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THE

DOMINION ELOCUTIONIST

AND

PUBLIC READER,

A SYSTEM OF ELOCUTION FORMED ON THE PHILOSOPHY OF THE
HUMAN VOICE AND THE LOGICAL STItUCTUUE OF LANGUAGF,

WITH

INSTRUCTION AND EXERCISES

FOR THK

CULTIVATION OF THE SPEAKING VOICE,

AND FOR

SUGGESTIVE METHODS OF SlUDY FOR READING THE DUAMA,
PUETUV, THE HOLY SCUIITUKES, THE DELIVERY OF SERMONS,
AND FOR PUBLIC SPEAKING ; TOGETHER WITH SELECTIONS IN
ORATORY, FICTION, POETRY, AND THE DRAMA.

EspecluUy adapted for Public Readings, Self-Instruction^
and for use in Schools and Cdleyes,

BY RICHARD LEWIS,

TEACUKU OF ELOCUTION.

TORONTO: ADAM, STEVENtSON k CO.
MONTREAL : JOHN LOVELL.
1872.

PREFACE.

The object of this work is two-fold^ It is designed as a manual
for instruction in tlic art of elocution, and as a compendium of
literary and oratorical selections for public reading and practice
in delivery.

The opinion that elocution is an art not necessary in a liberal
education is passing away. Its importance is growing, because
excellence in delivery, in the pulpit, at the bar, and on tho plat-
form, id becoming indispensable to the success of the speaker;
while the delight which accomplibhed and gifted readers give, in
rendering the creations of the drama, of poetry and of fiction,
without the accessories of the theatre, is doing much, not only to
remove the impression that elocution consists in a stiflF and pom-
pous theatrical mode of delivery, but to give evidence that the
most natural delivery, when refined and correct, is the best elocution,
Artificialness is defective art; and all pompous and artificial
modes of reading and speaking are opposed to the laws of a true
elocution, and are either the fruits of uncultivated natural habits
or a false use of a true art. The prevalence of bad styles of deliv-
ery, and the efforts made to correct bad styles by an imitative
rather than a scientific method, led Dr. Whately to utter a protest
against all elocutionary art and to recommend students to read in
a "natural" manner. Tke difiiculty, however, must have arisen
as to who did read naturally, and what intelligible meaning could
bo given to this term " natural" as applied to delivery. The best
delivery of the greatest orators and actors has always been the
result of laborious culture, the extreme opposite of all natural
examples of delivery. The most successful eloquence is that which
expresses great thoughts, clothed in rhetorical language, with ele-
gant and finishe d articmlation, and with all the graces of studied
inflections and modulations of the cultivated voice ; and the greab
aetors, whose impassioned representations of dramatic creations
have ISO often and so powerfully swayed the hearts of juultitudes,

' I

4 J*reface,

have owed their influence not alone to great natural gifts of con-
ception and imagination, but to the most careful and diligent study
of the language they uttered and of the character they impersona-
ted. The habits and vices of common life are incessantly corrupt-
ing or checking the finest impulses of nature; and, excepting iu
childhood, it is rarely possi? le to recur to an example which would
be a competent guide for natural delivery or the representation of
pasi«lon.

13 ut there can be no doubt that a natural delivery is that which
is mobt in harmony with refinement and with the highest art.
True art is the child of nature. But we can only get back to
nature by the aid of art. As well might the painter or tho sculp-
tor be told to paint on his canvas, or to carve the unpolished
marble, naturally, that is, without studying the science and prac-
tiijiiug the elementary laws of his art, as tell the student of delivery
that he may acquire excellence without a knowledge of that elocu-
tion, whose principles constitute a true science, because they are
derived from natural laws. It is vain to trust to loftiness of
thought, to pure diction, or to the force of truth, as sufficient to
move and convince men, without the ornaments of delivery, when
the purpose is to bo accomplished by oral speech. Elocution is a
part of eloquence, and the most admirable composition will fail if
the reader incessantly neglects or violates the laws of sound elocu-
tion. "As a good piece of music, budly performed, fails of its
proper effect, and either awakens no emotions at all or a wholly
different class from those which are intended, so the best discourse
cither falls powerless and dead, or exerts an influence to defeat its
own aims, and delivery is to discourse what performance is to
music." * In no instjmce do these views receive stronger con-
firmation than in the ministrations of the pulpit. The most
defective elocution often marks the delivery of clergymen, in other
respects fully qualified by education and intellectual gifts for theii
office. Sermons of a high order, graceful, nervous and correct iu
language, logical, eloquent, and earnest in thought, often fail

• Elocution.
College, ,,^

By J. H. MgllvaJBe, Pro£ Qf BcUes L«tti;e8 itt I'rittcetoa

I t

Prefacf,

fts of coa-
gcnt study
impersona-
lly corrupt-
Lccpting in
liich would
cntutioQ of

that wliich
ighest art.
;ct back to
• tho sculp-
unpolishcd
D and prac-
of delivery
that clocu-
30 they are
oftiness of
ufficient to
very, when
cution is a
will fail if
)und elocu-
fails of it3
a wholly
t discourse
) defeat its
ance is to
•onger con-
The most
n, in other
s for theii
correct in
often fail

1 l:*rijo,ceton

utterly in their intended cflFort, and would Bcarccly be tolerated
but for the sacrcdness of the eubjcct and the place, because the
miiii&tcr is wanting in one great quality of eloquence, an expressive
elocution. The sublime and beautiful compositions of the Holy
Scri]»ture3 are often perverted in their meaning and lose all their
force because they are read without earnestness, without dignity,
without expression, and often without elegance and correct arti-
culation. It is only when some one of high elocutionary culture,
who puts soul and intellect into voice, wields the same sacred
instrument of religious power, that we learn how much the pul-
pit loses by its negligence of this art, how much it would gain by
its study and mastery.

The literary entertainments, commonly termed Penny Readingi,
commenced in England, and now becoming highly popular in this
country, have given a new impulse to the necessity for the instruc-
tion which this work is intended to supply. Elocution is fast
taking the same rank in this regard as music ; and, if the literary
attractions have not always been as successful or satisfactory as
the musical, it has been owing to the fact that the singer ht.s
studied his art scientifically, while the reader has been utterly
ignorant of the laws of delivery. It is, however, of the first impor-
tance that the taste created i'or this kind of entertainment should
be strengthened and encouraged. To bring home to the Iiearts of
the people the rich treasures of genius, to realize the wonderful
creations of the poet and the writer of fiction, or to renew the
eloquence which once roused nations into action, cannot fail to
elevate and advance the hearers ; while the gifted reader, who
dramatizes and impersonates character, as he renders a tragedy of
Shakspeare, supplies an entertainment which will diminish the
attractions of the theatre, and which is free from its dangerous
associations.

The courses of lessons which this work presents are intended
first to cultivate the speaking voice, and secondly to instruct the
student in the principles, and the rules derived from them, which
constitute a natural elocution. The first department of the work
is physical and the second intellectual. The cultivation of
the speaking voice is of the first importance, especially to those

Preface.

irho arc professionally engaged in addressing the public, whether
fVom the pulpit, the platform, the bar, or the reading desk. The
vocal exercises are indispensable to expression. The cultivated
ppeaking voice has ita own rich and fascinating music — a music
capable of expressing every shade of thought and passion. It is
not absolutely necessary that the student should have a previous
musical training. It is only necessary that he should acquire the
power to distinguish and perform the inflections and pitch of
voico; and a very limited knowledge of the gamut will suffice
for this purpose ; while daily practice in the methods suggested,
and with the exercises supplied, will bring the sure fruit of success.
The application of vowel sounds and syllables forms the first steps
to this culture ; and, to quote the words of Professor IluUah,
" should he find the recitation of these isolated sounds (with
all the variations of inflection proposed) tiresome or ludicrous, he
must remember that all preparatory exercises, mental even as well
as physical, are apt to appear so, partly, no doubt, because practice
is wasted, excepting on what wc can yet do only imperfectly. It
would of course be more amusing to recite connected than uncon-
nected words, as it is more amusing to sing passages than single
notes ; but as assuredly no singing voice ever yet was formed by
the exclusive utterance of anything that could be called music,
so no speaking voice will ever yet be formed by the exclusive
utterance of anything that can be called literature."*

When the voice has been trained to flexibility, and the car
to acuteness of perception, so that pitch and a rising and falling
inflection can be executed at will, the student may then bring
intellect to bear upon the application of the voice to the laws
of thought and speech. As language is the great instrument of
expression, he must have some knowledge of its nature and laws.

A knowledge of the parts of speech is of great value, and as the
relationship and dependence of thought can only be understood by
a grammatical analysis of the sentence, a special lesson explana-
tory of this department of language is introduced into the instruc-
tion. Great objections have very justly been made to the
multiplicity of rules that appear in many works of elocution ; and

• The Cultivation of the Speaking Voice. By John Hullah.

Preface, 7

xvlien rulcil are crowded on the mind, without a reference to
the prmciples from which they are derived, they perplex the
learner. In this work rules are not discarded, for they are
valuable for reference and illustration ; but in all instances, where
the subjects of inflection, modulation, emphasis and pause are
explained, the student is first made familiar with the principles
and the rationale of such rules ; and it may be safely added, that
ho who has made himself master of the principle, will have little
necessity aflbcrwards to refer to rules for his guidance.

In addition to these necessary departments of elocutionary
culture, special chapters have been prepared for professional
purposes, for the clergyman, for the public speaker and the publio
reader. In this respect, the work will not only be found useful as
a class book for schools and colleges; but of great assistanco to
students who have not had the advantage of professional instruo>
tion, and who wish to become their own instructors.

The Selections in the work have been made for the purpose
of practice and publio readings. It is a great mistake to believe
that beauty of composition or splendor of thought is sufficient to
recommend a piece for publio reading. It must, in addition
to these qualities, have dramatic power. There must be something
to keep alive the attention of an audicpcc ; there must, in every
selection for public reading, be passion, fire, and startling eflfect,
or the best delivery will fail to make it attractive. When it
possesses these qualities it is the best suited for public reading or
elocutionary purposes. Many of the selections are new to elocu-
tionary manuals, but they have had the test of experience to
recommend them; they have been selected because they have
proved successful as public readings. These, however, arc not
their only claim to preference. They present some of the finest
examples of eloquence. The practical and dramatic selections, and
those from works of fiction, possess the highest qualities with
which genius makes its creations delightful, attractive, and eleva-
ting. A new feature has also been added to many of these
selections. A scene extracted from a drama or a tale often needs
explanation, — some knowledge of the plot with which it is
interwoven, — and it is always satisfactory to an audience or to

I !

$ Preface,

a roadcr, and certainly adds to the intcrcBt and pleasure arlnin^
from tbo reading, when the reader introduecs his selection
with some brief narrative of the subjeet and the aasociatcd events.
With this view, many of the most important selections have
an introduction of this kind, which certainly is more likely to
please an audience, than a brief statement of the name of the
author, the date of his birth and death, and the names oi all the
works he has written.

This work is, to a large extent, a compilation, and, while the
author may claim some degree of originality for his method,
he gratefully acknowledges his obligations to the philosophical
work of Dr. Hush, who must ever be regarded as the founder of a
scientific elocution; to Mr. Oeoi^ Vandenhoff, whose popular
readings have done so much to advance a taste for the art ; to the
work of Mr. Russell on the Culture of the Voice ; of Professors
Bell, of London and Dublin ; the lectures of Professor Plumptre,
of King's College, London ; and to A System of Elocution by W.
S. Ross. Acknowledgment is duo also to the Authors, native and
foreign, from whose works selections have been made, and to the.
Publishers who may hold any proprietary interests in these selec-
tions. . „

Toronto, October, 1871.

1*J ^■ .-.I

I , ..!„. ■ /

■»<

•- -•-• -,^. ♦>

irc nrinin}?
1 Bclectiott
ted events.
tions have
likely to
ame of the
>g oi all the

I, wliilo the
his method,
philosophical
founder of a
bosc popular
oart-, to the
[)f Professors
or Plumptre,
cution by W.
rs, native and
|de, aud to the
in these selec-

CONTENTS.

PnFFACR

Intkodiction.

TAOr

. 13

Paiit I.-INSTHrCTION IN ELOCUTION.

Ciilliirc and Mnnngt'nii'Ut of tlie V(»ic»>

Oiiniut for tlic Practice of Pitch an»i Modulntioii

Numerical Notutioii of KngllHli Vowels or Tonics

Exercises in Articulation

Qualities of Voice

Accent ,

Time

Accent and Time of Poetry.

Part H.—INTELLECTrAL ELOCUTION.

Rules for Inflection

Rising Intlection ,

Falling Inflection ,

Circumflex Inflections

Monotone

Exercises in Inflection

Interrogations

Modulation— Pitch of Voice and Time

Grouping of Speech

Rhetorical Pauses

Rules for Pauses

Grammatical Grouping of Words

Emphasis

Public Reading ;

The Elocution of the Pulpit

Public Speaking

Gesture and Facial Expression

MISCELLANEOUS PROSE SELECTIONS.

A Camp Meeting in Texas

Dante and Milton

Death of Marie Antoinette

Descrii)tion of the Queen of France

Dives and the Hand of Death

Education in Canada

Elements of Social Advancement

Evil Effects of Suppressing Inquiry

How David Copperheld Wooed and Won Dora

How the Tide Turned

Intellectual Sphere of Women

Labor

Mr. Winkle on Skates

On Human Grandeur

[Riccabocca on Revolution

[The Death of Little Nell

The Fall of Jerusalem— 1780— 1 800

[The Judgment of Herkenbald

;The Past and Present of Canada

I The Schoolmaster and the Conqueror

Trial of the Covenanters

John Gouqh

Lord Macdulay

Thomas Cnrlyle

Edmund Burke

G. A. Sola

Kev. ./. McCaul, LLJJ.
Rev. E. Hyerson^ />./> .

John Milton

Charles J)ickens

Thomas Hughes

John Stuart Mill ,

Thomas Carlyle

Charles Dickens

Oliver Goldsmith

Lord Lytton

Charles Dickens

Rev. G. Croly

W. A. Foster, LL.Ji.

Lord Brougham

Sir Walter Scott

ORATORICAL SELECTIONS.
Address to fl e American Congress Patrick Henry.

15
20
26

38
44

47
48

57
59
(13
07
70
72
74
77
83
85
86
90
92
99
113
125
135

172
183
178
177
150
184
185
175
1(34
152
181
17&
167
174
141
156
109
102
186
180
145

191

Contents.

'ill'

t;'

Against Roligious Distinctions, 179G

JittliUict! of Power

Caimdians and Ainericuns

C'liaiMcler of Napolcoa Bonaparte

Conti'deratiouof tboB. N. A. I'rovinces....
Coii«((iiieuces aiul Wickeduoss of War....

Decliinitiou of Irisli Rights, 1780

Duty of tlie Stale to Educate the Peojile.
Eriyliuid and America

Great Mi ids in their Relation to Cliristianity.

How I'utriuts uiav be Made

IrapeacliiJient of Warren Jlnstiiijrs

Irish Aliens and English Victories

Magiiiiniinily in Politics, 1775

Mr. Slieridan's Invective against Mr. Hastings

Non-intervention Policy

On Co iciliating the Colonies

On Parliamentary Innovations

On liic Death of tlie Dnke of Wellington

On the Liberty of the British Press

On tlie State of the Law

Sectarian Tyr.mny, 1812

The lialance of Power, 182G

The iJeautifnl in Nature and Art

The <^)stof War

The Earl of Stratford's Defence

The End of Government

The Fate of the Reformer, 1830

The FirstStep to Reconciliation with America

The Legislative Union, 18;{4

Uniuu with Great Britain, 1800

J. P. Curran

John Bright

Josi'.jth llowe

Charles Phillipx

r. D'Arcy McUee ....

John Jirighl

llenrji Grattan

Jjord Macaulay

Sir James Macintosh

Lord l-'r»kine

Sir Robert Walpole...

Edmund Burke

H. L. Sheil

E Imun^l Burke

J oh n Uriijhi ,

Richard Vobden ,

Edtii und Burke

Beaufoy

B. IHsraeli

Hir James Macintosh

Jjord Brougham

Henry (hattan

(ho. Cannini)

W. E. Uladkone

John Bright

John J'ym

Bord Brougham

Earl Chatham

iSir Robert J'eel .
Henry Grattan ..

AOE

207

220

241

215

238

223

204

217

199

235

191

200

208

190

202

226

192

214

228

237

211

206

219

231

222

189

190

213

195

210

205

SACRED ORATORY.

Benevolence of God Thos. Chahners, JJ.D.... 248

Faith in the Holy Spirit Canon Liddon 268

Inducement to Earnestness in Religion J. A. James 255

Life Eternal C. 11. Spurgeon 259

Necessity of Law Richard Hooker 244

Paul before Agrippa 266

Psahn XC— Isaiah LV 265

Self Reliance and Prayer W. M. Punshon, M.A. .. 262

Sympathy- F. W. Robe risen 251

The Cruciiixion Bossuet 245

The Future Suite of the Blessed Progressive.. U Melvill, JJ.D 249

The Hope of Heaven John Caird, D.D 261

The Influence of Satan Thos. Chalmers, D.D... . 246

The Majesty of Christ W. A. Butler 256

Zaccheus and the Sympathy of Christ F. W. Robertson 253

POETICAL SELECTIONS.

Abou Ben Adhem and the Angel Leigh Hunt 339

Arria G. E. Jewsbury 293

Barbara Frietchie J. G. Whittier 394

Battle of Flodden and Death of Marmion Sir Walter Scott 428

Bingen on the Rhine Hon. C. Norton 377

" Borrioboola-Gha." Anon 337

Burial March of Dundee W. E. Aytoun 372

Contents.

VAOE

207

220

241

215

238

223

204

217

199

2:^5

191

200

208

19(j

202

226

192

. ... 214

228

1 237

211

206

219

231

222

189

190

213

195

210

205

/>.... 248

268

255

259

244

266

265

3I.A. .. 262

251

245

249

261

D.D.... 246

256

253

339

293

394

428

377

337

372

Comniuiiion with the Dead

Conto-t l)etwt'en the Aiigcl Gabriel .mi Saian

Cow|Mi's (liiivc

Deatli iif (Adistance

Elihu

KngliiiKi';! Dead

Evelyn Mitjjo

Even! ;g" Prayer at a Girl's Scliool.
p] verm ore

Faitlitiii at Vanity Fair ...
Fatlur- of N'i'vv England

(Jive .Me Thv ileart

High

:i I

igii I'f-itinies of Man

H oral ins

Jacqn.- Curlier

John ]!ni\vn

Kin}? Ariliur and Queen Guinevere

Ijady CI ire

Lady (ixliva

iOcliiavar

Loiiist- on tlie Doorstep

Lyciiia-

Maiden liood

Marco IJoz/.arid

Mars ton Moor

Oran-e and Green

Paradi-e and tlie Peri

Puncii and Jiidv

Ring out, W'ildlkdls

Rock Me to Sleep

Santa Filomena

Selection from "The Princess"

Sneecli of Belial in Council

The Battle uf Naseby

The Beautiful Snow

The Bridge of Sighs

The Bugh' Song

The B irial of Moses

The Cane-Bottora'd Cliair

The Ciiarge of the Light IJrigade

The Christian Pauper's Death-bed

The (.Mmri and the True Gentlennin

The E.x.'cutiun of Montrose

The Field of Waterloo

The Funeral of Napoleon I

The Fuiieial of Wellington

The Hi>,diTide on tlie Coast of Lincolnshire 1571

The Isles of Greece

The Ladv's Dream

The M;iy Queen

The Xi \vs of a Day

The Old Clock on the Stairs

The (tld Corporal

The Pas^ion^

The Pieket of the Potomac

The Piimrose

The Private of the Buflfs

r" """

A. Tenniifon ■

.John Milton

K. li. Browninff ,

Sir Wolter ScuU

A/ice Cttrey

F. Ilerniins

R. ISrowning

F. lleni'ins

Anon

iJimih Muloch

S/mti/uc

Aih'liii<le A. Proctor

A. Tennyson

],ord Mncaulay

T. /)'Arry McGee ....

C'/tf/s. Mackay

A. TmnyKon

A. Trnnyxon ,

A. Tvnnyxon ,

Sir \Vitlti;r Scott

Gluts. Mackay

John Miltnn

//. \V. Lnn'ifellotv

Ilallcck ...'

W. M. Prael

Qi-rald Griffin

Thomas Moore

C. I). ColeriJye....

A. Tdnnyson

Elizabeth Akers.,..
If. W. Longfi'llon.

A. Tennyson

•John .Milton

Lord Marauldi/ ...

James Watson

Thomas Hood

A. Tennyson

C. F. Alexander ...
\y. M. Thackeray..

A. Tennyson

C. Soiithfy

A. Tennyson

IF. I'l. Ay town

I.ord liyron.

From the " Maple Leaf"

A. Tennyson

Jean Inyelow

Lord liyron

Thomas I loo I

.1. Tenn i/son

S. T. liolton

//. W. Lonyjellow

r.r-ranger

Wm. Collins

Anon

Chas. Mackay

Sir F. 11. Doyle

From the " Maple Leaf"

A Kg

298

447

.H05

423

278

315

284

283

309

299

317

303

297

3r)4

404

344

440

3i5

434

348

327

311

281

387

364

397

436

342

291

287

280

415

414

366

328

324

292

31)7

351

385

333

297

368

379

408

319

409

400

3,34

270

392

285

381

294

391

340

383

406

j'!

|l:^

Contents.

PAGE

The Reaper and the Flowers 77. W. Lonsfellou: 2U&

The Sack of Baltimore Thos. Davis 389

The i^ecrelary M. E. liraddoti 349

The Sicilian's Tale— King Robert of Sicily.... 7/. W. LoiKjfellow 417

The Sister of Charity Gerald Griffin 274

The Souls of the Children C/ias. Mackai/ 323

The Stranger and His Friend Jus. Monlyoilien/ 3ol

The Tavo Armies O. W. Zfolvies .'. 289

The Vagabonds Trowbruiye 330

The War of tlie League Lord Macaulai/ 3(52

To-day and To-morrow Gerald MasKei} 290

To Mary in Heaven Robert Burns 322

To the Nightingale lolin Keats 402

Trouble your Head with your own Affairs .... Eliza Cook 414

Two Loves and a Life Win. Saui/cr 353

Under Canvas — Wounded Lord Li/tion 305

Ve Mariners of England Thos. Campbell 386

Which Shall It lie Anon 276

DRAMATIC SELECTIONS.

Brutus and Cassius

Cato's Sulilo(juy

Clarence's Dream

Death of Wolsey

Dogberry and the Watch

Fall of Wolsey

Falstaff" and his Soldiers

Fluellyn's Comparisons

Hamlet and his Mother

Hamlet's Advice to the Players

Hamlet's— Soliloquy, Immortality of the Soul.

Hubert and Arthur

King John tempting Hubert to murder

Prince Arthur

Scene from the Honeymoon

Scenes from Henry VIII

Scenes from Ion

Scenes from Macbeth

Scenes from the Lady of Lyons

Scenes from the School for Scandal

Scenes from The Wife

Sfieeches of Brutus and Mark Antony

Speech of Henry V. — Battle of Agiu'court...

The Prayer of Festus

The Progress of Life

Shakespeare 404

Joseph Addison 458

Ibid 499

Ibid 497

Shakesjieare 631

Ibi<l 494

Ibid 533

Shakespeare 544

Shake.yieare 468

Shakespeare 452

Shakespeare 453

Ibid 482

[ Shakespeare 480

.. John Tobin 535

.. Ibid 485

.. Sir T. N. Talfour 501

.. Shakespeare 472

.. Ijytton liuhcer 523

.. R.B.Sheridan 539

.. J. Sheridan Knoivles .... 511

.. Shakespeare 459

... Shakespeare 454

.. r.J. Bailey 456

.. Shakespeare 453

HUMOROUS SELECTIONS.

A Nocturnal Sketch Ibid. 551

Dame Fredegonde W. E. Aytoun 546

Domestic Asides Ibid .'. 550

I'm not a Single Man Ibid 552

Mr. Sinipkinson's Adventures R. II. Barharn 565

Nothing to Wear W. A. Butler 557

The Bachelor's Dream Thomas Hood 549

The Seven Ages of Woman Anon 561

The Quaker and the Robber Savuiel Lover 555

The Well of St. Keyne 7^. Southey 563

Wanted a GoTerness George Dubourg 564

PAGE
. 2U»

. 389
. 349
. 417
. 274
. 323
. 301
. 289
. 330
, 302
. 290
. 322
. 402
. 414
, 353
395
, 386
. 276

. 4(14
. 458
, 499

497
, 531
. 494
, 533
. 544
, 468

452
, 453

482

. 480

. 535

, 485

. 501

472

, 523

539

511

459

, 454

456

453

551

546
550
552
565
557
549
501
555
563
564

THE DOMINION ELOCUTIONIST
AND PUBLIC REiVDER.

INTRODUCTION.

Professor Plumptre in his recently published lectures on Elo-
cution, delivered to the members of King's College, commences
his seventh lecture thus : —

" I remember well that the first lecturer on Public Reading
and Speaking who was appointed in this College, the late Rev.
A. S. Thelwall, never spoke in his lectures of the ^^ ar^ of elocu-
tion as people arc generally in the habit of calling it; but he
always termed it the "science" of elocution and claimed for it
invariably the rank and dignity of a science. And if we are
to take the word "science" in the sense of its original (^sdentia),
as meaning knowledge, I think that a systematic and orderly
arrangement of knowledge on any important subject may fairly
be said to reduce such a subject to a science * * * * For
any instruction that really deserves that character ought to bo
i mdcd on truly scientlJiG principles, upon an intimate know-
ledge of the anatomy and physiology of the organs of voice and
speech, and an accurate acquaintance with tho principles of
spoken language. Mr. Thelwall always contended (and here
I quite agree with him) that a scientfic study of elocution
ittust involve some consideration of tho principles of music;
for unless we understand so much of that science as to be able
to discern how far the principles of music apply to spoken Ian-
g«age (as indeed they do in a measure to all vocal sounds), and
wherein the music of speech dififcrs from tlie music of song, we
shall not only be destitute of any sure foundation for those rules

Introduction.

I I

ill

"M-

by which the management of the voice must be regulated, but we
shall bo liable to many errors and mistakes, and unable to show
how various defects are to be remedied.* And moreover, we
must have continually to make some reference to a higher and
nobler science still, viz., the knowledge of human nature and the
philosophy of mind. Indeed, without due attention to this, how
shall we be enabled fitly to express and intelligibly and eflfoctivcly
to communicate to others the various passions, emotions and con-
victions of the human mind ? There is nothing more certain than
that, if the principles we define and the rules we lay down have
not constant reference to this high and important department of
human knowledge and study, they will most assuredly be in con-
stant danger of failing to have their foundation in truth and
nature; for it is mainly by means of spoken language that mind in
this life here communicates with mind ; and, therefore, it necessa-
rily follows that not only the words which we employ to express in
language our manifold thoughts and feelings, but the manner in
which we pronounce such language so as to produce its fullest
efiect, must have continued reference and adaptation to the nature
and constitution of the human mind."

<■' ^ I Ml II 111 ■ M il ■ 1 ■■■ !■■■ I 1 I I ■ — ^—^■^■■^■^— ^—M — ■ I I ■ ■■■ ■■! <.^j

* Dr. Rush, in his admirable work on the Philosophy of the Human Voice,
maintains similar views : — " Most of the constituents of the musical svstem,
though differently employed, are also found in speech. It is advisable,
therefore, to adopt the musical terms for these identical functions ; since
they are already known to many, and may, through elementary treatise?, be
easily learned by all; and since the application of different names to things
of essential resemblance would counteract one great object of philosophy,
which ia to include all similar phenomena under the same verbal classes,
notwithstanding they may happen to be separated by place and name in
our artificial arrangement." And further ho adds, — " In entering upon this
elementary and important explanation, wherein a recognition of sound is
iibsolutely necessary for comprehending the subsequent parts of this work, I
must beg the reader not to be discouraged by temporary difiBculty. IIo
wh'' sen taught the principles of instrumental or of vocal music, and

is a .0 execute accurately what is called the scale or gamut, will under-
stand the following descriptions without much hesitation. While he who
is ignorant of the relations of musical sounds, and of the regular scale by
which they have been arranged, must on this, as on so many other subjects
of the school which need perceptible illustration, have recourse to a living
instructor." Philosophy of the Iluman Voice, sec. 1, p. 70.

Elocution,

sovcr,
nrlicr and

e and the
this, how
sffoctivcly
3 and con-
rtain than
lovrn have
rtmcnt of

he in con-
truth and
latmind in

it necessa-
> express in

manner in
J its fullest

the nature

luman Voice,
islcal systora,
i3 advisable,
ctions; since
T treatise?, be
0063 to thing3
f philosophy,
erbal classes,

and name in
■ing upon this
m of sound is
)f this work, I
lifficulty. He
;al music, and
t, will under-
While he who
;ular scale by

other subjects
rse to a living

In harmony with such views which are thoroughly sound
and pliilosophical, Elocution may he properly divided into two
hranchcs: I. Physiological, comprehending the culture and
management of the voice and the organs of speech ; and II. the
Intellectual, comprehending the study of the language and
thought of an author, and the logical application of Principles to
expressive delivery.

PART I.

INSTRUCTION IN ELOCTUTTON.

Culture and Management of the Voice.

The vocal organs consist of the lungs, the trachea or windpipe,
the mouth with its various parts, the palate, tongue, teeth and lips,
and the nasal organs. The lungs and trachea perform the first
ofiico. The lungs contain the air, but are themselves otherwise
■ passive. The thorax (or bony pides of the chest) by the action of
the dorsal muscles expels tV from the lungs. The air passes
along the trachea until it reaches the rima or opening chink, at
tlio top, and then enters the back part of the mouth. If no fur-
ther effort be used than the action of the will on the rima, sound
only issues from the mouth ; but if speech, the utterance of words,
be added, the organs of speech, instantaneously and simultaneously
with this expulsion of breath, commence their action, and words
arc uttered.

^ 2. The first effort then must bo that of filling the lungs with
tir, and as a greater amount of air is required /or public reading
»nd speaJeing than conversation, the conditions for constantly
Replenishing the lungs must be carefully attended to.
I 3. The normal attitude must be that of standing at ease, with
|he person erect, the head elevated, but not with stiffness, and the

^oulders thrown back, so as to give the lungs full scope for action.*

"m • ■ _^____^_^__^_^_^_

\ • This does not mean that we are to stand unmoved like statues. The
|ody may, for expressive attitudes, vary its position, incline forwards,
backwards, or sideways, or for relief occasionally lean on the Reader's
4esk, but the normal attitude must never be forgotten. These views have
"Bceived further confirmation from Prof. Hullah in his essays on the culti-

ition of the speaking voice. Much, however, of what Prof. Hullah says

13 been anticipated in Dr. Rush's work.

Instruction in

i [ ';

4. The breathing must be regular and noiseless. The speaker
must not exhaust his lungs, and then, with a great gulping effort,
refill them. Ho must start with a full breath, and continue
deliberately to breathe during tho highest excitenaejit. a^ §very
rhetorical pause.

5. Tho breath must at all times, during speech or silence, but
above all during speech, he drawn in through the nostrils.

G. This mode of breathing may be done without closing the
mouth, which during speech would be an awkward interruption,
by a slight application of the upper surface of the tongue to the
roof of the mouth, accompanied at the same time with a very slight
and almost imperceptible drawing back of the head.

7. During the act of speaking the utmost care must be taken

to economize the breath. AH the breath that issues from the

mouth must be resolved into distinct sound. If the vocal effort

be marked by huskiness or strong aspirations, such a mingling of

breath with sound as may be felt by the hand, or as would blow

out the flame of a candle, there are waste and irritation of the

vocal organs.

" The action upon the sound by the organs of speech will exercise a due
control over the expulsion of the breath. This action of articulation not
only counteracts but, in fact, forms the muscular support of the trachea,
which would otherwise be forced from its position by the breath."— "^^«
Human Vuice," by the Rev. W. W. Cazalet, M.A. Cantab.

Vocal Gyrnnast'ics.

8. The following exercises must be practised daily with full
attention to the conditions already given. Their purpose is to
give control over the vocal organs, to enlarge their power, and to
improve the tone and purity of the voice. They may be practised
separately or in succession for a period of ten or fifteen minutes
each time. While they are indispensable to the special end in
view, they are also highly beneficial to general health.

9. Exercise I. Read aloud any passage of prose or poetry,
with especial reference to breathing frequently and through the
nostrils. (5)

10. Exercise IL Inhale a full breath, hold on for a moment,
then pour out the breath in a regular, deep and calm stream as if
uttering the sovmd " ah,'^ Repeat this six or twelve times.

Elocution.

11. Exercise III. — Draw in the breath again (through tho nos-
trils) and, after a momentary suspension, expel it with a sudden
and powerful impulse like the effort of a cough. Repeat as in II.
Let the pause between each exercise bo as brief as possible. f!>fv

12. Exercise IV. — Head any passage of poetry in a distinct,
powerful whisper, such as shall exhaust tho lungs after every two
or three words. Let the enunciation be clear, deliberate, finished
and audible, as if shouting in a whisper loud enough to be heard at
some distince from the f^pcaker, the mouth boing rounded as in
speaking " awe," and the voice issuing from the chest rather than
the lips. This is a very difficult exercise but of the first Impor-
tance in strengthening the vocal organs. It cannot bo continued
beyond ton or fifteen minutes, and when tho student feels a dizzi-
ness in the head he must cease.

13. ExcrciscV. — The next exercise is thus described by Dr. Rush.
*' It is preceded by a cessation of the voice. There seems to be a
momentary occlusion in the larynx, or somewhere, to speak with
caution, by which the breath is barred and accumulated for tho
purpose of a full and sudden discharge." In other words let the
I tudent open his mouth to its full extent. The lungs are well
filled with air, the rima or mouth of the windpipe closed and then
the sounds " ah" " oh" " awe" &c., are as it were, driven forcibly,
sharply and suddenly out, with an effect like an explosion. Let
the same exercise be performed with the highest de»^ree pf {qipcg on
BUch syllable as the following: ^ . .

" Arm, All, On, Off, Begone.
Back, Quick, Stand, Die."

It may also be compared to a loud and suddeu cough, without
its aspiration, or the ringing '-ha, lia'^ of a hearty laugh. It is
recommended to all who have weak voices, and is most important
to public readers and speakers, who wish to acquire an instantar
neous control over the commanding and startling functions of tho
voice.

Caution. — When practising these exercises, the chin, lips and
tongue must bo immovable, the act of vocalization must be easy
and graceful ; the student must avoid moving his head up and
down in sympathy with the vocal action ; the shoulder and chest be

'r>i»

■ J I I

InBtruction in

I a

held steadily up, not falling as the lungs are emptied ; and the
expulsion of breath be executed by the muscles of the thorax and
the diaphragm.

Pitch and Inflection.

14. Speakers and readers, ignorant of the principles of elocu-
tion, have the most confused and erroneous ideas of pitch and
inflection. Very few can distinguish between a rising and falling
inflection and the pitch of the voice ; yet the great power land charm
of that impressive delivery wliich characterizes alike the accom-
plished orator, actor or reader, are chiefly due to these two actions
of the voice, and, however excellent the matter, the force and
meaning of thought are weakened and distorted, and their beauty
marred by a violation of the principles which should guide the
management of the voice. It is, therefore, of the first importance
that the student of elocution should train his voice and ear as
early as possible, so that the former shall acquire flcxiblcness and
purity of tone, and the latter shall distinguish instantaneously the
slightest modifications of vocal sounds.

15. It is not necessary to success in expressive delivery that the
student should have a musical training and a musical ear. It
will, however, greatly facilitate the end in view if he can so
master the gamut as to be able to run up and down the scale with
correctness, and to distinguish one sound from another. He must
be able to change the tones of his voice from a low pitch to a
middle pitch and to a high pitch, and to slide his voice upwards
and downwards at will, and know when he does this in harmony
with his will.

16. The DEEPEST TONES of the voice are essential to all solemn
delivery ; the middle or conversational tones are the most easy and
natural, and should form the normal voice of the speaker and
reader. The higher tones are those we assume under the
influence of great excitement and earnestness. The deepest tones
require special attention to the vocal organs ; the lungs must be
well filled ; the tone should originate in the back of the mouth,
while the mouth itself is hollowed, rounded as it were, and kept
Bufl&cicntly open to give power to the tone.

17. To command these tones, so as to assume at once th.e proper

Elocution.

pitch required, the student should practice on the gamut what is
'tailed the Diatonic Scale, striking the lowest note and then ascend-
ing to the highest.

Ascen'Ung.
Ho Ke IVIl Fa Sol La

All

I— S»-

tzs:

1122::

M Do Ro IVII

Ah Ah

All Ah

IVII Re Do

Descendinff.
Si La Sol

Pa ITII Re Do

i^iiH^^iiiiiPllii

Ah Ah Ah Ah

Let the Student practice this musical scale until lie can distin-
guish at least between a hir/U note and a low one. This will give
some idea of pitch. The lowest note Do ascending might be
regarded as a low pitch, the notes from Fa to La a,s the middle
pitch and 'A\ succeeding notes as high pitch.

It will add to the advantage of the practice, and greatly
improve what, in musical language, is called pure tone, if the
student will practice the scale in the following method adopted
from Russell's "Orthophony."

18. " Immediately before producing each sound, breath should
be taken so as completely to inflate the lungs ; and, after pausing
an m.stant, with the chest well expanded, the sound should

I commence witli firmness, but with great softness, tlion be gradually
augmented to the loudest degree, and succeeded by being as
gradually diminished to the degree of force with which it began.
Each tone should be prolonged from eighteen to twenty seconds.
I This exercise as a general rule should be continued for about two
[months ; singing the scale daily about four times. " — Professor J.
|C Webh, of the Boston Academy of Music.

19. The cliief object of the above exercise is to give the pupil
I a knowledge o{ pitch, and to purify the voice ; and the following

I diagram of the diatonic scale practised as directed below will be of
i other further service. •

<> M

Instruction in

I 1

i IK

GAMUT FOR THE PRACTICE OF PITCH AN'D MODULATION.
{Adapted from " A St/stem qf Ehculiou," L>/ W. S. Jioaa.)

8th (Octave.) DO. \lo! tbomightysunlooVsforth.l '^""0 "/ '^'g^ c*0'<«

lUOllt.

-XI ,o .» > L.. I Arm tlioii, the loader of the \ i>i,.. ...,„ „i„.^

7th (Semitone.) SI. \ north' \ rlorclng alarm.

Cth Tone.

r » \ Oh, then 1 Koo Queen Mub lias \ , „, „„ ... i,„_„.
''^- \ been whh you. \ Joy or high humor.

6th Tono

L .° , \ Lo! they com'*, ;,'arluu«.U for \ ,, ,,■,,,„„

(Dominant SOL. \ every ehriue. , \ Bold lone.

]iitch.)

4th Tone
(Sub-domi-
nant.) I

3rd (Semi-
tone.)

FA.

Seasons return; but nut tome

returns , ,,,

Day, or the ewoot n]>proach of \ Oiavo lono.
even or morn.

MI.

Othou eternal Mover of the

Heavens \ Solemn and

Look with a gentle eye upon \ caruost appeal.

this wretch.

2ad Tone.

1st Tono
(Key-note.)l

BE.

Fountain of Light Tliyself in-
visible.

Solemn orcv
tuud Tone.

DO.

Oh, coward conscience how \ Tpne of so-
thou dost affright me. » lomnaweor

terror.

20. Explanation and method of practice.

This diagram is another form of the gamut (17). The student
must strike, as nearly a» he can the lowest note Do on the scale.
Then let him read slowly and distinctly in one tone, that on which
lie commenced the lines beginning " Oh, coward conscience," &c.
He must then ascend one note lie, and, in a similar manner
sounding it, read the line '' Fountain of Light." In this manner
lie proceeds upwards, sounding each key note and then reading in
monotone, but not chanting the lines attached to that note. After
reaching the upper Do, he may with equal advantage descend the
scale in a similar manner. This should be done many times in
succession until the ear becomes familiar with each pitch. When
this amount of progress is attained, the student should endeavour
next to take up any line and key note at once, and without run.
ning through the whole diagram to "strike" it. The lowest

Elocution.

r high humor.

tones, cspcciully the Do should bo tho most frequently practised.
Tho lowest tones form the natural basis of tho voice and their
development by practice not only gives clearness and purity but
id most important for tho utterance of solemn and dignified
thought, or of pathos and passion.

Injhction.

21. Dr. Hush has termed the movement of tho voice on tho
musical notation discrete and the speaking inflection or upward
and downward slide of the voice concrete. When tho singing
voice passes from Do to lie from Jie to Mi, &c., it pauses between
each sound, steps as it were from one sound to another; but when
the speaking voice in the following question, asked with passionate
earnestness, slides upwards on the word " palm," it moves through
at least five note?», say from Do to Sof, with one coutinuous slida
and without ;iny pause.

"I an itching palm?"

There is no subject in the science of elocution that demands
more earnest attention than this of inflection. There is no more
common or greater defect in the delivery of public speakers and
all kinds of readers than this one of inflection. Not one reader
in a hundred, educated or uneducated, can instantly discriminate
between a rising and a falling inflection; and the difficulty is
increased when the exact extent of the inflection must be measured
by the ear to give the delivery due expression. Yet, as Professor
Plumptre justly remarks: "nothing adds more to the grace,
elegance and full efiect of reading or speaking than the right use
of the inflections of the voice."

22. The student must first acquire the physical power to inflect
the voice at will and with grace, and an
nature and compass of the inflection.

"ear" to determine tho

'• • ; r- , Definitions.

(a) When the inflection is a rising one the voice slides upwards.
(6) When the inflection is & falling one it slides downwards,
(c) When the two elides are combined the inflection is called
eircumjlex.

Instruction in

H> *l

; :

I H!

(J) The combination takoa two forms: (1) an upward followed
without pause or interval by a downward iofloction ; (2) a down-
ward followed by an upward.

(e) In groat carncstuoss and pasHiun a 8till further combination
id given.

(y) When the tone i.s continuiitlve, it is called monotone.

Explanation. — Tiio monotone mcians one and tlic same tone.
There is a bli^^ht ui)w;ird inflection in the most regular monotone;
but it is scarcely jxTceived by the car, and as the same tone is
applied to each word, tlie term i.s an ai)propriatc one. It has boon
compared to tljc continuous tolling of a boll, swelling and dying
on the car.

It* the studoiit will now strike the sound Do on the gamut, and
slide upward witli his voice in a continuous stream until he
reaches the hiulu'st Do, ho will sound a rising inflection, and if he
then '^tart iVoni the hi^lier Do and slide downward in a like
continuous stream he will sound the falling inflection.

23. The di'll'ct of ear and vocal power in this department of
elocution is, however, so general that the following practice is
further reconnncnded :
Do-Re Do.ini Do-Fa Do-Sol Do.La Do-Sl Do-Do Do-Re

'^Z?'

:221C

st>-

125:

:=Z22;

All

-S>-

Ah All Ah Ah Ah Ah Ah Ah

Explanation. — Having struck as nearly as possible the lowest
note, let the voice ascend on the exclamation " aA," one note,
which may be called a ditone. Again, starting on the same
lowest note let it run up to the next note marked Mi, and so let
the practice be continued through the scale. The expression in
the first or second bar would be one of careless indiflference ; from
the first to the fourth or fifth it would be one of wonder ; while that
from the first to the highest would be a tone of passionate earnest-
ness or alarm. Having run through the scale on the upward slide,
the student should next descend on the scale in a similar sliding
manner. When the voice has received no culture and is strongly
governed by provincial tones, the descent will be more irregular*"

Elocution.

dofectlvo, niul difficult than the nsoont. Tho niovcment on the
Btrinp^s of a violin will aid the oar and the voice in thin practice.
But difficult as it will no doubt bo, especially to adults, the dlffi,culty
must he ovrrcomc. A correct and Hwit't power of inflectioa is
indispensable to expressive delivery.

24. In conjunction with this cxcrciso on " ah,^' the following
and Bimilar table of questions and answers should bo read, the
Btudont varying the compass or extent of the inflection from tho
tone of indiff(>rence or the fUtone to that of extreme carnestne.sji
or the octave.

Tho practice must be contlnui'd daily in both cases in propor-
tion to the dulncss of the car and the inflexibility of the voice.

25. Tho mark (') indicates a rising inflection.
The mark (* ) indicates a f;dling inflection.

2G. Rising inflcctton followed
by the Falling,

Did ho say idle or idol ?
Did he say mettle or metal ?
Did he call Mary or John ?
Should wo say Yes or No ?
We should not say evil, but ev'l.

Falling inflection followed hy
the Rising.

II(.i .said idle, not idol.
He said mettle, not metal.
He called IMary, not John.
He should say Yes, not No.

He should say ev'l, not evil.

Observe. — As the voice difters in sex and in each individual,
it is not necessary that the starting key-note or first tono of
inflection should be equally low or high. Each student must
adopt his or her lowest tone for the starting point, and then
advance on the slide as directed.

27. Any words or syllables will do for this practice, and, after
the student has gained some facility in it, he should arbitrarily
select words and give them either inflection. School teachers,
with whom chiefly lies the work of reformation and general
improvement in reading and elocution, will find it an excellent
practice, both for themselves and their pupils, if they direct their
pupils to give either inflection at command and without refcrenca
to principles or rules.

28, The circumflex inflection. The student who has acquired

' ^1

I , 'i
■ ' ..IS

I .11

Instruction in

the power of giving l)otli inflections will have nO difficulty Willi the
circumflex inflections. It will, however, give additional flexibility
to the voice and acuteness to the ear, if the two inflections be

/—N /-\ v—^ ^-y

united, first on such sounds as ah, oh, &c., as ah oh, ah oh, and
then on words as :

No doubt ye arc the people, and Wisdom will*die With you.

29. The student who has carefully atid diligently pi^ri^tiscd
these lessons on the management of the breath and the Voice, on
pitch and inflection, must not confine himself to the exercises laid
down. He may apply the new powers he has thus gained to
general reading with safety and advantage. Further studies will
enable him to judge more correctly, but the culture of the voice
and ear must be constant. For practice in breathing and pitch
let appropriate exercises be Selected from this volume, and daily
reading aloud be as constant a duty as any other pursuit ; and, what-
ever inflection is to be given, let the student give that inflection at
will, and carefully listen to his voice to ascertain that he did give
the intended inflection. This preparatory culture of ear and voice
will make the application of rules— the intellectual department of
elocution — an exercise of comparative ease. Judgment, conception,
tind some grammatical knowledge will then be sufficient to make
the delivery expressive and truthful.

Articulation,

30. The previous lessons have reference to the culture and
management of the voice. By this culture the speaker succeeds
in making himself heard. The student is now to learn that a
well-trained voice is but an instrument which, without other and
higher qualities, will be of little value in the expression of thought
and passion.

31. Articulation and the true sounding of the vowel
elements are the first essentials in making ourselves understood by
an audience.

A good articulation consists in giving every letter and syllable
of a word its full and finished sound.

32. A public speaker possessed of only a moderate voice, if hd

Elocution*

articulates correctly, will bo better understood, and heard with
greater pleasure, than one who vociferates without distinct articu-
lation. The voice of the latter may indeed extend to a consider-
able distance, but the sound is dissipated in confusion. Of the
former voice not the smallest vibration is wasted ; every stroke is
perceived at the utmost distance to which it reaches ; and hence it
has often the appearance of penetrating even farther than one
which is loud, but badly articulated.

" In just articulation the words are not to be hurried over nor
precipitated syllable over syllable, nor as it were melted together
into a mass of confusion ; they should not be trailed or drawled,
nor permitted to slip out carelessly so as to drop unfinished ; they
should be delivered from the lips as beautiful coin, just issued
from the mint, deeply and accurately impressed, neatly struck by
the proper organs, distinct in due succession, and of due weight."
— Austin's Cliironomia.

33. Introductory to instruction and practice in articulation,
the student must form a clear and correct idea ot the elementary
sounds of the letters of lanaiuage. These sound- have nothincj to
do with the najnes of such letters ; the names arc clumsy and
unphilosophical means by which children are torttir^d into the art
of reading. Elocution discards the names, but demands the closest
attention to the true sounds of letters as they occur in words.

34. The vowel sounds. — The scientific arrangement of the
alphabet is due to Dr. Rush, and, as it is the best adapted, both for
simplicity and appropriateness, to the end in view, it is, with some
slight modifications and additions, adopted in this work and
recommended to the earnest attention of the student.

35. The vowel sounds have a full tone, can be sounded by the
action of the lungs, the trachea and the pharynx, and the modifi-
cations of the vaulted arch of the palate, and arc therefore called

TONICS.

37. It is of the first importance that the student should
understand the capabilities, i. e., the true sounds of these tonics.

(1) because they aid in correcting vulgarisms and provincialisms;

(2) because they are the means by which slow and expressive
reading is effected.

Instruction in

^: Ji

NUMERICAL NOTATION OF ENGLISH VOWELS OR

TONICS.

1' ::.,

'• ill

L E M E N T S .

(

[From IMV

sPr

Inciplcs (

jf Speech.)

1. (

:-)

cc-1

(-)

ca-rn

2. (

' "-' \

i-ll--f=

1).

K")

u-rn u-p,

3. (

r \

a-lef

10.

(-n

a-11, o-n,

4. (

'■^—^

c-11, c-re

11.

( ^

o-re

5. (

' '"' ^

a-u

12.

(-)

o-ldt

6. (

a-sk

13.

ir^)

p-oo-1, p-ull

7. (

a-h

Compound Sounds.

7-1, I-sle; 7-13, Ow-1; 10-1, Oi-1.

38. Observations on the Tonics. — Tlie tonic or vowel I,
as in No. 2, is liable to abuse iu this country in such words as :

Ability wrongly pronounced abilaty
docility '• '• docilaty

lenitive " " lenative

That is the i is cither sounded like a or ?/, but should be
sounded always like i iny?t, brt, sill,ji?ll, &c,

39. The A in elegant utterance vanishes or ends slightly in ce
as in gate, ail, &c., which, by a refined English speaker would be
pronounced ga {ee) te, a (ce) /, &c. Speakers from the north of
Ireland and Scotland betray their nationality by omitting this
sound, as ga-ate, b-a-ate.

40. E in such words as ielievo, redeem, refer, &c., lies between
(1) and (2), but in this country there is a strong tendency and
practice to pronounce words witli this element in them improperly,
thus :

WW- vent for c-vent, huf-f ore for before, twMieve for be-lieve,
rwp-'pent for repent, &c.

41. I. This letter many writers pronounce to be a compound of
a in far, and c (No. 1) in eel.

locution.

. should be

Mr. Vandcnhoff, however, whose experienced and cultivated
judgment, as well as liipjh rank as a reader, command!'! respect in
every thing connected with elocution, considers tlie sound of I to
b3 a compound of u (No. 9) in ns, and e (No. 1.) in eve, which
he affirms will be manifest, if we sound u-e separately and slowly
at first and then rai)idly together. Either view will, however,
serve to correct the delect, common in the dialects of the North of
England and some parts of Ireland, of sounding i like oi in voice
ua/oine, for fine.

42. The student is recommended to sound — I. Each of the
above vowel sounds separately, (1) in whispers, (2) in orotund
tone with a rismg inflection varying from a ditone to an octave;
(3) with u falling iufloction with similar variations ; and (4) in
monotone.

II. — To select words with these vowels in them for similar
exercises.

III. — To read aloud in low. middle and high pitch the follow-
ing exercise in which the tones or vowels are numbered agreeably
with the numbers in the table.

7 + 13 12 2+9 2 9 4 1 10 9+1 2 10

Thou glorious mirror where the Almighty's form

542424 4 2 10 9 i-l

Glasses itself in tempests; ia all time

7 10 10 9 2 1 10 3 10 10

Calm or convulsed, — in breeze or gale or storm

9+12 9 12 10 2 9 10 2 9+1
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime

7 12 9+13 4 4 4 5 9 9+1

Dark-heaving boundless, endless, and sublime

122 10 1422 9 12

The image of Eternity — the throne

2 2 2 19 1 » 7+13 9+1 9+1
Of the Invisible, even from out thy slimo

9 10 9 10 9 1 7 3 1 12

The monsters of the deep are made : each zone.

12. 3 1 7+13 12 4 il 4 6 9 4 5 12

Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.*

43. Exercises of this character assist in purifying the vowel
utterances, and in correcting provincialisms, and the student who
needs improvement in this respect is recommended to mark other
passages in the same way.

• Adapted from " Bell's Manual of Elocution."

I ''I

»■■ !!

'•■• I

Instruction in

Consonant Sounds— *9«t6-^onics and A-tonic$.

44. Tlioso letters commonly called consonants arc divided into
two classes : first, those which in addition to breath require voice,
as b, d, 771, V, &c. These arc termed sub-tonics by Dr. Rush,
iKJcausc, although possessing- tone, that tone is inferior in fullness
and power of sustainmont to the true tonics ; and, secondly, pure
breath cMmonants such as p, Jc, t, s, /, <&c. ; ihcy are called
a-tonics, or consonants whose sound is without tone.

45. Table of Sub-tonics and A-tonics.

SUB-TOMC

A-TOMC

OIJ

Oroanio Actios.

EzAUPLse.

VOICK,

Breatfi.

Labial.

B-ab Pop.

Lingua-dental.

D-id Tat.

Guttural and Palatal.

G-o-g K-i-k.

Labia-dpntal.

V-i-v F-i-f.

Dental-sibilants.

Z-u-z S-i-8.

Lingua-palatal-sibilant.

J-u-j Ch-ur-ch.

Palatal-sibilant.

Az-uro vision Sh-u-sli.

Lingua-dental.

Th-cm Th-in.

Lingua-palatal,

R-omo ba-B.

Lingua-palatal.

L-u-11.

Labial-nasal.

M-u-m.

Lingua-palatal and nasaL

N-u-n.

Nasal-palatal.

ri-N G ri-N G i N Q

Propelled breath.

Il-ah Ua-h

Labial -semi- vccal.

W-ow Wh-en

Palatal-semi-vocal.

ro-y Yet

46. Observations. — The student must acquire a full know-
ledge of the sound of each of these articulations.

If in each example he begins to sound the word and instantly
ceases when he has sounded the initial letter he will acquire this
power. Thus, in the word B-ab, let him stop before he sounds
ab and he will sound the initial B. Let him next observe a gene-
ral rule, viz., that he first put the speaking apparatus into the
position of utterance ; as in sounding B he presses the lips tightly
together. If he stop here, keeping the lips together, the sound
is unfinished. This is the position ; the completion of the sound
requires a separation of the lips, that they should subside into
their first or normal condition ; this is the action and completion
of the sound. Every complete sound of a letter therefore,

Elocution,

a full know-

requires, first, position; second, action.'^ The action must be
'prompt, instantaneous and complete or the utterance will be defec-
tive, and ptammoring will result.

47. When sounding tliesc letters, t ikc breath before each sound,
and let the lower jaw descend after its completion.

48. P T K hiivc no sound in their position; thoy finish with a
slight puff as i^or emission of breath as K^ T, which must he heard.
This is of great importance when these letters end a word. Bad
readers and speakers, in such a word as ''stop'' will bring the
lips together on the p, but neglect to re-open them and complete
the sound with the final puff of tho p, and the word will sound
like staw. The final letter of one word must be completed before
commencing the initial letter of the next loord.

40. The organs — the lips in P, the tongue in T and K — must
be separated that the air compressed in the mouth may escape.
Here an important distinction must be observed. The air con-
tained in the mouth only must be ejected, and not any more air
fient out of the lungs. The emission of air from the glottis must
be checked, or a defect common to stammerers, and, in fact, to all
whose articulation is imperfect, will be established. This defect
consists in allowing the chest to fall, and, by tlie continuation of
breath after the separation of the organs and the utterance of tho
letters, an Jispiration like that of h is heard, as lijy-h, lit-h,
strucJc-h. Not only is the true force of the articulation thus lost,
but the lungs are exhausted, and the trachea, to the great injury
of health, is forced improperly forward without that counteracting
check which should attend healthful articulation.

50. 11. This letter has two sounds. It is sounded faintly
he/ore a consonant, and at the end of a word ; as guard, bar.
It is sounded with something between a trill and a buzzing vibra-
tion of the tongue before a vowel ; as, roar, round, rough. After
a long vowel it has a vowel sound ; as, soar.

51. K and O. There is an affected theatrical mode of pro-
nouncing these letters in such words as kind, card, garden, guard,
girl, guide, guile, &c., which are pronounced as if ce or y followed
the K or G, as Kee-ind, Keeard, and Gee-ard. This is a violation

• " BeU'fl Maaual of ElocaUon."

Instruction in

III
1 I

' •! i

of good English and must bo avoided. The rule to be observed is
that, in the following words, elegant pronunciation, while it discards
the theatrical excess of Kce-ind, requires a very slight sound of
e where the apostrophe i.s placed, viz. : — K'ind, g'uide, g'uile,
g'uise, k'indness, beg'uilc. Unless this can be done with correct-
ness and due elegance the safest course is to give the usual com-
mon sound.

52. NGr. Some speakers neglect the G, as, strenth for
sfreng-th, smlmjln^ for swlngiuj ,- others give the G too much
sound, as, ring-glnrj, swlng-ging. Let the student understand
clearly +he organic position and attiou. Tlic sound commencing
in the throat (guttural) is scat out through the nose (nasal) to
complete it. (See G7.)

53. As "fast reading" is a very prevalent defect, and is not
corrected by pausing between every word, but by a proper timing
of the vowels and sub-tonics, the following principles and exercises
will be of service in acquiring the power to " read slow" : —

54. Rule I. — Syllables which contain or terminate with long
vowel sounds, or with ?, m, n, r, ng, v, tJi (voice sound as in ^^em)
can be prolonged. Prolong the following words, varying the
inflections :

All, arm, awe, bull, balmy, dare, eve, eel, evil, fool, poor, befall,
trail, dew, holy, reveal, doom, moan, rolling, prove.

Read the following examples with the same prolonged tone : —

Roll on thou deep and darJc blue ocean — I'oll.
I thought I scao a thousand /earful wrecks,
A thousand men that fishes griawed u^on ;
then began the tempest of my soul.

Select other similar passages for practice.

55. Rule II.— Syllables containing short voicels, and termi-
xif,tlnf> m h, d, g, p, t, k,/ s, cannot be elegantly prolonged ; as,

j*ttack, back, biickward, beck, sick, up, fit, bad, dog, put,
enough, pass.

OiiSLuvATiON.— Emphasis or force is given to such words by
quickness of utterance, and then by briefly pausing after the syllar
bio containing such elements ; as,

Which, if not vici-tory, is ^et "1 revenge I

J *!

strenth for

Elocution.

*
If I can catch him once upon the hip

I will feed/a^ "^ the ancient grudge I bear him.

Bach "^ to th^ punishment false fugitive I

Y\\fig\U "^ till from my bones my flesh be hacked, *•

Up "^ sluggards, vp t **

Oyec7''lcfool!

Be ready gods with all your thunderbolts,

Dash "^ him to pieces !

A slave, that is not twentieth part the tythe

Of your precedent lord, a vice of kings ;

A cut "'purse of the empire, and the rule,

That from a shelf "^ the precious diadem stolo

Xn(\. put it *^ in his ^joc/cc^

I have seen the day, with my good biting falchioQ

I would have made them skip.'^

Faithful to whom, to thy rebcUioua crew I

Fit "1 body, to fit "^ head.

Exercises in Articulations.

66. These exercises should be practised by all persons of
defective powers of utterance, who desire to attain excellence and
finish of delivery. Each word should bo uttered with the fullest
distinctness and precision ; each syllable should have its proper
accent, heavy or light ; each vowel its quantity and its correct
sound. Again, the student should practice the inflections on each
word, rising and falling, circumflex and mouotono, with varying
compass. Then let him apply the median stress (p. 40, par. 82) to
long quantities (sec Rule 1 above) and the radical stress (p. .39, par.
81) to short quantities (see Ivulc II.) When the words contain
elements diflicult to bo pronouucod, such as the labials and labial
dentals (see Table page 28,) it will greatly aid precision of utter-
ance to pronounce a numljer of words in succession with the
greatest possible rapidity. In fact every form of practice on these
words will facilitate the final object, a cLsar and distinct and
masterly enunciation of the language we spoak.

57. Labials B P M. These are formed by contact of the lips,
followed in the case of tltc p by a sort of explosive whisper, and
in that of B, accompanied by a sort of murmur as if heard in the
throat, which should be prolonged. The samo observation refers
to k and g, t and J.

■

Instruction in

Pup, pope, pomp, plump, pippon, pumpkin, papacy.

Peter Piper, picked a peck of pepper.

The barbarous Hubert took a bribe to kill the royal babe.

Abuse the city's best good men in metro

And laugh at peers that put their trust in Peter.

The South Sea bubble put the public in a hubbub.

Of man's miraculous mistakes this bears the palm,

And bubbling, and troubling, and doubling,

And grumbling, and rumbling, and trembling;

And thumping and plumping, and bumping, and jumping ;

All ut once and all o'er with a mighty uproar.

And this way the water comes down at Lodore.

5S. D T.

'These sounds are formed by the pressure of the forepart of the
tongue against the palate, the tip touching the upper gum ; the
action is a forcible separation of the organs.

D. — day, did, deed, judged, derided, strengthenedst, modest,
pedant, could.

He licks the hand just raised to shed his blood.

T. — tan, tear, Xease, toast, tart, tempt, debt. Take any shape
but that.

When d follows a breath sound it becomes itself a breath
sound = t, as laced, danced, chafed, laughed, chopped, wrecked.

A tell t-ilc, tattling termagant that troubled all the town,

Trials and troubles turn with time and tide.

59 G K.

These letters require the back part of the tongue to press
against the palate. The organs separate for the completion with
a sort of explosion.

C^---gag, gay, guide, gregarious, giggle, dig, csSi vague, guerdon,
ragged, gimblct.

He gave a guinea and he got a groat.
Guilty gamblers greedily grasp gold.
A giddy giggling girl her kinsfolks plague.
Her manners vulgar and her converse vagus,

K. cake, coke, eke, pique, quake, cucumber, flaccid, conquer,
calico, vaccinate.

A black cake of curious quality.

The clumsy kitchen clock click-clicked.

60.— V F (labial dental.)

Formed by pressing the upper teeth upon the under lip.

Remember that of is sounded ov, but in compounds /retains its
Bound; as, thereof, whereof, &o. Ph represents/, but in nephew
ph is sounded as v.

Elocution,

V. — vlv. — Rovive, vilo, nephew, vivid, votive, grovel, heavenu
\F. — at".— Fit'j, chafo, laugh, sylph, sphinx.

^ Hj tillod the draught and freely quaffed,

And puffed the fragrant fume and laughed.

61. Z and S.

Observe that after a voice sound S is sounded like Z, and after
a breath sound like C, solt.

Maze, bl izc, as, has, is, was, oaths, breathes, hand*, plagues,
drowns, raisins, puzzle.

lie <j;ivc.?, as his usage at this season, a series of sermons on
moral duties.
S like C soft.

(2) Similar sights and sounds savor certainly of satiety.
(1) Sis, siege, soil, posts, boasts, costs, beasts, rests, nests, lasts*

Thou'rt not thyself,
•f For thou exist'st on many thousand grains

That issue out of dust. Hippy thou art not.
For what thou hast not still thou striv'st to get,
And what thou hast forget' st.

62. J and CH.

Application of the back part of the tongue to the mouth.

Join, judge, joy, rajah, jaw, jew.

Judge not that ye lao not judged.

Chit, chew, chop, church.

Charity, each, vouch, mature, Chichester.

63. Observe there is a strong tendency to pronounce d when
followed by a u sound, as, dew, duty, duke, like J, as dew, jew ;
duty, juty ; duke, juke. To correct this teadency let the speaker
pronounce tlio words thus : di/no dijake dyuty. It is eqiiallj
improper to ;;ronouncc duty, duke, as dooty, dooke, &c., which
many do in this country.

64. ZH and SH.

The organic position and action are similar to J and Ch. The
tongue is turned back, while the breath or voice passes over it and
along its sides.

Rasure, erasure, leisure, fusion, vision, sash, strove, sure,
chaise.

The shade he sought and shunned the sunshine.

The we:ik-cyed bit
With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing.
Shrill shabby shrews should surely show shame,

65. TH.

Voice and breath sounds, formed by pressing the end of the
tongue against the fore teeth. Th, breath sound :

h Ilii

Instruction in

Leng-th, bath, mouth, sixth, thwart, hundrcd-th, thousand-th.

Ho sat on the six-th seat.

From nature's chain whatever link you strike,

Tenth or ten thousand-th, breaks the cliain alike.

Theodore Thickthoru thrust thistles through tho thick of his

thumb.

TH.

Voice sound.

Booth, paths, witli, oaths, cither, father, bequeath.

lias God, tliou Iboi I worked solely ibr thy good,

Thy joy, thy pastime, thy attire, thy food?

GG. L, M, N, 11.

These are li(iuids and are strictly vocal.

For I the tongue touches the upper gum.

For m lips closed ; sound, nasal.

For ?i tongue as in 1; sound, nasal. -

For r tongue vibrates against the upper gum at the bfeglnning

of words; at the end it i.i slightly curled and the r sounded more

smoothly. Lull, oil, marl, earl, lovely.

Nor cast ono longinj?, linj^erin? look behind.
Let Coroliaa smooth tliu 1 quid lay.
Lull with Amelia's liquid name tlie nine.
And sweetly iAow through all the royal line.

M. Mum, blame, realm, elm, helm, lamb, solemn, tempter,
matrimony.

Caution. — Avoid saying el-um, rel-um, hel-um, for elm, realm,
helm.

Round a holy calm diffusing,

Zone of peace a id lonely musing, "■

In hollow murmurs died away.

Many miserable men make money by miserly means.

N. Nun, none, nine, fallen, linen, unanimous, quash, impugn.

To talk of nonentity annihilated was certainly nonsensical
enough.

Rough R. Ray, rheum, wrap, bray, gray, dray, shroud, shriek,

phrenzy.

Rend with tremendous sound your ears asunder,
With gun, drum, trumpet, blund M-buss, and thunder.

Their lean and flashy songs
Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw.

Smooth R. Bar, car, pour, marsh, arm, garb, colonel, affair,

adore. What man dare, I dare.

Both. Approach thou like tho rugged Ru'sian bear.
The armed rhinoccras, or the Hyrcan tiger.

67. NG.

This sound is distinct from that of n or g. It is formed by

Elocution,

housaud-th.

iliko.
thick of his

50od,

;he bbglnning
iouuded more

mn, tempter,
for elm, realm.

^ash, impu^.
nonscusical

Iroud, shriek,

Ider.

[lonel, affair,

■4

•iS

■:i'S

formed by

applying the back pnrt of the tongue to the paktc near the entrance
totlienoso; honco it is a true nnsdl. The dofects are cither to
icavo out the g ; as^ atrcnth for stroug-th, or to give a distinct g
sound, as swin-gin-g.

Gin,", king, length, being, ringing, distinguish, anxiety, being,
nothiug, Htiigor, bringing.

AKxandor, at a banquet, with a concourse of flatterers, overcome
by anger, led by a concubine, is a strong example that ho who
confjuors kingdoms may have neglected the more noble conquest of
hiiiKoif.

08. WandY.

Th3so letters are voice consonants at the beginning of words.
TV acquires a forcible action and then separation of the lips,
the Y a pressure of tlie tongue to the palate and a forcible
action of the under jaw wlicn followed by e.

W. Way, one, once, what, quake, choir. lie wooed the- woman,
but she would not wed.

Yarn, ye, you, yeoman, by, use, huge.

Puke, million, poniard, Indian, odious.

Youth with ill-humor is odious.

09. II.

This letter is sounded by expulsion of breath with a slight
force. The tendency amongst the uneducated Encrlish is to omit
this sound in its i)r()pi3r position, and to sound it when it is not
required. In this country and the States the defect is to over-
sound the letter in its proper place, so that it is heard with a gut-
tural jerk like a cough. The use of the letter by nn educated
Englishman will always be the best »t;tndr«rd for guidance. Tho
greatest defect is that of sounding it when not required. To
ch( ck this tendency the coup de la glottn ]>r:;ctiee v.ill he found
useful. Wlien the difliculty occurs tlio spcakv r fhould pnuso and
arrest the tendency to brc.ithc before the vowel that follows, and
if that should follow let him sound the vowel alone, then gradually
with it the other elements, as end (/icnd) — e. (See Tonics, No.
4, page 20.) en, end.

The following words have the h silent, and in the praxis words
with and without the h sound are intermingled to give ease and
confidence in its utterance.

Silent h, heir, honest, hour, humor, and their derivatives.

Praxis. — Hall, all, aunt, liaunt, who, art, heed, hair, hour, heir,
huge, perhaps, inhale, eye, high and hand, how, owl, hone, own.

Up a high hill he heaved a huge, round stone.

lie had learned the whole art of an2;lin'j:bv heart.

70. The before a vowel and h silent is sounded like thee and

before h and consonants like thu (see Table, p. 20.) B-ead the

Inttrudion in

« ' ! "1

following exorcises, — The horse, tlio ass, the hour, the inn, the
heart, the art, the eye, the end, tlio harp, the honor, the horror

71. Correct pronunciation op words often mispro-
nounced. (The small figures refer to the Tuble, p. 2G)

lit

above

abuv

acknowledge

10
ak-nol- ledge

again-st

ogen-st (as in hen)

any

cnny, not au-y
7 *

aye, meaning- "yes"

a-ee (or a-i)

bade

bad

barrel

bar-rcl, not barl

children

rcn, not childern

covetous

kuv-e-tus

diamond

dia-mond

epistle

epissl

engine

enjin, not engine

ere and o'er

air, not car

evil

evl, not e-vil

heretofore

here-too-fore

hundred

dred, not derd

idol

idul, not idle

xniraolo

mir-a-cle, not mer-i-cle

neither

nether, nithur

none

nun

often

offn, not off- ten

ordinary-

or-din-ary, not ordnary

peril

pcr-il, not purl

perhaps

sound the h

put

u, as in bull

says

Bez

said

Bed

sate

sat

shone

shon

sovcreiga

Buv-rin

spirit

Bpir, not sper, nor spnr

towards

to-urdz

truths '

th, as in tliin

venison

ven-zn, or vene-za

wont

wunt, not want

wrath

rawth, or rath, as in far

yea

yay

youths

th, as in their

Mocutton,

( MISPBO-

72. A. It is a Now Englandism to pronounce this particle
like (I in fume. The truo Englisli sound, whicli i3 far more
expressive, is thut of a in at. Tho Now England mode is wrong
buciuiso it is not English, and because it makes the word too
emphatic.

73. TO ii pronounced long (too) before a rowel and short
before a consonant; the short sound, however, is still that of o not
u or e. Send a ring too Eva and a book to John.

73. Y in my is rarely sounded like long i as in Jine, except
for emphasis ; its usual sound is that of y in lady.

74. The termination EI) in tho past tonso and past participle.
There is somo difl&culty in the management of this syllable;

many contend that it should be sounded more fully in Scripture
reading and the reading of the Church Service.

In the words aged, beloved, blessed, cursed, learned, winged,
when used as adjectives the e ought to bo sounded ; as, an aged
man, a lc;irn-eci scholar. When compounded, however, as a
full ag'd horse, it is suppressed.

In other cases tho propriety of sounding or supprcsrfng it must
depend on tho position of tlio word. It may bo suppressed when
it promotes ease of utterance, and prevents unpleasant tautophony.

Professor Plumptre recommends its suppression in tho following
words occurring in tho English Church Service, and which, as
they arc of Scriptural derivation, will bo generally useful:

1. — Declar'd unto mankind —
-—our forefathers have declar'd unto us—
— number'd with thy saints—
— sav'd from our enemies —
— order' d by thy goveniancc—
— cstublish'd among us — *

— gather'd together in thy name— ^
— ' scattcr'd the proud —
— promis'd to our forefathers. "
2. — Visited and rcdeem'd his people
— erret/and are deceiv'd—
— aflaictcd or distress'd.
" Adverbs formed by adding It/ to participial adjectives ending
in cd very often retain the sound of « in those ver^? words which
suppressed it before the composition took place; thus the e is
sounded in assuredly, advisedly, unfeignedly , etc,'" — King's
College Lectures on Elocution, by Professor Plumptre, from which
also the following have been extracted :
75. EL.
E before I in final unaccented syllables must always be pro-

if III

Instruction in

nouncod ; as rebe^, moihf, i\n<^eL Ecreptions — shekel, weasel,
ousel, nival, snivel, hazel = hhoklo, weasle, &c.

75. EiV.

E belbro n in final unnccentod syllables not preceded by a liquid
is suppressed, as irardcn, burden; gardu, burd'n,

70. IL and IN.

1 baforo I and n must aJvvayjj bj pronounced, as penciV, vigi7,
gernu'ii, Lntln.

Exceptions — evil, devil, raisin and cousin; cvl, devl, raizn,
ouz-r .

77. ON.

The o is suppressed in the final unaccented syllabic ow, preceded
by c, h, d, p, s, t, z; as, in beacon, hacon, pardon, ^;/v'tesaj
reason, treason, poison, lesson, &c., pronounced hacn, prisn,
ream, &c.

Exceptions — unison, diapason, horizon, weapon.

QUALITY Ov VOICE.— FORCE.

78. The human voice Is formed by the passage of air through
the larynx and cavities of the mouth and nose, and the quality of
that voice depends very considerably upon judicious training and
ft watchful control over these organs. When the voice is free
from roughness, huskiness, hollowness, a mixture of tone and
whisper, and nasal peculinritlcs, it m^y be pronounced pure in
quality. The rolceo of children when In good health, arc sweet,
musical, and pure; the voice of the cultivated orator, actor, or
singer poiiscsses a similar clearness, purity and roundness of
tone, free from the defects named. The first efforts of the music
master arc directed to the cultivation of these qualities In his
pupils. The musical pupil Is required, day aftjr day, to pass
through the drill of sounding each note of the gamut, eommenc-
ing gently, swelling out In the centre of the note and tapering It off
at Its close Into softness, until its jagged rough externals are
smoothed down, and It flowa out pure and musical, round, clear
and sounding. Wo are all born witli this musical capacity ; and
though neglect and unhealthy Influences may and do seriously
affect the natural purity and power of the vocal organ it may, by
patient culture, be restored to much of its native beauty. Tho
exercises on pages 19 and 20 will prove the best means for correct-
ing defects of voico and ear, and acquiring purity of tone. In

locution.

addition to purity, however, the orator and reader need force of
voice. It is not as we have already stated, loudness that gives effect
to the successful speaker :uQd makes language expressive and intelli-
gible in a large hail or theatre, " The whispering of Mrs. Siddoas,
and the same is true of other great actors, was distinctly heard ia
the remotest parts of huge theatres, r.nd produced a greater effect
than the loudest b;iwl of those who tore passions to tatters, to
very rags to split the ears of the groundlings." Distinct articu-
lation i i no doubt an essential in making the speaker understood.
But tlie possession o^ force, the power to govern the voice so as
make it roll along with musical j)Hrity and softness, or revcrberato
like peals of thunder — startling " stupor into attention " by its
sudden explosion on the car ; or sink into awe-impressive whispers
or rise into the shout of anger, or fear, or mortal agony, or wild
excitement; this force is necessary to all who aspire to tlie triumphs
of oratory and delivery; and this force, by judicious and perso-
Tering practice, can be more or less acquired by all.

70. Force must be studied, both in reference to syllables and
to sentences. In the physical culture of the voice its application
to words claims the first attention ; as he who can control the
necessary delivery of simple sounds will find no great diflicultjr
with combinations of sounds in sentences.

SO. The term stress is applied to force in single sounds, and
to make it effective itmui^t possess two elements : 1st, the physical
effort of voice ; 2nd, the time occupied in its utterance.

The following classification of the various modes of exercising
stress is due to Dr. Rush :

81. 1st, Radical Stress.— This consists of an abrupt and
forsiblc utterance at the beginning of the vocal effort. It is an effjrl
of voice in which the lungs are inflated, the muscles brought into a
state of rigid contraction, and then the sound is expelled with a
sudden explosive energy that startles the hearer ; hence the term
Kadiciil stress. It is heard in tlic sudden words of command,
''Halt/' "Arm," ''Charge," or in the ory of alarm, ''The foe!
they come, they come." In its milder and more cheerful forms it
gives liveliness to expressions of joy, humour, &c., causing the
Yoice to leap and dunce along, as it were, with overflowing hilarity ;

■!,: -I

• o

i iiiii

1 fil

Instruction in

KB, "Oh! then I see Queen Mab has been with you." Its abuse
is often heard in the delivery of young people at school recitations,
causing them to give undue emphasis to each word, and to exhibit
an appearance of premature Bclf-confidence in their manner. It
may, also, in addition to the above explanation, be compared to the
mechanical act of abrupt coughing. In practising, the student
must hold the breath in suspension for a moment, bracing up his
vocal organs as if for a sudden violent elFort, then send forth the
Toice on any of the tonic elements (p. 2G) on syllables, and finally
words. For milder forms the above description of Queen Mab ;
and, for the violent effort, the following and similar examples are
recommended. (Let this stress be thrown chiefly on the words iu
italics): —

Aa hour passed on : the Turk awoke ;—
That bright dream was his last ; —
He woke — to hear his sentries shriek,

"To arini! — they come ! — the Groolc! the Greek I"
He woke — to die, 'midst flame and smoke,
And shout and groan and sabre-stroke,
And heard with Toico as trumpet loud,
Bozzaris cheer his band —

Striko — till the last armed foe expireSj
Strike — for your altars and fires,
Strike — for the green graves of your Bxre3,
God— and your native land !

The radical stress in the above example is chiefly thrown on the
irst word of each line, but, of course, the tone of lofty appeal is
continued through the whole line.

82. Median Stuess. — The Median stress is a gradual increase
and subsequent decrease of fulness in the voice similar to what is
called a swell iu musical language. It has been already explained
in the practice on the gamut. Its abuse is heard in the theatrical
tones of " mouthing " words. Thrown on important words of
iolemn subjects it clothes them with the highest dignity and pomp
of sound. It is especially adapted to the reading of the Psalms,

Elocution*

and of mournful topics. The practice here again should be on
tonics of long quantities, as in the exercises for the orotund voica
(page 42-3.)

83. Vanisiilvg Stress. — This term is used to indicate that
the chief forco of the voice torminates at its end, bjing tho«
opposite of the radical stress. It has been compared to the peevish

exclamation of an ill-tompcred child, when saying " I won't," o?

"you shan't," where the voice hangs on the word and bursts out
with the greatest violence at its close. It is also compared to the
act of repeated sobs. It is specially adapted to the language of
resolve, rebuke, impatience, or horror.

Scorn and Reproach :

Thou slave! thou wretch! thou coward I
Thou little valiant, great in villany ;
Thou ever strong upon the stronger side I

Thou Fortune's champion that dost never Gght,
But when her humorous ladyship is by
To teach thee safety 1

Horror :

Oh! horror! nouuoii! HORROR! — Tongue nor heart

Cannot eonceive, nor nanao thee!

Confusion hath made his masterpiece!

Mo3t sacrilegious murder hath broke ope

The Lord's anointed temple and stole thence

The life o' the building.

Resolve:

I know not what courdo others may take, but, as for me, give me liberty

or give me death.

St, Pierre, Come, sign I v -. "■ \ ••;

f ■ •

t ■

Instruction in

Fcrd'nand. St. Pierre, , • '"

Will forty thousand ducats please thee ?
St. rierre. There's

The dial, and the sun is shining on it —

• The shadow is on the rery point of twelve ;

lly case is despuratol Your signature,

Of vital moment is unto my peace I

My eye is on the dial. Pttsa the shadow

The point of noon, the bre&th of but a iiaiu,

As can my eye discern, end, that unsigned,

The steel is in thy hec.rt. I speak no more I

{The Wife.)

84. The remaining forms of stress aro but modifications of tlio
preceding.

85. Compound stress is strong at the beginning and end,
and milder in the middle, of a sound.

8G. Thorough stp.ess throws equftl force on all the sound.

87. Tremor means intermittent stress, as when the voice
trembles in pathos or sorrow.

THE OP.OTUND voice.

88. Solemn and digaiScd compositions of prose and poetry
demand an appropriate tone of voice, swelling, exalted and impres-
sive as the subjects themselves. This tone is altogether different
from the common prosaic tone of couvers:ition. It is artificial in
its character and can only be acquired by careful culture. It
is powerfully impressive, and especially adapted to the grand
Bcntiuients of tragedy and epic poetry, and to scripture reading
and prayer. When exercised by great orators and actors it is full
of impressiveness and adds depth, solemnity and force to the
sentiuieuts uttered. It is of the first importance to the minister
of religion, both because it is the best calculated to fill a largo
building, and to command the attention and respect of the hearer,
by its pure, lofty, and swelling effect, and the sentiment of awe it
awakens, when used in the delivery of solemn thoughts. To give

Elocution.

this tone in all its completeness demands the energetic action of all
tlic vocil organs — the erect chest, the full inflated lunp^, the well-
rounded mouth, and the deliberate and full action of the vocal
organs, lleuce, because all these organs are brought into play
and each assists the other, the fVcqucnt usg of this voice, when
onco jiocjuircd, h Ls'J fatiguiug and more bracing on the whole
Bjsteiii, than the loss dignlPod conversational tonu too often hcrrrd on
the pl.tlbrm, in the pulpit, and in other forms of public delivery.

8'J. The cx'ict mode of forming this quality of voice is not
well uiulorstood, but the following directions will present a digest
of various mcthod>; successfully adopted for acquiring it, and they
are rccummcaded to the student for daily practice.

The term orotund (ore rotundo), duo to Dr. Rush, indi-
cates the nature of the vocal action. The mouth is rounded, and>-
as it were, hollowed out for its production. The root of the tongue
and the larynx arc lowered, so that the mouth, like an arched vault,
is iu the best condition for full resonance ; the chest is also erect
and expanded to give the lungs ample room to be filled and to act
with energy, while the breath is poured forth against the vaulted
roof with full power for successful effect. The voice under these
conditions is sent forth with the utmost degree of fulness and
purity of which it is cipablo.

90. The mode of acquiring this voice is thus described by
Dr. Pvush. — " The act of coughing is cither a series ( I" short
abrupt efforts in expiration, or of one continued impulse which
yields up the whole of the breath. This last forms one of the
means for acquiring the orotund voice. The single impulse of
couching is an abrupt utterance of one of the short tonic vocali-
ties,-'- followed by a continuation of the atonic breathing h till the
c:vj>ii\.tion h exhausted. Let this compound function, consisting
of t'ac exploded tonic vocality and the aspiration, be changed to an
entire voadifi/ hi/ onuttiiig the sharj't ahmptncss of the cough and
continuiiifj the tonic in place of the aspiration. The sound thus
produced, will, with proper cultivation, lead to that full and sub-
Bonorous quality here denominated the orotund.

• I. e. Vowels. Sec Table, page 26.

InstriLction in

iiifH

! if

.' 'f

" This contrived effort of coughing, -when freed from abnrptnesg,
i» like tlie voice of gfiping ; for this has a hollow and suhsouorous
vocal ity very diHerent from the colloquial utterance of tonio
sounds. It may be exemplified by uttering the tonic a-vfd with
the mouth widely expended, and by speaking as far as possible in
fi gaping artlcvh' i ?*."

91. Having thus formed some idea of commencing his practice
on this voice, the student must then, with the above arrangement of
vocal orGjans, sound the following and similar combinations that
allow largo compass nf voice, in monotone, and with rising and
falling inflections ,dee ii'-xi, le.>-^son), " drawing out the voculity
to the utmost extent ox » :..|ti ration." A\ awe,-oh, w/io, ee, ow,
oi, arm, a-11, o-wn, vr-oe, ee-i, ok-\, ]-oy.

91. After patient :a'^ perr.*. o.Jag practice on vowels and
eyllablcs the next step wiii be lo nti..; ^^'ords in orotund, such as
the following, containing the full tonic sounds of o, awe, <Scc. la
ajl the exercises let the voice swell out with median stress.

<> <> <> ^> <>

Oh holy Hope that flows through all my soul.

<><> > <> O <> <> <>

Roll on thou deep and dark blue ocean roll.

<> <> <> <> <>

From polo to polo the deep-toned thunders roll.

<> • <> <> <> <>

Low hollow moans proclaim his deep-soul'd woe.

<> <> <>

Awake, arise, or be forever fallen I

92. The chief difficulty at first will lie in continuing this tone
on a succession of words, as the tendency will be to fall back into
the small puny tones of conversation. The student must, however,
persevere against that habit by reading passages from the *' Book
of Job," from the "Psalms," from ''Paradise Lost," the first
two books of which abound in appropriate exercises, and from
other similar compositions.

ACCENT.

93. Accent is that force of voice in words of more than one
syllable which gives oao syllable a heavier sound than another.
The terms heauy and light arc the best to apply to such syllables.
In the word process, pro is the accented or heavy syllable, cess the
light one. Mr. Steele, an early writer on Elocution, and subse-

Elocution.

qnently Dr. Rush anrl other authors, designate this difference in
Bound by the terra poisn (wcii:;ht), a very appropriato onoifj^eno-
rally accepted. *' Many persons/* says Professor Phinjptre,
"naturally carry out this poise admirably in delivery without ever
havin;; had any instruction in elocution, especially such persons
who (as) arc possessed of strong feelings, lively imagination, and
warm toraperamont, particularly when they are speaking in public,
or reading aloud any powerful, descriptive or dramatic jvissage.
Others, on the contrary, who arc of cold, lethargic, un impassioned
tempcr.:mcnt, or languid health, allow only the sliglitcst amount
of range of action and re-action to bo perceptible, and hence tho
poise is inadequately maintained, and tho delivery in speaking
or reading is poor, tame, and feeble, void of all proper expression,
md often accompanied with a tendency to stammer or stutter."

94. Sheridan says "that theatrical declamation, or what is
called tho stagey stylo of delivery, h due to tho actors dwelling
upon sjlliblcsthat are unaccented, with the same force as upon the
accented ones, through a notion that it makes the words move
more slowly, stately, and uniform, than the quicker and more
Bpirited accents will allow."

95. Accent is a physiological necessity, dependent upon the
structure and action of the vocal cliords, and, in its regular action
and reaction, it is not only an agreeable relief to the ear, but also
to the organs employed in speech.

9o. The terms long and short, grave and acute, are quite inade-
quate to express this action, and are, therefore, now, in relation to
the Engli.sh language, no longer used. The accented syllable may
be long or short, aeute or grave, but it is always tho hcav^ syllable^
and the unaccented one is^lways li^/ht.

97. Ill the words w itjr, weary, holy, manly, the accent, which
is on t'ac first syllable, is caused by a prolongation of tlie vowels,
and is therefore due to time. Heavier accent may be given t'jcm
by adding/orceor stress, and this would mako thciiK nijthaiic. In
the woid vic-to-ry the three syllables are short, and the accent is
thrown on vie by tho addition, not of time, but of stress. The
same principle guides us in pronouociug such words as battle,
tttmbie, bufile, cattle, &o.

Instruction in

iiiii

■yi\

'■<

98. ITcnoQ the following ruins : — Uttlk I. — AYhcn the accent is
on the vowel its weight is expressed by time ; that is, the vowel is
prolonged in utterance, as flr/nuing, daring, gl^^rious, &c.

90. Rhle II. — If the concluding letter of the accented
sj^l able be a mute or atonic (page 20) the accent is cxpre.'^sed by
stress, and the time is short; as, t;tctory, backward, hcck-ou,
batih, hn/Qc, &c.

100. Rule III. — When the concluding letter of the accented
Bylliblo is a semi-vowel, or a nasal liquid, the syllable may 1)0 long
or short according to will; as, murmur, basely, bubble, madden,
&c.

101. These rules are of great importance, as will be further
explained in emphasis. The emphasis may be prolonged l)y time,
as in Rule I, but it would have a harsh ciFcct to prolong the sylla-
ble vie in victory ; as, "Which, if not I'lc-tory, is yet revenge,"
or hat in battle. The emphasis in every instance of Rule II is
accomplished by stress, followed by a slight pause, that U, the
syllable must not be prolonged, but additional weight be thrown
on it.

102. Modes of Practice and Improvement in Accent. —
The best key to correct accent is a good dictionary, and, wherever
there is a tendency to throw accent on every syllable, or to neglect
accent where it occurs, adults and school teachers, in the practice
of their pupils, would derive great advantage from reading aloud
the words of a dictionary, selecting (1) words where the accent
is on the vowel, (2) accented syllables ending as in Rule IT, (3)
accented syllables ending as in Rule III.

Wlierc the tendency is to accent every syllable, as in theatrical
declamation, Sheridan gives the following Rule :

1®3. " The only rule necessary to be observed by all public
speakers, who can pronounce English properly, is to lay the accent
always on the same syllabic and the same letter of the syllable
which they usually do in common discourse, and to take care not
to lay any accent or stress on any other syllable."

104. "While giving to every word its proper accent, bo especially
careful not to omit, slur over, or mispvonnunce the other syllables,
as di-inond for diamond, paiticklcr, for par-ti-cular, histry for his-

Mocution,

to-ry, lionrblo for lion-our-a-ble, jograpliy for go-o-grapliy. Notliing
Boonor shows the elegant unJ accoiuplisheJ orator and reader, than
a careful observance of this rule, and it may be added that uothing
is more common than its violation, amongst all classes.

TIME.

105. The vocal principle on wliich the time and movement of
pecch depend is simple. There can be no safe rules given to
guide the reader as to the duration of pauses. Pauses are con-
trolled and measured by the character of the subject and the
temper of the mind. When passion is vehement, and the reasoning
is triumphant, and conclusive, the language is poured forth with
cncr^\v' and swiftness. But when the reasoning is complieatcd
and ab. vuse, the delivery is more slow and deliberate ; and if the
mind be under the influences of deep reverence, or fear, or extreme
terror, the movement will vary — be swift or slow as feeling pre-
dominates; and often the piuses will bo long, while the eye and
tlie f ICC arc eloquent with silent expression. The prevalent defect
of all readers is to read too fast, and the common method for
correcting the evil is to pause between each word. Now it is here
that a knovfledgc of the letters, as explained in previous lessons,
is of great advantage. Slow time — slow reading is secured

BY EXTENDING THE SYLLABIC QUANTITY OF WORDS, wliero tho

nature of the letter admits of such prolongation (sec p. 2G and 45-G.)
Single vowels, not syllables, are classed as long and slioit. Thus
in the words male and female, the a in male, because it is long,
allows the voice to dwell upon it without disagreeable cficct ; and
bence uH words which have a long vowel in them followed by a
subtonio (p. 26) can be prolonged on that vowel, and so offjr the
proper element for reading slowly. On the other ban 1 words
coming under llulc II, page 4G, cannot, without a viol;>tion of
the true sound, bo prolonged.

One important and safe rule must always be observed ; when
reading ever so fast let the reader never fail to complete articula-
tion, and when reading slowly let him avoid monotony by varying
inflection and pitch.

\v 1,

1 1ll!

•!»(i

Jnstruction in

ACCENT AND TIiAIE OF POETRY.

lOG. English poetry cannot bo read with proper melody by the
laws of the prosodiana and on the same principles as classical
poetry. The classical prosody arranges versification by feet,
consisting of long and short syllables. But the syllables in
English poetry may bo and often must be made long or short, first
according to the tonic elements, but chiefly in subjection to tho
will of the reader, guided by the higher laws of arbitrary emphasis
and expression, A word of great forco and meaning may be
prolonged, as to time, indefinitely, and, although accent must be
observed in words of more than one syllable, the same classical
observance of accent on every word, will throw tho weight or
poise on the most insignificant particles and give to articles,
prepositions, and conjunctions, a prominence utterly destructive of
expression, and characterized by the most childish and ridiculous
eing-song. According to tho prosodial measurement of long and
short quantities, tho following examples place the accent on the
italicized syllables and words :

On the I bare earth | exposed \ he lies \

"With not I a friend | to close \ his eyes

thou I that with \ anrpass \ ing fflo \ ry crowned

hook'st/rom \ thy sole \ domm | ion like | the ffod |

Of this I new world | atwhose \ sight all | the stars |

Hide their \ dimin | ished heads.

Show pi I tr Lord | oh Lord | forgive
Let a I repent \ ant reb | el live,
Bj prayer \ th' offen \ ded De | ity | t' appease.
Let these examples be read by the prosodian's law, the weight
of the voice falling on the italicized syllables, followed also in each
instance by an involuntary pause, and the music and cxpresdon
of such passages are altogether marred.

107. Now, the habit of reading on this system is so powerful,
in consequence of school and classical instruction, that the most
earnest attention of the student, who would acquire a natural and
expressive and truly musical style of reading, is required to over-
come the difficulty. Especially to the diviuity student, who, in his
professional labors, will have so often to deliver the language of

UlocuHon.

accent on tbe

lyrical poetry, in the rcadin? of hymns and psalms, is the instrnc-
ti'in ncudfiil, that will t:ike away Irom the pulpit the childish and
oantiui; touua that no coustuutly diali^ura tho delivery oC Bucred
verse.

108. The elements involved in reading English verso are accen-
tunfioa and time.

I'Od. The accentuation is regulated by the recurrence of Jicnvf/
and /[(/hf syllables; there will occur action and re-action, puis ition
and remission ; in other words there will be a constant recurrence
oHicavy and light syllables. Tho verse then must first be arranged
into bars, as in music, and every bar must hic/i'n with a heavy
si/Uithle. Hence the number of bars will at least be equal to the
number of heavy syllables, and in no case must two hiavy
gi/l/nhles he/o'ind in one bar.

110. On this principle English verse may bo divided (I) into
common measure of one Ae«y^, followed by one light syllable, as ia
•his example :

Wit3 per- I fection
A .-. I A .-.

Nature's I pride the
A .. \ A ..

Boauty's I wonder

A .-. I A .-.
I Graces' I treasure.
I A .-. I A .-.

and (II) into triple me isuro which gives three syllables in a bar,
the first, as before, being a heavy one, followed by two light oaes.
The I princes np I plaud with a I furious I joy

» .-. A /. •.' A .-. .'. .-. A .-..•. A O O

zeal to de
A .-. .-.

stroy
A o o

And the I king seized a I fliim'ioiiu with

♦ .'. .•. I A .-. .-. I A .-.

111. Now so far as mere acccntuntion goes the above arrange-
Imcnt will not chish with the prosodian's laws. But the true music
[of the verse cannot be sustained without appropriate pauses, and
jhencc the next iiii^. titant olonr'nt is time tho observance of which,
[will at once give tho requioite harmony and expression to tho

)as<'ges.

112. Every heavy sjV Mq m^i^t be followed by a lia:ht syllable,
5r by a pau?c cqu '1 to lliu tim^ of one, and every light syllable

lust bo preceded by a heavy one, or by n similar pause. Hence
IS the bars must begin with a heavi/ syllable and end with a light
ms, appropriate m.iks arc introduced into these exercises for the
juidance of the student.

.. I jl

It
,1 '»

Instruction in

M i

113. Tho mirk A roprosonta a heavy pyllablo; /, a llilit one j

♦ an omitted hoiivy syllable, aud o an omittod li^dit Kyllablt'. In

the last example tho lirst lino bej^ins wah ( * ) equal to an omitted

hmvy syllable, followed by one circle (o) equal to an omitti'd light

syllikblo and as ji>y is licavy it ends with two li^llt circles to

indicate tho place and absence of tho two light syllables necessary

to complete tho bar. In tho first example there will be projierly a

pause 'dhor jyer/ccdon and priilc, and the introduction of tho pause

will remove tho tendency to sing-soni^ ; but tho ])auses must be

equal to the omitted syllables. Hence tho second lino would

stand marked thus : —

_ Nature's I pride — I — the I Graces' I treasure.

A .-. I A o I « .-. I A .'. I A .-.

114. Let tho student not be alarmed or perplexed as to the
extent of time to bo observed, for prccisencss on this point is really
not demanded. Whenever tho tendency is to throw accent on unim-
portant words and unaccented syllables, a pause is sufficient to cor-
rect that tendency ; and hence jyauscs compensate for all imperfect
measure, become an important element in rhythmical reading, and
enable the reader to arrange his accent, his quantities aud his
empliasis just as lie pleases, and without marring in any form the
beauty and music of the verse.

115. For eximplc, in tho lines quoted in illustration of the
bad effects of prosodial laws, the principles explained will at once
restore to the lino its expression and music. Thus tho example
attached to (lOG) as an illustration of the bad effect of the proso-
dian's rule, is corrected : —

By I prnyer I the of- I fended I deity I — to ap- I pease
• ••. I A .*. I # . . . I A .-. I A ... I « ... I A o

Thus also by prosody the touching lines of Milton read with

alternate light, and heavy syllables would bo destitute of all

expression.

Oh — dark \ d:irk — dark \ amid \ the — blaze | of noor
which, however, have all the pathos restored by increasing the
stress on each " dark " in succession, swelling out the last and
pausing after it.

Oh I dark I dark I dark I | a I mid the I blaze of I noon

^ o A o A o A .-. « * .-. I .'.I A .'.A

JElocution.

on read with
stitute of all

110. In this way connnon may bo blended with triple inca.suro
and inipcrl'oet lueasures componsatod I'or by appropriaU; pauses.

Y.;

airv
1 .".

sprites
A o

wlio

tliou
A

tllllt
A o

A o I A
v/ith 8ur

oft na I fancy
A .-.

Lookst

I « I A O I *

from tby I sole do

calls

A o

Riory I crowned,

nnnion
A .-.

passing
A .-.

like the I gnd
O I A .'. I A O

Of I thia

« .'. A

new
A

world
A

at I whose si^ht I nil the I stars
«.-. A .-. A .-. A

Hide
A

their di I minished I hends.
A .-. A .-. A

117. Explanation. — In the first line of tliis cxani] io "0"
demands force equal to an accented syllabic, but, according' to pro-
lan law, beinf^ an Iambic measure, the accent falls on '* thou;"

" is therefore accented, and followed by a pause. As " that" is
a relative pronoun it re([uires a pause before it ^ Rule VI. par. |
202), and, as it is the nominative of the following sentcuci^, it|
demands accent ; hence it commences a bar. " With" miiiht t.iko
the place of a light or unaccented syllabic in the sam« bar, but
this would mar the music of the metre, and it also requires a pause
before it, being a preposition introducing a di>tinct adjunct. Hence
" that" is followed by a pause, and, as " with" is an unimportant
word, it ought not to C(nnmence a bar, which would give it accent.
A heavy pause, therefore, takes the place of the omitted heavy
syllable, and " with sur" Ibllows as equivalent to oneliydit syllable.
The remaining words present no difficidty, and follow in their
proper order. The other lines are arranged on the same method.

118. Mr. D. C. Bell, an eminent Engli>;h professor of elocu-
tion, shows that, when rhetorical importance is attached to a word,
even of one syllable, it may on this principle combine in it-elf the
time of a heavy and a light syllable, as ia the following examples : —

Hail

lil 1 I holy

light.

offspring of I heaven I first I horn.
A .. . A .-. A.-. A .-.

Here " Hail," " first," and "born," have each the heavy and light

Imtruetion in

.'■ , ■' ■•<* ' i

t . i

percussion, and receive the time due to both ; thus, also, with the
following : — *

Biought I Death I Juto t'aa j woilJ I fand I all our j tfoe.
A O A .'. I A .'. A O I * .*. I A .'. A .-.

Ob I I that this j too I too I solid I flesh I would I

\ .-. I » O I A .-. I A.-. I A .-. [^ .-. I A O I # .-. J

119. The student will thus see that rests or pauses in metrical
language are as necessary as the syllables. The ca)sur:il pause may
suffice, but the law of pause is the law of expression, and must har-
monize with expression, and it may occur in a bar, or between
bars. The ear and the judgment of the reader^ not the laws of
prosody, are the proper guides.

•■i *( ' s i I

i-l 'fJ..\]

InteUectual Elocution.

PAET II.

INTELLECTUAL ELOCUTION.

120. The preceding lessons and exercises arcdcsigncd to culti-
vate the speaking voice and the car of the student. Their
importance cannot be too strongly impressed on all who aspire to
csclIIoucc in the art of delivery. The speaker and the reader
must have the power to bring the voice under the control of the
will, and the ear or quick perception of sound to know what
movement the voice assumes — whether in pitch it is raised or
depressed, and whether in inflection it is advancing in concrete or
continuous slide upward or downw;ird. This voc.d power is the
instrument of all expression. Hence the importance of mas-
tering the mechanism of the art. Where nature has been
liberal in these gifts, or where early traming has been favourable
to the development of these powers, the intellectual department of
elocution will be comparatively easy. But if the voice is coarse
unmanageable, deficient in force and inflexible in movement, and
the car dull of perception, the student sustained by faith in work
must daily practice give to the preceding exercises in the methods

[explained, until success is achieved.

121. As language is the great instrument of expression, the
student must have some knowledge of its laws and its grammatical

[principals. It is impossible to give rules, and to explain the
logical relations of thought so as to direct the vocal expression,

[without frequent reference to the parts of speech and the analysis

[of sentences. To be able to distinguish the parts of speech then,
is of essential importance, as the application of the rules for

[pausing and emphasis depends upon such knowledge. But the
modulations of voice to show the relationship between the members
of a sentence, and the logical dependence of one sentence on

#>«^ fitf

aidc'l by ^ Vn'>w1or?<Tr> of th*^ npnWm"q of ^ipntonoe^*
[ and as grammarians do not adapt their instruction and definitions

ffp

t H'

■ 1 '•!

in; "*■ ■

■• " "

• 1 _ ;;

Instruction in

to elocutionary objects, tlic followiug synopsis is offered to the
student, and, if he is deficient in this kind of knowledije, earnestly
commended to his attention.*

122. The leading words which enter into the construction of
a sentence may bo classified as the subject, the predicate and
the OBJECT. The subject is the noun or name part of the
sentence. It is the subject of which or whom wo are speaking,
the do-cr of an action, the recipient of an action, the one that is
any thing affirmed by the speaker; the predicate is the word
expressing whatever wo affirm of the subject: it is always a VERB*
Sometimes this verb may finish the affirmation.

The sun | shines.

Here " sun " is the subject ; and " shines," ■whatwe-affirm of it,
u the predicate and completes the thought expressed. Such verbs
as " shine," because they complete an idea and are not dependent
for their sense upon any succeeding word, arc called intrunsitive
verbs. The verb or predicate is, however, quite as often dependent
for its full meaning upon a following word and would not make
sense without it, as,

I I iiare marshalled J my clan.
Here the predicate "have marshalled" completes its sense by
reference to the word " clan." " Marshalled," then, belongs to the
class of transitive verbs, and " clan," being the object and completion
of the predicate, receives the name of ohject or complctio)). of the
predicate. Hero, then, are the leading and primary divisions of a
sentence, and the student must remember that in the emphasis of
sense (see par. 221r) these words must have prominence above all
others in the modulations of the voice.

123. But sentences are rarely so brief and simple as these
examples. The subject may be enlarged, and the predicate
extended by additional words, and even by other complete sen-
tences; and each enlargement may have such a special meaning,
may so modify and alter the leading idea as to require a special

" This preparatory exphmation of analysis is intended for students who
are not acquainted with tho subject, and for their benefit it is made as
sinoplo as possible. It may of course bo passed over by the elocutionary
student, who uaderstauds tho analysis of sentences.

Intellectual Elocution,

modulation of voice to mark it. But, under all circumstances, the
leadiug members of the sentence, subject, predicate and object,
must have their special and marked modulation and emphasis to
sustaiu their importance. Take the following sentence as an
example: '

Two poor mortals, \ elevated | with the distinction of a golden
baubb I on their heads, | c;illed a crown, take offence j at each
other I without any reason, | or with the very bad one of
wishing I for an opportunity of aggrandizing themselves, by
making reciprocal depredations. (^Knox.)

Now in this long assemblage of words there is only one sentence,
and its important members are printed in italics, while the subor-
dinate divisions are marked and separated by upright dashes. The
words "two poor" enlarge the subject "mortals;" the word
"elevated" enlarges the subject by referring to the condition of
the mortals; "with the distinction of a golden bauble," states
how elevated, and both these additions will be read in a lower
pitch of voice than the subject : the words " on their heads," are
simply explanatory and subordinate to the words they modify ;
while " called a crown," refers to the golden bauble and must be
read in a similar tone, as continuative of that clause. This com-
pletes the enlargement of the subject. The next words " take
offence" are of leading importance, as forming the predicate and
object, and must be read in such a tone as will show their relor
tionsLip to the subject. All the succeeding divisions modify the
predicate and, being subordinf?tc to it, arc read in a subordinate
pitch, but with such modulation as will show their relation-
ship to the main idea and to each other. The importance
to be attached to each separate division will depend on the judg-
ment and ta^te of the reader, but the law of pause rests chiefly
on this analysis; and a ficility in so dividing complicated
sentences is of the first importance in good reading.

12i. From the above view of analysis the following general
principles may bo accepted as guides in Pause and Modulation :

I. Between every adjunct of a sentence there must be a rhetori-
cal pause.

;; 1

■!"

,■ I

„.4u

!-f

66 Instruction in

n. The subject, predicate, and object are read with stronger
emphusis than the adjuncts, which modify or quulily them, unJ
the udjuuota are read generally iu a lower pitch und with quicker
time.

125. Several distinct sentences are often linked together as
clauses qualifying or modiiyiug one or more principal sentences j
as:

r.lcssed is the man | that doth meditate good things | in wis-
dom, II and taut reasuucth of holy things | by understanding.

Ilcru there are throe sentences, one principal and two suborJinato
ones. These subordinate sentences inform us what kind of a
man he is who is blessed j that is, iu grammatical language, they
qualify the principal sentence. Ilonce they take the office of
atijtcttves, and are called adjective bENTENCES.

(a.) Prndpal Sentence : Blessed is the maa
(Jj) \st AJjcciioe Saitence. : that doth meditate good things
(c) Ad verb ill Adjunct : iu wisdom,

((?.) 2nd Adject loe Sentence: and that reasoneth of holy things
(e.) Adverbial A juact : by understanding.

126. Again, the principal sentence may be modified by another
sentence which has relation to the time, or manner, or place,
or cause of its action ; such subordinate sentences are caUed

Adverbial Sentences.

('^.) When that the poor have cried ^.Adoerhial Sentence.

(J). ) Coesar hath wept Principal Sentence.

(«.) If you deign to speak thus to your armies |

(6) Ero they march tj bittlo Adverbial Sentences,

[c.^ Perchance your highness might iiave the pain of the throat-
cutting yourself. Principal Sent' nee.

127. Finalli/. — One sentence may take the place of a noun or
pronoun and become the subject or object of another and principal
sentence ; such a sentence is culled a noun sentence.

The Christian religion, once here, cannot again pass away ; in
one or other form it will endure through all time ; as in Scrip-
ture, BO also in the heart of man, is written, " The gates of hell
shall not prevail against it,^*

Intellectual Elocution,

In the last clause the predicate is " is written," and its subject,
" The gates of hell v\iA\ not prevail against it." This is the noun
sentence, and, boiug the inoht important idea, although a subordi-
nutj clause, it receivoa the strongest emphasis.

1-8. As a general }»rinei|)lo it m.iy bo stated that adjective
and adverbial sentences are oi" less importance than the priuci])al
sentence, and will taerdure bo read with less emphasis, and in a
lower pitch of voice. AVhen these subordinate .sentences jTeccde
the jirincipal sentence, or lie between its members, and do uoi
follow it, then they have a ri.-iug inflection.

l-I). Noun sentences have often a leading importance, being
80U)etimes the subjects, and sometimes the objects, of another
sentence. No general rule can, therefore, be adopted lor their
manat^ement.

AViiCu the noun sentence expresses the quoted words of a stato-

ment, or a reply to a (j^aestion, it then takes the leading emphasis,

as:

If e'er whcu faith had fall'ti asleep,

I hoard a voice, "Believe no Mor.E," (N. Sentence,)

Aud heard uu erer-breaking siiore
Thai tumbled iu the gudlcdd dee{),

A warmlli with'n the broast would melt

The IVoe/.iag rcasou'd coKKt part,

And like a m in iu wralli, the heart
Stood up aud auswercd, "I have felt." {N. Sen.)

Know then tliis truth, enough for man to know,
- ; " V:nTUE ALOXK IS UAPi'iNESS BELOW." (Noun Sentence.)

Tlie Scriptures abound iu similar cxamides. In all such instances
Ihc •«»Mlpr >nust consider the relative value of an adjunct or a
suborvlinate sentence, and, guided by the rel itive importance of
each clause, as well as by the special rules for inflection, to be
imuKHliately explained, he will find .skill in grammatical anaiy.si3
iudi^[)ensable in the art of expressive reading.

RULES FOR INFLECTION.

130. The laws of inflection, pitch, and general inodulition of
the Tcice are in strict harmoity with the expression of thon-'-bt nnd
passion. Hence the student must not only understand the sub-

•. if

• '. I

Instruction in

ject matkr, and the force and meaning of the words, and their
relations to each other, but he must, especially in the creations of
poetry and fiction, realiie to his own imagination the truo character
of the thought and passion he haa to express with his voice ; he
must, in short, beeome that whioh he geeka to represent, and, when
he carneistly and truthfully does this, he is nearly achieving the
perfection, which rules aim to secure.

131. These rules are consistent and uniform, and, from the
beginning the student must patiently apply them to his readings
and speech delivery. He will soon have the satisfaction of finding
them so thoroughly in harmony with common sense, with the
experiences of life, that thedifficulty of remembering and applying
them in practice will be no more than thedifl&culty of remembering
how he and others do actually speak in daily life, under all its
varied demands and circumstances of calm!> ess and thoucrhtfulness,
or of conflict and passion. There are nly two inflections with
their combinations, and their application will always depend on two
principles. The two inflecUons are the risiny and iYia falling ; the
drcumjlex inflexions are a combination of these. The monotone
is a continuous inflexion of the same kind, with the smallest com-
pass or extent of slide. The following two principles lie at the root
of all the rules : —

132. First. — All incompleteness or expression will

HAYE THE RISING INFLECTION.

Second. — All completeness op expression will have
THE Falling Inflection.

133. The extent of the inflection will depend on the earnest-
ness and passionateness of the expression. Hence, as the rules
will show, earnest enquiry or appeal takes an extended upward
inflection, because it denotes incompleteness : oarnest emphasis or
command, or expression of conviction an extended downward
inflection. In both cases the compass will vary from a third to
an octave (See Gamut.) Solemn utterance of solemn thought
marked rather by reverence or fear than passion, will have less
compass of slide, and hence, although the term is not scientifically
correct, it is called monotone.

ds, and their
! creations of
rue character
bis voice ; he
mt, and, when
ichieving the

nd, from the
his readings
ion of finding
ise, with the
; and applying
■remembering
under all its
louri^htfulncss,
iflections with
depend on two
iG falling ; the
riio monotone
smallest corn-
lie at the root

ESSION WILL
WILL HAVE

a the eamest-
as the rules
inded upward
t emphasis or
ed downward
•om a third to
lemn thought
vill have less
t scientifically

Intellectual Elocution, 69

Rules. — Risinq Inflection.

Principle. — Iiicomj)^ teness , and dependence, or reference.

13 1. Tha rising inflection must be used in all unfinished and
dcpcnJout forms of cxpres-^ion : (1.) Between the subject and the
predicate, (2) on the adjective next to the noun it qualifies,
(3) where introductory sentences or phrases precede the principal
isent'juc'j (4) where such cluusoa aro parenthetical and between the
members of the leading clause. Thus : —

But yesterday tho word of Caosar might have stood against the world.
Within the lioUow circle of a crown — keeps D(;ath his court.
The heart that heareth the reproof of life — abideth among tho wise.
If we would have the kindness of others, we must endure then: faults.
Xe that fear the Lord ; trust in the Lord.

Masters, if I were disposed to stir
Year hearts to mutiny and rage, *'

1 should do Brutus wron"- and Cassius wrong.
When Music, heavenly maid, was young,

Ere yet in early Greece she sung,
Th" passioua oft to hear her shell
Thronged around her magic cell

If there's a Power above,
And that there is all natur« cries aloud
Through all her works— lie must delight in virtue.

135. Rule II. — Negative expressions rec^uire ihe rising inflec-
tion.

Let but the commons hear this testament,
(Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read,)
And they would go and kiss dead Caesar's wound*
You are not wooa, you are not stones, but mea.
'Tis good you know not that you are his heirs.

1 speak not now of those bitter waters which must mingle tbemselves
with the well of unhallowed pleasure, of the secret reproaches of unhal*

nil 'I ;

:«)!

J m

60 Instruction in

lowed conricieneo, of the tiad sonse of shame and dlshonoar, and of that
degraded spirit which must bend itself beneath the scon of the world ; I
epeak onlj of the oimple and natural eff ets of wiae indulgcuec.

Let the student understand that the idea of negation must be
expressed, and the opposite idea untithctical to the negation be at
least suggested. In the last example it is actually expressed.

In tho first it is as Antony had said, " ,

" Which, pardon me, I do not moan to read, but to conceal from
you." Hence such expressions are mcowp A Ye. , •

136. Rule III. — Questions commencing with verba and which
can be answered by yes or no lake the rising inHLOLion.

Can the soldier when he girdeth on hia aEmour boast liko him that putteth
it off? Can the merchant predict that tha speculatioH on which he has
entered will infallibly be crowned with success ? Can even the husband-
man, who has the promise of God that seed time and harvest shall not
fail, look forward with assured confidence to the increase of his fields ?

" What I would'st thou have a serpent sting thee twice ?"

• 137. Rule IV. — Exclamations of one or two words, as inter-
jectional phrases of exclamation, apostrophe, sorrow, and so on, not
being affirmations, but of the character of an appeal, take the
rising inflection. '

" Ghastly grim and ancient ravun, wandering from the nightly shore : " —
"My mother! when Ilearn'd that thou wast dead."
" Ye crags and peaks I "

138. Ohscrve that the rising inflection is given only to the
object appealed to. If there be anexclimitory clause involving a
complete declaration it comes under anotlier rule and ends wiih
the failing inflection. Thus, in the last example, the inflections
would occur as marked :

Ye crags and peaks ! I'm with you once agaml ^' .-.,.,
I hold to you the hands you first beheld
To shew they Btill are /ree/

Intellectual Elocution,

Ah I Godl that ghastly gibbet. Huw dreaaful 'tis to sett
The groat, tall spoctral skelctOM, the ladder, and the tree.

Yc woods and w JJs, vriiose melancholy gloom

Accords with my soul's sadness, and draws forth

The vuico of sorrow from my bursting heart,

Farewella while I

13!). Hole V. — Soutcnces of amazement or surprise, being

essonti illy appealiiuj, and thcreibru incomplete, take the rising

inflection.

Alas ! for the rarity

Of Christian chanty
Under the sun 1

140. Often tlicsG expressions t ikc a rising inflection through
everj member of the sentence.

" What I Michael Oassio, -
That came a wooing with you, and so many a timo
When I have spoke of you dispralsingly,
Bath ta'en your part, to have so much to do
To bring him in I"*

Exceptions. -

141. The rules of inflection are neither arbitrary nor change-
able. They arc dcriv<.;d from natural principles, and the very
exceptions occasionnlly occurring in ilioir application will, oa
exarjinution, provi; to be in harmony with the principles laid
down.

142. The followirjii- Exceptions to the use of the risins; inflec-
tion ;ire presented to tlio fc^tudeut, not as real exceptions, but as
examples to show that the /o7'?/is of expression often disguise the
thouuiit, and that he who uses liiti jud.:'m(jnt;md masters the mean-
ing of ;in author has the best key in a correct interpretation to the
correct inflection.

Thu correct inflection of tliis example is that of the rising circumflex on all the
words marked thua—WLat ! Michael C'aebio, that came a wooing.

i'i

H , } ' !'

■ 1

;■ fi.ii'!

1 J

{■ ■?: i

)

*i .;: ':

f wii

^ ^^

> J.

f. M

' T

• I

■1

y,,

iiji

; I

i Y>M!i

Instruction in

' 143. Exceptions to Rule II. — All negative eentcnces
involving a command, or assuming a positive form, take the fall-
ing inflection ; as,

Tbou sbalt do no murder.

This is clearly no exception to the principle laid down, for
these expressions indicate completeness. They are not denials but
imperative statements.

144. Exception to Rule IV. — When the exclamation is not
an appeal, but rather a command, the inflection is a falliug one ;
thus.

Revenge I revenge 1 Timotbeus cries. -

Here Timotheus does not invoke revenge, but rather demands
it, and the inflection is one of decision and completeness.

The following examples further illustrate the truthfulness of the
principles : -

If thou be'st be -but bow fallen. (Complete.)

Hark I bark! it is the clash of arms. {Complete.)

You see, great Duke, I am not mad. (Positive.)

Ob! traitors, Tillains. (Complete.) l

most bloody sight. (Complete.)

Oh, Rome I ob, my country ! ( [ncomplete) bow art tbou fallen !

Alas ! my friend— woe is me. (Appeal.)

Tliou first and chief sole sovran of the vale ! 1

O straggling with the darkness all the night.

And visited all night by troops of stars,

Or when they climb the sky, or when they sink —

Companion of the morning star at dawn — ' . ' .

Thyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawn

Co-beraldl

Wake 1 (command) wake I {appeal) and utter praise (commatid.)

Observe. — In examples like the last, when several clauses, each
independent of the other, but referring to one common predicate,
command, or invocation are grammaticaUy connected, grace and

Intellectual Elocution. C3

variety would sanction a falling inflection on all tlic completo
clauses but the last, " Co-henlld."* (See Rule VIII.)

FALLING INFLECTION.

Principle — Completeness.

145. Rule VI. — \Vhen sentences express ideas logie;illy-com-
plcto and not dependent on each other, they end with the fdUing
inflection.

Tlic gradations of art-are always laborioira ; noone~can-hopo to~attaia
excellence at once.

Though the earth and the heavens were to disappear, there arc -other
worlds which roll afar ; the light of other suns shines upon them^-and the
sky which mantles them, is garnished with other stars.

The sternest sum-total of all worldly misfortunes is death^ nothing more
can lie in the cup of human woe : yet many men in all ages have triumphed
over death and led it captive : converting its physical victory into a moral
victory for themselves — into-aseal and immortal -consecration for all that
their i)a3t lives had achieved.

14G. Rule VII. — When a series of such independent sen-
tences follow each other in grammatical connection and succession,
while the rule of a falling inflection at the end of each sontoiicc is
observed, it relieves the monotony to give a rising inflection to the
last word of the penultimate sentence. This rule applies to the
members of a sentence as well as to sentences. . ,

The day is cold and dark and dreary ;

It rains and the wind is never weary,

The vine still clings to the garden wall,

And at every gust the dead loaves fall,

And the day is dark and dreary.

* In rhetorical language the rule might bH stated thus: Whon sjv"r.al elaaset
(protasps) rofer to one common apodosin, i.e., the part satihfyiug the protases, the
final clause preceding the apodosis wUl have a risiug Inflection.

Imtruetion in

\< f

n f '..vH -i J

Oir petitions have been alfglited; our remonstrances liave produced
additioual violence and insult ; our supplications have been diaregardsd,
and wo liavc been apurnod with coutciupt from tho foot of the throne.

147. Rule VITI. — When several plirascH or Hcntences inde-
pendent of each other, but reft-Trint^ to one common predicate,
conclasion or Rtatemeut, follow each other in grammatical connec-
tion, they all t iko tho filling inflection, except the last — i, e. tho
one preceding such i)redicate.

Tlieso feeble states, tlieso monuments of the justico of Europe, thoasylum
of peace, of industry, tho refuge of oppressed innocence and persecuted
truth— have perished, with those ancient principles which were their sole
guardians and protectors.

I conjure you by tliat which you profess,

Howe'er you cumo to know it, answer me : • •

Though you untie the winds, and let them fight

Against the churches, though the yesty waves

Confound and swallow navigation up j

Tho' bladed com be lodged, and trees blown down J

Tho' castles topple on their warders' heads ;

Tho' palaces and pyramids do slope

Thtnr heads to their foundaiions ; tho' th©4rea3uro

Of nature's germins tumble all together

Even till destruction sicken — answer me •

To what I ask you. — MaebtLh,

148. Rule IX. — Interrogative expressions, commencing .u
pronouns or adverbs end with a falling inflection, as,

What judgment shall 1 dread doing no wrong?

Which now of these three was neighbour to him that fell among the
thieves ?
For who would bear tlic whips and scorns of time, Ac.
How are you ? When do you sail ?
Whure aw you going to ?

Intellectual Elocution*

149. Rule X. — Questions thnt express conviction, whether as
the roiiclusinn from premisi'S admitted or proved, or as an appeal
with tho expect ition of judgment in our favor, or as an excluma-
tioii. or !i» ;i conimmd, tike tho falling inflection.

Appealing question.

Judfe'C mo yc Gods I Wr my I mine enemies f
Anfl, if not so, how should T urong my brother f
I saifl an elder soldier, not a better:
]))d i sail heller 9

The words in it dics^ arc in tho form of a conclusive exclama-
tion, and require, as Dr. Rush suggests,. a downward intonation
through'. nt. »

Thus also, Hamlet,, when he- sees- the king penitent «nd at
prayer.

Now might I do it ; pat, now he ia praying ;

And now I'll do't ,*^ and so he goes to Ileaveni

And so am ][ revenged f

That is, as if he had said, "And so,- slaying my father's
lurdcrcr, just after repentance -and prayer, I help him to hcaven>
[and so am I revenged — ami?" ,

Argumentative or conclusive question.
You all did see that on the Lupercal, .

I lliricG presented him a kingly crown, , ■ . .,

'V' le did thrice refuse. Was this ambih'onf ;.

matorjj question.

I li .vith bread like you, feel want, taste grief,

Need friends ; subjected thus

How can you ■ sat/ to me : I am-a-Kmg /"—Rich. II.

Imperative qi lim.

Witches. See' Know no raore.

Macbeth. I wii i satisfied, deny me this,

And ua eternal curse fall on you ; let me know

Why atnka that cauldron I And what noise ia thi* I

Instruction in

150. The thoughtful student cannot fail to observe the scien-
tific correctness and certainty of the principles of inflection as
indicated in these rules. The interrogations arc not appeals
expressive of ignorance, but declarations of decided conviction or
command, and therefore delivered with that downward intonation
■which is the natural utterance of the satisfied mind.

151. Rule XI. — All commands and imperative sentences and
exclamations take a falling inflection.

Harkl haltl fly! depart I begone I hold I livel die! away! speak! I
charge you.
Brutus. — All this ? Aye more ! — fret, till your proud heart break,
^0, show yoar slaves how clioleric you are,
And make your bondmea tremble.

ADDENDA.

152. Rule XII. — Apposition. — Woras, phrases and sentence?
in apposition follow the inflection of the members they represent.

Edward, Duke of Kent, fourth son of George III, and father of Queen

Victoria, died of a neglected cold.

Here the nouns in apposition t:iko the rising inflection as they
belong to the subject, that is, the incomplete member.

But one grace
Remains, the growth of nature — the true shoot-
Abuse could not eradicate and leave
The trunk and root alive — one virtue— manhood I
The brow whereon doth sit disdain of threat !
Defiance of agression, and revenge
For contumely. *

In instances like the above, where several objects succeed each
other, as hUvc, iinanlwod^ threat, aggression, contumelij, it is
more graceful, as destructive of monotony, to give a rising inflec-
tion to the penultimate clause of the objects, as aggression. (See
Rule VIII.)

Intellectual Elocution.

153. Rule. XII. — Antithesis. — "When words or members are
brought iuto contrast they take contrary inflections. The kind
of inflectien given to each contrasted member will depend on the
preceding rules. At the same time the best skill, judgment and taste
of the reader must be exercised to give variety and to avoid mono-
tony in a series of antitheses. The following examples give single
and double antitheses : —

Ho spoke for, not agaiast peace.

To be or not to be.

Thus am I doubly arm'd : my life and death

My bauc and antidote are both before me.

Here life is contrasted with death, and bane with antidote;
again, life and antidote, bane and death are in apposition and
tike similar inflections ; finally, antidote is the next subject to the
verb and always, in such cases, takes the rising incomplete inflec-
tion. *

154. Rule XIV. — Let the inflections be arranged so that, in
accordance with previous rules and principles, the rising inflection
shall be given to negatived words and incomplete expressions, and
the falling to affirmative and completed expressions.

155. Many and various rules have been given by writers on
elocution, for the management of what is called loose sentences and
sentences consisting of many members. Such sentences, in the
first place, will not often trouble the student; and when he has
thoroughly m;istcred the principles laid down in this essay, he will
find little difficulty in reading loose sentences and series of mem-
bers. The end to be kept in view is graceful variety, consistently
with correct principles, as developed in the preceding rules.

CIRCUMFLEX INFLECTIONS.

156. These inflections are generally defined as the union of
the two inflections, the rising and tlie falling. They consist,
however, in effect, of something beyoua, and more graceful than
this. A pure rise and fall in the inflection would have a ccrtaia

1^ ^n

< '■■<

'■'*v

i^;

Instruction in

abruptness and angularity in it, not pleasing nor expressive to tlie
ear. In whatever direction the voice moves, downwards and
upwards, or upwards and downwards, it moves rather in a curve
than in straight lines. The difficulty with untrained voices will
be to move first from alow pitch, in a rising slur, then without any
interruption return downwards, and in the same way advance from
a high pitch downwards and then upwards with ease, and without
any break in the voice ; and, whenever this difficulty occurs, the
student must return to the gamut pr.tctice on the tonics thus : —

ah, ah = ah.

ah, ah = ah.
157. These inflections are more earnest and sweep through a
larger compass than those of tlie conversational tone. When we

ask the question /s he honest? in a careless, indifferent way, the
inflection is a distinct rise of not more than a musical third. But
if we ask the same question — moved with doubt, distrust or
wonder, then the voice advances, thus: — Is will be uttered in a
certain tone ; he will descend below it in pitch, hon will still
advance downwards, but before ceasing will begin to move
upwards, and est will advance upwards to a higher pitch than that
on which Is was commenced, thus : —

■I^^Jiehoncst?

These ascents and descents are usually in fifths, and in great
earnestness, their compass is that of an octave. (See Gamut.)

Thus Hamlet addresses Laertes : —

Dost thou come hero to wlune

— ' ^-^

To oatfacc ma with leaping in her grave?

:ii:i=i)=j;*zzi=:

Its:

:i*

:»=i§--:=:t:=

:m~

Dost thou come hero

to whine.

(Vandenhoff^s Elocution.)

Intellectual Elocution,

158. Rule XV. — Vehement interrogation and sentences
expressive of irony, scorn, contempt, wonder, mockery, or reproach,
require the circumflex iuflections on the expressive words.

Good frieads I sweet friends I let me not stir you up

To such a sndden flood of mutiny.

Irony:

They that have done this deed are honorable 1
What private griefs they have, alas 1 I know not,
That made them do it ; they arc wise and honorable,
And will, no doubt, with reasons answer you.

Scorn :

A child might understand it.
Queen : Hamlet, thou hast thy father much offended
Hamlet : Mother, you have my father much offended.

Reproach:

Constance : Thou slave, thou -wretch, thou coward I
Thou little valiant 1 great in villaiuy I
Thou Fortune's champion, that dost never fight
But when her humorous ladyship is by
To toach thee safety !

Lady Macbeth : Oh proper stufl'I

This is the very painting of your fears —

This is the air-drawu dagger which yod said led you to
Duncan.

159. Rule XVI. — When the cKpresi^ire word h incomplete in
itself the circumfloix \n^^ict[oa falls and then rises ; when it is com-
plete and emphatic it rises and then fads.

Instruction in
MONOTONE.

IGO. By MONOTONE is understood the nearest possible approach
to one continuous tone of voice. Tbc inflections are the same as
those used in all other oases, hut they have less compass and varia-
tion ; they are subdued, and have been aptly compared to the
ghados which the artist introduces into his jpictnrc to set off its
other parts.

161. Monotone is adapted to the expression of solemnity,
sublimity, dread, and reverence. It is of tho first importance in
reading the Psalms, the utterance of prayer, of Milton, the solemn
passages of Shui^apcare, and all tragedy where the feeling is one
rather of dignity and meditation than of passion. The orotund
voice (page 40) is the best adapted to it ; but, in deep fear or horror,
the voice may sink into the guttural and husky tone of terror,
while the falsetto monotones will aid in imit:iting distant voices.
The student who desires to unite dignity with power of delivery
should read aloud any passages suitable to monotone, observing,
especially in his practice, the important rule of reading slowlj/, by
prolonging the vowels and voice letters. In all such practice the
body should be erect, the chest expanded, the lungs well and con-
.tinuously filled, the mouth rounded for the full orotund voice, and
every new clause commenced in a deep, full tone.

Lord, thou hast been our dwellbig-place in all generations. Before the
mountains were brought forth, or ever thou hast formed the earth and the

world, even from everkisting to everlasting thou art God. — ^XC Psalm.
(The whole of which offers an excellent practice)

Methought I heard a voice cry, " Sleep no more I

Macbeth does murder sleep." — Tho innocent sleep :
Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleave of care,
The death of each day's life, sore labor's bath,
Balm of hurt minds, great Nature's second course,
Chief noutisher in Life's feast.

Still it cried " Sleep no more 1 " to all the house :

Intellectual Elocution,

)proacli
ame as
i varia-
to the
.off its

emuity,
tance in
5 solemn
f is one
orotund
ir horror,
f terror,
it voices.

delivery
bserving,
owly, by

tice the
and con-
oice, and

Before the
1 and the
C Psalm.

" Glamis hath murdered sleep, and therefore Cawdor
Shall Bleep no more — Macbeth ghall ilcep no more. "

Observe that even in these and similar passages the monotone is
not sustained to the end, but that the usual falling inflection
will bo given to the closing clauses.

162. The student has now bocn made acquainted with the
principles and the rules derived from tliem for the inflection of the
voice. It is one of the most diflScult branches of elocution to
manage, both to instructor and pupil. The clii^difficulty is, as wo
have already stated, a physiological one — the management of the
voice and the perception of the ear. This difficulty can be best
overcome by elementary practice on the vowel sounds, and by read-
ing aloud. The student must first decide by a reference to princi-
ples, that is, to his own judgment, what inflcotionhe shall give to a
doubtful word ; he must then give it and feel satisfied that he has
both liiven the intended inflection and the extent or compass of
inflection required. If he still feels doubt and difficulty he may
seek the j udgment of any listener ; and so he must daily practice
until the eff'ort can be made instantaneously, swiftly, and without
any break or harshness of voice. It will aid his progress if ho
listens to the inflections of others — of children, of conversations, of
public oratory. It will further assist his studies if he notes the
peculiarities of speakers and endeavours to ascertain why one voice
ia pleasing, solemn, humorous, pathetic, &c., and why another is
harsh, disagreeable, and inexpressive. For example, the peculi-
arities and drollery of a good reader of Artcmus Ward will be due,
as will bo found by observation, to a certain nasal utterance, and to
a preponderance of strong, rising inflections, while those of a speaker
who fatiijrucs the ear will be found to arise from the absenv;e of all

inflection — one continuous monotone, without due empha.sis or
relieving pause. In short, the student who practices daily, uses
his common sense, and always refers to nature for counsel, will
make the most rapid progress, accepting it as an axiom in delivery
that inflection is the very soul of expression.

1G3. The following additional exercises present some of the
most important principles explained, and, as they are marked with

'^imn

I h\

Instruction in

proper inflections, they ought to be read aloud until the* student
can without any difl&culty give the necessary inflection :

EXERCISES IN INFLECTION.

Incompleteness, Doubt, Contingency, Appeal,- Depen-
dency, JlEGATION, AND CONCLUSION.

Seeing we have this ministry, &s we have received mercy', we faint not ;
but have renounced the hidden things of dishonesty ; not walking in crafti-
ness, nor handling the Word of God deceitfully ; but by manifestation of llie
truth, commending ourselves to every man's conscience in the sight of God

So live, that when thy summons comes to join

The inaumerable caravan that moves

To the pale realms of shade, where eacb-shallHake

His chamber in the silent halls of death,
^ , Thou go not, like the quarry slave at night

Scourged to hi3 dungeon, but, sustained and-soothed

By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave

Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch

About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.
Think not that the influence of devotion is confined tath&-retirement-of
the closet and the assemblies of the saints. Imagine not that, uncoanected
with the duties of life, it is suited only to those enraptured souls whose
feelings, perhaps, you deride as romantic and visionary. It is the guardian
of innocence ; it is the instrument of virtue; it is a means'^ by which every
good affection m^y be formed andimproved.

164. Antithesis and Contrast hy JVigatives and Affirmatives.

Speaking as a man, I measure the integrity of men by their conduct, not
by their professions ; by their deeds, not by their words.

True charity is not a meteor, wliich occasionally glares, but a luminary,
which, in its orderly and regular course, disperses a benignant influence.

If any man sin, wo have an advocate with the Father, Jesus-Christ, the
righteous.

Intellectual Elocution,

Observe that advocnle, Jisus CJirisf, and righteous, being in
apposition, have [Rule XII. par. 152,] the sumc iuflcction.

And be is the projjitiutiou for our^iua, and not for ours only, but for the
eina of the wbole M'lr.'c/, .ji.

Richelieu : Do you deny me justice ?

For fifteen years, while in these hands dwelt empire,
The humblest craftsmai, the obscurest vassal,
The very leper, shrinking from the sua.
Though loathed by charity, might ask for justice, —
Not with the fawning tone and crawling mien
Of some I see around you — counts and prince^
Kneeling iovfaoors—hni erect and loud
As men who asit man's rights.

But this is no time for a tribunal of justice, but for showing meVcy^ not
for accusa'tion, but for philanthrophy ; not for trial, but for pardon ; not for
sentence and execution, but for compassion and kindness.

164. Observation. — Altliough a number or series of members
in a sentence can comt uader no fixed rules of inflection, when
such series offer opportunities for logical divisions or contrast, the
reader may vary the inflections according to his taste and judg-
ment, but always in harmony with principles. The follov/ing
illustrations may be suggestive : —

Neither bli'udness, nor gout, nor age, nor penury | —nor domestic- afflic-
tions nor po'Uiical disappointments | — nor abiise, nor proscription, nor
neglect nad power to di^sturb his sedate and majesiic patience. — Macaulay
on Milton.

For I am pursuaded thatneither deathnor life | — nor angels, nor princi-
palities, nor powers I —nor things present, northings to come j —nor height
nor depth, nor any other creature | — shall be able to separate us fiom the
love of God which is in Christ Jesuaour Lord.

Instruction in

|i. ;■ :■

• : ■ / '

INTERROGATIONS^

165.

And we— shall we die in our chains

Who once were free as the wind ?

Who is it that tiireatens— who is it arraigns?

Are they prinoes of Europe or lud —

Are they Icings to the uttermost pole ?

They are dog3,1 with a taint on their soul I

Will the Lord oast off for ever, and will ho be favorable no more ? Is his
merf.y clean gone for ever ? Doth his promise fail for evermore ? Hath
God forgotten to be gracious? Hath he in anger shut up his tender mer-
ci'es ?

Wherefore ceasewe then ?

Say they who counsel war ; We are decreed,

Reserved and destined to eternal wOe ;

Whatever doing what can we suffer more,

What can we suffer worse ? Is this then worst— ^

Thus sitting, thus consuWny, thus in AJRMS ? ' (

What I when we fled amain, pursued and ^Iruck

With heaven's afflicting thunder and besought

The deep to shelter us— this hell then seemed Or refuge- from-those

wounds ; or when we lay
Chain'd on the burning lake— that sure was worse ?
Rivals, Sire ! in what ?

Service to France ? I have none ! lives the man
Whom Eiu-ope, paled before your glory, deems
Rival to Armand Richelieu? _.

166. Observatjon. — When questions separated by or are anti-
thetical the inflections will by rule be opposite ; but when they do
not imply an alternative they take the same inflections. The
following are examples of both oases :

Antithetical.— 'ShQ baptism of John, yraa it from heaven or of men?

JrUellectual Elocution.

Then said Jesus unto them, I will ask you one thing. Is it lawful on
Sabbath days to do good, or to do evil , to sare life or to destroy it?

Non-Antithetical.— Do men gather grapes from thorns, or figs from
thistles ?

Is a caudle brought to be put und«r a bushel, or under a bed ?

Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust ;

Or flaltery soothe the dull cold ear of death ?

Canst thou bind th« unicorn with his baud in the furrow, or will he har-
row the valleys after thee ? Wilt thou trust him because his strength ia
great? or wilt thou leave thy labour to him? Gavest thou the goodly
wings unto the peacocks ? or wings and feathers unto the ostrieh ? Canst
thou draw out leviathan with a hook; or his tongue with a cord which
thou Icttcst down? Canst thou put a hook into his nose ; or bore his jaw
with a tiiorn ? Wilt thou play with him as with a bird ; or wilt thou bind
him for thy maidens? Canst thou fill his skin with barbed irons or his
head with fish spears ?

In reading these questions the second or last clause of each
couple of connected questions should receive a stronger inflection,
that is, greater compass than the first.

1G7. The interrogative members of a sentence must be sepa-
rated and distinguished from any qualifying part that may bo
attached to them. The actual question sometimes terminates
immediately before such qualifying clause which follows as a parti-
cipal phrase or a subordinate clause. In such cases the iutcrrogar
tivc iiilloctiou will fall on the last word of the actual question, and
the qualifying clause will be delivered as a finished statement
ending- with thj falling inflection. In the following cases the
question ends with "esteem" and "presence."

Would'st thou have that
i .)' Which thou estecm'st the ornament of life,

And livo a coward in thine own esteem (?) —
Letting, *I dare not' wait upon * I would,'
Like the poor cat i' the adage.

^■■^■

I ' '

lli^

i«

Instruction in

Dlds't thou not think such vcugcauce must await
The wretch that, with hid crimes all fresh about him,
Rushes irreverent, uupreparod, uucallcd,
Into his Malior's presence (?) — throwing back
With insolent disdain. his choicest gift?

{BelVa Elocution.)

Surprise — Exclamations, Incomplete and Complete.

