is the pulse of society,
by regulating which, the body politic is retained in
health. I consider myself one of the faculty in the art.

Max. Well, well ; you are a living libej upon com-
mon sense, for you are old enough to know better.

Sir H. Old enough ! What do you mean ? I have
not sown my wild oats yet.

Max. Time you did, at sixty-three.

Sir H. Sixty-three ! Good gracious ! forty, 'pon
my life ! forty, next March.

Max. Why, you are older than 1 am.

LONDON ASSURANCE.

267

Sir H. Oh ! you are old enough to be my lather.

Max. Well, if I am, I am ; that's etiquette, I sup-
pose. Poor Grace ! how often I have pitied her fate !
That a young and beautiful creature should be driven
into wretched splendour, or miserable poverty !

Sir H. Wretched ! wherefore ? Lady Courtly
wretched ! Impossible !

Max. Will she not be compelled to marry you,
whether she likes you or not ? — a choice between you
and poverty. [Aside.'] And hang me if it isn't a tie !
But why do you not introduce your son, Charles, to
me? I have not seen him since he was a chiM. You
would never permit him to accept any of my invitations
to spend his vacation at Oak Hall,— of course, we shall
have the pleasure of his company now.

Sir H. He is not fit to enter society yet. He is a
studious, sober boy.

Max. Boy ! Why, he's five-and-twenty.

Sir H. Good gracious ! Max, — you will permit me
to know my own son's age, — he is not twenty.

Max. I'm dumb.

Sir H. You will excuse me while I indulge in the
process of dressing. Cool, prepare my toilet. That
is a ceremony which, with me, supersedes all others. I
consider it a duty which every gentleman owes to society,
to render himself as agreeable an object as possible : and
the least compliment a mortal can pay to nature, when
she honours him by bestowing extra care in the
manufacture of his person, is to display her taste to the
best possible advantage ; and so, au revoir.

t I" I'l ■

I'rii!

•! . I

'(,.■■1^1

1 I 1

■; Si ' I

,!{^

268 QUEEN MARY.

SCENE FliOM "QUEEN MAliY."

Tennyson.

Scene: Woodstock.

The Princess Elizabeth and a Lady in Waiting,

Lady. The colours of our Queen are green and
white ;
These fields are only green, they make me gape.

Elizabeth. There's whitethorn, girl.

Lady. Ay, for an hour in May.

But court is always May, buds out in masques,
Breaks into feather'd merriments, and flowers
In silken pageants. Why do they keep us here ?
Why still suspect your Grace ?

Elizabeth. Hard upon both.

[PFrites on the window with a diamond.
Much suspected, of me
Nothing proven can be.

Quoth Elizabeth, prisoner.
Lady. Wh;it hath your Highness written ?
Elizabeth. A true rhyme.

Lady. Cut with a diamond ; so to last like truth.
Elizabeth. Ay, if truth last. -
Lady. But truth, they say, will out.

So it must last. It is not like a word,
That comes and goes in uttering.

Elizabeth. Truth, a word !

The very Truth and very Word are one,
But truth of story, which I glanced at, girl,
Is like a word that conies from olden days,
And passes thro' the peoples ; every tongue
Alters it passing, till it spells and speaks
Quite other than at first.

QUEEN MART.

2G9

Lady. I do no t follow.

Elizabeth. How many names, in the long sweep oi'
time
That so foreshortens greatness, may but hang

On the cliance mention of some fool that once

Brake bread with us, perhaps ; and n)y poor, chronicle
Is but of glass. Sir Henry Bedingfield
May split it for a spite.

Lachj. God grant it last,

And witness to your Grace's innocence,
Till doomsday melt it.

Elizabeth. Or a second fire,

Like that which crackled underfoot
And in this very chamber, fuse the glass.
And char us back again into the dust
We spring from. Never peacock against rain
Scream'd as you did for water.
. Ladij. ^ And I got it.

I woke Sir Henry — and he's true to you —
I read his honest horror in his eyes.

Elizabeth. Or true to you ?

Lady. Sir Henry Bedingfield !

I will have no man true to me, your Grace,
But one that pares his nails ; to me ? the clown I
For, like his cloak, his manners want the nap
And gloss of court ; but of this fire he says,
Nay swears, it was no wicked wilfulness,
Only a natural chance.

Elizabeth. A chance — perchance

One of those wicked wilfuls that men make,
Nor shame to call it nature. Nay, I know
They hunt my blood. Save for my daily range
Among the pleasant fields of Holy Writ
I might despair. But there hath some one come ;
The house is all in movement. Hence and bee.

[Exit Ladt.

! ; '■

III

I'i;

i-i

270 QUEEN MARY.

Milkmaid (singiDg wi hou )

Shame upon you, Robin,

Shume upon you now !
Kiss me, would you? with my .lands

Milking the cow ?

Daisies grow again,

Kingcups blow again,
And you came and kiss'd me milking the cow.

Robin came behind me,

Kiss'd me well, I vow ;
Cuff him, could 1 1 with my hands

Milking the cow?

Swallows fly again,

Cuckoos cry again,
And you came and kiss'd me milking the cow.

Come, Robin, Robin,

Come and kiss me now ;
Help it, can 11 with my hands

Milking the cow?

Ringdoves coo again,

All things woo again.
Come behind and kiss me milking the cow !

Elizabeth. Right honest and red-cheek'd ; Robin was
violent, ^

And she was crafty — a sweet violence,
And a sweet craft. I would I were a milkmaid,
To sing, love, marry, churn, brew, bake, and die,
Then have my simple headstone by the chuirch,
And all things lived and ended honestly. ^

I could not if I would. I am Harry's daughter :
Gardiner would have my head. They ar« not sweet,
The violence and the craft that do divide
The world of nature ; what is weak must lie ;
The lion needs but roar to guard his young ;

QUEEN HART.

271

The lapwing lies, says " here " when they are there.

Threaten the child ; " I'll scourge you if you did it.'*

What weapon hath the child, save his soft tongue,

To say '* I did not ? " and my rod's the block.

I never lay my head upon the pillow

But that I think, " Wilt thou lie there to-morrow t "

How oft the falling axe, that never fell,

Hath shock'd me back into the daylight truth

That it may fall to-day ! Those damp, black, dead

Nights in the Tower ; dead — with the fear of death —

Too dead ev'n for a death-watch ! Toll of a bell,

Stroke of a clock, the scurrying of a rat

Affrighted me, and then delighted me,

For there was life — and there was life in death —

The little murder'd princes, in a pale light,

Rose hand in hand, and whisper'd, " Come away,

The civil wars are gone for evermore : ♦

Thou last of all the Tudors, come away,

With us is peace I " The last ? It was a dream ;

I must not dream, not wink, but watch. She has gone,

Maid Marian to her Robin — by-and-by

Both happy ! a fox may filch a hen by night.

And make a morning outcry in the yard ;

But there's no Renard here to *' catch her tripping."

Catch me who can ; yet sometimes I have wish'd

That I were caught, and kill'd away at once

Out of the flutter. The gray rogue, Gardiner,

Went on his knees, and pray'd me to confess

In Wyatt's business, and to cast myself

Upon the good Queen's mercy ; ay, when my Lord ?

God save the Queen. My jailor —

Enter Sir Henry Bedinqfield.

Bedmgfield. One, whose bolts.

That jail you from free life, bar you from death.
There haunt some Papist ruffians hereabout
Would murder you.

Elizabeth. I thank you heartily, sir,

But I am royal, tho' your prisoner.

272

QUEBN MART.

x\nd God hath blest or cursed me with a nese —
Your boots are from the horses.

Bedingfield. Ay, my Lady.

When next there comes a missive from the Queen
It shall be all my study for one hour
To rose and lavender my horsiness,
Before I dare to glance upon your Grace.

Elizabeth. A missive from the Queen : last time she
wrote,
I had like to have lost my life : it takes my breath :
O God, sir, do you look upon your boots,
Are you so small a man ? Help me : what think you,
Is it life or death ?

Bedingfield. I thought not on my boots ;

The devil take all boots were ever made
Since man went barefoot. See, I lay it here,
For I will come no nearer to your Grace ;

[Laying down the letter.
And, whether it bring you bitter news or sweet,
And God hath given your Grace a nose, or not,
I'll help you, if I may.

Elizabeth, i'our pardon, then •

It is the heat and narrowness of the cage
That makes the captive testy ; with free wing
The world were all one Araby. Leave me now,
Will you, companion to myself, sir ?

Bedingfield. ^ Will 1 1

With most exceeding willingness, I will ;
You know I never come till I be called. [Exit.

Elizabeth. It lies there folded : Is there venom in it ?
A snake — and if I touch it, it may sting.
Come, come, the worst !
Best wisdom is to know the worst at once.

[Reads ;
** It is the King's wish, that you should wed Prince
Philibert of Savoy. You are to come to (?ourt on the
instant ; and think of this in your coming.

"Mary the Queen."

QUEEN MART. 273

Think ! I have many thoughts ;

I think there may be birdlime here for me •

I think they fain would have me from the realm •

I think the Queen may never bear a child •

I think that I may be some time the Queen

Then, Queen indeed : no foreign prince or priest

Should fill my throne, myself upon the steps.

I think I will not marry anyone,

Specially not this landless Philibert

Of Savoy ; but, if Philip menace me,

I think that I will play with Philibert

As once the holy father did with mine,

Before my father married my good mother .

For fear of Spain.

Enter Lady.

Lady. Lord ! your Grace, your Grace,

I feel so happy : it seems that we shall fly
These bald, blank fields, and dance into the sun
That shines on princes.

Elizabeth. Yet, a moment since,

I wish'd myself the milkmaid singing here.

To kiss and cuff among the birds and flowers

A right rough life and healthful.

Lady. But the wench

Hath her own troubles ; she is weeping now ;
For the wrong Robin took her at her word.
Then the cow kick'd, and all her milk was spilt.
Your Highness, such a milkmaid 1

Elizabeth. I had kept

My Robins and my cows in sweeter order
Had I been such.

Lady (slyly). And had your Grace a Robin 1

Elizabeth. Come, come, you are chill here ; you want

the sun
That shines at court ; make ready for the journey.
Pray God, we 'scape the sunstroke. Ready at onc<»

f ")

. 1,

rr'

■ ' 11

1 vr ?

274

HOW TO MAKE LODGINGS PAY DOUBLE.

J. M. Morton,

MR. BOX, MR. FOX AND MRS. BOUNCER.

Fox. I've half a mind to register an oath that I'll
never have my hair cut again ! (Eis hair is very short.)
I look as if I had just been cropped for the m^ilitia ! And
I was particularly emphatic in my instructions to the
hair-dresser, only to cut the ends off. He must have
thought I meant the other ends ! Never mind — I shan't
meet anybody to care about so early. Eight o'clock, I
declare ! I haven't a moment to lose. Fate has placed
me with the most punctual, particular, and peremptory
of hatters, and T must fulfil my destiny, (Knock.) Open
locks, whoever kuDcks !

Uiiter Mt?s. Bouncer.

Mrs. B. Good morning, Mr. Fox. I hope you slept
comfortable, Mr. Fox? ,

Fox. I can't say I did, Mrs. B. I should feel
obliged to you, if you could accommodate me with a more
protuberant bolster, Mrs. B. The one I've got now
seems to me to have about a handful and a half of feathers
at each end, and nothing whatever in the middle.

Mrs. B. Anything to accommodate you, Mr. Fox.

Fox. Thank you. Then, perhaps, you'll be good
enough to hc4d this glass, while I finish my toilet.

Mrs. B. Certainly. (Holding glass before Fox, who
ties hi9 cravat.) Whjj 1 do declare, you've had your
hair cut.

Fox. Cut ! It strikes me I've had it mowed 1 It's very
kind of you to mention it, but I'm sufficiently conscious
Oi the absurdity of my personal appearance already.
{Puts on his coat.) Now for my hat. (Puts on his hat,
which comes over his eyes.) That's the effect of having
one's hair cut. This hat fitted me quite tight before.

HOW TO MAKE LODGINGS PAY DOUBLE. 275

Luckily I've got two or three more. (Puts on hat)
Now I'm off! By-the-bye, Mrs. Bouncer, I wish to call
your attention to a fact that has been evident to me for
some time past — and that is, that my coals go remark-
ably fast —

Mrs. B. Lor, Mr. Fox!

Fox. It is not only the case with the coals, Mrs.
Bouncer, but I've lately observed a gradual and steady
increase of evaporation among my candles, wood, sugar,
and lucifer matches.

Mrs. B. Lor, Mr. Fox ! you surely don't suspect
me!

Fox. I don't say I do, Mrs. B. ; only I wish you dis-
tinctly to understand, that I don't believe it's the cat.

Mrs. B. Is there anything else you've got to grumble
about, sir ?

Fox, Grumble ! Mrs Bouncer, do you possess such
a thing as a Dictionary !

Mrs. B. No, sir.

Fox. Then I'll lend you one — and if you turn to the
letter G, you'll find " Grumble, verb neuter — to com-
plain without a cause." Now that's not my case, Mrs.
B., and now that we are upon the subject, I wish to know
how it is that I frequently find my apartments full of
smoke ?

Mrs. B. Why, I suppose the chimney —

Fox. The chimney doesn't smoke tobacco. I'm speak-
irg of tobacco smoke, Mrs. B. I hope, Mrs. Bouncer,
you^re not guilty of cheroots or Cubas ?

Mrs. B. Not I, indeed, Mr. Fox.

Fox. Nor partial to a pipe ?

Mrs, B. No, sir.

Fox. Then, how is it that —

Mrs. B. Why — I suppose — yes — that must be it —

Fox. At present I am entirely of your opinion — be-
cause I hayeu't the most distant particle of an idea what
you mean.

Mrs. B. Why the gentleman who has got the attics

276

HOW TO MAKE LODGINGS PAY DOUBLE.

of your imagination, Mrs.
I presume you mean the

ti f?

is hardly ever without a pipe in his mouth — and there he
sits, with his feet on the mantel-piece —

Fox. The mantel-piece ! That strikes me as being
a considerable stretch, either
B., or the gentleman's legs.
fender or the hob.

Mrs. B. Sometimes one, sometimes t'other. Well,
there he sits for hours, and puffs away into the fire-
place.

Fox. Ah, then you mean to say, that this gentleman's
smoke, instead of emulating the example of all other
sorts of smoke, and going up the chimney, thinks proper
to affect a singularity by taking the contrary direction ?

Mrs. B. Why—

Fox. Then I suppose the gentleman you are speak-
ing of is the same individual that I invariably meet com-
ing up stairs when I am going down, and g«ing down
stairs when I'm coming up !

Mrs. B. Why — yes — I —

Fox. From the appearance of his out ard man, I
should unhesitatingly set him down as a gentleman con-
nected with the printing interest.

Mrs. B. Yes, sir — and a very respectable young
gentleman he is.

Fox. Well, good morning Mrs. Bouncer I

Mrs. B. You'll be back at your usual time, I sup-
pose, sir ?

Fox. Yes — nine ©'clock. You needn't light my fire
in future, Mrs. B. — I'll do it myself. Don't forget the
bolster !

Mi's. B. He's gone at last ! I declare I was all in
a tremble for fear Mr. Box would come in before Mr.
Fox went out. Luckily, they've never met yet — and
what's more, they're not very likely to do so ; for Mr.
Box is hard at work in a newspaper ofl&ce all night and
doesn t come home till the morning, and Mr. Fox is busy
making hatsallday long, and doesn't come; home till night;
so that I am getting double rent for my room, and neither

id there he

e as being
tion, Mrs.
. mean the

ir. Well,
the fire-

entleman's
f all other
iks proper
iirection ?

are speak-
meet com-
ing down

rd man, I
eman con-

le young

le, I sup-
it my fire
brget the

ras all in
jfore Mr.
^et — and
; for Mr.
ight and
K is busy
ill night;
1 neither

HOW TO MAKE LODGINGS PAY DOUBLE. 277

of my lodgers are any the wiser for it. It was a capitil
idea of mine — that it was ! But I haven't an instant to
lose. First of all, let me put Mr. Fox's things out of
Mr. Box's way. I really must beg Mr. Box not to smoke
so much. I was so dreadfully puzzled to know what to
say when Mr. Fox spoke about it. Now, then, to make
the bed — and don't let me forget that what's the head of
the bed for Mr. Fox, becomes the foot of the bed for Mr.
Box — people's tastes do differ so.

Box (Without.) Pooh — pooh! — Why don't you keep
your own side of the staircase, sir ?

Mrs. B. Oh, Mr. Box ! {Going.

Box. Stop I Can you inform me wuo the individual
is that I invariably encounter going down stairs when
I'm coming up, and coming up stairs when I am going
down ?

Mrs. B. {Confused.) Oh — yes — the gentleman in th
attic, sir.

Box. Oh ! There's nothing particularly remarkable
about him, except his hats. I meet him in all sorts of
hats — white hats and black hats — hats with broad brims,
and hats with narrow brims — hats with naps, and hats
without naps ; in short, I have come to the conclusion,
that he must be individually and professionally associated
with the hatting interest.

Mrs. B. Yes, sir. And, by-the-bye, Mr. Box, he
begged me to request of you, as a particular favour, that
you would not smoke quite so much.

Box. Did he ? Then you may tell the gentle hatter,
with my compliments, that if he objects to the eiBuvia
of tobacco, he had better domesticate himself in some ad-
joining parish.

Mrs. B. Oh, Mr. Box ! You surely wouldn't deprive
me of a lodger ?

Box. It would come to precisely the same thing,
Bouncer, because if I detect the slightest attempt to put
my pipe out, I shall give you warning at once.

278

HOW TO MAKE LODGINGS PAT DOUBLE.

/i^:.;:

•n.

t!-

Mrs. B. Well, Mr. Box, do you want anything
more of me ?

