wwm Kw&mm %JK ^s, ->.' READING AND ELOCUTION: THEORETICAL AND PRACTICAL Br ANNA T. BAND ALL, (Now Mju. Amma Bahdall Dieulj "All art is Nature better understood' IVISON, BLAKEMAN, TAYLOR & CO., PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK AND CHICAGO 1876. AtiMMtxi according to Act of Congress, In the year 1869, by MR& ANNA T. RANDALL, Id the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States far the Northern District of New York, PUUCAT:0* OE.PT PREFACE. To furnish choice selections of prose and poetry for School, Tarlor, and Lyceum readings, accompanied by a comprehen sive method of teaching the Art of Elocution, with its under- lying principles, is the design of this book. That it may be used with success in our public and private schools, independently, or in connection with any Series of Readers, and may find its way to the table of many a pri- vate learner, is the hope of THE COMPILER. 96 1 058 CONTENTS Introdcctiow Ix I. Orthoepy . 1 1. Tonics 1 2. Subtonlca i 8. Atonies 2 II. QCALITT OF VOICE 2 1. Pure 2 2. Orotund 4 8. Pectoral 5 4. Guttural 6 6. Plaintive 8 8. Aspirate 7 7. Falsetto 7 III. Force 11 1. Degrees 11 1. Moderate 11 2. Gentle 12 8. Heavy 13 4. Crescendo 18 5. Diminuendo 18 2. Variations or Stress 13 1. Radical >- 18 2. Final -= 14 8. Median -*>- 14 4. Thorough CD tf 6. Compound H 18 8. Tremuloua ~~ 18 IV Time 19 1. Movement W 1. Moderate 19 2. Quick 20 8. Rapid 20 4. 81ow 20 I. Very slow 21 2. Pause 28 1. Sentential 23 t. Rhetorical ... 28 ( 1. Snbject word. 1. 8ubjecttve < 2. Subject phu«e 18 ( 8. Subject Inverted 28 2. Emphatic 24 8. Prepositional.. .. 24 4. Elliptical 24 » Rflbctive ... 24 PAOB V. MXLODY 25 L Pitch . 25 1. Middle ..25 t. Hijrh. .... 2« 8, Low.. 21 4. Transitions .26 1 Monotone — .27 i. Dtatone ..97 4. Semitone ..28 Waves or Circumflex.. . 28 ft e wm 29 1. Position of the han I ... 99 1. Supine 29 9. Prone .99 8. Vertical ... 29 4, Clenched 99 ft. Pointing 99 9, Direction ... 29 1. Front .. 99 9. Oblique 80 8. Extended 80 4 Rackw;. ... 80 VII MvrnonH n.x SEi.r-ccLTCRB VIII. MrrnoDe rox teaching Reading .... .... 88 1 PrinsW] 85 9. Programme for a week's lessons 85 8. Methods for rarlety 85 4. Aaalyv, 88 IX. Sklxctionb . 89 The Creeds of the Bells, Gxobob W. Binoat 89 Ode on the Passion*, Collins 89* High Tide, Jean I no blow 41 Gems from Rcsein 44 The Vagabonds, J. T. Tbowbbidgb 49 A Sea Voyage, Washington Irving 52 Bible, John ix. 64 .h of Morris, Waltbb Soott 56 . rushlp under Difficulties 56 The Front and Side Doom, O. W. Holmes 62 The Relief of Lucknow, Robbet Lowell 62 Boy Rritton, Forcettue Willson 65 Rugle Song, Altbrd Tenntson 68 Roll Call, Anon 69 Pyramus and Thisbe, John O. Saxx 70 Kvening at the Farm, J T. Tbowbbidgb 78 Putting up Stoves 74 Tribute to Water, Gocgh 76 Claribel's Prayer. Ltndb Palmeiu. 77 The Skeleton In Armor, Longfellow , T8 Te Cecilia, Fredrrhca Brbmeb 81 Contents, vh PAGE The Face against the Pane, T. B. Aldrich 81 Mother and Poet, Mrs. Browning 81 The Charge of the Lii^ht Brigade, Tennyson 91 May Days, Wavei: *e OS Scrooge and Marley, Cu as. Dick ens 00 Passing Away, John P ibW O CT 97 Sheridan's Ride, T. B. Rkad 99 The Night Scene In Macbeth, Sua kspxare 101 Short Extracts Webster. Emkrs«>n :iii«1 Holmbs 108 The Burning Prairie, Alicb Cast 104 The Pied Piper of Haraelin, Robert Brownino 106 P:»alm xo Ill T. B. Macaulat US Gaffer Oray, IIolcroft 114 Anld Robin Gray, Lady Anna Barnard 115 Christian Mariner's Ilymn, Mrs. Solthet 116 Scenes from the Light.* and Shadows of Scottish Life, John Wilson. 118 The Battle, translated from Schiller by Bulwer 121 he River, Miss Priest 123 The Wonderful "On.-Ili.-s Shay," O. W. Holmeb 124 Warren's Address, Rev. John Pierpont 128 A Psalm of Life, II. W. Longfellow 129 TasBo's Coronation, Mrs. LTemanb 180 Death of the Old Year, Alfred Tenntbon 131 Song of the I 133 The Bell of the Atlantic, Lydia H. Sioournet Adam? and Jefferson, Daniel Webster 135 Polish War Song, James G. Perctyal The Boys, O. W. Holmes 138 An Order for a Picture, Alice Caby 189 reliant of Venice, Sharspeare 142 The National Ensign, Anon 145 rhe Song of the Camp 146 People will Talk, Anon 147 ■ody's Darling. War Lyrics of thb South 148 Z.nohia | Ambition. William Warb 180 Portia's Speech on Mercy, Suakjpbarb 151 The Bells, Edgar A. Pob 159 Romeo and Juliet (Balcony Scene), Shakbpearb 155 lack! her Goose for Grown Peoplb .160 Barbara Frietchie. Whittier ir.i . . 168 The Etotf 'n B O WB M 165 Prom I vanhoe, Walter Scott ..167 Rip Van Winkle, Washington Irttno 170 Are the Children at Home, Atlantic Month iv ... 174 Scene from the " S.h.x.l for Scandal," Sur.i.. 170 v and In. lep.-r..!rnce. ANON ... 181 Mary Maioney's I Philadelphia Bcllktix 181 CONTE* rmh The Ballad of Baulo Boll. Thorab Bailxt Aldrich 184 The Irish Wom»u*« Letter, Axon 187 From Atalanta in Calydon, Algernon Chas. Swixbcrn 189 Darius Qrcen and his Flying Machine, J. T. Trowbridge 190 No8ect in Hesren, Mrs. Cleyelaxd.. 198 Poetry, Pbrcit al 901 Wool Gathering and Mouse Hunting, Gail Hamilton . . . 90S A Legend of Bregenx, Adelaide Procter. ... 907 The Grandmother's Apology. Txxxtson 919 What is Glory, What is Fame f Motherwell 914 The Progress of Poetry, Grat . 915 From the Toilers of the Sea, Victor Hugo. . . 917 The Singer, Florence Per 999 Dannecker, Mrs. J axesox . 994 The Vision of Sir Lannfal, J. R. Lowe: : - 998 Pan, Mrs. Browxtxg 999 Foouteps on the Other Side . 991 Little Noll. DicxExa . 984 The Auction Extraordinary, Davidson . . 998 The Coquette, Saxe . 998 The New Tear, Baser .988 Marion Moore, J axes G. Clark . . .989 The Well of St. Keyne, Robert Socthet, 1798 940 Thank God I there's still a Vaacuard, Mas. n. K. G. A I 949 Through Death to Life, Uabbt UAauAioii 948 Minnie an' Me 944 My Darling's Shoes 948 Unwritten Music, Willis.. 948 The Wreck of the Hesperus, Longfellow 948 God, Dersbatin 950 Aunt Kindly, Theodore Parker 258 The Great Bell Roland, Theodore Tiltox 255 The Young Gray Head, Caroline Axxr Soctht . . 257 The Sullote Mother, Hexaxs 260 Sandalphon, Longfellow 202 The Soldier's Reprieve 263 The Cynic, H. W. Beechbr 267 The Drummer's Bride 268 The Isle of Long Ago, B. F. Taylor 269 Excelsior, Longfellow 270 Poor Little Jim 972 The Dawn of Redemption, Jas. G. Clark 273 The Bell, B. F. Taylor 274 Declaration of Independence 276 The Burial of Moses 279 The Dying Christian to his Soul, Albx. Pope 282 From the Honeymoon, John Tobih 282 When, How, and Why, Grace Brown 287 The Inchcape Rock, Robert Socthet 288 Contents. a ■MB, Horat iu», M acaulat 190 The Song of the Shirt, Hood 197 Athena, the Queen of the Air, Rubkin 800 The Veto Power, Henry Clat 801 Marco Bozzarix, Halleck 80S The Teetotal Mill 800 "Little BaaaftB* 1 800 Lady Clare, Tenntbon 810 The Child on the Judgment Seat, Bj the Author of the " Cotta Familt" 818 Wanted, a Minister'* Wife, X. Y. Z 815 Maist Onle Day, Timothy Swam 817 The Tru«! T.-acher, Rollajjd 818 New Year's Eve 818 Gabriel Grub, Dickens 821 Dora, Tenntbon 329 Revelations* of Wall Street, Richard B. Kimball 884 The Romance and Reality of the Law, L. J. Bioklow 88P Grannie's Tru*t 840 The Telegram, Sarah E. Hknmiaw 841 The Swan's Nest, Mrs. Browning 842 The Main Truck, or a Leap for Life, G. P. Morris 845 Prom Rose Clark, Fanny Fern 848 From the American Note Book, Hawthorne 848 Invocation to Light, Mrs. S. H. De Erot *t 851 Richelieu. Bulwer 3.V5 uh Lady of the Old School, Mary Ferrier 809 Break, Break, Break, Tennyson 878 What Ib Life. John Clare 873 Remarks on Reading. Gibbon 874 Scene from Virginias, Jakes Sheridan Enowles 870 From the Dodge Club, or Italy in MDCCCLIX, James De Millb 889 Picture* of Swiss 8cenery and of the City of Venice, Disraeli 894 Joan of Arc. Tuos. De Quincet 890 Death and Bleep, Shelley 897 Death of Amelia Wentworth, Bryan W. Procter 896 The Minstrel's Song in Ella, Chattkrtoh 408 Death of Long Tom Coffin, Cooper 405 The Character of FalsUfl", IIazlitt .407 The Raven, Pob 409 Death of Gawtrey, Bdxwkr 419 Jeanle Morrison, Motherwell 414 Fading — Dying. Ellen Schknck 417 Sketches of Authors 419 ALPHABETICAL LIST OF AUTHOIto. TABU. Aldrich, T. B 184, 186 Arey, Mrs. II. E. O 243 Barnard, Lady Anne 115 Beecher, Henry Ward .88 . Ethel L 7 w, L. J 838 Bremer, Fr.-derika 88 Brown, Grace 2*7 Browning, Klizabeth B 88, 283, 843 Browning, Robert 106 Buhver, Edward L 868, 412 Campbell, Thomas 133 Cary. Alice Mi ( hat t erton, Thomas 403 Clare, John (lark, James O 339, 378 Cleveland, Mrs 189 Collins, William 89 Davidson, Lncrctia 889 l)e Kroyft. H.len S De Mille, Jnmes 3f<2 I)e Quincey, Thomas Derzhavin 360 Dickens, Charles 94, 234, 821 Disraeli, Benjamin 3TM Eager, Cora M 238 Fanny ..846 Ferrier. Mary SCO Qibbon, Edward 874 .. -Ii'lm B Gray, Thomas 216 Hall.-ck, Fitz-tircene 808 Hamilton, Gail 306 orno. Nathaniel . 848 Hazlitt, William 407 Uda 130, 360 i rah E 841 nolmes, Ol. ... IK 188 Hood, Thomas 397 60, 217 Ingelow, Joan — 41 .. 62. 170 Jameson. Mrs. Anna. . . • 314 xii List of Authors, TAG*. Jefferson, Thomas 274 Kimball, Klchard ft ...834 Knowles, James 8. ........ 878 low, Henry W 73. 189, 848, 888, 870 Lowell, James R. 886 Low. ]|, Uobert ... Macaulay, Thomas B 1 18, 898 Miller, Rct. W. E.. 848 Morris, George P. ...845 Motherwell, William 214, 414 Palmer. Lynde Parker, Theodore 858 Pcrclvsl, James O. 1ST, 801 Percy, Florence.... 888 Plerpont, Iter. John 97, 128 Poc.BdgarA 158,409 Pope. Alexander. . . 888 .... £M Procter, AdeUlde . . 807 Procter, Bryan W. . 898 Proctor, Bdna 58 Read, Thomas B ... 99 Rollend .... 81b 48, 800 70, 238 Schenck, Ellen 417 Schiller ... 121 Scott, Walter 58, 107 Shakspeare, William 101, 142, 151, 185 . Percy Bypebe 397 Stgourney, Ly-ia H 134 Sonthey, Caroline A Southey. Robed 240, 288 8 wan. Timothy 317 rn Algernon C 189 Bayard Ml Benjamin F 2C9, 274 MB, Alfred 58, 91, 131, 212, 810,329, 373 Tilton, Theodore 255 Tobin, John 282 Trowbridge, J. T 49, 191 Ware, William W 150 r, Daniel M5 Whittier. John G 161 Willis, Nathaniel P 246 WilUon. Forceythe 86 Wilson. John 118 Anonymons, 69. 93, 145, 147, 148, 160, 163, 174, 181, 183, 187, 233, 244, 246, 268, 272 279. 306, 308, 312, 315, 318, 34C INTRODUCTION. Elocution is the art of expressing thought by speech. Instruction in this branch properly begins with vocal cul ture, and we find that systematic training and rigid practice develop the voice, and make it strong, flexible and melo- dious; just as athletic exercises give strength and pliability of muscle and grace of movement. The pugilist undergoes the most severe training for weeks and months to prepare himself for a contest of strength. And so, in ancient times, the gladiator exercised his muscles until the "strength of brass was in his toughened sinews," and he could rend the lion as if it were a kid. And that old oratorical gladiator, Demosthenes, practiced vocal gymnastics by the roaring sea, and left no means untried to remedy de- fects of voice and manner. Cicero studied oratory for thirty years, and traveled all over Asia to hear models of eloquence and to gain instruction. Curran, stuttering Jack Curran, cultivated his voice so industriously that he not only overcame the great defect, but was actually noted for the clearness and perfection of his articulation. He practiced before a mirror, and debated questions as if he were in a lyceum. But the development of the voice is only the beginning of the work. The student must be trained in the great school of nature He must listen to her voice as she speaks in her children, and thus gather models for imitation. Rosa Bon- heur has the unmistakable inspiration of genius, but she studied the physiology and characteristics of animals long and faithfully before she was able to paint her sheep and oxen with such life-like fidelity. Garrick's acting was so natural that the countryman who visited the theater, fur the first time, and saw him in Hamlet, said, " if that little man is not frightened, I never saw a man frightened in my life; why, he acts just as I would if I were down there with a ghost" Booth, in Richelieu, does not seem to be acting the char- acter. The bowed figure, the wrinkles and the voice of age are there, and you can scarcely believe he is not the Car- dinal And more wonderful still, Ristori, by the magic power of voice, her expressive face and her natural gesture, moves an audience to laughter or to tears at will, and all this, when speaking in an unknown tongue. The reader must be sympathetic, entering into the joy or grief of others as if it were his own. Mrs. Siddons once had a pupil who was practicing for the stage. The lesson was upon the " part of a young girl whose lover had deserted her. The rendering did not please that Queen of Tragedy, and she said, " Think how you would feel under the circumstances. What would you do if your lover were to run off and leave you ?" " I would look out for another one," said that philosophic young lady, and Mrs. Sid- dons with a gesture of intense disgust cried out, " Leave me!" and would never give her another lesson. There must be a lively imagination combined with artistic skill. The picture must not only be clear and distinct in tht mind of the reader, but he must be able to hold it up before his audience as if it were on canvass. He must make the principal parts stand out in high relief; then he must with skillful fingers touch up the picture, showing a vivid light here and a shadow there, until the chiaro-oscuro is perfect. Such actors as Booth and Ristori, such readers as Fanny Kemble and Murdoch, and such singers as Jenny Lind and Parepa are really Raphaels and Michael Angelos. Their pic- ture cannot be purchased by connoisseurs and hung in stately Introduction. xv nails, but in the heart of every listener the gems of art arc hung, and memory forever after is enraptured as she gazes. The judgment must be sound, else bombast may be mis« taken for eloquence, and rant for the true expression of feel- ing. And 'finally, in reading, as in everything else, common sense is a valuable acquisition, and he who has it not, though his voice may be, at his will, as strong as that of a lion or as gentle as that of a dove, will never please. In brief, the chief requisites of the reader are voice, imita- tion, feeling, artistic skill and above all common sense. I. ORTHOEPY. Orthoepy is the correct pronunciation of words. In order to fix habits of correct pronunciation and distinct enunciation, it is well to drill the voice upon the elementary •ounds of the language. A Tonic is an unobstructed vocal tone, which is capable of indefinite prolongation. TABLE. & asin ale. 6 as in old. a u art. 5 « ooze. a u all. o « odd. 1 H at. u u flute. 5 H eve. a u up. 8 (( end. ou « out. I I N ice. it. oi M oil A Subtonic has vocality, but is interrupted in its passage and is not capable of prolongation. TABLE. b as in boy. 1 as in lamp. d <« dote. r « roll. B (< go- m M mad. v << vase. n H no. th <( then. n g u song. z (< zone. w M wine. z << azure. y u yet. An Atonic is literally a sound without tone, an expulsion of whispered In 1 2 EXMMi TSMB IX A7,' TABLE. p as in pit s as in sink, t ton. sh " sharp. k " Kate. h " hem. f fate. wh « what, til think There are also a few " occasional " sounds, and also many combinations, which it is not thought necessary to give in the preceding tables. Let the pupil pronounce the elements with every variety of force, pitch, stress and time ; and to this add phonic spelling. These exercises will not only give correct pro- nunciation, but will give also flexibility to the organs of spe- ll. QUALITY OF VOICE. Quality is the kind or tone of voice used in exj pressing sentiment Nature has so wisely formed the human voice and the human soul, that certain tones are associated with certain emotions. We readily recognize the cry of pain or fright, the language of joy or sorrow, command or entreaty, though the words spoken are in an unknown tongue. Intelli- gent animals and children obey tones rather than words ; and, as quality of voice is nature's own mode of giving us the key to her mind, particular and early attention should be given to this part of vocal culture. Rubens could, by one stroke of his brush, convert a laugh- ing into a weeping child; and we can color emotion with qualities of voice so that the metamorphosis is not less sudden or more complete. i. Pure Quality is that used in common conversation, sim- ple narrative or description. If the voice is not really and technically pure, exercise in vocal culture may make it so. Children's voices seem to be naturally pure. It is the utterance of evil passion, with bad reading and reciting in the schools, that makes the voice Kzmbcibws tor Elocution. 3 sharp and disagreeable. The teacher should see that all the exercises of the school are carried on in cheerful tones : 1. Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, — trippingly on the tongue; but if you mouth it, as many of our players do, I had as lief the town-crier spake my lines. Nor do not saw the air too much with your hand thus, but use all gently; for in the very torrent, tempest, and, as I may say, whirlwind of your passion, you must acquire and beget a temperance, that may give it smoothness. Oh ! it offends me to the soul, to hear a robustious periwig-pated fellow tear a passion to tatters — to very rags — to split the ears of the groundlings ; who, for the most part, are capable of nothing but inexplicable dumb show and noise. I would have such a fellow whipped for o'erdoing Termagant : it out-herods Herod. Pray you, avoid it. Be not too tame neither, but let your own discretion be your tutor. Suit the action to the word ; the word to the action; with this special observance — that you o'erstep not the modesty of nature: for anything so overdone is from the purpose of playing; whose end, both at the first and now, and is, to hold, as 'twere, the mirror up to nature; — to show virtue her own feature; scorn her own image ; and the very age and body of the time, his form and pressure. Now this, overdone or come tardy off, though it make the unskillful laugh, cannot but make the judicious grieve ; the censure of which one, must, in your allowance, o'erweij.h a whole theater of others. Oh! there be players, that I have seen play, and heard others praise, and that highly, not to speak it profanely, that neither having the accent of Christians, nor the gait of Christian, pagan, or man, have so strutted and bellowed, that I have thought some of nature's journeymen had made men, and not made them well, — they imitated humanity so abomi- nably ! Shakspearc. EXERCISl Because you flourish in worldly affairs, Don't be haughty, and put on airs, With insolent pride of station I Don't be proud, and turn up your nose At poorer people in plainer clothes, But learn, for the sake of your mind's repose, That wealth's a bubble that comes — and goes! And that all proud flesh, wherever it grows, Is subject to irritation I 2. The Orotund is used in expressing the language of grandeur, sublimity, awe, reverence, courage, etc It is round and full, and may be said to be the maximum of pure quality. s named ore rotundo by the old poet, Horace, when speaking of the flowing eloquence of the Greeks : thou that rollest above, round as the shield of my fathers! Whence are thy beam?, sun! thy everlasting light? Thou comest forth in thy awful beauty; the moon, cold and pale, sinks in the western wave. Ossian. 2. Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more; Or close the wall up with our English dead. Oh, when the blast of war blows in our ears, Then imitate the action of the tiger: Stiffen the sinew — summon up the blood — Disguise fair nature with hard favored rage; Then lend to the eye a terrible aspect; Aye, set the teeth and stretch the nostrils wide. Hold hard the breath, and bend up every spirit To its full height ! On, on, you noble English, Whose blood is set from fathers of war proof; Cry, Heaven for Harry, England and St. George ! ShaTcsptar*. i:.xercises in Elocution. 5 3. The Pectoral gives expression to deep-seated anger, despair, great solemnity, etc. It has its resonance in the chest ; is low in pitch ; is usually accompanied by slow time, and is, indeed, a very low orotund : 1. Oh! I have passed a miserable night, So full of fearful dreams, of ugly sights, That, as I am a Christian faithful man, I would not spend another such a night, Though 't were to buy a world of happy days. So full of dismal terror was the time ! 2. Macb. Methought I heard a voice cry, Sleep no more, Macbeth doth murder sleep — the innocent sleep — Sleep that knits up the raveTd sleeve of care, The death of each day's life, sore labor's bath, Balm of hurt minds, great natare's second course, Chief nourisher in life's feast: — Lady M. What do you mean ? Macb. Still it cried, Sleep no more, to all the house : Glamis hath murder'd sleep ; and therefore Cawdor Shall sleep no more — Macbeth shall sleep no more I Shakspeare 4. The Guttural (from guttur, throat) is used to express anger, hatred, contempt, loathing, etc Its characteristic is an explosive resonance in the throat. I. How like a fawning publican he looks ! I hate him for he is a Christian ; But more, for that, in low simplicity, II- l hear his sentries si: arms I they come I the Greek! the Greek!" He woke — to die 'midst flame,and 6inoke, And shout, and groan, and sabre stroke, And death-shots falling thick and fast As lightnings from the mountain-cloud ; And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, Boszaris cheer his band : Strike — till the last armed foe expires; Strike — for your altars and your fires; Strike — for the green graves of your sires; God, and your native land! 4. I really believe some people save their bright thoughts as being too precious for conversation. "What do you think an admiring friend said the other day to one that was talking good tilings — good enough to print? "Why," said lie, "you are wasting mer- chantable literature, a cash article, at the rate, as nearly as I can tell, of fifty dollars an hour." The talker took him to the window, and asked him to look out and tell him what he saw. " Nothing but a very dusty street," he said, " and a man driving a sprinkling machine through it." " Why don't you tell the man he is wasting that water ? What would be the state of the highways of life, if we did not drive our thought-sprinklers through them with the valves open, some- times?' wisjss in Elocution. 19 Oli, when the blast of war blows in our ears, Then imitate the action of the tiger: Stiffen the sinew — summon up the blood — Disguise fair nature with hard favored rage; Then lend to the eye a terrible aspect ; Aye, set the teeth and stretch the nostrils wide. Hold hard the breath, and bend up every spirit To its full height 1 On, on, you noble English, Whose blood is set from fathers of war proof; Cry, Heaven for Harry, England and St. George ! 6. There's a new foot on the floor, my friend, And a new face at the door, my friend, A new face at the door. 7. As the dying man murmurs, the thunders swell. IV. TIME, i. Movement or Measure of Speech. x. Moderate. The rate of unimpassioned language, used with pure quality : 1. It is a strange thing how little in general people know about the sky. It is the part of creation in which Nature has done more for the sake of pleasing man, more for the sole and evident purpose of talking to him and t i.im, than in any other of her works and it is just the part in which we least attend to her. Ruskin. 2. It was the time when lilies blow, And clouds nre hi gh est up in air, ] Ronald brought a lily white doe, To give his cousin, Lady Clare. 20 ISES IN ELOCI TloX. 2. Quick. The movement of joy, humor, etc: And see t she stirs 1 She starts, — she moves, — she seems to feel The thrill of life along her keel, And, spurning with her foot the ground, one exulting, joyous bound, She leaps into the ocean's arms ! LorgfeUovo 3. Rapid. Used in expressing haste, fear, etc. : Hurrah I the foes are moving. Hark to the mingled din, Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culvcrin. The fiery duke is pricking fast across Saint Andre's plain, 1 all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne. Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France, Charge for the golden lilies — upon them with the lance! A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest, A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white crest. And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a guiding star, Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre. Macaulay. 4. Slow. Used in the language of grandeur, sublimity adoration, etc. : And thou, 0, silent mountain, sole and bare, O, blacker than the darkness, all the night, And visited all night by troops of stars, — Or when they climb the sky, or when they sink, — Companion of the morning star at dawn, Thyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawn Co-herald ! wake, oh ! wake, and utter praise 1 Ye ice-falls 1 ye that from your dizzy heights Adown enormous ravines steeply slope, — Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty noise, And stopped at once amidst their maddest plunge ! Motionless torrents 1 silent cataracts ! Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven, Beneath the keen full moon ? Who bade the sun Exercises in Elocution. 21 Clothe you with rainbows? Who with lovely flowers Of living blue spread garlands at your feet? — God I God ! the torrents like a shout of nations Utter : the ice-plain bursts, and answers, God I CoUrvlge. 5.. Very slow. The deepest emotion of horror, awe, gloom, etc.: I had a dream which was not all a dream, — The bright sun was extinguished; and the stars Did wander darkling in the eternal space, Ray less and pathless; and the icy earth Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air; Morn came, and went, and came, and brought no day. Byron. Examples for determining Quality, Force, Stress, Time and names of authors : 1. I'll tell ye what I I'll fly a few times around the lot, To see how 't seems, then soon 's I've got The hang o' the thing, ez likely 's not, I'll astonish the nation, An' all creation, By flyin' over the celebration ! Over their heads I'll sail like an eagle; I'll balance myself on my wings like a sea-pull; I'll dance on the chimbleys; I'll stand on the steeple; I'll flop up to winders an' scare the people I I'll light on the liberty-pole, an' crow; An* I'll say to the gawpin' fools below, " What world 's this 'ere That I've come near ? ' Fur I'll make 'em b'lieve I'm a chap f'm the moon; An' Til try a race 'ith their ol' balloon I" 2. Alas, what need you be so boisterous-rough ? I will not struggle, I will stand stone-still. For Heaven's sake, Hubert, let me not be bound ; Nay, hear me, Hubert, drive these men away And I will sit as quiet a* a lamb; 22 Exercises in Elocution. I will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word, Nor look upon the iron angerly : Thrust but these men away, and I'll forgive you Whatever torment you do put me to. 3. : my heart it grew ashen and sober As the leaves that were crisped and sere — As the leaves that were withering and sere, And I cried, — M It was surely October, On this very night of last year, That I journeyed — I journeyed down here — That I brought a dread burden down here, — On this night of all nights in the year, Ah, what demon hath tempted me here? Well I know now this dim lake of Auber — This misty mid region of Weir, — I know now this dark tarn of Auber, This ghoul-haunted woodland of Wt •;: 4 Ye're there, but yet I see you notl — forth draw each trusty sword, And let me hear your faithful steel clash once around my board 1 I hear it faintly ! — louder yet I What clogs my heavy breath ? Up, all ! — and shout for Rudiger, " Defiance unto death 1 " 5. Arm! arm! it is — it is the cannon's opening roar! : ! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness. 6. And all I remember is friends flocking round, As I sate with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground; And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine, As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine, Which (the burgesses voted by common consent) Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent Exercises in Elocution. 23 2. Pause or Grouping of Speech. "A pause is often more eloquent than words." i. Sentential. Founded upon the syntactical structure of the sentence and indicated by the marks of punctuation. It is addressed to the eye, and may or may not be used as a rest of the voice. The old-school fashion of stopping invariably at the comma long enough to count one, at a semicolon two, at a colon three, etc., lias, we hope, with other relics of school barbarism, passed away. "How did Garrick speak the soliloquy, last night?" — " Oh! against all rule, my lord, most ungrammatically 1 Betwixt the sub- stantive and the adjective, which should agree together in number, case and gender, he made a breach thus — stopping, as if the point wanted settling; and betwixt the nominative case, which, your lordship knows, should govern the verb, he suspended his voice in the epilogue a dozen times, three seconds and time-fifths by a stop-watch, my lord, each time." "Admirable grammarian 1 — But, in suspending his voice, — was the sense suspended ? — Did no expression of attitude or countenance fill up the chasm? — Was the eye silent? Did you narrowly look?" — "I looked only at the stop-watch, my lord 1 " — " Excellent observer 1 " Sterne's sketch of the critic at the theatre. 2. Rhetorical. Wholly dependent upon the sense and feel- ing, and, while it rests the voice of the speaker, is addressed to the ear of the listener. • We give a few examples covering the principal ground of Rhetorical Pause. I. (i.) After the subject of a sentence. Intemperance | is a vice. (2.) After the subjective phrase. The pleasures of sin | are but for a season. (3.) When the subject is The meekest of men | was Moses. 24 Exercises in Elocution 2. After every emphatic word. Mary | is a good girl. Mary is | a good girL Mary is a good | girl. 3. Before the prepositional phrase. We are going | into the country. 4. Wherever an ellipsis occurs. Bey Britton, | only a lad, | a fair-haired boy, | sixteen, | In his uniform. Into the storm, into the roaring jaws of grim Port Henry, Boldly bears the Federal flotilla, Into the battle storm. 5. In order to arrest the attention. The sentence was | Death. The student will locate rhetorical pauses in the following examples, giving also names of authors : 1. It was a maxim of Raffaelle's that the artist's object was to make things not as Nature makes them, but as she would make them ; as she ever tries to make them, but never succeeds, though her aim may be deduced from a comparison of her effects; just as if a number of archers had aimed unsuccessfully at a mark upon a wall, and this mark weje then removed, we could by the examination of their arrow-marks point out the probable position of the spot aimed at, with a certainty of being nearer to it than any of their allots. 2. I am not come To stay : to bid farewell, farewell forever, For this I come ! Tis over ! I must leave thee! Thekla, I must — must leave thee 1 Yet thy hatred Let me not take with me. I pray thee, grant me One look of sympathy, only one look. /.\ i IX Elocution. 26 3. Hal bind him on his back I Look ! — as Prometheus in my picture here! Quick — or be faints I — stand with the cordial near I Now — bend him to the rack I Press down the poisoned links into his flesh ! And tear agape that healing wound afresh I So — let him writhe! How long W:I he live thus? Quick, my good pencil, now! What a fine agony works upon his brow ! Ha! gray- haired, and so strong! How fearfully he stifles that short moan ! Gods ! if I could but paint a dying groan ! V. MELODY, i. Pitch Pitch is the degree of the elevation or depression of sound. In music, exactness can be reached in regard to pitch, while in elocution, we can only use terms which are modified by dif- ferent voices and gradations of emotion with different persons. i. Middle. Used in conversational language : 1. The first step towards becoming a good elocutionist, is a correct articulation. A public speaker, possessed of only a moderate voice, if he articulates correctly, will be belter understood, and heard with greater pleasure, than one who vociferates without judgment The Yoice of the latter may indeed extend to a considerable dis- tance, but the sound is dissipated in confusion. Of the former voice not the smallest vibration is wasted, every stroke is perceived at the utmost distance to which it reaches ; and hence it has often the appearance of penetrating even farther than one which is loud, out badly articulated. Comstock. 2. lumbers of midnight, the sailor-boy lay; ammock swung loose at the sport of the wind ; But, watch-worn, and weary, his cares flew away ; And visions of happiness dane'd o'er his mind. Dimond. •1 20 HRCISES IN ELOCU'll a. High. Indicates joy, grief, astonishment, etc. : 1. The slogan's ceased — but hark I din ye no hear The Campbell's pibrock swell upon the bre< They're coming, hark 1 " then falling on her knees, — M We're saved," she cries, " we're saved." Vandenhoff. 2. Go ring the bells and fire the guns, And fling the starry banners out; Shout "FREEDOM ** till your lisping cnes Give back their cradle shout. Whittier. 3. Low. Expresses grave, grand, solemn or reverential feeling. The use of the low pitch is very effective in reading. Ruskin says of painting, " If you wish to express vivid light, you must make the shadows sharp and visible," and this rule will apply to word pictures as well. It will not do to give any particular rendering for the voice- effect alone, but if taste is not sacrificed, some shading will only bring out the beauty of the picture : And he hangs, he rocks between — and his nostrils curdle in,— ToU slowly I And he shivers head and hoof — and the flakes of foam fall off; And his face grows fierce and thin, And a look of human woe, from his staring eyes did go — Toll slowly I And a sharp cry uttered he, in a foretold agony Of the headlong death below. Mrs. Browning. 4. Transitions. It is very important that the student in vocal culture be able to take any pitch at will, making sudden transi- tions. Who has not suffered agonies untold, when listening to a speaker whose voice was keyed upon and sustained, without variableness or shadow of turning, upon the highest and sharpest pitch possible? The minister who preaches upon an even pitch, whether high or low, lulls his audience to sleep. The high voice is at first offensive to the ear, but bye and bye g in Elocution. 27 the sameness is found to be a fatal opiate. Nothing rests the voice like transitions of pitch, time, force and quality. 2. Monotone. Sameness of voice, indicating solemnity, power, reverence, vastness, or a " dead level" in surface or sentiment. 1. Deep in the wave is a coral grove, Where the purple mullet and gold-fish rove, Where the sea-flower spreads its leaves of blue, That never are wet with falling dew, But in bright and changeful beauty shine Far down in the green and glassy brine. PercivaL 2. And the sun became black as sackcloth of hair, and the moon became as blood; and the stars of heaven fell unto the earth, even as a fig tree casteth her untimely figs, when she is shaken of a mighty wind. And the heaven departed as a scroll when it is rolled together ; and every mountain and island were moved out of their places. Bible. We must not confound monotony with the monotone. Much of the school room reading is monotonous in the ex- treme, and yet if the monotone would give the reading grand effect, without doubt the pupil will read in his most lively manner. The haste and monotony often exhibited in reading the beautiful words of the church service is to be deplored. Some one has said, that haste seems to be the only requisite of wor- ship. The clerk of the Assembly may read the bills so that no member can possibly know their import, but when the magistrate administers the sublime oath — "Do you solemnly swear in the presence of Almighty God, etc.," as if he were ;;ng an invoice of goods, and the person taking the oath '• kisses the Bible with as much solemnity as he would a walk- ing stick," the whole tiansaction seems like a sacrilegious farce. 3. DlATONE. The progress of pitch through the interval of a whole tone, used in expressing lively emotion, or in common conversation. 28 l.XERCISES IX ELOCUTION. Will the New Year come to-night, mamma? I'm tired of waiting so; My stocking hung by the chimney side, full three long days ago. 1 run to peep within the door by morning's early light, Tis empty still, ohl say, mamma, will the New Year come to- night ? Miss Eager. 4. Semitone. The progress of pitch through the interval of a half tone. It is called also the Chromatic melody, because it paints pity grief, remorse, etc. It may color a single word, or be contin ued through an entire passage or selection : Vear comes to-night, mamma, M I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord " — tell poor papa — " my soul to keep, If I " — how cold it seems, how dark, kiss me, I cannot see, — The New Year comes to night, mamma, the old year dies with me. Miss Eager. The Semitone is very delicate, and must be produced by the nature of the emotion. An excess, when the mood or lan- guage does not warrant it, turns pathos into burlesque, and the scale may be turned from the sublime to the ridiculous by the weight of a hair. Strength, flexibility and melody of voice are of little worth if the judgment and the taste are defective. When reading is considered and treated as a branch ol aesthetic culture, then, and not till then, will it be fully effective When the beggar implores your alms, he knows full well that he must bring to his aid the melody of the semitone. We once passed four beggars upon Harlem bridge, the first said, " Pity the blind ! " the second, " Have mercy on the blind ! " the third, " Help the blind ! " and the fourth, " Give to the poor blind man ! " All had the same tune, made up of semi tonic slides, but when a policeman ordered them away, th melody was changed to diatonic imprecations. Waves or Circumflex. semi tonic wave. Pity the sorrows of a poor old man. Exercises in Elocution, S0 DIATONIC WAVE. Hail, holy light 1 1 1 i^'h on a throne of royal state 1 WAVE OF A THIRD. I said he was my friend. Ah 1 is he your friend, then ? WAVE OP A FIFTH. I said he was my friend. Is he solely your friend ? WAVE OF AN OCTAVE. Irony. All this ? Aye, more 1 Fret till your proud heart break. Go, show your slaves how choleric you are, and make your bond- man tremble. Must I budge ? Must I observe you ? Must I stand and crouch under your testy humor ? FIFTH AND OCTAVE. Ridicule. You must take me for a fool to think I could do that. Irony. For mine own part. I shall be glad to learn of noble men. For Brutus is an honorable man. Irony. You meant no harm ; oh, no 1 your thoughts are innocent ; you have nothing to hide ; your breast is pure, stainless, all truth. Antithesis. If you said so, then I said so. Let the gall'd jade wince, our withers are unwrung 1 VI. GESTURE, i. Position of the Hand. i. Supine ; open hand, fingers relaxed, palm upward ; used in appeal, entreaty, in expressing light, joyous emotions, etc. 2. Prone ; open hand, palm downward ; used in negative expressions, etc. 3. Vertical ; open hand, palm outward ; for repelling, ward- ing off, etc. 4. Clenched ; hand tightly closed ; used in defiance, cour- age, threatening, etc. 5. Pointing ; prone hand, loosely closed, with index finger extended ; used in pointing out, designating, etc. 2. Direction. 1. Front ; the hand descending below the hip, extending so Exercises in Elocution. horizontally, or ascending to a level or above the head, at right angles with the speaker's body. 2. Oblique ; at an angle of forty-five degrees from the speaker's body. 3. Extended ; direct from the speaker's side. 4. Backward ; reversely corresponding to the oblique. Abbreviations. The dotted words indicat where the hand is to be raised in preparation. The gesture is made upon the words in capitals. The hand drops upon the itali- cised word or syllable. R. H. S. Right Hand Supine. R. H. P. Right Hand Prone. R. H. V. Right Hand Vertical. H. II. S. Both Hands Supine. B. H. P. Both Hands Prone. B. H. V. Both Hands Vertical. D. f. Descending Front. H. f. Horizontal Front A. £ Ascending Front. D. o. Descending Oblique. H. o. Horizontal Oblique. A. a Ascending Oblique. D. e. Descending Extended. H. e. Horizontal Extended. A. e. Ascending Extended D. b. Descending Behind. H. b. Horizontal Behind. A. b. Ascending Behind. The following examples have appeared in several works on Elocution — The New York Speaker and others. Despairing of furnishing better examples, I have taken the liberty to use them : Directions. R. H. 8. D. f. This sentiment I will maintain | with the last breath of life. H. f. I appeal | to you, sir, for your de cis ion. A. / I appeal | to the great Searcher of hearts for the truth ol what I ut ter. D. o. Of all mistakes | none are so/a tal as those which we incur through prejudice. H. o. Truth, honor, J jus tice were his mo tivea A. o. Fix your eye | on the prize of a truly no ble am hi tion. /'xercises in Elocution. 81 D. a. Vwat | with an idea so absurd! H e The breeze of morning | wafted in cense on the air. A. a In dreams thro' camp and court he bore | the troplues of a ooNqueror. D. b. Away J with an idea so abhorent to humanity ! H. b. Search the records of the remotest an n quity for a parallel to this. A. b. Then rang their proud hurrah I R. H. P. D.f. Put down | the unworthy feeling! //. /. Re strain the unhallowed pro pen sity. D. o. Let every one who would merit the Christian name j re press I such a feeling. H. o. I charge you as men and as Christians J to lay a re straint on all such dispo si tions ! A. o. Ye gods | with hold your ven geance 1 D. e. The hand of affection j shall smooth the turf for your last ^n'Zlow! If. e. The cloud of adver | sity threw its gloom over all his pros pecta. A. e. So darkly glooms yon thunder cloud that swathes | as with a purple shroud Benledi's distant hill. r. n. v. ///. Arise! meet | and re pel your foet A f. For bid it, Almighty OodI II. o. He generously extended the arm of power | to ward orr the blow. A. o. May Heaven a vert the cal am ity ! //. e. Out of my sight | thou serpent I II. b. Thou tempting fiend, a vaunt! b. n. a. D. /. All personal feeling he de pos ited on the al tar of his country's R00d. 32 i:\ercises in Elocution. H.f. Listen, I im plore you, to the voice of rea son I A.f. Haii.I un i vereal Lord. D. o. Every personal advantage | he surRENdered to the common good. If. o. Wki.com e ! once more to your early home I A. o. Hail! holy Light/ D. e. I utterly re nounce | all the supposed advantages of such a tfation. II. e. They yet slept | in the wide a btss of possi bit ity. A. e, Joy, joy | for ever, b. H. p. D.f Lie light ly on him, earth — his step was light on the* II. f Now all the blessings of a glad father light on thee I A.f. Blessed be Thy name Lord, Most High. D. o. We are in Thy sight J but as the worms of the dust I H. o. May the grace of God | abide with you for ever. A. o. And let the triple rainbow rest | o'er all the mountain t pa D. e. Here let the tumults of passion | forever cease ! H. e. Spread wide a round the heaven-breathing calm I A. e. Heaven | opened wide her ever during gates. b. h. v. H. f. Hence hideous specter I A. f Avert God, the frown of thy indignation ! H. o. Far from our hearts be so inhuman a feeling. A. o. Let me not | name it to you ye chaste stars! H. e. And if the night have gathered aught of er . or concealed dis perse it. A. e. Melt and dis pel, ye specter doubts I ises in Elocution. 33 VII. METHODS FOR SELF-CULTURE. The living teacher, as a model, is better than all books of rules upon elocution; yet, if the pupil cannot be drilled by a ter in the art, he may study carefully some good work upon the subject, and if he is observing and has no serious defect of voice, may still make much progress in self-culture. The following table of exercises are recommended as helps for developing and improving the voice : 1. Breathing deeply and slowly, rapidly and explosively. 2. Reading in a whisper so distinctly as to be readily heard throughout a large room. 3. Reading loudly in doors, out of doors, and when running up hilL 4. Read slowly and rapidly alternately. 5. Read high and low alternately. 6. Read heavy and gentle alternately. 7. Increase and diminish in force alternately. 8. Read up and down the musical scale alternately. Specifics. i. For strength of voice loud explosive exercises. r distinct enunciation the whisper or an aspirated voice. 3. For smoothness the medium stress with slow time. 4. For flexibility as rapidly as possible. 5. For meeting with any measure of success, keep the eyes and «ars open and practice, practice, practice. VIII. METHODS FOR TEACHING READING. Probably no other branch in our schools is so poorly taught s that of reading. There are many reasons why this is so, erhaps the principal ones are these : 1. Teachers cann«»i themselves read w. 11. Now, it is possible, without doubt, for a person who cannot sing very well to teach others to make more music than he can himself, 2* 34 i:\krcises in Elocution. and just so with reading, but if he is proficient in the practice as well as the theory, how much better can he teach. The teacher should be familiar with the lesson. He should have a well-defined plan in his mind concerning the manner in which it shall be taught. He should decide previously what questions he will ask to arouse attention — how he will fix the lesson in the mind. 2. The matter of the lessons is often far beyond the comprehen- sion of the pupil. Many a child blunders on over a dissertation upon the " Problems of the Universe" or the " Grandeur of the Ocean" without an idea concerning the meaning of a sentence. The name of the author of "Easy Lessons" should be honored during all time. Before the publication of this book, the child of six or seven years of age spelled out his lessou in the Testament or English Reader. Let the teacher make selections of those pieces which the child can under- stand. 3. The children do not study. The teacher should see that the lesson is well prepared before it is read. The knowledge of the child should be tested by question- ing, and he should be ready to define every word if necessary, and tell the story in hb own language. 4. The lesson is often too lengthy. Pupils are sometimes allowed to read a half dozen pages at a lesson, and then only once over, hurrying through from preface to finis as if an enemy were in full pursuit and liable to overtake them at any moment- This is all wrong; a page or two is almost always sufficient for a lesson. Let the piece be read in sections and after- ward reviewed. 5. Children read after the teacher in concert or otherwise, having no more intellectual drill than if they were so many parrots. The Pestilozzian rule — "Never tell a child any thing which he can discover for himself," should be rigorously followed in teaching reading. Let them criticise each other — the teacher questioning adroitly until the correct renderijg is given. The following order of exercises in conducting primary classes has been successfully followed : JEl ! in Elocution. 35 i. Primary. 1. PRELIMINARY EXERCI8E. (For calling the words at sight.) 1. Reversed manner. Teacher and children alternating one word each. 2. Reversed manner. Boys and girls alternating, one word each. 1 manner. Careless pupils alternating, with class. 4. Retorted manner. Each pupil reading a line as rapidly as pos- sible. r» Pupils spell and define difficult words. 2. Reading Exercise. (After the lesson has been throughly studied.) 1. Teacher asks questions upon the lesson. 2. Children read and criticise each other, giving reasons. 3. Teacher reads wrong, or without expression. Children criticise. 4. Children read in concert after teacher. 5. Books closed. Children give substance of lesson in their own language. 2. Programme for the Week. M , J Topic pertaining to Reading, as emphasis, etc. Mon y. { Reading from book. C Examples brought by children from conversation Tuesday. < they have heard. ( Beading from book. ! Dictate some selection not in the Readers. Children cony. Reading from book. Thursday. — Read lesson dictated on the day before. Friday. — Voluntary Reading. Let each read any thing which has been read during the week oi month. Let the pupils volunteer in all cases, and when reading face the class. For acquiring independence in reading, and as a method of re- new, this exercise will be found invaluable. 3. Methods for Variety in Teaching Reading, 1. Our.seit Reading one pupil naming pauses. 2. Individual Reading, class naming pauses. 36 i:.xi:i;<'ises in Elocution. 3. Boys and girls alternate, reading a sentence each. 4. Reading to mistake. Heading in couples. 6. Giving parts In dialogues. 7 Choosing sides (similar to methods used in spelling). 8. Looking-glass Reading (class imitate one pupil). 9. Naming pupil who reads until some other name is called. 10. Voting for best rear moves be- fore. Now, that was a cruel practical joke which Jones once plftjed upon meat college. I have never forgiven him. But I would gladly make a pretence of doing so. it I could have my nge. Let Can't I manage it ? He i> head over ears in love with Prudence, bit too bashful to speak. I half believe Mt to him, though altogether unacquainted. It may prove a match, if I cannot spoil it. Let DM think. Ha! I have it ! A brilliant idea I Jones, beware I Put here he comes. (Enter Jones.) Jones. (Not teeing Snobbleton, and delightedly contempUitii»j I flower, tchich he holds in hit hand.) Oh, rapture 1 what a prize 1 It was in her hair — I saw it fall from her queenly head. {Kisses it every now and then.) How warm are its tender leaves from having touched her nt ck ! How doubly sweet is its perfume — fresh from of her glorious locks ! How beautiful I how — Bless me! here is Snobbleton, and we are enemies 1 Snobbleton. Good-morning, Jones — that is, if you will shake hat Jc M, What! you — you forgive 1 You really — Yes, yes, old fellow 1 All is forgotten. You played me a rough trick; but, let bygones be bygones. Will you not bury the hate] Jones. With all my heart, my dear fellow I - '*. What is the matter with you, Jones ? You look A uite grumpy — not by any means the same cheerful, dashing, rollickir.g fellow you were. Jones. Bless me, you don't say so ! (Aside.) Confound the man ! Pure have I been endeavoring to appear romantic for the last month — and now to be called grumpy — it is unbearable 1 Snob. But, never mind. Cheer up, old fellow ! I see it all. I know what it is to be in — MXMMomms in Elocution. 59 Janet. Ah ! y< u ran then sympathize with me! You know what it is to he in — . Snob. Of course I do I (Heaven preserve me from the toils I ) Ami then the letters— the interminahle letters 1 Janes. Oh. v.-. the letters I the UUet dottx ! Snob. And the hills— the endless bills 1 Jones. The bills I ''. Yes; and the bailiffs, the lawyers, the juagc, and the jury. I, Why, man, what are you talking about ? I thought you \<>n knew what it was to be in — Srob. In debt. To be sure I did. Janet. Bless me ! Tin not in debt — never borrowed a dollar in my life. Ah, me ! i: iian that. Snob. Worse than that ! Come, now, Jones, there is only one thing worse. You're surely not in love ? Janes. Yes, I am. Oh, Snobby, help me, help me 1 Let me con- fide in you. Snob. Confide in me 1 Certainly, my dear fellow I See 1 I do tand tinn. Janets. Snobby, I — I love her. Snob. Whom ? Jones. Your cousin, Prudence. Snob. Ha! I'rudenee Angelina Winter? «. Now, don't be angry, Snobby 1 I don't mean any harm, you know. I — I— you know how it is. Snob. Harm 1 my dear fellow. Not a bit of it. Angry 1 Not at all. You have my consent, old fellow. Take her. She is youre. lhaven bless you both. i s. You are very kind, Snobby, but I haven't got her con- Snol>. Well, that hi something, to be sure. But, leave it all to me. She may be a little coy, you know ; hut, considering your generous overlooking of her unfortunate defect — Jones. Defect! YoumrpriM Snob. What! and you did not know oi Jones. Not at all. I am astonished I Nothing Mrfow, 1 hope. Snob. Oh, no I only a little— (He taps Ms ear with his Jinyet, htwtnnaly) I MA, TOO understand it. 00 Exercises in Elocution. Jones. Merciful heaven ! can it be ? But really, is it serious t Snob. I should think it was. Jones. What ! Hut is she ever dangerous t Snob. Dangerous I Why snould she be ? Jones. Oh, I perceive I A mere airiness of brain— a gentle aberration — scorning the dull world — a mild — Snob. Zounds, man ! she's not crazy ! Jones. My dear Snobby, you relieve inc. What then ? Snob. Slightly deaf. That's all. Jones. Deaf I Snob. As a lamp-post. That is, you must elevate your voice to a con- pitch in speaking to her. Jones. Is it possible 1 However, I think I can manage. As, for instance, if it was my intention to make her a floral offering, and I should say (elevating fits voice considerably), u Miss, will yon make happy by accepting these flowers ?" I suppose she could hear me, eh ? How would that do f Snob. Pshaw 1 Do you call that elevated Jones. Well, how would this do? (Speaks very loudly.) "Miss will you make me happy— J* Snob. Louder, shriller, man 1 Jones. "Miss, will you — Snob. Louder, louder, or she will only see your lips move. Jones. (Almost screaming.) " Miss, will you oblige me by accept- ing these flowers ?" Snoft. There, that may do. Still, you want practice. I per- ceive the lady herself is approaching. Suppose you retire for a short time, and I will prepare her for the introduction. Jones. Very good. Meantime, I will go down to the beach, and endeavor to acquire the proper pitch. Let me see : u Miss, will you oblige me — " (Exit Jones.) , (Enter Prudence.) Prudence. Good-morning cousin. Who was that, speaking so loudly ? Srob. Only Jones Poor fellow, he is so deaf that I suppose he fancies his own voice to be a mere whisper. Pru. Why, I was not aware of this. Is he very deaf ? Snob. Deaf as a stone fence. To be sure, he does not use an Exercises in Elocution. 61 ear-trumpet any more, but, one must speak exeessivcly high. Un- fortunate, too, for I believe he's in love. Pru. In love ! with whom ? Snob. Can't you guess ? Pru. Oh, no ; I haven't the slightest idea. Snob. With yourself 1 He has been begging me to obtain him an introduction. Pru. Well, I have always thought him a nice-looking young man. I suppose he would hear me if I should say (speaks loudly), " Good-morn inir, Mr. Jones?" Snob. Do you think he would hear that? Pru. Well, then, how would (speaks very loudly) " Good-morn log, Mr. Jones ?" How would that do ? Snob. Tush 1 he would think you were speaking under your breath. Pru. (Almost screaming.) " Good-morning I" Snob. A mere whisper, my dear cousin. But here he comes. Now, do try and make yourself audible. (Bitter Jonks.) Snob. (Speaking in a high voice.) Mr. Jones, cousin. Miss Win ter. Jones. You will please excuse me for a short time. (He retires but remains where he can view the speakers.) Jones. (Speaking shrill and loud.) Miss, will you accept these flowers? I phuked them from their slumber on the hill. Pru. (In an equally high voice.) Really sir, I — I — Jones. (Aside.) She hesitates. It must be that she does not hear me. (Increasing his tone.) Miss, will you accept these flow- ers — flowers ? I plucked them sleeping on the hill — HILL. Pru. (Also increasing lier tone) Certainly, Mr. Jones. They are beautiful — beau-u-tiful. Jones. (Aside.) How she screams in my ear. (Aloud.) Yes, I plucked them from their slumber — slumbf.k, on the hill— hill. Pru. (Aside.) Poor man, what an effort it seems for him to k. (Aloud.) I i ou are poetical. Are you fond of poetry? (Aside.) He hesitates. I must speak louder. (In a scream.) Poetry— Poetry— POETRY 1 Ml (Aside.) Bless me, the woman would wake the dead ! (Aloud.) Yea, Miss, I ad-o-r-« it. «2 f'.xKRcisEs in Elocution. Snob. Glorious ! glorious 1 I wouder how loud they can scream Oh, vengeance, thou art sweet 1 Pru. Can you repeat some poetry — poetry ? Jane*. I only know one poem. It is this : You'd scarce expect one of my age— Aob, To opeak In public on the stage— Stao*. Pru. Bravo — bravo 1 June*. Thank you ! Thank— /'/•(/. Mercy on us 1 Do you think I'm deaf, sir ? Jones. And do you fancy me deaf, Miss ? {Natural tone.) Pru. Are you not, sir ? you surprise me I Jones. No, Miss. I was led to believe that you were deaf. Snobbleton told me so. Pru. Snobbleton 1 Why, he told me that you were d it. Jones. Confound the fellow ! he has been making game of us. Beadle's Dime Speaker. The Front and Side Boors, y person's feelings have a front-door and a side-door by which they may be entered. The frontdoor is on the street. Some keep it always open; some keep it latched; some, locked; some, bolted,— with a chain that will let you peep in, but not get in; and some nail it up, so that nothing can pass its threshold This front-door leads into a passage which opens into an ante-room, and this into the interior apartments. The side-door opens at once into the sacred chambers. There is almost always at least one key to this side-door. This is carried for years hidden in a mother's bosom. Fathers, bro- thers, sisters, and friends, often, but by no means so uo>v*rH*Uv, have duplicates of it 0. W. Holme* The Relief of Lucknow. O 1 that last day in Lucknow fort ; We knew that it was the last, That the enemy's mines had crept surely in, And the end was coming fast To yield to that foe meant worse than death, And the men and we all worked on ; Exercises in Elocution. 