It,-. ; .^"^ 
 
 1
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 AT LOS ANGELES
 
 
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 I 
 
 UNIVERSITY cf CALIFORNIA 
 
 LO.^ AIHiELES 
 U«KARY
 
 n 
 
 A Modern Reader and Speaker
 
 MODERN 
 
 Reader and Speaker 
 
 EDITED BY 
 
 GEORGE RIDDLE 
 
 HERBERT S. STONE AND COMPANY 
 CHICAGO AND NEW YORK 
 MDCCCCH 
 
 in:^8oi
 
 COPYRIGHT 1899, BY 
 HERBERT S. STONE & CO 
 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
 
 1^ 
 
 » 
 
 t 
 
 
 
 TO 
 
 ADAMS SHERMAN HILL, 
 
 BOYLSTON PROFESSOR OF RHETORIC AND ORATORY AT 
 HARVARD UNIVERSITY, IN GRATEFUL REMEMBRANCE 
 OF HIS HELP AND SYMPATHY IN MY TENTATIVE DAYS.
 
 GENERAL CONTENTS 
 
 Detailed lists of contents will be found at the begitming 
 of each division of the book. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Narrative and Colloquial Selections . . i 
 
 Orations ........ 79 
 
 Dramatic and Humorous Selections . . 297 
 
 Poetry 461
 
 PREFACE 
 
 IN adding another "Reader and Speaker" to the 
 long list of books on "Elocution," "Expression," 
 or what not, I have not been animated by the spirit of 
 any of Dickens's "gen'lmen," who went "down Tom- 
 ;,all-Alone's, a-prayin','' only to say "as the t'other wuns 
 i: prayed wrong. ' ' 
 
 ^ I have had in view, especially in the Orations, the 
 '^union of that which seems modern in the works of the 
 told, well-tried authors, with the literature of to-day. 
 ^I think that all the selections are adapted to the mod- 
 ^ern natural method of speaking, by which the speaker 
 'i'seeks to directly move and persuade his hearers, in 
 ' ,man-to-man fashion and without manner formally 
 ^assumed for effect. 
 
 I I believe that a teacher of reading and speaking, to 
 :rbe completely effective, should be present in the flesh, 
 and, therefore, I have not attempted to give any 
 instructions as to interpretation. Moreover, this 
 country is fortunate in possessing able and competent 
 teachers, who employ different methods, perhaps, but 
 who all lead their pupils through various means to one 
 great end : truth and naturalness of expression. 
 
 While my primary object has been to choose pieces 
 adapted to reading aloud, I have not, I trust, lost sight 
 of another vital point — the choice of interesting pieces 
 of every description.
 
 PREFACE 
 
 I have been greatly assisted by the generous permis- 
 sion of authors and publishers to use copious extracts 
 from copyrighted books. Such unusual courtesy as 
 has been extended to me will, I am confident, make 
 the perusers of the contents of this book exclaim with 
 Trinculo: "If these be true spies which I wear in my 
 head, here's a goodly sight." 
 
 GEORGE RIDDLE.
 
 Narrative and Colloquial 
 Selections
 
 THE SITUATION OF A UNIVERSITY. From 
 the Inaugural Address delivered at Tufts College. 
 Reprinted with the permission of President Capen. 
 By ELMER HEWITT CAPEN. 
 
 IN considering the many instrumentalities through 
 which an institution of the higher learning rise 
 to its greatest efficiency, all writers who have given 
 profound attention to the subject agree in attaching 
 great importance to Situation. It must be in a fair 
 spot to which both nature and art have lent their 
 charms. It must be retired, away from the bustle and 
 confusion of the great world where the mind may 
 freely give itself to undisturbed reflections. Yet it 
 must be near some centre of life and trade, and espe- 
 cially does it need to feel the power of a higher intel- 
 lectual life surging around it and ever lifting it to 
 nobler and grander attainments. The image of 
 Athens, which, for more than a thousand years, was 
 the intellectual mistress of the civilized world, whose 
 immortal teachers 
 
 "Still rule our spirits from their urns," 
 
 rises before us in all her loveliness and beauty. We 
 think how she, by her matchless climate, which 
 fostered poetic dreams and made life seem like one 
 long midsummer's day; by her indescribable atmos- 
 phere, which gave to the marbles of Praxiteles the 
 richness and warmth of Titian's coloring, and relieved 
 the severe angles of her temples, so that they seemed 
 to be filled with a depth and softness of feeling unsur- 
 passed by the most ornate of mediaeval cathedrals ; by 
 her contiguity to the sea and her relations to the 
 mysterious East; by her commercial importance; by 
 
 5
 
 6 The SITUATION of a UNIVERSITY 
 
 her marvellous language, softer and sweeter and more 
 flexible and of wider compass than the tones of an 
 organ; by her free institutions and public spirit; by 
 her great men; by her inspiring traditions and her 
 wonderful mythology, was fitted to be the University 
 of all nations. We think also of the grand facilities 
 she had within herself for noble schools ; of her groves 
 which Cimon planted; of her beautiful public build- 
 ings which Pericles erected and Phidias adorned; of 
 her porticoes, surrounding the Agora, filled with 
 superb paintings and delicious sculptures. We think 
 of her sweet poets and eloquent orators, whose inspir- 
 ing words thrill and sway our hearts to-day as they 
 thrilled and swayed the living multitudes to whom they 
 were addressed. But above all we think of her great 
 philosophers, to whom even kings came for instruc- 
 tion, and who were surrounded by a crowd of youths out 
 of every nation under heaven. We seem to see them in 
 their chosen retreats just outside the din of the great 
 city, yet where they could hear the drowsy murmur of 
 its bustle and traffic, directing, by the compass of their 
 learning, the fascinatio.ns of their culture and the force 
 of their enthusiasm, the minds of their hearers to the 
 most sublime contemplations. Those were the condi- 
 tions in which both nature and art combined to pro- 
 duce a degree of intellectual refinement without a rival 
 either in ancient or modern times. 
 
 But wherever, in any age, similar results have been 
 achieved it has been under a combination of like 
 advantages. I will not pause now to cite instances. I 
 need only point you to our own fortunate position. The 
 New World herself does not embrace a lovelier spot 
 than this. On whichever side the eye turns, it com
 
 By ELMER HEWITT CAPEN 7 
 
 mands a fairer prospect than that which inflamed the 
 heart of Lot when he beheld all the plain of Jordan 
 fertile and well watered everywhere. It is in close 
 contact, too, with a great commercial metropolis — a 
 grand city which presents many aspects of resemblance 
 to ancient Athens, not the least of which is her intense 
 intellectual activity, and her schools and teachers 
 whose renown is co-extensive with civilization. Just 
 here, then, is the place for a great college, however 
 modestly it may assert its claims in the beginning, to 
 grow up and flourish. Surely it does not require any 
 very painful stretch of the faculties to see, in a future 
 not greatly remote, this hill crowned with noble archi- 
 tecture, peeping out from amid embowering trees, and 
 to hear the thronging footsteps of youths coming from 
 the East and from the West, from the North and from 
 the South, to enjoy the sweet repose of its quiet shades^, 
 and to feel the kindling impulse of its mental life.
 
 MORNING AND AFTERNOON CHAPEL. From 
 "Tom Brown's School Days." By THOMAS 
 HUGHES. 
 
 THE chapel-bell began to ring at a quarter to 
 eleven, and Tom got in early and took his place 
 in the lowest row, and watched all the other boys come 
 in and take their places, filling row after row; and 
 tried to construe the Greek text which was inscribed 
 over the door with the slightest possible success, and 
 wondered which of the masters, who walked down the 
 chapel and took their seats in the exalted boxes at the 
 end, would be hia lord. And then came the closing of 
 the doors, and the Doctor in his robes, and the service, 
 which, however, didn't impress him much, for his feel- 
 ing of wonder and curiosity was too strong. And the 
 boy on one side of him was scratching his name on the 
 oak panelling in front, and he couldn't help watching 
 to see what the name was, and whether it was well 
 scratched; and the boy on the other side went to sleep 
 and kept falling against him ; and on the whole, 
 though many boys even in that part of the School were 
 serious and attentive, the general atmosphere was by 
 no means devotional; and when he got out into the 
 close again, he didn't feel at all comfortable, or as if 
 he had been to church. 
 
 But at afternoon chapel it was quite another thing. 
 He had spent the time after dinner in writing home to 
 his mother, and so was in a better frame of mind; and 
 his first curiosity was over, and he could attend more 
 to the service. As the hymn after the prayers was 
 being sung, and the chapel was getting a little dark, 
 he was beginning to feel that he had been really wor- 
 shipping. And then came that great event in his, as 
 
 8
 
 By THOMAS HUGHES ^ 
 
 in every Rugby boy's life of that day, the first serrnon 
 from the Doctor. 
 
 More worthy pens than mine have described that 
 scene. The oak pulpit standing out by itself above the 
 School seats. The tall gallant form, the kindling eye, 
 the voice, now soft as the low notes of a flute, now 
 clear and stirring as the call of the light infantry 
 bugle, of him who stood there Sunday after Sunday, 
 witnessing and pleading for his Lord, the King of 
 righteousness and love and glory, with whose spirit he 
 was filled, and in whose power he spoke. The long 
 lines of young faces, rising tier above tier down the 
 whole length of the chapel, from the little boy's who 
 had just left his mother to the young man's who was 
 going out next week into the great world rejoicing in 
 his strength. It was a great and solemn sight, and 
 never more so than .at this time of year, when the only 
 lights in the chapel were in the pulpit and at the seats 
 of the praepostors of the week, and the soft twilight 
 stole over the rest of the chapel, deepening into dark- 
 ness in the high gallery behind the organ. 
 
 But what was it after all which seized and held these 
 three hundred boys, dragging them out of them- 
 selves, willing or unwilling, for twenty minutes, on 
 Sunday afternoon? True, there always were boys 
 scattered up and down the School, who in heart and 
 head were worthy to hear and able to carry away the 
 deepest and wisest words there spoken. But these 
 were a minority always, generally a very small one, 
 often so small a one as to be countable on the fingers 
 of your hand. What was it that moved and held us, 
 the rest of the three hundred reckless, childish boys, 
 Vv'ho feared the Doctor with all our hearts, and wtiy
 
 lo MORNING and AFTERNOON CHAPEL 
 
 little besides in heaven or earth : who thought more 
 of our seats in the School than of the Church of Christ, 
 and put the traditions of Rugby and the public opinion 
 of boys in our daily life above the laws of God? We 
 couldn't enter into half that we heard; we hadn't the 
 knowledge of our own hearts or the knowledge of one 
 another; and little enough of the faith, hope, and love 
 needed to that end. But we listened, as all boys in 
 their better moods will listen (ay, and men, too, for 
 the matter of that), to a man whom we felt to be, v/ith 
 all his heart and soul and strength, striving against 
 whatever was mean and unmanly and unrighteous in 
 our little world. It was not the cold clear voice of one 
 giving advice and warning from serene heights to 
 those who were struggling and sinning below, but the 
 warm living voice of one who was fighting for us and 
 by our sides, and calling on us to help him and our- 
 selves and one another. And so, wearily and little by 
 little, but surely and steadily on the whole, was 
 brought home to the young boy, for the first time, the 
 meaning of his life : that it was no fool's or sluggard's 
 paradise into which he had wandered by chance, but a 
 battle-field ordained from of old, where there are no 
 spectators, but the youngest must take his side, and 
 the stakes are life and death. And he who roused this 
 consciousness in them showed them at the same time, 
 by every word he spoke in the pulpit, and by his whole 
 daily life, how the battle was to be fought ; and stood 
 there before them their fellow-soldier and the cap- 
 tain of their band. The true sort of captain, too, for a 
 boys' army, one who had no misgivings and gave no 
 uncertain word of command, and, let who would yield 
 or make a truce, would fight the fight out (so every
 
 By THOMAS HUGHES ii 
 
 boy felt) to the last gasp and the last drop of blood. 
 Other sides of his character might take hold of and 
 influence boys here and there, but it was this thorough- 
 ness and undaunted courage which more than anything 
 else won his way to the hearts of the great mass of 
 those on whom he left his mark, and made them 
 believe first in him, and then in his Master.
 
 THE RIGHT vSTANDARD. From "Shadows of the 
 Stage," second series. Copyright, 1893, by Macmillan 
 & Company. (Reprinted with permission.) By 
 WILLIAM WINTER. 
 
 CRITICISM is neither hostility nor scorn. The 
 motive that impels a thoughtful observer to con- 
 demn much that is accepted by the multitude is not 
 the wish merely to injure or to contemptuously deride 
 or dismiss the popular mediocrity, but the desire that 
 the age shall excel in all kinds of worth, and that the 
 people shall both be the best and have the best. The 
 poet Pope asserted the comfortable doctrine that 
 "whatever is is right. " Mr. Chalcote, the brewer, in 
 Robertson's comedy of "Ours," announced the freer 
 though less agreeable conclusion, that "whatever is is 
 wrong." There are writers who celebrate the glories 
 of the present age, and who continually minister to 
 vanity by informing the people that they are but little 
 lower than the angels. Such writers are not the source 
 of strength and help. The world does not prosper 
 through being flattered. Too much is heard about the 
 rights of man; too little about his duties. The moral- 
 ists who frankly tell a people the truth, when that 
 people, as often happens, is doing wrong and going 
 wrong, are better friends of mankind than the flatterers 
 of the popular mood and conduct. 
 
 Man is a brotherhood. In Roman days it was a say- 
 ing with the aristocrats of mind and of rank, "The com- 
 mon people like to be deceived; deceived let them 
 be." That saying was the essence of selfishness — a 
 selfishness that the better part of the intellectual world 
 has outgrown. There cannot be one law for persons 
 of superior mental endowment and another law for the 
 
 12
 
 By WILLIAM WINTER 13 
 
 rest. Knowledge avails nothing- unless it be communi- 
 cated. Blessings are but half blessings if you keep 
 them to yourself. Those who have clear vision and 
 stalwart strength of mind should guide the rest of the 
 world. The advancement of all human beings con- 
 cerns every individual. The safety and comfort of the 
 top of the pyramid depend on the security of the base. 
 The enlightened philosopher knows that it is both self- 
 interest and benevolence to keep the multitude in the 
 right path — to civilise, to refine, to lead upward the 
 masses of mankind, so that their eyes may be opened 
 to beauty, their minds to truth, and their hearts to 
 gentleness and aspiration. The guidance of the 
 people is the duty of the thinker, and if he performs 
 that duty he will sometimes speak in terms of censure, 
 and he will make the censure positive enough to be 
 felt and to be productive of good results. 
 
 Observation, with extended view, perceives that 
 people in general are more deeply interested in what 
 they call amusements than in serious occupations. 
 You must study popular amusements, therefore, if you 
 wish to understand the mental condition and tendency 
 of the people. Those matters engross much attention, 
 and it is through the discussion and guidance of their 
 amusements that the people are most easily and 
 directly reached and affected. Two methods of that 
 discussion and guidance, both long in vogue, are 
 sharply contrasted in contemporary practice — that of 
 universal laudation, and that of objection and remon- 
 strance. The former largely predominates, and it has 
 wrought evil by making bad matters worse. Within 
 recent years— although noble and beautiful works have 
 been shown, and important steps have been taken — an
 
 14 The RIGHT STANDARD 
 
 avalanche of trash has been cast upon the stage, and 
 the people have accepted it and have, practically,, 
 approved it, — while scarcely a voice among public 
 censors has been raised against that flagrant abuse of 
 the theatre. On the contrary, the public has been told 
 to accept it, has been praised for accepting it, and has 
 been prompted to encourage the extension of it. "We 
 are a hard-working, nervous, tired community" — so 
 runs the stream of mischievous counsel — "and we 
 need recreation. When we go to the theatre we want 
 to be amused. We do not want to think. Let us have 
 something light!" Thus cajoled, and thus cajoling 
 itself, the popular intelligence surrenders to folly, and 
 the average theatrical manager brings forth Rag 
 Babies and Parlor Matches, and complacently remarks, 
 "I must give them what they want." 
 
 The writers and the managers who reason in that 
 way do not reason well. It is unfortunate that the 
 custom of viewing the stage as an "amusement" ever 
 prevailed ; for the stage is an institution higher and 
 finer than any amusement, and it possesses an influ- 
 ence upon society second only to that of the hearth- 
 stone. But, even viewing it as one of the amusements, 
 no man has a right to degrade its character or impair 
 its usefulness. If we overwork ourselves, as a com- 
 munity, let us quit that injurious and useless custom. 
 Half of the activity that people commonly call "work"' 
 consists of parade and pother. The actual work of the 
 world is done silently, by the minority, and usually it 
 does not occupy all the time or exhaust all the 
 strength. Let us economise our energies and stop the 
 snorting and the waste. If we are "tired" and "nerv- 
 ous" we can, surely, rest and refresh the nerves with-
 
 By WILLIAM WINTER 15 
 
 out turning- the stage into a playground for idiots and 
 making the theatre a hospital for victims of dyspepsia. 
 Sick persons are in no fit condition to comprehend the 
 drama, and, even if they were, the actor is not an 
 apothecary. The time for going to the play is when 
 you are well and refreshed and can appreciate what 
 you see and hear ; when your mind and soul are recep- 
 tive and you are not concerned with the state of your 
 stomach and the ills of your system. There are influ- 
 ences in the dramatic art which can ennoble and help 
 you, even though they do not foster the lower instincts 
 or elicit vacant laughter. The men and women who 
 devote their lives to the study and practice of acting 
 are not frivolous mountebanks, emulous to make you 
 laugh by cutting a caper ; nor are you yourself such a 
 poor creature as you appear to be when you prattle 
 about your lassitude and allege your pi-eference for 
 theatrical rubbish. 
 
 It is not meant that the stage is in a decline. Ever 
 since the theatre existed it has been subject to fluctua- 
 tions, accordant with the moods and caprices of public 
 taste. There never has been a time in its history 
 when trash was not striving to submerge it, and when 
 base and sordid views of its province did not find 
 specious advocates and ignoble ministers. But it is 
 meant that trash has been more than usually rampant 
 in recent years, and that it is habitually viewed with a 
 mischievous lenience and toleration. There is more 
 than common need of wholesome censure, as well of 
 the public taste as of the pernicious doctrine that it is 
 the province and policy of thinkers, writers, and man- 
 agers to follow the people instead of leading them.
 
 CHARLES DICKENS THE READER. From 
 ' ' Pen Photographs of Dickens's Readings. ' ' By KATE 
 FIELD. 
 
 ONE glance at the platform is sufficient to convince 
 the audience that Dickens thoroughly appreci- 
 ates "stage effect. " A large screen of maroon cloth 
 occupies the background; before it stands a light table 
 of peculiar design, on the inner left-hand corner of 
 whi:h there peers forth a miniature desk, large 
 enough to accommodate the reader's book. On the 
 right hand of the table, and somewhat below its level, 
 is a shelf, where repose a carafe of water and a 
 tumbler. 'Tis "a combination and a form indeed," 
 covered with velvet somewhat lighter in color than 
 the screen. No drapery conceals the table, whereby 
 it is plain that Dickens believes in expression of figure 
 as well as of face, and does not throw av\ray everything 
 but his head and arms, according to the ordinary habit 
 of ordinary speakers. About twelve feet above the 
 platform, and somewhat in advance of the table, is a 
 horizontal row of gas-jets with a tin reflector; and 
 midway in both perpendicular gas-pipes there is one 
 powerful jet with glass chimney. By this admirable 
 arrangement, Dickens stands against a dark back- 
 ground in a frame of gaslight, which throws out his 
 face and figure to the best advantage. With the book 
 "Dickens" stranded on the little desk, the comedian 
 iJickens can transform a table into a stage ; and had 
 the great novelist concluded, at the last moment, not 
 to appear before us, this ingenious apparatus would 
 have taught us a lesson in the art of reading. 
 
 He comes! A lithe, energetic man, of medium 
 stature, crosses the platform at the brisk gait of five 
 
 i6
 
 By KATE FIELD 17 
 
 miles an hour, and takes his position behind the table. 
 This is Charles Dickens, whose name has been a 
 household word in England and America for thirty 
 years; whose books have been the joy and solace of 
 many a weary heart and head. A first glance disap- 
 pointed me. I thought I should prefer to have him 
 entirely unlike himself; but when I began to speculate 
 on how Charles Dickens ought to look, I gave the 
 matter up, and wisely concluded that Nature knew her 
 own intentions better than any one else. 
 
 Dickens has a broad, full brow, a fine head — which, 
 for a man of such power and energy, is singularly 
 small at the base of the brain — and a cleanly cut 
 profile. There is a slight resemblance between him 
 and Louis Napoleon in the latter respect, owing mainly 
 to the nose; but it is unnecessary to add that the 
 faces of the two men are totally different. Dickens's 
 eyes are light-blue, and his mouth and jaw, without 
 having any claim to beauty, possess a strength that is 
 not concealed by the veil of iron-gray mustache and 
 generous imperial. His head is but slightly graced 
 with iron-gray hair, and his complexion is florid. 
 
 If any one thinks to obtain an accurate idea of Dick- 
 ens from the photographs that flood the country, he is 
 mistaken. He will see Dickens's clothes, Dickens's 
 features, as they appear when Nicholas Nickleby is in 
 the act of knocking down Mr. Wackford Squeers; but 
 he will not see what makes Dickens's face attractive, 
 the geniality and expression that his heart and brain 
 put into it. In his photographs Dickens looks as if, 
 previous to posing, he had been put under an 
 exhausted receiver and had had his soul pumped out 
 of him. This process is no beautifier. Therefore, let
 
 i8 CHARLES DICKENS the READER 
 
 those who have not been able to judge for themselves 
 believe that Dickens's face is capable of vvonderfully 
 varied expression. Hence it is the best sort of face. 
 His eye is at times so keen as to cause whoever is 
 within its range to feel morally certain that it has 
 penetrated to his boots; at others it brims over with 
 kindliness. "It is like looking forward to spring to 
 think of seeing your beaming eye again," wrote Lord 
 Jeffrey to Charles Dickens years ago, and truly, for 
 there is a twinkle in it that, like a promissory note, 
 pledges itself to any amount of fun — within sixty min- 
 utes. After seeing this twinkle I was satisfied with 
 Dickens's appearance, and became resigned to the fact 
 of his not resembling Apollo Belvedere. One thing is 
 certain, — if he did resemble this classical young 
 gentleman, he never could have written his novels. 
 Laying this flattering unction to my soul, I listen.
 
 WASHINGTON AND FRANKLIN. From "Imag- 
 inary Conversations." By WALTER SAVAGE 
 LANDOR. 
 
 FRANKLIN— The conduct of England toward us 
 resembles that of Ebenezer Bullock toward his 
 eldest son, Jonas. 
 
 Washington — I remember old Ebenezer; and I 
 believe it was Jonas who, when another youth, after 
 giving him much offence and seeing him unresisting 
 would fain fight him, replied: "Nay, I will not fight 
 thee, friend; but if thou dost with that fist what thou 
 threatenest, by the Lord's help I will smite thee sore, 
 marking thee for one of an ill, unprofitable flock; and 
 thou shalt walk home in heaviness, like a wether the 
 first morning he was made one." Whereat he took off 
 his coat, folded it up, and laid it on the ground, say- 
 ing, "This at least hath done no harm, and deserveth 
 good treatment." The adversary, not admiring such 
 an object of contemplation, went away muttering more 
 reasonable threats, conditional and subjunctive. 
 Ebenezer, I guess, aggravated and wore out his son's 
 patience; for the old man was rich and testy, and 
 would have his comforts neither encroached upon nor 
 much partaken. 
 
 Franklin — My story is this. Jonas had been hunting 
 in the woods, and had contracted a rheumatism in the 
 face which drew it awry, and, either from the pain it 
 occasioned or from the medicines he took to cure it, 
 rotted one of his grinders. Old Ebenezer was wealthy, 
 had little to do or to care about, made few observations 
 on his family, sick or sound, and saw nothing partic- 
 ular in his son's countenance. However, one day after 
 dinner when he had eaten heartily, he said, "Son 
 
 19
 
 20 WASHINGTON and FRANKLIN 
 
 Jonas, methinks thy appetite is not over-keen; pick 
 (and welcome) the other half of that hog's foot." 
 
 "Father," answered he, "I have had a pain in my 
 tooth the last fortnight; the northerly wind does it no 
 good to-day. I would rather, if so be that you approve 
 of it, eat a slice of yon fair cheesecake in the closet." 
 
 "Why, what ails the tooth?" said Ebenezer. 
 "Nothing more," replied Jonas, "than that I cannot 
 chew with it what I used to chew." "Drive a nail in 
 the wall, "quoth stoutly and courageously Ebenezer, "tie 
 a string to one end, and lace the other round thy tooth. ' ' 
 
 The son performed a part of the injunction, but 
 could not very dexterously twist the string around the 
 grinder, for his teeth were close and the cord not over- 
 fine. Then said the father kindly, "Open thy mouth, 
 lad! give me the twine: back thy head, — back it, I tell 
 thee, over the chair." 
 
 "Not that, father! not that; the next, " cried Jonas. 
 "What dost mean?" proudly and impatiently said 
 Ebenezer. "Is not the string about it? Dost hold my 
 hand too, scapegrace? Dost give me this trouble for 
 nought?" "Patience, now, father!" meekly said 
 Jonas, with the cord across his tongue; "let me draw 
 my tooth my own way." 
 
 "Follow thine own courses, serpent!" indignantly 
 exclaimed Ebenezer. "As God's in Boston, thou art a 
 most wilful and undutiful child." "I hope not, 
 father." "Hope not! rebel! Did I not beget thee 
 and thy teeth, one and all? Have not I lodged thee, 
 clothed thee, and fed thee, these forty years; and now, 
 I warrant ye, all this bustle and backwardness about a 
 rotten tooth ! Should I be a groat the richer for it, out 
 or in?"
 
 By WALTER SAVAGE LANDUR 21 
 
 Washington — Dignity in private men and in govern- 
 ments has been little else than a stately and stiff per- 
 severance in oppression ; and spirit, as it is called, little 
 else than the foam of hard-mouthed insolence. Such 
 at last is become the audacity of Power, from a cen- 
 tury or more of holidays and riot, it now complains 
 that you deprive it of its prerogative if you limit the 
 exercise of its malignity. I lament that there are those 
 who can learn no lesson of humanity, unless we write 
 it broadly with the point of the sword. 
 
 Franklin — Let us hope, however, that we may see 
 the day when these scholars shall be turned out of 
 school. 
 
 Washington — The object of our cares and solicitudes, 
 at present, is the stability of the blessings we have 
 obtained. No attempt against them is dangerous from 
 without, nor immediately from within ; but the seeds 
 of corruption are inherent, however latent, in all 
 bodies, physical and political ; guards therefore should 
 be stationed, and laws enacted, to deter adventurers 
 from attempts at despotism.
 
 LETTER TO MR. JOHNSON (Printer). By 
 WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 It happened that some accidental reviser of the 
 manuscript had taken the liberty to alter a line in a 
 poem of Cowper's. This liberty drew from the 
 offended poet the following very just and animated 
 remonstrance, which I am anxious to preserve because 
 it elucidates, with great felicity of expression, his 
 deliberate ideas on English versification. — (Note by 
 Hayley.) 
 
 I DID not write the line that has been tampered 
 with hastily, or without due attention to the con- 
 struction of it ; and what appeared to me its only merit 
 is, in its present state, entirely annihilated. 
 
 I know that the ears of modern verse writers are 
 delicate to an excess, and their readers are troubled 
 with the same squeamishness as themselves. So that 
 if a line do not run as smooth as quicksilver, they are 
 offended. A critic of the present day serves a poem 
 as a cook does a dead turkey, when she fastens the legs 
 of it to a post and draws out all the sinews. For this 
 we may thank Pope ; but unless we could imitate him 
 in the closeness and compactness of his expression, as 
 well as in the smoothness of his numbers, we had 
 better drop the imitation, which serves no other pur- 
 pose than to emasculate and weaken all we write. 
 Give me a manly rough line, with a deal of meaning in 
 it, rather than a whole poem full of musical periods, 
 that have nothing but their oily smoothness to recom- 
 mend them ! 
 
 I have said thus much, as I hinted in the beginning, 
 because I have just finished a much longer poem than 
 
 22
 
 By WILLIAM COWPER 43 
 
 the last, which our common friend will receive by the 
 same messenger that has the charge of this letter. In 
 that poem there are many lines which an ear so nice as 
 the gentleman's who made the above-mentioned altera- 
 tion would undoubtedly condemn ; and yet (if I may 
 be permitted to say it) they cannot be made smoother 
 without being the worse for it. There is a roughness 
 on a plum which nobody that understands fruit would 
 rub off, though the plum would be much more polished 
 without it. But, lest I tire you, I will only add that I 
 wish you to guard me from all such meddling; assur- 
 ing you that I always write as smoothly as I can; but 
 that I never did. never will, sacrifice the spirit or sense 
 of a passage to the sound of it.
 
 FERDINAND AND MIRANDA. From "The 
 Ordeal of Richard Feverel." Copyright, 1896, by- 
 George Meredith. Reprinted with the permission of 
 the publishers, Messrs. Charles Scribner's Sons. By 
 GEORGE MEREDITH. 
 
 RICHARD jumped into his boat, and pulled down 
 the tide. 
 
 When nature has made us ripe for love, it seldom 
 occurs that the Fates are behindhand in furnishing a 
 temple for the flame. 
 
 Above green-flashing plunges of a weir, and shaken 
 by the thunder below, lilies, golden and white, were 
 swaying at anchor among the reeds. Meadow-sweet 
 hung from the banks thick with weed and trailing 
 bramble, and there also hung a daughter of earth. 
 Her face was shaded by a broad straw hat with a 
 flexible brim that left her lips and chin in the sun, and, 
 sometimes nodding, sent forth a light of promising 
 eyes. Across her shoulders, and behind, flowed large 
 loose curls, brown in shadow, almost golden where the 
 ray touched them. She was simply dressed, befitting 
 decency and the season. On a closer inspection you 
 might see that her lips were stained. This blooming 
 young person was regaling on dewberries. They grew 
 between the bank and the water. Apparently she 
 found the fruit abundant, for her hand was making 
 pretty progress to her mouth. Fastidious youth, which 
 revolts at woman plumping her exquisite proportions 
 on bread-and-butter, and would (we must suppose) joy- 
 fully have her scraggy to have her poetical, can hardly 
 object to dewberries. Indeed, the act of eating them 
 is dainty and induces musing. The dewberry is a 
 sister to the lotus, and an innocent sister. You eat:
 
 By GEORGE MEREDITH 25 
 
 mouth, eye, and hand are occupied, and the undrugged 
 mind free to roam. And so it was with the damsel 
 who knelt there. The little skylark went up above 
 her, all song, to the smooth southern cloud lying along 
 the blue; from a dewy copse dark over her nodding hat 
 the blackbird fluted, calling to her with thrice mellow 
 note: the kingfisher flashed emerald out of green 
 osiers: a bow-winged heron travelled aloft, seeking 
 solitude: a boat slipped toward her, containing a 
 dreamy youth; and still she plucked the fruit, and 
 ate, and mused, as if no fairy prince were invading her 
 territories, and as if she wished not for one, or knew 
 not her wishes. Surrounded by the green shaven 
 meadows, the pastoral summer buzz, the weir-fall's 
 thundering white, amid the breath and beauty of wild 
 flowers, she was a bit of lovely human life in a fair 
 setting; a terrible attraction. The Magnetic Youth 
 leaned round to note his proximity to the weir-piles, 
 and beheld the sweet vision. Stiller and stiller grew 
 nature, as at the meeting of two electric clouds. Her 
 posture was so graceful, that, though he was making 
 straight for the weir, he dared not dip a scull. Just 
 then one enticing dewberry caught her eyes. He was 
 floating by unheeded, and saw that her hand stretched 
 low, and could not gather what it sought. A stroke 
 from his right brought him beside her. The damsel 
 glanced up dismayed, and her whole shape trembled 
 over the brink. Richard sprang from his boat into the 
 water. Pressing a hand beneath her foot, which she 
 had thrust against the crumbling wet sides of the bank 
 to save herself, he enabled her to recover her balance, 
 and gain safe earth, whither he followed her. 
 
 He had landed on an island of the still-vexed Ber-
 
 26 FERDINAND and MIRANDA 
 
 moothes. The world lay wrecked behind him ; Rayn- 
 ham hung in mists, remote, a phantom to the vivid 
 reality of this white hand which had drawn him thither 
 away thousands of leagues in an eye-twinkle. Hark, 
 how Ariel sang overhead! What splendour in the 
 heavens ! What marvels of beauty about his enchanted 
 brows! And, O you wonder! Fair Flame! by whose 
 light the glories of being are now first seen . 
 Radiant Miranda ! Prince Ferdinand is at your feet. 
 
 Or is it Adam, his rib taken from his side in sleep, 
 and thus transformed, to make him behold his Para- 
 dise, and lose it? . . . 
 
 The youth looked on her with as glowing an eye. It 
 was the First Woman to him. 
 
 And she — mankind was all Caliban to her, saving 
 this one princely youth. 
 
 So to each other said their changing eyes in the 
 moment they stood together; he pale, and she blushing. 
 
 She was indeed sweetly fair, and would have been 
 held fair among rival damsels. On a magic shore, and 
 to a youth educated by a System, strung like an arrow 
 drawn to the head — he, it might be guessed, could fly 
 fast and far with her. The soft rose in her cheeks, 
 the clearness of her eyes, bore witness to the body's 
 virtue ; and health and happy blood were in her bear- 
 ing. Had she stood before Sir Austin among rival 
 damsels, that Scientific Humanist, for the consumma- 
 tion of his System, would have thrown her the handker- 
 chief for his son. The wide summer-hat, nodding over 
 her forehead to her brows, seemed to flow with the 
 flowing heavy curls, and those fire-threaded mellow 
 curls, only half-curls, v/aves of hair call them, rippling 
 at the ends, went like a sunny red-veined torrent down
 
 By GEORGE MEREDITH 27 
 
 her back almost to her waist: a glorious vision to the 
 youth, who embraced it as a flower of beauty, and 
 read not a feature. There were curious features of 
 colour in her face for him to have read. Her brows, 
 thick and brownish against a soft skin, showing the 
 action of the blood, met in the bend of a bow, extend- 
 ing to the temples long and level : you saw that she 
 was fashioned to peruse the sights of earth, and by the 
 pliability of her brows that the wonderful creature 
 used her faculty, and was not going to be a statue to 
 the gazer. Under the dark thick brows an arch of 
 lashes shot out, giving a wealth of darkness to the full 
 frank blue eyes, a mystery of meaning — more than 
 brain Avas ever meant to fathom : richer, henceforth, 
 than all mortal wisdom to Prince Ferdinand. For 
 when nature turns artist, and produces contrasts of 
 colour on a fair face, where is the Sage, or what the 
 Oracle, shall match the depth of its lightest look? 
 
 Prince Ferdinand was also fair. In his slim boating- 
 attire his figure looked heroic. His hair, rising from 
 the parting, to the right of his forehead, in what his 
 admiring Lady Blandish called his plume, fell away 
 slanting silkily to the temples across the nearly 
 imperceptible upward curve of his brows there — felt 
 more than seen, so slight it was — and gave to his 
 profile a bold beauty, to which his bashful, breathless 
 air was a flattering charm. An arrow drawn to the 
 head, capable of flying fast and far with her! He 
 leaned a little forward, drinking her in with all his 
 eyes, and young Love has a thoiisand. Then truly the 
 System triumphed, just ere it was to fall; and could 
 Sir Austin have been content to draw the arrow to the 
 head and let it fly, when it would fly, he might have
 
 28 FERDINAND and MIRANDA 
 
 pointed to his son again, and said to the world, "Match 
 him!" Such keen bliss as the youth had in the sight of 
 her, an innocent youth alone has powers of soul in him 
 to experience.
 
 A RETROSPECT. By VICTOR HUGO. 
 
 I HAVE had for friends and allies, I have seen suc- 
 cessively pass before me, and according to the 
 changes and chances of destiny, I have received in my 
 house, sometimes in intimacy, chancellors, peers, 
 dukes. Pasquier, Pont^coulant, Montalembert, Bel- 
 lune; and celebrated men, Lamennais, Lamanine, 
 Chateaubriand; presidents of the Republic, Manin; 
 leaders of revolution, Louis Blanc, Montanelli, Arago, 
 Heliade; leaders of the people, Garibaldi, Mazzini, 
 Kossuth, Microslawski ; artists, Rossini, David 
 d' Angers, Pradier, Meyerbeer, Eugene Delacroix; 
 marshals, Soult, Mackau; Serjeants, Boni, Heurtebise; 
 bishops, the Cardinal of Besangon, M. de Rohan, the 
 Cardinal of Bordeaux, M. Donnet; and comedians, 
 Frederick Lemaitre, Mile. Rachel, Mile. Mars, Mme. 
 Dorval, Macready; ministers and ambassadors, Moli, 
 Guizot, Thiers, Lord Palmerston, Lord Normanby, M. 
 de Ligne ; and of peasants, Charles Durand ; princes, 
 imperial and royal highnesses and plain highnesses, 
 such as the Duke of Orleans, Ernest of Saxe-Coburg, 
 the Princess of Canino, Louis Charles Pierre, and 
 Napoleon Bonaparte; and of shoemakers, Guay; of 
 kings and emperors, Jerome of Westphalia, Max of 
 Bavaria, the Emperor of Brazil ; and of thorough revo- 
 lutionists, Bourillon. I have had sometimes in my 
 hands the gloved and white palm of the upper class 
 and the heavy black hand of the lower class, and have 
 recognized that both are but men. After all these 
 have passed before me, I say that Humanity has a 
 synonym — Equality; and that under Heaven there is 
 but one thing we ought to bow to — Genius; and only 
 one thing before which we ought to kneel — Goodness. 
 
 2q
 
 FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE. From "Essays in 
 London and Elsewhere," Copyright, 1893, by Harper 
 & Brothers. Reprinted with permission. By HENRY 
 JAMES. 
 
 MRS. KEMBLE often used to say of people who 
 met her during the later years of her life, "No 
 wonder they were surprised and bewildered, poor 
 things — they supposed I was dead!" Dying January 
 15, 1893, in her eighty-third year, she had outlived a 
 whole order of things, her "time," as we call it, and 
 in particular so many of her near contemporaries, so 
 many relations and friends, witnesses and admirers, so 
 much, too, of her own robust and ironic interest in 
 life, that the event, as regards attention excited, may 
 well be said to have introduced her to unconscious 
 generations. . . . Mrs. Kemble all her life was so 
 great a figure for those who were not in ignorance, the 
 distinction and interest of her character were, among 
 them, so fundamental an article of faith, that such per- 
 sons were startled at finding themselves called to be, 
 not combative in the cause of her innumerable strong 
 features (they were used to that), but insistent in 
 respect to her eminence. 
 
 Even if Mrs. Kemble had been a less remarkable 
 person, she would have owed a distinction to the far- 
 away past to which she gave continuity, would have 
 been interesting from the curious contacts she was 
 able, as it were, to transmit. She made us touch her 
 aunt, Mrs. Siddons, and whom does Mrs. Siddons not 
 make us touch? She had sat to Sir Thomas Lawrence 
 for her portrait, and Sir Thomas Lawrence was in love 
 with Sir Joshua's Tragic Muse. She had breakfasted 
 with Sir Walter Scott, she had sung with Tom Moore, 
 
 30
 
 By HENRY JAMES 31 
 
 she had listened to Edmund Kean and to Mademoiselle 
 Mars. . . . 
 
 She had figured in the old London world, which 
 lived again in her talk, and, to a great degree, in her 
 habits and standards and tone. This background, 
 embroidered with her theatrical past, so imassimilated, 
 but so vivid in her handsome hereditary head and the 
 unflagging drama of her manner, was helped by her 
 agitated, unsettled life to make her what I have called 
 historic If her last twenty years were years of rest, it 
 was impossible for an observer of them not to feel from 
 how many things she was resting — from how long a 
 journey and how untempered a fate, what an expen- 
 diture of that rich personality which always moved all 
 together and with all its violent force. . . 
 
 One of the earliest things that I remember with any 
 vividness is a drive in the country, near New York, in 
 the course of which the carriage passed a lady on horse- 
 back who had stopped to address herself with some 
 vivacity to certain men at work by the road. Just as 
 we had got further one of my elders exclaimed to the 
 other, "Why, it's Fanny Kemble!" and on my inquiry 
 who was the bearer of this name, which fell upon my 
 ear for the first time, I was informed that she was a 
 celebrated actress. It was added, I think, that she 
 was a brilliant reader of Shakespeare, though I am not 
 certain that the incident occurred after she had begun 
 her career of reading. The American cities, at any 
 rate, were promptly filled with the glory of this career, 
 so that there was a chance for me to be vaguely per- 
 plexed as to the bearing on the performance, which I 
 heard constantly alluded to, of her equestrian element, 
 so large a part of her youth. Did she read on horse-
 
 32 FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE 
 
 back, or was her acting one ot the attractions of the 
 circus? There had been something in the circumstances 
 (perhaps the first sight of a living amazon — an appari- 
 tion comparatively rare then in American suburbs) to 
 keep me from forgetting the lady, about whom gath- 
 ered still other legends than the glamour of the theatre 
 At all events, she was planted from that moment so 
 firmly in my mind that when, as a more developed 
 youngster, after an interval of several years, I was 
 taken for education's sake to hear her, the occasion 
 was primarily a relief to long suspense. It became, 
 however, and there was another that followed it, a joy 
 by itself and an impression ineffaceable. 
 
 This was in London, and I remember even from 
 such a distance of time every detail of the picture and 
 every tone of her voice. The two readings. — one was 
 of ''King Lear,*' the other of "A Midsummer- Night's 
 Dream" — took place in certain Assembly Rooms in St. 
 John's Wood. . . . The reader dressed in black 
 velvet for Lear and in white satin for the comedy, and 
 presented herself to my young vision as a being of 
 formidable splendor. I must have measured in some 
 degree the power and beauty of her performance, for I 
 perfectly recall the sense of irreparable privation with 
 which a little later I heard my parents describe the 
 emotion produced by her Othello, given at the old 
 Hanover Square Rooms, and to which I had not been 
 conducted. I have seen both the tragedy and the 
 "Dream" acted several times since then, but I have 
 always found myself waiting vainly for any approach 
 to the splendid volume of Mrs. Kemble's "Howl, 
 howl, howl!" in the one, or to the animation and 
 variety that she contributed to the other. I am confi-
 
 By HENRY JAMES 33 
 
 dent that the most exquisite of fairy-tales never was 
 such a "spectacle" as when she read, I was going to 
 say mounted, it. Is this reminiscence of the human 
 thunder-roll that she produced in Lear in some degree 
 one of the indulgences with which we treat our child- 
 hood? I think not, in the light of innumerable subse- 
 quent impressions. These showed that the force and 
 the imagination were still there; why then should they 
 not, in the prime of their magnificent energy, have 
 borne their fruit? . 
 
 It is always a torment to the later friends of the pos- 
 sessor of a great talent to have to content themselves 
 with the supposition and the hearsay; but in Mrs, 
 Kemble's society there were precious though casual 
 consolations for the treacheries of time. She was so 
 saturated with Shakespeare that she had made him, as 
 it were, the air she lived in, an air that stirred with his 
 words whenever she herself was moved, whenever she 
 was agitated or impressed, reminded or challenged. 
 He was indeed her utterance, the language she spoke 
 when she spoke most from herself. 
 
 "Henry V." was the last play I heard her read in 
 public, and I remember a declaration of hers that it 
 was the play she loved best to read, better even than 
 those that yielded poetry more various. It was gallant 
 and martial and intensely English, and she was cer- 
 tainly on such evenings the "Anglaise des Anglaises" 
 she professed to be. Her splendid tones and her face, 
 lighted like that of a war-goddess, seemed to fill the 
 performance with the hurry of armies and the sound 
 of battle; as in her rendering of "A Midsummer- 
 Night's Dream," so the illusion was that of a multitude 
 and a pageant. I recall the tremendous ring of her
 
 34 FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE • 
 
 voice, somewhat diminished as it then was, in the 
 culminating "God for Harry, England, and Saint 
 George ! " a voice the immense effect of which, in her 
 finest years — the occasion, for instance, of her brief 
 return to the stage in 1847 — an old friend just illus- 
 trates to me by a reminiscence. She was acting at 
 that period at the Princess's Theatre, with Macready, 
 in whom my informant, then a very young man and an 
 unfledged journalist, remembers himself to have been, 
 for some reason, "surprisingly disappointed." It all 
 seems very ancient history. On one of the evenings of 
 "Macbeth," he was making his way, by invitation, to 
 Douglas Jerrold's box — Douglas Jerrold had a news- 
 paper — when, in the passage, he was arrested by the 
 sense that Mrs. Kemble was already on the stage, 
 reading the letter with which Lady Macbeth makes 
 her entrance. The manner in which she read it, the 
 tone that reached his ears, held him motionless and 
 spellbound till she had finished. To nothing more 
 beautiful had he ever listened, nothing more beautiful 
 was he ever to hear again. This was the sort of 
 impression commemorated in Longfellow's so sincere 
 sonnet, "Ah, precious evenings, all too swiftly 
 sped!" . . . 
 
 It befell, on some occasion of her being in one of her 
 frequent and admirable narrative moods, that a friend 
 was sufficiently addicted to the perpetual puzzle of art 
 to ask her what preparation, in a series of readings, 
 what degree of rehearsal, as it were, she found neces- 
 sary for performances so arduous and so complex. 
 "Rehearsal?" — she was, with all the good faith in the 
 world, almost scandalized at the idea, "I may have 
 read over the play, and I think I kept myself quiet."
 
 By HENRY JAMES 35 
 
 "But was nothing- determined, established in advance?" 
 This was an inquiry which Mrs. Kemble could treat 
 with all the gayety of her irony, and in the light of 
 which her talent exhibited just that disconcerting wil- 
 fulness I have already spoken of. She would have 
 been a capture for the disputants who pretend that the 
 actor's emotion must be real, if she had not been 
 indeed, with her hatred both of enrolment and of tea- 
 party esthetics, too dangerous a recruit for any camp. 
 Priggishness and pedantry excited her ire; woe there- 
 fore to those who collectively might have presumed she 
 was on their "side. " 
 
 She was artistically, I think, a very fine anomaly, 
 and, in relation to the efficacity of what may be called 
 the natural method, the operation of pure sincerity, a 
 witness no less interesting than imconscious. An 
 equally active and fruitful love of beauty was probably 
 never accompanied with so little technical curiosity. 
 Her endowment was so rich, her spirit so proud, her 
 temper so high, that, as she was an immense success, 
 they made her indifference and her eccentricity mag- 
 nificent. From what she would have been as a failure 
 the imagination averts its face ; and if her only receipt 
 for "rendering" Shakespeare was to live with him and 
 try to be worthy of him, there are many aspirants it 
 would not have taken far on the way. Nor would one 
 have expected it to be the precursor of performances 
 masterly in their finish. Such simplicities were easy 
 to a person who had Mrs. Kemble 's organ, her pres- 
 ence, and her rare perceptions. . . 
 
 Her talk reflected a thousand vanished and present 
 things ; but there were those of her friends for v/hom 
 its value was, as I have hinted, almost before any
 
 36 FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE 
 
 other documentary. The generations move so fast and 
 change so much that Mrs. Kemble testified even more 
 than she affected to do, which was much, to antique 
 manners and a closed chapter of history. Her conver- 
 sation swarmed with people and with criticism of 
 people, with the ghosts of a dead society. She had, in 
 two hemispheres, seen every one and known every one, 
 had assisted at the social comedy of her age. Her own 
 habits and traditions were in themselves a survival of 
 an era less democratic and more mannered. I have no 
 room for enumerations, which moreover would be 
 invidious; but the old London of her talk — the direc- 
 tion I liked it best to take — was in particular a gallery 
 of portraits. She made Count d'Orsay familiar, she 
 made Charles Greville present ; I thought it wonderful 
 that she could be anecdotic about Miss Edgeworth. 
 She reanimated the old drawing-rooms, relighted the 
 old lamps, retuned the old pianos. The finest comedy 
 of all, perhaps, was that of her own generous whimsi- 
 calities. She was superbly willing to amuse, and on 
 any terms, and her temper could do it as well as her 
 wit. If either of these had failed, her eccentricities 
 were always there. She had, indeed, so much finer a 
 sense of comedy than any one else that she herself 
 knew best, as well as recked least, how she might 
 exhilarate. I remember that at the play she often 
 said, "Yes, they're funny; but they don't begin to 
 know how funny they might be!" Mrs. Kemble 
 always knew, and her good-humor effectually fore- 
 armed her. She had more "habits" than most people 
 have room in life for, and a theory that to a person of 
 her disposition they were as necessary as the close 
 meshes of a strait waistcoat. If she had not lived
 
 By HENRY JAMES 37 
 
 by rule (on her showing), she would have lived 
 infallibly by riot. Her rules and her riots, her reser- 
 vations and her concessions, all her luxuriant theory 
 and all her extravagant practice, her drollery that 
 mocked at her melancholy, her imagination that 
 mocked at her drollery, and her rare forms and per- 
 sonal traditions that mocked a little at everything — 
 these were part of the constant freshness which made 
 those who loved her love her so much, "If my serv- 
 ants can live with me a week they can live with me 
 forever," she often said; "but the first week some- 
 times kills them." I know not what friends it may 
 also have killed, but very fully how many it spared; 
 and what dependants, what devotees, what faithful and 
 humble affections clung to her to the end and after. 
 A domestic who had been long in her service quitted 
 his foreign home the instant he heard of her death, 
 and, travelling for thirty hours, arrived travel-stained 
 and breathless, like a messenger in a romantic tale, 
 just in time to drop a handful of flowers into her 
 grave. 
 
 153801
 
 ELIZABETHAN POETS. From "Essays on the 
 English Poets." By ELIZABETH BARRETT 
 BROWNING. 
 
 O THOSE days of Elizabeth! We call them the 
 days of Elizabeth, but the glory fell over the 
 ridge, in illustration of the half -century beyond : those 
 days of Elizabeth! Full were they of poets as the 
 summer days are of birds : 
 
 No branch on which a fine bird did not sit, 
 No bird but his sweet song did shrilly sing, 
 No song but did contayne a lovely dit. 
 
 We hear of the dramatists ; but the lyric singers were 
 yet more numerous, — there were singers in every class. 
 Never since the first nightingale brake voice in Eden, 
 arose such a jubilee-concert: never before nor since 
 has such a crowd of true poets uttered true poetic 
 speech in one day. Not in England evermore! Not 
 in Greece, that we know. Not in Rome, by what we 
 know. Talk of their Augustan era — we will not talk 
 of it, lest we desecrate our own of Elizabeth. The 
 latter was rightly prefigured by our figure of the 
 chorus of swans. It was besides the milky way of 
 poetry : it was the miracle-age of poetical history. We 
 may fancy that the master-souls of Shakespeare and 
 Spenser, breathing, stirring in divine emotion, shot 
 vibratory life through other souls in electric associa- 
 tion : we may hear, in fancy, one wind moving every 
 leaf in a forest — one voice responded to by a thousand 
 rock-echoes. Why, a common man walking through 
 the earth in those days, grew a poet by position — even 
 as a child's shadow cast upon a mountain slope is 
 dilated to the aspect of a giant's. 
 
 38
 
 By ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING 39 
 
 If we, for our own parts, did enact a Briareus, we 
 might count these poets on the fingers of our hundred 
 hands, after the fashion of the poets of Queen Anne's 
 time, counting their syllables. We do not talk of them 
 as "faultless monsters," however wonderful in the 
 multitude and verity of their gifts: their faults were 
 numerous, too. Many poets of an excellent sweetness, 
 thinking of poetry that, like love, 
 
 It was to be all made of fantasy, — 
 fell poetry-sick, as they might fall love-sick, and 
 knotted associations, far and free enough to girdle the 
 earth withal, into true love-knots of quaintest devices. 
 Many poets affected novelty rather than truth ; and 
 many attained to novelty rather by attitude than alti- 
 tude, whether of thought or word. Worst of all, many 
 were incompetent to Sir Philip Sidney's ordeal — the 
 translation of their verses into prose — and would have 
 perished utterly by that hot ploughshare. Still, the 
 natural healthy eye turns toward the light, and the 
 true calling of criticism remains the distinguishing of 
 beauty. Love and honor to the poets of Elizabeth — 
 honor and love to them all !
 
 REFLECTIONS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 From "The Spectator." 
 
 WHEN I am in a serious humour, I very often 
 walk by myself in Westminster Abbey ; where 
 the gloominess of the place, and the use to which it is 
 applied, with the solemnity of the building, and the 
 condition of the people who lie in it, are apt to fill the 
 mind with a kind of melancholy, or rather thoughtful- 
 ness, that is not disagreeable. I yesterday passed a 
 whole afternoon in the churchyard, the cloisters, and 
 the church, amusing myself with the tomb-stones and 
 inscriptions that I met with in those several regions of 
 the dead. Most of them recorded nothing else of the 
 buried person, but that he was born upon one day, and 
 died upon another; the whole history of his life being 
 comprehended in those two circumstances that are 
 common to all mankind. I could not but look upon 
 these registers of existence, whether of brass or mar- 
 ble, as a kind of satire upon the departed persons ; who 
 had left no other memorial of them, but that they were 
 born, and that they died. They put me in mind of 
 several persons mentioned in the battles of heroic 
 poems, who have sounding names given them, for no 
 other reason but that they may be killed, and are cele- 
 brated for nothing but being knocked on the head. 
 
 The life of these men is finely described in holy writ 
 by "the path of an arrow," which is immediately 
 closed up and lost. 
 
 Upon my going into the church, I entertained myself 
 with the digging of a grave ; and saw in every shovel- 
 ful of it that was thrown up the fragment of a bone or 
 skull intermixed with a kind of fresh mouldering earth 
 that some time or other had a place in the composition 
 
 40
 
 From "THE SPECTATOR" 41 
 
 of a human body. Upon this I began to consider with 
 myself, what innumerable multitudes of people lay 
 confused together under the pavement of that ancient 
 cathedral; how men and women, friends and enemies, 
 priests and soldiers, monks and prebendaries, were 
 crumbled amongst one another, and blended together 
 in the same common mass; how beauty, strength, and 
 youth, with old age, weakness, and deformity, lay 
 undistinguished, in the same promiscuous heap of 
 matter. 
 
 After having thus surveyed this great magazine of 
 mortality, as it were in the lump, I examined it more 
 particularly by the accounts which I found on several 
 of the monuments which are raised in every quarter of 
 that ancient fabric. Some of them were covered with 
 such extravagant epitaphs, that if it were possible for 
 the dead person to be acquainted with them, he would 
 blush at the praises which his friends have bestowed 
 upon him. There are others so excessively modest, 
 that they deliver the character of the person departed 
 in Greek or Hebrew, and by that means are not under- 
 stood once in a twelvemonth. In the poetical quarter, 
 I found there were poets who had no monuments, and 
 monuments which had no poets. I observed, indeed, 
 that the present war had filled the church with many 
 of these uninhabited monuments, which had been 
 erected to the memory of persons whose bodies were 
 perhaps buried in the plains of Blenheim, or in the 
 bosom of the ocean. 
 
 I could not but be very much delighted with several 
 modern epitaphs, which are written with great ele- 
 gance of expression and justness of thought, and there- 
 fore do honour to the living as well as the dead. As a
 
 42 REFLECTIONS in WESTMINSTER ABBEY 
 
 foreigner is very apt to conceive an idea of the igno- 
 rance or politeness of a nation from the turn of their 
 public monuments and inscriptions, they should be 
 submitted to the perusal of men of learning and genius 
 before they are put in execution. Sir Cloudesley Sho- 
 vel's monument has very often given me great offence. 
 Instead of the brave rough English admiral, which was 
 the distinguishing character of that plain gallant man, 
 he is represented on his tomb by the figure of a beau, 
 dressed in a long periwig, and reposing himself upon 
 velvet cushions, under a canopy of state. The inscrip- 
 tion is answerable to the monument; for instead of 
 celebrating the many remarkable actions he had per- 
 formed in the service of his country, it acquaints us 
 only with the manner of his death, in which it was 
 impossible for him to reap any honour. The Dutch, 
 whom we are apt to despise for want of genius, show 
 an infinitely greater taste of antiquity and politeness in 
 their buildings and works of this nature, than what we 
 meet with in those of our own country. The monu- 
 ments of their admirals, which have been erected at 
 the public expense, represent them like themselves, 
 and are adorned with rostral crowns and naval orna- 
 ments, with beautiful festoons of sea-weed, shells, and 
 coral. 
 
 But to return to our subject. I have left the reposi- 
 tory of our English kings for the contemplation of 
 another day, when I shall find my mind disposed for so 
 serious an amusement. I know that entertainments of 
 this nature are apt to raise dark and dismal thoughts in 
 timorous minds, and gloomy imaginations; but for my 
 own part, though I am always serious, I do not know 
 what it is to be melancholy ; and can therefore take a
 
 From "THE SPECTATOR" 43 
 
 view of nature, in her deep and solemn scenes, with 
 the same pleasure as in her most gay and delightful 
 ones. By this means I can improve myself with those 
 objects, v/hich others consider with terror. When I 
 look upon the tombs of the great, every emotion of 
 envy dies in me; when I read the epitaphs of the 
 beautiful, every inordinate desire goes out; when I 
 meet with the grief of parents upon a tomb stone, my 
 heart melts with compassion ; when I see the tomb of 
 the parents themselves, I consider the vanity of griev- 
 ing for those whom we must quickly follow. When I 
 see kings lying by those who deposed them, when I 
 consider rival wits placed side by side, or the holy men 
 that divided the world with their contests and disputes, 
 I reflect with sorrow and astonishment on the little 
 competitions, factions, and debates of mankind. When 
 I read the several dates of the tombs, of some that 
 died yesterday, and some six hundred years ago, I con- 
 sider that great day when we shall all of us be con- 
 temporaries, and make our appearance together.
 
 DR. HALE ON EMERSON. From the "Boston 
 Herald." 
 
 DR. EDWARD EVERETT HALE addressed the 
 Twentieth Century Club last night in their 
 room, 14 Ashburton Place, on "The Influence of 
 Emerson." In introducing the speaker. President 
 Edwin D. Mead recalled the fact that Dr. Hale had 
 christened the club five years ago with an address upon 
 Phillips Brooks, and would now close the fifth year of 
 the organization with a paper on the man whom J. R. 
 Lowell called the Yankee Plato and Dr. O. W. Holmes 
 the Buddha of the West. 
 
 Dr. Hale began with some reflections upon the uni- 
 versality of Emersonian ideas in society to-day. "No 
 matter to what church you may go," said he, "you will 
 hear Emerson from the pulpit. From the fact that 
 two publishing houses in this country have sold about 
 2,500,000 copies of his essays during the past few 
 years, it has been estimated that one family out of 
 every four in the United States has one of his books. 
 
 "He was my friend for many years, visited repeat- 
 edly at my house, and talked familiarly as one does 
 with a friend. The thing I want to emphasize is his 
 deep and tender sympathy with all men, and his way 
 of applying all his ideals to his everyday life. He hoed 
 his own corn on his Concord farm, lived most of his 
 life in comparative poverty, went to the postoffice 
 early in order to have a chance to talk with the men 
 about the door, and bought cheap mutton bones to 
 keep down expenses. Here is where the difference 
 appears between the great idealist and the chipped-off 
 reformers who disgrace the name. So unworldly was 
 he, so completely devoted to his mission of preaching 
 
 44
 
 From the "BOSTON HERALD" 45 
 
 the greatness of truth and right, that at the age of 
 forty-six he received his first check from a publisher, 
 and did not know how to cash it. His books had then 
 been before the public for sixteen years. 
 
 "In the last nineteen centuries," said Dr. Hale, "I 
 can think of only five or six great prophets who have 
 been strong and brave enough to stand alone by them- 
 selves, and take their knowledge direct from the Father 
 God, and then speak it forth to the world. Thousands 
 of others have been to the original source, but have not 
 told the rest of us about it. But the great majority of 
 men are turned aside by the sirens of wealth, or some- 
 thing else commanding stones to be made bread, and 
 so have lost the power that was in them. 
 
 "The last of these great world prophets, of this inner 
 circle of five or six that I have mentioned, was Ralph 
 Waldo Emerson. He heard the voice of Jesus Christ 
 teaching men to go directly to God the Father, climb 
 like a little child upon his knee and tell him all the 
 troubles of life, leaving cares with him. To Emerson 
 the life of God is the same as that which pulsates in 
 the hearts of men and it reaches out beyond the limits 
 of Arcturus and Orion. His common words exalted 
 themselves into the oracles of our times, which compel 
 us to see something of our Father's business, of the 
 exalted human life that is open to the kings and priests 
 of God."
 
 MY FIRST PLAY. From "Essays of Elia." Con- 
 densed by the Editor. By CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 AT the north end of Cross Court there yet stands a 
 portal, of some architectural pretensions, though 
 reduced to humble use, serving at present for an 
 entrance to a printing-office. This old door-way, if 
 you are young, reader, you may not know was the 
 identical pit entrance to old Drury — Garrick's Drur}'- — 
 all of it that is left. I never pass it without shaking" 
 some forty years from off my shoulders, recurring to 
 the evening when I passed through it to see my first 
 play. The afternoon had been wet, and the condition 
 of our going (the elder folks and myself) was that the 
 rain should cease. With what a beating heart did I 
 watch from the window the puddles, from the stillness 
 of which I was taught to prognosticate the desired 
 cessation! I seem to remember the last spurt, and 
 the glee with which I ran to announce it. 
 
 In those days were pit orders. Beshrew the uncom- 
 fortable manager who abolished them! — with one of 
 these we went. I remember the waiting at the door — 
 not that which is left — but between that and an inner 
 door in shelter — O, when shall I be such an expectant 
 again! — with the cry of nonpareils, an indispensable 
 playhouse accompaniment in those days. As near as 
 I can recollect, the fashionable pronunciation of the 
 theatrical fruiteresses then was, "Chase some oranges, 
 chase some numparels, chase a bill of the play;" — 
 chase pro chuse. But when we got in, and I beheld 
 the green curtain that veiled a heaven to my imagina- 
 tion, which was soon to be disclosed, — the breathless 
 anticipations I endured! I had seen something like it 
 in the plate prefixed to Troilus and Cressida, in Rowe's 
 
 46
 
 By CHARLES LAMB 47 
 
 vSliakspeare, — the tent scene with Diomede, — and a 
 sight of that plate can always bring back in a measure 
 the feeling of that evening. The boxes at that time, 
 full of well-dressed women of quality, projected over 
 the pit ; and the pilasters reaching down were adorned 
 with a glistering substance (I know not what) imder 
 glass (as it seemed) resembling — a homely fancy — but 
 I judged it to be sugar-candy, — yet, to my raised 
 imagination, divested of its homelier qualities it 
 appeared a glorified candy! The orchestra lights at 
 length arose, those "fair Auroras!" Once the bell 
 sounded. It was to ring out yet once again, — and 
 incapable of the anticipation, I reposed my shut eyes 
 in a sort of resignation upon the maternal lap. It rang 
 the second time. The curtain drew up, — I was not 
 past six years old, and the play was Artaxerxes! 
 
 I had dabbled a little in the Universal History, — the 
 ancient part of it, — and here was the court of Persia. 
 It was being admitted to a sight of the past. I took no 
 proper interest in the action going on, for I understood 
 not its import, — but I heard the word Darius, and I 
 was in the midst of Daniel. All feeling was absorbed 
 in vision. Gorgeous vests, gardens, palaces, prin- 
 cesses, passed before me. I knew not players. I was 
 in Persepolis for the time, and the burning idol of their 
 devotion almost converted me into a worshipper. I 
 was awe-struck, and believed those significations to be 
 something more than elemental fires. It was all 
 enchantment and a dream. No such pleasure has 
 since visited me but in dreams. Harlequin's invasion 
 followed; where, I remember, the transformation of the 
 magistrates into reverend beldams seemed to me a 
 piece of grave historic justice, and the tailor carrying
 
 48 MY FIRST PLAY 
 
 his own head to be as sober a verity as the legend of 
 St. Denys. 
 
 The next play to which I was taken was "The Lady 
 of the Manor," of which, with the exception of some 
 scenery, very faint traces are left in my memory. It 
 was followed by a pantomime, called "Lun's Ghost. " 
 I saw the primeval Motley come from his silent tomb 
 in a ghastly vest of white patchwork, like the appari- 
 tion of a dead rainbow. So Harlequins (thought I) 
 look when they are dead. 
 
 My third play followed in quick succession. It was 
 "The Way of the World." I think I must have sat at 
 it as grave as a judge ; for, I remember, the hysteric 
 affectations of good Lady Wishfort affected me like 
 some solemn tragic passion. Robinson Crusoe fol- 
 lowed; in which Crusoe, man Friday, and the parrot, 
 were as good and authentic as in the story. The 
 clownery and pantaloonery of these pantomimes have 
 clean passed out of my head. I believe I no more 
 laughed at them than at the same age I should have 
 been disposed to laugh at the grotesque Gothic heads 
 (seeming to me then replete with devout meaning) 
 that gape, and grin, in stone around the inside of the 
 old Round Church (my church) of the Templars. 
 
 I saw these plays in the season of 178 1-2, when I was 
 from six to seven years old. After the intervention of 
 six or seven other years (for at school all play-going 
 was inhibited) I again entered the doors of a theatre. 
 That old Artaxerxes evening had never done ringing 
 in my fancy. I expected the same feelings to come 
 again with the same occasion. But we differ from 
 ourselves less at sixty and sixteen than the latter does 
 from six. In that interval what had I not lost! At
 
 By CHARLES LAMB 49 
 
 the first period I knew nothing, understood nothing-, 
 discriminated nothing. I felt all, loved all, wondered 
 all— 
 
 "Was nourished, I could not tell how, — " 
 
 I had left the temple a devotee, and was returned a 
 rationalist. The same things were there materially; 
 but the emblem, the reference, was gone! The lights 
 — the orchestra lights — came up a clumsy machinery. 
 The first ring, and the second ring, was now but a 
 trick of the prompter's bell — which had been, like the 
 note of the cuckoo, a phantom of a voice, no hand seen 
 or guessed at which ministered to its warning. The 
 actors were men and women painted. I thought the 
 fault was in them ; but it was in myself, and the alter- 
 ation which those many centuries — of six short twelve- 
 months — had wrought in me. Perhaps it was 
 fortunate for me that the play of the evening was but 
 an indifferent comedy, as it gave me time to crop some 
 unreasonable expectations, which might have inter- 
 fered with the genuine emotions with which I was soon 
 after enabled to enter upon the first appearance to me 
 of Mrs. Siddons in Isabella. Comparison and retro- 
 spection soon yielded to the present attraction of the 
 scene ; and the theatre became to me, upon a new 
 stock, the most delightful of recreations.
 
 ON DOGS AND CATS. Translated by Jessie Hen- 
 derson Brewer. By ALEXANDER DUMAS. 
 
 IT is admitted that the dog has intelligence, a heart 
 and perhaps a soul, likewise it is agreed that the 
 cat is a traitor, deceiver, thief, an egotist, an ingrate. 
 How many have we not heard say: "Oh, I cannot 
 abide a cat! it is an animal that loves not its master; it 
 is attached only to the house; one must keep it under 
 lock and key. I had one once, for I was in the country 
 and there were mice. The cook had the imprudence 
 to leave upon the table a poulet that she had just pur- 
 chased ; the cat carried it off, no morsel of it was ever 
 seen after. Since that day I have said: 'I will have 
 no cat' " Its reputation is detestable, the fact cannot 
 be disguised, and one must acknowledge that the cat 
 does nothing to modify the opinion in which it is held. 
 It is entirely unpopular, but it cares as little about this 
 as it does about the Grand Turk. Must I confess it to 
 you? It is for this that I love it, for in this world one 
 can remain indifferent to things the most serious — if 
 there are serious things, and this, one knows only at 
 the end of his life ; but he cannot evade the question of 
 dogs and cats. There is always a moment when he 
 must declare himself. Well, then! I love cats! Ah! 
 the times they have said to me: 
 
 "What, you love cats?" 
 
 "Yes!" 
 
 "Do you not like dogs better?" 
 
 "No, I love cats much more." 
 
 "That is extraordinary." 
 
 I prefer certainly to have neither cat nor dog, but 
 were I forced to live with one of these two individuals, 
 I would choose the cat. It has for me the manners 
 
 50
 
 By ALEXANDER DUMAS 51 
 
 essential to social relations. At first, in its early- 
 youth, It possesses all the graces, all the suppleness, 
 all the unexpectedness by which the most exacting, 
 artistic fancy can be amused! It is adroit, it always 
 knows where it is. Prudent unto caution, it goes 
 everywhere, it examines without soiling, breaking 
 nothing; it is in itself a warmth and a caress; it has 
 not a snout, but a mouth — and what a mouth! It 
 steals the mutton as does the dog, but, unlike the 
 latter, makes no delight of carrion; it is discreet and 
 of fastidious cleanliness, which might be well imitated 
 by a number of its detractors. It washes its face, and 
 in so doing foretells the weather into the bargain. 
 One can entertain the idea of putting a ribbon around 
 its neck, never a collar; it cannot be enslaved. It per- 
 mits no modifications in its race ; it lends itself to no 
 combinations that industries could attempt. The cat 
 reflects, this is obvious, contrary to the dog, a lackbrain 
 whose rabies is his crowning idiocy. In short, the cat 
 is a dignified, proud, disdainful animal that conceals 
 its fonctions basses, that hides its love affairs in the 
 shadows, almost within the clouds, upon the roofs, in 
 the vicinity of the night-working students. It defies 
 advances, and tolerates no insults, it abandons the 
 house in which it is not treated according to its merits; 
 in short, the cat is truly an aristocrat in type and 
 origin, whereas the dog is and ever will be naught but a 
 vulgar parvenu by dint of complaisance. 
 
 The sole argument at all plausible against the cat is 
 that it destroys the birds, the nightingales as well as 
 the sparrows. If the dog does not as much it is 
 because he is too clumsy and stupid. He runs also 
 after the birds, but barking, the birds escape him, and
 
 52 On DOGS and CATS 
 
 he stays behind completely dumbfounded, open- 
 mouthed and with astonished tail. He makes up for it 
 upon the partridges and rabbits, after two years' sub- 
 mission to the strong collar in order to learn this art, 
 and it is not for himself, but for the hunter, that he 
 goes in quest of game. The imbecile ! He persecutes 
 the animals, an animal himself, for the profit of the 
 man who beats him. At least, when the cat catches a 
 bird she has an excuse ; it is to eat it herself. Why 
 would that authorize man to slander her? Let men 
 regard one another! They will see in their race, as in 
 that of cats, those who have claws have no other pre- 
 occupation but to destroy those who have wings.
 
 RIP VAN WINKLE. From "Sketch-Book." Con- 
 densed by the Editor from the First American and 
 English Edition. By WASHINGTON IRVING. 
 
 WHOEVER has made a voyage up the Hudson 
 must remember the Kaatskill Mountains. At 
 the foot of these fairy mountains, the voyager may 
 have descried the light smoke curling up from a vil- 
 lage, whose shingle roofs gleam among the trees, just 
 where the blue tints of the upland melt away into the 
 fresh green of the nearer landscape. It is a little vil- 
 lage of great antiquity, having been founded by some 
 of the Dutch colonists, in the early times of the 
 province, just about the beginning of the government 
 of the good Peter Stuyvesant (may he rest in peace!). 
 
 In that same village, and in one of these very houses 
 
 (which, to tell the precise truth, was sadly time-worn 
 
 and weather-beaten), there lived many years since,. 
 
 while the country was yet a province of Great Britain, 
 
 a simple good-natured fellow, of the name of Rip Van 
 
 Winkle. He was moreover a kind neighbour, and an 
 
 obedient henpecked husband. Indeed, to the latter 
 
 •circumstance might be owing that meekness of spirit 
 
 which gained him such universal popularity; for those 
 
 :men are most apt to be obsequious and conciliating 
 
 .abroad, who are under the discipline of shrews at home. 
 
 The great error in Rip's composition was an insuper- 
 able aversion to all kinds of profitable labour. It 
 could not be from the want of assiduity or persever- 
 ance ; for he would sit on a wet rock, with a rod as 
 long and heavy as a Tartar's lance, and fish all day 
 without a murmur, even though he should not be 
 encouraged by a single nibble. He would carry a 
 fowling-piece on his shoulder, for hours together, 
 
 53
 
 54 RIP VAN WINKLE 
 
 trudging through woods and swamps, and up hill and 
 down dale, to shoot a few squirrels or wild pigeons. 
 In a word. Rip was ready to attend to anj^body's busi- 
 ness but his own; but as to doing family duty, and 
 keeping his farm in order, he found it impossible. 
 
 His children, too, were as ragged and wild as if they 
 belonged to nobody. His son Rip, an urchin begotten 
 in his own likeness, promised to inherit the habits, with 
 the old clothes of his father. 
 
 Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those happy 
 mortals, of foolish, v/ell-oiled dispositions, who take 
 the world easy, eat white bread or brown, whichever 
 can be got with least thought or trouble, and would 
 rather starve on a penny than work for a pound. If 
 left to himself, he would have whistled life away, in 
 perfect contentment; but his wife kept continually 
 dinning in his ears about his idleness, his carelessness, 
 and the ruin he was bringing on his famil5\ 
 
 Rip's sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, who 
 was as much henpecked as his master ; for Dame Van 
 Winkle regarded them as companions in idleness, and 
 even looked upon Wolf with an evil eye, as the cause 
 of his master's going so often astray. 
 
 Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van Winkle, 
 as years of matrimony rolled on: a tart temper never 
 mellows with age, and a sharp tongue is the only edge 
 tool that grows keener with constant use. For a long 
 while he used to console himself, when driven from 
 home, by frequenting a kind of perpetual club of the 
 sages, philosophers, and other idle personages of the 
 village, which held its sessions on a bench before a 
 small inn, designated by a rubicund portrait of his maj- 
 esty George the Third. Here they used to sit in the
 
 By WASHINGTON IRVING 55 
 
 shade, of a long lazy summer's day, talking listlessly 
 over village gossip, or telling endless sleepy stories 
 about nothing. But it would have been worth any 
 statesman's money to have heard the profound discus- 
 sions which sometimes took place, when by chance an 
 old newspaper fell into their hands, from some passing 
 traveller. How solemnly they would listen to the con- 
 tents, as drawled out by Derrick Van Bummel, the 
 schoolmaster, a dapper learned little man, who was 
 not to be daunted by the most gigantic word in the 
 dictionary; and how sagely they would deliberate upon 
 public events some months after they had taken place ! 
 
 The opinions of this junto were completely con- 
 trolled by Nicholas Vedder, a patriarch of the village, 
 and landlord of the inn, at the door of which he took 
 his seat from morning till night, just moving suffi- 
 ciently to avoid the sun, and keep in the shade of a 
 large tree ; so that the neighbours could tell the hour 
 by his movements as accurately as by a sun-dial. 
 
 From even this stronghold the unlucky Rip was at 
 length routed by his termagant wife, who would sud- 
 denly break in upon the tranquillity of the assemblage, 
 and call the members all to nought; nor was that 
 august personage, Nicholas Vedder himself, sacred 
 from the daring tongue of this terrible virago, who 
 charged him outright with encouraging her husband in 
 habits of idleness. 
 
 Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair, and 
 his only alternative to escape from the labour of the 
 farm and the clamour of his wife, was to take gun in 
 hand, and stroll away into the woods. Here he would 
 sometimes seat himself at the foot of a tree, and share 
 the contents of his wallet with Wolf, with whom he
 
 56 RIP VAN WINKLE 
 
 sympathized as a fellow-sufferer in persecution. 
 "Poor Wolf," he would say, "thy mistress leads thee a 
 dog's life of it; but never mind, my lad, whilst I live 
 thou shalt never want a friend to stand by thee!" 
 Wolf would wag his tail, look wistfully in his master's 
 face, and if dogs can feel pity, I verily believe he 
 reciprocated the sentiment with all his heart. 
 
 In a long ramble of the kind, on a fine autumnal 
 day. Rip had unconsciously scrambled to one of the 
 highest parts of the Kaatskill Mountains, 
 
 As he was about to descend, he heard a voice from a 
 distance, hallooing, "Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van 
 Winkle!" He looked around, but could see nothing 
 but a crow winging its solitary flight across the moun- 
 tain. He thought his fancy must have deceived him, 
 and turned again to descend, when he hea,rd the same 
 cry ring through the still evening air: "Rip Van 
 Winkle! Rip Van Winkle!"— at the same time Wolf 
 bristled up his back, and giving a low growl, skulked 
 to his master's side, looking fearfully down into the 
 glen. Rip now felt a vague apprehension stealing over 
 him: he looked anxiously in the same direction, and 
 perceived a strange figure slowly toiling up the rocks, 
 and bending under the weight of something he carried 
 on his back. 
 
 On nearer approach, he was still more surprised at 
 the singularity of the stranger's appearance. He was 
 a short square-built old fellow, with thick bushy hair, 
 and a grizzled beard. His dress was of the antique 
 Dutch fashion — a cloth jerkin strapped round the waist 
 — several pair of breeches, the outer one of ample 
 volume, decorated with rows of buttons down the side, 
 and bunches at the knees. He bore on his shoulders a
 
 By WASHINGTON IRVING 57 
 
 stout keg, that seemed full of liquor, and made signs 
 for Rip to approach and assist him with the load. 
 Though rather shy and distrustful of this new acquaint- 
 ance. Rip complied with his usual alacrity, and 
 mutually relieving each other, they clambered up a 
 narrow gully, apparently the dry bed of a mountain 
 torrent. As they ascended, Rip every now and then 
 heard long rolling peals, like distant thunder, that 
 seemed to issue out of a deep ravine, or rather cleft 
 between lofty rocks, toward which their rugged path 
 conducted. He paused for an instant, but supposing 
 it to be the muttering of one of those transient thunder- 
 showers which often take place in mountain heights, he 
 proceeded. Passing through the ravine, they came to 
 a hollow, like a small amphitheatre, surrounded by per- 
 pendicular precipices, over the brink of which, Impend- 
 ing trees shot their branches, so that you only caught 
 glimpses of the azure sky, and the bright evening cloud. 
 During the whole time. Rip and his companion had 
 laboured on in silence; for though the former mar- 
 velled greatly what could be the object of carry- 
 ing a keg of liquor up this wild mountain, yet there 
 was something strange and incomprehensible about 
 the unknown, that inspired awe, and checked famil- 
 iarity. 
 
 On entering the amphitheatre, new objects of won- 
 der presented themselves. On a level spot in the centre 
 was a company of odd-looking personages playing at 
 nine-pins. They were dressed in a quaint outlandish 
 fashion: some wore short doublets, others jerkins, 
 with long knives in their belts, and most of them had 
 enormous breeches, of similar style with that of the 
 guide's. Their visages, too, were peculiar: one had a
 
 58 RIP VAN WINKLE 
 
 large head, broad face, and small piggish eyes; the 
 face of another seemed to consist entirely of nose, and 
 was surmounted by a white sugar-loaf hat, set ofE with 
 a little red cock's tail. They all had beards, of various 
 shapes and colours. There was one who seemed to 
 be the commander. He was a stout old gentleman, 
 with a weather-beaten countenance; he wore a laced 
 doublet, broad belt and hanger, high-crowned hat and 
 feather, red stockings, and high-heeled shoes, with 
 roses in them. 
 
 As Rip and his companion approached them, they 
 suddenly desisted from their play, and stared at him 
 with such a fixed statue-like gaze, and such strange, 
 uncouth, lack-lustre countenances, that his heart 
 turned within him, and his knees smote together. His 
 companion now emptied the contents of the keg into 
 large flagons, and made signs to him to wait upon the 
 company. He obeyed with fear and trembling; they 
 quaffed the liquor in profound silence, and then 
 returned to their game. 
 
 By degrees, Rip's awe and apprehension subsided. 
 He even ventured, when no eye was fixed upon him, 
 to taste the beverage, which he found had much of the 
 flavour of excellent Hollands. He was naturally a 
 thirsty soul, and was soon tempted to repeat the 
 draught. One taste provoked another, and he reiter- 
 ated his visits to the flagon so often that at length his 
 senses were overpowered, his eyes swam in his head, 
 his head gradually declined, and he fell into a deep 
 sleep. 
 
 On waking, he found himself on the green knoll from 
 whence he had first seen the old man of the glen. He 
 rubbed his eyes — it was a bright sunny morning.
 
 By WASHINGTON IRVING 59; 
 
 "Surely," thought Rip, "I have not slept here all 
 night." 
 
 He looked round for his gun, but in place of the 
 clean well-oiled fowling-piece, he found an old firelock 
 lying by him, the barrel encrusted with rust, the lock 
 falling off, and the stock worm-eaten. He now sus- 
 pected that the grave roysters of the mountain had put 
 a trick upon him, and having dosed him with liquor, 
 had robbed him of his gun. Wolf, too, had disap- 
 peared, but he might have strayed away after a squirrel 
 or partridge. He whistled after him, and shouted his 
 name, but all in vain ; the echoes repeated his whistle 
 and shout, but no dog was to be seen. 
 
 As he rose to walk, he found himself stiff in the 
 joints, and v/anting in his usual activity. "These 
 mountain beds do not agree with me, ' ' thought Rip, 
 "and if this frolic should lay me up with a fit of the 
 rheumatism, I shall have a blessed time with Dame 
 Van Winkle." The morning was passing away, and 
 Rip felt famished for want of his breakfast. He 
 grieved to give up his dog and g^n; he dreaded to 
 meet his wife; but it would not do to starve among the 
 mountains. He shook his head, shouldered the rusty 
 firelock, and, with a heart full of trouble and anxiety, 
 turned his step homeward. 
 
 As he approached the village, he met a number of 
 people, but none whom he knew, which somewhat sur- 
 prised him, for he had thought himself acquainted with 
 every one in the country round. Their dress, too, 
 was of a different fashion from that to which he was 
 accustomed. They all stared at him with equal marks 
 of surprise, and whenever they cast eyes upon him, 
 invariably stroked their chins. The constant recur-
 
 6o RIP VAN WINKLE 
 
 rence of this gesture induced Rip, involuntarily, to do 
 the same, when, to his astonishment, he found his 
 beard had grown a foot long! 
 
 He had now entered the skirts of the village. His 
 mind now misgave him; he began to doubt whether 
 both he and the world around him were not bewitched. 
 Surely this was his native village, which he had left 
 but a day before. 
 
 It was with some difficulty that he found the way to 
 his own house, which he approached with silent awe, 
 expecting every moment to hear the shrill voice of 
 Dame Van Winkle. He found the house gone to decay 
 — the roof fallen in, the windows shattered, and the 
 doors off the hinges. A half-starved dog, that looked 
 like Wolf, was skulking about it. Rip called him by 
 name, but the cur snarled, showed his teeth, and 
 passed on. This was an unkind cut indeed. "My 
 very dog," sighed Rip, "has forgotten me!" 
 
 He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old resort, 
 the village inn — but it too was gone. A large rickety 
 wooden building stood in its place, with great gaping 
 windows, some of them broken, and mended with old 
 hats and petticoats, and over the door was painted, 
 "The Union Hotel, by Jonathan Doolittle." Instead 
 of the great tree that used to shelter the quiet little 
 Dutch inn of yore, there now was reared a tall naked 
 pole, with something on the top that looked like a red 
 night-cap, and from it was fluttering a flag, on which 
 was a singular assemblage of stars and stripes — all this 
 was strange and incomprehensible. He recognized on 
 the sign, however, the ruby face of King George, under 
 which he had smoked so many a peaceful pipe, but 
 even this was singularly metamorphosed. The red
 
 By WASHINGTON IRVING 6i 
 
 coat was changed for one of blue and buff, a sword was 
 held in the hand instead of a sceptre, the head was 
 decorated with a cocked hat, and underneath was 
 painted in large characters, 
 
 GENERAL WASHINGTON. 
 
 There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, 
 but none that Rip recollected. The very character of 
 the people seemed changed. There was a busy, bus- 
 tling, disputatious tone about it, instead of the accus- 
 tomed phlegm and drowsy tranquillity. 
 
 The appearance of Rip, with his long grizzled beard, 
 his rusty fowling-piece, his uncouth dress, and the 
 army of women and children that had gathered at his 
 heels, soon attracted the attention of the tavern poli- 
 ticians. They crowded round him, eyeing him from 
 head to foot, with great curiosity. A man bustled up 
 to him, and drawing him partly aside, inquired, "on 
 which side he voted?" Rip stared in vacant stupidity. 
 Another short but busy little fellow pulled him by 
 the arm, and rising on tip-toe, inquired in his ear, 
 "whether he was Federal or Democrat." 
 
 "Alas! gentlemen," cried Rip, somewhat dismayed, 
 "I am a poor quiet man, a native of the place, and a 
 loyal subject of the King, God bless him!" 
 
 Here a general shout burst from the bystanders — "A 
 tory ! a tory ! a spy ! a refugee ! hustle him ! away with 
 him!" The poor man humbly assured them that he 
 meant no harm, but merely came there in search of some 
 of his neighbours, who used to keep about the tavern. 
 
 "Well — who are they? — name them." 
 
 Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, 
 "Where's Nicholas Vedder?"
 
 62 RIP VAN WINKLE 
 
 There was a silence for a little while, when an old 
 man replied, in a thin piping voice, "Nicholas Vedder? 
 why, he is dead and gone these eighteen years! There 
 was a wooden tomb-stone in the church-yard that used 
 to tell all about him, but that's rotten and gone too." 
 
 "Where's Van Bummel, the schoolmaster?" 
 
 "He went off to the wars, too, was a great militia 
 general, and is now in Congress." 
 
 Rip's heart died away, at hearing of these sad 
 changes in his home and friends, and finding himself 
 thus alone in the world. Every answer puzzled him, 
 too, by treating of such enormous lapses of time, and 
 of matters which he could not understand: war — Con- 
 gress — Stony-Point! — he had no courage to ask after 
 any more friends, but cried out in despair, "Does 
 nobody here know Rip Van Winkle?" 
 
 "Oh, Rip Van Winkle!" exclaimed two or three. 
 "Oh, to be sure! that's Rip Van Winkle yonder, lean- 
 ing against the tree." 
 
 Rip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of him- 
 self as he went up the mountain ; apparently as lazy, 
 and certainly as ragged. The poor fellow was now 
 completely confounded. He doubted his own identity, 
 and whether he was himself or another man. 
 
 At this critical moment a fresh comely woman 
 passed through the throng to get a peep at the gray- 
 bearded man. She had a chubby child in her arms, 
 which, frightened at his looks, began to cry. "Hush, 
 Rip," she cried, "hush, you little fool; the old man 
 won't hurt you." The name of the child, the air of 
 the mother, the tone of her voice, all awakened a train 
 of recollections in his mind. "What is your name, my 
 good woman?" asked he.
 
 By WASHINGTON IRVING 63 
 
 '■Judith Gardenier. " 
 
 "And your father's name?" 
 
 "Ah, poor man, his name was Rip Van Winkle; it's 
 twenty years since he went away from home with his 
 gun, and never has been heard of since — his dog came 
 home without him ; but whether he shot himself, or 
 was carried away by the Indians, nobody can tell. I 
 was then but a little girl." 
 
 Rip had but one question more to ask ; but he put it 
 with a faltering voice : 
 
 "Where's your mother?" 
 
 Oh, she too had died but a short time since; she 
 broke a blood-vessel in a fit of passion at a New-Eng- 
 land pedlar. 
 
 There was a drop of comfort, at least, in this intelli- 
 gence. The honest man could contain himself no 
 longer. He caught his daughter and her child in his 
 arms. "I am your father!" cried he — "Young Rip 
 Van Winkle once — old Rip Van Winkle now! Does 
 nobody know poor Rip Van Winkle?" 
 
 All stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering out 
 from among the crowd, put her hand to her brow, and 
 peering under it in his face for a moment, exclaimed, 
 "Sure enough! it is Rip Van Winkle — it is himself. 
 Welcome home again, old neighbour. Why, where 
 have you been these twenty long years?" 
 
 Rip's story was soon told, for the whole twenty years 
 had been to him but as one night.
 
 BROWNING'S FIRST MANUSCRIPT. From 
 "Robert Browning Personalia. " Copyright, 1890, by 
 Houghton, Mifflin & Company. Reprinted with per- 
 mission. By EDMUND GOSSE. 
 
 ROBERT BROWNING can hardly remember a 
 time when his intention was not to be eminent 
 in rhyme, and he began to write at least as early as 
 Cowley. His sister remembers him, as a very little 
 boy, walking round and round the dining-room table, 
 and spanning out the scansion of his verses with his 
 hand on the smooth mahogany. When he was about 
 eight years old, this ambitious young person disdained 
 the narrow field of poetry, and, while retaining that 
 sceptre, debated within himself, as Dryden says Anne 
 Killegrew did, whether he should invade and conquer 
 the province of painting or that of music. It soon 
 became plain to him, however, that, as he himself put 
 it thirty-five years later: 
 
 "I shall never, in the years remaining, 
 Paint you pictures, no, nor carve you statues, 
 Make you music that should all-express me: 
 . . . Verse alone, one life allows me," 
 
 and he began writing with assiduity. It is curious to 
 reflect that all the giants were alive in those days — not 
 even Keats himself laid to sleep under the Roman 
 grasses. 
 
 In 1824, the year that Byron died, the boy had col- 
 lected poems enough to form a volume, and these were 
 taken around to publisher after publisher, but in vain. 
 The first people who saw the nascent genius of this lad 
 of twelve years old were the two Misses Flower, the 
 younger afterward authoress of Vivia Perpetua, and 
 too sadly known as Sarah Flower Adams. The elder 
 
 64
 
 By EDMUND GOSSE 65 
 
 Miss Flower thought the poems so remarkable that she 
 copied them and showed them to the distinguished 
 Unitarian, the Rev. William Johnson Fox, then already 
 influential as a radical politician of the finer order. As 
 a matter of course, Mr. Fox was too judicious to 
 recommend the publication of poems so juvenile, but 
 he ventured to prophesy a splendid future for the boy, 
 and he kept the transcripts in his possession. To Mr. 
 Browning's great amusement, after the death of Mr, 
 Fox, in 1864, his daughter, Mrs. Bridell-Fox, returned 
 the MS. to the author, who read in maturity the for- 
 gotten verses of his childhood.
 
 NEW ENGLAND CLIMATE IN SUMMER. By 
 RUFUS CHOATE. 
 
 TAKE the New England climate in summer, you 
 would think the world was coming to an end. 
 Certain recent heresies on that subject may have had a 
 natural origin there. Cold to-day; hot to-morrow; 
 mercury at 80° in the morning, with wind at south- 
 west ; and in three hours more a sea turn, wind at east, 
 a thick fog from the very bottom of the ocean, and a 
 fall of forty degrees of Fahrenheit ; now so dry as to 
 kill all the beans in New Hampshire; then floods 
 carrying off the bridges of the Penobscot and Connecti- 
 cut; snow in Portsmouth in July; and the next day a 
 man and a yoke of oxen killed by lightning in Rhode 
 Island. You would think the world was twenty times 
 coming to an end. But I do not know how it is: we 
 go along; the early and the latter rain falls, each in its 
 season ; and seedtime and harvest do not fail ; the sixty 
 days of hot corn weather are pretty sure to be meas- 
 ured out to us. The Indian summer, with its bland 
 south-west and mitigated sunshine, brings all up; and 
 on the twenty-fifth of November, or thereabouts, being 
 Thursday, three millions of grateful people, in meet- 
 ing-houses, or around the family board, give thanks 
 for a year of health, plenty, and happiness. 
 
 66
 
 ANECDOTES. From "The Jest Book." 
 
 EMPEROR OF CHINA. 
 
 SIR G. STAUNTON related a curious anecdote of 
 old Kien Long, Emperor of China. He was 
 inquiring of Sir George the manner in which physi- 
 cians were paid in England. When, after some diffi- 
 culty, his majesty was made to comprehend the system, 
 he exclaimed, "Is any man well in England, that can 
 afford to be ill? Now, I will inform you," said he, 
 "how I manage my physicians. I have four, to whom 
 the care of my health is committed : a certain weekly 
 salary is allowed them, but the moment I am ill, the 
 salary stops till I am well again. I need not inform 
 you my illnesses are usually short." 
 
 ' SUGGESTION. 
 
 "Do you know what made my voice so melodious?" 
 said a celebrated vocal performer, of awkward man- 
 ners, to Charles Bannister. "No," replied the other. 
 "Why, then, I'll tell you: when I was about fifteen, I 
 swallowed, by accident, some train oil." "I don't 
 think," rejoined Bannister, "it would have done you 
 any harm if, at the same time, you had swallowed a 
 dancing-master ! ' ' 
 
 THE FORCE OF SATIRE. 
 
 Jacob Johnson, the publisher, having refused to 
 advance Dryden a sum of money for a work upon 
 which he was engaged, the incensed bard sent a mes- 
 sage to him, and the following lines, adding, "Tell the 
 dog that he who wrote these can write more": 
 
 With leering looks, bull-necked, and freckled face, 
 With two left legs, and Judas-colored hair, 
 And frowsy pores, that taint the ambient air! " 
 
 67
 
 68 ANECDOTES 
 
 Johnson felt the force of the description; and, to 
 avoid a completion of the portrait, immediately sent 
 the money. 
 
 THE ANGLO-FRENCH ALLIANCE. 
 
 Jerrold was in France, and with a Frenchman who 
 was enthusiastic on the subject of the Anglo-French 
 alliance. He said that he was proud to see the English 
 and the French such good friends at last. "Tut! the 
 best thing I know between France and England is — 
 the sea, ' ' said Jerrold. 
 
 AN EFFORT OF MEMORY. 
 
 "Would you think it?" said A to B, "Mr. Roscius 
 has taken a week to study a Prologue which I wrote in 
 a day," "His memory is evidently not so good as 
 yours," replied B. 
 
 A ROWLAND FOR AN OLIVER. 
 
 Mr. Hawkins, Q. C, engaged in a cause before the 
 late Lord Campbell, had frequently to mention the 
 damage done to a carriage called a Brougham, and 
 this word he pronounced, according to its orthography, 
 Brougham. 
 
 'If my learned friend will adopt the usual designa- 
 tion, and call the carriage a Bro'am, it will save the 
 time of the court," said Lord Campbell, with a smile. 
 
 Mr. Hawkins bowed and accepted his Lordship's 
 pronunciation of the word during the remainder of his 
 speech. When Lord Campbell proceeded to sum up 
 the evidence, he had to refer to the Omnibus which 
 had damaged the Bro'am, and in doing so pronounced 
 the word also according to its orthography. "I beg 
 your Lordship's pardon," said Mr. Hawkins, very 
 respectfully, "but if your Lordship will use the com-
 
 From "THE JEST BOOK" 69 
 
 mon designation for such a vehicle, and call it a 
 
 'Buss " The loud laughter which ensued, and in 
 
 which his Lordship joined, prevented the conclusion of 
 the sentence. 
 
 PROPER DISTINCTION. 
 
 An undergraduate had unconsciously strayed into 
 the garden of a certain D.D., then master of the col- 
 lege adjoining. He had not been there many minutes, 
 
 when Dr. entered himself, and, perceiving the 
 
 student, in no very courteous manner desired the 
 young gentleman to walk out; which the undergradu- 
 ate, not doing (in the opinion of the doctor) in suffi- 
 cient haste, Dominie demanded, rather peremptorily, 
 "whether he knew who he was?" at the same time 
 
 informing the intruder that he was Dr. . "That," 
 
 replied the undergraduate, "is impossible; for Dr. 
 
 is a gentleman, and you are a blackguard!" 
 
 TREASON. 
 
 When Patrick Henry, who gave the first impulse to 
 the ball of the American Revolution, introduced his 
 celebrated resolution on the Stamp Act into the House 
 of Burgesses of Virginia (May, 1765), he exclaimed, 
 when descanting on the tyranny of the obnoxious act, 
 "Caesar had his Brutus; Charles I. his Cromwell; and 
 
 George III. " "Treason!" cried the speaker; 
 
 "Treason, treason!" echoed from every part of the 
 house. It was one of those trying moments which are 
 decisive of character. Henry faltered not for an 
 instant ; but rising to a loftier attitude, and fixing on 
 the speaker an eye flashing with fire, continued, "May 
 profit by their example. If this be treason, make the 
 most of it."
 
 THE ORIGINAL DRAFT OF THE DECLARA- 
 TION OF INDEPENDENCE. By THOMAS JEF- 
 FERSON. 
 
 WHEN in the course of human events it becomes 
 necessary for one people to dissolve the polit- 
 ical bands which have connected them with another, and 
 to assume among the powers of the earth the separate 
 and equal station to which the laws of nature and of 
 nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opin- 
 ions of mankind requires that they should declare the 
 causes which impel them to the separation. 
 
 We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men 
 are created equal; that they are endowed by their 
 creator with inherent and inalienable rights; that 
 among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of hap- 
 piness; that to secure these rights, governments are 
 instituted among men, deriving their just powers 
 from the consent of the governed ; that whenever any 
 form of government becomes destructive of these ends, 
 it is the right of the people to alter or abolish it, and to 
 institute new government, laying its foundation on 
 such principles, and organizing its powers in such 
 form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their 
 safety and happiness. Prudence indeed will dictate 
 that governments long established should not be 
 changed for light and transient causes; and accord- 
 ingly all experience hath shown that mankind are more 
 disposed to suffer while evils are sufferable, than to 
 right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they 
 arc accustomed. But when a long train of abuses and 
 usurpations, begun at a distinguished period and pur- 
 suing invariably the same object, evinces a design to 
 reduce them under absolute despotism, it is their right, 
 
 70
 
 By THOMAS JEFFERSON 71 
 
 it is their duty to throw off such government, and to 
 provide new guards for their future security. Such 
 has been the patient sufferance of these colonies; and 
 such is now the necessity which constrains them to 
 expunge their former systems of government. The 
 history of the present king of Great Britain is a history 
 of unremitting injuries and usurpations, among which 
 appears no solitary fact to contradict the uniform tenor 
 of the rest, but all have in direct object the establish- 
 ment of an absolute tyranny over these states. To 
 prove this let facts be submitted to a candid world, for 
 the truth of which we pledge a faith yet unsullied by 
 falsehood. 
 
 He has refused his assent to laws the most whole- 
 some and necessary for the public good. 
 
 He has forbidden his governors to pass laws of 
 immediate and pressing importance, unless suspended 
 in their operation till his assent should be obtained; 
 and when so suspended, he has utterly neglected to 
 attend to them. 
 
 He has refused to pass other laws for the accommo- 
 dation of large districts of people, unless those people 
 would relinquish the right of representation in the 
 legislature, a right inestimable to them, and formi- 
 dable to tyrants only. 
 
 He has called together legislative bodies at places 
 unusual, uncomfortable, and distant from the deposi- 
 tory of their public records, for the sole purpose of 
 fatiguing them into compliance with his measures. 
 
 He has dissolved Representative houses repeatedly 
 and continually for opposing with manly firmness his 
 invasions on the rights of the people. 
 
 He has refused for a long time after such dissolu-
 
 72 The DECLARATION of INDEPENDENCE 
 
 tions to cause others to be elected, whereby the legis- 
 lative powers, incapable of annihilation, have returned 
 to the people at large for their exercise, the state 
 remaining in the meantime exposed to all the dangers 
 of invasion from without and convulsions within. 
 
 He has endeavored to prevent the population of 
 these states; for that purpose obstructing the laws for 
 naturalization of foreigners, refusing to pass others to 
 encourage their migrations hither, and raising the 
 conditions of new appropriations of lands. 
 
 Hd^has suffered the administration of justice totally 
 to cease in some of these states, refusing his assent to 
 laws for establishing judiciary powers. 
 
 He has made our judges dependent on his will alone 
 for the tenure of their oiBces, and the amount and 
 payment of their salaries. 
 
 He has erected a multitude of new offices by a self- 
 assumed power, and sent hither swarms of new officers 
 to harass our people and eat out their substance. 
 
 He has kept among us in times of peace standing 
 armies and ships of war without the consent of our 
 legislatures. 
 
 He has affected to render the military independent 
 of, and superior to the civil power. 
 
 He has combined with others to subject us to a juris- 
 diction foreign to our constitutions and unacknowl- 
 edged by our laws, giving his assent to their acts of 
 pretended legislation for quartering large bodies of 
 armed troops among us; for protecting them by a 
 mock-trial from punishment for any murders which 
 they should commit on the inhabitants of these states; 
 for cutting off our trade with all parts of the world; for 
 imposing taxes on us without our consent; for depriv-
 
 By THOMAS JEFFERSON 73 
 
 ing us of the benefits of trial by jury; for transporting 
 us beyond seas to be tried for pretended offences; for 
 abolishing the free system of English laws in a neigh- 
 boring province, establishing there an arbitrary 
 government, and enlarging its boundaries, so as to 
 render it at once an example and fit instrument for 
 introducing the same absolute rule into these states; for 
 taking away our charters, abolishing our most valu- 
 able laws, and altering fundamentally the forms of our 
 governments; for suspending our own legislatures, and 
 declaring them invested with power to legislate for us 
 in all cases whatsoever. 
 
 He has abdicated government here, withdrawing his 
 governors, and declaring us out of his allegiance and 
 protection. 
 
 He has plundered our seas, ravaged our coasts, burnt 
 our towns, and destroyed the lives of our people. 
 
 He is at this time transporting large armies of for- 
 eign mercenaries to complete the works of death, deso- 
 lation, and tyranny already begun with circumstances 
 of cruelty and perfidy unworthy of the head of a 
 civilized nation. 
 
 He has constrained our fellow citizens taken captive 
 on the high seas to bear arms against their country, to 
 become the excutioners of their friends and brethren, 
 or to fall themselves by their hands. 
 
 He has endeavored to bring on the inhabitants of 
 our frontiei's, the merciless Indian savages, whose 
 known rule of warfare is an undistinguished destruc- 
 tion of all ages, sexes, and conditions of existence. 
 
 He has incited treasonable insurrection of our fellow 
 citizens, with the allurements of forfeiture and confisca- 
 tion of our property.
 