Box* On the contrary — I've had quite enough of
you ?

[Goes out slamming door after her.

Box. It's quite extraordinary, the trouble I have of
getting rid of that old woman I Now, let me see — shall
I take my nap before I swallow my breakfast, or shall I
take my breakfast before I swallow my nap — I mean,
shall I swallow my nap before — no — never mind ! I've
got a rasher of bacon somewhere — (Feeling in his pockets)
— I've the most distinct and vivid recollection of having
purchased a rasher of bacon — Oh, here it is — {Produces
ity wrapped in paper ^ and places it on the table) — and a
penny roll. The next thing is to light the fire. Where
are my lucifers] {Looking on mantel-piece^ and taking
box, opens it.) Now 'pon my life, this is too bad of
Bouncer — this is, by several degrees too bad I I had a
whole box full three days ago, and now there's only
one ! I'm perfectly aware that she purloins my coals and
my candles, and my sugar — but I did think — oh, yes, I
did think that my lucifer matches would be sacred ! I'm
certain Mrs. Bouncer has been using my gridiron !
The last article of consumption that I cooked upon it
was a pork chop, and now it is powerfully impregnated
with the odour of red herrings ! {Places gridiron onfircy
and then, with a fork, lays rasher of bacon on the grid-
iron.) How sleepy I am, to be sure ! I'd indulge my-
self with a nap if there was anybody here to superintend
the turning of my bacon. {Yawning again.) Perhaps it
will turn itself. I must lie down — so here goes.

Enter Fox, hurriedly.

Fox. Well, wonders will never cease I Conscious of
being eleven and a half minutes behind time, I was
sneaking into the shop, in a state of considerable ex-
citement, when my venerable employer, with a smile of
extreme benevolence on his aged countenance, said to

HOW TO MAKE LODGINGS PAT DOUBLE. 279

anything
enough of

• her,

I have of

see — shall

or shall I

— I mean,

ind ! I've

lis pockets)

of having

(Produces

e) — and a

. Where

7id taking

30 bad of

! I had a

ere's only

coals and

oh, yes, I

red! I'm

gridiron 1

upon it

)regnated

•n on fire,

the grid-

ulge my-

)erintend

erhaps it

icious of
I was
able ex-
smile of
said to

me — *' Fox, I shan't want you to-day ; you can have
a holiday." — Thoughts of " Gravesend and back —
fare, One Shilling," instantly suggested themselves,
intermingled with visions of "Greenwich for Four-
pence 1 " However, I must have my breakfast first —
that'll give me time to reflect. I've bought a mutton
chop, so I shan't want any dinner [_Piits chop on table.]
Good gracious ! I've forgot the bread. Holloa ! what's
this ? A roll, I declare ! Come, that's lucky ! Now,
then, to light the fire. Holloa — [Seeing lucifer-box on
table] — who presumes to touch my box of lucifers ? Why,
it's empty ! I left one in it — I'm certain \ did. Why, the
fire is lighted ! Where's the gridiron V On the fire, I
declare ! And what's that on it ? Bacon ? Bacon it
is ! Well, nov7, 'pon my life, there is a quiet coolness
about Mrs. Bouncer's proceedings that's almost amusing.
She takes my last lucifer — my coals and my gridiron to
cook her breakfast by ! No, no — I can't stand this !
Come out of that. [Pokes fork into bacon, and puts it
on a plate on the table, then places his chop on the grid-
iron.] Now, then, for my breakfast things. [Goes out
slamming door after him.]

Box. [Suddenly showing his head from behind the cur-
tains.] Come in, if it's you, Mrs. Bouncer. I wonder
how long I've been asleep ? Goodness gracious, ray ba-
con! [Leaps off bed and runs to the fireplace.]^ Holloa 1
what's this 1 A chop ! Whose chop ? Mrs. Bouncer's,
I'll be bound. She thought to cook her breakfast while
I was asleep — with my coals, too, and my gridiron ! Ha,
ha ! But Where's my bacon ? [Seeing it on table.]
Here it is. Well, 'pon my life. Bouncer's going it.
And shall I curb my indignation ? Shall I falter in my
vengeance ? No ! [Digs 'the fork into the chop, opens
window, and throws chop out — shuts window agaiii.] So
much for Bouncer's breakfast, and now for my own !
[fFith the fork he puts the bacon on the gridiron agaiii.]
I may as well lay my breakfast things.

Fox. [Putting his head in quickly.] Come in— come

■J;:

1,1 r

? *'i»'

280

HOW TO MAKE LODaiNQS PAY DOUBLE,

in. [Opens door, enters with a small tray, on which art
tea things, and suddenly recollects.'l Oh, goodness, my
chop I [Running to fireplace.'] Holloa ! what's this ?
The bacon again I Oh, pooh 1 Bless me, I can't stand
this. Who are you, sir ?

£ox. If you come to that, who are you ?

Fox. What do you want here, sir ?

Box. If you come to that, what do you want

Fox. Go to your attic, sir —

Box. My attic, sir 1 Your attic, sir !

Fox. Printer, I shall do you a frightful injury, if you
do not instantly leave my apartment.

Box. Your apartment ? You mean my apartment,
you contemptible hatter, you I

Fox. Your apartment ? Ha, ha ! Come, I like that !
Look here, sir. [Produces a paper out of his pocket.']
Mrs. Bouncer's receipt for the last week's rent —

Box. [Produces a paper, and holds it close to Fox's
face.] Ditto, sir ! ^

Both. Mrs. Bouncer !

Mrs. Bouncer runs in at door.

Mrs. B. What is the matter ] [Fox and Box seize
Mrs. Bouncer by the arm and drag her forward?

Box. Instantly remove that hatter !

Fox. Immediately turn out that printer I

Mrs. B. Well — but, gentlemen —

Fox. Explain ! [Pulling her round to him^

Box. Explain I [Pulling her round to him.~\ Whose
room is this ?

Fox. Yes, whose room is this ?

Box. Doesn't it belong to me ?

Mrs. B. No.

Fox. There I You hear, sir, it belongs to me \

Mrs. B. No — it belongs to both of you !

Fox and Box. Both of us !

Mrs. B. Oh, dear, gentlemen, don't be angry, — but
you see, this gentleman —[pointing to Box] — only being
at home in the day time, and that gentleman — [pointing

THE RIVALS.

281

to Fox] — at night, I thought I might venture until my
little back second floor room was ready —

Fox and Box. [Bagerly.] When will your little t»' ck
second floor room be ready r

Mrs. B. Why, to-morrow —

Fox. I'll take it !

Box. So will I !

Mrs. B. Excuse me ; but if you both take it, you
may just as well ptop where you are.

Fox and Box. True.

Fox. I spoke first, sir —

Box. With all my heart, sir. The little back second
floor room is yours, sir — now, go —

Fox. Go ? Pooh, pooh !

Mrs. B. Now, don't quarrel, gentlemen. You see,
there used to be a partition here —

Fox and Box. Then put it up !

Mrs. B. Nay, I'll see if I can't get the other room
ready this very day. Now, do keep your tempers.

SCENE FROM "THE RIVALS."

Sheridan.

A Dressing-room in Mrs. Malaprop's Lodgings—
Ltdia sitting on a sofa, with a hook in her hand. Lucy,
08 just returned from a message.

Lucy. Indeed, ma'am, I traversed half the town in
search of it : I don't believe there's a circulating library
in Bath I ha'n't been at.

Lyd. And could you not get The Baward of Con-
stancy ?

Lucy. No indeed, ma'am.

Lyd. Nor The Fatal Connexion ?

Lttcy. No, indeed, ma'am.

fm^

■fit

i'l

.{>

;t .■ i,t

i.f»

' I

I,'

THE RIVALS.

Lyd. Nor The Mistakes of the Heart ?

Lucy. Ma'am, as ill-luck would have it, Mr. Bull
said Miss Sukcy Saunter had just fetched it away.

Lyd. Heigh-ho ! — Did you inquire for The Delicate
Distress ?

Lucy. Or, The Memoirs of Lady Wocdford 1 Yes,
indeed, ma'am. I asked everywhere for it ; and T might
have brought it from Mr. Frederick's, but Lady Slattern
Lounger, who had just sent it home, had so soiled and
dog's-eared it, it wa'n't fit to read.

Lyd. Heigh-ho! — Yes, I always know when Lady
Slattern has been before me. She has a most observing
thumb \ and, I believe, cherishes her nails for the con-
venience of making marginal notes. — Well, child, what
have you brought me ?

Lucy. Oh! here, ma'am. — [Taking hooks from under
her cloak and from her pockets.'] This is The Gordian
Knot J — and this Peregrine FicJde. Here are The Tears
of Sensibility^ and Humphrey Clinker. This is The
Memoirs of a Lady of Quality, written by herself, and
here the second volume of The Sentimental Journey.

Lyd. Hei^-ho ! — What are those books by the
glass ?

Lucy. The great one is only The Whole Duty of Man,
where I press a few blonds, ma'am.

Lyd. Very well — give me the sal volatile.

Lucy. Is it in the blue cover, ma'am ?

Lyd. My smelling-bottle, you simpleton I

Lucy. Oh, the drops I — here, ma'am.

Lyd. Hold ! — here's some one coming — quick, see
who it is.

LMcy. ma'am, here is Sir Anthony Absolute just
come home with your aunt.

Luey. They'll not come here.

Lucy. ! ma'am, they are both coming upstairs.

Lyd. •Here, my dear Lucy, hide these books, jijuick,
quick. — Fling Peregrine Pickle under the toilet — throw
Roderick Random into the cloBet — thrust Lord Aim-

THE RIVALS.

283

RuU

worth under the sofa — cram Ovid behind the bolster —
there — so, so now — lay Mrs. Chapone in sight, and leave
Fordyce's Sermons open on the tnble.

Lucy. O ! ma'am I the hair-dresser has torn away as
far as Proper Pride.

Lyd. Never mind— open at Sobriety — Fling me Lord
Chesterfield'' 8 Letters. — Now for 'em. [Exit Lucy.

Enter Mrs. Malaprop and Sir Anthony Absolute.

Mrs. Mai. There, Sir Anthony, there sits the
deliberate simpleton who wants to disgrace her family,
and lavish herself on a fellow not worth a shilling.

L/yd. Madam, I thought you once

Mrs. Mai. You thought, miss ! I don't know any
business you have to think at all — thought does not

become a young woman. But the point we would
request of you is, that you will promise to forget this
fellow — to illiterate him, I say, quite from your
memory.

Lyd. Ah, madam ! our memories are independent of
our wills. It is not so easy to forget.

Mrs. Mai. But I say it is, miss ; there is nothing on
earth so easy as to forget, if a person chooses to set
about it. I'm sure I have as much forgot your poor
dear uncle as if he had never existed — and I thought it
my duty so to do ; and let me tell you, Lydia, these
violent memories don't become a young woman

Sir Anth. Why, sure she won't pretend to remember
what she's ordered not ! — ay, this comes of her reading !

Lyd. What crime, madam, have I committed, to be
treated thus?

Mrs. Mai. Now don't attempt to extirpate yourself
from the matter ; you know I have proof controvertible
of it. — But tell me, will you promise to do as you're
bid ? Will you take a husband of your friends' choos-
ing ?

L/yd. Madam, I must tell you plainly, that had I no

Ill r

(

f ;

'■A

huh

.■.,»,, ^-tH '■

I ",

284

THE RIVALS.

preference for any one else, the choice you have made
would be my aversion.

Mrs. Mai. What business have you, miss, with pre
ference and aversion ? They don't become a young wo-
mfin; and you ought to know, that as both always wear
off, 'tis safest in matrimony to begin with a little aver-
sion. I am sure I hated your poor dear uncle before
marriage as if he had been a blackamoor — and yet, miss,
you are sensible what a wife I made I — and when it
pleased Heaven to release me from him, 'tis unknown
what tears I shed ! — But suppose we were going to give
you another choice, will you promise us to give up this
Beverley ?

Lyd. Could I belie my thoughts so far as to give
that promise, my actions would certainly as far belie my
words.

Mrs. Mai. Take yourself to your room. — You are
fit company for nothing but your own ill-humours.

Lyd. Willingly, ma* am — I cann«t change for the
worse. [^Exit.

Mrs. Mai. There's a little intricate hussy for you I

Sir Anth. It is not to be wondered at, ma'am, — all
this is the natural consequence of teaching girls to read.
Had I a thousand daughters, I'd as soon have them
taught the black art as their alphabet.

Mrs. Mai. Nay, nay, Sir Anthony, you are an abso-
lute misanthropy.

Sir Anth. In my way hither, Mrs. Malaprop, I ob-
served your niece's maid coming forth from a circulating
library I — She had a book in each hand — they were half-
bound volumes, with marble covers ! — From that
moment I guessed how full of duty I should see her
mistress 1

Mrs. Mai. Those are vile places, indeed !

Sir Anth. Madam, a circulating library in a town is
as an evergreen tree of diabolical knowledge ! It blossomsr
through the year ! — And depend on it, Mrs. Malaprop,

THE RIVALS.

285

that they who are so fond of handling the leaves, will
long for the fruit at last.

Mrs. Mai. Fie fie, Sir Anthony ! you suruly speak
laconically.

Sir Arith. Why, Mrs. Malaprop, in moderation now,
what would you have a woman know ?

Mrs. Mai. Observe me, Sir Anthony. I would by
no moans wish a daughter of mine to be a progeny of
learning ; I don't think so much learning becumes a
young woman ; for instance, I would never let her
meddle with Greek, or Hebrew, or algebra, or simony,
or fluxions, or paradoxes, or such inflammatory branches
of learning — neither would it be necessary for her to
handle any of our mathematical, astronomical, diabolical
instruments. — But, Sir Anthony, I would send her, at
nine years old, to a boarding-school, in order to learn a
little ingenuity and artifice. — Then, sir, she would have
a supercilious knowledge in accounts ; — and as she grew
up, I. would have her instructed in geometry, that she
might know something of the contagious countries ; — but,
above all, Sir Anthony, she should be mistress of ortho-
doxy, that she might not misspell, and mispronounce
words so shamefully as girls usually do ; and likewise
that she might reprehend the true meaning of what she
was saying. This, Sir Anthony, is what I would have a
woman know ; — and I don't think there is a supersti-
tious article in it.

Sir Anth. Well, well, Mrs. Malaprop, I will dispute
the point no further with you ; though I must confess
that you are a truly moderate and polite arguer, for
almost every third word you say is on my side of the
question. But, Mrs. Malaprop, to the more important
point in debate — you say you have no objection to my
proposal ?

Mrs. Mai. None, I assure you ; I am uncler no posi-
tive engagement with Mr. Acres, and as Lydia is so
obstinate against him, perhaps your son may have better
success.

286

THE RIVALS.

p-t :

ti'i^

Sir Anth. Well, madam, I will write for the boy
directly. He knows not a syllable of this yet, though 1
have for some time had the proposal in my head. He is
at present with his regiment.

Mrs. Mai. We have never seen your son, Sir An-
thony ; but I hope no objection on his side.

Sir Anth. Objection 1 — let him object if he dare ! —
No, no, Mrs. Malaprop ; Jack knows t'nat the least demur
puts me in a frenzy directly. My process was always
very simple — in their younger days, 'twas " Jack, do
thh; " — if he demurred, I knocked him down : and if
he grumbled at that, I always sent him out of the room.

Mrs. Mai. Ay, and the properest way, o'my con-
science ! — nothing is so conciliating to young people as
severity. — Well, Sir Anthony, I shall give Mr. Acres
his discharge, and prepare Lydia to receive your son's
invocations ; — and I hope you will represent her to the
captain as an object not altogether illegible.

Sir Anth Madam, I will handle the subject pru-
dently. — Well, I must leave you ; and let me beg you,
Mrs. Malaprop, to enforce this matter roundly to the
girl.— Take my advice — keep a tight hand : if she re-
jects this proposal, clap her under lock and key ; and if
you were just to let the servants forget to bring her
dinner for three or four days, you can't conceive how
she'd come about. [Exit.

Mrs. Mai. Well, at any rate I shall be glad to get
her from under my intuition. She has somehow dis-
covered my partiality for Sir Lucius O'T rigger-— sure,
Lucy can't have betrayed me ! — No, the girl is such a
simpleton, I should have made her confess it. — Lucy ! —
Lucy! — \Calh.'] Had she been one of your artificial
ones, I should uever have trusted her.

Re-enter LuOT.

Lacy. Did you call, ma'am ?

Mrs. Mai Tes, girl. — Did you see Sir Lucius while
you was out ?

Lucy. No, indeed, ma'am, not a glimpse of him.

PAaVENUES.

287

Mrs. Mai. You are sure, Lucy, that you never
mentiuned —

Lucy. Oh, gemini ! I'd sooner cut my tonj^ue out.

Mrs. Mai. Well, don't let your simplicity be im-
posed on.

Liicv. No, ma'am.

Mrs. Mai. So, come to me presently, and I'll o-ive
you another letter to Sir Lucius ; but mind, Lucy— if
ever you betray what you are entrusted with (unless it
be other people's secrets to me), you forfeit mv malevo-
lence for ever ; and your being a simpleton shall be no
excuse for your locality.

PARVENUES.

Mrs. Tharlook and Miss Matilda Charlocx

Mrs. C. Well, I never ! Why, Matilda, here's the
Scago-ft's advertising their house to be let for the sum-
mer ! don't that show what a pretty state his affairs must
be in ? Your pa said they were agoing to pieces long
ago ; and he had a great mind to buy him up.

Matilda. I don't see that the house-letting has any-
thing at all to do with it. Why, the Frimleys' daily
governess told me that Lord Pettypeor was going to do
the same (and you know she teaches the young Petty-
peers), for he expects to make heaps of money by it dur-
ing the Exhibition.