63 It was one day more of smoke and roar, And then it would all be done. There was one of us, a corporal's wife, A fair young gentle thing, Wasted with fever in the siege, And her mind was wandering. She lay on the ground, in her Scottish plaid, And I took her head on my knee ; '• When my father cornea hame frae the pleugh," she said, " Oh ! please then waken me." She slept like a child on her father's floor, In the flecking of woodbine shade, When the house dog sprawls by the half open door, And the mother's wheel is stayed. It was smoke and roar and powder stench, And hopeless waiting for death ; But the soldier's wife, like a full tired child, Seemed scarce to draw her breath. I sank to sleep and I had my dream Of an English village lane And wall and garden — till a sudden scream Brought me back to the rear again. There Jes- ling, And then a broad gladness broke All 01 ••. and she took my hand, And drew me near and spoke : "The Highlanders! 0! dinna ye hear The slogan far awa? The McGregor's? Ah ! I ken it weel ; the grandest of them a'. «4 /' I i.\ Elocution. God bless the bonny Highlanders; We 're saved I we 're saved 1" she cried; And fell on her knees, and thanks to God Poured forth, like a full flood tide. Along the battery line her cry Had fallen among the men ; And they started ; for they were there to die, Was life so near them then ? They listened, for life, and the rattling fire Far off, and the far off roar Were all, — and the colonel shook his head, And they turned to their guns once more. Then Jessie said, " The slogan's dune, But can ye no hear them, noo ? The Campbells are comin 1 It's nae a dream, Our succors hae broken through 1" We heard the roar and the rattle afar, But the pipers we could not hear ; So the men plied their work of hopeless war, And knew that the end was near. It was not long ere it must be heard, A shrilling, ceaseless sound ; It was no noise of the strife afar, Or the sappers under ground. It was the pipe of the Highlanders, And now they played " Auld Lang Syne f It came to our men like the voice of God ; And they shouted along the line. And they wept and shook each other's hands, And the women sobbed in a crowd ; s in Elocution. And every one knelt down where we stood, And we all thanked God aloud. That happy day, when we welcomed them iu, Our men put Jessie first; And the General took her hand; and cheers a the men like a volley burst. And the pipers' ribbons and tartan streamed, Marching round and round our line ; And our joyful cheers were broken with tears, And the pipers played " Auld Lang Syne." Bobmri LowtM Boy Britton. L Boy Britton, only a lad, a fair-haired boy, sixteen In his uniform. Into the storm, into the roaring jaws of grim Fort Henry, Boldly bears the Federal flotilla, Into the battle storm. n. Boy Britton is Master's Mate aboard the Essex, There he stands, buoyant and eagle-eyed, By the brave Captain's side ; Ready to do or dare ; " Aye, aye, sir," always ready In his country's uniform 1 Boom I boom ! and now the flag-boat sweeps And now the Essex is plunged Into the battle's storm. m Boom! boom I till river, and fort and field Are overclouded by the battle's breath ; Thee from the fort a gleam and a crashing gun. Ami the Essex is wrapped and shrou In a scalding cloud of steam. 66 Exercises tn Elocution. IV, But victory ! victory I Unto Qod all praise be rendered, Unto Qod all praise and glory be ; See, Boy Britton, see, Boy, see, They strike 1 hurrah ! the fort has surrendered I Shout 1 shout! my warrior boy, And wave your cap, and clap your hands for joy. Cheer answer cheer, and bear the cheer about Hurrah! hurrah ! for the fiery fort is ours. ' Y • ry!" "victory!" "victory!" Is the shout. Shout I for the fiery fort is ours, and the field, And the day are ours ! The day is ours, thanks to the brave endeavor Of heroes, boy, like thee 1 The day is ours, the day is ours ! Glory and deathless love to all who shared with thee, And bravely endured and dared with thee, The day is ours, the day is ours forever ! Glory and love for one and all, but, for thee, Home! home! a happy welcome, welcome home, for thee, And a mother's happy tears, and a virgin's Bridal wreath of flowers for thee. V. Victory! Victory! But suddenly wrecked and wrapped in seething steam The Essex slowly drifted out of the battle storm. Slowly, slowly, down, laden with the dead and dying, And there at the captain's feet, among the dead and dying The shot-marred form of a beautiful boy is lying, There in his uniform. VL Laurels and tears for thee, boy, Laurels and tears for thee ; BXMRCISMB IA l-i ",'UTIGJ. 67 Laurels of light moist with the precious dew Of the inmost heart of the nation's loving heart, And blest by the balmy breath of the beautiful and the tiue, , moist with the luminous breath of the singing spheres, And the nation's starry tears ; And tremble touched by the pulse-like gush and start. Of the universal music of the heart, And all deep sympathy. Laurels and tears for thee, boy, Laurels and tears for thee, Laurels of light and tears of love, Forevermore for thee. vn And laurels of light, and tears of truth, And the mantle of immortality ; And the flowers of love, and immortal youth, And the tender heart tokens of all true ruth, And the everlasting victory. And the breath and bliss of liberty, And the loving kiss of liberty. And the welcoming light of heavenly eye*, And the* over calm of God's canopy; And the inGnite love-span of the skies, That cover the valleys of Paradise, For all of the brave who rest with thee ; And for one and all who died with thee, And now sleep side by side with thee; And for every one who lives and dies On the solid land, or the heaving sea, Dear warrior boy, like thee I vm On, the victory, the victory Belongs to thee I God erer keeps the brightest crown for such as thoo, He gives it now to thee. 88 Exercises :n Elocution. Young and brave, and early and thrice blest, Thrice, thrice, thrice blest! Thy country turns once more to kiss thy youthful brow, And takes thee gently, gently to her breast, And whispers lovingly, God bless thee, bless thee now, My darling thou shalt rest! Forceythe WUUon Bugle Song. L The splendor falls on castle walls, And snowy summits old in story ; The long light shakes across the lakes, And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle blow ; set trie wild echoes flying; Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. H hark, hear ! how thin and clear, And thinner, clearer, farther going; 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. m. O love, they die in yon rich sky, They faint on field, on hill, on river ; Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow forever and forever. Blow, bugle, blow ; set the wild echoes flying, And answer, echoes, answer dying, dying, dying. Tennyaon. Exercises in Elocution. C9 Boll OalL "Corporal Green!" the Orderly cried ; "Here!" was thi answer, loud and clear From the lips of the soldier who stood near, — And " Here !" was the word the next replied. "Cyrus Drew!" — then a silence fell, — This time no answer followed the call ; Only his rear-man had seen him fall, Killed or wounded, he could not telL There they stood in the failing light, These men of battle, with grave, dark looks, hiin to be read as open books, While slowly gathered the shades of night The fern on the hill-sides was splashed with blood, And down in the corn where the poppies grew Were redder stains than the poppies knew ; And crimson-dyed was the river's flood. For the foe had crossed from the other side That day, in the face of a murderous fire That swept them down in its terrible ire; And their life-blood went to color the tide. •* Herbert Kline !" At the call there came Two stalwart soldiers into the line, Bearing between them this Herbert Kline, Wounded and bleeding, to answer his name. "Ezra Kerr!" — and a voice answered, "Here!" ''Hiram Kerr!" — but no man replied. They were brothers, these two, the sad winds sighed, And a shudder crept through the cornfield near. " Ephraim Deane !" — then a soldier spoke : "Deane carried our Regiment's colors," he said; " Where our Ensign was shot, I led him dead, Just after the enemy wavered and broke." 70 Exercises rx Elocution, "Close to the road-side his body lies; I paused a moment and gave him drink ; lie murmured his mother's name, I think, And Death came with it and closed his T was a victory ; yea, but it cost us dear, — For that company's roll, when called at night, Of a hundred men who went into the fight, Numbered but twenty that answered, " Here !" Pyramus and Thisbe. This tragical tale, which, they say, is a true one, Is old ; but the manner is wholly a new one. One Ovid, a writer of some reputation, Has told it before in a tedious narration ; In a style, to be sure, of remarkable fullness, But which nobody reads on account of its dullnc Young Peter Pyramus — I call him Peter, Not for the sake of the rhyme or the meter; But merely to make the name completer — For Peter lived in the olden times, And in one of the worst of pagan climes That flourish now in classical fame, Long before either noble or boor Had such a thing as a Christian name — Young Peter, then, was a nice young beau As any young lady would wish to know : In years, I ween, he was rather green, That is to say, he was just eighteen — A trifle too short, a shaving too lean, But u a nice young man " as ever was seen, And fit to dance with a May-day queen I Now Peter loved a beautiful girl As ever ensnared the heart of an earl, /.\/7. /s n /.v Elocution, 71 In the magical trap of an auburn curl, — A little Miss Thisbe, who lived next door, (They livi-d, in fact, on the very same floor, With a wall betAflieen them and nothing more, — double dwellings were common of yore,) And they loved each other, the legends say, In that very beautiful, bountiful way, That every young maid and every young blade Are wont to do before they grow staid, And learn to love by the laws of trade. But (a-lack-a-day, for the girl and boy !) A little impediment checked their joy, And gave them awhile, the deepest annoy, For some good reason, which history cloaks, The match didn't happen to please the old folks I So Thisbe's father and Peter's mother Began the young couple to worry and bother, And tried their innocent passion to smother, By keeping the lovers from seeing each other! But who ever heard of a marriage deterred Or even deferred By any contrivance so very absurd As scolding the boy, and caging the bird ? Now, Peter, who was not discouraged at all By obstacles such as the timid appal, Contrived to discover a hole in the wall, Which wasn't so thick but removing a l»rick Made a passage — though rather provokingly small. Through this little chink the lover could greet her, And secrecy made their courting the sweeter, While 1 andThiabol 'etor — For Irhwei, like folks with diminutive I Will manage to creep through the smallest of holes! T was her lovers, intent upon love, Laid a nice little plot to meet at • Op Near a mulberry-tree in a neighboring grove; 4 72 Exercises in Elocution For the plan was all laid by the youth and the maid, Whose hearts, it would seem, were uncommonly bold ones, To run off and get married in spite of the old ones. In the shadows of evening, as still as a mouse, The beautiful maiden slipped out of the house, The mulberry-tree impatient to find ; While Peter, the vigilant matrons to blind, Strolled leisurely out, some minutes behind. While waiting alone by the trysting tree, A terrible lion as e'er you set eye on, Came roaring along quite horrid to see, And caused the young maiden in terror to flee, (A lion's a creature whose regular trade is Blood — and " a terrible thing among ladies,") And losing her veil as she ran from the wood, The monster bedabbled it over with blood. Now Peter arriving, and seeing the veil All covered o'er and reeking with gore, Turned, all of a sudden, exceedingly pale, And sat himself down to weep and to wail, For, soon as he saw the garment, poor Peter, Made up his mind in very short meter, That Thisbe was dead, and the lion had eat her f So breathing a prayer, he determined to share The fate of his darling, ' : the loved and the lost," And fell on his dagger, and gave up the ghost 1 Now Thisbe returning, and viewing her beau, Lying dead by her veil (which she happened to know) She guessed in a moment the cause of his erring; And seizing the knife that had taken his life, In less than a jiffy was dead as a herring. MORAL. Young gentleman 1 — pray recollect, if you please, Not to make appointments near mulberry- trees. Exercises in Elocution. 73 Should your mistress be missing, it shows a weak bead To be stabbing yourself, till you know she is dead. Young ladies 1 — you shouldn't go strolling about When your anxious mammas don't know you are out ; And remember that accidents often befall From kissing young fellows through holes in the wall 1 John o. Sax*. Evening at the Farm. Over the hill the farm-boy goes, His shadow lengthens along the land, A giant staff in a giant hand ; In the poplar-tree, above the spring, The katy-did begins to sing ; The early dews are falling ; — Into the stone-heap darts the mink ; The swallows skim the river's brink ; And home to the woodland fly the crows, When over the hill the farm-boy goes, Cheerily calling, " Co*, boss 1 co', boss I co' 1 co' I co' P ? Farther, farther, over the hill, Faintly calling, calling still, " Co', boss 1 co', boss I co' 1 co' 1" Now to her task the milkmaid goes. The cattle come crowding through the gate, Looing, pushing, little and great ; About the trough, by the farm-yard pump, The frolicsome yearlings frisk and jump, While the pleasant dews are falling; — The new mileh heifer is quick and shy, But the old cow waits with tranquil eye, And the white stream into the bright pail flows, When to her task the milkmaid goes, Soothiugly calling. u So, boas 1 so, boss 1 so 1 so 1 so 1" T4 Exercises in Elocution. The cheerful milkmaid takes her stool, And sits and milks in the twilight cool, Saying, •* So ! so, boss I so I so T To supper at last the farmer goes. The apples are pared, the paper read, The stories are told, then all to bed. Without, the crickets' ceaseless song Makes shrill the silence all night long; The heavy dews are falling. The housewife's hand has turned the lock ; Drowsily* kitchen clock; The household sinks to deep repose, But still in sleep the farm-boy goes Singing, calling,— " Co\ boss 1 co\ boss ! coM co' 1 co' I" And oft the milkmaid, in her dreams, Drums in the pail with the flashing streams, Murmuring, " So, boss 1 so l" J. T. Tro\Jct/ridQ€. Putting up Stoves. One who has had considerable experience in the work of put- ting up stoves says the first step to be taken is to put on a very old and ragged coat, under the impression that when he gets his mouth full of plaster it will keep his shirt bosom clean. Next he gets his hands inside the place where the pipe ought to go, and blacks his fingers, and then he carefully makes a black mark down one side of his nose. It is impossible to make any headway, in doing this work, until this mark is made down the side of the nose. Having got his face properly marked, the victim is ready to begin the ceremony. The head of the family — who is the big goose of the sacrifice — grasps one side of the bottom of the stove, and his wife and the hired girl take hold of the other side. In this way the load is started from the wood-shed toward the parlor. Going through the door the head of the family will carefully swing his side of the stove around, and jam his thumb-nail against the door-post. This part of the ceremony is never omitted. Having got the stove \ EXCISES IX Elocxjtion. 75 comfortably in place, the next thing is to find the legs. Two of these are left inside the stove since the spring before. The other two must be hunt. r twenty-five minutes. They are usually found under the coal. Then the head of the family holds up one side of the stove while his wife puts two of the legs in place, and next he holds up the other side while the other two is !, and one of the first two falls out. By the time the stove is <>n its legs he gets reckless, and takes off his old coat regardless <>f his linen. Then he goes off for the pipe, and gets a cinder in ye. It don't make any difference how well the pipe was put up last year, it will be found a little too short or a little too long. The head of the family jams his hat over his eyes, and, taking a pipe under each arm, goes to the tin shop to have it fixed. When he gets back he steps upon one of the best parlor chairs to see if the pipe fits, and his wife makes him get down for fear he will scratch the varnish off from the chair with the nails in his boot- In getting down he will surely step on the cat, and may thank his stars if it is not the baby. Then he gets an old chair, and climbs up to the chimney again, to find that in cutting the pipe off, the end has been left too big for the hole in the chimney. -• goes to the wood-shed, and splits one side of the end of the with an old axe, and squeezes it in his hands to make it smaller. Finally he gets the pipe in shape, and finds that the stove does not stand true. Then himself and wife and the hired girl move the stove to the left, and the legs fall out again. Next it is to move to the right. More difficulty with the legs. Moved to the front a little. Elbow not even with the hole in the chimney, and he goes to the wood-shed after some little blocks. While putting the blocks under the legs, the pipe comes out of the chimney. That remedied, the elboff keeps tipping over to the great alarm of the wife. Head of the family gets the dinner-table out, puts the old chair on it, gets his wife to hold the chair, and balances himself on it to drive some nails into the ceiling. Drops hammer on to wife's head. At last gets the nails driven, makes a wire-swing to hold the pipe, hammers a little here, pulls a little there, takes a long breath, and announces the ceremony completed. Job never put up any stoves. It would have ruL.ed his reputa- tion if he had. 76 ICxercises in Elocution. Tribute to Water. Paul Denton, a Methodist preacher In Texas advertised a barbecue with better liquor than is usually tarnished, when the people were as- sembled, a desperado in the crowd walked up to him, and cried out: " Mr. Denton, your nverence has lle:s ix Elocutiox. * .* Gent. Kj] but thtelf sense is shut. Phy. What is it she does now ? Look, how she rubs her hands. Gent. It is an accustomed action with her, to seem thus washing her hands; T have known' her continue in this a quarter of an hour. Lady |£ Tet here's a spot Phy. Hark ! she speaks. Lady M. Out, terrible spot I 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 ? Phy. Do you mark that? Lad 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. Phy. Go to, go to ; you have known what you should not. Gent. She has spoke what she should not, I am sure of that; Heaven knows what she has known. / M. Here's the smell of the blood still : all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweetm this little hand. Oh! oh! oh! Phy. What a sigh is there ! The heart is sorely charged. Gent. I would not have such a heart in my bosom, for the dignity of the whole body. Lady M. Wash your hands, put on your night-gown ; look not so pale : — I tell you yet again, Banquo's buried ; he cannot come out of his grave. Phy. Even so. Lady M. To bed, to bed : there's knocking at the gate. Come, come, come, come, give me your hand: what's done, cannot be undone : To bed, to bed, to bed. [Exit. Phy. Will she go now to bed ? Gent Directly. Phy. More needs she the divine than the physician. — Look after her ; Remove from her the means of all annoyance, And still keep eyes upon her. — Good Heaven, forgive us all ! Shatojxar*. Ex j in Elocution. 108 BRIEF EXTRACTS. The Nature of True Eloquence. True eloquence does not consist in speech. It cannot be brought from far. Labor and learning may toil for it, but they will toil in yain. Words and phrases may be marshaled in every way, but they cannot compass it. It must exist in the man, in the subject, and in the occasion. Affected passion, intense expression, the pomp of declamation, all may aspire after it, — they cannot reach it It comes, if it come at all, like the outbreaking of a fountain from the earth, or the bursting forth of volcanic fret, with spon- taneous, original, native force. The graces taught in the schools, the costly ornaments and studied contrivances of speech, shock and disgust men, when their own lives, and the fate of their wives, tluir children, and their country hang on the decision of the hour. Tin n words have lost their power, rhetoric is vain, and all elabo- rate oratory contemptible. Even genius itself then feels rebuked and subdued, as in the presence of higher qualities. Then patriot- ism is eloquent ; then self-devotion is eloquent. The clear con- in, outrunning the deductions of logic, the high purpose, the firm resolve, the dauntless spirit, speaking on the tongue, beaming from tho eye, informing every feature, and urging the whole man onward, right onward, to his object, — this, this is eloquence ; or, rather, it is something greater and higher than all eloquence : it is action, noble, sublime, God-like action. Zta *d Webster. Self-Reliance. ist on yourself; never imitate. Your own gift ; ,»u can pre- sent every moment with the cumulative force- of a whole life's cultivation ; but of the adopted talent of another yi u have only an extemporaneous, half possession. That which :i crosses black, the flag of false Lorraine. 114 BtrntCZSEB /v Er.ncUTlox. Up with it high; unfurl it wide — that all the host may know How God hath humbled the proud house which wrought his church Then on the ground, while trumpets sound their loudest point of war, Fling the red shreds, a foot-cloth meet for Henry of Navarre. Ho! maidens of Vienna 1 ho! matrons of Lucerne — Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall return. Ho ! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles, That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen's souls. Ho ! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be bright ; Ho! burghers of St Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night; For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised the slave And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valor of the brave. Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are; And glory to our sovereign lord, King Henry of Navarre! Macaulcty Gaffer Gray. Ho ! why dost thou shiver and shake, Gaffer Gray ? ** 1 And why does thy nose look so blue ?"— ■4 With the tremulous ■OtM <>f age. "'Tis the weather that's cold, "'Tis I'm grown very old, And my doublet is not very new; Well-a-day P " Then line thy warm doublet with ale, Gaffer Gray, And warm thy old heart with a glass!" " Xay, but credit I've none, And my money's all gone ; Then say how may that come to pass ? — Well-a-day ! " Hie away to the house on the brow, Gaffer Gray, And knock at the jolly priest's door." "The priest often preaches " Against worldly riches, But ne'er gives a mite to the poor, — Well-a-day ! " J. I j.\ EhQ 115 "The lawyer lives under the hill, Gaffer Gray; Warmly fenced both in back and in front" " He will fasten his locks And threaten the stocks, Should he ever more find me in want; — Well-a-day 1 " 4 The squire has fat beeves and brown ale, Gaffer Gray ; And the season will welcome you there." " His fat beeves and his beer And his merry new year, Are all for the flush and the fair,— Well-a-day I " "My keg is but low, I confess, Gaffer Gray; What then ? while it lasts, man, we'll live 1 " " The poor man alone, When he hears the poor moan, Of his morsel a morsel will give, — Well-a-day I " Holcrqfl. Auld Eobin Gray. Wdkn the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at hame, And a' the warld to sleep are gane, The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my ee, When my gudeman lies sound by me. Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and socht me for his bride, But, saving a croun.he had naething else bet To mak' that croun a pund, young Jamie gaed to sea, And the croun and the pund were baith for me. He hadna' been awa a week but only twa, When my mother she fell sick, and the cow was stown awa ; My father brak his arm, and young Jamie at the sea, And Auld Robin Gray cam' a-courtin me. My father couldna work, and my mother couldna spin, I toiled day and nieht, but their bread I couldna win, Auld Rob maintained them baith, and wi' lean in his ee, ' Jennie, for their sakes, oh, marry me!" 116 Exercises ix JZlocutiox. My heart it said nay, for I looked for Jamie back , But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wrack ! The ship it was a wrack — why didna Jennie dee ? Or why do I live to say, " Wae's me ?" My father argued sair ; my mother didna speak, But she lookit in my face till my heart was like to break ; Sae they gied him my hand, though ray heart was in the sea , And Auld Robin Gray was gudeman to me. I hadna been a wife a week but only four, When sitting sae mournfully at the door, I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I couldna think it he — Till he said, " I'm come back for to marry thee." sair did we greet, and rauckle did we say ; We took but ae kiss, and we tore ourselves away ; 1 wish I were dead I but I'm no like to dee ; And why do I live to say, " Wae's me ?" I gang like a ghaist, and I care na to spin ; I daur na think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin ; But I'll do my best a gude wife to be, For Auld Robin Gray is kind unto me. Lady Anne Barnanx Christian Mariner's Hymn. Launch thy bark, Mariner ; Christian, God speed thee I Let loose the rudder-bands ; Good angels lead thee I Set thy sails warily, Tempest will come ; Steer thy course steadily ; Christian, steer home I Look to the weather-bow, Breakers are round thee ; Let fall the plummet now, Shallows may ground thee Exercises in Elocution. 117 Reef in the foresail there ; Hold the holm fast ! So — let tlu- rettel wear; There swept the blast 44 What of the night, watchman, What of the night r " Cloudy — all quiet ; No land yet — all's right" Be wakeful, be vigilant; Danger may be At an hour when all seemeth Securest to thee. How gains the leak so fast? Clean out the hold; Hoist up thy merchandise, Heave out thy gold ; There 1 let the ingots go ; Now the ship rights; Hurrah! the harbor's near, — Lol the red lights 1 Slacken not sail yet, At inlet or island; Straight for the beacon steer, Straight for the high land ; Crowd all thy canvas on ; Cut through the foam : — Christian ! cast anchor, now ; Heaven is thy home I Afrt. <*kj KR CISES IN El octjtion. nates the remembrance of men on earth; in the recorded proofs of their own great actions, in the offspring of their intellect, in the deep engraved lines of public gratitude, and in the respect and homage of mankind. They live in their example ; and they live, emphatically, and w ill live, in the influence which their lives and efforts, their principles and opinions, now exercise, and will continue to exercise, on the affairs of men, not onlv in their own country, but throughout the civilized world. A superior and commanding human intellect, a truly great man when Heaven vouchsafes so rare a gift, is not a temporary flame, burning bright for a while, and then expiring, giving place to returning darkness. It is rather a spark of fervent heat, as well as radiant light, with power to enkindle the common mass of human mind; so that, when it glimmers, in its own decay, and finally goes out in death, no night follows ; but it leaves the world all light, all on fire, from the potent contact of its own spirit Bacon died; but the human understanding, loused by the touch of his miraculous wand to a perception of the true philosophy and the just mode of inquiring after truth, has kept on its course suc- !y and gloriously. Newton died; yet the courses of the m are still known, and they yet move on, in the orbits which he saw and described for them, in the infinity of space. No two men now live — perhaps it may be doubted whether any two men have ever lived in one age — who, more than those we now commemorate, have impressed their own sentiments, in regard to politics and government, on mankind, infused their own opinions more deeply into the opinions of others, or given a more lasting direction to the current of human thought. Their work doth not perish with them. The tree which they assisted to plant will flourish, although they water it and protect it no longer ; for it has struck its roots deep ; it has sent them to the very center ; no storm, not of force to burst the orb, can overturn it ; its branches spread wide ; they stretch their protecting arms broader and broader, and its top is destined to reach the heavens. We are not deceived. There is no delusion here. No age will come in which the American revolution will appear less than it is, one of the greatest events in human history. No age will come in which it will cease to be seen and felt, on either continent, that a i:xercises in Elocution. 137 mighty st^p, a great advance, not only in American affaire, but in human affaire, wai made on the 4th of July, 177G. And no ago will come, we trust, so ignorant, or so unjust, as not to see and acknowledge the efficient agency of these we now honor in pro- ducing that momentous event Daniel WeUUr Polish War Song, Freedom calls you! Quick, be ready, — Rouse ye in the name of God, — Onward, onward, strong and steady, — Dub to earth the oppressor's rod. torn calls, ye brave I Rise, and spurn the name of slave. Grasp the sword ! — its edge is keen, Seize the gun ! — its ball is true : Sweep your land from tyrant clean,- Haste, and scour it through and through! Onward, onward! Freedom cries, Rush to arms,— the tyrant flies. By the souls of patriots gone, Wake, — arise, — your fetters break, Kosciusko bids you on, — Sobieski cries awake ! Rise, and front the despot czar, Rise, and dare the unequal war. Freedom calls you! Quick, be ready, — Think of what /our sires have been, — •Onward, onwu: md steady, — Dr: On, and let the watchwords be, Country, home, and liberty ! James Q. PeravaL 138 Exercises in Elocution. The Boys. This selection Is a poem addressed to the class of 1829, in Harvard College, some thirty years after their graduation. Has there any old fellow got mixed with the boys? If there has, take him out, without making a noise. Hang the almanac's cheat and the catalogue's spite! Old Time is a liar; we're twenty to-night We 're twenty I We're twenty 1 Who says we are more ? He's tipsey, — young jackanapes! — -how him the doorl "Gray temples at twenty?" — Yes ! white if we please; Where the snow-flakes fall thickest there's nothing can freeze I Was it snowing I spoke of? Excuse the mistake 1 Look close, — you will see not a sign of a flake I We want some new garlands for those we have shed, Ami these are white roses in place of the red. We Ve a trick, we young fellows, you may have been told, Of talking (in public) as if we were old ; That boy we call "Doctor" and this we call "Judge" ! It '8 a neat little fiction,— of course it's all fudge. That fellow 's the " Speaker," the one on the right ; ftfr. Mayor," my young one, how are you to-night? That *s our " Member of Congress," we say when we chaff ; There's the 'Reverend" — what 's his name? — don't make me laugh. That boy with the grave mathematical look Made believe he had written a wonderful book, And the Royal Society thought it was true I So they chose him right in, — a good joke it was, too! There 's a boy, we pretend, with a three-decker brain, That could harness a team with a logical chain ; When he spoke for our manhood in syllabled fire, We called him u The Justice," but now he 's the u Squire." And there 's a nice youngster of excellent pith ; Fate tried to conceal him by naming him Smith; But he shouted a song for the brave and the free, — Just read on his medal, " My country," "of thee " ! E.\ § i.\ Elocution. 139 You hear that boy laughing ? You think he 's all fun ; lint the angels laugh, too, at the good be lias done; The children laugh loud as they troop to his call, An 1 the p>or man that knows him laughs loudest of al). Yes, we're boys, — always playing with tongue ot with pen] And I sometimes have asked, Shall we ever be men? Shall we always he youthful, and laughing, and gay, Till the last dear companion drops smiling away ? Then here's to our boyhood, its gold and its gray ! -tars of its winter, the dews of its May I And when we have done with our life-lasting toys, Dear Father, take care of Thy children, the boys I Oliver W Holme* An Order for a Picture. O, good painter, tell me true, Has your hand the cunning to draw Shapes of things that you never saw ? Aye ? Well, here is an order for you. Woods and cornfields a little brown, — The picture must not be over-bright, — Yet all in the golden and gracious light, Of a cloud when the summer sun is down. Alway and alway, night and morn, Woods upon woods, with fields of corn Lying between them, not quite And not in the full, thick, leafy bloom, When the wind can hardly find breathing room Under their tassels, — cattle near, Biting shorter the shoi t green grass, And a hedge of sumach and sassafras, With bluebirds twittering all around, — Ah, good painter, you can't paint sound I These and the little house where I was bora, Low and little and black and old, UO Ex i m Elocution. Willi children, many as it can hold, All at the windows, open wide, — Heads and shoulders clear outside, And fair young faces all ablush ; imps ycu may have seen, some day, Roses crowding the self-same Out of a wilding, way-side bush. Listen closer. When you have done With woods and cornfields and grazing herd*. A lady, the loveliest ever the sun Looked down upon, you must paint for me; Oh, if I only could make you see The clear blue eyes, the tender smile, -overeign sweetness, the gentle grace, The woman's soul and the angel's face That are beaming on me all the while 1 I need not speak these foolish words : Y. t one word tolls you all I would say, — She is my mother : you will agree That all the rest may be thrown away. Two little urchins at her knee You must paint, sir; one like me, — The other with a clearer brow, And the light of his adventurous eyes Flashing with boldest enterprise : At ten years old he went to sea, — God knoweth if he be living now, — He sailed in the good ship " Commodore,"— Nobody ever crossed her track To bring us news, and she never came back. All, 'tis twenty long years and more Since that old ship went out of the bay With my great-hearted brother on her deck: I watched him till he shrank to a speck, And his face was toward me all the way. i:.x wmaMM s or Bloc ution. 1 i J Bright his hair was, A golden brown, The time we stood at our mother's knee; That beauteous head, if it did go down, Carried sunshine into the sea ! Out in the fields one summer night together, half afraid, Of the corn-leaves' rustling, and of the shade Of the high hills, stretching so still and far, — Loitering till after the low little light Of the candle shone through the open door, And, over the hay-stack's pointed top, All of a tremble, and ready to drop The first half-hour, the great yellow star That we, with staring, ignorant eyes, Had often and often watched to see Propped and held in its place in the skies By the fork of a tall red mulberry tree, Which close in the edge of our flax- field grew, — Dead at the top,-— just one branch full notched round, and lined with wool, From which it tenderly shook the dew O.'er our head, win n we came to play In its handbreadth of shadow, day after day, Afraid to go home, sir; for one of us bore A nest full of speckled and thin-shelled eggs, — other, a bird, held fast by the legs, Not so big as a straw of wheat' ier she wouldn't eat, But cried and cried, till we held her bill, So slim and shining, to keep her still. At last we stood at our mother's knee. Do you think, sir, if you try, You can paint the look of a lie ? If you can, pray haw tin' grace To pal Of the urchin that is likest me; I think 'twas solely mine, iuu- 142 SXMBGBSMB IN Elocutiox. But that's no matter, — paint it so ; The eyes of our mother — (take good heed) — Looking not on the nest-full of eggs, Nor the fluttering bird, held so fast by the 1. But straight through our faces, down to our lies, And oh, with such injured, reproachful surj I felt my heart bleed where that nt, as though A sharp blade struck through it. You, sir, know, That you on the canvas are to ret Things that are fairest, things rm»-t , — ds and cornfields and mulberry tree, — The mother, — the lads, with their birds, at her knee, But, oh that look of reproachful woe 1 High as the heavens your name I'll shout, If you paint me the picture, and leave that out Alice Oary. Soene from the Merchant of Venice, Belmont A Room in Portia's House. For. By my troth, Nerissa, my little body is aweary of this great world. Ner. You would be, sweet madam, if your miseries were in the same abundance as your good fortunes are; and yet, for aught I v ;ire as sick that surfeit with too much as they that starve with nothing. It is no mean happiness, therefore, to be seated in the mean ; superfluity comes sooner by white hairs, but competency lives longer. Por. Good sentences and well pronounced. They would be better if well followed. P<>r. If to do were as easy as to know what were good to do chapels had been churches, and poor men's cottages princes' palaces It is a good divine that follows his own instructions. I can easier teach twenty what were good to be done than be one of the twenty to follow mine own teaching. The brain may devise laws for the dood; but a hot temper leaps over a cold decree; such a hare is madness, the youth, to skip c er the meshes of good counsel, the cripple. But this reasoning is not in the fashion to choose me a :si:s /.v ELOCVTTOir* 14a in.' ! the word choose! I may neither choose whom 1 i is the will of a living daughtei the will of a dead father. Is it not hard, Nerissa, that 1 cannot choose one, nor refuse none? was ever virtuous; and holy men at their dealt . inspirations; therefore the lottery that be hath devised in three chests of gold, silver, ami lead (whereof who choosei leaning, chooses you), will, no douht, never be chosen by any ;. , but out' whom you shall rightly love. But what warmth ia in your afteetion toward any of these princely suitors that Iready come ? I pray thee overname them; and as thou narnest them, I will describe them; and according to my description, level at my affection. *. there is the Neapolitan prince. Par. Ay, that's a colt, indeed, for he doth nothing but talk of his horse; and be makes it a great appropriation to his own good parts that he can shoe him himself. iere the county Palatine. For. He doth nothing but. frown; M who should say, " And you will not have me choose;" he hears merry tales and smiles not, r he will prove the hilosopher, when lie grows old, ; so full of unmannerly sadness in his youth. I had rather narried to a death's-head with a bone in his mouth, than to either of these. God defend me from these two! Ner. How say you by the French lord, Monsieur Le Bon T 1 made him, and therefore let him pass for a man. Id truth, I know it is a sin to be mocker; but, he! why he hath a poli tan's; a better bad habit of frowning unt Palatine. He is every man in no man; if a tin tight a capering; he will fence with his own sin should marry him I should marry twenty husbands. If he ive him ; for if he love me to mad • ness, I should never requite him. . What say you then to Faulconbridge, the young baron oi England? Pot. You know I say nothing to him, for he und t me I him; he hath neither Latin, nor Italian; and you 7 144 KXMBCUM8 in Elocution will come into the court and swear that I have a poor pennyworto m the English. He is a proper man's picture ; but, alas ! who can converse with a dumb show? How oddly he is suited ; I think he bought his doublet in Italy, his round-hose in France, his bonnet in Germany and his behavior everywhere. Ner. What think you of the Scottish lord, his neighbor? Por. That he fa hborly charity in him, for he borrowed a ox of the ear, of the Englishman, and swore he would pay him gain when he was able. I think the Frenchman became his surety, and sealed under for another. Ner. How like you the young German, the Duke of Saxony's nephew ? Por. Very vilely in the morning, when he is sober; and most vilely in the afternoon when he is drunk ; when he is best, he is a little worse than a man ; and when he is worst, he is little better than a beast And the worst fall that ever fell, I hope I shall make shift to go without him. Ner. If he should make offer to choose, and choose the right casket, you would refuse to perform your father's will if you should refuse to accept him. Por. Therefore, for fear of the worst, I pray thee set a deep glass of Rhenish wine on the contrary casket : for if the devil be within, and that temptation without, I know he will choose it. I will do any thing, Nerissa, ere I will be married to a sponge. Ner. You need not fear, lady, the having any of these lords ; they have acquainted me with their determinations ; which is, indeed, to return to their home and to trouble you with no more suit, unless you may be won by some other sort than your father's imposi- tion, depending on the caskets. Por. If I live to be as old as Sibylla, I will die as chaste as Diana, unless I be obtained by the manner of my father's will. I am glad this parcel of wooers are so reasonable ; for there is not one among them but I dote on his very absence, and I pray God grant them a fair departure. Ner. Do you not remember, lady, in your father's time a Vene- tian, a scholar and a soldier, that came hither in company of the Marquis of Montferrat? Por. Yes, yes ; it was Bassanio ; as I think, so he was called Exercises in Elocution-, 145 Ner. True, madam ; he, of all the men that ever my foolish eyet looked upon, was the best deserving a fair lady. Por. I remember him well, and I remember him worthy of thy praise. How now! What news? Servant The four strangers seek for you, madam, to take their •; and there is a forerunner come from a fifth, the prince of eco, who brings word, the prince, his master, will be here l- night Por. If I could bid the fifth welcome with so good a heart a* I can bid the other four farewell, I should be glad of his approach ; if He have the condition of a saint and the complexion of a devil, I bid rather he should shrive me than wive me. Come, Nerissa. Sirrah, go before. Whiles we shut the gate upon one wooer, another knocks at the door. Shakspeart. The National Ensign. Sir, I must detain you no longer. I have said enough, and more than enough, to manifest the spirit in which this flag is now com- mitted to your charge. It is the national ensign, pure and simple; •r to all our hearts at this moment, as we lift, it to the gale, and see no other sign of hope upon the storm cloud which rolls and rattles above it, save that which is reflected from its own radiant hues; dearer, a thousand-fold dearer to us all, than ever it was before, while gilded by the sunshine of prosperity, and playing with the zephyrs of peace. It will speak for itself far more eloquently than I can speak for it Behold itl Listen to it! Every star has a tongue; every stripe is articulate. There is no language or speech where their voices are not heard. There's magic in the web of it It has an inswef 00 of duty. It has a solution for every doubt and perplexity. It has a word of good cheer for every hour of gloom or of despondency. Behold it ! Listen to it ! It speaks of earlier and of later st nig- gles. It speaks, of victories, and sometimes of reverses, on the and on th»- land. It speaks of patriots and heroes among the living and the dead : and of him the first and greatest of them all, around whose consecrated ashes this unnatural and abhorrent strife has so 146 Exercises in Elocution. long been raging — " the abomination of desolation standing where it ought not." But before all and above all other associations and memories— whether of glorious men or glorious deeds, or glorious places — its voice is ever of Union and Liberty, of the Constitution and the Laws. The Song of the Oamp. 44 Give us a song I" the soldiers cried, The outer trenches guarding, When the heated guns of the camps allied Grew weary of bombarding. The dark Redan, in silent scoff, Lay, grim and threatening, under; And the tawny mound of the Malakoff No longer belched its thunder. There was a pause. A guardsman said u We storm the forts to-morrow ; Sing while we may, another day Will bring enough of sorrow." They lay along the battery's side, Below the smoking cannon : Brave hearts, from Severn and from Clyde, And from the banks of Shannon. They sang of love, and not of fame ; Forgot was Britain's glory : Each heart recalled a different name, But all sang u Annie Lawrie." Voice after voice caught up the song, Until its tender passion Rose like an anthem, rich and strong, — Their battle-eve confession. E xer cises in Elocution. H 9 Wounded by bayonets, shells and balls, Somebody's darling was borne one day. Somebody's darling, so young and so brave, Wearing yet on his pale, sweet face, Soon to be hid by the dust of the grave, The lingering light of his boyhood grace. Matted and damp are the curls of gold, Kissing the snow of that fair young brow; Pale are the lips, cf delicate mold — Somebody's darling is dying now. Back from his beautiful blue-veined brow, Brush all the wandering waves of gold ; Cross his hands on his bosom now, Somebody's darling is stiff and cold. Kiss him once for somebody's sake, Murmur a prayer, soft and low; One bright curl from its fair mates take, They were somebody's pride you know. Somebody's hand hath rested there ; Wei it a mother's, soft aud white ? And have the lips of a sister fair Been baptized in the waves of light? God knows bestl He was somebody's lore, Somebody's heart enshrined him there; Somebody wailed his name above, Night and noon on the wings of prayer. Somebody wept when hv marched away, Looking so handsome, brave and grand Somebody's kiss on his forehead lay, Somebody clung to his parting hand. Somebody's waiting and watching for him, V<-arning to hold him again to their heart, And |] s with his blue eyes dim, And the smiling, child-like lips apart. 150 krcises in Elocution. Tenderly bury the fair young dead, Pausing to drop on liis grave a tear, Carve on the wooden slab at his head, " Somebody's darling slumbers here." War Lyric* of the South. Zenobia's Ambition I am charged with pride and ambition. The charge is true, and J^'lory in its truth. Who ever achieved any thing great in letters, arts or arms, who was not ambitious ? Caesar was not more ambi- tious than Cicero. It was but in another way. All great! born of ambition. Let the ambition be a noble one, and who shall blame it? I oonft ai I did once aspire to be queen, not only of Palmyra, but of the East That I am. I now aspire to remain so. Is it not an honorable ambition ? Does it not become a desc< of the Ptolemies and of Cleopatra? I am applauded by you all for what I have already done. You would not it should have been less. But why pause here? Is so much ambition praiseworthy, and more criminal? Is it fixed in nature that the limits of this empire should be Egypt en the one hand, the Hellespont and the Euxine on the other? Were not Suez and Armenia more natural limits? Or hath empire no natural limit, but is broad as the genius that can . and the power that can win? Rome has the West, Let Palmyra possess the East. Not that nature prescribes this and no more. The gods prospering, and I swear not that the Mediterra- nean shall hem me in upon the west, or Persia on the east. Longi- rigfat — I would that the world were mine. I feel, within, the will and the power to bless it were it so. Are not my people happy ? 1 n»-~-k upon the past and the present, upon my nearer and remoter subjects, -ind ask nor fear the answer. Whom have I wronged? — what province have I oppressed? — what city pillaged? — what region drained with taxes? — whose life have I unjustly taken, or estates coveted or robbed ? — whose honor have I wantonly assailed? — whose rights, though of the weakest and poorest, have I trenched upon ? — I dwell, where I would ever dwell, in the hearts of my people. It is written in your faces, that Exku CISES IN El CUTION. 1 5 1 I reign not more over you than within you. The foundation of my throne is n<>t more power than love. Suppose DOW my ambition mid another province to our realm. ;m evil ? The kingdoms already bound to us by the joint acts of ourself and the late royal Odenatus, we found discordant and at war. They are now united and at peace. One harmonious whole has grown out of hostile and sundered parts. At my hands they receive a common justice and equal benefits. The channels of their commerce have I opened, and dug them deep and sure. Prosperity and plenty are in all their borders. The streets of our capital bear testimony to the distant and various industry which here seeks its market. This is no vain boasting ; receive it not so, good friends. It is but truth. He who traduces himself, sins with him who traduces another. He who' is unjust to himself, or less than just, breaks a law, as well as he who hurts his neighbor. I tell you what I am, and what I have done, that your trust for the future may not rest upon ignorant grounds. If I am more than just to myself, rebuke me. If I have overstepped the modesty that became me, I am open to your censure, and will bear it. But I have spoken that you may know your queen, not only by her acts, but by her admitted principles. I tell you then that I am ambitious, that I crave dominion, and while I live will reign. Sprung from a line of kings, a throne is my natural seat I love it But I strive, too, you can bear me witness that I do, that it shall be, while I sit upon it, an honored, unpolluted seat If I can, I will haug a yet brighter glory around it WiUiam War*. Portia's Speech on Mercy. The quality of mercy is not strained, It droppeth as the gentle rain from Heaven Upon the place beneath. It is twice blessed — It bleseti) him that gives and him that takes, 'lis ini-litiest in the might. ornes tfaotiod monarch better than Ins crown. 7* 152 Exercises in Elocution. scepter shows the force of temporal power, The attribute to awe and majesty, Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings. But mercy is above this sceptered sway, It is enthroned in the heart of kings — It is an attribute to God himself. And earthly power doth then show likest God's, When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew, Though justice be thy plea, consider this, That, in the course of justice, none of us Should see salvation. We do pray for mercy, And that same prayer doth teach us all To render the deeds of mercy. Shahpeare, The Bella* Hear the sledges with the bells, Silver bells! What a world of merriment their melody foretells! How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, In the icy air of night I While the stars, that oversprinkle All the heavens, seem to twinkle With a crystalline delight; Keeping time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the tintinnabulatiou that so musically wells From the bells, From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. Hear the mellow wedding bells, Golden bells I What a world of happiness their harmony foretells ! Through the balmy air of night, How they ring out their delight! From the molten golden notes, And all in tune, What a liquid ditty floats * The compiler hu taken the liberty of omitting many repetitions, believing that the ordinary reader will have leas trouble in the rendering, while the elocutionist may insert them at will /.'XKHCISES IN ELOCUTION. 153 To the turtle dove, that listens, while she gloata On the moon 1 Olr! from out the sounding cells, What a gush of euphony voluminously wells, How it swells 1 How it dwells 1 On the future ! — how it tells Of the rapture that impels To the swinging and the ringing Of the bells, To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells 1 Hear the loud alarum bells, Brazen bells ! What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells ! In the startled ear of night How they scream out their affright 1 Too much horrified to speak, They can only shriek, shriek, Out of tunc, In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic firt^ Leaping higher, higher, higher, With a desperate desire, And a resolute endeavor Now — now to sit, or never, By the side of the pale-faced moon. Oh! the bells 1 What a tale their terror tells Of despair 1 How they clang, and clash, and roar I What a horror they outpour On the bosom of the palpitating air I Yet the ear it fully knows, By the twanging And the clanging, How the danger ebbs and flows; 154 SjtMMdsMa ix Elocution. Yet the ear distinctly tells, In the jangling And the wrangling, How the iks and swells, By tin* sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells, fa the clamor and the clangor of the bells ! Hear the tolling of the bells, Iron bells I What a world of solemn thought their monody compels' In the silence of the night, How we shiver with affright At the melancholy menace of their tonel For !id that floats From the rust within their throats, Is a groan. And the people — ah! the people 1 They that dwell up in the steeple, All alone, And who, tolling, tolling, tolling, In that muffled monotone, Feel a glory in so rolling, On the human heart a stone : They are neither man nor woman, They are neither brute nor human ; They are ghouls; And their king it is who tolls; And he rolls, A paean from the bells ! And his merry bosom swells With the paean of the bells! And he dances, and he yells; Keeping time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the paean of the bella, Keeping time, As he knells, 8 A 8 r'75^5 V7V EL0CUT1 1 i> 5 In a happy Runic rhyme, To the rolling of the bells, To thf tolling of the bells, To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. Edgar A. Pne. Borneo and Juliet. Balcony Scene. Rom. He jests at scars that never felt a wound. Jlm.iet appears on the Balcony, and sits down. But soft! What light through yonder window breaks! It is the east, and Juliet is the sun ! Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief, That thou, her maid, art far more fair than she. " It is my lady ; Oh 1 it is my love: t4 Oh, that she knew she werel" She speaks, yet she says nothing: what of that? Her eye discourses : I will answer it. I am too bold. Oh, were those eyes in heaven, They would through the airy region stream so bright, That birds would sing, and think it were the mora. See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand I Oh, that I were a glove upon that hand, That I might touch that cheek I Jul Ah, ine! Rom. She ;e speaks 1 Oh, speak again, bright angel ! for thou art As gloriou o'er my head, As is a winged messenger of heaven To the up-turned wond'ring eyes of mortals, When he 1 lazy-pacing ( l>»uds, And sails upon the bosom of ti,» Jul Oh, Romeo. ;ut thou Romeo? I and refuse thy name: 150 Exercises in Elocution. Or, if thou wflt not, be bat sworn my love, And I'll n<> longer be Capulet. Rom. Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this? Jul 'Tis but thy nam.- that is my enemy 1 What's in a name? That which we call a rose, By any other nam- it'll M swe.-t ; So Romeo would, were he not Romeo called, Retain that dear perfection which he owes Without that title 1 Romeo, quit thy name; And for that name, which is no part of thee, Take all myself. Rom. I take thee at thy word 1 Call me but lore, I \\'\\\ forswear my name And never more be Romeo. Jul. What man art thou, that, thus bescreened in night So stum blest on my counsel? Bom. I know not how to tell thee who I ami M;. ir saint, is hateful to myself, Because it is an enemy to t! Jul. My ears have not yet drunk a hundred words Of that tongue's uttering, yet I know the sound I Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague? Rom. Neither, fair saint, if either thee displease. Jul How cam'st thou hither ? — tell me — and for what ? The orchard walls are high, and hard to climb ; And the place, death, considering who thou art, If any of my kinsmen find thee here. Rom. With love's light wings did I o'er-perch these walls , For stony limits cannot hold love out; And what love can do, that dares love attempt; Therefore thy kinsmen are no stop to me. Jul. If they do see thee here, they'll murder thee. Rom. Alack, there lies more peril in thine eye, Than twenty of their swords I look thou but sweet, And I am proof against their enmity. Jul I would not, for the world, they saw thee here. By w r hose direction found'st thou out this place ? Rom. By love, who first did prompt me to inquire ; Exercises in Elocution. 