168. Incomplete^ appeals and invokes.
ConqjletCf commands and aflirms.

Hamlet: What a piece of work is man! how noble in reason! how infin-
ite in faculties I in form and moving— how express and admirable ! in action
how like an angel I in apprehension how like a god I

And the king was much mov«d, and went up to the gate, and wept, and
as he went, thus he said, my son Absalom 1 my son, my son Absalom I—
Would God I had died for thee, Absalom, my son, my sou 1
Gone to be married I gone to swear a peace I
False blood to false blood joined 1 Gone to be friends I
Cordelia : you kind gods, i

Cure this great breach in his abused nature 1
The uutoncd and jarring senses— wind up ! ,

Of this child-changed father I
Belshazzar: Oh! Chaldeas worshipped sages,

Oh 1 men of wisdom, that have passed your years —
Your long and quiet solitary years —
In tracing the dim sources of the events
That agitate this world of man — Oh ! ye
That in the tongues of every clime discourse,

Yc, — that hold converse with the eternal stars,
And in their calm proplietic courses read
The destinies of empires ; ye, whose dreams
Are thronged with the predestined images ""

Of things that are to be ; to whom the Fates

Ititelleetual Elocution,

Unfold their secret couasols ; to whose sight

The darlcacsd ofi'uturily withJrawa,

And one vast present tlli all time —behold

You burniug characters 1 aud read "^aud say

Why tho dark destinies "ihavo huag their sentence

Thus visible to the sight, but to the mind unsearchable.

(i/i7man.)

This extract offers a good illustration of successive appeals, each
nomvji.itive of address (vocative case) attended by an explana-
tory adjective clause, which always takes the same inliectiou as the
leadiuig word which in this instance it qualifies.

Observe that in such earnest appeal the inflection is greater ia
extent than in unimpasaioned conversation, nairative or didactic
subjects. It will vary in compass, extending frcta a fifth to an
octave.

"Hold! hold!" he eric J, "yoti wound me! That is the rock on which I
split, I denied liis name!" and thon with vehemence he exclaimed, "Oh I
time! time ! is it fit thou shouldest strike thy murderer to the heart ? How
art thou Oed for ever! A muath ! oh, for a single week ! I ask not for years,
thougli an age were too little for the ra\ich I have to do ! "

1G9. Finally ^ the student of Elocution should read all these
exercises aloud as they are marked. He may differ as to the
inflections given to tliem. But let him first read them many
times over as they are, and then he can apply his own judgment
and taste to alter them.

MODULATION— PITCH OF VOICE AND TIME.

170. The attention of the student was directed to the subject of
modwlation in the diagram of the diatonic scale, (p. 20.) When he
read on the deepest note Do, that might be cousidered the J.ow
PITCH, when on Sol, the middle pitch, and when on the upper
Do, a very UIOH pitch. But, whatever tone the speaker adopts,
low, or middle, or high, he ought carefully to avoid any tendencies

IE i •*■" ■

'■■■^Pii

Instruction in

to cxtrcmca. Tho low pitcli should be puro in tone and dis-
tinctly audible, and the lii^h should never be screamy, scjueaky
or tundinj^ to f.ilHotto. Tho voice must be alwayH under the perfect
control of the will and agreeable with good t;i«te; so manageable
fts that the speaker can instantly arrest it when it has reached its
highest or lowest point of clearness, and then, to use u military
term, as tho basis of operation ulwajjs return to the natural
midde jntch.

171. General Piunciples, — Tho mlhlh pitch is tho
natural one. It is that of agreeable conversation, and when
assumed in tho public hall only dem inds more force and distinct-
ness of articulation and slower time for delivery. It is the pitch
necessary to narration, and to subjects where thought and reason-
ing rather than passion prevail.

172. The hirjh pitch is used to express excited joy, or exul-
tation, triumph or rage, while the low jtitch is best ada])tcd for
deep solemn thought, concentrated rage, terror, &c.

173. Time is an essential quality of modulation, and may
bo divided into quick, nwdcrnte, and slow. As a general rule,
open to exceptions, the low pitch and the slow time go together ;
the middle pitch, as adapted to unimpassioned subjects, will
associate with moderate time, while the high pitch, as expressing
excitement and passion, will bo delivered in quick time. The
following example is marked with reference to time and pitch, and
the student is recommended to read it aloud according to these
marks ; the underlined words are emphasized :

MIDDLE PITCH, SLOW TIME.

First Fear his hand its skill to try,

Amid the chords bewildered laid ; '

Quick Time. And back recoiled, he knew not why,
E'en at the sound himself had made I

niail PITCII, QUICK TIME, '.J

Next -4n/7er rvished, his eyes on fire, '

In lightnings own'd his secret stings ;
In one *1 rude *" clash— ho struck the lyre

And swept 1 with hurried-hands — the atnngs

Intellectual Elocution,

'd its

LOW PITCH, MONOTONE, SLOW TIME.

With woeful measures, wan Despair

Very Low, Low sullen "1 sounds his grief beguiled

A solemn, atrango and mingled air—

'Twas Bud by fits —

Quicker Time^

and > By starts 'twas wild.
Higher Pitch, j

13e<j;iu with moderate time and middle pitch, and advance in

Bwclling tones of voice to a higher and more excited pitch and

quicker time.

But thou, Ilope with eyes so fair,

What was thy delighted measure ?

Still it whispered promis'd pleasure,

And bade the lovely secnes at disiunco hail !

sun would her touch the strain prolong,

And from the rooks, the 'woods, tlie vale

She called on Echo still, through all the song;

And when her sweetest theme ,he chose, '

A soft responsive voice was heard at every close ;

And Hope cnchauted-smiled, and wav'd her golden hair I

The whole of the Ode on the Passions is an admirable study and
practice for pitch and time.

RULES FOR MODULATION.

174. Rule I.— Commence to read and speak below the
middle pitch, and after the close of each paragraph return to this
commencing pitch on the next paragraph.

175. Rule II. — Deliver the principal sentences in a higher

pitch and with slower time and greater force than the subordinate

and parenthetic clauses.

(Subordinate clauses in italics.) " Still the waters rise ; and now, min-
gled with beasts that terror has tamed, men climb to the mountain tops, with
the flood roaring at their heels."

"Oh brothers," I said to those who heard me first in America, " O brothers!
speaking the same dear mother tongue, comrades I anemies 7io more, let us
take a mournful hanJ together, as we stand by this royal corpse uud call a
truce to battle : Low he lies iowhnm the proudest used to kneel once; and
who was cast lower than the poorest ; dead, whom millions prayed/or in vain."

In this example the subordinate clauses have a special importance
of their own, and although read with less emphasis and in a lower

Instruction in

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pitch tliua ilio loading words, tliey must bo delivered with due
patbo.s and solemnity, wliilo iucreiused forcj is thrown on "dead."

17G. liULE III. — Clauses parenthetic in form, but of leading
importince, must be rendered slower. [The italics read slower
and with deeper solemnity.]

If there is a ])Ower above us, [middle pitch]
And that there is alt nature cries aloud
Throufjii all Iter tvor'j^, [low and slv^w]
He must doligiit in vh-liio [pr!iicip;il sf^ntonce.]
And that which lie delights iul must be happy.

177. lluLE lY. — When a question i^ followed by an answer
fully ('X[)l;iuatory and conclusive, as excluding all possibility of
denial, it is delivered in a lower key and more slowly than the
question. [Read the italics in low key and slow time.]

There is not an evil incident to human nature for which the
Gospel doth not provide a remedy. Are you ignorant of many
things which it highly concerns you to know ? The Gospel
offers^ 1J0U instruction. Have you deviated from the path of duty?
The Go<pel offers y nit forgi.veness. Do temptations surround you?
The Gospel offers i/ou the aid of Heaven. Are you exposed to
misery? It consoles you. Are you subject to death? It offers
you imnwrtaUtjj.

Observe. — In such a scries of questions and answers as the
above, where each clause advances to a final climax, beginning
in this instance with temporal trials md stru'j;irle3, and ending with
the glory of immortality ; while the rule is fully observed, the
voice swells in powjr and solemnity, and the final answer is
delivered with increase of swell an 1 slowness of time, every
syllable and letter of " immortality " being emphatically distinct
and clearly audible.

178. Rule V. — If the answer to a question is one of rebuke, or

repro.'ch, or exultation, it shouh- be delivered in slow time, but

in a higher pitch than the question.

Must we but weep o'er days more blest?
Must we but blush? Our fathers Ued.
Banished ? / thank you jar it I it hrealcs my chain,
" Wherefore cease we then 1 "

Intellectual Elocution,

Say they who counpcl war ; we ore decreed,
Reserved and destined to eternal woe,
Whatever doing, what can we suHor more,
Wiiat can we siifl'er wor,sc ? Js this then worst.
Thus sitting, thus con6ultin<j, thus in arms ?

IMITATIVE MODULATION.

179 In impassioned, animated and graphic composition, words
are often an echo to tlic sense, and must be delivered with appro-
priate force and expression. A master of lan,;uagc wiH seh^et words,
when necessary, imitative of tlic objects and actions he describes. If
the subject be one of gentleness and softness, calmness and beauty,
his words will abound in liquid sounds easily uttered, and his
vowels will bo the most capable for musical expression ; while, if
the subji'ct be harsh, discordant, savage and stern, the most rugged
words will be selected, the consonants will be abrupt and difficult
of utterance, and the words short and unmusical though powerfully
expressive. The skill of the accomplished reader is shov.n in
giving vocal expression to the literary description, and, when this
is executed with judgment and truth, the delivery gives another
and a new charm to the language of an author, and life and reility
to the conceptions of the mind. A knowledge of the true sounds
of the letters of the hinguago in their various combinations, and
that facility in giving them full and finished utterance, which is
recommended in the lessons on articulation, added to the power
of vocal modulation — stress, pitch and inflection — constitute the
qualifications that secure this exoelloncc in delivery. Tho Address
to the Ocean, by Byron, is fall of expressions, which, in their con-
struction and sound in delivery, arc powerfully suggestive of the
solemnity and arandeur and boundlessness of the ocean:
Roll on thou deep and dark l/luc ocean ro^t,
Ten thousand fleets sween over thoo in vain.
Thou f/lorioiix mirror where thi; Almighty's form
Chissra itself 'U t':ii) [lefits ; ia ail time
Calm or cmu'dred — da hrcrze ov U'de or storm,
Icing the 7*0/ ■, or in the torrid clime
Dark, hcuvin'/ — fjou/id!>ss, endless and sublime,
TIio i-'-nago ofefcrnit;/, the throne
Of the Invi$iblf ; even from out thy slime
The vionsters of the deep are nuule ; each zone
Obeys thee j thou goed forth, dread, fathomless, ALONE.

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Tlius again, in the " Field of '\Vat3rloo," liow suggestive of the
hurried preparations I'or battle, the distant roaring of artillery, the
beat of the drum, tae tramp of armed men, the following descrip-
tion becomes, when each expressive word receives its appropriate

tone :

And there was mountiny in hot haste ; the steed,

TliJ mustering squadrun, and the cialtcring car,

Wcni i>i>ttrin-/ forward with viipeluous speed,

And swiftly f.irmin ing tlie ranks of war;

And tiie dc'/' thumh'r, peal i)n. 2'<-'ctl t'/nr.

And near the l/euf of the alarming/ dram

Ji'oiiscd \\\) tlie soldier ere the morning star ;

Wliih> tlirongcd the citizens, with terror dinnb,

Or wkispcriiij wiih wiiite iiiis, " the/uc; / thcj' cowc/ thry come I"

The Siiipwreck in Don Juan is equally suggestive of tlie wild
uproar and horrt)r of the storm, and the destruction it depicts.
Pope, who was a consummate master of luiguage, abounds in simi-
lar examples, which are recommended for vocal practice. Thus, in
the '• Ijssay on Criticism," he illustnites with appropriate words the
principles ho enforces.

So/l is the strain when Zcjihjr gently blows,

And the siiiQo:h stream in smnnllier niimJ/er fuiws ^

But when loud surges lash the soumling shore,

The hoarse rough verse shouM like the torrent roar ;

When Ajax strives some rue'i's ras' weight to throw,

The line, too, labours and the words move slow ;

Not so when swift Camilla, scours ihe plain,

Flies o'er the unbending corn, a. id ski)ns along the ])laiii.

180. In all such instances the rule for delivery is g(MiO)'al but
(ilear, it must be imitative. When there are swiftness and hurry,
the words must sweep al«5ng with equal sj jed ; when the action is
slow, when the subject described is heavy, massive, and v:!st, then
the niovemcnt is slow and the time prolonged ; when tlic topic is
elevated the tone rises; when mournful it sinks in pitch and
expands in time. i^ul)jects of a joyous cliaracter, like tlie descrip-
tion of Qitcrii Mnb, as already suggested, dance along with a
bounding, ringing, cheerful tone of voice. The student must
think; he must understand what he reads, conceive it in his own
imagination, and then picture it forth in vocal delivery. He who
aims incessantly to do this Ihithfully will not only improve his

Intellectual Elocution.

poTrer of tL-livery, but in tliat effort to conceive, to realize vO
himself the thoughts expressed in words, he will cultivate and
strengthen that imaginative faculty which spiritualizes life.

■al but
hurry,
'tion is
t, then
•pic is
h and
escrip-
jwith a
must
lis own
le who
Ive h'lH

GHOUPIXG OF SPEI^:CIT.

190 "I have adopted a term from the art of painting to designate
the instrumentality of pauses and certain uses of the voice, in uni-
ting the related ideas of discourse, and separating those whicli are
unrelated to each other." (i)y Jiu.sh.) In his work on the Phi-
losophy of the human voice, from which the above extract is t.tkcn.
Dr. Hush has ably described the methods by whicli members of
sentences, logically related, but separated by intervening clauses
and words, iiust bo read so as to realize to the hearer as well as
to the reader the connection of the interrupted parts and the sense
of the passage. This is one of those important difficulties with
which the reader of Milton and Shakspcure and of all the higher
poetry and prose literature of our country constantly meets, the
full comprehension of which requires an icquaintancc with the
grammatical construction and the analysis of sentences, and the
study of which, apart iVom all elocutionary objects, forms a high
mental discipline. Every English scholar is competent to meet
this difficulty, and derives the same delight and profit from the
study that the classical schol ir receives when reading the Latin and
Greek authors. But every Elngli.-h scliohir is not competent to real-
ize to a hearer, to whom he reads, this logical and sentential rela-
tionship which he has made clear to liimsclf It is here that the
science of elocution comes to hisaid, and thcfolhtwingexpl matious
arc offered as an abstract of the learned and masterly discussion of
the subject by Dr. Rush.

191. The rel itionship of kindred thought-; is shewn by the
modulation of the voice, by pitch, by inflection, by rapidity of
movement and especially by the E-MPiiatic Tie.

1 92. The emphatic tie consists in givin'- to wi,rds directly related
and peribrming the same function, as subjects or objects of a sen-

Instruction in

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tence, the same distinctive force. The following lines, from Collins'
Ode on the Passions, present an illustration of this emphatic tie :

When Cheerfulness, a nymvh of healthiest hue,

Ilcr bow across her shoulder flung,

Ilor buskins gomm'd with morning dew.

Blew an in^pirinj aii\ tliat dale and tliickct rung,

The hunter's call, to Fawu and Dryad known.

In these lines the phrases im^pirinj air and hunter's call are in
apposition, they both stand for the same thing; but, unless the
reader examine the sentence grammatically, he might suppose that
after ins^nring air, the dale and thicket rung the hunter's call.
The sense, however, is that the nymph blew an inspiring air, that
this was t\iQ hunter s call, that the dale and thicket rung with that
call, and that it was known to Fawn and Dryad. Now, to show
this relationship and order, the words " When Cheerfulness — blew
an inspiring air — the hunter's call" must be delivered in a higher
pitch, while inspiring air and hunter s call rc.ccivQ the same stress
and inflection. The modulation of the voice thus shows that
the author means the hunter's call to be the inspiring air. The
intervening words are delivered with a reduced emphasis, and thus
also their connection is shown.

193. The following example will further illustrate this im-
portant and interesting feature of elocution. The italicized
words show the arbitrary emjtliasis, while the parentheses (not in
the text) enclose the clause with ri^duced emphasis which is uttered
in more rapid movement, and " view" is delivered in monotone.
In this way it will be made manifest to the hearer that heaven and
the deep tract of hell form the nominatives disjunctively to hides.
Say first, —

For Heaven, (hides notliing from thy view)
Nor the deep tract of lldl.

The intelligent student will see that, while the meaning is that
neither Heaven nor the deep tract of hell hides anything from the
view of Illm whom the poet invokes, it might bo read so as to
convey the idea that '^ Heaven hides nothing from thy view nor
from the deep tract of hell.

Intellectual Elocution,

86i

,Tcd

;one.

and

lies.

that
the
to
nor

194. The following passages present example for practice, and
the principle reduced to rule will stand thus: —

195. Rule. — In sentences separated by intervening clauses, tho
members logically related, represented by nouns in apposition and
participles and adverbs and other parts of speech, modifying tho
principal words, must be read with similar stress and in similar
time, while the iutervcuing clauses are delivered more rapidly and
in monotone.

" There was a Brutus once that would have brooked
(The eternal Devil to keep bis state in Rome)

As easily as a king."
Here hroohed and casilj are tied emplmtlwlly, while the words in
parenthesis are delivered more swiltly, and on one level of the
voice.

" Thus while he snake ; each passion (dimmed his face
Thrice changed with pale,) ircj envy and despair. ^^

Hard pale is a noun, and ire. cuvjj tind dcsjjair mean each passion,
and are in apposition with it.

RHETORICAL PAUSES.

196- Rhetorical punctuation is an addition to grammatical punc-
tuation. Both musi bo observed by the eflfective reader. The latter
is sufficient to tho silent reader to guide his eye in distinguishing
the connection and separation of thought. But when we road
aloud, this connection and the separation require additional vocal
pauses to make the subject intelligible. Moreover frequent pauses
are indispensable for breathing, and the reader should become thor-
oughly habituated to the practice of brcif king through the nostrils
every time he pauses. When the pauses are long, as at the end of a
sentence, the reader may take a full inspiration and thoroughly
replenish the lungs, while a short inspiration, rapidly drawn through
tho nose will suffice during a short pause. Redders cannot pause
too often, for every pause is a relief to reader and hearer. The
GENERAL PRINCIPLE, almost sufficient in itself for the guidance of
the grammatical fscholar, is to. pause be/ore every adjunct and every

f;^

Instruction in

clcnise in a sentence. Prcpof^Itlong and relative pronouns, for exam-
ple, introduce adjunetn, and clauses, i. e. new forms of thought,
and demand a pause before them. From this general priuciplo
the following rules are derived : —

RULES FOR PAUSES.

Mark for Pause —

197. Rule i.— Pause after the logical subject of the scutcuce
when it consists of several words.

Every thing human— admits of change and vicissitude.
Yes, my brelhreu. the liual catastroi^he of all human passions — is rapid
as it is awful I

198. Rule II. — I*ause after the nominative when only one
single word, if it be an important and emphatic one.

The king — is come to raai'shal us, all in his armor drost.

And Urutus— is an honourahlo man.

Thus conscience — does make cowards of us all.

And Nathau — said unto David, 'fkou — arL the man.

199. Rule III — Pause after the iaverted members of a sen-
tence.

No mattv^r in what language— his doom may have been preiiounced.
To siicli (luestions- what nmst be me answer?
For— in that slcej) of death — wiiat dreams may come.
Few and short — were the words— we spoke.

The rights of the living— he violated ; the ashes of the dead — ho desecrated
and scattered to the winds.
By thai siu— fell the augols.

200. Rule IV — Pause whenever there is au important ellipsis,
especially of the verb.

As from the wing no scar the sky retains ;
The parted wave — no furrow from the keel.

To our faith, we should add virtue; and to virtue knowled""e"

and to kn^wkr<jge— tv'mpermce; and to temperance -p-itience ; and
to patience — govlliness; and to godliness— brotherly kindness; and
to brotherly kindness — charity

IntelleGtual Elocution.

When several adjectives qualify one noun there is an clllppis of
the noun after each qualiiyiiig word ; hence there will be a pause,
as:

Lot but 0.10— bravo — great — active— disinterested man — arise, and ho
will be I'L-ccived, foUuwed, uud vcucrated.

201. JiULE V Paa.^e before and after all parenthetic clauses

and phrases, and every intt-ruiediate and ex}»lauatory or modil'ying
phrase. — This rule is but a.n expression of the general principle^
and, in detail, will stand thus :

20l'. lUiLE VI. — Pause before relative pronouns excepting
when preceded by prepositions.

" To an ordinary layman the lifo of the anclioritc niiglit appear in the
Lighest dcgriv opposed to that of the Teacher — who beyau his mission in a
marriage feast."

Flung into life in the midst cf a revolution — that quickened every energy
of a people — ii7(0 acknowledged no superior, he commeuccd hia course — a
straiig>.'i by birth, and a, scholar by charity.

20J. Hulk VII. — Pause before and after clauses and phrases
comnieuciug with prepositions.

ExcKPTiON. — Do not panse before o/'when it is the sign of the possessive

case.

The character of Milton was peculiarly distinguished — hy loftiness of
tliougliL; that of Dante — h>j intensity of feeling.

What is that you wonld impart to me?

If it be ought — toward the general good,

Set honour //; one eye, aud— death — ^' the other

And I will look — on both — indiflerently.

"Why raiher, Sleep, liest thou — in smoky cribs —

Upon imeasy pallets — stretcJiing thee.

And hushed — with buzzing night flies — to tliy slumber,

Than — /// he ])erfiini('d chambers of the great —

(.'inkr the canopies ot cosily slate,

And luird — wiih sounds of sweetest melody ?

201. lluLiu Till. — Pause beibrc and after all conjunctions and
adverljs of time, place, comparison, &.C., when they connect or
introduce distinct phrase^) and clauses.
Let U8 reflect that time waits for no man.

Bcft peace she hi'inga—u- /terever she arrives;
She builda our quiet— aa she forms our rest.

,!.]

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Thy words had such a melting flo'W', •
And spoke of truth— w swcelly well,
They dropped — like heaven's screncst snow,
And all was brightness — where they fell.

Nations— Z«^e men, fail in nothing which they boldly undertake— O'/iew
flustaiued— by virtuous purpose— a/jt/ firm resolution.

Observe — It may be taken as a safe rule that when and, Int, or^
ifi «*> /or, and similar conjunctions are immediately attached to
words -which they combine, there vshould be no pause t//iCcr them, as ;

We tdoiipht as we hollowed his narrow bed.

And nmoothed down his lonely pillow

That the foe — and the stranger — woald troad o'er Lia Lead,

And we— far away— on the billow.

But if intervening clauses or an ellipsis- separate them, then, on
the principle that such clauses introduce new ideas, or demand a
mental effort to refer to- the words omitted, a pause is required.

205. Rule IX. — Pause after words in apposition, or-in opposi-
tion.

Oh? sacred Trnth, thy triumph ceased awhile,
And Hope— thy sister— ceased with thee to^emile.
He — raised a mortal to the skies;
She — drew an angel down.

20 G. Rule X. — Pause before the infinitive mood 'Whtjn cot
immediately preceded by a modifying word.

Whereto serves ilercy
But — to- confront the visag* of oQ'ouco ?
Is there not raiu enough in the sweet Heavens—
To wash it white as snow?
Proceed to judgment ; by my soul I swear
There is no power— la the tongue of mau^
To alter me.

207. Rule XI. — Pause between the object and modiTymg
words when in inverted order.

^ He strained, with arm — extended far,

And fingers — widely spread, greedy— tO' touch
Though — but his idol's garment.

Intellectual Elocution'

208. Rule XII. — Pause generally before and after ciupliatio
words.

To be, or — not—Xo be, that— is the qnostion.

Yo>i called me — (/o^— nnd for these — courtesies.

I'll leiul yon thus luiirh laoiioys.
Queen. Ilamlct, thou liasL thy father much offcndod.
llumlel. M(jtlier— vo'/ — have mv f.ilhcr much olTended.

Some said, " This Is he," others said, •' lie is like him," but hc said,
'<I— a»i-he."

I should be much for open ■war, peers,
As not behind in hate, if what was vrged
JIaiu reason to persuade immediate war,
Did not — (//.s~suade me most.

Who touches a hair of yon grey head — Z>.'e3— like a dog ! March on I
he said.

209. These are the principal rules for rhetorical pausing. The
student must, however, again bo referred to the general principle
that every interruption to the logical relationship of the thought)
every word thrown in to modify or explain or give new force to
the subject demands a pause ; and he who thoroughly conceives
the subject and understands the analysis of the sentence will need
little help from rules, save as authorities in cases of doubt.

210. It has already been said that it is impossible to indicate the
TIME to be given to each pause. The logical relationship of the
thoughts, the character and intensity of passion expressed, or the
vivacity or solemnity of the subject, will suggest the proper law
of time ; and the length or brevity of a pause must b(5 loft to the
judgment and intelligence of the student. Long pauses are often
demanded when the mind is under the influence of fear or deep
reverence, and sometimes even in the utterance of humour ; but
when these pauses are prolonged, the accomplished speaker, reader
or actor fills up the silence with appropriate expression or gesticu-
lation, which becomes itself a speaking language. Thus, when
Hamlet addresses the Ghost :

i 11 call thee — ITamlet —
King — father — Royal Dane— Oh! answer me.

Tho pauses are long and solemn, but the interval is filled up by

an. expression of eloquent though silent awe and pathos by the

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accnmpli'^liod Mctor, as improssivo jis iha ^lnpfuapJO lio utter?'. In
all Midi iiist:iiicos tlio i^tudi'iit iniist bo natural, never dcsiii-iiiu; rule
or law, but becoming uulcpcndetit ol'tluau, not by inditrercneo to
their value, but by the truthl'ul re;di//itl()U tu his own mluJ uftho
thou!j,i:t and pussiou he becks to repreaeat.

GllAMMATiCAL GROUPING OF WORDS.

211. The n;raminatical ficholar, that is to nay, any one pop.«!oss.
ing a knowledj^o ot'the})art.s of speech, will find it ol\t;Teat service
to group certain words aceordin^- to the {iranimatieal relations,
regarding the group of words thus related as one oftATOiilCAL
WORD ; and, as in single words of more than one syllable, there will
be accented and unaccented syllables, rso in the group of words
there will bo one prominent "word, which, without being entitled
to the distinction of an emphatic word, will, nevertheless, receive
more force of voice than the other words to which it is attached.
Between such words there will be ao pauses, and the pauses will
occur betweeu the groiqis.

212. The following is a digest of more elaborate rules given
by Professor A. M. Bell, in his "Elocutionary Manual," and it
will assist the student in grouping the words of a .seutcnce, iiud in
selecting more important words for accentual emph<isis. The words
connected by the hyphens are to be read as one word, the accent
falling ou the more important word. In selecting such accented
word the adverb will have precedence of the verb when it modifies
a verb, as, he-writes-irc?/ ; the verb will have precedence of the
subject, as, tho-king-?Yt(5ir2.s ; the adjective of the noun it qualifies,
as, u-lcanial-m-An ; nouns will have precedence of subordiuiite parts
of speech, &c. Wlien, however, arbitrary emphasis is to be given
these rules, the accentual emphasis gives way to the emphasis of
feeling. Thus, if we compare the reading and the writing of t-wo
persons, we migjjt say, John reads wel, but Henry rcrlUs well.
This digest, therefore, is valuable chiefly for guiding the reader in
acceutuui emphasis or the emphasis of sense and pause.

Intellectual Elocution,

21o. (1.) Uuitc adjectives ami propo.sltlons witli tlio words
wliieli t1it' lirst qualil'y aiul tho second govoru : I spcuk in-Oihul/
ol-thc cl liiHH oi'-in\-uijuri(l-inio\)\*j.

/(//.?c-eloquence like thc-jtrisinatic-fr\si5a
l{-i-t/uuilij-co\ii\irs sjinada ou cveri/-[)hn:c.

214. (Ll.) The iiomiiiutivc may be by itself accented as one
word, unless a pronoun (a) ; the adjuncts or distinct enlargements
of it as another word (/>) ; the auxiliary and principal verb, and
the verb transitive and its object, with its qualiiyiiig words, as one
word ( ) ; and any complement or separate adjunct of the object
or prcclieuto as one oratorical word (</.)

Ifeavc'i Qi) from-f<//-creaturos (d) /liikK-iha-hook-of-fate (r).
£ven/-\y,ilh («) In-Xhc-icorld {!>) leads (c) tu-tlie-^owti, (J) and-(3i*r7/-hour
(a) in-///t' '.u) halh'becn (c) io-aomc (d) ihi^-fd.sl-honv (</).

215. (IJ.) Unite all pronouns, nominative and objective, with
tho verbs to which thoy arc subjects, and the verbs, particij^los or
prepositions which govern them.

Yai-IIeavrn tbat-7na(/e-me honest madc-me wore than a'avvL-king dkl, when
he-made-. i-Zorf/.

Ohftervf. — The pronoun is not accented unless it bo an antece-
dent to a relative, and conjunctions will be united with the words
they connect.

Then-/"' which-liad-?rce/(rJ-tlie-one-talc'ut dime, axiA-said, Lord, I Jcnow
thut-Uuic: f//V-a-//ar'/-inan, renji/i^ loheic tlioii-lia.st-/ioM6«7t nud-^at/icrinf/
where iIiDU hiist-not-strewcd ; nnd-l-yvas-afraid and-tvefil and'hid ihy-lalent
iu-llie-' (I In : lo there thou-hast that is'thine.

Ohsirci'. — The italicized words iu eacli group receive the scn-

tcnti il accent.

21 G. Pausing is an essential element in arbitrary emphasis, and

hence, when a word is determined as emphatic, according to the

jud-zuKut or taste of the spcak'^r, the rules of grouping must be

suspended when the empha:>is demands the necessary pause before

and after the emphasized word.

Oh pardon-me, tliou-bloedin<ij-pioce-of-carth,
TLiai-I-am-ruL'ck and-gi,'utie wit.h-th<'se — butchers.

Else whence this — pleasing liojie, thij — fond — desire,
This — lont/in^—ahoi- — immorLalityl

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Instruction in

'TIs-IIeaTcn-itself that-points-out-an — hereqfter^
And-intimates — Eternity — to-man.

Go, show-your — tlaoei — how-choleric you-are,
And-makc-your — io/»(/m<n— tremble.

It will also be observed in these illustratious tbat the empliatio
words have an increase of accent. No rules will aid in determining
the special words to be accented, excepting the general rules already
given, as a reduction or an increase of the members of a sentence
will change the word requiring the primary accent. Thus, if the
expression were I have sj token j spoken would take the primary
accent ; if it were I have spoken to the kintji^ then king would take
that accent, while spoken would only take a secondary accent.
Again, in the words " The-groves vfovc-God'H-templcs,^' temples
would receive the primary accent ; but, in " The-groves wcre-God's
/fr«Memplcs," it passes to " first."

Tlie position of this sentential accent will thus depend on the
relative value of I he words, and while the practice of arranging and
reading worda on this rational method will demand skill, fore-
tliought, and judgment on the part of the student, it will also give
him that facility in pausing at the appropriate places, and in read-
ing with that correct rhythm, which makes delivery harmonious
and musical without monotony or sing-song.

EMPHASIS.

217. Emphasis is not accent. It is an extraordinary stress of
voice thrown upon one word or several words of a sentence. This is
the common definition. It is important, however, in vocal culture,
that all the vocal efforts for giving emphasis should be clearly
understood jind arbitrarily practised.

218 Let Shylock's question to Portia serve as an example.

Portia. Then must the Jew be merciful.

Shylock. On what compulsion-McsT— I— tell me that?

Now let the student carefully observe all that takes place in
emphasizing must.

1st. There is a pause before " must," the voice thus gathering
new power to throw force on the word.

Intellectual Elocution,

the

fore-

2nd. The voice runs on in a monotone, or, as Dr. Rush terms
it, out! current line of niclody until it reaches must ; the pause thea
occurs ; and the speaker raises the voice in pitch, as if (see gamut)
he had been utterinj^ \V(ir<l8 in the key of Do, and then rose
to be<:in the first sound of " uiui-t" on Mi ; the in.stant, however, he
reaches that point, ho unites force or Ftress with inflection, and so
descontlint? on the word gives it di.stinctness ; but, in order to make
tlie word tliorou^hly exj>iessive of his defi.ince, exultation, and
hatred, lie dwells on the word a moment to prolong its force, and so
adds time to complete its jwwer. Briefly then, the emphasis here
requires ;)aH«c, change oi' j'itch, force and time,

219. Sometimes the inflection of the emphatic word is a ri.Mng
one. 'J'hen the voice descends below the current tone or lino of
melody, as : ,

Docs God, after having made bis creatures, take no further care of (hem f
Here the voice descends in pitch after uttering " no," and
begins " fur" in a lower key, and then runs upwards to the end
of the word.

220. The following arrangement will aid in illustrating this vocal
movement :

On what compulsion ^^<!^ / — tell me ^^

I an itching -^^^^ \ '

221. Let the student consider the vocal importance of this law.
If, in the downward emphai-is, the voice did not first rise on " must "
but simply descended from the black line under "compulion," it
would lose force and end inaudlbly ; and if, in the rising emphasis,
it did not descend &e?ojo the current line, " itching," when uttering
"palm," it would run into a falsetto.

222. The student should practice on any word without reference
to the sense, as in arbitrary emphasis this is necessary. The follow,
ing exercises will further serve to illustrate this important law of

Instruction in

U '.

i r

■ * ' » '

I!' <

> * ■

It ■•■;■

ciiipliiisi<<, and f^lioulJ be read uloud hj tbc student until lie
can give any degree of emphasis ho wishes^

I'll be la mon'a deapile a monarch t

Good, my licgo, for Justice.

Hiim/n, sire, in vhatf

Service to France ? i have none.

I cli.'irgo thco fling away ambition.

O tliat those L'ps bad language.

But (joil said unto him " ihouyoo/, this night thy soul shall be nquireddt
thee."

Again, when Ilamlct, in the closet scene utters the following
Word.> :

*' IIiTc is your husband, like a mildewed car,
Blastino— his ■wholesome brotlicr I"

While "is" becomes emphatic, by contrast with the previous
words, ** this was your husb:ind," the full passion of scorn, hatred,
and loathing disgust is gathered up and hurled with a di'<'p napi-
rntcd i)()\vor on the word "blasting;" and its force is intensified
by the fclow, scornful monotone in which " like a mihhvrd ear'^
is uttered ; the pause that succeeds " wr," like the iiiterval of a
thunder storm, gives deeper effect to the emphasis of the principal
word.

223. The Elements that constitute Emphasis. — It may
then be briefly stated that, according to the chanict(>r of the
thought or passion expressed, some of the following elements
enter into all emphasis: pause, fohce, pitch, inflection,
TIME and aspiration. For the quantity of any of these
elements to be thrown into the emphatic word no rules can be
given. The intensity of the emphasis, as in the above word
" blasting," or the " itching palm" of Cassius, or the " mvi^t /" of
Shylock, will depend on the force and passion of the sentiment
On the other hand, a mere change of inflection is sometimes enough
to give emphasis to contrasted words, and is all that is requisite
where the subject is calmly didactic or argumentative. It is only
in utterances of overwhelming passion, wrath, scorn, hatred, or

Intelleotual Elocution.

exultation that all the qualities nr.sied arc demanded to make
word.-i, like a two-edged sword, pierce the soul.

221. Ileuce -omphiuiis is generally divided into two kinds:

1. Emphasis op Sense.

2. Emphasis op Feelinq,

225. Empiiasir of Sense will alter the moanino: of a sontoncc,
and miy be varied accordiug to the intention of the sponkiir or
reader. Let the reader take the following sentence, and i^'ivo
stress to all the words in Kuccesisidn, and ho will give as many
meaniiiirs to the question as there arc words in it :

Do you ride to Ilatnilton this week?

220. In every uttered or writt n thought there will Ix^ fit least
one cuii)]i:itic word of sense, and tlie stud(>nt should m;.k"! it a sp'-cial
Study to discover the word which best conveys the lueaning of the
author, and give it the necessary emphasis. The exercise will be ot
value in cultivating the judgment and the ear; and, ns an :;id for
these two olyccts, especially if in doubt as to the ri-.ht word, any
other >Yord may be emphasized for experiment. The Book ot
Proverbs, the Argument;;tivc Kpistles of St. Paul, Pope's Moral
Essay?, the Essay on ]Man, and similar writings offer ample
materials. Such emphasis generally is antithetic. The contrast is
c."'.:r expressed or understood, and it thus stands opposed to the
emphasis of feeling, which is absolute and not suggestive of
contrast.

227. The following aro examples of the cmpliasis of sense;
similar exercises should be read frequently by the student.

Rule. — ]Mark emphasis of sense by inflection, giving contrary
inflcctlms when antithetical, and throwing stress on tlie emphasized
words.

A wise son makctb a glad father, but a,/ooliah son is the heaviness of his
mother.

The memory of ihQJust is hlessr;!, but tho name of the wickal shn/l rot.

The mouth of the riyhteous man is a well oi life, but violence covorcth th9
mouth of the wicked.

96 Instruction in

To err is human, to forgive divine.

As it is the part of justice never to do violence, it is that of modesty never
to commit ofTcnco.
With the talouts of an angel, man may be a fool.

If by your beard your wisdom you would show,

Kiiuw goats have beards and Plato was a beau..

All nature is but art, unknown to thee •

All cliunce-direction, which thou canst not see ;

All discord harmony, not understood ;

All partial evil, universal good ;

And, spite of pride in erring reason's sight,

One truth is clear, wimtcver w— is right.

228. Emphasis op Feeling is an arbitrary emphasis, not
necessary to tlie sense of the passage, but of the first importance in
expressing the special focliug that animates the speaker. Such
emphasis is ahvays marked by decision and completeness, even if
it ocour in a question, us when Shyloek asks " on what compulsion
must I." Whether in a decided aflSrmation, denial, or question, the
speaker is clearly satisfied in his own mind, and is free from all
doubt, when he uses this emphasis as an expression of feeling.
Thus when Shyloek puts the above question so often quoted, it is
asked with tlie full conviction in his own mind that he cannot be
compelled to show mercy ; hence the following rule :

229. Rule. — Emphasis op Feeling is always made with
a palling inflection. . ,

230. Tn using this emphasis the reader must remember (1)
That the inflection is of greater compass than ordinary, varying
from a musical tliird to a full octave. (2) That, in order to descend
with greater force, the voice after pausing a moment ascends
above the current line of melody, and ascends just in proportion to
the sweep of downward emphasis that is to follow.

231. It is not however imperative nor always most eflfectivo
that a great compass should be given to the slide. A strong aspi-
rated tone will be equally expressive, as in Hamlet — *' This is your

Intelleetual Elocution,

husb ind, like a mildewed car, blasting his wholesome brother ;'*
hero tlio locliiig u not expressed ou the word blasting :,o much by
groat I'oiup.iss ;i8 by a strong aspirated tone, and a prolonged pro-
nunci itiuii of the word.

232. This expression of emphasis by time is especially adapted
to irony, ridicule and scorn, as in the Ibllowing illustration :

Cassius : Ai/e, do you /ear it ?

Then raust I think you would not have it so.

Courai/eous chief! the lirst in jlijht from pain.
23.'J. In the above examples additional force is given to the
expression by the circumflex inflection, which also aids in pro-
longing the time. * ,

Hamlet, thou hast thy father much offended.
Mother, you have my father much offended.

23 1, So also by a lon<j;or pause before the emphasized word
and a similar prolongation, emphatic expression is given to a word.
Last scene of all,"l ■

That ends this strange — €>ientful history,
Is — SECOND CHILDISHNESS— and mere oblivion :
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sana everything.
From this view another rule is derived.

235. lluLE II. — When the feeling is one of deep loathing,
disgust, horror or fear, the rsmphasis may be best expressed by an
aspirated tone ; and when irony, ridicule or scorn is to be expressedi
the emphasis is made by a prolongation of time.

230. Special emphasis may also bo given by changing the
pitch of the voice; tliat is by raising the emphatic word or worda
above the current melody and continuing them on that tone, or by
depressing the pitch.

Evil be thou my good ; by thee at least
Divided empire with heaven^s king I hold.
Then shall the King say unto them on his r'ght hand, Come, ye blessed Cjf
"ny Father^ inlteril the kingdom prepared /or you from the /oundation of th$
World,

Instruction in

U};^^

[!'■■ *'.

237. There is a form of composition in which a number of
iii)])ortint words or ideas succeed each other with increasing
force. Each word will then require a continued increase of
cmjthasis until the close. Thus St. Paul replied to the ma^'istrates
who had so unjustly imprisoned him, when they requested him to
depart quietly :

liut Paul said, " They have beaten ns openly uneondemned, heinff Romatu,
anii have cast us into prison ; and now do they thrust ua out privily? Nay
verily ; but let tliem come themselves and fetch us out."

238. This is ciUod cumulative emphasis, and is very effective
when the emphatic words express an increasing accumulation
of passionate enerc^y as the speaker advances to a climux.

The followitii^ example, selected from VandenhoflTs Elocution,
presents a powerful iiluy^tration of this form of emphasis when
used under the excitement of deep passion :

If thou dost slander her— and torture me —

A'cDcr^iray more : abandon all rc/norsc ; i, r ^

On horror's head, horrors accumulate,

Do deeds — to make lieaven weep, all earth amazed:

For nothipg cau'st thou to damnation add, greater than this. Othello.

239. Caution. — Great discrimination is required not only in
affixinj^ the proper emphasis to the proper words, with its appro-
priate inflection, but especially in avoiding too frequent emphasis.
Inexperienced readers have a strong tendency to emphasize too
many words, and to express the emphasis in jerking tones. Too
frequent emphasis is, however, destructive of all empliasis. It
mtikes too many words prominent, and hence injures the impor-
tance and effect of the one word which, duly emphasized, properly
interprets the passage, and sets off to better advantage the less
important words by confining them to their subordinate but fitting
office. The student and reader must select the one word in a
clause which represents the leading thought — that which is to
convey the striking expression, which best expresses the supreme
feeling of the speaker ; and that, properly emphasized, will be far
more effective, forcible and plciising, than an accumulation of
unnecessary emphasis on every word that apjpears to be important.

Intellectual Elocution.

•9

240. There is an exception to this cantion in the use of the
STACCATO FORCE, as explained by Prof. D. C. Bell : —

" When several words in suceession arc accented and separated
by brief emphatic pauses, a kind of general emphasis is formed
culled STACCATO " or beating as if with short, but forcible and
separate strokes of sound.

" What men could do
Is done already : lieavca and earth will witness
If Rume must fall — that we are innocent."
"In one rude clash— he struck the lyre."
"And ever and anon, he beat
The doubling drum— with furious heat."
" Yet still he kept bis w'ild unalter'd mien
While each Strained ball of sight — seem'd
Bursting from his head."

PUBLIC READING.

241. The first qualification for success in public reading is
that the reader shall undeilstand what he reads. If the com-
position be his own, he will, no doubt, understand it; and if it be
not his own, he must, by previous study, make it his own. The
next qualification, especially if the subject be one in which the
workings of human passions are to be displayed, is that of deep
and genuine feeling. If the composition be one to perbuade
men by argument and appeiil to their passions, tlie reader must
kindle in his own mind the fervour of genuine feeling, the
intense desire to carry his audience along with him, and make them
disciples of the views he enforces. He who just reads, that is
pronounces the words and sentences before him, however excerient
Uiey may be, will assuredly fail in his object. This mechanical
tamencss in public reading is no doubt the reason why excellent com-
positions, delivered by the authors themselves, as written speeches,
lectures, and sermons, so often fail in effect, and arc therefore so
objectionable. The author most probably was in earnest when ho

loa

Instruction in

wroto his production, when tlio thoughts first swept tlirougb
bid mind and passed into livinu;, visible language. But when ho
stands before his audience, he assumes another office, and without
the conceptivo faculty of the actor and the skill of the elocutionist,
ho can no more recite hia own composition than 3Iozart could sing
his own divine music. Tho difficulty, no doubt, with many is to
assume this fceliug. The author must recall his first impressions
and re-kindlc tho fires that first animated him ; while he who reads
the composition of another must conceive and feel as tho author
conceivctl and felt. Tho great actor, beyond doubt, does all this.
lie makes the thought and the conception his own, and realizes to
himself what he represents to his audience. Tho power of success,
especially when tho production is dramatic, where human beings
are to bo introduced as liring and speaking, or where human
passions arc to be deeply moved, depends largely on tho strength of
the imaginative faculty. That faculty is stronger in some than
others; but it is certain that tho more we study to understand, to
conceive and to feel what wo intend to read, we cultivate, we develop
that faculty It grows in power with study. Mr. Sergeant Coxe,
in his excellent work on these subjects, most' truly says : *' Of our
greatest writers — the men of genius — it may bo asserted that you
cannot know them fully until you have read them aloud." Tho
act of reading, with the object of realizing to-oursolves and others
what wo read, gives life and reality to what we read ; and if we
earnestly aim, naturally, forcibly and truthfully, to utter with our
own voices tho written thoughts of tho book, to understand the
thoughts and to feel tho passion, the power will come, and by
• repeated efforts grow in vividness and truthfulness. Nature has
gifted us all more or less with imagination. It is vivid and fresh
in childhood. The realities of life tend to subdue and crush it.
Poetry, Fiction, Painting, Music and Religion ro-kinc>lc and foster
it, and assuredly, amid the dreary common places of life, it is wise
in us to cultivate that which sometimes lifts us beyond the material
world into a higher world of spiritual life and beauty. Now, the
study and practice of elocution assist in cultivating this imacina-
tive faculty. It is not by a knowledge of elocutionary principles
that we can read well, but by understanding and foelin

g what we

Intellectual Elocution,

101

read. Elocution, however, qualifies us fur doing all this well. Wo
must be able to control and modulate the voice. We must think
bow men, bow tec ourselves epeak under the influence of our own
feelings, and the knowledge of elocutionary laws is derived from th«
knowledge of human actions under the influence of n;itural feeling.
Ilcncc the absolute necessity of a kuowlod;^o of its principles and
rulcH. Many very scnsillo things have been said about the uso
lessuess of rules, and trusting to nature as the best guide ; but the
study of the rules is in fact the study of natural laws, and of tho
operations of the human mind in all its conditions ; and tho accom-
plisihed elocutionist, having mastered his art, no more thinks of the
rules that guide him than the ready writer or tho public speaker
docs of the rules of grammar. Besides all this, it is undeniable
that the grea' majority of men whose office it is to read and speak
before the public, and who read and speak badly, arc ignorant of
the laws of elocution, and that those who read well act in accord-
ance with them.

242. Public Reading, as an entertainment, is becoming an
important institution of the age. It is in many respects supersed-
ing tho attractions of the theatre. It is realizing in a new form
the creations of poetry and fiction to the people. It is an admirable
preparation and discipline for public speaking. It gives the reader
confidence, power of self-control, and facility in delivery ; and ia
association with its sister art, Music, nearer to the rank of which it
is fast approaching, it Is exercising a high, moral and intellectual
influence on public character. It is, therefore, of great importance
that tho public reader, whether amateur or professional, should
avail himself of all tho modes by which his " reading" can be
made most effective.

243. EuLE I. — Selection of Pieces. — Judgment and experience
of public taste are very necessary to guide us in selecting successful
readings. We must not be governed by our own tastes. Argumen-
tative and meditative discourses — subjects of any kind that demand
close attention of the reasoning faculties — always prove failures.
Hence, delightful as lililton, or Young, or Thomson may be to read
in our closets, they will be found quite unsuitable for selections for
public readings. The selection should be picturesque, emotional

102

Instruction in

h'.

and (Ir.imatio in ohtiractor. Scones from the f^cat dramatists and
from writers of fiction, when the dialogue is well sustained, full of
point, passionate, escitinpr, marked by fiery ourncstness, pathos or
humour, are the best. Shakspcarc, Ben Jonson, Mwsinger, Otway,
Buhvcr, Knowles, Talfourd, and Marston ; and in fiction, Scott,
Dickens, and others, offer ample selections. Poetical selections
aboutid, and are generally more effective than proHO, because, in
addition to the charms of measured verse, lyrical poetry of the
higher order generally presents in a concentrated form a graphic
sketch or narrative, or an animated appeal to feeling. Of course,
the character of the audience must bo always considered. Tho
reader, however, may feel safe in reading any production of this
kind, if it have tho ring of tho true metal iu it, bcibrc any audience*

214. Rule II. — Prcpamtory Arrangemenis. — In addition to
: careful study, marking off important inflections and emphases and
places for pausing, tlic reader should make his ei/e familiar with tho
printed forms, and if there be any passage demanding an exhibi-
tion of great j)assion or humorous gesticulation, he ought to commit
tJiat part, at least, to memory. If ho reads i'rom a book the book
should never be held in tho hand, but should always lie on a desk,
with a good light filling on it, so that he can see at a glance every
word. The clevatioti should be up to the chest, so that he can see
the book without bending, and bo seen by his audience.

245. Rule III. — Before commencing^ bo calm, be deliberate.
" feike it easy." Let the body bo erect, the chest open, and the lungs
filled. A brief explanation of the character of the selection, will not
only secure tho attention of the audience, but give the reader some
idea of the demands of the room for vocal effort and his capacity to
bo heard. Always begin below or about tho middle pitch of voice,
speak slowly, and if the voice does not seem to fill the room, increase
its /orce but do not elevate the pitch.

246. Rule IV. — Especially avoid looking down at the book.
Glance at it swiftly, gather in a group of words, and be ready almost
before the complete utterance of that group to fcike in another.
The eye has a mighty power over tho audience, and if it be fixed,
as it too often is, especially in pulpit reading, with almost

jLtiteuectuat MocuUon,

103

ttobrokon uniformity on tho book, tlio mi<:;ht of that power and the
ooium inJiii^ cxj)rcssioii of tho fico that holc» at the audience^ are
lost. Every public rcadiT should uc(iuiro this* power. If tho
rcadh)'^ bo .aarrative or didactic iu which the reader ou-ht to
address tho audience, ho uiu.'-t look at tho audience, moving his
eye about, liowevcr, to every p.irt of the room. If ho has to
apo.^tropliizo nature, the heaven.s, or to addrc^a (jod, then lio may
witli meat effect frequently look upwards, or as it were beyond
the bounds of the room.

247. Rule V. — When tho scene is a drnmntio one, tho reader
must determine beforehand tho ponition of each character, and then
abide by the arrangement, turning his head but not his body, unless
under tho impulse of pomo ntrongor feeling, from one fide to tho
other, as he assumes each character. Under no circumst:incos when
reading dialogues ought ho to address the audience. This is one of
the marked characteristics of great actors, tragic or comic. Thn/
never speuk to the aud'uncc. If tlicy are alone on the stage they
8olilo(|uizo ; they speak as men do when alone, gazing on vacancy.
If thoTo are other dramatic characters present they address them.
Thus they sustain tho illusion, and, in carrying themselves uway
from tho world around, they carry away their audiences.

248. Rule VI. — When the reading is a serious one, the render
is not expected to mimic the voices of each person he represents. If,
for exami)le, he is reading the Trial scene in tho Mi rchant of Venice
he must not pitch his voice into falsetto to imitate the voice of
Portia; that would have a ludicrous effect. The same rule applies
to ladies when reading. The gentleman, however, when reading
the lady's part must modulate his tones into greater goftnoss, and
he may occasionally, especially when pathos, or wit, or humour
predominates, give her language wider inflections ; and when the
lady is reading the ggfitlcman's part, she must not assume a
rough, masculine voice, but if necessary she may give greater
Bternness and severity to its tones. In burlesque and buffoonery,
of course, the reader may assume any pitch and tone ho or she
pleases to add to the humour. But whatever tones be assumed
ihe reader must bo master of th^m, so that he can control and*

I ' •

104

Instruction in

modulate them,an(', never allow tlicmto be in excess of tlie end in
view.

249. Dramatic Scenes arc the best for practice, and, wbcn the
rciidcr can thoroughly impcrsonitto each character, the bc>t for
cntertiinln;^ an audience. Each character in such scenes must be
thorou!i,lily understood, for the conception must bo iu harmony v;ith
nature. The age, the sex, the character, and the ruling passion of
tlic person represented, nnist be studied, and wo who read must
make all these qualities, possessed by each character, our oiot ; not
slmjjly reading their words with u more change of tone, but enter-
ing Into his or her feelings, and moved ourselves as we can best eon-
celve they would be moved in th(i same condition. The change of
character must also be inst mtaneous, and the pauses brief, as the
circumstances justify. Scenes where very opposite states of mind
are impersonated are hence the best both for practice and effect ;
tlioy are best for practice, because they diseiplino the reader in
tliat power of self-control by which he can assume various passions
and chpTacteristlcs ; th>y cultivate quickness of perception, and
train the reader to madulato his voice with swiftness and just adap-
tation to tiic necessities of the moment ; and this variety of tone
and manner is itself one of the most delightful features of good
reading. It is also of great advantage to the orator who would
make his voice be the very echo of his passion and his thought. This
no doubt was one of the qualities of that action to which Demos-
thenes attached such importance.

250. Dramatic readings do not necessarily belong to theatrical
literature. Lj'rical poetry and fiction abound in such scones ; and
the patriarchal and historical narratives of the Scripture, and the
parables of Christ and many of tlie incidents in Ills life, as, for
example, the restoration of sight to the blind man in Jt)lin, or the
trial and crucifixion of the Saviour in the same gospel, are all
thoroughly dramatic. Sir Walter Scott's and Charles Dickens'
"Works also abound in admirable dramatic scones.

251. Humorous Scenes arc always acceptable to an audionco.
The reader must, however, exercise judgment and caution In his
Belection. Whatever bo the humour of a piece, let him ever keep

Intellectual Elocution.

105

in \icw the great end of sucli entertainments — tlie mentnl and
moral elevation of the people ; a.s lie nj;iy bo assured that wlhitever
by its tone, its KUgge-stion^, or its (''ccl.ircd expr*.'S.>^Ion?, brings virtue
or religion or trutli into ridicule, whatever makes virtuous inno-
cence ashamed, will dcLrrado and injure the reader as niucli as the
audience. A just rendering of humour requires as earnest study
as that of tragedy. All humour tends to exaggeration } and when
reading it, the laughter and apjilause of the audience encourage
excess and buffoonery iu the reader and actor. Let the re.;der
therefore be true to nature, bo especially careful that tlie audience
eliall not laugh at him rather tlian the cccontrieities of the
charaeLcr or the thought he is reuder'ng. He must never laugh
because the audience laui^hs. He must ignore the audience and he
the character, as if he were quite unconscious of doing or saying
anything humorous or ridiculous; and yet he must have such self-
control that, the moment ho has said or done the humorous thing,
he is himself again, and master of his audience.

252. Fbudly. Let all who aspire to excellence in delivery ovoid
indulging too much in humorous rcadinirs. The success of such
readings depends on mimicry, and the mimicry is a copying of
defects both of character and of gpeeeh. The defects first assumed
for lucre imitation may become settled habits and the high purposes
of a pure elocution frustrated. "Few mimics," siys Dr. Ptush,
" arc able to rise to the character of dignified utterance ; and when
they even seriously imitate accomplished speakers, it is always in
their accidental defects; for these give the amusing characteristics.

* * * As mimicry in speech must necessarily, from the vast
amount of worldly falsehood and bad taste, be more frequently
employed on \'ulgarity and exaggeration than on trutli and refine-
ment, its constant tendency must be to error and degrad.;tion.

* 'K =;< It is well to keep the tongue away from the contamina-
ting company of its own unconscious faults. For it is with our
voices as with our morals ; the habit of doing only right most
effectually preserves us from wrong; and it is no less dangerous
to play with mischief in the one, than to amuse ourselves with
mockery in the other."

r;':i

i'L

106

Instruction in

METHOD FOE STUDYING A PART FOR READINCJ. '

253. The object of this lesson is suirgestion. To study n pnrt
for rcatling is not to commit it to memory, but to underst.nid its
purport, tlic meaning of every word and the force and intent and
purpose of every word, to decide what inflection, what puu.-o, what
empluisis every word must receive, and altogether to consider
what passions arc to be expressed and how they shall be expressed.
With this end in view, the speech of Murk Antoni/ over the body
of Cdiiir has been selected for analysis. It is in every re.pcct a
model both for the rhetorician, the elocutionist, and the public
speaker. It is recorded of Curran that he was frequently in the
habit of reciting it before a glass, and that he often asserted that
his success as an orator was due to this practice.

" Fneuds, Romans, Colntuymen."

The nominative of address requires the rising inflection when
there is simpiy au appeal. But in the above instance the invoca-
tion bears in each word a decision of manner approaching to an
assertion of a right f-o bo heard and of the rdationsliip existing
between the orator, a patrician, and the assembly he addresses, the
common people. While, therefore, these words are uttered in a
tone of assumed courtesy and respect for the crowd the patrician
despises, there is the decision of command exi)ressed by the fiilling
inflection, as if Antony, anticipating and combating the prejudices
excited by the acts and speeches of the conspirators against his
"order," would remind them that they were "friends;" that,
all sharing in the common glory of the immortal name, they Avere
" Romans ;" and that, bound together by those patriotic tics which
no " class" prejudices could ever sunder, they were " countrymen."
No doubt the tones of the orator would swell with fervour as ani-
mated by the greatness of the occasion, the pride of the patrician
would sink in the sentiment of the man.

" Lend me your ears :" —

Uttered with soft and courteous modulation, was a mnster-
Btroke of policy, coming from one whose rank would justify him in
commanding attention, but who, thus admitting the sovereignty of
the people, won, by this flattering homage to their power, their

Intellectual Elocution,

107

obsequious regard. Hence, to give force to his aflfccted humility,
he would place strong emphasis on " Lend,"

" The noble Brutus
Hath told you Caesar was ambitious : '

If \i icere so \i VI a.s A grievous f (hilt;
And GBisvousLY hath Caesar answered it,"

while " were" is uttered in a tone of doubt, the succeeding line is
concluf-Ive, solemn and tender, as indicating that whatever crime
Cocsar had committed from ambition, he had paid the terrible pen-
alty, he had " answered " it.

"Here under have of Brutus and the rest—

For Brutua ia an honourable man

So are they all — all honourable men," etc.

This reference to Brutus and the rest is made in a tone of studied
respect, and the added compliment to their honourable character is
intended to remove all suspicion of animosity on his part, and must
Lave noiic of the circumflex, inflection expressive of the sneer which
bad readers throw into it. It is too early for that. The people
have to be won yet. But there lies Caesar; he has paid the
penalty of his ambition ; let us now m sorrow recount his virtues.

" Ho hath brought many captives — home — to Rome

"Whoso ransoms— did— the general — coffers — fill."

He has been accused of ambition ; but it was not shown by the
vulgar thirst for riches. The splendid ransoms won from his splen-
did victor' s went not to his own but to the gmerdl coficrs, the
public treasury. Hence the force and emphasis of " general," in
contraf^t with its implied antithesis " private."

" Did Tm's— in Caesar — seem amhiilous ?"

ending with the rising inflection, and emphasis on this ; being psked,
in a tone of enquiry, but with a feeling of triumphant assurance
that the best evidence had now been given of his liberality.

Again, Ambition, wrapped up in its own hard and selfish pur-
poses, has in its nature no tender sentiments of humanity j but

• - (( wijen that the jjoor have cried, Cxmr hath wiPi."

K ? ''?* •"■.

I^I^KV

ii:M^"

108

Instruction in

llencc, " poor," as those furthest from the consideration of cold
ambition, will receive due cmph.isis, with a touch of tremor in the
voice ; and a similar tremor will be thrown into " Caesar hath
wept," tlio voice dwelling on *' wept" as well ns it can, as expressive
of {sympathy with his sympathy. Then, wlien the hearts of the
mulLitudc have beeiif^cntly touched by the tender remeiiibrnnec of
Lis generous nature, the inference that follows is flung forth with
exultant tones, in behalf of the friend who uow lies dead at their
feet —

" Ambition— should be made of sterner stuff."

A circumflex inflection on "ambition," with a pause after it, will
give expressive force to the doubt. Finally, Antony refutes the
calumny of ambition in its most dangerous aspect, the desire for
Bovereignty.

" You nil did sec that on the Lupcrcal

I thrice — presented Lira a kingly crowh—
Which ho did — thriee — kbfuse."

The voice of the orator would swell on " kingly crown" to magnify
the splendor of the gift. This refusal of the golden idol of the
highest ambition, when it was in the reach of Caosar, is so clear a
proof of his innocence, that Antony does not ask the question that
follows in the appealing tone, as if with doubt. It is with him
now, as it is with the people, a settled question, satisfactory and irre-
futable. Therefore he asks

"Was Tma— ambition ?"

with that emphatic filling inflection which removes all opposition.
Let tlie student of rhetoric observe that, having thus completely
disposed of the question of Caesar's ambition, Antony no more
refers to it. Ho iias other business now on hand. He h is con-
quered at the very on' 'lo strongest prejudice against Ca;sar and
bimself, " that he w jibitious." Ho may now begin to throw
that expression of doubt into his voice, which prepares the minds
of his hearers for the yot concealed scorn and hatred he has
fbr the conspirators. Thus jn the " sure" of the following line
there will be given that circumflex inflection inspired by suppressed

Intellectual Elocution*

109

contempt for the whole band of assrussins, " And sure — ho is
an hoiiOHr<fhh vvui," while an emphasis on "honourable" and
a risiu;.^ inflection on "man" will give the assertion the doubtful
tone of suspicious interrogation.

You all did looe him once, not without cause,—'
What cause withholds you then to mocrn for him ?

As he may with tenderness remind them that they once loved him,
with gentle but sorrowful reproach in his tones, he asks them only
to mourn for him, throwing an emphasis on " mourn," to i^ive deeper
forcu to the rebuke.

Oh judgment, thou art flod to brutish beasfs,
AudMKN— huTO lost their reason / — Bear — with mOy
My heart ia ia the coffiu there with Caeoar,—
And I m\ist pause till it come ba'' mo.

With gracuful dignity, w ith eyes and f ice upturned, and animated
"by a tender expression of sorrow, ho apostropliizes "judgment,"
and in his very rebuke exalts his audience above brutish beasts to
the dignity of m«n. Not a word yet against tlie assassins ; but with
toarh, and in tones of trcnmlous grief he covers his f ice from his
audience, that he may weep, and listen to the effect of his oratory.
Evidently the people are with him, and he may now be<;iu to rousa
their passions against tlie conspirators.

But yesterday — the word of Ctesar — might

Have stood against the world—

Now — lies — he — there —

And none so poor — as do him — reverence.

The voice will swell, moved with national pride, on the words,
"word oi' Caesar" and " world ;" thus enhancing the greatness of
the loss to Home; while "now lies ho tliore" will be uttered in
tones of the deepest sorrow and rcproacli of their ingratltudo.
Probably \vh«n Antony spivilcs the words that follow, his indigna-
tion carries him away, probubly he thinks he may hurl his denun-
ciations on the conspirators; but he checks himself on the word
"rage" and turns off from bursting wrath into ft tamo sneer

1
1

fl"

mry:

.! Jt

110

Instruction in

for tlio mcu whom he now can d:ire to despise. Honce the Toioe
swells with rising putisioa to the word ** r.igc," then hesitates, and
the arrested passion finds relief in scorn. The rel'orencc to
the " will " must be delivered witli an iippearanco of iiesitation, an
affectation of fear, lest he should " do wrong to the honoui-able men
whose daggers have stabbed Ciesar." Thus he flatters and
commands the crowd whose passions are now in liis hands,
until, with consummate skill, he brings them to gaze with him on
" htm who made the will." He now stands over the dead body, and
hero the speech swells and rises to its climax. Hitherto there has
been no exhibition of passion, excepting that of grief Hitherto
the speech has been subdued in its tone, skilful and dignified in
its appeals, and conclusive in its arguments. But he has touched
their hearts, he has awakened suspicion of the honesty and
patriotism of these "honourable men." Now he may launch
the thunders of his wrath on their heads. With that oratorical
art which the reader must conceive and imitate, he holds up
the m in tie covered with blood to excite at once their hortQjr ^d
their sympathy.

You all do know this mantle : I remember
The first time ever Ciesar put it on ; ^

'Twas oa a summer's evening — in his tent.

The word "mantle" will tike the rising inflection as appealing
and incomplete. The words "I remember," to "tent" will
be uttered in tones of tenderness, expressive of those sorrowful
feelings which the relics of the beloved dead awaken in all. The
very stillness induced by these tender memories, like gleams
jof sunshine before the storm, prepares the popular miud for
the burst of passion that follows :

" That day he orcrcame the Nervii : "

Those words are thrown in with admirable tact. ITttered with
deliberate emphasis, they serve to remind the audience at once of
a splendid victory, and that now they have lost for ever him
who won it. Then when he has them at his will, when he
may cry "havoc! and let slip tlic dogs of war," he turns their
minds suddenly and fiercely to the rents in the mantle. The

Intellectual ElooiUion.

Ill

appropriate action of the reader who does not bold, but wbo is
BupposL'd to bold tbc muntlo, will be to extend the loit arm as if
tbe muiitle bung over it, and so, witb the niovenjcnt of flio rigbt
hand directing attention to the left arm, be may imitate gri;Cil'ullyi
and with the best eflFoet, the action of turning over the mantle to
expose the rents and tbe blood upon it.

Look — in this place rau Cassils' dagger — through,
/See— what a rent the envious Casca made.

i 1

Fiorcc emphasis is placed on the words in itrilics and c !pitala,
and on "look" that startling force, expressed by radical .stress
wbicb commands instant attention.

" Through this — the well-beloved BnuTCS stabbed;
And, a3 he plucked his— CURSED — stetl away,
Mark — how the blood of Cajsar— followed it.
As rushing out of doors to be resolved—
If BiiUTUS — so unkind'y knocked or no I "

Great stress is placed on Brutus as tbe very climax of the crimes
— ingratitude, treason, murdor, cruelty, all combined. '' Cursed" is
uttero;! with tbe utmost degree of aspirated emphasis, expresbive
of horror and hatred of the crime.

Then — hurst his — mighty heart —

And — in his mantle — muffling up his face—

Even at the base of Pompey's statue —

Which — all the while— ran bloody great — CAESAR FeL6.

The first line is rendered in a tone of solemn sorrow ; and in fliQ
delivery of the clause "which all the while ran blood," the voice
should sink into the deepjst orotund tone, expr(^ssivo of super-
stitious awe, to rouse a feeling of pious horror in the minds of tbo
multit'.id). Tiicn pission \a loss restrained; the skill of the
orator b is succeeded in aw.ikeninj: every sentiment of p^trioti^m,
deti'itition of the crime and the assassins, and symp thy with the
object of their vengeance, and bis voice swells into tones of the
highest excitement.

!<?•' •;••

*>■>;

If'.,':.

*'•

^ i

■•>■■

112

Imtrujtion in

" ^M, what ft /ii/ wiH TUFRH— ray co':r.<r)men; ->

TLoti /"— 1111(1 Tou — and ALFj of u3 fol) il(jwn,

Whilst ULOOUV T'lBASOM — FLOURianKD OVCF 113."

Thcro is now :i mounuitiry chock to piission ; tlio voice assumes

an ntr;(;tLMl Jidiiiir itioii of tboir i^iuf when thoy weep ; but it

is but !i skilful prep;ir:itloa for the final burst, the very climax

of p:i«sion.

What ! weep you when you but behold

Our Cicsiir'd vhsturu wounded ? ^

Look you — horo^

IL-re—i.^i—uiiisuLF— MARRED as you see, by inAiTona t

" Ve-turc" will be emphasized as contrasted with " himself."
Sonio i'orcc must bo thrown on here to command attention, then
on "himsi'lf," the voice rises into hi;j,h pitch and emphasis;
"m.irred" is uttured with aspirated Ibrco, expressive uf wrath, and
"traitors" with a final burst of uncontrolled hatred which accom-
plishes all the orator desired. The multitude is now wild
with pjission, and Antony affects the utmost de(^ire to subdue their
rage. IJut he, too, now is deeply moved as the crowd,

"Good friends, svect friends, let me not stir you up,
To such a Buddon flood — oi mutiny ;
They — tliiit have done this deed— arc honourable.
What iiriiuitr.—gvwU they have, alas I I know not,
That :nade tlicm do it — They are u-ise and honourable^
And will — no doubt, with heasons answer you."

Irrepressible scorn if breathed into " honourable," well expressed
by th« downward circumflex. Force is given to "private," to indi-
cate it was not patriotic motives that governed the assassins; and
"wise" and " honotirablo" again express liis scorn for their charac-
ter ami their actions, by tlic circumflex downward inflections, while
the rising circumflex expresses at once the irony and doubt
conveyed in "reasons." Antony's affectation of bkintness and
inferiority to lirutus, as an orator, will be delivered in a reck-
less, ofl'-handed manner. Bat the passion rekindles again in tho
next line,

assumes

but it

J clima:s

P0H3 !

liiinself."
ion, then
inpluisis;
iMtli, and
!h ticcom-
low wild
fdue tlieir

Rxpre?sed
i" to indi-
ums; and
Ir charac-
|)ns, while
id doubt
Inch's and
a reck-
iiiu in the

Intellectual Elocution, 113

" For /—Lave neither wit, nor words, nor worth,

ActiuD, nor utterance — oor tb« power of tpeech

To stir men's blood," 4c.

lu the next line pathos and tenderness will govern the delivery:

" Show yon sweet Cmsai't wounds— poor, poob dumb mouths.

And bid tubm— speak— for me."

The closing of the speech demands the highest strain of passion
in the delivery, and the voice reaches its greatest foicu on
*' stones," as expressing how even thei/ would be moved by
such an orator as Brutus, with such a cause as that of Antony's,

But were I Bncxus and Brutus Antony — There were an Antony
Would ruffle up your spirilj—tiud put a tongue
In everi/ — u-ound — of Csesar that should move
The STONES of Rome — to rise and mutiny.

THE EL0CUTI02T OF THE PULPIT.

254. It is difficult to say what, in good elocution, is not suitable
to the ministnttions of reli<:ion. They comprehend in their
demands whatever is gr^xic^, and solemn, and sublime, in tragedy or
poetry, and whatever is tender and p:ithetic in fiction. The " foolish-
ness of preaching" is the instrument of power for the ccnversion
of men to holiness, and the moral progress of the world, and as it
is a human agency, pervaded j.nd elovnted by divine inSaences,
the human agency will be, with hi'i^her influence?, more cuoctlve as
it possesses all the qualifications that make oratory succe.-sful.
However lofty the theme and earnest the spirit, it i;.' the man v,ho
h the agent. Hence, as learning and theology are nece5=]ary to fit
the mlud for the work of proiching, finished elocution 'm just
OS necessary to fit tlie prer.eher for the effective deliv-ory cf his
thougiits. But, b^'sides all tliis, a very important deo.'i'tmcnt of
clericil duties is that of redding. The clergyman niu;-t rend the
sorvic. 3 of lii'. church, whether tlicy be a liturgy, or i\i2 S-cred
Scriptures, or liymns ; and, if liis sermons be written, their delivery
is just as much a department of elocutionary art as the readin^^ of

114

Instruction in

any other subject. "Written sermons arc not necessarily more
tedious and dry because thoy arc written, but because, when
written, the author *• reads" them without skill or passion. Not
only have some of the finest productiond of pulpit oratory boon
written, and arc wanting in none of blic qualities of the hij^hest
eloquence — abrupt, startling, passionate, stirring men to the depths
of their souls, as powerfully as the best unwritten sermons ; but
the creations of dramatic genius which, delivered by the gifted
actor or reader, have so often in the theatre or lyceum moved the
hearts of myriads with awe and terror, and melted them into tears,
these too have been written, and, though heard so often through
many generations, never lose their power,

255. But, while all this is generally admitted, it is the inexcus-
able reproach that the art of delivery is shamefully neglected in tho
education of clergymen, and that, while the successful actor or
public reader makes fiction real by laborious study for eifcctive
delivery, the clergyman, who is to make delivery tho agent for
enforcing divine truths, rarely attaches much importance to it, or
studies how he shall render tho services, the Scripkircs, the hymns
of his church, as the actor studies his "parts," and too often he
mars the eflFect of the most solemn and beautiful language by its

, bad delivery.

256. There is, however, some evidence of reform in this direc-
tion. The frequent and just censure of the press, and the dis-
satisfaction which is growing among tho educated members of
every congregation ; the pressure from without, arising very largely
from the prevalence of public readings, which are not only educating

. the popular mind in habits of good reading, but ^liich are
' bringing into unfevourable comparison the delivery of tho pulpit ; —
all these influences are combining to urge on the minds of clergy-
men the necessity for improvement in elocution. In a lecture
delivered by Dr. McNcile, Dean of Ripon, and quoted by Professor
Plumptre in his preface, the following forcible view of the subject
is given :

" No one who has given even a passing attention to the habits
and feelings of our people can doubt of the immense effect of ft

Intellectual Elocution,

116

rca(3y and natural elocution : yet how little attention is paid to a
right training for its acrjuiremcnt ! Looking ut the ministrations
of the church practically, and in detail ; following them from the
pulpit to the school-room, from the catechetical lecture to tho
chamber of sickness, from the instruction and consolation of tho
dying poor to the kind but dignified reproof of tho careless and
frequently half-intoxicated bystanders, from the abode of squalid
misery to the parlour of worldly-minded avarice, fortified by
incipient, perhaps confirmed, scepticism; from all these to the plat-
form for the propagation of Christian knowledge, or the exposure
of anti-Christian error, in whatever department of his labours you
contemplate the minister of tke church, it would he difficult to
estimate the advantage that might, under the divine blessing, be
derived from elocution classes in our Universitiec, where, under
competent professors, our young men might be trained in recitation,
both of selections from standard authors and of their own
compositions on set subjects. * * * Instead of superseding
any part of the present process, this might be added to it all, and
if candidates for Orders were thereby delayed a year there would
be more than compensation for the delay in the increased
competency for the work."

257. It is gratifying to know that professors and lecturers on
elocution are now frequently attached to theological colleges. In
the absence, however, of such personal instruction, the student may
do much by self application ; whatever be tho demands on him
in the pulpit, he will derive the very highest advantage in
studying the course of instruction prepared in this work, N-Dcal and
intellectual. The suggestions for public reading are also equally
applicable to the pulpit. There is, in fact, no practice more
important to the clergyman than that of reading poetical and
dramatic selections, as great actors and professional readers render
them, to get him out of the pulpit tones, the whining, solemn,
canting monotone, without expression, without power, without
taste, which brings the holy ministrations of God's truth into
ridicule, and mars the sublime language of the Bible, and the
sacred lyrics. The theological student may, from conscientious
scruples, never hear the great actor, but he may have many

» •'

iAt

116

Instrutiion in

opportunities of hearing high pulpit elocution and, with a
knowledge of the science of clooution^ he may find many ways of
advancing in the art.

The defects of pulpit reading are not peculiar to clergymen,
they mark the reading of laymen just as much as clergymen,
when laymen read the Bible, hymns, or, in fact, anything th^t
seems to come into the special province of the pulpit. A laymun,
even a clergyman, who is the servant of habit, will rart'ly read a
parliamenUtrj' speech or a secular narrative with the same peculiar
intonations of voice with which ho reads the Bible, prayer or
hymns. In Bible reading, with monotonous solcn^nity of tone,
wanting in earnestness and expressive inflection, there is another
tone, which has been aptly termed " a whining tone," and which
too often receives the name of a " canting tone." One of its
marked peculiarities is, that the reader, when ho comes to the end
of a passage, instead of giving a manly decided falling inflection,
invariably finishes with a rising inflection uttered in a sort of
jerking voice. The remedy for all this, and all other pulpit
peculiariti*.?, Ues in the application of correct principles to sacred
reading oi every kind. The narratives of the Bible must be read
in precisely the same manner as the narratives of secular history
and fiction, and whatever is dramatic in its pages must be read as
we read the tragedies of Sliakspeare or the serious fictions of Scott
or Dickens. Let the student select and read some lofty scene from
Shakspeare, then let him select another lofty dramatic passage
from tlio Bible and real it in the same waif. Let him again read
Bomc pccvJar historical passage or some pathetic fiction, and then
eimiliir luGtoric;;! papsa^rcs, and narratives or parr.bles in the Bible.
These exevciscrj atiII help to correct the so-c;illcd pulpit tones, and
lead to tliope hubits of delivery which distinguish tlic best elocu-
tion. It is almost unnecessary to add, that a certain solemnity
and dignity must always attend sacred readings, but, whatover
their ch:iracter, there is no reason to justify a delivery more
monotonous, le^s expressive, or more careless than that used in
re;idlng the hijicst order of poetry and fiction. It may bo
im; nitant to add thnt^iiii.vuc. reading of the Biblo cr of hymn.] or
a church service, wp «o^«o/i ^l>{^v^d oe mfd., , ^X^\o qjq may move,

Intellectual Elocution*

117

with a
y ways of

ergymcn,
erjryincn,
line; thut
L layman,
ly read a
i peculiar
prayer or

of tone,
s another
id which
no of its
the end
nflection,
a sort of

r pulpit
to sacred
)t be read
ir history
»c read ag
3 of Scotfc
3euc from
3 passage
gain read
and then
he Bible,
ones, and
est elocu-
solcmnity
■wluitover
cry more
i used in
; ia:y bo
hymii.j or
lay move,

the face may express tlie solemnity and grandeur of the scntimcnta
read, but the arms, according to general usage, are kept still ; and
ngai ) Kt the reader remember that ho should take into his mind
and his eye, at ii glance, groups of words, nnd then looI:ing at his
congregation, and not wit'^ eyes imuovably C.icu on the book,
deliver his words m if \iQ were s^ienkir,y U them and not
reading.

25!). The reading of h^'rans, again, ia a pulpit peculiarity, full
of defects, and utterly de;;tructivo of the force and beauty of the
poetry. As every verse haa its word or words of forco and
importance, the words in their sense and connection must have
their proper cmjthasis, inflection and pause.

2G0. The general and common faults of hymn reading are,
(1) that the prosodial accentuation is marked so strongly as togivo
the delivery all the sing-song accents of school-boy recitations ; (2)
that every verse is read in precisely the same tones and with the
same inflection, without any regard to meaning, pause or cxprecsion.
Some will end everi/ line with a rising inflection, some, as ia
stanzas of four lines, every second line with the same inflection.
Others, again, will invariably drop the voice in both senses, that is,
give a falling inflection, with a descent in pitch of two or three
notes on the last syllable of each second line, and invariably, without
reference to sense or connection, give a rising inflection to the
last syllable of the Jlrst and third line. In such reading there will
also be often an extraordinary upward leap on the antepenulti-
mate syllable of the third line. (3) The reading will have no
pauses excepting at the end of the lines ; and (4) through all these
runs the canting, whining tone so often held up to ridicule ; (5)
to all this add the slovenly articulation, and the final sound of
the last word or syllable being so low as to be inaudible. It
would be a useful exercise to listen to hymn deliveries and observe
which of these defects prevail.

261. The Remedies. — To avoid undue accentuation let the
reader mark off for practice verses in bars as directed in the lesson
on " Time in Poetry," and group the words as in the lesson on
grammatical groupings let him arrange the pauses logically and
grammatically, and where there is a tendency to emphasize unimpor-

! >

I>. "■

"i%'

I ■

. » ■»

118

Instruction in

\:m

tant words, a distinct pause before eacli word will destroy that
tendency j then let him determine the emphatic words and their
inflection, according to principles explained in the lesson on
inflections. In addition to these modes of correction, the reader
who is in bondage to this sing-song delivery, and who finds it
hard to break loose from prosodial accentuation and whining tones,
would find an advantage in reading the hymn exactly as if it were
prose ; and, when there is a strong tendency to throw sing-song
accent on the second word or syllable, a slight pause after the Jirst
will arrest that tendency. Practice in reading blank verse will
also be of great service, as, while it is metrical, it is free from the
associations which make hymn reading a bad habit.

262. Mr. Russell, an eminent American elocutionist, gives the
following rule : " Keep the voice up at the end of the second line,
unless emphasis or independent sense or abrupt style authorizes or
requires a downward slide, and let the voice take a, lower pitch at
the beginning of the third line."

2G3. The reader should sturfi/ for reading whatever he has read,
to read publicly, and he would find great benefit from marking for
inflection, pauses, and emphases, the hymns ho has to read, until
he can dispense with such helps. The following selection will be
Buggestive of the method proposed ; the pauses are marked by a
dash, the emphasized words are in Italics, and inflections with (' ^)
grave and acute accent marks indicate the rise and fall..

J?ear Refuse of my teeart/ soul'

On Thee — when sorrows rise-
On TTiee — when waves of trouble — roll—

My — faantiug hope — relies.

To Thse — I tell— each rising grief—

For — Thou — AiiONE canst heal —
1^1/ word — can bring — a sweet relt^ ' ^

For EVERY i>ai7i — \feel.

But, oh I when gloomy doubts — prevail—

l/ear— to call Thee mine—

Intellectual Elocution,

119

The springs of cor^ort— seem to/ati *. .

And all—vaj hopes — decline.

tdower Fiteh, — Yai— Gracious G'o'j— whsre— shall J^e—
Thou—a.Tt my onljf trust —
And — still — my soul— would cleayo to Thee,
Though prostrate — in the dust.

Tby mercy seat — is open — still ;—

T^ere — let my soul retreat ; —
With humble Aope— attend— Thy — will—

And wait — beneath Thy fkbt.

264. The distinguishing feeling in reading any religious com-
position should undoubtedly be that of reverence. Whatever
be the subject, it must have associated with it the sentiments of
God and immortality. Dramatic reading, in the sense of merely
representing human life as the actor represents it on the stage,
often marked by exaggeration, must of course be carefully avoided.
Excessive exhibitions of human passions would be utterly opposed
to the purposes of all sacred services. But dramatic delivery, as
illustrating diflfcrent persons speaking and acting in human life,
for the higher purpose, not of entertainment, but instruction and
exhortation, when pervaded by a spirit of reverence, is natural
and appropriate, and cannot fail to awaken a deeper interest in the
hearer, and exercise a deeper and more lasting influence than when
delivered in the sini2;-son2r monotonous and whininyr tones that too

or) o

often distinguish pulpit delivery now. The pulpit orator and reader
must train his voice, by the methods explained in this work, to
pauses and to flexibility, that he may give truthful and dramatic
expression to all he utters, whether his own sentiments or those of
Holy Writ. His voice is the instrument of expression ; and its
proper cultivation will not only prolong his health and usefulness,
but it will make him master of an organ by which he can infuse
into every tone a sound of power, of feeling, of grandeur and
pathos, and of rebuke and effective exliortation.

2G5. Special study may be useful and necessary to an effective
delivery of the English Church service; but as that service is

■J >■?■

ti ■?■. ■

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120

Instruction in

founded upon the Scriptures and largely derived from tLcm, the
practice recommended for general pulpit reading and for the read-
ing of all solemn subjects and of hymns, cannot fail to give to the
delivery of the beautiful and impressive liturgy of the Episcopalian
Church all the expression of just elocution.

The method of study recommended for public reading, and
illustrated by the analysis of Mark Antony's speech, will be found
equally applicable to pulpit readings, and tlio analysis of the
following parable will bo found suggestive for this end :

2GG. Parable op the Prodigal Son. — Luke^ch^xv^ v. 11
to 32.

11th V. And he said, A certain man— had two sons : *

This is simply narrative and the sense being complete on " sons "
that word will take the falling inflection, while " two " being a
distinguishing word will take the accented emphasis of sense.

12th V. And the younger— of them — said— to his father, — Father— give
me — the portion of goods — tlmt/alleth to me.

In narrative composition, when dialogue is introduced, the
words of each speaker must be uttered with more force and
greater compass of inflection than the narrative clauses, and
accompanied also with a change of pitch. In the above instance
the pitch is elevated above the narrative. An emphasis with fill-
ing inflection must be given to " younger," as thus indicating
that the elder son did not ask for his portion, and a similar
emphasis is placed on "falleth," thus intimating that ho asks
for no more than that which by law and custom would ultimately
be his own.

13th V. And — not many dayg after — the younger son — gathered all
together — and took his journey into a far country — and there wasted his
substance — with riotous living.

The first two clauses are so connected that, on the principle for
arranging series of sentences, the rising inflection may be placed
on " together," and the falling on " country " as completing that
Statement. The remaining clause will then stand distinct and
should be read with a deeper modulation and with greater

Intellectual Elocution.

121

for
accd
that

and
^ater

Bolemnity, expressive of the life of sin into which, after leaving
his father's house, he had passed. "Wasted" and " riotous "
must receive force and STeil of voice, as expressive of the nature
of his career, while cue force will be given to "living" as the
completion of the pictuie.

14(»h V. And wbea hi had spent all — there arose a mighty s-amihk in tha*

land ; and he be^an to be in Mant.

Accentual emphasis will be placed on " all " as evidence of his
profligate career and a rising iailection to show the dependence of
the clause as a subordinate sentence. " Mighty famine " are
both important, but famine takes the emphasis of feeling witli the
fulling inflection ; while " m that land," as being subordinate, will
be read in a lower piich. iiowever unimportant the final clause
and word may be, let the reader be careful to utter it with dis-
tinctness. " Want " demands special emphasis, as indicating the
consequences of his riotov.a living.

15th V. And he wtiit and joined himself— to a citizen of that country :

atd ujB sent him into his fields — to feed awine.

" Citizen " and " country " must receive arbitrary emphasis, as
indicating his next step in life — his friendlessness too — a mere
citizen and foreigner, not a friend or an Israelite, while the
Bocond " he," standing for citizen, must receive special force and a
circumflex inflection to distinguish it from the first " he " stand-
ing for the prodigal. "Fields" must have emphasis expressive
of his wretched condition — he was not taken into the house but
Bent to the field to herd with swine, the unclean and abhorred
animal of his faith. Kcnco "swine," as a finaland expressive
statement of his lost condition, will receive force with a slight
degree of tremor.

16th V. And he would/ain— have filled his belly with the lusks that the

•irtne— did eat ; and no man c*vo onto him.

" Husks " must have arbitrary emphasis to express his extreme
degradation and want, while " swine " takes a slighter but a
similar emphasis as completing the picture of his wretchedness,
la the clause that follows, " no " h more important than " mao,"

122

Instruction in

■I

Jf;

since only man could give to him, and hence "no" shows his
utter desolation. It will add to the touching pathos of the
narrative to swell the voice with a slight tremor on the oof " no."

ITthv. And when he camo to himaeif ho said: How many hired ser-
vants— o£ my father's— have bread «nou^A— and to spare — and J perish—
with hunger I

" Himself" will have a rising inflection, as being a dependent
clause, but must have the emphasis of sense as indicating that in
his riotous living he was not himself. " Hired servants," as
expressive of the farthest extreme of the domestic relations, must
have the emphasis of sense, whilst •" servants " will take arbitrary
emphasis as antithetical to him, the son. "Enough" and to
"spare" must receive prominence as expressive of their happy
Btate contrasted with his. " I," being antithetical to servants,
will take the rising inflection, but equal stress with servants;
and after a pause, to give more force to "I" and to "perish,"
and "hunger" must be delivered in tones of deep pathos, tho
voice trembling with memories of lost happiness and the sense
of present degradation.

18th V. I will arise — and go to my father — and will Bay unto mm —
Father— I have sinned — against Heavers, and before tJiee.

" Father " on the first clause will take the emphasis of feeling
uttered in a tone of aflectionato tremor, as indicating that he was
the sure hope of the lost prodigal. The second " father " must be
uttered in an earnest, appealing, trembling tone, and "siuucd," as
a confession of guilt and that this had been the deepest suffering,
deeper than hunger and poverty, will take the strongest emphasis
uttered in a tone of passionate sorrow. " Heaven " and " thee "
will also share in this expressive emphasis, but not with the same
force as " sinned."

19th v. And am no more worthy to be called thy son : make me as one—
of thy hired servants.

Here "son" and "servants" are antithetical and will take
©pposite inflections, " son," being negative, taking the rising and
" servants " the falling inflection, " Worthy " and " called " will

Intellectual Elocution,

123

3W8 his
of the

' " no.

dred ser-
' perish—

ipcndent
; that in
its," as
ns, must
irbitrary
and to
ir happy
servants,
servants ;
' perish,"
ithos, the
the sense

nto him—

of feeling
it he was
must be
liued," as
suffering,

emphasis
1 "thee"

the same

le as one-
will take
ising and
led " wiU

also have emphatic prominence. The delivery of the two verses
must be slow, reverential, and tremulous with agitation. Such a
delivery must be dramatic, but not necessarily theatrical.

20th V. This verso has nothing special in it; but as it its
expressive of joy and affection the delivery will bo more rapid
and excited than that of the last verses.

21st V. The same passion of delivery must be observed here as
in the 18th and 19th verses, but as he is now in presence of his
father, the voice will assume a deeper tone of reverence and
humiliation.

22nd v., 23rd v. Hero the voice of the Father rises in exult-
ing joy over the recovery of the beloved lost one, and the commands
issued to the servants must be delivered in loud, rapid, and excited
tones.

24th T, For thiiB/— mj son— was dead, and is alive again; he was lost and
i^found.

Although " dead " and "alive," " lost" and "found " are anti-
thetical and by rule take opposite inflections, deeper impressiveness
will be shown in giving a falling inflection with emphasis to all of
these words, to " dead" as indicating a sense of utter loss, and
equal force on " again" as on " alive," as expressive of a full resto-
ration of love and joy. " Lost " and " found" may be read on the
same principle. It will give all the necessary variety to the passage,
secured generally by change of inflection, to read "dead "and
"lost" in a lower and more mournful pitch than "alive" and
" found."

25th V. Now his elder son -was in the field ; and as ho came— and drew
nigh to th« house— he heard— miwic and dancing.

" Elder " is here emphatic, as distinguished from younger.

26th V. And ho ealled one of the servants, aad asked, what these things
meant.

Force must bo given to " what " and " meant," as expressive of
astonishment ; and if it be considered probable that he had some
suspicion of tiie true cause, a downward circumflex iuflectioa wiil

124

Instruction in

l^ I

'!i^

♦:■'-■/

liV A\.

be tlie best to express an affected astonisbment and a sense -of
annoyance and envy.

27th V. And he said unto him— Thy BR^TIIERis come, and thy/ather—

hath killed the fatted calf, because he hath receired him lafc and sound.

The servant, no doubt greatly excited, vould answer in excited
tones, laying great emphasis on "brother," as being ample cause
for such rejoicing; while "calf," aa indicating the character of
the feast, will receive marked emphasis, especially as " kid" is sub-
Bcquently contrasted with it.

29th v. And he— answering— said, — Lo, these many years, do /-servo
thee ; neither trangressed I at any tune— thy commandment ; and yet thou
never gavest me— a, kjd— that I might make merry with my friends. '<

Much skill is required for tho just and natural delivery of this
passage. Tho temper of the elder son must be conceived, and
while the querulous tone of envious complaint is assumed, duo'
filial respect must be observed ; the leading emphasis is given to
"I" with a rising inflection; — importance must also be given to"
"many years," as magnifying his claims and the injustice he sup-'
pesos he suflFers, and a circumflex inflection with force to " any" will
add to tho effect of the implied reproach. Again "me" is in the
same condition as " I," and receives force ; while " kid," as antithe-
tical to "calf," will bo uttered with strong emphasis, expressive of
a sense of wrong. A circumflex inflection will give reproach to
the expression. The last clause may be read in monotone as a
subordinate completion of sense, but if in the judgment of the
reader, the querulous tones should be preserved to the end ; the
necessary erpression will be given to the passage by a circumflex
inflection on " T " and a rising one on " friends." The reader must
howevr i^nienjuer it is not a man, but Christ who speaks. He
must .: 'k ''^)eii::; too dramatic.

30th V. Bit ft" Boon ««s f Aw— thy son waa-com©— which hatttfeoo«rei thy

living with harlots, thou hast killed for htm—iho fattod ealf.

" This" must be delivered in a tone of emphatic reproach ; " thy
BOn" is simply explanatory and parenthetic and is uttered in a
lower tone with rising inflection to connect it with the predicate.

Intellectual Elocution,

125

If emphasis and a fallinnj inflection were given to " son " it would
suggest that the complainant was not a son. "Devoured" and
" harlots " must be uttered in aspirated scornful tones ; tlio syllable
" har " allows full scope for the expression. " Calf" is also empha-
sized as antithetical vijh " kid."

31st v., 32nd v. And b^ :r,id unto him, son, — thou art ever — -with mc, and
all that I have ig thine. li %:t,s meet — that we should make merry and bo
glad ; for this — thy brotUvf was dead, and \% alive again, and was ^t;*^ and
is found.

The tone of the father is one of dignity and of affectionate
reproof, which silences contradiction ; while the amplitude of the
advantages enjoyed by the elder son is expressed by laying force on
"all" and " have" vita contrary inflections, and arising iriLlcction
on " thine," as there is an implied reference to the prodig-.l. " Meet"
is emphatic, as declaring the final judgment of the father, and, in
the application of the parable to all men, of the Saviour. Its
importance, therefore, must be marked by command and dignity of
utterance, and with a similar expression the parable closes.

•1

PUBLIC SPEAKING.

It is not in the province of a work on elocution to give instruc-
tion in oratory, but in delivery. The materials for making an
efiective speech are derived from the experiences of life, and from
human history and the necessities of men. History, science,
philosophy, poetry, supply the proper rcsourcos ibr that know-
ledge which enables the orator to be an iu iU'uctoi' and i perrmider
of his fellow-men; rnd the capacity to spaak woll b^roro men,
although not a special gift of n:iture, can only be :.cqii'rcJ by
eystcniatic training in the habits of mctlioJic.Jly arrr.nging cur
thou^^its and clotliing them in forcible and appropii to 1 agu ige.
It is the r:reat defect of our educational systjar:!, lii ,h anJ lew,

L.J •' / i^i /

that this culture docs not commence with c'^rly lifb. Oui' pupils
arc taught granMnr.r, it is l.n..o, l;^j not t';3 Xizi'. cT ^■•rj.minar.
English, in its largo, ccmpreacn&ive, and ratloaal socio ii not

Mr W W g - _ i ^''*^H |l

126

',♦

Instruction in

I • '.

taught in any t)f our public schools, as classics and mathematics
are taught. In our grammar schools, while the classical and
mathematical master must have university qualifications, the oflBce
of the English master is the most subordinate in the system,
and the standard of his qualifications is equally low. Even if occa-
eionally an English professorship is attached to a college or a
university, the honours and rewards awarded to proficiency in
mathematics and classics are so much higher than those awarded
to proficiency in classic English, that students have no motive to
pursue a study which receives such poor encouragement. It is in i
after life the loss is felt, when, in the arena of public conflict, at
the bar or on the platform, the man with collegiate advantages
cannot speak his own language with the fluency and force of
many a mechanic or farmer ; and when the ready writer for the
press wields a power for good or evil, beyond all measure more
important and valuable and better remunerated than that of the
merely scholarly man.

It is encouraging, however, to know that facility in public speak-
ing may bo acquired by all who assiduously pursue a course of
self-culture in the use of their own language, whether in collcgiato
discipline that study has been neglected, or whether they never
have had any collegiate discipline. In evidence of the latter fact, it
is only necessary to remind the student that some of the brightest
orators of the age have acquired their power without any such pr&-
vious training. Of these, Spurgeon is an example in the pulpit ;
and amongst influential platform and senatorial orators the late
Richard Cobden, and the most eloquent of living orators, John
Bright, are sufficient proofs.

M. Boutain, in his excellent work on extempore- speaking, enu-
merates and defines the mental and acquired qualities necessary
to the successful orator. The mental qualities are 1st, a lively sen-
sibility ; 2nd, a penetrating intelligence j 3rd, a sound reason or
good sense ; 4th, a prompt imagination j 5th, a firm and decisive
will ; 6th, a natural necessity of expansion or of communicating to
other ideas and feelings ; 7th, a certain instinct which urges a
man to speak as a bird to sing.

Intellectual Elocution,

127

icmatics
ical and
ho ofl5ce
system,
if occa-
go or a
icncy in
awarded
lotivc to
It is in i
flict, at
vantages
force of
• for the
re more
t of the

ic speak-
lourse of
lollegiate
ey never
;r fact, it
brightest
3uch pro-
j pulpit;
the late
rs, John

ing, enu-
lecessary
Lvcly sen-
reason or
[ decisive
eating to
1 urges a

The last two qualifications are really the foundation of all success.
He only will succeed who desires success. lie only has the
instinct for speaking who has the ardent wish for it. The first
quality is the secret of success in every career of life. lie alono
can deeply move others who is himself deeply moved. But the
aspirant to oratorical power must learn that concentrated and
continuous meditation on one subject begets a zeal and awakens a
sensibility in the dullest mind. The second and third qualities aro
doubtless the result of mental culture, and, while some men may
possess them naturally, extensive and methodical study of human
knowledge will infallibly insure them to all. The fourth quality
is of great importance to the orator ; but the very fact that the
orator whose imaginative faculty is strong, and whose fertility of
conception meets with the warmest sympatliy from his audience, is
a proof that they, too, who hear have imaginative faculties; in
other words, imagination is a common faculty of human nature
crushed, stifled, oppressed by the hard ways of life, but by proper
culture capable of revival and growth. Nature in her silent forma
of beauty, and poetry and fiction in their creations, offer sources and
means by which that faculty may be elevated and strengthened ;
hence the rudiments of the mental qualities are human and com-
mon, varying in power but capable of improvement in all. The
instinctive or natural gift of speaking is, no doubt, stronger in some
than others. But by such methods as we shall briefly indicate it
may be wonderfully improved. Every person, however, should bo
master of the grammatical principles of his language, and, if he
would ^ive force and elegance to his expression, a knowledij^c of
the principles of rhetoric is indispensable. But failures in publio
speaking are not, as is often supposedp the result of " a want of
words " but of a want of thoughts. The unpractised speaker
breaks down, either because he has not fortified and stored his
mind with all necessary facts, arguments and idens ; or else, if ho
has done this, the sight of an audience, the terrible ordeal of the
silence of a multitude, drives everything out of his head. He
fails because he is thinking more of his audience than his subject.
This may happen to the profoundest thinker, but it may be over-
come by the most timid speaker. Knowledge of the subject, well

I I

'<'.'.

:^v,!

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I* .!

Ill

128

Instruction in

amnG^ocI, then, is the first quality for speaking. The second quality
is that of earnestness — soul-earnestness, heart-feel in;:;. If a man
earnestly desire to move his fellow-raen, to convince them of somo
truth which deeply moves him, and to exhort to acquiescence and
action, ho will never fail in language while ho has thoughts and
motives to ppeak.

But facility in expressing thought may be made a habit, and
Bhoulil by all means bo cultivated. Educated parents may culti-
vate it in tlieir children at homo, and qualified teachers in their
schools, by encouraging the young to express their thoughts orally
iu correct lanjjuage. In the Prussian schools, where the f ithor
language receives tlie best culture, teachers always exact full
answers from their pupils; not a mere representative word, but a
full definition of the subject, l^ut the young might be encouraged
to describe in their own langua<rc any event of history or daily
life that pleased or interested them, just as a skilful teacher of com-
position will read a tale or a narrative to his class and direct tliem
to reproduce it in writing. Oral composition is quite as important
as written, and could, with great success, be practised daily, and
ought to bo, by our pupils. Lord Stanhope, in a speech on this
subject, stated that the great statesman and orator, William Pitt,
attributed his admirable readiness of speech to a practice pursued
in his early training by hisf ither, the great Lord ('hatham. " Lord
Chatham Avould bid him take up any book in some foreign lan-
guage witli whieli he was acquainted, in Latin, Greek, or French,
for example. Lord Chatham then enjoined him to read out of
this work a passage in English, stopping, where he was not sure
of the word to be used in Engli-h, until tlic right word camo to
his mind, and then procosd. Mr. Pitt states that he had apsidu-
ously followed this practice. At first he had oftjn to stop for a
while, before he could recollect tlie proper word, but he found tho
difficulties gradually disappear, and what was a toil to iiini at first,
become at last an easy and familiar task." When the student has
only his own 1 mguige to i:^.c, ho might take up an English poet,
Shakspoare, Milton, Cowpor, Tennyson, or an^^ other, and after
carefully rending any passage, close the book and reproduce it in
prose form in his own words. In the same manner ho might take

Intellectual Ulocution,

129

d quality
If a man
I of somo
cnco and

ights and

libit, and
i:iy culti-
■i in tlieir
lits orally
lie father
xact full
[•(1, but a
couracred

or daily
T of com-
•cct them
mportant
ally, and
I on this
lam Pitt,

pursued

" Lord

eign lan-

Frcnch,
id out of

not suro

camo to
d aesiJu-
op for a

uud tlio
1 at first,
I dent has
ish poet,
;n(l ;;rtcr

ucG it la
.gLt take

eomo important chapter in history, and after stndyin;:^ it, dohver
its ficts as a ^hort h'Cture. Memborfl of debating sneirtics might
adtl such exercises to their debates, and thus the ftndcnt would bo
nctu:illy practising tlic work of a Ice. jrer. The politics of to-day
will bo the history of nnotlier twenty yearn, and young debaters
would find as great advantage in speaking over Jigain fomc of
the best i)latform or senatorial speeches they read or hear, as in
discussing in tlieir own auibltiou,^ stylo the question "whether
Elizabeth was justified in cau:^ing Mary Queen of Scots to be
cxeculel."

There is acommon dclusiou among?'t young ppo ikers that to «pcak
Ci'teuiporaneously, with an appearance of not having prepared Ibr
the occasion, is a mark of talent. Never believe it. A speech
\!S*itliout i-reparation would bo a failure. The practised orntor who
responds apparently without preparation to an unexpected cill
h;;3 his mind f-torcd with fact?, and trained and disciplined to luibits
of rapid thought-) and arrangements. In his Etudy he prepares for
tjie exigencies of the public arena. Tlic greatest speeclics of great
orators have often been written carofully, thrown asido, written
again {ind ag.iin, until they have saturated their minds with tho
whole subject, and msidc themselves familiar with the most coneiso
mid forcible modes of expression. Lord Brougham stated in a letter
to Lord Macaul'.y's father, on the best training for the orator,
tliat, after reading and repeating Demostlicnes for three or four
weeks, ho composed the peroration of his speech in defence of
Queen Caroline fioenfi/ times over at least, lie further added that
the student of oratory can never write too much. " It is necessary,"
he said, " to perfjct oratory, and at JUiy rate it is necessary to
acquire tlic habit of correct diction. But I go further, and say
even to tho end of a man's life he must prepare word for word
most of his passages. Now, would he bc! a great orator or no ?
In otlicr words, would he have absolute power of doing good to
mankind in a free country or no? So ho wills this, he nn\?Jt
follow these rules."

To this practice of composition he further added the study of tho
great orators, especially of Demosthenes, and by their study ho
meant to commit them to memory and repeat them, as ho himself

IGO

Instruction in

did. In the H.inic way, for the iiuprovoinont of Ftylc, r'f.ntlicy
rcciiiunu'iulod tlio ^tudoiitof poetry to \vrit(! out t!icP;ir;itliso Lost;
and (lui/ot, the Froncli historian Jind st;!t(',»<ni;in, th.it \\r nivj^ht
acquire thu ntylo of (Jihboii, copied tlio •• Di'cliiio and F,:]!" of his
favouriti; author. Tiiusth(! student uill sco that there is n<' royal
road to oxeoilcnco in oratory, and that it cm oidy bcaeconiplishcd
by arduous pationt labour. No doubt " tlio cxiironcies oC modern
pollLlo il warfare, to which add the cxiu'eucies of tlic bar, h iv • called
into boin';;u chifH of public speakers whoi^ocfTusionH fdl as I'ar short
of those of the ])rore?sed orator in perin:ment 1 ofluty as tiny excel
tlieui in ininicdi.ito utility." But, an Lord St.niley ft:. ted, the
socrct of the readiness of the l.tt.T cl i!«:^ .-^nd of skilful bir plcul-
crs was " that the mind had been prenou«"ly so exercised on similar
sidyeet-^, that not merely the necessary words, but the noeossary
ariruments and condjinatlons of thouirlit had become by I'ractico
as intuitive as those motions of the body by which we walk, or
spoak, or do any familiar and crcry-day act."

Tiie object of these remarks is not to induce tlic siudent to
write down his speech, commit it to memory and then deliver it;
the object is to Miov/ him how to become .1 ready, fluent speaker,
who depends only on memory for ficts and araumcnts, ami on the
results of habit for InnLiungc. This is tlic perfection of extem-
poraneous spor^kin^j; and its best definition. But in aiMicion to
these suiTgcstions, the following method of preparing and remcm-
berin;^- the .•.rrangement and subject matter of a s})occh is
ree(jmmended.

I. Every spcecli addressed to niaspos of men is supposed to hare
for its object the public good. Tlio speaker, at the very outset,
must endeavour to be imbued with this Idea. Let him grasp the
idea vri.h all the energy of his soul that he has to mov • men to
virtue, to justice, and to happiness. Some great princijile of this
kind will not only elevate the tone of his thoughts, but will fill him
witli that sense of the importance of his speech by which he can
be deepest moved and most deeply move his r.udicnce. Even on
the most practical business speech, a certain tone of dignity and
fervour, as evi<lenco that a man is in earnest, will add to tlie force
of his remarks; while it is indispensable to his success, wlicn the

Litellectiuit Elocution.

131

sn^joct is somo prcnt pjiblic duty, ^v tlio Icuifltition whicli may
affoct the happiness of millions iind otTuturo ii;;cs.

II. Dccida on tho course to Ik; adnpt.i'd, tlie view to bo t ikcn,
oncl never let tlie course bo too expansive. Uctter to exliaust nno or
two to[>les than to tike up too nnny, whieh, like a mere enuinrra-
tioii of historical facts, arc destitute ofibrce becuusetoo contracted
Dnd concise,

ITT. Collect f icts, ar2;uinents and thou'.dits, both by meditation
On the subject, and by read'.n:; and invcsti:;ition. Often during
this inrpiiry, while the inind is pervaded by the subject, reflec-
tions, lik'3 the beams of liilit from t'le aurora l)oreaHs, will fl ish
from all points, su'r-jrcskHl by other thou'^hts and words, and all of
which sh )uld, as fir as possible, bo cau;_dit and recorded for future
consiacr.'.tlon and use. When these resources Inivc been well pre-
pared, th^y must bo examined and arrau'ied. 15ut before this tho
ctudent must refer to tlio course he has Int;'nded to adopt. IIo may
then arrange his collected f.ict-i .ind tlioughts under their various
npitropriato heads. In such an arrangement it is an important
consideration which arguments and thouglits shall be brought forth
first. If there be a probibility of opposition, it will bo the best
policy to strike it down at oncT })y lining the most forcible argn-
mcnts, and then introducing portion-; of l/'ss importance, leaving
to the ])eroration the business of rekindling attention and interest.
If, however, the speaker i,- likely to meet with a fivourable hear-
ing, he may, aftc>ran introduction of the general subject, comm(^nco
with portions of lesser importance and then advance to the higher
ones, until he prepares his audience for receiving his final appeal.

IV. The plan being adopted, the speech should then l)e arranged
under distinct heads, each head with its details and offsets of
thought attached, all correlative thoughts being associated, and ouG
naturally suggestive and growing out of the other.

V. When the whole outline, and that a, pretty full one, «>f the
speech has been thus prepared, it m:iy then be reduced in form ;
the minor arguments and f icts, which the principal ones would be
sure to suggest, being removed, and the whole subject reduced to a
mere skeleton. The student, to make the details familiar, should

i;,;"j

.«!

10O

Instruction in

glancG at any of tlio heads find endeavour to recall tlio divcr'xont
branches of it. Then ho should put it all Msido, and asccvtiin if
he can reproduce the general arrangcmeritrrom memory. Lot him
not bo disconcerted if minor party bo omitted ; the ,u;reat object in
view is to grasp the Vr'holo conception of his work in his mind,
'R'ithout committing loonh to memory, and even -without notes.

VI. Finn.lly, let him cut it all down to threo or four leading heads,
sucli, of cour.-.o, as are the sources of all minor dctcals.

Many eminent orators })reparo el.iborate introductions and
perorations and even important pa.ssages for the body of the speech.
But tiio speaker must carefully avoid all appearance and fjrni of
study and thought, as Lord Brougham recommended. ILibits of
com])ositIon should never be neglected ; the form and thoughts of a
.speech being prepared, iti Imguige, if we desire success as extern"
porancous speakers, sliould bo left to the time of delivery.

Now all this el iborato preparation may appear too studied, and
it really is for the contests of comnwn li Co. But the oliject in viev?
is to prepare for the office of the orator ; and although it would bo
impoH.sililo and is not necessary that a man should make this
preparation for every civic, political or club speech, yet .-ill vvdio
aspire to move the misses by oratory must submit to tliis training;
and as those vrho can so move them are always cqu d for lesser
occasions, so the student, the member of a debating society, or any
one who desires to speak well, should commence with this kind of
disci[>line, and on all set and important occasions resort to it. No
doubt, in mere business debates, men fimiliar with the sabjcct
will acquire ficility in speaking, without any preparation, wit'i effect.
But tlici/ am never ascend hlQiier. Their active minds and fluent
tongues can grapple small all'airs; but wiien the business is tomovo
a multitude or ;i na.tion they must give way to stronger men •
while, a.s a rule, those stronger men who have had the smaller prac-
tice ;;lso, are still the masters of the men who are clover at smart
ready business speeches.

While habits of lit<3rary composition should be su'^taincd, tho
forms of literary composition arc not the best for public speaking.
Long formal sentences wcniy an audience. The argumentation
should bo clear and transparent, and the sentences concise, short

Intelleatual EloGution.

133

and compact. A mixed auuieuce likes tliat speech wLicli demands
no great effort of understand. ng to comprolicud it. The popnlar
EpcocLi must, tlicveforc, be animated and exciting, rather than i)ra.
found ; and when the Sj.caker observes signs of weariness in Ids
audience, marked by the restless eye and the gaping mouth, ha
sbould change his m-jthod, cnHveu his speech by an anecdote, a
witticism, or an ap^xi^il tct passion. This, skilfully done, never fails
to rc-awakcn attention, and it i« one of tlie powerful advantages
which unwritten speeches, and whut are CiiUed extemporaneous
speakers, can always command, and which tiiey who writ'3 their
speeches and commit them to memory are denied.

Open air speeches are amongst tko most effective moans of
addressing the people; but unless given under the control of
elocutionary principles, they ?.rc very exhaustive, and often unsuo-
ccssful, because of the violation of those principles. The common
riistake is to believe that there must be unusual muscular effort,
und th'it the voice must be pitched in a very high key. Now the
best effect may be produced, and all the injurious consequences of
over-exertion avoided, by carefully observing the rules in this
work for the physical culture of the voice. The speaker must
stand erect, with his throat free from compression. He must take
in ample breath, and renew it at every pause long before the
lungs are emptied, iulialing through the nose. His voice
must issue from the back of tlie mouth, and the mouth be opened
wider than usual. The capacity to be heard must not depend on
pitch or bawling, but on chest force, and especially on the
full utterance of the vowels, the sonnds of which in all important
word;i should be full ;md prolonged, wliilc the consonants should
bo distinctly articulated, with that finished action which succeeds
position. The delivery, too, should be slower than in a public hall.
Heading aloud in a largo room, and, when practicable, in the open
air v.Jiilc walking, is an excellent exercise for the end in view.
Hence also the value of reading before large audiences in the
public entertainments which have become so general. There the
reader must possess a good delivery, and learn to manage bis
voice to all the tones of passion and thought, so as to be heard by
his audience, and to interest them. These are excellent school^

'li,

Instruction in

for oratoiy, and besides improving the student in clocutioa,
tlicy j^ivc him coulidcuco uud stveugthcu liubitd of sull-coutrul whea
addrus.siug a multitude.

The method adopted by some speakers of writing their fipccchea
out and committing ihem to memory for delivery, i.s the most
objtetionable form of oratory. It never will (qualify the speaker for
CKtijmporaneoas speech. It gives Lim no preparation lor debate
and swift and apt rejjly to an op|X)ueut. If he meet with iutoirup-
tion or opposition during delivery, Le dare not fling out a prompt
and appropriate reply or u cutting retort; for he m^y lose
the thread of hii di.scourrfo, and then he is lost. Besides all
this, written compositions hare too much the stylo of an essay.
They want the abruptness, poiutedncss, fire, and rciUity inspired
always in the mind of the practidod speaker by the presence of
living men whom he addresses. Even sermons, when there is no
fear of interruption, are rarely so eiOfective and impressive
when delivered in laemoritcr stylo, as when spoken from notes
or extempore. ^Vheu the sjxiaker or preacher, however, fails
utterly in conquering the difficulty of extempore delivery, it is
better in every respect for him to read his production than to deliver
it in mcmoriter system. But let him read it as a profes,?ional
reader renders a dramatic scene or a poem ; let him thoroughly
study his own composition, having written it as legible as print;
let him mark off the pauses, the emphatic words, and oven, if
important, the inflections. Then let him read it aloud to himself,
keeping his eye on an imaginary audience, just glancing at his
manuscript; and talking into his eye and his mind a group of
words, and assume as much as possible the style and action of
extempore delivery. This method would not be as laborious as
committing a production to memory; it would have, as it has
with the professional reader, all the semblance and reality of an
unwritten composition ; the speaker would be free from the terror
of forgetting his part; and, if interruption occurred, or the speaker,
inspired by some new pha^ of thought flashing across his mhid,
desired to leave his pnpcr for a moment, he could do this and
return to his written composition, without the dread of losing the
thread of tho discourse. Hence, under every circumstance the

Intellectual Elocution.

185

practice of elocution, the art of reading well, is of the first impor-
taucc to the clergyman, to the lecturer, or the public speaker.

It irj nut our purpose to give instruction on the method of
arranging the parts of a .speech. This ought to be taught in
every Euglifih departuient of a good school, with grammar and
comp ':<itiun; but us thorough Unglish chissic eduoutiuu \% so much
negk'CtL'd iu our best ticbools, the student of oratory must seek fof
guid;ujee in some standard work of rhetoric. Dr. Wliately's
or Mr. Neil's will afford ample instruction on the subject; after
residing which, the student may with advantage take up Bluir'a
Lectures on llhetoric :uid the Belles Lettres.

GESTURE i\ND FACIAL EXPllESSION.

The first and best rule we can <A\q for wsticulation is to leave
it alone until everything else has been accomplished required for
good elocution. Experience has shown that the student cannot
thoughtfully apply his mind to the principles of vocal expression
and intjllcctual elocution, and at the same time practice appro-
priate gesticulation. Experience too always shews that when once
a masterly elocution has been achieveil, when the ju(.!g;mcut
and tlie conccptive faculty have been so disciplined and developed
that the reader can instantly realize and truthfully represent
thought and passion, heaiusc he feels what he delivers, ajjnost
without thought or instruction, the body, the arms, the hands will
respond to the feeling, and represent it with natural grace and
truth.

The first effort of the student then should be, net to create but
to subdue and control action. He must learn to stand still, to
keep his head, his arms, his whole body calm and quiet, concen-
trating his energy ">• liis voice. The most, easy and healthful
attitude he can assume will not only assist him in doing this,
but contribute to the dignity and gracefulness of his appearance.
There must, however, be the utmost avoidance of stiffness and iife-
lessne.-s in his appearance. The body must be naturally erect, the
head upright, resting easily in its position ; the shoulders should
be thrown a little back, so that the chest may be expanded
and have full play, while the arms lie naturally at the side

13G

Instruction in

•I.' -I

•".«■■

I m

■ M.

IIo must not BtunJ on bcut knees, but the liii»]);3 must gi\'o
evidcuco of power to support the body. Cue footuud limb should
bo firmly fixed us the chiel' bupport, the pivot on which the wholo
person resti ; while the otlier lout tiud limb should be directed a
little outward from the sicle, feo thut if necessary the speaker may
turn himseit to cither side, or throw himself backward or forward
as the case may require. The ridit foot generally i;5 placed
in advance of t'ae lel't, the distance between the feet being abuut
one f»ot. The defects of attitude are to koe[< tlio feet cIosD
together, to turn them in t:traight lines and parallel to each other
to the audi'.nco, to b'^nd the knees and rest upon them, to holdtho
head too stiff and too erect, or to bury it in the shoulders, or to bend
the whole body too much forward. The attitude recommended for
the comfort of the speaker and the relief of the audience may occiir
sionally be varied; the left foot may take tlie jiositioa of the right
cue, and may rest sometimes on one side and sometimes on the other j
but the norm^d attitude must never be forgotten, and when the
speaker for any purpr.so changes to other positions, lie must again
return to the first and normal attitude. Often, in earnest appe ds or
the cx^essiou of great passion, the speaker will fling himself for-
ward or lean more to one side or the other; still, his safeguard is
always to return to that first position. Stillness and repose
here again must be the rule ; all tossing of the body round about,
shrugLiing of the shoulders, stamping of the I'ect, cr .■-ing of the
limbs, rising on the toes, or extreme rigiducss of person b^ing
equally avoided.

The chief difficulty, however, lies in the management of the
arms and the hand. The natural tendency of all nicji is ta
make tlie arm move in unison with th« feeling, and often, wdion
ilie voice iails in iti expressive power, the del'ectivo reader will
endeavour to compensate with u still more defective action of tho
arm. Ue feels that something more is necessary for true oxpi'es-
sion than h.> has given, and so he works spasmodically, wildiy and
nngraccl'ully, on the arm and the Land. IIo jerks tliem un and
down, he twitches them out of their position of repose, or ho
mcc!iauic;iUy see-saws the air with them ; the whole movement
that part of the arm extending'; fi>

beinij limited

the elbow to

Intellectual Elocution,

137

the hand, wiiicli in its submission to the bowildorod mind h tiglitly
clenched, or one finger, without change, itoints ut some unseen
object, or all the fingers lie close together as ii' made of woo<.l,
while tlio upper part of the arm is immovably fixed to the .side
of the body. But the less wc think of the action, and the moro
we couccntratG our fviculties on the Bcntimout, the moro easy and
natural ^Yiil be our action. Xo action then will be more exi)res-
Bivc than all the above spasmodic attempts at action. Dr. Gregory
said of Garriak, " Ila used less action tlian any pL^rformcr I evcf
saw; but his action always had me'inimj^ it always spoke. By
being less than thatof otlier actors, it had the greater force."

The right arm is cliiefly used iu gesticulation, though the leflfc
Qi*m may be often brought in for relief, or to direct attention to
opposite or contrary objects; but whether the right or the loft, tho
whole arm should be moved from the ih^uhler, not from the elbow.
Its action too should be in curves. If, for instance, the speaker
intends to point to the heavens, his arm previously lying still at
his side, he must not lift it up in a straight lino, p-irallol with his
body, but gently extending it from his side at any angle, grac^'fully
move it round, until, fully extended, it points in the direction
int^Dnded, but lying at some angle v.'hicli shall not bo a ri;i,ht on3
citlier to tho earth or his ow'n binly. In moving through tliG
curve the motion of tho arm, d»ring its progress to tlie oljject
to which attention is directed, will at first bo slightly in a contrary
direction. Thus, if we v/ish tf) direct attention to any object to
the left of us, or to hurl contempt or defiance iu tliat direction,
tlio arm previously lying at tho side will first move outwards to
tho rijht, and then proceed in a rising curve, swift or slow as blio
case m;iy require, towards the object of attention. Tlij fingers
should never lie close together, but bo slightly outspread. If
the purpose bo to direct attention to some object near at hand
and finite iu character, as iu pointing to a man or a building, tho
index finger may be used ; but when the purpose is to direct
attention to tho universe, to the heavens, to a nmltitude or a
nation, or some abstract principle, as justice or liberty, the i tho
hand should bo freely opened, tho fingers separated, the back of
the hand turned outward or from the person. This is the form

-■• »" '■ '

K ; '

•'.«;

138

Instruction in

of action used in addressing, aj)peaUvg, or exliorting. When,
however, wo desire to repel visible or invisible objects, tlic palms
of the hands arc turned towiirds the object of repulsion, tlie body
leanii),^ from it as if we would pudh it from us and shun its
presence. Thus also do we forbid, rcjtct, dent/, or impcrntively
comnviiid, us when a rul'j: vvoui.. dismiss offensive counscllurs or
petitioners. In prayer the hands are clasped, but when a])pcaling
to the God of nature, as represented by the universe and as being
round us on every side, the arms outspread and the hands extended
would be more dignified and ;.;j^rvv^"i i("^. In strong passion, and
especially in defiance, the hand h A\'Xi closed tightly or clenched
as if we would strike tlw objcck. oi o.^r anq;er or hatred. la
restoring the liands and arms to their ^;v....<tion of repose, the
return should not be too rapid, but in J cc^nn^ vicli thefir^.t action
and in similar curved motions. To let thciu <lrv.^' d.)wn suddenly
tis if they had lost all life look.i ungraceful.

Gestures arc Directive, Inustrative, or Emotive. Directive
gestures point to the object, r»al or imjiginative, as. Behold the
man! There stands the foo ! In this directive gesture regard
must be had to the true position of the object, fche eye and hand
being turned iu the direction of the heavens or the earth, elevated
or depressed as it is above us, beyond our reach, or near us; and,
although th« arm may for a space continue gesture in the special
dirootion, the eye is withdrawn immediately, rfwearo addressing
persons, and fixed again on them. We may, however, recur to the
game point with the eye, if the description is a continuous one, or
we refer again to the object. Illustrative gesture nm.st imitate
the action expressed, xnus in the charge of the Light Brigade;

Flashed all their pabres bare,
Flashed as they turu'd iu air.

= Xlere the hand raised above tlie head, as- if waving aloft the
sabres, is an imitative action.

Sabring tho gunners there.

Here the waving action of the sword is instantly changed to
one of direct attack, the arm descending with full sweep and force
OS if iu tho act of cutting down " the gunners there."

Intellectual Elocution,

139

Emotive gesticulation has no limit and no rule to guide it, save
that cx[icriencc which ought to guide us in all action. Every
expression of passion will have some appropriate action ; that
action must not be too frequent nor too violent, but always grace-
ful and natural. When Hamlet flrgfc beliolds his father's ghost,
he siuks reverentially but gracefully ou one knee to address it, hia
hands extended and clasped as in pruyer, when he says,

I'll mU thoe Ilamlet,
King,— father ! — Royal DiuM : Oh, answer me I

The artist studies every form of beauty and grace; he goes to
nature ; he also druwg on hi* imagiaative powers ; he conceives
the nio;:!t graceful and bouutifal forius, und then transfers them
to the canvas or the marble. Henee works of sculpture and
paintings offer admirable modeli, which the orator, reader, or
actor ni:iy with great profit study ; for while nature is the true
source uf action, art idouliBSi nature, and «ombine3 in one perfect
production what can only be seen imperfect and defective in
nature. ■ v

The speaker and reader must not suit the action to the word
80 much as tko idea ; und every idea doe« not necessarily require
action. Description und violent emotions ohieily demand action.
But a man is not called upon to touch his heart or his head or
his sword every time ho uses these names, nor point or look
upwards, if Grod or heaven or the stars be mentioned. We must
consider — will ani/ action add to eflfect; and no instruction can
guide us here. In all serious expressions tho action accompanies
the sentiment. In humorous descriptions it may, with excellent
effect, precede them, the words following as an interpretation.

Action must above all bo appropriate. An address to equals or
to a> multitude will be more violent and less respectful than one to
rulers and monarchs or superiors. Dignified and solemn subjects
require slower and less frequent action tlian excitable, violent or
humorous ones. Tho action of the platform orator may be
varied, violent, dignified or humorous, imitative and grotesque,
according to the subject he introduces. In the senate the action
will be calm, manifesting great self-control, and, in mere business

140

Instruction i

}„-,.i'

epccclics, simply explanatory aud free from violence. In tho
pulpit tiic action is again solemn, dignified, and not too fretiueut,
while in reading the Scripture*, the liturgy, or LymuB no uctiun is
used.

Facial Expression. Many books of elocution give in.struction
on the various forms the face is to assume frhilc under the influ-
ence of airectcd passion. The first error in such in.^trucli'iii is to
infer that the passion is affected. It i« lor the time real. Thu great
actor or reader realizes in his imagination the true circum^t:incc3,
the true passion, until he fuels it, and then he never f;ils in
facial expression. Let us conceive an enemy who has deeply
wronged us — thwarted our purposes, injured our iutcrt-st*,
blasted our reputation — what must be the feeling but one of
intense hatred ? IIow would we address him — how cspreLrS our
hatred ? Would any description of facial expression assist as
well ;:s a true conception of the feeling? And he who c unot
realize the feeling can never put the requisite expression iuto
Lis face by rule and method. Think of a reader study uig
before ho begins to re^id a love passage of the following descrijition,
and then literally following it: ''love gives a soft serenity to tho
couutouanee, a languishing to the eyes, a sweetness to the voice,
and a tenderness to the whole 1'raiL.e." Or in reproach, "the
brow is contracted, the lip turned up with scorn, and the head
shaken." The dilEeulty would be to give, by such rules, the due
measure of expression, how to languish with the eye, how high to
turn the lip, how often to shake the head. Every one passes
through the ordeal of some of these feelings in the cxpericnees of
life, and wlioever thinks "hovv- he feels in sorrow, hatred, love or
pride, will never fail to give, without premeditation, the duo
expression to his fiice. The '* mind is the music breatiung from
the fice,'' aud the great evil of such instruction is to misguide the
etudent as to the true sources of power in expressive delivery.
Study vfill improve conception, and true conception of seutimcut
is the best and only sure guide for true facial expression.

' I ".

MISCELLANEOUS PKOSE SELECTIONS.

IIICCABOCCA ON DEVOLUTION.
LoHD Lytto.v, 1805.

Out of tlio Tinker's bac^ Leon nd Fairfield liad drawn a translation
of tVndoiesjt's " Pro;/rcss of Man," and artothor of rtoii;-i5c;:ii'3
'^ Social Contn'Ct." Works so cliKjUcnt luid induced hiui to S'^lect
from the tr:!Cts in the Tinker's JMiscell mj tiicrc which abounded
most iii profcs;-ion3 of pliilraithropy, and predict ior.s of peine com-
ing Golden A;^e, to which old Saturn's Vvas a juki;— tract:? ,so mild
Qlid mother-like in their l;in,:j;uaj:;e, that it required a much mora
practical experience than Lenny's to perceive that you would iiavo
to pass :i river of blood before you had the Kli^:l!te.-^t cliancc of .set-
tiu"" foot on tlic flowery banks on which they invited you toreposo
— traets which rou;:i,ed poor Chri-tianity on the cheeks, cLq'ijed a
crown of innocent daffodillies on her head, and set her to dancing
a2^«s <■'''' zi'i>}ijr\\i the pastoral ballot in which St. Simon pipes to
the lloek he shears j or having fir^t laid it down as a prelimiuary
exipm that

" T'ae cloud-capt towers, the gorgoous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itsulf—
Yea, all which it iuhcrit, shall dissolve,"

Bubstituted in place thereof jMonsieur Fourier's symmetrical pha«
laustcrc, or IMr. Owen's architectural parallelogram. '•• It was Avith
Bome fc.uch tract that Lenny was seasoning his crusts and hisradi^iies,
when luccabocca, bending his long dark face over tho student's
Bhoulder, said abruptly —

" JJiitvolo, my I'riend ! what on earth Lavo you got there? Just
let mc look at it, will you ?"

* C'anilp Ilenvi, Comte de Saint Simon, whoTras bom at Paris, Oct. 17, 17G0, ancl
dietl AIiiv 19. 1S25; Charles Fourier, who was born at Bfsaiifon, April 7, 1772, ancl
dk'd iit i'luis, U'-t. m, 1837; and Kobert Owen, wlio was born ai ^'cvtoit, in Itlout-
gomory.-hiio. May 11, 1771, and died 2iov. 17, ISfiS, were notorious ad ocales of
Corauiiiiiist or Sociiil doctriHCB. lleuce their disciplea are culled fciuiut bimoniaus,
Fouricrisis, aud Owenites.

nil

■■-— ' i JU^ '

li?^^:

}■'

1-1 ;)■,■

^ t

'miirf.

I.(MJ

■ ' i-' '!'

142

Miscellaneous Prose Selections.

Leonard ro.sc rcs]joctfnlly, and coloured deeply as he surren-
dered till! tract to liiccilioec.i.

Tilt; wise nrin road the lirst p.ii^'e attentively, the second more
cursorily, and only r^in his eye over the rest, lie had pone tliroui(!i
too vast a raiiii^c of problems politic d. not to have passed over that
venerable Pons Aalnornm oi' Socialism, on which Fonvi.r.s and
Bi. .Sinjons sit striddlina', and cry aloud th:it th(>y have arrived at
the last h(»undary of knowledge I

'*' All this is as old as the hills," quoth Ricc:;bocca irreverently ;
"but the hills stand still, and this — there it uoQ-^ !" and t^o saG;e
point, d to !!, cloud emitted from his ])ipe. *• Did you ever r-ad Sir
J )avid Brewster on Uiiticil i •clu;iions V" "NoT' " Well. I'll lend
it to you. You will Hud therein a story of a l.uly who rlv-Mys saw
a, black cat on her hearth-ruL^ Tb.e black cat existed only in her
fancy, but t'lo halluciuation was natural and raasouablc — rli — wli.".t
do you think?"

'• AVhy, sir," said Leonard, r.ot catching th.o It .'li.-.i's meaning,
'' I don't exactly see that it \\i\y, n;;tiU'al ar.d reasonable."

" Fool i.-h boy, yes ! because black c:it.'« are thin'jjs pos-iblo and
known. But who ever saw upon cartli a community of men such
{IS sit on th.o hearth-rrars of jMes-ra. Ov,-en smJ Fourier? If the
lady's hallucination was not reasonable, vrliat is his v.ho believes
in such visions as these ?"

Leonard bit his lip.

" 3Iy dear boy," cried Iiiccab.ieca kindly, "the only t'ungsuro
and tangible to which these writers would load you, lics:,tt!ie firrt
step, and that is what i;^ commonly callod « I'evolution. Now, I
know what tluit is. I have LCone, not indeed throucdi a revolu-
tion, but an a.ttempt at one."

Leonii]\l raised his eyes towards his master with a look of pro-
found respect, and grcjit curiosity.

"Yes," added llicctdjocca, and the f:;co on which the boy gazed
exchanged its usual grotes(|ue and sardonic expression lor one
animated, noble, and heroic. '-Yes, not a revolution for eliimeras,
but for that cause which tlie coldest allov; to l)e a'ood. and which,
when successful, all time approves a.s divine — the redemption of our
ualive soil from the rule of tiic foreigner ! I have shared in such an
attempt. And," continued the Italian, mournfully, " recalling
now all the evil passions it arouses, .all the ties it dissolve^!, all
the blood that it commands to flow, all the heakhful industry
it arrest,?, all the madmen that it arms, all the victims that it dupes,
I question whether one man really honest, pure, and humane, who
has once gone through such an ordeal, would ever hazard it again,
unless he waa assured that the victory was certain — ay, and the

Miscellaneous Prose Selections,

143

object f(ir wliich he fip;hts not to b^ wrested from his liiinds :imul-t
the upro.ir of the olcnieiits th.-it the battle lias released."

The Italian paused, shaded his brow with his hand, and remained
lonti' silent. Then, gradunlly resuming his ordinary tone, lie con-
tinued —

" devolutions that have no definite objects made clear ])v the
positive experience of history ; rovolutions, in a word, that aim less
ot substitutini^ one law or one dynasty tor anotlicr, than at chan;:;--
ing the whole scheme of society, have been little atteniiiti'd by
real f^tatesmen. Even Lycur^us is proved to bo a. myth who never
existed. Such organic clianii-es are but in the day-dreams of
philr.i-nphers who lived apart from the actual worki, and whoso
opinions (though generally they were very benevolent, gnod ^ort
of men, and wrote in an elegant poetical st}le) one would no moro
take on a plain matter of lilc, than one would look upon Virgil's;
' Eclogues' as a faithful picture of the ordinary pains and plea^^urcs;
of the |'e;:saMt3 who tend our sheep. Read them as you would read
poets, and they are delightful. But p.ttempt to shape the world
according to the poetry, and fit yourself for a madhouse. The f ir-
ther oft" the age is from the realiration of such projects, the moro
these poor philosophers have indulged them. Thus, it w:is amidst
the saddest corruption of court manners that it became the fishion
in Paris to sit for one's picture, with a crook in one's luind, as
Alexis or Daphne. Just as liberty was fast dying out of Greece,
and the successors of Alexander were founding their monarchies,
and Home was growing up to crush in its iron grasp all states save
its own, Plato withdraws his eyes from the world, to open them in
his dreamy Atlantis.-'"' Just in the grimmest period of Endish
history, witli the axe haniiing over his head. Sir Thomas 3forc
gives 3'ou his * Utopia. 'f Just when the world is to be tlie theatre
of a new Sesostris, the sages of France tell you that the ago is too
enlightened for war, that man is henceforth to be governed by pure

• Plato's idea of a perfect state is unfolded in the " Laws" nnd tho " Kepublic."

t This work, named from a king Utopus, Avritton in Latin, was juMi-^hod at
Louvain, in IDIG. Tlio tirst Kiiglisli cditiDii, translati d I j- Hdliyni^on, wiis j.iibll-Iud
in Loiidoii, in 155L Bishop Unrnei'a translniinn api)cared iii l(jS4. llnli;im (IJt.
Hist., part i,, ch. 4) says—" Tlio • Iippublio' of IMiito no doubt fiirni-ht d Ah ro with
tlie geini of las iierfect society; but it would be unreiisonablc to deny liiin tln'iucrit
of bavin. g; struck out tho liction of it:^ real existence Ironi Ids own lertil" iniapina-
tion; anil it is manifest that some of liis most dl^tin^'uislu.'d successors in tboi-ame
walk of romance, especially Swift, were larjrclv Intlcbted Id hisreasciniii;;- ::s well as
inventive talents. J'lio.«e who nail the 'Itcijia' in ISurnet's traiisiiiiiin, may
believe that they are in l.robdijrnafr; ^o sindlar is tho vein of satiric i! IiunnMir and
easy langiiap^. If false and impracticable theories arc found in tlie ' Uti.i.i.i' (and,
perhaps, l.e ktiev/ tliera to be eucli), this is in a much greater degree true (,t ilic 1 la-
tonic republic." In a note to a later edition of his " Literary llisti.ry,'' llallara

ill

jO-Ucvllancoua Prose Selccilons.

i:i

\ ..,,ii

r I

-!r

rcaKon, and live in a j> iradiso. Vc^ry pretty reading nil tliis tO a
man lik'i nic, Lenny, v.lio can admin; and uniiKi at it. IJut to you,
i/) tliO man wlio li.is to work (or liis livlii.:, (o t!io nrui who tliink.-i
it \V():j!d 1)0 SO niut'li nioro jilcis.uit to livo ,it hi.-! ease in a ])I>ial.ai-
Bt'.M'o llian to v.orlv ci.Iit or ten hours a-day ; to the man ol't denfc
and adion, and indn,«ti'y, wlioso i'nturo i-5 iiivest-al in that trau-
quillity and order of u st;to in which til^nt, and action, and
iiidn.'ti-y area cert iln ci[>itd; why, Messrs. CoiUts, the ^reafc
bankers, h.id bitter enenura;;'o n t'leory t) up.x't tlio .system of
bau'iin'.;'! Whatever disturbs society, ye;i, even by a cause-
less i-iiiie, mueli mciv by an actual 8trui:gle, \'\\U firrt upon tho
market (d* I ibour, and thenco anect-! prejiK.liei.dly cver^^ doparfc-
meut oCintelH-vnce. In sucli tinie-i tlie arts a.i'o arrc-tcd, litorv
turo is neglvjcted, people arc too bn^y to real anything' save. •'.ppcajs
to their p issious. Av\ capitd, shtdcen in its sousy of security, uo
longer ventures b'ddly ihrough the Ian 1, c.dlin ^ ihrfcli all the ener-
gies of tnil and enter^'riso, and extetidin^^- to every vrork'.nan his
reward. No'V, Lenisy, take this piece of advice. You are yeuii^",
clever," and aspirin;.;-: men rarely succeed in changin;;; the world ;
but a man s-M-mi i'.i's of f-ucG.vss il' he lots tho v.'ovid alone, and
resolves to make the 1)est ol'it. You ;;ri! in tho lui.l^t of tlie great
crisis ory(mr life; it is the struggle b tvreen ( ho nov/ desires knov/-
Icdgc excites, and tli;it t.;easo of 'poverty, w!.ie!i iho-'e do:-ires coii-
■^crt citlicr into hope or emulation, cr into envy ar.d despair. I
grant lliafc it is an up-liill work that liesbciore you ; butdon'tyon
think it is adv.'.iys ca.dor to climb a ni'Muit un than itis to levi'l it ?
These books c 11 on you to levd the niountain ; and that moun-
tain is t;50 property cf other people, sub; liviili'd anion;.^st a great
many proprietors, and protected by 1 iw. At the first stroke of tho
pick ixe it is ten to one but whiit you are t ;keii up for a tresp iS3.
But t'ao path up tlie mount.iiu is aright of way uncontested. Vou
may ])e safe at tlic summit, before (even if the owners are fools
enough to lot you) you could have levelled a y<'rd. " Cospetto /"
quoth tho .Doctor, "it is more than two thousand years ago since
poor Plato beg:ui to level it, and the mount :in is as high as ever !"'
Tliu-^ saying, Iviceabocca came to the end of his pipe, and, stalk-
ing thoughtutUy away, ho left Leonard Fairfleld trying to extr;ic(;
light from the smoke. — Mij Novel; or. Varieties in Enejlisli Life,
vol. i., book i., chap. 8.

MUcellancoui Prose Selections,

145

•MV\

TRIAL OF THE COVENANTEllS AFTEll THE
BATTLli) OF BOTHWELL BUIDGE.

Sni Waltbb Scott.

The Privy Council of Scotluiid, in wliom tlio practice since tlio
union ol' tlio crowns vostixl ^ruut judici tl p')\vci'.s, as well a.s tho
gouoml supurintL'ndt'nco of tho oxocutivo d(j]);irtuiL'nt, was nict in
the ancient, dark, Gotliie room adjoining the House of Paiiiiuiont
in E linbur^li, when General Grahame entered and took his place
amon,u,st iheiu at tiic council-table.

*• You liavo Jirought us a leash of game to-day, General," said a
nobleman of high place amongst thcni. ** Here is a craven to
confess — a cock of the game to stand at bay — and what shall I
call tlio third, General ?"

" Without further metaphor, I will entreat your Grace to call
liim a po nn in whom I am speci.dly interested," replied Olaver-
houso.

*' An^ /hig into the bargain," said the nobleman, lolliii'^ out
n tongue which was at all times too big for his mouth, and (-om-
modal ing his coarse features to a sneer, to which they seemed to
bo fami;iar.