Mrs. C. Does he ? Well I wish your pa would take
it for us ; it's just the part of town I should like to bring
you out in. And as when poor old Merritoii's gone, wo
shall have to offer Clara a home, she might just as well
be left to look after the place here ; for I expect when
we do launch out in our proper sphere, I shall have my
bauds full.

Matilda. Oh, dear me ! I almost dread it ; for I'm

/j,«*«l*>^

288

PARVENUIS.

sure an aristocratic life must be very trying, particularly
in the season ; and we had certainly better begin at OLce
to accustom ourselves to the style of life, or we shall feel
awkward when the time comes.

Mrs. C. Of course we must ; although I put your pa
in a regular way, yesterday, because I ^^roposed an "At
home '• once a week to him. He flew in such a passion,
and) as usual, wanted to know the cost. But when I
•assured him that all we had to do was to send out invi-
tations to two hundred more than the house would hold,
light up the rooms, and leave all that came to cram them-
selves in a given time in as small a space as possible,
and then drag their way out as they best could, he uo-
bered down, and said — " Then be as fashionable as you
like, for it seems to be more inconvenient to thfi guest than
expensive to the host — consequently, it won't hurt me."

Matilda, Oh 1 that's all right 1 Well, then, ma,
when shall we fix for the first " At home " ? and whom
iihall we ask ?

Mrs. 0. Two questions I'm puzzled to answer. It's
^^0 very provoking, this illness of old Merriton coming
just now ! He may die to-morrow, or linger for a month ;
^nd he's so well known and liked in the City, that if we
"were to fix a time at a venture, and send out invitations,
we couldn't calculate on any of the merchants ! they'd
be sure to say your pa was slighting his uncle, and I
don't believe one of them would come.

Matilda. Parcel of rubbish ! Then I'm sure they
may stay away, for we can very soon get a really stylish
circle about us, without a paltry merchant in it 1 I wish
•you'd leave it to me, ma ; and say it shall be this day
fortnight, and I'll let you see what a sensation party I
(Can get up.

Mrs. C. I don't mind leaving it entirely in your
hands. But be sure you ask the Blinkingtons, and upon
no account forget the Foodies, — because they are very
highly connected. Indeed, Ernest, Foodie's wife's bro-
ther-in-law, holds an appointment in al-most the Royal
household ; and as I hope to see you presented some day,

PARVENUE8.

289

cularly
at oLce
mil feel

jTOur pa

m " At
}assioa,
Nhen 1
at invi-
Id hold,
n them-
(ossible,
[, he BO-
I as you
3st than
rt me."
sn, ma,
i whom

3r.

It's

coming
month ;
at if we
LtatioDS,
they'd
3, and I

ire they

/ stylish

I wish

this day

party I

in your
nd upon
ire very
fe's bro-
ke Royal
)me day,

I think it as well that we should secure friends as near
the Court as possible.

Matilda. Lor, ma, I don*t think so much of the
Foodies. But when my list is made you shall see it,
and I know that you'll approve of it. The whole of the
Blinkingtons must come, of course ; and their cousin, the
Honourable Ginger Middlemist ; and then the Fitz-
Vernon Trails ; and Lady Amphibula Grimes, and all
her set. Lor ! we shall soon make up the number ; and
I'll see at last if it isn't possible to have a decent party
without heciT'ig in every corner of the room that ever-
lasting " business is business ! " Ugh 1 I hate the very
sound of it !

Mrs. C. That's just what I'm always telling your pa !
We're not fit to mix with these City money-grubbers ! I
can't abide them. They're only fit, like old Merriton,
to make money for high-minded people to spend. What's
the time, Matilda ?

Matilda. Just ten.

Mrs. C. Dear 1 dear ! at half-past I'm expecting that
clergyman's wife for cook's character, and here I'm not
dressed. I must go and put on my moire antique, for
these people think nothing of you unless you make an
appearance.

Matilda. You look very well, ma ! I'm sure I
wouldn't put myself out of the way, for she's only £
curate's wife.

Mrs. G. Well, if I do nothing else I must just
put on my rings and, chain, or I might as well be a
nobody. [Exit Mrs. Charlock.

Matilda. Now, I wonder if I dare ask Marmaduke
Pounce to our " At home ? " No ! I think not ; because
he does hang about one so, and might just stick himself
in the way of some more distinguished admirer ; and I
confess I'd rather be Lady What's-your-name on five
farthings a year than Mrs. Marmaduke Pounce with
the ground rent of Cheapside and Cornhill for my pin-
money,
s

290 THE KIMO OF THE COMMONS.

SCENE FROM « THE KING OF THE
COMMONS."

Eev. James White,

HOLYROOD — THE KING'S CLOSET.

Enter an Att^'.ndant, conducting Bishop.

Atten. His Grace will not be long ere he returns.
Please you, be seated.

Bishop. Guard well the prisoner. [Exit Attendant.']
On the eve of war
To leave his foes unwatched — his very camp
A scene of treason ; but I've laid my hand
On every loop in the net. 'Tis like the king —
Some playful hiding in a urgher suit —
I thought he had been sobered. That's his step.

Enter James.

James. Ha ! my good lord — but we are unfitly geared
For shrift and penance ; we have rid for the life
Up hill — down dale. But you look big with care.
Out with it ; it will burst you.

Bishy. It befits
Neither my years nor my great calling, Sir,
Nor the meek spirit that should harbour here,
To mix in the fierce struggles in a court.

James. I know you well. Excuse me, good mj
Lord,
If, with the flippant quickness of the tongue,
I hide the respect and deep reverence
Which my heart bears to the right reverend virtues
Of meekness, truth, and most sweet gentleness,
I've ever found in you.

Bishop. Ah, Sir 1 I'm old —
It may be that my time is nearly done —

THE KING or THE COMMONS.

291

urns.

tendant.]

J geared
%re.

jood mj

tues

But I would fain, even to the end of my life,
Bear you true service ; for I've mark'd in you
Ever, from boyish days, a loving heart —
Loving, though fiery ; and most merciful —
Too merciful I

James. Nay ; not so, my good Lord.
Ill fares it with kings' swords when the sharp blade
Shines oftener in the subject's dazzled eyes,
Than the pearl-studded heft and jewell'd sheath.

Bishop. There may be times when the steel blade is all
That gives true value to the jewell'd sheath.
James. How mean you ? You were my preceptor,
Sir-
Most kind — most wise : but you have told me often
I lack'd the bridle, not the spur.

Bishop. The bridle,
In your wild course of dalliance and deray ;
The spur, in action fitting for a king.
James. Not so — by Heaven ! not so. Show me the
deed
You'd have me do that's fitting for a king.
And, though it tore the softest string i' my heart,
I'll do it.

Bishop. Prepare you, then !
James. What is't, I say ?
You think I have no higher, nobler thoughts
Than suit a pageant king on silken throne ?
My lord, you know me not.
Bishop. What would you do

If treachery

James. Pah ! you know of treachery, too.
Fear not, my Lord— I'm glad 'twas only that !
Whew 1— my mind'B easy now. Why, my good Lord,
I thought 't had been some terribler thing than that.
Bishop. Than what, my liege ?
James. You'll see— you'll see ; fear not.
I tell you a king's eye can see as clear
As a good bishop's. Ere three hours are fled,

/jBrfwJ^

292

THE KINO or THE COMMONS.

■., 1

> i

i\mv^

li.

[(.•).

There will be proof. Come to our court at nine
k^ou'U see some action then that fits a king;
A.Ddy as you go, send me Lord Seton.

Bishop. Seton !
No ; save in keeping of the guard.

James. My Lord,
Say that again : perhaps I heard not right,
I told you to send Seton — my friend Seton —
Lord Seton — and you answered something What ?

Bishop. That he's the traitor I would warn you of,

James. Seton a traitor ? Seton, that I've loved
Since we were boys ! Ho ! Seton ! — Rest you, Sir ;
You shall avouch this thing. — Seton ! ho ! Seton !

Bishop. My liege, I've proofs.

James. What say you ? — proofs ?

Bish. Ay, proofs,
Clearer than sunlight.

Enter Attendant.

James [with dignity,'] Take our greeting, Sir,
To the I ird Seton — we would see him here.

[Exit Attendant.
Proofs ! and of Seton's guilt I Can it be so ?
He was my friend — from five years old — so high ;
We'd the same masters, played at ihe same games —
Coits — golf. Fool ! fool ! to think that anything
Can bind a heart. I thought hie heart was mine,
His love — his life — and to desert me now !
Viper ! He shall not live to laugh at me —
At the poor king that trusted. Viper — dog I
My Lord, this thidg you say is full of proof?

Bishop. Ay, Sir. Be firm.

James. Firm ! There's no tyrant king
That flung men's hearts to feed the beasts i' the circus ;
That t(>re men's limbs with horses for thc^- sport ;
That sent men to the tigers, and looked on
To see them quivering in the monster's claw*
Wii half so firm— so pitiless I

THE KING OP THE COMMONS.

293

hat?
you of.
ved
Sir;
n!

idant

les-
'g

circus ;

Enter Seton.
You're here I

Seton, Welcome, kind liege, to Holyrood again !

James. Back — back — keep off me ! We're your kint^
Lord Seton !
We will be just — we were in anger late.
We're calm. — Though it should burst my heart in twain
I will be calm. [Aside.']

Seton. My liege, what means this change ?
I am not used to hear so harsh a voice
From my kind master — from my friend !

James. Not that I
By Heaven, we're friend to not a man on earth \
No — never more I

Seton. You are unjust to me.
You wrong me — oh, you wrong me. Sir !

James \Aside\ Oh, Heaven !
That I should hear a traitor borrow thus
John Seton's voice, and look through Seton's eyes !
Now, then, my lord ; what say you of this man ?

Bishop. That he deceives you.

Seton. I? you false-tongued — but,
Forgive me my rough speech ; you wear a garb
That checks my totigue.

James. In what does he deceive ?

Bishop. He and Lord Hume

James. What ! he, too ? Where's Lord Hume t

Bishop. I blame not him, my liege !

James. No. Is he true ?
Send me Lord Hume : I'd see at least one man
That keeps his faith !

Seton. My liege, I know not yet
What charge the good Lord Bishop brings against me :
But, if it's breach of faith, of love to you,
I will not say he lies — but it is false.

James. Say on— say on ; be sure your proof is strong ;
For this is such an hour, I would not live it.
For all the wealth of earth. Quick ! Have it o'er !

294

THE KINO OF THE OOMMONS.

n Hi** J.

'i ' ^<i

Bishop. You bear command, Lord Seton, of the host !

James. He does !

Bislwp. And yet you entertain advice
With English Dacre. Nay, deny it not ;
I've seen the messenger in close discourse
At night, within your tent. I know his errand,
For I have trusty watchers in the camp.

James. Do you deny this ?

Seton. I cannot deny

James. Villain ! you can*t deny ! Oh, shame, oh,
shame !
Where will you hide you ? But go on — we're calm.

Bishop. His errand was to offer you great sums
Of English gold.

James. Was this his errand ?

Seton. Yes.

James. And your base coward sword sprung not at
once
Forth from the sheath ? You did not slay the man ?

Seton. No !

Bishop. And he sent a message back to Dacre,
And gave the envoy passage, and safe conduct.

James. Is all this true ? — Oh, Seton, say the word
One little word — tell me it is not true !

Seton. My liege, 'tis true.

James. Then by the name we bear,
You die ! — a traitor's death ! Sirrah ! the guard.
I will not look again to where he stands.

Enter Guard .• they stand by Seton.

Let him be taken hence — and let the axe

Rid me of Seton ! is it so in truth.

That you've deceived me — joined my enemies ?
You — you — my friend — my playmate ! — is it so ?
Sir, will you tell me wherein I have failed
In friendship to the man that was my friend ?
I thought I loved you — that in all my heart
Dwelt not a thought that wronged you.

THE KING OF THE COMMONS.

295

be host !

ime, oh,
ims

; not at
[uau ?

•e.

word

Seton. You have heard
What my accuser says, and you condemn me—
I say no word to save a forfeit life— -
A life is not worth having, wher.'t has lost
All that gave value to it — my sovereign's trust !

James [to the Bishop]. You see this man. Sir — he's
the self-same ago
That I am. We were children both together —
We grew — we read in the same book - my Lord,
You must remember that ? — how we were never
Separate from each other ; well, this man
Lived with me, year by year ; he counselled me,'
Cheered me, sustained me — he was as myself —
The very throne that is to other kings
A desolate island rising in the sea —
A pinnacle of power, in solitude,
Grew to a seat of pleasance in his trust.
The sea, that chafed all round it with its waves,
This man bridged over with his love, and made it
A highway for our subjects' happiness —
And now ! for a few pieces of red gold
He leaves me. Oh, he might have coined my life
Into base ingots— stript me of it all —
If he had left me faith in one true heart,
And I should ne'er have grudged him the exchange.
Go, now. We speak your doom — you die Ihe death !
God pardon you ! I dare not pardon you —
Farewell.

Seton. I ask no pardon, Sir, from you.
May you find pardon — ay, in your own heart,
For what you do this day !

Bishop. Be firm, my liege.

James. Away, away, old man ! — you do not know —
You cannot know — what this thing costs me. Go !
I'm firm.

Seton. Who is it that accuses me ?
'Tis like your noble nature to be sudden ;
I thought you just no less.

296

XUE KING OF THE COMMONS.

James. Ha ! hear you that ?
Bring on your proof. Though his own tongue confess'd
Enough to whet the dullest axe to a point —
Where is that envoy ?

Bishop. He is here, my liege.

James. Bring him. [^Exit Bishop,

Let the Lord Seton stay.

Unter Bishop and English Messenger.

How now ?

You came with message from Lord Dacre's camp ?

Mes. From the Lord Dacre's self — so please you, Sir,
But will Lord Seton 's letter of safe conduct
Bear me in surety ?

James. Have no fear, my friend :
His letter of safe conduct ! What contained
Your message to Lord Seton ?

Mes. A free offer
Of twenty thousand marks.

James. For what — for what ?

Mes. To stay inactive, or lead off the force,
When brought to face our army.

James. Was it so ?
To leave me fenceless ! and he answered you
Kindly — he paused a little, just a little
Before he struck his king, his friend, to the earth.
Out with it all ! — He gave you a message back ?
Is't so — is't so ?

Mes. Yes, please your Majesty.

James. I knew it I — a few phrases-ra regret—
A fear — a hope ; but he agreed at last.
Tell me the answer he sent back to Dacre.

Bishop. [Shows a letter.'] Here is the very letter —
I laid hold of it.
On the man's person.

James. Read, read, good Lord Bishop ;
Blink not a word of it — a syllable j
Deliver it as we were Dacre's self,

THE KINO OF THE COMMONS.

297

!onfes8'd

Bishop,

^ou, Sir,

tter—

Now, what says Seton, that degenerate Scot ?

Bishop. [Beads.] This is my ansicer to Lord Lare^s
message :
I trample with my heel on your foul brihe —
I send you scorn, and hatred, and defiance.

James. More, more !

Bishop. I cast my glove into your face,
And summon you to meet me, foot to foot.
When flies the Scottish banner on the Tweed.
On Monday morn

James. Go on !

Bishop. I call you slave,
To think to wean me from my loyalty,
My truth, my honour to my trusting King.

James. Ha ! — was it so ? Go forth, good messenger,
Bear you this chain of gold. [Hurries the Messenger out.
My good Lord Bishop,

What meant you ? — But no, no — you meant it well ,
Go mind your priests, my lord, — meddle no more
In things like this. Keep to your duties. Sir ;
Bid not your priests he " firm " — tell them to he
Gentle, forgiving, trustful, but not firm ;
No more — no more. [Hurries the Bishop out*

Guards, leave my friend, Lord Seton.

[Exeunt Guards,
Now we're alone? Come, Seton ! Seton, here !
To my heart. [They embrace.] Why said you nothing ?

Seton. For 1 knew
Your justice 'self would be the pleader for me.

James. Ah, Seton, what a shock it gave my heart,
To think that you had left me. Pardon it ;
It was because I trusted you the most,
That the blow fell so heavy. I was wrong,
And you'll forgive me ; all my life shall be
A recompense for the vile thought that dwelt
But for ten minutes, —not a minute more, —
In my weak heart ; but tell me you'll forgive it.

298

THE saint's TRAQIDT.

Seion, Forgive it, my good liege, —

James. I know you will.
For I will earn it of you with such truBt
As never king had in his friend beiure.

«'

h^ •'^'1

Jl ,'.

" in.

4 '/

i!«.^ : •

SCENE FROM « THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY."

Rev. Charles KingsUy,

A Chamber in the Warthurg. Elizas rth sitting in
widow's weeds ; Guta and Isbntradis hy her.

Isen. What ? Always thus, my Princess ? Is this

wise,
By day with fasts and ceaseless coil of labour ;
About the ungracious poor — hands, eyes, feet, brain,
O'ertasked alike — 'mid sin and filth, which make
Each sense a plague — by night with cruel stripes,
And weary watching on the freezing stone,
To double all your griefs, and burn life's candle,
As village gossips say, at either end ?
The good book bids the heavy-hearted drink,
And so forget their woe.
Eliz. *Tis written too
In that same book, nurse, that the day shall come
When the bridegroom shall be taken away — and then —
Then shall they mourn and fast : I needed weaning
From sense and earthly joys ; by this way only
May I win God to leave in mine own hands
My luxury's cure : Oh ! I may bring him back,
By working out to its full depth the chastening.
The need of which his loss proves : I but barter
Less grief for greater — pain for widowhood.
Isen. And death for life — ^your cheeks are wan and

sharp
As any three-days' moon -vou are shifting always

THE saint's tragedy.

299

and

Uneasily and stiff, now, on your seat;,
As from some secret pain.