157 He lent me counsel, and I lent him eyes. I am no pilot; yet, wert thou as far As that vast shore washed with the furthest sea, ild adventuie for such meroiband Jul Thcu know'st, the mask of night is on my face, Else would a maiden blush hepaint my cheek, For that which thou hast heard me ?peak to-night would I dwell on form; fain, fain deny What I have spoke I But farewell complimentl Dost thou love me ? I know thou wilt say — Ay , And I will take thy word ! yet, if thou swear'st, Thou may'st prove false ; at lovers' perjuries, They say, Jove laughs. Oh, gentle Romeo, If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully I Or, if thou think'st I am too quickly won, I'll frown, and be perverse, and say thee nay, So thou wilt woo ! but else, not for the world. In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond: And therefore thou may'st think my 'haviour light I But trust me, gentleman, I'll prove more true Than those that have more cunning to be strange. I should have been more strange, I must confess But that thou overhcard'st, ere I was 'ware, Mv true love's passion ; therefore, pardon me, And not impute this yielding to light love, Which the dark night has so discovered. Rom. Lady, by yonder blessed moon I vow — Jul Oh I swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon That monthly changes in her circled orb; Lest that thy love prove likewise variable. Rom. What shall I swear by ? Jul Do not swear at all ; Or, if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious selfj Which is the god of my idolatry, And I'll believe : Rom. If my true heart's love — Jul Well, do not swear 1 Although I joy in thee, I have no joy of this contract to-night; 158 EXRRCJSMB IX ELOCUTION, It is too rath, too unadvised, too sudden, Too like the lightning, which doth MMe to be, 'Ere ont It lightens. Sweet, good night f This bud of 1 nmer's ripening breath, May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet. Good night, good night ! — as sweet repose and rest ne to thy heart, as that within my breast! Rom. Oh, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied ? Jul What satisfaction canst thou have to-night? Rom. The exchange of thy love's faithful vow for nr.ne. Jul. I gave thee mine, before thou didst request it: And yet I would it were to give again. Rom. Would'st thou withdraw it? for what purpose, love? Jul. But to be frank, and give it thee again. My bounty is as boundless as the sea, My love as deep; the more I give to thee, The more I have ; for both are infinite, I hear some noise within. Dear love, adieu ! Nurse. ] Within.] Madam I Jul Anon, good Nurse 1 Sweet Montague, be true. Stay but a little, I will come again. [Exit from balcony.] Rom. Oh ! blessed, blessed night 1 I am afeard, Being in night, all this is but a dream, Too flattering be substantial Re-enter Juliet, above. Jul Three words, dear Romeo, and good night, indeed If that thy bent of love be honorable, Thy purpose marriage, send me word to-morrow, By one that I'll procure to come to thee, Where, ami what time, thou wilt perform the rite; And all my fortunes at thy foot I'll lay ; And follow thee, my lord, throughout the world. Xxrse [Within.] Madam! Jul I come anon! But, if thou mean'st not well, I do beseech thee — Nurse. [Within. \ Madam! Jul By and by, I come ! To cease thy suit, and leave me to my grief. Ejomoisbb ix Elocuti< 159 To-morrow will I send. •n. So thrive my soul — ////. A thousand times good night! Rom % A thousand times the worse, to want thy light. \Krit. | Re-enter Jdlikt. Jul. Hist! Romeo, histl Oh, for a falconer's voice, To lure this tassel gentle back again ! Bondage is hoarse, and may not speak aloud ; would he fear the cave where Echo lies, And make her airy tongue more hoarse than mine, With repetition of my Romeo's name. EtOMIO entering. Rom. It is my love that calls upon my name! How silver-sweet sound lovers' tongues by night, Like softest music to attending ears! Jul Romeo! Rom. My sweet! Jul At what o'clock to-morrow Shall I send to thee ? Rom. At the hour of nine. Jul. I will not fail : 'tis twenty years till then. T nave forgot why I did call thee back. Rom. Let me stand here till thou remember it Jul. I shall forget, to have thee still stand there, Remeinb'ring how I love thy company. Rom. And I'll still stay, to have thee still forget, Forgetting any other home but this. Jul. 'Tis almost morning; I would have thee gone And yet no further than a wanton's bird; Who lets it hop a Little from la-r hand, And with a silk thread plucks it back again, So loving-jealous of its liberty. I would I were thy bird. Jul. Sweet, so would I ! Yet I should kill thee with mneh cherishing. Good night, good night! Parting is men sweet sorro* That I shall say — Good night, 'till it be morrow. | Hx it from bah A , 160 Exercises in Elocution, Rom. Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast I Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest I Hence will I to my ghostly father's cell; His help to crave, and my dear hap to telL Jack Horner. " Little Jack Horner sat in a corner, Eating a Christ He put in his thumb And pulled out a plum, And said, What a great boy am L* n Ah ! the world has many a Horner, Who, seated in his corner, Finds a Christmas pie provided for his thumb, And cries out with exultation, When successful exploration Doth discover the predestined plum. Little Jack outgrows his tire, And becometh John, Esquire, And he finds a monstrous pastry ready-made, Stuffed with notes and bonds and bales, With invoices and sales, And all the mixed ingredients of trade. And again it is his luck, To be just in time to pluck, By a " clever operation," from the pie An unexpected plum ; So he glorifies his thumb, And says, proudly, " What a mighty man am L" Or, perchance, to science turning, And, with weary labor, learning All the formulas that oppress her, For the fruit of others baking, So a fresh diploma taking, Comes he forth a full accredited professor. Mm. ercises in Elocution. 161 Or he's not too nice to mix In the dish of politics ; And the dignity of office he put* on; And feels as big again As a dozen nobler men, While he writes himself the "Honorable John." Not to hint at female Homers, Who, In their exclusive corners, Think the world is only made of upper crust, And in the funny pie That we call society, Their dainty fingers delicately thrust. Till it sometimes comes to pass, In the spiced and sugared mass, One may compass (don't they call it so?) a catch; And the gratulation given, Seems as if the very heaven Had outdone itself in making such a match. Oh, the world keeps Christmas day In a queer perpetual way ; Shouting always, M What a great, big boy am II n Yet how many of the crowd, Thus vociferating loud, And all its accidental honors lifting high, Have really more than Jack, With all their lucky knack, Had a finger in the making of the pie. Mother Goose/or Grown People, Barbara Frietchie. Up from the meadows rich with corn, Clear in the cool September mom, The clustered spires of Frederick stand, Green-walled by the hills of Maryland. Round about them orchards sw< 1G2 Exercises in Elocution. Apple and peach-trees fruited deep, as a garden of the Lord, To the eyes of the famished Rebel horde. On that pleasant day of the early fall, When Lee marched over the mountain wall, Over the mountains winding down, Bone and foot into Frederick town, Forty flags with the silvery stars, Forty flags with their crimson bars, :>ed in the morning wind; the ma Of noon looked down and saw not one. Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, Bowed with her fourscore years and ten, Bravest of all in Frederick town, She took up. the flag the men hauled down, In her attic window the staff she set, To show that one heart was loyal yet. Up the street came the Rebel tread, Stonewall Jackson riding ahead. Under his slouched hat left and right He glanced ; the old flag met his sight. " Halt!" — the dust-brown ranks stood fast " Fire 1"— out blazed the rifle blast ; It shivered the window, pane, and sash, It rent the banner with seam and gash. Quick, as it fell from the broken staff, Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf; She leaned far out on the window-sill, And shook it forth with a royal will u Shoot, if you must, this gray old head, But spare your country's flag," she said. A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, Over the face of the leader came ; The noble nature within him stirred To life at Barbara's deed and word : Si rrmx. 163 iy head, Dies like a d b on!" be said. All day lon<,' through Frederick street, Sounded the tread of marching feet, All day long that free Bag tossed Over the heads of the Rebel host; Ever its torn folds rose and fell On the loyal winds that loved it well; And. through the hill-gaps, sunset light Shone over it with a warm good-night. Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er, And the Rebel rides on his raids no more; Honor to her ! and let a tear Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier. Over Barbara Frietchie's grave, Flag of Freedom and Union wave! Peace and order and beauty draw Round thy symbol of light and law; And ever the stars above look down On thy stars below at Frederick town. Shatter. Which? The following tells Its own story, and a beautiful one It is too— read* in:; beel an i Kmnding iweeteet, when Um family circle have gathered uroiiu'l Whieh shall it be? which shall it be?" I looked at John — John looked at me (Dear, patient John, who loves me yet well as tho' my locks were jet). And when I found that I must speak, My voice W ami weak; ''Ttll me again what Robert said? " my head. This is his let • " I will givo A house and land while you shall live. 164 Exercises in Elocution. If, in return, from out your seven, One child to me for aye is given." I looked at John's old garments worn, I thought of all that John had borne Of poverty, and work and care, Which I, though willing, could not spare 1 Of seven hungry mouths to feed, Of sev<»n little children's need, And then of this. 14 Come, John," said 1. 44 We'll choo«B among them as they lie Asleep;** wo walking hand in hand, Dear John and I surveyed our band. First to the cradle lightly stepped, Where Lilian, the baby, riept ; Her damp curls lay like gold alight, A glory 'gainst the pillow white, Softly her father stooped to lay His rough hand down in loving way. When d ra m a or whisper made her stir, And huskily he said, "Not her — not her. w We stooped beside the trundle-bed, And one long ray of lamp-light shed Athwart the boyish faces there In sleep so pitiful and fair; I saw on Jamie's rough, red cheek A tear undried. Ere John could speak, m He's but a baby, too," said I, And kissed him as we hurried by. Pale, patient Robby's angel face Still in his sleep bore suffering's trace. "No, for a thousand crowns, not him," He whispered, while our eyes were dim, Poor Dick! sad Dick! our wayward son, Turbulent, reckless, idle one — Could he be spared ? " Nay, He who gave \RRCISES IN ^LOCUTION. 165 Bids us befriend him to the grave ; Only a mother's heart can be Patient enough for such as he ; And so," said John, " I would not dare To send him from her bedside prayer." Then stole we softly up above, And knelt by Mary, child of love, " Perhaps for her 'twould better be," I said to John. Quite silently He lifted up a curl that lay Across her cheek in willful way. And shook his head. "Nay, love, not thee," The while my heart beat audibly, Only one more, our eldest lad, Trusty and truthful, good and glad — So like his father. " No, John, no — I cannot, will not, let him got " And so we wrote, in courteous way. We could not give one child away ; And aflerwnrd toil lighter seemed, Thinking of that of which we dreamed. Happy in truth that not one face We missed from its accustomed place; Thankful to work for all the seven, Trusting then to Onk in Hkavkn! The Power of Habit I remember once riding from Buffalo to the Niagara Falls. I said to a gentleman, u What river is that, sir?" .:," said be, ira river." .1, it is a beautiful stream," said I; "bright, and fair, and glassy. How far off are the rapids ?" "Only a mile or two," was the reply. I possible that only a mile from OS, we shall fit.d the v. •• hieh it must show near the Falls P 160 i:rcises ix Elocution. " Yon will find it so, sir." And so I found it; and the first sigh* of Niagara I shall never forget Now, launch your bark on that Niagara river; it is bright, smooth, beautiful and glassy. There is a ripple at the bow; the silver wake you leave behind, adds to your enjoyment Down the stream you glide, oars, sails, and helm in proper trim, and you set out on your pleasure excursion. Suddenly, some one cries out from the bank, " Young men, at is it?" " The rapid* are below you /" p Ha I ha ! we have heard of the rapids ; but we are not such fools as to get there. If we go too fast, then we shall up with the helm, an«l st.rr to the shore; we will set the mast in the socket, hoist the sail, and speed to the land. Then on, boys; don't be alarmed, there is no danq> " Young men, ahoy there I " "What is it?" " The rapids are below you ! " "Ha! ha! we will laugh and quaff; all things delight us. What care we for the future! No man ever saw it. Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof. We will enjoy life while we may, will ire as it flies. This is enjoyment; time enough to steer out of danger when we are sailing swiftly with the current" "YoUXO MEN, AnOYl" "What is it?" "Beware! beware! The rapids are below you!" "Now you see the water foaming all around. See how fast you pass that point! Up with the helm! Now turn! Pull hard! Quick ! quick I quick ! pull for your lives ! pull till the blood starts from your nostrils, and the veins stand like whip-cords upon your brow! Set the mast in the socket! hoist the sail! Ah! ah! it i too late ! Shrieking, howling, blaspheming ; over they go." Thousands go over the rapids of intemperance every year, through the power of habit, crying all the while, " When I find out that it is injuring me, I luill give it up /" John B. Cfough. SxMBcmma in Elocuti> 167 From Ivanhoe Following with wonderful promptitude the directions of Ivanhoe, and availing herself of the protection of the large ancient shield, which she placed against the lower part of the window, Rebecca, With tolerable security to herself, could witness part of what was ithoat the castle, and report to Iyanhoe the preparation* which the assailants were making for the storm. '"The skirts of the wood seem lined with archers, although only are advanced from its dark sha-dow." *' Under what banner?" asked Ivanhoe. " Under uo ensign of war which I can observe," answered Re- becca, " A singular novelty," muttered the knight, " to advance to storm ench a castle without pennon or banner displayed 1 Seest thou who they be that act as leaders?" "A knight, clad in sable armor, is the most conspicuous," said s ; u he alone is armed from head to heel, and seems to assume the direction of all around him." " What device does he bear on his shield ? " replied Ivanhoe. 'Something resembling a bar of iron, and a padlock painted blue on the black shield." •tterlock and shacklebolt azure," said Ivanhoe; "I know not who may bear the device, but well I ween it might now be own. Canst thou not see the motto?" "Scarce the device itself, at this distance," replied Rebecca; "but when the sun glances fair upon his shield, it shows as I tell you." i other leaders?" exclaimed the anxious inquirer. "None of mark and distinction that I can behold from this sta- tion," said Rebecca; "but, d< other side of the castle is assailed They appear even now preparing to advao ;«tion was here suddenly interrupted by the signal for assault, which was given by the blast of a shrill bugle, and at once ered by a flourish of the Norman trumpets from the battle- : • here like a bedridden monk," exclaimed Ivan- hoe, " while the game that gives me freedom or death is played out by the hand of others 1 Look from the window once again, kind 8 168 EXERCISES IN EL0CUT1 maiden, but beware that you are not marked by the archers be neath, look out once more, and tell me if they yet advance to the storm." With patient courage, strengthened by the interval which -ho had employed in mental devotion, Rebecca again took post at the lattice, sheltering herself, however, so as not to be visible from ath. * " What dost thou see, Rebecca?" again demanded the wounded -lit. "Nothing but the cloud of arrows flying so thick as to dazzle mine eyes, and to hide the bowmen who shoot them." "That cannot endure," said Ivanhoe; "if they press not right on to carry the castle by pure force of arms, the archery may avail but little against stone walls and bulwarks. Look for the Knight of the Fetterlock, fair Rebecca, and see how he bears himself; for, as the leader is, so will his followers be." " I see him not," said Rebecca. il craven 1" exclaimed Ivanhoe; "does he blench from the helm when the wind blows highest?" " He blenches not I he blenches not 1 " said Rebecca; u I see him now; he leads a body of men close under the outer barrier of the barbican. They pull down the piles and palisades ; they hew down the barriers with axes. His high black plume floats abroad over the throng, like a raven over the field of the slain. They have made a breach in the barriers — they rush in — they are thrust back I Front-de-Bceuf heads the defenders ; I see his gigantic form above the press. They throng again to the breach, and the pass is dis- puted hand to hand, and man to man. It is the meeting of two fierce tides — the conflict of two oceans, moved by adverse winds!" She turned her head from the lattice, as if unable longer to endure a sight so terrible. " Look forth again, Rebecca," said Ivanhoe, mistaking the cause of her retiring; "the archery must in some degree have ceased since they are now fighting hand to hand. Look again ; there is now less danger." Rebecca again looked forth, and almost immediately exclaimed: "Front-de-Bceuf and the Black Knight fight hand to hand on the breach, amid the roar of their followers, who watch the progress /.XKRCISES IN J£LOCUTIOIT. ICO of the strife. Heaven strike with the cause of the oppressed, and of the captive! " She then uttered a loud shriek, and exclaimed: " He is down ! — he is downl " "Who is down?" cried Ivanhoe. "For our dear lady's sake, tell me which has fallen ?" "The Black Knight," answered Rebecca, faintly; then instantly D shouted, with joyful eagerness, "But no — but nol — he is or. foot again, and fights as if there were twenty men's strength in ;:igle arm — his sword is broken — he snatches an axe from a yeoman — he presses Front-de-Bceuf with blow on blow — the giant stoops and totters, like an oak under the steel of the wood- man — he falls — he falls! " " Front-de-Boeuf? " exclaimed Ivanhoe. " Front-de-Bceuf I" answered the Jewess. "His men rush to the rescue, headed by the haughty Templar — their united force compels the champion to pause — they drag Front-de-Bceuf within the walls." "The assailants have won the barriers, have they not?" said Ivanhoe, 41 They have — they have ! " exclaimed Rebecca, " and they press the beseiged hard upon the outer wall ; some plant ladders, some swarm like bees, and endeavor to ascend upon the shoulders of each other — down go stones, beams, and trunks of trees upon their heads; and as fast as they bear the wounded men to the rear, fresh men supply their place in the assault. Great God! hast thou given men thine own image, that it should be thus cruelly defaced by the hands of their brethren I " " Think not of that," said Ivanhoe; "this is no time for such thoughts. Who yield? — who push their way?" "The ladders are thrown down," replied Rebecca, shuddering. "The soldiers lie groveling under them like crushed reptiles — the I \e the better I " "Saint George strike for us!" exclaimed the knight; "do the false yeomen give way ? " "No!" exclaimed Rebecca; "they bear themselves right yeo- manly — the Black Knight approaches the postern with his huge axe — the thundering blows which he deals, you may hear th.ni 170 JlxEiicisEs m Elocution. above all the din and shouts of the battle — stones and beams are hailed down on the bold champion — he regards them no more than if they were thistledown or feathers I " " By Saint John of Acre ! " said Ivanhoe, raising himself joy- fully on his couch ; u methought there was but one man in England that might do such a deed ! " "The postern gate shakes," continued Rebecca; "it crashes- it is splintered by his blows — they rush in — the outwork is won — they hurl the defenders from the battlements — they throw them into the moat 1 Oh, men — if ye be indeed men — spare them that can resist no longer 1 " " The bridge, the bridge which communicates with the castle, have they won th.it pass?" exclaimed Ivanhoe. ''No," replied Rebecca; "the Templar has destroyed the plank on which they crossed — few of the defenders escaped with him into the castle — the shrieks and cries which you hear, tell the fate of the others I Alas I I see it is still more difficult to look upon victory than upon battle 1 " " What do they now, maiden ? " said Ivanhoe ; " look forth yet ■gain — this is no time to faint at bloodshed." "It is over for the time," ; Rebecca. "Our friends hen themselves within the outwork which they have mas- tered, and it affords them so good a shelter from the foeman's shot, that the garrison only bestow a few bolts on it, from interval to interval, as if rather to disquiet than effectually to injure them." Waller ScoU. Rip Van Winkle, He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old resort, the village inn — but it too was gone. A large rickety wooden building stood 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 Exercises is Elocuti 171 h was a singular assemblage of stars and stripes — all this was strange and incomprehensible. He recognized on the sign, how- , the ruby face of King George, under which he had smoked so m my a peaceful pipe; but even this was singularly metamorphosed. The red coat was changed for one of blue and buff, a sword was held in the hand instead of a scepter, the head was decorated with a cocked hat, ami underneath was painted in large characters, vl Washington. There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, but none that Rip recollected. The very character of the people seemed changed. There was a busy, bustling, disputatious tone about it, id of the accustomed phlegm and drowsy tranquillity. He looked in vain for the sage Nicholas Vedder, with his broad foe, double chin, and fair long pipe, uttering clouds of tobacco smoke ad of idle speeches; or Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, doling forth the contents of an ancient newspaper. In place of these, a lean, bilious-looking fellow, with his pockets full of handbills, was haranguing vehemently about rights of citizens — elections — mera- Ders of Con _-!•-•> liberty — Bunker's Hill — heroes of seventy- six — and other words, which were a perfect Babylonish jargon to the bewildered Van Winkle. The appearance of Rip, with his long grizzled beard, his rusty fowling-piece, his uncouth dress, and an army of women and child- ren at his heels, soon attracted the attention of the tavern politicians. . led areund him, eying him from head to foot with great curiosity. The orator bustled up to him, and, drawing him partly aside, inquired "on which side he voted ?'* Rip stared in vacant lity. Another short but busy little fellow pulled him by the and, rising on tiptoe, inquired in his ear, "whether he was nocrat?" Rip was equally at a loss to comprehend on; when a knowing, self-important old gentleman, in a sharp cocked hat, made his way through the crowd, putting them i left with his elbows as he passed, and planting Vim Winkle, with one arm akimbo, the other resting on his cane, his keen eyes and sharp hat penetrating, as it H into his very soul, demanded, in an austere tone, "what brought him to the election with a gun on his shoulder, and a mob at his heels, and whether he meant to breed a riot in the villa 172 ExEROiaBS i.\ Elocution. "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 I hustle him! away with him!" It was with great difficulty that the self-important man in the cocked hat restored order; and, having assumed a tenfold austerity of brow, demanded again of the unknown culprit, what he came there for and whom he was seeking? The poor man humbly assured bio that he meant no harm, but merely came there in search of some of his neighbors, who used to keep ab<>ut the tavern. " Well, who are they ? Name them." u Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, " Where's Nicholas Vedd< : 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 tombstone in the churchyard that used to tell all about him, but that's rotten and gone too." " Where's Brom Dutcher? " "Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of the war; some 6ay he was killed at the storming of Stony Point — others say he was drowned in a squall at the foot of Antony's Nose. I don't know — he never came back again." "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, leaning against the tree." Rip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of himself, as he went up the mountain : apparently as lazy, and certainly as ragged. T7XERC1SES IN ELOCUTION, 173 poor fellow was now completely confounded. He doubted his own identity, and whether he was himself or another man. In the wildennent, the man in the cocked hat demanded who he was, and what was his name? " God knows," exclaimed he, at his wit's end ; u I'm not myself — I'm somebody else — that's me yonder — no — that's somebody else got into my shoes — I was myself last night, but I fell asleep on the mountain, and they've changed my gun, and every thing's changed, and I'm changed, and I can't tell what's my name, or who I am ! " The bystanders began now to look at each other, nod, wink significantly, and tap their fingers against their foreheads. There whisper, also, about securing the gun, and keeping the old fellow from doing mischief, at the very suggestion of which the self-important man in the cocked hat retired with some precipitation At this critical moment a fresh, comely woman pressed 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," cried she, "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, t is your name, my good woman ? " asked he. "Judith Gardenier." " And your father's name?" " Ah ! poor man, Rip Van Winkle was his name, but it's twenty years since he went away from home with his gun, and never has 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 fal- tering voice: '• Where's your mother?" "Oh, the lied but a short time since; she broke a blood- vessel in a fit of paaeioa at a New England peddler." There was a drop of comfort, at least, in this intelligence. D OOnld contain himself no longer. lie caught his daugh- ter and her child in his arms. " I am your father!" cried he — ui Winkle once — old Rip Van Winkle now I Does nobody know poor Rip Van Winkle?" I'M krcises in Elocution. 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 Win- kle — it is himself! Welcome home again, old neighbor. Why, where have you been these twenty long Rip's story was soon told, for the whole twenty long years had to him but as one night To make a long story short, the company broke up, anil returned to the more important concerns of the election. Rip's daughter him home to live with her; she had a snug, well-furnished house, and a sto er for a husband, whom Rip recol- lected for one of the urchins that used to climb upon his back. The old Dutch inhabitants almost universally gave it full credit. Even to this day th< hear a thunder-storm of summer afternoon about the Kaatskill, but they say Heodrick Hudson and his crew are at their game of nin« I it is a common wish of all henpecked husbands in the neighborhood, when life hangs heavy on their hands, that they might have a quieting draught out of Rip Van Winkle's flagon. ( „P # Are the Children at Home ? Each day when the glow of sunset Fades in the western sky, And the wee ones, tired of playing, Go tripping lightly by, I steal away from my husband, Asleep in his easy-chair, And watch from the open doorway Their faces fresh and fair. Alone in the dear old homestead That once was full of life, Ringing with girlish laughter, Echoing with boyish strife, We two are waiting together ; And oft, as the shadows come, With tremulous voice he calls me, "Tt is night! are the children home?' A'\ ! U9 J'Jlocctio*. Ill love!" I answer him gently, " They're all home long ago ;" And sing, in my quivering treble, A song so soft and low, Till the old man drops to slumber, With his head upon his hand, And I tell to myself the number Home in the better land — Home, where never a sorrow Shall dim their eyes with tears! Where the smile of God is on them Through all the summer years ! I know 1 — yet my arms are empty, That fondly folded seven, And the mother heart within me Is almost starved for heaven. Sometimes, in the dusk of evening, I only shut my eyes, And the children are all about rae — A vision from the skies ; The babes whose dimpled fingers Lost the way to my breast, And the beautiful ones, the angels, Passed to the world of the blessed. With never a cloud upon them, I see their radiant brows; My boys that I gave to freedom — The red sword sealed their vows ! In a taugled Southern forest, Twin brothers, bold and brave, fell ; and the flag they died for, Thank God! floats o'er their grave. A breath, and the vision is lifted Away on the wings of 1 An1 a All ilOM in t:. 8* 1V6 IX ELOCUTION. They tell me Mi mind is failing, But I smile at idle f He is only back with the children, In the dear and peaceful years. And still as the summer sunset Fades away in the west, And the wee ones, tired of playing, Go trooping home to n My husband calls from his corner, "Say, love, have the children comer' And I answer, with eyes uplifted, , dear, they are all at home 1" Atlantic Monthly. Prom the "School for Scandal" Sir Peter. Lady Teazle, Lady Teazle, I'll not bear it. Lady Teazle. Sir Peter, Sir Peter, yon may bear it or not, as you please; but I ought to have my own way in every thing; and what's more, I will too. What! though I was educated in the country, I know very well that women of fashion in Loudon are : table to nobody after they are married. Sir P. Very well, ma'am, very well — so a husband is to have no iuflueuce, no authority ? Lady T. Authority! No, to be sure: if you wanted authority over me you should have adopted me, and not married me. I am sure you were old enough. Sir P. Old enough ! — ay — there it is. Well, well, Lady Teazle, though my life may be made unhappy by your temper, I'll not be ruined by your extravagance. Lady T. My extravagance ! I am sure I am not more extrava- gant thau a woman ought to be. Sir P. No, no, madam, you shall throw away no more sums upon such unmeaning luxury. You spend as much to furnish your dressing-room with flowers in winter as would suffice to turn the Pantheon into a green-house. Lady T. Sir Peter, am I to blame because flowers are dear in cold weather? You should find fault with the climate, and not with /:.V ER CISES IN E LOCI 1 1 177 my part, I'm sure, I wish it were spring all the year round, ami that roses grow under our fret. /'. Z mnds ! M I lam ; if you had been born to this, I should not wonder at your talking thus; but you forget what your situa- v;is when I married you. Lady T. No, no, I don't; 'twas a very disagreeable one — or I should never have married you. es, madam, you were then in a somewhat humbler —the daughter of a plain country squire. Recollect, Lady tie, when I saw you first sitting at your tambour, in a pretty figured linen gown, with a bunch of keys at your side; your hair combed smooth over a roll, and your apartment hung round with frultfl in worsted of your own working. Lady T. Oh yes 1 I remember it very well, and a curious life I 1.1— my daily occupation to inspect the dairy, superintend the poultry, make extracts from the family receipt-book, and comb my aunt Deborah's lap-dog. s, ma'am 'twas so indeed. Lady 7! And then, you know, my evening amusements, to draw rns for rufiles, which I had not the materials to make up ; to Joan with the curate ; to read a novel to my aunt ; or to i<-k down to an old spinnet to strum my father to sleep after a fox chase. Sir P. I am glad you have so good a memory. Yes, madam Were the recreations I took you from; but now you must your coach — vis-a-vis — and three powdered footmen before i, in summer, a pair of white cats to draw you to ington Gardens. No recollection, I suppose, when you were ride double behind the butler, on a docked coach-horse. Lady T. No — I never did that; I deny the butler and the coach-! madam, was your situation ; and what have I dona u ? I have made you a woman of fashion, of fortune, of rank ; in ah made you my v Lady T. Well then; and there is hut one thing more you can make me, to add to the obligation, and that is — 1 -up pose. /' Bern I 178 :sks ix Elocution. P. I thank you, madam; but don't flatter yourself, for t' your ill conduct may disturb my peace of mind, it shall never my heart, I promise you. However, I am equally obliged t for the hint Lady T. Then why will you endeavor to thwart me in every little expense, and make yourself so disagreeable to me ? P. Had you any of these little elegant expenses when you married me? / T. Sir Peter, would you have me out of the fashion ? Sir P. The fashion, indeed! What had you to do with the fashion before you married me ? Lady 7! For my part, I should think you would like to have your tonght a woman of taste. Sir P. Ay ; there again — taste. Zounds 1 Madam, you had no taste when you married me! Lady T. i !surc you, Sir Peter, good nature becomes you ; you now as you did before we urried, when you used to Walk with me under the elms, and tell me stories of what a gallant lr youth, and chuck me n: >uld ; and l I could love an old fei. >uld deny • -didn't ] , yes, and you were kind and attentive — 180 BXMMClSma ix Slo Lady T. Aye, so I was, and would always take your part when my acquaintance would abuse you, and turn you into ridicule. Sir P. Indeed ! Lady T. Aye, and when my cousin Sophy has called you a stiff, peevish old bachelor, and laughed at me for thinking of marrying ho might be my father, I have always defeuded you, and said I didn't think you ugly by any means. Sir P. Thank you. Lady T. And I dared say would make a very good sort of husband Sir P. An<* you prophesied right ; and we shall be the happiest couple — Lady T. And never differ again ? Sir P. No, never I though at the same time, indeed, my dear Lady Teazle, you must watch your temper very seriously ; for in all our little quarrels, my dear, if you recollect, my love, you always begin Lady T. I beg your pardon, my dear Sir Peter; indeed you s gave the provocation. Sir P. Now see, my angel, take care — contradicting isn't the way p friends. Lady T. Then don't you begin it, my love. Sir P. There now 1 you — you — are going on. You don't per- my life, that you are doing the very thing which you know always makes me angry. Lady T. Nay, you know if you will be angry without any reason, my dear — Sir P. There, now, you want to quarrel again. Lady T. You are just what my cousin Sophy said you would be. Sir P. Your cousin Sophy is a forward, impertinent gypsy. Lady T. You are a great bear, I'm sure, to abuse my rela- tions. Sir P. Now may all the plagues of marriage be doubled on me if ever I try to be friends with you any more. Lady T. So much the better. Sir P. No, no, madam ; 'tis evident you never cared a pin tor me. and I was a madman to marry you — a pert rural coquette, had refused half a dozen honest squires in the neighborhood. RltR •7.S//.S i.x Elocutiox. 181 Lady T. And I was a fool to raarry you, an old dangling bachelor, ;.t fitly, onlj because no one would have him. Sir P. You were pleased enough to listen to me. You never had such an off Lady T. No ! didn't I refuse Sir Tivy Terrier, who every body said would have been a better match? for his estate is just as good as yours, and he has broke his neck since we have been married. Sir P. I have done with you, madam I You are an unfeeling, ungrateful — but there's an end of every thing. A separate mainte- nance as soon as you please. Yes, madam, or a divorce! I'll make an example of myself for the benefit of all old bachelor*. Lady T. Agreed 1 agreed 1 And now, my dear Sir Peter, we are of a mind once more, we may be the happiest couple in the world — and never differ again, you know — ha 1 ha! ha 1 Well, you are going to be in a passion, I see, and I shall only interrupt you ; so bye-bye. {Exit Lady T.) Sir P. Plagues and tortures! Can't I make her angry either! 0, I am the most miserable fellow ! But I'll not bear her presuming to keep her temper; no! she may break my heart, but she shan't keep her temper. Sheri'ltin. Liberty and Independence, July 4, 1776. There was tumult in the city, In the quaint old Quaker town, And the streets were rife with people Pacing restless up and down ; People gathering at corners, Where they whispered each to each, And the sweat stood on their temples, With the earnestness of speeclu As the bleak Atlantic currents L b the wild Newfoundland shore. 8o they beat aga ite House, 182 -in Elocution. And the mingling of their voices Made a harmony profound, Till tin- < (of Chestnut Was all turbulent with souud. " Will they do it? " " Dare they do it? * u Who is speaking?" " What's the news?' " What of Adams?" "What of Sherman?" " Oh ! God grant they won't refuse ; ' 11 Make some way there 1 " u Let me nearer! ' "I am stifling!" "Stifle, then! When a nation's life's at hazard, We've no time to think of mm." 8o they beat against the portal, Man and woman, maid and child; And the July sun in heaven On i looked down and smiled. The same sun that saw the Spartan Shed his patriot blood in vain, Now beheld the soul of freedom, All unconquered rise again. See ! see ! the dense crowd quivers Through all its lengthy Hue, As the b he portal Looks forth to give the sign; With his little hands uplifted, Breezes dallying with his hair, Hark ! with deep, clear intonation Breaks his young voice on the air. Hushed the people's swelling murmur, List the boy's exulting cry I "Ring!" he shouts, "ring! grandpa, Ring! oh, ring for Liberty!" Quickly at the given signal The old bellman lifts his hand, Forth he sends the good news, making Iron music through the land. Exercises in Elocution. 188 How they shouted ! what rejoicing ! How the old bell shook the air, Till the clang of freedom ruflled The calmly gliding Delaware. How the bonfires ;vn«i the torches Lighted ap the night's repose, And from flames, like fabled Phoenix, Our glorious liberty arose. »t old State House bell is silent, Hashed is now its eUmoroas tongue; But the spirit it awak- Still is living — ever young; And when we greet the smiling sunlight, On the fourth of each July, \ ne'er forget the bellman, Who, betwixt the earth and sky, Rang out loudly "Indkpkndknck," Which, please God, shall never die. Mary Maloney's Philosophy. " What are you singing for?" said I to Mary Maloney. M Oh, I don't know, ma'am, without it's because my heart feeli happy.'* 1, Mary Maloney? Let me see; you don't own a foot of land in the world ?" is it ? ".she cried, with a hearty Irish laugh;.*' oh f what a hand ye be after joking ; why, I haven't a penny, let alone sd I" •y Maloney, with a touch of genuine pathos; "may the angels make her is still a hard case, I sopp 1 say that. It's nothing but drink, drink. that she is, the creature " .our lit tK- sister's board." 184 in Elocution. "Sure, the bit creature, and she's a good little girl, is ninny, willing to do whatever I axes her. I don't grudge the money what goes for that" " You haven't many fashionable dresses either, Mary Maloney." hioii;ible, is it? Oh, yes, I put a piece of whalebone in my skirt, and me calico gown looks as big as the great ladies'. But -• says tn; but two gowns to me back, two shoes to t, and one bonnet to me head, barring the old hood ye gave '• Koa haven't any lover, Mary Maloney." "Oh, be oil' wi.l ye — ken h M.uy Maloney getting a lover these when the hard times is come. No, no, thank Heaven I haven't got that to trouble me yet, nor I don't want it." ''What on earth, then, have you got to make you happy ? A drunken brother, a poor helpless sister, no mother, no father, no en do you get all your happiness from?" " The L< t growed up in me. Give me a bit of sunshine, a clean flure, plenty of work, and a sup at the right ind I'm made. That makes me laugh and sing, and then if touble comes, why, God helpin' me, I'll try to keep my heart up. Sure, it would be a sad thing if Pati ie should take it it.to his head to come an ax me, but, the Lord willin', I'd try to bear up under it." Phi'adelphia Bulletin, The Ballad of Babie BelL L Have you not heard the poets tell How came the dainty Babie Bell Into this world of ours ? The gates of heaven were left ajar: With folded hands and dreamy eyes, Wandering out of Paradise, She saw this planet, like a star, Hung in the glittering depths of even, Its bridges, running to and fro, Kzmmcisba /.v Elocution ]6fi O'er which the white-wingeil angels go, . ing the holy dead to heaven! She touched a bridge of flowers, those feet, So light they did not. bend the bells Of the celestial asphodels! They fell like dew upon the flowers, Then all the air grew strangely sweet ; And thus came dainty Babie Bell Into this world of ours. n. Bhe came and brought delicious May, The swallows built beneath the eaves; Like sunlight in and out the leaves, The robins went, the livelong day; The lily swung its noiseless bell, And o'er the porch the trembling vine Seemed bursting with its veins of wine; ily, softly, twilight fell! Oh, earth was full of singing birds, And opening spring-tide flowers, When the dainty Babie Bell Came to this world of ours ! m O Babie, dainty Babie Bell, How fair she grew from day to day! What woman-nature filled her eyes, y within them lay I Those deep and tender twilight eyes, So full of meaning, pure and bright, As it light Of those opened gates of paradise 1 And so we loved her more and more; Ah, never in our hearts before Was love so lovely born ; We felt we had a link This real world ami that unseen, laud beyond the morn'' 186 krcises ix Elocution. And for the lore of those dear eyes For love of her whom God led forth (The mother's being ceased on earth When Babie came from Paradise ) — For love of him who smote our lives, And woke the chords of joy and pain, We said, " Dear Christ ! " our hearts bent down Like violets after rain. IV. And now the orchards, which were white And red with blossoms when she came, Were rich in autumn's mellow prime, The clustered apples burnt like flame, The ■oftroheeked peaobei blushed and fell, The irory chestnut burst its shell, The grape hung purpling in the grange, And time wrought just as rich a change In little Babie Bell. Her lissome form more perfect grew, And in her features we could trace, In softened curves, her mother's face, Her angel-nature ripened too, We thought her lovely when she came, But she was holy, saintly now, Around her pale angelic brow We saw a slender ring of flame ! God's hand had taken away the seal That held the portals of her speech; And oft she said a few strange words, Whose meaning lay beyond our reach. She never was a child to us, We never held her being's key ; We could not teach her holy things, She was Christ's self in purity. Ex 'i -non. 187 VL It Came upon us by degrees, We saw its shadow 'ere it fell, The knowledge that our God had sent His moMdiflor for Babie BelL We shuddered with unlanguaged pain, And all our thoughts ran into tears, Like sunshine into rain. We cried aloud in our belief, " Oh, smite us gently, gently, God ! Teach us to bend and kiss the rod, And perfect grow through grief," Ah, how we loved her, God can tell ; Her heart wao folded deep in ours; Our hearts are broken Babie BelL TO At last he came, the messenger, The messenger from unseen lands, And what did dainty Babie Bell? She only crossed her ha: She only looked more meek and fair I We parted back her silken hair; We wove the roses round her brow, White buds, the summer's drifted snow, Wrapped her from head to foot in flowers, And thus went dainty Babie Bell Out of this world of ours 1 Thomas Bailey AldricK The Irishwoman's Letter. And sure, I was tould to come in till yer honer, To see would \ i me Pat, He's gone for a soger is Mist her O'Conner, DO his arm, and a band on his hat. And what 'ill ye tell him? shure it must be aisy For the likes of yer honor to spake with the pen, 188 Kxkrcises in Elocution. Tell him I'm well, and mavourneen Daisy (The baby yer honor), is better again. For when he wint off so sick was the crayther, She niver hilt up her blue eyes till his face; And when I'd bo ci via he'd look at me wild like, And ax "would I wish for the counthry's disgrace.** So he left her in danger, an me sorely gravin, And followed the flag wid an Irishman's joy; And its often I drame of the big drums a batin, And a bullet gone straight to the heart of my boy. Tell him to sind us a bit of his money, For the rint and the docther's bill, due in a wake, An, shure there's a tear on yer eyelashes honey, I* faith I've no right with such fradora to spake. I'm over much thrifling, I'll not give ye trouble, I'll find some one willin — oh what can it be? What's that in the newspaper folded up double ? Yer honor, dont hide it, but rade it to me. Dead ! Patrick O'Conner I oh God its some ither, Shot dead 1 share 'tis a wake scarce gone by, An the kiss on the chake of his sorrowin mother, It hasn't had time yet yer honor to dhry. Dead I dead I God, am I crazy ? Shure its brakin my heart ye are telling me so, An what en the world will I do wid poor Daisy ? what can I do ? where can I go ? This room is so dark — I'm not seein yer honor, 1 think I'll go home — And a sob hard and dry, Rose up from the bosom of Mary O'Conner, But never a tear drop welled up to her eve. M. A. Denison. JtaatoamB tn Elocution-. 189 From Atalanta in Calydon. Before the beginning of years There came to the making of man, Time, with a gift of tears; Grief, with a glass that ran ; Pleasure, with pain for leaven; Summer, with flowers that full ; Remembrance fallen from Heaven, And madness risen from hell ; Strength without hands to smite; Love that endures for a breath ; Night, the shadow of light, And life, the shadow of death. And the high gods took in hand Fire, and the falling of tears, And a measure of sliding sand From under the feet of the years , And froth and drift of the sea ; And dust of the laboring earth; And bodies of things to be In the houses of death and of birth; And wrought with weeping and laughter, And fashioned with loathing and love, With life before and after, And death beneath and above, For a day and a night and a morrow, That his strength might endure for a spau With travail and heavy sorrow, The holy spirit of man. From the winds of the north and the south They gathered as unto strife; They breathed upon his mouth, They filled his body with life; Eyesight and speech they wrought For the veils of the soul the* 190 Exercises in Elocution, A time for labor and thought, A time to serve and to sin ; They gave him light in his ways, And love and a space for delight, And beauty and length of days, And night, and sleep in the night His speech is a burning fire ; With his lips he travaiKth ; In his heart is a blind desire, In his eyes foreknowledge of death ; He weaves, and is clothed with derision ; Sows, and he shall not reap ; His life is a watch or a vision Between a sleep and a sleep. Algernon Chat. Swinbum Darius Green and his Flying Machine. If ever there lived a Yankee lad. Wise or otherwise, good or bad, Who, seeing the birds fly, did n't jump With flapping arms from stake or stump, Or spreading the tail Of his coat for a sail, Take a soaring leap from post or rail, And wonder why He could n't fly, And flap and flutter and wish and try, — If ever you knew a country dunce Who did n't try that as often as once, All I can say is, that 's a sign He never would do for a hero of mine. An aspiring genius was D. Green : The son of a farmer, — age fourteen ; His body was long and lank and lean, — Just right for flying, as will be seen ; EXMMOOMa IN ELOChTION. 191 He had two eyes as bright as a bean, And a freckled nose that grew between, A little awry, — for I must mention That he had riveted his attention Upon his wonderful invention, Twisting his tongue as he twisted the strings, And working his face as he worked the wings, And with every turn of gimlet and screw Turning ami screwing his mouth round too, Till his nose seemed bent To catch the scent, Around some corner, of new-baked pies, And his wrinkled cheeks and squinting eyes Grew puckered into a queer grimace, That made him look very droll in the face, And also very wise. And wise he must have been, to do more Than ever a genius did before, Excepting Daedalus of yore, And his son Icarus, who wore Upon their backs Those wings of wax He had read of in the the old almanacks. Darius was clearly of the opinion, That the air is also man's dominion, And that, with paddle, or fin or pinion, We soon or late Shall navigate The azure as now we sail the sea. The thing looks simple enough to me; And if you doubt it, Hear how Darius reasoned about it " The birds can fly, An' why can't I ? Must we give in," 192 Exercises in Elocution. Says he with a grin, 44 That the bluebird an' phoebe Are smarter 'nwebe? Jest fold our hands an' see the swaller An* blackbird an' catbird beat us holler ? Doos the little chatterin', sassy wren, No bigger 'n my thumb, know more than men T Jest show me that ? Ur prove 't the bat Hez got more brains than 's in my hat, An' I '11 back down, an' not till then ?" He argued further: " Nor I can t see What 8 th* use o' wings to a bumble-bee, Fur to git a livin' with, more 'n to me; — Ain't my business Important 's his 'n is ? That Icarus Made a perty muss, — Him an' his daddy Daedalus. They might V knowed wings made o' wax Would 'nt stand sun-heat an' hard whacks. I '11 make mine o' luther, Ur 8uthin' ur other." And he said to himself, as he tinkered and planned : ' " But I ain't goin' to ehow my hand To nummies that never can understand The fust idee that 's big an' grand." So he kept his secret from all the rest, Safely buttoned within his vest; ^ And in the loft above the shed Himself he locks, with thimble and thread, And wax and hammer and buckles and screws, And all such things as geniuses use ; — Two bats for patterns, curious fellows ! . A charcoal-pot and a pair of bellows ; Exercises in Elocution. 103 Some wire, and several old umbrellas; A carriage-cover for tail and wings; A piece of a harness ; and straps and strings ; And a big strong box, In which he locks These and a hundred other things. His grinning brothers, Reuben and Burke And Nathan and Jotham and Solomon, lurk Around the corner to see him work, — Sitting cross-legged, like a Turk, Drawing the waxed-end through with a jerk, And boring the holes with a comical quirk Of his wise old head, and a knowing smirk. But vainly they mounted each other's backs, And poked through knot-holes and pried through cracks, With wood from the pile and straw from the stacks He plugged the knot-holes and calked the cracks; And a dipper of water, which one would think He had brought up into the loft to drink When he chanced to be dry, Stood always nigh, For Darius was sly I And whenever at work he happened to spy At chink or crevice a blinking eye, He let the dipper of water fly. So day after day He stitched and tinkered and hammered away, Till at last t was done, — The greatest invention under the sun ! 1 An' now," says Darius, " hooray fur some fun I " 'T was the Fourth of July, And • i dry, A.nd not a cloud was on all the sky, Bare a few light fleeces, which here and there, 194 Exercises in Elocution. Half mist, half air, Like foam on the ocean went floating by, — Just as lovely a morning as ever was seen For a nice little trip in a flying-machine. Thought cunning Darius : " Now I sha 1 n't go Along 'ith the fellers to see the show. I '11 say I 've got sich a terrible cough I An' then, when the folks 'ave all gone offi I Ml have full swing Fur to try the thing, An' practice a little on the wing." " Ain't goin' to see the celebration ? " Says brother Nate. " No ; botheration ! I 've got sich a cold — a toothache — I — My gracious 1 — feel 's though I should fly 1 " SaidJctham, "'Shot Guess ye better go." But Darius said, " No I Should n't wonder 'f you might see me, though, 'Long 'bout noon, ef I get red 0' this jumpin', thumpin' pain 'n my head." For all the while to himself he said : — " I tell ye what ! I '11 fly a few times around the lot, To see how 't seems, tnen soon 's I 've got The hang o' the thing, ez likely 's not, I '11 astonish the nation, An' all creation, By fly in' over the celebration ! Over their heads I '11 sail like an eagle ; I '11 balance myself on my wings like a sea-gull ; I '11 dance on the chimbleys ; I '11 stand on the steeple I '11 flop up to winders an' scare the people 1 urcises ix Elocution. 195 I '11 light on the liberty-pole,* an' crow ; An' I '11 say to the gawpin' fools below, 1 What world 's this 'ere That I 've come near ? ' Fur I Ml make 'em b'lieve I 'm a chap f 'm the moon ; An I '11 try a race 'ith their ol' balloon I " He crept from his bed ; And seeing the others were gone, he said, I 'm gittin' over the cold 'n my head." And away he sped, To open the wonderful box in the shed. His brothers had walked but a little way, When Jotham to Nathan chanced to say, " What is the feller up to, hey ? " " Don'o', — i the 's suthin' ur other to pay, Ur he would n't 'a' stayed to hum to-day." Says Burke, " His toothache's all 'n his eye ! He never 'd miss a Fo'th-o'-July, Ef he hed n't got some machine to try." Then Sol, the little one, spoke j " Le *8 hurry back an' hide 'n the barn, An* pay him fur tellin' us that yarn ! " " Agreed 1 " Through the orchard they creep back. Along by the fences, behind the stack, And one by one, through a hole in the wall, In under the dusty barn they crawl, D r oaac d in their Sunday garments all ; And a very astonishing sight was that, When each in his cobwebbed coat and hat Came up through the floor like an ancient rat And there they hid ; And Reuben slid The fastenings back, and the door undid. 4 ' Keep dark I " said he, " While I iquint an' see what the' is to see.** 190 Exercises in Elocution. As knighU of old put on their mail, — From head to foot An iron suit, Iron jacket and iron boot, Iron breeches, and on the head No hat, but an iron pot instead, And under the chin the bail, (I believe they called the thing a helm,) Then sallied forth to overwhelm The dragons and pagans that plagued the realm, — So this modern knight, Prepared for flight, Put on his wings and strapped them tight, — Jointed and jaunty, strong and light, — Buckled them fast to shoulder and hip, — Ten feet they measured from tip to tip I And a helm had he, but that he wore, Not on his head, like those of yore, But more like the helm of a ship. " Hush I " Reuben said, " He '8 up in the shed! He 's opened the winder, — I see his head 1 He stretches it out, An' pokes it about, Lookin' to see 'f the coast is clear, An' nobody near ; — Guess he don'o' who 's hid in here ! He 's riggin' a spring-board over the sill ! Stop luffin', Solomon 1 Burke, keep still ! He 's a climbin' out now — Of all the things I What's he got on ? I van, it 's wings ! An' that 't other thing ? I vum, it's a tail ! An' there he sets like a hawk on a rail I Steppin' careful, he travels the length Of his spring-board, and teeters to try its strength. Now he stretches his wings like a monstrous bat ; •UTION. 107 over his shoulder, this way an' that, Fur to see 'f the' 's any one passin' by ; But the' '8 on'y a ca'f an' a goslin' nigh. They turn up at him a wonderin' eye, To see — The dragon I he 's goin' to fly I Away he goes I Jimminy I what a jumpl Flop — flop — an* plump To the ground with a thump ! Flutfrin' an' flound'rin', all *n a lump ! " As a demon is burled by an angel's spear Heels over head, to his proper sphere, — over head, and head over heels, Dizzily down the abyss he wheels, — So fell Darius. Upon his crown, In the midst of the barn-yard, he came down, In a wonderful whirl of tangled strings, Broken braces and broken springs, Broken tail and broken wings, Shooting-stars, and various things, — Barn-yard litter of straw and chaff, And much that was n't so nice by half. Away with a bellow fled the calfj And what was that ? Did the gosling laugh ? 