" Yes, please your Grace, a whig, as your Grace was in IGll,"
replied Claverhouse, with his usual appearaQce of imperturbable
civility.

" lie has you there, I think, my Lord Duke," said one of the
Privy Councillors.

" Ay, ay," returned the Duko, laughing, '' there's no speaking
to him since Druinclog. But, come, bring in the prisoners, and
do you, Mr. Clerk, read the record."

The clerk read forth a bond, in which General Grahame of
Claverhouse and Lord Evandalo entered themselves securities that
Henry Morton, younger, of IMilnwood, should go abroad and
remain in foreign parts until his Majesty's pleasure w:is further
known, in respect of tho said Henry Morton's accession to the
late rebellion, and that under penalty of life and limb to the said
Henry Morton, and of ten thousand marks to each of his
securities.

*• Do you accept of the King's mercy upon these terms, Mr.
Morton V" said the Duko of Lauderdale, who presided in the
Council.

" I have no other choice, my Lord," replied Morton.

" Then subscribe your name in the record." ' ''*

146

Miscellaneous Prose Selections

tiv

Morton did so without reply, conscious that, in the circum-
Btanccs of his case, it was impossible for him to have escaped more
easily ? Macbriar, who was at the same instant brought to the foot
of the Council-table, bound upon a chair, for his weakness pre-
vented him from standing, beheld Morton in the act of what he
accounted apostasy

'' lie hath summed his defection by owning the carnal power of
the tyrant I" he exclaimed with a deep groan. " A fallen star ! a
fallen otarl"

'• Hold your peace, sir," said the Duke, " and keep your ain
breath to cool your ain porrids^c — ye'll find them scalding hot, I
promise you. Call in the other fellow, who has some common
Bcnse. One sheep will leap the ditch when another goes first."

Cuddie was introduced unbound, but under the guard of two
halberdiers, and placed beside Macbriar at the bottom of the table.
The poor fellow cast a piteous look around him, in which were
mingled awe for the great men in whoso presence he stood, and
compassion for his fellow-sufferers, with no small fear of the
personal consequences which impended over himself. He made
his clownish obeisances with a double portion of reverence, and
then awaited the opening of the awfnl scene.

" Were you at the battle of Bothweil Bridge ?" was the first
question which was thundered in his ears.

Cuddie meditated a denial, but had sense enough, upon reflec-
tion, to discover that the truth would be too strong for him; so
he replied with true Caledonian indirectness of response,

"I'll no say, but it may be possible that I might hae been
there."

" Answer directly, you knave — ^ycs or no ? You know you were
there."

" It's no for me to contradict your Lordship's Grace's honour,'*
Baid Cuddie.

" Once more, sir ; were you there ? yes or no," said the Duke,
impatiently.

" Dear stir," again replied Cuddie, " how can ane mind preceesloy
where they hae been a' the days o' their life?"

" Speak out, you scoundrel," wud General Dalzell, "or I'll dash
jour teeth out with my dudgeon haft. Do you think we can
stand here all day to be turning and dodging with you, like grey-
hounds after a hare ?"

" Aweel, then," said Cuddie, " since naething else will please yc,
write down that I cannot deny but I was there."

" Well, sir," said the Duke, " and do you think that the rising
upon thut occasion was rebellion or not ?" ^

y[i8cellaneou8 Prose tSelecttona.

147

»»

" I'm no just free to gie my opinion, stir, ou what might cost
my neck ; but I doubt it will be very little better."

" Better than whijt?"

"Just than rebellion, as your honour ca's it," replied Cuddie.

" Well, sir, that's sjieakioG; to the purpose. And are you content
to accept of the King's pardon for your j^uilt as a rebel, and to
keep the church, and pray for the King?"

'• Blithely, stir ; and drink his health into the bargain, when the
ale's gude."

" E^ad," said the Duke, " this is aheirty cock. "What brought
you into such a scrape, mine honest friend ?"

" Just ill example, stir, and a dift auld jaud of a mother, wi'
reverence to your Grace's honour."

" Why, God-a-mcrcy, my friend, I think thou art not likely to
commit treason on thine own score Make out his free pardon, and
bring forward the rogue in the chair."

jMacbriar was then moved forward to the post of examination.

" Were you at the battle of Bothwell 13ridge?" was, in like
manner, demanded of him..

" I was," answered the prisoner, in a bold and resolute tone.

" Were you armed ?"

" I was not. I went in my calling as a preacher of God's word,
to encourage them that drew the sword in his cause."

" In other words, to aid and abet the rebels?" said the Duke.

'' 'J'hou hast spoken it," replied the prisoner.

" Well, then," continued the interrogator, '• let us know if you
saw John Balfour of Burley among the party ? I presume you
know him ?"

'T bless God that I do know him," replied Macbriar; "he is a
zealous and a sincere Christian."

'' And when and where did you last see this pious personage?"
was the query which immediately followed.

" I am here to answer for myself, and not to endanger others."

" We shall know,'' said Dalzell, "how to make you find your
ton-jjue."

'• If you can make him fancy himself in a conventicle," answered
Liiuderdale, " he will find it without you. Come, laddie, spe k
while the play is good — you're too young to bear the burden will
be laid on you else "

" I defy you," retorted Macbriar. " This has not been the first
of my imprisonments or of my sufferings ; an J, young as I may
be, I have lived long enough to know how to die wken I am died
upon."

"Ay, but there are some things which must go before an easy
death if you continue obstinate," siid L udordalo, and rung a
small silver bell which was placed before him on the table.

148

Miscellaneous Prose Selections.

' . ' 1 -T ^ M'

•VM •

i;fe

A dark crimson curt lin, which covered a sort of niche or Gothic
recess in the wall, rose at the sijjjnal, and displayed the public
executioner, a tall, c;rim, and hideous man, having an oaken t ;blo
before him, on which lay thumb-screws, and an iron case called the
Scottish boot, used in those tyrannical days to torture accused
persons. Morton, who was wnpreptrcd for this ghastly apparition,
started when the curtain arose; but Macbriar's nerves were more
firm. He gazed upon the horrible apparatus with much composure ;
and if nature called the blood from his check lor a second, resolu-
tion sent it back to his brow with greater energy.

"Do you know who that man is?" said Lauderdale, in a low,
stern voice almost sinking into a whisper.

" He is, I suppose," replied Macbriar, " the infamous executioner
of your bloodtliirsty commands upon the persons of God's people.
He and you arc equally beneath my regard ; and, I bless God, I
no more fear what he can inflict, than what you can command.
Flesh and blood may shrink under the sufferings you can doom mo
to, and poor frail nature may shed tears, or send forth cries ; but
I trust my soul is anchored iirnily on the Hock of Ages."

" Do your duty," said the Duke to the executioner.

The fellow advanced, and asked, with a harsh and discordant
voice, upon which of the prisoner's limbs he should first employ
his engine.

" Let him choose for himself," said the Duke; " I should like
to oblige him in anything that is reasonable."

"Since you have it to me," said the prisoner stretching forth
his right leg, " take the best. I willingly bestow it in the cause
for which I suffer."

The executioner, with the help of hia assistants, enclosed the
leg and knee within the tight iron boot or case, and then placing
a wedge of the same metal between the knee and the edge of the
machine, took a mallcit in his hand, and stood waiting for further
orders. A well dressed man, by profession a surgeon, placed him-
sell' by the other side of the prisoner's chair, bared the prisoner's
arm, and applied his thumb to the pulse in order to regulate the
torture according to the strength of tlie patient. When these
preparations were n)ade, the President of the Council repeat.d
with the game stern voice the question : " When and where did
you l.ist sec John Balfour of Burley ?"

The prisoner instead of replying to him, turned his eyes to
Heaven as if imploring Divine strength, and muttered a fjw
words, of which the last were distinctly audible, * Thou hast s lid
thy peoplt! shall be willing in the day of tliy power!'

Tlio Duke of Lauderdale glanced his eye around the Council
as if to collect their suffrages, and, judging from their mutesigus,

'■vi k."

Miscellaneous Prose Selections.

149

but

3d the

)l;icing
[of the
t'urtlier
Id him-
Isonor's
]ito tho
tiieso
fpe:it'.;d
2re did

[yes to

la fjw
kt s lid

cil

Poun

I signs,

gave on his own part a nod to the executioner, whose millet
instantly descended on the wedi^e, and, forcing it between the knee
and the iron boot, occasioned the most exquisite pain, as was
evident from the flush which instantly took place on t!ie brow and
on the cheeks of the sufferer. The fellow then again raised his
weapon, and stood prepared to give a second blow.

" Will you yet say," repeated the Duke of Lauderdale, " where
and when you last parted from Balfour of Burley ?"

" You have my answer," said the sufferer, resolutely; and the
second blow fell. The third and fourth succeeded ; but at the
fifth, when a larger wedge had been introduced, the prisoner set
up a scream of agony.

Morton, whose blood boiled within him at witnessing such
cruelty, could bear no longer, and, although unarmed and himself
in great danger, was springing forward, when Claverhouse, who
observed his emotion, withheld him by force, laying one hand on
his arm and the other on his mouth, while he whispered, ' For
God's sake think where you are I'

This movement, fortunately for him, was observed by no other
of the counsellors, whose attention was engaged with the dreadful
scene before them.

" Me is gone," said the surgeon — "he has fainted, my Lords,
and human nature can endure no more."

''Release him," said the Duke, and added, turning to Dalzcll,
'' lie will make an old proverb good ; for he'll scarce ride to-day,
tiiough he has had his boots on. I suppose we must finish with
him V"

" A}", despatch his sentence, and have done with him ; we have
plenty of drudgery behind."

Strong waters and essences were busily employed to recall the
pcnscs of the unfortunate captive ; and, when his first f lint gasps
intiraatod a retarn of s?nsation, the Duke pronounced sentence of
de.ith upon him, as a traitor taken in the act of open rebellion,
and adjudged him to bo c u'ried from tlie bar to the common place
of execution, and there hanged by the neck ; his Ivead and hands
to bo stricken off after death, and disposed of according to the
pleasure of the Council, and all and sundry his moveable goods
and gear escheat and inbrought to his Majesty's use.

" Ooomstor," he continued, "repeat the sentence to the prisoner,"

The office of Doomstcr was in these d lys, and till a much later
period held by the executioner, in ajmmrnda n, with his ordinary
functions. The duty consisted in reciting to the unhappy criminal
the sentence of the law as pronounced by tho judge, which acquired
an additional and horrid emphasis from the recollection that the
hateful personage by whom it was uttered was to bo the agent of

'■M

150

Miscellaneous Prose Selections.

the cruelties he deaouncetl. Micbriar had scarce understood the
purport of the words us first pronounced by the Lord President
of the Council; but he was sufficient y recovered to listen and to
reply to the sentence when uttered by tho h.irsh and odious voice
of the ruffian who was to execute it, and at the last awful words,
" And this I pronounce lor doom," he answered boldly — " My
Lords, I thank you for the only favour I looked for, or would
accept at your hands — namely, that you have sent the crushed and
maimed carcass, which has i his d ly sustained your cruelty, to this
Iiasty end. It were indeed little to me whether I perish on the
gallows or in the prison-house. But if death, following close on
what I have this day suffered had found mo in my cell of dark-
ness and bondage, many might have lost the sight how a Christian
man can suffer in the good cause. For the rest, I forgive you,
my Lords, for what you have appointed and I have sustained.
And why should I not ? Ye send mo to a happy exchange — to
the company of angels and the spirits of the just, for that of frail
dust and ashes. Ya send me from darkness into day — from
mortality to immortality — and, in a word, from earth to Heaven !
If the thanks, therefore, and pardon of a dying mm can do you
good, take them at my hand, and miy your last moments be as
happy as mine I" — Old Mortality, Chap, xxxvi.

,'',

DIVES AND THE HAND OF DEATH.

SAIiA.

If you take a million-rich man, and put him naked and witliout
victuals or a roof to cover him, on a rock, and expose him to tho
nipping frost and the January blast, it will not be long ere he
begins to shiver, and anon to howl in agony and despair j and at
last he will crouch prone to his jagged bed and die. But in tho
very centre of London, with his palaces and liis vassals around him,
it is difficult for the rich man to feel the cold. On that bare rock
his millions in gold or crisp paper would not warm him, unless
haply he had needles and thread to sew the money-bags together
for raiment. When ho is in London, however, the money will
buy furred robes and Walls-end coals, and sand-b igs to exclude
the wind, and well-closed chariots to ride in, and Welsh wigs to
draw over his head, plush gloves to cover his hands, and hot-water
bottles to. put to his feet, liailway rugs, scaldiig soups and drin'cs,
shawls and comforters, are all ready for him and purchaseable.
The theatres, the churches, the counting houses, the board-rooms,
the marts and exchanges which he frequents, have all their warm-
ing apparatus, and become snu^ and oosy. No ; I oaanot see how

Miscellaneous Prose Selections^

151

it is possible for the English Dives to shiver, — were even Siberia
brought to London, and the North Pole set up in the Strand in
lieu of the May-pole which once adorned that thoroughfare. The
milliners that servo Dives' wives and daughters may sell as many
fans for Christmas balls as for Midsummer picnics; and at Dives*
New-year's feasts the ice-creams and the ice-puddings are poslfcivclj
refreshing aftar the spicod viands and generous wines.

Sir Jasper Goldthorpe was the richest of rich men. The quilt of
his bed might have been stuflFed with bank-notes instead of eider-
down. He could have aflForded, had he needed caloric, to have burned
one of his own palaces down, and warmed his hands by the confla-
gration. From his warm bedroom, breakfast-room, and study,
his warm carriage took him, swathed in warm wrappers, to the
warm sanctum of his warm counting-house. His head clerks wore
respirators, and had muUIgatawncy soup for lunch. The Times*
City article was carefully warmed for him ere Le perused it. Ills
messengers comforted themselves with alamode beef and hot
sausages and fried potatoes before roaring fires; and, when they
were despatched on errands, slipped into heated taverns in little
City Lrncj, where they hastily swallowed mugs full of steaming
eg^-hot and cordialized porter. The only cold that could seem-
ingly touch so rich a man as Sir Jasper Goldthorpo was a cold in
the head ; and what possets, whito-wlne-whcys, gruels, footbaths,
doctors' prescriptions, and hot flannels, were there not in readiness
to drive catarrh away from him ! Lived there in the whole realm
of England one mm or boy mad or desperate enough to cast a
snow-ball at the millionaire of Beryl Court ? I think not. Ho
was above the cold. It was street people only who were cold, just
as the little princess asked th3 painter who came to take her por-
trait whethei' it was not true that '• only street-people died." So
Sir Jasper (jroldthorpe, his sons and lliclr thralls and churls, their
tributaries and feudatories, let the street-people shiver as beseemed
their degree, flinging them cheqaes and sovereigns sometimes in
their haughty unbending way, and wont on, warm and glowlu
from a prosperous old ye ir to a prosperous new one, when sud
denly a Hand of Ice, that thrilled them all to the very bones and
m irrow, was laid just above the heart of Mammon, and ofhls wife,
and of his children.

It was the Hand of Death, and it touched each with a cold pang,
and went onwards, to touch some transiently, bat to grasp others
without release. Whoever felt Its lightest pressure was chilled and
benumbed. The Icy Hand came to Beryl Court and to Onyx
Square, and all the gold of Mamnoudom could not, forth it season,
bring cheerful warmth again. — The Seven Sons of Mammon : A
Story^ Chap, v.

152

Miscellaneous Prose Selections,

HOW THE TIDE TURNED.

THOMAS HUGHES.

<^:, ;'>

ik' 'i!

'ii'. '

11)

I HAVE already described the Scliool-Iiouso prayers ; tlicy were
the same on the first nr^ht as on the other nights, s ive for the
gaps caused by the absence of those boys who came Lite, and the
lino of new boys who stood all to^i^othcr at the firtlicr tiblj — of
all sorts Jind sizes, liko young boars with all their trouble to come,
as Tom's father had said to him when ho was in the samo pu^ition.
Ho thought of it as ho looked at tho line, and poor little slight
Arthur standing with them, and as ho was leading him up stairs
to Numbar 4, directly after prayers, and showing him his bjd. It
was a huge high airy room, with two large windows looking on
to tho school close. There were twelve beds in the room : the
one ia the farthest corner by the fire-place occupied by the sixth-
form boy who W;is responsible for the discipline of the room, and
the rest by boys in the lower fifth and othor junior f imsi, all fags
(for the tirth-form boys, as has been said, slept in rOk.^ns by tliem-
gelvc-i). Bjing figs, the eldest of them w.is not more t'rm about
sixteen ye irs old, and were all bound to be up and in bed by ten ;
the sixth-form boys came to bod from ten to a quarter p ist (at
which time the old verger came round to put the caudles out),
except when they sat up to read.

Witliin a few minutjs therefore of their entrv, all the other
boys who slept in Number 4 had come up. Tlie little follows
went quietly t ) thair own bed<, and began undressing and talking
to each othor in whispers ; while the elder, amongst whom was
Tom, sat chatting about on one another's beds, witli their jackets
and waistcoats otF. Poor little Arthur was overwhclmc I with the
novelty of his position. Tho idoi of sleeping in the room with
Btranjjo b )ys had clearly never crossed his mind bjf )ro, and was
as paiui'ul as it was strange to him. He could hardly bo ir to
take his jacket off; however, presently, with an effort, off itcime,
and t'len ho paused and looked at Tom, who was sitting at the
bottom of his bo.l tilking and laughing.

' "Pie ISO, Brown," he whispered, "may I wash my face and
hands ?"

" Of course, if you like," said Tom, staring; " that's your wash-
han 1 stmd under the window, second from your bed. You'll have
to go down for more water in the morning if you use it all." And
on he went with his talk, while Arthur stole timidly from between
the beds out to his washhand-stmd, and began his ablutions, there-
by drawing for a moment on himself the attention of the room.

Miscellaneous Prose Selections^

153

was

ckets

Uhe

with

was
ir to

imc,

tho

On went the talk and laughter. Arthur finished his washing
and undressing, and put on his night-gown. He then looked
lound more nervously than ever. Two or three of the little boys
were already in bod, sitting up with their chins on their knees.
The light burned clear, the noise went on. It was a trying
moment for tlie poor little lonely boy ; however, this time he didn't
ask Tom what he might or might not do, but dropped on his knees
by his badsidc, as he had done every day from his childhood, to
open his heart to Him whohearcth theory and beareth the sorrows
of tlie tender child, and the strong man in agony.

Tom Was sitting at the bottom of his bed unlacing his boots, so
that his b.ick was towards Arthur, and he didn't see what had
happened, and looked up in wonder at the sudden silence. Then
two or three boys laughed and sneered, and a big brutal fellow,
who was standing in the middle of the room, picked up a slipper,
and shied it at the kneeling boy, calling him a snivelling young
shaver. Then Tom saw the whole, and the next moment the boot
he had just pulled ofiF flew straight at the head of the bully, who
had jui;t time to throw up his arm and catch it on his elbow.

" Confound you, Brown, what's that for?" roared he, stamping
with pain.

"Never mind what I mean," said Tom, stepping on to tho
floor, every drop of blood in his body tingling; if any fellow
wants the other boot he knows how to get it."

Wluit would hiive been the result is doubtful, for at this moment
the sixth-form boy came in, and not another word could be said.
Tom and the rest rushed into bed and finished their unrobing
there ; and the old verger, as punctual as the clock, had put out
the candle in another minute, and toddled on to the next room,
shutting their door with his usual " Good night gcn'lm'n."

There were many boys in the room by whom that little kccmc was
taken to heart before they slept. But sleep seemed to have
deserted the pillow cW' poor 'J'om. For some time his excitement,
and the flood of memories which chased one another through his
brain, kept him from thinking or resolving. His head throbbed,
his heart leaped, and he could hardly keep himself from springing
out of bed and rushing about the room. Then the thouglit of his
own mother came across him, and the promise he had made at her
knee, years ago, never to forget to kneel by his bedside, and give
himself up to his Father, before he laid his head on the pillow, from
which it might never rise ; and he lay down gently and cried as if
his heart would break. He was only fourteen years old.

It was no light act of courage in those days, my dear boys, for
a little fellow to say his prayers publicly, even at Rugby. A
4ew \QdV8 later, when Arnold's manly piety had begun to leaven

154

Miscellaneous Prose Selections,

iCi'/t-.

»,•'.

41.'-

i-i\

the school, the tablos turaed ; before he died, in the school-house
at least, and I believe in the other house, the rule was the other
way. But poor Tom had come to school in other times. The
first few nights after he cumc he did not kneel down because of
the noise, but sat up in bed till the candle was out ; and then stole
out and said his prayers, in fear lest some one should find him out.
So did many another poor little felioTt. Then ho bc;?an to think
that he might just as well say his prayers in bed, and then tluit it
didn't matter whether he was knecliujj, or sitting, or lying down.
And so it had come to pass with Tom, as with all who will not
confess their Lord before men ; and for the last year he had
probably not said his prayers in earnest a dozen times.

Poor Tom I the first and bitterest feeling which was like to
break his heart was the sense of his own cowardice. The vice of
all others which he loathed was brought in and burned in ou his
own soul. He had lied to his mother, to his conscience, to
his God. How could he bear it ? And then the poor little weak
boy, whom he had pitied and almost scorned for his weakness, had
done that which he, braggart as he was, dared not do. The first
dawn of comfort came to him in swearing to himself that ho
would stand by that boy through thick and thin, and cheer him,
and help him, and bear his burdens, for the good deed done that
night. Then he resolved to write home next day and tell his
mother all, and what a coward her son had been. And then peace
came to him as he resolved, lastly, to bear his testimony next
morning. The morning would be iiarder than the night to begin
with, but he felt that he could not afford to let one chance slip.
Several times he faltered, for the devil showed him first all his
old friends calling him " Saint" and " Square-toes," and a dozen
hard names, and whispered to him that his motives would be
misunderstood, and he would only be left alone with the new boy ;
whereas it was his duty to keep all means of influence, that he
might do good to the largest number. And then c ime the more
subtle temptation. "Shall I not be showing myself braver t!ian
others by doing this ? Have I any right to begin it now ? Ought
I not rather to pray in my own study, letting other boy.s know
that I do so, and trying to lead them to it, while in public at least I
should go on as I have done? However, his good angel was too
strong that night, and he turned on his side and slept, tired of
trying to reason, but resolved to follow the impulse which had
been so strong, and in which he had found peace.

Next morning he was up and washed and dressed, all but his
jacket and waistcoat, just as the ten minutJs' bell began to ring,
and then in the face of the whole room knelt down to pray. Not
five words could he say — the bell mocked him j he was listening

Miscellaneous Prose Selections*

155

for every whisper in the room — what were they all thinking of
him. He was ashamed to go on kneeling, ashamed to rise from
his knees. At hist, as it were from his inmost heart, a still small
voice seemed to breathe forth the words of the publican, " God
be merciful to mo a sinner 1" He repeated them over and ovjr,
clin<>in<jc to them as for his life, and rose from his knees comforted
and humbled, and ready to face the whole world. It was not
needed : two other boys besides Arthur had already followed his
example, and he went down to the great School with a glimmeriag
of another lesson in his heart — the lesson that he who has
conquered his own coward spirit has conquered the whole out-
ward world ; and that other one which the old prophet learnt in
the cave in Mount Horeb, when he hid his face, and the still
small voice asked " What doest thou here, Elijah?" that however
we may fancy ourselves alone on the side of good, the King and
Lord of men is nowhere without his witnesses ; for in every
society, however seemingly corrupt and godless, there are those
who have not bowed the knee to Baal.

He found too, how greatly ho had exaggerated the eflFect to be
produced by his act. For a few nights there was a sneer or a
laugh when he knelt down, but this passed off soon, and one by
one all tlie other boys but three or four followed the lead. I fear
that this was in some measure owing to the fact that Tom could
probably have thrashed any boy in the room except the praepostor ;
at any rate every boy knew that he would try upon very slight
provocation, and didn't choose to run the risk of a hard fight
because Tom Brown had taken a fancy to say his prayers. Some
of the small boys of Number 4 communicated the new state of
things to their chums, and in several otlier rooms the poor li'tlo
fellows tried it on j in one instance or so, where the praepostor
heard of it and interfered very decidedly, with partial success ;
but in the rest, after a short struggle, the confessors were bullied
or laughed down, and the old state of thini^s went on for some
time longer. Before either Tom Brown or Arthur left the School
house, there was no room in which it had .lOt become the regular
custom. I trust it is so still, and that the old heathen st.ito
of things has gone out forever. — Tom Brown' a School Days^
Cliaj). i.f Part ii.

156

Miscellaneous Prose Selections,

N I.

vm.-

. :•>> ' ^

O'tH''''

'.;.:•

THE DEATH OF LITTLE NELL.

Dickens.

The dull, red glow of a wood firo — for no lamp or candle burnt
within the room — showed hiiu a li'^urc, soutcd on the hearth with
it-i back towards him, bending over the litt'ul light. The iittitudo
Was that of one who sought the heat. It was, and yet wat< not.
The stoo})ing posture and the cowering form wore there, but no
hands were strctciied out to meet tiie grateful warmth, no shrug
or shiver compared its luxury with tiio piercing cold outside.
With linjbs huddled together, head bowed down, arms crossed
upon the breast, and fingers tightly clenched, it rocked to and fro
upon its seat without a moment's pause, accompanying the action
witii the mournful sound he had heard.

The heavy door had closed behind him on his entrance, with a
crash that made him start. The figure neither spoke, nor turned
to look, nor gave in any other way the I'aintest sign of having
heard the noise. The form was that of an old man, his white
head akin in colour to the mouldering embers upon which ho
ga^ed. Ho, and the failing light and dying fire, the time-worn
room, the solitude, the wasted life and gloom, were all in fellow-
ship. Ashes, and dust, and ruin I

Kit tried to speak, and did pronounce some words, though what
they were he scarcely knew. Still the same terrible low ciy went
on — still the same rocking in the chair — the same stricken figure
was there, unchanged and heedless of his presence.

He had his hand upon the latch when something in the form —
distinctly seen as one log broke and fell, and, as it fell, blazed up —
arrested it. Ho returned to where he had stood before — advanced
a pace — another — another still. Another, and he saw the face.
Yes ! Changed as it was, he knew it well.

" Master!" he cried, stooping on one knee and catching at his
band. " Dear master, speak to me 1"

The old man turned slowly towards him j and muttered in a
hollow voice,

" This is another ! — How many of these spirits there have been
to-night!"

" No spirit, master. No one but your old servant. You know
me now, I am sure ? Miss Nell — where is she— where is she ?"

" They all say that!" cried the old man. " They all ask the
same question. A spirit 1"

" Where is she ?" demanded Kit. « Oh tell me but that,— but
that, dear master 1"

" She is asleep — ^yonder — in there,"

"Thank God 1"

Miscellaneous Prose Selections,

167

" Ayo ! Thjink God !" returned tlie old man. " I have prayed
to Ilim, miny, mid m my, ;ind many ji livolonj^ nit;ht, when sho
has b.cu a-loop. lie knows. Hark I Did she call '{*'
" I hoard no voice."

" You did. You hear lior now. Do you toll me that you don't
hear fkut?"

IJc started up and listfMiod np^aiu.

"NortUat?" ho cried, with a triuinphant smile. "Can any-
body know that voice so well as II Hush ! hush I"

I^lotioniiii:; him to bo siieut, ho stole away into another chamber.
After a short ubsenco (durin;^ which lie could bo heard to spo ik
in a softened soothing tone) he returned, bearing in his hand a
lam]).

" She is still asleep," he whispered. " You were right. She did
not ciU — unless she did so in her slumber. She has c died to me
in her sleep before now, sir; as I have sat by, watching, I have
seen her lips move, and have known, though no sound c ime from
them, that she spoke of mo. I feared the light might dazzle her
eyes and wake her, sol brought it here."

He spoke rather to himself than to the visitor, but when ho had
put the lamp upon the t ible, he took it up, as if impelled by some
momentary recollection or curiosity, and held it near his face.
Then, as if forgetting his motive in the very action, he turned
away and put it down again.

" She is sleeping' soundly," he said ; " but no wonder. Angel
hands have strewn t le ground deep with snow, that the lightest loot-
step may be lightei yet ; and the very birds arc dead, that they
may not wake her. She used to feed them, sir. Though never
so cold and hungry, the timid things would fly I'rom us. They
never flew from her !"

Again he stopped to listen, and scarcely drawing breath,
listened for a long, long time. That fancy past, he opencrtl an old
chest, took out some clothes as fondly as if they liad been living
things, and began to smooth and brush them x^ith his hand.

" Why dost thou lie so idle there, dear Nell," he murmured,
" when there are bright red berries out of doors waiting for thee to
pluck them I Why dost thou lie so idle there, when thy little
friends come creeping to the door, crying 'where is Nell — sweet
Nell?' — and sob, and weep, because they do not see thee. She
was always gentle with children. The wildest would do her bid-
ding — she had a tender way with them, indeed she had !"

Kit had no power to speak. His eyes were filled with tears.

"Her little homely dress,— her favourite I" cried the old man,
pressing it to his breast, and patting it with his shrivelled hand.
" She will miss it when she wakes. They have bid it here ia

158

Miscellaneoua Prose Selections,

W
If

sport, but fihe shiiU have it — fihc shall have it. I would not vex
my darliii|5 for the wide world's riches. See liero— these shoes —
how worn they are — .she kept them to remind her of (ur 1 ist I'/iig
jcNirncy. You .see where the little fe(!t v^cMit b ire upon the <iround.
Tliey told me uftorwards, that the stones h:id cut uv.'.l bruisfjd
them. JS/ie never told me th.tt. No, no, God bless her ! and I
have remembered ainco, she walked behind me, sir, thut I mi.^dit
not see how lame she w;is — but yet she had my hand in hers,
and seemed to lead me still."

lie pressed them to his lips, and haviniij carefully put them
back a'ij.iin, went on commnnirif^ with himself — looking; wistfully
from time to time towards the chamber he had lately visited.

'• She was not wont to be a lie-abed ; but she was well then.
We must have patience. When she is well ai;;iin, she will rise
eurly, as she used to do, and ramble abroad in the healtliy morn-
ing time. I often tried to track the w.iy she had ^one, but her
small footstep left no print upon the dewy fz;round, to f2;uide mo.
Who is that? Shut the door. Quick! — Have wo not enough to
do to drive away that marble cold, and keep her warm I"

The door was indeed opened for the entrance of Mr. Garland
and his friend, accompanied by two other persons. These were tho
Bchoolmaster and the bachelor. The former held a light in his
hand. He had, it seemed, but gone to his own cottage to
replenish the exhausted lamp, at the moment when Kit came up
and found the old man alone.

He softened again at sight of these two friends, and, laying
aside the angry manner — if to anything so feeble and so sad the
term can bo applied — in which he had spoken when the door
opened, resumed his former seat, and subside;l, by little and little,
into the old action, and the old, dull wandering sound.

Of the strangers he took no heed whatever. He had seen them,
but appeared quite incapable of interest or curiosity. The youngor
brother stood apart. The bachelor drew a chair towards the old
man, and sat down close beside him. After a long silence, he
ventured to speak.

" Another night, and not in bed I" he said softly ; "I hoped
you would be more mindful of your promise to me. Why do you
not take some rest?"

" Sleep has left me," returned the old man. " It is all with
her!"

" It would pain her very much to know that you were watch-
ing thus," said the bachelor. " You would not give her pain ?'"'

" I am not so sure of that, if it would only rouse her. She haa
slept so very long. And yet I am rash to say so. It is a good
and happy sleep — eh ?"

r-««-.ii

Miscellaneous Prose Selections.

159

" Indeed it is," returned the bachelor. " Indeed, indeed, it is !"

"That'8 well I — and the waking?" faltered the old man.

" Happy too. Happier than tongue cuu tell, or heart of man
conceive."

They watched him a.^ he rose and stole on tiptoe to tlic other
chamber where the lamp had been replaced. They li.stened as ho
spoke «g;iin within its silent walls. They looked into tiic faces of
each other, and no man's cheek was free from tears. lie c.imo
back, whispering that she was still asleep, but that he thought
she had moved. It was her hand, he s;jid — a little — a very, very
little — but he was pretty sure she had moved it — perhaps in seek-
ing his. He had known her do that, before now, though in the
deepest sleep tho while. And when he had said this, he dropped
into his chair again, and clasping his hands above his head,
uttered a cry never to be forgotten.

The poor schoolmaster motioned to the b:ichelor that ho would
come on the other side, and speak to him. They gently unlocked
liis fingers, which he hud twisted in his grey hair, and pressed
them in their own.

" lie will hear me," said the schoolmaster, *' I am sure. lie will
hear either me or you if we beseech him. She would, at all times."

" I will hear any voice she liked to hear," cried the old man.
" I love all she loved !"

" I know yott do," returned the schoolmaster. " I am certain of
it. Think of licr ; think of all the sorrows and afflictions you
have shared together ; of all the trials, and all the peaceful plea-
sures, you have jointly known."

*' I do. I do. I think of nothing else."

" I would have you think of nothing else to-night — of nothing
but tiiosc things which will soften your heart, dear friend, and
open it to o]<] nff' 'ions and old times. It is so that she would
speak elf, and i:i her name it is that I speak now."

" ' ) speak softly," said the old man. " We will not

I .- lid be glad to see her eyes again, and to sec hor

mile. acre is a smile upon her young lace now, but it is fix«id

and ch Dgelcss. I would have it come and go. That shall be in

Hcnvi < good time. We will not wake her."

" Let us not tnlk of he 'ii hor sleep, but as she used to be when

■r, far away — as she was at home, in
you fled together — as she was, in the
■ schoolmaster.

ul — very cheerful," cried the old man,
looking steadfastly at him. "There was ever something mild and
qniet about her, I remember, from the first j but she was of a
happy nature."

you were journeying togc
the old house from w1
old cheerful time," saiu
*' She was always chec

g* ' i

160

3Iiscellaneous Prose Selections.

f li

B >'

^isj

fcl .

jfe::

^(^;- ' '

'itSi

"I' ;

* ■

r.'. ' ' .

'Im

^^''

)*m

,'■'■:

u^ir'i^ .

-•'<^l'V

■m- ■

■ '■■■"fv,,>,«

i^vv^f^r .

1 ..'. ' ■;< .

- /."'^ V. •■

'•• MJk ■

», '

u .

i-ii.

" Welifivc heard you say," pursued the schoolmaster, "tliatin
this and in all <j;oodness, she was like her mother. You can think
of and reinorabjr her ?"

Ho m lintained his stcadf ist look, but |»ave no answer.

"Or even one belbre her," said the bacliclor. " It is many
ye irs ago, and affliction makes the time Ionizer, but you have not
l()r_;otten iier whose death contributed to make tliis child so dear
to you, even before you knew her worth or could read her heart?
8ay, that you could carry back your thoughts to very di.-tant
djys — to the time of your early life — when, unlike this fiir
flower, you did not pass your youth alone. Say, that you could
remember, long ai^o, another child who loved you dearly, you
being but a child yourself Say, that you had a brother, long for-
go>teii, long uns en, long separated from you, who now, at last, ia
your utmost need came back to comfort and console you — "

" To be to you what you were once to him," cried the
younger, falling on his knee before him; " to repay your old affec-
tion, brother dear, by constant care, solicitude, and love; to be at
your right hand, whiit he has never ceased to be when oceans
rolled between us ; to call to witness his unchanging truth and
mindfulness of bygone days, whole years of (icsolation. Give mo
but one word of recognition, brother — and never — no :ever, in the
brightest moment of our youngest days, when, poor silly boys, wo
thought to pass our lives together — have we been half as dear and
precious to each other as wo shall be from this time hence 1"

The old man looked from face to face, and his lips moved ; but
no sound came from them in reply.

"If we were knit toiiether then," pursued the younger brother,
" what will be the bond between us now! Our love and fellow-
ship began in childhood, when life was all before us, and will be
resumed when we have proved it, and are but children at the 1 ist.
As many restless spirits, who have hunted ibrtune, f ime, or plea-
sure through the world, retire in their decline to where they first
drew breath, vainly scckinj: to bo children once again beforo tliey
die, so we, less fortunate than tliey in early life, but happior in its
closing scenes, will set up our rest agiin among our boyish haunts,
and going homo with no hope realised, that had its growth in
manhood — carrying back nothing that we brought away, but our
old vearniuiTs to eacii other — saving no fragment from the wr. ck
of life, but that which first endeared it — may bo, indot-d, but
children as at first. And even," he added in an altered voice,
" even if what I dread to name h is come to pass — even if that bo
BO, or is to be (which Heaven forbid and spare us !) — still, dear
brother, wo are not apart, and have that comfort in our gi'eat
affliction."

Miscellaneous Prose Selections,

161

By little and little, the old man had drawn back towards the
inner cluanber, while these words were spoken. lie pointed tkere,
as he replied, with trembling lips: •'! j ;:./•/•

'" You plot among }ou to wean my heart from her. You never
will lo that — never while I have life. I have no relative or friend
but her — I never had — I never will have. She is all in all to me.
It is too late to part us now."

■ Waving them off with his hand, and calling softly to her as ho
went, he stole into the room. They who were left behind drew
close together, and after a few whispered words — not unbroken
by emotion, or easily uttered — followed him. They moved so
gently, that their footsteps made no noise ; but there were soba
from among the group, and sounds of grief and mourning.

For she was dead. There, upon her little bed, she lay at rest.
The solemn stillness was no marvel now.

She was dead. No sleep so beautiful and calm, so free from
trace of pain, so fair to look upon. She seemed a creature fresh
from the hand of God, and waiting for the breath of life ; not one
who had lived and suffered death.

Her couch was dressed with here and tliere some winter berries
and green loaves gathered in a spot she had been used to fivor.
" When I die, put near me something that has loved the light,
and had the sky above it always." Those were lier wordi.

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

Where wore the traces of her early c ifcs, her sufferings and
fatigues ? All gone. Sorrow was dead indeed in her, but peace
and perfect happiness were born j imaged in her tranquil beauty
and profound repose.

And still her former self lay there, unaltored in this change.
Yes. The old fireside had smiled upon that same sweet fice; it
hud passed, like a dream, through haunts of misery and care ; at
the door of the poor schoolmaster on the summer evening, before
the furnace fire upon the cold wet night, at the still bedside of the
dying boy, there had been the same mild lovely look. So shall we
know the angels in their majesty after death.

The old man hold one languid arm in his, and liad the small
hand tii;ht folded to hi-i breast, for wariuth. It was tlio hand ;;ho
had stretched out to him with her lust smile — the hand that led
him on, tlirough all their wanderings. Ever and anon ho pressed
it to his lips ; then hugged it to hi:-! breast again, murmuring thai
it was warmer now ; and, as he saiii it, he looked, fn agony, t^
those who stood around, as if imploring them to help her. —

162

Miscellaneous Prose Selections,

'i VI, ^

She was dead, and past all help, or need of it. The ancient
rooms she had seemed to fill with life, even while her own was
waning fast — the garden she had tended — -the eyes she had glad-
dened— the noiseless haunts of many a thoughtful hour — the
patlis she had trodden as it were but yesterday — could know her
never more.

'' It is not," said the schoolmaster, as he bent down to kiss her
on the cheek, and gave his tears free vent, " it is not on earth
that Heaven's justice ends. Think what earth is, compared with
the World to which her young spirit has winged its early flight;
and s:iy, if one deliberate wish expressed 5u solemn terms above
this bed could call her back to life, which of us would utter
it!"

Oh I it is hard to tukc to heart the lesson that such deaths will
teach, but let no man reject it, for it is one that all must learn,
and is a mighty universal Truth. When IJeath strikes down tha
innocent and young, for every fragile form from which he lots tho
panting spirit free, a hundred virtues rise, in shapes of mercy^.
charity, and love, to walk the world, and bless it. Of every teal
thit sorrowing mortals shed on such green graves, some good ia
born, some gentler nature comes. In the Destroyer's steps thera
spring up bright creations that defy his power, and his dark path
becomes a way of light to Heaven.

••■ ■•■].:

, <; u

ft. :*'

THE JUDGMENT OF HERKENBALD.

The virtues of tiie Belgians were, in the year 1020, of a mucb
more austere character than they areattliis time, and, as a natural
consequence, the puDishmcntrf awarded to crime were severe, and
administered with inflexible justice.

At the period referred to lived Ilerkenbald, supreme Judo-e of
the city of Brussels, a man whose perfect integrity is cited as an
example even to this day. lie was then about seventy years of
flgc, a widower; his iiimily consisting of a nephew, whom he had
reared in his own house, and a daughter named Blanche, whoso
goodness and affection ho valued abcve everything in the world.
Brought up together i'rom childhood, mutual attachment had
ripetied into professions of love between the nephew and daughter,
sanctioned by the old judge, who, thus deeply interested in the
nephew, desired that the young man should replace him in the
administration of justice, when cither age or death should remove
him fium the judgment seat. With much anxiety then ho saw
this young man give himself up to loose companionship and

Mi8cellaneou8 Prose Seleetiom,

1G3

as an

oars of

10 had

whoso

world.

had

ightcr,

in the

iu the

i-omove

ho saw

Ip and

vicious dissipation ; he saw, however, that his daughter loved the
prodigal in spite of all, and he hoped that time would work the
needed reformation.

One day, as the worthy judge sat dispensing equal justice to all
who sought it— to peasant as to lord — a poor old man, with terror
in his looks and tears coursing down his i'urrowed cheeks, camo
and threw himself upon his knees before him.

"Eisc, good man," said Ilcrkenbald : *'no one should kneel
for justice — it is the right of all who ask it. opeak: what would

you?"

" Justice ! justice, which I know you will not refuse me. My
lord — " his tears ll'U faster — " I want but justice, — would to God
I had not needed to ask for it. You have a child — a daughter,
my Lord Judge! I too — I am a father. My child, my daugliter
was everything in the world to me — family, riches, hope, pride.
Siie was chaste and pure. There was not under the sun a lather
happier in his child than I. Now, all is lost to me; my child —
justice, lord ! — my child is but as the shadow of what she wasw
A young man — a beast, debauched and vile ! — forgive me, mj
Lord Judge — has forced his way into my wretched home and—
in spite of her shrieks — in sjnte of everything — the monstrous
villain has dishonoured my child."

Hcrkenbalds checks grew p;ile as he heard the old man's accu-
sation, and he devoutly crossed himself He took up a book of
Laws and with ticmbling hands turned over its pages. While the
judge read a profound silence was in the place, broken only by
the sobs of the unhappy father.

After he had read for a few moments the judge's hand was
observed to close upon the book with a tightened grasp ; he then
appeared to re-read a portion of the pngo with increased attention.
At length he closed the volume, and, after a moment's pause,
turned and said : " You shall be avenged ; the laws give you the
blood of the criminal."

" Oh ! my lord," cried the miserable fither, " I do not seek
his life."

The inflexible judge heard him not. "Where is this guilty
wretch ?" he demanded, rising from his seat.

" He— he is yet in my house."

"We will go thither," and, making a sign to his officers to
follow him, the iudtre went forth.

On the way, the old man, who was troubled at the seventy
with which the judge seemed disposed to do him justice, would
have spoken a few words in extenuation of the criminal; but
Hcrkenbald, pale and abstracted, pressed sternly forward, seemingly
unconscious of everything that was passing around him.

164

Miicellaneous Prose JSelection$.

At length tliey reached the house where the crime had been
committed, and demanded admittance. After a while some one
opened the door from within ; — it was the nephew of Herkenbald I

The old judge's heart stood still. For a minute he was silent,
*' Know you the infamous wretch who has done this crime ?" he
asked ut length; " is he of your friends ?'*

Fainting with terror, and utterly confounded, the young man
at onco threw himself at his uncle's feet, and confessed himself
the criminal.

Ilcrkonbald's face became deadly pale. " My Blanche f my
poor child I" he murmured to himself. Tears sprang to his eyes,
and for a while he spoke not. When ho did speak his voice was
low, but unfaltering. " You must die," he said.

"0 Heaven!" shrieked the terrified wretch; "forgive mo
uncle ; I was out of my senses — drunk with wine."

" You Iw-ve done that for which the penalty is death, and—
you die." (r : or,f ..* i.^.^iW,. -rrr.^

The criminal abandoned hope. A confessor went to his side,
and when he retired, the judge made a sign. — The guilty nephew
was decapitated on the spot.

Herkenbald returned home weeping. Not long could the
horrible story be kept from his child ; the facts were related to
her as carefully as might be, but the shock was greater than she
could bear I her heart was broken, and in less than a year she
died. The old judge did not long survive his lost darling ; for
the love and blessings of the people, dear as they were to him,
could not sustain him under so great an affliction.

The street in which the crime was committed and its terrible
punishment consummated has ever since been called the " Hue de
Fer."

. -lyi^r ■', ■<n/is .-

,..,.,(

HOW DAYID COPPERFIELD WOOED AND WON
- DORA.

. tidi A Ol'Jli'iJ '' DICKENS. hnt'ctlT

All this time I bad gone on loving Dora harder than ever. If
I may so express it, I was stooped in Dora. I was not merely
over head and ears in loveAvitli her, I w:is saturated through and
through. I took night walks to Norwood where she lived, and
pcranibulated round aud round the house and garden for hours
together, looking through crevices in the p:diugs, using violent
exertions to get my chin above the rusty nails on the top,
blowing kisses at the lights in the windows, and romantically

MisceUaneous Prose Seleetiom,

165

calling on the night to shield my Dora, — I don't exactly know
from what, — I suppowj from fire, perhaps from mice, to which
she had a great objection.

Dora had a disore(5t friend, comparatively stricken in years,
almost of the ripe age of twenty, I should say, whose name was
Miss Mills. Dora called her Jalia, She was the bosom friend
of Dora. Happy Miss Mills 1

One day Miss Mills said : " Dora is coming to stay with me.
She is coming the day after to morrow. If you woald like to call,
I am sure papa would be happy to see you.'*

I passed three days in a luxury of wretchedness. At last,
arrayed for the purpose, at a vaist expense, I went to Miss
Mills's, fraught with a declaration.

Mr. Mills was not at home. I didn't expect ke would be.
Nobody wanted him. Miss Mills was at home. Miss Mills
would do.

I was shown into a room up stairs, whore Miss Mills and Dora
were. Dora's little dog Jip was there. Miss MilLi was copying
music, and Dora was painting flowers. What were my feelings
when I recognized flowers I had given hcrl

Miss Mills was very glad to see me, and very sorry her papa
was not at home, though I thought we all bore that with forti-
tude. Miss Mills was conversational for a few minutes, and
then, laying down her pen, got up and left the room.

1 began to think I would put it oflF till to-morrow.

" I hope your poor hOrse was not tired when he got home at
night frum t!iat picnic," said Dora, lifting up her beautiful eyes.
" It was a long way for him." ,**V ^^^ ",i

1 began to think I would do it to-day.

" It was a long way for him, for he had nothing to uphold him
on the journey."

"Wasn't he fed, poor thing?" asked Dora.

I began to think I would put it oflf till to-morrow.

" Ye — ^yos, he was well taken care of. I mean he had not the
unutterable happiness that I had ia being so near to you."

I saw now that I was in for it, and it must be done on the spot.

*' I don't know why you should care for being near me," said
Dora, " or why you should call it a happiness. But of course you
don't mean what you say. Jip, you naughty boy, come here!"

I don't know how I did it, but I did it in a moment. I in-
tercepted Jip. I had Dora in my arms. I was full of .eloquence,
I never stopped for a word. I told her how I loved her. I told
hor I should die without her. I told* her that I idolized and
worshipped her. Jip barked madly all the time. My eloquence
increased; and I said, if she would like me to die for her. she had

166

Mil

Miscellaneoui Prose Selections,

but to say the word, and I was ready. I had loved her to dis-
tractioo every miuute, day and night, since I first set eyes upon
her. I loved her at that minute to distraction. I should always
love her, every minute, to distraction. Lovers had loved before,
and lovers would love again ; but no lover had ever loved, might,
could, would, or should ever love, as I loved Dora. Tlie more
I raved, the more Jip barked. Each of us in his own way got
more mad every moment.

Well, well I Dora and I were sitting on the sofa by and by
quiet enough, and Jip was lying in her lap, winking peacefully
at me. It was off my mind. I was in a state of perfect rapture.
Dora and I were engaged.

Being poor, I felt it necessary the next time I went to my
darling to expatiate on that unfortunate drawback. I soon carried
desolation into the bosom of our joys — not that I meant to do it,
but that I was so full of the subject — by asking Dora, without
the smallest preparation, if she could love a beggar.

" How can you ask me anything so foolish ? Love a beggar 1"

" Dora, my own dearest, I am a beggar 1 "

" How oan yoa bo such a silly thing," replied Dora, slapping
my hand, " as to sit there, telling such stories ? I'll make Jip
bite you, if you are so ridiculous."

But I looked so serious that Dora began to ciy. She did
nothing but exclaim, O dear ! dear I And 0, she was so
frightened! And where was Julia Mills? And 0, take her to
Julia Mills, and go away, please I until I was almost beside
myself.

I thought I had killed her. I sprinkled water on her face ; I
went down on my kneos ; I plucked at my hair ; I implored her
forgiveness; I besought her to look up; I ravaged Miss Mills's
work-box for a smelliug-bottle, and, in my agony of mind, applied
an ivory needle-ctiso instead, and dropped all the needles over
Dora.

At last I got Dora to look at me, with a horrified expression
which I gradually soothed until it was only loving, and her soft,
pretty cheek was lying ag-ainst mine.

" Is your heart mine still, dear Dora ?"

" yes I yes 1 it's all yours. 0, don't be-dreadful I"

*' My dearest love, the crust well earned — "

" yes ; but I don't want to hear any more about crusts.
And after we are married, Jip must have a mutton chop every
day at twelve, or he'll die."

I was charmed with her childish, winning way, and I fondly
explained to her that Jip should have his mutton ^hop with hia
accustomed regularity.

Miscellaneous Prose Seleetions,

IbH

MR. WINKLE ON SKATES.

DICKENS.

" Now," said Wardle, after a substantial lunch, with the
agreeable items of Htroriijj-beer and chorj:y-bra:idy, had been done
ample justice to; " what say you to an hour on the ice? We shall
have plenty of time."

" Capital ! " said Mr. Benjamin Allen.

*' Prime! " ejaculated Mr. Bob Sawyer.

" You skate, of course, Wiukle? " said Wardle.

" Ye-yes; oh, yes," replied Mr. Winkle. "I — I — am rather
out of practice."

" Oh, do skate, Mr. Winkle," said Arabella. " I like to see
it so much."

" Oh, it is 80 graceful," said another young lady.

A third young lady said it was elegant, and a fourth expressed
her opinion that it was " swan-like."

" I should be very happy, I'm sure," said Mr. Winkle,
reddening ; " but I have no skates."

This objection was at once overruled. Trundle had a couple
of p.:ir, and the fat boy announced that there were half a dozen
more down-stairs : whereat Mr. Winkle expressed exquisite delight
and looked exquisitely uncomfortable.

Old Wardle led the way to a pretty hu^e sheet of ice ; and the
fat boy and Mr. Weller, having shovelled and swept away the
enow which had fallen on it during the night, Mr. Bob Sawyer
adjusted his skates with a dext j»ty which to Mr. Winktie Avas
perfectly marvellous, and described circles with his left leg, and
cut ligures of eight, and inscribed upon the ice, without once
Stopping for breath, a great many other pleasant and astonishing
devices, to the excessive satisfaction of Mr. Pickwick, Mr.
Tupman, and tlie ladies ; wliich reached a pitch of positive entha-
siasm, when old Wardle and Benjamin Allen, assisted by the
aforesaid Bob Sawyer, performed some mystic evolutions, which
they called a reel.

All this time, Mr. Winkle, with his face and hands blue with
the cold, had been forcing a gimlet into the soles of his feet, and
putting his skates on, with the points behind, and getting the
straps into a very complicated and entangled state, with the
assistance of Mr. Snodgrass, who knew rather less about skates
than a Hindoo. At length, however, with the assistance of Mr.
Weller, tlie unfortunate skates were firmly screwed and buckled
on, and Mr. Winkle was raised to his feet.

" Now, then, sir," said Sam, in an encouraging tone j " off
vith you, and show 'em how to do it."

168

Miscellaneoui Prose Selections,

»^

n'.

" Stop, Sam, stop ! " said Mr. Winkle, trembling violently, and
clutcliiug hold of Sam's arms with the grasp of a drowning man.
" How slippery it is, Sam I "

" Not an uncommon thing upon ice, sir," replied Mr. Weller.
" Hold up, sir 1 " ■•■■•- - -

Thirt hif*t observation of Mr. Weller's bore reference to a
dcwouijtration Mr. Winkle made at the instant, of a frantic desire
to throw his feet in the uir, and dash the back of his head on
the ice.

1 ;Y " ..'' U'U. . 1 }K t.'-.r

" These — these — arc very awkward skates ; ain't they, Sam ? "
inquired Mr. Winkle, staggering.

"I'm afeerd there's u orkard geu'l'm'n in 'em, sir," replied

" Now, Winkle," cried Mr. Pickwick, quite unconscious that

there was anything the matter. " Come ; the ladies arc all anxiety.'*

" Yes, yes," replied Mr. Winkle, with a ghastly smile. " I'm

commg.

" Just a goin' to begin," said Sam, endeavoring to disengago
himself. " Now, sir, start off I "

" Stop an instant, Sam," gasped Mr. Winkle, clinging most
affectionately to Mr. Weller. " I find I've got a couple of coats
at home that I don't want, Sam. You may have them, Sam."

" Thauk'ee, sir," replied Mr. Weller.

" Never mind touckiug your hat, Sam," said Mr. Winkle,
hastily. " You needn't take your hand away to do that. I meant
to Lave given you five shillings this morning for a Christmas-box,
Sam. I'll give it you this afternoon, Sam," 3>i e.xa t:i:;i'.iiipsi

" You're wcry good, sir," replied Mr. Weller.

"Just hold mc at first, Sam; will you ?" said Mr. Winkle.
" There — that's right. I shall soon get in the way of it, Sam.
Not too fast, Sam ; not too fast."

Mr. Winkle stooping forward, with his body half doubled up,
was being assisted over the ice by Mr. Weller, in a very singular
and un-swan-like manner, when Mr. Pickwick most innocently
shouted from the opposite banic

" Sam I "/■''' '■'■' ~^'' "■'■' ''iVf ,Vs/!i;i M .ll/. ,;. ii;:j >;Fi:.i tui

'■ju bfcii. J)ii!

' 'i(U

"Sir?" 1/

*' Here. I want you."

" Let go, sir," said Sam. " Don't you liear tbe governor a
callin' ? Let go, sir."

With a violent effort, Mr. Weller disengaged himself from the
grasp of the agonised Pickwickian, and, m so doing, administered
a considerable impetus to the unhappy Mr. Winkle. With an
accuracy which no degree of dexterity or practice could have
insured, that unfortunate gentleman bore swiftly down into tJi$

MtieellaneouB Prose Selections,

lei

centre of the reel, at the very moment when Mr. Bob Sawyer was
performing a flouriah of unparalleled beauty. Mr. Winkle struck
wildly against him, and with a loud crash tiiey both fell heavily
dowu. Mr. Pickwick ran to the spot. Bob Sawyer had risen to
his feet, but Mr. Winkle was far too wise to do anything of the
kind, in skates. He was seated on the ice, making spa.smodio
eflbrts to smile; but anguish was depicted on every lineament of
his countenance.

" Arc you hurt ? " inquired Mr. Benjamin Allen, with great
anxiety.

" Not much," said Mr. Winkle, rubbing his back very hard.

" I wish you'd let mo bleed you," said Mr. Benjamin, with
great eagerness.

" No, thank you," replied Mr. Winkle, hurriedly.

" I really think you had better," said Allen.

" Thank you," replied Mr. Winkle ; " I'd rather not."

" What do you think, Mr. Pickwick ? " inquired Bob Sawyer,

Mr. Pickwick was excited and indignant. He beckoned to Mr.
Weller, and said in a stern voice, " Take his skates off."

"No; but really I had scarcely begun," remonstrated Mr.
Winkle.

" Take his skates off," repeated Mr. Pickwick firmly.

The command was not to be resisted. Mr. Wioklc allowed
Sam to obey it in silence. ■' .iv^^u:--!? v/ ^. .': r'i l.-^lbv,-.; ,:i{>i9 -ujo

" Lift him up," said Mr, Pickwick. Sam assisted him to rise.

Mr. Pickwick retired a few paces apart from the by-standcrs ;
and, beckoning his friend to approach, fixed a searching look
mpon him, and uttered in a low, but distinct and emphatic tone,
these remarkable words : •* ■ J '--'-'a; yi.' iJiivi: i/,i;i..a

" You're a humbug, sir." 'i is--' tJV!; »

" A what ? " said Mr. Winkle, starting.

" A humbug, sir. I will speak plainer, if you wish it. An
impostor, sir." ''t"> !

With those words, Mr, Pickwick turned slowly on his heel^
m^ rejoined hi3 friends.

OL!

y} ?i^sidoiimo:i oifi < <f<-

^'i f.-'.j

•i ■',■} f-a:

-lijO i

O'HB FALL OF JERUSALEM. 1780-1860.

•^yf\i\f2^

BEV O. OEOLT.

.1 »,

The fall of our illustrious and unhappy city was supernatural.
The destruction of the conquered was against the first principles of
Koman polity; and, to the last hour of our national existence,
!6.oiiie held out uffera of peace, and lam^ted om frantic dispos^

17U

Miscellaneous Prose Selections,

lii!

tion to be undone. But the decree was gone forth from a mightier
throne. During the latter days of the siege, a hostility, to which
that of man was as the grain of sand to the tempest that drivca it
on, overpowered our strength and Bcnscs. Fearful sliapcis and
voices in the air; visions starting us from our short and troubled
Bleep; lunacy in its most hideous forms; sudden death in the
midst of vigour; the fury of the elements let loose upon our
unsheltered heads; we had every terror and evil that could beset
human nature, but pestilence ; the most probable of all in a city
crowded with the famishing, the diseased, the wounded, the dead.
Yet, though the streets were covered with the unburicd ; though
every wall and trench was streaming with gore ; though six hun-
dred thousand corpses flung over the rampart lay naked to t!io sun
— pestilence came not ; for, if it had come, the enemy would have
been scared away. But, '' the abomination of desolation," the
pagan standard, was fixed; where it was to remain, until the
plough passed over the ruins of Jerusalem 1

On one fatal night, that fatal night ! no man laid his head upon
the pillow. Heaven and earth were in conflict. Meteors burned
over us; the ground shook under our feet; the volcano blized;
the wind burst forth in irresistible blasts, and swept tdie living
and the dead, in whirlwinds, far iuto the desert. We heard the
bellowing of the distant Mediterranean, as if its waters wore at
our side, swelled by a new deluge. The lakes and rivers roared,
and inundated the land. The fiery sword shot out tenfold fire.
Showers of blood fell. Thunder pealed from every quarter of the
heaven. Lightning in immense sheets, of an intensity and dura-
tion that turned the darkness into more tlian day, withering eye
and soul, burned from the zenith to the ground, and marked its
track by forests on flame, and the shattered summits of the hills.

Defence was now unthought of; for the mortal hostility had
passed from the mind. Our hearts quaked for fear, but it was
to seethe powers of heaven shaken. AH cast away the shield and
the spear, and crouched before the descending judgment. We
were conscience-smitten. Our erica of remorse, anguiuh, and hor-
hor were heard through the uproar of the storm. We howled to
the caverns to hide us ; we plunged into the sepulchres to escape
tlie wrath that consumed the living ; we would have buried our-
selves under the mountains!

I knew the cause, the unspeakable cause, and knew that the last
hour of crime was at hand. A few fugitives, astonished to see
one man among them not sunk into the lowest feebleness of fear,
came round me, and besought me to lead them to some place of
safety, if such were now to be found on earth. I told them openly
that they were to die, and counselled them to die in the hallow^

Miacellaneous Prose Selections*

171

the

our-

10 last
■to see
fear,
acG of
)pQnly

ground of the temple. They followed mo through streets encum-
bered with every shape of huuiaa suffcrii)g, to the foot of Mount
Moriah. lint, beyond that, we found advance impossible. Piles of
cloud, wliose darkness was palpable, oven in the midnijjjlit in which
we stoo I, covered the holy hill. Still, not to bo daunted by any-
thin^' that man could overcome, I cheered my disheartened band,
and j.tlt'uipted to load the way up the ascent. But I hud scarcely
cntoretl the cloud, when I waa swej)t downward by a gust, that
tore tlie rocks in u flinty shower round me.

I^ow, came the last and most wonderful sign that marked the
fate of ri'jected Israel.

While I lay helpless, I heard the whirlwind roar through the
cloudy hill, and the rapcurs began to revolve. A pale light, like
that of the rising moon, quivered on their cdj'cs; and the clouds
rohe, and rapidly shaped themselves into the forms of battlements
and towers. The sound of voices was heard within, low and dis-
tinct, yet strangely sweet. The lustre brightened, and the airy
building rose, tower on tower, and battlement on battlement. la
awe that held us mute, we knelt and gazed upon this more than
mortal architecture, which continued rising and spreading, and
glowing with a serener light, still soft and silvery, yet to which
tho broadest moonbeam was dim. At last it stood forth to earth
and heaven the colossal image of the first Temple, the building
raised by the wisest of men, and consecrated by tho visible glory.
All Jerusalem saw the image ; and the shout that, in tho midst of
their despair, ascended from thousands and tens of thousands, told
wkat proud remembrances were there. But a hymn was heard
that might have hushed the world. Never fell on my ear, never
on tho human sense, a sound so majestic, yet so subduing ; so full
of melancholy, yet of grandeur. The cloudy portal opened, and
from it marched a host, such as man had never seen before, such
as man shall never see, but once, again ; the guardian angels of the
city of David ! — they came forth glorious, but with woe in all
their steps ; the stars upon their hehuets dim; tkicir robes stained;
tears flowing down their celestial beauty. " Let us go hence," was
their song of sorrow. — ''Lotus go hence," was answered by sad
echoes of the mountains. — " Let us go hence," swelled upon the
night to the forthest limits of the land. The procession lingered
long on the summit of the hill. Then the thunder pealed ; and
they rose at the command, diffusing waves of light over the
expanse of heaven. Their chorus \v is hoard, still magnificent and
melancholy, when their splendour was diminished to the bright-
ness of a star. Tho thunder roared again; the cloudy temple was
scattered on the winds ; and darkness, the omen of her grave, set-
tled upon Jerusalem I — Salathielf the Immortal^ ch, Ixiv,

X72

Miscellaneous Prose Selections^

A CAMP 3IEETING IN TEXAS,

JOHN QOUOH.

In September, 183C, the following notico miglit have been scrcn
upon the doors of every public-house and grocery, attached to tho
largest trees, near the cross roads, and principal trails, and even ia
tho remote dells of the mountains of Texas, miles away from a
human habitation :—

Barbecue Camp Meeting, , "

"Tlicro will bo a caraj) meeting, to commence tlio last Monday of thiB
month, tit tlio Doublo tSpriug, Spring Gruro, near Peter Briuton's in the
county of Slu'lby.
"Tlio exercises will opeu witb a splendid barbecue.*
" Tlio preparations are being made to suit all tastes. There will be a
good barbecue — better liquor — and the best of Gospel."

(Signed,) Paul Denton,

Missionary, M. C. 0.

„ The day came, and as ho had anticipated, the meat and drink
brought a crowd — a motley crowd of hunters and herdsmen,
gamblers and refugees, forgers?, thieves, robbers, and murderers —
the very ears he wished to rcacli. A social pandemonium, unprin-
cipled, without courts or prisons or churchea, or school-houses, or
oven tho shadow of civil authority or subordination.

Ilenco all pradent evangelists soon learned to shun the left bank
of the Sabine, as if it had been infested by a cohort of demons.

Tho tumult was deafening — a tornado of babbling tongues,
talking, shouting, quarrellintr, betting, and cursing for amusement.
Suddenly a cry arose : " Colonel Watt. Foeman — hurrah for
Colonel Watt. Foeman " — and the crowd parted right and Ic^t
to let the lion lyncher pass. The loadstar advanced with a satanio
countenance, ferocious —murderous. lie was a tall, athletic,
powerful man ; his train a dozen armed desperadoes. He ordered
the dinner served, and it was spread before him. When prepared
to commence the sumptuous repast, a voice pealed from the pulpit
loud as the blast of a trumpet in battle, " Stay, gentlemen and
ladies, till the giver of the barbecue asks God's blessing I "

Every ear started, every eye was directed to tho speaker, and a
whispcrless silence ensued, for all alike were struck by his remark-
able appearance. Ho was a giant in stature, though scarcely
twenty years of age ; his hair, black as the raven's wing, flowed
down his immense shoulders in masses of natural ringlets, more
beautiful than any ever wreathed around the jewelled brow of a

• j|?ar2»ecu€«*— an ox or a hog, or any other animal roasted whole.

Miscellaneous Prose Selections,

178

qiioon by the Itihorcd acliiovenients of human nrt ; his eyes binck
as uiidiiiuht, buamed likestiirs over jil';ieo as palouH Parian marblo
— cahii, pas.sionk'SB, spiritual. The hctero^rencous ma^s f;azcd
in niutc afstonishment. Tlio niisHlonary ])rayod, but it sounded
like no other prayer over addressed to the throne of the Almighty.
It contained no encomiums on the sjilendours of tho Divine attri-
butes — no petitions in tho tones of command — no orisons for
distaiit places, times, or objects; it related exclusirely to tho
present people and the present hour ; it was the cr}' of tho naked
soul, and that soul a beir.i^ar, I'or the bread and water of eternal
life. "Now, my friends," he Raid, "partake of God's {:ilts at
the table, and then come and sit down and listen to the (Jospel."
One heart, however humbled tho rest, was maddened by the
preacher's wonderful powers: Colonel Watt. Focman exclaimed ia
>.a sneering voice, " Mr. Paul Denton, your reverence has lied, you
promised us not only a good barbecue, but better liquor — where
is your liquor? " "There I " answered tho missionary, in tones of
thundier, and pointing his motionless finger at the double spring
gushing up in two strong columns, with a sound like a shout of
joy, from the bosom of the earth. " There! " ho repeated, with
a look twrrible as lightning, while his enemy actually trembled at
his i'eet. " There is tho liquor which God, the Eternal, brewa
for all his children I Not in tho simmering still, over smoking
fires, eliokcd with poisonous gases, and surrounded with tho stench
of sickening odors and rank corruption, doth your Father ia
heaven prepare the precious essence of life — pure cold water —
but in the green glade and grassy dell, where the red deer
wanders, and the child loves to play, there God himself brews it;
and down low in the deepest valleys, where the fountains murmur
and the rills sing, and high upon the mountain tops — whero tho
naked granite glitters like gold in the sun, where the storm-cloud
broods, and the thunder-storms crash— and away, far away, far
away out on the wide, wide sea, wlicre the hurricane howls nuisio
and the big waves roar the chorus, ' sweeping the march of
God ' — there he brews it, that beverage of life — health-giving
water 1

• And everywhere it is a thing of beauty. Gleaming in the dew-
drop, singing in the summer's rain, shining in the ice-gem, till
the trees seem turned to living jewels, spreading a jroldon veil
over tlic setting sun or a whits gauze isround the midniglit moon,
Bporting in the cataract, sleeping in the glr.ciers, dancing in tho
hailstones, folding bright snow-curtains soiily above the wintry
world, and weaving tho many-colored iris — thr.t seraph's zone
of the sky whose wai'p is the rain of earth, whose woof ia
ithe gunbeum of Leaven all checkered over with celestial flowortiii

Hi's*"

H. -

■}'y'-%

174

MiQtillaneous Prose Selections.

by the mystic hand r,f rarcfjiction. Still alv^ays it is beautiful —
that blessed cold water ! No poison bubbles on its brink, palo
widows and starving orphans weep not burnini^ tears iu its clear
dep<^hs, no drunkard's shrieking ghost curst'S it in words of
despair ! Speak out my friends, would you exchange it for the
demon's drink — alcohol 'i "

A shout lika the roar of the tempest answered — No ! — No I

ON HUMAN GRANDEUR.

GOLDSMITU.

An alehouse-keeper, near Islington, who had long lived at the
sign of the French King, upon the commencement of the last wax
pulled down his old sign, and put up that of the Queen of IIuii-
gary. Under the ii\lluonce of her red face and golden sceptre he
continued to sell ale, till she was no longer the favourite of his
customers ; he changed her, tiicrefore, some time ago, for tho
King of Prussia, who may probably be changed, in tu'-n, for the
next y.reat man that shall be set up for vulgar admiration.

In this manner the great are dealt out, one after the other, to tho
gazing crowd. When we have sufficiently wondered at one of
them, he is taken in, and another exhibited in his room, who
seldom holds his station long ; — for the mob are ever pleased with
variety.

I must own, I have such an indifferent opinion of the vulgar,
that I am ever led to suspect that merit which raises their shout ;
at least I am certain to lind those great, and sometimes good men,
who find satisfaction in sucli acel:!mai;ions, made worse by it; and
history has too frequently taught me, that the head which has
grown this day giddy witli the roar oi' the million, has, the VGi'y
next, been fixed upon n polo.

There is scarce a village in Europe, and not one university, that
is not furnished with its little great men. The head of a petty
corporation, who op()Oses the designs of r: prince, who would tyran-
nic, illy force his subjects to save their best clothes for Sundays;
the pi'ny pedant, who finds one u idi^covMired quality in the poly-
pus^ or describes an unhet^ded piocoss in tiic skeleton of a molo,
and whose mind, like his microscope, perceives nature only io
detail ; the rhymer, w!;o nvikes smooth verses, and paints to our
imagination when hes)u>uld only speak to our hearts; all equally
fancy themselves walking forward to immortality, and desire the
crowd behind them to look on. The crowd takes them at their
word. Patriot, philosopher, and poet, are shouted in their trtija.

kliat
3tty
ran-

Miscellaneous Prose Selections.

175

" Where was there ever so much merit seen ? no times so impor-
tant as our own! Ages, yet unborn, sliall gnze with wonder and
applause ! " To sucli music tlic important pigmy moves I'orward,
bustling and swelling, and Jiptly compared to a puddle in a
Btorm.

I liavc lived to see generals, who once had crowds hallooing
after them wherever they went, who were bcpraised by news-
papers and magazines, — those echoes of the voice of the vulgar,—
and yet tlicy have long sunk into merited obscurity, witli t^carco
even an epitaph left to flatter. A few years ago the herring-
fishery employed all Grub-street ; it was the topic in every coffee-
house, and the burden of every ballad. Wc were to drag up
oceans of gold from the bottom of the sea ; we were to supply all
Eurojjc with herrings upon our own terms. At present wo hear
no more of all this. "We have fished up very little gold, that I
can learn ; nor do we furniyh the world with herrings as was
expected. Let us wait but a few years longer, and we shall find
all our expectations — a herring fishery !

EVIL EFFECTS OF SUPPRESSING INQUIRY.

JOHN MILTON.

Behold, now, this vast city,* a city of refuge, the mansion-
house of liberty, encompassed and surrounded with God's j)roteo-
tion ; the shop of war hath not there more anvils and hammers
working to fashion out the plates and instruments of armed ju-tico
in dcfrnce of beleaguered truth, than tiicre be pens ard head> there
Bitting by their studious himps, musing, searching, revolving' new
notions and ideas, wherewith to present, as with their homa_e and
their fealty, the approaching relbrmation; others, as fast reading,
trying all things, assenting to the force of reason and convincc-
ment. This is a lively and cheerful presage of our happy succesa
and vict.)ry. For as in a body when the blood is fresh, the spirits
pure and vigorous, not only to vit:d, but to rational ficultit's, and
those in the acutest and the pertest operations oi' wit and subtlety,
it argues in what good plight and constitution the body is , so,
when the cheerfulness of the people is so sprightly up as tiiat it haa
not only wherewith to guard W(>11 its own freedom and safety, but
to spare, and to bestow ui)on the solidest and sublimest points of
controversy and new invention, it betokens us not degenerati'd, iior
drooping to a fatal decay, by casting off the old and wrinkled skin

* London*

ii !

176

Miscellaneous Prose Selections.

of corruption, to outlive these pangs, and wax young again, enter-
ing the glorious way.s of truth and prosperous virtue, destined to
become great and honorable in these hitter ages. Mcthinks I see
in my mind a noble and puissant nation rousing herself like a
strong man after sleep, and shaking her invincible locks; mctiiinks
I see her as an eagle, mewing* her mighty youth, and kindling
her undazzled eyes at the full mid-day beam ; purging and unseal-
ing her long-abused sight at the fountain itself of heavenly radi-
ance ; while the whole noise of timorous and flocking birds, with
those also that love the twilight, flutter about, amazed at what she
means, and, in their envious gabble, would prognosticate a year of
Beets and schisms.

What should ye do, then ? Should ye suppress all this flowery
crop of knowledge and new light sprung up, and yet springing
daily, in this city ? Should ye set an oligarchy of twenty cngrossersf
over it, to bring a famine upon our minds again, when wo shall
know nothing but what is measured to us by their bushel?
Believe it, Lords and Commons, they who counsel ye to such a
suppressing, do as good as bid ye suppress yourselves ; and I will
soon show liow. If it be desired to know the immediate cause
of all tl'is free writing and free speaking, there cannot bo assigned
a truer than your own mild, and free, and humane government ;
it is the liberty. Lords and Commons, wiiir-h your own valorcus
and happy counsels have purchased us; liberty, which is the nurse
of ail great wits, — this is that which hath rariiied and enlightened
our spirits, like the influence of heaven ; this is that which hath
enfranchised, enlarged, and lifted up oui apprehensions degrees
above themselves. Ye cannot nwikc us now less capable, less
knowing, less eagerly pursuing of the truth, unless ye iirst make
yourselves, that made us so, less the lovers, less the founders, of
our true liberty. We can grow ignorant again, brutish, formal,
and slavish, as ye found us; but you ^'\cn, must first become that
which you cannot be, oppressive, arburary, and tyrannous, as they
were from whom ye have freed us. That our hearts are now more
capacious, our thoughts more erected to the search and cxpcctaticQ
of greatest and esactest things, is the issue of your own virtue
propagated in us; ye cannot suppress that, unless ye reinforce an
abrogated and merciless law, that I'.ithers m'y despatch at will
their own children ; and who shall then stick closest to yc and
excite others ? Not he who takes up arms for coat and conduct,

• Mvit'iKfj, f!inf \»,r)}r>vJ(in(7, m»ti»2ofr(il(latKldnma.'.T''d foathers, that thoir placa
may bo i-;iii|)Ii<*il witli new uad uniujwrcil oiio.'J. Thii nfriM to flic condiurl ■ f tlio
fieo]i'(' in rejecting old opiuions tiud abolishing old iU8titutions,aud replacing lU^in
by others.

t Monopolizora, ,

MiBcellaneous Prose Selections.

177

cnter-
ucd to
s I see
like a
3tluaks
iiulUng
uiiseal-
[y radi-
[3, with
hat she
year of

flowery
ringing
rosscrsf
WG Bhall
bushel ?
, such a
id I will
tc cause
assigned
.rumont ;
valovcus
;lic nurse
i^htcued
lich hath
dogbees
cblc," less
rst make
ndcrs, of
, formal,
|omc that
1, as thoy
,f)W more
[pcctatica
n virtue
;(,jice an
111 at will
I3 y.^ and
couduct,

and his four noblc^s of Dancgclt.* Although I dispraise not the
dclbnce of just immunities, yet I love my peace better, if that
were all. Gire me the lihertij to hnovi, to utter, and to argue
freely/, accordl.^yj to conscience, above all liberties.

DESCRIPTION OF THE QUEEN OF FRANCE.

BUBEE.

It is now sixteen or seventeen years since I saw the Queen of
France, then the Dauphiness, at Versailles; and surely never
lighted on thi:-} orb. which slie hardly seemed ,0 toucli, a more
delightful vision. I saw her just above the horizon, decorating
and cheering the elevated r^pherc she just began to move in, glit-
tering like the morning st ir, lull of lifo, and splendour, and joy.
Oh. what a revolution I AVhat a heart I must have to contem-
plate without emotion that elevation and that fall ! Little did I
dream that, when she added titles of veneration to those of enthu-
siastic, distar.c, respectful love, that she should ever be obliged to
c;irry tlie shai-p antidote against disgrace concealed in that bosom ;
httle did I dream that I should have lived to see such disasters
fallen upon her in a nation of gallant men, in a nation of men of
honour and r)!' cavaliers. I thought ten thousand swords must
have le;iped from their scabbards to avenge even ;i look tliat
threatened her with insult. But the age of chivalry Is gone.
That ot'sophisters, economists, and calculators has succeeded ; and
the glory of Europe is extinguished for ever. Never, never
more shall we behold that nenerou-' loyalty to rank and sex, that
proud submission, that dignified obedience, that subordination of
the heart vrhich kept alive, even in servitude itself, the spirit of
an exalted freedom. The unbought grace of life, the :;hoap
defence of nations, the nurse of manly sentiment and heroic enter-
prise, is gone. It is gone, that sensibility of principlo, that
chastity of honour, which felt a stain like a wound, whieh
inspired courage whilst it mitigated ferocity, whieh ennobled
whatever it touched, and under which vice itself lost half its evil,
by losing jdl its grossuess.

I their plRCO

;;ct t' tho

lacing tUsm

*Ttio I).iuPfjoU was a tax Icviod by King Jtholrcd to (lefrnv the oxpon^e of
ro<i>tii>L; iho iiivn.siiins "f tho iMiiifs, ur to iiurcha c iJcacc by au iguuiniuiuus tri-
butu; it was ubolisbcd by fcitepbon.^

■ '

lll'l

'^■\,y ■

178 3IisceUanmus Prose Selectiona.

DEATH OF MARIE-ANTOINETTE.

CARLYLE.

On ]\rnn(L(y, tlic ]4tli fif October, 1703, a c;iiise is poiidinpj in
the P iliis do Jnstic , in tho new llcvokitioiKn-y C'.uvt, such as
these oM stoiK! Av ;lls nov(!r v.itncsseil, — tiio tri ;1 o!' M. li '-Antoi-
nette. The oi!C(! briiil.te.'-t oi' queens, now tarnisi.ed, dv'i'accd,
foir.;!:'.'ii, stuids here ;;t Foiuiiiier Tiiiviilc's juduinent-b. r, ;;iiswcr-
m\i ilir lier lile. 'j'l:c iiHlietiiic t>.t av;:,s driivcred J:ci' 1 .-t iii;dit.
To y-\\v]\ ch.-!i),LiCs oi" Luiu..ii Ibrtuue whi.t words ;ire :>dcquate !
SihiiC-.^ ;;h)ne is ndequiit'.

31; iie-Antoinett ■• in tliis h -r ntt'r ."bciiidonn^ent .-md lioiir of
extreiiiu need, is not w.intlni^to jier-i'll', the ini})evi;il v, otn;;n. Her
look, t!iey s;iy, <:s th;!t hideous indictment was I'eadiii;.'-. continued
calm; " &-he was sometimes observed niovin';- lier Imu^rs ;;s when
one ]»l:\ys on the ])i;;no." You dicern, not without iutere: t, ncross
that dim revolution ay bull tin itself, how s!ie bear*^ her^cU" queen-
like. Her answers are ] nju] t, clear, olten ol' l;conic brevity;
resolution which has ^ri>wn contein]ituous, v>lthout ceasln-a; to be
di^uniiitd, veils itscli' in cahn words. '• Ytm jicrsist then in
doniil?'' '• 31y jih^n is not denial; it is the trutli I iiavc said,
and I ])ersist in that."

At iour o'elocl' on Widnesdiy mornincr, after two days and two
niuhts of interroii'atin^-, juvy-cuar-iinu;, and otlier darkening of
coun-ei, the result comes out — sentence oi' death ! ' 11 ive you
anythinu' to say ? '" The accused shook her head without speech.
Ni^i^ht's c.indhs arcburniiu- out; ;nul wit'i her, too, tiuii; is linish-
ing, and it will be eternity and — day. This hall of Tinvillo's is
dark, ill-lighted except where she stands. tSilently she \\Ithdraws
from it, to die

Is t!iere a mini's lie.n't that think-^ v/jtljout i)ity of tliose long
months aiid years of slow, wastim;' i/nondny , ^)Y thy birth, soft
cradled in inifierial h'clidnbrunn, the winds of licaven not to visit
thy face too rour.ldy, t!:y loot to li-ht on .softness, thy eye on
Splcndonr; and then ef t.!iy deatli, (u* i;u!idred de tli-i!, to which
the r^uidotine and Fou(juier-Tinville"s judu:.iient-b;!' W' re but the
merciful ciul ? Look ti.ero, m;n born of woman ! The bloom
of that fair hicc is wasted, the hair is ,i:rey with e i >; t'a> bri;j,ht-
ncss of those eyes is (jucv.ehed. their lids hang drooping; the face
is .stony pale, a.s of one living in death. Mean w.v ds, which her
own ia;nd has mend' d, .;ttire t'le (jucen oi'tlie woi'ld. I'lu) dcath-
Lurdle, where tSiou fcslttest pale, motionhjss, which oiiiy curses
environ, has to stop; d peopK; drunk with venge.nea, wiil drink it
Cii'aiu in fall draught, looking at thee there. Far as the oyo

3Ii8ccUaneous Prose Selections,

179

reacho'', :i multitudinous sea of m.uiiac heads, tlie air de.if with
tlieir triumph, yell. 'Ilie liviii-' dead uiu^t sliudihr with yet
anotlior p::nLr ; her .startled blood yet ag-a in suHusrs with t'nc hue
of a.iiony that pale face, wl.icli she hides with h-r hinls. TI.ere
is then' no heart to say, God pity thee! thiak not of tlie>0 j
think <.l Iliai whom thou wor.shippe^t, tlie Cruciii^'d who also,
trcadiiii;' t'le wine-press alone, Ironted .sorrow still drejier, and
triuinplied over it, and mido it lioiy, and built of it a '-sanctuary
of .'^on-ow" for thee and ali tliLs wrotchod. Tiiy p tli of tii'irns is
niuh tiKJcd ; one ion;;- la.>-t look at the Tuilerhs, where tliy st p was
ouco t^o li.:ht— where tiiy children shall not dwi'll. Tlij l;e,;d ig
on the block; the axe ru.shes — dumb lies tlic world; that wild-
yelling- world, with all its madness, is behind thee.

LABOUR.

CARLYLE.

[h, soft
Ito visit
I eye on
which
l)\it the
\ ]:,!oom
IVa-io'ht-
he face
lieh her
death-
eur:-'es
11 rink it
lUc eye

Two men I honour and r«o tldrd. Fir.st, the toil-worn crafta-
m;tn that with eartli-made implement laboriously con((uers the
earth and makes her man's. Venerable to me is tlic hand, hard
and coarse: wherein notwith.'^tandint;- lies a cunninu' virtao, iiido-
fb.'isibly roj'al, as of tliis planet. Venerablr, too, i^s tlio ru^rued face
all we ither tanned, besoiled, with his rude int?liii;i'nce ; for it is
the face of a man living man-like. Oh, but t'lo more wner ble
fur t!iy nidcness, and even because we must p'ty a.s well as love
thee! Hardly entreated brother! For us wis thy bek -o b.'Jit,
for \x% were thy straight limbs and fiuiiers so deformed ; tliou wert
our conscript on whom the lot fell; and fi.rhtini:- our b tties wort
so marred. For in tliee, too, lay a God-created i'orm, bui it wis nol
to !».! unfolded; eneru>te 1 mu,-t it stuid with the thick dhesions
and del' cements of labour; and thy body, like thy soul Wus not
to know freedom. Yet toil on, toil on: thou art ia t.iy duty, be
out oi' it who may; thou toilest for the altogether in...ispensable
daily bread.

A >eeond man I honour, and still more hiiddy, l.im wl o i-; seen
toiliiiL; lor the spiritually indi.-jiens able — not daily br;' d. but the
bre.d of life, l.s not he, too, i!i his duty; endeavouii]) r towards
iiiv.'ard harmony; revealin;^' this, by act or by work t'lrougli all
his out.vard endeavours, be t:.*.y idgh or low? lii-Iie^-t of all
when hi;5 outward and his inw rd endea\ours are one: wlun we
can n iuie him artist; not earthly craftsman only, but ins[;ircd
tlanker. who with heaven-made implement concjuers heaven ibr us I
li tile i^oor uud humble toil that we have food, must not the high

. .n * ■ » ■■■ Mtm wm

1 1* k

' U

4» •

180

MiBcellaneous Prose Selections.

> 1

and glorious toil for him in return that lie may have light, guid-
ance, freedom, immortality? These two, in all their degrees, I
honour ; all else is chaft' and dust, which let the wind blow whither
it listeth.

*^ i^ ^1^ ^P '^ *!*

There is a perennial nobleness, and even sacredness, in work.
Were he ever so benii'litcd, or fori'ctful of his hi<>h callinir, there
is always hope in a man that actually and earnestly works ; in
idleness alone there is perpetual despair. Consider how, even in
the meanest sorts of liibour, the whole soul of a man is composed
into real harmony. He bends himself with free valour against
his task ; and doubt, desire, sorrow, remorse, indignation, despair
itself, shrink murmuring far ofl'in their caves. The glow of labour
in him is a purifying fire, wherein all poison is burnt up ; and of
smoke itself there is made a brii^ht and blessed flame.

Blessed is he who has found his work ; let him ask no other
blessedness ; he has a life purpose. Labour is life. From the
heart of the worker rises the celestial force, breathed into him by
Almighty God, awakening him to all nobleness, to all knowledge.
Hast thou valued patience, courage, openness to light, or readiness
to own t!;y mistakes ? In wrestling with the dim brute powers of
fact, thou wilt continually learn. J''or every noble work the pos-
sibilities are diffused through immensity, uadiscoverable except to
faith.

Man, son of hoaven ; is there not in thine inmost heart a spirit
of active method, giving thee no rest till thou unfold it ? Com-
plain not. Look uji, wearied brother. See thy fellow-workmen
surviving through eternity, the sacred band of immoibals.

THE SCHOOLMASTER AND THE CONQUEROR.

BBOCGHAH.

But there is nothing which the adversaries of Improvement are
more wont to make themselves merry with than what is termed
the " march of intellect ; " and iiere I will confess, that I think, as
far as the jjlirase g'x;s, they are in the right. It is a very absurd,
because a very incorrect expression. It is little calculated to
describe the operation in (^ue^tion. It docs not })icture an im ige
at all resembling the pntceediiigs of the true friends of in inkind.
It much nore resembles the progress of the enemy to all improve-
ment. The conqueror moves in a march. II" stalks onward with
the *' pride, pomp, and circumstance of war' — ])ann'jrs flying —
shouts rending the uir — guns thundering — and martial music

Miscellaneous Prose Selections.

181

pealing, to drown the shrieks of the wounded, and the himcnta-
tions lor the slain. Not thus the schooLna^tcr, in his pcaeoiul
voc.;tion. He uieditatesaud prepares in secret the plans wliich are
to blo^^s mankind ; lie slowly gath(.:r,s round him those who ure to
furthi'r their execution — he quietly, though lirnily, advances in
his humble path, labouring steadily, but calmly, till he has oi)ened
to the light all the recesses of ignorance, and torn up by the roots
the weeds of vice. His is a progros not to be compired with
anything liko a march ; but it leads to a far more Ijrilliant triumph,
and to l.iurt'is more imperishable, than the destroyer of his species,
the scourge of the world, ever won. Such men — men deserving
the glorious title of Teachers of Mankind — I have found, labour-
ing coifseientiously, though perhaps obscurely, in their blessed
vocation, wherever I have gone. I have found them and shared
their fellowship, among the daring, the ambitious, the ardent, the
indomitably active French ; I have found them among the perse-
vering, resolute, industrious Swiss; I have found tiiem amougthe
la])oriou.s, the warm-hearted, the enthusiastic Germans; I have
found them among the high-minded, but enslaved Italians ; and in
our own country, God be thanked, their number everywhere abound,
and are every day increasing. 'I'heir calling is high and holy ;
their f tmc is the property of nations ; their renown will fill the
earth in after ages, in proportion as it sounds not far off in their
own times. Each one of those great teachers of the world, possess-
ing his soul in peace, performs his appointed course; awaits in
patience the fulfilment of the promises ; and, resting from his
labours, bequeaths his memory to the generation whom his works
have blessed, and sleeps under the humble but not inglorious epi-
taph, commemorating " one in whom mankind lost a friend, and
no man got rid of an enemy."

. i -

ADVANTAGES OF ENLARGING THE INTELLEC-
TUAL SPHERE OF WOxMAN.

JOHN BTUART MILL.

One great benefit to bo expected from giving to women the free
use of their faculties, by leaving them the free choice of their
cujployments, and opening- to them the same field of occupation
and the same prizes and encouragements as to otlier human beings,
would be that of doubling the mass of mentd ficulties available
for the higher service of humanity. Where there is now one
person qualified to benefit mankind and promote the general im-
provement as a public teacher, or an administrator of some branch

V t

>%y>

1S2

31180 ellaneous Prose Selections.

- 1-.'' .'

I. .V

m ■

'' .'.t a

ol' public or Koci ;1 afiairs, there would tlion be a cli ;nco of two.
Wcut.i .siijK riority of ;;ny kind is ;it present everywhere? so much
below the (lernaid; there is sucii >i dc;lieioiicy of persons eoiiipt'tent
to do cxctlicntly anytaini;' wliicli it re(i;iircs any consj i.,r.djlo
amouiit of ..bility ti) do; t!iat tli^j loss to V,\(\ worl I, by r\^'asing
to iir;ke uf^a of orjo h.ilf ol' tlie whob qu.intity of ( d iit it pos-
eessjs, is cxtrenicly serious. It is true that tins amoutit oi' uicuLil
power is not t itiily lost; much of it is einiiloycd, and wonld ia
any case bo eui[)luyed, in domestic m,ma^;!;L'm.nit, and \a t!ic few
oceu[) itions open to women, and frouj tlu renrdnd'.'r ia lirecfc
beneiit i^ i:i m uiy individual c.isjs obtdncd tlirou^h the pursoual
iniluence of individu>d women over individud men. Dub these
bene.its are partial; tlieir raige is extrcmdy cireum-^erib.d ; and
if tlioy must be admitted, on t;ie one hand, as a dcductioa from
the . laouiit of fresh social power that would bo acquired by ';iviag
fr«edoiu to onedialf of the whole sum of hum in intellcefe. thero
mu t be added, on the ot!ur, the bcielits of tlie i.-timulas that
woul I be given to the intellect of men by the compititioa ; or (to
use a more true expression) by t'ae necessity th.it would bo
imposed on them of deserving precedency before they could expect
to obtain it.

'^i-x^i great accession to the int.'llectual power of the species,
and to t!ie amouiit of intjllect av.alible for the good mui r.ix'mont
of its ailairs, would be obtained, partly througli the btt'ranJ
more complete intellectu:d education of women, which would then
mi\yco\\) purl 2)assa with that of men. Women, in gcueral, would
be brought up eijually capable of underst 'aiding business, public
aftairs, au*! the higher matters of speculation, with men in the
same class of society ; and the select few of the one, as well as of
the otlier sex, who were qualllied not only to comprehend what is
done or thought by other,;, but to tiiiak or d isonutidng eo:Hi;lcr-
able themselves, Wijuld meet with tliesame ficilities i'or imprin'ing
and training their capacities in the one sjx as in the otlier. In
this w..y t!ie widening of the sphere oi' action for women would
Oi)evata for good, by raising their eduction to the level of that of
men, and making the one participite in .dl improvem-nts m ido
in t le other. But, indepoudcntly ol' this, the mere bre iking down
of the b'.rrier v.ould have an educational value of tlie highest
worth. TliG men getting rid of the idea tliat all the wider sub-
jects of thoug'at and action, all tlie things whic'i are of general
and not solely of private interest are men's business, from which
women are to be warned ol" — positively interdicted from most
of it, oldly tolerated in the little which is allowed to them
— the mere consciousness a worn in would then have of being
a liumau being like any other, entitled to chooso her pursuits,

\v. lu

would

Ithat of

UMclo

down

lii^-hcst

•r .sub-

t!;cner;il

which

mo.st

tUcm

liHdvUancons. Prose Sdcctxons.

183

urijod or ijivitod by t!io s-iuio iinbiciMTionts ;is Mny n!K> else
to intoi'c.^:t hoi'self in \vh itevor is Intiirestln;;' ic\ liumiu b 'inus,
cntitU;;! to cxiTt the shin- of iniJiioncj on nil luiiiiin cnnci'rns
which buloii'^s to tin iu'lividuil ojuiiion whether sac ;itt"iuj)tod
actu'd p;irtiidj);itl()n in them or not — tins ;d()!ic would elTect ;in
iniincnse expansion of {\w f icultics of womk'ii ;is widl -is ciilir:^o
inent wf tho range of their moral sentiments. — The Suhjeetion oj
Woniai.

DANTE AND 3IILT0N.

MACAULAY.

The dir.rnctcr of Milton was peculiarly di^tlngni.slicd by lofti-
ness o!" t!iou,u-ht ; tli-it of J) inti; by intea ity of feeling-, lu every
line of the J>ivine (Jonicdy, we di.-^eoru tlie asperity whicli i.s pro-
duced by pride struu'^liug with misery, 'j'nere is perhaps no
work ia tiie world so deeply aod uniibrudy sorrow! ul. Tiie
mclaneholy of Dante was no I'ant.istie caprice. It was not, us
f; r as .it.this distance of time can be judged, the eifect of external
circuui'-t mces. It was I'rom within. ^Ni-itlier love nor ulory,
neither the conflicts of the earth nor the hope of heaven, could
dispel it. It twined every consolation and every pleasure into
its oviu nature. It re-embled that noxious Sardinian soil of
wliich th(! intense bitterness is said to have been jtercej-.tiblo
even in its jioney. His nunvl was, in the noble language of the
Hebrew poet, '• a land of darkness, as d.irkness itself, ami v.diero
the li,4ut was as darkness!" Tiio ,qlooi« of his character disco-
lors ,;!i the passions of mini and all the face of nature, and
tin'j.0-; with its own livid hue the flowers of paradise and the
G;lorios of the Kternal Throne.

Miiton was. like Dante, a statesman and a lover; and, like
Dant ', lie had ))een iiufortunite in ambition and in love. He
had survived his health and his si,ii;!it, tnc coniibrts of ids home
find tiie prosperity of his party. Oi tJie u'reat men by wiiom he
had been distintjjuished on his entrance int > life, some h id been
taken away from the evil to com. ; some had carried into Ibi-eiun
clini;it'S t'i"ir uneonqu.'r.;ble hatred of op];res-ion ; soma were
pinin;j;' in duu'.>'cons; and som) had poured forth their lilood on
.sc liioids. Til; t hateful ])ro3cription — facetiously termed " The
act fd" indemnity and oldivion" — had set a mark on the poor,
blind, d'aserted poet, and held Idni up by name to tire Ji trod
of a prollii^ate court and an incoust.iut pcaple. Venal and licou-

..in I

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•it'

.1 I", i'l ;

|-.

I'. '

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'..

,:t

184

Miscellaneous Prose Selections.

tious scribblers, with just sufficient tiilcnt to clotlic the tbousjlita
of ii j)anil( r in the stylo of a bellman, were now tlu; fuvourito
writers uf the sovcruiun and the ])ublic. It was a loathsome herd
— which could be compared to nothiriL^ so fitly as to the rabblo
ofComus; — -iirotes(juo monsters, half bestial, h;;!!' human — drop-
pinii; with wine, bloated with gluttony, and reelinj^ in obscene
dances. Amidst these his JMuse was placed, likt- tlu; chaste lady
of tlje Ma:«(jue, — lulty, spotless and serene — to ))e chatted at,
and ])ointed at, and grinned at, by the whole tribe of Satyrs and
Goblins.

ir ever despondency could be excused in any man, it mi;ht
have been excu.scd in Milton. But the strength of his Uiind
overcame every calamity. Neitlier blindness, tior jj;out, nor
penury, nor aj:e, nor domestic afflictions, uor ptjlitical disappoint-
ments, nor abuse, nor proscri{)tion, nor neglect, had power to
distui'b his sedate and m ijestic patlenca. His spirits do not
seem to have been high, but they were singularly eijuable. His
temper was serious, porliaps stern ; but it was a temper which

no suflcnni^s

fious
cou

reuacr sullen or

fretful. Such as it

was.

when, on the eve of great ovont-i ha returm^d from iiis travels, in
the prime of health and manly bcnuty, loaded witli literary dis-
tinctions and glowing with p itriotic hopes ; such it continued to
be — wlien, after having experienced every calamity which is inci-
dent to our nature, old, poor, sightless, and disgraced, he retired
to his hovel to die I

NECESSITY FOR THE DIFFUSION OF EDUCATION

^ IN CANADA.

EEV. DH, M'CAUL.

X HAVE said that the diiTusion of the blessings of education
throughout the land is the ultimate end of the work which is to
be pursued within these walls, — a work second in importance to
none in the province, for it is destined to perpetuate its benign
influences throughout successive generations. Yes, the stamp
which education impresses, how^ever faint at first, or difficult of
recognition, remains permanent and enduring, and continues
indelible from age to age, — so that whatever be the national
characteristics of the population of Canada, the influence of that
system of instruction now established will be percei)tible in its dis-
tinctive features. What mind can justly estimate — whit tongue
can adequately express -'the benefits which must flow from such
a diflusion ? What influence will it have in strengthening the

Miscellaneous Prose Selections.

185

intellect, clcvMtin;;- tlio tisto, nnd curbiiipr tho passions . And oW
liow ni.iiy jire tlierc who, if tlicy had hut h.id tho avcmirs of
enjoyment thrown ojien to thcni which education prosent-t, would
neV'-T have f'.dlen into t!io <:rovcllinj^ habits which have ruined
butli tlicniselves and their families.

IJiit in another respect, too, the difTusion of education nin-t
exercise a most import nit influence throu;;liout tin; country. ^Vc
live in times when the tendency is to a diil'u.sion throughout the
masses of a .greater ninoinit of i)olitical privih';j,e than tln-y h ivo
hitherto enjoyed. TJie times exi4 wlun tho majority (>f tho
peo]ile must exercir.c [)olitical privileges, and, if so, of what
immense import nice is it that the masses should be educated —
that they .should know their rights and understand their ol)liL;.i-
ti(»ns — that tliey should possess that power, which education u;i\'es,
of jirotectinij; thiiuiselves ai^ainst political (»r reli;4ious imp'isturs —
tkat they should dischari^e tliosc duties which our fri.'e constitH-
tion assigns to them, with that independence and discrimination
W'hic'i knowledge bestows and ibsters. 01' what cnnserpien e is it
that our j)eoplc should understand and b.i prepared to show that
they m lint iin their allegiance to the British Crown, and tluir
adherence to the limiteil monarchy under which they live, iK^t
through any anti({uated prejudices, nor yet through any tradi-
tion ry veneration, })ut bcciuse they prefer that which they h ;vo,
cutort .iijing the wcll-grininded conviction tliat xinder a govennn ait
such as that of England they and their children <j in enjoy all roal
liberty, and under it have happines.s here, and tho means uud
Oftportunity of preparing themselves for happiness hereafter.

ELEMENTS OF SOCIAL ADVANCEMENT.

'"uiga

REV. DK. RYKUSON.

It is my earnest prayer, that the "internal guard" of a truly
Clifisiiin education m ty be planted in the heart citidel of cv ry
youth of our land. It is the vmion of moral and intellectual (ju di-
tie,:i wliicli adorn and elevate the individual man; and it is tlieir
unit 'd dovcjlopuiont which constitutes the life and strength, tlio
liappincss and progress of society. If, then, we wish to see our
country accompiish its high destiny — our unbroken forests con-
vert'jJ intt) w.;ving whe;t fields — single m mufactorios growing
into prosperous towns, and towns swelling into cities — canals and
nilroads intersecting tho various counties, and commerce C'>vering
the rivers and lakes ; if wc \yish to see our institutions settled and

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23 WEST MAIN STREET

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(716) 872-4503

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180

Mhcellaneoui Prose Selections,

perfected, find our Government fulfilling its noblest functions — our
Bclioois ;i:ul collejics rtdiitin*^ centres of intellcctu:il lirlit and
mor.il wjrmtli to the youthful populition — the poor uh well as the
rich propi'ily educ ited, and a rich and varied homo literature
created — t!ie experience of past a;;cs givin-^ lesHons in all our
domestic dwi'lliii^M, by moans of books and librari^'s; — in a word,
if wo wish to see the people of Canada united, iut.Hi j;iirit, pros-
perous, and happy — LTeat in all that constitutes the real grandeur
of a iR'ople — let us feel that the eventful issues of th;.t antici-
pated iiiturity are iu our hands, and that it is for each individual
of our ,L;r()Wii-up generation to say how fir tlieso hopes of patriot-
ism ;ind philanthropy shall bo realized or disappointed. Above
all, let us never for;:;et that there is a moral as wi;ll as physical
nnlvLTse, and as it is iu the harmony of the two that tho per-
fections of tlie divine cliar icter and p;overninont are fully dis-
played, so it is in the harmonious development of tlie mornl with
the intellectual man that the perfection of his n iture consists.
What (jrod has joined together we must never put asunder in any
of (»ui- plans and cDForts ibr the social advancement of C mada.
Our motto shoul I be the words of the inspired Isai di — '* WUdom
anJ t'cnoiolc hjc .skull he tlie sfithilitj <>/ t\'l tliwa — the p'ift.sesslon
0/ continued sdfritioii ; the /err of Jchnvih, this shall be thy
treasure." — [^Bishup Lowth's Translation.^

THE PAST AND PRESENT OF CANADA.

FROM "CANADA FIRST," BY W. A. FOSTBO, OF TOBOXTO.

Onii past is characterised by somethini^ more than romantic
attaclimont to a flajj^, or chivalrous devotion to an idea. Sentiment
did not blunt the cdire of industry, nor sufferiniij i;ivo excuse for
itihuiiss. Every breathino; spell of war t;avc the liusb imlman
0])portMnity. The sword and musket were exclKUi;:;e(l ior the
pl()uj;h and sickle ; and a fruitful soil, feelin!;^ the warm ulow of
peace, yielded a tz:rateful return. The forest echoed the ring of
the axe and the crash of timber. Amid the solitirine;>s of the
b ick-woods the sturdy settler was hewing out a home for h.imself
and his f imily, with hunger and cold kept merely at arm's length.
Between him and his nearest neighbor, miles of dark forest inter-
vened. The traveller or trader picked his way across tangled
brushwood and f dlen timber, or tramped wearily over a track-
less wilderness of snow, finding few finger-posts by tlie road-
side to poiut out the dircctiou he wished to take. All kinds of

Miscellaneous Prose Selections,

187

ficltl work wore done by hand, for there were very few oxen and
Btill ibwer horses. lu 1789, the mails left Upper C m i(I:i for
Eni;l Mul about twlcn a year, rio that epistolary effort was not much
tiixod. For years the only road from Lower Can.d i wis by the
St. L iwrcnci^, tlie rapids boin:^ ascended by cinocs and biteaux ia
ten or t.volvo days, until the flat-bottomi-d Durham boats, i-t'cred
with a t Ml f();.»t p >ie and pushed alon^r by two men on ocli side,
came i;it) usj. We can read in the York G iz<:fte, of Aj)rll 29th,
1815, tint the Lieutenant-Governor, Sir Goori^e Murray, Kt.,
arrived at York from Burl in. 'ton, in a birch canoe. But none of
us ncj 1 1^0 far to learn all about the hardships of the c irly settlers,
for witnesses are still among us who passed throuijh t'le ordeah
Now we cm afford to look back with some degree of complacency,
for industry has produced abundant fruit, and we are reaping in
joy a harvest sown in tears and trouble. As firm after firm was
rescued Irom native wildness, schemes cf internal improvement,
first viewed as shadowy impossibilities, grew into reality, while
the bounteous yieM of a virgin soil sent new life into every artery
of trade. Land was gradually freed from the tight-locking folds
of rap eious hydras, and the b irnacles tli;!t f ittened o!i t'le ollices
of state were torn from the vitals of the country. What has been
the re-;u't? In 1312, the population of Canada was 28l>,000;
to-day L'mida has over f)ur millions of people. In 180L), the
value of the exports from the whole of the provinces was 6028.000 ;
last yeir our exports were over seventy-three millions, and our
impoits over seventy-four millions of dollars. In 1815, i\\\ (irst
steamboat was built on Lake Ontario; to-day Canada is t!io t'aird
maritime power in the world, with ai.c million tons entered
inwards, andy?yc million tons entered outwards, engaged in carry-
ing on our trade. In 1851, Canada had but (if'tv-tive mii(;s of
railway ; to-day there are three thousand miles in operation,
several liundreJs of miles under construction, and a scheme on
foot t ) build 2500 miles monj that will present a route between
Eniiliu 1 and Japan, 1100 miles shorter than by New York and
San Francisco, and give us a contiimous line of four tliousmd
miles across tlie continent. We possess a system of cinds the
most compl.'te in the workl^ that cost us twenty millions oi' dollars,
— so coiujiletc, indeed, that President Grmt looks upon it as part
of the St. Lawrence navigation. The aggregate of our banking;
capit d is over thirty-six millions of dollars, ani] the savings of
our people, represented by deposits in our monetary institutions,
amount to about sixty-four millions.

We have coal in Nova Scotia, on the Atlantic ; coal at the Saskct-
chew an, in the heart of the continent, and coal at Vancouver's
Island, on the Puciiio. We have minurul wealth as varioui) us our

i*<

188

Miscellaneous Prose Selections.

needs, and, in extent, boundless. We have at our doors exhaust-
lees fisheries, the richest in the world, furnishin;r an annual yield
estimated at twenty million dollars to tlic various countries en<j;a<^d
in them, and givini; us a nursery for adventurous and hardy sea-
men. Our agricultural product is immense, and capable of inde-
finite expansion ; and our forests are the envy of the world. Wo
have, or will have shortly, 70,000 siilors, and now have at least
700,000 men between the ages of 20 and 60 available for defensive
purposes. As for territory, we have more than half the con-
tinent, and elbow room for a population of 40,000,000. Religious
freedom exi:<ts here in its most perfect form, and our elaborate
•ystem of common schools, colleges and universities gives an equal
opportunity to all to achieve distinction. We have political insti-
tutions combining the greatest freedom with the most perfect
restraint upon riot, recognizing the rights of the people without
begetting distrust or disrespect for lawful authority ; neither
ignoring the poor nor bringing terror to the rich ; giving voice to
property without drowning the tones of labor; allowing complete
Belf-government by means of a graduated jurisdiction and, through
a well-understood and easily enforced system of responsibility,
admitting of reform without revolution, government without des<
potism.

u •'

ORATORICAL SELECTIONS.

cligious

I?'

THE EARL OF STRAFFORD'S DEFENCE.

The following manly and pathetic speech ia extracted from the two
closing adlresscs of Thomas VVentWi)rth, Earl of StrartbrrI, o« his inipcach-
menl liufore the House of Lords, in Wcstiniinter H.ili, 1041. He was tried
for liigh treason, in e ideavorins? " to s ibvert tiie ancient and fiin<hiniental
laws of the realm, and to introduce arbitrary and tyrannical gorcr uuent."
He was found guilty, and was executed the I'ith of May, IC^l, in bis 47th
year.

My Lords, it is hard to be questioned upon a law which
cannot be shown. Where hath this lire luin hid so many liuntlred
jears, with but smoke to discover it, till it thus bursts forth to
consume rae and my children ? It will bo wisdom for your'^elves,
for your posterity, and for the whole kitigdom, to cast into tho
fire these bloody and mysterious volumes of constructive md
arbitrary treason, as the primitive Christians did their books of
curious arts, and betike yourselves to the pi tin letter of the 1 iw
and statute, that telleth us what is and what is not treason,
without being ambitions to be more learned in the art of killin<»
than our forefathers. It is now two hundred and forty years since
any man was touched for this alleged crime, to this heiglit, before
myself. Let u.t; not awaken these sleeping lions to our destruction,
by taking up a few musty records th it have lain by the wall so
many ages, forgotten, or neglected. May your Lordships plo^se
not to add this to ray other misfortunes; let not a precedent be
derived from me, so disadvantageous as tiiis will be, in its conse-
quences to tho whole kingdom.

My Lords, the words I'or which I am here arraigned were not
wantonly or unnecessarily spoken, but tliey were spoken in full
Council, where, by the duty of my oath, I was obliged to sjxjak
according to my hetrt and conscience, in all things concerning the
king's service. If I had forborne to speak what I conceive*] to be
for the benefit of the King and people, I had been perjured
towards Almighty God. And for delivering my mind openly and
freely, shall I be in danger of my life as a traitor ? If that neces-
sity be put upon me, I thank God, by His blessing, I have learned

1 ''i

a •

190

Oratorioal Select iona.

not to stmd in fear of him who can only kill the bojy. If the

?uest'n)ii be, vvlictlicr I must bo traitor to man or |)erjtii\«l to God,
will bo f'lithl'ul to my Creator, and, whutsoovfr sli ill bjl!ill me
from pi^pul ir rau;o, or from my own weakness, I must Kmvo it to
that Ai;iiij,!ity Bciiij^, and to tlio ju.stice and lionor of my judges.

My hnvds, you are born to }j;rcat thoughts; you 'in; nursed up
for tie "^re>;t and wci,ij,lity emj»l<»ynu'nt.s of the I iii'^ddin. But if
it be onee admitted that a councillor, delivcrin,^ his oji-'iona with
Others -it the council-table, under an o.ith of .secrecy and I'iitliful-
ness, shall be brou^^ht into (jueHtLm U[)on some mis.ipprehnision or
iifnoraiice (j1" law, — if every word that he speaksfroui a !-itieere and
nobie intention shall bo drawn ai^ainst him lor tho utt tintln::; of
him, his chil Iren and posterity, — I know not any v.ise or noble
jioiMon oi' fortune who will, upon such perilous and uns.le terms,
adventure to be councillor to t!ic Kin,i< I Opinions ni y make a
hcntie, but that they make a traitor I have never lie )r 1 till now.

My Jjord:', what I forfeit my sell" is not'ain;j; ; but th t my indis-
cretion i^houlvl extiend to my posterity, wonndeth m<! to tho very
Boul. Vol! will pardon my inlirmity ; somet'iing I sliould have
added, but am not abl ', therefore let it pass. Nov/, my Lirds, for
iiiyselC, 1 have b.Hjn, by the bles^in;^' of Almi'j;lity Gro i, tui^ht thai
the aJilietions of this j»rcsent life are not to b.; eoiup :i'ed to the
eternal weiuht of glory which sliall be rcveded her j: iter. And
go, liiy Lords, even so with all tranquillity of mind, I IV-ely sub-
mit laysell to your judgment; and, whether that judgment be of
lilb or death, Tc Dcuin laudamus.

THE END OF GOVERNMENT, IGll.

JOHN PYM. BOHN 1583 ; DIED 1G43.

My Lrniits, many days have been spent in m unt niincG of the
impeachment of the Earl of Strafford by the House of Com-
mons, whereby he stands charged with high tr \!son ; and your
Lord.-liips have heard his delenco witli p .ti<-nee, and with
as niuch f ivor as justice will allow. We have p ssed through
our evidence! and the result is, that it rem lins ele irly proved
that the Earl of Strafford hath endeavored by his words,
actions and counsels, to subvert the fund iUient 1 laws of Eng-
land and Ireland, and to introduce an arbitr ry and tyran-
nicd government. This will best appear if t'.ie qu ility Of the
offence be examined by that law to which lie him ell' appealed,
that universal, that supremo law, — Sdlns Po/nl/i, — the welfare of
the people I This is the element of all laws, «)nt of which they
are derived } the end of all laws, to which they are designed, and

Oratortcat Selections,

101

in w'licli thv'y arc perfected. The offcneo comprclioii'ls all other
offence^, llv're you sh.:ll (ind «'Vi'r.il tre isons, imirdrs, rapines,
oppi\H-jio:is, porjurios. The eirth h itli ji semiiiary vlrtU", wh.reby
it dnt'i prod uc;; .til herbs riiid pi ints, auil otluir vo^ot iblcs; thero
is in tliis criino u seniin ;ry of all evils Imrtrul to a rft it.j ; and, if
you enn-id -rthe re ison of it, it nm-t needn 1)0 so.

Tlio 1 iv/ is thit which pnt.sa dilfMvnee hi'twixtt^ood and I'vil,—
betwixt ju>t ;'!id unjust. If you tikeaw.y tin; liw, all thiuj-s will
fall into ;i eoni'usion. Every nmn will b^-conu u l.iw to himself,
which, in the de[)raved condition of hum m nature, nui-t needs
produce m my great enorniities. Lu>t will become a liw, aud
envy will b 'Come a liw; covetousnes.s and ambition will b enmo
law.s; and w!i:tt dietites, w'lat (l-cisions, ..such 1 iws will j)r<Mliico,
may easily be discv'rned in the late j;overnm<'nt of In'lmd ! The
law is the sd'e^-uird, the custody of all private intore-tJ. Your
honors, your lives, your lib. rties and cst.ites, are all in the keep-
inj; of tlie liw. Withimt this, every mm liith a like ri.;iit to
cvcrythin;; and such is the condition into which the Irloh wore
brought by tlie E irl of Str.ifTord!

Tiiis arblti-iry and tyrannic d power, which the E irl of .Straflord
did exercise with his own person, and to which he did a l\is i his
Majo>ty. is inconsistent wit!i tlie pence, the wealth, the prosp.>rlty,
of a nation ; it is destructive to justice, t!ie m'>ther of peace ; to

indu t!

y, the .spr

ill' of wealth ; to valor, which is t!ie active

virtue wh Toby only the prosperity of a nation can be pro lueed,
contirmed, and enl irLi'cd. It is the end of {government, t!i:t virtue
fihould be cherished, vice sui)prc.sscd ; but where this arbitrary
and utdiiiiiti^l power is set up, a way is open, not only for the
security, hnl for the adv mceiuont and cncour i_^emeiit, of evil.
It is t!io end of Goverimient, that all accidents and events, all
counstds ;n»d designs, should be improved to the public uood ; bui
this arbitrary power would dispose all to the inaiutenauco of
itself.

now PATRIOTS MAY BE MADE.

Sm ROBERT WALPOLE. BOa:» 1'j7G ; DIED ITl."!.
ON A MOTION FOR DISMI891NO HIM FUOM HIS MAJE.STV'S OOUNCir., I7t0.

It has b'on ob-erved, Mr. Spcnkor, by several i;-<'ntleurn, in
vindicition of this motion, that, if it .should be c irri'd, neither
my life, liberty nf>r estate will be affected. IJut do tlie h<^norabl«
{Tcntlemon con-^idor my character and reputation as of no moment?
la it no imput ttion to bo arraigned before this House, iu which I

'■ ■

h'.

i •

'II

r '

192

Oratorical Selectiont,

have fl it forty years, and to have my name transmitted to posterity
with dis;^race and infamy? I will nut conceal my sentiments, that
to be named in Parli iment as a subject of incjuiry, is to mo a
m:itter of ^^rcat concern ; but I have the SJitisfaction, at the same
time, to reflect tliat the impression to bo made depends upon the
consistency of the charge, and the motives of the prosecutorg.
Had the charge been reduced to specific alleviations, I should have
felt myself called upon for a specific defence. Had I served a
weak or wicked mast<!r, and implicitly obeyed his dictates, obe-
dience to his commands must have been my only justification.
But, as it has been my good fortune to serve a m.istcr who wanta
no bad ministers, and would have hearkened to none, my defence
must rest on my own conduct. The consciousness of innocence
is sufficient support against my present prosecutors.

Survey and examine the individuals who usually support the
measures of Government, and those who arc in opposition. Let
us see to whose side the balance preponderates. Look round both
Houses, and see to which side the balance of virtue and talents
preponderates. Are all those on one side, and not on the other?
Or are all tliese to be counterbalanced by an affected claim to the
exclusive title of patriotism ? Gentlemen have talked a great deal
about patriotism. A venerable word when duly practised ! But
I am "^orry to say that of late it has been so much hackneyed about,
that it is in dinger of falling into disgrace. The very idea of true
patriotism is lost; and the term has been prostituted to the very
worst of purposes. A patriot. Sir I — Why, patriots spring up like
mushrooms ! I could raise fifty of them in four-and-twcnty hours.
I have raised many of them in one night. It is but refusing to
gratify an unreasonable or an insolent demand, and up stiirts a
patriot. I have never been afraid of making patriots ; but I dis-
dain and despise all their efibrts. This pretended virtue proceeds
from personal malice, and from disappointed ambition. There is
not a man amongst them whose particular aim I am not able to
ascertain, and from what motive he has entered into the lists of
opposition J

MR. BURKE OJT C0NCILIATIN(5 tHB COLONIES.

The proposition is peace. Not p^ce, through the medium of
war; not peace, to be hunted through the labyrinth of intricate
and endless negotiations ; not peace, to arise out of universal
discord, fomented from principle, in all parts of the empire ; not
peaoe, to depend on the juridioal determination of perplexing

Oratorical Selectiont,

193

questions, or the precise marking of the shadowy boundaries of a
complex government: it is simple peace: sought in its natural
course, and in its ordiniiry haunts. It la peace, sought in the
spirit of peace, and laid in principles purely pacific. I propose,^
by removing the ground of the difference, and by restoring the
former unsuspecting confidence of the colonies in the mother
country, — to give permanent satisfactiou to your people ; and
(far from a scheme of ruling by discord,) to reconcile them to
each other, in the same act, and by the bond of the very same
interest, which reconcHes them to British government.

I mean to give peace. Peace implies reconciliation ; and,
where there has been a material dispute, reconciliation does, in a
manner, imply coucession on the one part or the other. In this
state of thingH, I make no difficulty in affirmitig that the proposal
ought to originate from us. Great and acknowledged force U not
impaired, either in effect or in opinion, by an uiiwiliinyiossi to
exert itself The superior power may offer peace with honor
and safety. Such rtn offer from such a power will be attributed to
magnanimity. But the concessions of the weak are Uie conces-
aions of fear. When such a one i^ disarmed, ho is wholly at the
mercy of his superior ; and he loses forever that time, and those
chanceo, which, as they happen to all men, are the strength and
resources of all inferior power.

My hold of the colonies is in the close affection which grows
from common names, from kindred blood, from similar privileges,
and equal protection. Those are ties which, though light as air,
yet are as strong as the links of iron. Let the colonies always
keep the idea of their civil rights associated with your govern-
ment, — they will cling and grapple to you ; and no force under
heaven will be of power to tear them from their allegiance. But
let it bo once understood, that your government may bo one thing,
and their privileges another; that these two things may eiisi
without any mutual relation ; — the cement is gone, the cohesion
is loosened ; and everything hastens to decay and dissolution. As
lontj im you have the wisdom to keep the sovereign authority of
this cunntry as the sanctuary of liberty, as the sacred temple
consec.'.nted to our commou faith ; wherever that chosen race —
the sons of Bn;;4 md — worship freedom, they will turn their faces
tov\ards you. The more they multiply, the more friends will you
have ; the more ardently tbey love liberty, the more perfect will
bo their obedience. Slavery they can have anywhere. It is a
wood that grows in every soil. But, until you become lost to all
feeling of your true interest and your natural digYiity, freedom
tbcy can have from none but you. This is the commodity of
price, of which vou have the monopoly. This is the true act of

* m

f .

■t ;:

i:)l

194

Oratorical Selections,

nariG^ation, wliioh binds to you the commGrco of the colonics ;
and throti;grh thoni, socuros to you tlio wealth of the world. Deny
them this pai'ticip.ttiou of freedom, and you break that Hole bond
which made orisjjinally, and must still preserve tha unity of the
empire. Donot ent(!rt;iin so weak nn im;(<j;i nation, as that your
re^ristors, and your bonds, your affidavits, and your HufFerances,
your eockets, and your clo.irances, f »rm the «jroat securities of
yotir comranroo. Do not dream tliat your letters of office, and
your instructions, and your B'lsnendiu^ clauscj^, are the things
th it hold toi^ethor the gro.it oonfcjxturo of this mysterious whole.
Thnso things do not make your govcrnmont. Djad instruments,
pissivo tools as they are, it is the sniritcf tho Huglisli commiinioQ
tiiat ^ves to them their lifo and enioacy. It is the spirit of the
Knglish constitution, which, infused through the mighty mass,
porvulos, feeds, unites, invigorates, vivifies every part of the
empire, even down to the minutest menibsr.

Is it not the same virtue which does everytliing for us here in
England ? Do you imagine, then, that it is the land t ix act which
raises your revenue ? that it is the annu il rote in the committee
of supply which gives you your army? or that it is the Mutiny
Bill wliich inspires it with bravery and discipline ? No I surely
no! It is the love of the people; it is their attichracnt to their
government, from the senho of the deep stake they have in such
a gliirious institution, which gives you your army and your navy ;
and infuses into both that liberal obedience, without which your
army would bo a base rabble, and your navy nothing but rotten
timber.

All this, I know well enough, will sound wild and chimerical
to tiie profmo herd of those vulgar and mechanical politicians
who have no place among us ; a sort of people, who think that
nothing exists but what is gross and miterial; and who, there-
fore, fir from being qualified to bo directors of the great move-
mant of empire, are not fit to turn a wheel in the machine. But,
to raon truly initiated and rightly taught, these ruling principles —
which, in the opinion of such mon as I have mentioned, have no
substantial existence — are in truth, everything and all in all.
Magnanimity in politics is not seldom the truest wisdom : and a
groat empire and little minds go ill together. If we are conscious
of our situation, and glow with a zeal of filling our places as
becomes our station and ourselves, we ought to auspicate all our
public proceedings on Amrica with the old warning of the
Church, Sursum Cordal We ought to elevate our minds to ihe
greatness of* that trust, to which the order of Providence has
called us. By adverting to the dignity of this high calling, our
ancestors have turned a savage wilderness into a glorious empire ;

Oratorical Selections,

195

colonies ;
1. Deny
4olc bond
ty of the
:,luit your
ilTorinces,
urltiDS of
)fficc, and
lie tiiingfl
lus wliolo.
truinonts,
tmintinion
rit ol' the
lity muss,
rt of the

U8 here in
act wliich
committee
lie Mutiny
ifo ! surely
ut to their
Lvo in such
Uur navy ;
vhich your
but rotten

chimerical
politicians
think that
vl\o, thero-
roat move-
ine. But,

inciplca —

d, hiive no

all in all.

lom* und a

e conscious

places as
ate all our
ing of the
inds to i-he
idcnce has
caUiui?, our
us empire ;

and have made the most extensive, and the only honourable
conquests, not by destroying, but by promoting the wealth, the
number, the happiness of the human race.

THE FIRST STEP TO RECONCILIATION WITH

\MERICA.

EARL or OBATniir, ikJ. 20th, 177'), ON niS motion to withdraw TO!

BR1TI8U TltU01>3 FROM BUSTON.

In reganl to this speech, wo find \n the diary of Josiah Quincy, jr., ths
following m'^morandiiin : ''Attetided tiio dubiiloi in tlio lioune of Lords.
G.)<).l fortuui' sciivc me one of the bcit ))livcn3 for lioarinjf, an I taking a few
minutes. Lord (/hatlmin ro<o like Miirci'lliis. His I.i;i.r;i;ige, voice and
Rest ire, were naoro |»ath"tic than I ever saw or heard b>'fore, at the Har or
oe la'c. lie seemed like an old Roman Senator, rising with the dignity of
ago, yet speaking with th. firit of youth." Dr. Franklin, who was also
prc/!ont at the dobatr', said of this soeech, that " he ha I seen, iu the course
of his life, somoiiincs eloquence without wisdom, and often wisdom without
eloquence; m th'J present instance, ho saw both united, and both, as be
thought, in tho highest degree possible.'' —StrjenCs !S'.a>i<iird c^penk^r.

America, my Lords, cinnot be reconciled to this country — she
ought not to be roconcik'd — till the troops of Uritiin are with-
drawn. How can Amorica tru-t you, with the biyonet at her
broLst? How c;in she suppose that you mom less tlian boniJ:ige
or do ith ? I thoreforo movo that an address be pi^scnted to hia
Majesty, .advising that iuiin'odiato orders bo dispatched to GiMioral
Gago, for removing iiis Maj'^sty's forces from the town of Boston.
Tlio way must be immediately opened for reconciliation. It will
soon be too late. An hour now lost in all tying ferments in
America may produce years of ciltmity. Never will I desert, for
a moment, the conduct of this weighty business. Unless nailed to
my bed by the extremity of sickness, I will pursue it to the end.
I will knock at the door of this slaopiiig and confoundjd Ministry,
and will, if it be possible, rouse them to a sense of their dinger.

I contend not for indulgence, but for justice, to America.
Wiiat is our right to persist in such crnel and vindictive acts
against a loyal, respect able people ? They say you have no right
to tax them without their consent. They say truly, llepreson-
tition and taxation must go together ; they are inseparable. I
therefore urge and conjure your Lordships immediately to jtdopt
this conciliating measure. If illegal violences have been, as it is
B.iid, committed in America, prep ire the way — open the door of
po.sibility — for acknowledgment and satisfaction; but proceed not
to such coercion — such proscription : cea.se your indiscriminate
inflictions; ameroe not thirty thousand; oppress not three

L^-

196

Oratorical Seleeiionii,

millions ; irritato thora not to unnpponfnblo r.inoor, for tho f lult of
forty or fifty. Such severity of injustien must forever render
incurable tlie wounds you h.ivo inflicted. Wh it thouc::h you nnrch
from town to town, from province to province ? What thotijjh
you enforce a temporary and local submission ; — how shall you
secure tho obedience of tho country you loivo behind yoti in your
pro:rress ? — How grasp the dominion of eighteen liundrod miles of
coiititient, populous in numbers, strong in valor, liberty, and tho
me ifis of resistance ?

Tho spirit which now resists your taxation, in America, is the
same which formerly opposed loans, benevolences and ^hip-money,
in Kn;^land ; — the s imo spirit which called all Rni::^l uid on its legs,
and, by tho Bill of Ilights, vindicated ho En^li-h Constitution ; —
the same spirit which established tho great fundamental essential
maxim of your liberties, thatno suhjcrtof EiKjldnd ahdlhe tKXrd
hut hif his own consent. This glorious Whig spirit animites three
millions in Am'.'rici, who prefer poverty, with liberty, to giMcd
chains and sordid affluence; and who will die in def^-nce of their
rights as man, as freemen. What shall oppose this spirit, aid:)d
by tlio congcnl d flame glowing in tho breast of every Wliij in
England? " 'Tis liberty to liberty engaged," that they will
defend themselves, their fimilies, and their country. In tliis
great cause they are immovably allied ; it is the alliance of Ood
and nature, — immutable, eternal, — fixed as tho firmament of
heaven. i

[.'!

MAGNANIMITY IN POLITICS, 1775.^

\ EDMUND BITRKE. OORN 1730 ; DIBD 1797.

A REVENUE from America, transmitted hither? Do not
delude yourselves I You naver cm receive it — no not a shilling I
Let the colonies always keep the idea of their civil rights asso-
ciated with your governraMit, ai^l they will cling and grapple to
you. These are ties which, though light as air, are strong as links
of iron. But let it once be understood that your government may
be one thing and their privileges another, — tho cement is gone, tUe
cohesion is loosened. Do not entertain so we ik an imagination as
th it your registers and your bonds, your affidavits and your suf-
ferances, your cockcts and your clearances, are what form the great
securities of your commerce. These things do not make your
Government. Dead instruments, passive tools, as they are, it is
the spirit of the English communion that gives all their life and
e£&cacy to them. It is the spirit of the English Constitution,

Oratorical Selectiom.

197

f mlt, of
^r render
ou nnrch
it thotigh
shall you
u in your
J milos of
f, and tlio

lea, is the
ip-monoy,
)ii its lugs,
itution ; —

1 o>«scnti;d
lllctnxfd
latcs throe

to gililcd
;c of their
irit, iiidad
y Whij in
they will
. In this
hco of (jrod
lament of

irhioh, infused throngh the mighty miis!^, pervadcn, feeds, unites,
invigorates, vivifies, every part of the empire, oven down to the
minutest member.

Do you im jgino that it is the land tax which raises your revenue?
that it is the annual vote in the oommlttoo of supply which gives
you your army? or that it i^ the Mutiny Bill which inspires it
with bravery and discipline 7 No! Sur.iy no I It is the love of
the poople ; it is their att lolim jnt to ili-'ir Government from the
sense of the deep stake they have in atach a glorious institution,
which gives you your army and your n iry, and infuses into both
that liberal obedience, without which your array would be a base
rabhle, and your navy nothing but rotten timber.

All this, t know well enough, will sound wild and chimerical to
the profane herd of those vulgar and mechanical politicians who
have no place among us ; a sort of people who think that nothing
exists but what is gross and material ; and who, therefore, far from
being qu ilificd to be directors of the great movement of empire,
are not fit to turn a wheel in the machine. But, to men truly
initiated and rightly taught, these ruling and master principles,
which, in the opinion of such men as I have mentioned, have no
substantial existence, are, in truth, everything, and all in all.
Magnanimity in politics is not seldom the truest wisdom ; and a
great empire and little minds go ill together. Let us get an
American revenue, as we have got an American empire. English
privileges have made it all that it is; English privileges alone will
make it all it can be 1

Do not

a shilling I
fjhts asso-
grapple to
:; as links
nmcnt may
s gone, tUe
liuation as
i your suf-
11 the great
make your
J arc, it is
ir life and
mstitution,

PATRICK HENRY'S ADDRESS TO THE AMERICAN

CONGRESS.

[Tlonry wag an American patriot, who distinguished himself by speeches
opposing Great Britaia, at the breaking out of the rerolutiouarj war.]

Mr. President, — It is natural to man to indulge in the
illusions of hope ; we are apt to shut our eyes against the painful
truth, and listen to the song of that syren, till she transforms us
into beasts. Is this the part of wise men engaged in a great and
arduous struggle for liberty ? Are we disposed to bo of the
number of those who, having eyes, see not, and having ears hear
not» the things which so nearly concern our temporal salvation ?
For my part, whatever anguish of spirit it may cost, I am willing
to know the whole truth ; to know the worst, and to provide for it

108

Oratorical Selectiont.

• t

I have but one lamp, by which my feet are guided ; and that is
the lamp of experience. I know of no way of judging of the
future but by the past. And judging by the past, I wish to know
what there has been in the conduct of the British ministry for
the last ten years to justify those hopt^s with which gentlemen hnvo
buen plcused to .solace themselves and the House ? Is it that
insidious nmile with which our petition has b?en lately received?
Trust it not, Sir, it will prove a snare to your feet ; suffer not
yourselves to be betrayed with a ki&s. Ask yourselves how this
gracious reception of our petition comports with those warlike
preparations which cover our waters and darken our land. Aro
fleets and armies necessary to a work of love and reconciliation ?
Have we shown ourselves so unwilling to be reconciled, that force
must be called in to win back our love ? Let us not deceive our-
selves, Sir. These are the implements of war and subjugation,
the last arguments to which kings resort. I ask gentlemen. Sir,
what means this martial array, if its purpose be not to force us to
submission ? Cm gentlemen assign any other possible motive for
it? Has Great Britain any enemy in this quarter of the world, to
call for all this accumulation of navies and armies? No, Sir, she
has none. They are meant for us: they c>in be meant for no
other. They are sent over to bind and rivet upon us those chains
which the British ministry have been so long forging. jL»nd what
have we to oppose to them? Shall we try argument? Sir, we
have been trying that for the last ton years. Have we anything
now to off(?r upon iho subject ? Nothing. We have held it up in
every light of wiucii it is cupaulti ; but it has been all ia v.uq.
Shall we resort to entreaty and humble supplication ? What terms
ehall we find which have not been already exhausted ? Let us not,
I beseech you. Sir, deceive ourselves longer. Sir, we have done
everything that could bo do!ie to avert the storm which is now
coming on. We have petitioned, we have remonstrated, we have
supplicated, we have prostrated ourselves before the throne, and
implored its interposition to arrest the tyrannical hands of the
ministry and parliament. Our petitions have been slighted, our
remonstrances have produced additional violence and insult, our
yupplications have been disregarded, and we have been spurned with
contempt from the foot of the throne. In vain, after these things,
may we indulge the fond hope of peace and reconciliation. There
ia no longer any room for hope. If we wish to bo free, if we wish
to preserve inviolate those inestimable privileges for which we
have been so long contending, if we mean not basely to abandon
the noble struggle in which we have been so long engaged, and
which we have pledged ourselves never to abandon until the glorious
object of our coutcst shall be obtained, we must fights— I rc^^^at it,

Oratoneal Selecttom,

199

Sir, we must fip;ht ! An appeal to arms, and to the God of hosts,
is till that is left us 1

They tell us, Sir, that we are weak — unable to cope with so
formidable an adversary. But when shall we be stronger ? Will
it bo the next week, or the next year ? Will it be when we are
totally disarmed, and when u British guard shall be stationed in
every house ? Shall we gather strength by irresolution and
inuctiou ? Shall we acquire the means of effectual resistance by
lying supinely on our backs, and hugging the delusive phantom of
hope until our enemies siiall have bound us hand and foot ? Sir,
wo are not weak, if wo make a proper use of those means which
the God of nature hath placed in our power. Three millions of
people, armed in the holy cause of liberty, and in such a country as
that Avhich we possess, are invincible by any force which our
enemy can send against us. Besides, Sir, we shall not fight our
battles alone. Tliere is a just God who presides over the destinies
of nations, and who will raise up friends to fight our battles for
us. The battle. Sir, is not to the strong alone ; it is to tho
vigilant, the active, the brave. Besides, Sir, we have no election.
If we were b;ise enough to desire it, it is now too late to retire
from the contest : there is no retreat but in submission and
slavery. Our chains are forged; their clanking may be heard on
the plains of Boston : the war is inevitable, and let it come ; I
rope it it, Sir — let it come 1 It is in vain, Sir, to extenuate the
m;itter. Gentlemen may cry peace, peace ! but there is no peace I
Thu war is actually b,.\gun I The next g:ilc that sweeps from the
north will bring to our o ira tlio clash of resouu'ling arms ! Our
bri'thren arcf already in the fiold! why stand we hero idle ! What
is it that gentlemen wisli? What would they have? Is lifo so
dear, or peace so sweet, as to be ])urehased at the price of chains
and slavery ? Forbid it. Almighty God 1 I know not what
course others may take j but as for me — give me liberty, or give
me death 1

ENGLAND AND AMERICA.

BIK-JAMES MACKIMOSH. BORV 1765 ; DIED 1832.

The laws of England, founded on principles of liberty, are ptill,
in subst m"'', the code of America. Our writers, our statutes,
the most modern decisions of our judges, are quoted in every
court of justice, from the St. Lawrence to the Mississippi. Eng-
lish law, as well as English liberty, are tho foundations on which
the legislation of America is founded. Tho authority of our jurid-

[if *■
1 '

:i ■•

200

Oratorical Selections.

prudence may survive the power of our Government for as many
ages as the laws of Homo communded the reverence of Europe,
alter the subversion of her empire. Our luufj;uage is as much
that of America as it is that of Enj^land. As America increases,
the pjlory of the great writers of England iucrtiases with it ; the
admirers of Shakspcare and of Miltou are multiplied ; the fame
of evory future Englishman of genius is more wid.'ly spread. Is
it unreasonable, then, to hope that these tics of birtli, of liberty,
of laws, of language and of literature, may in time prevail over
vulgar, ignoble, and ruinous prejudices? Tlicir itncoritors wore as
mucli the countrymen of Bacon and Newton, of Hampden and
Sydney, as ours. They are entitled to their lull sh.ire of that
inheritance of glory which has descended from our common Ibro-
fatlicrs. Neither the liberty of England, nor her genius, nor the
noble language which that genius has consecrated, is wortliy of
their disregard. All these honors arc theirs, if they choose to
preserve them. The history of England, till the adoption of
counsels adverse to liberty, is their history. We may still
preserve or revive kindred feelings. The// may claim noble ances-
tors, and we may look forward to renowned descendants, unless
adverse prejudice should dispose ^Aewi to reject those honors which
they have lawfully inherit3d, and lead us to envy that greatness
which has arisen from our institutions and will perpetuate our
fame.

;

V^'n

IMPEACHMENT OF WARREN HASTINGS, 1788.

EDUCND BDBKE.

The unremitting energy of Burke's appeals, in the prosecution of Hast-
ings, was a subjoct of wonder at the time, and is a lasting memorial of
Lid zoal in wliat, he believed an honest cause, for the admiration of pos-
terity. Ilivsiiugs himself has said of Burke's eloquence agiinst him,—" For
the iirst half-hoar, I loolcod up to the orator lu a reverie f wonder*; and
during that time, I f^ilt myself tho moit culpable ma i on e.irth." The trial
of Warren llasiings commenced in Westminster Hall, Feb. 18, 17 8. The
whole process occupied ten years, from 1785 to 179j. Oa tlie '23d of April,
17t)G, Hastings was acquitted by a large majority of the Peers.— Saiyent's
Standard Speaker,

My Lords, I do not meau now to go further than just to
remind your Lordships of this, — that Mr. Hastings' government
was one whole system of oppression, of robbery of individuals, of
spoliation of the public, and of supersession of the whole system
of the English Government, in order to vest in the worst of the
natives all the power that could possibly exist in any Government;
in order to defeat the ends which all Governments ought, in com-
mon, to have in view. In the name of the Commons of Englaudj

Oratorical Selections,

201

as many

Europe,
as much
increases,
h it ; the
the fame
read. Is
f liberty,
i3vail over
•8 were as
pdeu and
[•e of that
mon foro-
3, nor the
worthy of
choose to
[option of
may htill
)blc anccs-
ats, unless
nors which
, greatness
tuute our

1788.

on of Ilast-
nemorial of
Lion of 1)03-
liim,— " For
jadir*; and
The trial

17 8. Tlio
3d of April,

— Saryent's

,n just to
)vcrumcnt
Ividuulti, of
|ole system
)rst of the
Ivernment j
it, in com-

I charge all this villany upon Warren Hastings, in this hist
moment of my application to you.

]My Lords, what is it that we want here, to a great act of
national justice? Do we want a cause, my Lords? You have
tlie cause of the oppressed princes, of undone women of the lirst
rank, of desolated iTovinces, and of wasted kingdoms.

Do you want a criminaJ, my Lords ? When was there so much
iniquity ever laid to tlie charge of any one? — No, my Lords, you
mu:-t not look to punish any other such delinquent from India.
Warren llastini's has not left substance cuoui'h in India to
nourish such another delinquent.