Eliz. Why watch mo thus ?
You cannot know — and yet you know too much —
I tell you, nurse, pain's comfort, when the flesh
Aches with the aching soul in harmony,
And even in woe, we are one ; the heart must speak
Its passion's strangeness in strange symbols out,
Or boil, till it bursts inly.

Cruta. Yet, methinks
You might have made this widowed solitude
A holy rest — a spell of soft grey weather,
Beneath whose fragrant dews all tender thoughts
Might bud and burgeon.

Eliz. That's a gentle dream ;
But nature shows nought like it : every winter,
When the great sun has turned his face away,
The earth goes down into the vale of grief,
And fasts, and weeps, and shrouds herself in sables,
Leaving her wedding garl mds to decay —
Then leaps in spring to his returning kisses —
As I may yet !

Isen . There, now — my foolish child I
You faint ; come — come to your chamber —

Eliz. Oh, forgive me !
But hope at times throngs in so rich and iall,
Tt inads the brain like wine : come with me, nurse.
Sit by me, lull me calm with gentle tales
Of noble ladies wandering in the wild wood,
Fed on chance earth-nuts, and wild strawberries,
Or milk of silly sheep, and woodland doe.
Or how fair Magdalen 'mid desert sands
Wore out in prayer her lonely blissful years,
Watched by bright angels, till her modest tresses
Were to her pearled feet their golden shroud :
Come, open all your lore.

^^-— -

;ii

S.^ ir.'

TlJi

N <. '

300

THE saint's tragedy.

Sophia a?id Agnes enter.

Mv mother-in-law !
(Aside.) Shame on thee, heart ! why sink, whene'er

we meet ?
Soph. Daughter, we know of old thy strength, of
metal
Beyond us worldlings : shrink not, if the time
Be come which needs its use.

Eliz. What means this preface ? Ah ! your looks
are big
With sudden woes — speak out.

Soph. Be calm and hear
The will of God toward my son, thy husband.

Eliz. What ! is he captive ? Why then — what of
that?
There are friends will rescue him — there's gold for

ransom —
We'll sell our castles — live in bowers of rushes —
Oh, God ! that I were with him in the dungeon !
Soph. He is not taken.

Eliz. No ! he would havo fought to the death I
There's treachery ! What paynim dog dare face
His lance, who naked braved yon lion's rage,
And eyed the cowering monster to his den ?
Speak ! Has he fled ; or worse ?
Soph. Child, he is dead.
Eliz. (Clasping her hands on her knees.) The worli

is dead to me, and all its smiles !
Isen. Oh, woe ! my prince ! and doubly woe, my
daughter !
[Elizabeth springs up and rushes out
Oh, stop her — stop my child ! She will go mad —
Dash herself down — Fly — fly — she is not made
Of hard, light stufl", like you.

[Isentrudis and Guta rvn out.
Soph. I had expected some such passionate outbreak
At the first news : you see now, Lady Agnes,

THE saint's tragedy.

30i

aw !
whene'er

mgth, of

ur looks

■what of
gold for

I
;hj

e worl'i
foe, my

'hes out.

'vn out
LtLrcak

These saints, who fain would " wean themselves from

earth,"
Still yield to the afFections they despise
When the game's earnest. Now — ere they return —
Yonr brother, child, is dead.

Agnes. I know it too well ;
So young — so brave — so blest ! And she — she loved

him —
Oh ! I repent of all the foolish scoffs
With which I crossed her.

Soph. Yes — the Landgrave's dead.
Attend to me — Alas ! my son ! my son !
He was my first-born ! but he has a brother —
Agnes ! we must not let this foreign gipsy.
Who, as you see, is scarce her own wits' mistress,
Flaunt sovereign over us, and our broad lands,
To my son's prejudice. There are bavons, child,
Who will obey a knight, but not i' saint ;
I must at once to them.

Agnes. Oh, let me stay !

Soph. As you shall please — your brother's land-
gravate
Is somewhat to you, surely —and your smiles
Are worth gold pieces in a court intrigue,
For her, on her own principles, a downfall
Is a chastening mercy — and a likely one.

Agnes. Oh ! let me stay, and comfort her I

Soph. Romance !
You girls adore a scene — as lookers on.

\Exit SOPTTTA.

Agnes (alone). Well spoke the old monks, peaceful
watching life's turmoil,
" Eyes which look heavenward, weeping still will see :
God's love with keen flame purges, like the lightning

flash.
Gold which is purest, purer still must be."

I i

1\'

M:;

wAi

f ,

.ii

' L
'I

302

THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY.

GuTA enters.

Alas ! returned alone ! Where has my sister been ?

Guta. Thank Heaven, you here alone, for such sad
sight would haunt
Henceforth your young hopes — crush your young shud-
dering fancy down
With dread of like fierce anguish.
You saw her bound forth ; we towards her bower in

haste
Ran trembling ; spell-bound there, before her bridal bed
She stood, while wan smiles flickered, like the northern

dawn.
Across her worn cheeks' ice-field ; keenest memories then
Rush'd with strong shudderings through i m — as the

winged shaft
Springs from the tense nerve ; so her passion hurled her

forth
Sweeping, like fierce ghost, on through hall and corridor.
Tearless, with wide eyes staring, while a ghastly wind
Moaned on through roof and rafter, and the empty helms
Along the walls rang clattering, and above her waved
Dead heroes' banners ; swift and yet more swift she

drove,
Still seeking aimless ; sheer against the opposing wall
At last dashed reckless — thetfa with frantic fir-'ora

clutched
Blindly the ribbed oak, till that frost of rage
Dissolved itself in tears, and like a babe.
With inarticulate moans, and folded hands,
She followed those who led her, as if the sur
On her life's dial had gone back seven years.
And she were once again the dumb, sad child
We knew her ere she married.

Ist7i (entering). As after wolf, wolf presse.<», leap-
ing through tlie snow-glades,
So woe on woe throngs surging up.

Quia, What ? treason ?

THE saint's tragedy.

303

sen ?
uch sad

ig shud-

ower in

idal bed
lorthern

ies then
-as the

rled her

orridor,
wind
jr helms
ved
dft she

; wall

leap-
?

hen. Treason, and of the foulest. From her state
she's rudely thrust ;
Her keys are seized ; her weeping babies pent from her ;
The wenches stop their sobs to sneer askance,
And greet their fallen censor's new mischance.
Agnes. Alas ! Who dared to do this wrong?
hen. Your mother and your mother's son —
Judge you, if it was knightly done.

Guta. See ! see ! she comes, with heaving breast,
With bursting eyes, and purpled brow ;
Oh, that the traitors saw her now !
They know not, sightless fools, the heart they break.

[Elizabeth enters slowly.
Eliz. He is in purgatory now. Alas !
Angels ! be pitiful ! deal gently with him !
His sins were gentle. That's one cause left for living —
To pray and pray for him ; why all these months
I pray'd — and here's my answer : Dead of a fever !
Why thus ? So soon ! Only six years for love !
While any formal, heartless matrimony.
Patched up by court intrigues, and threats of cloisters.
Drags on for six times six, and peasant slaves
Grow old on the same straw, and hand in hand,
Slip from life's oozy bank, to float at ease.

[4 knocking at the door.
That's some petitioner.
Go to — I will not hear him ; why should I work,
When he is dead ? Alas ! was that my sin ?
Was he not, Christ, my lode-star? Why not warn

me?
Too late ! What's this foul dream ? Dead at Otran-

to—
Parched by Italian sun a — no woman by him —
He was too chaste ! M ought but rude men to nurse !
If I had been there, I should have wat(3hed by him —
Guessed every fancy — God ! I might have saved him !

\^A servant-man rushes in.
Servant. Madam, *ie I^andgrave gave me strict com-
mands ■' —

304

THE saint's tragedy.

Isen. The Landgrave, dc't?

Eliz. I might have saved him !

Servant (to Isen). Ay, saucy madam !
The Landgrave Henry, lord and master,
Freer than the last, and yet no waster :
Who will not stint a poor knave's beer,
Or spin out Lent through half the year.
Why — I see double I

Eliz. Who spoke there of the Landgrave ? What's
this drunkard ?
Give him his answer — 'Tis no time for mumming.

Servant. The Landgrave Henry bade me see you
out
Safe through the gates, and that at once, my lady ;
Come !

Eliz. Why, that's hasty — I must take my chil-
dren —
Ah ! I forgot — they would not let me see them.
I must pack up my jewel?.

Servant. You'll not need it —
His Lordship has the keys.

EUz. He has indeed.

Why, man ! — I am thy children's godmother —
I nursed thy wife myself in the black sickness.
Art thou a bird, that when the old tree fulls,
Flits oflF, and sings in the sapling ?

[The man seizes her arm.
Keep thine hands off — ,
I'll not be shamed — lead on. Farewell, my ladies,
Follow not ! There's want to spare on earth already ;
And mine own wo - is weight enough for me.
Go back, and say Elizabeth has yet
Eternal homes, built deep in poor men's hearts ;
And, in the alleys underneath the wall.
Has bought with sinful mammon heavenly treasure.
More sure than adamant, purer than white whales' bone,
Which now she claims. Lead on ; a people's love shall

right me.

;, i

PAUL PRT.

305

FROM THE COMEDY OF " PAUL PRY."

Poole.

What's

see j'ou
ly chil-

)d.

T arm.

ady;

ire.

' bone,
3 shall

Tankaed, Billt, Oldbutton and Pry.

Tan. Well, Billy, only rid me of this intolerable Paul,
and your wages shall mend. Here has this Mr. Pry,
although he has an establishment of his own in the town,
been living and sleeping here these six days ! But I'm
determined to get rid of him ; and do you instantly go,
Billy, and affront him ; do anything with him, so as you
make him turn his back upon the house. Eh, here's a
coach driven up ; it is surely Mr. Oldbutton ; run, Billy,
run. [^Exit Billy.] Roaring times, these. [Billy enters,
showing in Mr. Oldbutton.] Welcome, sir, most welcome
to the Golden Chariot.

Mr. Ohlhutton. Landlord, I have some letters to an-
swer ; which is my apartment ?

Tan. Why, sir — confound that Paul Pry, he has the
gentleman's room, and I can't get him out of it — why,
sir, I did not expect you for some hours yet ; if you'll
have the kindness to step into this apartment for a few
minutes, your own room shall be properly arranged. I
really beg ten thousand —

Mr. Old. No compliments, Mr. Landlord, and when
you *peak to me in future, keep yourself upright ; I
hate tradesmen with backs of whalebone.

Tan. Why, civility, Mr. Oldbutton—-

Mr. Old. Is this the room ? [Tankard hows. Exit
Oldbutton.]

Tan. Now, such a customer would deeply offend a
man, if he had not the ultimate satisfaction of making
out his bill. [Enter Billy.] Oh, you've just come in
time ; ask no questions ; there's Mr^ Pry's '•"'^'^ •

room

you get
T

him out of Ihe house I'll raise your

^ t

t 1

Hi,

.0-'

306

PAUL PRY.

wages ; if you do not, you shall go yourself. Now
you know the terms. [^ici7.]

Bill. Then it is either you or myself, Mr. Pry ; so
here goes.

Paul Pry. Hope I don't intrude ; I say, Billy, who
is that old gentleman who just came in ?

Enter Paul Pry.
Bill Old gentleman ? — why there's nobody come

Paul. Don't fib, Billy ; I saw him.

BUI. You s aw him ! — why, how could you see him
when there's no window in the room ?

Paul. I always guard against such an accident, and
carry a gimlet with me. [Producing one.] Nothing like
making a little hole in the wainscot.

Bill. Why, surely you haven't — -

Paul. It has been a fixed principle of my life, Billy,
never to take a lodging or a house with a brick wall ta
it. I say, tell me, who is he ?

Bill. [Asidc.l Well, I'll tell him something. Why, if
you must know, I think he's an army lieutenant on
half pay.

Paul. An army lieutenant ! half pay 1 Ah ! that will
never afford ribbons and white feathers.

Bill. Now, Mr. Pry, my master desires me to say, he-
can't accommodate you any longer ; your apartment is
wanted, and really, Mr. Pry, you can't think how much.
you'U oblige me by going.

Paul. To be sure, Billy, I wouldn't wish to intrude
for the world — your master's doing a good deal of busi-
ness in this house — what did he give for the good-will
of it ?

Tan. [Without] Billy?

Bill. There, now, I'm called — and I've to make ready
the room for the Freemasons, that meet to-night — they
that wouldn't admit yeu into their society.

Paul. Yes, I know ; they thought I should intrude.

PAUL PRY.

307

I Now
Pry ; so
ly, who

y come

lee him

at, and
ing like

Billy,

wall ta

Vhy, if
ant on

lat will

say, hc'
nent is
r naucb

ntrude
f busi-
od-will

5 ready
—they

itmde.

Tan. [Without.] Billy ?

Bill. Now you must go— goodbye, Mr. Pry — I'm
called.

Paul. Oh, goodbye, — good morning. [Exit.']
Bill. He's gone ! I'm cominoj, sir. \Exit.]

Re-enter Paul Pry.

Paul. An army lieutenant ! Who can it be ? I shouldn't
wonder if it's Mrs. Thomas's husband, who, she says, was
killed in India ! If it should be, it will break off her
flirting with Mr. Cinnamon, the grocer ; there's pretty
doings in that quarter, for I caught the rheumatism
watching them in a frosty night last winter ! An army
lieutenant 1 Mr. Thomas has a daughter ; I'll just peep
through the key-hole and see if there's a family likeness
between them. \Goes to the door and peeps.] Bless me !
why, there certainly is something about the nose — oh !
he's writing. [The door is suddenly opened hy Oldbutton,
who discovers Paul.]

Paul. I hope I don't intrude — I was trying to find
my apartment.

Mr. Old. Was it necessary to look through the key-
hole for it, sir ?

Paul. I'm rather short-sighted, sir ; sad affliction !
my poor mother was short-sighted, sir ; in fact, it's a
family failing ; all the Prys are obliged to look close.

Mr. Old. Whilst I sympathize with your distresses,
sir, I hope to be exempt from the impertinence which
you may attach to them.

Paul. Would not intrude for the world, sir. What
may be your opinion, sir, of the present state of the
kingdom ? How do you like peace ? It must press hard
upon you gentlemen of the army; a lieutenant's half
pay now is but little to make both ends meet.

Mr. Old. Sir I

Paul. Especially when a man's benevolent to his peor
relations. Now, sir, perhaps you'll allow something out
of your five-and-six-pence a day to your mother or

308

s-f; ^-

:.tl

PAUL PRY.

maiden sister. Between you and me, I must tell you
what I have learut here.

Mq'. Old. Between you and me, sir, I must tell you
what I have learnt in India.

Paul. What ! have you heen in India ? Wouldn't
intrude an observation for the world ; but I
thought you had a yellowish look; something of an
orarge-peeling countenance. You've been in India !
Although I'm a single man, I wouldn't ask an improper
question ; but is it true that the blacks employ no tail-
ors or milliners ? If not, what do they do to keep off
the flies ?

Mr. Old. That is what I was about to inform you ,
they carry canes. Now, sir, five minutes' conversation
with you has fully convinced me that there are flies in
England as well as in India ; and that a man may be as
impertinently inquisitive at Dover as at Bengal. All
I have to add is— I carry a cane.

Paul. In such a case, I'm the last to intrude. I've
only one question to ask — Is your name Thomas ?
whether you have a wife ? how old is she ? and where
were you married ?

Mr, Old. Well, sir, a man may sometimes play with
a puppy, as well as kick him ; and, if it will afibrd you
any satisfaction, learn my name is Thomas.

Paul. Oh, poor Mr. Cinnamon ! This is going to
India ! Mr. T., I'm afraid you'll find that somebodv
here has intruded in your place — for between you ajid
me— [Oldbutton surveyshim contemptuously, and whilst
Paul is talking^ Oldbutton stalks off- Paul, on looking
round.'] Well, it isn't that I interfere much in people's
concerns ; if 1 did, how unhappy [ could make that
man. This Freemason's sign puzzles me ; they wouldn't
make me a member ; but I have slept six nights in the
next room to them ; and, thanks to my gimlet, I know
the business. There was Mr. Smith, who was only
in the Gazette last week, taking his brandy and water ;
he can't aff'ord that, I know. Then there was Mr.

COPPERFIKLD AND TRADDLES.

309

tell you

"ouldn't
but I
of an
India !
npropcr
DO tail-
ceep off

Hodgkins, who makes his poor Trife and children live
upon baked potatoes six days out of the week | i'or 1
know the shop where they are cooked.] callin*,' like a
lord for a Welsh rarebit ; I only wisn his creditors could
see him ; but I don't trouble my head with these mat-
ters ; if 1 did — eh ! Why there is one of the young
Joneses going again to Mr. Notick, the pawnbroker's ;
that's the third time this week. Well, I've just time
enough to run to Notick's and see what he's brought,
before I go to inquire at the post office who in the town
has letters. [Exit.]

M you,
srsation
flies in
f be as
. All

■ I've

omas ?

wheie

y with
rd you

ng to
ebody
u djid
whilst
ooking
ople's
that
lid n't
n the
bow
only
Iter;
Air.

COPPERFIELD AND TRADDLES.

Dialogue from Dickens.

Traddles. [Looking up."] Good gracious ! It's Cop-
perfield. [Rush into each other's arms.

Copperfield. All well, my dear Traddles ?

Trad. All well, my dear, dear Copperficld, and
nothing but good news ! [Humpies hi. hair in his excite-
ment.'] My dear fellow, my long lost and most welcome
friend, how glad I am to see you ! How brown you
are ! How glad I am ! Upon my life and honour, i
never was so rejoiced, my dear ('oppeifield— never !
My dear fellow, and grown so famous ! Good gracious
me ! when did you come, where have you come from,
what have you been doing ? [Seats Copper field m an
easy chair, and shakes hands again with hi7n.] To think
that you should have been so nearly coming home as you
must have been, my dear old boy, and not at the cere-
mony.