'T is a merry roar From the old barn-door, And he hears the voice of Jotham crying, " Say, D'nus 1 how do you like flyin' ? " Slowly, ruefully, where he lay, Darius just turned and looked that way, As he stanched his sorrowful nose with his cuff. " Wal, I like flyin' well enough," He said ; " but the' ain't sich a awful sight Q fun in 't when ye come to light " l©8 Exercises in Elocution. MORAL. I just have room for the moral here : And this is the moral, — Stick to your sphere. Or if you insist, as you have the right, On spreading your wings for a loftier flight, The moral is, — Take cart how you light. J T. TrcwbrUUn No Sect in Heaven. Talking of sects till late one eve, Of the various doctrines the saints believe, That night I stood in a troubled dream, By the side of a darkly-flowing stream. And a "Churchman" down to the river came, When I heard a strange voice call his name, "Good father, stop; when you cross this lide, You must leave your robes on the other side." But the aged father did not mind, And his long gown floated out behind, As down to the stream his way he took, His pale hands clasping a gilt-edged book. "I'm bound for Heaven, and when I'm there I shall want my book of Common Prayer; And though I put on a starry crown, I should feel quite lost without my gown." Then he fixed his eyes on the shining track, But his gown was heavy, and held him back ; And the poor old father tried in vain, A single step in the flood to gain. I saw him again on the other side, But his silk gown floated on the tide ; And no one asked in that blissful spot, Whether he belonged to " the Church " or not. KXBRCISES IN J^LOCVnOJf. 10 When down to the river a Quaker strayed, His dress of a sober hue was made; " My coat and hat must be all gray, I cannot go any other way." Then he buttoned his coat straight up to his chin, And staidly, solemnly, waded in, And his broad-brimmed hat he pulled down tight Over his forehead, so cold and white. But a strong wind carried away his hat ; A moment he silently sighed over that, And then, as he gazed on the farther shore, The coat, slipped off, and was seen no more. As he entered Heaven, his suit of gray Went quietly sailing away, away, And none of the angels questioned him About the width of his beaver's brim. Next came Dr. Watts with a bundle of Psalms, Tied nicely up in his aged arms, And hymns as many, a very wise thing, That the people in Heaven, " all rouud," might sing. Bit I thought that he heaved an anxious sigh, As he saw that the river ran broad and high, And looked rather surprised as, one by one The Psalms and Hymns in the wave went down. And after him with his MSS., Came Wesley, the pattern of godliness; But he cried, M Dear m--, what shall I do ? The water has soaked them through and through.*' And there on the river, far and wide, Away they went down the swollen tide, And the saint Ml Msed through alone, .1 his manuscripts Dp to thu throne. 9* 200 Exercises rr Elocjtion. Then gravely walking, two saints by name, Down to the stream together came ; But as they stopped at the river's brink, I saw one saint from the other shrink. 1 Sprinkled or plunged, may I ask you, friend, How you attained to life's great end ?" " Thus, with a few drops on my brow," " But / have been dipped, as you'll see me now "And I really think it will hardly do, As I'm 'close communion,' to cross with you; You're bound, I know, to the realms of bllsn, But you must go that way, and I'll go this." Then straightway plunging with all his might, Away to the left — his friend at the right, Apart tbej wont from this world of sin, But at last together they entered in. And, now, when the river is rolling on, A Presbyterian Church went down ; Of women there seemed an innumerable throng, But the men I could count as they passed along And concerning the road, they could never agree, The old or the new way, which it could be, Nor even a moment paused to think That botli would lead to the river's brink. And a sound of murmuring long and loud Came ever up from the moving crowd, "You're in the old way, and I'm in the new That is the false, and this is the true ;" Or, "I'm in the old way, and you're in the new, That is the false, and this is the true." But the brethren only seemed to speak, Modest the sisters walked, and meek, And if ever one of them chauced to say /■:.xi:i;cises in Elocution. 20/ What troubles she met with on the way, How she longed to pass to the other side, >s over the swelling tide, A voice arose from the brethren then : ;ik but the ' holy men ; ' ive ye not heard the words of Paul, 4 let the women keep silence all?'" I watched thorn long in my curious dream, Till they stood by the borders of the stream, Then, just as I thought, the two ways met, But all the brethren were talking yet, And would talk on, till the heaving tide Carried them over side by side; Side by side, for the way was one, toilsome journey of life was done, And all who in Christ the Saviour died Come out alike on the other side; No forms, or crosses, or books had they, No gowns of silk, or suits of l: No creeds to guide them, or MSS., For all had [tut on Christ's righteous;. Mrs. Cleveland. Poetry. . in n twofold view, a* n spirit and a manifestat M. Perhaps • i been more justly defined, than by Byron in his -a creation >nt thai peculiar rm to all the effort! ileal composition, as from the live. The world is lull of poetry ; — the air ring with its spirit; and the w:r Danee to I of its mel< ,'e in its brightness. Earth is \ And with its beauty; and the walls Tha in, 201 x nf Elocution. At. eloquent with voices, that proclaim Ties of in In harmonics, too perfect, and too high, For aught but beings of celestial mouM, And speak to man in one eternal hymn, Unfading beauty, and unyielding power. The year leads round the seasons, in a choir ever charming, and for ever new, Blending the grand, the beautiful, the The mournful, and the tender, in one strain, Which steals into the heart, like sounds that rise IT, in moonlight evenings, on the shore Of the wide ocean resting after storms ; Or tones that wind around the vaulted roof, And pointed arches, and Of some old, lonely minster, where the hand, Skillful, and moved with passionate love of art, Plays o'er the highl iod bears aloft The peals of bursting thunder, and then calls, By mellow touches, from the softer tubes, Voices of melting tenderness, that blend With pure and gentle musings, till the soul, Commingling with the melody, is borne, Rapt, and dissolved in ecstasy, to Heaven. 'T is not the chime and flow of words, that move In measured file, and metrical array ; T is not the union of returning sounds, Nor all the pleasing artifice of rhyme, And quantity, and accent, that can give This all-pervading spirit to the ear, Or blend it with the movings of the soul 'T is a mysterious feeling, which combines Man with the world around him, in a chain Woven of flowers, and dipped in sweetness, till He taste the high communion of his thoughts, With all existences, in earth and Heaven, That meet him in the charm of grace and power. Sxmbcomm in Elocution, 203 T w not the noisy babbler, who displays, In Studied phrase, and ornate epithet, And rounded period, poor and vapid thoughts, Which peep from out the cumbrous ornaments That overload their littleness. Its words iWj bat deep and solemn ; and they break from the fount of feeling, and are lull Of all that passion, which, on Carmel, fired The holy prophet, when his lips were coals, His language winged with terror, as when bolts Leap from the brooding tempest) Mined with wrath, Commissioned to affright us and destroy. Well I remember, in my boyish days, How deep the feeling when my eye looked forth On Nature, in her loveliness, and storms, llow my heart gladdened, M the light of spring Came from the sun, with zephyrs, and with showers. Waking the earth to beauty, and the woods To music, and the atmosphere to blow, Dd calmly, with its breath of balm. 0, how I gazed upon the dazzling blue Of summer's Heaven of glory, and the ere That rolled, in lending gold, o'er hill and plain; And <»n the tempest, when it issued forth, In folds of blackness, from the northern sky, And stood above the mountains, silent, dark, ,'ng, and terrible; then sent abroad The lightni i, and the | That rolled in n volleys, round the hills, The warning of its coming, and the sound That ushered in its el irarl And, oh 1 I stood, in breathless longing fixed, Trembling, and yet not fearful, as the clouds Heaved their dark billows on the sent, fiom mountain top, and hitidii.. d. A long hoa rash of ere That bent, in foam end fury, on the >hore. Ml A '.v i 1 7 i / v /jv Elocution. Nor less the swelling of my heart, when high Rose the blue arch of autumn, cloudless, pure As Nature, at her dawning; when she sprang Fresh from the hand that wrought her; where the eye Caught I k upon the soft serene, To keep eerulean, but the cloud, That floated, like a lonely spirit, tl White as the snow of Zemla, or the foam That on the mid-sea tosses, cinctured round, In easy undulations, with a 1 '■ gulden hair. Nor, when thai aroh, in winter's deareei night, atled in ebon dsrkneas, strewed with stars UM'pv. tin | to swell, and swell The higher, as I gazed upon it, till, Sphere at: . on the height Of heaven, the everlasting throne shone through, In 'jlorv's full effnl I a wave, Intensely bright, lotted, like a fountain, forth I Mai, Mid streamed Down the long galaxy, a flood of snow, Bathing the heavens in light, the spring that gushed. In overflow.: M, from fcht Of all-maternal nature. These I saw, And felt to madness; but my full heart gave No utterance to the ineffable within. W Is were too weak ; ti unknown, but still The feeling was most poignant: it has gone, And all the deepest flow of sounds, that e'er Poured, in a torrent fullness, from the tongue Rich with the wealth of ancient bards, and stored With all the patriarchs of British song Hallowed and rendered glorious, cannot tell Those feelings, which have died, to live no more. PereivaL K\ U9 Elocution. 205 Wool Gathering and Mouse Hunting, Here we stop for the night You are shown into a room that pened .-inc. ant left it, and is unsavory and unti«ly to the last degu-e. An appeal to the gentlemanly clerk secures a change for the better; but there is a hole by th- in Number Two that looks suspicious. You cross-examine the porter, who assures you that it has no significance whatever. A mouse in that room is an event of which history gives no record • m take the precaution to stuff the hole with an ol New York I [trail, and are awakened at midnight by the dreadful rustling of paper. A dreadful gnawing succeeds the dreadful rust- ling, and away goes a boot in the direction of the sound. There is a pause broken only by heart throbs 1 Then another gnawing, fol- d by a boot till the supply is exhausted. Then you begin on the pillows. A longer pause gives rise to the hope that order is about to reign in Warsaw, and you are just falling asleep again, when a smart scratching close to your ear, shoots you to tin- other :n with the conviction that the mouse is running up of the curtain at the head of your bed. In a frenzy you ring violently, and ask through the door for a chambermaid. " Can't have no chambermaid this time o' night," drawls the porter sleepily. "Then send up a mouse-trap." " Aint no mouse-trap in the house." " Then bring a cat I " " Dunno nothin' about it," and he scuffs his slippered feet down the long gallery, growling audibly, poor fellow, half suspecting evidently that he is the victim of a joke; but alas! it is no joke. try on the foot of the bed, faring the ninny. He :rom the curtain, runs up and down the slats of the blind in in the window iingerery now and then into obscurity; and this is the worst of all. When you see him he is in one place, but when you do not see him he > it umbrella, and from time to time n ;> him on' immediate vicinity, and so the night wears wearily away. Your refreshing sleep turns into a campaign against a m -v in the u ioini tig three dollar ;iMl i !t half; 206 Bxmrcomb in Elocution. the gentlemanly clerk, with a pitying smile, informs you, '0, we cannot help that! There are mice all over the house! " Moral reflection: If ever the education of a soaring human boy be intrusted to my care, I will endeavor to model his manners on those of a clerk in a hotel. Per conscious superiority, tempered with benevolenco and swathed in suavity; for perfect self-posses- sion; for high-b: tension to the ignorance and toleration of the weakness of others; for absolute equality to circumstances, aid a certain grace, assurance, and flourish of bearing, — give me a Jerk in a hoteL We may see generals, poets and philosophers, indistinguishable from the common herd; but a true hotel clerk wears on his beauteous brow, and in his noble mien, the indubitable sign of greatness. From Albany to Niagara is a pleasant daye journey, and the Niagara mice are not quite so large, nor quite so lively, as those of Eastern New York v They do not appear till the second day. Then, resting quietly after a walk, you see a mouse creep timidly from under the bureau. You improvise a sort of pontoon bridge to the bell, out of your chairs and tables, and, as it is day-time, secure a chambermaid and superintend a mouse hunt She whisks about the room enthusiastically, peers under all the furniture, assuring you the while that it is four years now she has been in the house and never saw a mouse in the chambers, though she confesses to having seen them in the kitchen, and, being hard pressed, well, she has seen them in the passages; but in the chambers, no I never' and you are led to believe that, though a mouse might stand shivering on the brink of your room, he would fear to step foot over the threshold. No, there is no mouse here, not a sign of a mouse. "No sign of a mouse, except the mouse itself," you suggest "Ah! but you must have been mistaken. It was a shadow. Why" (with a grand flourish of the valance with her right hand, and in the air with her left), "you can see for yourself there is no mouse here," — and she thinks she has made her point You look at her, debating within yourself whether it is worth while to attempt to acquaint her with the true province of nega- tives, the proper disposition of the burden of proof, and the sophis- try of an undue assumption of the major premise, and decide that it is not Ex ix Elocution. 207 Moral and philological reflection : We see now the reason why trunks and traveling-bag:* are called traps. Synecdoche: Because the mouse-traps are the most important part of your luggage. Oail Hamilton. A Legend of Bregena Girt round with rugged mountains, The fair Lake Constance lies; In her blue heart reflected Shine back the starry skies; And, watching each white cloudlet Float silently and slow, You think a piece of Heaven Lies on our earth below 1 Midnight is there: and Silence, Enthroned in Heaven, looks down Upon her own calm mirror, Upon a sleeping town : For Bregenz, that quaint city Upon the Tyrol shore, Has stood above Lake Constance A thousand years and more. Her battlements and towers, From off their rocky strep, Have cast their trembling shadow For ages on the deep : Mountain, and lake, and valley, A sacred legend know, Of how the town was saved, one night, Three hundred years ago. Far from her home and kindred, A Tyrol maid had : To serve in the BwiM valleys, And toil for daily bread ; And every year that fleeted So silently and fast, Seemed to bear farther from her The memory of the Past 208 BxmmcumM or Elocution. She served kind, gentle masters, Nor asked for rest or change ; Her friends seemed no more new ones, Their speech seemed no more strange; And when she led her cattle To pasture every day, She ceased to look and wonder On which side Bregenz lay. She spoke no more of Bregenz, With longing and with tears; Her Tyrol home seemed faded In a deep mist of years ; She heeded not the rumors Of Austrian war and strife; Each day she rose conu To the calm toils of life. Yet, when her master's children Would clustering round her stand, She sang them ancient ballads Of her own native land ; And when at morn and evening She knelt before God's throne, The accents of her childhood Rose to her lips alone. And so she dwelt: the valley More peaceful year by year; When suddenly strange portents Of some great deed seemed near. The golden corn was bending Upon its fragile stalk, While farmers, heedless of their fields, Paced up and dow r u in talk. , The men seemed stern and altered, — With looks cast on the ground; With anxious faces, one by one, The women gathered round ; rf\!!;,-fSKS IX ELOCUTION, All talk of flax, or spinning, Or work, was put away ; The very children seemed afraid To go alone to play. One day, out in the meadow With strangers from the town, Some secret plan discussing, The men walked up and down. Yet now and then seemed watchir^ A strange uncertain gleam, That looked like lances 'mid the treea That stood below the stream. At eve they all assembled, Then care and doubt were fled ; With jovial laugh they feasted; The board was nobly spread. The elder of the village Rose up, his glass in hand, And cried, " We drink the downfall Of an accursed land 1 "The night is growing darker, Ere one more day is flown, Bregenz, our foemens' stronghold, Bregenz shall be our own I " women shrank in terror (Yet Pride, too, had her part), But one poor Tyrol maiden Pelt death within her heart Before her stood fair Bregenz; Once more her towers arose; What were the friends beside her f Only her oouni The faces of her kinsfolk, The days of childhood flown, The echoes of her mount;. Reclaimed her as their own. 10 Exercises in Elocution.. Nothing she heard around her (Though shouts rang forth again), Gone were the green Swiss valleys, The pasture, and the plain ; Before her eyes one vision, And in her heart one cry, That said, "Go forth, save Bregenz, And then, if need be, die! " With trembling haste and breathless, With noiseless step, she sped; Horses and weary cattle Were standing in the shed ; She loosed the strong, white charger, That fed from out her hand, She mounted, and she turned his head Toward her native land. Out — out into the darkness — Faster, and still more fast; The smooth grass flies behind her, The chestnut wood is past; She looks up ; clouds are heavy ; Why is her steed so slew? — Scarcely the wind beside them Can pass them as they go. u Faster ! " she cries, " faster ! " Eleven the church-bells chime: " God," she cries, " help Bregens, And bring me there in time I" But louder than bells' ringing, Or lowing of the kine, Grows nearer in the midnight The rushing of the Rhine. Shall not the roaring waters Their headlong gallop check ? The steed draws back in terror,— She leans upon his neck Si in Elocutioit. 211 To watch the flowing darkness; The bank is high and steep; One pause — he staggers forward. And plunges in the deep. She strives to pierce the blackness, And looser throws the rein ; Her steed must breast the waters That dash above his mane. How gallantly, how nobly, He struggles through the foam, And see — in the far distance Shine out the lights of home I Up the steep bank he bears ber, And now, they rush again Towards the heights of Bregens, That tower above the plain. They reach the gate of Bregens Just as the midnight rings, And out come serf and soldier To meet the news she brings. Bregenz is saved 1 Ere daylight Her battlements are manned; Defiance greets the army That marches on the land. And if to deeds heroic Should endless fame be paid, Bregenz does well to honor The noble Tyrol maid. Three hundred years are vanished, And yet upon the hill An old stone gateway rises, To do her honor still. And there, when Bregenz women Sit spinning in the shade, They see in quaint old carving The Charger and the Maid. 212 //a i or M LOCUTION. And when, to guard old Bregenz, By gateway, street and tower, The warder paces all night long And calls each passing hour; "Nine," "ten," "eleven," he cries aloud, And then (0 crown of Fame 1) When midnight pauses in the skies, lie calls the maiden's name I Adelaide PtocUr The Grandmother's Apology. Willy, my eldest born, is gone, you say, little Annie? id white, and strong on hi • looks like a man. And Willy's wife has written : she never was overwise, Never the wife for Willy : he wouldn't take my advice. AnDie, you see, her father was not the man to save ; t a head to manage, and drank himself into his grave. •y enough, very pretty I but I was against it for one. Eh I — but he wouldn't hear me — and Willy, you say, is gone. Why do you look at me, Annie? you think I am hard and cold; But all my children have gone before me, I am so old: I cannot weep for Willy, nor can I weep for the n Only at your age, Annie, I could have wept with the best For I remember a quarrel I had with your father, my dear, All for a slanderous story, that cost me many a tear. I mean your grandfather, Annie : it cost me a world of woe, Seventy years ago, my darling, seventy years ago. Willy had not been down to the farm for a week and a day ; And all things look'd half-dead, tho' it was the middle of May. Jenny, to slander me, who knew what Jenny had been 1 I>ut soiling another, Annie, will never make oneself clean. And I cried myself well-nigh blind, and all of an evening late climb'd to the top of the garth, and stood by the road at the gate The moon like a rick on tire was rising over the dale, And whit, whit, whit, in the bush beside me, chirrupt the night- ingale. Exercises in Elocution. 213 All of a sudden he stopt: there past by the gate of the farm, — he didn't see me, — and Jenny hung on his arm. Out into the road I started, and spoke I searce knew how ; Ah, there's no fool like the old one — it makes me angry now. Willy stood up like a man, and look'd the thing that he meant; Jenny, the viper, made me a mocking courtesy and went. And I said, " Let us part: in a hundred years it'll all be the same. Y'ou cannot love me at all, if you love not my good name." And he turn'd, and I saw his eyes all wet, in the sweet moonshine : " Sweetheart, I love you so well that your good name is mine. And what do I care for Jane, let her speak of you well or ill; But marry me out of hand : we two shall be happy still." ' Marry you, Willy ! " said I, M but I needs must speak my mind, I fear you will listen to tales, be jealous and hard and unkind." But he turn'd and claspt me in his arms, and answer' d, "No, love, no ; " Seventy years ago, my darling, seventy years ago. Ily and I were wedded : I wore a lilac gown ; And the ringers rang with a will, and he gave the ringers a crown. jealous — not he: we had many a happy year; And he died, and I could not weep — my own time seem'd so near. But I wish'd it had been God's will that I, too, then could have died: I began to be tired a little, and fain had slept at his side. that was ten years back, or more, if I don't forget: But as to the children, Annie, they're all about me yet. bg over the boards, my Annie who left me at two, •■ she goes, my own little Annie, an Annie like you: ing over the boards, she comes and goes at her will, While Harry is in the five-acre and Charlie ploughing the hilL Harry and Charlie, I hear them too — they sing to their team; to the door in a pleasant kind of a d: . my chair, they hover about my bed — I am not always certain if they be alive or dead. 214 Kxercises in Elocution. And yet [ know for a truth, there's none of them left alive; For Harry went at sixty, your father at sixty- five, And Willy, my eldest born, at nigh threescore and ten; I knew them all as babies, and now they're elderly men. So Willy has gone, my btMlltj, my eldest-bom, my flower; But how can I weep for Willy, he has but gone for an hour, — Gone for a minute, my son, from this room into the next ; I too, shall go in a minute. What time have I to be vext? And Willy '8 wife has written, she never was overwise. Get me my glasses, Annie : thank God that I keep my eyes. There is but a trifle left you, when I shall have past away. But stay with the old woman now : you cannot have long to stay. Tennyson, What is Glory? What is Fame? What is Glory? What is Fame? The echo of a long-lost name ; A breath, an idle hour's brief talk; The shadow of an arrant naught ; A flower that blossoms for a day, Dying next morrow ; A stream that hurries on its way, Singing of sorrow ; The last drop of a bootless shower, Shed on a sere and leafless bower ; A rose, stuck in a dead man's breast — This is the World's fame at the best I What is Fame? and what is Glory? A dream, — a jester's lying story, To tickle fools withal, or be A theme for second infancy; A joke scrawled on an epitaph ; A grin at Death's own ghastly laugh ; A visioning that tempts the eye, But mocks the touch — nonentity ; fij IT I ON. 215 A rainbow, substanceless as bright, Flitting forever OVr hill-top to more distant height, Hearing us never; A bubble blown by fond conceit, In very sooth itself to cheat; The witch-fire of a frenzied brain , A fortune that to lose were gain ; A word of praise, perchance of blame ; The wreck of a time-bandied name,— Av, this is Glory 1 — this is Fame I Mother wtlU The Progress of Poesy. In climes beyond the solar road, Where shaggy forms o'er ice-built mountains roam, The Muse has broke the twilight gloom To cheer the shivering native's dull abode. And oft, beneath the od'rous shade Of Chili's boundless forests laid, She deigns to hear the savage youth repeat, In loose numbers wildly sweet, Their feather-cinctured chiefs, and dusky loves. tok, where'er the godless roves, Glory pursue, and gen'rous Shame, Th' unconquerable Mind, and freedom's holy rlame. Woods, that wave o'er Delphi's steep, , that crown th' MgpKQ deep, Fields, that cool Ilissus la Or where Mceander's amber waves In lingering lab'rinths < How do your tuneful echoes languish, Mute, but to the voice of anguish I each ohl poetic mountain ration breathed around; . shade and hallow'd fountain Murmur'd deep a solemn s un.l: Till the sad Nine, in Greece's evil hour, Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains. l.i 316 Exercises in Elocution, Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant Power, And coward Vice, that revels in her chains. When Latium had her lofty spirit lost, They sought, Albion 1 next thy sea-encircled coast Far from the sun and summer-gale, In thy green lap was Nature's darling laid, What time, where lucid Avon stray'd, To him the mighty mother did unveil Her awful face: the dauntless child Stretch'd forth his little arras and smiled. " This pencil take (she said), whose colors clear Richly paint the vernal year : Thine too these golden keys, immortal Boy 1 This can unlock the gates of joy ; Of horror that, and thrilling fears, Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears." Nor second He, that rode sublime Upon the seraph-wings of ecstasy, The secrets of th' abyss to spy. He pass'd the flaming bounds of place and time : The living throne, the sapphire blaze, Where angels tremble while they gaze, He saw; but, blasted with excess of light, Closed his eyes in endless night Behold, where Dryden's less presumptuous car Wide o'er the fields of glory bear Two coursers of ethereal race, With necks in thunder clothed, and long-resounding paoe Hark, his hands the lyre explore 1 Bright-eyed Fancy, hov'ring o'er, Scatters from her pictured urn Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn. But ah! 'tis heard no more lyre divine ! what daring spirit Wakes thee now? Though he inherit Nor the pride, nor ample pinion, That the Theban eagle bear, RXBM cises in El ocution. 2 1 7 Sailing with supreme dominion Through the azure deep of air: ft before his infant eyes would run Such forma as glitter in the Muse's ray, With orient hues, unborrowed of the sun: shall he mount, and keep his distant way Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate, Beneath the Good how far, — but far above the Great. Gray. Prom The Toilers of the Sea, I. THE COMBAT. liilliatt ascended to the summit of the Great Douvre. Kn.rn hence he could see around the horizon. The western side was appalling. A wall of cloud spread across it, barring the wide expanse from side to side, and ascending slowly from the horizon towards the zenith. This wall, straight- I, vertical, without a crevice in its height, without a rent in its structure, seemed built by the square, and measured by the plumb-line. It was cloud in the likeness of granite. Its escarpment, completely perpendicular at the southern extremity, curved a little towards the north, like a bent sheet of iron, pre- rig the steep, slippery face of an inclined plane. The dark wall enlarged and grew; but its entablature never ceased for a moment to be parallel with the horizon line, which was almost tinguishable in the gathering darkness. Silently, and alto- gether, the airy battlements ascended. No undulation, no wrinkle, no projection changed its shape or moved its place. The aspect of this immobility in movement was impressive. The sun, pale in the It of a strange, sickly transparence, lighted op this outlii the Apocalypse. Already the cloudy bank had blotted out half the space of the sky, shelving like the fearful tatua of the abyss. It was the uprising of a dark mountain between earth and en. It was night falling suddenly upon midday. There was a heat in the air as from an ovendoor, coming from that mysterious mass on mass. The sky, which from blue nad be- 218 ExMMommM T x Elocution. come white, was now turning from white to a slaty gray. The sea beneath, leaden-hued and dull No breath, no wave, no Far as eye could reach, the desert ocean. No sail was visible on any side. The birds had disappeared. Some monstrous treason 1 abroad. The wall of cloud grew visibly larger. This moving mountain of vapors, which was approaching the Douvres, was one of those which might be called the clouds of battle Sinister appearances; some strange, furtive glance seemed cast upon the beholder through that obscure mass up-pilei. The approach was terrible. Gilliatt obser\ ed it closely, and muttered to himself M I am thristy enough, but you will give me plenty to drink." He stood there motionless a few moments, his eye fixed upon the cloud-bank, as if mentally taking a sounding of the temj tjahrienne was in the pocket of his jacket; he took it out and placed it on his head. Then he fetched from the cave, which had so long served him for a sleeping-place, a few things which he had kept there in reserve; he put c alls, and attired him- self in his water-proof overcoat, like a knight who puts on his armour at the moment of batti .1 no shoes, but his naked feet had become hardened to the rocks. This preparation for the storm being completed, he looked down upon his br grasped the knotted cord hurriedly, descended from the plateau of the Douvre, stepped on to the rocks below, and hastened to his store cavern. A few moments later he was at work. The vast silent cloud might have heard the strokes of his hammer. With the nails, ropes, and beams which still remained, he constructed for the eastern gullet a second frame, which he suc- ceeded in fixing at ten or twelve feet from the other. The silence was still profound. The blades of grass between the cracks of the .ocks were not stirred. The sun disappeared suddenly. Gilliatt looked up. The rising cloud had just reached it It was like the blotting out of day, succeeded by a mingled pale reflection. The immense wall of cloud had changed its appearance. It no longer retained its unity. It had curved on reaching the zenith, whence it spread horizontally over the rest of the heavens. It fi i i ises in Elocution. 2 1 9 its various stages. The tempest formation was visible, like the strata in the side of a trench. It was possible to distin- guish the layers of the rain from the beds of hail. There was no tiling, but a horrible, diffused ghre; for the idea of horror may be attached to light The vague breathing of the storm was audi- ble; the silence was broken by an obscure palpitation. Gilliatt, silent, also, watched the giant blocks of vapor grouping them- selves overhead, forming the shapeless mass of clouds. Upon tho horizon brooded and lengthened out a baud of mist of allien hue; in the zenith, another band of lead color. Pale, ragged fragment! of cloud hong from the great mass above upon the mist below. The f cloud which formed the background was wan, dull, gloomy. A thin, whitish, transverse cloud, coming no one could tell whither, cut the high dark wall obliquely from north to south. One of the extremities of this cloud trailed along the surface of the sea. At the point where it touched the waters a dense red vapor was le in the midst of the darkness. Below it, smaller clouds, quite black and very low, were flying as if bewildered or moved by opposite currents of air. The immense cloud behind increased from all points at once, darkened the eclipse, and continued to spread its somber pall. In the east, behind Gilliatt, there was only one clear porch in the heavens, which was rapidly being closed. Without any feeling of wind abroad, a strange flight of gray downy particles seemed to pass; they were fine, and scattered as if some gigantic bird had been plucked of its plumage behind the bank of cloud. A dark, compact roof had gradually formed itself, which on the verge of the horizon touched the sea, and mingled in dark- ness with it. The beholder had a vague sense of something advancing steadily towards him. It was vast, heavy, ovninous. •ily an immense peal of thunder burst upon the air. Gilliatt himself felt the shock. The rude reality in the midst of that visionary region has something in it terrific. The listener fan- that he hears something falling in the chamber of giants. No accompanied »rt It was a blind peal. The e was profound again. There was an interval, as when com- batar ip their position. Then appeared slowly, one after the i ^eless flashes; these flashes were silent The wall of cloud was now a \ ast cavern, with roofs and arches. Out- 220 Exercises in Elocution. lines of forms were traceable among them ; monstrous ne.vis were vaguely shadowed forth ; rocks seemed to stretch out ; elephants bearing turrets, seen for a moment, vanished. A column of vapor, straight, round, and dark, and surmounted by a white mist, simu- lated the form of a colossal steam-vessel engulfed and hissing and smoking beneath the waves. Sheets of cloud undulated like folds of giant flags. In the center, under a tibfak purple pall, a nucleus of dense fog sunk motionless, inert, impenetrable by the electrio fires : a sort of hideous fceius in the bosom of the tempest Suddenly Gilliatt felt a breath moving his hair. Two or three large drops of rain fell heavily around him on the rock. Then there was a second thunder-clap. The wind was rising. The terror of darkness was at its highest point. The first peal of thunder had shaken the sea; the second rent the wall of cloud from top to base ; a breach was visible ; the pent-up deluge rushed to- it ; the rent became like a gulf filled with rain. The out- pouring of the tempest had begun. The moment was terrible. Rain, wind, lightnings, thunder, waves swirling upwards to the clouds, foam, hoarse noises, whistlings, mingled together, like mon- sters suddenly unloosened. For a solitary man, imprisoned with an overloaded bark between two dangerous rocks in mid-ocean, no crisis could have been more menacing. The danger of the tide, over which he had triumphed, was nothing compared with the danger of the tempest II. THI APPEAL IS HIARD. Some hours passed. The sun rose in an unclouded sky. Its first ray shone upon a motionless form upon the Great Douvre. It was Gilliatt He was still outstretched upon the rock. He was naked, cold, and stiff, but he did not shiver. His closed eyelids were wan. It would have been difficult for a beholder to say whether the form before him was a corpse. The sun seemed to look upon him. If he were not dead, he was already so near death that the slight cold would have sufficed to extinguish life. Exercises a Elocution. 221 The wind began to breathe, warm and animating — the opening breath of May. Meanwhile the sun ascended in the deep blue sky; its rays, less ntal, flushed the sky. Its light became warmth. It en- -d the slumbering form. Gilliatt moved not. If he breathed, it was only that feeble respiration which could scarcely tarnish the surface of a mirror. The sun continued its ascent, its rays striking less and less obliquely upon the naked man. The gentle breeze, which had merely tepid, became hot. The rigid and nuked body remained still without movement, but the skin seemed less livid. The sun, approaching the zenith, shone almost perpendicularly upon the plateau of the Douvres. A flood of light descended from the heavens; the vast reflection from the glassy sea increased its splendor : and the rock itself imbibed the rays and warmed the sleeper. A sigh raised his breast. He lived. The sun continued its gentle offices. The wind, which was already the breath of summer and of noon, approached him like bring lips that breathed upon him softly. Gilliatt moved. The peaceful calm upon the sea was perfect. Its murmur was like the droning of the nurse beside the sleeping infant The rock seemed cradled in the waves. The sea-birds, who knew that form, fluttered above it; not with old, wild astonishment, but with a sort of fraternal tender- nets. They uttered plaintive cries — they seemed to be calling to him. A sea-mew, who no doubt knew him, was tame enough to come near him. It began to caw as if speaking to him. The : er seemed not to hear. The bird hopped upon his shouldei . and pecked his lips softly. Gilliatt opened his eyes. The -Tsed, chattering wildly. '.iatt arose, stretched himself like a. roused lion, rati to the edge of the platform, and looked down into the spa n the 222 ExEEOiaaa or Elocution. The sloop was there, intact ; the stoppage had held out; the sea had probably disturbed it but little. All was s; He was no longer weary. His powers had returned. His swoon had ended in a deep I He descended and baled out the sloop, emptied the hold, raised the leakage above the water-line, dressed himself, ate, drank some water, and was joyful. The gap in the side of his vessel, examined in broad daylight, proved to require more labor than he had thought It was a H fracture. The entire day was too long for its repair. At daybreak on the morrow, after removing the barrier and re- opening the entrance to the defile, dressed in the tattered clothing which had served to stop the leak, having about him Clubin's girdle and the seventy-five thousand francs, standing erect in the sloop, now repaired, by the side of the machinery which he had rescued, with a favorable breeze and a good sea, Gilliatt pushed off from the Don v res. He put the sloop's head for Guernsey. At the moment of his departure from the rocks, any one who had been there might have heard him singing in an undertone the air of "Bonny Dun I T icior Hugo. The Singer. In this world, so wide and lonesome, One dear friend have I, — One whose loving presence cheers me Under every sky : Never care, nor pain, nor sorrow Comes when she is nigh; — Who so blest as I ? She has neither wealth nor station, Gems nor precious things ; She has only long, fair tresses, And most glorious wings; She can neither strive nor labor: What of that? she sings, — Wondrously she sings 1 Bxmmgumb ix Elocution. 22.1 Once, as wearily we wandered Over moor and plain, Up the 1 1 ill and down the valleys, In the sun and rain, 8aid I, softly " Let some other Hear this marvelous strain, Else you sing in vain. 44 Sing until the deaf ones listen, — Sing and win a name; Sing till human hearts, awakened, Yield you all you claim ; — Sing and make the worldlings wonder Angel, sing for Fame I Prithee sing for Fame 1 " Then she tried a simple measure, Faint and quivering; But her sweet voice failed and trembled Till, poor timid thing I All the wise ones sneered and whispereo, And she would not sing, — No, she would not sing. Then I sai 1, * We two are friendless, Poor and unconsoled; I am growing sad and hungry, Weary, faint, and cold; Since you will not sing for Glory, Angel, sing for Gold, — hee sing for Gold 1 " So the throng stood 3till and listened With expectant But the sweet-voiced singer faltered, Full of doubts and fears, And the soul-enchanting music 1 in sobs and tears, — >bs and tears! 10* 224 L'xERciSES in Elocution. " Fairer than a morning blossom, Gentler than a dove, Purer than the sky when Hesper Bears his brow above, — Since you crave not Gold nor Glory, Angel, sing for Love, — Prithee sing for Love! " Then she sang, most divinely I With no pause or fear, — Sang until the best and prou Lent an eager ear: But the true soul of her music Only one can hear, — One alone can hear 1 Florence Percy. Dannecker. " I grow old," said he, looking from his work to the bust of the late queen, which stood opposite. ** I have carved the effigies of three generations of poets, and as many of princes. Twenty years ago I was at work on the tomb of the Duke of Oldenburg, and now I am at work upon hers who gave me that order. All die away: soon I shall be left alone. Of my early friends none remain but Goethe. I shall die before him, and perhaps he will write my epitaph." He spoke with a smile, not foreseeing that he would be the survivor. Three years after, I again paid Dannecker a visit, but a change had come over him ; his feeble, trembling hand could no longer grasp the mallet or guide the chisel ; his eyes were dim ; his fine benevo- lent countenance wore a childish, vacant smile, now and then crossed by a gleam of awakened memory or thought — and yet he seemed so perfectly happy ! He walked backwards and forwards, from his Christ to his bust of Schiller, with an unwearied self-com- placency, in which there was something mournful, and yet delight- ful. While I sat looking at the magnificent head of Schiller, the original of the multifarious casts and copies which are dispersed through all Germany, he sat down beside me, and taking my hands Exercises in Elocution. 225 eeo his own, which trembled with age and nervous emotion, to speak of his friend. " Nous etions amid des l'enfance; j'y ai tiavaille' avec amour, avec douleur — on ne peut pas plus t;i::v." He then went on — "When Schiller came to Louisberg, mt to tell me that he was very ill — that he should not live very . and that he wished me to execute his bust It was the first wish iA' my heart. I went immediately. When I entered the house, I found a lady sitting on the canape — it was Schiller's wife, and [ did not know her; but she knew me. She said, 'Ah I you are Datmeckerl — Schiller expects you;' then she ran into the next loom, where Schiller was lying down on a couch, and in a moment he came in, exclaiming as he entered, 'Where is he? where is Dannecker 1 ' That was the moment — the expression I caught — you see it here — the head raised, the countenance full of inspira- tion, and affection, and bright hopel I told him that to keep up this expression he must have some of his best friends to converse with him while I took the model, for I could not talk and work too. if I could but remember what glorious things then fell from those lips I Sometimes I stopped in my work — I could not i — I could only listen." And here the old man wept; then mddenlj changing his mood, he said — "But I must cut off that hail ; he never wore it so; it is not in the fashion, you know I " gged him for Heaven's sake not to touch it; he then, with a mile, turned up the sleeve of his coat and showed me his wrist, swelled with the continual use of his implements — "You see I can- not!" And I could not help wishing, at the moment, that while ind wa« thus enfeebled, no transient return of physical strength might euable him to put his wild threat in execution. What a noble bequest to posterity is the effigy of a great man, when exe- cuted in such a spirit as this of Schiller! I assure you I could not at it without feeling my heart "overflow in silent worship" of moral and intellectual power, till the deification of great men in old times appeared to me rather religion than idolatry. I have b«M-n affected in the same manner l>\ the busts of Goethe, Scott, ner, Milton, Howard, Newton; never by the painted porta of the same men however perfect in M tad admirable in Mn. Jmmm, 226 Ex: S IN ELOCUTION. The Vision of Sir Launfal. I. And what is so rare as a day in June ? Then, if ever, come perfect days; • Then IL'.iv-n tries the earth if it be in tune, . Au'l over it s,.:tly her warm ear lays; Whether we look, or whether we listen, Wt hear life murmur, or see it glisten, Every clod feels a stir of might, An instinct within it that reaches and towera, blindly above it for ! Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers; ^ The flush of lif- Thrilling b;iek over hills and valleys; The cowslip startles in meadows gi ■• The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice,* And there's never a leaf nor a blade too m&rtr To be some happy creature's pal.i The little bird sits at his door in the sun, Atilt like a blossom among the leaves, \ And lets his illumined being o'errun With the deluge of summer it receives, the eggs beneath her wings, And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sir He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest, — In the nice ear of Nature which song is the be>t f how; Joy comes, grief goes, we know not Every thing is happy now, Every thing is upward striving; 'Tis as easy now for the heart to be true As for grass to be green or skies to be blue, — 'Tis the natural way of living : What wonder if Sir Launfal now Remembered the keeping of his tow. " My golden spurs now bring to me, And bring to me my richest mail, For to-morrow I go over land and se*. In search of the Holy Grail ; Exercises in Elocution. 227 Shall never a bed for me be spread, Nor shall a pillow be under my head, Till I begin my vow to keep; n the rushes will I sleep, Ami perchance there may come a vision true Ere day create the world anew." Slowly Sir Launfal's eyes grew dim, Slumber fell like a cloud on him, And into his soul the vision flew. The crows flapped over by twos and threes, In the pool drowsed the cattle up to their knees, The little birds sang as if it were The one day of summer in all the year, And the very leaves seemed to sing on the trees; The castle alone in the landscape lay Like an outpost of winter, dull and gray ; Twm the ^proudest hall in the North Countree, And never its gates might opened be, Save to lord or lady of high degree ; Summer besieged it on every side, But the churlish stone her assaults defied ; She could not scale the chilly wall, Though round it for leagues her pavilions tmll Stretched left and right, Over the hills and out of sight; Green and broad was every tent, And out of each a murmur went Till the breeze fell off at night The drawbridge dropped with a surly clang, And through the dark arch a charger sprang, Bearing Sir Launfal, the maiden knight, In his gilded mail, that flamed so bright It seemed the dark castle had gathered all Those shafts the fierce snn had >hot over its wall In his siege of three hundred summers to And, binding them all in one blazing e Had cast them forth : so, young and strong, And lightsome as a locust-! Sir Launfal rth in his m tail, .mos for the Holy GraiL 228 ExMRomaa is E locution. As Sir Launfal made morn through the darksome gate, He was 'ware of a leper, crouched by the same, Who begged with his hand and moaned as he sale; And a loathing over Sir Launfal came; The sunshine went out of his soul with a thrill, The flesh 'neath his armour 'gan shrink and crawl. And midway its leap his heart stood still Like a frozen waterfall ; For this man, so foul and bent of stature. Rasped harshly against his dainty nature, And seemed the one blot on the summer morn, — So he tossed him a piece of gold in scorn. The leper raised not the gold from the dust : "Better to me the poor man's crust, Better the blessing of the poor, Though I turn me empty from his door ; "Hi at is no true alms which the hand can hold; lie gives nothing but worthless gold Who f Arimathoa, and rei »n, for many yearn in tin- keeping >f oeal descend. • unbent npoa loom who had charge of it to il one of the roken disappeared. From that lime it was a favorite enterprise cf the knights of Arthur's court to go In search of it. James R. Lowell* 232 Exercises in Elocution. Pan. I. What was he doing, the great god Pan, Down in the reeds by the river ? uling ruin and scattering ban, Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat. And breaking the golden lilies afloat With the dragon-fly on the river. II. lie tore out a reed, the great god Pan, in the deep cool bed of the river The limpid water turbidly ran, And the broken lilies a-dying lay, And the dragon-fly had fled away, Ere he brought it out of the river. III. High on the shore sate the great god Pan, While turbidly flowed the river; And hacked and hewed as a great god can, With his hard bleak steel at the patient reed, Till there was not a sign of a leaf indeed To prove it fresh from the river. IV. He cut it short, did the great god Pan, (How tall it stood in the river!) Then drew the pith, like the heart of a man, Steadily from the outside ring, And notched the poor dry empty thing In holes, as he sate by the river. V. " This is the way," laughed the great god Pan, (Laughed while he sate by the river,) " The only way, since gods began To make sweet music, they could succeed." Then, dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed. He blew in power by the river. r'ises tn Elocution. 233 VI. Sweet, sweet, sweet, Pan I Piercing sweet by the river ! Blinding sweet, great god Pan! The sun on the hill forgot to die, And the lilies revived, and the dragon-fly Came back to dream on the river. VII. Yet half a beast is the great god Pan, To laugh as he sits by the rivir. Making a poet out of a man : The true gods sigh for the cost and pain,- For the reed which grows nevermore again As a reed with the reeds in the river. Mrs. Browning. Footsteps on the Other Side. Sitting in my humble doorway, Gazing out into the night) Listening to the stormy tumult With a kind of sad delight — Wait I for the loved who comes not, One whose step I long to hear; One who, though he lingers from me, Still is dearest of the dear. Soft I he comes — now heart be quick - Leaping in triumphant pride 1 Oh ! it is a stranger footstep, Gone by on the other aide. All tin' night seems filled with weeping, Winds are wailing mournfully; And the rain-tears together Journey to the I -ea. I can fancy, sea, your murmur, [th yon araters flow, Like the griefs of single beings, Making up a nation's woe I 234 i:\ercises in Elocution. Branches, bid your guests be silent ; Hush a moment, fretful rain ; ■6, stop sighing — l«-t dm listen, God grant not ■gain in vain! In my cheek the sy, Like the blushes of a bi I »jl alas! footstep Goes on by the other side. Ah! how many trail forever For the steps that do not come! Wait until thfl pitying angels ir them to a peaceful home! .11 of midnight In the streets have lain and died, While the sound of human footsteps it by on the other side. Death of Little ML ■m " The Old Curiosity Shop." By little and little, the old man drew back towards the inner chamber, while these words were spoken. He pointed there, as he replied, with trembling li; 11 You plot among you to wean my heart from her. You will never do that — never while I have life. I have no relative or friend but her — I never had — I never will have. She is all in all to me. It is too late to part us now." Waving them off with his hand, and calling softly to her as he went, he stole into the room. They who were left behind drew close together, and after" a few whispered words, — not unbroken by emotion, or easily uttered, — followed him. They moved BO gently, that their footsteps made no noise, but there were sobs from among the group, and sounds of grief and mourning. For she was dead. There, upon her little bed, she lay at rest The solemn stillness was no marvel now. She was dead. No sleep so beautiful and calm, so free from trace of pain, so fair to look upon. She seemed a creature fresh from the hand of God, and waiting for the breath of life; not one wh« had lived and suffered death. Her couch was dressed with, here and there, some winter berries and green leaves, gathered in • spot she had been used to favor. When I die, put MM DM something that has loved the light, and had the sky ah re her words. She was dead. Dear, gentle, patient, noble Nell was dead. Her little bird — a poor Blight thing the pressure of a finger would have crushed — was stirring nimbly in its cage; and the strong heart of its child-mistress was mute and motionless forever. Where were the traces of her early cares, her sufferings and fatigues? All gone. This was the true death before their weeping eyes. Sorrow was dead indeed in her, but peace and perfect bap- sa were born; imaged in her tranquil beauty and profound And still her former self lay there, unaltered in this change. The old fireside had smiled on that same sweet face; it had 1 like a dream through haunts of misery and care; at the door of the poor schoolmaster on the summer evening, before the furnace fire upon the cold, wet night, at the still, dying boy, there had been the same mild, lovely look. So shall we know the angels in their majesty, after death. The old man held one languid arm in his, and kept the small hand tight folded to his breast, for warmth. It was the hand she had shed out to him with her last smile — the hand that had led him on through all their wanderings. Ever and anon he passed it to his lips; thru hugged it to his breast again, murmuring that it Wat wanner now ; and as he said it, he looked, in agony, to those ^ood around, as if imploring them to help her. She was dead and past all help, or need of it. The ancient rooms she had seemed to fill with life, even while her owu was ebbinf — the gar . i tendril — the eyes she had gladdened — the less haunts of many a thoughtless hour — the paths she had i as if it were but yesterday — could know her no more. - not," said the schoolmaster, as he bent down to k on h< — "it is not in this world that Seal la. Think what it is compared with the world t<> whieh her young spirit has winged its 8 \ and say, if one del d in solemn u r# thia could call her back to life, whieh of us would utter i 236 Exercises in Elocution. Auction Extraordinary. I dreamed a dream in the midst of my slumbers, And as fast as I dreamed it, it came into numbers; My thoughts ran along in such beautiful meter, I'm sure I ne'er saw any poetry sweet< r : It seemed that a law had been recently made, That a tax on old bachelors' pates should be laid ; And in order to make them all willing to marry, The tax was as large as a man could well carry, The bachelors grumbled and said 'twas no use — 'Twas horrid injustice and horrid at And declared that to save their own heart's blood from spilling Of such a vile tax they would not pay a shilling. But the rulers determined them still to pursue, So they set all the old bachelors up at vend a- : A crier was sent through the town to and fro, To rattle his bell and a trumpet to blow, And to call out to all he might meet in his way, u Ho ! forty old bachelors sold here to day : " And presently all the old maids in the town, Each in her very best bonnet and gown, From thirty to sixty, fair, plain, red, and pale, Of every description, all flocked to the sale. The auctioneer then in his labor began, And called out aloud, as he held up a man, II How much for a bachelor ? who wants to buy ? In a twink, every maiden responded, "I — I." In short, at a highly extravagant price, The bachelors all were sold off in a trice : And forty old maidens, some younger, some older, Each lugged an old bachelor home on her shoulder. Lucretia Davidson. The Coquette, A PORTRAIT. " You're clever at drawing, I own," Said my beautiful cousin Lisette, As we sat by the window alone, "But say, can you paint a Coquette? i:\ercises in Elocution. 