My Lords, is it a prosecutor you want ? You have before you
the Commons of Great Britain as prosecutors ; and I believe, my
Lords, that the sun, in his beneficent progress round the world,
does not behold a more glorious sight than that of men, separated
from a remote people by the material bounds and barriers of
nature, united by the bond of a social and moral community ; —
all the Commons of England resenting, as their own, the indig-
nities and cruelties that arc offered to all the people of India.

Do we want a tribunal ? My Lords, no example of antiijuity,
nothing in the modern world, nothing in the range of humm
imagination can supply us with a tribunal like this. We commit
safely the interests of India and humanity into your hands.
Therefore, it is with confidence, that, ordered by the Commons,
I impeach Warren Ilastinps, Esquire, of high crimes and mis-
demeanors.

I impench him in the name e-f the Commons of Great Britnia
iQ Parliament assembled, whose parliamentary trust he has
betniyed.

I impeach him in the name of all the Commons of Great
Brit in, whose national character he has dishonored.

I izipeach him in the name of the people of India, whose laws,
rights and liberties, he has subverted ; whose properties he has
destroyed ; whose country he has laid waste and desolate.

I impeach him in the name and by virtue of those eternal laws
of justice which he has violated.

I impe;ich him in the name of human nature itself, which he
has cruelly outraged, injured and oppressed, in both sexes, in every
age, rank, situation^ and condition of life.

9I{ Hk

202 Oratorical Selection$»

MR. SHERIDAN'S INVECTIVE AGAINST
MR. HASTINGS.

Had a stranger, at this time, gone into the province of Oude,
ignorant of what had happened since the death of Sujah Dowla —
that mm who, with a savuge heart, had still great lifles of cli rao-
ter ; and who, with all his ferocity in war, bad still, with a
cultivating hand, preserved to his country the riclics whicli it
derived from benignant skies and a prolific soil ; — if this stranger,
ignorant of all that bad happened in the short interval, and
observing the wide and general devastation, and aH the horrors of
the scene — of plains unclothed and brown — of vegctiblcs burned
up and extinguished — of villages depopulated and in ruins— of
temples unroofed and perishing — of reservoirs broken down and
dry, — he would naturally inquire, what war has thus laid waste
the fertile fields of this once beautiful and opulent country ? —
what civil dissensions have happened, thus to tear asunder and
separate the happy societies that once pos.sessed these villages ?-^
what disputed succession, what religious rage, lias, with unholy
violence, demolished those temples, and disturbed fervent but
unobtruding piety in the exercise of its duties ? what merciless
enemy has thus spread the horrors of fire and sword ? what
severe visitation of Providence has dried up the fountain, and
taken from the face of the earth every vestige of verdure ? or
rather, what monsters have sfvlked over the country, tainting and
poisoning, with pestiferous breath, what the voracious appetite
could not devour ?

To such questions, what must be the answer ? No wars have
rav igcd these lands, and depopulated these villages — no civil dis-
cords have been felt — no disputed succession — no religious rage,
no merciless enemy — no affliction of Providence, which, while it
scourged for the moment, cut oflF the sources of resuscitation — no
voracious and poisoning monsters ; no ! all this has been
accompliished by the friendship, generosity, and kindness of the
English nation. They have embraced us with their protecting
arms, and, lo ! — those are the fruits of their alliance. What,
then ! shall we bo told, that, under snch circumstances, the ex:is-
perated feelings of a whole people, thus croaded and spurred on to
clamor and resistance, were excited by the poor and feeble
influence of the Begums? When we hear the description of the
fever paroxysm — delirium, into which despair had thrown the
natives, when, on the banks of the polluted Ganges, piinting for
death, they tore more widely open the lips of their gaping wounds
to accelerate their dissolution ; and, while their blood was issuing,

I •

Oratorical SelectionB,

203

[ST

le of Oude,
ih DowU —
3 of cli^rao-
tlll, with a
cs which it
lis str;m;:^cr,
nterval, and
a horrors of
iblcs burned
in ruins — of
1 down and
IS laid waste
country ? —
asunder and
s viUap;es ? —
with unholy
fervent but
lat morciless
Ivord ? what
buntain, and
verdure? or
taintinf* and
ous appetitu

wars have
no civil dis-
ijj^ious rage,
ich, while it
citation — no
has been
dness of the
protecting
nee. What,
jce, the exaa-
purred on to
■ and feeble
ption of the
thrown the
piinting for
jiping wounds
was issuing,

presented their ghastly eyes to heaven, — breathing their last and
fervent prayer, that the dry earth might not be suflFered to drink
their blood, but that it might ri.se up to the throne of God, and
louse the eternal Providence to avenge the wrongs of their
country: — Will it bo said that this was brought about by the
incaut ;tiou8 of those Begums, in their scolued Zenana? or that
they could inipire this euthu-siastn and this despair, into the
breusto of a people who felt no grievance, and had suffered no
torture ? What motive, then, could have such influence in their
bosom? Wliat motive I That, which Nature — the common
parent — plants in the bosom of m;in ; and which, though it may
be le.'^s active in the Indian than in the Englishman, is still con-!
genial with and makes part of his being — that feeling which tells
him, that man was never made to be the property of man ; but
that when, throMgh pride and insolence of power, one human
cre.ituro dares to tyrannize over another, it is a power usurped,
and resistance is a duty — that feeling, which tells him that
all power is delegated for the good, not for the injury, of tho
people ; and that, when it is converted from the original purpose,
the compact is broken, and the right is to be resumed — That
principle, which tells him, that resistance to power usurped is not
merely a duty which he owes to himself and to his neighbour, but
a duty which he owes to his God, in asserting and maintaining
the rank which He gave him in the creation ! — to that common
God, who, where He ^«ives the form of man, whatever may be the
complexion, tnves aLo the feelings and the rights of man — That
principle, which neither the rudeness of ignorance can stifle, nor
the enervation of refinement extinguish — That principle which
makes it base for a man to suffer when he ought to act — which,
tending to preserve to the species the original designations ojf
Providence, spurns at the arrogant distinctions of laan, and vindi-
cates the independent quality of his race 1

•I ■

!■*,

■1 ,; !»;■

204 Oratorical Selections.

DECLARATION OF IRISH BIGHTS, 1780.

HBMBT QBATTAN.

Henry Qrattan, one of the moat renowned of Irish oratow, was born in
Dublin, on the Srd of July, llii, and died in 1820. In December, 177;'), ho
took. Ills scat in tlie Irish lluusc of Commons ; and from that time till 1600.
he (igiircd politically in that body cbiefl/. Th* Iriih K«Tolutiou of 1782
was carried mainly by his cITortJ. Alth(m<rh a Protpulant, he was a most
earnest udvocatu of the entire emancipation of the Cathulica ft-om all invip
dious distinctions and disabilitioi. In 1805 Grattaa touk bis scat in tha
British Parliament, where ho became tho Uadiuir champion of Catholio
rights. Tho passages from hia s^ieechei in this eoUection bearinf^ date
anterior to 1805 were pronounced 1 1 tho Iriih Parliament; those of a siib-
gcquc it dato were deliTcred before the popular branch of the Imperial
Parliament. Of Grattan, wo may add ia the words of tho Rev. Sidney
Smith:— "No Government crer dismayed him ; the world could not brihe
him; ho thought only of Ireland ; lived for no other object; dedicated to
her his beautiful fancy, his manly courage, and all the splendor of his
astoaishiag eloquence." — Sargent's Standard Speaker.

Sir, I have entreated an attendance on tliis day that you miglit,
in the most public manner, deny the claim of the British Pa/lia-
meut to make law for Ireland, and with one Toice lift up your
bands against it. England now smarts under the lesson of tho
American war ; her enemies are a host, pouring upon her from all
quarters of the earth ; her armies are dispersed ; the sea is not
hers ; she hag no minister, no ally, no admiral, none in whom she
long confides, and no general whom she has not disgraced ; the
balance of her fate is in the hands of Ireland ; you are uot only
her last connection, — you are the only nation in Europe that is
not her enemy. Let corruption tremble ; but let the friends of
liberty rejoice at these means of safety, and this hour of redemp-
tion. You have done too much not to do more ; you have gono
too far not to go on ; you have brought yourselves into that situa-
tion in which you must silently abdicate the rights of your
country, or publicly restore them. Where is the freedom of
trade ? Where is the security of property ? Where is the liberty
of the people ? I therefore say, nothing is safe, satisfactory or
honorable, nothing except a declaration of rights. What! aro
you, with three hundred thousand men at your back, with charters
in ono hand and arms in the other, afraid to say you are a free
people ? If England is a tyrant, it is you have made her bo ; it
IS the slave that makes the tyrant, and then murmurs at the
master whom he himself has constituted.

The British minister mistakes the Irish character; had he
intended to make Ireland a slave, he should have kept her a
beggar. There is no middle policy : win her heart by the resto-

Oratorical Seleetiont.

205

born In
1775, h9
ill leoo.

of 1782

a most

all invi-

it in lli«
Catholic
[n^ date
of asiib-
Impcrial
-. Sid-iey
not bribe
iicatcd to
or of his

a miglit,
^ Parlisk-
up your
,n of tbo
• from all
!ca is not
;lioin slie
ced; the
Lot only
|g that is
[riends of
redemp-
|avc gono
,at Bituar
of your
icdom of
ic liberty
factory or
that! aro
charters
ire a free
,er so; it
|rs at the

had he
3pt her a
bhe resto-

pation of her rights, or cut off the nation's right hand ; greatly
eniancipito, or fundament illy destroy. Wc may t ilk plausibly to
England, but so long as she exercises a power to bind this country,
So long arc tlic nations in a sfito of war ; the claims of the one go
against the liberty of the other, and the sentiments of the latter
go to oppose those claims to the lost drop of her blood. Tho
English opposition, therefore, aro right; mere trade will not
satisfy Ireland. They judge of us by other great Nations; by
the nation whose political life h:is been a struggle for liberty-, —
America I They judge of us with h true knowledge and just
deference for our character; that a country enlightened as Ireland,
chartered as Ireland, armed as Ircl nd, and injured as Ireland, will
be s;itisfied with nothing less than liberty.

I might, as a constituent, come to your bar and demand my
liberty. I do call upon you, by t!ic laws of the land and their
viol ;tion, by the instruction of eighteen centuries, by the, arms,
inspiration and providence of tho present moment, tell us the rule
by wliich wc shall go ; assert the law of Ireland ; declare t!ie
liberty of the land. I will not bo answered by a public lie in the
shape of an amendment; neither, speaking for the subject's free-
dom, am I to hear of faction. I wish for nothing but to breathe,
in this our island, in common with my fellow-subjects, the air of
liberty. I have no ambition, unless it bo the ambition to break
your chain, and contemplate your glory. I never will be satisfiod
so long as the meanest cottager in Ireland has a link of tho British
chain clanking to his rags. lie m;iy be naked, — he shall not be
in iron. And I do see the time is at hand, the spirit is gone
forth, the declaration is planted ; and though great men should
apostatize, yet the cause will live ; and though the public speaker
should die, yet the immortal fire shall outlast the organ which
conveyed it, and tho breath of liberty, like the word of the holy
man, will not die with the prophet, but survive him.

'TT^ION^ WITH GREAT BRITAIN, 1800.

HBNRT GRATTAN.

The minister misrepresents the sentiments of tho people, as he
has before traduced their reputation. He asserts that after a c ihu
end mature consideration, they have pronounced their judgment in
favor of an union. Of this assertion not one syllabic has any
cxisti.'nce in flict, or in the appearance of fact. I appeal to tho
petitions of twenty-one counties in evidence. To affirm that tho
judgment of a nation against is /or ; to assert that she has said

I 4

lit. ''^'

i ■■

If,

J-

206

Oratorical Seleetiant.

ay when slio has pronounced no ; to mako the falsification of her
seutiments the foundation of her ruin and the ground of the
Union ; to affirm that her Parliament, Constitution, liberty, honor,
property, are taken away by her own aut'iority, — there is, in such
artifice, an clTrontery, a hardihood, an insensibility, that can best
bo answered by sensations of astonishment and dis<^st.

Tho Constitution may Wfor a lime so lost. The character of
the country cannot Im: so lo.st. The ministers of the Crown will,
or may perhai)?, at lenj^th find that it is iiot so easy, by abilities
however groat, and by power and corruption however irresistible,
to put down Ibr ever an ancient and respoctible nation. Liberty
may repair her golden b^auis, and with redoubled heat animat<; the
coautry. The cry of loyalty will not long continue against the
principles of liberty. Loyalty is a noble, a judicious, and ac.ipa-
cious principle; but in these countries loyalty, distinct from
liberty, is corruption, not loyalty.

The cry of disaffection will not, in the end, avail against the
principle of liberty. I do not give up tho country. I see her in
a swoon, but she is not. dead. Thouirh in her tomb she lies help-
less and motionless, still there is on her lips a spirit of life, and on
her cheek .a glow of beauty :

"Thou art not conquered; beauty's ensign yet
Is crimson in tliy li[)s, and in thy checlvs,
And Death's pale flag i3 not udvancdd thero."

While a plank of the vossel sticks together, I will not leave her.
Let the courtier present his flimsy sail, and carry the light bark
of his faith with every new breath of wind ; I will remain
anchored here, with fidelity to the fortunes of my country, faith-
ful to her freedoio^ faithful to her fall I

r f

SECTARIAN TYRANNY, 1812.

HENRT GRATTAN.

Whenever one sect degrades another on account of religion,
such degrad ition is the tyranny of a sect. When you enact that,
on account of his religion, no Catholic shall sit in Parliament, you
do what amounts to the tyranny of a sect. When you enact that
no Catholic shall be a sheriff, you do what amounts to the tyranny
of a sect. When you enact that no Catholic shall be a general,
you do what amounts to the tyranny of a sect. There aro two
descriptions of laws, — the municipal law, which binds the people,
and the law of God, which binds the Parliament and the people.

Oratorical Selections.

207

Whenever you do any act wliicn is contrary to His laws, as expressed
in His work, which is the worlil, or in His Book, tho Biblo, you
exceed your right ; whenever you rest any of your establishinonts
on that excess, you rest it on a foundation which is weak and f dla-
cious ; whenever you attempt to establish your Government, or
your property, or your Church, on reli;j;ious restrictions, you
establish them on that false foundation, and you oppose the
Almighty ; and though you had a host of mitres on your side, you
bani.'-h God from your ecclesiastical constitution, and freedom from
your political. In vain shall men endeavor to make this the cause
of tlie Church ; they aggravate the crime, by the endeavor to
make their God their fellow in tlie injustice. Such rights are tho
rights of ambition ; they arc the rights of conquest ; and, in your
case, they have bc^n tbo rights of suicide. They begin by attack-
ing liberty j they enu ^y the loss of empire I

AGAINST RELIGIOUS DISTINCTIONS, 1796.

ccnnAN.

Gentlemen say the Catholics have pot everything but seats in
ParU;iment. Are we really afraid of giving them that privilege ?
Arc we serioui^ly aft-aid that Catliolic venality might pollute the
immaculate integrity of the House of Commons ? — that a Catho-
lic member would be more accessible to a promise, or a pension, or
n bribe than a Protestant? Lay your hands upon your hearts,
look in one another's faces, and say Yes, and I will vote against
this amendment I But is it the fact that they have every tiling?
Is it the fact that they have the common benefit of the Constitution,
or tho common protection of tlie law ?

Another gentleman has said, tho Catholics have got much, and
ouglit to be content. Why have they got that much ? Is it
from the minister ? Is it from the Parliament, which threw their
petifcion over its bar ? No, — they got it by the great revolution
of human affairs ; by the astonlsliing march of the human mind ;
a m.irch that has collected too much momentum, in its advance,
to bo now stopped in its progress. The bark is still afloat ; it is
freiiiUtod witli the hopes and liberties of millions of men ; slie la
alreaiiy under way ; the rower may faint, or the wind may sleep,
but, rely upon it, she has already .icquired an energy of advance-
ment that will support her course and bring her to her destination ;
rely upon it, whether much or little remains, it is now vain to
withhold it ; rely upon it, you may as well stamp your foot upon tho
earth, in order te prevent its revolution. You cannot stop it !

■<

208

Oratorieat Selectiont.

You will only remain a silly gnomon upon ite surface, to measure
the rapidity of rotation, until you arc Ibrccd round and buried ia
tLo bhade of that body wliodo irre»i»tiblo course you would eudeap
vor to oppose 1

^RIS^ ALIENS AND ENGLISH VICTORIEa

snciL.

Tills brilliant appeal— one of the most eloquent In tho annala of British
oratory — is from Shoil's Spocfli on tho Irirtli Municipal iJill, in the House of
Coinnioiis. Fi'Viriiary 22il, 1837. Tlio episode was culled forth by an unfor-
tunnto expression which Ijoid Tjvnilhiirst had employed, scmo time bcl'oro,
in the IIoiiso (tf Lord-i, in alludinf? to the Irish ug'" alien?, in blood and
rcliiiion." During Slicil'.-i speech, his Lordship was sitting- under the
gallery; and it i.-i recorded that JSheil shook his head Indipr.antly at him
as he spoke. The effect upon tho House was very marked. Nearly all tho
members turnetl towards Lord Lyndliurst; and the shouts of tho Ministo-
lialists, encountered l)y the vehement out«ric3 of the Conservatives, coa-
tinned for some minutes. — SaryenCa Standard Speaker.

I SHOULD bo surprised, indeed, if, while you arc doing us wrong,
you did not profess your solieitudo to do us justice. From the
day on which Strongbow set his foot upon the shore of Ireland,
Enizlishmen were never wantinj^ in protestations of their deep
ftnxioty to do us justice; — even Strafford, the deserter of the
people's cause, — tho rcne<]:;ade Wentworth, who gave evidence in
IreLind of the spirit of instinctive tyranny which predominated in
his character, — even Stnfford, while he trampled upon our rights,
and trod upon the heart of the country, protested his solicitude
to do justice to Ireland ! AVhat marvel is it, then, that gentle-
men opposite should deal in such vehement protostitions ? There
is, however, one man, of great abilities, — not a member of this
House, but whose t tlents and whose boldness have placad him in
the topmost place in his party, — who, disdaining all imposture,
and thinking it the best coTsrse to appeal directly to the religious
and national antipathies of the people of this country, — abandon-
ing all reser^^e, and flinging off the slender veil by which his politi-
cal associates affect to cover, although they cannot hide, their
motives, — distinctly and audaciously tcslls the Irish people that
they are not entitled to the same privileges as Englishmen ; and
pronounces them, in any particular which could enter his minute
enumeration of the circumstances by which fellow-citizenship is
created, in race, identity and religion, to be aliens ; — to be aliens
in race, to be aliens in country, to bo aliens in religion I Aliens !
good God 1 was Arthur, Duke of Wellington, in the House of

Oratorical Selections.

209

Lords, — an'l (1I«1 lio not start up nnd excliini, " TTold ! I II WE

8Ei:\ niK ALIKNS DO TlIElll 1)1 TV ! " THO DukiJ ol" \\'t Hill'',
toil is iiiita lu 111 ol' an oxcitiljlc tL'm|)er,ini Mit, U.is iiiiiid is ol" a
cast t'K) imrtial to bo oasily luoveil ; hut, notwitlitdiii'liu^ his
Labitiiil inflexibility, I eaiiiidt liclp tliiiikini; tij it, when Ii" h arj
bis Ii")!ii.in C itholic coiiiiLrynion (li»r we. in' bis country ui, mi) ^L^i^-
nat" I by a ])hr.tsu as ollViisiv;; as tlic abundant voeibui.ry of !ii.^
('lo(lU'.'nt contoderato could >-upnl3', — I c iniiot hclj) tiiinkin^ tiiat
bo ou^lit to liavo rocoUeeto I (bo many lields <•!' Dght in wliicli wo
bav(! bc;'ji contributors to jii.s renown. '• Tlie bittles, >-iji:os,
IbrtuiK M that bo has pas-^od," ou^bt to have eoju'^ b c'c u;)')m iiiin.
II(! ouLjht to have ri.'iueiubered tbit, from the oirlie>t achi 'veni -nt
in whieh lie displayed that military genius wliieb baa pi icod liim
^brem(»^t in tho annals ol' niodcr!i warfare, down to that last and
surpassing combat wliieh has made bis u uno imj) ri^b iblc, — iVom
Assayo to Waterloo, — tho Irish soldiers, with wiioin your arniios
arc liJlod, wero the inseparable auxiii iri.s to the glory wit!i which
his uiii):iralleled successes have been crcjwned. Whoso wero the
arms that drove your bayonets at Vimiera through the phal mxe3
that never reeli'd in tho shock of war b.foro ? What tlcsper ato
valor climbed the steeps and lillcd the moats at Badajos ? -•= All
bis victories should liavo rushed and crowded back upon bis
memory, — Vimiera, Badajos, Salamanca, Albuera, Toulouse, and,,

last of all, tho groate^;t . Tell me, — fur yai wero there, —

I ajipeal to the gdlant soldier before me (Sir llonry Ilarduige),
from whoso opinions 1 dilfer, but who bears, I know, a generous
heart in an intrepid breast ; tell mc, — for you iuu>t needs remem-
ber, — on that day when the destinies of mankind were trrmbling
in tho balance, wbiio death fell in showers, wIimu the artli^jry of
Franca was levelled witb a precision of the most dwadJy sci-Miee, —
when her legions, incited by tiic voice and in>|iired by the examplo
of their mighty loader, ru.sbed tigain and agaki to the onset, — tell
me il', for an instant, when to besit;te for an instant was to b:^
lost, tho *' aliens " blenched? And when, at length, the moment
for the last and decided movement bad arrived, and the valor
which bad so long been wisely checked was, at last, let loos.^, —
when, witb words familiar, but immortal, t'ac great captain com-
manded the groat assault, — tell mo if Catholic Ircl uid witii I '.-s
heroic valor than the natives of this your own glorious country
precipitated herself upon tho foe ? The blood of England, ^^eot-
land, and of Ireland, flowed in the same stream and dronch;'d the
sumo field. When the cbill morning dawned, their dinid l.iy cold
and stark together; — in the some deep pit tucir bodies wero

* Pronounced Ba-dah-yhot.

210

Oratorical Seleciions,

dcpo-tifc-'d ; thu j^roon corn oP sprln; i^ now broikln'nf from their
C()iuiuiiij;lu'.l (lust; tht! (low laHs i'vmn liciveu upon tlufir union in
til ! ii,ri\o l*ii-tiki;rs in ovory imril, in tiio ;rlory hUuII wo not bo
p,!iiuitt.!(l t) pirtioipiti ; and sli.iil wa h) told, tn a njcjuitd, that
wu ;ir.! e.stran^(!il IVoin tiio uoblo cou.itry Ibr who:so salvation our
lil'c-blood \v.i8 poured out ?

«i

THE LEGISLATIVE UXTOX, 1834

BIR nOBKIlT I'EKL. Bon.Nl78.3; UIKI> 13j0.

I WANT no array of fi-uro'*, I \v;int no official documf^nts, I want
no Hpjoches of nix liourn, to establish to my natisfiction tlio public
policy of niiintainin;^ tho J^ciisl itivo Union. I fool and know
that the rcpoal of it must livid to t!ie di-'tnombi-'rmentof this f.^reat
empire, must make Gi-ett Britain a fourtli rate power of Europe,
und Irid and a Hivai^c wilderness ; and I will ^ive, therofbrt', at once,
and without hesititi(»n, an cmpliatio negative to the motion for
repeal. There are triitlis whicli lie too deep for ar:^unicnt, — truths,
to tlie cstiblishmont of which the evidence of tho senses, or the
feelini^s of the heart, havo contributed ujore than tho slow process
of reasoninj^; — whicli are graven in deeper characters than any
thtit reason can cither impress or eflfic \ When Doctor Johnson
was asked to refute tho arguments for the non"Cxistc;ice of matter,
he stamped his foot upon the jj;round, ;.nd exclaimed, '* I refute
thorn thus." When Mr. Cannini; he ird the first whisper in this
House of a rcp(!al of the Union, this was all tho answer he vouch-
Baf'd, — tlic eloquent and indi'^n ant answer, tho tones of which arc
Btill familiar to any car,—" Kepeal the Union ? llcstore the Hep-
tarchy ! "

Thirty-three years ii ive now elapsed since tho passing? of the Act
of Union; — a short p-riud, if you count by the hipso of time; but
it is a period into whie'i tho events of centuries liave been crowded.
It includes the conim 'ncoment and tlie closo of tho most tremen-
dous conflict whieh ever desolated t!ie world. Notwitlii^t mding
the then recent convulsions in Treliud, — aotwithstundin':^- tlio dis-
satisfaction expressed with the Union, — the United Empire, that
had been incorporated only three years before tho commencement
of the war, escaped the Ccdtimities to which other nations were
•exposed. In our <>\illant armies no distinction of Englishmen and
Irishmenwas known; noneof the vile jealousies, which this motion,
if successful, would j:;cnerato, impaired the energies which were
exerted by all in defence of a common country. That country

Oratorical Selectlom.

did not bestow its rowards with a partial hand. It did not,
bccauHO tlicy Wi.iro Irlshiui'ii, jny ;i \c<n .sincere or \r<H willing liom igo
to tUo glorious niifiuory of a I'onsonby and a P.ikciihain. Castlo-
rcagli and Canning ll)ii;^'lit in the haino ranks with Pitt; iind
Grattan took his places, in tlio great contests of party, by the Hido
of Fox. The niijestio oik of thi? forj>t wi.s transpl lut 'd, but it
shot its roots deep in a richer and more congenial soil. Above all,
to an Irishman — to that Arthur Wijlleshiy, who, in the cmphatio
words of tlio learned gentlimin (Mr. 811011), '"eclipsed bis mili-
tary victories by the splendor uf his civil triumphs" — to him was
committed, with the unanimous assent and conlidenceof a generous
country, the great and glorious task of eftecting the deliveranco
of tho world. Who is that Irishman, who, recollecting these
things, has the spirit and the heart to propose that Ireland shall bo
defrauded for the future of her share of such high achievementi ;
that to her the wide avenues to civil and military glory shall be
hereafter closed ; that the faculties and energies of her sons shall
be forever stunted by being cramped within the paltry limits of a
small island ? Surely, Sir, we owe it to the memory of the illus-
trious brave, who died in defending this great empire from dis-
memberment by the force and genius of Napoleon, at least to savo
it from dismemberment by tho iguoblc cucjiics that now assail it I

ME,- (LORD) BROUGnAM ON THE STATE OF

THE LAW.

After a long interval of various fortune, and filled with vast
events, we are agaiu called to the grand labor of surveying and
amending our laws. For this task it well becomes us to begird
our.sclvcj, as tho honest representatives of the people. Despatch
and vigor arc imperiously dimianded ; but that deliberation, too,
must not be lost sight of, which so mighty an enterprise requires.
When we shall have done the work, wo may fairly challenge the
utmost approval of our constituents ; for in none other have they
so deep a stake.

In pursuing the course which I now invite you to enter upon,
I avow that I look for tho co-operation of the king's Government',
and on what arc my hopes founded ? Men gather not grapes from
thorns, nor figs from thistles; but that the vine should no longer
yield its wonted fruit— that the fig-tree should refuse its natural
increase, — required a miracle to strike it with barrenness. But,
whether I have the support of the Ministers or no, to the House
I look, with confident expectation, that it will control them, and

212

Oratorical Selections.

N''

!MI

1 'ii

' ii

assist, mc ; if I go too far, chocking my progress; if I go too
fast, ;ibtting my speed; but heartily and honestly lielpiiig me, in
tlio best and greatest work which the hands of the lawgiver cm
undertake. Tiie course is clear belbre us; the race is glorious to
run. You have tlic power of sending your name down tin-ongh
all times, illustrated by deeds of higher f ime and more uso'ful
import tli.in ever were done within these walls. You f-; iw tlio
gre.t 'st warrior of the {.ge — conqueror of Italy — humbler of
Gcrni;ny — terror of the North — you saw him {lecount all his
m iteliless victories poor, compared wi«feh the tiium])h which you
are now in a condition to win ! — saw him contemn the fi('ltloness
of fortune, while, in despite of her, ho could i>ronouneo his
memornble bo.st — " I shall go down to posterity with my code in
my hand I" You have vaiujuished him in the fii-ld : strive now
to riv.d him in the sacred aits of peace ! Outstrip him a.s a 1 iw-
givi-r, whom, in arms, you overcime ! The lustre of the Hcgency
will be eclipsed by the more solid and enduring splendor of the
Reign. Tho praise which false courtiers feigned for our I'Mwirds
and Harrys, — the Justini nisof tiieir day, — will be the jubt tribute
of tlie wi.-e and the good, to tliat monarch under whose swav so
mighty an undert.iking shall be accomplished. Of a truth,
Bceptros arc cliiefly to be envied, for that tliey bestow the power of
thiis conquering and ruling. It was the boast of AuiiUrtu-j — it
formed pirt of the glare in whieii the perfidies (tf his earlier
years were lost — that he found Home of brick, and lei'fc it of
marble': a praise not unwortliy a great prince, and to which the
present reign has its cl lims also. JJut how much nobler will bo
our sovereign's boast, when he shall have it to say, that he liiund
law dear, and left it che:!]) ; found it a se:iled book, — hit it an
open letter; Ibund it tlie j.atrimony of the rich,— lel't it the
inheritance of the poor ; found it the two-edged sword of craft
and oppression, — left it the ;4;ft' of honesty, .and tlie shield of
innoccuce! To me, much reflecting on these things, it lias jihvays
seemed u worthier honor to be the instrument of making you
bestir 3-ourselves in this high nrtter, titan to enjoy all that ollice
can bestow —office, of which the patronage would be irksome
incumbrance, the emoluments superlluous, to one, content, with
the re;-t of his industrious lllluw-citizens, that his own ijands
minister to his wants; and as ibr the power supposed to follew it
— I have lived nearly half a century, and I liave learni.'d that
pov»-er and place may be severed, liut one power I do jijize —
that of being tiie a.dvocate of my countrymen here, and their
fellow-laborer elsewhere, in those tilings which concern the best
interests of mankind. That power, I know full well, no govern-
ment can }.''"«? -no ciiange take uwuy I

Oratorical Selections,

213

THE FATE OF THE REFORMER, 1830.

LORD BROUGHAM,

I HAVE heard it saidth;it, when ono lifts up liis voico against tilings
that a IV, an 1 wishes for *. change, he is raising a clamor a<^iiast
existiii.^- institutions, aclamor ai^tiiist our venerable establisliiu^Us,
a clamir a^iin>-t tlie law of the land; but tliis is no clanujj" a;j:;ain.st
the one or tLe other, — it is a clamor against the abu^e of tUem all.
It is a clamor r.iised against t'ac grievances that are felt. Mr.
Bui'ke, wlio was no friend to popular excitement, — who was no
ready tool of agitation, no hot-headed enemy of existing est iblish-
meiit.-, no undorvaluer of the wisdom of our ancestors, no scoffer
agaiu.st institutions as they are, — has said, and it deserves to bo
fixed, in letters of j;old, over the hail of every assembly which
calls itriclf a legislative body — *' Where there is abuse, there
ouaiiT TO BE clamor; because it is better to have oua

SLUMBER BllOKEX BY THE FIRE-BELL, THAN TO PERISH, AMIDST
THE FLAME.-?, IX OUR BED." I havo bccn told, by some who
have little objection to the clamor, that I am a timid and a mock
reform M- ; and by others, if I go on firmly and steadily, and do
not allow myself to be driven aside by either one outcry or another,
and c ire for neither, that it is a rash and dangerous innovation
whie'i I propound ; and that I am taking, for the subject of my
reckle-s experiment'', thing* which arc the objects of all men's
veni'ration. I disregard the one as much as I disregard the other
of these charges.

"False honor cliarras, and lying slander scares, '
Whom, but the false and faulty ? " *

It h;is been the lot of all men, in all ages, who have aspired at
the honor of guiding, instructing, or mending mankind, to havo
their p iths beset, by every persecution from adversaries, by every
misc!)ii<truction from friends; no quarter from the one, — no
charitibie construction from the other I To be misconstrued, mis-
rcpresL'nted, borne down, till it was in vain to bear down any
longer, has been their fate. But truth will survive, and calumny
has it.< day, I say that, if this be the fate of the reformer, — if ho
be the object of misrepresentation, — may not an ini'erencs bo
drawn fiv<u'able to my.self ? Tauated by the enemies of reform
as bfiiig too r.ish, by the over-zealous friends of reform as being
too slow or too cold, there is every reason for presuming that I

• Fiilsii3 honor juvat et mcndax infamia torret
C^ucm, uisi mcudusum ut incudacuift ",

< ■'^It

4111

214

Oratorical Selections^

have ch(jseii tlie ri-^lit course. A reformer must proccod steadily
in his career; not misled, on the one hand, by panegyric, nor dis-
courat^ed by slander, ou tlie other. He wants no praise. I would
ratiier say, — " Wo.; to him when all men spjak well of him!'' I
shall go on in the course which I have laid down ibr myself; pur-
suing- the footstjps 4)f those who have ;j,'one belbre us, who luvo
left us their iu'-tructions and success, — ^heir instructions to guide
our walk, and their success to cheer our spirits.

ON PARLIAMENTARY INNOVATIONS.

BBAUFOY.

To calumniate innovation, and to decry it, is preposterous.
Have there never been any innovations on the Constitution ? Can
it bo ibrgotten, for one moment, th.it all the advant.igcs, civil and
polit.io.il, which we enjoy at this hour, are in reality the inunediato
and fortunate etf.'Ctsof innovation V It is by innovations that the
Kii^'lish Constitution has grown and flourished. It is by innovations
that the House of Commons h is risan to import nice. It was at
different eras that the counties and towns were empowered to elect
representatives. Even the office of Speaker was an innovation;
for it was not heard of till the time of Richard the Second. What
was more, the freedom of speech, now so hi^^hly valued, was an
innovation ; for there were times when no member dared t > avow
his sentiments, and when his head must h ive answered for the
b'ddness of his tongue. To argue against iimovations, is to argue
against improvements of every kind. When the followers of
Wieklitfe mdntained the cause of humanity and reason against
absurdity and superstition, " No innovation," was the cry; and
the lires of persecution blazed over the kingdom. " Let there be
no innovation," is ever the maxim of the ignorant, the int>n-ested,
and the worthless. It is the f ivorite tenet of t'le servile advocate
of tyranny. It is the motto which Bigotry has inscribed on her
banners. It is the barrier tliat opposes every imi)rovement, jioliti-
cal, civil, and religious. To re;)robate all innovations on the Con-
stitution, is to su})pose that it is perfect. But perfection was not
its attribute cither in the Saxon or Normin times. It is not its
attribute at the present moment. Alterations are perpetually
necessiry in every Constitution ; for the Government should be
accommodated to the times, to the circumstances, to the wants of a
people, which are ever chaj;)sin<;. , .

Oratorical Selections,

215

CHARACTER OF NAPOLEON BONAPARTE.

CHAULES PHILLIPS.

[Mr. Pliillipg wa3 a celebrated Irisli barrister — born in 1787; died about
IS.JO. He wrote, tlie " Lite iiuil Untoiy of Ciirran ;" and at the time ol" his
dcalii liliod ilio post of a (Jouimissiouer of Inaolveat Debtors.]

Ue is (alien 1 We in.iy now pause before that splendid prodigy,
whicli towered amongst us like some ancient ruin, whose frown
tcrridod tlie glance its luagiii licence attracted.

Grind, gloomy, and peculiar, he sat upon the throne, a sceptred
hermit, wrapped in the solitude of his own originality. A mind
bold, independent, and decisive — a will despotic in its dictates, —
un energy tiiat distanced expedition, and a conscience pliable to
every touch of interest, marked the outUne of this extraordinary
ah;uMctjr — the most ttxtntordinary, perhaps, that, m the annals of
the world, ever rose, or reigned, or lell.

Flung into lile in the midst of a llcvolution that quickened
every energy of a peo|ile who acknowledged no superior, ho
conuueiiced Uis cour-e a stranger by birth, and a scholar by
charJty. With no i'rieml but his sword, and no fortune but his
talents, he rushed into the lists where rank and genius had arrayed
themselves ; and competition tied from Iwm as from the glance of
destiny. He knew no motive but interest -he acknowledged uo
criterion but success — he worshipped no God hut ambition ; and
with an E i-tern devotion, he knelt at tlie alt.ir of l.is idolatry.
Suh'idi iry to this, there was no creed that he did not prol'ess,
there was no opinion that he did not promulgate : in the hope of
a dynasty he upheld the crescent; ibr the sake of a diriu'cc, he
bowel before the Cross; the orphan of St. Lou-s, he became the
adojited child of the reimblic; and witli a parricidal ingratitude,
on the ruins both of the crown and the tribune, he reared the
thronj of his despotism. A professed Catholic, he imprisoned
the Pope; a pretended patriot, he iiupoverished the country ; and
under tlie name of Urutus, he grasped without remorse, and wore
witliout shame the diadem of the OtDsars !

Tiirough this pantoiniine of his policy, fortune played the
clown to his caprices. At Lis touch, crowns crumbled, beggars
reigned, systems vanished, the wildest theories took the color of
his whims ; and all that was venerable, and all that was novel,
chatiged places with the rapidity of a drama. Even apparent
defeat assumed the appearance of victory — his flight from Egypt
conlirined his destiny — ruin itself only (devatcd him to empire.

216

Oratorical Selections.

i*'\

«ij

But, if Ills fortune was great, his f:;cnlus was tPanf<ccn(1ctit ; dccisiOQ
fla^^licd upon his counsels; and it was the s;ime to doeiJe and to
pert'oi'ai. To inferior iiit'.'lh'Ct^, liis coinbiii.itions ajipc.ircd
perl'ectly impo-sihlc, his pi ins p.-iToctly inipracticihli! ; hnt. in his
hands, simplicity ni irkcil their development, and snccess vindicated
their adoption. His purfion pirtook of the character of his
mind ; il" tlie one never yielded in tiie c ibinet. the other never
bent in the field. Nature had no ob-ticles that lie did not
Burmount, space no opposition that he did not spurn ; — and
whetlieT amid Alpine rocks, Arabian smds, or pol ir snows, ho
Bcemed proof a^iinst p-ril, and erni)owerod with ubi([uity. Tho
whole continent of FiuroT)e trembled at beholdini; the aud.icity of
his dosij;ns and the miracle of their execution. Scepticism bowed
to the i>rodiu;ies of his perform nice ; romiince assumed tlic air
of instojsy; nor was there an^iit too incredible for ]>.'lief, or too
fanc'ifid for expect ition, when tlie world saw ;i subaltern of Corsica
waviuj; his impiirid fl \\i over her most ancient Cipitds. All the
visions of anfci.^uity bec.imo connnon-places in his contempl stion ;
kings were his peoj)lo — nations were his outposts ; and hedi-posed
of courts, and crowns, and cimps, and churches, and cabinets, as
if tliey were the titular dignitaries of the chess-board.

Amid all these chan;j:es, he stood immutible as adamant. It
mattered li-ttle whether in the held, or t!ie dra win <;- room — with
the mob or the levee — wcarijig the Jacobin bonnet or the iron
crown — banishins^ a Bray;inz;!, or cspou-inuj a irij)sbnr2h —
die titing'' peace on a r.d't to the Czar of llu'^si i, or contemj>l.iting
defeat at the gallows of Leipslc — he was sti'il the .same military
despot.

Cradled in the field, he was to the last hour Cwn darling' of the
army ; and wlu;ther in the camp or the c.'.binet he niiver I'orsook a
friend, or foriiot a favor. Of all his soldiers, not one abandoned
bim till affection was useless ; and their first stipulation w.is for
tho safety of their favorite. They knew well that, if he was
lavish of thriu he was prodigal of hiaisell'; and that if he (^xi)osod
them to peril he repaid ihem with jdunder. For the soldier, he
subsidized every people : to the jieople, he made even pride pay
tribute. The victorious veteran glittered with his gains ; r.ndthc
capit d, gorgeous with the spoihi of art, b.'C imo the mini ituro
metropolis of the univers(\ la this wonderful eombinatloii, his
aflFoetition of literature must not be omitted. The gaoh r oi' the
press, ho aflected the pitronage of letters: the proscriber of
books, he encouraged philosophy : the persecutor of authors, and
the murderer of printers, he yet pretended to the patronage of
learning: the assassin of Palm, the silencer of De Staiil, and the
dcuouuccr of Kutzcbuc, he waa tho friend of David, tho bene-

Oratorical Selections,

217

; dccislott
1(3 iind to
aj^pc.ircd
)ut. h\ liis
riudicated
21- of his
her never
did not
irn ; — :ind
Finows, ho
ity. ^ Tho
udicity of
i.sm bowed
'd tlic ;iir
iof, or too
of Corsica
, All tho
^mphtlon ;
ledi.-jiosed
abinetSj a3

im:int. It
pom — with
tlic iron
psjjuru'h —
tciii] tinting
le military

llivj,' of the
f'lr-ook a
i.b.iudoncd
hn w.is for
if lie was
lie ('X[)0scd
sokli'.r, he
Ipridtj pay
r.ndthc
liniui iturc
liitioii, his
1, r of the
•icribor of
^hov.s, and
I'on.iu'O of
and the
bho bene-

factor of Do Lille, and sent his academic prize to tne philo=?ophcr
of Eiiiiland. — Snch a medley of contradictions, and at thi; s mio
time such an individual consistency, were never united in the
same character. A royalist, a republican, and an «*nip(ror — a
Maliomiitm, a Catholic, and a patron of thesynagOLTue'-a tnitor
and .i tyrant — a Christian and an Infidel — he was, throiiirh all Ida
vicis-itndes, the same stern, impatient, intiexiblo origin. d — tho
Bam^! n)ysterious, incomprehensible self— the man without a model,
and \vitliont a shadow. His iall, like Ids life, baflleu .dl s[iocula-
tiou In short, his whole history was like a dream to the world;
and no man can tell how or why he was awakened from tho
reverie.

King-^ may learn from him that their safopt study, as well as
their noblest, is the interest of the people : the people are taui^ht
by him tiiat there is no despotism however stupendous, a-./mst
which they have not a resource ; and to those who would rise
upon the ruins of both, he is a livin;; lesson, that, if ambition can
raise them from the lowest station, it can also prostrate them from
the highest.

DUTrOFTHE STATE TO EDUCATE THE PEOrLE.

LORD MACACLAY.

I SAY that the editCation of tho people ought to be tho first
concern of a State, not only because it is an efficient mo.ais for
promoting and obtaining that which all allow to be the main end
of Government, but because it is the most efficient, the most
humane, the most civilized, and in all respects the best mcins of
attaining that end. This is my deliberate conviction ; ;;nd in
this opinion I am fortified by thinking that it is also the ojininu of
all the <;rcat legi^lators, of all the ureal stafci-m' n, of :.ll thi; ^reat
poliiic.il philosophers of all ages and of all nations, even inehi'ling
those whose general opinion is, and has ever been, to ri^striet the
functions of Government. Sir, it is the opiidon of all tjie preat
chau. pious of civil and religions liberty in tiie old vorld ;:nd in
the new; and of none, I hesitate not to say it, more empliatic illy
than of those whose names are held in the highest estimitiijn by
the I'rotestant nonconformists of England. Assuredly if tlierv' be
any class of men whom tlic Protestant nonconformists of England
respect more highly than another, of any whose menu-ry they
hold in deeper veueration, it is that class of men, of high spirit
and unconquerable principles, who, in the days of Archbishop
Laud, preferred leaving their native country, and living in tho

218

Oratorical Selections,

:i If

'if

eavapjo soUtndcs of a wiklerncss rather than to live in a land of
prospcri'y .iml plenty, where they could not enjoy the privileges
of worsliippin;:^ their Maker freely :iccording to the dietati-s of
their con^ciellCc. Tho^e men, illustrious forever in history, were
the founders of the commonwealth of Massachusetts, but though
their lovu of freedom of conscience Wiis illimititble inid inde^truc-
tiblo, they could see nothing servile or degrading in the ] rincipic,
that tho St.ito should take upon itself the charge of the educitioa
of the people. In the year 1G42, they passed their first legis-
lative eii;;etuient on this subject, in the pieamble of whicli they
distinctly j)ledged themselves to this principle, that educ.ition was
a matter of the deepest possible importance, and the fjreutest
possible; interest to all nations and to all communities, and that as
Buch it was in an eminent degree deserving of the peculiar atten-
tion of the State. I have peculiar satisfaction referring to the
case of America, because those who are the most enthusiastio
advocates of the voluntary principle in matters of religion turn
fondly to that land as afl'ording the best illustration that can be
anywhere found of the succe^slul operation of that principle.
Aijd yet what do we find to be the principle of America, and of
oil tho greatest men that she has produced, upon the question ?
"Educate the people" was the first admonition addressed by Pena
to the commonwealth he founded — " Educate the jjeoplo" was the
lijst h'gacy of Washington to the republic of the United St.ttes —
*' Educate the people" was the unceasing exhort .tion of JelTorson,
yes, of JelTorsou himself; and I quote his authority with })eculiar
favor ; for of all the eminent public men that the world ever
saw, he was the one whose greatest delight it was to pare down
the functions of Government to the lowest possible point, and to
leave the freest possible scope lor the exercise of individual exer-
tion. .Such was the disposition, such indeed might be said to be
the mi.-sion of Jefferson, and yet the l.tter portion of his life
was devoted with ceaseless energy to the cflbrt to procure the
blessing of a Stite education for Virginia.*

• Extractoil from a spcecli delivered in Parliamonr, in 1S47, in di f.>nce
of til" (jrt)vernmenf jdan of education, which had met with great oppo-
Bilion ("roni the Noncontbrniist body in Engltin \ No doul>t the oppositioa
was conscientious, and probabl}- jus ifi- d by the efforts of tin; Conser-
vative party lo secure for the E-tablislied Ohurcli undue control over
the cdiicaiion of the people. Aptly, however, does Dickens n)ako the
poor niollier, who-o son, the victim of ignorance, had hai'u tran^iiorted,
reply to Ih" magistrate, in the Oil CuriosUi/ Shop — '• IJow many of the
boys and girls, ah, men and women too, that are broughi before yon and
you don't pity, nre deaf and dumb in their minds, and go wrong in that
State, and are punished in tliat stute, while you ycnllemen are guarrelling
among yourselves whether they ought to learn this or that ? "

Oratorical Selections.

219

L land of
rivilegea
'XaU'S of
ry, were
though
ulotruc-
riiiciplc,
(lucitioa
st logis-
iich they
itiou was
greatest
d thut as
i;;r .'ittcn-
g to the
hu.-iastio
jjion turn
it c .n be
principle.
;i, and of
jucstion ?
1 by Pen a
" was the
St.'.tes —
uDforson,
ptculiar
irld ever
larc down
it, ."ud to
|u;il cxer-
idd to be
I' his life
cure the

In ill ft' nee
reiit oppo-
Ippositioa
\.'. Gonser-
iirol over
iimkc the
lu:;p(irled,
lay of the
I' yoii and
Ig in that
larrelling

THE BALANCE OF POWER, 1826.

GEORQB OANNINO.

But, then, Sir, the balance of power ! Gentlemen apserfc that
the ontry of the French army into Sp:iin disturbed tint b il.incc,
and wi! ought to have gone to war to restore it ! Were there no
other means than war for restoring the balance of power ? Is the
bahincv,', of power a fixed and unalterable standard? Or, i.s it not
a stand ird perpetually varying, as civilization advances, .'ind as
new nations spring up, and take their place among established
political communifies ? 'Iho balance of power, a century I'lid a
half ago, was to be adjusted between France and Spain, the Nether-
lands, Austria and Engl.uid. k^orae years afterwards, Russia
assumed her higli stttion in European politics. Some years after
that, again, Prussia became not oaly a substantive, but a prepon-
derating monarchy. Thus, while the balance of power continued
in ])iiuciple the same, the means of adjusting it bee uno more
varied and enlarged. To look to the policy of Europe in the times
of WiXiam and Anncf to re<j:;i\lite the balance of })ower in Europe
at the present day, is to disregard the progress of events, and to
coni'use dates and f icts which throw a reciprocal light upon each
other.

I admit. Sir, that the entry of a French army into Spain was a
dlspir;igcment to Great Britiin. I do not stand up hero to deny
that f let. Ouc of the modes of redress was by a direct attack
upon France, — by a war upon the soil of Spiin. Was there no
other mode of redress ? If France occupied Spain, was it neces-
sary, in order to avoid the consequences of that occupation, that
wc should blockade Cadiz ? No. I looked another way. I
Bouglit m iterials of compensation in another hemisphere. Con-
tcnvpLitiu'^ Spain i«"ucli as our ancestors had known her, I resolved
that, if France had Spain, it should not bo Spain *' with the
Indies.'' I cidled the Now World into existence, to redress the
balance of the Old ! Thus, Sir, I answer the question of the
oceu]) tion of Spain by the army of France. That occupation
is aa unp lid and unredeemod burden to France. France would
bo ul id to get if-id of the possession of Spain. France would be
very -lid if Sngland were to assist her to get rid of that posses-
sion ; and the only way to rivet Franco to the possession of Spain
is to Ul dee th it possession a point of honor. Tlic object of tho
measure before the TTouse is not war. It is to take tho last chance
of p'v.eo. If you do not go forth, on this occasion, to the aid of
Portug dj Portugal will be trampled down, to your irrecoverable

220

Oratorical Selections.

disprnco; nrid tlicn w.-ir will come, and come, too, in tlio train ol
dcLiT id,.tion. If you wait until Hpiin liuve couri;''e to intur-) her
secret UMchin:iti()ii-i into open hostility, you will in ;i little wliilo
havctiio Kort of war rcrjuirod by the pacificators; and who shall
say where that war ahall cud.

I'.. •„:.

if- :

il,

BALxVNCE OF POWER.

BIUaHT.

This "balance of power" i.s in reality the hin^o on wuicli the
whole (pic-tion turns. But if that is ho important as to be worth
a .san:^'uin try war, why did you not go to war with France when
she seized upon Al^^iers ? That w ls a portion of Turkey not
quite so distinct, it i.s true, as arc the Dmubian Principilities ;
but .'■till Turkey had soverei;^n rights over Algiers. When, tlierc-
fore, France seized on a 1 iri^o portion of the northern coast of
Africa, niii;,ht it not have b hmi said that such an act tended to
convert the Mediterranean into a Frencii 1 ike — that Al^^iers lay
Dcxt to Tunis, and that, havin;j; conquered Tunis, there would
remain only Trijtoli between France and Alexandria, and that the
"bahnee of power " was bein.; destroyed by the air'j^randisement of
France? All this mi2;ht have been said, and the Government
iniu;iit easily have plunged the country into war on that question.
But happily the Government of that day had the good sense not
to resi.-t, and the result had not been disadvantageous to Europe ;
this country had not suflered from the seizure of Algiers, and
England and France had continued at peace.

Take anotlier case — the case of tiie United States. The United
States waged war with Mexico — a war with a weaker State — ia
my opinion an unjust and unnecessary war. If I had been a
citizen of the American Ilepublic, I should have condemned that
war; but might it not have b^'cn as justly argued that, if wo
allowed t!ie aggressive attacks of the United States upon Mexico,
her insatiable ujjpetlte would soon be turned towards the north — •
towards the depeadencies of this Empire — and that the magniliccut
colonies of the Canadas would soon f dl a prey to the assaults of
their rapacious neighbor? But such arguments were not used,
and it was not thought necessary to invcdve this country in a war
for the support of Mexico, altliough the Power that was attacking
that country lay adjacent to our own dominions.

If this phrase of the "balance of power" is to be always an
argument for war, the pretence ibr war will never be wanting, and
peace can never be secure. Let any one compare the power of this

/I*!. ■',

Oratorical Selections.

001

conntry with that of Austria now, and forty years a(»o. Will nny
one say tli:it Encjliind, compared with Austria, U now tlirci! \inu\%
as powerful as she was thirty or forty ye;irs U'jjo? Austri i his a
divided people, bankrupt linance>>, and her credit is so low tlint sho
cannot borrow a shillinj: out of her own territories ; En-^l ml has
a united people, national wealth rapidly increasin;jr, and a lu 'oh ini-
cal and productive power to which that of Austria is as nnt'iinpf,
Mi;^ht not Austria complain that wo hive di.sturbed the " bil tiico
of power" because we arc f:^rowin'^ so much stronij^er from better
government, from the c!;r eater union of our people, from the wealth
that is created by the hard labor and skill of our ]»opulation, and
from the wonderful development of the mechanic. il resoure 'S of
the kini^'dom, which is soon on every side? If tliis phrase of tlio
"balance of power," the meanini^ of which nobody can exactly
make (Uit, irs to bo brou'^ht in on every occasion to stimulate this
country to war, there is an end to all hope of permanent jieiee.

There is, indeed, a cpiestion of a "balance of power" which
this country miujht rci]i;ard, if our statesmen had a Uttlc less of tlioso
narrow views which they sometimes arroir mtly impute to me and
to those who think with me. It' they could tret beyond those old
notions which belong to the traditions uf Europe, and cast their
eyes as far westward as they are now looking eastward, tliey miiht
there SCO a power growing up in its gigantic proportions, which
will teach us before very long where the true " balance of power "
is to be found. This strugLiIc may indeed b\gi!i with llus ia, but
it may end with half the Ftat:\s of Europe ; for Austria and
Prussia are just as likely to join wit'.i Russia as with England and
France, and probably much more so ; and we know not how long
alliances wliich now appear very secure, may remain so; for
tlio circumstmces in which the Government has involved us are of
the most critical character, and we ,st md upon a mine which luiy
ex]tlo;lo any day. Give us seven years of this infatuated stru'jglo
upon wliich we are now entering, and let the United Stat;^sre!u lin
at pca.cG during that period, and who s'lall say what will th^n bo
the rel uive positions of the two nations? Have you real the
Report 1 of your own Commissioners to the New York Exiiibition?
Do you comprehend what is the progress of that country, as
cxhiblt-^^d in its tonnage, and exports, and imports, and mmiil'ic-
turcs, ;;n(l in the development of nil its resource^, and the means
of tran-it? Tlicre has been nothing like it hitherto under the
sun. The United States may profit to a largo extent hy the
cilamitios which will befall us; whilst we, under the mi-'a-ble
and lunatic idea that we are about to set the worn-out Turkish
Empire on its legs, and permanently to sustain it against tlie aggrcs-
BioQs of Rus^a, are entangled iu a war. Our trade will decay and

222

Oratorical Selections,

diniiiii4i — our pnnplo, sufTcrinir nnd di^oontontod, as in nl! former
pcritols oi' w.ir, will cmi;viMtt^ in iticrt'asinir iinmbors to ;i cuiintry
'wrlioso WHO policy i.s to kocp itn-U' free iVoiu the cntaniilfiiioiit of
Eiu-'ipuiu politics- -to ii country with wliicli rests tlic fircjit (jucs-
tion \vli(!tl)(r Eii;;l.in(l sli;il!, for :iiiy lo'ii:; (inio, rcttiii tli;it wLiicb
slic jirofi'sscs to valuo so hii^hly — her j^rcat su])eriority in imlustry
and at sea.

This wliolo notion of the "halanee of power" is a miscliicvous
doliisioii which has coiiio down to us froiu past times ; we (niiht to
drive it from our mimls, and to ectnsidcr the sol(>mn fiiic-tion of
poac-'i or war on more clear, more definite, and on i!ir higher
princii»le.s than any that uro iuvolvcd iu the phrase, the " b.ilaiico
of power." • . .

COST OF WAR.

BitiaiiT.

We all know and deplore that at tlie present moment a lari^o
number of the prowMi men of Europe are employed, and a laraa
portion of the industry of l!;nrop(^ i<; ab^n-bi'd, to provide lor and
niaint;in the enormous arminunits whicji are now on foot in every
consider.iblo Ciiniini.'nt d St ite. Assumini:-, tlien, that Europe is
not nineh better in conserpienee of the sicritices we liave m ;de. let
us iii(['iire what has been the result in Endand, bec.iuso, after all,
that is tiie (juestion which it bocomes us most to consider. I
bcrM.'ve tli.t [ uuderst.ite the nwn when I k ly that, in pursnit of
thi.^ XA'ill-o'-the-wisi), (the liberties of Europe and the balance of
power,) t'aerc lias boen extracted irom the industry of the ]ieopIo
of this small island no less an amount than £2,00(1,000,000
sterling. I cannot imaijiine how much £2,000,000,000 is,
and therefore I shall not attempt to make you comprehend it.
I presume it is sometlii:i;4' like tliose vast and incomprehensible
astronomic d distances with which we have been lately made
familiar; but, however fimiliir, we feel that we do not know one
bit inor(!;,!»out them than we did b.'fore. When I try to think of
th.,t sum of . 1:2,000,000, 000, there is a sort of vision passes before
my mind's eye. I see your psasant laborer delve and plou.di, sow
an 1 re ip, sweat beneat'a the summer's sun, or grow prematurely
old before the winter's blast. 1 see your noble mechanic, with
liis manly countcnanc " and his matchless skill, toiling at his bench
or his I'orge, 1 see one of the workers in our factories iu the
nortii, a woman — a girl, it may be — gentle and good, as many of
them are, as your sisters and daughters are — I see her iutcnt

Oratorical Selections.

223

upon the spindle, whoso revolutions are so nipiil thitthe eye fails
altoLi'cth.T to (1 -tL'Ct them, or w.iteliinj; tlio altorujitini^ fli;^'lit oftho
unro-tini^ sliuttk'. I turn a'^aiu to another portion of your popu-
lation, which " plun,;e<l in niiuiM, lor;^e(,s.a sun wis uimIc," and I
sec tho man who brinirs up (Voin the secret ehimljL'rs of the earth
tbe t'li-nients of tiie riches and greatness of his country. When I
see all tliis, I have before nio a mass of produce and of we dth
wdiieh [ am no more able to comprehend t!iin I am that
£2,()00,()()U,()UO of which I have spoken, but I b -hohl in its full
pro]i(»rtions the hideous error of your Govurnmetit-t, wUosa f ital
policy consumes in sonje cases a hatl', nt;ver less than a tliird, of all
the r esult:s of that industry wliich G) I intaudjd should I'-rtiliso
and bless every home in J*inL,dand, but the fruits of which are
squandered in every part of tlie surficc of the j^lobj, without
producing the smallest good to the people of Englaud.

.COXSEQUENCES AND WICKEDNESS OF WAR.

BamuT.

What is war 7 I believe that half the people that talk about
war have not the slightest idea of what it is. In a short sentence
it may be summed up to be thecondjination and concentration of all
the horrors, atrocities, crimes, and sufferings of whicli human
nature on this globe is c p tble. 13ut what is even a lanuor of
war ? Is there anybody here who has anything in the funds, or
wdio is the owner of any railway stock, or anybody who has a large
stock of raw material or manufictured goods? The funds have
recently gone down 10 per cent. I do not say that the f dl is all
on account of this danger of war, but a grca: proportion of it
undoubtedly is. A fdl of 10 per cent, in the funds is nearly
£S(),()()0,U;)0 sterling of value, and railway stock having gone
down L'O per cent, makes a dilFerence of £(50,000,000, in t!ie value
of tlu! railway property of this country. Add the two —
£140.000,000 — and tike the diminished prosperity and value of
manufactures of all kinds during the last few months, and you
will understate the actual loss to the country now if you jmt it
down at £200,000,000 sterling. But that is merely a rumor of
war. Tiiat is war a long way oflF — the small cloud no bigger than
a man's hand — what will it be if it comes nearer and b-'comcs a
fact ? And surely sane men ought to consider whether tlie case
is a good one, the ground f lir, the necessity clear, before they
drag a nation of nearly 30,000,0P0 of people into a long and
bloody struggle, for a decrepit and tottering empire, which uU the

224

Oratorical Selections

nation-^ im Eurnpo cannot loni; sustiiin. And, mind, wnr now
woiil I tike. :i (lillorciit ."isiicct i'rom wli.it it did Hjrnicrly. It i.s not
only tint you send out men who submit to bo i liuuditerrd, and
tbiil ynu |>;iy ri l.irjrc .'iiiiouiit oftixcs — tlu; .'iinouiit of t.ixos would
be but :i t'c'bU; indicition of wb:it you would sulTer. Our trade
is tiMW nmch in(>r(; oxtoiisivo tliiin it was: our coinnjcTce is nioro
oxinnli'd, our uiidcrt ikin'^s nro ni<»ro vast, and war will find yoa
all "ut at homo by witlu'riiiL; up the rosourccs uf the prosperity
enjoyed by the middle and worktn'^ claMscs of the country. You
would find that war in 1 S5;j would bo iMfiiiitely more perilous and
dest!'n(;tiv(i to our eouiitry tlian it has ever yet been at any i'ornier
periml of our history. Tli(?re is another (juestion whieh comes
lioin.) to my mind with ;i t^ravity and seriousness whieh I can
ecinujly liopo to communicite to you. You who lived diu'inii; tho
period from 1815 to 1822 m:iy remember tint this country was
probably never in a more uneasy pf»-<ition. The Rufferings of tho
workin'j; classes w:'r(( b 'yotid di>^eription, and the dilTicultics, and
strnu'^ilcs, and buikrupteies of tho mid<lle cla.sscs were such as few
persons have a, just idea of. There was scarcely a year in which
therv' was not an inci])ient insurrection in some pirts of the country,
ari^in.;' from tlie s;itferln;.;s whicli tlie workinu; clas'^es endured.
You know very well flnt the G)vernm«iit of th« day employed
spies to create plots, and to j^et iu'norant men to combine to take
unliwful oatlis ; and you know tint in the town of Stirlinir, two
men who, but for t'lis diabolic d aucney, mi^lit have lived ^ood and
hone-t citizens, paid t'le penalty of their lives for their coimection
wit'i uirl awful combinations of this kind.

"Nrell, if you p;o into war now you will have more banners to
decorat? your cathedrals and ehurclies. Enu.li'^limen will fidit
now as well as they over did, and tliero is ample ]iowcr to back
them, if the country can bo but snfTieiontly excited and deluded.
You HI ;y raise up ureat trenerals. You may have another Welling-
ton, and another Nelson too; for this country can grow men
cap.ibl.! f u" every ent.'rj)rise. Then there may be titles, and pcn-
Bions, .and marble monumiMit-^ to eternise the men who have thus
bccoiue great ; but what becomes of you and your country, and
your elill Iron? Fortliero is more than this in store. That .seven
years to which T havo referred w'as a period dangerous to the
cxitonce of Government in this country, for the whole substratum,
the whole foundations of society were discontented, suiToring
intoK-r.iblo evils, and hostile in tho bitterest degree to the institu-
tion-^ and the Govcrnnn"'nt of the country.

Precis 'ly tho sraie things will

CO lie agam.

Rely on it, tliat

inju tlee of any kind, b:^ it bid laws, or be it a bloody, unjust,
and unnecessary war, of necessity creates perils to every iustitu-

Oratorical SdectionB.

22.>

wnr now
It \a not
crcd, :md
WA would
)»ir trado

in luoro

1 iind yoa
prosperity
ry. You
rilous and
ny i'ormcr
ieli C()mc3
ich I can
lurin'i; tho
amtry was
ic;3 of tho
ultic?, and
ncli as few
r ill which
ic country,
s ciulurod.
' employed
ine to t:iko
irlin_L% two
I j;ood and
conncctioh

bniners to
will n;-:;ht
ir to back
deluded.
Welling-
I'row men
t and pcn-
IJKive tlius
jntry, and
That Hcvea
lis to the
Ibstr.itum,
suiTering
lic institu-

it, that

r, unjust,

iubtitu-

tion in the country. If the Corn-law liad continued, if it had
been inipo'^sible, by pt'acel'ul agitation, toaboli-ih it, tho monarehy
itscli' wmild Mot liav(! survived tin? ruin and disa.ster that it iiiust
have wrought. Antlifyo'i go into a war now, Mithadouhled
populitiou, with a vast cnnimeree, witii cxttiidrd cretlit, and a
wi<l*r diiru.^ion of partial education among thu jioopio, let there
ever come 11 time like tlu! jxriod In'tween 1815 and iSilli, whi'U
till! whole, basisof Ktci'ty is upheaving with a yense of iiitoKr.iblo
sulh ring, I ask you, how many years' |iurehase wuiiM you 'j,ivo
even fur tho viin-nble and miJil mon.ireliy tinder whitdi you have
the happiness to live? I conless when I think of the tn-iin'iidous
perils into which unthinking men — ni< ii who do not intr 1 to
liglit themselves — are willing to drig or to hurry thi.s couiii, [
am amazed how they c;in twiio with int(>re.sts so vast, and e- ;-
quinces so much beyond their calculation.

But, speaking hero in Edlnbunji to such an audience — on
audience i»robably for itsmunbersa.s intelii ;eiit and .•iHiidluenti alas
ever was assembl(,'d within the walls of any jiall in this kin,i;di)m — I
think I may \)\\t beiore you higher considerations evcii than tiiose
oi'propcrty an<l Uie institutions of your country. I may remind you
oi' duties more solemn, and of obULiutions more impentiv*. Ycui
profess to be a Christian nation. You make it your boast even —
tlioug-li boastwigis Fcmiewhat out of place in such cjuestions — you
niiko it your boast th.at you are a Prote.'-t ant people, and that you
draw your rule of doctrine and j)racticc, as from a well pure
and unilefiled, from the living oracles oi'God, and from the direct
rovel.ition of the Onniiiiotent You have even conceived the
iintiniticent project of illuminating the whole earth, even to its
remotest and darkest recesses, by the dissemination of t-ho volume
of the New Testuuient, in whose every p,i2:e are written for cvei'
the words of pjace. Within the limits of this island alone, on
every Sabbath, 20,000, yes, f ;r more than 20,060 t'uiples arc
thrown open, in whicii devout men and women assemble that th'-y
may worship Him who is tho " l*rince of Pc tce."

is this a reality? or is your Christianity a romance? is your
prolession a dream ? No, 1 am sure that your Christianity i .■• nr^t
a romance, and T am ccjually sure that your profession is not a
dream. It is because 1 believe tliis th;it I ajtpeal to you with
coiiiidcnoe, and that I have hope and I'ailh in the lUture, I
h lieve that wc ."-hall see, and :.tnovcry distant time, sound econo-
mic ])iinciples spreading mu'h more widely amongst the people ;
a sense of jusii>-e growing up in a soil which hitherto has beou
deemed unlVuitfnl ; and, which will bo better than all — the
churches of the United Kingdom — the churches of Britain awak-
ing, as it were, from their slumbers, and girding up their loins to

226

Oratorioal Selections.

If ^"1 ' ''

V •'

more glorious work, when tlicy shall not only accept and believe in
the prophecy, but labor earnestly for it3 fulfilment, that there
shal? oomc a time a blessed time — a time which shtdl last for ever
— when " nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither
shall they learn war any more."

NON-INTERVENTION POLICY.

BRIGHT.

"TiiE pnst events of our history have tanglit me that the interven-
tion of this country in European wars \\i not only unnecessary but
c;tlamitous ; tint we have rarely come out of such intervention
having succeeded in the objects we fought for; that a debt of
£800,000,000 sterling has been incurred by the policy which the
noble lord approves, apparently lor no other reason tJian that it
dates from the time of William HI ; and that, not debt alone has
been incurred, but tliat we have left Europe at li\ast as much in
chains as before a single effort was made by us to rescue her from
tyranny, I believe, H'this country, seventy years ago, had adopted
the principle of non-intervention in every case where her interests
were not directly and obviously as-ailed, that she would have been
saved from much of the paupcri.-TH and bi'utal crimes by which
our Government and people liave alike been disgraced. This
country might have been a garden, every dwelling might have
been of m irble, and every person who treads its soil might hive
been suiBciently educated. We should indeed have had less of
m?litary glory. We might have had neither Tr.if dgar nor Water-
loo ; but we should have sot the high example of a Christian
nation, free in its institutions, courteous and just in its conduct
towards all foreign States, and resting its policy on the unchange-
able foundation of Christian morality.

NON-INTERVENTION POLICY.

OOBDKN.

I AM especially anxious thnt we should repudiate and denounce
the principle of intcrfcrcnco in the domestic affairs of indep-.nKlent
countries. We boast that, with us, the house of every min who
has not violated the laws of his country i;^ his castle, which ho who
forces is a burglar. What shall we say, then, to the burghiry of
nations, when one independent, self-governing State is invaded by

Oratoriixd Selections,

227

eve in

tUero

or ever

Qcitber

.ntervcn-

jsary bnt
jrvcntion
debt of
fVicU the
,n tbatit
alone has
I much in
Yjer from
d adopted
r intcvostd
jhave been
jy ^hich
d Thi3
Ight have
.i|ht have
iSl lc>^s of
lor Water-
Christian
,3 conduct
unchange-

. denounce
idep'.indcnt

y mm who
liichhowho

_)ur(zlii*y of
Kuvadcd by

a neighboring and stronger nation, under the hypocritical pretext
of the wc:tkcr country's advantage? Upon no principle of justice
or right can a foreign power interfere, by force, in the internal
affairs of another and independent State — and, uutil this is thor-
oughly recognised and acted upon by the governments of the
world, there can, practically, be no security against anarchy among
nations. I say this equally as to the interference of Russia with
Hungary, of England with Spain, of France with Rome. There
has been, indeed, a doctrine admitted in this country, with relation
to Hungary, which has affected me more poignantly than any
political circumstance of recent date. It has been put forth from
this country — not only by the press, but by the mouth of the
ForcMgn Secretary — that, by the law of nations, the Austrian
Government had a right to call on a neighboring power to aid it
in putting down what it was pleased to call the rebellion of its
people. Now, this is a question, not of the law of nations, but of
the responsibility of the governors to the governed. The boy-
Emperor of Austria, expelled from his most important territory,
has the right, it is said, to call in the Cossacks to cut the throats
of his own subjects. If this be admitted, there is an end of the
rcspons-ibility of governments to Ijlieir people. In England we have
maintiined, since 1G8S, the principle that the people are the
sovereign source of power. Suppose that, at some future period —
the supposition, under existing circumst mces, is impossible — the
English people were to come into conflict with their sovereign, and
that she was defeated, as was the case with the Austrian Govern-
ment in Hungary, is it pretended that, in such a case, the sove-
reign would be justified in calling in the Turks, for example, to
her aid, as Austria had called in Russia ? Yet this Is the prin-
ciple advocated by those who approve the Russian intervention in
Hungary. A large proportion of the daiiy press of this country
has been hounding on the Cossacks in their brutal invasion — their
cruel treatment of a more civilized and freer people. I reflect,
with humiliation, as an Englishman, upon the part which these
journals have taken upon this subject during the last few months,
and I implore the men now present, who represent foreign coun-
tries on this occasion, to believe me when I assure them that these
papers do not represent the public opinion or heart of this country.
Let the Peace Congress, which is spreading its roots and its branches
fir and wide throughout the world, proclaim these four cardinal
principles in faith and heart — arbitration instead of war; a simul-
t mcous reduction of armaments ; the dniunciation of the right of
any nation to interfere, by force, in the domestic aflfiirs of any
other nation ; the repudiation of loans to warlike governments.
Let these cardinal points be adhered to, and, with the Divine

228

Oratorical Selections,

blessinp:, which cannot fail to be vouchsafed to so good a work,
perseverance will ensure an eventual triumph to the friends of

peace.

\U\

BENJAMIN DISRAELI ON THE DEATH OP
WELLINGTON.

The Chancellor of the Exchequer rose, and while the Houj^
lent liiiii its deepest attention, spoke as follows: —

" The House of Commons is called upon to-nij^ht to fulfil a
sorrowful, but a noble duty. It has to recognise, in the f ice of
the country and of the civilized world, the loss of the most
illustrious of our citizens, and to oficr to the ashes of the great
departed the solemn anguish of a bereaved nation. The princely
personage who has left us was born in an age more fertile of
great events than any period of recorded time. Of these vast
incidents the most conspicuous were his own deeds, and these were
performed with the smallest means, and in defiance of the greatest
obstacles. He was, therefore, not only a great man, but the
greatest man of a great age. Amid the chaos and conflagration
which attended the end of the last century there rose one of those
beings who seem born to master mankind. It is not too much to
say that Napoleon combined the imperial ardour of Alexander
with the strategy of Hannibal. The kings of the earth fell be-
fur;j his fiery and subtle gonius, and at the head of all the power
of Europe, he denounced destruction to the only land that dared
to be free. The Providential superintendence of this world seems
seldom more manifest tlian in the dispensation which ordained
that the Freneh Emperor and Wcllosley should be born in the
same year ; that in the same year they should have embraced tlie
same profes,4o.i ; .md that, n.itives of di.^t mt ir:-lands, they should
botli have sought their military education in that illustrious land
which each in his turn was destined to subjugate. Daring the
long btruggle lor our freedom, our glory, I ja;.j say our existence,
Wellesley Ibught and won fit't'X'ii pitched bittles, all of the highest
class — concluding with on,M)f those crowning victories which givo
a color and aspect to history. Duritig tills period that can be
Baid of him which can be said of no other captain — that ho
captured three thousand cannon from tlie enemy, and never lo^t a
single gun. The greatness of his exploits was only equalled by
the difficulties he overcime. Ho had to encountci' at the same
time a ibeble Government, a fictions Opposition, and a distrustful
people, scandalous allies, and the most powerful enemy in tbo

Oratorical Selections,

229

world. He gained victories with starving troops, and carried on
sieges witliout tools ; and, us if to complete the fatality which
in this sense always awaited him, when ho had succeeded in
ere iting an army worthy of Roman legions, aad of himself, this
invincible host was broken up on the eve of the greatest conjunc-
ture of his life, and he entered the field of Waterloo with raw
levies and discomfited allies.

*' But the star of Wellesley never paled. lie has been called
fortunate, for fortune is a divinity that ever favors those who are
alike sagacious and intrepid, inventive and patient. It was his
character that created his career. This alike achieved his exploits
and guarded him from vicissitudes. It was his sublime self-
control that regulated hia lofty fate. It has been the f ishion of
late years to disparage the military character. Forty years of peace
have liardly qualified us to bo aware how considerable and how
complex arc the qualities which are necessary for the formation of
a great general. It is not enough to say that he must bo an
engineer, a geographer, learned in human nature, adroit in
managing mankind ; that he must bo able to perform the highest
duties of a minister of state, and sink to the humblest offices of
a commissary and a clerk; but he has to display all this knowledge
and he must do all these things at the same time, and under
extraordinary circumstances. At the same moment he must
think of the eve and the morrow — of his flanks and of his
reserves : he must carry with him ammunifcion, provisions, hospi-
tals : he must c ilculate at the same thne tlie state of the weather
and the moral qualities of man ; and all these elements, which are
perpetually changing, he mu.st combine amid overwhelming cold
or overpowering heat : sometimes amid famine, often amid the
thunder of artillery. 13eliind all this, too, is the ever-present
image of his country, and the dreadful alternative whether that
country is t"» receive him with c^'prcss or 1 mrcl. IJut all those
conflicting ideas must be driven from the mind of the militiry
leader, for he mxi^it think — and not only think — he must tliiiik
with the rapidity of li:^'htning, for on a moment more or Ijss,
depends the f ite of the finest combin.ition, and on a moment more
or less, depends glory or shame. Doubtless all this may bo dono
in an ordinary manner by an ordinary man : as we see every d ly
of our lives ordinary men making successful minister's of st to.
Bucccssful speakers, successful authors. But to do all this with
genius is sublime. Doubtless, to think deeply and cloirly in the
recess of a cabinet is a fine intellectual demonstration, but to
think with equal dcptii and equal clearness amid bullets is the
most complete exercise of the hura m i^iculties. Although the
military career of the Duke of Welliugton fills so large a space in

El'

li*

'I 'i

'a i(

ftr'

(4 !

It'

I"!;

'i:

.p!

tfn

• f J 1

•ii

230

Oratorical Selections.

history, it was only a comparatively small section of his prolonged
and illustrious life. Only eiiiht years elapsed from Vimiera to
Waterloo, and from the date of his first commission to the last
cannon-shot on tho field of battle, scarcely twenty years can be
counted. After all his triumphs ho was destined for another
career, and, if not in the prime, certainly in the perfection of
manhood, he commenced a civil career scarcely less eminent than
those military acLievcmonts which will live for ever in history.
Thrice Avas he the ambassador of his sovereijin to those great
historic congresses that settled the afiairs of Europe ; twice was
he Secretary of State; twice was he Commandor-in-Chief; and
once ho was Prime >Iinister of England. His labors for his
country lasted to the end. A few months ago he favored the
present advisers of the Crown with liis thoughts on the Burmese
war, ojEprossed in a st ite paper characterized by all his sagacity
and experience ; and. he died the active chieftain of that famous
army to which he has left the tradition of his glory.

There was one passage in the life of the Duke of Wellington
wliich should hardly be pissed unnoticed on such an occasion, and
in such a scene as this. It is our pride that he was one of our-
selves ; it is our pride that Sir Arthur Wellesley sat upon these
benches. Tested by the ambition and the success of ordinary men,
his cirecr here, though brief, was distinguished. He entered
Koy d Councils and held a iiigh ministerial post. But his House
of Commons success must not bo measured by his seat at the
Privy Council and his Irish Secretaryship. He achieved a
success here which the greatest ministers and the- most brilliant
orators ciu never hope to rival. That was a parliamentary success
unequalled when he rose in his seat to receive the thanks of Mr.
Speaker for a glorious victory ; or, later still, when he appeared
at tlie b-ir of this House, and received, Sir, from one of your
predecessors, in memorable language, the thanks of a grateful
country for accumulated triumphs. There is one consolation
wliich all Englishmen mu>t feel under this bereavement. It is,
that they were so well and so completely acquainted with this
great man. Never did a person of such mark live so long, and
60 much in the public eye.

'' To uomplcte all, that we might have a perfect idea of this
sovoreiga m ister of duty in all his manifold oifices, he himself
gave us a collection of administrative and milittry literature
which no atsc and no country cm rival ; and, fortunate in all
things. Wellesley found in his lifetime an historiitn whose immortal
page already ranks with the classics of that land which Wellesley
saved. The Duke of Wellington left to his countrymen a great
legacy — greater even than his glory. He left them the contem •

Oratorical Selectiont,

231

plation of his character. I will not say his conduct revived the
sense of duty in Enirland. I would not suy that oF our country.
But that his conduct inspired public life with a purer and moro
masculine tone, I Ccinnot doubt. His c ireer rebukes restless
VJiuity, and roprimunds the irregular ebullitions of a morbid
egotism. I d^ubt not that, among all orders of Englishmen, from
those with the highest responsibilities of our society to those who
perform the humblest duties, I dare say there is not a man who
in his toil and his perplexity has not somctim s thought of the
Duke and found in his example -support and solace.

" Though he lived so much in the hearts and minds of hi?
countrymen — though he occupied such eminent posts and fulfilled
such august duties — it was not till he died that we felt what a
space he tilled in the feelings and thoughts of the people of Eng-
land. Never was the influence of real greatness more completely
asserted than on his decease. In an age whose boast of intellcc-
tuul equality flatters all our self-complacencies, the world suddenly
acknowledged that it had lost the greatest of men ; in an age of
utility the most industrious and common-sense people in the world
could find no vent for their woe and no representative for their
sorrow but the solemnity of a pageant ; and we — we who have
met here for such difierent purposes — to investigate the sources oJ
the wealth of nations, to enter into stitistical research, and to
encounter each other in fiscal controversy — we present to the
world the most sublime and touching spectacle that human circum-
st juces can well produce — the spectacle of a Sonute mourning a
Hero!"

THE BEAUTIFUL IN NATURE AND ART.

GLADSTONE.

(From a speech on "The Life and Works of Josiah Wedgwood.")

Part I.

Now do not let us suppose that, wlien we speak of this associa-
tion of beauty with convenience, we speak citlierof amattor wliich
is k!ght and fanciful, or of one which may, like some of those I
hav^i named, be left to take care of itself Beauty is not an accident
of things, it pertains to their essence ; it pi^rvadcs the wide rcmgo
of creation ; and, wherever it is imp dred or banished, we have in
this fict the proof of the moral disorder which disturbs the world,
licject, fchcrefore, the false philosophy of those who will ask what
does it matter, provided a thing hi usei'ul, whether it bo beautiful
or not J and say in reply that we will take one lesson from

r: i

•i

.iu

:( 'I

1 1'

23-2

Oratorical /^elections.

Almi^lity uod, who in His works liitli sliown us, and in Txis
Wurd also iuitli told us, tint '* Hu liatli m idocvorytliin^" not 0113
thing, or another tbiui:,'. but cvoi-ytiiLju;^' "bu:iutirul in his tiuio."
Aujon;^' all the devices oi'creation, there is not one more wouJcri'ul,
whether it be the movement of the heavejily bodies, or the i^uo-
ccssion oi' the seusona and the yeurs, or the ad.ipt.ition of tha
world and its phenomena to the conditions of Uuni m Lf'o, or the
structure ot the eye, or Lund, or any otker p irt of the frame of
man, — not one of all these is more wonderful, than the profuse-
ness witli whieh the Mighty Maker his been pleased to shed over
the ivorks of His hands an endless and boundless beauty.

And to this constitution of things outward, the constitution and
mind of man, deranged although they be, still answer from within.
Down to the humblest condition of life, down to t!ie lowest and
i.iost backward grade of civilization, tLc nature of man cravcfs, jud
"r.-n.^,, as it were, even t) cry aloud for somuthing, some sign or
LoI<' v< t the loist, of what is boiutifnl, in some of the mniy
spheres of mind or sense. This it is th it makes the Spitdllelds
weaver, amidst the murky streets of London, train canaries aLd
biiUflnches to sing t) him at his woric; tJiut fills wit'i flower-pots
the windows of ilie poor; that leads the pcisant of Pembrokeshire
to paint the outside of his cottage in lively colors ; that prompts,
in the humble class of women, a desire for some little person il
ornament, certainly not without its dangers, (tor what sort of
indulgence can tiver bo without them ?) yet, sometimes. pcrhap.=!,
too sternly repressed from the high and luxurious places of society.
We trace tiie operation ol' this principle j'et more conspicuously iu
a loftier region ; in that instinct of naturil and Christian pi 'tj
whieh t:iug>it the early misters of the Fine Arts to clothe the
noblest objects of our F.iith, and cspeeiaUy t!ic idea of the s.icred
Person of our Lord, in the noblest ibrms oi' beauty that their
minds could conceive, or their li nids could execute.

It is, in short, difficult for hum in beings to harden tlicmselvcs
at all points against the impressions and the charm of beauty.
Every form of life that can be called iu any sen.se natural will
admit them. I know not whether there is any one among the
many species of hum m aberration, that renders ;i m:m as entirely
callous as the lust of gain in its extreme degrees. That passion,
where it has full dominion, excludes every other ; it shuts out
even what might bee died redeeming infirmities ; it blind?? m»n to
the sense of beauty, as much as to the perception of ju.stice and
right ; cases might even be named of countries, where greediness
for money holds dominion, atid where unmitigated ugliness is the
principal chracteristic of industrial products. On the other hand,
I do not believe it is extravagant to say, that the pursuit of the

Oratorical Selections,

233

1 txlil

otoue
tiuic."
Icviul,

suo-
of the
or the
imo of
roluse-
d over

ion and
^YiL'^ia.
3st -.md
fdi, .'ad
sign or
c ni my

1 illields
-ies arid
ivcr-pobs

■jrouipts,
pcTrion-il
sort of
perhaps,
society.
ou<ly iu
n pi.'ty
)tUe tko
s icrcd
lit tlioir

tniselvcs
I bc'.iuty.
iral will
n\'^ the
Icntift'ly
Ipassion,
luts out
in»n to
ticc and
icdincss
Is is the
iv hand,
of tho

flemont of beauty in the business of production will be found to
itct with a j^cuial, chasteuiug, and retiuiug influence on tho com-
merciJ spirit; tbat, up to a certain poiut, it is in the nature uf a
proburvativo ag linst some ol' the moral dangers tiiat beset trading
and minufacLurlug enterprise; and that we are ju.Titilied in rogard-
icg it uot merely as an economical beneiit ; not merely as con-
tributing to our works au clement of value ; not merely as .sajipiy-
iiig a particular tuculty of human nature with its proper loud;
but as a liberalising and civilisiug power, and un instruineiit, in its
own splier*), of moral and soci il improvement. Indeed, it would
be str augc if a deliberate departure from what we seo to be tlie
law of nature in its outward sphere were the road to a close con-
formity witii its innermost and highest laws.

But now let us uot conceive tiiat, because the love of beauty
finds for itseU' a place in the general heart of mankind, therefore
we need never make it the object of a special ;ittention, or put iu
action spcci d means to promote and to uphold it. For, .ifter all,
our attachment to it is a matter of degree, and of degree whieh
experience has shown to be, in dillereut places, and ;it ditfoicnt
times, indefinitely variable. Wo may not be able to reproduce
the time of Pericles, or the Cltique-cento; but yet it depends ivpon.
our own choice whether wo shall or shall not have a title to cl dm
kindred, liowevcr lemotely, with them. What we are bou4id to
do is this: to take care that everything we make shall, in its kind
and class, bo as good as wo can mak) it. When J)r. John-on,
whom Stafibrdshire must ever place among her most distinguished
ornaments, was asked by Mr. lioswell how he had att lincd to his
extraordinary excellence in conversation, he replied, he h id no
other rule or .system than this, that, whenever he had anything to
Ray, ho tried to say it in the best manner he was able. It is this
perpetual striving after excellence on the one hand, or the want of
such utfort on tiie other, which, more than the original dillVrcnca
ofijiil'ts, contributes to bring about the diftercnces we see in the
works and chaiacters of men. Now such efforts are more rare, in
proportion as the object iu view is higher, the reward more distant.

Part II.

There are three regions given to man for the exercise of his
faculties in the production of objects, or the perfornvmce of acts,
coiidacivc to civilization and to the ordinary uses of life. Of these
one is the homely sphere of simple utility. What is done is done
for some purpose of absolute necessity, or of immediate and pass-
ing use. What is produced is produced with an almost exclusive

;.> -ii?

':h !'>;

r;M!ti

-yi

i^b4

Oratorical Selections.

re<];ard to its value in exchanf;e, to the market of the place and
day. A dustman, for oxami)lo, cannot bo expected to move Vvith
the }jjrace of a fairy, nor can hid cart be constructed on tac lluvv-
iug" lines of a Greek chariot of war. Nut but that, even in this
unpromising dom.mi, Beauty also has her place. But it is limited,
and m ly for the present purpose be left out of view.

Then there is, secondly, the lofty sphere of pure thought and
its ministeriu;^ organs, the sphere of Poetry and ^le highest Arts.
Here, again, the place of what we term utility is narrow ; and the
production of the Beautiful, in one or other of its innumerable
forms, is the supreme, if not the only, object.

Now, I believe it to be undeniable, that in both of these spheres,
widely separated as they are, the faculties of Eoglishmen, and the
distinctions of England, have been of the very first order. In
the power of economical production she is at the head of all
the nations of the earth. If in the Fine Arts, in Painting, lor
exam[)le, she must be content with a second place, yet in Pov^try,
which ranks even higher than Painting, — I hope I am not misled
by national feeling when 1 say it, — she may fairly challenge all
the nations of Christendom, and no one of them, but Italy, cau aa
yet enter into serious competition with the land of Shakspearc.

But, for one, I should admit that, while thus pre-eminent in
the pursuit of pure beauty on the one side, and of unmixed utility
on the other, she has been far 'less Ibrtunate, indeed, for the most
part she has been decidedly behindhand in that intermediate region
where Art is brought into contact with Industry, and where the
pair may wed together. This is a region alike vast and diversified.
Upwards it embraces Architecture, an art which, while it afibrds
the noblest scope for grace and grandeur, is also, or rather ought
to bo, strictly tied down t j the purposes of convenience, and has
for its chief end to satisfy one of the elementary wants of man.
Downwards, it extends to a very large proportion of the products
of human industry. Some tilings, indeed, such as scientific instru-
ments, for example, are so determined by their purposes to some
particular shape, surface, and materials, that even a Wedgwood
would find in them little space for the application of his principles.
But, while all the objects of trade and manufacture admit of funda-
mental differences in point of fitness and unfitness, probably the
m tjor part of them admit of fundamental differences also in point of
Beauty or of Ugliness. Utility is not to be sacrificed for Jieauty,
but they are generally compatible, often positively helpful to each
other ; and it may be safely asserted that the periods when the
study of Beauty has beoB neglecied. have usually been m irked not
by a more successful pursuit of utility, but by a general decline in
the energies of man. lu Greece, the ibuntaia-head of all instruo-

Oratorical Selections.

235

le and
e ^vith
! lluw-
11 this
uiitcd,

lit and
t Arts.
iind tlio
nerablo

jphcveg,
jiud the
er. In
1 of all

tiu;_', ibr
Pootry,
it uii.'-^lcd
lenge all
y, can a3
;)carc.
jincut in
ad utility
the most
ttc region

tion on these matters, the season of her highest historic splendor
was also the summer of her classic poetry and art ; and, in con-
teiu|)l;itiug her architecture, wo scarcely know whether most to
admire 1. 10 acme of Beauty, or the perfect obedience to the laws of
mecli mical contrivance. Tlie Arts of Italy were the offspring of
hor tic:uJ()ui, and with its death they languished and decayed. la
the patieulardepartmctit of industrial art, France, perhaps, of all
modi 111 11 itiuiis, has achieved the greatest distinction ; and there
is no country which has displayed, through a long course of Jigca,
a more varied activity, or acquired a greater number of titles to
renown.

GllEAT MINDS IN TIlEIll HELATIONS TO CHRIS-

TL\NITY.

ERSKINE.

In running the mind along the long list of sincere and devout

Chri;^tiaus, I cannot help lamenting that Newton had not lived to

this d ly, to liave had his shallowness filled up with this new flood

of 11 ;iit, poured upon the world by Mr. Thomas Paine. But the

subjjct is too uwful for irony. I will speak plainly and directly.

Ne\vto!i was a Christian ! — Newton, whose mind burst forth from

the letters cast by nature upon our finite conceptions; — Newton,

whdsc science was truth, and the foundations of whose knowledge

of it wai philosophy ; not those visionary and arrogant prcsump-

tioiH which too often usurp its name, but philosophy resting upon

the basis of mathematics, which, like figures, cannot lie ; — Newton,

who carried the line and rule to the uttermost barrier of creation,

auii explored the principles by which, no doubt, all created matter

is luUl to^^ether and exists. But this extraordinary man, ia the

mighty reach of his mind, overlooked, perliaps, what a minuter

iuvestiiji; ition of the created thinijs on this earth miirht iiave

taught him, of the essence of his Creator. ^Vhat, then, shall be

said ol' the great 3Ir. Boyle, who looked into the organic structure

of all matter, even to the brute inanimate substances which the

foot treads on? Such a man may be supposed to have been

equally qualified, with Mr. Paine, to look up through nature to

natures Clod ; yet the result of all his contemplation was the

mil t confirmed and devout belief iu all which the other holds ia

conteinpt, as despicable and drivelling superstition.

But this error might, perhaps, arise from a want of due atten-
tion to the foundations of human judgment, and the structure of
that understanding which God has given us for the investigatioa

236

Oratorical Selections,

III

Nil

of truth. Let that question be answered by Mr. Locke, who vras,
to the hi;i;he.<t pitch of devotion and adoration, u Christian ; —
Wr. Locke, who^^e olTicc was to detect tiie errors of thinkin<r, by
goin^ uj) to the Ibuntains of tliou<,'lit, and to direct into the ])roi)er
tiMck of reasoning the devious mind of man, by showing him its
whole process, irom the llrst ptrcejitioiis of Bcnse to tlie list con-
chisious of ratiocination, jmttlng a rein upon false opinions by
practical rules for" the conduct of human judgment. But these
uien were only deep tiiinkcrs, and lived in their closets, uumccus-
tomed to the traffic of I ho world, aud to the laws which \)V\xq-
tically regulate mankind.

Goatlemen, in tlie place whore we now sit to administer the
justice of this great country, above a century ago, the never to bo
forgotten Sir Matthew Hale presided, whose faith in Christianity
is au exulted commentary upon its truth and reason, and whose
life was u glorious cxamiJo of its fruits in man, administering
human justice with wisdom and purity, drawn from the jiuro
fountain of the Christian dispensation, which has been, and will
be in all ages, a subject of the highest reverence and admiration.
But it is said by the author that the Christian fable is but the tale
of the more ancient superstitions of the world, and may be oa^^ily
detected by a proper understanding of the mythologies of the
heathens. Did Milton undcrst md those mythologies ? Was he
less versed than Mr. Paine in the superstitions of the world ?
No; they were the subject of his immortal song; and though shut
out irom all recurrence to them, ho poured them forth IVoni the
stores of a memory rich with all that man ever knew, and laid
them in their order, as the illustration of real and exalted faith, —
the unquestionable source of that fervid genius which cast a sort
of shade upon all the other works of man. But it was the light
of the BODY only that was extinguished; — ''the celestial light
Bht)ne inward, aud enabled him to justify the ways of God to

man.

Thus you find all that is great, or wise, or splendid, or illus-
trious amongst created beings, — all the minds gii'ted bt^yoiid
ordinary nature, if not inspired by its universal Author lor the
advancement and dignity of the world, though divided by dist nt
ages, and by clashing opinions, distinguishing them from one
another, yet joining, as it were, in one sublime chorus to cole-
br te the truths of Christianity, and laying upon its holy altars
the never-failing offerings of their immortal wisdom.

' •' i!?l

Oratorical Selections,

23T

SIR JAMES MACKTXTOSri ON THE LIBEUTY OF
THE BRiTlrfll PUErfS.

UN'roilTUNATELY for tlic roposc of mankind, u;rcat states arc com-
pdl.'d to cons^idcr the military spirit and martial habits of thoir
people, as (Hie of the m:iin objects of their policy. Frequent liostili-
tie.s seem almost the nec.'>8,n'y condition of ^reatne.^s; and, without
being urcat, they cannot rem liu safe. {Smaller states, exempted
from this ncces.sity, devoted themselves to the arts of peace, to the
CuUivat^ion of litorature, and the improvement of reason. Tiicy
became phices of refuse for free andlcarless discu.->siou ; they were
th.! inijtartial spectators and judges of the various contests of
ambitioD, whicli, from tiiuo to time, disturbed the quiet of the
world. If wars of aggrandizement were undertaken, thoir authors
Were arraigned in the sight of Hurope. If acts of internal tyranny
Wore perpel?atcd, they resounded from a thousand pr;.'sses througli-
Ciit all civilized countries.

Princes, on whose will there were no legal checks, thus found
H moral rc-traint whick the most powerful ol' them could not brave
•with absolute impunity. No elevation of power, no depravity
L(iWever cousununitc, no innocence however spotless, can render
man wholly in lopendont of the praise or bl imo of his follows.
The-ie feeble states, these monuments of the justice of Europe, the
asylum of peace, of in lustry, and of literature, the organs of pul>-
lic reason, the refuge of opprc-sed innocence and persecuted truth,
bavj perished with those ancient principles which were their sole
guardians and ])rotectors. They have been swallowed up by that
fc.uful convulsion, which has sh iken the uttermost corners of the
eartli. They arc destroyed, and gone I'or ever !

One asylam of free discus'-ion is still inviolate. There is still
one spot in Europe where man can freely exercise his reason oa
the most important concerns of society ; where lie can boldly pub-
lish his judgment on the acts of the proudest and mo.4 ))0werl'ul
tyrants. The press of England is still I'ree. Iti.^ guarded by the
freo cuii-tii-ullwa of our Ibref itlicrs ; it is gutrdjd by the he ;rts :nd
aniH (^Englishmen ; and, I tru.-t I may venture to say, that, if it
bo to fall, it will fdl only under the ruins of the British E!n[»iro.
It is an awful consideration, gentlemen! — every other monument
of European liberty has pori.-hcd. That ancient fabric, which has
been gradually roared by the wisdom and virtue of our fithers, still
stands; — it stands, thanks bo to Heaven! solid and entire — but it
stands alone, and it stands amid ruins I

238

Oratorical Selections.

Ni,

p»

^.M

CONFEDERATION OP THE BRITISH NORTH
AMERICAN PROVINCES.

nON. THOMAS

MaKB.

All who have spokon on tliis poiu. havo said a good deal — as was
natural — on tho inturosts at stake iu the success or failure of this
proposed plan of Coul'oderation. I trust tliii House will permit mo
to add a few words as to the principle of Confederation considered
in itself. In tlie applicition of this to former constitutions, there
certainly was always one f ital defect — tho weakness of the central
authority. Of all the i'ederal constitutions I have over heard or
raad of, this wna tlie fat d m dady — they were short-lived, they
diu I ol" consumption. But I am not prepared to say that, because
the Tuscan leat^ue elected it< chief magistrates for two months, and
lasted u century, that therefore tho federal principle failed. Oa
the contrary, there is sometiiin;j; in the frequjnt, fond racurrence
of mankind to this principle, aui)) • tho freest people, in their best
times and worst dan j;ers, tliat Ic me to believe it has a lirm
hold iii human nature itself, an . /ent basis for a governmsnt
to have. But indeed, sir, tho miiu question is tho duo distriba-
tion of powers — i question I d ire not touch to-night, but whicli I
may h-' prepared to say something on befbro tho vote is taken. The
principle itself seems to me capaljle of being so adapted as to pro-
mote internal peace and external sscurity, and to call into action a
genuine, enduring, and heroic patriotism. It is a fruit of this
principle that makes the modern It iliau look back with sorrow and
pri 1^! over a dreary waste of seven centuries to the field of
Legnano ; it was this principle kindled the beacons which burn,
jrt on tho rocks of Uri ; it was this principle broke the dykes of
Ilolland, and overwhelmed the Spanish with tho fate of the
E :y;)tiau oppressor. It is a principle capable of inspiring a noble
ambition, and a most salutary emulation. You have sent your
young men to guard your frontier. You want a principle to guard
your young men, and thus truly defend your frontier. Tor what
do good m:!n, who mike tho best soldiers, fight? For a line of
Scripture, or a ch ilkod line ; for a pretext or for a principle ?
What is a better bjund iry lino between two nations than a
parallel of latitude or oven a natural obstacle ? What really
keeps nations intact and apirt? — a principle. When I hear
our young men siy as proudly, "our Federation,'' or *'our
Coiratry," or " our Kingdom." as the young men of other
countries do, speaking of their own, then I shall have Isss
apprehension for tho result of whtitevcr trials the future may
have in store for us. It has beeu said that the Federal Coustitu-

Oratorical Selections.

239

—as wa8
of this
irinit mo
asidcred
13, there
3 central
lioanl or
red, they
^ becausa
nths, and
led. Oa
acurrcnce
their best
as a iirm
)veram3iit
J dlstriba-
ut which I
iken. Th3
as to pro-
^to action a
iib of this
jorrow and
2 field of
hich burn,
dykc3 of
ite of the
fm;^ a noble
sent your
[lo to gu \rd
r'or what
a line of
principle ?
,rts than a
hjt rovlly
,n I hear

>our

of other
have lss3
iture may
ll Oonstittt-

tion of the United Stites hus filled. I, sir, have never said it.
The AiL.»rnuy (jeMLTnl West told you the other ni^'ht th:it he did
not consider it a failure ; and I reiu.'uibi'r that, in 180 1, when in
thi'4 house I rem irked the s:iiue thiiij^, the only ui m who ih(»n
appl.mdod the stitonierit wis the Attorney Generd West, so that
it 11 pretty pi lin he did not simply borrow the arj;ument for uso
the other nij^Iit when Iio wis advooiUn,^ the Fed'^rul unio;i anion^
oursclvos. It miy bea fiilure for us, piridoxicil as tliis ni ly
seem, and yot not a f.iiluro for them. Tney hive hid oi,'hry
years' uso of it, anl, h ivii^ discovered its defects, miy aj^ply ;i
rcuu'dy and ixo on with it eighty yoars lonjfer. But we, also, ;iro
lookjrs on, who siw itn defv;ct^ a? the m le.uQ* workijd, and who
havj propired contrivances by which it can be improved and h'\)t
in more perfect ord^r when applied to ourselvas. And one of tiia
forii'm )St statesmen in I'j.ijjlanl, distin^uisiied alike in polities and
liter iLurid, has doelired, as the President of the Council informed
U3, tut we iivj om'oin^l the be^t pirt^ of t'le Briti:h iv.vl
Ainjrioin systems of jj;overnm nit, and this opinion wis djlib t itjly
formal at a diitmee, without prejudie,?, and cxprcsst)d withonb
iot-'ivited motives of any description. Wo have, in relition to tlio
heal I' the };^ov(>rnmint, in relition t") the judiciary, in ri^lition
to t'le .sjc'ond dumb !r of thi lj.:;islitaro, in relation to the linin-
cial responsibility of the ;:f3neral f^overnment, and in relition to
the public otfieiils, whose tenure ofolfi3e is durin'^c^ood b^h iviour,
insfcjid of ut the caprice of a pirty — in all these respects wo hive
adoptel tlio British system; in other respects wo hive leirae I
somithioL^ from the American systein, and I trust and boli>ive we
have made a very tolerable combination of both. The principh of
Fedorition is a generous principle ; it is a principle thib ^^ivos
men local duties to di-jchar:^e, and invests them at the simj tiino
with j^enerul supervision that excites a healthy sanso of responsi-
bility and comproliension ; it is a principle that has prodno ; I a
wise an I fcrue spirit of stitesmmship in all countries in which it
has ever been applied ; it is a principle eminently fivorable to
liberty, because local affairs are left to be dealt with by loc il
bodies, and cannot be interfered with by those who have no locd
interest in them, while matters of a general character are l-sft
exclusively to a general government ; it is a principle coineidinb
wit'a every government that ever gave extended and imporbs-.it
services to a country, because all governments have been mora
or loss confederations in their character. Spain was a fed_Tition,
for, althoui^h it had a kinij reignini' over the whole countrv, it
had its local governments for the administration of local atfilrs.
The British Isles are a confederation, and the old French dukedoms
were confederated in the States Qeneral. It is a principle that

K^ :|ii

i; '^

1. i

i--

11? ■•
it-,,.

240

Oratorical Selections,

runs through all the history of civilization in one form or another,
and exists alike in monarcliics tmd democracies, and, having
adopted it as the principle of our iuturo government, there were
only the details to arrange and agree upon.

The two great things that all mem aim at in any free govern-
ment are liberty and permanency. We have had liberty cnouuh —
too much, perhaps, in some respects — but at all events liberty to
our hearts' content. There is not on the face of the eirth a freer
people than the inhabit.ints of these colonies. But it is necessary
there should be respect for the law, a high central authority, the
virtue of civil obedience, obeying the law for the law's sake ; even
when a man's private conscience may convince him sufficiently
that the law in some cases may be wrong, ho is not *o set up his
individual will against the will of the country expressed through
its recognized constitutional organs. We need in these provinces
— we can bear — a large inl'usion of authority. I am not at all
ftfr.iid this constitution errs on the side of too great conservatism.
II' it be found too conservative now, the downward tendency in
political ideas, which ch iractcriz3s this democratic age, is a suffi-
cient guarantee for amendment. Thit is the principle on which
this instrument is strong and worthy of the support of every
colo!ii-t, and through which it will secure the warm approbation
of the imperial authorities. We have here no traditions and ancient
venerable institutions ; here there are no aristocr.itic elements hal-
lowed by time or bright deeds ; here every man is the tirst settler of
theliiidjOr removed from the first settler one or two generations at
thelurthcst; here we have no architectural monuments calling up
old associations ; here we have none of those old popular legends and
Stories which, in other countries, have exercised a powerful sh iro
in the govirnniont ; here, every man is the son of his own works.
We Itavo none of those influences about us which elsewhere h ivc
their effect upon government, just as much as the invisible
atmosphere itself tends to influence life, and animul and vcgct.ible
existence. This is a new land — a land of pretension, beciusc it is
new ; because clas;-es and systems have not had that time to grow
here n.-turally. We have no aiiotocr,.cj bat of virtue audt^bat,
wl ich is the only true aristocrac}', and is the old and true mean-
ing of the term, ^riicre is a class of men rising in these colonics
su[)erior in ma.-y respects to others with whom they might bo
compared. What I should like to see is that f lir representatives
of the Canadian and Acadian aristocracy should be sent to the
foot of the throne with that scheme to obtain for it the royal s mc-
tion — a scheme not suggested by others, or imposed upon u ", but
one the work of ourselves, the creation of our own intellect, and
of our owu free, unbiassed and untrammelled will. I should lii^a

«1.

Oratorical Selections.

241

another,
, having
ere were

} govern-

jnouiih —

liberty to

th a freer

necessary

lovity, the

,:ike ; even

iufficiontly

set up hi3

d through

; provinces

not at all

iserviitism.

cndency in

}, is a suffi-

c on which

rt of every

:ipprob;ition

and ancient
omenta h li-
st settler of
nerations at
^ callin;^ up
legends and
. crful sh irs
own works.
Nvheve h.ive
l\o invisible
/d vcj;ct.ibb
bee lU-^e it i3
lime to grow
.aidt..l!ut,
true lucan-
lese coloiucs
>y migbt bo
nresentitivca
sent to the
.e royal s mc-
LDon" u •, but
Atelloct, •md
should Uka

to see our best men go there and endeavor to have this measure
carried through the Imperial Parliament — going into her Majesty's
presence, and by their manner, if not actually by their Bpecch,
saying : " During your Majesty's reign we have had responsible
government conceded to us ; we have administered it for nearly a
quarter of a century, during which we have under it doubled our
population and more than quadrupled our trade. The small
colonies which your ancestors could scarcely see on the map have
grown into great communities. Great danger has arisen in our
near neighborhood. Over our homes a cloud hangs dark and
heavy ; we do not know when it may burst. With our own
strength we are not able to combat against the storm ; what we
can do, we will do cheerfully and loyally. But we want time to
grow — we want more people to fill our country, more industrious
families of men to develop our resources — we want to increase
our prosperity — wo want more extended trade and commerce—
we want more land tilled, more men established through our wastes
and wildernesses. We, of the British North American Provinces,
want to be joined together, that, if danger comes, wo can support
each other in the day of trial. Wo come to your Majesty, who
have given us liberty, to give us unity, that we may preserve and
perpetuate our freedom ; and whatsoever charter, in the wisdom
of your Majesty and of your Parliament, you give us, we shall
loyally obey and fulfil it, as long as it is the pleasure of your
Mijesty and your successors to maintain the connection between
Great Britain and these colonies."

CANADIANS AND AMERICANS, ONE PEOPLE IN
EACB, LANGUAGE AND PURSUITS.

soir. JosBPH Howa.

Sir, we are hero to determine how best we can draw together, in
the bonds of peace, friendship and commercial prosperity, the three
great branches of the British family. In the presence of this groat
theme all petty interests should stand rebuked — we are not dealing
with the concerns of a city, a province or a state, but with the
future of our race in all time to come. Some reference has been
made to " Elevators " in your discussions. What we want is an
elevator to lift our souls to the height of this great argument. Why
should not these three great branches of the family flourish,
under different systems of government, it may be, but forming one
griuid whole, proud of a common origin and of their ad^jOb^

242

Oratorical Selections,

'«

'^%

■I

P ^V£ '"

! '»,

.•If ■ ' .

civilization ? We arc taught to reverence the mystery of the Trr-
nity, and our s;ilv ition depends on our belief. The clover lifts
its try-foil leaves to the evenini^ dew, yet they draw their nourish-
ment from a single stem. Thus distinct, and yet united, let ug
live and flourish. Why should we not ? For nearly two thousand
ye irs we were one family. Our fathers fought side by side at
Hastings, and heard the curfew toll. They fought in the same
ranks for the sepulchre of our Saviour — in the earlier and later
civil wars. We can wear our white and red roses without a blush^
and glory in the principles those conflicts established. Our com-
mon ancestors won the great Charter and the Bill of Rights-
established free Parliaments, the Habeas Corpus, and Trial by
Jury. Our Jurisprudence comes down from Coke and Mansfield
to Marshall and Story, rich in knowledge and experience, which
ao man can divide. From Chaucer to Shakespaare our literature
is a common inheritance. Tennyson and Longfellow write in one
language, which is enriched by the genius developed on either side
of the Atlantic. In the great navigators from Cottereal to Hudson,
and in all their "moving accidents by flood and field," we have a
common interest. On this side of the sea we have been largely
reinforced by the Germans and French, but there is strength in
both elements. The Germans gave to us the sovereigns who estate-
lishcd our freedom, and they give to you industry, intelligence
and thrift ; and the French, who have distinguished themselves
in arts and arms for centuries, now strengthen the Provinces which
the fortune of war decided they could not control. But it may be
said we have been divided by two wars. What then ? The noble
St. Lawrence is split in two places — by Goat Island and by Anti-
costi — but it comes down to us from the same springs in the same
mountain sides ; its waters sweep together past the Pictured Rocks
of Lake Superior, and encircle in their loving embrace the shores
of Huron and Michigan. They are divided at Niagara Falls as
we were at the revolutionary war, but they come together again
on the peaceful bosom of Ontario. Again they are divided on
their passage to the sea ; but who thinks of divisions when they lift
the keels of commerce, or when, drawn up to heaven, they form
the rainbow or the cloud ? It is true that in eighty-five years we
have had two wars — but what then ? Since the last we have had
fifty years of peace, and there had been ^moro people killed in a
single campaign in the late civil war, than there were in the two
national wars between this country and Great Britain. The people
of the United States hope to draw together the two conflicting
elements and make them one people. And in that task I wish them
God speed I And in the same way I feel that we ought to rule
out everything disagreeable ia the reooUeetioa of our old wars,

Oratorical Selections.

243

blie Trr-

ver lifts

nourisli-

1, let ua

,housand
side at

,lic same

Lincl later

b a bluslH

)ur com-

Uiii;hts—

Trial by

Mansfield

cc, vrhich

literature

■itc in one

jitlier side

3 Hudson,

\7e have a

en largely

brcngth in

who cstab-

iitelligence

themselves

iccs which

it may bo

The noble

Ijy Anti-

. the same

ired Rocks
the shores

la Falls as
jther again
.ivided on
jn they lift
they forni
•e years we
p have had
[killed in a
in the two
It he people
' conilictiug
: wish them
ight to rule
° old wars,

and unite together as one people for all time to come. I see
around the door the fligs of the two countries. United {is they
are there, I would ever have them draped together, fold within
fold — and let "their varying tints unite, and form in heaven's
light, one arch of i)caco." — ^pa-ch ddivcred at the IntcniationcU
Gunvcution, Detroit, 18G5.

%'^\

SACRED ORATORY.

W- ■'

NECESSITY OF LAW.

RICHARD IIOOKEU. BOUN, 1553 ; DIKD, 1600.

The st;it('lincss of houses, the jioodlincss of trees, when wc behold

till 111, delijzhteth the eye; but th;it fbuiRl;iti(»ii wliieh beareth up

tlic one, tluit root which uiiniyterttli unto tlie otlier nourishincnt

and life, is in the boisoiu of the e;irth ooiieeided ; and if there be

oecjsion at any time to search into it. sucli 1 ibor is tlien more

ncci'ssary tlian pleasant, both to theui which undert.ike it and for

the lookers on. In like manner, the use;;nd bi'iielit oi' Liood hnvs,

all that live \inder them may enjoy with dclitiht and conilbrt,

albrit the ^rounds and first original e.tuses from whence they

hav(! sprung' be unknown, as to the greatest part of men they arc.

Since the time thtit God did iirst proclaim the edicts ot His

law unon the world, heaven and eaitli have hearkened unto

His voice, and their labor hath been to do His will. He made

a 1 iW for the rain ; He <iave His decree unto the sea, tiiat the

•Witers should not pass Hifs commandment. Now, if Nature

should intermit her course, and leave altoizether, thouuh it were

for a while, the observation of her own law; if tlio.-e principal

and motluir elements of the world, whereof all tliin>:s in this

lower world are made, should lose the (jualities wdiich now they

have; if the i'rame of that heavenly arcli erected over our heads

should loosen and dissolve itself ; if celestial sj»heres should lortict

their wonted motions, and by irre^uular volubility turn themsilvos

any way as it mi^ht happen; if the prince of the lii;hts of heaven,

which now, as a giant, doth run his unwearied course, should, as

it were, throuuh a languishing faintness, begin to stand and to

rest himself; if the moon should wander fiom her beaten way;

the times and seasons of the yi'ar blend themselves by disordered

and confused mixture ; the winds breathe out their last gasj» ; the

cloudsyield no rain ; the earth be del'eati'd of Heavenly influence;

the iVuits of the earth pine away, as children at the withered

breasts of their mother, no longer able to yield them relief-^

whut would become of m;m himself, whom these things do now

Sacred Oratory,

245

all
law

serve ? Soc wenotplninly that obedionoc of creutures unto the

.. of nature is the st ly of the whole world ?

Of L iw there c m be no less acknowlcdgeJ th:in tliat her seat
is the bosom of God ; her voice the harmony of the world ; all
thiiiijfs in heaven und earth do her horn ij;e ; the very le ist as
feeliiiij^ her care, and the jzreatest as not exempted from her power.
Both anirels and men, and creatures of what condition soever,
though each in different sort and manner, yet all, with uniform
consent, admiring her as the mother of their peace aud joy.

THE CRUCIFIXION.

i'C behold
<areth up
irishnicnt
' there be
ihen more
it and for
nood laws,
i conil'ort,
lence they
n they are.
c-ts of His
eiu'd unto
He made
I, t!.:it the
ii" Nature
oh it were
; principal

lio's ii» ^i^^^
now they
our heads
liuild forget
themselves
of heaven,
sliouhl, as
ind and to
eaten way ;
disordered

nOSSURT.

It li'asp ;

the

iidluence;
I. -svitliered
Li relief-^
L_,.s do now

When our Redeemer expired on tlie cross, sympathizing nature
was convulsed I Tlie sun was suddenly enveloped in midnight
darkness, and confu-^ion reigned ! iiut I sliall pass these terrific
events, in order to lead your attention to more important objects.
The cr iss erected on Mount Calvary was the standard of victory,
to which even 'I hought was to be led captive, and before which
Im iginations were to be cast down ; — that is to say, human
wisdi>m and sceptic reluctance. No voice sublime was he.ird
pounding from a thunder-bearing cloud, as of old from the heights
of Sinai! No approach was observed of that formid ible Majesty,
b ;fore whom the mountains melt as wax! Where, where was the
warlike preparation of that power, which was to subdue the
world? See the whole artillery collected on Mount Calvary — in
the exhibition of a cross, of an agonizing sufferer, aud a crown of
thorns !

Religious truth was exiled from the earth, and idolatry sat
brooding over the moral world. The Egyptians, the fathers of
jiliilosophy ; the Grecians, the inventors of the fine arts; the
Romans, the conquerors of the universe; were all unfortunately
celebrated for the perversion of religious worship, — for the gross
errors they admitted into tlieir |?elief, and the indignities they
offered to the true religion. Minerals, vegetables, animals, the
elements, became objects of adoration ; even abstract visiojiary
forms, such as fevers and distempers, received the honors of
deification ; and to the most infamous vices and dissolute passions
altars were erected. The world, which God had made to manifest
his power, seemed to have become a temple of idols, where every-
thing was god but God himself!

The mystery of the crucifixion was the remedy the Almighty
ordained for. this universal idolatry. He knew the mind of man,

246

Sacred Oratory.

and knew that it was not by reasoning that an error must be
destroyed, whieh reasoning had not establislied. Idolatry pre-
vailed by the suppression of reason ; by suffering the senses to
predominate, wliich are apt to clotlie everytliing with the qujilities
with wliicli they are affected. IMen gave the Divinity tht-ir own
figure, and attributed to Him tlieir vices and ptissions. Reason-
ing liad no share in so brutal an error. It was w subversion of
reason, i deliiium, a phrensy. Argue with a jihrcnctic jterson,
you do but the more provoke liim, and render tlu; distemper
incurable. Neither will reasoning cure the delirium of idolatry.
What has learned antiquity gained by lier elaborate discourses?
her reasonings so artfully framed ? Did Plato, with that eloquence
wliich was styled divine, overthrow one single altar where mon-
strous divinities were worshipped ?

Experience hath shown that the overthrow of idolatry could
not be the work of reason alone. Far from committing to human
wisdom tlie cure of such a malady, God completed its conlusion
b the myster}' of the Cross. Idolatry (if rightly understood)
took its rise from that profound self-attachment inherent in our
nature. Thus it was that the Pagan mythology teemec^ with
deities, who were subject to human passions, weaknesses, and
vices. When the mysterious Cross displayed to the world an
agonizing Redeemer, incredulity exclaimed, it was foolishness I
But the darkening sun, nature convulsed, the dead arising from
fhcir graves, said it was wisdom !

THE INFLUENCE OF SATAN.

DR. CHALMERS.

It would appear from the records of inspiration, that, on the one
hand, the Spirit of God is employed in making for the truths of
Christianity a way into the human heart, with all the power of an
effectual demonstration ; that, on the other, there is a spirit now
abroad, which worketh in the children of disobedience ; that, on
the one hand, the Holy Ghost is calling men out of darkness into
the marvellous light of the Gospel ; and that, on the other hand,
lie who is styled the god of this world, is blinding their hearts,
lest the light of the glorious gospel of Ciirist sliould enter into
them : that they who are under the dominion of the one, are said
to have overcome, because greater is he that is in them, than he that
is in the world ; and that they who are under the dominion of the
other, are said to be the children of the devil, and to be under his
snare, and to be taken captive by him at his will. How these re-

Sacred Oratory.

spcctlvc powers do opcrito, is one (jucstioti. The fact of tlicir opera-
tion, is anothor. We ab-itiin from tlic fona ;r. Wo itt icli oiii's>'l\os
to the latter, ;iml <^ if her from it. that tlio prince of cl irkness still
Walketh abroad amoiij^st us; that he is still workini^ his insi<li()us
policy, if not with tlio vii^orous inspiratioiis of hope, at least with
the frantic enerj.'ies of despiir; tint, while the ovtTtures of recon-
ciliation are m ide to cireul ite tlirouirli the world, he is playing
all his devices to de ifen and to extin^uis'i tlie imj)ression of t'lem;
or, in other words, while a process of invitition and of ari;ument
has emanated from heaven, for rcelalniing men to their loyalty, the
process is resistt;d at all its points, by one who is piittinu^' forth
his every expedient, and wieldin.i,' a mysterious ascend mey, to
seduce and to enthral them.

To an infidel e ir, all this carries the sound of somethitiL:; wild
and visionary alon^ with it. Hut, though only known through
the mt^lium of nivdation, after it is known, who can fail to recog-
nize its h irmony with the great lineaments of human exjierience ?
Whence the might and whence the mystery of that spdl, which so
blinds and so infituates us to the worM ? Whitpromj)ts us so to
embark the v^diole strenLith of our eagerness and of our desires, ia
pursuit of interests, which, we know, a few little ye irs will bring
to utter annihilation? Who is it that impirts to them all the
charm and all the color of an unfiding durability ? Who is it
that throws such an air of stability over these earthly tib.'rn cles
as makes them look, to the fiuscin ited eye of mm, like resting-
places for eternity ? Who is it tliat so pictures out the objects of
sense, and so magnifies the range of their future enjoyment, and
so dazzles the fond and deceived imagination, that, in looking
onward through our earthly career, it appears like the vista, or
the perspective, of innumerable a<>es? He who is c died the god
of this world. He who can dress the idleness of its wikinji
dreams in the garb of reality. Ht> who can pour a seducing
brilliancy over the pinorama of its fleeting pleasures, aiid its vain
anticipations. He who cm turn it into an instrument of drc^'it-
fulness; and mike it wield such an absolute ascend mcy over all
the affections, that mm — become the {)Oor slave of its idolatries
and its charms — jiuts the authority of conscience, and the wariiin'i;.s
of the Word of God, and the olR-red instigations of the Spirit of
God, and all tiie lessons of c ilculation, and all the wisdom even of
his own sound and sober experience, away from him.

iiut this wondrous cont '8t will come to a close. Some will
return to their loydty, and others will keep by their rebellion;
and, in the day of the winding up of the drama of this world's
history, there will be made manifest, to the myriidsof the variouii
orders of creation, both the mercy and viudicated majesty of tho

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248

Sacred Oratory.

Eternal. Oh ! on that day, how vain will the presumption of the
intidil astronomy appear, when the afF;iir.s of men come to be
examined, in the prcHonce of an innumerable company ; and
bein<i;s of loftiest nature are seen to crowd around the judirmenfc-
seat; and the .'^aviour shiill iippt^ar in our sky, with a celestial
retinue, who have come with him from afar, to witness nil his
d()injj;s, and to t;ike a deep and fol'mn interest in all his dispensa-
tions ; and the destiny of our species, whom the Infidel would
thus detiich, in solit iry insijinificance, from the universe alto<rether,
f-h.iU be found to merge and to minp;le with hij^her destinies; —
the ji,ood, to spend their eternity with anjxels — the bad, if) spend
their eternity with devils : — the former, to be re-admitted into the
universal family of God's obedient worshippers — the hitter, to
share in the everhistini:; pain and itinoniiny of the defeated hosts
of the rebellious ; — the peoi)le of this planet to be implicated,
throughout the whole train of their never-endinn; history, with
the higher ranks, and the more extended tribes of Intelligence.

BENEVOLENCE OF GOD.

CHALMERS.

It is saying much for the benevolence of God, to say, that a
sinule world, or a single system, is not enough for it — that it must
have the spread of a mightier region, on which it may pour forth
a tide of exuberancy throughout all its provinces — that, as far as
our vision can carry us, it has strewed immensity with the floating
receptacles of life, and has stretched over each of them the gar-
niture of such a sky, as mantles our own habitation— and that,
even from distmces which are fir beyond the re<ich of human eye,
the songs of gratitude and praise may now be arising to the one
God, who sits surrounded by the regards of his one great and
universal fimily.

Now it is saying much for the benevolence of God, to say, that
it sends forth these wide and distant emanations over the surface
of a territory so ample — tliat the world we inhabit, lying imbedded
as it does amidst so much surrounding greatness, shrinks into a
point that to the universal eye might appear to be almost imper-
ceptible. But does it not add to the power and to the perfection
of this univers .1 eye, that at the very moment it is taking a com-
prehetisive survey of the v; st, it can fasten a steady and undis-
tracted attention on e;ich minute and separate portion of it ; that
at the very moment it is looking at all worlds, it can look most
pointedly and most intelligently to each of them ; that at th^ very

Sacred Oratory.

249

ri of the

to be
y; ''«d
(Iffinentr
celostial
? i»U his
lisponsa-
el would
together,
tinies ; —
to spend

1 into the
liittcr, to
ted hosts
nplicnted,

ory:

ligence.

itb

?ay, that a
it it must

pour forth
as far as
ic floating

m the gar-
and that,
luman eye,
to the one
great and

say, that
;he surface
imbedded
nks into a
ost iiuper-
perfection
ing a com-
Lnd undis-
V it ; that
look most
Lt thii very

moment it sweeps the field of immensity, it can settle all the earn-
estness of its regards upon every distinct hand-breadth of that
field ; that at the very moment at which it embraces the tot dity
of (Existence, it can send a most thorough and penetrating inspec-
tion into each of its details, and into every one of its endlesa
diveisities ? You cannot fail to perceive how much this adds to
the power of the all-seeing eye. Tell me, then, if it do n(»t add
as much perfection to the benevolence of God, that while it is
expiitiating over the vast field of created things, there is not one
portion of the field overlooked by it; that while it scatters bless-
ings over the whole of an infinite range, it causes them to
descend in a shower of plenty on every separate habitation ; that
while His arm is underneath and round about all worlds. He enters
within the precincts of every one of them, and gives a care and
a tenderness to each individual of their teeming population. Oh I
does not tiie God, who is said to be love, shed over this attribute
of Ilis. its finest illustration ! when, while He sits in the hiuhest
heaven, and pours out His fulness on the whole subordinate
domiin of nature and of Providence, He bowsa pitying regard on
the very humblest of His children, and sends His reviving spirit
into every heart, and cheers by His presence every home, and pro-
vides for the wants of every f imily, and watches every sick-bed,
and listens to the complaints of every sufferer ; and while, by His
wondrous mind, the weight of universal government is borne, oh I
is it not more wondrous and more excellent still, that He feels for
every sorrow, and has an ear open to every prayer !

THE FUTURE STATE OF THE BLESSED PROGRES-

SIVE.

REV. HBNRY MELVILL, D.D.

We would observe to you here, tluit the expression, " The Lord
God givcth them light," seems to indicate that our future st ite,
lik(> f)ur present, will hii progressive ; there is to be a continued
communication of light, or of knowledge, so that the assertion of
Solomon, " The path of the just is as the shining light, that
shineth more and more unto the perfect day," may be as true
hereafter as here. Whatever may be the attainments of the just
man whilst on earth, he sees only " through a glass darkly."
How much of what he acknowledges as truth is profoundly myste-
rious ! what difficulties throng great portions of Scripture I how
dark the dispensations of Providence ! what subject for implicit
faith in the workings of God's moral government ! With St. Paul

ill

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260

Sacred Oratoi'y,

he is often forced to excLiini, when nmsiuj; on the Aliniirlity and
his de.ilin^s, " IIow unse.ircliiiblu .-ire Ili.x jud<;uiei)ts, and 11 is w;iy8
pjiHt fiiidiri<^ out." But he has yet to p.is.s into a scene of i:re.itcr
li<^lit, and to read in the open voluiui; of God's purposes, the explu-
Dation of difficulties, the wisdom of appointments, tlu; nice })ro-
portions of truth. And assuredly do we believe th;it then shall
there break on him mii^iity and ever-iimplifying views of all that is
autiust in the nature of God, and wonderful in His works. Then
bIuMI the divine attributes rise before him, unseireh ible iiidiicd
and uidimited, but ever discoveriu<^ more of their stupi'ndousness,
their be.iuty, and their harmony. Then shall the mystic lii^ures
of prophecy, which here have crossed his path only as the shadows
of fir-off events, take cjich its place in accomplished plans,
Bchemed and willed by the Everlastin«j,' Mind. Then shall liedemp-
tion throw open before him its untravelled amplitude, and allow
of his tracinu; those unnumbered ramifications, which the cross,
erected on this globe, m;iy possibly be sending to all the outskirts
of immensity. Then shall the sever.d occurrences of his life, the
dark things and the bright which cheiiuered his p;itli, appear
equally neces.s iry, equally merciful ; and doubt give place to adoring
reverence, as the problem is cleared up of oppressed righteousness
and successful villany. But it shall not be instantaneous, this
reaping down the vast harvest of knowledge, this ingathering of
what we may call the sheaves of ligiit, seeing that " light,"
according to the Psalmist, '* is sown for the righteous." It must
continue whilst being continues, fur if the mysteries of time were
exhausted and Redemption presented no unexplored district, God
would remain infinite as at the first, as sublime in his inscruta-
bleness, as though ages had not been given to the searchiiig out
his wonders. It is said by St. Paul of the love of Christ, and if
of the love, then necessarily also of him whose love it is, that it
" passeth knowledge." But if never to be overtaken, it shall
always be pursued, and we gather from the expression of our t(^xt
(liev. xxii. 5), an expression which marks progressiveness, that
the just man will continually be admitted to richer and richer
discoveries of God and of Christ, so that eternity will be spent in
journeying through that temple, which we have already described
as the Almighty himself, from whose innermost shrine, though
always inapproachable, shull flash, as he advances, the deeper and
deeper efiiilgence of Deity. Ay, and if knowledge be thus progres-
sive, so also shall love be, and so also happiness. In giving light,
the suti gives also heat. It cannot be that the just ni ni should
Uius travel into the perfections of his Creator md Redeemer, and
not admire more, and adore more, and bound with a greater
ecstasy. As fast as obsOtire things are illuminated, and difficult

Sacred Oratory.

251

made intolHti;ible, Jind contradictory reconciled, and matiiiiticent
Tinlolde<l, tlicre will bo a fresh i',illiii<:; down before the ThroiK', a
fresh ascription of praise, a fresh burst of r.ipture. The voice
wliich is to b(! from the first as " tht; voice of niiiiy waters, and as
the voice of a jjreat thunder," shall {^.row louder and louder —
each manifestation of Deity addinii' a new wave to the minv
waters, a new peal to the great thunder. Tiic anthem, whieh is
to ascribe worthiness for ever andevtr tt>the L unl), thouiih always
rushing as a torrent of melody, seeing that it is to is>ue Iroin
" ten thousand times ten thousand, and thousand of thousands:"
— what an orchestra ! who would not hear, who would not swell the
roll of this music ?- -shall not be always of e(|u:d strength ; for aa
the Lamb discloses to his Church more and more of his am iziiig
achievement, and opens new tnicts of the conse(|uences of the
Atonement, and exhibits under more endearing and overcoming
aspects, the love which moved him, and the sorrows which beset
him, and the triumphs which attended him ; we believe that the
hearts of the redeemed will beat with a higher pulse of devotion,
and their liarps be swept with a bolder hand, and their tongues
send forth a mightier chorus. Thus will the just proceed from
fitrengtii to strength; knowledge, and love, and holiness, and joy,
being always on the increase; and eternity one glorious morning,
with the sun ever climbing higher and higher; oncbh'ssed s])ring-
tinie, and yet rich summer, every plant in full flower, but every
flower the bud of a lovelier.

SYMPATHY.

REV. FRKDERICK W. UOBEUTSON, OF BRIOHTON.

The Rev. F. W. Robertson is now dead, but diirinjr a brief nnd active life,
devoted to the ministrations of his hi^rh ollice, lie exercised tlic iiest and widest
intiiieiice, not only over the crowded cnngregatiotis that listcMied to his
eloquent preaching, but over the oj)inions and ciiaracler and literature of
the country. IJis sermons and writings breathe a spirit of holy fervor,
:niiii^"ir>d always with the deepest and widest charity and the liijj^hest
(^liiistiaa liberty. lu the preface to the American edition of his works, his
•^haracter is summed up in the following eloquent eulogy : " A courageous
Christiau soldier, a fearless fighter of the good fight, a powerful lesider,
strong to command, to exhort aid to encoiirage — whose daily life was war
to the death with every base and evil thing, a id whose preaching was like
a clarion call to duty, to devotedness, to all that was holy, lovely, noble
and of good report."

Till we have reflected on it we are scarcely aware liow much
the sum of human happiness in the world is indebted to this

252

Sacred Oratory.

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Hi •!

ono f(>cHnL!; — Sympattiy. Wn pjot chonrfulnoss nnd vi^'or, we
Bc.irocly know how or wlicii, from Tiiorc iisHoclMtioii with our
fellow-men ; jind from the looks reflceted on us of <i;liidnesH and
enjoyment, we ciiteh insjii ration and jM»wer to no on, from
human ytresenco and from cheerful looks. The workman works
with added enerL'y from havint^ otliers by. Tiie full family
cirele has a streniith peciiliarly its own. The substantial ;^oo(l and
the elfectiial relief which mvn extend to one another is trifling.
It is not by these, but by somi'thini; far less costly, tliat this
work is (lone. God has insured by u much more simple
machinery. He has iriven to the weakest and the poorest

ower to contribute lar<2;(dy to the common stock of ijl.idness.

he child's smile and lauu^h are mii^hty powers in this world.
When bereavement has left you desolate, what substantial benefit
is there whicli makes condolence acceptable ? It cannot repl ice
the 1ov(h1 ones you have lost. It can bc^stow upon you nothing
permanent. But a warm hand has touched yours, und its thrill
told you that there was a livinu; response there to your emotion ;
on(! look, one human si^h, has done more for you than the cost-
liest |)resent could convey.

And it is for want of reraarkinp; this, that the cfT(ict of pub-
lic charity falls often .so far short of the expectations of those
wlio j;ive. The sprinpjs of men's tjjenerosity are dried up by
hearint:; of tlie repinini;;, and the envy, and the discontiint,
which have been sown by the general collection and the provision
est iblishment, amouL"" cotta<;es wlu're all was harmony befiU'C.
The famine and the pestilence are met by abundant liberality;
and the apparent return for this is riot and sedition. But the
secret lii's all in this. It is in channels such as those that the
heart's gratitude can flow. Love is not bought by money, but
by love. There has been all f^o w hinery of a public distribu-
tion ; but there has bee ttion of individual personal
interest. The rieH unn i his poor brother's cottage,
and, without afi ,. , luu ry, natur.illy, and witli tlie
respect which m owes t' man, enters into his circumstances,
incjuiring about his distresses, and hears his homely tale, has done
more to establish an intei hange of kindly feeling than he could
have secured by the costliest present, by "If. Public dona-
tions have their value and their uses. P
beings from starvation ; but, in the point
all tiicse t.il. Man has not been brough
with mm for this. They do not work by

i^gain, when the electric touch of syu pathetic feeling has
gone among a mass of men, it communicates itself, and is
reflected back from every individual in the crowd, with a force

laws keep human

eliciting gratitude,

iito contact enough

iiipathy.

Sacred Oratont.

253

i«ror, we
vith our
iiu'ss and
Ml, i'rora
in works
11 family
pind and
s trifling,
that this
•0 simple
e poorest
srliidnoss.
Ills world,
tial benefit
lot repl >ce
,u nothing
J its thrill
r emotion ;
.n the cost-

ect of pub-
is of those
Iried up by
i scon tent,
u'. provision
>ny before,
liberality ;
But the
se that the
money, but
ic distribu-
,1 personal
r's cottaj,'C,
d with the
;amst:inces,
le, has done
an he could
ublic dona-
eep human
gratitude,
!act enough

[feeling has
felf, and is
vith a force

exactly proportioned to their numbers. The spcccli or sermoa
read bi'fore the limited circle of a family, and the sanu; discourso
utttrt'd bulbre closely crowded hundreds, are two ditt't-reiit tIiiiii;H.
Till re is a straii^ci power (!veii in the mere pres«'iice of a com-
mon crowd, excitinu' almost uncontrollable emotion.

It is on record that the hard heart of an orii-ntal conf|ueror
was nnmjiined by the sight of a dense mass of living millions
cnu;a;zed in one enterprise. II(i accounted for it bv suviny' that
it suggested to him that, within a sinj:le century, not one of
those millions would be alive. IJut the hard-he;irt('d bosom of
the tyrant mistook its own emotions. His tears eame from
no such far-fi'tched inl'erenco of retl(!ctlon ; they rosi' sponta-
niMiusly as they will rise in a dense crowd — you cinnot tell
why. It is the thrilling thought of innnbers engaged in the
same object; it is the idiia of our own i'eelings reelprocatc^d
buck to us, and reflected from many hearts; it is the mighty
presence of life.

And again, it seems partly to avail itself of this tendenity
within us that such stress is laiil on th(! injunction of united
prayi-r. Private devoti<»n is essential to the spiritual life — with-
out it there is no life. 13ut it cannot replace united pi-ayer; for
the two things have different aims. Solitary })rayer is feeble in
comparison with that which ri.^es before the Throni^ echoed by
the hearts of hundreds, and strengthened by the fcoling that
other aspirations are mingling with our own. Ami whether
it be the chanted litany, or the more simj>ly read service,
or the anthem producing one emotion at the same moment
in m.iuy bosoms, the value and the power of public prayer seem
chiefly to depend on this mysterious affection of our nature —
By.MI'ATIIY. ■

ZACCHEUS AND THP] SYMPATHY OF CIIIIIST.

RKV. F. W. K0BKUT80X.

It is in this entire and perfect sympathy with all humanity that
the heart of Jesus difiers from every other heart that is found
among the sons of men, audit is this. O ! it is this, wliicli is the
cliicl" blessedness of having such a Saviour, If you are poor,
you can only get a miserable sympathy from the rich ; witli the
best intentions, they cannot understand you. Their sympathy is
awkward. If you are in pain, it is only a factitious and con-
str;.ined sympathy you get from those in health ; — feelings kind,
forced, adopted kindly, but imperfect still. They sit, when the

Mi H

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254

Sacred Oratory^

rejiiil.ir fondolonce is done, beside you, conversinji; on topics with
each other that jar upon your ears. Tluj/ sympathise? Miserable
conilort/rs are tlicy all. If you arc miserable and tell out your
gricsf, you have the shame ot'teelinu' thut you were not understood
that you have bared your innvr self to a rude gaze. If you ;,r0
in doubt, you cannot tell your doubts to reliiiious people ; no,
not even to the ministers of Christ, for ti.ey have no place ibr
doubts in their largest sy>tem. They ask, what right have you
to doubt ? They susjtect your character. They shake the head
and whisper it about gravely tliat you read strange books, that
you arc verging on infidelity. If you are depressed with guilt,
to whom shall you tell out your tale of shame ? The confessional,
with its many evils and yet indisputably soothing power, is
passed ^away ; but there is nothing to supply its place. You
cainiot speak to your brother man, for you injure him by
doing so, or else weaken yourself. You cannot tell it to society,
for society judges in the gross by general rules, and cannot
take into account the delicate differences of transgression. It
banishes the frail penitent, and does homage to the daring, hard
transgressor.

Then it is that, repulsed on all sides and lonely, we turn to
Him whose mighty Heart understands and feels all. '' Lord to
whom shall we go? Thou hast the Avords of eternal life." And
then it is that, exactly like Zaccheus — misunderstood, suspected
by the world, suspected by our own liearts, the very voice of
God ajiparently against us, isolated and apart — we sjxak to Him
from the loneliness of the Sycamore tree, heart to lieart, and
pulse to pulse : " Lord, Thou knowest all things;" Thou knowest
my sv'crct charities, and my untold self-denials; '' Thou knowest
tliati love Thee."

lu'mark, in conclusion, tbc power of the sympathy on Zacclicus'
character. Salvation tiiat day came to Zaccheus' house. What
brought it ? What touched him ? Of course, " the Gospel !" Yes,
but what is the Gospel ? What was hla Gospel ? SjKCulations or
revelations concerning the JJivine nature? The scheme of the
Atonement or of the Incarnation ? Or baptismal reiicneration ?
Nay, but the Divine sympathy of the Divinest Man. The personal
love of God nianifested in the i'acc of Jesus Christ. The flood-
gates of his soul were opened, and the whole ibree that was in
the man flowed ibrth. AVhichever way you take that expression,
" Behold, Lord, the half of my goods I give to the poor :" — if it
referred to the future, then, touched by unex})ected sympathy,
finding himself no longer an outcast, he nuide that resolve iQ
grattfuhu!ss ; — if to the past, then, still touched by sym]tathy,
he who bad never tried to vindicate himself before the world,

Sacred Oratory.