 74 The DECLARATION of INDEPENDENCE 
 
 He has waged cruel war against human nature itself, 
 violating its most sacred rights of life and liberty in 
 the persons of a distant people who never offended 
 him, captivating and carrying them into slavery in 
 another hemisphere, or to incur miserable death in 
 their transportation thither. This piratical warfare, 
 the opprobrium of INFIDEL powers, is the warfare of 
 the CHRISTIAN King of Great Britain. Determined 
 to keep open a market where MEN should be bought 
 and sold, he has prostituted his negative for suppress- 
 ing every legislative attempt to prohibit or to restrain 
 this execrable commerce. And that this assemblage of 
 horrors might want no fact of distinguished die, he is 
 now exciting those very people to rise in arms among 
 us, and to purchase that liberty of which he has 
 deprived them, by murdering the people on whom he 
 also obtruded them: thus paying off former crimes 
 committed against the LIBERTIES of one people, 
 with crimes which he urges them to commit against 
 the LIVES of another. 
 
 In every stage of these oppressions we have peti- 
 tioned for redress in the most humble terms: our 
 repeated petitions have been answered only by repeated 
 injuries. 
 
 A prince whose character is thus marked by every 
 act which may define a tyrant is unfit to be the ruler 
 of a people who mean to be free. Future ages will 
 scarcely believe that the hardiness of one man adven- 
 tured, within the short compass of twelve years only, 
 to lay a foundation so broad and so undisguised for 
 tyranny over a people fostered and fixed in principles 
 of freedom. 
 
 Nor have we been wanting in attentions to our
 
 By THOMAS JEFFERSON 75 
 
 British brethren. We have warned them from time to 
 time of attempts by their legislature to extend a juris- 
 diction over these our states. We have reminded them 
 of the circumstances of our emigration and settlement 
 here, no one of which could warrant so strange a pre- 
 tension : that these were effected at the expense of our 
 own blood and treasure, unassisted by the wealth or 
 the strength of Great Britain: that in constituting 
 indeed our several forms of government, we had 
 adopted one common king, thereby laying a foundation 
 for perpetual league and amity with them : but that 
 submission to their parliament was no part of our con- 
 stitution, nor ever in idea, if history may be credited: 
 and we appealed to their native justice and mag- 
 nanimity as well as to the ties of our common kindred 
 to disavow these usurpations which were likely to 
 interrupt our connection and correspondence. They 
 too have been deaf to the voice of justice and of con- 
 sanguinity, and when occasions have been given them, 
 by the regular course of their laws, of removing from 
 their councils the disturbers of our harmony, they 
 have, by their free election, re-established them in 
 power. At this very time too, they are permitting their 
 chief magistrates to send over not only soldiers of our 
 common blood, but Scotch and foreign mercenaries to 
 invade and destroy us. These facts have given the last 
 stab to agonizing affection, and manly spirit bids us to 
 renounce forever these unfeeling brethren. We must 
 endeavor to forget our former love for them, and hold 
 them as we hold the rest of mankind, enemies in war, 
 in peace friends. We might have been a free and 
 a great people together; but a communication of 
 grandeur and of freedom, it seems, is below their
 
 76 The DECLARATION of INDEPENDENCE 
 
 dignity. Be it so, since they will have it. The road 
 to happiness and to glory is open to us too. We will 
 tread it apart from them, and acquiesce in the neces- 
 sity which denounces our eternal separation! 
 
 We, therefore, the representatives of the United 
 States of America in General Congress assembled, do, 
 in the name, and by authority of the good people 
 of these states, reject and renounce all allegiance and 
 subjection to the kings of Great Britain and all others 
 who may hereafter claim by, through or under them ; 
 we utterly dissolve all political connection which may 
 heretofore have subsisted between us and the people or 
 parliament of Great Britain ; and finally we do assert 
 and declare these colonies to be free and independent 
 states, and that as free and independent states, they 
 have full power to levy war, conclude peace, contract 
 alliances, establish commerce, and to do all other acts 
 and things which independent states may of right do. 
 
 And for the support of this declaration, we mutually 
 pledge to each other our lives, our fortunes, and our 
 sacred honor.
 
 GENIUS AND COMMON SENSE. From "Table 
 Talk." By WILLIAM HAZLITT. 
 
 WE hear it maintained by people of more gravity 
 than understanding, that genius and taste are 
 strictly reducible to rules, and that there is a rule for 
 everything. So far is it from being true that the 
 finest breath of fancy is a definable thing, that the 
 plainest common sense is only what Mr. Locke would 
 have called a mixed mode, subject to a particular sort 
 of acquired and undefinable tact. It is asked, "If you 
 do not know the rule by which a thing is done, how 
 can you be sure of doing it a second time?" And the 
 answer is, "If you do not know the muscles by the help 
 of which you walk, how is it you do not fall down at 
 every step you take?" In art, in taste, in life, in 
 speech, you decide from feeling, and not from reason ; 
 that is, from the impression of a number of things on 
 the mind, which impression is true and well-founded, 
 though you may not be able to analyse or account for 
 it in the several particulars. In a gesture you use, in 
 a look you see, in a tone you hear, you judge of the 
 expression, propriety, and meaning from habit, not 
 from reason or rules; that is to say, from innumerable 
 instances of like gestures, looks, and tones, in 
 innumerable other circumstances, variously modified, 
 which are too many and too refined to be all distinctly 
 recollected, but which do not therefore operate the 
 less powerfully upon the mind and eye of taste. Shall 
 we say that these impressions (the immediate stamp of 
 nature) do not operate in a given manner till they are 
 classified and reduced to rules, or is not the rule itself 
 grounded upon the truth and certainty of that natural 
 operation? How, then, can the distinction of the 
 
 77
 
 78 GENIUS and COMMON SENSE 
 
 understanding as to the manner in which they operate 
 be necessary to their producing their due and uniform 
 effect upon the mind? If certain effects did not 
 regularly arise out of certain causes in mind as well as 
 matter, there could be no rule given for them : nature 
 does not follow the rule, but suggests it. Reason is 
 the interpreter and critic of nature and genius, not 
 their lawgiver and judge. He must be a poor creature 
 indeed whose practical convictions do not in almost all 
 cases outrun his deliberate understanding, or who does 
 not feel and know much more than he can give a reason 
 for. — Hence the distinction between eloquence and 
 wisdom, between ingenuity and common sense. A 
 man may be dextrous and able in explaining grounds 
 of his opinions, and yet may be a mere sophist, because 
 he only sees one half of a subject. Another may feel 
 the whole weight of a question, nothing relating to it 
 may be lost upon him, and yet he may be able to give 
 no account of the manner in which it affects him, or to 
 drag his reasons from their silent lurking-places. 
 This last will be a wise man, though neither a logician 
 nor rhetorician. Goldsmith was a fool to Dr. Johnson 
 in argument ; that is, in assigning the specific grounds 
 of his opinions: Dr. Johnson was a fool to Goldsmith 
 in the fine tact, the airy, intuitive faculty with which 
 he skimmed the surfaces of things, and unconsciously 
 formed his opinions. Common sense is the just result 
 of the sum-total of such unconscious impressions in 
 the ordinary occurrences of life, as they are treasured 
 up in the memory, and called out by the occasion. 
 Genius and taste depend much upon the same principle 
 exercised on loftier ground and in more unusual com- 
 binations.
 
 Orations
 
 ORATIONS 
 
 " There is no true eloquence, unless there is a man behind 
 the speech." — Ralph Waldo Emerson. 
 
 Monstrous Relations in Newspapers . Fisher Ames . . . 
 
 Memorial Day /ohn D. Long . . 
 
 General Amnesty Carl Schurz . . . 
 
 The Enforcement of the Liquor Law JVendell Phillips . 
 
 The Sepulcher in the Garden . . . Henry Ward Beecher 90 
 
 103 
 106 
 
 PAGE 
 
 83 
 87 
 
 94 
 
 The Use and Abuse of Property . . Theodore Roosevelt 
 The Impeachment of Mr. Hastings . Edmund Burke 
 The Impeachment of Mr. Hastings . Richard B. Sheridan 1 10 
 The New South (3 Extracts) . . . Henry IV. Grady . . 115 
 
 Abraham Lincoln Emilio Caste I ar . .125 
 
 After-Dinner Speech Sir H. Lytton Bulzver 127 
 
 Moral Force of Public Opinion . . Daniel Webster. . .131 
 The Independent Spirit of the Puri- 
 tans Henry Cabot Lodge ..133 
 
 Copyright Lord Macaulay . . 138 
 
 American Courage Sherman Hoar . . .144 
 
 The Central American Treaty . . . William H. Seward . 148 
 A Monument to Shakspere .... Victor Hugo . . .151 
 The Spanish-American War . . . /ohn P. Chidwick . .155 
 The Consolations of Literature . . Rufus Choate . . .158 
 
 The Force Bill Johti C. Calhoun . .161 
 
 South Carolina and Massachusetts . Daniel Webster . . 164. 
 At the Unveiling of the Gray Memorial James Russell Lowell 167 
 
 The Monroe Doctrine Lewis Cass . . . .170 
 
 My Religion Coient Leo Tolstoi . .174 
 
 War Charles Sumner . . 179 
 
 John Boyle O'Reilly Elmer Hewitt Capen 182 
 
 The American Scholar RalphWaldo Emerson 186 
 
 Jewish Disabilities Lord Macaulay , , 189 
 
 81
 
 82 ORATIONS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Justice for DreyfilS Einile Zola . . . .193 
 
 Address to the Assembly of Noblesse Comte de Mirabeau . 197 
 The Repeal of the Stamp Act . . Jo?iatha7t May hew . 199 
 
 The Secret of Murder Darnel Webster . . 202 
 
 The Old Grudge Against England . Rufus Choate . . . 204 
 At the Unveiling of the Statue of 
 
 Rufus Choate Joseph H. Choate . . 206 
 
 Funeral Oration by the Dead Body of 
 
 Hamilton Gouverneur Morris . 211 
 
 The Men and Deeds of the Revolution jE'rt'wflr^ ^2/^r^/'/ . . 214 
 Valedictorj' Address to The Senate . Henry Clay .... 217 
 
 Ulysses S. Grant Thoinas IV. Higginson 221 
 
 Address Before the New York His- 
 torical Society Da7iiel Webster . . 226 
 
 The Leadership of Educated Men . George Wm. Curtis . 228 
 
 The Better Part Booker T. Washington 232 
 
 Corn Laws Lord Macaulay . . 236 
 
 The Ideal Lawyer /ohn W. Griggs . . 239 
 
 Napoleon the Little Victor Hugo . . .242 
 
 The Cumberland Road Thomas Corwin . . 246 
 
 Russia the Antagonist of the United 
 
 States Louis Kossuth . . . 249 
 
 Edwin Booth Parke Godwin . . .255 
 
 International Arbitration .... fames Russell Lowell 259 
 
 The Truth of the Gospel Alexander McKenzie 262 
 
 After-Dinner Speech at Harvard Club 
 
 of New York Henry E. Howland . 266 
 
 Secret Executions Victor Hugo . . .271 
 
 The Duties of Christianity .... Louis Kossuth . . .275 
 The Necessity of Outside Agitation . Wendell Phillips . . 279 
 Washington's Inauguration .... Chauncey M. Depew . 282 
 Address at The Harvard Alumni Din- 
 ner Booker T. Washington 286 
 
 Bulgarian Horrors William E. Gladstone 289 
 
 Second Inaugural Address .... Abraham Lincoln , . 294
 
 MONSTROUS RELATIONS IN NEWSPAPERS. 
 By FISHER AMES. 
 
 IT seems as if newspaper wares were made to suit a 
 market, as much as any other. The starers, and 
 wonderers, and gapers, engross a very large share of 
 the attention of all the sons of the type. Extraor- 
 dinary events multiply upon us surprisingly. Gazettes, 
 it is seriously to be feared, will not long allow room to 
 anything that is not loathsome or shocking. A news- 
 paper is pronounced to be very lean and destitute of 
 matter, if it contains no accounts of murders, suicides, 
 prodigies, or monstrous births. 
 
 Some of these tales excite horror, and others disgust; 
 yet the fashion reigns, like a tyrant, to relish wonders, 
 and almost to relish nothing else. Is this a reasonable 
 taste? Is the History of Newgate the only one worth 
 reading? Are oddities only to be hunted? Pray tell 
 us, men of ink, if our presses are to diffuse informa- 
 tion, and we, the poor ignorant people, can get it in no 
 other way than by newspapers, what knowledge are we 
 to glean from the blundering lies, or the tiresome 
 truths about thunder-storms, that, strange to tell ! kill 
 oxen, or burn barns; and cats, that bring two-headed 
 kittens; and sows, that eat their own pigs? The crow- 
 ing of a hen is supposed to forebode cuckledom ; and 
 the tickling of a little bug in the wall threatens yellow 
 fever. It seems really as if our newspapers were busy 
 to spread superstition. Omens, and dreams, and 
 prodigies are recorded, as if they were worth mind- 
 ing. One would think our gazettes were intended for 
 Roman readers, who were silly enough to make account 
 of such things. 
 
 Surely, extraordinary events have not the best title 
 
 83
 
 84 RELATIONS in NEWSPAPERS 
 
 to our studious attention. To study nature or man, we 
 v^ught to know things that are in the ordinary course, 
 not the unaccountable things that happen out of it 
 
 This country is said to measure seven hundred mil- 
 lions of acres, and is inhabited by almost six millions 
 of people. Who can doubt, then, that a great many 
 crimes will be committed, and a great many strange 
 things will happen every seven years? There will be 
 thunder showers, that will split tough white oak 
 trees ; and hail storms, that will cost some farmers the 
 full amount of twenty shillings to mend their glass 
 windows; there will be taverns, and boxing matches, 
 and elections, and gouging and drinking, and love and 
 murder, and running in debt, and running away, and 
 suicide. Now, if a man supposes eight, or ten, or 
 twenty dozen of these amusing events will happen in 
 a single year, is he not just as wise as another man, 
 who reads fifty columns of amazing particulars, and, 
 of course, knows that they have happened? 
 
 This state has almost one hundred thousand dwell- 
 ing houses ; it would be strange if all of them should 
 escape fire for twelve months. Yet is it very profit- 
 able for a man to become a deep student of all the 
 accidents by which they are consumed? He should 
 take good care of his chimney-corner, and put a fender 
 before the back -log, before he goes to bed. Having 
 done this, he may let his aunt or grandmother read by 
 day, or meditate by night, the terrible newspaper 
 articles of fires ; how a maid dropped asleep rearling a 
 romance, and the bed clothes took fire; how a boy 
 searching in a garret for a hoard of nuts, kindled some 
 flax; and how a mouse, warming his tail, caught it on 
 fire, and carried it into his hole in the floor.
 
 By FISHER AMES 85 
 
 Some of the shocking articles in the papers raise 
 simple, and very simple, wonder; some terror; and 
 some horror and disgust. Now what instruction is 
 there in these endless wonders? Who is the wiser or 
 happier for reading the accounts of them? On the 
 contrary, do they not shock tender minds, and addle 
 shallow brains? They make a thousand old maids, and 
 eight or ten thousand booby boys, afraid to go to bed 
 alone. Worse than this happens; for some eccentric 
 minds are turned to mischief by such accounts as they 
 receive of troops of incendiaries burning our cities: 
 the spirit of imitation is contagious; and boys are 
 found unaccountably bent to do as men do. When the 
 man flew from the steeple of the North Church fifty 
 years ago, every imlucky boy thought of nothing but 
 flying from a sign-post. 
 
 Every horrid story in a newspaper produces a shock; 
 but, after some time, this shock lessens. At length, 
 such stories are so far from giving pain, that they 
 rather raise curiosity, and we desire nothing so much 
 as the particulars of terrible tragedies. The wonder is 
 as easy as to stare ; and the most vacant mind is the 
 most in need of such resources as cost no trouble of 
 scrutiny or reflection ; it is a sort of food for idle curi- 
 osity that is readily chewed and digested. 
 
 On the whole, we may insist that the increasing 
 fashion for printing wonderful tales of crimes and acci- 
 dents is worse than ridiculous, as it corrupts both the 
 public taste and morals. It multiplies fables, prodi- 
 gious monsters, and crimes, and thus makes shocking 
 things familiar; while it withdraws all popular atten- 
 tion from familiar truth, because it is not shocking. 
 
 Now, Messrs. Printers, I pray the whole honourable
 
 86 RELATIONS in NEWSPAPERS 
 
 craft to banish as many murders, and horrid accidents, 
 and monstrous births and prodigies from their 
 gazettes, as their readers will permit them; and, by- 
 degrees, to coax them back to contemplate life and 
 manners; to consider common events with some com- 
 mon sense; and to study nature where she can be 
 known, rather than in those of her ways where she 
 really is, or is represented to be, inexplicable. 
 
 Strange events are facts, and as such should be men- 
 tioned, but with brevity and in a cursory manner. 
 They afford no ground for popular reasoning or instruc- 
 tion ; and, therefore, the horrid details that make each 
 particular hair stiffen and stand upright in the reader's 
 head ought not to be given. In short, they must be 
 mentioned ; but sensible printers and sensible readers 
 will think that way of mentioning them the best that 
 impresses them least on the public attention, and that 
 hurries them on the most swiftly to be forgotten.
 
 MEMORIAL DAY. From "After Dinner and Other 
 Speeches." Copyright, 1895, by John D. Long. 
 Reprinted with permission. By JOHN D. LONG. 
 
 I GRATEFULLY acknowledge your courtesy, vet- 
 erans and members of the Suffolk posts of the 
 Grand Army, in inviting me, a civilian, to speak for 
 you this day. I should shrink from the task, however, 
 did I not know that, in this, your purpose is to honor 
 again the Commonwealth of which I am the official 
 representative. By recent enactment she has made 
 the day you celebrate one of her holy days, — a day 
 sacred to the memory of her patriot dead and to the 
 inspiration of patriotism in her living. Henceforward, 
 she emblazons it upon the calendar of the year with the 
 consecrated days that have come down from the Pil- 
 grim and the Puritan, with Christmas Day and with the 
 birthdays of Washington and American Independence. 
 Memorial Day will hereafter gather around it not only 
 the love and tears and pride of the generations of the 
 people, but more and more, in its inner circle of 
 tenderness, the linking memories of every comrade, so 
 long as one survives. As the dawn ushers it in, 
 tinged already with the exquisite flush of hastening 
 June, and sweet with the bursting fragrance of her 
 roses, the wheels of time will each year roll back, and 
 lo! John Andrew is at the state house, inspiring 
 Massachusetts with the throbbing of his own great 
 heart; Abraham Lincoln, wise and patient and 
 honest and tender and true, is at the nation's helm; 
 the North is one broad blaze; the boys in blue are 
 marching to the front; the fife and drum are on every 
 breeze; the very air is patriotism ; Phil Sheridan, forty 
 miles away, dashes back to turn defeat to victory; 
 
 87
 
 88 MEMORIAL DAY 
 
 Farragut, lashed to the mast-head, is steaming into 
 Mobile Harbor; Hooker is above the clouds, — ay, now 
 indeed forever above the clouds; Sherman marches 
 through Georgia to the sea; Grant has throttled Lee 
 with the grip that never lets go; Richmond falls; the 
 armies of the republic pass in that last great review at 
 Washington; Custer's plume is there, but Kearney's 
 saddle is empty ; and, now again, our veterans come 
 marching home to receive the welcome of a grateful 
 people, and to stack in Doric Hall the tattered flag 
 which Massachusetts forever hence shall wear above 
 her heart. 
 
 In memory of the dead, in honor of the living, for 
 inspiration to our children, we gather to-day to deck 
 the graves of our patriots with flowers, to pledge com- 
 monwealth and town and citizen to fresh recognition 
 of the surviving soldier, and to picture yet again the 
 romance, the reality, the glory, the sacrifice of his 
 service. As if it were but yesterday, you recall him. 
 He had but turned twenty. The exquisite tint of 
 youthful health was in his cheek. His pure heart 
 shone from frank, outspeaking eyes. His fair hair 
 clustered from beneath his cap. He had pulled a 
 stout oar in the college race, or walked the most grace- 
 ful athlete on the village green. He had just entered 
 on the vocation of his life. The doorway of his home 
 at this season of the year was brilliant in the dewy 
 morn with the clambering vine and fragrant flower, as 
 in and out he went, the beloved of mother and sisters, 
 and the ideal of a New England youth : 
 
 "In face and shoulders like a god he was ; 
 For o'er him had the goddess breathed the charm 
 Of youthful locks, the ruddy glow of youth,
 
 By JOHN D. LONG 89 
 
 A generous gladness in his eyes: su'^h grace 
 As carver's hand to ivory gives, or when 
 Silver or Parian stone in yellow gold 
 Is set." 
 
 And when the drum beat, when the first martyr's 
 blood sprinkled the stones of Baltimore, he took his 
 place in the ranks and went forward. You remember 
 his ingenuous and glowing letters to his mother, 
 written as if his pen were dipped in his very heart. 
 How novel seemed to him the routine of service, the 
 life of camp and march! How eager the wish to meet 
 the enemy and strike his first blow for the good cause ! 
 What pride at the promotion that came and put its 
 chevron on his arm or its strap upon his shoulder! 
 
 They took him prisoner. He wasted in Libby and 
 grew gaunt and haggard with the horror of his suffer- 
 ings and with pity for the greater horror of the 
 sufferings of his comrades who fainted and died at his 
 side. He tunneled the earth and escaped. Hungry 
 and weak, in terror of recapture, he followed by night 
 the pathway of the railroad. He slept in thickets and 
 sank in swamps. He saw the glitter of horsemen who 
 pursued him. He knew the bloodhound was on his 
 track. He reached the line; and, with his hand 
 grasping at freedom, they caught and took him back to 
 his captivity. He was exchanged at last; and you 
 remember, when he came home on a short furlough, 
 how manly and war-worn he had grown. But he soon 
 returned to the ranks and to the welcome of his com- 
 rades. They recall him now alike with tears and 
 pride. In the rifle-pits around Petersburg you heard 
 his steady voice and firm command. Some one who 
 saw him then fancied that he seemed that day like one
 
 9© MEMORIAL DAY 
 
 who forefelt the end. But there was no flinching as he 
 charged. He had just turned to give a cheer when the 
 fatal ball struck him. There was a convulsion of the 
 upward hand. His eyes, pleading and lo}^al, turned 
 their last glance to the flag. His lips parted. He fell 
 dead, and at nightfall lay with his face to the stars. 
 Home they brought him, fairer than Adonis over 
 whom the goddess of beauty wept. They buried him 
 in the village churchyard under the green turf. Year 
 by year his comrades and his kin, nearer than com- 
 rades, scatter his grave with flowers. Do you ask who 
 he was? He was in every regiment and every com- 
 pany. He went out from every Massachusetts village. 
 He sleeps in every Massachusetts burying-ground. 
 Recall romance, recite the names of heroes of legend 
 and song, but there is none that is his peer.
 
 GENERAL AMNESTY. By CARL vSCHURZ. 
 
 SIR, I have to say a few words about an accusation 
 which has been brought against those who speak 
 in favor of universal amnesty. It is the accusation 
 resorted to, in default of more solid argument, that 
 those who advise amnesty, especially imiversal 
 amnesty, do so because they have fallen in love with 
 the rebels. No, sir, it is not merely for the rebels I 
 plead. We are asked, Shall the Rebellion go entirely 
 unpunished? No, sir, it shall not. Neither do I think 
 that the Rebellion has gone entirely unpunished. I 
 ask you, had the rebels nothing to lose but their lives 
 and their offices? Look at it. There was a proud and 
 arrogant aristocracy, planting their feet on the necks 
 of the laboring people, and pretending to be the born 
 rulers of this great republic. They looked down, not 
 only upon their slaves, but also upon the people of the 
 North, with the haughty contempt of self-asserting 
 superiority. When their pretensions to rule us all 
 were first successfully disputed, they resolved to 
 destroy this republic, and to build up on the corner- 
 stone of slavery an empire of their own in which they 
 could hold absolute sway. They made the attempt 
 with the most overweeningly confident expectation of 
 certain victory. Then came the Civil War, and after 
 four years of struggle their whole power and pride lay 
 shivered to atoms at our feet, their sons dead by tens 
 of thousands on the battle-fields of this country, their 
 fields and their homes devastated, their fortunes 
 destroyed; and more than that, the whole social 
 system in which they had their being, with all their 
 hopes and pride, utterly wiped out; slavery forever 
 abolished, and the slaves themselves created a political 
 
 91
 
 92 GENERAL AMNESTY 
 
 power before which they had to bow their heads, and 
 they, broken, ruined, helpless, and hopeless in the dust 
 before those upon whom they had so haughtily looked 
 down as their vassals and inferiors. Sir, can it be said 
 that the Rebellion has gone entirely unpunished? 
 
 You may object that the loyal people, too, were sub- 
 jected to terrible sufferings ; that their sons, too, were 
 slaughtered by tens of thousands; that the mourning 
 of countless widows and orphans is still darkening our 
 land; that we are groaning under terrible burdens 
 which the Rebellion has loaded upon us, and that 
 therefore part of the punishment has fallen upon the 
 innocent. And it is certainly true. 
 
 But look at the difference. We issued from this 
 great conflict as conquerors; upon the graves of our 
 slain we could lay the wreath of victory; our widows 
 and orphans, while mourning the loss of their dearest, 
 still remember with proud exultation that the blood of 
 their husbands and fathers was not spilled in vain; 
 that it flowed for the greatest and holiest and at the 
 same time the most victorious of causes; and when our 
 people labor in the sweat of their brow to pay the 
 debt which the Rebellion has loaded upon us, they do 
 it with the proud consciousness that the heavy price 
 they have paid is infinitely overbalanced by the value 
 of the results they have gained: slavery abolished; the 
 great American Republic purified of her foulest stain ; 
 the American people no longer a people of masters and 
 slaves, but a people of equal citizens; the most danger- 
 ous element of disturbance and disintegration wiped 
 out from among us ; this country put upon the course 
 of harmonious development, greater, more beautiful, 
 mightier than ever in its self-conscious power. And
 
 By CARL SCHURZ 93 
 
 thus, whatever losses, whatever sacrifices, whatever 
 sufferings we may have endured, they appear before us 
 in a blaze of glory. 
 
 But how do the Southern people stand there? All 
 they have sacrificed, all the}^ have lost, all the blood 
 they have spilled, all the desolation of their homes, all 
 the distress that stares them in the face, all the wreck 
 and ruin they see around them — all for nothing, all for 
 a wicked folly, all for a disastrous infatuation ; the very 
 graves of their slain nothing but monuments of a 
 shadowy delusion ; all their former hopes vanished 
 forever; and the very magniloquence which some of 
 their leaders are still indulging in, nothing but a mock- 
 ing illustration of their utter discomfiture! Ah, sir, if 
 ever human efforts broke down in irretrievable 
 disaster, if ever human pride was humiliated to the 
 dust, if ever human hopes were turned into despair, 
 there you behold them.
 
 THE ENFORCEMENT OF THE LIQUOR LAW. 
 Copyright, Lee & Shepard. Reprinted with permis- 
 sion. By WENDELL PHILLIPS. 
 
 SOME men look upon this temperance cause as 
 whining bigotry, narrow asceticism, or a vulgar 
 sentimentality, fit for little minds, weak women, and 
 weaker men. On the contrary, I regard it as second 
 only to one or two others of the primary reforms of 
 this age, and for this reason. Every race has its 
 peculiar temptation; every clime has its specific sin. 
 The tropics and tropical races are tempted to one form 
 of sensuality; the colder and temperate regions, and 
 our Saxon blood, find their peculiar temptation in the 
 stimulus of drink and food. In old times our heaven 
 was a drunken revel. We relieve ourselves from the 
 over-weariness of constant and exhausting toil by 
 intoxication. Science has brought a cheap means of 
 drunkenness within the reach of every individual. 
 National prosperity and free institutions have put into 
 the hands of almost every workman the means of being 
 drunk for a week on the labor of two or three hours. 
 With that blood and that temptation, we have adopted 
 democratic institutions, where the law has no sanction 
 but the purpose and virtue of the masses. The statute- 
 book rests not on bayonets, as in Europe, but on the 
 hearts of the people. A drunken people can never be 
 the basis of a free government. It is the corner-stone 
 neither of virtue, prosperity, nor progress. To us, 
 therefore, the title-deeds of whose estates and the 
 safety of whose lives depend upon the tranquillity of 
 the streets, upon the virtue of the masses, the pres- 
 ence of any vice which brutalizes the average mass of 
 mankind, and tends to make it more readily the tool of 
 
 94
 
 By WENDELL PHILLIPS 95 
 
 intriguing and corrupt leaders, is necessarily a stab at 
 the very life of the nation. Against such a vice is 
 marshalled the Temperance Reformation. That my 
 sketch is no mere fancy picture, every one of j'-ou 
 knows. Every one of you can glance back over your 
 own path, and count many and many a one among 
 those who started from the goal at your side, with 
 equal energy and perhaps greater promise, who has 
 found a drunkard's grave long before this. The 
 brightness of the bar, the ornament of the pulpit, the 
 hope and blessing and stay of many a family, — you 
 know, every one of you who has reached middle life, 
 how often on your path you set up the warning, 
 "Fallen before the temptations of the streets!" 
 Hardly one house in this city, whether it be full and 
 warm with all the luxury of wealth, or whether it find 
 hard, cold maintenance by the most earnest economy, 
 no matter which, — hardly a house that does not count, 
 among sons or nephews, some victim of this vice. 
 The skeleton of this warning sits at every board. 
 The whole world is kindred in this suffering. The 
 country mother launches her boy with trembling upon 
 the temptations of city life; the father trusts his 
 daughter anxiously to the young man she has chosen, 
 knowing what a wreck intoxication may make of the 
 house-tree they set up. Alas! how often are their 
 worst forebodings more than fulfilled! I have known 
 a case — and probably many of you can recall some 
 almost equal to it — where one worthy woman could 
 count father, brother, husband, and son-in-law, all 
 drunkards,' — no man among her near kindred, except 
 her son, who was not a victim of this vice. Like all 
 other appetites, this finds resolution weak when set
 
 96 ENFORCEMENT of the LIQUOR LAW 
 
 against the constant presence of temptation. This is 
 the evil. How are the laws relating to it executed in 
 this city? Let me tell you. 
 
 First, there has been great discussion of this evil, — 
 wide, earnest, patient discussion, for thirty-five years. 
 The whole community has been stirred by the discus- 
 sion of this question. Finally, after various experi- 
 ments, the majority of the State decided that the 
 method to stay this evil was to stop the open sale of 
 intoxicating drink. They left moral suasion still to 
 address the individual, and set themselves as a com- 
 munity to close the doors of temptation. Every man 
 acquainted with his own nature or with society knows 
 that weak virtue, walking through our streets, and 
 meeting at every tenth door (for that is the average) 
 the temptation to drink, must fall ; that one must be a 
 moral Hercules to stand erect. To prevent the open 
 sale of intoxicating liquor has been the method selected 
 by the State to help its citizens to be virtuous; in 
 other words, the State has enacted what is called the 
 Maine Liquor Law, — the plan of refusing all licenses 
 to sell, to be drunk on the spot or elsewhere, and 
 allowing only an official agent to sell for medicinal 
 purposes and the arts. You may drink in your own 
 parlors, you may make what indulgence you please 
 your daily rule, the State does not touch you there; 
 there you injure only yourself, and those you directly 
 influence; that the State cannot reach. But when you 
 open your door and say to your fellow-citizens, "Come 
 and indulge," the State has a right to ask, "In what 
 do you invite them to indulge? Is it something that 
 helps, or something that harms the community?" 
 
 I will try to show you, in a moment, on what
 
 By WENDELL PHILLIPS 97 
 
 grounds the State decided that these numberless open 
 doors harmed the community, and that the method to 
 be adopted was to shut them up. The majority, after 
 full argument in district school-houses, the streets, and 
 the State- House, from pulpits, lyceum platforms, and 
 everywhere else, decided that prohibition of the traffic 
 was the only effective method. The law was put upon 
 the statute-book. A reluctant minority went to the 
 Legislature, and endeavored to repeal or amend it, 
 alleging that this was not a good law ; and they were 
 voted dov/n. Again they went, — were voted down. 
 A third time they went, — and were voted down. They 
 then appealed to the courts, and said, "This is not a 
 constitutional law." The courts said, "Itis. " If any- 
 thing ever had the decided, unmistakable sanction of a 
 majority of the people of this Commonwealth, the 
 Maine Liquor Law has it. After a quarter of a cen- 
 tury of discussion, it was enacted; three times assailed, 
 it was maintained; subjected to the crucible of the 
 court, it came out pure gold. We have a right to say 
 that it is the matured, settled purpose of the majority 
 of the Commonwealth; if the majority have a right to 
 govern, that law is to govern. Is it not so? If not 
 let the minority assail again the Gibraltar of the 
 statute. But meanwhile it, like all other laws not 
 immoral, is to be obeyed. I have not, therefore, to 
 argue to-day whether the law is good or not, whether 
 it is wise or not. That is settled. It is good and wise 
 in the opinion of the Commonwealth. The era of pub- 
 lic opinion is finished, that of law has commenced. 
 This is the history of all legislation. Do not find fault 
 with us for enacting, in due time, public opinion into a 
 statute. Where did all statutes come from? Hun-
 
 98 ENFORCEMENT of the LIQUOR LAW 
 
 dreds of years ago, men argued the question, "Shall 
 one man own a separate piece of land?" They 
 argued it, and settled that he should. That became a 
 statute. They then began to argue the question, 
 "Shall he transmit to his children by will?" They 
 argued that for centuries, then said, "Yes," and 
 enacted it. Nobody now goes behind those statutes. 
 Hundreds of years ago, our race argued the question, 
 "Shall a man have one wife or three?" We settled 
 that he should have but one ; it is the law of the Com- 
 monwealth. 
 
 The era of discussion and opinion is over; the era of 
 legislation has come, — the time when the minority sits 
 down and obeys. With all great questions, covering 
 important interests, there is a time when public opin- 
 ion stereotypes itself into statutes. Land, harvests, 
 marriage, the laws against burglary and theft, settled 
 themselves years ago. If I raise a harvest, it is mine ; 
 that is the law of the land. There was a time when it 
 was a question; it is not a question now. So with 
 temperance and the Maine Liquor Law. Time was 
 when the question whether a man had a right to sell 
 liquor openly, licensed or not, was discussed ; we have 
 passed that point, and reached the time when the 
 majority — in other words, the State — decrees that 
 these shops shall be shut.
 
 THE SEPULCHER IN THE GARDEN. From 
 "Sermons by Henry Ward Beecher. " Copyright, 
 Harper & Brothers. Reprinted with permission. By 
 HENRY WARD BEECHER. 
 
 "A TOW in the place where he was crucified there 
 X\l was a garden, and in the garden a new 
 sepulcher, wherein was never man yet laid. There 
 laid they Jesus." — John xix. 41, 42. 
 
 "And there was Mary Magdalene, and the other Mary, 
 sitting over against the sepulcher." — Matt, xxvii. 61. 
 
 There is a sepulcher in every garden. We are all of 
 us in this life seeking for beauty and seeking for joy, 
 following the blind instincts of our nature, every one 
 of which was made to point up to something higher 
 than that which the present realizes. We are often, 
 almost without aim, without any true guidance, seek- 
 ing to plant this life so that it shall be to us what a 
 garden is. And we seek out the fairest flowers, and 
 will have none but the best fruits. Striving against 
 the noxious weed, striving against the stingy soil, striv- 
 ing against the inequalities of the season, still these are 
 our hope. They who build a home and surround them- 
 selves with all the sweet enjoyments of social life are 
 but planting a garden. The scholar has his garden. 
 The statesman, too, has a fancied Eden with fruit and 
 flower. The humble, and those that stand high, are all 
 of them seeking to clothe the barren experiences of this 
 world with buds that blossom, blossoms that shall bear 
 fruit. No man sees the sepulcher among his flowers. 
 . . . It is the hope and expectation of men, the 
 world over (and it makes no difference what their civi- 
 lization is, what their culture, or what their teaching), 
 that they shall plant their garden, and have flowers 
 
 99
 
 loo The SEPULCHER in the GARDEN 
 
 without thorns, summer without a winter, a garden 
 without a rock, a rock without a sepulcher! 
 
 It makes very little difference that we see other 
 men's delusions. Nay, we stand upon the wall of our 
 particular experience, as upon the walls of a garden, to 
 moralize upon the follies of other men. And when 
 they have their hands pierced in plucking their best 
 fruits, when disappointments come to their plantings, 
 we wonder that they should be so blind as to expect 
 that this world could have joys without sorrows, or 
 sunshine without storms. We carry instructions to 
 them, and comfort them with the talk that this life is 
 short and full of affliction ; we speak to them of the 
 wreaths to be worn by those who bear sorrows; and 
 yet we go as fondly and expectantly to our dream of 
 hope as ever. 
 
 And thus men live as they have lived, every man mak- 
 ing his life a garden planted; every man saying, "Flow- 
 ers! flowers! flowers!" and when they come, every man 
 saying, "They shall abide; they shall blossom in an 
 endless summer. " And we go round and round the 
 secret place, the central place — we go round and round 
 the point where in every man's experience there is a 
 sepulcher — and we heed it not, and will not know it. 
 
 But, in spite of all this care and painstaking, there is 
 no garden in the world, let it be as beautiful as it may, 
 that has not in the midst of it a sepulcher. . . . 
 There is no man that is sure of anything except of 
 dying and living again. We see on every side such 
 revelations, such changes, such surprises, such unex- 
 pected happenings and events, that it is not mere 
 poetical moralizing to say that no man is certain of 
 anything except death, to be succeeded by life.
 
 By HENRY WARD BEECHER loi 
 
 A plow is coming from the far end of a long field, 
 and a daisy stands nodding, and full of dew-dimples. 
 That furrow is sure to strike the daisy. It casts its 
 shadow as gaily, and exhales its gentle breath as 
 freely, and stands as simple, and radiant, and expect- 
 ant as ever; and yet that crushing furrow, which is 
 turning and turning others in its course, is drawing 
 near, and in a moment it whirls the heedless flower 
 with sudden reversal under the sod ! 
 
 And as is the daisy, with no power of thought, so are 
 ten thousand thinking sentient flowers of life, blos- 
 soming in places of peril and yet thinking that no fur- 
 row of disaster is running in towards them — that no 
 iron plow of trouble is about to overturn them. 
 
 When, then, our sorrow comes, when we are in the 
 uninstructed surprise of our trouble, when we first 
 discover this sepulcher in our garden, we sit, as these 
 women sat, over against the sepulcher, seeing, in our 
 grief, nothing else but that. How strangely stupid is 
 grief! How it neither learns nor knows, nor wishes to 
 learn nor know! Grief is like the stamping of invis- 
 ible ink. Great and glorious things are written with 
 it, but they do not come out till they are brought out. 
 It is not until heat has been applied to it, or until some 
 chemical substance has been laid upon it, that that 
 which was invisible begins to come forth in letter, and 
 sentence, and meaning. In the first instance we see in 
 life only death — we see in change destruction. When 
 the sisters sat over against the door of the sepulcher, 
 did they see the two thousand years that have passed 
 triumphing away? Did they see anything but this: 
 "Our Christ is gone"? And yet your Christ and my 
 Christ came from their loss ; myriad, myriad mourning
 
 102 The SEPULCHER in the GARDEN 
 
 hearts have had resurrection in the midst of their 
 grief; and 5'^et the sorrowful watchers looked at the 
 seed-form of this result and saw nothing. What they 
 regarded as the end of life was the very preparation 
 for coronation ; for Christ was silent that he might live 
 again in tenfold power. They saw it not. They 
 looked on the rock, and it was rock. They looked 
 upon the stone door, and it was the stone door that 
 estopped all their hope and expectation. They 
 mourned, and wept, and went away, and came again, 
 drawn by their hearts, to the sepulcher. Still it was a 
 sepulcher, unprophetic, voiceless, lusterless. 
 
 So with us. Every man sits over against the 
 sepulcher in his garden, in the first instance, and says, 
 "It is grief; it is woe; it is immedicable trouble. I 
 see no benefit in it. I will take no comfort from it." 
 And yet, right in our deepest and worst mishaps, often 
 and often, our Christ is lying, waiting for resurrection. 
 Where our death seems to be, there our Saviour is. 
 Where the end of hope is, there is the brightest begin- 
 ning of fruition. Where the darkness is thickest, there 
 the bright, beaming light that never is to set is about 
 to emerge. 
 
 When the whole experience is consummated, then 
 we find that a garden is not disfigured by a sepulcher. 
 Our joys are made better if there be a sorrow in the 
 midst of them, and our sorrows are made bright by the 
 joys that God had planted around about them. The 
 flowers may not be pleasing to us, they may not be 
 such as we are fond of plucking, but they are heart- 
 flowers. Love, hope, faith, joy, peace — these are 
 flowers which are planted around about every grave 
 that is sunk in a Christian heart.
 
 THE USE AND ABUSE OF PROPERTY. By 
 THEODORE ROOSEVELT. 
 
 I WANT to talk to you of the attitude that should 
 properly be observed by legislators, by executive 
 officers, toward wealth, and the attitude that should be 
 observed in return by men of means, and especially by 
 corporations, toward the body politic and toward their 
 fellow-citizens. 
 
 I utterly distrust the man of whom it is continually 
 said: "Oh, he's a good fellow, but, of course, in poli- 
 tics, he plays politics." It is about as bad for a 
 man to profess, and for those that listen to him by 
 their plaudits to insist upon his professing something 
 which they know he cannot live up to, as it is for 
 him to go below what he ought to do, because if he gets 
 into the habit of lying to himself and to his audience 
 as to what he intends to do, it is certain to eat away 
 his moral fibre. 
 
 He won't be able then to stand up to what he knows 
 ought to be done. The temptation of the average 
 politician is to promise everything to the reformers and 
 then to do everything for the organization. I think I 
 can say that, whatever I have promised on the stump 
 or off the stump, either expressly or impliedly, to 
 either organization or reformers, I have kept my 
 promise; and I should keep it just as much if the 
 reformers disapproved, and vice versa. 
 
 A public man is bound to represent his constituents, 
 but he is no less bound to cease to represent them 
 when, on a great moral question, he feels that they are 
 taking the wrong side. Let him go out of politics 
 rather than stay in at the cost of doing what his own 
 conscience forbids him to do, 
 
 103
 
 I04 USE and ABUSE of PROPERTY 
 
 I think that there is no one problem that is so dijB&- 
 cult to deal with as the problem of how to do justice 
 to the wealth, either in the hands of the individual or 
 the corporation, on the one hand, or, on the other, 
 how to see that that wealth in return is used for the 
 benefit of the whole community. The tendency is for 
 men to range themselves in two extreme camps, each 
 taking a position that in the long run would be almost 
 equally fatal to the community. 
 
 Oh, if I could only impress upon you, if I only had 
 the eloquence and the power of enforcing conviction 
 upon you, to make you understand the two sides of the 
 question — not understand it, you may do that in theory 
 now, but to make you realize it — the two sides, that the 
 rich man who buys a privilege from a Board of Alder- 
 men for a railway which he represents, the rich man 
 who gets a privilege through the Legislature by 
 bribery and corruption for any corporation, that man 
 is committing an offence against the community which 
 it is possible may some day have to be condoned for in 
 blood and destruction, not by him, not by his sons, but 
 by you and your sons. If I could only make you 
 understand that on one side, and make you understand 
 on the other — make the mass of our people, make the 
 mass of our voters understand, on the other — that the 
 worst thing they can do is to choose a representative 
 Vv'ho shall say, "I am against corporations; I am 
 against capital," and not a man who shall say, "I 
 stand by the Ten Commandments: I stand by doing 
 equal justice to the man of means and the man without 
 means; I stand by saying that no man shall be stolen 
 from and that no man shall steal from any one else ; 
 I stand by saying that the corporations shall not be
 
 By THEODORE ROOSEVELT 105 
 
 blackmailed on the one side and that the corporations 
 shall not acquire an)'' improper power by corruption 
 on the other; that the corporations shall pay their 
 full share of the public burdens, and that when they 
 do so they shall be protected in their rights exactly as 
 any one else is protected!" In other words, if I could 
 only make our people realize that their one hope and 
 one safety in dealing with this problem is to send into 
 our public bodies men who shall be honest, who shall 
 realize their obligations, not their obligations to the 
 rich man and the poor man, but between the honest 
 man and the dishonest man !
 
 THE IMPEACHMENT OF MR. HASTINGS. By 
 EDMUND BURKE. 
 
 IN the name of the Commons of England, I charge 
 all this villainy upon Warren Hastings, in this 
 last 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 the cause of oppressed princes, of undone 
 women of the first rank, of desolated provinces, and of 
 wasted kingdoms. 
 
 Do you want a criminal, my Lords? When was 
 there so much iniquity ever laid to the charge of any 
 one? No, my Lords, you must not look to punish any 
 other such delinquent from India. Warren Hastings 
 has not left substance enough 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 prose- 
 cutors ; 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 com- 
 munity — all the Commons of England resenting, as 
 their own, the indignities and cruelties, that are 
 offered to all the people of India. 
 
 Do we want a tribunal? My Lords, no example of 
 antiquity, nothing in the modern world, nothing in the 
 range of human imagination, can supply us with a 
 tribunal like this. My Lords, here we see virtually, in 
 the mind's eye, that sacred majesty of the Crown, 
 under whose authority you sit and whose power you 
 exercise. 
 
 io6
 
 By EDMUND BURKE 107 
 
 We have here all the branches of the royal family, in 
 a situation between majesty and subjection, between 
 the sovereign and the subject — offering a pledge, in 
 that situation, for the support of the rights of the 
 Crown and the liberties of the people, both of which 
 extremities they touch. 
 
 My Lords, we have a great hereditary peerage here ; 
 those who have their own honor, the honor of their 
 ancestors, and of their posterity, to guard, and who will 
 justify, as they always have justified, that provision in 
 the Constitution by which justice is made an hereditary 
 office. 
 
 My Lords, we have here a new nobility, who have 
 risen, and exalted themselves by various merits, by 
 great civil and military services, which have extended 
 the fame of this country from the rising to the setting 
 sun. 
 
 My Lords, you have here, also, the lights of our 
 religion; you have the bishops of England. My 
 Lords, you have that true image of the primitive 
 Church in its ancient form, in its ancient ordinances, 
 purified from the superstitions and the vices which a 
 long succession of ages will bring upon the best institu- 
 tions. 
 
 My Lords, these are the securities which we have in 
 all the constituent parts of the body of this House. 
 We know them, we reckon, we rest upon them, and 
 commit safely the interests of India and of humanity 
 into your hands. Therefore, it is with confidence, 
 that, ordered by the Commons, 
 
 I impeach Warren Hastings, Esquire, of high crimes 
 and misdemeanors. 
 
 I impeach him in the name of the Commons of Great
 
 io8 The lAlPEACHMENT of MR. HASTINGS 
 
 Britain, in Parliament assembled, whose parliamentary- 
 trust he has betrayed. 
 
 I impeach him in the name of all the Commons of 
 Great Britain, whose national character he has dis- 
 honored. 
 
 I impeach him in the name of the people of India, 
 whose laws, rights, and liberties he has subverted, 
 whose property 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 impeach 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 condi- 
 tion of life. 
 
 My Lords, the Commons will share in every fate with 
 your Lordships; there is nothing sinister which can 
 happen to you, in which we shall not be involved; and, 
 if it should so happen, that we shall be subjected to 
 some of those frightful changes which we have seen; 
 if it should happen that your Lordships, stripped of all 
 the decorous distinctions of human society, should, by 
 hands at once base and cruel, be led to those scaffolds 
 and machines of murder upon which great kings and 
 glorious queens have shed their blood, amidst the prel- 
 ates, amidst the nobles, amidst the magistrates, who 
 supported their thrones, — may you in those moments 
 feel that consolation which I am persuaded they felt in 
 the critical moments of their dreadful agony ! 
 
 My Lords, there is a consolation, and a great conso- 
 lation it is, which often happens to oppressed virtue 
 and fallen dignity; it often happens that the very 
 oppressors and persecutors themselves are forced to
 
 By EDMUND BURKE 109 
 
 bear testimony in its favor. The Parliament of Paris 
 had an origin very, very similar to that of the great 
 court before which I stand; the Parliament of Paris 
 continued to have a great resemblance to it in its 
 Constitution, even to its fall; the Parliament of Paris, 
 my Lords, — WAS; it is gone! It has passed away; it 
 has vanished like a dream! It fell pierced by the 
 sword of the Compte de Mirabeau. And yet that man, 
 at the time of his inflicting the death-wound of that 
 Parliament, produced at once the shortest and the 
 grandest funeral oration that ever was or could be 
 made upon the departure of a great court of magis- 
 tracy. When he pronounced the death sentence upon 
 that Parliament, and inflicted the mortal wound, he 
 declared that his motives for doing it were merely 
 political, and that their hands were as pure as those of 
 justice itself, which they administered — a great and 
 glorious exit, my Lords, of a great and glorious body ! 
 My Lords, if you must fall, may you so fall! But, 
 if you stand, and stand I trust you will, together with 
 the fortunes of this ancient monarchy — together with 
 the ancient laws and liberties of this great and illus- 
 trious kingdom, may you stand as unimpeached in 
 honor as in power; may you stand, not as a substitute 
 for virtue, but as an ornament of virtue, as a security 
 for virtue; may you stand long, and long stand the 
 terror of tyrants; may you stand the refuge of afflicted 
 Nations ; may you stand a sacred temple, for the per- 
 petual residence of an inviolable justice!
 
 THE IMPEACHMENT OF MR. HASTINGS. By 
 RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. 
 
 I TRUST your Lordships will not believe that, 
 because something is necessary to retrieve the 
 British character, we call for an example to be made, 
 without due and solid proof of the guilt of the person 
 whom we pursue : — no, my Lords, we know well that 
 it is the glory of this Constitution, that not the general 
 fame or character of any man — not the weight or power 
 of any prosecutor — no plea of moral or political 
 expediency — not even the secret consciousness of guilt, 
 which may live in the bosom of the Judge, can justify 
 any British Court in passing any sentence, to touch a 
 hair of the head, or an atom, in any respect, of the 
 property, of the fame, of the liberty of the poorest or 
 meanest subject that breathes the air of this just and 
 free land. We know, my Lords, that there can be no 
 legal guilt without legal proof, and that the rule which 
 defines the evidence is as much the law of the land as 
 that which creates the crime. It is upon that ground 
 we mean to stand. 
 
 , Major Scott comes to your bar — describes the short- 
 ness of time- — represents Mr. Hastings as it were con- 
 tracting for a character — putting his memory into 
 commission — making departments for his conscience. 
 A number of friends meet together, and he, knowing 
 (no doubt) that the accusation of the Commons had 
 been drawn up by a Committee, thought it necessary, 
 as a point of punctilio, to answer it by a Committee 
 also. One furnishes the raw material of fact, the 
 second spins the argument, and the third twines up the 
 conclusion, while Mr. Hastings, with a master's eye, is 
 cheering and looking over this loom. He says to 
 
 no
 
 By RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN iii 
 
 one, "You have got my good faith in your hands — 
 you, my veracity to manage. Mr. Shore, I hope you 
 will make me a good financier — Mr. Middleton, you 
 have my humanity in commission. " When it is done, 
 he brings it to the House of Commons, and says, "I 
 was equal to the task. I knew the difficulties, but I 
 scorn them : here is the truth, and if the truth will con- 
 vict me, I am content myself to be the channel of it!" 
 His friends hold up their heads, and say, "What noble 
 magnanimity! This must be the effect of conscious 
 and real innocence." Well, it is so received, it is so 
 argued upon — but it fails of its effect. 
 
 Then says Mr. Hastings: "That my defence! no, 
 mere journeyman-work — good enough for the Com- 
 mons, but not fit for your Lordships' consideration." 
 He then calls upon his Counsel to save him: "I fear 
 none of my accusers' witnesses — I know some of them 
 well — I know the weakness of their memory, and the 
 strength of their attachment — I fear no testimony but 
 my own — save me from the peril of my own panegyric 
 — preserve me from that, and I shall be safe." Then 
 is this plea brought to your Lordships' bar, and Major 
 Scott gravely asserts, — that Mr. Hastings did, at the 
 bar of the House of Commons, vouch for facts of which 
 he was ignorant, and for arguments which he had 
 never read. 
 
 After such an attempt, we certainly are left in doubt 
 to decide, to which set of his friends Mr. Hastings is 
 the least obliged, those who assisted him in making his 
 defence, or those who advised him to deny it. 
 
 I am perfectly convinced that there is one idea, 
 which must arise in your Lordships' minds as a subject 
 of wonder, — how a person of Mr. Hastings' reputed
 
 112 The IMPEACHMENT ^/ MR. HASTINGS 
 
 abilities can furnish such matter of accusation against 
 himself. He knows that truth must convict him, and 
 concludes, k converse, that falsehood will acquit him ; 
 forgetting that there must be some connection, some 
 system, some cooperation, or, otherwise, his host of 
 falsities fall without an enemy, self-discomfited and 
 destroyed. But of this he never seems to have had 
 the slightest apprehension. He falls to work, an 
 artificer of fraud, against all the rules of architecture ; 
 — he lays his ornamental work first, and his massy 
 foundation at the top of it; and thus his whole building 
 tumbles upon his head. Other people look well to 
 their ground, choose their position, and watch whether 
 they are likely to be surprised there ; but he, as if in 
 the ostentation of his heart, builds upon a precipice, 
 and encamps upon a mine, from choice. He seems to 
 have no one actuating principle, but a steady, persever- 
 ing resolution not to speak the truth or to tell the fact. 
 It is impossible almost to treat conduct of this kind 
 with perfect seriousness; yet I am aware that it ought 
 to be more seriously accounted for — because I am sure 
 it has been a sort of paradox, which must have struck 
 your Lordships, how any person having so many 
 motives to conceal — having so many reasons to dread 
 detection — should yet go to work so clumsily upon the 
 subject. It is possible, indeed, that it may raise this 
 doubt — whether such a person is of sound mind enough 
 to be a proper object of punishment; or at least it may 
 give a kind of confused notion that the guilt cannot be 
 of so deep and black a grain, over which such a thin 
 veil was thrown, and so little trouble taken to avoid 
 detection. I am aware that, to account for this seem- 
 ing paradox, historians, poets, and even philosophers —
 
 By RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN 113 
 
 at least of ancient times — have adopted the super- 
 stitious solution of the vulgar, and said that the gods 
 deprive men of reason whom they devote to destruc- 
 tion or to punishment. But to unassuming or unprej- 
 iidiced reason, there is no need to resort to any 
 supposed supernatural interference ; for the solution 
 will be found in the eternal rules that formed the mind 
 of man, and gave a quality and nature to every passion 
 that inhabits in it. 
 
 An honourable friend of mine, who is now, I believe, 
 near me, has told you that Prudence, the first of vir- 
 tues, never can be used in the cause of vice. But I 
 should doubt whether we can read the history of a 
 Philip of Macedon, a Caesar, or a Cromwell, without 
 confessing, that there have been evil purposes, baneful 
 to the peace and to the rights of men, conducted — if I 
 may not say, with prudence or with wisdom — yet with 
 awful craft and most successful and commanding 
 subtlety. If, however, I might make a distinction, I 
 should say that it is the proud attempt to mix a variety 
 of lordly crimes, that unsettles the prudence of the 
 mind, and breeds this distraction of the brain. One 
 master-passion, domineering in the breast, may win 
 the faculties of the understanding to advance its pur- 
 pose, and to direct to that object everything that 
 thought or human knowledge can effect ; but, to suc- 
 ceed, it must maintain a solitary despotism in the mind 
 — each rival profligacy must stand aloof, or wait in 
 abject vassalage upon its throne. For, the Power, 
 that has not forbade the entrance of evil passions into 
 man's mind, has, at least, forbade their union; — if they 
 meet they defeat their object, and their conquest, or 
 their attempt at it, is tumult. To turn to the Virtues
 
 114 The IMPEACHMENT ^/ MR. HASTINGS 
 
 — how different the decree! Formed to connect, to 
 blend, to associate, and to cooperate; bearing the 
 same course, with kindred energies and harmonious 
 sympathy, each perfect in its own lovely sphere, each 
 moving in its wider or more contracted orbit, with 
 different, but concentering powers, guided by the same 
 influence of reason, and endeavouring at the same 
 blessed end — the happiness of the individual, the har- 
 mony of the species, and the glory of the Creator. In 
 the Vices, on the other hand, it is the discord that 
 insures the defeat — each clamorous to be heard in its 
 own barbarous language; each claims the exclusive 
 cunning of the brain ; each thwarts and reproaches the 
 other ; and even while their fell rage assails with com- 
 mon hate the peace and virtue of the world, the civil 
 war among their own tumultuous legions defeats the 
 purpose of the foul conspiracy. These are the Furies 
 of the mind, my Lords, that unsettle the understand- 
 ing; these are the Furies, that destroy the virtue, 
 Prudence, — while the distracted brain and shivered 
 intellect proclaim the tumult that is within, and bear 
 their testimonies, from the mouth of God himself, to 
 the foul condition of the heart.
 
 THE NEW SOUTH. By HENRY W. GRADY. 
 
 "npHERE was a South of slavery and secession — 
 JL that South is dead. There is a vSouth of Union 
 and freedom — that South, thank God, is living, 
 breathing, growing every hour." These words, 
 delivered from the immortal lips of Benjamin K. Hill, 
 at Tammany Hall, in 1866, true then, and truer now, 
 I shall make my text to-night. 
 
 In speaking to the toast with which you have hon- 
 ored me, I accept the term, "The New South," as in 
 no sense disparaging to the old. Dear to me, sir, is 
 the home of my childhood, and the traditions of my 
 people. I would not, if I could, dim the glory they 
 won in peace and war, or by word or deed take aught 
 from the splendor and grace of their civilization, 
 never equaled, and perhaps never to be equaled in its 
 chivalric strength and grace. There is a New South, 
 not through protest against the old, but because of new 
 conditions, new adjustments, and, if you please, new 
 ideas and aspirations. It is to this that I address 
 myself, and to the consideration of which I hasten, lest 
 it become the Old South before I get to it. Age does 
 not endow all things with strength and virtue, nor are 
 all new things to be despised. The shoemaker who 
 put over his door, "John Smith's shop, founded 1760," 
 was more than matched by his young rival across the 
 street who hung out this sign: "Bill Jones. Estab- 
 lished 1886. No old stock kept in this shop." 
 
 Dr. Talmage has drawn for you, with a master 
 hand, the picture of your returning armies. He has 
 told you how, in the pomp and circumstance of war, 
 
 115
 
 ii6 The NEW SOUTH 
 
 they came back to yoii, marching with proud and 
 victorious tread, reading- their glory in a nation's eyes! 
 Will 5'ou bear with me while I tell you of another army 
 that sought its home at the close of the late war? An 
 army that marched home in defeat and not in victory — 
 in pathos and not in splendor, but in glory that equaled 
 yours, and to hearts as loving as ever welcomed heroes 
 home. Let me picture to you the foot-sore Confeder- 
 ate soldier, as, buttoning up in his faded gray jacket 
 the parole which was to bear testimony to his children 
 of his fidelity and faith, he turned his face southward 
 from Appomattox in April, 1865. Think of him as 
 ragged, half-starved, heavy-hearted, enfeebled by 
 want and wounds; having fought to exhaustion, he 
 surrenders his gun, wrings the hands of his comrades 
 in silence, and, lifting his tear-stained and pallid face 
 for the last time to the graves that dot the old Vir- 
 ginia hills, pulls his gray cap over his brow and begins 
 the slow and painful journey. What does he find? — let 
 me ask you who went to your homes eager to find, in 
 the welcome you had justly earned, full payment for 
 four years' sacrifice — what does he find when, having 
 followed the battle-stained cross against overwhelming 
 odds, dreading death not half so much as surrender, he 
 reaches the home he left so prosperous and beautiful? 
 He finds his house in ruins, his farm devastated, his 
 slaves free, his stock killed, his barn empty, his trade 
 destroyed, his money worthless; his social system, 
 feudal in its magnificence, swept away; his people 
 without law or legal status; his comrades slain, and 
 the burdens of others heavy on his shoulders. Crushed 
 by defeat, his very traditions gone; without money, 
 credit, employment, material training; and besides all
 
 By HENRY W. GRADY 117 
 
 this, confronted with the gravest problem that ever 
 met human intelligence — the establishing of a status 
 for the vast body of his liberated slaves. 
 
 What does he do — this hero in gray, with a heart of 
 gold? Does he sit down in sullenness and despair? 
 Not for a day. Surely God, who had stripped him of 
 his prosperity, inspired him in his adversity. As ruin 
 was never before so overwhelming, never was restora- 
 tion swifter. The soldier stepped from the trenches 
 into the furrow; horses that had charged Federal 
 guns marched before the plow, and the fields that ran 
 red with human blood in April were green with the 
 harvest in June; women reared in luxury cut up their 
 dresses and made breeches for their husbands, and, 
 with a patience and heroism that fit women always as a 
 garment, gave their hands to work. There was little 
 bitterness in all this. Cheerfulness and frankness 
 prevailed. ... I want to say to General Sherman 
 — who is considered an able man in our parts, though 
 some people think he is kind of careless about fire — 
 that from the ashes he left us in 1864, we have raised a 
 brave and beautiful city; that somehow or other we 
 have caught the sunshine in the bricks and mortar of 
 our homes, and have builded therein not one ignoble 
 prejudice or memory. 
 
 But in all this what have we accomplished? What is 
 the sum of our work? We have found that in the 
 general summary the free negro counts more than he 
 did as a slave. We have planted the schoolhouse on 
 the hilltop and made it free to white and black. We 
 have sowed towns and cities in the place of theories, 
 and put business above politics. We have learned 
 that the $400,000,000 annually received from our cot-
 
 ii8 The NEW SOUTH 
 
 ton crop will make ns rich, when the supplies that 
 make it are home-raised. We have reduced the com- 
 mercial rate of interest from twenty-four to four per 
 cent., and are floating four per cent, bonds. We have 
 learned that one Northern immigrant is worth fifty 
 foreigners, and have smoothed the path to the south- 
 ward, wiped out the place where Mason and Dixon's 
 line used to be, and hung out our latchstring to you 
 and yours. 
 
 We have reached the point that marks perfect har- 
 mony in every household, when the husband confesses 
 that the pies which his wife cooks are as good as those 
 his mother used to bake; and we admit that the sun 
 shines as brightly and the moon as softly as it did 
 "before the war." We have established thrift in the 
 city and country. We have fallen in love with work. 
 We have restored comforts to homes from which cul- 
 ture and elegance never departed. We have let 
 economy take root and spread among us as rank as the 
 crab grass which sprung from Sherman's cavalry 
 camps, until we are ready to lay odds on the Georgia 
 Yankee, as he manufactures relics of the battlefield in 
 a one-story shanty and squeezes pure olive oil out of his 
 cotton seed, against any downeaster that ever swapped 
 wooden nutmegs for flannel sausages in the valley of 
 Vermont. 
 
 Above all, we know that we have achieved in these 
 "piping times of peace" a fuller independence for the 
 South than that which our fathers sought to win in the 
 forum by their eloquence, or compel on the field by 
 their swords.
 
 By HENRY W. GRADY 119 
 
 THE NEW SOUTH 
 II 
 
 It is a rare privilege, sir, to have had a part, how- 
 ever humble, in this v^ork. Never was nobler duty- 
 confided to human hands than the uplifting and 
 upbuilding of the prostrate and bleeding South, mis- 
 guided, perhaps, but beautiful in her suffering, and 
 honest, brave, and generous always. In the record of 
 her social, industrial, and political restoration we await 
 with confidence the verdict of the world. 
 
 But what of the negro? Have we solved the prob- 
 lem he presents, or progressed in honor and equity 
 toward the solution? Let the record speak to the 
 point. No section shows a more prosperous laboring 
 population than the negroes of the South ; none in 
 fuller sympathy with the employing and land-owning 
 class. He shares our school fund, has the fullest pro- 
 tection of our laws, and the friendship of our people. 
 Self-interest, as well as honor, demands that they 
 should have this. Our future, our very existence, 
 depends upon our working out this problem in full and 
 exact justice. We understand that when Lincoln 
 signed the Emancipation Proclamation, your victory 
 was assured; for he then committed you to the cause 
 of human liberty, against which the arms of man can- 
 not prevail ; while those of our statesmen who trusted 
 to make slavery the corner-stone of the Confederacy 
 doomed us to defeat as far as they could, committing 
 us to a cause that reason could not defend or the sword 
 maintain in the sight of advancing civilization. Had
 
 I20 The NEW SOUTH 
 
 Mr. Toombs said, which he did not say, that he would 
 call the roll of his slaves at the foot of Bunker Hill, he 
 would have been foolish, for he might have known 
 that whenever slavery became entangled in war it 
 must perish, and that the chattel in human flesh ended 
 forever in New England when your fathers — not to be 
 blamed for parting with what did not pay — sold their 
 slaves to our fathers, not to be praised for knowing a 
 paying thing when they saw it. 
 
 The relations of the Southern people with the negro 
 are close and cordial. We remember with what 
 fidelity for four years he guarded our defenceless 
 women and children, whose husbands and fathers 
 were fighting against his freedom. To his credit be it 
 said that whenever he struck a blow for his ovvrn liberty 
 he fought in open battle, and when at last he raised 
 his black and humble hands that the shackles might be 
 struck off, those hands were innocent of wrong against 
 his helpless charges, and worthy to be taken in loving 
 grasp by every man who honors loyalty and devotion. 
 
 Ruffians have maltreated him, rascals have misled 
 him, philanthropists established a bank for him, 
 but the South with the North protest against 
 injustice to this simple and sincere people. To 
 liberty and enfranchisement is as far as the law can 
 carry the negro. The rest must be left to conscience 
 and common sense. It should be left to those among 
 whom his lot is cast, with whom he is indissolubly 
 connected, and whose prosperity depends upon their 
 possessing his intelligent sympathy and confidence. 
 Faith has been kept with him in spite of calumnious 
 assertions to the contrary by those who assume to 
 speak for us, or by frank opponents. Faith will be
 
 By HENRY W. GRADY 121 
 
 kept with him in the future, if the South holds her 
 reason and integrity. 
 
 But have we kept faith with you? In the fullest 
 sense, yes. When Lee surrendered — I don't say when 
 Johnston surrendered, because I understand he still 
 alludes to the time when he met General Sherman 
 last as the time when he "determined to abandon any 
 further prosecution of the struggle" — when Lee sur- 
 rendered, I say, and Johnston quit, the South became, 
 and has been, loyal to the Union. We fought hard 
 enough to know that we were whipped, and in perfect 
 frankness accepted as final the arbitrament of the 
 sword to which we had appealed. The South found 
 her jewel in the toad's head of defeat. The shackles 
 that had held her in narrow limitations fell forever 
 when the shackles of the negro slave were broken. 
 
 Under the old regime the negroes were slaves to the 
 South, the South was a slave to the system. The old 
 plantation, with its simple police regulations and its 
 feudal habit, was the only type possible under slavery. 
 Thus was gathered in the hands of a splendid and 
 chivalric oligarchy the substance that should have 
 been diffused among the people, as the rich blood, 
 under certain artificial conditions, is gathered at the 
 heart, filling that with affluent rupture, but leaving the 
 body chill and colorless. 
 
 The old South rested everything on slavery and 
 agriculture, unconscious that these could neither give 
 nor maintain healthy growth. The new South pre- 
 sents a perfect Democracy, the oligarchs leading in 
 the popular movement — a social system compact and 
 closely knitted, less splendid on the surface, but 
 stronger at the core; a hundred farms for every plan-
 
 Hi The NEW SOUTH 
 
 tation, fifty homes for every palace, and a diversified 
 industry that meets the complex needs of this complex 
 age. 
 
 THE NEW SOUTH 
 
 HI 
 
 The new South is enamored of her new work. Her 
 soul is stirred with the breath of a new life. The light 
 of a grander day is falling fair on her face. She is 
 thrilling with the consciousness of a growing power 
 and prosperity. As she stands upright, full-statured 
 and equal among the people of the earth, breathing 
 the keen air and looking out upon the expanding 
 horizon, she understands that her emancipation came 
 because in the inscrutable wisdom of God her honest 
 purpose was crossed and her brave armies were 
 beaten. 
 
 This is said in no spirit of time-serving or apology. 
 The South has nothing for which to apologize. She 
 believes that the late struggle between the States was 
 war and not rebellion, revolution and not conspiracy, 
 and that her convictions were as honest as yours. I 
 should be unjust to the dauntless spirit of the South 
 and to my own convictions if I did not make this plain 
 in this presence. The South has nothing to take back. 
 In my native town of Athens is a monument that 
 crowns its central hills — a plain, white shaft. Deep 
 cut into its shining side is a name dear to me above 
 the names of men, that of a brave and simple man 
 who died in a brave and simple faith. Not for all the 
 glories of New England — from Plymouth Rock all the 
 way — would I exchange the heritage he left me in his
 
 By HENRY W. GRADY 123 
 
 soldier's death. To the feet of that shaft I shall send 
 my children's children to reverence him who ennobled 
 their name with his heroic blood. But, sir, speaking 
 from the shadow of that memory, which I honor as I 
 do nothing else on earth, I say that the cause in 
 which he suffered and for which he gave his life was 
 adjudged by higher and fuller wisdom than his or 
 mine, and I am glad that the omniscient God held the 
 balance of battle in His Almighty Hand, and that 
 human slavery was swept forever from American soil 
 — the American Union saved from the wreck of the 
 war. 
 
 This message, Mr. President, comes to you from 
 consecrated ground. Every foot of the soil about the 
 city in which I live is sacred as a battle-ground of the 
 republic. Every hill that invests it is hallowed to you 
 by the blood of your brothers who died for your vic- 
 tory, and doubly hallowed to us by the blood of those 
 who died hopeless, but undaunted, in defeat — sacred 
 soil to all of us, which with memories that make us 
 purer and stronger and better, silent but stanch wit- 
 nesses in its red desolation of the matchless valor of 
 American hearts and the deathless glory of American 
 arms— speaking an eloquent witness, in its white peace 
 and prosperity, to the indissoluble union of American 
 States and the imperishable brotherhood of the Ameri- 
 can people. 
 
 Now what answer has New England to this message .!• 
 Will she permit the prejudice of war to remain in the 
 hearts of the conquerors, when it has died in the hearts 
 of the conquered? Will she transmit this prejudice to 
 the next generation, that in their hearts, which never 
 felt the generous ardor of conflict, it may perpetuate
 
 124 The NEW SOUTH 
 
 itself? Will she withhold, save in strained courtesy, 
 the hand which, straight from his soldier's heart, 
 Grant offered to Lee at Appomattox? Will she make 
 the vision of a restored and happy people, which 
 gathered above the couch of your dying captain, filling 
 his heart with grace, touching his lips with praise and 
 glorifying his path to the grave ; will she make this 
 vision, on which the last sigh of his expiring soul 
 breathed a benediction, a cheat and a delusion? If she 
 does, the South, never abject in asking for comrade- 
 ship, must accept with dignity its refusal ; but if she 
 does not- — if she accepts with frankness and sincerity 
 this message of good will and friendship, then will the 
 prophecy of Webster, delivered in this very Society 
 forty years ago, amid tremendous applause, be verified 
 in its fullest and final sense, when he said: "Standing 
 hand to hand and clasping hands, we should remain 
 united as we have for sixty years, citizens of the same 
 country, members of the same government, united all, 
 united now, and united forever. There have been 
 difficulties, contentions, and controversies, but I tell 
 you that in my judgment 
 
 " 'Those opposed eyes, 
 Which, like the meteors of a troubled heaven, 
 All of one nature, of one substance bred, 
 Did lately meet in th' intestine shock. 
 Shall now, in mutual, well-beseeming ranks 
 March all one way. ' "
 
 ABRAHAM LINCOLN. By EMILIO CASTELAR. 
 
 THE Puritans are the patriarchs of liberty; they 
 opened a new world on the earth ; they opened a 
 new path for the human conscience; they created a 
 new society. Yet, when England tried to subdue 
 them and they conquered, the republic triumphed and 
 slavery remained. Washington could only emancipate 
 his slaves. Franklin said that the Virginians could 
 not invoke the name of God, retaining slavery. Jay 
 said that all the prayers America sent up to Heaven 
 for the preservation of liberty while slavery continued, 
 were mere blasphemies. Mason mourned over the 
 payment his descendants must make for this great 
 crime of their fathers. Jefferson traced the line where 
 the black wave of slavery should be stayed. 
 
 Nevertheless, slavery increased continually. I beg 
 that you will pause a moment to consider the man who 
 cleansed this terrible stain which obscured the stars of 
 the American banner. I beg that you will pause a 
 moment, for his immortal name has been invoked for 
 the perpetuation of slavery. Ah ! the past century has 
 not, the century to come will not have, a figure so grand, 
 because as evil disappears so disappears heroism also. 
 
 I have often contemplated and described his life. 
 Born in a cabin of Kentucky, of parents who could 
 hardly read ; born a new Moses in the solitude of the 
 desert, where are forged all great and obstinate 
 thoughts, monotonous like the desert, and, like the 
 desert, sublime; growing up among those primeval 
 forests, which, with their fragrance, send a cloud of 
 incense, and, with their murmurs, a cloud of prayers 
 to Heaven; a boatman at eight years in the impetuous 
 current of the Ohio, and at seventeen in the vast and 
 
 125
 
 126 ABRAHAM LINCOLN 
 
 tranquil waters of the Mississippi; later, a ■woodman, 
 with axe and arm felling the immemorial trees, to open 
 a way to unexplored regions for his tribe of wandering 
 workers; reading no other book than the Bible, the 
 book of great sorrows and great hopes, dictated often 
 by prophets to the sound of fetters they dragged 
 through Nineveh and Babylon; a child of Nature, in a 
 word, by one of those miracles only comprehensible 
 among free peoples, he fought for the country, and 
 was raised by his fellow-citizens to the Congress at 
 Washington, and by the nation to the Presidency of 
 the Republic ; and when the evil grew more virulent, 
 when those States were dissolved, when the slave- 
 holders uttered their war cry and the slaves their 
 groans of despair — the wood-cutter, the boatman, the 
 son of the great West, the descendant of Quakers, 
 humblest of the humble before his conscience, greatest 
 of the great before history, ascends the Capitol, the 
 greatest moral height of our time, and strong and 
 serene with his conscience and his thought; before 
 him a veteran army, hostile Europe behind him, Eng- 
 land favoring the South, France encouraging reaction 
 in Mexico, in his hands the riven country; he arms 
 two millions of men, gathers a half million of horses, 
 sends his artillery 1,200 miles in a week, from the 
 banks of the Potomac to the shores of Tennessee; 
 fights more than six hundred battles; renews before 
 Richmond the deeds of Alexander, of Caesar; and, 
 after having emancipated 3,000,000 slaves, that noth- 
 ing might be wanting, he dies in the very moment of 
 victory — like Christ, like Socrates, like all redeemers, 
 at the foot of his work. His work! Sublime achieve- 
 ment! over which humanity shall eternally shed its 
 tears, and God his benediction !
 
 AFTER-DINNER SPEECH. Re-uniting the Hearts 
 and Hands of England and America. By SIR 
 HENRY LYTTON BULWER. 
 
 MR. CHAIRMAN AND GENTLEMEN, if it be 
 true, that I have been so fortunate as to con- 
 tribute in any way to the friendly relations which at 
 present exist between the two countries, it is simply 
 because I have taken a plain downright course for 
 effecting this object. The fact of it is, gentlemen, 
 that, according to old customs, when any causes for 
 difference, however slight, existed between our two 
 governments, down sat Her Majesty's Representative 
 at his desk, and down sat the United States Secretary 
 of State at his desk, and each penned to the other very 
 pithy and pertinent despatches, showing the great 
 motives for grievance there were on both sides, and 
 then those despatches were carefully circulated 
 throughout both countries; but when there were only 
 causes for mutual good-will and satisfaction, no one 
 thought it worth while to take notice of so simple a 
 fact, nor to state to the English and American public 
 what strong reasons, both in sentiment and interest, 
 there existed, for their maintaining the closest and 
 most friendly relations with each other. This was the 
 old school of diplomacy, gentlemen; but I am of the 
 new school — and my theory and practice are just the 
 reverse of what I have been describing. I am for 
 keeping as quiet as possible all those small differences 
 which must occasionally take place between any two 
 great States, having vast and complicated interests; 
 but which differences are always easy of adjustment 
 when they are not aggravated by unfriendly and 
 untimely discussion. And I am for making as public 
 
 1.2.7
 
 128 AFTER-DINNER SPEECH 
 
 as possible, on all occasions, those great points of 
 union that must connect two nations, which not only, 
 as my honorable friend Mr. Lawrence has said, have 
 one origin, and speak one language, but which also 
 transact their greatest amount of business with each 
 other. Why, gentlemen, in what possible manner can 
 difficulties of serious character arise between two 
 nations thus situated, except through mutual preju- 
 dices, which, having been suffered to grow up, will be 
 apt, until eradicated, to create a wrong impression as 
 to the real policy and feelings of the one and the 
 other? My endeavors, then, gentlemen, have been to 
 remove all such prejudices; ay, and to replace them 
 by sympathies. For this purpose, as my friend Mr. 
 Walker justly said, I have addressed myself not merely 
 to the American mind, but to the American heart. 
 For this purpose, I have thought it essential, not 
 merely to correspond formally with your State depart- 
 ment, but also to have frank and free communication 
 with your noble and intelligent people. For this pur- 
 pose, I have mixed with your public men, studied your 
 institutions, taken an interest in your affairs, partaken 
 of your festivities, conformed to your habits, and 
 always been willing, not only to eat a good dinner with 
 you, but to make a bad speech after one. Gentlemen, 
 I should be quite satisfied to take, as my reward for 
 these efforts, the eloquent and far more than deserved 
 encomium which has been passed upon me by the dis- 
 tinguished gentleman who proposed the toast I am 
 responding to. But my mission had also another 
 reward — another result — which, if I am not wearying 
 you, I will state as being not only interesting to our 
 two communities, but to the world at large ; I mean a
 
 By SIR HENRY LYTTON BULWER 129 
 
 treaty by which Great Britain and the United States, 
 without infringing on the rights of the humblest indi- 
 vidual or the smallest State, have agreed, on one condi- 
 tion, to protect the construction and guarantee the 
 security when constructed, of any canal or railway 
 which may open a passage across Central America, 
 between the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans. And what 
 was that one condition on which our tw^o governments 
 thus insisted? Why, that they should not, either 
 separately or conjointly, possess one single privilege or 
 advantage, with respect to such canal or railway, 
 which should not be offered, on equal terms, to every 
 other nation on the face of the globe. Gentlemen, I 
 do confess that I am proud that such a treaty as this 
 should have been entered into by the United States and 
 Great Britain; and I will also add that I have a 
 humble pride in stating that one of the signatures 
 attached to that convention is the name of the indi- 
 vidual who has now the honour of addressing you. 
 Gentlemen, I lay a great stress upon this fact, because 
 I felt when I signed that instrument to which I am 
 referring, that I laid the foundation stone of a great 
 and equitable alliance between our two countries ; — an 
 alliance which should not have for its object the 
 wronging or despoiling, but the benefiting and pro- 
 tecting the rest of mankind ; and surely, gentlemen, if 
 such an union were ever required, it is at this moment ; 
 — for at this moment the world is, as it were, violently 
 vibrating between two extremes, and appears of neces- 
 sity to demand some regulating influence, to moderate 
 and steady its oscillations; — and where, gentlemen, 
 can such an influence be better found than in the 
 cordial union of Great Britain and the United States?
 
 I30 AFTER-DINNER SPEECH 
 
 It is true that you live under a Republic, and we 
 under a Monarchy; but what of that? The founda- 
 tions of both societies are law and religion. The pur- 
 pose of both governments is liberty and order. The 
 more you love your Republic, gentlemen, the more you 
 detest those principles of confusion and division, which 
 would destroy it. The more we love our Monarchy, 
 the more we cherish and cling to those principles of 
 equity and freedom which preserve it. In this, 
 indeed, lies the great moral strength of our close con- 
 nexion. Hand in hand, we can stand together, alike 
 opposed to the anarchist, who calls himself the friend 
 of the People, and to the absolutist, who calls himself 
 the friend of the Throne. Long, then, gentlemen, let 
 us thus stand together, the champions of peace between 
 nations, of conciliation between opinions — and if, not- 
 withstanding our example and our efforts, the trumpet 
 of war should sound, and that war to which it calls us 
 should be a war of opinion, why, still let us stand 
 together. Our friends, in that day of conflict, shall be 
 chosen from the most wise, the most moderate, and 
 the most just; nor, whilst we plant the red-cross of 
 England by the side of the stars and stripes of America, 
 do I for one instant doubt but that we shall leave recol- 
 lections to our posterity worthy of those which we have 
 inherited from our ancestors.
 
 MORAL FORCE OF PUBLIC OPINION. By 
 DANIEL WEBSTER. 
 
 IT may be asked, perhaps, Supposing all this to be 
 true, what can we do.' Are we to go to war? Are 
 we to interfere in the Greek cause, or any other Euro- 
 pean cause? Are we to endanger our pacific relations? 
 No, certainly not. What, then, the question recurs, 
 remains for us? If we will not endanger our own 
 peace, if we will neither furnish armies nor navies to 
 the cause which we think the just one, what is there 
 within our power? 
 
 Sir, this reasoning mistakes the age. The time has 
 been, indeed, when fleets, and armies, and subsidies 
 were the principal reliances even in the best cause. 
 But, happily for mankind, a great change has taken 
 place in this respect. Moral causes come into con- 
 sideration, in proportion as the progress of knowledge 
 is advanced; and the public opinion of the civilized 
 world is rapidly gaining an ascendency over mere 
 brutal force. It is already able to oppose the most 
 formidable obstruction to the progress of injustice and 
 oppression ; and as it grows more intelligent and 
 more intense, it will be more and more formidable. 
 It may be silenced by military power, but it cannot be 
 conquered. It is elastic, irrepressible, and invulner- 
 able to the weapons of ordinary warfare. It is that 
 impassible, unextinguishable enemy of mere violence 
 and arbitrary rule, which, like Milton's angels' 
 
 Vital in every part 
 
 Cannot, but by annihilating, die. 
 
 Until this be propitiated or satisfied, it is vain for 
 power to talk either of triumphs or of repose. No 
 
 131
 
 132 MORAL FORCE of PUBLIC OPINION 
 
 matter what fields are desolated, what fortresses sur- 
 rendered, what armies subdued, or what provinces 
 overrun. In the history of the year that has passed by 
 us, and in the instance of unhappy Spain, we have 
 seen the vanity of all triumphs in a cause which 
 violates the general sense of justice of the civilized 
 world. It is nothing that the troops of France have 
 passed from the Pyrenees to Cadiz ; it is nothing that 
 an unhappy and prostrate nation has fallen before 
 them ; it is nothing that arrests, and confiscations, and 
 execution sweep away the little remnant of national 
 resistance. There is an enemy that still exists to check 
 the glory of these triumphs. It follows the conqueror 
 back to the very scene of his ovations; it calls upon 
 him to take notice that Europe, though silent, is yet 
 indignant; it shows him that the sceptre of his victory 
 is a barren sceptre ; that it shall confer neither joy nor 
 honor, but shall moulder to dry ashes in his grasp. 
 In the midst of his exaltation, it pierces his ear with 
 the cry of injured justice; it denounces against him 
 the indignation of an enlightened and civilized age; it 
 turns to bitterness the cup of his rejoicing, and wounds 
 him with the sting which belongs to the consciousness 
 of having outraged the opinion of mankind.
 
 THE INDEPENDENT SPIRIT OF THE PURI- 
 TANS. From "Speeches by Henry Cabot Lodge." 
 Reprinted with permission. By HENRY CABOT 
 LODGE. 
 
 WE need the Puritan spirit in certain elements of 
 our society. The number of men to whom 
 inherited fortime brings education and command of 
 time without effort on their part is ever increasing. 
 Do they avail themselves fully of their opportunities, 
 or are they too apt to pass their days in a vain search 
 for distractions and a mournful regret that this country 
 is not some other country? I am happy to believe that 
 this is the very worst country in the world for an idler. 
 But to the man with health, wealth, education, and 
 unlimited command of time, — in other words, to the 
 man who owes most to his coimtry, — here are better 
 opportunities and higher duties than anywhere else. 
 I am not going to make the familiar plea that young 
 men of education and wealth ought to perform their 
 obvious duties as citizens. There has been plenty of 
 sound argument and good advice offered on that 
 score, and the proposition is well understood. 
 
 But this is not all. In this question lie deeper mean- 
 ings. There is a very real danger that the growth of 
 wealth here may end by producing a class grounded on 
 mere money, and thence class feeling, a thing noxious, 
 deadly, and utterly wrong in this country. It lies with 
 the men of whom I have spoken to strangle this ser- 
 pent at its birth. They cannot do this, however, 
 unless they are in full sympathy with the American 
 people and with American ideas; and to this sympathy 
 they can never come by living in Europe, by mimick- 
 ing foreign habits, by haunting well-appointed clubs, 
 
 133
 
 134 INDEPENDENT SPIRIT of the PURITANS 
 
 or by studying our public affairs in the columns of a 
 Saturday Review, home-made or imported. They 
 must go to work. Philanthropy and public affairs 
 need such men, because they can give what others 
 cannot spare — time and money. There is a great field 
 in politics. Before they enter it, let them take to 
 themselves not only the high and self-respecting spirit 
 of the Puritan, but also his fighting qualities, his 
 dogged persistence, and another attribute for which he 
 was not so conspicuous, — plenty of good nature. They 
 will need all these weapons, for it is no primrose 
 path. They must be prepared to meet not only 
 the usual abuse, but also much and serious preju- 
 dice. They must not mind defeats and hard work. 
 If their conception of duty differs from that of their 
 accustomed friends and allies, they must not be sur- 
 prised if some of those very friends mete out to 
 them the harshest measure and deal them the sharp- 
 est blows. 
 
 Yet if they hold fast to two principles, — I care not 
 under what party banner they serve, — if they will 
 fearlessly do what in their own eyes and before their 
 own conscience is right and brave and honorable ; if, 
 like the Puritans, they will do the work which comes 
 to their hands with all their might, they will win the 
 best success. They will win the regard and confidence 
 of large bodies of their fellow-citizens, of those men 
 by whose strong hands and active brains the republic is 
 ever being raised higher, and this regard and confi- 
 dence are the best and most valuable possessions that 
 any American can ever hope to have. Let such men, 
 then, go into politics, because they can give their time 
 and energy to it, because they can do work worth
 
 By HENRY CABOT LODGE 135 
 
 doing, and, above all, because they will thus become 
 truer and better Americans. 
 
 I believe, Mr. President, that I am coming very 
 close to what is called "Americanism," but of "Ameri- 
 canism" of the right sort we cannot have too much. 
 Mere vaporing and boasting become a nation as little 
 as a man. But honest, outspoken pride and faith in 
 our countr}' are infinitely better and more to be 
 respected than the cultivated reserve which sets it 
 down as ill-bred and in bad taste ever to refer to our 
 country except by way of depreciation, criticism, or 
 general negation. The Puritans did great work in the 
 world because they believed most fervently in their 
 cause, their country, and themselves. It is the same 
 to-day. Without belief of this sort nothing worth 
 doing is ever done. 
 
 We have a right to be proud of our vast material 
 success, our national power and dignity, our advanc- 
 ing civilization, carrying freedom and education in its 
 train. Most of all may we be proud of the mag- 
 nanimity displayed by the American people at the 
 close of the civil war, a noble generosity unparalleled 
 in the history of nations. But to count our wealth and 
 tell our numbers and rehearse our great deeds simply 
 to boast of them is useless enough. We have a right 
 to do it only when we listen to the solemn undertone 
 which brings the message of great responsibilities, — 
 responsibilities far greater than the ordinary political 
 and financial issues which are sure to find, sooner or 
 later, a right settlement. Social questions are the 
 questions of the present and the future for the Ameri- 
 can people. The race for wealth has opened a broad 
 gap between rich and poor. There are thousands at
 
 136 INDEPENDENT SPIRIT of the PURITANS 
 
 your gates toiling from sunrise to sunset to keep body 
 and soul together, and the struggle is a hard and 
 bitter one. The idle, the worthless, and the criminal 
 form but a small element of the community'; but there 
 is a vast body of honest, God-fearing working men and 
 women whose yoke is not easy and whose burden is far 
 from light. 
 
 The destiny of the republic is in the welfare of its 
 working men and women. We cannot push their 
 troubles and cares into the background, and trust that 
 all will come right in the end. Let us look to it that 
 differences and inequalities of condition do not widen 
 into ruin. It is most true that these differences can- 
 not be rooted out, but they can be modified, and a 
 great deal can be done to secure to every man the 
 share of well-being and happiness to which his hon- 
 esty, thrift, and ability entitle him. Legislation can- 
 not change humanity nor alter the decrees of nature, 
 but it can help the solution of these grave problems. 
 
 Practical measures are plentiful enough : the hours 
 of labor; emigration from our over-crowded cities to 
 the lands of the West — economical and energetic 
 municipal governments; proper building laws; the 
 rigid prevention of adulteration in the great staples of 
 food; wise regulation of the railroads and other great 
 corporations; the extirpation of race and class in 
 politics ; above all, every effort to secure to labor its 
 fair and full share of the profits earned by the combi- 
 nation of labor and capital. Here are matters of great 
 pith and moment, more important, more essential, 
 more pressing, than any others. They must be met; 
 they cannot be shirked or evaded. 
 
 The past is across the water ; the future is here in
 
 By HENRY CABOT LODGE 137 
 
 our keeping. We can do all that can be done to solve 
 the social problems and fulfil the hopes of mankind. 
 Failure would be a disaster un equaled in history. The 
 first step to success is pride of country, simple, honest, 
 frank, and ever present, and this is the Americanism 
 that I would have. If we have this pride and faith 
 we shall appreciate our mighty responsibilities. Then 
 if we live up to them we shall keep the words "an 
 American citizen" what they now are, — the noblest 
 title any man can bear.
 
 COPYRIGHT. By THOMAS BABINGTON, LORD 
 MACAULAY. 
 
 THE advantages arising from a system of copy- 
 right are obvious. It is desirable that we should 
 have a supply of good books : we cannot have such a 
 supply unless men of letters are liberally remunerated ; 
 and the least objectionable way of remunerating them 
 is by ineans of copyright. You cannot depend for 
 literar}^ instruction and amusement on the leisure of 
 men occupied in the pursuits of active life. Such men 
 may occasionally produce compositions of great merit. 
 But you must not look to such men for works which 
 require deep meditation and long research. Works of 
 that kind you can expect only from persons who make 
 literature the business of their lives. Of these persons 
 few will be found among the rich and the noble. The 
 rich and the noble are not impelled to intellectual 
 exertion by necessity. They may be impelled to in- 
 tellectual exertion by the desire of distinguishing them- 
 selves, or by the desire of benefiting the community. 
 But it is generally within these walls that they seek to 
 signalize themselves and to serve their fellow creatures. 
 Both their ambition and their public spirit, in a country 
 like this, naturally take a political turn. It is, then, on 
 men whose profession is literature, and whose private 
 means are not ample, that you must rely for a supply 
 of valuable books. Such men must be remunerated 
 for their literary labour. And there are only two 
 ways in which they can be remunerated. One of 
 these ways is patronage ; the other is copyright. 
 
 There have been times in which men of letters 
 looked, not to the public, but to the government, or to 
 a few great men, for the reward of their exertions. It 
 
 133
 
 ^7 THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY 139 
 
 was thus in the time of Maecenas and Pollio at Rome, 
 of the Medici at Florence, of Lewis the Fourteenth in 
 France, of Lord Halifax and Lord Oxford in this 
 country. Now, Sir, I well know that there are cases 
 in which it is fit and graceful, nay, in which it is a 
 sacred duty to reward the merits or to relieve the dis- 
 tresses of men of genius by the exercise of this species 
 of liberality. But these cases are exceptions. I can 
 conceive no system more fatal to the integrity and 
 independence of literary men than one under which 
 they should be taught to look for their daily bread to 
 the favour of ministers and nobles. 
 
 We have, then, only one resource left. We must 
 betake ourselves to copyright, be the inconveniences of 
 copyright what they may. Those inconveniences, in 
 truth, are neither few nor small. Copyright is 
 monopoly, and produces all the effects which the gen- 
 eral voice of mankind attributes to monopoly. My 
 honourable and learned friend talks very contemptu- 
 ously of those who are led away by the theory that 
 monopoly makes things dear. That monopoly makes 
 things dear is certainly a theory, as all the great truths 
 which have been established by the experience of all 
 ages and nations, and which are taken for granted in 
 all reasonings, may be said to be theories. It is a 
 theory in the same sense in which it is a theory that 
 day and night follow each other, that lead is heavier 
 than water, that bread nourishes, that arsenic poisons, 
 that alcohol intoxicates. If, as my honourable and 
 learned friend seems to think, the whole world is in 
 the wrong on this point, if the real effect of monopoly 
 is to make articles good and cheap, why does he stop 
 short in his career of change? Why does he limit the
 
 I40 COPYRIGHT 
 
 operation of so salutary a principle to sixty years? 
 Why does he consent to anything short of a perpetuity? 
 
 A monopoly of sixty years produces twice as much 
 evil as a monopoly of thirty years, and thrice as much 
 evil as a monopoly of twenty years. But it is by no 
 means the fact that a posthumous monopoly of sixty 
 years gives to an author thrice as much pleasure and 
 thrice as strong a motive as a posthumous monopoly 
 of twent)^ years. 
 
 Now, this is the sort of boon which my honourable 
 and learned friend holds out to authors. Considered 
 as a boon to them, it is a mere nullity; but, considered 
 as an impost on the public, it is no nullity, but a very 
 serious and pernicious reality. I will take an example. 
 Dr. Johnson died fifty-six years ago. If the law were 
 what my honourable and learned friend wishes to make 
 it, somebody would now have the monopoly of Dr. 
 Johnson's works. Who that somebody would be it is 
 impossible to say; but we may venture to guess. I 
 guess, then, that it would have been some bookseller, 
 who was the assign of another bookseller, who was 
 the grandson of a third bookseller, who had bought 
 the copyright from Black Frank, the doctor's servant 
 and residuary legatee, in 1785 or 1786. Now, would 
 the knowledge that this copyright would exist in 1841 
 have been a source of gratification to Johnson? 
 Would it have stimulated his exertions? Would it 
 have once drawn him out of his bed before noon? 
 Would it have once cheered him imder a fit of the 
 spleen? Would it have induced him to give us one 
 more allegory, one more life of a poet, one more imita- 
 tion of Juvenal? I firmly believe not. 
 
 But is the difference nothing to us? I can buy
 
 ^j THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY 141 
 
 Rasselas for sixpence; I might have had to give five 
 shillings for it. I can buy the Dictionary, the entire 
 genuine Dictionaiy, for two guineas, perhaps for less ; 
 I might have had to give five or six guineas for it. Do 
 I grudge this to a man like Dr. Johnson? Not at all. 
 Show me that the prospect of this boon roused him to 
 any vigorous effort, or sustained his spirits under 
 depressing circumstances, and I am quite willing to 
 pay the price of such an object, heavy as that price is. 
 But what I do complain of is that my circumstances are 
 to be worse, and Johnson's none the better; that I am 
 to give five pounds for what to him was not worth a 
 farthing. 
 
 My honourable and learned friend dwells on the 
 claims of the posterity of great writers. Undoubtedly, 
 Sir, it would be very pleasing to see a descendant of 
 Shakespeare living in opulence on the fruits of his 
 great ancestor's genius. A house maintained in 
 splendour by such a patrimony would be a more inter- 
 esting and striking object than Blenheim is to us, or 
 than Strathfieldsaye will be to our children. But, 
 imhappily, it is scarcely possible that, under any sys- 
 tem, such a thing can come to pass. 
 
 If, Sir, I wished to find a strong and perfect illustra- 
 tion of the effects which I anticipate from long copy- 
 right, I should select, — my honourable and learned 
 friend will be surprised, — I should select the case of 
 Milton's granddaughter. As often as this bill has been 
 under discussion, the fate of Milton's granddaughter 
 has been brought forward by the advocates of 
 monopoly. My honourable and learned friend has 
 repeatedly told the story with great eloquence and 
 effect. He has dilated on the sufferings, on the abject
 
 142 COPYRIGHT 
 
 poverty, of this ill-fated woman, the last of an illus- 
 trious race. He tells us that, in the extremity of her 
 distress, Garrick gave her a benefit, that Johnson 
 wrote a prologue, and that the public contributed some 
 hundreds of pounds. Was it fit, he asks, that she 
 should receive, in this eleemosynary form, a small 
 portion of what was in truth a debt? Why, he asks, 
 instead of obtaining a pittance from charity, did she 
 not live in comfort and luxury on the proceeds of the 
 sale of her ancestor's works? But, Sir, will my honour- 
 able and learned friend tell me that this event, which 
 he has so often and so pathetically described, was 
 caused by the shortness of the term of copyright? 
 Why, at that time, the duration of copyright was 
 longer than even he, at present, proposes to make it. 
 The monopoly lasted not sixty years, but forever. At 
 the time at which Milton's granddaughter asked 
 charity, Milton's works were the exclusive property of 
 a bookseller. Within a few months of the day on 
 which the benefit was given at Garrick 's theatre, the 
 holder of the copyright of Paradise Lost, — I think it 
 was Tonson, — applied to the Court of Chancery for an 
 injunction against a bookseller, who had published a 
 cheap edition of the great epic poem, and obtained the 
 injunction. The representation of Comus was, if I 
 remember rightly, in 1750; the injunction in 1752. 
 Here, then, is a perfect illustration of the effect of long 
 copyright. Milton's works are the property of a single 
 publisher. Everybody who wants them must buy 
 them at Tonson 's shop, and at Tonson's price. Who- 
 ever attempts to undersell Tonson is harassed with 
 legal proceedings. Thousands who would gladly pos- 
 sess a copy of Paradise Lost must forego that great
 
 i)> THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY 143 
 
 enjoyment. And what, in the meantime, is the situa- 
 tion of the only person for whom we can suppose that 
 the author, protected at such a cost to the public, was 
 at all interested? She is reduced to utter destitution. 
 Milton's works are under a monopoly. Milton's 
 granddaughter is starving. The reader is pillaged; 
 but the writer's family is not enriched. Society is 
 taxed doubly. It has to give an exorbitant price for 
 the poems; and it has at the same time to give alms to 
 the only surviving descendant of the poet.
 
 AMERICAN COURAGE. Printed for the first time, 
 with • permission. Copyright, 1899, by Herbert S. 
 Stone & Company. By SHERMAN HOAR. 
 
 ONE of the best of those paintings which have 
 made the name of Edouard Detaille famous is 
 called "The Salute to the Wounded." In the painting 
 one sees a country road in France, along which are 
 marching some wounded Prussian prisoners under an 
 escort of French cuirassiers. A French officer of high 
 rank and his staff are seated upon their horses by the 
 roadside, and are in the act of saluting their wounded 
 enemies, who are passing before them. The picture 
 always has had an attraction for me, because it shows 
 that strong patriotic feeling which led the French 
 painters at the time of the Franco-Prussian war to 
 find, even in the incidents of a struggle fraught with 
 so much shame and disaster for their nation, oppor- 
 tunities to paint nothing that did not put in evidence 
 the best qualities of their national character. 
 
 Here in the United States there is no lack of that 
 admiration for courageous self-sacrifice which the 
 French painter has put so faithfully into his picture; 
 but I sometimes feel that we fail to find in the devo- 
 tion, the self-denial, and the sacrifice of those who 
 have given themselves to make and maintain our 
 country, all the inspiration that should be derived 
 from them, or that would be got out of them by the 
 men of France had those qualities been displayed by 
 their countrymen. 
 
 I fear we undervalue the devotion to country which 
 comes from a contemplation of what has been done 
 and suffered in her name. I feel that we teach those 
 who are to make or mar the future of this nation too 
 
 144
 
 By SHERMAN HOAR 145 
 
 much of what has been done elsewhere, and too little 
 of what has been done here. Courage is the char- 
 acteristic of no one land or time. The world's history 
 is full of it, and the lessons it teaches. American 
 courage, however, is of this nation; it is ours, and if the 
 finest national spirit is worth the creating; if patriot- 
 ism is still a quality to be engendered in our youth ; if 
 love of country is still to be a strong power for good, 
 those acts of devotion and of heroic personal sacrifice 
 with which our history is filled, are worthy of earnest 
 study, of continued contemplation, and of perpetual 
 consideration. 
 
 "Let him, who will, sing deeds done well across the sea, 
 Here, lovely Land, men bravely live and die for Thee." 
 
 The particular example I desire to speak about is of 
 that splendid quality of courage which dares every- 
 thing not for self or country, but for an enemy. It is 
 of that kind which is called into existence not by 
 dreams of glory, or by love of land, but by the highest 
 human desire ; the desire to mitigate suffering in those 
 who are against us. 
 
 In the afternoon of the day after the battle of 
 Fredericksburg, General Kershaw of the Confederate 
 army was sitting in his quarters when suddenly a 
 young South Carolinian named Kirkland entered, and, 
 after the usual salutations, said: "General, I can't 
 stand this." The general, thinking the statement a little 
 abrupt, asked what it was he could not stand, and Kirk- 
 land replied: "Those poor fellows out yonder have 
 been crying for water all day, and I have come to you 
 to ask if I may go and give them some." The "poor 
 fellows" were Union soldiers who lay wounded
 
 146 AMERICAN COURAGE 
 
 between the Union and Confederate lines. To get to 
 them Kirkland must go beyond the protection of the 
 breastworks and expose himself to a fire from the 
 Union sharpshooters, who, so far during that day, had 
 made the raising above the Confederate works of so 
 much as a head an act of extreme danger. General 
 Kershaw at first refused to allow Kirkland to go on his 
 errand, but at last, as thj lad persisted in his request, 
 declined to forbid him, leaving the responsibility for 
 action with the boy himself. Kirkland, in perfect 
 delight, rushed from the general's quarters to the 
 front, where he gathered all the canteens he could 
 carry, filled them with water, and going over the 
 breastworks, started to give relief to his wounded 
 enemies. No sooner was he in the open field than our 
 sharpshooters, supposing he was going to plunder their 
 comrades, began to fire at him. For some minutes he 
 went about doing good under circumstances of most 
 imminent personal danger. Soon, however, those to 
 whom he was taking the water recognized the char- 
 acter of his undertaking. All over the field men sat 
 up and called to him, and those too hurt to raise them- 
 selves, held up their hands and beckoned to him. 
 Soon our sharpshooters, who luckily had not hit him, 
 saw that he was indeed an Angel of Mercy, and 
 stopped their fire, and two armies looked with admira- 
 tion at the young man's pluck and loving kindness. 
 With a beautiful tenderness, Kirkland went about his 
 work, giving of the water to all, and here and there 
 placing a knapsack pillow under some poor wounded 
 fellow's head, or putting in a more comfortable posi- 
 tion some shattered leg or arm. Then he went back to 
 his own lines and the fighting went on. Tell me of a
 
 i5j SHERMAN HOAR 147 
 
 more exalted example of personal courage and self- 
 denial than that of that Confederate soldier, or one 
 which more clearly deserves the name of Christian 
 fortitude. In that terrible War of the Rebellion, Kirk- 
 land gave up his life for a mistaken cause in the battle 
 of Chickamauga, but I cannot help thanking God that, 
 in our reunited country, we are joint heirs with the 
 men from the South in the glory and inspiration that 
 come from such heroic deeds as his.
 