237 u She's painted already," quoth I ; .y, nay 1 " said the laughing Lisette, "Now none of your joking, — but try And paint me a thorough Coquette." u Well, cousin," at once I began In the ear of the eager Lisette, M I'll paint you as well as I can That wonderful thing a Coquette. She wears a most beautiful face (Of course 1 — said the pretty Lisette), And is n't deficient in grace, Or else she were not a Coquette. And then she is daintily made (A smile from the dainty Lisette) By people expert in the trade Of forming a proper Coquette. She's the winningest ways with the beaux (Go on! — said the winning Lisette), But there is n't a man of them knows The mind of the fickle Coquette I She kuows how to weep and to sigh (A sigh from the tender Lisette), But her weeping is all in my eye, — Not that of the cunning Coquette 1 In short, she's a creature of art (0 hush I — said the frowning Liseti<), 'y the ghost of a heart, — Enough for a thorough Coquette. And yet I could easily prove (Now don't I — said the angry Lisette), The lady is always in love, — In love with herself, — the Coquette 1 Tlure, — do not be angry ! — you know, My dear little cousin Lisette, You told me a moment ago To paint yon — n thorough Coquette I " flhn 238 Ex ix Elocuii Will the New Year Oome To-night, Mamma ? Will the N come to-nii/ijt, mamma? I'm tired of wait- so, My stocking hung by the chimney side full three long days ago. I run to peep within the door, by morning's early :npty still — Oh, say, mamma, will the New Year come to-night ? Will the New Year come to-night, mamma? tl <>ii the hill, The ice must be two inches thick upon the meadow rill. I heard you tell papa last night, his son must have a sled i n't mean to hear, mamma), and a pair of skates you said. I prayed for just those things, mamma, 0, I shall be full of glee, And the orphan boys in the village school will all be envying me; Hut III give them toys, and lend them books, and make their New id, For God, you say, takes back his gifts when little folks are bad. A.nd won't you let me go, mamma, upon the New Year's day, tiling nice and warm to poor old widow Gray ? I'll lea ear the door, within the garden gate, — Will the N come to-night, mamma? it seems so long to wait. The night, mamma, I saw it in my sleep, eking hung so full, I thought — mamma, what makes yon • 'P ? But it only hell a little shroud — a shroud and nothing more: An open coffin — open for me — was standing on the floor. It seemed so very strange, indeed, to find such gifts instead Of all the toys I wished so much, the story-book and sled.* But while I wondered what it meant, you came with tearful joy And said, " Thou'lt find the PTew Year first ; God calleth thee mv boyl" It is not all a dream, mamma, I know, it must be true; But have I been so bad a boy God taketh me from you? I don't know what papa will do when I am laid to rest, — And you will have no Willie's head to fold upon your breast Ei s nt Elocution, 239 r comes to-night, mamma, — your cold hand on my cli« •• And raise my head a little more — it seems so hard to speak; tot Gil my stocking now, I cannot go and peep, .orrow's sun is up, I'll be so sound asleep. .1 not want the skates, mamma, I'll never need the sled; .\ un't you give them both to Blake, who hurt me on my head ? I to hide my books away, and tear the pictures too, But now he'll know that I forgive, as then I tried to do. if you please, mamma, I'd like the story-book and slate, To go to Frank, the drunkard's boy, you would not let me hate; deer mamma, you won't forget, upon the New Year day, ket full of something nice for poor old widow Gray. New Year comes to-night, mamma, it seems so very soon, I think God did n't hear me ask for just another June; I know I've been a thoughtless boy, and made you too much can-, And may be for your sake, mamma, He does n't hear my prayer. It cannot be ; but you will keep the summer flowers green, plant a few — don't cry, mamma — a very few I mean, . I'd sleep so sweet beneath the apple tree, re you and robin, in the morn, may come and sing to me. The N comes— good-night, mamma — "I lay me down to sleep y the Lord" — tell poor papa — " my soul to keep; If I" — how cold it seems — how dark — kiss me, I cannot see — New Year comes to-night, mamma, the old year — dies with me. Cora M. Eager. Marion Moore. Gone, art thou, Ma: :i Moore, Gone, like the bird in the autumn that singeth; Gone, like the flower by the way-side that springeth if of the ivy that clingeth Round the lone rock on the storm re. 11 240 Exercises in Elocution. Dear wert thou, Marion, Marion Moore, Dear as the tide in my broken heart throbbing; Dear as the soul o'er thy memory sobbing; Sorrow my life of its roses is robbing: Wasting is all the glad beauty of yore. I will remember thee, Marion Moore ; I shall remember, alas I to regret thee ! I will regret when all others forget thee ; Deep in my breast will the hour that I met thee Linger and burn till life's fever is o'er. Gone, art thou, Marion, Marion Moore I Gone, like the breeze o'er the billow that bloweth ; Gone, like the rill to the ocean that floweth ; Gone, as the day from the gray mountain goeth, Darkness behind thee, but glory before. Peace to thee, Marion, Marion Moore, Peace which the queens of the earth cannot borrow , Peace from a kingdom that crowned thee with sorrow , 01 to be happy with thee on the morrow, Who would not fly from this desolate shore. James 0. Clark. The Well of St Keyne, There is a well In Cornwall, the water of which possesses rare virtues. If the husband drinks first after the marriage, he gets the mastery foi Jfe, and vice versa. A well there is in the west country, And a clearer one never was seen ; There's not a wife in the west country But has heard of the well of St. Keyne. A traveler came to the well of St Keyne J Joyfully he drew nigh, For from cock-crow he had been traveling, And there was not a cloud in the sky. ffl g or Elocution, 241 lie drank of the water, so cold and clear, For thirsty and hot was he; And he sat down upon the bank Under the willow tree. There came a man from the house hard by, At the well to fill his pail ; On the well side he rested it, And he bade the stranger hail "Art thou a bachelor, stranger ? " quoth he ; " For an' if thou hast a wife, The happiest draught thou hast drank this day That ever thou didst in thy life. 11 Or hast thy good woman, if one thou hast> Ever here in Cornwall been? For an' if she have, I'll venture my life She has drank of the well of St. Keyne." " I have a good woman who never was here," The stranger made reply ; " But why should she be the better for that, I pray you, answer why ? " "St Keyne," quoth the Cornish-man, "many a time Drank of this crystal well, And before the angel summoned her, She laid on the water a spelL "If the husband of this gifted well Shall drink before his wife, A happy man henceforth is he, For he shall be master for life. 'But if the wife should drink of it first, God help the husband then ;" The stranger stoop' d to the well of St Keyne, And drank of the water again. 242 Exercises in Elocution. u You drank of the well, I warrant, betimes ?" lie to the Cornish-man said ; But the Cornish-man smiled as the stranger spoke, And sheepishly shook his head "I hastened as soon as the wedding was done, And left my wife in the porch ; But, i' faith, she had been wiser than me, For she took a bottle to church." Robert Southey, ITM. Thank God I there's still a Vanguard. Thank God ! there's still a vanguard Fighting for the right I Though the throng flock to rearward, Lifting, ashen white, * Flags of truce to sin and error, Clasping hands, mute with torror, Thank God 1 there's still a vanguard Fighting for the right. Through the wilderness advancing, Hewers of the way ; Forward far their spears are glancing, Flashing back the day : " Back I" the leaders cry, who fear them ; a Back 1" from all the army near them ; They, with steady tread advancing, Cleave their certain way. Slay them — from each drop that falleth Springs a hero armed : Where the martyr's fire appalleth, Lo ! they pass unbanned : Crushed beneath thy wheel, Oppression, How their spirits hold possession, How the dross-purged voice out-calleth, By the death-throes warmed I Exercises in Elocltion. 248 Thank God ! there's still a vanguard Fighting for the right 1 Error's legions know their standard, Floating in the light ; When the league of sin rejoices, Quick out ring the rallying voices. Thank God 1 there's still a vanguard Fighting for the right 1 Mrs. II. E. O. Artff Through Death to Life. Have you heard the tale of the Aloe plant, Away in the sunny clime ? By humble growth of a hundred years It reaches its blooming time ; And then a wondrous bud at its crown Breaks into a thousand flowers ; This floral queen, in its blooming seen, Is the pride of the tropical bowers. Bat the plant to the flower is a sacrifice, For it blooms but once, and in blooming dies. IIave you further heard of this Aloe plant That grows in the sunny clime, How every one of its thousand flowers, As they drop in the blooming time, Is an infant plant that fastens its roots In the place where it tails on the ground; And, fast as they drop from the dying stem, Grow lively and lovely around ? By dying it liveth a thousand-fold In the young that spring from the death of the old. you heard the tale of the Pelican, The Arab's Giuiel d P.ahr, That lives in tin olitudei, Where the birds that live lonely are! 844 Exercises in Elocution Have you heard how it loves its tender young, And cares and toils for their good ? It brings them water from fountains afar, And fishes the seas for their food. In famine it feeds them — what love can devise ! — The blood of its bosom, and feeding them die*. Have you heard the tale they tell of theswan, The snow-white bird of the lake? It noiselessly floats on the silvery wave, It silently sits in the brake ; For it saves its song till the end of life, And then, in the soft, still even, 'Miw II< left the choirs and anthems above, For earth in its wailings and woes, To suffer the shame and pain of the cross, And die for the life of His foes ? O prince of the noble ! O sufferer divine I What sorrow and sacrifice equal to Thine 1 Harry Harbavgk. Minnie an' Me. The following little poem Is full of genuiae feeling as well as of poetic beauty. Yoi md almost see the wee thins as she follows her grandfather over the fields, cheering his loneliness with the music of her childish prattle, or at night toying with his whlt« locks and u keeking '* through his spectacles. The spring time had come ; we were sowing the corn ; When Minnie — wee Minnie — my Minnie was born ; t$he came when the sw T eet blossoms burst for the bee, An' a sweet bud of beauty was Minnie to me. Exercises in Elocution. 24a The harvest was ower, an' yellow the leaf^ When Mary, my daughter, was smitten wi' grief; 0, little thought I my dear Mary wad dee, An' leave as a blessing wee Minnie to me. Her hair's like the lang trailing tresses o' night; Her face is the dawn o' day, rosy and bright; Sae bashfu', sae thoughtfu', yet cheery an' free; She just is a wonder my Minnie to me. Her smile is sae sweet, an' sae glancin' her een, They bring back the face o' my ain bonny Jean, Mair clear than the linties that sing on the tree Is the voice o' my Minnie when singing to me. For mony long years I'd been doiting alane, When Minnie reveal'd the old feelings again; In the barn or the byre, on the hill or the lea, My bonnie wee Minnie is seldom frae me. Wherever she moves she lets slip a wee crumb, To beasties or birdies, the helpless and dumb ; How she feeds them, and leads, it's bonny to see; Oh 1 a lesson o' loving is Minnie to me. Whenever she hears my slow step on the floor, She stands wi' her han' on the sneck o' the door, An' welcomes me ben wi' a face fu' o' glee, nane are sae happy as Minnie an* me. Sh«' trots to the corner, an' sets me a chair, She plays wi' my haffets, and cames down my hair; Or keeks through my speck, as she sits on my knee ; were 't not for Minnie, I think I wad dee. But I '11 nae talk o' deeing while work 's to be done, But potter about, or sit still in the sun ; Till Providence pleases ray spirit to free, Ohl nae power shall sever my Minnie frae me. 246 EXMMOnm ix A'Loc/riox. My Darling's Shoes, God bless the little feet that ean never go astray, For the little shoes are empty in the closet laid away; Sometimes I take one in rny hand, forgetting till I see, It is a little half- worn shoe not large enough for me; And all at once I feel a sense of bitter loss and pain, As sharp as when, two years ago, it cut my heart in twain. little feet, that wearied not, I wait for them no more, For lam drafting on the tide, but they have reached the shore ; And while the blinding tear-drops wet these little shoes so oM, They walk nnsandalled in the streets that pearly gates enfold- > I lay them down again, but always turn to say, " God bless the little feet that now surely cannot stray." And while I am thus standing, I almost seem to see little form ne, just as they used to be, — Twu lit i their sweet and tender eyes, Ah, me! n that look was born of Paradise. h my arms out fondly, but they clasp the empty air; Dg of my darlings but the shoes they used to wear Oh 1 the bitterness of parting can ne'er be done away Till I see my darlings walking heir feet can never stray. When I no more am drifting upon the surging tide, with them saA-ly landed upon the river side; Be patient, heart, while waiting to see their shining way, For the little feet, in the golden street, can never go astray. Unwritten Music There is unwritten music. The world is full of it I hear it every hour that I wake; and my waking sense is surpassed some- times by my sleeping, though that is a mystery. There is no sound of simple nature that is not music. It is all God's work, and so harmony. You may mingle, and divide, iuv\ strengthen the pass- <>f its great anthem; and itjs still melody, — melody. The low winds of summer blow over the waterfalls and the brooks, and bring their voices to your ear, as if their sweetness were linked by an accurate finger; yet the wind is but a fitful 9 TN EbOCUTI 247 player; and you may go out when the tempest is up, and hear the •aningas they lean before it, and the long grass I sweeps through, and lemn monotony over all; and the dimple of that same brook, and the waterfall's unaltered bass shall still reach you, in the intervals of its power, as much in harmony as before, and as much a part of its perfect and perpetual hymn. There is no accident of nature's causing which can bring in discord. The loosened rock may fall into the abyss, and the over- blown tree rush down through the branches of the wood, and the thunder peal awfully in the sky ; and sudden and violent as these changes seem, their tumult goes up with the sound of wind and \ and the exquisite ear of the musician can detect no jar. I have read somewhere of a custom in the Highlands, which, in conneetion with the principle it involves, is exceedingly beautiful. red that, to the ear of the dying (which, just before death tnea always exquisitely acute), the perfect ha:mony of the M of nature is so ravishing, as to make him forget his Buffering and die gently, like one in a pleasant trance. And so, when the moment approaches, they take him from the close shieling, and him out into the open sky, that he may hear the familiar rush- f the streams. I can believe that it is not superstition. I do think we know how exquisitely nature's many voices are attuned to harmony, and to each other. The old philosopher we read of might not have been dreaming . he discovered that the order of the sky was like a scroll of written music, and t irs (which are said to have app< leath, in the very ptl wanting to complete the harmony. We know how wonderful are phenomena of color; how strangely like oonsnmmate art the Strom d in the plumage of birds, and in the of flowers; so that, to the practiced eye of the painter, the barn It is natural to suppo part o( the and it is a that the stars oi are moving on continually to music, and daily list*". Bt part of a melody that iod's illimitable spheres. II* 248 iBZMMOJ&m IN ELOCUTION. The Wreck of the Hesperui. It was the schooner Hesperus, That suiled the wintry sea; And the skipper had taken his little daughter To bear him company. Blue were her eyes as the fairy flax, Her cheeks like the dawn of day ; Her bosom white as the hawthorn buds, That ope in the month of May. The .skipper he stood beside the helm His pipe was in his mouth, And he watched how the veering flaw did blow The smoke, now west, now south. Then up and spake an old sailor, Had sailed the Spanish main ; — 4t I j»ray thee put into yonder port For I fear the hurricane." " Last night the moon had a golden ring, And to-night no moon we see." But the skipper he blew a whiff from his pipe, And a scornful laugh laughed he. Colder and louder blew the wind A gale from the northeast, The snow fell hissing in the brine, And the billows frothed like 3 Down came the storm and smote amain The vessel in its strength ; She shuddered and paused like a frightened steed, Then leaped her cable's length. "Come hither 1 come hither; my little daughter And do not tremble so ; For I can weather the roughest gale That ever wind did tlovv." Ex 9 in Elocution. 249 He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat Against the stinging blast, He cut a rope from a broken spar And bound her to the mast. " father ! I hear the church bells ring say I what may it be?" " Tis a fog bell on a rock-bound coast, " \m\ he steered for the open sea. "O father! I hear the sound of guns, say 1 what may it be?" " Some ship in distress that cannot live In such an angry sea." "0 father, I see a gleaming light; say what may it be?" But the father answered never a word, A frozen corpse was he. Lashed to the helm all stiff and stark, With his face tamed 1<» die skies, The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow, On his fixed and glassy eyes. Th^n the maiden clasped her hands and prayed That saved she might be — And sho thought of Christ who stilled the ware On the Lake of Galilee. And fast through the midnight dark and drear, Through the whistling sleet and snow, ted ehn^t t wept, Toward the reef of Norman's Woe. And ever the fitful gusts between ind came from the land, It was the sound of the trampling surf On the rocks and the hnrd sea sand. The breakers were right beneath her bows, She drilled a dreary \\ I whooping hil! the crew Like 25° /-XKRCTSES IN ELOCUTION. She stru.-k where the white and fleecy waves Looked soft as carded wool, But the cruel rocks, they gored her sides Like the horns of an angry bull. Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, With the masts went by the board; Like a vessel of glass, she stove — and sank, a Hoi Ho 1 " the breakers roared. At day-break on a bleak sea beach, A fisherman stood aghast, To see the form of a maiden fair Lashed close to a drifting mast The salt sea was frozen on her breast The salt tears in her c\ And he saw her hair like the brown sea weed On the billows fall and rise. Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, In the midnight and the snow ; Christ save us all from a death like this, On the reef of Norman's Woe. LonyfeJlow. God. The following poom Is a translation from the Russian. It has been translated Into Japanese, by order of the emperor, and is hung up, em- broldered with gold, In the temple of Jeddo. It lias also been translated Into the Chinese and Tartar languages* written on apiece of rich t ik, •nd suspended in the imperial palace at Pekin. Tnou eternal One! whose presence bright All space dUh occupy, all motion guide; Unchanged through time's all-devastating flight; Thou only God ! There is no God beside 1 Being above all beiugsl Three-in-One! Whom none can comprehend, and none explore; Who lill'st existence with Thyself alone ; Embracing all — supporting — ruling o'er — Being whom we call God — and know no more ! ExMBCiSMa in Elocution, 251 In its sublime research, philosophy Measure out the ocean deep — may count The sands or the sun's rays — but God 1 for Thee There is no weight nor measure; — none can mount Up to Thy mystr i-on's brightest spark, i '. kindled by Thy light, in vain would try To trace Thy counsels, infinite and dark; And thought is lost ere thought can soar so high — E'en like past moments in eternity. Thou from primeval nothingness didst call, First chaos, then existence; — Lord! on Thee Eternity had its foundation; — all Sprung forth from Thee; — of light, joy, harmony, Sole origin; — all life, all beauty, Thine. Thy word created all, and doth create; Thy splendor fills all space with rays divine; Thou art, ami wert, and shall be! Glorious, Light-giving, life-sustaining Potentate 1 Thy chains the unmeasured universe surround; Upheld by Thee, by Thee inspired with breath! Thou the beginning with the end hast bound, And beautifully mingled life and death! As sparks mount upward from the fiery blaze, So suns are born, so worlds spring forth from Thee, And as the spangles in the sunny rays Shine around the silver snow, the pageantry Of heaven's bright army glitters in Thy praise. A million torches lighted by Thy h : unwearied through the blue aby.*s; They own Thy power, accomplish Thy command, All gay with life, all eloquent with W shall we call them ? Pyres of crystal light — A glo ; any of gol — Lamps of celestial ether burning bright — 8uns lighting systems with th«-ir joyful beams? But Thou to these art as the noon to night Yes las a drop n the sea, All this magnificence in T j — What are ten thousuu > 252 Exercises in Elocution. And what am / then ? Heaven's unnumbered host, Though multiplied by myriads, and arrayed In all the glory of sublimest thought, Is but an atom in th« balance weighed Against Thy greatness, is a cipher brought Against infinity ! What am / then ? Naught ! Naught! But the effluence of Thy light divine, Pervading worlds, hath reached my bosom too ; Yes, in my spirit doth Thy spirit shine, As shines the sunbeam in a drop of dew. Naught I but I live, and on hope's pinions fly Eager toward Thy presence ; for in Thee I live, and breathe, and dwell ; aspiring high Even to the throne of Thy divinity. I am, God! and surely Thou must be! Tiiou art! directing, guiding all, Thou art! Direct my understanding then to Thee; Control my spirit, guide my wandering heart; Though but an atom midst immensity, Still I am something, fashioned by Thy hand I I hold a middle rank, 'twixt heaven and earth, On the last verge of mortal being stand, Close to the realm where angels have their birth, Just on the boundaries of the spirit land ! The chain of being is complete in me ; In me is matter's last gradation lost, And the next step is spirit — Deity! I can command the lightning and am dust! A monarch, and a slave; a worm, a god I Whence came I here, and how? so marvellously Constructed and conceived ? unknown ! this clod Lives surely through some higher energy; For from itself alone it could not be I Creator, yes! Thy wisdom and Thy word Created me/ Thou source of life and good ! Thou spirit of my spirit, and my Lord ! Thy light, Thy love, in the bright plenitude, Filled me with an immortal soul, to spring Over the abyss of death, and bade it wear Exercises in Elocution. 253 The garments of eternal day, and wing Its heavenly flight beyond the little sphere, Even to its source — to Thee — its author there. thoughts ineffable! visions blestl Though worthless our conception all of Thee, Yet shall Thy shadowed image fill our breast, And waft its homage to Thy Deity. Godl thus alone ray lonely thoughts can soar; Thus seek Thy presence — Being wise and good, Midst Thy vast works admire, obey, adore; And, when the tongue is eloquent no more, The soul shall speak in tears of gratitude. Derzhavin. Aunt Kindly. Miss Kinoly is aunt to every body, and has been so long that none remember to the contrary. The little children love her; she helped their grandmothers to bridal ornaments three-score years ago. Nay, this boy's grandfather found his way to college through her pocket. Generations not her own rise up and call her blessed. To this man's father her patient toil gave the first start in life. That great fortune — when it was a seed she carried it in her hand. That wide river oi reputation ran out of the cup her bounty filled. she is old ; very old. The little children, who cling about her, with open mouth and great round eyes, wonder that anybody 11 ever be so old; or that Aunt Kindly ever had a mother to :er mouth. To them she is coeval with the sun, and, like that, an institution of the country. At Christmas they think she is the wife of Saint Nicholas himself, such an advent of blessings is there from her hand. She has helped to lay a blessing in many a poor man's crib. Now these things are passed by. No, they are not passed by ; 1 in the memory of the dear God, and e good has done is treasured in D*f own heart. The bulb shuts up the summer in its breast which in winter will come out a fragrant hyacinth. Stratum after stratum her good works are laid up, im; n the geology of her char. She has been thoughtful all day, talking inwardly to i . nothing. 254 El I m Elocution. In a chamber, from a private drawer, she takes a little casket, and from thence a book, gilt-e longer. It is not Aunt Kindly nowj it is sweet Agnes, as the maiden of eighteen was eight-and-sixty years ago, one day in May, when all nature was woosome and winning, and every flower-bell rung in the marriage of the year. Her lover had just put that red rose of the spring into her hand, and the good God another in her cheek, not quite halt-blown, dewy fresh. The young man's arm is round her; her brown curls fall on his shoulder; she feels his breath on her face, his cheek on hers; their lips join, and, like two morning dew-drops in that rose, their two loves rush into one. But the youth must wander to a far land. They will think of each other as they look at the North Star. She bids him take her Bible. He saw the North Star hang over the turrets of many a foreign town. His soul went to God — there is as straight a road from India as from any other spot — and his Bible came back to her — the divine love in it, without the human lover ; the leaf turned down at the blessed words of John, first and twenty-seventh of the fourteenth chapter. She put the rose there to note the spot ; what marks the thought holds now the symbol of their youthful love. Now to-day her soul is with him, her maiden soul with his angel soul; and one day the two, like two dew-drops, will rush into one immortal wedlock, and the old age of earth shall become eternal vouth in the Kingdom of Heaven. Exmsomma / Elocution. 255 The Great Bell Roland, Toll! Roland, toll! In old St. Bavon's tower, At midnight hour, The great bell Roland spoke ; And all that slept in Ghent awoke I What meant the thunder stroke? Why trembled wife and maid? Why caught each man his blade ? Why echoed every street With tramp of thronging feet, All flying to the city's wall ? It was the warning call That Freedom stood in peril of a foe ! And even timid hearts grew bold Whenever Roland tolled, And every hand a sword conld hold I And every arm could bend a bow I So acted men Like patriots then — Three hundred years ago 1 Toll 1 Roland, toll ! Bell never yet was hung, Between whose lips there swung So grand a tongue I If men be patriots still, At thy first sound True hearts will bound, Great souls will thrill I Then toll ! and let thy test Try each man's breast, mi stand c< i Toll I R..lan.l, toll I Not now in old St, Bavon's tower ; Not now at midnight hour; Not now from river Scheldt to Zuyder Zee, But here, — this . ;i! — Toll heiv, in broad, bright day 1 — 250 Exercises in Elocution. For not by night awaits A noble foe without the gates. But perjured friends within betray, And do the deed at noon I Toll! Roland, toll I Thy sound is not too soon 1 To Arms 1 Ring out the Leader's call 1 Re-echo it from East to West, Till every hero's breast Shall swell beneath a soldier's crest 1 Toll! Roland, toll! Till cottager from cottage-wall Snatch pouch and powder-horn and gun ! The heritage of sire to son Ere half of Freedom's work was done ! Toll! Roland, toll! Till swords from scabbards leap ! Toll! Roland, toll! What tears can widows weep » Less bitter than when brave men fall ! Toll! Roland, toll! In shadowed hut and hall Shall lie the soldier's pall, And hearts shall break while graves are filled Amen ! So God hath willed ! And may His grace anoint us all ! Toll! Roland, toll! The Dragon on thy tower Stands sentry to this hour, And Freedom now is safe in Ghent! And merrier bells now ring, And in the land's serene content, Men shout " God save the King I" Until the skies are rent I So let it be 1 A kingly king is he Who keeps his people free ! Toll! Roland, toll! Ring: out across the sea ! Exercises in Elocution 257 No longer They but We Have now such need of thee ! Toll ! Roland, toll ! Nor ever let thy throat Keep dumb its warning note Till Freedom's perils be outbraved I Toll 1 Roland, toll ! Till Freedom's flag, wherever waved, Shall shadow not a man enslaved 1 Toll ! Roland, toll I From Northern lake to Southern strand ! Toll! Roland, toll! Till friend and foe, at thy command, Shall clasp once more each other's hand, And shout, one-voiced, " God save the land !" And love the land that God hath saved 1 Toll I Roland, toll 1 Theodore Tilton. The Young Gray Head. I'm thinking that to-night, if not before, 11 be wild work. Dost hear old Chew ton roar? It's brewing up, down westward ; and look there 1 One of those sea gulls I ay, there goes a pair ; And such a sudden thaw ! If rain comes on As threats, the water will be out anon. That path by the ford is a nasty bit of way, Best let the young ones bide from school to-day. The children join in this request; but the mother resolves that all set out — the two girls, Lizzie and Jenny, the one five, ther seven. As the dame's will was law, so — One last fond kiss — "God bless my little maids," the father said, And cheerily went his way to win their bread. Prepared for their journey they depart, with the mother's admo- nition to the elder — "Now, mind and bring Jenny safe home," the mother said. " Don't stay 258 Exercisks ix Elocution. To pull a bough or berry by the way ; And when you OORM to cro*s the ford, hold fast Your little sister's hand till you're quite p That plank is so crazy, and so slippery, If not overflowed the stepping stones will be ; But you're good children — steady as old folk, I'd trust ye anywhere." Then Lizzie's cloak (A good gray duffle) lovingly she I. And amply little Jenny's lack supplied • With her own warmest shawl. "Be sure," said she, "To wrap it round, and knot it carefully, (Like this) when you come home — just leaving free One hand to hold by. Now, make haste away — Good will to school and then good right to play." The mother watches them with foreboding, though she knows not why. In a little while the threatened storm sets in. Night comes, and with it comes the father from his daily toil — There's a treasure hidden in his hat — A plaything for his young ones, he has found — A dormouse nest; the living ball coil'd round For its long winter sleep; all his thought As he trudged stoutly homeward, was of naught But the glad wonderment in Jenny's eyes, And graver Lizzie's quieter surprise, When he should yield, by guess and kiss and prayer, Hard won, the frozen captive to their care. No little faces greet him as wont at the threshold; and to his hurried question — "Are they come?" — t'was "no," To throw his tools down, hastily unhook The old crack'd lantern from its dusty nook And, while he lit it, speak a cheering word That almost choked him, and was scarcely heard, — Was but a moment's act, and he was gone To where a fearful foresight led him on. A neighbor goes with him, and the faithful dog follows the children's tracks. u Hold the light Low down, he's making for the water. Hark ! [ know that whine ; the old dog's found them, Mark ; " So speaking, breathlessly he hurried on 1 the old crazy foot bridge. It was gone ! And all his dull contracted light could show Was the black, void, and dark swollen stream below; I there's life somewhere — more than Tinker's whine — Th^j* sure," said Mark. " So, let the lantern shine Down yonder. There's the dog — and hark 1 " " me old ragged side-piles that had stop't a ays the broken plank when it gave way With the two little ones, that luckless day 1 * My babes I my lambkins 1 " was the father's cry, One little voice made answer, " Here am I ;" H Lizzy's. There she crouched with face as white, • ghastly, by the flickering lantern light, iieeted corpse. The pale blue lips drawn ticrht* ;>arted, showing all the pearly teeth, And eyes on some dark object underneath, i by the turbid waters, fix'd like stone — One arm and hand stretched out, and rigid grown, Grasping, as in the death-gripe, Jenny's frock. There she lay drown'd. 'ted her from out her watery bed — Dg gone, the lovely little head ITung like a broken snowdrop all aside, And one small hand. The mother's shawl was tied Dg that free about the child's small form, As was her last injunction — "fast and warm," Too well obeyed — too fast ! A fatal held. 260 Exercises in Elocution. Affording to the scrag, by a thick fold That caught and pinned her to the river's bed. While through the reckless water overhead, Her life breath bubbled up. " She might have lived, Struggling like Lizzy," was the thought that rived The wretched mother's heart when she heard all, " But for my foolishness about that shawL" ' Who say 8 I forgot? Mother 1 indeed, indeed I kept fast hold, And tied the shawl quite close — she Can't be cold — But she won't move — we slept — I don't know how — But I held on, and I'm so weary now — Ami its so dark and cold I Oh dear I oh dear I And she won't move — if father were but here !" All night long from side to side she turn'd, PSteoasiy plaining like a wounded dove. With now and then the murmur "She won't move," And lol when morning, as in mockery, bright Shone on that pillow — passing strange the sight, The young head's raven hair was streaked with white ! Mrs. Southey The Suliote Mother. She stood upon the loftiest peak, Amidst the clear blue sky ; A bitter smile was on her cheek, And a dark flash in her eye. u Dost thou see them, boy? — through the dusky pines? Dost thou see where the foeman's armor shines ? Hast thou caught the gleam of the conqueror's crest ? My babe, that I cradled on my breast 1 Wouldst thou spring from my mother's arms with joy ? —That sight hath cost thee a father, boy !" Exercises in Elocution. 261 For in the rocky strait beneath, Lay Suliote sire and son ; They had heap'd high the piles of death Before the pass was won. " They have cross'd the torrent, and on they come Woe for the mountain hearth and home ! There, where the hunter laid by his spear, There, where the lyre hath been sweet to hear, There, where I sang thee, fair babe ! to sleep, Naught but the blood-stain our trace shall keep I" And now the horn's loud blast was heard, And now the cymbal's clang, Till even the upper air was stirr'd, As cliff and hollow rang. "Hark! they bring music, my joyous child I What saith the trumpet to Suli's wild I Doth it light thine eye with so quick a fire As if at a glance of thine armed sire ? — Still ! — be thou still I — there are brave men low — Thou wouldst not smile couldst thou see him now! But nearer came the clash of steel, And louder swell'd the horn, And farther yet the tambour's peal Through the dark pass was borne. " Hear'st thou the sound of their savage mirth ? — Boy ! thou wert free when I gave thee birth, — Free, and how cherish'd, my warrior's son I He, too, hath bless'd thee, as I have done ! Aye, and unchain'd must his loved ones be — Freedom, young Suliote I for thee and me 1" And from the arrowy peak she sprung, And fast the fair child bore ; — A veil upon the wind was flung, A cry — and all was o'er I Amm 202 Exercises in Elocution, SandalphoiL Have you read in th«> Talmud of old, In the Legends the Rabbins have told, Of the limitless realms of the air, — you read it, — the marvelous story Of Sandalphon, the angel of Glory, Sandalphon, the angel of Prayer ? How erect, at the outermost gates Of the City Celestial, he waits, With his feet on the ladder of light, That, crowded with angels unnumbered, By Jacob was seen, as he slumbered Alone in the desert at night? Angels of Wind and of Fire Chant only one hymn, and expire With the song's irresistible stress; Ire in their rapture and wonder, As harp strings are broken asunder By music they throb to express. But serene in the rapturous throng, Unmoved by the rush of the song, With eyes unimpassioi. I should be ashamed, father! ' Bennie said, ' when I am a man, 1 this great right arm,' — and he held it out so U IN Exercises in Elocution. proudly before me, — ' for my country, when it needed it I Palsy it rather than keep it at the plow I ' " Go, then, go, my boy/ I Raid, ' and God keep you I ' God has kept him, I think, Mr. Allan 1 and the farmer repeated these List words slowly, as if, in spite of his reason, his heart doubted them. " Like the apple of his eye, Mr. Owen, doubt it not I" Blossom sat near them listening, with blanched cheek. She had not shed a tear. Her anxiety had been so concealed that no one ad noticed it. She had occupied herself mechanically in the nousehold cares. Now she answered a gentle tap at the kitchen door, opening it to receive from a neighbor's hand a letter. ' It is from him," was all she said. It was like a message from the dead 1 Mr. Owen took the letter but could not break the envelope, on account of his trembling fingers, and held it toward Mr. Allan, with the helplessness of a child. The minister opened it, and read as follows: — "Dear Father: — When this reaches you, I shall be in eternity. At first, it seemed awful to me; but I have thought about it so much now, that it has no terror. They say they will not bind me, nor blind me ; but that I may meet my death like a man. I thought, father, it might have been on the battle-field, for my country, and that, when I fell, it would be fighting gloriously ; but to be shot down like a dog for nearly betraying it, — to die for neglect of duty ! 0, father, I wonder the very thought does not kill me ! But I shall not disgrace you. I am going to write you all about it; and when I am gone, you may tell my comrades. I can not now. "You know I promised Jemmie Carr's mother, I would look after her boy ; and, when he fell sick, I did all I could for him. He was not strong when he was ordered back into the ranks, and the' day before that night, I carried all his luggage, besides my own, on our march. Toward night we went in on double-quick, and though the luggage began to feel very heavy, every body else was tired too; and as for Jemmie, if I had not lent him an arm now and then, he would have dropped by the way. I was all tired out when we came into camp, and then it was Jemmie's turn to be sentry, and I would take his place; but I was too tired, father. I could not nave kept awake if a gun had been pointed at my head ; but I did not know it until — well, until it was too late." IJxebcises at Elocution, 265 "God be thanked 1" interrupted Mr. Owen, reverently. "1 knew Bennie was not the boy to sleep carelessly at his post" v tell DM to-day that I have a short reprieve, — given to me by circumstances, — ' time to write to you/ our good Colonel says. Forgive him, father, he only does his duty; he would gladly save me if he could ; and do not lay my death up against Jemmie. The poor boy is broken-hearted, and does nothing but beg and entreat them to let him die in my stead. ' I can't bear to think of mother and Blossom. Comfort them, father 1 Tell them I die as a brave boy should, and that, when the war is over, they will not be ashamed of me, as they must be now. God help me; it is very hard to bear! Good-by, father I God seems near and dear to me ; not at all as if He wished me to perish p orever, but as if He felt sorry for his poor, sinful, broken-hearted child, and would take me to be with Him and my Savior in a better — better life." A deep sigh burst from Mr. Owen's heart. "Amen," he said bolemnly, — M Amen." "To-night, in the early twilight, I shall see the cows all coming home from pasture, and precious little Blossom stand on the back stoop, waiting for me, — but I shall never, never come I God bless you all I Forgive your poor Benme." Late that night the door of the "back stoop" opened softly, and a little figure glided out, and down the foot-path that led to the mad by the mill. She seemed rather flying than walking, turning hef head neither to the right nor the left, looking only now and then to Heaven, and folding her hands, as if in prayer. Two hours later, the same young girl stood at the Mill Depot, watching the coming of the night train; and the conductor, as he reached down to lift her into the car, wondered at the tear-stained face that was upturned toward the dim lantern he held in his hand. A few tions and ready answers told him all; and no father could have cared more tenderly for his only child, than he for our little Blossom She was on her way to Washington, to ask President Lincoln for her brother's life. She had stolen away, leaving only a note to tell her father where and why she had gone. She had brought Bennies r with her: no good, kind heart, like the Pr. could refuse to be melted by it. The next morning they reached New York, and the conductor hurried her on to Washington. Every 200 El I in Elocution. minute, now, might be the means of saving her brother's life. And so, in an incredibly short time, Bl< lied the Capital, and hastened iuiui-diately to the White II The President had but I hlfimlf to his morning's task, i looking and signing important papers, when, without one word of announcement, the door softly opened, and Blossom, with dnvneast e\ «.-.-, and folded hands, stood before him. '' Well, my child," he said in his pleasant, cheerful tones, " what lo you want so bright and early in the morning?" "Bennie's life, please, sir," faltered BUM mie? WhoisBennie?" " M v brother, sir. They are going to shoot him for sleeping at his pi "Oh, yes," and Mr. Lincoln ran his eye over the papers before him. "I remember! It was a fatal sleep. You see, child, it was at a time of special danger. Thousands of lives might have been lot for his culpable negligence." "So my father said," replied Blossom gravely, "but poor Bennie was so tired, sir, and Jemmie so weak. He did the work of two, sir, and it was Jemmie's night, not his; but Jemmie was too tired, ilennie never thought about himself, that he was tired too." " What is this you say, child ? Come here ; I do not understand," and the kind man caught eagerly, as ever, at what seemed to be a justification of an offense. Blossom went to him : he put his hand tenderly on her shoulder, and turned up the pale, anxious face toward his. How tall he seemed, and he wa^ President of the United States too ! A dim thought of this kind passed for a moment through Blossom's mind; but she told her simple and straightforward story, and handed Mr. Lincoln Bennie's letter to read. lie read it carefully; then, taking up his pen, wrote a few hasty lines, and rang his bell. Blossom heard this order given : " Send this dispatch at once." The President then turned to the girl and said: "Go home, my chili, and tell that father of yours, who could approve his country's sentence, even when it took the life of a child like that, that Abraham Lincoln thinks the life far too precious to be lost. Go back, or — wait until to-morrow; Bennie will need a change after he has so bravely faced death; he shall go with you." "BxMBcmwa in Elocution. 207 B you, sir," said Blossom; and who shall doubt that God heard and registered the req Two days after this interview, the young soldier came to the White House with his little sister. lie was called into the Pi dent's private room, and a strap fastened "upon the shoulder." Mr. Lincoln then said: "The soldier that could carry a sick com- rade's baggage, and die for the act so uncomplainingly, deserves of his country." Then Bennie and Blessom took their way to their Green Mountain home. A crowd gathered at the Mill Depot elcome them back; and, as farmer Owen's hand grasped that of his boy, tears Bowed down his cheeks, and he was heard to say fervently, "Tiik Lord be pkaisedI " N. T. Observer. The Cynic, The Cynic is one who never sees a good quality in a man, and never fails to see a bad one. He is the human owl, vigilant in darkness and blind to light, mousing for vermin, and never seeing noble g The Cynic puts all human actions into only two classes — openly bad, and secretly bad. All virtue, and generosity, and disinter- estedness, are merely the appearance of good, but selfish at the bottom. He holds that no man does a good thing except for profit, of his conversation upon your feelings is to chill and sear to send you away sour and morose. •id innuendoes fall indiscriminately upon v thing, like host upon tl. If Mr. A. is pronounced s religious man, he will reply : yes, on Sundays. Mr. B. has just 1 the church: certainly; the elections are coming on. The : . 270 krcises in Elocution. And the name of that Isle is the Long Ago, And we bury our treasures there; There are brows of beauty aud bosoms of snow — Tin-re are heaps of dust — but we loved them so! — There are trinkets and tresses of hair; There are fragments of song that nobody sings, And a part of an infant's prayer; There 's a lute (unwept, and a harp without strings There are broken vows and pieces of i And the garments that she used to wear. There are hands that are waved, when the fairy shore By the mirage is lifted in air; And we sometimes hear, through the turbulent roar, Sweet voices we heard in the days gone before, ▼Then the wind down the river is fair. 0, remembered for aye, be the blessed Isle, All the day of our life till night — Wh.n the evening comes with its beautiful smile, And our eyes are closing to slumber ; while, May that "Greenwood" of Soul be in sight! B. F. Taylor. Excelsior ! The shades of night were falling fast, As through an Alpine village passed A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice, A banner with the strange device, "Excelsior!" His brow was sad ; his eye, beneath, Flashed like a falchion from its sheath ; And like a silver clarion rung The accents of that unknown tongue, " Excelsior ! " In happy homes he saw the light Of household fires gleam warm and bright : Above, the spectral glaciers shone ; And from his lips escaped a groan, " Excelsior 1" ExEBOmMB in Elocution. 27] Try not the pass I " the old man said, " Dark lowers the tempest overhead ; The roaring torrent's deep and wide I" And loud that clarion voice replied, " Excelsior ! " " Oh 1 stay," the maiden said, M and rest Thy weary head upon this breast I "— A tear stood in his bright blue eye; But still he answered, with a sigh, "Excelsior!" " Beware the pine-tree's withered branch ! Beware the awful avalanche ! " This was the peasant's last good-night; — A voice replied, far up the height, " Excelsior 1 " At break of day, as heavenward The pious monks of Saint Bernard Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, A voice cried through the startled air, "Excelsior!" A traveler, by the faithful hound, Half buried in the snow was found, Still grasping in his hand of ice That banner with the strange device, eelsior!" There, in the twilight cold and gray, LiMess, but beautiful, he lay; And from the sky, serene and ! A voice fell, like a falling star — "Excelsior!" TAtngfrUow. 272 Exercises in Elocution. Poor Little Jim The cottage was a thatched one, the outside old and mean, But all within that little cot was wondrous neat and clean ; The night was dark and stormy, the wind was howling wild, As a patient mother sat beside the death-bed of her child: A little worn-out creature, his once bright eyes grown dim : It was a collier's wife and child, they called him little Jim. And oh I to see the briny tears fast hurrying down her cheek, As she offered up the prayer, in thought, she was afraid to speak, Lest she might waken one she lored far better than her life; For she had all a mother's heart, had that poor collier's wife. With hands uplifted, see, she kneels beside the sufferer's bed, And prays that He would spare her boy, and take herself instead. She gets her answer from the child : soft fall the words from him, "Mother, the angels do so smile, and beckon little Jim, I have no pain, dear mother, now, but ! I am so dry, Just moisten poor Jim's lips again, and, mother, don't you cry." With gentle, trembling haste she held the liquid to his lip : He smiled to thank her, as he took each little, tiny sip. " Tell father, when he comes from work, I said good-night to him, Ami, mother, now I'll go to sleep." Alas! poor little Jim ! She knew that he was dying; that the child she loved so dear, Had uttered the last words she might ever hope to hear * The cottage door is opened, the collier's step is heard, The father and the mother meet, yet neither speak a word He felt that all was over, he knew his child was dead, He took the candle in his hand and walked toward the bed ; His quivering lips gave token of the grief he'd fain conceal, And see, his wife has joined him — the stricken couple kneel : With hearts bowed down by sadness, they humbly ask of Him, [n heaven once more to meet again their own poor little Jim. / 9 m Elocition. 273 The Dawn of Redemption, See them go forth like the floods to the ocean, Gathering might from eneh mountain and glen, — Wider and deeper the tide of devotion Rolls up to God from the bosoms of men : Hear the great multitude, mingling in chorus, Groan, as they gaze from their crimes to the sky : — •r the midnight of death gathers o'er us, When will the dawn of redemption draw nigh ?" "Look on us, wanderers, sinful and lowly, Struggling with grief and temptation below; Thine is the goodness o'er every thing holy, — Thine is the mercy to pity our woe, — Thine is the power to cleanse and restore us, Spotless and pure as the angels on high : — Father 1 the midnight of death gathers o'er us, When will the dawn of redemption draw nigh ?" Gray hair and golden youth, matron and maiden, Lovers of mammon, and followers of fame, All with the same solemn burden are laden, Lifting their souls to that one mighty name: — " Wild is the pathway that surges before us, On the broad waters the black shadows lie, — Father 1 the midnight of death gathers o'er us, When will the dawn of redemption draw nigh ?" Lo ! the vast depths of futurity's ocean Heave with Jehovah's mysterious breath ; Why should we shrink from the billows' commotion? walking the waters of death. Angels are mingling with men in the chorus, — Rising, li from earth to the sky : — Mows grow brighter before us, Heav j mansions eterna' draws d Jmm G. Clark. 274 Exi \ is Elocution. The Bell. A selection of prose poetry, written during the Inle war. The Roman knight who rode, "all accoutred as he was," into the gulf, and the hungry forum closed upon him, and was satisfied, n dying, that great Philistine, Oblivion, which, sooner or later, will conquer us all. We never thought, when we used to read his story, that the grand classic tragedy of patriotic devotion would be a thousand times repeated in our own day and presence; that the face of the neighbor, who had walked by our side all the while, should be transfigured, in the twinkling of an eye, like the face of an angel; that the old gods, who thundered in Greek and lightened in Latin, should stand aside while common men, of plain English speech, whose shoulders we had laid a familiar hand, should keep in motion the machinery of the grandest epic of the world — the war for the American Union. in old story that always charmed us more : ■me strange land and time — for so the story runs — they about to found a bell for a midnight tower — a hollow, starless heaven of iron. It should toll for dead monarchs, "The king is and make glad clamor for the new prince, "Long live the king.'* It should proclaim so great a passion or so grand a pride that either would be worship, or wanting these, forever hold its peace. Now this bell was not to be dug out of the cold mountains- it was to be made of something that had been warmed by a human touch and loved with a human love; and so the people came, like pilgrims to a shrine, and cast their offerings into the furnace, and went away. There were links of chains that bondsmen had worn bright, and fragments of swords that had broken in heroes' hands ; there were crosses and rings and bracelets of fine gold ; trinkets of silver and to) r s of poor red copper. They even brought things that were licked up in an instant by the red tongues of flame, good words they had written and flowers they had cherished, perishable things that could never be heard in the rich tone and volume of the bell. And by and by, the bell was alone in its chamber, and its four windows looked forth to the four quarters of heaven. For many a day it hung dumb. The winds came and went, but they only set it sigh- ing; the birds came end sang under its eaves, but it was an iron MfrauicuMa zn Elocuttoit. iiM horizon of dead melody still : all the meaner strifes and passions of rippled on below it; they outgroped the ants and out wrought the bees and outwatched the shepherds oi . i-ut the cham- of the bell were as dumb as the cave of Macpelah. At last i here came a time when men grew grand for right and truth, and stood shoulder to shoulder over all the land, and weal i like reapers to the harvest of death; looked in the graves of them that slept, and believed there was something grander than living; glanced on into the far future, and discovered there was thing bitterer than dying; and so, standing between the quick and the dead, they acquitted themselves like men. Then the bell awoke in its chamber, and the great waves of its music rolled gloriously out and broke along the blue walls of the world like an anthem ; and every tone in it was familiar as an household word to ebody, and he heard it and knew it with a solemn joy. Poi into that fiery heart together, the humblest gifts were blent in kith, and accents, feeble as a sparrow's r eloquent 1 lol a people's stately soul heaved on the wav ty voice. auk God, in this our day, for the furnace and the fire; for the offerings of gold, and the trinkets of silver, and the broken links of iron; for the good'sword and the true word ; for the great triumph an 1 the little song. We thank God for the loyal Ruths, who have taken up the words of their elder sister and said to the Naomi of a time, '• Where thou goest I will go; thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God." By the memory of the Ramah, into which i has turned the land; for the love of the now lamenting within it; for the honor of heaven ami the ho] mankind, let 08 who stand here — paal and present, clasping hands heads, the broad age dwindled to a line beneath our aud I ith the grav . martyrs — let us declare before tea — We will finish the work that the fathers began; ing, And these to their weeping, And one faith and one flag, for the Federal Union. li. F. 1\iylor. 276 JCxercises in Elocution. Declaration of Independence. When, in the course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have con 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 opinions of man- kind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the reparation. We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men are created equal ; that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalien- able rights ; that, among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. 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 des- tructive of these ends, it is the right of the people to alter or abolish it, and to institute a 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 are accustomed. But, when a ain of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same object, evinces a design to reduce them under absolute despotism, it is their right, 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 alter their former systems of government. The history of the present iring of Great Britain is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations, all having, in direct object, the establishment of an absolute tyranny over these states. To prove this, let facts be submitted to a candid world : He has refused his assent to laws the most wholesome and neces- sary for the public good. He has forbidden his governors to pass laws of immediate and pressing importance, unless suspended in their operation till his El I E8 n /jv Elocution 277 assent should be obtained ; and, when so suspended, he has utterly neglected to attend to them. lie 1ms refused to pass other laws for the accommodation of large districts of people, unless those people would relinquish the ri^'lit of representation in the legislature ; a right inestimable to them, and formidable to tyrants only. He has called together legislative bodies at places unusual, uncom- for table, and distant from the depository of their public records, for the sole purpose of fatiguing them into compliance with his measures. He has dissolved representative houses repeatedly, for opposing, with manly firmness, his invasions on the rights of the people. He has refused for a lung time after such dissolutions to cause others to be elected; whereby the legislative powers, incapable of annihilation, have returned to the people at large for their exercise; tate remaining, in the meantime, exposed to all the danger of invasion from without, and convulsions within. lie has endeavored to prevent the population of these states; fur that purpose, obstructing the laws for naturalization of foreign- ers; refusing to pass others to encourage their migration hither, ami raising the conditions of new appropriations of lands. He has obstructed the administration of justice, by refusing his assent to laws for establishing judiciary powers. He has made judges dependent on his will alone, for the tenure of their offices, and the amount and payment of their salaries. He has erected a multitude of new offices, and sent hither s\\ arms of officers to harass our people and eat out their substance. M kept among us, in times of peace, standing armies with- out the consent of our legislature. 