255

opics "witli

Miserable
I out your
undev.-^tood
If you :.re
people ; i»o,
o place ibr
t have you
ke the head

books, that
. with ^uilt,
jonfessional,
i(T power, IS
|7lace. You
ire him by
it to society,

and cannot
K-rcssion. It

daring, hard

^, we turn to
l' " Lord to
lUfe." And
)0(l, suspected
erv voice of
rik to Him
,> heart, and
hou knowest
Viou knowest

on Zacchcua'

louse. What

jospel !" Yes,

piculations or

■ichouie of tlie

regeneration I

The personal

St. The flood-

that was in
hat exi-ression,
(,poor:"-il'it
led sympatliyi
that resolve m

1 by sympathy,
)re the world,

was softened to tell out tlic tale of liis secret munificence. This
is what I liave been doing all the time they slandered uie, and
none but God knew it.

Jieanithis: — Wiien wc love the Gospel so, and preach the
Gosix'l so, sinners will be brought to God. We know not yet the
Gospel power; for who trusts, as Jesus did, all to that? Who
ventures, as He did, upon the power of love, in sanguine hopeful-
ness of the most irreclaimable ? Who makes that, the divine
humanity of Christ, " the Gospel ?" More than by elo(juenco,
more than by accurate doctrine, more than by ecclesiastical order,
mort! than by any doctrine trusted to by the most earnesi
and holy men, shall we and others, sinful rebels, outcasts, be woU
to Christ by that central truth of all the Gospel, the entireness
of the liedeemer's sympathy ; in other words, the love of Jesus.

INDUCEMENTS TO EARNESTNESS IN RELIGION.

JOHX ANOELL JAMES.

Inducements ! Can it be necessary to offer these ? What ! la
not the bare mention of religion enough to rouse every soul, who
understands the meainng of that momentous word, to the greatest
intensity of action? Who needs tt) have spread out belore him the
demonstrations of logic, or the persuasions of rhetoric, to move
him to seek after wealth, rank, or honor ? Who, when an oppor-
tunity pA'sents itself to obtain such possessions, re^juires anything
mon; than an appeal to his consciousness ot their v;ilue to engage
him in the pursuit ? The very mention of riches suggests at once
to man's cupidity a thousand arguments to use tne means o
obtaining them. What intense longings rise in the heart I What
pictures crowd the imagination ! What a spell comes over the
whole soul ! And why is there less, — yea, why is there not
intensely more, than all this, at the mention of the word religion^
— tiiat term which comprehends heaven and earth, time and eter-
nity, God and man, within its sublime and boundless meaning?
If we were as we ought to be, it would be enough only to whisper
in the ear that word, of more than magic power, to engage all our
faculties, and all their energies, in the mos. .esolute purpose, the
most determined pursuit, and the most entire sell'-devotement.
Lulueements to earnestness in religion! Alas! how low we have
sunk, how far have wc been paralysed, to need to be thus stimu-
lated !

Is religir>n a contradiction to the usual maxim, that a man's
activity iu endeavoring to obtain an object is, if he understand it,

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256

Sacred Oratory.

in exact proportion to the value and importance which he attaches
to it 'i Are heaven, and salvation, and eternity, the only matters
that shall reverse this maxim, and make lukewarmneas the rule of
action ? By what thunder shall I bre;ik in upon your deep and
dangerous sleep ? 0, revolve often and deeply the infinite realities
of rclij^ion ! iMost subjects may be made to appear with ureater
or less dignity, accordinji,- to the "^ireater or less degree of inijiort-
ance in wliich the preacher places them. Pompous expressions,
bold figures, lively ornaments of eloquence, uiay oi'ten supj»ly a
want of this dignity in the subject discussed. But every attempt
to give importance to a motive taken from etirnity is more likely
to enfeeble the doctrine than to invigorate it. Motives of tliis
kind are self-sufficient. Descriptions the most simple and the
most natural are always the most pathetic or the most terril'yingj
nor can 1 find an expression m(n-e powerl'ul and emphatic than
that of Paul, " The things which are not seen are eternal."
What more could the tongues of men and the eloquence of angels
say? " Eternal things!" Weigh the import of that phrase,
"eternal tilings." 'JMie history of nations, the eras of tinit', the
cre;ition of worlds, all fade into insignificance — dwindle to a {)oint,
attenuate to a shadow — compared with these '' eternal things."
Do you believe them? If not, abjure your creed, abandon your
belief. Be consistent,^ and let the stu})endous vi.sion which, like
Jacob's ladder, rests its foot on earth and places its top in heaven,
vanish in thin air ! But if you do believe, say what ought to be
the conduct of him who. to his own conviction, stands with hell
beneath him, heaven above him, and eternity before him ? By
all the worth of the immortal .soul, by all the blessings of eternal
salvation, by all the glories of the up))er world, by all the horrors
of the bottomless pit, by all the ages of eternity and by all the
personal interest you have in these infinite realities, I conjure you
to be in earnest in personal religion 1

I'y' ' ■ ■' 1

.-•4

THE MAJESTY OF CHIIIST.

REV. W. A. BUTLER.

In such a subject as this, what can one say which is not unworthy
of it? It were vain to try amplification or ornament of such
thingH as these. This matter is far vaster than our va.stest con-
ception, infinitely grander than our loftiest ; yet overpoweringly
awful as it is, how familiarity still reconciles us to hearing of it
without awe ! Perhaps even the overpowering greatness oi tlio
subject makes us despair of conceiving it at all. All the wonders

Sacred Oratory,

257

attaclies
' m: liters
ic rule of
leep nnd
e realities
Iv trreater
)f iinitortr
presf^ions,

supply a
y atteuipt
loro likely
es of tliis
e avul the
terriiyingi
iliatie than
i eternal."
30 of ai libels
liat phrase,
f time, the
. to a point,
lal thin-s."
laudon your
^Yhich, like
p in heaven,
ought to be
.s with hell
him? By
rs of eternal
\he horrors
hy all the
conjure you

lot unworthy
|ient of >uch
• vastest con-
Lvpoweringly
[learing of it
Aaess oi' the
fthe woudors

of God fall deadly on unfitted minds. And thus men learn list-
lessly to hear words without even an effort to attach ideas to them ;
and this is not least the case with those who dispute the most
bitterly about the lifeless words themselves. In such a case all
that can be done is to endeavor to devise some mode of meeting
this miserable influence of habit, by forcing the mind to make
some faint effort to realize the infinite magnificence of the subject.
Let us endeavor, then, to approach it thu%

You are wandering (I will suppose) in some of the wretched
retreats of poverty, upon some mission of business or charity.
Perplexed and wearied amid its varieties of misery, you chance
to come upon an individual whose conversation and mien attract
and surprise you. Your attention enkindled by the gracious
benevolence of the stranger's manner, you inquire, and the
astounding fact reveals itself, that in this lone and miserable scene
you have, by some strange conjuncture, met with one of the great
lights ..f the age, one belonging to a different and distant sphere,
one of the leaders of universal opinion on whom your thoughts
had long been busied, and whom you had for years desired to see.
The singular accident of an interview so unexpected fills and
agitates your mind. You form a thousand theories as to what
strange cause could have brought him there. You recall how he
spoke and looked ; you call it an epoch in your life to have wit-
nessed so startling an occurrence, to have beheld one so distin-
guished, in a scene so much out of all possibility of anticipation.
And this, even though he were in no wise apparently connected
with it except as witnessing and compassionating its groups of
misery.

Yet again, something more wonderful than this is easily con-
ceivable. Upon the same stage of wretchedness a loftier personage
may be imagined. In the wild revolutions of fortune even
nionarchs have been wanderers. Suppose this, then, — improbable
indeed, but not impossible surely. And then what feelings of
respectful pity, of deep and earnest interest, would thrill your
frame, as you contemplated such a one cast down from all that
earth can minister of luxury and power, from the head of councils
and of armies, to seek a home with the homeless, to share the bread
of destitution, and feed on the charity of the scornful ! How
the depths of human nature are stirred by such events! how
tlky find an echo in the recesses of our hearts, these terrible
esjiousals of majesty and misery !

But this will not suffice. There are beings witliin the mind's easy
conception that far overpass the glories of the statesnum and the
iiiouarch of our earth. Men of even no extreme aidor of laucy,
whcu oucc instructed as to the vastuess of our universe, have

258

Sacred Oratory.

:^' 1

¥ '^

yearned to know of the life and intolli<rcnce that animate and that
guide those distant re<i;ions of creation which science has so abun-
dantly and so wonderfully revealed ; and have dared to dream of
tlie communications that mii^ht subsist — and that may yet ia
another state of existence subsist — with the beings of such
Bpheres. Conceive, then, no longer the mighty of our world in this
strange union with misery and degradation, but the presiding
spirit of one of these c^bs; or multiply his power, and make iiim
the deputed governor, the vicegerent angel, of a million of those
orbs that are spread in their myriads through infinity. Think
what it would be to be permitted to hold high converse with such
a delegate of heaven as this ; to fijid this lord of a million worlds
the actual inhabitant of our own ; to see him and yet live ; to
learn the secrets of his immense administration and hear of forma
of being of which men can now have no more conception than tlie
insect living on a leaf has of the forest that surrounds him. Still
more, to find in this being an interest, a real interest in the aft" ira
of our little corner of the universe ; of that eartlily cell which, in
point of fact, is absolutely invisible from the nearest fixed st .r that
sparkles in the heavens above us. Nay, to find him willing to
throw aside his glorious toils of empire, in order to medit itc our
welfare, and dwell among us for a time. This surely would bo
wondrous, appalling, and yet transporting ; such as that, wlK!n it
had passed away, life would seem to have nothing more it conld
offiiT compared to the being bles^^ed with such an intercourse !

And now mark, — behind all the visible scenery of nature ;
beyond all the systems ot all th(> st irs ; around this whole universe,
and through the infinity of infinite spice itself; from all eternity
and to all eternity ; there lives a Being, compared to whom t!iat
mighty spirit ju t described, with his empire of a million sn:i,5,
is infinitely less than to you is the minutest mote that flouts in the
sunbeam.

There is a Being in whose breath lives the whole immense of
V jrlds, Vr'ho with the faintest wish could blot them all from exist-
ence, and who, alter they had all vanished away like a dream,
would remain, filling the whole tremendous solitude they left, as
unimpaired in all the fulness of His might as when lie first scat-
tered them around llini to be the fiauiing beacons of His ghiiy.
"With Him, co-infinite with immensity, coeval with eternity, tlic
univiTse is a span, its duration a moment. Hrar His voice att -t-.
ing His own eternal sovereignty: *' Heaven and earth shall j'ass
away, but my words shall not pass away." But n-ho is He t.iat
tiuis builds the throne of Mis glory upon the ruins of earth aad
lii'aven; who is He that thus trilun|lh^ over a perishing universe,
Himself alone eternal and impassible ? The child of a Jewish

Sacred Oratory.

259

and that
so tibun-
dream of
\i yet in
of s^uch
Id in this

presid

iiake Uim
1 of those
r. Think
with svvch
ion worlds
.'t live ; to
ir of forni3
,n than tho
him. ^^till
1 the aff irs
i\ which, in
:edst .rtliiit
1 wilhiiir to
iicdititf nur

iy would bo

hut, when it
ore it could
■course !

of nature ;
ole univer-^e,

all eternity
whom t lat

lillion SU113,

floats in the

immense of
I from exi■^t•
Hce a dream,
jthey left, as

[e first seat-
If His ol..i-y.
leternity, tlic
1 voice att -t--
\\\ sliall I'ass
lo is He t/.at
l)f earth aid

lu<>" uuivei'"^^,

of a J^'^vi'^^

woman, brethren, He who, as on this day, was laid in a manijer,
because there was tio room for him in the inn at Betlilehem ! —
St rnioiis, Doctriniil and Practical — Sermon on the M^sttri/ of the
Incarnation, Luke i. 35.

LIFE ETERNAL.

RKV. C. H. 8PURGE0N.

" T GIVE unto them etornal life." This <;ift is, first of all, life.

You will make strani:;© confusion of God's Word if you confound

life with existence, for they are very different things. All men

will exist for ever, but many will dwell in everlistinir death ; they

will know notliini;' whatever of life. Life is a distinct thiii;^: alto-

gitlier from existeneo, and implies in God's Word sonictliing of

activity and of liappincss. In the text before us it includes many

things. Note the difference between the stone and the plant.

The plant has ve^ietable life. You know the differenct; between

t]i<! animal and the plant. While the plant has veuctable life, yet

it is alto<:^ether dead in the sense in which we speak of livijig

creatures. It has not the sensations which belonui- to animal life.

Then, aji-ain, if we turn to another and higher jirade, namely,

nientil life, an animal i'^ dead, so far as that is concerned. It

Cannot enter at all into tlie mysterious calculations of the mathc--

matician, nor revel in the sublime ulories of ])oetry. The animal

has nothinu: to do with tlie life of the intellectual mind ; as to

nuMital life it is de.id. Now, there is a jzrade of life which ig

hiizher than the mental life — a lusher life quite unknown to tho

philosopher, not put down in Plato, nor spoken of by Aristotle,

but understood by the very meanest of the children of God. It is

a phase of life called " spiritual life," a new form of life altotrether,,

which does not belonir to man itatnr.iUy. but is uiven to him by

J*'sus Christ. The first man, Ad im. was made a livinu' soul, and

all his descendants are nude like unto him. The second Adam

i.i made a quickeniiiiz; spirit, and until we are made like the

Secoud Adam, we know nothinir of sj)iiitual life. This b idy of

our> is by nature adapt 'd for a ^oulish lilt'. 'IMie Ai)ostle tells us,

in that wonderful chapter in Corinthians, that the body is sown

— whiit? " A natural body." The Greek is, " A soulish body "

— '• but it is raised " — what? " A spiritud body." Tlnic is a

soulish body, and there is a s}>iritual body. There is a ])ody

adiptcd to the lower life which belongs to all men, a mere mental

existence; and there is to be a body which will belon<i; to all those

who have received spiritual life, who shall dwell iu that body ag.

>( ',

.1,

'■i! L

!\|H .■!"| 'ii'

ll :

.. ■.;W •

If • *i'* '.I !

260

Sacred Oratory,

the house of their perfected spirit in heaven. The life which
Jesus Christ {ijives His people is .si)irituul life, therefore it is mys-
terious. " Thou hearest the sound thereof, but thou e;iiist not
tell whence it cometh, nor whither it gocth ; so is ovrry one that
is born of the Spirit." You who have mental life cannot explain
to the horse or tlie dog what it is, neither can we who have spirit-
ual lite explain to those who have it not what it is. You can tell
them what it does and what its effects are, but what the " spark
of heavenly flame " may be, you yourselves do not know, though
you are conscious that it is there.

It is spiritual life which Jesus Christ gives His people, but it is
more ; it is divine life. This life is like the life of God, and
therefore it is elevating. " Wc are made," says the Apostle,
" partakers of the divine nature." "Begotten again by God the
Father, not," says the Apostle, "with corruptible seed, but with
incorruptible." Wc do not become divine, but we receive a
nature which enables us to sympatliise with Deity, to delight in
the topics which engage the Eternal Mind, and to live upon the
same principle as the Most Holy God. We love, for God is love.
We begin to be holy, for God is thrice holy. We pant after per-
fection, for He is perfect. We delight in doing good, for God is
■good. We get into a new atmosphere. We pass out of the old
range of the mere mental faculties ; our spiritual faculties make
us akin to God. " Let us," said He, " make man in our own
image, Rafter our own likeness." That image Adam lost; that
image Christ restores, and gives to us that life which Adam lost
in tlie day when he sinned, when God said to him : "In the day
that thou eatest thereof thou shalt surt>ly die." In that sense he
did die ; the sentence was not postponed ; he died spiritually
directly he touched the fruit ; and this long-lost life Jesus Christ
restores to every soul who believes in Hifii.

This life is heavenly life. It is the same life that expands and
develops itself in heaven. The Christian does not die. What
does the Saviour say ? '* He that believeth in me shall never die."
Does not the mental life die ? Yes. Does not the mere bodily life
die? Ay, but not the spiritual life. It is the same life here
which it will be there, only now it is undeveloped and corruption
impedes its action. Brethren, nothing of us shall go to heaven
as flesh and blood, but only as it is subdued, elevated, changed,
and perfected by the influence of the spirit-lii'e. Know ye not
that " flesh and blood cannot inherit the kingdom of God ; neither
d^th corruption inherit incorruption." Then what is the " I,"
the " myself" that shall enter heaven? Why, ifyoii be in Christ
a new creature, then th;it new creature and nothing but th.it new
creature, the very life which you have lived here iu this taber-

Sacred Oratory,

261

nacle, the very life that has budded and blossomed in the f]^ardeii
of cnnnnuninn with God, that life which has led you to visit the
sick, and clothe the naked, and feed the hungry, that life which
has m ci(l(i tears of repentance stream down your cheeks, that life
which h;is caused you to believe in Jesus — this is the life which
will iio to heaven ; and if you have not this, tiien you do not pos-
sess the life of heaven, and dead souls cannot enter there. (Jnly
livinir nion can enter into the land of the living'. " As we have
borne the iniaii;e of the earthy, so also shall we bear the ima<i^e of
the heavenly." Even now the heavenly life heaves and throbs
within us.

I think it may also be inferred from all this that the life which
Christ irives His people is an energetic life. If the spiritual life
is pourud into a man, it raises him above his former state, and
lifts him out of the ranue of merely carnal comprehension. He
himself is discerned of no man. " For ye are dead, and your life
is hid with Christ in (lod." You cannot expect the world to
understand this new life. It is a hidden thing. It will be a
mystery to yourselves, a wonder to your own hearts. But oh !
how active it will be ! It will fight with your sins, and will not
be s.-itisfied until it has sl:iin them. If you tell me you never have
a conflict v.'ithin, I tell you I cannot understand how you can
hav'j the divine life, for it is sure to come into conflict at once
with the old nature, and there will be perpetual strife. The man
becomes a new man at home ; his wife and family observe it ; he
is a different man in business; he is a changed man altogether,
whether you view him in connexion with his fellow-men or with
bis God.

THE HOPE OF HEAVEN.

BKV. JOHN CAIRO, D D.

What is earthly rest or relaxation, what that release from toil
after which we so often sigh, but the faint shadow of the saints'
everlasting rest — the repose of eternal purity — the calm of a s[»irit
in wliieli, not the tension of labor only, but the strain of the
moral strife with sin, has ceased — the rest of the soul in God I
What visions of earthly bliss can ever — if our Christian faith be
not a form — compare with "the glory soon to be revealed?"
What joy of earthly reunion with the rapture of that hour when
the heavens shall yield our absent Lord to our embrace, to be

r-.ii

U 'f|»i i»T

.•i

262

Sacred Oratory,

pnrtod from us no more for ever ? And if jill tin's be not a drcim
and !i fancy, but most sober truth, what is there to except this
joyful hope from that law to which, in all other deep joys, ouf
minds are subject ? Why miiy we not in this case, too, think
often, jiniidst our worldly work, of the home to which we are
goiniir, oi' the true and lovinj; hearts that beat for us, and of the
sweet and joyous welcome that awaits us th(Te ? And even when
we make them not, of set purpose, the subject of our thouizhts,
is there not enouirh of f;randeur in the object of a believer's hoj^e
to p(;rvadc his spirit at all times with a calm and reverent id joy I
J)o not think all this stran^'C, fanatical, impossible. If it do
seem so, it can only be because your heart is in the earthly hopes,
but not in the hijji^her and holier hopes — because love to Christ is
Still to you but a name — because you can t^ive more ardor of
thou<j:;ht to the anticipation of a cominu; holiday than to the hope
of heaven and ^lory everlasting. No, my friends ! the strange
thing is, not that amidst the world's work we should be able to
think of our home, but that we should ever be able to
forget it, and the stranger, sadder still, that while the little day of
life is passing — morning, noontide, evening — each stage )iioro
rapid than the last, while to many the shadows are already fast
lengthening, and the declining sun warns them that "the nigiit is
at hand, wherein no man can work," there should be those amongst
us whose whole thoughts are absorbed in the business of the
world, and to whom the reflection never occurs that soon they must
go out into eternity, without a friend, without a home.

SELF-RELIANCE AND PRAYER.

■m

\ T^ ^

••-1!

BIT. W. MORLBT PtTRSHOH, M.A.

Young men, you have been exhorted to aspire. Self-reliance has
been commended to you as a grand element of character. AVa
would echo these counsels. They are counsels of wisdom. But
to be safe and to be perfect, you must connect with them tlii
spirit of prayer. Emulation, unchasteqed by any higher principle^
is to our perverted nature very often a danger and an evil. The
love of distinction, not of truth and right, becomes the master-
passion of the soul, and instead of high-reaching labor alter
good, there comes Vanity with its parodies of excellence, or mad
Ambition shrinking from no enormity in its cupidity or lust of
power. Self-reliance, in a heart uusanctified, often gives place to
Self-confidence, its base-born brother. Under its unfriendly rule

Sacred Oratory.

263

a (Ircnm
copt this
joys, (»uf
)0, tliink
h wc !ire
[id of the
ven wlicQ
tlionulits,
ver's lioj^e
nti il joy t
If it do
hly hopes,
, Christ is
c nrdor of
the hope
ho str;in<j;e

be able to
ic able to
ittle day of
stM^c more
dready fast
the ni.uht is

ise anionp;st

ess of the
they must

[cliancc has
lieter. W«
Idoui. Bu^
\\ tliem thi
Ir principle)
evil. The
[he mastcr-
[labor after
|ce, or mad
or lust of
|res pi; see to
iendly rule

there rise up in the soul ovcrwoenini; estimate of self — invetcraoy
of evil habit — impatieiico of restraint or control — the disposition
to lord it over others — ;ind th it do;ii;ed and repulsive obstinacy,
W'liich, like the dead fly in tho ointment, throws an ill savor over
th(^ entire character of the man. These are its smaller manifesta-
tions, but, in con'jrenial soil, and with commensurate opportunities,
it blos.soms out into some of the worst forms of humanity — the
ruffi m, who is the terror of his nciifJiborhood — the tyrant, who
has an ajjpetite for blood — the atheist, who denies his (lod. Now,
the habit of prayer will afford to these principles the salntiry
check which they need. It will sanctify omuhition, and m ike it
a virtue to aspire. It will curb the excesses of ambition, and
keep down the vauntinirs of unholy pride. Tiic man will aim at
the hiLjhest, but in the spirit of the lowest, and prompted by the
thought of immortality — not the loose immort:ility of the poet's
dreim, but the substantial immortality of the Christian's hope —
he will travel on to his reward. In like minner will the habit of
priyer chasten and consecrate the principle of self-reliance. Ifc
will preserve, int:ict, all its enterprise and bravery. It will b ito
not a jot of its oriirinal strength and freedom, but, when it would
wanton out into insolence and pride, it will restrain it by the
consciousness of a hiujher power, it will shed over the man the
meekness and gentleness of Christ, and it will show, cxistint^ ia
tlie same nature and in corapletest harmony, indomitable couranje
in the arena of the world, and loyal submission to the authority
of heaven. Many noble examples have attested how this inner
life of heaven — combining the heroic and the gentle, softening
without enfeebling the character, preparing either for action or
endurance — has shed its power over the outer life of earth. How
commanding is the attitude of Paul from the time of his conver-
pion to the truth ! What courage he has — encountering the
Epicurean and Stoical philosophers — revealing the unknown (rod
to the multitude at Athens — miking the false-hearted Felix
tremble, and almost constraining the pliable Agrippa to decision —
standing, silver-haired and solitary, before the bar of Nero — dying
a mirtyr for the loved name of Jesus! — that heroism was born in
the solitude where he importunately " besouglit the Lord."
" In Luther's closet," says D'Aubign($, "we have the secret of
the Reformation." The Puritans — those " men of whom the
world was not worthy " — to whom we owe immense but scantily
acknowledged oblij^ations — how kept they their fidelity ? Tracked
through wood and wild, the baying of the fierce sleuth-hound
breaking often upon their sequestered worship — their prayer was
the talisman which " stopped the mouths of lions, and quenched
the violence of fire." You cannot have forgotten how exquisitely

I'S

■)■. .'.

9^'-

R '■•■'■

HI,.-'*

Mfi :'•

»■■"

lfS'^«l

*f -^t;

,,'

h.^ ^

'il

1 ' ,

il ■ i

264

Sacred Oratory.

the efficacy of prayer is pi - oted in our second book of
Proverbs : —

" BpIioM fhat frngile form of delicate tmnsparent beauty,
Whose li^lit blue eye and hectic cheek are lit by the bale-fires of

decline;
Ilath not tiiy heart said of her, Alas! poor child of weakness?
Thou Imst erred ; Oolinth of (!ath stood not in hiilf her strength ;
For the serried ranks of evil are routed b}' the liphtning of her eye:
Seraphim rally at her side, and (he captain of that host is God,
For that weak fluttering heart is strong in faith assured, —
Dependence is her might, and behold — she prayeth," ♦

Desolate, indeed, is the spirit, like the hills of Gilboa, reft of
the precious tilings of heaven, if it never prays. Do you pray ? Is
the tire burning upon that secret altar? Do you ^o to the closet
as a duty ? lin^er in it as a privileoe ? — ^Vliat is that you say?
There is a scofl'er in the same j)lace of business with you, and he
tells you it is cowardly to bow the knee, and he jeers you about
beinjjj kept in lcadini:;-strinj^s, and urges you to avow your manli-
ness, and as he is your room-mate, you have been ashamed to
pray before him — and, moreover, he seems so cheerful, and reso-
lute, and brave, that his words have made some impression ?
What ! he brave ? lie who gave up the journey the other day
because lie lucklessly discovered it was Friday — he who lost his
self-possession at the party because '* the salt was spilt — to him
it fell " — he who, whenever friends solicit and the tempter plies,
is afraid to say no — he who dares not for his life look into his
own heart, for he fancies it a haunted house, with goblins perched
on every landing to pale the clieek and blench the courage — he a
brave man ? Oh ! to your knees, young man — to your knees,
that the cowardice may be forgiven and forgotten. There is no
bravery in blasphemy, there is no dastardliness in godly fear. It
is prayer which strengthens the weak, and makes the strong
man stronger. Happy are you, if it is your habit and your
privilege. You can offer it anywhere. In the crowded mart or
busy street — flying along the gleaming line — sailing upon the
wide waters — out in the broad world — in the strife of sentiment
and passion — in the whirlwind of battle — at the festival and at
the funeral — if the frost braces the spirit or the fog depresses it —
if the clouds are heavy on the earth or the sunshine fills it with
laughter — when the dew is damp upon the grass, or when the
lightning flashes in the sky — in the matins of sunrise or the
vespers of nightfall, — let but the occasion demand it — let the
need be felt — let the soul be imperilled — let the enemy threaten —
happy are you, for you can pray. — The Projihet of Iloref/.

* Tapper's " Proverbial Philosophy," of Prayer, p. 109.

Sacred Oratory,

265

book of

le-fires of

)a, reft of
>ray ? Is
the closet
you say?
lu, and he
you about
nur nianli-
ihamcd to
, and reso-
iiprcssion ?
other day
ho lost his
[t — to him
iipter plies,
ok into his
ns perched
raire — he a
our knees,
'here is no
fear. It
'the strong
and your
,ed mart or
upon the
sentiment
(ival and at
resses it — ■
Us it with
when the
[ise or the
lit__lct the
threaten—

PSALM XC.

Lord, thou hast been our dwolHtifr place in all fjcncrationfl. Be-
fore the mountains were brouulit forth, or ever thou liadst formed
the earth and tiie world, even from everlastinjj; to overlastiiiir, thou
art God. Tliou turnest man to destruction ; and sayest, Kiturn,
ye children of men. For a thousand years in thy sijiht are hut
as yesterday when it is past, and as a watch iu the niulit. Thou
earnest them away as with a flood; they are as a sleep: in the
mornintr they are like <:rass which jrrowetli up. In the morninf^
it flourisheth, and groweth up ; in the evening it is cut down, and
withereth. For we are consumed by thine anjrer, and by thy
wrath are wo troubled. Thou hast set our ini(|uitics before thee,
our secret sins in the liuht of thy countenance. For all our days
arc passed away in thy wrath : we spend our years as a tale that
is told. The days of our years are threescore years and ten ; and
if by reason of stren<ith they be fourscore years, yet is their
strength labor and sorrow; for it is soon cut off, and we fly away.
Who knoweth the power of thine anger ? even according to thy
fear, so is thy wrath. So teach us to number our days, that we
may a]»])ly our hearts unto wisdom. ]leturn, Lord, how long?
and let it repent thee concerning thy servants. satisfy us early
with thy mercy; that we may rejoice and be glad all our days.
Make us glad according to the days wherein thou hast afflicted
us, and the years wherein we have seen evil. Let thy work
appear unto thy servants, and thy glory unto their children. And
let the beauty of the Lord our God be upon us ; and establish
thou the work of our hands upon us ; yea, the work of our hands
establish thou it.

ISAIAH LV.

IIo, every one that thirsteth, come ye to the waters, and he that
hath no money ; come ye, buy, and eat ; yea, come, buy wine and
milk without money and without price. Wherefore do ye spend
money for that which is not bread? and your labor for that which
eatisfieth not ? hearken diligently unto me, and cat ye th;it which
is good, and let your soul delight itself in fatness. Incline your
ear, and come unto me : hear, and your soul shall live; and I will
make an everlasting covenant with you, even the sure mercies of
David. Behold, I have given him for a witness to the people, a
leader and commander to the people. Behold, thou shalt call a
nation that thou kuowest not, and nations that knew not thee shall

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run unto tlioo Ix-canso of tho Lord thy God, and for the ITolj
Ont^ of I.sra(!l ; for ho hiith t:l<irifii;(l thoo.

Hct!k yo the \jO\\\) while h(i may ho found, call yo upon Inra
while ho JM noar: lot th(! wicked forsako his way, and tho unri'^ht-
cou-i man liis thouijhts; and lot him return unto tho liOiiD, and
ho will have nieroy upon him ; and to our God, for he will ahun-
dantly piirdon.

For my thoufjhts nn; not your thoui^lits, noltlior arc your ways
my ways, naith tho Lokk. Kor :is tho heavens are hi;4hor thaa
tli»i earth, ho are my ways liiLrhor than your ways, and my
thou:;hts than your thou_dits. For as tlu; rain comcth (h)\vn, and
tlio snow from heaven, and returneth not thitlu;r, but watoreth tho
earth, ami makoth it brinj; forth and bud, that it may <;ivo seed
to tho sower, and bread to tiie eater: so hIkiII my word be that
po(;th forth out of my mouth : it shall not return unto m(^ void,
but it sliall accomplish tliat which I please, and it shall prosper
in the thing whereto I sent it. For ye shall fi;o out with joy, and
be led forth with peace: the mountains and tiie hills shall break
forth before you into Hin'j,int^, and all the trees of the field shall
claj) their hands. Instead of the thorn shall come up the fir tree,
and instead of the brier shall come up the myrtle tree ; and it
shall be to the Lord for a name, for an everlasting sign that shall
not be cut off.

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PAUL BEFORE AGRIPPA.

ACT8, CHAP. XXVI.

Then Agrippa said unto Paul, Thou art permitted to speak
for thyself. Then Paul stret<!hed forth the hand, and answered
for himself: I think myself happy, king Agrippa, because I
shall answer for myself this day before thee touching all the
things whereof I am iiccused of the Jews : especially because I
know thee to be expert in all customs and questions which are
among the Jews : wherefore I beseech thee to hear me p itiently.
My manner of life from my youth, which was at the first among
mine own nation at Jerusalem, know all the Jews ; which knew
me from the beginning, if they would testify, that after the most
straitest sect of our religion I lived a Pharisee. And now I
stand and am judged for the hope of the promise made of God
unto our fathers : unto which promise our twelve tribes, instantly
serving God day and night, hope to come. For which hope's
sake, king Agrippa, I am accused of the Jews. Why should it
be thought a thing incredible with you, that God should raise the

Sacred Oratory.

2(37

dcnd y I verily tliouirlit with myself, tliiit I oui;ht to do m.iny
thiim>< contrary to the name of Jesus of Nazareth. Whieh tiling
I also did in Jerus.ilem : and many of t)ie saints did 1 shut up iti
prison, havirij^ received authority from the chit^f jtri«'sts ; and
when they were put to death, I ^avc my voice a;xainst them. And
I punished them oft in every syna^fo-rue, and compelled them to
blaspliemc ; and beinj; exceed in^^ly mad a^^ainst them, I perseuted
them even unto strange citi(!s. VNlicreupon as 1 wiiit to Diiniaseus
with authority and commission from the chief jirii'sts, at mid-
day, (.) kintr, I saw in the way a lij^ht from lu-uvi-n, abovi; tiio
bri;.;htnesr! of tin; sun, shinini^ round about me and them whieh
journeyed with me. And when we wore all fallen to the earth, I
heard a voice speaking' unto me, and sayinj;; in the Hebrew toni;u^
Saul, Satd, why per.secute.»t thou me? it is hard lor thee to kieft'
a^^'ainst the pricks. And I said. Who art thou, Lord? And ho
sjiid, 1 am Jesus whom thou persecutest. But rise, aud atand
npon thy feet; for I have appeared unto thee tor this purpose, to
make thee a minister and a witness both of these thini^s which
thou hast .seen, and of those things in the which 1 will appear
unto thee ; delivering' thee I'rom the people, and from the
Gentiles, unto whom now I send thee, to open their eyes, aud
to turn them from darkness to liji;ht, and from the power of Satan
unto God, that they may receive forj^iveness of sins, aud inherit-
ance among them which are sanctified by faith that is in mo.
Whereupon, O king Agrippa, I was not disobedient unto the
heavenly vision : but shewed iirst unto them of JJamascus, aud at
Jerusalem, and throughout all the coasts of Judea, aud theu to
the Gentiles, that they should repent and turn to God, and do
works meet for repentance. For these causes the Jews caught
me in the temple, and went about to kill me. Having tlierefore
obtained help from God, I continue unto this day, witnessing
both to small and groat, saying none other things thau those
which the prophets and Moses did say should come: that Christ
should suffer, and th;»t he should be the first that should rise
from the dead, and .should shew light unto the people, and to the
Gentiles. And as be thus spake for himself, Festus said with
aloud voice, Paul, thou art beside thyself; much learning doth
make thee mad. But he said, I am not mud, most noble Fcstus,
but .speak forth the words of truth and soberness. For the King
kuoweth of those things, before whom also 1 speak freely ; for I
am persuaded that none of these things are hidden from him ; for
this thing was not done in a corner. King Agrippa, believeet
thou the prophets ? I know that thou believest. Then Agrippa
said unto Paul, Almo.st thou persuadest me to be a Christian.
And Paul said, I would to God, that not only thou, but also all

268

Sacred Oratory,

that hear me this day, were both almost, and altoj];ether such as I
am, except these bonds. And when he had thus spoken, the king
rose up, and tlie pjovernor, and Bernice, and they that sat with
them. And when they were <!,one Lside, they talked between them-
Belves, sayinj^;. This man doeth nothing worthy of de.ith or of
bonds. Then said Agrippu unto Festus, Tiiis man might have
been &et at liberty, if he had not appealed unto Caisar.

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FAITH IN THE HOLY SPIRIT.

CANON LIDDON.

Jt is the Spirit that quickeneth. He does not merely prcFcribe,
He transforms. He is ])erp('tually asserting His presence by His
spiritual transformations ; He m;.kes the feeble strong, and the
melancholy brignt, and the cold-blooded fervent, and tlie irascible
gentle, and the uninstructed wise, and the conceited humble, and
the timid unflinching. And, now, as of old, He filleth the hungry
with good things, but the rich He hath sent empty away. He
has but a scant measure of endowments to bestow on those who
find m the things of sense, in the pursuit or worship of wealth,
and rank, and reputation, their deepest and most solid satisfac-
tion. He e:ives Himself most fully to those who ask for Him
secretly and often. We seek Him W'thout, and we find Him
within us ; we seek Him in great assemblies, and find Him in
solitude; we seek Him in the understanding, we find Him in the
heart. He enters the soul, when all the doors of sense are shut ;
He gives His benedictitm to each and all of its faculties :
" Peace be unto you." The soul hears Him, it sees Him not ;
the soul feels Him, yet as if insensibly ; .md His presence is itself
that peace of God which passeth all und<".vt uiding. Henceforth,
enriched by His indwelling, the soul's desire is to desire nothing,
its will to will for nothing, its care to care for nothing, its wealth
to possess nothing, out of God, its one, its everlasting Treasure.

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POETICAL SELECTIONS.

THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS.

LONGFELLOW.

There is a reaper, wliose name is Death,

And, with his sickk^ keen,
He reaps the bearded i^rain at a breath,

And the flowers that grow between.

" Shall I have noualit that is fair?" saith he ;

" Have nou'^ht but tlie ])earded urain ;
Thouuh the breath of these flowers is sweet to me,

I will give them all back Uj-ain."

lie gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes,

He ki>sed their dro(t]iing leaves;
It was for the Lord of l*;ir.idi:;e

He bound them in hi.- sheaves.

"My Lord has need of t]u>se flowerets gay,"

The Reaper said, and smihid :
" Dear tokens of the t-arth are they,

Where he was once a child.

They sliall all bloom in fields of light,
Transplanted by my care;
And saints, upon their garments white,
These sacred blossoms wear."

And the mother gave, in tears and paia,
The flowers she most did love ;

She knew she should find them all again
lu the fields of light above.

Oh, not in cruelty, not in wrath,

The Reaper came that day ;
'Twas an angul visited the green earth

And took the fli)wers away.

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Poetical Selections.

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. , THE MAY QUEEN.

TKNNY80N.

You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear;
To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the trlaJ Nrw-ycar;
Of all tii<! \i\\u\ New-year, mother, the maddest merriest day ;
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen <»" the
May.

There's m my a black, black eye, they say, but none so bright as

mine ;
There's Mariraret and Mary, there's Kate and Caroline;
But none so i'air as little Alice in all the land, they say,
80 I'm to be Queen 0' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen <>' the

May.

I sleep so sound all night, mother, that T shall never wake,
li' you (1(1 not c dl me loud when the day oeiiins to bri'ak ;
But I luiist uather knots ol' flowers, and buds and uarland- ;:'ay,
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, motln-r, I'm to be Queen o' the
May.

As I c:me up the valley wliom think ye should I see,
Bui Robiu l"anin<^ on the bridge beneath the hazel tree?
H(> thought of tuat sharp look, mother, I gave him yesterd.y —
But Ini to l»e Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen <>' the
.May.

He thou'jlit I was a ghost, mother, for T was all in white,
And [ rai' by him without speaking, like a flash of light,
They e II me cruel-hearted, but I c ire not what they ^^wy.
For I'm to be Queen 0' the May, mother, I'm to be Quei'u w' the
May.

The_\ ^ay he's dying all for love, T'ut that can never bo:
They s ly his h*- irt is breaking, mother — what is that to in" ?
There's in my a bolder lad 'ill woo me any summer day.
And I'm ((. bo (^ueen o' the May. mother. I'm to be Queen o' the
M ,y.

Little liffie A\:\\\ go With me to-morrow to the green,
And ynn'll be tiere, too, mother, tc see me made the Qu(M'n ;
For t'l ' sliej)herd lads on every side 'ill come from far away.
And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the
Mav.

Poetical Selections,

271

The honeysuckle round the porch has wov'n its wa^7 bowers,

And by the meadow-trenches blow the f'.iint sweet cuckoo-flowers ;

And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in swamps and hol-
lows gray.

And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the
May.

The ni'-ht-winds come and go, mother, upon the meadow-grass,
And tl e happy stars above them serm to brigliten as they pass;
There will not be a drop of rain tlie whole of tiie livelong day,
And I'm to be Queen o' the May, motlicr, I'm to be Queen o' the
May.

All the valley, mother, 'ill be fresli and green and still,
And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill,
And the rivul' t in the flowery dale 'ill merrily glance and play,
For I'm to be Queen o' tiie May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the
May.

So you must wake and call me early, c ill me early, mother dear,
To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year :
To-morrow 'ill be of all the year the m.iddest merriest day.
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the
May.

Lp-?

NEW year's eve.

If you're waking, call me early, call me early, mother dear,

For I would see the sun ris(> upon the glad New-year.

It is the last New-year that I shall ever see,

Then you may lay me low i' the mould and tliiiik no more of me.

To-night I saw the sun set : he set and left })ehind
The good old year, the de.ir old time, ami all my peac(? of mind;
And the New-year's coming up, mother, but 1 sh.tll never see
The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree.

Last May we made a crown oi' flowers : we liad a merry day:
Beneath the hawthorn on the lireeii they m ide mo Queen of ^lay ;
Ami we danced about the may-j>ole and in the hazel cop.se,
1 ill (,'harles's Wain came out above the tall white chinmey-tops.

There's not u flower on all the hills; the frost is on the pane:
I only wish to live till the snowdrops come again :
I wish the snow would melt .md the sun come out on high :
1 long to see a flower so before the day I die.

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Poetical Selections.

The building; rook 'ill caw from the windy tall clm-trco,

And the tui'ted plover pipe alon<i; the fallow lea,

And the swallow 'ill come back again with summer o'er the wave,

But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldering grave.

Upon the chanccl-cascmcnt, and upon that grave of mine,
In the early early mcrning the summer sun "ill sliine,
Before the red cock cows from the farm upon the hill,
When you arc warm usleep, mother, and all the world is still.

When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning li^at,
You'll never see me more in the long gray fields at night;
WluMi from the dr^' dark wold the summer airs blow cool
On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in the pool.

You'll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn shade,
And you'll come sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid.
I shall not forget you, mother, I shall hear you when you pass,
With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant grass.

I have been wild and wayward, but you'll forgive me now ;
You'll kiss me, my own mother, and forgive me ere I go ;
Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild,
You should not fret for me, mother, you have another child.

If I can I'll come again, motlier, from out my resting place ;
Tho' you'll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face;
Tho' I cannot speak a word, I shall hearken what you say,
And be often, often with you when you think I'm far away.

Good-night, good-night, when I have said good-night forevermore,
And you see me carried out from the threshold of the door :
Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave be growing green;
She'll be a better child to you than ever 1 have been.

She'll find my garden-tools upon the granary floor ;
Let her take *em : they are hers : I shall never garden more ;
But tell her, when I'm gone, to train the rose-bush that I set
About the parlor window and the box of mignonette.

Good-night, sweet mother ; call me before the day is born,
All niiiht I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn ;
But 1 would see t'ne sun rise upon the glad Nevvyoar,
So, if you're waking, call me, call me early, muLlier dour.

. Poetical Selections*

CONCLUSION.

I thought to pass away before, and yet alive I am ;

And in the fields all round I hear the bleatinj]; of the lamb.

How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the year 1

To die before the snowdrop came, and now the violet's here.

sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the skies,
And sweeter is the young lamb's voice to me that cannot rise,
And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers that blow,
And sweeter far is death than life to me that long to go.

It seem'd so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed sun,
And now it seems us hard to stay, and yet His will be done !
But still I think it can't be long before I find release ;
And that good man, the clergyman, has told me words of pefUM.

blessings on his kindly voice and on his silver hair I

And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet me there I

blessings on his kindly heart and on his silver head !
A thousand times I blest him, as he knelt beside my bed.

He taught me all the mercy, for he show'd me all the sin.
Now, tho' my lamp was lighted late, there's One will let me in ;
Nor would I now be well, mother, again, if that could be,
For my desire is but to pass to Him that died for me.

1 did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death-watch beat,
There came a sweeter token when the night and morning me^;
But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand iu mine,
And Effie on the other side, and I will tell the sign.

All in tho wild March morning I heard the angel's call :
It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all j
The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll.
And in the wild March morning I heard them call my soul.

For lying broad awake I thought of you and Effie dear ;
I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here ;
With all my strength I prayed for both, and s ; I felt r signed,
And up the valley oame a swell of music on the wind,

I thought that it was fancy, and I listen'd in my bed,
And tlien did something speak to nu — 1 know not what was g«|i ;
For great delight and shuddering took liold of all my mind,
And up the valley oame again tiie music on tho wind.

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Poetical Selections,

But you were sleeping ; and I said, " It's not for them : it's mine."
And if it comes three times, I thought, I t;ike it for a sign.
And once again it came, and close beside the window-bara,
Then seem'd to go right up to Heaven and die among the stars.

So now I think my time is near. I trust it is. I know
The blessed music went that way my soul will have to go.
And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go t<i-day ;
But, Eflfie, you must comfort her when I am passed away.

And say to Robin a kind word, and tell him not to fret;
There's many worthier than I, would make him happy yet.
If I had lived — I cannot tell — I might have been his wife;
But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life.

look ! the sun begins to rise, the lieavens are in a glow ;
He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know.
And there I move no longer now, and there his light may shiLO—
Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine.

sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done
The voice, that now is speaking, may be beyond the sun —
For ever and for ever with those just souls and true —
And what is life that we should moan ? why make we such ado ?

For ever and for ever, all in a blessed home —

And there to wait a little while till you and Effie come —

To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast —

And th.: wicked ccuse from troubling, and the weary are at rest.

THE SISTER OF CHaRITY.

- ^M ' s. H

GERALD QRIFFIN.

Gerald Griffin was born at Limerick, Dec. 12, 1803. After attaining a
higii literary reputation as poet and novelist, it is said that, in consequence
of one of his sisters taking the veil, his devotional feelings were avz-aiiencd,
and he retreated from the world to join the Society of Christian Urothers,
devoting himself to works of morality and education. He died of a fever
ill 1840. The successful drama, the " Colleen Bawn," is taken from his
novel of the " Collegians."

She rince was a lady of honor and wealth,
Bright glow'd on her features the roses of health :
Her venture was blended of, silk and of gold.
And her motion shook perfume from every fold :

Poetical Selections. 275

Joy re veil' (1 around her — love shone at her side,
And p;ay was her smile, as the glance of a bride ;
And lii^lit was her step, in the mirth-sounding hall.
When she heard of the daughters of Vincent de Paul.

She felt, in her spirit, the summons of grace,
That call'd her to live for the suffering race ;
And lioedlcss of pleasure, of comfort, of home.
Rose qulokly like Mary, and answered, '' I come."
She put from her person the trappings of pride.
And p;iss'd from her home, with the joy of a bride,
Nor wept at the threshold, as onwards she moved,-*-
For her heart was on fire in the cause it approved.

Lost ever to fashion — to vanity lost,
That be.mty that once was the song and the toastr—
No more in the ball-room that figure we meet.
Bub gliding at dusk to the wretch's retreat.
Foriiot In tlie h.ills is that hij'h-sounding name,
For the Sister of Charity blushes at fame ;
Forgot a^e the claims of her riches and birth,
For she barters for heaven the glory of earth.

Those feet, that tc music could gracefully move,

Now bear her alone on the mission of love;

Those hands that once dangled the perfume and gem

Arc tending the helpless, or lifted for them;

That voice that once echo'd the song of the vain,

Now whispers relief to the bosom of pain ;

And the hair that was shining with diamond and pearl,

Is wet with the tears of the penitent girl.

Her down-bed a pallet — her trinkets a bead,

Her lustre — one taper that serves her to read ;

Her sculpture — the crucifix nail'd by her bed,

Her painttiigs--one print of the thorn-crowned head;

Her c'usliion — the pavement, that wearies her knees.

Her music the psalm, or the sigh of difscase ;

The delicate lady lives mortifii'd there,

And the feast is forsaken for fasting and prayer.

•

Yet not to the service of heart and of mind.

Are the cares of that heaven-minded virgin confined, '

Like him '.vhom she loves, to tlie mansions of grief

She hastes with the tidings of juy and relief.

She strengthens the weary — she comi'orts the weak,

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276 Poetical Selections.

And soft is her voice in the ear of the sick ;
Whore want and affliction on morttils attend,
The Sister of Charity there is a friend.

Unshrinkinp; where pestilence sciittcrshis breath,
Like an anj^el slie moves, 'mid the vapour ol' death ;
Whci'c rings the loud musket, and flasiies tlie sword,
Unfearing she walks, for slie follows the Lord.
How sweetly she bends o'er each plague-tainted face
Witii looks that are lighted with holiest gr;icc ;
How kindly slie dresses each sufforiiig limb,
For she sees in the wounded the image of Him.

Behold her, yo worldly ! behold her, ye vain !
Who shrink from the pathway of virtue and pain ;
Who yield up to pleasure, your nights and your days,
Forgetful of service, fori-otful ol' praise.
Ye hizy philosophers — self-seekii-g men, —
Ye fireside philanthropists, great at the pen,
How stands in the balance your elo(iuence weighed
With the life and the deeds of that high-born maid ?

I;. E^ 'iili

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WHICH SHALL IT BE?

A rich mnn, who had no chihlren, proposed to his poor neighbor, who
'had seven, to take one of tliem, and promised, if the parents would consent,
that he would give them property enough to make themselves aad their
• other six children comfortable for life.

« WllTCil shall it he ? Which shall it he?"
I looked at John — how anxiously !
And, when I found that I must speak.
My voice seemed strangely low and weak.
" Tell me again what Robert s.iid."
And then I listening bent my head.

" This is his letter"—" I will give

A house and land while you shall live,

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 he hnd borne —

Of poverty, work and care.

Which I, though willing, could not share:

I thought of seven young mouths to Iced —

Of seven little children's need :

And then of this.

i ]• 'If

Poetical Selectiom,

277

" Corae, John," said I,
** We'll choose aiaoiif; them as tliey lie
Asleep." So, walkin*^ hand in hand,
Dear JoIhj and I surveyed our band.
First to the cradle lii;htly stepped,
Wluire Lilian, the baby, slept;
Softly tiic f'ltiuT stooped to lay
His roui^h hand down in lovin«j: way,
When dream or whisper made her stir,
And huskily he said, " Not her /"

We stooped beside the trundle-bed,
And one loni; ray of lamp-li<^ht shed
Athwart the boyish faces there,
In sleep so beautiful and fair.
I saw on James' rouj^h. red cheek
A tear undried. Ere John could speak,
'' He's but a baby too," said I,
And kissed him as we hurried by.
Pale, patient Robbie's annuel face
Still in his sleep bore sufferinjj;'s trace.
^* No, for a thousdud crowns, not him,'*
He whispered, while our eyes were dim.

Poor Dick ! bad Dick ! our wayward son —

Turbulent, reckless idle one —

Could he be spared? Nay, He who gave,

Bid us befriend him to the j2;rave ;

Only a mother's heart could be

Patient enou<j;h 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 thoc."

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, wUl not let him go.'*

%J .

mi-'''

11: /■

ti-,(! ■ ■' 'I III

^■!i:

278 Poetical Sekctiom,

And so WG wrote, in courteous way,
We could not fijive one child awiiy.
And afterward, toil lighter seemed,
Thinkinji; of that of which we dreamed }
Happy in truth, that not one face
We mi.sscid from its accuKtomod place ;
Thankful to work for all the seven,
Trusting tlie rest to One in Heaven.

— liock Co. Recorder^ Javexville, TfTa,

ELIIIU,

ilLICE CARET,

* SAILOR, tell me, tell me true,
Is my little lad — my Elihu —

A sailing in your ship? "
The sailor's eyes were dimmed with dew.
" Your little lad ? your Elihu ? "

He said with trembling lip ;

" What little lad— what ship? "

What little lad ? — as if there could be
Another such a one as he !

" What little lad, do you say?
Why, Elihu, that took to the sea
The moment I put him off my knee.

It was just the other day

The Gray JSivaii sailed away."

The other day ? The sailor's eyes
Stood wide open with surprise.

" The other day ?— the Swan ? "
His heart began in his throat to rise.
" Ay, ay, sir ; here in the cupboard lies

The jacket he had on."
" And so your lad is gone ! " —

" Gone with the Swan." " And did she stand
With her anchor clutching hold of the sand.

For a month, and never stir ? "
" Why, to be sure I I've seen from the laijd,
Like a lover kissing his lady's haad.

The wild sea kissing her —

A sight to remember, sir." '. .

Poetical Selections,

279

" But, my pjood mother, do you know,
All this wa.s twenty years au;o ?

I stood on the Gnij/ Swan's deck,
And to that lad I saw you throw^
Taking it off. as it might be so —

The kerchief from yctur neck ;

Ay, and he'll bring it baek.

*' And did the little lawless lad,

That has made you sick, and made you sad,
Sail with the Gr<ii/ StDitns crew? "

** Lawless 1 the man is going mad ;

The best boy mother ever had ;
Be sure, he sailed with the crew —
What would you have him do ? "

*' And he has never written line,

Nor sent you word, nor made you sign,

To say he was alive ? "
*' Hold — if 'twas wrong, the wrong is mine
Besides, he may be in the brine ;

And could he write from the grave ?

Tut, man I what would you have ? "

■*' Gone twenty years 1 a long, long cruise ;
'Twas wicked thus your love to abuse ;

But if the lad still live,
And come back home, think you you can
Forgive him ? " " Miserable man !

You're mad as the sea ; you rave —

What have I to forgive ? "

The sailor twitched his shirt so blue,

And from within his bosom drew
The kerchief. She was wild :

^* My God ! — my Father !— is it true ?

My little lad- my Elihu ?

And is it ? — is it ? — is it you?
My blessed boy — my child — '
My dead — my living child! "

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PoetiecU Seleetione.

SANTA FILOMENA.

LOKOFELLOW.

Whenever a noble deed is wrought.
Whene'er is spoken a noble thought^

Our hearts in glad surprise^

To higher levels rise.

The tidal wave of deeper souls

Into our inmost being rolls,
And lifts us unawares
Out of all meaner cares. *

Honor to those whose words or deeds
Thus help us in our daily needs, , ;
And by their overflow *

Kaise us from what is low I

Thus ♦^^hought I, as by night I read
Of the great army of the dead,
The trenches cold and damp,
The starved and frozen camp,— «

The wounded from the battle-plain.

In dreary hospitals of pain.
The cheerless corridors.
The cold and stony floors*

' i-tl \t

Lo I in that house of misery ,

A lady with a lamp I see

Pass through the glimmering gloon^
And flit from room to room.

And slow, as in a dream of bliss,
The speechless sufferer turns to kiss
Her shadow as it falls
Upon the darkening walls.

As if a door in heaven should be
Opened and then closed suddenly.
The vision came and went,
The light shone and was spent*

PoeHeal Seleetioni.

On England's annals, throngh the long
Hereafter of her speech and song,
That light its rays shall cast
From portals of the past

A Lady with a Lamp shall stand
In the great history of the land,

A noble type of good,

Heroic womanhood.

Nor even shall be wanting here
The palm, the lily, and the spear,

The symbols that of yore

Saint Filomena bore.

281

MAIDENHOOD.

LONOFBLLOW.

Maiden I with the meek, brown eyes,
In whose orbs a shadow lies
Like the dusk in evening skies I

Thou whose locks outshine the sun,
Golden tresses, wreathed in one,
As the braided streamlets run I

Standing, with reluctant feet.
Where the brook and river meet,
Womanhood and childhood fleet t

Gazing, with a timid glance,
On the brooklet's swift advance.
On the river's broad expanse !

Deep and still that gliding stream
Beautiful to thee must seem.
As the river of a dream.

Then why pause with indecision.
When bright angels in thy visioa
Beckon thee to fields Elysian ?

282

Poetical Selectiom,

Seest thou shadows sailing by,
As the dove, with startled eye,
Sees the falcon's shadow fly 7

Hearest thou voices on the shore,
That our ears perceive no more, '

Deafened by the cataract's roar ?

O thou child of many prayers 1

Life hath quicksands, — Life hath snares I

Care and age come unawares I

Like the swell of some sweet tune.
Morning; rises into noon,
May glides onward into June.

Childhood is the bough, where slumbered
Birds and blossoms many numbered ; —
Age, that bough with snows encumbered.

Gather, then, each flower that grows,
When the young heart overflows.
To embalm that tent of snows.

Bear a lily in thy hand ;
Gates of brass cannot withstand
One touch of that magic wand.

Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth,
In thy heart the dew of youth,
On thy lips the smile of truth.

Oh, that dew, like balm, shall steal
Into wounds that cannot heal.
Even as sleep our eyes doth seal ;

-,* /

And that smile, like sunshine, dart
Into many a sunless heart,
For a smile of God thou art.

Poetical Selection$,

288

EVENING PRAYER AT A GIRLS' SCHOOL.

inui. mifAKS.

This is one of the many beautiful compositions of Mrs. EcMAKi, whose
poetry has this remarkable character, that, beautiful as it is in portions, it
will not bear to be read continuously in a Tulume. Perhaps this is the
consequence of the perfection of its mechanism, fur in i hytlim and rbyme—
in the music of verse — she is unrivalled. Pleasing at first, thig anbrokeo
smoothness palls by repetition and becon||^monotonT. Nevertheless, manj
of her minor poems are full of the trues^^try of tnought, and the strain
is in exquisite harmony with the sentiment. Such a poem is the following.

Hush ! 'tis a holy hour — the quiet room

Seems like a temple, while yon soft lamp sheds

A Taint and starry radiance through the gloom

And the sweet stillness, down on bright young heads,

With all their clustering locks, untouch'd by care,

And bow'd, as flowers are bow'd at night, in prayer.

Gaze on, — 'tis lovely !— childhood's lip and cheek,
Mantli"g beneath its earnest brow of thought —

Gaze — yet what seest thou in those fair, and meek,
And fragile things, as but for sunshine wrou;4;ht ?

Thou seest what grief must nurture for the sky,

What Death must fashion for eternity I '

Oh ! joyous creatures, that will sink to rest a

Lightly, when those pure orisons are done, , t ;

As buds, with slumber's honey-dew oppress'd,
'Midst the dim folded leaves at set of sun —

Lift up your hearts I though yet no sorrow lies •

Dark in the summer heaven of those clear eyes.

Though fresh within your breasts th'untroubled springs

Of hope make melody where'er ye tread ;
And o'er your sleep bright shadows, from the wings

Of spirits visiting but youth, be spread ;
Yet in these flute-like voices, mingling low,
Is woman tenderness — how soon her woe I ' - r

Her lot is on you — silent tears to weep,
And patient smiles to wear through suffering's hour,

And sunless riches, from affections deep,
To pour on broken reeds a wasted shower ;

And to make idols, and to find them clay.

And to bewail that worbhip — therefore, prayl

■•f

284 Poetical SeUctum.

Her lot is on you — to be found, untired,
Watchin<^ the stars out by the bed of pain,

With a pale cheek, and yet a brow inspired.

And a true heart of hope, thou<;h hope bo vain —

Meekly to bear with wronj^, to cheer decay.

And oh i to love through all things — therefore, pray 1

And take the thought of thio calm vesper time,
With its low murmuwig sounds of silvery light,

On through the dark c^s fading from their prime,
As a sweet dew to keep your souls from blight.

Earth will forsake — oh ! happy to have given

The unbroken heart's first fragrance unto Heaven.

EVELYN HOPE.

BOBBRT BBOWNINa.

Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead — < -

Sit and watch by her side an hour. '
That is her book-shelf, this her bed ;

She plucked that piece of geranium flower,
Beginning to die too, in the glass.

Little has yet been changed, I think —
The shutters are shut, no light may pass.

Save two long rays thro* the hinge's chink.

Sixteen years old when she died I

Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name-
It was not her time to love ; beside.

Her life had many a hope and aim,
Duties enough and little cares, <

And now was quiet, now astir —
Till God's hand beckored unawares,

And the sweet white brow is all of her.

Ib it too late, then, Evelyn Hope ?

What, your soul was pure and true,
The good stars met in your horoscope.

Made you of spirit, fire, and dew —
And just because I was thrice as old,

And our paths in the world diverged so whle,
Each was nought to each, must I be told ?

We were fellow-mortals, nought beside ?

•ilT

4';'

Poetical SeUetiont, 285

No, indeed, for God above

Is great to grant, as mighty to make,
And creates the love to reward the love, —

I claim you still, for my own love's sake 1
Delayed it may be for more lives yet,

Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few —
Much is to learn and much to forget

Ere the time be come for taking you.

But the time will come, — at last it will.

When, Evelyn Hope, what meant, I shall say,
In the lower earth, in tl years long still,

That body and soul so pure and gay ?
Why your hair war; amber, I shall divine.

And your mouth of your own geranium's red —
And what you would do with me, in fine,

In the new life come in the old one's stead.

I have lived, I shall say, so much since then,

Given up myself so many times.
Gained me the gains of various men,

llansackcd the ages, spoiled the climes
Yet one thing, one, in my soul's full scope,

Either I missed or itself missed me —
And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope!

What is the issue ? let us see I

ft
I loved you, Evelyn, all the while ;

My heart seemed full as it could hold —
There was place and to spare for the frank young smile,

And the red young mouth, and the hair's young gold.
So, hush, — I will give you this leaf to keep, —

See, I shut it inside the sweet cold hand.
There, that, is our secret ! go to sleep ;

You will wake, and remember, and understand.

THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS.

LONOrSLLOW.

Somewhat back from the village street
Stands the old-fashioned country-seat.
Across its antique portico
Tall poplar-trees their shadows throw ;

286

Poetical Selectiont,

t '■■

iliil

And from its station in the hall,
An ancient timepiece says to all,—
" Forever — never I
Never — forever I "

Halfway up the stairs it stands,
And points and ber.-vons with its hands
From its case of massive oak,
Like a monk, who, under his cloak,
Crosses himself, and si<^hs, alas !
With sorrowful voice to all who pass,—
" Forever — never I
Never — forever ! "

By day its voice is low and light ; ,

But in the silent dead of ni^ht.
Distinct as a passing footstep's fall,
It echoes along the vacant hall.
Along the ceiling, along the floor,
And seems to say at each chamber door, —
" Forever — never 1
Never — forever 1 "

Through days of sorrow and of mirth,
Through days of death and days of birth,
Through every swift vicissitude
Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood,
And as if, like God, it all things saw.
It calmly repeats those words of awe,—
" Forever — never I . , , , ►

Never — forever 1" . .

"'•J ?

In that mansion used to be
Free-hearted Hospitality ;
Hi^ great fires up the chimney roared;
The stranger feasted at his board }
But, like the skeleton at the feast.
That warning timepiece never ceased, —
" Forever — never !
Never — forever ! "

•Jt-

There groups of merry children played,
There youths and maidens dreaming strayed ;
O, precious hours I 0, golden prime,
And affluenoe of love and time I

Poetical SeUetwnt.

Even as a miser counts his gold,
Those hours the ancient timepiece told,— -
" Forever— never 1
Never — forever I "

From that chamber, clothed in white,
The bride came forth on her wedding night ;
There, in that silent room below.
The dead lay in his shroud of snow ;
And in the hush that followed the prayer,
Was beard the old clock on the stair,—
"Forever — never I
Never — forever 1 "

All are scattered now and fled,
Some are married, some are dead ;
And when I ask, with throbs of pain,
" Ah ! when shall they all meet again ? "
As in the days long since gone by.
The ancient timepiece makes reply,—
" Forever — never I
Never — forever I"

Never here, forever there.
Where all parting, pain, and care,
And death, and time shall disappear, —
Forever there, but never here !
The horologe of Eternity
Sayeth this incessantly, —
" Forever— never I
Never — ^forever I"

287

ROCK ME TO SLEEP.

BLIZABBTH AEERS.

Backward, turn backward, 0, time, in your flight ;
Make me a child again, just for to-night.
Mother, come back from the echoless shore,
Take me again to your heart, as of yore ;
Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care,
Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair,
Over my slumbers your loving watch keep ;
Book me to sleep, mother — rock me to sleep I

■i I

{

■

288 Poetical Seleottom,

Backward, flow backward, 0, tide of the yean t
I am 80 weary of toil and of tears —
Toil without recompense, tears all ia vain,
Take them, and ^',ive me my childhood again I
I have grown weary of dust and decay,—
Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away,
Weary of sowing for others to reap ; —
Rock me to sleep, mother — rock me to sleep t

Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue.
Mother, dear mother, my heart calls for you 1
Many a summer the grass has grown greea
Blossom'd and faded our faces between ;
Yet with strong yearning and passionate pain
Long I to-night for your presence again.
Come from the silence so long and so deep ;
Bock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep I

Over my heart in the days that are flown,
No love like mother-love ever has shone,
No other worship abides and endures,
Patient, unselfish, and faithful like yours.
None like a mother can charm away pain
From the sick soul and the world-weary brain.
Slumber's soft calms o'er my heavy lids creep j—
Hock me to sleep, mother — rock me to sleep i

Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold ;
Fall on your shoulders again, as of old;
Let it drop over my forehead to-night.
Shading my faint eyes away from the light ;
For with its sunny-edged shadows once more
Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore,—
Lovingly, softly its bright billows sweep ;
Rock me to sleep, mother — rock me to sleep I

Mother, dear mother, the years have been long
Since I last listen'd your lullaby song
Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem
Womanhood's years have been only a dream.
Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace
With your light lashes just shading my face,
Never hereafter to wake or to weep ; —
Rock me to sleep, mother — rock me to sleep I

Poetical Selections.

289

THE TWO ARMIES.

OLIVER WKNORLL UOI,MSa<

As Life's unending column pours,
Two marshalled hosts arc seen, —

Two armies on the bramplod shores
That Death flows black between.

r-. a

One marches to the drum-beat's roll,
The wide mouthed clarion's bray,
And bears upon a crimson scroll,

'' .'vw'

" Our glory is to slay !"

t it- '/['

One moves in silence by the stream,
With sad, yet watchful eyes,

Calm as the patient planet's gleam
That walks the clouded skies.

Along its front no sabres shine,
No blood-red pennons wave;

Its banners bear the single line,'
" Our duty is to save."

.{M.I fi.-.i:i

/ < I I • I r 1

I . M- fill

For those no death-bed's lingering s^ade ;

At Honor's trumpet-call ,,i j

With knitted brow and lifted blade

la Glory's arms they fall. m u<n

li •:•( .-I... i ..''I'

For these no clashing falchions bright, ' ■ '

No stirring battle-cry : ^

The bloodless stabber calls by nigl t, — ' ' '

Each answers, " Here am 11 " ^

For those the sculptor's laurelled bust, '''
The builder's marble piles, ^. ; r^

The anthems pealing o'er their dust i* '

Throudi Ion": cathedral aisles.

For these the blossom-sprinkled turf
That floods the lonely graves,

When Spring rolls in her sea-green surf
In flowery-foaming waves.

? ■■ V.'-

290 Poetical Selections.

Two paths lead upward from below,

And uii^cIh wait above,
Wb<» eouiit each buriiiii<; lifo-drop'n flow,

Each falling tear of Jjove.

Though from the Hero's bleeding breast

Her pulses Freedom drew,
Though the white lilies in her crest

Sjtrang from that scarlet dew, —

While Valor's haughty champions wait
Till all their scars are shown,

Love walks unchallenged through the gate,
To sit beside tlio Throne I

TO-DAY AND TO-MORROW.

OKKAIiU MASSKY.

Hion hopes that burn'd like stirs sublime

Go down i' the heavens of freed< m ;
And true hearts perish in the time

Wc bitterliest need 'em !
But never sit we down and say

There's nothing left but sorrow ;
We walk the wilderness to-day —

The promised land to-morrow !

Our birds of song arc silent now,

There arc no flowers bloomiu":,
Yet life holds in the frozen bough,

And freedom's spring is coming ;
And freedom's tide comes up alway,

Though we may strand in sorrow ;
And our good bark, aground to-day,

Shall flout again to-morrow.

Through all the long, long night of years

The people's cry uscendeth,
And earth is wet with blood and tears :

But our meek sufferance endeth I
The tew shall not for ever sway —

The many moil in sorrow ;
The powers of hell are strong to-day,

But Christ shall rise to-morrow 1

Poetical Selecthm,

Thouf»h hearts brood o'er the p.iat, our eyes

With smiling futuren gliMtcn !
For lo 1 our day bur^^ts up the skies

Lean out your houIm and listen I
The world rolls freedom's radiant way,

And ripens with her sorrow ;
Keep heart ! who hour the Cross to-day,

Shall wear the Crown to-morrow J

O youth I flame earnest still aspice

VVith energies immortid 1 &
To many a heaven of desire

0ur yearning opes a portal ;
And though age wearies by the way,

And hearts break in the furrow —
We'll sow the golden ^rain to-day —

The harvest reap to-morrow !

Build up heroic lives and aH '

Be Irke a sheathen subre,
Ready to flash out at God's call —

chivalry of labor 1
Triumph and toil are twins ; and aye

Joy suns the cloud of sorrow,
And 'tis the martyrdom to-day

Brings victory to-morrow.

291

RING OUT, WILD BELLS.

TENNTSON.

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light:
The year is dyin^^ in the night ;

Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new.

Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
The year is going, let him go ;

BiDg out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind.
For those that here we see no more ;
Ring out the feud of rich and poor.

Ring in redress to all mankind.

■W

20:

> :

•m

Poetical SeUctions,

Ring out a slowly dying cause,

And ancient forms of party strife ;
Ring in the nobler modes of life,

With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out the want, the care^ the sin,
The faithless coldness of the times ;
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes,

But ring the fnller minstrel In,

Ring out false pride iia place and blood,
The civic slander and the spite ;
Ring in the love of truth and right,.

Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease,

Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
Ring out the thousand wars of old,

Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring in the valiant man and free,

The larger heart, the kindlier hand ;
Ring out the darkness of the laud.

Ring in the Christ that is to be.

THE BUGLE SONG,

TSNNYee>!

♦ r i

The splendor falls on castle walls

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

hftrk, hear f how thin and clear,

And thinner, clearer, further going f
sweet and far, from cliif and scar.
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing !
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying :
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

Poetical Selections,

293

O love, they die in yon rich sky.

They faint on liill or field or river:
Our echoes roll froia soul to soul,
And grow forever and forever.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dyiag.

ARllIA.

ring.

lying.

HISS ^EWSBURT.

Her form — it is not of the sky,

Nor yet her sex above ;
Her eye it is s woman's eye,

And bright with woman's love ; —
Nor look, nor tone revealeth aught
Save woman's quietness of thought:
And yet around her is a light
Of inward majesty and might.

Her lord is fettered by her side.
In soul and strength subdued ;

Yet looks she on him with a pride
Fonder than when she viewed

His mailed form in the brightest hour

Of victory, applause, and power.

When Fortune beamed upon his brow,

She loved not as she loveth now.

They tore him from his home ; — she rose

A midnight sea to brave ;
She stood beside him when his foe3

Were fiercer than the wave ;
And now she is beside him here,
A prisoner in a dungeon drear,
Still calm as when before she strove ;
Still strong in woman's strengtli — her love.

She loved, as Roman matron should,

Her hero's spotless name ;
She would have calmly seen his blood

Flow on the field of faii. 3 ;
But could not bear to have him die,
The sport of each plebeian eye ;
To see his stately neck bowed low.
Beneath the headman^s dastard blow.

2^ JPoetical Selections,

Slie brought to him his own bright brand.

She bent a suppliant knee,
And bade him, by his own right hand,

Die, freeman 'mid the free.
In vain ; — the Roman fire was cold
Within the fallen warrior's mould : —
Then rose the wife and woman high.
And died — to teach him how to die I

It is not painful, Pvetiis r — Ay !

Such words could Arria say.
And view, with an unaltered eye,.

Her life-blood ebb away,
Professor of a purer creed !
Nor scorn nor yet condemn the deed^
Which proved — unaided from above —
The deep reality of love }.

Ages, since then, have swept along, —

Arria is but a name ; —
Yet still is woman's love as strong, —

Still woman's soul the same ; —
Still soothes the mother and the wife,
Her cherished ones, 'mid care and strife^
It is not painful, Pietus — still
Is love's word in the hour of ill.

THE PASSIONS.

^n'

WILLIAM COLLINS. 1721-1759;

When Music, heavenly maid, was young,.
While yet in early Greece she sung,
The Passions oft, to hear her shell,
Throng'd around her magic cell,
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
PoKsess'd beyond the Muse's paintings
By turns, they telt the glowing mind
Disturb'd, delighted, raised, refined :
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired,
Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspire<l,
From the supporting myrtles round
They snatch' d her instruments of sound j,

Poetical Selections, 295

And, as they oft had heard apart
8wcet lessons oflier forceful art,
Each — for madness ruled the hour —
Would prove his own expressive power.

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

Amid the chords hewilder'd lay ;
And back recoilM he knew not why.

Even at the sound himself had made.

Next, Ani!;er rush'd, his eyes on fire.

In lijjhtiiin^s own'd his secret stings;
lu 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, stnmge. and mingled air;

'Twas sad by fits — by starts 'twas wild.

But thou, Hope ! with eyes so fair,

Wiiat was thy delighted measure 1

Still it whisp(;r'd promised jjleasure,
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 slie chose,
A soft responsive voice was heard at very close ;
And Hope, enchanted, smiled, and waved her golden hair.

And longer had she sung — but, with a frown,

Revenge impatient rose.
He threw his blood stain'd sword in thunder down ;

And, with a withering lodk,

The war-deuouncing trumpet took,
And blew a blast, so loud and dread.

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

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296 Poetical Selections.

Thy numbers, Jealousy, tr nouji^ht wore fix'd ;

Sad-proof of thy distressful state ! . '

Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd :

And, now, it courted Love ; now, raving, called 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 rocts around,
Bubbling runnels join'd the sound.
Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole ;
Or o'er some haunted streams, with fond delay —

Round a holy calm diff'using,

Love of peace and lonely musings —
In hollow murmurs died away.

But, oh, how alter'd was its sprightlier tone f

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 leap'd up, and seized his beechen spear.

' ' J
Last, came Joy's ecstatic trial.

He, with viny crown advaucing,

First to the lively pijx; his hand addressed ;

But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol.

Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best. .. »

They would have thought, who heard the strain,

They saw, in Tempo's vale, her native maids,

' mid the festal-sounding shades, ,/

' J some unwearied minstrel dancing ; ; ;

While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings, ;• i,, /

Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round — \

Loos 3 were her tresses seen, her zone unbound ; . jl

(lit j'll

And he, amid his frolic play.
As if he would the charming air repay, > ff„.tj
Shook thousand odours from his dewy wingp. .'

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297

THE CHURL AND TRUE GENTLEiMxVN.

TENNYSON.

The churl in spirit, up or down,

Along the scale of ranks, throufi^h all
To who may j:;rasp a golden ball

By blood a king, at heart a clown ;

The churl in spirit, howe'er he veil

His want in forms for fashion's sake,
Will let his coltish nature break

At seasons through the gilded pale;

For who can always act? but he,

To whom a thousand memories call,
Not bei'^'ij less but more than all

The gent^ i he seemed to be,

So wore his outward best, and joined
Each office of the social hour
To noble manners, as the flower

And native growth of noble mind;

Nor ever narrowness or spite.

Or villain fancy fleeting by.
Drew in the expression of an eye.

Where God and Nature met in light;

And thus he bore without abuse

The grand old name of gentleman,
Defamed by every charlatan,

And soiled with all ignoble use.

HIGH DESTINIES OF MAN.

TENNYSON.

Contemplate all this work of time.
The giant laboring in his youth ;
Nor dream of human love and truth,

As dying Nature's earth and lime ;

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298 Poetical Selections.

But trust that those we call the dead
Are breathers of an ampler day
For ever nobler ends. They say,

The solid earth whereon we tread

In tracts of fluent heat boj^an,

And ^rew to secminuj-random forms,
The seemin;^ prey of cyclic storms,

Till at the last arose the man ;

Who throve and branched from clime to clime,
The herald of a higher race,
And of himself in hiuher place.

If so he type this work of time

Within himself, from more to more ;

And crov/ned with attributes of woe
Like j;lories, move his course, and show

That life is not as idle ore.

But iron dug from central gloom,

And heated hot with burning fears,
And dipped in baths of hissing tears.

And battered with the shocks of doom

To shape and use. Arise and fly

The reeling Faun, the sensual feast;
Move upward, working out the beast.

And let the ape and tiger die.

COMMUNION WITH THE DEAD.

TENNYSON.

How pure at heart and sound in head,

With what divine afi'octions bold.

Should be the man whose thought would hold
An hour's commuuiou with the dead.

In vain shalt thou, or any, call

The spirits from their golden day.
Except, like them, thou too canst say

My spirit is at peace with all.

Poetical Selections.

299

They haunt the silence of the breast,
Iiua<>inations calm and fair,
The memory like a cloudless air,

The conscience as a sea at rest ;

But when the heart is full of din,

And doubt beside the portal waits,
They can but listen at the jjjntes,

And hear the household jar within.

FAITHFUL AT VANITY FAIR.

hold

IfISS MULOCU.

Miss MllociIj the author of "John Halifax. Gentleman," is better known
as a writer of tiction thuti as a ])oi't Sht- haa, however, published one voUinio
of poetry, consisliigchicfly of fu(;itive pieces published in Chuinheis'itJoiirmxl
and other periodicals, distinguished for high poetic beauty and that exalted
tone of feeling whicii characterizes her fictions. The following is one of the
finest in the collection, and it was suggested by the description of Vanity
Fair in the Pilyrini^H Projrvss. A selection from that famous description
is given as an introduction to the poem : —

" Then I saw in my dream, that when they wore got out of the wilderness,
they presently saw a town before them, and the name of that town is
Vanity ; and at the town there is a fair kept, called Vanity Fair; it is kept
all the year long ; it I eareth the name of Vanity Fair because the town
where it is kept is lighter than vanity; aiid also because all that is there
sold, or that Cometh thither, is vanity. As is the saying of the wise : 'all that
Cometh is vanity.'

Almost five thousand years ago, there were pilgrims walking to the
Celestial City, as these two honest persons are ; and Heelzebub. Apollyon,
and Legi(m, with their companions, perceiving by the path that tiie i)ilgriin3
made, that their way to the city lay through this town of Vanity, they con-
trived here to set u]) a fair ; a fair within which should be sold all sorts of
vanity, and that it should last all the year long.

Now these Pilgrims, as 1 said, nmst needs go through this fair. Well, so
tliey did ; but, behold, even as they entered into the fair, all the ])eoi)le in
the fair were moved, and the town itselfasit were in a hubbub about them.
Now was word presently brought to the great one of the fair, who quickly
came downi and deputetf somo of his most trusty frien<l3 to take these men
into examination, about whom the fair was almost overturned. So the men
were brought to examination ; and they that sat njton them, asked them
whence they came, whither they went, and what they did there, in such an
unusual garb ? The men told them that they were jtilgrims and strangers
in the world, and that they W( re going to their own country, which was
the heavenly Jerusalem, Heb. xix. 13-1(» ; and that they had given no occa-
sion to the men of the town, nor yet to the merchandisers, thus to abuse
them, and to let them in their journey, except it was for that, when one
asked them what they would buy, they said they would hny the truth. Hut
they that were appointed to examine them did not believe them to be any
other than bedlams and mad, or else such as came to put all things into a
confusion in the fair. Therefore they took them and beat them, and
besmeared them with dirt, and then put them into the cage, that they might
be made a spectacle to all the men of the fair.

300

Poetical Selections.

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Then a convenient time being appointed, they brought thcra forth to
their trial, in order to their condemniitiun. When the time was come, tliey
were brought before their enemies and arraigned.

Tlien they brought in Faithful guilty of death, and he was presently
condemned to be had from the place where he was, to the place from whence
he came, and there to be put to tiie most cruel d'-ath that could be invented.
They therefore brought him out, to do with him according to their law;
and first, they scourged him, then they buffeted him, then they lanced his
flesh with knives ; after that, they stoned him witli stones, then pricked
him with their swords ; and, las*, of all, they burned him to ashes at the
stake. Thus came Faithful to his end. Now I saw that there stood behind
the multitude a chariot and a cou|»le of horses, waiting for Faithfid, who.
so soon as his adversaries had dispatched him, was taken up into it, and
straightway was carried up through the clouds, with sound of trumpets, the
nearest way to the celestial gate.

But as for Christian, he had some respite, and wag remanded back to

Erison. So he there remained for a space; but He that overrules all tilings,
aving the power of their rage in his own hand, so wrought it about, that
Christian for that time escaped them."

The great human whirlpool — 'tis seething and seething:
On ! No time for shrieking out — scarcely for breathing :
All toiling and moiling, some feebler, some bolder,
But each sees a fiend-face grim over his shoulder j
Thus merrily live they iu Vanity Fair.

The great human caldron — it boils ever higher,
Some drowning, some sinking ; while some, stealing nigher
Athirst, come and lean o'er its outermost verge,
Or touch, as a child's feet touch, timorous, the surges-
One plunge — lo ! more souls swamp' d in Vanity Fair.

Let's live while we live ; for to-morrow all's over :
Drink deep, drunkard bold ; and kiss close, maddeii'd lover :
Smile, hypocrite, smile ! it is no such hard labor,
While each stealthy hand stabs the heart of his neighbor —
Faugh! Fear not: we've no hearts in Vcinity Fair.

The mad crowd divides and then soon closes after :
Afar towers the pyre. Through the shouting and laughter,
" What new sport is this 1" gasps a reveller, half turning. —
" One Faithful, meek fool, who is led to the burning,
He cumbered us sorely in Vanity Fair.

"A dreamer, who held every man for a brother;
A coward, who, smit on one cheek, gave the other ;
A fool, whose blind soul took as truth all our lying,
Too simple to live, so best fitted for dying :
Sure, such are best swept out of Vanity Fair."

T-,.

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Poetical Selections.

801

II.

Silence I thou«i;h the flames arise and quiver:
Silence ! thouj^h the crowd howls on for ever:
Silence ! through this fiery purgatory
God is leading un a soul to glory.

See, the white lips with no moans are trembling.
Hate of foes or plaint of friends' dissembling;
If sighs come — his patient prayers outlive them,
'' Lord these know not what they do, Forgive them !"

Thirstier still the roaring flames are glowing ;
Fainter in his car the laughter growing ;
Brief will last the fierce and fiery trial,
Angel welcomes drown the earth denial.

Now the amorous death-fires, gleaming ruddy,
Clasp him close. Down drops the quivering body,
"While through harmless flames ecstatic flying
Shoots the beauteous soul. This, this is dying.

Lo, the opening sky with splendor rifted,
Lo, the palm branch for his hands uplifted :
Lo, the immort;d chariot, cloud descending,
And its legion'd angels close attending.

Let his poor dust mingle with the embers
While the crowds sweep on and none remembers :
Saints unuumber'd through the Infinite Glory,
Praising God, recount the martyr's story.

THE STEANGER AND HIS FRIEND.

JAMES MONTaOMERY.

A POOR wayfaring man of grief

Hath often crossed me on my way,
Who sued so humbly for relief,

That I could never answer " nay."
I had not power to ask His name,

Wliither He went, or whence He came j
Yet there was something in His eye,

That wou my love, I kuew not why.

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802

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Poetical Selections.

Once, when my scanty meal was spread,

He entered : not a word Ho >pake,
Just perishing for want of bread,

1 gave him all ; He blessed it, brake,
And ate, — but gave me part again.

Mine was an angel's portion then;
For, while I fed with eager haste,

Tiiat crust was mauua to my taste.

I spied Him where a fountain burst

Clear from the rock ; — His strength was gone,
The heedless water mocked his thirst,

He heard it, saw it hurrying on.
1 ran to raise tlie sufferer up ;

Thrice from the stream he drained my cup,
Dipp'd, and returned it running o'er, —

I drank, and never thirsted more,

*Twas night; the floods were out, — it blew

A winter hurricane aloof;
I heard His voice abroad, and flew

To bid Him welcome to my roof;
I warm'd, I clothed, I chi ered my guest, —

Laid Him on my own couch to rest;
Then made the earth my bed, and seem'd

In Eden's garden while I dreamed.

Stripped, wounded, beaten nigh to death

1 found Him by the highway side ;
I roused His pulse, brought back His breath,

ilevived His spirit, and supplied
Wine, oil, refreshment. He was healed —

I had myself a wound concealed ;
But, from that hour, forgot the smart.

And peace bound up my broken heart.

In prison I saw Him next, condemn'd

To meet a traitor's doom at morn ;
The tide of lying tongues I stemmed.

And honored him midst shame and scorn.
My friendship's utmost zeal to try,

He asked if I lor him would die ? —
The flesh was weak — My blood ran chilly—

But the free spirit cried '* I will I "

Poetical Selections.

Then in a moment to my view,

The Strani^cr startod from dis«j;uisc ;
The tokens in Hi.s hands I know —

My Saviour stood before my eyes.
He spake — and my poor name He named,

" Of me thou hast not been asliamed ;
These deeds shall thy memorial be —

Fear not ! thou did'st them unto me."

303

GIVE ME THY HEART.

ADELAIDR A. PROCTER.

With echoinji; steps the worshippers

Departed one by one ;
The organ's pealing voice was stilled,

The vesper hynm was done ;
The shadows fell from roof and arch,

Dim was the incensed air,
One lamp alone, with trembling ray,

Told of the Presence there !

In the dark church she knelt alone ;

Her tears were falling fast;
"Help Lord," she cried, " the shades of death

Upon my soul are cast !
Have I not shunned the path of sin,

And chosen the better part?"
"What voice came through the sacred air ? —

" Ml/ child, give me thy Heart /"

" Have I not laid before Thy shrino

My wealth, Lord ?" she cried ;
" Have I kept aught of gems or gold.

To minister to pride ?
Have I not bade youth's joys retire.

And vain delights depart?"
But sad and tender was the voice, —

" J/y child, give me thy Heart .'"

" Have I not, Lord, gone day by day.

Where Thy poor children dwell ;
And carried help, and gold, and food ?

Lord, Thou knowest it well ! -

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804 Poetical Seleciiona.

From many a house, from many a soul, \
V My hiiiul l)i(]H care, (Impart :" —

More Hiid, more tender was the voice,— t^
♦* My child, ijivc vie thy Heart /"

" Have I not worn my strcn^^th away

Witli fast and penance sore ?
Have I nut watched and wept?" she cried ;

" Did Tliy dear .saints do more ?
Have I not ^^ained tliy j^race, Lord,

And won in heuviiii my part?"
It echoed louder in lier soul, —

" J/y child, (jii'c me thy Heart!

" For I have h)ved tliee with a lovo

No mortal heart can show ;
A love so deep, my saints in heaven

Its di;pths can never know ;
Wlien pierced and wounded on the Cross,

Man's sin and doom were mine,
I loved thee with undying love,

Immortal and divine I

" I loved thee ere the skies were spread ;

My soul bears all thy pains ;
To gain tliy love my sacred heart ' .

In earthly shrines remains :
Vain are thy offerings, vain thy sighs,

Without one gift divine ;
Give it, my child, thy heart to me,

And it shall rest in mine I"

In awe slie listened, and the shade

Passed from her soul away ;
In low and trembling voice she cried :

" Lord, help me to obey I
Break thou the chains of earth, Lord, i -.

That bind and hold my heart ;
Let it be Thine, and Thine alone, , ,.

Let none with Thee have part.

"Send down, Lord, Thy sacred fire! :i
Consume and cleanse the sin • ,;..;, .,'

That lingers still within its depths; ..<.,(/
Let heavenly love begin. ul {>

Poetical Selections.

That sncrcd flaiuo Thy saints have known,

Kindle, O Lord, in me,
Thou above all the rest forever, ,

And all the rest in Thee."

The bleasinj^ fell upon her soul ;

lleranj^el by her side
Knew that the hour of peace was como;

Her soul was purified ;
The HJiadows fell from roof and arch,

Dim was the incensed air —
But peace went with her as she left

The Sacred Presence there I

805

COWPER'S GRAVE.

ELIZABRTH B. BROWNING.

It is a place where poets crowned may feel the heart's decaying—
It is a place where happy saints may weep amid their praying:
Yet let the grief and humbleness, as low as silence, languish I
Earth surely now may give her calm to whom she gave her anguish. .

poets ! from a maniac's tongue was poured the deatlilesa singing 1
Christians ! at your cross of hope a hopeless bard was clinging I
men ! this man in brotherhood, your weary paths beguiling.
Groaned inly while he taught you peace, and died while ye were
smiling !

And now, what time ye all may read through dimming tears hiS'

story,
How discord on the music fell, and darkness on the glory,
And how when, one by one, sweet sounds and wandering lights

departed,
He wore no less a loving face because so broken-hearted :

He shall be strong to sanctify the poet's high vocation ; ■ < ■ ■
And bow the meekest Christian down in meeker adoration ;
Nor ever shall he be, in praise, by wise or good forsaken.
Named softly as the household name of one whom God hath taken.

With quiet sadness and no gloom I learn to think upon him.
With meekness that is gratefulness to God whosj heaven hath won

him —
Who suffered once the madness-cloud to His own love to blind him,
But gently led the blind along where breath and bird could find him,

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Poetical Selections*

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And wiouirlit within his shattered brain, such quick poetic senses
As hills have language for, and stars, harmonious influences!
The pulse of dew upon the grass kept his within its number,
And silent shadows from tlie trees refreshed him like a slumber.

While timid hares were drawn from woods to share his home-
caresses,

TJplooking to his human eyes with sylvan tednernesses ;

The very world, by God's constraint, from falsehood's ways
removing,

Its women and its men became beside him true and loving.

But while in blindness he remained unconscious of the tiiuidinj:,
.And things provided came without the sweet sense of jtroviding,
He testified this solemn truth though phrenzy desolated —
Nor man nor nature satisfy, whom only God created I

•Like a sick child that knoweth not his mother whilst slie blesses
And drops upon his burning brow the coolness of her kisses;
'.That turns his fevered eyes around — " My mother ! where's my

mother?" —
As if such tender words and looks could come from any other I —

.The fever gone, with leaps of heart he sees her bending o'er him,
Her face all pale from watchful lore, the unweary love she bore

him ! —
Thus woke the poet from the dream his life's long fever gave him,
Beneath those deep pathetic eyes, which closed in death to save

him 1

Thus? oh, not thus/ no type of earth could image that awaking,
Wherein he scarcely heard the chant of seraphs round him

breaking,
Or felt the new immortal throb of soul from body parted,
'But felt those eyes alone, and knew, '^Mt/ Saviour ! not deserted !"

Deserted ! who hath dreamt that when the cross in darkness rested,

Upon the Victim's hidden face no love was manifested ?

What frantic hands outstretched have e'er the atoning drops

averted ?
What tears have washed them from the soul, that one should be

deserted?

Deserted ! God could separate from His own essence rather,
And Adam's sins have swept between the righteous Son and

Father ;
Yea, once, Immanuel's orphaned cry his universe hath shaken —
Jt went up single, echoless, "My God, I am forsaken I"

Poetical Selections,

307

Dses

)er.
omo-

Tt went up from the Holy's lips amid his lost creation,
That, of the lost, no son should use those words of desolation,
That earth's worst phrenzies, marring hope, should mar not hope's

fruition,
And I, on Cowper's grave, should see his rapture in a vision 1

ways

iding,

blesses
c's my

her I —

er him,
le bore

him,
to save

faking,
id him

Icrted I'

rest

lould bo

ion ar

liaken^

THE BURIAL OF MOSES.

URS. C. F. ALEXANDER.

By Nebo's lonely mountain,

On this side Jordan's wave,
In a vale in the land of Moab

There lies a loLely grave,
And no man knows that sepulchre,

And no man saw it e'er,
For the angels of God upturned the sod,

And kid the dead man there.

That was the grandest funeral

That ever passed on earth ;
But no man heard the trampling,

Or saw the train go forth —
Noiselessly as the dayli_^ht

Comes back when night is done,
And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek

Grows into the great sun.

Noiselessly as the spring-time

Her crown of verdure weaves,
And all the trees on all the hills

Open their thousand leaves j
So without sound of music.

Or voice of them that wept.
Silently down from the mountain's crown,

The great procession swept.

Perchance the bald old eagle,

On grey Beth-Feor's height,
Out of his lonely eyrie,

Look'd on the wondrous sight J
Perchance the lion stalking

IStill shuns that hallow'd spot.
For beast and bird have seen and heard

That which man knoweth not.

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But when the warrior dieth,

His eomrades in the war,
With arms reversed and muffled drum.

Follow his funeral car j
They show the banners taken^

They tell his battles won,
And after him lead his masterless steed.

While peals the minute gun.

Amid the noblest of the land

We lay the sage to rest.
And give the bard an honor'd place.

With costly marble drest.
In the great minster transept

Where lights like glories fall.
And the organ rings, and the sweet ehou- singis

Along the emblazoned wall.

This was the truest warrior

That ever buckled sword.
This the most gifted poet

That ever breath'd a word y
And never earth's philosopher

Traced with his golden pen,
On the deathless page, truths half so sasge

As he wrote down for men.

1
1

And had he not high honor,—

The hill-side for a pall,
To lie in state while angels wait

With stars for tapers tall.
And the dark rock-pines, like tossing plumes.

Over his bier to wave.
And God's own hand in that lonely land.

To lay him m the grave ?

In that strange grave without a name.

Whence his uncoffin'd clay
Shall break again, wondrous thought I

Before the Judgment day,
And stand with glory wrapt around

On the hills he never trod,
And speak of the strife that won our life.

With the Incarnate Son of God»

Poetical Selections,

809

lonely grave in MoaVs landl

dark Beth-Peor's hill!
Speak to these curious hearts of ours,

And teach them to be still.
Ood hath His mysteries of grace,

Ways that we cannot tell ;
He hides them deep, like the hidden sleep

Of him He loved so well.

EVERMORE,

Thi3 poem is taken from the Edinburgh Guardian newspaper, where it
appeared anonymously.

I BEHELD a golden portal in the visions of my slumber,

And through it stream'd the radiance of a never-setting day ;
While angels tall and beautiful, and countless without number,

Were giving gladsome greeting to all who came that way.
And the gates, for ever swinging, made no grating, no harsh ringing,

Melodious as the singing of one that we adore ;
And I heard a chorus swelling, grand beyond a mortal's telling,

And the burden of that chorus was Hope's glad word-
Evermore 1

And as I gazed and listen'd, came a slave all worn and weary,

His fetter links blood-crusted, his dark brow clammy damp,

His sunken eyes gleam'd wildly, telling tales of horror dreary,

Of toilsome strugglings through the night amid the fever swamp.
Ere the eye had time for winking, ere the mind had time for
thinking,
A bright angel raised the sinking wretch and off his fetters
tore ; —
Then I heard the chorus swelling, grand beyond a mortal's telling,
" Pass, brother, through our portal ; thou'rt a freeman ever-
more!"

And as I gaied and listenM, came a mother wildly weeping, —
" I have lost my hopes for ever — one by one they went away ;

My children and their father the cold grave hath in its keeping,
Life is one long lamentation, I know nor night nor day J"

810

Poetical Selections,

Then the angel, softly speaking, — " Stay, sister, stay thy shriekin^
Thou shult find those thou art seeking beyond that goldea
doorl"

Then I heard the chorus swelling, grand beyond a mortal's telling,
" Thy children and their father shall be with thee evermore l"^

And as I gazed and Hsten'd, came one whom desolation

Had driven like a helmless bark from infancy's bright land ;
Who ne'er had met a kindly look — poor outcast of creation —

Who never heard a kindly word, nor grasp'd a kindly hand.
"Enter in, no longer fear thee: myriad friends are there to
cheer thee —

Friends always to be near thee ; there no sorrow sad and sore !'^
Then I heard the chorus swelling, grand beyond a mortal's telling,

" Enter, brother ; thine are friendship, love, and gladness ever-
more l'*

!,■»

And as I gazed and listen'd, came a cold, blue-footed maiden.
With cheeks of ashen whiteness, eyes fill'd with lurid light;

Her body bent with sickness, her lone heart heavy laden ;

Her home had been the roofless street, her day had been the

night.

First wept the angel sadly, then smiled the angel gladly.

And caught the maiden madly rushing from the golden door ;

Then I heard the chorus swelling, grand beyond a mortal's telling,
" Enter, sister ; thou art pure, and thou art sinless evermore I*"^

I saw the toiler enter to rest for aye from labor ;

The weary-hearted exile there found his native land ;
The beggar there could greet the king as an equal and a neigh-
bor i
The crown had left the kingly brow,, the staff Uie beggar^s hand.
And the gates for ever swinging, made no grating, no harsh
ringing, *

Melodious as the singing of one that we adore ;
And the chorus still was swelling, grand beyond a mortal's telling.
While the vision faded from me with the glad word — " Ever-
more I"

Poetical Selections,

811

LYCIDAS.

MILTOK.

This "stately ami noble poem" was written in memory of Mr. Elward
King, son of his Honor the Secretary for Ireland, Sir John King. Kdward
King was a college friend of Milton ; he was on liis way from Chester to
Ireland, sailing across the Irish Channel, when a storm arose, and the
'' fatal and perfidious bark, built in the eclipse, and rigged with ciir.^es
dark," was lost, and the Secretary's son and all on board perished. This
" glorious lyric, that burns with real religion and Immiin affection, and
noble images of sorrow from classic treasures," was written by Milton to
•" strew the laureate hearse where Lycid lies." Milton, after the manner of
poets in that age, calls his lost friena by a classic and poeti-c name — Lycidas.

Yet once more, ye laurels, and once more,
Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere,
I come, to pluck your berries harsh and crude j
And, with forced fintcers rude.
Shatter your leaves before the mellowin;^ year.
Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear,
Compels me to disturb your season due ;
For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime,
Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer:
Who wowld not sing for Lycidas? he knew.
Himself, to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.
He must not float upon his watery bier
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,
Without the meed of some melodious tear.

Begin, then, sisters of the sacred well.
That from. beneath the seat of Jove doth spring;
Begin, and somewhat lo<udiy swuep the string ;
Hence with denial vain, and eoy excuse:
So may some gentle muse
With lu<;ky words favor my destined urn ;
And, as he passes, turn,
And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud.

For we were nursed upon the selfsame hill,
Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade, and rill.
Together both, ere the high lawns appear'd
Under the opening eyelids of the morn,
We drove a-field, and both together heard
What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn.
Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night,
Oft till the star, that rose at evening bright,
Toward heaven's descent had sloped hi.s westering wheel.
Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute,
Temper'd to the oaten flute ;
Bough satyrs danced, and fauns with cloven heel '^

^!l

M'-

■ !. "^:

Pit'^

From the glad sound would not be absent long;
And old DamcBtas loved to hear our song.

But, oh ! the heavy change, now thou art gone,
Now thou art gone and never must return 1
Thee, shepherd, thee the woods, and desert caves,
With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown,
And all their echoes, mourn :
The willows, and the hazel copses green,
Shall now no more be seen
Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays.
As killing as the canker to the rose.
Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze,
Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear,
When first the white-thorn blows ;
Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear.

Where were ye, nymphs, when the remorseless deep
Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas ?
For neither were ye playing on the steep.
Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie,
Nor on tlie shaggy top of Mona high.
Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream :
Ah me I I fondly dream,

Had ye been there : for what could that have done ?
What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore,
The Muse herself, for her enchanting son.
Whom universal nature did lament.
When, by the rout that made the hideous roar.
His gory visage down the stream was sent,
Down the swift Hebrus to tlie Lesbian shore ?

Alas ! what boots it witli incessant care
To tend the homely, slighted, shepherd's trade,
And strictly meditate the thankless Muse ?
Were it not better done, as others use.
To sport with Amaryllis, in the shade,
Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair ?
Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise
(That last infirmity of noble minds)
To scorn delights and live laborious days ;
But the fair guerdon when we hope to find.
And think to burst out into sudden blaze,
Conies the blind Fury with the abhorred shears,
And slits the thin-spun life. " But not the praise,"
Phoebus replied, and touch'd my trembling ears i
" Fame is no plunt that grows on mortal soil,
Nor in the glistering foil ,[< «, .h*..:.

Jroetical iselectwn$.

'6V6

Set off to the world, nor in broad rumor lies,
But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes,
And perfect witness of all-judginp^ Jove j
As he pronounces lastly on each deed,
Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed."

fountain Arethuse, and thou honor'd flood,
Smooth-sliding Mincius, crown'd with vocal reeds 1
That strain I heard was of a higher mood j
But now my oat proceeds,
And listens to the herald of the sea
That came in Neptune's plea ;
He ask'd the waves, and ask'd the felon winds.
What hard mishap hath doom'd this gentle swain ?
And question'd every gust, of rugged wings,
That blows from off each beaked promontory :
They knew not of his story ;
And sage Hippotades their answer brings.
That not a blast was from his dungeon stray'd :
The air was calm, and on the level brine
Sleek Panope with all her sisters play'd.
It was that fatal and perfidious bark,
Built in the eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark,
That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.

Next, Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow,
His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge,
Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge
Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe.
" Ah ! who hath reft," quoth he, " my dearest pledge ?"
Last came, and last did go,
The pilot of the Galilean lake ;
Two massy keys he bore, of metals twain,
(The golden opes, the iron shuts amain,)
He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake :
" How well could I have spared for thee, young swain,
Enow of such as, for their bellies' sake,
Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold I
Of other care they little reckoning make
Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast.
And shove away the worthy bidden guest ;
Blind mouths ! that scarce themselves know how to hold
A sheep-hook, or have learn 'd ought else the least
That to the faithful herdsman's art belongs I
What recks it them ? What need they ? They are sped j
And when they list, their lean and flashy songs

. I.

314

Poetical Selections,

■■H

.;-i,i

9- .: S

■f .

Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw ;

The hun^^ry sheep look up, and are not fed,

But, swoln with wind and the rank mist they draw,

Rot inwardly, and foul contai^ion spread ;

Besides what the frrim wolf, with privy paw,

Daily devours apace, and nothinjj^ said ;

But that two-handed engine at the door

Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more."

Return, Alpheus, the dread voice is past,
That shrunk thy streams ; return, Sicilian Muse,
And call the vales, and bid them hither cast
Their bells and flowerets of a thousand hues.
Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use
Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushin^^ brooks,
On whoso fresh lap the swart st ir sparely looks ;
Throw hither all your quaint enamell'd eyes,
That on the green turf suck the honey'd showers,
A^d purple all the ground with vernal flowers.
Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,
The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine.
The white pink, and the pansy freak'd with jet,
The glowing violet.

The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine.
With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,
And every flower that sad embroidery wears :
Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed.
And daffodillies fill their cups with tears.
To strew the laureate hearse where Lycid lies.
For, so to interpose a little ease.
Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise :
Ah me ! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas
Wash far away, where'er thy bones are hurl'd.
Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides,
Where thou, perhaps, under the whelming tide,
Visit' st the bottom of the monstrous world ;
Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied,
Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old.
Where the great vision of the guarded mount
Looks towards Namancos and Bayona's hold ;
Look homeward, angel, now, and melt with ruth ;
And 0, ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth.

Weep no more, woful shepherds, weep no more,
For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead.
Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor ; '
So sinks the day-star in the ocean-bed,

Poetical Selections.

815

And yet anon repairs his droopin^; head,

And tricks his beams, and, with new spangled ore,

Flames in the forehead of the morning sky :

So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high,

Through the dear might of Him that wulk'd the waves,

Where, other groves and other streams ulong^

With nectar pure his oozy locks he luvcs,

And hears the unexpressive nuptial song

In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love.

There entertain him all the saints above,

In solemn troops and sweet societies,

That sing, and, singing, in their glory move,

And wipe the tears forever from his eyes.

Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more ;

Henceforth thou art the genius of the shore,

In thy large recompense, and shalt be good

To all that wander in that perilous flood.

Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oak?, and rills,
While tlie still morn went out with sandals gray^
He touch'd the tender stops of various quills,
With eager thought warbling his Doric lay.
And now the sun had strctch'd out all the hills,
And now was dropt into the western bay :
At last he rose, and twitch 'd his mantle blue :
To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.

ENGLAND'S DEAD.

MRS. mCMANS.

Son of the ocean isle f
Where sleep your mighty dead ?
Show me that high and stately pile
Is rear'd o'er Glory's bed.

Go, stranger, track the deep.
Free, free the white sail spread !
Wave may not foam, nor wild winds sweep.
Where rest not England's dead.

On Egypt's burning plains,
By the pyramid o'ersway'd.
With fearful power the noonday reigns,
And the palm-trees yield no shade :

810

Poetical SelecHonB,

But let the angry sun
From heaven look fiercely red,
Unfolt by those whose task is done ! —
There — there sleep England's dead.

; . ''v

m^'

-I

The hurricane hath might
Along the Indian shore,
And far by Ganges* banks at night
Is heard the tiger's roar :

But let the sound roll on I
It hath no tone of dread
For those that from their toils am gone ; —
There slumber England's dead.

Loud rush the torrent-floods

The western wilds among ;
And free in green Columbia's woods
* The hunter's bow is strung :

But let the floods rush on !
Let the arrow's flight be sped !
Why should they reck whose task is done ?-
There slumber England's dead.

The mountain-storms rise high
In the snowy Pyrenees,
And toss the pine-boughs through the sky,
Like rose-leaves on the breeze :

??^

But let the storm rage on 1
Let the fresh wreaths be shed !
For the Roncesvalles' field is won, —
There slumber England's dead.

On the frozen deep's repose
'Tis a dark and dreadful hour,
When round the ship the ice-fields close,
And the northern night-clouds lower :

But let the ice drift on ! '

Let the cold blue desert spread !
Their course with mast and flag is done ;-
£veii there sleep England's dead.

Poetical SdecUont,

817

The warlike of the isles,
The men of field and wave, —
Arc not the rocks their funeral piles,
The seas and shores their grave ?

Go, stranger, track the deep,
Free, free the white suil spread !
Wave may not foam, nor wild winds sweep,
Where rest not England's dead.

FATHERS OF NEW ENGLAND.

SPRAOUK.

Behold I they come — those sainted forms,
Unshaken through the strife of storms ;
Heaven's winter cloud hangs coldly down.
And earth puts on its rudest frown j
But colder, ruder was the hand,
That drove them from their own fair land,

Their own fair land — refinement's chosen seat,

Art's trophied dwelling, learning's green retreat ;

By valor guarded, and by victory crowned,

For all, but gentle charity, renowned.

With streaming eye yet steadfast heart,
Even from that land they dared to part,

And burst each tender tie ;
Haunts, where their sunny youth was passed,
Homes, where they fondly hoped at last

In peaceful age to die ;
Friends, kindred, comfort, all they spurned—

Their father's hallowed graves ;
And to a world of darkness turned,
Beyond a world of waves.

When Israel's race from bondage fled,
Signs from on high the wanderers led ;
But here — Heaven hung no symbol here,
7'AeiV steps to guide, their souls to cheer ;
They saw, through sorrow's lengthening night
Nought but the fagot's guilty light ;
The cloud they gazed at was the smoke
That round their murdered brethren broke

■;:•')•?

818

Poetical Selectiom,

Nor power above, nor power below,
Sustained them in their hour of wo ;
A fearful path they trod,

And durcd a fearful doom,
To build an altar to their God,

And find u quiet tomb.

Yet, strong in weakness, there they stand,

On yonder ice-bound rock ;
Stern and resolved, that faithful band

To meet fate's rudest shock.
Though anguish rends the father's breast,
For them, liis dearest and his best,

With him the waste who trod —
Though tears that freeze, the mother sheds
Upon her children's houseless heads—

The Christian turns to God I

'ti'

■^t

In grateful adoration now,

Upon the barren sands they bow.

What tongue of joy o'er woke such prayer,

As bursts in desolation there ?

What arm of strength e'er wrought such power.

As waits to crown that feeble hour ?
There into life an infant empire springs I

There falls the iron from the soul ; .

There liberty's young accents roll,
Up to the King of kings I

To fair creation's farthest bound,

That thrilling summons yet shall sound;

The dreaming nations shall awake.
And to their centre earth's old kingdoms shake
PontiflF and prince, your sway
Must crumble from that day ;

Before the loftier throne of Heaven,

The hand is raised, the pledge is given —
One monarch to obey, one creed to own.
That monarch, God, that creed, His Word alone.

Spread out earth's holiest records here.
Of days and deeds to reverence dear ;
A zeal like this what pious legends tell ?

On kingdoms built ' ;

In blood and guilt, '^^ ' '

A
C
A
\}

Poetical Selections.

Tlic worshippers of vulvar triumph dwell —
But what exploit with theirs shall page,

Who rose to bless their kiud ;
Who left their nation and their age,
Man's spirit U) unbind?
Who boundless seas passed o'er,
And boldly met, in every path,
Famine and frost and heathen wrath,
To dedieato a shore,
Whore piety's meek train might breathe their vow
And seek their Maker with an unshamed brow ;
Where liberty's glad race might proudly come,
And set up there an everlasting home ?

810

THE FUNERAL OF WELLINGTON.

TKNNYSON.

Who is he that cometh like an honor'd guest,

With banner and with music, with soldier and with priest,

With a nation weeping, and breaking on my rest?

Mighty seaman, this is lie

Was great by land as thou by sea.

Thine island loves thee well, thou famous man.

The greatest sailor since our world began.

Now, to the roll of muffled drums,

To thee the greatest soldier comes;

For this is he .f

Was great by land as thou by sea ; '

His foes were thine ; he kept us free;

give him welc(une, this is he.

Worthy of our gorgeous rites,

And worthy to be laid by thee ;

For this is England's greatest son.

He that gain'd a hundred fights.

Nor ever lost an English gun ;

This is he that far away

Against the myriads of Assaye

Clash 'd with his fiery few and won;

And underneath another sun.

Warring on a later day,

Round affrighted Lisbon drew

The treble works, the vast designs

Of his labor' d rampart-lines.

. (

■r,%'^

820 Poetical Selections,

Where ho greatly stood at bay,

Whence he issued forth anew,

And ever great and greater grew.

Beating from the wasted vines

Back to France her banded swarms,

Back to France with countless blows.

Till o'er the hills her eagles flew

Past the Pyrenean pines,

Follow'd up in valley and glen

With blare of bugle, clamor of men,

Roll of cannon and clash of arms,

And England pouring on her foes.

Such a war had such a close.

Again their ravening eagle rose

In anger, wheel' d on Europe-shadowing wings.

And barking for the thrones of kings ;

Till one that sought but Duty's iron crown

On that loud sabbath shook the spoiler down ;

A day of onsets of despair !

Dash'd on every rocky square

Their surging charges foam'd themselves away ;

Last, the Prussian trumpet blew j

Through the long-tormented air

Heaven flash'd a sudden jubilant ray.

And down we swej^t and charged and overthrew.

So great a soldier taught us there.

What long-enduring hearts could do

In that world's earthquake, Waterloo!

Mighty seaman, tender and true.

And pure as he from taint of cravan guile,

saviour of the silver-coasted isle,

shaker of the Baltic and the Nile,

If aught of things that here befall

Touch a spirit among things divine,

If love of country move thee there at all,

Be glad, because his bones are laid by thine I

And thro' the centuries let a people's voice

In full acclaim,

A people's voice,

The proof and echo of all human fame,

A people's voice, when they rejoice

At civic revel and pomp and game,

Attest their great commander's claim

With honor, honor, honor, honor to him,

Eternal honor to his name.

Poetical Selections.

321

A peoplo's voice ! we arc a people yet.
Tho' all men else their nobler dreams for<i;et
Confused by brainless mobs and l.iwless Powers,
Tliank lliin who isled us here, and roughly set
His Saxon in blown seas and storniinjj; sliowers,
We have a voice with which to pay the debt
Of boundless love and reverence and regret
To tliose great men who fought, and kept it ours.
And keep it ours, God, from brute control ;
Statesmen, uu ird us, guard the eye, the soul
Of Europe, keep our noble Knghind whole.
And save the one true seed of freedom sown
B(!twixt a people and their ancieiit throne.
That sobjr I'reedoin out of which tluire springs
Our loyal passion fur our temperate kings;
For, saving that, ye help to save mankind
Till public wrong be crumbled into dust,
And drill tiie raw world for the march of mind,
Till crowd ■> at l.;ngth be sane ai 1 erowiis bj just.
But wiiik no m ire in slothful overtrust.
Remember him who led your ho-ts;
He bade you guard the sacred coasts.
Your cannons moulder on the seaward wall;
His voice is silent in your council-hall
For ever ; and whatever tempests lower
For ever silent; even if tln'y broke
In thunder, silent ; yet remember all
He spoke among you, and the Man who spoke ;
Who never sold the truth to serve the hour,
Nor palter'd with Il^ternal (iod f )r power ;
Who let the tuibid streams of rumor fl.)W
Thro' either babbling world of high and low;
Whose life was work, whose language rile
With rujfged maxims hewn from life;
Who neviir spoke against a foe ;
Wnose eighty winters freeze with one rebuke
All lireat self-seekers tramp'in: on the riiiht :
Truth teller was our England's Alfred name] ;
Truth-lover was our English Duke ;
Whatever record leap to light
He never shall be shamed.

K ,.• i ',

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322 Poetical Selections,

TO MARY IN HEAVEN.

BOBKUT BURNS.

*' Whom genius made immortal and liis country an exciseman.

Thou lingering star with lessening ray

That lov'st to greet the early morn I
Again thou usheret^t in the day,

My Mary from my soul was torn !
Mary ! dear departed shade!

Where is tiiy place of blissful rest ?
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ?

Hcar'st thou the groans that rend his breast ?

That sacred hour can I forget ? —

Can I forget the hallowed grove,
Where by the winding Ayr, we met

To live one day of parting love ?
Etehmty will not efface

Those records dear of transports past I
Thy image at our last embrace —

Ah ! little thought we 'twas our hist !

Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore,

O'er huni: with wild woods, thickening green;
The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar,

'I'wined amorous round the raptured scene.
The flowers sprang wanton to be pressed j

The birds sang love on every spray j
Till, too, too soon, the glowing west

Proclaimed the speed of winged day.

Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes,

And fondly broods with miser care ;
Time but the impression deeper makes, —

As streams their channels deeper wear, —
My Mary ! dear departed shade !

Where is thy blissful place of rest ?
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ?

liear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

Poetical Selections.

323

THE SOULS OF THE CHILDREN.

CHARLB3 M ACKAY.

" Who bids for the little children,

Body, and soul, and brain ?
Who bids for the little children,

Young, and without a stain ?
Will no one bid ? " said England,

" For their souls, so pure and white?
And fit for all good and evil,

The world on their page may write?"

" We bid," said Pest and Famine,

" We bid for life and liinb ;
Fever, and pain, and squ ilor,

Their bright young eyes shall dim.
When the children grow too m my.

We'll nurse them as our own,
And hide them in secret places,

Where none may hear their moan."

" I bid," said Begi;ary, howling,

" 1 bid for them one and all I
I'll teach them a thousand lessons,

To lie, to hkulk, to crawl !
They shall sleep in my lair like maggots,

They shall rot in the fair sunshine,
And if they serve my purpose,

I hope they'll answer thine."

" And I'll bid higher and higher,"

Said Crime, with a wolfish grin,
" For I love to lead the children

Through the pleasant pitiis of sin.
They shall swarm in the streets to pilfer,

Tluy shall plague the broad highway,
Till they grow too old for pity,

And ripe for the hr.v to slay.

" Prison, and hulk,- and gallows,

Are many in the land ;
'Twere folly not to use them,

So proudly as they stand.
Give me the little children,

I'll take them as they're born>
And feed their evil passions

With misery and scorn.

h "'

!i •.

•« ■•:•'< I, ';

324

Poetical Selections.

" Give me the little children,

Ye rich, ye ^ood, ye wise,
And let tlio busy world spin round,

While ye shut your idle eyes ;
And your judii;es shjill have work,

And your 1 iwyers w.ij^ the tongue,
And the j.iilers and policemen

Shall be fathers to the young."

" Oh ! shame," said true Religion,

" Oh ! shame, that this should be !
1*11 take the little children —

Oh ! give them all to me !
I'll raise th' m up in kindness,

From the mire in which they've trod ;
I'll teach them words of blessing,

And lead them up to God."

THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS.

TFIOMAS HOOD.

One more unfortunate,

Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate.

Gone to her death !

Take her up fc^nderly,

Lift her with care ;
Fash ion 'd so slenderly.

Young, and so fair.

Look at her garments.
Clinging like cerements ;
Whilst the wave constantly

Drips from her clothing :
Take her up instantly.

Loving, not loathing.

Touch her not scornfully;
Think of her mournfully;

Gently and humanly ;
Not of the stiins of her;
All that remains of her

Mow is pure womanly.

Poetical Selections,

325

Make no deep scrutiny
Into her mutiny

11 ish and undutiful ;
Past all dishonor,
Death h IS left on her

Only the beautiful.

Still, for all slips of hers,
One of Eve's fjuuily,

Wipe those poor lips of hers,
Oozing so clammily.

Loop up her tresses,

Esc iped from the comb,

Her fair auburn tresses;

Whilst wonderment jiuesses
Where was her home ?

Who was her father ?

Who was her mother?
Had she a sister?

Had she a brother ?
Or was there a dearer one
Still, or a nearer one

Yet, than all other ?

Alas ! for the rarity
Of Christian charity

Under the sun !
Oh 1 it WIS pitiful,
Near a whole city full,

Home had she none !

Sisterly, brotherly.
Fatherly, motherly.

Feelings had ch.inged ;
Love, by harsh evid 'uce
Thrown from its eminence,
Even God's providence

Seeming estranged.

Where the lamps quiver
So far in the river.

With many a light
From window and c isement.
From garret to b.isem "Ut,
She stood, with amazement,

Houseless by night.

326

Poetical Selections.

The bleak wind of March
Made her tremble and shiver,
But not the dark arch

Or the black flowing river.

Mad from life's history,

Gl.id to death's mystery
Swift to be hurl'd.

Anywhere ! anywhere
Out of the world !

. 1 '.,.■.■

.^i"

In she plung'd boldly,
N>. matter how coldly

Till; rough river ran ;
ty r the brink of it,
Pict/ivrt jio — think of it,

Li.^v ' "te man !
.Lave in .1 — ^Irink of it

Tiion, if ,01' can.

Take her up tenderly.

Lift her with care,
Fashion'd so slenderly.

Young, and so fair.

Ere her limbs frigidly
Stiifen too rigidly,

Decently, kindly
Smooth and compose them ;
And her eyes, close them,

Staring so blindly !

Dreadfully staring

Through muddy impurity,
As when with the daring,
Last look of despairing,

Fixed on futurity.

Perishing gloomily,
Spurred by contumely,

Cold inhumanity.

Burning insanity.
Into her rest ;

Cross her hands humbiy,

As if praying dumbly.
Over her breast I

Poetical Selections*

Owning her weakness,
Her evil behaviour,

And leaving, with meekness,
Her sins to her 8aviour,

32T

LOUISE ON THE DOOR-STEP.

CHARLES MACKA.V.

Half-past three in the morning !

And no one in tlie street
But nie, on the sheltering door-step

llesting my weai*y feet ;
Watching the rain-drops patter

And dance where the puddles run,
As bright in the flaring gas-light,

As (iewdrops in the sun.

There's a light upon the pavement —

It .shines like a magic glass,
And there are faces in it,

That look at me and pass.
Faces — ah ! well remembered

In the happy Long Ago,
When my garb was white as lilies,

And my thoughts as pure as snow.

Faces ! ah yes ! I see them —

One, two, and three — and four —
That come on the gust of tempests.

And go on the winds that bore.
Changeful and evanescent

They shine 'mid storm and rain,
Till the terror of their beauty

Lies deep upon my brain.

One of them frowns ; I know him.

With his thin long snow-white hair,
Cursing his wrttched daughter

That drove him to desp lir,
And the other with wakening pity

In her large te.ir-ti^treaming eyes,
Seems as she yearned towards me,

And whispered " Paradise."

r^.'^y:

4».

328 Poetical Seleotiom.

They pass — they melt in the ripples,

And I shut mine eyes, that burn,
To esc;ipe smother vision

That follows where'er I turn : —
The fice of a false deceiver

Th:it lives and lies ; ah me !
Thoujih I see it in the pavement,

Mocking my misery !

They are gone ! — all three ! — quite vanished —

Let no one call them back !
For I've had enough of phantoms,

And my heart is on the rack I
God help me in my sorrow ;

But there, — in tiie wet,' cold stone,
Smiling in heavenly beauty,

I see my lost, mine own I

There on the glimmering pavement,

AVith eyes as blue as morn,
Floats by the fair-haired darling,

Too soon from my bosom torn ;
She clasps her tiny fingers —

She calls me sweet and mild,
And says my God forgives me,

For the sake of my little child.

I will go to her grave to-morrow,

And pray that I may die;
And T hope that my God will take me

Ere the days of my youth go by.
For T am old in anguish,

And long to be at rest.
With n)y little babe beside me,

And the daisies on my breast,
(contributed by the author's son, Charles B. MacKay, Esq., of Toronto.

THE BEAUTIFUL SNOW.

JAMES WATSON.

0, the snow, the beautiful snow.
Filling the sky and the earth below ;
Over the housetop, over the street.
Over the heads of the people you meet,
Dancing,

Flirting, ,■^l■^.^:■H

Poetical Selections.

82d

Skimminfi; alonp;,
Beautiful snow ! it can do no wrong,
Flying to kiss a fair l.idy's check,
Clinging to lips in a frolicsome freak ;
Beautiful snow from the heavens above,
Pure as an angel, gentle as love.

0, the snow, the beautiful snow,

How the flikes gather and laugh as they go !

Whirling about in its middening fun,

It plays in glee with every one.

Chasing, ,

Laughing,

Hurling by,
It lights on the face and it sparkles the eye.
And even the dogs, with a bark and a bound,
Snap at the crystals that eddy around ;
The town is alive, and the heart is aglow,
To welcome the coming of beautiful snow !

How the wild crowd goes swaying along.
Hailing each other with humor and song !
How the gay sledges, like meteors, flash by,
Bright for a moment, then lost to the eye ;
Hinging,

Swinging,

Dashing they go.
Over the crust of tlie beautiful snow ;
Snow so pure when it falls from the sky,
To be trampled in mud by the crowd rushing by,
To be trampled and tracked by tlie thousands of feet,
Till it blends with the filth in the horrible t?treet.

Once I was pure as the snow — but I fell !
Fell, like the snow-flakes, from heaven to hell ;
Fell to be trampled as filth in the street,
Fell to be scoff'ed, to be spit on, and beat ;
Pleading,

Cursing,

Dreading to die,
Selling my soul to whoever would buy,
Dealing in shame for a morsel of bread. '

Merciful God ! Have I fdlen so low ? '

And yet I was once like the beautiful snow.

Mi-

330

Poetical Selections.

'l^MHlV ".''

'. '-iC:

lh«

Once I was fair as tlie baautiful snow,
With an eyo lilco a cry.stil, a heart like its glow;
Once I was loved for my innocent grace —
Fluttered and sought for the charms of my face.
Father,

Mother,

Sister and all,
God and myself lost by the fall.
The veriest wretch th;it goes shivering by.
Will t:ike a wide sweep lest I wander too nigh ;
For all that is on or about me, I know
There is nothing that's pure as the beautiful snow.

How str.inge it should be that this beautiful snow
Should fall on a sinner with nowhere to go ;
Ho.v strange it w.)uld hi wh,;n the night comes again,
If the snow and the ice struck my desperate brain.
Fainting,

Freezing,

Dying alone,
Too wicked for prayer, too weak for a moan ;
Too sad to be heard in the crazy town,
Gone mad in the joy of the snow coming down,
To lie and die in my terrible woe,
With a bed and a shroud of the beautiful snow.

THE VAGABONDS.

TUOWBHIDGB.

■P • .

We are two travellers, Roger and I.

lloger's my dog, — Come here, you scamp !
Jump for the gentlemen, — mind your eye 1

Over the table, — look out for the lamp ! —
The rogue is growing a little old ;

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

And ate and drank-

-and starved — together.

We've learned what comfort is, I tell you
A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin,

A fire to thaw our thumbs, (poor fellow !
The paw he holds up there's been frozen,)

Poetical Selection».

Plenty of cntuut for my fiddle,

(This out-door but^incsH Ls bad for strinfrs,)
Then u few nice buckwheats hot from the griddlo,

And Rog<.'r and 1 set up for kings I

No, thank ye, Sir, — I never drink;

Roger and I are exceedingly moral, —
Arn't we, Roger ? — See him wink ! —

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

What a pity, Sir, that dogs c m't talk !
He understands every word that's said, —

And he knows good milk from water-and-chalk.

The truth is. Sir, now I reflect,

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

831

(Here's to you. Sir !) even of my dog.
But he sticks by, through thi(?k and thin ;

And this old coat, with its empty pockets,
And rags that smell of tob icco and gin,

He'll follow while he has eyes in jjis sockets.

There isn't another creature living

Would do it, and prove, through every disaster,
So fond, so faithful, and so forgiving.

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

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

That chokes a fellow. But no m itter I

We'll have some music, if you're willing.

And Roger (hem ! what a pi igue a cough is, Sir !)
Shall march a little. — Start, you villain !

Stand straight ! 'Bout face ! Salute your officer 1
Put up that paw ! Dress ! Take your rifle I

(Some dogs have arms, you see ! ) Now hold your
Cap while the gentlemen give a trifle,

To aid a poor old patriot soldier 1

March ! Halt ! Now show how the rebel shakes,
When lie stands up to hear his sentence.

Now tell us how many drams it takes
To honor a jolly new acquaintance.

I I !• Ir

\\^

832 Poetical Selections.

Fivo yolpp, — that's five; he's niiirhty knowing I
Tlu! nijilit's bci'orc us, fill tlie ulaHHcs ! —

Quick, v^ir! I'm ill, — my b-ain is «i;oiii^ ! —
Some br.indy, — tlumk you, — there ! — it pusses I

Why not reform ? Tluit's easily said ;

But I've p;one tlirou<;h such wretched treatment,
1 Sometimes for^ettin<r tlie taste of bread.

And scarce rcmeniberinj:: wliat meat meant,
That my poor stomach's p.ist reform ;

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

To prop a horrible inward sinking.

Is there a way to forget to think ?

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

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

You needn't laugh, Sir ; they were not then
Such a burning libel on God's creatures:

I was one of your handsome men !

If you had seen IIER, so fair and young,

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

When the wine went round, you wouldn't have guessed
That ever I, Sir, should be str tying

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

To you to-night for a glass of grog I

• .

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

'Twas better for her that we should part, —
Better the soberest, prosiest life

Than a blasted home and a broken heart.
I have seen her ? Once : I was weak and spent

On the dusty road : a carriige stopped j
But little she dreamed, as on she went.

Who kissed the coin that her fingers dropped I

You've set me talking. Sir ; I'm sorry ;

It makes me wild to think of the change 1
What do you care for a beggar's story ?

Is it amusing ? you find it strange ?

Poetical Selcctionfi»

833

had n nintlicr so proud of nu; !
'TwiiH well slio d'u'd bct'orr — Do you know
If the li.ippy spirits in lio.ivon can soe
The ruin and wrctchednesa lioru below ?

Anotlior uiiss, nnd stronir, to dtj.iilcn

This p lin ; then llo-^cr and I will start.
I wonder, has ho sueii a lumpish, luadun,

Aching' thinir, in place; of a lu; irt ?
He is sad sonittin)i!s, and would W(!cp, if ho could,

No doubt, rt'nirndji'rinjj; thint^s thai were, —
A virtuous kennel, with plenty of food,

And himself a sober, respect ible cur.

I'm b<tt.>r now ; that j^liss was warming. —

You r ISC il ! limber your lazy fc^et I
Wo mu>t be tiddlinir and perlitrming

For suj.jier and bed, or stirve in the street. —
Not a very gay life to lead, you think ?

But S(»oji we shall go wheri; lodgings are free.
And the sleepers need neither victuals nor drink ;-

The sooner, the better fijr Rojrcr and mo I

THE CHRISTIAN PAUPER'S DEATH-BED.

CAROLINE SOUTHEY.

Tread softly, bow the head,
In rev'rent silence bow,

No passing bell doth toll,

Yet an immortal soul
Is passing now.

Stranger, however great,
With holy reverence bow;

There's one in that poor shed,

One by that paltry bed,
Greater than thou.

Beneath that beggar's roof,

Lo ! Death doth keep his state ;

Enter — no crowds attend ;

Enter — no guards defend
This palace gate.

fr... i

"■5 ,

,'i<

334

Poetical Selections.

Thut pavement, damp and cold,
No smiling courtiers tread

One silent woman stands,

L'iting with meagre bunds
A d)'ing head.

No mingling voices sound —

An infant wail alone;
A sob suppressed — again
That short, deep gasp, and then —

The parting groan.

Oh, change ! oh, wondrous change !

Burst are the prison barsj
This moment, there, so low,
So agonist-'d — and now

Bej'oud the stars I

Oh, change ! — stupendous change !

There lies the soulless clod ;
The sun eternal breaks —
The new immortal wakes —

Wakes with his God !

THE LADY'S DREAM.

THOMAS HOOD.

The lady lay in her bed,

Her couch so warm and soft.
But her sleep was restless and broken still ;

For, turning often and oft
From side to side, she mutter'd and moan'd,

And tossd her arms aloft.

At last she started up,

And gazed on the vacant air
With a look of awe, as if she saw

Some dreadful phantom there —
And then in the pillow she buried her face

From visions ill to bear.

Poetical Selections,

335

The very curtain shook,

Her torior was so extreme ; ^

And the light that fell on the broider'd quilt,

Kept a tremulous gleam ;
And her voice was hollow, and shook as she cried :—

" Oh me ! that awful dream I

" That weary, weary walk,

In the churchyard's dismal ground I
And those horrible things, with shady wings,

That came and flitted round, —
Death, death, and nothing but death.

In every sight and sound, —

" And oh ! those maidens younu:,

Who wrought in that dnary room, ^

With figures drooping and spectres thin,

And cheeks without a bloom ;
And the voice that cried, 'For the pomp of pride.

We haste to an early tomb !

" ' For the pomp and pleasure of Pride,

We toil like Afric's slaves,
And only to earn a home at last.

Where yonder cypress waves;'
And then tlu'y pointed— I never saw

A ground so full of graves !

" And still the coffins came,

With their sorrowful trains and slow;

Coffin after coffin still —
A sad and sickening show ;

From grief exempt, I never had dreamt
Of such a world of woe !

" Of the hearts that daily break,

Of the tears that hourly hill,
Of tiie many, many troubles of life.

That grieve this earthly ball —
Dise.ise and Hunger, and Pain, and Want —

And now I dreamt of them all !

" For the blind and tlie cripple were there,

And the babe that pined tor bread.
And the houseless man, and the widow poor

Who begged — to hury the dead ;
The Uciked, alas ! that I might have clad,

The tamish'd I might have fed

■w ;»i

. t

■ »

■|ii:

> • ■; .

336 Poetical Selectiona,

• " The sorrow I niip;ht liave sootli'd,

And the unreiiardod tears ;
For miny a thronii;ini^ shape was there,

From lonj; forgotten ye.irs,
Ay, even the poor rejected Moor, .

Who raised my childish f'-ars !

" E.ich pleading look, that long ago
I t^c inn'd with a heedless eye,

Kach face was gazing as plainly there,
As when 1 pass'd it by :

Woo, woe for me, if the p ist should be
Thus present when I die !

" No need of sulphurous lake,

N'^ need of fiery coal.
But only that crowd of human kind

Who wanted pity and dole —
In everlasting retrospect,

Will wring my sinful soul !

" Alas ! I have walk'd through life

Too heedless where I tro;l :
Nay, helping to trample my fellow-worm.

And till tlie burial sod —
Forgetting that even the spirrow falls

Not unmark'd of God !

"I drank the richest draughts ;

And ate whatever is good —
Fish, and flesh, and fowl, and fruit,

Supplied my hungry mood ;
But 1 never remembor'd the wretched ones

That starve for want of food !

" I dress'd as the noble dress.

In cloth of silver and gold,
"With silk, and satin, and costly furs.

In many an ample fold ;
But I never remember'd the naked limb

That froze with winter's cold —

" The wounds I might have heal'd I
The human sorrow and smart !

And yet it never was in my soul
To play so ill a part :

But evil is wrought by wmt of thought,
As well as want of heart I"

Poetical Seleetioni,

She clasp'd her fervent hands,
And the tears began to stream ;

Large, and bitter, and fast thej fell,
Remorse was so extreme :

And yet, oh yet, that many a dame
Would dream the Lady's Dream !

8ST

« BOEIUOBOOLA-GHA."

The title and subject of this poem have no doubt been suggested by a
character in Bleak House. Mrs. Jdlyby is a philanthropic lady, who is so
devoted to the welfare of the human family in the distance, ifaat she utterly
neglects her own family. She is engaged in a project to cultivate coffee
and the natives of Borrioboola-Gha, on the left bank of the river Niger.
Her house is dirty and disorderly; her children and her husband have no
claim on her attention, because she believes she has a " mission." Mrs.
Jellyby represents a large constituency, who can see nothing nearer than
Africa to excite their sympathies; and tlie following poem is a just rebuke
against Uieir sham philanthropy : —

A STRANGER preached last Sunday,

And crowds of people c;ime
To hear a two-hour sermon

With a barbarous sounding name*
'Twas all about some heathens

Thousands of miles afar,
Who lived in a land of darkness,

Called Borrioboola-Gha.

So well their wants he pictured,

That, when the plates were passed
Each listener felt his pockets,

And goodly sums were cast j
For all must lend a shoulder

To push a rolling car
That carries light and comfort

To "Borrioboola-Gha."

That night thdir wants and sorrovts

Lay heavy on my soul,
And deep in meditation

I took my morning stroll,
W

888

Poetical SeUctionv^

* n

K •/

Till something caught my mantle
With eager grasp and wild,

And, looking down with wonder,
I saw a little child —

A pale and puny creature, ,•

In rags and dirt forlorn.
"What could she want ? I questioned^

Impatient to be gone.
With trembling vofce she answered^

" We live just down the street,
And mother she's a dyin'^

And we've nothin' left to eat."

iDown in a wretched basement, <

With mould upon the walls,
Through whose half-buried windows

God's sunshine never falls —
Where cold, and want, and hunger

Crouched near her as she lay,
I found a fellow-creature

Gasping her life away.

A chair, a broken table,

A bed of dirty straw,
A hearth all dark and cheerless —

But these I scarcely saw
For the mournful sight before me^— '

The sad and sickening show.
Oh, never had I pictured

A scene so full of woe.

1 1 M

The famished and the naked.

The babes that pined for bread,.
The squalid group that huddled

Around the dying bed — „

All this distress and sorrow

Should be in lands afar :
Was I suddenly transplanted

To "Borrioboola-Gha?"

r-r

.1»

Ah I no ; the poor and wretched
Were close behind the door,

And I had passed them heedless-
A thousand times before.

Poetical Selections.

Alas 1 for the cold and hungry

That met me every day,
While all my tears were given

To the suflFering fur away.

There's work enough for Christians

In distant lands, we know ;
Our Lord commands his servants

Through all the world to go.
Not only for the heathen!

IVi'is was the charge to them :
** Go preach the Word, beginning

First at Jerusalem."

Oh, Christian, God has promised "

Whoe'er to thee has given
A cup of pure cold water.

Shall find reward in heaven.
Would you secure the blessing,

You need not seek it far ;
Go fiud in yonder hovel

A " Borrioboola Gha."

839

ABOU BEN ADEEM AND THE ANGEL.

LEIGH HUNT.

1 John iii. 14. " We know that we have passed from death unto life,
because we love the brethren. He that loveth not his brother abideth
in death." '

Aboxt Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel, writing in a book of gold : —
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold.
And to the presence in the room he said,
" What writest thou ?" — The vision raised its head.
And, with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answered, " The names of those who love the Lord."
" And is mine one ?" said Abou. •' Nay, not so,"
Replied the angol. Abou spoke more low,
But checrly still ; and said, " I pray thee, then,
Write mc as one that loves his fellow-men,"

840 Poetical SeUetiom,

The angel ■wrote, and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had blessed,
And lo ! Ben Adhcm's name led all the rest.

THE PRIMROSE *

CHARLES MACKAT.

The common field primrose, that grows in sncli heantiful luxuriance in
■the meadows and grcc^ 'sr' s in the JJritish Isles, is unknown in America and
Australia, or on'; v-uiiivaitd in conservatories or hot-houses. A few years
ago it was rc" jited in a Melbourne newspajjcr that an English primrose
had been ir .ported in a Wardian case, and would be brought ou shorp.
from a shi^j in the harbor, to be exhibited in Ae city. The announcement
excited r great sensation. Upwards of three thousand people turned out
into tb , streets to see the flower brought ashore, and the i)re3sure of the
oio'^Ta was so great, that it was fo l iicccsfiary to call out the police to
^leserve order, and to make a line wirougii which the primrose might be
escorted on shore, to be seen of all ber admirers.

* She comes ! — make way, ye people !

Stand reverently aside ;
She comes ! — the gentle traveller,

In purity and pride ;
Shower welcomes fair upon her,
To show befitting honor ;
And give her love and homage

From hearts and kindling eyes ;
And believe her, and receive her

With a thousand sympathies.

She has cross'd the stormy ocean,

A pilgrim to our shore ;
As fresh as T^outh and Beauty,

And dear as days of yore.
Stand back I for she is tender.
And delicate and slender ;
And a rude — too boisterous greeting,

Well meant although it be,
Might endanger our sweet stranger,

From the land beyond the Fea.

Contributed by the author's son, Charles B, Mackay, Esq. of Toronto.

Poetical Selections.

341

jsed,

iriance in
nerica and
. few years
1 primrose
t ou sborft
ouncement
turned out
isure of the
|\e police to
je might be

W» ±1

Oh 1 the love that she awakens,

And the smiles twin-born with tear?,
That her pleasant face up-summons

From the depths of other years !
When we were blythe and youthful,
And fresh of heart and truthful,
And roani'd by rimpling rivers,

And woodland pastures wild.
To meet her and to greet her

Iq the valleys where she smiled-

How often in life's morning,

When none but she was nigh,
And the blythe free lark above us,

Sprinkling musie from the sky,
Beside the stile we've waited,
Until evening hours belated,
To breathe the youthful passion

That was bold as well as coy,
To some maiden, love-beladen,

Full of innocence and joy*

How often in life's noontime,

When our boys and girls were young
We have taken them to meadows ,

Where the early blossoms sprung.
In that well-beloved far-land ;
And wove them many a garland
Of buttercups and daisies,

And primrose blushing fair,
And entwined them and enshrined them

'Mid the clusters of their hair.

Stand back, ye joyous pev>plc 1 —

Ye shall see her, every one ;
Ye shall see her, but not touch her —

Where we place her in the sun !
She shall smile on you serenely.
And fairy-like and queenly;
And pour upon your spirits,

Like the dew from heaven's own dome,
The feelings and revealings.

And memories of home J

lof Toronto-

342

Poetical Selections.

,II'T

{)-(

PUNCH AND JUDY.