 THE CENTRAL AMERICAN TREATY. By 
 WILLIAM H. SEWARD. 
 
 THE Central American Treaty was fully ratified on 
 the 4th of July, 1850, but took effect from its 
 date, April 19, 1850. It recites the purpose of the 
 parties, namely, to consolidate amicable relations, by 
 setting forth and fixing their mutual views and inten- 
 tions concerning any interoceanic canal that may be 
 constructed by the way of the river San Juan and 
 either one or both of the Lakes of Nicaragua or 
 Manegua. It was a great treaty, sublime in its con- 
 ception, generous in its spirit, and beneficent in its 
 purposes. The two rival members of the British 
 family, after long and angry alienation, met, not 
 within the territory of either, but on that foreign and 
 narrow isthmus which, while it unites North and South 
 America, divides the vigorous Atlantic States of 
 Europe and America from the immature American 
 States and the decayed Asiatic nations which on the 
 opposite coasts overlook the broad Pacific, the last 
 remaining one of the barriers which nature had 
 erected to hinder the restoration of the unity of the 
 human race. How were they changed since they had 
 last met in conflict! The elder had grown richer, 
 stronger, and more imperial than ever before. The 
 younger had reached a higher and more palmy state 
 than any one of years so few had ever before attained. 
 They are no longer unequal, but each was dominant, 
 although in a separate sphere. The one, by the pres- 
 ence of its mercantile marine and its armed navy, 
 kept the nations of the East in their places ; the other, 
 by the mere influence of its opinions and its laws, was 
 supreme among the newer nations of the West. They 
 
 148
 
 By WILLIAM H. SEWARD 149 
 
 met on that important strait, not to contend together 
 for dominion over it, nor yet to combine together to 
 seize and divide an exclusive dominion there, but to 
 make it free to each other, and equally free to all 
 mankind. They met in the presence of the feeble and 
 contentious republics which the influence of their own 
 institutions had perhaps too soon organized out of the 
 ruins of Spanish despotism in America, not to over- 
 throw and subjugate those republics, and seize the 
 domains which they could not hold, but to fortify 
 them, and guarantee their possessions to them forever. 
 It is not the present, but the future, that stamps upon 
 human transactions their true and lasting character. 
 Higher than the fame of Agincourt, of Saratoga, of 
 Waterloo, or of Buena Vista, shall be the glory of that 
 conjunction of Great Britain and America on the 
 heights that command the repose of the world. The 
 truce they made there was not effected without mutual 
 self-denial, acquired under the discipline of free gov- 
 ernment. Great Britain repressed a constitutional 
 ambition that had long convulsed the world. The 
 United States subdued onj that nature prompted, and 
 the voice of mankind applauded and encouraged. Let 
 not that sacred truce be broken, and these friendly 
 Powers engage in deadly strife and discord, and 
 violence be thus let loose, to arrest the progress of the 
 nations. Better for the pride of each, that the white 
 cliffs that garrison the coast of England sink into a 
 black and pestilential morass, and that Niagara lose 
 forever its deep-toned voice, and ooze through a 
 vulgar channel to the sea, than that the great and 
 sonorous concord thus established between them be 
 rudely broken. I counsel you. Senators and statesmen
 
 150 The CENTRAL AMERICAN TREATY 
 
 of the United States, by all the motives that are born 
 in the love of such a land as ours, in such an age as 
 this — I counsel the Senators and statesmen of Great 
 Britain, by all the motives that gre;;:ness and ambition 
 like her own will not permit to be inactive — to pre- 
 serve and maintain, at all costs and hazards, and 
 through all discontents and jealousies, this great 
 treaty. Let this political rainbow stand, stretching 
 from the skies downwards on either side to the horizon, 
 a pledge that the nations shall not again be over- 
 whelmed by any after-coming deluge of human 
 passions.
 
 A MONUMENT TO SHAKSPERE. By VICTOR 
 HUGO. 
 
 IN truth, a monument to Shakspere, cui bono? 
 The statue that he has made for himself is worth 
 more, with all England for a pedestal. Shakspere 
 has no need of a pyramid; he has his work. 
 
 What do you suppose marble could do for him? 
 What can bronze do where there is glory? Malachite 
 and alabaster are of no avail; jasper, serpentine, 
 basalt, red porphyry, such as that at the Invalides, 
 granite, Paros and Carrara, are of no use, — genius is 
 genius without them. Even if all the stones had a 
 part in it, would they make that man an inch greater? 
 What vault shall be more indestructible than this: 
 "The Winter's Tale," "The Tempest," "The Merry 
 Wives of Windsor," "The Two Gentlemen of Verona," 
 "Julius Caesar," "Coriolanus"? What monument 
 more grandiose than "Lear," more wild than "The 
 Merchant of Venice," more dazzling than "Romeo and 
 Juliet," more amazing than "Richard III."? What 
 moon could throw on that building a light more mys- 
 terious than "The Midsummer Night's Dream"? What 
 capital, were it even London, could produce around it 
 a rumour so gigantic as the tumultuous soul of "Mac- 
 beth"? What frame-work of cedar or of oak will last 
 as long as "Othello"? What bronze will be bronze as 
 much as "Hamlet"? No construction of lime, of rock, 
 of iron and of cement, is worth the breath, — the deep 
 breath of genius, which is the breathing of God 
 through man. A head in which is an idea, — such is 
 the summit; heaps of stone and brick would be useless 
 efforts. What edifice equals a thought? Babel is below 
 Isaiah; Cheops is less than Homer; the Coliseum is 
 
 151
 
 152 A MONUMENT to SHAKSPERE 
 
 inferior to Juvenal ; the Giralda of Seville is dwarfish 
 by the side of Cervantes; St. Peter of Rome does not 
 reach to the ankle of Dante. How could you manage 
 to build a tower as high as that name: Shakspere? 
 
 Ah, add something, if you can, to a mind! 
 
 Suppose a monument. Suppose it splendid; sup- 
 pose it sublime, — a triumphal arch, an obelisk, a circus 
 with a pedestal in the centre, a cathedral. No people 
 is more illustrious, more noble, more magnificent, and 
 more magnanimous than the English people. Couple 
 these two ideas, England and Shakspere, and make 
 an edifice arise therefrom. Such a nation celebrating 
 such a man, it will be superb. Imagine the monu- 
 ment, imagine the inauguration. The Peers are there, 
 the Commons give their adherence, the bishops 
 officiate, the princes join the procession, the queen is 
 present. The virtuous woman in whom the English 
 people, royalist as we know, see and venerate their 
 actual personification, — this worthy mother, this noble 
 widow, comes, with the deep respect which is called 
 for, to incline material m^ajesty before ideal majesty; 
 the Queen of England salutes Shakspere. The 
 homage of Victoria repairs the disdain of Elizabeth. 
 As for Elizabeth, she is probably there also, sculptured 
 somewhere on the surbase, with Henry VIII., her 
 father, and James I., her successor, — pygmies beneath 
 the poet. The cannon booms, the curtain falls, they 
 uncover the statue, which seems to say, "At length!" 
 and which has grown in the shade during three hun- 
 dred years, — three centuries; the growth of a colossus; 
 an immensity. All the York, Cumberland, Pitt, and 
 Peel bronzes have been made use of, in order to pro- 
 duce this statue; the public places have been disen-
 
 By VICTOR HUGO 153 
 
 cumbered of a heap of uncalled-for metal-castings; in 
 this lofty figure have been amalgamated all kinds of 
 Henrys and Edwards; the various Williams and the 
 numerous Georges have been melted, the Achilles in 
 Hyde Park has made the great toe. This is fine; 
 behold Shakspere almost as great as a Pharaoh or a 
 Sesostris. Bells, drums, trumpets, applause, hurrahs. 
 
 What then? 
 
 It is honourable for England, indifferent to Shaks- 
 pere. 
 
 What is the salutation of royalty, of aristocracy, of 
 the army, and even of the English populace, ignorant 
 yet to this moment, like nearly all other nations, — 
 what is the salutation of all these groups variously 
 enlightened tojiim who has the eternal acclamation, 
 with its reverberation, of all ages and all men? What 
 orison of the Bishop of London or of the Archbishop of 
 Canterbury is worth the cry of a woman before Des- 
 demona, of a mother before Arthur, of a soul before 
 Hamlet? 
 
 And thus, when universal outcry demands from 
 England a monument to Shakspere, it is not for the 
 sake of Shakspere, it is for the sake of England. 
 
 There are cases in which the repayment of a debt is 
 of greater import to the debtor than to the creditor. 
 
 A monum.ent is an example. The lofty head of a 
 great man is a light. Crowds, like the waves, require 
 beacons above them. It is good that the passer-by 
 should know that there are great men. People may 
 not have time to read ; they are forced to see. People 
 pass by that way, and stumble against the pedestal; 
 they are almost obliged to raise the head and to 
 glance a little at the inscription. Men escape a book;
 
 154 A MONUMENT to SHAKSPERE 
 
 they cannot escape the statue. One day, on the 
 bridge of Rouen, before the beautiful statue due to 
 David d'Angers, a peasant mounted on an ass said to 
 me: "Do you know Pierre CorneiUe?" "Yes," I 
 replied. "So do I," he rejoined. "And do you know 
 •The Cid'?" I resumed. "No," said he. 
 
 To him, Corneille was the statue. 
 
 This beginning in the knowledge of great men is 
 necessary to the people. The monument incites them 
 to know more of the man. They desire to learn to 
 read in order to know what this bronze means. A 
 statue is an elbow-thrust to ignorance. 
 
 There is then, in the execution of such monuments, 
 popular utility as well as national justice. 
 
 To perform what is useful at the same time as what 
 is just, that will at the end certainly tempt England. 
 She is the debtor of Shakspere. To leave such a 
 debt in abeyance is not a good attitude for the pride of 
 a people. It is a point of morality that nations should 
 be good payers in matters of gratitude. Enthusiasm 
 is probity. When a man is a glory in the face of his 
 nation, that nation which does not perceive the fact 
 astounds the human race around.
 
 THE SPANISH-AMERICAN WAR: Its Causes and 
 Its Results. By JOHN P. CHIDWICK. 
 
 I KNOW that your attendance here to-night is not 
 given to me alone, nor to me principally, but 
 rather to me as I represent those men in whose honor 
 you have gathered, and over whose consecrated 
 remains it was my duty to read the last, but consoling, 
 offices of our holy religion. 
 
 Sometimes I have thought it rather incongruous that 
 I, a priest, should speak triumphantly of war. I have 
 thought that people might think it inconsistent with 
 the mission of a priest, which is to foster peace among 
 men and to establish it between man and God. The 
 priest is unworthy of the Master who does not breathe 
 peace with every breath of his nostrils. How, then, 
 do I justify my words glorifying war? 
 
 After all has been said that can be said of the horrors 
 of war, it still remains that there are certain circum- 
 stances under which war is not only justifiable, but ab- 
 solutely necessary. There are times when a people have 
 been crushed in all of the rights of a nation which God 
 has given to them; when all measures of redress for 
 their wrongs have been spurned and contemned. 
 Beyond that they see the gleam of freedom. Then it 
 is that they are prompted to bare their breasts to the 
 lightning and place their reliance, through God, in the 
 argument of force. No nation can see its people bow 
 their heads in shame before the rest of the people of 
 the world. The nation's honor is the nation's soul: it 
 is the nation's spirit and must be kept alive. 
 
 In that war through which we have just passed did 
 we not have the freedom of an oppressed nation at 
 stake? Did we not have the honor of the flag and the 
 
 155
 
 iS6 The SPANISH-AMERICAN WAR 
 
 blood of the martyr who had been doing his duty for 
 God and humanity? But not until divine providence 
 took the course of events into its own hands, and 
 brought upon us that calamity, that sacrifice, through 
 whose lurid light we could read plainly the lesson of 
 unhappy Cuba — not until then did we rise up in might 
 to vindicate them, and to assert our honor before God 
 and the world. 
 
 It was not idle curiosity that brought this audience 
 here. It was fond recollection. And thus it is that I 
 am willing to speak to audiences, not to satisfy curi- 
 osity, but a living love. I thank God that our people 
 preserve this love in their hearts now, after a year of 
 great history in the land ! 
 
 Notwithstanding her admiration, her joy over unex- 
 pected results ; notwithstanding her sorrow over the sac- 
 rifices that have been demanded, thank God, America 
 has not forgotten the early heroes of our cause, 
 whose deaths she well regards as the first chapter in 
 the Spanish- American war! In their name, and with 
 all my heart, I thank you for this remembrance, and 
 pray that it will sink deeper into your hearts and the 
 hearts of all our people ! 
 
 First, why was the Maine sent to Havana? Our 
 people had suffered insult and oppression for three 
 years, 400,000 people had died under Spanish nile. 
 The hatred of American people was deep in the breasts 
 of the Spaniards. Were we going to fly and admit 
 ourselves cowards? No, thank God. We had a nation 
 that responded to our consul general's request. That 
 was why the Maine was sent to protect the Americans, 
 and if we did lose her and the poor men that went 
 down with her, we maintained our honor. I have no
 
 By JOHN P. CHIDWICK 157 
 
 patience with those people who say we forced the war. 
 Other nations would have sent their ships to Havana 
 at once, and demanded satisfaction at the muzzle of 
 their guns. We are not a nation of murderers. Our 
 principles were not those of greed, but those of God. 
 It has been said that we are not a united nation; that 
 because we have different faiths, and come from differ- 
 ent races, we do not stand together. When, however, 
 the word came, they found us shoulder to shoulder 
 and back to back, and there was no one found wanting. 
 Our patriotism had been slumbering for thirty years, 
 and it awoke like a volcano. 
 
 Cursed be the miscreant who dares to stain the stars 
 and stripes of our flag with religious or political ani- 
 mosity. Let not sectarian jealousy find place in the 
 breast of any one. Let us keep together as we always 
 have, Americans every one, and ready at all times to 
 uphold the national honor. Already we see other 
 nations looking to us for aid. We see one nation 
 stretching out its hand to us for an alliance, not an 
 alliance of the stronger to the weaker, but as equal to 
 equal.
 
 THE CONSOLATIONS OF LITERATURE. By 
 RUFUS CHOATE. 
 
 I COME to a^ld the final reason why the working 
 man — by whom I mean the whole brotherhood of 
 industry — should set on mental culture and that knowl- 
 edge which is wisdom a value so high — only not 
 supreme — subordinate alone to the exercises and hopes 
 of religion itself. And that is, that therein he shall so 
 surely find rest from labor; succor under its burdens; 
 forgetfulness of its cares ; composure in its annoyances. 
 It is not always that the busy day is followed by the 
 peaceful night It is not always that fatigue wins 
 sleep. Often some vexation outside of the toil that has 
 exhausted the frame; some loss in a bargain; some 
 loss by an insolvency ; some unforeseen rise or fall of 
 prices; some triumph of a mean or fraudulent com- 
 petitor; "the law's delay, the proud man's contumely, 
 the insolence of office, or some one of the spurns that 
 patient merit from the unworthy takes" — some self- 
 reproach, perhaps — follow you within the door; chill 
 the fireside ; sow the pillow with thorns ; and the dark 
 care is lost in the last waking thought, and haunts the 
 vivid dream. Happy, then, is he who has laid up in 
 youth, and has held fast in all fortune, a genuine and 
 passionate love of reading. True balm of hurt minds; 
 of surer and more healthful charm than "poppy or 
 mandragora, or all the drowsy syrups of the world" — 
 by that single taste, by that single capacity, he may 
 bound in a moment into the still regions of delightful 
 studies, and be at rest. He recalls the annoyance that 
 pursues him ; reflects that he has done all that might 
 become a man to avoid or bear it; he indulges in one 
 good long, human sigh, picks up the volume where the 
 
 i$8
 
 By RUFUS CHOATE 159 
 
 mark kept his place, and in about the same time that 
 it takes the Mohammedan in the Spectator to put his 
 head in the bucket of water and raise it out, he finds 
 himself exploring the arrow-marked ruins of Nineveh 
 with Layard; or worshipping at the spring-head of the 
 stupendous Missouri with Clarke and Lewis; or watch- 
 ing with Columbus for the sublime moment of the ris- 
 ing of the curtain from before the great mystery of the 
 sea; or looking reverentially on while Socrates— the 
 discourse of immortality ended — refuses the offer of 
 escape, and takes in his hand the poison, to die in 
 obedience to the unrighteous sentence of the law ; or, 
 perhaps, it is in the contemplation of some vast spec- 
 tacle or phenomenon of Nature that he has found his 
 quick peace— the renewed exploration of one of her 
 great laws — or some glimpse opened by the pencil of 
 St. Pierre, or Humboldt, or Chateaubriand, or Wilson, 
 of the "blessedness and glory of her own deep, calm, 
 and mighty existence." 
 
 Let the case of a busy lawyer testify to the priceless 
 value of the love of reading. He comes home, his 
 temples throbbing, his nerves shattered, from a trial 
 of a week ; surprised and alarmed by the charge of the 
 judge, and pale with anxiety about the verdict of the 
 next morning, not at all satisfied with what he has 
 done himself, though he does not yet see how he could 
 improve it; recalling with dread and self-disparage- 
 ment, if not with envy, the brilliant effort of his 
 antagonist, and tormenting himself with the vain wish 
 that he could have replied to it — and altogether a very 
 miserable subject, and in as unfavorable a condition to 
 accept comfort from wife and children as poor Chris- 
 tian in the first three pages of the Pilgrim's Progress.
 
 i6o The CONSOLATIONS of LITERATURE 
 
 With a superhuman effort he opens his book, and in a 
 twinkling of an eye he is looking into the full "orb of 
 Homeric or Miltonic song," or he stands in the crowd 
 breathless, yet swayed as forests or the sea by winds — 
 hearing and to judge the Pleadings for the Crown ; or 
 the philosophy which soothed Cicero or Boethius in 
 their afflictions, in exile, in prison, and the contem- 
 plation of death, breathes over his petty cares like the 
 sweet south ; or Pope or Horace laugh him into good 
 humor, or he walks with -^neas and the Sibyl in the 
 mild light of the world of the laurelled dead — and the 
 court-house is as completely forgotten as the dream of 
 a preadamite life. Well may he prize that endeared 
 charm, so effectual and safe, without which the brain 
 had long ago been chilled by paralysis, or set on fire 
 by insanity! 
 
 To these uses, and these enjoyments; to mental cul- 
 ture, and knowledge, and morality — the guide, the 
 grace, the solace of labor on all its fields, we dedicate 
 this charity! May it bless you in all your successions; 
 and may the admirable giver, George Peabody, survive 
 to see that the debt which he recognizes to the future 
 is completely discharged; survive to enjoy in the 
 gratitude, and love, and honor of this generation, the 
 honor, and love, and gratitude with which tlie latest 
 will assuredly cherish his name, and partake and trans- 
 mit his benefaction,
 
 THE FORCE BILL. By JOHN CALDWELL 
 CALHOUN. 
 
 IT is said that the bill ought to pass, because the 
 law must be enforced. The law must be enforced ! 
 The imperial edict must be executed! It is under such 
 sophistry, couched in general terms, without looking 
 to the limitations which must ever exist in the prac- 
 tical exercise of power, that the most cruel and 
 despotic acts ever have been covered. It was such 
 sophistry as this that cast Daniel into the lion's den, 
 and the three Innocents into the fiery furnace. Under 
 the same sophistry the bloody edicts of Nero and 
 Caligula were executed. The law must be enforced. 
 Yes, the act imposing the "tea-tax must be executed." 
 This was the very argument which impelled Lord 
 North and his administration to that mad career which 
 for ever separated us from the British crown. Under 
 a similar sophistry, that "religion must be protected," 
 how many massacres have been perpetrated? and how 
 many martyrs have been tied to the stake? What! 
 acting on this vague abstraction, are you prepared to 
 enforce a law without considering whether it be just or 
 unjust, constitutional or unconstitutional? Will you 
 collect money when it is acknowledged that it is not 
 wanted? He who earns the money, who digs it from 
 the earth with the sweat of his brow, has a just title 
 to it against the universe. No one has a right to touch 
 it without his consent except his government, and this 
 only to the extent of its legitimate wants; to take more 
 is robbery, and you propose by this bill to enforce 
 robbery by murder. Yes: to this result j^ou must 
 come, by this miserable sophistry, this vague abstrac- 
 tion of enforcing the law, without a regard to the fact 
 
 J 61
 
 i62 The FORCE BILL 
 
 whether the law be just or unjust, constitutional or 
 unconstitutional. 
 
 In the same spirit we are told that the Union must 
 be preserved, without regard to the means. And how 
 is it proposed to preserve the Union? By force! 
 Does any man in his senses believe that this beautiful 
 structure — this harmonious aggregate of States, pro- 
 duced by the joint consent of all — can be preserved by 
 force? Its very introduction will be certain destruc- 
 tion to this Federal Union. No, no. You cannot keep 
 the States united in their constitutional and federal 
 bonds by force. Force may, indeed, hold the parts 
 together, but such union would be the bond between 
 master and slave — a union of exaction on one side and 
 of unqualified obedience on the other. That obedience 
 which, we are told by the Senator from Pennsylvania, 
 is the Union! Yes, exaction on the side of the master; 
 for this very bill is intended to collect what can be no 
 longer called taxes — the voluntary contribution of a 
 free people — but tribute — tribute to be collected under 
 the mouths of the cannon! Your custom-house is 
 already transferred to a garrison, and that garrison 
 with its batteries turned, not against the enemy of 
 your country, but on subjects (I will not say citizens), 
 on whom you propose to levy contributions. Has 
 reason fled from our borders? Have we ceased to 
 reflect? It is madness to suppose that the Union can 
 be preserved by force. I tell you plainly that the 
 bill, should it pass, cannot be enforced. It will prove 
 only a blot upon your statute-book, a reproach to the 
 year, and a disgrace to the American Senate. I repeat, 
 it will not be executed; it will rouse the dormant 
 spirit of the people, and open their eyes to the ap-
 
 By JOHN CALDWELL CALHOUN 163 
 
 proach of despotism. The country has sunk into 
 avarice and political corruption, from which nothing 
 can arouse it but some measure, on the part of the 
 Government, of folly and madness, such as that now 
 under consideration.
 
 SOUTH CAROLINA AND MASSACHUSETTS. 
 By DANIEL WEBSTER. 
 
 THE eulogium pronounced on the character of the 
 State of South Carolina, by the honorable 
 gentleman, for her Revolutionary and other merits, 
 meets my hearty concurrence. I shall not acknowl- 
 edge that the honorable member goes before me, in 
 regard for whatever of distinguished talent or distin- 
 guished character South Carolina has produced. I 
 claim part of the honor; I partake in the pride of her 
 great name. I claim them for countrymen, one and 
 all. The Laurenses, the Rutledges, the Pinckneys, 
 the Sumters, the Marions, — Americans, all, — whose 
 fame is no more to be hemmed in by State lines, than 
 their talents and patriotism were capable of being cir- 
 cumscribed within the same narrow limits. 
 
 In their day and generation, they served and hon- 
 ored the country, and the whole country; and their 
 renown is of the treasures of the whole country. Him 
 whose honored name the gentleman himself bears, — 
 does he suppose me less capable of gratitude for his 
 patriotism, or sympathy for his sufferings, than if his 
 eyes had first opened upon the light in Massachusetts, 
 instead of South Carolina? Sir, does he suppose it is 
 in his power to exhibit a Carolina name so bright as to 
 produce envy in my bosom? No, sir; increased grati- 
 fication and delight, rather. Sir, I thank God, that, if 
 I am gifted with little of the spirit which is said to be 
 able to raise mortals to the skies, I have yet none, as I 
 trust, of that other spirit which would drag angels down. 
 
 When I shall be found, sir, in my place here in the 
 Senate, or elsewhere, to sneer at public merit, because 
 it happened to spring up beyond the little limits of my 
 
 164
 
 By DANIEL WEBSTER 165 
 
 own State or neighborhood; when I refuse, for any 
 such cause, or for any cause, the homage due to Ameri- 
 can talent, to elevated patriotism, to sincere devotion to 
 liberty and the country; or, if I see an uncommon 
 endowment of Heaven ; if I see extraordinary capacity 
 and virtue in any son of the South ; and if, moved by 
 local prejudice, or gangrened by State jealousy, I get up 
 here to abate the tithe of a hair from his just character 
 and just fame, — may my tongue cleave to the roof of 
 my mouth ! 
 
 Sir, let me recur to pleasing recollections; let me 
 indulge in refreshing remembrances of the past: let 
 me remind you that, in early times, no States cherished 
 greater harmony, both of principle and feeling, than 
 Massachusetts and South Carolina. Would to God that 
 harmony might again return ! Shoulder to shoulder, 
 they went through the Revolution : hand in hand, they 
 stood round the administration of Washington, and felt 
 his own great arm lean on them for support. Unkind 
 feeling, if it exist, alienation and distrust, are the 
 growth — unnatural to such soils — of false principles 
 since sown. They are weeds, the seeds of which that 
 same great arm never scattered. 
 
 Mr. President, I shall enter on no encomium upon 
 Massachusetts: she needs none. There she is, — 
 behold her, and judge for yourselves. There is her 
 history, — the world knows it by heart. The past, at 
 least, is secure. There is Boston, and Concord, and 
 Lexington, and Bunker Hill,— and there they will 
 remain forever. The bones of her sons, fallen in the 
 great struggle for independence, now lie mingled with 
 the soil of every State from New England to Georgia; 
 and there they will lie forever.
 
 i66 SOUTH CAROLINA a7id MASSACHUSETTS 
 
 And, sir, where American liberty raised its first 
 voice, and where its youth was nurtured and sustained, 
 there it still lives in the strength of its manhood, and 
 full of its original spirit. If discord and disunion shall 
 wound it ; if party strife and blind ambition shall hawk 
 at and tear it; if folly and madness, if uneasiness 
 under salutary and necessary restraints, shall succeed 
 to separate it from that Union by which alone its 
 existence is made sure, — it will stand, in the end, by 
 the side of that cradle in which its infancy was rocked ; 
 it will stretch forth its arm, with whatever of vigor it 
 may retain, over the friends who gather round it; and 
 it will fall, at last, if fall it must, amidst the proudest 
 monuments of its own glory, on the very spot of its 
 origin!
 
 AT THE UNVEILING OF THE GRAY MEMO- 
 RIAL. By JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
 I HAVE been asked to say a few words, but they 
 must be very few, as the train is waiting for me 
 that takes me back to keep an engagement. Mr. 
 Gosse has told you he has been present at many 
 memorial unveilings, and the newspapers inform me 
 that I also have been present at the unveiling of per- 
 haps too many. But never have I been present on any 
 occasion with more pleasure than on this. You have 
 now, in the words which Lord Houghton quoted, and 
 which I would extend in a wider sense than he did, a 
 beautiful memorial to Gray in permanent form. We 
 also, thanks to Mr. Gosse, possess a photograph of this 
 memorial in permanent form. But we have in our 
 hearts and memories, I think, a memorial to the man 
 quite as true and quite as permanent — that is, per- 
 manent for us. Very few words are fitting on an 
 occasion which commemorates the one of the English 
 poets who has written less and pleased more perhaps 
 than any other. There is a certain appropriateness in 
 my speaking here to-day. I come here to speak 
 simply as the representative of several countrymen and 
 countrywomen of mine who have renewed that affirma- 
 tion, which I like always to renew, of the unity of our 
 English race by giving something more solid than 
 words in commemoration of the poet they loved. And 
 I think there is another claim which I perhaps have 
 for speaking here to-day, and that is that the most 
 picturesque anecdote relative to the life of Gray — per- 
 haps the most picturesque related of the life of any 
 poet, certainly of any English poet, belongs to the 
 Western Hemisphere; I mean the anecdote which 
 
 167
 
 i68 UNVEILING of the GRAY MEMORIAL 
 
 connects the name of Wolfe with that of Gray. Noth- 
 ing could have been more picturesque than the sur- 
 roundings of that saying of Wolfe's — of that English 
 hero — and nothing could have been more momentous 
 than the action and the consequence that followed 
 from it, and which made the United States, which I 
 have lately represented, possible. That, I think, gives 
 me a certain right also to speak here. 
 
 I know that sometimes criticisms are made upon 
 Gray. I think I have often heard him called by some 
 of our juniors "commonplace." Upon my word, I 
 think it a compliment. I think it shows a certain 
 generality of application in what Gray has done, for if 
 there is one thing more than another — I say this to the 
 young men whom I see seated around both sides of the 
 hall — which insures the lead in life, it is the common- 
 place. I have to measure my poets, my authors, by 
 their lasting power, and I find Gray has a great deal 
 of it. He not only pleases my youth and my age, but 
 he pleases other people's youth and age; and I cannot 
 help thinking this is a proof that he touches on human 
 nature at a great many periods and at a great many 
 levels, and, perhaps, that is as high a compliment as 
 can be paid to the poet. There is, I admit, a certain 
 commonplaceness of sentiment in his most famous 
 poem, but I think there is also a certain common- 
 placeness of sentiment in some verses that have 
 been famous for more than 3,000 years. I think 
 that when Homer saw somebody smiling through her 
 tears he said, on the whole, a commonplace thing, but 
 it touched our feelings for a great many centuries; and 
 I think that in the "Elegy in a Country Churchyard" 
 Gray has expressed a simple sentiment, and as long as
 
 By JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 169 
 
 there are young men and middle-aged men, Gray's 
 poem will continue to be read and loved as in the days 
 when it was written. There is a Spanish proverb which 
 rebukes those people who ask something better than 
 bread. Let those who ask for something better get 
 something better than what Gray produced. For my 
 own part, I ask nothing better. He was, perhaps, the 
 greatest artist in words that English literature has 
 possessed. In conclusion, let me say one word for 
 myself. This will probably be the last occasion on 
 which I shall have the opportunity of addressing 
 Englishmen in public; and I wish to express my 
 heartfelt gratitude for the kindness which has sur- 
 rounded me both in my official and private life, and to 
 say that while I came here as a far-off cousin, I feel 
 you are sending me away as something like a brother.
 
 THE MONROE DOCTRINE. By LEWIS CASS. 
 
 MR. PRESIDENT, we had a short discussion the 
 other day upon the subject of the oft-debated 
 Monroe Doctrine. I propose very briefly to re-exam- 
 ine it; and I shall do so with the more confidence, 
 because I have just refreshed my recollection by a 
 conversation with the person, who, of all living men, 
 has the most right to speak authoritatively upon this 
 matter. I refer to Mr. Rush, whose name is well and 
 favorably known to the whole country, which he has 
 served with honor and ability in various high capaci- 
 ties, at home and abroad, and who was our Minister in 
 England, when this doctrine was first broached. 
 
 What, sir, is the Monroe Doctrine? Let Mr. 
 Monroe answer the question. In his annual message 
 to Congress, in 1823, he announced his views upon two 
 important subjects. They are as follows, and are to 
 be found in different parts of the message: 
 
 "i. That it was impossible for the Allied Powers to 
 extend their political system to any part of America, 
 without endangering our peace and happiness, and 
 equally impossible, therefore, that we should behold 
 such interference with indifference. 
 
 "2. That the occasion had been judged proper for 
 asserting, as a principle, in which the rights and 
 interests of the United States were involved, that the 
 American continents, by the free and independent con- 
 dition which they had assumed and maintained, were 
 henceforth not to be considered as subjects for future 
 colonization by any European Power." 
 
 The honorable Senator from New Hampshire (Mr. 
 Hale), in the remarks he made upon this subject a few 
 days ago, referred to the views expressed by Mr. 
 
 170
 
 By LEWIS CASS . 171 
 
 Calhoun, in the Senate, in relation to this doctrine, and 
 maintained that no general principle of action was laid 
 down by Mr. Monroe, but that his efforts were limited 
 to the preservation of the independent States of Span- 
 ish orig-in from the grasp of the Holy Alliance, as the 
 union of various despotic powers to put down popular 
 demonstrations was called. The unholy alliance would 
 have been its proper designation. 
 
 There is no doubt, sir, but that the threatening 
 aspect of affairs in relation to these Spanish States, 
 and the known project to bring them under the domin- 
 ion of some Bourbon prince, was the prominent cause 
 which led Mr. Monroe to interpose upon that occasion. 
 Circumstances do not create principles. They call 
 them into action. Circumstances occurred which 
 directed the attention of the American Government to 
 an approaching crisis, and it then investigated, not 
 only its line of action, but the ground upon which that 
 action could be justified, and the result was this well- 
 known declaration. In our position it is one of the 
 great elements of our strength, and of our means of 
 self-defense. It is perpetual, as well in its obligations 
 as in the security it brings with it. It interfered with 
 no existing rights, but looked to the future, with a 
 view to guard that from danger. 
 
 Mr. Monroe promulgated what is known through 
 the world as his doctrine — the American doctrine of 
 American self-preservation. It is now sought to 
 degrade it to a mere temporary expedient, living while 
 the Holy Alliance lived, and dying with the death of 
 that unprincipled league. Now, sir, Mr. Monroe is 
 the best expositor of his own views. Hear him. In 
 his annual message of 1824, when the danger from
 
 172 The MONROE DOCTRINE 
 
 the Holy Alliance had passed away, he said, renewing 
 his recommendation, that we had no concern with 
 European wars, but "with regard to our neighbors our 
 situation is different. It is impossible for the Euro- 
 pean Governments to interfere in their concerns, espe- 
 cially in those alluded to, which are vital, without 
 affecting us." 
 
 But, sir, we have another witness to introduce, 
 whom no American can hear without respect and 
 gratitude, the writer of the Declaration of Independ- 
 ence, the patriarch of the Democratic faith, the states- 
 man and patriot, second only to Washington in the 
 estimation of his countrymen. Mr. Monroe, during 
 his whole Presidency, was in the habit of the most con- 
 fidential communication with Mr. Jefferson upon all 
 questions of serious concern. He consulted him upon 
 this subject, and here follows the answer, dated 
 October 24, 1823. Never were sentiments sounder in 
 themselves, or more beautifully expressed: 
 
 "The question presented by the letters you have 
 sent me is the most momentous which has ever been 
 offered to my contemplation since that of Independ- 
 ence. That made us a nation ; this sets our compass, 
 and points the course which we are to steer through 
 the ocean of time. And never could we embark on it 
 under circumstances more auspicious. Our first and 
 fundamental maxim should be never to entangle our- 
 selves in the broils of Europe. Our second, never to 
 suffer Europe to intermeddle with cis- Atlantic affairs. 
 America, North and South, has a set of interests dis- 
 tinct from those of Europe, and peculiarly her OAvn. 
 She should, therefore, have a system of her own, 
 separate and apart from that of Europe; the last is
 
 By LEWLS CASS 173 
 
 laboring to become the domicile of despotism — our 
 endeavor should surely be to make our hemisphere 
 that of freedom." 
 
 And now there are those who would mar the mag- 
 nificent figure of Mr. Jefferson by converting his ocean 
 of time into a mere duck pond, and his fundamental 
 maxim, never "to suffer Europe to intermeddle with 
 cis- Atlantic affairs," into the historical recollection of a 
 temporary project to save our neighboring States from 
 a blow aimed at the time at their safety and all danger 
 from which passed away as suddenly as it had arisen.
 
 MY RELIGION. From "My Religion." Copyright, 
 1885, by Thomas T. Crowell & Company. Reprinted 
 with permission. By COUNT LEO TOLSTOI. 
 
 I BELIEVE now that my true welfare, and that of 
 others, is possible only when I labor not for myself 
 but for another, and that I must not refuse to labor for 
 another, but to give with joy that of which he has 
 need. This faith has changed my estimate of what is 
 right and important, and wrong and despicable. What 
 once seemed to me right and important — riches, pro- 
 prietary rights, the point of honor, the maintenance of 
 personal dignity and personal privileges — have now 
 become to me wrong and despicable. Labor for 
 others, poverty, humility, the renunciation of property 
 and of personal privileges, have become in my eyes 
 right and important. 
 
 When, now, in a moment of forgetfulness, I yield to 
 the impulse to resort to violence, for the defence of my 
 person or property, or of the persons or property of 
 others, I can no longer deliberately make use of this 
 snare for my own destruction and the destruction of 
 others. I can no longer acquire property. I can no 
 longer resort to force in any form for my own defence 
 or the defence of another. I can no longer co-operate 
 with any power whose object is the defence of men 
 and their property by violence. I can no longer act in 
 a judicial capacity, or clothe myself with any authority, 
 or take part in the exercise of any jurisdiction what- 
 ever. I can no longer encourage others in the support 
 of tribunals, or in the exercise of authoritative admin- 
 istration. 
 
 I know now that the distinction I once made between 
 my own people and those of other countries is destruc- 
 
 174
 
 By COUNT LEO TOLSTOI 175 
 
 tive of my welfare; but, more than this, I now know 
 the snare that led me into this evil, and I can no 
 longer, as I did once, walk deliberately and calmly 
 into this snare. I know now that this snare consists 
 in the erroneous belief that my welfare is dependent 
 only upon the welfare of my countrymen, and not 
 upon the welfare of all mankind. I know now that 
 my fellowship with others cannot be shut off by a 
 frontier, or by a government decree which decides 
 that I belong to some particular political organization. 
 I know now that all men are everywhere brothers and 
 equals. When I think now of all the evil that I have 
 done, that I have endured, and that I have seen about 
 me, arising from national enmities, I see clearly that 
 it is all due to that gross inposture called patriotism, — 
 love for one's native land. When I think now of my 
 education, I see how these hateful feelings were 
 grafted in my mind. I understand now the meaning 
 of the words: 
 
 "Love your enemies, and pray for them that perse- 
 cute you ; that ye may be sons of your Father that is in 
 heaven : for he maketh his sun to rise on the evil and 
 the good, and sendeth rain on the just and the unjust. " 
 
 I understand now that true welfare is possible for 
 me only on condition that I recognize my fellowship 
 with the whole world. I believe this, and the belief 
 has changed my estimate of what is right and wrong, 
 important and despicable. What once seemed to me 
 right and important — love of country, love for those of 
 my own race, for the organization called the State, 
 services rendered at the expense of the welfare of 
 other men, military exploits — now seem to me detest- 
 able and pitiable. What once seemed to me shameful
 
 176 MY RELIGION 
 
 and wrong — renunciation of nationality, and the 
 cultivation of cosmopolitanism — now seem to me right 
 and important. When, now, in a moment of forget- 
 fulness, I sustain a Russian in preference to a for- 
 eigner, and desire the success of Russia or of the 
 Russian people, I can no longer in lucid moments 
 allow myself to be controlled by illusions so destruc- 
 tive to my welfare and the welfare of others. I can 
 no longer recognize states or peoples; I can no longer 
 take part in any difference between peoples or states, 
 or any discussion between them either verbal or 
 written, much less in any service in behalf of any par- 
 ticular state. I can no longer co-operate with meas- 
 ures maintained by divisions between states, — the 
 collection of custom duties, taxes, the manufacture of 
 arms and projectiles, or any act favoring armaments, 
 military service, and, for a stronger reason, wars, — 
 neither can I encourage others to take any part in them, 
 
 I once thought that if a foreign invasion occurred, 
 or even if evil-minded persons attacked me, and I did 
 not defend myself, I should be robbed and beaten and 
 tortured and killed with those whom I felt bound to 
 protect, and this possibility troubled me. But this 
 that once troubled me now seems desirable and in con- 
 formity with the truth. I know now that the foreign 
 enemy and the malefactors or brigands are all men 
 like myself; that, like myself, they love good and hate 
 evil; that they live as I live, on the borders of death; 
 and that, with me, they seek for salvation, and will 
 find it in the doctrine of Jesus. 
 
 "But hither come the enemy, — Germans, Turks, 
 savages ; if you do not make war on them, they will 
 exterminate you!" They will do nothing of the sort.
 
 By COUNT LEO TOLSTOI 177 
 
 If there were a society of Christian men that did evil 
 to none and gave of their labor for the good of others, 
 such a society would have no enemies to kill or to tor- 
 ture them. The foreigners would take only what the 
 members of this society voluntarily gave, making no 
 distinction between Russians, or Turks, or Germans. 
 But when Christians live in the midst of a non-Chris- 
 tian society which defends itself by force of arm, and 
 calls upon the Christians to join in waging war, then 
 the Christians have an opportunity for revealing the 
 truth to them who know it not. A Christian knowing 
 the truth bears witness of the truth before others, and 
 this testimony can be made manifest only by example. 
 He must renounce war and do good to all men, 
 whether they-are foreigners or compatriots. 
 
 Men are united by error into a compact mass. The 
 prevailing power of evil is the cohesive force that 
 binds them together. The reasonable activity of 
 humanity is to destroy the cohesive power of evil. 
 Revolutions are attempts to shatter the power of evil 
 by violence. Men think that by hammering upon the 
 mass they will be able to break it in fragments, but 
 they only make it more dense and impermeable than 
 it was before. External violence is of no avail. The 
 disruptive movement must come from within when 
 molecule releases its hold upon molecule and the whole 
 mass falls into disintegration. Error is the force that 
 binds men together; truth alone can set them free. 
 Now truth is truth only when it is in action, and then 
 only can it be transmitted from man to man. Only 
 truth in action, by introducing light into the conscience 
 of each individual, can dissolve the homogeneity of 
 error, and detach men one by one from its bonds.
 
 178 MY RELIGION 
 
 This work has been going on for eighteen hundred 
 years. It began when the commandments of Jesus 
 were first given to humanity, and it will not cease till, 
 as Jesus said, "all things be accomplished."
 
 WAR. Copyright, Lee & Shepard. Reprinted with 
 permission. By CHARLES SUMNER. 
 
 IN EED not dwell now on the waste and cruelty of 
 war. These stare us wildly in the face, like lurid 
 meteor-lights, as we travel the page of history. We 
 see the desolation and death that pursue its demoniac 
 footsteps. We look upon sacked towns, upon ravaged 
 territories, upon violated homes; we behold all the 
 sweet charities of life changed to wormwood and gall. 
 Our soul is penetrated by the sharp moan of mothers, 
 sisters, and daughters — of fathers, brothers, and sons, 
 who, in the bitterness of their bereavement, refuse to 
 be comforted. Our eyes rest at last upon one of those 
 fair fields, where nature, in her abundance, spreads 
 her cloth of gold, spacious and apt for the entertain- 
 ment of mighty multitudes — or, perhaps, from the 
 curious subtlety of its position, like the carpet in the 
 Arabian tale, seeming to contract so as to be covered 
 by a few only, or to dilate so as to receive an innumer- 
 able host. Here, under a bright sun, such as shone at 
 Austerlitz or Buena Vista — amidst the peaceful har- 
 monies of nature — on the Sabbath of peace — we behold 
 bands of brothers, children of a common Father, heirs 
 to a common happiness, struggling together in the 
 deadly fight, with the madness of fallen spirits, seek- 
 ing with murderous weapons the lives of brothers who 
 have never injured them or their kindred. The havoc 
 rages. The ground is soaked with their commin- 
 gling blood. The air is rent by their commingling 
 cries. Horse and rider are stretched together on 
 the earth. More revolting than the mangled victims, 
 than the gashed limbs, than the lifeless trunks, 
 than the spattering brains, are the lawless passions 
 
 179
 
 i^o WAR 
 
 which sweep, tempest-like, through the fiendish 
 tumult. 
 
 "Nearer comes the storm and nearer, rolling fast and frightful 
 on. 
 Speak, Ximena, speak and tell us, who has lost and who has 
 won?" 
 "Alas! alas! I know not; friend and foe together fall. 
 O'er the dying rush the living; pray, my sister, for them all!" 
 
 Horror-struck, we ask, wherefore this hateful con- 
 test? The melancholy, but truthful answer comes, 
 that this is the established method of determining 
 justice between nations. 
 
 The scene changes. Far away on the distant path- 
 way of the ocean two ships approach each other, with 
 white canvas broadly spread to receive the flying 
 gales. They are proudly built. All of human art has 
 been lavished in their graceful proportions, and in 
 their well compacted sides, while they look in dimen- 
 sions like floating happy islands of the sea. A numer- 
 ous crew, with costly appliances of comfort, hives in 
 their secure shelter. Surely these two travellers shall 
 meet in joy and friendship ; the flag at the mast-head 
 shall give the signal of fellowship; the happy sailors 
 shall cluster in the rigging, and even on the yard-arms, 
 to look each other in the face, while the exhilarating 
 voices of both crews shall mingle in accents of glad- 
 ness uncontrollable. It is not so. Not as brothers, 
 not as friends, not as wayfarers of the common ocean, 
 do they come together; but as enemies. The gentle 
 vessels now bristle fiercely with death-dealing instru- 
 ments. On their spacious decks, aloft on all their 
 masts, flashes the deadly musketry. From their sides
 
 By CHARLES SUMNER 18 
 
 i»i 
 
 spout cataracts of flame, amidst the pealing thunders 
 of a fatal artillery. They, who had escaped "the 
 dreadful touch of merchant-marring rocks" — who had 
 sped on their long and solitary way unharmed by wind 
 or wave — whom the hurricane had spared — in whose 
 favor storms and seas had intermitted their immitiga- 
 ble war — now at last fall by the hand of each other. 
 The same spectacle of horror greets us from both ships. 
 On their decks, reddened with blood, the murders of 
 St. Bartholomew and of the Sicilian Vespers, with the 
 fires of Smithfield, seem to break forth anew, and to 
 concentrate their rage. Each has now become a swim- 
 ming Golgotha. % At length these vessels — such 
 pageants of the sea — once so stately — so proudly built 
 — but now rudely shattered by cannon-balls — with 
 shivered masts and ragged sails — exist only as unman- 
 ageable wrecks, weltering on the uncertain waves, 
 whose temporary lull of peace is now their only safety. 
 In amazement at this strange unnatural contest — away 
 from countiy and home — where there is no country or 
 home to defend — we ask again, wherefore this dismal 
 duel? Again the melancholy but truthful answer 
 promptly comes, that this is the established method of 
 determining justice between nations.
 
 JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. By ELMER HEWITT 
 CAPEN. 
 
 NO account of John Boyle O'Reilly would be com- 
 plete that failed to recognize his religious char- 
 acter. In this he occupied a peculiar place among 
 literary men in an age that is sometimes called agnos- 
 tic and irreverent. His religion was an ever present 
 reality, pervading his whole being, not as is often the 
 case, even with church members, something to be 
 kept in the background of one's life and to be apolo- 
 gized for to his friends. Wherever he went, he walked, 
 consciously and with reverent steps, in the great tem- 
 ple of the ever-living and omnipresent God. The 
 spiritual element of the universe no more needed 
 demonstration than the air or the sunlight. His faith 
 was so lofty and clear that he could affirm with St. 
 Paul, "The things which are seen are temporal; but 
 the things which are not seen are eternal." With 
 every fibre of his being he was a Roman Catholic. 
 Why should he not be? Not only was he born and 
 reared in the Catholic Church, so that her traditions 
 and history were interwoven with every thread of his 
 conscious being, but she touched him gently and with 
 irresistible force on the better and more sensitive side 
 of his nature by her artistic creations, her stately and 
 gorgeous ritual, her noble and devoted priesthood, her 
 orderly and powerful administration, her countless 
 and inexhaustible philanthropies, her vast and world- 
 wide fellowship and communion, and her clear and 
 unwavering answer to all the deeper questions of the 
 soul. 
 
 Yet I am constrained to say that he was more than a 
 Catholic. No single name, however venerable and 
 
 182
 
 By ELMER HEWITT CAPEN 183 
 
 comprehensive; no label, however broadly and care- 
 fully phrased, could adequately describe that subtile 
 and elastic quality of soul which we call his religion 
 By a strange and unerring instinct his mind, with the 
 swiftness of light, seized the inherent and essential 
 truth which forever defines the relation between the 
 human soul and God. He saw that the quality of 
 men's faith is not determined by the form in which it 
 is expressed. Oh, how he tried to overcome and 
 destroy the false issue which for a quarter of a mil- 
 lennium England had been trying to raise between 
 Protestants and Catholics in Ireland! Living in con- 
 stant daily fellowship with the sons of Pilgrims and 
 Puritans — men who came hither hating the Papacy as 
 the instrument of Satan — he saw the serenity and 
 beauty of their piety, and that they were the very 
 elect of God for the more perfect establishment of His 
 kingdom among men. 
 
 He perceived that there is more than one way into 
 the heavenly presence. The poor heathen mother 
 pressing her babe for a moment to her breast in 
 agonized affection before she casts it to the crocodiles 
 to appease the vengeance of her deity, the minister of 
 a Protestant conventicle preaching in harsh and 
 strident tones a divisive gospel, and the indifferent, 
 yet gently charitable sceptic, can all present an offer- 
 ing that 
 
 May rise 
 To heaven and find acceptance there, 
 
 no less than he whose petition is borne upward on 
 clouds of incense that float from censers swung by 
 priestly hands before cathedral altars. This clear- 
 eyed, tender, transcendent and all-comprehending faith
 
 i84 JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY 
 
 was the solvent in which provincialism, prejudice, 
 bigotry and vindictiveness vanished utterly and for- 
 ever. 
 
 Such in my poor and fragmentary speech was the 
 man whose monument we have reared — the broadest- 
 minded and most accomplished Irishman since Edmund 
 Burke, one of the few rare and transparent souls to 
 whom, out of all the races, the last half of the nine- 
 teenth century has decreed an immortality of fame. 
 We place him here in our great Valhalla. The vener- 
 able Puritan founders of this glorious commonwealth, 
 the mighty leaders of the revolutionary epoch, the 
 soldiers whose blood moistened and rendered sacred 
 forever the soil of Bunker Hill, the matchless orators 
 and heroes of the anti-slavery reform, the nameless 
 hosts who with the first echoes of Sumter's guns 
 grasped their muskets and marched to the defence of 
 the republic, must all lie a little closer in their graves 
 to make room for this lover of mankind. 
 
 Here we set his memorial in the public square, 
 embellished with all the grace and beauty that art can 
 bestow. Let those who go swarming past it day after 
 day, fleeing from the dust and turmoil of the city, seek- 
 ing the fields and woods beyond, turn their eyes hither, 
 and recall the happy-hearted, sunny soul, to whom the 
 song of birds and the voice of running waters were 
 ever like angels' voices speaking of paradise. Let the 
 disheartened reformer pause here for a moment and 
 hear him say, as it were out of the open heavens: — 
 
 I know 
 That when God gives us the clearest light, 
 He does not touch our eyes with love, but sorrow. 
 
 Let the hunted fugitive, speaking in an alien tongue.
 
 By ELMER HEWITT CAPEN 185 
 
 or our English speech with an alien accent, set down 
 his knapsack beside these stones, and, remembering 
 the welcome which America gave to this stranger, be 
 assured that here there is room for honest work and 
 patriotic effort whether men are native to the soil or 
 foreign-born. Let him who would serve his country 
 by pen, or speech, or sword, look at these symbols in 
 bronze, and find his patriotism renewed. Let the 
 children of the poor, as they behold this monument, 
 be reminded that it is neither wealth nor station, but 
 honorable service that secures for men under the Stars 
 and Stripes affection and renown. Let the high-bred 
 youth of the great city, who may be tempted to regard 
 with scorn the poor and lowly, pause and listen before 
 this noble pile, and he will learn the lesson which the 
 rich must learn for safety : — 
 
 That the bluest blood is putrid blood. 
 That the people's blood is red.
 
 THE AMERICAN SCHOLAR. Copyright, Hough- 
 ton, Mifflin & Company. Reprinted with permission. 
 By RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 
 
 THERE goes in the world a notion that the scholar 
 should be a reclnse, a valetudinarian, — as 
 unfit for any handiwork or public labor, as a penknife 
 for an axe. The so-called "practical men" sneer at 
 speculative men, as if because they speculate or see, 
 they could do nothing. I have heard it said that the 
 clergy, — who are always, more universally than any 
 other class, the scholars of their day, — are addressed 
 as women ; that the rough, spontaneous conversation 
 of men they do not hear, but only a mincing and 
 diluted speech. They are often virtually disfran- 
 chised; and, indeed, there are advocates for their celi- 
 bacy. As far as this is true of the studious classes, it 
 is not just and wise. Action is with the scholar sub- 
 ordinate, but it is essential. Without it, he is not yet 
 man. Without it, thought can never ripen into truth. 
 Whilst the world hangs before the eye as a cloud of 
 beauty, we cannot even see its beauty. Inaction is 
 cowardice, but there can be no scholar without the 
 heroic mind. 
 
 Of course, he who has put forth his total strength in 
 fit actions, has the richest return of wisdom. I will 
 not shut myself out of this globe of action, and trans- 
 plant an oak into a flower-pot, there to hunger and 
 pine ; nor trust the revenue of some single faculty, and 
 exhaust one vein of thought, much like those Savo- 
 yards, who, getting their livelihood by carving shep- 
 herds, shepherdesses, and smoking Dutchmen, for all 
 Europe, went out one day to the mountain to find 
 stock, and discovered that they had whittled up the 
 
 i86
 
 By RALPH WALDO EMERSON 187 
 
 last of their pine trees. Authors we have, in num- 
 bers, who have written out their vein, and who, moved 
 by a commendable prudence, sail for Greece or Pales- 
 tine, follow the trapper into the prairie, or ramble 
 round Algiers, to replenish their merchantable stock. 
 
 If it were only for a vocabulary, the scholar would 
 be covetous of action. Life is our dictionary. Years 
 are well spent in country labors; in town, — in the 
 insight into trades and manufactures; in frank inter- 
 course with many men and women; in science; in art; 
 to the one end of mastering in all their facts a lan- 
 guage by which to illustrate and embody our percep- 
 tions. I learn immediately from any speaker how 
 much he has already lived, through the poverty or the 
 splendor of his speech. Life lies behind us as the 
 quarry from whence we get tiles and cope-stones for 
 the masonry of to-day. This is the way to learn gram- 
 mar. Colleges and books only copy the language 
 which the field and the workyard made. 
 
 But the final value of action, like that of books, and 
 better than books, is, that it is a resource. That great 
 principle of Undulation in nature, that shows itself in 
 the inspiring and expiring of the breath ; in desire and 
 satiety; in the ebb and flow of the sea; in day and 
 night; in heat and cold; and as yet more deeply 
 ingrained in every atom and every fluid, is known to 
 us under the name of Polarity — these "fits of easy 
 transmission and reflection," as Newton called them, 
 are the law of nature because they are the law of spirit. 
 
 The mind now thinks; now acts; and each fit repro- 
 duces the other. When the artist has exhausted his 
 materials, when the fancy no longer paints, when 
 thoughts are no longer apprehended, and books are a
 
 i88 The AMERICAN SCHOLAR. 
 
 weariness, — he has always the resource to live. Char- 
 acter is higher than intellect. Thinking is the func- 
 tion. Living is the functionary. The stream retreats 
 to its source. A great soul will be strong to live, as 
 well as strong to think. Does he lack organ or medium 
 to impart his truth? He can still fall back on this 
 elemental force of living them. This is a total act. 
 Thinking is a partial act. Let the grandeur of justice 
 shine in his affairs. Let the beauty of affection cheer 
 his lowly roof. Those "far from fame," who dwell 
 and act with him, will feel the force of his constitution 
 in the doings and passages of the day better than it 
 can be measured by any public and designed display. 
 Time shall teach him, that the scholar loses no hour 
 which the man lives. Herein he unfolds the sacred 
 germ of his instinct, screened from influence. What 
 is lost in seemliness is gained in strength. Not out of 
 those on whom systems of education have exhausted 
 their culture, comes the helpful giant to destroy the 
 old or to build the new, but out of unhandselled savage 
 nature, out of terrible Druids and Berserkirs, come at 
 last Alfred and Shakespeare. 
 
 I hear therefore with joy whatever is beginning to 
 be said of the dignity and necessity of labor to every 
 citizen. There is virtue yet in the hoe and the spade, 
 for learned as well as for unlearned hands. And 
 labor is everywhere welcome; always we are invited 
 to work ; only be this limitation observed, that a man 
 shall not for the sake of wider activity sacrifice any 
 opinion to the popular judgments and modes of action.
 
 JEWISH DISABILITIES. By THOMAS BABING- 
 TON, LORD MACAULAY. . 
 
 SIR, it is amusing to compare the manner in which 
 the question of Catholic emancipation was 
 argued formerly by some gentlemen with the manner 
 in which the question of Jew emancipation is argued 
 by the same gentlemen now. When the question was 
 about Catholic emancipation, the cry was, "See how 
 restless, how versatile, how encroaching, how insinu- 
 ating, is the spirit of the Church of Rome. See how 
 her priests compass earth and sea to make one 
 proselyte, how indefatigably they toil, how attentively 
 they study the weak and strong parts of every char- 
 acter, how skilfully they employ literature, arts, sci- 
 ences, as engines for the propagation of their faith. 
 You find them in every region and under every dis- 
 guise, collating manuscripts in the Bodleian, fixing 
 telescopes in the Observ^atory of Pekin, teaching the 
 use of the plough and the spinning wheel to the sav- 
 ages of Paraguay. Will you give power to the mem- 
 bers of a Church so busy, so aggressive, so insatiable?" 
 Well, now the question is about people who never try 
 to seduce any stranger to join them, and who do not 
 wish anybody to be of their faith who is not also of 
 their blood. And now you exclaim, "Will you give 
 power to the members of a sect which remains sullenly 
 apart from other sects, which does not invite, nay, 
 which hardly even admits, neophytes?" 
 
 Another charge has been brought against the Jews, 
 not by my honourable friend, the Member for the 
 University of Oxford, — he has too much learning and 
 too much good feeling to make such a charge, — but by 
 the honourable Member for Oldham, who has, I am 
 
 189
 
 I90 JEWISH DISABILITIES 
 
 sorry to see, quitted his place. The honourable Mem- 
 ber for Oldham tells us that the Jews are naturally a 
 mean race, a sordid race, a money-getting race ; that 
 they are averse to all honourable callings ; that they 
 neither sow nor reap ; that they have neither flocks nor 
 herds; that usury is the only pursuit for which they 
 are fit; that they are destitute of all elevated and 
 amiable sentiments. Such, sir, has in every age been 
 the reasoning of bigots. They never fail to plead in 
 justification of persecution the vices which persecution 
 has engendered. England has been to the Jews less 
 than half a country ; and we revile them because they 
 do not feel for England more than a half patriotism. 
 We treat them as slaves, and wonder that they do not 
 regard us as brethren. We drive them to mean occu- 
 pations, and then reproach them for not embracing 
 honourable professions. We long forbade them to 
 possess land; and we complain that they chiefly occupy 
 themselves in trade. We shut them out from all the 
 paths of ambition; and then we despise them for tak- 
 ing refuge in avarice. During many ages we have, in 
 all our dealings with them, abused our immense 
 superiority of force; and then we are disgusted 
 because they have recourse to that cunning which is 
 the natural and universal defence of the weak against 
 the violence of the strong. But were they always a 
 mere money-changing, money-getting, money-hoard- 
 ing race? Nobody knows better than my honourable 
 friend, the Member for the University of Oxford, that 
 there is nothing in their national character which 
 unfits them for the highest duties of citizens. He 
 knows that, in the infancy of civilization, when our 
 island was as savage as New Guinea, when letters and
 
 By THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY 191 
 
 arts were still tinknown to Athens, when scarcely a 
 thatched hut stood on what was afterwards the site of 
 Rome, this contemned people had their fenced cities 
 and cedar palaces, their splendid Temple, their fleets 
 of merchant ships, their schools of sacred learning, 
 their great statesmen and soldiers, their natural philos- 
 ophers, their historians and their poets. What nation 
 ever contended more manfully against overwhelming 
 odds for its independence and religion? What nation 
 ever, in its last agonies, gave such signal proofs of 
 what may be accomplished by a brave despair? And 
 if, in the course of many centuries, the oppressed 
 descendants of warriors and sages have degenerated 
 from the qualities of their fathers, if, while excluded 
 from the blessings of law, and bowed down under the 
 yoke of slavery, they have contracted some of the vices 
 of outlaws and of slaves, shall we consider this as 
 matter of reproach to them? Shall we not rather con- 
 sider it as matter of shame and remorse to ourselves? 
 Let us do justice to them. Let us open to them the 
 door of the House of Commons. Let us open to them 
 every career in which ability and energy can be dis- 
 played. Till we have done this, let us not presume to 
 say that there is no genius among the countrymen of 
 Isaiah, no heroism among the descendants of the 
 Maccabees. 
 
 Sir, in supporting the motion of my honourable 
 friend, I am, I firmly believe, supporting the honour 
 and the interests of the Christian religion. I should 
 think that I insulted that religion if I said that it can- 
 not stand unaided by intolerant laws. Without such 
 laws it was established, and without such laws it may 
 be maintained. It triumphed over the superstitions of
 
 192 JEWISH DISABILITIES 
 
 the most refined and of the most savage nations, over 
 the graceful mythology of Greece and the bloody 
 idolatry of the northern forests. It prevailed over the 
 power and policy of the Roman empire. It tamed the 
 barbarians by whom that empire was overthrown. 
 But all these victories were gained not by the help of 
 intolerance, but in spite of the opposition of intoler- 
 ance. The whole history of Christianity proves that 
 she has little indeed to fear from persecution as a foe, 
 but much to fear from persecution as an ally. May 
 she long continue to bless our country with her benig- 
 nant influence, strong in her sublime philosophy, 
 strong in her spotless morality, strong in those 
 internal and external evidences to which the most 
 powerful and comprehensive of human intellects have 
 yielded assent, the last solace of those who have out- 
 lived every earthly hope, the last restraint of those 
 who are raised above every earthly fear! But let not 
 us, mistaking her character and her interests, fight the 
 battle of truth with the weapons of error, and 
 endeavour to support by oppression that religion 
 which first taught the human race the great lesson of 
 universal charity.
 
 JUSTICE FOR DREYFUS. By EMILE ZOLA. 
 
 FOR nearly eleven months I have been away from 
 France. During eleven months have I imposed 
 upon myself the most complete exile, the most obscure 
 retreat, the most absolute silence. I was like one 
 voluntarily dead, lying in the secret grave, in expecta- 
 tion of truth and justice. And to-day, truth having 
 conquered, justice reigning at last, I am re-born, I 
 return, and once more take my place upon French 
 soil. To-day is it not a shining evidence that our 
 lengthy campaign, to my advisers, to my friends and 
 to myself, has been nothing but a disinterested strug- 
 gle to cause to flow from facts the greatest possible 
 amount of light? If we have wished to gain time, if 
 we have opposed proceeding to proceeding, it is 
 because we had charge of the truth as we have charge 
 of a soul; it is because we did not wish to see the 
 feeble glimmer extinguished within our hands, when 
 it was growing day by day. It was like a small, sacred 
 lamp, which was being carried through the tempest, 
 and which had to be defended against the fury of the 
 crowd, maddened by lying. We had but one tactic — 
 to remain masters of our affair, to prolong it so long as 
 possible that it might provoke events to happen, to 
 draw from it, in one word, what we had promised our- 
 selves of decisive truths. And we have never given a 
 thought to ourselves, we have never acted but for the 
 triumph of right, ready to pay with our liberty and 
 life. 
 
 Let the situation be remembered which was created 
 for me, in Versailles last July. It was a strangling 
 without words. And I did not want to be thus 
 strangled ; it did not suit me to be thus executed dur- 
 
 193
 
 194 JUSTICE for DREYFUS 
 
 ing- the absence of Parliament, amidst the passions of 
 the street. It was our will to reach October, with the 
 hope that truth would have still advanced, that justice 
 would then have to be done. Besides, it must not be 
 forgotten what underhand work was being carried on 
 all this time. All we could expect from the examina- 
 tions opened against Commander Esterhazy and 
 against Colonel Picquart. One and the other were in 
 prison, we were not ignorant of the fact that shining 
 lights must perforce flow from these inquests, if they 
 were held loyally; and, without, nevertheless, fore- 
 seeing the confession, then the suicide of Colonel 
 Henry, we were reckoning upon the inevitable events 
 which one day or another would enlighten the whole 
 monstrous affair in its true and sinister aspect. There- 
 fore is not our desire to gain time explained? Were 
 we not justified in using every legal means of choosing 
 our hour in the best interests of Justice? Was it not to 
 conquer, to temporize, in the most painful and most 
 holy of struggles? And these reasons were so power- 
 ful that I departed, resigned, announcing my return in 
 October, with the certitude to thereby be a good 
 worker for the cause and to assure its triumph. 
 
 But what I am not saying to-day, what I shall tell of 
 some day, is the anguish of heart, the bitterness of this 
 sacrifice. It must not be forgotten that I am neither a 
 polemist, nor a politician, seeking benefits from dis- 
 turbances. I am a free writer who has had but one 
 passion in his life, that of truth. During nearly forty 
 years I have served my country by means of my pen, 
 with all my courage, with all I possessed of strength to 
 work, and good faith. And I swear to you, there is a 
 fearful sorrow, to go away alone, one dark night, to
 
 By EMILE ZOLA 195 
 
 see afar the lights of France growing dim, when one 
 has simply wished for her honour, her grandeur in 
 matters of justice among nations. And those who 
 think that I went away to escape prison, and perhaps 
 to live abroad in luxury with Jewish gold, are sorry 
 people who inspire me with a little disgust and a 
 great deal of contempt. I was to have returned in 
 October. We had resolved to temporize until the 
 reopening of the Houses, while reckoning upon the 
 unforeseen event which was for us, in the course of 
 things, the certain event. And did not that unforeseen 
 event not even await October, but burst forth already 
 at the end of August, with the confession and the sui- 
 cide of Colonel Henry? 
 
 On the very next day I desired to return. For me, 
 the revision was imposing itself, Dreyfus's innocence 
 had immediately to be recognized. I had besides 
 never asked for anything but the revision; my role 
 must perforce end, so soon as the Cour de Cassation 
 should convene, and I was ready to withdraw. As to 
 my trial, it was no longer anything, in my sight, than 
 a pure formality, since the document produced by the 
 Generals de Pellieux, Gonse and Boisdeff re, and upon 
 which the jury had convicted me, was a forgery from 
 which its author had just taken refuge in death. And 
 I was therefore preparing to return, when my friends 
 from Paris, my counsel, all those who had remained in 
 the battle, wrote me letters full of anxiety. The situ- 
 ation remained serious. Far from being assured, the 
 revision remained uncertain, M. Brisson, the head 
 of the cabinet, was meeting with ever-increasing 
 obstacles, betrayed by every one, not being able to 
 dispose of a simple police official. So that my return,
 
 196 JUSTICE for DREYFUS 
 
 in the midst of over-excited passions, would appear as 
 a pretext for new acts of violence, a danger, one more 
 embarrassment for the ministry, in its already so very 
 difficult task. And, desirous not to complicate the 
 situation, I had to submit, I consented to be patient 
 still. 
 
 Now that the good work is accomplished, I wish for 
 neither applause nor recompense even if it is estimated 
 that I may have been one of its useful workers. I 
 have had no merit whatever, the cause was so beauti- 
 ful, so humane! It is Truth which has conquered, and 
 it could not have been otherwise. From the first, I 
 had the certainty thereof; I have walked in a straight 
 path, which diminishes my courage. It was quite 
 simple. I should like to have it said of me, as only 
 homage, that I have been neither foolish nor wicked. 
 Besides, I already have my recompense, that of think- 
 ing of the innocent man whom I shall have helped to 
 pull from the tomb, where alive, during more than 
 four years, he has been agonizing. Ah! I must con- 
 fess, the thought of seeing him free, to grasp his 
 hands, agitates me with an extraordinary emotion, 
 which fills my eyes with happy tears. That minute 
 will suffice to pay for all my worries. My friends and 
 myself, we shall have done a good action, for which 
 the brave hearts of Fra^ice will remember us in grati- 
 tude. And what more can you wish for, a family who 
 v/ill love us, a woman and children who will bless us, 
 a man who will owe it to us to have incarnated within 
 him the triumph of right and the solidarity of man- 
 kind?
 
 ADDRESS TO THE ASSEMBLY OF NOBLESSE. 
 By HONORE, Comte de Mirabeau. 
 
 WHAT have I done that was so criminal? I have 
 wished that my Order were wise enough to give 
 to-day what will infallibly be wrested from it to-mor- 
 row; that it should receive the merit and glory of 
 sanctioning the assemblage of the Three Orders, 
 which all Provence loudly demands. This is the crime 
 of your "enemy] of peace!" Or rather, I have ven- 
 tured to believe that the people might be in the right. 
 Ah, doubtless, a patrician soiled with such a thought 
 deserves vengeance ! But I am still guiltier than you 
 think; for it is my belief that the people which com- 
 plains is always in the right; that its indefatigable 
 patience invariably waits the uttermost excesses of 
 oppression, before it can determine on resisting; that 
 it never resists long enough to obtain complete 
 redress ; and does not sufficiently know that to strike 
 its enemies into terror and submission, it has only to 
 standstill; that the most innocent as the most invin- 
 cible of all powers is the power of refusing to do. I 
 believe after this manner; punish the enemy of peace! 
 But you, ministers of a God of peace, who are 
 ordained to bless and not to curse, and yet have 
 launched your anathema on me, without even the 
 attempt at enlightening me, at reasoning with me! 
 And you "friends of peace," who denounce to the 
 people, with all vehemence of hatred, the one defender 
 it has yet found, out of its own ranks; — who, to bring 
 about concord, are filling capital and province with 
 placards calculated to arm the rural districts against 
 the towns, if your deeds did not refute your writings ; 
 — who, to prepare ways of conciliation, protest against 
 
 197
 
 198 ADDRESS to the ASSEMBLY of NOBLESSE 
 
 the royal Regulation for convoking the States-General, 
 because it grants the people as many deputies as both 
 the other orders, and against all that the coming 
 National Assembly shall do, unless its laws secure the 
 triumph of your pretensions, the eternity of your 
 privileges! Disinterested "friends of peace!" I have 
 appealed to your honour, and summon you to state 
 what expressions of mine have offended against either 
 the respect we owe to the royal authority or to the 
 nation's right? Nobles of Provence, Europe is atten- 
 tive ; weigh well your answer. Men of God, beware ; 
 God hears you ! 
 
 And if you do not answer, but keep silence, shutting 
 yourselves up in the vague declamations you have 
 hurled at me, then allow me to add one word. 
 
 In all countries, in all times, aristocrats have 
 implacably persecuted the people's friends; and if, by 
 some singular combination of fortune, there chanced 
 to arise such a one in their own circle, it was he above 
 all whom they struck at, eager to inspire wider terror 
 by the elevation of their victim. Thus perished the 
 last of the Gracchi by the hands of the patricians; but, 
 being struck with the mortal stab, he flung dust 
 towards Heaven, and called on the Avenging Deities; 
 and from this dust sprang Marius, — Marius not so 
 illustrious for exterminating the Cimbri as for over- 
 turning in Rome the tyranny of the Noblesse!
 
 THE REPEAL OF THE STAMP ACT. By 
 JONATHAN MAYHEW. 
 
 WE have never known so quick and general a 
 transition from the depth of sorrow to the 
 height of joy, as on this occasion ; nor, indeed, so great 
 and universal a flow of either, on any other occasion 
 whatever. It is very true, we have heretofore seen 
 times of great adversity. We have known seasons of 
 drought, dearth and spreading mortal diseases; the 
 pestilence walking in darkness, and the destruction 
 wasting at noonday. We have seen wide devastations 
 made by fire ; and amazing tempests, the heavens on 
 flame, the winds and the waves roaring. We have 
 known repeated earthquakes, threatening us with 
 speedy destruction. We have been under great appre- 
 hensions by reason of formidable fleets of an enemy on 
 our coasts, menacing fire and sword to all our maritime 
 towns. We have known times when the French and 
 Savage armies made terrible havoc on our frontiers, 
 carrying all before them for a while; when we were 
 not without fear, that some capital towns in the colo- 
 nies would fall into their merciless hands. Such times 
 as these we have known; at some of which almost 
 every "face gathered paleness," and the knees of all 
 but the good and brave waxed feeble. But never have 
 we known a season of such universal consternation and 
 anxiety among people of all ranks and ages, in these 
 colonics, as was occasioned by that parliamentary 
 procedure, which threatened us and our posterity with 
 perpetual bondage and slavery. For they, as we 
 generally suppose, are really slaves to all intents and 
 purposes, who are obliged to labor and toil only 
 for the benefit of others; or, which comes to the 
 
 199
 
 200 The REPEAL of the STAMP ACT 
 
 same thing, the fruit of whose labor and industry- 
 may be lawfully taken from them without their 
 consent, and they justly punished if they refuse 
 to surrender it on demand, or apply it to other 
 purposes than those which their masters, of their 
 mere grace and pleasure, see fit to allow. Nor are 
 there many American understandings acute enough 
 to distinguish any material difference between their 
 being done by a single person, under the title of an 
 absolute monarch, and done by a far-distant legislature 
 consisting of many persons, in which they are not rep- 
 resented ; and the members whereof, instead of feeling, 
 and sharing equally with them in the burden thus 
 imposed, are eased of their own in proportion to the 
 greatness and weight of it. It may be questioned 
 whether the ancient Greeks or Romans, or any other 
 nation in which slavery was allowed, carried their idea 
 of it much farther than this. So that our late appre- 
 hensions, and universal consternation, on account of 
 ourselves and posterity, were far, very far indeed, 
 from being groundless. For what is there in this 
 world more wretched, than for those who were born 
 free, and have a right to continue so, to be made slaves 
 themselves, and to think of leaving a race of slaves 
 behind them; even though it be to masters, con- 
 fessedly the most humane and generous in the world? 
 Or what wonder is it, if after groaning with a low 
 voice for a while to no purpose, we at length groaned 
 so loudly as to be heard more than three thousand 
 miles; and to be pitied throughout Europe, wherever 
 it is not hazardous to mention even the name of liberty, 
 unless it be to reproach it, as only another name for 
 sedition, faction or rebellion?
 
 By JONATHAN MAYHEW 201 
 
 The repeal, the repeal, has at once, in a good 
 measure, restored things to order, and composed our 
 minds by removing the chief ground of our fears. 
 The course of justice between man and man is no 
 longer obstructed; commerce lifts up her head, 
 adorned with golden tresses, pearls, and precious 
 stones. All things that went on right before are 
 returning gradually to their former course; those that 
 did not we have reason to hope will go on better now; 
 almost every person you meet wears the smiles of 
 contentment and joy; and even our slaves rejoice as 
 though they had received their manumission. Indeed, 
 all the lovers of liberty in Europe, in the world, have 
 reason to rejoice ; the cause is, in some measure, com- 
 mon to them and us. Blessed revolution! glorious 
 change! How great are our obligations for it to the 
 Supreme Governor of the world! He hath given us 
 beauty for ashes, and the oil of gladness for the spirit 
 of heaviness. He hath turned our groans into songs, 
 our mourning into dancing. He hath put off our sack- 
 cloth, and girded us with gladness, to the end that our 
 tongues, our glory may sing praises to him,
 
 THE SECRET OF MURDER. By DANIEL 
 WEBSTER. 
 
 HE has done the murder. No eye has seen him, 
 no ear has heard him. The secret is his own, 
 and it is safe! 
 
 Ah! Gentlemen, that was a dreadful mistake. Such 
 a secret can be safe nowhere. The whole creation of 
 God has neither nook nor corner where the guilty can 
 bestow it, and say it is safe. Not to speak of that eye 
 which pierces through all disguises, and beholds every- 
 thing as in the splendor of noon, such secrets of guilt 
 are never safe from detection, even by men. True it 
 is, generally speaking, that "murder will out." True 
 it is, that Providence hath so ordained, and doth so 
 govern things, that those who break the great law of 
 Heaven by shedding man's blood, seldom succeed in 
 avoiding discovery. Especially, in a case exciting so 
 much attention as this, discovery must come, and will 
 come, sooner or later. A thousand eyes turn at once 
 to explore every man, everything, every circumstance, 
 connected with the time and place; a thousand ears 
 catch every whisper; a thousand excited minds 
 intensely dwell on the scene, shedding all their light, 
 and ready to kindle the slightest circumstance into a 
 blaze of discovery. Meantime the guilty soul cannot 
 keep its own secret. It is false to itself ; or rather it 
 feels an irresistible impulse of conscience to be true to 
 itself. It labors under its guilty possession, and knows 
 not what to do with it. The human heart was not 
 made for the residence of such an inhabitant. It finds 
 itself preyed on by a torment, which it dares not 
 acknowledge to God or man. A vulture is devouring 
 it, and it can ask] no sympathy or assistance, either 
 
 202
 
 By DANIEL WEBSTER 203 
 
 from heaven or earth. The secret which the murderer 
 possesses soon comes to possess him ; and, like the evil 
 spirits of which we read, it overcomes him, and leads 
 him whithersoever it will. He feels it beating at his 
 heart, rising to his throat, and demanding disclosure. 
 He thinks the whole world sees it in his face, reads it 
 in his eyes, and almost hears its workings in the very 
 silence of his thoughts. It has become his master. It 
 betrays his discretion, it breaks down his courage, it 
 conquers his prudence. When suspicions from with- 
 out begin to embarrass him, and the net of circum- 
 stance to entangle him, the fatal secret struggles with 
 still greater violence to burst forth. It must be con- 
 fessed, it will be confessed ; there is no refuge from 
 confession but suicide, and suicide is confession.
 
 THE OLD GRUDGE AGAINST ENGLAND. By 
 RUFUS CHOATE. 
 
 NO, sir, we are above all this. Let the Highland 
 clansman, half-naked, half-civilized, half-blinded 
 by the peat-smoke of his cavern, have his hereditary- 
 enemy and his hereditary enmity, and keep the keen, 
 deep, and precious hatred, set on fire of hell, alive if 
 he can ; let the North American Indian have his, and 
 hand it down from father to son, by Heaven knows 
 what s)^mbols of alligators, and rattlesnakes, and war- 
 clubs smeared with vermilion and entwined with 
 scarlet; let such a country as Poland, cloven to the 
 earth, the armed heel on her radiant forehead, her 
 body dead, her soul incapable to die — let her remem- 
 ber the wrongs of days long past; let the lost and 
 wandering tribes of Israel remember theirs — the 
 manliness and the sympathy of the world may allow 
 or pardon this to them: but shall America, young, 
 free, and prosperous, just setting out on the highway 
 of Heaven, "decorating and cheering the elevated 
 sphere she just begins to move in, glittering like the 
 morning star, full of life and joy" — shall she be sup- 
 posed to be polluting and corroding her noble and 
 happy heart, by moping over old stories of stamp-act, 
 and the tax, and the firing of the Leopard on the 
 Chesapeake in time of peace? No, sir; no, sir; a 
 thousand times. No! We are born to happier feelings. 
 We look on England as we look on France. We look 
 on them from our new world, not unrenowned, yet a 
 new world still ; and the blood mounts to our cheeks, 
 our eyes swim, our voices are stifled with the conscious- 
 ness of so much glory; their trophies will not let us 
 sleep, but there is no hatred at all — no hatred ; all for 
 
 204
 
 By RUFUS CHOATE 205 
 
 honor, nothing for hate. We have, we can have, no 
 barbarian memory of wrongs, for which brave men 
 have made the last expiation to the brave.
 
 ADDRESS AT THE UNVEILING OF THE 
 STATUE OF RUFUS CHOATE. Reprinted with 
 permission. By JOSEPH H. CHOATE. 
 
 I DEEM it a very great honor to have been invited 
 by the Suffolk Bar Association to take part on 
 this occasion in honor of him who still stands as one of 
 the most brilliant ornaments of the American Bar in 
 its annals of two centuries. Bearing his name and 
 lineage, and owing to him, as I do, more than to any 
 other man or men — to his example and inspiration, to 
 his sympathy and helping hand — whatever success has 
 attended my own professional efforts, I could not 
 refuse the invitation to come here to-day to the dedica- 
 tion of this statue, which shall stand for centuries to 
 come, and convey to the generations who knew him 
 not some idea of the figure and the features of Rufus 
 Choate. Neither bronze nor marble can do him jus- 
 tice. Not Rembrandt himself could reproduce the 
 man as we knew and loved him — for until he lay upon 
 his death-bed he was all action, the "noble, divine, 
 godlike action" of the orator — and the still life of art 
 could never really represent him as he was. 
 
 It is forty years since he strode these ancient streets 
 with his majestic step — forty years since the marvellous 
 music of his voice was heard by the living ear — and 
 those of us who, as students and youthful disciples, 
 followed his footsteps, and listened to his eloquence, 
 and almost worshipped his presence, whose ideal and 
 idol he was, are already many years older than he 
 lived to be; but there must be a few still living, and 
 present here to-day, who were in the admiring crowds 
 that hung with rapture on his lips — in the courts of 
 justice, in the densely packed assembly, in the Senate, 
 
 206
 
 By JOSEPH H. CHOATE 207 
 
 in the Constitutional Convention, or in Faneuil Hall 
 consecrated to Freedom — and who can still recall, 
 among life's most cherished memories, the tones of 
 that matchless voice, that pallid face illuminated with 
 rare intelligence, the flashing glance of his dark eye, 
 and the light of his bewitching smile. But, in a 
 decade or two more, these lingering witnesses of his 
 glory and his triumphs will have passed on, and to the 
 next generation he will be but a name and a statue, 
 enshrined in fame's temple with Cicero and Burke, 
 with Otis and Hamilton and Webster, with Pinkney 
 and Wirt, whose words and thoughts he loved to study 
 and to master. 
 
 Many a noted orator, many a great lawyer, has been 
 lost in oblivion in forty years after the grave closed 
 over him, but I venture to believe that the Bar of 
 Suffolk, ay, the whole Bar of America, and the people 
 of Massachusetts, have kept the memory of no other 
 man alive and green so long, so vividly and so lov- 
 ingly, as that of Rufus Choate. Many of his character- 
 istic utterances have become proverbial, and the 
 flashes of his wit, the play of his fancy and the 
 gorgeous pictures of his imagination are the constant 
 themes of reminiscence, wherever American lawyers 
 assemble for social converse. 
 
 How it was that such an exotic nature, so ardent and 
 tropical in all its manifestations, so truly southern and 
 Italian in its impulses, and at the same time so robust 
 and sturdy in its strength, could have been produced 
 upon the bleak and barren soil of our northern cape, 
 and nurtured under the chilling blasts of its east 
 winds, is a mystery insoluble. Truly, "this is the 
 Lord's doing, and it is marvellous in our eyes." In
 
 2o8 ADDRESS at an UNVEILING 
 
 one of his speeches in the Senate, he draws the distinc- 
 tion between "the cool and slow New England men, 
 and the mercurial children of the sun, who sat down 
 side by side in the presence of Washington, to form 
 our more perfect union." If ever there was a 
 mercurial child of the sun it was himself most happily- 
 described. I am one of those who believe that the 
 stuff that a man is made of has more to do with his 
 career than any education or environment. The 
 greatness that is achieved, oris thrust upon some men, 
 dwindles before that of him who is born great. His 
 horoscope was propitious. The stars in their courses 
 fought for him. The birthmark of genius, distinct and 
 ineffaceable, was on his brow. He came of a long 
 line of pious and devout ancestors, whose living was 
 as plain as their thinking was high. It was from 
 father and mother that he derived the flame of intel- 
 lect, the glow of spirit and the beauty of temperament 
 that were so unique. 
 
 His splendid and blazing intellect, fed and enriched 
 by constant study of the best thoughts of the great 
 minds of the race, his all-persuasive eloquence, his 
 teeming and radiant imagination, whirling his hearers 
 along with it, and sometimes overpowering himself, 
 his brilliant and sportive fancy, lighting up the most 
 arid subjects with the glow of sunrise, his prodigious 
 and never-failing memory, and his playful wit, always 
 bursting forth with irresistible impulse, have been the 
 subject of scores of essays and criticisms, all strug- 
 gling with the vain effort to describe and crystallize 
 the fascinating and magical charm of his speech and 
 his influence. 
 
 But the occasion and the place remind me that
 
 By JOSEPH H. CHOATE 209 
 
 here to-day we have chiefly to do with him as a lawyer 
 and the advocate, and all that I shall presume very 
 briefly to suggest is what this statue will mean to the 
 coming generations of lawyers and citizens. 
 
 And first, and far above his splendid talents and his 
 triumphant eloquence, I would place the character of 
 the man— -pure, honest, delivered absolutely from all 
 the temptations of sordid and mercenary things, aspir- 
 ing daily to what was higher and better, loathing all 
 that was vulgar and of low repute, simple as a child, 
 and tender and sympathetic as a woman. Emerson 
 most truly says that character is far above intel- 
 lect, and this man's character surpassed even his 
 exalted intellect, and, controlling all his great endow- 
 ments, made the consummate beauty of his life. I 
 know of no greater tribute ever paid to a successful 
 lawyer, than that which he received from Chief Justice 
 Shaw — himself an august and serene personality, abso- 
 lutely familiar with his daily walk and conversation — 
 in his account of the effort that was made to induce 
 Mr. Choate to give up his active and exhausting prac- 
 tice, and to take the place of Professor in the Harvard 
 Law School, made vacant by the death of Mr. Justice 
 Story — an effort of which the Chief Justice, as a mem- 
 ber of the corporation of Harvard, was the principal 
 promoter. After referring to him then, in 1847, as 
 "the leader of the Bar in every department of forensic 
 eloquence," and dwelling upon the great advantages 
 which would accrue to the school from the profound 
 legal learning which he possessed, he said: "In the 
 case of Mr. Choate, it was considered quite indispen- 
 sable that he should reside in Cambridge, on account of 
 the influence which his genial manners, his habitual
 
 210 ADDRESS «/«« UNVEILING 
 
 presence, and the force of his character, would be 
 likely to exert over the young men, drawn from every 
 part of the United States to listen to his instructions." 
 What richer tribute could there be to personal and 
 professional worth, than such words from such lips? 
 He was the fit man to mould the characters of the 
 youth, not of the city or the State only, but of the 
 whole nation. So let the statue stand as notice to all 
 who seek to enter here, that the first requisite of all 
 true renown in our noble profession — renown not for a 
 day or a life only, but for generations — is Character.
 
 FUNERAL ORATION BY THE DEAD BODY 
 OF HAMILTON. By GOUVERNEUR MORRIS. 
 
 IF on this sad, this solemn occasion, I should 
 endeavor to move yonr commiseration, it would 
 be doing injustice to that sensibility, which has been 
 so generally and so justly manifested. Far from 
 attempting to excite your emotions, I must try to 
 repress my own ; and yet, I fear, that, instead of the 
 language of a public speaker, you will hear only the 
 lamentations of a wailing friend. 
 
 Students of Columbia — he was in the ardent pursuit 
 of knowledge in your academic shades, when the first 
 sound of the American war called him to the field. A 
 young and unprotected volunteer, such was his zeal, 
 and so brilliant his service, that we heard his name 
 before we knew his person. It seemed as if God had 
 called him suddenly into existence, that he might 
 assist to save a world! 
 
 The penetrating eye of Washington soon perceived 
 the manly spirit which animated his youthful bosom. 
 By that excellent judge of men he was selected as an 
 Aid, and thus he became early acquainted with, and 
 was a principal actor in, the most important scenes of 
 our Revolution. 
 
 Shortly after the war, your favor — no, your discern- 
 ment — called him to public office. You sent him to 
 the convention at Philadelphia; he there assisted in 
 forming that constitution, which is now the bond of 
 our union, the shield of our defence, and the source of 
 our prosperity. 
 
 At the time when our government was organized, 
 we were without funds, though not without resources. 
 To call them into action, and establish order in the 
 
 211
 
 212 FUNERAL ORATION 
 
 finances, Washingfton sought for splendid talents, for 
 extensive information, and above all, he sought for 
 sterling, incorruptible integrity. All these he found 
 in Hamilton. The system then adopted, has been the 
 subject of much animadversion. If it be not without a 
 fault, let it be remembered that nothing human is per- 
 fect. Recollect the circumstances of the moment — 
 recollect the conflict of opinion — and, above all, 
 remember that the minister of a Republic must bend 
 to the will of the people. The administration which 
 Washington formed was one of the most efficient, one 
 of the best that any country was ever blest with. And 
 the result was a rapid advance in power and pros- 
 perity, of which there is no example in any other age 
 or nation. The part which Hamilton bore is uni- 
 versally known. 
 
 Brethren of the Cincinnati — there lies our chief! 
 Let him still be our model. Like him, after long and 
 faithful public services, let us cheerfully perform the 
 social duties of private life. Oh! he was mild and 
 gentle. In him there was no offence ; no guile. His 
 generous hand and heart were open to all. 
 
 Gentlemen of the bar — you have lost your brightest 
 ornament. Cherish and imitate his example. While, 
 like him, with justifiable and with laudable zeal, you 
 pursue the interests of your clients, remember, like 
 him, the eternal principle of justice. 
 
 Fellow-citizens — you have long witnessed his pro- 
 fessional conduct, and felt his unrivalled eloquence. 
 You know how well he performed the duties of a 
 citizen — you know that he never courted your favor by 
 adulation or the sacrifice of his own judgment. You 
 have seen him contending against 3''ou, and saving
 
 By GOUVERNEUR MORRIS 213 
 
 your clearest interests as it were, in spite of yourselves. 
 And you now feel and enjoy the benefits resulting 
 from the firm energy of his conduct. Bear this testi- 
 mony to the memory of my departed friend. I charge 
 you to protect his fame. It is all he has left — all that 
 these poor orphan children will inherit from their 
 father. But, my countrymen, that fame may be a rich 
 treasure to you also. Let it be the test by which to 
 examine those who solicit your favor. Disregarding 
 professions, view their conduct, and on a doubtful 
 occasion, ask, would Hamilton have done this thing? 
 
 You all know how he perished. On this last scene I 
 cannot, I must not dwell. It might excite emotions 
 too strong for your better judgment. Suffer not your 
 indignation to lead to any act which might again offend 
 the insulted majesty of the laws. On his part, as 
 from his lips, though with my voice — for his voice you 
 will hear no more — let me entreat you to respect your- 
 selves. 
 
 And now, ye ministers of the everlasting God, per- 
 form your holy office, and commit these ashes of our 
 departed brother to the bosom of the grave.
 
 THE MEN AND DEEDS OF THE REVOLU- 
 TION. By EDWARD EVERETT. 
 
 OFTEN as it has been repeated, it will bear another 
 repetition; it never ought to be omitted in the 
 history of constitutional liberty; it ought especially to 
 be repeated this day ; — the various addresses, peti- 
 tions, and appeals, the correspondence, the resolutions, 
 the legislative and popular debates, from 1764 to the 
 declaration of independence, present a maturity of 
 political wisdom, a strength of argument, a gravity of 
 style, a manly eloquence, and a moral courage, of 
 which unquestionably the modern world affords no 
 other example. This meed of praise, substantially 
 accorded at the time by Lord Chatham in the British 
 Parliament, may well be repeated by us. For most of 
 the venerated men to whom it is paid, it is but a pious 
 tribute to departed worth. The Lees and the Henrys, 
 Otis, Quincy, Warren, and Samuel Adams, the men 
 who spoke those words of thrilling power, which raised 
 and directed the storm of resistance, and rang like the 
 voice of fate across the Atlantic, are beyond the reach 
 of our praise. To most of them it was granted to wit- 
 ness some of the fruits of their labors — such fruits as 
 revolutions do not often bear. Others departed at an 
 untimely hour, or nobly fell in the onset; too soon for 
 this country, too soon for everything but their own 
 undying fame. But all are not gone ; some still sur- 
 vive among us, to hail the jubilee of the independence 
 they declared. Go back, fellow-citizens, to that day 
 when Jefferson and Adams composed the sub-com- 
 mittee who reported the Declaration of Independence, 
 Think of the mingled sensations of that proud but anx- 
 ious day, compared with the joy of this. What 
 
 214
 
 By EDWARD EVERETT 215 
 
 reward, what crown, what treasure, could the world 
 and all its kingdoms afford, compared with the honor 
 and happiness of having- been united in that commis- 
 sion, and living to see its most wavering hopes turned 
 into glorious reality! Venerable men, you have out- 
 lived the dark days which followed your more than 
 heroic deed; you have outlived your own strenuous 
 contention, who should stand first among the people 
 whose liberty you had vindicated! You have lived to 
 bear to each other the respect which the nation bears to 
 you both ; and each has been so happy as to exchange 
 the honorable name of the leader of a party for that 
 more honorable one, the Father of his Country. 
 While this, our tribute of respect, on the jubilee of our 
 independence,,is paid to the grey hairs of the vener- 
 able survivor in our neighborhood, let it not less 
 heartily be sped to him, whose hand traced the lines of 
 that sacred charter, which, to the end of time, has 
 made this day illustrious. And is an empty profession 
 of respect all that we owe to the man who can show 
 the original draught of the Declaration of Independence 
 of the United States of America, in his own handwrit- 
 ing? Ought not a title-deed like this to become the 
 acquisition of the nation? Ought it not to be laid up 
 in the public archives? Ought not the price at which 
 it is bought to be a provision for the ease and comfort 
 of the old age of him who drew it? Ought not he who, 
 at the age of thirty, declared the independence of his 
 country, at the age of eighty, to be secured by his 
 country in the enjoyment of his own? 
 
 Nor would we, on the return of this eventful day, 
 forget the men who, when the conflict of council was 
 over, stood forward in that of arms. Yet let me not,
 
 2i6 MEN a7td DEEDS of the REVOLUTION 
 
 by faintly endeavouring to sketch, do deep injustice to 
 the story of their exploits. The efforts of a life would 
 scarce suffice to draw this picture, in all its astonishing 
 incidents, in all its mingled colors of sublimity and 
 woe, of agony and triumph. But the age of com- 
 memoration is at hand. The voice of our fathers' 
 blood begins to cry to us from beneath the soil which 
 it moistened. Time is bringing forward, in their 
 proper relief, the men and the deeds of that high- 
 souled day. The generation of contemporary worthies 
 is gone ; the crowd of the unsignalized great and good 
 disappears; and the leaders in war, as well as the cabi- 
 net, are seen, in fancy's eye, to take their stations on 
 the mount of remembrance. They come from the 
 embattled cliffs of Abraham ; they start from the heav- 
 ing sods of Bunker's Hill ; they gather from the blaz- 
 ing lines of Saratoga and Yorktown, from the 
 blood-dyed waters of the Brandywine, from the dreary 
 snows of Valley Forge, and all the hard-fought fields 
 of the war! With all their wounds and all their 
 honors, they rise and plead with us for their brethren 
 who survive; and command us, if indeed we cherish 
 the memory of those who bled in our cause, to show 
 our gratitude, not by sounding words, but by stretch- 
 ing out the strong arm of the country's prosperity, to 
 help the veteran survivors gently down to their 
 graves !
 
 VALEDICTORY ADDRESS TO THE SENATE. 
 By HENRY CLAY. 
 
 FROM 1806, the period of my entrance upon this 
 noble theatre, with short intervals, to the pres- 
 ent time, I have been engaged in the public councils, 
 at home or abroad. Of the services rendered during 
 that long and arduous period of my life it does not 
 become me to speak; history, if she deign to notice 
 me, and posterity, if the recollection of my humble 
 actions shall be transmitted to posterity, are the best, 
 the truest, and the most impartial judges. 
 
 I have not escaped the fate of other public men, nor 
 failed to incur censure and detraction of the bitterest, 
 most unrelenting, and most malignant character: and 
 though not always insensible to the pain it was meant 
 to inflict, I have borne it in general with composure, 
 waiting as I have done, in perfect and undoubting con- 
 fidence, for the ultimate triumph of justice and of 
 truth, and in the entire persuasion that time would 
 settle all things as they should be, and that whatever 
 wrong or injustice I might experience at the hands of 
 man, He to whom all hearts are open and fully 
 known, would, by the inscrutable dispensations of his 
 providence, rectify all error, redress all wrong, and 
 cause ample justice to be done. 
 
 But I have not meanwhile been unsustained. Every- 
 where throughout the extent of this great continent I 
 have had cordial, warm-hearted, faithful, and devoted 
 friends, who have known me, loved me, and appre- 
 ciated my motives. To them, if language were capa- 
 ble of fully expressing my acknowledgments, I would 
 now offer all the return I have the power to make for 
 their genuine, disinterested, and persevering fidelity 
 
 21 7
 
 2i8 VALEDICTORY ADDRESS to the SENATE 
 
 and devoted attachment, the feelings and sentiments 
 of a heart overflowing with never-ceasing gratitude. 
 If, however, I fail in suitable language to express my 
 gratitude to them for all the kindness they have shown 
 me, what shall I say, what can I say at all com- 
 mensurate with those feelings of gratitude with 
 which I have been inspired by the state whose hum- 
 ble representative and servant I have been in this 
 chamber? 
 
 I emigrated from Virginia to the State of Kentucky 
 now nearly forty-five years ago; I went as an orphan 
 boy who had not yet attained the age of majority; who 
 had never recognized a father's smile, nor felt his 
 warm caresses; poor, penniless, without the favor of 
 the great, with an imperfect and neglected education, 
 hardly sufficient for the ordinary business and com- 
 mon pursuits of life ; but scarce had I set my foot upon 
 her generous soil when I was embraced with parental 
 fondness, caressed as though I had been a favorite 
 child, and patronized with liberal and unbounded 
 munificence. 
 
 In the course of a long and arduous public service, 
 especially during the last eleven years in which I have 
 held a seat in the Senate, from the same ardor and 
 enthusiasm of character, I have no doubt, in the heat of 
 debate, and in an honest endeavor to maintain my opin. 
 ions against adverse opinions alike honestly entertained, 
 as to the best course to be adopted for the public welfare, 
 I may have often inadvertently and unintentionally, in 
 moments of excited debate, made use of language that 
 has been offensive, and susceptible of injurious inter- 
 pretation towards my brother Senators. If there be 
 any here who retain wounded feelings of injury or dis
 
 By HENRY CLAY 219 
 
 satisfaction produced on such occasions, I beg to assure 
 them that I now offer the most ample apology for any 
 departure on my part from the established rules of 
 parliamentary decorum and courtesy. On the other 
 hand, I assure Senators, one and all, without excep- 
 tion and without reserve, that I retire from this cham- 
 ber without carrying with me a single feeling of 
 resentment or dissatisfaction to the Senate or any one 
 of its members. 
 
 In retiring, as I am about to do, forever, from the 
 Senate, suffer me to express my heartfelt wishes that 
 all the great and patriotic objects of the wise framers 
 of our constitution may be fulfilled ; that the high 
 destiny designed for it may be fully answered; and 
 that its deliberations, now and hereafter, may eventu- 
 ate in securing the prosperity of our beloved country, 
 in maintaining its rights and honor abroad, and 
 upholding its interests at home. I retire, I know, at a 
 period of infinite distress and embarrassment. I 
 wish I could take my leave of you under more 
 favorable auspices; but, without meaning at this 
 time to say whether on any or on whom reproaches 
 for the sad condition of the country should fall, I 
 appeal to the Senate and to the world to bear testi- 
 mony to my earnest and continued exertions to avert 
 it, and to the truth that no blame can justly attach 
 to me. 
 
 May the most precious blessings of heaven rest upon 
 the whole Senate and each member of it, and may the 
 labors of every one redound to the benefit of the nation 
 and the advancement of his own fame and renown. 
 And when you shall retire to the bosom of your con- 
 stituents, may you receive that most cheering and
 
 220 VALEDICTORY ADDRESS to the SENATE. 
 
 gratifying of all human rewards — their cordial greet- 
 ing of "Well done, good and faithful servant." 
 
 And now, Mr. President, and Senators, I bid you all 
 a long, a lasting, and a friendly farewell.
 
 ULYvSSES vS. GRANT. By THOMAS WENT- 
 WORTH HIGGINSON. 
 
 IT was one of the most picturesque moments in the 
 history of Rome when, after the battle of Cannae 
 was lost and the Roman army almost annihilated — 
 while Haimibal, the Carthaginian general, was measur- 
 ing by bushels the gold rings of the slain Roman 
 knights — the v/hole people of the city went out to greet 
 with honor their defeated general Terentius Varro, 
 and to bear him a vote of thanks from the senate for 
 "not having despaired of the republic." 
 
 The vast obsequies celebrated all over the land 
 to-day are not in honor of a defeated general, but of a 
 victorious one ; yet the ground of gratitude is the same 
 as in that Roman pageant. Our civil war, like that 
 between Rome and Carthage, began in defeat and was 
 transformed into victory, because he whom we cele- 
 brate did not despair of the republic. From the time 
 when his successes at Fort Donelson and Vicksburg 
 first turned the tide of adversity, until the day when 
 he received Lee's surrender, it was to him we looked. 
 Nor was this all. There was in all this something 
 more than mere generalship. Generalship is undoubt- 
 edly a special gift, almost amounting to genius — a man 
 is born to it, as he is for poetry, or chess-playing, or 
 commerce ; and as in those other vocations, so in this, 
 his success in one direction does not prove him equally 
 strong in all. There are many ways in which General 
 Grant does not rank with the greatest of the sons of 
 men. He was wanting in many of the gifts and even 
 tastes which raise man to his highest; he did not 
 greatly care for poetry, philosophy, music, painting, 
 sculpture, natural science. The one art for which he 
 
 ?2r
 
 222 ULYSSES S. GRANT 
 
 had a genius is one that must be fleeting and perish- 
 able, compared to these ; for the human race must in 
 its progress outgrow war. But a remarkable personal 
 quality never can be ignored ; if not shown in one way 
 it will be shown in another; and this personal quality 
 Grant had. Let us analyze some of its aspects. 
 
 He was great, in the first place, through the mere 
 scale of his work. His number of troops, the vast 
 area of his operations, surpassed what the world had 
 before seen. When he took 15,000 prisoners at Fort 
 Donelson, the capture was three times as large as when 
 Burgoyne surrendered, in the only American battle 
 thought important enough to be mentioned by Sir 
 Edward Creasy in his "Fifteen Decisive Battles of the 
 World." When, on July 4, 1863, he took Vicksburg, 
 he received what was then claimed to be the greatest 
 capture of men and armament since the invention of 
 gunpowder, and perhaps since the beginning of 
 recorded history. He captured 15 generals, 31,600 
 soldiers and 172 cannon. For victories less than this 
 Julius Caesar was made dictator for ten years, and his 
 statue was carried in processions with those of the 
 immortal gods. Caesar at Pharsalia took but 24,000 
 prisoners; Napoleon at Ulm, 23,000; Hannibal at 
 Cannae, but 20,000. Yet these in Grant's case were 
 but special victories. How great, then, his power 
 when at the head of the armies of the United States! 
 Neither of these three great commanders ever directed 
 the movements of a million men. The mere coarse 
 estimate of numbers, therefore, is the first measure of 
 Grant's fame. 
 
 But mere numbers are a subordinate matter. He 
 surpassed his predecessors also in the dignity of the
 
 By THOMAS WENTWORTH HIGGINSON 223 
 
 object for which he fought. The three great generals 
 of the world are usually enumerated — following 
 Macaulay — as being Caesar, Cromwell and Napoleon. 
 Two of these fought in wars of mere conquest, and 
 the contests of the third were marred by a gloomy 
 fanaticism, by cruelty and by selfishness. General 
 Grant fought to restore a nation, that nation being the 
 hope of the world. And he restored it. His work was 
 as complete as it was important. Caesar died by 
 violence; Napoleon died defeated; Cromwell's work 
 crumbled to pieces when his hand was cold. Grant's 
 career triumphed in its ending; it is at its height 
 to-day. It was finely said by a Massachusetts states- 
 man that we did not fight to bring our opponents to 
 our feet, but only to our side. Grant to-day brings his 
 opponents literally to his side, when they act as pall- 
 bearers around his coffin. 
 
 The next thing remarkable about him was the spirit 
 in which he fought. He belonged in his whole temper- 
 ament to the Anglo-Saxon or Germanic type of gen- 
 erals, and not to the French or Latin type. 
 
 When we come to the mere executive qualities 
 involved in fighting, we find that Grant habitually 
 combined in action two things rarely brought together 
 — quickness and perseverance. That could be said of 
 him which Malcolm McLeod said of Charles Edward, 
 the Pretender: "He is the bravest man, not to be rash, 
 and the most cautious man, not to be a coward, that I 
 ever saw." He did not have the visible and con- 
 spicuous dash of Sherman or Sheridan; he was rather 
 the kind of man whom they needed to have behind 
 them. But in quickness of apprehension and action, 
 where this quality was needed, he was not their
 
 224 ULYSSES S. GRANT 
 
 inferior, if they were even his equals. He owed to it 
 his first conspicuous victory at Fort Donelson. Look- 
 ing at the knapsacks of the slain enemy, he discovered 
 that they held three days' rations, and knew, there- 
 fore, that they were trying to get away. Under this 
 stimulus he renewed the attack, and the day was won. 
 
 Moreover, it is to be noticed that he was, in all his 
 action as a commander, essentially original — a man of 
 initiative, not of routine. He was singularly free from 
 the habit of depending on others. 
 
 And to crown all these qualities was added one 
 more, that of personal modesty. When, at Hamburg, 
 Germany, he was toasted as "the man who had saved 
 the nation," he replied, "What saved the Union was 
 the coming forward of the young men of the country." 
 He put down the pride of the German officers, the 
 most self-sufficient military aristocracy of the world, 
 by quietly disclaiming the assumption of being a 
 soldier at all. He said to Bismarck: "I am more a 
 farmer than a soldier. I take little or no interest in 
 military affairs, and, though I entered the army thirty- 
 five years ago and have been in two wars — the Mexican 
 as a young lieutenant, and later (mark the exquisite 
 moderation of that "and later") "I never went into the 
 army without regret, and never retired without pleas- 
 ure." Such a remark from the greatest captain of the 
 age disarmed even German criticism. 
 
 He told Bismarck, as we have seen, that he never 
 entered on a war without regret or retired from it with- 
 out pleasure. But he was destined to enter on just one 
 more campaign — against pain and disease combined 
 with sudden poverty. It was a formidable coalition. 
 It is sometimes said that it is easier to die well than to
 
 By THOMAS WENTWORTH HIGGINSON 225 
 
 live well; but it is harder than either to grow old, 
 knowing- that one's great period of action is past, and 
 weighed down with the double weight of hopeless 
 financial failure and irremediable bodily pain. Either 
 bankruptcy or physical torture has by itself crushed 
 many a man morally and mentally; but Grant's great- 
 est campaign was when he resisted them both. Upon 
 such a campaign as this he might well, as he said, 
 shrink from entering; but having been obliged to 
 enter upon it, he was still Grant. Thousands of Amer- 
 icans have felt a sense of nearness to him and a sense 
 of pride in him during the last few months such as 
 they never felt before. He was already a hero in war 
 to us. The last few months have made him a hero of 
 peace, miles pacificus. 
 
 It has been already said that the supreme generals 
 of the world were Caesar, Cromwell and Napoleon. 
 Grant was behind all three of these in variety of culti- 
 vation and in many of the qualities that make a man's 
 biography picturesque and fascinating. He may be 
 said to have seemed a little prosaic, compared with 
 any one of these. But in moral qualities he was above 
 them all; more truthful, more unselfish, more simple, 
 more humane. He fell short of Washington in this, 
 that he was not equally great in war and statesman- 
 ship; but his qualities were within reach of all; his 
 very defects were within reach of all; and he will 
 long be with Washington and Lincoln the typical 
 American in the public eyes. It is this typical quality 
 after all that is most valuable. His fame rests upon 
 the broadest and surest of all pedestals, as broad as 
 common humanity. He seems greatest becau-^e he 
 was no detached or ideal hero, but simply the repre- 
 sentative of us alL
 
 ADDRESS BEFORE THE NEW YORK HIS- 
 TORICAL SOCIETY. By DANIEL WEBSTER. 
 
 UNBORN ages and visions of glory crowd upon 
 my soul, the realizationof all which, however, is 
 in the hands and good pleasure of Almighty God, but, 
 under his divine blessing, it will be dependent on the 
 character and the virtues of ourselves, and of our 
 posterity. 
 
 If classical history has been found to be, is now, and 
 shall continue to be, the concomitant of free institu- 
 tions, and of popular eloquence, what a field is opening 
 to us for another Herodotus, another Thucydides, and 
 another Livy! And let me say, gentlemen, that if we, 
 and our posterity, shall be true to the Christian reli- 
 gion, if we and they shall live always in the fear of God, 
 and shall respect his commandments, if we, and they, 
 shall maintain just, moral sentiments, and such con- 
 scientious convictions of duty as shall control the heart 
 and life, we may have the highest hopes of the future 
 fortunes of our country; and if we maintain those 
 institutions of government and that political union, 
 exceeding all praise as much as it exceeds all former 
 examples of political associations, we may be sure of 
 one thing, that, while our country furnishes materials 
 for a thousand masters of the Historic Art, it will 
 afford no topic for a Gibbon. It will have no Decline 
 and Fall. It will go on prospering and to prosper. 
 But, if we and our posterity reject religious instruction 
 and authority, violate the rules of eternal justice, trifle 
 with the injunctions of morality, and recklessly destroy 
 the political constitution which holds us together, no 
 man can tell how sudden a catastrophe may over- 
 whelm us, that shall bury all our glory in profound 
 
 226
 
 B}' DANIEL WEBSTER 227 
 
 obscurity. Should that catastrophe happen, let it 
 have no history. Let the horrible narrative never be 
 written ! Let its fate be like that of the lost books of 
 Livy, which no human eye shall ever read, or the 
 missing Pleiad, of which no man can ever know more, 
 than that it is lost, and lost forever!
 
 THE LEADERSHIP OF EDUCATED MEN. 
 From "Orations and Addresses of George William 
 Curtis." Copyright, 1893, by Harper & Brothers. By 
 GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS. 
 
 EVERY educated man is aware of a profound pop- 
 ular distrust of the courage and sagacity of the 
 educated class. Franklin and Lincoln are good 
 enough for us, exclaims this jealous skepticism ; as if 
 Franklin and Lincoln did not laboriously repair by 
 vigorous study the want of early opportunity. The 
 scholar appealing to experience is proudly told to close 
 his books, for what has America to do with experi- 
 ence? as if books were not the ever-burning lamps of 
 accumulated wisdom. When Voltaire was insulted by 
 the London mob, he turned at his door and compli- 
 mented them upon the nobleness of their national 
 character, their glorious constitution, and their love of 
 liberty. The London mob did not feel the sarcasm. 
 But when I hear that America may scorn experience 
 because she is a law to herself, I remember that a few 
 years ago a foreign observer came to the city of Wash- 
 ington, and said: "I did not fully comprehend your 
 greatness until I saw your Congress. Then I felt that 
 if you could stand that you could stand anything, and 
 I understood the saying that God takes care of chil- 
 dren, drunken men, and the United States." 
 
 The scholar is denounced as a coward. Humanity 
 falls among thieves, we are told, and the college 
 Levite, the educated Pharisee, pass by on the other 
 side. Slavery undermines the Republic, but the 
 clergy in America are the educated class, and the 
 Church makes itself the bulwark of slavery. Strong 
 drink slays its tens of thousands, but the educated 
 
 228
 
 By GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS 229 
 
 class leaves the gospel of temperance to be preached 
 by the ignorant and the enthusiast, as the English 
 Establishment left the preaching of regeneration to 
 Methodist itinerants in fields and barns. Vast ques- 
 tions cast their shadows upon the future: the just rela- 
 tions of capital and labor; the distribution of land; the 
 towering power of corporate wealth ; reform in admin- 
 istrative methods; but the educated class, says the 
 critic, instead of advancing to deal with them 
 promptly, wisely, and courageously, and settling them 
 as morning dissipates the night, without a shock, 
 leaves them to be kindled to fury by demagogues, lifts 
 a panic cry of communism, and sinks paralyzed with 
 terror. It is the old accusation. Erasmus was the 
 great pioneer of modern scholarship. But in the 
 fierce contest of the Reformation Luther denounced 
 him as a time-server and a coward. With the same 
 feeling, Theodore Parker, the spiritual child of 
 Luther, asked of Goethe, "Tell me, what did he ever 
 do for the cause of man?" and when nothing remained 
 for his country but the dread alternative of slavery or 
 civil war, Parker exclaimed sadly of the class to which 
 he belonged, "If our educated men had done their 
 duty, we should not now be in the ghastly condition 
 we bewail. ' ' 
 
 Gentlemen, we belong to the accused class. Its 
 honor and dignity are very precious to us. Is this 
 humiliating arraignment true? Does the educated 
 class of America especially deserve this condemnation 
 of political recreancy and moral cowardice? Faithless 
 scholars, laggard colleges, bigoted pulpits, there may 
 be ; signal instances you may find of feebleness and 
 pusillanimity. This has been always true.
 
 230 r/!^ LEADERSHIP c?/ EDUCATED MEN 
 
 But remember what Coleridge said to Washington 
 Allston, "Never judge a work of art by its defects." 
 The proper comment to make upon recreant scholars 
 is that of Brummel's valet upon the tumbled cambric 
 in his hands, "These are our failures." Luther, 
 impatient of the milder spirit of Erasmus and Colet 
 and Sir Thomas More, might well have called them 
 our failures, because he was of their class, and while 
 they counselled moderation, his fiery and impetuous 
 soul sought to seize triple-crowned error and drag it 
 from its throne. But Luther was no less a scholar, 
 and stands equally with them for the scholarly class 
 and the heroism of educated men. Even Erasmus said 
 of him with friendly wit, "He has hit the Pope on the 
 crown and the monks on the belly." If the cowled 
 scholars of the Church rejected him, and universities 
 under their control renounced and condemned him, yet 
 Luther is justified in saying, as he sweeps his hand 
 across them and speaks for himself and for the schol- 
 ars who stood with him, "These are not our repre- 
 sentatives; these are our failures." 
 
 But still further, it is educated citizenship which, 
 while defining the rightful limitation of the power of 
 the majority, is most loyal to its legitimate authority, 
 and foremost always in rescuing it from the treachery 
 of political peddlers and parasites. The rural states- 
 men who founded the Republic saw in vision a homo- 
 geneous and intelligent community, the peace and 
 prosperity and intelligence of the State reflected in the 
 virtue and wisdom of the government. But is this our 
 actual America or a glimpse of Arcadia? Is this the 
 United States or Plato's Republic or Harrington's 
 Oceana or Sir Thomas More's Utopia? What are the
 
 By GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS 231 
 
 political maxims of the hour? In Rome, do as the 
 Romans do. Fight fire with fire. Beat the devil with 
 his own weapons. Take men as they are, and don't 
 affect superior goodness. Beware of the politics of the 
 moon and of Sunday-school statesmanship. This is 
 our current political wisdom and the results are 
 familiar. "This is a nasty State," cries the eager 
 partisan, "and I hope we have done nasty work enough 
 to carry it. " "The conduct of the opposition," says 
 another, "was infamous. They resorted to every kind 
 of base and contemptible means, and, thank God, we 
 have beaten them at their own game." The majority 
 is overthrown by the political machinery intended to 
 secure its will. The machinery is oiled by corruption 
 and grinds the honest majority to powder. And it is 
 educated citizenship, the wisdom and energy of men 
 who are classed as prigs, pedants, and impracticables, 
 which is first and most efficient in breaking the 
 machinery and releasing the majority. It was this 
 which rescued New York from Tweed, and which 
 everywhere challenges and demolishes a Tweed 
 tyranny by whatever name it may be known. 
 
 Take from the country at this moment the educated 
 power, which is contemned as romantic and senti- 
 mental, and you would take from the army its general, 
 from the ship its compass, from national action its 
 moral mainspring. It is not the demagogue and the 
 shouting rabble; it is the people heeding the word of 
 the thinker and the lesson of experience, which secures 
 the welfare of the American republic and enlarges 
 human liberty.
 
 THE BETTER PART. Reprinted with permission. 
 By BOOKER T. WASHINGTON. 
 
 MR. CHAIRMAN, Ladies and Gentlemen: On an 
 important occasion in the life of the Master, 
 when it fell to Him to pronounce judgment on two 
 courses of action, these memorable words fell from His 
 lips: "And Mary hath chosen the better part." This 
 was the supreme test in the case of an individual. It 
 is the highest test in the case of a race or nation. Let 
 us apply this test to the American Negro. 
 
 In the life of our Republic, when he has had the 
 opportunity to choose, has it been the better or worse 
 part? When in the childhood of this nation the Negro 
 was asked to submit to slavery or choose death and 
 extinction, as did the aborigines, he chose the better 
 part, that which perpetuated the race. 
 
 When in 1776 the Negro was asked to decide between 
 British oppression and American independence, we 
 find him choosing the better part, and Crispus Attucks, 
 a Negro, was the first to shed his blood on State Street, 
 Boston, that the white American might enjoy liberty 
 forever, though his race remained in slavery. 
 
 When in 18 14 at New Orleans the test of patriotism 
 came again, we find the Negro choosing the better 
 part, and Gen. Andrew Jackson himself testifying that 
 no heart was more loyal and no arm more strong and 
 useful in defence of righteousness. 
 
 When the long and memorable struggle came 
 between union and separation, when he knew that 
 victory on the one hand meant freedom, and defeat on 
 the other his continued enslavement, with a full knowl- 
 edge of the portentous meaning of it all, when the 
 suggestion and the temptation came to burn the home 
 
 232
 
 By BOOKER T. WASHINGTON 233 
 
 and massacre wife and children during the absence of 
 the master in battle, and thus insure his liberty, we 
 find him choosing the better part, and for four long 
 years protecting and supporting the helpless, defence- 
 less ones entrusted to his care. 
 
 When in 1863 the cause of the Union seemed to 
 quiver in the balance, and there was doubt and dis- 
 trust, the Negro was asked to come to the rescue in 
 arms, and the valor displayed at Fort Wagner and Port 
 Hudson and Fort Pillow, testify most eloquently again 
 that the Negro chose the better part. 
 
 When, a few months ago, the safety and honor of 
 the Republic were threatened by a foreign foe, when 
 the wail and anguish of the oppressed from a distant 
 isle reached his ears, we find the Negro forgetting his 
 own wrongs,' forgetting the laws and customs that 
 discriminate against him in his own country, and again 
 we find our black citizen choosing the better part. 
 And if you would know how he deported himself in 
 the field at Santiago, apply for answer to Shafter and 
 Roosevelt and Wheeler. Let them tell how the Negro 
 faced death and laid down his life in defence of honor 
 and humanity, and when you have gotten the full 
 story of the heroic conduct of the Negro in the 
 Spanish-American war — heard it from the lips of 
 Northern soldiers and Southern soldiers, from 
 ex-abolitionist and ex-master, then decide within 
 yourselves whether a race that is thus willing to die for 
 its country should not be given the highest oppor- 
 tunity to live for its country. 
 
 In the midst of all the complaints of suffering in the 
 camp and field, suffering from fever and hunger, 
 where is the official or citizen that has heard a word of
 
 234 The BETTER PART 
 
 complaint from the lips of a black soldier? The only 
 request that has come from the Negro soldier has been 
 that he might be permitted to replace the white soldier 
 when heat and malaria began to decimate the ranks 
 of the white regiment, and to occupy at the same time 
 the post of greatest danger. 
 
 This country has been most fortunate in her vic- 
 tories. She has twice measured arms with England 
 and has won. She has met the spirit of rebellion 
 within her borders and was victorious. She has met 
 the proud Spaniard and he lies prostrate at her feet. 
 All this is well, it is magnificent. But there remains 
 one other victory for Americans to win — a victory as 
 far-reaching and important as any that has occupied 
 our army and navy. We have succeeded in every con- 
 flict, except the effort to conquer ourselves in the blot- 
 ting out of racial prejudices. We can celebrate the era 
 of peace in no more effectual way than by a firm 
 resolve on the part of Northern men and Southern 
 men, black men and white men, that the trenches 
 which we together dug around Santiago shall be the 
 eternal burial place of all that which separates us in 
 our business and civil relations. Let us be as generous 
 in peace as we have been brave in battle. Until we 
 thus conquer ourselves, I make no empty statement 
 when I say that we shall have, especially in the South- 
 ern part of our country, a cancer gnawing at the heart 
 of the Republic, that shall one day prove as dangerous 
 as an attack from an army without or within. 
 
 In this presence and on this auspicious occasion, I 
 want to present the deep gratitude of nearly ten mil- 
 lions of my people to our wise, patient and brave Chief 
 Executive for the generous manner in which my race
 
 By BOOKER T. WASHINGTON 235 
 
 has been recognized during this conflict. A recogni- 
 tion that has done more to blot out sectional and racial 
 lines than any event since the dawn of our freedom. 
 
 I know how vain and impotent is all abstract talk on 
 this subject. In your efforts to "rise on stepping 
 stones of your dead selves," we of the black race shall 
 not leave you imaided. We shall make the task easier 
 for you by acquiring property, habits of thrift, economy, 
 intelligence and character, by each making himself 
 of individual worth in his own community. We shall 
 aid you in this as we did a few days ago at El Caney 
 and Santiago, when we helped you to hasten the peace 
 we here celebrate. You know us; you are not afraid 
 of us. When the crucial test comes, you are not 
 ashamed of us. We have never betrayed or deceived 
 you. You know that as it has been, so it will be. 
 Whether in war or in peace, whether in slavery or in 
 freedom, we have always been loyal to the Stars and 
 Stripes.
 
 CORN LAWS. By THOMAS BABINGTON, LORD 
 MACAULAY. 
 
 GENTLEMEN, both the capitalist and the labourer 
 have been gainers, as they ought to have been 
 gainers, by the diminution in the price of bread. But 
 there is a third party, which ought not to have gained 
 by that diminution, and yet has gained very greatly by 
 it; and that party is Her Majesty's present govern- 
 ment. It is for the interest of rulers that those whom 
 they rule should be prosperous. But the prosperity 
 which we have lately enjoyed was a prosperity for 
 which we were not indebted to our rulers. It came in 
 spite of them. It was produced by the cheapness of 
 that which they had laboured to render dear. Under 
 pretence of making us independent of foreign supply, 
 they have established a system which makes us 
 dependent in the worst possible way. As my valued 
 friend, the Lord Provost, has justly said, there is a 
 mutual dependence among nations of which we cannot 
 get rid. That Providence has assigned different pro- 
 ductions to different climates is a truth with which 
 everybody is familiar. But this is not all. Even in the 
 same climate different productions belong to different 
 stages of civilization. As one latitude is favorable to 
 the vine and another to the sugar-cane, so there is, in 
 the same latitude, a state of society in which it is 
 desirable that the industry of men should be almost 
 entirely directed towards the cultivation of the earth, 
 and another state of society in which it is desirable 
 that a large part of the population should be employed 
 in manufactures. No dependence can be conceived 
 more natural, more salutary, more free from every- 
 thing like degradation than the mutual dependence 
 
 236
 
 By THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY 237 
 
 which exists between a nation which has a boundless 
 extent of fertile land, and a nation which has a bound- 
 less command of machinery; between a nation whose 
 business is to turn deserts into corn fields, and a nation 
 whose business is to increase tenfold by ingenious proc- 
 esses the value of the fleece and of the rude iron ore. 
 Even if that dependence were less beneficial than it is, 
 we must submit to it ; for it is inevitable. Make what 
 laws we will, we must be dependent on other countries 
 for a large part of our food. That point was decided 
 when England ceased to be an exporting country. 
 For, gentlemen, it is demonstrable that none but a 
 country which ordinarily exports food can be inde- 
 pendent of foreign supplies. If a manufacturer 
 determines to produce ten thousand pair of stockings, 
 he will produce the ten thousand, and neither more 
 nor less. But an agriculturist cannot determine that 
 he will produce ten thousand quarters of corn, and 
 neither more nor less. That he may be sure of having 
 ten thousand quarters in a bad year, he must sow such 
 a quantity of land that he will have much more than 
 ten thousand in a good year. It is evident that, if our 
 island does not in ordinary years produce many more 
 quarters than we want, jt will in bad years produce 
 fewer quarters than we want. And it is equally evi- 
 dent that our cultivators will not produce more quar- 
 ters of corn than we want, imless they can export the 
 surplus at a profit. Nobody ventures to tell us that 
 Great Britain can be ordinarily an exporting country. 
 It follows that we must be dependent ; and the only 
 question is. Which is the best mode of dependence? 
 That qiiestion is not difficult to answer. Go to 
 Lancashire; see that multitude of cities, some of them
 
 238 CORN LAWS 
 
 equal in size to the capitals of large kingdoms. Look 
 at the warehouses, the machinery, the canals, the rail- 
 v/ays, the docks. See the stir of that hive of human 
 beings busily employed in making, packing, conveying 
 stuffs which are to be worn in Canada and Caffraria, 
 in Chili and Java. You naturally ask, How is this 
 immense population, collected on an area which will 
 not yield food for one-tenth part of them, to be nour- 
 ished? But change the scene. Go beyond the Ohio, 
 and there you will see another species of industry 
 equally extensive and equally flourishing. You will 
 see the wilderness receding fast before the advancing 
 tide of life and civilization, vast harvests waving round 
 the black stumps of what a few months ago was a path- 
 less forest, and cottages, barns, mills, rising amidst the 
 haunts of the wolf and the bear. Here is more than 
 enough corn to feed the artisans of our thickly peopled 
 island ; and most gladly would the grower of that corn 
 exchange it for a Sheffield knife, a Birmingham spoon, 
 a warm coat of Leeds woollen cloth, a light dress of 
 Manchester cotton. But this exchange our rulers 
 prohibit. They say to our manufacturing population, 
 "You would willingly weave clothes for the people of 
 America, and they would gladly sow wheat for you ; 
 but we prohibit this intercourse. We condemn both 
 your looms and their ploughs to inaction. We will 
 compel you to pay a high price for a stinted meal. We 
 will compel those who would gladly be your purveyors 
 and your customers to be your rivals. We will compel 
 them to turn manufacturers in self-defence ; and when, 
 in close imitation of us, they impose high duties on Brit- 
 ish goods for the protection of their own produce, we 
 will, in our speeches and despatches, express wonder and 
 pity at their strange ignorance of political economy."
 
 THE IDEAL LAWYER. By JOHN W. GRIGGS. 
 
 GENTLEMEN of the graduating class of the Yale 
 Law School : I commend to you the cultivation 
 of a spirit that will enable you to take a healthy, sound, 
 and cheerful view of the struggles and movements of 
 society, of law, and of government, believing that their 
 tendency is toward improvement, not deterioration. I 
 would wish you to realize and appreciate the humane 
 direction in which recent reforms of jurisprudence 
 have been progressing, and to see to it that, so far as 
 you can aid, the spirit of mercifulness shall not be 
 suffered to decline. The further maintenance of the 
 high authority and repute of our Anglo-Saxon juris- 
 prudence as the foundation of our progress and pros- 
 perity and the safeguard of our liberties is intrusted to 
 the bar. The world will judge of the system accord- 
 ing to the manner in which its ministers administer it. 
 Beyond his immediate duty to his client, the lawyer has 
 a larger and wider sphere of duty to the State in illus- 
 trating, supporting, and maintaining the priceless 
 value of that system of law and justice which is the 
 heritage of the American people. As the character of 
 the members of that profession is sound, patriotic and 
 pure, so will legislation, the administration of public 
 office and general public sentiment continue upon lines 
 of justice, safety and conservatism. 
 
 So I urge you not to strive exclusively for the 
 pecuniary rewards of your profession, but to look for- 
 ward to a career of influence and usefulness that shall 
 include your neighborhood, your State, your country, 
 within its beneficent reach. For your example let me 
 commend the ideal of the good lawyer — I do not say 
 the great, but the good lawyer — an ideal that has been 
 
 239
 
 240 The IDEAL LAWYER 
 
 realized in the life of every substantial city and court, 
 especially in the older neighborhoods; a man of kindly 
 and benignant disposition, friendly alike with his well- 
 to-do and his poorer fellow-townsmen, acquainted with 
 their habits and individual history, and with a pretty 
 accurate notion of their opinions and prejudices as well 
 as of their ways and means ; genial and sociable, yet 
 dignified and self-contained; of staid and comfortable 
 appearance ; in manner alert ; in conversation always 
 moderate and respectful; shrewd in his observations; 
 wise, but with perennial humor and love of pleas- 
 antry ; as a citizen always concerned and active in the 
 interests of his town, his State and his country; not an 
 agitator, nor a perpetual fault-finder, nor giving out 
 the intimation that he is better or wiser than others; 
 but ready to confer, to adjust, to agree, to get the best 
 possible if not the utmost that is desirable ; to him the 
 people turn in local emergencies for guidance and 
 counsel on their public affairs, even partisanship fear- 
 ing not to trust to his honor and wisdom ; so free from 
 all cause of offence that there is no tongiie to lay a 
 word against his pure integrity — too dignified and 
 respectful to tempt familiarity; too genial and gener- 
 ous to provoke envy or jealousy; revered by his 
 brethren of the bar; helpful and kindly to the young; 
 in manner suave and polite, with a fine courtliness of 
 the old flavor — what Clarendon described in John 
 Hampden as "a flowing courtesy toward all men"; 
 successful, of course, in his practice, but caring less 
 for its profits than for the forensic and intellectual 
 delight which the study and practice of the law bring 
 to him; he knows much of the old "learning in the 
 law" — can tell you of fines, of double vouchers and
 
 By JOHN W. GRIGGS 241 
 
 recoveries, of the "Rule in Shelly's Case" — though he 
 keeps all these things in mind as collectors treasure 
 their antiques and curios, more as objects of art and 
 historical interest than of practical utility. His mind 
 is grounded upon the broad and deep principles of 
 jurisprudence rather than upon "wise saws and mod- 
 ern instances"; but over all is reflected the illumina- 
 tion of a strong common sense and a refined tactfulness. 
 To his clients he is an object of confidence and real 
 affection ; the secure depository of family secrets, and 
 the safe guide and counsellor in trouble and difficulty; 
 composing, not stirring up strife, but when in actual 
 trial strong, aggressive, confident; never quibbling or 
 dissembling; respectful to witnesses, to jurors and to 
 judge, as well as to his adversary. 
 
 In the judgment and feeling of the community there 
 is something of the venerable and illustrious attached 
 to his name ; not for his learning in the law nor for his 
 success as an advocate, nor for his usefulness to his 
 fellow-citizens as a counsellor and guide, but for the 
 benignant influence of his whole life and character; 
 and when he dies to every mind there comes a sug- 
 gestion of the epitaph that shall most fittingly preserve 
 the estimate which the people have formed of him — 
 "The just man and the counsellor."
 
 NAPOLEON THE LITTLE. By VICTOR HUGO. 
 
 I HAVE entered the lists with the actual ruler of 
 Europe, for it is well for the world that I should 
 exhibit the picture. Louis Bonaparte is the intoxica- 
 tion of triumph. He is the incarnation of merry yet 
 savage despotism. He is the mad plenitude of power 
 seeking for limits, but finding them not, neither in 
 men nor facts. Louis Bonaparte holds France — Urbem 
 Romam habet; and he who holds France holds the 
 world. He is master of the votes, master of con- 
 sciences, master of the people ; he names his successor, 
 does away with eternity, and places the future in a 
 sealed envelope. His Senate, his Legislative Body, 
 with lowered heads, creep behind him and lick his 
 heels. He takes up or drops the bishops and cardinals ; 
 he tramples upon justice which curses him, and upon 
 judges who worship him. Thirty eager newspaper 
 correspondents inform the world that he has frowned, 
 and every electric wire quivers if he raises his little 
 finger. Around him is heard the clanking of the 
 sabre and the roll of the drum. He is seated in the 
 shadow of the eagles, begirt by ramparts and bayo- 
 nets. Free people tremble and conceal their liberty 
 lest he should rob them of it. The great American 
 Republic even hesitates before him, and dares not 
 withdraw her ambassador. Kings look at him with a 
 smile from the midst of their armies, though their 
 hearts be full of dread. Where will he begin? Bel- 
 gium, Switzerland, or Piedmont? 
 
 Europe awaits his invasion. He is able to do as he 
 wishes, and he dreams of impossibilities. Well, this 
 master, this triumphant conqueror, this vanquisher, 
 this dictator, this emperor, this all-powerful man, one 
 
 242
 
 By VICTOR HUGO 243 
 
 lonely man, robbed and ruined, dares to rise up and 
 attack. Louis Napoleon has ten thousand cannons and 
 five hundred thousand soldiers ; I have but a pen and a 
 bottle of ink. I am a mere nothing, a grain of dust, a 
 shadow, an exile without a home, a vagrant without 
 even a passport ; but I have at my side two mighty 
 auxiliaries, — God, who is invincible, and Truth, which 
 is immortal. 
 
 Certainly Providence might have chosen a more 
 illustrious champion for this duel to the death, — some 
 stronger athlete ; but what matters the man when it is 
 the cause that fights? 
 
 However it may be, it is good for the world to gaze 
 upon this spectacle. For what is it but intelligence 
 strikmg against brute force? I have but one stone for 
 my sling; but it is a good one, for its name is Justice! 
 
 I am attacking Louis Bonaparte when he is at the 
 height and zenith of his power, at the hour when all 
 bend before him. All the better; this is what suits 
 me best. 
 
 Yes, I attack Louis Bonaparte; I attack him openly, 
 before all the world. I attack him before God and 
 man. I attack him boldly and recklessly for love of 
 the people and for love of France. He is going to be 
 an emperor. Let him be one; but let him remember 
 that, though you may secure an empire, you cannot 
 secure an easy conscience! 
 
 This is the man by whom France is governed! 
 Governed, do I say? — possessed in supreme and 
 sovereign sway ! And every day, and every morning, 
 by his decrees, by his messages, by all the incredible 
 drivel which he parades in the "Moniteur," this emi- 
 grant, who knows not France, teaches France her
 
 244 NAPOLEON the LITTLE 
 
 lesson ! and this ruffian tells France he has saved her ! 
 And from whom? From herself! Before him, Provi- 
 dence committed only follies; God was waiting for him 
 to reduce everything to order; at last he has come! 
 For thirty-six years there had been in France all sorts 
 of pernicious things, — the tribune, a vociferous thing; 
 the press, an obstreperous thing; thought, an insolent 
 thing, and liberty, the most crying abuse of all. But 
 he came, and for the tribune he has substituted the 
 Senate ; for the press, the censorship ; for thought, 
 imbecility; and for liberty, the sabre; and by the sabre 
 and the Senate, by imbecility and censorship, France 
 is saved. Saved, bravo! And from whom, I repeat? 
 From herself. For what was this France of ours, if 
 you please? A horde of marauders and thieves, of 
 anarchists, assassins, and demagogues. She had to be 
 manacled, had this mad woman, France; and it is 
 Monsieur Bonaparte Louis who puts the handcuffs on 
 her. Now she is in a dungeon, on a diet of bread and 
 water, punished, humiliated, garotted, safely cared 
 for. Be not disturbed; Monsieur Bonaparte, a police- 
 man stationed at the Elysee, is answerable for her to 
 Europe. He makes it his business to be so; this 
 wretched France is in the strait- jacket, and if she 
 stirs — Ah, what is this spectacle before our eyes? Is 
 it a dream? Is it a nightmare? On one side a nation, 
 the first of nations, and on the other, a man, the last 
 of men ; and this is what this man does to this nation. 
 What! he tramples her under his feet, he laughs in 
 her face, he mocks and taunts her, he disowns, insults, 
 and flouts her! What! he says, "I alone am worthy 
 of consideration!" What! in this land of France 
 where none would dare to slap the face of his fellow.
 
 By VICTOR HUGO 245 
 
 this man can slap the face of the nation? Oh, the 
 abominable shame of it all ! Every time that Monsieur 
 Bonaparte spits, every face must be wiped! And this 
 can last! and you tell me it will last! No! No! by 
 every drop in every vein, no! It shall not last! Ah, 
 if this did last, it would be in very truth because there 
 would no longer be a God in heaven, nor a France on 
 earth !
 
 THE CUMBERLAND ROAD. By THOMAS 
 CORWIN. 
 
 MR. SPEAKER, I have one word to say, before I 
 sit down, to the gentleman from Kentucky. He 
 spoke the other day in opposition to this bill. He did 
 not deny that the Cumberland road might be useful ; 
 but, as he could obtain no money here to enable his 
 people to build dams and make slack- water navigation 
 on Green River, he would not help us to make a road 
 on the northern side of the Ohio. And then the gen- 
 tleman proceeded in a grave disquisition upon our con- 
 stitutional powers to make roads and improve rivers. 
 What says the Constitution? "Congress shall have 
 power to regulate commerce with foreign nations, 
 amonof the sev^eral States, and with the Indian tribes." 
 What is the gentleman's commentary? You have, 
 says he, a clear and undoubted right to improve rivers, 
 but not so of roads. And why, Mr. Speaker, why? 
 Do you, sir, remember the reason for this distinction? 
 It was this: "Providence," says the gentleman, "has 
 marked out rivers as the proper channels and avenues 
 of commerce. ' ' What a beautiful and exalted piety is 
 here shedding its clear light upon the dark mysteries of 
 constitutional law! And then how logical the con- 
 clusion! Thus runs the argument: Since it is not the 
 will of God that commerce should be carried on on dry 
 land, but only on the water, the powers over com- 
 merce, given in the Constitution by our pious ances- 
 tors, must be understood as limited by the Divine 
 commands; and therefore, says he, you have power to 
 remove sand-bars and islands, to make a channel which 
 Providence has begun and left unfinished; but beware, 
 he would say, "how you cut down a tree, or remove a 
 
 246
 
 By THOMAS CORWIN 247 
 
 rock, on the dry land, to complete what Providence 
 has begun there. You have no power by law to do 
 this last; besides, it is impious, it is not the will of 
 God." 
 
 Mr. Speaker, I know of no parallel to this charming 
 philosophy, unless it is to be found in the sayings of 
 Mause Hedrigg, an elderly Scotch lady, who figures 
 in one of Sir Walter Scott's novels. In one of her 
 evangelical moods, she rebuked her son Cuddie for 
 using a fan, or any work of art, to clean his barley. 
 She said it was an awesome denial o' Providence not 
 to wait his own time, when he would surely send wind 
 to winnow the chaff out of the grain. In the same 
 spirit of enlightened philosophy does the gentleman 
 exhort us in Ohio, Indiana, and Illinois, to cease our 
 impious road-making, and wait the good time of Provi- 
 dence, who will, as he seems to think, surely send a 
 river to run from Cumberland over the Alleghanies, 
 across the Ohio, and so on, in its heaven-directed 
 course, to St. Louis. Mr. Speaker, the gentleman 
 from Kentucky is not the author of this theory. Our 
 Atlantic brethren, especially of the South, have long 
 held the same doctrine. They have long since discov- 
 ered that our glorious Constitution was nothing more at 
 last than a fish! made for the w^ater, and which can 
 only live in the water. According to their views, he 
 is a goodly fish, of marvellous proper uses and func- 
 tions while you keep him in the water; but the moment 
 he touches dry land, lo! he suffocates and dies. The 
 only difference between this school of constitutional 
 lawyers and the gentleman from Kentucky is this: he 
 believes that your Constitution is a fish that thrives in 
 all waters, and especially in Green River slack-water ;
 
 248 The CUMBERLAND ROAD 
 
 whereas, his brethren of the South insist that he can 
 only live in salt water. With them the doctrine is, 
 wherever the tide ceases to flow, he dies. He can live 
 and thrive in a little tide creek, which a thirsty mos- 
 quito would drink dry in a hot day ; but place him on 
 or under the majestic wave of the Mississippi, and in 
 an instant he expires. Mr. Speaker, who can limit the 
 range of science? What hand can stay the march of 
 mind? Heretofore we have studied the science of law 
 to help us in our understanding of the Constitution. 
 Some have brought metaphysical learning to this aid. 
 But now, in the middle of the nineteenth century, 
 these labors are all ended. Ichthyology, sir, is the 
 key to open all the doors that have hitherto barred our 
 approaches to truth. According to this new school of 
 philosophy, if you just teach coming generations the 
 "nature of fish," those great problems in constitutional 
 law that vexed and worried the giant intellects of 
 Hamilton, Madison and Marshall are at once revealed 
 and made plain to the dullest peasant in the land. Sir, 
 if I appear to trifle with this grave subject, the fault is 
 not mine ; it arises from the singular nature and con- 
 trariant character of those arguments which I am most 
 unwillingly compelled to combat.
 
 RUSSIA THE ANTAGONIST OF THE UNITED 
 STATES. By LOUIS KOSSUTH. 
 
 LADIES and Gentlemen: When, four years ago, 
 the tidings of our struggle made the scarcely 
 before known name of Hungary familiar to you, sym- 
 pathy for a nobly defended noble cause moved your 
 hearts to rejoice at our victories, to feel anxiety about 
 our dangers. 
 
 You were far from anticipating that the issue of our 
 struggle would become an opportunity for your 
 country to take that position which Divine Providence 
 has evidently assigned to you; I mean the position of 
 a power, not restricted in its influence to the Western 
 Hemisphere, but reaching across the earth. You had 
 not thought that it is the struggle of Hungary which 
 will call on you to fulfil the prophecy of Canning ; who 
 comprehended, that it is the destiny of the New World 
 to redress the balance of power in the Old. 
 
 The universal importance of our contest has been 
 but late revealed. It has been revealed by the inter- 
 ference of Russia, by our fall, and by its more threaten- 
 ing results. 
 
 And it is indeed your destiny. Russian diplomacy 
 could never boast of a greater and more fatal victory 
 than it had a right to boast, should it succeed to per- 
 suade the United States not to care about her — Russia 
 accomplishing her aim to become the ruling power in 
 Europe ; the ruling power in Asia ; the ruling power 
 of the Mediterranean Sea. That would be indeed a 
 great triumph to Russian diplomacy, greater than her 
 triumph over Hungary; a triumph dreadful to all 
 humanity, but to nobody more dreadful than to your 
 own future. 
 
 249
 
 250 RUSSIA tke ANTAGONIST 
 
 You may perhaps believe that that triumph of 
 diplomacy is impossible in America. But I am sorry 
 to say, that it has a dangerous ally, in the propensity 
 to believe, that the field of American policy is limited 
 geographically; that there is a field for American, and 
 there is a field for European policy, and that these 
 fields are distinct, and that it is your interest to keep 
 them distinct. 
 
 Gentlemen, I have often heard the remark, that if 
 the United States do not care for the policy of the 
 world, they will continue to grow internally, and will 
 soon become the mightiest realm on earth, a Republic 
 of a hundred millions of energetic freemen, strong 
 enough to defy all the rest of the world, and to control 
 the destinies of mankind. And surely this^ is your 
 glorious lot; but only under the condition that no hos- 
 tile combination, before you have in peace and in tran- 
 quillity grown so strong, arrests by craft and violence 
 your giant-course; and this again is possible, only 
 under the condition that Europe become free, and the 
 league of despots become not sufficiently powerful to 
 check the peaceful development of your strength. But 
 Russia, too, the embodiment of the principle of 
 despotism, is working hard for the development of her 
 power. Whilst you grow internally, her able diplo- 
 macy has spread its nets all over the continent of 
 Europe. There is scarcely a Prince there but feels 
 honored to be an underling of the great Czar; the 
 despots are all leagued against the freedom of the 
 nations; and should the principle of absolutism con- 
 solidate its power, and lastingly keep down the nations, 
 then it must, even by the instinct of self-preservation, 
 try to check the further development of your Republic.
 
 By LOUIS KOSSUTH 251 
 
 The despots are scheming to muzzle the English 
 lioti. You see already how they are preparing for this 
 blow — that Russia may become mistress of Constanti- 
 nople, by Constantinople mistress of the Mediter- 
 ranean, and by the Mediterranean of three-quarters 
 of the globe. Egypt, Macedonia, Asia-Minor, the 
 country and early home of the cotton plant, are then 
 the immediate provinces of Russia, a realm with 
 twenty million serfs, subject to its policy and depend- 
 ing on its arbitrary will. 
 
 Here is a circumstance highly interesting to the 
 United States. Constantinople is the key to Russia. 
 To be preponderant, she knows it is necessary for her 
 to be a maritime power. The Black Sea is only a lake, 
 like Lake Leman ; the Baltic is frozen five months in a 
 year. These are all the seas she possesses. Constan- 
 tinople is the key to the palace of the Czars. Russia is 
 already omnipotent on the Continent ; once master of 
 the Mediterranean, it is not difficult to see that the 
 power which already controls three-quarters of the 
 world, will soon have the fourth quarter. 
 
 Whilst the victory of the nations of Europe would 
 open to you the markets, till now closed to your prod- 
 ucts, the consolidation of despotism destroys your 
 commerce unavoidably. If your wheat, your tobacco, 
 your cotton, were excluded from Europe but for one 
 year, there is no farm, no plantation, no banking- 
 house, which would not feel the terrible shock of such 
 a convulsion. 
 
 And hand-in-hand with the commercial restrictions 
 you will then see an establishment of monarchies from 
 Cape Horn to the Rio Grande del Norte. Cuba 
 becomes a battery against the mouth of the Missis-
 
 252 RUSSIA the ANTAGONIST 
 
 sippi; the Sandwich Islands a barrier to your com- 
 merce on the Pacific; Russian diplomacy will foster 
 your domestic dissensions and rouse the South against 
 the North, and the North against the South, the sea- 
 coast against the inland States, and the inland States 
 against the sea-coast, the Pacific interests against the 
 Atlantic interests; and when discord paralyzes your 
 forces, then comes at last the foreign interference, 
 preceded by the declaration, that the European powers 
 having, with your silent consent, inscribed into the 
 code of international law the principle that every 
 foreign power has the right to interfere in the domes- 
 tic affairs of any nation when these become a danger- 
 ous example, and your example and your republican 
 principles being dangerous to the absolutist powers, 
 and your domestic dissensions dangerous to the 
 order and tranquillity of Europe, therefore they con- 
 sider it their "duty to interfere in America." And 
 Europe being oppressed, you will have, single handed, 
 to encounter the combined forces of the world. I say 
 no more about this subject. America will remember 
 then the poor exile, if it does not in time enter upon 
 that course of policy which the intelligence of Massa- 
 chusetts, together with the 5^oung instinct of Ohio, are 
 the foremost to understand and to advance. 
 
 A man of your own State, a President of the United 
 States, John Quincy Adams, with enlarged sagacity, 
 accepted the Panama Mission, to consider the action 
 of the Holy Alliance upon the interests of the South 
 American Republics. 
 
 Now, I beg you to reflect, gentlemen, how South 
 America is different from Europe, as respects your 
 own country. Look at the thousand ties that bind you
 
 By LOUIS KOSSUTH 253 
 
 to Europe. In Washington, a Senator from Califor- 
 nia, a generous friend of mine, told me he was thirty 
 days by steamer from the seat of Government. Well, 
 you speak of distance — just give me a good steamer 
 and good sailors, and you will in twenty days see the 
 flag of freedom raised in Hungary. 
 
 I remember that when one of your glorious Stars 
 (Florida, I think it was) was about to be introduced, 
 the question of discussion and objection became, that 
 the distance was great. It was argued that the limits 
 of the government would be extended so far, that its 
 duties could not be properly attended to. The Presi- 
 dent answered, that the distance was not too great, if 
 the seat of government could be reached in thirty 
 days. So far your have extended your territory ; and 
 I am almost inclined to ask my poor Hungary to be 
 accepted as a Star in your glorious galaxy. She 
 might become a star in this immortal constellation, 
 since she is not so far as thirty days off from you. 
 
 What little English I know, I learned from your 
 Shakespeare, and I learned from him that "there are 
 more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of 
 in our philosophy." Who knows what the future 
 may bring forth? I trust in God that all nations will 
 become free, and that they will be united for the 
 internal interests of humanity, and in that galaxy of 
 freedom I know what place the United States will 
 have. 
 
 One word more. When John Quincy Adams 
 assumed for the United States the place of a power on 
 earth, he was objected to, because it was thought pos- 
 sible that that step might give offence to the Holy 
 Alliance. His answer was in these memorable words :
 
 254 RUSSIA the ANTAGONIST 
 
 •'The United States must take counsel of their rights 
 and duties, and not from their fears." 
 
 The Anglo-Saxon race represents constitutional 
 governments. If it be united for these, we shall have 
 what we want, Fair Play; and, relying "upon our 
 God, the justness of our cause, iron wills, honest 
 hearts and good swords, " my people will strike once 
 more for freedom, independence, and for Fatherland.
 
 EDWIN BOOTH. From "Commemorative Addresses 
 by Parke Godwin." Copyright, 1894, by Harper & 
 Brothers. Reprinted with permission. By PARKE 
 GODWIN. 
 
 LIKE a light in the skies he has now passed below 
 the dews and damps of the horizon ; but may we 
 not say of him with our earliest of poets, that 
 
 "The soft mem'ry of his virtues yet 
 Lingers like twilight hues, when the bright sun is set"? 
 
 May we not say of him, as of the good Duncan, that 
 "after life's fitful fever he sleeps well," leaving behind 
 him no rankling animosities, no unadjusted wrongs, 
 no bitter remembrances, only sorrow and a grateful 
 sense of his genius and goodness? In life, no doubt, 
 he had his enemies — who has not? — but no one ever 
 learned that fact from his own lips. There were 
 those, perhaps, even of his own profession, who exag- 
 gerated his hereditary traits into personal faults, but it 
 produced no bitter resentment in his heart. For 
 thirty years that I knew him with more or less inti- 
 macy I never heard him speak an unkind word of any 
 human being. Yet he was as unassuming as he was 
 generous, and I may add that during that long interval 
 I never heard him speak unduly of himself, or of him- 
 self at all save in connection with some project for the 
 public good. 
 
 Affliction fell upon him, — the early death of his 
 father — whom he loved and honored — the withering of 
 that fair flower now "enskied and sainted," around 
 whose being the tenderest fibres of his heart were 
 strung — that great public calamity, which for a 
 moment blotted his heaven of future hope and happi- 
 
 »55
 
 2s6 EDWIN BOOTH 
 
 ness; but these misfortunes, while they may have 
 deepened the lines of thought on his forehead, never 
 galled his heart with a drop of despair or pessimism. 
 Recovering with elastic spirit from every blow, he kept 
 the even tenor of his way in the discharge of his duty, 
 as he conceived it. The other day, in taking up his 
 copy of "Macready's Reminiscences," I found near the 
 close, where the veteran actor expresses dissatisfaction 
 with his life, that Mr. Booth had penciled on the mar- 
 gin: "What would this man have? Blessed with edu- 
 cation, with a loving family, with fame and fortune 
 and the friendship of the great, he ought to have been 
 supremely happy. " 
 
 Mr. Booth was not supremely happy — few are ; but 
 he enjoyed life. He enjoyed it because he had discov- 
 ered the true secret of tranquillity and content — the use 
 of his faculties and his fortune, not as a means of self- 
 indulgence or ostentation, but for the furtherance of 
 general ends. Scarcely one of his more intimate 
 friends but could tell you of some dark home bright- 
 ened, of some decayed gentleman or gentlewoman 
 raised to comfort and cheerfulness by his unseen but 
 timely intervention. He had learned the deep wisdom 
 of that epigram of Martial, which perhaps he had never 
 read, which says that "what we possess and try to 
 keep flies away, but what we give away remains a joy- 
 ful possession forever. " It was for this his friends not 
 only admired him, but loved him ; and it was for this 
 the greater public mingled with its admiration of the 
 artist its attachment to the man. For, strange as it 
 may seem, this man who had passed his life in the 
 expression of simulated sentiments was in his own life 
 the sincerest and truest of men. This man, who, like
 
 By PARKE GODWIN 257 
 
 a nomad, had spent his days in wandering over the 
 earth, prized above all thini^s else the retirement and 
 seclusion of the home; this conspicuous leader of a 
 profession more than others exposed to temptation, 
 preserved himself as pure as the wind-sifted snow of 
 the mountains; and he, the popular idol, who had only 
 to appear upon the boards to awaken round upon round 
 of rapturous applause, dreaded notoriety, shunned the 
 crowd, and loved to be alone with his own thoughts. 
 How gentle he was there I cannot tell you — as gentle 
 as the breeze that will not detach the delicate blossom 
 from the stem ; nor how strong he was in his adherence 
 to duty — as strong as the oak that no blasts from the 
 hills can pull up by its roots. 
 
 Therefore it.was that a strong personal feeling per- 
 vaded his popularity. Recall those final days, when he 
 was laid upon the couch of pain, and remember how 
 eagerly we followed the bulletins, rejoicing when they 
 were favorable and sorrowing when they were not so. 
 Tried skill and devoted affection were gathered about 
 that couch — the affections of life-long friends, and of 
 one, the image of her who had long since gone to pre- 
 pare his way; but neither skill nor affection could 
 delay the death-hour, and when, on that sweet, soft 
 day of June, as light and warmth were broadening 
 over the earth, and the trees had put on a fuller and 
 richer green, it was announced that his eyes were 
 finally closed on all this brightness and beauty — how 
 instinctively we exclaimed with Horatio, bending over 
 the prostrate form of Hamlet, "Now cracks a noble 
 heart!" and as the big tears flushed our eyes, how we 
 added with' him: "Good-night, sweet Prince! And 
 flights of angels sing thee to thy rest. " Indeed, may
 
 258 EDWIN BOOTH 
 
 we not repeat it here, "Good night, sweet Prince," 
 and as we utter it may we not hear with our finer 
 ears a responsive echo, floating with solemn softness, 
 downward from the heights, "Good-night, dear friends, 
 God bless you all ; good-night ! ' '
 
 INTERNATIONAL ARBITRATION. By JAMES 
 RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
 I HAVE been exceedingly touched latterly by the 
 kindness which I have received here in England 
 from all classes, but never have I been more pro- 
 foundly touched than by the deputation that has now 
 waited upon me to express the kind wishes of the Eng- 
 lish Workingmen. I have twice had the pleasure of 
 addressing workingmen since I have been in England, 
 and I have been gratified to find that, among all the 
 audiences to whom I have spoken, there were none 
 more intelligent. They were exceedingly quick to 
 catch all points and exceedingly agreeable to talk to. 
 
 You must not think that I have forgotten the part 
 taken by the workingmen of England during our civil 
 war — I won't say on behalf of the North, because now 
 we are a united people — on the side of good order and 
 freedom ; and on the only occasion when I had an 
 opportunity of saying so — that was when speaking to 
 the provincial press in London — I alluded to the sub- 
 ject. I agree with you entirely on the importance of a 
 good understanding and much more between England 
 and the United States, and between the two chief 
 branches of the Anglo-Saxon race. I think you exag- 
 gerate a good deal of my ovv^n merit in relation to any- 
 thing of that sort, but I have always had a feeling 
 about me that a war between the two countries would 
 be a civil war, and I believe a cordial understanding 
 between them to be absolutely essential, not only to 
 the progress of reasonable liberty, but its preservation 
 and its extension to other races. 
 
 It is a particular pleasure to me on another account 
 to meet English worktiien. I notice that, however 
 
 259
 
 26o INTERNATIONAL ARBITRATION 
 
 ardent they maj'- be in their aspirations, and however 
 theoretical on some points, they are always reasonable. 
 The individual man may set the impossible before 
 him as something to be obtained, but I think those 
 communities of men have prospered the best who have 
 aimed at what is possible. We see daily illustrations 
 of that, and anybody who has studied the history of 
 France would be convinced that, though England has a 
 form of government not so free as that country, yet 
 you have made a greater advance towards peace than 
 France has done, I do not wish you tc suppose that I 
 am out of sympathy with what I call the French Revo- 
 lution — although I consider it an enormous misfortune, 
 which might have been prevented, and France saved 
 from many evil consequences that followed — but the 
 manner in which it took place we ought all to 
 regard. 
 
 Since I have been in England I have done some- 
 thing, I trust, to promote a cordial feeling between 
 this country and the United States. That has been 
 my earnest desire always, and I hope I have to some 
 extent succeeded. You will allow me to thank you 
 warmly for your address, which I shall always feel to 
 be among my most precious possessions, and I shall 
 carry to the workmen on the other side of the Atlantic 
 the message expressive of your sympathy and hope, 
 I hope the occasion will not ever arise even for arbitra- 
 tion. I think if we can talk together face to face we 
 shall be able to settle all differences. I am certain 
 that the relations between the two countries are now of 
 a most amicable and friendly kind, and I am sure that 
 my successor is as strongly impressed as I could be 
 with the necessity of strengthening those friendly rela-
 
 By JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 261 
 
 tions. I trust the necessity for arbitration may never 
 arise between us; I do not think it will. 
 
 You will again allow me to give you my most 
 hearty and profound thanks for the kindness you have 
 done me, and to wish you all manner of prosperity. I 
 trust also that that reign of peace to which you allude 
 may come soon and last long. I appreciate extremely 
 what Mr. Cremer said as to your sympathy with the 
 Northern States in the Civil War, with whom no one 
 could help sympathizing if they went to the root of the 
 matter. I believe in peace as strongly as any man can 
 do, but I believe also that there are occasions when 
 war is less disastrous than peace ; that there are times 
 when one must resort to what goes before all law, and 
 what, indeed, forms the foundation of it — the law of 
 the strongest; and that, as a general rule, the strong- 
 est deserve to get the best of the struggle. They say 
 satirically that God is on the side of the strong 
 battalions, but I think they are sometimes in the right, 
 and my experience goes to prove that.
 
 THE TRUTH OF THE GOSPEL. From "Cam- 
 bridge Sermons." Copyright, 1883. Reprinted with 
 permission. By ALEXANDER McKENZIE. 
 
 WE stand among mysteries, are full of inquiries. 
 A man's relation to God, a man's duty, the 
 way of restoration to God which shall give him peace 
 and assurance; a man's destiny and the way to make 
 that destiny blessed — upon these themes the world has 
 no clear voice, save where the gospel is preached. I 
 wander from man to man with the serious thoughts 
 which come to me, as I know that in a few years, at the 
 most, I shall go hence. But no man tells me anything 
 much better than I have thought out by myself. I 
 stand among the open graves of your households, to 
 hear you ask, "What is there beyond?" And all the 
 schools are silent; the oracles are dumb. We utter 
 our hope through our tears; the untaught centuries 
 have added nothing to the human hopes. Knowledge 
 was never so great as to-day; the pursuit of knowledge 
 was never so vigorous ; but all the study has not added 
 a syllable which answers the questions which we must 
 have answered; for whose answer we would be willing 
 to deny ourselves much which men call knowledge. 
 
 This silence is significant when knowledge is so vast 
 and is growing on every hand. Men are bringing the 
 heavens down to the earth, and, walking along their 
 streets, they are wakening the strong forces of forgot- 
 ten generations, and their life flies through the air and 
 swims through the seas as if it had not been dead for 
 ages. Men are studying their own thoughts, and 
 philosophy was never so venturesome, perhaps never 
 so wise, as it is to-day. I can know almost anything 
 that I want to know. Nothing is so distant in space 
 
 262
 
 By ALEXANDER McKENZIE 263 
 
 or so remote in time that I may not hope to know of it 
 all which I need to know. With this knowledge rising 
 about my feet, tmtil I am half drowned with the mere 
 names of the topics which it presents to me, I ask if 
 there is nothing to be known of the things which are 
 most important. I go through the libraries from shelf 
 to shelf, from book to book, and they tell me almost 
 everything but that which I must know. I press my 
 inquiries and beg for a reply, and the wise men say, 
 ' ' We will teach you everything else ; we will tell you 
 what you sprung from; we will analyze your char- 
 acter; we will break the light into fragments and lay 
 the stars as a glittering dust at your feet ; but your 
 duty you cannot know ; your relation to God you can- 
 not know ; what comes after death you cannot know ; 
 the way of bringing peace to your conscience and 
 righteousness to your life you cannot know." I say 
 that we can know. In the name of growing, star-eyed 
 science, we can know. In the name of fourteen hun- 
 dred students in our university, we can know. In the 
 name of our vast libraries, our bold search for truth, 
 our accumulated, teeming, and overwhelming knowl- 
 edge of everything else, we can know. I know that I 
 can know. God, duty, life, destiny — I am sure that I 
 can know them; and I find the knowledge in this gos- 
 pel of God, which answers the questions with a voice 
 that does not tremble; which gratifies this longing of 
 the heart to whom these are the real, the practical 
 things of life; and because the gospel comes to me 
 doing what must be done, telling what I must know, 
 supplementing all the growing knowledge of the world, 
 it commends itself to my conscience in the sight of 
 God. My conscience says that I can know my duty
 
 264 The TRUTH of the GOSPEL 
 
 and my destiny. The world says, "We cannot tell you 
 your duty nor your destiny"; and my conscience 
 smiles upon the revelation and glories in it. 
 
 In its rational method the gospel commends itself to 
 the conscience. It addresses itself at once to the spirit. 
 It recognizes the spiritual nature of man. That grand 
 sentence, almost the grandest sentence in the Bible, 
 which our Saviour uttered at the well of Samaria, 
 when he said, "God is a spirit," finds its counterpart 
 in another truth implied all through the Scriptures. It 
 might be rendered in this way: Man is a spirit, and 
 they that help him must help him in spirit and in 
 truth. Some persons, claiming our respect, say, man 
 is a spirit, and they that help him must build him a 
 better house ; they must give him a better social estate ; 
 they must provide a better government; they must 
 invent a new kind of sepulchre. But the gospel is 
 better; it goes directly to the spirit of man. That 
 word "conscience" itself is a witness. "What other 
 system of religion clearly pronounces the word? What 
 system of learning speaks the word "conscience" 
 except as it takes it from the gospel? To the reason, 
 to the affections, to the will — that is, to the man him- 
 self. Scripture appeals. It flashes no sword; it 
 stretches out no sceptre ; it paints no picture ; it sings 
 no song; it raises no glittering pageant which may 
 delight" and bewilder. It comes with the simple truth 
 to the reason and heart of man. You may hear this 
 truth of God in the stateliest cathedral with all its 
 accompaniments of architecture and music. You may 
 hear it in the camp of the soldier. The sailor may 
 read it in his forecastle. The wrecked mariner may 
 recall it upon the ocean rock. The prisoner may
 
 By ALEXANDER McKENZIE. 265 
 
 remember it in the dungeon. The dying man may 
 catch its words from the scroll at the foot of his bed. 
 You may not have the book; you may recall but a 
 single chapter, a single sentence of it; and that sen- 
 tence, in its witness to God, and duty, and truth, and 
 redemption, shall be enough to save a man into a 
 righteous life and to give him a glorious hope.
 
 AFTER-DINNER SPEECH BEFORE THE HAR- 
 VARD CLUB OF NEW YORK. By HENRY E. 
 ROWLAND. 
 
 I FEEL the usual diffidence that should characterize 
 the representative of a junior branch of the great 
 family of which Harvard is the head, in appearing at 
 your annual reunion; but, as the university from 
 which I hail springs from your loins and you are 
 responsible for its existence it is natural that I should 
 feel the glow of family pride as you rehearse your 
 achievements, and say as the little child did to her 
 grandmother who had given a children's party: 
 "Now, grandma, you must be very nice to us to-day, 
 for if it wasn't for us you wouldn't be a grandma at 
 all." 
 
 There should be a proper amount of modesty in one 
 called upon to address such an intelligent audience of 
 educated men as I see before me, and I am conscious 
 of it in the same sense as the patient who said to his 
 physician: "I suffer a great deal from nervous dys- 
 pepsia, and I attribute it to the fact that I attend so 
 many public dinners." "Ah, I see," said the doctor, 
 "you are often called upon to speak, and the nervous 
 apprehension upsets your digestion." "Not at all ; my 
 apprehension is entirely on account of the other 
 speakers; I never say a thing;" and it is with some 
 hesitation that I respond to your call, like the absent- 
 minded deacon of convivial tendencies who was asked 
 by his pastor at a prayer-meeting to lead in prayer, 
 and he replied, remembering his experiences of the 
 night before: "It isn't my lead; I dealt." 
 
 Following out that line of thought, there is a great 
 deal that is attractive in a gathering of Harvard men. 
 
 266
 
 By HENRY E. ROWLAND 267 
 
 They have such a winsome and a winning way with 
 them. 
 
 Richest in endowments, foremost in progress, hon- 
 ored by the renown of a long line of distinguished 
 sons, the university that claims you is worthy of the 
 homage and respect which it receives from the edu- 
 cated men of America, wherever trained, and which it 
 is my privilege to pay to her to-night, from the eldest 
 daughter of her house, which seems to be in a condi- 
 tion of orphanage, for the head of that great family 
 has taken himself away, and we are wandering about 
 seeking a father, like the little boy who met a police- 
 man in a crowd and said: "Please, sir; have you seen 
 a man walking around without a little boy, 'cause I'se 
 that little boy!" 
 
 The work accomplished by a university is the result 
 of the combined labors of a large staff of educators, 
 and, however important it may be that the direction 
 should be under the guidance of a competent head, the 
 result is due to the work of all and not to one alone, 
 although the outside world is very apt to attribute the 
 credit to the head of the family — like the little girl 
 from town who was staying with some country cousins, 
 and at breakfast one morning saw on the table a dish 
 of honey, and regarding this as an opportunity to show 
 her knowledge of country life, and with a desire to be 
 polite and agreeable to her host, said smilingly as she 
 looked at it: "Ah, I see you keep a bee!" 
 
 The study of the development of the human race by 
 educational processes which change by necessity 
 under changing conditions and environment, is one of 
 the most interesting that we can engage in. The 
 greatest men of this country, or any other, have not
 
 268 AFTER-DINNER SPEECH 
 
 always been made by the university, however it may 
 be with the average. You cannot always tell by a 
 man's degree what manner of a man he is likely to be. 
 
 But the value of a technical or academic training is 
 apparent as time goes on, population increases, occupa- 
 tions multiply and compete, and the strife of life 
 becomes more fierce and strenuous. 
 
 The leisure in which our fathers worked out their 
 great problems of government, statesmanship and 
 religion has been supplanted by an electric current 
 which affects every phase of life, from the baby incu- 
 bator to the electric chair, infusing an element of 
 hurry into life and into its mental processes, with its 
 trolleys, telephones, telegraphs, stenographers and 
 typewriters, so that men live at such a rapid rate that 
 before they get started they leave their brilliant futures 
 behind them. 
 
 "It seems harder for men to be really great nowa- 
 days than it was years ago," said a student of history 
 to a Western Senator. "That is true," he replied; 
 "but I am inclined to think we get better paid for it 
 now. * ' 
 
 The Indian meal menu of our ancestors, or even 
 Emerson's pie was a better basis for low living and 
 high thinking than the elaborate one you have dis- 
 cussed this evening with unlimited confidence in the 
 chef and in your own digestion. The diet of fish, 
 which is a great nutriment for the development of the 
 brain, has done a great deal for Massachusetts in the 
 production of great men from 1620 to the present day, 
 and receives the tribute of cultured Boston in the 
 gilded codfish set up in the legislative halls of the Cap- 
 itol of Massachusetts on Beacon Hill, and justifies the
 
 By HENRY E, ROWLAND 269 
 
 answer of Artemas Ward to the youth who asked him 
 the proper amount to eat for intellectual strength, and 
 he replied: "I think in your case I would try a small- 
 sized whale." 
 
 Many in these days seem to prefer notoriety to fame, 
 because it runs along the line of least resistance. A 
 man has to climb for fame, but he can get notoriety by 
 an easy tumble. And others forget the one essential 
 necessary to success, of personal effort, and, assuming 
 there is a royal road to learning, are content with the 
 distinction of a degree from a university, without car- 
 ing for what it implies, and answer as the son did to 
 his father who asked him: "Why don't you work, my 
 son? If you only knew how much happiness work 
 brings, you would begin at once." "Father, I am try- 
 ing to lead a life of self-denial in which happiness cuts 
 no figure; do not tempt me." 
 
 But notwithstanding all these tendencies, the level 
 of mankind is raised at these fountains of learning, 
 the tone is higher and the standards are continually 
 advanced. The discipline and the training reaches and 
 acts upon a willing and eager army of young recruits 
 and works its salutary effect, like that upon a man who 
 listened with rapt attention to a discourse from the 
 pulpit and was congratulated upon his devotion, and 
 asked if he was not impressed. "Yes," he replied, 
 "for it is a mighty poor sermon that doesn't hit me 
 somewhere." 
 
 However discouraging the action of our governing 
 bodies through the obstruction and perverse action of 
 an ignorant or corrupt majority or minority in them 
 may be in the administration of great public affairs, 
 the time at last comes when the nation arouses from its
 
 270 AFTER-DINNER SPEECH 
 
 lethargy, shakes off its torpor, shows the strain of its 
 blood and follows its trained and intelligent leaders, 
 like the man who, in a time of sore distress, after the 
 ancient fashion, put ashes on his head, rent his gar- 
 ments, tore off his coat, his waistcoat, his shirt and his 
 undershirt, and at last came to himself. At such 
 times, by the universal voice of public opinion and 
 amid hearty applause of the whole people, we welcome 
 to public office and the highest responsible stations 
 such men as Harvard has again given to the country, 
 represented by two of her most distinguished sons, 
 one of whom graces this board to-night and the other 
 occupies the Governor's chair at Albany. Their pro- 
 motion is our reward. It matters not to what family 
 we belong — Harvard, Yale, Columbia, or Princeton — 
 we are all of us one in our welcome to them, for they 
 represent the university spirit and what it teaches — 
 honor, high-mindedness, intelligence, truthfulness, 
 unselfishness, courage and patriotism.
 
 SECRET EXECUTIONS. By VICTOR HUGO. 
 
 AT Paris, we have come back to the time of secret 
 executions; since July they no longer dare to 
 decapitate in the town, for they are afraid. Here is 
 what they do. The}^ took lately from the Bicetre 
 prison a man, under sentence of death, named Desan- 
 drieux, I think ; they put him into a sort of panier on 
 two wheels, closed on every side, bolted and padlocked ; 
 then with a gendarme in front and another at the 
 back, without noise or crowd, they proceeded to the 
 deserted barrier of St. James. It was eight in the 
 morning when they arrived, with but little light. 
 There was a newly erected Guillotine, and for spec- 
 tators, some dozens of little boys, grouped on the heaps 
 of stones around the unexpected machine. Quickly 
 they withdrew the man from the basket; and without 
 giving him time to breathe, they furtively, secretly, 
 shamefully, deprived him of life! And that is called a 
 public and solemn act of high justice! Infamous 
 derision! How, then, do the lawgivers understand 
 the word civilization? To what point have we 
 attained? Justice reduced to stratagems and frauds! 
 The law reduced to expedient! Monstrous! A man 
 condemned to death, it would seem, was greatly to be 
 feared, since they put an end to him in this traitorous 
 fashion ! 
 
 Let us be just, however; the execution was not quite 
 secret. In the morning, people hawked and sold, as 
 usual, the sentence of death through the streets. It 
 appears there are people who live by such sales. The 
 crime of a hapless fellow-creature, his punishment, 
 his torture, his agony, forms their stock in trade — a 
 paper that they sell for a penny. Can one conceive 
 
 271
 
 278 SECRET EXECUTIONS 
 
 an5''thiiigf more hideous than this coin, verdigrised in 
 blood? 
 
 Here are enough of facts; here are too many. Is 
 not all this horrible? What can be alleged in favour of 
 punishment by death? 
 
 I put this question seriously. I ask it that it may be 
 answered ; I ask it of Legislators, and not of literary 
 gossips. I know there are people who take "the excel- 
 lence of punishment by death" for the text of para- 
 doxes, like any other theme ; there are others who only 
 advocate capital punishment because they hate so-and- 
 so who attack it. It is for them almost a literary 
 question, a question of persons, and proper names; 
 these are the envious, who do not find more fault with 
 good law5'-ers than with good artists. The Joseph 
 Grippas are no more wanting to the Filangieri than 
 the Torregiani to the Michael Angelos, and the 
 Scuderies to the Corneilles. 
 
 It is not to these that I address myself, but to men 
 of law, properly so called, — to logicians, to reasoners; 
 to those who love the penalty of death for its beauty, 
 its goodness, its grace ! 
 
 Let them give their reasons. 
 
 Those who judge and condemn say that "punish- 
 ment by death is necessary, — first, because it is requi- 
 site to remove from the social community a member 
 which has already injured it, and might injure it 
 again. ' ' 
 
 If this be all, perpetual imprisonment would suffice. 
 What is the use of inflicting death? You argue that a 
 prisoner may escape from gaol, — keep watch more 
 strictly! If you do not believe in the solidity of iron 
 bars, how do you venture to have menageries? Let
 
 By VICTOR HUGO 273 
 
 there be no executioner where the jailer can be suffi- 
 cient. 
 
 They continue, "But society must avenge itself, 
 society must punish." 
 
 Neither one nor the other; veng-eance is an indi- 
 vidual act, and punishment belongs to God, Society 
 is between the two; punishment is above its power, 
 retaliation beneath it. Society should not punish, to 
 avenge itself; it should correct, to ameliorate others! 
 
 Their third and last reason remains, the theory of 
 example. "We must make examples. By the sight 
 of the fate inflicted on criminals, we must shock those 
 who might otherwise be tempted to imitate them!" 
 
 Well, in the first place, I deny the power of the 
 example. I deny that the sight of executions produces 
 the desired effect. Far from edifying the common 
 people, it demoralizes and ruins their feeling, injuring 
 every virtue; proofs of this abound and would encum- 
 ber my argument if I chose to cite them. I will allude 
 to only one fact, amongst a thousand, because it is of • 
 recent occurrence. It happened only ten days back 
 from the present moment; namely, on the 5th of 
 March, the last day of the Carnival, At St. Pol, 
 immediately after the execution of an incendiary 
 named Louis Camus, a group of masqueraders came 
 and danced round the still reeking scaffold ! 
 
 Make, then, your fine examples! Shrove Tuesday 
 will turn them into jest! 
 
 If, notwithstanding all experience, you still hold to 
 the theory of example, then give us back the Sixteenth 
 Century; be in reality formidable. Restore to us a 
 variety of suffering; restore us the sworn torturers; 
 restore us the gibbet, the wheel, the block, the rack.
 
 274 SECRET EXECUTIONS 
 
 the thumb-screw, the live-burial vault, the burning 
 cauldron ; restore us in the streets of Paris, as the most 
 open shop among the rest, the hideous stall of the 
 Executioner, constantly full of human flesh; give us 
 back Montfaugon, its caves of bones, its beams, its 
 crooks, its chains, its rows of skeletons ; give us back, 
 in its permanence and power, that gigantic outhouse of 
 the Paris Executioner! This indeed would be whole- 
 sale example; this would be "punishment by death," 
 well understood ; this would be a system of execution 
 in some proportion, — which, while it is horrible, is also 
 terrible !
 
 THE DUTIES OF CHRISTIANITY. By LOUIS 
 KOSSUTH. 
 
 OH! my people — thou heart of my heart, thou life 
 of my life — to thee are bent the thoughts of my 
 mind, and they will remain bent to thee, though all 
 the world may frown. 
 
 Thou art oppressed, O my fatherland! because the 
 principles of Christianity have not been executed in 
 practice ; becaiise the duties of Christianity have not 
 been fulfilled; because the precepts of Christianity 
 have not been obeyed; because the law of Christianity 
 did not control the policy of nations; because there 
 are many impious governments to offend the law of 
 Christ, but there was none to do the duties commanded 
 by Christ. 
 
 Thou art fallen, O my country, because Christianity 
 has yet to come; but it is not yet come — nowhere! 
 Nowhere on earth ! And with the sharp eye of misfor- 
 tune piercing the dark veil of the future, and with the 
 tongue of Cassandria relating what I see, I cry it out 
 to high Heaven, and shout it out to the Earth — 
 "Nations, proud of your momentary power; proud of 
 your freedom ; proud of your prosperity — your power 
 is vain, your freedom is vain, your industry, your 
 wealth, your prosperity are vain; all these will not 
 save you from sharing the mournful fate of those old 
 nations, not less powerful than you, not less free, not less 
 prosperous than you — and still fallen, as you yourself 
 will fall — all vanished as you will vanish, like a bubble 
 thrown up from the deep! There is only the law of 
 Christ, there are only the duties of Christianity, which 
 can secure your future, by securing at the same time 
 humanity. ' ' 
 
 275
 
 276 The DUTIES of CHRISTIANITY 
 
 Duties must be fulfilled, else they are an idle word. 
 And who would dispute that there is a positive duty in 
 that law, "Love thy neighbour as thou lovest thyself. 
 Do unto others as thou wouldst that others do unto 
 thee. " Now, if there are duties in that law comprised, 
 who shall execute them, if free and powerful nations 
 do not execute them? No government can meddle 
 with the private relations of its millions of citizens so 
 much as to enforce the positive virtue of Christian 
 charity, in the thousand-fold complications of private 
 life. That will be impossible ; and our Saviour did not 
 teach impossibilities. By commanding charity toward 
 fellow-men in human relations. He commanded it also 
 to governments. ' 
 
 Yes, gentlemen, as long as the principles of Chris- 
 tian morality are not carried up into the international 
 relations — as long as the fragile wisdom of political 
 exigencies overrules the doctrines of Christ, there is no 
 freedom on earth firm, and the future of no nation 
 sure. But let a powerful nation like yours raise Chris- 
 tian morality into its public conduct, that nation will 
 have a future against which the very gates of hell itself 
 will not prevail. The morality of its policy will react 
 upon the morality of its individuals, and preserve it 
 from domestic vice, which, without that prop, ever yet 
 has attended too much prosperity, and ever yet was 
 followed by a dreadful fall. The morality of its policy 
 will support justice and freedom on earth, and thus 
 augmenting the number of free nations, all acting 
 upon the same principle, its very future will be placed 
 under the guarantee of them all, and preserve it from 
 foreign danger — which is better to prevent than to 
 repel. And its future will be placed under the guar-
 
 By LOUIS KOSSUTH 277 
 
 antee of the Almighty himself, who, true to His eternal 
 decrees, proved, through the downfall of so many 
 mighty nations, that He always punished the fathers 
 in the coming generations; but alike bountiful as just, 
 will not and cannot forsake those to whom He gave 
 power to carry out His laws on earth, and who will- 
 ingly answered His divine call. Power in itself never 
 yet was sure. It is right which makes power firm; 
 and it is community which makes right secure. The 
 task of PETER'S apoStolate is accomplished — the 
 Churches are founded in the Christian world. The 
 task of PAUL'S apostolate is accomplished — the 
 abuses of fanaticism and intolerance are redressed. 
 But the task of him whom the Saviour most loved, is 
 not yet accomplished. The gospel of charity rules not 
 yet the Christian world; and without charity, Chris- 
 tianity, you know, is "but sounding brass and a tink- 
 ling cymbal. " 
 
 Which is the nation to achieve that triumph of 
 Christianity by protecting justice out of charity? 
 Which shall do it if not yours? Whom the Lord has 
 blessed above all, from whom He much expects, 
 because He has given her much. 
 
 Ye Ministers of the Gospel, who devote your lives 
 to expound the eternal truths of the book of life, 
 remember my humble words, and remind those who, 
 with pious hearts, listen to your sacred words, that 
 half virtue is no virtue at all, and that there is no 
 difference in the duties of charity between public and 
 private life. 
 
 Ye Missionaries, who devote your lives to the propa- 
 gation of Christianity, before you embark for the 
 dangers of far, inhospitable shores, remind those
 
 278 The DUTIES of CHRISTIANITY 
 
 whom )^ou leave, that the example of a nation exercis- 
 ing right and justice on earth by charity would be the 
 mightiest propagandism of Christian religion. 
 
 Ye Patriots, loving your country's future, and anx- 
 ious about her security, remember the admonitions of 
 history — remember that the freedom, the power, and 
 the prosperity in which your country glories, is no 
 new apparition on earth; others also had it, and yet 
 they are gone. The prudence with which your fore- 
 fathers have founded this commonwealth, the courage 
 with which you develop it, other nations also have 
 shown, and still they are gone. 
 
 And ye ladies; ye fairest incarnation of the spirit of 
 love, which vivifies the universe, remember my words. 
 The heart of man is given into your tender hands. 
 You mould it in its infancy. You imprint the lasting 
 mark of character upon man's brow. You ennoble his 
 youth; you soften the harshness of his manhood; you 
 are the guardian angels of his hoary age. All your 
 vocation is love, and your life is charity. The religion 
 of charity wants your apostolate, and requires your 
 aid. It is to you I appeal, and leave the sublime topic 
 of my humble reflections to the meditations of your 
 Christian hearts.
 
 THE NECESSITY OF OUTSIDE AGITATION. 
 Copyright, Lee & Shepard. Reprinted with permis- 
 sion. By WENDELL PHILLIPS. 
 
 IT is a singular fact that the freer a nation becomes, 
 the more iitterly democratic the form of its insti- 
 tutions, this outside agitation, this pressure of public 
 opinion to direct political action, becomes more and 
 more necessary. The general judgment is that the 
 freest possible government produces the freest possible 
 men and women — the most individual, the least servile 
 to the judgment of others. But a moment's reflection 
 will show any man that this is an unreasonable 
 expectation, and that, on the contrary, entire equality 
 and freedom in political forms almost inevitably tend 
 to make the individual subside into the mass, and lose 
 his identity in the general whole. Suppose we stood 
 in England to-night. There is the nobility, and here 
 is the Church. There is the trading class, and here is 
 the literary. A broad gulf separates the four; and 
 provided a member of either can conciliate his own 
 section, he can afford, in a very large measure, to 
 despise the judgment of the other three. He has, to 
 some extent, a refuge and a breakwater against the 
 tyranny of what we call public opinion. But in a 
 coimtry like ours, of absolute democratic equality, 
 public opinion is not only omnipotent, it is omni- 
 present. There is no refuge from its tyranny ; there 
 is no hiding from its reach ; and the result is that, if 
 you take the old Greek lantern, and go about to seek 
 among a hundred, you will find not one single Ameri- 
 can who really has not, or who does not fancy at least 
 that he has something to gain or lose in his ambition, 
 his social life, or his business, from the good opinion 
 
 279
 
 28o NECESSITY of OUTSIDE AGITATION 
 
 and the votes of those about him. And the conse- 
 quence is, that, — instead of being a mass of indi- 
 viduals, each one fearlessly blurting out his own 
 convictions, — as a nation, compared with other 
 nations, we are a mass of cowards. More than any 
 other people, we are afraid of each other. 
 
 If you were a caucus to-night. Democratic or Repub- 
 lican, and I were your orator, none of you could get 
 beyond the necessary and timid limitations of party. 
 You not only would not demand, you would not allow 
 me to utter, one word of what you really thought, and 
 what I thought. You would demand of me — and my 
 value as a caucus speaker would depend entirely on 
 the adroitness and the vigilance with which I met the 
 demand — that I should not utter one single word 
 which would compromise the vote of next week. 
 That is politics; so with the press. Seemingly inde- 
 pendent, and sometimes really so, the press can afford 
 only to mount the cresting wave, not go beyond it. 
 The editor might as well shoot his reader with a bullet 
 as with a new idea. He must hit the exact line of the 
 opinion of the day. I am not finding fault with him ; 
 I am only describing him. Some three years ago I 
 took to one of the freest of the Boston journals a letter, 
 and by appropriate consideration induced its editor to 
 print it. And as we glanced along its contents, and 
 came to the concluding statement, he said: "Couldn't 
 you omit that?" I said, "No; I wrote it for that; it 
 is the gist of the statement." "Well," said he, "it is 
 true ; there is not a boy in the streets that does not 
 know it is true; but I wish you could omit it." 
 
 I insisted ; and the next morning, fairly and justly, 
 he printed the whole. Side by side he put an article
 
 By WENDELL PHILLIPS 281 
 
 of his own, in which he said, "We copy in the next 
 column an article from Mr. Phillips, and we only 
 regret the absurd and unfounded statement with which 
 he concludes it." He had kept his promise by print- 
 ing' the article ; he saved his reputation by printing the 
 comment. And that, again, is the inevitable, the 
 essential limitation of the press in a republican com- 
 munity. Our institutions, floating unanchored on the 
 shifting surface of popular opinion, cannot afford to 
 hold back, or to draw forward, a hated question, and 
 compel a reluctant public to look at it and to consider 
 it. Hence, as you see at once, the moment a large 
 issue, twenty years ahead of its age, presents itself to 
 the consideration of an empire or of a republic, just 
 in proportion to the freedom of its institutions is the 
 necessity of a platform outside of the press, of politics, 
 and of its Church, whereon stand men with no candi- 
 date to elect, with no plan to carry, with no reputation 
 to stake, with no object but the truth, no purpose but 
 to tear the question open and let the light through it. 
 So much in explanation of a word infinitely hated, — 
 agitation and agitators, — but an element which the 
 progress of modern government has developed more 
 and more every day.
 
 WASHINGTON'S INAUGURATION. From "Ora- 
 tions and After-Dinner Speeches." Copyright, The 
 Cassell Publishing- Company. Reprinted with per- 
 mission. By CHAUNCEY M. DEPEW. 
 
 WE celebrate to-day the Centenary of our Nation- 
 ality. One hundred years ago the United 
 States began their existence. The powers of the 
 government were assumed by the people of the Repub- 
 lic, and they became the sole source of authority. The 
 solemn ceremonial of the first inauguration, the 
 reverent oath of Washington, the acclaim of the multi- 
 tude greeting their President, marked the most unique 
 event of modern times in the development of free 
 institutions. 
 
 No man ever stood for so much to his country and to 
 mankind as George Washington. Hamilton, Jeffer- 
 son, and Adams, Madison, and Jay, each represented 
 some of the elements which formed the Union : Wash- 
 ington embodied them all. They fell at times under 
 popular disapproval, were burned in effigy, were 
 stoned; but he with unerring judgment was always the 
 leader of the people. Milton said of Cromwell, that 
 "war made him great, peace greater." The superi- 
 ority of Washington's character and genius was more 
 conspicuous in the formation of our government and 
 in putting it on indestructible foundations, than in 
 leading armies to victory and conquering the inde- 
 pendence of his country. He inspired the movement 
 for the Republic, was the President and dominant 
 spirit of the Convention which framed its Constitution, 
 and its President for eight years, and guided its course 
 until satisfied that moving safely along the broad high- 
 way of time, it would be surely ascending toward the 
 
 282
 
 By CHAUNCEY M. DEPEW 283 
 
 first place among the nations of the world, the asylum 
 of the oppressed, the home of the free. 
 
 We stand to-day upon the dividing- line between the 
 first and second century of constitutional government. 
 There are no clouds overhead, and no convulsions 
 under our feet. We reverently return thanks to 
 Almighty God for the past, and with confident and 
 hopeful promise march upon sure ground toward the 
 future. The simple facts of these hundred years 
 paralyze the imagination, and we contemplate the vast 
 accumulations of the century with awe and pride. 
 Our population has grown from four to sixty-five mil- 
 lions. Its center moving, westward five hundred miles 
 since 1789, is eloquent with the foimding of cities and 
 the birth of States. New settlements, clearing the 
 forests and subduing the prairies, and adding four 
 millions to the few thousands of farms which were the 
 support of Washington's Republic, create one of the 
 great granaries of the world and open exhaustless 
 reservoirs of national wealth. 
 
 The infant industries, which the first act of our 
 administration sought to encourage, now give remuner- 
 ative employment to more people than inhabited the 
 Republic at the beginning of Washington's Presi- 
 dency. The grand total of their annual output of 
 seven thousand millions of dollars in value places the 
 United States first among the manufacturing countries 
 of the earth. One-half of all the railroads, and one- 
 quarter of all the telegraph lines of the world within 
 our borders, testify to the volume, variety, and value 
 of an internal commerce which makes these States, if 
 need be, independent and self-supporting. These 
 hundred years of development under favorable polit-
 
 284 WASHINGTON'S INAUGURATION 
 
 ical conditions have brought the sum of our national 
 wealth to a figure which is past the results of a thou- 
 sand years for the mother land, herself otherwise the 
 richest of modern empires. 
 
 During this generation a civil war of unequaled 
 magnitude caused the expenditure and loss of eight 
 thousand millions of dollars, and killed six hundred 
 thousand and permanently disabled over a million 
 young men; and yet the impetuous progress of the 
 North and the marvelous industrial development of 
 the new and free South have obliterated the evidences 
 of destruction and made the war a memory, and have 
 stimulated production until our annual surplus nearly 
 equals that of England, France, and Germany com- 
 bined. The teeming millions of Asia till the patient 
 soil and work the shuttle and loom as their fathers 
 have done for ages ; modern Europe has felt the influ- 
 ence and received the benefit of the incalculable multi- 
 plication of force by inventive genius since the 
 Napoleonic wars; and yet, only two hundred and 
 sixty-nine years after the little band of Pilgrims 
 landed on Plymouth Rock, our people, numbering less 
 than one-fifteenth of the inhabitants of the globe, do 
 one-third of its mining, one-fourth of its manufactur- 
 ing, one-fifth of its agriculture, and own one-sixth of 
 its wealth. 
 
 No crisis has been too perilous for its powers, no 
 evolution too rapid for its adaptation, and no expansion 
 beyond its easy grasp and administration. It has 
 assimilated diverse nationalities with warring tradi- 
 tions, customs, conditions, and languages, imbued 
 them with its spirit, and won their passionate loyalty 
 and love.
 
 By CHAUNCEY M. DEPEW 285 
 
 The flower of the youth of the nations of Con- 
 tinental Europe are conscripted from productive 
 industries and drilling in camps. Vast armies stand 
 in battle array along the frontiers, and a Kaiser's 
 whim or a Minister's mistake may precipitate the most 
 destructive war of modern times. 
 
 But for us no army exhausts our resources nor con- 
 sumes our youth. Our navy must needs increase in 
 order that the protecting flag may follow the expand- 
 ing commerce which is to successfully compete in all 
 the markets of the world. The sun of our destiny is 
 still rising, and its rays illumine vast territories as yet 
 unoccupied and undeveloped, and which are to be the 
 happy homes of millions of people. 
 
 The spirit of Washington fills the executive office. 
 Presidents may not rise to the full measure of his 
 greatness, but they must not fall below his standard of 
 public duty and obligation. His life and character, 
 conscientiously studied and thoroughly understood by 
 coming generations, will be for them a liberal educa- 
 tion for private life and public station, for citizenship 
 and patriotism, for love and .devotion to Union and 
 liberty. With their inspiring past and splendid pres- 
 ent, the people of these United States, heirs of a hun- 
 dred years marvelously rich in all which adds to the 
 glory and greatness of a nation, with an abiding trust 
 in the stability and elasticity of their Constitution, and 
 an abounding faith in themselves, hail the coming 
 century with hope and joy.
 
 ADDRESS AT THE HARVARD ALUMNI 
 DINNER. Reprinted with permission. By 
 BOOKER T. WASHINGTON. 
 
 MR. PRESIDENT AND GENTLEMEN: It 
 would in some measure relieve my embarrass- 
 ment if I could, even in a slight degree, feel myself 
 worthy of the great honor which you do me to-day. 
 Why you have called me from the Black Belt of the 
 South, from among my humble people, to share in the 
 honors of this occasion, is not for me to explain; and 
 j'et it may not be inappropriate for me to suggest that 
 it seems to me that one of the most vital questions that 
 touch our American life is how to bring the strong, 
 wealthy and learned into helpful touch with the poor- 
 est, most ignorant and humble, and at the same time 
 make the one appreciate the vitalizing, strengthening 
 influence of the other. How shall we make the man- 
 sions on yon Beacon Street feel and see the need of 
 the spirits in the lowliest cabin in Alabama cotton 
 fields or Louisiana sugar bottoms? This problem Har- 
 vard University is solving, not by bringing itself 
 down, but by bringing the masses up. 
 
 If through me, an humble representative, seven mil- 
 lions of my people in the South might be permitted to 
 send a message to Harvard — Harvard that offered up 
 on death's altar young Shaw, and Russell, and Lowell, 
 and scores of others, that we might have a free and 
 united country, that message would be, "Tell them 
 that the sacrifice was not in vain. Tell them that by 
 the way of the shop, the field, the skilled hand, habits 
 of thrift and economy, by way of industrial school and 
 college, we are coming. We are crawling up, working 
 up, yea, bursting up. Often through oppression, 
 
 286
 
 By BOOKER T. WASHINGTON 387 
 
 unjust discrimination and prejudice, but throug-h them 
 all we are coming up, and with proper habits, intel- 
 ligence and property, there is no power on earth that 
 can permanently stay our progress." 
 
 If my life in the past has meant anything in the lift- 
 ing up of my people and the bringing about of better 
 relations between your race and mine, I assure you 
 from this day it will mean doubly more. In the 
 economy of God there is but one standard by which an 
 individual can succeed — there is but one for a race. 
 This country demands that every race measure itself 
 by the American standard. By it a race must rise or 
 fall, succeed or fail, and in the last analysis mere senti- 
 ment counts for little. During the next half century 
 and more, my race must continue passing through the 
 severe American crucible. We are to be tested in our 
 patience, our forbearance, our perseverance, our power 
 to endure wrong, to withstand temptations, to econo- 
 mize, to acquire and use skill ; our ability to compete, 
 to succeed in commerce, to disregard the superficial for 
 the real, the appearance for the substance, to be great 
 and yet small, learned and yet simple, high and yet 
 the servant of all. This, this is the passport to all that 
 is best in the life of our Republic, and the Negro must 
 possess it, or be debarred. 
 
 While we are thus being tested, I beg of you to 
 remember that wherever our life touches yours, we 
 help or hinder. Wherever your life touches ours, you 
 make us stronger or weaker. No member of your race 
 in any part of our country can harm the meanest 
 member of mine, without the proudest and bluest 
 blood in Massachusetts being degraded. When Mis- 
 sissippi commits crime, New England commits crime.
 
 288 ADDRESS at HARVARD ALUMNI DINNER 
 
 and in so much, lowers the standard of your civiliza- 
 tion. There is no escape — man drags man down, or 
 man lifts man up. 
 
 In working out our destiny, while the main burden 
 and center of activity must be with us, we shall need, 
 in a large measure in the years that are to come, as we 
 have in the past, the help, the encouragement, the guid- 
 ance that the strong can give the weak. Thus helped, 
 we of both races in the South soon shall throw off 
 the shackles of racial and sectional prejudice, and rise, 
 as Harvard University has risen and as we all should 
 rise, above the clouds of ignorance, narrowness and 
 selfishness, into that atmosphere, that pure sunshine, 
 where it will be our highest ambition to serve Man, 
 our brother, regardless of race or previous condition.
 
 BULGARIAN HORRORS. By WILLIAM EWART 
 GLADSTONE. 
 
 SINCE the ominous declaration of Lord Beacons- 
 field on the status quo, or "as you were" policy, 
 there has appeared a letter from Mr. Bourke, the 
 Under-Secretary of the Foreign Office, which could 
 not have been written without higher sanction. Of 
 this letter, the positive part is null, the negative part 
 important. It assures us of the indignation of the 
 Government at the crimes committed by the Turks. 
 It might as well assure us of their indignation at the 
 crimes of Danton, or of Robespierre, or of Nana Sahib. 
 Indignation is froth, except as it leads to action. This 
 indignation has led, he says, to remonstrance. I say 
 that mere remonstrance, in this case, is mockery. 
 The only two things that are worth saying, the Under- 
 Secretary does not say. The first of them would have 
 been that, until these horrible outrages are redressed, 
 and their authors punished, the British Government 
 would withdraw from Turkey the moral and even 
 material support we had been lending her against 
 Europe, The other was, that after crimes of so vast a 
 scale and so deep a dye, the British Government would 
 no longer be a party to the maintenance of Turkish 
 administration in Bulgaria. It is, then, the negative 
 part of this letter that signifies. Mr. Bourke's words, 
 viewing their date, are futile. But his silence is 
 trumpet-tongued : it proclaims that even last week, on 
 the 27th of August, the Government were still uncon- 
 verted; and, warning us what we have to expect, it 
 spurs the people of England onwards in the move- 
 ment which is to redeem its compromised and en- 
 dangered honor. 
 
 989
 
 290 BULGARIAN HORRORS 
 
 It would not be practicable, even if it were honor- 
 able, to disguise the real character of what we want 
 from the Government. It is a change of attitude and 
 policy, nothing less. We want them to imdo and 
 efface that too just impression, which, while keeping 
 their own countrymen so much in the dark, they have 
 succeeded in propagating throughout Europe, that we 
 are the determined supporters of the Turk, and that, 
 declaring his "integrity and independence" essential 
 to "British interest," we have winked hard, and shall 
 wink, if need be, harder still, according to the 
 exigencies of the case, alike at his crimes and at his 
 impotence. We want to place ourselves in harmony 
 with the general sentiment of civilized mankind, 
 instead of being any longer, as we seem to be, the Evil 
 Genius which dogs, and mars, and baffles it. We 
 want to make the Turk understand that, in conveying 
 this impression by word and act to his mind, the Brit- 
 ish Government have misunderstood, and, therefore, 
 have misrepresented, the sense of the British people. 
 
 But this change is dependent on an emphatic expres- 
 sion of the national sentiment, which is but beginning 
 to be heard. It has grown from a whisper to a sound ; 
 it will grow from a sound to a peal. But what, until it 
 shall vibrate with such force as to awaken the Admin- 
 istration? It is melancholy, but it is also true, that 
 we, who upon this Eastern ground fought with Russia, 
 and thought Austria slack, and Germany all but servile, 
 have actually for months past been indebted, and are 
 even now indebted, to all or some of these very 
 Powers, possibly to Russia most among them, for hav- 
 ing played the part which we think specially our own, 
 in resistance to tyranny, in befriending the oppressed,
 
 By WILLIAM EWART GLADSTONE 291 
 
 in laboring for the happiness of mankind. I say the 
 time has come for lis to emulate Russia by sharing in 
 her good deeds, and to reserve our opposition until she 
 shall visibly endeavor to turn them to evil account. 
 
 There is no reason to apprehend serious difficulty in 
 the Councils of Europe on this subject. All the 
 Powers, except ourselves, have already been working 
 in this direction. Nor is there any ground to suppose 
 that the Ottoman Government will tenaciously resist a 
 scheme based on the intention to do all in its favor that 
 its own misconduct, and the fearful crimes of its 
 trusted agents, have left possible. To do this Govern- 
 ment justice, a distinction must be drawn between 
 what depends upon a decision to be taken at Constanti- 
 nople once for all, and the permanent vitalizing force 
 required for the discharge of the daily duties of admin- 
 istration all over its vast empire. The central agency at 
 the capital, always under the eye of the representatives 
 of the European Powers and in close contact with them, 
 has acquired, and traditionally transmits, a good deal 
 of the modes of European speech and thought. It is 
 when they try to convey these influences to the prov- 
 inces and the subordinate agents, who share little or 
 none of that beneficial contact and supervision, that 
 they, except here and there by some happy accident of 
 personal virtue, habitually and miserably break down. 
 The promises of a Turkish Ministry given simply to 
 Europe are generally good; those given to its own 
 subjects or concerning its own affairs are, without 
 imputing absolute mendacity, of such tried and demon- 
 strated worthlessness, that any Ambassador or any 
 State, who should trust them, must come under sus- 
 picion of nothing less than fraud by wilful connivance.
 
 292 BULGARIAN HORRORS 
 
 But I return to, and I end with, that which is the 
 Omega as well as the Alpha of this great and most 
 mournful case. An old servant of the Crown and 
 State, I entreat my countrymen, upon whom far more 
 than perhaps any other people of Europe it depends, 
 to require, and to insist, that our Government which 
 has been working in one direction, shall work in the 
 other, and shall apply all its vigor to concur with the 
 other States of Europe, in obtaining the extinction of 
 the Turkish executive power in Bulgaria. Let the 
 Turks now carry away their abuses in the only possible 
 manner, namely, by carrying off themselves. Their 
 Zaptiehs and their Mudirs, their Bimbashis and their 
 Yuzbachis, their Kaimakams and their Pashas, one and 
 all, bag and baggage, shall, I hope, clear out from the 
 province they have desolated and profaned. This 
 thorough riddance, this most blessed deliverance, is 
 the only reparation we can make to the memory of 
 those heaps on heaps of dead; to the violated purity 
 alike of matron, of maiden, and of child ; to the civiliza- 
 tion which has been affronted and shamed ; to the laws 
 of God or, if you like, of Allah ; to the moral sense of 
 mankind at large. There is not a criminal in an 
 European jail, there is not a cannibal in the South Sea 
 Islands, whose indignation would not rise and overboil 
 at the recital of that which has been done, which has 
 too late been examined, but which remains unavenged ; 
 which has left behind all the foul and all the fierce 
 passions that produced it, and which may again spring 
 up in another murderous harvest, from the soil soaked 
 and reeking with blood, and in the air tainted with 
 every imaginable deed of crime and shame. That such 
 things should be done once, is a damaging disgrace to
 
 By WILLIAM EWART GLADSTONE 293 
 
 that portion of our race which did them; that a door 
 should be left open for their ever-so-barely possible 
 repetition would spread that shame over the whole. 
 Better, we may justly tell the Sultan, almost any 
 inconvenience, difficulty, or loss associated with 
 Bulgaria, 
 
 "Than thou reseated in thy place of light, 
 The mockery of thy people, and their bane." 
 
 We may ransack the annals of the world, but I know 
 not what research can furnish us with so portentous an 
 example of the fiendish misuse of the powers estab- 
 lished by God "for the punishment of evil-doers, and 
 for the encouragement of them that do well." No 
 Government ever has so sinned; none has so proved 
 itself incorrigible in sin, or which is the same, so 
 impotent for jeformation. If it be allowable that the 
 Executive power of Turkey should renew at this great 
 crisis, by permission or authority of Europe, the 
 charter of its existence in Bulgaria, then there is not on 
 record, since the beginnings of political society, a pro- 
 test that man has lodged against intolerable misgovern- 
 ment, or a stroke he has dealt at loathsome tyranny, 
 that ought not henceforward to be branded as a crime.
 
 SECOND INAUGURAL ADDRESS. By ABRA- 
 HAM LINCOLN. 
 
 FELLOW-COUNTRYMEN: At this second ap- 
 pearing to take the oath of the presidential 
 office, there is less occasion for an extended address 
 than there was at the first. Then a statement somewhat 
 in detail of a course to be pursued seemed very fitting 
 and proper. Now, at the expiration of four years, 
 during which public declarations have been constantly 
 called forth on every point and phase of the great con- 
 test which still absorbs the attention and engrosses the 
 energies of the nation, little that is new could be pre- 
 sented. 
 
 The progress of our arms, upon which all else chiefly 
 depends, is as well known to the public as to myself, 
 and it is, I trust, reasonably satisfactory and encourag- 
 ing to all. With high hope for the future, no pre- 
 diction in regard to it is ventured. On the occasion 
 corresponding to this four years ago, all thoughts were 
 anxiously directed to an impending civil war. All 
 dreaded it : all sought to avert it. While the inaugural 
 address was being delivered from this place, devoted 
 altogether to saving the Union without war, insurgent 
 agents were in the city seeking to destroy it without 
 war — seeking to dissolve the Union and divide effects 
 by negotiation. Both parties deprecated war; but one 
 of them would make war rather than let the nation 
 survive, and the other would accept war rather than 
 let it perish. And the war came. One-eighth of the 
 whole population were colored slaves, not distributed 
 generally over the Union, but localized in the southern 
 part of it. 
 
 These slaves constituted a peculiar and powerful 
 
 294
 
 By ABRAHAM LINCOLN 295 
 
 interest. All knew that this interest was somehow the 
 cause of the war. To strengthen, perpetuate and 
 extend this interest was the object for which the 
 insurgents would rend the Union, even by war, while 
 the Government claimed no right to do more than to 
 restrict the territorial enlargement of it. 
 
 Neither party expected for the war the magnitude or 
 the duration which it has already attained. Neither 
 anticipated that the cause of the conflict might cease 
 with, or even before, the conflict itself should cease. 
 Each looked for an easier triumph, and a result less 
 fundamental and astounding. 
 
 Both read the same Bible, and prayed to the same 
 God; and each invokes His aid against the other. 
 
 It may seem strange that any man should dare to 
 ask a just God's assistance in wringing their bread 
 from the sweat of other men's faces; but let us judge 
 not, that we be not judged. 
 
 The prayers of both could not be answered. That 
 of neither has been answered fully. The Almighty 
 has His own purposes. 
 
 "Woe unto the world because of offences, for it must 
 needs be that offences come ; but woe to that man by 
 whom the offence cometh. ' ' If we shall suppose that 
 American slavery is one of these offences, which in the 
 providence of God must needs come, but which, hav- 
 ing continued through His appointed time, He now 
 wills to remove, and that He gives to both North and 
 South this terrible war as the woe due to those by 
 whom the offence came, shall we discern therein any 
 departure from those divine attributes which the 
 believers m a living God always ascribe to Him? 
 Fondly do we hope, fervently do we pray, that this
 
 296 SECOND INAUGURAL ADDRESS 
 
 mighty scourge of war may speedily pass away. Yet, 
 if God wills that it continue until all the wealth piled 
 by the bondman's two hundred and fifty years of unre- 
 quited toil shall be sunk, and until every drop of blood 
 drawn with the lash shall be paid with another drawn 
 with the sword ; as was said three thousand years ago, 
 so still it must be said, "The judgments of the Lord 
 are true and righteous altogether." 
 
 With malice toward none, with charity for all, with 
 firmness in the right, as God gives us to see the right, 
 let us strive on to finish the work we are in ; to bind up 
 the nation's wounds; to care for him who shall have 
 borne the battle, and for his widow and orphans; to 
 do all which may achieve and cherish a just and a last- 
 ing peace among ourselves and with all nations.
 
 Dramatic and Humorous 
 Selections 
 
 297
 
 DRAMATIC AND HUMOROUS SELECTIONS 
 
 ''Tragedy, Comedy, History, Pastoral, Scene Individable, 
 or Poem Unitmtted.'''' — Shakspere. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Charlotte Corday Thomas Carlyle .... 301 
 
 When Angry, Count a Hundred E. Cavazza 305 
 
 A Speech of Prospero .... Shakspere 315 
 
 Othello's Address Shakspere 316 
 
 My Last Chance Anthony Hope . . . .318 
 
 The Last Soliloquy of Faustus . Christopher Marlowe . . 324 
 
 The Chariot Race Sophocles 326 
 
 Speech of the Rabbi .... Victor Hugo 329 
 
 Aunt Hitty Tarbox .... Kate Doulgas Wiggin . 332 
 
 The Death of Rodriguez . . . Richard Harding Davis . 335 
 
 Dagger Soliloquy Shakspere 341 
 
 The Forum Scene Shakspere 343 
 
 Wives in a Social Game . . . Afiofiymous 353 
 
 Sohloquies, "Hamlet" . . . Shakspere 357 
 
 Lady Gay Spanker Dion Boucicault .... 364 
 
 Death of Mme. Defarge . . . Charles Dickens .... 367 
 
 Scene from "The Rivals" . . Richard Brins ley Sheridan y]% 
 
 Cleopatra's Barge Shakspere 385 
 
 Scene From "Cyrano de Ber- 
 
 gerac" Edmond Rostand . . . 388 
 
 Execution of Sidney Carton . Charles Dickens .... 394 
 
 The Boat Race Robert Grant 398 
 
 Scenes from "King Henry V." Shakspere 406 
 
 The Necklace Guy de Maupassant . . 419 
 
 Letter Scene Shakspere 428 
 
 Sleep- Walking Scene .... Shakspere 431 
 
 Scenes from "The Road to 
 
 Ruin" Thomas Hoi croft . . . 434 
 
 Anne Bullen Shakspere 443 
 
 Queen Katherine Shakspere 445 
 
 Potion Scene Shakspere 451 
 
 The Sinking of the Merrimac . Arthur Dudley Hall . . 453 
 
 299
 
 CHARLOTTE CORDAY. From "The French 
 Revolution." By THOMAS CARLYLE. 
 
 AMID the dim ferment of Caen and the World, 
 History specially notices one thing: in the lobby 
 of the Mansion de I'lntendance, where busy Deputies 
 are coming and going, a young Lady with an aged 
 valet, taking grave graceful leave of Deputy Barbaroux. 
 She is of stately Norman figure ; in her twenty-fifth 
 year; of beautiful still countenance: her name is 
 Charlotte Corday. Barbaroux has given her a Note to 
 Deputy Duperret, — him who once drew his sword in 
 the effervescence. Apparently she will to Paris on 
 some errand? "She was a Republican before the 
 revolution, and never wanted energy." A complete- 
 ness, a decision is in this fair female Figure: "by 
 energy she means the spirit that will prompt one to 
 sacrifice him.self for his country." What if she, this 
 fair young Charlotte, had emerged from her secluded 
 stillness, suddenly like a Star; cruel-lovely, with half- 
 angelic, half-daemonic splendour; to gleam for a 
 moment, and in a moment be extinguished : to be held 
 in memory, so bright complete was she, through long 
 centuries! Quitting Cimmerian Coalitions without, 
 and the dim-simmering Twenty-five millions within, 
 History will look fixedly at this one fair Apparition of 
 a Charlotte Corday; will note whither Charlotte 
 moves, how the little Life burns forth so radiant, then 
 vanishes swallowed of the Night. 
 
 With Barbaroux's Note of Introduction, and slight 
 stock of luggage, we see Charlotte on Tuesday the 
 ninth of July seated in the Caen Diligence, with a 
 place for Paris. None takes farewell of her, wishes 
 her Good-journey: her Father will find a line left, 
 
 301
 
 302 CHARLOTTE CORDAY 
 
 signifying that she is gone to England, that he must 
 pardon her, and forget her. The drowsy Diligence 
 lumbers along; amid drowsy talk of Politics, and 
 praise of the Mountain ; in which she mingles not : all 
 night, all day, and again all night. On Thursday, 
 not long before noon, we are at the bridge of 
 Neuilly; here is Paris with her thousand black 
 domes, the goal and purpose of thy journey ! Arrived 
 at the Inn de la Providence in the Rue des Vieux 
 Augustins, Charlotte demands a room; hastens to 
 bed; sleeps all afternoon and night, till the morrow 
 morning. 
 
 On the morrow morning, she delivers her Note to 
 Duperret. It relates to certain Family Papers which 
 are in the Minister of the Interior's hand; which a Nun 
 at Caen, an old Convent-friend of Charlotte's, has need 
 of; which Duperret shall assist her in getting: this 
 then was Charlotte's errand to Paris? She has finished 
 this, in the course of Friday; — yet says nothing of 
 returning. She has seen and silently investigated 
 several things. The Convention, in bodily reality, she 
 has seen; what the Mountain is like. The living 
 physiognomy of Marat she could not see; he is sick at 
 present, and confined to home. 
 
 About eight on the Saturday morning, she purchases 
 a large sheath-knife in the Palais Royal; then straight- 
 way, in the Place des Victoires, takes a hackney-coach : 
 "To the Rue de I'Ecole de Medecine, No. 44." It is 
 the residence of the Citoyen Marat! — the Citoyen 
 Marat is ill, and cannot be seen ; which seems to disap- 
 point her much. Her business is with Marat, then? 
 Hapless beautiful Charlotte; hapless squalid Marat! 
 From Caen in the utmost West, from Neuchatel in the
 
 By THOMAS CARLYLE 303 
 
 utmost East, they two are drawing- nigh each other; 
 they two have, very strangely, business together.^ 
 Charlotte, returning to her Inn, despatches a short 
 Note to Marat ; signifying that she is from Caen, the 
 seat of rebellion ; that she desires earnestly to see him, 
 and "will put it in his power to do France a great 
 service." No answer. Charlotte writes another 
 Note, still more pressing; sets out with it by coach, 
 about seven in the evening, herself. Tired day- 
 labourers have again finished their Week; huge Paris 
 is circling and simmering, manifold, according to its 
 vague wont: this one fair Figure has decision in it; 
 drives straight, — towards a purpose. 
 
 It is yellow July evening, we say, the thirteenth of 
 the month; eve of the Bastille day, — when "M. 
 Marat," four years ago, in the crowd of the Pont Neuf, 
 shrewdly required of that Besenval Hussar-party, 
 which had such friendly dispositions, "to dismount, 
 and give up their arms, then;" and became notable 
 among Patriot men. Four years: what a road he has 
 travelled ; — and sits now, about half-past seven of the 
 clock, stewing in slipper-bath; sore afflicted; ill of 
 Revolution Fever. Excessively sick and worn, poor 
 man : with precisely eleven-pence-half-penny of ready 
 money, in paper; with slipper-bath; strong three- 
 footed stool for writing on, the while ; and a squalid — 
 Washerwoman, one may call her: that is his civic 
 establishment, in Medical-School Street; thither and 
 not elsewhither has his road led him. Not to the 
 reign of Brotherhood and Perfect Felicity ; yet surely 
 on the way towards that? — Hark, a rap again! A 
 musical woman's voice, refusing to be rejected: it is 
 the Citoyenne who would do France a service. Marat,
 
 304 CHARLOTTE CORDAY 
 
 recognizing from within, cries, Admit her. Charlotte 
 Corday is admitted. 
 
 Citoyen Marat, I am from Caen, the seat of rebellion, 
 and wished to speak with you. — Be seated, mon enfant. 
 Now what are the Traitors doing at Caen? What 
 Deputies are at Caen? — Charlotte names some 
 Deputies. "Their heads shall fall within a fortnight," 
 croaks the eager People's friend, clutching his tablets 
 to write: Barbaroux, Petion, writes he with bare 
 shrunk arm, turning aside in the bath: P6tion, and 
 Louvet, and — Charlotte has drawn her knife from the 
 sheath; plunges it, with one sure stroke, into the 
 writer's heart. "A moi, ch^re amie. Help, dear!" no 
 more could the Death-choked say or shriek. The help- 
 ful Washerwoman running in, there is no Friend of the 
 People, or Friend of the Washerwoman left; but his 
 life with a groan gushes out, indignant, to the shades 
 below,
 
 WHEN ANGRY, COUNT A HUNDRED. Copy- 
 right, 1892, by The Century Company. Reprinted 
 with permission. By E. CAVAZZA. 
 
 THE dining-room of a house on Fifth Avenue. 
 Personages: the host, hostess, and guests, irre- 
 proachable in manner, unapproachable in costume, 
 politely engaged in conversation — all but Mr. Alfred 
 Ames and Miss Eva Rosewarne, who, seated side by 
 side, regard in silence their respective bouquets, which 
 lie upon the tablecloth. 
 
 Alfred (slightly embarrassed) — Miss Rosewarne, I 
 hope you will believe me when I say that I'm not to 
 blame for this. Until I read your name in the billet 
 handed me as I came into the house, I had no idea that 
 you were to be here. . . . Our short-lived romance 
 was quite unknown to anybody but ourselves; Mrs. 
 Leclerc supposed that she was doing me a great favor 
 — kind hostess that she is — in giving me a place next to 
 you at her table. . . . You took my arm silently. 
 All the way downstairs I was trying to judge whether 
 you were annoyed or indifferent at this unexpected 
 meeting; but you gave no sign. I have not forgotten 
 that, a fortnight ago, you said you would never speak 
 to me again; and heaven defend me from expecting 
 the impossible, that a woman should change her mind, 
 or speak when she had resolved not to do so! I 
 shall not ask you to talk to me, — I am afraid that 
 you would not say anything kind if you should, — 
 but I beg as a great favor, not to me, but to Mrs. 
 Leclerc, who has done nothing to offend you, that you 
 will appear to be on the ordinary terms of acquaintance 
 with me. 
 
 Eva (regards him for an instant in silence, takes up 
 
 305
 
 3o6 WHEN ANGRY, COUNT A HUNDRED 
 
 her bouquet, examines it, and lays it down upon the 
 table again). 
 
 Alfred — I wish to spare you as much as possible. I 
 will gladly do more than my share of the talking. In 
 those other days, when we were friends, I never had 
 much practice at that, but I dare say I can manage it. 
 Ah! I have an idea — not a very brilliant one, perhaps; 
 but it may serve. , . . This is it: I once heard of 
 a man who, for some reason or other, had nothing to 
 say one evening at table. So he turned to his neigh- 
 bor and began to count one, two, three, four, with 
 expression. Will you do that — for the sake of our 
 hostess? It commits you to nothing. It surely isn't 
 talking to me. What information can I get from hear- 
 ing the numerals recited in the tones of polite society? 
 . . . Once more, let me ask you to do so for the 
 sake of Mrs. Leclerc. 
 
 Eva (assents by a bend of her golden head). 
 
 Alfred — Thank you — if I may presume so far. I am 
 glad that I never vowed not to speak to you ; it seems 
 to me that there are so many things to be said. And 
 since I expect to sail for Europe in a few days, to be 
 gone indefinitely, perhaps, like any other condemned 
 man, I may be allowed a few last words. 
 
 Eva — One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. 
 
 Alfred — You know that I loved you with my whole 
 heart 
 
 Eva (with haste) — Eight, nine 
 
 Alfred — And now, at this moment, trying to recall 
 the beginning of the end, I cannot find any reason why 
 you and I should be farther apart than if the Atlantic 
 were already between us. . . . 
 
 Eva (pensively) — Ten, eleven, twelve.
 
 By E. CAVAZZA 307 
 
 Alfred— I did not ask you to explain to me in what 
 way I displeased you, nor to divide your part from mine 
 in the quarrel. You are still angry with me, but I 
 shall always be grateful to you. For a few days I 
 lived in Paradise; and it isn't every man who can say 
 as much. It gives one, afterward, — there is a great 
 deal of afterward in life, Miss Rosewame, — an ideal 
 with which to compare other things, and find them 
 wanting. And if one absolutely must leave Paradise, 
 'tis at least more bearable to be evicted by Eve — par- 
 don me, it was her name, you know, a great while 
 before it was yours — than to be chased out of it by the 
 serpent. There was no serpent in my Eden ! 
 
 Eva (with a little cynicism) — Thirteen, fourteen, fif- 
 teen, sixteen! 
 
 Alfred — Ah, you are right. Of course he was there, 
 glittering with — orders of merit. Also, he waltzed 
 like an angel of light — you told me so that evening at 
 the Casino. But if you preferred Count von Waldberg 
 to my humble self, you might at least have said so 
 frankly. I would not have stood in the way of your 
 happiness ; and it would have spared me some examina- 
 tions of conscience. 
 
 Eva (reproachfully) — Seventeen, eighteen. 
 
 Alfred — You were so good as to say that you — liked 
 me, and I believed it. Now, you have taught me to 
 disbelieve ; I only wish that I could doubt the sincerity 
 with which, when you gave back my ring, you told me 
 that you hated me. 
 
 Eva (deprecatingly, but coldly) — Nineteen, twenty. 
 
 Alfred — Mrs. Leclerc is looking at us. Say some- 
 thing kind to me — for her sake ! 
 
 Eva (cheerfully) — Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-
 
 3o8 WHEN ANGRY, COUNT A HUNDRED 
 
 three, twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty- 
 seven, twenty-eight! 
 
 Alfred — A thousand thanks. She is quite satisfied 
 that we are enjoying ourselves. 
 
 Eva (with a shade of coquetry) — Twenty-nine, thirty? 
 
 Alfred — Oh, immensely — no — yet — that is to say, not 
 precisely. However, I mean to improve my oppor- 
 tunity, such as it is. . . . Are you not glad that 
 we are to have Italian opera this winter, instead of 
 Wagner? 
 
 Eva (with astonishment) — Thirty-one, thirty-two, 
 thirty-three ! 
 
 Alfred — Major Starr was listening to us just then. 
 Now he is talking again. The usual thing, I believe, 
 is to say that because you have disappointed me I shall 
 lose faith in all women. It won't have that effect with 
 me, I fancy, though I should have liked to believe in 
 you too. 
 
 Eva (with bitterness) — Thirty-four, thirty-five, 
 thirty-six. 
 
 Alfred — I think that neither you nor I can ever for- 
 get those evenings on the river: it will be a dainty 
 aquarelle in your mind ; in mine the scene is an etch- 
 ing, every line inalterable. That sort of thing is bitten 
 in with aquafortis, you know. . . . On the whole, 
 you need not remember that occasion. Miss Rosewarne! 
 
 Eva (sadly) — Thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine, 
 forty, forty-one. 
 
 Alfred — And in the morning, as I waited on the cliff 
 for you to appear, I understood how the earth waits for 
 the dawn to illuminate it, to give it new life. Well, I 
 have had my day; it was bright, but the sunset came 
 too soon.
 
 By E. CAVAZZA 309 
 
 Eva (dreamily) — Forty-two, forty-three, forty-four. 
 
 Alfred — The sea sang of you, the waves sparkled for 
 you, all the sirens had given their magic to you, and 
 their harping must have been like the sound of the sea- 
 wind in your hair. 
 
 Eva (with an effort at mockery) — Forty-five, forty- 
 six! 
 
 Alfred — Your criticism is deserved. My expressions 
 do sound rather too lyric and high-flown. . . . 
 
 Eva (sarcastically) — Forty-seven, forty-eight, forty- 
 nine, fifty. . . . 
 
 Alfred — If you really think them so comic, let me go 
 on. I dreamed of you — don't you like the present way 
 of arranging the flowers low, so that one hasn't to peep 
 this side and that of a mountain of roses? 
 
 Eva (with enthusiasm) — Fifty-one, fifty-two, fifty- 
 three, fifty-four, fifty-five, fifty-six! 
 
 Alfred — Thank you again ; for a briefer answer 
 might have led Major Starr to suspect that my conver- 
 sation failed to interest you. As I was saying, I 
 dreamed of you and of you only. I still dream 
 
 Eva (hurriedly) — Fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine, 
 sixty, sixty-one, sixty-two, sixty-three, sixty-four, sixty- 
 five, sixty-six, sixty-seven, sixty-eight 
 
 Alfred — Don't be disturbed. I quite understand that 
 dreams are illusions. I am awake; very thoroughly. 
 
 Eva (softly) — Sixty-nine, seventy, seventy-one, 
 seventy-two. 
 
 Alfred — It is better to wake than to dream ; but if 
 one has no more pleasure in either — then best to sleep 
 soundly. 
 
 Eva (puzzled, slightly alarmed) — Seventy-three, 
 seventy-four, seventy-five? . . ,
 
 3IO WHEN ANGRY, COUNT A HUNDRED 
 
 Alfred — As I said, I expect to sail in a few days for 
 Europe ; in any case, one of the firm would have to go 
 there. 
 
 Eva (with resignation) — Seventy-six. 
 
 Alfred — I have tried again and again to retrace those 
 parted ways, back to the path where, for a little while, 
 we walked together. A dry and wearisome road it 
 may have been for you. For me, as I have told you, 
 it was the way of Paradise. I began to suspect the 
 presence of the inconvenient third party of the legend 
 of Eden at that Casino ball. You remember; the 
 evening when you wore a gown of some sort of cloth 
 which had the tint of a blush-rose, adorably fitted, 
 hanging in smooth, heavy folds, trimmed with — 
 trimmed with — well, I suppose it was tape 
 
 Eva (with horror) — Seventy-seven! 
 
 Alfred — How stupid of me! Of course it wasn't 
 tape. I used to be posted on the difference between 
 tape and bombazine and lace and things in those other 
 days when you were so good as to explain it to me. 
 At all events, that was a delicious gown. 
 
 Eva (with conviction) — Seventy-eight, seventy-nine. 
 
 Alfred — You told me to come early to the Casino. 
 
 . . Great fun I was to have that evening! You 
 
 let me take your program of dances; the trail of the 
 
 serpent — pardon me, I should say the autograph of 
 
 Count von Waldberg — was over it all. 
 
 Eva (deprecatingly) — Eighty, eighty-one, eighty- 
 two. 
 
 Alfred — I know that. It's quite true that I had a 
 poor little lancers, a quadrille, and the fag-end of a 
 mazurka. But the waltz — our waltz, the "Garden of 
 Sleep" — you danced with the Count.
 
 By E. CAVAZZA 3" 
 
 Eva (protesting)— Eighty-three, eighty-four, eighty- 
 five. 
 
 Alfred — Of course he asked for it. But you have a 
 thousand pretty ways of saying no. You could have 
 kept that waltz for me. 
 
 Eva (timidly) — Eighty-six, eighty-seven. 
 
 Alfred — Well, let that pass. I suggested, as con- 
 siderately as I knew how, that you were giving rather 
 too many dances to Count von Waldberg. You replied 
 that those numbers were at your disposal when he took 
 your card, and you chose to give them to him. 
 
 Eva (poignantly) — Eighty-eight! 
 
 Alfred — Reserved! If I had understood that! Now 
 I dare not even hint my thanks for what — I did not 
 have. 
 
 Eva (with recovered composure) — Eighty-nine, 
 ninety. 
 
 Alfred — Is there anything more cruel than the sar- 
 casm of a dance when one is imhappy? . . . And 
 ^vhat do you think of this imported notion of a Theatre 
 Libre? 
 
 Eva (startled) — Ninety-one, ninety-two, ninety- 
 three ! 
 
 Alfred — Pardon the abrupt change of subject. But 
 Mrs. Leclerc had a very curious look on her face. 
 
 Eva (acquiescent) — Ninety-four, ninety-five. 
 
 Alfred — If Count von Waldberg pleased you, there 
 was certainly no reason that you should not like him. 
 He's a very good fellow, I believe, and he dances 
 remarkably well. As my rival, he was ex officio hate- 
 ful — not upon personal grounds. Moreover, he has 
 gone back to his own country, and rather suddenly. I 
 like that about him; it's a case where the absent is in
 
 312 WHEN ANGRY, COUNT A HUNDRED 
 
 the right. Then, too, I'm inclined to pity Von Wald- 
 berg; for one doesn't, by his own will, lose his chances 
 of waltzing with Miss Rosewarne. You must have 
 given him leave of absence. I begin to feel for the 
 Count as a brother in misfortune. 
 
 Eva (reprovingly) — Ninety-six, ninety-seven. 
 
 Alfred — I accept the reproof. I have no right to 
 guess at what may have taken place between yourself 
 and Count von Waldberg. It was impertinent, but 
 decidedly agreeable, that surmise of mine. 
 
 Eva (with increased coldness) — Ninety-eight. 
 
 Alfred — I'm always saying the wrong thing. . . . 
 But this time it seems to me I must speak — and then 
 forever after be silent. 
 
 Eva (mockingly) — Ninety-nine! 
 
 Alfred — That's a quotation from — from — in fact — 
 something that I was interested, a while ago, to coach 
 myself upon. 
 
 Eva (with marked indifference) — One hundred. 
 
 Alfred — You have reached the hundred. And you are 
 still angry, I'm afraid. Ah! if by chance it seems to 
 you that you have said anything which you would rather 
 have left unsaid, or said differently, — we all do that 
 sometimes, you know, — you could retract it by count- 
 ing that same hundred backward, down to nothing 
 again. Isn't that a pretty good scheme? 
 
 Eva (assenting) — Ninety-nine. 
 
 Alfred — I think, with a little economy, you can make 
 that double back-action hundred last until Mrs. Leclerc 
 begins to "collect eyes" for the exit of the women. 
 You can be epigrammatic, staccato, like the French 
 novelists. When you lisp in numbers, they needn't 
 come too many at once. I know your intonations so
 
 By E. CAVAZZA 313 
 
 well that words are hardly needed to convey— or con- 
 ceal — your meaning. 
 
 Eva — Ninety-eight. 
 
 Alfred — Quite so. 
 
 Eva — Ninety-seven. 
 
 Alfred — Perfectly. 
 
 Eva — Ninety-six. 
 
 Alfred — I'll take my affidavit to that. . . . This 
 is capital. Mrs. Leclerc is sure that v/e are getting on 
 famously. 
 
 Eva — Ninety-five, ninety-four 
 
 Alfred — Take care; don't be a spendthrift of your 
 numbers. You might — if you wouldn't mind doing it 
 — smile at me now and then, instead of speaking. 
 Only to save the numerals, of course. . . . Oh, 
 this is a comedy that we are playing! But for me it 
 
 is also a tragedy But just now it seems to 
 
 me that my whole spirit is in revolution. 
 
 Eva — Ninety-three. 
 
 Alfred — Very much like ** '93," as Victor Hugo has 
 
 described it. 
 
 Eva — Ninety-two. 
 
 Alfred — I had built so many castles in air, and you 
 were chatelaine of them all. Everything had a reason 
 for existence. . . . But my life has ceased to 
 be logical ; in fact, it has gone all to pieces. I shall 
 pick up the pieces, of course, — I'm not a whimpering 
 boy, — and glue them, screw them, clamp them, tie 
 them together, anyhow, provided they stick. But I 
 don't pretend that the outfit will be as good as new, or 
 as it was before it was broken up. 
 
 Eva (with remorse) — Ninety-one, ninety, eighty- 
 nine, eighty-eight, eighty-seven, eighty-six.
 
 314 WHEN ANGRY, COUNT A HUNDRED 
 
 Alfred — 'Twas not your fault. You couldn't help it. 
 I did not deserve you; only I loved you with all my 
 soul, as — heaven help me! I love you, love you now! 
 
 Eva (in extreme agitation, very pale, rattles off the 
 numbers down to sixteen, and stops there for want of 
 breath). 
 
 Alfred — Poor beautiful child, do not be afraid. I 
 will not offend in this way again. I only meant to tell 
 you that amid the ruins of my fallen castle there blos- 
 soms an imperishable flower — my affection for you. 
 . Now everything is ended. See, Mrs. Leclerc 
 is looking around the table to rally her feminine troop. 
 
 Eva (counting desperately, and ending with the 
 number three). 
 
 Alfred — And so, it is good-by — definitively. Because 
 when we meet in future, if ever, it will be as mere 
 acquaintances who have nothing to say to each other 
 except the commonplaces of society. We, who were to 
 
 have been united, must henceforward be (he stops 
 
 short, surprised by an emotion that chokes his voice of 
 a man of the world). 
 
 Eva (boldly skipping a number) — One ! (She reck- 
 lessly drops her bouquet as she rises with the other 
 women.) 
 
 Alfred (stoops to pick up her bouquet, kisses the 
 hand of Eva under the table, and says in a rapturous 
 undertone) — One forever!
 
 A SPEECH OF PROSPERO. From "The Tem- 
 pest" By WILLIAM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 PROSPERO. Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing 
 lakes and groves; 
 And ye that on the sands with printless foot 
 Do chase the ebbing Neptune, and do fly him 
 When he comes back — you demi-puppets that 
 By moonshine do the green sour ringlets make, 
 Whereof the ewe not bites ; and you whose pastime 
 Is to make midnight mushrooms, that rejoice 
 To hear the solemn curfew ; by whose aid — 
 Weak masters though ye be — I have bedimm'd 
 The noontide sun, call'd forth the mutinous winds, 
 And 'twixt the green sea and the azure'd vault 
 Set roaring war : to the dread rattling thunder 
 Have I given fire, and rifted Jove's stout oak 
 With his own bolt; the strong-bas'd promontory 
 Have I made shake, and by the spurs pluck'd up 
 The pine and cedar : graves at my command 
 Have wak'd their sleepers, op'd, and let 'em forth 
 By my so potent art. But this rough magic 
 I here abjure; and, when I have requir'd 
 Some heavenly music — which even now I do, — 
 To work mine end upon their senses, that 
 This airy charm is for, I'll break my staff. 
 Bury it certain fathoms in the earth. 
 And deeper than did ever plummet sound 
 I'll drown my book. 
 
 315
 
 OTHELLO'S ADDRESS TO THE DUKE OF VEN- 
 ICE AND THE SENATORS. From "Othello, the 
 Moor of Venice." By WILLIAM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 OTHELLO. Most potent, grave, and reverend 
 signiors. 
 My very noble and approv'd good masters, 
 That I have ta'en away this old man's daughter, 
 It is most true ; true, I have married her : 
 The very head and front of my offending 
 Hath this extent, no more. Rude am I in my speech. 
 And little blest with the soft phrase of peace : 
 For since these arms of mine had seven years' pith. 
 Till now some nine moons wasted, they have us'd 
 Their dearest action in the tented field ; 
 And little of this great world can I speak, 
 More than pertains to feats of broil and battle. 
 And therefore little shall I grace my cause 
 In speaking for myself. Yet, by your gracious pa- 
 tience, 
 I will a round, unvarnish'd tale deliver 
 Of my whole course of love ; what drugs, what charms, 
 What conjuration, and what mighty magic, — 
 For such proceeding I am charg'd withal, — 
 I won his daughter. 
 
 Her father lov'd me, oft invited me, 
 Still question 'd me the story of my life 
 From year to year, — the battles, sieges, fortunes, 
 That I have pass'd. 
 
 I ran it through, even from my boyish days 
 To the very moment that he bade me tell it; 
 Wherein I spake of most disastrous chances. 
 Of moving accidents by flood and field, 
 Of hair-breadth scapes i' the imminent deadly breach, 
 Of being taken by the insolent foe 
 
 316
 
 By WILLIAM SHAKSPERE 317 
 
 And sold to slavery, of my redemption thence, 
 
 And portance in my travel's history; 
 
 Wherein of antres vast and deserts idle, 
 
 Rough quarries, rocks, and hills whose heads touch 
 
 heaven. 
 It was my hint to speak, — such was the process: 
 And of the Cannibals that each other eat, 
 The Anthropophagi, and men whose heads 
 Do grow beneath their shoulders. This to hear 
 Would Desdemona seriously incline : 
 But still the house affairs would draw her thence ; 
 Which ever as she could with haste dispatch. 
 She'd come again, and with a greedy ear 
 Devour up my discourse : which I observing, 
 Took once a pliant hour, and found good means 
 To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart 
 That I would all my pilgrimage dilate. 
 Whereof by parcels she had something heard, 
 But not intentively. I did consent. 
 And often did beguile her of her tears. 
 When I did speak of some distressful stroke 
 That my youth suffer'd. My story being done. 
 She gave me for my pains a world of sighs : 
 She swore, in faith, 'twas strange, 'twas passing strange, 
 'Twas pitiful, 'twas wondrous pitiful; 
 She wish'd she had not heard it, yet she wish'd 
 That heaven had made her such a man ; she thank'd me 
 And bade me, if I had a friend that lov'd her, 
 I should but teach him how to tell my story, 
 And that would woo her. Upon this hint I spake; 
 She lov'd me for the dangers I had pass'd, 
 And I lov'd her that she did pity them. 
 This only is the witchcraft I have us'd.
 
 MY LAST CHANCE. From "The Dolly Dialogues." 
 Reprinted with the permission of the publishers, 
 Messrs. Henry Holt & Company. By ANTHONY 
 HOPE. 
 
 "TVJOWmind," said Mrs. Hilary Musgrave, impress- 
 1\ ively, "this is the last time I shall take any 
 
 trouble about you. She's a very nice girl, quite 
 
 pretty, and she'll have a lot of money. You can be 
 
 very pleasant when you like " 
 
 *'This unsolicited testimonial " 
 
 "Which isn't often — and if you don't do it this time 
 I wash my hands of you. Why, how old are you?" 
 
 "Hush, Mrs. Hilary." 
 
 "You must be nearly " 
 
 "It's false— false— false!" 
 
 "Come along," said Mrs. Hilary, and she added, 
 over her shoulder, "she has a slight north-country 
 accent. ' * 
 
 "It might have been Scotch," said I. 
 
 "She plays the piano a good deal." 
 
 "It might have been the fiddle," said I. 
 
 "She's very fond of Browning." 
 
 "It might have been Ibsen," said I. 
 
 Mrs. Hilary, seeing that I was determined to look on 
 the bright side, smiled graciously on me and intro- 
 duced me to the young lady. She was decidedly 
 good-looking, fresh and sincere of aspect, with large 
 inquiring eyes — eyes which I felt would demand a little 
 too much of me at breakfast — but then a large tea-urn 
 puts that all right. 
 
 "Miss Sophia Milton — Mr. Carter," said Mrs. 
 Hilary, and left us. 
 
 Well, we tried the theatres first; but as she had 
 
 318
 
 By ANTHONY HOPE 319 
 
 only been to the Lyceum and I had only been to the 
 Gaiety, we soon got to the end of that. Then we 
 tried Art : she asked me what I thought of Degas : I 
 evaded the question by criticising a drawing of a horse 
 in last week's Punch — which she hadn't seen. Upon 
 this she started literature. She said "Some Qualms 
 and a Shiver" was the book of the season. I put my 
 money on "The Queen of the Quorn. " Dead stop 
 again! And I saw Mrs. Hilary's eye upon me: there 
 was wrath in her face. Something must be done. 
 
 A brilliant idea seized me. I had read that four- 
 fifths of the culture of England were Conservative. I 
 also was a Conservative. It was four to one on ! I 
 started politics. I could have whooped for joy when I 
 elicited something particularly incisive about the 
 ignorance of the masses. 
 
 "I do hope you agree with me," said Miss Milton. 
 "The more one reads and thinks, the more one sees 
 how fatally false a theory it is that the ignorant masses 
 — people such as I have described — can ever rule a 
 great Empire." 
 
 "The Empire wants gentlemen; that's what it 
 wants," said I, nodding my head, and glancing 
 triumphantly at Mrs. Hilary. 
 
 "Men and women," said she, "who are acquainted 
 with the best that has been said and thought on all 
 important subjects." 
 
 At the time I believed this observation to be orig- 
 inal, but I have since been told that it was borrowed. 
 I was delighted with it. 
 
 "Yes," said I, "and have got a stake in the country, 
 you know, and know how to behave 'emselves in the 
 House, don't you know?"
 
 320 MY LAST CHANCE 
 
 "What we have to do," pursued Miss Milton, "is to 
 guide the voters. These poor rustics need to be 
 informed " 
 
 "Just so," I broke in. "They have to be told " 
 
 "Of the real nature of the questions " 
 
 "And which candidate to support." 
 
 "Or they must infallibly " she exclaimed. 
 
 "Get their marching orders," I cried, in rapture. It 
 was exactly what I always did on my small property. 
 
 "Oh, I didn't quite mean that," she said reproach- 
 fully. 
 
 "Oh, well, neither did I— quite," I responded 
 adroitly. What was wrong with the girl now? 
 
 "But with the help of the League " she went on. 
 
 "Do you belong?" I cried, more delighted than ever. 
 
 "Oh, yes!" said she. "I think it's a duty. I 
 worked very hard at the last election. I spent days 
 distributing packages of " 
 
 Then I made, I'm sorry to say, a false step. I 
 observed, interrupting: 
 
 "But it's ticklish work now, eh? Six months' 'hard' 
 wouldn't be pleasant, would it?" 
 
 "What do you mean, Mr. — er — Carter?" she asked. 
 
 I was still blind. I believe I winked, and I'm sure 
 I whispered, "Tea." 
 
 Miss Milton drew herself up very straight. 
 
 "I do not bribe," she said. "What I distribute is 
 pamphlets." 
 
 Now, I suppose that "pamphlets" and "blankets" 
 don't really sound much alike, but I was agitated. 
 
 "Quite right," said I. "Poor old things! They 
 can't afford proper fuel." 
 
 She rose to her feet.
 
 i t - 
 
 By ANTHONY HOPE 321 
 
 'I was not joking," she said, with horrible severity. 
 'Neither was I," I declared in humble apology. 
 "Didn't you say 'blankets'?" 
 
 "Pamphlets." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 There was a long pause. I glanced at Mrs. Hilary. 
 Things had not fallen out as happily as they might, 
 but I did not mean to give up yet. 
 
 "I see you're right," I said, still humbly. "To 
 descend to such means as I had in mind is " 
 
 "To throw away our true weapons," said she ear- 
 nestly. (She sat down again — good sign.) 
 
 "What we really need " I began. 
 
 "Is a reform of the upper classes," said she. "Let 
 them give an example of duty, of self-denial, of 
 frugality." 
 
 I was not to be caught out again, 
 
 "Just what I always say," I observed impressively. 
 
 "Let them put away their horse-racing, their bet- 
 ting, their luxurious living, their " 
 
 "You're right, Miss Milton," said 1. 
 
 "Let them set an example of morality." 
 
 "They should," I assented. 
 
 Miss Milton smiled. 
 
 "I thought we agreed really," said she. 
 
 "I'm sure we do," cried I; and I winked with my 
 "off" eye at Mrs. Hilary as I sat down beside Miss 
 Milton. 
 
 "Now I heard of a man the other day," said she, 
 "who's nearly forty. He's got an estate in the country. 
 He never goes there, except for a few days' shooting. 
 He lives in town. He spends too much. He passes 
 an absolutely vacant existence in a round of empty
 
 322 MY LAST CHANCE 
 
 gayety. He has by no means a good reputation. He 
 dangles about, wasting his time and his money. Is 
 that the sort of example ?" 
 
 "He's a traitor to his class," said I warmly. 
 
 "If you want him, you must look on a race-course, or 
 at a tailor's, or in some fashionable woman's boudoir. 
 And his estate looks after itself. He's too selfish to 
 marry, too idle to work, too silly to think." 
 
 I began to be sorry for this man, in spite of his 
 peccadilloes. 
 
 "I wonder if I've met him," said I. "I'm occasion- 
 ally in town, when I can get time to run up. What's 
 his name?" 
 
 "I don't think I heard — or I've forgotten. But he's 
 got a place next to a friend of mine in the country, 
 and she told me all about him. She's exactly the 
 opposite sort of person — or she wouldn't be my friend. " 
 
 "I should think not. Miss Milton," said I, admir- 
 ingly. 
 
 "Oh, I should like to meet that man, and tell him 
 what I think of him!" said she. "Such men as he is 
 do more harm than a dozen agitators. So contempt- 
 ible, too!" 
 
 "It's revolting to think of," said I. 
 
 "I'm so glad you " began Miss Milton, quite 
 
 confidentially; I pulled my chair a trifle closer, and 
 cast an apparently careless glance towards Mrs. 
 Hilary. Suddenly I heard a voice behind me. 
 
 "Eh, what? Upon my honor it is! Why, Carter, 
 my boy, how are you? Eh, what? Miss Milton, too, 
 I declare! Well, now, what a pity Annie didn't 
 come!" 
 
 I disagreed. I hate Annie. But I was very glad to
 
 By ANTHONY HOPE 323 
 
 see my friend and neighbor, Robert Dinnerly. He's a 
 sensible man — his wife's a little prig. 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Dinnerly," cried Miss Milton, "how funny 
 that you should come just now! I was just trying to 
 remember the name of a man Mrs, Dinnerly told me 
 about. I was telling Mr. Carter about him. You 
 know him." 
 
 "Well, Miss Milton, perhaps I do. Describe him." 
 
 "I don't believe Annie ever told me his name, but 
 she was talking about him at our house yesterday." 
 
 "But I wasn't there. Miss Milton." 
 
 "No," said Miss Milton, "but he's got the next place 
 to yours in the country." 
 
 I positively leapt from my seat. 
 
 "Why, good gracious. Carter himself, you mean!" 
 cried Dinnerly, laughing. "Well, that is a good 'un — 
 ha-ha-ha!" 
 
 She turned a stony glare on me. 
 
 "Do you live next to Mr, Dinnerly in the country?" 
 she asked. 
 
 I would have denied it if Dinnerly had not been 
 there. As it was I blew my nose. 
 
 "I wonder," said Miss Milton, "what has become of 
 Aunt Emily." 
 
 "Miss Milton," said I, "by a happy chance you have 
 enjoyed a luxury. You have told the man what you 
 think of him." 
 
 "Yes," said she; "and I have only to add that he is 
 also a hypocrite. ' ' 
 
 Pleasant, wasn't it? Yet Mrs. Hilary says it was my 
 fault! That's a woman all over!
 
 THE LAST SOLILOQUY OF FAUSTUS. From 
 •'Doctor Faustus." By CHRISTOPHER MAR- 
 LOWE. 
 
 AH, Faustus, 
 Now hast thou but one bare hour to live, 
 And then thou must be damn'd perpetually! 
 Stand still, you ever-moving spheres of heaven, 
 That time may cease, and midnight never come ; 
 Fair Nature's eye, rise, rise again, and make 
 Perpetual day : or let this hour be but 
 A year, a month, a week, a natural day. 
 That Faustus may repent and save his soul ! 
 O lente, lente, currite, noctis equi! 
 The stars move still, time runs, the clock will strike, 
 The devil will come, and Faustus must be damn'd! 
 Oh, I'll leap up to my God! — Who pulls me down? — 
 See, see, where Christ's blood streams in the firmament! 
 One drop would save my soul, half a drop! ah, my 
 
 Christ!— 
 Ah, rend not my heart for naming of my Christ! 
 Yet will I call on Him: Oh, spare me, Lucifer! — 
 Where is it now? 'tis gone! and see, where God 
 Stretcheth out his arm, and bends his ireful brows! 
 Mountains and hills, come, come, and fall on me, 
 And hide me from the heavy wrath of God! 
 No, no! 
 
 Then will I headlong run into the earth : 
 Earth, gape: Oh, no, it will not harbour me I 
 You stars that reign'd at my nativity, 
 Whose influence hath allotted death and hell, 
 Now draw up Faustus, like a foggy mist, 
 Into the entrails of yon labouring cloud. 
 That, when you vomit forth into the air, 
 
 324
 
 By CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE 325 
 
 My limbs may issue from your smoky mouths, 
 So that my soul may but ascend to heaven ! 
 
 (The clock strikes the half -hour.) 
 Ah, half the hour is past! 'twill all be past anon. 
 O God, 
 
 If Thou wilt not have mercy on my soul, 
 Yet for Christ's sake, whose blood hath ransom'd me, 
 Impose some end to my incessant pain; 
 Let Faustus live in hell a thousand years, 
 A hundred thousand, and at last be sav'd! 
 Oh, no end is limited to damned souls! 
 Why wert thou not a creature wanting soul? 
 Or why is this immortal that thou hast? 
 Ah, Pythagoras' metempsychosis, were that true, 
 This soul should fly from me, and I be chang'd 
 Unto some brutish beast ! all beasts are happy, 
 For, when they die. 
 
 Their souls are soon dissolv'd in elements; 
 But mine must live still to be plagu'd in hell. 
 Curs'd be the parents that engender'd me! 
 No, Faustus, curse thyself, curse Lucifer 
 That hath depriv'd thee of the joys of heaven. 
 
 (The clock strikes twelve.) 
 Oh, it strikes, it strikes! Now, body, turn to air, 
 Or Lucifer will bear thee quick to hell ! 
 
 (Thunder and lightning.) 
 Oh, soul, be chang'd into little water-drops, 
 And fall into the ocean, ne'er be found! 
 
 [Enter Devils.] 
 My God, my God, look not so fierce on me! 
 Adders and serpents, let me breathe a while! 
 Ugly hell, gape not! come not, Lucifer! 
 I'll burn my books! — Ah, Mephistophilis! 
 
 [Exeunt Devils with Faustus.
 
 THE CHARIOT RACE. From "Electra." The 
 Tale of The Attendant of Orestes. By SOPHOCLES. 
 
 ORESTES . . . He is dead. I will tell all as 
 it happened. He then journeyed forth to those 
 great games which Hellas counts her pride, to join the 
 Delphic contests; and he heard the herald's voice, 
 with loud and clear command, proclaim, as coming 
 first, the chariot race : and so he entered radiant, every 
 eye admiring as he passed. And in the race he 
 equalled all the promise of his form in those his 
 rounds, and so with noblest prize of conquest left the 
 ground. And, summing up in fewest words what 
 many scarce could tell, I know of none in strength and 
 act like him ; but one thing know, for having won the 
 prize in all the five-fold forms of race which they, the 
 umpires, had proclaimed for those that ran the 
 ground's whole length and back, he then was hailed, 
 proclaimed an Argive, and his name Orestes, his son 
 who once led Hellas' glorious host, the mighty Aga- 
 memnon. So far well. But when a God will injure, 
 none can 'scape, strong though he be. For lo ! another 
 day, when, as the sun was rising, came the race swift- 
 footed, of the chariot and the horse, he entered there, 
 with many charioteers; one an Achaean, one from 
 Sparta, two from Libya, who with four-horsed chariots 
 came, and he with these, with swift Thessalian mares, 
 came as the fifth ; a sixth with bright bay colts came 
 from ^tolia ; and the seventh was born in far Mag- 
 nesia; and the eighth, by race an ^nian, with v/hite 
 horses, and the ninth from Athens came, the city built 
 of God; last, a Boeotian, tenth in order, came, and 
 made the list complete. And so they stood — when the 
 appointed umpires fixed by lot, and placed the cars in 
 
 326
 
 By SOPHOCLES 327 
 
 order; and with sound of brazen trump they started. 
 Cheering all their steeds at once, they shook the reins, 
 and then the course was filled with all the clash and 
 din of rattling chariots, and the dust rose high; and all 
 commingled, sparing not the goad, that each might 
 pass his neighbour's axle-trees, and horses' hot, hard 
 breathings; for their backs and chariot-wheels were 
 white with foam, and still the breath of horses smote 
 them ; and he, come just where the last stone marks 
 the course's goal, turning the comer sharp, and, letting 
 go the right hand trace-horse, pulled the nearer in ; and 
 so at first the chariots keep their course ; but then the 
 unbroken colts the -^nian owned rush at full speed, 
 and, turning headlong back, just as they closed their 
 sixth round or their seventh, dash their heads right 
 against the chariot wheels of those who came from 
 Barke. And from thence, from that one shock, each 
 on the other crashed, they fell o'ertumed, and Crissa's 
 spacious plain was filled with wreck of chariots. Then 
 the man from Athens, skilled and wily charioteer, see- 
 ing the mischief, turns his steed aside, at anchor rides, 
 and leaves the whirling surge of man and horse thus 
 raging. Last of all, keeping his steeds back, waiting 
 for the end, Orestes came. And when he sees him 
 left, his only rival, then, with shaken rein, urging his 
 colts, he follows, and they twain drove onward, both 
 together, by a head, now this, now that, their chariots 
 gaining ground; and all the other rounds in safety 
 passed. Upright in upright chariot still he stood, ill- 
 starred one ; then the left rein letting loose just as his 
 horse was turning, unawares he strikes the furthest 
 pillar, breaks the spokes right at his axle's centre, and 
 slips down from out his chariot, and is dragged along,
 
 328 The CHARIOT RACE 
 
 with reins dissevered. And, when thus he fell, his 
 colts tore headlong to the ground's mid-space: and 
 when the host beheld him fallen thus from off the 
 chariot, they bewailed him sore, so young, so noble, so 
 unfortunate, now hurled upon the ground, and now 
 his limbs to heaven exposing. Then the charioteers full 
 hardly keeping back the rush of steeds, freed the poor 
 corpse so bloody, that not one of all his friends would 
 know him, and his body they burnt upon the pyre; 
 and now they bear, the chosen of the Phokians that 
 have come, in a poor urn of bronze, a mighty form 
 reduced to these sad ashes, that for him may be a tomb 
 within his fatherland. Such is my tale, full sad, I 
 trow, to hear, but unto those who saw it as we saw, the 
 greatest of all evils I have known.
 
 SPEECH OF THE GRAND RABBI, MOSES- 
 BEN-HABIB, TO FERDINAND AND ISA- 
 BELLA. From "Torquemada." By VICTOR 
 HUGO. 
 
 THE Rabbi (on his knees)— 
 Your highness of Castile, 
 Of Aragon, our sovereign King and Queen ! 
 Your trembling subjects are in sore distress, 
 And, praying first to God, we come to you. 
 With naked feet and rope about our necks, 
 And bring our groans and tears to you, O Kings! 
 For we are lying in death's very shadow, 
 A number of us are about to be 
 Flung on the fagots, and for all the rest, 
 Old men and women, exile is decreed. 
 Your edicts. King and Queen, o'erwhelm us all. 
 We weep, our fathers shudder in their graves. — 
 You cause the mournful sepulchres to tremble. 
 Be merciful. Our hearts are meek and true. 
 Shut up within our little homes, we live 
 Alone and humble. All our laws are plain, — 
 So very simple that a little child 
 Might set them down in writing. Never Jew 
 Is seen to sing or laugh. We pay the tribute ; 
 We never ask how large the sum may be. 
 We're trod upon while lying on the ground; 
 We're like the garment of a murdered man. 
 To God be glory ! But must Israel 
 Defenceless, driving ox and ass and dog 
 Before him, flee, dispersed in every sense, 
 With new-born suckling babes and children weaned? 
 Must we ne'er be a people, wanderers ever? 
 O King and Queen, do not let us be chased 
 
 329
 
 330 SPEECH of the GRAND RABBI 
 
 With goad of pike, and God for you shall open 
 
 Celestial gates. Have mercy on us. We 
 
 Are dashed to earth. Shall we no longer see 
 
 Our trees and fields of corn? Shall mothers have 
 
 No longer milk within their breasts? The beasts 
 
 Are in the forests, happy with their mates; 
 
 The nests sleep calmly, couched beneath the leaves; 
 
 The hind brings up her little ones in peace. 
 
 Ah ! let us also live within our caves, 
 
 Beneath our squalid roofs. For there we dwell 
 
 Almost like slaves within a convict pen, 
 
 But near our fathers' graves. In mercy deign 
 
 To suffer us to rest beneath your feet 
 
 Which we have bathed with tears ! Alas ! the woe 
 
 Of wandering along the distant ways! 
 
 Then let us drink the waters of our streams, 
 
 And live upon our fields, and prosperous days 
 
 Shall wait upon your steps. Alas ! we wring 
 
 Our hands in desperation. Spare us, Kings, 
 
 The agony of exile, and the dole 
 
 Of stern, eternal, endless loneliness! 
 
 Grant us our country, grant our native skies ! 
 
 The bread we eat with tears is bitter bread. 
 
 Be not the wind, though we be but the dust. 
 
 (Pointing to the gold on the table.) 
 Behold our ransom. Deign to take it. Kings, 
 And, oh! protect us. Look on our despair. 
 Be angels o'er us, but not angels dark, 
 But angels good and mild. The shadow cast 
 By gloomy wings is not the same, O Kings, 
 As that the white wing leaves. Recall your ban. 
 We beg it in the name of those great kings, 
 Your sacred ancestors, the lion-hearted,
 
 By VICTOR HUGO 331 
 
 And by the tombs of sovereigns august, 
 
 Who shone serene in wisdom's light. We place 
 
 Our hearts, O rulers of the human race. 
 
 Our prayers, our sorrows in the little hands 
 
 Of Joan, the Infanta, innocent 
 
 And like imto the wildwood strawberr}'- 
 
 Where lights the bee. O King, O Queen, have mercy!
 
 AUNT HITTY TARBOX. From "Timothy's 
 Quest." Copyright, 1890, by Kate Douglas Wiggin. 
 Reprinted with permission. By KATE DOUGLAS 
 WIGGIN. 
 
 AUNT HITTY, otherwise Mrs. Silas Tarbox, was 
 as cheery and loquacious a person as you could 
 find in a Sabbath day's journey. . . . She was in 
 a cheerful mood as she reflected on her day's achieve- 
 ments at Mrs. Cummins'. Out of Dr. Jonathan Cum- 
 mins' old cape coat she had carved a pair of brief 
 trousers and a vest for Timothy; out of Mrs. Jonathan 
 Cummins' waterproof a serviceable jacket; and out of 
 Deacon Abijah Cummins' linen duster an additional 
 coat and vest for warm days. The owners of these 
 garments had been dead many years, but nothing was 
 ever thrown away (and, for that matter, very little 
 given away) at Mrs. Cummins'. 
 
 "I hope I shall relish my vittles to-night," said Aunt 
 Hitty, as she poured her tea into her saucer, and set 
 the cup in her little blue "cup-plate"; "but I've had 
 the neuralgy so in my face that it's be'n more'n ten 
 days sence I've be'n able to carry a knife to my mouth. 
 . . . Your meat vittles is always so tasty, Miss 
 Cummins. I was sayin' to Mis' Sawyer last week I 
 think she lets her beef hang too long. It's dretful 
 tender, but I don't b'lieve it's hullsome. For my part, 
 as I've many a time said to Si, I like meat with some 
 chaw to it. . . . Mis' Sawyer don't put half 
 enough vittles on her table. She thinks it scares folks; 
 it don't me a mite, — it makes me's hungry as a wolf. 
 When I set a table for comp'ny, I pile on a hull lot, 'n' 
 I find it kind o' discourages 'em. . . . Mis' South- 
 wick's hevin' a reg'lar brash o' house-cleanin'. She's 
 
 332
 
 By KATE DOUGLAS WIGGIN 2>3i 
 
 too p'ison neat for any earthly use, that woman is. 
 She's fixed clam-shell borders roun' all her garding 
 beds, an' got enough left for a pile in one corner, 
 where she's goin' to set her oleander kag. Then she's 
 bought a haircloth chair and got a new three-ply carpet 
 in her parlor, 'n' put the old one in the spare-room 'n' 
 the back-entry. Her daughter's down here from New 
 Haven. She's married into one of the first families o' 
 Connecticut, Lobelia has, 'n' she puts on a good many 
 airs. She's rigged out her mother's parlor with lace 
 curtains 'n' one thing 'n' 'other, 'n' wants it called the 
 drawin'-room. Did ye ever hear tell such foolishness? 
 'Drawin'-room!' 's' I to Si; 'what's it goin' to draw? 
 Nothin' but flies, I guess likely!' . . . Mis' Pen- 
 nell's got a new girl to help round the house, — one o' 
 them pindlin' light-complected Smith girls, from the 
 Swamp, — look's if they was nussed on bonny-clabber. 
 She's so hombly I sh'd think 'twould make her 
 back ache to carry her head round. She ain't 
 very smart, neither. Her mother sent word she'd 
 pick up 'n' do better when she got her growth. 
 That made Mis' Pennell hoppin' mad. She said she 
 didn't cal'late to pay a girl three shillin's a week 
 for growin'. Mis' Pennell' s be'n feelin' consid'able 
 slim, or she wouldn't 'a' hired help; it's just like 
 puUin' teeth for Deacon Pennell to pay out money 
 for anything like that. He watches everj^ mouthful 
 the girl puts into her mouth, 'n' it's made him 'bout 
 down sick to see her fleshin' up on his vittles. . . . 
 They say he has her put the mornin' coffee-groun's to 
 dry on the winder-sill, 'n' then has 'em scalt over for 
 dinner; but there! I don't know's there's a mite o' 
 truth in it, so I won't repeat it. They went to him to
 
 334 AUNT HITTY TARBOX 
 
 git a subscription for the new hearse the other day. 
 Land sakes! we need one bad enough. I thought for 
 sure, at the last funeral v/e had, that they'd never git 
 Mis' Strout to the graveyard safe and sound. I kep' 
 a-thinkin' all the way how she'd 'a' took on, if she'd 
 be'n alive. She was the most timersome woman 't 
 ever was. She was a Thomson, 'n' all the Thomsons 
 was scairt at their own shadders. Ivory Strout rid 
 right behind the hearse, 'n' he says his heart was in his 
 mouth the hull durin' time for fear 't would break 
 down. He didn't git much comfort out the occasion, I 
 guess! Wa'n't he mad he hed to ride in the same 
 buggy with his mother-in-law ! The minister planned 
 it all out, 'n' wrote down the order o' the mourners, 'n' 
 passeled him out with old Mis' Thomson. I was 
 stan'in' close by, 'n' I heard him say he s'posed he 
 could go that way if he must, but 'twould spile the hull 
 blamed thing for him! . . . Well, as I was sayin', 
 the Seleckmen went to Deacon Pennell to get a con- 
 tribution towards buyin' the new hearse; an' do you 
 know, he wouldn't give 'em a dollar? He told 'em he 
 gave five dollars towards the other one, twenty years 
 ago, 'n' hadn't never got a cent's worth o' use out of it. 
 That's Deacon Pennell all over! As Si says, if the 
 grace o' God wa'n't given to all of us without money 
 'n' without price, you wouldn't never hev ketched 
 Deacon Pennell experiencin' religion! It's got to be a 
 free gospel 'twould convict him o' sin, that's certain! 
 I guess I've done as much work as I can do to-day, so 
 I bid you good-evenin'."
 
 THE DEATH OF RODRIGUEZ. From "Cuba in 
 War Time." Copyright, 1898, by Robert Howard 
 Russell. Reprinted with permission. By RICHARD 
 HARDING DAVIS. 
 
 ADOLFO RODRIGUEZ was the only son of a 
 Cuban farmer, who lives nine miles outside of 
 Santa Clara, beyond the hills that surround that city to 
 the north. 
 
 When the revolution broke out young Rodriguez 
 joined the insurgents, leaving his father and mother 
 and two sisters at the farm. He was taken, in Decem- 
 ber of 1896, by a force of the Guardia Civil, the corps 
 d'dlite of the Spanish army, and defended himself 
 when they tried to capture him, wounding three of 
 them with his machete. 
 
 He was tried by a military court for bearing arms 
 against the government, and sentenced to be shot by a 
 fusillade some morning, before sunrise. . . 
 
 His execution took place the morning of the 19th of 
 January, at a place a half-mile distant from the city, on 
 the great plain that stretches from the forts out to the 
 hills, beyond which Rodriguez had lived for nineteen 
 years. At the time of his death he was twenty years 
 old. . . . 
 
 There had been a full moon the night preceding the 
 execution, and when the squad of soldiers marched out 
 from town it was still shining brightly through the 
 mists, although it was past five o'clock. ... A 
 line of tiny camp fires that the sentries had built dur- 
 ing the night stretched between the forts at regular 
 intervals and burned brightly. 
 
 But as the light grew stronger, and the moonlight 
 faded, these were stamped out, and when the soldiers 
 
 335
 
 336 The DEATH of RODRIGUEZ 
 
 came in force the moon was a white ball in the sky, 
 without radiance, the fires had sunk to ashes, and the 
 sun had not yet risen. 
 
 So, even when the men were formed into three sides 
 of a hollow square, they were scarcely able to distin- 
 guish one another in the uncertain light of the morning. 
 
 There were about three hundred soldiers in the 
 formation. They belonged to the Volunteers, and they 
 deployed upon the plain with their band in front, play- 
 ing a jaunty quickstep, while their officers galloped 
 from one side to the other through the grass, seeking 
 out a suitable place for the execution, while the band 
 outside the line still played merrily. . . . 
 
 As the light increased a mass of people came hurry- 
 ing from the town with two black figures leading them, 
 and the soldiers drew up at attention, and part of the 
 double line fell back and left an opening in the square. 
 
 With us a condemned man walks only the short 
 distance from his cell to the scaffold or the electric 
 chair, shielded from sight by the prison walls; and it 
 often occurs even then that the short journey is too 
 much for his strength and courage. 
 
 But the merciful Spaniards on this morning made 
 the prisoner walk for over a half-mile across the 
 broken surface of the fields. I expected to find the 
 man, no matter what his strength at other times might 
 be, stumbling and faltering on this cruel journey, but 
 as he came nearer I saw that he led all the others, that 
 the priests on either side of him were taking two steps 
 to his one, and that they were tripping on their gowns 
 and stumbling over the hollows, in their efforts to keep 
 pace with him as he walked, erect and soldierly, at a 
 quick step in advance of them.
 
 By RICHARD HARDING DAVIS 337 
 
 He had a handsome, gentle face of the peasant type, 
 a light, pointed beard, great wistful eyes and a mass of 
 curly black hair. He was shockingly young for such a 
 sacrifice, and looked more like a Neapolitan than a 
 Cuban. . . . He wore a new scapula around his 
 neck, hanging outside his linen blouse. 
 
 It seems a petty thing to have been pleased with at 
 such a time, but I confess to have felt a thrill of satis- 
 faction when I saw, as the Cuban passed me, that he 
 held a cigarette between his lips, not arrogantly nor 
 with bravado, but with the nonchalance of a man who 
 meets his punishment fearlessly, and who will let his 
 enemies see that they can kill but can not frighten him. 
 
 It was very quickly finished, with rough, and but for 
 one frightful blunder, with merciful swiftness. The 
 crowd fell back when it came to the square, and the 
 condemned man, the priests and the firing squad of six 
 young volunteers passed in and the line closed behind 
 them. 
 
 The ofificer who had held the cord that bound the 
 Cuban's arms behind him and passed across his breast, 
 let it fall on the grass and drew his sword, and Rodri- 
 guez dropped his cigarette from his lips and bent and 
 kissed the cross which the priest held up before him. 
 
 The Cuban walked to where the officer directed him 
 to stand, and turned his back to the square and faced 
 the hills and the road across them which led to his 
 father's farm. 
 
 As the officer gave the first command he straightened 
 himself as far as the cords would allow, and held up his 
 head and fixed his eyes immovably on the morning 
 light which had just begun to show above the hills. 
 
 He made a picture of such pathetic helplessness, but
 
 338 The DEATH of RODRIGUEZ 
 
 of such courage and dignity, that he reminded me on 
 the instant of that statue of Nathan Hale, which stands 
 in the City Hall Park, above the roar of Broadway, and 
 teaches a lesson daily to the hurrying crowds of money- 
 makers who pass beneath. . . . 
 
 The officer had given the order, the men had raised 
 their pieces, and the condemned man had heard the 
 clicks of the triggers as they were pulled back, and he 
 had not moved. And then happened one of the most 
 cruelly refined, though unintentional, acts of torture 
 that one can very well imagine. As the officer slowly 
 raised his sword, preparatory to giving the signal, one 
 of the mounted officers rode up to him and pointed out 
 silently what I had already observed with some satis- 
 faction, that the firing squad were so placed that when 
 they fired they would shoot several of the soldiers 
 stationed on the extreme end of the square. 
 
 Their captain motioned his men to lower their pieces, 
 and then walked across the grass and laid his hand on 
 the shoulder of the waiting prisoner. 
 
 It is not pleasant to think what that shock must have 
 been. The man had steeled himself to receive a 
 volley of bullets in his back. He believed that in the 
 next instant he would be in another world; he had 
 heard the command given, had heard the click of the 
 Mausers as the locks caught — and then, at that supreme 
 moment, a human hand had been laid upon his shoulder 
 and a voice spoke in his ear. 
 
 You would expect that any man who had been 
 snatched back to life in such a fashion would start and 
 tremble at the reprieve, or would break down alto- 
 gether, but this bdy turned his head steadily, and fol- 
 lowed with his eyes the direction of the officer's sword,
 
 By RICHARD HARDING DAVIS 339 
 
 then nodded his head gravely, and, with his shoulders 
 squared, took up a new position, straightened his back 
 again, and once more held himself erect. 
 
 As an exhibition of self-control this should surely 
 rank above feats of heroism performed in battle, 
 where there are thousands of comrades to give inspira- 
 tion. This man was alone, in the sight of the hills he 
 knew, with only enemies about him, with no source to 
 draw on for strength but that which lay within himself. 
 
 The officer of the firing squad, mortified by his 
 blunder, hastily whipped up his sword, the men once 
 more leveled their rifles, the sword rose, dropped, and 
 the men fired. At the report the Cuban's head snapped 
 back almost between his shoulders, but his body fell 
 slowly, as though some one had pushed him gently 
 forward from behind and he had stumbled. 
 
 He sank on his side in the wet grass without a 
 struggle or sound, and did not move again. . . 
 
 At that moment the sun, which had shown some 
 promise of its coming in the glow above the hills, shot 
 up suddenly from behind them in all the splendor of 
 the tropics, a fierce, red disc of heat, and filled the air 
 with warmth and light. 
 
 The bayonets of the retreating column flashed in it, 
 and at the sight of it a rooster in a farmyard near by 
 crowed vigorously and a dozen bugles answered the 
 challenge with the brisk, cheery notes of the reveille, 
 and from all parts of the city the church bells jangled 
 out the call for early mass, and the whole world of 
 Santa Clara seemed to stir and stretch itself and to 
 wake to welcome the day just begun. 
 
 But as I fell in at the rear of the procession and 
 looked back the figure of the young Cuban, who was no
 
 340 The DEATH of RODRIGUEZ 
 
 longer a part of the world of Santa Clara, was asleep in 
 the wet grass, with his motionless arms still tightly- 
 bound behind him, with the scapula twisted awry 
 across his face and the blood from his breast sinking 
 into the soil he had tried to free.
 
 "DAGGER SOLILOQUY." From "Macbeth." By 
 WILLIAM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 "11 TACBETH. Is this a dagger which I see before 
 
 The handle toward my hand? — Come, let me clutch thee. 
 
 I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. 
 
 Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible 
 
 To feeling as to sight? or art thou but 
 
 A dagger of the mind, a false creation, 
 
 Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain? 
 
 I see thee yet, in form as palpable 
 
 As this which now I draw. 
 
 Thou marshal!' St me the way that I was going; 
 
 And such an instrument I was to use. — 
 
 Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses, 
 
 Or else worth all the rest : I see thee still ; 
 
 And on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood, 
 
 Which was not so before. — There's no such thing: 
 
 It is the bloody business which informs 
 
 Thus to mine eyes. — Now o'er the one half world 
 
 Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse 
 
 The curtain 'd sleep; witchcraft celebrates 
 
 Pale Hecate's oflEerings, and wither'd murder, 
 
 Alarum 'd by his sentinel the wolf, 
 
 Whose howl's his watch, thus with his stealthy pace, 
 
 With Tarquin's ravishing strides, towards his design 
 
 Moves like a ghost. — Thou sure and firm-set earth. 
 
 Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear 
 
 Thy very stones prate of my whereabout, 
 
 And take the present horror from the time. 
 
 Which now suits with it. — Whiles I threat he lives: 
 
 Words to the heat of deeds too cool breath gives. 
 
 [A bell rings. 
 341
 
 342 "DAGGER SOLILOQUY" 
 
 I go, and it is done; the bell invites me. — 
 Hear it not, Duncan, for it is a knell 
 That summons thee to heaven or to hell.
 
 THE FORUM SCENE. From "Julius Csesar." By 
 WILLIAM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 Scene. The Forum. 
 Enter Brutus and Cassius, and a throng of Citizens. 
 
 CITIZENS. We will be satisfied; let us be 
 satisfied. 
 
 Brutus. Then follow me, and give me audience, 
 friends. — 
 Cassius, go you into the other street, 
 
 And part the numbers. 
 
 Those that will hear me speak, let 'em stay here; 
 Those that will follow Cassius, go with him ; 
 And public reasons shall be rendered 
 Of Cajsar's death. 
 
 First Citizen. I will hear Brutus speak. 
 
 Second Citizen. I will hear Cassius, and compare 
 their reasons. 
 When severally we hear them rendered. 
 
 [Exit Cassius, with some of the Citizens. Brutus goes 
 
 into the pulpit.] 
 
 Third Citizen. The noble Brutus is ascended. 
 Silence! 
 
 Brutus. Be patient till the last. 
 Romans, countrymen, and lovers! hear me for my 
 cause, and be silent, that you may hear; believe me for 
 mine honour, and have respect to mine honour, that 
 you may believe; censure me in your wisdom, and 
 awake your senses, that you may the better judge. If 
 there be any in this assembly, any dear friend of 
 Caesar's, to him I say that Brutus' love to Caesar was 
 no less than his. If then that friend demand why 
 Brutus rose against Caesar, this is my answer. — Not 
 
 343
 
 344 The FORUM SCENE 
 
 that I loved Caesar less, but that I loved Rome more. 
 Had you rather Caesar were living, and die all slaves, 
 than that Caesar were dead, to live all freemen? As 
 Caesar loved me, I weep for him ; as he was fortunate, I 
 rejoice at it ; as he was valiant, I honour him ; but as he 
 was ambitious, I slew him. There is tears for his love, 
 joy for his fortune, honour for his valour, and death for 
 his ambition. Who is here so base that would be a bond- 
 man? If any, speak, for him have I offended. Who is 
 here so rude that would not be a Roman? If any, 
 speak, for him have I offended. Who is here so vile 
 that will not love his country? If any, speak, for him 
 have I offended. I pause for a reply. 
 
 All. None, Brutus, none. 
 
 Brutus. Then none have I offended. I have done 
 no more to Caesar than you shall do to Brutus. The 
 question of his death is enrolled in the Capitol ; his 
 glory not extenuated, wherein he was worthy, nor his 
 offences enforced, for which he suffered death. 
 
 [Enter Antony and others, 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 dying, a place in the commonwealth ; as 
 v/hich of you shall not? With this I depart, — that, as 
 I slew my best lover for the good of Rome, I have the 
 same dagger for myself, when it shall please my 
 country to need my death. 
 
 All. Live, Brutus, live! live! 
 
 First Citizen. Bring him with triumph home unto 
 his house. 
 
 Second Citizen. Give him a statue with his ances- 
 tors.
 
 By WILLIAM SHAKSPERE 345 
 
 Third Citizen. Let him be Caesar. 
 
 Fourth Citizen. Caesar's better parts 
 
 Shall now be crown 'd in Brutus. 
 
 First Citizen. We'll bring him to his house with 
 shouts and clamours. 
 
 Brutus. My countrymen, — 
 
 Second Citizen. Peace ! silence ! Brutus speaks. 
 
 First Citizen. Peace, ho! 
 
 Brutus. Good countrymen, let me depart alone, 
 And for my sake, stay here with Antony ; 
 Do grace to Caesar's corpse, and grace his speech 
 Tending to Caesar's glories, which Mark Antony 
 By our permission is allow'd to make. 
 I do entreat you, not a man depart, 
 Save I alone, till Antony have spoke. [Exit. 
 
 First Citizen. Stay, ho! and let us hear Mark 
 Antony. 
 
 Third Citizen. Let him go up into the public 
 chair ; 
 We'll hear him. — Noble Antony, go up. 
 
 Antony. For Brutus' sake, I am beholding to you. 
 
 Fourth Citizen. What does he say of Brutus? 
 
 Third Citizen. He says, for Brutus' sake, 
 
 He finds himself beholding to us all. 
 Fourth Citizen. 'Twere best he speak no harm of 
 Brutus here. 
 
 First Citizen, This Caesar was a tyrant. 
 
 Third Citizen. Nay, that's certain; 
 
 We are blest that Rome is rid of him. 
 
 Second Citizen. Peace, let us hear what Antony can 
 say. 
 
 Antony. You gentle Romans, — 
 
 All, Peace, ho ! let us hear him.
 
 346 The FORUM SCENE 
 
 Antony. Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me 
 your ears ; 
 I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him. 
 The evil that men do lives after them, 
 The good is oft interred with their bones; 
 So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus 
 Hath told you Caesar was ambitious; 
 If it were so, it was a grievous fault. 
 And grievously hath Caesar answer'd it. 
 Here, tmder leave of Brutus and the rest, — 
 For Brutus is an honourable man. 
 So are they all, all honourable men, — 
 Come I to speak in Caesar's funeral. 
 He was my friend, faithful and just to me: 
 But Brutus says he was ambitious; 
 And Brutus is an honourable man. 
 He hath brought many captives home to Rome, 
 Whose ransom did the general coffers fill ; 
 Did this in Caesar seem ambitious? 
 When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept; 
 Ambition should be made of sterner stuff. 
 Yet Brutus says he was ambitious; 
 And Brutus is an honourable man. 
 You all did see that on the Lupercal 
 I thrice presented him a kingly crown. 
 Which he did thrice refuse. Was this ambition? 
 Yet Brutus says, he was ambitious; 
 And, sure, he is an honourable man. 
 I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke, 
 But here I am to speak what I do know. 
 You all did love him once, not without caus6 ; 
 What cause withholds you then to mourn for him? 
 O judgment, thou art fled to brutish beasts,
 
 By WILLIAM SHAKSPERE 347 
 
 And men have lost their reason! — Bear with me; 
 My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar, 
 And I must pause till it come back to me. 
 
 First Citizen. Methinks there is much reason in his 
 
 sayings. 
 Second Citizen. If thou consider rightly of the 
 matter, 
 Caesar has had great wrong. 
 
 Third Citizen. Has he, masters? 
 
 I fear there will a worse come in his place. 
 
 Fourth Citizen. Mark'd ye his words? He would 
 not take the crown ; 
 Therefore 'tis certain he was not ambitious. 
 
 First Citizen. If it be found so, some will dear abide 
 
 it. 
 Second Citizen. Poor soul! his eyes are red as fire 
 
 with v/eeping. 
 Third Citizen. There's not a nobler man in Rome 
 
 than Antony. 
 Fourth Citizen. Now mark him, he begins again to 
 speak. 
 
 Antony. But yesterday the word of Caesar might 
 Have stood against the world; now lies he there, 
 And none so poor to do him reverence. 
 
 masters! if I were dispos'd to stir 
 Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage, 
 
 1 should do Brutus wrong and Cassius wrong, 
 Who, you all know, are honourable men. 
 
 I will not do them wrong; I rather choose 
 To wrong the dead, to wrong myself and you, 
 Than I will wrong such honourable men. 
 But here's a parchment, with the seal of Caesar;
 
 348 The FORUM SCENE 
 
 I found it in his closet; 'tis his will. 
 
 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 wounds, 
 
 And dip their napkins in his sacred blood. 
 
 Yea, beg a hair of him for memory, 
 
 And, dying, mention it within their wills, 
 
 Bequeathing it as a rich legacy 
 
 Unto their issue. 
 
 Fourth Citizen. We'll hear the will. Read it, Mark 
 Antony. 
 
 All. The will, the will ! we will hear Caesar's will. 
 
 Antony. Have patience, gentle friends, I must not 
 read it; 
 It is not meet you know how Caesar lov'd you. 
 You are not wood, you are not stones, but men; 
 And, being men, hearing the will of Caesar, 
 It will inflame you, it will make you mad. 
 'Tis good you know not that you are his heirs; 
 For if you should, O, what would come of it? 
 
 Fourth Citizen. Read the will! we'll hear it, 
 Antony! 
 You shall read us the will! Caesar's will! 
 
 Antony. Will you be patient? Will you stay 
 awhile? 
 I have o'ershot myself, to tell you of it. 
 I fear I wrong the honourable men 
 Whose daggers have stabb'd Caesar; I do fear it. 
 
 Fourth Citizen. They were traitors! Honourable 
 men! 
 
 All. The will ! the testament ! 
 
 Second Citizen. They were villains, murderers! 
 The will! Read the will!
 
 By WILLIAM SHAKSPERE 349 
 
 Antony. You will compel me, then, to read the will? 
 Then make a ring about the corpse of Caesar, 
 And let me show you him that made the will. 
 Shall I descend? And will you give me leave? 
 
 All. Come down. 
 
 Second Citizen. Descend. 
 
 [He comes down from the pulpit. 
 
 Third Citizen. You shall have leave. 
 
 Fourth Citizen. A ring; stand round. 
 
 First Citizen. Stand from the hearse, stand from 
 the body. 
 
 Second Citizen. Room for Antony! — most noble 
 Antony ! 
 
 Antony. Nay, press not so upon me ; stand far off. 
 
 All. ' Stand back ! room ! bear back ! 
 
 Antony. If you have tears, prepare to shed them 
 now. 
 You all do know this mantle: I remember 
 The first time ever Csesar put it on ; 
 'Twas on a summer's evening, in his tent, 
 That day he overcame the Nervii. 
 Look! in this place ran Cassius' dagger through; 
 See what a rent the envious Casca made ; 
 Through this the well-beloved Brutus stabb'd; 
 And as he pluck 'd his cursed steel away, 
 Mark how the blood of Csesar followed it, 
 As rushing out of doors, to be resolv'd 
 If Brutus so unkindly knocked, or no ; 
 For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar's angel : 
 Judge, O you gods, how dearly Caesar lov'd him! 
 This was the most unkindest cut of all ; 
 For, when the noble Caesar saw him stab, 
 Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms,
 
 350 The FORUM SCENE 
 
 Quite vanquish'd him: then burst his mighty heart; 
 
 And, in his mantle muffling up his face, 
 
 Even at the base of Pompey's statua. 
 
 Which all the while ran blood, great Caesar fell. 
 
 O, what a fall was there, my countrymen ! 
 
 Then I, and you, and all of us fell down, 
 
 Whilst bloody treason fiourish'd over us. 
 
 O, now you weep, and I perceive you feel 
 
 The dint of pity ; these are gracious drops. 
 
 Kind souls, what ! weep you when you but behold 
 
 Our Caesar's vesture wounded? Look you here. 
 
 Here is himself, marr'd, as you see, with traitors. 
 
 First Citizen. O piteous spectacle! 
 
 Second Citizen. O noble Caesar! 
 
 Third Citizen. O woful day! 
 
 Fourth Citizen. O traitors, villains! 
 
 First Citizen. O most bloody sight! 
 
 Second Citizen. We will be reveng'd! 
 
 All. Revenge! About! Seek! Burn! Fire! Kill! 
 Slay ! Let not a traitor live ! 
 
 Antony. Stay, countrymen. 
 
 First citizen. Peace there ! Hear the noble Antony. 
 
 Second Citizen. We'll hear him, we'll follow him, 
 we'll die with him. 
 
 Antony. Good friends, sweet friends, let me not 
 stir you up 
 To such a sudden flood of mutiny. 
 They that have done this deed are honourable, 
 What private griefs they have, alas! I know not, 
 That made them do it; they are wise and honourable, 
 And will, no doubt, with reasons answer you. 
 I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts; 
 I am no orator, as Brutus is,
 
 By WILLIAM SHAKSPERE 351 
 
 But, as you know me all, a plain blunt man, 
 
 That love my friend ; and that they know full well 
 
 That gave me public leave to speak of him. 
 
 For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth, 
 
 Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech, 
 
 To stir men's blood: I only speak right on; 
 
 I tell you that which you yourselves do know, 
 
 Show you sweet Caesar's wounds, poor, poor dumb 
 
 mouths, 
 And bid them speak for me : but, were I Brutus, 
 And Brutus, Antony, there were an Antony 
 Would ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongue 
 In every wound of Csesar that should move 
 The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny. 
 
 All. We'll mutiny. 
 
 First Citizen. We'll burn the house of Brutus. 
 
 Third Citizen. Away, then ! come, seek the con- 
 spirators. 
 
 Antony. Yet hear me, countrymen; yet hear me 
 speak. 
 
 All. Peace, ho ! Hear Antony, most noble Antony. 
 
 Antony. Why, friends, you go to do you know not 
 what. 
 Wherein hath Csesar thus deserv'd your loves? 
 Alas, you know not ! — I must tell you, then. 
 You have forgot the will I told you of. 
 
 Citizen. Most true; — the will! — let's stay, and hear 
 the will. 
 
 Antony. Here is the will, and under Caesar's seal. 
 To every Roman citizen he gives, 
 To every several man, seventy-five drachmas. 
 
 Second Citizen. Most noble Caesar! — we'll revenge 
 his death.
 
 352 The FORUM SCENE 
 
 Third Citizen. O royal Caesar! 
 
 Antony. Hear me with patience. 
 
 All. Peace, ho! 
 
 Antony. Moreover, he hath left you all his walks, 
 His private arbours, and new-planted orchards, 
 On this side Tiber ; he hath left them you, 
 And to your heirs forever, common pleasures, 
 To walk abroad, and recreate yourselves. 
 Here was a Csesar! when comes such another? 
 
 First Citizen. Never, never! — Come, away, away! 
 We'll burn his body in the holy place, 
 And with the brands fire the traitors' houses. 
 Take up the body. 
 
 Second Citizen. Go, fetch fire. 
 
 Third Citizen. Pluck down benches. 
 
 Fourth Citizen. Pluck down forms, windows, any 
 thing. [Exeunt Citizens, with the body. 
 
 Antony. Now let it work. Mischief, thou art afoot. 
 Take thou what course thou wilt!
 
 WIVES IN A SOCIAL GAME. Anonymous. 
 
 BIGGSBY and his wife went around to the Crosbys' 
 the other night to spend the evening, and they 
 had been there only a short time when Crosby said : 
 
 "S'posing we have a game of euchre." 
 
 "Oh, let's!" said Mrs. Biggsby. 
 
 "Think euchre is perfectly lovely," said Mrs. 
 Crosby, and Biggsby said : 
 
 "All right, we'll have a game or two." 
 
 So the cards were brought out and a table cleared 
 for the game. Like most men, Crosby and Biggsby 
 liked to play cards as if it were a matter of life and 
 death, but it was different with the women. 
 
 "I like euchre because it is such a sociable game," 
 said Mrs. Biggsby, as she munched at one of a dish 
 of bonbons Mrs. Crosby had set in the middle of the 
 table, and Crosby had somewhat impatiently set it 
 aside. 
 
 "Now, in whist one has to give such close attention 
 to the game that— — " began Mrs. Biggsby, when 
 Biggsby interrupted with : 
 
 "Come, cut for deal." 
 
 "Hope I'll get it," said Mrs. Crosby, with a chuckle. 
 
 "You'll be real mean if you do," said Mrs. 
 Biggsby. "I always like to — Oh, Mr. Crosby has the 
 deal, and he's my partner. Goody, goody!" 
 
 "You're horrid! Oh, by the way, I met May Grigg- 
 son and her baby on the street this afternoon. She'd 
 been down getting the baby photographed. I'd 
 never seen her baby before, although it's five months 
 old and " 
 
 "I've never seen it yet. Is it pretty?" 
 
 "Well, it has May's eyes and nose to a T, but, 
 
 353
 
 354 WIVES in a SOCIAL GAME 
 
 of course, one can*t tell how such a young baby will 
 look when — Oh! are those my cards? What's trumps?" 
 
 "Hearts." 
 
 "Oh, mercy! I've a perfectly awful hand! I 
 hope my partner ' ' 
 
 "Come, come," says Crosby, "no talking across 
 the table. What will you do?" 
 
 "Oh, I pass! I haven't a single trump, and — — " 
 
 ti - 
 
 'I'm not much better off," says Mrs. Crosby. 
 "But about May Griggson. They say that Tom, her 
 husband, thinks that the sun rises and sets in that 
 baby, and that May won't leave it for an hour, not 
 even with her own mother, and — oh, did you know 
 that Jennie Traft's engagement to Fred Hilton had 
 been announced?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "It's so, and — oh, is it my play? What's trumps?" 
 
 "Hearts." 
 
 "Who led?" 
 
 "Crosby." 
 
 "Then I — oh, dear, I don't know what to play. 
 Let me see, I've got to follow suit, haven't I? I 
 guess this nine spot will do. As I was saying, Jennie 
 and Fred are engaged at last, and they say that the 
 wedding is to be right away, for — isn't that a new 
 waist you have on?" 
 
 "Yes— you like it?" 
 
 "I think it's lovely. Here they said two years ago 
 that the fancy waist was going out, and I do believe 
 that they are worn more than ever." 
 
 "Of course they are for — What? It's my play? 
 What's trumps? Hearts? Why, I thought diamonds 
 were trumps. Well, it doesn't make any difference,
 
 ANONYMOUS 355 
 
 for I haven't any. What's led? Spades? Who played 
 that ten spot? I haven't any spades, and so I guess I'd 
 better trump it for — oh, my partner has already 
 trumped it with the right bower, and there I threw 
 away that good left bower. That's too bad. But, 
 as I was saying, my dressmaker says that she has 
 made more fancy waists this season than ever 
 before." 
 
 "I don't doubt it. I'm having me one made of 
 black chiffon over orange silk, with beautiful jet 
 passementeries and — What? It's my play? Let me 
 see — what's trumps? Hearts? Well, you needn't be 
 so cross about it, Mr. Biggsby. What led?" 
 
 "Diamonds." 
 
 "Diamonds. And you say that hearts are trumps? 
 Hearts, hearts; I haven't any hearts nor any trumps, 
 so I'll play this club for — yes, it's of fine black chiffon, 
 and you can't think how lovely the orange taifeta silk 
 looks under it. The chiffon tones the orange down to 
 the loveliest tint of pinkish yellow, and I'm having 
 rows and rows of fine tucking in front and " 
 
 "I should think it would be lovely. But aren't you 
 sorry those cunning and pretty little boleros have gone 
 out now that — oh, it's my play. What's trumps? 
 
 "Hearts!" growls Crosby. 
 
 "Mercy! Don't take my head off if hearts are 
 trumps. Jack Crosby! That's the way with men; they 
 play cards as if their lives were at stake, and I, oh, 
 say, maybe, s'posing we let Jack and George finish the 
 game and you go upstairs with me and see a new bon- 
 net I've just had sent home. It's the most fetching 
 thing I've had for years, and I'm dying to show it to 
 you. I don't care for euchre, anyhow,"
 
 356 WIVES i?i a SOCIAL GAME 
 
 ((■ 
 
 'Neither do I. Whist is my gfame." 
 
 *'Mine, too. There! You horrid, cross men, you! 
 Go on with the game by yourselves!" 
 
 Which they were glad to do after changing the game 
 from euchre to poker.
 
 SOLILOQUIES FROM "HAMLET." By WILL- 
 IAM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 HAMLET. O that this too, too solid flesh would 
 melt, 
 Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew! 
 Or that the Everlasting had not fix'd 
 His canon 'gainst self -slaughter! O God! O God! 
 How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable 
 Seem to me all the uses of this world ! 
 Fieon't! O fie! 'tis an un weeded garden, 
 That grows to seed ; things rank and gross in 
 
 nature 
 Possess it merely. That it should come to this! 
 But two months dead! nay, not so much, not two: 
 So excellent a king; that was, to this, 
 Hyperion to a satyr; so loving to my mother 
 That he might not beteem the winds of heaven 
 Visit her face too roughly. Heaven and earth! 
 Must I remember? Why, she would hang on him, 
 As if increase of appetite had grown 
 By what it fed on ; and yet, within a month — 
 Let me not think on't — Frailty, thy name is woman! — 
 A little month, or ere those shoes were old 
 With which she foUow'd my poor father's body. 
 Like Niobe, all tears, — why she, even she — 
 O God ! a beast, that wants discourse of reason, 
 Would have mourn'd longer — married with my uncle. 
 My father's brother, but no more like my father 
 Than I to Hercules. Within a month? 
 Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears 
 Had left the flushing in her galled eyes. 
 She married. O most wicked speed, to post 
 With such dexterity to incestuous sheets, 
 
 357
 
 358 SOLILOQUIES from "HAMLET" 
 
 It is not, nor it cannot come to good ; — 
 
 But break my heart, for I must hold my tongue. 
 
 Hamlet. Now I am alone. 
 
 O, what a rogue and peasant slave am I! 
 
 Is it not monstrous that this player here, 
 
 But in a fiction, in a dream of passion, 
 
 Could force his soul so to his own conceit 
 
 That from her working all his visage wann'd, 
 
 Tears in his eyes, distraction in's aspect, 
 
 A broken voice, and his whole function suiting 
 
 With forms to his conceit? And all for nothing! 
 
 For Hecuba! 
 
 What's Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba, 
 
 That he should weep for her? What would he do, 
 
 Had he the motive and the cue for passion 
 
 That I have? He would drown the stage with tears 
 
 And cleave the general ear with horrid speech. 
 
 Make mad the guilty and appall the free, 
 
 Confound the ignorant, and amaze indeed 
 
 The very faculties of eyes and ears. 
 
 Yet I, 
 
 A dull and muddy-mettled rascal, peak. 
 
 Like John-a-dreams, unpregnant of my cause, 
 
 And can say nothing; no, not for a king. 
 
 Upon whose property and most dear life 
 
 A damn'd defeat was made. Am I a coward? 
 
 Who calls me villain? breaks my pate across? 
 
 Plucks off my beard, and blows it in my face? 
 
 Tweaks me by the nose? gives me the lie i' the throat, 
 
 As deep as to the lungs? who does me this? 
 
 Ha! 
 
 'S wounds, I should take it; for it cannot be
 
 By WILLIAM SHAKSPERE 359 
 
 But I am pigeon-liver'd and lack gall 
 
 To make oppression bitter, or ere this 
 
 I should have fatted all the region kites 
 
 With this slave's offal. Bloody, bawdy villain! 
 
 Remorseless, treacherous, lecherous, kindless villain! 
 
 vengeance! 
 
 Why, what an ass am I ! This is most brave, 
 
 That I, the son of a dear father murder'd. 
 
 Prompted to my revenge by heaven and hell, 
 
 Must fall a-cursing, like a very drab, 
 
 A scullion! 
 
 Fie upon't! foh! About, my brain! I have heard 
 
 That guilty creatures sitting at a play 
 
 Have by the very cunning of the scene 
 
 Been struck so to the soul that presently 
 
 They have proclaim'd their malefactions; 
 
 For murder, though it have no tongue, will speak 
 
 With most miraculous organ. I'll have these players 
 
 Play something like the murder of my father 
 
 Before mine uncle: I'll observe his looks; 
 
 I'll tent him to the quick: if he but blench, 
 
 1 know my course. The spirit that I have seen 
 May be the devil ; and the devil hath power 
 To assume a pleasing shape ; yea, and perhaps 
 Out of my weakness and my melancholy, 
 
 As he is very potent with such spirits, 
 Abuses me to damn me. I'll have grounds 
 More relative than this; the play's the thing 
 Wherein I'll catch the conscience of the king. 
 
 Hamlet. To be, or not to be, — that is the question: 
 Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer 
 The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
 
 36o SOLILOQUIES from "HAMLET" 
 
 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 
 
 The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks 
 
 That flesh is heir to, — 'tis a consummation 
 
 Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, — to sleep, — 
 
 To sleep! perchance to dream! ay, there's the rub; 
 
 For in that sleep of death what dreams may come 
 
 When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, 
 
 Must give us pause : there's the respect 
 
 That makes calamity of so long life ; 
 
 For who would bear the whips and scorns of time. 
 
 The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, 
 
 The pangs of dispriz'd love, the law's delay. 
 
 The insolence of office, and the spurns 
 
 That patient merit of the unworthy takes, 
 
 When he himself might his quietus make 
 
 With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear, 
 
 To grunt and sweat under a weary life. 
 
 But that the dread of something after death, 
 
 The undiscover'd country from whose bourn 
 
 No traveller returns, puzzles the will, 
 
 And makes us rather bear those ills we 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 turn awry. 
 
 And lose the name of action. 
 
 King. O, my offence is rank, it smells to heaven ; 
 It hath the primal eldest curse upon 't,
 
 By WILLIAM SHAKSPERE 361 
 
 A brother's murder! Pray can I not, 
 
 Though inclination be as sharp as will ; 
 
 My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent, 
 
 And, like a man to double business bound, 
 
 I stand in pause where I shall first begin, 
 
 And both neglect. What if this cursed hand 
 
 Were thicker than itself with brother's blood, 
 
 Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens 
 
 To wash it white as snow? Whereto serves mercy 
 
 But to confront the visage of offence? 
 
 And what's in prayer but this twofold force,— 
 
 To be forestalled ere we come to fall, 
 
 Or pardon 'd being down? Then I'll look up; 
 
 My fault is past. But, O, what form of prayer 
 
 Can serve my turn? 'Forgive me my foul murder?' 
 
 That cannot be; since I am still possess'd 
 
 Of those effects for which I did the murder. 
 
 My crown, mine own ambition, and my queen. 
 
 May one be pardon 'd and retain the offence? 
 
 In the corrupted currents of this world 
 
 Offence's gilded hand may shove by justice, 
 
 And oft 'tis seen the wicked prize itself 
 
 Buys out the law; but 'tis not so above: 
 
 There is no shuffling, there the action lies 
 
 In his true nature, and we ourselves compell'd 
 
 Even to the teeth and forehead of our faults 
 
 To give in evidence. What then? what rests? 
 
 Try what repentance can: what can it not? 
 
 Yet what can it when one can not repent? 
 
 O wretched state! O bosom black as death! 
 
 O limed soul, that struggling to be free 
 
 Art more engag'd! Help, angels! Make assay! 
 
 Bow, stubborn knees; and, heart with strings of steel.
 
 362 SOLILOQUIES from "HAMLET" 
 
 Be soft as sinews of the new-born babe ! 
 All may be well. [Retire's and kneels. 
 
 [Enter Hamlet] 
 Hamlet. Now might I do it pat, now he is praying; 
 And now I'll do 't. — And so he goes to heaven; 
 And so am I reveng'd. That would be scann'd: 
 A villain kills my father; and for that, 
 I, his sole son, do this same villain send 
 To heaven. 
 
 O, this is hire and salary, not revenge. 
 He took my father grossly, full of bread, 
 With all his crimes broad blown, as flush as May; 
 And how his audit stands who knows save heaven? 
 But in our circumstance and course of thought, 
 'Tis heavy with him; and am I then reveng'd. 
 To take him in the purging of his soul, 
 When he is fit and season'd for his passage? 
 No! 
 
 Up, sword, and know thou a more horrid hent: 
 When he is drunk asleep, or in his rage, 
 Or in the incestuous pleasure of his bed; 
 At gaming, swearing, or about some act 
 That has no relish of salvation in't; 
 Then trip him, that his heels may kick at heaven. 
 And that his soul may be as damn'd and black 
 As hell, whereto it goes. My mother stays. — 
 This physic but prolongs thy sickly days. [Exit. 
 
 King. [Rising.] My words fly up, my thoughts 
 remain below; 
 Words without thoughts never to heaven go. [Exit. 
 
 Hamlet. How all occasions do inform against me, 
 And spur my dull revenge ! What is a man,
 
 By WILLIAM SHAKSPERE 363 
 
 If his chief good and market of his time 
 
 Be but to sleep and feed? a beast, no more. 
 
 Sure, He that made us with such large discourse, 
 
 Looking before and after, gave us not 
 
 That capability and godlike reason 
 
 To fust in us unus'd. Now, whether it be 
 
 Bestial oblivion, or some craven scruple 
 
 Of thinking too precisely on the event, — 
 
 A thought which, quarter'd, hath but one part wisdom 
 
 And ever three parts coward, — ^I do not know 
 
 Why yet I live to say, 'This thing's to do,' 
 
 Sith I have cause and will and strength and means 
 
 To do 't. Examples gross as earth exhort me; 
 
 Witness this army of such mass and charge, 
 
 Led by a delicate and tender prince, 
 
 Whose spirit with divine ambition puff'd 
 
 Makes mouths at the invisible event, 
 
 Exposing what is mortal and unsure 
 
 To all that fortune, death, and danger dare, 
 
 Even for an egg-shell. Rightly to be great 
 
 Is not to stir without great argument. 
 
 But greatly to find quarrel in a straw 
 
 When honour's at the stake. How stand I then, 
 
 That have a father kill'd, a mother stain'd, 
 
 Excitements of my reason and my blood, 
 
 And let all sleep, while to my shame I see 
 
 The imminent death of twenty thousand men, 
 
 That for a fantasy and trick of fame 
 
 Go to their graves like beds, fight for a plot 
 
 Whereon the numbers cannot try the cause, 
 
 Which is not tomb enough and continent 
 
 To hide the slain? O, from this time forth, 
 
 My thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth !
 
 LADY GAY SPANKER. From "London Assur- 
 ance." Persons represented: Sir Harconrt Courtly, 
 Max Harkaway, Young Courtly (under the assumed 
 name of Mr. Hamilton), Dazzle, James, Grace Hark- 
 away, Lady Gay Spanker. By DION BOUCICAULT. 
 
 MAX. — Here, all of you — look, here is Lady Gay 
 Spanker coming across the lawn at a hand gallop ! 
 
 Sir H. (running to the window). — Bless me, the 
 horse is running away! 
 
 Max. — Look how she takes that fence ! there's a seat. 
 
 Sir H. — Lady Gay Spanker — who may she be? 
 
 Grace. — Gay Spanker, Sir Harcourt? My cousin and 
 dearest friend — you must like her. 
 
 Sir H. — It will be my devoir, since it is your wish — 
 though it will be a hard task in your presence. 
 
 Grace, — I am sure she will like you. 
 
 Sir H.— Ha! ha! I flatter myself. 
 
 Young C. — Who, and what is she? 
 
 Grace. — Glee, glee, made a living thing — Nature, in 
 some frolic mood, shut up a merry devil in her eye, 
 and, spiting Art, stole joy's brightest harmony to 
 thrill her laugh, which peals out sorrow's knell. Her 
 cry rings loudest in the field — the very echo loves it 
 best, and as each hill attempts to ape her voice. Earth 
 seems to laugh that it made a thing too glad. 
 
 Max. — Ay, the merriest minx I ever kissed. [Lady 
 Gay laughs without. 
 
 Lady G. (without). — Max! 
 
 Max. — Come in, you mischievous puss. 
 
 [Enter James.] 
 
 James. Mr. Adolphus and Lady Gay Spanker. 
 [Exit. 
 
 [Enter Lady Gay, fully equipped in riding habit, etc. ] 
 
 3C)4
 
 By DION BOUCICAULT 365 
 
 Lady Gay. — Ha! ha! Well, Governor, how are ye? 
 I have been down five times, climbing- up your stairs 
 in my long clothes. How are you, Grace, dear? 
 (Kisses her.) There, don't fidget, Max. And there — 
 (kisses him), there's one for you. 
 
 Sir H.— Ahem! 
 
 Lady Gay. — Oh, gracious, I didn't see you had 
 visitors. 
 
 Max. — Permit me to introduce — Sir Harcourt 
 Courtly, Lady Gay Spanker. Mr. Dazzle, Mr. Hamil- 
 ton — Lady Gay Spanker. 
 
 Lady Gay. — You mustn't think anything of the 
 liberties I take with my old papa here — bless him ! 
 
 Sir H. — Oh, no! (Aside.) I only thought I should 
 like to be in his place. 
 
 Lady Gay. — I am so glad you have come, Sir Har- 
 court. Now we shall be able to make a decent figure 
 at the heels of a hunt. 
 
 Sir H. — Does your Ladyship hunt? 
 
 Lady Gay. — Ha! I say. Governor, does my Lady- 
 ship hunt? I rather flatter myself that I do hunt! 
 Why, Sir Harcourt, one might as well live without 
 laughing as without hunting. Man was fashioned 
 expressly to fit a horse. Are not hedges and ditches 
 created for leaps? Of course! And I look upon foxes 
 to be one of the most blessed dispensations of a benign 
 Providence. 
 
 Sir H. — Yes, it is all very well in the abstract: I 
 tried it once. 
 
 Lady Gay. — Once! Only once? 
 
 Sir H. — Once, only once. And then the animal ran 
 away with me. 
 
 Lady Gay. — Why, you would not have him walk?
 
 366 LADY GAY SPANKER 
 
 Sir H. — Finding my society disagreeable, he insti- 
 tuted a series of kicks, with a view to removing the 
 annoyance ; but aided by the united stays of the mane 
 and tail I frustrated his intentions. (All laugh.) His 
 next resource, however, was more effectual, for he 
 succeeded in rubbing me up against a tree. 
 
 Max and Lady Gay. — Ha! ha! ha! 
 
 Daz. — How absurd you must have looked with your 
 legs and arms in the air, like a shipwrecked tea-table! 
 
 Sir H. — Sir, I never looked absurd in my life. Ah, 
 it may be very amusing in relation, I dare say, but 
 very unpleasant in effect. 
 
 Lady Gay. — I pity you, Sir Harcourt; it was crim- 
 inal in your parents to neglect your education so 
 shamefully. 
 
 Max. — Ah! Sir Harcourt, had you been here a 
 month ago, you would have witnessed the most glori- 
 ous run that ever swept over merry England's green 
 cheek — a steeple-chase, sir, which I intended to win, 
 but my horse broke down the day before. I had a 
 chance, notwithstanding; but for Gay here, I should 
 have won. How I regretted my absence from it! 
 How did my filly behave herself, Gay? 
 
 Lady Gay. — Gloriously, Max ! gloriously ! There were 
 sixty horses in the field, all mettle to the bone ; the 
 start was a picture — away we went in a cloud — pell- 
 mell — helter-skelter — the fools first, as usual, using 
 themselves up — we soon passed them — first your Kitty, 
 then my Blueskin, and Craven's colt last. Then came 
 the tug — Kitty skimmed the walls — Blueskin flew over 
 the fences — the Colt neck-and-neck, and half a mile to 
 run — at last the Colt balked a leap and went wild. 
 Kitty and I had it all to ourselves — she was three
 
 By DION BOUCICAULT 367 
 
 lengths ahead as we breasted the last wall, six feet, if 
 an inch, and a ditch on the other side. Now, for the 
 first time, I gave Blueskin his head — ha! ha! Away 
 he flew, like a thunderbolt — over went the filly — I over 
 the same spot, leaving Kitty in the ditch — walked the 
 steeple, eight miles in thirty minutes, and scarcely 
 turned a hair. 
 
 All. — Bravo! Bravo! 
 
 Lady Gay. — Do you hunt? 
 
 Daz. — Hunt! I belong to a hunting family. I was 
 born on horseback and cradled in a kennel! Ay, and 
 I hope I may die with a whoo- whoop ! 
 
 Max (to Sir H.). — You must leave your town habits 
 in the smoke of London : here we rise with the lark. 
 
 Sir H. — Haven't the remotest conception when that 
 period is. 
 
 Grace. — The man that misses sunrise loses the sweet- 
 est part of his existence. 
 
 Sir H. — Oh, pardon me; I have seen sunrise fre- 
 quently after a ball, or from the windows of my travel- 
 ling carriage, and I always considered it disagreeable. 
 
 Grace. — I love to watch the first tear that glistens in 
 the opening eye of morning, the silent song the 
 flowers breathe, the thrilling choir of the woodland 
 minstrels, to which the modest brook trickles 
 applause: — these, swelling out the sweetest chord of 
 sweet creation's matins, seem to pour some soft and 
 merry tale into the daylight's ear, as if the waking 
 world had dreamed a happy thing, and now smiled o'er 
 the telling of it. 
 
 Sir H. — The effect of a rustic education! Who could 
 ever discover music in a damp, foggy morning, except 
 those confounded waits, who never play in tune, and a
 
 368 LADY GAY SPANKER 
 
 miserable wretch who makes a point of crying coffee 
 under my window just as I am persuading myself to 
 sleep? In fact, I never heard any music worth listening 
 to, except in Italy. 
 
 Lady Gay. — No? then you never heard a well- 
 trained English pack in full cry? 
 
 Sir H.— Full cry! 
 
 Lady G. — Ay! there is harmony, if you will. Give 
 me the trumpet-neigh; the spotted pack just catching 
 scent. "What a chorus is their yelp! The view-hallo, 
 blent with a peal of free and fearless mirth! That's 
 our old English music, — match it where you can. 
 Time then appears as young as love, and plumes as 
 swift a wing. Away we go ! The earth flies back to 
 aid our course! Horse, man, hound, earth, heaven! — 
 all — all — one piece of glowing ecstacy! Then I love 
 the world, myself, and every living thing, — my jocund 
 soul cries out for very glee, as it could wish that all 
 creation had but one mouth, that I might kiss it!
 
 THE DEATH OF MME. DEFARGE. From "A 
 Tale of Two Cities." By CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 THERE were many women during the French 
 Revolution upon whom the time laid a dreadfully 
 disfiguring hand ; but there was not one among them 
 more to be dreaded than that ruthless woman, Madame 
 Defarge, now taking her way along the streets. She 
 was absolutely without pity. To appeal to her, was 
 made hopeless by her having no sense of pity, even 
 for herself. 
 
 Such a heart Madame Defarge carried under her 
 rough robe. Carelessly worn, it was a becoming robe 
 enough, in a certain weird way, and her dark hair 
 looked rich under her coarse red cap. Lying hidden 
 in her bosom was a loaded pistol. Lying hidden at 
 her waist was a sharpened dagger. Thus accoutred, 
 and walking with the confident tread of such a char- 
 acter, and with the supple freedom of a woman who 
 had habitually walked in her girlhood, barefoot and 
 barelegged, on the brown sea-sand, Madame Defarge 
 took her way along the streets. 
 
 Now, when the journey of the travelling coach, at 
 that very moment waiting for the completion of its 
 load, had been planned out last night, the difficulty of 
 taking Miss Pross in it was a serious consideration. 
 Finally, it was settled that Miss Pross and Jerry, who 
 were at liberty to leave the city, should leave it at 
 three o'clock in the lightest-wheeled conveyance 
 known to that period. 
 
 Seeing in this arrangement the hope of rendering 
 real service in that pressing emergency. Miss Pross 
 hailed it with joy. She and Jerry had beheld the 
 coach start, had passed some ten minutes in tortures of 
 
 369
 
 370 The DEATH of MME. DEFARGE 
 
 suspense, and were now concluding their arrangements 
 to follow the coach, even as Madame Defarge, taking 
 her way through the streets, now drew nearer and 
 nearer to the else -deserted lodging in which they held 
 their consultation. 
 
 "Now, what do you think, Mr. Cruncher," said Miss 
 Pross, whose agitation was so great that she could 
 hardly speak, or stand, or move, or live; "what do you 
 think of our not starting from this court-yard? Another 
 carriage having gone from here to-day, it might 
 awaken suspicion. ' ' 
 
 "My opinion, miss," returned Mr. Cruncher, "is as 
 you're right Likewise, wot I'll stand by you, right or 
 wrong. ' ' 
 
 "I am so distracted with fear and hope for our 
 precious creatures, that I am incapable of forming any 
 plan. Are you capable of forming any plan, my dear, 
 good Mr. Cruncher?' ' 
 
 "Respectin' a future spear o' life, miss," returned 
 Mr. Cruncher, "I hope so. Respectin' any present 
 use o' this here blessed head o' mine, I think not. 
 Would you do me the favour, miss, to take notice o' 
 two promises and wows wot it is my wishes fur to 
 record in this here crisis?" 
 
 "Oh, for gracious sake ! record them at once, 
 and get them out of the way, like an excellent 
 
 man." 
 
 "First," said Mr. Cruncher, who was all in a tremble, 
 and who spoke with an ashy and solemn visage, "them 
 poor things well out o' this, never no more will I do it, 
 never no more!" 
 
 "I am quite sure, Mr. Cruncher," returned Miss 
 Pross, "that you never will do it again, whatever it is,
 
 By CHARLES DICKENS 371 
 
 and I beg you not to think it necessary to mention 
 more particularly what it is." 
 
 "No, miss," returned Jerry, "it shall not be named 
 to you. Second: them poor things well out o' this, 
 and never no more will I interfere with Mrs. Crunch- 
 er's flopping, never no more!" 
 
 "Whatever housekeeping arrangement that may be," 
 said Miss Pross, striving to dry her eyes and compose 
 herself, "I have no doubt it is best that Mrs. Cruncher 
 should have it entirely under her own superintendence 
 — O my poor darlings!" 
 
 "I go so far as to say, miss, morehover, and let my 
 words be took down and took to Mrs. Cruncher 
 through yourself — that wot my opinions respectin' 
 flopping has undergone a change, and that wot I only 
 hope with all my heart as Mrs. Cruncher may be a 
 flopping at the present time." 
 
 "There, there, there! I hope she is, my dear man, 
 and I hope she finds it answering her expectations." 
 
 And still Madame Defarge, pursuing her way along 
 the streets, came nearer and nearer. 
 
 "If we ever get back to our native land," said Miss 
 Pross, "you may rely upon my telling Mrs. Cruncher 
 as much as I may be able to remember and under- 
 stand of what you have so impressively said ; and at all 
 events you may be sure that I shall bear witness to 
 your being thoroughly in earnest at this dreadful time. 
 Now, pray, let us think ! My esteemed Mr. Cruncher, 
 let us think!" 
 
 Still, Madame Defarge, pursuing her way along the 
 streets, came nearer and nearer. 
 
 "If you were to go before," said Miss Pross, "and 
 stop the vehicle and horses from coming here, and
 
 372 The DEATH of MME. DEFARGE - 
 
 were to wait somewhere for me; wouldn't that be 
 best?" 
 
 Mr. Cruncher thought it might be best. 
 
 "Where could you wait for me?" asked Miss Pross. 
 
 Mr. Cruncher was so bewildered that he could think 
 of no locality but Temple Bar. Alas, Temple Bar was 
 hundreds of miles away, and Madame Defarge was 
 drawing very near indeed. 
 
 "By the cathedral door," said Miss Pross. "Would 
 it be much out of the way to take me in, near the 
 great cathedral door between the two towers?" 
 
 "No, miss," answered Mr. Cruncher. 
 
 "Then, like the best of men," said Miss Pross, "go 
 to the posting-house straight, and make that change." 
 
 "I am doubtful about leaving of you, you see. We 
 don't known what may happen." 
 
 "Heaven knows, we don't," returned Miss Pross, 
 "but have no fear for me. Take me in at the cathe- 
 dral, at three o'clock, or as near it as you can, and I 
 am sure it will be better than our going from here. I 
 feel certain of it. There! Bless you, Mr. Cruncher! 
 Think — not of me, but of the lives that may depend on 
 both of us!" 
 
 This exordium, and Miss Press's two hands in quiet 
 agonised entreaty clasping his, decided Mr. Cruncher. 
 With an encouraging nod or two, he immediately went 
 out to alter the arrangements, and left her by herself 
 to follow as she had proposed. 
 
 The having originated a precaution which was 
 already in course of execution, was a great relief to 
 Miss Pross. The necessity of composing her appear- 
 ance so that it should attract no special notice in the 
 streets, was another relief. She looked at her watch,
 
 By CHARLES DICKENS 373 
 
 and it was twenty minutes past two. She had no time 
 to lose, but must get ready at once. 
 
 Afraid, in her extreme perturbation, of the loneli- 
 ness of the deserted rooms, and of half-imagined faces 
 peeping from behind every open door in them, Miss 
 Pross got a basin of cold water and began laving her 
 eyes, which were swollen and red. Haunted by her 
 feverish apprehensions, she could not bear to have her 
 sight obscured for a minute at a time by the dripping 
 water, but constantly paused and looked round to see 
 that there was no one watching her. In one of those 
 pauses she recoiled and cried out, for she saw a figure 
 standing in the room. 
 
 The basin fell to the ground broken, and the water 
 flowed to the feet of Madame Defarge. By strange, 
 stern ways, and through much staining blood, those 
 feet had come to meet that water. 
 
 Madame Defarge looked coldly at her, and said, 
 "The wife of Evremonde; where is she?" 
 
 It flashed upon Miss Press's mind that the doors 
 were all standing open, and would suggest the flight. 
 Her first act was to shut them. There were four in 
 the room, and she shut them all. She then placed 
 herself before the door of the chamber which Lucie 
 had occupied. 
 
 Madame Defarge's dark eyes followed her through 
 this rapid movement, and rested on her when it was 
 finished. Miss Pross had nothing beautiful about her; 
 years had not tamed the wildness, or softened the 
 grimness of her appearance ; but, she, too, was a 
 determined woman in her different way, and she 
 measured Madame Defarge with her eyes, every inch. 
 
 "You might, from your appearance, be the wife of
 
 374 The DEATH of MME. DEFARGE 
 
 Lucifer. Nevertheless, you shall not get the better of 
 me. I am an Englishwoman." 
 
 "On my way j-onder, " said Madame Defarge, with 
 a slight movement of her hand towards the fatal spot, 
 •'where they reserve my chair and my knitting for me, 
 I am come to make my compliments to her in passing. 
 I wish to see her." 
 
 "I know that your intentions are evil," said Miss 
 Pross, "and you may depend upon it, I'll hold my^ 
 own against them. ' ' 
 
 Each spoke in her own language ; neither understood 
 the other's words; both were very watchful, and intent 
 to deduce from look and manner, what the unintel- 
 ligible words meant. 
 
 "It will do her no good to keep herself concealed 
 from me at this moment," said Madame Defarge. 
 "Good patriots will know what that means. Let me 
 see her. Go tell her that I wish to see her. Do you 
 hear?" 
 
 "If those eyes of yours were bed- winches, " returned 
 Miss Pross, "and I was an English four-poster, they 
 shouldn't loose a splinter of me. No, you wicked 
 foreign woman; I am your match." 
 
 "Woman, imbecile and pig-like! I take no answer 
 from you. I demand to see her. Either tell her that 
 I demand to see her, or stand out of the way of the 
 door and let me go to her!" This, with an angry 
 explanatory wave of her right arm. 
 
 "I little thought," said Miss Pross, "that I should 
 ever want to understand your nonsensical language; 
 but I would give all I have, except the clothes I wear, 
 to know whether you suspect the truth, or any part 
 of it."
 
 By CHARLES DICKENS 375 
 
 Neither of tliem for a single moment released the 
 other's eyes. Madame Defarge had not moved from 
 the spot where she stood when Miss Pross first became 
 aware of her; but she now advanced one step. 
 
 "I am a Briton," said Miss Pross. "I am desperate. 
 I don't care an English twopence for myself. I know 
 that the longer I keep you here, the greater hope there 
 is for my Ladybird. I'll not leave a handful of that 
 dark hair upon your head, if you lay a finger on 
 me!" 
 
 Thus Miss Pross, with a shake of her head and a 
 flash of her eyes between every sentence, and every 
 rapid sentence a whole breath. Thus Miss Pross, who 
 had never struck a blow in her life. 
 
 But her courage was of that emotional nature that it 
 brought the irrepressible tears into her eyes. This 
 was a courage that Madame Defarge so little compre- 
 hended as to mistake for weakness. "Ha! ha!" she 
 laughed, "you poor wretch! What are you worth! I 
 address myself to that Doctor. ' ' Then she raised her 
 voice and called out, "Citizen Doctor! Wife of Evr^- 
 monde! Child of Evr^monde! Any person but this 
 miserable fool, answer the Citizeness Defarge!" 
 
 Perhaps the following silence, perhaps some latent 
 disclosure in the expression of Miss Press's face, per- 
 haps a sudden misgiving apart from either suggestion, 
 whispered to Madame Defarge that they were gone. 
 Three of the doors she opened swiftly, and looked in. 
 
 "Those rooms are all in disorder, there has been 
 hurried packing, there are odds and ends upon the 
 ground. There is no one in that room behind you! 
 Let me look." 
 
 "Never!" said Miss Pross, who understood the
 
 376 The DEATH of MME. DEFARGE 
 
 request as perfectly as Madame Defarge understood 
 the answer. 
 
 "If they are not in that room, they are gone, and 
 can be pursued and brought back," said Madame 
 Defarge to herself. 
 
 "As long as you don't know whether they are in 
 that room or not, you are uncertain what to do, ' ' said 
 Miss Pross to herself; ,"and you shall not know that, 
 if I can prevent your knowing it ; and know that, or 
 not know that, you shall not leave here while I can 
 hold you. ' * 
 
 "I have been in the streets from the first, nothing 
 has stopped me, I will tear you to pieces, but I will 
 have you from that door, ' ' said Madame Defarge. 
 
 "We are alone at the top of a high house in a soli- 
 tary courtyard, we are not likely to be heard, and I 
 pray for bodily strength to keep you here, while every 
 minute you are here is worth a hundred thousand 
 guineas to my darling," said Miss Pross. 
 
 Madame Defarge made at the door. Miss Pross, on 
 the instinct of the moment, seized her round the waist 
 in both her arms, and held her tight. It was in vain 
 for Madame Defarge to struggle and to strike; Miss 
 Pross, with the vigorous tenacity of love, always so 
 much stronger than hate, clasped her tight, and even 
 lifted her from the floor in the struggle that they had. 
 The two hands of Madame Defarge buffeted and tore 
 her face; but Miss Pross, with her head down, held 
 her round the waist, and clung to her with more than 
 the hold of a drowning woman. 
 
 Soon, Madame Defarge 's hands ceased to strike, and 
 felt at her encircled waist. "It is under my arm," 
 said Miss Pross, in smothered tones, "you shall not
 
 By CHARLES DICKENS 377 
 
 draw it. I am strong-er than you, I bless Heaven for 
 it. I'll hold yon till one or other of us faints or dies!" 
 
 Madame Defarge's hands were at her bosom. Miss 
 Pross looked up, saw what it was, struck at it, struck 
 out a flash and a crash, and stood alone — blinded with 
 smoke. 
 
 All this was in a second. As the smoke cleared, 
 leaving an awful stillness, it passed out on the air, like 
 the soul of Madame Defarge whose body lay lifeless on 
 the ground.
 
 SCENE FROM "THE RIVALS." By RICHARD 
 BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. 
 
 SCENE. — A dressing-room in Mrs. Malaprop's 
 lodgings; discovered, Lydia Languish sitting on 
 a sofa, with a book in her hand; Lucy as if just 
 returned from a message, on her R. 
 
 Lucy. — Indeed, ma'am, I traversed half the town in 
 search of it; I don't believe there's a circulating 
 library in Bath I ha'n't been at. 
 
 Lyd. — And could you not get "The Reward of 
 Constancy"? 
 
 Lucy. — No, indeed, ma'am. 
 
 Lyd.— Nor "The Fatal Connexion"? 
 
 Lucy. — No, indeed, ma'am. 
 
 Lyd.— Nor "The Mistakes of the Heart"? 
 
 Lucy. — Ma'am, as ill-luck would have it, Mr. Bull 
 said Miss Sukey Saunter had just fetched it away. 
 
 Lyd. — Heigho! Did you inquire for "The Delicate 
 Distress"? 
 
 Lucy. — Or, "The Memoirs of Lady Woodford"? 
 Yes, indeed, ma'am, I asked everywhere for it; and I 
 might have brought it from Mr. Frederick's, but Lady 
 Slattern Lounger, who had just sent it home, had so 
 soiled and dog's-eared it, it wa'n't fit for a Christian to 
 read. 
 
 Lyd. — Heigho! Well, child, what have you brought 
 me? 
 
 Lucy. — Oh, here, ma'am! (Takes books from under 
 her cloak and from her pockets.) This is "The Man 
 of Feeling," and this, "Peregrine Pickle" — here are 
 "The Tears of Sensibility," and "Humphrey Clinker." 
 
 Lyd. — Hold! here's some one coming — quick, see 
 who it is. 
 
 378
 
 By RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN 379 
 
 Lucy. — Oh, ma'am, here is Sir Anthony Absolute, 
 just coming home with your aunt. 
 
 Lyd. — They'll not come here; Lucy, do you watch. 
 
 Lucy. — Oh, lud, ma'am! They are both coming 
 upstairs! 
 
 Lyd. — Here, my dear Lucy, hide these books. 
 Quick — quick! 
 
 [Enter Mrs. Malaprop, followed by Sir Anthony 
 Absolute ; Lucy stands, hiding books behind her, 
 until Sir Anthony and Mrs. Malaprop pass, when 
 she saunters demurely off.] 
 
 Mrs. M. — There, Sir Anthony, there stands the 
 deliberate simpleton who wants to disgrace her family 
 and lavish herself on a fellow not worth a shilling. 
 
 Lyd. — Madam, I thought you once 
 
 Mrs. M. — You thought, miss! I don't know any 
 business you have to think at all. Thought does not 
 become a young woman. But the point we would 
 request of you is, that you will promise to forget this 
 fellow; — to illiterate him, I say, from your memory. 
 
 Lyd. — Ah, madam! our memories are independent 
 of our wills. It is not so easy to forget. 
 
 Mrs. M. — But I say it is, miss! There is nothing on 
 earth so easy as to forget, if a person chooses to set 
 about it. I'm sure I have as much forgot your poor 
 dear uncle as if he had never existed, and I thought it 
 my duty so to do; and let me tell you, Lydia, these 
 violent memories don't become a yoimg woman. 
 
 Sir A. — Surely the young lady does not pretend to 
 remember what she is ordered to forget! Ah, this 
 comes of her reading. 
 
 Lyd. — What crime, madam, have I committed, to be 
 treated thus?
 
 38o SCENE from the "RIVALS" 
 
 Mrs. M. — Now don't attempt to extirpate yourself 
 from the matter ; you know I have proof controvertible 
 of it. But tell me, will you promise me to do as you 
 are bid? Will you take a husband of your friends' 
 choosing? 
 
 Lyd. — Madam, I must tell you plainly that, had I no 
 preference for any one else, the choice you have made 
 would be my aversion. 
 
 Mrs. M. — What business have you, miss, with 
 preference and aversion? They don't become a j^oung 
 woman ; and you ought to know that, as both always 
 wear off, 'tis safest, in matrimony, to begin with a 
 little aversion. I am sure I hated your poor dear 
 uncle before marriage as if he'd been a black-a-moor, 
 and yet, miss, you are sensible what a wife I made; 
 and, when it pleased Heaven to release me from him, 
 'tis unknown what tears I shed! 
 
 Sir A.— He-e-m! 
 
 Mrs. M. — But, suppose we were going to give you 
 another choice, will you promise us to give up this 
 Beverley? 
 
 Lj^'d. — Could I belie my thoughts so far as to give 
 that promise, my actions would certainly as far belie 
 my words. 
 
 Mrs, M. — Take yourself to your room! You are fit 
 company for nothing but your own ill humours. 
 
 Lyd. — Willingly, ma'am; I cannot change for the 
 worse. [Exit. 
 
 Mrs. M. — There's a little intricate hussy for you! 
 
 Sir A. — It is not to be wondered at, ma'am; all that 
 is the natural consequence of teaching girls to read. 
 In my way hither, Mrs. Malaprop, I observed your 
 niece's maid coming forth from a circulating library;
 
 By RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN 381 
 
 she had a book in each hand — they were half-bound 
 volumes, with marble covers. From that moment, I 
 guessed how full of duty I should see her mistress! 
 
 Mrs. M. — Those are vile places, indeed! 
 
 Sir A. — Madam, a circulating- library in a town is as 
 an evergreen tree of diabolical knowledge! It blos- 
 soms through the year! And, depend upon it, Mrs. 
 Malaprop, that they who are so fond of handling the 
 leaves, will long for the fruit at last. 
 
 Mrs. M. — Fie, fie. Sir Anthony, you surely speak 
 laconically. 
 
 (Sir Anthony places a chair for her, and another for 
 himself, bows to her respectfully, waits till she is 
 seated.) 
 
 Sir A. — Why, Mrs. Malaprop, in moderation, now, 
 what would you have a woman know? 
 
 Mrs. M. — Observe me. Sir Anthony — I would by no 
 means wish a daughter of mine to be a progeny of 
 learning. I don't think so much learning becomes a 
 young woman. For instance — I would never let her 
 meddle with Greek, or Hebrew, or Algebra, or 
 Simony, or Fluxions, or Paradoxes, or such inflam- 
 matory branches of learning; nor will it be necessary 
 for her to handle any of your mathematical, astro- 
 nomical, diabolical instruments; but. Sir Anthony, I 
 would send her, at nine 3'^ears old, to a boarding- 
 school, in order to learn a little ingenuity and artifice. 
 Then, sir, she should have a supercilious knowledge in 
 accounts; and, as she grew up, I would have hei 
 instructed in geometry, that she might know some- 
 thing of the contagious countries; above all, she should 
 be a perfect mistress of orthodoxy — that is, she should 
 not mispronounce and misspell words as our young
 
 382 SCENE from the "RIVALS" 
 
 ladies of the present day constantly do. This, Sir 
 Anthony, is what I would have a woman know; and I 
 don't think there is a superstitious article in it. 
 
 Sir A. — Well, well, Mrs. Malaprop, I will dispute 
 the point no further with you; though I must confess, 
 that you are a truly moderate and polite arguer, for 
 almost every third word you say is on my side of the 
 question. But to the more important point in debate 
 — you say you have no objection to my proposal? 
 
 Mrs. M. — None, I assure you. I am under no posi- 
 tive engagement with Mr. Acres; and as Lydia is so 
 obstinate against him, perhaps your son may have 
 better success. 
 
 Sir A. — Well, madam, I will write for the boy 
 directly. He knows not a syllable of this yet, though 
 I have for some time had the proposal in my head. 
 He is at present with his regiment. 
 
 Mrs. M. — We have never seen your son. Sir 
 Anthony; but I hope no objection on his side. 
 
 Sir A. — Objection! Let him object, if he dare! 
 No, no, Mrs. Malaprop; Jack knows that the least 
 demur puts me in a frenzy directly. My process was 
 always very simple. In his younger days, 'twas, 
 "Jack, do this." If he demurred, I knocked him 
 down, and, if he grumbled at that, I always sent him 
 out of the room. 
 
 Mrs. M. — Ay, and the properest way, o' my con- 
 science! Nothing is so conciliating to young people 
 as severity. (Both rise.) Well, Sir Anthony, I shall 
 give Mr. Acres his discharge, and prepare Lydia to 
 receive your son's invocations; and I hope you will 
 represent her to the captain as an object not altogether 
 illegible.
 
 By RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN 383 
 
 Sir A. — Madam, I will handle the subject prudently. 
 I must leave you. Good morning, Mrs. Malaprop. 
 (Both bow profoundly, and Sir Anthony steps back as 
 if to go out ; then returns to say :) And let me beg 
 you, Mrs. Malaprop, to enforce this matter roundly to 
 the girl — take my advice, keep a tight hand. Good 
 morning, Mrs. Malaprop. If she rejects this proposal, 
 clap her under lock and key. Good-morning, Mrs. 
 Malaprop. And if you were just to let the servants 
 forget to bring her dinner for three or four days, you 
 can't conceive how she'd come about. Good-morning, 
 Mrs. Malaprop. 
 
 (Bows formally, and exit.) 
 
 Mrs. M. — Well, at any rate, I shall be glad to get 
 her from under my intuition ; she has somehow dis- 
 covered my partiality for Sir Lucius O' Trigger, Sure, 
 Lucy can't have betrayed me! No, the girl is such a 
 simpleton, I should have made her confess it. (Calls.) 
 Lucy, Lucy! Had she been one of your artificial 
 ones, I should never have trusted her. 
 
 [Enter Lucy.] 
 
 Lucy. — Did you call, ma'am? 
 
 Mrs. M. — Yes, girl. Did you see Sir Lucius while 
 you were out? 
 
 Lucy. — No, indeed, ma'am, not a glimpse of him. 
 
 Mrs. M. — You are sure, Lucy, that you never men- 
 tioned 
 
 Lucy. — Oh, gemini! I'd sooner cut my tongue out! 
 
 Mrs. M. — Well, don't let your simplicity be reposed 
 upon. 
 
 Lucy. — No, ma'am. 
 
 Mrs. M. — So, come to me presently, and I'll give
 
 384 SCENE from the "RIVALS" 
 
 you another letter to Sir Lucius; bu: mind, Lucy, if 
 ever you betray what you are intrusted with, — unless 
 it be other people's secrets to me, — you forfeit my 
 malevolence for ever; and your being a simpleton 
 shall be no excuse for your locality.
 
 CLEOPATRA'S BARGE. From "Antony and 
 Cleopatra." By WILLIAM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 M^CENAS. Welcome from Egypt, sir. 
 Enobarbus. Half the heart of Caesar, worthy 
 Maecenas! — My honourable friend, Agrippa! 
 
 Agrippa. Good Enobarbus! 
 
 Maecenas. We have cause to be glad that matters 
 are so well digested. You stay'd well by't in Egypt. 
 
 Enobarbus. Ay, sir ; we did sleep day out of coun- 
 tenance, and made the night light with drinking. 
 
 Maecenas. Eight wild boars roasted whole at a 
 breakfast, and but twelve persons there; is this true? 
 
 Enobarbus. This was but as a fly by an eagle ; we 
 had much more monstrous matter of feast, which 
 worthily deserved noting. 
 
 Maecenas. She's a most triumphant lady, if report 
 be square to her. 
 
 Enobarbus. When she first met Mark Antony, she 
 pursed up his heart, upon the river of Cydnus. 
 
 Agrippa. There she appeared indeed, or my 
 reporter devised well for her. 
 
 Enobarbus. I will tell you. 
 The barge she sat in, like a burnish'd throne, 
 Burn'd on the water; the poop was beaten gold; 
 Purple the sails, and so perfumed that 
 The winds were love-sick with them; the oars were 
 
 silver. 
 Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke and made 
 The water which they beat to follow faster. 
 As amorous of their strokes. For her own person, 
 It beggar'd all description; she did lie 
 In her pavilion — cloth-of-gold of tissue — 
 O'erpicturing that Venus where we see 
 
 385
 
 386 CLEOPATRA'S BARGE 
 
 The fancy outwork nature ; on each side her 
 Stood pretty dimpled boys, like smiling Cupids, 
 With divers-colour'd fans, whose wind did seem 
 To glow the delicate cheeks which they did cool, 
 And what they undid did. 
 
 Agrippa. O, rare for Antony ! 
 
 Enobarbus. Her gentlewomen, like the Nereides, 
 So many mermaids, tended her i' the eyes. 
 And made their bends adornings ; at the helm 
 A seeming mermaid steers; the silken tackle 
 Swell with the touches of those flower-soft hands 
 That yarely frame the office. From the barge 
 A strange invisible perfume hits the sense 
 Of the adjacent wharfs. The city cast 
 Her people out upon her, and Antony, 
 Enthron'd i' the market-place, did sit alone, 
 Whistling to the air ; which, but for vacancy, 
 Had gone to gaze on Cleopatra too 
 And made a gap in nature. 
 
 Agrippa. Rare Egyptian! 
 
 Enobarbus. Upon her landing, Antony sent to her, 
 Invited her to supper; she replied, 
 It should be better he became her guest. 
 Which she entreated. Our courteous Antony, 
 Whom ne'er the word of 'No' woman heard speak. 
 Being barber'd ten times o'er, goes to the feast. 
 And for his ordinary pays his heart 
 For what his eyes eat only. 
 
 Agrippa. Royal wench! 
 
 Maecenas. Now Antony must leave her utterly. 
 
 Enobarbus. Never; he will not. 
 Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale 
 Her infinite variety; other women cloy
 
 By WILLIAM SHAKSPERE 387 
 
 The appetites they feed, but she makes hungry 
 Where most she satisfies. 
 
 Maecenas. If beauty, wisdom, modesty, can settle 
 The heart of Antony, Octavia is 
 A blessed lottery to him. 
 
 Agrippa. Let us go. — 
 
 Good Enobarbus, make yourself my guest 
 Whilst you abide here. 
 
 Enobarbus. Humbly, sir, I thank you. 
 
 [Exeunt.
 
 SCENE FROM "CYRANO DE BERGERAC." 
 Translated by Howard Thayer Kingsbury. Reprinted 
 with the permission of the publishers, Messrs. L. C. 
 Page & Company. By EDMOND ROSTAND. 
 
 CYRANO. My warning to the idlers 
 Who find the middle of my face amusing; — 
 And if the joker's noble, 'tis my custom 
 To give to him before I let him go 
 Steel and not leather, in front, and higher up. 
 
 De Guiche (who has come down from the stage with 
 the Marquises), 
 He becomes tiresome! 
 
 The Vicomte de Valvert (shrugging his shoulders). 
 He blows his trumpet! 
 
 De Guiche. Will no one answer him? 
 
 The Vicomte. No one? But wait! 
 I shall fling at him now some of my wit! 
 (Advances towards Cyrano, who is watching him, and 
 
 takes his place in front of him with a silly air. ) 
 You — your nose is— nose is — very large. 
 
 Cyrano (gravely). Very! 
 
 The Vicomte (smiling). Ha! 
 
 Cyrano (imperturbable). That is all? 
 
 The Vicomte. But 
 
 Cyrano. No, young man. 
 
 That is somewhat too brief. You might say — 
 Lord!— 
 Many and many a thing, changing your tone. 
 As for example these; — Aggressively: 
 "Sir, had I such a nose I'd cut it ofE!" 
 Friendly: "But it must dip into your cup. 
 You should have made a goblet tall to drink from. ' ' 
 Descriptive: " 'Tis a crag — a peak — a cape! 
 
 388
 
 By EDMOND ROSTAND 389 
 
 I said a cape? — 'tis a peninsula," 
 
 Inquisitive: "To what use do you put 
 
 This oblong sheath ; is it a writing-case — 
 
 Or scissors-box?" Or, in a gracioiis tone: 
 
 "Are you so fond of birds, that like a father 
 
 You spend your time and thought to offer them 
 
 This roosting place to rest their little feet?" 
 
 Quarrelsome: "Well, sir, when you smoke your pipe 
 
 Can the smoke issue from your nose, without 
 
 Some neighbor crying, 'The chimney is afire'?" 
 
 Warning: "Be careful, lest this weight drag down 
 
 Your head, and stretch you prostrate on the ground. " — 
 
 Tenderly: "Have a small umbrella made, 
 
 For fear its color fade out in the sun." 
 
 Pedantic: "Sir, only the animal 
 
 Called by the poet Aristophanes 
 
 ' Hippocampelephantocamelos' 
 
 Should carry so much flesh and bone upon him!" 
 
 Cavalier: "Friend, is this peg in the fashion? 
 
 To hang one's hat on, it must be convenient." 
 
 Emphatic: "Magisterial nose, no wind 
 
 Could give thee all a cold, except the mistral." 
 
 Dramatic: " 'Tis the Red Sea when it bleeds!" 
 
 Admiring: "What a sign for a perfumer!" 
 
 Poetic: Ts't a conch; are you a Triton?" 
 
 Naive: "When does one visit this great sight?" 
 
 Respectful: "Let me, sir, pay my respects. 
 
 This might be called fronting upon the street." 
 
 Countrified: "That's a nose that is a nose! 
 
 A giant turnip or a baby melon ! ' ' 
 
 Or military: "Guard against cavalry!" 
 
 Practical: "Will you put it in a raffle? 
 
 It surely, sir, would be the winning number!"
 
 390 SCENE From "CYRANO DE BERGERAC" 
 
 Or parodying Pyramus, with a sob : 
 
 "There is the nose that ruins the symmetry 
 
 Of its master's features; the traitor blushes for it." 
 
 My friend, that is about what you'd have said 
 
 If you had had some learning or some wit ; 
 
 But wit, oh ! most forlorn of human creatures, 
 
 You never had a bit of ; as for letters 
 
 You only have the four that spell out 'Fool' ! 
 
 Moreover, had you owned the imagination 
 
 Needed to give you power, before this hall, 
 
 To offer me these mad jests — all of them — 
 
 You would not even have pronounced the quarter 
 
 O' the half of one's beginning, for I myself 
 
 Offer them to myself with dash enough, 
 
 But sufifer no one else to say them to me." 
 
 De Guiche (trying to lead away the dazed vicomte). 
 Vicomte, leave off! 
 
 The Vicomte (choking). These great and lofty airs! 
 A rustic, who — who — even wears no gloves. 
 And goes about without a single ribbon. 
 
 Cyrano. It is my character that I adorn. 
 I do not deck me like a popinjay; 
 But though less foppish, I am better dressed: 
 I would not sally forth, through carelessness, 
 With an insult ill wiped out, or with my conscience 
 Sallow with sleep still lingering in its eyes, 
 Honor in rags, or scruples dressed in mourning. 
 But I go out with all upon me shining, 
 With liberty and freedom for my plume. 
 Not a mere upright figure ; — 'tis my soul 
 That I thus hold erect as if with stays. 
 And decked with daring deeds instead of ribbons, 
 Twirling my wit as it were my moustache,
 
 By EDMOND ROSTAND 391 
 
 The while I pass among the crowd, I make 
 Bold truths ring out like spurs. 
 
 The Vicomte. But, sir 
 
 Cyrano. I have 
 
 No gloves? — A pity! — I had just one left, 
 One of a worn-out pair! — which troubled me! 
 I left it recently in some one's face. 
 
 The Vicomte. Knave, rascal, booby, flat-foot, scum 
 o' the earth! 
 
 Cyrano (taking off his hat and bowing as if the 
 Vicomte had just introduced himself). 
 Ah? And I — Cyrano-Savinien-Hercule de Bergerac. 
 (Laughter). 
 
 The Vicomte (in a temper). Buffoon! 
 
 Cyrano (giving a cry like one who feels a sudden 
 pain). Oh! 
 
 The Vicomte (who was going off, turning about). 
 What's he saying now? 
 
 Cyrano (with grimaces of pain). I must 
 Shake it, because it falls asleep — the fault 
 Of leaving it long idle — 
 
 The Vicomte. What's the matter? 
 
 Cyrano. My sword-blade tingles ! 
 
 The Vicomte (drawing his own sword). Very well, 
 come on! 
 
 Cyrano. I shall give you a charming little stroke. 
 
 The Vicomte (with disdain). Poet! — 
 
 Cyrano. A poet, yes! and such a one. 
 That, while I fence with you, I'll improvise 
 A ballade for you. 
 
 The Vicomte. A ballade? 
 
 Cyrano. I suppose 
 
 You do not e'en imagine what that is?
 
 392 SCENE From "CYRANO DE BERGERAC" 
 The Vicomte. But 
 
 Cyrano (as if reciting a lesson). 
 
 The ballade, then, is made up of three stanzas, 
 Of eight lines 
 
 The Vicomte (shuffling his feet). Oh! 
 
 Cyrano (continuing). And a refrain of four. 
 
 The Vicomte. You 
 
 Cyrano. I'll make one and fight you, both at once. 
 And at the last verse touch you, sir. 
 
 The Vicomte. No ! 
 
 Cyrano. No? 
 
 The ballade of Monsieur de Bergerac's duel 
 At the Hotel de Bourgogne, with a booby. 
 
 The Vicomte. What is that, if you please? 
 
 Cyrano. That is the title. 
 
 The Hall (excited to the highest pitch). 
 In place! — No noise! — In line! — This is amusing. 
 
 (Tableau. A circle of curious onlookers in the par- 
 terre, the Marquises and the Officers mixed in with 
 the Tradesmen and common people. The Pages 
 climb on people's shoulders to see better. All the 
 women stand up in the boxes. To the right De Guiche 
 and his gentlemen. To the left Le Bret, Ragueneau, 
 Cuigy, etc.) 
 
 Cyrano (closing his eyes for a moment). 
 Wait, let me choose my rhymes — I have them now : 
 
 My hat I toss lightly away ; 
 From my shoulders I slowly let fall 
 The cloak which conceals my array. 
 And my sword from my scabbard I call, 
 Like C61adon, graceful and tall,
 
 By EDMOND ROSTAND 393 
 
 Like Scaramouche, quick hand and brain, — 
 And I warn you, my friend, once for all, 
 I shall thrust when I end the refrain. 
 (The swords meet.) 
 
 You were rash thus to join in the fray; 
 Like a fowl I shall carve you up small. 
 Your ribs, 'neath your doublet so gay, 
 Your breast, where the blue ribbons fall. 
 Ding-dong! ring your bright trappings all; 
 My point flits like a fly on the pane. 
 As I clearly announce to the hall 
 I shall thrust when I end the refrain. 
 
 I need one more rhyme for "array" — 
 You give ground, you turn white as the wall, — 
 And so lend me the word "runaway," 
 There ! you have let your point fall 
 As I parry your best lunge of all ; 
 I begin a new line, the end's plain, 
 Your skewer hold tight, lest it fall. 
 I shall thrust when I end the refrain. 
 (Announces solemnly.) 
 
 REFRAIN. 
 
 Prince, on the Lord you must call! 
 
 I gain ground, I advance once again, 
 
 I feint, I lunge. (Lunging.) There! that is all! 
 
 (The Vicomte staggers. Cyrano salutes.) 
 
 For I thrust as I end the refrain. 
 
 (Shouts. Applause in the boxes. Flowers and 
 handkerchiefs are thrown. The officers surround 
 Cyrano and congratulate him. Ragueneau dances 
 with enthusiasm. Le Bret is dizzy with joy. The 
 Vicomte's friends hold him up and lead him away.)
 
 THE EXECUTION OF SYDNEY CARTON. 
 From "A Tale of Two Cities." By CHARLES 
 DICKENS. 
 
 ALONG the Paris streets, the death-carts rumble, 
 hollow and harsh. Six tumbrils carry the day's 
 wine to La Guillotine. All the devouring and insa- 
 tiate Monsters imagined since imagination could 
 record itself, are fused in the one realisation. Guillo- 
 tine. Changeless and hopeless, the tumbrils roll along. 
 
 As the sombre wheels of the six carts go round, they 
 seem to plough up a long crooked furrow among the 
 populace in the streets. 
 
 Of the riders in the tumbrils, some observe these 
 things, and all things on their last roadside, with an 
 impassive stare; others with a lingering interest in the 
 ways of life and men. Some, seated with drooping 
 heads, are sunk in silent despair. Several close their 
 eyes, and think, or try to get their straying thoughts 
 together. Only one, and he a miserable creature of a 
 crazed aspect, is so shattered and made drunk by 
 horror that he sings, and tries to dance. Not one of 
 the whole number appeals, by look or gesture, to the 
 pity of the people. 
 
 There is a guard of sundry horsemen riding abreast 
 of the tumbrils, and faces are often turned up to some 
 of them and they are asked some question. It would 
 seem to be always the same question, for it is always 
 followed by a press of people towards the third cart. 
 The horsemen abreast of that cart, frequently point 
 out one man in it with their swords. The leading 
 curiosity is to know which is he ; he stands at the back of 
 the tumbril, with his head bent down, to converse with 
 a mere girl who sits on the side of the cart, and who 
 
 394
 
 By CHARLES DICKENS 395 
 
 holds his hand. He has no curiosity or care for the 
 scene about him, and always speaks to the girl. 
 
 The clocks are on the stroke of three, and the furrow 
 ploughed among the populace is turning round, to 
 come on into the place of execution, and end. The 
 ridges thrown to this side and to that, now crumble in 
 and close behind the last plough as it passes on, for 
 all are following to the Guillotine. In front of it, 
 seated in chairs as in a garden of public diversion, are 
 a number of women, busily knitting. On one of the 
 foremost chairs, stands The Vengeance, looking about 
 for her friend. 
 
 "Therese!" she cries, in her shrill tones. "Who has 
 seen her? Therese Defarge!" 
 
 "She never missed before," says a knitting- woman 
 of the sisterhood. 
 
 "No; nor will she miss now," cries The Vengeance, 
 petulantly. "Therese." 
 
 "Louder," the woman recommends. 
 
 Ay ! Louder, Vengeance, much louder, and still she 
 will scarcely hear thee. Louder yet, Vengeance, with a 
 little oath or so added, and yet it will hardly bring her. 
 
 "Bad Fortune! and here are the tumbrils! And 
 Evr6monde will be despatched in a wink, and she not 
 here! See her knitting in my hand, and her empty 
 chair ready for her. I cry with vexation and disap- 
 pointment!" 
 
 As The Vengeance descends from her elevation, the 
 tumbrils begin to discharge their loads. The ministers 
 of Sainte Guillotine are robed and ready. Crash! — 
 ahead is held up, and the knitting- women, who scarcely 
 lifted their eyes to look at it a moment ago when it 
 could think and speak, count One.
 
 396 The EXECUTION of SYDNEY CARTON 
 
 The second tumbril empties and moves on; the third 
 comes up. Crash! — And the knitting-women, never 
 faltering or pausing in their work, count Two. 
 
 The supposed Evremonde descends, and the seam- 
 stress is lifted out next after him. He has not relin- 
 quished her patient hand in getting her out, but still 
 holds it as he promised. He gently places her with her 
 back to the crashing engine that constantly whirs up 
 and falls, and she looks into his face and thanks him. 
 
 "But for you, dear stranger, I should not be so 
 composed, for I am naturally a ppor little thing, faint 
 of heart; nor should I have been able to raise my 
 thoughts to Him who was put to death, that we might 
 have hope and comfort here to-day. I think you were 
 sent to me by Heaven." 
 
 "Or you to me," says Sydney Carton. "Keep your 
 eyes upon me, dear child, and mind no other object." 
 
 "I mind nothing while I hold your hand. I shall 
 mind nothing when I let it go, if they are rapid. ' ' 
 
 ' ' They will be rapid. Fear not ! " 
 
 The two stand in the fast-thinning throng of victims, 
 but they speak as if they were alone. Eye to eye, 
 voice to voice, hand to hand, heart to heart, these two 
 children of the Universal Mother, else so wide apart 
 and differing, have come together on the dark high- 
 way, to repair home together and to rest in her bosom. 
 
 "Brave and generous friend, will you let me ask you 
 one last question? I am very ignorant, and it troubles 
 me — just a little." 
 
 "Tell me what it is." 
 
 "I have a cousin, an only relative and orphan, like 
 myself, whom I love very dearly. She is five years 
 younger than I, and she lives in a farmer's house in
 
 By CHARLES DICKENS 397 
 
 the south country. Poverty parted us, and she knows 
 nothing of my fate — for I cannot write — and if I could, 
 how should I tell her! It is better as it is." 
 
 "Yes, yes; better as it is." 
 
 "What I have been thinking as we came along, and 
 what I am still thinking now, as I look into your kind, 
 strong face which gives me so much support, is this: — 
 If the Republic really does good to the poor, and they 
 come to be less hungry, and in all ways to suffer less, 
 she may live a long time ; she may even live to be old. 
 
 "What then, my gentle sister?" 
 
 "Do you think that it will seem long to me, while I 
 wait for her in the better land, where I trust both you 
 and I will be mercifully sheltered?" 
 
 "It cannot be, my child; there is no Time there, and 
 no trouble there." 
 
 "You comfort me so much! I am so ignorant. Am 
 I to kiss you now? Is the moment come?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 She kisses his lips; he kisses hers; they solemnly 
 bless each other. The spare hand does not tremble as 
 he releases it ; nothing worse than a sweet, bright con- 
 stancy is in the patient face. She goes next before 
 him — is gone ; the knitting-women count Twenty-two. 
 
 "I am the Resurrection and the Life, saith the Lord: 
 he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet 
 shall he live : and whosoever liveth and believeth in 
 me, shall never die. ' ' 
 
 The murmuring of many voices, the upturning of 
 many faces, the pressing on of many footsteps in the 
 outskirts of the crowd, so that it swells forward in a 
 mass, like one great heave of water, all flashes 
 away. Twenty-three.
 
 THE BOAT RACE. From "Jack Hall; or, The 
 School Days of an American Boy. " Copyright, 1893, 
 by Charles Scribner's Sons. Reprinted with permis- 
 sion. By ROBERT GRANT. 
 
 THE race had been fixed for ten o'clock. The 
 lake was reported to be like a mirror. Jack ate 
 a fairly substantial breakfast at eight, and at Carlisle's 
 suggestion remained quietly until nine in his own 
 room, from which he emerged in an overcoat worn 
 over his boating costume, a crimson and black striped 
 jersey and crimson handkerchief, and a nondescript 
 pair of trousers. Haseltine was waiting before the 
 door with a trap so as to spare his champion the 
 unnecessary fatigue of a walk. Hasy announced that 
 the Doctor and Tom Bonsall had already gone down 
 to the boat-house. 
 
 Every boy who possessed a boat was out in it, and 
 the water was dotted with every variety of craft from a 
 Rob Roy canoe to the steam launch recently presented 
 to the school by a fond graduate, which was occupied 
 by Mrs. Meredith, the judges, and some of the prin- 
 cipal guests. The launch flew proudly the school 
 colors, blue and white, which properly were worn 
 to-day only by the Doctor, who was just stepping from 
 the float into his shell amid great applause as Jack 
 alighted from the vehicle. The stand, which had been 
 erected a few rods from the boat-house, and which was 
 just opposite to the finish, was crowded with visitors. 
 It was a scene calculated to quicken the pulses of any 
 one with a spark of enthusiasm. As for Jack, when 
 he started to strip off his overcoat he was trembling all 
 over, and could feel his heart going like a trip-hammer. 
 
 The course was to be two miles in all; straight away 
 
 398
 
 By ROBERT GRANT 399 
 
 for a mile to a flagged buoy and back again to another 
 flagged buoy abreast of the boat-house. Two of the 
 first class were to be judges, a third to be judge at 
 the further buoy, and Mr. Percy had consented to act 
 as referee in case of any dispute. Stoddard, of the 
 second class, was to send the contestants off by firing 
 a pistol at the proper moment. 
 
 Jack was the last of the three to get into his boat. 
 
 "Is everything all right?" whispered Carlisle, who 
 was bending over him holding the shell at the float. 
 "Don't spurt until you have to, remember." 
 
 "O. K.," answered our hero. 
 
 Carlisle shoved the shell out. Jack paddled a few 
 rods and then shot off at a comfortable pace up the 
 lake. He caught a glimpse of Tom Bonsall, in a white 
 shirt with a purple star on its bosom, and a purple hand- 
 kerchief bound stylishly across his forehead, resting on 
 his oars and watching him. Jack had no idea of wast- 
 ing his energies by showing off. He had time just to 
 warm himself up a bit before the signal to get into line. 
 
 He had scarcely turned to come back when the pis- 
 tol sounded, and by the time he reached the starting 
 line the Doctor and Tom were in position. Accord- 
 ing to the lots drawn that morning Jack was to be in 
 the middle, with Tom inside; so he paddled in 
 between them. Stoddard spent a few moments in 
 making first one and then another retire or move for- 
 ward a few inches, then asked sharply: 
 
 "Are you ready?" 
 
 Jack felt almost beside himself in the short interval 
 that preceded the discharge, and his throat seemed 
 parched. 
 
 Crack!
 
 400 The BOAT RACE 
 
 The three pairs of blades flashed through the water 
 at the same moment, and neither boat seemed to gain 
 any decided advantage as they bounded away from the 
 buoy amid the cheers of everybody. 
 
 "Hurrah for the Doctor!" 
 
 "Hit her up, Tom!" 
 
 "Bully for you, Jack!" 
 
 It took our hero some minutes to get his head clear 
 enough to be able to perceive what he was doing, as 
 compared with his opponents. He rowed on and on 
 excitedly, without realizing anything. He was con- 
 scious of rowing a rather quicker and more jerky 
 stroke than usual. His eyes were misty and his throat 
 drier than ever. The cheers of the spectators were 
 growing fainter, and he felt that it was time to settle 
 down to work. He made a gulp and looked about 
 him. On his right was Tom, pulling like grim death, 
 at a rate which seemed to lift his boat almost out of 
 the water. The stern of Tom's shell was nearly on a 
 level with the back sweep of his own oars, which 
 showed plainly that Tom had not far from half a 
 length's lead on him. On the other side was the Doc- 
 tor in his blue and white jersey, rowing steadily and 
 smoothly as clock-work, neck and neck with him. 
 
 "Softly now," said Jack to himself. "This is too 
 fast company for me. If Tom can keep this racket up 
 he'll get there first. My only chance is to let up a 
 bit." 
 
 They were too far off now for the shouts to reach 
 them. Not a sound was audible to Jack but the slight 
 plashing of the oars in the water. Over his shoulder, 
 Tom was struggling onward, and abreast of him, pull- 
 ing with apparently no effort whatever and watching
 
 By ROBERT GRANT 401 
 
 alertly the movements of his rivals, could be seen the 
 dangerous Doctor. But Jack, too, felt calm now and 
 fresher than when he started. He can even put a little 
 more back muscle into his stroke, he thinks, as he 
 feels his grip tighten on the oars with the consciousness 
 of growing vigor. A few more sweeps like that will 
 close up the gap between his out-rigger and Tom's. 
 
 But why does not the Doctor bend to his work to 
 keep him company? The Doctor is palling a waiting 
 race, evidently, and is going to let his rivals blow 
 themselves against one another before he has an oar 
 in the fight. Otherwise, surely he would not have let 
 Jack forge ahead so that he has to look round the 
 corner, now, in order to watch him. The doctor is an 
 old hand, and has seen many a race lost by too lively 
 a pace at the start. 
 
 "Steady," reflects Jack, again trying to keep cool as 
 he realizes that he has a lead over his most dangerous 
 enemy. "Don't hit her up too lively." He appre- 
 ciates the Doctor's tactics, and is not going to fall into 
 the trap if he can help it, even though Tom, spurred on 
 by swift pursuit, has put on more steam and is holding 
 his own bravely. They are not far from the flagged 
 buoy now. Jack can see it distinctly, and has in mind 
 that he must be careful to avoid a foul. They are 
 likely to pass it in the order in which they are at pres- 
 ent, about half a length apart, and Tom has the inside 
 water. All three are pulling like well-oiled machines, 
 and not a symptom of distress comes from either boat. 
 
 Tom turns first, and very cleverly too, close to the 
 buoy so as to give no one a chance to cut in, and starts 
 for home, but the others are at his heels and right 
 after him. Jack in passing catches the eye of Samp-
 
 402 The BOAT RACE 
 
 son, the judge at the turn, and feels cool enough to nod 
 in friendly fashion. Half way, and he is still fresh as 
 ever! He would like to try to press Tom, but for fear 
 of the cool, deliberate Doctor barely astern. He 
 remembers Carlisle's caution not to spurt until he has 
 to, and only bends strongly and firml)'' to his accus- 
 tomed stroke, which, however, is losing him no ground, 
 to say the least. Tom is evidently uneasy and is work- 
 ing to shake him off. 
 
 Ah, there ! The Doctor is waking up at last, and is 
 putting in some stronger work; nothing very stren- 
 uous, but lively enough to warn Jack that he must 
 have his head about him if he hopes to keep his lead to 
 the end. One thing is certain now: Tom will have to 
 row faster or give in; after which reflection Jack 
 slightly quickens his stroke, and without actually 
 spurting- bends every muscle. Now or never! They 
 are only half a mile from home, and a waiting race 
 may be delayed too long. Now or never! Will Tom 
 be able to quicken his pace? That is the question. 
 He does quicken it, so much so that he is rowing 
 desperately fast with short lightning strokes, which 
 come so rapidly that it is difficult to note the interval 
 between them. Brilliant, magnificent! "but," as 
 some one who knew said of the famous charge of the 
 Light Brigade, "it is not war." It is slaughter, my 
 dear Tom, and simple ruination. You cannot keep it 
 up. Even as it is, in spite of your splendid pyrotech- 
 nics, Jack's long steady swing is holding you, and what 
 is more, pressing you, into the bargain. 
 
 "Steady now," murmurs Jack, between his teeth. 
 He knows from Tom's exertions that his rival is spurt- 
 ing and putting all his vitality into his pace. A ter-
 
 By ROBERT GRANT 403 
 
 rible moment of sustained effort follows, at the end of 
 which Tom lashes the air with a misplaced stroke, the 
 water splashes, and our hero's shell, surging for- 
 ward, comes on a level with its forerunner, battles 
 with it for twenty yards of struggling agony on the 
 part of the doomed champion, and leaps to the front 
 at last. Jack is ahead, and only a quarter of a> mile 
 left! 
 
 Tom is beaten. And now for the Doctor. Where is 
 lie? What is he doing? No need to ask that question, 
 friend Jack, if you lift your eyes. Tom is beaten, not 
 only by you but by the Doctor also ; and though your 
 most dreaded enemy is still in your rear, the nose of 
 his boat is almost on a line with your stern, and he is 
 quickening at every stroke. 
 
 What a babel of cheers and exclamations bursts forth 
 from the waving, transported crowd along the bank! 
 They begin to know who is who now, and can tell 
 beyond the shadow of a doubt that the crimson and 
 black and the blue and white are having a noble strug- 
 gle for the lead. 
 
 "Jack Hall is ahead! Hall! Hall! No, he isn't! 
 Hit her up. Doctor! Hurrah for Hall! Hurrah for 
 the Doctor ! Tom, where are you ! Bonsall ! Bonsall ! 
 H-A-L-L! H-A-L-L!" 
 
 The tumult is maddening. Can it be possible that 
 Jack Hall, who, on the whole, before the race, was 
 rated lowest of the three, is going to break the school 
 record and beat the invincible Doctor in one and the 
 same breath? It looks like it, if he can hold his own 
 for two hundred yards more. It looks like it, decid- 
 edly, and there is plenty of clear water still between 
 the winning goal and the foremost shell ; and see, the
 
 404 The BOAT RACE 
 
 Doctor is spurting- with a vengeance — look! — look! — 
 and is he not gaining, too? 
 
 The Doctor has crept up, no doubt about that. The 
 nose of his shell is now well beyond Jack's out-rigger, 
 and he is speeding like the wind. Jack is feeling ter- 
 ribly tired, his throat that he thought parched at the 
 start burns as if it were on fire, and his eyes seem 
 ready to start out of his head. His crimson handker- 
 chief has fallen over his eyes, but he gives himself a 
 shake and it falls to his neck, leaving his brow refresh- 
 ingly free. He has vanquished Tom anyway. So 
 much to be thankful for. Tom is a length behind, 
 struggling still, like the man he is, but hopelessly van- 
 quished all the same. Jack turns his head, remember- 
 ing to keep cool if he can, and sights the goal. Not 
 more than one hundred and fifty yards left! The 
 reverberating yells and cheers are setting his blood 
 ablaze. He can scarcely see, but he knows he has not 
 spurted yet. He is neck and neck with the Doctor 
 now. There can be nothing to choose between them. 
 
 The time has come now, our hero knows, to put in 
 any spurt that is left in him. Gripping the handles of 
 his oars like a vise and shutting his eyes, Jack throws 
 all his vital powers into one grand effort, which, to his 
 supreme happiness, is answered by a great roar from 
 the shore. 
 
 "Hall! Hall! Hurrah! Nobly done, Hall! Hall 
 wins! Row, Doctor, row!" 
 
 The Doctor is rowing with all his might, you may be 
 sure of that ; but he has not counted on the staying 
 powers of his adversary. He can do no more than he 
 is doing, and this final spurt of Jack's, exhausting as it 
 must have been were the race to be a quarter of a
 
 By ROBERT GRANT 405 
 
 mile longer, will carry the day. The Doctor can 
 hardly catch him now. 
 
 Jack has opened his eyes and takes in the situation. 
 The din of applause is tremendous. If he can hold 
 out for six strokes more, the victory is his. 
 
 One stroke-. 
 
 "Hall! Hall!" "Go it, Doctor!" 
 
 Two strokes, 
 
 "Jack!" "Doctor, go it!" "Tom, where are you?" 
 
 "Tom's in the soup!" 
 
 Three strokes. 
 
 "H-A-L-L!" "Doctor!" 
 
 Four strokes. 
 
 "Hall wins! Hall wins." "Jack, your mother's 
 looking at you!" 
 
 Five strokes. 
 
 "Hurrah! Huzzah! Hurrah! Hall! Hall! 
 Doctor! Doctor!" 
 
 Six strokes. 
 
 Panting, breathless, and bewildered by the deafening 
 cheers. Jack is rnade aware only by the sight of the 
 flagged buoy shooting past his oar-blade that he has 
 won the race and is champion of Utopia.
 
 SCENES FROM "KING HENRY V." By 
 WILLIAM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 [Enter Chorus.] 
 
 CHORUS. O for a Muse of fire, that would ascend 
 The brightest heaven of invention, 
 A kingdom for a stage, princes to act, 
 And monarchs to behold the swelling scene ! 
 Then should the warlike Harry, like himself, 
 Assume the port of Mars; and at his heels, 
 Leash'd in like hounds, should famine, sword, and fire 
 Crouch for employment. But pardon, gentles all, 
 The flat unraised spirit that hath dar'd 
 On this unworthy scaffold to bring forth 
 So great an object : can this cockpit hold 
 The vasty fields of France? or may we cram 
 Within this wooden O the very casques 
 That did affright the air at Agincourt? 
 O, pardon ! since a crooked figure may 
 Attest in little place a million; 
 And let us, ciphers to this great accompt, 
 On your imaginary forces work. 
 Suppose within the girdle of these walls 
 Are now confin'd two mighty monarchies. 
 Whose high-upreared and abutting fronts 
 The perilous, narrow ocean parts asunder. 
 Piece out our imperfections with your thoughts, 
 Into a thousand parts divide one man, 
 And make imaginary puissance: 
 Think, when we talk of horses, that you see them 
 Printing their proud hoofs i' the receiving earth; 
 For 'tis your thoughts that now must deck our kings, 
 
 406
 
 By WILLIAM SHAKSPERE 407 
 
 Carry them here and there, jumping o'er times, 
 Turning the accomplishment of many years 
 Into an hour-glass; for the which supply. 
 Admit me Chorus to this history; 
 Who prologue-like your humble patience pray, 
 Gently to hear, kindly to judge, our play. . . . 
 
 ACT I. SCENE II. LONDON. 
 The Presence Chamber. 
 
 [Enter King Henry, Gloucester, Bedford, Exeter, 
 Warwick, Westmoreland and Attendants.] 
 
 King Henry. Where is my gracious Lord of Can- 
 terbury? 
 Exeter. Not here in presence. 
 King Henry^ Send for him, good uncle. 
 
 [Enter the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Bishop 
 
 of Ely.] 
 
 Canterbury. God and his angels guard your sacred 
 throne. 
 And make you long become it! 
 
 King Henry. Sure, we thank you. 
 
 My learned lord, we pray you to proceed 
 And justly and religiously unfold 
 Why the law Salique that they have in France 
 Or should, or should not, bar us in our claim. . . . 
 Take heed how you impawn our person. 
 How you awake our sleeping sword of war: 
 We charge you, in the name of God, take heed; 
 
 For never two such kingdoms did contend 
 Without much fall of blood. . . . 
 Canterbury. There is no bar
 
 4o8 SCENES From "KING HENRY V." 
 
 To make against j^our highness' claim to France 
 But this, which they produce from Pharamond, — 
 'No woman shall succeed in Salique land' ; 
 Which Salique land the French unjustly gloze 
 To be the realm of France, and Pharamond 
 The founder of this law and female bar. 
 Yet their own authors faithfully affirm 
 That the land Salique is in Germany, 
 Between the floods of Sala and of Elbe ; . . . 
 Then doth it well appear the Salique law 
 Was not devised for the realm of France : 
 Nor did the French possess the Salique land 
 Until four hundred one and twenty years 
 After defunction of King Pharamond, 
 Idly suppos'd the founder of this law. . . . 
 
 King Henry. May I with right and conscience make 
 this claim? 
 
 Canterbury. The sin upon my head, dread sov- 
 ereign ! 
 For in the book of Numbers is it writ. 
 When the man dies, let the inheritance 
 Descend unto the daughter. Gracious lord, 
 Stand for your own ; unwind your bloody flag. . . . 
 
 King Henry. Call in the messengers sent from the 
 Dauphin. [Exeunt some Attendants. 
 
 [Enter Ambassadors of France.] 
 
 Now are we well prepar'd to know the pleasure 
 Of our fair cousin Dauphin ; for we hear 
 Your greeting is from him, not from the king. 
 
 First Ambassador. May't please your majesty to 
 give us leave 
 Freely to render what we have in charge ;
 
 By WILLIAM SHAKSPERE 409 
 
 Or shall we sparingly show you far off 
 The Dauphin's meaning and our embassy? 
 
 King Henry. We are no tyrant, but a Christian 
 king, 
 Unto whose grace our passion is as subject 
 As our wretches fetter'd in our prisons: . . . 
 
 First Ambassador. Thus then, in few. 
 
 Your highness, lately sending into France, 
 Did claim some certain dukedoms, in the right 
 Of your great predecessor, King Edward the Third. 
 In answer of which claim, the prince our master 
 Says that you savour too much of your youth, 
 And bids you be advis'd there's nought in France 
 That can be with a nimble galliard won ; 
 You cannot revel into dukedoms there. 
 He therefore sends you, meeter for your spirit, 
 This tun of treasure; and, in lieu of this. 
 Desires you let the dukedoms that you claim 
 Hear no more of you. This the Dauphin speaks. 
 
 King Henry. What treasure, uncle? 
 
 Exeter. Tennis-balls, my liege. 
 
 King Henry. We are glad the Dauphin is so pleas- 
 ant with us; 
 His present and your pains we thank you for. 
 When we have match'd our rackets to these balls, 
 We will, in France, by God's grace, play a set 
 Shall strike his father's crown into the hazard. . . . 
 And we understand him well, 
 How he comes o'er us with our wilder days. 
 Not measuring what use we made of them. . . . 
 But tell the Dauphin I will keep my state. 
 Be like a king, and show my sail of greatness 
 When I do rouse me in my throne of France :
 
 410 SCENES From "KING HENRY V." 
 
 Tell you the Dauphin I am coming on, 
 To venge me as I may, and to put forth 
 My rightful hand in a well-hallow'd cause. 
 
 Fare you well. [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT II. PROLOGUE. 
 
 [Enter Chorus.] 
 
 Chorus. Now all the youth of England are on fire, 
 And silken dalliance in the wardrobe lies: 
 Now thrive the armourers, and honour's thought 
 Reigns solely in the breast of every man. . . . 
 The king is set from London ; and the scene 
 Is now transported, gentles, to Southampton ; 
 There is the playhouse now, there must you sit: 
 And thence to France shall we convey you safe, 
 And bring you back, charming the narrow seas 
 To give you gentle pass ; for, if we may, 
 We'll not offend one stomach with our play. 
 But, till the king come forth, and not till then, 
 Unto Southampton do we shift our scene. . . . 
 
 SCENE n. 
 
 Southampton. A Council-chamber. 
 
 [Enter Exeter, Bedford, and Westmoreland.] 
 
 Bedford. Fore God, his grace is bold, to trust these 
 
 traitors. 
 Exeter. They shall be apprehended by and by. . . . 
 Bedford. The king hath note of all that they intend. 
 By interception which they dream not of. 
 
 [Enter King Henry, Scroop, Cambridge, Grey, and 
 
 Attendants.]
 
 By WILLIAM SHAKSPERE 41 1 
 
 King Henry. Now sits the wind fair, and we will 
 aboard. 
 My Lord of Cambridge, and my kind Lord of Masham, 
 And you, my gentle knight, give me your thoughts : 
 Think you not that the powers we bear with us 
 Will cut their passage through the force of France? . , . 
 Scroop. No doubt, my liege, if each man do his 
 
 best. 
 King Henry. I doubt not that ; since we are well 
 persuaded 
 We carry not a heart with us from hence 
 That grows not in a fair consent with ours. . . . 
 
 . . . Uncle of Exeter, 
 Enlarge the man committed yesterday, 
 That rail'd against our person: we consider 
 It was excess of wine that set him on; 
 And on his more advice we pardon him. 
 
 Scroop. That's mercy, but too much security: 
 Let him be punish'd, sovereign, lest example 
 Breed, by his sufferance, more of such a kind. 
 King Henry. O, let us yet be merciful. 
 Cambridge, So may your highness, and yet punish 
 
 too. 
 Grey. Sir, 
 You show great mercy, if you give him life, 
 After the taste of much correction. 
 
 King Henry. Alas, your too much care and love of 
 me 
 Are heavy orisons 'gainst this poor wretch! 
 If little faults, proceeding on distemper, 
 Shall not be wink'd at, how shall we stretch our eye 
 When capital crimes, chew'd, swallow'd, and di- 
 gested,
 
 412 SCENES From "KING HENRY V." 
 
 Appear before us? — We'll yet enlarge that man, 
 Though Cambridge, Scroop, and Grey, in their dear 
 
 care 
 And tender preservation of our person, 
 Would have him punish'd. — And now to our French 
 
 causes : 
 Who are the late commissioners? 
 
 Cambridge. I one, my lord: 
 Your highness bade me ask for it to-day. 
 Scroop. So did you me, my liege. 
 Grey. And I, my royal sovereign. 
 King Henry. Then, Richard, Earl of Cambridge, 
 there is yours; — 
 There yours. Lord Scroop of Masham; — and, sir 
 
 knight. 
 Grey of Northumberland, this same is yours: — 
 Read them ; and know, I know your worthiness. . . . 
 
 Why, how now, gentlemen ! 
 What see you in those papers that you lose 
 So much complexion? . . . 
 
 Cambridge. I do confess my fault; 
 
 And do submit me to your highness' mercy. 
 
 Grey. | r^^ which we all appeal. 
 Scoop. \ ^^ 
 
 King Henry. The mercy that was quick in us but 
 
 late, 
 
 By your own counsel is suppress'd and kill'd: 
 
 You must not dare, for shame, to talk of mercy; . . . 
 
 See you, my princes and my noble peers. 
 
 These English monsters! My lord of Cambridge 
 
 here, — 
 
 You know how apt our love was to accord 
 
 To furnish him with all appertinents
 
 By WILLIAM SHAKSPERE 413 
 
 Belonj^iug- to his honour; and this man 
 Hath, for a few light crowns, lightly conspir'd, 
 And sworn unto the practices of France, . 
 To kill us here in Hampton : to the which 
 This knight, no less for bounty bound to us 
 Than Cambridge is, hath likewise sworn. — But, O, 
 What shall I say to thee, Lord Scroop? thou cruel, 
 Ingrateful, savage, and inhuman creature ! 
 Thou that didst bear the key of all my counsels, 
 That knew'st the very bottom of my soul, 
 That almost mightst have coin'd me into gold, 
 Wouldst thou have practis'd on me for thy use. 
 May it be possible that foreign hire 
 Could out of thee extract one spark of evil 
 That might annoy my finger? . . . 
 
 Show men dutiful? 
 Why, so didst thou: seem they grave and learned? 
 Why, so didst thou: come they of noble family? 
 Why, so didst thou: seem they religious? 
 Why, so didst thou. . . . 
 
 , . . . I will weep for thee ; 
 For this revolt of thine, methinks, is like 
 Another fall of man. — Their faults are open: 
 Arrest them to the answer of the law; 
 And God acqiiit them of their practices! 
 
 Exeter. I arrest thee of high treason, by the name 
 of Richard Earl of Cambridge. 
 
 I arrest thee of high treason, by the name of Henry 
 Lord Scroop of Masham. 
 
 I arrest thee of high treason, by the name of Thomas 
 Grey, knight of Northumberland. . . 
 
 King Henry. God quit you in his mercy! Hear 
 yOur sentence.
 
 414 SCENES from "KING HENRY V." 
 
 You have conspir'd against our royal person, 
 
 Join'd with an enemy proclaim 'd, and from his coffers 
 
 Receiv'd the golden earnest of our death; . . . 
 
 Touching our person seek we no revenge; 
 
 But we our kingdom's safety must so tender, 
 
 Whose ruin you have sought, that to her laws 
 
 We do deliver you. Get you therefore hence, 
 
 Poor miserable wretches, to your death ; 
 
 The taste whereof, God of his mercy give 
 
 You patience to endure, and true repentance 
 
 Of all your dear offences! — Bear them hence. 
 
 [Exeunt Cambridge, Scroop, and Grey, guarded. 
 Now, lords, for France ; the enterprise whereof 
 Shall be to you, as us, like glorious. 
 We doubt not of a fair and lucky war, 
 vSince God so graciously hath brought to light 
 This dangerous treason lurking in our way 
 To hinder our beginnings. . . . 
 Then forth, dear countrymen : let us deliver 
 Our puissance into the hand of God, 
 Putting it straight in expedition. 
 Cheerly to sea ; the signs of war advance : 
 No king of England, if not king of France. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 London. Before a Tavern. 
 
 [Enter Pistol, Hostess, Nym, Bardolph, and Boy.] 
 Hostess. Prithee, honey-sweet husband, let me 
 
 bring thee to Staines. 
 
 Pistol. No; for my manly heart doth yearn. — 
 
 Bardolph, be blithe: Nym, rouse thy vaunting veins:
 
 By WILLIAM SHAKSPERE 415 
 
 Boy, bristle thy courage up ; for Falstaff he is dead, 
 And we must yearn therefore. 
 
 Bardolph. Would I were with him, wheresome'er 
 he is, either in heaven or in hell! 
 
 Hostess. Nay, sure, he's not in hell: he's in 
 Arthur's bosom, if ever man went to Arthur's bosom. 
 A' made a finer end, and went away an it had been any 
 christom child; a' parted even jiist between twelve and 
 one, even at the turning o' the tide: for after I saw 
 him fumble with the sheets and play with flowers and 
 smile upon his fingers' ends, I knew there was but 
 one way; for his nose was as sharp as a pen, and 
 a' babbled of green fields. 'How now, Sir John !' quoth 
 I: 'what man! be o' good cheer.' So a' cried out, 
 'God, God, God!' three or four times. Now I, to com- 
 fort him, bid him a' should not think of God; I hoped 
 there was no need to trouble himself with any such 
 thoughts yet. So a' bade me lay more clothes on his 
 feet : I put my hand into the bed and felt them, and 
 they were as cold as any stone. . . . 
 
 Nym. They say he cried out of sack. 
 
 Hostess. Ay, that a' did. 
 
 Bardolph. And of women. 
 
 Hostess. Nay, that a' did not. 
 
 Boy. Yes, that a' did; and said they were devils 
 incarnate. 
 
 Hostess. A' could never abide carnation; 'twas a 
 colour he never liked. 
 
 Boy. Do you not remember, a' saw a flea stick upon 
 Bardolph's nose, and a' said it was a black soul burn- 
 ing in hell-fire? 
 
 Bardolph. Well, the fuel is gone that maintained 
 that fire: that's all the riches I got in his service.
 
 4i6 SCENES /ro?H *'KING HENRY V." 
 
 Nym. Shall we shog? the king will be gone from 
 Southampton. 
 
 Pistol. Come, let's away. — My love, give me thy 
 lips. 
 Look to my chattels and my movables : . . . 
 Let housewifery appear: keep close, I thee command. 
 
 Hostess. Farewell; adieu. [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT in. PROLOGUE. 
 [Enter Chorus.] 
 
 Chorus. Thus with imagin'd wing our swift scene 
 flies. 
 In motion of no less celerity 
 
 Than that of thought. Suppose that you have seen 
 The well-appointed king at Hampton pier 
 Embark his royalty ; and his brave fleet 
 With silken streamers the young Phoebus fanning: 
 Play with your fancies, and in them behold 
 Upon the hempen tackle ship-boys climbing; 
 Hear the shrill whistle which doth order give 
 To sounds confus'd; behold the threaden sails, 
 Borne with the invisible and creeping wind. 
 Draw the huge bottoms through the furrow'd sea. 
 Breasting the lofty surge. O, do but think 
 You stand upon the rivage and behold 
 A city on the inconstant billows dancing; 
 For so appears this fleet majestical, 
 Holding due course to Harfleur. Follow, follow! 
 Grapple your minds to sternage of this navy. 
 And leave your England, as dead midnight still, 
 Guarded with grandsires, babies, and old women,
 
 By WILLIAM SHAKSPERE 417 
 
 Either past or not arriv'd to pith and puissance; 
 For who is he, whose chin is but enrich 'd 
 With one appearing hair, that will not follow 
 These cuH'd and choice-drawn cavaliers to France? 
 Work, work your thoughts, and therein see a siege ; 
 Behold the ordnance on their carriages. 
 With fatal mouths gaping on girded Harfleur. 
 Suppose the ambassador from the French comes back; 
 Tells Harry that the king doth offer him 
 Katherine his daughter, and with her, to dowry, 
 Some petty and unprofitable dukedoms. 
 The offer likes not : and the nimble gunner 
 With linstock now the devilish cannon touches, 
 
 [Alarum, and chambers go off. 
 And down goes all before them. Still be kind, 
 And eke out our performance with your mind. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 France. Before Harfleur. 
 
 [Alarum. Enter King Henry, Exeter, Bedford, 
 Gloucester, and Soldiers, with scaling-ladders.] 
 
 King Henry. Once more unto the breach, dear 
 friends, once more. 
 Or close the wall up with our English dead! 
 In peace there's nothing so becomes a man 
 As modest stillness and humility ; 
 But when the blast of war blows in our ears, 
 Then imitate the action of the tiger: 
 Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood. 
 Disguise fair nature with hard-favour 'd rage.; 
 Then lend the eye a terrible aspect ;
 
 4i8 SCENES from "KING HENRY V." 
 
 Let it pry through the portage of the head 
 
 Like the brass cannon; let the brow o'erwhelm it 
 
 As fearfully as doth a galled rock 
 
 O'erhang and jutty his confounded base, 
 
 Swill 'd with the wild and wasteful ocean. 
 
 Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide, 
 
 Hold hard the breath, and bend up every spirit 
 
 To his full height. On, on, you noble English, 
 
 Whose blood is fet from fathers of war proof. 
 
 Fathers that, like so many Alexanders, 
 
 Have in these parts from mom till even fought 
 
 And sheath'd their swords for lack of argument! 
 
 Dishonour not your mothers; now attest 
 
 That those whom you call'd fathers did beget you. 
 
 Be copy now to men of grosser blood, 
 
 And teach them how to war! — And you, good yeomen, 
 
 Whose limbs were made in England, show us here 
 
 The mettle of your pasture : let us swear 
 
 That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not. 
 
 For there is none of you so mean and base. 
 
 That hath not noble lustre in your eyes. 
 
 I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, 
 
 Straining upon the start. The game's afoot: 
 
 Follow your spirit, and upon this charge 
 
 Cry "God for Harry, England, and Saint George! ' 
 
 [Exeunt. Alarum, and chambers go off.
 
 THE NECKLACE. The translation by Jonathan 
 Stnrges. From "The Odd Number," Copyright, 
 1889, by Harper & Brothers. Reprinted with permis- 
 sion. By GUY DE MAUPASSANT. 
 
 SHE was one of those pretty and charming girls 
 who are sometimes, as if by a mistake of 
 destiny, born in a family of clerks. She had no dowry, 
 no expectations, no means of being known, understood, 
 loved, wedded, by any rich and distinguished man; 
 and she let herself be married to a little clerk at the 
 Ministry of Public Instruction. 
 
 She dressed plainly because she could not dress well, 
 but she was as unhappy as though she had really fallen 
 from her proper station. . . . 
 
 She suffered ceaselessly, feeling herself born for all 
 the delicacies and all the luxuries. . . . 
 
 She had no dresses, no jewels, nothing. And she 
 loved nothing but that ; she felt made for that. She 
 would so have liked to please, to be envied, to be 
 charming, to be sought after. 
 
 She had a friend, a former school-mate at the con- 
 vent, who was rich, and whom she did not like to go 
 and see any more, because she suffered so much when 
 she came back. 
 
 But, one evening, her husband returned home with a 
 triumphant air, and holding a large envelope in his hand. 
 
 "There, here is something for you." 
 
 She tore the paper sharply, and drew out a printed 
 card which bore these words: 
 
 "The jMinister of Public Instruction and Mme. 
 Georges Ramponneau request the honor of M. and 
 Mme. Loisel's company at the palace of the Ministry 
 on Monday evening, January i8th." 
 
 419
 
 420 The NECKLACE 
 
 Instead of being delighted, as her husband hoped, 
 she threw the invitation on the table with disdain, 
 murmuring : 
 
 "What do you want me to do with that?" 
 
 "But, my dear, I thought you would be glad. You 
 never go out, and this is such a fine opportunity. I 
 had awful trouble to get it. Every one wants to go ; 
 it is very select, and they are not giving many invita- 
 tions to clerks. The whole official world will be 
 there." . . . 
 
 "And what do you want me to put on my back?" 
 
 "Why, the dress you go to the theatre in. It looks 
 very well, to me. " 
 
 He stopped, distracted, seeing that his wife was cry- 
 ing. Two great tears descended slowly from the 
 corners of her eyes towards the corners of her mouth. 
 
 "What's the matter? What's the matter?" . . . 
 
 "Nothing. Only I have no dress, and therefore I 
 can't go to this ball. Give your card to some colleague 
 whose wife is better equipped than I." 
 
 "Come, let us see, Mathilde. How much would it 
 cost, a suitable dress, which you could use on other 
 occasions, something very simple?" 
 
 She reflected several seconds, making her calcula- 
 tions and wondering also what sum she could ask V\^ith- 
 out drawing on herself an immediate refusal and a 
 frightened exclamation from the economical clerk. 
 
 Finally, she replied : 
 
 "I don't know exactly, but I think I could manage 
 it with four hundred francs." 
 
 He had grown a little pale, because he was laying 
 aside just that amount to buy a gun and treat himself 
 to a little shooting next summer.
 
 By GUY DE MAUPASSANT 421 
 
 But he said : 
 
 "All right. I will give you four hundred francs. 
 And try to have a pretty dress. 
 
 The day of the ball drew near, and Mme. Loisel 
 seemed sad, uneasy, anxious. Her dress was ready, 
 however. Her husband said to her one evening: 
 
 "What is the matter? Come, you've been so queer 
 these last three days. ' ' 
 
 "It annoys me not to have a single jewel, not a 
 single stone, nothing to put on. I shall look like 
 distress. I should almost rather not go at all," 
 
 "You might wear natural flowers. It's very stylish 
 at this time of the year. For ten francs you can get 
 two or three magnificent roses." 
 
 "No; there's nothing more humiliating than to look 
 poor among other women who are rich, ' ' 
 
 ' ' How stupid you are ! Go look up your friend Mme. 
 Forestier, and ask her to lend you some jewels. 
 You're quite thick enough with her to do that," 
 
 "It's true. I never thought of it." 
 
 The next day she went to her friend and told of her 
 distress. 
 
 Mme. Forestier went to a wardrobe with a glass 
 door, took out a large jewel-box, brought it back, 
 opened it, and said to Mme. Loisel: 
 
 "Choose, my dear." 
 
 She saw first of all some bracelets, then a pearl 
 necklace, then a Venetian cross, gold and precious 
 stones of admirable workmanship. She tried on the 
 ornaments before the glass, hesitated, could not make 
 up her mind to part with them, to give them back. 
 She kept asking: 
 
 "Haven't you any more?"
 
 422 The NECKLACE 
 
 "Why, yes. Look. I don't know what you like." 
 
 All of a sudden she discovered, in a black satin box, 
 a superb necklace of diamonds; and her heart began 
 to beat with an immoderate desire. Her hands 
 trembled as she took it. She fastened it around her 
 throat, outside her high-necked dress, and remained 
 lost in ecstasy at the sight of herself. 
 
 "Can you lend me that, only that?" 
 
 "Why, yes, certainly." 
 
 She sprang upon the neck of her friend, kissed her 
 passionately, then fled with her treasure. 
 
 The day of the ball arrived. Mme. Loisel made a 
 great success. She was prettier than them all, elegant, 
 gracious, smiling, and crazy with joy. All the men 
 looked at her, asked her name, endeavored to be intro- 
 duced. All the attaches of the Cabinet wanted to waltz 
 with her. She was remarked by the minister himself. 
 
 She danced with intoxication, with passion, made 
 drunk by pleasure, forgetting all, in the triumph of 
 her beauty, in the glory of her success. 
 
 She went away about four o'clock in the morning. 
 Her husband had been sleeping since midnight, in a 
 little deserted anteroom, with three other gentlemen 
 whose wives were having a very good time. 
 
 He threw over her shoulders the wraps which he had 
 brought, modest wraps of common life, whose poverty 
 contrasted with the elegance of the ball dress. She 
 felt this and wanted to escape so as not to be remarked 
 by the other women, who were enveloping themselves 
 in costly furs. 
 
 Loisel held her back. 
 
 "Wait a bit. You will catch cold outside. I will go 
 and call a cab. ' '
 
 By GUY DE MAUPASSANT 423 
 
 But she did not listen to him, and rapidly descended 
 the stairs. When they were in the street they did not 
 find a carriage; and they began to look for one, shout- 
 ing after the cabmen whom they saw passing by at a 
 distance. 
 
 They went down towards the Seine, in despair, 
 shivering with cold. At last they found on the quay 
 one of those ancient noctambulant coupes which, 
 exactly as if they were ashamed to show their misery 
 during the day, are never seen round Paris until after 
 nightfall. 
 
 It took them to their door in the Rue des Martyrs, 
 and once more, sadly, they climbed up homeward. All 
 was ended, for her. And as to him, he reflected that 
 he must be at the Ministry at ten o'clock. 
 
 She removed the wraps, which covered her shoulders, 
 before the glass, so as once more to see herself in all 
 her glory. But suddenly she uttered a cry. She had 
 no longer the necklace around her neck! 
 
 Her husband, already half-undressed, demanded: 
 
 "What is the matter with you?" 
 
 "I have — T have — I've lost Mme. Forestier's 
 necklace." 
 
 "What !— how?— Impossible ! ' ' 
 
 And they looked in the folds of her dress, in the 
 folds of her cloak, in her pockets, everywhere. They 
 did not find it. 
 
 "You're sure you had it on when you left the 
 ball?" 
 
 "Yes, I felt it in the vestibule of the palace." 
 
 "But if you had lost it in the street we should have 
 heard it fall. It must be in the cab." 
 
 'Yes. Probably. Did you take his number?" 
 
 < t-
 
 424 The NECKLACE 
 
 "No. And you, didn't you notice it?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 They looked, thunderstruck, at one another. At 
 last Loisel put on his clothes. 
 
 "I shall go back on foot," said he, "over the whole 
 route which we have taken, to see if I can't find it." 
 
 And he went out. She sat waiting on a chair in her 
 ball dress, without strength to go to bed, overwhelmed, 
 without fire, without a thought. 
 
 Her husband came back about seven o'clock. He 
 had found nothing. 
 
 He went to Police Headquarters, to the newspaper 
 offices, to offer a reward ; he went to the cab companies 
 — everywhere, in fact, whither he was urged by the 
 least suspicion of hope. 
 
 She waited all day, in the same condition of mad 
 fear before this terrible calamity. 
 
 Loisel returned at night with a hollow, pale face; he 
 had discovered nothing. 
 
 "You must write to your friend, that you have 
 broken the clasp of her necklace and that you are 
 having it mended. That will give us time to turn 
 round. ' ' 
 
 She wrote at his dictation. 
 
 At the end of a week they had lost all hope. 
 
 And Loisel, who had aged five years, declared : 
 
 "We must consider how to replace that ornament." 
 
 The next day they took the box which had contained 
 it, and they went to the jeweller whose name was 
 found within. He consulted his books. 
 
 "It was not I, madame, who sold that necklace ; I 
 must simply have furnished the case." 
 
 Then they went from jeweller to jeweller, searching
 
 B); GUY DE MAUPASSANT 425 
 
 for a necklace like the other, consulting- their memories, 
 sick, both of them, with chagrin and with anguish. 
 
 They found, in a shop at the Palais Royal, a string 
 of diamonds which seemed to them exactly like the one 
 they looked for. It was worth forty thousand francs. 
 They could have it for thirty-six. 
 
 So they begged the jeweller not to sell it for three 
 days yet. And they made a bargain that he should 
 buy it back for thirty-four thousand francs, in case 
 they found the other one before the end of February. 
 
 Loisel possessed eighteen thousand francs which his 
 father had left him. He would borrow the rest. 
 
 He did borrow, asking a thousand francs of one, five 
 hundred of another, five louis here, three louis there. 
 He gave notes, took up ruinous obligations, dealt with 
 usurers, and all the race of lenders. He compromised 
 all the rest of his life, risked his signature without even 
 knowing if he could meet it ; and, frightened by the 
 pains yet to come, by the black misery which was 
 about to fall upon him, by the prospect of all the 
 physical privations and of all the moral tortures which 
 he was to suffer, he went to get the new necklace, 
 putting down upon the merchant's counter thirty-six 
 thousand francs. 
 
 When Mme. Loisel took back the necklace, Mme. 
 Forestier said to her, with a chilly manner: 
 
 "You should have returned it sooner, I might have 
 needed it." 
 
 She did not open the case, as her friend had so much 
 feared. If she had detected the substitution, what 
 would she have thought, what would she have said? 
 Would she not have taken Mme. Loisel for a thief? 
 
 ]\Ime. Loisel now knew the horrible existence of the
 
 426 The NECKLACE 
 
 needy. She took her part, moreover, all on a sudden, 
 with heroism. That dreadful debt must be paid. 
 She would pay it. They dismissed their servant; they 
 changed their lodgings ; they rented a garret under the 
 roof. . . , 
 
 Each month they had to meet some notes, renew 
 others, obtain more time. 
 
 Her husband worked in the evening, making a fair 
 copy of some tradesman's accounts, and late at night 
 he often copied manuscript for five sous a page. 
 
 And this life lasted ten years. 
 
 At the end of ten years they had paid everything, 
 everything, with the rates of usury, and the accumula- 
 tions of the compound interest. 
 
 Mme. Loisel looked old now. She had become the 
 woman of impoverished households — strong and hard 
 and rough. With frowsy hair, skirts askew, and red 
 hands, she talked loud while washing the floor with 
 great swishes of water. But sometimes, when her hus- 
 band was at the office, she sat down near the window, 
 and she thought of that gay evening of long ago, of 
 that ball where she had been so beautiful and so 
 feted. . . . 
 
 But, one Sunday, having gone to take a walk in the 
 Champs Elysees to refresh herself from the labors of 
 the week, she suddenly perceived a woman who was 
 leading a child. It was Mme. Forestier, still young, 
 still beautiful, still charming. 
 
 Mme. Loisel felt moved. Was she going to speak to 
 her? Yes, certainly. And now that she had paid, she 
 was going to tell her all about it. Why not? 
 
 She went up. 
 
 "Good-day, Jeanne." . . .
 
 By GUY DE MAUPASSANT 427 
 
 "But — madame! I do not know — You must have 
 mistaken." 
 
 "No. I am Mathilde Loisel." 
 
 "Oh, my poor Mathilda ! How you are changed!" 
 
 "Yes, I have had days hard enough, since I have 
 seen you, days wretched enough — and that because of 
 you!" 
 
 "Of me! How so?" 
 
 "Do you remember that diamond necklace which you 
 lent me to wear at the ministerial ball?" 
 
 "Yes. Well?" 
 
 "Well, I lost it." 
 
 "What do you mean? You brought it back." 
 
 "I brought you back another just like it. And for 
 this we have been ten years paying. You can under- 
 stand that it was not easy for us, us who had nothing. 
 At last it is ended, and I am very glad." . . . 
 
 "You say that you bought a necklace of diamonds to 
 replace mine?" 
 
 "Yes. You never noticed it, then ! They were very 
 like." 
 
 And she smiled with a joy which was proud and 
 naive at once. 
 
 Mme. Forestier, strongly moved, took her two hands. 
 
 "Oh, my poor Mathilde! Why, my necklace was 
 paste. It was worth at most five hundred francs."
 
 THE LETTER SCENE. "Macbeth." Act I., 
 Scene V. Inverness. A Room in Macbeth's Castle. 
 By WILLIAM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 [Enter Lady Macbeth, reading a letter.] 
 
 LADY MACBETH. "They met me in the day of 
 success; and I have learned by the perfectest 
 report, they have more in them than mortal knowl- 
 edge. When I burned in desire to question them 
 further, they made themselves — air, into which they 
 vanished. Whiles I stood rapt in the wonder of it, 
 came missives from the king, who all-hailed me, 
 'Thane of Cawdor'; by which title, before, these weird 
 sisters saluted me, and referred me to the coming on 
 of time, with, 'Hail, king that shalt be!' This have I 
 thought good to deliver thee, my dearest partner of 
 greatness, that thou might'st not lose the dues of 
 rejoicing, by being ignorant of what greatness is 
 promised thee. Lay it to thy heart, and farewell." 
 Glamis thou art, and Cawdor; and shalt be 
 What thou art promis'd, — Yet do I fear thy nature; 
 It is too full o' the milk of human kindness. 
 To catch the nearest way. Thou wouldst be great ; 
 Art not without ambition, but without 
 The illness should attend it: what thou wouldst 
 
 highly. 
 That wouldst thou holily; wouldst not play false. 
 And yet wouldst wrongly win: thou'dst have, great 
 
 Glamis, 
 That which cries, "Thus thou must do, if thou have it" ; 
 And that which rather thou dost fear to do. 
 Than wishest should be undone. Hie thee hither, 
 That I may pour my spirits in thine ear, 
 
 428
 
 By WILLIAM SHAKSPERE 429 
 
 And chastise with the valor of my tongue 
 All that impedes thee from the golden round, 
 Which fate and metaphysical aid doth seem 
 To have thee crown'd withal. [Enter a Messenger. 
 
 What is your tidings? 
 
 Messenger. The king comes here to-night. 
 
 L. Macb. Thou'rt mad to say it. 
 
 Is not thy master with him? who, wer't so. 
 Would have inform 'd for preparation. 
 
 Mess. So please you, it is true ; our thane is coming : 
 One of my fellows had the speed of him ; 
 Who, almost dead for breath, had scarcely more 
 Than would make up his message. 
 
 L. Macb. Give him tending; 
 
 He brings great news. [Exit Messenger.] The raven 
 
 himself is hoarse. 
 That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan 
 Under my battlements. — Come, you spirits 
 That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here; 
 And fill me, from the crown to the toe, top-full 
 Of direst cruelty! make thick my blood; 
 Stop up th' access and passage to remorse; 
 That no compunctious visitings of nature 
 Shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between 
 The effect and it! Come to my woman's breasts, 
 And take my milk for gall, you murd'ring ministers, 
 Wherever in your sightless substances 
 You wait on nature's mischief! Come, thick night, 
 And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell. 
 That my keen knife see not the wound it makes. 
 Nor Heaven peep through the blanket of the dark. 
 To cry, "Hold, hold!"— [Enter Macbeth. 
 
 Great Glamis! worthy Cawdor!
 
 430 The LETTER SCENE 
 
 Greater than both, by the all-hail hereafter! 
 Thy letters have transported me beyond 
 This ignorant present, and I feel now 
 The future in the instant. 
 
 Macbeth. My dearest love, 
 
 Duncan comes here to-night. 
 
 L. Macb. And when goes hence? 
 
 Macbeth. To-morrow, — as he purposes, 
 
 L. Macb. O, never 
 
 Shall sun that morrow see ! 
 Your face, my thane, is as a book, where men 
 May read strange matters. To beguile the time. 
 Look like the time ; bear welcome in your eye. 
 Your hand, your tongue: look like the innocent 
 
 flower, 
 But be the serpent under't. He that's coming 
 Must be provided for: and you shall put 
 This night's great business into my dispatch ; 
 Which shall to all our nights and days to come 
 Give solely sovereign sway and masterdom. 
 
 Macbeth. We will speak further. 
 
 L. Macb. Only look up clear; 
 
 To alter favor ever is to fear. 
 Leave all the rest to me. [Exeunt.
 
 THE SLEEP-WALKING SCENE. "Macbeth." 
 Act V. Scene I. Dunsinane. A Room in the Castle. 
 
 [Enter a Doctor of Physic and a Waiting Gentle- 
 woman.] 
 
 DOCTOR. I have two nights watched with you, 
 but can perceive no truth in your report. When 
 was it she last walked? 
 
 Gentlewoman. Since his majesty went into the 
 field, I have seen her rise from her bed, throw her 
 nightgown upon her, unlock her closet, take forth 
 paper, fold it, write upon't, read it, afterwards seal it, 
 and again return to bed ; yet all this while in a most 
 fast sleep. 
 
 Doctor. A great perturbation in nature, to receive 
 at once the benefit of sleep and do the effects of watch- 
 ing! In this slumbery agitation, besides her walking 
 and other actual performances, what at any time have 
 you heard her say? 
 
 Gentlewoman. That, sir, which I will not report 
 after her. 
 
 Doctor. You may to me, and 'tis most meet you 
 should. 
 
 Gentlewoman. Neither to you nor any one, hav- 
 ing no witness to confirm my speech. 
 
 [Enter Lady Macbeth, with a taper. ] 
 Lo you, here she comes! This is her very guise; 
 and, upon my life, fast asleep. Observe her; stand 
 close. 
 
 Doctor. How came she by that light? 
 Gentlewoman. Why, it stood by her: she has light 
 by her continually; 'tis her command. 
 Doctor. You see, her eyes are open. 
 
 431
 
 432 The SLEEP-WALKING SCENE 
 
 Gentlewoman. Ay, but their sense is shut. 
 
 Doctor. What is it she does now? Look, how she 
 rubs her hands. 
 
 Gentlewoman. It is an accustomed action with her, 
 to seem thus washing her hands: I have known her 
 continue in this a quarter of an hour. 
 
 Lady Macbeth. Yet here's a spot. 
 
 Doctor. Hark! she speaks: I will set down what 
 comes from her, to satisfy my remembrance the more 
 strongly. 
 
 Lady Macbeth. Out, damned spot! out, I say! — 
 One: two: why, then 'tis time to do 't. — Hell is 
 murky! — Fie, my lord, fie! a soldier, and afeard? 
 What need we fear who knows it, when none can call 
 our power to account? — Yet who would have thought 
 the old man to have had so much blood in him. 
 
 Doctor. Do you mark that? 
 
 Lady Macbeth. The thane of Fife had a wife: 
 where is she now? — What, will these hands ne'er be 
 clean? — No more o' that, my lord, no more o' that: 
 you mar all with this starting. 
 
 Doctor. Go to, go to; you have known what you 
 should not. 
 
 Gentlewoman. She has spoke what she should not, 
 I am sure of that; heaven knows what she has known. 
 
 Lady Macbeth. Here's the smell of the blood still: 
 all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little 
 hand. Oh, oh, oh! 
 
 Doctor. What a sigh is there ! The heart is sorely 
 charged. 
 
 Gentlewoman. I would not have such a heart in my 
 bosom for the dignity of the whole body. 
 
 Doctor. Well, well, well,
 
 By WILLIAM SHAKSPERE 433 
 
 Gentlewoman. Pray God it be, sir. 
 
 Doctor. This disease is beyond my practice: yet I 
 have known those which have walked in their sleep 
 who have died holily in their beds. 
 
 Lady Macbeth. Wash your hands, put on your 
 nightgown; look not so pale. — I tell you yet again, 
 Banquo's buried; he cannot come out on's grave. 
 
 Doctor. Even so? 
 
 Lady Macbeth. To bed, to bed! there's knocking at 
 the gate : come, come, come, come, give me your hand. 
 What's done cannot be undone. To bed, to bed, to 
 bed! [Exit. 
 
 Doctor. Will she go now to bed? 
 
 Gentlewoman. Directly. 
 
 Doctor. Foul whisperings are abroad. Unnatural 
 deeds 
 Do breed unnatural troubles : infected minds 
 To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets. 
 More needs she the divine than the physician. — 
 God, God forgive us all ! — Look after her ; 
 Remove from her the means of all annoyance, 
 And still keep eyes upon her. So, good night: 
 My mind she has mated, and amaz'd my sight. 
 I think, but dare not speak. 
 
 Gentlewoman. Good night, good doctor. 
 
 [Exeunt.
 
 SCENES FROM "THE ROAD TO RUIN." By 
 THOMAS HOLCROFT. 
 
 Dornton's House. 
 
 [Enter Mr. Domton.] 
 OR. — Past two o'clock, and not yet returned — 
 
 D 
 
 Well, well, it's my own fault!— Mr. Smith! 
 [Enter Mr. Smith.] 
 
 Mr. S.— Sir. 
 
 Dor. — Is Mr. Sulky come in? 
 
 Mr. S. — No, sir. 
 
 Dor. — Are you sure Harry Domton said he should 
 return to-night? 
 
 Mr. S. — Yes, sir. 
 
 Dor. — And you don't know where he is gone? 
 
 Mr. S. — He did not tell me, sir. 
 
 Dor. (angrily). — I ask you if you know. 
 
 Mr. S. — I believe to Newmarket, sir. 
 
 Dor. — You always believe the worst! — I'll sit up no 
 longer. — Tell the servants to go to bed. And, do you 
 hear? should he apply to you for money, don't let him 
 have a guinea. 
 
 Mr. S. — Very well, sir. 
 
 Dor. — I have done with him; he is henceforth no son 
 of mine ! Let him starve ! 
 
 Mr. S. — He acts very improperly, sir, indeed. 
 
 Dor. — Improperly! How? (Taking his hand.) 
 What does he do? (Alarmed.) 
 
 Mr. S.— Sir! 
 
 Dor. — Have you heard anything of 
 
 Mr. S. (confused). — No — no, sir— nothing— nothing 
 but what you yourself tell me. 
 
 434
 
 By THOMAS HOLCROFT 435 
 
 Dor. — Then how do yoii know he has acted 
 improperly? 
 
 Mr. S. — He is certainly a very good hearted young 
 gentleman, sir! 
 
 Dor. — Good-hearted! How dare you make such an 
 assertion? 
 
 Mr. S.— Sir! 
 
 Dor. — How dare you, Mr. Smith, insult me so? Is 
 not his gaming notorious? his racing, driving, riding, 
 and associating with knaves, fools debauchees, and 
 black-legs? 
 
 Mr. S. — Upon my word, sir, I — 
 
 Dor. — Upon your word! But it's over! His name 
 has this very day been struck out of the firm ! Let his 
 drafts be returned. It's all ended! And observe, not 
 a guinea! If you lend him any yourself, I'll not pay 
 you. I'll no longer be a fond, doting father! There- 
 fore, take warning! Take warning, I say! Be his 
 distress what it will, not a guinea! Though you should 
 hereafter see him begging, starving in the streets, not 
 so much as the loan or the gift of a single guinea. 
 (With vehemence.) 
 
 Mr. S. — I shall be careful to observe your orders, sir. 
 
 Dor. — Why, would you see him starve? Would you 
 see him starve, and not lend him a guinea? Would 
 you, sir? Would you? 
 
 Mr. S. — Certainly not, except in obedience to your 
 orders ! 
 
 Dor. (with amazement and compassion). — And could 
 any orders justify your seeing a poor unfortunate 
 youth, rejected by his father, abandoned by his friends, 
 starving to death? 
 
 Mr. S. — There is no danger of that, sir.
 
 436 SCENES from ''The ROAD to RUIN" 
 
 Dor. — I tell you, the thing shall happen! He shall 
 starve to death! (Distressed at the supposition.) I'll 
 never look on him more as a son of mine! and I'm 
 very certain, when I have forsaken him, all the world 
 will forsake him, too. (Weeps.) Yes, yes! he is born 
 to be a poor, wretched outcast. 
 
 [Enter Mr. Sulky. Exit Mr. Smith.] 
 
 Dor. — Well, Mr. Sulky, have you heard anything of 
 him? 
 
 Sul.— Yes. 
 
 Dor. — Put me out of my pain! If you are not a 
 tiger, put me out of my pain ! 
 
 Sul. (slowly drawing a newspaper out of his pocket). 
 — There: read! 
 
 Dor. — Dead? 
 
 Sul.— Worse! 
 
 Dor. — Mercy defend me ! where? what? 
 
 Sul. — The first paragraph in the postscript: the 
 beginning line in capitals. 
 
 Dor. (reads). — "The junior partner of the great 
 banking-house not a mile from the post-office, has again 
 been touched at Newmarket, for upwards of ten thou- 
 sand pounds." (Pause.) It can't be! 
 
 Sul.— Humph! 
 
 Dor. — Why, can it? 
 
 Sul.— Yes. 
 
 Dor. — How do you know? What proof have you 
 that it is not a lie? 
 
 Sul. — His own hand-writing. 
 
 Dor. — How? 
 
 Sul. — Bills at three days' sight, to the full amount, 
 have already been presented.
 
 By THOMAS HOLCROFT 437 
 
 Dor. — And accepted? 
 
 Sul.— Yes. 
 
 Dor. — But — why — were you mad, Mr. Sulky? Were 
 you mad? 
 
 Sul. — I soon shall be. 
 
 Dor. — Is not his name struck off the firm? 
 
 Sul. — They were dated two days before. 
 
 Dor. — The credit of my house begans to totter! 
 
 Sul.— Well it may! 
 
 Dor. — What the effect of such a paragraph may be, I 
 cannot tell. 
 
 Sul. — I can: — Ruin! 
 
 Dor. — Are you serious, sir? 
 
 Sul. — I am not inclined to laugh. — A run against the 
 house, stoppage, disgrace, bankruptcy! 
 
 Dor. — Really, Mr. Sulky, you 
 
 Sul. — Yes, I know I offend. I was bred in your 
 house, you used me tenderly, I served you faithfully, 
 and you admitted me a partner. Don't think I care for 
 myself. No, I can sit at the desk again. But you I 
 you ! first man of the first commercial city on earth, 
 your name in the Gazette ! Were it mine only, I would 
 laugh at it. What am I? who cares for me? 
 
 Dor.— Where is the vile (Calling.) Mr. Smith 
 
 — Thomas — William ! 
 
 [Enter Mr. Smith.] 
 
 Call all the servants together, Mr. Smith; clerks, 
 footmen, maids, every soul! Tell them their young 
 master is a scoundrel. 
 
 Mr. S. — Very well, sir. 
 
 Dor. — Sir? Bid them shut the door in his face ! I'll 
 turn the first away that lets him set his foot in this 
 house ever again !
 
 438 SCENES /ro7n ''The ROAD to RUIN" 
 
 Mr. S. — Very well, sir. 
 
 Dor. — Very well, sir! Confound your very well, sir! 
 I tell you, it is not very well, sir. He shall starve, 
 die, rot in the street ! Is that very well, sir? 
 
 [Exeunt Dornton and Smith. 
 
 Sul. — He has a noble heart. A fond father's heart! 
 The boy was a fine youth ; but he spoiled him ; and 
 now he quarrels with himself and all the world, because 
 he hates his own folly. (A knocking at the street 
 door.) So! here is the youth returned. (Knocking 
 again. Exit.) 
 
 [Enter Dornton, with Servants.] 
 
 Dor. — Don't stir! — On your lives, don't go to the 
 door! Are the bolts and locks all fastened? 
 
 Servants. — All, sir. 
 
 Dor. — Don't mind his knocking! Go to bed, every 
 soul of you, instantly, and fall asleep ! He shall starve 
 in the streets! (Knocking again.) Fetch me my 
 blunderbuss! Make haste! 
 
 SCENE II. Dornton's House. 
 [Enter Harry Dornton, Milford, and Footman.] 
 
 Foot. — My old master is in a bitter passion, sir. 
 
 Har. — I know it. 
 
 Foot. — He is gone down to turn the servant out of 
 doors that let you in. 
 
 Har. — Is he? Then go and let your fellow-servant 
 in again. 
 
 Foot. — I dare not, sir. 
 
 Har.— Then I must. [Exit. 
 
 Foot. — He inquired who was with my young master. 
 
 Mil— Well!
 
 By THOMAS HOLCROFT 439 
 
 Foot. — And when he heard it was you, sir, he was 
 ten times more furious. 
 
 [Re-enter Harry Dornton.] 
 
 Har. — All's well that ends well. This has been a 
 cursed long voyage, Milford. 
 
 Mil. — I'm a hundred and fifty in. 
 
 Har. — And I ten thousand out. 
 
 Mil. — I believe I had better avoid your father for the 
 present. 
 
 Har. — I think you had. Dad considers you as my 
 tempter; the cause of my ruin. 
 
 Mil. — I hear he threatens to arrest me. 
 
 Har. — Yes! He has threatened to strike my name 
 out of the firm and disinherit me, a thousand times, 
 
 ' [Enter Mr. Sulky.] 
 
 My dear Mr. Sulky, how do you do? 
 
 Sul.— Very ill! 
 
 Har. — Indeed? I am very sorry! What's your dis- 
 order? 
 
 Sul.— You! 
 
 Har. — Ha, ha, ha! 
 
 Sul. — Ruin, bankruptcy, infamy! 
 
 Har.— The old story! 
 
 Sul. — To a new tune. You are a couple of pretty 
 gentlemen! But beware! misfortune is at your heels! 
 Mr. Dornton vows vengeance on you both, and justly. 
 He is not gone to bed; and, if you have confidence 
 enough to look him in the face, I would have you stay 
 where you are. 
 
 Mil. — I neither wish to insult, nor be insulted. 
 
 fExit.
 
 440 SCENES /r^w ''The ROAD to RUIN" 
 
 Sul. — Do you know, sir, your father turned the poor 
 fellow into the street, who compassionately opened the 
 door for you? 
 
 Har. — Yes; and my father knows I as compassion- 
 ately opened the door for the poor fellow in return. 
 [Enter Dornton, with a newspaper in his hand.] 
 
 Dor. — So, sir! 
 
 Har. (bowing). — I am happy to see you, sir. 
 
 Dor. — You are there, after having broken into my 
 house at midnight! — and you are here (holding up 
 paper), after having ruined me and my house by your 
 unprincipled prodigality! Are you not a scoundrel? 
 
 Har. — No, sir; I am only a fool. 
 
 Sul. — Good-night to you, gentlemen. [Going. 
 
 Dor. — Stay where you are, Mr. Sulky. I beg you to 
 stay where you are, and be a witness to my solemn 
 renunciation of him and his vices ! 
 
 Sul. — I have witnessed it a thousand times. 
 
 Dor. — But this is the last. (To Harry.) Are you 
 not a scoundrel, I say? 
 
 Har. — I am your son. 
 
 Dor. (calling). — Mr. Smith! bring in those deeds. 
 
 [Enter Mr. Smith, with papers.] 
 
 You will not deny you are an incorrigible squan- 
 derer? 
 
 Har. — I will deny nothing. 
 
 Dor. — A nuisance, a wart, a blot, a stain upon the 
 face of nature ! 
 
 Har. — A stain that will wash out, sir. 
 
 Dor. — A redundancy, a negation; a besotted, sophis- 
 ticated incumbrance; a jumble of fatuity; your head, 
 your heart, your words, your actions, all a jargon;
 
 By THOMAS HOLCROFT 441 
 
 incoherent and unintelligible to yourself, absurd and 
 offensive to others? [Smith retires. 
 
 Har. — I am whatever you please, sir. 
 
 Dor. — Bills never examined, everything bought on 
 credit, the price of nothing asked! Conscious you 
 were weak enough to wish for baubles you did not 
 want, and pant for pleasures you could not enjoy, you 
 had not the effrontery to assume the circumspect 
 caution of common sense ! And to your other destruc- 
 tive follies, you must add the detestable vice of gaming ! 
 
 Har. — These things, sir, are much easier done than 
 defended. 
 
 Dor.— But here. (To Mr. Smith, who advances.) 
 Give me that parchment! The partners have all been 
 summoned ! Look, sir ! your name has been formally 
 erased 1 
 
 Har. — The partners are very kind. 
 
 Dor. — The suspicions already incurred by the known 
 profligacy of a principal in the firm, the immense sums 
 you have drawn, this paragraph, the run on the house 
 
 it will occasion, the consternation of the whole city 
 
 [Smith retires to background. 
 
 Har. — All very terrible, and some of it very true. 
 (Half aside.) 
 
 Dor. (passionately).— If I should happily outlive the 
 storm you have raised, it shall not be to support a 
 prodigal, or to reward a gambler! You are disin- 
 herited! Read! (Taking more papers from Smith.) 
 
 Har. — Your word is as good as the Bank, sir. 
 
 Dor. — I'll no longer act the doting father, fascinated 
 by your arts ! 
 
 Har. — I never had any art, sir, except the one you 
 taught me.
 
 442 SCENES /r^w ''The ROAD to RUIN" 
 
 Dor, — I taught you! What, scoundrel? what? 
 
 Har. — That of loving you, sir. 
 
 Dor. — Loving me! 
 
 Har. — Most sincerely! 
 
 Dor. (forgetting his passion). — Why, can you say, 
 Harry — Rascal, I mean — that you love me? 
 
 Har. — I should be a rascal, indeed, if I did not, sir. 
 
 Dor. — Harry! Harry! (Greatly agitated.) No; 
 confound me if I do. Sir, you are a vile 
 
 Har. — I know I am. 
 
 Dor. — And I'll never speak to you more. [Going. 
 
 Har. — Bid me good-night, sir. Mr. Sulky, here, will 
 bid me good-night, and you are my father! Good- 
 night, Mr. Sulky! 
 
 Sul. — Good-night. [Exit. 
 
 Har. — Come, sir! 
 
 Dor. — Good (Struggling with passion.) I won't! 
 
 If I do 
 
 Har. — Reproach me with my follies, strike out my 
 name, disinherit me — I deserve it all, and more. But 
 say "Good-night, Harry!" 
 
 Dor. — I won't! I won't! I won't! 
 
 Har. — Poverty is a trifle, — we can whistle it off; but 
 enmity 
 
 Dor. — I will not! 
 
 Har. — Sleep in enmity! And who can say how 
 soundly? Come! good-night. 
 
 Dor. — I won't! I won't! [Runs off. 
 
 Har. — Say you so? Why, then, my noble-hearted 
 dad, I am indeed a scoundrel! 
 
 [Re-enter Mr. Dornton.] 
 
 Dor.— Good -night? [Exit. 
 
 Har.— Good-night! [Exit.
 
 SCENES FROM "KING HENRY VIII." I. ANNE 
 BULLEN. By WILLIAM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 An Ante-chamber in the Queen's Apartments. 
 [Enter Anne Bullen and an Old Lady.] 
 
 ANNE. Not for that neither;— here's the pang 
 that pinches: 
 His highness having liv'd so long with her, and she 
 So good a lady, that no tongue could ever 
 Pronounce dishonour of her, — by my life. 
 She never knew harm-doing. . . . Verily, 
 I swear 'tis better to be lowly born, 
 And range with humble livers in content, 
 Than to be perk'd up in a glistering grief, 
 And wear a golden sorrow. 
 
 Old Lady. Our content 
 
 Is our best having. 
 
 Anne. By my troth 
 
 I would not be a queen. 
 
 Old Lady. Beshrew me, I would, 
 
 And so would you. 
 For all this spice of your hypocrisy. . . . 
 
 Anne. Nay, good troth, — 
 
 Old Lady. Yes, troth, and troth. — You would not 
 be a queen? 
 
 Anne. No, not for all the riches under heaven. . . 
 
 [Enter the Lord Chamberlain.] 
 
 Chamberlain. Good morrow, ladies. What were't 
 worth to know 
 The secret of your conference? 
 
 Anne. My good lord. 
 
 Not your demand; it values not your asking. 
 Our mistress' sorrows we were pitying. 
 
 4-13
 
 444 SCENES from "KING HENRY VIII." 
 
 Chamberlain. It was a gentle business, and becoming 
 The action of good women; there is hope 
 All will be well. 
 
 Anne. Now, I pray God, amen! 
 
 Chamberlain. You bear a gentle mind, and heav- 
 enly blessings 
 Follow such creatures. That you may, fair lady, 
 Perceive I speak sincerely, . . . the king's majesty 
 Commends his good opinion to you, and 
 Does purpose honour to you no less flowing 
 Than Marchioness of Pembroke; to which title 
 A thousand pound a year, annual support, 
 Out of his grace he adds. 
 
 Anne. . . . Beseech your lordship, 
 
 Vouchsafe to speak my thanks, and my obedience, 
 As from a blushing handmaid, to his highness, 
 Whose health and royalty I pray for. 
 
 Chamberlain. Lady, 
 
 I shall not fail to approve the fair conceit 
 The king hath of you. ... 
 
 [Exit Lord Chamberlain. 
 
 Old Lady. Why, this it is ; see, see ! 
 I have been begging sixteen years in court — 
 Am yet a courtier beggarly, — nor could 
 Come pat betwixt too early and too late. 
 For any suit of pounds ; and you, O fate ! 
 A very fresh-fish here, — fie, fie upon 
 This compell'd fortune! — have your mouth fill'd up 
 Before you open it. 
 
 Anne. This is strange to me. 
 
 Old Lady. How tastes it? is it bitter? forty pence, 
 no. 
 There was a lady once — 'tis an old story —
 
 By WILLIAM SHAKSPERE 445 
 
 That would not be a queen, that would she not, 
 For all the mud in Egypt:— have you heard it? 
 
 Anne. Come, you are pleasant. 
 
 Old Lady. With your theme I could 
 
 O'ermount the lark. The Marchioness of Pembroke! 
 A thousand pounds a year! — for pure respect; 
 No other obligation ! By my life. 
 That promises more thousands ; honour's train 
 Is longer than his foreskirt. By this time 
 I know your back will bear a duchess. — Say, 
 Are you not stronger than you were? 
 
 Anne. Good lady. 
 
 Make yourself mirth with your particular fancy, 
 And leave me out on't. Would I had no being, 
 If this salute my blood a jot! it faints me 
 To think what follows. — 
 The queen is comfortless, and we forgetful 
 In our long absence. Pray do not deliver 
 What here you've heard to her. 
 
 Old Lady. What do you think me? 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 n. QUEEN KATHERINE. 
 A Hall in Black-friars. 
 [Trumpets, sennet, and cornets. Enter two Vergers, 
 with short silver wands ; next them, two Scribes, 
 in the habit of doctors; after them, the Arch- 
 bishop of Canterbury alone ; after him, the Bishops 
 of Lincoln, Ely, Rochester, and Saint Asaph; 
 next them, with some small distance, follows a 
 Gentleman bearing the purse, with the great seal, 
 and a cardinal's hat; then two Priests, bearing 
 each a silver cross; then a Gentleman-Usher, bare-
 
 446 SCENES from "KING HENRY VIII.". 
 
 headed, accompanied with a Sergeant-at-Arms, 
 bearing a silver mace ; then two Gentlemen, bear- 
 ing two great silver pillars; after them, side by 
 side, the two Cardinals, Wolsey and Campeius; 
 two Noblemen with the sword and mace. Then 
 enter the King with his train, followed by the 
 Queen with hers. The King takes place under 
 the cloth of state ; the two Cardinals sit under him 
 as judges. The Queen takes place at some dis- 
 tance from the King. The Bishops place them- 
 selves on each side the court, in manner of a 
 consistory; below them, the Scribes. The Lords 
 sit next the Bishops. The rest of the Attendants 
 in convenient order about the stage. ] 
 
 Wolsey. Whilst our commission from Rome is read. 
 Let silence be commanded. 
 
 King Henry. What's the need? 
 
 It hath already publicly been read. 
 And on all sides the authority allow'd; 
 You may, then, spare that time. 
 
 Wolsey. Be't so. — Proceed. 
 
 Scribe. Say, Henry, King of England, come into 
 
 the court. 
 Crier. Henry, King of England, come into the 
 
 court. 
 King Henry. Here. 
 Scribe. Say, Katherine, Queen of England, come 
 
 into the court. 
 Crier. Katherine, Queen of England, come into the 
 court. 
 
 [The Queen makes no answer, rises out of her chair, 
 goes about the court, comes to the King, and 
 kneels at his feet; then speaks.]
 
 By WILLIAM SHAKSPERE 447 
 
 Queen Katherine. 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 have I offended you? . . . Heaven witness 
 I have been to you a true and humble wife, 
 At all times to your will conformable : 
 Ever in fear to kindle your dislike, 
 Yea, subject to your countenance ; glad or sorry, 
 As I saw it inclin'd. When was the hour 
 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 him deriv'd your anger, did I 
 Continue in my liking? nay, gave notice 
 He was from thence discharg'd. Sir, call to mind 
 That I 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 honour aught, 
 My bond to wedlock, or my love and duty. 
 Against your sacred person, in God's name, 
 Turn me away ; and let the foul'st contempt 
 Shut door upon 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 unmatched wit and judgment; Ferdinand,
 
 448 SCENES from "KING HENRY VIII." 
 
 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 gather' 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 Spain advis'd, whose counsel 
 I will implore; if not, i' the name of God, 
 Your pleasure be fulfiU'd. 
 
 Wolsey. You have here, lady, — 
 
 And of your choice, — these reverend fathers; men 
 Of singular integrity and learning. 
 Yea, the elect o' the land, who are assembled 
 To plead your cause. It shall be therefore bootless 
 That longer you desire the court, as well 
 For your own quiet as to rectify 
 What is unsettled in the king. 
 
 Campeius. His grace 
 
 Hath spoken well and justly; therefore, madam, 
 It's fit this royal session do proceed. 
 And that without delay their arguments 
 Be now produc'd and heard. 
 
 Queen Katherine. Lord Cardinal, 
 
 To you I speak. 
 
 Wolsey. Your pleasure, madam? 
 
 Queen Katherine. Sir, 
 
 I am about to weep ; but, thinking that 
 We are a queen — or long have dream'd so, — certain 
 The daughter of a king, my drops of tears 
 I'll turn to sparks of fire. 
 
 Wolsey. Be patient yet.
 
 By WILLIAM SHAKSPERE 449 
 
 Queen Katherine. I will, when you are humble; 
 nay, before, 
 Or God will punish me, I do believe, 
 Induc'd by potent circumstances, that 
 You are mine enemy, and make my challenge 
 You shall not be my judge; for it is you 
 Have blown this coal betwixt my lord and me, — 
 Which God's dew quench !— Therefore, I say again, 
 I utterly abhor, yea, from my soul. 
 Refuse you for my judge; whom, yet once more, 
 I hold my most malicious foe, and think not 
 At all a friend to truth. 
 
 Wolsey. I do profess 
 
 You speak not like yourself; who ever yet 
 Have stood to charity, and display'd the effects 
 Of disposition gentle, and of wisdom 
 O'ertopping woman's power. Madam, you do me 
 
 wrong ; 
 I have no spleen against you, nor injustice 
 For you or any : how far I have proceeded. 
 Or how far further shall, is warranted 
 By a commission from the consistory, 
 Yea, the whole consistory of Rome. . . . 
 
 Queen Katherine. My lord, my lord, 
 I am a simple woman, much too weak 
 T' oppose your cunning. You're meek and humble- 
 mouth 'd; 
 You sign your place and calling in full seeming. 
 With meekness and humility, but your heart 
 Is cramm'd with arrogancy, spleen, and pride. 
 You have, by fortune and his highness' favours. 
 Gone slightly o'er low steps, and now are mounted 
 Where powers are your retainers ; and your words.
 
 450 SCENES /r^w "KING HENRY VIII." 
 
 Domestics to you, serve your will as't please 
 Yourself pronounce their office. I must tell you, 
 You tender more your person's honour than 
 Your high profession spiritual; that again 
 I do refuse you for my judge, and here, 
 Before you all, appeal unto the pope. 
 To bring my whole cause fore his holiness, 
 And to be judg'd by him. 
 
 [She curtsies to the King, and offers to depart. 
 Campeius. The queen is obstinate, 
 
 Stubborn to justice, apt to accuse it, and 
 Disdainful to be tried by't; 'tis not well. 
 She's going away. 
 
 King Henry. Call her again. 
 
 Crier. Katherine, Queen of England, come into the 
 
 court. 
 Griffith. Madam, you are call'd back. 
 Queen Katherine. 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 ever more 
 Upon this business my appearance make 
 In any of their courts. 
 
 [Exeunt Queen and her Attendants.
 
 THE POTION SCENE. "Romeo and Juliet." By 
 WILLIAM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 ACT IV. SCENE III. 
 Juliet's Chamber. 
 
 • • ■ • • • • 
 
 [Exeunt Lady Capulet and Nurse.] 
 
 JULIET. Farewell! God knows when we shall 
 meet again. 
 I have a faint cold fear thrills through my veins, 
 That almost freezes up the heat of life: 
 I'll call them back again to comfort me: — 
 Nurse! — What should she do here? 
 My dismal scene I needs must act alone. 
 Come, vial. 
 
 What if this mixture do not work at all? 
 Shall I be married then to-morrow morning? 
 No, no: this shall forbid it. — Lie thou there. 
 What if it be a poison, which the friar 
 Subtly hath minister'd to have me dead; 
 Lest in this marriage he should be dishonour'd, 
 Because he married me before to Romeo? 
 I fear it is; and yet, methinks, it should not, 
 For he hath still been tried a holy man : 
 I will not entertain so bad a thought — 
 How if, when I am laid into the tomb, 
 I wake before the time that Romeo 
 Come to redeem me? there's a fearful point! 
 Shall I not then be stifled in the vault. 
 To whose foul mouth no healthsome air breathes in, 
 And there die strangled ere my Romeo comes? 
 Or, if I live, is it not very like, 
 The horrible conceit of death and night, 
 
 451
 
 452 The POTION SCENE 
 
 Together with the terror of the place, 
 As in a vault, an ancient receptacle. 
 Where, for these many hundred years, the bones 
 Of all my buried ancestors are pack'd; 
 Where bloody Tybalt, yet but green in earth. 
 Lies festering in his shroud ; where, as they say, 
 At some hours in the night spirits resort; 
 Alack, alack! Is it not like, that I, 
 So early waking ; what with loathsome smells, 
 And shrieks like mandrakes' torn out of the earth, 
 That living mortals, hearing them, run mad, — 
 O ! if I wake, shall I not be distraught, 
 Environed with all these hideous fears? 
 And madly play with my forefathers' joints? 
 And pluck the mangled Tybalt from his shroud? 
 And, in this rage, with some great kinsman's bone, 
 As with a club, dash out my desperate brains? 
 O, look! methinks I see my cousin's ghost 
 Seeking out Romeo, that did spit his body 
 Upon a rapier's point. Stay, Tybalt, stay! 
 Romeo, I come ! this do I drink to thee. 
 
 [She throws herself on the bed.
 
 THE SINKING OF THE MERRIMAC. All rights 
 reserved. Copyright, 1899, by Herbert S. Stone & 
 Company. By ARTHUR DUDLEY HALL. 
 
 THE scene is that fair island which its discoverer, 
 Columbus, described as "the finest land that eye 
 ever rested upon, the sweetest thing in the world." 
 
 Outside the harbor of Santiago de Cuba lies the fleet 
 of the United States, under the command of Admiral 
 Sampson. Within are the Spanish war-ships of 
 Admiral Cervera. The harbor is filled with mines, 
 which it is impossible for the Americans to locate 
 accurately, and the Spanish are safe there. "Bottle 
 them up!" has been the order, the words arousing both 
 admiration and laughter in this country, as well as 
 throughout Europe. And bottled up they are ! But, 
 alas, the mouth of the bottle is open. No cork has as 
 yet been forced into it. This must be done. But 
 how? All through the past night a sharp watch has 
 been kept on board the Yankee ships, so that no tor- 
 pedo boat could creep out from the harbor, sending 
 some other splendid ship to the fate of the Maine. 
 On this particular morning, as the sun mounts higher 
 and higher, there is assembled in the Admiral's cabin 
 on board the flagship a group of earnest, resolute 
 officers. They are there to discuss a plan of strategy, 
 which, if adopted, is almost certain to consign one or 
 more of them to a watery grave. 
 
 About a hundred yards away from the flagship lies a 
 dirty old collier, the Merrimac, a tramp, as she was 
 called when she first arrived. A tramp, indeed, but a 
 tramp that was to prove a hero. In the Admiral's 
 cabin, the collection of officers grow more and more 
 grave as the solution of the problem they have in hand 
 
 453
 
 454 The SINKING of the MERRIMAC 
 
 draws to a close. One thing is certain — a vessel must 
 be sacrificed, and what is far more serious, a number 
 of precious lives as well. 
 
 It is impossible for more than one vessel at a time 
 to pass through the narrow gap leading to Santiago 
 harbor and to reach the much-desired fleet within. 
 The channel is only one hundred and sixty feet wide, 
 and across it are spread three rows of mines, six in a 
 row, some of them arranged to explode by contact, and 
 the rest connected by electricity with the shore. Even 
 if the mines can be destroyed, the advantage is still 
 with the Spanish fleet. For, while the latter lies 
 within, Cervera can so maneuver his ships as to con- 
 centrate all his fire on our one poor vessel that first 
 tries to enter the noxious "bottle." 
 
 The hour has come, and the man is ready. This 
 man is a young, light-haired naval constructor. Lieuten- 
 ant Richmond Pearson Hobson ! Possessing technical 
 knowledge, natural inventive genius and experience, 
 he has formulated a plan to countermine the entrance 
 to Santiago harbor and to solve the problem, the con- 
 templation of which has brought those solemn officers 
 together. Eagerly the bright-faced young man 
 explains to them his project and unfolds his vision of 
 success. The gray-haired admiral and those surround- 
 ing him listen attentively. The pros and cons of the 
 plan are discussed most carefully. At last, the young 
 officer, by sheer force of intellect and foresight, wins 
 the approval of his strategic game. 
 
 By noon the admiral has detailed Lieutenant Hobson 
 to command the expedition he has planned. But more 
 than one of those present looks with dimmed eyes 
 through tears that are no disgrace to their manhood,
 
 By ARTHUR DUDLEY HALL 455 
 
 at this brave young fellow who is facing unflinchingly 
 what seems to be nothing more or less than a glorious 
 sacrifice. Can there be anything but death to reward 
 him? 
 
 On the bridge of the Merrimac, the officer of the 
 deck is idly watching the busy crew coaling the Massa- 
 chusetts. Suddenly he sees that the flagship, New 
 York, is signaling him, and to his unbounded sur- 
 prise, he interprets the signals as follows: 
 
 "Prepare to abandon ship. Let officers and men 
 take valuables and clothes with them. The Merrimac 
 is to be sunk at the entrance of the harbor. Admiral 
 Sampson presents his compliments and wishes Captain 
 Miller to report on flagship at once for instructions," 
 
 It is now exactly noon — eight bells — and instantly 
 all is excitement and confusion on board the collier. 
 There is also great commotion among the ships of the 
 fleet, for they have read the signals of the New York. 
 
 Deep down in the hold of the J^Ierrimac, the 
 begrimed stokers have not yet heard the news. When 
 word is finally called down, a deep voice bellows back : 
 
 "Stopyerkidden'!" 
 
 "It's God's truth, boys," the master-at-arms replies 
 earnestly. 
 
 Every doubt removed, the stokers now all pile up on 
 deck. Then every man on the boat carefully packs his 
 best, realizing that all must be found or lost. Inside 
 of an hour, that is, about one o'clock. Captain Miller 
 returns on board accompanied by the hero of the 
 moment — Hobson ! The latter is now standing on the 
 deck of the vessel he is to command — command to the 
 death. 
 
 It is known that but a small crew is to go with him,
 
 456 The SINKING of the MERRIMAC 
 
 but there is scarcely a man on all the ships that is not 
 anxious to be one of that small force. At last seven 
 men are selected, to the disappointment of all the rest. 
 
 Soon after coming on board, Lieutenant Hobson is 
 in action. The plans of the ship are placed in his 
 hands, and, in a very short time, he is at work prepar- 
 ing for the speedy sinking of the Merrimac. He is a 
 most accurate and well-informed naval constructor, 
 and, when he has finished, his plans and the proposed 
 execution of them are perfect. 
 
 With explosives and electric wiring, the Merrimac is 
 the deadliest counter-mine that ever lay in any of the 
 waters of the world. At midnight the labor is con- 
 cluded. Hobson has worked as hard as any "Jackie" 
 of them all. Just before darkness settles down, the 
 Dolphin happens to steam by. Her captain, Henry 
 Lyon, hails the Merrimac and calls for Captain Miller. 
 It has been supposed that Miller would accompany 
 Hobson, as, like a true sailor, he wanted to be the last 
 to leave his ship. But there have been certain cir- 
 cumstances that make this impossible, and the admiral 
 has refused to permit it. Captain Miller, however, 
 who is still on board the Merrimac, answers the call. 
 
 Back from the Dolphin's heroic captain come these 
 words : 
 
 "I would give anything to be in your shoes to-night. " 
 
 And then follows: 
 
 "Three cheers for the Merrimac, Captain Miller and 
 Lieutenant Hobson!" 
 
 And the Dolphin's crew respond and give the cheers 
 with a right good will. 
 
 The night has come, the clear night of the tropics, 
 the constellations, notable among them the exquisite
 
 By ARTHUR DUDLEY HALL 457 
 
 Southern Cross, shining bright in the translucent sky. 
 Now all is in readiness. 
 
 "We must not miss the harbor!" exclaims Hobson 
 under his breath to his devoted little band of follow- 
 ers. And the harbor is not missed. 
 
 The Merrimac heads east, until its bearings are 
 obtained, and then makes for the harbor, straight in. 
 Then the gallant craft, under the brilliant light of the 
 moon, is discovered by the enemy. Now comes the 
 firing. It is grand and yet terrible, flashing out first 
 from one side of the harbor and then the other. Now 
 the big guns on the hills roar forth, and then the 
 Vizcaya, lying within the harbor, joins in with its deep 
 and terrific booming. The troops from Santiago, 
 warned by telegraph of the Merrimac 's coming and not 
 understanding at all the import of it, rush down, and, 
 lining the foot of the cliffs, fire wildly across, killing 
 each other with the cross-fire. 
 
 Now the Merrimac has reached the place she desired, 
 just off Estrella Point, at the very entrance to the 
 harbor. Hobson touches the button and the torpedoes 
 explode. Almost at the same moment, a huge sub- 
 marine mine catches the vessel amidships, hurling the 
 water high in the air, and tearing a great rent in the 
 Merrimac's side. But this is no disaster. It only 
 seems to complete the purpose for which she was sent 
 to the entrance of the harbor. The stern of the Merri- 
 mac runs upon Estrella Point. Then she commences 
 to sink slowly. She is across the channel, but, before 
 she settles, a six-pounder tears her rudder away, and 
 the tide begins to drift her around. Shells and bullets 
 whistle all around her. 
 
 Hobson and his men are all aft, lying flat on their
 
 458 The SINKING of the MERRIMAC 
 
 faces upon the deck. Six-inch shells from the Vizcaya 
 come tearing into the sinking Merrimac, crashing into 
 wood and iron, and passing clear through, while the 
 plunging shots from the forts smash her deck into 
 splinters. It is a moment of horror and suspense. 
 "Not a man must move!" cries Hobson. And it is 
 only due to the splendid discipline of the men that all 
 of them are not killed as the shells rain over them. 
 But, although their mouths are parched, their limbs 
 trembling with fatigue, they lie there patiently, obey- 
 ing the command of their superior, and waiting until 
 he shall tell them to rise. Yet now and again one or 
 the other of the men, lying with his face glued to the 
 deck and wondering whether the next shell will not 
 come his way, asks plaintively, "Hadn't we better 
 drop off now, sir?" 
 
 But Hobson's invariable answer is, "Wait until day- 
 light." And he is right, for it would be impossible to 
 get the catamaran, by which they had arranged, if 
 possible, to escape, anywhere but on to the shore, 
 where the Spanish soldiers stand shooting, and Hob- 
 son hopes that by daybreak he and his comrades may 
 be recognized and saved. Meanwhile, the grand old 
 Merrimac, grand in spite of all her dilapidated appear- 
 ance, dilapidated even before she had been fired upon, 
 continues sinking. The fire of the Spanish soldiery 
 and the guns of the Vizcaya are something awful. 
 Heaven and earth are shaken by the battery. 
 
 Lower and lower sinks the Merrimac. As the water 
 comes over her decks, the catamaran floats amid the 
 wreckage. Hobson and his men catch hold of the 
 edges and cling on, their heads only being above the 
 water. At last the dawn appears. The firing ceases.
 
 By ARTHUR DUDLEY HALL 459 
 
 A Spanish launch comes toward the wreck of the 
 Merrimac. The Spaniards see the Americans. Half a 
 dozen marines jump up and point their rifles at the 
 heads which are only just above the water. 
 
 "Is there any officer on board to receive a surrender 
 of prisoners of war?" shouts Hobson. 
 
 An old man leans out from under the awning and 
 waves his hand. It is Admiral Cervera. The marines 
 lower their rifles and the American heroes are helped 
 on board. The Spanish admiral holds out his hand. 
 Hobson grasps it. 
 
 "Bravo, Americans!" exclaims Cervera, "Yours 
 was a brave deed. I congratulate you. Heroism 
 knows no country." 
 
 When, the same afternoon, by the kindness of the 
 gallant commander-in-chief of the Spanish forces, the 
 effects of the sailors were brought off in the boat that 
 went under a flag of truce, the man who was the 
 spokesman for all the others said, "We are ready to go 
 over it all again to-night, sir." 
 
 The next day, when it seemed that perhaps the 
 remnant of the Spanish inquisition was to be applied 
 to get information, and when impertinent questions 
 were put, the Spanish sailors and soldiers made sig- 
 nificant signs with their hands across the throat, 
 muttering, "Death to the American pigs." But the 
 Yankees only laughed. 
 
 "What was the object of your act?" the Spanish 
 inquisitor asked, and one of our jackies, George 
 Charette, who spoke French and was selected to 
 respond, replied, "In the United States Navy it is not 
 the custom for the seameti to know or to ask to know 
 the object of the superior officer. ' '
 
 46o The SINKING of the MERRIMAC 
 
 And these men were simply types of the whole fleet. 
 Hurrah for Hobson! Hurrah for his gallant crew! 
 Hurrah for their plunge into the very jaws of death! 
 And thank God that they all escaped !
 
 Poetry 
 
 46t
 
 POETRY 
 
 "Many people In our day, readily merchants and often 
 lawyers, say and repeat, 'Poetry is gone.' It is almost as if they 
 said, 'There are no more roses; spring has breathed its last; the 
 sun has lost the habit of rising; roam about all the fields of the 
 earth, you will not find a butterfly ; there is no more light in the 
 moon, and the nightingale sings no more; the lion no longer roars; 
 the eagle no longer soars ; the Alps and the Pyrenees are gone ; 
 there are no more lovely girls and handsome young men ; no one 
 thinks any more of the graves ; the mother no longer loves her 
 child; heaven is quenched; the human heart is dead.' "—Victor 
 Hugo. 
 
 PAGB 
 
 Kubla Khan Samuel Taylor Coleridge 465 
 
 The Revenge Alfred, Lord Tennyson . 467 
 
 Pompey's Ghost Thomas Hood . . . .474 
 
 Absence Frances Anne Kemble . 478 
 
 Burial of Lincoln Richard Henry Stoddard 4S0 
 
 It Never Comes Again .... Richard Henry Stoddard ifi>2 
 
 The Sword Song Charles Theodore Korner 483 
 
 Departure of the Swallows . . Theophile Gautier . . .486 
 
 The Death of Samson .... John Milton 488 
 
 The Lady's Dream Thomas Hood .... 490 
 
 Popping the Question .... Robert Grant . . . .494 
 
 The Skeleton in Armour . . . Henry W. Longfellow . 496 
 
 Robin Hood John Keats 502 
 
 The Iceberg Edgar Fawcett .... 504 
 
 Lenore Edgar Allan Poe . . .507 
 
 The Fool's Prayer Edward Rowland Sill . 509 
 
 Mazeppa's Ride Geo. Gordon, Lord Byron s^i^ 
 
 The Erl-King /. Wolfgang von Goethe 518 
 
 The Fancy Concert Leigh Hunt 520 
 
 A Curse for a Nation .... Elizabeth B. Browning . 523 
 
 Rizpah Alfred, Lord Tennyson .527 
 
 Hamlet at the Boston .... Julia Ward Howe . . .533 
 
 463
 
 464 POETRY 
 
 PAOB 
 
 The Wrecker's Bell William Winter . . .536 
 
 Songs from "Robin Hood" . . Leonard Mac Nally . . 541 
 
 Ode on a Grecian Urn .... /oAn Keats 543 
 
 Nothing but Leaves M. H. G 545 
 
 A Grammarian's Funeral . . . Robert Browning . . .546 
 
 The Eagle's Song Richard Mansfield . . 551 
 
 The Complaint of a Forsaken 
 
 Indian Woman William Wordsworth . 553 
 
 Ike Walton's Prayer .... James Whitcotnb Riley . 556 
 
 Cavalry Song Edmund C. Stedman . . 558 
 
 The Other Side of the Moon . . Edgar Fawcett .... 559 
 
 The Angels of Buena Vista . . John G. Whit tier . . .561 
 
 Cavalier Tunes Robert Browning . . .566 
 
 The Old Admiral Edmund C. Stedman . . 569 
 
 Autumn Tourists Anonymous 573 
 
 Mr. Molony's Account of the Ball William M. Thackeray . 575 
 
 The Fugitives Percy Bysshe Shelley . .578 
 
 Elegy in a Country Church- Yard Thomas Gray 581 
 
 Lochinvar Sir Walter Scott . . . 586 
 
 Ships at Sea Robert Barry Coffin . .588 
 
 The Coliseum by Moonlight . . Geo. Gordon, Lord Byron 590 
 
 The Dirty Old Man William Ailing ham . . 592 
 
 Jim Bludso John Hay 595 
 
 The Romance of a Rose . . . Nora Perry 597 
 
 In an Atelier Thomas Bailey Aldrich . 601 
 
 Carcassonne M. E. W. Sherwood . . 604 
 
 An Ode to the Assertors of Liberty Percy Bysshe Shelley . . 606 
 
 The Chambered Nautilus . . . Oliver Wendell Holmes . 608 
 
 Rory O'More Samuel Lover .... 610 
 
 Music and Words Richard Watson Gilder . 612 
 
 Lines to a Friend James Berry Bensel . .614 
 
 The Cataract of Lodore . . . Robert Southey . . . .615 
 
 Meeting at Night I . . . Robert Browning . . . 620 
 Parting at Morning ) 
 
 Songs from "The Princess" . . Alfred, Lord Tennyson . 621 
 
 Pipes and Beer Edgar Fawcett . . . .624
 
 KUBLA KHAN: OR, A VISION IN A DREAM. 
 By SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 
 
 IN Xanadu did Kubla Khan 
 A stately pleasure-dome decree: 
 Where Alph, the sacred river, ran 
 Through caverns measureless to man 
 Down to a sunless sea. 
 So twice five miles of fertile groimd 
 With walls and towers were girdled round : 
 And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills 
 Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree; 
 And here were forests ancient as the hills, 
 Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. 
 
 But oh ! that deep romantic chasm which slanted 
 Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover! 
 A savage place ! as holy and enchanted 
 As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted 
 By woman wailing for her demon lover ! 
 And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething, 
 As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, 
 A mighty fountain momently was forced: 
 Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst 
 Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, 
 Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail 
 And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever 
 It flung up momently the sacred river. 
 Five miles meandering with a mazy motion 
 Through wood and dale the sacred river ran. 
 Then reached the caverns measureless to man, 
 And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean: 
 And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far 
 Ancestral voices prophesying war! 
 
 465
 
 466 KUBLA KHAN, or a VISION in a DREAM 
 
 The shadow of the dome of pleasure 
 
 Floated midway on the waves ; 
 
 Where was heard the mingled measure 
 
 From the fountain and the caves. 
 It was a miracle of rare device, 
 A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice ! 
 
 A damsel with a dulcimer 
 
 In a vision once I saw : 
 
 It was an Abyssinian maid, 
 
 And on her dulcimer she played, 
 
 Singing of Mount Abora, 
 
 Could I revive within me 
 
 Her symphony and song. 
 
 To such a deep delight 'twould win me 
 That with music loud and long, 
 I would build that dome in air. 
 That sunny dome ! those caves of ice ! 
 And all who heard should see them there, 
 And all should cry, Beware ! Beware ! 
 His flashing eyes, his floating hair! 
 Weave a circle round him thrice. 
 And close your eyes with holy dread, 
 For he on honey-dew hath fed. 
 And drunk the milk of Paradise,
 
 THE REVENGE. By ALFRED, LORD TENNY- 
 SON. 
 
 AT Flores in the Azores Sir Richard Grenville lay, 
 And a pinnace, like a flutter'd bird, came flying 
 from far away : 
 "Spanish ships of war at sea! we have sighted fifty- 
 three!" 
 Then sware Lord Thomas Howard: " 'Fore God I am 
 
 no coward ; 
 But I cannot meet them here, for my ships are out of 
 
 gear. 
 And the half my men are sick. I must fly, but follow 
 
 quick. 
 We are six ships of the line ; can we fight with fifty- 
 three?" 
 
 Then spake Sir Richard Grenville : "I know you are 
 
 no coward ; 
 You fly them for a moment to fight with them again. 
 But I've ninety men and more that are lying sick 
 
 ashore. 
 I should count myself the coward if I left them, my 
 
 Lord Howard, 
 To these Inquisition dogs and the devildoms of Spain." 
 
 So Lord Howard past away with five ships of war that 
 
 day. 
 Till he melted like a cloud in the silent summer 
 
 heaven ; 
 But Sir Richard bore in hand all his sick men from the 
 
 land 
 Very carefully and slow. 
 Men of Bideford in Devon, 
 And we laid them on the ballast down below ; 
 
 467
 
 468 The REVENGE 
 
 For we brought them all aboard, 
 
 And they blest him in their pain, that they were not 
 
 left to Spain, 
 To the thumbscrew and the stake, for the glory of the 
 
 Lord. 
 
 He had only a hundred seamen to work the ship and to 
 fight. 
 
 And he sailed away from Flores till the Spaniard came 
 in sight, 
 
 With his huge sea-castles heaving upon the weather- 
 bow. 
 
 "Shall we fight or shall we fly? 
 
 Good Sir Richard, tell us now, 
 
 For to fight is but to die ! 
 
 There'll be little of us left by the time this sun be set." 
 
 And Sir Richard said again: "We be all good English 
 men. 
 
 Let us bang these dogs of Seville, the children of the 
 devil. 
 
 For I never turn'd my back upon Don or devil yet." 
 
 Sir Richard spoke and he laugh 'd, and we roar'd a 
 
 hurrah, and so 
 The little Revenge ran on sheer into the heart of the 
 
 foe. 
 With her hundred fighters on deck, and her ninety-sick 
 
 below; 
 For half of their fleet to the right and half to the left 
 
 were seen. 
 And the little Revenge ran on thro' the long sea-lane 
 
 between. 
 
 Thousands of their soldiers looked down from their 
 decks and laugh 'd,
 
 By ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 469 
 
 Thousands of their seamen made mock at the mad 
 little craft 
 
 Running on and on, till delay'd 
 
 By their mountain-like San Philip that, of fifteen hun- 
 dred tons. 
 
 And up-shadowing high above us with her yawning 
 tiers of guns, 
 
 Took the breath from our sails, and we stay'd. 
 
 And while now the great San Philip hung above us like 
 
 a cloud 
 Whence the thunderbolt will fall 
 Long and loud. 
 Four galleons drew away 
 From the Spanish fleet that day, 
 And two upon the larboard and two upon the starboard 
 
 lay. 
 And the battle -thunder broke from them all. 
 
 But anon the great San Philip, she bethought herself 
 and went 
 
 Having that within her womb that had left her ill con- 
 tent; 
 
 And the rest they came aboard us, and they fought us 
 hand to hand. 
 
 For a dozen times they came with their pikes and 
 musqueteers, 
 
 And a dozen times we shook 'em off as a dog that 
 shakes his ears 
 
 When he leaps from the water to the land. 
 
 And the sun went down, and the stars came out far 
 
 over the summer sea. 
 But never a moment ceased the fight of the one and 
 
 the fifty-three.
 
 470 The REVENGE 
 
 Ship after ship, the whole night long, their high-built 
 galleons came. 
 
 Ship after ship, the whole night long, with her battle- 
 thunder and flame ; 
 
 Ship after ship, the whole night long, drew back with 
 her dead and her shame. 
 
 For some were sunk and many were shatter'd, and so 
 could fight us no more — 
 
 God of battles, was ever a battle like this in the world 
 before? 
 
 For he said, "Fight on! fight on!" 
 
 Though his vessel was all but a wreck; 
 
 And it chanced that, when half of the short summer 
 
 night was gone. 
 With a grisly wound to be drest he had left the deck, 
 But a bullet struck him that was dressing it suddenly 
 
 dead, 
 And himself he was wounded again in the side and the 
 
 head. 
 And he said, "Fight on! fight on!" 
 
 And the night went down, and the sun smiled out far 
 
 over the summer sea, 
 And the Spanish fleet with broken sides lay round us 
 
 all in a ring ; 
 But they dared not touch us again, for they fear'd that 
 
 we still could sting, 
 So they watch 'd what the end would be. 
 And we had not fought them in vain. 
 But in perilous plight were we. 
 Seeing forty of our poor hundred were slain, 
 And half of the rest of us maim'd for life
 
 By ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 47 ^ 
 
 In the crash of the cannonades and the desperate 
 
 strife ; 
 And the sick men down in the hold were most of them 
 
 stark and cold, 
 And the pikes were all broken or bent, and the powder 
 
 was all of it spent ; 
 And the masts and the rigging were lying over the 
 
 side; 
 But Sir Richard cried in his English pride, 
 "We have fought such a fight for a day and a night 
 As may never be fought again ! 
 We have won great glory, my men ! 
 And a day less or more 
 At sea or ashore. 
 We die — does it matter when? 
 Sink me the ship, Master Gunner — sink her, split her 
 
 in twain! 
 Fall into the hands of God, not into the hands of 
 
 Spain!" 
 
 And the gunner said, "Ay, ay," but the seamen made 
 
 reply : 
 "We have children, we have v/ives, 
 And the Lord hath spared our lives. 
 We will make the Spaniards promise, if we yield, to let 
 
 us go; 
 We shall live to fight again and to strike another 
 
 blow." 
 And the lion there lay dying, and they yielded to the 
 
 foe. 
 
 And the stately Spanish men to their flagship bore him 
 then.
 
 47* The REVENGE 
 
 Where they laid him by the mast, old Sir Richard 
 
 caught at last, 
 And they praised him to his face with their courtly 
 
 foreign grace ; 
 But he rose upon their decks, and he cried: 
 ' ' I have fought for Queen and Faith like a valiant man 
 
 and true; 
 I have only done my duty as a man is bound to do : 
 With a joyful spirit I, Sir Richard Grenville, die!" 
 And he fell upon their decks, and he died. 
 And they stared at the dead that had been so valiant 
 
 and true. 
 And had holden the power and glory of Spain so 
 
 cheap 
 That he dared her with one little ship and his English 
 
 few; 
 Was he devil or man? He was devil for aught they 
 
 knew. 
 But they sank his body with honour down into the 
 
 deep. 
 And they mann'd the Revenge with a swarthier alien 
 
 crew, 
 And away she sail'd with her loss and long'd for her 
 
 own; 
 When a wind from the lands they had ruin'd awoke 
 
 from sleep. 
 And the water began to heave and the weather to 
 
 moan, 
 And or ever that evening ended a great gale blew. 
 And a wave like the wave that is raised by an earth- 
 quake grew. 
 Till it smote on their hulls and their sails and their 
 
 masts and their flags,
 
 By ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 473 
 
 And the whole sea plunged and fell on the shot- 
 
 shatter'd navy of Spain, 
 And the little Revenge herself went down by the 
 
 island crags 
 To be lost evermore in the main.
 
 POMPEY'S GHOST. By THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 "Skins may differ, but affection 
 Dwells in white and black the same." — Cowper. 
 
 TWAS twelve o'clock, not twelve at night, 
 But twelve o'clock at noon; 
 Because the sun was shining bright 
 
 And not the silver moon. 
 A proper time for friends to call, 
 
 Or Pots, or Penny Post; 
 When, lo ! as Phoebe sat at work. 
 She saw her Pompey's ghost! 
 
 Now when a female has a call 
 
 From people that are dead. 
 Like Paris ladies she receives 
 
 Her visitors in bed. 
 But Pompey's spirit would not come 
 
 Like spirits that are white. 
 Because he was a Blackamoor, 
 
 And wouldn't show at night! 
 
 But of all unexpected things 
 
 That happen to us here, 
 The most unpleasant is a rise 
 
 In what is very dear. 
 So Phoebe screamed an awful scream 
 
 To prove the seaman's text, 
 That after black appearances. 
 
 White squalls will follow next. 
 
 •Oh, Phoebe dear! Oh, Phoebe dear! 
 
 Don't go to scream or faint; 
 You think because I'm black I am 
 
 The Devil, but I ain't! 
 
 474
 
 By THOMAS HOOD 475 
 
 Behind the heels of Lady Lambe 
 
 I walked while I had breath ; 
 But that is past, and I am now 
 
 A-walking after Death ! 
 
 "No murder, though, I come to tell 
 
 By base and bloody crime ; 
 So, Phoebe dear, put oflE your fits 
 
 To some more fitting time. 
 No Coroner, like a boatswain's mate, 
 
 My body need attack, 
 With his round dozen to find out 
 
 Why I have died so black. 
 
 "One Sunday, shortly after tea, 
 
 My skin began to burn 
 As if I had in my inside 
 
 A heater, like the urn. 
 Delirious in the night I grew, 
 
 And as I lay in bed. 
 They say I gathered all the wool 
 
 You see upon my head. 
 
 "His Lordship for his Doctor sent, 
 
 My treatment to begin ; — 
 I wish that he had called him out. 
 
 Before he called him in ! 
 For though to physic he was bred. 
 
 And passed at Surgeon's Hall, 
 To make his post a sinecure 
 
 He never cured at all ! 
 
 "The Doctor looked about my breast 
 And then about my back,
 
 476 POMPEY'S GHOST 
 
 And then he shook his head and said, 
 'Your case looks very black.' 
 
 And first he sent me hot cayenne 
 And then gamboge to swallow, 
 
 But still my fever would not turn 
 To Scarlet or to Yellow ! 
 
 "With madder and with turmeric, 
 
 He made his next attack ; 
 But neither he nor all his drugs 
 
 Could stop my dying black. 
 At last I got so sick of life, 
 
 And sick of being dosed, 
 One Monday morning I gave up 
 
 My physic and the ghost ! 
 
 "Oh, Phoebe dear, what pain it was 
 
 To sever every tie ! 
 You know black beetles feel as much 
 
 As giants when they die. 
 And if there is a bridal bed, 
 
 Or bride of little worth. 
 It's lying in a bed of mould, 
 
 Along with Mother Earth. 
 
 "Alas! some happy, happy day, 
 
 In church I hoped to stand, 
 And like a muff of sable skin 
 
 Receive your lily hand. 
 But sternly with that piebald match 
 
 My fate untimely clashes. 
 For now, like Pompe-double-i, 
 
 I'm sleeping in my ashes!
 
 By THOMAS HOOD 477 
 
 "And now farewell! a last farewell! 
 
 I'm wanted down below, 
 And have but time enough to add 
 
 One word before I go — 
 In mourning crape and bombazine 
 
 Ne'er spend your precious pelf, 
 Don't go in black for me — for I 
 
 Can do it for myself. 
 
 "Henceforth within my grave I rest, 
 
 But Death, who there inherits, 
 Allowed my spirit leave to come. 
 
 You seemed so out of spirits; 
 But do not sigh, and do not cry, 
 
 By grief too much engrossed. 
 Nor for a ghost of color, turn 
 
 The color of a ghost ! 
 
 "Again, farewell, my Phoebe dear! 
 
 Once more a last adieu! 
 For I must make myself as scarce 
 
 As swans of sable hue. ' ' 
 From black to gray, from gray to nought 
 
 The shape began to fade— 
 And, like an egg, though not so white, 
 
 The Ghost was newly laid !
 
 ABSENCE. By FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE. 
 
 WHAT shall I do with all the days and hours 
 That must be counted ere I see thy face? 
 How shall I charm the interval that lowers 
 
 Between this time and that sweet time of grace? 
 
 Shall I in slumber steep each weary sense, — 
 Weary with longing? Shall I flee away 
 
 Into past days, and with some fond pretence 
 Cheat myself to forget the present day? 
 
 Shall love for thee lay on my soul the sin 
 Of casting from me God's great gift of time? 
 
 Shall I, these mists of memory locked within, 
 Leave and forget life's purposes sublime? 
 
 O, how or by what means may I contrive 
 
 To bring the hour that brings thee back more near? 
 
 How may I teach my drooping hope to live 
 Until that blessed time, and thou art here? 
 
 I'll tell thee: for thy sake I will lay hold 
 Of all good aims, and consecrate to thee, 
 
 In worthy deeds, each moment that is told 
 While thou, beloved one ! art far from me. 
 
 For thee I will arouse my thoughts to try 
 
 All heavenward flights, all high and holy strains ; 
 
 For thy dear sake I will walk patiently 
 Through these long hours, nor call their minutes 
 pains, 
 
 I will this dreary blank of absence make 
 A noble task-time ; and will therein strive 
 
 To follow excellence, and to o'ertake 
 
 More good than I have won since yet I live. 
 
 478
 
 By FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE 479 
 
 So may this doomed time build up in me 
 
 A thousand graces, which shall thus be thine ; 
 
 So may my love and longing hallowed be, 
 And thy dear thought an influence divine.
 
 BURIAL OF LINCOLN. Reprinted with permis- 
 sion. By RICHARD HENRY STODDARD. 
 
 EACE ! Let the long procession come, 
 
 For hark ! — the mournful, muffled drum, 
 The trumpet's wail afar; 
 And see! the awful car! 
 
 P 
 
 Peace ! Let the sad procession go, 
 While cannon boom, and bells toll slow; 
 
 And go, thou sacred car, 
 
 Bearing our woe afar ! 
 
 Go, darkly borne, from State to State, 
 Whose loyal, sorrowing cities wait 
 To honor, all they can. 
 The dust of that good man! 
 
 Go, grandly borne, with such a train 
 As greatest kings might die to gain: 
 
 The just, the wise, the brave 
 
 Attend thee to the grave ! 
 
 And you, the soldiers of our wars. 
 Bronzed veterans, grim with noble scars, 
 Salute him once again, 
 Your late commander, — slain! 
 
 Yes, let your tears indignant fall, 
 But leave your muskets on the wall ; 
 Your country needs you now 
 Beside the forge, the plough! 
 
 So sweetly, sadly, sternly goes 
 The fallen to his last repose. 
 
 Beneath no mighty dome. 
 
 But in his modest home. 
 480
 
 By RICHARD HENRY STODDARD 483 
 
 The churchyard where his children rest, 
 The quiet spot that suits him best, 
 
 There shall his grave be made, 
 
 And there his bones be laid ! 
 
 And there his countrymen shall come, 
 With memory proud, with pity dumb, 
 
 And strangers, far and near. 
 
 For many and many a year! 
 
 For many a year and many an age, 
 While History on her ample page 
 
 The virtues shall enroll 
 
 Of that paternal soul !
 
 IT NEVER COMES AGAIN. Reprinted with per- 
 mission. By RICHARD HENRY STODDARD. 
 
 THERE are gains for all our losses, 
 There are balms for all our pain, 
 But when youth, the dream, departs, 
 It takes something from our hearts, 
 And it never comes again. 
 
 We are stronger, and are better. 
 
 Under manhood's sterner reign ; 
 Still we feel that something sweet 
 Followed 5^outh, with flying feet, 
 
 And will never come again. 
 
 Something beautiful is vanished, 
 
 And we sigh for it in vain; 
 We behold it everywhere, 
 On the earth, and in the air, 
 
 But it never comes again. 
 
 482
 
 s^ 
 
 THE SWORD SONG. Translation of Charles T. 
 Brooks. By CHARLES THEODORE KORNER. 
 
 'WORD, on my left side gleaming, 
 
 What means thy bright eye's beaming? 
 It makes my spirit dance 
 To see thy friendly glance. 
 Hurrah ! 
 
 "A valiant rider bears me; 
 A free-born German wears me: 
 That makes my eye so bright ; 
 That is the sword's delight." 
 Hurrah! 
 
 Yes, good sword, I am free, 
 And love thee heartily, 
 And clasp thee to my side, 
 E'en as a plighted bride. 
 Hurrah ! 
 
 "And I to thee, by Heaven, 
 My light steel life have given; 
 When shall the knot be tied? 
 When wilt thou take thy bride?" 
 Hurrah! 
 
 The trumpet's solemn warning 
 Shall hail the bridal morning. 
 When cannon-thunders wake 
 Then my true-love I take. 
 Hurrah ! 
 
 "O blessed, blessed meeting! 
 My heart is wildly beating: 
 483
 
 484 The SWORD SONG 
 
 Come, bridegroom, come for me; 
 My garland waiteth thee." 
 Hurrah! 
 
 Why in the scabbard rattle, 
 So wild, so fierce for battle? 
 What means this restless glow? 
 My sword, why clatter so? 
 Hurrah! 
 
 "Well may thy prisoner rattle; 
 My spirit yearns for battle. 
 Rider, 'tis war's wild glow 
 That makes me tremble so." 
 Hurrah ! 
 
 Stay in thy chamber near, 
 My love ; what wilt thou here? 
 Still in thy chamber bide: 
 Soon, soon I take my bride. 
 Hurrah ! 
 
 "Let me not longer wait: 
 Love's garden blooms in state, 
 With roses bloody-red, 
 And many a bright death -bed." 
 Hurrah ! 
 
 Now, then, come forth, my bride! 
 Come forth, thou rider's pride! 
 Come out, my good sword, come! 
 Forth to thy father's home! 
 Hurrah ! 
 
 "O, in the field to prance 
 The glorious wedding dance!
 
 By CHARLES THEODORE KORNER 485 
 
 How, in the sun's bright beams, 
 Bride-like the clear steel gleams!" 
 Hurrah ! 
 
 Then forward, valiant fighters! 
 And forward, German riders! 
 And when the heart grows cold, 
 Let each his love infold. 
 Hurrah! 
 
 Once on the left it hung, 
 And stolen glances flung; 
 Now clearly on your right 
 Doth God each fond bride plight. 
 Hurrah ! 
 
 Then let your hot lips feel 
 That virgin cheek of steel ; 
 One kiss, — and woe betide 
 Him who forsakes the bride. 
 Hurrah ! 
 
 Now let the loved one sing ; 
 Now let the clear blade ring, 
 Till the bright sparks shall fly, 
 Heralds of victory! 
 Hurrah ! 
 
 For hark! the trumpet's warning 
 Proclaims the marriage morning; 
 It dawns in festal pride ; 
 Hurrah, thou Iron Bride! 
 Hurrah !
 
 DEPARTURE OF THE SWALLOWS. Translated 
 from the French. By THEOPHILE GAUTIER. 
 
 THE rain-drops plash, and the dead leaves fall, 
 On spire and cornice and mould; 
 The swallows gather, and twitter and call, 
 "We must follow the summer, come one, come all, 
 For the winter is now so cold. ' ' 
 
 Just listen awhile to the wordy war. 
 
 As to whither the way shall tend, 
 Says one, "I know the skies are fair 
 And myriad insects float in air 
 
 Where the ruins of Athens stand. 
 
 *'And every year when the brown leaves fall. 
 
 In a niche of the Parthenon 
 I build my nest on the corniced wall, 
 In the trough of a devastating ball 
 
 From the Turk's besieging gun." 
 
 Says another, "My cosy home I fit 
 
 On a Smyrna grande cafe. 
 Where over the threshold Hadjii sit, 
 And smoke their pipes and their coffee sip. 
 
 Dreaming the hours away." 
 
 Another says, "I prefer the nave 
 
 Of a temple of Baalbec; 
 There my little ones lie when the palm-trees wave. 
 And, perching near on the architrave, 
 
 I fill each open beak. ' ' 
 
 "Ah!" says the last, "I build my nest 
 
 Far up on the Nile's green shore, 
 Where Memnon raises his stony crest, 
 
 486
 
 By THEOPHILE GAUTIER 487 
 
 And turns to the sun as he leaves his rest, 
 But greets him with song no more. 
 
 "In his ample neck is a niche so wide, 
 
 And withal so deep and free, 
 A thousand swallows their nests can hide. 
 And a thousand little ones rear beside, — 
 
 Then come to the Nile with me. ' ' 
 
 They go, they go, to the river and plain, 
 
 To ruined city and town. 
 They leave me alone with the cold again, 
 Beside the tomb where my joys are lain, 
 
 With hope like the swallows flown.
 
 THE DEATH OF SAMSON. From "Samson 
 Agonistes." By JOHN MILTON. 
 
 MESSENGER. Occasions drew me early to this 
 city; 
 And as the gates I enter'd with sun-rise, 
 The morning trumpets festival proclaim 'd 
 Through each high street: little I had dispatch't, 
 When all abroad was rumour 'd that this day 
 Samson should be brought forth to show the people 
 Proof of his mighty strength in feats and games; 
 I sorrow 'd at his captive state, but minded 
 Not to be absent at that spectacle. 
 The building was a spacious theatre 
 Half-round, on two main pillars vaulted high, 
 With seats where all the lords, and each degree 
 Of sort, might sit in order to behold; 
 The other side was op'n, where the throng 
 On banks and scaffolds under sky might stand; 
 I among these aloof obscurely stood. 
 The feast and noon grew high, and sacrifice 
 Had fill'd their hearts with mirth, high cheer, and wine, 
 When to their sports they turn'd. Immediately 
 Was Samson as a public servant brought, 
 In their state livery clad; before him pipes 
 And timbrels, on each side went armed guards, 
 Both horse and foot before him and behind. 
 Archers, and slingers, cataphracts and spears. 
 At sight of him the people with a shout 
 Rifted the air, clamouring their god with praise. 
 Who had made their dreadful enemy their thrall. 
 He patient but undaunted where they led him, 
 Came to the place, and what was set before him 
 Which without help of eye, might be assay'd, 
 To heave, pull, draw, or break, he still perform 'd 
 
 488
 
 By JOHN MILTON 489 
 
 All with incredible, stupendious force, 
 
 None daring to appear antagonist. 
 
 At length for intermission sake they led him 
 
 Between the pillars; he his guide requested, 
 
 (For so from such as nearer stood we heard) 
 
 As over-tir'd, to let him lean a while 
 
 With both his arms on those two massy pillars 
 
 That to the arched roof gave main support. 
 
 He unsuspicious led him ; which when Samson 
 
 Felt in his arms, with head a while inclin'd. 
 
 And eyes fast fixt he stood, as one who pray'd, 
 
 Or some great matter in his mind revolv'd. 
 
 At last with head erect thus cri'd aloud. 
 
 "Hitherto, lords, what your commands impos'd 
 
 I have perform'd, as reason was, obeying, 
 
 Not without wonder or delight beheld. 
 
 Now of my own accord such other trial 
 
 I mean to show you of my strength, yet greater. 
 
 As with amaze shall strike all who behold." 
 
 This utter'd, straining all his nerves he bow'd; 
 
 As with the force of winds and waters pent. 
 
 When mountains tremble, those two massy pillars 
 
 With horrible convulsion to and fro 
 
 He tugg'd, he shook, till down they came and drew 
 
 The whole roof after them, with burst of thunder 
 
 Upon the heads of all who sat beneath, 
 
 Lords, ladies, captains, counsellors, or priests. 
 
 Their choice nobility and flower, not only 
 
 Of this, but each Philistian city round. 
 
 Met from all parts to solemnize this feast. 
 
 Samson with these immixt, inevitably 
 
 Puird down the same destruction on himself; 
 
 The vulgar only scap'd who stood without.
 
 THE LADY'S DREAM. By 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 muttered and moaned, 
 And tossed her arms aloft. 
 
 At last she startled 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. 
 
 The very curtain shook. 
 
 Her terror was so extreme ; 
 And the light that fell on the broidered quilt 
 
 Kept a tremulous gleam ; 
 And her voice was hollow, and shook as she cried ; 
 
 "O, me! that awful dream! 
 
 "That weary, weary walk, 
 
 In the church-yard's dismal ground! 
 
 And those horrible things, with shady wings, 
 That came and flitted round, — 
 
 Death, death, and nothing but death. 
 In every sight and sound! 
 
 "And, O! those maidens young. 
 
 Who wrought in that dreary 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 ! 
 
 490
 
 By THOMAS HOOD 491 
 
 " 'For the pomp and pleasure of pride, 
 
 We toil like Afric slaves, 
 And only to earn a home at last, 
 
 Where yonder cypress waves;' 
 And then they 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 fall, 
 Of the many, many troubles of life. 
 
 That grieve this earthly ball — 
 Disease, and Hunger, and Pain, and Want, 
 
 But now I dreamt of them all ! 
 
 "For the blind and the cripple were there, 
 
 And the babe that pined for bread. 
 And the houseless man, and the widow poor 
 
 Who begged — to bury the dead; 
 The naked, alas! that I might have clad, 
 
 The famished I might have fed! 
 
 "The sorrow I might have soothed, 
 
 And the unregarded tears ; 
 For many a thronging shape was there, 
 
 From long-forgotten years, — 
 Ay, even the poor rejected Moor, 
 
 Who raised my childish fears!
 
 492 The LADY'S DREAM 
 
 "Each pleading look, that long ago 
 
 I scanned with a heedless eye, 
 Each face was gazing as plainly there 
 
 As when I passed it by : 
 Woe, woe for me if the past should be 
 
 Thus present when I die ! 
 
 "No need of sulphureous lake, 
 
 No 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 walked through life 
 
 Too heedless where I trod; 
 Nay, helping to trample my fellow-worm, 
 
 And fill the burial sod — 
 Forgetting that even the sparrow falls 
 
 Not unmarked of God ! 
 
 "I drank the richest draughts; 
 
 And ate whatever is good — 
 Fish, and flesh, and fowl, and fruit, 
 
 Supplied my hungry mood ; 
 But I never remembered the wretched ones 
 
 That starve for want of food ! 
 
 r 
 
 "I dressed 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 remembered the naked limbs 
 
 That froze with winter's cold.
 
 By THOMAS HOOD 493 
 
 "The wounds I might have healed! 
 
 The human sorrow and smart! 
 And yet it never was in my soul 
 
 To play so ill a part ; 
 But evil is wrought by want of thought, 
 
 As well as want of heart!' 
 
 She clasped her fervent hands, 
 
 And the tears began to stream ; 
 Large, and bitter, and fast they fell, 
 
 Remorse was so extreme ; 
 And yet, O, yet, that many a dame 
 
 Would dream the Lady's Dream!
 
 POPPING THE QUESTION. By ROBERT GRANT. 
 
 I KNEW by his looks what he'd come for I 
 plainly had seen from the first 
 It must come to this sooner or later, and I'd made up 
 
 my mind for the worst. 
 So I hid myself under the curtains, where the loving 
 
 pair couldn't see me, 
 In order to watch their proceedings, and hear what he 
 said unto she. 
 
 I saw he was fearfully nervous, that in fact he was 
 
 suffering pain, 
 By the way that he fussed with his collar and poked 
 
 all the chairs with his cane ; 
 That he blushed; that he wouldn't look at her, but 
 
 kept his eyes fixed on the floor, 
 And took the unusual precaution of taking his seat 
 
 near the door. 
 
 He began, "It is — er — er — fine weather, — remarkable 
 
 weather for May. ' ' 
 "Do you think so?" said she; "it is raining." — "Oh, so 
 
 it is raining to-day. 
 I meant 'twill be pleasant to-morrow," he stammered: 
 
 "er — er — do you skate?" 
 "Oh, yes!" she replied, "at the season; but isn't May 
 
 rather too late?" 
 
 The silence that followed was awful; he continued, "I 
 
 see a sweet dove," 
 ('Twas only an innocent sparrow, but blind are the 
 
 eyes of true love,) 
 "A dove of most beautiful plumage on the top of that 
 
 wide-spreading tree, 
 
 494
 
 By ROBERT GRANT 495 
 
 Which reminds me," — she sighed, — "O, sweet maiden! 
 which reminds me, dear angel, of thee." 
 
 Her countenance changed in a moment; there followed 
 a terrible pause; 
 
 I felt that the crisis was coming, and hastily dropped 
 
 on all fours, 
 In order to see the thing better. His face grew as 
 
 white as a sheet, 
 He gave one spasmodical effort, and lifelessly dropped 
 
 at her feet. 
 
 She said — what she said I won't tell you. She raised 
 
 the poor wretch from the ground. 
 I drew back my head for an instant. Good heavens ! 
 
 Oh, what was that sound? 
 I eagerly peered through the darkness, — for twilight 
 
 had made the room dim, — 
 And plainly perceived it was kissing, — and kissing not 
 
 all done by him. 
 
 I burst into loud fits of laughter : I know it was terribly 
 
 mean. 
 Still I couldn't resist the temptation to appear for a 
 
 while on the scene ; 
 But she viewed me with perfect composure, as she 
 
 kissed him again with a smile. 
 And remarked, 'twixt that kiss and the next one, that 
 
 "she'd known I was there all the while."
 
 THE SKELETON IN ARMOUR. Copyright, 
 Houghton, Mifflin & Company. Reprinted with per- 
 mission. By HENRY WADSWORTH LONG- 
 FELLOW. 
 
 SPEAK! speak! thou fearful guest! 
 Who, with thy hollow breast 
 Still in rude armour drest, 
 
 Comest to daunt me ! 
 Wrapt not in Eastern balms, 
 But with thy fleshless palms 
 Stretched, as if asking alms. 
 Why dost thou haunt me?" 
 
 Then, from those cavernous eyes 
 Pale flashes seemed to rise, 
 As when the Northern skies 
 
 Gleam in December; 
 And, like the water's flow 
 Under December's snow, 
 Came a dull voice of woe 
 
 From the heart's chamber. 
 
 "I was a Viking old! 
 
 My deeds, though manifold, 
 
 No Skald in song has told, 
 
 No Saga taught thee I 
 Take heed, that in thy verse 
 Thou dost the tale rehearse, 
 Else dread a dead man's curse; 
 
 For this I sought thee. 
 
 "Far in the Northern Land, 
 By the wild Baltic's strand, 
 I, with my childish hand, 
 Tamed the ger-falcon; 
 
 496
 
 By HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 497 
 
 And, with my slcates fast-bound, 
 Skimmed the half-frozen Sound, 
 That the poor whimpering hound 
 Trembled to walk on. 
 
 "Oft to his frozen lair 
 Tracked I the grisly bear, 
 While from my path the hare 
 
 Fled like a shadow; 
 Oft through the forest dark 
 Followed the were-wolf's bark, 
 Until the soaring lark 
 
 Sang from the meadow. 
 
 "But when I older grew, 
 Joining a corsair's crew. 
 O'er the dark sea I flew 
 
 With the marauders. 
 Wild was the life we led ; 
 Many the souls that sped, 
 Many the hearts that bled, 
 
 By our stern orders. 
 
 "Many a wassail-bout 
 Wore the long winter out; 
 Often our midnight shout 
 
 Set the cocks crowing. 
 As we the Berserk's tale 
 Measured in cups of ale, 
 Draining the oaken pail, 
 
 Filled to o'erflowing. 
 
 "Once as I told in glee 
 Tales of the stormy sea,
 
 498 The SKELETON in ARMOUR 
 
 Soft eyes did gaze on me, 
 
 Burning yet tender ; 
 And as the white stars shine 
 On the dark Norway pine, 
 On that dark heart of mine 
 
 Fell their soft splendor. 
 
 "I wooed the blue-eyed maid, 
 Yielding, yet half afraid, 
 And in the forest's shade 
 
 Our vows were plighted. 
 Under its loosened vest 
 Fluttered her little breast. 
 Like birds within their nest 
 
 By the hawk frighted. 
 
 "Bright in her father's hall 
 Shields gleamed upon the wall 
 Loud sang the minstrels all, 
 
 Chaunting his glory ; 
 When of old Hildebrand 
 I asked his daughter's hand. 
 Mute did the minstrels stand 
 
 To hear my story. 
 
 "While the brown ale he quaffed. 
 Loud then the champion laughed, 
 And as the wind gusts waft 
 
 The sea-foam brightly. 
 So the loud laugh of scorn 
 Out of those lips unshorn. 
 From the deep drinking-horn 
 
 Blew the foam lightly.
 
 By HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 499 
 
 'She was a Prince's child, 
 I but a Viking wild, 
 And though she blushed and smiled, 
 
 I was discarded! 
 Should not the dove so white 
 Follow the sea-mew's flight, 
 Why did they leave that night 
 Her nest unguarded? 
 
 ''Scarce had I put to sea, 
 Bearing the maid with me, — 
 Fairest of all was she 
 
 Among the Norsemen! — 
 When on the white sea-strand, 
 Waving- his armfed hand. 
 Saw we the Hildebrand, 
 
 With twenty horsemen. 
 
 "Then launched they to the blast, 
 Bent like a reed each mast, 
 Yet we were gaining fast. 
 
 When the wind failed us ; 
 And with a sudden flaw 
 Came round the gusty Skaw, 
 So that our foe we saw 
 
 Laugh as he hailed us. 
 
 "And as to catch the gale 
 Round veered the flapping sail. 
 Death! was the helmsman's hail 
 
 Death without quarter! 
 Mid-ships with iron keel 
 Struck we her ribs of steel ; 
 Down her black hulk did reel 
 
 Through the black water !
 
 50O The SKELETON in ARMOUR 
 
 "As with his wings aslant, 
 Sails the fierce cormorant, 
 Seeking some rocky haunt. 
 
 With his prey laden, 
 So toward the open main, 
 Beating to sea again, 
 Through the wild hurricane. 
 
 Bore I the maiden. 
 
 "Three weeks we westward bore, 
 And when the storm was o'er, 
 Cloud-like we saw the shore 
 
 Stretching to lee-ward ; 
 There for my lady's bower 
 Built I the lofty tower, 
 Which, to this very hour, 
 
 Stands looking sea-ward. 
 
 "There lived we many years; 
 Time dried the maiden's tears; 
 She had forgot her fears, 
 
 She was a mother; 
 Death closed her mild blue eyes, 
 Under that tower she lies; 
 Ne'er shall the sun arise 
 
 On such another! 
 
 "Still grew my bosom then 
 Still as a stagnant fen ! 
 Hateful to me were men, 
 
 The sun-light hateful. 
 In the vast forest here. 
 Clad in my warlike gear, 
 Fell I upon my spear, 
 
 O, death was grateful!
 
 By HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 501 
 
 "Thus, seamed with many scars 
 Bursting these prison bars, 
 Up to its native stars 
 
 My soul ascended! 
 There from the flowing bowl 
 Deep drinks the warrior's soul, 
 Skoal! to the Northland! skoal!" 
 
 — Thus the tale ended.
 
 N' 
 
 ROBIN HOOD. (To a Friend.) By JOHN KEATS. 
 
 O ! those days are gone away, 
 
 And their hours are old and grey, 
 And their minutes buried all 
 Under the down-trodden pall 
 Of the leaves of many years: 
 Many times have Winter's shears, 
 Frozen North, and chilling East, 
 Sounded tempests to the feast 
 Of the forest's whispering fleeces, 
 Since men knew nor rent nor leases. 
 
 No, the bugle sounds no more. 
 And the twanging bow no more; 
 Silent is the ivory shrill 
 Past the heath and up the hill ; 
 There is no mid-forest laugh. 
 Where lone Echo gives the half 
 To some wight, amazed to hear 
 Jesting, deep in forest drear. 
 
 On the fairest time of June 
 You may go, with sun or moon, 
 Or the seven stars to light you, 
 Or the polar ray to right you ; 
 But you never may behold 
 Little John, or Robin bold; 
 Never one, of all the clan. 
 Thrumming on an empty can 
 Some old hunting ditty, while 
 He doth his green way beguile 
 To fair hostess Merriment, 
 Down beside the pasture Trent: 
 For he left the merry tale, 
 Messenger for spicy ale, 
 
 502
 
 By JOHN KEATS 503 
 
 Gone, the merry morris din; 
 Gone, the song of Gamelyn ; 
 Gone, the tough belted outlaw 
 Idling in the "gren6 shawe"; 
 All are gone away and past ! 
 And if Robin should be cast 
 Sudden from his tufted grave, 
 And if Marian should have 
 Once again her forest days, 
 She would weep, and he would craze : 
 He would swear, for all his oaks, 
 Fairn beneath the dock-yard strokes, 
 Have rotted on the briny seas; 
 She would weep that her wild bees 
 Sang not to her — strange ! that honey 
 Can't be got without hard money! 
 
 So it is ; yet let us sing 
 Honor to the old bow-string! 
 Honor to the bugle-horn ! 
 Honor to the woods unshorn! 
 Honor to the Lincoln green! 
 Honor to the archer keen! 
 Honor to tight Little John, 
 And the horse he rode upon ! 
 Honor to bold Robin Hood, 
 Sleeping in the underwood! 
 Honor to Maid Marian, 
 And to all the Sherwood clan! 
 Though their days have hurried by, 
 Let us two a burden try.
 
 THE ICEBERG. From "Fantasy and Passion." 
 Copyright, 1898, by Roberts Brothers. Reprinted 
 with permission. By EDGAR FAWCETT. 
 
 WHERE the keen wan peaks, in frigid pride 
 unbending, 
 Jut up against the abysmal blue of night ; 
 When the red aurora, at the world's wild ending, 
 
 Opens in heaven its awful fan of light, 
 A part of all the inviolate peace around him. 
 
 Calm amid mighty quietudes did he rest. 
 The fierce cold for a manacle that bound him, 
 The arctic stars to sparkle on his crest. 
 
 Here silence, like a monarch, reigned immensely, 
 
 The quintessence of cold was here, no less, 
 Each utter as before God spake intensely 
 
 And visible things leapt out from nothingness. 
 A land wherewith no living sign was blended, 
 
 A white monotony of weird device ; 
 One towering boreal torpor, chaste and splendid, 
 
 One monstrous immobility of ice! 
 
 But when light woke within that bleak heaven, grandly 
 
 To illume pale polar summits, range on range. 
 Then blindly through his glacial soul yet blandly 
 
 He felt the movement of mysterious change. 
 He seemed to have heard across vast ocean-reaches 
 
 A summoning voice from equatorial calms. 
 From languorous tropic bowers and lucid beaches. 
 
 From blossoming headlands and high plumes of 
 palms ! 
 
 A voice compelling and a voice commanding. 
 
 Yet sweet as flute-notes near still purple seas, 
 Strange beyond speech and strong beyond withstanding, 
 
 504
 
 By EDGAR FAWCETT 505 
 
 Yet soft withal as tremulous airs in trees. 
 A voice of such deep charm that while he wondered 
 
 Plungingly seaward his huge frame he bent, 
 And all its proud enormity was sundered 
 
 From all its fetters of encompassment. 
 
 Then he went down superbly over distance 
 
 Of mad uproarious surges, height on height, 
 That hurled tempestuous onslaughts of resistance 
 
 Round his serene magnificence of might. 
 Then he went down across the unknown sea-spaces, 
 
 A spot of radiance on their billowy whirl, 
 Scintillant with the sun's most dazzling graces, 
 
 Or touched by moonbeams to phantasmal pearl ! 
 
 One chill wind, like a breath of death, ran blowing 
 
 Incessantly along his path austere, 
 And far before the grandeur of his going. 
 
 Like birds the little vessels fled in fear. 
 Green flashed the glassy bastions whence transcendent 
 
 His frosted pinnacles blazed out above. 
 While in colossal crystal calm resplendent. 
 
 Superbly he went down to meet his love! 
 
 But journeying thus, too thrilled for all confusion 
 
 Of boisterous wave or bluff blast to annoy, 
 He had lessened with insidious diminution. 
 
 He had wasted and not known it in his joy. 
 For through him there had pulsed a fire of yearning 
 
 'Twas ruin although 'twas rapture to have known, 
 And love within his frozen life lay burning. 
 
 Like a ruby under fathoms of stern stone !
 
 5o6 The ICEBERG 
 
 And so while passion in his dumb breast kindled 
 
 A lordlier larger impulse to adore, 
 The more his eminent glories waned and dwindled 
 
 As that ethereal voice allured the more. 
 And then with bitterest pangs he felt the fleeting 
 
 Of all his luminous loftiness and pride, 
 And shuddered with the dark thought of not meeting 
 
 That vague invisible love before he died! 
 
 And still the summoning voice came sweet and eager, 
 
 Though touched with semitones of divine regret, 
 And hourly growing meagre and more meagre, 
 
 He journeyed on, desiring, yearning yet! . . . 
 Till now he vanished utterly, and the tender 
 
 Lulled waves of tropic ocean smiled above 
 Him that in all the morning of his splendor 
 
 Superbly had gone down to meet his love !
 
 LENORE. By EDGAR ALLAN POE. 
 
 AH! broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown 
 forever ! 
 Let the bell toll ! — a saintly soul floats on the Stygian 
 
 river ; 
 And, Guy De Vere, hast thou no tear? — weep now or 
 
 never more ! 
 See! on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, 
 
 Lenore! 
 Come ! let the burial rite be read — the funeral song be 
 
 sung! — 
 An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so 
 
 young — 
 A dirge for her the doubly dead in that she died so 
 
 young. 
 
 "Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth and hated her 
 for her pride. 
 
 And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her — 
 that she died ! 
 
 Hov/ shall the ritual, then, be read? — the requiem how 
 be sung 
 
 By you — by yours, the evil eye, — by yours, the slan- 
 derous tongue 
 
 That did to death the innocence that died, and died so 
 young?" 
 
 Peccavimus; but rave not thus! and let a Sabbath 
 
 song 
 Go up to God so solemnly the dead may feel no wrong! 
 The sweet Lenore hath "gone before," with Hope, 
 
 that flew beside. 
 Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have 
 
 been thy bride — 
 
 507
 
 5o8 LENORE 
 
 For her, the fair and debonair, that now so lowly lies, 
 The life upon her yellow hair but not within her eyes — 
 The life still there, upon her hair — the death upon her 
 
 eyes. 
 "Avaunt! to-night my heart is light. No dirge will I 
 
 upraise. 
 But waft the angel on her flight with a Paean of old 
 
 days! 
 Let no bell toll ; — lest her sweet soul, amid its hallowed 
 
 mirth, 
 Should catch the note, as it doth float — up from the 
 
 damned Earth. 
 To friends above, from fiends below, the indignant 
 
 ghost is riven — 
 From Hell unto a high estate far up within the 
 
 Heaven — 
 From grief and groan, to a golden throne, beside the 
 
 King of Heaven. ' '
 
 THE FOOL'S PRAYER. Copyright, by Houghton, 
 Mifflin & Co. Reprinted with permission. By 
 EDWARD ROWLAND SILL. 
 
 THE royal feast was done; the king 
 Sought some new sport to banish care. 
 And to his jester cried, "Sir Fool, 
 
 Kneel now, and make for us a prayer!' 
 
 The jester doffed his cap and bells, 
 And stood the mocking court before: 
 
 They could not see the bitter smile 
 Behind the painted grin he wore. 
 
 He bowed his head, and bent his knee 
 
 Upon the monarch's silken stool; 
 His pleading voice arose: "O Lord, 
 
 Be merciful to me, a fool ! 
 
 "No pity, Lord, could change the heart 
 From red with wrong to white as wool ; 
 
 The rod must heal the sin ; but, Lord, 
 Be merciful to me, a fool! 
 
 " 'Tis not by guilt the onward sweep 
 Of truth and right, O Lord, we stay; 
 
 'Tis by our follies that so long 
 We hold the earth from heaven away. 
 
 'These clumsy feet, still in the mire. 
 Go crushing blossoms without end; 
 These hard, well-meaning hands we thrust 
 \mong the heart-strings of a friend. 
 
 "The ill-timed truth we might have kept — 
 Who knows how shai-p it pierced and stung? 
 
 The word we had not sense to say — 
 Who knows how grandly it had wrung? 
 
 5oq
 
 5IO The FOOL'S PRAYER 
 
 'Our faults no tenderness should ask, 
 
 The chastening stripes must cleanse them all ; 
 But for our blunders — oh, in shame 
 Before the eyes of heaven we fall. 
 
 "Earth bears no balsam for mistakes; 
 
 Men crown the knave, and scourge the tool 
 That did his will ; but thou, O Lord 
 
 Be merciful to me, a fool ! ' ' 
 
 The room was hushed ; in silence rose 
 The king, and sought his gardens cool, 
 
 And walked apart, and murmured low, 
 "Be merciful to me, a fool!"
 
 MAZEPPA'S RIDE. By GEORGE GORDON, 
 LORD BYRON. 
 
 BRING forth the horse ! '—the horse was brought, 
 In truth, he was a noble steed, 
 
 A Tartar of the Ukraine breed. 
 Who looked as though the speed of thought 
 Were in his limbs; but he was wild. 
 
 Wild as the wild deer, and untaught, 
 With spur and bridle undefiled, — 
 
 'Twas but a day he had been caught; 
 And snorting, with erected mane, 
 And struggling fiercely, but in vain, 
 In the full foam of wrath and dread 
 To me the desert-born was led ; 
 They bound me on, that menial throng, 
 Upon his back with many a thong; 
 Then loosed him with a sudden lash, — 
 Away! — away! — and on we dash! 
 Torrents less rapid and less rash. 
 
 "Away! — away! — My breath was gone,— 
 I saw not where he hurried on ; 
 'Twas scarcely yet the break of day. 
 And on he foamed, — away! — away! — 
 The last of human sounds which rose, 
 As I was darted from my foes. 
 Was the wild shout of savage laughter, 
 Which on the wind came roaring after 
 A moment from that rabble rout ; 
 With sudden wrath I wrenched my head. 
 
 And snapped the cord which to the mane 
 
 Had bound my neck in lieu of rein, 
 And, writhing half my form about,
 
 5" MAZEPPA'S RIDE 
 
 Howled back my curse ; but midst the tread, 
 The thunder of my courser's speed, 
 Perchance they did not hear nor heed: 
 
 "Away, away, my steed and I, 
 
 Upon the pinions of the wind, 
 
 All human dwellings left behind; 
 We sped like meteors through the sky, 
 When with its crackling sound the night 
 Is checkered with the northern light : 
 Town, — village, — none were on our track, 
 
 But a wild plain of far extent. 
 And bounded by a forest black ; 
 
 And, save the scarce-seen battlement 
 On distant heights of some strong hold. 
 Against the Tartars built of old. 
 
 "O, how I wished for spear or sword, 
 At least to die amidst the horde, 
 And perish — if it must be so — 
 At bay, destroying many a foe ! 
 When first my courser's race begun 
 I wished the goal already won; 
 But now I doubted strength and speed. 
 Vain doubt ! his swift and savage breed 
 Had nerved him like the mountain roe; 
 
 "The wood was passed; 'twas more than noon, 
 But chill the air, although in June; I 
 
 Or it might be my veins ran cold, — 
 
 Prolonged endurance tames the bold; | 
 
 I
 
 By GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON 513 
 
 "What marvel if this worn-out trunk 
 
 Beneath its woes a moment sunk? 
 
 The earth gave way, the skies rolled round, 
 
 I seemed to sink upon the ground; 
 
 But erred, for I was fastly bound. 
 
 My heart turned sick, my brain grew sore, 
 
 And throbbed awhile, then beat no more ; 
 
 The skies spun like a mighty wheel; 
 
 I saw the trees like drunkards reel, 
 
 And a slight flash sprang o'er my eyes. 
 
 Which saw no farther; he who dies 
 
 Can die no more than then I died. 
 
 O'ertortured by that ghastly ride, 
 
 I felt the blackness come and go, 
 
 And strove to wake; but could not make 
 My senses climb up from below; 
 I felt as on a plank at sea, 
 When all the waves that dash o'er thee, 
 At the same time upheave and whelm. 
 And hurl thee towards a desert realm. 
 
 "My thoughts came back: where was I? Cold 
 
 And numb and giddy : pulse by pulse 
 Life reassumed its lingering hold, 
 And throb by throb, — till grown a pang 
 
 Which for a moment would convulse. 
 
 My blood reflowed, though thick and chill; 
 My ear with uncouth noises rang ; 
 
 My heart began once more to thrill ; 
 Methought the dash of waves was nigh ; 
 There was a gleam too of the sky. 
 Studded with stars; — it is no dream; 
 The wild horse swims the wilder stream!
 
 514 MAZEPPA'S RIDE 
 
 The bright, broad river's gushing tide 
 Sweeps, winding onward, far and wide, 
 And we are half-way, struggling o'er 
 To yon unknown and silent shore. 
 The waters broke my hollow trance, 
 And with a temporary strength 
 
 My stiffened limbs were rebaptized, 
 My courser's broad breast proudly braves, 
 And dashes off the ascending waves, 
 And onward we advance ! . . . 
 
 "With glossy skin, and dripping mane. 
 And reeling limbs, and reeking flank. 
 
 The wild steed's sinewy nerves still strain 
 Up the repelling bank. 
 
 We gain the top ; a boundless plain 
 
 Spreads through the shadow of the night, 
 
 And onward, onward, onward, seems. 
 
 Like precipices in our dreams. 
 
 To stretch beyond the sight; 
 
 And here and there a speck of white. 
 Or scattered spot of dusky green. 
 
 In masses broke into the light 
 
 As rose the moon upon my right. . . . 
 
 "Onward we went, — but slack and slow; 
 
 His savage force at length o'erspent, 
 The drooping courser, faint and low, 
 
 All feebly foaming went. 
 A sickly infant had had power 
 To guide him forward in that hour; 
 
 But useless all to me. 
 His new-born tameness naught availed, — 
 My limbs were bound ; my force had failed,
 
 By GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON 515 
 
 Perchance had they been free. 
 With feeble efforts still I tried 
 To rend the bonds so starkly tied, 
 
 But still it was in vain ; 
 My limbs were only wrung the more, 
 And soon the idle strife gave o'er. 
 
 Which but prolonged their pain. 
 
 "At length, while reeling on our way, 
 Methought I heard a courser neigh 
 From out yon tuft of blackening firs. 
 Is it the wind those branches stirs? 
 No, no ! from out the forest prance 
 
 A trampling troop ; I see them come ! 
 In one vast squadron they advance ! . . . . 
 A thousand horse, the wild, the free, 
 Like waves that follow o'er the sea. 
 
 Came thickly thundering on, 
 As if our faint approach to meet; 
 The sight renerved my courser's feet, 
 A moment staggering, feebly fleet, 
 A moment, with a faint low neigh. 
 
 He answered and then fell : 
 With gasps and glazing eyes he lay, 
 
 And reeking limbs immovable. 
 
 His first and last career is done! 
 On came the troop, — they saw him stoop, 
 
 They saw me strangely bound along 
 
 His back with many a bloody thong: 
 They stop,— they start,— they snuff the air, 
 Gallop a moment here and there. 
 Approach, retire, wheel round and round, 
 Then plunging back with sudden bound.
 
 5i6 MAZEPPA'S RIDE 
 
 Headed by one black mighty steed, 
 Who seemed the patriarch of his breed, 
 
 Without a single speck or hair 
 Of white upon his shaggy hide ; 
 They snort, they foam, neigh, swerve aside, 
 And backward to the forest fly, 
 By instinct, from a human eye. 
 
 They left me there to my despair, 
 Linked to the dead and stiffening wretch, 
 Whose lifeless limbs beneath me stretch. 
 Relieved from that unwonted weight, 
 From whence I could not extricate 
 Nor him nor me, and there we lay 
 
 The dying on the dead ! 
 I little deemed another day 
 Would see my houseless, helpless head. 
 
 "And there from morn till twilight bound, 
 I felt the heavy hours toil round. 
 With just enough of life to see 
 My last of suns go down on me. 
 
 "I woke. — Where was I? — Do I see 
 A human face look down on me? 
 And doth a roof above me close? 
 Do these limbs on a couch repose? 
 Is this a chamber where I lie? 
 And is it mortal yon bright eye. 
 That watches me with gentle glance? 
 
 I closed my own again once more, 
 As doubtful that the former trance 
 
 Could not as yet be o'er. 
 A slender girl, long-haired and tall.
 
 By GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON 517 
 
 Sate watching- by the cottage wall ; 
 The sparkle of her eye I caught, 
 Even with my first return of thought; 
 For ever and anon she threw 
 
 A prying, pitying glance on me 
 
 With her black eyes so wild and free : 
 I gazed and gazed, until I knew 
 
 No vision it could be, — 
 But that I lived, and was released 
 From adding to the vulture's feast. . . . 
 
 "She came with mother and with sire, — 
 What need of more? — I will not tire 
 With long recital of the rest, 
 Since I became the Cossack's guest. 
 They found me senseless on the plain, — 
 
 They bore me to the nearest hut, — 
 They brought me into life again, — 
 Me, — one day o'er their realm to reign! 
 
 Thus the vain fool who strove to glut 
 His rage, refining on my pain. 
 Sent me forth to the wilderness. 
 Bound, naked, bleeding, and alone, 
 To pass the desert to a throne, — 
 
 What mortal his own doom may guess?"
 
 THE ERL-KING. Translated by Sir Walter Scott. 
 By JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE. 
 
 OWHO rides by night thro' the woodland so wild? 
 It is the fond father embracing- his child, 
 And close the boy nestles within his loved arm, 
 To hold himself fast, and to keep himself warm. 
 
 "O father, see yonder! see yonder!" he says; 
 "My boy, upon what dost thou fearfully gaze?" — 
 "O, 'tis the Erl-King with his crown and his shroud." 
 "No, my son, it is but a dark wreath of the cloud." 
 
 "O, come and go with me, thou loveliest child; 
 By many a gay sport shall thy time be beguiled ; 
 My mother keeps for thee full many a fair toy. 
 And many a fine flower shall she pluck for my boy." 
 
 "O father, my father, and did you not hear 
 The Erl-King whisper so low in my ear?" — 
 "Be still, my heart's darling — my child, be at ease; 
 It was but the wild blast as it sung thro' the trees." 
 
 "O wilt thou go with me, thou loveliest boy? 
 My daughter shall tend thee with care and with joy ; 
 She shall bear thee so lightly thro' wet and thro' wild, 
 And press thee, and kiss thee, and sing to my child." 
 
 "O father, my father, and saw you not plain, 
 
 The Erl-King's pale daughter glide past thro' the 
 
 rain?"— 
 "O yes, my loved treasure, I knew it full soon; 
 It was the gray willow that danced to the moon." 
 
 "O, come and go with me, no longer delay, 
 Or else, silly child, I will drag thee away." — 
 "O father! O father! now, now keep your hold, 
 The Erl-King has seized me — his grasp is so cold !" 
 
 518
 
 By JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE 519 
 
 Sore trembled the father; he spurr'd thro' the wild, 
 Clasping close to his bosom his shuddering child- 
 He reaches his dwelling in doubt and in dread, 
 But, clasp'd to his bosom, the infant was dead!
 
 THE FANCY CONCERT. By LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 THEY talked of their concerts, and Cramers and 
 Spohrs, 
 And pitied the fever that kept me in-doors, 
 And I smiled in my thought and said, "O ye sweet 
 
 fancies, 
 And animal spirits, that still in your dances 
 Come bringing me visions to comfort my care, 
 Now fetch me a concert — imparadise air. ' ' 
 
 Then a wind like a storm out of Eden came pouring 
 Fierce into my room, and made tremble the flooring 
 And filled with a sudden impetuous trample 
 Of heaven, its corners; and swelled it to ample 
 Dimensions to breathe in, and space for all power; 
 Which falling as suddenly, lo! the sweet flower 
 Of an exquisite fairy- voice opened its blessing; 
 And ever and aye, to its constant addressing. 
 There came, falling in with it, each in the last. 
 Flageolets one by one, and flutes blowing more fast, 
 And hautboys and clarionets, acrid of reed. 
 And the violin, smoothlier sustaining the speed 
 As the rich tempest gathered, and buz-ringing moons 
 Of tambours, and deep basses, and giant bassoons, 
 And the golden trombone, that darteth its tongue 
 Like a bee of the gods; nor was wanting the gong. 
 
 Then lo! was performed my immense will and 
 pleasure, 
 And orchestras rose to an exquisite measure; 
 And lights were about me, and odors; and set 
 Were the lovers of music, all wondrously met; 
 And then with their singers in lily-white stoles, 
 
 520
 
 By LEIGH HUNT 521 
 
 And themselves clad in rose-color, in came the souls 
 
 Of all the composers accounted divinest, 
 
 And with their own hands did they play me their 
 
 finest. 
 Oh ! truly was Italy heard then and Germany, 
 Melody's heart, and the rich brain of harmony: 
 Fresh Paisiello, whose airs are as new. 
 Though we know them by heart, as May-blossoms and 
 
 dew; 
 And Nature's twin son, Pergolese ; and Bach, 
 Old father of fugues, with his endless fine talk; 
 And Gllick, who saw gods, and the learned sweet feel- 
 ing 
 Of Haydn; and Winter, whose sorrows are healing; 
 And airy Correlli, whose bowing seems made 
 For a hand with a jewel; and Handel arrayed 
 In Olympian thunders ; vast lord of the spheres. 
 Yet pious himself, with his blindness in tears; 
 A lover withal, and a conq'ror, whose marches 
 Bring demigods under victorious arches; 
 Then Arne sweet and tricksome ; and masterly Purcell, 
 Half priest and half prince; and Mozart universal, 
 But chiefly with exquisite gallantries found. 
 With a grove, in the distance, of holier sound ; 
 Nor forgot was thy dulcitude, loving Sacchini ; 
 Nor love, young and dying, in shape of Bellini; 
 Nor Weber, nor Himmel, nor mirth's sweetest name, 
 Cimarosa; much less the great organ-voiced fame 
 Of Marcello, that hushed the Venetian sea ; 
 And strange was the shout, when it wept hearing thee, 
 Thou soul full of grace as of grief, my heart-cloven, 
 My poor, my most rich, my all-feeling Beethoven.
 
 522 The FANCY CONCERT 
 
 So now we had chorus and now we had song, 
 Now instruments hurrying the warble along; 
 Now pauses that pampered resumption ; and now — 
 But who shall describe what was played us, or how? 
 'T was wonder, 'twas transport, humility, pride; 
 'Twas the heart of the mistress that sat by one's side; 
 'Twas the Graces invisible, moulding the air 
 Into all that is shapely, and lovely, and fair, 
 And running our fancies their tenderest rounds 
 Of endearments and luxuries, turned into sounds; 
 'Twas argument even, the logic of tones; 
 'Twas mem'ry, 'twas wishes, 'twas laughter, 'twas 
 
 moans ; 
 'Twas pity and love, in pure impulse obeyed; 
 'Twas the breath of the stuff of which passion is made. 
 And these are the concerts I have at my will ; 
 Then dismiss them, and laugh at your puffs and your 
 
 "bill."
 
 A CURSE FOR A NATION. By ELIZABETH 
 BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 I HEARD an angel speak last night, 
 And he said, "Write! 
 Write a nation's curse for me. 
 And send it over the Western Sea.' 
 
 I faltered, taking up the word: 
 
 "Not so, my lord! 
 If curses must be, choose another 
 To send thy curse against my brother. 
 
 "For I am bound by gratitude. 
 
 By love and blood, 
 To brothers of mine across the sea. 
 Who stretch out kindly hands to me." 
 
 "Therefore," the voice said, "shalt thou write 
 
 My curse to-night. 
 From the summits of love a curse is driven, 
 As lightning is from the tops of heaven." 
 
 "Not so," I answered. "Evermore 
 
 My heart is sore 
 For my own land's sins: for little feet 
 Of children bleeding along the street: 
 
 ' ' For parked-up honors that gainsay 
 
 The right of way : 
 For almsgiving through a door that is 
 Not open enough for two friends to kiss: 
 
 "For love of freedom which abates 
 
 Beyond the Straits: 
 For patriot virtue starved to vice on 
 Self-praise, self-interest, and suspicion: 
 
 523
 
 524 A CURSE /or a NATION 
 
 "For an oligarchic parliament, 
 
 And bribes well-meant. 
 What curse to another land assign, 
 When heavy-souled for the sins of mine?" 
 
 "Therefore," the voice said, "shalt thou write 
 
 My curse to-night. 
 Because thou hast strength to see and hate 
 A foul thing done within thy gate. ' ' 
 
 "Not so," I answered once again. 
 
 "To curse, choose men. 
 For I, a woman, have only known 
 How the heart melts and the tears itin down. " 
 
 "Therefore," the voice said, "shalt thou write 
 
 My curse to-night. 
 Some women weep and curse, I say 
 (And no one marvels,) night and day. 
 
 "And thou shalt take their part to-night. 
 
 Weep and write. 
 A curse from the depths of womanhood 
 Is very salt, and bitter, and good." 
 
 So thus I wrote and mourned indeed, 
 
 What all may read. 
 And thus, as was enjoined on me, 
 I send it over the Western Sea. 
 
 THE CURSE. 
 
 I. 
 
 Because ye have broken your own chain 
 
 With the strain 
 Of brave men climbing a nation's height, 
 Yet thence bear down with brand and thong
 
 By ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING 525 
 
 On souls of others, — for this wrong 
 This is the curse. Write. 
 
 Because yourselves are standing straight 
 
 In the state 
 Of Freedom's foremost acolyte, 
 Yet keep calm footing all the time 
 On writhing bond-slaves, — for this crime 
 
 This is the curse. Write. 
 
 Because ye prosper in God's name, 
 
 With a claim 
 To honor in the old world's sight, 
 Yet do the fiend's work perfectly 
 In strangling martyrs, — for this lie 
 
 This is the curse. Write. 
 
 II. 
 
 Ye shall watch while kings conspire 
 Round the people's smouldering fire, 
 
 And, warm for your part. 
 Shall never dare — O shame ! 
 To utter the thought into flame 
 
 Which burns at your heart. 
 This is the curse. Write. 
 
 Ye shall watch while nations strive 
 With the bloodhounds, die or survive, 
 
 Drop faint from their jaws, 
 Or throttle them backward to death, 
 And only under your breath 
 
 Shall favor the cause. 
 
 This is the curse. Write. 
 
 Ye shall watch while strong men draw 
 The nets of feudal law
 
 526 A CURSE for a NATION 
 
 To strangle the weak, 
 And, counting the sin for a sin, 
 Your soul shall be sadder within 
 
 Than the word ye shall speak. 
 This is the curse. Write. 
 
 When good men are praying erect 
 That Christ may avenge his elect 
 
 And deliver the earth, 
 The prayer in your ears, said low. 
 Shall sound like the tramp of a foe 
 
 That's driving you forth. 
 This is the curse. Write. 
 
 When wise men give you their praise, 
 They shall pause in the heat of the phrase, 
 
 As if carried too far. 
 When ye boast your own charters kept true, 
 Ye shall blush ;— for the thing which ye do 
 
 Derides what ye are. 
 
 This is the curse. Write. 
 
 When fools cast taunts at your gate, 
 Your scorn ye shall somewhat abate 
 
 As ye look o'er the wall, 
 For your conscience, tradition, and name 
 Explode with a deadlier blame 
 
 Than the worst of them all. 
 This is the curse. Write. 
 Go, wherever ill deeds shall be done, 
 Go, plant your flag in the sun 
 
 Beside the ill-doers ! 
 And recoil from clenching the curse 
 Of God's witnessing Universe 
 
 With a curse of yours. 
 
 THIS is the curse. Write.
 
 RIZPAH. By ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON. 
 
 WAILING, wailing, wailing, the wind over land 
 and sea — 
 And Willy's voice in the wind, "O mother, come out 
 
 to me. ' ' 
 Why should he call me to-night, when he knows that I 
 
 cannot go? 
 For the downs are as bright as day, and the full moon 
 stares at the snow. 
 
 We should be seen, my dear ; they would spy us out of 
 
 the town. 
 The loud black nights for us, and the storm rushing 
 
 over the down. 
 When I cannot see my own hand, but am led by the 
 
 creak of the chain. 
 And grovel and grope for my son till I find myself 
 
 drenched with the rain. 
 
 Anything fallen again? nay — what was there left to 
 
 fall? 
 I have taken them home, I have number'd the bones; 
 
 I have hidden them all. 
 What am I saying? and what are you? do you come as 
 
 a spy? 
 Falls? what falls? who knows? As the tree falls so 
 
 must it lie. 
 
 Who let her in? how long has she been? you — what 
 have you heard? 
 
 Why did you sit so quiet? you never have spoken a 
 
 word. 
 O — to pray with me — yes — a lady — none of their 
 
 spies — 
 
 527
 
 528 RIZPAH 
 
 But the night has crept into my heart, and begun to 
 darken my eyes. 
 
 Ah — you, that have lived so soft, what should ^'•ou 
 
 know of the night. 
 The blast and the burning shame and the bitter frost 
 
 and the fright? 
 I have done it, while you were asleep — you were only 
 
 made for the day. 
 I have gathered my baby together — and now you may 
 
 go your way. 
 
 Nay — for it's kind of you. Madam, to sit by an old 
 
 dying wife, 
 But say nothing hard of my boy, I have only an hour 
 
 of life. 
 I kiss'd my boy in the prison, before he went out to 
 
 die. 
 "They dared me to do it," he said, and he never told 
 
 me a lie. 
 
 I whipt him for robbing an orchard once when he was 
 
 but a child — 
 "The farmer dared me to do it," he said; he was 
 
 always so wild — 
 And idle — and couldn't be idle — my Willy — he never 
 
 could rest. 
 The King should have made him a soldier, he would 
 
 have been one of his best. 
 
 But he lived with a lot of wild mates, and they never 
 
 would let him be good ; 
 They swore that he dare not rob the mail, and he 
 
 swore that he would ;
 
 By ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 529 
 
 And he took no life, but he took one purse, and when 
 
 all was done 
 He flung it among his fellows — "I'll none of it," said 
 
 my son. 
 
 I came into court to the Judge and the lawyers. I told 
 
 them my tale, 
 God's own truth— but they kill'd him, they kill'd him 
 
 for robbing the mail. 
 They hang'd him in chains for a show — we had always 
 
 borne a good name — 
 To be hang'd for a thief — and then put away — isn't 
 
 that enough shame? 
 
 Dust to dust — low down — let us hide ! but they set him 
 
 so high 
 That all the ships of the world could stare at him, 
 
 passing by. 
 God'll pardon the hell-black raven and horrible fowls 
 
 of the air, 
 But not the black heart of the lawyer who kill'd him 
 
 and hang'd him there. 
 
 And the jailer forced me away. I had bid him my last 
 
 good-by ; 
 They had fasten 'd the door of his cell. "O mother!" 
 
 I heard him cry. 
 I couldn't get back tho' I tried, he had something 
 
 further to say, 
 And now I shall never know it. The jailer forced me 
 
 away. 
 
 Then, since I couldn't but hear that cr}^ of my boy that 
 was dead,
 
 530 RIZPAH 
 
 They seized me and shut me up; they fasten'd me 
 
 down on my bed. 
 "Mother, O mother!" he call'd in the dark to me year 
 
 after year — 
 They beat me for that, they beat me — you know that I 
 
 couldn't but hear; 
 And then at the last they found I had grown so stupid 
 
 and still 
 They let me abroad again — but the creatures had 
 
 worked their will. 
 
 Flesh of my flesh was gone, but bone of my bone was 
 
 left— 
 I stole them all from the lawyers, — and you, will you 
 
 call it a theft? 
 My baby, the bones that had suck'd me, the bones that 
 
 had laughed and cried — 
 Theirs? O no ! they are mine — not theirs — they had 
 
 moved in my side. 
 
 Do you think I was scared by the bones? I kiss'd 'em, 
 I buried 'em all — 
 
 I can't dig deep, I am old — in the night by the church- 
 yard wall. 
 
 My Willy '11 rise up whole when the trumpet of judg- 
 ment'll sound, 
 
 But I charge you never to say that I laid him in holy 
 ground. 
 
 They would scratcli him up — they would hang him 
 
 again on the cursed tree. 
 Sin? O yes, we are sinners, I know — let all that be, 
 And read me a Bible verse of the Lord's good-will 
 
 toward men —
 
 By ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 531 
 
 "Full of compassion and mercy, the Lord" — let me 
 
 hear it again; 
 "Full of compassion and mercy — long-suffering." 
 
 Yes, O yes! 
 For the lawyer is born but to murder — the Saviour 
 
 lives but to bless. 
 
 He'll never put on the black cap except for the worst 
 
 of the worst, 
 And the first may be last— I have heard it in church — 
 
 and the last may be first. 
 Suffering — O long-suffering — yes, as the Lord must 
 
 know. 
 Year after year in the mist and the wind and the shower 
 
 and the snow. 
 
 Heard, have you? what? they have told you he never 
 
 repented his sin. 
 How do they know it? are they his mother? are you of 
 
 his kin? 
 Heard! have you ever heard, when the storm on the 
 
 downs began, 
 The wind that'll wail like a child, and the sea that'll 
 
 moan like a man? 
 
 And if he be lost — but to save my soul, that is all your 
 
 desire : 
 Do you think that I care for my soul if my boy be gone 
 
 to the fire? 
 I have been with God in the dark — go, go, you may 
 
 leave me alone — 
 You have never borne a child — you are just as hard as 
 
 a stone.
 
 532 RIZPAH 
 
 Madam, I beg j'^our pardon ! I think that you mean to 
 
 be kind, 
 But I cannot hear what you say for my Willy's voice in 
 
 the wind — 
 The snow and the sky so bright — he used but to call in 
 
 the dark, 
 And he calls to me now from the church and not from 
 
 the gibbet — for hark ! 
 Nay — you can hear it yourself — it is coming — shaking 
 
 the walls — 
 Willy — the moon's in a cloud — Good night. I am 
 
 going. He calls.
 
 HAMLET AT THE BOSTON. (To Edwin Booth ) 
 From "Later Lyrics." Reprinted with permission. 
 By JULIA WARD HOWE. 
 
 WE sit before the row of evening lamps, 
 Each in his chair, 
 Forgetful of November dews and damps. 
 And wintry air. 
 
 A little gulf of music intervenes, 
 
 A bridge of sighs, 
 Where still the cunning of the curtain screens 
 
 Art's paradise. 
 
 My thought transcends these viols' shrill delight, 
 
 The booming bass, 
 And, towards the regions we shall view to-night, 
 
 Makes hurried pace. 
 
 The painted castle, and the unneeded guard 
 
 That ready stand ; 
 The harmless Ghost, that walks with helm unbarred 
 
 And beckoning hand. 
 
 And beautiful as dreams of maidenhood, 
 
 That doubt defy. 
 Young Hamlet, with his forehead grief-subdued, 
 
 And visioning eye. 
 
 O fair dead world, that from thy grave awak'st 
 
 A little while. 
 And in our heart strange revolution mak'st 
 
 With thy brief smile ! 
 
 O beauties vanished, fair lips magical, 
 Heroic braves ! 
 
 533
 
 534 HAMLET at the BOSTON 
 
 O mighty hearts, that held the world in thrall! 
 Come from your graves ! 
 
 The poet sees you through a mist of tears, — 
 
 Such depths divide 
 Him, with the love and passion of his years, 
 
 From you, inside ! 
 
 The poet's heart attends your buskined feet. 
 
 Your lofty strains. 
 Till earth's rude touch dissolves that madness sweet, 
 
 And life remains : 
 
 Life that is something while the senses heed 
 
 The spirit's call; 
 Life that is nothing when our grosser need 
 
 Ingulfs it all. 
 
 And thou, young hero of this mimic scene. 
 
 In whose high breast 
 A genius greater than thy life hath been 
 
 Strangely comprest! 
 
 Wear'st thou those glories draped about thy soul 
 
 Thou dost present? 
 And art thou by their feeling and control 
 
 Thus eloquent? 
 
 'Tis with no feigned power thou bind'st our sense, 
 
 No shallow art; 
 Sure, lavish Nature gave thee heritance 
 
 Of Hamlet's heart!
 
 By JULIA WARD HOWE 535 
 
 Thou dost control our fancies with a might 
 
 So wild, so fond, 
 We quarrel, passed thy circle of delight, 
 
 With things beyond; 
 
 Returning to the pillows rough with care, 
 
 And vulgar food, 
 Sad from the breath of that diviner air, 
 
 That loftier mood. 
 
 And there we leave thee, in thy misty tent 
 
 Watching alone ; 
 While foes about thee gather imminent. 
 
 To us scarce known. 
 
 Oh, when the lights are quenched, the music hushed, 
 
 The plaudits still, 
 Heaven keep the fountain, whence the fair stream 
 gushed. 
 
 From choking ill ! 
 
 Let Shakespeare's soul, that wins the world from 
 wrong. 
 
 For thee avail, 
 And not one holy maxim of his song 
 
 Before thee fail ! 
 
 i 
 
 So get thee to thy couch as unreproved 
 
 As heroes blest ; 
 And all good angels, trusted in and loved, 
 
 Attend thy rest!
 
 THE WRECKER'S BELL. From "Wanderers." 
 Copyright, 1892, by Macmillan & Company. Reprinted 
 with permission. By WILLIAM WINTER. 
 
 THERE'S a lurid light in the clouds to-night, 
 In the wind there's a desolate moan, 
 And the rage of the furious sea is white, 
 
 Where it beats on the crags of stone : 
 Stand here at my side, and look over the tide, 
 
 And say if you hear it, — the sullen knell, 
 Faint, from afar, on the harbour-bar, 
 
 The hollow boom of the wrecker's bell. 
 For I cannot hear — I am cold with fear — 
 
 Ah, leave me not alone! 
 For I'm old, I'm old, and my blood is cold, 
 
 And I fear to be alone. 
 
 With a shudder I saw his ashen face, 
 
 In that wild and fearful night — 
 For his blazing eyes illumed the place 
 
 With a terrible, ghastly light ; 
 And ever his long locks floated out, 
 
 As white as the foam of the sea ; 
 And the great waves dashed on the rocks about 
 
 With a mad and cruel glee. 
 But I stood by his side, and looked over the tide, 
 
 And faintly I heard that solemn knell, 
 Faint, from afar, on the harbour-bar. 
 
 The hollow boom of the wrecker's bell. 
 
 It is but the clang of the signal bell, 
 That floats through the midnight air : 
 
 For many a year in the surging swell 
 Has the old bell sounded there, 
 
 536
 
 By WILLIAM WINTER 537 
 
 When the storm in his might rides through the night 
 
 And his steeds in thunder neigh, 
 Then its iron tongue is swayed and swung, 
 
 And plunged in the angry spray 
 And so when the summer skies are bright, 
 
 And the breakers are at play. 
 But wherefore is it you stay me here, 
 
 And why do you shudder and moan. 
 And what are the nameless shapes yon fear 
 
 In this desolate place alone? 
 For your eyes are set in a dreadful glare. 
 
 And you shrink at the solemn knell. 
 As it trembles along the midnight air — 
 
 The boom of the wrecker's bell. 
 
 Look up, he cried, to the awful sky. 
 
 Look over the furious sea, 
 And mark, as the grinning fiends float by. 
 
 How they beckon and howl to me ! 
 They are ringing my knell with the baleful bell, 
 
 And they gloat on the doom to be. 
 Ah ! give me your hand, and look not back — 
 
 We stand not here alone — 
 And the horrible shapes that throng my track 
 
 Would turn your heart to stone. 
 The spell of the dead is on the hour. 
 And I yield my soul to its fearful power. 
 
 A face looks forth in the darkness there, 
 A young face, sweet with a rosy light: 
 
 The sunshine sleeps in her golden hair, 
 And her violet eyes are softly bright : 
 
 On her parted lips there's an innocent smile.
 
 538 The WRECKER'S BELL 
 
 Like a sunbeam kissing a velvet rose; 
 And her cheeks of pearl grow warm the while, 
 
 With a delicate blush that comes and goes. 
 Ah ! purer than morn in its purest hour, 
 
 And holy as one from an angel clime, 
 Was the tender woman, the beautiful flower, 
 
 I loved and lost in the far-off time. 
 
 One fatal night, in the long ago. 
 
 My gallant cruiser passed that bar. 
 In a bank of clouds the moon hung low, 
 
 And the sombre sky showed scarce a star. 
 The night was calm, but I heard in the swell 
 
 A murmur of storm, and, far away, 
 The muffled toll of the wrecker's bell, 
 
 As it floated up from the outer bay. 
 And a look of hate in the waiting waves 
 Spoke to my soul of a place of graves. 
 
 I watched them there, as I stood at the wheel, - 
 
 The happy lover, the radiant bride, — 
 
 And the wasting fever of frantic pain 
 
 And jealous hatred burnt my brain; 
 
 And I felt what only demons feel, 
 
 For the man who walked by that woman's side. 
 
 Nothing they thought of danger then, 
 
 Or the schemes and crimes of wicked men. 
 
 Lost in a wordless dream of bliss. 
 
 And consecrate with marriage kiss, 
 
 What could those innocent creatures know 
 
 Of the burning hate, the maddening woe 
 
 And the deadly purpose of blind despair, 
 
 In the heart of the fiend beside them there?
 
 By WILLIAM WINTER 539 
 
 An hour had passed — he stood alone, . . , 
 
 I thought no creature saw the blow 
 That felled him, senseless as a stone, 
 Or heard the pitiful, low moan, 
 
 His death-sigh, as he sank below 
 These very waters where they flow 
 
 Around that vengeful bell. 
 But joy, like grief, will vigils keep, 
 And love hath eyes that never sleep 
 
 And secret tongues that tell. 
 She passed like some swift bolt of light, 
 A heavenly angel robed in white ! 
 One dazzling gleam, one cry so shrill 
 That sea and sky and this lone hill 
 Are echoing with its anguish still — 
 And she had leaped into the night : 
 And on her murdered lover's breast 
 In the same wave she sunk to rest. 
 
 That moment o'er the sky 
 Flamed the red wrath of such a storm 
 As might enwreath the Avenger's form 
 
 When howling fiends defy. 
 No ship could live in the gale that blew. 
 And mine went down, with all her crew — 
 
 I only left alive : 
 Spumed upward out of weltering hell 
 To that same reef where swings the bell 
 That, ever since, with fateful spell 
 Hath drawn me by its hideous knell, 
 
 I breathed, and ceased to strive — 
 I, whom the lightning will not rend. 
 Nor waves engulf, nor death befriend.
 
 540 The WRECKER'S BELL 
 
 Nor holy father shrive ! . . . 
 There's a lurid light in the clouds to-night, 
 
 In the wind there's a desolate moan ; 
 But the waves roll soft on the sand so white, 
 
 And break on the crags of stone ; 
 And the sea-gulls scream in their frolic flight, 
 
 And all my dream is flown. 
 But, far away in the twilight gloom, 
 I still can hear it, the muffled boom, — 
 And it seems to be ringing a dead man's knell,- 
 Solemn and slow, of the wrecker's bell.
 
 SONGS FROM "ROBIN HOOD." (First pub- 
 lished in 1786.) By LEONARD MAC NALLY. 
 
 HER hair is like a golden clue, 
 Drawn from Minerva's loom; 
 Her lips carnations dropping dew, 
 Her breath is a perfume. 
 
 Her brow is like the mountain snow, 
 
 Gilt by the morning beam : 
 Her cheeks like living roses blow, 
 
 Her eyes like azure stream. 
 
 Adieu, my friend, be me forgot, 
 
 And from thy mind defac'd; 
 But may that happiness be thine, 
 
 Which I can never taste. 
 
 Charming Clorinda, ev'ry note 
 You breathe these woods among, 
 
 Shall move my grateful tongue : 
 Swelling my ardent throat. 
 Homage devout to pay. 
 Love harmonize the lay. 
 
 And soothe her with a song. 
 
 Should she bewilder' d chance to stray. 
 Ye songsters, near your grove. 
 
 To her your notes belong ; 
 My soul its sense shall prove, 
 My voice its pow'rs display, 
 Love harmonize the lay, 
 
 And soothe her with a song. 
 
 54i
 
 542 SONGS from "ROBIN HOOD" 
 
 By dark grove, shade, or winding dell, 
 We merry maids and archers dwell; 
 In quiet here, from worldly stiife, 
 We pass a cheerful rural life ; 
 And by the moon's pale, quivering beams, 
 We frisk it near the crystal streams. 
 
 Our station's on the king's highway, 
 We rob the rich the poor to pay : 
 The woe-worn wretch we still protect, 
 The widow, orphan, ne'er neglect: 
 Fat churchmen proud we cause to stand. 
 And whistle for our steady band. 
 
 Hark! the warbling choir sings, 
 Hark! the azure welkin rings, 
 
 Hills with joy resound; 
 Cowslips glad the laughing fields, 
 Fragrant thyme its odor yields, 
 
 Violets breathe around. 
 
 Elms their verdant honors spread, 
 Dewdrops gild the mossy bed, 
 
 Daisies bloom among ; 
 Soft and joyous through the skies. 
 Thousand sprightly voices rise, 
 
 Echo joins the song. 
 
 Blissful scenes soon pass away. 
 Pride's the glimmer of a day. 
 
 Flies on rapid wing; 
 Learn to know, vain mortal man. 
 Fleeting life is but a span. 
 
 Emblem of the spring.
 
 ODE ON A GRECIAN URN. By JOHN KEATS. 
 
 THOU still unravish'd bride of quietness! 
 Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time, 
 Sylvan historian, who canst thus express 
 
 A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme : 
 What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape 
 Of deities or mortals, or of both. 
 
 In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? 
 What men or gods are these? What maidens loath? 
 What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? 
 
 What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? 
 
 Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard 
 
 Are sweeter ; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on ; 
 Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd, 
 
 Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: 
 Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave 
 
 Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare ; 
 Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, 
 Though winning near the goal — yet, do not grieve, 
 
 She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, 
 For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair! 
 
 Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed 
 
 Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu; 
 And, happy melodist, unwearied, 
 
 For ever piping songs for ever new; 
 More happy love ! more happy, happy love ! 
 
 For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd, 
 For ever panting and for ever young; 
 All breathing human passion far above. 
 
 That leaves a heart high sorrowful and cloy'd, 
 A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. 
 
 543
 
 544 ODE on a GRECIAN URN 
 
 Who are these coming to the sacrifice? 
 
 To what green altar, O mysterious priest, 
 Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, 
 
 And all her silken flanks with garlands drest? 
 What little town by river or sea-shore, 
 
 Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, 
 Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn? 
 And, little town, thy streets for evermore 
 
 Will silent be ; and not a soul to tell 
 Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. 
 
 O Attic shape ! Fair attitude ! with brede 
 
 Of marble men and maidens overwrought. 
 With forest branches and the trodden weed ; 
 
 Thou, silent form! dost tease us out of thought 
 As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral! 
 
 When old age shall this generation waste, 
 Thou shalt remain, in midst of other wo 
 Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, 
 
 "Beauty is truth, truth beauty," — that is all 
 Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
 
 NOTHING BUT LEAVES. A Study in Yellow and 
 Brown. By M. H. G. 
 
 HE'S devotion itself all the summer; 
 That she's caught him she fondly believes; 
 But when comes the last day of the season, 
 He simply says nothing — but leaves. 
 
 They've danced through each hop and cotillion, 
 
 No other his homage receives. 
 But, chilled by the first frosts of autumn, 
 
 He coldly says nothing — but leaves. 
 
 When she adds up her gains and her losses, 
 Like a husbandman counting his sheaves, 
 
 She mentally puts a black mark to his name, 
 
 And says: "This year I've nothing — but leaves!" 
 
 545
 
 A GRAMMARIAN'S FUNERAL. (Shortly after 
 the revival of learning in Europe.) By ROBERT 
 BROWNING. 
 
 LET us begin and carry up this corpse, 
 Singing together. 
 Leave we the common crofts, the vulgar thorpes, 
 
 Each in its tether 
 Sleeping safe on the bosom of the plain, 
 
 Cared-for till cock-crow: 
 Look out if yonder be not day again 
 
 Rimming the rock-row ! 
 That's the appropriate country; there, man's thought, 
 
 Rarer, intenser. 
 Self-gathered for an outbreak, as it ought, 
 
 Chafes in the censer. 
 Leave we the unlettered plain its herd and crop ; 
 
 Seek we sepulture 
 On a tall mountain, citied to the top, 
 
 Crowded with culture! 
 All the peaks soar, but one the rest excels; 
 
 Clouds overcome it; 
 No! yonder sparkle is the citadel's 
 
 Circling its summit. 
 Thither our path lies; wind we up the heights: 
 
 Wait ye the warning? 
 Our low life was the level's and the night's; 
 
 He's for the morning. 
 Step to a tune, square chests, erect each head, 
 
 'Ware the beholders! 
 This is our master, famous, calm and dead. 
 
 Borne on our shoulders. 
 
 Sleep, crop and herd! sleep, darkling thorpe and croft, 
 Safe from the weather! 
 
 546
 
 By ROBERT BROWNING 547 
 
 He, whom we convoy to his grave aloft, 
 
 Singing together. 
 He was a man bom with thy face and throat, 
 
 Lyric Apollo! 
 Long he lived nameless: how should Spring take note 
 
 Winter would follow? 
 Till lo, the little touch, and youth was gone! 
 
 Cramped and diminished. 
 Moaned he, "New measures, other feet anon! 
 
 My dance is finished"? 
 No, that's the world's way: (keep the mountain-side. 
 
 Make for the city!) 
 He knew the signal, and stepped on with pride 
 
 Over men's pity; 
 Left play for work, and grappled with the world 
 
 Bent on escaping: 
 "What's in the scroll," quoth he, "thoukeepest furled? 
 
 Show me their shaping. 
 Theirs who most studied man, the bard and sage, — 
 
 Give!" — So, he gowned him, 
 Straight got by heart that book to its last page : 
 
 Learned, we found him. 
 Yea, but we found him bald, too, eyes like lead, 
 
 Accents uncertain : 
 "Time to taste life," another would have said, 
 
 "Up with the curtain!" 
 This man said rather, "Actual life comes next? 
 
 Patience a moment! 
 Grant I have mastered learning's crabbed text, 
 
 Still there's the comment. 
 Let me know all ! Prate not of most or least, 
 
 Painful or easy ! 
 Even to the crumbs I'd fain eat up the feast, 
 
 Ay, nor feel queasy."
 
 548 A GRAMMARIAN'S FUNERAL 
 
 Oh, such a life as he resolved to live, 
 
 When he had learned it. 
 When he had gathered all books had to give! 
 
 Sooner, he spurned it. 
 Image the whole, then execute the parts — 
 
 Fancy the fabric 
 Quite, ere you build, ere steel strike fire from quartz, 
 
 Ere mortar dab brick ! 
 
 (Here's the town-gate reached: there's the market-place 
 
 Gaping before us. ) 
 Yea, this in him was the peculiar grace 
 
 (Hearten our chorus!) 
 That before living he'd learn how to live — 
 
 No end to learning : 
 Earn the means first — God surely will contrive 
 
 Use for our earning. 
 Others mistrust and say, "But time escapes: 
 
 Live now or never!" 
 He said, "What's time? Leave Now for dogs and apes! 
 
 Man has Forever. ' ' 
 Back to his book then: deeper drooped his head: 
 
 Calculus racked him: 
 Leaden before, his eyes grew dross of lead: 
 
 Tussis attacked him. 
 •'Now, master, take a little rest!" — not he! 
 
 (Caution redoubled, 
 Step two abreast, the way winds narrowly !) 
 
 Not a whit troubled, 
 Back to his studies, fresher than at first, 
 
 Fierce as a dragon 
 He (soul-hydroptic with a sacred thirst) 
 
 Sucked at the flagon.
 
 By ROBERT BROWNING 549 
 
 Oh, if we draw a circle premature, 
 
 Heedless of far gain. 
 Greedy for quick returns of profit, sure 
 
 Bad is our bargain ! 
 Was it not great? did not he throw on God, 
 
 (He loves the burthen) — 
 God's task to make the heavenly period 
 
 Perfect the earthen? 
 Did not he magnify the mind, show clear 
 
 Just what it all meant? 
 He would not discount life, as fools do here, 
 
 Paid by instalment. 
 He ventured neck or nothing — heaven's success 
 
 Found, or earth's failure: 
 "Wilt thou trust death or not?" He answered 
 "Yes! 
 
 Hence with life's pale lure!" 
 That low man seeks a little thing to do, 
 
 Sees it and does it : 
 This high man, with a great thing to pursue, 
 
 Dies ere he knows it. 
 That low man goes on adding one to one, 
 
 His hundred's soon hit: 
 This high man, aiming at a million, 
 
 Misses an unit. 
 That, has the world here — should he need the next. 
 
 Let the world mind him! 
 This, throws himself on God, and unperplexed 
 
 Seeking shall find him. 
 So, with the throttling hands of death at strife. 
 
 Ground he at grammar ; 
 Still, through the rattle, parts of speech were rife: 
 
 While he could stammer
 
 550 A GRAMMARIAN'S FUNERAL 
 
 He settled Hoti's business — let it be! — 
 
 Properly based Oun — 
 Gave us the doctrine of the enclitic De, 
 
 Dead from the waist down. 
 Well, here's the platform, here's the proper place: 
 
 Hail to your purlieus, 
 All ye highfliers of the featherefl race, 
 
 Swallows and curlews! 
 Here's the top-peak; the multitude below 
 
 Live, for they can, there : 
 This man decided not to Live but Know — 
 
 Bury this man there? 
 Here — here's his place, where meteors shoot, clouds 
 form. 
 
 Lightnings are loosened, 
 Stars come and go! Let joy break with the storm, 
 
 Peace let the dew send! 
 Lofty designs must close in like effects: 
 
 Loftily lying. 
 Leave him — still loftier than the world suspects, 
 
 Living and dying.
 
 THE EAGLE'S SONG. Reprinted with permission. 
 By RICHARD MANSFIELD. 
 
 THE Lioness whelped, and the sturdy cub 
 Was seized by an eagle and carried up 
 And homed for a while in an eagle's nest, 
 And slept for a while on an eagle's breast, 
 And the eagle taught it the eagle's song: 
 "To be staunch and valiant and free and strong!" 
 
 The Lion whelp sprang from the eerie nest, 
 From the lofty crag where the queen birds rest; 
 He fought the King on the spreading plain, 
 And drove him back o'er the foaming main. 
 
 He held the land as a thrifty chief, 
 And reared his cattle and reaped his sheaf, 
 Nor sought the help of a foreign hand, 
 Yet welcomed all to his own free land ! 
 
 Two were the sons that the country bore 
 To the Northern lakes and the Southern shore. 
 And Chivalry dwelt with the Southern son, 
 And Industry lived with the Northern one. 
 Tears for the time when they broke and fought! 
 Tears was the price of the union wrought! 
 And the land was red in a sea of blood, 
 Where brother for brother had swelled the flood ! 
 
 And now that the two are one again, 
 Behold on their shield the word "Refrain!" 
 And the lion cubs twain sing the eagle's song, 
 "To be staunch and valiant and free and strong!" 
 For the eagle's beak and the lion's paw. 
 And the lion's fangs and the eagle's claw, 
 
 551
 
 552 The EAGLE'S SONG 
 
 And the eagle's swoop and the lion's might, 
 
 And the lion's leap and the eagle's sight, 
 
 Shall guard the flag with the word "Refrain!" 
 
 Now that the two are one again ! 
 
 Here's to a cheer for the Yankee ships! 
 
 And "Well done, Sam," from the mother's lips!
 
 THE COMPLAINT OF A FORSAKEN INDIAN 
 WOMAN. By WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 BEFORE I see another day, 
 O let my body die away ! 
 In sleep I heard the northern gleams; 
 The stars, they were among my dreams; 
 In rustling conflict through the skies, 
 I heard, I saw the flashes drive, 
 And yet they are upon my eyes, 
 And yet I am alive ; 
 Before I see another day, 
 O let my body die away ! 
 
 My fire is dead : it knew no pain ; 
 
 Yet it is dead, and I remain : 
 
 All stiff with ice the ashes lie ; 
 
 And they are dead, and I will die. 
 
 When I was well, I wished to live. 
 
 For clothes, for warmth, for food, and fire ; 
 
 But they to me no joy can give, 
 
 No pleasure now, and no desire. 
 
 Then here contented will I lie ! 
 
 Alone, I cannot fear to die. 
 
 Alas ! ye might have dragged me on 
 
 Another day, a single one ! 
 
 Too soon I yielded to despair; 
 
 Why did ye listen to my prayer? 
 
 When ye were gone my limbs were stronger; 
 
 But oh ! how grievously I rue. 
 
 That, afterwards, a little longer. 
 
 My friends, I did not follow you ! 
 
 For strong and without pain I lay. 
 
 Dear friends, when ye were gone away. 
 
 553
 
 554 The COMPLAINT of a FORSAKEN WOMAN 
 
 My Child ! they gave thee to another, 
 A woman who was not thy mother. 
 When from my arms my babe they took 
 On me how strangely did he look! 
 Through his whole body something ran, 
 A most strange working did I see, — 
 As if he strove to be a man, 
 That he might pull the sledge for me: 
 And then he stretched his arms, how wild ! 
 
 mercy! like a helpless child. 
 
 My little joy! my little pride! 
 
 In two days more I must have died. 
 
 Then do not weep and grieve for me • 
 
 1 feel I must have died with thee. 
 
 wind, that o'er my head art flying 
 
 The way my friends their course did bend, 
 
 1 should not feel the pain of dying, 
 Could I with thee a message send ; 
 Too soon, my friends, ye went away; 
 For I had many things to say. 
 
 I'll follow you across the snow; 
 
 Ye travel heavily and slow; 
 
 In spite of all my weary pain, 
 
 I'll look upon your tents again. 
 
 — My fire is dead, and snowy white 
 
 The water which beside it stood: 
 
 The wolf has come to me to-night. 
 
 And he has stolen away my food. 
 
 Forever left alone am I ; 
 
 Then wherefore should I fear to die?
 
 By WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 555 
 
 Youngf as I am, my course is run 
 
 I shall not see another sun ; 
 
 I cannot lift my limbs to know 
 
 If they have any life or no. 
 
 My poor forsaken Child ! if I 
 
 For once could have thee close to me, 
 
 With happy heart I then would die, 
 
 And my last thought would happy be ; 
 
 But thou, dear Babe, art far away, 
 
 Nor shall I see another day.
 
 I 
 
 IKE WALTON'vS PRAYER From "Afterwhiles." 
 Copyright, 18S7, by James Whilcomb Riley. Re- 
 printed with permission. By JAMES WHITCOMB 
 RILEY. 
 
 CRAVE, dear Lord, 
 No boundless hoard 
 Of gold and gear, 
 Nor jewels fine 
 Nor lands, nor kine, 
 Nor treasure-heaps of anything. — 
 Let but a little hut be mine 
 Where at the hearthstone I may hear 
 The cricket sing, 
 And have the shine 
 Of one glad woman's eyes to make, 
 For my poor sake, 
 Our simple home a place divine; — 
 Just the wee cot — the cricket's chirr — 
 Love, and the smiling face of her. 
 
 I pray not for 
 
 Great riches, nor 
 
 For vast estates, and castle-halls, — 
 Give me to hear the bare footfalls 
 Of children o'er 
 An oaken floor. 
 New-rinsed with sunshine, or bespread 
 With but the tiny coverlet 
 And pillow for the baby's head; 
 
 And, pray Thou, may 
 
 The door stand open and the day 
 Send ever in a gentle breeze. 
 With fragrance from the locust-trees, 
 . And drowsy moan of doves, and blur 
 
 556
 
 By JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY 
 
 Of robin-chirps, and drone of bees, 
 
 With afterhushes of the stir 
 Of intermingling sounds, and then 
 
 The good-wife and the smile of her 
 Filling the silences again — 
 The cricket's call, 
 
 And the wee cot, 
 Dear Lord of all. 
 Deny me not! 
 
 I pray not that 
 Men tremble at 
 My power of place 
 And lordly sway, — 
 I only pray for simple grace 
 To look my neighbor in the face 
 
 Full honestly from day to day — 
 Yield me his horny palm to hold, 
 And I'll not pray 
 For gold ; — 
 The tanned face, garlanded with mirth, 
 It hath the kingliest smile on earth — 
 The swart brow, diamonded with sweat, 
 Hath never need of coronet. 
 And so I reach, 
 
 Dear Lord, to Thee, 
 And do beseech 
 Thou givest me 
 The wee cot, and the cricket's chirr. 
 Love, and the glad sweet face of her! 
 
 c r ■ 
 J J i
 
 CAVALRY SONG. From "Alice of Monmouth." 
 Copyright, Edmund Clarence Stedman. Reprinted 
 with permission. By EDMUND CLARENCE 
 STEDMAN. 
 
 OUR good steeds snuff the evening air, 
 Our pulses with their purpose tingle; 
 The foeman's fires are twinkling there; 
 He leaps to hear our sabres jingle ! 
 
 HALT! 
 Each carbine send its whizzing ball : 
 Now, cling, clang! forward all, 
 Into the fight ! 
 
 Dash on beneath the smoking dome : 
 
 Through level lightnings gallop nearer! 
 One look to Heaven! No thoughts of home: 
 The guidons that we bear are dearer. 
 
 CHARGE! 
 Cling ! clang ! forward all ! 
 Heaven help those whose horses fall : 
 Cut left and right! 
 
 They flee before our fierce attack ! 
 
 They fall ! they spread in broken surges. 
 Now, comrades, bear our wounded back, 
 And leave the foeman to his dirges. 
 
 WHEEL! 
 The bugles sound the swift recall: 
 Cling! clang! backward all! 
 Home, and good night! 
 
 558
 
 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE MOON. From 
 "Songs of Doubt and Dream." Copyright, 1891, by 
 Funk & Wagnalls. Reprinted with permission. By 
 EDGAR FAWCETT. 
 
 SHE turns her great grave eyes toward mine, 
 Avhile I stroke her soft hair's gold ; 
 We watch the moon through the window shine ; she is 
 
 only eight years old. 
 "Is it true," she asks, with guileless mien, and with 
 
 voice in tender tune, 
 "That nobody ever yet has seen the other side of the 
 moon?" 
 
 I smile at her question, answering "yes"; and then, 
 
 by a sirange thought stirred, 
 I murmur, half in forgetfulness that she listens to 
 
 every word : 
 "There are treasures on earth so rich and fair that 
 
 they cannot stay with us here, 
 And the other side of the moon is where they go when 
 
 they disappear ! 
 
 "There are hopes that the spirit hardly names, and 
 
 songs that it mutely sings. 
 There are good resolves and exalted aims, there are 
 
 longings for nobler things ; 
 There are sounds and visions that haunt our lot, ere 
 
 they vanish, or seem to die, 
 And the other side of the moon (why not?) is the far 
 
 bourne where they fly ! 
 
 "We can fancy that realm were passing sweet and of 
 strangely precious worth, 
 
 559
 
 56o The OTHER SIDE of the MOON 
 
 If its distant reaches enshrined complete the incom- 
 pleteness of earth ! 
 
 Nay, if there we found, like a living dream, what here 
 we but mourn and miss. 
 
 Oh, the other side of the moon would beam with a 
 glory unknown in this!" 
 
 "Are you talking of heaven?" she whispers now, while 
 
 she nestles against my knees. 
 And I say, as I kiss her white wide brow, "You may 
 
 call it so, if you please ; 
 For if any such wondrous land may be, and we journey 
 
 there, late or soon. 
 Then from heaven, I am sure, we shall gaze and see 
 
 . . . the other side of the moon!"
 
 THE ANGELS OF BUENA VISTA. Copyright, 
 by Houghton, Mifflin & Company. Reprinted with 
 permission. By JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 
 
 SPEAK and tell us, our Ximena, looking north- 
 ward far away, 
 O'er the camp of the invaders, o'er the Mexican array. 
 Who is losing? who is winning? are they far or come 
 
 they near? 
 Look abroad, and tell us, sister, whither rolls the 
 storm we hear. 
 
 "Down the hills of Angostura still the storm of battle 
 rolls ; 
 
 Blood is flowing, men are dying ; God have mercy on 
 their souls!" 
 
 Who is losing? who is winning? — "Over hill and over 
 plain, 
 
 I see but smoke of cannon clouding through the moun- 
 tain rain. ' ' 
 
 Holy Mother! keep our brothers! Look, Ximena, look 
 
 once more: 
 "Still I see the fearful whirlwind rolling darkly as 
 
 before. 
 Bearing on, in strange confusion, friend and foeman, 
 
 foot and horse. 
 Like some wild and troubled torrent sweeping down 
 
 its mountain course. ' ' 
 
 Look forth once more, Ximena! "Ah! the smoke has 
 
 rolled away; 
 And I see the Northern rifles gleaming down the ranks 
 
 of gray. 
 
 561
 
 S62 The ANGELS of BUENA VISTA 
 
 Hark! that sudden blast of bugles! there the troop of 
 
 Minon wheels; 
 There the Northern horses thunder, with the cannon 
 
 at their heels. 
 
 "Jesu, pity! how it thickens! now retreat and now 
 
 advance ! 
 Right against the blazing cannon shivers Puebla's 
 
 charging lance ! 
 Down they go, the brave young riders ; horse and foot 
 
 together fall; 
 Like a ploughshare in the fallow, through them ploughs 
 
 the Northern ball." 
 
 Nearer came the storm and nearer, rolling fast and 
 
 frightful on : 
 Speak, Ximena, speak and tell us, who has lost, and 
 
 who has won? 
 "Alas! alas! I know not; friend and foe together fall, 
 O'er the dying rush the living: pray, my sisters, for 
 
 them all!" 
 
 "Lo! the wind the smoke is lifting: Blessed Mother, 
 
 save my brain! 
 I can see the wounded crawling slowly out from heaps 
 
 of slain. 
 Now they stagger, blind and bleeding; now they fall, 
 
 and strive to rise ; 
 Hasten, sisters, haste and save them, lest they die 
 
 before our eyes!" 
 
 "Oh, my heart's love! oh, my dear one! lay thy poor 
 head on my knee ;
 
 By JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 563 
 
 Dost thou know the lips that kiss thee? Canst thou 
 
 hear me! canst thou see? 
 Oh, my husband, brave and gentle! Oh, my Bernal, 
 
 look once more 
 On the blessed cross before thee! mercy! mercy! all is 
 
 o'er!" 
 
 Dry thy tears, my poor Ximena ; lay thy dear one down 
 
 to rest ; 
 Let his hands be meekly folded, lay the cross upon his 
 
 breast ; 
 Let his dirge be sung hereafter, and his funeral masses 
 
 said; 
 To-day, thou poor bereaved one, the living ask thy aid. 
 
 Close beside her, faintly moaning, fair and young, a 
 
 soldier lay, 
 Torn with shot and pierced with lances, bleeding slow 
 
 his life away ; 
 But, as tenderly before him, the lorn Ximena knelt. 
 She saw the Northern eagle shining on his pistol belt. 
 
 With a stifled cry of horror straight she turned away 
 her head ; 
 
 With a sad and bitter feeling looked she back upon her 
 dead; 
 
 But she heard the youth's low moaning, and his strug- 
 gling breath of pain. 
 
 And she raised the cooling water to his parched lips 
 again. 
 
 Whispered low the dying soldier, pressed her hand and 
 faintly smiled :
 
 564 The ANGELS of BUENA VISTA 
 
 Was that pitying face his mother's? did she watch 
 
 beside her child? 
 All his stranger words with meaning- her woman's heart 
 
 supplied ; 
 With her kiss upon his forehead, "Mother!" murmured 
 
 he, and died! 
 
 "A bitter curse upon them, poor boy, who led thee 
 
 forth. 
 From some gentle, sad-eyed mother, weeping, lonely, 
 
 in the North!" 
 Spake the mournful Mexic woman, as she laid him 
 
 with her dead, 
 And turned to soothe the living, and bind the wounds 
 
 which bled. * 
 
 Look forth once more, Ximena! "Like a cloud before 
 
 the wind 
 Rolls the battle down the mountains, leaving blood and 
 
 death behind; 
 Ah! they plead in vain for mercy; in the dust the 
 
 wounded strive; 
 Hide your faces, holy angels ! oh, thou Christ of God, 
 
 forgive ! ' ' 
 
 Sink, O Night, among thy mountains! let the cool, 
 
 gray shadows fall ; 
 Dying brothers, fighting demons, drop thy curtain 
 
 over all ! 
 Through the thickening winter twilight, wide apart the 
 
 battle rolled, 
 In its sheath the sabre rested, and the cannon's lips 
 
 grew cold.
 
 . By JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 565 
 
 But the noble Mexic women still their holy task pur- 
 sued, 
 
 Through that long, dark night of sorrow, worn and 
 faint and lacking food ; 
 
 Over weak and suffering brothers, with a tender care 
 they hung, 
 
 And the dying foeman blessed them in a strange and 
 Northern tongue. 
 
 Not wholly lost, O Father! is this evil world of ours; 
 Upward, through its blood and ashes, spring afresh the 
 
 Eden flowers ; 
 From its smoicing hell of battle. Love and Pity send 
 
 their prayer, 
 And still thy white-winged angels hover dimly in our 
 
 air!
 
 CAVALIER TUNES. By ROBERT BROWNING. 
 I. MARCHING ALONG. 
 
 KENTISH SIR BYNG stood for his King, 
 Bidding the crop-headed Parliament swing: 
 And, pressing a troop unable to stoop 
 And see the rogues flourish and honest folk droop, 
 Marched them along, fifty-score strong. 
 Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song. 
 
 God for King Charles ! Pym and such carles 
 
 To the Devil that prompts 'em their treasonous paries! 
 
 Cavaliers, up ! Lips from the cup. 
 
 Hands from the pasty, nor bite take nor sup 
 
 Till you're— 
 
 Chorus. — Marching along, fifty-score strong, 
 
 Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this 
 song. 
 
 Hampden to hell, and his obsequies' knell. 
 Serve Hazelrig, Fiennes, and young Harry as well! 
 England, good cheer! Rupert is near! 
 Kentish and loyalists, keep we not here. 
 
 Chorus. — Marching along, fifty-score strong. 
 
 Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this 
 song? 
 
 Then, God for King Charles! Pym and his snarls 
 To the Devil that pricks on such pestilent carles! 
 Hold by the right, you double your might ; 
 So, onward to Nottingham, fresh for the fight, 
 Chorus. — March we along, fifty-score strong. 
 
 Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this 
 song! 
 
 566
 
 By ROBERT BROWNING 567 
 
 II. GIVE A ROUSE. 
 
 I. 
 
 King Charles, and who'll do him right now? 
 King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now? 
 Give a rouse: here's, in hell's despite now, 
 King Charles ! 
 
 II. 
 
 Who gave me the goods that went since? 
 Who raised me the house that sank once? 
 Who helped me to gold I spent since? 
 Who found me in wine you drank once? 
 Chorus. — King Charles, and who'll do him right now? 
 King Charles, and who's ripe for fight 
 
 now? 
 Give arouse: here's, in hell's despite now. 
 King Charles! 
 
 III. 
 
 To whom used my boy George quaff else, 
 By the old fool's side that begot him? 
 For whom did he cheer and laugh else, 
 While Noll's damned troopers shot him? 
 
 Chorus. — King Charles, and who'll do him right now? 
 
 King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now? 
 
 Give a rouse: here's, in hell's despite now, 
 
 King Charles! 
 
 III. BOOT AND SADDLE. 
 
 Boot, saddle, to horse, and away! 
 Rescue my castle before the hot day
 
 568 CAVALIER TUNES 
 
 Brightens to blue from its silvery gray, 
 
 Chorus. — Boot, saddle, to horse, and away! 
 
 II. 
 
 Ride past the suburbs, asleep as you'd say; 
 Many's the friend there, will listen and pray 
 "God's luck to gallants that strike up the lay — 
 Chorus. — Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!" 
 
 III. 
 
 Forty miles off, like a roebuck at bay, 
 Flouts Castle Bran^epeth the Roundheads* array: 
 Who laughs, "Good fellows ere this, by my fay, 
 Chorus. — Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!" 
 
 IV. 
 
 Who? My wife Gertrude; that, honest and gay, 
 Laughs when you talk of surrendering, "Nay! 
 I've better counsellors; what counsel they? 
 Chorus. — Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!"
 
 THE OLD ADMIRAL. Admiral Stewart, U. S. N. 
 Copyright, Edmund Clarence Stedman. Reprinted 
 with permission. By EDMUND CLARENCE 
 STEDMAN. 
 
 GONE at last, 
 That brave old hero of the past! 
 His spirit has a second birth, 
 
 An unknown, grander life ; 
 All of him that was earth 
 
 Lies mute and cold. 
 
 Like a wrinkled sheath and old 
 Thrown off forever from the shimmering blade 
 That has good entrance made 
 
 Upon some distant, glorious strife. 
 
 From another generation, 
 
 A simpler age, to ours Old Ironsides came; 
 The morn and noontide of the nation 
 
 Alike he knew, nor yet outlived his fame, — 
 O, not outlived his fame ! 
 The dauntless men whose service guards our shore 
 
 Lengthen still their glory-roll 
 
 With his name to lead the scroll, 
 As a flagship at her fore 
 
 Carries the Union, with its azure and the stars, 
 Symbol of times that are no more 
 
 And the old heroic wars. 
 
 He was the one 
 
 Whom Death had spared alone 
 
 Of all the captains of that lusty age. 
 Who sought the foeman where he lay 
 On sea or sheltering bay. 
 
 Nor till the prize was theirs repressed their rage. 
 
 569
 
 570 The OLD ADMIRAL 
 
 They are gone, — all gone: 
 
 They rest with glory and the undying Powers; 
 Only their name and fame, and what they saved, are 
 ours! 
 
 It was fifty years ago, 
 
 Upon the Gallic Sea, 
 
 He bore the banner of the free, 
 And fought the fight whereof our children know, — 
 
 The deathful, desperate fight! 
 
 Under the fair moon's light 
 The frigate squared, and yawed to left and right. 
 
 Every broadside swept to death a score ! 
 Roundly played her guns and well, till their fiery 
 ensigns fell, 
 
 Neither foe replying more. 
 All in silence, when the night-breeze cleared the air, 
 
 Old Ironsides rested there. 
 Locked in between the twain, and drenched with blood. 
 
 Then homeward, like an eagle with her prey! 
 
 O, it was a gallant fray, — 
 
 That fight in Biscay Bay ! 
 Fearless the captain stood, in his youthful hardihood : 
 
 He was the boldest of them all. 
 
 Our brave old Admiral ! 
 
 And still our heroes bleed, 
 Taught by that olden deed. 
 
 Whether of iron or of oak 
 The ships we marshal at our country's need. 
 
 Still speak their cannon now as then they spoke ; 
 Still floats our unstruck banner from the mast 
 
 As in the stormy past.
 
 By EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN 571 
 
 Lay him in the ground : 
 
 Let him rest where the ancient river rolls; 
 Let him sleep beneath the shadow and the sound 
 
 Of the bell whose proclamation, as it tolls, 
 Is of Freedom and the gift our fathers gave. 
 
 Lay him gently down : 
 
 The clamor of the town 
 Will not break the slumbers deep, the beautiful ripe 
 
 sleep, 
 Of this lion of the wave. 
 
 Will not trouble the old Admiral in his grave. 
 
 Earth to earth his dust is laid. 
 Methinks his stately shade 
 
 On the shadow of a great ship leaves the shore; 
 Over cloudless western seas 
 Seeks the far Hesperides, 
 
 The islands of the blest. 
 Where no turbulent billows roar, — 
 
 Where is rest. 
 His ghost upon the shadowy quarter stands 
 Nearing the deathless lands. 
 
 There all his martial mates, renewed and strong, 
 Await his coming long. 
 
 I see the happy Heroes rise 
 
 With gratulation in their eyes : 
 
 "Welcome, old comrade," Lawrence cries; 
 "Ah, Stewart, tell us of the wars! 
 Who win the glory and the scars? 
 
 How floats the skyey flag, — how many stars? 
 
 Still speak they of Decatur's name, 
 
 Of Bainbridge's and Perry's fame?
 
 572 The OLD ADMIRAL 
 
 Of me, who earliest came? 
 Make ready, all : 
 Room for the Admiral ! 
 
 Come, Stewart, tell us of the wars!"
 
 AUTUMN TOURISTS. Anonymous. 
 
 THEY were rowing over a summer lake, 
 A lake deep blue and without a curl, 
 Save just the ripple the oars would make, 
 And the shoreward streak of pearl. 
 
 High over the waters the mountains rise, 
 Deep under the water the mountains fall, 
 
 You may fathom the depths and mete the skies. 
 But the heart is deeper than all. 
 
 Some one said, "We shall miss you so, 
 
 Robin, when you are away so far. 
 And he said with a smile, "It is hard to go. 
 
 But things must be as they are." 
 
 "He can smile, so will I," she thought, 
 "With her rosy fingers over the brink, 
 
 "But oh! some lessons are hard to be taught, 
 Some cups are bitter to drink. 
 
 The time that is past, like yonder shore, 
 Grows fainter and fainter under our sight; 
 
 God," she prayed, "if I see him no more 
 Help me to bear it aright." 
 
 She groaned to herself, "I must look in his eyes, 
 And thrill and bear the touch of his hand, 
 
 Then go on alone 'neath the pitiless skies. 
 When the boat has touched the strand." 
 
 "Be a man and care as little as she!" 
 
 Thought he as they neared the farther shore, 
 
 "Love is not made for fellows like me. 
 So farewell for evermore." 
 
 573
 
 574 AUTUMN TOURISTS 
 
 "A pleasant time it has been," he said, 
 "I wish we could have it over again — " 
 
 *'Ay," ail bitterly answered her heart, 
 "For pleasure is kin to pain." 
 
 "We see people better in foreign lands. 
 Perhaps the fogs are too thick in our own," 
 
 She said, frankly giving him both her hands. 
 Not a touch of pain in her tone. 
 
 Then as the shore grated under the keel, 
 
 She said, as she lightly stepped from the boat, 
 
 "How real and solid the pebbles feel 
 After all our visions afloat!" 
 
 The white towns glistened and glowed in the light, 
 
 And the children gathered to gaze. 
 And the sun poured down with a pitiless might, 
 
 As they went their several ways. 
 
 Straining of eyes, and waving of hands. 
 
 And the trifles that make — or mar, 
 These must happen in all the lands, 
 
 And things must be as they are.
 
 MR, MOLONY'S ACCOUNT OF THE BALL. 
 By WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. 
 
 OWILL ye choose to hear the news? 
 • Bedad, I cannot pass it o'er: 
 I'll tell you all about the ball 
 
 To the Naypaulase ambassador. 
 Begor! this fete all balls does bate, 
 
 At which I worn a pump, and I 
 Must here relate the splendthor great 
 Of th' Oriental Company. 
 
 These men of sinse dispoised expinse, 
 
 To fete these black Achilleses. 
 "We'll show the blacks," says they, "Almack's, 
 
 And take the rooms at Willis's. ' ' 
 With flags and shawls, for these Nepauls, 
 
 They hung the rooms of Willis up, 
 And decked the walls and stairs and halls 
 
 With roses and with lilies up. 
 
 And Jullien's band it tuck its stand 
 
 So sweetly in the middle there 
 And soft bassoons played heavenly chunes, 
 
 And violins did fiddle there. 
 And when the Coort was tired of spoort, 
 
 I'd lave you, boys, to think there was 
 A nate buffet before them set 
 
 Where lashins of good dhrink there was! 
 
 At ten before the ball-room door, 
 
 His moighty Excellency was; 
 He smoiled and bowed to all the crowd, 
 
 So gorgeous and immense he was. 
 
 575
 
 576 MR. MOLONY'S ACCOUNT of the BALL 
 
 His dusky shuit, sublime and mute, 
 
 Into the door-way followed him ; 
 And O the noise of the blackguard boys, 
 
 As they hurrood and hollowed him ! 
 
 The noble Chair stud at the stair, 
 
 And bade the dthrums to thump ; and he 
 Did thus evince to that Black Prince 
 
 The welcome of his Company. 
 O fair the girls, and rich the curls, 
 
 And bright the oys, you saw there, was; 
 And fixed each oye, ye there could spoi, 
 
 On Gineral Jung Bahawther was! 
 
 This Gineral great then tuck his sate, 
 
 With all the other ginerals, 
 (Bedad, his troat, his belt, his coat. 
 
 All bleezed with precious minerals;) 
 And as he there, with princely air, 
 
 Recloinin on his cushion was, 
 All round about his royal chair, 
 
 The squeezin and the pushin was. 
 
 O Pat, such girls, such Jukes and Earls, 
 
 Such fashion and nobilitee ! 
 Just think of Tim, and fancy him 
 
 Amidst the hoigh gentility! 
 There was Lord De L'Huys, and the Portygeese 
 
 Ministher and his lady there. 
 And I reckonized, with much surprise. 
 
 Our messmate. Bob O'Grady, there; 
 
 There was Baroness Brunow, that looked like Juno, 
 And Baroness Rehausen there.
 
 By WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 577 
 
 And Countess RouUier, that looked peculiar 
 Well, in her robes of gauze in there. 
 
 There was Lord Crowhurst (I knew him first 
 When only Mr, Pips he was), 
 
 And Mick O' Toole, the great big fool, 
 That after supper tipsy was. 
 
 There was Lord Fingall and his ladies all, 
 
 And Lords Killeen and Dufferin, 
 And Paddy Fife, with his fat wife, — 
 
 I wondther how he could stuff her in. 
 There was Lord Belfast, that by me past, 
 
 And seemed to ask how should I go there? 
 And the Widow Macrae, and Lord A. Hay, 
 
 And the Marchioness of Sligo there. 
 
 Yes, Jukes and Earls, and diamonds and pearls, 
 
 And pretty girls, was spoorting there ; 
 And some beside (the rogues!) I spied. 
 
 Behind the windies, coorting there. 
 O, there's one I know, bedad, would show 
 
 As beautiful as any there ; 
 And I'd like to hear the pipers blow, 
 
 And shake a fut with Fanny there!
 
 THE FUGITIVES. By PERCY BYSSHE SHEL- 
 LEY. 
 
 THE waters are flashing, 
 The white hail is dashing, 
 The hghtnings are glancing, 
 The hoar spray is dancing: — 
 Away ! 
 
 The whirlwind is rolling, 
 The thunder is tolling. 
 The forest is swinging, 
 The minster-bells ringing: — 
 Come away! 
 
 The earth is like ocean, 
 Wreck-strewn and in motion ; 
 Bird, beast, man, and worm. 
 Have crept out of the storm : — 
 Come away! 
 
 II. 
 
 '*Our boat has one sail, 
 And the helmsman is pale. 
 A bold pilot, I trow, 
 Who should follow us now!" 
 Shouted he. 
 
 And she cried: "Ply the oar; 
 Put off gaily from shore!" — 
 As she spoke, bolts of death. 
 Mixed with hail, specked their path 
 O'er the sea: 
 
 578
 
 By PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 579 
 
 And from isle, tower, and rock, 
 The blue beacon-cloud broke : 
 And, though dumb in the blast, 
 The red cannon flashed fast 
 From the lee. 
 
 III. 
 
 And "Fear' St thou?" and "Fear'st thou?' 
 And "Seest thou?" and "Hear'st thou?" 
 And "Drive we not free 
 O'er the terrible sea, 
 I and thou?" 
 
 One boat-cloak did cover 
 The loved and the lover: 
 Their blood beats one measure, 
 They murmur proud pleasure 
 Soft and low ; — 
 
 While around the lashed ocean. 
 Like mountains in motion, 
 Is withdrawn and uplifted. 
 Sunk, shattered, and shifted 
 To and fro. 
 
 IV. 
 
 In the court of the fortress 
 Beside the pale portress. 
 Like a bloodhound well beaten 
 The bridegroom stands, eaten 
 By shame.
 
 58o The FUGITIVES 
 
 On the topmost watch-turret, 
 As a death-boding spirit, 
 Stands the grey tyrant father; 
 To his voice, the mad weather 
 Seems tame ; 
 
 And, with curses as wild 
 As e'er clung to child, 
 He devotes to the blast 
 The best, loveliest, and last, 
 Of his name.
 
 ELEGY IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD. By 
 THOMAS GRAY. 
 
 THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 
 The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, 
 The ploughman homeward plods his weary way. 
 And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 
 
 Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight. 
 And all the air a solemn stillness holds, 
 
 Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight. 
 And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds : 
 
 Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower. 
 The moping owl does to the moon complain 
 
 Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, 
 Molest her ancient solitary reign. 
 
 Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade. 
 Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, 
 
 Each in his narrow cell forever laid. 
 The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 
 
 The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, 
 
 The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, 
 
 The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn. 
 No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 
 
 For them no more the blazing hearth shall bum, 
 Or busy housewife ply her evening care ; 
 
 No children run to lisp their sire's return. 
 Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. 
 
 Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, 
 Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke ; 
 
 581
 
 582 ELEGY {71 a COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD 
 
 How jocund did they drive their team afield! 
 How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! 
 
 Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, 
 Their homely joys and destiny obscure; 
 
 Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile 
 The short and simple annals of the Poor. 
 
 The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power. 
 And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, 
 
 Await alike th' inevitable hour: — 
 The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 
 
 Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault. 
 If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise. 
 
 Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault 
 The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 
 
 Can storied urn or animated bust 
 
 Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? 
 
 Can Honor's voice provoke the silent dust, 
 Or Flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of Death? 
 
 Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 
 
 Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; 
 
 Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd, 
 Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre ; 
 
 But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, 
 Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll; 
 
 Chill Penury repress' d their noble rage. 
 And froze the genial current of the soul.
 
 By THOMAS GRAY. 583 
 
 Full many a gem of purest ray serene 
 
 The dark, unfathom'd caves of ocean bear; 
 
 Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 
 And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 
 
 Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast 
 The little tyrant of his fields withstood. 
 
 Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest; 
 Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. 
 
 Th' applause of list'ning senates to command. 
 The threats of pain and ruin to despise. 
 
 To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, 
 And read their history in a nation's eyes 
 
 Their lot forbade : nor circumscribed alone 
 
 Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined. 
 
 Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne. 
 And shut the gates of mercy on mankind ; 
 
 The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide. 
 To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, 
 
 Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride 
 With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. 
 
 Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife 
 Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray; 
 
 Along the cool, sequestered vale of life 
 They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 
 
 Yet even these bones from insult to protect, 
 Some frail memorial, still erected nigh. 
 
 With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, 
 Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
 
 584 ELEGY in a COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD 
 
 Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse, 
 
 The place of fame and elegy supply : 
 And many a holy text around she strews, 
 
 To teach the rustic moralist to die. 
 
 For who, to dumb forge tfulness a prey, 
 This pleasing, anxious being e'er resigned. 
 
 Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, 
 Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind? 
 
 On some fond breast the parting soul relies, 
 Some pious drops the closing eye requires; 
 
 E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, 
 E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. 
 
 For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonor'd dead, 
 Dost in these lines their artless tale relate, 
 
 If chance, by lonely Contemplation led, 
 
 Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate — 
 
 Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, 
 "Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn 
 
 Brushing with hasty steps the dews away. 
 To meet the sun upon the upland lawn ; 
 
 "There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech 
 That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, 
 
 His listless length at noontide would he stretch, 
 And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 
 
 "Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 
 Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove; 
 
 Now drooping, woful-wan, like one forlorn. 
 Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.
 
 By THOMAS GRAY 585 
 
 "One morn I miss'd him on the 'customed hill, 
 Along the heath, and near his favorite tree : 
 
 Another came, nor yet beside the rill, 
 
 Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood, was he ; 
 
 "The next, with dirges due, in sad array, 
 
 Slow through the church-way path we saw him 
 borne, — 
 
 Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay 
 Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." 
 
 THE EPITAPH. 
 
 Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth, 
 A Youth to Fortune and to Fame tmknown: 
 
 Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth, 
 And Melancholy mark'd him for her own. 
 
 Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere; 
 
 Heaven did a recompense as largely send: 
 He gave to Misery (all he had) a tear 
 
 He gain'd from heaven ('t was all he wish'd) a friend. 
 
 No further seek his merits to disclose, 
 
 Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, 
 
 (There they alike in trembling hope repose,) 
 The bosom of his Father and his God.
 
 LOCHINVAR By SIR WALTER SCOTT. 
 
 O YOUNG Lochinvar is come out of the West, — 
 • Through all the wide Border his steed was the 
 best; 
 And, save his good broadsword, he weapon had none, 
 He rode all unarmed, 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 stopped not for stone. 
 
 He swam the Eske River where ford there was none ; 
 
 But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate, 
 
 The bride had consented, the gallant came late ; 
 
 For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war 
 
 Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar. 
 
 So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, 
 
 Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and 
 
 all. 
 Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword 
 (For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word), 
 "O, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war 
 Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?' 
 
 **I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied; 
 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 are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far. 
 That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar." 
 
 The bride kissed the goblet ; the knight took it up, 
 He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup. 
 She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh, 
 
 586
 
 By SIR WALTER SCOTT 587 
 
 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 ; 
 
 While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, 
 
 And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and 
 
 plume; 
 And the bridemaidens whispered, *' 'Twere better by 
 
 far 
 To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochin- 
 var." 
 
 One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, 
 When they reached the hall-door, and the charger stood 
 
 near; 
 So light to the croup the fair lady he swung. 
 So light 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 Graemes of the Netherby 
 
 clan; 
 Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they 
 
 ran; 
 There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee, 
 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?
 
 SHIPS AT SEA. By ROBERT BARRY COFFIN. 
 
 I HAVE ships that went to sea 
 More than fifty years ago 
 None have yet come home to me, 
 
 But keep sailing to and fro. 
 I have seen them, in my sleep, 
 Plunging thro' the shoreless deep, 
 With tattered sails and battered hulls, 
 While around them screamed the gulls, 
 Flying low, flying low. 
 
 I have wondered why they staid 
 From me, sailing round the world; 
 
 And I've said, "I'm half afraid 
 
 That their sails will ne'er be furled." 
 
 Great the treasures that they hold, — 
 
 Silks and plumes, and bars of gold ; 
 
 While the spices which they bear 
 
 Fill with fragrance all the air, 
 As they sail, as they sail. 
 
 Every sailor in the port 
 
 Knows that I have ships at sea, 
 Of the waves and winds the sport; 
 
 And the sailors pity me. 
 Oft they come and with me walk. 
 Cheering me with hopeful talk. 
 Till I put my fears aside, 
 And contented watch the tide 
 Rise and fall, rise and fall. 
 
 I have waited on the piers. 
 
 Gazing for them down the bay, 
 Days and nights, for many years, 
 
 588
 
 By ROBERT BARRY COFFIN 589 
 
 Till I turned heart-sick away. 
 But the pilots, when they land, 
 Stop and take me by the hand. 
 Saying, "You will live to see 
 Your proud vessels come from sea, 
 One and all, one and all." 
 
 So I never quite despair. 
 
 Nor let hope or courage fail ; 
 And some day, when skies are fair, 
 
 Up the bay my ships will sail. 
 I can buy then all I need, — 
 Prints to look at, books to read. 
 Horses, wines, and works of art. 
 Everything, except a heart ; 
 That is lost, that is lost. 
 
 Once, when I was pure and young, 
 
 Poorer, too, than I am now. 
 Ere a cloud was o'er me flung. 
 
 Or a wrinkle creased my brow, 
 There was one whose heart was mine; 
 But she's something now divine, 
 And though come my ships from sea, 
 They can bring no heart to me, 
 Evermore, evermore.
 
 THE COLISEUM BY MOONLIGHT From 
 "Manfred." By GEORGE GORDON, LORD 
 BYRON. 
 
 THE stars are forth, the moon above the tops 
 Of the snow-shining mountains. — Beautiful! 
 I linger yet with Nature, for the night 
 Hath been to me a more familiar face 
 Than that of man ; and in her starry shade 
 Of dim and solitary loveliness 
 I learned the language of another world. 
 I do remember me, that in my youth, 
 When I was wandering, — upon such a night 
 I stood within the Coliseum's wall, 
 Midst the chief relics of almighty Rome. 
 The trees which grew along the broken arches 
 Waved dark in the blue midnight, and the stars 
 Shone through the rents of ruin ; from afar 
 The watch-dog bayed beyond the Tiber; and 
 More near from out the Caesars' palace came 
 The owl's long cry, and, interruptedly, 
 Of distant sentinels the fitful song 
 Begun and died upon the gentle wind. 
 Some cypresses beyond the time-worn breach 
 Appeared to skirt the horizon, yet they stood 
 Within a bowshot, — where the Caesars dwelt. 
 And dwell the tuneless birds of night, amidst 
 A grove which springs through levelled battlements, 
 And twines its roots with the imperial hearths. 
 Ivy usurps the laurel's place of growth; — 
 But the gladiator's bloody Circus stands, 
 A noble wreck in ruinous perfection, 
 While Caesar's chambers and the Augustan halls 
 Grovel on earth in indistinct decay. — 
 
 590
 
 By GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON 591 
 
 And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, upon 
 
 All this, and cast a wide and tender light, 
 
 Which softened down the hoar austerity 
 
 Of rugged desolation, and filled up, 
 
 As 't were anew, the gaps of centuries, 
 
 Leaving that beautiful which still was so. 
 
 And making that which was not, till the place 
 
 Became religion, and the heart ran o'er 
 
 With silent worship of the great of old! — 
 
 The dead, but sceptered sovereigns, who still rule 
 
 Our spirits from their urns.
 
 THE DIRTY OLD MAN. By WILLIAM ALL- 
 INGHAM. 
 
 (A singular man, named Nathaniel Bentley, for many years 
 kept a large hardware shop in Leadenhall Street, London. He was 
 best known as Dirty Dick (Dick for alliteration's sake, probably), 
 and his place of business as the Dirty Warehouse. He died about 
 the year 1809. These verses accord with the accounts respecting 
 himself and his house.) 
 
 IN a dirty old house lived a Dirty Old Man ; 
 Soap, towels, or brushes were not in his plan. 
 For forty long years, as the neighbors declared, 
 His house never once had been cleaned or repaired. 
 
 'T was a scandal and shame to the business-like street, 
 One terrible blot in a ledger so neat: 
 The shop full of hardware, but black as a hearse. 
 And the rest of the mansion a thousand times worse. 
 
 Outside, the old plaster, all spatter and stain, 
 Looked spotty in sunshine and streaky in rain ; 
 The window-sills sprouted with mildewy grass. 
 And the panes from being broken were known to be 
 glass. 
 
 On the rickety signboard no learning could spell 
 The merchant who sold, or the goods he'd to sell; 
 But for house and for man a new title took growth, 
 Like a fungus, — the Dirt gave its name to them both. 
 
 Within, there were carpets and cushions of dust. 
 The wood was half rot, and the metal half rust. 
 Old curtains, half cobwebs, himg grimly aloof ; 
 'T was a Spiders' Elysium from cellar to roof. 
 
 592
 
 By WILLIAM ALLINGHAM 593 
 
 There, king of the spiders, the Dirty Old Man 
 
 Lives busy and dirty as ever he can ; 
 
 With dirt on his fingers and dirt on his face, 
 
 For the Dirty Old Man thinks the dirt no disgrace. 
 
 From his wig to his shoes, from his coat to his shirt, 
 
 His clothes are a proverb, a marvel of dirt ; 
 
 The dirt is pervading, unfading, exceeding, — 
 
 Yet the Dirty Old Man has both learning and breeding. 
 
 Fine dames from their carriages, noble and fair, 
 Have entered his shop, less to buy than to stare , 
 And have afterwards said, though the dirt was so 
 
 frightful. 
 The Dirty Man's manners were truly delightful. 
 
 Upstairs might they venture, in dirt and in gloom, 
 To peep at the door of the wonderful room 
 Such stories are told about, none of them true ! — 
 The keyhole itself has no mortal seen through. 
 
 That room, — forty years since, folk settled and decked 
 
 it. 
 The luncheon's prepared, and the guests are expected. 
 The handsome young host he is gallant and gay, 
 For his love and her friends will be with him to-day. 
 
 With solid and dainty the table is drest. 
 
 The wine beams its brightest, the flowers bloom their 
 
 best; 
 Yet the host need not smile, and no guests will appear, 
 For his sweetheart is dead, as he shortly shall hear. 
 
 Full forty years since turned the key in that door. 
 'T is a room deaf and dumb 'mid the city's uproar.
 
 594 The DIRTY OLD MAN 
 
 The guests, for whose joyance that table was spread, 
 May now enter as ghosts, for they're every one dead. 
 
 Through a chink in the shutter dim lights come and 
 
 go; 
 The seats are in order, the dishes a-row: 
 But the luncheon was wealth to the rat and the mouse 
 Whose descendants have long left the Dirty Old 
 
 House. 
 
 Cup and platter are masked in thick layers of dust; 
 The flowers fallen to powder, the wine swathed in 
 
 crust ; 
 A nosegay was laid before one special chair, 
 And the faded blue ribbon that bound it lies there. 
 
 The old man has played out his parts in the scene. 
 Wherever he now is, I hope he's more clean. 
 Yet give we a thought free of scofiing or ban 
 To that Dirty Old House and that Dirty Old Man.
 
 JIM BLUDSO, OF THE PRAIRIE BELLE. 
 Copyright, 187 1 and 1890, by John Hay, Reprinted 
 with permission. By JOHN HAY. 
 
 WALL, no! I can't tell whar he lives, 
 Because he don't live, you see; 
 Leastways, he's got out of the habit 
 
 Of livin' like you and me. 
 Whar have you been for the last three year 
 
 That you haven't heard folks tell 
 How Jimmy Bludso passed in his checks 
 The night of the Prairie Belle? 
 
 He weren't no saint, — them engineers 
 
 Is all pretty much alike, — 
 One wife in Natchez-under-the-Hill 
 
 And another one here, in Pike ; 
 A keerless man in his talk was Jim, 
 
 And an awkward hand in a row, 
 But he never flunked, and he never lied, — 
 
 I reckon he never knowed how. 
 
 And this was all the religion he had, — 
 
 To treat his engine well ; 
 Never be passed on the river ; 
 
 To mind the pilot's bell; 
 And if ever the Prairie Belle took fire, — 
 
 A thousand times he swore, 
 He'd hold her nozzle agin the bank 
 
 Till the last soul got ashore. 
 
 All boats has their day on the Mississip, 
 
 And her day come at last, — 
 The Movastar was a better boat, 
 
 But the Belle she wouldn't be passed. 
 
 595
 
 5q6 JIM BLUDSO, of the PRAIRIE BELL 
 
 And so she come tearin, along that night — 
 
 The oldest craft on the line — 
 With a nigger squat on her safety-valve, 
 
 And her furnace crammed, rosin and pine. 
 
 The fire bust out as she clared the bar, 
 
 And burnt a hole in the night, 
 And quick as a flash she turned, and made 
 
 For that wilier-bank on the right. 
 There was runnin' and cursin', but Jim yelled out. 
 
 Over all the infernal roar, 
 *'ril hold her nozzle agin the bank 
 
 Till the last galoot's ashore." 
 
 Through the hot, black breath of the bumin' boat 
 
 Jim Bludso's voice was heard, 
 And they all had trust in his cussedness, 
 
 And knowed he would keep his word. 
 And, sure's you're born, they all got off 
 
 Afore the smokestacks fell, — 
 And Bludso's ghost went up alone 
 
 In the smoke of the Prairie Belle. 
 
 He weren't no saint, — but at jedgment 
 
 I'd run my chance with Jim, 
 'Longside of some pious gentlemen 
 
 That wouldn't shook hands with him. 
 He seen his duty, a dead-sure thing, — 
 
 And went for it thar and then ; 
 And Christ ain't a-going to be too hard 
 
 On a man that died for men.
 
 THE ROMANCE OF A ROSE. Copyright, by 
 Houghton, Mifllin & Co. Reprinted with permission. 
 By NORA PERRY. 
 
 IT is nearly a hundred years ago 
 Since the day the Count de Rochambeau — 
 Our ally against the British crown — 
 Met Washington in Newport town. 
 
 'Twas the month of March, and the air was chill, 
 But, bareheaded, over Aquidneck hill, 
 Guest and host they took their way, 
 While on either side in grand display 
 
 A gallant army, French and fine, 
 Was ranged three deep in a glittering line; 
 And the French fleet sent a welcome roar 
 Of a hundred guns from Conanicut shore; 
 
 And the bells rang out from every steeple. 
 And from street to street the Newport people 
 Followed and cheered, with a hearty zest, 
 De Rochambeau and his honored guest. 
 
 And women out of the windows leant, 
 And out of the windows smiled and sent 
 Many a coy admiring glance 
 To the fine young officers of France. 
 
 And the story goes that the belle of the town 
 Kissed a rose and flung it down 
 Straight at the feet of De Rochambeau ; 
 And the gallant Marshal, bending low, 
 
 597
 
 598 The ROMANCE of a ROSE 
 
 Lifted it up with a Frenchman's grace, 
 And kissed it back with a glance at the face 
 Of the daring maiden where she stood, 
 Blushing out of her silken hood. 
 
 That night at the ball, still the story goes, 
 The Marshal of France wore a faded rose 
 In his gold-laced coat, but he looked in vain 
 For the giver's beautiful face again. 
 
 Night after night, and day after day, 
 The Frenchman eagerly sought, they say, 
 At feast or at church or along the street. 
 For the girl who flung her rose at his feet, 
 
 And she, night after night, day after day, 
 Was speeding farther and farther away 
 From the fatal window, the fatal street. 
 Where her passionate heart had suddenly beat 
 
 A throb too much, for the cool control 
 
 A Puritan teaches to heart and soul ; 
 
 A throb too much for the wrathful eyes 
 
 Of one who had watched in dismayed surprise 
 
 From the street below : and taking the gauge 
 Of a woman's heart in that moment's rage, 
 He swore, this old colonial squire. 
 That before the daylight should expire, 
 
 This daughter of his, with her wit and grace, 
 Her dangerous heart, and her beautiful face,
 
 By NORA PERRY 599 
 
 Should be on her way to a sure retreat, 
 Where no rose of hers could fall at the feet 
 
 Of a curs6d Frenchman, high or low: 
 And so while the Count de Rochambeau, 
 In his gold-laced coat, wore a faded flower, 
 And waited the giver hour by hour, 
 
 She was sailing away in the wild March night 
 On the little deck of the sloop "Delight" ; 
 Guarded even in the darkness there 
 By the wrathful eyes of a jealous care. 
 
 Three weeks after, a brig bore down 
 
 Into the harbor of Newport town, 
 
 Towing a wreck, — 'twas the sloop "Delight"; 
 
 Off Hampton rocks, in the very sight 
 
 Of the land she sought, she and her crew, 
 And all on board of her, full in view 
 Of the storm-bound fishermen over the bay, 
 Went to their doom on that April day. 
 
 When Rochambeau heard the terrible tale, 
 
 He muttered a prayer, for a moment grew pale. 
 
 Then, "Mon Dieu!" he exclaimed, "so my fine 
 
 romance, 
 From beginning to end, is a rose and a glance!" 
 
 A rose and a glance, with a kiss thrown in ; 
 That was all, — but enough for a promise of sin.
 
 6oo The ROMANCE of a ROSE 
 
 Thought the stern old squire, when he took the 
 
 gauge 
 Of a woman's heart in that moment's rage. 
 
 So the sad old story comes to a close : 
 'Tis a century since, but the world still goes 
 On the same base round, still takes the gauge 
 Of its highest hearts in a moment's rage.
 
 IN AN ATELIER. Reprinted with permission. 
 By THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. 
 
 I PRAY you, do not turn your head; 
 And let your hands lie folded, so. 
 It was a dress like this, wine-red, 
 That troubled Dante, long ago. 
 You don't know Dante? Never mind. 
 He loved a lady wondrous fair — 
 His model? Something of the kind. 
 I wonder if she had your hair! 
 
 I wonder if she looked so meek, 
 And was not meek at all (my dear, 
 I want that side-light on your cheek). 
 He loved her, it is very clear, 
 And painted her, as I paint you, 
 But rather better, on the whole 
 (Depress your chin; yes, that will do): 
 He was a painter of the soul ! 
 
 (And painted portraits, too, I think, 
 In the INFERNO— devilish good! 
 I'd make some certain critics blink 
 If I'd his method and his mood.) 
 Her name was (Fanny, let your glance 
 Rest there, by that majolica tray) — 
 Was Beatrice ; they met by chance — 
 They met by chance, the usual way. 
 
 (As you and I met, months ago. 
 Do you remember? How your feet 
 Went crinkle-crinkle on the snow 
 
 60 1
 
 6o2 In an ATELIER 
 
 Along the bleak gas-lighted street ! 
 An instant in the drug-store's glare 
 You stood as in a golden frame, 
 And then I swore it, then and there, 
 To hand your sweetness down to fame.) 
 
 They met, and loved, and never wed 
 (All this was long before our time), 
 And though they died, they are not dead — 
 Such endless youth gives mortal rhyme ! 
 Still walks the earth, with haughty mien, 
 Pale Dante, in his soul's distress; 
 And still the lovely Florentine 
 Goes lovely in her wine-red dress. 
 
 You do not understand at all? 
 
 He was a poet; on his page 
 
 He drew her ; and, though kingdoms fall, 
 
 This lady lives from age to age : 
 
 A poet — that means painter too, 
 
 For words are colors, rightly laid ; 
 
 And they outlast our brightest hue, 
 
 For varnish cracks and crimsons fade. 
 
 The poets — they are lucky ones! 
 
 When we are thrust upon the shelves, 
 
 Our works turn into skeletons 
 
 Almost as quickly as ourselves; 
 
 For our poor canvas peels at length, 
 
 At length is prized — when all is bare : 
 
 "What grace!" the critics cry, "what strength!' 
 
 When neither strength nor grace is there.
 
 By THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH 603 
 
 Ah, Fanny, I am sick at heart, 
 It is so little one can do ; 
 We talk our jargon — live for Art! 
 I'd much prefer to live for you. 
 How dull and lifeless colors are ! 
 You smile, and all my picture lies: 
 I wish that I could crush a star 
 To make a pigment for your eyes. 
 
 Yes, child, I know I'm out of tune; 
 The light is bad ; the sky is gray : 
 I paint no more this afternoon, 
 So lay your royal gear away. 
 Besides, you're moody — chin on hand — 
 I know not what — not in the vein — 
 Not like Anne Bullen, sweet and bland: 
 You sit there smiling in disdain. 
 
 Not like the Tudor's radiant Queen, 
 Unconscious of the coming woe. 
 But rather as she might have been, 
 Preparing for the headsman's blow. 
 So, I have put you in a miff — 
 Sitting bolt-upright, wrist on wrist. 
 How should you look? Why, dear, as if — 
 Somehow — as if you'd just been kissed!
 
 CARCASSONNE. (From the French.) Reprinted 
 with permission. By M. E. W. SHERWOOD. 
 
 HOW old I am! I'm eighty years. I've worked 
 both hard and long, 
 Yet patient as my life has been, one dearest sight I 
 
 have not seen. 
 It almost seems a wrong. A dream I had when life 
 
 was young. 
 Alas! our dreams, they come not true. 
 I thought to see fair Carcassonne, 
 That lovely city, Carcassonne. 
 
 One sees it dimly from the height beyond the moun- 
 tain blue. 
 
 Fain would I walk five weary leagues, I do not mind 
 the road's fatigues. 
 
 Thro' morn and evening's dew. 
 
 But bitter frosts would fall at night, and on the grapes 
 that withered blight, 
 
 I could not go to Carcassonne, 
 
 I never went to Carcassonne. 
 
 They say it is as gay all times as holidays at home. 
 The gentles ride in gay attire, and in the sun each 
 
 gilded spire 
 Shoots up like those at Rome. 
 The bishop the procession leads, the generals curb 
 
 their prancing steeds. 
 Alas ! I saw not Carcassonne. 
 Alas! I know not Carcassonne. 
 
 Our vicar's right. He preaches loud and bids us to 
 beware. 
 
 604
 
 By M. E. W. SHERWOOD 605 
 
 He says, "Oh, guard the weakest part and most the 
 
 traitor in the heart 
 Against ambition's snare." 
 Perhaps in autumn I can find two sunny days with 
 
 gentle wind, 
 I then could go to Carcassonne, 
 I still could go to Carcassonne. 
 
 My God and Father, pardon me, if this my wish 
 
 offends. 
 One sees some hope more high than he in age, as in 
 
 his infancy 
 To which his heart ascends. 
 My wife, my son have seen Narbonne, my grandson 
 
 went to Perpignan, 
 But I have not seen Carcassonne, 
 But I have not seen Carcassonne. 
 
 Thus sighed a peasant bent with age, half dreaming 
 in his chair. 
 
 I said, "My friend, come, go with me to-morrow. 
 Thine eyes shall see those streets 
 
 That seem so fair." 
 
 That night there came for passing soul the church- 
 bell's low and solemn toll. 
 
 He never saw gay Carcassonne. 
 
 Who has not known a Carcassonne?
 
 AN ODE TO THE ASSERTORS OF LIBERTY. 
 By PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 
 
 ARISE, arise, arise! 
 There is blood on the earth that denies ye bread ! 
 Be your wounds like eyes 
 To weep for the dead, the dead, the dead. 
 What other grief were it just to pay? 
 Your sons, your wives, your brethren, were they ! 
 Who said they were slain on the battle-day? 
 
 Awaken, awaken, awaken! 
 The slave and the tyrant are twin-born foes. 
 
 Be the cold chains shaken 
 To the dust where your kindred repose, repose : 
 Their bones in the grave will start and move 
 When they hear the voices of those they love 
 Most loud in the holy combat above. 
 
 Wave, wave high the banner 
 When Freedom is riding to conquest by: 
 
 Though the slaves that fan her 
 Be Famine and Toil, giving sigh for sigh, 
 And ye who attend her imperial car, 
 Lift not your hands in the banded war 
 But in her defence whose children ye are. 
 
 Glory, glory, glory, 
 To those who have greatly suffered and done ! 
 
 Never name in story 
 Was greater than that which ye shall have won. 
 Conquerors have conquered their foes alone, 
 Whose revenge, pride, and power, they have over- 
 thrown : 
 Ride ye, more victorious, over your own. 
 
 . 606
 
 By PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 607 
 
 Bind, bind every brow 
 With crownals of violet, ivy and pine : 
 
 Hide the blood-stains now 
 With hues which sweet Nature has made divine — 
 Green strength, azure hope, and eternity. 
 But let not the pansy among them be ; 
 Ye were injured, and that means memory.
 
 THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS. Reprinted with 
 permission of the publishers, Messrs, Houghton, 
 Mifflin & Company. By OLIVER WENDELL 
 HOLMES. 
 
 THIS is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, 
 Sails the unshadowed main, — 
 The venturous bark that flings 
 On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings 
 In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings, 
 
 And coral reefs lie bare. 
 Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming 
 hair. 
 
 Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl ; 
 
 Wrecked is the ship of pearl ! 
 
 And every chambered cell, 
 Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, 
 As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, 
 
 Before thee lies revealed, — 
 Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed! 
 
 Year after year beheld the silent toil 
 
 That spread his lustrous coil; 
 
 Still, as the spiral grew, 
 He left the past year's dwelling for the new, 
 Stole with soft step its shining archway through, 
 
 Built up its idle door. 
 Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no 
 more. 
 
 Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, 
 Child of the wandering sea. 
 Cast from her lap, forlorn ! 
 
 608
 
 By OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 609 
 
 From thy dead lips a clearer note is bom 
 Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn ! 
 
 While on mine ear it rings, 
 Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that 
 sings : — 
 
 Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, 
 
 As the swift seasons roll! 
 
 Leave thy low-vaulted past! 
 Let each new temple, nobler than the last, 
 Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, 
 
 Till thou at length art free. 
 Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea!
 
 RORY O'MORE. By SAMUEL LOVER. 
 
 YOUNG Rory O'More courted Kathleen Bawn; 
 He was bold as the hawk, and she soft as the 
 dawn ; 
 He wished in his heart pretty Kathleen to please, 
 And he thought the best way to do that was to tease. 
 "Now, Rory, be aisy," sweet Kathleen would cry, 
 Reproof on her lip, but a smile in her eye ; 
 "With your tricks, I don't know, in throth, what I'm 
 
 about ; 
 Faith, you've teased till I've put on my cloak inside 
 
 out." 
 "Och! jewel!" says Rory, "that same is the way 
 You've thrated my heart for this many a day; 
 And 'tis plazed that I am, and why not, to be sure? 
 For 'tis all for good luck," says bold Rory O'More. 
 
 "Indeed, then," says Kathleen, "don't think of the 
 
 like. 
 For I half gave a promise to soothering Mike ; 
 The ground that I walk on he loves, I'll be bound"— 
 "Faith!" says Rory, "I'd rather love you than the 
 
 ground," 
 "Now, Rory, I'll cry if you don't let me go: 
 Sure, I dream ev'ry night that I'm hating you so!" 
 "Och!" says Rory, "that same I'm delighted to hear. 
 For dhrames always go by conthraries, my dear. 
 Och, jewel, keep dhreaming that same till you die. 
 And bright morning will give dirty night the black 
 
 lie! 
 And 'tis plazed that I am, and why not, to be sure? 
 Since 'tis all for good luck," says bold Rory O'More. 
 
 6 10
 
 By SAMUEL LOVER 6n 
 
 "Arrah, Kathleen, my darlint, you've teased me 
 
 enough ; 
 Sure, I've thrashed, for your sake, Dinny Grimes and 
 
 Jim Duff; 
 And I've made myself, drinking your health, quite a 
 
 baste, 
 So I think, after that, I may talk to the priest." 
 Then Rory, the rogue, stole his arm round her neck. 
 So soft and so white, without freckle or speck ; 
 And he looked in her eyes, that were beaming with 
 
 light. 
 And he kissed her sweet lips — Don't you think he was 
 
 right? 
 "Now, Rory, leave off, sir — you'll hug me no more, — 
 That's eight times to-day you have kissed me before." 
 "Then here goes another," says he, "to make sure, 
 For there's luck in odd numbers," says Rory O'More.
 
 MUSIC AND WORDS. From "Five Books of 
 Song." Reprinted with the permission of the pub- 
 lishers, The Century Company. By RICHARD 
 WATSON GILDER. 
 
 THIS day I heard such music that I thought, 
 Hath human speech the power thus to be 
 wrought 
 Into such melody; pure, sensuous sound, — 
 Into such mellow, murmuring mazes caught ; 
 Can words (I said), when these keen tones are bound 
 (Silent, except in memory of this hour), — 
 Can human words alone usurp the power 
 Of trembling strings that thrill to the very soul, 
 And of this ecstasy bring back the whole? 
 
 Ah no, 'twas answered in my inmost heart, 
 Unto itself sufficient is each art, 
 And each doth utter what none other can, — 
 Some hidden mood of the large soul of man. 
 Ah, think not thou with words well interweaved 
 To wake the tones wherein the viol grieved 
 With its most heavy burden ; think not thou, 
 Adventurous, to push thy shallop's prow 
 Into that surge of well-remembered tones, — 
 Striving to match each wandering wind that moans, 
 Each bell that tolls, and every bugle's blowing 
 With some most fitting word, some verse bestowing 
 A never-shifting form on that which passed 
 Swift as a bird that glimmers down the blast. 
 
 So, still unworded, save in memory mute. 
 Rest thou sweet hour of viol and of lute; 
 Of thoughts that never, never can be spoken, 
 
 612
 
 By RICHARD WATSON GILDER 613 
 
 Too frail for the rough usage of men's words, — 
 Thoughts that shall keep their silence all unbroken 
 Till music once more stirs them, — then like the birds 
 That in the night-time slumber, they shall wake, 
 While all the leaves of all the forest shake ! 
 Oh, hark! I hear it now, that tender strain, 
 Fulfilled with all of sorrow save its pain.
 
 LINES TO A FRIEND. By JAMES BERRY 
 BENSEL. 
 
 I STOOD with my hand in my friend's warm "hand- 
 He was going away from me — 
 I thought: " 'Tis not only the distance of land 
 That will shut out this face with its strength to com- 
 mand, 
 Nor the terrible distance of sea. 
 
 "Long years will roll up with their pains and their 
 fears, 
 
 Great griefs and great pleasures will rise, 
 The mountains of joy and the rivers of tears,— 
 Whole ages of living will fill up the years. 
 
 And change lay its touch on our eyes. ' ' 
 
 He was going, and when would a hand clasp my own 
 
 With friendship as loving and true^ 
 What wonder I felt so bereft and alone ; 
 My blessing died out in a passionate moan, 
 
 While tears rimmed my lashes like dew? 
 
 He went ; but there stretches between us a line 
 
 Like an echo that follows a song. 
 And nothing can deaden the music so fine 
 That whispers of friendship from his heart to mine 
 
 Through distance and years that are long. 
 
 And what though fate wills that we never shall meet 
 
 On earth as in days I recall? 
 Still memory stays with its messages sweet. 
 Still thought has old tales and old lines to repeat, 
 
 And his face shineth forth from them all. 
 
 614
 
 THE CATARACT OF LODORE. By ROBERT 
 SOUTHEY. 
 
 Note. — All persons who are in the habit of dropping the final 
 g of words should be required to repeat this poem till cured of that 
 distressing though common barbarism of speech. — The Editor. 
 
 HOW does the water 
 Come down at Lodore?" 
 My little boy asked me 
 Thus, once on a time ; 
 And moreover he tasked me 
 To tell him in rhyme. 
 Anon at the word, 
 There first came one daughter, 
 And then came another, 
 
 To second and third 
 The request of their brother, 
 And to hear how the water 
 Comes down at Lodore, 
 With its rush and its roar, 
 
 As many a time 
 They had seen it before. 
 
 So I told them in rhyme, 
 For of rhymes I had store ; 
 And 'twas in my vocation 
 For their recreation 
 That so I should sing; 
 Because I was Laureate 
 To them and the King. 
 
 From its sources which well 
 In the tarn on the fell ; 
 
 615
 
 6i6 The CATARACT of LODORE 
 
 From its fountains 
 In the mountains, 
 Its rills and its gills ; 
 Through moss and through brake, 
 It runs and it creeps 
 For a while, till it sleeps 
 
 In its own little lake. 
 And thence at departing, 
 Awakening and starting. 
 It runs through the reeds, 
 
 And away it proceeds, 
 Through meadow and glade. 
 
 In Sun and in shade. 
 And through the wood-shelter, 
 Among crags in its flurry, 
 Helter-skelter, 
 Hurry-skurry, 
 Here it comes sparkling. 
 And there it lies darkling; 
 Now smoking and frothing 
 Its tumult and wrath in. 
 Till in this rapid race 
 On which it is bent. 
 
 It reaches the place 
 Of its steep descent. 
 
 The cataract strong 
 Then plunges along, 
 vStriking and raging 
 As if a war waging 
 Its caverns and rocks among; 
 Rising and leaping. 
 Sinking and creeping,
 
 By ROBERT vSOUTHEY 617 
 
 Swelling and sweeping, 
 Showering and springing, 
 
 Flying and flinging, 
 Writhing and ringing, 
 Eddying and whisking, 
 Spouting and frisking, 
 Turning and twisting. 
 
 Around and around 
 With endless rebound : 
 
 Smiting and fighting, 
 
 A sight to delight in ; 
 Confounding, astounding. 
 Dizzying and deafening the ear with its sound. 
 
 Collecting, projecting, 
 ^Receding and speeding, 
 And shocking and rocking. 
 And darting and parting. 
 And threading and spreading, 
 And whizzing and hissing. 
 And dripping and skipping. 
 And hitting and splitting 
 And shining and twining, 
 And rattling and battling, 
 And shaking and quaking. 
 And pouring and roaring, 
 And waving and raving. 
 And tossing and crossing, 
 And flowing and going, 
 And running and stunning, 
 And foaming and roaming, 
 And dinning and spinning, 
 And dropping and hopping,
 
 6i8 The CATARACT of LODORE 
 
 And working and jerking, 
 And guggling and struggling, 
 And heaving and cleaving. 
 And moaning and groaning; 
 
 And glittering and frittering, 
 And gathering and feathering. 
 And whitening and brightening. 
 And quivering and shivering. 
 And hurrying and skurrying. 
 And thundering and floundering; 
 
 Dividing and gliding and sliding, 
 
 And falling and brawling and sprawling. 
 
 And driving and riving and striving. 
 
 And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling, 
 
 And sounding and bounding and rounding, 
 
 And bubbling and troubling and doubling. 
 
 And grumbling and rumbling and tumbling, 
 
 And clattering and battering and shattering ; 
 
 Retreating and beating and meeting and sheeting. 
 Delaying and straying and playing and spraying, 
 Advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing, 
 Recoiling, turmoiling and toiling and boiling. 
 And gleaming and streaming and steaming and beam- 
 ing. 
 And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing, 
 And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping. 
 And curling and whirling and purling and twirling, 
 And thumping and plumping and bumping and jump- 
 ing, 
 And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing ;
 
 By ROBERT SOUTHEY 619 
 
 And so never ending, but always descending, 
 Sounds and motions forever and ever are blending, 
 All at once and all o'er, with a mighty uproar. 
 And this way the water comes down at Lodore,
 
 MEETING AT NIGHT. By ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 THE gray sea and the long black land; 
 And the yellow half-moon large and low; 
 And the startled little waves that leap 
 In fiery ringlets from their sleep, 
 As I gain the cove with pushing prow, 
 And quench its speed i' the slushy sand. 
 
 II. 
 Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach; 
 Three fields to cross till a farm appears; 
 A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch 
 And blue spurt of a lighted match. 
 And a voice less loud, through its joys and fears, 
 Than the two hearts beating each to each! 
 
 PARTING AT MORNING. 
 
 Round the cape of a sudden came the sea, 
 And the sun looked over the mountain's rim: 
 And straight was a path of gold for him. 
 And the need of a w'orld of men for me. 
 
 620
 
 SONGS FROM "THE PRINCESS." By ALFRED, 
 LORD TENNYSON. 
 
 O SWALLOW, Swallow, flying, flying South, 
 Fly to her, and fall upon her gilded eaves, 
 And tell her, tell her, what I tell to thee. 
 
 "O tell her. Swallow, thou that knowest each, 
 That bright and fierce and fickle is the South, 
 And dark and true and tender is the North, 
 
 "O Swallow, Swallow, if I could follow, and light 
 Upon her lattice, I would pipe and trill. 
 And cheep and twitter twenty million loves. 
 
 "O were I thou that she might take me in. 
 And lay me on her bosom, and her heart 
 Would rock the snowy cradle till I died. 
 
 "Why lingereth she to clothe her heart with love, 
 Delaying as the tender ash delays 
 To clothe herself, when all the woods are green? 
 
 "O tell her, Swallow, that thy brood is flown: 
 Say to her, I do but wanton in the South, 
 But in the North long since my nest is made. 
 
 "O tell her, brief is life but love is long. 
 And brief the sun of summer in the North, 
 And brief the moon of beauty in the South. 
 
 "O Swallow, flying from the golden woods. 
 Fly to her, and pipe and v/oo her, and make her mine, 
 And tell her, tell her, that 1 follow thee." 
 
 621
 
 62 2 SONGS from " The PRINCESS " 
 
 "Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, 
 Tears from the depth of some divine despair 
 Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, 
 In looking on the happy Autumn-fields, 
 And thinking of the days that are no more. 
 
 "Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail, 
 That brings our friends up from the underworld, 
 Sad as the last which reddens over one 
 That sinks with all we love below the verge; 
 So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. 
 
 "Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns 
 The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds 
 To dying ears, when unto dying eyes 
 The casement slowly grows a glimmering square ; 
 So sad, so strange, the days that are no more. 
 
 "Dear as remember'd kisses after death. 
 And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd 
 On lips that are for others ; deep as love. 
 Deep as first love, and wild with all regret ; 
 O Death in Life, the days that are no more." 
 
 The splendour 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.
 
 By ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 623 
 
 O hark, O hear! how thin and clear, 
 
 And thinner, clearer, farther going! 
 O sweet and far from cliff and scar 
 The horns of Elf land faintly blowing! 
 Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: 
 Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 
 
 O love, they die in yon rich sky. 
 
 They faint on hill or field or river: 
 Our echoes roll from soul to soul, 
 And grow for ever and for ever. 
 Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, 
 And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. 
 
 Sweet and low, sweet and low, 
 
 Wind of the v/estem sea. 
 Low, low, breathe and blow. 
 
 Wind of the western sea! 
 Over the rolling waters go, 
 Come from the dying moon, and blow, 
 
 Blow him again to me ; 
 While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps. 
 
 Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, 
 
 Father will come to thee soon ; 
 Rest, rest, on mother's breast. 
 
 Father will come to thee soon ; 
 Father will come to his babe in the nest, 
 Silver sails all out of the west 
 
 Under the silver moon : 
 Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.
 
 PIPES AND BEER. From "Fantasy and Passion." 
 Copyright, 1898. Reprinted with permission. By 
 EDGAR FAWCETT. 
 
 BEFORE I was famous I used to sit 
 In a dull old underground room I knew, 
 And sip cheap beer, and be glad for it, 
 With a wild Bohemian friend or two. 
 
 And oh, it was joy to loiter thus, 
 
 At peace in the heart of the city's stir, 
 Entombed, while life hurried over us, 
 
 In our lazy bacchanal sepulchre. 
 
 There was artist George, with the blond Greek head, 
 And the startling creeds, and the loose cravat; 
 
 There was splenetic, journalistic Fred, 
 Of the sharp retort and the shabby hat ; 
 
 There was dreamy Frank, of the lounging gait, 
 
 Who lived on nothing a year, or less. 
 And always meant to be something great. 
 
 But only meant, and smoked to excess; 
 
 And last myself, whom their funny sneers 
 Annoyed no whit as they laughed and said, 
 
 "I listened to all their grand ideas 
 And wrote them out for my daily bread. ' ' 
 
 The Teuton beer-bibbers came and went, 
 Night after night, and stared, good folk. 
 
 At our table, noisy with argument, 
 And our chronic aureoles of smoke. 
 
 624
 
 By EDGAR FAWCETT 625 
 
 And oh, my life ! but we all loved well 
 The talk, free, fearless, keen, profound, 
 
 The rockets of wit that flashed and fell 
 In that dull old tavern underground ! . . . 
 
 But there came a change in my days at last, 
 
 And fortune forgot to starve and stint, 
 And the people chose to admire aghast 
 
 The book I had eaten dirt to print. 
 
 And new friends gathered about me, then. 
 New voices summoned me there and here ; 
 
 The world went down in my dingy den, 
 
 And drew me forth from the pipes and beer. 
 
 I took the stamp of my altered lot. 
 
 As the sands of the certain seasons ran. 
 
 And slowly, whether I would or not, 
 I felt myself growing a gentleman. 
 
 But now and then I would break the thrall, 
 I would yield to a pang of dumb regret, 
 
 And steal to join them, and find them all, 
 With the amber wassail near them yet. 
 
 Find, and join them, and try to seem 
 A fourth for the old queer merry three, 
 
 With my fame as much of a yearning dream 
 As my morrow's dinner was wont to be. 
 
 But the wit would lag, and the mirth would lack, 
 
 And the god of jollity hear no call. 
 And the prosperous broadcloth on my back 
 
 Hung over their spirits like a pall!
 
 626 PIPES and BEER 
 
 It was not that they failed, each one, to try 
 Their warmth of welcome to speak and show; 
 
 I should just have risen and said good-bye, 
 With a haughty look, had they served me so. 
 
 It was rather that each would seem, instead, 
 With not one vestige of spleen or pride, 
 
 Across a chasm of change to spread 
 His greeting hands to the further side. 
 
 And our gladdest words rang strange and cold, 
 Like the echoes of other long-lost words; 
 
 And the nights were no more the nights of old 
 Than spring would be spring without the birds! 
 
 So they waned and waned, these visits of mine, 
 Till I married the heiress, ending here. 
 
 For if caste approves the cigars and wine, 
 
 She must frown perforce upon pipes and beer. 
 
 And now 'tis years since I saw these men, 
 Years since I knew them living yet. 
 
 And of this alone I am sure, since then — 
 That none has gained what he toiled to get. 
 
 For I keep strict watch on the world of art, 
 And George, with his wide rich-dowered brain! 
 
 His fervent fancy, his ardent heart. 
 Though he greatly toiled, has toiled in vain. 
 
 And Fred, for all he may sparkle bright 
 
 In caustic column, in clever quip, 
 Of a truth must still be hiding his light 
 
 Beneath the bushel of journalship.
 
 By EDGAR FAWCETT 627 
 
 And dreamy Frank must be dreaming still, 
 
 Lounging through life, if yet alive, 
 Smoking his vast preposterous fill. 
 
 Lounging, smoking, striving to strive. 
 
 And I, the fourth in that old queer throng, 
 
 Fourth and least, as my soul avows, — 
 I alone have been counted strong, 
 
 I alone have the laurelled brows! 
 
 Well, and what has it all been worth? 
 
 May not my soul to my soul confess 
 That "succeeding," here upon earth, 
 
 Does not alway assume success? 
 
 I would cast, and gladly, from this gray head 
 Its crown, to regain one sweet lost year 
 
 With artist George, with splenetic Fred, 
 With dreamy Frank, with the pipes and beer;
 
 LIST OF AUTHORS 
 
 Aldrich, Thomas Bailey. 
 
 AUingham, William. 
 
 Ames, Fisher. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 Beecher, Henry Ward, The 
 Reverend. 
 
 Bensel, James Berry. 
 
 Boston Herald, The. 
 
 Boucicault, Dion. 
 
 Browning, Elizabeth Barrett. 
 
 Browning, Robert. 
 
 Bulwer, Sir Henry Lytton. 
 
 Burke, Edmund. 
 
 Byron, George Gordon, Lord. 
 
 Calhoun, John Caldwell. 
 
 Capen, Elmer Hewitt, The Rev- 
 erend. 
 
 Carlyle, Thomas, 
 
 Cass, Lewis. 
 
 Castelar, Emilio. 
 
 Cavazza, E. 
 
 Chidwick, John P., The Rev- 
 erend. 
 
 Choate, Rufus. 
 
 Choate, Joseph H. 
 
 Clay, Henry. 
 
 Coffin, Robert Barry, 
 
 Coleridge, Samuel Taylor, 
 
 Corwin, Thomas. 
 
 Cowper, William. 
 
 Curtis, George Wilham. 
 
 Depew, Chauncey Mitchell. 
 
 Dickens, Charles, 
 
 Dumas, Alexander. 
 
 Emerson, Ralph Waldo. 
 
 Everett, Edward. 
 
 Fawcett, Edgar. 
 
 Field, Kate. 
 
 Gautier, Theophile. 
 
 Gilder, Richard Watson, 
 
 Gladstone, William Ewart 
 
 Godwin, Parke. 
 
 Goethe, John Wolfgang von, 
 
 Gosse, Edmund. 
 
 Grady, Henry W, 
 
 Grant, Robert. 
 
 Gray, Thomas. 
 
 Griggs, John W, 
 
 Hall, Arthur Dudley. 
 
 Hay, John. 
 
 Hazlitt, William. 
 
 Higginson, Thomas Wentworth. 
 
 Hoar, Sherman, 
 
 Holcroft, Thomas. 
 
 Holmes, Oliver Wendell. 
 
 Hope, Anthony. 
 
 Howe, Julia Ward. 
 
 Howland, Henry E, 
 
 Hood, Thomas. 
 
 Hughes, Thomas, 
 
 Hugo, Victor, 
 
 Hunt, Leigh. 
 
 Irving, Washington. 
 
 James, Henry, 
 
 Jefferson, Thomas, 
 
 Jest Book, The, 
 
 628
 
 LIST OF AUTHORS 
 
 629 
 
 Keats, John. 
 
 Kemble, Frances Anne. 
 
 Korner, Charles Theodore. 
 
 Kossuth, Louis. 
 
 Lamb, Charles. 
 
 Landor, Walter Savage. 
 
 Lincoln, Abraham. 
 
 Lodge. Henry Cabot. 
 
 Long, John D. 
 
 Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth. 
 
 Lover, Samuel. 
 
 Lowell, James Russell. 
 
 Macaulay, Thomas Babington, 
 Lord. 
 
 MacNally, Leonard. 
 
 Mansfield, Richard. 
 
 Marlowe, Christopher. 
 
 Maupassant, Guy de. 
 
 Mayhew, Jonathan, The Rever- 
 end. 
 
 McKenzie, Alexander, The 
 Reverend. 
 
 Meredith, George. 
 
 M. H. G. 
 
 Milton, John. 
 
 Mirabeau, Honor6, Comte de. 
 
 Morris, Gouverneur. 
 
 Perry, Nora. 
 
 Phillips, Wendell. 
 
 Pee, Edgar Allan. 
 Riley, James Whitcomb. 
 Roosevelt, Theodore. 
 Rostand, Edmond. 
 Schurz, Carl. 
 Scott, Sir Walter. 
 Seward, William H. 
 Shakspere, William. 
 Shelley, Percy Bysshe. 
 Sheridan, Richard Brinsley. 
 Sherwood, M. E. W. 
 Sill, Edward Rowland. 
 Sophocles. 
 Southey, Robert. 
 Spectator, The. 
 Stedman, Edmund Clarence 
 Stoddard, Richard Henry. 
 Sumner, Charles. 
 Tennyson, Alfred, Lord. 
 Thackeray, William Make- 
 peace. 
 Tolstoi, Leo, Count. 
 Washington, Booker T. 
 Webster, Daniel. 
 Whittier, John Greenleaf. 
 Wiggin, Kate Douglas. 
 Winter, William. 
 Wordsworth, William. 
 Zola, Emile.
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA AT LOS ANGELES 
 
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