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 jurisdiction go to our constitution, and unacknowledged by our laws; giving his assent to their acts of pretended legislation ; For quartering large bodies of armed troops among us ; Bg them, by a mock trial, from punishment, for any murders which they shuiiM commit OH the inhabitants of these 278 Exercises in Elocution For cutting off our trade with all parte of the world ; imposing taxes on us without our consent ; For depriving us, in many cases, of the benefits of trial by jury; For transporting us beyond seas to be tried for pret offenses ; For abolishing the free system of English laws in a neighboring province, establishing therein an arbitrary government, and enlarg- ing its boundaries, so as to render it at once an example and fit iustrameot for introducing the same absolute rule into these colonies; taking away our charters, abolishing our most valuable laws, and altering, fundamentally, the powers of our governm For suspending our own legislatures, and declaring themselves ted with power to legislate for us in all cases whatsoever. lit- lias abdicated government here, by declaring us out of his protection and waging war against us. ias 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 foreign merce- naries to 'complete the works of death, desolation, and tyranny, already begun, with circumstances of cruelty and perfidy scarcely paralleled in the most barbarous ages, and totally unworthy the head of a civilized nation. He has constrained our fellow-citizens, taken captive on the high sea-, to bear arms against their country, to become the executioners of their friends and brethren, or to fall themselves, by their hands. He has excited domestic insurrections amongst us, and has endeavored to bring, on the inhabitants of our frontiers, the merci- less Indian savages, whose known rule of warfare is an undistin- guished destruction of all ages, sexes, and conditions. In every stage of these oppressions, we have petitioned for redress in the most humble terms; our repeated petitions have beer, answered only by repeated injury. A prince whose character is thus marked by every act which may define a tyrant, is unfit to be the ruler of a free people. Nor have we been wanting in attention to our British brethren. We have warned them, from time to time, of attempts made by their legislature to extend an unwarrantable jurisdiction over us. /; v i b 8 m IN Elocution. 279 We have reminded them of the circumstances of our emigration and settlement here. We have appeal. d to their native justice and magnanimity, and we have conjured them, by the ties of our com- mon kindred, to disavow these usurpations, which would inevitably nipt our connections and correspondence. They, too, have been deaf to the voice of justice and consanguinity. We must, therefore, acquiesce in the necessity which denounces our separa- and hold them, as we hold the rest of mankind, enemies in 1 peace, frieuds. We, therefore, the representatives of the United States of :ica, in general congress assembled, appealing to the Supreme Judge of the world for the rectitude of our intentions, do, in the name and by the authority of the good people of these colonies, solemnly publish and declare, That these United Colonies are, and of right ought to be, Free and Independent States ; that they are absolved from all allegiance to the British crown, and that all poli- tical connection between them and the State of Great Britain is, and ought to be, totally dissolved ; and that, as Free and Independ- ent States, they have full power to levy war, conclude peace, con- tract alliances, establish commerce, and to do all other acts and tilings which Independent States may of right do. And for the support of this declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of Divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honor. The Burial of Moses. " And he burled him In a valler In the land of Moab, over against Beth \n or bat no mau knowctu of his scpukhcr to this day."— Deut. xxxiv : o. By Nebo's lonely mountain, On this side Jordan's wave, In a vale in the land of Moab, There lies a lonely grave ; But no man dug that sepulcher, And no man saw it For I of God upturned the sod, I laid the dead man ti. 280 Exercises in Elocution. That was the grandest funeral That ever passed on earth ; But no man heard the tramping, Or saw the train go forth ; Noiselessly as the day -light Comes when the night U done, And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek Grows into the great sun, — Noiselessly as the spring-time Her crown of verdure weaves, And all the trees on all the hills Open their thousand leaves, — So, without sound of music Or voice of them that wept, Silently down from the mountain crown The great procession swept Perchance the bald old eagle, On grey Beth-peor's height, Out of his rocky eyrie, Looked on the wondrous sight; Perchance the lion, stalking, Still shuns the hallowed spot : For beast and bird have seen and heard That which man knoweth not Lo when the warrior dieth, His comrades in the war, With arms reversed and muffled drum, Follow the funeral car. They show the banners taken, They tell his battles won, And after him lead his masterless steed. While peals the minute gun. Amid the noblest of the land Men lay the sage to rest, And give the bard an honored place, With costly marble dressed, Exercises in Elocution. 281 In the great minster transept, Where lights like glories fall, And the choir sings and the orgau rings Along the emblazoned wall. This was the bravest warrior That ever buckled sword ; This the most gifted poet That ever breathed a word ; And never earth's philosopher Traced, with his golden pen, On the deathless page, truths half so sage As he wrote down for men. And had he not high honor? The hill side for his pail ; To lie in state while angels wait With stars for tapers tall; And the dark rock pines, like tossing plumes, Over his bier to wave ; And God's own hand in that lonely land. To lay him in the grave, — In that deep grave, without a name, Whence his uncoffined clay Shall break again — wondrous thought I — Before the judgment day, And stand with glory wrapped around On the. hills he never trod, And speak of the strife that won our life With the incarnate Son of God. O lonely tomb in Moab's land, dark Beth-peor's hill, Sp.-ak to these curious hearts of ours, And teach them to be still. God huth his mysteries of grace, — Ways that we cannot tell ; leep, like the secret sleep Of him he loved so well Jfo, AUxa* 282 Exercises in Elocution. The Dying Christian to his Soul. Vital spark of heavenly flame I Quit, quit this mortal frame: nbling, hoping, lingering, flying, the pain, the bliss of (lying! Cease, fond nature, cease thy strife, And let me languish into life 1 Hark 1 they whisper ; angels say, 44 Sister spirit, corne away 1 " What is this absorbs me quite? Steals my senses, shuts my sight, Drowns my spirit, draws my breath ? Tell me, my soul, can this be death ? The world recedes ; it disappears 1 tven opens on my eyes 1 my ears i sounds seraphic ring; I. id, lend your wings! I mount ! I fly ! Grave 1 where is thy victory ? Death ! where is thy sting ? Alexander Pope From the Honeymoon. Duke. You are welcome home. Jul Home! You are merry; this retired spot Would be a palace lor an owl I Duke. 'Tis ours,— Jul Ay, for the time we stay in it. Duke. By Heaven, This is the noble mansion that I spoke of! Jul This! — You are not in earnest, though you bear it With such a sober brow. — Come, come, you jest. Duke. Indeed I jest not; were it ours in jest, We should have none, wife. Jul Are you serious, sir? Duke. I swear, as I'm your husband, and no duke. Jul Nc duke ? £l i ^tyo.v. 283 Z>u£e. But of my own creation, lady. Jul Am I betrayed? Nay, do not play the fool ! It la too keen a joke. Duke. You'll find it true. Jul You are no duke, then ? Duke. None. Jul Have I been cozened? have you no estate, sir? No palaces, nor houses? Duke. None but this: — A small mag dwelling, and in good repair. Jul. Nor money, nor effects? Duke. None that I know of. Jul. And the attendants who have waited on us — Duke. They were ray friends ; who, having done ny business, Are gone about their own. Jul Why, then, 'tis clear. — I was ever bornl — What are you, sir? Duke. I am an Jionest man — that may content you. Young, nor dl-favour'd — should not that content you ? I am your husband, and that must content you. Jul. I will go home I Duke. You are at home, already. Jul I'll not endure i£ 1 — But remember this — Duke, or no duke, I'll be a duchess, sirl Duke. A duchess I You shall be a queen, — to all , by the courtesy, will call you Jul A:ul I will have attendance! Duke. So you shall, you have learned to wait upon yourself. Jul To wait upon myself I Must I bear this? I could tear out my eyes, that bade you wo- And bite my tongue in two, for saying yes I And if you should, 'twould grow again. — I nk, to be an honest yeoman's wife inch my would-be duchess, you will find me). cut out i.y nature, Jul You will find, then. 284 Exercises in Elocution. That education, sir, has spoilt me for it — Why! do you think I'll work? Duke. I think 'twill happen, wife. Jul What I Rub and scrub Your noble palace clean ? Duke. Those taper fingers Will do it daintily. Jul And dress your victuals (If there be any) ? — Oh ! I could go mad I Duke. And mend my hose, and darn my nightcaps neatly : Wait, like an echo, till you're spoken to — Jul Or like a clock, talk only once an hour ? Duke. Or like a dial ; for that quietly Performs its work, and never speaks at all. Jul To feed your poultry and your hogs I — Oh, monstrous I And when I stir abroad, on great occasions Carry a squeaking tithe pig to the vicar ; Or jolt with higglers' wives the market trot To sell your eggs and butter I Duke. Excellent 1 How well you sum the duties of a wife I , what a blessing I shall have in you 1 Jul A blessing 1 Duke. When they talk of you and me, Darby and Joan shall no more be remembered :— baU be happy 1 Jul. Shall we? Duke. Wondrous happy ! Oh, you will make an admirable wife! Jul I will make a vixen. Duke. What ? Jul A very vixen. Duke. Oh, no 1 We'll have no vixen*. Jul. I'll not bear it 1 I'll to my father's I — Duke. Gently : you forget You are a perfect stranger to the road. Jul My wrongs will find a way, or make one. Exercises in Elocution. 285 Duke. Softly! You stir not hence, except to take the air ; And then I'll breathe it with you. Jul What, confine me ? Duke. 'T would be unsafe to trust you yet abroad. Jul Am I a truant schoolboy ? Duke. Nay, not so ; But you must keep your bounds. Jul. And if I break thera Perhaps you '11 beat me.— Duke. Beat you 1 The man that lays his hand upon a woman, in the way of kindness, is a wretch :n 't were gross flattery to name a coward — I '11 talk to you, lady, but not beat you. Jul. Well, if I may not travel to my father I may write to him, surely 1 — And I will — If I can meet within your spacious dukedom Three sucb unhoped-for miracles at once, As pens, and ink, and paper. Duke. You will find them In the next room. — A word, before you go — You are my wife, by every tie that's sacred ; The partner of my fortune — Jul. Your fortune I Duke. Peace ! — No fooling, idle woman ! Beneath th' attesting eye of Heaven I 've sworn ve, to honour, cherish, and protect you. No human power can part us. What remains, then ? To fret, and worry and torment each other, And give a keener edge to our hard fate By sharp upbraiding*, rod pe r pe tua l jars? — Or, like a loving and a patient pair :ed from a dream of grandeur, to depend Opon their daily labor for support). To soothe the taste of fortune's lowliness With sweet consent, and mutual fond endearment? — Now to your chamber — write whate'er you please ; 286 EXM&GiaMM Of ELOCUTION. But pause before you ^tiin the spotless paper, With words that may inflame, but cannot heal! ./i/2. Why, wliat a patient worm you take me for ! Duke. I took you for a wife ; and ere I 've done, I '11 know you for a good one. Jul. You shall know me For a right woman, full of her own sex ; Who, when she suffers wrong, will speak her ang--r : Who feels her own prerogative, and scorns, By the proud reason of superior man, To be taught patience, when her swelling heai t >ut revenge! [ Duke. Why, let the flood rage on ! Tiiere is no tide in woman's wildest passion But hath an ebb. — I Ve broke the ice, however. — Write to her father ! — She may write a folio — But if she send it ! — 'T will divert her spleen, — The flow of ink may save her blood-letting. Perchance she may have fits ! — They are seldom mortal, \hen the Doctor's sent for. — Though I have heard some husbands say, and wisely, A woman's honor is her safest guard, Yet there 's some virtue in a lock and key. So, thus begins our honeymoon. — 'T is well ! For the first fortnight, ruder than March winds, She '11 blow a hurricane. The next, perhaps, Like April she may wear a changeful face Of storm and sunshine : and when that is past, She will break glorious as unclouded May ; And where the thorns grew bare, the spreading blossoms M • t with no lagging frost to kill their sweetness. — Whilst others, for a month's delirious joy Buy a dull age of penance, we, more wisely, Taste first the wholesome bitter of the cup, That after to the very lees shall relish ; And to the close of this frail life prolong The pure delights of a well-governed marriage. John Tbbin. UTION. 287 When? How? and Why? When did Johnnie die, birdie — When did Johnnie die? The earth was aglow with blossoms, And violets bloomed in the sky. The scented air was aquiver With miwic of countless birds ; Ami the beautiful, sunlit river Seemed murmuring loving words. Fair lambs, like breathing lilies, Dotted the green hillside; And earth was filled with beauty, When little Johnnie died. How did Johnnie die, birdie? How did Johnnie die ? His dear, blue eyes, that widened From long gazing on the &y, And filled with Heaven's glory, All suddenly grew dim. Ah ! well we knew the nngels re looking down on him! Without one glance at us mortals, Who knelt in grief by his side, But with hands outstretched to those angels, Our little Johnnie died. Why died our little Johnnie? Does birdie ask me why ? To show how much of sorrow One may bear, and yet not die. , To lift our faint hearts upward To the Gracious One on High, Who blessed the little children When He dwelt beneath the sky; To make us drop all earth props For the band of the Crucified, Ah I not in vain, dear bin: Our little Johnnie died I |3 Grace Brown. 288 Exercises in Elocution. The Inchcape Bock. No stir in the air, no stir in the sea, The ship was still as she could be ; Her sails from heaven received no motion , Her keel was steady in the ocean. Without either sign or sound of their shock, The waves flowed over the Inchcape Rock ; So little they rose, so little they fell, They did not move the Inchcape Bell. The Abbot of Aberbrothock Had placed that bell on the Inchcape Rock; On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung, And over the waves its warning rung. When the rock was hid by the surge's swell The mariners heard the warning bell ; And then they knew the perilous rock, And blessed the Abbot of Aberbrothock. The sun in heaven was shining gay; All things were joyful on that day ; The sea-birds screamed as they wheeled round And there was joyance in their sound. The buoy of the Inchcape Bell was seen, A darker speck on the ocean green ; Sir Ralph the Rover walked his deck, And he fixed his eye on the darker speck. He felt the cheering power of spring ; It made him whistle, it made him sinjr; His heart was mirthful to excess, But the Rover's mirth was wickedness. His eye was on the Inchcape float ; Quoth he, u My men, put out the boat, And row me to the Inchcape Rock, And I '11 plague the Abbot of Aberbrothock." flOUMXUM in Elocution. 289 The boat is lowered, the boatmen row, And to the Inchcape Rock they go ; Sir Ralph bent over from the boat, And he cut the bell from the Inchcape float Down sunk the bell with a gurgling sound; The bubbles rose and burst around ; Quoth Sir Ralph, " The next who comes to the rock, Won't bless the Abbot of Aberbrothock." Sir Ralph the Rover sailed away; He scoured the seas for many a day ; And now, grown rich with plundered store, He steers his course for Scotland's shore. So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky, They cannot see the sun on high ; The wind hath blown a gale all day ; At evening it hath died aw:.y. On the deck the Rover takes his stand ; So dark it is they see no land. Quoth Sir Ralph, " It will be lighter soon, For there is the dawn of the rising moon." " Canst hear," said one, " the breaker's roar ? For methinks we should be near the shore." " Now where we are I cannot tell, But I wish I could hear the Inchcape BelL" They hear no sound ; the swell is strong ; Though the wind hath fallen, they drift along Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock, — "Oh God! it is the Inchcape Rockl " Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair ; He cursed himself in his despair; The waves rush in on every side ; The ship is sinking beneath the tide. 290 Exercises in Elocution. But even in his dying fear, One dreadful sound could the Rover hear, — A sound, as if, with the Inchcape Bell, The fiend below was ringing his knell. Robert Southcy Horatiua. A LAY MADE ABOUT THE YEAR OF THE CITY OOCLX. Lars Porsena of Clusium By the Nine Gods he swore That the great house of Tarquin Should suffer wrong no more. By the Nine Gods he swore it, And named a trysting day, And bade his messengers ride forth, East and west and south and north, To BummoD his array. >t and west and south and north The messengers ride fast, And tower and town and cottage Have heard the trumpet's blast Shame on the false Etruscan Who lingers in his home When Porsena of Clusium Is on the march for Rome. But by the yellow Tiber Was tumult and affright: From all the spacious champaign To Rome men took their flight. A mile around the city, The throng stopped up the way9; A fearful sight it was to see Through two long nights and dayg. Now from the rock Tarpeian, Could the wan burghers spy The line of blazing villages Red in the midnight sky. □f Elocution. 291 The Fathers of the City, They sat all night and day, For every hour some horseman came With tidings of dismay. They held a council standing B.-fore the River-gate; Short time was there, ye well may guess, For musing or debate. Out spake the Consul roundly : " The bridge must straight go down ; For, since Janiculum is lost, Naught else can save the town." Just then a scout came flying, All wild with haste and fear: "To arms I to arms! Sir Consul; Lars Porsena is here." On the low hills to westward The Consul fixed his eye, And saw the swarthy storm of dust Rise fast along the sky. Fast by the royal standard, O'erlooking all the war, Lars Porsena of Clusium Sat in his ivory car. By the right wheel rode Mamilius, Prince of the Latian name; And by the lea false Sextus, That wrought the deed of shame. But when the face of Sextus Was seen among the foes, A yell that rent the firmament From all tho town arose. On the house-tops was no woman But spat toward him ano soft for toueh. And so the Spirit of the Air is put into, and upon, this created form; and it becomes, through twenty centuries, the symbol of divine help, descending, as the Fire, to speak, but as the Dove, to Mm Ruskin. The Veto Power. Mr. President, I protest against the right of any chief to come into either Ilouse of Congress, and scrutinize the motives of its members; to examine whether a measure has been passed with promptitude or repugnance; and to pronounce upon the willing- ness or unwillingness with which it has been adopted or rejected. It is an interference in concerns which partakes of a domestic nature. The official and constitutional relations between the Presi- dent and the two Houses of Congress subsist with them as organ- bed bodies. His action is confined to their consummated proceed- . and does not extend to measures in their incipient stages, during their progress through the Houses, nor to the motives by which tb«y are actuated. There are some parts of this message that ought to excite deep alarm ; and that especially in which the President announces that each public officer may interpret the constitution as he pleases, mguage is, " Each public officer who takes an oath to support the "onstituti<>n, swears that he will support it as he understands it, and not as it is understood by others." " The opinion of the jr has no more authority over Congress than the opinion of Congress has over the judges ; and on that point nt is independ- ent of both." Now, DOeite, with great defer- ence that the I mistaken the purport of the oath to support the constitution of the United States. No one swears to support it as he understands it, but to support it simply as it is in truth. All men are bound to obey the l:i\\ s, <>f which the consti- i is the supreme; but must they obey them as they are, or as thev understand them ? 302 Exercises in Elocution. If the obligation of obedience is limited and controlled by the measure of information ; in other words, if the party is bound to obey the constitution only as he understands it, what will be -he consequence? The judge of an inferior court will disobey the mandate of a superior tribunal, because it is not in conformity to the constitution as he understands it; a custom-house officer will disobey a circular from the treasury department, because contrary to the constitution as he understands it; an American minister will disregard an instruction from the President, communicated from the department of state, because not agreeable to the constitution as he understands it; and a subordinate officer in the army or navy will violate the orders of his superiors, because they are not in ac- cordance with the constitution as he understands it We shall have nothing settled, nothing stable, nothing fixed. There will be general disorder and confusion throughout every branch of the administration, from the highest to the lowest officer — universal nullification. For, what is the doctrine of the Presi- dent but that of South Carolina applied throughout the Union ? The President independent both of Congress and the Supreme Court 1 Only bound to execute the laws of the one and the decisions of the other as far as they conform to the constitution of the United States as he understands it! Then it should be the duty of every President, on his installation into office, carefully to examine all the acts in the statute book, approved by his predecessors, and mark out those which he is resolved not to execute, and to which he means to apply this new species of veto, because they are repug- nant to the constitution as he understands it And, after the expira- tion of every term of the Supreme Court, he should send for the record of its decisions, and discriminate between those which he will, and those which he will not, execute, because they are or are not agreeable to the constitution as he understands it. Mr. President, we are about to close one of the longest and most arduous sessions of Congress under the present constitution ; and when we return among our constituents what account of the opera- tions of their government shall we be bound to communicate? We shall be compelled to say that the Supreme Court is paralyzed, and the missionaries retained in prison in contempt of its authority and in defiance of numerous treaties and laws of the United States; Exercises in Elocution. 303 that the executive, through the secretary of the Treasury, 6ent to Congress a tariff bill which would have destroyed numerous branches of our domestic industry ; and, to the final destruction of all, that the veto has been aoplied to the bank of the United States, our only reliance for a sound and uniform currency; that the Senate has been violently attacked for the exercise of a clear constitutional power ; that the House of Representatives have been unnecessarily assailed ; and that the President has promulgated a rule of action for those who have taken the oath to support the constitution of the United States, that must, if there be practical conformity to it, introduce general nullification and end in the absolute subversion of the government Henry Clay. Marco Bozzaris. At midnight, in his guarded tent, The Turk was dreaming of the hour When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent, Should tremble at his power: In dreams, through camp and court, he bore The trophies of a conqueror; In dreams his song of triumph heard ; Then wore his monarch's signet ring : Then pressed that monarch's throne — a king; As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing, As Eden's garden bird. At midnight, in the forest shad Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band, True as the steel of their tried blades, Heroes in he;irt an before they could knock at the opposite door, by half a dozen curly- headed lit who crowded round them as they flocked up stairs to spend the evening in their Christmas games, Gabri.l smiled grimly, and clutched the handle of his spade with a firmer grasp, as he thought of measles, scarlet-fever, thrush, whooping-cough, and a good many other sou re- latfon beside. It th : « happy frame of mind, Gabriel strode along, returning a short, suU?n growl to the good-humoured greetings of such of his bors as now and then passed him, until he turned into the dark lane which led to the churchyard. Now he had been looking forward to reaching the dark lane, I wa<. generally t\ nice gloomy, mournful place, and he was not a little indignant to hear a young urchin roaring out some joflj song about a merry Christmas in this very sanctuary. So Gabriel waited till the bot 322 L'CfSES FN 1 o.v. came up, and then dodged hire into a corner, and rapped him owr the head with his lantern five or six times, just to teach him to modulate his voice. And as the boy hurried away with his hand Iging quite a different sort of tune, Gabriel Grub chuckled very heartily to himself, and enured the ehurehyard, lock- ing the door behind him. Bfl t»ok off his coat, set down his lantern, and getting into the , worked at it for an hour or so, with right good- will. But the earth was hardened with the frost, and it was no isy matter to break it up, and shovel it out; and although was a moon, it was a very young one, and shed little light upon i he grave, which was in t the church. At any other time these obstacles would have made Gabriel Grub very moody and miserable, but he was so well pleased with having stopped the small boy's ringing, that he took little heed of the* n he had made and looked down into the grave when he had 1 work for the night with grim satisfaction, murmuring, as he gathered op his things — " Brave lodgings for one, brave lodgings for one, A few feet of cold earth when life is done. "IIo! ho I " laughed Gabriel Grub, as he sat himself down on a flat tombstone, which was a favorite resting-place of his, and drew forth his wicker bottle; "a coffin at Christmas — a Christmas box. Hoi ho! hoi" M Ho 1 ho ! ho 1 " repeated a voice, which sounded close behind him. Gabriel paused in some alarm, in the act of raising the wicker bottle to his lips, and looked round. The bottom of the oldest grave about him was not more still and quiet than the churchyard in the pale moonlight The frost glistened on the tombstones, and sparkled like rows of gems among the stone carvings of the eld -hurch. Not the faintest rustle broke the profound tranquillity of wie solemn scene. Sound itself appeared to be frozen up, — all was so cold and still. " It was the echoes," said Gabriel Grub, raising the bottle to his lips again. " It was not," said a deep voice. /.' \ / ;/.- ( tses in Elocution. 323 Gabriel started up, and stood rooted to the spot, with astonish- or; for hu eyes rested on ;i form which made his I :un cold. an upright tombstone, close to him, was a strange on- ly figure, whom Gabriel lelt at once was no being of this world, mg fantastic tegl which might have reached the ground, were cocked up, and crossed after a quaint fantastic fashion; his s:i arms were bare, and his hands rested on his knees. On his short round body he wore a close covering, ornamented with small slashes; Mid a short oloak dangled oo his back; the collar was cut into curi- ous peaks, which served the goblin in lieu of ruff or neckerchief; and his shoes curled up at the toes into long points. On his head he wore a broad-brimmed sugar-loaf hat, garnished with a single The hat was covered with the white frost, and the goblin looked as if he had sat on the same tombstone very comfortably for two or three hundred years. He was sitting perfectly still; his tongue was put out, as if in derision; and he was grinning at Gabriel Grub with such a grin as only a goblin could call up. " It was not the echoes," said the goblin. Gabriel Grub was paralysed, and could make no reply. "What do you do here on Christmas eve?" said the goblin sternly. "I came to dig a grave, sir," stammered Gabriel Grub. " What man wanders among graves and churchyards, on such a night as this?" said the goblin. " Gabriel Grub ! Gabriel Grub 1 " screamed a wild chorus of voices 1 the churchyard. Gabriel looked fearfully round — :ig was to '' What have you got in that bottle?" said the goblin. ' II lien Is, MT," replied the sexton, trembling more than I for be had bought it of the smugglers, and he thought that perhaps .-lit be in the excise department of the goblins. " Who drinks Hollands in a churchyard, on such a night as this? " •aid tie gr.blin. U Q Obl Gabriel Grub 1 " exclaimed the wild voices again. The goblin leen-d maliciously at the terrified sexton; and then, raising his voic I — "li fair and lawful M fa 324 El - ix Elocution. To this inquiry, thfl invisible chorus replied, — in a strain that ■OOaded like the voices of many choristers singing to the mighty swell of* the old church organ — a strain that seemed borne to the sexton's ears upon a gentle wind, and to die away as its soft breath passed onward; but the burden of the reply was still the same, — " Gabriel Grub 1 Gabriel Grub ! " The goblin grinned a broader grin than before, as he said, " Well, Gabriel, what do you say to this?" The sexton gasped for breath. I — it's — very curious, sir, very curious, and very pretty; tut I think I'll go back and finish ray work, sir, if you please." " Work! " said the goblin, " what work?" " The grave, sir: making the grave," stammered the sexton. ''Oh, the grave, eh?" said the goblin: "who makes graves at a time when all other men are merry, and takes a pleasure in it?" Again the mysterious voices replied, "Gabriel Grub! Gabriel Grub!" u I'm afraid my friends want you, Gabriel," " I'm afraid my frieiuls want you." " Under favor, sir," " I don't think they can, sir ; they don't know me, sir; I don't think the gentlemen have ever seen me, sir." "Oh, yes they have." "We know the man with the sulky face aad the gmn scowl that came down the street to-night, throwing his evil looks at the children, and grasping his burying- spade the tighter. We know the man that struck the boy, in the envious malice of his heart, because the boy could be merry, and he could not. We know him — we know him." "I — I — am afraid I must leave you, sir." " Leave us ! " — " Gabriel Grub going to leave us. Ho ! ho ! ho ! " As the goblin laughed, the sexton observed for one instant a brilliant illumination within the windows of the church, as if the whole building were lighted up; it disappeared, the organ pealed forth a lively air, and whole troops of goblins, the very counterpart of the first one, poured into the churchyard, and began playing at leap-frog with the tombstones, never stopping for an instant to take breath, but overing the highest among them, one after the other, with the most marvelous dexterity. The first goblin was a most astonishing leaper, and none of the others could come near him. (VRCISES IX ELOCUTIQy. 325 Ctremity of his terror, the sexton could not help ob- serving, that while 1 were content to leap over the com- mon-sized urave-totH-s, ilie first one took the family-vaults, in>n railings and all, with as much ease as if they had been so many street posts. At last, the game reached to a most exciting pitch ; the organ played quicker and quicker, and the goblins leaped faster and faster, coiliLg themselves up. rolling head over heels upon the ground, and sounding over the tombstones like foot-balls. The sexton's brain whirled round with the rapidity of the motion he beheld, and his legs reeled beneath him, as the spirits flew before his eyes, when the goblin king, suddenly darted towards him, laid his hand upon his collar, and sank with him through the earth. When Gabriel Grub had had time to fetch his breath, which the rapidity of his descent had, for the moment, taken away, he found himself in what appeared to be a large cavern, surrounded on all i'Y crowds of goblins, ugly and grim. In the centre of the . on an elevated seat, was stationed his friend of the church- I; and close beside him, stood Gabriel Grub himself, without »ww of motion. u Cold, to-night," said the king of the goblins, — " very cold. something warm, here." At this command, half a dozen officious goblins, with a perpetual smile upon their faces, whom Gabriel Grub imagined to be courtiers, on that account, hastily disappeared, and presently returned with a goblet of liquid fire, which they presented to the king. "Ah!" said the goblin, whose cheeks and throat were quite parent, as he tossed down the (lame. " this warms one indeed; bring a bumper of tin Mr. Grub." It was in vain for the unfortunate sexton to protest that he was not in the habit of taking anything warm at night ; for one of the gotlinshald him, while another poured the blazing liquid down his t; and the whole assembly screeched with laughter, as he l«d and choked, and wiped away the tears which gushed plen- tifully from his eyes, after swallowing the burning dra 1 now," said the king, fantastically poking the taper corner of his sugar-loaf hat into the sexton's eye, and thereby occasioning him the mosl t sin, — "At. ow the man of mis- ery and gloom a few of the pictures from our own great storehouse." 526 /•/ v 1 i:, clean apartment A crowd of little children i round a bright fire, clinging to their mother's gown, and gamboling round her chair. The mother occasionally rose, and drew aside the win- dow-curtain, as if to look for seme expected object. A frugal meal was ready spread upon the table, and an elbow-chair was placed near the fire. A knock was heard at the door; the mother opened it, and the children crowded round her, and clapped their hands fo: joy, as their father entered. He was wet and weary, and shook the snow from his garments, as the children crowded round him, and, seizing his cloak, hat, stick and gloves, with busy zeal, ran with them from the room. Then, as he sat down to his meal before the fire, the children climbed about his knee, and the mother sat by his side, and all seemed happiness and comfort. But a change came upon the view, almost imperceptibly. The scene was altered to a small bedroom, where the fairest and y est child lay dying; the roses had fled from his check, and the light from his eye; and even as the sexton looked upon him, with an interest he had never felt or known before, he died. His young brothers and sisters crowded round his little bed, and seized his tiny hand, so cold and heavy ; but they shrank back from its touch, and looked with awe on his infant face; for calm and tranquil as it was, and sleeping in rest and peace, as the beautiful child seemed to be, they saw that he was dead, and they knew that he was an angel, looking down upon them, and blessing them, from a bright and happy heaven. Again the light cloud passed across the picture, and again the subject changed. The father and mother were old and helpless now, and the number of those about them was diminished more than half; but content and cheerfulness sat on every face, and beamed in every eye, as they crowded round the firesde, and told and listened to old stories of earlier and bygone days. Slowly and peacefully the father sank into the grave, and, soon after, the sharer of all his cares and troubles followed him to a place of rest and peace. The few who yet survived them knelt by their tomb, and watered the green turf which covered it with their tears ; then rose, Exercises in Elocution. 327 and turned away, sadly and mournfully, but not with bitter cries, -pairing lamentations, for they knew that they should one day • again ; and once more they mixed with the busy world, and tlnir content and cheerfulness were restored. The cloud settled upon the picture, and concealed it from the sexton's view. " What do you think of that?" said the goblin, turning his large face toward Gabriel Grub. Gabriel murmured out something about its being very pretty, and looked somewhat ashamed, as the goblin bent his fiery eyes upon him. " You a miserable man! " said the goblin, in a tone of excessive contempt. "Youl" He appeared disposed to add more hut in- ition choked his utterance; so he lifted up one of his very pliahle leg*, and. flourishing it above his head a little, to insure his ed a good sound kick to Gabriel Grub; immediately which, all the goblins-in-waiting crowded round the wretched !i, and kicked him without mercy, according to the established and invariable custom of courtiers upon earth, who kick whom roy- alty kicks, and hug whom royalty hugs. "Show him some more," said the king of the goblins. At these words the cloud was again dispelled, and a rich and beautiful landscape was disclosed to view. The sun shone from out the clear blue sky, the water sparkled beneath his rays, and the trees looked greener, and the flowers more gay, beneath his cheer- ful influence. The water rippled on, with a pleasant sound, the trees 1 in the light wind that murmured among their leaves, the sang upon the boughs, and the lark caroled on high her w <1- • to the morning. Yes, it was morning, the bright, balmy morning of summer; the minutest leaf, the smallest blade <>f grass, ilked forth, elated with t and all was brightness and splendor. able man ! " said the king of the goblins, in a more •nptuous ton.- than before. And again the king of the goblins gaffe his leg a : : pin it descended on the shoulders of the n; and again the attendant goblins imitated the example of ,iief. Many a time the t and came, and many a lesson it taught tc Gabriel Gruh, who, although h with 328 Exercises in Elocution. pain from the frequent applications of the goblin's feet thereunto, looked on with an interest which nothing could diminish. He saw that men who worked hard, and earned their scanty bread with lives of labor, were cheerful and happy; and that to the most igno- rant, the sweet face of nature was a never-failing source of cheerful- ness and joy. Above all, he saw that men like himself, who snarled at the mirth and cheerfulness of others, were the foulest weeds on the fair surface of the earth ; and, setting all the good of the world •gainst the evil, he came to the conclusion that it was a very decen and respectable sort of a- world after all No sooner had he formed in the cloud which had closed over tin- last picture, seemed to <>n his senses, and lull him to repose. One by one the gob- lins faded from his sight, and as the last one di -appeared, he sank to sleep. The day had broken when Gabriel Grub awoke, and found him- self lying at full length OB tOO flat gravestone in the churchyard, with the wicker bottle lying empty by his side, and his coat, spade, and lautern, well whitened by the last night's frost, scattered on the ground. The stone on which he had first seen the goblin seated, stood bolt upright before him, and the grave at which he had worked the night before, was not far off. At first he began to doubt the reality of his adventures; but the acute pain in his shoulders, when he attempted to rise, assured him that the kicking of the goblins was certainly not ideal. He was staggered again, by observing no traces of footsteps in the snow on which the goblins had played at leap-frog with the gravestones; but he speedily accounted for this circumstance when he remembered that, being spirits, they would leave no visible impression behind them. So Gabriel Grub got on •t as well as he could for the pain in his back; and brushing the frost off his coat, put it on, and turned his face toward the town. But he was an altered man, and he could not bear the thought of returning to a place where his repentance would be scoffed at, and his reformation disbelieved. He hesitated for a few moments; and then turned away to wander where he might, and seek his bread elsewhere. The lantern, the spade and the wicker bottle, were found that day in the churchyard. There were a great many speculations about the sexton's fate at first, but it was speedily determined that he had /'xkrcises in Elocution. 329 i carried away by the goblins; and there were not wanting very credible witnesses who had distinctly seen him whisked through the air on the back of a chestnut horse blind of one eye, with the hind quarters of a lion, and the tail of a bear. At length all this was devoutly befieied ; and the new sexton used to exhibit to the curious for a trifling emolument, a good-sized piece of the church weathercock which had been accidently kicked off by the aforesaid horse in his aerial flight, and picked up by himself in the churchyard, a year or two afterward. Unfortunately these stories were somewhat disturbed by the un- looked-for reappearance of Gabriel Grub himself, some ten years afterward, a ragged, contented, rheumatic old man. He told his story to the clergyman, and also to the mayor: and in course of time it began to be received as a matter of history, in which form it has continued down to this very day. The believers in the weathercock tale, having misplaced their confidence once, were not easily prevailed upon to part with it again, so they looked as wise as they could, shrugged their shoulders, touched their foreheads, and murmured something about Gabriel Grub's having drunk all the Hollands, and then fallen asleep on the flat tombstone; and they affected to explain what he supposed he had witnessed in the gob- lin's cavern, by saying he had seen the world and grown wiser. But this opinion, which was by no means a popular one at any time, gradually died off; and be the matter how it may, as Gabriel Grub was afflicted with rheumatism to the end of his days, this story has at least one moral, if it teach no better one — and that is, that if a man turns sulky and drinks at Christmas time, he may make up his mind to be not a bit the better for it, let the spirits be ever so good, or let them be even as many degrees beyond proof, a? those which Gabriel Grub saw in the goblin's cavern. Dickem. Dora, With lunger Allan at the farm abode William and Dora. William was his son, And she his niece. He often looked at them, And often thought, " I Ml make them man and wife.** 330 Exercises in Elocution. Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all, And yearned toward William ; but the youth, becpi He had been always with her in the house, Thought not of Dora. Then there came a day When Allan called his son, and said, " My son, I married late, but I would wish to see My grandchild on my knees before I die ; And I have set my heart upon a n. Now, therefore, look to Dora ; she is well To look to ; thrifty too beyond her age. She is my brother's daughter ; he and I Had once hard words, and parted, and he died In foreign lands; but for his sake I bred His daughter Dora: take her for your v, For I have wished this marriage, night and day, For many yea But William answered short : " I cannot marry Dora ; by my life, I will not marry Dora." Then the old man Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said: II You will not, boy 1 you dare to answer thus 1 But in my time a father's word was law, And so it shall be now for me. Look to 't ; Consider, William : take a month to think, And let me have an answer to my wish ; Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall pack, And never more darken my doors again 1 " But William answered madly; bit his lips, And broke away. The more he looked at her, The less he liked her ; and his ways were harsh ; But Dora bore them meekly. Then before The month was out, he left his father's house, « And hired himself to work within the fields; And half in love, half spite, he wooed and wed A laborer's daughter, Mary Morrison. BXKRCTSBS l.\ E 'LOCUTION. 331 Thou, when the bells were ringing, Allan called His niece and said : " My girl. I love you well; But if you speak with hirn that was my son, < hr ehange a word with her he calls his wife, My home is none of yours. My will is law." And Dora promised, being meek. She thought, u It can not be ; my uncle's mind will change 1 " And days went on, and there was born a boy To William ; then distresses came on him ; And day by day he passed his father's gate, Heart-broken, and his father helped him not But Dora stored what little she could save, And sent it to them by stealth, nor did they know Who sent it ; till at last a fever seized I >n William, and in harvest time he died. Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat And looked with tears upon her boy, and thought Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said : " I have obeyed my uncle until now, And I have sinned, for it was all through me This evil came on William at the first. But, Mary, for the sake of him that 's gone, And for your sake, the woman that he chose, And for this orphan, I am come to you. You know there has not been for these five years So full a harvest: let me take the boy, And I will set him in my uncle's eye Among the wheat ; that when his heart is glad Of the full harvest, he may see the boy, And bless him for the sake of him that 's gone." And Dora took the child, and went her way Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound That was unsown, where many poppies grew. Far ofF the farmer came into the field And spied her not ; for none of all his men Dare tell him Dora waited with the child ; And Dora would have risen and gone to him, Tailed her; and the reapers reaped, the sun fell, and all the land was dark. 332 Exercises in Elocution. But when the morrow came, she rose and took The child once more, and sat upon the mound , And made a little wreath of all the flowers That grew about, and tied it on his hat To make him pleasing in her uncle's eye. Then, when the farmer passed into the field, He spied her, and he left his men at work, And came and said, " Where were you yesterday ? Whose child is that ? What are you doing here ? * So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground, And answered softly, " This is William's child I " " And did I not," said Allan, " did I not Forbid you, Dora ? " Dora said again : 44 Do with me as you will, but take the child And bless him for the sake of him that 's gone 1 " And Allan said, " I see it is a trick Got up betwixt you and the woman there. I must be taught my duty, and by you ! You knew my word was law, and yet you dared To slight it Well, — for I will take the boy ; But go you hence, and never see me more." So saying, he took the boy, that cried aloud And struggled hard. The wreath of flowers fell At Dora's feet. She bowed upon her hands, And the boy's cry came to her from the field, More and more distant. She bowed down her head, Remembering the day when first she came, And all the things that had been. She bowed down And wept in secret ; and the reapers reaped, And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. Then Dora went to Mary's house, and stood Upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy Was not with Dora. She broke out in praise To God, that helped her in her widowhood. And Dora said, " My uncle took the boy ; But, Mary, let me live and work with you ; He says that he will never see me more." Kxercises in Elocution. Then answered Mary, " This shall never be, That thou shouldst take my trouble on thyself; And, now, I think, he shall not have the boy, For he will teach him harshness, and to slight >ther; therefore thou and I will go, And I will have my boy, and bring him home; And I will beg of him to take thee back; But if he will not take thee back again, Then thou and I will live within one house, And work for William's child until he grows Of age to help us.' So the women kissed Each other, and set out and reached the farm. The door was off the latch ; they peeped, and saw The boy set up betwixt his grandsire's knees, Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm, And clapt him on the hands and on the cheeks, Like one that loved him ; and the lad stretched out And babbled for the golden seal that hung From Allan's watch and sparkled by the fire. Then they came in ; but when the boy beheld His mother, he cried out to come to her ; And Allan sat him down, and Mary said : " father ! — if you let me call you so, — I never came a-begging for myself, Or William, or this child; but now I come For Dora : take her back ; she loves you welL 0, sir ! when William died, he died at peace With all men ; for I asked him, and he said, He could not ever rue his marrying me, — I had been a patient wife: but, sir, he said That he was wrong to cross his father thus ; ' God bless him 1 ' he said, ' and may he oarer know The troubles I have gone through ! ' Then he turned His face and passed, — unhappy that I am I But now, sir, let me have ray boy, for you Will make him hard, and he will learn to slight His father's memory ; and take Dora back, let all this be as it was bef- 334 /■/. 1 1 b i /si:s ix El ocution. So Mary said, and Dora hid her face By Mary. There was silence in the room ; And all at once the old man burst in sobs: — " I have been to blame — to blame I I have killed my son I I have killed him, — but I 1< ved him, — my dear son 1 May God forgive me I — I have been to blame. Kiss me, my children I " Then they clung about The old man's neck, and kissed him many times. And all the man was broken with remorse ; And all his love came back a hundred-fold; And for three hours he sobbe i o'er William's child, Thinking of William. — So those four abode Within one house together; and as years Went forward, Mary took another mate ; But Dora lived unmarried till her death. Thnnyson Revelations of Wall-street It proved to be a night of adventure. I had four avenues to traverse, and the storm coming from the north-east, drove violently in my teeth. I buttoned my overcoat about my ears, settled my hat close over my face, and presenting my head combatively to the tempest, I pushed on. I had in this way crossed from the Eighth to the Sixth Avenue, scarcely con- scious of the progress made, when I struck against an object in the middle of the side-walk, and was saluted by the exclamation: "Stop!" Whatever alarm I experienced was immediately dissipated when I raised my head and got sight of the person who stood in my wa& It was a girl, bare-headed, without cloak or shawl ; perhaps sixteen years old. Before I could question her, she exclaimed : ' Mother is dying. Won't you come, quick?' Without a word being said, for she hurried me on too rapidly for conversation, I followed down the avenue to the next street, and turning into it, went perhaps half a block, when my companion entered a two-story wooden house, and ran rapidly up the stairs to BxMMOjama i.\ I ion. 335 the front-room. Here on a bed lay a woman moaning and gasping and exhibiting symptoms resembling epilepsy. 'Do n't be frightened,' I said, 'your mother is not dying — is not going to die.' — 'Are you sure of that?' said the girl. Something in the sound of her voice strange and startling — a masculine vigor, coupled with an extraordinary maturity, caused me to turn and regard her. Large black eyes were fixed on me with a firm but unsatisfied look, as if they would say: 'Do not amuse me : I am no child. Tell me the truth.' To these imaginary observations, rather than to the direct ques tion, I replied: 'I repeat, your mother is not dying, but evidently has had a fit of some kind. Is she subject to such attacks?' •Nol* She looked at me almost defiantly. I was at a loss what to say or do when I was relieved by hearing the poor woman, who had regained her consciousness, exclaim, 'Matilda.' Matilda, with entire composure, went to the bed-side of her m>tlic r, who asked what was the matter. I replied that 1 believed she had been taken suddenly ill, and her ter in alarm ran out for aid and met me. 'And now that I am here,' I continued, ' I shall be happy if I can do any thing to relieve you.' 'Give the gentleman a chair, my daughter,' said the sick woman, for although I had shaken the snow from my hat and coat, I was Still standing. The daughter obeyed, and I sat down. Mean while I had glanced about the room and taken a closer look at its inmates. The appear- was that of biting poverty without squalidness or misery. The girl was wry liand-otne and well formed, but exhibited in her de- meanor no softness — indeed, little that WSJ feminine. When I»sat :i, she seated herself at the window and looked out on the ■*.orra. There was something in the expression of her face which brought back some old association, but what I could not tell. The er was evidently a lady and possessed of natural refinement and delicacy. She explained to me that she had been very closely at work all dav with the needle, and as she was getting into bed 336 Exercises in Elocution. ■he had been seized in a most alarming manner, and was for tl.e time insensible. When she recovered she saw me standing ovar her. It was the old tale of destitution, hard work, and a final break- ing down of a naturally strong constitution. Yes, the familiar story, so much so that the novel-reader who has persevered thus far, in the belief that some extraordinary incident would yet turn lp, will exclaim : ' Pshaw 1 how very stale and common-place this neeting a girl in the street and being conducted up a pair of stairs to a sick-room, and so-f«»rth and so- forth.' To be sure, all this is very common — would it were otherwise, but God permits one class of his creatures to fare sumptuously every day, while another class starves, and the mystery of this we may not undertake to fathom. The poor lady seemed so nearly recovered that there was nothing to be done for her. I asked if I could render her any assistance, and if she was suffering from any pressing want She said she wa# not, and regretted that I should be taken out of my way. There was no reason why I should stay longer, yet I felt irresis- tibly impelled to speak to the young girl, who maintained her seat by the window, looking fixedly out of it. I rose to depart. Then I said, turning to her: I You see I was right, your mother will be quite well by morning.' She assented by a nod. 4 Where were you going when I met you ?' I asked. 'I thought mother was dying, and I started to find somebody to come to her. I did not dare stay to see her die.' And she looked again with that expression which had touched me, and which called up a strange feeling, like the memory of a half-forgotten dream. I I think I must call and see you to-morrow,' I said to the lady, ' for we are in the midst of a heavy storm. I reside not far from here, and I shall see if I can't be of some use to you. Pray, may I inquire your name?' 'Mrs. Hitchcock.' 1 And your husband ? * Has been dead for a long time.' ' He was ' 'A physician; Dr. Ralph Hitchcock.' Who graduated at Yale College, thirty years ago? Exercises in Elocution. 337 •Yes.' * Who resided in Cincinnati, and died there? 4 The same.* 'And you are Ralph Hitchcock's widow?' 'lam.' 'And this young person?' 