A true incident in Melbourne life about fourteen ycurs ago.'
From llie PeojpU^t Magazine,

C. D. COLERIDGR.

life, il*j

From the north, across the ocean,

Once a strolHn*]f pi yer came ;
For in over-busy Enjil;ind

There was neither food nor fame.

He had shown his " Punch and Judy'*

At a score of village fairs ;.
Few were now the public's pennies^

Many were the showman's cares.

Then he heard of foreign countries,

Of a land where all was new,
Where the pence were found in plenty.

And the shows and showmen few.

So he took a weary voyage —

To- this land of hope he sped, !
And in reckless, huf<y Melbourne,.

Hoped to find his daily bread.

Ah \ the showman's heart was beatinjir

As the careless crowd passed by ;,
Underneath a comic seeming

What a world of care may lie I

Now the puppets all are ready,

And the poor old show begins,,
Telling in the new built city,

All tJie list of " Punch's " sins.

And the crowd comes to a standstill,
One by one their eyes are caught, —

" What ! a ' Punch V Old ' Punch' in Melbourne !
Oh L how near old times are brought! "

Closer comes a bearded bushman.

Rough — a colonist for years —
O^er the hard blue southern heaven

Spreads a dimness like to tears,

Poetical Selections*

£48

Lurne!

i;.'

Once again a little schoolboy,

In the foggy London streets,
He is idling at the corner,

Just to look at " Punch's " feats.

He can almost feel the satchel
That his mother buckled on ;

She is growing old in England,
Praying for her absent son.

By his side a wealthy trader, '

Clever, canny in his ways,
Deigns a laugh at the old story,

Known in fairer, younger days;

When to him and to his sisters,

In a little country town,
Where the shows were very scanty,

" Punch" one day had travelled down.

Gentle Amy cried for pity,
Merry Alice laughed for glee,

Now between them and their brother
Boll all those long miles of sea.

Now a girl comes quickly past them,
Hides her eyes, and slips away ;

And a boy, sometimes forgetful,
Writes his letter home to-day,

One and all are pressing nearer,

Cold, hard eyes, with tears are wet;

^' 'Tis so far away from England —
Long years pass — and we forget,

^' Pay him all we have to give him,
Easily are nuggets won I

Pay him well — he comes from England-
Fill the hat — quick — pass it on."

So the showman made his fortune, .

While his liearers went their way,
Finding once, amid their hurry,

Time to feel and time to pray^

' !•

1'',

'111!'

844

Poetical SeUctwnt,

: ■

if.i"'"

.,ir

JOHN BROWN.

CHARLKS MAOKAT.

I've a guinea I can spend,
I've a wife and I've a friend,
And a troop of little children at my Icnco,

John Brown,

I've a cottage of my own ' '
With the ivy overgrown,
And a garden with a view of the sea,

John Brown.

I can sit at my door, . ' •
And view my sycamore^ . ,

Large of heart though of very small estate, ".

John Brown.

So come and drain a glass,
In the arbor as you pass,.
And I'll tell you what I love and what I hate,

John Brown,

I love the song of hirds^
And the children's early words,
And a loving woman's voice, low and sweet,

John Brown,

And I hate a false pretence^ ' ' • .

And the want of common sense.
And arrogance, and fawning, and deceit,

John Brown.

I love the meadow flowers,
And the briar in the bowers,
And I love an open face without guile,

John Browtt.

And I hate a selfish knave^ j '- •

And a proud contented slave,
And a lout who'd rather borrow than he'd toil,

John Brown.

I love a simple song-,
That makes emotion strong,
And the word of hope that raises him who faints^,

John Brown.

Poetical SeUotiont,

And I hate the constant whine,
Of the foolibb who repine,
And turn tlieir good to evil by complaints,

John Brown.

But even when I hate,
If I Kcek my pardon jrate,
And survey the world around and above,

John BrowU;

The hatred flics my mind,
And I 8i<j,h for human kind.
And excuse the faults of those I cannot love,

John Brown.

So if you like my ways.
And the comfort of my days,
I can tell you how I live so un vexed,

John Brown.

I never scorn my health,
Nor sell my soul for wealth.
Nor destroy one day the pleasures of the next,

John Brown.

I've parted with my pride,
And I take the sunny side,
For I've found it worse than folly to bo sad,

John Brown.

I keep my conscience clear,
I've a hundred pounds a year,
And I manage to exist and be glad,

John Brown.

845

¥■

LADY CLAHE.

TENNYSON.

It was the time when lilies blow.
And clouds are highest up in air, ■

Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe
To give to his cousin. Lady Clare.

I trow they did not part in scorn :
Lovers long-betrothed were they ;

They two will wed the morrow morn ;
God's blessing on the day I

846 Poetical Seleetions,

" Ho does not love mo for my birth,
Nor for my lands so broad and fair ;

He loves me for my own true worth,
And tliat is well," said Lady Clare.

In there came old Alice, the nurse,

Said : " Who was this that went from thcc ?"

" It was my cousin," saiij L:idy Clare,

" To-morrow he weds with me." ,,

t ■ ',

■-:!

!■ Vi

" Oh 1 God be thanked !" said Alice, the nurse,
*' That, all comes round so just and fair :

Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands.
And you are nut the Lady Clare."

"Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, my nurse?"
Said Lady Clare, " that ye speak so wild?"

" As God's above," said Alice, the nurse,
" I speak the truth : you are my child.

" The old Earl's daughter died at my breast —
I speak the truth, as I live by bread I

I buried her like my own sweet child,
And put my child in her stead."

»' ,.ir-- m

Falsely, falsely have you done.
Oh I mother," she said, •' if this be true,
To keep the best man under the sun
So many years from his due."

" Nay, now my child," said Alice the nurse,
." But keep the secret for your life,

And all you have will be Lord Ronald's,
When you are man and wife."

" If I'm a beggar born," she said,
" I will speak out, for I dare not lie j

Pull ofF, pull oflF, the brooch of gold,
And fling the diamond necklace by."

" Nay, now, my child," said Alice, the nurse,
" But keep the secret all ye can."

She said, " Not so, but I will know
If there be any faith in man."

Poetical Selections,

" Nny, now, wluit faith?" snid Alice, the nurse,
*' The man will cleave unto his ri<i;;ht."

" An<l he hIwiII have it," the lady replied,
'< Though I should die to-night."

" Yet pivo one ki.«8 to your mother dear I
AliKs ! my child, 1 sinned lor thee."

" Oh ! nidther, mother, mother," she said,
" So strange it seems to me."

" Yet here's a kiss for my mother dear,

My mother dear, if thin be so,
And lay your hand upon my head,

And bless me, mother, ere I go.'*

847

She clad herself in a russet gown,

She was no longer Lady Clare :
She went by dale, and she went by down.

With a single rose in her hair.

The lily-white doc Lord Ronald had brought

Leapt up from where she lay,
Dropt her head in the maiden's hand,

And followed her all the way.

Down stept Lord Ronald from his tower :
" Oh ! Lady Clare, you shame your worth !

Why come you drest like a village maid,
That are the flower of the earth ? "

" If I come drest like a village maid,

I am but as my fortimes are :
I am a beggar born," she said,

** And not the Lady Clare."

" Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald,
" For I am yours in word and deed,

Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald,
" Your riddle is hard to read."

Oh ! and proudly stood she up I
Her heart within her did not fail f

She looked into Lord Ronald's eyes,
And told him all her nurse's tale

, ,rt

848 Poetical Selections.

He laughed a laugh of merrv «<corn ;

He turned and kissed her A>Li3re she stood
" If you are not the heiress bokn,

And I," said he, "the next in blood —

" If you are not the heiress born,
And I," said he, " the lawful heir,

We two will wed to-morrow morn,
And you shall still be Lady Clare."

LOCHINVAR.

SIR WAITBB SCOTT.

Oil, young Lochinvar is come out of the west !
Through ;ill the wide Border his steed was the best;
And save his good broadswT d he weapo!i had none,
He rode all unarm'd, and he rode all alone !
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar !

He stayed not for brake, and he stopp'd 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 enter'd the Netherby Hall,
'Mong bride's-men, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all !
Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword —
For the poor era r^en bridegroom said never a word —
" come ye in peace here, or come ye in war ? —
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar? "

" I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied :
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide !
And now I am come, with this lost love of mine
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine !
There bo maidens in Scotland, more lovely by far.
Who would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar!'

Poetical Selections, 849

The bride kiss'd the goblet ; the knight took it up,
He qnaff'd oflF the wine, and he threw down the cup !
She look'd down to blush, and she look'd up to sigli —
With a smile on her lips 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 I

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 match'd our fair cousin with young Lochinvar."

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear.

When they reach'd tlio hall door, and the charger stood near.

So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung.

So ligiit to the saddle before her he .sprung !

" She is won ! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur;

They'll have fleet steeds that follow!" quoth young Lochinvar.

There was mounting 'mong Grajmes of the Nethorby clan ;

Fosters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran j

There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lea,

But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see !

So daring in love, and so dauntless in war.

Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar

THE SECRETARY.

MISS BRADDON.

"I WAS his lordship's secretary then,

Groping in dusty blue books half the day,

Scratching, with tired hand ayd rapi t pen.

Letters, — hard things in courtly phrase to say j

Refusing this or that with lordly grace,

Or granting now a pension or a place :

" Searching for classic reference half the night,
Scribbling statistics till my sight was dim,

And rising often earlier than the light.

To work and wait, and drudge, and think for him :

My days were hardships and my nights were pain.

To soothe my soul I dreamed. Wild dream and vain I

•^1

250

Poetical Selections.

t?,:; ./ ;.

1 1 .' >

" Wild dream ! Oh, wilder looking back than then I
And then, oh, wilder than I dared to think !

I knew my station 'mongst my fellow-men,
And yet, so near the fount, I could but drink :

So, knowing it was poison all the wliile,

I drained the poison of my lady's smile,^

" His daughter. Lady Lucy. I would not

Paint the dark face, — so dark, and darkly bright;

So pale, yet with a rosy glow that shot

Through the pale cheek and flushed it into light !

The deep grey eyes — long-while I thouglit them black :

I loved her — I — I, my Lord's hired hack ! —

" His drudge ! — the dull machine ! — the man he paid
To dig out from the ruins of old dreams.

Gems of high thought, which might, re-set, be made
To light his last dull speech with borrrowed beams, —

I, whose task was it to correct a proof,

Revise an essay, work, and keep aloof ! —

" Yes, keep aloof, — outside the high, bright spljere.
Which was not, and which never could be, mine;

A distant world, however seeming near;

Wide gulfs betwixt the portal and the shrine:

Yet, Lady Lucy, well you might have known,

You had no other soul so near your own !

" \\ ho thought with you as I did ? Who of all.

Perfumed Lifeguardsnian, Marquis, Lord, or Duke, —

Which of the spaniels coming at your call.
To whom your soul was as an open book ?

Whose words came trembling over yours, and who

Drew back to let his thoughts be told by you ?

" Who laughed at what you laughed at, — who could tell

In every page of the last book you read
The very phrases which would please you well.

Where you would smile, where toss your scornful head ?
We have but half-souls, lady, and my soul
Must have joined yours to make a perfect whole 1

** Perhaps you knew this — perhaps never knew,
But there has been a trembling in your voice.

That every vein of mine went shivering through.
While all my mounting blood cried out, 'llejoice!'

Till its swift torrent, iiot in throat and cheek,

Stifled the words I vuiuly tried to speak.

J
1
1
I

Poetical Selections.

" Whether she led me on, or whether I
Had but my own mad self alone to blame,

I cannot tell ; but love grew agony,

The world's cold barriers fell before the flame,

And words I would have died to keep unspoken,

Told her the heart that she had won — and broken l"

851

THE CANE-BOTTOM'D CHAIR.

W. M. THACKERAY.

In tattered old slippers that toast at the bars,
And a ragged old jacket perfumed with cigars,
Away from the world and its toils and its cares,
I've a snug little kingdom up four pair of stiiirs.

To mount to this realm is a toil, to be sure,

But the fire there is bright, and the air rather pure ;

And the view I behold on a sunshiny day

Is grand through the chimney-pots over the way.

This snug little chamber is cramm'd in all nooks

With worthless old knicknacks and silly old books,

And foolish old odds and foolish old ends,

Crack'd bargains from brokers, cheap keepsakes from friends.

Old armour, prints, pictures, pipes, china (all crack'd),

Old rickety tables and chairs broken-back' d ;

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 j
By Tiber once twinkled that brazen old lamp;
A Mameluke fierce yonder dagger has drawn :
'Tis a murderous knife to toast muffins upon.

SI,

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I*

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t !

852

Poetical Selections*

Long, long through the hours, and the night, and the chimes,
Here we talk of uld books, and old friends, and old times j
As we sit in a fog made of rich Latakie, - ;

This chamber is pleasant to you, friend, and me.

But of all the cheap treasures that garnish my nest,
There's one that I love and I cherish the best :
For the finest of couches that's padded with hair
I never would change thee, my oane-bottom'd chair.

*Tis a bandy-legg'd, high-shoulder'd, worm-eaten seat,
With a creaking old back, and twisted old feet ;
But since the fair morning wlien Fanny sat there,
I ^'*?ss thee and love thee, old cane-bottom'd chair.

If chairs have but feeling, in holding such charms,

A thrill must have piuss'd through your witlier'd old arms I

I look'd, and I long'd, and I wish'd in despair —

I wish'd myself turu'd to a cane-bottom'd chair.

It was but a moment she sat in this place.

She'd a scarf on her neck, and a smile on her face !

A smile on her face, and a rose in her hair,

And she sat there, and bloom' d in my cane-bottom'd chair.

And so I have valued my chair ever since,

Like the shrine of a saint, or the throne of a princ

Saint Fanny, my patroness sweet I declare.

The queen of my heart and my cane-bottom'.d chair.

When the candles burn low, and the company's gone,
In the silence of night, as I sit here alone —
I sit here alone, but we yet are a pair —
My Fanny I see in my cane-b'~*tom'd chair.

She comes from the past and revisits my room ;
She looks as she then did, all beauty and bloom j
So smiling and tender, so fresh and so fair,
And yonder she sits in my cane-bottom'd chair.

Poetical Selecthni.

TWO LOVES AND A LIFE.

858

WILLIAM SAWYER.

I' il M.r^l

Founded on the drama of that name by Messrs. Tom Taylor and Charles

Reade. — From London Society.

To the sc.iffold's foot she caino :
Leaped her black eyes into flame,
Rose and fell her punting bre .st, —
There a pardon closely press'd.

She had heard her lover's doom,
Traitor death and shameful tomb —
Heard the price upon his head ;
" I will save him," she had said. *

" Blue-eyed Annie loves him too.
She will weep, but lluth will do ;
Who should save him, sore distress' ,
Who but she who loves him best ?'

((

To the scaffold now she cjme,
On her lips there rose his n me,
Hose, and yet in silence died, —
Annie nestled by his side.

Ov'cr Annie's face he b^nt,
Round her waist his fiui^ers went;
" Wife " he called her— c ilbd her
Simple word to cost a life !

In Ruth's breast the pardon 1 ly ;
But she coldly turned aw.iy :• —
" He has sealed his traitor fate,
I can love, and I can hate."

" Annie is his wife," they siid,
*' Be it wife, then, to the dead ;
Since the dying she will m te :
I can love, and I can hate 1"

" What their sin ? They do but love ;
Let this thought thy bosom m )ve."
Came the jealous answer strii^jht, — . -
" I can love, and I can hatj!"

wiie !

854

Poetical Selections,

;li \^s'"

nm:

III

•*':

" Mercy!" still they cried. But she:
" Who has mercy upon me? * / ,
"Who ? My life is desolate —
I CUD love, and I can hute !"

From the scaflFold stairs she went,
Shouts the noonday silence rent,
All the air was quick with cries, —
"See the traitor I see, he dies !"

Back she looked, with stifled scream,
Saw the axe upswinging gleam :
All her woman's anger dit d, —
" From the king !" she faintly cried —

" From the king. His name — hehold l"
Quick the parchment she unroll'd :
Paused the ax in upward swing, —
" He is pardoned l" " Live the king I "

Glad the cry, and loud and long :
All about the scaffold throng,
There entwining, fold in fold.
Raven tresses, locks of gold.

There against Ruth's tortured breast
Annie's tearful face is press'd,
While the white lips murmuring move—
" I can hate — but I can love l"

HORATIUS.

MACADLAY

This fine poem Is founded npon the old Roman legend thatSeitus Tarquin,
having very cruellj' injured Lucretia, a Roman lady, vas driven from his
throne and fled to Lhts Poisena, Ki ig of Clusiiim. Laid Porsena gathered
ft great army and marched against Rome to punish the enemies of the wicked
SestuB and reinstHte him on liis throne. His progress was marked by " blaz-
ing villages red in the midnight sky,'' and Rome must fall before his power
BnlesB the bridge that crossed the Tiber and led into the citj could be des-
troyed. Then three brave R' mans— Horatius, Spuriiis Lartius, and Her-
minias — offered to cross tlie bridge and def nd its entrance against the
ninety thousand foes, until the citizens could cut it down on the Roman side.
Their beroic defence forms the subject of the reading.

Forthwith up rose the Consul,

Up rose the fathers all ;
In haste they girded up their gowns,

And hied them to the wall.

j3 Tarquin,
;n from his
,a gathered
the wicked
dby "blaz-
s hi3 power
)uld be des-
3, and Her.
against the
Roman side.

Poetical Selections, •

They held a council standiDg

Before the river gate,
Short time was there ye well may guess,

For musing or debate.
Out spake the Consul roundly

" The bridge must straight go down^
For since Juniculum is h>st,

Nought else can save the town."

-And the Consul's brow was sad, • '

And the Consul's speech was low,
And darkly looked he at the wall,

And darkly at the foe. » i

** Their van will be upon us

Before the bridge goes down ;
And if they once may win the bridge,

What hope to save the town ?'*

(••I

Then out spake brave Horatius,

The Captain of the gate :
" To every man upon this earth

Death cometh soon or lute. " i

And how can man die better

Than facing fearful odds,
For the ashes of his fathers

And the temples of his Gods.

" And for the tender mother

Who dandled him to rest, ;

And for the wife who nurses

His baby at her breast,
And for the holy maidens

Who feed the eternal flame.
To save them from false Sextus

That wrought the deed of shame?

" Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul,

With all the speed ye may j
I, with two more to help me.

Will hold the foe in play.
in yon strait path a thousand

M ay well be stopped by three.
Now who will stand on either hand,

And keep the bridge with me?"

^^'^

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356

Poetical tSeUetionf.

' :^:■'. •}

Then out sp.ike Spurius Lartius ;

A Kamniuu proud i^a^ he:
*' Lo ! 1 will stand at tiiy right hand,

And keep the bridi:e with thee."
And out fcipaku utroiig Uerujiuius;

Ot Titian blood was he : r ,

** I will abide on t\\^ left side, :

And keep the bridge with thee."

" Horatius," quoth the Consul, -, ..

" As thou sayest, so let it be."
And 8tri.iglit against tliat great array

L orth went the dauntless Three.
For lionians in lit luc s quarrel

ISpared neither land nor gold,
Nor sou nor wife, itor liuib nor life,

In the brave days of old.

I'O

I.' i

■i'i 7.

f ,

Then none was for a psirty ;

Then all were for the state;
Thtn tlie great man lielptd the poor,

And the poor man htved the great ;
Then lauds were fairly portioned ;

Then spoils were luirly sold;
The Romans were like brothers ' .

In the brave days of old. ; >

Sow Roman is to Roman • '■■■•■■

More hateful than u toe, ' "
And the Tribunes beard the high,

And the Fathers grind the low.
As we wa^ hot in 1 action,

In battle we wax cold ;
Wherefore meu tight nut as they fought

In the brave days of old.

Now while the Three were tightening

'i'heir harness on their bccks.
The Consul was the foremost man

To take in hand an axe ;
And Fathers mixed witii Commons

Seized hatchet bar and crow,
And smote upon the planks above,

And loosed the props below.

, '

ffi.'A

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•A'

Poetical Selections,

Meanwhile the Tuscan army", "•"'''

llijiht glorious to behold.
Came flashing back the noonday light,
Bank behind rank, like surges bright

Of a broad sea of gold.
Four hundred trumpets sounded

A peal of warlike glee,
As that great hosst with measured tread,
And spears advanced, and ensii^ns spread,
Rolled slowly towards the bridge's head,

Where stood the dauntless Three.

The Three stood calm and silent

And looked upon the foes,
And a groiit shout of laughter

From all the vanguard rose ; ' i',

And forth three chiefs came spurring

Before that mighty mass ;
To earth they sprang, their swords tliey drew.
And lifted high their shields, and flew

To win the narrow pass ;

Aunus from green Tifernum,

Lord of the Hill of Vines ;
And Seius, whose eight hundred slaves

Sicken in Ilva's mines ; , j

And Picus, long to Clusium

Vassal in peace and war, ■ " '

Who led to tight his Umbrian powers
From that grey crag where, girt with towers,
The fortress of Noquinum lowers

O er the pale waves of Nar.

Stout Lartius hurled down Aunus

Into the stream bt»neath ;
Herminius struck at Seius,

And clove him to the teeth ; , ii
At Picus brave Horatius

Darted one fiery thru-st ;
And the proud Umbrian's gilded arms

Clashed in the bloody dust.

Then Ocnus of Fal*»rii '■ '

Rushed on the Romm Three; •

And Lausulus of Urgo, •'

The rover of the sea; ^^'^ '^ «' '

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867

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858

Poetical Selections,

I'li-t'.*

iv * '

And Aruns of VolKinium, . , •

Who slew the great wild boar
The great wild boar that had his den
Amidst the reeds of Cosu's fun,
And wasted fields, and slaughtered men
Along Albiuia's shore.

On Astur's throat Horatius

Right firmly pressed his heel,
And thrice and four times tugged amain

Ere he wrenched out the steel.
^* And see," he cried, " the welcome

Fair guests, that waits you here
What noble Lucumo comes next

To taste our Roman cheer ?"

But all Etruria's noblest

Felt their hearts sink to see
On the earth the bloody corpses,

In the path the dauntless Three ;
And, from the ghastly entrance

Where those bold Romans stood,
All shrank, like boys who unaware,
Ranging the woods to start u hare,
Come to the mouth of the dark lair
Where, growling low, a fierce old bear

Lies amidst bones and blood.

Was none who would be foremost

To lead such dire attack ;
But those behind cried '' Forward I"

And those before cried '* Back 1"

And backward now and forward

Wavers the deep array ;
And on the tossing sea of steel,
To and fro the standards reel ;
And the victorious trumpet-peal

Dies fitfully away.

Tet one man for one moment

Strode out before the crowd ;
Well known' was he to all the Three,

And they gave him greeting loud ;
" Now welcome, welcome, Sextus !

Now welcome to thy home I
Why dost thou stay, and turn away ?

Here lies the roud to Rome."

r. .

iii

. 'Ji

Poetical Selections*

Thrice looked he at the city ; i

Thrice looked he at the dead ;
And thrice came on in fury,

And thrice turned back in dread ;
And, white with fenr und hatred,

Scowled at the narrow way
Where, wallowing in a pool of blood,

The bravest Tuscans lay.

But meanwhile axe and lever

Have manfully been plied ;
And now tiie bridge hangs tottering

Above the boilina; tide.
" Come back, come back, Horatius!"

Loud cried the Fathers all,
''Back, Lartius! back, Herminius!

Back, ere the ruin fall !'

Back darted Spurius Lartius;

Herminius darted back ;
And, as they passed, beneath their feet

They felt the timbers crack.
But when they turned their faces,

And on the f irther shore
Saw brave Horatius stand alone.

They would have crossed once more.

But with a crash like thunder

Fell every loosened boam,
And, like a dam. the mijj^hty wreck

Lay right athwart the stream ;
And a long shout of triumph

Rose from the walls of Rome,
As to the highest turret-toj)s

Was splashed the yellow foam.

And, like a horse unbroken

When first he feels the roin,
The furious river str jgyled hard,

And tossed his t iwny mane ;
And burst the curb, and bounded,

Rejoicing to be free ;
And whirling down in fierce c ireer.
Battlement, and plank, and pier,

Rushed headlong to the sea.

35»

I'i

> i> 1 1.

■f'-r

in V

""Si- ■

^.:

860 Poettfttl Selections.

Alone stood bravo Horatlua, ' • ' •

But conntint xtill in mind; .•' '
Thrice thirty thouHtind f'ocH before,

And the broal flood behind.
" Down with him !" cried lal.sc Si'Xtus,

With M smile on his p.'ile face.
"Now yield thee," cried Jiars Porsena,

" Now yield thee to our f^raue."

Bound turned he, as not dei«;;ning .

Those craven ranks to see ;
Nou<;lit spake he td Lars Porsena,

To Pextus nought spake he \
But he saw on Palatinus

The white porch of his home ;
And he spake to the noble riv<'r

That rolls by the towers of Rome.

"Oh, Tiber! father Tiber! , j.

To whom the Romans pray,
A Roman's life, a lioman's arms,

Take thou in charjic this day !"
So he sp ike, and speak infij sheathed

The good sword by his si«le,
And, with his harness on his back,

Plunged headlong in the tide.

No sound of joy or sorrow

Was heard from either bank ;
But friends and foes in dumb surprise,
With pirted lips and straining eyes,

Stood gazing where he sank ;
And when above the surges . * .

They saw his crest appear,
All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry,
And even the ranks of Tuscany

Could scarce forbear to cheer.

But fiercely ran the current, ' '■

Swollen high by months of rain ;

And fast his blood was flowing;

And he was sore in pain, ;•'

And heavy with his armour, '
And spent with changing blows ;

And oft they thought him sinkiuL',

■v'jI •

I.I.

", i\

But still again he rose.

.:-:.a

Poetiiud Selections, ^

Never, I wcon, did swimmer, "< -••

III such II n evil c isc,
Strui.'{j;le thrc>u<rli such a rapiu}^ flood

Safe to t'lc landing phiee ;
But his limbs were borne up bravely

By the bnive heiirt within, '

And our j^ood father Tiber

Bare bravely up his chin.

> i

'* Curse on him I" quoth false Sextus;

" Will not the villain drown ?
But for this stay, ere close of day

We should have s;icked the town !"
'* Heaven help him !" (juoth Lars Porseua,

"And bring him sale to shore ;
For such a gallant feat of arms

Was never seen before."

861

And now he frels the bottom ;

Now on dry earth he stands ;
Now round him throng the Fathers

To press his gory hands;
And now with shouts and clapping.

And noise of weeping loud,
He enters through the River-Gate,

Borne by the joyous crowd.

Thoy gave him of the corn-land,

That was of public right.
As much as two strong oxen

Could plouiih from morn till night;
And they made a molten image, ,

And set it up on high,
And there it stands unto this day

To witness if I lie.

I ,

It stands in the Comitium,

Plain for all folk to see ; .
Horatius in his harness,

Hulting upon one knee. '
And underne ith is written,

In letters all of gold,
How Valiantly he kept the bridge

In the brave days of old.

_MrA

ii!5ti^

life

•^•:

It- ?■■' .• :\ '

•t. •*•••»'

362

Poetical Selections.

And still his namj sounds stirring

Unto the men of Rome,
As the trunipst-bl isf th it cries to them

To chirge the Volscian home ;
And wives still pray to Juno

For boys with hearts as bold
As his who kept the bridjre so well
In the brave days of old.

And in the niijjhts of winter,

When the cold north winds blow
And the lonji; howling of the wolves

Is heard amid.>-t the snow ;
When round the lonely cottage

Koars loud the tempest's din,
And the jiood logs of Algidus

Koar louder yet within ;

When the oldest cask is opened

And the largest lamp is lit,
When the chestnuts glow in the embers,

And the kid turns on the spit ;
When young and old in circle

Around the firebrands close ;
When the girls are weaving baskets,

And the lads are shaping bows ;

When the goodman mends his armour,

And trims his helmet's plume ;
When Ihe goodwife's shuttle merrily

Goes flashing through the loom ;
With weiiping and with laughter

Still is the story told
How well Hoj-atius kept the bridge

In the i)rave days of old.

THE WAR OF THE LEAGUE.

MACAULAT.

Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are !
And glory to our sovereign liege, King Henry of Navarre I
Now let there be the, merry sound of music and of dance,
Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vines, oh, pleasant land
of France 1

Poetical iHelections.

3G3

And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters,
A<rain let rapture lijiht the eyes of all thy mourning daughters.
As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy,
For cold sind stiflF, and still are they who wrouuht thy walls annoy.
Hurrah ! hurrah ! a sinji,le field hath turned the chance ol war,
Hurrah I hurrah ! for Ivry, and King Henry of Navarre.

Oh I how our hearts were beating, when at the dawn of day
"VVe saw the army of the Le.igue drawn out in long array:
With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers.
And Appenzel's gtout infantry, and Ej>,niont's Flemish spears.
There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our land !
And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand !
And as we look'd on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled flood,
And good Coligny's hoary hair all d..bbled with his blood ;
And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of war.
To fight for His own h(»ly name, and Henry of Navarre.

The King is come to marshal us, in all his armour drest,

And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest.

He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye ;

He looked upon the traitors, and his glance waH stern and high.

Right graciously he smiled on us, as roll'd from wing to wing,

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

King!"
" And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may,
For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray.
Press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks of war,
And be your oriflamme to day the helmet of Navarre."

Hurrah ! the foes are moving. Hark to the mingled din
Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin I
The fiery Duke is pricking fast across St. Andre's f»iiin.
With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Ahnayne.
"Now by the lips of tho-e ye love, lair gi-ntlemen of France,
Cliargefor the Golden Lilies now — upon them witli th(? lance!"
A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest,
A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white

crest ;
And if! they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a guiding star,
AuiidsL the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre.

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

rein.
D'Aumale hath cried for quarter. The Flemish Count is slain.
Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay gale ;
The field is heap'd with bleeding steeds, and fiagS; and ciaven mail ;

J.
»■

1r ■:

h4f- ..;■ '•

■ i ''

is •'*■

364

Poetical Selections.

And then, we thou<:ht on vcngonnce, and, all alonpj our van, '' ^
*' llemomber St Bartholomew !" was passed i'roui mm to man;
But out sjake gentle Henry, " So Frenchman is my foe :
Down, down with every lorcij^ner, but let your brotiiron <^o."
Oh ! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war.
As our sovereign lord King Henry, the soldier of Navarre !

Ho ! maidens of Vienna ! Ho ! matrons of Lucerne !

Weep, weep, and rend your h.ir for those who never shall return.

Ho! Philip, send, for charity, tiiy Mexican pistoles,

That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen's

souls !
Ho ! g;illant nobles of the League, look thtt your arms be bri;;ht !
Ho ! burghers of Saint Genevieve, keep watch and w.ird to-ni^ht!
For our God hath crush'd tiie tyrant, our God hath raised the

slave,
And mock'd the counsel of the wise, and the valour of the brave.
Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are !
And glory to our sovereign lord, King Henry of Navarre !

■•, "M-

MARSTON MOOR.

I :

WINTHROP MACKWORTH PR \ED.

Mr. Praed wa-3 a co itributor of poetry 'o varioiia periodicals. His pro-
duct o s. 8eri()iM and comic, '^ ••e been ci)lli:ct''(l au'i publisliL'ii in two vol-
luueji. His serious Dieces, m i ly oflliera ballads, have high merit — fervid
ami holy i i to le, n'tiuei auii classic in '.fxpressiun ; while liis omic pii'Ccs
have the qua'ity ' f gL-nnine hum t, olte i efvaded an! softened by a | hiy-
ful tenderness I i poll* c-< iMr Praed held cMiserv.itive views, and in iiig
Iiistoriiiil i» letry lakes the Uaval.er.V side. The lessons of history teach us,
buwevir, that in gr at fivil and nat oiuil co it.'^sts, tlie good and b;id are
ever inlermiiigled ; a id every piut , win th r in politics or • modes of fan li,"
has ranked u its sitle hiifh-mind>'d, gifted and virtuous men, as it is also de-
graded l)y corrupt and selHsli men. The baitle of Marsto i Mooi was fought
in IU44, bi'twvn tiiu Cavaliers and the Parliamentary ariuy. The Cavaliers
fought brav' ly, but, h'd by Rupeit, they fought rashly; while ihe well-dis-
ciplined troops of Cromwell, leii by the master-spirit himself, drove all
before them, and destroyed or scattered tbe troops of the kii"'

To horse ! to horse ! Sir Niehol is, the clariof/s note is hi'ih !
To horse! to horse ! Sir Nichola'<, the big drum makes reply!
FjTc this hath Lucas marched, witli his gallint cav liiers,
And the bray of liupert's trumps^ts grows fiinter in our ears.
To horse ! to horse ! Sir Niehol ts! Whit^ G-m- i^ jjt the door,
And the raven whets his beak oer the fi( Id of Marstori Moor.

-J

His pro-

wo vol-

— Icivid

pii'Cia

I 1 Uiy-

i in hi3

acli lis,

bail are

ffaiih,"

avaluTS
It'jve all

door,
loor.

Poetical Selectioui,

865

Up rose the L'dy Alice from her brief smd broken prayer,
And siic brouj^lit a silken banner down the narrow turret-stair;
Oil ! many were the tejirs thi:t those radi.;nt eyes had shed,
As she traced the bright word " Glory" in the gay and glancing

thread ;
And mourniul was the smile which o'er tliose lovely features ran
As she Said : " It is your lady's gilt; unfurl it in the van !"

*' It sh ill flutti r, noble wench, where the best and boldest ride,
Widst tlie sterl-cl.id files of ^kippon, the biack dragoons of Pride;
The recreant he;;rt of Fairfax shall feel a sicklier qti;ilm,
And tlie rebel lips of Oliver give out a louder psalm, ■

When they see my lady's gewgaw flaunt proudly on their wing,
And hear her loyal soldiers shout For God and for the King I"

'Tis soon. The ranks are broken, along the royal line

They fly, the bragg irts of the court ! the bullies of the Rhine !

Stout Lan idaLi's cheer is heard no moie, and Astley's helm is

down,
And Kupeit sheathes his rapier with a curse and with a frown,
And cold Newc istle mutters, as he follows in their flight,
" The German boar had better far have supped in York to-night."

The knight is left alone, his steel-c p cleft in twain.

His good bufl" jerkin c imsoned o'er with many a gory stain ;

Yet still he waves his banner, and cries ..mid the rout,

" For Church and King, fair gi ntkraen ! spur on, and fight it

out!"
And now he wards a Roundhead's pike, and now he hums a stive,
And now he quotes a stage-play, and now he fells a knave.

God aid thee now, Sir Nicholas! thou hast no thought of fear;
God aid t!iee now. Sir Nicholas! for feirful odds are here!
The rchols hem thee in, and at (^vrry cut and thrust,
"Down, down," they cry, "with liclial ! down with him to the

dust!"
" I would," quoth grim old Oliver, " that Beli d's trusty sword
This d ly were doing battle for the Saints .md for the Lord !"

The lady Alice sits with her maidjns in her bower.
The gr.iy-haired warder watches from tiie castle's topm
" What news ? what news, old Hubeit?" ""

and won :
The royal troops are melting like mists bafore the sun I
And a wounded m in approaches — I'm blind and cannot see,
Vet sure 1 am that sturdy step my master's step must be 1"

ost tower ;
"The' battle's lost

\ ml

I i

'i''^.'j
f

!'•■'■• '' ' !

.-■■,.-■• *^ 1

w.^ 1 ' I;

866

Poetical Selections,

"IVe brought thee back thy banner, wench, from as rude and

red a fray
As e'er was proof of soldier's thew, or theme for ainstrel's lay !
Here. Hubert, bring the silver bowl, and liquor quantum sufF,
I'll make a shift to drain it yet, ere I part with boots and buff —
Though Guy through many a gaping wound is breathing forth

his life,
And I come to thee a landless man, my fond and faithful wife I

"Sweet! we will fill our money-bags, and freight a ship for

France,
And mourn in merry Paris for this poor land's mischance;
For if the worst befall me, why better axe and rope.
Than life with Lentliall for a king, and Peters foi a pope I
Alas ! alas ! my gallant Guy ! — curse on the crop-eared boor
Who sent me, with my standard, on foot from Marston Moor !"

THE BATTLE OF NASEBY.

By Ob.idiah Bind-their-kings-in-chains-anrl-their-nobles-with-links-of-iron,

Serjeaat in Iretoi's Regiment.

MACAULAT.

Oh ! wherefore come ye forth in triutnph from the North,
With your hands and your feet and your raiment all red ?

And wherefore doth your rout send forth a joyous shout ?
And whence be the grapes of the wine-press which ye tread ?

Oh, evil was the root, and bitter was the fruit.

And crimson was the juice of the vintige that we trod ;

For wo trampled on the throng of the h;«Ui^hty and the strong,
Who sate in the high places and slew the saints of God.

It was about the noon of a glorious day of June,

That we saw their banners dance and their cuirasses shine;

And the m in of Blood was there, with hislon^ esscnced hiir.
And Astley and Sir Marmaduke and Rupert of the Rhine I

Like a servant of the Lord, with his Bible and his sword,
The General rode along us to form us for the fi^rht,

When a murmuring sound broke out, and swelled into a shout,
Among the godless horsemen upon the tyrant's right.

Poetical Selections.

367

And hark 1 like the roar of the billows on the shore, '-f

The cry of battle rises along th« ir char<i,ing line !^

For God ! for the Cause ! ior the Church ! for the Laws !

For Charles King of England, and Rupert of the llhine I •'

The furious German conies, with his clariotis and his drums,
His bravoes of Alsatia and p;iges of Whitehall ;

They are bursting on our flanks ; — grasp your pikes ; — close your
ranks ; —
For Rupert never comes but to conquer or to fall.

They are here ; — they rush on ! We are broken — we are gone ; —
Our left is borne bei'ore them like stubble on the blast.

Lord, put forth thy might ! Lord, defend the right !
Stand back to back, in God's name, and fight it to the last.

Stout Skippon bath a wound ; — the centre hath given ground; —
Hark ! hark ! What means the trampling of horsemen on our
rear?

Whose banner do I see, boys ? — 'Tis he, thank God, 'tis he, boys !
Bear up another minute. Brave Oliver is here !

Their heads all stooping low, their points all in a row,
Like a whirlwind on the trees, like a deluge on the dykes,

Our cuirassiers have burst on the ranks of the Accurst,
And at a shock have scattered the forest of his pikes.

Fast, fast, the gallants ride, in some safe nook to hide
Their coward heads, predestined to rot on Temple Bar.

And he — he turns, he flies !— shame to those cruel eyes
That bore to look on torture, and dare not look on war.

Ho ! comrades, scour the plain ; and ere ye strip the slain,
First give another 8t:ib to make your guest secure ;

Then shake from sleeves and pockets their broad-pieces and lockets,
The tokens of the wanton, the plunder of the poor.

Fools I your doublets shone with gold, and your hearts were gay
and bold,

W^hen you kissed your lily hands to your lemans* today ;
And to-morrow shall the fox, from her chambers in tho rocks,

Lead forth her tawny cubs to howl above the prey.

• Loven.

*>;•:;

M^j ■;,- ■ •

368

Poetical Sdeotiom,

Where bo your tongues that late mocked at heaven and hell and
fiite,
And the finpjers that once were so bu-sy with your bl ides ; j
Your perfumed sitin clothes, your c itches and your o.itlis,

Your ^;t.(<:;e pliys and your sonnets, your diamonds and your
spades? . . . . .,.,.. ., , ..,

Down, down, for ever down, with the mitre and the crown,
Witli the Boliil of the Court, and the Mammon of the Pope:

There is woe in Oxford H dls ; there is wail in Durliaui's Stalls;
Tiie Jesuit smites his bosom; the Bishop rends his cope.

And She of the seven hills sh ill mnurn her children's ills,

And tremble when she thinks on tae edj^e of Enjjl in i's sword ;

And the kings of earth in fear, shall shudder when they hear
What the hand of God hath wrought for the Houses* and the
Word.

THE EXECUTION OF MONTROSE.

PROFK830R AYTOUN.

Tlie Mnrqaisjof Montrose was the devoted champion, who, during the
wild ami s.ormy period ot the " tireal litbA ion,' maintained ihe '-a isji; of
" Churcli and Iving " in Scotia id. Tlie f.tinoiis Cardinal de ll^'tz [)roiioiinced
the r>llo\ving lofty eu.' gy upon him :—'• M ) arose, a Scottish U)l)l«uiau,
head of ihe house of Gri-ahiim — the ouly aim in the world thai has ever
loalized to me the idea of certain heroes, vvaoni we never dis -over but in
the lives of I'lutarch— has sustained iu his own country the cause of the
Ki.ig, his master, willi a greatness of soil tliat has not fou id its eq lal in
our agt'." Mo iirose, after making the b/avest ettbrts to retrieve the King's
cause in Scotland, was tinaliy def.aled, and, ucserted by hib followirs,
to k ref.ige in tiie II ghlaiids. After waudeii ig tor many days, enduring
the "xtrenies of hunger and fatigue, he gave tumself up to Macleod of Assyat,
a former adherent, from whom he had ri-asm to t-xpect assistance in consid-
eration of that circumstance. Hui As>yn betrayed and sold liiin to his
enemies — ''A traitor sold liim to his f x^s." Tlie Marquis was tried and
coudem ted to d aih, and ev.'ry indigniiy a. id injalt which party si)iritand
the religious hatred and bigotry wli.c i inarkeil th • ag ' c mid sug-
gest, was heaped upon him. There is no liction in the description
given of tht'se insults, in the poem ; and all history attests tlie liigh
cotirag':! and fortitude of the .Marquis d.iring his trial and on his pas-
gage to the scartold. He attired hiiui^jlf in liue s arl»t, laid over with
rich s Iver lacf, his bands and cutFs exceedingly rich, and altogether he
appeared " like a bridegroom from his ntun." With the most undaunted
courage he ascended the lofty scatfold. •' fiie whole people gave a general
groau ; and it was ver}' observable that even those who at his first appear-

* Houses ol Parliament.

Poetical ''^'elections.

369

ance had bitterly inveighed against him, could not now abstain from tears."
" The baUad (say:^ 1'hof. Aytoun) may be consideriMl as a narrative of the
transaction, rehited by an aged Iliglihinder, who had followed Montrose
throughout his campaign, to his grandson, and shortly before the battle of
Killiecrankie."

Come hither. Evan Camoron ! come, stand beside my knee —

I hear tlie river roarinij^ down towards the wintry sea.

There's shouting on the mountain-side, tliere's war witliiu the

blast— '
Old faces look upon mo now, old fornix go trooping past :
I hear the pibroch wailing amidst the din of fight,
And my dim spirit wakes again upon the verge of night.

'Twas I that led the Highland host through wild Locliaber's snows,.
What time the plaided clans came down to battle with Montrose,
I've told thee how the S(»uthrons fell beneath the broad claym )re,
And how we smote the Campbell clan by Inverlochy's shore.
I've told thee how we swept Dundee, and tamed the Lindsay's.

pride,
But never have I told thee yet how the great Marquis died.

A traitor sold him to lus foes; ! deed of deathless shame!

I charge thee, boy, if e'er thou meet with one of Assynt's name —

Be it upon the mountain's side, or yet within the glen;

Stand he in martial gear alone, or back'd by armed men —

Face him, as thou wouldst face the man who wrong'd thy sire's.

renown ;
Remember of what blood thou art, and strike the caitiff down ! —

They brought him to the Watergate, hard bound with hempen

span,
As though they held a lion there, and not a fenceless man.
They set him high upon a cart —the hangman rode below —
They drew his hands behind his back, and bared his noble brow.
Then (as a hound is slipp'd from leash j they cheer'd (the common.

throng),
And blew the note with yeli and shout, and bade him pass along..

It would have made a brave man's heart grow sad and sick that

day,
To watch the keen malignant eyes bent down on that array.
There stood the Whig west-country lords in balcony and bow.
There sat their gaunt and wither'd dames, and their daughters all

a-row.
And every open window was full — as full might be —
With black-robed Covenanting carles, that goodly sport to see I

370

Poetical Sdectlons.

But wlion lie came (though pale and wjin), he look'd so great and

high,
So noble was lii.s manly front, po calm liin f-tcadfai-t eye; —
The rabble rout forbore to shout, and each man held his breath \
For well they knew the hero's soul was face to face with death—
And then a mournful shudder through all the people crept^
And some that came to scoiFat him, now turn'd aside and wept.

But onwards, always onwards, in silence and in gloom,
The dreary pageant labor'd, till it reach d the house of doom.
Then first a woman s voice was heard in je(!r and laughter loud,
.And an angry cry and a hiss arose, from the heart of the tossing

crowd :
' Then as the Grreme look'd upwmds, he saw the ugly smile
' Of him wlio sold his king for gold — the master-fiend, Argyle !

The Marquis gazed a moment, and nothing did he say.

But the cheek of Argyle grew ghas'ly pale, and he turn'd his eyes

away.
' The painted harlot by his side, she sbook through every limb,
For a roar like thunder swept the street, and hands were clench'd
at him ;
. And a 8axou soldier cried aloud — " Back, coward, from thy j)lace !
- For seven long years thou hast not dared to look him in the face."'

Had I been there with sword in hand, and fifty Camerons by,
' That day, througii high Dunedin's streets, had peal'd the slogan-

ciy.

Not all their troops of trampling horse, nor might of mailed men —
. Not all the rebels in the south had borne us backwards then !
■ Once more his foot on Highland heatli had trod a.s free as air,
• Or I, and all who bore my nanif, been laid around him there.

It might, not be. They placed hitn next within the solemn hall,
' Where once the Scottish kings were throned amidst their nobles
all ;

But there was dust of vulgar feet on that polluted floor,
.And perjured traitors fill'd the place where good men sat before.
' With savage glee came Warristoun to read the murderous doom;
.And then uprose the great 3I( ntrose in the middle of the room:

*•' Now, by my faith ;:s b.lted knight, and by the name I bear,
.And bv the Irijiht "'ai: t Andrew's cross that waves above us
there, —

eyes

ace.

men—

Poetical Selections,

871

Yea, by a greater, niij^litier cuith — and oh, that such should be ! —
By that dark stream ofroy.il blood that lies 'twixt you and me —
1 have not soui^ht in batth; field a wreath of such renown,
Nor dared I hope on my dying day to win the martyr's crowQ !

<' There is a chamber far away whore sleep the good and brave,
But a better place ye have named for me than by my father's

grave ;
For truth and right, 'gainst treason's might, tliis hand hath

always striven,
And ye raise it up for a witness still in the eye of earth and heaven.
1'hen nail my head on yonder tower — give every town a limb —
And God who made sliall gather them : — I go froniyou to Ilim !"

* * * *

The morning dawn'd full darkly; the rain came flashing down;
And the jagged streak of the levin-bolt lit up the gloomy town :
The thunder crashM across the heaven, the f;it:il hour was com
Yet aye broke in, with muffled beat, the 'larunj of the drum.
There was madness on the earth below and anger in the sky,
And young and old, and rich and poor, came forth to see him die.

Ah, God ! that ghastly gibbet ! how dismal 'tis to see
The great tall spectral skeleton, the ladder and the tree !
Hark! Hark ! it is the clash of arms — the bells begin to toll : —
" He is couiing ! he is coming ! God's mercy on his soul!"
One last long peal of thunder — the clouds ;;re clear'd away.
And the glorious sun once more looks down amidst the dazzling
day.

*'He is coming! he is coming! " like a bridegroom from his

room.
Came the hero from his prison to the scaffold and the doom.
There was glory on his forehead, there was lustre in his eye,
And he never walk'd to battle more proudly than to die : —
There was color in his visage, though the cheeks of all were wan,
And they marvell'd as they saw him pas> — that great and goodly

man!

He mounted up the scaffold, and lie turn'd him to the crowd ;

But they dare I not trust the people, so he might not speak aloud.

liut he look'd upon the heavens, and xlwy were cle.ir and blue.

And in the liq lid ether the eye of God shone through !

Yet a black and murky battlement lay renting on the hill.

As though the thunder slept within — all else was calm and still.

I Mm

y<t

•li*

872

Poetical Selections.

The i!;rnn Geneva ministers with anxious scowl drew near,
As you have seen the ravei»s flock around the dyin;^ deer.
He would not dei^n them word or si^n, but alone he bent the knee ;
And veil'd iiis face for Christ's dear grace, beneath the gallows-
tree.
Then radiant and serene he rose, and cast his cloak away ; —
For he had ta'eu his latest look of earth and sun and day.

A beam of light fell o'er him, — like a glory round the shriven,
And he climb'd tiie lofty ladder as 'twere the })ath to heaven.
Then came a flash from out the cloud, and a stunning thunder-roll ;
And no man dared to look aloft, for fear was on every soul.
There was another heavy sound — a hush, and then a groan ;
And darkness swept across the sky — the work of dciith was done !

BUIIIAL-MAIICH OF DUNDEE.

PROFESSOR AYTOUN.

Lord Visconnt Dundee — the " Claverliouse " of " Old Mortality" — who
distinguished himself as the last and most devoted champion of the Stuart
family in Scotland, — like all eminent leaders of great jiarties, has ever been
the object, on the one iiand, of fierce hatred and ])n)bal)ly malignant misre-
presentation, and, on tiic other, of exaggerated eulogium. As a resolute,
brave, but uncompromising defender of a decaying cause, which had
gathered around it all the traditional associations of loyalty and chivalry,
and which was assailed by anotiier great party — then regarded as unprin-
cipled and lawless innovators, but noAV as the champions of the civil and
religious liberty we enjoy — Dundee, no doubt, acted in the spiritof his order
— relentless, stern, and i>robubly cruel in suppres-ing wiiat he regarded as
rebellion and treason. But as time softens the bitterne>:s of parly spirit^ a
truer estimate of his character is being formed, and the tienlish qualities
attributed to him by his contem})orary enemies are regarded in their proper
light, as the fictions which i)arty or factional spirit loves to create. Probably
the chivalrous gentleman and brave soldier so ably delineated by Sir Walter
Scott in " Old Mortality" is as correct and truthful as history could sanction.
His contemporary historians — who best knew the man, though no doubt
themselves influenced by the spirit of the age — describe him " as one who
was stainless in honor, pure in his faith, wise in council, resolute in action,
and utterly free from that selfishness which disgraced Many of the Scottish
statesmen of the time," and he gave the highest evidence of his loyalty by
"sealing his confession with his blood." " His name," says Prof. Aytoun,
" was a spell to rouse the ardent spirits of the mountaineers, and not the
great Marquis (Montrose) himself, m the height of his renown, was more
sincerely Avelcomed and more fondly loved than ' Jan Dim nan Oath'—
Dark John of the Battles — the name by whicli Lord Dundee is siill remem-
bered in Highland song." It is, however, too true, on the other liand, that
the dominant party cruelly, savagely persecuted the Covenanters, who, in
their sufferings and fidelity to their faith, have left behind a name that shall
be honored and revered as long as the world honors the champion of human
liberty. Dundee was slain at the battle of Killiecrankie, 1G89. The oppos-
ing forces were commanded by General Mackay, an able and skilful soldier.

Poetical Se.hclionn.

873

" When last seen in the battle, Dundee, accompanied only by the Earl o^
Dunfermline and about sixteen gentlemen, was entering into the cloud of
smoke, sta'iding u|iin his stirrups, and waving the otliers^o come on. It
was in tliis attitude that lie appears to have received his death-wound. Oa
returning from the pursuit, the Highlanders found him dying on the field."

Sound the fife, and cry the sloj^an —

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

Worthy of the t'reii^ht we bear.
Let the aneieiit hillx of Scothuid

Hear once more the battle-song
Swell withirj the ^lens and valleys,

As the clansmen march along!
Never from the field ofcomb.it,

Never from the deadly fray,
Was a nobler trophy carried

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

On his dauntless bosom bore
Good King Robert's heart — the priceless —

To our dear Redeemer's shore I
Lo ! we bring with us the hero —

Lo 1 we bring the conquering Graeme,
Crowned as best beseems a victor

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

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

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

As we march o'er moor and leal
Is there any here will venture

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 !
See, 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 warr'or on his shield,
Waiting till the flash of morning

Breaks alonijc the battle field I

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C/j

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374

Poetical Selections.

See — Oh f never more, my comrades,
, Shall we see that falcon eye
Redden with its inward lightning,

As the honr of fight drew nigh:
Never shall we hear the voice that,

Clearer thiin the trumpet's cull,
Bade us strike for King and Country,

Bade us win the field, or fall !

On the heights of Killiecrankie

Yester-morn our army lay.
Slowly rose the mist in columns

From the river's broken way ;
Hoarsely roared the swollen torrent.

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' ed<j;es,

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 lov'd the house of Claver'se,

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

" Soldiers ! 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 Graemes
Shall have died in battle-harness

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

Think of what his race endure —

Poetical Selections.

Think of him whom biitcliers murdered

Orr the field of Miiijus Muir : —
By liis s icred blood I charge ye,

By the ruined hearth and slirine —
By the blinht^d hoj)e.s of Scotlind,

By your injuries and mine —
Strike tliis day as if tl>e anvil

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

Or the brood of false ArLjvle !
Strike ! and drive the tremblinjj; rebels

Backwards o'er the stormy Forth ;
Let them tell tlieir pale Convention

How they fared witiiin the North.
Let them toll that Highland honor

Ls not to be bouirht nor sold.
That we scorn their prince's anger

As we loavhe 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 1 "

375

Loudly then the hills re-echoed

With our answer to his call,
But a deeper ecl\o sounded

In the bosoms of us all.
For the lands of wide Breadalbane,

Not a man who heard him speak
Would that day have left the battle.
Burning eye and flushing cheek

Told the clansmen's tierce emotion,
And they harder drew their breath ;

For 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 wo crouched amid the bracken,
Till the Lowland ranks drew near,

376

Poetical Selections.

1 »> .■*'

i ^ ■ ■ ■ -
pi *'■-■ ■ i

Pantin<; like the hounds in summer,

When they scent the stately deer.
From the dark defile emerging,

Next we saw tlie 8(|uadrons come,
Leslie's foot and Levcn'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 field beneath ; —
Then we bounded frora our covert.

Judge how looked the Saxons th^n.
When they saw the rugged mountuia

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

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

Flashed the broadsword of Lochiel !
Vainly sped the withering volley

'Mongst the foremo.st of our band —
On we poured until we met them,

Foot to foot, and hand to hand.
Horse and man went down like drift-wood

When tlie floods are black at Yule,
And their carcasses are whirling

In the Garry's deepest pool.
Horse and man went down before us —

Living foe there tarried none
On the field of Killiecrankie,

When that stubborn fight was done I

,im

And the evening star was shinfng-

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

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

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

In the thickest of the slain.
And a smile was on his visage, ,

For within his dying ear
Pealed the joyful note of triumph,

And the clansmen's clamorous cheer :

Poetical Selections.

So, amidst the battle's thunder,

Shot, and ^tecl, and scorching flame,

In the p:lory 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 1
La^t of Scots, and last of freemen —

Last of all that dauntless race,
Who would rather die unsullied

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

Reck not of the after-time :
Honor may be deemed dishonor,

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 !

377

BINGEN ON THE RHINE.

HON. MRS. NORTON.

Granddaughter of Sheridan, the celebrated dramatist and statesman.
Born 1808.

A SOLDIER of the Legion lay dying in Algiers,

There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's

tears ;
But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebb'd away,
And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might say.
The dying soldier falter'd, as he took that comrade's hand,
And he said, " I never more shall see my own, my native land ;
Take a message and a token to some distant friends of mine.
For lyras born at Bingen — at Bingen on the Rhine.

ill

878

. Poetical Seletlons,

** Tell my brothers and eoinpanions, when they meet and crowd

around,
To hear my njoiirnful story, in the jjloa" mt vineyard ground,
Thnt we foui^lit the battle bravely ; Jind when the day was done,
Full many a corse lay irhastly pale beiicith the st;ttin<; sun.
And midst the dead and dyintjwore some j^rown old in wars —
The death-wou;id on their gallant bnvust'^, t!ie 1 ist of many scars ;
But some were young, and sudden'y b'iheld life's morn decline ;
And one had come from Bingen — fair Bingen on the Rhine.

"Tell my mother that her other sons shall comfort her old age,
And I was aye a truant bird, that thought his home a cage;
For my father was a soldier, and even as a child,
My heart leap'd forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and

wild ;
And when lie died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard,
I let them take whate'er they would, but kept my fatlier's sword ;
And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to

shine,
On the cottajije-wall at Bint'cn — calm Bingen on the Rhine !

di ^ o

" Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head,
When the troops are marching home again, with glad and gallant

tread ;
But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye,
For her brotlier was a soldier too, and not afraid to die.
And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name
To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame ;
And to hang tlie old sword in its place, (my father's sword and

mine,)
For the honor of old Bin<ren — dear Bint^en on the Rhino !

" There's nnothrr — not a sister; in the happy days gone by.
You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her

-eye;
Too innocent for coquetry — too fond for idle scorning,
friend, I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest

mourning ;
Tell her the last night of my life, (for ere this moon be risen

— — — ^ — ..- ...^ — , ^- - — —

My body will bo out of pain — my soul be out of prison,

I dream'd I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlights _

On the vine-clad hills of Bingen — fair Bingen on the Rhine I

).
shine

Poetical Selections.

379

((

the blue Rhi

along: I heard,

sweep alonjij : 1 heard, or sceniM to hear,
The German sonjj;s "we used to sin*:; in chorus sweet and clear ;
And down the pleasant river, and up the slaiitini; hill,
That echoinfj chorus sounded, throuf^h the eve nin«r calm and still ;
And her «!;lad blue eyes were on me, as we pass'd with friendly

talk
Down many a path beloved of yore, and well- remembered walk ;
And her little hand hiy lijjhtly, confidin<jjly in mine ;
But we'll meet no more at Bingen — loved Bingen on the

Khine!"

His voice grew faint and hoarse ; his grasp was childish weak ;
His eyes put on a dying look ; he sigh'd, and ceased to speak ;
His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had fled,
The soldier of the Legion in a foreign land — was dead !
And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down
On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corpses strown ;
Yea, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light scemod to shine,
As it shone on distant Bingen — fair Bingon on the llhino !

THE FIELD OF WATERLOO.

LORD BYRON.

Stop ! — for thy tread is on an Empire's dust !
An earthquake's spoil is sepulchred below !
Is the spot mark'd with no colossal bust ?
Nor column trophied, for triumphal show ?
None ; but the moral's truth tells simpler so.
As the ground was before, thus let it be —
How that red rain hath made the harvest grow !
And is this all the world lias gain'd by thee.
Thou first and last of fields ! king-making Victory ?

There was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capital had gathered then
Her beauty and her chivalry ; and bright
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men ;
A thousand hearts beat happily ; and when
Music arose, with its voluptuous swell,
Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,
And all went merry as a marriage-bell ; —
But hush I hark ! a deep sound strikes like a rising

knell.

880 Poetical Selectioni,

Did ye not hear it ? — No ; — 'twas but the wind,
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street ;
On with the dance 1 let joy be unconfin'd ;
No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet.
But hark ! — that heavy sound breaks in once more,
As if the clouds its echo would repeat ;
And nearer, clearer, .leadlier than before I
Arm ! arm ! it is — it is — the cannon's opening roar !

Within a window'd niche of that high hall
Sat Brunswick's fated chieftain ; he did hear
That sound the first amid the festival,
And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear ;
And when they smiled because he deem'd it near,
His heart more truly knew that peal too well
Which strctch'd his father on a bloody bier.
And rous'd the vengeance blood alone could quell ;
He rush'd into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell !

Ah ! then and there was hurrying to and fro.
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress.
And checks all pale, which but an hour ago
Blush'd at the praise of their own loveliness ;
And there were sudden partings, such as press
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs
Which ne'er might be repeated : who could guess
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes.
Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise ?

And there was mounting in hot haste ; the steed,
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war ;
And the deep thunder, peal on peal afar ;
And near, the beat of the alarming drum
Rous'd up the soldier, ere the morning st-ir ;
While throng'd the citizens with terror dumb.
Or whispeiing with white lips, " The foe I they come ; they
cornel "

Poetical Selections.

881

And wild and hi<;h the " Camcrons' feathering " rose I
The war-noto of Lochicl, which Albyn's hills -
Have heard — and heard too have her Saxon foes: —
How in the noon of night that pibroch tlirills,
Savage and shrill ! But with the breath which fills
Their mountain-pipe, 80 fill the mountaineers
With the fierce native daring, which instils
The stirring memory of a thousand years ;
And Evan's, Donald's fame, rings in each clansman's ears I

And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,
Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass,
Grieving — if aught inanimate e'er grieves —
Over the unreturning brave — alas !
Ere evening to be trodden like the grass,
Which now beneath them, but above shall grow
In its next verdure ; when this fiery masj
Of living valor, rolling on the foe.
And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low !

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,
Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay ;
The midnight brought the signal sound of strife ;
The morn, the marshalling in arms ; the day
Battle's magnificently-stern array !
The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which, when rent,
The earth is cover'd thick with other clay,
Which her own clay shall cover, — heap'd and pent.
Rider and horse, — friend, foe, — in one red burial blent !

THE OLD CORPORAL.

BERANGER.

PiEBRE Jean Beranger, the national poet of France, andtbe most popu-
lar of French song-writers : 1780-1857. Translated by John Oxenford,
dramatic author and translator : born 1812.

Come, gallant comrades, move apace
With shoulder'd muskets march away j
I've got my pipe and your embrace :
So quickly give me my congi.

882

Hill

Poetical Seleotiom,

Too old I in the service grew,
But rutlier useful I could bo
As father of the drill to you.

March merrily,

And do not weep . .

Or sadly creep ;
But, comrades, march on merrily.

An officer — an upst »rt swell —
Insult'jd me — I broke his head, —
I'm sentenced, — he is <j;ettinj; well :
Your cor[)oral will die instead.
My wrath and brandy fired me so,
I cared for nouj^ht, and then, d'ye see,
I served the Great Man long ago.
March merrily,
, And do not weep
Or sadly creep ;
But, comrades, m irch on marrily.

•

Young conscripts — ^you, I'm sure, will not
Lose legs or anus, a cross to get;
'J'he cross you see me wear, I got
In wars wliere kings were overset.
You willingly would st ind the drink,
Old battle t iles to hear from me ;
Still glory's something, I should think.

March merrily.

And do not weep

Or sadly creep ;
But, comrades, march on merrily.

You, Robert, who were born and bred
In mine own village— mind your sheep ;
Soon April will its beauties shed
The garden trees cast shadows deep.
At dawn of day, I've sought the wood,
And oh, what pleasures fell to me ;
My mother lives, — well, Heaven is good !

March merrily.

And do not weep

Or sadly creep ;
But, comrades, march on merrily.

Poetical Seh'ctiona.

"Who 18 it that ft ind8 blubb'rinfj; there ?
1» that the tlrumiiier'H widow, pr.iy ?
In KusHia, throujih the fro.-ty air,
Her son I carried nij^ht and day ;
Else, like the f'utlier in the snows.
They both had died, her child and she
She's prayinji; for me, 1 suppoi^e.

March aierrily,

And do not weep

Or sadly creep ; ,

But, comrades, march on merrily.

Ah, then, my pipe has just i^one out ;
No, no, I'm merry, — !-o, ne'er mind. *
This is our journey's end, no doubt :
jMy eyes, an' please you, do not bind,
lie c:jrelul, friends — don't fire too low —
I grieve ko troublesome to be ;
CJood bye, — to heaven I hope you'll go.

March merrily.

And do not weep

Or sadly creep ;
But, comri;doy, march on merrily.

888

THE PRIVATE OF THE BUFFS.

SIR FRANCIS H. DOYLE.

During the last Chinese war,.tlie following imssage occurred in a let'er
of the correspondent of tlie Time»: — "Some 8ikns and a private of the Buffa
having remained behi;id with the grog carts, fell into the hands of the
Chinese. On the next morning they were brought before the authorities
and commanded to perform the kolou. The Sikhs obeyed; but Moyse, the
English soldier, declaring that he would not i)ro.strate himself before any
Chinaman alive, was immediately knocked upon the head, and his body
thrown on a dunghill."

Last night, among liis fellow roughs,

He jested, quafted, and swore ;
A drunken Private of the Buffs,

Who never looked before.
To day, beneath the foeman'8 frown,

He stands iu Elgin's place,
Ambassador from Britain's crown.

And type of vW her race.

884

Poetical Selections,

Poor, reckless, rude, low-born, untaught,

Bewildcr'd and alone,
A heart with En<^li8ii instinct fraught

He yet can call his own.
Ay, tear his body limb from limb,

Bring cord, or axe, or flame :
He only knows that not through him

Shall England come to shame.

Far Kentish hop-fields round him seemed,

Like dreams, to come and go ;
Bright leagues of cherry blossom gleamed,

One sheet of living snow ;
The smoke above his father's door,

In grey soft eddyings hung : , ,

Must he then watch it rise no more,

Doomed by himself, so young ?

Yes, honor calls ! — with strength, like steel,

He puts the vision by ;
Let dusky Indians whine and kneel ;

An English lad must die.
And thus with eyes that would not shrink.

With knee to man unbent,
Unfaltering on its dreadful brink,

To his red grave he went.

Vain, mightiest fleets, of iron framed ;

Vain, those old shattering guns ;
Unless proud England keep untamed.

The stout hearts of her sons.
So let his name through ages ring —

A man of mean estate.
Who died as firm as Sparta's king.

Because his soul was great.

Po^ieal SeUctwnt,

885

THE CHARGE OP THE LIGHT BRIGADE.

TimrTSoir.

Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward.
All iu the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred. '

<' Forward, the Light Brigade! '
^ Charge for the gunsl" he said : •

Into the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.

'' Forward, the Light Brigade 1 '* '
Was there a man dismay'd ? u
Not tho' the soldier knew ' i

Some one had blundered : • '
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die,
Into the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred. .. :, , f

Cannon to right of them,

Cannon to left of them, '

Cannon in front of them

Yolley'd and thunder'd; J

Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well ;
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell

Rode the six hundred.

Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd in air,
Sabring the gunners there, ^

Charging an ariqy, while

All the world wondered :
Plunged in the battery smoke,
Bight thro* the line they brake ;
Cossack and Russian
Beel'd from the sabre stroke

Shatter'd anil sonder'd.
Then they rode baek, but not,

Not the fix hopdred.

88$

Poetical Seledions.

"?:? .1!.

> i-.^

^ 'i

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them

Volley'd and thunder'd ;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro' the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,

Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade ?
the wild charge they made I

All the world wonder'd.
Honor the charge they made
Honor the Light Brigade,

Noble six hundred I

YE MAKINERS OF ENGLAND.

CAMPBELL.

Ye Mariners of England !

That guard our native seas !

Whose flag has braved, a thousand years,

The battle and the breeze !

Your glorious standard launch again,

To match another foe !

And sweep through the deep,

While the stormy tempests blow ;

AVhile the battle rages loud and long,

And the stormy tempests blow I

The spirits of your fathers

Shall start from every wave 1^

For the deck it was their field of fame.

And Ocean was their grave ;

Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell.

Your manly hearts shall glow.

As you sweep through the deep.

While the stormy tempests blow I

While the battle rages loud and long,

And the stormy tempests blow I

Poetical Setectwnt.

Britannia needs no bulwark,

No towers along the steep ;

Her march is o'er the mount lin waves !

Her home is on the deep !

With thunders from her native oak,

She quells the floods below —

As they roar on the shore,

When the stormy tempests blow ;

When the battle raj^es loud and long ,

And the stormy tempests blow I

The meteor-flag of England

Shall yet terrific burn;

Till danger's troubled night depart.

And the star of peace return.

Then, then, ye ocean-warriors I

Our song and feast shall flow

To the fame of your name.

When the storm has ceased to blow ;

When the fiery fight is heard no more,

And the storm has ceased to blow.

387

MARCO BOZZAPJS.

HALLECE.

At midnight, in his guarded tent.

The Turk was dreaming of the hour
When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent,

Should tremble at his power ;
In dreams, through court and camp, he bore
The trophies of a conqueror ;

In dreams his song of triumph heard ;
Then wore his monarch's signet ring ;
Then press'd that monarch's throne — a kinr."; ;
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing,

As Eden's garden bird.

At midnight, in the forest shades,
Bozzaris ranged his Sulicfte band,

True as the steel of their tried blade^f
Heroes in heart and hand.

388 Poetical Selections.

There had the Persian's thousands stood.
There had the glad earth drunk their blood

On old Plataea's day ;
And now there breathed that haunted air
The sons of sires who conquer'd there,
With arm to strike, and soul to dare,

As quick, as far as they.

An hour pass'd on — the Turk awoke j

That bright dream was his last.
He woke — to hear his sentries shriek,

" To arms 1 they come ! the Greek ! the Greek !'
He woke — to die midst flame and smoke.
And shout, and groan, and sabre stroke.

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

Bozzaris cheer his band :
" Strike — till the last arm'd foe expires j
Strike — for your altars and your fires ;
Strike — for the green graves of your sires ;

God — ^and your native land I "

They fought — ^like brave men, long and well ;

They piled that ground with Moslem slain j
They conquer'd — but Bozzaris fell,

Bleeding at every vein.
His few surviving comrades saw
His smile, when rang their proud " Hurrah ! "

And the red field was won ;
Then saw in death his eyelids close
Calmly, as to a night's repose,

Like flowers at set of sun.

Come to the bridal chamber. Death !

Come to the mother's, when she feels
For the first time, her firstborn's breath ;;

Come when the blessed seals
That close the pestilence are broke,
And crowded cities wail its stroke ;
Come in consumption's ghastiy form,
The earthquake's shock, the ocean storm ;
Come when the heart beats high and warm.-

With banquet song, and dance, and wine ;

(r^S

Poetical Selectiont,

389

And thou art terrible — the tear,
The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier ;
And all we know, or dream, or fear
Of agony, are thine.

But to the hero, when his sword

Has won the battle for the free,
Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word ;
And in its hollow tones are heard

The thanks of millions yet to be.
Come, when his task of fame is wrought —
Come, with her laurel-leaf, blood-bought —

Come in her crowning-hour — and then
Thy sunken eyes' unearthly light
To him is welcome as the sight

Of sky and stars to prison'd men.
Thy grasp is welcome as the hand
Of brother in a foreign land ;
Thy summons welcome as the cry
That told the Indian isles were nigh

To the world-seeking Genoese,
When the land-wind, from woods of palm,
And orange groves, and fields of balm,

Blew o'er the Haytian seas.

THE SACK OF BALTIMORE.

THOMAS DAVIg.

Baltimore is ft small seaport in the barony of Carbery, in South Munster.
It grew up round a Castle of O'DriscoU's, and was, after his ruin, colonized
by the English. On the 20th of June, 16:^1, the crew of two Algerine
galleys landed in the dead of night, sacked the town, and bore off into
slavery all who were not too old, or too young, or too fierce for their
purpose. The pirates were steered up the intricate channel by one Hackett,
a Dungarvan fisherman, whom they had taken at sea for the purpose.
Two years after he was convicted and executed for the crime. Baltimore
never recovered this. To the artist, the antiquary, and the naturalist, it«
neighborhood is most interesting. — Siee " The Ancient and Present State
of the County and City of Cork," by Charles Smith, M.D., vol. i. p. 270,
Second edition. Dublin, 1774. — Author's Notk.

The summer sun is falling soft on Carbery's hundred isles —
The summer sun is gleaming still through Gabriel's rough defiles-
Old Inisherkin's crumbled fane looks like a moulting bird ;
And in a calm and sleepy swell the ocean tide is heard ;

I I'!

890

Poetical Selections,

The hookers lie upon the beach ; the children cease their play ;
The gossips leave the little inn ; the households kneel to pray —
And full of love, and peace, and rest — its daily labor o'er —
Upon that cosy creek there lay the town of Baltimore.

i^^ -.

A deeper rest, a starry trance, has come with midnight there ;
No sound, except that throbbing wave, in e.-irth, or sea, or air.
The massive capes, and ruined towers, seem conscious of the calm ;
The fibrous sod and stunted trees are breathin*]^ heavy calm.
So still the night, these two long barques, round Dunashad that glide,
Must trust their oars — methinks not few — against the ebbing tide.
Oh ! some sweet mission of true love must urge them to the shore —
They bring some lover to his bride, who sighs in Baltimore I

All, all asleep within each roof along that rocky street ;
And these must be the lover's friends, with gently gliding feet. —
A stifled gasp ! a dreamy noise ! " The roof is in a flume T'
From out their beds, and to their doors, rush maid, and sire, and

dame —
And meet, upon the threshold stone, the gleaming sabre's fall.
And o'er each black and bearded face the white or crimson shawl —
The yell of "Allah " breaks above the pniyer, and shriek, and roar —
Oh, blessed God I the Algerine is lord of Baltimore I

Then flung the youth his naked hand against the shearing sword ;
Then sprung the mother on the brand with which her son was

gored ;
Then sunk the grandsire on the floor, his grandbabes clutching wild ;
Then fled the maiden moaning faint, and nestled with the child;
But see, yon pirate strangled lies, and crushed with splashing heel,
While o'er him in an Irish hand there sweeps his Syrian steel —
Though virtue sink, and courage fail, and misers yield their store,
There's one hearth well avenged in the sack of Baltimore !

Midsummer morn, in woodland nigh, the birds began to sing —
Th*^ > not now the milking-maids — deserted is the spring !
Mi • Aimer day — this gallant rides from distant Bandon's town —
These hookers crossed from stormy Skull, that skifi'from Afi'adown ;
They only found the smoking walls, with neighbors' blood be-
sprent,
And on the strewed and trampled beach awhile they wildly went —
Then dashed to sea, and passed Cape Clear, and saw five leagues

before
The pirate galleys vanishing that ravaged Baltimore.

Poetical Selections.

891

Oh I some must tug the galley's oar, and some must tend the steed —
This boy will bear a Scheik's chibouk, and that a Bey's jereed.
Oh ! some are for the arsenals, by beauteous Dardanelles ;
And some are in the caravan to Mecca's sandy dells.
The maid that Bandon gallant sought is chosen for the Dey —
She's safe — she's dead — she stabbed him in the midst of his Serai
And, when to die a death of fire, that noble maid they bore.
She only smiled — O'Driscoll's child — she thought of Baltimore.

'Tis two long years since sunk the town beneath that bloody band,
And all around its trampled hearths a larger concourse stand.
Where, high upon a gallows tree, a yelling wretch is seen —
'Tis Hackett of Dungarvan — he, who steered the Algerine !
He fell amid a sullen shout, with scarce a passing prayer.
For he had slain the kith and kin of many a hundred there —
Some muttered of MacMurchadh, who brought the Norman o'er —
Some cursed him with Iscariot, that day in Baltimore.

THE PICKET OF THE POTOMAC.

Said to have been found in the pocket of a Confederate soldier shot on
picket dutj.

All quiet along the Potomac they say,
Except here and there a stray picket
Is shot, as he walks to and fro,
By a rifleman hid in a thicket :
*Ti8 nothing ; a private or two now and then
Will not count in the tale of the battle :
Not an ofl&cer lost — only one of the men,
Breathing out all alone the death-rattle.

All quiet along the Potomac to-night,

Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming !
Their tents in the ray of the clear autumn mooQ,
And the light of the watch-fires gleaming.
A tremulous sigh from the gentle night-winds
Through the forest leaves slowly is creeping,
And the stars up above, with their glittering eyes,
Keep watch while the army is sleeping.

There is not a sound, save the lone sentry's tread, '.* .
As he tramps from the rock to the fountain, '

And thinks of the three on the truckle bed
Far away in the hut on the mountain.

\)S*

V*. \

392 Poetical Selections,

His rifle falls slack, and his face, grim and dark,
Grows gentle with memories tender,
And he breathes a prayer for the children asleep^
For their mother — may heaven defend her 1

The moon seems to smile as serenely as then,
The night when the love yet unspoken
Broke forth from his lips, and when low murmnr'd vows
Were pledged never more to be broken ;
Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes,
He dashes the tears that are welling,
And gathers his gun closer up to his side,
As if to keep down the heart-swelling.

He passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree,
The footstep is lagging and weary,
Yet onward he glides through the broad belt of light
Toward the shade of the forest so dreary ;
Hark ! Was it the night-wind that rustles the leaves ?
Was it the moonlight so suddenly flashing ?
It looked like a rifle. No — Mary, good-night ;—
His life-blood is ebbing and dashing I

All quiet along the Potomac to-night,
No sound save the rush of the river ;
But the dew falls unseen on the face of the dead,
The picket's off" duty — for ever.

THE NEWS OF A DAY.

URS. 8. T. BOLTON.

" Great battle! Times extra 1" the newsboy cried.

But it scarcely rippled the living tide

That ebbed and flowed in the busy street,

With its throbbing hearts and its restless feet.

Again through the hum of the city thrilled —

*' Great battle ! Times extra ! Ten thousand killed 1"

And the little carrier hurried away

With the sorrowful news of that winter day.

To a dreary room in the attic high
Trembled the words of that small, sharp cry.
And a lonely widow bowed down her head
And murmured, " Willie — my Willie is dead I

Poetical Selecttont,

Oh, I feared it was not an idle dream

That led me, last night, to that deep, dark stream,

Where the ground was wet with a crimson rain,

And strewn all over with ghastly slain !

The stars were dim, for the night was wild,

But I threaded the gloom till I found my child.

" The cold rain fell on his upturned face,
And the swift destroyer had left no trace
Of the sudden blow and the quick, sharp pain,
But a little wound and a purple stain.
I tried to speak, but my voice was gone,
And my soul stood there in the- cold gray dawn
Till they rifled his body with ruthless hand,
And covered him up with the reeking sand.

898

" Willie ! oh, Willie ! it seems but a day
Since thy baby-head on my bosom lay —
Since I heard thy prattle so soft and sweet,
And guided the steps of thy tottering feet ;
And thou wert the fairest and last of three
That the Father in heaven had given to me.
All the life of my heart — love, hope, and joy —
Were treasured in thee, my strong, brave boy !
And the last faint words that thy father s:iid
Were, * Willie will mind thee when I am dead.*
But they tore the flag from thy death-cold hand.
And covered thee up in the reeking sand."

She read the names of the missing and slain,
But one she read over again and again ;
And the sad, low words that her white lips said
Were: "Company C, William Warren — dead."
The world toiled on through the busy street,
With its aching hearts and unresting feet ;
The night came down to her cold hearthstone.
And she still read on in the same low tone ;
And still the words that her white lips said
Were, " Company C, William Warren — dead."

The light of the morning chased the gloom
From the emberless hearth of that attic room.
And the city's pulses throbbed again,
But the mother's heart had forgotten its pain.

liilM

804 Poetical iSelectwnis,

She had gone through the gates to the better land
With that terrible list, in her pale, cold hand — '
With her white lips parted, as last she said,
" Company C, William Warren— dead I"

BARBARA FRTETCHIE.

WT*

JOHN ORBENLEAF WHITTIER.

Up from the meadows rich with corn,
Clear in the cool September morn,
The clustered spires of Frederick stand
Green-walled by the hills of Maryland.
Round about them orchards sweep,
Apple and peach tree fruited deep,
Fair as a garden of the Lord
To the eyes of the famished rebel horde ;
On that pleasant morn of the early fall
When Lee marched over the mountain wall,-
Over the mountains winding down,
Horse and foot, into Frederick town.
Forty flags with their silver stars,
Forty flags with their crimson bars,
Flapped in the morning wind : the sun
Of noon looked down, and saw not one.
Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then.
Bowed with her fourscore years and ten :
Bravest of all in Frederick town,
She took up the flag the men hauled down :
In her attic-window the staff" she set.
To show that one heart was loyal yet.
Up the street came the rebel tread,
Stonewall Jackson riding ahead.
Under his slouched hat left and right
He glanced ; the old flag met his sight.
" Halt!" — the dust-brown ranks stood fast.
" Fire !" out-blazed the rifle-blast.
It shivered the window, pane and sash ;
It rent the banner with seam and gash.
Quick, as it fell from the broken stafi'.
Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf; ^
She leaned far out on the window-sill,
And shook it forth with a royal will.

»:li

Poetical Selections.

** Shoot, if you must, this old grey head,
But spare your country's fla«^," she said.
A shade of sadness, a blush of shame,
Over the face of ^.' j leader came ;
The nobler nature within him stirred
To life at that woman's deed and word :
" Who touches a hair of yon grey head
Dies like a dog I March on !" he said.
All day long through Frederick street
Sounded the tread of marching feet :
All day long that free flag toss'd
Over the heads of the rebel host.
Ever its torn folds rose and fell
On the loyal winds that loved it well ;
And through the hill-gaps sunset light
Shone over it with a warm good-night.
Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er,
And the rebel rides on his raids no more.
Honor to her ! and let a tear
Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier.
Over Barbara Frietchie's grave
Flag of Freedom and Union wave 1
Peace and order and beauty draw
Round thy symbol of light and law ;
And ever the stars above look down
On thy stars below in Frederick town !

895

UNDER CANVAS.— WOUNDED.

SIR HENRY BULWER LYTTON.

" Oh, is it a phantom ? a dream of the night ?

A vision which fever hath fashion'd to sight ?

The 'vind, wailing ever, with motion uncertain

Sways sighingly there the drench'd tent's tatter'd curtain.

To and fro, up and down.

But it is not the wind
That is lifting it now ; and it is not the mind
That hath moulded that vision.

A pale woman enters,
As wan as the lamp's waning light, which concentres
Its dull glare upon her. With eyes dim and dimmer,
There, all in a slumb'rous and shadowy glimmer.

Ill

I"' 1

Mfc'^1

'^;

■ **■ i i

896

Poetical Selections.

The sufferer sees that still form floating on, * .

And feels faintly aware that he is not alone.

She is flitting before him. She pauses. She ntands

By his bedside all silent. She lays her white hands

On the brow of the boy. A light finger is pressini^

Softly, softly, the sore wounds : the hot blood-staiu'd dressing

Slips from them. A comforting quietude steals

Thro' the racked weary frame; and throughout it, he feels

The slow sense of a merciful, mild neighborhood.

Something smoothes the toss'd pillow. Beneath a gray hood

Of rough serge, two intense tender eyes are bent o'er him.

And thrill thro' and thro' him. The sweet form before him,

It is surely Death's angel Life's last vigil keeping I

A soft voice says — ' Sleep 1'

And he sleeps : he is sleeping.

" He waked before dawn. Still the vision is there :
Still that pale woman moves not. A minist'ring care
Meanwhile has been silently changing and cheering
The aspect of all things around him.

Revering
Some power unknown and benignant, he bless'd
In silence the sense of salvation. And rest
Having loosen'd the mind's tangled meshes, he faintly
Sigh'd — * Say what thou art, blessed dream of a saintly
' And minist'ring spirit !'

A whisper serene
Slid softer than silence — ' The Sceur Seraphine,

* A poor Sister of Charity. Shun to inquire

' Aught further, young soldier. The son of thy sire,

* For the sake of that sire, I reclaim from the grave.

* Thou didst not shun death : shun not life. 'Tis more brave

* To live than to die. Sleep !'

He sleeps : he is sleeping.

" He waken'd again, when the dawn was just steeping
The skies with chill splendor. And there, never flitting,
Never flitting, that vision of mercy was sitting.
As the dawn to the darkness, so life seem'd returning
Slowly, feebly within him. The night-lamp, yet burning,
Made ghastly the glimmering daybreak.

He said :

* If thou be of the living, and not of the dead,

* Sweet minister, pour out yet further the healing

* Of that balmy voice ; if it may be, revealing

* Thy mission of mercy ! whence art thou ?'

Poetical Selectionf.

897

' son

* Of Matilda and Alfred, it matters not I One

* Who is not of the living nor yet of the dead :

* To thee, and to others, alive yet ' — she said —
' So long as there liveth the poor gift in me

' Of this ministration : to them, and to thee,

* Dead in all things beside. A French Nun, whose vocation
< Is now by this bedside. A nun hath no nation.

' Wherever man suffers, or woman may soothe,

* There her land ! there her kindred !'

She bent down to smooth
The hot pillow, and added — * Yet more than another
' Is thy life dear to me. For thy father, thy mother,
' I know them — I know them.'

' Oh can it be ? you I

* My dearest, dear father 1 my mother I you knew,

* You know them ? '

She bow'd, half averting her head
In silence.

He brokenly, timidly said,

* Do they know I am thus ?'

' Hush I ' — she smiled, as she drew
From her bosom two letters ; and — can it be true ?
That beloved and familiar writing I

He burst
Into tears — ' My poor mother, — ^my father ! the worst

* Will have reached them ! '

* No, no !' she exclaim'd with a smile,
' They know you are living ; they know that meanwhile
' I am watching beside you. Young soldier, weep not 1 *
But still on the nun's nursing bosom, the hot
Fever'd brow of the boy weeping wildly is press'd.
There, at last, the young heart sobs itself into rest ;
And he hears, as it were between smiling and weeping,
The calm voice say — ' Sleep !'

And he sleeps, he is sleeping."

ORANGE AND GREEN.

(WRALD ORimX.

The night was falling dreary in merry Bandon town.
When in his cottage weary an Orangeman lay down.
The summer sun in splendor had set upon the vale.
And shouts of ** No sarrender " arose upon the gale^

«98

Poetical Selections,

Beside the waters, laving the feet of a<^ed trees,

The Orange banners waving, flew boldly in the breeae—

In mighty chorus meeting, a hundred voices join.

And fit'e and drum were beating the Battle of the Boyne,

Ha I toward his cottage hieing, what form is speeding now,
From yonder thicket flying, with blood upon his brow ?
" Hide — hide me, worthy stranger, though Green my color be,
And in the day of danger may Heaven remember thee 1

" In yonder vale contending alone against that crew,

My life and limbs defending, an Orangeman I slew. "~

— Hark ! hear that fearful warning I there's death in every tone —

Oh, save my life till morning, and Heaven prolong your own."

The Orange heart was melted in pity to the Green ;

He heard the tale and felt it, his very soul within.

** Dread not that angry warning, though death be in its tone—

I'll save your life till morning, or I will lose my own."

Now, round his lowly dwelling, the angry torrent pressed,
A hundred voices swelling, the Orangeman addressed —
" Arise, arise, and follow the chase along the plain I
In yonder stony hollow your only son is slain I"

With rising shouts they gather upon the track amain.
And leave the childless father aghast with sudden pain.
He seeks the righted stranger in covert where he lay —
Arise 1" he said, " all danger is gone and paased away I

((

" I had a son — one only, one lov^d as my life,

Thy hand has left me lonely, in that accursed strife.

I pledged my word to save thee until the storm should cease,

I keep the pledge I gave thee — ^arise, and go in peace I"

The stranger soon departed from that unhappy vale ;
The father, broken-hearted, lay brooding o'er the tale.
Full twenty summers after to silver turned his beard ;
And yet the sound of laughter from him was never heard.

r^ ^^ ^* ^^ ^R

The night was falling dreary in merry Wexford town,

When in his cabin weary, a peasant laid him down.

And many a voice was singing along the summer vale,

And Wexford town was ringing witii shouts of " Granua Uile."

Poetical Seleetiont,

899

1 .

Beside the waters, laving the feet of aged trees,

The Green flag, gaily waving, was spread against the breeze —

Id mighty chorus meeting, loud voices filled the town,

And fife and drum were beating, " Down, Orangemen, lie down.*'

Hark I 'mid the stirring clangor that woke the echoes there,
Loud voices, high in anger, rise on the evening air.
Like billows of the ocean, he sees them hurry on —
And, 'mid the wild commotion, an Orangeman alone.

" My hair," he said, " is hoary, and feeble is my hand,
And I could tell a story would shaiiiu your cruel band.
Full twenty years and over have changed my heart and brow.
And I am grown a lover of peace and concord now.

" It was not thus I greeted your brother of the Green,
When fainting and defeated I freely took him in.
I pledged my word to save him from vengeance rushing on.
I kept the pledge I gave him, though he had killed my son."

That aged peasant heard him, and knew him as he stood.
Remembrance kindly stirred him, and tender gratitude.
With gushing tears of pleasure, he pierced the listening train,
" I'm here to pay the measure of kindness back again !"

Upon his bosom falling, the old man's tears came down ;
Deep memory recalling that cot and fatal town.
" The hand that would ofiFend thee, my being first shall end ;
I'm living to defend thee, my saviour and my friend I"

cease.

He said, and slowly turning, addressed the wondering crowd ;
With fervent spirit burning, he told the tale aloud.
Now pressed the warm beholders their aged foe to greet :
They raised him on their shoulders, and chaired him through the
street.

ird.

As he had saved that stranger, from peril scowling dim,

So in his day of danger did Heaven remember him.

By joyous crowds attended, the worthy pair were seen,

And their flags that day were blended of Orange and of Green.

400 Poetical Selections,

THE ISLES OF GREECE.

LORD BYBON. ,. ; ;

The isles of Greece ! the isles of Greece 1
Where burning Sappho loved and sung, —

Where grew the arts of war and peace, —
Where Delos rose and Phoebus sprung I

Eternal summer gilds them yet, —

But all, except their sun, is set.

The Scian and the Teian muse,
The hero's harp, the lover's lute,

Have found the fame your shores refuse ;
Their place of birth, alone, is mute

To sounds which echo further west

Than your sires' " Islands of the blest."

The mountains look on Marathon,
And Marathon looks on the sea ;

And musing there an hour alone,

I dreamed that Greece might still be free ;

For, standing on the Persian's grave,

I could not deem myself a slave.

A king sat on the rocky brow
That looks o'er sea-born Salamis ;

And ships by thousands lay below,
And men in nations ; — all were his I

He counted them at break of day.

And when the sun set, where were they ?

And where are they ? and where art thou,
My country ? On thy voiceless shore

Th' heroic lay is tuneless now —
Th' heroic bosom beats no more I

And must thy lyre, so long divine,

Degenerate into hands like mine ?

'Tie something in the dearth of fame,
Though linked among a fettered race,

To feel at leaat a patriot's shame,
Even as I sing, suffuse my face,

For, what is left the poet here ?

For Greeks a blush — ^for Greece a tear.

Poetical Selections.

Must we but weep o'er days more blessed ?

Must we but blush ? Our Fathers bled.
Earth ! render back from out thy breast

A remnant of our Spartan dead !
Of the three hundred, grant but three,
To make a new Thermopylae !

401

What ! silent still ? and silent all ?

Ah I no ; — the voices of the dead
Sound like a distant torrent's fall,

And answer, " Let one living head,
But

one arise, — we come, we come ;
'Tis but the living who are dumb.

In vain — in vain : strike other chords ;

Fill high the cup with Samian wine I
Leave battles to the Turkish hordes,

And shed the blood of Scio's vine !
Hark I rising to the ignoble call —
How answers each bold bacchanal I

You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet —
Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone ?

Of two such lessons, why forget
The nobler and the manlier one ?

You have the letters Cadmus gave —

Think ye he meant them for a slave ?

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine !

We will not think of themes like these 1
It made Anacreon's song divine :

He served — but served Polycrates—
A tyrant ; but our masters then
Were still at least our countrymen.

The tyrant of the Chersonese

Was freedom's best and bravest friend :
That tyrant was Miltiades i

Oh ! that the present hour would lend
Another despot of the kind i
Such chains as his were sure to bind.

402 Poetical Selections,

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine I
On Suli's rock and Parga's shore
' Exists the remnant of a line . .

Such as the Doric mothers bore ;
And there, perhaps, some seed is sown
. The Heracleidan blood might own.

Trust not for freedom to the Franks,
They have a king who buys and sells ; —

In native swords and native ranks.
The only hope of freedom dwells :

But Turkish force and Latin fraud

"Would break your shield, however broad.

-f

li
ii

9 i ■

1 i'-rSn '■

nBff

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine !

Our virgins dance beneath the shade,
I sec their glorious black eyes shine :

But, gazing on each glowing maid,
Mine own the burning tear-drop laves,
To think such breasts must suckle slaves.

Place me on Sunium's marbled steep —
Where nothing, save the waves and I,

May hear our mutual murmurs sweep ;
There, swan-like, let me sing and die :

A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine —

Dash down yon cup of Samian wine.

TO THE NIGHTINGALE.

JOHN EKATS.

Mt heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains

My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains

One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk :
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot.

But being too happy in thy happiness —
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees,
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,

Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

Poetical Selections, 403

for a draught of vintage, that hath been

Cool'd a long age in tlie deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country-green,

Dance, and Proven9al song, and sun-burnt mirth !
for a beaker full of the warm South,

Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-staindd mouth ;
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen.

And with thee fade away into the forest dim :

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget

What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret,

Here, where men sit and hear each other groan ;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs.

Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies ;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs ;
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes.

Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.

Away 1 away ! for I will fly to thee,

Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,

But on the viewless wings of Poesy,

Though the dull brain perplexes and retards :

Already with thee ! tender is the night.

And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Cluster'd jwound by all her starry Fays ;
But here there is no light.

Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown

" Through verdurous glooms vind winding mossy ways.

I cannot see ,hat flowers are at my feet.

Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet

Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild ;

White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine ;
Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves ;
And mid-May's eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine.

The murmurous haunt of flies on summer evos,

404

I M

if- ij

Poetical Selections.

Darkling I listen ; and for many a time

I have been half in love with easeful death,
Call'd him soft names in many a mus^d rhyme,

To take into the air my quiet breath ;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,

While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy !
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain— ^

To thy high requiem become a sod.

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird !

No hungry generations tread thee down ;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard

In ancient days by emperor and clown :
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path

Through the sad heart of Ruth, when sick for home.
She stood in tears amid the alien corn j
The same that oft-times hath
Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam

Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

Forlorn 1 the very word is like a bell

To toll me back from thee to my sole self I
Adieu ! the fancy cannot cheat so well

As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu ! adieu ! thy plaintive anthem fades

Past the near meadows, over the still stream.
Up the hill-«ide ; and now 'tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades :
Was it a vision or a waking dream ?

Fled is that music : — do I wake or sleep ?

JACQUES C ARTIER.

T. d'ARCT M'GEB. - , ^

In the Beaport of St, Malo 'twas a smiling mom in May,
When the Commodore Jacques C artier to the westward sail'd away;
In the crowded old cathedral all the town were on their knees
For the safe return of kinsmen from the nndiscover'd seas ;
And every autumn blast that swept o'er pinnacle and pier,
Fill'd manly hearts with sorrow^ and gentle hearts with fear.

Poetical Selections,

405

A year pass'd o'er St. Malo — apjain came round the dtiy

When the Commodore Jacques Cartier to the westward sail'd away ;

But no tidings from the absent had come the way they went,

And tearful were the vigils that many a maiden spent ;

And manly hearts were fill'd with gloom, and gentle hearts with fear,

When no tidings came from Cartier at the closing of the year.

But the Earth is as the Future, it hath its hidden side ;

And the Captain of St. Mulo was rejoicing in his pride

In the forests of the north— while his townsmen mouru'd his loss,

He was rearing on Mount Royal the Jieur-de-Us and cross;

And when two months were over, and added to the year,

St. Malo hail'd him home again, cheer answering to cheer.

He told them of a region, hard, iron-bound, and cold,
Nor seas of pearl abounded, nor mines of shining gold ;
Where the wind from Thul6 freezes the word upon the lip,
And the ice in spring comes sailing athwart the early ship ;
He told them of the frozen scene until they thrill'd with fear,
And piled fresh fuel on the hearth to make him better cheer.

But when he changed the strain — ^he told how soon is cast

In early spring the fetters that hold the waters fast ;

How the winter causeway broken is drifted out to sea.

And the rills and rivers sing with pride the anthem of the free ;

How the magic wand of summer clad the landscape to his eyes,

Like the dry bones of the just, when they wake in Paradise.

He told them of the Algonquin braves — the hunters of the wild,
Of how the Indian mother in the forest rocks her child ;
Of how, poor souls, they fancy in every living thing
A spirit good or evil, that claims their worshipping ;
Of how they brought their sick and maim'd for him to breathe upon,
And of the wonders wrought for them through the Gospel of St.
John.

He told them of the river whose mighty current gave
Its freshness for a hundred leagues to Ocean's briny wave ;
He told them of the glorious scene presented to his sight,
What time he rear'd the cross and crown on Hochelaga's height,
And of the fortress cliflF that keeps of Canada the key.
And they welcomed back Jacques Cartier from his perils o'er the
sea.

I il

406 Poetical Selections.

THE QUEEN.

From the " Maple Leaf."

Flush'd with a thousand victories,
O'er half the earth her red cross flies j
The diiy's free sunlight never dies

On Britain's world-wide throne ! '

Realms that the Persian never knew,
Waves where Rome's eagle never flew,

Her free dominion own,
From Himalaya's snowy piles,
From green Australia's farthest isles,
Where sweeps the wave round Aden's peak —
Where deep woods shield the vanquish'd Sikh —
Where the wild Cape's gigantic form
Looms through the haze of southern storm ;
Where the old Spanish rock looks down
O'er the blue strait with martial frown ;
Where o'er the western world looks forth
Quchcc, gray fortress of the north ;
Where old St. Lawrence sings and smiles,
Round blue Ontario's thousand isles ;
Where the young queen of inland seas,
Toronto, woos the forest breeze ;
Where the everlasting spray-cloud floats
High o'er Niagara's thunder notes ;
Where Erie spreads his waters fair,
Where white sails gleam on soft St. Clair ;
Where the Great Spirit's islands * rest
Far ofiF on Huron's sunlit breast ;
Where tempests wake Superior's sleep —
Where Oregon looks o'er the deep —

Floats the red cross on high !
And the glad shout of free-born hosts
Echoes from earth's remotest coasts,

" Britain and victory 1" ^ .

'■■ * Not the rich flush of martial light

That gilds thine isle's historic might, ' '
Not the wild breath of battle-horn
From centuries of conquest borne.
Not thy bright roll of champions bravo,
Earth-tramplers — lords of field and wave !

* The Manitoulin Islands.

Poetical Selections,

407

Thine is a nobler fame !
Where foot can press, where wave can roll,
The slave — the captive's withering soul,

Blesses thy honor'd name.
Beautiful on the mountains shine
Their feet who bear the holy sign,
Salvation's banner-cross unfurl'd,
The rainbow of a darken'd world,
Bright harbinger of Mercy — Peace —
Improvement's triumph — Earth's increase —

Glad hearts and firesides free.
Such i/our bright trophies — Christian isles, ,
Fruits of long years of wars and toils,
High o'er red Glory's crimson piles,

'* God's Word and Liberty."

And Thou! upon whose awful breath,
Hang time and empire — -judgment — death —
Before whose throne earth's slaves and kirn's
Alike shall stand, weak suppliant things ;
Father of Him, whose gentle eye
Look'd kind on childhood's purity.
Shield Thou our Queen with strength divine.
Pour blessings on her princely line.

Theirs be Worth— Victory— Might !
Not with red sword and fiery brand.
For shatter'd hearth and wasted land.

Be theirs a nobler fight —
To sway the heart of Christian man,
Lift the red cross in Freedom's van.
Bid Thy pure altars point to heaven,
The chain from slavery's neck be riven.

Let their bright standards fly
On farthest shore and wildest main,
Glad heralds of the angelic strain,
*' Peace upon earth — goodwill to men,

Glory to Thee on high!"

if' X'i

408

Poetical Selections.

t<^' ;

THE FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON I.

(Ibth December, 1840.)

(From the Maple Leaf.)

Cold and brilliant streams the sunlight on the wintry banks of

Seine,
Gloriously the imperial city rears her pride of tower and fane —
Solemnly with deep voice pealeth, Notre Dame,thine ancient chime,
Minute guns the death-bell answer in the same deep measured time.

On the unwonted stillness gather sounds of an advancing host.
As the rising tempest chafeth on St Helen's far-oiF coast ;
Nearer rolls a mighty pageant — clearer swells the funeral strain,
From the barrier arch of Neuilly pours the giant burial train.

Dark with eagles is the sunlight — darkly on the golden air
Flap the folds of faded standards, eloquently mourning there —
O'er the pomp of glittering thousands, like a battle-phantom flits
Tatter'd flag of Jena, Friedland, Areola, and Austerlitz.

Eagle-crown'd and garland-circled, slowly moves the stately car,
'Mid a sea of plumes and horsemen — all the burial pomp of war —
Riderless, a war-worn charger follows his dead master's bier —
Long since battle-trumpet roused him — he but lived to follow here.

From his grave 'mid ocean's dirges, moaning surge and sparkling

foam,
Lo, the Imperial Dead returneth ! lo, the Hero-dust comes home I
He hath left the Atlantic island, lonely vale and willow tree,
'Neath the Invalides to slumber, 'mid the Gallic chivalry.

Glorious tomb o'er glorious sleepers! gallant fellowship to share —
Paladin and Peer and Marshal — France, thy noblest dust is there I
Names that light thy battle annals — names that shook the heart

of earth I •

Stars in crimson War's horizon — synonymes for martial worth I

Room within that shrine of heroes ! place, pale spectres of the paat !
Homage yield, ye battle-phantoms ! Lo, your mightiest comes at

last 1 t

Was Ms course the Woe out-thunder'd from prophetic trumpet's

lips?
Was his type the ghostly horseman shadow'd in the Apocalypse ?

Poetical Selections,

409

Gray-hair'd soldiers gather round him, relics of an age of war,
Followers of »hc Victor-Eagle, when his flight was wild and far :
Men who panted in the death-strife on Rodrigo's bloody ridge,
Hearts that sicken 'd at the death-shriek from the Russian's
shatter' d bridge;

Men who heard the immortal war-cry of the wild Egyptian fight—
" Forty centuries o'erlook us from yon Pyramid's gray height!"
They who heard the moans of Jaffa, and the breach of Acre knew —
They who rush'd their foaming war-steeds on the squares of
Waterloo — •

They who loved him — they who fear'd him — they who in his dark

hour fled —
Round the mighty burial gather, spell-bound by the awful Dead !
Churchmen — Princes — Statesmen — Warriors — all a kingdom's

chief array.
And the Fox stands — crowned Mourner — by the Eagle's hero-clay I

But the last high rite is paid him, and the last deep knell is rung —
And the cannons' iron voices have their thunder-requiem sung —
And, 'mid banners idly drooping, silent gloom and mouldering

state.
Shall the Trampler of the world upon the Judgment-trumpet wait.

Yet his ancient foes had given him nobler monumental pile,
Where the everlasting dirges moan'd around the burial Isle-
Pyramid upheaved by Ocean in his loneliest wilds afar.
For the War-King thunder-stricken from his fiery battle-car I

THE HIGH TIDE.

(On the Coast of Lincolnshire, 1571.)

JEAN INGKLOW. ;

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

"Pull if ye never pulled before;

Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he :

" Play uppe, play uppe, Boston bells I

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

410

Poetical Selections,

W^iA

Men say it was a stolen tydc —

The Lord that sent it, He knows all ;

But in myne ears doth still abide

The message that the bells let fall ; -

And there was nought of strange, bosido

The flights of mews and peewits pied
By millions crouched on the old sea wall.

I sat and spun within the doore.

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

Lay sinking in the barren skies ;
And dark against day's golden death
She moved where Lindis wandereth,

My Sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth.

"Cuslia! Cusha 1 Cusha!" calling,
Ere the early dews were falling,
Farre away I heard her song.
" Cusha! Cusha !" all along;
Where the reedy Lindis floweth,

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

calling,

I J

"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!"

" For the dews will soone be falling ;

Leave your meadow grasses mellow,

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

Hollow, hollow;

Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow,

From the clovers lift your head ;

Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot,

Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow,

Jetty, to the milking shed."

If it be long, ay, long ago.

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

Swift as an arrow, sharpe and strong j
And all the aire, it seemeth mee,
Bin full of floating bells (sayth shee),
That ring the tune of Enderby.

Poetical Selections,

Alio fresh the level pasture lay,
And not a shadowc mote bo seene,

Save where full fyve i>()od miles away
The steeple towered from out the greenc ;

And lo I the <j;reat bell farre and wide

Was heard in all the country side

That Saturday at eventide.

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

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

Till floating o'er the grassy sea

Cume downe that kyndly message free,

The " Brides of Mavis Enderby."

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

To where the goodly vessels lie,

And where the lordly steeple shows.

They sayde, " And why should this thing be?

What danger lowers by land or sea ?

They ring the tune of Enderby !

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

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

I looked without, and lo ! my sonne

Came riding downe with might and main :

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

"Elizabeth! Elizabeth!"

(A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath

Than my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth,)

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

The rising tyde comes on apace,
And boats adrift in yonder towne

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

411

I I; 1

412 Poetical Selections.

" Good sonno, whore Lindis winds away,
With her two bairn.s I marked her long;

And cro yon bells befjjanno to play
Afar I hoard her milking song."

He looked across the grassy lea, /.

To right, to loft, '' IIo Enderby !"

They rang '' The Brides of Enderby 1"

With that ho cried and beat his breast ;

For, lo ! along the river's bed '

A mighty cygrc reared his crest.

And uppe the Lindis raging sped.
It swept with thuH'^erous noises loud;
Shaped liked a curling snow-white cloud,
Or like a demon in a shroud.

And rearing Lindis backward pressed

Shook all her trembling bankes amaine;
Then madly at the eygre's breast

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

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

Before a shallow seething wave

Sobbed in the grasses at oure feet :

The feet had hardly time to flee

Before it brake against the knee,

And all the world was in the sea. ,

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

I marked the lofty beacon light

Stream from the church tower, red and high —

A lurid mark and dread to see ; ,

And awsonie bells they were to mee, ...

That in the dark rang " Enderby."

They rang the sailor lads to guide

From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed ;

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

And yet he moaned beneath his breath,

" come in life, or come in death I

lost I my love, Elizabeth."

Poetical Selectiont.

And didst thou visit him no more ?

Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter dcare
The waters htid thee at his doorc

Ere yet the early dawn was clear.
Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace,
The lifted sun shone on thy face, *

Downe drifted to thy dwelling place.

That flow strewed wrecks about the grass,
That cbbe swept out the flocka to sea ;

A fatal ebbe and flow, alas !

To manye more than myne and me .

But each will mourn his own (she saith).

And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath

Than my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth.

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

Goeth, floweth ;
From the meads where melick groweth,
When the water, winding down,
Onward floweth to the town.

I shall never see her more

Where the reeds and rushes quiver,

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

Mellow, mellow ;
Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow ;
Come uppe, Whitefoot ; come uppe, Lightfoot ;
Quit your pipes of parsley hollow,

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

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

418

41-4

Poetical Selections,

pi^H

TROUBLE YOUR HEAD WITH YOUR OWN AFFAIRS .

ELIZA COOK.

You all know the burden that hangs to my song,

Like the bell of St. Paul's, 'tis a common ding-dong;

I don't go to College for classical tools,

For Appollo has now set up National Schools.

Oh ! mine is a theme you can chant when you may.

Fit for every age and for every day ;

And if rich folks say, " Poor folks, don't give yourselves airs,"

Bid them " trouble their heads with their own affairs."

ijX

Oh ! how hard it appears to leave others alone.

And those with most sin often cast the first stone ;

What missiles we scatter wherever we pass,

Though our own walls are formed of most delicate glass.

Let the wise one in " Nature's walk" pause ere he shoot

At scampering folly in harlequin suit;

He'd find " motley," no doubt, in what he himself wears,

If he'd " trouble his head with his own affairs."

Our acquaintance stand up with reproving advice,
Where the friend of our soul would be sparingly nice ;
But people will see their own farthing-dip shine.
Though they stick it right under a gunpowder mine.
Faults and errors choke up like a snow-storm, I ween,
But we each have a door of our own to sweep clean ;
And 'twould save us a vast many squabbles and cares,
If we'd " trouble our heads with our own affairs."

The " Browns" spend the bettermost part of the day
In watching the " Greens," who live over the way ;
They know about this, and know about that.
And can tell Mr. Green when he has a new hat.
Mrs. Brown finds that Mrs. Green's never at home,
Mrs. Brown doubts how Mrs. Green's money can come;
And Mrs. Brown's youngest child tumbles down-stairs
Through not " troubling her head with her own affairs."

Mr. Figgins, the grocer, with sapient frown.
Is forsaking the counter to go to " the Crown;"
With his grog and his politics, mighty and big,
He raves like a Tory, or swears like a Whig :

Poetical Selections,

415

He discusses the Church, Constitution, and State,
Till his creditors also get up a debate ;
And a plum of rich color is lost to his heirs
Through not " troubling his head with his own afiFairs."

Let a symptom of wooing and wedding be found,
And full soon the impertinent whisper goes round ;
The fortune, the beauty, the means, and the ends.
Are all carefully weighed by our good-natured friends.
*Tis a chance if the lady is perfectly right,
She must be a flirt, if she is not a fright :
Oh, how pleasant 'twould be if the meddlesome bears
Would but " trouble their heads with their own affairs 1"

We are busy in helping the far-away slave —

We must cherish the Pole, for he's foreign and brave ;

Our alms-giving record is widely unrolled —

To the east and the west we send mercy and gold ;

But methinks there are those in our own famous land

Whose thin cheeks might be fattened by Charity's hand ;

And when John Bull is dealing his generous shares,

Let him " trouble his head with his own affairs."

We abuse without limit the heretic one

While he bends to the image, or kneels to the sun ;

We mvst interfere with all other men's creeds,

From the Brahmin's white bull to the Catholic's beads :

But Heaven, like Rome, may have many a road

That leads us direct to the wished-for abode ;

And a wise exhortation, in Christian prayers.

Would be — " Trouble your head with your own affairs."

SELECTION FROM THE PRINCESS.

TENNYSON.

Her voice
Choked, and her forehead sank upon her hands.
And her great heart through all the faultful Past
Went sorrowing in a pause I dared not break ;
Till notice of a change in the dark world
Was lispt about the acacias, and a bird
That early woke to feed her little ones
Sent from a dewy breast a cry for light :
She moved, and at her feet the volume fell.

416

Poetical Selections.

"Blame not thyself too much," I said, " nor blame

Too much the sons of men and barbarous laws ;

These were the rough ways of the world till now.

Henceforth thou hast a helper, me, that know

The woman's cause is man's : they rise or sink

Together, dwarfed or godlike, bond or free :

For she that out of Lethe scales with man

The shining steps of Nature, shares with man

His nights, his days, moves with him to one goal,

Stays all the fair young planet in her hands—

If she be small, slight-natured, miserable,

How shall men grow ? but work no more alone !

Our place is much : as far as in us lies

We two will serve them both in aiding her —

Will clear away the parasitic forms

That seem to keep her up, but drag her down —

Will leave her space to burgeon out of all

Within her — let her make herself her own

To give or keep, to live and learn and be

All that not harms distinctive womanhood.

For woman is not undeveloped man.

But diverse : could we make her as the man.

Sweet love were slain : his dearest bond is this

Not like to like, but like in difference :

Yet in the long years liker must they grow ;

The man be more of woman, she of man ;

He gain in sweetness and in moral height.

Nor lose the wrestling thews that throw the world ;

She mental breadth, nor fail in childward care,

Nor lose the childlike in the larger mind :

Till at the last she set herself to man,

Like perfect music unto noble words ;

And so these twain, upon the skirts of Time,

Sit side by side, full summed in all their powers,

Dispensing harvest, sowing the To-be,

Self-reverent each and reverencing each,

Distinct in individualities.

But like each other even as those who love.

Then comes the statelier Eden back to men :

Then reign the world's great bridals, chaste and calm :

Then springs the crowning race of humankind.

May these things be I"

TH]

Thev will not."

Sighing, she spoke, " I fear

Poetical Selections,

" Dear, but let us type them now
In our own lives, and this proud watchword rest
Of equal ; seeinu; either sex alone
Is half itself, and in true marria<>;e lies
Nor equal, nor unequal : each fulfils
Defect in each, and always thought in thought,
Purpose in purpose, will in will, they grow,
The single pure and perfect animal,
The two-celled heart, beating with one full stroke,
Life."

And again sighing, she spoke : " A dream
That once was mine ! what worn in taught you this ?"

"Alone," I said, "from eirlier than T know,
Immersed in rich foreshadowings of the world,
I loved the'womm : he, that doth not, lives
A drowning life, besotted in sweet self.
Or pines in sad experience worse than death,
Or keeps his winged affections dipt with crime :
Yet was there onj tlirough whom [ loved her, one
Not le irned, save in gracious household ways,
Not perfect, nay, but full of tender wants,
No Angel, but a dearer being, all dipt
In Angel instincts, breathing P.iralise,
Interpreter between the gods and men,
Who looked all native to her place, and yet
On ti[)toe seemed to touch upon a sphere
Too gross to tread, and all nuile minds perforce
Swayed to her from their orbits as they moved
And girdled her with music. Happy he
With such a mother ! faith in worn inkind
Beats with his blood, and trust in all things high
Comes easy to him, and though he trip and fall.
He shall not blind his soul with clay."

417

THE SICILIAN'S TALE— KING ROBERT OF SICILY.

LONGFELLOW.

Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane
And Valmond, Emperor of AUemaine,
Appareled in magnificent attire.
With retinue of many a knight and pquire,.
On St. John's eve, at vespers, proudly sat
And heard the priest chant the Magnificat.

418 Poetical Selections.

And as he listened, o'er and o'er again
Repeated, like a burden or refr.iin, 'r

He caught the words, " Z>c/>osMt7^o<enfe*
De sede, et exaltavit hitmiles ;"
And slowly lifting up his kingly head.
He to a learned clerk beside him said,
" What mean these words?" The clerk made answer meet,
" He has put down the mighty from their seat,
And has exalted them of low degree/' '

Thereat King Robert muttered scornfully,
" 'Tis well that such seditious words are sung
Only by priests and in the liutin tongue :
For unto priests and people be it known,
There is no power can push me from my throne I'*
. And leaning back, he yawned and fell asleep.
Lulled by the chant monotonous and deep.

'i\w'

When he awoke, it was already night ,'
The church was empty, and there was no light.
Save where the lamps, that glimmered few and faint,
Lighted a little space before some saint.
He started from his seat and gazed around.
But saw no living thing and heard no sound.
He groped towards the door, but it was locked ;
He cried aloud, and listened, and then knocked,
. And uttered awful throat jnings and complaints,
And imprecations upon men and saints.
The sounds re-echoed from the roof and walls,
As if dead priests were laughing in tiieir stalls I
At length the sexton, hearing from without
The tumult of the knocking and the shout.
And thinking thieves were in the House of Prayer,
Came with his lantern, asking, " Who is there?"
Half choked with rage, King Robert fiercely said,
*' Open : 'tis I, the King ! Art thou afraid ?"
The frightened sexton, muttering, with a curse,
'" This is some drunken vagabond, or worse,"
Turned the great key and flung the portal wide;
A man rushed by him at a single stride.
Haggard, half naked, without hat or cloak,
Who neither turned, nor looked at him, nor spoke,
But leaped into the blackness of the night.
And vanished like a spectre from his sight.

Poetical Seleetwn$,

Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope UrbaDe
And Yalmond, Emperor of Aliemaine,
Despoiled of his magnifieent attire, >

Bareheaded, breathless, and besprent with mire,
With sense of wrong and outrage desperate,
Strode on and thundered at the palace gate ;
Kushed through the court-yard, thrusting in his rage
To right and left each seneschal and page,
And hurried up the broad and sounding stair,
His white face ghastly in the torches' glare.
From hall to hall he passed with breathless speed ;
Voices and cries he heard, but did not heed,
Until at last he reached the banquet-room.
Blazing with light, and breathing with perfume.
There on the dais sat another king,
Wearing his robes, his crown, his signet-ring,
King Robert's self in features, form, and height^
But all transfigured with angelic light !
It was an Angel ; and his presence there
With a divine effulgence filled the air,
An exaltation, piercing the disguise,
Though none the hidden Angel recognize.

4t9

A moment speechless, motionless, amazed,

The throneless monarch on the Angel gazed.

Who met his looks of anger and surprise >

With the divine compassion of his eyes ;

Then said, " Who art thou ? and why comst thou here ?"

To which King Robert answered, with a sneer, ' /

*' I am the King, and come to claim my own

From an impostor, who usurps my throne I" •

And suddenly at these audacious words.

Up sprang the angry guests, and drew their swords;

The Angel answered, with unruffled brow,

*'Nay, not the King, but the King's jester ; thou I

Henceforth shalt wear the bells and scalloped cape,

And for thy counsellor shalt lead an ape ;

Thou shalt obey my servants when tliey call,

And wait upon my henchmen in the hall 1"

Deaf to King Robert's threats, and cries and prayers,
They thrust him from the hall and down the stairs ;
A group of tittering pages ran before.
And as they opened wide the folding door,

h 1

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420 Poetical Selections,

His heart failed, for he heard, witli strange alarms^
The boisterous laughter of the men-at-arms,
And all the vaulted chamber roar and ring
"With the mock plaudits of " Long live the king."

Next morning, waking with the day's first beam,
Hff 8i»' '. v]thin himself, " It was a dream !"
But the straw rustled as he turned his head,
There were the cap and bells beside his bed,
Around him rose the bare, discolored walls,
Close by, the steeds were champing in their stalls^
And in th;' corner, a revolting shape,
Shiver !jg ai-.'i cijat*;ering sat the wretched ape.
It was no dij ' ; tho world he loved so much
Hid turned to di 5,;. and ashes at his touch !

Da^s camo an ? w^n'. , '.\:>d now returned agaia

To Sicily the old &,itrrc-\: veign ^

Under the Angel's governance benign

The happy Island danced with corn and wine,

And deep within the mountain's burning breast

Enceladus, the giant, was at rest.

Meanwhile, King Robert yielded to his fate,

Sullen, and silent, and disconsolate.

Dressed in the motley garb that jesters wear.

With looks bewildered and a vacant stare.

Close shaven above the ears, as monks are shorn,

By courtiers mocked, by pages laughed to scorn,

His only friend the ape, his only food

What others left, — he still was unsubdued.

And when the Angel met him on his way,

And half in earnest, half in jest would say

Sternly, though tenderly — that he might feel

The velvet scabbard held a sword of steel —

*' Art thou the King ?" the passion of his woe

Burst from him in resistless overflow.

And lifting high his forehead, he would fling

The haughty answer back, " I am, I am tlie King 1"

Almost three years were ended ; when there came

Ambassadors of great repute and name

From Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine,

Unto King Robert, saying that Pope Urbane "r

By letter summoned them forthwith to come

On Holy Thursday to his city of Rome. y

The Angel with great joy received his guests,

Poetical Selections.

421

And gave them presents of embroidered vests,

And velvet mantles with rich ermine lined,

And rings and jewels of the rarest kind.

Then he departed with them o'er the sea ' '"'

Into the lovely land of Italy,

Whose loveliness was more resplendent made

By the mere passing of that civalcade,

With plumes, and cloaks, and housings, and the stir

Of jewelled bridle and of golden spur.

' And lo ! among the menials, in mock stite,
Upon a piebald steed, with shambling gait,
.His cloak of foxtails flapping in the wind.
The solemn ape demurely perched behind,
King Robert rode, making huge merriment
In all the country towns through whi<3h they went.

The Pope received them with great pomp, and blare

Of bannered trumpets, in Saint Peter's square,

Giving his benediction and embrace,

Fervent, and full of apo.'^tolic griice.

While with congratulations and with prayers

He entertained the Angel unawjirea,

Robert, the Je^er, bursting through the crowd,

Into their presence rushed, and cried aloud,

" I am the King ! Look, and behold in me

Robert, your brother, King of Sicily !

This man, who wears my semblance to your eyes,

Is an impostor in a king's disguise.

Do you not know me ? does no voice within

Answer my cry, and say we are akin ?"

The Pope in silence, but with troubled mien.

Gazed at the Angel's countenance serene ;

The Emperor, laughing, said, '" It is strange sport

To keep a madmin for thy Fool at court !"

And the poor, baffled Jester, in disiirace

Was hustled back among the populace.

In solemn state the Holy week went by,
And Easter Sunday gleamed upon the sky ;
The presence of the Angel, with its light,
Before the sun rose, made the city bright.
And with new fervor filled the hearts of men,
Who felt that Christ indeed had risen again.
Even the Jester, on his bed of straw,
With haggard eyes the unwonted splendor saw ;

■P.

Poetical Selections.

W .1

He felt within a power unfelt before,
And, kneeling humbly on his chamber floor,
He heard the mshinur garments of the Lord
Sweep through the silent air, aacending heavenward.

And now the visit ending, and once more

Valmond returning to the Danube's shore.

Homeward the Angel journeyed, and again

The land was made resplendent with his train.

Flashing along the towns of Italy

Unto 8alerno, and from there by sea ;■

And when once more within Palermo's wall.

And, seated on the throne in his great ball,.

He heard the Angehrs from convent towers.

As if the better world conversed with ours,

He beckoned to King Robert to draw nigher,

And with a gesture bade the rest retire ;

And when they were alone, the Angel said^

" Art thou the King ?" Then bowing down his head,

Kii^ Robert crossed both hands upon his breast.

And meekly answered him : " Thou knowest best I

My sins as scarlet are ; let me go hence,

And in some cloister's school of penitence.

Across those stones, that pive the way to heaveo.

Walk barefoot, till my guilty soul is shriven !.'*

The Angel smiled, and from his radiant face;

A holy light illumined all the plaee,

And through the open window, loud and clear.

They heard the monks ch mt in the chapel near.

Above the stir and tumult of the street:

" He has put down the mighty from their seat,

And has exalted them of low degree 1*^'

And through the chant a second melody

Rose like the throbbing of a single string :

" I am an Angel, and thou art the Kingt4'^

King Robert, who was standing near the throne.

Lifted his eyes, and, lo ! he was alone 1

But all appareled as in days of old.

With ermined mantle and with cloth of gold ; '

And when his courtiers came, they found him there

Kneeling upon the floor, absorbed in silent prayer*

Poetical Selectiont,

423

DEATH OF CONSTANCE.

BIH WALTER SCOTT.

Constance— a nun of the Convent of Saint Hilda, in Holy Island— b«8
broken her religious vows of chastity, and the penalty attached to the
offence is ihu3 described in the notes attached to" Marmion :" — "It is well
known that the rolipfjous who brolte their vows of chastity were subjected
to the same i)enalty as the Roman vcstaU in a similar case. A small nicb;?\
sufficient to enclose their bodies^ was ni ide in the massive walls of tne
■convent, a slender pittu ice of food and water was deposited in it, and
the awful words, I'ude in pace,, were the s-ignal for immuring the criminal.
It is not lil<ely that in latter times this punishment was often resorted to;
but among the mrns of the Abbey of Coldingham were some years ago
■discovered the remains of a femiile skeleton, which from the shape of the
niche, and position of the figure, seemed A.o be that of an immured nun.**
In the following powerful description of the judgment and execution of the
wretched Constance, the victim of Lord iMarmion, the unhappy criminal
tells the tale of her own wealcness aid guiltj and betrayal; and in the
subsequent description of the death of Marnium, it is the voice of the
injured Constance that the dying warrior imagines he hears whispering in
bis ear — *^ In the Imt battle borne down by the Jli/ing, v:here mingle war'n
rattle with groans of the dging,^ to. tones that oTerpowered the voice of the
jM-iest.

^HERE, met to doom in secrecy, *

Were placed the heads of convents three:
All servants of Saint Benedict,
^he statutes of whose order strict

On iron table lay ;
In long black dress, on seats of stone,
Behind Were these three judges shown,

By the pale cresset's ray ;
The Abbess of St. Hilda's, there
Sate for a space with visage bare,.
Until, to hide her bosom's swell.
And tear-drops that for pity fell.

She .<;k)SG3y drew her •veil -.
Yon shrouded figure, as I guess,
By her proud mien and flowing dresa,
Is Tynemouth's haughty Prioress, .

And she with awe looks pale :
And he, that Ancient Man, whose sight
, Has long been quenched by age's night,
Upon whose wrinkled brow alone,
. Kor ruth, nor mercy's trace is shown,

Whose look is hard aad «terB,—
Saint Cuthbert's Abbot is his style ;
For sanctity called, through the isle,

The Saint of LiDdi&farne,

■1

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424 Poetical Selections.

Before them stood a guilty pair;
But, thou;;h an cqunl fi»te tliey share,
Yet one alone deserves our care,
Her SOX a page's dress belied ;
The cloak and doublet loosely tied,
Obscured her charms but could not hide.

Her cap down o'er her f;icu she drew ;
And, on her doublet brejist^

She tried to hide the badge of blue.
Lord Marniion's falcon-crest.
But, at the Prioress' command,
A monk undid the silken band

That tied her tresses fair,
And raised tlie bonnet from her head.
And down her slender form they spread.

In ringlets rich and rare,
Constance de Beverley they know,
Sister professed of Fontevraud,
Whom the Church numbered with the dead.
For broken vows^ and convent fled>

When thus her f^ice was given to vieWy
(Although so pallid was her hue,.
It did a ghastly contrast bear,.
To those bright ringlets glistering fair,)
Her look composed, and steady eye,*
Bespoke a mntchless constancy ;
' And there she stood so Citlm and pale,.

That, but her breathing did not fail„
And motion slight of eye and head.
And of her bosom, warranted
That neither sense nor pulse she lacks,
You might have thouuht a form of wax.
Wrought to the very life, w:is there ;
So still she was, so pale, so fair..

And BOW that blin-d old Abbot rose,,

To speak the Chapter'"s doom.
On those the wall was to enclose!,,

Alive, within the tomb ;
But stopped, because that woful maid,
Gathering her powers, to speak essayed ;
Twice she essayed, and twice in vain.
Her acceiits might no utterance gain ;

Poetical Selections.

425

Nought but imperfect murmurs slip
From her convulsed and quiverinu; lip :
'Twixt Ciich attempt all was so ^itill,
You seemed to hear a dist int rill —

*TwaH oceaJi's swells and falls ;
For though this vault of sin and fear
Was to the sounding surge so near, !
A tempest there you scarce could hear,

So massive were the walls.

At length, an efiFort sent apart

The blood that curdled to her heart,

And light came to her eye,
And color dawned upon her cheek,
A hectic and a flutUTed streak,
Like that left on the Cheviot peak

By Autumn's stormy sky ;
And when her silence broke at length,
Still as she spoke, she gathered strength,

And armed hert>elf to bear.
It was a fearful sight to see
Such high resolve and constancy,

In form so soft and fair.

" I speak not to implore your grace ;
Well know I, for one minute's space

Successless might I sue :
Nor do I speak your prayers to gain ;
For if a death of lingering pain.
To cleanse my sins, be penance vain,

Vain are your masses too. —
I listened to a traitor's tale,
I left the convent and the veil,
For three long years I bowed my pride,
A horse-boy in his train to ride ;
And well my folly's meed he gave,
Who forfeited, to be his slave.
All here, and all beyond the grave. —
He saw young Clara's face more fair,
He knew her of broad lands the heir.
Forgot his vows, his faith forswore.
And Constance was beloved no more.

'Tis an old tale, and often told ]

' E

Uti-

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426 Poetical Selections*

But did my fate and wish a^j^reo,
Ne'er had been read, in wtory old,
Of muiden true betrayr d for K^ld,

Titut loved, or was avenged, like mo i

*' And now my tonf»ue the secret tells.
Not that remorse my bosom swells,
But to assure my soul, that none
Shall ever wed with Marmion.
Had fortune my last hope betrayed,
This packet, to the kinfj; conveyed,
Had ;;iven him to the headsman's stroke,
Althou<,i:h my heart that instant broke. —
Now, men of death, Work forth your will,
For I can suffer, and be still ;
And come he slow, or come he fast,
It is but death who comes at last.

" Yet, dre.id me, from my living? tomb,

Ye vassal slaves of bloody Rome I

If Marmion's late remorse should wake,

Full soon such ven<'jeance will he take.

That you shall wish the fiery Dane

Had rather been your guest again.

Behind, a darker hour ascends !

The altrirs quake, the crosier bends,

The ire of a despotic king

Hides forth upon destruction's wing ;

Then shall these vaults, so strong and deep,

Burst open to the sea-winds' sweep ;

Some traveller then shall find my bones,

Whitening amid disjointed stones.

And, ignorant of priests' cruelty,

Marvel such reliques here should be," —

Fixed was her look, and stern Tier air;

Back from her shoulders streamed her hair ;

The locks, that wont her brow to shade.

Stared up erectly from her head ;

Her figure seemed to rise more high ; - '

Her voice, despair's wild ener.'y

Had given a tone of prophecy.

Appalled the astonished conclave sate;

With stupid eyes, the men of fate

Gazed on the light inspire form.

And listened for the ftvenging storm

Poetical SelectioM.

The judges felt the victim's dread ;
No hand was moved, no word was said,
Till thus the Abbot's doom was given,
Baising his sightless balls to heaven : —
" Sister, let thy sorrows cease ;
Sinful brother, part in peace!" —
From that dire dungeon, place of doom,
Of execution too, and tomb, ^^

Paced forth the judges three ;
Sorrow it were, and shame, to tell
The butcher-work thut there befell.
When they had glided from the cell

Of sin and misery.

An hundred winding steps convey
That conclave to the upper day ;
But, ere they breathed the fresher air,
They heard the ehriekings of despair,

And many a stifled groan :
With speed their upwurd way thoy take,
(Such speed as age and fear ciu make,)
And crossed themselves for terror .-( sake,

As, hurrying, tottering on ;
Even in the vesper's heavenly tone,
They seemed to hear a dying groan.
And bade the passing knell to toll
For welfare of a parting soul.
Slow o'er the midnight wave it swung,
Northumbrian rocks in answer rung ;
To Warkworth cell the echoes rolled.
His beads the wakeful hermit told ;
The Bamborough peasant raised his head,
But slept ere half a prayer he said ;
So far was heard the mighty knell,
The stag sprung up on Cheviot Fell,
Spread his broad nostril to the wind,
Listed before, aside, behind ;
Then couched him down beside the hind,
And quaked among the mountain fern.
To hear that sound so dull and stern, a

42T

428

Poetical Selections,

BATTLE OF FLODDEN AND DEATH OF MARMION.

lii

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

Lord Marmion is escorting the Lady Clare to Lord Surrey's camp, when
he comes in view of Flodden Fi id. Tlie liostile forces oif England and
Scotland are already in motion, and the battle has begun. Marmion,
burning to take his place i i the c mflict, leaves the Lady Clare in the
charge of two attendants, Blount and Eustace, and then dashes onward to
Lord Surrey's tent. The descrijition of the biitle follows — the struggle of
the contending hosts, the clang of arms, the shouts and war-cries of the
English and the Scotch, mingling with the groans of the dying, and all the
excitement and hurry and confiision of battle, are admirably portrayed.
Clare, guarded by Blount and Eustace, beholds the dre id siglit. Eustace,
unable to repress his thirst for b ittle, le ives Clare and plunges into the fight.
Then a wounded knight is home to the hill o i which she stands, and the de-
scription of Marmion's deaih follows. Tlie death of Co'ista ice is well adapted
as a reading for a 1 idy possi'ssing t'-agc power of conc:'ption and delivery ;
but the tumult and exciieme it of battle are more fitted for masculine
energy and voice. The battle of Flodden Field was fought between the
English and Scotch. Tim Knglish were victorious — the Scottish king,
James IV., and the flower of his nobility, perishing after a brave but ineffec-
tual conflict. Lord Marmion is an English nobleman — brave and chivalrous,
but reckless and unprincipled.

Blount and Fitz-Eustace rested still *
With Lady Clare upon the hill;
On which (for far the day was spent) ' '
The western sunbeams now were bent.
The cry they heard, its meanintj; knew,
Could plain their distant comrades view :
Sadly to Blount did Eusttce say, ]

" Unworthy office here to stay ! "'••■ ; '

No hope of f];ilded spurs to-day. — • •

But, see ! look up— on Flodden bent,
The Scottish foe has fired his tent,"— •

And sudden, as he spoke, • *

From the sharp iidf]jes of the hill,
All downward to the Banks of Till,

Was wreathed in sable smoke ; ' »

Volumed and fast, and rollins; far,
The cloud enveloped Scotland's wn ,

As down the hill they broke ; , »

Nor martial shout, nor minstrel tone,
Announced their march ; their tread alone,
At times one warning trumpet blown,

At times a stifled hum,
Told England, from his mountain-throne

King James did rusliing come. —

Poetical Selections,

429

RMION.

amp, when

gland and

Marmion,

[are in the

onward to

struggle of

ries of the

and all the

portrayed.

Eu3tace,

to the fight.

and the de-

rell adapted

id delivery;

• masculine

)etween the

)tti3h king,

but ineffec-

i chivalrous,

Scarce could they hear, or see their foes,
Until at weapon point they close. —
Thoy close, in clouds of smoke and dust,
With sword-sway, and with lance's thrust ;

And such a yell was there,
Of sudden and portentous birth,
As if men fought upon the earth,

And fiends in upper air.
0, life and death were in the shout.
Recoil and rally, charge and rout,

And triumph and despair.
Long looked the anxious squires ; their eye
Could in the darkness nought descry.

■ m

At length the freshening western blast *
Aside the shroud of battle cast;
And, first, the ridge of mingled speara
Above the brightiining cloud appears; ;
And in the smoke the pennons flew, '■.

As in the storm the white sea-mew.
Then marked they, dashing broad and far,
The broken billows of the war,
And plam<^d crests of chieftains brave, '
Floating like foam upon the wave ; ,

But nought distinct taey see :
Wide raged the battle on the plain ;
Sj ears shook ; and lalchions flashed amain;
Fell Eufi'iand s arrow-flight like rain :
Crests rose and stooped, and rose again,

Wild and disorderly. ,

Amid the scene of tumult, high.
They saw Lord Marmiou's falcon fly:
And stainless Tunstall's banner white,
And Edmund Howard's lion J[)righr,
Still bear them bravely in the fight;

Although against tiium come, k

Of gallant Gordons niiny a one,
And many a stubborn lliglilandman,
i\nd many a rugged Border clan.

With Huntly, and with Home.

Far on the left, unseen the while,
Stanley broke Lennox and Argyle ;
Though there the western mountaine'^r
Rushed with bare bosom on the spear.

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430 Poetical Selectiom.

And flung the feeble targe aside,
And with both hands the broadsword plied :
'Twa« vain. — But Fortune, on the rijrht,
With fickle smile, cheered Scotland's fight.
Then fell that spotless banner white,

The Howard's lion fell ;
Yet still Lord Marmion's falcon flew
With wavering flight, while fiercer grew

Around the battle-yell. • '

The Border slogan rent the sky : *-

A Home ! a Gordon 1 was the cry ;

Loud were the claliging blows ;
Advanced, — forced back, — now low, now high^

The pennon sunk and rose ;
As bends the bark's mast in the gale,
When rent are rigging, shrouds, and sail.

It wavered 'mid the foes.
No longer Blount the view could bear :
" By heaven, and all its saints ! I swear,

I will not see it lost !
Fitz-Eustace, you with Lady Clare
May bid your beads, and patter prayer, —

I gallop to the host."
And to the fray he rode amain.
Followed by all the archer train.
The fiery youth, with desperate charge,
Made, for a space, an opening large, —

The rescued banner rose, —
But darkly closed the war around.
Like pine-tree, rooted from the ground, '

It sunk among the foes.
Then Eustace mounted too;— yet stayed,
As loath to leave the helpless maid,

When, fast a« shaft can fly,
Blood-shot his eyes, his nostrils spread,
The loose rein dangling from his head,
Housing and saddle bloody red,

Lord Marmion's steed rushed by ;
And Eustace, maddening at the sight,

A look and sign to Clara cast.

To mark he would return in haste,
Then plunged into the fight.

With that, straight up the hill there rode,
Two horsemen drenched with genre,

Poetical Selections.

481

And in their arms, a helpless load,

A wounded knight they bore.
His hand still strained the broken brand ;
His arms were smeared with blood and sand.
Dragged from among the horses' feet,
With dented shield, and helmet beat,
The falcon-crest and plumage gone,
Can that be haughty Marmion ! . , , .

When, doffed his casque, he felt free air,
Around 'gan Marmion wildly stare : —
" Where's Harry Blount? Fitz-Eustace, where ?
Linger ye here, ye hearts of hare I
Redeem my pennon, — charge itgain ;
Cry — ' iMarmion to the rescue !' — Vain !
Last of my race, on battle-plain
That shout shall ne'er be heard again ! —
Yet my last thought is England's : — fly,
To Dacre bear my signet-ring ;
Tell him his squadrons up to bring. —
Fitz-Eustace, to Lord Sjarrey hie :
Tunstall lies dead upon the field ;
His life-blood stains the spotless shield :
Edmund is down ; — my life is reft ; —
The Admiral alone is left.
Let Stanley charge with spur of fire. —
With Chester charge, and Lancashire,
Full upon Scotland's central host,
Or victory and England 's lost. —
Must I bid twice ? — hence, varlets ! fly I
Leave Marmion here alone — to die." —
They parted, and alone he lay;
Clare drew her from the sight away,
Till pain wrung forth a lowly moan,
And half he murmured, — " Is there none,

Of all my halls have nursed,
Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bring
Of blessM water from the spring,
To slake my dying thirst ?" —

0, woman ! in our hours of ease,
Uncertain, coy, and hard to please.
And variable as the shade
By the light quivering aspen made ;

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482 Poetical Selections.

When pain and anguish wring the brow
A ministaring angel thou ! —
Scarce were the piteous accents said,
When, with the Baron's c.tsque, the maid

To the nigh streamlet ran:
Forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears;
The plaintive voice alone she hears,

Sees but the dying man. ,

She stooped her by the runnel's side,

But in abhorrence btckward drew,
For, oczing from the mountain's side, '
Where raged the war, a dark red tide
• . Was curdling in the streamlet blue.

Where shall she turn ? — behold her mark

A little fountain cell,
Where water, clear as diamond-spark,

In a stone basin fell. '
Above, some half-worn letters say,

** gtiufe ♦ wcat« . pilflvim . dvinh . and . jrtJtj}
Jo« . the . hind . isioul . o( , ^ybil (Svay .
^i'ha ♦ built . ihisi » uofi^ . and . aril/'

She filled the helm, and back she hied.
And with surprise and joy espied

A monk supporting Marmion's head; ,
A pious man, whom duty brought ^,
To dubious verge of battle fought.

To shrive the dying, bless tne dead.

Deep drank Lord larmion of the wave,
And as she stooped his brow to lave —
" Is it the hand of Clare," he said,
" Or injured Constance, bathes my head?"

Then as remembrance ri se, —
" Speak not to me of shril't or prayer I

I must redress her woes.
Short space, few words, are mine to spare ;
Forgive and listen, gentle Clare !" —

" Alas !" she said ''the Avhile — ; '
think of your immortal weal!
In vain for Constance is your zeal ; * "

She died at Holy Isle."—

Lord Maruiion started from the ground ;
As light as if he felt no wound ;
Though in the action burst the tide.
In torrents from his wounded side.

Poetical Selections, 468

" Then it was truth !" — he said — " I knew
That the dark presage must be true —

I would the Fiend, to whom belongs

The vengeance due to all her wrongs,
Would spare me but a day !

For wasting fire, and dying groan, '■

And priests slain on the alttir-stone, * • '
Might bribe him for delay. r

It may not be 1 — this dizzy trance — •
Curse on yon base marauder's lance.
And doubly cursed my failing brand ! > >

A sinful heart makes feeble hand." — • '

Then, fainting down on earth he sunk, '

Supported by the trembling monk. • :

With fruitless labor, Clara bound

And strove to stuncli the gushing wound

The monk, with unavailing cares, . i

Exhausted all the Church's prayers;

Ever, he said, that, close and near,

A lady's voice was in his ear, ; , . .

And that the priest he could not hear, , ■ ,

For that she ever sung,
** In the lost battle, home down hy thejlt/ing,
Where mingles war's rattle with groans of the dying /"

So the notes rung;
" Avoid thee. Fiend ! — with cruel hand.
Shake not the dying sinner's sand I —
O, look, my son, upon yon sign <>

Of the Redeemer's grace divine ; , r-

think on faith and bliss 1 —
By many a death-bed I have been,
And many a sinner's parting seen, <

But never aught like this." —
The war, that for a space did fail.
Now, trebly thundering, swelled the gale.

And — Stanley ! was the cry : —
A light on Marmion's visage spread.

And fired his glazkig eye : ,'

With dying hand, above his head,
He shook the fragment of his blade.

And shouted " Victory, —
Charge, Chester, charge ! On, Stanley, on!"
Were the last words of Marmion.

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484 Poetical Selections.

LADY GODIVA.

TENNYSON.

/ waited /or the train at Coventry ;
I hung with grooms and porters on the bridge,
To watch the three tall spires; and there I shaped
The city's ancient legend into this : —

Not only we, the latest seed of Time,
New men, that in the flying of a wheel
Cry down the past, not only we, that prate
Of rights and wrongs, have loved the people well,
And loathed to see them overtax 'd ; but she
I)id morp -im underwent, and overcame,
The ^oman of a thousand summers back,
Gor'iva, wife to that grim Earl, who ruled
Ir Coventry : for when he laid a tax
Upon his town, and all the s mothers brought
Their children, clamoring ' If we pay, we starve !"
She sought her lord, and iound him, where he strode
About the hall, among his dogs, alone.
His beard a foot before him, and his hair
A yard behind. She told him of their tears,
And pray'd him, " If they pay this tax, they starve."
Whereat he stared, replying, half-amazed,
*' You would not let your little finger ache
For such as these?" — '' But I would die," said she.
He laugh'd, and swore by Peter and by Paul :
Then fillip'd at the diamond in her ear;
" ay, ay, ay, you talk !" — " Al.is !" she said,
" But prove me what it is I would not do."
And from a heart as rough as Esau's hand.
He answer 'd, " Ride you naked thro' the town,
And I repeal it;" and nodding, as in scorn.
He parted, with great strides among his dogs.

So left alone, the passions of her mind.
As winds from all the compass shift and blow,
M.de war upon each other for an hour.
Till pity won. She sent a h«rald forth.
And bade him cry, with sound of trumpet, all
The hard condition ; but that she would loose
The people: therefore, as they loved her well,
From then till noon no foot should pace the street,
tin eye look down, she passing ; but that all
Should keep within, door shut, and window barr'd.

Poetical Selections,

485

Then fled she to her inmost bower, and there
Unclasp'd the wedded eagles of her belt,
The grim Earl's gift; but ever at a breath
She linger'd, looking like a summer moon
Half-dipt in cloud : anon she shook her head.
And shower'd the rippled ringlets to her knee ;
Unclad herself in haste ; adown the stair
Stole on ; and, like a creeping sunbeam, slid
From pillar unto pillar, until she reach'd
The gateway ; there she found her palfrey trapt
In purple blazon'd with armorial gold.

Then she rode forth, clothed on with chastity ; '
The deep air listen'd round her as she rode,
And all the low wind hardly breathed for fear.
The little wide-mouth 'd heads upon the spout
Had cunning eyes to see : the barking cur
Made her cheek flame : her palfrey's footfall shot
Light horrors thro' her pulses : the blind walls
Were full of chinks and holes; and overhead
Fantastic gables, crowding stared ; but she
Not less thro' all bore up, till, last, she saw
The white-flower'd elder-thicket from the field
Gleam thro* the Gothic archways in the wall.

Then she rode back, clothed on with chastity :
And one low churl, compact of thankless earth,
The fatal byword of all years to come,
Boring a little auger-hole in fear,
Peep'd — but his eyes, before they had their will,
Were shrivell'd into darkness in his head,
And dropt before him. So the Powers, who wait
On noble deeds, cancell'd a sense misused ;
And she, that knew not, pass'd : and all at once.
With twelve great shocks of sound, the shameless noon
Was clash 'd and hammer'd from a hundred towerp,
One after one : but even then she gain'd
Her bower; whence re-issuing, robed and crown'd,
To meet her lord, she took the tax away,
And built herself an everlasting name.

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436 Poetical Seleoti<m»,

PARADISE AND THE PERI.

TB0MA8 MOORB.

This is one of the beautiful tales of "Lai la Rookh"bv Thomas Moore, the
Irish poet. The Peri belongs to an offending and mllen race of spirits
banished from heaven. She stands disconsolate at the gate of Eden and
sighs for its lost joys :

" Go wing thy flight from star to star,
From world to luminous world, as for '

As the universe spreads it;- flaming wall;
Take all the pleasures of all the spheres,
And multiply each through endless years, .

One minute of heaven is worth them all l"

The glorious angel who was keeping the Gates of Light beheld the Peri
weeping, and, pitying her, said —

" One hope is thine.
'Tis written in the Book of Fate , ^ .'

The Peril/ et may he forgiven '

Who brings to this Eternal Gate

The gift that is most dear to Heaven I
Go seek it, and redeem thy sin —
'Tis sweet to let the pardoned in." v .' ,

The Peri, full of joy and hope, flies to seek the great treasure which shall
open to her the gates of bliss. Slae beholds a youthful warrior struggling
in vain to save his country. He perishes heroically, refusing life and
honors oflFered hira by the conqueror. The Peri caught the last glorious
drop his heart had shed, to bear it an offering most dear to Heaven.

" But See — alas ! the crystal bar
Of Eden moves not — holier far
Than even this drop the boon must be.
That opes the gates of heaven for thee."

The Peri again goes forth and wanders through many a gorgeous scene
of Oriental beauty in vain search for the priceless gift. The following
selection shows how she finally succeeds :

But nought can charm the luckless Peri ;

Her soul is sad — her wings are weary —

Joyless she sees the sun look down

On that great Temple once his own,*

Whose lonely columns stand sublime, ,

Flinging their shadows from on high
Like dials, which the wizard Time,

Had raised to count his ages by I

The Temple of the Sun at Balbec.

iOBE,the
f spirits
dea and

L the Peri

bich shall

Iruggling

life and

it glorious

20U8 scene
following

Poetical Selectiont,

Yet haply there may lie concealed

Beneath those chambers of the Sun,
Some amulet of gems annealed
In upper fires, some tablets sealed
With the great name of Solomon,
Which, spelled by her illumined eyes,
May teach her where, beneath the moon,
In earth or ocean, lies the boon,
The charm that can restore so soon
An erring spirit to the skies.

Cheered by this hope she bends her thither ;

Still laughs the radiant eye of Heaven,

Nor have the golden bowers of Even
In the rich west begun to wither ; —
When o'er the vale of Balbec wini'injj

Slowly, she sees a child at play,
Among the rosy wild flowers singing,

As rosy and as wild as they ;
Chasing, with eager hands and eyes,
The beautiful blue damsel — flies.
That flutter'd round the jasmine stems, -
Like winged flowers or flying gems ; —
And near the boy who, tired with play
Now nestling 'mid the roses lay,
She saw a wearied man dismount

From his hot steed, and on the brink
Of a small imaret's rustic fount

Impatient fling him down to drink.
Then swift his haggard brow he turned

To the fair child who fearless sat.
Though never yet hath day-beam burned

Upon a brow more fierce than that, —
Sullenly fierce — a mixture dire,
Like thunder-clouds of gloom and fire ;
In which the Peri's eye could read
Dark tales of many a ruthless deed :
The ruined maid — the shrine profaned —
Oaths broken — and the threshold stained
With blood of guests I — there, written, all,
Black as the damning drops that fall
From the denouncing Angel's pen.
Ere Mercy weeps them out again.

437

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488

Poetical Seleetions,

Yet tranquil now that man of crime
(As if the balmy evening time
Softened his spirit) looked and lay,
Watching the rosy infant's play: —
Though still, whene'er his eye by chance
Fell on the boy's, its lurid glance

Met that unclouded, joyous gaze,
As torches that have burnt all night
Through some impure and godless rite,

Encounter morning's glorious rays.

But, hark f the vesper call to prayer.

As slow the orb of daylight sets,
Is rising sweetly on the air, ,,.

From Syria's thousand minarets I
The boy has started from the bed
Of flowers where he had laid his head,
And down upon the fragrant sod

Kneels, with his forehead to the south.
Lisping the eternal name of God

From Purity's own cherub mouth,
And looking, while his hands and eyes
Are lifted to the glowing skies.
Like a stray babe of Paradise,
Just lighted on that flowery plain,
And seeking for its home again.
Oh f 'twas a sight — that heaven — that child-
A scene which might have well beguiled
Even haughty Eblis of a sigh
For glories lost and peace gone by I

And how felt he, the wretched man,
Reclining there — while memory ran
O'er many a year of guilt and strife,
Flew o'er the dark flood of his life, w

Nor found one sunny resting-place.
Nor brought him back one branch of grace.
" There was a time," he said, in mild
Heart-humbled tones, — " thou blessed child !
When, young, and haply pure as thou,
I looked and prayed like thee — but now " —
He hung his head — each nobler aim.
And hope and feeling, which had slept
From boyhood's hour, that instant came
Fresh o'er him^ and he wept — he wept I

Poetical Sehetiont. 480

Blest tears of soul-felt penitence I

In whose benip;n redeeming flow
Is felt the first, the only sense

Of guiltless joy that guilt can know.

** There's a drop" said the Peri, " that dowo from the moon

Falls through the withering airs of June

Upon Egypt's land,* of so healing a power,

So balmy a virtue, that e'en in the hour

That drop descends, cont igion dies,

And health reanimutes earth and skies ;^

O ! is it not thus thou man of sin

The precious tear? of repentance fall ?
Though foul thy fie;^ plagues within,

One heavenly drop hath dispelled them all!"

And now behold him kneeling there

By the child's side, in humble pr lyer,

While the same sunbeam shines upon

The guilty and the guiltless one.

And hymns of joy proclaim through heaven

The triumph of a soul forgiven !

'Twas when the golden orb had set.

While on their knees they lingered yet,

There fell a light more lovely far .

Than ever came from sun or star

Upon the tear that, warm and meek.

Dewed that repentant sinner's cheek.

To mortal eye this light might seem

A northern flash of meteor beam —

But well the enraptured Peri knew ;

'Twas a bright smile the angel threw

From heaven's gate to hail that tear,

Her harbinger of glory near 1

" Joy, joy forever ! my task is done —
The gates are passed, and heaven is won 1
Oh ! am I not happy ? — I am, I am —

To thee, sweet Eden ! how dark and sad
Are the diamond turrets of Shadukiam

And the fragrant bowers of Amberabad !

* The nucla, or miraculous drop, which falls in Egypt oq St. John's daj in
June, 13 supposed to have the effect of stopping the plague.

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440

Poetical Seleotion$,

Farewell, yc odors of earth, that die,
Paswiii^ away like a lover's sigh ; —
My feast is uow of the Tooba Tree,*
Whose scent is the breath of eternity I
Farewell yo vanish iiijj; flowers, that shone

In my fairy wreath so brij^ht and brief: —
Oh ! what are the brif^htest that e'er have blown,
To the Lote-troo f spriu^Mnjj; by Alla's throne,

Whose flowers have a no id in every leaf I
Joy, joy forever! my task is dune —
The gates are passed, and heaven is won 1" , ,

, )

KING ARTHUR AND QUEEN G7INEVERE. •

TINNYSON.

The *' Idyls op the Kino" is a poem consisting of four tales, three of
which are derived from tlie legendary history of King Arthur and his
Kuights of the Round Table. This extract is taken from th« Fourth Idyl,
and represents the Inst interview between the Kin^ and Queen Guinevere,
who is atung with remorse for her guilty love of Sir Lancelot.

But when the Queen immersed in such a trance, ^

And moving through the past unconsciously,

Came to that point, when first she saw the King

Ride toward her from the city, sighed to find

Her journey done, glanced at him, thought him cold.

High, self-contained, and passionless, not like him,

" Not like my Lancelot" — while she brooded thus

And grew half-guilty in her thoughts again,

There rode an armed warrior to the doors.

A murmuring whisper through the nunnery ran.

Then on a sudden a cry, " The King." She sat

StiflF-stricken, listening ; but when armed feet

Through the long gallery from the outer doors

Rang coming, prone from off her seat she fell.

And grovelled with her face against the floor :

There with her milk-white arms and shadowy hair

She made her face a darkness from the Kin<

•*.i

♦ The tree Tooba that stands in Paradise in the palace of Mahomet.
Tooba signifies beatitude, or eternal happiness.

t Mahomet is described, in the 53rd chapter of the Koran, as having seen
the Angel Gabriel " by the Lote-tree, beyond which there is no passing ;
near it is the garden of Eternal Abode." This tree, say the commentators,
ston4« in the seventh heaven, on the right hand of the Throne of God.

Poetical Selectiom,

441

, three of
r and his
urth Idyl,
Suinevere,

And in the darkness heard his armed foot

Pause by her ; then ouiue silence, then a voice,

Monotonous and hollow like a ghost's

Denouncing judgment, but though changed, the King's.

*' Liest tliou hero so low, the child of ono
I honored, happy, dead before thy shame ?
Well is it that no child is born of thee.
The children born of thee arc sword and fire, -
Red ruin and the breaking up of laws,
The craft of kindred and the godless hosts
Of heathen ijwarming o'er the Northern Sea.

T^ "K 1* ' ' V

And of this remnant will I leave a part, ' '

True men, who love me still, for whom I live.

To guard thee in the wild hour coming on.

Lest but a hair of this low head be harmed.

Fear not: thou shalt be guarded till my death. \'

Howbeit, I know, if ancient prophecies

Have erred not, that I march to meet my doom.

Thou hast not made my life so sweet to me,

That I the King should greatly care to live ; '

For thou hast spoilt the purpose of my life.

Bear with me for the last time while I show,

Even for thy sake, the sin which thou hast sinned."

* * * ^ ,

He paused, and in the pause she crept an inch
Nearer, and laid her hands about his feet.
Far off a solitary trumpet blew. ' " . . v

Then waiting by the doors the war-horse neighed,
As at a friend's voice, and he spake again :

Mahomet.

(ring seen
passing ;
entators,
Kod.

" Yet think not that I come to urge thy crimes ;
I did not come to curse thee, Guinevere,
I, whose vast pity almost makes me die
To see thee, laying there thy golden head, .. »'

My pride in happier summers, at my feet.
T y wrath which forced my thoughts on that fierce law,
T ^ doom of treason and the flaming death,
r hen first I learnt thee hidden here), is past.

\e pang — which while I weighed thy heart with one
'J wholly true to dream untruth in thee,
It^ade my tears burn — is also past, in part.

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442 Poetical Selections.

And all is past, the sin is sinned, and I,
Lo ! I forgive thee as Eternal God
Forgives : do thou for thine own soul the rest.
But how to take last leave of all I loved !
- golden hair, with which I used to play,
Not knowing I in.perial-moulded form.
And beauty such aj never woman wore,
Until it came a kingdom's curse with thee.

My love through flesh hath wrought into my life

So far, that my doom is, I love tliee still.

Let no man dream but that I love thee still.

Perchance, and so thou purify thy soul,

And so thou lean on our fair father Christ,

Hereafter in that world where all are pure

We two may meet before high God, and thou

Wilt spring to me, and claim me thine, and know

I am thine husband — not a smaller soul.

Nor Lancelot, nor another. Leave me that,

I charge thee, my last hope. Now must I hence.

Through the thick n' ;ht I hear the trumpet blow:

They summon me their King to lead mine hosts

Far down to that great battle in the west.

Where I must strike against my sister's son,

Leagued with the lords of the White Horse and knights

Once mine, and strike him dead, and meet myself

Death, or I know not what mysterious doom.

And thou remaining here wilt learn the event j

But hither shall I never come again,

Never lie by thy side, see thee no more, —

Farewell!"

And while she grovelled at his feet
She felt the King's breath wander o'er her neck,
And, in the darkness, o'er her fallen head
Perceived the wavinj? of his hands that blest.

U*'.\

Then listening till those armed steps were gone,
Rose the pale Queen, and in her anguish found
The casement : " Perad venture," so she thought,
" If I might see his face, and not be seen."
And, lo, he sat on horseback at the door !
And near him the sad nuns with each a light
Stood, and he gave them charge about the Queen,
To guard and foster her for evermore.

Poetical Selections, 448

And while be spake to these his helm was lowered,
To which for crest the golden dragon clung
Of Britain; so she did not see the face,
Which then was as an angel's, but she saw,
Wet with the mists and smitten by the lights,
The Driigon of the great Pendragonship
Blaze, making all the night a steam of fire.
And even then he turned ; and more and more
The moony vapour rolling round the King,
Who seemed the phantom of a giant in it,
Enwound him fold by fold, and made him grey
And greyer, till himself became as mist
Before her moving ghost-like to his doom.

Then she stretched out her arms and cried aloud,
" Arthur !" there her voice brake suddenly ;
Then — as a stream that spouting from a cliff
Fails in mid air, but gathering at the base
Ke-makes itself, and flashes down the vale —
Went on in passionate utterance.

" Gone — my lord
Gone through my sin to slay and to be slain !
And he forgave me, and I could not speak.
Farewell ! I should have answered his farewell.
His mercy choked me. Gone, my lord th«; King,
My own true lord ! — how dare I call him mine ?
The shadow of another cleaves to me,
And makes me one pollution : he, the King
Called me polluted: shall I kill myself?
What help in that ? I cannot kill my sin.
If soul be soul ; nor can I kill my shame ;
No, nor by living can I live it down.
The days will grow to weeks, the weeks to months.
The mouths will add thenisolvis and make the years.
The years will roll into the centuries.
And mine will ever be a name of scorn.
I must not dwell on that defeat of fame.
Let the world be ; that is but of the world.
What else ? what hope ? I think there was a hope.
Except he mocked me when he spake of hope ;
His hope he called it ; but he never mocks,
For mockery is the fume of little hearts.
And blessed be the King, who hath forgiven
My wickednesb to him, and left me hope
That in mine own heart I can live down sin

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444 Poetical Selections.

And be his mate hereafter in the heavens
Before high God. Ah, great and gentle lord,
Who wast, as is the conscience of a saint
Among his warring senses, to thy knights —
To whom my false, voluptuous pride, that took
Full easily all impressions from below,
Would not look up, or half-despised the height
To which I would not or I could not climb—
I thought I could not breathe in that fine air,
That pure severity of perfect light —
I wanted warmth and colour which 1 found
In Lancelot — now I see thee what thou art,
Thou art the highest and most human too,
Not Lancelot, nor another. Is there none
Will tell the King I love him though so late ?
Now — ere he goes to the great battle ? none :
Myself must tell him in that purer life.
But now it were too daring. Ah, my God,
What might I not have made of thy fair world.
Had I but loved thy highest creature here ?
It was my duty to have loved the highest :
It surely was my profit had I known :
It would have been my pleasure had I seen.

SPEECH OF BELIAL IN COUNCIL.

MILTON.

t;:|i

III

On the other side uprose
Belial, in act more graceful and humane ;
A fairer person lost not Heaven ; he seemed
For dignity composed and high exploit :
But all was false and hollow ; though his tongue
Dropped manna, and could make the worse appear
The better reason to perplex and dash
Maturest counsels ; for his thoughts were low ;
To vice industrious, but to nobler deeds
Tim'rous and slothful : yet he pleased the ear.
And with persuasive accent thus began :

*' I should be much for open war, peers,
As not behind in hate, if what was urged,
Main reason to persuade immediate war,
Did not dissuade me most, and seem to cast
Ominous conjecture on the whole success ;

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Poetical Selections.

445

When he, who most excels in fact of arms,

In what he counsels, and in what excels.

Mistrustful, grounds his courage on despair

And utter dissolution, as the scope ,. j

Of all his aim, after some dire revenge.

First, what revenge ? The towers of heaven are filled

With arm^d watch, that render all access ,^

Impregnable : oft on the bordering deep

Encamp their legions, or, with obscure wing,

Scout far and wide into the realm of night.

Scorning surprise. Or could we break our way

By force, and at our heels all Hell should rise,

With blackest insurrection, to confound

Heaven's purest light ; yet our great enemy,

All incorruptible, would on his throne

Sit unpolluted ; and the ethereal mould,

Incapable of stain, would soon expel

Her mischief and purge off the baser fire.

Victorious. Thus repulsed, our final hope

Is flat despair : we must exasperate

The Almighty Victor to spend all his rage.

And that must end us ; that must be our cure,

To be no more. Sad cure ! for who would lose,

Though full of pain, this intellectual being.

Those thoughts that wander through eternity,

To perish rather, swallowed up and lost

In the wide womb of uncreated night,

Pevoid of sense and motion ? And who knows,

Let this be good, whether our angry foe

Can give it, or will ever ? how he can,

Is doubtful ; that he never will, is sure.

Will he, so wise, let loose at once his ire,

Belike through impotence, or unaware,

To give his enemies their wish, and end

Them in his anger, whom his auger siives

To punish endless ? * Wherefore cease we then ?'

Say tlioy who counsel war : ' we are decreed,

Reserved, and destined to eternal woe ;

Whatever doing, what can we suffer more.

What can we suffer worse ?' Is this then worst,

Thus sitting, thus consulting, thus in arms ?

What ! when we ftcd amain, pursued, and struck

With Heaven's afflicting thunder, and besought

The deep to shelter us 1 — this Hell then seemed

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446 Poetical Selections.

A refuge from those wounds ; or when we lay

Chained on the burning like ! — that sure was worse. :

What if the breath that kindled those grim fires, '

Awaked should blow them into sevenfold rage,

And plunge us in the flames ? or, from above,

Should intermitted vengeance arm again

His red right hand to plague us? What if all

Her stores were opened, and this firmament

Of Hell should spout her cataracts of fire, '

Impending horrors, threatening hideous fall

One day upon our heads: while we perhaps,

Designing or exhorting glorious war,

Caught in a fiery tempest, shall be hurled

Each on his rock transfixed, the sport and prey

Of wracking whirlwinds ; or forever sunk

Under yon boiling ocean, wrapt in chains

There to converse with everlasting groans,

Unrespited, unpitied, unreprieved.

Ages of hopeless end ? This would be worse.

War, therei'ore, open or concealed, alike

My voice dissuades ; for what can force or guile

With him, or who deceive his mind, whose eye

Views all things at one view ? He from Heaven's height

All these our motions vain sees, and derides;

Not more almighty to resist our might

Than wise to frustrate all our plots and wiles.

Shall we then live thus vile, the race of Heaven

Thus trampled, thus expelled, to suflfer here

Chains and these torments? Bftter these than worse,

By my advice, since fate inevitable

Subdues us and omnipotent decree.

The Victttr's will. To suffer, as to do,

Our strength is equal, nor the law unjust

That so ordains : this wa^ at first resolved,

If we were wise, agai' '*t so great a foe

Contending, and so do jttul what might fall.

I laugh, when those who at the spear are bold

And venturous, if that fail them, shrink and fear

What yet they know must follow, to endure

Exile, or ignominy, or bonds, or pain,

The sentence of their conqueror. This is now

Our doom ; which if we can sustain and bear, *

Our supreme foe in time may much remit

His anger; and perhaps, thus far removed,

Poetical Selections,

Not mind us not oJQfending, satisfied

With what is punished ; whence these raging fires

Will slacken if his breath stir not their flames.

Our purer essence then will overcome

Their noxious vapour ; or, inured, not feel ;

Or, changed at length, and to the place conformed

In temper and in nature, will receive

Familiar the fierce heat, and void of pain ;

This horror will grow mild, this darkness light;

Besides what hope the never-ending flight

Of future days may bring, what chance, what change

Worth waiting ; since our present lot appears

For happy though but ill, for ill not worst,

If we procure not to ourselves more woe."

Thus Belial, with words clothed in reason's garb,
Counselled ignoble ease, and peaceful sloth.

447

q's height

vorse,

CONTEST BETWEEN THE ANGEL GABRIEL AND

SATAN.

MILTON.

The following scene is taken from the fourth book of " Paradise Lost."
Satan has entered into the Garden of Eden with resolution to work the
fall of Adam and Eve, and by that act to gratify i is hatred of the Almighty.
He lies concealed in tlie garden, over which Gabriel has charge. Uriel,
descending from heaven, hastens to warn Gabriel of the presence of an evil
ipirit Satan is discovered, transformed in shape, sitting near the ear of
Eve, tempting her in a dream. But Ithuriel touches him with his spear of
celestial temper, " which no falsehood can endure, and up he starts
discovered and surprised." Ithuriel thtn addresses him:

*' Which of those rebel spirits adju 'ged to hell
Com'st thou, escaped thy prison ? and transform'd,
Why satt'st thou like an enemy in wait.
Here watching at the head of these that sleep ?'

" Know ye not, then," said J^afciu, fiU'd with scorn,
" Know ye not me ? ye knew me once; no mato
For you, there sitting where ye durst not soar :
Not to know me argues yourselves unknown,
The lowest of your throng ; or, if ye know.
Why ask ye, and superfluous be;:in
Your message, like to end as much in vain?"

To whom thus Zephon, answering scorn with scorn :
" Think not, revolted spirit, thy shape the same,
Or undiminished brightness to be known.
As when thou stood'st in heaven, upright and pure ;

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448 Poetical Seleetiom.

That glory then, when thou no more wast good,
Departed from thee ; and thou resemblest now
Thy sin and place of doom, obscure and foul.
But come ; for thou, be sure shall give account
To Him, who sent us, whose charge is to keep ,

This place inviolable, and these from harm."

So spake the cherub ; and his grave rebuke,
Severe in youthful beauty, added grace
Invincible: abashed the Devil stood.
And felt how awful goodness is, and saw
Virtue in her shape how lovely ; saw and pined
His loss ; but chiefly to find here observed
His lustre visibly impair'd ; yet seem'd
Undaunted. " If I must contend," said he,
" Best with the best, the sender, not the sent,
Or all at once ; more glory will be won.
Or less be lost." " Thy fear," said Zephon bold,
" Will save us trial what the least can do
Single against thee, wicked and thence weak."

The fiend replied not, overcome with rage,
But like a proud steed rein'd, went haughty on,
Champing his iron curb : to strive or fly
He held it vain ; awe from above had quell'd
His heart, not else dismay'd. Now drew they nigh
The western point, where those half-rounding guards
Just met, and, closing, stood in squadron join'd.
Awaiting next command. To whom their chief,
Gabriel, from the front thus called aloud ;

" friends ! I hear the tread of nimble feet
Hasting this way, and now by glimpse discern
Ithuriel and Zephon through the shade ;
And with them comes a third of regal port.
But faded splendor wan ; who by his gait
And fierce demeanor seems the prince of hell,
Not likely to part hence without contest ;
Stand firm for in his look defiance lours."

He scarce had ended, when those two approach'd
And brief related whom they brought, where found,
How busied, in what form and posture couch'd.

To whom with stern regard, thus Gabriel spake :
" Why hast thou, Satan, broke the bounds prescribed
To thy transgressions? and disturb'd the charge
Of others, who approve not to transgress
- By thy example, but have power and right •

To question thy bold tntrance on this place ;

Poetical Seleetioni.

pcli'd
Ifound,
Id.

[pake :
^scribed

rge

EmployM it seemH, t<» violate sleep, and those
Whose dwelling God hath planted here in bliss ?"

To whom thus Satan, with contemptuous brow :
" Gabriel, thou hadst in heaven the esteem of wise,
And such I held thee ; But this question ask'd
Puts me in doubt. Lives there who loves his pain ?
Who would not. finding way, break loose from hell,
Though thither doom'd ? Thou wouldst thyself, no doubt
And boldly venture to whatever place
Farthest from pain, w.iere thou mightst hope to change
Torment with ease and soonest recompense
Dole with delight, which in this place I sought; ^

To thee no reason, who know'st only good,
But evil hast not trie(i ; and wilt object
His will who bounds us ? Let Hiuysurer bar
His iron gates, if He intends our stay
In that dark durance : thus much what was ask'd.
The rest is true, they found me where they say ;
But that implies not violence or harm."

Thus he in scorn. The warlike angel mov'd,
Disdainfully half-smiling, tiius replied :
" loss of one in heaven, to jiidiie of wise.
Since Satan fell whom folly overthrew,
And now returns him from his prison 'scaped.
Gravely in doubt whether t<i hold them wise
Or not, who ask what boldness brought him hither
Unlicensed from his bounds in hell prescribed,
{*o wise he judges it to fly from pain.
However, and to 'scape his punishment.
So judge thou still, presumptuous ! till the wrath
Which thou incurr'st by flying, meet thy flight
Sevenfold, and scourge that wisdom back to hell,
Which taugut thee yet no bettiir, that no p.iin
Can equal anger infinite provoked.
But wherefore thou alone ? wh(!refore with tiieo
Come not all hell broke loose ? is pain to them •

Less pain ? less to be fled, or thou than they
Less hardy to endure ? Courageous chief!
The first in flight from pain ! had'st thou alleg'd
To thy deserted host this cause of flight,
Thou surely hadst not come sole fugitive."

To which the fiend thus answer d, frowning stem:
" Not that I less endure, or shrink from pain,
Insulting angel 1 well thou know'st I stood
The fiercest, when in battle to thy aid

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450 Poetical iS^elections.

The blasting voUey'd thunder made all speed,
And seconded thy else not dreaded .s])ear,
But still thy words at random as before,
Argue thy inexperience, what behoves, '«' ■

F)om hard essays, and ill successes past
A faithful leader, not to hazard all ' '^

Tiirough ways of danger by himself untried,
'>'■'■- 1 therefore, I alone first undertook ' '

To wing the desolate abyss, and spy
Thi& new created world, whereof in hell
Fame is not silent, iiere in hope to find • •

Better abode, and my afflicted powers
To settle here on earth, or in mid air ;
Though for possession put to try once more
What thou and thy gay legions dare against ;
Whose easier business were to serve their Lord
High up in heaven, with songs His throne
And practised distances to cringe, not fight."

To whom the warrior angel soon replied : '
" To siiy, and straight unsay, pretending first
Wise to fly pain, professing next the spy
Argues no leader, but a liar traced,
8atan, and couldst thou faithful add ? name,
sacred name of faithfulness profan'd !
Faithful to whom ? to thy rebellious crew ?
Army of fiends, fit body to fit head.
AVas this your discipline and faith engaged,
Your military obedience, to dissolve
Allegiance to the acknowledged Power Supreme ?
And thou, sly hypocrite, who now wouldst seem
Patron of liberty, who more than thou
Once fawn'd and cring'd, and servilely adored
Heaven's awful monarch ? wherefore but in hope
To dispossess Him, and thyself to reign ?
But mark what I decreed thee now : Avaunt,
• Fly thither whence thou fledd'st. H from this hour
Within these liallow'd limits thou appear
Back to the infernal pit I drag thee chain'd,
And seal thee so as henceforth not to scorn
The facile gates of hell, too slightly barr'd." *

iSo threaten'd he ; but Satan to no threats ' ' ^
Gave heed, but waxing more in rage, replied,
" Then, wlien I am thy captive, talk of chains,
Proud limitary cherub ! but ere then
Far heavier load thyself expect to feel

Poetical Selections.

451

hope
lis hour

•- 'i

From my prevailin<^ arm, tliou<;h heaven's King
Hide on thy wing«, and thou with tiiy compeers,
Used to the yoke, draw'st His triumpliant wheels
In jirogress through the ro:id of heaven star-paved ?"

While thus he spake, the .-ingelic squadron briglit
Turn'd fiery red, sharp'ning in mooned horns
Tlieir phalanx, and began to liem him round
With })ortLtl spears, as thick as when a field
Of Ceres, rij)e for liarvest, waving bends
Her bearded grove of ears, which way tlie wind
Sways tliem ; the careful ploughman doubting stands,
Lest on the threshing floor his liopeful sheaves '

Prove chaff. On either side, Satan, alarm'd, ' i

Collecting all his might, dilated stood, '

Like Teiieriffe or Atlas, unremoved. •

His stature reach'd the sky, and on liis crest, •

Sat liorror plumed ; nor wanted in his grasp
What seem'd both spear and shield. Now dreadful deeds
Might have ensued ; nor only Paradise,
In this commotion, but the starry cope
Of heaven perhaps, or all the elements
At least had gone to wrack, disturb'd and torn ^

With violence of this conflict, had not soon
Th' Eternal, to prevent such horrid fray, '

Hung forth in heaven his golden scales yet seen
Betwixt Astrea and the Scorpion sign,
WheWiin all things created first He weighed,
The pendulous round earth, with balanced air
In counterpoise, now ponders all events,
Battles and realms : in these lie put two weights.
The sequel each of parting and of fight. *

The latter ((uick up flew, and kick'd the beam; >'

Which Gabriel spying, thus bespake the fiend :

" Sat in, I know thy strength, and thou know'st mine,
Neither our own, but given ; what folly then «■<

To boast what arms can do ! since thine no more
Than Heaven permits, nor mine, though doubled now
To trample thee as mire: for proof look up,
And read thy lot in yon celestial sign
W^here thou art weigh'd, and shewn how light how weak
If thou resist." The fiend look'd up and knew
His mounted scale aloft : nor more ; but fled
Murm'ring, and with him fled the shades of night.

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DRAMATIC SELECTIONS.

HAMLET'S ADVICE TO THE PLAYERS.

BHAKEHI'KARE.

Speak the speech, I prjjy you, as 1 pronounced it to you, trip-
pingly on the tongue ; but it you mouth it as many of your
players do, 1 had as lief the town-crier spoke my lines. Nor do
not siiw the air too much with your hand, thus ; but use all
gently ; for in the very torrent, temptst, and (as I may say)
whirlwind of passion, you must ac(juire and beget a tt^mperance,
that m .y give it smoothness. (.) ! it < fFends uu; to the soul, to
hear a robustious periwig-pated ft-Uow tear a passion to titters,
to very rags, to split the ears of the »!roundlin_s; who, for the
most part, are capable of nothing but inexplic.ible dumb shows,
and noise ; I would have such a lellow wliipped for o'erdoing
Termagant ; it outherods Herod ; pray you, avoid it.

Be not too tame neither, but let your own discretion he your
tutor : suit the action to the word, the word to the action, with '
this speciiil observance, that you o'erstep not the modesty of
nature ; for anything so overdone is from the purpose of pi lying,
whose end, both at the first, and now, was, and is, to hold, as
'twere, the minor up to nature ; to show virtue her own feature,
scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time?, his
form and pressure. Now, this overdone, or come t.irdy off,
though it make the unskilful laugh, dnnot but mike the judi-
cious grieve ; the censure of whicli one must, in your allow. nee,
o'erweigh a whole theatre of others. ! there be players, that
I have seen play — and heard ot.iers pr lisc, and that highly — not
to spe;ik it prof nely, that, neither having the accent of Christians,
nor the gait of Chri.>«ti;.n, pagan, nor man, have so strutted and
bellowed, that I have tlmught some of nature's journeymen had
made them, and not made them well, they imitated humanity so
abomin bly.

O ! reform it altogether. And let those that play your clowns
speak no more than is set down for them : for there be of them
that will themselves laugh, to set on some quantity of barren

ectitors to l.iugh too, tiiough, in the meantime, some nee ssary
question ot tlie plfiy bo then to be considered : that's villanous,
and shows a mi^st pitiful ambition in the fool that uses it.

you, trip-
^ of your
Nor do
it use all
in;iy say)
luporauce,
le soul, to
to tatters,
10, for the
mb shows,
o'erdoing

n b(! your
ction, with *
liodesty of
„f pi lying,
to hold, as
,vn feature,
e time, his
tirdy off,
e the judi-
allow.ncc,
jiyers, that
iijhly — not
Christians,
Itrutted and

leymen

had

himanity so

[our clowns
Ibe of tliem
of barren
[e nee ssary
Is villanous,
Is it.

Dramatic Selectiom.

THE PllOGIlKSS OF LIFE.

8HAKBSPBAUB.

All the world's a stage,

And all the men and women merely players;

They have their exits and their entraujos,

And one man in his time pi lys many parts ;

11 is acts being seven ages. First the infant,

Muling and puking in the nurse's anus,

And then tlie whining schoolboy, with his satchel.

And shining morning face, creeping like snail

Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,

Sighing like furnace, with a woful ballad

Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,

Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,

Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,

Seeking the bubble reputation

Ev'n in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,

In fair round belly, with good capon lia'd.

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 slipper'd pantaloon,

With specticles on no.se, and pouch on side ;

His youthful hose, well sav'd, a world too wide

For his shrunk shank : and his big manly voice,

Turning again toward childish treble, pipes

And whistles in his sound. Last .>!cene of all.

That ends this strange eventful history.

Is second childishness, and mere oblivion,

Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans ev'rything.

458

HAMLET'S SOLILOQUY ON THE IMMORTALITY OP

THE SOUL.

SHAKESPSARB.

To be — or not to be ? — that is the question. —
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind, to suffer
The stings and nrrc-ws of outrageous fortune.
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles.
And, by opposing, end them ? — to die — to sleep-
No more — and, by a sleep, to say we end

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464 Dramatic Selections.

The lioartrjiche, and tlu; tliousand natural .shocks

That flesh in heir to — 'tis a consummation

Devoutly to bo wish'd. To die — to slecip —

To Kleej) ? — perchance to dream — ay, there's the rub I

For, in that sleep of death, what dreams may come,

When we have shuffled off' this mortal coil,

Must j^ive us pause. — There's tlie respect,

That makes calamity of so lonj:; life.

For who W(»uld bear the whips and scorns of Time,

The oj)pressor's wrotij;, the j)roud man's contumely,

The panics of di'spised love, the law's delay,

The insolence of office, and the spurns

That patient merit of the unworthy lakes —

When he himself miuht his<{uietus make,

With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,

To groan and sweat under a weary life,

But that the dread of something after death —

That undiscover'd country from whose bourue

No traveller returns f— puzzles the will :

And makes us rather bear those ills wc have,

Than fly to others that we know not of!

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;

And thus the native hue of resolution

Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought;

And enterprises of great pith and moment.

With this regard their currents tui-n awry,

And lose the name of action !

SPEECH OF HENUr V. BEFORE THE BATTLE

AGINCOUllT.

^ii

SHAKESPEARE.

Westmoreland. 0, THAT we now had here
But one ten thousand of those men in England, ' '
That do no work to-day !

King Ilenri/. What's he that wishes ao ?

My cousin Westmoreland? — No, my fair cousin.
If we are marked to die, we are enougii
To do our country loss ; and if to live, '

The fewer men, the*great«r share of honor.
God's will ! I pray thee, wish not one man more.
By Jove, I am not covetous for gold ;
Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost ;

Dramatic Selections.

456

It yearns mo not, if men my mirmonts wear ;

Suoh outward tliinj;H tlwoll noc in my dosiros:

But, it' it be Ji Hin to covet honor,

I an) the moHt on'cndin^ soul alive.

No, 'faith, my coz, wish not a man from Kn<;l ind.

God's poaee ! I would not lose so ^'re.it an honor,

As one man more, mcthinks, would sh.ire from mo.

For the best hope I have. (), do not wish one more,

llather procl.iim it, Westmoreland, throuuh my ho.>t,

Thiit he which hath no stom.ich to this fi<:;ht,

Let him depart; hisj)assport shall be made,

Ami crowns for convoy put into his purse:

We would not die in that man's compiny

That fears his fellowship to die wiih us.

This day is called— the feast of Crispian : *

He that outlives this day, and c<imes safe home,

Will stand a tiptoe when this day is named.

And rouse him at the name of Crispian.

He that shall live this day, and see old age,

Will yearly on the viuil fe;wt his frii^nds,

And say — To-morrow is iSaint Crispian ;

Then will he strip his sleeve, aud show his scars,

And say, These wounds I had on Crispin's day.

Old men forj^et; yet all shall be forgot,

But he'll remember, with adv^antages,

What feats he did that day. Then shall our names,

Familiar in their mouths as household words —

Harry the king Bedford and Exeter,

Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloster, —

Be in their flowing cups freshly remembered :

This story shall the good man teach his son ;

And Crispin Orispian shall ne'er go by.

From this day to the ending of the world,

But we in it shall be remembered :

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers,

For he, to-day, that sheds his blood with me.

Shall be my brother ; be he ne'er so vile,

This day shall gentle his condition : f

* " The feast of Crispian." The battle of Agincourt was fought upoa tiie
25thof October, 1415.

t Shall advance him to the rank of a gentleman. King Heury Y,
inhibited any person, but such as hud a right bv iniieritance or trraiit, tram
hearing coats of arms, exce|)t those who fought with him at the battle oCf
Agincourt; and these last were allowed the chief seats at all feasts and
public meetin|f8.

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456 JDramatic Selections.

And p:entlcmen ia England, now abed,
Shall think themselves accursed, they were not here
And hold their m inhoods cheap, while any speaks,
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.

THE PRAYER OF FESTUS.

p. J. BAILKT.

Grant us, God ! that in Thy holy love

The universal people of the world

May firow more great and happy every day ;

Wiuhtier, wiser, humbler, too, towards Thee.

And that all ranks, all classes, callings, states

Ot life, so far as such seem right to Thee,

]May mingle into one, like sister treeii,

And so in one stem flourish :- that all laws

And powers of j;overnment be based and used

In good and for the people ^s sake ; — that each

May feel himself of consequence to all.

And act as though all saw him ! — that the whole.

The mass of every nation may so do

As is most worthy of the rext to God ;.

For a whole people's souls, each one worth more

Than a mere world of matter, make combined

A something godlike — something like to Thee.

We pray Thee for the welfare of all men.

Let mouarchs who love truth and freedom feel

The happiness of safiety and respect

F'om those they rule, and guardianship from Thee.

Let them remember they are set on thrones

As representatives, not substituks

Of Eati«)ns, to implead with God and man.

Let tyrants who hate truth, or fear the tree,

Know that to rule in slevery and error.

For the mere ends ,f personal pomp and power,

Is such a sir as doth deserve a hell

To itself sole. Let both reriember, Lord !

They are but things like-na/.ued rvith all nytions;

That mountains ibsue out cf plai is; and »ofc

Plains out of mojntains, atd so likewise kinga

Are of the people, not the people of kings.

And let all feel, the rulers and the ruled,

All classes and all countries, that the world

Dramatic Selectioni, 457

Is Thy great halidom ; that Thou art King,

Lord ! only owner and jossessor. Grant

That nations may now sec. it is not kinj^s,

^or priests they need fear so much as ttiemselves;

That if they keep but true to themselves, and free,

Sober, enlij^htened, godly — mortd men

Become impassible as air, one great

And indestructible substance as the sea.

Let all on thrones and judgment-seats reflect

How dreadful Thy revenge throu.ih nations is

On those who wrong them ; but do Thou grant, Lord !

That when wrongs are to be redressed, such may

Be done with mildness, speed, and firmness, not

With violence or iiate, whereby one wrong

Translates another — both to Thee abhorrent.

The bells of time are ringing changes fast,

Grant, Lord ! that each fresh peal may usher in

An era of advancement, that each change

Prove an effectual, lasting, happy gain.

And we beseech Thee, overrule, O God !

All civil contests to the good of all ;

All party and religious difference

To honorable ends, whether secured

Or lost; and let all strife, political

Or social, spring frotn conscientious aims,

And have a generous self-ennobling end,

Man's good and f hine own glory in view always I

The best may then fail and the worst succeed

Alike with honor. We beseech Thee, lord 1

For bodily strength, but more especi illy

For the soul's health and safety. W v entreat Thee

In Thy great mercy to decrease our wants.

And add autumnal increase to the comforts

Which tend to keep men innocent, and load

Their hearts with thanks to Thee as trees in bearing; *

The blessings of friends, families and homes,

And kindnesses of kindred. And we pray

1 hat men nuiy rule themselve!* in faith in God,

In charity to each other, and in hope

Of their own soul's salvation : — that the masH,

The millions in all nations may be trained.

From their youth upwards, in a nobler mo<le,

'J loftier and more liberal ends. We pray

Above all things, Lord ! that all men be free

From bondage, whether of the mind or body ,—

\tt

iff:'

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("if

'Mh

fit!

- I

458 Dramatic Selections,

The bondage of religious biojotry,

And bald antiquity, servility

Of thought or speech to rank and power : be all

Free as they ought to be in mind and soul

As well as by state-birthright; — and th.it Mind,

Time's giant pupil, may right soon attain

Majority, and speak and act for himself.

Incline Thou to our prayers, and grant, Lord!

That all may have enough, and some safe mean

Of worldly goods and honors, by degrees,

Take place, if practicable, in the fitness

And fulness of Thy time. And we beseech Thee,

That truth no more be gagL^ed, nor conscience dungeoned,

Nor science be impeached of godlessness,

Nor faith be circumscribed, which as to Thee,

And the soul's self affairs is infinite;

But that all men may have due liberty

To speak an honest mind, in every land,

Encouragement to study, loave to act

As conscience orders. * * ' * *

CATO'S SOLILOQUY.

JOSEPH ADOiaON.

It must be so — Plato, thou reasv)n'st well ! —

Else, whejice this pleasing '-ope, this fond desire,

This longing aft immortality?

Or, whence this secret dread, and inward horror.

Of falling into nought? — Why shrinks the soul

Back on her-self, and startles at destruction ? —

'Tis the Divinitv that stirs within us ;

'Tis Heav'n herself, that points out an hereafter,

And intimates Eternity to man.

Eternity ! — thou pleasing, dreadful thought I

Through what variety of untried being,

Through what new scenes and chanues must we pass !

The wide, the unbounded prospect lies before me ;

But shadows, clouds, ami darkness rest upon it.

Here will I hold : If there's a Power above us —

And that there is, all Nature cries aloud

Through all her works — He must delight in virtue,

And that which lie delights in, must be happy.

Dramatic Selections.

459

ungeoned,

But when ! or where ! This world was made for Cuosar :
I'm weary of conjectures — This must end them.

\_Laying his hand on his si'iord.
Thus am I doubly arm'd. My death, my life,
My bane and antidote are both before me.
Tliis- -in a moment, brin«^s me to an end ;
AVhilst this informs me I shall never die.
The soul, secur'd in her existence, smiles
At the drawn dagger, and defies its point, —
The stars shall fade aw;iy, the sun himself
Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years ;
But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth,
Unhurt amidst the war of elements.
The wreck of matter, and the crash of worlds.

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TRAGEDY.
SPEECHES OF BllUTUS AND MARK ANTONY.

SCENE-

SHAKESPEAKK.

-Rome. The Forum.

Enter Brutus and Cassius, and a throng of Citizens.

Citizens. We will be satisfied ; let us be s:itisficd.

Brib. Then follow me, and give mo audience, friends.
Cassius go you into the other street,
And part the numbers.

Those that will h(!ar mo speak, let them stay here;
Those that will follow Cassius, go with him;
And public reasons shall be rendered
Of C;iis;ir's death.

1st Cif. I will hear Brutus speak.

2nd Cit. I will hear Cassius; and compire their reasons.
When severally we hear them rendered.
^Exit Cassius, with some of the Citizens; Brutus goes into th4

rostrui h.

3rd Cit. The noble Brutus is ascended : silence !

Bru. Be patient till the last.
Romans, countrymen, and lovers ! he ir me for my cause : and be
silent, that you may hear; believe me for mine honor, and have
respect to mine honor, that you m ly believe ; censure me in your
wisdom ; and awake your senses, that you may the better judj^o.
If there be any in tliis assembly, any dear friend of Cajsar's,
to him I say, thau Brutus' love to CiBsar was no less than his.
If, then, that friend demand why Brutus rose against Cajsar,

460

Dramatic SeUctions.

•K

If.

this is my answer, — not that I loved Caesar less, but that I loved
Rome more. Had you rather Caesar were livioj;, and die all
slaves ; than tliat Caesar were dead, to live all free men ? As
Caesar loved me, I weep for him ; as he was fortunate, I rejoice
at it; as he was valiant, I honor hiui; but as he was imhitiou-j,
I slew him ; there are tears for his love ; joy for his fortune ;
honor for his valor ; and death for his ambition. Who is here
so base, that would be a bondman ? If any, speak ; for him have
I offended. Wno is here so rude, that would not ba a Roman?
If any, speak ; for him have I offended. Who is here so vile,
that will not love his country ? If any, speak ; for him have I
offended. I pause for a reply.

Citizens. None, Brutus, none.

Br II. Then none have I offmded. I have done no more to
Caesar than you shall do to Brutus. The question of his death
is enrolled in the Capitol; his ,<i;lory not extenuated, wherein he
was worthy; nor his off nces enforced, for which he suffired death,

Enter Antony (ind ofhrrs, with Caesar's body.
Here comes his body, mourned by Mark Antony : who. though he
had no hand in his death, shall receive the benefit of his dyin<>;, a
place in the commonwealth ; as which of you shall not ? With
this I depart, — that, as I slew my best lover for the good of Home,
I have the same dagger for myself, when it shall please my country
to need my death.

Citizens. Live, Brutns ! live, live !

1st Cit. Bring him with triumph home unto his house.

2nd Cit. (live him a statue with his ancestors.

3rd Cit. Let him be Caesar.

Bru. Good countrymen, let me depart alone,
And, for my sake, stay here with Antony ;
Do grace to Caesar's corpsp, and grace his speech
Tending to Caesar's glories ; which Mark Antony,
By our permission, is allowed to make.
I do entreat you, not a man depart,
Save I alone, till Antony have spoke. \^Exit.

1st Cit. Stay, ho ! and let us hear Mark Antony

3rd Cit. Let him go up into the public chair ;
We'll hear him. Noble Antony, go up.

Ant. For Brutus' sake, I am beholden to you. [Goes up.

4th Cit, What does be say of Brutus ?

3rd Cit. He says, for Brutus' sake,

He finds himself beholden to us all

4th Cit. 'Twerc best he speak no harm of Brutus here.

1st Cit. This Caesar was a tyrant.

Dramatic Selections.

461

3rd C't, Nay, th.it's certain:

Wo are bless'd that Rome is rid of him.

2nd ' 'if. Peace ! let us he;ir what Antony can i>ay.

Ant You gentle Romans, —

^ itizens. Pe.ice, ho ! let us hear him.

Aut. Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears;
I come to bury Caes.ir, not to ])r, i.-e him.
The evil that men do lives .ift r them ;
The i2,ond is oft interred with their bones ;
So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus
H.itli told you CaB>ar w;i8 :imbitious;
If it were so, it was a irrievous f ult.
And grievou.^ly hath (^esar answered it.
Here under h ave of Brutus atid the rest,
(For Rrutun is an honorable man ;
So are they all, all honor ble men.)
Come I to sp< ak in Caesar's funeral.
He was my friend, faithful and just to me:
But Brutus says he was ambitious ;
And Brutus is an honorable man.
He hati bronirht many c iptives home to Rome.
Wiiose ransoms did the u;enerd coflFers fill ;
Did this ill Caesar seem ambitious?
When that the poor have cried, Cjcsar hath wept;
Amb tion should be made of sterner stuff;
Yvt Brutus says he was ambitious;
And Brutus is an h<morable njan.
You all did see that on the Lupereal
I thrice presented him a kingiy en»wn ;
Which he did thrice refuse; was this ambition ?
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;
And. suie, he is an honorable man.
I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke,
But here 1 am to speak what I do know.
You all did love him once, not without cause :
What cause withholds you, then, to mourn for uim ?

judgment, thou art tied to brutish beasts,
And men have lost their reason ! — boar with me ;
My he.irt is in the coffin there with Caesar,
And I must pause till it come b.ick to me.

1st Cit. iVlethinks there is much reason in his sayinga.
:^nd Cit. If thou consider rightly of the matter,
CtDsar has had great wrong.

3rd Cit. Ha,s he, masters ?

I tear there will a worse come in his place.

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462

Dramatic Selections.

4th (7a7. Mark'd yc his words ? Tie would not take the crown.
Therelbre 'tis certain he was not ambitious.

1st Cit. If it be found so, some will dear abide it.

2nd (^if. Poor soul ! his eyes are red as fire with weepinj^.

3rd Cit. There's not a nobler man in Rome tiian Antony.

4th Cit. Now mark him, he begins a^ain to speak.
• Anf. But yesterday the word of CiDsar mi^ht
Have stood against the world : now lies he there.
And none so poor as do him reverence.

m.istcrs ! if I were dispos'd to stir
Your hearts and minds to mutiny and raffe,

1 sliould do Brutus wronu', and Cassius wrong,
Who, you all know, are honorable men :

I will not do them wron<^' : I rather choose
To wroiii;' the dead, to wronj:; myself, and you,
Than I will wrouij; such honorable men.
But here's a parchment with the seal of Caesar,
I found it in his closet ; 'tis liis will :
Let but the commons hear this testament
(Which, ]);irdon me, I do not mean to read),
And they would <;o and kiss dead Ca3sar's wounds,
And dip their napkins in his sacred blood ;
Yea, be<;' a hair of him for memory,
And, dyinu', mention it within their wills.
Bequeathing it, as a rich legacy,
Unto tht'ir issue.

4th Cif. We'll hear the will : read it, Mark Antony.

Citizens. The w:'ll, the will ! we will hear C{\3sar's will.

Jnt. Have patience, gentle friends, I must not read it;
It is not meet you know how C;\)sar loved you.
You are not wood, you are not stones, but men;
And, ln'ing men, hearing the will of C.'usar.
It will inflame you, it will make you mad :
'Tis good you know not that you are his heirs;
For if you sl^/^'ild, 0, what would come of it !

4th Cl.t. Read the will; we'll hear it, Antony;
You shall rrad us the will ; Caesar's will.

Ant. Will you be patient ? Will you stay a while
I have o'ershot myself to tell you of it :
I fear I wrong the honorable men,
Whose daggers have stabb'd Caesar ; I do fear it.

4th Cit. They were traitors : honorable men ]

Citizens. The will ! the tDsti.ment !

2Rd Cit. They were villains, murderers : the will 1 read the will.

1 .'^

Dramatic Selections.

463

Ant. You will compel me, then, to read the will ?
Then make a ring about the corse of Ca5sar, - '

And let nie show you him that made the will.
Shall I descend ? and will you give me leave ?

Citizens. Come down.

2nd Cit. Room for Antony, most noble Antony.

Ant. If you have tears, prepare to shed them now.
You all do know this mantle: I remember

The first time ever C;\)sar put it on ; '

'Twas on a summer's evening in his tent,
That day he overcame the Nervii ; —
Look, in this place, ran Cassius' dagger through :
See what a rent the envious Casca Uiade : ■ '

Through this the well-beloved Brutus stabb'd,
And, as he pluck'd his cursed steel away,
Mark how the blood of Cicsar follow'd it,
As rushirm- out of doors, to be resolv'd
11 Brutus so u'lkindly knock'd, or no;
For Brutus, as you know, was Cicsar's angel ;
Judge, O you gods, how dearly Cicsur lov'd him.
This was the most unkindest cut of all ;
For when the noble Caesar saw him st:ib.
Ingratitude, more strong than traitor's arms
Quite vanquished him : then burst his mighty heart,
And, iu his mantle muffling up his face,
Even at the base of Pompey's statue,
Which all the while ran blood, great CfDsar fell.
0, what a I'all was there, my countrymen !
Then, I and you, and all of us fell down,
Whilst bloody treason flourish'd over us.
0, now you weep ; and I perceive you feel
The dint of pity : these are gracious drops.
Kind souls, what, weep you w ien you but behold
Our Caesar's vesture wou jded ? Look you here,
Here is himself marr'd as you see, with traitors,

1st Cit. O piteous specticle !

2nd Cit. We will be revenged ; revenge, — about — seek, — burn,
— fire, — kill, — slay, — let not a traitor live.

Ant. Stay, countrymen.

1st Cit. Peace there ! hear the noble Antony.

2nd Cit. We'll hear him, we'll follow him, we'll die with him.

Ant. Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you up
To such a sudden flood of mutiny. ,

'J hey that have done this deed are honorable :
What private griefs they have, alas ! I know not,

I ;.

464

Dramatic Selections.

That made them do it; they are wise and honorable,

And will no doubt, with reasons answer you.

I come not friends, to •^teil awiy y<»ur hearts ;

I an no orator, as Brutus is :

But, as ye know me ;dl, a plain blunt mm,

That loved my fri<!nd, and that th<;y know full well

That srave me public leave to speak of him.

For I h:tve neither wit, nor words, nor worth,

Action, nor uttermce, nor the power of speech,

To stir men's blood : I only speak rijrht <»n :

I tell you that which you yourselves do know ;

Show ynu sweet Ctiesar's wounds, poor, poor dumb mouths,

And bid them speak for me. But were I Brutus,

And Brutus Antony, there were, in Antony

Would ruffle up your spirits, and put a tonj^ue

In every wound of Ciiesir that should move

The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny.

BRUTUS AND CASSIUS.

8HAKESPKABE.

Scene I. — The Camp of Brutus.

Cas. Most noble brother, you have done me wrong.

Brii. Judge me, you gods ! Wrong I mine enemies ?
And, if not so, how should I wron<>- a brother ?

Cas. Brutus, this sober form of yours hides wrongs;
And when you do them —

Bra Cassius, be content ;

Speak your griefs softly, I do know you well : —
Before the eyes of both our armies here,
Which should perceive nothing but love from us.
Let us not wrangle ; bid them move away ;
Then in my tent, Cassius, enlarge your griefs.
And I will give you audience.

Cas. * Pindarus,

Bid our commanders le id their charges oflF
A little from this ground.

Bri(. Lucilius, do you the like ; and let no man
Come to our tent, till we have done our conference.
Let Lucius and "itinius guard mr door. [^Exeunt.

Dramatic Srlfctions. 465

Scene II. — Within the tent of Brutus.
Enter Brutus and Cassius.

C'is. Tli;ityou have wrouu^l hk' <l')th ap|>oar iii this:
You have eoiKk-mii'd and noted JiU(!ius J'elhi
For t;ikin<;- bribes here of the Sardi.iiis;
Wiierein my ktters, pr.iyiiii^ on his side,
Boc luse 1 knew the man, were sli,nhted off.

Bru. You wronu'd yourself to write in such a case.

C(is. In such a time as this, it is not meet
That every nice oftence .sjionld be.ir hisc<tmment.

Bru. Jjet me tell 30U, dtssius, you yourself
Are much condcmu'd t(»- have an itching palm;
To sell and m.irt your otlices for gold
To undeservers.

C'/.s. I ;in itcihing p;din !

You know that you are Brutus that speak this,
Or, by the gods, this speech were else your List.

Jini. The name of Oassius honors this corruption,
And chastisement doth therefore hide his head.

Cos. Ciiastisement !

Brn. Kemeuiber M.irch, the ides of March remember :
Did not great Julius bhu'd i'or justice' sake ?
"What vill .in toueh'd his body, that did stab,
Aud not lor justice ? \Vh;it, shall one of us.
That struck the foremost man of ail this world,
But for supporting robbers, sh dl we now
Contuudnate our fingers with b.ise bribes.
And sell the mighty spice of our large honors,
For so much trash as may be grasped thus ?
I had rather be a dog, aud b.iy the moon.
Than such a Roman.

Cas. Brutus, bay not me,

I'll not endure it: you forgx't yourself,
To hedge me in ; I am a soldier, I,
Older iu practice, abler than yourself
To make conditions.

Brn. Go to ; you arc not, Cassius.

Cns. 1 am.

Brx. I say, you are not.

Cas. Urge me no more, I shall forget myself;
Have mind upon your health, tempt me no further.

Bru. Away, slight man !

Cas. Is 't possible ? *

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466

Dramatic Selection ».

Bra. Ilc.ir mo, for T will speak.

Must I jiivo way and room to your r-isli clioh^r?
Sh.ill 1 be t'rii!;lit(Kl, when u madm in stares?

fas. ye ^ods, yc <^ods ! Must I endure all tills ?

lira. All this ! ay, more : fret till your proud heart break ;
Go kIiow your slaves how eholcrio you are,
And mike your bondmcMi tremble. Must I budge ?
Must I observe you ? Must I stind and croueh
Under your testy humor 't \^y the i;()ds,
You shall digest the venom of your spleen,
Though it do split you; for from this diy forth,
I'll use you for my mirth, yea, for my laughter,
WiuMj you are waspish.

Ci(s. Is it come to this ?

Bru. You say you are a }>ettcr soldior :
Let it appear so ; make your v.iunting true.
And it sh.ill please me well : for mine own part,
I shall be glad to le irn of noble men.

Cas. You wrong me every way ; you wrong me, Brutus ;
I said an elder soldier, not a better ;
Did I say, better ?

Bru. If you did, I care not.

Cos. When Caesar liv'd, he durst not thus have moved me

Bru. Peace, poace 1 you durst not so have tempted him.

Cas. 1 durst not !

Bru. No.

Cas. What, durst not tempt him ?

Bru. For your life you durst not.

Gds. Do not presume too much upon my love ;
I may do that I shall be sorry lor.

Bru. You have done that you should be sorry for.
There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats ;
For I am arm'd so strong in honesty.
That they pass by me as the idle wind,
Which I respect not. I did send to you
For certain sums of gold, which you denied me ; —
For I can raise no money by vile means :
By heaven, I had rather coin my heart.
And drop my blood for drachms, than to wring
From the hard hands of peasants their vile trash
Bj any indirection ; I did send
To you for gold to pay my legions,
Which you denied me ; was that done like Cassius ?
Should I have answer'd Caius Cassius so ?
When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous.

4/ '

) break ;

rutus ;

e not.
invc.d me
id him.

not.

Dramatic Selectionit.

467

To lock such v.iscal couiitcrs from his tViciuls,
Bo reu'ly, ,i;<)(ls, with ;ili your tliuuJurboItH,
Jidsli him to pieces !

Cas. I denied you not.

lira. You did.

Can. T did not : ho was but a fo(d

That bi'ouuht my answer back. IJiutus hath riv'd my heart.
A iVicnd should he;ir his i'ricnd's iiilirmities,
But Brutus mikes mine <;re:iter thin they arc.

Bi'u.. I do not, tid you practise tliem on me.

C(ts. You love me not,

Bru, I do not like your faults.

Cks. a friendly eye could never see such faults.

Bru,. A flatterer's would not, though they do appear
As huge as high Olympus

G(i)i. Oonie, Ant)ny, and young Oct ivius, come,
Revenge yourselves alone on Oassius,
For C issius is aweary of the world ;
Ilatfid by one he loves ; brav'd by his brother ;
Check'd like a bondman ; all his faults observ'd,
Set in a note-book, learn'd, and conn'd by rote,
To cast into my teeth. 0, I could wji^p
My spirit from mine eyes! — There is my digger,
Atid here my n iked breast; within, a heart
Dearer than Plutus' mine, richer th argold ;
If that tliou be'st a Roman, t»ke it forth;
I, that denied thee gold, will give my heart :
Strike, as thou didst at Cjiesar ; for, I know,
When t'.iou didst hat'3 him worst, thou lov'dst him better
Than ever thou lov'dst Cassius.

Bra. Sheath your dagger j

Be anury when you will, it shall have scope ;
Do what you will, dishonor shall be humor.
Cassius, you are yoked with a lamb
That carries anger as the flint bears tire ;
Who, much enforced shows a hasty spark,
And straight is cold again.

Cds. Hath Cassius lir'd

To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus,
When grief, and blood ill-tcmper'd, vexeth him ?

Bra. When I spoke that, I was ill-temper'd too.

Gas. Do you confess so much ? Give me your hand.

Bra. And my heart too.

Gas. Brutus, —

Bru. What's the malker ?

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Dramatic Selections,

Can. Have not you love enoiijjh to bear with me,
When that r.ish huiuur which my mother gave me
Makes me lur^etlul?

lira. Yes, Casniiis ; and from henceforth,

Wiufn you are over-earnest with your Brutus,
He'll tliink your mother chidoM, and leave you uo.

>ti«

HAMLET AND HIS MOTHER.

SHAKESPEARE.

Hamlet haTirig had a piny jifrformed before his uncle, the King of
Deinmiik, niui the yneeii, liis moilh r, in whii'h he ciiiises one sceiii- to he
inlnxiiieed that comes n«'Hr the circumstance of hi.^ father's death, lias liis
Btronjicst snsjiicions confirmed hy the agitation exhibited hy the conscience-
stricken King and Queen during the performance. The queen .sjiortly
afterwards summons her son to an interriew, liaving previously cuubcd
Poloniiis, an old courtier, and father of Ophelia, who loves llandet, to
conceal iiimself behind the arras, that he miglit htiir the conversation.
This is one of the most powtMfnl and awfid scenes in this great tragedy.
Hamlet, dtcply moved by the nsulfs of the play, is full of inissiouatc ( .\cite-
inei;t, and oveiwhelnis his guilty mother with repro.iches, which her
conscience It lis her she merits. Nothing can bo grander (»r more impressive
than tiie changi- in Ilandet's ma iner wiien, in the very heigiit of iridignanl
passitmate scorn for tiie murderer of his father, the spir t of that futlier
ris- 8 before liim to '• whet his almost blunted purjiose." Hamlet stands in
terror and reverence before the dread vision, and invokes the ju-otection of
Heaven. The (,)ueen, though not seeing the ghost, is struck with ''mnaze-
ment," and trcnddes beneath ihe consciousness of a supirnatural intliifnce.
In reply to his (piestion, "Do you see nothing there?" she a swers.
" Nothing at all," she then slowly looks around as if she dreaded to beholci
that with which he holds discourse, ami falls back exhausted, but relieved
fronj a great teiror as she ad<ls, " Vet all that /v, I see." iJ'it the awful
vision is still pnvsent to Hamlet ; and as it moves onward and passes away,
visible to the last to his eyes, he sinks faint ami overcome on his seat.

Scene — TJie Queen's Closet.
Enter QuEEN and PoLONlUS, L.

Pol. (L.) He will come straij^ht. Look, you lay home to him
Tell hiiu his pranks have been too broad to boar with ;
And that your jjjrace hath scroencd and stood between
Much heat and him. I'll sconce me even here.
Pray you be round with him.

Queen, (c.) I'll warrant you —
Fear me not. Witiidarw, I hear him cominsj.

[/'o/ortius conceals himself behind the arras, L. s. E.

Dramatic iSelectiont,

469

Enter IIamlct, r. d.

Ham. (r.) Now, mother, wh it's the in.ittcr ?
Qmrit. (L.) ILiinlet, thou hast thy father iimcli offiMidod.
JJain. Mother, i/nu have my t'lthor much offended.
QncvH. Come, come, you answer with an idhi tonurne.
ILtin. (R. c. ) (ro, no, you (juestion with a wicked tongue.
Qiinn. (C.) Why, how now, Hamlet?
limn. Wh.it's till) matter now ?
Qiiii'n. Have you forgot me ?
JJiim. No, by the rood, not so ;
You are the <jue(;ii, your husbind's brother's wife;

And-

>uld it were not so! — you are

mother.

Qiion. N.iy. then, I'll set those to you that c in s|M»ak.

Hum. Come, come, and sit you down ; you shall not budjjo
You go not, till I s»'t you up a glass
Where yo i m ly hce the inmost pirt of you.

Queen. Whit wilt thou do? Thou wilt not murder me?
Help, help, ho!

rol. [/h'huui.] What, ho! help!

lUi.

ow now, a ra

I'ltirg

Dead, for a due it, deid ! [J/f/.v'.s a frinx through the >trr is.
Qievn. Oil. me! what hast thou done?

mi.

I know not —

[7'* fhr (J,inn.

Is it the king ?

Quern. Oh. what a rasli and bloody deed is this!

Hunt. A bloody deed; almost as bid. trood mother,
As kill a king, and m irry with his brother.

Q'leen. As kill a king ?

11am. Ay. 1 idy, 'tw is my word.

[Tak'ea (I <',in<{h\ lifts n/t the orrdu, and sees Pnhtnlns.
Thou wretch»'d. r ish, intruding fool, farewell !
I took thee for thy bett t.

Leave wringing of your hinds — price — sit you down,
And let nie wring your heart; lor so I shall,
If it b(! m id<^ ot" penetr ibl(! stuff";
If daninel custom Ip^'c not br zed it so.
That it be proof md bulwirk igiin t sense.

Qneen. (R. of ILimht.) What have I done tliat thou dir'st
wag thy tongue
In noise so rude ig inst me?

Hum. Such ai> act,
That blurs the blu>ih and grace of modesty ;
Calls virtue, hypocrite : takes off t'le rose
From the fdr forehead of an innocent love,

470

Dramatic Seleetiom.

|j ' '.t

And sets a blister there ; in kos marriage vow8
As t'iilse as dicers* o .tlis. OIi f such a deed,
As IVdin tlie body of contraction plucks
The very soul ; and sweet rtliu,iou makes
A rh.ipsody of words —
Ah, nu; ! that act!

Qiietti, Ah, me I wh.it ct?

Ilain. Look here, upon t lis picture, and on this;
The coinitorfit presentment (»f two brothers.
See, what a ,!;:race was scvited on this brow —
Hyperion's curls ; the front of Jove himself:
An eye like Mars, to thre ten ;tnd commaud
A st<tion like the herald Mercury,
New-lii:hted on a heaven-kis'-inir hill ;
A combination, and a form, indeed.
Where every <;od did seem to set his seal,
To irive the world assurance of a mnn : —
This was your husb ind. Loctk you now, what follows
Here is your husband, like a mildewed ear,
Bl istinu his wholesome brother. Have you eyes?
Could you on this fair moMiitiin leave to fi-ed,
And bitten on this moor? Ila ! have you eyes?
You c (imot call it love : for, at your a^e,
Th«' hey-d.iy in the blood is time, it's liumble.
And wait^ upon the judunient — and what judgment
Would .>-tep from this to this ?
Oh, shame! where is thy blush ? Rebellious hell,
If thou einst mutine in a m tron s bones,
To fl minii- youth let virtue be as wax.
And melt in her own fire.

Qineii. Oh, Hamlet, spe ik no more ;
Thou turn'st mine eyes int(» my very soul ;
And t' ere I see such bl ck and sprained spots.
Ah will not leave their tinct.

7/ III Nay, but to live
In the r nk sweat of an en-eamed bed —

Quern. No more, sweet Il.imlet.

II im. A murderer, and i vill lin ;
A slave th t is not twentieth p rt the tythe
Of y<»ur j)recedent lord — a vice of kin<is;
A cutpurse of the empire and the rule,
That Iroin a shelf the pn'cious diadem stole,
And put it in his pocket —

Dramatic Sfle.ctiom,

471

Enter GiloST, R. v

A king of shrods and patchcH —

Save me, and hover o'er me with your wingn,

You he/inenlif gu inls ! * wh it woul 1 your ijracious figure

^^IjooIch fit the Ghont — the Queen looks a contrary tony.
Queen. AltH ! he's mad.

Hum. Do you not come your tardy son to chide,
That, hipsed in time and pission, h'ts go by
The important acting of your dread command ?
Oh, say !

Ghost. Do not forget — this visit ition
Is but to whet thy almost bluntiMi purpose.
But, look, amazement on thy mother sits :
Oh, step between her and her fighting soul.
Speak to her, H imlet.

Jfam. How is it with you, lady ?
Queen. Alas ! how is't with you ?
That you do bond your eye on vacancy,
And with the incorporal air do hold discourse ?
Oh, gentle son.

Upon the heat and flame of thy distentper
S]irinkle ecnd j.atit'nce. Wlien'(»n do you look?

Ham. On him ! on him ! — Look you, how pide he glares I
His form and cause conjoined, fircaching to stones.
Would make them c;ipable. [7o (Ihost.^ Do not look upon mej
Lost with this piteous action, you convert
RIy stern eifects ; then what I have to do.
Will want true color ; tears, perchance, for blood.
Qwen. To whom do you speak this?

Ihtm. Do you see nothing there? [^Pointing, E.

Queen. Nothing at all ; yet all that is, I see.
J/(tm. Nor did you nothing henr?

Queen. No, notliiiig but ourselves, ^Ghost crosset, E.

Hum. Why, look you there ! look how it steals away !
My FATHER, in his habit as he lived !
Look where he goes, even now, out at the port 1 1

l^Exit Ghost, L.
Queen. This is the very coinage of your brain,
This bodiless creation, ecstiisy
Is very cufuiing in.
Ham. Ecsta>*y !
My pulse, as yours, doth temperately keep time,

. 5

* This aeotence, a prayer of terror, is altered in half whisper tunes.

472

Dramatic Seh efions.

And makes as healthful music : it is not madness
That I have uttered : brinij me t<» the t(\st.
And I the mutter will re-word ; which madness
Would <^:imbol from. Mother, for love of uTJice,
Lay not that flatterinjij unction to your soul,
That not your trespiss, but my m idnes:^, speaks;
It will but skin and film the ulcerous place;
Whiles rank corruption, minin«r all within,
Infects unseen. Confess yoursulf to heaven ;
Kepent what's pist; — avoid what is to come.

Queen. Oh, Ilamh't ! thou hast cKsft my heart in twain.

Hum. (c.) Oh ! throw away the worser part of it,
And live the purer with the other half.
Assume a virtue, if you have it not.
Once more, jj;ood ni;j:ht!
And when you are desirous to be blessed,
I'll blessin*? beg of you. — For this same lord,
I do repent :

I will bi'st^>w him, and will answer well
The death I gave him. So, again, good night! —

\^Exit Queen, R.
I must be cruel, only to be kind :
Thus bud begins, and worse remains bohind.

Adopted from the Acting Drama.

MAOBKTH.

SHAKKSl'EARE.

This tragedy is founded on events recor led in Scottish history, and the
scene is cIiieHy laid in Scotia >d. Macbetli, a Sottish noble and warrior of
distinction, having subdued King Dii ica I's robellious subjects, is met on
his return by three witches — supernatural beings — withered and wild in their
attire, and "that look not like the inliabita its o' the earth." Tliey hail
him by new titles, and predict that he sliall be " king hereafter." They van-
ish "i ito the air;" and have scarcely disappeanvl b.'fore m'ssengers from
the king arrive to announce to .Macbeth the fnlKlment of the first part of
the weird predictions — that he is Thane of Glaniis aad of Cawdor. But
" the greatest is Iwhind ;" a id the sitirit of evil ambitio i bei ig awake'ied
in the mi id of .Macbeth, he meditates liovv he shall achieve that " greatest,"
a id in his " horrible imaginings" already contemplates crime. Events
Beem to favor him. King Duncan announces to Macbeth his intention to
risithim at his nistle, and .Macb'th instatiily an lounceg the tidings to his
wife. Ladv Macbeth is one of tiie most awfid creations of Sliakespeare's
genius Wa iti ig in all the ge itler q lalities of her sex, with no compiric-
tions of conscience, but inspired only by the ambition of securing a crown
for h^r husband, .she reads his letter with ioy ; and, giving utterance to the
fearful thoughts that agitate her sou], calls u()(m the spirits of cruelty and
darkness to strengthen her in her bloody designs. Macbeth appears at this

Dramatic Selections.

478

moment, and, knowing; his infirm character, slie excites) his ambition, tuid
in <1uri{ but boM laiigiiage si.t,rgusi<i iho crime wiiicii liu proliubly has cou-
templatcd, and bidi him juit " that niglit's great business intoiicrdirfi'Utcli."
The niglii comes, and Macbeth, guilllfss yel of crime, wavers in his purjiuse,
and is moved by imbler sentiments of gratitude and duty, and witii "ermr of
the conseque ices of tlie murder. In tliis sjiirit lie ut.ers the soliii.qiiy ia
the second scene. But Lady Macbeth follows liim, reproiiclies hiiu f..r his
indecision, and again enkindles th • desires tliat belter thoughts were con-
quering; a id submitting to her imperious will a id resolutit)n, he '' iH'uds up
eacii c(ir|)()ral agent toUus terr ble feat. " In the representati'U of tliis ciuir-
acter, Mrs. Siddo is won for herself the title of the Que n of Trag ily. Mrs.
Jameson says: " In her impersonation of the part nf hady Ma»betli, Mrs.
Siddons adopted three ditfere it into lations in giving the words. ' We f.iil.'
At first a quick co item|)tuous interrogation, 'We fail?' Afterwards witb
a note »>f admiration — ' We fail !' and a i accent of i ulig laiil iistouisiinient.
laying the principal emphasis on the words We — MV fail ! Lastly she lixra
on what I am convinced is tlie true readi ig— We fail.— Witli the simple
period, modulating her voice to a deep low resolute to le, whicii settled the
issue at once ; as though she had said, 'If w-' fail, why then, w.' fail, and
all is over.' This is consisteni with tiie dark faialism of the character and
the seise of the lines following; and the etlect was sublime, almost
awful."

The third scene selected, is the murder scene — powerfully diamatic and
terrible, and demanding the deepest -tudy and tiie liighest power of concep-
tion on the part of the realer who aspires to render ii with truth a id effect.
The deliver} of the speech in the "dagger scene" will demand liie utmost
care a id tiie highest eff irt of the reader. He niust avoid all e.\tiavaga ic©
of action and expression. In the horror which -trikes him when he hrst
beholds it -in the attem|)t to grasp it — in the expres-ionof «lisappointme it
and terror — and i i the recovery of reason and judgment when he hnds
"there's no such thing,"' exaggeration, ''affected passion," and grimace*
will rentier a scene einan ling all th ' •' ierril)l> graces ofaciion ludicr >ni
and bomba-tic. The scene thai ftdlows the commission of the muiiler
demaids equal care and skill. There must be in, ling hmd or boisterous.
The hour is mid light, the crime is .saciilegiou' murder- a id die convirsa-
tion is carried on in whispers a id suf>pressed tones ol^ terror and horror;
and while Lady Macbeth assunies a Ixildness and indillerence wiiieli she
does not feel, Macbeth is overwhelmed with the sense of his critne, the
awakenings of coiscience, and the supernaiural visions his fears have
created.

Scene I. — Mavheth's Casfle lit /itt'cnK'ss.

Enter Lady Macbetfi, rnnliiKj a Letter.
Ladtf M. — " Thei/ met me in the (hik/ of Hxerfss ; and T hone
learned hij the per/erftsf refiort, theif har: more in thnn thin
mortal knoirhdge. When I hnrnrd in desire to ijumfioii thmi
farther, fhei/ made theniselres — air, info irhieh theif ranishfd.
Whiles I stood rapt in the wonder o/ it, eame missives from the
King, who all-haihd me, Thine of Ciwdor; hi/ whieh, titfe^
he/ore, these ireird sisters S'diitid me, and nferrrd me to the
coming on of time, with, ll:iil, kinjj: that sh.ilt bo ! This hare I
thought good to deliver thee, mi/ dearest /)artner of greatnesn^
that thou mightest not lose the dues of rejoicing, hi/ luing igno-
rant of what greatness is promised thee. Lay it to thy hearty
and fa re well. ^^

I 1.
' i ii 1

■M

'^»l

' "'!''

' t'

' It

■ ^

} rl

474

Dramatic Sclectiont,

Glainis thou art, and Cawdor ; and shalt bo

What thou art proiul.stMl ! — Yet do I f'eir thy nature:

It is too full u' the milk of liumiu kiiidneHs,

To cateh the nearest w.iy. Thou would'st be great

Art not without ambition : but without

The illness slu) .Id attend it. Whit thou would'st highly,

That would'st tliou holily; would'st not play false,

And yet would'st wrongly win : thou dst hive, great Olaniifl,

That which cries, "Thus thou must do, if thou have it}"

And that, which rather thou dost fe.ir t« do,

Than wishest should be undone. Hie thee hither,

That I may pour my spirits in thine car;

And chastise with t!ie valor of my tongue

All that impodi'S thee from the goNh-n round,

Which fate and met iphysic d aid dutli 8ceui

To have thee crowned witlial.

Enter Seyton.
What is your tiding.s ?

*SV'//. The King comes here to-night.

Liidi/ Af. Thou'rt mad to say it !
Is not thy master with him ? who, wcre't so,
Would have informed lor prep.ir.ition.

Sri/. So please you. it is true: our Thane is coming.
One of my fellows had the speed of him;
Who, almost dead for bre.ith, had scarcely more
Th in would make up his message.

L(i<Ii/ M. (rive him tending —
He brings great news.
The raven himself is hoarse,
Th it croaks the fatal entr nice of Duncan
Under my battlements. Coujc, all you spirits
That tend on mortal t'loughts, unsex me lua-e;
And fill me, from the crown to the toe, top-full
Of direst cruelty ! mike thick my blood ;
Stop up th' access .ind passage to remorse ;
That no compunctious visiting-* of nit ire
Shako my fell purpo.se ; nor keep pice bt^tween
The effect, and it! Come to my woman's breasts,
And take my milk for gall, you murdering ministers,
Wherever in your sightless substances
You wait on nature's mischief ! Come, thick night,
And p ill thee in the dunnest smoke of hell !
Th it my keen knife see not the wound it makes,
Nor Heaven peep through the blanket of the dark.
To cry, '' Hold, hold!"—

\_Exit Seyton.

Dramatic Selection t.

476

Enter MacrETII.

Groat rjliiniis ! wortliy Cawdor !
GreiU-r tluiii both, by tlio jill-b;iil liorojiftcr !
Thy letters liavo tnmsported me beyond
This ijrtior.iiit proHcnt, and I led now
The future in the inhtnut.

3fnrh. My disirest h>ve,
Duncan eonies here to-nijrlit.

Lntfi/ M. And when ptes hence ?

Jildrft. To-morrow — as he purposes.

Linii/ }f. Oh, never
Shall suji that morrow see !
Your face, my Thane, is as a book, where men
May read .-itrjin^e m;itters. — To beuuile the time,
Look like the time; bear welcome in s^nn eye.
Your hand, your ton^'ue ; look like t'le iniuicent flower,
But be the serpent under it H«' tliat's coming
Must be provided for: and you sjuill put
This niulits «:reat business into my disjiatch ;
Which shall to all our days and nights to come,
Give solely sovereign sway and masterdom.

M<uh. We will speak lurther.

Liitlif M. Oidy look up clear ;
To alter i'avor ever is to fear :
Leave all the rest to me. \^Ex>:unt.

Scene II. — Muchefh's Custle at Inrerncss.

Enter Macbeth.

M<ii'h. If it 'twere done, when 'tis done, then 'twere well
It were done (|uiokly. If" tlie a>sassin.ition
Could trammrl uj) the conse<|u<'nce, nnd catch
With his surcease success I — Tli; t but this blow
Might be the be all, and the end-all. Iiere —
But here, upon this bank and slioil (tf'time,
We'd jump the life to come. — But, in these cases,
We still have judizment here, th it we but teach
Bloody instructions, which, being taught, return
To pligue the inventor: This even-handed justice
Commends the ingredients of cur poisoned chalice
To our own lips.— He's here in double trust :
First, as I am his kinsman and his subj' ct, —
Strong both ag inst the deed ; then, as his host,
Who should aginst his murderer shut the door,
Not bear the knife myself. — Besides, this BuDcan

,.^ i

%■

476

Dramatic Sdectioni.

Hath bornn his fticnltics so mock, h itli boon

So clear in his {^rcat office, tint his virtui's

Will j)lca<l liko aii<::cls, tniini)ct-t<»n<:ucd, against

The deep (laiiinatioii of hin t.ikiii^ off:

I have no spur

To prick t!io sides of my intent, hut only

A^iiultinj^ ambition, which o'crhaps itsrlf,

And falls uu the other side — How now! what news?

Kiittr JiADY MAf'BETIT.

Lailif Af. Tic has almost sujjpcd : why have you left the
chamber?

31<i(h. II ith he asked for me ?

Jjtidi/ M. Know you not, he ban?

Mmh. We will proceed no furth(>r in this business :
lie hath honore<l me of late ; and I have bought
Golden opinions from all sorts of people,
Which should be worn now in their newest gloss,
N<>t cast aside so s(K)n.

Lddi/ M. Was the hope drunk
Wiier.'in you dressed yourself? hath it slt^pt since,
And Wakes it now, to look ^o irreen and pale
At what it did so freely ? From this time.
Such I accoutit thy love. — Art thou afeard
To be the same in thine own act and valor.
As thou art in desire ? Would'st thou h ive that
Which thou esteem'st the ornament of life,
And live a coward in thine own esteem, —
Letting I dare not, wait ujmn I would.
Like the poor cat i' th' adage ?

Mad). ' Pr'y thee, peace : , ^

I dare do all that may become a man —
Who dares do more, is none.

Litdi/ M. What beast was it, then,
Tliat made you brtsak the enterprise to mc?
When you durst do it, then you were a man ;
And, to be more than what you were, you would
Be so much more the mm. Nor time, nor pi ice.
Did then adhere, and yet you would m ike both :
They have made themselves, and that their fitness now
Does unmake you. I have given suck, and know
How tender 'tis to love the b ibe th it milks me :
I would, while it was smiling in my face,
Have plucked my nipple from his boneless gums,
And dashed the brains out, had I so sworn

•i

Dramatic ScUetions,

477

As yf>n lifivo «lono to tliis !

Murh, It'wd sIkhiM tail—

L<iil}/ M. Wo t'.il !—
But Hcit'W ydur cour.i^o to tlie wticklni; placo,
And wi'll not tliil. Whoii Duikmii is aHhrp,
(Whon-Ut the r.itlu'r slmll his ti.iy's hartl journoy
i>outi<lly iiiviti' liiui), his two chaiiihcrl.iiiiij
Will I with wiiii; and wussail so convince,
That memory, the warder of the hrain,
Shall 1)1.' a iuin;', and the receipt of reason
A linihcek * only: when in swinish sleep *
Their drenched natures lie, as in a death,
What caiiiiot you and I |H'rf«»rui upon
The un;;u;irded Duncan ? what not put upon
His spuiiLiy ottictrs, who 8hall hear the uuilt
Of our *ire it (jiiell ?t

Marh. Hrin^ forth men-children only!
For thy undaunted mettle should comp(»s(»
Nothinji; hut males. Will it not he received,
When wc have marked with blood those sleepy two
Of his own chamber, and used their very da^^ers,
That they havcdone't?

Ltidi/ M. Who d.ires receive it other,
As we shall make our griefs and clamor roar
Upon his death ?

Moth. I am settled ; and bend up ♦

Each corporal aiicnt to this tta-rihle fe.it. —
Away, and mock tlu^ time with fairest show :
Fal^sc face must hide what the false heart doth know.

Scene III. — Git/cn/ in Mnchcth's Castle. — Charactcn —

Macbeth, and Seyton, an officer.

Marb. Go, bid thy mistress, when my drink is ready,
She strike upon the bell. — Get thee U) bed.

[^Exit Seyton.
Is this a dagger which I see before me,
The handle toward my hand ? Come, let me clutch thee I
I have thee not : and yet I sec thee still I
Art thou not, fatjd vision, sensible
To feeling, as to sight ? or art thou but
A dagger of the mind, a false creation
Proceeding from the hcat-oppress^d brain ?

■

* From Alembeck, a still. f Murder.

¥: '/f

V 'n:

478

Dramatic Select iont.

I Bcc tiloo yot, in form iia p;ilp tblu

Ah tills which now I draw.

Thou nnrshiU'ist mt; thu way that [ was goini^;

Atul Muuh an iristrunuMit I was to uso.

MiuiJ cyt'S ai't! in nU' tht? fools o' th»! other sonsos,

Or cls^' worth all tho rt?st. — I son th(!o still !

An. I on tliy hlidi', an 1 <lud,i<<'on, <i<niU of hlood,

Wliich Wis not so holWrc. - fntuc's no such thin;^ !

It is the b iNidy l)usini;ss, which inforin'i

Thus to niinc! eyes. — .\ow o'er the oiie h ilf world,

Nature seems disad, and wiiiked drea ns abune

Tlh! curt lined sleep; now witchciat't c -lebrates

Pule II 'c ite's otFerin;;s; and withi'nnl murder,

Alarum 'd by his sentinel, the wolf,

Whose howl's his watch, thus with his stealthy pace,

ToWiirds his desii^n

Moves like a ;;ho>tt. — Thou snre and firm-sot earth

Hear not my st^ps, which wiy tli 'y walk, for fear

Thy very stones prate of my whereabout,

And tiki! the present horror fnnn tlu time

Wnich now suits with it.
I go, and it is done ; the bell invites mo.
Hear it not. Duuc.in ! for it is i knell
That Hummou6 thee lo heaven, or to hell I

[/I ttrft rlngn.

[Exit.

Enter L ADV Macbeth.

La<h/ M. That which hath m ide thimi drunk, hath midc mu
b('»ld ;
What h ith quenched them, hath given mo fire : — H irk ! — PeaCe' !
It WIS tiie owl that shrieked, the fitil b dim in,
Which gives t le stern'st good night — [(jroKsing.'\ — He is about it ;
The doors are open and the .surfeitiul grooms
Do mock their charge with snores : I hive drugged their possetfl.
That de ith and nature do contend about them,
Whether they live or die.

Mtc.h. [Within.^ Who's there?— what, ho!

Lddif M. Alack ! I am afraid they have awaked,
And 'tis not done ! — the attempt, and not the deed,
Confounds us.— Hark ! — I laid their diggers ready, —
He could not miss them ! — Had he not resembled
My father, as he slept, I had done't ! — My husband /*

• M>i hmhan /.—These word^ betray the wife and wom.an. Bold as Lady
Macbeth boasts herself, the sight of her husband, who has gone through tb«
terrible trial, mores her deepest and tenderest sympathies.

E i'l^.'

Dramatic Select iona.

479

JC liter >Ia( HfcTii.

3fifrh. T Imvo dono tin; doiul : — Diil'st tlioii not hoar n noise?

fjiiffi/ M. I lieard tlio owl Mcru.ini, and thu erickt'ts cry.
Did not you spnik ?

M'ih. Wl.rn?

Lodtf M. Now.

Mnrh. As I drwccndod ?

//^f/// M. Ay.

MiH'h. Iliirk ! who lies i'tho pcoond cluiniber?

Lnlif M. |)oniildl>;iin.

M'trh. This is a sorry si^xht. ^Showing his hmuh.

L'ltlif M. A f'fM)lisli tliou<;ht, to say a sorry sii^lit.

Afiich. TIhto's one did lau«:h in his sleep, and one cried
" Munhr!"
That they did w ike <'acl) other; I sto«)rl and heard theui :
But they did say their prayers, and addressed them
Again to s'eep.

L'ufy M. There are two lod<;»'d toi;ether.

Much. One cried, '"(nul hlcss us:" and '' Amen," the other;
As they had s(>en me, with these h in<^m m's liands,
Listening their fear. I could n(»t say. Amen,
When tlu'y did say, CJod l)l(!ss us.

Ijiulff M. ('(insider it not so <leeply.

Macb. But wherefore could n<)t 1 pronounce, Amen?
I had most need of blessing, and Amen
Stuck in my throat.

Lady M, I hese deeds must not be thought
Aftt;r these ways : so, it will make us mad.

Macb. Methought I he ird a v«iiee cry, Sfcrp no more /
Micheth dors niardtr sleep, the innocent sleep ;
Sleep that knits up the rnvelled sle^irv of cure.,
The death of en eh dnifs life, sore labors bith,
Balm of hurt minds, gre<tt nature's second aturse,
Cliief nourish er in ,'if's feast.

Lady M. What do you mean ?

Macb. Still it cried, sleep no more / to all the house :
Glamis hath murdered sleep ; and therefore (Cawdor
Shall sleep no mere, Marbefh shdl sleep no more !

Lady M. Who was it that thus cried ? Why, worthy Thane,
You do unbend your noble strength, to think
So brain-sickly of things ; go, get some water,
And wash this filthy witness from your hand. —
Why did you bring these daggers from the pl.ice?
They must lie there : Go, carry them ; and smear
The sleepy grooms with blood.

-V' ■•':

' 1 vi»

■"-■ '''']''■

=i,t

480

Dramatic Selections,

Mdch. I'll go no more :
I iim ;it'r;iid to think what I have done; —
Look on't again. I dare not !

Lml}/ M. Infirm of purpose !
Give me the dauuors. The sleeping, and the dead,
Are but as pietures : Ws the eye of childhood
That fears a painted devil. — If Ik; do bleed,
I'll gild the faces of the grooms withal.
For it must seem their guilt.

[Ax'V. Ktincking within.

Much. Whence is that knoekiui; ?
llow is't with me, when every nois-e appals me ?
What hands are here ? Hi ! they pluck out mine eyes.
Will all griMt Neptune's ocean wash this blood
Clem i'roni my hand? No; this my hand will rather
The multitudinous seas incarnardine,
Making the green — one red.

Jd'-eiitcr L \DY Macbettt.

L((<Ii/ M. My hands are of your color ; but I shame
To wear a heirt so white.- [KniKl^iinf.'^ I hear a knocking
At ihe south entry — retire we to our chamber:
A little water clears us of this di^ed :
How easy is it, then ? Your const mcy

Hath left you unattended. — \^KiiocUinij.~\ — Hark ! more knock-
ing :
Gi't on your night gown, lest occision call us
And shew us to be watchers. — Be not lost
So poorly in your thoughts.

M ich. To kuow my deed —'twere best not know myself.
Wake Dune. Ill with thy kuockini,^ ! Ay, would thou could'st !

Adopted from the JStaudtird Drama.

■.;,i|

KINO JOHN TEMPTING HUBERT TO MURDER

PRINCE AllTHUR.

' BHAKESCEARE.

la thi3 scene the following characters are supposed to be present : — King
John, and Hubert sta idiiig aside. Ai)art from them, but in view, are
Elinor, tiie Kinj^'s mother -iad young Arthur. The speeches are delivered
in I'W suppressed tou^s, the King's speech often requiring the deepest and
purest toues of the orotund voice.

PART. I.

K. John, Come hither, Hubert. 0, my gentle Hubert,
We owe thee much j within this wall of flesh

good.

Dramatic Selections,

There is a soul counts thee her creditor,
Aud with advantaj^e means to pay tliy lovej
And, my good friend, thy voluntary oath
Lives in tliis bosom, dearly cherished.
Give me thy hand. I had a thing to say,—
But I will lit it with some better time.
By heaven, Hubert, I am almost asham'd
To say what good respect I have of tiiee.

Ilub. I am much bouuden to your majesty.

K. John. Good friend, thou hast no cause to say so yet;
But thou shalt have ; and creep time ne'er so slow,
Yet it shall come for me to do thee
I had a thing to say, — but let it go
The sun is ii; the heaven, and the proud day.
Attended with the pleasures of the world,
Is all too wanton, and too full of gawds,
To give me audience : — if the midnight bell
Did, with his iron tongue and brazen mouth,
Sound one into the drowsy ear of night ;
If this same were a churchyard where we stund.
And thou possessed with a thousand wrongs ;
Or if that surly spirit, melancholy.
Had bak'd thy blood, and made it heavy, thick ;
(Which else runs tickling up and down the veins.
Making that idiot, laughter, keep men's eyes,
And strain tleir cheeks to idle merriment,
A passion hateful to my purposes,)
Or if that thou couldst see me without eyes,
Hear me without thine ears, and make reply
Without a tongue, using conceit alone.
Without eyes, ears, and harmful sound of words ;
Then, in despite of brooded watchful day,
I would into thy bosom pour my thoughts :
But ah, I will not ; — yet I love thee well ;
And, by my troth, I think thou lov'st me well.

Huh. So well, that what you bid me undertake.
Though that my death were adjunct to my act.
By heaven, 1 would do it.

K. John. Do not I know thou wouldst ?

Good Hubert, Hubert, Hubert, throw thine eye
On yon young boy : I'll till thee what, my friend.
He is a very serpent in my way ;
And wheresoe'er this foot of mine doth tread,
Ho lies before me : — dost thou understand me ?
Thou art his keeper.

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482

Dramatic Selectiont,

Huh. And I'll keep him so,

That he shall not offend your majesty.

K. John, Death.

Huh, My lord ?

K, John. A grave.

Huh.

K. John.
I could be merry now. Hubert, I lov'3 thee ;
Well, I'll not say what I intend for thoe;
Remember.

He shall not live.
Enough.

HUBERT AND ARTHUR.

PART U.

In this scene Hubert is prepared to carry oiit the wicked intentions of
the king, by burning out the eyes of the young Prince.

Scene — Northampton. A Room in the Castle.
Enter Hubert and two Attendants,

Hvh. Heat me t^iese irons hot ; and look thou stand
Within the arras ; when I strike my foot
Ujon the bosom of the jijround, rush forth,
And bind the boy, which you shall find with me,
Fast to the chair : be heedful : hence, and watch.

1st. Attend. I hope your warrant will bear out the deed.

Huh. Uncleanly scruples ! fear not you ; look to't. —

[^Exeunt attendants.
Young lad, come forth ; I have to say with you.

Enter Arthur.

Arth. Good morrow, Hubert.

Huh. Good morrow, little prince.

Arth. As little prince (having so great a title
To be more prince) as may be. — You are sad.

Huh. Indeed, I have been merrier.

Arth.
Methinks no body should be sad but I :
Yet, I remember, when I was in France,
Young gentlemen would be as sad as night.
Only for wantonness. By my Christendom,
So I were out of prison, and kept sheep,
I should be as merry as the day is long ;
And so I would be here, but that I doubt
My uncle prjictises more harm to me :
He ia afraid of me, and I of him :
Is it my fault that I was Geffrey's son ?

Mercy on me I

Dramatic Selections.

483

»t live.
Qougb.

tentions of

leed.
ttendants.

No, indeed, is 't not ; and I would to heaven
I were your son, so you would love me, Hubert.

Hub. [^si(/e.] If I talk to him with his innocent prate
He will awake my mercy, which lies dead :
Therefore I will be sudden, and despatch.

Arth. Are you sick, Hubert ! you hiok pale to-day.
In sooth, I would you were a little sick,
That I mijrht sit all night, and watch with you :
I warrant, I love you more than you do me.

Jfub. [J«iV7c.] His words do take possession of my bosom^
Head here, young Arthur. ^Showing a paper.

r J .s ////',] How now, foolish rheum !

Turning dispiteous torture out of door 1
I must be brief, lest resolution drop
Out at mine eyes in tender wom.mish tears. —
Can you not read it ? is it not fair writ ?

Arth. Too fairly, Hubert, for so foul effect :
Must you with hot irons burn out both mine eyes ?
JJub. Young boy, I must.
Arth. And will you ?

JJub. And I will.

Arth. Have you the heart ? When your head did but ache,
I knit mv handkerchief about vour brows,
(The best I had, a princess wrought it me.)
And I did never ask it you again ;
And with my hand at midnight held your head ;
And, like the watchful minutes to the hour.
Still and anon cheer'd up the heavy time,
Saying, " What lack you ?" and, "' Where lies your grief?"
Or, " What good love may I perform for you?"
Many a poor man's son would have lain still.
And ne'er have spoke a loving word to you ;
But you at your sick service had a prince.
Nay, you may think my love was crafty love, «

And call it cunning: — do, an if you will :
If heaven be pleas'd that you must use me ill,
Why, then you must. — Will you put out mine eyes ?
These eyes that never did, nor never shall
So much as frown on you?

Hub. I have sworn to do it ;

And with hot irons must I burn them out.

Arth. Ah, none but in this iron age would do it !
The iron of itself, though heat red hot,
Approaching near these eyes, would drink my tears.
And quench this fiery indignation,

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Dramatic Selections,

u ■"•
it..

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1' ^^%

Even in the matter of mine innocence ;

N:iy, after that, consume away in rust,

But for containing? fire to harm mine eye.

Are you more stubborn-hard tlian hammer'd iron ?

An if an angel should liave come to me.

And told me Hubert should put out mine eyes,

I would not have believed him, — no tongue but Hubert's.

Hub. J^StamjhS.^ Come forth.

He-enter attendants, with cord, irons, &c.
Do as I bid you do.

Arth. ! save me, Hubert, save me ! my eyes are out
Even with the fierce looks of these bloody men.

ILih. Give me the iron, I say, and bind him here.

Arth. Alas ! what need you be so boisterous-rough ?
I will not struggle, I will stand stone-still.
For heaven's sake, Hubert, let me not be bound !
Nay, hear me, Hubert ! — drive these men away,
And I will sit as quiet as a lamb ;
I will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word,
Nor look upon tlie iron angerly :
Thrust but these men away, and I'll forgive you,
Whatever torment you do put me to.

Huh. Go, stand within ; let mo alone with him.

Ist Attend. I am best pleas'd to be from such a deed.

\^Exeunt attendants.

Arth. Alas ! I then have chid away my friend:
He hath a stern look, but a gentle heart: —
Let him come back, that his compassion may
Give life to yours.

Hub. Come, boy, prepare yourself.

Arth. Is there no remedy ?

Huh. None, but to lose your eyes.

Arth. heaven ! — that there were but a mote in yours,
A grain, a dust, a gnat, a wandering hair,
Any annoyance in that precious sense f
Then, feeling what small thinus are boisterous there,
Your vile intent must needs seem horrible.

Uub. Is this your promise ! go to, hold your tongue.

Arth. Hubert, the utterance of a brace of tongues
Must needs want pleading for a pair of eyes :
Let me not hold my tongue ; let me not, Hubert I
Or, Hubert, if you will, cut out my tongue.
So I may keep mine eyes : 0, spare mine eyes,
Thotigh to no use but still to look on you 1

Dramatic Selections. 485

Lo ! by my troth, the instrument is cold,
And would not harm me.

JInh. I can heat it, boy,

Arth. No, in p^d sooth : the fire is dead with grief,
Being create for comfort, to be us'd
In undeserv'd extremes : see else yourself;
There is no malice in this burning coal ;
The breath of heaven hath blown his spirit out,
And strew'd repentant ashes on his head.

Huh. But with my breatli I can revive it, boy.

Arth. And if you do, you will but make it blush,
And glow with shame of your proceedings, Hubert;
Nay, it, perchance, will sparkle in your eyes;
And, like a dog that is conipoU'd to fight.
Snatch at his master that doth tarre him on.
All things that you should use to do me wrong
Deny their office : only you do lack
That merc^ lich fierce fire, i.nd iron, extends,
Creature ..ote for n)ercy-iacking uses.

Iliih. \Vcll, see to live; I will not touch thine eyes
For all the treasure that thine uncle owes :
Yet am I sworn, and I did purpose, boy, ,

With this same very iron to burn them out.

Arth. 0, now you look like Hubert 1 all this while
You were disguised.

Ihib. Peace ! no more. Adieu ;

Your uncle must not know but you are dead ;
I'll fill these dogged spies with false reports:
And, pretty child, sleep doubtless and secure,
That Hubert for the wealth of all the world
Will not oflfend thee.

Arth. heaven! — I thank you, Hubert.

Hub. Silence ! no more : go closely in with me :
Much danger do I undergo for tiiee. [^Exeunt.

\':^

' ''}

APPEAL OF QUEEN KATHARINE TO HENRY VIII.

BHAKKSPKAKR. •

Scene. — A Hull In lihtrk Frinrs.

Persons present: — King Henry and Quoen Katharine, Cnniinals Wo1*f>y
and Campeiug ; the Archbishop of Canterbi ry and the Bisiiops of Kly,
Lincoln, Rochester, and Saint Asai^h ; lords, gentlemen, pilaris and others la
attendance. The king seats himsolf under the cloth of state, and the
queen at some distance. Queen Katharine was the favorite oliaracter of
lfr3. Siddons. She told Dr. Johnson she preferred it because it was so

■?
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486

Dramatic Selectioni.

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natural. This great queen of tragedy unconsciously s^rmpathised with
what was at once truthful, good, modest and regal. Nothing could exceed
the blended dignity and pathos of her appeal to the king ; nothing approach
the grandeur of her tone when putting aside Cardinal (Jampeius, who had
supposed himself addressed by '• Lord Cardinal," she points to Wolsev, and
exclaims, " To i/ou I speak !" Hariove, the paint(T, said he thought her
statuesque attitude at that moment was the sublimest thing in ancient or
modern sculpture. It was a combination of the magnificence of Michael
Angelo with the grace of a Praxiteles. iSVffin distinct rounds of applause ac-
companied the utterance of tliat simple apostrophe, and Harlowe took advan-
tage of the time slie was thus obliged to occupy in one attitude, to sketch
the whole scene, wliich he afterwards transferrea to canvas. The subsequent
scene, in which the two curdinalsattempt to cajole the tjueen into submission
to the king's evil wishes, presents an admirable picture of womanly dignity
and Buttering. These selections are arranged in four parts, and may be
read as one whole, or as detached scenes.

Part i.

Wol. Whilst our commission from Rome is read,
Let silence be commanded.

K. ILn. What's the need ?

It hath already publicly been read,
And on all sides th' authority allow'd;
You may, then, spare that time.

Wol. Be't so. — Proceed.

Scrfhc. Say, Henry, Kinp; of England, come into the court.

Crier. Henry, King of England, &c.

K. lien r I/. Here.

Scribe. Say, Katharine, Queen of England, come into the
court.

Crier. Katharine, Queen of England, &o.

[The Queen mokes no (insirer, rines out of her chair, goes
about the court, comes to the King, and kneels at his
feet ; then speaks.

Q. Kath. Sir, I desire you do me right and justice ;
And to bestow your pity on me ; for
I am a most poor woman, and a stranger,
Born out of your dominions ; having here
No judge indifferent, nor no more assurance
Of equal friendship and proceeding. Alas, sir,
In what liave I oflFended you ? what cause
H.ith my behaviour given to your di.spleasure,
That thus you should proceed t<i put me off,
And t;iko your good grace from me? Heaven witness, ^
I have been to you a true and humble wife.
At all times to your will conformable ;
I^vcn in fear to kindle your dislike,
Yea, subject to your countenance, glad or sorry
As I saw it inclin'd. When was tlie hour

led with
d exceed
ipl)ruach
who had
Uev, and
ugnt her
ncient or
' Michael
ilaiise ac-
ik advan-
to sketch
ibsequent
ibmission
y dignity
i may be

lourt.
into the

air, goe»
Is at hi»

Dramatic Selectiont,

I ever contradicted your desire,

Or made it not mine too ? Or which of your friends

Have I not strove to love, although I knew

He were mine enemy ? what friend of mine

That had to liim deriv'd your ari^er, did I

Continue in my liking ? nay, ^ave notice

He was from thence dischar<^'d. Sir, call to mind

That T have been your wife, in this obedience,

Upward of twenty years, and have been blest

With many children by you : if, in the course

And process of this time, you can report.

And prove it too, against mine honor auj^ht,

My bond to wedlwlc, or my love and duty,

Against your sacred person, in God's name,

Turn me away ; and let the foul'st contempt

Shut door u])on me, and so give me up

To the sharp'st kind of justice. Please you, sir,

The king, your father, was reputed for

A prince most prudent, of an excellent

And unmatch'd wit and judgment : Ferdinand,

My father, king of Spain, was reckon'd one

The wisest prince that there had reign'd by many

A year before : It is not to be question'd

That they had gathcr'd a wise council to them

Of every realm, that did debate this business.

Who deem'd our marriage lawful : Wherefore I humbly

Beseech you, sir, to spare me, till I may

Be by my friends in 8pain advis'd ; whose counsel

I will implore : if not, i' the name of God,

Your pleasure be fultiil'd !

Wol. You have here, lady,

(And of your choice,) these reverend fathers; men
Of singular integrity and learning,
Yea, ♦he elect o' the land, who are assembled
To plead your cause: it shall be thorel'ore bootless
That longer you desire the court ; as well
For your own quiet, as to rectify
What is unsettled in the king.

Cam. Ilis grace

Hath spoken well and justly ; thcn^fore, madam,
It's fit this royal session do proceeil ;
And that, without di'lay, tlieir arguments
Be now produc'd and heard.

Q. K'tth. Lord Cardinal,

To you I sjieak.

487

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Wol.
Q. Kath.

Dramatic Selectiom.
Your pleasure, madum ?

Sir.

I am about to weep ; but, tliiiikin<; that

We are a queen, (or lon^ have ilreani'd so,) certain

The daughter of a kinuj, my drops of tears

I'll turn to sparks of fire.

Wol. Be patient yot.

Q. Kath. I will, when you are humble ; nay, before,
Or God will punish me. I do bulieve,
Induc'd by [)otcnt circumstMuns, that
You are mine enemy ; and make my ehalleuge
You shall not be njy judue : for it is you
Have blown this coal betwixt my lord and me, —
Which God's dew (|uei\ch ! — Therefore, I say aii;ain,
I utterly abhor, yea, from my soul
Refuse you for njy judi>;e, whom, yot once more,
I hold my most nmlicious Ibe, and think not
At all a friend to truth.

Wol. I do profess

You speak not like yourself; who over yet
Have stood to charity, and dii-play'd the effects
Of dispositicm gentle, and of wisdom
O'ertoppinp; woman's power. IVIadam, you do me wroiiir:
I have no spleen a<>;ainst you ; nor injustice
For you, or any: how fir I have proceeded,
Or how far farther shall, is warranted
By a commission from the consistory, —
Yea, the whole consistory of Home. You charire me
That I have blown this coal : 1 do deny it :
The kin<»- is present ; if it be known to him
That I <xainsjiy my deed, how may he wound,
And worthily, liiy falsehood ? yea, as much
As you have done my truth. If he know
That I am fvi-o of your report, he knows
I am not rf vour .vronc;. Therefore in him
It lies tx5 cure r^o : and the cure is, to
Remove these thoughts from you : the which before
His highness shall speak in, I do beseech
You, gracious madam, to untliink your speaking,
And to say so no more.

Q. Kath. My lord, my lord,

I am a simple woman, much too weak

To oppose your cunning. You are mock and humble-mouth'd ;
You sign your place and calling, in full seeming,
With meekness and humility ; but your heart

Dramatic Selections,

489

Is cramm'd with arro'^ancy, sploen, and pride.
You have, by fortune and his liij^hne^s' favors,
Qone slijihtly o'er low sU'ps, and now are mounted
Where powers are your retainers; and your words,
Domestics to you, serve your will as't please
Yourself pronounce their office. I must tell you,
You tender more your person's honor than
Your lii^h profession spiritu.il : th.it ajrain
I do refuse you for my judiie ; and here,
Before you all, appeal unto the pope,
To brinjz; my whoh; cause 'fore his holiness.
And to be judg'd by him.

[aS'Ac courtesies to the Kincr, nnrl offers to dcjxirt.

Cam. ^ The queen is obstinate.

Stubborn to justice, apt to accuse it, and
Disdainful to be tried by't : 'tis not well.
She's <roing away.

K. Hen. C.I 11 her ajrain.

Crier. Katharine, Queen of Enfrl.md, come into the court.

Grif. Madam, you are called back.

Q. Kuth. What need you note it ? pray you, keep your way ;
When you are call'd, return. — Now, the Lord help !
They vex me past my patience ! — Pray you, pass on :
I will not tarry : no, nor evermore
Upon this business my appearance make
In any of their courts.

[_Exeunt Queen, Griffith, and her other attendants.

ith'd ;

Part ii.

Scene. — Palace at BrhhweU. A Room in the Qiieen^s

apartment.

Enter Gentleman.

Q. Kath. How now !

Gent. An't please please your grace, the two great cardinals
Wait in the presence.

Q. Kath. Would they speak with me ?

Gent. They will'd me say so, madam.

Q. Kath. Pray their graces

To come near. [Exit Gent.] Wh.it can be their business
With me, a poor weak woman, fallen from favor ?
I do not like their coming, now I tliink on't.
They should be good men ; their affairs as righteous ;
But all hoods make not monks.

I '* ■ .

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490

Dramatic Selectiont,

Enter Wolscy '/«</ Campcius.

Wol. P« ice to your hijj;hness I

Q. Kath. Your graces find iiio h( ru part of u housewife;
I would be all, a'j:uiiist tlie worst mny happen.
What lire your pleanures with me, reverend lords?

Wol. May it please you, iioble madam, to withdraw
Into your private chamber, we shall give you
The full eau.se of our coming.

Q. K<ith. Speak it here ;

There's nothing I have done yet, o' my con.scieace,
Deserves a corner ; would all other women
Gould speak this with as free a soul ais I do I
My lords, I care not, (so much I am happy
Above a number,) if my actions
Were tried by every tongue, evt^ry eye saw them,
Envy and base opinion set against them,
I know my life so even. If your business
Seek me out, and that way I am wife in,
Out with it boldly : truth htves open dealing.

Wol. Tantu eatergn te mentis iutegritas, regina serenissimaj-
Q. Ktith. 0, good my lord, no Latin;
I am not such a truant since my coming,
As not to know the language I have liv'd in :
A strange tongue makes my cause more strange, suspicious ;
Pray, speak in English : here are some will thank you.
If you speak truth, for their poor nii.stre.ss' sake ;
Believe me, she has had much wrong: lord cardinal,

The willing'st sin I ever yet committed

May be absolv'd in English.

Wol. ^ Noble lady.

I am sorry my integrity should breed

(And service to his majesty and you)

So deep suspicion, where all faith was meant.

We come not by the way of accusation,

To taint tliat honor every good tongue blesses.

Nor to betray you any way to .sorrow ;

You have too much, good lady ; but to know

How you stand minded in the weighty difference

Between the king and you ; and to deliver.

Like free and honest men, our just opinions,

And comforts to your cause.

Cam. Most honor'd madam,

My lord of York, —out of his noble nature,

Zeal and obedience he still bore your grace, —

Forgetting, like a good man, your late censure

Dramatic Selectiont,

491

Both of his truth and him, (which was too far) —
OfferH, aH I do, in sign of ])oacc,
HIh Hervicc and his cuun»cl.

Q. Kath. To betray nno. [^l«tt/<'.]

My lords, I thank you both for your good wills ;
Ye speak like honest men : (pray Goil, ye prove so !)
But how to make ye suddenly an answer,
In such a point of wcit^ht, so near mine honor,
(More near my life, I fear,) with my weak wit,
And to such men of gravity and learning.
In truth, I know not. I was set at work
Among my maids : full little, God knows, looking
Either for such men, or such business,
For her sake that I have been, (for I feel
The last fit of my greatness,) good your graces
Let me have time and counsel for my cause :
Alas, I um a woman, friendless, hopeless !

Wol. Madam, you wrong the king's love with these fears ;
Your hopes and friends are infinite.

Q. Kiith. In England

But little for my profit : can you think, lords,
That any Englishman dare give me counsel ?
Or be a known friend, gainst his highness' pleasure,
(Though he be grown so desperate to be honest,)
And live a subject? Nay, forsooth, my friends,
They that must weigh out my afflictions,
They that my trust must go to, live not here :
They are, as all my other comforts, far hence.
In mine own country, lords.

Cam. I would your grace

Would leave your griefs, and take my counsel.

Q. Kath, How, sir?

Cam. Put your main cause into the king's protection ;
He's loving, and most gracious : 'twill be much
Both for your honor bettor, and your cause ;
For if the trial of the law o'ertake you.
You'll part away disgrac'd.

Wol. He tolls you rightly.

Q. Kath. Ye tell me what ye wish for both, — my ruin :
Is this your Christian counsel ? out upon ye I
Heaven is above all yet ; there sits a Judge
That no king can corrupt.

Cam. Your rage mistakes us.

Q. Kath. The more shame for ye ! holy men I thought ye,
Upon my soul, two reverend cardinal virtues ;

: Hi

402

Dramatic Selection$.

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ill

But cardinal sinn, and hollow hcurtH, I fear yo :

Mend tliein, for flhanio, my lord^. Ih thirt your comfort?

The cordial that yo briii*>; a wretched lady ?

A woman lost amon<; yo, lau^h'd at, wcorn'd ?

I will not wish ye half my misericH ;

I have more charity : but suy, I warn'd yo ;

Take heed, for heaven's wake, take heed, lest at once

The burden of my sorrows fall upon ye.

Wof. Madam, this is a mere distraction ;
You turn the «!;ood wo offer into envy.

Q. Ktifh. Ye turn me into nothinir : woe upon ye,
And all such false professors ! Would ye have mo
(If ye have any justice, any pity;
If ye be anythinuj but churchin(!n's habits)
Put my sick cause into his hands that hates me ?
Alas, he hfis banished me his bed already ;
His love, too, lon«i^ anjo ! I am old, my lords,
And all the fellowship I hold now with him
Is only my obedience. What can happen
To me above this wretchedness ? all your studies
Make me u curse like this.

Cam. Your fears are worse.

Q. Kitfh. Have I liv'd thus lonu; — (let me speak myself,
Since virtue finds no friends,) — a wife, a true one ?
A woman ( I dare say without vain-glory)
Never yet branded with suspicion ?
Have I with all my full affections

Still met the kin«r ? lov'd him next heaven ? obey'd him ?
Been, out of fondness, superstitious to him ?
Almost for«;^ot my prayers to content him ?
And am I thus rewarded ? 'tis not well, lords.
Brinjj^ me a constant woman to her husband,
One that ne'er dream'd a joy beyond his pleasure j
And to that woman, when she has done most,
Yet will I add an honor, — a great patience.

Wol. Madam, you wander from the good we aim at.

Q. Kdth. My lord, I dare not make myself so guilty,
To give up willingly that noble title
Your master wed me to : nothing but death
Shall e'er divorce my dignities.

Wol. Pray, hear me.

Q. Knfh. Would I had never trod this English earth,
Or felt the flatteries that grow upon it !
Ye have angels' faces, but heaven knows your hearts.
What will become of me now, wretched lady ?

Dramatie Selecttom,

498

I nni tlic moHt unhiippy wnnuin living?

[ To h<r troiurnJ\ AIuh, jioor wenches, wliere are now your

fortuiu'H !
Shipwrcok'd upon n kingdom, whoro no pity,
No friends, no hope; no kindred weep for mo;
Almost no ^rjive idh»w'd me: — like the lily,
That «)nce WiiH mistrens of tht^ Held and flouriMird,
1*11 hnii'^ n«y head and perish.

Wot. Ifyourj^raco

Could but be brouj^ht to know our ends are honest,
You'd feel more comfort: why should we, «;ood lady,
Upon wh;it cause, wronj^ you ? alas, our places.
The way of our profession is ajrainst it:
We are to cure such sorrows, not to sow them.
For go<»dness' sake, consider what you do,
Ilow you may hurt yourself, ay, utterly
Grow from the kind's acquaintance, by this carriage.
The he.irts of princes kiss obedience,
So much they love it; but to stubborn spiiits
They swell, and grow as terrible as storms.
I know you have u gentle, noble temper,
A soul as even as calm : pray, think us
Those we profess, peace-makers, friends, and servants,

Carn. Madam, you'll find it so. You wrong your virtues
With these weak women's fears : a noble spirit.
As yours was put into you, ever casts
Such doubts, as false coin, from it. The king loves you;
Beware you lose it not ; for us, if you please
To trust us in your business, we are ready
To use our utmost studies in your service.

Q. K<ith. Do what ye will, my lords : and, pray, forgive me,
If I have us'd myself unmannerly :
You know I am a woman, lacking wit
To make a seemly answer to such persons.
Pray, do my service to his majt'sty :
He has my heart yet; and shall have my prayers
While I shall have my life. Come, reverend fathers,
Bestow your counsels on me : slie now begs.
That little thought, when she set footing here,
She should have bought her dignities so dear.

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Dramatic Selections,

FALL OF WOLSEY.

Scene. — Ante-chamber in the King^s apartment.

In the scene immediately leading to this,in which Wolsey coraraenta upon
his fall from power, he has been assailed and accused of corruption and mis-
managiMnent in his high office by certain nobles ; one of whom Norfollt,
addresses the insulting and mocking words which introduce Wolsey's
soliloquy :

PART III.

Nor. And now we'll leave you to your meditations
How to live better. For your stubborn answer "

About the giving back the Great Seal to us.
The king shall know it, and, no doubt, shall thank you.
So farc-you-well, my little good lord cardinal.

\^Exeunt all except Wolsey.

Wol. So, farewell to the little good you bear me.
Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness !
This is the state of man ; to-day he puts forth
The tender leaves of hope ; to-morrow blossoms,
And bears his blushing honors thick upon him ;
The third day comes a frost, a killing frost;
And — when he thinks, good easy man, full surely
His greatness is a ripening — nips his root.
And then he falls, as I do. I have ventur'd,
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,
This many summers in a sea of glory ;
But far beyond my depth : my high blown pride
At length broke under me ; and now has left me,
Weary and old with service, to the mercy
Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me.
Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye :
I feel my heart new open'd. 0, how wretched
Is that poor man that hangs on princes' f ivors :
There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to,
That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin,
More pangs and fears than wars or women have ;
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,
Never to hope again, — ^

Enter Cromwell, nmazedly.
Why, how now, Cromwell I

Crom. I have no power to speak, sir.

Wol. ^ Whatamaz'd

At my misfortunes ? can thy spirit wonder

nenta upon
on and mis-
mi Norfolk,
ce Wolsey's

ept Wolsey.

Il, amazedly.
]ell!

Dramatic Selections.

495

A great man should decline ? Nay, an' you weep,
I am fallen indeed.

Crom. Row does your grace ?

Wol. Why, well ;

Never so truly happy, my c;ood Cromwell.
I know myself now ; and I feel within me
A peace nbovc all earthly dignities,
A still and quiot conscience. The kinj^f has cur'd me.
I humbly tliank his grace ; and from these shoulders,
These ruin'd pillars, out of pity, taken
A load would sink a navy, too much honor :
0, 'tis a burden, Cromwell, 'tis u burden
Too heavy for a man that hopes for heaven !

Crom. I am glad your grace has made that right use of it.

Wol. I hope I have : I am able now, methinks,
(Out of a fortitude of soul I feel)
To endure more miseries, and greater far.
Than my weak-hearted enemies dare offer.
What news abroad ?

Crorii'. The heaviest and the worst

Is your displeasure with the king.

Wol. God bless him I

Crom. The next is, that Sir Thomas More is chosen
Lord Chancellor in your place.

Wol. That's somewhat sudden :

But he's a learned man. May he continue
Long in his highness' favor, and do justice
For truth's sake, and his conscience, that his bones.
When he has run his course and sleeps in blessings,
May have a tomb of orphans' tears wept on them.
What mure ?

Crom. That Cranmer is return'd with welcome,
Install'd Lord Arehhishop of Canterbury.

Wol. That's news indeed !

Crom. Last, that the lady Anne,

Whom the king hath in secrecy long married,
This day was view'd in open, as his queen.
Going to chapel ; and the voice is now
Only about her coronation.

Wol. There was the weight that puU'd me down. 0, Crom-
well.
The king has gone beyond me ; all my glories
In that one woman I have lost for ever :
No sun shall ever usher forth mine honors,
Or gild again the noble troops that waited

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496

Dramatic Selections.

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Upon my smiles. Gro, get thee from me, Cromwell ;

I am a poor fallen man, unworthy now

To be thy lord and master : seek the king ;

(That sun I pray, may never set !) I have told him

What, and how true thou art : he will advance thee ;

Some little memory of me will stir him,

(I know his noble nature,) not to let

Thy hopeful service perish too; good Cromwell,

Neglect him not; make use now, and provide

For thine own future safety.

Crom. my lord.

Must I, then, leave you ? must I needs forego
So good, so noble, and so true a muster ?
Bear witness, all that have not hearts of iron,
With what a sorrow Cromwell leaves his lord —
The king shall have my service ; but my prayers,
For ever and for ever, shall be yours.

[Vol. Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear
In all my miseries ; but thou hast forc'd me.
Out of tiiy honest truth, to pliy the wom:in.
Let's dry our eyes : and thus far hoar mo, Cromwell ;
And, — when I am forgotten, as I sh dl be.
And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention
Of me more must be heard of, — say, I taught thee,
Say, Wolsey , — that once trod the ways of glory.
And sounded all the depths and shoals of honor, —
Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in ;
A sure and safe one, though thy master miss'd it.
Mark but my fall, and that that ruin'd me.
Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition :
By that sin fell the angels ; how can man, then,
The im:ige of his Maker, hope to win by't ?
Love thyself last : cherish those hearts that hate thee.
Corruption wins not more than honesty.
Still ill thy right hand carry gentle peace.
To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not:
Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's.
Thy God's, and truth's ; then if thou fall'st, Cromwell,
Thou fall'st a blessed martyr. Serve the king ;
And, — pr'ythee, lead me in :
There take an inventory of all I have.
To the last penny ; 'tis the king's ; my robe,
And my integrity to heaven, is all
I dare now call mine own. Cromwell, Cromwell I
Had I but served my God with half the zeal

Co
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Dramatic Selections,

497

I serv'd my ting, he would not in mine age
Have left me naked to mine enemies.

Cram. Good sir, have patience.

Wol. So I have. Farewell

The hopes of court ! my hopes in heaven do well.

^cll,

DEATH OP WOLSEY:

Described to Queen Katharine by one of her gentlemen attendants.

PART IV.

Katharine Dowager sick : hetira'n Griffith and Patience.

Q. Kafh. Didst thou not tell me, Griffith, as thou led'st me.
That the great child of honor. Cardinal Wolsey,
Was dead ?

Grif. Yes, madam ; but I think your grace,
Out of the pain you sufFer'd, gave no car to t.

Katli. Pr'ythee, good Griffith, tell me how he died :
If well, he stepp'd before me, happily,
For my example.

Grif. Well, the voice goes, madam :

For after the stout Earl Northumberland
Arrested him .'it York, and brought him forward
(As a man sorely tainted) to his answer,
He fell sick suddenly, and grew so ill,
He could not sit his mule,

Kath, Alas, poor man 1

Grif. At last, with easy roads, he came to Leicester:
Lodg'd in the abbey ; where the reverend abbot,
With all his convent, honorably receiv'd him ;
To whom he gave these words, — " father ahbot^
An old man, broken with the storms of state,
Is come to la^ his weary bones amomj ye: t

Give him a little earth for charity /"
So went to bed ; 'There eagerly his sickness
Pursu'd him still; and three nights after this.
About the hour of eight, (which he himself
Foretold should be his last,) full of repentance,
Continual meditations, tears, and sorrows,
He gave his honors to the world again.
His blessed part to Heaven, and slept in peace.

Kath. So may he rest ; his faults lie gently on him !
Yet thus far, Griffith, give me leave to speak him,
And yet with charity: — He was a man

.'!

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Dramatic Selections,

^^)..

Of an unbounded stomacli^ ever ranking
Himself with princes; one, that, by suggestion.
Tied all the kingdom ; simony was fair play ;
His own opinion was bis law ; i' the presence
He would say untruths ; and be ever double^
Both in his words and meaning. He was never,
But where he meant to ruin, pitiful :
His promises were, as he then was^ mighty ;
But his perforuiauce, as he is now, nothing.
Of his own body he was ill, and gave
The clergy ill example.

Grif. Noble madam,

Men's evil manners live in brass ; their virtues
We write in water. May it please your highness
To hear me speak his good now ?

Kath. Yes, good Griffith,

I were malicious else.

Chrif. This cardinal.

Though from a humble stock, undoubtedly
Was fashion'd to much honor from his cradle.
He was a scholar, and a ripe and good one ;
Exceeding wise, fair-spoken, and persuading :
Lofty and sour to them that lov'd him not;
But to those men that sought him, sweet as summer.
And though he were unsatisfied in getting,
(Which was a sin,) yet in bestowing, madam,
He was mo.st princely : ever witness for him '

Those twins of learning, that he rai.s'd in you,
Ipswich, and Oxford I one of which fell with him.
Unwilling to outlive the good that did it ;
The other, though unfinish'd, yet so famous,
So excellent in art, and still so rising.
That Christendom shall ever speak his virtue.
His overthrow heap'd happiness upon him,
For then, and not till then, he felt himself,
And found the blessedness of being little I
And, to add greater honors to his age
Than man could give him, he died fearing God.
Katl . After my death I wish no other herald.
No other speaker of my living actions,
To keep mine honor from corruption,
But such an honest chronicler as Griffith.
Whom I most hated living, thou hast made me.
With thy religious truth and modesty,
Now in his ashes honor : peace be with him I

Ml
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Dramatic Selections,

Patience, be near me still ; and set me lower :
I have not long to trouble thee. — Good Griffith,
Cause tlie musicians play me that sad note
I nam'd my knell, whilst I sit meditating
On that celestial harmony I go to.

499

CLARENCE'S DREAM.

SHAKESPEARB.

Scene. — London. A Room in the Tower.
Clarence and Brakenburj.

Brah. Why looks your grace so heavily to-day ?

Chtr. 0, I have pass'd a miserable night,
So full of fearful dreads, of ugly sights,
That, as I am a Christian faithful man,
I would not spend another such a night.
Though 'twere to buy a world of happy days ;
So full of dismal terror was the time !

Brak. What was your dream, my lord ? I pray you, tell me.

Ciar. Methought that I had broken from the Tower
And was embark'd to cross to Burgundy :
And, in my company, my brother Gloster ;
Who from my cabin tempted ine to walk
Upon the hatches; thence we look'd toward England,
And cited up a thousand heavy times,
During the wars of York and Lancaster,
That had befall'n us. As we pac'd along
Upon the giddy footing of the hatches,
Methought that Gloster stumbled ; and, in
Struck me, that thought to st;iy him, ovorbuard.
Into the tumbling billows of the main.
Lord ! methought what pain it was to drown !
What dreadful noise of water in mine ears !
What sights of ugly death witiiin mine eyes !
Methought I saw a thousand fearful wrecks ;
A thousand men that fishes gnaw'd upon ;
Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl,
Inestimable stones, unvalu'd jewels.
All scatter'd in the bottom of the sea :
Some lay in dead men's skulls : and in those holes
Where eyes did once inhabit, there were crept
(As 'twere in scorn of eyes) reflecting gems,

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Di'amatic Selections,

That woo'd the slimy bottom of the deep,

And iiiock'd the dead bones that lay scatter'd by,

Bi'dh. Had you such leisure in the time of death,
To gaze upon those secrets of the deep ?

Clur. Methought I had ; and often did I strive
To yield the ghost : but still the envious flood
Stopt in my soul, and would not let it forth
To find the empty, vast, and wandering air j
But smother'd it within my panting bulk,
Which almost burst to belch it in the sea.

Bralc. Awak'd you not with this sore agony ?

Chir. No, no, my dream was lengtheu'd after life ;
0, then began the tempest to my soul I
I pass'd, methought, the melancholy flood.
With that grim ferryman which })oets write of,
Unto the kingdom of perpetual night.
The first that there did greet my stranger soul.
Was my great father-in-law, renowned Warwick ;
Who cried aloud, " What sconrye /or petjuri/
Ccin this dark momirchij cfford false Clarence f"
And so he vanish'd : then came wandering by
A shadow like an angel, with bright hair
Dabbled in blood ; and he shriek'd out aloud,
" Clarence is come, — -false, Jirctiug, j)eijnr\i Clarence,-
Tltat stahlid me in the f eld hij Tetrksburi/ ;^
Seize on, him, Furies ! take him to your torments /"
With that, methought, a legion of foul fiends
Environ'd me and howled in mine ears
Such hideous cries, that with the very noise,
I trembling wak'd, and, for a season after,
Could not believe but that I was in hell.
Such terrible impression made my dream.

Bral' No marvel, lord, though it aff'righted you ;
I am afraid, methinks, to hear you tell it.

Cl<ir. C) Brakenbury, I have done these things.
That now give evidence against my soul.
For Edward's sake ; and see how he requites me ?

God ! if my deep prayers cannot appease thee,
But thou wilt be aveng'd on my misdeeds,

Yet execute thy wrath on me alone :

0, spare my guiltless wife and my poor children !

1 pray thee, gentle keeper, stay by me; . '
My soul is heavy, and I fain would sleep.

Dramatic Selections,

601

ION.

BIB T. N. TALFOrnn.
Ditroductori/ Exjilamitiort.

Adrastcs, King of Argos, brooding over wrongs inflicted u])on liini in his
youth, and the object of Divine wrath, has long isolated himself from hia
councillors of state and his subjects; and, surrounding himself with foreign
mercenaries, gives himself up to a life of revelry and debauch. Tiie gods,
incensed at his crimes, send a destructive i)lague upon the city, wliieli e>ui
only cease with the death of the tyrant. On the entreaty of .Medon, the High
Priest, he is induced to send a messenger to Delphos, " iliere to seek the
cause of sorrow." But the messenger not returning, and the plague raging
through the city, the High Priest and the uubles again dei)ute a slave to
entreat the King to grant them an a\idience. Adrastus causes the slave to
be scourged, and issues a decree that " he who next unbidden met his
glance should die." In the house of Medou lives a youth uameil Ion, a
foundling whom Medon had adopted and tenderly nurtured as his own Hon.
Ion is generally beloved for his amiable and noble qualities, and, though
young, is filled with deep and solemn concern for the afflicted I'cople and
pity for the King, of whom he believes some '• jjulse of good must live
within his nature." Notwithstanding the dread penalty, Medou aiul others
determine to make another appeal to the tyrant to save his countr\-. Tiien
Ion comes forward and offers himself to brave the wrath of the King, and
Medon, believing that Ion is prompted to this duty by the gods, consents to
appoint him to it. The first scene presents the mterview between Adras-
tus and Ion, — Adrastus having previously given orders to (/rythes, the
captain of his guard, to prepare for the execution of the heroic youth when
the interview is over. Atlrastus receives him sternly and haughtily. Ion,
however, inspired b}' a high sense of the great mission he 1ms undertakeu, is
calm, resolute, and full of courage. As the scene advances, Adrastus bends
to the influence of nobler feelings and gentler memories. Thus, the contrasts
of character being studied and properly conceived l)y the reader, offer fine
advantages for the expression of passion and an elevated, earnest tone of
delivery.

Adrastus grants the people an audience, but refuses to submit to their
judgment. Tlien Phocion, who had been desiHitched to Delphos, arrives and
delivers his message —

" Argos ne'er shall find release
Till Tier monarclTs race shall cease."
Enraged, but not terrified by the message, Adrastus retires to his palace.
Then three youths, amongst whom is Ion, meet in a grove and devote them-
selves to slay the tyrant. Tlie lot first falls onion, who in a lofty invocation
consecrates himself to the solemn duty. Tlie third scene represents Ion
approaching Adrastus 8leej)ing on his couch. Adrastus awakes, and after
hearing Ion. submits to his doom. He is saved by Medon, who in the mean-
time has learned that Ion is the son of Adrastus. Adrastus is afterwards
slain by Ctesiphon, the second of the three who were to kill him. Ion is
proclaimed King, but the plague still rages. The tragedy ends l)y Ion
Btabbing himself; and thus, by his great self-sacrifice, he fulfils the predic-
tions of the oracle, and puts an end to the plague.

Scene I. — A terrace of the Palace.

Crythes, captain of the king's guard, conducts loN into the

presence of Adrastus.

Cry. Thoking!

Adras. Stranger, I bid thee welcome ;
We are about to tread the same dark passage,

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502

Dramatic Seleationt*

Thou almost on the instant. Is the sword [2b Crythes.

Of justice sharpen'd, and the headsman ready ?

Cri/. Thou mayst behold them plainly in the court :
Even now the solemn soldiers line the ground ;
The steel gleams on the altar ; and the slave
Disrobes himself for duty.

Adnis. (to Ion.) Dost thou see them ?

Ion. I do.

Adras. By Heaven, he does not change I

If, even now, thou wilt depart, and leave
Thy traitorous thoughts unspoken, thou art free.

Ion. I thank thee for thy oifer ; but I stand ■'

Before thee for the lives of thousands, rich
In all that makes life precious to the brave ;
Who perish not alone, but in their fall
Break the far spreading tendrils that they feed,
And leave them nurtureless. If thou wilt hear me
For them, I am content to speak no more.

Adras. Thou hast thy wish then. Crythes ! till yon dial
Casts its thin shadow on the approaching hour,
I hear this gallant traitor. On the instant,
Come without word, and lead him to his doom.
Now leave us.

Crt/. What, alone ?

Adras. Yes, slave ! alone.

He is no assassin I [^Exit Crythes.

Tell me who thou art.
What generous source owns that heroic blood,
Which holds its course thus bravely ? What great wars
Have nursed the courage that can look on death —
Certain and speedy death — with placid eye ?

Ion. I am a simple youth, who never bore
The weight of armour, — one who may not boast
Of noble birth or valor of his own.

Deem not the powers which nerve me thus to speak .

In thy great presence, and have made my heart,
Upon the verge of bloody death, as calm.
As equal in its ^aeatings, as when sleep
Approach'd me nestlipg from the sportive toils *

Of thoughtless childhood, and celestial dreams
Began to glimmer through the deepening shadows
Of soft oblivion — to belong to me I
These are the strengths of Heaven : to thee they speak,
Bid thee to hearken to thy people's cry,
Or warn thee that thy hour must shortly come I

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Dramatio SeUctioni*

503

rytbes.

dial

Crythes.

Aihas. I know it must ; so mayst thou spare thy warnings.
The envious gods in me liave doom'd a race,
Whose glories stream from the same cloud-girt founts,
Whence their own duwn'd upon the infant world ;
And I shall sit on my ancestral throne
To meet their vengeance; but, till then, I rule
As I have ever ruled, and thou wilt feeL

Ion. I will not further urge thy safety to thee ;
It may be, as thou sayst, too late ; nor seek
To make thee tremble at the gathering curse
Which shall burst forth in mockery at thy fall :
But thou art gifted with a ooblcr sense —
I know thou art, my sovereign 1 — sense of pain
Endured by myriad Argives, in whose souls,
And in whose fathers' souls, thou and thy fathers
Have tept their cherish'd state ; whose heartstrings, still
The living fibres of thy rooted power,

Quiver with agonies thy crimes have drawn
From heavenly justice on them.

Adras. How I my crimes ?

Ion. Yes ; 'tis the eternal law, that where guilt i&,

Sorrow sludl answer it ; and thou hast not

A poor man's privilege to beiir alone,

Or in the narrow circle of his kinsmen,

The penalties of evil, for in thine

A nation's fate lies circled.— King Adrastus !

StoelM as thy heart is with tlie usages

Of pomp and power, a few short summers sinca

Thou wert a child, and canst not be relentless.

Oh, if maternal love embraced thee then,

Think of the mothers who with eyes unwet

Glare oer their perishing children : hast thou shared

The glow of a first friendship, which is born

'Midst the rude sports of boyhood, think of youth

Smitten amidst its playthings; let the spirit

Of thy own innocent childhood whisper pity I

Adnis. In every word thou dost but steel my soul.

My youth was blasted: pirents, brother, kin —

All that should people infancy with joy —

Conspired to poison mine ; despoil'd my life

Of innocence and hope — all but the sword

And sceptre. Dosf. thou wonder at me now ? «

Ion. 1 know that we should pity —
Adrrnt. Pity 1 Dare

To speak that word again^ and torture waits theel

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Dramatic Selectiom,

I am yet King of Argos. Well, go on —
Thy time is short, and I am pledged to hear.

Ion. If thou huHt ever loved —

Adras. Beware ! beware I

Ion. Thou hast ! I see thou hast ! Thou art not marble,
And thou shalt hear me! Think n\um the time
When the clear depths of thy yet lucid soul ;

Were ruffled with the troublings of strange joy,
As if some unseen visitant from heaven
Touch'd the calm lake, and wreath'd its images
In sparkling waves ; — recall the dallying ho^xj •

That on the margin of assurance trembled,
As loth to lose in certainty too blcss'd ''

Its happy being ; — taste in thought again
Of the stolen sweetness of those evening walks,
When pansied turf was air to witjgM feet, ,

And circling forests, by ethereal touch
Enchanted, wore the livery of the sky.
As if about to melt in golden light,
Shapes of one heavenly vision ; and thy heart,
Enlarged by its new sympathy with one,
Grew bountiful to alU

Adr(i,<i. That tone \ that tone !

Whence came it ? from thy lips ! it cannot be
The long-hush'd music of tlie only voice

That ever spake unbought affection to me, * '

And waked my soul to blessing ! -sweet hours
Of golden joy, ye come ! — your glories break
Through my pavilion'd spirit's sable folds I
Roll on ! roll on ! Stranger, thou dost enforce me
To speak of things unbreathcd by lip of mine
To human ear : wilt listen ?

Ion. As a child.

Adras. Again I that voice again ! thou hast seen me moved
As never mortal saw me, by a tone

Which some light breeze, enamour'd of the sound, ' '

Hath wafted through the woods, till thy young voice
Caught it to rive and melt me. At my birth \

This city, which, expectjint of its Prince,
Lay hush'd, broke out in clamorous ecstaeies ; = •

Yet, in that moment, while the uplifted cups
Foam'd with the choicest product of the sun,
And welcome thunder'd from a thousand throats.
My doom was seal'd. From the hearth's vacant space,
In the dark chamber where my mother lay,

IC Ul'

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Dramatic Selections. 605

Faint with the sense of pain-bought happiness,

Game forth, in heart-appallinf^ tone, these words

Of me, tlie nurseling: — "Woe unto the babo I

Against the life whicii now begins, shall life,

Lighted from thence, be arm'd, and, both soon quonch'd,

End this great line in sorrow !" Ere I grew

Of years to know myself a thing accursed,

A second son was born, to steal the love

Which late had else scarce rifled : he became

My parents' h(»pe, the darling of the crew

Who lived upon their smiles, and thought it flattery

To trace in every foible of my youth —

A prince's youth ! — the workings of the curse.

My very mother — Jove I I cannot bear

To sptiiik it now — looked freezingly upon me !

Jon. But thy brother —

Adi'iia. Died. Thou hast heard the lie,

The common lie that every peasant tells
Of me his master — that I slew the boy.
'Tis false ! One summer's eve, below a crag
Which, in his wilful mood, ho strove to climb.
He lay a m;ingled corpse : the very slaves.

Whose cruelty had shut him from my heart "•

Now coined their own injustice into proofs
To brand me as his murderer.

Ion. ^ Did they dare

Accuse thee ?

Adras. Not in open speech : they felt

I should have seized the miscreant by the throat
And crush'd the lie half-spoken with the life
Of the base speaker ; but the lie look'd out
From the stolen gaze of coward eyes, which shrunk
When mine have met them ; murmur'd through the crowd
That at the sacrifice, or feast, or game.
Stood distant from me ; burnt into my soul
When I beheld it in my father's shudder !

Ion. Didst not declare thy innocence ?

Adras. To whom ?

To parents who could doubt me ? To the ring
Of grave impostors, or their shallow sons,
Who should have studied to prevent my wish,
Before it grew to language ; hail'd my choice
To service as a prize to wrestle for ;
And whose reluctant courtesy I bore,
Pale with proud anger, till from lips compress'd

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■ -^

606

Dramatic SeUctioni,

The blood bus started ? To the common herd^

The vuMHiils of uur ancient house, the uiass

Of boneH and uiusclen framed to till the Hoil

A few brief yeur.s, then rot unnamed beneath it,

Or, deck'd for Hlaufj;liter at their uixster'a call,

To smite and to be smitten, and lie crush'd

In heaps to swell bis ^lory or his shame ?

Answer to tluuu ? No I tliou<^h my heart had burst,

As it was ui<^h to bur-^tinp, ! To tlie mountains

I fled, and on their pinnacles of snow

Breasted the icy wind, in hope to cool

My spirit's fever — strn^-^led with the oak

In search of weariness, and leorn'd to rivo

Its stubborn bou-^hs, till limbs, once lij^htly strung,

Might mate in cordage with its infant stems ; «

Or on the sea-beat rock tore off the vest

Which burnt upon my bosom, and to air

Headlong committed, clove the water's depth <

Which plummet never soutided ; — but in vain.

lou. Yet succour came to thee?

Adras. A blessed one !

Wiiich the strange magic of thy voice revives,
And thus unlocks my soul. My rapid steps
Were, in a wood-encircled valley, stiyed
By the bright vision of a miid, whose face
Most lovely, more than loveliness rcveal'd,
In touch of patient grief, which dearer seem'd
Than happiness to spirit sear'd like mine.
With feeble hands she strove to lay in earth
The body of her agisd sire, whose death
Left her alone, I aided her sad work ;

And soon two lonely ones, by holy rites, i

Became one happy being. I).iys, weeks, months,
In stream-like unity flow'd silent by us
In our delightful nest. My father's spies —
Slaves, whom my nod should have consigu'd to stripes
Or the swift falchion — tracked our sylvan home
Just as my bosom knew its second joy, . i .

And, spite of fortune. I embraced a son.

Ion. Urged by thy trembling parents to avert
That dreadful prophecy ?

Adras. Fools I did they deem

Its w^orst accomplishment could match the ill
Which they wrought on me ? It had left unliariu'd
A thousand ecstacies of passiou'd years,

Dramatio Selectio7is.

607

they deem

Which, tasted once, live ever, and dwdaia

Fate's iron grapple I Could I now behold

That son, with knife uplifted at my heart,

A moment ere my life-blood followed it, ' '

I would embrace him with my dyin^ eyes,

And pardon destiny I While jocund smilea

Wreitthed on the infant's face, as if sweet spirits

Sugtrested pleasant fancies to its soul,

The ruffians broke upon us ; seized the child ;

Dash'd through the thicket to the beetlinj^ rock

'Neath which the deep wave eddies: I stood still

As stricken into stone ; I heard him cry,

Press'd by the rudeness of the murderer's gripOy

Severer ill uufearing — then the splash

Of waters that shall cover him for ever ;

And could not stir to save him I

Ion. And the mother ?

Adras. She spake no word, but clasped me in her arms,
And lay her down to die. A lingering gaze
Of love she fix'd on me — none other loved, —
And so pass'd lience. By Jupiter, her look I
Her dying patience glimmers in thy face 1
She lives again ! She looks upon me now I
There's magic in't. Bear with me — I am childish.

Enter Crytiies, and Guards.

Adras. Why art thou here ?

Cry. The dial points the hour.

Adras. Dost thou not see that horrid purpose pass'd ?
Hast thou no heart — no sense ?

Cry. Scarce half an hour

Hath flown since the command on which I wait.

Adras. Scarce half an hour ! Years, years have roU'd since then.
Begone I remove that pageantry of death ;
It blasts my sight : and hearken ! Touch a hair
Of this brave youth, or look on him as now
With thy cold headsman's eye, and yonder band
Shall not expect a fearful show in vain. ^,
Hence, without word I \Exit Crythes.

What wouldst thou have me do ?

Ion. Let thy awakened heart speak its own langujige \
Convene thy sages ; — frankly, nobly meet them ;
Explore with them the pleasure of the gods,
And, whatsoe'er the sacrifice, perform it.

Adras. Well ! I will seek their presence iu aa hour ;

li^i!

li- li

608

Dramatic Selections,

l"",mA

[Si

%iii

Go summon them, young hero : hold ! no word
Of the strange passion thou hast witness' d here.

Io7i. Distrust me not! Benignant powers, I thank ye ! [^Exit.

Adras. Yet stay — he's gone — his spell is on me yet j
"What have I promised him ? To meet the men
Who from my living head would strip the crown
And sit in judgment on me? — I must do it.
Yet shall my band be ready to o'erawe
The course of liberal speech, and, if it rise
So as too loudly to oflFend my ear,
Strike the rash brawler dead ! — What idle dream
Of long-past days had melted me ? It fades —

It vanishes — I am again a king !

Scene II. — An

ojjening in a deep Wood, in front an old
grey altar.

[Ctesiphon leads Ion to the altar, and gives him a knife.

Ctcs. Receive this steel.
For ages dedicate in my sad home
To sacrificial uses ; grasp it nobly,
And consecrate it to untrembling service
Against the King of Argos and his race.

[Ion ajyproaches the altar, and lifting tip the knife speaks
— Ye eldest gods.

Who in no statues of exactest form
Are palpable ; who shun the azure heights
Of beautiful Olympus, and the sound
Of ever-young Apollo's minstrelsy ;
Yet, mindful of the empire which ye held
Over dim Chaos, keep revengeful watch
On falling nations, and on kingly lines
About to sink forever ; ye, who shed
Into the passions of earth's giant brood
And their fierce usages the sense of justice ;
Who clothe the fiited battlements of tyranny
With blackness as a funeral pall, and breathe
Through the proud hafts of time-embolden'd guilt *

Portents of ruin, hear me ! — In your presence,
For now I feel ye nigh, I dedicate
This arm to the destruction of the king
And of his race ! Oh ! keep me pitiless ;
Expel all human weakness from my frame,
That this keen weapon shake not when his heart
Should feel its point j and if he has a child

Dramatic Selections.

509

[Exit.

it an old
hnife.

\ sjicahs

,7
I'

Whose hlood is needful to the sacrijice

My country asks, harden my soul to shed it ! —

Scene III. — The Royal Chamber.

AdRASTUS on a couch asleep. — Enter loN with the knife.

Ion. Why do I creep thus stealthily along
With trembling steps ? Am I not arm'd by Heaven
To execute its mandate on a king
Whom it hath doom'd ? And shall I alter now,
While every moment that he breathes may crush
Some life else happy ?— Can I be deceived, ■■'

By some foul passion, crouching in my soul, <r

"Which takes a radiant form to lure me on ? ;

Assure me, gods ! — Yes ; I have heard your voices ;
For I dare pray ye now to nerve my arm

And see me strike I , [//e goes to the couch. f

He's smiling in his slumber,
As if some happy thought of innocent days
Play'd at his heart-strings : must I scare it thence
With death's sharp agony ? Ho lies condemn' d
By the high judgment of supernal Powers,
And he shall know their sentence. Wake, Adrastus 1
Collect thy spirits, and be strong to die I

Adras. Who dares disturb my rest ? Guards ! Soldiers 1 Recreants !
Where tarry ye ? Why smite ye not to earth
This bold intruder ? — Ha, no weapon hero !
What wouldst thou with me, ruffian ?

Ion.
But a sad instrument in Jove's great hand
To take thy life, long forfeited — Prepare 1 \

Thy hour is come !

Adras. Villains ! does no one hear ?

Ion. Vox not the closing minutes of thy being ;

With torturing hope, or idle rage: thy guards, ,

Palsied with revelry, are scattur'd senseless,
While the most valiant of our Argive youths
Hold every passage by which human aid
Could reach thee. Present death is the award
Of Powers who watch above me, while I staud
To execute their sentence.

Adras. Thou I — I know thee—

The youth I spared this morning, in whose ear
I pour'd the secrets of my bosom. Kill me,
If thou dar'st do it ; but bethink thee, first,

[Rising.

I am none,

■

1 1

'•\'.

1 '

m. :.

%■ i

$ '

510

Dramatic Selections.

■ '[|Cn

■Mil

■ -4,

\ ..>■

i ^' ^'':

if- •

I have none on earth.

Not one friend I

Art melted ?
If I am,

How the grim memory of thy thankless deed
Will haunt thee to the grave 1

Ion. It is most true j

Thou sparedst my life, and therefore do the gods
Ordain me to this office, lest thy fall
Seem the chance forfeit of some single sin,
And not the great redress of Argos. Now —
Now, while I parley — Spirits that have left.
Within this hour, their plague-tormented flesh
To rot untombed, glide by, and frown on me.
Their slow avenger — and the chamber swarms
With looks of Furies. Yet a moment wait.
Ye dreadful prompters ! If there is a friend, •
Whom, dying, thou wouldst greet by word or token.
Speak thy last bidding.

Ailras,
If thou hast courage, end me ! *

Ion.
Most piteous doom I

Adras.
- Ion.

Hope nothing from my weakness ; mortal arms.
And eyes unseen that sleep not, gird us round.
And we shall fall together. Be it so !

Adras. No ; strike at once ; my hour is come : in thee
I recognize the minister of Jove,
And, kneeling thus, submit me to his power. \Kncels.

Ion. Avert thy face I

Adras. No ; let me meet thy gaze ;

For breathing pity lights thy features up
Into more awful likeness of a form
Which once shone on me ; and which now my sense
Shapes palpable — in habit of the grave.
Inviting me to the sad realm where shades
Of innocents, whom passionate regard
Link'd with the guilty, are content to pace
With them the margin of the inky flood
Mournful and calm ; 'tis surely there ; she waves
Her pallid hand in circle o'er thy head.
As if to bless thee — and I bless thee too.
Death's gracious angel 1 Do not turn away.

Ion. Gods ! to what office have ye doom'd me — Now !

[Ion raises his arm to stab Adrastus, tvho is kneeling, and
gazes steadfastly upon him. The voice of Medon is heard
without, calling, " loN !" " lON 1" loN drops his arm.

Dramatic Selections.

511

►st true ;

e on eartli.

)ne friend I

^t melted ?
If I am,

bee
V Kneels.

let thy gaze J

Adras. Be quick, or thou art lost 1

[/!» Ji>N has again raised his arm to strihey
Medon rushes in behind him.

Medon. Ion, forbear.

Behold thy Fon, Adraatus !

[Ion stands for a moment stupified with horror, drops the
Jcnife, and falls senseless on the ground.

Adras. What strange words

Are those, which call my senses from the death
They were composed to welcome ? Son I 'tis false —
I had but one — and the deep wave rolls o'er him I

Medon. That wave received, instead of the fair nurslinsr.
One of the slaves who bore him from thy sight
In wicked haste to slay ; — I'll give thee proofs.

Adras. Great Jove, I thank thee I — raitje him gently — proofs !
Are there not here the lineaments of her
Who made me happy once — the voice, now still,
That bade the long-sealed fount of love gush out,
While with a prince's constancy he came
To lay his noble life down ; and the sure,
The dreadful proof, that he whose guileless brow
Is instinct with her spirit stood above me,
Arm'd for the traitor's deed ! — It is my child^

[Ion, reviving, si7ilcs on one knee before Adrastus.

Jon. Father ! [iVoise without.

Medon. The clang of arms !

Ion (starting up). They come ! they come !
They who are leagued with me against thy life.
Here let us fall !

Adras. 1 will confront them yet.
Within I have a weapon which has drunk
A traitor's blood ere now ; — there will I wait them:
No power less strong than death shall part us now.

H-

THE WIFE :— A TALE OF MANTUA

)Wl .

:neeling, ana
)0N is heard

tm.

JAMES SHKRIDAN KNOWLES.

Explanation of the Play.

Leonardo, Duke of Mantua, wandering through Switzerland in his yonth,
in company with his cousin Ferrardo, had fallen from his horse, and was
carried into the cottage of a Swiss peasant. There Marianne, the daughter
of the peasant, had carefully tended him until his recovery. Leonardo—
whose title and rank are unknown to his preserver — and Marianne fall ia
love with each other, and, parting for a season, interchange vows of con-
stancy and atfectiou. Marianne has a brother, whom Ferrardo, the cousin,

fl.- ' !

612

Dramatic Selections.

ii'.

'H .,

■■ v.

persuades to desert his home to follow him to Mantua, where he proposes
to use him for his own corrupt purposes. Leonardo returns no more to
Marianne, and she, trusting in his honor and fidelity, follows him to Man-
tua. There she lives for a season, vainly seeking her lover ; and finally she
is about to be seized by Ferrardo as his ward, wlien Leonardo, who was
Bupposed to be dead, appears in the court, and, after hearing the trial, dis-
covers himself and assumes his rank and title, and subsequently marries
Marianne. Ferrardo is filled with hatred toward Leonartlo, and plots to
poison his domestic happiness by destroying his faith in his wife.
To carry out his design he secures the services of a profligate youtli, Julian
St. Pierre, whom he had corrupted with bribes, but in whom tiiere still
survive the principles of a noble and generous nature. Leonardo, the
Duke, being called away to the command of his army, Ferrardo is left to
rule in his place and to protect the Duchess. Having invited Julian St.
Pierre to the palacf, Ferrardo causes his wine to be drugged, and then has
him carried to a ciiamber next to that of the Duchess, intending thus to
implicate them in a crime whose penalty would be death to the Duchess
and misery to her husband. In the following scene Julian St. Pierre has
awakened from the effect of the intoxication, and Ferrardo, believing that
St. Pielre is now devoted to his service, confides to him his villainous de-
signs. The scene fully explains itself, and further introductory explanation
would mar the interest of the plot. The last scene is necessary, both for
moral justice and to vindicate the innocence of the Duchess and Julian St.
Pierre. The first scene presents a good reading, being full of dramatic
effect; but the last scene completes the tale, and satisfies the moral sense of
the audience.

PART I.

Scene. — A Chamher in the Palace. Ferrardo, alone.

Fcr. His heartis in my power as 'twere a thing
Which in my hand I held, and I could crush
With a grasp ! Nor can it 'scape my power I her name —
That flower of woman's piide, which ta'en away,
From a bright paragon she turns a thing
For basest eyes to look askant upon —
Is blasted past the power of rain and sun
To bring it to its pristine hue again.
Now for St. Pierre — he also must to-night
Take leave of Mantua. [Unlocks door.^ Come forth, my friend!

Enter St. Pierre.

Dost thou not know me ? What an air is this !

A king could not a loftier assume

At high offence ! 'Twas thus with thee last night —

Nothing but moody looks, — until the count

With much persuasion waved you to our feast :

I wondered at thee. ,

St. Pier. Are we alone ? '

Fer. What's this?

St. Pier. Are we alone ? where are the craven minions
That overpowered me in the corridor,
And at thy bidding dragged me hither ? ^

Dramatic Selections,

51B

poses
ire to
Man-
ly she
was
il, dis-
larries
lOtS to

wife.
Julian
ro still
do, the

left to
lian St.
hen has
thus to
Duchess
urre has
■ing that
10U3 de-
)lanatioa
both for
iilian St.
dramatic
l1 sense of

lone.

friend I

kns

Fer. Pshaw!
Art thou no wiser than to heed them ? know'st not
'Twas done upon my instruction — mine — thy friend's ?

St. Pier. Are we alone ?

Fer. We are alone,

St. Pier. Art sure
That door is unattended ? that no minions
Watch it without ?

Fer. I am.

St.Pirr. Wilt lock it?

Fer. [^Lorliuig it and returni

St. Pier. ^Sjtringing ujion hi

7?^.] There I
Ml. J Villain !

Fer. What means this violence ?

St. Pier. You struck me
When I contended with the recreants
That smite this moment what the one before
They fawn'd upon ! — Across their arms you struck
And fell'd me with the blow ! — now take it back I

Fer. Stop ! you'll repent it if you strike !

St. Pier. I tell thee
I ne'er received a blow from mortal man
But I did pay it back with interest ! — One by one
I have parted with those virtues of a man
Which precept doth inculcate ; but one grace
Remains — the growth of nature — the true shoot
Abase could not eradicate, and leave
The trunk and root alive, — one virtue — manhood !
The brow whereon doth sit disdain of threat,
Defiance of aggression, and revenge
For contumely. You did strike me ! Come !
I must have blow for blow !

Fer. ^Dravnng his dagger.'^ Let fall thy hand
Upon my person — lo, my dagger's I'rce,
And I will sheathe it in thy heart !

St. Pier. I care not,
So I die quits with thee !

Fer. I would not kill thee,
So don't advance thy hand ! Nay, listen first.
And then, if thou wilt, strike me ! — Strike! — abuse
Thy friend, who, when he struck thee, was thy friend
As much as he is now, or ever was :
Who struck thee but that he should seem thy foe,
To hide indeed how much he was thy friend.
Nay, if the lack of quittance for a blow —
Which but in show was one, for 'tis the thought

■ If* :

&14

Dramatic Selections,

Tiat makes the act — must constitute us foes,
My dagger's up I now give a blow indeed
If«)r o.> ,!,at seemed but one.

St. I^'er. I take't in thought,
And let thy person unprofaned go.

Fer. No animal so wild it will not tame,
Save man ! Come, calm thyself, sit down — as yet
Thou know'-'t not whether to caress thy friend
Or tof; nin ' T-hould'st thou tear him? Come, sit down.
There's r.j ■ nran in Italy save thee
Would fu't — uUvl ho the master all at once
Of good ten thoaLvid ducats 1 Still a brow f
0<.M's m tii, he merr ! rub thy hands and laugh,
Thou art rich — look iit"^. [^Showing a casket.

St. Pier. How cau^e 1 y.^sternight
To sleep in the chamber of the J)uk6 ? And why
This morning, when I left the ante-room,
Was I assaulted by thy minions ?

Fer. Pshaw !
Euough, thou slept'st where thou didst sleep, next chamber
To the duke's wife, and thereby mad'st thy fortune.
For every ducat of the sum I named
Is tliine — but render me one service more.

St. Fin-. Name it.

Fer. Just write for me in boasting vein,
Confession thou did'st pillow yesternight
There, where the honor of the duke forbids
That head save his should lie.
Why do you gaze? 'Tis easily done.

St. 1

icr.

It is.

Fer. It takes but pen and ink, and here they are ;
Make use of time ! the hour that is not used
Is lost, and might have been the luckiest,
Converted to account : what ponder'st thou ?

St. Pur. The manner best to execute thy wish ;
I'm hardly in the vein — 'twould put me into't
Would'st thou relate the means whereby I came
Ttf lie in the duke's chamber.

Fer. 'T would retard thee !

St. Pier. No, it will rather help me. When I write
Ofttimes I miss the thought, too much intent
On finding it, — looking at something else,
Lo, there it stands before me of itself 1
HoiW came I in the chamber of the duke ?

Dramatic Selections,

Fer. You supped, you may remember, with the Count
And mo ?

515

St.I'

ler.

I do.

Fer. 'Twas planned between us.

St. Pier. Well?

Fer. And for our end we kept the revel up—
I mean the Count and I — for, as I said
Before, thou wast not in the joyous vein, —
Till all the palace had retired to rest.

St. Pier. My lord, may't please you, stop — my thought has
come.
A fjiir c(»mmencement! excellent! most fair!
You see how much you help me ! — there — go on :
You revelled till the palace was at rest —
What then ?

Fer. Why, then, finding thee jealous still
Of the kindly grape, we drugged your cup, and when
The potion worked, conveyed you in your sleep, —
To sound or stir profound as that of death, —
Into the chamber of the duke — of the key
Of which I keep a duplicate — and there
We laid you in his bed.

St. Pier. Break off again
While I go on ! — You see, my lord, how great
A help you are to mo ! It comes as fast
As though I were inditing what you spoke —
Your grace rehearsed to me. Most excelleut ;
And now proceed again I •

Fer. Where left 1 off?

St. Pi<r. Where you had laid mo in hi:i highness' bed.

Fer. You're right. There left we thee to sleep that uiiiht,
With a partition only 'twixt his wife
And thee, and that made frailer by a door, —
The lock of which I from its use absolved,
And casting 'neath her highness' couch thy scarf,
As proof of closer neighborhood to her,
Withdrew to foretaste of revenge.

St. Pier. Enough !

Fer. Enough ?

*S^^ Pier. Tut, tut ! I only meant
Your highness to break off, while I resume.
My thoughts do flow again — better and better I
Your grace — a hundred ducats, I have done
Almost as soon as you — go on — what end
Proposed your highness to yourself by this ?

1. u

iiii

i ■

516

Dramatic Selections,

p '*:■..

■■,**,.

Fer. To blast her name, and in the death of that
Involve my cousin's life ! accordinfi:ly
By my direction wert thou Wiitchcd and seized,
And hither brought as partner in a crime,
Whose penalty is death — which thou shalt 'scape —
'Scape with enriched life — so ne'er a<>;ain
Thou show'st thy face in Mautua, and keep'st
Thy counsel.

St. Pier. ^WritiHg.^ Have you done?

Fcr. I have.

St. Pier. And so
Have I — a fair commencement! better far
Continuation ! and the winding up
The fairest of the whole 1 howsoe'er of that
Your highness shall be judge : — 'sdeath, here's a word
I did not mean to write, for one I wanted !
I needs must take it out, — I pray your highness
Lend me a knife.

Fer. I have not one.

St. Pur. Well, then.
Your dagger — if the edge of it is sharp.

Fer. There 'tis.

St. Pur. And there is the confession, duke ;
Sign it.

Fer. Why, this is my confession !

St. Pur. Ay,
Indeed, your highness ?

Fer. Word for word.

St. Pur. You'll own
I'm something of a clerk — I hardly hoped
It would have pleased your highness I My lord duke.
Sign the confession.

Fer. Why ?

St. Pur. It pleases me.
If that contents thee not, I'm in thy power.
And I'd have thee in mine ! Your highness sees
I am frank with you,

Fer. Can it be you, St. Pierre ?

St. Pier. No — it is you ! — and not the peasant lad.
Whom fil'tcon years ago in evil hour
You chanced to cross upon his native hills, —
In whose quick eye you saw the subtle spirit
Which suited you, and tempted it ; who took
Your hint and followed you to Mantua
Without his father's knowledge — his old father

• !

I>ramMi0 Selection,.
A cav^Cf '"'"• S'- P^-^o, I trained thoe like

^t. Pi,;,, y ,.

;^„^ '% Jiw lay t) J' , r» V ''"''^ "P

St p- '^^^ -^ ^0 J

e eves Hi if j i .' ""^^6,

And on the ho..^ /^ " ^♦lantua,

f « f ek the child tS i^ 7 ''° ''•••'^ ™>'«-
And died here.-ere L^f'' '^T""' '"■"-
Heaven can t»l i, „ "^ """d »'«•

At cost of my dearTnT, ^r^?^ ^^ ^^^^''«^e

1 m in your pow'? and p,?i^°°^«««^on straight
f-'-. Art Thou indeed in ^'' '\' ^^ ^^"'^ '

517

J ■

618

Dramatic Selections.

Fer, Saint Pierre, perhaps I have underpaid thee ?

St. Pier. Si^m 1

Fer. I'll double the amount I

St, Pier. Come, sign I

Fer. Saint Pierre,
"Will forty thousand ducats please thee ?

St. Pier. There's
The dial, and the sun is shining on it —
The shadow is on the very point of twelve—
My case is desperate I Your sij^nature
Of vital moment is unto my peace I
My eye is on the dial ! Pass the shadow
The point of noon, the breadth of but a hair
As can my eye discern — and, that unsigned,
The steel is in thy heart — I speak no more f

Fer. Saint Pierre!— Not speak? — Saint Pierre I

St. Pier. Is it signed "^

Fer. [Writing hurried!}/. Ji It is !

St. Pier. Your signet, as a proof I am at large.
Now take my station in that closet — No
Attempt at an alarm — In, in, I say !
Hold wind we'll make the port. — I thank your highness I

[^Ojiens door, speaks aloud^ and exit.

PART II.

Mantua. Ferrardo,
Lorenzo and nobles

Scene. — The tent of the Duke op
Antonio, Confessor to the Duchess,

present,

Julian St. Pierre, having secured the confession from Ferrardo, flies from
Mantua; and Ferrardo, terrifying the Duchess with the suspicions aroused
against her, persuades her also to fly from the city. Ferrardo then, accom-
panied by Antonio, the confessor of the Duchess, who has been induced to
believe in her crime, and several nobles, proceeds to the camp of the Duke,
there to reveal to him the infidelity ana flight of his wife. The Duke ih-
dignantly repels the accusation against the honor of his wife, in whose
fidelity he has unbounded trust.

Leon. By your looks, , i

Ye come to tell me of disaster ! speak 1
The sum on't ? Is it my dukedom ?
Or what ? — 'tis nothing of my wife — say that —
And say aught else which stern misfortune prompts I
Blow wind, mount wave, — no rock to shut me thence,
I see the strand to run my bark ashore,
And smile upon mv shipwreck.

Fer, Thy lady is false to thee.

i>ramatio Selecihm.

rio. My gracious lie™
He spcab the truth I ° '

Boft^Vtefr''^'

Apd audience g vel"i"'/"" "»»'<> »«t hear
Jf facte, avouched Tvl^^^ ^^ T"" «" hoar'

Pwuse that papcr-tl er? ."""■ »'•' "'•"'"ed
J'"; »»yin« w'i.a'; we t^'" ^■'"' ''"™ »" ground, '

That I do fer it ""'.

My iord_„,y ]„rd":!;i-:;7 •"••'''''"''o t« it.

^«».. Sheis^hat? "^'^•""^"'"■^
H";;^^::?^""™- Mantua, as also I3

Cousin, ttu Ztwtl"*' ^' ^"-^ "e^ ?

^^-ry him, and I h'e'ed tt^T'l^' '"' 'ho truth ?

Cous,n thou didst but he"r tir;" ^^ '"y '

Tiou dost not speak from .i ■ "'"' ''"« ««'.
_ /"<"•. Eise '^^ '™'" 'hiuc own tnowled'-c »
i had not spoten.

^»- rtutt^fV '"f-'-
Comethen air." ^"/'"•■•*'■''■
«''«hasfl^ri;h:;'U.:i-he«c.dor„„,

fcond Officer. My Hel" ^ff ?■=■?. "•'* Waruna

?i^VSetr1,f/ .
your cousin here! tlT ^?"^ ^*>"or!

aid

620

Dramatic Selections.

■ f-.

My tonfruo may save its labor, then. Yet whoso

So fit to toll my husband lie's tho lord

Of a (lishonoroil house, as her's, whose heart, —

That ne'er admitted thou^dit of man save liim,

Knew not its part that was not j^iven to hiin,

Before itself as dearer heart set him,

Sun, earth, life, health, desire, knew naught but him

Yet eould not j^uard the jewel paramount

Of what it loved so well, but by an act

Without a motive — monstrous to belief —

Which reason unto madness would refer —

Nay, doubt that even madness' self could do I

What it so loved, did spoil, and brinj^ at ouco

From proudest wealth to basest penury !

Leon. No— thou did'st never swer\'e. — Trutli dwells iu thee^
Thou art all radiant with it I

Mar. Not a doubt f '

3Iy trusting lord I my dear and honor'd lord I

[l^hrows hcrsfJ/at ht$ feet*
her.

Leon. [Endeavoring to raise /itr.J Up to my heart I

Mar. >«o— by thy love 1

Leon. I say
1*11 have thee up — thy place is here I

31<tr. \Frevcnting Atm.]
What holds tliat paper? Tell me, is it not
My accusation ? Let me sec it — True
From first to last — The facts not otherwise
Than here set down. Would' st take me to thy heart,
And this against me ?

Leon. I would.

Mar. And if you would, you should not do itf

Leon. It is a plot.

Mar. It is —
But thou, my lord, must prove it to be one \
Else it hath oped a chasm 'twixt thee and me.
Which, till thou close it up, or bridge it o'er
With stable-footed truth, that all may trust.
May not be cross'd. — Leap it — and all is lost I

Leon. Canst give me clue to find it out ?

Mar. Methinks
I can. Thy cousin counsell'd me to fly,
To 'scape, as he did say, the penalty
Of my imputed crime, — but, as I thought.
To furnish of that crime conclusive proof: —
Supplied me too with ample store of gold —

Dramaiio Selectiont. 521

Leon. Traitor! I sec it all — nnddonotyou?
My cousin and my Rubject thon<;h thou art,
To 8oli!iiiii mortal combat I defy thee I
That from thy lips, at point of my true sword,
AdmisMJon 1 extort of an attenipt
To slur my lady's honor ; — for thy soul
No shriving knows, no healing sfKjech with priest,
Till by confession it heaves off that siu.
Come forth !

JJtir. No ! no I let me be Ruilty thought,
But, oh ! in peril place not thou thy life I
Or let me prove myself my innocence
By ordeal of poison or of tire ; »»

Do auL'ht but put thy life in jeopardy I

Leon. Loose thine arms !

Mar. It is mine heart-strinj^s hold thee, not mine arms.
Wilt snap them ? If thou wilt thou hast a ri. iit I
They are thine own ! but wilt thou use that ri-^^ht ?

Leon. Take her away I '

M(ir. When fails our dearest friend,
There may be refuge with our direst f"". *

{RuhIhikj vp to Fernirdo.
Oh ! why art thou my foe ? how lies my pi^aco
Between thy good and thee ? Is it thy good
To slay my peace ! Wilt thou not look upon me?
Alas! thine eyes are better turn'd away!
For gazing on them, human as they are,
I have a feeling of a heart of stone :
Thou rock ! Affliction did I plead to thee —
I turn from thee. Despair 1

Leon. Come forth ! «

Fer. Lead on 1

Enter St. Pierre, behind.

Mar. No way to hold thee from thy bloody purpose ?
Stop ! thou wilt do a murder ! Art thou sure
Thy wife is innocent ? Thou know'st not what
Thou go'st to ! Whate'er befals, the sin
Of all the deed 'tis I must answer for —
The hapless wife that on thy house and thee
Brought ruin 1 — have compassion on her soul,
If not upon thy own — nay, then, yet hear me — stop —
I'll put an end to all — I am —

Fer. Guilty!

Mar. No I
To save thy life — my own — and his that's heart

|:i

i i i; 1

•i •

622

Dramatic Seleetiom,

\:>t\

';(.■•

\ .

Unto my life — / cannot speak the lie I

Leon. And if thou could'st, I'd not believe thy tongue—
Though Truth's as soon could lie.

Fer. No tongue on earth
Can clear her — she is false — to eyes and ears
Convicted ! — '

St. Pier. [^Rushing forward.l Liar I
She is as true as thou art false I

Fer. A caitiff
That robb'd me, and did put my life in peril —
But I'll be quits with him.

Leon. Prevent him !

[Several inter/ere, but not till St. Pierre is wounded.

St. Pier. Not
Quite home, your Grace — yet near, I hope, enough !
Your Highness, you do hear a dying man :
Your wife is innocent !

Fer. A poor gallant
That would not say as much 1 ,

St. Pier. Your Highness read
This paper ! Hold his Grace !

Fer. 'Twas forced from me.

St. Pier. Only the signature, my lord — the rest
Was voluntary — word for word — what fell
From his own lips.

Fer. You passed the night beside her —
Alone — none near you — within whisper of her !
Find pen to draw 'cross that.

St. Pier. I pray your Highness,
Wears not your wife a little rustic cross,
Carv'd by no craftsman's hand ?

JUar. I do — the same
I show'd thee when we spoke together.

St. Pier. 'Twas
Your brother gave It you.

Mar. It was,

St. Pier. I think, '

Some fifteen years ago?

Mar. So many years
Have pass'd since that dear brother j. /e it me.
I was a child then — he almost a man !

St. Pier
That brother standing, weeping by your bed : —
He blessed you, put that cross upon your neck,
Kissed you, and bade farewell to you, and went—

You woke one morning, did you not, and saw

aFr

the

ing.

mere

aspii

enco

Beau

revcr

bis

ment

there

garde

had t

ness,"

wild

resolv

himse

but h(

artist,

and ci

Priace

Dramatic Selections,

52S

You never saw him more. — Pray you come near 1
God ! my mother's face I

Mar. My brother — Ambrose I

St. Pier. Yes Mariana !

rExeunt Ferrardo and Count, attended.

Mar. Brother, 1 said I knew thee I Thou forgot'st
Thy sister's little face to woman's grown ;
But I remembered thine enough to feel ♦

'Twas something once had been familiar dear I

that my memory had better kept

What my heart treasured — thou didst prove how well !
Wilt thou not speak to me ! Hear'st thou, my brother ?

St. Pier, Our father's cottage, Mariana 1

Mar. Ha !
Thou fnntest!

St. Pier. No — it is nothing, sister I
What makes thee look so pale and vanishing?
Don't go from me ! Alas — 'tis I am going !

1 have confessed myself ! Pray for me, sister I
Mine eyes have lost thee ! — But I feel thee still,
That's comfort ! — yet — I have thee in my arms —
Thou fadest too from them — fast I fast! — thou art gone!

\St, Pierre dies.

Id saw

SELECTIONS FROM THE "LADY OF LYONS. "

SIR EDWARD LYTTON BCLWER.

The beautiful play from which these selections are taken is founded upon
a French tale, entitled " The Bellows Mender," and the following oiitline of
the " ph)t" will assist in making the Readings more intelligible and interest-
ing. Pauline Deschappelles, ' the Lady of Lyons/ is the daug'iter of a Lyons
merchant. She is distinguished for* great beauty and equal pride, and
aspires to be the wife of a prince. In these lofty expectations Pauline is
encouraged by the vanity of hi r mother. She has rejected the suit of one
Beauseant, a commoner of aristocratic birth ; and Beauscant, burning with
revenge, resolves to humble the proud and beautiful Pauline. lie takes into
his confiilence Glavis, another rejected suitor, and they soon find an instru-
ment to carry out their malicious designs. In a small village near Lyons
there dwells a youth named Claude Melnotte. Claude is the son of a
gardener, and, when a boy, h<»,d worked in the garden of Pauliue's father;
had then beheld the young girl " a spirit of bloom and joy and fresh-
ness," and there •' the passionate heart of man had entered the breast of the
wild dreaming boy." From that moment his nature changed, and he
resolved to rise by self-reliance and the culture of his mind, and so to make
himself worthy of the lovely Pauline. It was the " wild dream" of the boy,
but he failed not in his resolution. He became an earnest student, an
artist, a poet ; while in manly exercises he surpassed all village competitors
and carried away all prizes; and the lads of the vil! "ge called him the
Priace. Beauseant and Glavis accidentally hear of Claude, and learn also

624

Dramatic Selection^,

4^'

■ l'.

't . .

that he loves Pauline ; they decide at once upon their plans, which are to
make Clajide pass himself off as a foreign prince^ to lend hira inoneyj
clothes and equipage for the purpose, and make him propose to Pauline.
The conspiracy is revealed to Claude, who, blinded by his love for Pauline,
consents to the dishonorable proposal, and is formally introduced to the
family as the Prince of Como. In the First Part of tlie selection Claude,
dressed as a Prince, and decorated with various valuables lent him by the
arch conspirators, displays and dispenses his borrowed wealth with great
humor at the expense of his employers and to their infinite chagrin. Colonel
Damas, an uncle of Pauline's, has some suspicion about the true cliaracterof
the pretended prince, but the ready wit of Claude overcomes all obstacles.
This scene ends with a beautiful description by Claude of his fancied palace
by the Lake of Como. Tlie Second Part represents Claude in his motlier's
cottage married to Pauline, the terrible delusion breaking on her mind.
The cruel plot is discovered; and, wild with disappointed pride, Pauline
reproaches her husband for his cruel deceit, while Claude defends iiis conduct
by relating in touching and eloquent language the history of his passion,
and redeems his sin by the assuranceof a divorce which shall set the injured
Pauline free from hor marriage vows and the degrading union.

Persons represented : — Paulink Dksohappelles, Madame DesciiappeIiLES,
Claude Melnottb, Colonel Damas, Bkacseant and Glavis.

PART I. '

Scene 1. — The Gardens of M. Deschappelles^ Ilouseaf Li/ons.

Mtlnotte. These are beautiful gardens, Madame. Who planned
them ?

Madame Deschap. A gardener named Melnotte, your Highness
— an honest man who knew his station. I can't say a-< much for
his son — a presuming fellow, who — ha ! ha ! — actually wrote
verses — such doggerel ! — to my daughter.

Pauline. Yes — how you would have laughed at them, Prince
— ^you who write such beautiful verses !

Mehiotte This INIelnotte must be a monstrous impudent person !

Damas. Is he good looking ?

Madame Deschap. I never notice such canaille — an ugly, mean-
looking clown, if I remember right,

Damas. Yet I heard your porter say he was wonderfully like
his Highness.

Melnotte {taking snuff). You are complimentary.

Madame Deschap. For shame, cousin Damas ! — like the Prince,
indeed.

Pauline. Like you! Ah, mother, like our beautiful Prince!
I'll never speak to you again, cousin Damas.

Melnotte {aside). Humph! — rank is a great boautifier ! I never
passed for an Apollo while I was a peasant ; if I am so handsome
as a prince, what should I be as an emperor ? — {aloud ) . Monsieur
Beauseant, will you honor me ? [Offers snuff.

Beauseant. No, your Highness, I have no small vices.

Melnotte. Nay, if it were a vice you'd be sure to have it, Mou-
Bieur Beauseant.

Dramatie Selections,

525

are to
ioney>
auline.
uiline,
to the
ylaude,
by the
h great
□ olonel
actor of
istacles.
I palace
iiother'3
;r mind.
Pauline
conduct
passion,
li injured

i.PPEl.IiE3,

TjI/OIIS.

planned

Highness
iiiich for
wrote

I J Prince
, person I

|ly, mean-
fully like

ic Prince,

Prince I

J! I never

liaudsomc

yiousieur

X'erti snuff.

it, Mon-

Madame Deschap. Ha I ha ! how very severe ! — what wit !

Bconscont (in a rage and aside). Curse his impertinence.

JUndame Dcschip. What a superb snuff box I

Pauline. And what a beautiful ring!

Mehwtte. You like the box — a trifle — interesting perhaps from
associations — a present from Louis XIV. to my grcat-great-
grandmother. Honor me by accepting it.

Beauacant (plucking him hy the sleeve) . How ! — what the deuce I
My box ! — arc you mad ! It is worth five hundred louis.

Melnotie (^unheeding him and turning to Pauline). And you
like this ring! Ah, it has indeed a lustre since your eyes have
shone on it (placing it on her finger). Henceforth hold me, sweet
enchantress, the Slave of the Ring.

Glavi-i (pulling him). Stay, stay — what are you about? My
maiden aunt's legacy — a diamond of the first water. You shall be
hanged for .swindling, sir.

Melnotte (pretending not to hear). It is curious, this ring; it is
the one Avith which my grandfather, the Doge of Venice, married
the Adriatic ! [^Madame and Pauline ex((miiic the ring,

Melnotfe (to Beauseant and Glavis). Fie, gentlemen,
princes must be generous ! — (turns to Damas, who watches them
closely.) These kind friends have my interest so much at heart,
that they are as careful of my property as if it were their own.

Beauseant and Glavis {confusedly. ) Ha ! ha ! — very good joke
that ! [Appear to remonstrate icifh Melnotte in dumb show.

Damas. H hat's all that whispering ? I am sure there is some
juggle here ; hang me, if I think he is an Italian, after all. 'Gad I
I'll try him. Servitore umillissime Excellenza.*

Melnotte. Hum — what does he mean, I wonder?

Damas. Godo di vedervi in buona salute.f

Melnotte. Hem — hem !

Damas. Fa bel tempo — che si dice di nuovo ?|

Melnotte. Well, sir, what's all that gibberish ?

Damas. Oh, oh — only Italian, your Highness ! — The Prince ot
Como does not understand his own language !

Melnotte. Not as you pronounce it ; who the deuce could ?

Madame Deschap. Ha ! ha ! cousin Damas, never pretend to
what you don't know.

Pauline. Ha! ha I cousin Damas, yon speak Italian indeed !

[Makes a mocking gesture at him.

Beauseant (to Glavis). Clever dog 1 — how ready !

• Your Excellency's most humble servant.
1 1 am glad to see you in good health.
t Fine weather. What news ia there 7

1^1

iBI

'*■

526

Dramatic Selections,

Ready, yes; with my

diamond ring ! — Damn

tis

i
it

: i •,
y.

3 .P'

readiness !

Dumas. Laugh at me ! — laugh at a colonel in the French army !
— The fellow's an impostor; I know he is. I'll see if he under-
stands fighting as well as he does Italian — (Goes up to him, and
aside). Sir, you are a jackanapes ! — Can you construe that ?

Mehwtte. No, Sir ! I never construe affronts in the presence of
ladies ; by-and-by I shall be happy to take a lesson— or give one.

Dumas. I'll find the occasion, never fear !

3fadame Dcschap. Where are you going, cousin ?

Damas. To correct my Italian. \Exit into house,

Beauseant (to Glavis.) Let us after, and pacify him ; he evi-
dently suspects something.

Glavis. Yes ! — but my diamond ring ?

Beauseant. And my box 1 — We are over-taxed, fellow-subject ?
—-we must stop the supplies, and dethrone the Prince.

Glavis. Prince 1 — he ought to be heir-apparent to King Stork !

[^Exeunt into house.

Madame Dcschap. Dare I ask your Highness to forgive my
cousin's insufferable vulgarity ?

Pauline. Oh, yes! — you will forgive his manner for the sake
of his heart.

Melnotte. And for the sake of his cousin. Ah, Madam, there
is one comfort in rank — we are so sure of our position that we are
Oot easily affronted. Besides, M. Damas has bought the right of
indulgence from his friends, by never showing it to his enemies.

Pauline. Ah ! he is, indeed, as brave in action as he is rude in
-speech. He rose from the ranks to his present grade, — and in
two years.

Melnotte. In two years 1^ — two years, did you say ?

Madame Desrhap. (aside). I don't like leaving girls alone

tpith their lovers ; but with a prince, it would be so ill bred to be

l)rudish ! ^Exit into house.

Melnotte. You can be proud of your connection with one

•Vho owes his position to merit, — not birth.

Still what, Pauline ?

There is something glorious in the Heritage of
A man who has ancestors is like a Representative

Pauline. Why, yes ; but still--

Melnotte.

Pauline.
Command,
ftf the Past.

Melnotte. True ; but, like other representatives, nine times out
of ten he is a silent member. Ah, Pauline ! not to the Past, but to
i|he Future, looks true nobility, and finds its blazon in posterity.

Pauline. You say this to please me, who have no ancestors;
but you, Prince, must be proud of so illustrious a race I

Dramatic Selections,

627

an tis

I army !
under-
m, and
uit?
icnce of
;ive one.

to house,
, he evi-

-subject I

ig Stork !
ito house.
rgivG my

the sake

am, there
[lilt we are
LG right of
I enemies,
lis rude in
, — and in

[iris alone

)red to be

^ito house.

with one

iritage of
[csentative

limes out
last, but to

)stcrity.
lancestors ;

Mehiotte. No, no ! I would not, weio I fifty times a prince, be
a pensioner on the Dead ! I honor birth and ancestry when
they are regarded as the incentives to exertion, not the title-
deeds to sloth ! I honor the laurels that overshadow the graves
of our fathers. It is our fathers I emulate, when I desire that
beneath the evergreen I myself have planted, my own ashes may
repose I Dearest, could'st thou but see with my eyes !

Pauline. I cannot forego pride when I look on thee, and
think that thou lovest me. Sweet Prince, toll me again of thy
palace by the Lake of Como ; it is so pleasant to hear of thy
splendors, since thou didst swear to me that they would be
desolate without Pauline; and when thou describest them, it is
with a mocking lip and a noble scorn, as if custom had made
thee disdain greatness.

Melnotte. Nay, dearest, nay, if thou wouldst have me paint
The home to which, could love fulfil its prayers,
This hand would lead thee, listen !* A deep vale,
Shut out by Alpine hills from the rude world,
Near a clear lake, margined by fruits of gold
And whispering myrtles ; glassing softest skies
As cloudless, save with rare and roseate shadows,
As I would have thy fate 1

Pauline. My own dear love I

Melnotte. A palace lifting to eternal summer
Its marble walls, from out a glossy bower
Of coolest foliage musical with birds,
Whose songs should syllable thy name ! At noon
We'd sit beneath the arching vines and wonder
Why earth could be unhappy, while the heavens
Still left us youth and love ! We'd have no friends
That were not lovers ; no ambition, save
To excel them all in love ; we'd read no books
That were not tales of love — that we might smile
To think how poorly eloquence of words
Translates the poetry of hearts like ours !
And when night came, amidst the breathless heavens
We'd guess what star should be our home when love

I I -w" ' ^-— ■ — ■ — — ■ ■ ■ — I— ■■ I ■ ... ■ ■ I..-.- .1^ .11.11 ■ , ,, ■ — .,- ___ J

* The reader will observe that Melnotte evades the request of Pauline. He
proceeds to describe a home, which he does not say he possesses, but to which
he would lead her, "could love fulfil its prayers. This caution is intended
aa a reply to a sagacious critic who censures the description because it is
not an exact and prosaic inventory of the characteristics of tlie Lake of
Como 1— When Melnotte, for instance, talks of birds, " that syllable the name
of Pauline" (by the way, a literal translation from an Italian poet), he is
not thinking of ornithology, but probably of the Arabian Nights. He is
venting the extravagant but natural enthusiasm of the Poet and the Lover.

.iJJ.1

528

Dramatic Selections,

Becomes immortal ; while the perfumed light

Stole through the mists of alabaster lamps,

And every air was heavy with the sighs

Of orange groves and music from sweet lutes,

And murmurs of low fountains that gush forth

I the midst of roses I — Dost thou like the picture ?

Pdnline. Oh ! as the bee upon the flower, I hang
Upon the honey of thy eloquent tongue !
Am 1 not blest ? And if I love too wildly,
Who would not love thee, like Pauline ?

Mrlnotte (hittcrly). Oh, false one !
It is the prince thou lovest, not the man.
If in the <tead of luxury, pomp, and power,
I har' ^>ainted poverty, and toil and care,
Th ju had'st found no honey on my tongue ; — Pauline,
"^jbat is not love!

Pauline. Thou wrong'st me, cruel Prince I
'Tis true I might not at the first been won.
Save through the weakness o^ fi flattered pride ;
But now! — Oh! trust me,- could 'st thou fall from power
And sink —

Me/notte. As low as that poor gardener's son
Who dared to lift his eyes to thee ? • •

Pauline. Even then,
Methinks thou would'st be only made more dear
By the sweet thought that I could prove how deep
Is woman's love ! We are Hkc the insects, caught
By the poor glittering of a garish flame !
But oh, the wings once scorched, — the brightest star
Lures us no more ; and by the fatal light
We cling till death !

r III"

;., !i'

PAULINE WITH CLAUDE IN HIS MOTHER'S

COTTAGE.

' PART II. ^

Pauline. This is my bridal home, and thou my bridegroom I

fool ! dupe I wretch I I see it all —
The bye-word and the jeer of every tongue
In Lyons I Hast thou in thy heart one touch
Of human kindness ? if thou hast, why, kill me.
And save thy wife from madness. No, it cannot,
It cannot be ! this is some horrid dream ;

1 shall wake soon (touching him). Art flesh? art man ? or but
The shadows seen in sleep ? It is too real.'

L'9

)omi

but

Dramatic Selections.

What have I done to thee ? how sittn'd against thee,
That thou should'st crush me thus ?

31eljK>tfe. Pauline 1 by pride,
Angels have fallen ere thy time ; by pride —
That sole alloy of thy most lovely mould —
The evil spirit of a bitter love,
And a revi'ugeful heart, had power upon thee. —
From my first years, my soul was filled with thee:
I saw thee, midst the flowers the lowly boy
Tended, unmarked by thee, a spirit of bloom,
And joy and freshness, as if spring itself
Were made a living thing, and wore thy shape !
T saw thee ! and the passionate heart of man
Enter'd the breast of the wild dreaming boy ;
And from that hour I grew — what to the last
I shall be — thine adorer ! Well ! this love.
Vain, frantie, guilty, if thou wilt, became
A fountain of ambition and bright hope :
I thought of t;dos, that by the winter hearth
Old gossips tell — how maidens, sprung from kings.
Have stoop'd from their high sphere; how love, like death,
Levels all ranks, and lays the siiepherd's crook
Beside the sceptre. Thus I made my home
In the soft palace of a fairy Future!
My father died ; and I, the peasant-born,
Was my own lord. Then did I seek to rise
Out of the prison of my mean estate ;
And, with such jewels as the exploring mind
Brings from the caves of knowledge, buy my ransom
From those twin gaolers of the daring heart —
Low birth and iron fortune. Thy bright image,
Glass'd in my soul, took all the hues of glory.
And lured me on to those insjtiring toils
By which man masters men !
A midnight student o'er the dreams of sages:
For thee I sought to borrow from each grace,
And every muse, such attributes as lend
Ideal charms to love. I thought of thee,
And passion taught me poesy — of thee!
And on the })ainter's canvas? grew the life
Of beauty — Art became the shadow
Of the dear star-light of thy haunting eyes !
Men called me vain, some mad — I heeded not
But still toil'd on, hoped on, for it was sweet.
If not to win, to feel more worthy thee !

529

IM':

-i. i\

■ >,

■:'( i

■ I mil

ilif

i^.^■

530

JDramatic Selections,

ii •

' ft*

PanVine. Has he a ma^ic to exorcise hate ?

Meliiottc. At lust, in one mad hour, I dared to pour
The thoughts thiit burst their channels into song,
And sent them to thee — such a tribute, lady
As beauty rarely scorns, even from t\\v meanest.
The name — appended by the burninj; heart
That lon4j;'d to show its idol what briudit things
It had created — yea, the enthusiast's name
That should have been thy triumph, was thy scorn I
That very hour — when pa^ision, turned to wrath,
Resembled iiatred most ; wlin thy disdain •,. ;• /

Made my whole soul a chaos — in that hour i ,
The tempters found me a reven<iei'ul tool . ,

For their re ventre! Thou hadst trampled on the worm —
It turn'd and .stumr thee I

Pauluici. Love, Sir, hath no stins^.
What was the slitrht of a poor powerless girl.
To the dt'cp wrong of this most vile revenge ?
Oh, how I loved this man ! a serf! a slave !

Miinoltc. Hold, lady I No, not slave ! Despair is free ! '
I will not tell thee of the throes, (ho struggles,
The anguish, the remorse. No, let it pass I
And let nic come to such most poor atonement
Yet in my power. Pauline !

\^Al)pi'oaching her with great emotion, and ahont to take

her hand.

Pauliiw. No, touch me not I
I know my fate. You are, by law, my tyrant ;
And I — oh Heaven ! a peasant's wife! I'll work,
Toil, drudge ; do what thou wilt ; but touch me not;
Let my wrongs make me sacred !

Mdiiottc. Do not fear me.
Thou dost not know me. Madam : at the altar
My vengeance ceased, my guilty oath expired I .
Henceiorth, no image of some marbled saint^
Niched in cathedral's aisles, is hallow'd more
From the rude hand of sacrilegious wrong.
I am thy husband ; nay, thou need'st not shudder ;
Here, at thy I'eet, I lay a husband's rights.
A marriage thus unholy — unfulfilled —
A bond of fraud —is, by the laws of France,
Made void and null. To-night, then, sleep — in peace.
To-morrow, pure and virgin as this morn
I bore thee, bathed in blushes, from the altar,
Thy father's arms shall take thee to thy home.

I>ramatic Selections.

531

And when thou art h ^'^'' ^''3^ 'o^o.

Hi.» who so W Jit PJ:^; -:^, ';«^^ hulf forgot
Heaven left some remnant „?. ''' /^'"'^ "' ^«a«t

Tothepoorih:u;,b ^wKf r^' -^''-^her/)-- '
Never beneath my filpl\ '^"'^ "* ^'''^"e ^
f en viJJ,i„, d,,^^J • ^^- « honest r^,

JthnkthouwiJtbelLeLe-^Go' '^^^^ •

y-/^^^.. She is not thVwnr/ ' ""^ "'"'''^'^•

Aiian^dsbJess^nd guard her.

COMEDY.
DOGBERRY anI; THE WATCH

Dogberry J, „ Shakespeare.

ttakiL (he mo«.f ff^°"^ "^*^"''s'' officer" ,Vn. .

of his master. ®- ^^'^^^^ 's an under oicS-lZ l'^'' '"'^ harmless

^ SCENE-.I Street.

they fhould ^iave aaT?„ " .P"'"*"'""* too ,,ood U t,, :
Pnnco'8 watch. ""^ """S"'™" "' 'torn, bei,,. oh .„ r^u"^

constable? "'' ^°" '''« most dc^^,„.tW; ,,';^- J 1^

-n:.pr„*d i^:f «»'-'^^. «>. or George Seaooal; f„r 1 /

5 H

:li

532

Dramatic Selections,

t/y.
k ",

2?/f/ H'^^r7i. Both wliieli, nuisti-r cnnsstable, —

U(i<jh. You have; 1 knew it would bcj your answer. Well,
for your favor, sir, why, give (iod thuiiks, and make no boast of
it; and ibr your writing and reading, let that aj){jear when there
is no need of such vanity. You are thought here to be the
most senseless and fit man for the constable of the watch ; there-
fore bear you the lantern. This is your charge : — you shall
coni]>rehend all vagrom men; you are to bid any man stand, iu
the j)rince's name.

Wafrk. How, if a' will not stand?

DiKjh. Why, then, take no note of him, but let him go; and
presently call the rest of the watch together, and thank God you
are rid of a knave.

Vcnj. If he will not stand when he is bidden, he is none of
the prince's subjects.

lJo;/0. True, and they are to meddle with none but the prince's
subjects. — Y'^ou shall also make no noise in the streets ; lor, for
the watch to babble and tidk, is most tolerable and not to be
endured.

2h(1 Watch. We will rather .>;leep than talk : we know what
belongs to a watch.

Duyi. Why, you speak like an ancient and mo.-t quiet watch-
man ; for I cannot see how sk'ejdiig should otfe.id ; only have a
care that your bills be nut stolen. — W^ell, you are to call at all
the alehouses, and bid those that are drunk get them to bed.

Wdtch. llow if they will not ?

DiHjb. Why, then, let them alone till they are sober ; if they
make you not then the better answer, you may say they are not
the men you took them Ibr.

Widdi. Well, sir.

Dugb. If you meet a thief, you may suspect hi n, by virtue of
your office, to be no true man ; and. for such kuid of men, the
less you meddle or make with them, why, the mire is for your
honesty.

'2nd Watch. If we know him to be a thief, shall we not lay
hands on him?

DcHjh. Truly, by your office, you may ; but I think they that
touch pitch will be defiled ; the most peaceable way for you, if
you do take a thief, is, to let him show himself what he is, and
steal out of your company.

Vcrg. Y'^ou have been always called a merciful man, partner.

Doijh. Truly, I would not hang a dog by my will ; much more
a man who hath any honesty in him.

Vcrg. If you hear a child cry in the night, you must call to
the nurse, and bid her still it.

m^-am

Dramatic Selections.

53n

2n(l Wntrh. TTow, if the nurso be asloop nnd will not lio.ir uh ?

Do.jh. Why, then, dopart in poaco, atid let Hio child wake hrr
With cryin.;:; for the ewo that will not hear her lauib when it
bacs, will niiver answer a calf when he bleats.

y^'rg. 'Tis very true.

I)o()b. This is the end of the chartre.— You constable are to
present the prince's own person: if you meet the prince in the
ni.trht, you may stay him.

Vnuj. Nay,'by 'r lady, that, I think, a' cannot.

J>»(jIk Five shillings to one; on't, with any man that knows the
statutes, he may stay him : marry, not without the princ(^ be
willniL" ; nor, indeed, the watch onirht to offend no man ; and it
IS an orteiice to stay a man auainst his will.

Vn-g. Ly'r lady, I think it be so.

i)o,jh. IT;,, ha, ha! Well, masters, jrood nitrht: an' there be
any matter of weijxht cliances, call up mo; keep your fellows'
counsels and ycmr own ; and jjrood nit;ht.— Come, nei-;!d)or.

2nd Wntch. Well, masters, we hear our charnro -. j,;t us <ro sit
here upon the church-bench till two. and then all uo to bed?

J)ogl,. One word more, honest nci,<;hbors. I pray you, watch
about Siunor Lconato's door: for' the weddini,' bein<^ there
to-morrow, there is a great coil to-night. Adieu, be vi-'ilant I
beseech you.

\_Exeunt Dogberry and A'erges.

they
fC uot

Ituc of
In, tiie
your

)t lay

that

)U, if

aud

icr.
Imore

ill to

FALSTAFF AXD TIIS SOLDIERS.

SU.\Ki:Sl>KAI!E.

Scene. — A puUic Road near Cornifrij.
Enter Falstafp and Bardolpii.
Fal. Bardolph, get thee before to Coventry; lill nn; a bottle of
sack; our soldiers shall march through ; we'll to Sutton-Coi.hill
to-night. ^

Bnrd. Will you give me money, captain ? ' -

Fill. Lay out, lay out.

B(ird. This bottle makes an angel.

Fal An if it do, take it for thy labor; and if it make twenty,
take them all ; I'll answer the coinage. Bid my lieutenant Poto
meet me at the town's end.

Bard. I will, captain : farewell. [Exit.

Fal. If I bo not ashamed of my soldiers, I am a soused -urnet*
I have misused the king's press damnably. I have got, in exchange

iJ,

534

Dramatic Selections,

.4 •

'v..

■!'•;.

of a hundred and fifty Holdiers, three hundred and odd pounds. T
press nie none but jrood hou.seholderH, yisonien's Kons; en(|uire uio
out contracted bachelors, Huch hh had been asked twice on the
banns; such a commodity of warm slaves, as had as lief hear the
devil as a drum; such as fear the report of a caliver, worse than
a struck I'ovvl, or a hurt wild duck, I pressed me none but such
toasts and butter, with hearts in their bellies no biirji'er thim pins'
heads, and tlu-y have }»ounht(iut their services; and now my whole
char<;e consists of ancients, corporals, lieutenants, gentlemen of
companies, slaves as raji<red as Lazarus in the painted cloth, where
the glutton's do^s licked his 8(»res ; and such as, indeed, were
never soldiers, but discarded unjust serving men, youn^'er sons to
youn^^er brothers, revolted tapsters, and ostlers trade fallen ; the
cankers of a calm world and a loni; peace; ten times more disho-
norable ra<x<^ed than an old faced ancient : and such have I, to fill
up the rooms of them that luive bouj:;ht out their services, that
you would think that I had a hundred and fifty tattered prodigals,
lately come from swine-keeping, from eating draff and husks. A
mad fellow metn^e on the way, and told me I had unloaded all the
gibbets, and pressed the dead bodies. No eye hath seen such
scarecrows. I'll not march through Coventry with them, that's
flat: — nay, and the villains march wide betwixt the legs, as if
they had gyves on ; for, indeed, I had the most of them out of
prison. There's but a shirt and a half in all my company ; and
the half shirt is two napkins tacked together, and thrown over the
shoulders like a herald's coat without sleeves ; and the shirt, to say
the truth, stolen from my host at St. Alban's or the red-nose inn-
keeper of Bain try. But that's all one ; they'll find linen enough
on every hedge.

Enter Prince Henry and Westmoreland.

P. Ihn. How now, blown Jack ! how now, quilt !

Fd/. What, Hal ! How now, mad wag ! what ''

thou in Warwickshire ? — My good lord of Westm<
you mercy : I thought your honor had already been at

West. 'Faith, Sir John, 'tis more than time that I were th re,
and you too; but my powers are there already. The king, ^ <'im
tell you, looks for us all : we must away all night.

Fa I. Tut, never fear me : I am as vigilant as a cat to steal
cream.

P. Ilni. I think, to steal cream, indeed ; for thy theft hath
already made thee butter. But tell me, Jack, whose fellows are
these that come after.

Fal. Mine, Hal, mine.

P. Hen. I did never see such pitiful rascals.

wsbu

3. 1
! lUC

t\ic
: tlie
tlian

HUCU

pins'
whole
en of
wliorc
wore
iontt to
\; the
(lislio-

, to fill
8, til at

ks. A

I uU tlie
en such
.1, that's
as if
out of
:iy ; and
over the
t, to say
ose inn-
euou<5h

5«»

■VI

•WSl

16}

th re,
1 oatt

steal

icft hath
lllows are

Jh'amattc Selections.

535

F(d. Tut, tut 1 good enoiijj;h to toss; food for powder, food for
powder ; tliey'U fill a pit us well uh better : tush, uiau, nioitul lueii,
mortal men,

WvHt. Ay, but, Sir John, metliinks they are exceeding poor
and bare ; too bejjjyjarly.

F((l. ' Kaith, for tiieir poverty, I know not where they had that ;
and for their bareness, I am sure, they never learned that of mo.

jP. Htn. No, I'll be Hworn ; unless you call three lingers on the
ribs, bare. ,. . , .

SCENE FROM THK II0NEY3I00N.

JOHN TOBIS.

Scene. — A Cottage.
Enter Duke op Aranza, hading in Juliana.

Duho. You are welcome liomc,

Jul. Home ! you are merry ; this retired spot
Would be a palace for an owl !

Duke. 'Ti.s ours.

Jul. Ay, for the time we stay in it.

Duke. By heaven.
This is the noble mansion that I spoke of!

Jul. This ! You are not in earnest, thouj^h you bear it
With such a sober brow. Come, come, you jest.

Duke. Indeed I jest not ; were it ours in jest.
We should have none, wife.

Jul. Are you serious, sir ?

Duke. I swear, as I'm your husband, and no duke.

Jul. No duke !

Duke. But of my own creation, lady.

Jul. Am I betray'd? Nay, do not play the fool 1
It is too keen a joke.

Duke. You'll find it true.

Jii ' You are no duke, then ?

D ' . N(»ne.

J Have I been cozen'd ? (^Aside.)

I a ve you no estate, sir ?
aces, nor houses ?

D ke. None but this :
A small, snusj; dwelling, and in good repair. -^

Jul. Nor money, nor eflfects ?

Ai,
No

536

Bramatic Selections,

DuJce. None, that I know of.

,hd. And the attcndiints that have waited on us?

Dnhe. They were my friends ; who, having done my business,
Are fjfone about their own.

Jul. Why, then, 'tis clear. (^Aside)

That I was ever born ! What are you, sir ?

Duke. I am an honest man, that may content you ;
Young, nor ill-favour'd. Shoukl not that content you ?
I am your husband, and that must content you. , ; ;' > ;

Jul. I will go home I (Going.')

Duke. You arc at home, alreadj'. (Sffi/jing her.)

Jul. I'll not endure it ! But, remember this —
Duke, or no duke, I'll bo a duchess, sir I

Duke. A duchess ! you shall be queen, to all
Who, of their courtesy, will call you so.

Jul. And I will have attendance.

Duke. So you shall, '

When you have learnt to wait upon yourself.

Jul. To wait upon myself ! must I bear this ?
I could tear out my eyes, that bade you woo me,
And bite my tongue in two for saying yes !

Duke. And if you shoulu. 'twould grow again. '^

I think, to be an hone.-^t yeoman's wife
(For such, my would-bc duchess, you will find me),
You were cut out by nature.

Jul. You will find then.
That education, sir, has spoilt me for it.
Why I do you think I'll work ?

Duke. I think 'twill happen, wife.

Jul. What ! rub and scrub
Your noble palace clean ?

Duke. Those taper fingers
Will do it daintily.

Jul. And dress your victuals
(If there be any) ? Oh ! I could go mad.

Duke. And mend my hose, and darn my nightcaps neatly ;
Wait, lil.:e an echo, till you're spoken to —

Jul. Or, like a clock, talk only once an hour? '

Duke. Or like a dial; for that ((uietly - • . .-, k

Performs its work, and never speaks at all.

Jul. To feed your poultry and your hogs I oh, monstrous !
And when I stir abroad, on great occasions, : .

Carry a S(|ueaking tithe pig to the vicar; - ■ \

Or jolt with hig<;lers' wives the market trot, /.

To sell your eggs and butter I .

Dramatic Selections.

637

tly

>us

Diihe. Excellent!
How well you sum the duties of a wife !
Why, what a blessing I shall have iu you !

JuL A blossinj; !

Ihikc. When they talk of you and rae, ■) ,,

Darby ;ind Joan shall be no more remember'd ; ;•
We shall be so happy 1 ,, . . i,-,-

Jul. Shall we? r= ■ i

Duke. Wondrous happy ! >

Oh, you will make an admirable wife I i .

Jul. I'll make a devil. ••.>.'

Dul'c. What? ,.,..,

Jul. A very devil.

Duke. Oh, no ! we'll have no devils.

Jul. I'D not bear it. • . .

I'll to my fitlier's !

Dukr. Gentle ; vou forwt
You arc a perfect stranger to the road.

Jul. My wrongs will find a way, or make one.

Dul-e. Softly !
You stir not hence, except to take the air ;
And then I'll breathe it with you. • *

Jul. What, confine me ?

Duke. 'Twould be unsafe to trust you yet abroad.

Jul. Am I a truant school-boy ?

Dukr. Nay, not so ; .

But you must keep your bounds. , i

Jul. And if I break them,
Perhaps you'll beat me.

Duke. Beat you I
The man, that lays his hand upon a woman
Save in the way of kindness, is a wretch
Whom 'twere gross flattery to name a coward.
No, madam, I'll talk to you, I'll not beat you.

Jul. Well, If I may not travel to my father,
I may write to him, surely ! and I will —
If I can meet within your spacious dukedom
Three such unhop'd-for miracles at once,
As pens, and ink, and paper.

Duke. You will find them
In the next room. A word, before you go.
You are my wife, by ev'ry tie that's sacred ; ' '

The partner of my fortune and my bed —

Jul. Your fortune !

Duke. Peace ! no fooling, idle woman 1

• \

:! i:

538

Dramatic Selections,

f M ' '

Beneath the nttestinG^ eye of heav'n I've sworn
To love, to honor, cherish, and protect you.
No human pow'r can part us. What remains, then ?
To fret, and worry, and torment each other,
And give a keener edge to our hard fate
By sliarp upbraidings, and perpetual jars ?
Or, like a loving and a patient pair
(Wak'd from a dream of grandeur, to depend
tJpon their daily labor for support),
To soothe the taste of fortune's lowliness
With sweet content, and mutual fond endearment ?
Now to your chamber ; write whate'er you please ;
But pause before you st;iin the spotless paper
With words that may inflame, but cannot heal !
Jul. Why, what a patient worm you take me for!
Duke. I took you for a wife j and, ere I've done,
I'll know you for a good one.

Jul. You shall know me
For a right woman, full of her own sex ;
Who, when she suflers wrong, will speak her anger;
Who feels her own prerogative, and scorns.
By the proud reason of superior man.
To be taught patience when her swelling heart

Cries out revenge ! [Exit.

Ditlce. Why, let the flood raq;e on !

There is no tide in woman's wildest passion

But hath an ebb. I've broke the ice, however.

Write to her father ! She may write a folio —

But if she send it! 'Twill divert her spleen ;

The flow of ink may save her blood letting ;

Perchance she may have fits, they're seldom mortal,

Save when the doctor's sent for. —

Though I have heard some husbands say, and wisely,

A woman's honor is her safest guard,

Yet there's some virtue in a lock and key. (^Locks the doorJ)

So thus begins our honey moon. 'Tis well !

For the first fortnight, ruder than March winds !

She'll blow a hurricane. The next, perhaps,

Like April, she may wear a changeful face

Of storm and sunshine : and, when that is past.

She will break glorious as unclouded May ;

And where the thorns grew bare, the spreading blossoms '

Meet with no lagging frost to kill their sweetness.

Whilst others for a month's delirious joy,

Buy a dull age of penance, we, more wisely,

Dramatic Selections.

Taste first the wholesome bitter of the cup,
That after to the very lees shall relish ;
And to the close of this frail life prolonjj:
The pure delights of a well govern 'd marriage.

539

ioor.)

FROM "SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL."

RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN.

Act I. Scene ii. >S^t> Peters House.

Enter Sir Peter.

Sir P. When an old bachelor marries a young wife what is
he to expect? 'Tis now six months since Lady Teazle made me
the happiest of men, and I have been the most miserable dog
ever since! We tiffed a little going to church, and came to a
quarrel before the bells had done ringing. I was more than
once nearly choked with gall during the honeymoon, and had lost
all comfort in life before my friends had done wishing me joy.
Yet I chose with caution — a girl bred wholly in the country, who
Dc.ver knew luxury beyond one silk gown, nor dissipation above
the annual gala of a race-ball. Yet now she plays her part in
all the extravagant fopperies of the fashion and the town with as
ready a grace as if she had never seen a bush or a grass-]»lot out
of Grosvenor S(|uare ! I am sneered at by all my acquaintance,
and paragraphed in the newspapers. She dissipates my fortune,
and contradicts all my humors; yet the worst of it is, I doubt
I love her, or I should never bear all this. However, I'll never
be weak enou<>h to own it.

Enter Lady Teazle.

Sir P. Lady Teazle, Lady Teazle, I'll not bear it.

Ladi/ T. Sir Peter, Sir Peter, you may bear it or not, as you
please ; but I ought to have my own way in every thing, and,
what's more, I will too. What ! though 1 was educated in the
country, I know very well that women of fashion in London are
accountable to nobody after they are married.

Sir P. Very well, ma'am, very well ; so a husband is to have
no influence — no authority ?

Lddt/ T. Authority ! No, to be sure. If you wanted au-
thority over me you should havo adopted me, and not married
me : I am sure you were old enough.

Sir P. Old enough ! ay — there it is. Well, well, Lady
Teazle, though my life may be made unhappy by your temper,
I'll not be ruined by your extravagance.

'ill

i^'-VM

K'iMu

1. 1 11

540

Dramatic Selections.

it.-

•.!>~

■

L«<l}i T. My cxtravairancc I I am sure I am not more cxtra-
vag;mt than a woman oiiLrht to be.

Sir P. No, no, madam, you shall throw away no more sums
upon such unmeaning luxury. 'Slifo I to spend as much to
furnish your dressint^-room with flowers in winter as would
suffiee to turn the Pantheon into a green-house, and give a fate
chnitprfre at Christmas.

Ltnlij T. Sir Peter, am I to blame because flowers are dear in
cold weather ? You should find fault with the eliniiite. and not
with me. For my part, I'm sure, I wish it were spring all the
year round, and that roses grew under our feet.

>S'//- P. Zounds ! madam, if you had been born to this, I
should not wonder at your t.ilking thus ; but you forget what
your situation was when I married you.

Lddij T. No, no, I don't; 'twas a very disagreeable one, or I
should never have married you.

Sir P. Yes, yes, madam; you were then in a somewhat
huml)ler style — the daughter of a j)lain country squire. llccMllect,
Lady Teazle, wlnT. I saw you first sitting at your tambour, in a
pretty figured linen gown, with a bunch of keys at your side —
your hair combed smooth over a roll, and your apartment hung
round with fruits in worsted of your own working.

LnJij T. Oh yes, I ri'mend^er it very well ; and a curious life
I led. My daily occupation, to inspect the dairy, superintend
the i)oultry, make extracts from the family recijie-book, and comb
my Aunt Deborah's lap-dog.

Sir P. Yes, yes, ma'am, 'twas so indeed.

L(i(hj T. And then, you know, my evening amusements — to
draw patterns for ruflios which I had not materials to make up,
to play Pope Joan with the curate, to read a novel to my aunt,
or to be stuck down to an old spinet to strum my f itlier to sleep
after a fox-chase.

Sir P. I am glad you have so good a memory. Yes, madam,
these were the recreations I took you from ; but now you must
have your coach — vis-a-vis— id three powdered footmen before
your chair, and, in the summer, a pnir of white cats to draw you
to Kensington Gardens. No recollection, I suppose, when you were
content to ride double, behind the butler, on a docked coacii-horse !

Litilji T. No, I swear I never did that; I deny the butler and
the conch-horse.

Sir /-*. This, madam, was your situation, and what have I
done for you ? I have made you a woman of fashion, of fortune,
of rank ; in short, I have made you my wife.
• Lfulji T. "Well, then — and then- is but one thing more you
can make me add to the obligation, and that is — "

Dramatic Selections.

541

stra-

h to
voukl
.1 fde

car in
(1 not
ill tlie

ihis, I

t what

ic, or I

niewhat
cciiUcct,
ur, in a
' side —
lit hung

ions life
(jrintend
1(1 comb

lents — to
iiakc up,
|ny aunt,
to sleep

madam,
Ion must
\n before
I raw you
jyou were
[h-horse \
litler and

have I
fortune,

lorc y

>SV/- P. My widow, I suppose? ■ ' • i i .' '

Lmhj T. Hem! hem!

Sill*. I tliank you, madam ; but don't flatter yourself; for,
thou<;h your ill-conduct may disturb my peace of mind, it shall
never break my heart, I promise you. However, I am e(|U;illy
obliged to you for the hint.

Liidy T. Then why will you endeavor to make yourself so
disagreeable to me, and thwart me in every little elegant ex})ense ?
Sir P. 'iSlife ! madam, I say, had you any of these little
elegant expenses when you married me ?

L<idy T. Lud ! Sir l*eter, would you have me be out of the
fashion ?

Sir P. The ftishion, indeed ! What had you to do with the
fashion before you married ;2ie?

Ladif T. For my part, I 'iliould think you would like to have
your wife thought a womao of laste.

Sir P. Ay — there again — taste! Zounds! madam, you had
no taste when you married me !

Lialy T. That's very true, indeed, kSir Peter ; and, after having
married you, I should never pretend to taste again, I allow.
[Lauijhs.^ But now. Sir Peter, since we have finished our daily
jangle, I presume I may go to my engagement at Lady Sneer-
well's,

Sir P. Ay, there's another precious circumstance — a charmin^'
set of acquaintance you have made there.

Ladjj T. Nay, Sir Peter, they are all people of rank and
fortune, and remarkably tenacious of reputation.

Sir P. Yes egad, they are tenacious of reputation with a
vengeance, for they don't choose any body should have a character
but themselves. Such a crew ! Ah ! many a wretch has rid on
a hurdle who has done less mischief than these utterers of forged
tales, coiners of scandal, and clij)pers of reputation.

Ludi/ T. What ! would you restrain the freedom of speech ?
Sir P. All ! they have made you just as bad as any one of
the society.

Lady T. Why, I believe I do bear a part with a tolerable
grace.

Sir P. Grace, indeed!

Lady T. But I vow I bear no malice against the people I
abuse. When I say an ill-natured thing, 'tis out of pure good
humor, and I take it for granted they deal exactly in tiie same
manner with me. But, Sir Peter, you know you promised to
come to Lady Snoerwell's too.

Sir P. Well, well, I'll call in just to look after my own
character. • • * '

!>«

\- .

,(,

'iir

I-

'>:

ll
|i
I

■t! I

' !' i

Ii!

1 *

542

Dramatic Selections.

Ladll T. Then, indeed, you raust make haste after me, or
you'll be too late. So L'ooJ-by to ye. [ATrif.

Sir P. So — I have gained much by my intended expostulation ;
yet with what a charmin<>^ air she contradicts every thing I say,
and how pleasingly she shows her contempt for my authority!
Well, though I can't make her love me, there is great satisfaction
in quarreling with her ; and I think she never appears to such
advantage as when she is doing every thing in her power to
plague me. [^Exit.

Act n. Scene i.
Enter Lady Teazle.

Sir P. I mean shortly to surprise you ; but shall we always
live thus, hey ?

LdJi/ T. If you please. I'm sure I don't care how soon we
leave off quarreling, provided you'll own you're tired first.

Sir P. Well, then, let our future contest be who shall be most
obliging.

Ladjj T. I assure you. Sir Peter, good nature becomes you.
You look now as you did before we were married, when you used
to walk with me under the elms, and tell me stories of what a
gallant you were in your youth, and chuck me under the chin,
you would, and ask me if I thought I could love an old fellow
who would deny me nothing ; did'nt you ?

Sir P. Yes, yes ; and you were kind and attentive —
Lady T. Ay, so I was, and would always take your part when
my acquaintances would abuse you and turn you into ridicule.
Sir P. Indeed !

Lady T. Ay ; and when my cousin Sophy has called you a
stiif, peevish old bachelor, and laughed at me for thinking of
marrying one who might be my father, I have always defended
you, and said I didn't think you ugly by any means.
Sir P. Thank you.

Lady T. And I dared say you would make a very good sort
of husband.

Sir P. And you prophesied right ; and we shall now be the
happiest couple —

Lady T. And never differ again ?

Sir P. No, never — though at the same time, indeed, my dear
Lady Teaale, you must watch your temper very seriously, for in
all our little quarrels, my dear, if you recollect, my love, you
always begin first.

Lady T. I beg your pardon my dear Sir Peter ; indeed you
always gave the provocation.

Dramatic Selections.

543

, or
:xit.
ion;
siiy,
rity!
ctlon
such
IIT to
Exit.

irt when

[d you a
iking of
lefended

lood sort
be the

my dear
, for in
fove, you

Idecd you

Sir P. Now see, my angel, take care ; contradicting isn't the
way to keep friends.

Ltidi/ T. Then, don't you begin it, my h)ve.
Sir P. There, now I you — you — are going on. You don't
pcrceivf, uiy life, that you are just doing the very thing which,
you kiitnv, always makes me angry.

Lddji T. Nay, you kuow, if you will be angry without any
reason, my dear —

Sir F. There, now, you want to quarrel again.
L(f(Ji/ T. No, I'm sure I don't; but if you will be so peevish —
Sir P. There, now ; who begins first ?

Lady T. Why, you, to be sure. I said nothing. But there's
no bearing your temper. ^,

Sir P. No, no, madam, the fault's in your own temper.
Lady T. You are just what my cousin Sophy said you would
be.

Sir P. Your cousin Sophy is a forward, impertinent gipsy.
Lady T. You are a great bear, I'm sure, to abuse my relations.
Sir P. Now may all the plagues cf marriage be doubled on me
if ever I make friends with you any more !

Lady T. So much the better. "'

Sir P. No, no, madam ; 'tis evident you never cared a fig for
me, and I was a madman to marry you — a pert rural coquette,
that had refused half the honest squires in the neighborhood.

Lady T. And I was a fool to marry you, an old dangling
bachelor, who was single at fifty only because no one would have
him.

Sir P. Ay, ay, madam, but you were pleased enough to listen
to me. You never had such an offer before.

Lady T. No I didn't I refuse Sir Tivy Terrier, who every
body said would have been a better match ? for his estate is just
as good as yours, and he has broke his neck since we were
married.

Sir P. I have done with you, madam ! You are an unfeeling,
ungrateful — but there's an end of every thing. I believe you
capable of every thing that is bad.

Lady T. Take care. Sir Peter, you had better not insinuate !
>S'iV P. Very well, madam, very well 1 A separate main-
tenance as soon as you please. Yes, madam, or a divorce ! I'll
make an example of myself for the benefit of all old bachelors.

Lady T. Agreed ! agreed I And now, my dear Sir Peter, we
are of a mind once more, we may be the happiest couple — and
never differ again, you know — ha I ha! ha! Well, you are
going to be in a passion, I see, and I shall only interrupt you, so
by-by. \^Exit.

t 1

(■

\l\

•I v- I

ri:;

! -I

•i .

' 'SI

h-l;

644

Dramatic Selections.

Sir P. Plagues and tortures I C;in't I inako her angry cither ?
Oh, I am the most miserable fellow ! But I'll not bear her
presuming to keep her temper ; no ! she may break my heart,
but she slia'n't keep her temper.

If.

FLUELLEN'S COMPATILSONS.

Scene, Agincourt. — A p<ivt of the Field of Battle.
FlUELLEN (ind GoWKR.

Flu. Kill the poys and the luggage ! 'tis expressly against the
law of arms : 'tis as arrant a piece of knavery, mark you now, as
can be otlered in the 'orld : In your conscience now, is it not?

(jow. 'Tis certain, there's not a boy left alive ; and the coward-
ly rascals, that ran from the battle, have done this slaughter ;
besides, they have burned and carried away all that was in the
king's tent ; wherefore the king, most worthily, hath caused every
soldier to cut his prisoner's throat. * 0, 'tis a gallant king !

Flu. Ay, he was porn at Monmouth, Captain Gower. What
call you the town's name, where Alexander the Pig was born ?

Gow. Alexander the Great.

Flu. Why, I pray you, is not pig, great? The pig, or the
great, or the mighty, or the huge, or the magnanimous, are all
oue reckonings, save the phrase is a little variatiuns.

Gou\ I think, Alexander the Great was born in Maccdon ; his
father was called — Philip of Macedou, as I take it.

Flu. I think it is in Macedon where Alexander is porn. I
tell you, Captain, if you look in the maps of the 'orld, I warrant
you shall find, in the comparisons between Macedon and 3Ion-
mouth, that the situations, look you, is both alike. There is a
river in Macedon ; and there is also moreover a river at Mon-
mouth ; it is called Wye, at Monmouth; but it is out of my
prains, what is the name of the other river ; but 'tis all one, 'tis
so like as my fingers is to my fingers, and there is salmons in
both. If you mark Alexander's life well, Harry of Monmouth's
life is come after it indiflerent well ; for there is figures in all
things. Alexander, (God knows, and you know,) in his rages,
and his furies, and his wraths, and his cholers, and his moods,
and his displeasures, and his indignations, and also being a little

* " Caused every soldier to cut his i)risoner'3 throat." The king killed
his prisuuers (says Johuson) because he exi)ected another battle, iiud he
had not sutticieat men to guard oue army and light another. Gowcr'ri rea-
son is, as we see, different. Bhakespearo followed llolinshed^ who gives both
reasons for Henry's conduct, but has chosen to make the kuig meutiou oue
of them and Gower the other.

men
wh(
whf(
the
the
K

jou
Fl

plood

presei
K.
Fh

who

•Mor
particul
mouth,

Dramatic Selectiom,

545

cr?
her

jart,

^t the
jw, as
,ot?
)ward-
:;liter ;
in the
I every

ng 1
'What

oru ?

or the
are all

Ion;

his

bvn. y
1 warrant
id Men-
iere is a
|at Mon-
of my
lone, 'tis
Imons in
imouth's
ts in all
is rages,
k nioods,
t a little

|ng

killed

ic, iiud lio

Iwor'ri i-ea-

rives buth

fuiiou oue

intoxicates in his prains, did, in his ales and his angers, look you,
Ivill his pest friend, Clytus.

Gow. Our king is not like him in that; he never killed any of
his friends.

Fin. It is not well done, mark you now, to take the tales out of
my mouth, ere it is made an end and finished. I speak but in
the figures and comparisons of it. As Alexander is kill his friend
Clytus, being in his ales and his cups; so also Harry Monmouth,
being in his right wits and his goot judgments, is turn away the
fat knight with the great pelly-doublet : he was full of jests, and
gipos, and kniivcries, and mocks ; I have forgot his name.

Govo. Sir John Falstaff.

^Vtt. That is he. I can tell you, there is goot men pom at
Monmouth.

Go\c. Here comes His Majesty.
Enter King V., Nobles, ami Montjoy, the French herald.

Mont. The day is yours.

K. lien. Praised be God, and not our strength, for it ! —

What is this castle called, that .stands hard by ?

Mont. They call it — Agincourt.

K. Hen. Then call we this — the field of Agincourt,
Fought on the day of Crispin Crispianus.

Flu. Your grandfather, of fimous memory, an't please your
Majesty, and your great-uncle Edward the Plack PriiiciHjf Wales,
as I have read in the chronicles, fought a most prave pattle here
in France.

K. Ilm. They did, Flnellen.

Flu. Your Majesty says very true. If your Majesty is re-
membered of it, the Welshmen did good service in a garden
where leeks did grow, wearing leeks in their Monmouth caps; *
which, your Majesty knows, to this hour is an honorable padge of
the service ; and, I do believe, your Majesty takes no .scorn to wear
the leek upon saint Tavy's day.

K. IJen. I wear it for a memorable honor ; for I am Welsh,
you know, good countryman.

Flu. All the water in Wye cannot wash your Majesty's Welsh
plood out of your pody, I can tell you that. Got pless it and
preserve it, as long as it pleases His grace, and His Majesty too !

K. Hen. Thanks, good my countryman.

Flu. By Chesu, I am your Majesty's countryman ; I care not
who know it : I will confess it to all the 'orld. I need not to be
ashamed of your Majesty, praised be Got, so long as your Majesty
is an honest man.

* Monmouth, according to Fuller, was celebrated for its cups, which were
particularly woro by soldiers. The best caps were formerly made at Mo.n-
mouXh, where the capper'* chapel still remains.

■W

.; !

li!

nUMOllOUS SELECTIONS.

DAMK FKi:i>EGONJ)E.

From the "Bon Oaulticr B;'.llada" a series of clever parodien of the pro-
duclioaa of living |)oet8, by VV. V,. AyttMin, and Tlieovloro Murtin, the trans-
lator of mauy Latin, Genuan, aud Diiuijili iioiuid ; buni lHlt>.

WuEN f<jlk.s, with luadstronu' passion biiud,
To play tlio Ibol iiiiike up their mind,
They're sure to come with phrases nice,
And modest air, liir your adviee,
• But, as u truth uiifaiHiiu' make it,
They ask, but never meiui to take it
'Tis not advice they want, in lact,
But contirmation in their act.
Now mark what did, in such a case,
A worthy priest, wiio knew the race.

A dame uuirc buxom, blithi; and I'ree,

Thau Fredej^ondc you scarce wouhl see.

So smart her dre^s, so trim lier shape,

Ne'er hoslesu oll'er'd juice of ^rape,

Could for her trade wish better sign j

Her looks ^ave flavor to her wine,

And each j^uest feels it as he sips, '

Smack of the ruby of her lips.

A smile for all, a welcome ulad, —

A jovial, coaxin;j, way she iiad ;

Aud, — what was more her fate than blame, —

A nine months widow was our dame.

But toil was hard, for trade was ^ood.

And <i;allants sometimes would be rude.

" And what can a lone woman do ?

The niiihts are long, and eerie too.

Now, G uill(jt there's a likely man,

None better draws or taps a can ; \

He's just the man, I think, to suit, -

If I could brinj^ my courage to 't."

With thoughts like these her mind is cross'd : '"

The dame, they say, who doubts is lost.

" But then the risk ? Ill beg a slice

Of Father ilaulin's uood advice."

^'^n^orous Selections.

il^ 8 . e..dy, know« \n, business vvo '
» hat do y„u tiiink ?" Whon f I '
^^^ take J.ii,, de,r vn . . , ' ^*'' '"«t her

" J^Ut th.,. thn l.n ' -^ " "'""^ ''" ^^^'f fc^T /"

''B^U:fe':r'^ '!''-'■'- then r'

" AVii V f I I • ^ ^ ^'"'<^ worse."
♦"'ij, take hmj, thcnl" '' fi,,. jf, , ,

And rout nie oiif r.fi -^ '"/'
''i>on'thave I /, Ti''''''''JJ'^''
To clear your doubf^ U . "" *^ P^^°

" jjh .1 peaJ arc rino n<r i,..,.i i

The bell.s run.' onf ., ♦,.,vi t. i

C\h 1, ""n "uc a trinJe bob • ,

"^'i-kickd than kiss'd

er.s with his fist
's well as words ' •'

And back 'd his ord
J^rovino- by di^.d, ,<

Tiiut servants n.-.L-^ f i' ^" "" """"''''

V'tiics make the worst of Jord,
She seeks the m-JoL,* i •
And sne.L /,\ ' f' ^^^'^ ^'<^ ^o wreak,
;*%iy women speak,

With

«peak

With tio-er-look T.wJ V P""'*

>urMn„ the iiour she took his teJlin

547

'fi

^1. I i

iii|

!lif.: ^

;!•:

548

IIumorouB Selections,

To nil, bis cilm reply was this, —
" 1 fear you've read the Ix'lls urniHS.
If they have led you wrong in aught,
Your wish, not they, inspired the thought.
Just go, and mark well what they say."
Off trudged the dame upon her way,
And sure enough their chime went so, —
" Don't have that knave, that knave Guillot V

" Too true," she eried, " there's not a doubt :
What could my ears have been about r"
She had forgot, that, as fools think,
The bell is ever sure to cliuk.

THE BACHELOR'S DREA3I.

THOMAS HOOD.

My pipe is lit, my grog is mix'd,

My curtains drawn, and all is snug ;
Old puss is in her elbow-chair,

And Tray is sitting on the rug.
Last night i had a curious dream .

Miss Susan Bates was Mistress Mog—
What d'ye tliink of that, my cat ?

What d'ye think of that, my dog ?

She look'd so fair, she sang so well,

I could but woo, and she was won,
Myself in blue, the bride in white,

The ring was placed, the deed was done.
Away we went in chaise and four,

As fast as grinning boys could flog —
What d'ye tliink of that, my cat ?

What d'ye think of that, my dog ?

What loving tete-d-tctcs to come I
But tetc-d-tctes must still defer I

When Susan came to live with me,
Her mother came to live with her I

With sister Belle she couldn't part,
But all 7111/ ties had leave to jog — i

What d'ye think of that, my cat ?
What d'ye think of that, my dog ?

O f

ffumorotti Selection).

The monkev hit tu^
All day the ,7''"', P"""* f eam-d-

No longer deary, duck, and |„„
J- soon came fJnnm ♦J • , '

The very senltHr .rP'" " ^^ ^"
ir cT '^^'^^'"itH cross d njv wiMi

Wl.atd>thi„fcofti;«,^4"^-,,,

Poor Tn«,i • "^" ^ vu Mr sot »

n^h»tdyotl,mfcofthat,„yd„g?
At times we had a spar, and then

The parrot learn 'd. n '"''''^^^ wrong-

^hai d ye thinl nA^"^"'^ %-
Wk .J, ""^ of that, mv caf ?
What d'ye thbt of .h;,_^;«J

549

M-

550 Humorous Selections,

My Susan's taste was superfine,

As proved by bills that had no end —
/never had a deeont coat —

/never had a coin to spend !
She forced me to resign my club,

Lay down my pipe, retrench my grog-
What d'ye tliink of that, my cat?

"What d'ye think of that, my dog?

Now, was not that an awful dream,

For one who single is, and snug —
With pussy in the elbow-chair.

And Tray reposing on the rug ?
If I must totter down the hill,

'Tis safest done without a clog —
What d'ye think of that, my cat?

What d'ye think of that, my dog ?

DOMESTIC ASIDES; OR, TIIUTH IN PARENTHESES.

THOMAS HOOD.

" I REALLY take it very kind,
This visit, Mrs. Skinner !
t I have not seen you such an age —
(The wretch has come to dinner !)

"Your daughters, too, what loves of girls —
What heads for painters' easels !
Com ' here and kiss the infant, dears, —
(And give itp'r'aps the measles !)

" Your charming boys I see are home
From Ileverend Mr. Russell's;
'Twas ■ ery kind to bring them both, —
(What boots for my new Brussels !)

" What ! little Clara left at home ?
Well now I call tliat shabby :
I sh(»uld have Invcd to kiss her so,—
(A fiabby, dabby, ba:)by f)

" And Mr. S., I hope he's well.
Ah ! thoui'.h he lives so handy,
He neviT now drops in to sup, —
(The better for our brandy !)

, 1

Mamorous Selections.

*' Come, take a seat — T long to hear
About Matilda's marriage ;
You're come of course to spend the day ! —
(Thank Ileaveu, I hear the carriage 1)

^' What ! must ymi go? next time I hope
You'll give me longer measure ;
Nay — I shall see you down the stairs —
(With most uncommon pleasure !)

*' Good-bye ! good-bye ! remember all,
Next time you^jl take your dinners!
(Now, David, mind I'm not at home
In future to the Skinners !")

551

A NOCTURNAL SKETCH.

A New Style c>f Blank Verse.

THOMAS HOno.

Even is come; and from tlie d;irk I'.irk, hark,
The signal of the setting sun — o\\o gun !
And six is sounding from the cliin.u\ prime time
To go and see the Drury-Lane Dane shiin, —
Or hear Othello's jealous doubt spout rtut, —
Or Macbeth raving at th;it shade-made blade,
Denying to his frantic clutch much t"iii'li , —
Or else to see Dticrow with wide stride ride
Four horses as no other man cm span ;
Or in the small Olympic Pit, sit split
Laugliing at Listen, while j-itn <juiz his phiz.

Anon Night coracs, and with her wirigs brings things
^uch as, with his poetic tongue, Young sung;
Tlie gas up blazes with its briubt white light.
And paralytic watchmen pMwl, huwl, urowl,
About the streets and taki- up Pall- Mall Sal,
Who, hasting to her nigliily jobs, robs fobs.
Now thieves to enter for your cash, smash, crash,
Past drowsy Charley, in a deep sleep, creep,
Eut frightened by Policeman B, 3, Hee,
And while they're going, whisper low, " No gol"

' I'

'l\

552

Sumorous Selections,

Now puss, while folks are in their bods, treads leads.
And sleepers waking, grumble — " Drat that cat l"
Who in the gutter caterwauls, squalls, mauls
Some feline foe, and screams in shrill ill-wilh

Now Bulk of Bashan, of a prize size, rise

In childish dreams, and with a loar gore poor

Georgy, or Charley, or Billy, willy-nilly ;. —

But Nursemaid in a nightmare rest, chest-prossed,

Dreameth of oneof her old flames, James Games,

And that she hears — what faith is man's — Ann's banns

And his, from lleverend Mr. llice, twice, thrice :

White ribbons flourish, and a stout shout out^

That upward goes, shows Rose knows those bows' woes I

rsi NOT A SINGLE MAN.

"^'K

14 V
I* )

W: ■

"Double, sinpTe, and the rub." — HoTtn,.
" This, this is tSolitude."- -Bvbon.

THOMAS HOOD.

Well, I confess, I Jid not guess

A simple marriiige vow
Would m^ike pjc find all women-kimd

Such unkind women now '
They need not, sure, as distant be

As Java or ,.c»pan, —
Yet every Miss nminds mo this —

I'm nut a single man I

Once they made choice of my bass voiose

To sliare in each duct ;
So well I danced, I somehow chanced

To stand in every set :
They now declare I cannot sing,

x\nd dance on Bruin's plan ;
Me draw 1 — me paint ! — me any thing f—

I'm noil a single man I

Once I was asked advice, and tasked

What works to buy or not.
And '' would 1 read that passage out

t so admired iu Scott ?"

Humorous SeUctions.

653

They then coukl bear to hear one rend;

But if I now beir.'in,
How tliey would snub, " My pretty page,"

I'm not a single man I

One used to stitch a collar then,

Another hemmed a frill ;
I had more purses netted then

Than I could hope to fill.
I once could £!;et a button on,

But now I never can —
My buttons then were Bachelor's —

I'm not a single man !

Oh how they hated politics

Thrust on me by papa ;
But now my chat — they all leave that

To entertain mamma.
Mamma, who praises her own self,

Instead of Jane or Ann,
And lays " her girls" upon the shelf —

I'm not a single man I

;1"

Ah me, how strange it is the change^

In parlour and in hall.
They treat me so, if I but go

To make a morning call.
If they had hair in papers once,

Bolt up the stairs they ran ;
They now sit still in dishabille —

I'm not a sinule man !

MisR Mary Bond was once so fond

Of Romans and of Greeks ;
She daily sought my cabinet

To study my antifjues.
Well, now she doesn't care a dump

For anci( nt pot or pan.
Her tast« at once is modernized —

I'm not a sinule man !

My spouse is fond of homely life,
And u\\ that sort of thinsr;

I go to balls without my wife,
And never wear a ring :

554 Hiimorou9 Selections.

And yet each miss to vvlinm I come,
As stnin^e as (jreriiiliis Khan,

Knows by somesi_i«;n, I can't divine —
I'm not a single man I

Go where I will, I but intrude, •'

I'm left in crowded rooms,
Like Zimmermann on Solitude,

Or Horvey at his Tombs.
From head to heel, they make me feel,

Of quite anotlier clan;
Compelled to own, though left alone —

I'm not a single man 1 '

Miss Towne the toast, though she can boast

A nose of Roman line,
Will turn up even that, in scorn
' Of compliments of mine :

She should have seen that I have been

Her sex's partisan.
And really married all I could —

I'm not a sinu'lc man !

'Tis hard to see how others fare,

Whilst I rejected stand, —
Will no one take my arm boctuise

She cannot ha>e my hand ?
Miss Parry, that for some would go

A trip to Hiudostan,
With me don't care to mount a stair —

I'm not a single man I

Some change, of course, should be in force,

But, surely, not so much —
There may b(i hands I may not squeeze,

But must I never touch '? —
Must I forbear to hand a chair ,

And not pick up a fan ?
But I have been myself picked up —

I'm not a single man !

Others may hint a lu-ly's tint

Is purest red and white —
May say her eyes are like the skies,

So very blue and bright —

Humorous Selections.

/must not say that she has eyes, '

Or if I so bogan,
I have my fears about my ears —

I'm not a single man 1

I must confess I did not crucss

A simple marriage vow
Would make me find all women-kind

Such unkind women now ;
I might be hashed to death, or smashed

By Mr. Pickford's van,
Without, I fear, a single tear —

I'm not a single man I

555

THE QUAKER AND THE ROBBER.

SAMUEL LOVER.

A TRAVELLER wcndcd the wilds among,

With a purse of gold and a silver tongue ;

His hat it was broad, and all drab were his clothes,

For he hated higl' colors — except on his nose :

And he met with a lady, the story goes.

The damsel she cast him a merry blink.
And the traveller was nothing loth, I think I
Her merry black eye beamed her bonnet beneath,
And the Quaker he grinn'd, for he'd very good teeth ;
And he asked, " Art thou going to ride on the heath?"

" I hope you'll protect me, kind sir," said the maid,
*• As to ride this heath over I am sadly afraid ;
For robbers, they say, here in numbers abound,
And I wouldn't for anything I should be fumd ;
For between you and me I have five hundred pound."

" If that is thine own, dear," the Quaker said,
" I ne'er saw a maiden I sooner would wed ;
And I have anotluT five hundred just now,
In the padding that's under i:iy sa<ldle-bow ;
And I'll settle it all upon thee, I vow I"

The maiden slie smiled, and the rein she drew,
" Your off<n- I'll take, tliouuh I'll not take vou !"
A pistol she held to the Quaker's head —
" Now give me your gold, or I'll give you my lead :
'Tis under the saddle, I think you said."

Mm'

I,»!S^,

656 Humorous Selections.

And the damsel ripp'd up the "^addle-bow,
And the Quaker was ne'er a ([uaker till now ;
And he saw by the fair one he wish'd for a bride,
His purse drawn away with a swa<i;gering stride,
And the eye that looked tender now only defied.

" The spirit doth move me, friend Broadbrim," quoth she,
" To take all this filthy temptation from thee ;
For mammon deceives, and beauty is fleetinji^.
Accept from thy maiden a right loving greeting,
For much doth she profit by this happy meeting.

" And hark, jolly Quaker, so rosy and sly.
Have righteousness more than a lass in your eye ;
Don't go again peeping girls' bonnets beneath.
Remember the one you met on the heath ;
Her name's Jimmy Barlow — I tell to your teeth."

" Friend James," quoth the Quaker, " pray listen to me,
For thou canst confer a great favor, d'ye see !
The gold thou hast taken is not mine, my friend,
But my master's — and truly on thee I depend
To make it appear I my trust did defend.

''So fire a few shots through my coat hero and there,
To make it appear 'twas a desperate affair."
So Jim he popp'd first through the skirts of his coat.
And then through )as collar, quite close to his throat;
"Now once through my broadbrim," quoth Ephraim, "I
vote."

" I have but a brace," said bold Jim, '' and they're spent,
And I won't load again for a make-believe rent."
" Then," said Ephraim, proilucing his pistols, "just give
My five hundred poumls back, or, as sure as you live,
I'll make of your body a riddl;.' or sieve."

Jim Barlow was diddled — and though he was game,

H< saw Ephraim's pistol so deadly in aim.

That he gave up tiie gold, and he took to his scrapers ;

And when the whole story got into the papers.

They said that the thieves were no match for the Quakers.

I' <

HumorodB Selections.

657

NOTHING TO WEAR.

W. A. BCTLEK.

((

5nt,
ive

Miss Flora M'Flimsey, of Madison-sqnare,

Has mailc three separate journeys to Paris ;
And her father assures me, each time slie was there,

Tliat slie and her friend, IMrs. Harris,
(Not the lady whose name is so famous in history,
But plain Mrs. H., without romance or mystery).
Spent six consecutive weeks without stopj)ing
In one continuous round of shoppin<r ;
Shoppint: alone, and shopping together,
At all hours of the day, and in all sorts of weather,
For all manner of thin«i;s that a woman can put
On the crown of her head or the sole of her foot,
Or wrap round her shoulders or fit round her waist,
Or that can be sewed on, or pinned on, or laced,
Or tied on with a string, or stitched on with a bow,
In front or behind — above or below :
For bonnets, mantillas, capes, collars, and shawls ;
Dresses for breakfasts, and dinners, and balls ;
Dresses to sit in, and stand in, and walk in ;
Dresses to dance in, and flirt in, and talk in ;
Dresses in which to do nothing at all ;
Dresses for winter, spring, summer, and fall ;
All of them dttferent in color and pattern —
Silk, muslin, and lace, crape, velvet, and satin ;
Brocade, and broadcloth, and other material.
Quite as expensive, and much more ethereal :
In short, for all things that could ever be thought of.
Or milliner, modiste, or tra(^^sman be bought of,
I should mention just here, that out of Miss Flora's
Two hundred and fifty or sixty adorers,
I had just been selected as he who should throw all
The rest in the shade, by the gracious bestowal
On myself, after twenty or thirty rejections.
Of those fossil remains which she called her " affections."
So we were engaged. Our troth had been plighted,

Not by moonbeam, nor starbeam, by fountain or grove,
But in a front parlor, most brilliantly lighted,

Beneath the gas fixtures we whispered our love.
Without any romance, or raptures, or sighs.
Without any tears in Miss Flora's blue eyes ;
Or blushes, or transports, or such silly actions,

558

Humorous Selections.

It was one of the quic^test business transnctions ;
With a very small sj)rinklin<; of sentiment, ■/any,
And a very large diamond, imported by Titt'any.

Well, havinii' thus wooed Miss M'Flimsey and <i;ained her,

With the silks, erinolines, and lioops that contained her,

I had, as 1 thought, a eontingent remainder

At least in the j)rt»{)erty, and the best ri<j;ht

To ujipear as its escort by day and by niulit ;

And it beini;' the week of the Stuck ups' urand ball — ,^

Their cards had been out a fortniiz;lit or so,

And set all the Avenue on the tiptoe —
I considered it oidy my duty to call

And see if Miss Flora intended to ^o.
I found her — as ladies are apt to be found,
When the time interveninj"- between the first sound
Of the bell and the visitor's entry is shorter
Than usual— I found (I wont say, I caught) her
Intent on tlie pier-glass, undoubtedly meaning
To see if, perhaps, it didn't need cleaning.
She turned, as I entered — "• Why, Harry, you sinner,
I thought that you A^ent to the Flashers to dinner !"
" So I did," I replied ; " but the dinner is swallowed,

And digested, I trust, for 'tis now nine and more;
So being relieved from that duty, I followed

Inclination, which led me, you see, to your door.
And now, will your ladyship so condescend
As just to ini'orm me if you intend
Your beauty, and graces, and presence to lend
(All which, when I own, I hope no one will borrow)
To the Stuckups', whose party, you know, is to-morrow ?"
The fair Flora looked up with a pitiful air,
And answered quite promptly, " Wliy, Harry, man cJier^
I should like above all things to go with you there ;
But really and truly — I've nothing to wear I"
** Nothing to wear ! Go just as you are:
Wear the dress you have on, and you'll be by far,
I engage, the most bright and p:irticular star

On the Stuckup horizon." She turned up her nose

(That pure Grecian feature), as much as to say,
" How absurd that any sane man should suppose
That a lady W( uld go to a ball in the clothes.

No matter how tine, thnt siie wears every day !"
So I ventured again — " Wear your crimson brocade."
(Second turn up of nose) — " That's too dark by a shade."

•fe '

Humorous tSelections,

559

« Your blue «llk"— " That's too heavy ;" •• Your pink"—

" That's too li-lit."
" AVear tulle over satin" — '* I can't endure white."
" Your rose-eolort.'d, then, the best ot" thu bateh " —
" I liavcn't a thread ot" point-hiee to niateli.''
"Your brown inoiri'-anti<{ue" — •• Vi-s, and hntk liki; a (j^-'ker :"
" The pi'url-eolonjd" — '• 1 would, but that plaiiuy dressnjukcr
Has liad it a week." " Then that ex(iuisite lihie,
In whieli yt»u wonld melt the heart of a Shylock."
(Here the nose took aL'ain tlie same elevation) —
"I wouldn't wear that lor the whoh; ol" ereation."

" Wliy not ? It';- my t'aney, there's uothinu' eould strike it
As more cniunu It /nut — '" •' Ves, but dear me, that lean

Sojihronia Stuckup has ,u'(>t one just like it,
And I wont a}i]tear dri's^ed like a ehit of sixteen :"
" Then that splendid purple, that sweet mazarine;
That superb point d'ai'^uille, that imperial <;rei;n,

That zephyr-like tarletane, that rieh grenadine" —

*' Not one ot'all which is iit to be st'en,"

Said the lady, beeonrnm' t-xcited and fluslied.

*' Then wear," I cxclaiuied in a tone which quite crushed
Opposition, '' that tzoriicous toilette which you sported

In Paris la>t Spriiii:, at the i^rand presentation.

When you (luite turned the head of the head of the nation,
And by all the iirand court were so very much courted."
The end of the nose was portentously turned up,

And both the bright eyes shot I'orth iudiunation,

As she burst upon me with the fierce exclamation,

" I liave worn it three times at the least calculation,
And that, and tlie mo,-tof my dresses, are rij)ped up !"

Here I ripped out something. perhai)S rather rash,
Quite innocent, though ; but, to use an expressiou

More striking than classic, it " settled my hash,"
And proved very soon the last act of our .session.

" Fiddlesticks, is it, sir ? I wonder the ceiling

Doesn't fall down and crush you. Oh ! you men have no feeling!

You selfish, unnatural, illiberal creatures!

Who set yourselves up as patterns and pre.ichers.

Your silly pretence — why, what a mere guess it is !

Pray what do you know ot a woman's necessities ?

I have told you and shown you I've nothing to wear,

And it's pert'ectly plain you not only don't care.

But you do not believe m*.'" (here the no.se went' still higher),

" I suppose if you dared, you would cull me a liar.

Our engagement is ended, sir — yes, on the spot ;

!' )

660

Jluinorous Selections.

I'y-i •

j* :■•

^#rK

You'ro a brute and a luoiistcr. and -I don't know what."

1 mildly ,su,ir-e.sti:d tli*; words — llott'-utot,

PickiMickt.'t, .ind <.';innil»,il, T.irt.ir and tliief,

Ah ^vntle cxjtU'tivc'S wliicli nii-ht ^ivc n lief;

But tliih niijy ju'oved as spark to tiu; powder,

And tlio storm 1 had raisi-d camt; f'isttr and louder;

It blew, and it rained, tliiinderfd, lightened, ,.nd liailed

Interjeetions, verbs, pronouns, till lan^ua^e (^nito fiiilud

To express the abusive; and then its arrears

Were brou^lit up all at one by a tnrrciit (»(' tears;

And my last I'aint. despairin;; attempt at an obs»

Ervation was lost in a tempest of sobs.

Well, I. felt tor the lady, and i'.-lt lor my hat too. '

Improvised on the erown of the latter a tattoo,

lu lieu of expressing- the feelini^s whicdi lay

Quite too deep for words, as Wordsworth would say;

Then, without goini^ thrf>n;_di the forni of a bow,

Fouud myself in the entry — I hardly knew how —

On door-stej) and sidewalk, j)ast l;.nip-}>ost and square,

At home and upstairs in my own easy chair ;

Poked my feet into slippers, my fire into blaze,
And said to myself, as 1 lit my eiu'ir,
fc)U])posing a man liad the we.ilth of tlio Czar

Of the Uussias to boot, for the rest of his days,
On the whole, do you think he would have muc!i to spare,
If he married a worn in with nothin;^ to v/ear ?
Since that ui^ht, takinir i)ains that it should not bo bruited
Abroad in society, I've instituted
A course of in(juiry, extensive and thoroui^h.
On this vital subject ; and find to my horror,
That the i'air Flora's case is by no means surprising,

But that there exists the trr'atcst distress
In our female community, solely arisint^

From this unsupjdied destitution of ilress,
Whose unfortunate victims are filling the air
With the pitiful wail of •' Nothing to wear I"

Oh ! ladies, dear ladies, the next time you meet,
Please trundle your hoops just ojtsid.; Regent-street,
From its whirl and its busth?. its fashion and pride,
Aud the temples of trade which tower on each side,
To the alleys and lanes where misfortune and guilt
Their childreu have gathered, their city have builtj
Wh'^rc hunger and vice, like twin beasts of prey,
Ilave hunted their victims to gloom and despair j

Humorous Selections,

Raise the rich, dainty dross, and the fine broidorod skirt,
Pick your dolicate way throui^ii the (lainpncss and dirt,

Grope tlirouu;h the dark dens, climb the rickety stiir
To the ;i;arret, wiiere wretches, the younii; and the old,
Half stirved and half naked, lie crouched from the cold,
See those skeleton limbs, those frost-bitten feet.
All bh^edin;^ and bruised by the stones of the street ;
Hear the sliarp cry of childhood, the dcsep groans that swell

From the poor dyinti; creature who writhes on the floor j
Hear the curses that sound like the echoes of hell,

As you sicken and shudder and fly froTu the door!
Then home to your wardrobes, and say, if you dare —
Spoiled children of Fushion — you've nothing to wear I -

And oh ! if perchance there sliould be a spliere,

Where all is made riijht which so puzzles us hero,

Where the ulare and the glittor, and the tinsel of timo

Fade and die in tlie liuht of that rejiion sublime,

Where the soul, disenchanted of flesh and of sense, '

linscreened by its trappin<2;s, and shows, and pretenco.

Must be clothed for the life and the service above ' ' '

With purity, truth, faith, meekness, and love;

Oh! dau<^htcrs of eartii ! foolish viririns, beware I

Lest in that upper realm you have nothing to Avear !

661

•*MM»«m«a

J I

THE SEVEN AGES OF WOMAN.

The world's a stage and man hath seven ages,
So Shakespeare — " King of dramatic sages."
But he forgot to tell you in his plan,
That WOMAN plays her part, as well as man.

First, then, her infant heart in triumph swells.
As the red coral shakes its silver bells,
She, like young statesmen, as the rattle rings.
Leaps to the sound and struts in leading strings.

Next little "Miss" in pinafoae so trim,
With nurse so noisy, with mamma so prim.
Eager to tell you all she's taught to utter,
Lisps, as she grasps the allotted bread and butter ;

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662 Mumaroui Seleetiont,

TjM of her sex, who though no longer young,
Holds every thing with eaw; except her tongue,
The school girl next, nhe curlH her hatir in itaperm,
And mimiui liither h gout uud uiother's vupuro j
Tramples alike on ouMtouis uud on toes,
And whispertt all iihe hearH to all mIic knows.
" Betty," Hhe cries, " it comes into my head,
Old maids are oross, beoauHe their eats are dead j
Our governess has been in suoh a I'uss
About the death oi' our old tubby-puss I
8he wears black stockings iiu ! hu I there's a bother^
'Tis oue old cut in mourning tor another, — "
The child of nature free from pride and pomp,
And sure to please, though nothing but a romp.

Next riper Miss, who nature more disclosing,
ISoon tiuds some traits of art arc interposing ;
And with blue laughing eyes behind her Ian,
First plays her part with that bold uctor Muu I
Behold her now an ogling vain co<|uette,
Catching male gudgeons iu her silken net.

Then comes that sober character — a wife,
With uU the dear distracting cares of liie ;
A thousand curds a duy at doors to leave,
And in return a thousand curds receive ;
To leud the Ton, to cutch the gaze aspire.
With mighty blaze set Portluud place on fire,
Until, health shattered and forbid to ruani,
In very spleen, she plays the shrew at home ;
Till spouse, he finds while anxious to immuro her,
A leaden coffin only can secure her.

Last comes the Downgcr, — in stately flounces,

With snuflf and s})ectacles, this age denounces.

And thus she moralizes :

'* How bold and i'orwurd each young flirt uppeann—

Courtship in my time lusted seven long years I

Now seven little months suffice, of course.

For courtship, wedlock, scolding and divorce t

What with their truss'd up shapes and pantaloons,

Dress occupies the whole of honeymoons ;

They suy we huve no souls, but what more odd is

Girb of the Period have not any bodies I

ffHw&rout Seteetiorii,

When I wnn youns^ my heart wnii nlwayfi tfonder,
AntI would to every Hpntine I had Nurrendor ;
Their winhe» to refiiHo I never dumt —
And Diy fourth huiibund died an happy m my lint.'*

Truce to mich nplenctio and msh dcnigns,
And let un min);lc cnndnr in our linen ;
Throu^rh nil the ntngeM of domestic life,
Ab child, n« ninU^r, prent, IViend or wife,
Woninn, the Kourco of every fond employ,
Soflt»nH nfflietion nnd enli Venn joy.
What uru your bouxtN, miilo rulcnt of the land,
How cold nnd ch(><*rlew< all you can comm:u)d I
Vnin your anihition, vain your wenltli and power,
Unlcwt kind woman Hhare the enraptured hourj
IJnlefw 'midst ull the );larc of pa^reant art
She adds her smilo and triumphs in the heart.

THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE.

noBcnr ioctiict.

A WKLL there U in the wcHt country,
And a clearer one never wan ucon ;

There in not a wife in the weitt country
But has heard of the well of St. Keyne.

Ad onk and an elm-trce stand beside,
And behind doth an ash-troe grow,

And a willow from the bank above
Droops to the water below.

A traveller came to the well of St. Kcpo,

Joyfully he drew ni<rh,
For from the cock-crow he had boon trayelltng,

And there was not a cloud in the sky.

lie drank of the water so cool and clear,

For thir(<ty and hot was he,
And he sat down upon the bank

Under the willow-tree.

There c«me a man from the hooM hard by

At the well to fill his pall;
On the well-side he rested it,

Aad he bade the ttrangor hail.

564

ffamorout Stleetiont.

♦• Now. art tliod n bnrlirlor. f«trnnjfcr ?" (|Uotl» lie,

*' For (III if thou hiist a wil'f,
Tlio luippi Mt (Iniu^lii tlioii hiift drank tlih day,

That uv«r ihuu didr<t in thy lifo.

"Or hath thy good woman, if ono thou htt8t,

Kvcr hrrt! in ('ornwull bijcn ?
For an 'li'xh*- have, I 11 venture my life,

Slio haH drank of the well of St. Keyne."

" I have I ft n pnml wonnn who never was hero,"

The stran^'er lie made reply.
" But that my drauudit Mhould he the better for that,

1 pniy you annwer nie why /''

" St. Keyne." rpioth the ('orni.>«h-b]:in, " many n time

jtrank ot'thiH ervxtil well,
AikI helore the an^elr« Mummon'd hvr,

She laid on the water a Hpetl.

" If the husband of this;.:ift<'d well

Shall drink Infore bin wife,
A happy man tlu'neeforth is be,

For be kIwiII be master for life.

" But if the wife should drink of it first,

God help the husband then !"
The Htranjrer «too|M'd t<» the well of St. Keyno,

And drank of the water again.

" You drank of the well I warrant betimes

said ;

strange

t»

He to the Coniish-nian sai
But the Cornish-man smiled

r B

And sheepishly shook bi.t head.

" I baf ten'd as soon as the we«lding was done,

And Kit my wife in the poreb.
But i' faith she bad Uhmi wisi-r than mo,

Fur Hbe took a bottle to church."

puke

WANTED— A GOVERNESS.

OIOROK DIBOVRQ.

A GOVKRXE88 Wanted — Well fitted Ut fill
The post of tuition with comnetont skill—
In a gentleman's family highly uontt^cl.
Superior attainments are quitu indispensable,
With everything, too, that's correct and ostensible ;

jffum(Mrout Stleetiont, 665

Moralu or pure ^ncxi^optinnabilitv ;

MnnnvrM wull t'ormod, aiul uf htriutc^t gentility.

Tho pupils lire fivi-— ancH, xiz t<» wxtet'ii—

All iiH pn>iiii.<«ii)^ irirU ii» ever wm- N»on —

And bfttidoN f tl)ou;:h 'tix Hcarccly worth wliilo to put that in)

Thore in one iittio \My — but he only leuniM Latin.

Tho lady inUNt tiMieh all the m'vcral branches

WhiTcinto p(»lit4> cducatinii now Inttnchi-H ;

8Iu''m cx|m ctcd to t-ach tho Kronoh tooiruo like a native,

And be to lur pupiU of all its |H)int<( dative ;

Italian hIu* inu»t know ti/ontl, nor noetls banish

Whatovi-r actjuaintanoo she mnt/ have with SpjiniMh ;

Nor would there U* hurm in a trifle of (iernian,

In the abs4>tiee, that i<4, ot'tlu' niaHtcr, \'on Hermann.

The harp and piano — rrln vn mnin tlirr,

With thoroui;!) biHs, to<i, on the plan of Ln^ier.

In drawing in pcneil and ohalkH, and the tinting

That's ualled Oriental, she n)U^t not Ih> htint in ;

Hhc must paint upon paper, and satin, and velvet;

An<l if she knows ^ildiii;;, sIh''1I not need to shelve it.

l)aneinp. of course, with the newest gmibades,

The Polish mnxurka, and best palopades :

Arithmetic, history, joined with ehronolojry,

Heraldry, Ixitiny, writiiiir, eoneholo^y,

Grammar, and wttinst itch, netting', p>o^rnphy,

Astronomy, use of tho globes, and e(»smoj:Mphy,

'Twere also as well she shoidil be cidisthenical.

That her char^.^es* youn^ linibii may In; pliant to any call.

Their health, play, and sttidied, and moral condition,

Must be su|»erint4Uided without inti'miission :

At home, she must all habits check that disparage*,

And when they fjo out nnist attend to their earriaj^o.

Her faith must IxMirthodox — temjM'r nio.'.t jiliable, —

Health m»od — and reference (juito undeniable.

These are the principal ni;»tt4'rs. Au rmte.

Address, Bury-street, Mrs. General Pesto.

Ah the salary's nwiltraft , none ne»d apply

Who more on that point than com/ort rely.

MR. SIMPKINSOX'S MI?«ADVENTURES AT MAR-

GATK.

Tire RXT. niciunD Harris barium.

'TWAS in Margate last July, I walk'd upon tho pier,

I Haw a little vulgar boy — I Mid, " What make you here?

▼

666

Jlumorwi Stl€^ion9»

Tin* >fl«»oiii uf»on yoiir youthful c\m\ nponkp nnytlilnjf hut jof ;"
A;;ikiii I HttitI, " Wimt iimko y«»u lu-n*, y«»u littl*' vultrtir Imy ?"
llu t'rowiK'il, tliiit liltlu vulvar iniy, — liu dvuiuvd I meant to

Njoff —
And whon the lUth> hrnrt in bi^. n litllo " m>tM it ofT;"
lit) nut hin fliit'ttr in Itin nmnth, hi!« jittir )Ki)tnui n)m>— -
Ho iiud no little hainikurohiui' U> wi|N.' his little noMi* I

*' Ilurk I don't you hear, luy liltir luau? — it'H Htrikin<( nine/' I

Huid,
" An hour whiMi till p>od littlo l>«)yH and •jrlri'* nhetuld hr* in brd.
Uun honit> and ^ivl your MU|t|M'r, cUvyotiir nia will M('uld— idi I flu I
U'h vory \vn>n;i indiiud for tittit} hoy?* to Htaiid and "ry I"
Th«) tear-drop in liiH linli; ryu iiji^Hiii Ixv'ini to H)»riuu',
Win boHoni throhh'd with a^ony, — liu cri«'d like anythin;^ !
1 Ht4N>p'il, and thuHanlid^t hi.Hwthf* I hfiird him niurinur — *' Ah I
I haven't ^ot no ftupfxir I and I havuu't gut uu uju' I

•• My father, ho if on the wan — my mother'^ dead and ponol
And I am here, on thin hero pier, to roam the world alone;
I have not had. thiH livo-ion^ day, one drop t4> cheer my hcart|
Nor ' hroicn ' to buy a bit of broad with — let alone a tart.

" If there's a houI will jrivo me food, or find me in employ,
By day or nij;ht, then blow mc tight I" (he wan a vulgar l>oy ;)
•' And now I'm hero, from thin here pier it in my fixed intent
To jump, aH MiMtor Levi did from on the Monu-ment I"

" (Mu*or up I cheer up I my little man— eheer up !" I kindly wiid,
" You are a naughty boy txi tJiko hueh thingi* into your head :
If you should jump from off the pier, you'd Murely break your lcR«,
PurhapH your neck — thun Bogi;y'd have you, nuru ait (>ggfiare cggH I

" Come home with mc, my littlo man, come home with me and sup;
My landlady in Mrs, JonoN — we mu^t not keep her up—
'i'liore'rt roiiht pot4it<K>H at the fire,— enouji^h for me and you—
Come homo you little vulgar b<»y — I lodge at Number 2."

I took him home to Number 2, the house beside " The Foy/'
I bade him wine his dirty shoi'S, — that littlo vulgar boy, —
And then I said to MiHtioiM Jones, the kindest of her ses,

Pray bo so good as go und fetch a pint of double X !'

But Mrs. Jones was rather cross, she made a little noise,
8he said alio '* did not like to wait on littlo vulgar boys,"
She with her apron wiped the pia(i«N, and, as she rubb d the delf,
8aid 1 uiigbt " go to Joricbo, aud fotoli luy beer mys«lf t"

JIutMroui StUeii<m9,

567

.»»

I tliil not ^o to .Tcr'<'!M»— I wnit to Mr. ('«»l»l>—

I vliaiipd u nliilliii^' — ( wliit'ii in town tiic |HHih|«>cull "a Ixib ")•—

It wuH not Ml niudi lor mivmII' nfi fur tlmt \ul^Mr cliiM —

And I fluid, " A pint nrdoiiMo X, and plntw* to driiw it mild I"

AVIirn 1 ( nuio h.'U'k I ^nxrd tilNiut — I ^nxod on hIooI and rliair—
I could not hw uiv littlr t'rirnd — lH>C!inMr lir wiim not tlioru I

1 prrlt'd )K>n<Mitll tll«' t d»|i'-<'liitl» — iM-nctllll thf Mol'ii l<N>—

I Miid, " Vou lildi: vulgar l>o}' I wli)' wliat'f* buconiu or^ou?'

I oould not wo my ittbl'-^iioonH — I IrMik'd. Imt could not im»o
TIm' liltif fiddle |iitt4>rn'd on<'f« I uwt wlnti I'm at Wa ;
1 I'ould not MM' my f«u;rar ton^H--niy »ilvtr wat<'li — oli, dear I
I know 'twa» un the mantl*'-|>iccc when I went out fur bcir.

I could not w»o my Macintouli — It w»k not to Ik mM-n ! —

Nur yet my iHMt white bcavur hat, broad brimui'd und lined with

^jnHii —
My ofir|K't bau— my cnn't ntand. that lioldi* my wiuco and coy,—
My roa.st |H>taloi'H ! — all arc ^'onc ! — and ho'n that vulvar boy I

I ranj; tlu' bell for Mrn. Joneit, for «he wan down bi-low,
"Oh, Mr?*. .J(>nef»! what </" you think ? — uinlthiMa pretty jfo ?—
That horrid little vulirar buy whum 1 bn'ujrht here to-niuht,
Uu'h htolen my thin^H und run uwuy I !" — Suyn mIic, "And Hurvo
you right 1 1"

jlf,

Noxt morning I wa** up betlnjex — T Kent the Crier round,
All with hi.H Im'II and gohl-laeed hat, to May I'd give n |H>und
To find that little vulgar boy who'd gone and UM-d me ho;
Hut when the Crier cried, "*0 Yen !" the p»ople cried, " O No l"

I went to "Jarvis' Landing placo." the glory of the town,
There wiuf a common huilor man awalking up and down,
I told my Uile — he se( ni'd to think Id not Uen treat4(| well,
And call'd me " I'oor old liufler !" — what that mean." I cannot tell.

That Haih)r-man. he said he'd seen thnt morning on the xhorc,
A Kon of — Honiethin.: — 'twas a name I'd never heard bi'fore,
A little ' gallows-l(Mikiim chap ' — dear me. what Ofiuld he mean ?
With u " carpet-swub " uiid '' muckiutogM," uud u hut turned
up with greeo.

He rspokc nbt)ut his ** precioux cyen" and wiid he*d seen him

"MJieer"—
It'a very odd that saUor-mett ibould Ulk iio very queer —

608

Jlnmnrou» SfUftionn,

Ami (Inn lie hiifli'il \\U trunwM up. n* i«. I'm tn)i|, iliiir ti**— *
ItH viT)' ihM llitit Miiluriiifii nIiimiI(I winr (Iiom' lliiit^M ««> Iimmo.

I 'lid lint umlvrNtiimJ liim well, Imt think lio mmiit (o *ny
He'll NM'ii tliiit ii(tl«' viil;;ir !»••>, lliiit iiinriiiii^, Nwini imuy

III Cll|>tlill hllr^< 'n llnffal lirnnjr lihulH nil li«>iir Inlttrr,

Auil tlM7 Wii i'U IIUW, ttH llU IIU|)|N>IH?(J, " IMIUIVIl7ll«f« ' HlwiUi tliu

Nore.

A InmlHiiifin Htii<l, " I Itruj ||u« rh.ip— tir'n Im'imi hikmi iIm' mill-
Ami 'cauw III* qummnnu mi tlio //■!/«, vi' iiiIIh liiiii Vr«'|iiii^ Hill!"
llu Miid '•lii'il (liiiK* MM) %vry liiDwn," uimI iiiei-ly "«/oic'</ tlio

Tbiit'd FriMich, I fanry, fur n lial — or cUf n iMir|K>( Im^.

I wi'iil ami t'tlii tlio conHttililf my i>ro|Mrly tii tnirk ;
llo iiNki'd nil' if" I iliil mil wif>li ilmt I mi^lii ]i%'\ it hnrk ?"
I iiiinwiTi'il, " To III' Mirr I tl«i! it f. wli.i'. I'm i'<imi' iiliniit."
Jlu itiuilvil iiml Niid, " Sir, do<-fi your uiotliiT know tliut you aro
out?"

Not knowiiiur wlint tn do, I tlinufilit I'd linnioii Wk to town,
And U'^ our own J<nrd Mayor tti nitcli tliu hoy who'd " done luu

brown."
HiM |ordHlti|i v(!ry kindly Miid hr'd try nnd iiiid him out,
liut hu " rulher thought that thoro wcrr MViral vulji^iir boyn ulxiut."

lie wnt for Mr. Withair thru, nnd I di'M-rihi'd " thr nwa^,"
My Mai'intimh, my huuar ton^"<, my K|MMiiir«. uiid variH-i-hau ;
lie promiKod that tin* Ni-w I'olii'f ^hould all tlx'ir iMiwi'm uui|il'iy i
liui uuvur to thiM hour huvu I Whcid that vulvar toy t

MoitAL.
KonirujWr, then, that wIhmi a hoy Yw hmrd my ^T.'indmn ti'll,

Bk WAHN'II in TIMK IIY oTIir.Il'H HARM, AND YUf hIIAI.L Im
KILL WKI.I, ! "

Pon't link yourM-lt' with vulvar I'oIkN who'vu fj^ot no fixed aliodi*.
Tvll lii^M, U.M.' naughty wurd»j and tuiy ihcy " wi»h thvy uiuy be
blow'd I"

Dun't Uike too much of d:»uhlc X ( — nnd don't at nijfht fjo nut
To I'l'toh your Ih-ht yourm-H, but innki' tin? |Hitl>oy brin^your utout I
And when you ^o to Margate iirxt, iuttt htop, and riii^ tliv bi'll,
Give luy rci«|x}cti4 to Mrt<, Jones, uud fi;iy i'ui |»retty wuUI

TU IXD.

»lll"t)l

t.u no

•11,

IM)i;\ ol' Al'TIIOKS.

AltliM'tN JtisRril 4M f'ni.RlillKIR (' |)

Arrnii Ki.iit«NKrM SNT i 1*01.1.1 \ It Wm,

AI.RXAXMRH Mm CV f .tOTironH Klira

Amux \m, 'J7il, INK). .TI7, .101, Ai!| l*Roi.V ItHf. (i...

Arrni!* W. K .102, :i7J, r.i«i fiwiiAN J I'

lUll.RV II. J 4.^4}

PAUU

tiANM«M lUV. t(. }| :XlA

IIrai ror 'JU

Mrh.(%iiicn .Ml

ll«ii,To> »< r :it»2

II«IMI-KT 'ilft

HHMiltnV MiMN H40

itPMiMT John m),'in, rm

ilHo(iiM\M l.iiNii i mi, 'ill, '.'l.'ll Ool.PtNiril ni.nRH

414

1(10

|)am« Tiiomah :M0

Dii'KHMi CinRLKH lft«, liM, ni7

ItlMIUKI.I II Ill

hM\i.R HmF. 11 :iM

iM'Moi 110 (Irohor .'iii4

KlIHklKR t.MHM J'l'i

FontRii W A , l.l.lt IM

(il.AimTo'tR lloK. \V. R tSl

174

lll:o«r<i|^(l K 11 .10A

llROWMMi t( 2M

Mfl.MIM VJ.'I

liiiihR KhvrxH, 177, 10?, IIW, 200, 302

MriiRii IImrrht .'12';

UriLKii W. A f»ft7

II1TI.RI1 W, II 2M

lirtinN i.oni) :ip7, 4(xi

Caiiih I(>.v. Joiiv, D.I) 301

(/AMI'IIK|.I. TlloMAN line

i'xsMsu Oruiicir 2l!i

Canrv AMI'K ilH

CANI.VLK TllOMAH I7H, 170

Chath.^m K*ia I9.*»

rilALNRim TltMMAM, I) D 'iH\, 'Oft

('«.HiiR.«< KlCIIAltll 22<!

(tuniii Joiis 172

(Jmattar IIrxrv 2<M. 'JO.n, joij

<}t irriK (iRiiAi.ii 274, :ii'7

IIai,i.m'r iwi

IIi:MamiMnii 2M, alA

lls.Ritv I'atiiick tOT

||ii|.«|IN {iLIVKil WnxiiKi.t 3iO

iluoii TllOMAH, .124, :t:u, Mil, f .v>, ri.'il

002

IliMiKRii MiniAHh 211

lliiwr. li<iK. .lo-'KHil 241

llrUIIRN TllUMAR \M

lli'.r l.nuti 399

hur.i.ow J^hs 400

Jamrj( Urv. J An<iru 36ft

Ji:wf(miiY Mma 203

A70

In(lex of Anthom.

PAIIR

Knato JulIN 40'J

KnhuLKH Javkh Sl|KI:l|).\N Till

lillilioN (Janun '.'08

PAUR

UoiiKnTHON ItRv. r. W 2:.l, 253

IfviciiHoN Mkv. K.. I».1) I8r»

Sala U. a l.'"»0

liVTToH Loiiii 141, .195 Hawyku WiLMAM 353

Lo\.)KKi,i,uw M. W.,2H0, 281, 2R.". 417 ; Hi'ott Hiii Wai.teii, \i\ M4R, 42:i, 428

LoVKII SaMI'KI 'iM Snill'K HK"« llnl.V 2«i.'i, 2<»(j

Macailav Loiii»,18:J, 217, Ur.4, 3«J2,:m;<!!Sjiakk>«i'KAIIk Wilmam, 4.12, 4.'i;«. 4.V4
Mai'intosii.Siii Jamk(* 1(M», 2.(7 IVj, IM, 4<i8, 47-', IHO, IH2, 4h:., 41)4

Mackav (JiiAiiLM :i2;i, .'{27, :i4") 4!»7, 4ti:», rm, m:\, r^u

Mai'I.k I.kak 4<Mj, 4uhISiikii, HirnAKD L 208

AIaMHKV (iKIIAMI 2!M) f^lIKKlDAN IllCirAUD IJlUN.SI-KY .WD

iMKLVIM, KkV. 11., D.D 241» ; •^••L'TIIKV OaUOLINK HUH

MoCaii. Kkv. .J., LL.D Ihj Sol'tiiky Robeht .'•(J.^

McIJkkT. I> Aiicv 2:W, 4'i4 Si-KA(!t K :U7

Mm. JohvHtiakt l«l j Si'irii«i!(.N lUv. C. H 2'>U

.Mii,T<>.\ John 17.*., :ni, 444, 447 i .Stuakkoiid Kahl of 189

MoNTfJiiMKIIV .1 AMKM :jOl | TaI.KoIHI) SlU T. N MO

.MuiMiK Tii.t.MAM MU; Tknxyhox Ai-FIikd, 270, 291, 292, 207,

Mfi.cKii Mi.iM 299

NoltTox llo\. MllH ."{77

298, :M!», ;n5, 'M't, 4U>, I'M, 440
TllACKKKAY W. M :5"'i

Tkki. Sill I{(»nKUT 2l(t Toui.N John M5

VlULlAVli ClIAIILKU 21'! i Tn(iWUIIII)(!K IJIJO

PiiAKi) VV. M 3G4J Wai.i'oi,k SiH Uohekt 191

I'koctoh Aiiklaidk a 303 i Watson James 328

I'l NSHox Hkv. W. .M 2G2 ' WmiTlER J. 394

I*YM JoHX 190 I

PAltR

....2.'>1,263

i8r>

ir»()

353

,8, 423, 428

...2«r», 2r.(i

2, 4:.3. 4r.4
2, 4h:>, 404

n, :.33, r.44

208

:y WJ

333

r)t;3

317

259

189

330

)1, 292, 2f)7,
15, 434, 440

3:.l

535

330

191

328

394