What ceremony, my dear Traddles ?
Good gracious me ! didn't you get my last

Cop,
Trad.

letter ?
Cop,

mony.

Certainly not, if it referred to any cere

:^l

rf >-^

?^i.

'■?■

Si'

1< V»'' .

vM*

!^l' '^

COPPERPIELD AND TRADDLE8.

Trad. [^Passing his hands through his hair until it
stands upright, then j^lcicing them on his kwfl,s and looking
straight at Coppebfield.] Why, my dear Copperfield,
J. am married !

Cop. Married I

Trad. Lord bless me, yes ! By the Rev. Horace —
to Sophy — down in Devonshire. Why, my dear boy,
she's behind the window curtain. [Mrs. T. steps out.]
Look here !

Cop. [Shaking hands with both.'] My dear friends, I
wieh you joy with all my heart.

Trad. What a delightful re-union this is ! Tou are
so extremely brown, my dear Copperfield I Bless my
soul, how happy I am !

Cop. And so am I

Mrs. Traddles. And I am sure I am I

Trad. We are all as happy as possible ! Even the
girls are happy. Dear me ! I declare, I forgot them.

Cop. Forgot ?

Trad. The girls. Sophy's sisters. They are stay-
ing with us. They have come to have a peep at Lon-
don. The fact is, when — was it you that tumbled up
stairs, Copperfield ?

Cop. [Laughing.] It was.

Trad. Well, then, when you tumbled up stairs, I
was romping with the girls. In point of fact, we were
playing at Puss in the Corner. But as that wouldn't
do in Westminster Hall, and as it wouldn't look quite
professional if they were seen by a client, they decamped.
And they are now — listening, I have no doubt. [Nod-
ding towards a door.]

Cop. [Laughing.] I am sorry to have occasioned
such a dispersion.

Trad. Upon my word, if you had seen them running
away, and ranning back again, after you had knocked,
to pick up the combs they had dropped out of their hair,
and going on in the maddest manner, you wouldn't have
said so. [To Mas. T.] My love, will you fetch the

COPPERFIELD AND TRADDLE8.

311

witil it

looking

)erfield.

3race —

ar boy,

ps out.]

ends, I

ou are

ess my

3n the
lem.

e stay-
t Lon-
led up

lirs, I
J were
iildn't
quite
uped.
'JVod-

loned

ning

;ked,

hair,

have

the

girls 1 \_Exlt Mrs. T. Immediately peals of laitghtn
are heard outside.] Really musical — isn't it, my dear,
Copperfield ? It's very agreeable to hear ; it quite lights
up these old rooms. To an unfortunate bacheloi- of a
fellow who has lived alone all his life, you know, it's
positively delicious. It's charming. Poor things they
have had a great loss in Sophy — who, I do assure you,
Copperfield, is, and ever was, the dearest girl ! — and it
gratifies me beyond expression to find them in such good
spirits. The society of gir's is a very delightful thing,
Copperfield. It's not professional, but it's very delight-
ful. [Copperfield assents.'] But then our domestic
arrangements are, to say the truth, quite unprofessional
altogether, Copperfield. Even Sophy's being here is un-
professional. And we have no other place of abode.
We have put to sea in a cockboat, but we are quite pre-
pared to rough it. And Sophy's an extraordinary man-
ager ! You'll be surprised how these girls are stowed
away. I am sure I hardly know how it's done.

Cop. Are many of the young ladies with you ?

Trad. The eldest — the beauty — is here-^Caroline.
And Sarah's here. And the two young :si, that Sophy
educated, are with us. And Louisa's here.

Cop. Indeed !

T^'ad. Yes. Now, the whole set — I mean the cham-
jjers — is only three rooms ; but Sophy arranges for the
girls in the most wonderful way, and they sleep as com-
fortably as possible. Three in that room, and two in
that.

Cop. And you ?

Trad. Well, we are prepared to rough it, as I said
just now, and we did improvise a bed last week upon the
floor here. But there's a little room in the roof,— a very
nice room, when you're up there, — which Sophy papered
herself to surprise me ; and that's our room at present.
It's a capital little gipsy sort of place. There's quite a
view from it.

312

COPPEttFlELD AND TEADDLES.

ml'
Mi

111

■'iP.

(Mfc

'■m

■>(

t>i

Cop. And you are happily luiirried at last, my dear
Traddles. How rejoiced I am !

Trad. Thank you, my dear Copperfield. [They shah
hands again.'\ Yes, 1 am as happy as it's possible to
be. There's your old friend, you see [^/iw/v toivards
Jioirer-stand'], and there's the table with the marble top!
All the other furniture is plain and serviceable, you per-
ceive. And az to plate, bless you, we haven't so much
as a tea spoon.

Cop. \Chcerfully.'\ AM to be earned?

Trad. Exactly so. All to be earned. Of course we
have something in the shape of tea-spoons, because we
stir our tea. But they're Britannia metal.

Cop. The silver will be the brighter when it comes.

Trad. The very thing we say. You .«ee my dear
Copperfield [confidentially^, after I had delivered my
argument in Jipes versus Wigzell, which did me great
service with the profession, 1 went down *nto Devon
shire and had some serious conversation ir vate with
the Reverend Horace. I dwelt upon the fact mat Sophy
— who, I do assure you, Copperfield, is the dearest
girl!—

Cop. am certain she is.

Trad. She is indeed. But I am afraid I am wan-
dering from the subject. Did I mention the Reverend
Horace ?

Cop, You said that you dwelt upon the fact —

Trad. True I Upon the fact that Sophy and I had
been engaged for a long period, and that Sophy, with
the permission of her parents, was more than content to
take me — in short, on our present Britannia inetal foot-
ing. Very well. I then proposed to the Reverend
Horace that if I could turn the corner say of two hun-
dred and fifty pounds in one year, and could see my way
pretty clearly to that or somcthinir better next year, and
could plainly furnish a little place like this besides, then,
and in that case, Sophy and 1 should be united. I took
the liberty of representing that we had been patient for

COftEUl'lELI) AND TllADDLES.

313

a pjooJ miny years, and t!i it tho circumstance of Sophy's
being extraordinarily usel'iil at homo ouLiht nor lo ope-
rate witli her aifectionatc jinrents against her establish
mont in life — don't you sec ?

Cop. Certainly it ought not.

Trad. I am glad you think so, Copperficld, because,
without any imputation on the Kevcrond Horace, I do
think parents and brothers, &o., are sometimes rather
selfish in such cases. I also pointed out that my most
earnest desire was to be useful to the family ; and that
if 1 got on in the world, and anything should happen to
him— 1 refer to the Reverend Horace — or to Mrs. Crewler,
it would be the utmost gratification of my wishes to be a
parent to the irirls. He replied in a most admiral. le
manner, exceedingly flattering to my feelings, and under-
took to obtain the consent of Mrs. Crewler to this ar-
rangement. Thev had a dreadful time of it with her,
but they brought her through it — and we were married
yesterday six weeks. You have no idea what a monster
1 felt, Copperficld, when I saw the whole family crying
and fainting away in every direction ! Mrs. Crewler
couldn't see me before we left, — couldn't forgive me,
then, for depriving her of her child, — but she's a good
creature, and has done so since. I had a delightful let-
ter fi >m her only this morning.

Coj'. And, in short, my dear friend, you feci as oless-
ed as you deserve to feel.

Trad. [Laughing.'\ 0. that's your partiality ! But,
indeed I am in a most enviable state. I work hard, and
read law insatiably. I get up at five every morning,
and don't mind it at all. I hide the girls in the daytime,
and make merry with them in the evening, — and, in
short, I am the happiest fellow alive.

314

MARK TAPLET S RETURN.

■!> *'•

MARK TAPLEY'S RETURN.

PART I.

Dialogue from Dickens,
Seem : Parlour at the Dragon.

]\J RS. Lupin seated at a table with her chin on her hand.

On the table is her neglected sttpper.

Mrs. Lupin. [Shaking her head mournfully,'] Dear
me ! Ab, dear, dear me !
[E titer a Stranger j muffled up in a sailor's our coat, and

with his hat pulled over his eyes."]

Stranger. [Gruffly.'] A pint of the best old beer,
here. [Sits down.

Mrs. L. A bad night !

Stranger. It is, rather.

Mrs. L. There's a fire in the kitchen, and very good
company there. Hadn't you better go and dry your-
self?

Stranger. No, thank'ee.

Mrs. L. It's enough to give yon your death ot cold.

Stranger. I don't take my death easy, or I should,
most likely, have took it afore to-night. Your health,
ma'am. [JRaises tankard to his ynmith.

Mrs. L. Thank you.

Stranger. [Setting down tankard without drinking.']
What do you call this house 1 Not the Dragon — do
you 1

Mrs. L. Yes, the Dragon.

Stranger. W hy, then, you've got a sort of relation of
mine here, ma'am — a young man of the name of Tapley.
What ! Mark, my boy [looking about the roorn]^ have I
come upon you at last, old buck ?

AT/v. L. [Trimming candle^ unth her lack to Stranger.]
Nobody should be made more welcome at the Dragon,

MARK TAPLEY S RETURN.

315

jr hand.
Dear

latf and

Id beer,
s down.

py good
y your-

)f cold.
shoTild,
health,
mmith,

'%king.'\
)n — do

tion of
'apley.
have I

inger.']
*ragOD,

master, than any one who brought me news of M ark. But
it's many a long day and month since he left here and
England. And whether he's alive or dead, poor fellow,
Heaven above us only knows !

Stranger. Where did he go, ma'am ?

Mrs. L. [Still trimming candle.'] He went to
America. How could he ever go to America ? \J^ohs.
Stranger catches her in his arras.] Oh, Mark ! Mark !

Mark. Yes, I will ! Another — one more — twenty
more ! You didn't know me in that hat and coat ? I
thought you would have known me anywheres ! Ten
more!

Mrs. L. So I should have known you, if I could have
seen you ; but I couldn't, and you spoke so gruff. I
didn't think you could speak gruff to me, Mark, at
first coming back.

Mark. Fifteen more ! How handsome and how
young you look! Six more! Tlie last half dozen
warn't a fair one, and must be done over again. Lord
bless you, what a treat it is to see you ! One more !
Well, I never ivas so jolly. Just a few more, on account
CI there not being any credit in it ! [Pauses to take
hreath.] Mr. Martin Chuzzlewit's outside — I left him
under the cart-shed, wlule I came on to see if there was
anybody here. We want to keep quiet to-night, till
we know the news from you, and what it's best for us to

do.

Mrs. L. There's not a soul in the house except the
kitchen company. If they were to know you had come
back, Mark, they'd have a bonfire in the street, late as it is.

Mark But they mustn't know it to-night, my pre-
cious soul. J^^o have the house shut and the kitchen fire
made up; and when it's all ready, put a light in the
window, aad we'll come in. One more I I long to
hear about old friends. You'll tell me all about 'em—
won't you ? Mr. Pinch, and Uie butcher's dog down the
street, and the tcrrieT* over the way, and the wheeK
wrighi's, and every one of 'em. When I first caught

316

MARK TAPhEY S JJETURN.

I? El-

sight of the church to-night, I thought the steeple would
have jhoked me, I did. One more [ Won't you?
Not a very little one to finish off with ?

Mrs. L. You have had plenty, I am sure. Go along
with your foreign manners !

Mark. That ain't foreign, bless you ! Nativvi as
oysters, that is ! One more, because it's native ! As a
mark of respect Tor the land we live in ! This don't
count as between you and me, you understand. I ain't
a-kissin' you now, you'll observe, I'm a-kissin' my
country. [^Exit Mark.

PART II.

Tom Pinch and Mark Tapley togethiv.

And what do you mean to do now, Mark ?
Mean to do, sir ?

Ay, what course of life do you mean to pur-
Well, sir, the fact is, that I have been a think-

Tom.

Mart

Tom.
sue ?

Mark.
ing rather of the matrimonial line, sir.

Tom. You don't say so, Mark !

Mark Yes, sir. I've been a turnin' of it over.

2'o?n. And who is the lady, Mark ?

Mark The which, sir ?

Tom. The lady Come ! You know what I said as
uoll as I do.

Mark You couldn't guess, I suppose, Mr. Pinch?

Tom. How is it possible? 1 don't know any of
your flames. Mark. Except Mrs. Lupin, indeed.

Mark. AVell, sir, and supposin' it was her — supposin*,
for the sake of ar^Miment, it was her, sir.

To7n. Why, I thought such a connection wouldn't
suit you, Mark, on any terms.

Mark. Well, sir, I used to think so myself, once ;
but 1 a'n*t so clear about it now. A dear, sweet oree-
tur, sir !

MARK TAPLEY'S RETURN.

317

Tom. A dear, sweet creature ! To be sure she is.
But she always was — was she not ?

Mark. Was she not ?

Tom. Then, why on earth didn't you marry her at
first, Mark, instead of wandering abroad, and losing all
this time, and leaving her alone by herself, liable to be
courted by other people ?

Marh Why, sir, I'll tell you how it came about.
You know nie, Mr. Pinch, sir. There a'n't a gentle-
man alive as knows me better. You're acquainted with
my constitution, and you're acquainted with my weak-
ness. My constitution is to be jolly, and my weakness
'" to wish to find a credit in it. Very good, sir ; in this
state o' mind, I gets a notion in my head that she looks
on me with a eye of — with what you may call a favour-
able sort of eye, in fact.

Tom. No doubt ; we knew that perfectly well, when
we spoke on this subject long ago ; before you left the
Dragon.

Mark. Well, sir ; but being at that time full of hope-
ful wisions, I arrives at the conclusion that no credit is
to be got out of such a way of life as that, where every-
thing agreeable would be ready to one's hand. Lookin'
on the bright side of human life, in short, one of my
hopeful wisions is, that there's a deal o' misery awaitin'
me, in the midst of which I may come out tolerable
strong, and be jolly under circumstances as rofl'^cts some
credit. I goes into the world, sir, wery buoyant, and I
tries this. I goes aboard ship first, and wery soon dis
covers (by the ease with which I'm jolly, mind you) as
there's no credit to be got there. I might have took
warning by this, and gave it up ; but I didn't. I gets
to the U-nited States ; there my master falls sick and
nearly dies, and I do begin — I won't deny it — to feel
some little credit ia sustaining my spirits. What fol-
lows ? Jest as I'm beginning to come out, and am a
treadin' on the werge, my master deceives me.

Tom. Deceives you I

■

1 ■

yw«;i

JkL,^

318

MARK TAPLEY'S RETURN.

3fark. Swindles me. Turns his back on ev'rything
as made his service a creditable one, and leaves me high
and dry, without a leg to stand upon — in which state I
returns home. Wery good. Then all my hopeful wi-
sions bein' crushed, and findin' that there a'n't no credit
for me nowhere, I abandons myself to despair, and says,
" Let me do that as has the least credit in it of all —
marry a dear, sweet creetur as is wery fond of me — me
bein', at the same time, wery fond of her ; lead a happy
life, and struggle no more again the blight which settles
on my prospects."

Tom. (Laughing.) If your philosophy, Mark, be
the oddest I ever heard of, it is not the least wise. Mrs.
Lupin has said " Yes," of course ?

Mark. Why, no, sir ; she hasn't gone so far as that
yet, which I attribute principally to my not havin' asked
her. But we was wery agreeable together — comfortable,
I may say. It's all right, sir.

Tom. Well I I wish you joy, Mark, with all my
heart. Goodbye, for the present.

Mark. Goodbye, sir! Goodbye, Mr. Pinch. [Exit
Tom.] Although you are a damper to a honourable
ambition, you little think it, but you was the first to
dash my hopes. Pecksniff would have built me up for
life, but your sweet temper pulled me down. Goodbye,
Mr. Pinch 1

Jv'ry thing
s me high
ch state I
jpeful wi-
no credit
and says,
of all—
me — me
I a happy
ch settles

Mark, be
e. Mrs.

r as that
in' asked
ifortable.

all

I. [Exit
Qourable
3 first to
5 up for
loodbye,

III.

EITRACTS FOR RECITATION.

LOCH INVAR.

Scott.

0, young Lochinvar is come out of the west !
Through all the wide Border his steed was the best ;
And save his good broad-sword, he weapon had none ;
He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone 1
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight, like the young Lochinvar I

He staid not for brake, and he stopped not for stone,

He swam the Esk river where ford there was none, —

But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate,

The bride had consented ! — the gallant came late ! —

For, a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,

Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar !

So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall,
'MoDg bride' s-men and kinsmen, and brothers, and all ;
Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword — •
For the poor, craven bridegroom said never a word —
" 0, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war ? —
Or to dance at our bridal ? — young Lord Lochinvar ! "

" I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied :
JiOve swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide !

320

LOOHINVAB.

... 'nc' : ,' ■ ;

y^/H:

Pill

i '■

mx\y

■■ I'l

It;,-

And noT7 am I come, with this lost love of mine
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine ! —
There are maidens in Scotland, more lovely by far.
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar ! "

The bride kissed the goblet ! The knight took it up,
He quaifed oif the wine, and he threw down the cup !
She looked down to blush and she looked up to sigh —
With a smile on her lip, and a tear in her eye.
He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar, —
** Now tread we a measure ! " said young Lochinvar.

So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
That never a hall such a galliard did grace !
While her mother did fret and her father did fume,
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume,
And the bride-maidens whispered " 'Twere better by far
To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochin-
var ! "

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear.
When they reached the hall door and the charger stood

near —
So light to the croupe the fair iady he swung,
So light to the saddle before her he sprung !
'* She is won ! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur I
They'll have fleet steeds that follow I " quoth young

Lochinvar.

There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby

clan :
Fosters, Fenwicka, and Musgraves, they rode and they

ran ;
There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lea —
But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see.
So daring in lovo, and so dauntless in war.
Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar ?

ADDRESS 10 THE MUMMY.

321

e!—
iar,
ivar ! "

tup,
I cup I
sigh-

invar.

me,

i plume,
jr by far
Lochin-

;r stood

scaur !
young

;herby
id they

ar?

ALDRESS TO THJ^^ MUMMY IN BKLZONI'S

EXHIBITION.

Horace Smith.

And thou hast walked about (how strange a story !)
In Thebes's streets three thousand years ago,

When the Memnonium was in all its glory.
And time had not begun to overthrow

Those temples, palaces and piles stupendous,

Of which the very ruins are tremendous.

Speak ! for thou long enough liast acted Dummy,
And thou hast a tonp:ue — come, let us hear its tune :

Thou'rt standing on thy legs above ground, Mumni} !
Revisiting the glimpses of the moon.

Not like thin ghosts or disembodied creatures,

But with thy bones, and flesh, and limbf<, and features.

Tell us — for doubtless thou canst recoil ict —
To whoL- should we as ign the Sphinx's fame ?

Was Cheops or Cephrene^ architect

Of either Pyramid tha bears his name?

Is Pompey's Pillar redly a misnomer?

Had Thebes a hundred ga^es, as sung by Homer ?

Perchance that very hand, now pinion'd flat,
Has hob-a-nobb'd with Pharaoh glass to glass ;

Or dropp'd a halfpenny in Homer's hat,
Or defied thine own to let Queen Dido pass.

Or held, by Solomon's own invitation,

A torch at the great Temple', dedication ?

I need not ask thee if that hand, when arm'd.
Has any Roman soldier maul'd and knuckled,

For thou wast dead, and buried and cnilnlniM
Ere Romulus and llemus had been .^uckled : — -
U

'^,^^

%c.

,'..'

H a

, ! %

\ \

322

ADDRESS TO THE MUMMY.

Antiquity appears to have beguu
Long after thy primeval race was ruD.

Since first thy form was in this box ei.tended,

We have, above ground, seen some strange mutations ; .

The Roman empire has begun and ended,

New worlds have risen— we have lost old nations ;

And countless kings have into dust been humbled,

While not a fragment of thy flesh has crumbled.

Did'st thou not he?,r the pother o'er thy head,
When the great Persian conqueror, Cambyses,

March'd armies o'er thy tomb with thundering tread,
O'erthrew Osiris, Orus, Apis, Isis,

And shook the Pyramids with fear and wonder,

When the gigantic Memnon fell asunder ?

If the tomb's secrets may not be confess'd,
The nature of thy private life unfold : —

A heart has throbb'd beneath that leathern breast.
And tears, adown that dusky cheek, have rolled : —

Have children climbed those knees and kiss'd that face ?

What was thy name and station, age and race ?

Statue of flesh — immortal of the dead I

Imperishable type of evanescence !
Posthumous man, who quitt'st thy narrow bed.

And standest undecay'd within our presence,
Thou wilt hear nothing till the Judgment-morning,
When the great trump shall thrill thee with its warning..

Why should this worthless tegument endure.

If its undying guest be lost for ever ?
0, let us keep the soul embalm'd and pure

In living /irtue, that when both must sever,
Although corruption may our frame consume,
The immortal spirit in the skies may bloom.

R; ''1

THE BELLS.

323

ARRANGED FOR

THE BELLS,

Poe.

RECITATION BY MR.
BELL.

A. MELVILLE

Hear the aledgea 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 Kunio rhyme, to the tintinabulation that so
musically wells from the jingling and the tinkling of the
bells.

Hear the mellow wedding-bells — golden bells. What
a world of happiness their harmony foretells! Throui!;h
the balmy air of night how they ring out their delight I
From the molten-golden notes what a liquid ditty floats!
what a gush of euphony voluminously wells ! How it
swells ! how it dwells on the future ! how it tells of the
rapture that impels to the swinging and the ringing, to
the rhyming and the chiming of the bells !

Hear the loud alarum bells — brazen bells ! What a
tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells ! In the
startled air of night how they scream out their affright !
in a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, in a
mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire. What
a tale their terror tells of Despair ! How they clang and
clash, and roar 1 7hat a horror they outpour on the
bosom of the palpitc*ting air 1 Yet the ear it fully knows,
by the twanging and the clanging, how the danger ebbs
and flows ; yet the ear distinctly tells, by the jangling
and the wrangling, how the danger sinks and swells, by
the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells — ia
the clamour and the clangour of the bells !

Hear the tollino- of the bells — iron bells! What a

P'vi:

324

THE soldier's DREAM.

world of solemn thought their monody compels ! In the
silence of the night, how we shiver with affright at the
melancholy menace of their tone ! For every sound that
floats from the rust within their throats is a groan. And
the people — ah, the people that dwell up in the steeple,
all alone, and who, tolling, tolling, tolling, in that muffled
monotone, feel a glory in so rolling on the human heart
a stone ; — they are neither man nor woman — they are
neither brute nor human — they are ghouls: and their king
it is who tolls ; and he rolls, rolls, rolls, a paean from the
bells, and his bosom proudly swells with the jiajan of the
bells, and he dances and he yells ; keeping time, time,
time, in a sort of Runic rhyme, to the paean of the bells
— to the throbbing of the bells — to the sobbing of the
belk, to rtie rolling of the bells, to the tolling of the bells
— to the moaning rnd the groamng of the bells.

THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.

ffi'^' '^^i-

Plf^ ^\

S^P Mm v" '

^i;!;

RIM

|^wi|w

{||M

iji

.iT

Campbell.

Our bugles sang truce — for the night-cloud had lowered,
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky ;

And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered —
The weary to sleep, and the wounded — to die !

When reposing at night on my pallet of straw,
By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain,

In the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw.
And thrice, ere the morning, I dreamt it again.

Methought from the battlefield's dreadful array,
Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track ;

T'was autumn — and sunshine arose on the way

To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back !

THE PASSI0N8.

325

3 ■' In the
?ht at the
?ound that
5an. And
be steeple,
at muffled
man heart
-they are
their king
» from the
3an of the
ne, time,
the bell?
ng of the
^ the bells

I flew to the pleasant fields, traversod so oft

In life's mornini; march, when my b'som was yotiaj, ;

I heard my own mountaiu-goats bleatimr aloft,
And I knew the sweet strnin that the corn-reaprs
sung.

Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I wove
From my home and my weeping friends never to patt ;

My little ones kissed me a thousand time s o'er,

And my wife sobbed aloud in h(r fullness of heart, —

" Stay ! stay with us ! — rest ! thou art weary and
worn ! "

And fiain was their war-broken .<>;oldier to stay —
But sorrow returned with dawning of morn,

And the voice in my dreamiu* tur melted away.

TFIE PASSIONS.

lowered,
we red —

un.

B back !

Collins.

When Music, heavenly maid, was >oung.-
While yet in early Greece she sung,
The Passions oft, to hear her shell,
Throng'd around her magic cell,
Exulting, trembling, raginej, fainting-,
Possess'd beyond the Mu«o's paintini.'.
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Disturb^ , delighted, raised, refined :
Till once, 'tis said, when all were tired,
Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspired,
From the supporting myrtles round
They snatched her instruments o\' sound ;
And, as they oft had lieard apart
Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
Each — for madness ruled the hour —
Would prove his own expressive fower.

i::

H,^

320

THE PASSlOiNS.

First, Fear hifl hand, its skill to try,

Amid the chords bewilder'd laid ;
And back recoil'd, he knew not why,

£v6n at the sound himself hud made.

Ntxt, Anger rusli'd ; his eyes on fire,

In lightnings own'd his secret stings;
In one rude clash he struck the lyre,

And swept with hurried hands, the strings.

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

A solemn, strange, and mingled air ;

'Twas sad, by fits — by starts, 'twas wild.

But thou, Hope ! with eyes so fair,
What was thy delighted measure !
Still it whisper'd 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 call'd on Echo still through all her song.
And, where her sweetest theme she chose,
A soft responsiv: voice was heard at every close ;
And Hope, enchanied, smiled, and waved her golden
hair.

And longer had she sung — but with a frown,
Revenge impatient rose.

Kj threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder down j
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 ;
And, ever and anon, he beat
The doubling drum, with furious heat.

And though, sometimes, each dreary pause between,
Dejected Pity, at his side,

THE PA88IUN8.

327

Her soul-subduing voice applied,
Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien ;
While each strain'd ball of sight — seemed bursting from
his head.

Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nouisjht were fii'd ;

Sad proof of thy distressful state !
Of diflfering themes the veering song was mix'd :

And now, it courted Love ; now, raving, call'd on
Hate.

With eyes upraised, as one inspired,
Pale Melancholy sat retired ;
And, from her wild sequester'd seat.
In notes by distance made more sweet,
Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul :

And, dashing soft, from rocks around,

Bubbling runnels join'd the sound.
Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole ;

Or, o'er some haunted streams, with fond dela^ —
Bound a holy calm diffusing.
Love of pe.\oe and lonely musing —

In hollow murmurs died away.

But, oh, how alter'd was its sprightlicr tone !
When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,

Her bow across her shoulders flung.
Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew.
Blew an inspiring air that dale and thicket
rung ;
The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known.

The oak-crown'd sisters, and their chaste-eyed

queen,
Satyrs, and sylvan boys, were seen,
Peeping from forth their alleys green ;
Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear ;
And Sport ieap'd up, and seized his beeohen spear.

■■■' t

'ill'!' ■!

V'\'\',

HlJ.

328

THUNDER STORM AMONG THE ALPS,

Last, came Joy's ecstatic trial;
He, witli viny crown advancing,
First to the lively pipe his h:md address'd ;

But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol,
Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved tho best.
They would have thought, who heard the strain.
They saw, in Ttniple's vale, her native m;.id3,
Amid the festal-sounding shades,
To some unweari'd minstrel dancing ;
While, as his flyinii fingers kiss'd the strina:s,
Love framed with Mirth a gav fantastic round —
Loo>e were her tresses seen, her zone unbound ;
And he, amid his frolic p'ay,
As if he would tht; charming air repay.
Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings.

THUNDER STORM AMONG THE ALPS.

Lm'd Byron,

Tt is the hush of night ; and all, between
Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, y&t clear,
Mellow'd and mingling, yev. distinctly seen —
Save darkend Jura, whose capp'd heights appear
Frecipitonsly steep ; aiid drawing near,
There hreatlies a living fragrance from the shore,
Of flowers yet fresh with childhood ; on the ear
Drops the light drip of the suspended oar ;
Or chirps the grasshopnev one gd d-night carol more ;

He is an evening reveller, who makes
liis life an infancy, and sings his fill !
At intervals, some bird, from out the brakes,
Starts into voice a moment — then is still.
There seems a floating whisper on the hill —
But that is fancy, for the star -light dews

THUNDER STORM AMONG THE ALPS.

329

!St.

da.

') »

All silently their tears of love in.^til,
Weeping themselves away, till they infuse
Deep into Nature's breast the spirit of her hues.

The sky is chanired !~-and such a change ! night
And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous i^trong !
Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light
Of a dark eye in woman ! Far along,
From peak to peak, the rattling crags among,
Leaps the live thunder !— not from one lone cloud.
But every mountain now hath found a tongue ;
And Jura answers, through her misty shroud,
Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud !

And this is in the night: — Most glorious night !
Thou wast not sent for slumber ! let me be
A sharer in thy iierce and far delight, —
A portion of the tempest and of thee I
How the lit lake shines ! — a phosphoric sea !
And the big rain comes dancing to the earth !
And DOW again 'tis black, — and now the glee
Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain mirth,
As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth.

Now, where the swift Khone cleaves lis ,vay between
Heights — which appear as lovers, who have parted
In hate, whose mining depths so iuterv«ne,
That they can meet no more, though broken-hearted I
Though in their souls, which thus each otlier thwarted,
Love was the very root of their fond rage
WhicJi bli'/hted their life's bloom, and then— departed!
Itself expired, bu^ leaving them an age
Of years —all winter.- ! - war within themselves to wage !

Now, wheretbe quick Rhone thus hath cleft his way,
The mightiest of the storm> hath ta'en his stand !
For here, not one, nut many, make their play.
And flinjr their thunder-bolts from hand to hand,

'%(' I

330

THE OCE^N.

Flashing and cast around ! of all the band
The brightest, through those parted hills, hath fork'd
His lightnings, — as if he did understand
That, in such gaps as desolation work'd,
There the hot shaft should blast whatever therein lurk'd.

THE OCEAN.

Lord Byron.

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods ;
There is a rapture on the lonely shore ;
There is society, where none intrudes
By the deep Sea, and music in its roar :
I love not Man the less, but Nature more.
From these our interviews ; in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before,
To mingle with the Universe, and feel
What 1 can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.

Roll on, thou deep and dark-blue ocean — roll !
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ;
Man marks the earth with ruin — his control
Stops with thy shore ; — upon the watery plain
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own ;
When, for a moment, like a drop of rain,
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan,
Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoffin'd, and unknown !

His steps are not upon thy paths — thy fields

Are not a spoil for him, — thou dost arise.

And shake him from thee ; the vile strength he wields

For earth's destruction, thou dost all despise.

Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies,

And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray

■*-*

THE OCEAN.

331

And howling, to his gods, where haply lies
His petty hope in some near port or bay,
And dashest him again to earth : — there let him lay.

The armaments, which thunderstrike the walls
Oi rock-built cities, bidding nations quake,
And monarchs tremble in their capitals —
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make
Their clay creator the vain title take
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war —
These are thy toys; and, as the snowy flake,
They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar
Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar.

Thy shorf-s are empires, chnnged in all save thee—
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they ?
Thy waters wasted them while they were free,
And many a tyrant since ; their shores obey
The stranger, slave or savage ! their decay
Has dried up realms to deserts : — not so thou
Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play —
Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow —
Such as Creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now !

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form
GNsses itself in tempests ! — in all time —
Caiai or convulsed, in breeze orirale or storm,
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime
Dark-heaving — boundless, endless, and sublime I
The image of eternity ! — the throne
Of the invisible ! Even from out thy slime
The monster-* of the deep are made ! Each zone
Obeys thee ! Thorn goest forth, dread ! fathomless ! alone!

Pii!:'''

Si •

332 HOW THEY BROUGHT GOOD NEWS TO AIX.

HOW TMEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS
FKOM GHENT TO AIX.'

Hubert Browning.

I sprang to the stirrups, and Joris, and he ;

I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three ;

" Good speed ! " cried the watch, as the gate-bolts un

drew ;
" Speed ! " echoed the wall to us galloping through ;
Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest,
And into the midnight we galloped abreast.

Not a word to each other ; we kept the great pace
Neck by n* ck. stride by stride, never changing on*

place ;
I turiicd in my saddle and made its girths tight,
Then shorteoiid each stirrup, and set the pique right,
Rebuckled the cheekstrap, chained slacker the bit,
Nor gailoptrti itaw steadily Roland a whit.

'Twas moonset at starting ; but while we drew near
Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear ;
At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see ;
At Diiffeld, 'twas morning as plain as could be ;
And from Mecheln church steeple we heard the half-
chime.
80 Jorii broke silence with ** Yet there is time ! "

At Aerschot. up leaped of a sudden the sun,
And a^;iin«t him the cattle stood black everv one,
To start thiough the mist at us galloping past.
And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last,
With resolute shoulders, Ciich butting away
The haze, as some bluff river headland it* spray.

HOW THEY BROUGHT GOOD NEWS TO AIX. 333

And his low hea i and crest, ju^t one sharp ear bent

back
yi'or my voice, and the other pricked out on his trac'c ;
And one eye's black intelli4iencc, ever that glance
O'er its white edge at m^, his own master, askance !
And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and an n
His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on.

By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, "Stay

spur !
Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her,
We'll remember at Aix," — for one heard the quick

wheeze
Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering

knees,
And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank
As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.

So we were left galloping, Joris and I,

Past Looz and past Tongress, no cloud in the sky ;

The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh,

'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like

chaff ;
Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white,
And " Gallop," gasped Joris, '•' for Aix is in sight! "

" How they'll greet us ! " — and all in a moment his roan
Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone;
And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight
Of the news which alone could save Aix from hor fate,
With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim,
And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim.

Then I cast loose my buff coat, each holster let fall,
Shook off both my jack boots, let go belt and all,
Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his o:u,
Called my Roland his pet name, my horse without peer;

334

TUE OWL AND THE BELL.

11$

"i.

Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any n)i.'^e, bad or

good,
Till at length into Aix, Roland galloped and stooJ.

And all I remember is, friends flocking round
As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the around,
And no voice but was praising this Roland oi mine,
As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine,
Which (the burgesses voted by common congeni)
Was no more than his due who brought good news from
Ghent.

THE OWL AND THE BELL.

»■ .■-

' f i

George Macdonald.

" Bing, Bim, Bang, Borne / "

Sang the Bell to himself in his house at home,

Up in the tower, away and unseen,

In a twilight of ivy, cool and green ;

With his Bing, Bim, Bang, Borne /

Singing bass to himself in his house at home.

Said the Owl to himself, as he sat below
On a window-ledge like a ball of snow,
" Pest on that fellow, sitting up there I
Always calling the people to prayer !
With his Bing, Bim, Bang, Borne /
Mighty big in his house at home I

" I will move," said the Owl, " but it suits me well ;
And one may get used to it, who can tell ?
So he slept in the day with all his might,
And rose and flapped out in tL^ hush of night
When the Bell was asleep in his tower at home.
Dreaming over his Bing, Bang, Borne 1

THE OWL AND THE BELL. 335

For the Owl was bora so poor and genteel,
He was forced from the first to pick and steal ;
He scorned to work for honest bread —
" Better have never been hatched ! " he said.
So he slept all day ; for he dared not roam
Till night had silenced the Bmg, Bang, Borne !

When his six little darlings had chipped the egg,
He must steal the more ; 'twas a shame to beg.
And they ate the more that they did not sleep well ;
" It's their gizzards," said iMa ; said Pa, " It's the Belli
For they quiver like leaves in a wind-blown tome,
When the Bell bellows out his Binr, Bang, Borne 1 "

But the Bell began to throb with the fear
Of bringing the house about his one ear ;
And his people were patching all day long,
And propping the walls to make them strong.
So a fortnight he sat, and felt like a nome,
For he dared not shout his Bing, Bang, Borne !

Said the Owl to himself, and hissed as he said,

'' I do believe the old fool is dead."

Now, — now, I vow, I shall never pounce twice ;

And stealing shall be all sugar and spice.

But I'll see the corpse, ere he's laid in the loam.

And shout in his ear, Bing, Bim, Bang, Borne f

*' Hoo ! hoo !" he cried, as he entered the steeple,
" They've hanged him at last, the righteous people !
His swollen tongue lolls out of his head —
Hoo 1 hoo ! at last the old brute is dead.
There let him hang, the shapeless Ignome I
Choked, with his throat full of Bing, Bang, Borne !

So he danced about him, singing Too-WHOO I

And flapped the poor Bell, and said, " Is that you? '*

Where is your voice with its wonderful tone,

336

THE OWL AND THE BELL.

Ri.!; if!':

Banging poor owls, and making them groan ?
A fig lor you now, in your groat hall dome !
Too-ichoo is better than '' Binij, JSany, Borne ! "

So brave was the Owl, the downy and dapper,

That he flew inside and sat on ^he clapper;

And he shouted l^o-wkoo I till the echo awoke,

Like the sound of" a ghostly clapper stroke :

*' Ah, ha ! " quoth the ("wi, " I am quite at homo —

I will take your place with my Bing, B'ing, Borne ! "

The Owl was uplifted with pride and self-wonder ;

He hissed, and then called the echo thunder ;

And he sat the monarch of feathered ibwl

Till — Bang f went the Bell —and diwri went the Owl,

Like an avalanche of feathers and foam,

Loosed by the booming Bing, Hang^ Borne !

He sat where ho fell, ;is if nought was the matter,
Though one of his eyebrows was certainly flatter.
Said the eldest owlet, '' l^a, you were wrong ;
He's at it again with his vulgar song."
*' Be still," said the Owl ; " you're guilty of pride :
I brought him to life by perching iii-ide."

" But why, my dear ? " said his pillowy wife ;
" You know he was always the plague of your life."
" I perhaps have given him a lesson of good for evil ;
" Perhaus the old ruthau will now be civil."

The Owl looked ri^liLcous and raised his comb ;
But the Bell bawled on his B'uig^ Bang, Borne f

VROU SHAKESPEARE.

337

FROM SHAKESPEARE,

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,
If is an attribute to God himself:
And earthly power doth then show likest God's,
When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, man,
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 as 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
3Iust needs give sentence 'gainst the merchant there.

Merchant of Venice, IV. 1.

All the world's a stage,
/And all the men and women merely players :
They have their exits and their entrances -,
-And one nan in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms ;
And then, the whining school-boy, with his satchel,
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school ; and then, the lover ;

338

FROM SHAKESPEARE.

,''jiffi

:v.|.

'!%(

!•■!

rliU|f

. .i «5

Sighing like furnace, > h woful ballad

Made to his mistress' eyebrow : Then a soldier ;

Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,

Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,

Seeking the bubble reputation

Even in the cannon's mouth : And then, the justice ;

In fair round body, with good capon lined,

With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut.

Full of wise saws and modern instances.

And so he plays his part : The sixth age shifts

Into the lean and slippered pantaloon ;

With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side ;

His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide

For his shrunk shank ; and his big manly voice,

Turning again to\-ard childish treble, pipes

And whistles in his sound : Last scene of all,

That ends this st^- nge eventful history.

Is second childishuoss, and mere oblivion ;

Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

As You LiKB It, II. 7...

Now, my co-mates, and brothers in exile.
Hath not old custom made this life more sweet
Than that of painted pomp ? Are not these woods
More free from peril than the envious court ?
Here feel we but the penalty of Adam —
The seasons' diflPerence ; as, the icy fang
And churlish chiding of the winter's wind ;
Which, when it bites, and blows upon my body, .
Even till I shrink with cold, I smile and say,
This is no flattery ; these are counsellors,
That feelingly persuade me what I am.
Sweet are the uses of adversity ;
Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous.
Wears yet a precious jewel in his head !
And this our life, exempt from public haunt,.

FROM SHAKEb^UARG:.

339

Finds tooguea in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good ir everything.
Come, shall we go and kill us venison ?
And yet it irks me, the poor dappled fools,
Being native burghers of this desert city,
Should, in their own confines, with forked heads,
Have their round haunches gored.
Indeed, my lord,

The melancholy Jacques grieves at that ;
And, in that kind, thinks: we do more usurp
Than doth our brother, that hath banished ua.
To-day, my Lord of Amiens and myself
Did steal

Behind an oak, whose antique roots peep out
Upon the brook that brawls along this wood ;
To which place a poor sequestered stag,
That from the hunter's aim had ta'en a hurt,
Did come to languish ; and, indeed, my lord,
The wretched animal heaved forth such groans.
That their discharge did stretch his leathern coat
Almost to bursting ; and the big round tears
Coursed one another down his innocent nose,
In piteous chase -, and thus the hairy fool
Stood on the extremest verge of the swift brook.
Augmenting it with tears.

As You Like It, II. 1.

A fool — a fool I 1 met a fool i' th' forest,

A motley fool ; — a miserable varlet ! —

As I do live by food, I met a fool ; —

Who laid him down, and basked him in the sun,

And railed on Lady Fortune in good terms ;

In good set terms, and yet a motley fool.

" Good morrow, fool," quoth I : " No, sir, quoth he,**^^

" Call me not fool, till Heaven hath sent me fortune ; '*

And then he drew a dial from his poke ;

340

FROM SHAKISPEARI.

And lookiDg on it with lack-lustre eye,

Says, very wisely, " It is ten o'clock :

Thus may we see," quoth he, "how the world wags.

Tis but an hour ago since it was nine,

And after one hour more 'twill be eleven ;

And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe,

And then, from hour to hour, we rot and rot,

And thereby hangs a tale/' When I did hear

The motley fool thus moral on the time,

My lungs began to crow like chanticleer.

That fools should be so deep-contemplative :

And I did lau^h, sans intermission,

An hour by his dial. noble fool !

A worthy fool 1 Motley's the only wear.

As You Like It, II. 7.

EPILOGUE.

It is not the fashion to see the lady the epilogue ;
but it is no more unhandsome than to see the lord the
prologue. If it be true, that " good wine needs no bush,"
tis true, that a good play needs no epilogue. Yet to
good wine they do use good bushes; and good plays
prove the better by the help of good epilogues. What a
case am I in then, that am neither a good epilogue, nor
cannot insinuate with you in the behalf of a good play t
I am not furnished like a beggar, therefore to beg will
not become me : my way is to conjure you ; and I'll be-
gin with the women. I charge you, women, for the
love you bear to men, to like as much of this play as
please you ; and I charge you, men, for the love you
bear to women, as I perceive by your simpering none of
you hates them, that between you and the women, the
play may please. If I were a woman, I would kiss as many
of you as had beards that pleased me, complexions that
liked me, and breaths that I defied not : and, I am sure,

FROM SHAKI8PIARE.

341

UB many as nave good beards, or good faces, or sweet
breaths, will, for my kind offer, when I make courtsey,
bid me farewell.

As Yoc Like Tt.

TOUCHSTONE ON QUARRELLING.

If any man doubt that I have been a courtier, let him
put me to my purgation. I have trod a measure ; I
have flattered a lady ; I have been politic with my friend,
smooth with mine enemy ; I have undone three tailors ;
I have had four quarrels, and like to have fought one —
but that was ta'en up. When we met, we found the
quarrel was upon the seventh cause ; that is, upon a lie
seven times removed ; as thus, sir. I did dislike the
cut of a certain courtier's beard ; he sent me word, if I
said his beard was not cut well, he was in the mind it
was; this is called the "retort courteous." If I sent
him word again, it was not well cut, he would send me
word he cut it to please himself: this is called the " quip
modest." If again, it was not well cut, he disabled my
judgment : this is called the " reply churlish." If again,
it was not well cut, he would answer, I spake not true ;
this is called the "reproof valiant." If again, it was
not well cut, he would say, I lie: this is called the
" countercheck quarrelsome ; " and so to the " lie cir-
cumstantial," and the " lie direct." I durst go no
further than the "lie circumstantial," nor he durst
not give me the " lie direct ; " and so we measured

Bwords and parted. 0, sir, we quarrel in print by the

book, as you have books for good manners, I will
nominate in order now the degrees of the lie. The first,
the '* retort courteous ;" the second, the " quip modest ;"
the third, the " reply churlish ;" the fourth, the " re-
proof valiant ;" the fifth, the *' countercheck quarrel-
Bome:" the sixth, the "lie with circumstance;" the

342

FROM 8HAKESP£ARE.

Beventh, the ** lie direct." All these you ma) avoid,
but the '* lie direct ;" and you may avoid that too, with
an " if." 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 so!" — "Oh! . . . did you so?" and they
shook hands, and were sworn brothers. Your *'if" is
the only peace-maker j much virtue in " if."

As You Like It.

1 'j BJ » '

> !

!f *

ii"

'.L

C-l

The barare she sat in, like a burnish'd throne,

Burn d on the water : the poop was beaten gold ;

Purple the sails, and so perfumed that

The winds were love-sick with them • the oars were silver,

Which to the time of flutes kept stroke, and made

The water, which they beat, to follow faster,

As amorous of their strokes. For her own person,

It beggar'd all description : she did lie

In her pavilion, (cloth of gold, of tissue,)

O'er-pictvring that Venus, where we see

The fancy outwork nature : on each side her

Stood pretty dimpled boys, like smiling Cupids,

With divers colour'd fans, whose wind did seem

To glow the delicate cheeks whicli they did cool,

And what they undid, did : at the helm

A seem!n'5 mermaid steers ; the silken tackle

Swell with the touches of those flower-soft hands,

That yarely frame the office. From the burge

A strange i*) visible perfume hits the sense

Of the adjacent vharf. The city cast

Her people out upon her ; and Antony,

Enthroo'd in the market-place, did sit alone,

Whistling to the air ; wnich, but for vacancy,

Had gone to gaze on Cleopr^tra too,

And made a gap in nature.

Antony and Cleopatra, II. 2.

FROM ISHAKESPEARB.

343

OTHELLO'S DEFENCE.

)}

It.

Most potent, grave, and reverend sif^niors,

My very noble and approved good masters, —

That I have ta'en away this old man's daughter,

It is most true ; true, I have married her ;

The very head and front of my oflfending

Hath this extent, no more. Rude am I in my speecli,

And little bless'd with the set phrase of peace ;

For, since these arms of mine had seven years' })ith

Till now, some nine moons wasted, they have used

Their dearest action in the tented field ;

And little of this great world can I speak,

More than pertains to feats of broil and battle ;

And therefore little shall I grace my cause,

In speaking for myself : yet, by your gracious patieuce,

I will a round unvarnish'd tale deliver

Of my whole course of love ; what drugs, what charms,

What conjuration, and what mighty magic,

(For such proceeding I am oharg'd withal,)

I won his daughter with.

Her father lov'd me ; oft invited me ;

Still questioned me the story of my life

From year to year ; the battles, sieges, fortunes,

That I have passed.

I ran it through, even from my boyish days.

To the very moment that he bade me tell it :

Wherein I spake of most disastrous chances ;

Of moving accident?, by flood and field ;

Of hair-breadth 'scapes i' the imminent deadly breach ;

Of being taken by the insolent foe,

And sold to slavery ; of my redemption thence,

And portance in my travel's history.

These things to hear,

Would Desdemona seriously incline :

but still the house-aflPairs would draw her thence.

Which ever as she could with haste despatch,

344

TROM SHAKESPEARE.

r=;,

S'f I

II 'i

J, I r ,

Mlh, ^

*.•

She'd oome again, and with a greedy ear

Devour up my discourse : which 1 observing,

Took once a pliant hour ; and found good means-

To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart,

That I would all my pilgrimage dilate,

Whereof by parcels she had something heard,

But not iutentively : I did consent ;

And often did beguile her of her tears,

Wben I did speak of some distressful stroke

That D y youth suffered. My story being done,

She gave me for my pains a world of sighs ;

She swore — In faith, 'twas strange, 'twas passing strange,

'Twas pitiful, 'twas wondrous pitiful ;

She wish'd she had not heard it ; yet she wish'd

That Heaven had made her such a man : she thank'd ma ;

And bade me, if I had a friend that lov'd her,

I should but teach him how to tell my story,

And that would woo her. Upon this hint, I spake :

She lovd me for the dangers I had pass'd.

And I lov'd her that she did pity them,—

This only is the witchcraft I have used.

If music be tbe food of love, play on ;

Give me excess of it ; that surfeiting.

The appetite may sicken, and so die.

That strain again ; — it had a dying fall -

0, it came o'er my ear liko the sweet south

That breathes upon a bank of violets,

Stealing and giving odour. — Enough ; no more ;

Tis not so sweet now as it was before.

O5 spirit of love, how quick and fresh art thou i

That, notwithstanding thy capacity

Keceiveth as the sea, nought enters there ;

of what validity and pitch soe'er,

liut falls into abatement and low price,

Even in a minute ! so full of saapes is fancy,

That it alone is high-fantastical.

Twelfth Night, L X,

FROM SHAKESPEARE.

345

She never told her love,
But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud,
Feed on her damask cheek : she pined in thought ;
And, with a green and yellow melancholy,
She sat, like patience on a monument,
Smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed ?
We men may say more, swear more ; but indeed,
Our shows are more than will ; for still we prove
Much in our vows, but little in our love.

Twelfth Night, II. 4.

Is all the counsel that we two have shar'd,

The sisters' vows, the hours that we have spent,

When we have chid the hasty-footed time

For parting us, — 0, and is all forgot ?

All school-days' friendship, childhood innocence ?

We, Hermia, like two artificial gods.

Have with our needles created both one flower,

Both on one sampler, sitting on one cushion,

Both warbling of one song, both in one key ;

As if our hands, our sides, voices, and minds,

Had been incorporate. So w^ grew together^

Like to a double-cherry, seeming parted ;

But yet a union in partition.

Two lovely berries moulded on one stem :

So, with two seeming bodies, but one heart ;

Two of the first like coats in heraldry.

Due but to one, and crowned with one crests

And will you rend our ancient love asunder,

To join with men in scorning your poor friend ?

It is not friendly, it is not maidenly :

Our sex as well as I, may chide you for it •

Though I alone do feel the injury.

Midsummer Night's Dream, III. 2,

;;t.:'

'■'i'^i '

1 |]'j-;' i

' ' '' r

i ■ r ' '

'i, "

^■i?': -i

• . v;"*"- i

,■■':'■'.■;■; ■■f

,■' ' ' .

I '

' 1

ft ''• ■ ;

i|;:M-.'

k- ■ .

346

FROM SHAKESPEARE.

3? Ihi„ j i,

>i*,

, I. 1

U, then, I see Queen Mabhath been wi;I' you,

She is the fairias' midwife ; and she comes

In shape no bigger than an agate stone

On the fore-finger of an alderman,

Drawn with a team of little atomies

Athwart men's noses as they lie asleep :

Her waggon- spokes made of long spinners' legp,

The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers ;

The traces of the smallest spider's web ;

The collars of the moonshine's wateiy beams ;

Her whip of cricket's bone; the lash of film :

Her waggoner a small grey-coated gnat,

Not half so big as a round little worm

Prick'd from the lazy fingers of a maid :

Her chariot is an empty hazel-nut,

Made by the joiner squirrel, or old grub,

Time out o' mind the fairies' coach-makers.

And in this state she gallops night by night

Through lovers' brains, and then they dream of love :

On courtiers' knees, that dream on court'sies straight ;

O'er lawyers* fingers, who straight dream on 3 :

O'er ladies' lips, who straight on kisses dream ;

Which oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues.

Because their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are.

Sometime she gallops o'er a courtier's nose,

And then dreams he of smelling out a suit :

And sometime comes she with a tithe-pig's tail,

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

Then dreams he of another benefice ;

Sometime she driveth o'er a soldier's neck,

And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats,

Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades,

Of healths five fatbum deep ; and then anon

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

And, being thus frighted, swears a paayer or two,

And sleeps again.

Romeo and Julie"^ I 4.

FROM SHAKESPEARE,

347

These our aotorp,
As T foretold you, were all spirits, and
Are melted into air, into thin air :
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The c^ fid-capp'd i;owws, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself.
Yea, all whinh it inherit, shall dissolve ;
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded.
Leave not a rack behind : We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded »r:th a sleep.

Tempest, IV. 1.

3 :
ht:

From camp to camp,

The hum of either army stilly sounds,

That the fix'd sentinels nlniost receive

The secret whispers of each other's watch :

Fire answers fire ; and through their paly flames

Each battle sees the other's umbered face :

Steed threatens steed, in high and boastful neighs

Piercing the night's dull ear ; aud from the tenta,

The armourers, accomplishing the knights,

With busy hammers closing rivets up.

Give dreadful note of preparation.

The country cocks do crow, the clocks do toll,

And the third hour of drowsy morning name.

Proud of their numbers, and secure in soul.

The confident and over-lusty French

Do the low-rated English i!ry at dice ;

Anci chide the cripple Uruy-gaited night,

Who, like a foul and ugly witch, doth limp

So tediously away. The poor condemned English,

Like sacrifices, by their watchful fires

Sit patiently, and inly ruminate

The morning's danger ; and their gesture sad

Investing lank-lean cheeks, and war-worn coats,

Presenteth them ^uto the gazing moon

,«:(?'';?" ^*vv

348

FROM SHAKESPEARE.

V.'

* i.;

So many horrid ghosts. 0, now, wh* will behold
The royal captain of this ruined band
Walking from watch to watch, from tent to tent,
Let him cry — Praise and glory on his head !
For forth he goes, and visits all his host ;
Bids them good-morrow, with a modest smile :
And calls them — brothers, friends, and country meL
Upon his royal face there is no note
How dread an army hath enrounded him ;
Nor doth he dedicat- one jot of colour
Unto the weary and all watched night :
liut freshly looks, and overbears attaint
With cheerful semblance and sweet majesty ;
That every wretch, pining and pale before.
Beholding him, plucks comfort from his looks :
A largess universal, like the sun.
His liberal eye doth give to every one,
Thawing cold fear, that mean and gentle all
Behold (as may un worthiness define)
A little touch of Harry in ttie night :
And so our scene must to the battle fly ;
Where (0 for pity !) we shall much 'disgrace —
With four or five most vile and raged foils,
Right ill-dispos'd in brawl ridiculous, —
The name of Agincourt : Yet, sit and see ;
Minding true things by what their mockeries be.

Henry V., III. 7.

i I

mm'

i ,

K. Hen. — Once more unto the breach, dear friends,

once more ;
Or close the wall up with our Englisli dead !
In peace, there's nothing so becomes a man
As modest stillness and humility :
But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger ;
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard favour'd rage :

FROM SHAKESPEARE.

349

ids,

Then lend the eye a terrible aspect ;

Let it pry through the portage of the head,

Like the brass cannon ; let the brow o'erwhelm it,

As fearfully as doth a galled rock

O'erhang and jutty his confounded base,

Swill'd with the wild and wasteful ocean.

Now set the teeth, and stretch the nostril wide ;

Hold hard the breath, and bend up every spirit

To his full height ! — On, on, you nobless Englisb,

Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof 1

Fathers that, like so many Alexanders,

Have in these parts from morn till even fought,

And sheathed their swords from lack of argument.

Dishonour not your mothers ; now attest

That those whom you call'd fathers did beget you !

Be copy now to men of grosser blood,

And teach them how to war ! — And you, good yeomen,

Whose limbs were made in England, show us here

The mettle of your pasture ; let us swear

That you are worth your breeding : which I doubt not ,

For there is none of you so mean and base

That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.

I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips.

Straining upon the start. The game's afoot ;

Follow your spirit ; and, upon this charge,

Cry — God for Harry ! England ! and St. Georpje !

Henry V., III. 1.

My liege, I did deny no prisoners.

But, I remember, when the fight was done,

When I was dry with rage and extreme toil,

Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword.

Came there a certain lord, neat and trimly dress'd,

Fresh as a bridegroom ; and his chin, new reap'd,

Show'd like a stubble land at harvest-home ;

He was perfumed like a milliner ;

And 'twixt his finger and his thumb he held

350

FROM SHAKESPEARE.

■

iJif

A pouncet-box, which ever and anon

He gave his nose, and took 't away again ;

Who, therewith angry, when it next came there,

Took it in snuif ; and still hesmil'd and talk'd ;

And as the soldiers bore dead bodies by.

He caird them untaught knaves, unmannerly,

To bring a slovenly unhandsome corse

Betwixt the wind and his nobility.

With many holiday and lady terms

He question 'd me ; among the rest, demanded

My prisoners, in your Majesty's behalf,

I then, all smarting, with my wounds being cold,

T& be so pester'd with a popinjay.

Out of my grief and my impatience

Answer'd neglectingly, I know not what ;

He should, or should not ; — for he made me mad,

To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet,

And talk so like a waiting gentle-woman

Of guns, and drums, and wounds, (God save the mark !)

And telling me, the sovereign 'st thing on earth

Was parmaceti for an inward bruise ;

And that it was great pity, so it was.

That villanous saltpetre should be digg'd

Out of the bowels of the harmless earth.

Which many a good tall fellow had destroy'd

So cowardly ; and but for these vile guns

He would himself have been a soldier.

This bald unjointed chat of his, my lord,

I answer'd indirectly, as I said ;

And, I beseech you, let not this report

Come ouhont for an accusation.

Betwixt my Iovm anrl ynur high majesty.

1 Henry IV., I. 3.

BicharH— Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer bN this sun of York ;
Aud all the olov\ds that low'r'd upon our house

FROM SHAKESPEARE.

351

rk !)

In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.
Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths ;
Our bruised arms hung up for monuments ;
Our stern alarums chang'd to merry meetings ;
Our dreadful marches to delightful measurew.
Grim-vi?ag'd war hi\th smooth'd his wrinkled front ;
And now, instead'of mounting barbed steeds,
To fright the 80^1*8 of feartui adverssri^^s.
He capers nim^yin a lady's chamber,
To the lascivious j^leasing of a lute.
But I, that am no| shap'd for sportive tricks,
Nor made to c{);Qi:J*an amorous looking-glass ; —
I, that am rudp^j.Stamp'd, and want love's majesty
To strut before, a* Canton ambling nymph ; —
I, that am curCail't^ of this fj'ir proportion,
Cheated of feature 'by dissembling nature,
Deform' d, unfift^Sh'd, sent before my time
Into this breathing' world, scarce half made up,
And that so lamely and unfashionable
That dogs barl{,mt,pio as I halt by them ; —
Why I, in this weaji piping time of peace,
Have no delight tD»,pass away the time.
Unless to see my. shadow in the sun,
And descant on mine own deformity.
And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover
To entertain these fair w'3ll-spoken days,
I am determined to prove a villain,
And hate the idle pleasures of these days ;
Plots have I laid, inductions dangerous,
By drunken prophecies, libels, and dreams,
To set my brother Clarence and the king
In deadly hate the one against the other :
And, if King Edward be as true and just
As I am subtle, false, and treacherous,
This day should Clarence closely be mew'd up,
About a prophecy, which says, that G
Of Edward's heirs the murtherer shall be.
Div3, thoughts, down to my soul ! here Clarence come?.

Richard III., I. I.

• « • • 9

• *

• 1 I 9

I J.

if!"

Irs

INDEX.

• • • • t

• • ••

RlRTS TO RlADIRS.

Articulation

Grouping . 1,1,1

Accent and fimpiiasla

The Slur

Intonation

Faults of Readers' ' ..

General Hints .

• •*•■*

L SiLicTioNs iH ProW ISb Versi.

Public Reading* in England
Songs 0/ Seven • • • : ' .
Samuel Pepys taking TJotes
The Seven Hea<ii * '.
Snow Fields and Gliciers
The Mnsquito .
Foundation of Montreal
A Charming Woman
Dissertation on Roast Pig
Lady Jane Orey
Sound ,
The Maiden Martyr
Rip Van Winkle
The Vulture .
The Bull Fight qf Oazul
Exploit of Maisonneuve
Burial March of Dundee
Calling up a Traveller
The Closing Scene .
The Sea .
A Tale qf the Tropica

Paor

xiv

Cox

. 1

Ingelow

Collier .

• 11

Lockhart

Geikie .

Bryant .

. 28

Park man

. 30

Saxe

. 32

Lamb

. 33

Tennyson

Tyndal -

• • «

Sunday Magazine

Irving .

Brough .

Lockhart

, 63

Parkman

Aytoun .

Poole

Read

Geikie .

Honrl

IMAGE EVALUATION
TEST TARGET (MT-3)

1,.

^4^

^#^

■^,

C''

1.0

1.1

11.25

■ii IM

:; ifs i2.o

. .,. 11^

!.4

— 6"

1.8

1.6

^^f

Photographic

Sdences

Corporation

23 WEST MAIN STREET

WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580

(716) 877-4503

tfj

? w^

Wi
%

:^ I

.^54

INDEX,

I. Sblkctions in Prose and Ykkhk— Continued.

Capture of Quebec .
The New Church Organ .
Art of Actor and Reader
The King's Temple
The Sea ....
Livi'jg in the Country
Robin Goodfellow .
Bail-Room Belles . •
Facial Anomalies • .
Which? ....
The Curate's Walk .
Pyramus and Thisbe
Boy Life of Charles Dickens
Curfew must not Ring to-night
The Mad Engineer .
The Yarn of the Nancy Belt
Mr. Perkins Moves a Stove
The Burning of the Goliath

The Monster Cannon

Look at the Clock .

The Story of Richard Doubledick

The Main Truck

The Ambitious Guest

The Cane-botto'ined Chair

Calling a boy in the Morning

The Charcoal Man .

Heroes of the Long Sault

The Drummer's Bride .

Mrs. Gamp's Account of the " Ham
mertodrs"

The Romance of the Swan's Nest

The Saguenay .

Comic Miseries

A Boarding School in 1570

The Christmas Baby

Tides in Bay of Fuudy

The Glove

A Curious Historical Parallel

Thackeray •

Carletou

Cox

Anon.

Baify Cornwall

Sparrow Grass Papers

Old'BAkad

Fun » '»•

MUiUr ',.

Anon.* « .

Tiiacteray

Saxl?'.* *.

Dtekens'.

Ayon. .

Gilbert .
Bailey .
Ttmes , .
PMiicfC .
Hugo
BiK-ham .
DFokeAs .
Morris ,
Hawthorne
Thackeray
Anon. .

>» •
Parkman

Anon. .

Dickens .
Mrs. Browning
Howells .
Holmes .
Annn. .
Carleton.
Dawson .
Schiller .
Tom Hood

Pagk
89

. 94

. 97

. 102

. 104

. 106

. 112

. 115

. 117

. 121

. 123

. 129

190

. 136

. 139

. 146

. 149

. 153

. 155

. 158

. 164

. 169

. 174

. 176

. 184

, 186

. 187

. 189

. 196

. 198

. 205

. 208

. 211

. 213

. 216

. 213

. 222

. 224

INDEX.

355

Pagk

. 89

. 94

. 97

. 102

. 104

. 106

. 112

. 115

. 117

. 121

. 123

. 129

. 1P2

. 136

. 139

. 146

. 149

. 153

. 155

. 158

. 164

. 169

. 174

. 176

. 184

, 186

. 187

. 189

. 196

. 198

. 206

. 208

. 211

. 213

. 216

. 218

. 222

. 224

I. Selkctions in Prose and Vsmk— Continued,

TrottyVeck Dickens.

The Thistle Murray .

Jack in the Pulpit . . - . Whittier.

Bu,gle Song Tennyson

Dramatic Reading , , Cox .

II. Dramatic Pibcks.

From "Ivanhoe" . • »

„ "Heir at Law" , , ,
„ " London Assurance " .
„ " Queen Mary " . . .

How to Make Lodgings Pay Double

From "The Rivals"

Parvenues

From "The King of the Commons "
" "The Saints' Tragedy".
" "Paul Pry" . . . .

Copperiield and Traddles

Mark Tapley's Return , , ,

III. Extracts for Recitation.

Lochinvar . . ,
Address to Memory ,
Bells ....
The Soldier's Dream ,
The Passions .
Thunder Storm . ,
The Ocean

The Good News from Ghent
The Owl and the Bell

Scott .

Coleman

Boucicault

Tennyson

Morton .

Sheridan

Anon. .

White .

Kingsley

Poole

Pagb
. 229
, 237
. 240
. 242
• 248

248

258
262
268
274
281
287
S90
298
30fi
308

Dialogues from Dickons y

> 314

Scott ,
Smith ,
Poe

Campbell
Collins .
Byron ,

»» •
Erowiiing
Macdonald

819

321
323
824
325
S28
330
332
834

From Shakksperr:

"The Quality of Mercy" 887

"All the World's a Stage" [337

" Now my Co-mates and Brothers in Exile " .... 338

"Afool-afool" . , .'sag

Epilogue to " As you liko It " 345

Touchstone on Quarrelling g^

35(j

From Sbakksvkm— Continued.

INDEX.

Cleopatra's Barge , ,

Othello's Defence .

**lf music be the food of love "

" She never told her love " .

Girls' Friendship .

Queen Mab . . . ,

From "Tempest" ,

Chorus in Henry V.

Henry V's Speech to his Soldiers

Hotspur's Excuse .

Soliloquy of Richard III. ,

Paob
342
343

, 344
345
343
346
347
347
343
349
350

Paoh
342
343

, 344

845
343
346
347
347
348
349
350

''.'\-

Ml?, ''i. <

PI s

li I

■^1

School BooJcs Published hy Dawson Bros,

Br DR. DAWSON, F.R.S., F.G.S., &c.

Principal of the University of McGill College.

A Hand-Book of Zoology ; With examples from
Canadian Species, Recent and Fossil. Part 1, Inver-
tebrata. Price, SI. 25.

This Hand-Book is neatly printed, and profusely illustrated
by nearly 300 wood-engravings. Prepared by the author for
use In his own classes, it is peculiarly adapted as a text book
for Canadian Schools, as the subjects selected for illustration
have been chosen from the animals found in the wocds and
waters of the Country, or from the leading species of its fossil
remains. The advantage and importance of this will be recog-
nized by all teachers who have taught this branch of science.

By henry H. miles, M.A., LL.D.,

Secretary to the Department of Public Instruction for the

Province of Quebec,

The School History of Canada; Prepared for

use in the Elementary and Model Schools, with many Wood
Engravings, a Map of New France and New England, and
a Map of the Operations at the siege of Quebec in 1759, with
Appendices, giving an outline of the Constitution of the
Dominion of Canada, a Table of Chronology and Questions
for Examination. Price, 60 cents.

The Child's History of Canada; Prepared foi

the use of Elementary Schools, and of the Young Reader,
with Maps and Illustrations. Price, 30 cents.

Histoire du Canada pour les Enfants ; ^ I'usage

des Ecoles Eldmentaires— Traduit de 1 Edition Anglaise,
par L. Devisme, B.A., do I'Universitd de France. Price,
25 cents.

The History of Canada under the French Re-
gime, 1535 — 1763. This volume is recommended as a
Beading Book in the higher Academies. It is a volume of
535 pages, and is illustrated by Many Maps and Plans. An
Appendix is given containing Notes and Documents explan-
atory of the Text. Price, $2.
This series of Histories has been approved by the Council of

Public Instruction for use in the English and French Schools.

»■

Educational Ajjparaias for sale ly Datvson Br

OS,

♦

THE BOY'S OWN LABORATORY. (EegiBtered.) Con-

taim ffraorethan^/^yChomicalPreparationsandpifcesof apparatus,
with a gook of Instructions, to |)erform nearly 150 Experiments, in a
Fancy Box, with wooden partitions. Price, $2. CO. ^*'''"'"''"''°'

TIffi STUDENT'S LABORATORY. Containing Seventu
Chemical Reagenta and Preparntiona arranged in 23 Bottles and 47
Payer Boxes. Also, upwards of T^cent], Piecea of Useful Apparafm,
euitablelorperlorming Two //wnc/rerf instructive and amnsinp Chnu-
tcal Lxpermmtn with Book of Instructions,-packed in a Wooden

THE TEA CHER'S LABORATORY. Carefully arranged
in a neat W<ioden Cabinet 21 inches long, 13 inches wide, 9 inches
deep, contaitting twenty-five piecea of useful Apparatus, and aeventu
tkemical Iteagents, &c.y carefully put up in 51 Bottles and 71 Paper
Boxes. Price, $12.00.

ELEMENTARY SET OP CHEMICALS AND CHE-

mical Apparatus. Containing 24 Pieces ofApparatua and 20 Bottlea
of Gh^micala in 6^:fficient quantity to exhibit all the important proper-
ties of OxyKen, Hydrogen, Water, Nitrogen, the Atmosphere, Nitrio
Acid. Nitrogen Dioxide. Nitrogen Monoiide or Laughing Gas, Ammo-
nia, Carbon and Car* ^nio Acid Gas, Chlorine, Iodine, and Phosphorus,
—packed in a neat Wooden Cabinet. Price. 51)12.00.

THE CABINET OP CHEMICAL WONDERS, OR

Parlour Mngic. A neat Wooden Cabinet containing 15 large Bottles
jind 12 Boxes of Chemicals, with necessary Apparatus and instruc-
tions, to perform 70 amusing, instructive and useful experiments.
Price, $3.00.

THE HOME AND SCHOOL ELECTRIC TELE-

graph. A complete working model, including Single Needle Instru-
ment, mounted on neat frame and stand, with Dial, Alphabet, Keys,
Line Wire, and Gofvanic Battery, with Chpmi">l3 and fall instruc-
tions for use,— packed in a neat Wooden Box. Price, $2.25.

ZABA'S METHOD OP STUDYING UNIVERSAL

IlJptory. The Method comprises a Keyboard, Box of Crystals, Chart
No. 1, Chart No. 2 and a Key. Price, ^200. The Keys, which may be
had either in English or French, are also sold separately. Price, 25c.

W. & A. JOHNSTON'S SERIES OP WALL MAPS.
Comprising Political Geography, Classical Geogra-
phy, Physical Geography, Outline Maps, &c.

W. & A. JOHNSTON'S SERIES OP SCIENCE
CHARTS. Comprising Illustrations of Botany, As-
tronomy, Natural Philosophy, &c.

W. & A. JOHNSTON'S GLOBES, TERRESTRIAL
AND CELESTIAL.

THE ONTARIO PATENT SCHOOL DESK WITH
FOLDING CHAIRS.

(-.4 detailed catalogue of Educational Apparatus kept in stock will be

mailed to any address on application.')