'Hi3 daughter. The only surviving of five children.' The room swam round. Frank Hitchcock, my class-mate, my ;-mate in college, my beloved friend, my cherished correspond- ent, so long as he lived, cut off in the flower of his life ; while already acquiring fame, and laying the foundation for a grand sue- leeth bad matched him away. I >tood oppressed with these thoughts, not speaking, not moving. Hitchcock lay waiting calmly for some explanation. She had been too long schooled by trouble to become easily excited. Not so the daughter; she rose from her chair, came into the middle of the room, and burst into a hysterical sobbing, which was so violent that it alarmed me. I had made no explanation, but my questions showed I irat well acquainted with the one whose decease had caused such a revolution in their fortunes. After a short pause, I said : ' My dear lady, I knew your husband well : more than that, we were the best of friends. It is now late; you are just recovering from this sudden attack. I shall be sure to see you to-morrow. God bless you both 1 ' And I came away. D "sperate as my own affairs had been, here were circumstances much more discouraging. Reader, if you yourself are unfortunately borne down by the weight of what seems a calamitous destiny, cast about for some more afflicted, and take on you the office of aid and adviser. Assume a part of their burdens, it will help to lighten your own. You will be surprised what strength you will gain beside -o. For thus marvelously has God established the paradox 'There is that raaketh himself poor, yet hath great riches.' Richard B. Kimball. 338 J:\ercises in Elocution. The Bomance and the Beality of the Law. Among the learned or liberal professions, the one that ofienest tempts and dazzles the youthful mind is that of the law. This fact has its reason, and is susceptible of explanation. The profession of the law is venerable for iu antiquity, rich in the illustrious names which adorn its history, and unequaled for the aggregate of talent and eloquence which have in all ages character- ised its leading members. Far back in the dim vista of the past, the fancy of the legal en- thusiast may behold the commanding form of the inspired Cicero, his toga falling gracefully about him, his eye glowing with pathetic emotion, as he stands there on the Roman forum pleading the cause of his early friend and tutor, the poet Archius. It must be with no small degree of pride that the advocate thus traces his professional lineage back to the greatest orator of ancient tiraea There is a kind of ancestral congratulation that he, too, like Cicero, is empowered to use his country's laws, when occasion re- quires, to defend the innocent and relieve the oppressed. Then again there is romance connected with the practice of the law. Should every lawyer of long experience keep a journal, wherein he might detail the stories of all his clients, their strange grievances, their complicated affairs, and confidential disclosures, it would form a book only surpassed for variety and novelty by the famous ' Arabian Nights.' The amount of heart-history with which he becomes acquainted seems strangely in contrast with the lack of sentiment for which his character is so generally noted. He becomes familiar with domestic difficulties, disappointed affections, atrocious crimes, and daring schemes; and finds out more of the inner life of humanity than can be discovered from any other stand-point in society. His council-room is a kind of secular confessional, where clients reveal reluctant secrets, and tell of private wrongs. To him, what the world is accustomed to regard as fiction, constitutes the common- place fa?t«? of his legal practice. But in ou; country the more seductive phrase of the law is this, it has ever been the natural avenue to political preferment and judi- cial honors. Hence it is that young men of fine abilities and am- Exercises in Elocution. 839 bitious of distinction, so frequently choose this profession as the proper field whereon to meet 4 the high endeavor and the glad suc- cess.' And perhaps it is sometimes a misfortune that such a reason :es them rather than a sense of anj' peculiar fitness for the call- ing which they so hastily espouse. But of that hereafter. Lawyers, as a class, are, or were, much respected and revered, exerting as they do a very controlling influence over society and affairs. I know full well that novels and plays abound in a certain •typed character called an attorney, who is made to do all the dirty work of the plot or story. He is represented usually as a cadaverous-looking individual, with a swinish propensity to thrust his nose into every one's business, who is willing to damn his soul for a fee, and whose heart is devoid of all sympathy for Buffering or distress. The worst of all these human fiends is Uriah , whose freckled, hairy hand, with its cold clammy touch, so often makes the reader shudder as he turns the pages of ' David Copperfield.' Then there is Oily Gammon, who figures in ' Ten Thousand a Year,' and whose qualities are very plainly suggested by his name. And among the more recent types of this character, we have the ' Marks ' of Harriet Beecher Stowe, who, when asked to do a small favor, or to perform a common act of politeness with- out the tender of a fee, rolls out his eyes in wonderment, and to ex plain his refusal drawls out: l Oh/ I'm a lawyer/ 1 The muses too have conspired against these poor, persecuted fellows; and there is extant a little poem, called 'Law versus Saw,' in which a very invidious comparison is sought to be made between a lawyer and that small operator in the lumber business commonly known as a sawyer. In usefulness and dignity the poet confers the palm on the vocation of the latter. The last verse sums up the whole matte) thus: 4 This conclusion then I draw. That no ezerciae of Jaw, Twisting India-rubber law, I» as good As the exerclee of paw On the handle of a saw. Sawing wood.* Hut these pictures of law-attorneys, found so frequently in light literature, furnish the unknowing with a very erroneous estimate of verage character of the legal profession. These seeming caric- atures have had, and still have, originals in fact, but they are as 340 Exercises ix Elocution. much hated and despised by the more respectable members cf the bar as by the world at lar<_ r e. Indeed, to a person of experience in life, there need be no argument to prove that lawyers as a body are quite as honorable, intelligent, liberal and public-spirited as the same number of men selected from any class which has a distinctive wcistrnce. L. J. Bigelow, Grannie's Trnjt Dear Grannie is with us no longer; Her hair, that was white as the snow Was parted one morning forever, On her head lying soft and low ; Iler hands left the Bible wide open, To tell us the road she had trod, With waymarks like footsteps to tell us The path she had gone up to God. No wonderful learning had Grannie ; She knew not the path of the stars, Nor aught of the comet's wide cycle, JNor of Nebula's dim cloudy bars; But she knew how the wise men adoring, Saw a star in the East long ago ; She knew how the first Christmas anthems Came down to the shepherds below. She had her own test, I remember, For the people whoe'er they might be. When we spoke of the strangers about us But lately come over the sea; Of "Laura," and " Lizzie," and "Jamie," And stately old " Essellby Oakes," She listened and whispered it softly, " My dear, are these friends meetin'-folks ? " When our John went away to the city With patrons, whom all the world knew To be sober and honest great merchants, For Grannie this all would not do ; gmoiama or Elocution. 341 Till she pulled at John's sleeve in the twilight, To be certain, before he had gone; And he smiled as he heard the old question, 14 Are you sure they are rneetin'-folks, John ? ' When Minnie came home from the city, And left heart and happiness there, I saw her close kneeling by Grannie, With her dear wrinkled hands on her hair ; And amid the low sobs of the maiden, Came softly the tremulous tone, "He wasn't like meetin'-folks, Minnie; Dear child, you are better alone." And now from the corner we miss her, And hear that reminder no more ; But still, unforgotten, the echo Comes back from that far-away shore ; Till Sophistry slinks in the corner, Though Charity sweet has her due, Yet we feel, if we want to meet Grannie, 'Twere best to be meetin' -folks too. The Telegram. Dead 1 did you say ? he 1 dead in his prime ! Son of my mother 1 my brother ! my friend I While the horologue points to the noon of his time, Has his sun set in darkness? is all at an end? (" By a sudden accident.") Dead I it is not, it cannot, it must not be true I Let me read the dire words for myself, if I can ; Relentless, hard, cold, they rise on my view — They blind me 1 how did you say that they ran ? (•lie was mortally injured") Dead ! around me I hear the singing of birds And the breath of June roses comes in at the pane, Nothing — : changed by those terrible words, They cannot he true I let me Ri them again; (" And died yesterday.") 542 BjLMBViaMM ix ELOCUTION. Dead ! a letter but yesterday told of his love! Another to-morrow the tale will repeat; Outstripped by this thunderbolt Dong from above, Scathing my heart as it falls at my feet ! (" Funeral to-morrow") Oh, terrible Telegraph ! srhtle and still I Darting thy lightnings with pitiless haste! No kind warning thunder — no storm-boding thrill — But one fierce deadly flash, and the heart lieth waste ! { u Inform his friends.") Sarah B. Henshaw. ThQ Swan's Nest Little Ellie sits alone Mid the beeches of a meadow. By a stream-side, on the grass j And the trees are showering down Doubles of their leaves in shadow, On her shining hair and face. She has thrown her bonnet by ; And her feet she has been dipping In the shallow water's flow ; — Now she holds them nakedly In her hands, all sleek and dripping, While she rocketh to and fro. Little Ellie sits alone; And the smile she softly uses, Fills the silence like a speech ; While she thinks what shall be done, — And the sweetest pleasure chooses, For her future within her reach. Little Ellie in her smile Chooseth — "I will have a lover, Riding on a steed of steeds ! He shall love me without guile; And to him I will discover The swan's nest among the reeds. SxaxaMMA in Elocution. 343 M And the steed shall be red-roan, Ami the lover shall be noble, With an eye that takes the brenth; And the lute he plays upon Shall strike ladies into trouble, As his sword strikes men to death. * And the steed it shall be shod All in silver, housed in azure, And the mane shall swim the wind : And the hoofs along the sod Shall Btth onward and keep measure, Till the shepherds look behind. But my lover will not prize All the glory that he rides in, When he gazes in my face. He will say, ' Love, thine evs Build the shrine my soul abides in ; And I kneel here for thy grace.' 14 Then, ay I then he shall kneel low, With the red-roan steed anear him, Which shall seem to understand — Till I answer, ' Rise and go I For the world must love and fear him Whom I gift with heart and hand.' 44 Then he will arise so pale, I shall feel my own lips tremble With Ayes I must not say — Nathless maiden brave, 4 Farewell,' 1 will utter and dissemble — 4 Light to-morrow with to-day.' 44 Then he Ml ride among the hill? To the wide world past the river, There to put away all wrong : To make straight distorted wills, Ami to empty the \>\ •h the wieked bear along. 344 Exercisks ix Elocution. " Three times shall a young foot-page Swim the stream and climb the mountain And kneel down beside my feet — ' Lo 1 my master sends this gage, Lady, for thy pity's counting! What wilt thou exchange for it?' " And the first time I will send A white rosebud for a guerdon — And the second time a glove: But the third time — I may bend From my pride, and answer — ' Pardon • If he comes to take my love.' " Then the young foot-page will run — Then my lover will ride faster, Till he kneeleth at my knee : 1 1 am a duke's eldest son I Thousand serfs do call me master, — But, O Love, I love but thee! ' " He will kiss me on the mouth Then ; and lead me as a lover, Through the crowds that praise his deeds And, when soul-tied b;t one troth, Unto him I will discover That swan's nest among the reeds," Little Ellie, with her smile Not yet ended, rose up gayly, Tied the bonnet, donned the shoe — And went homeward, round a mile, Just to see, as she did daily, What more eggs were witl the two. Pushing through the elm-tree oopse Winding by the stream, light-hearted, Where the ozier pathway leads — Past the boughs she stoops — and stops 1 Lo 1 the wild swan had deserted, — And a rat had gnawed the reeds. /. v | ft IB I S IN ELOCUTI 346 Ellie went home sad and slow : I -he found the lover ever, With his red-roan steed of steeds, Sooth I know not! but I know- She could never show him — never, That swan's nest among the iv Mrs. Drowning. The Main Track, or a Leap for Life, Old Ironsides at anchor lay, In the harbor of Mahon ; A. dead calm rested on the bay, The waves to sleep had gone ; When little Hal, the captain's son, A lad both brave and good, In sport, up shroud and rigging ran, And on the main-truck stood 1 A shudder shot through every vein, All eyes were turned on high 1 There stood the boy, with dizzy brain, Between the sea and sky ; No hold had he above, below, Alone he stood in air ; To that far height none dared to go ; No aid could reach him there. We gazed, — but not a man could speak I With horror all aghast, In groups, with pallid brow and cheek. We watched the quivering mast The atmosphere grew thick and hot, And of a lurid hue ; As riveted unto the spot, Stood officers and crew. The father came on deck, — he gasped, "Oh God! thy will be done 1" Then suddenly a rifle grasped, And aimed it at his 346 Exercises ix Elocutiox. " Jump far out, boy, into the wave ! Jump or I fire I " he said ; " That only chance thy life can save 1 " Jump ! jump, boy 1 " — he obeyed. He sunk, — he rose, — he lived, — he moved, — And for the ship struck out; On board, we hailed the lad beloved, With many a manly shout His father drew, in silent joy, Those wet arms round his neck, - Then folded to his heart his boy, And fainted on the deck, O. P. Morris. From Rose Clark. •For mercy's sake, what are you thinking about?' asked Dolly, 'with that curious look in your eyes, and the color coming ;md going in your face that way ? ' 'I was thinking,' said the child, her eyes still fixed on the silver lake, ' how beautiful God made the earth, and how sad it was there should be ' at, now?' asked Dolly tartly. 'Any sorrow in it,' said Rose. 1 The earth is well enough, I s'pose,' said Dolly. ' I never looked at it much ; and as to the rest of your remark. I hope you will remember it when you get home, and not plague my life out when I want you to work. Let's see : you will have the shop to sweep out, the window-shutters to take down and put up night and morn- ing, errands to run, sewing, washing, ironing, and scrubbing to dc, dishes to wash, besides a few other little things. 'Of course, you will have your own clothes to make and to mend, the sheets and towels to hem, and be learning, meanwhile, to wait on customers in the shop; I shan't trust you with the money-drawer till I know whether you are honest.' Rose's face became crimson, and she involuntarily moved further away from Dolly. Exercises ix Elocution. 347 'None of that, now,' said that lady; 'such airs won't go down with me. , It is a pity if I can't speak to my own sister's child.' Rose thought this was the only light in which she was likely to view the relationship; but she was too wise to reply. 4 There's no knowing,' said Dolly ' what you may have learned among those children at the asylum.' ' •u put me there, Aunt Dolly,' said Rose. 'Of course I put you there; but did I tell you to learn all the bad l you saw ?' You did n't tell me not; but I never would take what belonged to another.' 'Shut up now — you are just like your mother, ex-actly.' And Dolly stopped here, considering that she would go no further in the way of invective. ****** ' Aunt Dolly,' said Rose, timidly, about a month after the event* Aunt Dolly ' and here Rose stopped short 'Out with it,' said Dolly, 'if you've got any thing to say. You me as nervous as an eel, twisting that apron-string, and Aunt Dolly-ing such an eternity: if you have got any thing to say, out with it.' 'May I go to the evening-school ?' asked Rose. 'It is a free- school.' U, you are not free to go, if it is; you know how to read and write, and I have taught you how to make change pretty well — - all you need for my purposes.' 4 But I should like to learn other things, Aunt Dolly.' 4 What other things, I'd like to know ? That's your mother all over. She never was content without a book at the end of her nose. She could n't have earned her living to have saved her life, if she had n't got ma r rie d . 1 * It was pnrtly to earn my living I wanted to learn, Aunt Dolly: perhaps I could be a teacli 4 Too grand to trim caps and bonnets, like your Aunt Dolly, I I -he, sneeringly ; ' it is quite beneath a charity-oi ; I suppose.' 'No, K>uld like to teach b. t •Well, you won't do it — MTtf no time. So there's all thu. And this would be the case, though he were surrounded by ti 1 relatives and I itndi 350 SXMMOaMS IN ELOCUTION. A company of men, none of whom have anything worth hoping for on earth, yet who do not look forward to anything beyond earth ! Sorrow to be personified, and its effect on a family represented by the way in which the members of the family regard this dark- clad and sad-browed inmate. A story to show how we are all wronged and wrongers, and avenge one another. To personify winds of various characters. A man living a wicked life in one place, and simultaneously a virtuous and religious one in another. An ornament to be worn about the person of a lady, — as a jew- elled heart. After many years, it happens to be broken or un- screwed, and a poisonous odor comes out A company of persons to drink a certain medicinal preparation, which would prove a poison, or the contrary, according to their different characters. Many persons, without a consciousness of so doing, to contribute to some one end ; as to a beggar's feast, made up of broken victuals from many tables; or a patch carpet, woven of shreds from innu- merable garments. Some very famous jewel or other thing, much talked of all over the world. Some person to meet with it, and get possession of it in some unexpected manner, amid homely circumstances. A cloud in the shape of an old woman kneeling, with arms ex- tended toward the moon. On being transported to strange scenes, we feel as if all were unreal. This is but the perception of the true unreality of earthly things, made evident by the want of congruity between ourselves and them. By and by we become mutually adapted, and the per- ception is lost. /. \ of Elocution. 351 An old looking-glass. Somebody find9 out the secret of making all the images that have been reflected in it pass back again across its surface. Our Indian races having reared no monuments, like the Greeks, Romans and Egyptians, when they have disappeared from the earth their history will appear a fable, and they misty phantoms. A woman to sympathize with all emotions, but to have none of her own. A letter, written a century or more ago, but which has never yet been unsealed. A dreadful secret to be communicated to several people of vari- ous characters, — grave or gay, — and they all to become insane, according to their characters, by the influence of the secret. Stories to be told of a certain person's appearance in public, of his having been seen in various situations, and of his making visits in private circles; but finally, on looking for this person, to come upon his old grave and mossy tombstone. The influence of a peculiar mind, in close communion with an- other, to drive the latter to insanity. To look at a beautiful girl, and picture all the lovers, in different situations, whose hearts are centered upon her. Nathaniel Eawthorne. Invocation to Light. O holy light 1 thou art old as the look of God, and eternal as word. The an- rooked in thy lap, and their infant M were brightened by thee. Creation is in thy memory. By the throne of Jehovah was set, and thy hand burnished I *tars that glitter in His crown. Worlds new from II I omnipotent, hand were sprinkled with beams from thy font. At 103 to fill her silver horn; Saturn bathes !. rings; Jupiter lights his waning n: and Venus dips her qu. Thy fountains are 352 JlXERClSES IN ELOCUTION. ■ss as the ocean of heavenly love, thy center is everywhere, anr fitter ears ; — go — De Maup. D.>es he mock me? [Exeunt Ds Mauprat and H corner.) Rich. Joseph, Come forth. Enter Joseph. Mcthinks your cheek has lost its rubies ; I fear you have been too lavish of the flesh; The scourge is heavy. 16 360 Eg** Of i^ot i/'r/o.v. Joseph. Pray you, change the subject. Rich. You good men are so modest! — Well, to bisineat Go instantly — deeds — notaries I — bid my stewards Arrange my house by the Luxembourg — my house No more ! — a bridal present to my ward, Who weds to-morrow. Joseph. Weds, with whom? . De Mauprat Joseph. Penniless husband ? Rich. Bah I the mate for beauty Should be a man and not a money-chest! When her brave sire lay on his bed of death, I vowed to be a father to his Julie ; — And when he died — the smile upon his lips ! — And when 1 -pared the life of her young lover, Mt- thought I saw that smile again I — Who else, Look you, in all the court — who else so well. Brave, or supplant the favorite ; — balk the King — Baffle their schemes ? — I have tried him : — he has honor And courage ; qualities that eagle-plume Men's souls, — and fit them for the fiercest sun Which ever melted the weak waxen minds That flutter in the beams of gaudy Power I Joseph. And yet your foe. Rich. Have I not foes enow ? — Great men gain doubly when they make foes friends. Remember my grand maxims I — First employ All methods to conciliate. Joseph. Failing these ? Rich, (fiercely.) All means to crush ; as with the opening, and The clenching of this little hand, I will Crush the small venom of these stinging courtiers. So, so, we've baffled Baradas. Joseph. And when Check the conspiracy ? Rich. Check, check I Full way to it Let it bud, ripen, flaunt i' the day, and burst To fruit — the Dead §ea's fruit of ashes ; ashes Which I will scatter to the winds. Go, Joseph. 1 \\ i jy Elocution. 36\ Enter Db Mauprat and Julie. De Maup. Oh, speak, my Lord I I dare not think you mock me. And yet — llirh. (reading.) Hush, hush — this line must be considered I Julie. Are we not both your children? Rich. What a couplet I — llow now ! Oh, Sir — you live I De Maup. Why, no, methinks, um is not life. Julie. He smiles 1 you smile, My father I From my heart for ever, now, I'll blot the name of orphan 1 Rich. Rise, my children, ye are mine — mine both; and in your sweet And young delight, your love — life's first-born glory, My own lost youth breathes musical 1 De Maup. I'll seek Temple and priest henceforward: — were it but To learn heaven's choicest blessings. Rich. Thou shalt seek Temple and priest right soon ; the morrow's sun Shall see across these barren thresholds pass The fairest bride in Paris. Go, my children; Even /loved once I — Be lovers while ye may. How is it with you, sir ? You bear it bravely : You know it asks the courage of a lion. [Exeunt Dt Mauprat and Jum* Oh, godlike power! Wo, Rapture, Penury, Wealth — Marriage and Death, for one infirm old man Through a great empire to dispense — withhold — As the will whispers I And shall things, like motes That live in my daylight; lackeys of court wages, Dwarf d starvelings; manikins upon whose shoulders The burthen of a province were a load More heavy than the globe on Atlas — cast Lots fo.- my robes and scepter? France, I love thee! All earth shall never pluck thee from my li< My mistress, France ; my wedded wife, sweet France • Who shall proclaim divorce for thee and me I 362 Exercises in Elocution. Enter Francois hastily, and in part disguised. Rich. Quick — the despatch ! — Power — Empire ! Boy - - the packet ! Francois. Kill me, my lord ! Rich. They knew thee — they suspected — They gave it not — Francois. He gave it — he — the Count De Baradas — with his own hand gave it Rich. Baradas t Joy I out with it 1 Francois. Listen, And then dismiss me to the headsman. Rich. Hal Oo on I Francois. They led me to a chamber. There Orleans and Baradas — and some half-score, Whom I knew not — were met — Rich. Not more I Francois. But from Th' adjoining chamber broke the din of voices, The clattering tread of armed men ; — at times A shriller cry, that yelled out, " Death to Richelieu ! " Rich. Speak not of me I thy country is in danger ! Th' adjoining room — So, so — a separate treason I The one thy ruin, France I — the meaner crime, Left to their tools — my murder ! Francois. Baradas Questioned me close — deraurr'd — until, at last, O'erruled by Orleans — gave the packet — told me That life and death were in the scroll : — This gold — Rich. Gold is no proof — Francois — And Orleans promised thousands, When Bouillon's trumpets in the streets of Paris Rang out the shrill answer : hastening from the house My footstep in the stirrup, Marion stole Across the threshold, whispering, " Lose no moment Ere Richelieu have the packet : tell him, too — Murder is in the winds of Night, and Orleans Swears, ere the dawn the Cardinal shall be clay." Exercises in Elocution. 303 She said, an 1 trembling fled within: when lol A hand of iron griped me ! Thro' the dark, Gleara'd the dim shadow of an armed man : Ere I could draw, the prize was wrested from me, And a hoarse voice gasp'd — M Spy, I spare thee, for This steel is virgin to thy lord " — with that He vanish'd. — Scared and trembling for thy safety, I mounted, fled, and, kneeling at thy feet, Implore thee to acquit my faith — but not, Like him, to spare my life. Rich. Who spake of life t I bade thee grasp that treasure as thine honor — A jewel worth whole hecatombs of lives 1 Begone 1 redeem thine honor 1 Back to Marion — Or Baradas — or Orleans — track the robber — Regain the packet — or crawl on to Age — Age and gray hairs like mine — and know thou hast lort That which had made thee great and saved thy country. See me not till thou'st bought the right to seek me. Away ! Nay, cheer thee I thou hast not fail'd yet — There a no such word as "fad/ " Francois. Bless you, my Lord, For that one smile! I'll wear it in my heart To light me back to triumph. (Ebrit.) Rick The poor youth ! An elder had ask'd lifel I love the young I For as great men live not in their own time But the next race, — so in the young my soul Makes many Richelieus. He will win it yet Francois? He's gone. My murder! Marion's warning! This bravo's threat! for the morrow's dawn! t my spies to work — I'll make all space does the sun) an Universal Eye — Huguet shall track — J fess — ha! ha: Strange, while I UoghM I shuiMer'd, and ev'n now Thro' the chill air Iht I my ln-art Sounds like a death-watch by a sick man's pillow ; [f Huguet could deceive me — hoofs without — The gates unclose — UP and nearer 1 304 J.'xercises in Elocution. Fran. My Lord Bar. Ha, traitor! In Paris still I Iran. The packet — the despatch — Some knave play'd spy without, and reft it from me, Ere I could draw my sword. Bir. Play'd spy without I Did he wear armor? Iran. Aye, from head to heel Orleans. One of our band. Oh, heavens I Bar. Could it be Mauprat? Kept guard at the door — knew naught of the despatch — How hb? — and yet, who other? iron. Ha, De Mauprat 1 The night was dark his valour closed. Bar. 'Twas hel How could he guess ? — 'sdeath ! if he should betray us. His hate to Richelieu dies with Richelieu — and He was not great enough for treason. Hence ! Find Mauprat — beg, steal, filch, or force it back, Or, as I live, the halter Fran. By the morrow I will regain it, (. The packet ? art thou he I deemed the Cardinal's spy (Dupe that I was) — and overhearing Marion — Fran. The same — restore it I haste ! Maup. I have it not: Methought it but revealed our scheme to Richelieu. Enter Baradas. Stand back ! Now, villian ! now, I have thee 1 366 Exercises in Elocutios. ( lb Francois.)— Hence, Sir I Draw! Fran. Art mad ? the King's at hand I leave him to Richelieu 1 Speak — the despatch to whom — (A few passes.) Fly — fly 1 The King! Dt Maup. Fare you well 1 Save Julie, and console her. Fran, (aside to Mauprai.) The Despatch ! Your fate, foes, life, hangs on a word 1 to whom? De Maup. To Huguet. Fran. Hush — keep council I silence — hope I | IJxeunt Mauprat and Guard, Bar. (aside to Francois.) Has he the packet? Fran. He will not reveal — (Aside.) Work, brain 1 beat heart 1 " There's no such word at fail Fran, 1 my Lord ! h. Thou art bleeding I Fran. A scratch — I have not faiFd! \gives the packet. Rich. Hush I [looking at the contents. Third Secretary, (to Kino.) Sire, the Spaniards Have reinforced their army on the frontiers, The Due de Bouillon Rich. Holdl In this department — A paper — here, Sire, — read yourself — then take The Count's advice in't Enter De Beringhen hastily, and draws aside BAR\nA». (Richelieu, to Secretary, giving an open parchment.) Bar. (bursting from De Beringhen.) What! and reft it! from thee ! Ha! — hold! Joseph. Fall back ; son, it is your turn now ! Bar. Death I — The Despatch ! Louis, (reading.) To Bouillon — and sign'd Orleans ! — Baradas too — league with our foes of Spain ! — Lead our Italian armies — what! to Paris! Capture the King — my health requires repose ! ExMMOJBMa lx Elocution. 307 me subscribe my proper abdication! Orleans, my brother, Bagentl Saints of Heaven ! These are the men I loved I [Baradas draws % — attempts to rush out, — is arrested, Orleans, endeavoring to escape more quickly, meets Joseph's eye, and stops short. Richelieu falls back. Joseph. See to the Cardinal ! Bar. He's dying! — and I yet shall dupe the King! Isouis. (rushing to Richelieu.) Richelieu! — Lord Cardinal! — 'tis •^nl Reign thou! Joseph. Alas! too late! — he faints' Louis Rfign, Richelieu! . (feebly.) With absolute power? — Louis. Most absolute! — Oh, live I If not for me — for France 1 Rich. France ! Louis. Oh ! this treason ! The army — Orleans — Bouillon — Heavens! the Spaniard! will they be next week! {starting up.) There, — at my feet! (To First and Second Secretary. > Ere the clock strike ! — The En- voys have their answer ! (To Third Secretary, with a ring.) This to De Chavigny — he knows the rest — No need of parchment here — he must not halt For sleep — for food — In my name, — mine — he will t the Due de Bouillon at the head Of his army 1 — Ho! tlure, Count de Baradas Thou hast lost the stake! — Away with him ! IJ ;i! _ha! — [SnatcJiing De Mauprat's death warrant from the Officer. 8ee here, De Mauprat's death-writ, Julie 1 — Parchment for battledore? — Embrace your husband ! At last the old man blesses you I Julie. Ojoy! You are saved, you live — I hold you In these arms. De Maup. Never to part — 16* 368 Exercises in Elocution. Julie. No — never, Adrien — never ! Louis, (peevishly.) One moment makes a startling cure, Lord Car- dinal. Rich. Ay, Sire, for in one moment there did pass Into this wither'd frame the might of France! — My own dear France — I have thee yet — I have saved theel I clasp thee still ! — it was thy voice that call'd me Back from the tomb I What mistress like our country? Louis. For Mauprat's pardon 1 — well I But Julie, — Richelieu Leave me one thing to love I Rich. A subject's luxury 1 Vet, if you must love something, Sire, — love me t Louis, (smiling in spite of himself.) Fair proxy for a young fresh Demoiselle ! Rich. Your heart speaks for my client*: — kneel, my ohildreu, And thank your King — Julie. Ah, tears like these, my liege, Are dews that mount to Heaven. Louis. Rise — rise — be happy. [Richelieu beacons to Ds Berinohen. De Bet. ( falteringly.) My Lord — you are most happily recover'd Rich. But you are pale, dear Beringhen : — this air Suits not your delicate frame — I long have thought so. Sleep not another night in Paris : — Go, — Or else your precious life may be in danger. Leave France, dear Beringhen I \Ex&L (To Orleans.) For you, repentance — absence, and confession I (To Francois.) Never say fail again. Brave Boy I (7b Louis, as De Mauprat and Julie converse apart.) See, my liege — see thro' plots and counterplots — Thro' gain and loss — thro' glory and disgrace — Along the plains, where passionate Discord rears Eternal Babel — still the holy stream Of human happiness glides on I Louis. And must we Thank for that also — our prime minister ? Rich. Ko — let us own it : — there is One above Sways the harmonious mystery of the world Axercises in Elocution. 8«9 Ev'n better than prime ministers. Our gloiie8 float between the earth and heaven Like clouds that seem pavilions of the sun, And are the playthings of the casual wind; Still, like the cloud which drops on unseen crags The dews the wild flower feeds on, our ambition May from its airy height drop gladness down On unsuspected virtue ; and the flower May bless the cloud when it hath pass'd away. Sir Edward Lytton Bidwer. A Scotoh Lady of the Old School. As soon as she recognized Mr. Douglas, she welcomed him with much cordiality, shook him long and heartily by the hand, patted him on the back, looked into his face with much seeming satisfac- tion ; and, in short, gave all the demonstration of gladness usual with gentlewoman of a certain age. Her pleasure, however, appeared to be rather an impromptu than a habitual feeling ; for, as the surprise wore off, her visage resumed its harsh and sarcastic expression, and she seemed eager to efface any agreeable impres- sion her reception might have excited. "And wha thought o' seein' ye enoo?" said she, in a quick, gabbling voice ; u what's brought you to the toon ? Are you come to spend your honest faither's siller ere he' s weel cauld in his grave, puir ma Mr. Douglas explained that it was on account of his niece's health. 14 Health 1" repeat- 'li a sardonic smile, " it wad make an ool laugh to hear the wark that *s made aboot yonng fowk's health noo-a-days. I wonder what ye 're a' made o'," grasping Mary's arm in her great bony hand — "a wheen puir feckless windlestraes — ye maun awa to England for your healths. Set ye up! I wonder what cam o' the lasses i' my time that bute [behovedj to bide at hame? And whilk o' ye, I sude lik»- to ken, tx, like me. Health I he, \u> ! '' Mary, glad of a pretense to indulge the mirth the old lady's man- ner and appearance had excited, joined most heartily in the laugh. 370 i:.\ ;Ei;riSE8 IN ELOCUTION. "Tak aff yer bannet, bairn, an' let me see your face; wha can teU what like ye are wi' that snule o' a thing on your bead?* Then after taking an accurate survey of her face, she pushed padc her pelisse: " Weel its ae mercy I see ye hae neither the red head nor the muckle cuite o' the Douglases. I kenna whuther your faither has them or no. I ne'er set een on him : neither him nor his braw leddy thought it worth their while to speer after me ; but I was at nae loss, by a' accounts." " You have not asked after any of your Glenfern friends," said Mr. Douglas, hoping to touch a more sympathetic chord. 'Time enough — wall ye let me draw my breath, man — fowk canna say awthing at ance. An' ye bute to hae an Inglish wife tu, a Scotch lass wadna ser' ye. A I 'm warran' it ane o' the warlds wonders — it' s been unca long o' comin' — he, he I " He has begun life under very melancholy auspices, poor fel- low !" said Mr. Douglas, in allusion to his father's death. "An' wha's faut was that? I ne'er heard tell o' the like o't, to hae the bairn kirsened an' its grandfather dein' 1 But fowk are naither born, nor kirsened, nor do they wed or dee as they used to du — awthing *s changed." "You must indeed, have witnessed many changes?" observed Mr. Douglas rather at a loss how to utter any thing of a concilia- tory nature. "Changes! — weel a wat I sometimes wonder if it 's the same warld, an' if it 's my ain heed that 's upon my shoothers." " But with these changes you must also have seen many improve- ments?" said Mary in a tone of diffidence. "Impruvments?" turning sharply round upon her ; "what ken ye about improvements bairn? A bonny improvement, or ens no, to see tyleyors and sclaters leavin' whar I mind jewks and yerls. An' that great glowerin' New Toon there," pointing out of her windows, " whar I used to sit an' look out at bonny green parks, an' see the coos milket, an' the bits o' bairnies rowin' an' tumlin', an' the lasses trampin' i' their tubs — what see I noo but stane an' lime, an' stoor an' dirt, an' idle cheels an' dinkit out madams prancin'. Improvements, indeed." Mary found she was not likely to advance her uncle's fortune by the judiciousness of her remarks, therefore prudently resolved to hazard no more. Mr. Douglas, who was more au fait to the preju- EX3MOISM8 l.x tiLOCUTIOm nd who was alwi./s hiiium d with her bitter ■ks, when they did not touch himself, encouraged 1 K the conversation by some observation on the prevailing inan- "MainersI" repeated she, with a contemptuous laugh; "what ca' ye mainers noo, for I dinna ken? ilk ane gangs bang intill their neebcr s hoos, an' bang oot o't, as it war a chynge-hoos ; an' as for the maister o't, he 's no o' sae muckle vaalu as the flunky ahint his chyre. I' my gramlfaither's time, as I hae heard him tell, ilka maister o' a family had his ain sate in his ain boos; ay I an' sat wi his hat on his heed afore the best o' the land, an' had his ain dish, an' was ay helpit first, an' keepit up his owthority as a man sude du. Paurents war paurents then — bairns dardna set up their gabs afore thern than as they du noo. They ne'er presumed to say their war their ain i' thae days — wife an' servants, reteeners an' childer, a' trummelt i' the presence o' their heed." Here a long pinch of snuff canted a pause in the old lady's -rue. * * Mr. I )ouglas availed himself of the opportunity to rise and take V 1 >. what's takin ye awa', Archie, in sic a hurry? Sit doon there," laying her hand upon his arm, "an* rest ye, an' tak a glass o' an' a bit breed; or maybe," turning to Mary, "ye wad rather hae a drap broth to warm ye? What gars ye look sae blae, bairn ? I'm sure it 's no cauld ; but ye 're just like the lave : ye gang a' skiltin' about the streets half naked, an' then ye maun sit and birsle yoursels afore the fire at hame." She had now shuffled along to the farther end of the room, and -, took out wine and a plateful of various-shaped articles of bread, which she handed to Mary. " Hae, bairn — tak a cookie — tak it up — what are you fcei*d fori it'll no bite ye. ye Glenfern, an' your wife, an' your . it *8 no had a very chancy outset, weel a wat." The wine being drank, and the cookies discussed, Mr. Douglas Bade ■aether attempt to withdraw, but in vain. "Carina ye sit still a wee man, an let me speer after my auld 'ilenfern? Hoo 's Grizzy, an' Jaeky, an' Nicky ? — ayo In 1 awa' at the peels an' the drogfl — he, he! I ne'er swal- lowed a peel ii ju' my days, an' see an onv o i 11 rin a rant wi' me whan they 're naur ! 372 EmMB C J B W B IN ElocVTIOX. Mr. Douglas here paid some compliments upon her appearance which were pretty graciously r and added that he was the bearer of a ;i Ms aunt Grizzy, which he would send along with a roebuck and brace of moor-game. "Gin your roebuck 's nae better than your last, atweel it *s no worth the sendin' : poor dry fushinless dirt, no worth thechowin'; weel a wat I begrudged my t.-.th on 't Your muirfowl war nay that ill, but they 're no worth the carryin' ; they 're doug cheap i* the market enoo, bo it 's nae great compliment Gin ye had brought me a leg o' gude mutton, or a cauler sawmont, there would hae been some sense in 't; but ye're ane o' the fowk tli.it 'II ne 'er hanj yourself wi' your presents; it 's but the pickle powther they ••, an' I'se warran' yo 're tliinkin' mair o' your ain diversion than o' my stamick whan ye 're at the shootin' <»' them puir be M . Douglas had borne the various indignities levelled a himself and his family with a philosophy that had no parallel in his life before, but to this attack upon hi - not proof. His color r ves flashed fire, and something resembling an oath antly toward the t look at you? Vir. Your eye does, truly, But not your soul. I see it through your eye Shifting and shrinking — turning every way To shun me. You surprise me, that your eye, So long the bully of its master, knows not To put a proper face upon a lie, But gives the port of impudence to falsehood When it would pass it off for truth. Your soul Dares as soon shew its face to me. Go on, I had forgot ; the fashion of my speech May not please Appius Claudius. Claud. I demand Protection of the Decemvir ! App. You shall have it. Vir. Doubtless I App. Keep back the people, Lictors 1 What's Your plea ? You say the girl's your slave. Produce Your proofs. Claud. My proof is here, which, if they can, Let them confront. The mother of the girl [Vihginius, stepping forward, is withheld by Numitorius, Kumitorius. Hold, brother I Hear them out, or suffer me To speak. Vir. Man, I must speak, or else go mad! And if I do go nnid, what then will hold me From speaking? She was thy sister, too! lk thotL I'll try, and if I can, Be silent [Retire*. Num. Will she swear she is her child ? 378 krcises in Elocution. Yir. {starting forward.) To be sure she will — a most wise ques- tion thatl Is she not his slave ? Will his tongue lie for him — Or his hand steal — or the finger of his hand Beckon or point, or shut, or open for him ? To ask him if she'll swear! Will she walk or run, Sing, dance, or wag her head; do anything That is most easy done ? She'll as soon swear I What mockery it is to have one's life In jeopardy by such a barefaced trick! Is it to be endured ? I do protest Dst her oath! App. No law in Rome, Virgin ins, Seconds you. If she swear the girl's her child, The evidence is good, unless confronted By better evidence. Look you to that, Virgin ius. I shall take the woman's oath. ;inin. Icilius! Icilius. Fear not, love ; a thousand oaths Will answer her. App. You swear the girl's your child, And that you sold her to Virginius' wife, Who passed her for her own. Is that your oath ? Slave. It is my oath. App. Your answer now, Virginius. Vtr. Here it is I [Brings Virginia forward* Is this the daughter of a slave ? I know 'Tis not with men as shrubs and trees, that by The shoot you know the rank and order of The stem. Yet who from such a stem would look For such a shoot. My witnesses are these - The relatives and friends of Numitoria! Speak for me, my friends; Have I not spoke the truth ? Women and Citizens. You have, Virginius. App. Silence! Keep. silence there! No more of that! Fou're lery ready for a tumult, citizens. [Ttoojjs appear behind. /■:.\j:i:cises in Elocution. 370 I, make way to let these troops advance I We have had a taste of your forbearance, masters, And wish not for another. Vir. Troops in the Forum? App. Virginius have you spoken? Vir. If you have heard me, I have ; If not, I'll speak again. App. You need not, :iius ; I had evidence to give, Which, should you speak a hundred times again, Would make your pleading vain. Vir. Your hand, Virginia I Stand close to me. [Aside. App. My conscience will not let me Be silent Tis notorious to you all, That Claudius' father at his death, declared me The guardian of his son. This cheat has long Been known to me. I know the girl is not Virginius' daughter. Vir. Join your fi iends, Icilius, And leave Virginia to my care. \Aside. App. The justice I should have done my client unrequired, Now cited by him, how shall I refuse ? Vir. Don't tremble, girl I don't tremble. {Aside. App. Virginius, I feel for you ; but though you were my father, The majesty of justice should be sacred — Claudius must take Virginia home with him. Vir. And if he must, I should advise him, Appiut, To take her home in time, before his guardian Complete the violation which his eyes Already have begun, — friends! fellow-citizens! Look not on Claudius — look on your Decemvir! He is the master claims Virginia ! The tongues that told him she was not my child Ar<- these — the costly charms he cannot purchase Exceut by making her the slave of Claudius, 380 h'xKRcisES in Elocution. His client, his purveyor, that caters for His pleasure — markets fur him — picks, and scents, And tastes, that he may banquet — serves him up His sensual feast, and is not now ashamed, In the open common street before your eyes — Frighting your daughters' and your matrons' cheeks With blushes they ne 'er thought to meet — to help him To the honor of a Roman maid ! my child 1 Who now clings to me, as you see, as if This second Tarquin had already coiled .; ms around her. Look upon her Romans ! Befriend her I succor her ! see her not polluted Before her father's eyes I — He is but one. Tear her from Appius and his Lictors while She is unstained. — Tour hands 1 your hands I your hands I Citizen*. They are yours, Virginius. App. Keep the people back — Support ray Lictors soldiers ! Seize the girl, And drive the people back. IcQius. Down with the slaves ! \ The people make a show of resistance ; but upon the advance of th4 soldiers, retreat, and leave Icilius, Virginius and his daughter, etc^ in the hands of Appius and his party. Deserted ! — Cowards 1 traitors ! Let me free But for a moment 1 I relied on you ; Had I relied upou myself alone, I had kept them still at bay I I kneel to you — Let me but loose a moment, if 'tis only To rush upon your swords. Vir. Icilius, peace ! You see how 'tis, we are deserted, left Alone by our friends, surrounded by our enemiet, Nerveless and helpless. App. Separate them, Lictors! Vtr. Let them forbear awhile, I pray you, Appius : It is not very easy. Though her arms Are tender, yet the hold is strong by which She grasps me, Appius — forcing them will hurt them ; Exercises i.y I-J locution. 381 They '11 soon unclasp themselves. Wait but a little — You know you 're sure of her! App. I have not time To idle with thee; give her to my Lictors. * Vir. Appius, I pray you wait! If she is not My child, she hath been like a chil«i to me For fifteen years. If I am not her father, I have been like a father to her, Appius, For even such a time. They that have lived So long a time together, in so mar And dear society, may be allowed A little time for parting. Let me take The maid aside, I pray you, and confer A moment with her nurse; perhaps she '11 give me Some token will unloose a tie so twined And knotted round my heart, that, if you break it, My heart breaks with it App. Have your wish. Be briefl Lictors, look to them. Virginia. Do you go from me? Do you leave? Father ! Father ! Vir. No, my child — No, my Virginia — come along with m<\ Virginia. Will you not leave me? Will you take me with you? Will you take me home again ? 0, bless you ? bless you ! My father 1 my dear father ! Art thou not My father ? [Viroinids, perfectly at a loss what to do, looks anxiously round the Forum; at length his eye fulls on a butcher's stall, with a knife upon it. Vir. This way, my child — No, no ; I am not going To have thee, my Virginia! I '11 not leave thee. App. Keep back the people, soldiers 1 Let them not Approach VirginiusI Keep the people back. [Vtrginiua secures the knife. Well, have you done ? Vir. Short time for converse, Appius, But I have. 382 JJxkrcises in Elocution. App. I hope you are satisfied. Vir. I am — I am — that she is my daughter ! App. Take her, Lictors ! j Virginia shrieks, and /alls half-dead upon her father's shoulder.] Vir. Another moment, pray you. Bear with me A little — 'Tis my last embrace. 'Twon't try Your patience beyond bearing, if you 're a man I Lengthen it as I may, I cannot make it Long. My dear child 1 My dear Virginia I [Kissing her There is only one way to save thine honor 1 *Tis this. [Stabs her t and draws out the knife. Icilius breaks from the soldiers that held him, and catches her.\ Lo, Appius, with this innocent blood I do devote thee to the infernal gods! Make way there 1 App. Stop him 1 Seize him 1 Fir. If they dare To tempt the desperate weapon that is maddened With drinking my daughter's blood, why, let them : It rushes in amongst them. Way there 1 Way ! [Exit through the soldiers. James Sheridan Knowlts From the Dodge Olub: or, Italy in MDCOCLIX. La Oca did not speak the best English in the world ; yet that could not account for all the singular remarks which she made. Still less could it account for the tender interest of her manner. She had remarkably bright eyes. Why wandered those eyes so often to his, and why did they beam with such devotion — beaming for moment only to fall in sweet innocent confusion ? La Cica had the most fascinating manners, yet they were often perplexing to the Senator's soul. u The Countess," he thought, " is a most remarkable fine woman ; but she does use her eyes uncommon, and I do wish she wouldn't be quite so demonstrative." 7/\ in Elocution, M At last the Senator came to this conclusion : La Cica was de*- with him. She appeared to be a widow. Now if the poor Cica was hope- lessly in love, it must be stopped at once. For he was a married , and his good lady 6till lived, with a very large family, moat of the members of which had grown up. La Cica ought to know this. She ought indeed. But let the knowledge be given delicately, not abruptly. On the following evening they walked ou the balcony of La Cica'i noble residence. She was sentimental, devoted, charming. The conversation of a fascinating woman does not look so well when reported as it is when uttered. Her power is in her tone, her glance, her manner. Who can catch the evanescent beauty of her expression or the deep tenderness of her well-modulated voice? Who indeed? Does ze scene please you, my Senator ?" "Very much indeed." "Youar countrymen haf tol me zey would like to stay here alloway." " It is a beautiful place." " Did you aiver see any thin moaire loafel'y ?" And the Countess looked full in his face. " Never," said the Senator, earnestly. The next instant h*» blushed. He had been betrayed into a compliment. The Countess sighed. " Helas I my Senator, that it is not pairmitted to moartals to sociate as zey would laike." " ' Your Senator,* " thought the gentlemen thus addressed ; " how fond, how tender — poor thing! poor thing!" " T wish that Italy was nearer to the States," said he. " B '• I | iniar youar style of mind, so diflferente from ze Itali- ana. You are so stong — so nobile. Yet would I laike to see moar poetic in you." "I always loved poetry, marm," said the Senator, desperately. "Ah — good — nais — e< at zat," cried the Countess, with much animation. " You would loafe it you knew Italiauo. Your langua ees not sufficiente musicale for poatry." 17 384 i:ncisEs nr Elocutiox. " It is not so soft a language as the 7-talian." " Ah — no — not so soft* Very well. And what iheenka jou of xe Italiano?" " The sweetest language I ever heard in all my born days." " Ah, now — you hev not heard much of ze Iuliano, my Senator. ' " I have heard you speak often," said the Senator, naively. "Ah, you compliment I I sot you was aboove flattera." And the Countess playfully tapped his arm with her little fan. *' What Ingeli8 poet do you loafe best?" "Poet? English poet?" said the Senator, with some surprise. "Oh — why, marm, I think Watts is about the best of the lot I" "Watt? Was he a poet? I did not know zat He who in- vented ze stim-injaine? And yet if he was a poet it is natura!e zat you loafe him best" "Steam-engine? Oh no! This one was a minister." "A meeneestaire? Ah! an abbe? I know him not. Yet I haf read mos of all youar poets." " He made up hymns, marm, and psalms — for instance : ' Watt 3 Divine Hymns and Spiritual Songs.' " "Songs? Spiriluelle? Ah, I mus at once procuaire ze works of Watt which was favorit poet of my Senator." " A lady of such intelligence as you would like the poet Watts," said the Senator, firmly. " He is the best known by far of all our poets." "What? better zan Shakespeare, Milton, Bairon? You mucn surprass me." "Better known and better loved than the whole lot Why, his poetry is known by heart through all England and America." u Merciful Heaven ! what you tell me! ees eet possibl 1 An yet he is not known here efen by name. It would please me mooch, my Senator, to haire you make one quotatione. Know you Watt? Tell me some words of his which I may remembaire." " I have a shocking bad memory." "Bad memora! Oh, but you remember somethin, zis most beautiful charm nait — you haf a nobile soul — you must be aflfecta by beauty — by ze ideal. Make for me one quotatione." And she rested her little hand on the Senator's arm, and look.vi up imploringly in his face. A\ 9 in Elocution. 385 Tlie Senator looked foolish. He felt even more so. Here was a \ful woman, by act and look showing a tender interest in him. exing — but very flattering after all. So he replied: ii will not let me refuse you any thing." "Aha I you are vera willin to refuse. It is difficulty for me to exeitare youar regards. You are fill with the grands ideas. But ccme — will you spik for me som from your favorit Watt ? " Well, if you wish it so much," said the Senator, kindly, and he hesitated. 'Ah — I do wish it so much 1 " 44 Ehem 1 " "Begin," said the Countess. "Behold me. I listen. I hear cverysin, and will remember it forava." The only thing that the Senator could think of was the verse which had been running in his head for the last few days, its measured rhymth keeping time with every occupation: " ' My willing soul would stay — ' " " Stop one moment," said the Countess. " I weesh to learn it from you ; " and she looked fondly and tenderly up, but instantly dropped her eyes. Ma villina sol wooda sta — ' " 44 * In such a frame as this,' " prompted the Senator. 44 4 E«n socha frarnas zees.' Wait — 4 Ma willina sol wooda sta in socha frarnas zees.' Ah, appropriat ! but could I hope zat you were true to zose lines, my Senator ? Well ? " 44 4 And sit and sing herself away,' " said the Senator, in a falter- ing voice, and breaking out into a cold perspiration for fear of ttin,' himself by such uncommonly strong language. 44 ' Ansit ansin hassaf awai,' " repeated the Countess, her face lighting up with a sweetly conscious expression. The Senator pt 44 1 — i'h.-m! I fo-: btel 1 By." 44 Ah nowl Forget? I see by your face — you desave. 3ay on." touched his nrm with both her little hands, and held it as though she would clasp it 386 Exercises in Elocution. " Have you fear? An, cruel I " The Senator turned pale, but finding refusal impossible, boldly finis! : " ' To everlasting bliss ' — there 1 " " To aflarlastin blees thar.' Stop. I repeat it all: 'My willina sol wooda sta in socha frame as zees, ansit ansin hassaf awai to aflarlastin blees thar.' Am I right?" " Yes," said the Senator meekly. " I knew you were a poetic sola," said the Countess, confidingly. 1 You air honesto — true — you cannot desave. When you spik I can beliv you. Ah, my Senator 1 an you can spik zis poetry 1 — at soch a toime I I nefare knew befoare eat you so impassione 1 — an you air so artaful 1 You breeng re confersazione to beauty — to poatry — to ze poet Watt — so you may spik verses mos impas- sione! Ah 1 what do you mean ? Santissima madre I how I wish you spik Italiano." The Countess drew nearer to him, but her approach only deep- ened his perplexity. "How that poor thing does love mel" sighed the Senator. "Law bless itl she can't help it — can't help it nohow. She is A goner; and what can I do ? I '11 have to leave Florence." The Countess was standing close beside him in a tender mood waiting for him to break the silence. How could he? He had been uttering words which sounded to her like love; and she — "a widow I a widow 1 wretched man that I am ! " There was a pause. The longer it lasted the more awkward tho Senator felt. What upon earth was he to do or say ? What business had he to go and quote poetry to widows ? What an old fool he must be 1 But the Countess was very far from feeling awkward. Assuming an elegant attitude she looked up, her face expressing the tenderest solicitude. " What ails my Senator ? " " Why the fact is, marm — I feel sad — at leaving Florence. I nr.ust go shortly. My wife has written summoning me home. The children are down with the measles." Oh, base fabrication ! Oh, false Senator 1 There wasn't a word of truth in that last remark. You spoke so because you wished La Cica to know that you had a wife and family. Yet it was very badly done. ises ix Elocution. 387 La Cica chnv _ r her attitude nor her expression. dently the existence of his wife, and the melaneholy situation of his unfortunate children, awaked no sympathy. "But my Senator — did you not say you wooda seeng yousellef away to iffarllltoon belees?" "Oh, inarm, it was a quotation — only a quotation." But at this critical juncture the conversation was broken up by the arrival of a number of ladies and gentlemen. But could the Senator have known 1 Could he have known how and where those words would con- front him again ! "Do you know La Cica?" asked the General, with the air of a man who was putting a home-thrust, and speaking with uncommon ness. " I do," said the Senator, mildly. "You know her well? You are one of her intimate friends?" "Ami?" "Are you not?" " I am friendly with her. She is an estimable woman, with much feeling and penetration" — and a fond regret exhibited itself in the face of the speaker. " Well. Sir, you may as well confess. We know you, Sir. We know you. You are one of the chosen associates of that infamous Garibaldian plotter and assassin, whose hotel is in the hot-bed of conspiracy and revolution. We know you. Do you dare to come here and deny it ?" "I did not come here; I was brought. I do not deny that you know me, though I haven't the plot we of knowing you. But I do deny that I am the associate of conspirators." "Are you not the American whom La Cica so particularly distill guished with her favor?" • I . ; «• reason to believe that she was partial to me — somewhat.' 1 " lit- oonfoneaP said the General "You name from her to this place, communicating on the way with her emissaries." " I communicated on the way with none but brigands among the mountains. If they were her emissaries I wi-h her joy of them. leans of communication," said the Senator, while a grim smile 388 i.'rcises ay Elocution. passed over his face, "was an iron crow-bar, and my remarks left some deep impression on them, I do believe." " Tell me now — and tell me truly," said the General after a pause, in which he seemed trying to make out whether the Senator wa* joking or not u To whom are you sent in this city ?" "Sir I I warn you that I will not be trifled with." " I tell you," said the Senator, with no apparent excitement, " 1 tell you that I have come here to no one. What more can I say?' * You must confess." "I have nothing to confess," * Sir 1 you have mucli to confess," cried the General, angrily, "and I will wring it out of you. Beware how you trifle with my patience. If you wish to regain your liberty confess at on< you may escape your just punishment. But if you refuse, I'll shut you up in a dungeon for ten y< " You will do no such thing.* " What !" roared the General. " Won't I ?" " You will not On the contrary, you will have to make apolo- gies for - nils."* "II — Apologies ! Insults." The General gnawed his mustache, and his eyes blazed in fury. "You have arrested us on a false charge, based on some slander- ous or stupid information of some of your infernal spies," said the Senator. " What right have you to pry into the private affairs of an American traveler? We have nothing to do with you." "You are associated with conspirators. You are charged with treasonable correspondence with rebels. You countenanced revolu- tion in Florence. You openly took part with Republicans. You are a notorious friend of La Cica. And you came here with the intention of fomenting treason in Venice 1" Whoever told you that," replied the Senator, " told miserable lies -- most horrid lies. I am no emissary of any party. I am a private traveler." " Sir, we have correspondents in Florence on whom we can rely better than on you. They watched you." "Then the best thing you can do is to dismiss those correspond- ents and get rogues who have half an idea." /.xhh'fSEs in Elocution. 38:) "Sir, I tell you that they watched you well You had 1 Your antecedent^ in Florence are known. You are in a position of imminent danger. I tell you — beware!" The General said this in an awful voice, which was meant to r into tli*' soul of his captive. The Senator looked back into h ith an expression of calm scorn. His form seemed to grow larger, and his eyes dilated as he spoke: "Then you, General, I tell you — beware/ Do you know who you've got hold of? — No conspirator; no contemptible /talian ban- dit, or Dutchman either; but an American citizen. Your Government : ready tried the temper of Americans on one or two remarkable occasions. Don't try it on a third time, and don't try it on with me. Since you want to know who I am, I'll tell you. I, Sir, am an American Senator. I take an active and prominent part in the government of that great and glorious country. I represent a con- stituency of several hundred thousand. Ycu tell me to beware. I tell you — Beware! for, if you don't let me go, you'll have to give me up at the cannon's mouth. If you don't let me off by evening I won't go at all till I am delivered up with humble and ample apologies, both to us and to our country, whom you have insulted in our pers . you are bold!" " Bold I Send for the American Consul of this city and see if he don't corroborate this. But you had better make haste, for if you subject me to further disgrace it will be the worse for your Govern- in. nt, and particularly for you, niv friend. You'll have the town battered down about your ears. Don't get another nation down on you, and above all, don't let that nation be the American. What I tell you is the solemn truth, and if you don't mind it you will know it some day to your sorrow." Whatever the cause may have been the company present, inchxl- even the Qenera), win- impressed by the Senator's words. The announcement of hit dignity; the venerable title of Senator; th >n of his "constituency," a word the more formidable from not being at all understood — all combined to fill them with respect So at his DfOpooal to send for th- il the General orders to a messenger who w.-nt off at once in search of that :iary. 390 EXMBCISBS IX ELOCUTION. The American Consul soon made his appearance. Upon entering the hall he cast a rapid look around, and seemed surprised at so august a tribunal, for in the General's martial form he saw no less a person than the Austrian Commandant. The Consul bowed and then looked at the prisoners. As his eye fell upon the Senator it lighted up, and his face assumed an expres- sion of the most friendly interest. Evidently a recognition. The Austrian Commandant addressed the Consul directly in German. "Do you know the prisonei "I know (MM of thrm." "II<- is here under a very heavy accusation. I have well sub- stantiated charges by which he is implicated in treason and con- spiracy. He has been connected with Revolutionists of the worst stamp in Florence, and there is strong proof that he has come In ro to communicate with Revolutionists in this city." " Who accuses him of this? Are they here?" " No, but they have written from Florence warning me of his journey here." "Does the prisoner conf " Of course not. He denies. He requested me to send for you. I don't want to be unjust, so if you have anything to say, say on." u These charges are impossible." "Impossible?" "He* is altogether a different man from what you suppose. He is an eminent member of the American Senate. Any charges made against one like him will have to be well substantiated; and any injury done to him will be dangerous in the highest degree. Unless you have undeniable proofs of his guilt it will be best to free him at once — or else — " "Or else what?" " Or else there will be very grave complications." The Commandant looked doubtful. The others impassive. But- tons and Dick interested. The Senator calm. Again the Com- mandant turned to the Senator, his remarks being interpreted as before. "How does it happen that you were so particularly intimate with all the Revolutionists in Florence, and an habitue of La Ciccis salon? that your mission was well known throughout the city? that you /■:.\r!:rrsES tn Elocuti* 391 publicly acknowledged the Florentine rebellion in a speech? that the people carried you home in triumph ? and that immediately before leaving you received private instructions from La Cicaf" "To your questions," said the Senator, with unabated dignity, " I will reply in brief: First, I am a free and independent citizen of the great and glorious American Republic. If I associated with utionista in Florence, I did so because I am accustomed to choose my own society, and not to recognize any law or any mas- t ir that can forbid my doing so. I deny, however, that I was in any way connected with plots, rebellions or conspiracies. Secondly, I was friendly with the Countess because I considered her a most remarkably fine woman, and because she showed a disposition to be friendly with me — a stranger in a strange land. Thirdly. I have no mission of any kind whatever. I am a traveler for self- improvement I have no business, political or commercial. So that my mi-.-ion could not have been known. If people talked about me they talked nonsense. Fourthly, I confess I made a li, but what of that? It's not the first time, by a long chalk. I don'! know what you mean by 'acknowledging.' As a private n I congratulated them on their success, and would do so •gain. If a crowd calls on me for a speech, I'm there. The people • rence dragged me home in a carriage. Well, I don't know why they did so. I can't help it if people will take possession of me and pull me about. Fifthly, and lastly, I had an interview with tad 1 1 Well, is it wrong for a man to bid good-bye to a friend ? I ask you, what upon earth do you mean by such a charge as that? Do you take me for a puling infant ? " "On that occasion," said the Commandant, she taught you some tnyeteriom to be repeated among the Revolu- tionists here." ' Efarer did any thing of the kind. That's a complete full-blown Ection." "11, • v words." " That's impos able. You've got hold of the wrong man I see.' 31 have tl.' :inlv. And he I rpreter. Whereupon the fi gravely took out a formidable roll of pap.rs from his breast, and opened it Every gesture was made as if his hand was heavy with the weight of crushing proof. At last a paper was produced. The 17* no? j:\ercises in Elocution. Interpreter took one look at the prisoner, then glanced triumphantly at the Consul, and said : " It is a mysterious language with no apparent meaning, nor have I been able to find the key to it in any way. It is very skill- fully made, for all the usual tests of cipher writing fail in this. The person who procure! it did not get near enough till the latter part of the interview, so that he gained no explanation whatever from the conversation." " Read," said the Commandant The Senator waited, wonder, ingly. The int. ad: " Ma ouillina sola ouda sie ensocefremas dis ansit ansin assalf a ou* tu affia lastinna belts." Scarcely had the first words been uttered in the Italian voice of the reader than the Senator started as though a shot had struck him. His face fashed. Finally a broad grin spread itself over h.a countenance, and down his neck, and over his chest, and over his fot in, and into his boots, till at last his whole colossal frame shook with an earthquake of laughter. The Commandant stared and looked uneasy. All looked at the Senator — all with amazement — the General, the Interpreter, the Officials, the Guards, Buttons, Dick and the American Consul. "Oh dear! Oh dear / Oh oee-ar! " cried the Senator, in the intervals of his outrageous peals of laughter. " OH 1 " and a new peal followed. What did all this mean? Was he crazy? Had misfortunes turned his brain ? But at last the Senator, who was always remarkable for his self- control, recovered himself. He asked the Commandant if he might be permitted to explain. "Certainly," said the Commandant, dolefully. He was afraid that the thing would take a ridiculous turn, and nothing is so terri- ble as that to an Austrian official. " Will you allow me to look at the paper?" asked the Senator. " I will not injure it at all." The Interpreter politely carried it to him as the Commandant uodded. The Senator beckoned to the Consul. They then walked up to the Commandant. All four looked at the paper. "You see, gentlemen," said the Senator, drawing a lead pencil from his pocket, " the Florence correspondent has been too sharp aXERi TSKB j.x Elocution. 393 i explain nil this at once. I was with the Countess, and we liking of poetry. Now, I don't know any more about p than a ho -Writ?" •' Well, siio insisted on my making a quotation. I had to give in. Tin- only One I COnld think of was a line or two from Watts." Waits? Ah! I don't know him," said the interpreter. "He was a minister — a parson." Ah ! " So I Btid it to her, and she repeated it. These friends of yours, General, have taken it down, but their spellin' is a little unusual," the Senator, with a tremendous grin that threatened a new outburst, " Look. Here is the true key which this gentleman tried so hard to find." And taking his pencil the Senator wrote under the strange words the true meaning : " My willing soul would stay In such a frame as this, And sit and ring herself away To everlasting bliss." The interpreter saw it all. He looked profoundly foolish. The whole thing was clear. The Senator's innocence was plain. He turned to explain to the Commandant. The Consul's face exhibited a variety of expressions, over which a broad grimace finally pre- dominated, like sunshine over an April sky. In a few won"; whole was made plain to the Commandant. He looked annoyed, glared angrily at the Interpreter, tossed the papers on the floor and to his feet, "Give these gentlemen our apologies," said he to the Interpi 44 In times of trouble, when St to be held subject to mar- tial law, proceedings are abrupt. Their own good sense, wi'l. I the difficulty cf our position." James Dt Mille — Harper d- liroihert 894 AV / - / /70.V. Pictures of Swiss Scenery and of the City of Venice. ind that I first felt how constantly to contem- plate sublime creation e that I In -t began to study nature. Those forests of black gigantic pines rising out of the deep snows; those tall white cataracts, leaping like headstrong youth into the world, and dashing from their precipices, as if allured by the beautiful delusion of their own rainbow mist; those mighty clouds sailing beneath my feet, or clinging to the b mountains, or boiling up like a spell from the invisible and unfathomable deptbtj the tell avalanche, fleet as a spirit of evil, terrific when its sound suddenly breaks upon the less terribh gaze upon its crumb- ling and pallid frame, varied only by the pr< one or two blasted firs ; the head of a mountain loosening from its brother ; up, in the roar of its rapid rush, a whole forest of pin e earth for miles with elephantine masses; the superna- tural extent of landscape that opens to us new worlds; the M birds that suddenly cross you In path, and stare, :y — and all the soft sights of joy and loveliness that mingle with these sublime and etaeles, the rich pastures and the numerous flocks, and the golden bees and the wild flowers, and the carved and painted cottages, and the simple manners and the primeval grace — wherever I moved, I was in turn appalled or enchanted; but w hate v i •! d, new imagi g up in my mind, and new feelings ever crowded on my fancy. If I were to assign the purticular quality which conduces to that dreamy and voluptuous existence, which men of high imagination experience in Venice, I should describe it as the feeling of absti ac- tion, which is remarkable in that city, and peculiar to it. Venice is the only city which can yield the magical delights of solitude. All is still and silent No rude sound disturbs your reveries; fancy, therefore, is not put to flight No rude sound distracts your self- consciousness. This tenders existence intense. We feel everything. And we feel thus keenly in a city not only eminently beautiful, not only abounding in wonderful creations of art but each step of which is hallowed ground, quick with associations, that in their more vari- ous nature, their nearer relation to ourselves, and perhaps their more picturesque character, exercise a greater influence over the imagina- tion than the more antique story of Greece and Rome. We feel al? 1:\\ i.x BttOCUT* 395 », which, although her luster be Indeed dimmed, still count among her daughters maidens fairer than the orient peaila i her warriors once loved to deck them. Poetry, Tradi- tion, and I I are the Graces that have invested with an .harming eestus this Aphrodite of cities. Disraeli Joan of Arc What is to be thought of her? What is to be thought of the poor shepherd-girl from the hills and forests of Lorraine, that — like the Hebrew shepherd-boy from the hills and forests of J — rose suddenly out of the quiet, out of the safety, out of the relig- ious inspiration, rooted in deep pastoral solitudes, to a station in the van of armies, an 1 to the more perilous station at the right hand of kings? The Hebrew boy inaugurated his patriotic mission by an act, by a victorious act, such as no man could deny. But so did the girl of Lorraine, if we read her story as it was read by those who -aw her nearest Adverse armies bore witness to the boy as no ender: hut so they did to the gentle girl. Judged by the voices of all who saw them from a station of good-will, both were found true and loyal to any promises involved in their first acts that made the difference between their subsequent fortunes. The boy rose — to a splendor and a noonday prosperity, both personal and public, that rang through the records of his people, ami became a by- word amongst his posterity for a thousand years, until the > departing from Judah. The poor, forsaken on the contrary, drank not herself from that cup of rest which she had secured for France. She never sang together with the songs that rose in her native Dcmremy, ai ecboea to the departing ra, She mingled not in the festal dances of Vaucou- d in rapture the redemption of France. No! for her voice was then silent. No! for her feet were dust. Pure, innocent, noble hearted girl! whom, from earliest youth, ever I believed in as full of truth and sell-saeri; | the strongest pledges for thy side, t once — no, not for a mo- ment of weakness — 1 in the vision of coronets and honor nn. Coronets for thee 1 Oh, nol Honors, if: oome when all is over, are for those that si od. DaughUi 896 KXMkClSES l.\ I\ LOCUTION. of Domreray, when the gratitude of thy king shall awaken, thou wilt be sleeping the sleep of the dead. Call her, king of France, but I not bear thee I Cite her by thy apparitors to come and a robe of honor, but she will be found en contumace. 'When -aiders of universal France, as even y.-t may happen, shall pro- claim the grandeur of the poor shepherd-girl that gave up all for her country — thy ear, young shepherd-girl, will have been deaf for five centuries. To mflfer and to do, that was thy portion in this life; to do — never for thyself, always for others; to suffer — never in the persons of generous champions, always in thy own; that was thy y ; and not for a moment was it hidden from thyself, thou saidst, 'is short, and the sleep whi. h is in the grave is long. Let me u-e that life, so transitory, for the glory of those heavenly dreams destined to comfort the sleep which is so long.' This pure re — pure from every suspicion of even a \ was pure in senses more obvious — never once did this holy child, as regarded herself, relax from her belief in the darkness that wa< traveling to meet her. She might not prefigure the maimer of her death; she saw not in vision, perhaps, the aerial altitude of the fiery scaffold, the spectators without end on every road pouring into Rouen as to a coronation, the surging smoke, the volleying flames, the hostile faces all around, the pitying eye that lurked but here and there until nature and imperishable truth broke loose from artificial restraints; these might not be apparent through the mists of the hurrying future. But the voice that called her to death, that she heard for ever. Great was the throne of France even in those days, and great was he that sat upon it; but well Joanna knew that not the throne, nor he that sat upon it, was for her; but, on the contrary, that she was for them; not she by them, but they by her, should rise from the dust. Gorgeous were the lilies of France, and for centuries had the privilege to spread their beauty over land and sea, until, in another century, the wrath of God and man combined to wither t£em ; but well Joanna knew, early at Domremy she had read that bitter truth, that the lilies of France would decorate no garland tor her. Flower nor bud, bell nor blossom would ever bloom for her. Thomas De Quincey. Kxercises in Elocution, 397 Death and Sleep. How wonderful is Death, Death and his brother Sleep! One pale as yonder waning moon, Wnh lips of lurid blue; The other rosy as the morn When, throned on ocean wave, It blushes o'er the world : Yet both so passing wonderful 1 Hath then the gloomy Power, Whose reign is in the tainted sepulchres, ' Seized on her sinless soul ? Must then that peerless form Which love and admiration cannot view Without a beating heart, those azure veins Which steal like streams along a field of snow, That lovely outline, which is fair As breathing marble, perish? Must putrefaction's breath Leave nothing of this heavenly sight But loathsomeness and ruin ? Spare nothing but a gloomy theme On which the lightest heart might moralize? Or is it only a sweet slumber Stealing o'er sensation, Which the breath of roseate morning Chaseth into darkness? Will Ianthe wake again, And give that faithful bosom joy Whose sleepless spirit waits to catch Light, life and rapture from her smile? Her dewy eyes are closed, And on their lids, whose texture fine Scarce hides the dark-blue o*bs beneath, The baby Sleep is pillowed : Her golden tresses shade ion-head's stainless pride, Curling hi lasite Around a marWfi column. *98 EXERCISES IN ELOCUTION. Dark I whence that rushing sound? Tis like the wondrous strain That round a lonely ruin swells, Which wandering on the echoing shore, The enthusiast hears at - 'Tie softer than the west wind's sigh; 'Tis wilder than the unmeasured notes Of that strange lyre whose strings The genii of the breezes sweep ; Those lines of rainoow light Are like the moonbeams when they fall Through some cathedra. , but the tints Are such as may not find Comparison on earth. Behold the chariot of the fairy queen ! Celestial coursers paw the unyielding air; Their Ghny pennons at her word they furl, And stop obedient to the reins of light : These the queen of spells drew in ; She spread a charm around the spot, And leaning graceful from the ethereal car, Long did she gaze, and silently, Upon the slumbering maid. Shelley. Death of Amelia WentwortL Amelia — Marian. Marian. Are you awake, dear lady ? Amelia. Wide awake. There are the stars abroad, I see. I feel As though I had been sleeping many a day. What time o' the night is it? Afar. About the stroke Of midnight Amel. Let it come. The skies are calm And bright; and so, at last my spirit is. Whether the heavens have influeuce on the mind Through life, or only in our days of death, Exercises i.x Elocution. 399 I know not ; yet before, ne'er did my soul upwards with such hope of joy, or pine For that hope's deep completion. Marian ! M see DON of heaven. There — enough. Are you not well, sweet girl? Mar. Oh! yes: but you Speak now so strangely : you were wont to talk Of plain familiar things, and cheer me: now ! my spirit drooping. Amd. I have spoke Nothing but cheerful words, thou idle girl. Look, look I above : the canopy of the sky, Spotted with stars, shines like a bridal-dress: A queen might envy that so regal blue Which wraps the world o' nighta Alas, alas I I do remember in my follying days What will and wanton wishes once were mine, I — radiant gems — and beauty with no peer And friends (a ready host) — but I forget I shall be dreaming soon, as once I dreamt, When I had hope to light me. Have you no song, My gentle girl, for a sick woman's ear? s one I've heard you sing: "They said his eye" — No, that's not it: the words are hard to hit. " His eye like the mid-day sun was bright" — Afar. 'Tisso. You 've a good memory. Well, listen to me. I must not trip, I Amel. I hearken. Now. Song. His eye like the mid-day sun was bright Here had a proud but a milder light, Clear and sweet like the cloudless moon . isl and must it fade as soon ? His vo : ce was like the breath of w But hers was fainter — softer far; And yet, when he of his long love sights^ 8he laughed in scorn : — he fled and 400 Ejautonam in Elocution. r. There is another verse, of a different air. But indistinct — like the low moaning Of summer winds in the evening air: thus it runs — They said he died upon the wave, And his bed was the wild and bounding billow; Her bed shall be a dry earth gra. ■are it quick, for she wants her pillow. AmeL How slowly and how silently doth time Float on his starry journey. Still he g. And goes, and goes, and doth not pass a with the golden morning, calmly, And with the moon at night Methinks I see Him stretching wide abroad his mighty wingt, 'or ever o'er the crowds of men, l huge vulture with its prey beneath. I,o ! I am here, and time seems passing on : : \ I shall be a breathless thing — Yet he will still be here; and the blue hours Will laugh as gaily on the busy world Aj though I were alive to welcome them. There's one will shed some tears. Poor Charles! [Charles enters.] Charles. I am here. Did you not call? AmeL. You come in time. My thoughts full of you, dear Charles. Your mother — now I take that title — in her dying hour Has privilege to speak unto your youth. There's one thing pains me, and I would be calm. My husband has been harsh unto me — yet He is my husband; and you'll think of this If any sterner feeling move your heart ? Seek no revenge for me. You will not ? — Nay, Is it so hard to grant my last request ? He is my husband : he was father, too, Of the blue-eyed boy you were so fond of once. Do you remember how his eyelids closed yercises in Elocution. 401 the first summer rdse was opening? \- two years ar,o - - more, more : and I — I now am hastening to him. Pretty boy I He was my only child. How fair he looked Id the white garment that encircled him — 'Twas like a marble slumber; ami when we him beneath th<* given earth in his bed, I thought my heart was breaking — yet I lived: But I am weary now. Mar. You must not talk, Indeed, dear lady; r.ay CJi. Indeed you must not. Amel Well, then, I will be silent; yet not so. For ere we journey, ever should we take A sweet leave of our friends, and wish them well, And tell them to take heed, and bear in mind Our blessings. So, in your breast, dear Charles, Wear the remembrance of Amelia. She ever loved you — ever ; so as might Become a mother's tender love — no more. Charles, I have iived in this too bitter world Now almost thirty seasons: you have been A child to me for one-third of that time. I took you to my bosom, when a boy, Who scarce had seen eight springs come fcrth and vanish. You have a warm heart, Charles, and the base crowd Will feed upor. it, if — but yen must make That heart a grave, and in it. bury deep Its young anu beautiful feelings. Ch. I will do All that you wish — all ; but you cannot die And leave nu- ? /. Yo:» shall see how calmly Death Will come and press his linger, oold and pale, ■•• now smiling lip: the*e eyes men swore Were brighter than the stars that (ill the sky, An 1 vet they must grow dim: an hour Ch. Oh I no. 402 Exercises in Elocution. No, no : oh ! say not so. T cannot bear To hear you talk thus. Will you break my heart? Amel No : I would caution it against a change, That soon must happen. Calmly let us talk. When I am dead Ch. Alas, alasl Amel. This is Not as I wish : you had a braver spirit. t come forth. Why, I have heard you talk Of war and danger — Ah I [Wentworth enters.] r. She's pale — speak, speak. Ch. Oh ! my lost mother. How ! You here ? • t. I am come To pray her pardon. L«-t DM touch her hand. ial she faints: Amelial [Sht die*. Poor faded girl ! I was too harsh — unjust. CK Look! Mar. She has left us. Ch. It is false. Revive 1 Mother, revive, revive 1 J/'/r. It is in vain. Ch. Is it then so? My soul is sick and faint. Oh 1 mother, mother. I — I cannot weep. Oh for some blinding tears to dim my eyes, So I might not gaze on her. And has death Indeed, indeed struck her — so beautiful ? So wronged, and never erring; so beloved By one — who now has nothing left to love. Oh 1 thou bright heaven, if thou art calling now Thy bright angels to thy bosom — rest, For lo ! the brightest of thy host is gone — Departed — and the earth is dark below. And now — I'll wander far and far away, Like oue that hath no country. I shall find A sullen pleasure in that life, and when I say '• I have no friend in all the worl<3," My heart will swell with pride and make a show EXMRCIBEA HI I. LOCUTION. 408 Onto itself of happiness; and in truth There j| in that same solitude a taste Of pleasure which the social never know. From land to land I'll roam, in all a stranger, Ami, as the body gains a braver look, By staring in the face of all the winds, So from the sad aspect of different things My soul shall pluck a courage, and bear up Against the past. And now — for Hindostan. Bryan W. Procter. The Minstrel's Song in Ella. Oh 1 sing unto my roundelay ; Ohl drop the briny tear with me; Dance no more at holiday, Like a running river be; My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. Black his hair as the winter night, White his neck as summer snow, Ruddy his face as the morning light, Cold he lies in the grave below : My love is dead, Gone to his deaths All under the willow-tree. Sweet his tongue as throstle's note, Quick in dance as thought was he; Deft his tabor, cudgel stout ; Oh 1 he lies by the willow-tree. My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. If ark I the raven flaps his wing, In the briered dell below: Hark! the d.-.ith-owl loud doth sing, To the nightmares as they go. 404 EXMBCI8MM OF ELOCUTION. My love is dead. Gone to his death-bed, All under the w illow-lree. See! the white moon shines on h!_rh, Whiter than the moming sky, Whiter than the evening cloud. My love is deao, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. Here, upon my true-love"? crave, Shall the parish flowers be laid, Nor one holy saint to save All the sorrows of a maid. My love is dead, Gone to !>ed, All under the willow-tree. With my hands I'll bind the briers, Round his holy corse to gre; Elfin-fairy, light your fi Here my body still shall be. My love is d«ad, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. Come with acorn cup and thorn, Drain my heart's blood all away ; Life and all its good I scorn, Dance by night, or feast by day. My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. Water-witches, crowned with reytes, Bear me to your deadly tide. I die — I come — my true-love waits. Thus the damsel spake, and died. Chattorton. El i or Elocuti 405 Death of Long Tom Coffin, Lifting his broad hands high iutu the air, his voice was heard in the tempest ' God's will be done with me,' he cried: 'I saw the first timber of the Ariel laid, and shall live just long enough to see it turn out of her bottom; alter which I wish to live no Id j Hut his shipmates were far beyond the sounds of his voice before • half uttered. All command of the boat was rendered -sible, by the numbers it contained, u well as the raging of the surf; and as it rose on the white crest of a wave, Ton saw his beloved little craft for the last time. It fell into a trough of the sea, and in a few moments more its fragment! were ground into splinters on the adjoining rocks. The cockswain (Tom) still remained where he had cast off the rope, and beheld the numerous heads and arms that appeared rising, at short intervals, on the waves, some making powerful and well-directed efforts to gain the sands, that were becoming visible as the tide fell, and others wildly tossed, in the frantic movements of helpless despair. The honest old seaman gave a cry of joy as he saw Barnstable [the commander whom Tom had forced into the boat] issue from the surf, where one by one several en soon appeared also, dripping and exhausted. Many others of the crew were carried in a similar manner to places of M though, as Tom returned to his seat on the bowsprit, he could not conceal from his reluctant eyes the lifeless forms that were, in other . driven against the rocks with a fury that soon left them but the outward vestiges of humanity. Dillon and the cockswain were now the sole occupants of their iful station. The former stood in a kind of stupid despair, a witness of the scene; but as his curdled blood began again to How more warmly to his heart, he crept close to the side of Tom, with that sort of selfish feeling that makes even hopeless misery more tolerable, when endured in participation with another. ' When the tide falls,' he said in a voice that betrayed the agony r, though hi< w hall be able to walk to land.' 'There was One and only On were the tame as a dry deck,' returned I rain; 'and none but such as have His power will ever be able to walk from these rocks to the sands.' The old seaman paused, and turning his eye.-, which exhib- 406 Exercises in Elocution. ited a mingled expression of disgust and compassion, on bis com- panion, he added with reverence: 'Had you thought more of Him in fair weather, your case would be less to be pitied in this tempest' 'Do you still think there is much danger?' asked Dillon, 'To them that have reason to fear death. Listen ! Do you hear that hollow noise beneath ye?' i driving by the vessel!' the poor thing herself/ said the affected cockswain, ' giving h»r last groans. The water is breaking up her decks, and in a few minutes more, the handsomest model that ever cut a wave, will be e chips that fell from her in framing!' 4 Why then did you remain here?' cried Dillon wildly. 'To die in my coffin, if it should be the will of God/ returned Tom. ' These waves are to me what the land is to you: I was born on them, and I have always meant that they should be my grave.' 'But I — 1/ shrieked Dillon, 'I am not ready to die! — I cannot die! — I will not die!' ' Poor wretch I ' muttered his companion, ' you must go like the rest of us; when the death-watch is called, none can skulk from the muster.' 'I can swim,' Dillon continued, rushing with frantic eagerness to the side of the wreck. 'Is there no billet of wood, no rope, that I can take with me ? ' 'None; everything has been cut away, or carried off by the sea. If ye are about to strive for your life, take with ye a stout heart and a clean conscience, and trust the rest to God.' 'God! ' echoed Dillon, in the madness of his frenzy. 'I know no God! there is no God that knows me! ' 'Peace!' said the deep tones of the cockswain, in a voice that seemed to speak in the elements; 'blasphemer, peace!' The heavy groaning, produced by the water in the timbers of the Arid, at that moment added its impulse to the raging feelings of Dillon, and he cast himself headlong into the sea. The water, thrown by the rolling of the surf on the beach, was necessarily returned to the ocean, in eddies, in different places favorable to such an action of the element. Into the edge of one of these counter- currents, that was produced by the very rocks on which the schooner fey, and which the watermen call the 'under-tow,' Dillon had un- 407 knowingly thrown his person; and when the waves had d him a short distance from the wreck, he was met by a stream that his most (]«•.-[. erate efforts could not overcome. He was a light and powerful swimmer, and the struggle was hard and protracted. Willi the shore immediately before his eyes, and at no great distance, he was led, as by a false phantom, to continue his efforts, although they did not advance him a foot. The old seaman, who at first had watched his motions with careless indifference, understood the dan- ger of his situation at a glance, and, forgetful of his own fate, he shouted aloud, in a voice that was driven over the struggling victim to the ears of his shipmates on the sands* ' Sheer to port, and clear the under-tow 1 Sheer to the south- ward I ' Dillon heard the sounds, but his faculties were too much obscured by terror to distinguish their object; he, however, blindly yielded to the call, and gradually changed his direction until his face was once more turned toward the vessel. Tom looked around him for a rope, but all had cone over with the spars, or been swept away by the waves. At this moment of disappointment, his eyes met those of the desperate Dillon. Calm and inured to horrors as was the an seaman, he involuntarily passed his hand before his brow to exclude the look of despair he encountered; and when, a moment afterward, he removed the rigid member, he beheld the sinking form of the victim as it gradually settled in the ocean, still struggling with ar but impotent strokes of the arms and feet to gain the wreck, and to preserve an existence that had been so much abused in its boor of allotted probation. 'He will soon meet his God, and learn that his God knows him!' murmured the cockswain to himself. As he yet spoke, the wreck of the Arid yielded to an overwhelm- ing sea, and after a universal shudder, her timbers and planks gave way, and were swept toward the cliffs, bearing the body of the simple-hearted cockswain among the ruins. James F. Cooper. The Character of Falstaff. Palstaff's wit is an emanation of a fine constitution j an exubera- tion of good-humor and good-nature; an overflowing of his love of laughter and good-fellowship; a t> his heart's ease 18 408 Exercises in Elocution. and over-contentment with himself and others. He would not be in character if he were not so fat as he is; fur there k tl m keeping in the boundless luxury of his imagination, and the | pered se so* of his physical appetites. He enriches nourishes his mind with jests, as he does his body with sack and sugar. He carves out his jokes as he would a capon or a haunch of venison, where there is cut and come again ; and pours < tit upon them the oil of gladness. His tongue drops fatness, and in the hambers of his brain 'it snows of meat and drink.' He kc up perpetual holiday and open house, and we live with him in a round of invitations to a rump and dozen. Yet we are not to sup- pose that he was a mere sensualist All this is as much in isuginft- as in reality. His sensuality does not engross and stupify his other faculties, bat 'ascends me into the brain, clears away all the dull crude vapors that environ it, and makes it full of nin and delectable shapes.' His imagination keeps up the ball after his senses have done with it. He seems to have even a greater enjoy- ment of the freedom from restraint, of good cheer, of his ease, of bif I the ideal exaggerated description which he gives of them, than in fact He never fails to enrich his discourse with allusions to eating and drinking; hut we never see him at able. He CM "wn larder about with him, and he is himself 'a tun of man.' pulling out the bottle in the field of battle is a joke to show his contempt for glory accompanied with danger, his systematic adher- ence to his Epicurean philosophy in the most trying circumstances. Again, such is his deliberate tion of his own vices, that it does not seem quite certain whether the account of his hostess's bill, found in his pocket, with such an out-of-the-way charge for capons and sack, with only one half-penny-worth of bread, was not put there by himself as a trick to humor the jest upon his favorite pro- and as a conscious caricature of himself. He is repre- eented as a liar, a braggart, a coward, a glutton, etc., and yet we are not offended, but delighted with him ; for he is all these as much to amuse others as to gratify himself. He openly assumes all these characters to show the humorous part of them. The unrestrain ed indulgence of his own ease, appetites, and convenience, has neither malice nor hypocrisy in it. In a word, he is an actor in himself almost as much as upon the stage, and we no more object to the Kxercises ix Elocution. 409 oharaeter of Falstaflf in a moral point of view, than we should think of bringing an excellent comedian, who should represent him to the efore one of the police offices. HazlitL The Baven. Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and wesry, many a quaint and cnrions volume of forgotten lore — While I nodded nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber-door; me by horror haunted — tell me truly, I implore — Is there — w there balm in Gilead? — tell me — tell me, I im- plore!" Quoth the Raven : " Nevermore." '•Prophet!" aaid I, "thing of evil — prophet still, if bird or devil ! By that heaven that bends above us — by that God we both ador Ttll this soul with sorrow laden, if, within the distant Aidenn, U 1 clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels name Lenore — C asp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Lenore?" Quoth the Raven : " Nevermore." "Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I sh: upstarting — "Get thee back into the tempest and the night?! Flutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken ! I B my loneliness unbroken ! — quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!" Quoth the Raven : " Nevermore." An 1 the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting, On the pallid bust of Pallas, just above my chamber-door ; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is drcaminp, And the lamp-light o'er him streaming, throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out the shadow that lies floating on the floor, Shall be lifted — never more! Pot. Death of Gawtrey the Coiner At both doors now were heard the sounds of voices, 'Open in the king's name, or expect no mercy!' 'Hist!' said Gawtrey. 'One way yet — the window — the rope.* Morton opened the casement — Gawtrey uncoiled the rope. The dawn was breaking ; it was light in the streets, but all seemed quiet without The doors reeled and shook beneath the pressure of the pursuers. Gawtrey flung the rope across the street to the opposite KxmRGUWa ix Elocution, 41S parapet ; after two or three efforts, the grappling-hook caught firm bold — the perilous path was made. 'Go first,' said Morton; ' I will not leave you now; you will be r getting across than I shall. I will keep guard till you are u\vr.' ' Bark I hark 1 — are you mad ? You keep guard 1 What is your strength to mine? Twenty men shall not move that door, while my freight is against it. Quick, or you destroy us both I Besides, you will hold the rope for DM, it may not be strong enough for my bulk of itself. Stayl — stay one moment. If you escape, and I fjil I — Fanny — my father, he will take care of her — you remember — thanks! Forgive me all I Go; that's right I ' With a firm pulse, Morton threw himself on that dreadful bridge; IDg and «Ta-k!e. L88S «20 MMmtOOMB W Elo Bremkr, Frkderika, a Swedish st t % born in 1800. IT r works have been very ably 1 by Mary Howitt, of England. She wrote Family Cares and Family Joy*, Ti ina, etc. ice, and but a short time previous to .tlh, she visited America. She received great attention from the literary people of this country, and her book, Homes in the New World, published after her return to Sweden, is an interesting history of her trawl*. She vis. ted ber people who had settle! in the West, commending them for their industry and thrift. She died in 181 Brown, Grace, a native of Comae, Long Island, and a young r of promise. Bulwkr, Sir Edward, was born in 1805. He was the youngest son of Gen. Bulwer, of Hey don Hall, Norfolk, England. After the death of his father he succeeded to his mother's 1 took ient family name — LjttOO. This gentleman's full name is, >rge Earle Lytton Bain volume blished at the age of fifteen, and he has written almo** since. He is interested in politics as well as literature, an«l has be- years in the House of Commons. I of Oxford conferred the degree of D. C. L. upon Sir Bul- wer Lvtton. in 1856 he was elected rector of t b f Glas- gow, and in 1858 was made Secretary for Colonial Affairs. Collins, Willi \m. the son of a hatter, was born on Christmas day, 1721, at Chich. land. He began his education at Winchester college, but finally took his degree at Magdalen college, Oxford. After leaving school he took clerical orders, but soon abandoned the gown and prayer-book to apply himself more closely to literature. He was not successful, at first, in attracting much attention as a writer, and it is said that he sank under the disappointment, and he- came indolent and dissipated. For a few years before his death, which occurred in 1759, he frequented the aisles and clusters of Chichester Cathedral, night and day, accompanying the music with K)bs and moans. The poor poet died of melancholy, and a gener- ation after his poems became popular. i:\ercises in Elocution. 421 Some one has said that the u Ode on the Passions is a magnificent gallery of allegorical painting," and certainly no poet has I his superior in the use of metaphor and personation. Cart, Aligk, was born in 1820, at Hamilton, Ohio. She began to write fb» the press at the age of eighteen, and her sister Phebe at seventeen. They published a joint volume in 1850, and in 1851 Alice wrote the Clovernook Sketches. She has written much f<>r the Atlantic, Harper's, The New York Ledger, The Indepemi Packard's, etc The sisters removed to New York city, in 1850, where they still i < Campbell, Thomas, was born in the city of Glasgow, July 27, 1777. Though the family belonged to the ancient Scottish nobility, Ike poet's father was a trader with Virginia, and failing in this busi- ness, he kept a boarding-house for college students. Thomas was educated at Glasgow, and was distinguished, while still in the Uni- v, for his translations from the Greek and for his poetic writ- ings. He published poetry at the age of fourteen. He wrote some of the grandest battle pieces which have been produced — Lochiel'fl Warning. Hohenlinden, The Battle of the Baltic, Song of the Greeks, etc. He should be especially admired by Americans, for his Ger- trude of Wyoming, in which he sketches with the pencil of a true artist, pictures of Pennsylvania scenery, throwing a new halo over the beautiful valley in which the scenes are laid. lie died in 1844, and his remains lie in Westminster Abbey. A history of his life was written by his friend, Dr. Beattie, and published in 1849. i \ttkrton, TnoMAS, a boy of strange genius, was born in 1 II.- doooitod! all the literary world, by producing what he declared translations of ancient manuscr of the sermons of priests, sketches in art 7 and the poetienl writings of tbose who had been dead for hundreds of years. He committed suicide by taking arsenic, when a little more than seventeen years of age. . has written a few poems, none of which have been particularly admired, except No Sect in Heaven. This is pub- lished by the American Tract Society, and is a universal favor:; Clahv \A\ peasant, born at Helpstone, nearPetere- , in 17'->;>. At thu t. en b« walke 1 MMM MWM MM morning, to 422 J:\ercises in Elocution. buy Thomson's Seasons, paying for the book a shilling, which he had earned by hard labor. That very day lie 1 i ite poetry. His first volume was bought for twenty pounds, and was published in 1820. He came into possession of a fortune from the sale of his books, and the contributions made by noblemen and others; gave up his plow; married a farmer's daughter, and settled down in his library to the pleasures of study. But in an unlucky moment he left his books to speculate in farming, and lost not only all his hard earnings, but his mind also, and he is now in a private asylum for the insane. Colfridok, Samuel Taylor, born at Devonshire, England, in 1772. He was a schoolmate of Charles Lamb at Christ's hospital In a fit of desperation after the death of his father, he enlisted as a sol- i the light dragoons, London, and served four months before his ivlease was procured. He officiated later as a Unitarian clergy- man, and afterward as the secretary to the governor of Malta. poetic writings have great variety in style and charactei. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner is a wonderful poem, preternatural and fascinating. There is nothing at all resembling it in literature. Clay, Henry, an American statesman, born in Virginia in 1777, and died at Washington in 1852. He was prominent in politics for filly years, distinguishing himself in every position which he o . upied. Efa was sent to the Legislature of Kentucky, was in the United States Senate, was the American Minister to Ghent, etc. Clark, James G., was born in Oswego county, N. Y., in 1830. He has the rare gift of wedding his poetry to most beautiful music, and, also, of giving it expression in song. As a poet, he is noted for the beauty and perfection of his rhythm; as a composer, for the wonderful adaptation of the music to the sentiment, and as a bal- lad singer, he has, probably, no superior. Cooper, James Fenimore, was born in Burlington, New Jersey, but lived nearly all his life in New York. He was for a short time to early life a sailor, and was thereby enabled to paint his sea-scenes as none but a genuine tar could do. He also delineated Indian character and habits with wonderful fidelity. He wrote many novels, sketches of European character, etc., etc / \ 7S/.S /v Elocution. 423 Dk Krottt, II -, a lady of i tl and checkered for- i perfect sight, and in one brief month was a bride, a widow and was blind. She has written much for magaz newspapers, etc., and a few years since published a volume which has had a very large sale. A juvenile story of rare interest — Little Jakey — is BOW in press. For more than twenty years the darkness of night has shrouded bar vision, but in that time she has performed a herculean labor in literature, studying Latin as a pastime and read- ing Cicero's orations with the help of an amanuensis. De Millk, James, author of the Dodge Club, or Italy !n MDCCCLXIV, a humorous satire published by Harper Brothers. De Qcincey, THOMAS, was born at Manchester, England, in 1786, and was educated at Eaton and Oxford. Disraeli, Right Hon. Benjamin, born in London in the year 1805. Has mingled much in politics, and as a speaker is noted for his sar- castic eloquence. Dickens, Charles, is the son of a paymaster in the Navy Depart- ment. England, and was born at Landport, Portsmouth, in 1812. In early life he was a Parliamentary reporter, writing, in addition, sketches for the Morning Chronicle, Monthly Magazine, etc., under the nom de plume of " Boz." His Pickwick Papers have been trans- lated in many languages, and read almost the world over. He has visited A m eri ca twice; the last time, in 1867, he gave a tour of "Readings" through the country. His elocution is by no means perfect, but his facial expression and gestures are inimitable. He is at the head of novelists in England. Ferkier, Mart, an English writer, born in 1782; died in 1854. Fern. Fanny Sarah Pay son Willis), was born in Portland I'll. Set father removed to Boston in 1817, and became the < di- tor of the " Recorder " an J the "Youth's Companion." She was educated at Hartford, at the celebrated seminary of Catharine Beecher. Harriet Beeoher was at that time a teacher in t B after leaving school, Miss Willis was married to Mr. Eldridge, 42* CUTION. of Boston ; but in a few years she found herself a widow, and de- .t upon her own exertion orL In 1861 her literary life began. Pot iie real name of the author of the -.'little sk papers was not known; seventy thousand copies of 1 s were sold in in this country alone, and shortly afterward there were found thirty- two thousand purchasers for Little Ferns. Ruth Hall and Rose Clark soon followed, and our author was in a full tide of In 1856. Fanny Fern was married to James Part.-n. the populai biographer. For the last fifteen years she has written for the failing to furnish the stipulated artiele each week. Grouon, John B., a celebrated temperance orator. No man in the country is able to draw such crowds of people to his lectures, and for years his popularity has been unabated. Gibbon, Edward, was born at Putney, in Surry, Eng. He wrote the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, and other historical works. He died at the house of Lord Sheffield, in London, Jan. 16, IT Halleck, Fit7- an American poet, who died in 1868. He was associated with his friend, J. Rodman Drake, in writing a series of sprightly and somewhat satirical poems, entitled "The Croak- ers," which attracted considerable attention in the literary world Marco Bozzaris, a martial lyric, is undoubtedly his best production. Hamilton, Gail. The real name of this racy writer is Abigail Dodge, and her home is at Hamilton, Mass. She has written much for the Atlantic and other magazines, and has published several vol- umes, which have been eagerly read by thousands of people. Hawthorne, Nathaniel, was noted for the quaintness of his writings and the purity of his language. He wrote much for the Atlantic Monthly and other periodicals. Hazlitt, William, was first a painter, but, failing of success in art, he turned his attention to literature. He was a native of Eng- land, and died in London in 1830. 425 Hem asp, Fkucia (Felicia Dorothea Browne), was bom at L aul, on the 26th of September, 17in. Bhe published her i. This chiMish attempt el is not suc- cessful, but our young author w and the EaatakiDi are mad.- ebeeieel be his tale of Rip Van Winkle. itieed end has been successfully played In . the inin. <>n taking the | old, Dutch sleeper. Irving was very popular i. and l>een translated into many languages. His house at Sunnyside. where he lived for many years and where he died, can be Been by travelers over th*» Hudson River Railroad, or from the steam- 426 EZMBCISBB W StOCUfTOlT, ers which ply up and down the river. It is a low cottage, covered with ivy, which was brought, originally, from Abbey, and planted by the master's own hand. Irving is buried in the cem- etery at Tai rytown, and a simple stone, a few feet in height, with the brief inscription of his name and age, marks the spot Jefferson, Thomas, a distinguished American statesman, during the period of the Revolution, author of the Declaration of Inwning, off the coast of Italy. Sioocrxev, Lydia Huntley, was born in Norwich, Connecticut, 1. 1791. At the age of eight years, the child tried her hand at story writing. For many years she was a very popular tc in the city of Hartford, establishing her reputation as a pioneer educator. The volume entitled Pieces in Prose and Verse, was published in 1815. In 1819 she was married to U I Sig- ourney, a merchant of the town where the school was established The la3t words she wrote w 44 Heaven's peace be with you all I Farewell! Farewell 1" She died in 18G6. SournEY, Robert, poet-laureate of England, was born August 12, 1771. at Bristol. His first wife, a sister of the wife of Ooleridge, in 1834, and in a year and a half afterward, he was married to his life-long friend, Caroline Anne Bowles. During the Last few I of his life the poor poet's mind was clouded, and his friends could scarcely regret his death. He died in 1843, and was buried in the church yard of Crosthwaite. SouTnEY, Car fl BOWLO, was justly celebrated, both as a poet and story writer. She contributed for Blackwood's || >r ni.iny years, and the si. : wards published in e was married to the poet, Be had written more than twelve hundred letters to her, try and other subjects. After the death of her husband, years of her life in lb meat. we, Harriet Beechkr. was born in Connecticut, in 1 he, with the somewhat numerous family of Beechers, inherj ?ove for piety, freedom, etc., from her stanch New England ai tors. She has written nmeh. and her works | into }• ages. She v. . life asso- ciated with - Catharine Beecher, in conducting a school for 430 Kzwmciaaa i.\ Elocution. young ladies, at Hartford, Connecticut Uncle Tom's Cabin was published in 1852, and nothing she has since written has been so ex ten si v fly read. sburn, Algernon Charles, author of the Greek tragedy, Atalanta in Calydon, etc Taylor, Bayard, has written books of travel, romance and poetry. He has been engaged much as a public lecturer. He was born in 1824. Taylor, Benjamin F., a native of Lowville, N. Y. ; is a populai writer and lecturer. Tilton, Theodore, a well known reformer, editor of the Inde- pendent Trowbridqe, J. T. His n&m de plume, when writing juvenile stories, is Father Brighthopes. Darius Green and his Flying Ma- chine, inimitable in its rollicking humor, was written for Our Young Folks, March, 1866 ; and The Vagabonds has justly achieved a popularity. Tennyson, Alfred, the present poet-laureate of England, the sou of a Lincolnshire clergyman, was born in 1810. He gave promise of superior talent in youth, taking a prize for a poem while still an undergraduate. He is known and loved as much in America as in England. He writes carefully, reviewing and correcting his proofs many times. Tobin, John, wrote many plays, which were rejected by mana- gers ; the Honeymoon being the first production of his pen which was accepted. The play has been, and still is, very popular, but the poor writer died without the pleasure of seeing it performed Re was born at Salisbury, in the year 1770, ami died in 1804. Wilson, Force ythe, an American poet, who died in 1866. A'ebstkr, Daniel, celebrated as a statesman and orator. IB 36885 961658 THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY