■.n»lr.i»T-^«-.-—-
 
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 /c>-eZZy^ 
 
 
 '/
 
 The Practical Elocutionist
 
 BLACKIE & SON LIMITED 
 
 50 Old Bailey, London 
 17 Stanhope Street, Glasgow 
 
 BLACKIE & SON (INDIA) LIMITED 
 Warwick House, Fort Street, Bombay 
 
 BLACKIE & SON (CANADA) LIMITED 
 U18 Bay Street, Toronto
 
 The 
 
 Practical Elocutionist 
 
 BY 
 
 JOHN FORSYTH 
 
 Sometime Authorized Master of Elocution to the University of Glasgow 
 
 / 
 
 BLACKIE & SON LIMITED 
 
 LONDON AND GLASGOW
 
 Printed in Great Britain by Blackie & Son, Ltd., Glasgow
 
 PEEFACK 
 
 The aim of the present volume is to place before students 
 of elocution and dramatic readers, in a handy and practical 
 form, a brief but suggestive exposition of the art of delivery, 
 and a series of selections of a varied and attractive kind. The 
 book is divided into four parts. The first division is devoted 
 to a short account of the general principles of elocution; the 
 second consists of practical hints with illustrative examples; 
 the third treats of the theory of gesture; while the last con- 
 tains a graduated set of pieces for reading and recitation. 
 
 The writer does not claim to reveal anything new as to the 
 working or application of the general laws regulating correct 
 and graceful delivery. He has only gathered together some of 
 the most useful and important of these laws and set them down 
 in a succinct and, it is hoped, clear form. In doing this, how- 
 ever, he has been animated by a desire to stimulate the student 
 to thoughtful and patient application, and to stir in him a 
 spirit of enthusiasm for the subject of his study. 
 
 There are so many " Selections of Eeadings " in the market 
 that it is with some diffidence that the present volume is offered 
 to the public. At the same time the excuse for its appearance 
 (if, as may be thought, such an excuse is needed) may be found 
 in the fact that it contains many selections that have never 
 been included in any similar book. It is true that a number 
 of old standard favourites has been retained. This is due to 
 the desire on the part of the compiler to include, for the use 
 of teachers, certain literary productions lending themselves 
 specially as texts for teaching purposes. The bulk of the 
 matter is fresh. A number of original adaptations from good 
 authors, and many valuable copyright items have been inserted. 
 
 1128035
 
 VI PREFACE. 
 
 Attention may also be drawn to the readings suitable for musi- 
 cal accompaniment, and to a condensed form of debate which 
 may prove useful in dealing with the art of public speaking. 
 
 The writer has purposely avoided, from first to last, the 
 placing of accent marks or other arbitrary guides to delivery 
 upon the words or phrases in the selections. He believes that 
 more harm than good results from this old-fashioned practice, 
 and that it is more consistent with common sense and good 
 judgment to leave inflections, accents, and pauses to be taught 
 viva voce. 
 
 The writer desires to acknowledge his grateful appreciation 
 of the kindness of the many authors and publishers who have 
 permitted him the use of copyright matter of much value and 
 interest. 
 
 Finally, it may be added that the whole selection has been 
 made with a single eye to healthiness of tone, and it is hoped 
 that the volume may prove of use in the school-room and at 
 the fireside, in the study and on the platform.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 DIVISION I. 
 
 The Prinoiplbs op Elocution, 
 
 DIVISION 11. 
 
 The Praottoe of Elocution, 
 
 Exercises on the Inflections, .... 
 The Better Land, . - > Mrs. Remans, 
 An English Christmas-day, - Dickens, 
 Labour, Carlyle, 
 
 ExBROisES IN Modulation, 
 
 The Death of Castlewood, - . Thackeray, 
 Greorge the Third, . - - Thackeray, 
 The Old Clock on the Stairs, - LongfeUow, 
 The Dying Christian to his Soul, Pope, 
 
 Exercises on Emphasis, 
 
 Exercises on the Pause, 
 
 The Theory of Gesture, 
 
 DIVISION III. 
 
 DIVISION rv. 
 
 Selections for Reading and Recitation. 
 
 The Sands of Dee, - 
 
 At Last, .... 
 
 "In the Evening Time it will be Light", 
 
 Baby in Church, 
 
 If I Could Keep Her So, - 
 
 The Sea-Fight, - 
 
 The Funny Young Gentleman, 
 
 Germs of Greatness, - 
 
 Little Orphant Annie, 
 
 The Three Fishers, . 
 
 CkarUs Kingsley, 
 
 J. O. Whittier, - 
 
 Samuel K. Cowan, 
 
 Minnie M. Oo^u, 
 
 Louise Chandler Moulton, 
 
 Barry Cornwall, 
 
 Dickens, 
 
 Eliza Cook, 
 
 James Whitcomb Riley, 
 
 Charles Kingsley, 
 
 Page 
 ■ 13 
 
 22 
 
 24 
 
 27 
 26 
 32 
 
 86 
 
 38 
 41 
 44 
 45 
 
 45 
 
 47 
 
 61 
 
 59 
 60 
 60 
 61 
 63 
 64 
 d5 
 67 
 68 
 69
 
 VUl 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 A Ballad of War, - 
 
 Are the Children Home? - 
 
 The Archery of William Tell, - 
 
 Stood at Clear, .... 
 
 Two's Company and Three's None, 
 
 The Glove and the Lions, - 
 
 Harmosan, .... 
 
 The Burst Bubble, - 
 
 If I Should Die To-night, - 
 
 The Fail of D'Assas, 
 
 Domestic Asides, ... 
 
 Caught in the Quicksand, - 
 
 My Neighbour's Baby, 
 
 The Fool's Prayer, - 
 
 The Oxford and Cambridge Boat-race, 
 
 Measuring the Baby, 
 
 Abou Ben Adhem and the Angel, 
 
 Means of Acquiring Distinction, 
 
 No, Thank You, Tom, 
 
 A Leap for Life, 
 
 The Message, - 
 
 The Retort, 
 
 The Rapids, 
 
 The Pilot, 
 
 The Two Armies, 
 
 Maud Mtiller, - 
 
 The Warriors of the Sea, 
 
 Scene from " Rob Roy ", 
 
 Barbara Frietchie, - 
 
 The Watermill, 
 
 The Charcoal Man, - 
 
 Nottnian, 
 
 Thurlow's Reply to the Duke of Grafton, 
 
 The Lay of the Brave Cameron, 
 
 Ora Pro Nobis,- . . - 
 
 The Last Hymn, 
 
 The Bishop and the Caterpillar, 
 
 The Sisters, .... 
 
 The Village Choir, - 
 
 The B(jbolink, - . - - 
 
 The Three Bells, 
 
 The Relief of Lucknow 
 
 Mendla Bute SmedUy, 
 
 M. E. M. SangiUr, 
 
 Baine, 
 
 Alex. Anderson, - 
 
 Anon,, 
 
 Leigh Hunt, 
 
 Dr. Trench, 
 
 John B, Oough, - 
 
 Roht. 0. V. Myers, 
 
 Mrs. Hevxans, 
 
 Thomai Hood, 
 
 Victor Hugo, 
 
 Anon., 
 
 Atlantic Monthly, 
 
 Arx>n., 
 
 R. A. Browne, - 
 
 Leigh Hunt, 
 
 Sydney Smith, 
 
 Anon,, 
 
 Qeo. P. Morris, - 
 
 Adelaide Anne Procter, 
 
 Anon., 
 
 John B. Oough, • 
 
 Cochran, 
 
 Oliver W, Holmes, 
 
 J. 0. Whittier, ■ 
 
 Clement Scott, 
 
 Sir W. Scott, 
 
 J. 0. Whittier, ■ 
 
 Sarah Doudney,- 
 
 J. T. Trowbridge, 
 
 Alex. Anderson, - 
 
 Thurlow, - 
 
 John Stuart Blachie, 
 
 A. Horspool, 
 
 Marianne Furningham, 
 
 Boys' Own Paper, 
 
 J. 0. Whittier, - 
 
 Anon., 
 
 The Aldine, 
 
 J. G. Whittier, ■ 
 
 R. T. S. Lowell, -
 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 IX 
 
 
 
 
 Page 
 
 Cnrran on Freedom, - 
 
 • 
 
 Curran, . . - . 
 
 121 
 
 Beautiful Child 
 
 . 
 
 W. A. H. Sif/ourney, - 
 
 122 
 
 Mabel Martin, - 
 
 - 
 
 /. 0. Whiltier, - 
 
 123 
 
 Jack's Little Sister, Kate, 
 
 • 
 
 Mary Forrester, - 
 
 125 
 
 A Railway Chase, 
 
 - 
 
 David Macrae, • 
 
 127 
 
 The Spinning-wheel Song, 
 
 - 
 
 John F. WaUer, - 
 
 129 
 
 An Irishman's Love for His 
 
 Children 
 
 , Anon., . . . . 
 
 130 
 
 Gemini and Virgo, • 
 
 • 
 
 C. S. Calverley, 
 
 132 
 
 The Level Crossing, - 
 
 - 
 
 Roht. Walker, - 
 
 135 
 
 Papa's Letter, - 
 
 - 
 
 Anon., . . . . 
 
 137 
 
 Where? .... 
 
 • 
 
 R. H. Stoddard, - 
 
 138 
 
 Excelsior, .... 
 
 . 
 
 Henry W. LongfeUoiv, 
 
 139 
 
 The Old Schoolmaster, 
 
 - 
 
 Let 0. Harris, • 
 
 140 
 
 The Women of Mumbles Head, 
 
 Clement Scott, 
 
 142 
 
 Hamlet and the Queen, - 
 
 
 Shakespeare, 
 
 144 
 
 Pitt's Reply to Walpole, - 
 
 
 Pitt, 
 
 147 
 
 The Irishwoman's Letter, - 
 
 
 Anon., . . . . 
 
 148 
 
 Editha's Burglar, 
 
 
 Mrs. P. Hodgson Burnett. 
 
 149 
 
 Becalmed, 
 
 
 Samuel K. Cowan, 
 
 153 
 
 The Last of the Proud Monarch, 
 
 Carlyle, 
 
 154 
 
 Henry v.. 
 
 
 Shakespeare, 
 
 155 
 
 The Newsboy's Debt, 
 
 
 Harper's Magazine, - 
 
 157 
 
 The Soul's Awakening, 
 
 
 C. Marston Haddock, • 
 
 159 
 
 Death of Marie-Antoinette, 
 
 
 Carlyle, 
 
 160 
 
 Public Speech, ■ 
 
 
 Br. H. W. Bellows, ■ 
 
 161 
 
 Marit and I, - - - 
 
 
 Anon., 
 
 ■ 162 
 
 The Fashionable Choir, • 
 
 
 T. C. Harbough,- 
 
 • 165 
 
 The Bivouac Fire, - 
 
 
 Samuel K. Cowan, 
 
 166 
 
 The Tale He Told the Marines, 
 
 Theyre Smith, 
 
 168 
 
 The School for Scandal, - 
 
 - 
 
 Richard B. Sheridan, - 
 
 • 172 
 
 Charles Edward at Versailles, - 
 
 Professor Aytoun, 
 
 177 
 
 The Building of St, Sophia, 
 
 • 
 
 Rev. Sabine Baring-Oould, 
 
 • 179 
 
 Getting into Society, • 
 
 - 
 
 W. M. Thackeray, 
 
 183 
 
 The Deacon's Story, - 
 
 - 
 
 N. S. Emerson, • 
 
 • 186 
 
 Scene from "Richelieu", • 
 
 . 
 
 Lord Lytton, 
 
 . 190 
 
 My Uncle Roland's Tale, - 
 
 • 
 
 Lord Lytton, 
 
 . 193 
 
 T^e Spanish Mother, 
 
 - 
 
 Sir F. H. Doyle,- 
 
 . 197 
 
 How Uncle Podger Hung a 
 
 Picture, 
 
 Jerome K. Jerome, 
 
 • 200 
 
 The Raven, 
 
 . 
 
 Edgar Allan Poe, 
 
 . 203 
 
 Horatio Sparkins, 
 
 - 
 
 Dickens, 
 
 - 206 
 
 The Masterpiece of Brother 
 
 Felix, 
 
 R. E. White, 
 
 . 214 
 
 Romeo and Juliet, 
 
 - 
 
 Shakespeare, 
 
 217 
 
 (996) 
 
 
 A2 

 
 X CONTENTS. 
 
 
 
 
 Page 
 
 Edinburgh After Flodden, 
 
 Professor Aytoun, 
 
 - 222 
 
 How the Flag was Saved, - 
 
 J. B. O'Reilhj, - 
 
 . 225 
 
 The Old Knight's Tale, - 
 
 R. B. Brough, ■ 
 
 - 229 
 
 The Old Lieutenant and His Son, 
 
 Dr. Norman MacLeod 
 
 - 233 
 
 Mrs. Corney Makes Tea, and Mr. 
 
 
 
 Bumble Makes Love, - 
 
 Dichens, 
 
 • 236 
 
 Truth, 
 
 John Ruskin, 
 
 - 240 
 
 The Field of Waterloo, - 
 
 Lord Byron, 
 
 • 242 
 
 Scene from " The Hunchback ", 
 
 J. S. Knouies, • 
 
 - 243 
 
 King Robert of Sicily, 
 
 H. W. Loiigfelloio, - 
 
 - 250 
 
 How He Saved St. Michael's, - 
 
 Mary A. P. Stansbury 
 
 - 254 
 
 Old Scrooge, 
 
 Dickens, 
 
 - 256 
 
 The Battle of Flodden Field and Death 
 
 
 
 of Marmion, .... 
 
 Sir Walter Scott, 
 
 - 259 
 
 The Lady of Provence, 
 
 Mrs. Hemans, 
 
 - 268 
 
 The Lifeboat, - . - - 
 
 0. R. Sims, 
 
 . 270 
 
 Babies, • . - 
 
 Jerome K. Jerome, 
 
 . 274 
 
 Lasca, - - ' - 
 
 Frank Desprez, • 
 
 - 277 
 
 After-dinner Oratory, '■■. 
 
 Rev. David Macrae, - 
 
 - 279 
 
 Beautiful Snow, 
 
 W. A. H. Sigourney, - 
 
 - 281 
 
 Briary Villas, - - - - 
 
 Anon., 
 
 - 283 
 
 Scene from " The Rivals ", 
 
 R. B. Sheridan, - 
 
 - 285 
 
 The Cotter's Saturday Night, - 
 
 Robt. Bums, 
 
 - 287 
 
 Jud Brownin on Rubinstein's Piano 
 
 
 
 playing, . - - . 
 
 Moses Adams, 
 
 - 289 
 
 The Murder of Montague Tigg, 
 
 Dickens, 
 
 ■ 293 
 
 Jenny M'Neale, 
 
 WiUCarkton, • 
 
 - 297 
 
 Christmas Greetings, 
 
 0. A. Baker, 
 
 • 300 
 
 The Execution of Montrose, 
 
 Professor Aytoun, 
 
 - 802 
 
 Artemus Ward's Lecture, - 
 
 A. Ward, ■ 
 
 - 804 
 
 Scene from " The Lady of Lyons ", 
 
 Bulwer Lytton, - 
 
 - 306 
 
 Brutus and Cassius, - 
 
 Shakespeare, 
 
 - 308 
 
 Scene from " Henry VIIL", - 
 
 Shakespeare, 
 
 . 311 
 
 The Island of the Scots, - 
 
 Professor Aytoun, 
 
 - 318 
 
 Virginia — A Lay of Ancient Rome, 
 
 Macaulay, - 
 
 - 320 
 
 Pickett's Nell, .... 
 
 Mather Dean Kimball, 
 
 - 323 
 
 Zarafi, ..... 
 
 Lamartine, 
 
 - 325 
 
 The High Tide, 
 
 Jean Ingdow, 
 
 - 326 
 
 Mountain Mists, 
 
 John Ruskin, 
 
 - 330 
 
 The Sculptor's Last Hour, 
 
 Thos. Buchanan R^ad, 
 
 332 
 
 The Sculptor's Funeral, 
 
 Thos. Buchanan Read, 
 
 335 
 
 Scene from " The Merchant of Venic 
 
 e ", Shakespeare, 
 
 839
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 xi 
 
 
 
 Page 
 
 The Bloomsbury Christening, - 
 
 Diekem. 
 
 - 342 
 
 Clarence and Brakenbury, 
 
 Shakespeare. • 
 
 - 347 
 
 Cato on Immortality, 
 
 Addison, - 
 
 - 348 
 
 Selection from " The Starling ", - 
 
 Dr Nornian MacLeod, 
 
 - 349 
 
 " Home, Sweet Home ", - 
 
 Detroit Free Press, 
 
 - 354 
 
 The Bachelor, .... 
 
 F. Anstey, - 
 
 - 356 
 
 Little Lord Fauntleroy, • 
 
 Mrs. F, Hodgson Burnett, 
 
 - 362 
 
 The Armada, .... 
 
 Lord Macaulay, • 
 
 - 36S 
 
 "On Ahead", .... 
 
 Wm. Toynhee, 
 
 - 370 
 
 Louia XI., .... 
 
 W. R. Markwdl, 
 
 - 372 
 
 Annie and Willie's Prayer, 
 
 Sophia P. S710W, - 
 
 - 376 
 
 The Midnight Mail, - 
 
 Samud K. Cou-an, 
 
 . 379 
 
 The Courtship of Allan Fairley o 
 
 
 
 Earlawood, 
 
 S. R. Crockett, . 
 
 . 381 
 
 The Lady's Dream, - 
 
 Twn Hood,- 
 
 - 385 
 
 A Holiday Idyl, 
 
 Fred. W. Broughton, - 
 
 . 386 
 
 The Last Shot, 
 
 John D. Reid, - 
 
 - 393 
 
 The Wife, .... 
 
 Washington. Irinng, • 
 
 - 397 
 
 The Artless Prattle of Childhood, 
 
 R. J. Burdettt, 
 
 ■ 402 
 
 The Dukite Snake, - 
 
 John B. O'Reilly, 
 
 - 405 
 
 Karl, The Martyr, .... 
 
 Fanny Brough, - 
 
 - 410 
 
 Her Letter, 
 
 Bret Harte, 
 
 - 414 
 
 An Amateur Cook, - 
 
 W.OrantStevenson,A.R.S. A 
 
 ., 416 
 
 The Bells, .... 
 
 E. A. Poe, ■ 
 
 - 419 
 
 The Haunted Mere, .... 
 
 Holme Lee, - 
 
 - 420 
 
 Preparing to Receive Company, 
 
 J. M. Barrie, 
 
 - 421 
 
 Selections from "Robert Falconer", • 
 
 Dr. Oeo. Mac Donald, 
 
 . 424 
 
 The Midnight Charge, 
 
 Clement Scott, - 
 
 - 431 
 
 Debate on the Character of Juliua Ca 
 
 resar, - - . . . 
 
 - S34
 
 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 
 
 DIVISION I. 
 
 THE PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 
 
 Among the cultured races in ancient times the study of correct 
 and graceful speech was deemed an essential element of a liberal 
 education. In the training of the youthful Greek or Eoman, Elocu- 
 tion was assigned a place of honour and importance, and many 
 coveted rewards were in store for those who excelled in it. Oratory, 
 indeed, for which Elocution forms a necessary foundation, was then 
 considered one of the fine arts, and entitled to quite as dignified a 
 recognition as painting and music and sculpture. No effort was 
 spared in the encouragement of the study, and a high standard of 
 excellence was maintained. 
 
 It has often been urged, and with considerable show of reason, 
 that in our own day the study of Elocution and public speaking 
 does not get that regular and close attention in our educational 
 system to which it has so good a claim. Elocution has met with 
 mdifference, sometimes even with half- veiled contempt, at the hands 
 of the directors of many of our schools and colleges. In view of the 
 great value of the study this state of matters is not easily accounted 
 for. One is tempted to call it the outcome of wilful ignorance. It 
 is to the credit of an awakening intelligence in educational matters, 
 however, that the subject is now obtaining a rank of greater import- 
 ance every year, and that the immense benefits to be derived from 
 a systematic course of training in correct and effective delivery are 
 more and more clearly recognized. The hap - hazard manner in 
 which clergymen, barristers, and others whose duties lead them to 
 speak much in public usually acquire an inkling of the principles of 
 Elocution is most hurtful in its effects. It seems to have been, and 
 to a great extent evidently still is judged that knowledge — the 
 accumulation of facts and doctrine and law — and some akill in com- 
 
 13
 
 14, THE PRINCIPLES OF KLOCDTION. 
 
 position, are enough to carry the minister and the la.vryer through 
 his professional career with credit, and that he must trust to natural 
 ability and the ordinary training of everyday experience to enable 
 him to convey his knowledge or opinions, or plead his case, with 
 persuasiveness, grace, and force. It is true that in the course of 
 his preparation for his profession he sometimes turns a lukewarm 
 attention to the subject, but his half-hearted attempt is often worse 
 than useless. The imperfectly-taught or self-taught student of Elo- 
 cution is apt to develop irritating mannerisms both in pronunciation 
 and tone. The crudities of his style have had no adequate friction 
 applied to them to clear them away. He goes to the pulpit, the bar, 
 or the platform with a vitiated method that renders him wearisome 
 or even obnoxious to his hearers. He has so little knowledge of the 
 proper mode of husbanding his breath and producing his voice 
 that it is not surprising he has so often to consult his physician 
 regarding serious trouble in his throat. 
 
 Elocution, however, is deserving of the most studious attention 
 by others besides professional men. To the latter it ought to be a 
 necessity, but to all it will be an advantage. Those who desire to 
 strengthen and improve the voice and develop the organs of respi- 
 ration, to overcome a rough or provincial accent, to cultivate their 
 taste, to improve and brighten their conversational powers, to lay 
 up treasures of literature in their memory, and to be able to read 
 and recite in a manner at once pleasant to themselves and enjoyable 
 and profitable to others, should devote themselves diligently to the 
 study of Elocution. Of study Shakspere wisely and quaintly says : 
 
 " study 1b like the heaven's glorious sun 
 That will not be deep search'd with saucy looks". 
 
 This truth is to be borne in mind by all who hope to make progress 
 in the ai't. The study of Elocution "will not be deep search'd by saucy 
 looks". It will not be sufficient merely to "cram" a few selections 
 from popular authors, and then go around inflicting their recital on 
 long-suflfering friends. To deserve aa well as to attain success, 
 thoughtful application and an enthusiastic love of the subject for its 
 own sake must go hand in hand. Constant practice in articulation 
 and pronunciation must be joined to a careful tra inin g of the voice 
 and a due regard for the mechanism of breathing. To the Btud;f 
 of grammar and literature must be added the study of character. 
 The emotions and passions must be pondered over and analyzed, 
 and their appropriate symbols of expression determined upon. The 
 imagination must be trained to ajiprehend, and the physical powers
 
 THE PRINCIPLKS OF ELOCUTION, IB 
 
 to render with fidelity and truth the full force and message of what 
 we have to say or the meaning and gpirit of the author whose work 
 we seek to interpret. 
 
 Our English word "Mocution" is derived from the Latin, and 
 means literally " a speaking out ". In its technical sense it signifies 
 a speaking out with such correctness of pronunciation, clearness of 
 articulation, and intelligent modulation of the voice, as will convey 
 to the hearers, in a graceful and artistic way, the full meaning of the 
 spoken words. 
 
 The aim of the student of Elocution, therefore, is to acquire 
 the art of accurate and effective delivery. How best shall he set 
 about it? His work has two main divisions. Firstly, he must make 
 himself thoroughly vei-sed in what may be termed the mechanical 
 part of the study — the production of the voice, the management of 
 the breath, the articulation and pronunciation of words, and the 
 regulation of accent. Secondly, he must study the principles which 
 govern expression in delivery, which dictate or suggest the proper 
 inflections, emphases, and pauses to be made, and the exact modu- 
 lation of voice to be adopted. 
 
 It is impossible in these introductory remarks to give more than 
 a very brief outline of the principles of the art, but in any case an 
 elaborate system of rules and exceptions, with all the formidable 
 array of uninviting matter it engenders, tends rather to frighten 
 than encourage the student. Judicious viva voce teaching is better 
 than a library of Manuals. The individual tricks of manner and 
 speech into which people fall in reading or conversing can best be 
 remedied in the class-room. Even after the mechanics of Elocution 
 have been learned, and the student is proceeding to more advanced 
 work, the teacher's oversight is of great value. His oflfice indeed 
 becomes more that of a friendly and experienced critic than of a 
 law-giver. At the same time we think it well to bring before the 
 student in as concise a form as possible a number of practical obser- 
 vations on the more salient diflBculties to be met with and overcome. 
 We desire above all to make him realize the importance of the 
 study, to stimulate him to serious effort, and to awaken his ambition 
 to excel. 
 
 The production of the voice and the rnanagement of the 
 breath primarily call for the most painstaking attention. Bad 
 habits in breathing and voice-forming are acquired with unfortunate 
 ease, and are most difficult to cure. A knowledge of the physiologj 
 of the human voice is very helpful to the student of elocution, r 
 we recommend him to consult a work dealing specially vp^
 
 16 THE PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 
 
 subject. He will not fail to be impressed with the beauty of the 
 mechanism and will more intelligently appreciate the need for con- 
 stant care and exercise to develop and improve the voice— to render 
 it both musical and flexible. The vocal organs are muscular, and 
 even poor voices, properly trained, may be strengthened, mellowed, 
 and made capable of good work. 
 
 It is the A B C of correct vocal production to keep the lungs at 
 all times plentifully supplied with air. By this means alone will a 
 smooth delivery be preserved, and any necessary change of tone or 
 alteration of pitch be readily seized. Breathing should be carried 
 on almost wholly through the nostrils, but it will sometimes be 
 found of advantage to breathe through the mouth as well. In any 
 case, care must be exercised not to allow the act of breathing to be 
 heard or seen. Every chance presented by the ordinary pauses in 
 speaking or reading should be taken to maintain the full stock of 
 breath. It is quite a mistake to wait for any particular time to take 
 in a supply, as for example, till the end of a sentence. The true 
 secret of proper breathing is to cultivate a habit of replenishing the 
 lungs at every available opportunity during the delivery whether 
 for the moment a full store is required or not. The good habit once 
 formed wiU be almost unconscious in its working. 
 
 The voice has three different keys or pitches— the high, the 
 low, and the middle— each of which has its separate functions and 
 usefulness. The high pitch, appropriate to the expression of 
 excitement and nervous emotion, ought never to be rashly resorted 
 to. Occasions for its necessary use are comparatively rare, and 
 great care must always be taken to avoid straining the voice when 
 it is pitched high. Unless the high pitch is used with judgment 
 and artistic moderation the effect is most unpleasant on the ear. 
 The low pitch is of value in solemn and impassioned utterance. A 
 golden rule in vocal training is to practise assiduously the low notes. 
 Besides enriching the expressiveness of the voice, such practice will 
 be of immense physical value to the whole vocal mechanism. The 
 middle pitch is the one we commonly use while conversing, but it 
 should also be that chosen for public speaking and reading,— to be 
 altered only under stress of emotion or for other valid reason. It 
 will be found by experience that the middle key is altogether the 
 most satisfactory and durable one on which to work. 
 
 In public speaking or reading it ought always to be a first 
 endeavour to be well heard. In this connection it is important to 
 note that distinctness and a level pitch are far more effective than 
 mere loudness. Loudness and vocal pitch must not be confounded
 
 THE PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 17 
 
 One may speak loudly or softly on the same key. It is an everyday 
 occurrence for speakers in a large hall to pitch their voices too high, 
 or else to speak too loudly, or both. Clergymen are perhaps the 
 greatest oflfenders in this respect, even in their own pulpit. How 
 few there are who preach naturally and quietly with just the proper 
 degree of loudness to be heard distinctly by everybody. A good 
 plan to secure the proper pitch is to watch the demeanour of the 
 remotest listeners and judge whether they are hearing with comfort. 
 Tell your story to those in the back seat and almost unconsciously 
 the voice itself will help you to adjust the true key to meet the 
 case. In large buildings, or where the acoustics are defective, extra 
 care has to be taken in articulation, and the syllables have to be 
 dwelt upon with more than usual emphasis. Where there is an echo 
 a subdued middle pitch will be found most eflfective. Loudness in 
 such a place should never be attempted unless conjoined with great 
 deliberation and crispness of utterance, otherwise a mere unintel- 
 ligible jumble will be the result. False methods of vocal production 
 are numerous, but perhaps none is more harmful than that in which 
 all the breath and sound seem to be proceeding from the throat. It 
 is imperative that the student should keep in view that the larynx 
 is a most delicate instrument which requires to be played upon with 
 skill. A clumsy performer will soon coaruen or even wear away 
 outright its powers of melody. 
 
 Articulation, or distinct utterance, next presents itself for con- 
 sideration. This is a branch which is usually treated at some 
 length by means of a long list of rules. These rules are, without 
 doubt, most useful in themselves, but a too rigid adherence to them 
 is apt to create a preciseness in style which is not to be com- 
 mended. The student should endeavour to speak out his words in 
 a clear and firm manner, giving each syllable its due value and 
 proper sound. Mistakes of articulation are usually the result 
 rathei of slovenhness, aifectation, or local accent, than of ignorance. 
 The battle is more than half won if the student makes up his mind 
 to be careful. While accuracy and clearness are being acquired, 
 freedom and refinement must not be forgotten. The proper pro- 
 nunciation of words may be learned (first) by listening to the 
 speaking of cultured people, and {secoiid) by consulting a reliable 
 dictionary. The student must be always on the alert in this con- 
 nection, because pronunciation is a matter of use and fashion — the 
 use and fashion that obtain from time to time among the educated 
 and refined. 
 
 One of the greatest obstacles in the path of the beginner is hit
 
 18 THE PRINCIPLES OT ELOCUTION. 
 
 local or provincial accent. Mere quality of voice, apart from 
 inflection and pronunciation, has more to do with local accent than 
 what is generally supposed. People in different parts of the 
 country produce their voices in different ways. We have a faulty 
 utterance from the throat here, or a disagreeable nasal quality of 
 vocal sound there, and so on ; all of which are but the evidences of 
 a deplorable lack everywhere of education in the management of 
 the voice. A monotonous regularity in the use of certain inflections, 
 mispronunciation of words, especially owing to a false articula- 
 tion of the vowel sounds, and other peculiarities, all help to make up 
 what is known as a local accent. The best means of rooting it out 
 is to practise reading aloud in accordance with the principles of 
 elocution, keeping specially in view the proper formation of the voice. 
 
 In all exercises on articulation, deliberation is essential. To 
 hurry over a passage is to waste time, not to practise. Flexibility 
 and lightness of touch, with a capacity for quick yet clear and 
 con-ect articulation cannot be acquired without persevering and 
 patient effort. 
 
 We come now to the second division of our subject, which concerns 
 itself with the canons of taste and expression in delivery. The 
 consideration of these canons leads us to place the study of the art 
 in a very high rank indeed. To be able to vivify the language of 
 our great writers with an illumining exposition of its spirit and its 
 message, " to lend to the rhyme of the poet the beauty of the voice ", 
 to deliver a noble theme with earnestness and convincing power, 
 require the cultivation of qualities which concern the heart as well 
 as the brain of the student. His imagination must be stirred, his 
 powers of observation quickened, and his sympathy for his neigh- 
 bour deepened. It is only when he has taken a firm grasp of the 
 meaning of the text, and is actuated by genuine feeling, that his 
 vocal inflections and modulations of tone, the emphases he employs, 
 and the pauses he makes, wiU become appropriate and telling. 
 The four elements just referred to, viz. — Inflection, Modulation, 
 Ennphasis, and Pause, are so blended in tasteful delivery that it is 
 difficult to treat of them separately. It is well, however, to en- 
 deavour to indicate what is distinctive in the operation of each, aa 
 well as to show their close relationship. 
 
 The Inflections of the voice are of two classes — Rising and 
 Falling. A third class is sometimes added, called the Circumflex 
 Inflection, which is only a compound of the two simple inflections. 
 Inflection is aptly enough described as a slide of the voice in speak- 
 ing, and the direction of the slide — up or down, aa the case may be
 
 THB PRINCIPLES OF BLOOCTION. 19 
 
 —determines the class to which it belongs. To put the definition in 
 other words, the voice is bent with an upward or downward course 
 in such a way as to indicate various shades of meaning in the matter 
 spoken, or to suggest a certain state of emotion or mental attitude 
 on the part of the speaker. The rising inflection indicates in general 
 that the logical sense is still incomplete, while the falling inflection 
 conveys the opposite idea. In emotional phrases the rising inflection 
 suggests a stretching forward into the future, and is used where 
 prayer or pleading, hope or joy, questioning or doubt, are the pre- 
 vailing notes. The falling inflection, on the other hand, is found, 
 in similar phrases, to be the proper mode of expressing strong 
 aflirmation or authority, and of rendering the notes of the deeper and 
 harsher passions. The circumflex inflection is difficult to describe 
 on paper with any degree of exactness. This compound elide of the 
 voice is of great value in passages where irony and bantering are 
 the dominant notes, or where any latent meaning — "between the 
 lines", as we say colloquially — is intended to be conveyed. In 
 Division II. of this volume will be found a number of special 
 exercises on the inflections, which it is hoped will be found useful. 
 
 Modulation is but a higher form of inflection. It is the act of 
 arranging the vocal inflections in a passage so as to assign to each 
 its relative weight and importance as a contributory to the general 
 efi'ect. It further groups and arranges the emphases and pauses. 
 It is modulation or tone which expresses the spirit or emotion of 
 the whole passage. The truest and only really efiective modulation 
 is that which is founded on a sympathetic and thoughtful study 
 of the text. There are tones appropriate to all human emotions 
 and sentiments, but to imitate these tones with sincerity and truth 
 is no easy task. False or incorrect modulation jars like a discord 
 in music. The tones natural to animated conversation are the best 
 guide to the due rendering of all nari-ative and argumentative pas- 
 sages. These tones should also be the foundation of all emotional 
 or dramatic reading. Artificial and stilted styles of declamation, or 
 a monotonous cadence or tune, should be anxiously avoided. Modu- 
 lation properly employed makes spoken language a living power to 
 persuade or rouse or touch the listener. It depicts the rush and 
 development of emotion and passion, or reveals with subtle force 
 changes of idea and sentiment. It enables us to produce a pleasing 
 variety and picturesqueness in delivery when we render clearly but 
 without obtrusion the imitative element which lurks in many words, 
 when we show ir> fact, the frequent close connection between sound 
 and sense.
 
 20 THK PRIKCIPLES OF ELOCUTIOH. 
 
 From Modulation it is uot a far cry to Emphasis. By Emphasis 
 is meant the placing of weight or stress, by means of a fuller sound 
 or marked tone of voice, upon certain words to show their relative 
 importance to the context. The proper use of emphaais is dictated 
 entirely by the meaning of the passage. The same sentence, or com- 
 bination of words, may be emphasized in quite a number of ways 
 according to the particular meaning sought to be conveyed. It is 
 outwith the province of rigid rules to deal with due emphasis. 
 Taste and intelligence must be brought to bear upon every separate 
 set of words and phrases. Emphasis, in its widest application, is a 
 means of dramatizing a sentence or a paragraph, but accurate judg- 
 ment and artistic care will be necessary to prevent too lavish a 
 use of it. 
 
 The Pause is but another form of emphasis, and a most effective 
 one when properly employed. Ordinary grammatical punctuation 
 suggests certain pauses in delivery, but is no safe guide. Pauses are 
 sometimes divided into grammatical and rhetorical, sometimes into 
 those which mark emphasis and those which indicate distinctions of 
 the sense. But indeed it is difficult to draw any clear line. As a 
 form of Emphasis many remarkable effects may be obtained from 
 its use. A pause immediately before a word serves as a pointer, 
 drawing instant attention, and helping to reveal that word's import- 
 ance and value. On the other hand, when the pause is made im- 
 mediately after a word, the mind has time to dwell on the full 
 significance it bears or the suggestions it stirs. As with individual 
 words so with phrases, and here lies material for nice discrimination. 
 Phrases may be grouped and arranged by means of the pause (aided, 
 of course, by tone and emphasis) in such a way as to render most 
 graphically the full force of a sentence. Each phrase has a different 
 value and entitled to a different degree of recognition, and the 
 artistic ai-rangement of the phrases distinguishes the finished speaker 
 or reader. Grammatical analysis teaches us the construction of sen- 
 tences ; rhetorical analysis teaches us something more. By rhetorical 
 analysis, if we may be allowed the phrase, is meant that analysis 
 which makes clear to ua the spirit and aim of the writer. Having 
 80 analyzed a passage we are in a position to apply the proper tones, 
 emphases, and pauses to its delivery, and so to punctuate or phrase 
 it, as to make that spirit and aim live for others as well as ourselves. 
 We become the true interpreter of the author. Without such pre- 
 vious analysis our delivery will be either meaningless and dead or 
 hopelessly misleading. These remarks apply to the reading of both 
 prose and verse, but the latter has some special features worthy of
 
 THE PRINCIPLES OF BLOCUTIOK. 21 
 
 mention. Verse is extremely difficult to read well, owing chiefly to 
 the constant danger of misplacing the pauses, and the easy blunder 
 of inharmonious phrasing. It is essential to maintain at once the 
 melody or rhythm and the sense. There is, in poetical composition, 
 a natural pause at the end and also a pause about the middle of 
 each line. To some extent these pauses must always be regarded, 
 but there are several common errors to guard against. We have 
 especially to keep free of any artificial monotony or tunefulness. 
 Sometimes the rhythm catches the reader and chains him to a sing- 
 song delivery that is most irritating. Care must be taken to bring 
 home to our hearers the sentiments of the poem, while we preserve 
 its melody. But if the melody and the sense are anywhere so dis- 
 tinctly at variance that one must be sacrificed, then of course the 
 rhythm must go. Yet, even in such a case, by a careful balancing or 
 poising of the whole passage and a delicate phrasing of the words, 
 the grace and poetical beauty of it may be suitably maintained and 
 the sense at the same time clearly conveyed. 
 
 Afl a concluding word to these few pages on the principles of 
 Elocution we would strongly urge the student to attend to three 
 simple injunctions which, if carried out, will invest his work with 
 individuality and interest — Be thoughtful : be natural ; be in 
 earne«t
 
 DIVISION II. 
 
 THE PRACTICE OF ELOCUTION. 
 
 I.— GENERAL HINTS, 
 (a) Speak out firmly: take plenty of time. 
 
 1. In an old abbey town, a long while ago — so long that the story 
 must be a true one, because our great-grandfathers implicitly be- 
 lieved it— there officiated as sexton and grave-digger, one Gabriel 
 Grub, an ill-conditioned, cross-grained, s^irly and lonely man, who 
 consorted with nobody but himself, and an old wicker bottle. 
 
 A little before twilight, one Christmas Eve, Gabriel shouldered 
 his spade, lighted his lantern, and betook himself towards the old 
 churchyard ; for he had got a grave to finish by next morning. As 
 he went his way, up the ancient street, he saw the cheerful light of 
 the blazing fires gleam, through the old casements, and heard the 
 cheerful shouts of those who were assembled around them. All 
 this was gall and wormwood to the heart of Gabriel Grub; and 
 when groups of children bounded out ni the houses, tripped across 
 the road, and were met, before they could knock at the opposite 
 door, by half a dozen curly -headed Uttle rascals who crowded up- 
 stairs to spend the evening in their Christmas games, Gabriel smiled 
 grimly, and clutched the handle of his spade with a firmer grasp, as 
 he thought of measles, scarlet-fever, and a good many other sources 
 of consolation besides. 
 
 2. At midnight, in his guarded tent, the Turk waa 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 that monarch's signet ring ; then, pressed that monarch's 
 throne— a king 1— as wild his thoughts, and gay of wing, as Eden's 
 
 garden bird! At midnight, in the forest shades, Bozzaris ranged 
 
 his Suliote band, true as the steel of their tried blades,— heroes in 
 heart and hand. There had the Persian's thousands stood, there 
 had the glad earth drunk their blood on old Plata^a's day : and now 
 these breathed that haunted air— the sons of sires who conquered 
 there— with arm to strike and soul to dare, as quick, a.s far as they I 
 
 22
 
 THB PRACTICE OF BLOCDTIOK. 23 
 
 (b) Articulate clearly: pronounce correctly: pay careful heed 
 to the vowel sounds and the definite article: do not drop or 
 slur over terminal consonants. 
 
 Note. — The definite article is pronounced with a long "e" before a 
 vowel or silent " h" and also when it is tued emphatically: hut the 
 " « " is short before a consonant. 
 
 1. Here it comes sparkling, and there it lies darkling; now 
 smoking and frothing its tiunult and wrath in ; rising and leaping, 
 sinking and creeping, swelling and sweeping, showering and spring- 
 ing, flying and flinging, writhing and singing, eddying and whisking, 
 spouting and frisking, turning and twisting around and around with 
 endless rebound; smiting and fighting, a sight to delight in, con- 
 founding, astounding, dizzying, and deafening the ear with its 
 sound ! Retreating and beating and meeting and sheeting, delaying 
 and straying and playing and spraying, advancing and prancing and 
 glancing and dancing — and so never ending, but always descending, 
 sounds and motions for ever and ever are blending, all at once and 
 all o'er, with a mighty uproar; — and this way, the water comes 
 down at Lodore 1 
 
 2. No object is more pleasing to the eye than the sight of a man 
 whom you have obliged ; nor any music so agreeable to the ear as 
 the voice of one that owns you for his benefactor. 
 
 3. Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight. 
 
 And all the air a solemn stillness holds ; 
 Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, 
 
 And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds, 
 Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower. 
 
 The moping owl does to the moon complain 
 Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, 
 
 Molest hei ancient solitary reign. 
 
 4. The horse was standing near the hotel, eating the oats which 
 the ostler had fetched ; the traveller rested himself under the awning, 
 which the apple-tree afi"orded; near him was the orchard, whose 
 trees were weighed by the fruit of the abundant harvest; the upper- 
 most branches appeared to be the most prolific, and the whole scene 
 was clothed with the grandeur of the setting sun. 
 
 6. The atrocious crime of being a young man, which the honourable 
 gentleman has, with such spirit and decency, charged upon me, I 
 shall neither attempt to palliate nor deny; but content myself with 
 wishing, that I may be one of those whose follies may cease with
 
 24 THE PRACTICE OF ELOCUTION. 
 
 their youth, and not of those who continue ignorant in spite of age 
 and experience. 
 
 Whether youth can be attributed to any man as a reproach, I will 
 not, sir, assume the province of determining ; but surely, age may 
 justly become contemptible, if the opportunities which it brings 
 have passed away without improvement, and vice appear to prevail 
 when the passions have subsided. The wretch who, after having 
 seen the consequences of a thousand errors, continues still to blunder, 
 and in whom age has only added obstinacy to stupidity, is surely the 
 object either of abhorrence or contempt ; and deserves not that his 
 grey head should secure him from insults. Much more, sir, is he to 
 be abhorred, who, as he has advanced in age, has receded from 
 virtue, and become more wicked with less temptation ; who prosti- 
 tutes himself for money which he cannot enjoy, and spends the 
 remains of his life in the ruin of his country. 
 
 II.— EXERCISES ON THE INFLECTIONS. 
 
 The rising inflection should be employed in the following 
 cases : — 
 
 (a) While the meaning of a sentence or clause of a sentence 
 remains incomplete in itself: 
 
 While the leading thought in a paragraph or stanza is 
 logically connected from sentence to sentence with cumulative 
 
 effect. 
 
 1. When round the lonely cottage 
 Roars loud the tempest's din, 
 And the good logs of Algidus 
 Roar louder yet within ; 
 When the oldest cask is opened, 
 And the largest lamp is lit ; 
 When the chestnuts glow in the embers, 
 And the kid turns on the spit ; 
 When young and old in circle 
 Around the firebrands close, 
 When the girls are weaving baskets 
 And the men are shaping bows ; 
 When the goodman mends his armour, 
 And trims his helmet's plume ; 
 When the goodwife's shuttle merrily 
 Goes flashing through the loom ;
 
 THE PRACTICE OF ELOCUTION. 25 
 
 With weeping and with laughter, 
 Still is the story told, 
 How well Horatius kept the bridge 
 In the brave days of old. 
 
 2. In the name of every generous and honourable feeling — for tne 
 «jake not merely of those on whose behalf I specially appeal, but for 
 your own sakes, and as you value your own dignity and ch.aracter, 
 and prize the future independence of your country, come forward and 
 by one simultaneous exclamation, signify your assent to a measure 
 which will not only have the effect of rescuing the peasantry from 
 ruin, but of rescuing your own character from ignominy and dia 
 grace. Do it in the name of justice, — do it in the name of humanity 
 —do it in the name of Ireland ; and I trust I do not take his namf 
 in vain when I say, do it in the name of God. 
 
 3. If a cool, determined courage, that no apparently hopeless 
 struggle could lessen or subdue — if a dauntless resolution, that shone 
 the brightest in the midst of the greatest difficulties and dangers — 
 if a heart ever open to the tenderest afifections of our nature and the 
 purest pleasures of social intercourse — if an almost childlike sim- 
 plicity of character, that while incapable of craft or dissimulation in 
 itself, yet seemed to have an intuitive power of seeing and defeating 
 the insidious designs and treacheries of others — if characteristics 
 such as these constitute their possessor a hero, then, I say, foremost 
 in the rank of heroes shines the deathless name of "Washington. 
 
 4. To acquire a thorough knowledge of our own hearts and 
 characters ; to restrain every irregular inclination ; to subdue every 
 rebellious passion ; to purify the motives of our conduct ; to form 
 ourselves to that temperance which no pleasure can seduce ; to that 
 meekness which no provocation can ruffle ; to that patience which 
 no affliction can overwhelm ; and to that integrity which no interest 
 can shake; this is the task which, in our sojourn here, we are 
 required to accomplish. 
 
 (b) When the sentence or clause is interrogative and can be 
 answered by "yes" or "no", or when it is negative in con- 
 struction. 
 
 1. Do the perfections of the Almighty lie dormant? 
 
 Can wealth, or honour, or pleasure satisfy the soul? 
 
 Do men gather grapes of thorns, or figs of thistles? 
 
 Can the soldier when he girdeth on his armour boast like him 
 that putteth it off? 
 
 Can the merchant predict that the speculation on which he haa
 
 26 THE PRACTICE OF ELOCUTION, 
 
 entered will be infallibly crowned with success? Can even the 
 husbandman, who has the promise of God that seedtime and harvest 
 shall not fail, look forward with assured confidence to the expected 
 increase of his fields? 
 
 2. No deeper wrinkles yet ? Hath sorrow struck 
 So many blows upon this face of mine 
 And made no deeper wounds? 
 Was this the face 
 
 That every day under his household roof 
 Did keep ten thousand men ? Was this the face 
 That, like the sun, did make beholders wink? 
 Is this the face which faced so many follies, 
 An d was at last outfaced by Bolingbroke ? 
 
 3. Has our Maker furnished us with desires which have no cor- 
 respondent objects, and raised expectations in our breasts with no 
 other view than to disappoint them? Are we to be for ever in 
 search of happiness without arriving at it, either in this world or in 
 the next? Are we formed with a passionate longing for immortality, 
 and yet destined to perish after this short period of existence? Are 
 we prompted to the noblest actions, and supported through life 
 under the severest hardships and most trying temptations, by hopes 
 of a reward which is visionary and chimerical, by the expectation 
 of praises which we are never to realize and enjoy ? 
 
 4. Think you a little din can daunt mine ears ? 
 Have I not in my time heard lions roar? 
 Have I not heard the sea puffed up with winds 
 Rage like an angry bear? 
 Have I not heard great ordnance in the field? 
 And Heaven's artillery thunder in the sky? 
 Have I not in a pitched battle heard 
 Loud 'larums, neighing steeds, and trumpets clang? 
 And do you tell me of a woman's tongue. 
 That makes not half so great a blow on the ear 
 As will a chestnut in a farmer's fire. 
 
 5. The peace we seek is not peace through the medium of war; 
 not peace to be hunted through the labyinnth of intricate and 
 endless negotiations; not peace to arise out of universal discord, 
 fomented from principle in all parts of the empire; not peace to 
 depend on the juridical determination of perplexing qupstions, nor 
 the precise marking of the shadowy boundaj-ies of a complex govern- 
 ment.
 
 THB PRACTICB 07 ELOCUTION. S7 
 
 6. THE BETTER LAND. 
 
 Mrs. Hemans. 
 
 Child. I hear thee speak of a Better Land. 
 Thou callest its children a happy band. 
 Mother, oh, where is that radiant shore? 
 Shall we not seek it, and weep no more 't 
 Is it where the flower of the orange blows, 
 And the fireflies glance through the myrtle boughs? — 
 
 Mother. Not there, not there, my child. 
 
 Child. Is it where the feathery palm-trees risa, 
 And the date grows ripe under sunny skies? 
 Or 'midst the green islands of glittering seas, 
 Where fi-agrant forests perfume the breeze, 
 And strange bright birds on their starry wings 
 Bear the rich hues of all glorious things? 
 
 Mother. Not there, not there, my child. 
 
 Child. Is it far away in some region old, 
 "Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold; 
 Where the burning rays of the ruby shine, 
 And the diamond lights up the secret mine, 
 And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand, 
 Is it there, sweet mother, that Better Land? 
 
 Mother. Not there, not there, my child. 
 
 Mother. Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy, 
 Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy. 
 Dreams cannot picture a world so fair. 
 Sorrow and death may not enter there ; 
 Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom, 
 For beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb — 
 
 It is there, it is there, my child, 
 
 (c) When the emotional feeling expressed in a sentence « 
 bright, happy, or hopeful. 
 
 1. I come ; I come ; — ye have called me long : 
 I come o'er the mountains with light and song ; 
 Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earthj 
 By the winds which tell of the violet's birth. 
 By the primrose stars in the shadowy grass, 
 By the green leaves opening as I paas.
 
 28 THE PRACTICE OF BLOOUTION. 
 
 From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain. 
 They are sweeping on to the silvery main,— 
 They are flashing down from the mountain brows — 
 They are flinging spray o'er the forest boughs,— 
 They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves ;— 
 An d the earth resounds with the joy of waves 1 
 
 g. Thy bright image, 
 
 Glassed in my soul, took all the hues of glory, 
 And lured me on to those inspiring toils 
 By which man masters men. For thee I grew 
 A midnight student o'er the dreams of sages. 
 For thee I sought to borrow from each Grace 
 And every Muse, such attributes as lend 
 Ideal charms to love. I thought of thee, 
 And Passion taught me Poesy — of thee ; 
 And on the painter's canvas grew the life 
 Of Beauty. Art became the shadow 
 Of the dear starlight of thy haunting eyes. 
 Men called me vain — some mad — I heeded not-; 
 But still toil'd on, hoped on, for it was sweet, 
 If not to win, to feel more worthy thee 1 
 
 3. Nay, speak not ; my heart has broken its silence, and you shall 
 hear the rest. For you I have endured all the weary bondage of 
 this house ; yes, to see you, hear you, breathe the same air, be ever 
 at hand, that if others slighted, from one at least you might receive 
 the luxury of respect ; for this— for this I have lingered, suff'ered, 
 and forborne. We are orphans both— friendless both ; you are all 
 the world to me; turn not away; my very soul speaks in these 
 words — / love you I 
 
 4. The quality of mercy is not strain'd ; it droppeth, as the gentle 
 rain from heaven upon the place beneath; it is twice bless'd; it 
 bleaaeth him that gives, and him that takes : 'tis mightiest in the 
 mightiest ; it becomes the thronM monarch better than his crown : 
 his sceptre shows the force of temporal power, the attribute to awe 
 and majesty, wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings; but 
 Mercy is above this sceptred sway— it is enthroned in the hearts of 
 kings— it is an attribute to God himself ; and earthly power doth 
 then show likest God's, when mercy seasons justice : therefore, Jew, 
 though justice be thy plea, consider this,— that, in the course of 
 justice, none of us should see salvation : wc do pray for mercy : and 
 that same prayer doth teach us all to render the deeds of mercy.
 
 THE PRACTICE OF ELOCUTION. 29 
 
 AN ENGLISH CHEISTMAS-DAY. 
 Dickens. 
 
 5. On Christmas morning grandpapa and grandmamma, with 
 as many of the children as the pew will hold, go to church in great 
 state : leaving Aunt George at home dusting decanters and filling 
 castors, and Uncle George carrying bottles into the dining-parlour, 
 and calling for cork-screws, and getting into everybody's way. 
 
 When the church-party return to lunch, grandpapa produces a 
 small sprig of mistletoe from his pocket, and tempts the boys to 
 kiss their little cousins under it — a proceeding which affords both 
 the boys and the old gentleman unlimited satisfaction, but which 
 rather outrages grandmamma's ideas of decorum, until grandpapa 
 says tliat when he was just thirteen years and three months old, he 
 kissed grandmamma under a mistletoe too, on which the children clap 
 their hands, and laugh very heartily, as do Aunt George and Uncle 
 George ; and grandmamma looks pleased, and says, with a benevo- 
 lent smile, that grandpapa was an impudent young dog, on which 
 the children laugh very heartily again, and grandpapa more heartily 
 than any of them. 
 
 As to the dinner, it's perfectly delightful — nothing goes wrong, 
 and eveiybody is in the very best of spirits, and disposed to please 
 and be pleased. Grandpapa relates a circumstantial account of the 
 purchase of the turkey, with a slight digression relative to the pur- 
 chase of previous turkeys, on former Christmas-days, which grand- 
 mamma corroborates in the minutest particular. Uncle George tells 
 stories, and carves poultry, and takes wine, and jokes with the chil- 
 dren at the side-table, and exhilarates everybody with his good humour 
 and hospitality ; and when, at last, a stout servant staggers in with 
 a gigantic pudding, with a sprig of holly in the top, there is such a 
 laughing, and shouting, and clapping of little chubby hands, and 
 kicking up of fat dumpy legs, as can only be equalled by the 
 applause with which the astonishing feat of pouring lighted brandy 
 into mince-pies is received by the younger visitors. Then the dessert ! 
 — and the wine ! — and the fun I Such beautiful speeches, and such 
 songs ! Even grandpapa not only sings his annual song with un- 
 precedented vigour, but on being honoured with an unanimous 
 encore, according to annual custom, actually comes out with a new 
 one which nobody but grandmamma ever heard before. And thus 
 the evening passes, in a strain of rational goodwill and cheerfulness, 
 doing more to awaken the sympathies of every member of the party
 
 30 THE PRACTICE OF ELOCaTlOK 
 
 in behalf of his neighbour, and to perpetuate their good feeling 
 during the ensuing year, than half the treatises that have ever been 
 written, by half the philosophers that have ever lived. 
 
 (d) When surprise or wonder is expressed, or doubt or 
 contingency suggested. 
 
 1. A moment speechless, motionless, amazed, 
 The throneless monarch on the Angel gazed, 
 Who met his looks of anger aad surprise 
 With the divine compassion of his eyes ; 
 Then said, "Who art thou? and vrhy com'st thou here?" 
 
 2. If every ducat in six thousand ducats 
 Were in six parts, and every part a ducat, 
 
 I would not draw them: I would have my bond. 
 
 3. Oh ! when the heart is full— when bitter thoughts 
 Come crowding thickly up for utterance. 
 
 And the poor words of common courtesy 
 
 Are such a very mockery — how much 
 
 The bursting heart may pour itself in Prayer ; 
 
 4. It is doubtful yet, 
 
 If Oesar vrill come forth to-day or no. 
 It may be these apparent prodigies, 
 The unaccustomed terror of this night, 
 And the persuasion of his augurers. 
 May hold him from the capitol to-day. 
 
 5. It is enacted in the laws of Venice,— If it be proved against an 
 alien, that, by direct or indirect attempts, he seek the life of any 
 citizen, the party 'gainst the which he doth contrive, shall seize one 
 half his goods ; the other half comes to the privy coflFer of the State ; 
 and the offender's life lies in the mercy of the Duke only, 'gainst all 
 other voice. 
 
 (e) When prayer or entreaty is expressed, or exclamations 
 or ejaculations made. 
 
 1. And now, in conclusion, I pray from the bottom of my heart, 
 that He who is the Author of all mercies to mankind, whose divine 
 providence, I am persuaded, guides and even superintends the 
 transactions of this world, and whose guardian spirit haa ever 
 watched over this prosperous island, direct and fortify your judg- 
 menta!
 
 THE PRACTICE OF ELOCTJTIOK. SI 
 
 £. All good people, 
 
 You that thus far have come to pity me, 
 Hear what I say. You few that loved me 
 And dare be bold to weep for Buckingham, 
 His noble friends and fellows, whom to leave 
 Is only bitter to him, only dying ; 
 Go with me, like good angels, to my end ; 
 And as the long divorce of steel falls on me.. 
 Make of your prayers one sweet sacrifice 
 And lift my soul to Heaven. 
 
 3, Oh, I beseech thee, 
 
 If my obedience and blameless life. 
 If my humility and meek submission 
 In all things hitherto, can move in thee 
 One feeling of compassion ; if thou art 
 Indeed my father, and canst trace in me 
 One look of her who bore me, or one tone 
 That doth remind thee of her, let it plead 
 In my behalf, who am a feeble girl — 
 Too feeble to resist ; and do not force me 
 To wed that man. 
 
 4 Ay? and this man dares to talk of conscience! CJonscience, 
 forsooth! It is enough to make one's blood boil to think on't! 
 That he who had publicly, and in the open light of day, thrown off 
 every coverlet of shame — that he should, without sense, or memory, 
 or feeling, before the eyes of the whole empire, with the traces of 
 his degradation stiU fresh upon him, presume to call upon the name 
 of the great and eternal God, and in aU the blasphemy of sacrilegious 
 cant, dedicate himself, with an invocation to Heaven, to the ever- 
 lasting oppression of my country I This it is that sets me, and every 
 true patriot, on fire! This it is which raises, excites, inflames, 
 exasperates! This it is which applies a torch to our passions! 
 This it is which blows our indignation into flames 1 
 
 The failing inflection should be employed in the following 
 cases: — 
 
 (a) When a thought is completely expressed (whether by 
 way of a sentence or a clause of a sentence) as in definitions 
 and statements of fact. 
 
 1. Industry is the demand of nature, of reason, and of God. 
 
 2. Age in a virtuous person carries with it an authority which 
 makea it preferable to aU the pleasures of youth.
 
 32 THE PRACTICE Of EI.OCUTIOK. 
 
 3. By uniting different ranks in the same elegant pleasures, the 
 fine arts promote benevolence; by cherishing love of order, they 
 enforce submission to government; and by inspiring delicacy of 
 feeling, they make regular government a double blessing. 
 4. Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear 
 In aU my miseries ; but thou hast forced me, 
 Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman- 
 Let's dry our eyes ; and thus far hear me, Cromwell ; 
 And when I am forgotten, as I shall be, 
 And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention 
 Of me more must be heard of— say I taught thee ; 
 Say WoLsey— tha. once trod the ways of glory, 
 And sounded all the depths and shoals of honour- 
 Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in ; 
 A sure and safe one, though thy master miss'd it. 
 5. In the first place, true hono\ir, though it be a different principle 
 from religion, is that which produces the same effects. The lines of 
 action, though drawn from different parts, terminate in the same 
 points. Religion embraces virtue, as it is enjoined by the laws of 
 God; honoui- as it is graceful and ornamental to human nature. 
 The religious man fears, the man of honour scorns, to do an ill action. 
 The latter considers vice as something that is beneath him, the othei 
 as something that is offensive to the Divine Being. The one aa 
 what is unbecoming, the other as what is forbidden. 
 
 6. Ask of the learn'd the way : the learn'd are blind ; 
 This bids to serve, and that to shun mankind : 
 Some place the bliss in action, some in ease, 
 Those call it Pleasure, and Contentment these ; 
 Some, sunk to beasts, find pleasure end in pain : 
 Some, swell'd to gods, confess e'en Virtue vain ; 
 Or indolent, to each extreme they fall, 
 To trust in everything, or doubt of alL 
 
 7. LABOUR. 
 
 Thomas Carlyle. 
 
 There is a perennial nobleness, and even sacredness, in work 
 Were a man ever so benighted, or forgetful of his high calling, there 
 is always hope in him who actually and earnestly works; in idleness 
 alone is there perpetual despair. Consider how, even in the meanest 
 sorts of labour, the whole soul of a man is composed into real 
 
 (996)
 
 THB PRACTICE OF BLOCUTION, 33 
 
 harmony. He bends himself with free valour against his task ; and 
 doubt, desire, sorrow, remorse, indignation, despair itself, shrink 
 murmuring far oflF into their caves. The glow of labour in him is a 
 purifying fire, wherein all poison is burnt up ; and of smoke itself 
 there is made a bright and blessed flame. 
 
 Blessed is he who has found his work ; let him ask no other 
 blessedness ; he has a life purpose. Labour is life. From the heart 
 of the worker rises the celestial force, breathed into him by Almighty 
 God, awakening him to all nobleness, to all knowledge. Hast thou 
 valued patience, courage, openness to light, or readiness to own thy 
 mistakes? In wrestling with the dim brute powers of Fact, thou 
 wilt continually learn. For every noble work, the possibilities are 
 diflfused through immensity — undiscoverable, except to Faith. 
 
 Man, son of heaven ! is there not in thine inmost heart a spirit of 
 active method, giving thee no rest till thou unfold it? Complain 
 not. Look up, wearied brother. See thy fellow- workmen surviving 
 through eternity — the sacred band of immortals 1 
 
 (b) When a sentence, although interrogative, cannot be an- 
 swered by a simple "yes" or "no"; and when earnest affirma- 
 tion or conviction is intended to be conveyed, although the 
 sentence may be negative in construction. 
 
 1. What! my young master? Why, what make you herel 
 Why are you virtuous ? Why do people love you ? 
 And wherefore are you gentle, strong, and valiant? 
 Why would you be so fond to overcome 
 
 The haughty pride of the humorous Duke ? 
 
 2. Me you call great : mine is the firmer seat, 
 The truer lance j but there is many a youth 
 Now crescent, who will come to all I am, 
 And overcome it ; and in me there dwells 
 No greatness, save it be some far-off touch 
 Of greatness, to know well I am not great. 
 There is the man. 
 
 (c) When there is expression of command or authority, and 
 when the various stronger passions such as anger, hatred, and 
 the like are represented. 
 
 1. " Halt !" The dust brown ranks stood fast 
 " Firei " Out blazed the rifle blast. 
 
 2. An hour passed on — the Turk awoke; 
 That bright dream was his last. 
 
 (986) B
 
 34 THB PRACTICE OF ELOCUTIOM. 
 
 He woke — to hear his sentries shriek, 
 « To arms 1 they come 1 the Greek 1 the Greek ! " 
 
 He woke — to die, 'midst flame, and smoke, 
 
 And shout, and groan, and sabre stroke, 
 
 And death-shots falling thick and fast, 
 
 Like forest pines before the blast : 
 
 Or lightnings from the mountain cloud ; 
 
 And heard with voice as trumpet loud, 
 
 Bozzaris cheer his band, 
 "Strike— tiU the last armed foe expires; 
 
 Strike— for your altars and your fires ; 
 
 Strike— for the green graves of your sires ; 
 
 Heaven — and your native land!" 
 
 3. I grieve to see the company thou keepest — 
 The man whom thou hast ever at thy side, 
 I hate him from the bottom of my soul. 
 The very sight of him makes my blood thrill. 
 To most men I feel kindliness— but him 
 Do I detest ; and with a feeling strong- 
 Strong as my love for you— strong as my wishes 
 To have you with me—does a secret shudder 
 Creep over me when I behold this man. 
 He is — I cannot be deceived — a villain. 
 I would not, could not, live together with him. 
 He feels no love for any living soul ;— 
 And when I am so happy in thine arms. 
 He's sure to come, and my heart shrinks and withei^ 
 This hatred overmasters me so wholly 
 That, if he does but join us, straightway it seems 
 As if I ceased to love thee. Where he is 
 I could not pray. This eats into my heart. 
 
 4, Vice is the cruel enemy which renders man destructive to man ; 
 which racks the body with pain and the mind with remorse ; which 
 produces strife, faction, revenge, oppression, and sedition; which 
 embroils society, kindles the flames of war, and erects mquisitions j 
 which takes away peace from life, and hope from death; which 
 brought forth death at first, and has ever since clothed it with all 
 its terrors; which arms nature and the God of nature against us; 
 and against which it has been the business of all ages to find out 
 provisions and securities, by various institutions, laws, and forms 
 of government.
 
 THB PRACTICK OF ELOCtTTION. 35 
 
 6. No man more highly esteems and honours the British troops 
 than I do ; I know their virtues and their valour; I know that they 
 can achieve an}'thing but impossibilities; and I know that the con- 
 quest of British America t» an impossibility. You cannot, my lords, 
 you cannot conquer America. "What is your present situation there? 
 We do not know the worst ; but we know that in three campaigns 
 we have done nothing and suffered much. You may swell every 
 expense, accumulate every assistance, and extend your traffic to the 
 shambles of every German despot : your attempts will be for ever 
 vain and impotent — doubly so, indeed, from this mercenaiy aid on 
 which you rely; for it irritates, to an incalculable resentment, the 
 minds of your adversaries, to overrun them with the mercenary sons 
 of rapine and plunder, devoting them and their possessions to the 
 rapacity of hireling cruelty. If I were an American, as I am an 
 Englishman, while a foreign troop was landed in my country, I 
 would never lay down my arms ; — never, never, never 1 
 
 The circumflex or compound inflection is used in the fol- 
 lowing cases:— 
 
 (a) When the diction is ironical or bantering in its nature 
 the important words are so inflected as to suggest the in- 
 tended latent meaning. 
 
 (b) When there is an expression of indignation, derision, or 
 blame. 
 
 1. Indeed! Ohl 
 
 Hear him, my lord ; he's wondrous condescending : 
 Mark the humility of Shepherd Nerval 1 
 
 2. Hath a dog money 1 is it possible a cur can lend three thousand 
 ducats? 
 
 3. Ye gods I it doth amaze me, a man of such feeble temper should 
 so get the start of the majestic world, and bear the palm alone. 
 Why man he doth bestride the narrow world, like a Colossus ; and 
 we petty men, walk under his huge legs, and peep about to find 
 ourselves dishonourable graves. Men at some time are masters of 
 their fates ; the fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in our 
 selves that we are underlings. Brutus and Ctesar!— What should 
 be in that Caesar? Why should that name be sounded more than 
 yours? Write them together; yours is as fair a name ; sound them, 
 it doth become the mouth as well ; weigh them, it is as heavy; 
 conjure with them, Brutua will start a spirit as soon as Csesar. 
 
 4. AH this ? ay, more. Fret till your proud heart break ; go show 
 your slaves how choleric you are, and make your bondmen tremble.
 
 S6 THE PRACTICE OF ELOCUTION. 
 
 Must I budge? Must I observe you? Must I stand and crouch 
 under your testy humour 1 By the gods ! you shall digest the venom 
 of your spleen, though it do split you ; for from this day forth I'll 
 use you for my mirth, yea, for my laughter, when you are waspish. 
 You say you are a better soldier; let it appear so; make your 
 vaunting true, and it shall please me well. For mine own part I 
 shall be glad to learn of fioble men. 
 
 III.— EXERCISES IN MODULATION. 
 
 (a) Parenthetic clauses should be read in a different tone 
 fronn the remainder of the sentence, and with either slower 
 or quicker movement, according to their relative importance 
 to the context. 
 
 1. The desire of knowledge (like the thirst of riches) increases 
 ever with the acquisition of it. 
 
 2. If there is a power above u.i (and that there is all nature cries 
 aloud through all her works), he must delight in virtue; and that 
 which he delights in must be happy. 
 
 3. It often happens that those are the best people whose char- 
 acters are injured by slanderers (and who so great or good that 
 slander does not assail) as we usually find that to be the sweetest 
 fruit, which the birds have been pecking at. 
 
 4. The late Mr. BardeU (after enjoying for many years the esteem 
 and confidence of his sovereign as one of the guardians of his royal 
 revenues) glided almost imperceptibly from the world, to seek else- 
 where for that repose and peace which a custom-house can never 
 afford. At this touching allusion to the decease of Mr. BardeU 
 (who had been knocked on the head with a quart-pot in a jmblic- 
 house cellar) the learned Serjeant's voice faltered, and he proceeded 
 with some emotion 
 
 5. Thou happy, happy elf ! 
 (But stop — first let me kiss away that tear) 
 
 Thou tiny image of myself ! 
 (My love, he's poking peas into his ear I) 
 
 Thou merry, laughing sprite I 
 
 With spirits feather-hght. 
 Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin, 
 (Good heavens ! the child is swallowing a pin I) 
 
 Thou little tricksy Puck I
 
 THE PRACTICE OF ELOCUTION. 37 
 
 With antic toys so funnily bestuck, 
 
 Light as the singing bird that wings the air, 
 
 (The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair!) 
 
 Thou darling of thy sire ! 
 (Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore afire !) 
 
 Thou imp of mirth and joy ! 
 In Love's dear chain so strong and bright a link, 
 Thou idol of thy parents (Drat the boy 1 
 
 There goes my ink !) 
 
 Thou cherub — but of earth ; 
 Fit playfellow for fays by moonlight pale, 
 
 In harmless sport and mirth, 
 (That dog will bite him if he pulls its t-ail !) 
 Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey 
 From everj' blossom in the world that blows, 
 Singing in youth's Elysium ever sunny, 
 (Another tumble — that's his precious nose !) 
 
 (b) When the force of a passage increases as it goes on, 
 the voice should indicate the gradation by a corresponding 
 increase in pitch, intensity, and rate of utterance. 
 
 1. One touch to her hand and one word in her ear, 
 
 When they reached the hall door, and the charger stood near ; 
 
 So light to the croup the fair lady he swung. 
 
 So light to the saddle before her he sprung ! 
 
 She is won ! we are gone over bank, bush, and scaur, 
 
 The/U have fleet steeds that follow ! 
 
 — Quoth young Lochinvar. 
 
 2. With never a thought or a moment more, 
 Bareheaded she slipped from the cottage-door. 
 Ran out where the horses were left to feed, 
 Unhitched and mounted the captain's steed, 
 And down the hiUy and rock-strewn way 
 She urged the fiery horse of grey. 
 Around her slender and cloakless form 
 Pattered and moaned the ceaseless storm ; 
 Secure and tight, a gloveless hand 
 Grasped the reins with stern command ; 
 And full and black her long hair streamed, 
 Whenever the ragged lightning gleamed, 
 And on she rushed for the Colonel's weal. 
 Brave, liouess-hearted Jennie M'Neale.
 
 38 THE PRACTICE OF ELOCUTION. 
 
 3. Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more { 
 Or close the wall up with our English dead ; 
 In peace, there's nothing so becomes a man 
 As modest stillness and humility ; 
 But when the blast of war blows in our eare. 
 Then imitate the action of the tiger ; 
 Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, 
 Disguise fair Nature with hard-favoured rage : 
 Then, lend the eye a terrible aspect ; 
 Let it pry through the portage of the head. 
 Like the brass cannon ; let the brow o'erwhelm it, 
 As fearfully as doth a galled rock 
 O'erhang and jutty his confounded base. 
 Swilled with the wild and wasteful ocean — 
 Now set the teeth, and stretch the nostril wide ; 
 Hold hard the breath, and bend up every spirit 
 To his full height ; Now on ! you noblest English, 
 Whose blood is fetched from fathers of war- proof ; 
 Fathers that, like so many Alexanders, 
 Have, in these parts, from morn till even fought, 
 And sheath'd their swords for lack of argument ; 
 I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, 
 Straining upon the start. The game's a-foot ; 
 Follow your spirit ; and upon this charge. 
 Cry, Heaven for Harry 1 England I and St. George ! 
 
 (c) When dialogue and narrative are comprised in one selec- 
 tion, the tone of voice should clearly indicate the distinction 
 between them. 
 
 THE DEATH OF CASTLEWOOD. 
 
 Thackeray. 
 
 It was midnight, but the night was bright enough for the un- 
 happy purpose they came about. All six entered the fatal square, 
 the chairmen keeping the gate, lest any person should disturb the 
 duel. After not more than a couple of minutes, a cry caused Esmond 
 to look round. He ran up to the place, where he saw his dear 
 master was down. 
 
 My Lord Mohun was standing over him. " Are you much hurt, 
 Frank?" he asked in a hollow voice. 
 
 " I believe I'm a dead man," my lord said from the ground. 
 
 " No I no 1 not so," says the other. " I call Heaven to witness^
 
 THE FRACTICB OF ELOCUTIOH. 39 
 
 Frank Esmond, that I would have asked your pardon had you but 
 given me a chance. I swear no one was to blame but me, and that 
 my lady — " 
 
 " Hush I " says my poor lord viscount, lifting himself up, " don't 
 let her name be heard in the quarrel. It was a dispute about the 
 cards ! — Harry, my boy, I loved thee, and thou must watch over my 
 little Frank, and carry this little heart to my wife." 
 
 They brought him to a surgeon in Long Acre, the house was 
 wakened up, and the victim carried in. 
 
 Lord Castlewood was laid on a bed, very pale and ghastly, with 
 that fixed fatal look in his eyes which betokens death. Faintly 
 beckoning all away from him he cried, " Only Harry Esmond," and 
 his hand fell powerless on the coverlet. 
 
 " Thou art all but a priest, Harry I" he gasped, with a faint smile 
 and pressure of his cold hand, "let me make thee a death -bed 
 confession." 
 
 With sacred Death waiting, as it were, at the bedfoot, as an awful 
 witness of his words, the poor dying soul gasped out his last wishes, 
 his contrition for his faults, and his charity towards the world he 
 was leaving. The ecclesiastic we had sent for arrived, hearing 
 which, my lord asked, squeezing Esmond's hand, to be left alone 
 with him. 
 
 At the end of an hour the priest came out of the room looking 
 hard at Esmond, and holding a paper. 
 
 " He is on the brink of God's awful judgment," the priest whis- 
 pered. " He has made his breast clean to me." 
 
 " God knows," sobbed out Esmond, seemingly unconscious of the 
 words, " my dearest lord has only done me kindness all his life." 
 
 The priest put the paper into Esmond's hand. 
 
 He looked at it. It swam before his eyes. " 'Tis a confession," 
 he said. 
 
 " Tis as you please," said the priest. 
 
 There was a fire in the room. Esmond went to the fire and threw 
 the paper into it. 
 
 '"Tis only a confession, Mr. Atterbury. Let us go to him." 
 
 They went into the next chamber; the dawn had broke, and 
 showed the poor lord's pale face and wild appealing eyes, which wore 
 the awful fatal look of coming dissolution. He turned his sick eyes 
 towards Esmond. 
 
 " My lord viscount," says the priest, " Mr. Esmond hath burned 
 the paper." 
 
 " My dearest master," Esmond cried.
 
 40 THE PRACTICE OF ELOCUTIOTf. 
 
 My lord viscount sprung up in his bed and flung his arms round 
 Esmond. " God— bl— bless " was all he said. The blood rushed 
 from his mouth. He was no more. 
 
 " Benedicti Benedicentes," whispers the priest. 
 
 And Esmond groaned " Amen." 
 
 (d) Endeavour to modulate the voice so as to present a 
 sympathetic and artistic picture to the imagination of the 
 listener. This can only be accomplished by thoughtful study 
 of the text, assiduous practice in the use of proper symbols 
 of vocal expression, and a sincere and convincing style in 
 delivery. 
 
 1. Oh, but he was a tight-fisted hand at the grindstone, Scrooge -a 
 squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous old 
 sinner. Hard and sharp as flint, from which no steel had ever 
 struck out generous fire; secret and self-contained and solitary as an 
 oyster. The cold within him froze his old features, nipped his 
 pointed nose, shrivelled his cheek, stifi'ened his gait, made his eyes 
 red, his thin lips blue, and spoke out shrewdly in his grating voice. 
 
 2. Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell. 
 
 Then shriek'd the timid, and stood still the brave, 
 
 Then some leap'd overboard with dreadful yell, 
 
 As eager to anticipate their grave : 
 
 And the sea yawn'd round her like a hell; 
 
 And down she suck'd with her the whirling wave. 
 
 Like one who grapples with his enemy. 
 
 And strives to strangle him before he dies. 
 
 And first one universal shriek there rush'd 
 Louder than the loud ocean — like a crash 
 Of echoing thunder— and then all was huah'd 
 Save the wild wind and the remorseless dash 
 Of billows ; but at intervals there gush'd, 
 Accompanied with a convulsive splash, 
 A solitary shriek — the bubbling cry 
 Of some strong swimmer in his agony. 
 
 3. But a change came upon the view almost imperceptibly. The 
 scene was altered to a small bed-room, where the fairest and youngest 
 child lay dying; the roses had fled from his cheek, 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
 
 THI PRACTICE OF ELOCUTION. 41 
 
 hand, so cold and heavy ; but they shrunk back from its touch, and 
 looked with awe on his infant face ; for cakn 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 Ax^el 
 looking down upon, and blessing them, from a bright and happy 
 Heaven. 
 
 4. There was a sound of revelry by night : and Belgium's capital 
 had gathered then her Beauty and her Chivalry; and bright the 
 lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men; a thousand hearts beat 
 happily ; and when music arose with its voluptuous swell, soft eyes 
 looked love to eyes that spake again, and all went merry as a 
 marriage- bell. — But hush! — harkl A deep sound strikes like a 
 rising knell 1 
 
 Did ye not hear it? "No: 'Tis but the wind, or the car rattling 
 o'er the stony street. On with the dance ! — let joy be uncon fined ! 
 No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet to chase the 
 glowing hours with flying feet." — But hark ! — that heavy sound 
 breaks in once more, as if the clouds its echo would repeat; and 
 nearer, clearer, deadlier than before 1 Arm I arm 1 it is — it is — the 
 cannon's opening roar 1 
 
 6. GEORGE THE THIRD. 
 Thackeray. 
 
 From November, 1810, George the Third ceased to reign. All the 
 world knows the history of his malady : all history presents no 
 sadder figure than that of the old man, blind and deprived of reason, 
 wandering through the rooms of his palace, addressing imaginary 
 parliaments, reviewing fancied troops, holding ghostly courts. He 
 was not only sightless, he became utterly deaf. All light, all reason, 
 all sound of human voices, all the pleasures of this world of God, 
 were taken from him I Some sUght lucid moments he had, in one 
 of which the Queen, desiring to see him, entered the room, and 
 found him singing a hymn, and accompanying himself at the harpsi- 
 chord. When he had finished, he knelt down, and prayed aloud, 
 for her— and then for his family — and then for the nation — con- 
 eluding with a prayer for himself, that it might please God to avert 
 this heavy calamity from him ; but, if not, to give him resignation 
 to submit. He then burst into tears, and his reason again fled ! 
 
 What preacher needs moralize on this story ? What words, save 
 the simplest, are requisite to tell if? It is too terrible for tears. 
 The thought of such a misery smites me down in submission before 
 
 ( 996 ) B 2
 
 42 THIS PRACTICK OF ELOCUTIOH. 
 
 the Ruler of kings and men — the Monarch Supreme over empirea and 
 republics, the Inscrutable Dispenser of life, death, happiness, victory. 
 "O brothers!" I said to those who heard me first in America — 
 " brothers 1 speaking the same dear mother tongue — comrades I 
 enemies no more, let us take a mournful hand together as we stand 
 by this royal corpse, and call a truce to battle I Low he lies to whom 
 the proudest used to kneel once, and who was cast lower than the 
 poorest; dead, whom millions prayed for in vain. Driven oflF his 
 throne; buflfeted by rude hands; with his children in revolt; the 
 darling of his old age killed before him untimely, — our Lear hangs 
 over her breathless lips, and cries, 'Cordelia 1 C!ordelia ! stay a little !' 
 
 ' Vex not his ghost — oh 1 let him pass ! — he hates him 
 That would, upon the rack of this tough world 
 Stretch him out longer 1 ' 
 
 Hash, Strife and Quarrel, over the solemn grave i Sound, trumpets, 
 a mournful march! Fall, dark curtain, upon his pageant, his pride, 
 his grief, his awful tragedy I " 
 
 6. Roll on ! thou deep and dark blue Ocean — roll ! Ten thousand 
 fleets sweep over thee in vain ; man marks the earth with ruin — his 
 control stops with the shore ; upon the watery plain the wrecks are 
 all thy deed, nor doth remain a shadow of man's ravage — save his 
 own ; when for a moment, like a drop of rain, he sinks into thy 
 depths with bubbling groan, without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, 
 and unknown I 
 
 Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form glasses itself in 
 tempest : in all time — calm or convulsed : in breeze, or gale, or 
 storm ; icing the pole, or in the torrid clime dark-heaving — bound- 
 less, endless, and sublime ; the image of Eternity, the throne of the 
 Invisible; Even from out thy slime, the monsters of the deep are 
 made : each zone obeys thee : thou goest forth, dread, fathomless — 
 alone ! 
 
 7. I am thy father's spirit : 
 
 Doom'd for a certain time to walk the night, 
 
 And for the day confin'd to fast in fires, 
 
 Till the foul crimes, done in my days of nature, 
 
 Are burnt and purg'd away. But that I am forbid 
 
 To tell the secrets of my prison-house, 
 
 I could a tale unfold, whose lightest word 
 
 Would harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood, 
 
 Make thy two eyes, like stars, start from their sphereii, 
 
 Thy knotted and combined locks to part,
 
 THE PRACTICE OF ELOCTTTIoy. 43 
 
 And each particular hair to stand an-end, 
 Like quills upon the fretful porcupine : 
 But this eternal blazon must not be 
 To ears of flesh and blood. 
 
 8. Give thy thoughts no tongue 
 
 Nor any unproportioned thought his act. 
 Be thou familiar but by no means vulgar. 
 The friends thoa hast and their adoption tried. 
 Grapple them to thy soul with hooks of steel ; 
 But do not duU thy palm with entertainment 
 Of each new-hatched, unfledged comrade. Beware 
 Of entrance to a quarrel : but being in, 
 Bear it, that the opposer may beware of thee. 
 Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice, 
 Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment f 
 This above all, to thine own self be true. 
 And it must follow, as the night the day, 
 Thou canst not, then, be false to any man. 
 
 9. Descend, ye Nine, descend and sing ; 
 
 The breathing instruments inspire, 
 Wake into voice each silent string. 
 
 And sweep the sounding lyre. 
 In a sadly pleasing strain 
 Let the warbling lute complain ; 
 
 Let the loud trumpet sound 
 
 Till the roofs all around 
 
 The shrill echoes rebound : 
 While in more lengthen'd notes and slow, 
 The deep, majestic, solemn organs blow. 
 Hark I the numbers soft and clear. 
 Gently steal upon the ear, 
 Now louder and yet louder rise, 
 And fill, with spreading sounds, the skies : 
 Exulting in triumph now sweU the bold notes, 
 In broken air, trembling, the wild music floats ' 
 Till by degrees, remote and small. 
 The strains decay, 
 And melt away 
 In a dying, dying fall
 
 44 THE PRACTICE OF ELOCUTION. 
 
 10. THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. 
 Longfellow. 
 
 Somewhat back from the village street stands the old-fashioned 
 tountry-seat ; across its antique portico tall poplar-trees their 
 shadows throw, and from its station in the hall an ancient time- 
 piece says to all, — "Forever — never! never — forever!" Half-way 
 up the stairs it stands, and points and beckons with its hands 
 from its case of massive oak; like a monk, who, under his cloak, 
 crosses himself, and sighs, alas! with sorrowful voice to all who 
 pass, — " For ever— never ! never — for ever ! " By day its voice is low 
 and light; but in the silent dead of night, distinct as a passing 
 footstep's fall, it echoes along the vacant hall, along the ceiling, 
 along the floor, and seems to say, at each chamber-door, — "For 
 ever — never ! never — for ever ! " Through days of sorrow and of 
 mirth, through days of death and days of birth, through every swift 
 vicissitude of changeful time, unchanged it has stood ; and as if, like 
 God, it all things saw, it calmly repeats those words of awe, — "For 
 ever — never! never — for ever!" In that mansion used to be free- 
 hearted Hospitality ; his great fires up the chimney roared ; the 
 stranger feasted at his board ; but, like the skeleton at the feast, that 
 warning timepiece never ceassd, — " For ever — never I never — for 
 ever!" There groups of merry children played, there youths and 
 maidens dreaming strayed. O precious hours ! O golden prime, 
 and affluence of love and time ! Even as a miser counts his gold, 
 those hours the ancient timepiece told, — " For ever — never I never— 
 for ever ! " From that chamber, clothed in white, the bride came 
 forth on her wedding night; there, in that silent room below, the 
 dead lay in his shroud of snow ; and in the hush that followed the 
 prayer, was heard the old clock on the stair, — " For ever — never 1 
 never — for ever !" All are scattered now and fled, some are married, 
 some are dead, and when I ask, with throbs of pain, " Ah, when 
 shall they all meet again?" as in the days long since gone by, the 
 ancient timepiece makes reply, — "For ever — never I never— for 
 ever!" Never here, for ever there, where all parting, pain, and 
 care, and death and time, shall disappear, — for ever there, but never 
 here! The horologe of Eternity sayeth tbis incessantly,— " For 
 ever — never' never — forever!"
 
 THE PRACTICE OF ELOCUTION. 45 
 
 11. THE DYING CHEISTIAN TO HIS SOUL. 
 
 Pope. 
 
 Vital spark of heavenly flame, quit, oh, quit this mortal frame ! 
 —trembling, hoping, — lingering, flying; oh, the pain, the bliss of 
 dying ! Cease, fond nature ! cease thy strife, and let me languish 
 
 into life ! Hark, they whisper ! Angels say, " Sister spirit, come 
 
 away ! " What is this absorbs me quite, steals my senses, shuts 
 
 my sight, drowns my spirit, draws my breath ? TeU me, my soul — 
 can this be death ] The world recedes ! — it disappears !— heaven 
 opens on my eyes ! — my ears with sounds seraphic ring ! Lend, lend 
 
 your wings ! I mount ! I fly ! O Grave I where is thy victory ? 
 
 Death I where is thy sting? 
 
 IV.— EXERCISES ON EMPHASIS. 
 
 (a) Words opposed to, or contrasted with each other, and 
 those which mark a new idea, should receive emphasis. 
 
 (b) Never lay emphasis on unimportant words, and especially 
 do not give prominence to the minor parts of speech, such as 
 prepositions and conjunctions. 
 
 1. Heaven is the region of gentleness and friendship ; heU of fierce- 
 ness and animosity. 
 
 2. Many men mistake the love for the practice of virtue, and are 
 not such good men as the friends of goodness. 
 
 3. As Caesar loved me, I weep for him ; as he was fortunate, 1 
 rejoice at it ; as he was valiant, I honour him ; but as he was ambi- 
 tious, I slew him. 
 
 4. Custom is the plague of wise men and the idol of fools. Our 
 safety — our lives depend on your fidelity. A friend cannot be 
 known in prosperity, and an enemy cannot be hidden in adversity. 
 
 5. Laziness grows on people; it begins in cobwebs, and ends in 
 iron chains. The more business a man has, the more he is able to 
 accomplish ; for he learns to economize his time. 
 
 6. Not love, quoth he, but vanity sets love a task like that. 
 
 7. To our faith we should add virtue ; and to virtue knowledge ; 
 and to knowledge temperance ; and to temperance patience ; and 
 to patience godliness; and to godliness brotherly kindness; and to 
 brotherly kindness charity.
 
 46 THE PRACTICB OF KLOCUTION. 
 
 8. And I beheld, and I heard the voice of many angels round 
 about the throne, and the beasts and the elders ; and the number of 
 them was ten thousand times ten thousand, and thousands of thou- 
 sands ; saying with a loud voice, Worthy is the Lamb that was 
 elain to receive power, and riches, and wisdom, and strength, and 
 honour, and glory, and blessing. 
 
 9. It would have made a brave man's heart 
 Grow sad and sick that day 
 To watch the keen malignant eyea 
 Bent down on that array. 
 But when he came, though pale and wan. 
 He looked so great and high, 
 So noble was his manly front, 
 So calm his steadfast eye. 
 The rabble rout forebore to shout, 
 And each man held his breath, 
 For well they knew the hero's soul 
 Was face to face with death. 
 
 But onwards, always onwards, 
 In silence and in gloom. 
 The dreary pageant laboured, 
 Till it reached the house of doom. 
 Then, as the Graeme looked upwards, 
 He saw the ugly smile 
 Of him who sold his king for gold — 
 The master-fiend — Argyle. 
 
 Had I been there with sword in hand. 
 
 And fifty Camerons by, 
 
 That day through high Dunedin's streets 
 
 Had peaJed the slogan cry, 
 
 Not all their troops of trampling horse 
 
 Nor might of mailed men ; 
 
 Not all the rebels in the south 
 
 Had borne us backwards then. 
 
 Once more his foot on Highland heatb 
 
 Had trod as free as air. 
 
 Or I, and all who bore my name. 
 
 Been laid around him there? 
 
 10. Time is the solemn inheritance to which every man is born 
 heir, who has a life-rent of this world — a little section cut out of 
 eternity and given us to do our work in; an eternity before, an
 
 THJS PRACTICE OF ELOCTJTION. 47 
 
 eternity behind ; and the small stream between, floating swiftly 
 from the one into the vast bosom of the other. The man who has 
 felt with all his soul the significance of time will not be long in 
 learning any lesson that this world has to teach him. Have you 
 ever felt it? Have you ever realized how your own little streamlet 
 is gliding away, and bearing you along with it towards that awful 
 other world of which all things here are but the thin shadow, down 
 into that eternity towards which the confused wreck of all earthly 
 things are bound ? Let us realize that ; until that sensation of time, 
 and the infinite meaning which is wrapped up in it, has taken 
 possession of our souls, there is no chance of our ever feeling strongly 
 that it is worse than madness to sleep that time away. Every day 
 in this world has its work ; and every day as it rises out of eternity 
 keeps putting to each of us the question afresh. What will you do 
 before to-day has sunk into eternity and nothingness again? Every 
 period of human life has its own lesson, and you cannot learn that 
 le~8on in the next period. The boy has one set of lessons to learn, 
 and the young man another, and the grown-up man another. Life 
 is like the transition from class to class in a school The schoolboy 
 who has not learnt arithmetic in the earlier classes cannot secure it 
 when he comes to mechanics in the higher; each section has its own 
 suflftcient work. He may be a good philosopher or a good historian, 
 but a bad arithmetician he remains for life ; for he cannot lay the 
 foundation at the moment when he must be building the super- 
 structure. The regiment which has not perfected itself in its 
 manoeuvres on the parade-ground cannot learn them before the guns 
 of the enemy. And just in the same way, the young person who 
 has slept his youth away, and become idle, and selfish, and hard, 
 cannot make up for that afterwards. He may do something, lie 
 may be religious — yes ; but he cannot be what he might have been. 
 There is a part of his heart which will remain uncultivated to the 
 end. 
 
 v.— EXERCISES ON THE PAUSE. 
 
 (a) In reading verse be careful to sustain its melody as much 
 as possible by a proper regard for the pauses the rhythm 
 demands, but at the same time do not sacrifice sense to rhythm. 
 
 1. We watch'd her breathing through the night, 
 Her breathing soft and low ; 
 As in her breast the wave of life 
 Kept heaving to and fro.
 
 48 THE PRACTICE OF BLOCUTIOK. 
 
 So silently we seem'd to speak, 
 
 So slowly moved about, 
 As we had lent her half our powere 
 
 To eke her living out. 
 
 Our very hopes belied our fears, 
 
 Our fears our hopes belied — 
 We thought her dying when she slept, 
 
 And sleeping when she died. 
 
 For when the morn came dim and sad, 
 
 And chill with early showers, 
 Her quiet eyeKds closed- -she had 
 
 Another morn than ours. 
 
 2. 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 I" 
 
 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!" 
 
 3. The pall was settled : He who slept beneath, 
 Was straightened for the grave, and, as the folds 
 Sunk to the still proportions, they betrayed 
 The matchless symmetry of Absalom. 
 His hair was yet unshorn, and silken curls 
 Were floating round the tassels as they swayed 
 To the admitted air, as glossy now 
 As when, in hours of gentle dalliance, bathing 
 The snowy fingers of Judea's girls. 
 His helm was at his feet ; his banner, soiled 
 With trailing through Jerusalem, was laid 
 Reversed beside him ; and the jewel'd hilt 
 Rested, like mockery, on his covered brow.
 
 THE PRACTICB OF ZLOCtTTION. 4U 
 
 4. I have lived my life, and that which I have done 
 May He within Himself make pure ! but thou, 
 If thou shouldst never see my face again, 
 Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer 
 Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice 
 Rise like a fountain for me night and day. 
 For what are men better than sheep or goats 
 That nourish a blind life within the brain, 
 If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer, 
 Both for themselves and those who call them friend? 
 For so the whole round earth is every way 
 Bound by gold chains about the feet of God. 
 
 (b) Assist the development of the force and meaning of a 
 passage by pausing immediately after (or just before, as may 
 be found most effective) emphatic words or phrases. Do not 
 pause too long or too frequently. 
 
 To be, or not to be,— that is the question : — 
 
 Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer 
 
 The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, 
 
 Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, 
 
 And by opposing end them? — To die, — to sleep, — 
 
 No more ; and by a sleep to say we end 
 
 The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks 
 
 That flesh is heir to, — 'tis a consummation 
 
 Devoutly to be wi-sh'd. To die, — to sleep ; — 
 
 To sleep ! perchance to dream : — ay, there's the rub ; 
 
 For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, 
 
 When we have shuffled off this mortal coil. 
 
 Must give us pause : there's the respect 
 
 That makes calamity of so long life ; 
 
 For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, 
 
 Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, 
 
 The pangs of despis'd love, the law's delay. 
 
 The insolence of office, and the spurns 
 
 That patient merit of th' unworthy takes. 
 
 When he himself might his quietus make 
 
 With a bare bodkin ? Who would fardels bear, 
 
 To grunt and sweat under a weary life. 
 
 But that the dread of something after death, — • 
 
 The undiscover'd country, from whose bourn 
 
 No traveller returns, — puzzles the will,
 
 60 THE PRACTICE OF ELOCUTION. 
 
 And makes us rather bear those ills we have 
 Than fly to otliera that we know not of? 
 Thus conscience does make cowards of us all ; 
 And thus the native hue of resolution 
 Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought ; 
 And enterprises of great pith and moment, 
 With this regard, their currents turn awrf j, 
 Aad lose the name of action.
 
 DIVISION III. 
 
 THE THEORY OF GESTURE. 
 
 ** Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, trip- 
 pingly on the tongue ; but if you mouth it, as many of your players 
 do, I had as lief the town-crier spoke my lines. Nor do not saw 
 the air too much with your hand ; but use all gently ; for in the 
 very ton-ent, tempest, and, as I may say, the whirlwind of passion, 
 you must acquire and beget a temperance that may give it smooth- 
 ness. O, it oflfends me to the soul to hear a robustious periwig- 
 pated fellow tear a passion to tatters, to very rags, to split the ears 
 of the groundlings, who, for the most part, are capable of nothing 
 but inexplicable dumb shows and noise : I would have such a fellow 
 whipped for o'erdoing Termagant ; it out-herods Herod : pray you 
 avoid it. 
 
 " Be not too tame neither, but let your own discretion be your 
 tutor : suit the actiQnJiiL^e_wqrd,_thfijy(jrd_jto_ the action ; with 
 this special observance that you o'erstep not the modesty of nature : 
 for anything so overdone is from the purpose of playing, whose end, 
 both at the first and now, was and is, to hold as 'twere the mirror 
 up to nature ; to show virtue her own feature, scorn her own image, 
 and the very age and body of the time his form and pressure. 
 Now this overdone, or come tardy oflF, though it make the unskilful 
 laugh, cannot but make the judicious grieve; the censure of the 
 which one must, in your allowance, o'erweigh a whole theatre of 
 others. O, 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 Chi-istian, 
 pagan, nor man, have so strutted and bellowed, that I have thought 
 some of nature's journeymen had made men, and not made them 
 well, they imitated humanity so abominably." 
 
 Hamlet's address to the players, which is above quoted in full, 
 ought to be closeJy studied in all its bearings by those who wish to 
 excel either in public speaking, dramatic reading or acting. The 
 student should not ordy have every line of it by heart, but he should 
 endeavour to let the spirit of it pervade every bit of work he does. 
 
 51
 
 62 THE THEORY OF GESTURE. 
 
 The great value of its precepts is shown by the fact that the most 
 experienced reader or actor as well as the beginner will profit by 
 keeping them always in view, and by intelligently following them. 
 In a word, all who enter on the study of the dramatic exposition of 
 thought, emotion or passion are strongly urged to adopt Hamlef s 
 address as their artistic creed. 
 
 Hamlet begins by a caution to "speak the speech trippingly 
 on the tongue", which is but a direction to articulate clearly, to 
 pronounce correctly, and to render the whole passage with natural- 
 ness and freedom. We have already dealt with the ways and 
 means likely to assist the student in learning correct and graceful 
 delivery. It now remains for us to consider briefly the theory 
 of gesture. Under the terra "gesture" we seek to include all 
 actions and movements of the body, limbs and countenance which 
 serve to express or suggest ideas, feelijigs or passions. The aid of 
 gesture in delivery should not be summoned till the student has 
 attained some proficiency in the art of elocution proper. Assuming 
 that he has learned to speak correctly and gracefully, and is desirous 
 of carrying his studies further, so that he may perform satisfactory 
 platform work, he will find two branches to which to devote his 
 attention. Firstly, he will have to learn what constitutes graceful 
 attitude or deportment : to study the gesture of repose, as it might 
 be termed, — meaning the attitude not only graceful in itself but 
 best suited to the full and free use of the vocal organs, the head, 
 the limbs, and in short the whole body. This form of gesture is to 
 some extent a negation of gesture, popularly so called. It teaches 
 the mechanics of platform balance or poise. Secondly, he will have 
 to study the general laws of dramatic action, comprehending (first) 
 all gesticulation which expresses or illustrates a thought or a 
 passion, which points an argument, or gives weight to an opinion ; 
 and (second) facial expression, with all its subtleties and powei-s of 
 mental revelation. 
 
 It will thus be seen that as in elocution there are two main 
 divisions, relating the one more particularly to the mechanical or 
 physical parts of the study and the other to the mental or imagina- 
 tive, so in gesture there are the two branches of (first) deportment 
 and (second) dramatic action, the former concerning itself with the 
 merely physical and the other chiefly with the psychological factors 
 in efi"ect. 
 
 In the first place, then, the reciter should take up such an atti- 
 tude and so deport himself upon the platform as to have his whole 
 physical resources well under control, ready for any call he may
 
 THE THEORY 01" GESTTRE. 63 
 
 have to make upon them. He must stand erect, with his chest 
 expanded and his shoulders thrown ba^k — but all this without 
 stiffness. His head should be held well up, but not tilted back. It 
 should never be allowed to droop over the chest, unless for some 
 very good reason. No fault is more common among amateui s than 
 a tendency to hang the head and speak towards the floor. Even 
 those who are aware of the force of the injunction to keep the head 
 up, disregard it continually, owing, no doubt, to the lack of a 
 systematic struggle to overcome the wrong tendency. When the 
 head is held level and erect— not thrown back — the neck is left 
 free, and good vocal production is secured. The larj-nx, in other 
 words, has freedom to perform its work properly. With the head 
 down, the voice is poor in quality and the facial expression is lost. 
 The throwing back of the shoulders and the expansion of the chest 
 are meantj to ensure proper facility in breathing, as well as to give 
 dignity and what is technically called "presence" to the general 
 bearing. The balance of the body is best maintained by resting the 
 weight of it chiefly on one foot, so that the position may be easily 
 altered. Jerky motions ought to be carefully avoided. They 
 betray nervousness or want of preparation. For a similar reason all 
 meaningless restless action, such as twitching of hands, shifting of 
 posture, or moving about upon the platform should be guarded 
 against. A quiet and modest bearing when coming upon the plat- 
 form is to be earnestly recommended. Step easily forward without 
 obtrusively signifying the fact that you are about to recite to the 
 audience. Convey rather the idea that you are there to speak to 
 them or tell them a story for its own sake, not for the sake of 
 letting them know how effectively you can do it. A bow of the 
 head, neither too formal nor too familiar, and in which the body to 
 a slight degree participates, should be made in taking up your 
 position. Then survey the audience with polite attentiveness for a 
 moment before beginning. Avoid hurry. Stand firmly, allowing 
 the arms to hang loosely by the sides. The beginner is often 
 puzzled what to do with his hands and arms. He feels that it is 
 necessary to keep them employed somehow, and does not realize that 
 a graceful attitude may be maintained without moving them at all. 
 The hands and arms are of value in gesticulation, but are not of 
 such paramount importance as is popularly supposed. They form 
 only part of the machinery of gesture. 
 
 Graceful deportment demands that gesticulation should be formed 
 in curves, not by points and angles. Angular gesture is awkward 
 and ungainly. So, too, is the waving of the arm with monotonous
 
 64 THE THEORY Or GESTURE. 
 
 frequency. "Do not saw the air too much with your hand; 
 but use all gently." The attitude of the body, the expression of 
 the countenance, and the particular movement or gesture made 
 should all be in harmony with one another, else the effect will be 
 weakened, perhaps altogether lost or entirely misunderstood. 
 
 In general the speaker should make his remarks or tell his story 
 with his face fronting the audience. He shoidd never turn his 
 back upon it. In presenting two or three characters, however, as 
 in dialogue, it is useful to speak in a line a little to right or left in 
 order to make a distinction. Care must be taken, however, not to 
 move too much in either of these directions. A very awkward 
 appearance is created if the body is turned sideways to the audience. 
 Besides, in such a case, at least half of the people are prevented 
 from seeing the facial expression properly. 
 
 It will be observed that the public speaker is more limited in the 
 use of gesture than the reciter or actor. At the same time gesture 
 is of much service to him. His hands may be made especially 
 expressive. His countenance must be touched with the spirit of 
 what he says. His bearing should be that which would be natural 
 to him in animated conversation, with the necessary adjunct of 
 weight and force appropriate to the platform. In an impassioned 
 speech he may emphasize his words with well-chosen and well-timed 
 dramatic action — "using all gently" — but in ordinary argument or 
 anecdote his gesticulation will be more colloquial than dramatic. 
 Keeping in mind the general principles which teach grace in 
 deportment, the best gesture for the public speaker is that which 
 '5ome8 most naturally to him. The dramatic reader and the actor, 
 on the other hand, while bound to pay attention to correct attitude 
 and poise, have a greater license in gesticulation than the orator. 
 
 There is infinite ifcope for individual talent in the interpretation 
 of human thought or passion, and in the delineation of character by 
 means of the symbolism of gait, gesture and facial expression; but 
 this second and higher branch of the study is not capable of being 
 reduced to rules. Hints may be given and general directions in 
 method indicated. The student must begin by making himself 
 thoroughly familiar with the meaning of his text, and the kind of 
 character he is about to embody or suggest. After making up his 
 mind definitely as to the meaning of the passage, or conceiving the 
 character, he must think what symbols will best bring that meaning 
 or conception home to his hearers. In the delineation of character 
 it is the little points that tell — simple personal touches judiciously 
 applied and consistent with the broad or general conception. The
 
 THE THEORY OF GESTURE. 66 
 
 tones, gait, gesture and facial expression should appeal to the 
 audience as one intelligible embodiment— a complete and artistic 
 whole. When we say that it is the little points that tell we do not 
 mean to infer that gesture should be over-minute. There is danger 
 in overloading a character sketch with a superabundance of action 
 or too much facial expression. The dramatic reader, too, as dis- 
 tinguished from the actor, has to be careful not to do more than 
 suggest a character sketch in the course of his recital. The actor 
 is clothed for his part and is in surroundings that suit its full 
 embodiment. It becomes a nice question for the reciter how much 
 he may fully embody and how much he may merely suggest. If 
 he is doing a character piece which contains no separate narrative 
 portion, he may have great freedom, but when narrative and 
 character drawing are mingled in one selection there is great need 
 for care and discrimination. The quality of reserve or restraint ia 
 invaluable both in the reciter and the actor. Violence and unregu- 
 lated energy whether of gesture or of vocal modulation are contrary 
 to art and displeasing to the cultured audience. "In the very 
 torrent, tempest, and, as I may say, the whirlwind of passion, 
 you must acquire and beget a temperance that may give it 
 smoothness." The gesticulation must not be "inexplicable dumb 
 show ", nor the vocal modulation mere " noise ". 
 
 Every gesture must have a meaning or a purpose. It should 
 never be weak nor undecided. Judgment must be employed to 
 iteer clear of the Charybdis of tameness as well as the Scylla of 
 rant. " Let your own discretion be your tutor." Do not model 
 your gesticulation upon the style of another, however clever your 
 proposed pattern may be. It is the easiest of things to fall into 
 queer mannerisms from blind attempts to copy another's methods. 
 If you admire some one's work, rather inquire into the spirit or 
 emotion or idea which prompted the various tones and gestures in 
 it. Get hold of the motive power in fact, and let the tone or 
 gesture come from your own physical resources as your own dis- 
 cretion dictates. To copy another is usually to adopt all his faults 
 without his cleverness : to give a surface imitation devoid of the 
 elements which, in the original, attract and charm. The same 
 movements may appear in one man pleasing and appropriate, in 
 another stiff or affected or unnatural. 
 
 "Suit the action to the word, the word to the action; with 
 this special observance that you o'erstep not the modesty of 
 nature." Nature, we see, is the foundation on which appropriate 
 feature must be built. But to be natural requires the exercise of
 
 66 THE THEORY OF GESTUKB. 
 
 considerable art. It is none too easy to "suit the action to the 
 word, the word to the action" in a natural way. Gesture is a 
 language we must learn from observation and fix on our memory 
 by imitation. We must endeavour to trace the connection between 
 a movement or expression and the mental or emotional state of the 
 person who made or exhibited it. By adding reflection to our 
 observation and imitation we will discover the essential element in 
 the gesture, the part which gave it real life and force and meaning. 
 Then if we require to reproduce such an idea or passion we have 
 a knowledge of the symbols to be used. The particular movement 
 may be different in direction or even made by a different part of 
 the body, but the motive principle will be behind it, to give it 
 point. 
 
 A common tendency in descriptive gesture is to make it too 
 literal. This is all very well in burlesque and is regularly employed 
 for comic effect, but in all serious pieces literal gesture should be 
 very sparingly used. The least false step and we are "o'er the 
 modesty of nature ". As a nation we are not given much to 
 gesticulation, in ordinary circumstances, and this fact should be a 
 guide to the reciter, and a warning to him to be rather reserved and 
 restrained in the use of gesture. Audiences are always critical, 
 often quite unconsciously so, and if they feel that the dramatic 
 action is being overdone or that it is out of place their enjoyment 
 of the whole rendering is greatly lessened. At the same time it 
 is to be observed that warmth and animation in gesture follow 
 naturally from earnestness, and are the quite appropriate outcome 
 of emotion or passion. In conversation or unimpassioned discourse 
 the word and action are simultaneous ; in the expression of passion 
 or highly-strung emotion the action precedes the word. 
 
 In studying the language of gesture and how to use it most 
 effectively, we repeat that the only true way is to go to nature. 
 Observe the means unconsciously adopted by those with whom you 
 come in contact to express their feelings. Wherever people con- 
 gregate, watch how they move and speak and look. It is wonderful 
 how much may be learnt from careful and steady observation. 
 The training will be of value to the mind in many ways. For the 
 special object of the dramatic student it will make him fresher and 
 more convincing in his work. It will enable him "to hold as 
 'twere the mirror up to nature". 
 
 What has been said regarding the theory of bodily gesture 
 applies also to facial expression. No rules can be Uid down as to 
 the working of the countenance under emotion. Rather again we
 
 THE THEORT OF GESTURE. 67 
 
 are compelled to enjoin " how not to do it ". It is in the matter 
 of facial expression that constant demand is made for the exercise 
 of discrimination and taste. Mannerisms in play of feature are 
 painfully abundant. Some reciters get into the habit of working 
 the eyebrows up and down, in season and out of season. Others 
 develop tricks of mouth-twisting and so on. In these matters the 
 criticism of a teacher or of a judicious friend is of immense service. 
 The reciter does not see himself as others see him, and the sooner 
 he is told of oddities the better, in order that he may begin 
 eradicating them at once. The only positive maxim we can safely 
 lay down with regard to facial expression is this. Endeavour to 
 make the features express a full sympathy and correspondence w ith 
 the subject-matter spoken. To have a chance of fulfilling such an 
 endeavour you must first have felt the force, breathed the spirit, 
 and grasped the meaning of the text. 
 
 The power of the eye in helping a reciter to picture a scene i? 
 remarkable, although very simple in its manifestation. The reciter 
 should, as it were, gaze upon the scene he is describing, and if hi? 
 look corresponds with the feeling of the words of the description 
 and expresses a present interest in such scene, the audience will see 
 the same with the reciter's eyes. But if the reciter lets his eyes 
 wander aimlessly about among the audience the efiect will be quite 
 broken up. He must picture the scene or incident in his own 
 mental vision, and imagine he is looking upon it and even breathing 
 its atmosphere at the moment of representation or deliveiy. 
 
 While in all dramatic action, we "show virtue her own feature, 
 scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time 
 his form and pressure", we must remember that it is our province 
 only to suggest these ideas and others in an artistic form. We must 
 use symbols, not the things themselves. We must choose only 
 what is demanded by art, and leave the rest alone. It has been 
 urged against the study of gesture that it tends to the formation of 
 an afi'ected, or, as it is termed, a stagey style of delivery. This is 
 a f&ilacy. It is just an analogous complaint to the one sometimes 
 so thoughtlessly made against the study of elocution proper, viz. : 
 that it causes a bombastic or unnatural mode of speaking or reading. 
 The truth is that the faults of affectation or of an inflated or highly- 
 coloured style are due to a half-educated taste in the matter of 
 correct delivery or appropriate gesticulation. It is not study but 
 the want of study that is to blame. It is the old story of a little 
 knowledge being a dangerous thing. The art of dramatic reading 
 is not to be acquired in the happy-go-lucky fashion which seem?
 
 68 THE THEORY OF GESTURE. 
 
 popular among many would-be students. A scientific training must 
 be gone through and much hard work done before really good 
 results can be obtained. The culture of the mind must be supple- 
 mented by the culture of the emotions, and the study of words by 
 the study of character. Be sincere and true in every efi"ort you 
 make. Do not strain after effect nor work for the mere sake of 
 applause. Take a high aim in your study. Do not pander to the 
 mob, but try to secure the approval of the educated and refined. 
 " Let the censure of the judicious, in your allowance, o'erweigh 
 a whole theatre of others."
 
 DIVISION IV. 
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND 
 RECITATION. 
 
 THE SANDS OF DEE. 
 
 Rev. Charles Kinqslet. 
 
 " O Mary, go and call the cattle home, 
 And call the cattle home, 
 And call the cattle home 
 Across the sands of Dee ;" 
 The western wind was wild and dank with foam. 
 And all alone went she. 
 
 The western tide crept up along the sand, 
 
 And o'er and o'er the sand. 
 
 And round and round the sand, 
 
 As far as eye could see. 
 The rolling mist came down and hid the land: 
 
 And never home came she. 
 
 " Oh 1 ia it weed, or fish, or floating haii' — 
 A tress of golden hair, 
 A drowned maiden's hair 
 Above the nets at sea? 
 Was never salmon yet that shone so fair 
 Among the stakes on Dee." 
 
 They rowed her in across the rolling foam, 
 
 The cruel crawling foam, 
 
 The cruel hungry foam, 
 
 To her grave beside the sea : 
 But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home 
 
 Across the sands of Dee. 
 
 69
 
 60 8KLECT10MS FOR READING AND RfiClTATIOK. 
 
 AT LAST. 
 J. G. Whittier. 
 
 When on my day of life the night is falling, 
 And in the winds from unsunned spaces blown, 
 
 I hear far voices out of darkness calling 
 My feet to paths unknown ; 
 
 Thou who hast made my home of life so pleasant, 
 Leave not its tenant when its walls decay ; 
 
 Love divine, O Helper ever present, 
 Be Thou my strength and stay 1 
 
 Be near me when all else is from me drifting : 
 
 Earth, sky, home's pictures, days of shade and shine, 
 
 And kindly faces to my own uplifting 
 The love which answers mine. 
 
 1 have but Thee, O Father ! Let Thy Spirit 
 Be with me then to comfort and uphold ; 
 
 No gate of pearl, no branch of palm I merit, 
 Nor street of shining gold ; 
 
 Suffice it if — my good and ill unreckoned, 
 
 And both forgiven through Thy abounding grace — 
 
 I find inyself by hands familiar beckoned 
 Unto my fitting place : 
 
 Some humble door among Thy many mansions, 
 
 Some sheltering shade where sin and striving cease. 
 
 And flows forever through heaven's green expansions 
 The river of Thy peace. 
 
 There, from the music round about me stealing, 
 I fain would learn the new and holy song, 
 
 And find, at last, beneath Thy trees of healing. 
 The life for which I long. 
 
 IN THE EVENING TIME IT WILL BE LIGHT.* 
 
 Samuel K. Cowan. 
 
 Let not the sun go down upon your wrath, 
 Or darken on an unforgiven wrong ; 
 And Peace, like lilies, shall bestrew thy path, 
 And sweet Content shall sing thy alumber-song.
 
 SELECTIONS FOR BEADING AND RECITATION. 61 
 
 Be slow to anger — to forgive be strong, 
 And evil deeds with goodly deeds requite ; 
 Then shall God's love thy cloudless days prolong, 
 And "in the evening time it will be light". 
 
 Time rings its hours with changing chime and knell — 
 Save for our tears Life's smiles were incomplete ; 
 Joy's greeting follows after Grief's farewell ; 
 And, save Love parted, Love would never meet. 
 Tho' Duty's path be thorns about thy feet. 
 Do what thou haat to do with all thy might ; 
 Then, with God's blessing, shall thy days be sweet, 
 And "in the evening time it will be light". 
 
 Make firm thy faith, and let thy trust in Him 
 Grow stronger still, as worldly ties decline I 
 And, round thy soul, as earth is waxing dim, 
 Look up to heaven, and all to Him resign. 
 Then, robed in peace and clothed with love divine. 
 More sweet than morn, and than the noon more bright, 
 Angels in Death's void sepulchre shall shine, 
 And " in the evening time it will be light". 
 fVoni "Roses <St Rue", by special permission of the Author. 
 
 BABY IN CHUECH. 
 
 Minnie M. Gow. 
 
 Aunt Nellie had fashioned a dainty thing, 
 
 Of hamburg and ribbon and lace, 
 And Mamma had said, as she settled it 'round 
 
 Our beautiful Baby's face, 
 Where the dimples play and the laughter lies 
 Like sunbeams hid in her violet eyes : 
 " If the day is pleasant and Baby is good. 
 She may go to church and wear her new hood " 
 
 Then Ben, aged six, began to tell, 
 
 In elder-brotherly way. 
 How very, very good she must be 
 
 If she went to church next day. 
 He told of the church, the choir and the crowd. 
 And the man up in front who talked so loud : 
 But she must not talk nor laugh nor sing, 
 But just sit as quiet as anything.
 
 62 SELECTIONS FOR aHADINO AND RECITATION, 
 
 And BO, on a beautiful Sabbath in May, 
 
 When the fruit-buds burst into flowerg 
 
 (There wasn't a blossom on bush or tree 
 So fair as this blossom of ours), 
 
 All in her white dress, dainty and new, 
 
 Our Baby sat in the family pew. 
 
 The grand, sweet music, the reverent air, 
 
 The solemn hush and the voice of prayer 
 
 Filled all her baby soul with awe, 
 As she sat in her little place, 
 And the holy look that the angels wear 
 
 Seemed pictured upon her face. 
 And the sweet words uttered so long ago 
 Came into my mind with a rhythmic flow : 
 "Of such is the Kingdom of Heaven", said H*, 
 And I knew that He spake of such as she. 
 
 The sweet- voiced organ pealed forth again, 
 
 The collection-box came round, 
 And Baby dropped her penny in, 
 
 And smiled at the chinking sound. 
 Alone in the choir Avmt Nellie stood. 
 Waiting the close of the soft prelude, 
 To begin her solo. High and strong 
 She struck the first note, clear and long. 
 
 She held it, and all were charmed but one^ 
 
 Who, with all the might she had, 
 Sprang to her little feet and cried : 
 
 ^'Aunt Nellie, you's being had!" 
 The audience smiled, the minister coughed, 
 The little boys in the corner laughed, 
 The tenor-man shook like an aspen leaf 
 And hid his face in his handkerchief. 
 
 And poor Aunt Nellie never could tell 
 
 How she finished that terrible strairi- 
 But says that nothing on earth would terap* 
 
 Her to go through the scene again. 
 So, we have decided, perhaps 'tis best, 
 For her sake, ours, and all the rest. 
 That we wait, maybe for a year or two, 
 Ere our Baby re-enter the family pew.
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 63 
 
 IF I COULD KEEP HEE SO. 
 
 Louise Chandler Moulton. 
 
 Just a little baby, lying in my arms — 
 Would that I could keep you with your baby charms ; 
 Helpless, clinging fingers, downy, golden hair, 
 Where the sunshine Kngers, caught from otherwhere ; 
 Blue eyes asking questions, lips that cannot speak, 
 Roly-poly shoulders, dimple in your cheek ; 
 Dainty little blossom in a world of woe, 
 Thus I fain would keep you, for I love you so. 
 
 Roguish little damsel, scarcely six years old, 
 Feet that never weary, hair of deeper gold ; 
 Restless, busy fingers, all the time at play, 
 Tongue that never ceases talking all the day ; 
 Blue eyes learning wonders of the world about. 
 Here you come to tell them — what an eager shout I 
 Winsome little damsel, all the neighbours know, 
 Thus I long to keep you, for I love you so. 
 
 Sober little schoolgirl, with your strap of books, 
 And such grave importance in your puzzled looks ; 
 Solving weary problems, poring over sums. 
 Yet with tooth for sponge-cake and for sugar-plums , 
 Reading books of romance in your bed at night, 
 Waking up to study with the morning light ; 
 Anxious as to ribbons, deft to tie a bow, 
 Full of contradictions — I would keep you so. 
 
 Sweet and thoughtful maiden, sitting by my side. 
 All the world's before you, and the world is wide ; 
 Hearts are there for winning, hearts are there to break, 
 Has your own, shy maiden, just begun to wake? 
 Is that rose of dawning glowing on your cheek, 
 TeUing us in blushes what you will not speak? 
 Shy and tender maiden, I would fain forego 
 All the golden future just to keep you so. 
 
 Ah I the listening angels saw that she was fair, 
 Ripe for rare unfolding in the upper air ; 
 Now the rose of dawning turns to lily white. 
 And the close-shut eyelids veil the eyes from sight ;
 
 64 SELECTIONS TOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 All the past I summon as I kiss her brow — 
 Babe and child, and maiden, all are with me now, 
 Though my heart is breaking, yet God's love T know- 
 Safe among the angels, I would keep her so. 
 
 THE SEA-FIGHT. 
 
 Barry Cornwall. 
 
 nie Sun hath ridden into the sky 
 And the Night gone to her lair ; 
 
 Yet all is asleep 
 
 On the mighty Deep, 
 And all in the calm, grey air. 
 
 All seemeth as calm as an infant's dreaip. 
 As far as the eye may ken ; 
 
 But the cannon-blast 
 
 That just now passed. 
 Hath awakened ten thousand men. 
 
 An order is blown from ship to ship; 
 All round and round it rings ; 
 
 And each sailor is stirred 
 
 By the wai'like word. 
 And his jacket he downward flings. 
 
 He strippeth his arms to his shoulders strou^ ; 
 He girdeth his loins about ; 
 
 And he answers the cry 
 
 Of his foeman nigh. 
 With a cheer and a noble shout. 
 
 Wliat follows? — A puff, and a flash of light 
 And the booming of a gim ; 
 
 And a scream, that shoots 
 
 To the heart's red roots, — 
 And we know that a fight's begun. 
 
 A thousand shot are at once let loose ; 
 Each flies from its brazen den, 
 
 (Like the plague's swift breath,} 
 
 On its deed of death. 
 And smites down a file of men.
 
 8KLECTIUN8 FOR READING AND RECITATION. 65 
 
 The guns iu their thick-tougued thunder speak. 
 And the frigates all rock and ride, 
 
 And timbers crash, 
 
 And the mad waves dash. 
 Foaming all far and wide. 
 
 And high as the skies run piercing cries, 
 All telling one tale of woe, — 
 
 That the struggle still, 
 
 Between good and ill, 
 Goes on in the earth below. 
 
 Day pauses, in gloom, on his western road ; 
 The Moon returns again ; 
 
 But, of all who looked bright 
 
 In the morning light. 
 There are only a thousand men. 
 
 Look up, at the brooding clouds on high ; 
 Look up, at the awful Sun 1 
 
 And, behold, — the sea flood 
 
 Is all red with blood : 
 Hush! — a battle is lost — and won I 
 
 THE FUNNY YOUNG GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Dickens. 
 
 {Adapted for Recital.) 
 
 As one funny young gentleman will serve as a sample of all funny 
 young gentlemen, we purpose merely to note down the conduct and 
 behaviour of an individual specimen. 
 
 We were all seated round a blazing fire, when there came a post- 
 man's knock at the door, so violent and sudden that it stai-tled the 
 whole circle. We were about to remark that it was surely beyond 
 post-time, when our host, who had hitherto been paralysed with 
 wonder, sank into a chair in a perfect ecstasy of laughter, and 
 ofi'ered to lay twenty pounds that it was that droll dog Griggins. 
 He had no sooner said this than the majority of the company and 
 all the children of the house burst into a roar of laughter too. To 
 be sure it must be Griggins, and "How like him that is!" and 
 "What spirits he is always in!" 
 
 Not having the happiness to know Griggins, we became extremely 
 desirous to see him, the more especially as a stout gentleman with a 
 powdered head whispered us he was a v/it of the first water, when 
 
 (896) 
 
 ^ 
 
 ^
 
 66 SELECTIONS FOK READING AND RECITATiON. 
 
 the door opened, and Mr. Griggina presented himself, amidst auother 
 shout of laughter. This welcome he acknowledged by sundry con- 
 tortions of countenance, which were so extremely successful that 
 one stout gentleman rolled upon an ottoman, protesting, with many 
 gasps, that if somebody didn't make that fellow Griggina leave oflF, 
 he would be the death of him, he knew. 
 
 When he had quite exhausted all beholders, Mr. Griggina re- 
 ceived the welcomes and congratulations of the circle, and went 
 through the needful introductions with much ease and many puns. 
 This ceremony over, he avowed his intention of sitting in somebody's 
 lap unless the young ladies made room for him on the sofa, which 
 being done, he squeezed himself among them, and likened his con- 
 dition to that of Love among the roses. At this novel jest we all 
 roared once more. 
 
 The tea-things having been removed, we sat down to a round 
 game, and here Mr. Gi-iggins shone forth with peculiar brilliancy, 
 abstracting other people's fish, and looking over their hands in the 
 most comical manner. He made one most excellent joke in snuffing 
 a candle, which was neither more nor less than setting fire to the 
 hair of a pale young gentleman who sat next him, and afterwards 
 begging his pardon with considerable humour. The young gentle- 
 man could not see the joke, however, but a young lady, betrothed to 
 the young gentleman, used her immediate influence to bring about 
 a reconciliation, emphatically declaring, in an agitated whisper, that 
 it he went on in that way, she never would think of him otherwise 
 than as a friend, though as that she must always regard him. At 
 this terrible threat the young gentleman became calm. 
 
 Mr. Griggins' spirits were slightly depressed for a short period by 
 this unlooked-for result of such a harmless pleasa\itry, but he soon 
 got into excellent cue. 
 
 To recount all the drollery of Mr. Griggins at supper would be 
 impossible. He drank out of other people's glasses and ate of other 
 people's bread, he frightened into screaming convulsions a little boy 
 who was sitting up to supper in a higb chair, by sinking below the 
 table and suddenly reappearing with a mask on ; the hostess was 
 really surprised that anybody could find a pleasure in tormenting 
 children, and the host frowned at the hostess, and felt convinced 
 that Mr. Griggins had done it with the very best intentions. Mr. 
 Griggins explained, and everybody's good-humour was restored but 
 the child's. To tell these and a hundred other things ever so briefly, 
 would occupy more of our hearers' patience than either they or we 
 can conveniently spare- But every society has a Griggins of its own.
 
 8BLECTIONS FOR RBADING AND RECITATION, 67 
 
 GEEMS OF GEEATNESa 
 Eliza Cook. 
 
 How many a mighty mind is shut 
 
 Within a fameless germ I 
 The huge oak lies in the acorn-nut, 
 And the richest regal robes are cut 
 
 From the web of a dusky worm. 
 
 The river rolls with its fleet of ships 
 
 On its full and swelling tide, 
 But its far-off" fountain creeps and drips 
 From a chinklet's dank and mossy lips 
 
 That a pebble and dock-leaf hide. 
 
 The thoughtless word from a jesting breath 
 
 May fall on a listening ear, 
 And draw the soul from its rusty sheath. 
 To work and win the rarest wreath 
 
 That mortal brow can wear. 
 
 Yon tiny bud is holding fast 
 
 Gay Flora's fairest gem, 
 Let the sunlight stay and the shower go psit. 
 And the wee green bud shall blaze at last, 
 
 The pride of her diadem. 
 
 The sower casts in the early year 
 
 The grains of barley corn, 
 And barns and barrels of goodly cheer 
 Of winter's bread and nut-brown beer 
 
 From the infant seed are born. 
 
 The poet-chant may be a thing 
 
 Of lightsome tone and word ; 
 But a living sound may dwell in the string, 
 That shall waken and rouse as its echoes fling, 
 
 Till myriad breasts are stirred. 
 
 Look well, look close, look deep, look long, 
 
 On the changes ruling earth, 
 And ye'll find God's rarest, holiest throng 
 Of mortal wonders — strange and strong — 
 
 Arise from noteless birth.
 
 68 SEIiECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATIOS. 
 
 Fate drives a poor and slender peg, 
 But a crown may hang thereby ; 
 We may kill an eagle when crushing an egg. 
 And the shilling a starving boy may beg 
 May be stamped with fortune's die. 
 
 'Tis well to train our searching eyes 
 
 To marvel, not to mock ; 
 For the nameless steed may win the prize. 
 The " wee " child grow to giant size, 
 
 And the atom found a rock. 
 
 LITTLE OEPHANT ANNIE. 
 
 James Whitcomb Rilet. 
 
 Little Orphant Annie's come to our house to stay 
 
 An' wash the cups an' saucers up, an' brush the crumbs away, 
 
 An' shoo the chickens oflf the porch, an' dust the hearth an' sweep, 
 
 An' make the fire, an' bake the bread, an' earn her board an' keep ; 
 
 An' all us other children, when the supper things is done, 
 
 We set around the kitchen fire an' has the mostest fun 
 
 A-list'nin' to the witch tales 'at Annie tells about, 
 
 An ' the gobble-uns 'at gits you— Ef you— Don't— Watch—Out I 
 
 Onc't they was a little boy wouldn't say his pray'rs— 
 An' when he went to bed 'at night, away up-stairs, 
 His mamma heerd him holler, an' his daddy heerd him bawl. 
 An' when they turned the kivvers down, he wasn't there at all 1 
 An' they seeked in the rafter-room, an' cubby-hole an' press, 
 An' seeked him up the chimbly-flue, an' every wheres, I guess. 
 But all they ever found was thist his pants an' roundabout ! 
 An' the gobble-uns '11 git you— Ef you— Don't— Watch— Out 1 
 
 An' one time a little girl 'ud alius laugh an' grin, 
 
 An' make fun of ever" one an' all her blood an' kin, 
 
 An' onc't when they was 'company', an' ol' folks was there. 
 
 She mocked 'em an' shocked 'em, an' said she didn't care I 
 
 An' thist as she kicked her heels, an' tum't to run an' hide, 
 
 They was two great big Black Things a-standin' by her side. 
 
 An' they snatched her through the ceilin' 'fore she knowed what 
 
 she's about I 
 All' the gobble-uns '11 git you— Ef you— Don't— Watch— Out I
 
 SBLECTIONS FOR READIXQ AND RECITATION. 89 
 
 An' little Orphant Annie says, when the blaze is blue, 
 
 An' the lamp- wick splutters, an' the wind goes woo-ool 
 
 Ail' you hear the crickets quiet, au' the moon is gray, 
 
 An' the lightnin'-bugs in dew is all squenched away — 
 
 You better mind your parents, and yer teachers fond and dear, 
 
 An' churish them 'at loves you, an' dry the orphant's tear, 
 
 An he'p the pore an' needy ones 'at clusters all about, 
 
 Er the gobble-uns '11 git you — Ef you — Don't — "Watch — Out ! 
 
 THE THEEE FISHERS. 
 
 Eev. Charles Kingslet. 
 
 Three Fishers went sailing oiit into the West, 
 
 Out into the West as the sun went down ; 
 Each thought on the woman who loved him best, 
 
 Ajid the children stood watching them out of the town :— 
 For men must work, and women must weep ; 
 And there's little to earn, and many to keep, 
 
 Though the harbour-bar be moaning ! 
 
 Three Wives sat up in the lighthouse tower. 
 
 And they trimm'd the lamps as the sun went down ; 
 
 They looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower, 
 And the night-rack came rolling up ragged and brown; 
 
 But men must work, and women must weep, 
 
 Though storms be sudden, and waters deep, 
 And the harbour-bar be moaning ! 
 
 Three Corpses lie out on the shining sands, 
 In the morning gleam, as the tide went down; 
 
 And the women are weeping and wringing their handa, 
 For those who will never come home to the town. — 
 
 For men must work, and women must weep. 
 
 And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep — 
 And good-bye to the bar and its moaning 1 
 
 A BALLAD OF WAR 
 
 Menella Bute Smedley. 
 
 " Oh ! were you at war in the red Eastern land ? 
 What did you hear, and what did you seel 
 Saw you my son, with his sword in his hand? 
 k?ent he, by you, any dear word for me ?"
 
 70 SELECTIONS FOR RKADINQ AND RECITATION, 
 
 " I come from red war in that dire Eastern land ; 
 
 Three deeds saw I done one might well die to see ; 
 But I know not your son with his sword in his hand; 
 If you would hear of him, paint him to me." 
 
 " Oh, he is as gentle as south winds in May ! " 
 
 " 'Tis not a gentle place where I have been." 
 " Oh, he has a smile like the outbreak of day !" 
 " Where men are dying fast, smiles are not seen." 
 
 " Tell me the mightiest deeds that were done. 
 
 Deeds of chief honour, you said you saw three ; 
 You said you saw three — I am sure he did one, 
 My heart shall discern him, and cry, 'This is hel'" 
 
 " I saw a man scaling a tower of despair, 
 
 And he went up alone, and the hosts shouted loud." 
 " That was my son 1 Had he streams of fair hair?" 
 " Nay : it was black as the blackest night cloud." 
 
 " Did he live 1" " No ; he died : but the fortress was won, 
 And they said it was grand for a man to die so." 
 
 " Alas for his mother ! He was not my son. 
 
 Was there no fair-haired soldier who humbled the foe?'" 
 
 " I saw a man charging in front of his rank, 
 Thirty yards on, in a hurry to die ; 
 Straight aa an arrow hurled into the flank 
 
 Of a huge desert-beast, ere the hunter draws nigh.** 
 
 "Did he livel" "No; he died: but the battle was won. 
 And the conquest-cry carried his name through the air. 
 Be comforted, mother; he was not thy son; 
 Worn was his forehead, and grey was his hair." 
 
 " Oh ! the brow of my son is as smooth as a rose ; 
 I kissed it last night in my dream, I have heard 
 Two legends of fame from the land of our foes ; 
 
 But you said there were three : you must tell me the third. 
 
 " I saw a man flash from the trenches and fly 
 In a battery's face ; but it was not to slay: 
 A poor little drummer had dropp'd down to die, 
 
 With his ankle shot through, in the place where he ky. 
 
 " He carried the boy like a babe through the rain, 
 
 The death-pouring torrent of grape-shot and shell j
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AXD RECITATION. 71 
 
 And he waik'd at a foot's-pace because of the pain. 
 Laid his burden down gently, smiled once, and then fell." 
 
 " Did he live?" " No ; he died : but he rescued the boy. 
 Such a death is more noble than life (so they said). 
 He had streams of fair hair, and a face full of joy, 
 
 And his name — " " Speak it not ! 'tis my son ! he is dead I 
 
 " Oh, dig him a grave by the red rowan-tree, 
 
 Where the spring moss grows softer than fringes of foam, 
 And lay his bed smoothly, and leave room for me, 
 For I shall be ready before he comes home. 
 
 " And carve on his tombstone a name and a wreath, 
 
 And a tale to touch heai-ts through the slow-spreading years — 
 How he died his noble and beautiful death. 
 
 And his mother, who longed for him, died of her tears. 
 
 " But what is this face shining in at the door, 
 
 With its old smile of peace, and its flow of fair hair? 
 Are you come, blessed ghost, from the heavenly shore? 
 Do not go back alone — let me follow you there ! " 
 
 " Oh ! clasp me, dear mother. I come to remain ; 
 
 I come to your heart, and God answers your prayer. 
 Your son is alive from the hosts of the slain, 
 
 And the Cross of our Queen on his breast glitters fair ! " 
 
 ARE THE CHILDREN HOME? 
 
 M. E. M. Sangster. 
 
 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 onoe was full of life. 
 Ringing with girlish laughter, echoing boyish strife, 
 We two are waiting together ; and oft as the shadows come. 
 With tremulous voice he calls me: "It is night! are the children 
 home?" 
 
 " Yes, love I" I answer him gently, " they're all home long ago"; 
 And I sing in my quavering treble, a song so soft and low, 
 Till an old man drops to slumber, with his lioad upon his hand, 
 And I tell to myself the number home in the better land :
 
 72 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 Home, where never a sorrow shall dim their eyes with tears: 
 Where the smile of God is on them through all the summer years J 
 I know 1 Yet my arms are empty, that fondly folded seven, 
 And the mother heart within me is ahnost starved for heaven. 
 
 Sometimes in the dusk of evening I only shut my eyes, 
 
 And the children are all about me, a vision from the skies ; 
 
 The babes whose dimpled fingers, lose 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 i 
 In a tangled southern forest, twin brothers, bold and brave, 
 They fell : and the flag they died for, thank God 1 floats over their 
 grave. 
 
 A breath, and the vision is lifted away on wings of light, 
 
 And again we two are together, all alone in the night. 
 
 They tell me his mind is failing, but I smile at idle fears : 
 
 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 rest. 
 
 My husband calls from his corner, "Say, love? have the children 
 
 cornel" 
 A.nd I answer, with eyes uplifted, "Yes, dearl they are all at home^ 
 
 THE ARCHERY OF WILLIAM TELU 
 
 Baine. 
 
 " Place there the boy," the tyrant said ; 
 " Fix me the apple on his head ; 
 Ha! rebel— now 
 There is a fair mark for thy shaft,— 
 There, try thy boasted archer craft;" 
 
 With quivering brow 
 The Switzer gazed— his cheek grew palo— 
 His bold lips throbbed, as if would fail 
 Their labouring breath. 
 " Ha; so ye blench?" fierce Gesler cried ; 
 " I've conquered, slave, thy soul of pridii,'- 
 No word to that stern taunt replied — 
 All atill as death.
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 71 
 
 "And what the meed?" at length Tell asked. 
 " Bold fool ; when slaves like thee are tasked. 
 
 It is my will ; 
 But that thine eye may keener be, 
 And nerved to such fine archery, 
 If thou succeed'st, thou goest free. 
 
 What ; pause ye still ? 
 Give him a bow and arrow there — 
 One shaft — but one." Madness, despair. 
 
 And tortured love, 
 One moment swept the Switzer's face ; 
 Then passed away each stormy trace, 
 And high resolve reigned like a grace 
 
 Caught from above. 
 
 " I take thy terms," he murmured low; 
 Grasped eagerly the proffered bow; 
 
 The quiver searched ; 
 Chose out an arrow keen and long, 
 Fit for a sinewy arm and strong — 
 Placed it upon the sounding thong, — 
 
 The tough yew arched. 
 Deep stillness fell on all around ; 
 Through that dense crowd was heard no 80un<i 
 
 Of step or word ; 
 All watched with fixed and shuddering eye 
 To see that fearful arrow fly; — 
 The light wind died into a sigh, 
 
 And scarcely stirred. 
 
 The gallant boy stood firm and mute, 
 He saw the strong bow curved to shoot, 
 
 Yet never moved ! 
 He knew that pale fear ne'er unmanned 
 The daring coolness of that hand ; — 
 He knew it was the father scanned 
 
 The boy he loved. 
 Slow rose the shaft ;— it trembled — hung ; 
 " My only boy ! " gasped on his tongue : 
 
 He could not aim. 
 Hal" cried the t}Tant, "doth he quail? 
 He shakes; his haughty brow is pale!" 
 ( 996 ) ^ ^
 
 ?4 SELECTIONS FOK READING AND RECITATIOJT. 
 
 "Shoot," cried a low voice; "canst thou fail'' 
 Shoot, in heaven's name ! " 
 
 Again the drooping shaft he took — 
 Cast to the heaven one burning look,- 
 Of all doubts reft : 
 " Be firm, my boy I " was all he said : 
 He drew the bow — the arrow fled — 
 The apple left the stripling's bead — 
 
 "'Tis cleft 1 'tis cleft I" 
 And cleft it was — and Tell was free. 
 Quick the brave boy was at his knee, 
 
 With flushing cheek; 
 But ere the sire his child embraced, 
 The batSed Austrian cried in haste, 
 " An arrow in thy belt is placed, 
 
 What means it ? Speak ! " 
 
 " To smite thee, tyrant to the heart 
 Had heaven so willed it that my dart 
 Touched this, my boy I " 
 
 STOOD AT CLEAJR. 
 
 Alex. Anderson. 
 
 " Where is Adams?" that was the cry, "let us question him before he 
 die." Nought around in the night was seen save the glimmer of lamps 
 where the crash had been. Right across the six-feet way, one huge 
 hulk, engine and tender, lay, while the wailing hiss of the steam 
 took the air, by fits, like the low, dull tone of despair. But still 
 above all, rose that one clear cry—" Speak to Adams before he die." 
 "Here," I said, "turn your lamps on me," and I laid Jim's head 
 apon ray knee. "Jim, old mate," I said in his ear, "they will ask 
 you a question -can you hear?" Then I saw through the grime 
 that was on his face, a white hue coming with slow, sure pace ; and 
 upon his brow by the light of the lamp, other dew than the night's 
 lay heavy and damp. " Speak to him— quick !" they bent and said, 
 " Did the distant signal stand at redV Broken and slow came the 
 words with a moan, " Stood— at— ciear," and poor Jim was gone. I 
 turned my head away from the light to hide the tears that were 
 blinding my sight, and prayed from my heart, to Gi^-l, that Jim 
 might find heaven's signals clear to him. 
 
 ^By tpfcial pfrmission, cf the Author.)
 
 SSLSCTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 75 
 
 TWO'S COMPANY AND THREE'S NONE. 
 
 Anon. 
 
 I kn«w by hia looks what he'd come for ; I plainly had seen from 
 
 the first, 
 It must come to this sooner or later, and I'd made up my mind for 
 
 the worst. 
 So I hid myself under the curtains, where the loving pair couldn't 
 
 see me, 
 In order to watch their proceedings, and hear what he said unto she. 
 
 I saw he was fearfully nervous, that in fact he was suffering pain, 
 By the way that he fussed with his collar, and poked all the chairs 
 
 with his cane ; 
 Then he blushed ; — he wouldn't look at her, but kept his eyes fixed 
 
 on the floor, 
 And took the unusual precaution of taking his seat near the door. 
 
 He began, " It is — er — er — fine weather — remarkable weather for 
 
 May." 
 " Do you think so?" said she ; " it is raining." " Oh 1 so it is raining 
 
 to-day. 
 I meant, 'twill be pleasant to-morrow," he stammered ; " er — er — do 
 
 you skate?" 
 "Oh yes I" she replied, "in the season; but isn't May rather too 
 
 late?" 
 
 The silence that followed was awful ; he continued, " I see a sweet 
 dove," 
 
 ('Twas only an innocent sparrow; but blind are the eyes of true 
 love), 
 
 " A dove of most beautiful plumage, on the top of that wide- 
 spreading tree. 
 
 Which reminds rae" — she sighed — *'0, sweet maiden 1 which re- 
 minds me, dear angel, of thee." 
 
 Her countenance changed in a moment; there followed a terrible 
 
 pause ; 
 I felt that the crisis was coming, and hastily dropped on aU fours, 
 In order to see the thing better. His face grew white as a sheet; 
 He gave one spasmodic effort, and lifelessly dropt at her feet.
 
 76 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION, 
 
 She said— what she said I won't tell you. She raised the poor wretch 
 
 from the gi-ound, 
 I drew back my head for an instant. Good gracious! Oh; what was 
 
 that sound? 
 I eagerly peered through the darkness, for twilight had made the 
 
 room dim, 
 And plainly perceived it was kissing, and kissing not all done by 
 
 him. 
 I burst into loud fits of laughter ; I knew it was terribly mean ; 
 Still I couldn't resist the temptation to appear for a while on the 
 
 scene. 
 But she viewed me with perfect composure, as she kissed him again 
 
 with a smile, 
 And remarked, 'twixt that kiss and the next one, that she'd known 
 I was there all the while. 
 
 THE GLOVE AND THE LIONS. 
 
 Lbigh Hunt. 
 
 King Francis was a hearty king, and loved a royal sport ; 
 
 And one day as his lions fought, sat looking on the Court ; 
 
 The nobles filled the benches round, the ladies by their side, 
 
 And 'mongst them Count de Lorge, with one he hoped to make his 
 
 bride ; 
 And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show- 
 Valour and love, and a king above, and the royal beasta below. 
 
 Ramped and roared the lions, with horrid laughing jaws ; 
 
 They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams— a wind went with 
 
 their paws ; 
 With wallowing might and stifled roar, they rolled on one another. 
 Till all the pit, with sand and mane, was in a thunderous smother; 
 The gory foam above the bars came whizzing through the air ; 
 Said Francis then, " Faith 1 gentlemen, we're better here than 
 
 there!" 
 De Lorge's love o'erheard the king,— a beauteous lively dame, 
 With smUing lips and sharp bright eyes, which always seemed the 
 
 same. 
 She thought, " The Count my lover is brave as brave can be— 
 He surely would do wondrous things to show his love for me : 
 King, ladies, lovers, all look on ; the occasion is divine 1 
 I'll drop my glove, to prove his love: great glory will be minel"
 
 8KLECT10NS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 7^ 
 
 6he dropped her glove to prove his love, then looked at him and 
 
 smiled ; 
 He bowed, and in a moment leaped among the lions wild. 
 The leap was quick, return was quick — he has regained his place — 
 Then threw the glove — but not with love — right in the lady's face ! 
 "In truth," cried Francis, "rightly done !" and he rose from where 
 
 he sat. 
 " No love," quoth he, " but vanity, sets love a task Uke that." 
 
 HAEMOSAN. 
 Dr. Trench, 
 
 Now the third and fatal conflict for the Persian throne was done, 
 And the Moslem's fiery valour had the crowning victory won : 
 Harmosan, the last of the foemen, and the boldest to defy, 
 Captive, overborne by numbers, they were bringing forth to die. 
 
 Then exclaimed that noble Satrap, " Lo, I perish in my thirst ; 
 Give me but one drink of water, and let then arrive the worst." 
 In his hand he took the goblet, but awhile the draught forbore, 
 Seeming doubtfully the purpose of the victors to explore. 
 
 "But what fear'st thou"?" cried the Caliph: "dost thou dread a 
 
 secret blow? 
 Fear it not; our gallant Moslems no such treacherous dealings 
 
 know. 
 Thou ma/st quench thy thirst securely; for thou shalt not die 
 
 before 
 Thou hast drunk that cup of water: — this reprieve is thine — no 
 
 more." 
 
 <Juick the Satrap dashed the goblet down to earth with ready hand, 
 Apd the Uquid smik,— for ever lost, amid the burning sand : 
 " Thou hast said that mine my life is, till the water of that cup 
 I have drained :— then bid thy servants that spilled water gather 
 up." 
 
 For a moment stood the Caliph, as by doubtful passions stirred ; 
 Then exclaimed, " For ever sacred must remain a monarch's word : 
 Bring forth another cup, and straightway to the noble Persian 
 
 give :~ 
 Drink, I said before, and perish ;— now, I bid thee drink and live ! "
 
 78 fiELECTIONS FOR READISa AXD RECITATIOS. 
 
 THE BURST BUBBLE. 
 
 J. B. GouoH, 
 
 Let us look at the position of a man who ie the slave of a bad 
 habit. There he stands, and we will bring before bim a vision. 
 Here before me, stands a bright, fair-haired, beautiful boy, with the 
 rosy cheek, and curling lock, and ruby lips, and round limb, the 
 type, the picture of human health and beauty. That is youth, that 
 is his past. Another figure shall stand before him. The youth 
 grown to the man, intellect flashing from his eye, his brow speaking 
 of intellectual strength, as he claims for himself an influence over the 
 hearts and feelings of his fellow-men. There he st^ands— a glorious 
 being. That is youj ideal. Then gropes in a wretched thing, fetters 
 on his limbs, his brow seamed, sensuality seated on his swollen lip, 
 the image of God marred. What is that'? That is his present. He 
 shall see another vision : it is a wretched, emaciated creature ; you 
 see his heart is all on fire, the worm that never dies has begun its 
 fearful gna wings. What is that! It is his future. The power of 
 evil habit does not destroy his consciousness. The curse to the man, 
 who is going down step by step, is the remembrance of the past 
 All the bright dreams of his imagination are before him, yonder, 
 separated from him by a continent of grief and disappointment, pain 
 of' body, and fever of spirit. Distant, clear, but cold, Ls the moon 
 that shines on his waking agony, or on his desperate repose. AH 
 the enjoyments that can be obtained in this world, apart from the 
 the enjoyments God has sanctioned, lead to destruction. It is as if 
 a man should start in a chase after a bubble, attracted by its bright 
 and gorgeous hues. It leads him through vineyards, under trellised 
 vmes, with grapes hanging in all their purpled glory ; it leads him 
 by sparkling fountains with delicious music and the singing of 
 birds; it leads him through orchards hanging thick with golden 
 fruit. He laughs and dances. It is a merry chase. By-and-by 
 that excitement becomes intense ; that intensity becomes a pa-ssion ; 
 that passion a disease. Now his eye is fixed upon the bubble with 
 fretful earnestness. Now he leaps with desperation and disappoint- 
 ment. Now it leads him away from all that is bright and beautiful ; 
 from all the tender, clustering, hallowed associations of bygone 
 days, up the steep, hot sides of a fearful volcano. He leaps and 
 falls, and rises, bruised, scorched, and blistered, knee-deep in the 
 hot ashes, he staggers up with limbs torn and bruised, the la^^t 
 semblance of humanity scorched out of him. Yet there is his prize.
 
 SELECTIONS FOR REA^DING AND RECITATION. 79 
 
 fle will have it. With one desperate effort he makes a sudden leap 
 Ah! he's got it now; hut he has leaped into the volcano, and, with 
 a burst bubble in his hand, goes to his retribution. 
 
 IF I SHOULD DIE TO-NIGHT. 
 Robert C. V. Myers. 
 
 If I should die to-night 
 My friends would look upon my quiet face 
 Before they laid it in its resting-place 
 And deem that death had left it almost fair, 
 And laying snow-white flowers against my hair 
 Would smooth it down with tearful tenderness 
 And fold my hands with lingering caress — 
 Poor hands, so empty and so cold to-night. 
 
 If I should die to-night 
 My friends would call to mind with loving thought 
 Some kindly deed the icy hand had wrought 
 Some gentle words the frozen lips had said ; 
 En-ands on which the willing feet had sped. 
 The memory of my selfishness and pride 
 My hasty words, would all be put aside 
 And so I should be loved and mourned to-night 
 
 If I should die to-night 
 Even hearts estranged would turn once more to me 
 Kecalling other days remorsefully. 
 The eyes that chill me with averted glance 
 Would look upon me as of yore, perchance 
 Would soften in the old familiar way : 
 For who would war with dumb unconscious clay ^ 
 So I might rest, forgiven of all to-night. 
 
 Oh, friends, I pray to-night 
 Keep not your kisses for my dead cold brow, 
 The way is lonely let me feel them now. 
 Think gently of me ; I am travel- worn, 
 'My faltering feet are pierced with many a thorji. 
 Forgive, O hearts estranged, forgive, I plead; 
 When dreamless rest is mine I shall not need 
 The tenderness for which I long to-night
 
 80 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 THE FALL OF D'ASSAS. 
 Mrs. Hemans. 
 
 Alone, through gloomy forest shades, a Soldier went by night; 
 No moonbeam pierced the dusky glades, no star shed guiding light ; 
 Yet, on his vigil's midnight round, the youth all cheerly passed, 
 Unchecked by aught of boding sound, that muttered in the blast. 
 
 Where were his thoughts that lonely hour?— In his far home, per- 
 chance — 
 
 His father's hall— his mother's bower, 'midst the gay vines of France. 
 
 Hush! hark! did stealing steps go hyl came not faint whispers 
 near? 
 
 No I— The wild wind hath many a sigh, amidst the foliage sere. 
 
 Hark ! yet again !— and from his hand what grasp hath wrenched 
 
 the blade? 
 O, single, 'midst a hostile band, young Soldier, thou'rt betrayed ! 
 "Silence !" in undertones they cry; "no whisper— not a breath ! 
 The sound that warns thy comrades nigh shall sentence thee to death." 
 
 Still at the bayonet's pomt he stood, and strong to meet the blow ; 
 And shouted, 'midst his rushing blood, " Arm ! arm !— Auvergne !- 
 
 the foe I" 
 rhe stir— the tramp— the bugle-call— he heard their tumults grow; 
 And sent his dying voice through all—" Auvergne ! Auvergiie ! the 
 foe I " 
 
 DOMESTIC ASIDES, 
 Thos. Hood. 
 
 " I really take it very kind 
 This visit, Mrs. Skinner ! 
 I have not seen you such an age — 
 (The wretch has come to dinner !) 
 
 " Your daughters, too, what loves of girls- - 
 What heads for painters' easels 1 
 Come here and kiss the infant, dears, — 
 (And give it, p'rhaps, the measles !) 
 
 " Vour charming boys I see are home 
 From Reverend Mr. Russell's; 
 'Twaa very kind to bring them both— 
 (What boota for my new Brussels I)
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AHD RECITATION. 81 
 
 "What! little Clara left at home? 
 Well, now, I call that shabby : 
 I should have loved to kiss her bo, — 
 (A flabby, dabby, babby I) 
 
 " And Mr. S., I hope he's well ; 
 Ah ! though he lives so handy, 
 He never now drops in to sup — 
 (The better for our brandy !) 
 
 " Come, take a seat — I long to hear 
 About Matilda's marriage ; 
 You're come, of course, to spend the day!- - 
 (Thank goodness there's the carriage !) 
 
 "What! must you go? Next time I hope 
 You'll give me longer measure ; 
 Nay — I shall see you down the stairs — 
 (With most uncommon pleasure !) 
 
 " Good-bye ! Good-bye I remember all. 
 Next time you'll take your dinners ! 
 (Now, David, mind I'm not at home 
 In future to the Skinners I)" 
 
 CAUGHT IN THE QUICKSAND 
 Victor Hugo. 
 
 It sometimes happens that a man, traveller or fisherman, walking 
 on the beach at low tide, far from the bank, suddenly notices thai 
 for several minutes he has been walking with some difficulty. The 
 strand beneath his feet is like pitch ; his soles stick in it ; it is sand 
 uo longer ; it is glue. 
 
 The beach is perfectly dry, but at every step he takes, as soon as 
 he lifts his foot, the print which it leaves fills with water. The eye, 
 however, has noticed no change ; the immense sand is smooth and 
 tranquil ; all the sand has the same appearance ; nothing dis- 
 tinguishes the surface which is solid from that which is no longer 
 so; the joyous little crowd of sand-flies continue to leap tumultuously 
 over the wayfarer's feet. The man pui*sues his way, goes forward, 
 inclines to the land, endeavours to get ne.nrer the upland. 
 
 He is not anxious. Anxious about what? Only he feels, some-
 
 89 SELECTIONS FOR RBADINQ AND RECITATION, 
 
 how, as if the weight of his feet increases with every step ne takea 
 Suddenly he sinks in. 
 
 He sinks in two or three inches. Decidedly he is not on the right 
 road ; he stops to take his bearings ; now he looks at his feet. They 
 have disappeared. The sand covers them. He draws them out of 
 the sand he will retrace his steps. He turns back, he sinks in deeper. 
 The sand comes up to his ankles ; he pulls himself out and throws 
 himself to the left — the sand half-leg deep. He throws himself to 
 the right; the sand comes up to his shins. Then he recognizes with 
 unspeakable terror that he is caught in the quicksand, and that he 
 has beneath him the terrible medium in which man can no more 
 walk than fish can swim. He throws off his load if he has one, 
 lightens himself as a ship in distress ; it is already too late ; the 
 sand is above his knees. He calls, he waves his hat or his hand- 
 kerchief; the sand gains on him more and more. If the beach is 
 deserted, if the land is too far off, if there is no help in sight, it is 
 all over. 
 
 He is condemned to that appalling burial, long, infallible, impla 
 cable, and impossible to slacken or to hasten ; which endures for 
 hours, which seizes you erect, free, and in full health, and which 
 draws you by the feet ; which, at every effort that you attempt, at 
 every shout you utter, drags you a little deeper, sinking you slowlj' 
 into the earth while you look upon the horizon, the sails of the ships 
 upon the sea, the biids flying and singing, the sunshine and the sky. 
 The victim attempts to sit down, to lie down, to creep ; every move 
 ment he makes inters him ; he straightens up, he sinks in ; he 
 feels that he is being swallowed. He howls, implores, cries to the 
 clouds, despairs. 
 
 Behold him waist deep in the sand. The sand reaches his breast; 
 he is now only a bust. He raises his arms, utters furious groans, 
 clutches the beach with his nails, would hold by that straw, leans 
 upon his elbows to pull himself out of his soft sheath; sobs frenziedly; 
 the sand rises ; the sand reaches his shoulders ; the sand reaches his 
 neck ; the face alone is visible now. The mouth cries, the sand fills 
 it— silence. The eyes still gaze, the sand shuts them- night. Now 
 the forehead decreases, a little hair flutters above the sand , a hand 
 comes to the surface of the beach, moves, and shakes, disappears. 
 It is the earth-drowning man. The earth filled with the ocean 
 becomes a trap. It presents itself like a plain, and opens like a 
 wave
 
 SEuECTIONS FOR READING AND RBCITATION. Ii3 
 
 MY NEIGHBOUR'S BABY. 
 Anon. 
 
 Across in my neighbour's window, 
 
 With its drapings of satin and lace, 
 I see, 'neath his flowing ringlets, 
 
 A baby's innocent face. 
 His feet in crimson slippers, 
 
 Are tapping the polished glass, 
 And the crowd in the street look upward, 
 
 And nod and smile as they pass. 
 
 Just here in my cottage window, 
 
 Catching flies in the sun, 
 With a patched and faded apron. 
 
 Stands my own little one. 
 His face is as pure and handsome 
 
 As the baby's over the way, 
 And he keeps my heart from breaking 
 
 At my toiling every day. 
 
 Sometimes when the day is ended, 
 
 And I sit in the dusk to rest, 
 With the face of my sleeping darling 
 
 Hugged close to my lonely breast, 
 I pray that my neighbour's baby 
 
 May not catch Heaven's roses all, 
 But that some may crown the forehead 
 
 Of my loved one as they fall. 
 
 And when I draw the stockings 
 
 From his little weary feet, 
 And kiss the rosy dimples 
 
 In his limbs, so round and sweet 
 I think of the dainty garments 
 
 Some little children wear, 
 And that my God withholds them 
 
 From mine so pure and fair. 
 
 May God forgive my et ^ — 
 
 I know not what I said ; 
 My heart is crushed and troublea 
 
 My neighbour's boy is dead 1
 
 84 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATIOS, 
 
 I saw the little coffin 
 ■ As they carried it out to-day ;— 
 A mother's heart is breaking 
 In the mansion over the way. 
 
 The light is fair in my window ; 
 
 The flowers bloom at my door ; 
 My boy is chasing the sunbeams 
 
 That dance on the cottage floor ; 
 The roses of health are blooming 
 
 On my darling's cheek to-day, 
 But the baby has gone from the window 
 
 Of the mansion over the way. 
 
 THE FOOL'S PEAYER. 
 
 Atlantic Monthly. 
 
 The royal feast was done ; the king 
 Sought some new sport to banish care, 
 And to his jester cried, " Sir Fool, 
 Kneel down and make for us a prayer 1*' 
 
 The jester doffed his cap and bells, 
 And stood the mockhig court before : 
 They could not see the bitter smile 
 Behind the painted grin he wore. 
 
 He bowed his head and bent his knee 
 Upon the monarch's silken stool ; 
 His pleading voice arose, "O Lord 
 Be merciful to me, a fool. 
 
 « No pity, Lord, could change the heart 
 From red with wrong to white as wool 
 The rod must heal the sin ; but, Lord, 
 Be merciful to me, a fool 1 
 
 " 'Tis not by guilt the onward sweep 
 Of truth and right, O Lord, we stay; 
 'Tis by our follies that so long 
 We hold the earth from Heaven away 
 
 " These clumsy feet still in the mire, 
 Go crushing blossoms without end ;
 
 SELECTIONS FOB READING AND RECITATION. 80 
 
 These hard well-meaning hands, we thrust 
 Among the heart strings of a friend. 
 
 " The ill-timed truth we might have kept, 
 Who knows how sharp it pierced and stung ; 
 The word we had not sense to say, 
 Who knows how grandly it had rung I 
 
 " Our faults no tenderness should ask, 
 The chastening stripes must cleanse them all 
 But for our blunders : Oh, in shame, 
 Before the eyes of Heaven we fall. 
 
 ** Earth bears no balsam for mistakes : 
 Men crown the knave, and scourge the tool 
 That did his will ; but Thou, Lord, 
 Be merciful to me, a fool." 
 
 The room was hushed ; in silence rose 
 The king, and sought his gardens cool, 
 And walked apart, and murmured low, 
 " Be merciful to me, a fool." 
 
 THE OXFORD AND CAMBRIDGE BOAT-RACE, 
 
 Anon. 
 
 Half a length, half a length, half a length onward ; 
 All in the valley of Thames rowed the eights onward ; 
 
 Go ! was the starter's cry. 
 
 Theirs not to reason why. 
 
 Theirs but to win or try; 
 Into the valley of Thames rowed the eights onward. 
 
 Steamers to right of them, steamers to left of them. 
 Steamers behind them snorted and thundered ; 
 
 Cheered at by cad and swell. 
 
 Boldly they rowed and well, 
 
 Under the railway bridge, 
 On to the Ship Hotel rowed the eights onward. 
 
 O, what a sight was there. 
 Flashed as they turned in air, 
 Hurtling in the rowlocks there ; 
 Rowing to Mortlake while all the world wondered ^
 
 86 SELECTIONS FOR READIKG AND RECITATIOH. 
 
 Plunged in the steamer's smoke. 
 
 Fiercely in front they broke — 
 Beachmen and seamen ; 
 
 Strong was the Cambridge stroke- 
 Nobody blundered : 
 
 Then they rowed back ; 
 But not, not as they rowed onward. 
 Steamers to right of them, steamers to left of theni, 
 Steamers in front of them snorted and thundered j 
 
 Cheered at with shout and yell, 
 
 Wliile horse (?) and hansom fell, 
 
 They that rowed so well. 
 
 Came to the railway bridge. 
 
 Back from the Ship Hotel ; 
 All that was left in them since they rowed onward. 
 
 When can their glory fadel 
 O, the wild spurts they made 1 
 
 All the world wondered. 
 Honour the spurts they made 1 
 Dark and light blue brigade : 
 
 Each worth a hundred, 
 
 MEASUEING THE BABY. 
 E. A. Browne. 
 
 We measured the riotous baby 
 
 Against the cottage wall — 
 A lily grew at the threshold, 
 
 And the boy was just as tall 1 
 A royal tiger lily, 
 
 With spots of purple and gold, 
 And a heart like a jewelled chalico. 
 
 The fragrant dew to hold. 
 
 Without, the blackbirds whistled 
 
 High up in the old roof-trees, 
 And to and fro at the window 
 
 The red rose rocked her bees ; 
 And the wee pink fists of the baby 
 
 Were never a moment still, 
 Snatching at the shine and shadow*, 
 
 That danced on the lattice-sill 1
 
 SELECTIONS FOR BEADING AND RECITATION. 87 
 
 Hie eyes were wide as blue-bells — 
 
 His mouth like a flower unblown — 
 Two little bare feet, like funny white mice, 
 
 Peeped out from his snowy gown ; 
 A nd we thought with a thrill of rapture 
 
 That yet had a touch of pain, 
 When June rolls around with her rosea. 
 
 We'll measure the boy again. 
 
 Ah me 1 in a darkened chamber, 
 
 With the sunshine shut away. 
 Through tears that fell like bitter rain. 
 
 We measured the boy to-day ; 
 And the little bare feet that were dimpled, 
 
 And sweet as a budding rose, 
 Lay side by side together, 
 
 In the hush of a long repose ; 
 
 Up from the dainty pillow, 
 
 White as the risen dawn, 
 The fair little face lay smiling, 
 
 With heaven's light o'er it drawn. 
 And the dear little hands, like rose-leavea 
 
 Dropped from a rose, lay still. 
 Never to snatch at the sunshine 
 
 That crept to the shrouded sill t 
 
 We measured the sleeping baby 
 
 With ribbons white as snow, 
 For the shining rosewood casket 
 
 That waited for him below ; 
 And out of the darkened chamber 
 
 We went with a childish moan — 
 To the height of the sinless angels 
 
 Our little one had grown ! 
 
 ABOU BEN ADHEM AND THE ANQEI* 
 
 Leigh Hunt. 
 
 Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase ! ) 
 Awoke one night from a sweet dream of peace. 
 And saw within the moonlight in his room, 
 Making it rich and like a lily in bloom,
 
 88 SELECTIONS TOR READING AND RECITATION, 
 
 An angel writing in a book of gold. — 
 Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold, 
 And to the presence in the room he said : 
 " What writest thou ? " — The vision raised its head, 
 And with a look made of all sweet accord, 
 Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord." 
 " Ajid is mine one!" said Abou. " Nay, not so," 
 Eeplied the angel. Abou spoke more low, 
 But cheerly still ; and said, " I pray thee then 
 Write me as one that loves his fellow-men." 
 The angel wrote and vanished. The next night 
 It came again with a great wakening light, 
 And showed the names whom love of God had blest, 
 And lo ! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest. 
 
 MEANS OF ACQUIEING DISTINCTION. 
 Sydney Smith. 
 
 It is natural in every man to wish for distinction ; and the praist 
 of those who can confer honour by their praise, is, in spite of all false 
 philosophy, sweet to every human heart; but, as eminence can be 
 only the lot of a few, patience of obscurity is a duty, which we owe 
 not more to our own happiness, than to the quiet of the world at 
 large. Give a loose, if you are young and ambitious, to that spirit 
 which throbs within you ; measure yourselves with your equals ; and 
 learn, from frequent competition, the place which nature has allotted 
 to you ; make of it no mean battle, but strive hard ; strengthen your 
 soul to the search of Truth, and follow that spectre of Excellence 
 which beckons you on, beyond the walls of the world, to something 
 better than man has yet done. It may be you shall burst out into 
 light and glory at the last ; but, if frequent failure convince you of 
 that mediocrity of nature, which is incompatible with great actions, 
 submit wisely and cheerfully to your lot; let no mean spirit of 
 revenge temjjt you to throw oflF your loyalty to your country, and to 
 prefer a vicious celebrity to obscurity crowned with piety and virtue. 
 If you can throw new light upon moral truth, or, by any exertions, 
 multiply the comforts or confirm the happiness of mankind, this 
 fame guides you to the true ends of your nature ; but, in the name 
 of Heaven, as you tremble at retributive justice ; and in the name 
 of mankind, if mankind be dear to you, seek not that easy and 
 accursed fame which is gathered in the work of revolutions; and 
 deem it better to be for ever unknown, tiian to found a momentary 
 name upon the basis of anarchy and irreligion.
 
 8KLECTI0NS FOR READING AND RECITATION. S9 
 
 "NO, THANK YOU, TOM," 
 
 Anon. 
 
 They met, when they were boy and girl. 
 
 Going to school one day. 
 And, " Won't you take my pegtop, dear V '' 
 
 Was all that he could say. 
 She bit her little pinafore, 
 
 Close to his side she came : 
 She whispered, "No! no, thank you, Tom," 
 
 But took it all the same. 
 
 They met one day, the self same way, 
 
 When ten swift years had flown ; 
 He said, "I've nothing but my heart, 
 
 But that is yours alone. 
 And won't you take my heart?" he said, 
 
 And called her by her name ; 
 She blushed and said, " No, thank you, Tom,'' 
 
 But took it all the same. 
 
 And twenty, thirty, forty years 
 
 Have brought them care and joy ; 
 She has the little pegtop still 
 
 He gave her when a boy. 
 " I've had no wealth, sweet wife," says he, 
 
 " I've never brought you fame;" 
 She whispers, " No ! no, thank you, Tora, 
 
 You've loved me all the same." 
 
 A LEAP FOR LIFE. 
 Geo. p. Morris. 
 
 Old Ironsides at anchor lay. 
 
 In the harbour of Mahon ; 
 A dead calm rested on the bay — 
 
 The waves to sleej) had gone ; 
 When little Hal, the captain's son, 
 
 A lad both braA^e and good. 
 In sjinrt, up shroud and rigging ran. 
 
 And on the main truck stood !
 
 90 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATIOM- 
 
 A shudder Bhot 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 oificers and crew. 
 
 The father came on deck. He gasped, 
 
 " O God 1 Thy wiU be done !" 
 Then suddenly a rifle grasped, 
 
 And aimed it at his son. 
 " Jump, far out, boy, into the wave 1 
 
 Jump, or I fire," he said. 
 " That only chance your life can save ; 
 
 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. 
 
 The father drew, in silent joy. 
 Those wet arms round hia neck, 
 
 And folded to his heart his boy- 
 Then fainted on the deck. 
 
 THE MESSAGE. 
 
 Adelaide Anne Procter. 
 
 I had a message to send her, to her whom my soul loves best • 
 But I had my task to finisb, and she had gone home to rest: 
 To rest in the far bright Heaven— Oh, so far away from here ! 
 It was vain to speak to my darling, for I knew she could not hear
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 91 
 
 I had a message to send her, so tender, and true, and sweet. 
 I longed for an angel to bear it, and lay it down at her feet. 
 I placed it one summer's evening on a little white cloud's breast ; 
 But it faded in golden splendour, and died in the crimson west. 
 
 I gave it the lark next morning, and I watched it soar and soar ; 
 But its pinions grew faint and weary, and it fluttered to earth one* 
 
 more. 
 I cried in my passionate longing, has the earth no angel friend 
 Who will carry my love the message my heart desires to send ? 
 
 Then I heard a strain of music, so mighty, so pure, so dear. 
 That my very sorrow was silent, and my heart stood still to hear. 
 It rose in harmonious rushing of mingled voices and strings, 
 And I tenderly laid my message on music's outspread wings. 
 
 And I heard it float farther and farther, in sound more perfect than 
 
 speech, 
 Farthrr than sight can follow, farther than soul can reach. 
 And I knew that at last my message has passed through the golden 
 
 gate; 
 So my heart is no longer restless, and I am content to wait. 
 
 THE KETOET. 
 
 Anon. 
 
 A supercilious nabob of the east, 
 
 Haughty and grave, and purse-proud, being rich, 
 A governor or general at least, 
 
 I have forgotten which. 
 Had in his family a humble youth. 
 
 Who went to India in his patron's suite ; 
 An unassuming body, and in truth 
 
 A lad of decent parts and good repute. 
 This youth had sense and spirit, 
 
 Yet with all his sense, 
 
 Excessive diffidence 
 Obscured his merit. 
 
 One day at table, flushed with pride and wine, 
 His Honour, proudly free, severely merry, 
 
 Conceived it would be vastly fine 
 To crack a joke upon his Secretary.
 
 92 
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 "Young man," said he, "by what art, craft, or tradtv 
 
 Did your good father earn his livehhood?" 
 " He was a saddler, sir," Modestus said, 
 
 "And in his line was reckoned good." 
 "A saddler, eh ! and taught you Greek, 
 
 Instead of teaching you to sew ; 
 And pray, sir, why didn't your father make 
 
 A saddler, sir, of you 1" 
 Each parasite, as in duty bound, 
 
 The joke applauded, and the laugh went roun(i. 
 
 At length, Modestus, bowing low. 
 
 Said, craving pardon if too free he made, 
 " Sir, by your leave, I fain would know 
 
 Your father's trade." 
 " My father's trade ? Why, sir, that's too bad ; 
 
 My father's trade 1 Why, blockhead, art thou mad? 
 
 My father, sir, did never stoop so low— ^ 
 
 He was a gentleman I'd have you know." 
 " Excuse the liberty," Modestus said, " I take : 
 Pray, sir, why did not then your father make 
 
 A gentleman of youl" 
 
 THE RAPIDS. 
 
 J. B. GOUGH. 
 
 I remember riding from Buifalo to the Niagara FaUs, and I said 
 
 to a gentleman, " What river is that, sirl" " That is Niagam nver. 
 
 i'Well, it is a beautiful stream," said I; "bright, and fair, and 
 
 Ldassy. How far offare the rapids]" " Only a mile or two. Is 
 
 it possible that only a mile from us we «hall find the water m the 
 
 turbulence which it must show when near the Falls?" /' Jou will 
 
 find it so, sir." And so I found it; and that first sight of the 
 
 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 silvery wake you leave behind adds to your 
 
 enioyraent. Down the stream you gUde, oars, saUs, and helm in 
 
 proper trim, and you set out on your pleasure excursion Suddenly 
 
 some one cries out from the bank, "Young men, ahoy !" What is 
 
 it?" " The rapids are below you." " Ha, ha 1 we have heard of the 
 
 rapids, but we are not such f ook a. Lo get there. If we go too fast.
 
 SELECTIOKS FOR RKADIKG AND RECITATION. 93 
 
 then we shall up with the helm and steer to the shore ; we will set 
 the mast in the socket, hoist the sail, and speed to land. Then on, 
 on, boys; don't be alarmed — there's no danger." "Young men, 
 ahoy there!" "What is it?" "The rapids are below you." "Ha 
 ha! we will laugh and quaff; all things delight us. WTiat care we 
 for the future? No man ever saw it. Time enough to steer out of 
 danger when we are sailing swiftly with the current." "Young 
 men, ahoy!" "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 1 ... Set the mast in the socket !— hoist 
 the sail I Ah I ah! — it is too late. Shrieking, cursing, howling, 
 blaspheming; — over you go! 
 
 THE PILOT. 
 
 Cochran. 
 
 The waves are high, the night is dark ! wild roar the foaming tides, 
 Dashing around the straining bark, as gallantly she rides : 
 "Pilot! take heed what course you steer: our boat is tempest- 
 driven ! " 
 " Stranger, be calm : there is no fear for him who trusts in Heaven! " 
 
 " 0, Pilot ! mark yon thundercloud — the lightning's lurid rivers ! 
 Hark to the wind ! 'tis shrieking loud ! the mainmast bends and 
 
 quivers ! 
 Stay, Pilot, stay, and shorten sail — our stormy trysail's riven ! " 
 " Stranger, what matters calm or gale to him who trusts in Heaven ?" 
 
 Borne by the winds, the vessel flees to touch the thunderous cloud ; 
 Now, tottering low, the spray- wing'd seas conceal the topmast shroud. 
 " Pilot, the waves break o'er us fast — vainly our bark ha.a striven ! " 
 "Stranger, the Lord can rule the blast— Go, put thy trust ii? 
 Heaven ! " 
 
 Good hope— good hope! one little star gleams o'er the waste of 
 
 waters : 
 'Tis like the light reflected far of Beauty's loveliest daughters : 
 " Stranger, good hope He giveth thee, as He has often given : 
 Then learn this truth— Whate'er may be, to put thy trust la 
 
 Heaven ! "
 
 34 SELECTIONS FOR BEADING AND KKCITATIOH, 
 
 THE TWO AEMISS. 
 
 Oliver W. Holmes. 
 
 As Life's unending column pours, two marshalled hosts are seen,— 
 Two armies on the trampled shores that Death flows black between. 
 One marches to the drum-beat's roll, or wide-mouthed clarion's bray, 
 And bears, upon a crimson scroll—" Our glory is, to slay 1" 
 
 One moves in silence by the stream, with sad, yet watchful eyes; 
 Calm as the patient planet's g' ^am that walks the clouded skies. 
 Along its front no sabres shine, no blood-red pennons wave ; 
 Its banners bear the single line,—" Our duty is, to save 1" 
 For those,— no death-bed's lingering shade : at Honour's trumpet- 
 call 
 With knitted brow and lifted blade in Glory's arms they fall. 
 For these, no clashing falchions bright, no stirring battle-cry : 
 The bloodless stabber calls by night,— each answers, " Here am I !" 
 
 For those, the sculptor's laureUed bust, the builder's marble piles, 
 The anthems pealing o'er their dust through long cathedral aisles. 
 For these,— the blossom-sprinkled turf that floods the lonely graves, 
 When Springs roUs in her sea-green surf in flowery-foaming waves. 
 
 Two paths lead upward from below, and Angels wait above, 
 Who count each burning life-drop's flow, each falling tear of Love. 
 While Valour's haughty champions wait till all their scars are shown, 
 Love walks unchallenged through the gate, to sit beside the Throne ! 
 
 MAUD MULLER 
 
 J. G. Whittibr. 
 
 Maud Muller, on a summer's day, raked the meadow sweet with 
 hay. Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth of simple beauty and 
 rustic health. Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee the mock- 
 bird echoed from his tree. But, when she glanced to the far-oft' 
 town, white from its hill-slope looking down, the sweet song died; 
 and a vague unrest and a nameless longing filled her breast— a wish, 
 that she hardly dared to own, for something better than she had 
 
 known 1 
 
 The Judge rode slowly down the lane, smoothing his horse's chest- 
 nut mane. He drew his bridle in the shade of the apple-trees, to 
 greet the Maid, and ask a draught, from the soring that flowed
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 96 
 
 through the meadows across the road. — She stooped where the cool 
 spring bubbles up, and filled for him hersmaU tin cup; and blushed 
 as she gave it, looking down on her feet so bare, and her tattered 
 gown. " Thanks !" said the Judge, " a sweeter draught from a fairer 
 hand was never quaffed." He spoke of the grass, and flowers, and 
 trees, of the singing birds, and the humming bees; then talked of 
 the haying, and wondered whether the cloud in the west would 
 bring foul weather. And Maud forgot her briar- torn gown, and 
 her graceful ankles bare and brown ; and listened, while a pleased 
 surprise looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes. — At last, like one 
 who for delay seeks a vain excuse, he rode away I 
 
 Maud Mliller looked and sighed : " Ah me ! that I the Judge's 
 bride might be ! He would dress me up in silks so fine, and praise 
 and toast me at his wine. My father should wear a broad-cloth 
 coat ; my brother should sail a painted boat. I'd dress my mother 
 so grand and gay ! and the baby should have a new toy each day. 
 And I'd feed the hungry, and clothe the poor, and all should bless 
 me who left our door." 
 
 The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill, and saw Maud 
 Miiller standing still. " A form more fair, a face more sweet, ne'er 
 hath it been my lot to meet. And her modest answer and graceful 
 air, show her wise and good as she is fair. Would she were mine ! 
 and I to-day, like her, a harvester of hay : no doubtful balance of 
 rights and wrongs, and weary lawyers with endless tongues; but 
 low of cattle, and song of birds, and health of quiet and loving 
 words." Then he thought of his sisters, proud and cold ; and his 
 mother, vain of her rank and gold. So, closing his heart, the Judge 
 rode on, and Maud was left in the field alone. But the lawyers 
 smiled that afternoon, when he hummed in court an old love-tune ; 
 —and the young girl mused beside the well, till the rain on the 
 unraked clover fell. 
 
 He wedded a wife of richest dower, who lived for fashion, as he 
 for power. Yet oft in his marble hearth's bright glow, he watched 
 a picture come and go : and sweet Maud Miiller's hazel eyes looked 
 out in their innocent surprise. Oft when the wine in his glass was 
 red, he longed for the wayside well instead ; and closed his eyes on 
 his garnished rooms, to dream of meadows and clover blooms. And 
 the proud man sighed, with a secret pain: "Ah! that I were free 
 again ! free as when I rode that day, where the barefoot maiden 
 raked her hay." 
 
 She wedded a man uulearn'd and poor, and many children played 
 round her door. But care and sorrow, and household pain, left
 
 96 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 their traces ou heart and brain. And oft, when the Bummer-sun 
 shone hot on the new-mown hay in the meadow lot, m the shade of 
 the apple-tree, again she saw a Eider draw his rem: and, ga^mg 
 down with timid grace, she felt his pleased eyes read her face 
 Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls stret^ihed away into stately 
 hails; the wearv wheel to a spinnet turned, the tallow candle an 
 astral burned ; and, for him who sat by the chimney lug, dozing 
 and grumbling o'er pipe and mug, a manly form at her side she saw, 
 -and joy was duty, and love waB law! . . . Then she took up 
 her burden of Uf e again, saying only, " It might have been ! 
 
 Alas for Maiden! alas for Judge! for rich repmer, and house- 
 hold drudge! God pity them both! and pity us aU! who vainly 
 the dreams of youth recaU. For of all sad words of tongue or pen, 
 the saddest are these, " It might have been !" Ah, weU for us all, 
 some sweet hope lies deeply buried from human eyes ; and m the 
 hereafter, angels may roll the stone from its grave away. 
 
 THE WAERIORS OF THE SEA, 
 •;; Clement Scott. 
 
 Up goes the Lytham signal ! St. Anne's has summoned hands ! 
 Knee-deep in surf the life-boat's launched abreast of Southport sands! 
 Half-deafened by the screaming wind, half-blinded by the ram, 
 Three crews await their coxswains, and face the hurricane ! 
 The stakes are death or duty 1 No man has answered " No !" 
 Lives must be saved out yonder on the doomed ship Mexico I 
 Did ever night look blacker? did sea so hiss before? 
 Did ever women's voices wail more piteous on the shore? 
 Out from three ports of Lancashire that night went Ufe-boata three, 
 To fight a splendid battle, manned by Warriors of the Sea ! 
 
 Along the sands of Southport brave women held their breath 
 
 For they knew that those who loved them were fighting hard with 
 
 death; 
 A cheer went out from Lytham ! the tempest tossed it back, 
 As the gallant lads of Lancashire bent to the waves' attack ; 
 And girls who dwell about St. Anne's, with faces white with fright, 
 Prayed God would still the tempest, that dark December night 
 Sons, husbands, lovers, brothers, they'd given up their aU, 
 These noble English women heart-sick at duty's call ; 
 But not a cheer, or tear, or prayer, from those who bent the knee, 
 Came out across the waves, to nerve those Warriors of the Sea
 
 SELECTIONS FOB RE>DING AND RECITATION. 97 
 
 Three boats went out from Lancashire, but one came back to tell 
 
 The story of that hurricane, the tale of ocean's hell 1 
 
 All safely reached the Mexico, their trysting-place to keep ; 
 
 For one there was the rescue, the others in the deep 
 
 Fell in the arms of victory ! dropped to their lonely grave, 
 
 Their passing-bell the tempest, their requiem the wave ! 
 
 They clung to life like sailors, they fell to death like men, — 
 
 Where, in our roll of heroes, when in our story, when, 
 
 Have Englishmen been braver, or fought more loyally 
 
 With death that comes by duty to the Warriors of the Sea? 
 
 One boat came back to Lytham, its noble duty done; 
 
 But at St. Anne's and Southport the prize of death was won ! 
 
 Won by those gallant fellows, who went men's lives to save, 
 
 And died there crowned with glory, enthroned upon the wave ! 
 
 Within a rope's throw of the wreck the English sailors fell, 
 
 A blessing on their faithful lips, when ocean rang theii" knell. 
 
 Weep not for them, dear women ! cease wringing of your hands ! 
 
 Go out to meet your heroes across the Southport sands ! 
 
 Grim death for them is stingless! the grave has victory! 
 
 Cross oars and bear them nobly home, brave WaiTiors of the Sea 1 
 
 When in dark nights of winter, fierce storms of wind and rain 
 Howl round the cozy homestead, and lash the window-pane — 
 When over hill and tree-top we hear the tempests roar, 
 And hurricanes go sweeping on from valley to the shore — 
 When nature seems to stand at bay, and silent terror comes. 
 And those we love on earth the best are gathered in oiir homes — 
 Think of the sailors round the coast, who, braving sleet or snow, 
 Leave sweethearts, wives, and little ones, when duty bids them go I 
 Think of our sea-girt island I a harbour, where alone 
 No Englishman to save a life has failed to risk his own ! 
 Then when the storm howls loudest, pray of your charity 
 That God will bless the Life-boat, and the Warriors of the Sea I 
 (By special permission of the Author.) 
 
 SCENE FEOM ROB ROY. 
 
 Three Characters : Francis, Rashleigh, uTid Rob Rot. 
 
 Scene — The College Gardens, Glasgow. 
 
 Francis. You are well met, sir. 
 Rash. I am glad to hear it {Aside) 
 I expected, but Jobson is prepared. 
 
 (986) D
 
 88 SELECTIONS FOR BEADING AND RECITATION. 
 
 Fra^u^. I was about to take a long and doubtful journey in quest 
 
 °' S. You know little of him you sought, then. J^^^^^^^^ 
 by friends, and stiU more easily by my foes-m which am I to class 
 Mr Francis Osbaldistone 1 
 
 Francis. In that of your foes, sir-your mortal foes, unless you 
 instantly do justice to my father, by accounting for his property. _ 
 
 Zh\J. to whom am I, a member of your father's commercia 
 establishment, to be compelled to give an account o my P--ed^^^^^^ 
 Surely, not to a young gentleman whose exquisite taste for hteiature 
 would render such discussions disgustmg and unmteUigible. 
 
 FraL. Your sneer, sir, is no answer; you must accompany me 
 
 '^rf BeTso; yet_no-were I inclined to do as you would have 
 J you luld soon feel which of us had most reason to dread the 
 presence of a magistrate-but I have no wish to accelerate your fate. 
 Go young man ; amuse yourself in your world of poetical imagina- 
 S;, and leave ihe business of life to those who understand, and can 
 
 ''^r!t^': This tone of calm insolence shall not avail you, sir-the 
 name we both bear never yet submitted to insult. 
 
 Rash Right, right! you remind me that it waB dishonoured m 
 .y ; rso;iyo'u i^m J me also by whom. /Mn^you I h^e for 
 Jtten that blow-never to be washed out, but by blood? tor 
 h ™ou1 times you have crossed my path, and ^ways to n, 
 preiudice-for the persevering foUy with which you seek to traverse 
 prejuaice J ^ ^^-^^ neither know, nor are capable 
 
 schemes, the importance oi wuii.u j- i r „„ „^,+ ih^vf^ shall 
 
 of estimating-you oweone a long account; and, fear not. there shall 
 
 come an early day of reckoning. 
 
 FrZcls. Why not the present] Do your schemes or your safety 
 
 "Za'^u may trample on the hannless worm, but pause ere 
 you rouse the slumbering venom of the folded snake. 
 
 Francis. I will not be trifled with. T?PrPive 
 
 Rush I had other views respecting you! but enough! Receive 
 now the chastisement of your boyish insolence. 
 
 They draw, a.ul at the moment their swords cross Rob Roy rushes 
 forward and heats up their guard. 
 
 Rob. Hold! stand oflf! 
 
 1^-^t:ZLf my Wberl the fl.t man that .trike. HI 
 olive htot the brisket' (.To Fra,.U) Think you .. e.tabhsb
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 99 
 
 your father's credit by cutting your kinsman's throat? Or do yoa, 
 sir (to Rashleigh), imagine men will trust their lives, their fortunes, 
 and a great political interest with one that brawls about like a 
 drunken gillie? Nay, nay, never look grim, or gash at me, man I 
 If you're angry, turn the buckle of your belt behind you. 
 
 Roih. You presume, sir, on my present situation, or you would 
 hardly dare to interfere where my honour is concerned. 
 
 Rob, Presume/ And what for should it be presuming? Ye may 
 be the richer man, Mr. Osbaldistone, as is most likely, and ye may 
 be the more learned man, which I dispute not ; but you are neither 
 a better nor a braver man than myself; and it will be news to me, 
 indeed, when I hear you are half so good. And dare, too — dare I 
 Hout, tout I much daring there is about it. 
 
 Rash, (aside) What devil brought him here to mar a plan so well 
 devised ; I must lure him to the toils. 
 
 Rob. What say you ? 
 
 Rash. My kinsman will acknowledge he forced this on me. 
 I'm glad we were interrupted before I chastised his insolence too 
 severely. The quarrel was none of my seeking. 
 
 Rob. Well, then, walk with me — I have news for you. 
 
 Francis. Pardon me, sir ; I will not lose sight of him, till he has 
 done justice to my father. 
 
 Rob. Would you bring two on your head instead of one? 
 
 Francis. Twenty — rather than again neglect my duty. 
 
 Rash. You hear him, MacGregor I Is it my fault that he rushes 
 on his fate? The warrants are out. 
 
 Rob. Warrants ! Curses on all such instruments I they have beer 
 the plague of poor old Scotland for this hundred years — but, come 
 on't what will, I'll never consent to his being hurt that stands up for 
 the father that begot him. 
 
 Rash. Indeed I 
 
 Rob. My conscience will not let me. 
 
 Rash. Tour conscience, MacGregor I 
 
 Rob. Yes, my conscience, sir; I have such a thing about me ; that, 
 at least, is one advantage which you cannot boast of. 
 
 Rash. You forget how long you and I have known each other. 
 
 Rob. If you know what I am, you know likewise that usage made 
 me what I am ; and, whatever you may think, I would not change 
 with the proudest of the oppressors that have driven me to take the 
 heather bush for shelter. What j/ow are, and what excuse you have 
 for being what you are, lies between your own heart and the long 
 day.
 
 100 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 Rash, {aside) Can MacGregor suspect^ Has MacVittie betrayed 
 
 ""Ift. Leave him, I say 1 you are in more danger from a magistrate 
 than he is ; and were your cause as straight as an a-ow he d find a 
 way to warp it. {Francis perdsts in not leamng Bashleigh, but « 
 7Zheld by Rob Roy). Take your way, Eashleigh-make one pair 
 o" legs wofth two pair of hands. You have done tha before now 
 
 rLl Cousin, you may thank this gentleman if I leave any par 
 of m^ debt to you unpaid ; b.t I quit you now m the hope that we 
 shall soon meet again, without the possibility of interruption. 
 
 Ror{as Frani struggles to follow) As I live by bread, you are 
 as mad L he. Would you follow the wolf to his denj {p^.h.s Am 
 back) Come, come, be cool-'tis to me you must look for that you 
 seek Keep aloof from Kashleigh, and that pettifogging justice- 
 c erk, Jobson; above all, from MacVittie. Make the best of your 
 way Aberfoyle, and, by the word of a MacGregor, I will not see 
 you wronged! Remember the Clachan of Aberfoyle {shakes hu 
 hand with great cordiality). 
 
 BAEBAEA FEIETCHIE. 
 
 John G. Whittier. 
 
 Up from the meadows rich with corn, 
 Clear in the cool September morn, 
 The clustered spires of Frederick stand 
 Green-walled by the hiUs of Marylan.i. 
 Bound about them orchards sweep, 
 Apple and peach-tree fruited deep,— 
 Fair as a garden of the Lord 
 To the eyes of the famished rebel horde ; 
 Ou that pleasant morn of the early fall. 
 When Lee marched over the mountain wall,— 
 Over the mountains winding down, 
 Horse and foot, into Frederick Town. 
 
 Forty flags with their silver stars, 
 Forty flags with their crimson bars. 
 Flapped in the morning wind : the sun 
 Of noon looked down, and saw not one. 
 Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then 
 Bowed with her fourscore years and ten;
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 101 
 
 Bravest of all in Frederick Town, 
 
 She took up the flag the men hauled dowo : 
 
 In her attic window the stafl' she set, 
 
 To show that one heart was loyal yet. 
 
 Up the street came the rebel tread, 
 
 Stonewall Jackson riding ahead. 
 
 Under his sloucficd hat, left and right 
 
 He glanced : the old flag met his sight. 
 
 "Halt!" — the dust-brown ranks stood fast 
 
 " Fire ! "—out blazed the rifle-blast ; 
 
 It shivered the window, pane and sash, 
 
 It rent the banner with seam and gash. 
 
 Quick, as it fell from the broken staff", 
 
 Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf; 
 
 She leaned far out on the window-sill. 
 
 And shook it forth with a royal will. 
 
 " Shoot, if you must, this old grey he^d. 
 
 But spare your country's flag ! " she said. 
 
 A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, 
 
 Over the face of the leader came ; 
 
 The nobler nature within him stirred 
 
 To life at that woman's deed and word. 
 
 " Who touches a hair of yon grey head, 
 
 Dies like a dog ! March on ! " he said. 
 
 All day long through Frederick Street 
 
 Sounded the tread of marching feet ; 
 
 All day long that free flag 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 mors.. 
 
 Honour 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 I 
 
 Peace, and order, and beauty, draw 
 
 Round thy symbol of light and law : 
 
 And ever the stars above look down 
 
 On thy stars below in Frederick Tuwu!
 
 102 SELECTIONS TOR READING AND RECITATIOH 
 
 THE WATEEMILL. 
 Sarah Doudnbt. 
 
 Listen to the wateraiUl, through the Uvelong day, 
 
 How the clicking of its wheel wears the hours away I 
 
 Languidly the autumn winds stir the forest leaves; 
 
 From the field the reapers sing, binding up their sheaves; 
 
 And a proverb haunts my mind as a spell is caat : 
 
 " The mill cannot grind with the water that is past ". 
 
 Autumn winds revive no more leaves that once are shed, 
 
 And the sickle cannot reap corn once gathered ; 
 
 And the rippling stream flows on, tranquil, deep, and still, 
 
 Never gliding back again to the watermill. 
 
 Truly speaks the proverb old, with a meaning vast— 
 
 " The mill cannot grind with the water that is past ". 
 
 Take the lesson to thyself, true and loving heart; 
 
 Golden youth is fleeting by, summer hours depart ; 
 
 Learn to make the most of life, lose no happy day, 
 Time will never brmg thee back chances swept away ! 
 
 Leave no tender word unsaid, love while love shall last; 
 
 " The mill cannot grind with the water that is past ". 
 
 Work while yet the daylight shines, man of strength and willl 
 
 Never does the streamlet glide useless by the mill ; 
 
 Wait not till to-morrow's sun beams upon thy way. 
 
 All that thou canst call thine own lies in thy " to-day " ; 
 
 Power, and intellect, and health may not always last ; 
 
 " The mill cannot grind with the water that is past ". 
 
 O, the wasted hours of life that have drifted by I 
 
 o'the good we might have done lost without a sigh! 
 
 Fiove that we might once have sjived by a single word ; 
 
 Thoughts conceived but never penned, perishing unheard 1 
 
 Take the proverb to thine heart, take and hold it fast, 
 
 « The mill cannot grind with the water that is past ". 
 
 O love thy God and fellow man, thyself consider last ; 
 For come it will, when thou must scan dark errors of the past; 
 And when the light of life is o'er, and earth recedes from view, 
 And Heaven in all its glory shines on the pure, the good, the true 
 Ah, then thou'lt see more clearly still the proverb deep and vast, 
 "The mill cannot grind with the water that is i)ast". 
 {By special permission of Misa DowJ/ney.)
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 103 
 
 THE CHAECOAL MAN. 
 J. T. Trowbridge. 
 
 Though rudely blows the wintry blast, and sifting snows fall white 
 md fast, Mark Haley drives along the street, perched high upon 
 his waggon-seat : his sombre face the storm defies, and thus, from 
 morn till eve, he cries, — "Charco'l charco'l" while Echo, faint and 
 far, replies, — "Hark, 01 hark, O!" " Charco' ! " — " Hark, O!" — 
 Such cheery sounds attend him on his daily rounds. 
 
 The dust begrimes his ancient hat; his coat is darker far than 
 that : 'tis odd to see his sooty form all speckled with the feathery 
 storm ; yet, in his honest bosom, lies nor spot nor speck, — though 
 still he cries, — " Charco' 1 charco' 1 " and many a roguish lad replies, 
 "'Ark, ho! 'ark, ho!" "Charco'l" — "'Ark, ho!" — Such various 
 sounds announce Mark Haley's morning rounds. 
 
 Thus, all the cold and wintry day, he labours much for little pay; 
 yet feels no less of happiness than many a richer man, I guess ; 
 when, through the shades of eve, he spies the light of his own home, 
 and cries, — "Charco'l charco'l" and Martha, from the door, replies, 
 "Mark, hoi" "Mark, ho !"—" Charco' 1 "—" Mark, hoi"— Such joy 
 abounds when he has closed his daily rounds. 
 
 The hearth is warm, the fire is bright; and, while his hand, 
 washed clean and white, holds Martha's tender hand once more, his 
 glowing face bends fondly o'er the crib wherein his darling lies; 
 and, in a coaxing tone, he cries, — "Charco'l charco'l" and baby, 
 with a laugh, replies, — "Ah, gol ah, go!" "Charco'l" — "Ah, go!" 
 —while at the sounds the mother's heart with gladness bounds. 
 
 Then honoured be the Charcoal man 1 Though dusky as an 
 African, 'tis not for you, that chance to be a little better clad than 
 he, his honest manhood to despise, although, from morn till eve, he 
 cries, — " Charco' 1 charco' 1 " while mocking Echo still replies, — 
 "Hark, O! hark, 01" " Charco' !" — " Hark, O!"— Long may the 
 sounds proclaim Mark Haley's daily rounds I 
 
 NOTTMAN. 
 Alexander Anderson. 
 
 That was Nottman waving at me. 
 But the steam fell down, so you could not see ; 
 He is out to-d,ny with the fast express, 
 And running a mile in a minute, I guesa
 
 104 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 Danger? none in the least, for the way- 
 Is good, though the curves are sharp, as you say, 
 But, bless you, when trains are a little behind 
 They thunder around them— a match for the wind 
 
 Nottman himself is a demon to drive, 
 
 But cool and steady, and ever alive 
 
 To whatever danger is looming in front 
 
 When a train has run hard to gain time for a shunt. 
 
 But he once got a fear, though, that shook him with pait? 
 Like sleepers beneath the weight of a train. 
 I remember the story well, for you see 
 His stoker, Jack Martin, told it to me. 
 
 « Nottman had sent down the wife for a change 
 To the old folks living at Riverly Grange : 
 A quiet, sleepy sort of a town, 
 Save when the engines went up or down. 
 
 " For close behind it the railway ran 
 In a mile of a straight if a single span ; 
 Three bridges were over the straight, and between 
 Two the distant signal was seen. 
 
 " She had with her her boy— a nice little chit, 
 Full of romp, and mischief, and childish wit; 
 And every time that we thundered by 
 Both were out on the watch for Nottman and I. 
 
 " Well, one day," said Jack, " on our journey down, 
 Coming round on the straight at the back of the town, 
 I saw right ahead, in front of our track. 
 In the haze on the rail something dim-like and black. 
 
 « I looked over at Nottman, but ere I could speak 
 He shut oflf the steam, and with one wild shriek 
 A whistle took to the air with a bound ; 
 But the object in front never stirred at the sound. 
 
 ** In a moment he flung himself down on his knee, 
 Leant over the side of the engine to see. 
 Took one look, then sprang up, crying, breathless and pale. 
 ' Brake, Jack ; it is someone aaleep on the raill'
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION, 106 
 
 " The rear brakes were whistled on in a trice, 
 While I screwed on the tender-brake firm as a vice; 
 But still we tore on with this terrible thought 
 Sending fear to our hearts — Can we stop her or not? 
 
 " I took one look again, then sung out to my mate, 
 ' We can never draw up, we have seen it too late I ' 
 When sudden and swift, li&e the change in a dream, 
 Nottinan drew back the lever and flung on the steam. 
 
 " The great wheels staggered and span with the strain, 
 While the spray from the steam fell around us like rain ; 
 But we slackened our pace, till we saw with a wild 
 Throb at heart, right before us— a child ! 
 
 ' It was lying asleep on the rail, with no fear 
 Of the terrible death that was looming so near. 
 The sweat on us both broke as cold as the dew 
 Of death, as we questioned, — 'What can we do?' 
 
 " It was done — swift as acts that take place in a dream, 
 Nottman rushed to the front and knelt down on a beam, 
 Put one foot in the couplings ; the other he kept 
 Right in front of the wheel for the child that still slept. 
 
 " ' Saved ! ' I burst forth, my heart leaping with pride ; 
 For one touch of his foot sent the child to the side. 
 But Nottman looked up, his lips white as with foam ; 
 ' My God, Jack,' he cried, ' it's my own little Tom 1 ' 
 
 " He shrunk, would have slipped, but one grasp of my hand 
 Held him firm till the engine was brought to a stand; 
 Then I heard from behind a shriek take to the air, 
 And I knew that the voice of a mother was there. 
 
 " The boy was all right, had got off with a scratch ; 
 He had crept through the fence in his frolic to watch 
 For his father; but, wearied with mischief and play, 
 Had fallen aaleep on the rail where he lay. 
 
 ' For days after that, on our journey down, 
 Ere he came to the straight at the back of the town, 
 A.8 if the signal was up, with its gleam of red, 
 Nottman always shut off the steam." 
 
 (From "Songs of the Rail ", by tpecial permitnon oftlie Author.) 
 (996) D2
 
 106 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 THURLOW'S REPLY TO THE DUKE OF GRAFTON. 
 
 My lords, I am amazed, yes, my lords, I am amazed at his gi-ace's 
 speech The noble duke cannot look before him, behind him, or on 
 either side of him, without seeing some noble peer who owes his 
 seat in this house to his successful exertions in the profession to 
 which I belong. Does he not feel that it is as honourable to owe it 
 to these, as to being the accident of an accident? To all these noble 
 lords the lancniage of the noble duke is as applicable and as msultmg 
 as it is to myself. But I do not fear to meet it single and alone. No 
 one venerates the peerage more than I do ; but, my lords, I must say 
 that the peerage solicited me, not I the peerage. Nay, more, I can and 
 will say, that as a peer of parliament, as speaker of this right honour- 
 able house, as keeper of the great seal, as guardian of his majesty s 
 conscience, as lord high chancellor of England, nay, even m that char- 
 acter alone in which the noble duke would think it an aflront to be 
 considered but which character none can deny me, as a man, I am 
 at this moment as respectable, I beg leave to add, as much respected, 
 AS the proudest peer I now look down upon. 
 
 THE LAY OF THE BRAVE CAMERON. 
 
 John Stuart Blackib. 
 
 At Quatre Bras, when the fight ran high, 
 
 Stout Cameron stood with wakeful eye, 
 
 Eager to leap, like a mettlesome hound, 
 
 Into the fray with a plunge and a bound. 
 
 But Wellington, lord of the cool command, 
 
 Held the reins with a steady hand. 
 
 Saying, " Cameron, wait, you'll soon have enough. 
 
 Giving the Frenchmen a taste of your stuff, 
 
 When the Cameron men are wanted". 
 
 Now hotter and hotter the battle grew 
 With tramp, and rattle, and wild halloo. 
 And the Frenchmen poured like a fiery flood 
 Right on the ditch where Cameron stood ; 
 Then Wellington flashed from his steadfast stance 
 On his captain brave a lightning glance. 
 Saying, " Cameron, now have at them, boy; 
 Take caie of the road to Charleroi, 
 Where the Cameron men are wanted".
 
 8ELECTI0KS FOR READIHO AND RECITATION. 107 
 
 Brave Cameron shot, like a shaft from a bow, 
 
 Into the midst of the plunging foe, 
 
 And with him the lads whom he loved, like a torrent 
 
 Sweeping the rocks in its foaming current; 
 
 And he fell the first in the fervid fray, 
 
 Where a deathful shot had shore its way; 
 
 But his men pushed on where the work was rough. 
 
 Giving the Frenchmen a taste of their stuff, 
 
 Where the Cameron men are wanted. 
 
 Brave Cameron then, from the battle's roar 
 His foster-brother stoutly bore, 
 His foster-brother, with service true, 
 Back to the village of Waterloo ; 
 And they laid him on the soft green sod. 
 And he breathed his spirit there to God, 
 But not till he heard the loud hurrah 
 Of victory bellowed from Quatre Bras, 
 Where the Cameron men were wanted. 
 
 By the road to Ghent they buried him theit, 
 
 This noble chief of the Cameron men ; 
 
 And not an eye was tearless seen 
 
 That day beside the alley green : 
 
 Wellington wept, the iron man, 
 
 And from every eye in the Cameron clan 
 
 The big round drop in bitterness fell, 
 
 As with the pipes he loved so well 
 
 His funeral wail they chanted. 
 
 And now he sleeps (for they bore him home 
 When the war was done across the foam) 
 Beneath the shadow of Nevis Ben, 
 With his sires, the pride of the Cameron men. 
 Three thousand Highlandmen stood around 
 As they laid him to rest in his native ground 
 The Cameron brave, whose eye never quailed, 
 Whose heart never sank, and whose hand never faile<1 
 When a Cameron man was wanted. 
 
 {Bi/ special permittlon ofthr AvXhor.i
 
 ^08 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATlCfi. 
 
 ORA PRO NOBIS. 
 
 A. HORSPOOL. 
 
 Out of the daik and dreary street; 
 Out of the cold anJ driving sleet ; 
 Into the church the folk had gone, 
 Leaving the orphan child alone. 
 Tattered, and so forlorn was she, 
 They cross'd themselves as they pass'd, to see 
 So frail a chUd in that gi-ievoua plight, 
 On such a relentless and stormy night 1 
 Ora pro nobis. 
 
 Banned by hoot of churlish owl, 
 Into the lone churchyard she stole ; 
 Over the grave where her mother lay, 
 Clasping her hands she knelt to pray : 
 " Mother ! if thou in Heaven can'st hear 
 Thine orphan breathing her mournful prayer , 
 Oh, take thy child to thyself again 1" 
 The worshippers answered in sweet refrain : 
 Ora pro nobis. 
 
 Into the cold and driving sleet ; 
 Into the dark and dreary street ; 
 Out of the church the people came. 
 Starting, aghast ! as the sombre flame 
 Fell on the frail and slender form 
 Which knelt, unmoved by the moaning stcrm; 
 For while they prayed, the angels had come. 
 And taken the soul of the orphan home. 
 Ora pro nobis. 
 (By .f^ial pe^-misdon of Afessrs. Orsborn & Co., 61 Berners Street, I^iuUm, W 
 from whom musical accompamment may be had- ) 
 
 THE LAST HYMN. 
 
 Marianne Fa rn in oh am. 
 
 The Sabbath day was ending in a village by the sea, 
 
 The uttered benediction touched the people tenderly ; 
 
 And they rose to face the sunset, in the glowing hghted west. 
 
 And then hastened to their dwellings for God's ble.se<l boon of rest
 
 SELECTIONS FOR EEADINO AND RECITATION. 109 
 
 But they looked across the waters, and a storm was raging there ; 
 
 A fierce spirit moved above them, the wild spirit of the air — 
 
 And it lashed, and shook, and tore them, till they thundered, groaned 
 
 and boomed. 
 And, alas ! for any vessel in their yawning gulfs entombed. 
 
 Very anxious were the people, on that rocky coast of Wales, 
 Lest the dawns of coming morrows should be telling awful tales : 
 When the sea had spent its passion, and should cast up on the shore 
 Bits of wreck, and swollen victims, as it had done oft before. 
 
 With the rough winds blowing round her, a brave woman strained 
 
 her eyes. 
 And she saw along the billows, a large vessel fall and rise, 
 Oh ! it did not need a prophet to tell what the end must be, 
 For no ship could ride in safety near that shore on such a sea. 
 
 Then the pitying people hurried from their homes, and thronged 
 
 the beach — 
 Oh ! for power to cross the waters, and the perishing to reach ! 
 Helpless hands were wrung for sorrow, tender hearts grew cold with 
 
 dread, 
 And the ship, urged by the tempest, to the fatal rock shore sped. 
 
 " She has parted in the middle ! oh, the half of her goes down ! 
 God have mercy ! is His heaven far to seek for those who drown?" 
 liO I when next the white, shocked faces looked with terror on the sea. 
 Only one last clinging victim on a spar was seen to be. 
 
 Nearer to the trembling watchers came the wreck tossed by the 
 
 wave ; 
 And the man still clung and floated, though no power on earth could 
 
 save. 
 Could we send him a short message? Here's a trumpet — "Shout 
 
 away !" 
 'Twas the preacher's hand that took it, and he wondered what to say. 
 
 Any memory of bis sermon? Firstly? Secondly? Ah,nol 
 There was but one thing to utter in that awful hour of woe ; 
 So he shouted through the trumpet : "Look to Jesus ; can yon hear?" 
 And — "Ay, ay, sir," rang the answer o'er the waters loud and clear. 
 
 Then they listened. He is singing — "Jesus, Lover of my soul"; 
 And the wind brought back the echo— "While the nearer waters 
 roll ".
 
 110 SELECTIONS FOB READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 Strange indeed it was to hear him-"TiU the storm of life is pa^f', 
 Singing bravely from the waters— "Oh, receive my soul at last". 
 
 He could have no other refuge-" Hangs my helpless soul on Thee; 
 Leave, oh, leave me not" . The singer dropped at last into the 
 
 sea ; 
 And the watchers, looking homeward through their eyes by tears 
 
 made dim, ^, 
 
 Said, " He passed to be with Jesus, in the singing of that hymn. ' 
 
 THE BISHOP AND THE CATEEPILLAR. 
 
 From " The Boys' Own Paper". 
 
 The Bishop sat in the Schoolmaster's chair : 
 
 The Eector, and curates two, were there, 
 
 The Doctor, the Squire, the heads of the choir, 
 
 And the gentry around of high degree, 
 
 A highly distinguished company ; 
 
 For the Bishop was greatly beloved in his See I 
 
 And there, below, 
 
 A goodly show. 
 Their faces with soap and with pleasure aglow, 
 Sat the dear little school chUdren, row upon row ; 
 For the Bishop had said ('twas the death-blow to schism f, 
 He would hear those dear children their Catechism. 
 
 I think I have read. 
 Or at least heard it said : 
 " Boys are always in mischief, unless they're in bed." 
 
 I put it to you, 
 
 I don't say it's true ; 
 But if you should ask for my own private view, 
 I should answer at once, without further ado, 
 " I don't think a boy can be trusted to keep 
 From mischief in bed— unless he's asleep 1 " 
 
 But the Schoolmaster's eye hath a magic spell, 
 And the boys were behaving remarkably well— 
 For boys ; and the girls— but 'tis needless to say 
 Their conduct was perfect in eveiy way ; 
 For I'm sure 'tis well known in all ranks of society, 
 That girls always behave with the utmost propriety
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. Ul 
 
 Now the Bishop arises, and waves his hand ; 
 
 And the childi-en prepared for his questions stand : 
 
 With dignified mien and solemn look 
 
 He slowly opened his ponderous book, 
 
 And proceeded at once the knowledge to try 
 
 Of those nice little children standing by. 
 
 Each child knew its name 
 
 And who gave it the same, 
 And all the rest of the questions profound 
 Which his Lordship was pleased to the school to propound 
 They knew the date when our Queen was crowned, 
 And the number of pence which make up a pound ; 
 And the oceans and seas which our island bound ; 
 That the earth is nearly, but not quite, round ; 
 Their orthography, also, was equally sound, 
 And the Bishop at last, completely astound — ed, — cried • 
 " You bright little dears, no question can trouble you, 
 You've spelled knife with a *k', and wrong with a 'w*. 
 
 "And now that my pleasing task's at an end, 
 
 I trust you will make of me a friend : 
 
 YouVe answered my questions, and 'tis but fair 
 
 That I in replying should take a share ; 
 
 So if there is aught you would like to know, 
 
 Pray ask me about it before I go. 
 
 " I'm sure it would give me the greatest pleasure 
 To add to your knowledge, for learning's a treasure 
 Which you never can lose and which no one can steal ; 
 It gi'ows by imparting, so do not feel 
 
 Afraid or shy, 
 
 But boldly tr>-, 
 Which is the cleverer, you or II" 
 
 Thus amusement with learning judiciously blending, 
 
 His Lordship made of his speech an ending, 
 
 And a murmur went round, "How condescendiv.g'*" 
 
 But one bright httle boy didn't care a jot 
 
 If his Lordship were condescending or not ; 
 
 For, with scarce a pause 
 
 For the sounds of applause, 
 
 He raised his head. 
 
 And abruptly said : 
 " How many legs liag a caterpillar got?"
 
 112 SELECTIOXS FOB READING AND RECITATIOH 
 
 NoM the Bishop was a learned man — 
 
 Bishops always were since the race began — 
 
 But his knowledge in that particular line 
 
 Was less than yours, and no greater than mtne ; 
 
 And, except that he knew the creature could crawl 
 
 He knew nothing about its legs at all — 
 
 Whether the number were gi'eat or small, 
 
 One hundred, or five, or sixty, or six — 
 
 So he felt in a pretty consid'rable fix 1 
 
 But, resolving his ignorance to hide, 
 
 In measured tones he thus replied : 
 
 " The caterpillar, my dear little boy, 
 
 Is an emblem of life and a vision of joy ! 
 
 It bursts from its shell on a bright green leaf. 
 
 It knows no care, and it feels no grief." 
 
 Then he turned to the Kector and whispered low, 
 
 " Mr. Rector, how many ? You surely know." 
 
 But the Rector gravely shook his head, 
 
 He hadn't the faintest idea, he said. 
 
 So the Bishop turned to the class again, 
 
 And in tones paternal took up the strain ; 
 
 " The caterpillar, dear children, see, 
 
 On its bright green leaf from care lives free, 
 
 And it eats and eats, and it grows and grows, 
 
 (Just ask the Schoolmaster if he knows)." 
 
 But the Schoolmaster said that that kind of knowledga 
 
 Was not the sort he had learned at college. 
 
 "And when it has eaten enough, then soon 
 
 It spins for itself a soft cocoon, 
 
 And then it becomes a chrysalis — 
 
 I wonder which child can spell me this. 
 
 'Tis rather a difficult word to spell — 
 
 (Just ask the Schoolmistress if she can tell)." 
 
 But the Schoolmistress said, as she shook her grey curls. 
 
 " She considered such things were not pi'opcr for girls.'' 
 
 The word was spelled, and spelled quite right, 
 Those nice little boys were so awfully bright! 
 And the Bishop began to get into a fright. 
 His face gi-ew red — it was formerly white — 
 A?\d the hair on his head stood nearly upriglit;
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION, 113 
 
 So he said to the Beadle, " Go down in the etreel^ 
 
 And stop all the people you chance to meet, 
 
 I don't care who, 
 
 Any one will do ; 
 
 The little boys playing with marbles and topa. 
 
 Or respectable people who deal at the shops; 
 
 The crossing sweeper, the organ-grinder, 
 
 Or the fortune-teller if you can find her. 
 
 Ask any or all, 
 
 Short or tall. 
 
 Great or small, it matters not — 
 
 How many legs has a caterpillar got?" 
 
 The Beadle bowed and was off like a shot. 
 
 "The caterpillar is doomed to sleep 
 
 For mouths — a slumber long and deep, 
 
 Brown and dead 
 
 It looks, 'tis said. 
 
 It never even requires to be fed ; 
 
 And except that sometimes it waggles its head, 
 
 Your utmost efforts would surely fail 
 
 To distinguish the creature's head from its tail! 
 
 " But one morning in spring, 
 
 When birds loudly sing. 
 
 And the earth is gay with blossoming; 
 
 When the violets blue 
 
 Are wet with dew. 
 
 And the sky weai-s the sweetest cerulean liue ' 
 
 " When on all is seen 
 
 The brightest sheen — 
 
 When the daisies are white, and the grass is green ; 
 
 Then the chrysalis breaks, 
 
 The insect awakes, — 
 
 To the realms of air its way it takes ; 
 
 It did not die. 
 
 It soars on high, 
 
 A bright and a beauteous butterfly!" 
 
 Here he paused and wiped a tear from his eye; 
 
 The Beadle was quietly standing by. 
 
 And perceiving the lecture had reached its close, 
 
 Whispered, softly and sadly, "Nobody knows!"
 
 14 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 The Bishop saw his last hope was vain, 
 But to make the best of it he was fain : 
 So he added, " Dear children, we ever should be 
 Prepared to learn from all we see, 
 And the beautiful thoughts of home and joy 
 Fill the heart, I know, of each girl and boy 
 Oh, ponder on these, and you will not care 
 To know the exact allotted share 
 Of legs the creature possessed at its birth, 
 When it crawled a meari worm on this lowly earth. 
 Yet, if you know it, you now may tell, 
 Your answers so far have pleased me well." 
 Then he looked around with benignant eye, 
 Nor long did he wait for the reply, 
 For the bright little boy, witli a countenance gay, 
 Said, "Six, for I counted 'em yesterday 1" 
 
 Moral. 
 
 " To all who have children under their care," 
 
 Of two things, nay, three things, I pray you beware - 
 
 Don't let them go in for examination, 
 
 Unless you have given them due prepai'ation, 
 
 Or the questions, asked with the kindest intention, 
 
 May be rather a strain on their powers of invention. 
 
 Don't pretend you know everything under the sun, 
 
 Though your school-days are ended, and theirs but begun. 
 
 But honestly say, when the case is so, 
 
 "This thing, my dear children, I do not know"; 
 
 For they really must learn, either slower or speedier, 
 
 That you're not a walking Encyclopedia ! 
 
 (By special permission of the Proprielort. ) 
 
 THE SISTERS. 
 J. G. Whittier. 
 
 Annie and Rhoda, sisters twain, 
 Woke in the night to the sound of rain, 
 The rush of wind, the ramp and roar 
 Of great waves climbing a rocky shore. 
 Annie rose up in her bed-gown white. 
 And looked out into the storm and night, 
 "Ilush, and hearken !" she cried in fear, 
 "Hearest thou nothing, sister dear?"
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION ilo 
 
 " I hear the sea, and the plash of rain, 
 
 And roar of the north-east hurricane 
 
 Get thee back to the bed so warm, 
 
 No good comes of watching a storm. 
 
 What is it to thee, I fain would know, 
 
 That waves are roaring and wild winds blow ^ 
 
 No lover of thine's afloat to miss 
 
 The harbour lights on a night like this." 
 
 " But I heard a voice cry out my name, 
 Up from the sea on the wind it came I 
 Twice and thrice have I heard it call, 
 And the voice is the voice of Estwick Hall!'' 
 
 On her pillow the sister tossed her head, 
 
 " Hall of the Heron is safe," she said. 
 
 " In the tautest schooner that ever swam, 
 
 He rides at anchor in Anisquam. 
 
 And, if in peril from swamping sea 
 
 Or lee-shore rocks, would he call on thee?" 
 
 But the girl heard only the wind and tide, 
 
 And, wringing her small white hands, she criwi 
 
 "O, Sister Rhoda, there's something wrong; 
 
 I hear it again, so loud and long. 
 
 ' Annie ! Annie ! ' I hear it call, 
 
 And the voice is the voice of Estwick Hall !" 
 
 Up sprang the elder, with eyes aflame, 
 "Thou liest! He never would call thy name; 
 If he did, I would pray the wind and sea 
 To keep him for ever from thee and me !" 
 Then out of the sea blew a dreadful blast ; 
 Like the cry of a dying man it passed. 
 
 The young girl hushed on her lips a groan, 
 But through her tears a strange light shone— 
 The solemn joy of her heart's release 
 To own and cherish its love in peace. 
 
 " Dearest," she whispered, under breath, 
 " Life was a lie, but true is death. 
 The love I hid from myself away 
 Shall crown me now in the light of day 
 My ears shall never to wooer list, 
 Never by lover my Lips be kissed.
 
 il6 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 Sacred to thee am I henceforth, 
 Thou in heaven, and I on earth ! " 
 
 She came and stood by her sister's bed : 
 "Hall of the Heron is dead !" she said, 
 " The wind and the waves their woik have don; 
 We shall see him no more beneath the sun. 
 Little will reck that heart of thine, 
 It loved him not with a love like mine. 
 I for his sake, were he but here. 
 Could hem and broider thy bridal gear, 
 Though hands should tremble and eyes be wet,. 
 And stitch for stitch in my heart be set. 
 But now my soul with his soul I wed ; 
 Thine the living, and mine the dead." 
 
 THE VILLAGE CHOIR. 
 
 Anon. 
 
 Half a bar, half a bar. 
 
 Half a bar onward ! 
 Into an awful ditch 
 Choir and precentor hitch, 
 Into a mess of pitch 
 They led the Old Hundred. 
 Trebles to right of them, 
 Tenors to left of them. 
 Basses in front of them 
 
 Bellowed and thundered. 
 Oh ! that precentor's look. 
 When the sopranos took 
 Their own time and hook 
 
 From the Old Hundred. 
 
 Screeched all the trebles here, 
 Boggled the tenors there, 
 liaising the parson's hair, 
 
 While his mind wandered; 
 Theirs not to reason why 
 This psalm was pitched too hif/h ; 
 Theirs but to gasp and cry 
 
 Out the Old Hundred.
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 117 
 
 Trebles to right of them, 
 Tenors to left of them, 
 Basses in front of them 
 
 Bellowed and thundered. 
 Stormed they with shout and yeli. 
 Not wise they sang nor well, 
 Drowning the aeiton's bell, 
 
 While all the church wondered. 
 
 Dire the precentor's glare, 
 Flashed his pitchfork in air. 
 Sounding fresh keys to bear 
 
 Out the Old Hundred. 
 Swiftly he turned his back. 
 Reached he his hat from rack. 
 Then from the screaming pack 
 
 Himself he sundered. 
 Tenors to right of him, 
 Trebles to left of him, 
 Discords behind him 
 
 Bellowed and thundered. 
 Oh ! the wild howls they wrought ; 
 Right to the end they fought ! 
 Some tune they sang, but not. 
 
 Not the Old Hundred. 
 
 THE BOBOLINK. 
 Thb Aldine. 
 
 Once on a golden afternoon. 
 
 With radiant faces and hearts in tune, 
 
 Two fond lovers, in dreamy mood. 
 
 Threaded a rural soUtude. 
 
 Wholly happy, they only knew 
 
 That the earth was bright, and the sky was blue 
 
 That light and beauty and joy and song 
 
 Charmed the way as they passed along. 
 
 The air was fragrant with woodland scents 
 
 The squirrel frisked on the roadside fence ; 
 
 And hovering near them, "Chee, chee, chink?" 
 
 Queried the curious bobolink.
 
 118 SELECTIONS FOR READING JLND RECITATION. 
 
 Pausing and peering with sidelong head, 
 As saucily questioning all they said ; 
 While the oxeye danced on its slender stem. 
 And all glad nature rejoiced with them. 
 
 Over the odorous fields were strewn 
 
 Wilting winrows of grass new mown, 
 
 And rosy billows of clover bloom 
 
 Surged in the sunshine and breathed perfume. 
 
 Swinging low on a slender limb 
 
 The sparrow warbled his wedding hymn. 
 
 And balancing on a blackberry briar, 
 
 The bobolink sung with his heart on fire — 
 
 " Chink ; if you wish to kiss her, do ; 
 
 Do it ! do it 1 you coward, you ; 
 
 Kiss her; kiss her. Who will seel 
 
 Only we three — we three, we three." 
 
 Tender garlands of drooping vines, 
 Through dim vistas of sweet-breathed pines. 
 Past wide meadow fields, lately mowed, 
 Wandered the indolent country-road. 
 The lovers followed it, listening still. 
 And, loitering slowly as lovers will, 
 Entered a grey-roofed bridge that lay 
 Dusk and cool in the pleasant way. 
 Fluttering brightly from brink to brink 
 Followed the garrulous bobolink, 
 Rallying loudly, with mirthful din. 
 The pair who lingered unseen within. 
 
 And when from the friendly bridge at last 
 Into the road beyond they passed, 
 Again beside her the tempter went, 
 Keeping the thread of his argument — 
 " Kiss her, kiss her— chink-a-chee-chee ; 
 I'll not mention it; don't mind me; 
 I'll be sentinel — I can see 
 All around from the tall birch tree." 
 
 But ah ! they noted nor deemed it strange. 
 In his rollicking chorus a trifling change: 
 (' Do itl— do itl" with might and main 
 Warbled the tell-tale—" Do it again I"
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 119 
 
 THE THEEE BELLS. 
 J. G. Whittier, 
 
 Beneath the low-hung night cloud that raked her splintering mast 
 
 The good ship settled slowly, the cruel leak gained fast. 
 
 Over the awful ocean her signal guns pealed out. 
 
 Dear God 1 was that thy answer from the horror round about? 
 
 A voice came down the wild wind, " Ho ! ship ahoy !" its cry, 
 " Our stout Three Bells of Glasgow shall stand till daylight by 1 " 
 Hour after hour crept slowly, yet on the heaving swells 
 Tossed up and down the shiplights, the lights of the Three Bells 1 
 
 And ship to ship made signals, man answered back to man, 
 While oft, to cheer and hearten, the Three Bells nearer ran ; 
 And the captain from her tafFrail sent down his hopeful cry, 
 " Take heart 1 Hold on I" he shouted, " The Three Bells shall stand 
 byl" 
 
 All night across the waters the tossing lights shone clear ; 
 All night from reeling taflfrail the Three Bells sent her cheer. 
 And when the dreary watches of storm and darkness passed, 
 Just as the wreck lurched under, all souls were saved at last. 
 
 Sail on, Three Bells, forever, in grateful memory sail 1 
 
 Ring on. Three Bells of rescue, above the wave and gale ! 
 
 As thine in night and tempest, I hear the Master's cry. 
 
 And, tossing through the darkness, the lights of God draw nigh 1 
 
 THE RELIEF OF LUCKNOW. 
 R T. S. Lowell. 
 
 Oh I that last day in Lucknow fort I 
 
 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 : 
 It was one day more, of smoke and riar, 
 
 And then it would all be done. 
 
 There was one of us, a corporal's wife, 
 A fair young gentle thing,
 
 120 8ELECTI0NS FOR READING AND KECIXATION. 
 
 Wastfd with fever in the siege, 
 And her mind was wandering. 
 
 She lay on the ground in her Scottish plaid. 
 
 And 1 took her head on my knee. 
 " When my father comes hame frae the pkugh," she said, 
 
 " Oh 1 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 open door, 
 
 And the mother's wheel is stayed. 
 
 It was smoke, and roar, and powder stench, 
 
 And hopeless waiting for death ; 
 Bat the soldier's wife, like a full tired child, 
 
 Seemed scarce to draw her breath. 
 
 1 sank to sleep, and I had my dream. 
 
 Of an English village-lane. 
 And wall, and garden — a sudden scream 
 
 Brought me back to the roar again. 
 
 Tlien Jessie Brown stood listening, 
 
 And then a broad gladness broke 
 All over her face, and she took my hand 
 
 And drew me near and spoke : 
 
 •'Tlii' Highlanders; oh, dinna ye hear 
 
 The slogan far awa — 
 The MacGregors? Ah I I ken it weel ; 
 
 It's the grandest o' them a'; 
 
 God bless thae bonnie Highlanders 1 
 We're saved 1 we're saved !" 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 : but the rattling fire 
 
 Far ofi" and tho far- oft' roar 
 Were all ; and the colonel shook his head. 
 
 And they turned to their guns once mora.
 
 SELECTION'S FOR READING AND RECITATION. 127 
 
 Then Jessie said : " That slogan's dune ; 
 
 But can ye no hear them, noo ? — 
 The Campbells are coming ! It's no a dream ? 
 
 Our succours hae broken through ! " 
 
 We heard the roar and the rattle afar, 
 
 But the pipes 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 pipes of the Highlanders, 
 And now they play'd " Auld Langsyne " ; 
 
 It came to our men like the voice of God, 
 And they shouted along the line. 
 
 And they wept and shook one another's hands, 
 
 And the women sobb'd in a crowd; 
 And everyone knelt down where we stood, 
 
 And we all thanked God aloud. 
 
 That happy day when we welcomed them 
 
 Our men put Jessie first ; 
 And the general took her hand, and cheers 
 
 From the men, like a volley, burst. 
 
 And the pipers' ribbons and tartan stream'd. 
 
 Marching round and round our line ; 
 And our joyful cheers were broken with tears. 
 
 For the pipes played "Auld Langsyne". 
 
 CUEEAN ON FEEEDOM. 
 
 I put it to your oaths : — do you think that a blessing of that kind 
 — that a victory obtained by justice over bigotry and oppression — 
 should have a stigma cast upon it, by an ignominious sentence upon 
 men bold and honest enough to propose that measure? — to propose 
 the redeeming of religion from the abuses of the Church, the re- 
 claiming of three millions of men from bondage, and giving liberty 
 to all who had a right to demand it? — giving, I say, in the so much 
 censured words of this paper, giving " Universal Emancipation" ! I
 
 122 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 speak in the spirit of the British law, which makes liberty commen- 
 surate with, and inseparable from British soil; which proclaims, 
 even to the stranger and sojourner, the moment he sets his foot 
 upon British earth, that the ground on which he treads is holy, and 
 consecrated by the genius of Universal Emancipation. No matter 
 in what language his doom may have been pronounced ; no matter 
 what complexion, incompatible with freedom, an Indian or an 
 African sun may have burnt upon him ; no matter in what disas- 
 trous battle his liberty may have been cloven down; no matter 
 with what solemnities he may have been devoted upon the altar 
 of slavery ;— the first moment he touches the sacred soil of Britain, 
 the altar and the god sink together in the dust; his soul walks 
 abroad in her own majesty; his body swells beyond the measure 
 of the chains that burst from around him; and he stands— re- 
 deemed, regenerated, and disenthralled, by the irresistible genius 
 of "Universal Emancipation ". 
 
 BEAUTIFUL CHILD. 
 
 W. A. H. SiGOURNET. 
 
 Beautiful child by thy mother's knee. 
 
 In the mystic future what wilt thou he'i 
 
 A demon of sin, or an angel sublime — 
 
 A poisonous Upas, or innocent thyme — 
 
 A spiiit of evil flashing doivn 
 
 With the lurid light of a fiery crown — 
 
 Or gliding up with a shining track, 
 
 Like the morning star that ne'er looks back. 
 
 Daintiest dreamer that ever smiled, 
 
 Which wilt thou be, ray beautiful child? 
 
 Beautiful child in my garden bowers, 
 Friend of the butterflies, birds and flowere, 
 Pure as the sparkling crystalline stream, 
 Jewels of truth in thy fairy eyes beam. 
 Was there ever a whiter soul than thine 
 Worshipped by love in a mortal shrine? 
 My heart thou hast gladdened for two sweet years 
 With rainbows of hope through mists of tears- 
 Mists beyond which thy sunny smile, 
 With its halo of glory, beams the while.
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 123 
 
 Beautiful child, to thy look is given 
 
 A gleam serene — not of earth, but of heaven ; 
 
 With thy tell-tale eyes and prattling tongue, 
 
 Would thou could'st ever thus be young, 
 
 Like the liquid strain of the mocking-bird, 
 
 From stair to hall thy voice is heard ; 
 
 How oft in the garden nooks thou'rt found, 
 
 With flowers thy curly head around, 
 
 Ajid kneeling beside me with figure so quaint, 
 
 Oh ! who would not dote on my infant saint I 
 
 Beautiful child, what thy fate shall be. 
 Perchance is wisely hidden from me ; 
 A fallen star thou ma^st leave my side, 
 And of sorrow and shame become the bride — 
 Shivering, quivering, through the cold street, 
 With a curse behind and before thy feet. 
 Ashamed to live, and afraid to die ; 
 No home, no friend, and a pitiless sky. 
 Merciful Father — my brain grows wild — 
 Oh 1 keep from evil my beautiful child I 
 
 Beautiful child, may'st thou soar above, 
 
 A warbling cherub of joy and love; 
 
 A drop on eternity's mighty sea, 
 
 A blossom on life's immortal tree — 
 
 Bloating, flowering evermore, 
 
 In the blessed light of the golden shore. 
 
 And as I gaze on thy sinless bloom 
 
 And thy radiant face, they dispel my gloom ; 
 
 I feel He will keep thee undefiled. 
 
 And his love protect my beautiful child, 
 
 MA.BEL MARTIN. 
 
 J. G. Whittieb. 
 
 It was the pleasant harvest time, when cellar-bins are closely 
 stowed, and garrets bend beneath their load, and the old swallow- 
 haunted bams, brown gabled, long, and full of seams through which 
 the moted sunlight streams, are filled with summer's ripened stores ; 
 its odorous grass and barley sheaves, from their low scafi"olds to their 
 eaves. On Esek Harden's oaken floor — with many an autumn 
 threshing worn — lay the heaped ears of unhusked corn ; and thither
 
 124 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 came young men and maids, beneath a moon that, large and low, 
 lit that sweet eve of long ago. They took their places ; some by 
 chance, and others by a merry voice or sweet smile guided to their 
 choice. But still the sweetest voice was mute that I'iver valley ever 
 heard from lip of maid or throat of bird; for Mabel Martin sat 
 apart and let the hay-moon's shadow fall upon the loveliest face 
 of aU. She sat apart, aa one forbid, who knew that none would 
 condescend to own the witch-wife's child a friend. Few questioned 
 of the sorrowing child, or, when they saw the mother die, dreamed 
 of the daughter's agony; sore tried and pained, the poor girl kept 
 her faith, and trusted that her way, so dark, would somewhere meet 
 the day. So in the shadow Mabel sits, untouched by mirth she 
 sees and hears, her smile is sadder than her tears; but cruel eyes 
 have found her out, and cruel lips repeat her name, and taunt hei 
 with her mother's shame. She answered not with railing words, 
 but drew her apron o'er her face, and, sobbing, glided from the 
 place, and only pausing at the door, her sad eyes met the troubled 
 gaze of one who, in her better days, had been her warm and steady 
 friend, ere yet her mother's doom had made even Esek Harden half 
 afraid. He felt that mute appeal of tears, and, starting, with an 
 angry frown hushed all the wicked murmurs down — " Good neigh- 
 bours mine," he sternly said, " this passes harmless mirth or jest ; I 
 brook no insult to my guest. She is indeed her mother's child ; but 
 God's sweet pity ministers unto no whiter soul than hers. Let Goody 
 Martin rest in peace; I never knew her harm a fly, and witch or not, 
 God knows, not I. I know who swore her life away ; and as 
 God lives, I'd not condemn an Indian dog on word of them." The 
 broadest lands on all the town, the skill to guide, the power to awe, 
 were Harden's ; and his word was law. None dared withstand him 
 to his face, but one sly maiden spoke aside : " The little witch is 
 evil-eyed ! Her mother only killed a cow, or witched a churn or 
 dairy pan; biit she forsooth must charm a man!" Poor Mabel, in 
 her lonely home, sat by the window's narrow pane, while in the 
 moonlight's silver rain she strove to drown her sense of wrong, and, 
 in her old and simple way, to teach her bitter heart to pray. Poor 
 child ! the prayer begun in faith, grew to a low despairing cry of 
 utter misery, " Let me die ! O, take me from the scornful eyes, and 
 hide me where the cruel speech, and mocking finger may not reach ! 
 I dare not breathe my mother's name; a daughter's right I dare not 
 crave to weep above her unblest grave ! Let me not live until my 
 heart, with few to pity and with none to love me, liardens into 
 stone. U Godl have mercy on Thy child, whose faith in Thee
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 126 
 
 grows weak and small, and take me ere I lose it all." A shadow on 
 the moonlight fell, and murmuring wind and wave became a voice 
 whose burden was her name. Had then God heard her? Had He 
 sent His angel down? In flesh and blood before her Esek Harden 
 stood ! He laid his hand upon her arm, " Dear Mabel, this no more 
 shall be ; who scoffs at you, must scoff at me ; you know rough Esek 
 Harden well ; and if he seems no suitor gay, and if his hair is 
 touched with grey, the maiden grown shall never find a stauncher 
 heart than he." 
 
 JACK'S LITTLE SISTER, KATE. 
 Mary Forrester, 
 
 She was a child with a bright fair face. 
 
 And eyes so big and blue ; 
 A sweet ripe mouth, like a summer flower, 
 
 And a heart so kind and true — 
 I brought her home one lonely day, 
 
 When my heart was full of pain ; 
 When the joys of hope were lying dead, 
 
 And the dreams of love were slain. 
 
 She filled my home with a golden light; 
 
 She filled my life with song — 
 And the days grew bright with new sweet joy. 
 
 As they swiftly flew along — 
 " Who is she ? " the gossips would often ask, 
 
 As she played at my garden gate — 
 And I'd always answer with tearful voice, 
 
 " Jack's little sister, Kate ". 
 
 Jack was my sweetheart — as brave and bold, 
 
 As a sailor needs must be ! 
 And he often talked of his big strong ship. 
 
 And the bonny sparkling sea, 
 As we idly roamed on the yellow sand, 
 
 When the sun was in the West, 
 He would tell me tales of the far-off lands, 
 
 And of friends he loved the best. 
 
 And when he spoke of that tiny child, 
 
 His voice grew soft and low — 
 The dying gift from a mother's hand. 
 
 Three little years ago.
 
 126 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATIOM. 
 
 All ! my bonnie sweetheart, you spoke so well, 
 
 As the summer eve waxed late, 
 That I grew to love with a great strong love, 
 
 " Jack's little sister, Kate ". 
 
 One morning there came to our quiet town, 
 
 A sailor, with tearful eyes ; 
 He looked at the sea, and then at me, 
 
 And then at the stormy skies — 
 He touched my cheek with his rough, brown han(i. 
 
 He smoothed my crumpled gown ; 
 And then — he told me a ship was wrecked. 
 
 And that every soul went down 1 
 
 I know no more — I cannot tell 
 
 The words the sailor said ; 
 But I know that every sound I heard, 
 
 Told me that Jack was dead ! 
 I knelt me down in my sorrow deep, 
 
 Down by my garden gate, 
 And I prayed a prayer for that lonely child — 
 
 " Jack's little sister, Kate ! " 
 
 So I brought her home— my little girl, 
 
 With the eyes so big and blue, 
 With the sweet ripe mouth, like a summer flower-. 
 
 And the heart so kind and true ! — 
 I brought her home to my dreary house, 
 
 By the weeping, sobbing deep ; 
 Where above the heart that loved us well. 
 
 The waves for ever sweep ! 
 
 She cried for her brother, big and stronp^. 
 
 For she could not understand 
 How he'd gone for ever from out our live^, 
 
 For ever from off the land — 
 " He will come again ! " she would often cry, 
 
 And down by the sea would wait ; 
 While the passing sailors would smile and say 
 
 "Jack's little sister, Kate!" 
 
 One morning, my darling had wandered far. 
 
 So far from our cottage door. 
 And I sought her down in the little town. 
 
 And I sought her on the shore,
 
 SBLKCTI0N8 FOR READING AND RECITATION 127 
 
 Where a group of men, with faces white, 
 
 Were kneeling upon the ground — 
 "What is it?" I asked, and some one said, 
 
 " A little child found drowned 1 " 
 
 My heart stood still with an awful fearl 
 
 And I uttered a feeble cry ; 
 But they heeded not, those white-faced mea, 
 
 The woman standing by. 
 " Poor little girl I " I heard them say, 
 
 " Do you know her?" " Who is she, mate?'' 
 And some one answered in husky tones, 
 
 " Jack's little sister, Kate ! " 
 
 Oh, God ! Thy hand was very strong, 
 
 As it struck me down that day ! 
 Down by the sea, the fair bright sea, 
 
 Where my bonnie sweetheart lay. 
 They carried her home, while bitter sobs 
 
 To their pallid lips would rise, 
 As they gently wrung her dripping frock, 
 
 And closed her sweet blue eyes. 
 
 They brought her shells from the sea she loved^ 
 
 To deck her bosom fair, 
 And I placed in her tiny dimpled hand 
 
 A lock of Jack's dark hair. 
 We buried her close to the lapping waves, 
 
 One day when the spring was late. 
 And wrote on the stone above her head, 
 
 "Jack's little sister, Kate !" 
 
 A RAILWAY CHASR 
 David Macrae. 
 
 The runaway engine and train had got the start of them by nearly 
 two miles. If the express was true to her time, there was no hope. 
 In five or six minutes there would be a collision. But if the express 
 was in the least behind, there was stiU a desperate chance. Away, 
 then, and away ! 
 
 On they went with thundering crank and grinding steel. The 
 tender quivered and rocked; the ground, Ut by the glare of the 
 engine lamps, swept like lightning under them. There was a terrible 
 voice in the quick, clanking wheels — " Life or death ! — life or death !
 
 128 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 -4ife or death!" Away and away, like a fiery meteor through the 
 driving storm and darkness! The telegraph polts flew past like 
 frighted spirits. " There !— there she is !— thank God ! " burst from 
 the lips of both men, as they caught sight at last of two red lights 
 shining far ahead upon the line. 
 
 They dashed with a shattering roar between the rocks at Elmslie's 
 farm, burst forth again, and away on the wild and terrible pursuit. 
 They were gaining rapidly on the train ahead. There was hope. 
 They dashed with another roar under the beetling bridge beyond 
 the junction, and still away and away. " Life or death !— life or 
 death ! — life or death I" clanked the wheels. 
 
 Just as the long train was thundering along the iron bridge near 
 Blackford, they dashed alongside. The Parliamentary ti-ain was 
 bowling along the parallel rails at the velocity of nearly thirty miles 
 an hour; and as Sinclair and Blacklock passed carriage after carriage, 
 they could see, in the dusky light of the lamps within, the dim rows 
 of passengers, many of them asleep, and all unconscious that they 
 were on the wrong line, bowling, quick and fast, into the jaws of 
 death. 
 
 On they thundered till they came abreast of the engine. Campbell 
 was there, but apparently stupefied with drink, sitting on the seat 
 under the storm-board, with head hanging down nearly to his knees. 
 Blacklock shouted and yelled at the pitch of his voice, Sinclair blew 
 the whistle, but Campbell could not be roused. 
 
 " Let's dash ahead and signal the Express to stop," cried Sinclair 
 excitedly. He pulled out his watch and stooped to see the time. 
 Eight minutes to eleven ! The Express was two minutes behind her 
 time already. There was not a moment to lose. 
 
 "God ha' mercy!" gasped Blacklock, clutching Sinclair's arm con- 
 vulsively; "here she comes!" 
 
 He was right. Far ahead along the line, two points of light, like 
 the eyes of a basilisk, had glided into view, and were fast dilating 
 and growing brighter and fiercer as the iron monster from the 
 South came on through the darkness at the rate of a mile a minute. 
 Already the thunder of its approach was distinctly perceptible. 
 Scarcely a mile separated the two trains— in thirty seconds they 
 would be together ! 
 
 " Signal !— signal the Express!" shrieked Blacklock. But Camp- 
 bell's engine I how was it to be checked ? Blacklock looked at the 
 narrow space that separated the two engines. A few feet— only a 
 few feet! — and a Inuulred human lives at stake! 
 
 " I'll jump ' " he cried. In a moment, before Sinclair could hold
 
 SELECTIOKS FOR READING AMD RECITATION. 129 
 
 oirn back, he had crouched, aud made the desperate spring. He 
 alighted upon the footboard of the other tender. He staggered for 
 a moment; but, recovering his balance, sprang forward to the 
 engine, shut oflf the steam, and put on the brake. It was all the 
 brave fellow could do. Now for life — for lifel He seized the 
 drunken man. He dragged him to the side of the engine, to leap 
 off, when in an instant the Express, with its flying plume and its 
 glaring irids, magnifying into two great orbs of flame, flashed 
 through the darkness, and like a thunderbolt shot full upon them ! 
 The earth shook with the terrific shock. The engines were smashed, 
 the furnace fires flared up, the huge carriages of both trains came 
 on like successive explosions, leaping madly over one another, while 
 a thousand shrieks rang wildly up into the shuddering air of night. 
 
 {By tptcial permission of the Author.) 
 
 THE SPINNING-WHEEL SONG. 
 
 John F. Waller. 
 
 Mellow the moonlight to shine is beginning; 
 
 Close by the window young Aileen is spinning ; 
 
 Bent o'er the fire, her blind grandmother, sitting, 
 
 Is crooning, and moaning, and drowsily knitting, — 
 
 " Aileen, achora, I hear some one tapping." 
 
 " 'Tis the ivy, dear mother, against the glass flapping." 
 
 " Aileen, I surely hear somebody sighing." 
 
 " 'Tis the sound, mother dear, of the summer wind dying." 
 
 Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring, 
 
 Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the foot's stirring; 
 
 Sprightly and lightly, aud airily ringing, 
 
 ThriUs the sweet voice of the young maiden singing. 
 
 "What's that noise that I hear at the window, I wonder?" 
 "'Tis the little birds chirping the holly-bush under." 
 " What makes you be shoving and moving your stool on. 
 And singing all wrong that ould song of 'The Coolun'?"— 
 There's a form at the casement — the form of her true-love — 
 And he whispers, with face bent, " I'm waiting for you, love ; 
 Get up on the stool ! through the lattice step lightly ! 
 We'll rove in the grove while the moon's shining brightly." 
 
 Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring, 
 
 Swings the reel, spins the wheel, while the foot's stirring •, 
 
 Sprightly, and lightly, and airily ringing, 
 
 Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden singing. 
 (996) E
 
 130 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 The maid shakes her head, on her Up lays her fingers, 
 Steals up from her seat— longs to go, and yet lingers ; 
 A frightened glance turns to her drowsy Grandmother, 
 Puts one foot on the stool, spins the wheel with the other 
 Lazily, easily, swings now the wheel round ; 
 Slowly and lowly is heard now the reel's sound; 
 Noiseless and light to the lattice above her 
 The maid steps— then leaps to the arms of her lover ! 
 
 Slower— and slower— and slower the wheel swings; 
 
 I^wer— and lower— and lower the reel rings ; 
 
 Ere the reel and the wheel stop their ringing and moving^ 
 
 Through the grove the young lovers by moonhght are roving. 
 
 AN lEISHMAN'S LOVE FOE HIS CHILDEEN. 
 
 Ajjon. 
 
 Some years ago, on our passage to New York, we had on board a 
 number of emigrants, among whom was an Irishman with his wife 
 and three children, the eldest, a girl, about seven years of age. 
 
 They were very poor, but the beauty and intelligence of the 
 children quite won the heart of a lady passenger, and, now and 
 af^ain, she would have them brought into the cabin and their hunger 
 
 appeased. ,, vr j 
 
 Gleesome, bright-eyed little creatures, they were all Me and 
 
 happiness, and in blissful ignorance of the poverty by which they 
 
 were surrounded. ^ 
 
 One day they were in the cabin, when this lady said to me, 1 
 
 wonder if those poor people would part with one of these darlings. 
 
 I should much like to adopt one." 
 
 "I don't know," I said; "suppose we make the inquiry." 
 
 The father was sent for. " My good friend," said the lady, " you 
 
 Are very poor, are you not?" His answer was peculiarly Irish. 
 " Is it poor, mi lady? If there's a poorer man than misilf^troublin' 
 
 the world, Hiven pity both of uz, for we'd be about aqual!" 
 
 " Then," said I, "you must find it no easy matter to support your 
 
 children." 
 
 "Is it to support thim, sir? I never supported thim; they get 
 supported somehow or other ; they've never been hungry yit. Whm 
 they are, if 11 be toime enough to complain." 
 
 " Well, then," I continued, " would it not be a relief to you to 
 part with one of them?
 
 9KLECTION8 FOR READING AND RECITATION. 131 
 
 He started, turned pale, and with a wild glare in his eye passion- 
 ately said, " A relaif ! what d'ye mean, sir? Wud it be a relaif, d'ye 
 think, to have mi hand chopped from mi body, or my heart torn out 
 of mi breast 1 " 
 
 " Oh, you don't understand us," said my lady friend. " Suppose 
 you were enabled to place one of your children in ease and comfort, 
 would you interfere with its well-doing?" 
 
 The tact of women! She had touched the chord of paternal 
 affection. The poor fellow was silent and all bewildered. At last 
 he said, " God bliss ye, mi lady ; Hiven knows I'd be right glad to 
 better the child — it isn't in regard to misilf ; but hadn't I better go 
 an' Bjiake to Mary — she's the mother of thim — an' 'twould be 
 onraisonable to be givin' away her children behind her back." 
 
 " Very well," I said, "off you go to Mary, and hear what she 
 says." 
 
 In about an hour he came back, his eyes red and swollen. 
 
 " WeU," said I, " what success ? " 
 
 " 'Twas no aisy matter, sir, but it's for the child's good, and Hiven 
 give us strength to bear it ! " 
 
 " Well, and which are we to have?" 
 
 "Well, sir, I've been spakin' to Mary, an' she thinks aa Nora 
 there is the ouldest — she's siven past — she wouldn't miss the mother 
 so much ; an' if ye'U jist let her take a partin' kiss, she'd give her to 
 ye wid a blessing." 
 
 So he took away his three children, to look at one of them for the 
 last time. 
 
 When he returned he was leading the second eldest, a little girl 
 about five. 
 
 "How is this? have you changed your mind?" 
 
 " Well, no ; I haven't exactly changed mi moind, sir, but I've 
 changed the child. Ye see, sir, I've been spakin' to Maiy, an' when 
 it came to the ind, sir, she couldn't part wid Nora at all, at all ! 
 But here's little Biddy— an' if she'U do as well?" 
 
 "Yes, yes; we'll take Biddy." 
 
 " Hiven be her guardian ! God be kind to thim that's kind to 
 you ! " Then he went away, and all that night little Biddy remained 
 with us. But early next morning he reappeared, and this time he 
 had his youngest child — a mere baby — in his arms. 
 ' " What's the matter now?" I said. 
 
 " Well, sir, ye see, I've been spakin' to Mary, an' when I begude 
 to think of Biddy's eyes — look at them, sir; they're the image of 
 her mother's — I coul'ki't let her go. But here's little Paudeeu; he
 
 132 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 w^on't be much bother to any one, for if he takes after his mother, 
 he'll have the brightest ey* s a^' the softest heart in creation ; an' if 
 he takes after his father, ht, il have a purty hard fist an' a broad pair 
 of shoulders to push his way in the world. Take him, sir, an' gi' 
 me back, Biddy." 
 
 He left the baby and took away his pet Biddy. I wasn't at all 
 surprised when, in a few minutes afterwai'ds, he rushed into the 
 cabin and caught up little Paudeen in his arms. 
 
 " Look at him, sir ! look at him ! It's the youngest — only two 
 years ould. You wouldn't have the heart to keep him from uz. 
 The long and the short of it is, sir, I've been spakin' to Mary— sAe 
 couldn't part wid Nora an' / couldn't part wid Biddy, but naither of 
 uz could live half a day without little Paudeen ! No, sir, no ! we 
 can bear the bitterness of poverty, but we can't part wid our 
 children —unless it be the will of Iliven to take them from uz." 
 
 GEMINI AND VIRGO. 
 C. S. Calverlet. 
 
 Some vast amount of years ago, 
 
 Ere all my youth had vanished from me, 
 
 A boy it was my lot to know, 
 
 "Whom his familiar friends called Tommy. 
 
 I love to gaze upon a child ; 
 
 A young bud bursting into blossom ; 
 Artless, as Eve yet uubeguiled, 
 
 And agile as a young opossum ; 
 And such was he — a calm-browed lad, 
 
 Yet mad, at moments, as a hatter : 
 (Why hatters as a race are mad 
 
 I never knew, nor does it matter). 
 
 He was what nurses call a " limb " — 
 
 One of these small misguided creatures, 
 Who, though their intellects are dim. 
 
 Are one too many for their teachers : 
 And, if you asked of him to say 
 
 What twice ten was, or three times seven, 
 He'd glance (in quite a placid way) 
 
 From heaven to earth, from earth to heaven ;
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND KECITATION. 133 
 
 Ajid smile, and look politely round, 
 
 To catch a casual suggestion ; 
 But make no effort to propound 
 
 Any solution of the question. 
 
 And not so much esteemed wa^ he 
 
 Of the Authorities ; and therefore 
 He fraternized by chance with me. 
 
 Needing a somebody to care for, 
 And three fair summers did we twain 
 
 Live (as they say) and love together; 
 And bore by turns the wholesome cane 
 
 Till our young skins became as leather : 
 And carved our names on every desk, 
 
 And tore our clothes and inked our collars 5 
 And looked unique and picturesque 
 
 But not, it may be, model scholars. 
 
 We did much as we chose to do ; 
 
 "We'd never heard of Mrs. Grundy ; 
 All the theology we knew 
 
 "Was that we mightn't play on Sunday ; 
 And all the general truths, that cakes 
 
 "Were to be bought at four a penny. 
 And that excruciating aches 
 
 Resulted if we ate too many. 
 And seeing ignorance is bliss, 
 
 And wisdom consequently folly, 
 The obvious result is this — 
 
 That our two lives were very jolly. 
 
 At last the separation came : 
 
 Real love, at that time, was the fashion ; 
 And by a horrid chance, the same 
 
 Young thing was to us both, a passion. 
 Old Poser snorted like a horse : 
 
 His feet were large, his hands were pimply. 
 His manner, when excited, coarse : — 
 
 But Miss P. was an angel simply. 
 
 She was a blushing, gushing thing ; 
 
 All — more than all — my fancy painted; 
 Ouce — when she helped me to a wing 
 
 Of goose, I thought I should have fainted.
 
 134 SELKCTIONS KOR HEADING AND RECITATIOW. 
 
 The people said tliat she was blue ; 
 
 But I was green, and loved her dearly. 
 She was approaching thirty-two ; 
 
 And I was then eleven, nearly. 
 I did not love as others do ; 
 
 (None ever did that I've heard tell of ;) 
 My passion was a byword through 
 
 The town she was, of course, the belle of. 
 
 Ch sweet — as to the toU-worn man 
 
 The far-off sound of rippling river ; 
 As to cadets in Hindostan 
 
 The fleeting remnant of their liver — 
 To me was Anna ; dear as gold 
 
 That fills the miser's sunless coffers ; 
 As to the spinster, growing old. 
 
 The thought — the dream — that she had offers. 
 
 I'd sent her httle gifts of fruit ; 
 
 I'd written lines to her as Venus ; 
 I'd sworn unflinchingly to shoot 
 
 The man who dared to come between ua : 
 And it was you, my Thomas, you, 
 
 The friend in whom my soul confided. 
 Who dared to gaze on her — to do, 
 
 I may say, much the same as I did. 
 
 Once I saw him squeeze her hand, 
 
 There was no doubt about the matter ; 
 I said he must resign or stand 
 
 My vengeance — and he chose the latter. 
 We met, we "planted" blows on blows; 
 
 We fought as long as we were able : 
 My rival had a bottle nose, 
 
 And both my speaking eyes were sablOj 
 When the school-bell cut short our strife. 
 
 Miss P. gave both of us a plaister; 
 And in a week became the wife 
 
 Of Horace Nibbs, the writing master. 
 
 I loved her then — I'd love her still, 
 Only one must not love another's; 
 
 But thou and I, my Tommy, will. 
 
 When we a^ain meet, meet as brotheii
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 135 
 
 it may be that in age one seeks 
 
 Peace only : that the blood is brisker 
 In boy's veins, than in theirs whose cheeks 
 
 Are partially obscured by whisker; 
 Or that the growing ages steal 
 
 The memories of past wrong-s from us. 
 But this is certain — that I feel 
 
 Most friendly unto thee, O Thomas ! 
 
 And wheresoe'er we meet again, 
 
 On this or that side the equator, 
 If I've not turned teetotal then, 
 
 And have wherewith to pay the waiter, 
 To thee I'll drain the modest cup. 
 
 Ignite with thee the mild Havana, 
 And we will waft, while liquoring up, 
 
 Forgiveness to the heartless Anna. 
 
 {By special permission of Mrs, Calverlea .) 
 
 THE LEVEL CROSSING. 
 Robert Walker. 
 
 Joe Smith? Yes, mates, I knew him well. 
 
 As rough as rough could be ; 
 yet, spite of all that parsons say, 
 
 There's worse on earth than he ! 
 
 There wasn't much of the saint in him. 
 
 Only he never lied. 
 And few who've lived a better life 
 
 A nobler death have died. 
 
 His death ? Ay, lads, I mind it well. 
 
 And how the sun did shine 
 On the level crossing that April monu 
 
 Athwart the railway line 1 
 
 The gates were shut and fastened, 
 
 That no one might pass throTigh ; 
 A distant rumbling plainly told 
 
 The Scotch express was due. 
 
 On the hillside I was working. 
 While Joe sat on the grass,
 
 136 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATIOH. 
 
 Waiting alongside the rails below, 
 Until the train should pass. 
 
 The morn was cool, and bright, and atill, 
 The lark sang shrill and clear; 
 
 I always think of Joe, poor lad, 
 Whene'er that song I hear. 
 
 He sat by the railway smoking, 
 
 Thinking of — who can say? 
 Mayhap of last night's fun, mayhap 
 
 Of some one far away 1 
 
 Still sang the lark, when suddenly 
 
 There came a cry from Joe ; 
 I turned ; oh, heaVn ! how faint I felt 
 
 At what I saw below I 
 
 The gates, I said, were bolted fast ; 
 
 But clamb'ring through the fence, 
 On to the line, had strayed a child. 
 
 HeaVn help its innocence ! 
 
 There came the engine tearing on, 
 
 With its exulting scream, 
 Ruthless it seemed and fiercely sped, 
 
 Like a monster in a dream. 
 
 Bight on the track the infant stood, 
 
 A primrose in its hand. 
 And on the coming death it smiled, 
 
 Too young to understand. 
 
 One moment more had been too late : 
 
 Joe bounded to his feet, 
 And on with some fierce word he dashed 
 
 As any racehorse fleet, 
 
 I, on the hillside, saw him rush 
 Straight to the jaws of death. 
 
 And up the hillside seemed to come 
 The engine's fiery breath. 
 
 His strong hand seized and threw the child 
 Right there, beside the brook ; 
 
 A few sharp stings from the nettlea 
 Was all the harm it took !
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 13? 
 
 But Joe, poor lad, 'twas worse for him — 
 
 The engine left him lying 
 Beside the rails, a ghastly heap — 
 
 Torn, bleeding, stunned, and dyina: ! 
 
 We raised him up. I held him, 
 
 His head on my arm was laid. 
 He spake but once again, brave lad, 
 
 And this was all he said : 
 
 " The chick's pulled through, I hope," and then 
 
 Lay closer to my breast. 
 I need not tell you more, my mates, 
 
 You all must know the rest. 
 
 A rough-shaped cross marks where he lies, 
 
 There on the lone hillside, 
 And Tom, the Methody, said 'twas right,- 
 
 'Cos Joe for man had died. 
 
 And wild flowers ofttimes you will see 
 
 Ijaid lightly on the grave. 
 Put there by her, now woman grown, 
 
 Whom Joe Smith died to save. 
 
 {By special permission of the Author.) 
 
 PAPA'S LETTEK 
 
 Anon. 
 
 1 was sitting in my study, writing letters ; when I heard, 
 
 " Please, dear mama, — Mary told me mama mustn't be 'isturbed. 
 
 But I'se tired of the kitty, want some ozzer fiug to do : 
 
 Witing letters, is 'ou, mama? tan't I wite a letter tool" 
 
 * Not now, darling, mama's busy ; run and play with kitty, now. 
 
 '* No, no, mama j me wite letter ; tan, if 'ou will show me how." 
 
 I would paint my darling's portrait as his sweet eyes searched n:;y 
 
 face — 
 Hair of gold, and eyes of azure, form of childish, witching grace. 
 But the eager face was clouded, as I slowly shook my head, 
 Till I said, " I'll make a letter of yo'.,, darling boy, instead." 
 So I parted back the tresses from his forehe^ higb ^^^ white, 
 And a stamp in sport I pasted, 'mid it-s waves of golden light. 
 ■(996) E2
 
 136 SKLBCTIONS FOR BEADING AND RECITATION. 
 
 Then I said, " Now, Httle letter, go away and bear good news." 
 And I smiled aa down the staircase clattered loud the little shoes. 
 Leaving me, the darling hurried down to Mary in his glee; 
 "Mama's witing lots of letters; I'se a letter, Mary — see!" . . . 
 No one heard the front-door open ; no one saw the golden hair, 
 As it floated o'er his shoulders in the crisp October air. 
 
 Down the street the prattler hastened, till he reached the office-door ; 
 " I'se a letter, Mr. Postman ; is there room for any more ? 
 'Cause dis letter's goin' to papa, papa lives with God, 'ou know, 
 Mauia 'tamped me — I'm a letter; does 'ou link 'at I tan go?" 
 But the Clerk in wonder answered, " Not to-day, my little man." 
 *' Den I'll find anozzer office, 'cause I must g5, if I tan." 
 
 Fain the Clerk would have detained him, but the pleading face was 
 
 gone. 
 And the little feet were hastening — by the busy crowd swept on. 
 Suddenly the crowd was parted, people fled to left and right. 
 As a pair of maddened horses at that moment dashed in sight I 
 No one saw the baby figure — no one saw the golden hair, 
 Till a shriek of childish terror rang out on the autumn air ! 
 
 'Twas too late ! — a moment only stood the beauteous vision there ; 
 Then . . . the little face lay lifeless, covered o'er with golden hair ! 
 Reverently they raised my darling, brushed away the curls of gold; 
 Saw the stamp, upon the forehead growing now so icy cold. 
 Not a mark the face disfigured, showing where a hoof had trod ; 
 But the little life was ended — "Papa's letter" was with God. 
 
 WHERE? 
 R. H. Stoddard. 
 
 She went away, at the break of day, 
 
 And a child in her arms she bore. 
 I asked the roads which way she went, 
 I hunted for her till day was spent, 
 
 But she returned no more. 
 
 " Have you seen a woman and a child to-day ?" 
 I say to the people I meet on the way. 
 
 But no one seems to see ; 
 They pass me by, without reply, 
 
 Too busv to answer me.
 
 EELKCTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 13S 
 
 !5ullen and slow, I go 
 
 To the river, and, watching the flow 
 
 Of its waves that seaward roll, 
 T aay to the river, "What sings in theel' 
 It answers me, 
 
 " Only a baby's soul." 
 
 I fly to the poplars — why 
 [ know not I for all I see, 
 Ghostly and ominous, troubles me. 
 The long limbs tremble, and every leaf 
 (They are numberless) is a tongue of grief. 
 And every sound a sigh. 
 
 Tell me, before we part, 
 Poplai-s that peak and pine. 
 If you have aught that is mine. 
 " Naught that is thine ; 
 
 Only a woman's heart." 
 
 They passed away, at the break of day, 
 
 They are not on land or sea. 
 They have flown afar, where the angels are, 
 
 And both have forgotten me I 
 
 EXCELSIOR 
 
 Henry W. Longfellow. 
 
 The sha^ies of night were falling f;iat, 
 As, through an Alpine village, pas.«ed 
 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 tiros gleam warm and bright; 
 Above, the spectral glaciers shone ; 
 And from hia lips escaped a groan, 
 
 " Excelsior i "^
 
 140 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATIOM. 
 
 " Try not the pass," the old man said ; 
 " Dark lowers the tempest overhead ; 
 The roaring torrent is deep and wide I" 
 And loud that clarion voice replied, 
 
 "Excelsior!" 
 
 " Oh, stay," the maiden said, " and rest 
 Thy weary head upon this breast 1 " 
 A tear stood in his bright blue eye ; 
 But still he answered with a sigh, 
 
 "Excelsior I'' 
 
 " 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 I " 
 
 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 I " 
 
 A traveller, by the faithful hound. 
 Half -buried in the snow was found; 
 Still grasping in his hand of ice. 
 The banner with the strange device, 
 
 "Excelsior I" 
 
 There in the twilight cold and grey, 
 Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay ; 
 And from the sky, serene and far, 
 A voice fell, like a falling star, 
 
 "Excelsior I" 
 
 THE OLD SCHOOLMASTER 
 Lee O. Harris. 
 
 He sat at his desk at the close of day, for he felt the weight of his 
 
 many years.— 
 His fonn was bent and his hair was grey, and his eyes were dim 
 
 with the falling tears. 
 The school was out and his task was done, and the house seemed 
 
 now so strangely still, 
 As the red beam of the setting aun stole silently over the window-silL
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 141 
 
 Stole silentlj' into the twilight gloom, and the deepening shadows 
 
 fell athwart 
 The vacant seats and the vacant room, and the vacant place in the 
 
 old man's heart — 
 For his school had been all in all to him, who had no wife, child, 
 
 land, nor gold ; 
 But his frame was weak, and his eyes were dim, and the fiat was 
 
 issued at last — "Too old*. 
 
 He bowed his head on his trembling hands a moment, as one might 
 
 bend to pray; 
 "Too oldl" they say, and the school demands a wiser and younger 
 
 head to-day. 
 " Too old ! too old I " these men forget it was I who guided their 
 
 tender years; 
 Their hearts were hard, and they pitied not my trembling lips and 
 
 my falling tears. 
 
 "Too old ! too old 1" it was all they said; I looked in their faces one 
 
 by one. 
 But they turned away, and my heart was lead: "Dear Lord, it is 
 
 hard, but Thy will be done." 
 The night stole on and a blacker gloom was over the vacant benches 
 
 cast; 
 The master sat in the silent room, but his mind was back in the 
 
 days long past. 
 
 And he smiled as his kindly glances fell on the well beloved faces 
 
 there — 
 John, Rob, and Will, and laughing Nell, and blue-eyed Bess, with 
 
 golden hair, 
 And Tom, and Charley, and Ben, and Paul, who stood at the head 
 
 of the spelling class — 
 All in their places — and yet they all were lying under the graveyard 
 
 grass. 
 
 Thus all night long, till the morning came, and the darkness folded 
 
 her robe of gloom, 
 And the sun looked in with his eye of flame, on the vacant seats of 
 
 the silent room. 
 And the wind stole over the window-siU, and swept through the 
 
 aisles in a merry rout ; 
 But the face of the master was white and still — his work was finished, 
 
 his school was out
 
 142 ttELECTIONS FOB READIKG AND RECITATION. 
 
 THE WOMEN OF MUMBLES HEAD. 
 
 Clement Scott. 
 
 Bring, novelists, your note-book ; bring, dramatists, your pen ; 
 
 And I'll tell you a simple story of what women do for men. 
 
 It's only a tale of a lifeboat, the dying and the dead, 
 
 Of a terrible storm and shipwreck, that happened off MumWes Head, 
 
 ^iaybe you have travelled in Wales, sir, and know it north and south ; 
 
 Maybe you are friends with the "natives" that dwell at Oystermouth. 
 
 It happens, no doubt, that from Bristol you've crossed iu a casual 
 
 way. 
 And have sailed your yacht in the summer, in the blue of Swansea 
 
 Bay. 
 
 Well, it isn't like that in the winter, when the lighthouse stands 
 
 alone, 
 In the teeth of Atlantic breakers, that foam on its face of stone; 
 It wasn't like that when the hurricane blew, and the storm bell 
 
 toUed, or when 
 There was news of a wreck, and the lifeboat launch'd, and a desperate 
 
 cry for men. 
 When in the world did the coxswain shirk ? A brave old salt was he ; 
 Proud to the bone of as four strong lads as ever had tasted the sea, 
 Welshmen all to the lungs and loins, who, about the coast 'twas 
 
 said, 
 Had saved some hundred lives a-piece — at a shilling or so a head ! 
 
 So the father launched the lifeboat, in the teeth of the tempest's 
 
 roar, 
 .And he stood like a man at the rudder, with an eye on his boys at 
 
 the oar. 
 Out to the wreck went the father ; out to the wreck went the sons ; 
 Leaving the weeping of women, and the booming of signal guns, 
 Leaving the mother who loved them, and the girls that the saUors 
 
 love, 
 Going to death for duty, and trusting to God above ! 
 Do you murmur a prayer, my biothers, when cosy and safe in bed. 
 For men like these, v/ho aie ready to die for a wreck off Mumbles 
 
 Headi 
 
 It didn't go well with the lifeboat; 'twas a tenible storm that blew, 
 And it snapped the rope iu a second that was flung to the drowning 
 crew ;
 
 8RLECTI0NS FOR READING AKD RECITATION. 143 
 
 A.nd then the anchor parted — twas a tussel to keep afloat »* 
 
 But the father stuck to the rudder, and the boys to the b.^ave old 
 
 boat. 
 Then at last on the poor doom'd lifeboat a wave broke mountains 
 
 high! 
 "God help us now !" said the father. " It's over, lads! Good-bye!'" 
 Half of the crew swam shoreward, half to the sheltered eaves, 
 But father and sons were fighting death in the foam of the angrj 
 
 waves. 
 
 Up at a lighthouse window two women beheld the storm, 
 
 And saw in the boiling breakers a figure — a fighting form : 
 
 It might be a gray-haired father, then the women held their breath, 
 
 It might be a fair-haired brother, who was having a round with 
 
 death ; 
 It might be a lover, a husband, whose kisses were on the lips 
 Of the women whose love is the life of men, going down to the sea 
 
 in ships. 
 They had seen the launch of the lifeboat, they had seen the worst 
 
 and more ; 
 Then, kissing each other, these women went down, from the light- 
 house, straight to the shore. 
 
 There by the rocks on the breakers these sisters, hand in hand, 
 Beheld once more that desperate man who struggled to reach the 
 
 land. 
 'Twas only aid he wanted to help him across the wave, 
 But what are a couple of women with only a man to save? 
 What are a couple of women? well, more than three craven men 
 Who stood by the shore with chattering teeth, refusing to stir— 
 
 and then 
 Off went the women's shawls, sir; in a second they're torn and 
 
 rent. 
 Then knotting them into a rope of love, straight into the sea they 
 
 went. 
 
 "Come back!" cried the lighthouse keeper; "for God's sake, girls, 
 
 come back ! " 
 Afi they caught the waves on their foreheads, resisting the fierce 
 
 attack. 
 " Come back ! " moaned the gray-haired mother, as she stood by the 
 
 angry sea ; 
 " If the waves take you, my darlings, there's nobody left to me."
 
 144 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 "Come back!" said the three strong soldiers, who still stood faint 
 
 and pale ; 
 ''You will drown if you face the breakers ; you will fall if you brave 
 
 the gale 1 " 
 "Come back," said the girls, "we will not! go, tell it to all the 
 
 town ; 
 We'll lose our lives, God willing, before tliat man shall drown!" 
 
 " Give one more knot to the shawls, Bess ; give one strong clutch 
 
 of y^ur hand ; 
 Just follow me brave to the shingle, and we'll drag him safe to land. 
 Wait for the next wave, darling; only a minute more, 
 And I'll have him safe in my arms, dear, and we'll drag him safe to 
 
 shore." 
 Up to the arms in the water, fighting it breast to breast, 
 They caught and saved a brother alive ! God bless us I you know 
 
 the rest — 
 Well, many a heart beat stronger, and many a tear was shed, 
 And many a glass was tossed right off to " The Women of Mumbles 
 
 Headl" 
 
 (By special permission of the A uthor. ) 
 
 HAMLET AND THE QUEEN. 
 
 TWO CHARACTERS. 
 
 HAMI.ET, Prince of Denmark. 
 
 Gertrude, the Queen, bis Mother. 
 
 Scene — The Queen's Chamber. 
 
 Ham. Now, mother, what's the matter? 
 
 Qu. Hamlet, thou hast thy father much offended. 
 
 Ham. Mother, you have ray father much offended. 
 
 Qu. Come, come ! you answer with an idle tongue. 
 
 Ham. Go, go, you question with a wicked tongue. 
 
 Qu. Why, how now, Hamlet 1 
 
 Ham. What's the matter now? 
 
 Qu. Have you forgot me? 
 
 Ha7n. No, by the rood, not so I you are the Queen ! your husband's 
 brother's wife ; and— would it were not so 1— you are my mother. 
 
 Qu. Nay, then, I'll set those to you that can speak. 
 
 Ha7n. Come, come, and sit you down ; you shall not budge ; you 
 go not till I set you up a glass where you may see the inmo.«t part 
 of you !
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION, 14S 
 
 Qu. What wilt thou do? thou wilt not murder me? 
 
 Bam. Leave wringing of your hands : Peace ! sit you down, and 
 let me wring your heart; for so I shall, if it be made of penetrable 
 stuff; if wicked custom have not brazed it so, that it is proof and 
 bulwark against sense. 
 
 Qu. What have I done that thou dar'st wag thy tongue in noise 
 so rude against me? 
 
 Ham. Such an act that hlurs the grace and blush of modesty ; calls 
 Virtue Hypocrite : takes off the rose from the fair forehead of an 
 innocent love, and sets a blister there ; makes marriage vows as false 
 as dicers' oaths; Oh. such a deed as from the body of contraction 
 plucks the very soul ; and sweet Religion makes a rhapsody of wards I 
 Ah me ! that act 1 
 
 Qu. Ah me, what act, that roars so loud, and thunders in the 
 index? 
 
 Ham. Look here upon this picture ; — and on this. The counter- 
 feit presentment of two brothers. See, what a grace was seated on 
 this brow 1 — Hyperion's curls; ihe front of Jove himself; an eye like 
 Mars, to threaten and command ; a station like the herald Mercury, 
 new-lighted on a heaven-kissing hill; a combination, and a form, 
 indeed, where every god did seem to set his seal, to give the world 
 assurance of a man. This was your husband. — Look you now, what 
 follows : — Here is your husband, — like a mildev/d ear, blasting his 
 whoiesome brother. Have you eyes? Could you on this /air ^om?i- 
 tain leave to feed, and batten on this Moorl Ha! have you eyes? 
 you cannot call it Love ; for, at your age, the heyday in the blood 
 is tame I it's humble ! and waits upon the judgment ! And what 
 judgment would step from this to this? O shame I where is thy 
 blush ? 
 
 Qu. O Hamlet, speak no more ! thou tum'st mine eyes into my 
 very soul ; and there I see such black and grainid spots, as will not 
 leave their tiiict. 
 
 Hain. Nay, but to live stewed in corruption, honeying and making 
 love over the nasty sty, — 
 
 Qu. O, sj)eak to me no more ! These words, like daggers, enter in 
 mine ears ; no more, sweet Hamlet 1 
 
 Ham. A murderer and a villain; a slave., that is not twentieth 
 part the tithe of your precedent lord: a Vice oi kings; a cutpurse 
 of the empire and the rule, that from a shelf the precious diadem 
 stole., and put it in his pocket— 
 
 Qu. No more ! 
 
 Ham. A king of shreds and patches ! — {Enter Ghost
 
 146 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 Save me, and liover o'er me with your wings, you heavenly guards' 
 — What would your gracious figure? 
 
 Qu. Alas he's mad. 
 
 Ham. Do you not come your tardy son to chide, that, lapsed in time 
 and passion, lets go by the important acting of your dread command ? 
 O, say I 
 
 Oht. Do not forgtft : this visitation is but to whet thy almost 
 blunted purpose. But, look ! amazement on thy mother sits ; O, step 
 between her and her fighting soul ; conceit in weakest bodies 
 strongest works ; — speak to her, Hamlet. 
 
 Ham. How is it with you, lady? 
 
 Qu. Alaa, how is't with you, that you do bend your eye on 
 vacancy, and with the incorporal air do hold discourse? O, gentle 
 son! upon the heat and flame of thy distemper, sprinkle cool 
 patience. Whereon do you look ? 
 
 Ham. On him ! on him ! Look you, hovr pale he glares ! His form 
 and cause conjoined, preaching to gtones, would make them capable. 
 — Do not look upon me : lest, with this piteous action, you convert 
 my stem effects: then what I have to do will want true colour; 
 tears, perchance for blood. 
 
 Qu. To whom do you speak this? 
 
 Ham. Do you see nothing there? 
 
 Qu. Nothing at all ; yet all that is I see. 
 
 Ham. Nor did you nothing hear? 
 
 Qu. No, nothing but ourselves. 
 
 Ham. Why, look you there ! look how it steals away ! My father, 
 in his habit, as he lived ! Look, where he goes, even now, out at the 
 portal ! {Exit Ohoft. 
 
 Qu. This is the very coinage of your brain : this bodiless creation 
 ecstasy is very cunning in. 
 
 Ham. Ecstasy ! My pulse, as yours, doth temperately keep time, 
 and makes as healthful music : It is not madness that I have uttered ; 
 bring me to the test, and I the matter will re-word ; which nia<lness 
 would gambol from. Mother! for love of grace, lay not that flatter- 
 ing unction to your soul, that not your trespass, but my madness 
 speaks : it will but skin and film the ulcerous place ; whilst rank 
 corruption, mining all within, infects unseen. Confess yourself to 
 Heaven : repent what's past ; avoid what is to come. 
 
 Qu. 0, Hamlet ! thou hast cleft my heart in twain. 
 
 Ham. O, throw away the worser part of it, and live the purer 
 with the other half. Good niglit ! And, when you are desirous to 
 be blessed, I'll blessing beg of you. So, again, good night!
 
 8ELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION, 147 
 
 PITT'S REPLY TO WALPOLE. 
 
 Sir, — The atrocious crime of being a young man, which the 
 honourable gentleman has, with such spirit and decency, charged 
 upon me, I shall neither attempt to palliate nor deny ; but content 
 myself with wishing, that I may be one of those whose follies may 
 cease with their youth, and not of that number who continue igno- 
 rant in spite of age and experience. Whether youth can be imputed 
 to any man as a reproach, I will not, sir, assume the province of 
 determining ; but sui'ely age may become justly contemptible, if the 
 op])ortunitie8 which it brings have passed away without improve- 
 meut, and vice appears to prevail, when the passions have subsided. 
 Tlie wretch who, after having seen the consequences of a thousand 
 errors, continues still to blunder, and in whom age has only added 
 obstinacy to stupidity, is surely the object either of abhorrence or 
 contempt, and deserves not that his grey hairs should secure him 
 from insult. Much more, sir, is he to be abhorred, who, as he has 
 advanced in age, has receded from virtue, and become more wicked 
 wiih less temptation ; who prostitutes himself for money which 
 he cannot enjoy, and spends the remains of his life in the ruin of his 
 country. But youth, sir, is not my only crime ; I have been accused 
 »f acting a theatrical part. A theatrical part may either imply some 
 peculiarities of gesture, or a dissimulation of my real sentiments, 
 and an adoption of the opinions and language of another man. 
 
 In the first sense, sir, the charge is too trifling to be confuted ; 
 and deserves only to be mentioned that it may be despised. I am 
 at liberty, like every other man, to use my own language ; and 
 though, perhaps, I may have some ambition to please this gentle- 
 man, I shaU not lay myself under any restraint, nor very solicitously 
 copy his diction or his mien, however matured by age, or modelled 
 by experience. But, if any man shall, by charging me with theatri- 
 cal behaviour, imply that I utter any sentiments but my own, I shall 
 treat him as a calumniator and a villain ; — nor shall any protection 
 shelter him from the treatment he deserves. I shall, on such an 
 occasion, without scruple, trample upon all those forms with which 
 wealth and dignity intrench themselves ; nor shall anything but age 
 restrain my resentment — age, which always brings one privilege, 
 that of being insolent and supercilious without punishment But 
 with regard, sir, to those whom I have offended, I am of opinion, 
 that if I had acted a borrowed pai-t, I should have avoided their 
 censure : the heat that offended them, is the ardour of conviction, 
 s.ad Llia,t zeai fur the service of my country, which neither hope no/
 
 148 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 fear shall influence me to Buppress. I will not sit unconcerned 
 while my liberty is invaded, nor look in silence upon public robbery. 
 I will exert my endeavours, at whatever hazard, to repel the 
 aggressor, and drag the thief to justice, whoever niay piotect him 
 in his villany, and whoever may partake of his plunder. 
 
 THE IRISHWOMAN'S LETTER 
 
 AifON. 
 
 " Ah, shure I I was tould to come in till yer honour, 
 To see, would ye write a few lines to my Pat? 
 He's gone for a soger, is Misther O'Connor, 
 
 Wid a sthripe on his arm, and a band on his hat. 
 
 " And what 'ill ye tell himl shure, it must be aisy 
 For the likes of yer honour to spake with the pen; 
 Tell him I'm well, and mavourneen Daisy 
 (The baby, yer honour), is better again. 
 
 " For whin he wint oflf so sick was the crayther, 
 She niver hilt up her blue eyes till his face ; 
 And when I'd be cryin', he'd look at me wild-like, 
 And ax, ' Would I wish for the counthr/s disgrace ? 
 
 " TeU him to sind us a bit of his money, 
 
 For the rint and the docthor's bill, due in a week ; 
 
 An', shure there's a tear on yer eyelashes, honey !— 
 
 I' faith, I've no right with such freedom to speak. 
 
 ' I'm over-much thrifling : ah 1 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 honour, don't hide it, but read it to me ! 
 
 •' Dead 1 Patrick O'Connor ! No 1 no ! it's some other ' 
 Shot dead? Shure, 'tis a week scarce gone by. 
 An' the kiss on the cheek of his sorrowin' mother, 
 It haan't had time yet, yer honour, to dhry. 
 
 " Dead I dead ! Wirristru ! O, am I crazy ? 
 
 Shure it's brakin' my heart ye are, telling me sc ; 
 An' what in the world will I do wid poor Daisy il 
 O what can I do? Oo ! where can I go?
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 149 
 
 ** This room is so dark — I'm not seein' yer honour, 
 
 I think I'll go home." . . . And a sob, hard and dry, 
 Rose up from the bosom of Mary O'Connor, 
 But never a tear-drop welled up to her eye. 
 
 EDITHA'S BURGLAK. 
 Mrs. Frances Hodgson Burnett. 
 
 (Adapted for Rtcital.) 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton lived in a suburb of London. Their only 
 child Edith was a bright little girl about eight years of age. One 
 morning she said — " Papa, what do yua. think of burglars as a class?" 
 
 "As a class, Edie?" 
 
 " Yes, papa, as a class." 
 
 " I think they are a bad lot, Edie, a very bad lot." 
 
 "Are there no good burglars, papa?" 
 
 " Well, no, Edie, I think not ; as a rule they are a class of gentle- 
 men, not distinguished for moral rectitude and blameless character." 
 
 "Whatever has possessed the child? why do you talk of burglars, 
 Edie?" 
 
 " Well, mama, I'm rather sorry for them ; they must be often up 
 all night." 
 
 " Sorry for them, the scoundrels 1 If I should waken and find 
 a burglar in my room I think I should die." 
 
 One afternoon Mr. Hamilton said — " I must go down to Glasgow 
 by the 9.15 Pullman to-night." 
 
 " Oh, Frank, whatever shall I do ? You know the servants sleep in 
 the attics. I shall be so frightened I " 
 
 " Nonsense, Polly, I'll leave Edie in charge of you." 
 
 That night Edith couldn't go to sleep. She thought of her father 
 rushing thro' the dark night on his way to Scotland. At last she did 
 doze off. About midnight something wakened her. Listening she 
 heard a sound like a stealthy filing as of iron. " It's a burglar — he'll 
 frighten mama." She slipped out of bed, out of the room, and down 
 the stairs. The filing had stopped, but she heard a footstep in the 
 kitchen as she quietly opened the door. Imagine the astonishment 
 of that burglar when he saw a little girl in white, on whom the light 
 of his lantern shone — a little girl whose large lustrous eyes looked at 
 him in a by no means unfriendly way. 
 
 " Oh Lor, wot a start I "
 
 160 SBLKCTIOITS FOR READING AKD RECITATION, 
 
 " Hush ! dou't be frightened, Mr. Burglar— I don't want to hurl 
 you I" 
 
 " She don't want to hurt me, oh my eye 1" 
 
 "Hush, I've come to ask a favour from you; are you really a 
 burglar?" 
 
 " Not at all, my dear, I'm a friend of yer par's, and not a-wi.shin' 
 to distiu-b the servants by a-ringin' the bell, I stepped in through 
 the winder. D'ye twig, little un?" 
 
 " Well, my papa is from home, and my mama is so easily fright- 
 ened, and if you are going to burgle— would you please to burgle as 
 quiet as you can?" 
 
 " Well, I'm blowed." 
 
 "Why don't you say blown? It isn't correct to say blowed, you 
 know." 
 
 " Now, look 'ere, little un, I ain't got no time to waste, yer know." 
 
 "No, I don't suppose you have. Well, what are you going to 
 burgle fii-st? I'll show you some things you might burgle." 
 
 "Wot things?" 
 
 "Well, you can burgle my things." 
 
 "Wot kind o' things?" 
 
 " Well, there's my gold watch, my gold locket, my pearl necklace 
 and earrings ; they're worth a great deal of money ; and then there 
 is my books." 
 
 " I don't want no books." 
 
 "Don't you? thank you very much. Shall I go upstairs for my 
 jewel-box?" 
 
 " No, not yet, come into the pantry — I wants to have a squint o' 
 the knives and fork.s fust." 
 
 "It's very curious, Mr. Burglar, that you should know exactly 
 where to look for things, and that your keys should just fit our locks I" 
 
 " Well— yes, it is kin' o' singular — o' course there's a great deal in 
 Dein' edercated, yer know." 
 
 "And were you educated, Mj'. Burglar?" 
 
 "Did ver think as 'ow I weren't?" 
 
 " Well, you pronounce words so strangely." 
 
 "Ob, hit's all a matter o' taste; Hoxford and Cambridge, Hedin- 
 burgh and Glasgow 'as diflferent vocabilleries, don't cher know." 
 
 " And did you go to college?" 
 
 " Did yer think as 'ow I didn't? well, I'm blowed— blown." 
 
 "Would you be so kind as leave a few silver knives and forkal 
 we won't have any to use at breakfast." 
 
 "Ain't yer got no steel una?"
 
 SBLECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 151 
 
 " Ofa yes, but we don't use steel ones to fish, you know. You can 
 burgle my knife and fork, but please do leave one for my dear mama?" 
 
 "Oh, wery well; it's agiu the rules o' the perfession, but there's a 
 knife and fork for yer precious mar." 
 
 " Thank you very much, you are very kind and considerate. Talk- 
 ing of professions — would you rather be a burglar than anything else?" 
 
 "Well, no, can't say I would, now I comes to think on't. I'd 
 rayther be the Lord Mayor -hor a member o' the 'ouse o' Lords — 
 hor hev'n 'is Eoyal 'Ighness Halbert Hedard, Prince o' Wales." 
 
 "Oh, you couldn't be the Prince of Wales, you know !" 
 
 " Well, no, there har a few hobstacles in the way." 
 
 "I meant some other profession. My papa is an editor — how 
 would you like that?" 
 
 " Fust rate — now I comes to think on't, Pm a bom heditor." 
 
 " I'm afraid my papa wouldn't change professions with you." 
 
 "Oh, d'ye think not?" 
 
 " No, but, if you were to give me your name and address, he might 
 speak to his friends about you." 
 
 " Well, now, only to think. If I ain't went and forgot my card- 
 case ; I left it on the pianner. I'm sich a bloomin' forgetful cove, 
 I'm allays a-leavin' my card-case." 
 
 " If you were to tell me your name and address, I think I could 
 remember them." 
 
 " No, I'm afeard yer couldn't." 
 
 " I think I could." 
 
 "Oh, yer thinks so? Well, 'ere goes— my name is Lord Halbert 
 Hedard Halgernon Depentonville, 'Ide Park, London." 
 
 "Are you really a lord? How very strange !" 
 
 "WeU, yes, it is kin' o' singular; I've often thought so myself — 
 and now show's the libery — I wants to inspect yer pars things." 
 
 " Very well, come this way. This is my papa's room. Will you 
 please to do me another favour, Mr. Burglar? I'll make you a 
 present of all my jewels, if you won't burgle any of papa's things. 
 He is very fond of them, and he is very good ! " 
 
 " Oh, wery well, go and fetch yer jewels as yer calls them. She'n 
 the rummiest little cove I ever seed." 
 
 She came back in a few moments. 
 
 " My papa gave me this gold watch, my mama gave me this gold 
 locket, my grandmama left me these ean-ings and the necklace, and 
 my dear grandmama is in Heaven." 
 
 "Oh I yer grandmar's in 'Eaveu, is she? — then she's all right, little 
 an— and now I thinks I'll be movin',"
 
 152 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND .RECITATION. 
 
 She followed him back to the kitchen. 
 
 "Are you going out by the window, my lord?" 
 
 » Well yes, yer see it's a kin' o' a sort o' a 'abit o' mine. I prefers 
 'em to doors, 'cause why? My medical hadwiser says the hexercise 
 is good for my constitutoon." 
 
 " Well, good-bye, my lord, and thank you very much for burgling 
 
 so quietly." , , . , 
 
 She said nothing to her mother about the night's singular experi- 
 ence. Nothing till her father came home. "I can't understand how 
 the only thing stolen from upstairs is poor Edie's box of jewels. 
 
 " I gave it to the burglar myself, papa !" 
 
 "You what, Edie— you gave it to the burglar?" 
 
 "Yes, papa, I heard him in the kitchen, and I slipped downstairs, 
 and stayed with him all the time." 
 
 "You stayed with that bad man, Edie?" 
 
 "Yes, mama, but he wasn't a bad burglar; he told me he was a 
 lord, and he only burgles because his medical adviser says the exer- 
 cise is good for his constitution." 
 
 One day an officer from Newgate called at Mr. Hamilton s house. 
 " We have a prisoner, sir, who wants to see your little girl." 
 
 Mr Hamilton took her to the gaol. The moment she entered the 
 cell she recognised her old friend the burglar. "How do you do, 
 
 my lord?" ^ . , n i. 
 
 " Not up to the mark at all, my little dear. This 'ere confinement 
 don't agi-ee wi' my constitutoon. Them's yer jewels, little un. 1 
 kept 'em for you, 'cause why? I took a reg'lar fancy to yer - 1 ve 
 seed many a euros sight, sir, but never nothing so euros as that little 
 kid o' yourn a-standin' at the kitchen door, and saym she didut 
 want to 'urt me, and please would I burgle quiet so's not to frighten 
 her mar. I tell yer, sir, I did get a start when I furst seed her 
 a-standin' there like a little hangel. Jhere's yer gimcracks, little 
 un, an' may yer live long to wear 'em." 
 
 " I am very much obliged to you, my lord. My papa would have 
 heli)ed you if he could, but he is afraid that you would not do for an 
 editor. He says it requires a different sort of education from your 
 
 profession." ^^ .,, , , 
 
 A few weeks after this, a parcel was left at Mr. Hamilton s house 
 by a very shabby-looking man. It contained a very large old- 
 fashioned silver watch, on the lid of which were scratched these 
 words— "To the little un, from her friend and well-wisher, Lord 
 Halbert Hedard Halgernon Depeutouville, 'Ide Park, London." 
 
 [By special permission of Mrs. Bumeti.)
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 163 
 
 BECALMED. 
 
 Samuel K. Cowan. 
 
 It was as calm as calm could be ; a death-still niglit in June : a 
 silver sail, on a silver sea, under a silver moon. No least low air 
 the still sea stirred : but all on the dreaming deep the white ship lay, 
 like a white sea-bird, with folded wings, asleep. For a long, long 
 month not a breath of air : for a month not a drop of rain : and the 
 gaunt crew watched in wild despair, with a fever in throat and 
 brain. And they saw the shore, like a dim cloud, stand on the far 
 horizon-sea : it was only a day's short sail to the land, and the haven 
 where they would be. Too faint to row — no signal brought an 
 answer, far or nigh : Father, have mercy : leave them not alone, on 
 the deep, to die. And the gaunt crew prayed on the decks above, 
 and the women prayed below : "One drop of rain, for Heaven's great 
 love 1 O Father, for a breeze to blow ! " But never a shower from 
 the skies would burst, and never a breeze would come : O Fate 1 to 
 think that man can thirst, and starve, in sight of home ! But out to 
 sea with the drifting tide the vessel drifted away: till the far-off shore, 
 like the dim cloud, died : and the wild crew ceased to pray 1 Like 
 fiends they glared, with their eyes aglow ; like beasts with hunger 
 wild: but a mother prayed in the cabin below, by the bed of her 
 little child. It slept, and lo 1 in its sleep, it smiled : a babe of sum- 
 mers three : " O Father, save my little child, whatever comes to me ! " 
 Calm gleamed the sea : calm gleamed the sky, no cloud — no sail — in 
 view: and they cast them lots, for who should die to feed the starving 
 crew ! Like beasts they glared, with hunger wild, and their red 
 glazed eyes aglow, and the death-lot fell on the little child that slept 
 in tlie cabin below ! And the mother shrieked in wild despair : " O 
 Heav'n, my child — my son! They will take his life: it is hard to bear: 
 yet, Father, Thy will be done." And she waked the child from its 
 happy sleep, and she kneeled by the cradle bed : " We thirst, my 
 cliild, on the lonely deep : we are dying, my child, for bread. On 
 the lone, lone sea no sail — no breeze : not a drop of rain in the sky : 
 we thirst — we starve — on the lonely seas ; and thou, my child, must 
 die!" She wept: wliat tears her wild soul shed not I, but Heaven 
 knows best. And the child rose up from its cradle bed, and crossed 
 its hands on its breast : "Father," he lisped, "so good — so kind, have 
 pity on mother's pain : for mother's sake, a little wind : Father, a 
 little rain I " And she heard them shout for the child from the deck, 
 and she knelt on the cabin stairs: " The child !" they cry, "the child
 
 164 ssLECTioirs for READnro and recitation. 
 
 —stand back— and a curse on your idiot prayers I " And the mother 
 
 rose in her wM despair, and she bared her throat to the knife: 
 
 " Strike— strike me— me: but spare, O spare my child, my dear 
 
 son's life !" O Death ! it was a ghastly sight : red eyes, like flaming 
 
 brands, and a hundred belt-knives flashing bright in the clutch of 
 
 skeleton hands! " Me— me— strike— strike, ye fiends of Death!" 
 
 But soft— thro' the ghastly air whose falling tear waa that? whose 
 
 breath waves thro' the mother's hair"? A flutter of sail- a ripple of 
 
 seas : a speck on the cabin pane : O HeaVn, it is a breeze— a breeze 
 
 —and a drop of blessfed rain I And the mother rushed to the cabin 
 
 below, and she wept on the babe's bright hair : "The sweet rain falls : 
 
 the sweet winds blow: Father has heard thy prayer!" But the 
 
 child had faUen asleep again, and again in its sleep it smiled. And 
 
 the gaunt crew fell on their bended knees, and they cried with 
 
 rapture wild—" Thank God, thank God, for His rain and His breeze ! 
 
 ThankGod, for her little child 1" .. ^ . . .1 , 
 
 {By tpecial permission, of the Author. ) 
 
 THE LAST OF THE PKOUD MONAECH 
 
 Carltle. 
 
 Frightful to all men is Death, from of old named King of 
 Terrors. Our little compact home of an existence, where we dwelt 
 complaining, yet aa in a home, is passing in dark agonies into an 
 unknown of separation, foreignness, unconditioned possibility. The 
 Heathen Emperor asks of his souls : Into what places art thou now 
 departing^ The Catholic King must answer : To the judgment bar 
 of the Most High God ! Yes, it is a summing up of life : a final 
 settling and giving in the "account of the deeds done in the body"; 
 they are done now and lie there unalterable, and do bear their fruits, 
 long as eternity shall last. 
 
 Yes, poor Louis, death has found thee. No palace walls, or life 
 guards, gorgeous tapestries, or gilt buckram of stiffest ceremonial 
 could keep him out, but he is here, here at the very life-breath, and 
 will extinguish it. Thou, whose whole existence hitherto was a 
 chimera and scenic show, at length becomest a reality ; sumptuous 
 Versailles bursts asunder, like a dream, into void immensity. Time 
 is done, and all the scaffolding of time falls wrecked, with hideous 
 clangour, round thy soul; the pale kingdoms yawn open; there 
 must thou enter, naked, all unking'd, and await what is appointed 
 theel Unhappy man, there, as thou turnent in dull agony on thy 
 bed of weariness, what a thought is thine I Purgatory and liell fire
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 155 
 
 now all too possible in the prospect : in the retrospect — alas, what 
 thing didst thou do that were not better undone ; what mortal 
 didst thou generously help; what sorrow hadst thou mercy on? 
 Do the " five hundred thousand " ghosts, who sank shamefully on so 
 many battlefields from Eossbach to Quebec, that thy harlot might 
 take revenge for an epigram, crowd round thee in this hour? Thy 
 foul harem; the curses of mothers — the tears and infamy of daugh- 
 ters? Miserable man! thou "hast done evil as thou couldst"; thy 
 whole existence seems one hideous abortion and mistake of nature ; 
 the use and meaning of thee not yet known. "Wert thou a fabulous 
 griffin, devouring the works of men ; daily dragging virgins to thy 
 cave ; clad also in scales that no spear would pierce — no spear but 
 death's ? A griffin, not fabulous but real ! Frightful, oh Louis, 
 seem these moments for thee. We will pry no further into the 
 horrors of a sinner's death- bed. 
 
 HENRY V. 
 
 TWO CHARACTERS. 
 
 King Henrt. Princess Katherine of France. 
 
 Henry. Fair Katharine, wilt thou vouchsafe to teach a soldier 
 terms that wiU enter at a lady^B ear, and plead his love-suit to her 
 gentle heart? 
 
 Kath. Your Majestee sail mock at me ; I cannot speak your Eng- 
 land. 
 
 Henry. If you wiU love me soundly with your French heart, I 
 will be glad to hear you confess it, brokenly, with your English 
 tongue ! Do you like me, Kate ? 
 
 Kath. Pardonnez-moi, I cannot tell vat is " like me " . 
 
 Henry. An angel is like you, Kate, and you are like an angel. 
 
 Kath. Ah, de tongues of de mans is be full of deceits. 
 
 Henry. V faith, Kate, I am glad thou canst speak no better Eng- 
 lish ; for, if thou couldst, thou wouldst find me such a plain king, 
 that thou wouldst think I had sold my farm to buy my crown. If 
 I could win a lady at leap-frog, or by vaulting into my saddle with 
 my armour on my back (under the correction of bragging be it 
 spoken), I should quickly leap into a wife. Or if I might buffet for 
 my love, I could lay on like a butcher. I speak to thee plain soldier ; 
 if thou canst love me for this, Kate, take me; if not to say that I 
 shall die, is true ; but for thy love — by Saint Denis ! no ; yet I 
 love thee too; and while thou livest, dear Kate, take a fellow of
 
 156 SELECTIONS TOH READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 plain and uncoined constancy. What; a speaker is but a prater; a 
 rhyme is but a ballad ; a straight back will stoop ; a black beard will 
 turn white ; a curled pate will grow bald ; a fair face will wither ; a 
 full eye will wax hollow ; but a good heart, Kate, is like the sun, for 
 it shines bright, and never changes. If thou would have such a one, 
 take me; and take me, take a soldier; take a soldier, take a King. 
 What sayest thou, then, fair Kate, to my love? 
 
 Kath. Is it possible dat I sould love de enemy of France? 
 Henry. No ; it is not possible that you should love the enemy 
 of France, Kate ; but in loving me, you should love the friend of 
 France ; for I love France so well I will not part with a village of 
 it ; I will have it all mine ; and, Kate, when France is mine, and I 
 am yours, then yours is France, and you are mine. 
 Kath. I cannot tell vat is dat. 
 
 Henry. No, Kate? Then I will tell thee in French— ^wano? /at 
 la possession de France, et quand vous avez la possession de 7noi 
 (let me see— what then? Saint Denis be my speed !) done voire est 
 France et vous ites mienne. 
 
 I tell thee, Kate, it is as easy to conquer the kingdom as to speak 
 80 much more French. Dost thou understand thtis much English— 
 Canst thou love me? 
 Kath. I cannot tell. 
 
 Henry. Can any of your neighbours teU, Kate? I'll ask them. 
 Put oflf your maiden blushes ; take me by the hand, and say, " Harry 
 of England, I am thine". With that word bless mine ear, and I 
 will tell thee aloud, " England is thine, Ireland is thine, France is 
 thine, and Henry Plantagenet is thine", who, though I speak it before 
 his face, if he be not fellow with the best King, thou shalt findthe 
 best King of good fellows. Come, your answer in broken music— 
 for thy voice is music, and thy English broken; therefore, break thy 
 jiind to me in broken English— Wilt thou have me? 
 Kath. Dat is as it sail please de roi monpere. 
 Henry. Nay it will please him well, Kate ; it shall please him, 
 
 iiate. 
 
 Kath. Then it sail also content me. 
 
 Henry. Then I will kiss your lips, Kate. 
 
 Kath. Non, non; it is not de fashion for les demoiselles in France 
 to — vat is de England for baiser ? 
 
 Henry. To kiss. 
 
 Kath. Oui, to kiss devant leivr noces. 
 
 Henry. It is not the fashion for the maids in France to kiss before 
 they are married, would you say ?
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 157 
 
 Kath. Out, vraiment. 
 
 Henry. Dear Kate, you and I cannot be confined within the weak 
 .ist of a country's fashion ; we are the makers of manners, Kate ; and 
 the liberty that follows stops the mouths of all find-faults ; — as I 
 will do yours, for upholding the nice fashion of your country, in 
 denying me a kiss. You have witchcraft in your lips, Kate ; there 
 is more eloquence in a touch of them than in the tongues of the 
 French council ; and they should sooner persuade Harry of England 
 than a general petition of monarchs. May God, the best maker of 
 all man-iages, combine our hearts in one, our realms in one, that the 
 contending kingdoms of France and England, whose very shores 
 look pale with envy of each other's happiness, may cease their 
 hatred ; that never war advance his bleeding sword 'twixt England 
 and fair France. 
 
 THE NEWSBOY'S DEBT. 
 
 Harper's Magazine. 
 
 Only last year, at Christmas-time, while pacing down the city 
 street, I saw a tiny, ill-clad boy — one of the many that we meet — as 
 ragged as a boy could be, with half a cap, with one good shoe, just 
 patches to keep out the wind — I know the wind blew keenly too — 
 a newsboy, with a newsboy's lungs, a square Scotch face, an honest 
 brow, and eyes that liked to smile so well, they had not yet for- 
 gotten how; a newsboy, hawking his last sheets with loud persist- 
 ence. Now and then stopping to beat his stiffened hands, and 
 trudging bravely on again. At last he stopped^six papers left, 
 tucked hopelessly beneath his arm — to eye a fruiterer's outspread 
 store ; here products from some country farm ; and there confections, 
 all adorned with wreathed and clustered leaves and flowers, while 
 little founts, like frosted spires, tossed up and down their mimic 
 showers. He stood and gazed with wistful face, all a child's long- 
 ing in his eyes; then started as I touched his arm, and turned in 
 quick, mechanic wise, raised his torn cap with purple hands, said 
 "Papers, sir"? The Evening NewsV He brushed away a freezing 
 tear, and shivered, " Oh, sir, don't refuse." 
 
 "How many have you? Never mind — don't stop to count — I'll 
 take them aU ; and when you pass my ofiice here, with stock on hand, 
 give me a call." 
 
 lie thanked me with a broad Scotch smile, a look half womlerinj; 
 and half glud.
 
 158 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 I fumbled for the proper "change ", and said, "You seem a little 
 lad to rough it in the streets like this." 
 
 " I'm ten years old on Christmas-day !" 
 
 "Your name?" 
 
 " Jim Hanley." 
 
 " Here's a crown, you'll get change there across the way. ^ Fjve 
 shillings. When you get it changed come to my office— that's the 
 place. Now wait a bit, there's time enough : you need not run a 
 headlong race. Where do you live 1" 
 
 " Most anywhere. We hired a stable-loft to-day. Me and two 
 
 others." 
 
 " And you thought the fruiterer's window pretty, hey? Or were 
 
 you hungry?" i j u i 
 
 " Just a bit," he answered bravely as he might. ' I couldn t buy 
 a breakfast, sir, and had no money left last night." 
 
 " And are you cold?" 
 
 " Ay, just a bit. I don't mind cold." 
 
 " Why, that is strange." He smiled and pulled his ragged cap, 
 and darted oflF to get the " change ". _ 
 
 So with a half-unconscious sigh, I sought my office desk again. 
 An hour or more my busy wits found work enough with book and 
 pen. But when the mantel clock struck five I started with a sudden 
 thought, for there, beside my hat and cloak, lay those six papera I 
 
 had bought. 
 
 « Why, Where's the boy? and where's the ' change he should have 
 brought In hour ago? Ah, well ; ah, well ; they're all alike; I was 
 a fool to tempt him so. Dishonest I Well, I might have known; 
 and yet his face seemed candid, too. He would have earned the 
 diflference if he had brought me what was due. 
 
 " But caution often comes too late." And so I took my home- 
 ward way, deeming distrust of human kind the only lesson of the day. 
 
 Just two days later, as I sat, half dozing, in my office chair, 1 
 heard a timid knock, and called, in my brusque fashion, "Wlio is 
 
 there?" 
 
 An urchin entered, barely seven— the same Scotch face, the same 
 blue eyes— and stood, half doubtful, at the door, abashed at my for- 
 bidding guise. 
 
 '•' Sir, if you please, my brother Jim— the one you gave the crown, 
 you know— he couldn't bring the money, sir, because his back was 
 hurted so. He didn't mean to keep the ' change'. He got runned 
 over up the street ; one wheel went light across his back, and 
 t'other fore- wheel mashed his feet. They took him to the hosuital
 
 8EUSCT10NS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 159 
 
 — one of the newsboys knew as 'twas Jim — and I went too, because, 
 you see, we two is brothers, I and him. He had that money in his 
 hand, and never saw it any more. Indeed, he didn't mean to steal ! 
 He never stole a pin before ! He was afraid that you might think 
 he meant to keep it any way ; this morning when they brought him 
 to, he cried because he couldn't pay. He made me fetch his jacket 
 here ; it's torn and dirtied pretty t«»d. It's only fit to seU for rags, 
 but then, you know, it's all he had. When he gets well — it won't 
 be long— if you wUl call the money lent, he says he'll work his 
 fingers off but what he'll pay you every cent." And then he cast a 
 rueful glance at the soiled jacket where it lay. 
 
 " No, no, my boy ; take back the coat Your brother's badly hurt 
 you say? Where did they take him? Just run out and hail a cab, 
 then wait for me. Why, I would give a thousand coats, and pounds, 
 for such a boy as he ! " 
 
 A half-hour after this we stood together in the crowded wards, 
 and the nurse checked the hasty steps that fell too loudly on the 
 boards. I thought him smiling in his sleep, and scarce believed 
 her when she said, smoothing away the tangled hair from brow and 
 cheek, — 
 
 "The boy is dead." 
 
 Dead ? dead so soon ? How fair he looked ; one streak of sunshine 
 on his hair. Poor lad ! Well, it is warm in heaven ; no need of 
 " change " or jackets there ; and something rising in my throat made 
 it so hard for me to speak, I turned away, and left a tear lying upon 
 hi 8 suubuined cheek. 
 
 THE SOUL'S AWAKENING. 
 C. Marston Haddock. 
 
 Twas in a Cathedral city. 
 
 She pass'd through the crowded street, 
 A stranger to love and pity, 
 
 With nowhere to stay her feet ; 
 Her life had been one great shadow, 
 
 And darkness had reign'd within, 
 Nor pleading, nor weeping in sorrov/. 
 
 Had lighten'd her weight of sin ; 
 From kindred and dear ones parted. 
 
 And shunn'd by the rich and poor, 
 She, weary and broken-hearted, 
 
 Sank down at the Minster door.
 
 160 SELECTIONS FOB READING AND RECITATIOM, 
 
 There, kneeling in meek submission, 
 
 She peer'd thro' the open door, 
 And saw, as it seem'd, the vision 
 
 Of love that is evermore. 
 The Minster was fill'd with glory, 
 
 A speaker was heard within, 
 Repeating the simple story 
 
 That told of a ransom'd sin. 
 The choristers sang of gladness. 
 
 Which Hfted her weight of cares, 
 And, casting aside her sadness, 
 
 She mingled her voice with theirc ; 
 
 *• lliou art indeed my Saviour, 
 
 Thou art my God above. 
 Thou art my Lord and Master, 
 
 Thou art my soul's great love ; 
 Thus hath Thy Word been spoken, 
 
 Strong with its love divine. 
 Lord, tho' my heart be broken, 
 
 Take me, my soul is Thine." 
 By tpecial permmion of Messrs. Boosey <k Co., 295 Regent Street, Londcn, /»«- 
 whom musical accompaniment ma>/ be had. 
 
 DEATH OF MARIE-ANTOINETTE. 
 Carltle. 
 
 Is there a man's heart that thinks without pity of those long 
 months and years of slow, wasting ignominy ; of thy birth, soft 
 cradled in imperial Schonbrunu, the winds of heaven not to visit 
 thy face too roughly, thy foot to light on softness, thy eye on 
 splendour; and then of thy death, or hundred deaths, to which the 
 guiUotine and Fouquier Tinville's judgment-bar were but the merci- 
 ful end' Look there, O man born of woman! The bloom of that 
 fair face is wasted, the hair is grey with care; the brightness of 
 those eyes is quenched, their lids hang drooping; the face is stony 
 pale, aB of one living in death. Mean weeds, which her own hand 
 has mended, attire the queen of the world. The death hurdle where 
 thou sittest pale, motionless, which only curses environ, luis to stop. 
 a people, drunk with vengeance, will drink it again in full draught, 
 looking at thee there. Far hb the eye reaches, a multitudmous sea of 
 mania? heads, the air deaf with their triumph-yell. The Uvmg-dead
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 161 
 
 must shudder with yet one other pang; her startled blood yet again 
 sufluses with the hue of agony that pale face, which she hides with 
 her hands. There is no heart to say, God pity thee ! O thiuk not 
 of these ! think of Him whom thou worshippest, the Crucified — who 
 also treading the wine-press alone, fronted sorrow still deeper, and 
 triumphed over it and made it holy, and buOt of it a " sanctuary 
 of sorrow" for thee and all the wretched. Thy path of thorns ia 
 nigh ended ; one long last look at the Tuileries, where thy step was 
 once so light — where thy children shall not dwell. The head is on 
 the block ; the axe rushes — dumb lies the world ; that wild-yelling 
 world, with all its madness, ia behind thee. 
 
 PUBLIC SPEECH. 
 Dr. H. W. Bellows. 
 
 Bacon says, " Reading makes a full man, writing an exact man, 
 speaking a ready man", and if there is anyone who says that extem- 
 pore utterance is the careless, unthinking utterance of a mind not 
 filled with reading, and not exact by writing, he discounts the argu- 
 ment. He who would speak well from the moment, from the utter- 
 ance of the lip, unaided either by the memory or by the manuscript, 
 must be a man who has acquired the art of putting his thoughts by 
 skilled writing into that process and exact shape which shall ulti- 
 mately become so much the habit of his mind, so much, I may say, 
 the spontaneous gift of his lips, that when he comes to speak, even 
 in the most hasty manner, he will have something of the exactness, 
 elegance, and finish of the written word. 
 
 The pen is the great educator. There is nothing in the world so 
 
 magical in its power to discriminate, to shape into form, to define, 
 
 and ultimately to give forth what is in one's heart to say, as the pen. 
 
 Therefore, be diligent in its use, but do not carry your manuscripts 
 
 either to the bar, the pulpit, or the forum if you wish to move your 
 
 fellow-creatures. And first, of speech considered only as an element 
 
 of delivery by the voice, I have noticed that professional men who 
 
 are not trained to the platform, or who have not had experience in 
 
 addressing crowds, have very little conception of the carrying power 
 
 of human tones, and, therefore, some who have a great deal to say 
 
 do not know how to get their voices out of their throats, do not know 
 
 how to load the air and saturate the atmosphere so that it comes to 
 
 every ear. Voice should be propelled from the lungs and carried by 
 
 the power of the muscles of the throat through the deepest recesses 
 (996) F
 
 162 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 of the hearer's ear, for who can listen with any pleasure to a speaker, 
 no matter what he has to say or how rich his illustrations may be, 
 except he can listen with an unstrained ear and forget he ia listening, 
 and so drink in the delights of eloquence and the moving powers of 
 thought without effort on his part, aU the effort being concentrated 
 in the powers of the throat, in the lungs, in the skiU of the orator] 
 
 And I would say of the propelling power of pubHc speakers that 
 it is the most exquisite, most difficult, and most effective of all arts, 
 the emitting of human tones, the articulating of syllables, with such 
 an elegant precision that they drop like new coins from the mint; 
 droo from the lips each perfect, and yet without effort. For if you 
 hear the cUck of the machinery and suspect your speaker is making 
 great effort to be heard and to make each syUable articulate, then 
 the pleasure disappears, you have the feeling of artifice and no longer 
 the fuU power. Art has become artifice, but art is only art when it 
 conceals and hides this artifice. 
 
 There is much truth in the oft-repeated statement that art destroys 
 natv^re, but it is because the art is false. 
 
 True art can muster no principles out of nature that nature has 
 lost, and those who think nature has not left something for art to do 
 have misapprehended the design of the Creator, who chose not to 
 make a finished world, but rather to allow His creatures to supply 
 the art-needs, thus carrying out His plans in their own education 
 and development. Art is not a perversion, but a developing and 
 perf ectincr of nature, and when thus perfected, it gives you something 
 better thin nature. When nature is thus enriched by art; when 
 passion and power and feeling and thought have been culled and 
 trimmed and aimed ; when the arrow is selected and feathered and 
 guided as no log of wood thrown by a giant's hand could go, then art 
 has learned to throw the shafts of speech in a way that nature never 
 tau-ht, except, perhaps, in those desperate ways when life is at stake 
 and" when, with a concentration of pa.ssionate power, the dumbest 
 become eloquent, and the weakest mighty in speech. 
 
 MAEIT AND L 
 
 Anon. 
 
 Marit at the brookside sitting, rosy, dimpled, merry-eyed, 
 Saw her lovely visage trembling in the mirror of the tide, 
 While between her pretty teeth a golden coil of hair she held; 
 Like a shining snake it quivered in the tide, and shrunk and swelled
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 163 
 
 Ajid she dipped her dainty fingers deftly in the chilly brook; 
 Scarce she minded how her image with the ripples curved and shook j 
 Stooping with a tiny shudder, dashed the water in her face ; 
 O'er her brow and cheeks the dew-drops glistening rolled and feD 
 apace. 
 
 Breathless sat I, safely hidden in the tree-top dense and green ; 
 For a maid is ne'er so sweet as when she thinks herself unseen ; 
 And I saw her with a scarlet ribbon tie her braid of hair, 
 And it seemed to me that moment I had ne'er seen aught so fair. 
 
 Now, if you will never breathe it, I will tell you something queer — 
 Only step a little nearer; let me whisper in your ear ; 
 If you think it was the first time that in this sequestered dell 
 I beheld the little Marit — well, 'tis scarcely fair to telL 
 
 There within my leafy bower sat I, happy as a king, 
 And two anxious wrens were flitting round about me twittering, 
 WhUe I gazed at Marit's image framed in heaven's eternal blue, 
 While the clouds were drifting past it, and the birds across it flew. 
 
 But anon the smile that hovered in the water stole away, 
 Though the sunshine through the birch leaves flung of light its shim- 
 mering spray, 
 And a breath came floating upward as if some one gently sighed, 
 And at just the self-same moment sighed the image in the tide. 
 
 Then I heard a mournful whisper : " O thou poor, thou pretty face ! 
 Without gold what will avail thee, bloom of beauty, youth, and 
 
 grace? 
 For a maid who has no dower — " and her curly head she shook : 
 It was little Marit speaking to her image in the brook. 
 
 More I heard not, for the whisper in a shivering sigh expired. 
 And the image in the water looked so sad and sweet and tired. 
 Full of love and fidl of pity, down I stooped her plaint to hear : 
 I could almost touch the ringlets curling archly round her ear. 
 
 Nearer, still a little nearer, forth I crept along the bough. 
 Tremblingly her lips were moving, and a cloud rose on her brow. 
 " Precious darling," thought I, " grieve not that thou hast no lover 
 
 found—" 
 Crash the branch went, and, bewildered, down I tumbled on the 
 
 ground.
 
 164 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 Up then sprang the little Marit with a cry of wild alarm, 
 
 And she gazed as if she dreaded I had come to do her harm. 
 
 Swift she darted through the bushes, and with stupid wonder mut« 
 
 Stood I staring blankly after ere I started in pursuit. 
 
 And a merry chase I gave her through the underbush and copse ; 
 
 Over faUen trunks and boulders on she fled with skips and hops, 
 
 Glancing sharply o'er her shoulder when she heard my footsteps 
 
 sound, 
 Dashing on with reckless terror like a deer before the hound. 
 
 Hot with zeal I broke my pathway where the clustered boughs were 
 
 dense, 
 For I wanted to assure her I intended no offence ; 
 And at last, exhausted, fell she on the gi-een-sward quivering, 
 Sobbing, panting, pleading, weeping, like a wild, unreasoning thing. 
 
 "Marit," said I, stooping down, -I hardly see why you should cry: 
 
 There is scarce in all the parish such a harmless lad as I ; 
 
 And you know I always liked you"-here my voice was soft and 
 
 «No,'iIdeed," she sobbed, in answer-" no, indeed, I do not know." 
 
 But methought that in her voice there was a touch of petulance ; 
 Through the glistening tears I caught a little shy and furtive glance. 
 Growing bolder then, I clasped her dainty hand full tenderly, 
 Though it made a mock exertion, struggling faintly to be free. 
 
 "Little Marit," said I, gently, " tell me what has grieved you so, 
 For I heard you sighing sorely at the brook a while ago." 
 "0 " she said, her sobs subduing, with an air demure and meek- ^^ 
 «0', it was that naughty kitten; he had scratched me on the cheek. 
 
 "Nothing worse?" I answered, gayly, while I strove her glance to 
 
 catch. ^ ,1^ 1 -ii. > 
 
 «Let me look; my kiss is healing. May I cure the kittens 
 
 scratch]" 
 And I kissed the burning blushes on her cheeks in heedless glee, 
 Though the marks of Pussy's scratches were invisible to me. 
 
 "O thou poor, thou pretty darling!" cried I, frantic with delight, 
 While she gazed upon me smiling, yet with eyes that tears maxie 
 
 bright, . J v ij 
 
 " Let thy beauty be thy dower, and be mine to have and hold ; ^^ 
 For a face as sweet as thou hast needs, in sooth, no frame of gold.
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 165 
 
 THE FASHIONABLE CHOIR, 
 T. C. Harbough. 
 
 'iVas a stylish congregation, that of Theophrastus Brown, and its 
 organ was the finest and the biggest in the town, and the chorus — 
 all the papers favourably commented on it, for 'twas said each female 
 member wore a forty-dollar bonnet. Now in the " amen corner " of 
 the church sat Brother Eyer, who persisted every Sabbath-day in 
 singing with the choir ; he was poor, but genteel-looking, and his 
 hair as snow was white, and his old face beamed with sweetness 
 when he sang with all his might. His voice was cracked and broken, 
 age had touched his M'cal chords, and nearly every Sunday he would 
 mispronounce the woids of the hymns: and 'twas no wonder; he was 
 old and nearly blind, and the choir rattling onward always left him 
 far behind. The chorus stormed and blustered. Brother Eyer sang 
 too slow, and then he used the tunes in vogue a hundred years ago ; 
 at last the storm-cloud burst, and the church was told, in fine, that 
 the brother must stop singing, or the choir would resign. 
 
 Then the pastor called together in the lecture-room one day seven 
 influential members who subscribe more than they pray, and having 
 asked God's guidance in a printed prayer or two, they put their 
 heads together to determine what to do. They debated, thought, 
 suggested, tiU at last "dear Brother York", who last year made a 
 million on a sudden rise in pork, rose and moved that a committee 
 wait at once on Brother Eyer, and proceed to rate him lively " for 
 disturbin' of the choir". Said he: " In that 'ere organ I've invested 
 quite a pile, and we'll sell it if we cannot worship in the latest style. 
 Our Philadelphy tenor tells me 'tis the hardest thing fer to make 
 God understand him when the brother tries to sing. We've got the 
 biggest organ, the best dressed choir in town, we pay the steepest 
 sal'ry to our pastor. Brother Brown ; but if we must humour ignor- 
 ance because it's blind and old — if the choir's to be pestered, I will 
 seek another fold." 
 
 Of course the motion carried, and one day a coach-and-four, with 
 the latest style of driver, rattled up to flyer's door ; and the sleek, 
 well-dressed committee. Brothers Sharkey, York, and Lamb, as they 
 crossed the humble portal took good care to miss the jamb. They 
 found the choir's great trouble sitting in his old arm-chair, and the 
 summer's golden sunbeams lay upon his thin white hair; he was 
 singing "Rock of Ages" in a voice both cracked and low, but the 
 augels understood him, 'twas all he cared to know.
 
 166 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 Said York : " We're here, dear brother, with the vestry's approba- 
 tion, to discuss a little matter that affects the congregation." "And 
 the choir, too," said Sharkey, giving Brother York a nudge. "And the 
 choir, too !" he echoed, with the graveness of a judge. " It was the 
 understanding when we bargained for the chorus, that it was to 
 relieve us, that is, do the singing for us; if we rupture the agi-ee- 
 ment, it is very plain, dear brother, it will leave our congregation 
 and be gobbled by another. We don't want any singing except that 
 what we've bought! The latest tunes are all the rage; the old ones 
 stand for naught; and so we have decided— are you listening. 
 Brother Eyer?— that you'll have to stop your singin', for it flurry- 
 tates the choir." 
 
 The old man slowly raised his head, a sign that he did hear, and 
 on his cheek the trio caught the glitter of a tear ; his feeble hands 
 pushed back the locks, white as the silky snow, as he answered the 
 committee in a voice both sweet and low. 
 
 " I've sung the Psalms of David for nearly eighty years ; they've 
 been my staff and comfort, and calmed life's many tears. I'm sorry 
 I disturb the choir, perhaps I'm doing wrong; but when my heart is 
 filled with praise, I can't keep back a song. I wonder if beyond the 
 tide that's breaking at my feet, in the far-off heavenly temple, where 
 the Master I shall greet— yes, I wonder, when I try to sing the songs 
 of God up higher, if the angel band will chide me for disturbing 
 heaven's choir." 
 
 A silence filled the little room; the old man bowed his head; the 
 carriage rattled on again, but Brother Eyer was dead 1 Yes, dead ! 
 his hand had raised the veil the future hangs before us, and the 
 Master dear had called him to the everlasting chorus. 
 
 THE BIVOUAC FIRE. 
 Samuel K. Cowan. 
 
 Round the bivouac fire, at midnight, lay the weary soldier-band ; 
 bloody were their spears with slaughter, gory was each hero's hand, 
 for the gha,stly strife was ended : From sach soul a whisper came— 
 "God of battles, we have triumphed ; hallowed be Thy holy name!" 
 It was beautiful, at midnight, when the bloody war was done, when 
 the battle clashed no longer, and no longer blazed the sun, calmly, in 
 the balmy starlight, to repose out-wearied limbs; not a sound to stir 
 the stillness, save the sound of holy hymns : " Thou hast given us 
 the glory : Thou hast bade our troubles cease : Thou art great aa 
 God of battles : Thou art best aa God of peace I"
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 167 
 
 Pensive, by the gleaming firelight, mute one lonely Soldier stood; 
 in his hand he grasj^ed a paper, scrawled in letters large and crude — 
 in his gory hands he grasped it ; and the tender childlike tear, from 
 his manful bosom welling, bathed the blood upon his spear ! Tlien 
 the gory paper oped he, scrawled in letters crude and wild — "Little 
 news from England, comrades ; 'tis a letter from my child." 
 
 "O my father! what hath kept you? You are nigh three years 
 away ; it was snowtime when you left us— this is morn of new year's 
 day. ' Good-bye, baby, until summer, or till Christmas-time,' you 
 said: O my father! what hath kept you? summer, Christmas, twice 
 have fled. Mother says your war is holy — that you bear a noble 
 name — that you fight for God and honour, and oo shield our home 
 from shame ; yet I often hear her praying : ' Make all war, O God, 
 to cease : Thou art great as God of battles : Thou art best as God of 
 peace '. Night and morn I pray for father ; in the sunny morning 
 hours I am often in the garden ; I have sown your name in flowers 
 — like your coat, in flowers of scarlet, all in tulips soldier-red. 
 Come, before the flowers are faded^ — come, before your name is 
 dead ! Little brother died at Christmas^mother told me not to 
 tell — but I think it better, father, for you said, ' The dead are well '. 
 He was buried side o' Mary : mother since has never smiled. Till 
 we meet, good-bye, dear father . . . from your loving little 
 
 CHILD." 
 
 Silent wore the night to morning — silent, at their soul's desire, lay 
 the soldiers, lost in dreaming, round the dying bivouac fire : home 
 were they again in^England ! miles were they from war's alarms ! . . . 
 Hark I the sudden bugle sounding ! hark ! the cry, " To arms ! to 
 arms!" Out from ambush, out from thicket, charged the foemen 
 through the plain ; " Up, my warriors ! arm, my heroes ! strike for 
 God and home again ! — for our homes, our babes, our country !" and 
 the rudd)'^ morning light flared on brandished falchions, bloody still 
 with gore of yesternight. 
 
 Purple grew the plain with slaughter, steed and rider side by side ; 
 and the crimson day of carnage ir a crimson sunset died : shuddering 
 on the field of battle glimpsed the starlight overhead ; and the moon- 
 light, ghostlike, glimmered on the dying and the dead. Faint and 
 few around the firelight were the laid out-wearied limbs — faint and 
 few the hero- voices that uprose in holy hymns; few the warriors left 
 to whisper, "Thou hast cast our foes to shame: God of battles, we 
 have triumphed ; hallowed be Thy mighty name !" 
 
 On the purple plain of slaugliter, who is this that smiles in rest, 
 with a shred of gory paper lying on his mangled bi'east? nought re-
 
 168 
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 malinng save a fragment, scrawled in letters crude and wild— "Till 
 we raeet, good-bye, dear father, from your loving little child ! " Eaise 
 bin. softly, lift him gently; staunch his life-blood ebbmg slow; he 
 is breathing! he is whispering? What is this he mutters low? 
 "Saved' my child- my home-my country! Father, give my 
 pangs release: Thou art great as God of battles: Thou art best aa 
 
 God of peace." . . ^ , . ,, , 
 
 (By special permission of tM Avxlwr.) 
 
 THE TALE HE TOLD THE MAEINES. 
 Thetre Smith. 
 
 Some time ago I was staying with Sir George P ' ^TT 
 
 House P shire. Great numbers of people were there— all kmds 
 
 of amusements going on. Driving, riding, fishing, shooting-every- 
 thing, in fact. Sir George's daughter, Fanny, was often my com- 
 panion in these expeditions, and I was considerably struck with her 
 She could ride like Nimrod, she could drive like Jehu, she could 
 row like Charon, she could dance like Teipischore, she could run 
 like Diana, she walked like Juno, and she looked like Venus. 
 
 You should have heard that girl whistle, and laugh-you should 
 have heard her laugh. She was truly a delightful companion. We 
 rode together, drove together, fished together, walked together 
 danced together, sang together; I called her Fanny, and she called 
 me Tom All this could have but one termination, you know. 1 
 fell in love with her, and determined to take the first opportunity of 
 proposing. So one day, when we were out together fishing on the 
 lake I went down on my knees amongst the gudgeons, seized her 
 hand, pressed it to my waistcoat, and in burning accents entreated 
 
 her to become my wife. „ 
 
 " Don't be a fool ! Now drop it, do I and put me a fresh worm on. 
 " Oh, Fanny ! don't talk about worms when marriage is m ques- 
 tion. Only say — " . , . 
 " I tell you what it is now-if you don't drop it I'll pitch yon out 
 
 of the boat." , , , 
 
 Gentlemen, I did not drop it; and I give you my word of honour, 
 with a sudden shove, she sent me flying into the water ; then seizing 
 the sculls, with a stroke or two she put several yards between us, 
 and burst into a fit of laughter. I swam up and climbed into the 
 boat " Jeukyns!" said I to myself, "Revenge! revenge! I dis- 
 guised my feelings. I laughed-hideous mockery of mirth-1 
 laughed Pulled to the bank, went to the house, and changed my
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION, 169 
 
 clothes. When I appeared at the dinner-table, I perceived that 
 every one had been informed of my ducking — universal laughter 
 greeted me. During dinner Fanny repeatedly whispered to her 
 neighbour, and glanced at me. Smothered laughter invariably 
 followed. " Jenkyns ! " said I, " Revenge ! " The opportunity soon 
 offered. There was to be a balloon ascent from the lawn, and Fanny 
 had tormented her father into letting her ascend with the aeronaut. 
 I instantly took my plans ; bribed the aeronaut to plead illness at 
 the moment when the machine should have risen ; learned from him 
 the management of the balloon ; and calmly awaited the result. The 
 day came. The weather was fine. The balloon was inflated. Fanny 
 was in the car. Everything was ready, when the aeronaut suddenly 
 fainted. He was carried into the house, and Sir George accom- 
 panied him to see that he was properly attended to. Fanny was in 
 despair. 
 
 "Am I to lose my air expedition 1 Someone understands the 
 management of this thing, surely? Nobody! Tom! you under- 
 stand it, don't you?" 
 
 "Perfectly!" 
 
 " Come along, then ! Be quick ; before papa comes back." 
 
 The company in general endeavoured to dissuade her from hei 
 project, but of course in vain. After a decent show of hesitation, I 
 climbed into the car. The balloon was cast off, and rapidly sailed 
 heavenward. There was scarcely a breath of wind, and we rose 
 almost straight up. We rose above the house, and she laughed, and 
 said : 
 
 "How jolly!" 
 
 We were higher than the highest trees, and she smiled, and 
 said it was very kind of me to come with her. We were so high 
 that the people below looked mere specks, and she hoped that I 
 thoroughly understood the management of the balloon. Now was 
 ray time. 
 
 "I understand the going up part," I answered; "to come down is 
 not so easy," and whistled. 
 
 " What do you mean?" 
 
 "Why, when you want to go up faster, you throw some sand 
 overboard." 
 
 " Don't be foolish, Tom." 
 
 " Foolish ! Oh dear, no ! but whether I go along the ground, or 
 
 up in the air, I like to go the pace, and so do you, Fanny, I know," 
 
 and over went another sand-bag. 
 
 " Why, you're mad, surely." 
 
 (996) F2
 
 170 SELECTIONS FOR READING AKD RECITATION. 
 
 " Only with love, my dear ; only Avith love for you. Oh, Fanuy, I 
 adore you ! Say you will be my wife." 
 
 " I gave you an answer the other day. One which I should Lave 
 thought you would have remembered," she added, laughing a little, 
 notwithstanding her terror. 
 
 " I remember it perfectly, but I intend to have a different reply 
 to that. You see those five sand-bags; I shall ask you five times to 
 become my wife. Every time you refuse I shall throw over a sand- 
 bag — so, lady fair, reconsider your decision, and consent to become 
 Mrs. Jenkyns." 
 
 " I won't ! I never will ! and, let me tell you, that you are acting 
 in a very ungentlemanly way to press me thus." 
 
 " You acted in a very unladylike way the other day, did 3'ou 
 not, when you knocked me out of the boat? However, it's no good 
 arguing about it — will you promise to give me your hand 1 " 
 
 " Never ! I'll go to Ursa Major first, though I've got a big enougl 
 bear here, in all conscience." 
 
 She looked so pretty that I was almost inclined to let her off (I 
 was only trying to frighten her, of course — I knew how high we 
 could go safely well enough, and how valuable the life of Jenkyns 
 was to his country) ; but resolution is one of the strong points of my 
 character, and when I've begun a thing I like to carry it through, so I 
 threw over another sand- bag, and whistled the "Dead Mai'ch in Saul". 
 
 " Come, Mr. Jenkyns — come, Tom, let us descend now, and I'll 
 promise to say nothing whatever about all this." 
 
 I continued the execution of the "Dead March". 
 
 " But if you do not begin the descent at once, I'll teU papa the 
 moment I set foot on the ground." 
 
 I laughed, seized another bag, and, looking steadily at her, said : 
 
 " Will you promise to give me your hand?" 
 
 " I've answered you already." 
 
 Over went the sand, and the solemn notes of the " Dead March " 
 resounded through the car. 
 
 " I thought you were a gentleman, but I find I was mistaken ; 
 why, a chimney-sweeper would not treat a lady in such a way. Do 
 you know that you are risking your own life as weU as mine by your 
 madness?" 
 
 I explained that I adored her so much that to die in her companj 
 would be perfect bliss, so that I begged she would not consider my 
 feelings at all. She dashed her beautiful hair from her face, and 
 standing perfectly erect, looking like the Goddess of Anger or 
 Boadicea — if you can fancy that personage in a balloon — she said •
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 171 
 
 " I command you to begin the descent this instant!" 
 
 The Dead March, whistled in a manner essentially gay and lively, 
 was the only response. After a few minutes' silence, I took up 
 another bag, and said : 
 
 " We are getting rather high ; if you do not decide soon we shall 
 have Mercury coming to tell us that we are trespassing — will you 
 promise me your hand?" 
 
 She sat in sulky silence at the bottom of the car. I threw ever 
 the sand. Then she tried another plan. Throwing herself upon her 
 knees, and bursting into tears, she said : 
 
 " Oh, forgive me for what I did the other day ! It was very wrong, 
 and I am very sorry. Take me home, and I will be a sister to you." 
 
 "Not a wife?" 
 
 "I can't! I can't 1" 
 
 Over w^ent the fourth bag, and I began to think she would beat 
 me after all ; for I did not like the idea of going much higher. I 
 would not give in just yet, however. I whistled for a few moments, 
 to give her time for reflection, and then said : 
 
 " Fanny, they say that marriages are made in Heaven — if you dc 
 not care, ours will be solemnized there." 
 
 I took up the fifth bag. 
 
 " Ck^me, Fanny, my wife in life, or my companion in death I which 
 is it to be?" and I patted the sand-bag in a cheerful manner. She 
 held her face in her hands, but did not answer. I nursed the bag in 
 my arms, as if it had been a baby." 
 
 "Come, Fanny, give me your promise !" 
 
 I could hear her sobs. I'm the most soft-hearted creature breath- 
 ing, and would not pain any living thing, and, I confess, she had 
 beaten me. I forgave her the ducking ; I forgave her for rejecting 
 me. I was on the point of flinging the bag back into the car, and 
 saying ; " Dearest Fanny ; forgive me for frightening you. Marry 
 whomsoever you will. Give your lovely hand to the lowest groom 
 in your stables — endow with your priceless beauty the chief of the 
 Panki-wanki Indians. Whatever happens, Jenkyns is your slave — 
 your dog — your footstool. His duty, henceforth, is to go whither- 
 soever you shall order — to do whatever you shall command." I was 
 just on the point of saying this, I repeat, when Fanny suddenly 
 looked up, and said, with a queerish expression upon her face : 
 
 " You need not throw that last bag over. I promise to give you 
 my hand." 
 
 " With all your heart?" I asked quickly. 
 
 " With all my heart," she answered, with the same strange look
 
 172 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 I tossed the bag into the bottom of the car, and opened the valve. 
 The balloon descended. 
 
 Gentlemen, will you believe it? When we reached the ground, 
 and the balloon had been given over to its recovered master— when I 
 had helped Fanny tenderly to the earth, and turned towards her to 
 receive anew the promise of her aflfection and her hand— will you 
 believe it?— she gave me a box on the ear that upset me against the 
 cai', and running to her father, who at that moment came up, she 
 related to him and the assembled company what she called my dis- 
 graceful conduct in the balloon, and ended by informing me that ail 
 of her hand that I was likely to get was bestowed on my ear, which 
 she assured me had been given with all her heart. 
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 
 
 two charactees. 
 
 Sir Peter Teazle. Lady Teazlr 
 
 Sir Peter's House. 
 
 Enter Sir Peter. 
 
 Sir P. When an old bachelor mai-ries a young wife, what is he to 
 expect? 'Tis now six months since Lady Teazle made me the 
 happiest of men, and I have been the most miserable dog ever since. 
 We tiffed a little going to church, and came to a quarrel before the 
 beUs had done ringing. I was more than once nearly choked with 
 gaU during the honeymoon, and had lost all comfort of life before 
 my friends had done wishing me joy. Yet I chose with caution ; a 
 girl bred whoUy in the country, who never knew luxury beyond one 
 silk gown, nor dissipation above the annual gala of a race-ball. Yet 
 now she plays her part in all the extravagant fopperies of the fashion 
 and the town with as ready a grace as if she had never seen a bush 
 or a grassy plot out of Grosvenor Square! I am sneered at by all 
 my acquaintance, and paragraphed in the newspapers. She dissi- 
 pates my fortune, and contradicts all my humours; yet, tne worst 
 of it is, I doubt I love her, or I should never bear all tbis. Wow- 
 ever, I'll never be weak enough to own it. Lady Teazle, Lady 
 Teazle, I'll not bear it ! 
 
 Bkter Lady Teazle. 
 Lady T. Sir Peter, Sir Peter, you may bear it or not, aa you 
 please- but I ought to have my own way in everything; and 
 what's' more, I will, too. What ! though I was educated in the
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READIWO AlO) RECITATIOW. 173 
 
 country, I know very weii that women of fashion in London are 
 aecouutable to nobody after they are married. 
 
 Sir P. Very well, ma'am, very well ! so a husband is to have no 
 influence, no authority? 
 
 Ladi/ 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'm sure I'm not more extravagant 
 than a woman of fashion ought to be. 
 
 Sir P. No, no, madam, you shall throw away no more sums on 
 such unmeaning luxury. 'Slife ! to spend as much to furnish your 
 dressing-room with flowers in winter as would suffice to turn the 
 Pantheon into a greenhouse, and give &fite champetre at Christmas. 
 
 Lady T Lud, Sir Peter, am I to blame, because flowers are dear 
 in cold weather? You should find fault with the climate, and not 
 with me. For my part, I'm sure, I wish it were spring all the year 
 round, and that roses grew under our feet ! 
 
 Sir P. Oons ! madam, if you had been bom to this, I shouldn't 
 wonder at your talking thus; but you forget what your situation 
 was when I married you. 
 
 Lady T. No, no, I don't; 'twas a very disagreeable one, or I 
 should never have married you. 
 
 Sir P. Yes, yes, madam, you were then in somewhat an humbler 
 style : the daughter of a plain country 'squire. Recollect, Lady 
 Teazle, when I first saw you sitting at your tambour, in a pretty 
 figured linen gown, with a bunch of keys at your side; your hair 
 combed smooth over a roll, and your apartment hung round with 
 fruits in worsted, of your own working. 
 
 Lady T. Oh, yes ! I remember it very well, and a curious life I 
 led. 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. 
 
 Sir P. Yes, yes, ma'am, 'twas so, indeed. 
 
 Lady T. And then, you know, my evening amusements! To 
 draw patterns for ruffles, which I had not materials to make up ; to 
 play Pope Juan with the curate ; to read a novel to my aunt ; oi- to 
 be stuck down to an old spinet to strum my father to sleep after a 
 fox-chase. 
 
 Sir P. I am glad you have got so good a memory. Yes, madam.
 
 174 SELECTIONS FOE READING AND KECITATION. 
 
 these were the recreations I took you from ; but now you must have 
 your coach, vis-a-vis, and three powdered footmen before your chair; 
 and, in the summer, a pair of white cats to draw you to Kensington 
 Gardens, No recollection, I suppose, when you were content to ride 
 double, behind the butler, on a dock'd coach-horse. 
 
 Lady T. No; I swear I never did that: I deny the butler and 
 the coach-horse. 
 
 Sir P. This, madam, was your situation ; and what have I done 
 for you? I have made you a woman of fashion, of fortune, of rank ; 
 in short, I have made you my wife. 
 
 Lady T. Well, then, and there is but one thing you can make me 
 to add to the obligation, and that is — 
 
 Sir P. My widow, I suppose ? 
 
 Lady T. Hem ! hem 1 
 
 Sir P. I thank you, madam ; but don't flatter yourself ; for though 
 your ill conduct may disturb my peace of mind, it shall never break 
 my heart, I promise you : however, I am equally obliged to you for 
 the hint. 
 
 Lady T. Then why will you endeavour to make yourself so dis- 
 agreeable to me, and thwart me in every little elegant expense 1 
 
 Sir P. 'Slif e I madam, I say, had you any of these little elegant 
 expenses when you married mel 
 
 Lady T. Lud, Sir Peter 1 would you have me out of the fashion? 
 
 Sir P. The fashion, indeed 1 What had you to do with the fashion 
 before you married mel 
 
 I^dy T. For my part I should think you would like to have your 
 wife thought a woman of taste. 
 
 Sir P. Ay, there again ; taste, zounds, madam, you had no taste 
 when you married me. 
 
 Lady T. That's very true, indeed, Sir Peter ; and after having 
 married you, I should never pretend to taste again, I allow. 
 
 Lud I Sir Peter, I hope you haven't been quarrelling with Maria'. 
 It is not using me well to be ill-humoured when I am not by. 
 
 Sir P. Ah ! Lady Teazle, you might have the power to make me 
 good-humoured at all times. 
 
 Lady T. I am sure I wish I had; for I want you to be in a 
 charming sweet temper at this moment. Do be good-humoured 
 now, and let me have two hundred pounds, will you? 
 
 Sir P. Two hundred pounds 1 What, a'n't I to be in a good- 
 humour without payijig for it? But speak to me thus, and i'faith ! 
 there's nothing I could refuse. You shall have it; {gives notes) but 
 seal me a bond for the repayment.
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 175 
 
 Lady T. Oh ! no : there, my note of hand will do as well. 
 
 Sir P. And you shall no longer reproach me with not giving you 
 an independent settlement. I mean shortly to surprise you : but 
 shall we always live thus ? eh ! 
 
 Lady T. If you please. I'm sure I don't care how soon we leave 
 off quarrelling, provided you'll own you were tired first. 
 
 8ir P. Well, then, let our future conte.st be, who shall be most 
 obliging. 
 
 Lady T. I assure you. Sir Peter, good-nature becomes you ; you 
 look now as you did before we were married, when you used to 
 walk with me under the elms, and tell me stories of what a gallant 
 you were in your youth, and chuck me under the chin, you would ; 
 and ask me if I thought I could love an old fellow, who would deny 
 me nothing — didn't you? 
 
 Sir P. Yes, yes ; and you were as kind and attentive — 
 
 Lady T. Ay, so I was : and would always take your part, when 
 my acquaintances used to abuse you, and turn you into ridicule. 
 
 Sir P. Indeed. 
 
 Lady T. Ay, and when my cousin Sophy has called you a stiff, 
 peevish, old bachelor, and laughed at me for thinking of marrying 
 one who might be my father, I have always defended you, and .said, 
 I didn't think you so ugly by any means. 
 
 Sir P. Thank you. 
 
 Lady T. And I dared say you'd make a very good sort of hus- 
 band. 
 
 Sir P. And you prophesied right ; and we shall now be the hap- 
 piest couple — 
 
 Lady T. And never differ again ? 
 
 Sir P. No never ; 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 first. 
 
 Lady T. I beg your pardon, my dear Sir Peter: indeed, you 
 always give the provocation. 
 
 Sir P. Now see, my angel ! take care : contradicting isn't the way 
 to keep friends. 
 
 Lady T. Then don't you begin it, my love. 
 
 Sir P. There, now; you — you are going on. You don't perceive, 
 my life, that you are just doing the very thing which you know 
 always makes me angry. 
 
 Lady T. Nay, you know, if yon will be angry without any rea.son, 
 my deal' —
 
 176 SELECTIONS FOR RKAUINO AND RBCIT>TION 
 
 Sir P. There ! now yon want to quarrel again. 
 
 Ladi/ T. No, I am sure I don't : but you will be so peevish— 
 
 Sir F. There now, who begins first? 
 
 Lady T. Why, you, to be sure. I said nothing : but there's no 
 bearing your temper, 
 
 8ir F. No, no, madam ; the fault's in your own temper. 
 
 Lady T, Ay, you are just what my cousin Sophy said you would 
 be. 
 
 Sir P. Your cousin Sophy is a forward, impertinent gipsy. 
 
 Lady T. You are a great bear, I'm sure, to abuse my relations. 
 
 Sir P. Now, may all the plagues 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 for me, 
 and I was a madman to marry you : a pert, rural coquette, that had 
 refused half the honest squires in the neighbourhood. 
 
 Lady T. And I am sure I was a fool to marry you: an old, 
 dangling bachelor, who was single at fifty, only because he never 
 could meet with any one that would have him. 
 
 Sir P. Ay, ay, madam ; but you were pleased enough to listen to 
 me : you never had such an ofi'er before. 
 
 Lady T. No 1 didn't I refuse Sir Tivy Terrier, who, everybody 
 said, would have been a better match ! for his estate is just as gooti 
 as yours, and he has broken his neck since we have been married. 
 
 Sir P. I have done with you, madam. You are an unfeeling, 
 ungrateful — but there's an end of everything. I believe you capable 
 of everything that is bad. Yes, madam, I now believe the reports 
 relative to you and Charles, madam. Yes, madam, you and Charles 
 are — not without grounds — 
 
 Lady T. Take care. Sir Peter ; you had better not insinuate any 
 such thing. I'll not be suspected without cause, I promise you. 
 
 Sir P. Very well, madam ; very well. A separate maintenance 
 as soon a.8 you please. Yes, madam, or a divorce. I'll make an 
 example of myself for the benefit of all old bachelors. 
 
 Lady T. Agreed, agreed I And now, my dear Sir Peter, we are 
 of a mind once more, we may be the happiest couple and never differ 
 again, you know. Ha, ha, ha ! Well, you are going to be in a 
 passion, I see, and I shall only interrupt you — so, bye, bye! \Exit. 
 
 Sir P. Plagues and tortures! Can't I make her angry either? 
 Oh I I am the most miserable fellow ! but I'll not bear her pre- 
 suming to keep her temper: no; she may break my heart, but she 
 sha'n't keep her temper.
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READIKQ AND REGIT ATI OX. 17T 
 
 CHARLES EDWARD AT VERSAILLES, 
 
 ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF THE BATTLE OF CULLODEN. 
 
 Professor Aytoun. 
 
 Take away that star and garter — hide them from my aching sight ! 
 
 Neither king nor prince shall tempt me from my lonely room this 
 night. 
 
 Let the shadows gather round me while I sit in silence here, 
 
 Broken-hearted, as an orphan watching by his father's bier. 
 
 Let me hold my still communion far from every earthly sound — 
 
 Day of penance — day of passion — ever, as the year comes round : 
 
 Fatal day ! wherein the latest die was cast for me and mine — 
 
 Cruel day ! that quelled the fortunes of the hapless Stuart line ! 
 Phantom-like, as in a mirror, rise the grisly scenes of Death — 
 
 There, before me, in its wildness, stretches bare CuUoden's heath ! 
 
 There the broken clans are scattered, gaunt as wolves, and famine- 
 eyed. 
 
 Hunger gnawing at their vitals, hope abandoned, all but pride. 
 There thev stand, the battered columns, underneath the murky sky. 
 
 In the hush of desperation, not to conquer, but to die. 
 
 Hark, the bagpipe's fitful wailing ; not the pibroch loud and shrill, 
 
 That, with hope of bloody banquet, lured the ravens from the hill,— 
 
 But a dirge both low and solemn, fit for ears of dying men, 
 
 Jslarshalled for their latest battle, never more to fight again. 
 Madness — madness! why this shrinking? were we less inured 
 to war 
 
 When our reapers swept the harvest from the field of red Dunbar? 
 
 Bring my horse, and blow the trumpet 1 Call the riders of Fitz- 
 James : 
 
 Let Lord Lewis head the column ! valiant chiefs of mighty names — 
 
 Trusty Keppoch ! stout Glengarry ! gallant Gordon I wise Lochiel ! 
 
 Bid the clansmen hold together, fast and fell, and fii-m as steel. 
 
 Elcho! never look so gloomy — what avails a saddened brow? 
 
 Heart, man 1 heart ! — we need it sorely, never half so much as now. 
 
 Had we but a thoiisand troopers, had we but a thousand more ! 
 
 Noble Perth, I hear them coming ! — Hark ! the English cannons roar. 
 
 Ah ! how awful sounds that volley, bellowing through the mist and 
 rain ! 
 
 Was not that the Highland slogan? let me hear that shout again ! 
 
 Oh, for prophet eyes to witness how the desperate battle goes! 
 
 Cumberland! I would not fear thee, could my Camerons see their 
 foes.
 
 178 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION 
 
 Sound, I say, the charge at venture — 'tis not naked steel we fear ; 
 Better perish in the melee than be shot like diiven deer ! 
 
 Hold ! the mist begins to scatter ! there in front 'tis rent asunder, 
 And the cloudy bastion crumbles underneath the deafening thunder. 
 Chief and vassal, lord and yeoman, there they lie in heaps together, 
 Smitten by the deadly volley, rolled in blood upon the heather; 
 And the Hanoverian horsemen, fiercely riding to and fro. 
 Deal their murderous strokes at random — Woe is me ! where am 
 
 I now? 
 Will that baleful vision never vanish from my aching sight? 
 Must those scenes and sounds of terror haunt me still by day and 
 
 night? 
 Yes, the earth hath no oblivion for the noblest chance it gave, 
 None, save in its latest refuge — seek it only in the grave ! 
 Love may die, and hatred slumber, and their memoi-y will decay. 
 As the watered garden recks not of the drought of yesterday ! 
 But the dream of power once broken, what shall give repose again? 
 What shall chain the serpent-furies coiled around the maddening 
 
 brain? 
 What kind draught can Nature offer strong enough to lull tlieJT 
 
 sting? 
 Better to l)e born a peasant than to live an exiled King! 
 
 Oh ! my heart is sick and heavy — Southern gales are not for me : 
 Though the glens are white in Scotland, place me there and set 
 
 me free ! 
 Grive me back my trusty comrades— give me back my Highland 
 
 maid — 
 Nowhere beats the heart so kindly as beneath the tartan plaid ! 
 Flora ! when thou wert beside me, in the wilds of far Kiutsiil — 
 When the cavern gave us shelter from the blinding sleot and hail — 
 When we lurk'd within the thicket, and, beneath the waning moon. 
 Saw the sentry's bayonet glimmer, heai'd him chant his listless 
 
 tune — 
 When the howling storm o'ertook us, drifting down the island's lee, 
 And our crazy bark was whirling like a nut-shell on the sea — 
 Wlien the nights were dark and dreary, and amidst the fern we lay, 
 Faint and foodless, sore with ti-avel, waiting for the streaks of day; 
 When thou wert an angel to me, watching my exhausted sleep — 
 Never didst thou hear me murmur — couldst thou see how now i 
 
 weep! 
 — Bitter tears and sobs of anguish, unavailing tliough they be — 
 Oh! tlie brave — the brave and noble — that have died in vain for me!
 
 bELBCl'lONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 17» 
 
 THE BUILDING OF ST. SOPHIA. 
 Eev. Sabine Barinq-Gould. 
 
 JiiRtinian, Emperor and Augustus, bent 
 
 On the imperial city's due embellishment, 
 
 Whilst musing, sudden started up and cried ; 
 
 " There is no worthy minster edified 
 
 Under the Ruler of <Kirth, sea, and skies, 
 
 The One eternal, and the only wise. 
 
 Great Solomon a temple built of old 
 
 To the Omnipotent, at cost untold. 
 
 Great was his power, but mine must his surpass 
 
 As ruddy gold excels the yellow brass. 
 
 I too a costly church will dedicate. 
 
 To preach God's Majesty and tell my state." 
 
 Then called the Emperor an artist skilled, 
 
 With sense of beauty and proportions filled, 
 
 And said, " In Wisdom's name I bid thee build. 
 
 Build of the best, best ways, and make no spare, 
 
 The cost entire my privy purse shall bear. 
 
 Solomon took gifts of gold, and wood, and stone. 
 
 But I, Justinian, build the Church alone. 
 
 Then go, ye heralds! forth to square and street 
 
 With trumpet blare, and everywhere repeat, 
 
 That a gi-eat minster shall erected be 
 
 By our august, pacific Majesty ; 
 
 And bid none reckon in the work to share. 
 
 For we ourselves the entire expense will bear." 
 
 And as Justinian lay that night awake, 
 
 Weary, and waiting for white day to break, 
 
 The thought rose up, " Now when this flesh is dead^ 
 
 My soul, by its attendant spirit led, 
 
 Shall hear the angel at the great gate call, 
 
 What ho ! Justinian comes, magnifical, 
 
 Who to the Eternal Wisdom Uncreate, 
 
 A church did build, endow, and consecrate, 
 
 Tlie like of which by man was never trod : 
 
 Then rise, Justinian ! to the realm of God." 
 
 Now day and night the workmen build ; apaco 
 The church arises, full of form and grace ;
 
 180 SELECTIONS FOR RBADINQ AND RECITATIOJI 
 
 The walls upstart, the porch and portals wide 
 Are traced, the marble benches down each side, 
 The sweeping apse, the basement of the piers, 
 The white hewn stone is laid in level tiers. 
 Upshoot the columns, then the arches turn. 
 The roof with gilded scales begins to bum. 
 Next, white as mountain snow the mighty dome 
 Hangs like a moon above the second Rome, 
 Within, mosaic seraphs spread their wings, 
 And cherubs circle round the King of kings, 
 On whirling wheels, besprent with myriad eyes; 
 And golden, with gold hair, against blue skies, 
 Their names beside them, twelve Apostles stand, 
 Six on the left, and six on the right hand. 
 And from an aureole of jewelled rays, 
 The Saviour's countenance doth calmly gaze. 
 Fixed is the silver altar, raised the screen, 
 A golden network prinked red, blue, and green, 
 With icons studded, hung with lamps of fire ; 
 And ruby curtained round the sacred choir. 
 Then, on a slab above the western door, 
 Through which, next day, the multitude shall pour. 
 That all may see and read, the sculptors grave: — 
 " This House to God, Justinian Emperor gave". 
 
 And now, with trumpet blast and booming gong 
 Betwixt long lines of an expectant throng 
 The imperial procession sweeps along. 
 The saffron flags and crimson banners flare 
 Against the fair blue sky above the square. 
 In front the walls of Hagia Sophia glow, 
 A frost of jewels set in banks of snow. 
 
 Begemmed, and purple-wreathed, the sacred sign, 
 
 Labarum, moves, the cross of Constantiue, 
 
 Then back the people start on either side, 
 
 As ripples ])ast a molten silver tide 
 
 Of Asian troops in polished mail ; next pass 
 
 Byzantine guards, a wave of Corinth brass. 
 
 And then, with thunder tramp, the Varanger bandjs 
 
 Of champions gathered from gray northern lauds, 
 
 Above whom Odin's raven flaps its wing: 
 
 And, in their midst, in a gold-harnessed ring
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 181 
 
 Of chosen heroes, on a cream-Tivhite steed 
 
 In gilded trappings, of pure Arab breed, 
 
 To dedicate his church doth Csesar ride 
 
 In all his splendour, majesty, and pride. 
 
 With fuming frankincense and flickering lights, 
 
 The vested choir come forth as he alights. 
 
 Now shrill the silver clarions loud and long, 
 
 And clash the cymbals, bellows hoarse tLe gong, 
 
 A wild barbaric crash. Then on the ear 
 
 Surges the solemn chanting, full and clear : 
 
 " Lift up your heads, ye gates, and open swing, 
 
 Ye everlasting doors, before the King!" 
 
 Back start the silver valves — in sweeps the train. 
 
 Next throng the multitude the sacred fane. 
 
 Justinian enters, halts a little space, 
 
 With haughty exultation on his face, 
 
 And, at a glance, the stately church surveys. 
 
 Then reads above the portal of the nave — 
 
 "This House to Ood, Euphrasia, widoxo, gave", 
 
 "What ho!" he thunders, with a burst of ire, 
 
 As to his face flashes a scarlet fire; 
 
 "Where is the sculptor? Silence, all you choir!" 
 
 Where is the sculptor?" 
 
 Fails the choral song, 
 
 A hush falls instant on the mighty throng. 
 
 " Bring forth the sculptor who yon sentence wrought ; 
 
 His merry jest he'll find full dearly bought." 
 
 Then fell before him, trembling, full of dread, 
 The graver. " Caesar, God preserved ! " he said, 
 " I carved not that ! exchanged has been the name 
 From that I chiselled. I am not to blame. 
 This is a miracle,— no mortal hand 
 Could banish one and make another stand, 
 And on the marble leave nor scar nor trace, 
 Where was the name deep cut, it did eflace. 
 Beside the letters, sire ! the stone is whole." 
 " Ha ! " scofi"ed the Emperor, " now by my soul, 
 I deemed the age of marvels passed away ! " 
 
 Forth stepped the Patriarch with, " Sire, I pray, 
 
 Hearken 1 I saw him carve, nor I alone. 
 
 Thy name and title which have fled the stone ;
 
 182 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 And I believe the finger was Divine 
 Which set another name and cancelled thine— 
 The finger that, which wrote upon the wall 
 Belshazzar's doom in Babel's sculptured hall ; 
 The finger that, which cut in years before 
 On Sinai's top, on tables twain, the Law." 
 
 Justinian's brow grew dark with wrath and fear-' 
 "Who is Euphrasia, widow, I would hear. 
 This lady who my orders sets at nought. 
 And robs me of the recompense I sought. 
 Who is Euphrasia?" 
 
 But none spake a word 
 "What! of this wealthy lady have none heard?" 
 Again upon the concourse silence fell, 
 For none could answer make, and tidings tell. 
 " What ! no man know ! Go some the city round, 
 Ajid ask if such be in Byzantium found." 
 
 Then said a priest, and faltered : " Of that name 
 Is one, but old, and very poor, and lame. 
 Who has a cottage close upon the quay; 
 But she, most surely, sire, it cannot be." 
 
 " Let her be brought." Then some the widow seek 
 And lead the aged woman, tottering, weak, 
 With tattered dress, and thin white straying hair. 
 Bending upon a stick, and with feet bare. 
 
 "Euphrasia," said the monarch sternly, "speak! 
 
 Wherefore didst thou my strict commandment break 
 
 And give, against my orders, to this pile?" 
 
 The widow answered simply, with faint smile, 
 
 " Sire ! it was nothing, for I only threw 
 
 A little straw before the beasts which drew 
 
 The marble from the ships, before T knew 
 
 Vhou wouldst be angry. Sire ! T had been ill 
 
 Three weary months, and on my window sill 
 
 A little linnet perched, and sang each day 
 
 So sweet, it cheered me as in bed I lay, 
 
 And filled my heart with love to Him who sent 
 
 The linnet to me ; then, with full intent 
 
 To render thanks, when God did health restore,
 
 BELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 1^ 
 
 I from my mattress pulled a little straw 
 And cast it to the oxen that did draw 
 The marble burdens — I did nothing more." 
 
 " Look ! " said the Caesar, " read above that door 1 
 
 Small though thy gift, it was the gift of love, 
 
 And is accepted of our King above ; 
 
 And mine rejected as the gift of pride 
 
 By Him who humble lived and humble died. 
 
 Widow, God grant hereafter, when we meet, 
 
 I may attain a footstool at thy feet I " 
 
 — By special permission of Messrs. Skeffington <fc Sim. 
 
 GETTING INTO SOCIETY. 
 
 W. M. Thackeray. 
 
 (Adapted for Recital.) 
 
 On the 1st of January, 1838, I was the master of a lovely shop in 
 the neighbourhood of Oxford Market; of a wife, Mrs. Cox; of a 
 business, both in the shaving and cutting line, established three-and- 
 thirty-years ; of a girl and boy respectively of the ages of eighteen 
 and thirteen; of a three-windowed front, both to my first and second 
 pair ; of a young foreman, my present partner, Mr. Orlando Crump ; 
 and of that celebrated mixture for the human hair, invented by my 
 late uncle, and called Cox's Bohemian Balsam of Tokay, sold in pots 
 at two-and-three and three-and-nine. 
 
 One day — one famous day last January — whirr comes a hackney- 
 coach to the door, from which springs a gentleman in a black coal 
 with a bag. 
 
 "Your name is Cox, sir?" My name, sir, is Sharpus — Blunt, 
 Hone, and Sharpus, Middle Temple Lane — and I am proud to 
 salute you, sir; happy, — that is to say, sorry to say, that Mr. 
 Tuggeridge, of Portland Place, is dead, and your lady is heiress, in 
 consequence, to one of the handsomest properties in the kingdom." 
 
 I handed over the business to Mr. Crump without a single 
 farthing of premium, though Jemmy — my wife — would have made 
 me take four hundred pounds for it; but this I was above: Crump 
 had served me faithfully, and have the shop he should. 
 
 "We were speedily installed in our fine house ; but what's a house 
 without friends? Jemmy made me cut all my old acquaintances 
 in the Market, and I was a solitary being ; w hen, luckily, an old
 
 184 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 lodger of ours, Captain Tagrag, was so kind as tx) promise to intro- 
 duce us into distinguished society — aye, and what's more, did. 
 
 First he made my wife get an opera-box, and give supj)ers on 
 Tuesdays and Saturdays. As for me, he made me ride in the Park 
 — me and Jemimai-ann, with two grooms behind us, who used to 
 laugh all the way, and whose very beards I had shaved. 
 
 Well, the horses, the suppers, the opera-box, the paragraphs in 
 the papers about Mr. Coxe Coxe (that's the way; double your 
 name and stick an ' e ' to the end of it, and you are a gentlemaii 
 it once), had an effect in a wonderfully short space of time, and 
 we began to get a very pretty society about us. Some of old 
 Tug's friends brought their wives and daughters to see dear Mrs. 
 Coxe and her charming girl ; and when, about the first week in 
 February, we announced a grand dinner and ball for the erening of 
 the 28th, I assure you there was no want of company — no, nor of 
 titles neither ; and it always does my heart good even to hear one 
 mentioned. 
 
 Let me see. There was, first, my Lord Dunboozle, an Irish peer, 
 and his seven sons, the Honourable Messieurs Trumper (two only to 
 dinner) ; there was Count Mace, the celebrated French nobleman, 
 and his Excellency Baron von Punter from Baden ; there was Ladj 
 Blanche Bluenose, the eminent litei-ati, author of " The Distnisted ", 
 "The Distorted", "The Digusted ", "The Disreputable One", and 
 other poems ; there was the Dowager Lady Max and her daughter, 
 the Honourable Miss Adelaide Blueiiiin; Sir Charles Codshead 
 from the City; and Field-Marshal Sir Gorman O'Gallagher, K.A., 
 K.B., K.C., K.W., K.X., in the service of the Republic of Guate- 
 mala: my friend Tagrag and his fashionable acquaintance, little 
 Tom Tufthunt, made up the party. And when the doors were flung 
 open, and Mr. Hock, in black, with a white napkin, three footmen, 
 coachmen, and a lad whom Mrs. C. had dressed in sugar-loaf buttons 
 and called a page, were seen round the dinner-table, all in white 
 gloves, I promise jou I felt a thrill of elation, and thought to myself 
 — Sam Cox, Sam Cox, who ever would have expected to see you 
 here? 
 
 After dinner, there was to be, as I said, an evening party ; and 
 to this Messieurs Tagrag and Tufthunt had invited many of the 
 principal nobility that our metropolis had produced. When I 
 mention, among the company to tea, her Grace the Duchess of 
 Zero, her son the Marquis of Fitzurse, and the Ladies North Pole 
 hor daughters; when I say that there were yet others, whose names 
 may be found in the Blue Book, but sha'n't, out of modesty, be
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITAflON. 185 
 
 mentioned here, I think I've said enough to show that, in our time, 
 No. 96 Portland-Place was the resort of the best of company. 
 
 It was our first dinner, and dressed by our new cook, Munseer 
 Cordongblew. I bore it very well; eating, for my share, a fiUy 
 dysol allameter dotell, a cutlet soubeast, a puUy bashyniall, and 
 other French dishes ; and, for the frisky sweet wine, with tin tops 
 to the bottles, called Champang, I must say that me and Mrs. 
 Coxe-Tuggeridge Coxe drank a very good share of it (but the 
 Claret and Jonnysberger, being sour, we did not much relish), 
 However, the feed, as I say, went ofi" very well; Lady Blanche 
 Bluenose sitting next to me, and being so good as to put me down 
 for six copies of all her poems ; the Count and Baron von Punter 
 engaging Jemimarann for several waltzes, and the Field-Marshal 
 pljang my dear Jemmy with Champang, until, bless her ! her dear 
 nose became as red as her new crimson satin gown, which, with a 
 blue turban and bird-of-paradise feathers, made her look like an 
 empress, I warrant. 
 
 Well, dinner past, Mrs. C. and the ladies went off: — thunder- 
 under-under came the knocks at the door; squeedle-eedle-eedle, 
 Mr. Wippert's fiddlers began to strike up, and, about half-past 
 eleven, me and the gents thought it high time to make our appear- 
 ance. I felt a little squeamish at the thought of meeting a couple 
 of hundred great people ; but Count Mace and Sir Gorman 
 O'Gallagher taking each an arm, we reached, at last, the drawing- 
 room. 
 
 The young ones in company were dancing, and the Duchess and 
 the great ladies were all seated, talking to themselves very stately, 
 and working away at the ices andj macaroons. I looked out for my 
 pretty Jemimarann amongst the dancers, and saw her tearing round 
 the room along with Baron Punter, in what they call a gallypard ; 
 then I peeped into the circle of the Duchesses, where, in course, I 
 expected to find Mrs. C; but she wasn't there 1 She was seated at 
 the further end of the room, looking very sulky ; and I went up and 
 took her arm, and brought her down to the place where the Duchesses 
 were. " Oh, not there ! " said Jemmy, trying to break away. " Non- 
 sense, my dear," says I : " you are missus, and this is your place." 
 Then going up to her ladyship the Duchess, says I, "Me and my 
 missis are most proud of the honour of seeing of you." 
 
 The Duchess (a tall red-haired grenadier of a woman) did not speak. 
 
 I went on : " The young ones are all at it, ma'am, you see ; and 
 we thouglit we would come and sit dowo among the old ones. You 
 and I, ma'am, I think, are too stiff to dance."
 
 186 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION, 
 
 " Sir ! " says her Grace, 
 
 " Ma'am," says I, " don't you know me 1 My name's Cox. No- 
 body's introduced me ; but, it's my own house, and I may present 
 myself — so give us your hand, ma'am." 
 
 And I shook her's in the kindest way in the world ; but — would 
 you believe it? — the old cat screamed as if my hand had been a hot 
 'tater. "Fitzurse! Fitzursel" shouted she, "help! help!" Up 
 scuffled all the other dowagers— in rushed the dancers. " Mamma ! 
 mamma!" squeaked Lady Julia North Pole. "Lead me to my 
 mother," howled Lady Aurorer : and both came and flung them- 
 selves into her arms. " Wawt's the raw?" said Lord Fitznirse, saun- 
 tering up quite stately. 
 
 " Protect me from the insults of this man," says her Grace. 
 "Where's Tufthunt? he promised that not a soul in this house 
 should speak to me." 
 
 " My dear Duchess," said Tufthunt, very meek. 
 
 " Don't Duchess me, sir. Did you not promise they should not 
 speak, and hasn't that horrid tipsy wretch offered to embrace me? 
 Didn't his monstrous wife sicken me with her odious familiarities? 
 Call my people, Tufthunt! Follow me, my children!" 
 
 "And my carriage," "And mine," "And mine! "shouted twenty 
 more voices. And down they all trooped to the hall, Lady Blanche 
 Bluenose and Lady Max among the very first; leaving only the 
 Field-Manshal and one or two men, who roared with laughter ready 
 to split. 
 
 " Oh, Sam," said my wife, sobbing, " why would you take me 
 back to them? they had sent me away before! I only asked the 
 Duchess whether she didn't like rum-shrub better than all your 
 Maxarinos and Curasosos: and — would you believe it? — all the 
 ionijiiiny burst out laughing ; and the Duchess told me just to keep 
 ofl", and not to speak till I was spoken to. Imperence 1 I'd like to 
 tear her eyes out." 
 
 And so I do believe my dearest Jemmy would. 
 
 THE DEACON'S STORY. 
 
 N. S. Emerson. 
 
 The solemn old bells in the steeple 
 Are ringin'. I guess you know why ! 
 
 Ko? Well then, I'll tell you, though mostly 
 It's whispered about on the sly.
 
 BJELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 187 
 
 Some six weeks ago, a church meetin' 
 
 Was called — for — nobody knew what ; 
 But we went, and the parson was present. 
 
 And I don't know who or who not. 
 
 Some twenty odd members, I calc'late, 
 
 Which mostly was women, of course ; 
 Though I don't mean to say aught agin' 'eau 
 
 I've seen many gatherin's worse. 
 There, in the front row, sat the deacons, 
 
 The eldest was old Deacon Pryor — 
 A man countin' four-score-and-seven, 
 
 And generally full of his ire. 
 
 Beside him, his wife, countin' four-score, 
 
 A kind-hearted, motherly soul ; 
 And next to her, young Deacon Hartley, 
 
 A good Christian man on the whole. 
 Miss Parsons, a spinster of fifty, 
 
 And long ago laid on the shelf. 
 Had wedged herself next, and, beside her. 
 
 Was Deacon Munro — that's myself. 
 
 The meetin' was soon called to order, 
 
 The parson looked glum as a text ; 
 We gazed at each other in silence. 
 
 And silently wondered— " What next?" 
 Then slowly uprose Deacon Hartley, 
 
 His voice seemed to tremble with fear. 
 As he said, " Man and boy you have known Ciw. 
 
 My good friends, for nigh forty year. 
 
 And you scarce may expect a confession 
 
 Of error from me ; but — you know, 
 My dearly loved wife died last Christmas. 
 
 It's now nearly ten months ago. 
 The winter went by long and lonely, 
 
 The spring hurried forward apace ; 
 The farm-work came on and I needed 
 
 A woman about the old place. 
 
 The children were wilder than rabbita, 
 And still growing worse every day ;
 
 i88 SELECTIONS FOE READING AND RECITATlOEo 
 
 No help to be found in the village, 
 Although I was willing to pay. 
 
 In fact, I was well-nigh discouraged. 
 For everything looked so forlorn ; 
 
 When good little Patience M'Alpin 
 Slipped into our kitchen one mom. 
 
 She had only run in of an errand, 
 
 But she laughed at our miserable plight. 
 And set to work, just like a woman, 
 
 A-putting the whole place to right. 
 And though her own folks was so busy, 
 
 And badly her helpin' could spare, 
 She flit in and out like a sparrow. 
 
 And 'most every day she was there. 
 
 So the summer went by sort of cheerful, 
 
 And one night my baby, my Joe, 
 Seemed peevish and fretful, and woke me 
 
 By crying, at midnight, you know. 
 I was tired with my day's work, and sleepj; 
 
 And couldn't, no way, keep him still; 
 So, at last, I got angry and spanked him, 
 
 And then he screaraed out with a will 
 
 Just then, I heard a soft rapping 
 
 Away at the half -open door. 
 And then little Patience M'Alpin 
 
 Walked shyly across the white floor. 
 Says she : — ' I thought Josey was cryin', 
 
 I guess I'd best take him away ; 
 I knew you'd be gettin' up early, 
 
 To go to the marshes for hay ; 
 
 So I stayed here to-night to get breakfast ; 
 
 I guess he'll be quiet with me. 
 Come, .Josey, kiss papa and tell him 
 
 What a nice little man you will be !' 
 She was stooping low over the pillow. 
 
 And saw the big tears on his cheek ; 
 Her face was so close to ray whiskers, 
 
 1 daren't move, scarcely, or speak ;
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 189 
 
 Her hands were both holdin' the baby. 
 
 Her eye by his shoulder was hid ; 
 But her mouth was so near and so rosy, 
 
 I — kissed her. That's just what I did." 
 Then down sat the tremblin' sinner, 
 
 The sisters they murmured of " Shame T' 
 And " She shouldn't oughter a let him ; 
 
 No doubt she was mostly to blame." 
 
 When straightway uprose Deacon Pryor, 
 
 " Now, brethren and sisters," he said, 
 (We knowed then that somethin' was comir.', 
 
 And all sat as still as the dead,) 
 "You've heard Brother Hartley's confession, 
 
 And I speak for myself when 1 say 
 That if my wife was dead, and my children 
 
 Were all growin' worse every day ; 
 
 And if my house needed attention, 
 
 And Patience M'Alpin had come, 
 And tidied and fixed up the kitchen, 
 
 And made the place seem more like at home 4 
 And if I was worn-out and sleepy, 
 
 And my baby would not lie still. 
 But fretted and woke me at midnight, 
 
 As babies, we know, sometimes will ; 
 
 And if Patience had come in to hush him. 
 
 And 'twas all as our good brother sez^ 
 I think, friends — I think I should kiss her, 
 
 And 'bide by the consequences." 
 Then sat down the elderly deacon, 
 
 The younger one lifted his face. 
 And a smile rippled over the meetin'. 
 
 Like light in a shadowy place. 
 
 Perhaps, then, the matronly sisters 
 
 Eemembered their far-away youth. 
 Or the daughters at home by their firesides. 
 
 Shrined each in her shy, modest truth ; 
 For their judgments gi-ew gentle and kindly. 
 
 And — -well, as I started to say, 
 The solemn old bells in the steeple 
 
 Are ringing a bridal to-day.
 
 190 SEI/ECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATIOH 
 
 SCENE FROM " RICHELIEU ". 
 Lord Lttton. 
 
 SIX CHARACTERS. 
 
 Richelieu, Joseph, Julie, Clermont, Baradas, asv 
 De Beringhen. 
 
 Present — Richelieu and Joseph. 
 
 Rich. Joseph, Did you hear the King? 
 
 Joseph. 1 did — there's danger ! 
 
 Rich. I will accuse these traitors ! 
 Francois shall witness that de Baradas 
 Gave him the secret missive for De Bouillon, 
 And told him life and death were in the scroll 
 I wiU— I wUl— 
 
 Joseph. Tush ! Francois is your creature ; 
 So they will say, and laugh at you ! — 7/our witness 
 Must be that same despatch. 
 
 Rich. Away to Marion ! 
 
 Joseph. I have been there — she is seized — removed — iniprison'rl- 
 By the Count's orders. 
 
 Enter Julie. 
 
 Julie. Heaven ! I thank thee ! 
 I cannot be, or this all-powerful man 
 Would not stand idly thus. 
 
 Rich. What dost thou here ? 
 Homel 
 
 Julie. Home! — is Adrien iherel — you're dumb — yet striTd 
 For words ; I see them trembling on yoiu- lip ! 
 But choked by pity. It was truth — all truth ! 
 Seized — the Bastile — and in your presence too 1 
 Cardinal, where is Adrien? Think — he saved 
 Your life : — your name is infamy, if wrong 
 Should come to his ! 
 
 Rich. Be sooth'd, child ! 
 
 Julie. Child no more ; 
 I love, and I am woman ! 
 Answer me but one word — I am a wife — 
 I ask thee for my home — my fate — my ALLi 
 Where is my hushandl 
 
 Rich. You ask me for your husband ?
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. id) 
 
 There — where the clouds of heaven look darkest o'er 
 The domes of the Bastile ! 
 
 Julie. O, mercy ! mercy ! 
 Save him, restore him, father ! Art thou not 
 The Cardinal-King? — the lord of life and death-- 
 Art thou not Eichelieu? 
 
 Rich. Yesterday I was! — 
 To-day, a very weak old man I — To-morrow, 
 I know not what ! 
 
 Julie. (To Joseph.) Do you conceive his meaning? 
 Alas! I cannot. 
 
 Joseph. The King is chafed 
 Against his servant. Lady, while we speak, 
 The lackey of the ante-room is not 
 More powerless than the Minister of France. 
 
 Enter Clermont. 
 
 Cler. Pardon, your Eminence — even now I seek 
 This lady's home — commanded by the King 
 To pray her presence. 
 
 Juli^ (Clinging to Richelieu.) Think of my dead father U- 
 Think, how, an infant, clinging to your knees, 
 And looking to your eyes, the wrinkled care 
 Fled from your brow before the smile of childhood, 
 Fresh from the dews of heaven ! Think of this, 
 And take me to your breast. 
 
 Rich. To those who sent you ! — 
 And say you found the virtue they would slay 
 Here — couch upon this heart, as at an altar, 
 And sheltered by the wings of sacred Eome 1 
 Begone ! 
 
 Cler. My lord, I am your friend and servant — 
 Misjudge me not ; but never yet was Louis 
 So roused against you : — shall I take this answer? — 
 It were to be your foe. 
 
 Rich. All time my foe, 
 If I, a Priest, could cast this holy sorrow 
 Forth from her last asylum ! 
 
 Cler. He is lost ! [Exit Clermont. 
 
 Rich. God help thee, child ! — she hears not 1 Look upon her ! 
 (Joseph receives her in his arms from the Cardinal.) 
 The storm, that rends the oak, uproots the flower
 
 192 SELBCTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATIOH. 
 
 Her father loved me so ! and in that age 
 
 When friends are brothers ! She has been to me 
 
 Soother, nurse, plaything, daughter. Are these tears! 
 
 Oh ! shame, shame '.—dotage I 
 
 Joseph. Tears are not for eyes 
 That rather need the lightning, which can pierce 
 Through barred gates and triple -walls, to smite 
 Crime, where it cowers in secret! — The despatch 1 
 Set every spy to work ; — the morrow's sun 
 Must see that written treason in your hands, 
 Or rise upon your ruin. 
 
 Rich. Ay — and close 
 Upon my corpse ! — I am not made to live — 
 Friends, glory, France, all reft from me ! my star 
 Like some vain holiday mimicry of fire, 
 Piercing imperial heaven, and falling down 
 Rayless and blacken'd, to the dust — a thing 
 For all men's feet to trample ; Yea ! — to-morrow 
 Triumph or death 1 Look up, child ! — Lead us, Joseph. 
 
 As they are going out, enter Baradas and De Beringhen 
 
 fiaradas. My lord, the King cannot believe your Eminence 
 So far forgets your duty, and his greatness. 
 As to resist his mandate ! Pray ycu. Madam, 
 Obey the King — no cause for fear 1 
 
 Julie. My father ! 
 
 Rich. She shall not stir ! 
 
 Baradas. You are not of her kindred — 
 An orphan — 
 
 Rich. And her country is her mother I 
 
 Baradas. The country is the King I 
 
 Rich. Ay, is it so ; — 
 Then wakes the power which in the age of iron 
 Burst forth to curb the great, and raise the low, 
 Mark, where she stands? — around her form I draw 
 The awful circle of our solemn church I 
 Setl'but a foot within that holy ground. 
 And on thy head— yea, though it wore a crown — 
 I launch the curse of Rome ! 
 
 Baradas. I dare not brave you I 
 T do but speak the orders of my King, 
 llife church, your rank, power, very word, my lord.
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 193 
 
 Suffice you for resistance ; — blame yourselfi 
 ''f it should cost you power ! 
 
 Rich. That my stake. — Ah ! 
 Dark Gamester ! ivhat is thinel Look to it, well! — 
 Lose not a trick. — By this same hour to-morrow 
 Thou shalt have France, or I thy head ! 
 
 Baradas. {Aside to De Beringhen.) He cannot 
 Have the despatch? 
 
 De Ber. No ; were it so, your stake 
 Were lost already. 
 
 Joseph. (Aside.) Patience is your game : 
 Reflect you have not the despatch 1 
 
 Rich. Monk ! Monk ! 
 Leave patience to the saints — for / am human I 
 
 Baradas. (Aside.) He wanders ! 
 
 Rich. So cling close unto my breast, 
 Did not thy father die for France, poor orphan? I am very feeblf*-- 
 Of little use it seems to any now. 
 
 Baradas. In sooth, my lord, 
 You do need rest — the burthen of the State 
 O'ertask your health ! 
 
 Rich. (To Joseph.) See, I'm patient. 
 
 Baradas. (Aside.) His mind 
 And life are breaking fast ! 
 
 Rich. (Overhearing him.) Irreverent ribald I 
 If so, beware the falling ruins ! Hark ! 
 I teU thee, scorner of these whitening hairs, 
 When this snow melteth there shall come a flood. 
 Avaunt ! my name is Kichelieu — I defy thee ! 
 Walk blindfold on ; behind thee stalks the headsman. 
 Ha 1 ha ! — how pale he is ! 
 
 (Falls back in Joseph's arms.) 
 
 MY UNCLE ROLAND'S TALK 
 
 Lord Lttton. 
 {Adapted for Recital.) 
 
 It was in Spain, no matter where or how, that it was my fortune 
 
 to take prisoner a French officer of the same rank that I then held 
 
 — a lieutenant; and there was so much similarity in our sentiments, 
 
 that we become intimate friends. He was a rough soldier, whouj 
 (996) G
 
 194 SELECTIONS FOR READING AXD RECITATIOH. 
 
 the world had not well treated ; but he never railed at the world. 
 Honour was his idol, and the sense of honour paid him for the loss 
 of all eke. 
 
 He had a son — a boy — who was all in life to him, next to his 
 country and his duty. We were accustomed to talk of him — to 
 picture his future. My prisoner was sent to head-quarters, and 
 soon afterwards exchanged. 
 
 We met no more tiU last year. Being then at Paris, I inquired 
 for my old friend, and learned that he was living at a place a few 
 miles from the capital. I went to visit him. I found his house 
 empty and deserted. That very day he had been led to prison, 
 charged with a terrible crime. I saw him in that prison, and from 
 his own lips learned his story. His son had been brought up, as he 
 fondly believed, in the habits and principles of honourable men ; 
 and, having finished his education, came to reside with him. The 
 young man was accustomed to go frequently to Paris. A young 
 frenchman loves pleasure ; and pleasure is found at Paris. The 
 father thought it natural, and stripped his age of some comforts to 
 supply luxuries for the son's youth. 
 
 Shortly after the young man's arrival, my friend perceived that 
 he was robbed. Moneys kept in his bureau were abstracted he 
 knew not how, nor could guess by whom. It must be done in the 
 night. He concealed himself, and watched. He saw a stealthy 
 figure glide in, he saw a false key applied to the lock — he started 
 forward, seized the felon, and recognized his son. 
 
 Instead of expelling him the house, the father kept the youth ; 
 he remonstrated with him : he did more — he gave him the key of 
 the bureau. "Take what I have to give," said he: "I would rather 
 be a beggar than know my son a thief." 
 
 The youth promised amendment, and seemed penitent. He 
 spoke of the temptations of Paris, the gaming-table, and what not. 
 He gave up his daily visits to the capital. He seemed to apply 
 to study. Shortly after this, the neighbourhood was alarmed by 
 reports of night robberies on the road. 
 
 The police were on the alert. One night an old brother officer 
 knocked at my friend's door. It was late : the veteran (he was a 
 cripple, by the way) w;ia in bed. He came down in haste, when hia 
 servant woke and told him that his old friend, wounded and bleed- 
 ing, sought an asylum under his roof. The wound, however, was 
 slight. The guest had been attacked and robbed on the road. The 
 next morning the proper authority of the town was sent for. The 
 plundered man described his loss — some billets of five hundred
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 195 
 
 francs in a pocket-book, on which was embroidered his name and 
 coronet. The guest stayed to dinner. Late in the forenoon, the 
 son looked in. The guost started to see him : my friend noticed 
 his paleness. Shortly after, on pretence of faintness, the guest re- 
 tired to his room, and sent for his host. " My friend," said he, " can 
 you do me a favour? — go to the magistrate and recall the evidence I 
 have given." 
 
 " Impossible," said the host. " "What crotchet is this?" 
 
 The guest shuddered, " Peste I " said he. " I do not wish in my 
 old age to be hard on others. Who knows how the robber may 
 have been tempted, and who knows what relations he may have — 
 honest men, whom his crime would degrade for everl Good 
 heavens! if detected, it is the galleys! the galleys!" 
 
 "And what then?— the robber knew what he braved." 
 
 " But did his father know it?" 
 
 A light broke upon my unhappy comrade in arms : he caught 
 his friend bv the hand — " You turned pale at my son's sight — where 
 did you ever see him before? Speak !" 
 
 "Last night on the road to Paris. The mask slipped aside. 
 Call back my evidence I" 
 
 " You are mistaken. I saw my son in his bed, and blessed him, 
 before I went to my own." 
 
 " I will believe you," said the guest ; " and never shall my hasty 
 suspicion pass my lips — but call back the evidence." 
 
 The guest returned to Paris before dusk. The father conversed 
 with his son on the subject of his studies; he followed him to his room, 
 waited till he was in bed, and was then about to retire, when the 
 youth said, " Father, you have forgotten your blessing." 
 
 The father went back, laid his hand on the boy's head and 
 prayed. He was credulous — fathers are so ! He was persuaded 
 that his friend had been deceived. He retired to rest, and fell 
 asleep. He woke suddenly in the middle of the night, and felt (I 
 here quote his words) — "I felt," said he, "as if a voice had awakened 
 me — a voice that said, ' Rise and search '. I rose at once, struck a 
 light, and went to my son's room. The door was locked. I knocked 
 once, twice, thrice — no answer. I dared not call aloud, lest I should 
 rouse the servants. I went down the stairs — I opened the back- 
 door — I passed to the stables. My own horse was there, not my 
 son's. My horse neighed ; it was old, like myself — my old charger 
 at Mont St. Jean. I stole back, I crept into the shadow of the wall 
 by my son's door, and extinguished my light. I felt as if I were a 
 thief myself."
 
 196 SELECTIONS FOR RKADING AND RECITATION. 
 
 Before daybreak my friend heard the back-door open gently ; a 
 foot ascended the stair — a key grated in the door of the room close 
 at hand — the father glided through the dark into that chamber 
 behind his unseen son. 
 
 He heard the click of the tinder-boi ; a light was struck ; and 
 the figure before him stood a moment or so motionless, and seemed 
 to Usten. Slowly the mask was removed ; could that be his son's 
 face? the son of a brave man? — it was pale and ghastly with 
 scoundrel fears ; the base drops stood on the brow ; the eye was 
 haggard and bloodshot. He looked aa a coward looks when death 
 stands before him. 
 
 The youth walked, or rather skulked, to the secretaire, unlocked 
 it, opened a secret drawer ; placed within it the contents of his 
 pockets and his frightful mask. The father approached softly, looked 
 over his shoulder, and saw in the drawer the pocket-book embroidered 
 with his friend's name. Meanwhile, the son took out his pistols, un- 
 cocked them cautiously, and was about also to secrete them, when his 
 father arrested his arm. " Robber, the use of these is yet to come ! " 
 
 The son's knees knocked together; an exclamation for mercy 
 burst from his lips ; but when he perceived it was not the gripe of 
 some hireling of the law, but a father's hand that had clutched his 
 arm, the vile audacity which knows fear only from a bodily cause, 
 none from the awe of shame, returned to him. 
 
 " Tush, sir ! " he said, " waste not time in reproaches, for, I fear, 
 the gens-d'armes are on my track. It is well that you are here ; you 
 can swear I have spent the night at home. Unhand me, old 
 man — I have these witnesses stiU to secrete," and he pointed to the 
 garments wet and bedabbled with the mud of the roads. He had 
 scarcely spoken when the walls shook ; there was the heavy clatter 
 of hoofs on the ringing pavement without. 
 
 "They come!" cried the son. "Off, dotard I save your son from 
 the galleys." 
 
 " The galleys, the galleys !" said the father, staggering back ; " it is 
 true, the galleys ! " 
 
 There was a loud knocking at the gate. The gens-d'armet sur- 
 rounded the house. " Open, in the name of the law ! " No answer 
 came, no door was opened. From the window of the son's room the 
 father saw the sudden blaze of torches, the shadowy forms of the 
 men-hunters. He heard a voice cry, "Yes, this is the robber's grey 
 horse — see, it stills reeks with sweat 1 " And behind and in front, at 
 either door, again came the knocking, and again the shout, "Open, 
 in the name of the law I"
 
 SELECTIONS FOB READING AND RECITATION. 197 
 
 Suddenly, within, there was heard the report of a firearm, and a 
 minute or so afterwards the front door was opened, and the soldier 
 appeared. 
 
 "Enter," he said to the geiu-d'armes. " What would you'?" 
 
 " We seek a robber who is within your walls." 
 
 " I know it. Mount and find him : I will lead the way." 
 
 He ascended the stairs ; he threw open his son's room ; the 
 officers of justice poured in, and on the floor lay the robber's corpse. 
 
 They looked at each other in amazement. "Take what is left 
 you," said the father. "Take the dead man rescued from the 
 galleys ; take the living man on whose hands rests the dead man's 
 blood!" 
 
 I was present at my friend's trial. He stood there with his 
 grey hair, and his mutUated limbs, and the deep scar on his visage, 
 and the Cross of the Legion of Honour on his breast ; and when he 
 had told his tale, he ended with these words- — " I have saved the son 
 whom I reared for France from a doom that would have spared the 
 life to brand it with disgrace. Is this a crime ? I give you my life 
 in exchange for my son's disgrace. Does my country need a victim 1 
 I have lived for my country's glory, and I can die contented to 
 satisfy its laws; sure that, if you blame me, you will not despise: 
 sure that the hands that give me to the headsman will scatter 
 flowers over my grave. Thus I confess all. I, a soldier, look round 
 amongst a nation of soldiers; and in the name of the star which 
 glitters on my breast, I dare the Fathers of France to condemn 
 me!" 
 
 They acquitted the soldier — at least, they gave a verdict answer- 
 ing to what in our courts is called "justifiable homicide". A shout 
 rose in the court which no ceremonial voice could stiU; the crowd 
 would have borne him in triumph to his house, but his look repelled 
 such vanities. To his house he returned indeed, and the day after- 
 wards they found him dead, beside the cradle in which his first 
 prayer had been breathed over his sinless child. 
 
 THE SPANISH MOTHER. 
 Sir F. H. Doyle. 
 
 Yes ! I have served that noble chief throughout his proud career. 
 And heard the bullets whistle past in lands both far and near. 
 Amidst Italian flowers, below the dark pines of the north, 
 Where'er the Emperor willed to pour his clouds of battle fortn.
 
 198 SELBCTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION, 
 
 'Twas then a splendid sight to aee, though terrible, 1 ween, 
 How his vast spirit filled and moved the wheels of the machine, 
 Wide-sounding leagues of sentient steel, and fires that lived to kill, 
 Wei-e but the echo of his voice, the body of his will. 
 
 But now my heart is darkened with shadows that rise and fall, 
 Between the sunlight and the ground to sadden and appal ; 
 The woeful things both seen and done we heeded little then, 
 But they returned like ghosts to shake the sleep of agfed men. 
 
 The German and the Englishman were each an open foe, 
 And open hatred hurled us back from Russia's blinding snow ; 
 Intenser far, in blood-red light, like fires unquenched, remain 
 The dreadful deeds wrung forth by war from the brooding soul of 
 Spain. 
 
 I saw a village in the hills as silent as a dream. 
 Nought stirring but the merry sound of a merry mountain stream ; 
 The evening star just smiled from heaven, with its quiet silver eye, 
 And the chestnut woods were calm and still beneath the deepening 
 sky. 
 
 But in that place, self-sacrificed, nor man nor beast we found. 
 Nor fig-tree on the sun-touched slope, nor corn upon the ground ; 
 Each roofless hut was black with smoke, wrenched up each trailing 
 
 vine. 
 Each path was foul with mangled meat, and floods of wasted wine: 
 
 We had been marching, travel- worn, a long and burning way. 
 And when such welcoming we met after that toilsome day. 
 The pulses in our maddened breasts were human hearts no more, 
 But, like the spirit of a wolf, hot on the scent of gore. 
 
 We lighted on one dying man, they slew him where he lay, 
 
 His wife, close clinging, from the corpse they tore and wrenched 
 
 away; 
 They thundered in her widowed ears, with frowns and curses grim, 
 "Food, woman, food and wine, or else we tear thee limb fiom limb." 
 
 The woman, shaking off" his blood, rose raven-haired and tall. 
 And our stern glances quailed before one sterner far than all. 
 " Both food and wine," she said, " I have ; I meant them for the 
 
 dead, 
 But y© are living still, and so, let them be yours instead,"
 
 SELECTIONS FOB READING AND RECITATIOK. 199 
 
 The food was brought, the wine was brought, out of a secret place. 
 But each one paused aghast, and looked into his neighbour's face ; 
 Her haughty step and settled brow, and chill, indifferent mien, 
 Suited so strangely with the gloom and grimness of the scene : 
 
 She glided here, she glided there, before our wandering eyes, 
 Nor anger showed, nor shame, nor fear, nor sorrow, nor surprise , 
 At every step from soul to soul a nameless horror ran, 
 And made us pale and silent as that silent murdered man. 
 
 She sat, and calmly soothed her child into a slumber sweet ; 
 Calmly the bright blood on the floor crawled red around our feet ; 
 On placid fruits and bread lay soft the shadows of the wine, 
 And we like marble statues glared — a chill unmoving line. 
 
 All white, all cold ; and moments thus flew by without a breath, 
 A company of living things where all was still — but death. 
 My hair rose up from roots of ice, as there, unnerved, I stood 
 And watched the only thing that stirred — the ripple of the blood. 
 
 That woman's voice was heai'd at length, it broke the solemn spell. 
 And human fear — displacing awe, upon our spirits fell — 
 "Ho! slayers of the sinewless; ho! tram piers of the weak I 
 What ! shrink ye from the ghastly meats and life- bought wine ye 
 seek? 
 
 Feed and begone, I wish to weep — I bring you out my store : 
 Devour it — waste it all — and then pass and be seen no more. 
 Poison 1 is that your craven fear?" — she snatched a goblet up, 
 And raised it to her queen-like head, as if to drain the cup. 
 
 But our fierce leader grasped her wrist— "No I woman, no!" he 
 
 said, 
 " A mother's heart of love is deep — give it your child instead." 
 She only smiled a bitter smile : " Frenchman, I do not shrink. 
 As pledge of my fidelity — behold the infant drink." 
 
 He fixed on hers his broad black eye, scanning her inmost soul, 
 But her chill fingers trembled not as she returned the bowl. 
 And we, with lightsome hardihood, dismissing idle care, 
 Sat down to eat, and drink, and laugh over our dainty fare. 
 
 The laugh was loud around the board, and jesting wild and light — 
 But / was fevered with the march, and drank no wine that night; 
 I just had filled a single cup, when through my very brain 
 Stung, sharper than a serpent's tooth, an infant's cry of pain —
 
 200 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION, 
 
 Through all that heat of revelry, through all that boisterous cheer. 
 To every heart its feeble moaa.pierced like a broken spear. 
 " Ay," shrieked the woman, darting up, " I pray you, trust again 
 A widow's hospitality in our unyielding Spain. 
 
 Helpless and hopeless, by the light of God Himself I swore 
 To treat you as you treated him — that body on the floor. 
 Yon secret place I filled, to feel that if ye did not spare, 
 The treasure of a dread revenge was ready hidden there. 
 
 A mother's love is deep, no doubt, ye did not phrase it ill. 
 
 But in your hunger ye forgot that hate is deeper still. 
 
 The Spanish woman speaks for Spain, for her butchered love the 
 
 wife. 
 To tell you that an hour is all my vintage leaves of life." 
 
 I cannot paint the many forms by wild despair put on, 
 Nor count the crowded brave who sleep under a single stone ; 
 I can but tell you how, before that hoirid hour went by, 
 I saw the murderess beneath the self avengers die — 
 
 But though upon her wrenched limbs they leapt like beasts of prey, 
 And with fierce hands as madmen tore the quivering life away. 
 Triumphant hate and joyous scorn, without a trace of pain. 
 Burned to the last, like sullen stars, in that haughty eye of Spain, 
 
 And often now it breaks my rest, the tumult vague and wild. 
 Drifting, like storm-tossed clouds, around the mother and her child- 
 While she, distinct in raiment white, stands silently the while. 
 And sheds through torn and bleeding hair the same unchanging 
 
 smile. 
 
 {By special permission of Messrs. Macmillan <fc Co. ) 
 
 HOW UNCLE PODGER HUNG A PICTURE. 
 Jerome K. Jerome. 
 
 You never saw such a commotion up and down a house, in all your 
 'ife, as when my Uncle Podger undertook to do a job, A picture 
 would have come home from the frame-maker's, and be standing in 
 the dining-room waiting to be put up ; and Aunt Podger would ask 
 what was to be done with it, and Uncle Podger would say — 
 
 " Oh, you leave that to me. Don't you, any of you, worry your 
 selves about that. Nl do all that."
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 201 
 
 And then he would take off his coat, and begin. He wonld send 
 the girl out for sixpen'orth of nails, and then one of the boys after 
 her to tell her what size to get ; and, from that, he would gradually 
 work down, and start the whole house. 
 
 " Now you go and get me my hammer, Will," he would shout ; 
 "and you bring me the rule, Tom; and I shall want the step ladder, 
 and I had better have a kitchen-chair, too; and, Jim, you run 
 round to Mr. Goggles, and tell him, ' Pa's kind regards, and hopes 
 his leg's better; and will he lend him his spirit-level?' And don't 
 you go, Maria, because I shall want somebody to hold me the light ; 
 and when the girl comes back, she must go out again for a bit of 
 picture-cord; and Tom! — where's Tom?^ — Tom, you come here; I 
 shall want you to hand me up the picture." 
 
 And then he would lift up the picture, and drop it, and it would 
 come out of the frame, and he would try to save the glass, and cut 
 himself ; and then he would spring round the room, looking for his 
 handkerchief. He could not find his handkerchief, because it was 
 in the pocket of the coat he had taken off, and he did not know 
 where he had put the coat, and all the house had to leave off looking 
 for his tools, and start looking for his coat : while he would dance 
 round and hinder them. 
 
 " Doesn't anybody in the whole house know where my coat is? I 
 never came across such a set in all my life— upon my word, I didn't. 
 Six of you I — and you can't find a coat that I put down not five 
 minutes ago I Well, of all the " 
 
 Then he'd get up, and find that he had been sitting on it, and 
 would call out — 
 
 " Oh, you can give it up ! I've found it myself now. Might just 
 as well ask the cat to find anything as expect you people to find it." 
 
 And, when half an hour had been spent in tying up his finger, 
 and a new glass had been got, and the tools, and the ladder, and the 
 chair, and the candle had been brought, he would have another go, 
 the whole family, including the girl and the charwoman, standing 
 round in a semi-circle, ready to help. Two people would have to 
 hold the chair, and a third would help him up on it, and hold him 
 there, and a fourth would hand him a nail, and a fifth would pass 
 him up the hammer, and he would take hold of the nail and drop it, 
 
 "There!" he would say, in an injured tone, "now the nail's 
 gone." 
 
 And we would all have to go down on our knees and grovel for 
 it, while he would stand on the chair, and grunt, and want to know 
 if he was to be kept there all the evening. 
 
 ( 996 ) G 2
 
 202 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 The nail would be found at last, but by that time he would have 
 lost the hammer. 
 
 "Where's the hammer? What did I do with the hammer^ 
 Good gracious ! Seven of you, gaping round there, and you don't 
 know what I did with the hammer!" 
 
 We would Gnd the hammer for him, and then he would have lost 
 sight of the mark he had made on the wall, where the nail was to 
 go in, and each of us had to get up on the chair, beside him, and 
 see if we could find it ; and we would each discover it in a different 
 place, and he would call us all fools, one after another, and tell us to 
 get down. And he would take the rule, and remeasure, and find 
 that he wanted half thirty-one and three-eighths inches from the 
 corner, and would try to do it in his head, and go mad. 
 
 And we would all try to do it in our heads, and all arrive at 
 different results, and sneer at one another. And in the general row 
 the original number would be forgotten, and Uncle Podger would 
 have to measure it again. 
 
 He would use a bit of string this time, and at the critical moment, 
 when the old fool was leaning over the chair at an angle of forty- 
 five, and trying to reach a point three inches beyond what was 
 possible for him to reach, the string would slip, and down he would 
 slide on to the piano, a really fine musical effect being produced by 
 the suddenness with which his head and body struck all the notes 
 at the same time. 
 
 And Aunt Maria would say that she would not allow the children 
 to stand round and hear such language. 
 
 At last Uncle Podger would get the spot fixed again, and put the 
 point of the nail on it with his left hand, and take the hammer in 
 his right hand. And, with the first blow, he would smash his 
 thumb, and drop the hammer, with a yell, on somebody's toes. 
 
 Aunt Maria would mildly observe that, next time Uncle Podger 
 was going to hammer a nail into the wall, she hoped he'd let her 
 know in time, so that she could make arrangements to go and spend 
 a week with her mother while it was being done. 
 
 " Oh I you women, you make such a fuss over everything," Uncle 
 Podger would reply, picking himself up. " Why, I like doing a little 
 job of this sort." 
 
 And then he would have another try, and, at the second blow, the 
 nail would go clean through the plaster, and half the hammer after 
 it, and Uncle Podger be precipitated against the wall with force 
 nearly sufficient to flatten his nose. 
 
 TTjen we had to find the rule and the string again, and a uew hoJ#
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AI-TD RECITATION'. 208 
 
 was made; and, about iiiidnight, the picture would be up— very 
 crooked aud iusecure, the wall for yards iTJund looking as if it had 
 been smoothed down witli a rake, and everybody dead beat and 
 wretched — except Uncle Podger. 
 
 " There you are," he would say, stepping heavily off the chair on 
 to the charwoman's corns, and surveying the mess he had made with 
 evident pride. " Why, some people would have had a man in to do 
 a little thing like that!" 
 
 {From "Three Men in a Boat ", by special permission of the Author.) 
 
 THE EAVEN. 
 
 Edgar Allan Poe. 
 
 Once upon a midnight dreary, while I ponder'd weak and weary, 
 Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten loi^e — 
 While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping. 
 As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber-door. 
 " 'Tis some visitor," I muttered, " tapping at my chamber-door — 
 
 Only this, and nothing more." 
 Ah ! distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, 
 And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. 
 Eagerly I wish'd the morrow ; — vainly I had sought to borrow 
 From my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for the lost Lenore — 
 For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore — 
 
 Nameless here for evermore. 
 
 And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain 
 Thrill'd me— fill'd me with fantastic terrors never felt before ; 
 So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, 
 " 'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber-dooi' — 
 Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber-door ; 
 
 That it is, and nothing more." 
 
 Presently my soul grew stronger, hesitating then no longer, 
 " Sir," said I, "or madam, truly your forgiveness 1 imiilore ; 
 But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, 
 And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber-door, 
 That I scarce was sure I heard you : " — here I open'd wide the door; — 
 
 Darkness there, and nothing more. 
 
 Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, 
 
 fearing, 
 Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before.
 
 204 SELECTIONS TOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, 
 And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenorel" 
 This I whisper'd, and an echo murmured back the word, "Leuore I" — 
 
 Merely this, and nothing more. 
 
 Back into my chamber turning, all my soul within me burning. 
 Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than before. 
 " Surely," said I, " surely that is something at my window lattice , 
 Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore — 
 Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore : — 
 
 'Tis the wind, and nothing more." 
 
 Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, 
 In there stepp'd a stately raven of the saintly days of yore. 
 Not the least obeisance made he ; not a minute stopp'd or stay'd he ; 
 But, with mien of lord or lady, perch'd above my chamber-door — 
 Perch'd upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber-door — 
 
 Perch'd, and sat, and nothing more. 
 
 Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling. 
 By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore : 
 "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure 
 
 no craven ; 
 Grhastly, grim, and ancient raven, wandering from the nightly shore. 
 Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night's Plutonian shore?" 
 
 Quoth the raven, " Never more." 
 
 Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, 
 Though its answer little meaning, little relevancy bore : 
 For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being 
 Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber-door — 
 Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber-door 
 
 With such name as "Never more". 
 
 But the raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only 
 That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour ; 
 Notliing further then he uttered, not a feather then he fluttered. 
 Till I scarcely more than muttered — "Other friends have flowi, 
 
 before. 
 On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before." 
 
 Then the bird said, " Never more." 
 
 '^1 
 
 Startled by the stillness broken by reply so ajitly spoken, 
 
 '* Doubtless," said I, " what it utters is its only stock and store,
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATIOH. 205 
 
 Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster 
 Followed f^st aud followed faster, till his songs one burden bore — 
 Till the dirges of his hope this melancholy burden bore — 
 
 Of 'Never, never more'." 
 
 But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, 
 Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust, and 
 
 door; 
 Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking 
 Fancy into fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore — 
 What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore 
 
 Meant in croaking, "Never more". 
 
 Thus I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing 
 To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core ; 
 This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining, 
 On the cushion's velvet lining, that the lamp-light gloated o'er, 
 But whose violet velvet lining, with the lamp-light gloating o'er. 
 
 She shall press, ah, never more ! 
 
 Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen 
 
 censer 
 Swung by seraphim, whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor. 
 " Wretch," I cried, " thy God hath lent thee— by these angels He 
 
 hath sent thee 
 Respite — respite and nepenthe from my memories of Lenore ! 
 Quaff, oh quaflf this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore I" 
 
 Quoth the raven, " Never more." 
 
 " Prophet 1 " said I, " thing of evil 1— prophet still, if bird or devil ! 
 Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore 
 Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted, 
 On this home by horror haunted — tell me truly, I implore, 
 Is there— is there balm in Gilead 1— tell me truly, I implore !" 
 
 Quoth the raven, " Never more." 
 
 " Prophet !" said I, " thing of evil 1— prophet still, if bird or devil !— 
 By that Heaven that bends above us— by that God we both 
 
 adore — 
 Tell this soul with sorrow laden if within lhe distant Aidenn, 
 It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore — 
 Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore?" 
 
 Quoth the raven, " Never more."
 
 206 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 '* Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shriek'd, up- 
 starting, 
 " Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore ! 
 Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken ! 
 Leave my loneliness unbroken ! — quit the bust above my door ! 
 Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from oflF my 
 
 doorl" 
 
 Quoth the raven, " Never more," 
 
 And 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 dreaming, 
 
 And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the 
 
 floor. 
 And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor, 
 
 Shall be lifted — never more. 
 
 HOEATIO SPAEKINS. 
 
 Dickens. 
 (Adapted for Recital.) 
 
 " Indeed, my love, he paid Teresa very great attention on the last 
 aBseuibly night," said Mrs. Malderton, addressing her spouse, who, 
 after the fatigues of the day in the City, was sitting with a silk 
 handkerchief over his head, and his feet on the fender, drinking his 
 port; — "very great attention; and I say again, every possible en- 
 couragement ought to be given him. He positively must be asked 
 down here to dine." 
 
 " Wlio must?" inquired Mr. Malderton. 
 
 " Why, you know whom I mean, my dear — the young man with 
 the black whiskers and the white cravat, who has just come out at 
 
 our assembly, and whom all the girls are talking about. Young 
 
 dear me, what's his name? — Marianne, what is his name?" 
 
 " Mr. Horatio Sparkins, ma." 
 
 Miss Teresa Malderton was a very little girl, rather fat, with ver- 
 milion checks; but good-humoured, and still disengaged, although, 
 to do her justice, the misfortune arose from no lack of perseverance 
 on her |)art. In vain had she flirted for ten years ; in vain had Mr. 
 and Mrs. Malderton assiduously kept up an extensive acquaintance 
 among the young eligible bachelors of Camberwell, and even of 
 Wandsworth, and Brixton on Sunday, to say nothing of those who
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 207 
 
 " dropped in " from town. Miss Malderton was as well known as 
 the lion on the top of Northumberland House, and had about as 
 much chance of " going off ". 
 
 Mr. Malderton was a man whose whole scope of ideas was limited 
 to Lloyd's, the Exchange, the India House, and the Bank. A few 
 successful speculations had raised him from a situation of obscurity 
 and comparative poverty, to a state of affluence. The family were 
 ambitious of forming acquaintances and connections in some sphere 
 of society superior to that in which they themselves moved; and 
 one of the necessary consequences of this desire, added to their utter 
 ignorance of tlie world beyond their own small circle, was, that any- 
 one who could plausibly lay claim to an acquaintance with people 
 of rank and title, had a sure passport to the table at Oak Lodge, 
 Oamberwell. 
 
 The appearance of Mr. Horatio Sparkins at the assembly had 
 (ixcited no small degree of surprise and curiosity among its regular 
 frequenters. Who could he be? He was evidently reserved, and 
 apparently melancholy. Was he a clergyman? — He danced too well. 
 A barrister? — He was not called. He used very fine words, and 
 said a great deal. 
 
 The night succeeding the conversation we have just recorded was 
 "assembly night". The double-fly was ordered to be at the door of 
 Oak Lodge at nine o'clock precisely. The Miss Maldertoiis were 
 dressed in sky-blue satin, trimmed with artificial flowers ; and Mrs. 
 M. (who was a little fat woman), in ditto ditto, looked like her 
 eldest daughter multiplied by two. Mr. Frederick Malderton, the 
 eldest son, in full-dress costume, was the very hemi ideal of a smart 
 waiter; and Mr. Thomas Malderton, the youngest, with his white 
 dress-stock, blue coat, bright buttons, and red watch-ribbon, strongly 
 resembled the portrait of that interesting, though somewhat rash 
 young gentleman, George Barnwell. Every member of the party had 
 made up his or her mind to cultivate the acquaintance of Mr. Horatio 
 Sparkins. Miss Teresa, of course, was to be as amiable and in- 
 teresting as ladies of eight-and-twenty on the look-out for a husband 
 usually are; Mrs. Malderton would be all smiles and gi-aces; Mi.s.i 
 Marianne would request the favour of some verses for her album ; 
 Mr. Malderton would patronize ti>e great unknown by asking him to 
 dinner ; and Tom intended to ascertain the extent of his informiition 
 on the interesting topics of snuff and cigars. Even Mr. Frederick 
 Malderton himself, the family authority on all poicU« of taste, dress, 
 and fa.shionable arrangement —who had lodgings of his own at "the 
 west end", who had a free admission to Covent Garden theatre, who
 
 208 SELECTIOHS FOR RBADING AND RECITATION. 
 
 always dressed according to the fashions of the month, who went up 
 the water twice a week in the season, and who actually had an inti- 
 mate friend who once knew a gentleman who formei'ly lived in the 
 Albany — even he had determined that Mr. Horatio Sparkins must 
 be a deuced good fellow, and that he would do him the honour of 
 challenging him to a game of billiards. 
 
 The first object that met the anxious eyes of the expectant family 
 on their entrance into the ball-room, was the interesting Horatio, 
 with his hair brushed off his forehead, and his eyes fixed on the 
 ceiling, reclining in a contemplative attitude on one of the seats, 
 
 " There he is, my dear," anxiously whispered Mrs. Malderton to 
 Mr. Malderton. 
 
 "How like Lord Byron!" murmured Miss Teresa, 
 
 "Or Montgomery!" whispered Miss Marianne. 
 
 " Or the portraits of Captain Ross ! " suggested Tom. 
 
 "Tom — don't be an ass," said his father, who checked him upon 
 all occasions, probably with a view to prevent his becoming " sharp " 
 — which, by the by, was very unnecessary. 
 
 The elegant Sparkins attitudinized with admirable effect until 
 the family had crossed the room. He then started up with the 
 most natural appearance of surprise and delight: accosted Mrs. 
 Malderton with the utmost cordiality, saluted the young ladies in 
 the most enchanting manner ; bowed to, and shook hands with Mr. 
 Malderton, with a degree of respect amounting almost to veneration, 
 ♦,nd returned the greetings of the two young men in a half -gratified, 
 half-patronizing manner, which fully convinced them that he must 
 be an important, and, at the same time, condescending personage. 
 
 "Miss Malderton," said Horatio, after the ordinary salutations, 
 and bowing very low, "may I be permitted to presume to hope 
 that you will allow me to have the pleasure " 
 
 " I don't think I am engaged," said Miss Teresa, with a dreadful 
 affectation of indifference — " but, really — so many " 
 
 Horatio looked as handsomely miserable as a Hamlet sliding upon 
 a bit of orange-peel. 
 
 "I shall be most happy," simpered the interesting Teresa, at last; 
 and Horatio's countenance brightened up like an old hat in a shower 
 of rain. 
 
 "How delightful!" said the interesting Horatio to liis partner, as 
 they promenaded the joom at the conclusion of the set — " how de- 
 lightful, how refreshing it is, to retire from the cloudy storms, the 
 vicissitudes, and the troubles of life, even if it be but for a few short 
 fleeting moments ; and to spend those moments, fading and evanes
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 209 
 
 cent though they be, in the delightful, the blessed society of one 
 individual — of her whose frowns would be death, whose coldness 
 would be madness, whose falsehood would be ruin, whose constancy 
 would be bliss; the possession of whose affection would be the 
 brightest and best reward that heaven could bestow on man." 
 
 " What feeling ! what sentiment ! " thought Miss Teresa, as she 
 leaned more heavily upon her companion's arm. 
 
 " But enough — enough," resumed the elegant Sparkins, with a 
 theatrical air. "What have I said? what have I — I— to do with 
 sentiments like these? Miss Malderton" — here he stopped short — 
 " may I hope to be permitted to offer the humble tribute of " 
 
 " Really, Mr. Sparkins," returned the enraptured Teresa, blushing 
 in the sweetest confusion, " I must refer you to papa. I never 
 can without his consent, venture to — to " 
 
 " Surely he cannot object " 
 
 "Oh, yes. Indeed, indeed, you know him not," interupted Miss 
 Teresa, well knowing there was notliing to fear, but wishing to 
 make the interview resemble a scene in some romantic novel. 
 
 " He cannot object to my oflFering you a glass of negus," returned 
 the adorable Sparkins, with some surprise. 
 
 " Is that all ? " said the disappointed Teresa to herself. " What a 
 fuss about nothing ! " 
 
 " It will give me the greatest pleasure, sir, to see you at dinner at 
 Oak Lodge, Camberwell, on Sunday next, at five o'clock, if you have 
 no better engagement," said Mr. Malderton at the conclusion of the 
 evening, as he and his sons were standing in conversation with Mr- 
 Horatio Sparkins. 
 
 Horatio bowed his acknowledgments, and accepted the flattering 
 invitation. 
 
 " I must confess," continued the manoeuvring father, offering his 
 snuff-box to his new acquaintance, "that I don't enjoy these assem- 
 blies half so much as the comfort — I had almost said the luxury — of 
 Oak Lodge : they have no great charms for an elderly man." 
 
 "And after all, sir, what is man?" said the metaphysical Sparkins 
 • — " I say, what is man V 
 
 "Very true," said Mr. Malderton — "very true." 
 
 "We know that we live and breathe," continued Hoi-atio; "that 
 we have wants and wishes, desires and appetites " 
 
 "Certainly," said Mr. Frederick Malderton, looking very pro- 
 found. 
 
 " I say, we know tliat we exist," rej.eated Horatio, i-aising his 
 v^oice, "but there we stop; there is an end to our knowledge; there
 
 210 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 is the summit of our attainments; there is the termination of oat 
 ends. What more do we know?" 
 
 Various surmises were hazarded on the Sunday morning, as to 
 the mode of conveyance which the anxiously-expected Horatio 
 would adopt. Did he keep a gig — was it possible he would come on 
 horseback — or would he patronize the stage? These, and various 
 other conjectures of equal importance, engrossed the attention of 
 Mrs. Malderton and her daughters during the whole morning. 
 
 " Upon my word, my dear, it's a most annoying thing that that 
 vulgar brother of yours should have invited himself to dine here 
 to-day," said Mr. Malderton to his wife. "On account of Mr. 
 Sparkins* coming down, I purposely abstained from asking anyone 
 but Flamwell. And then to think of your brother — a tradesman — 
 it's insufferable. I declare I wouldn't have him mention his shop 
 before our new guest — no, not for a thousand pounds. I wouldn't 
 care if he had the good sense to conceal the disgrace he is to the 
 family; but he's so cursedly fond of his horrid business, that he 
 will let people know what he is." 
 
 Mr. Jacob Barton, the individual alluded to, was a large grocer; 
 BO vulgar, and so lost to all sense of feeling, that he actually never 
 scrupled to avow that he wasn't above his business ; '' he'd made his 
 money by it, and he didn't care who know'd it". 
 
 " Ah ! Flamwell, my dear fellow, how d'ye do?" said Mr. Malder- 
 ton, as a little spoflish man, with green spectacles, entered the room. 
 "You got my note?" 
 
 " Yes, I did ; and here I am in consequence." 
 
 "You don't happen to know this Mr. Sparkins by name? You 
 know everybody." 
 
 Mr. Flamwell was one of those gentlemen of remarkably extensive 
 information that one occasionally meets with in society, who pretend 
 to know everybody, but who, of course, know nobody. At Malder- 
 ton's, where any stories about great people were received with a greedy 
 ear, he was an especial favourite ; and, knowing the kind of people 
 he had to deal with, he carried his passion of claiming acquaintance 
 with everybody to the most immoderate length. He had rather a 
 singular way of telling his greatest lies in a parenthesis, and with an 
 air of self-denial, as if he feared being thought egotistical. 
 
 " Why, no, I don't know him by that name," returned Flamwell, 
 in a low tone, and with an air of immense importance. " I have no 
 doubt I know him, though. Is he tall?" 
 
 " Middle-sized," said Miss Teresa. 
 
 "With black hair?" inquired Flamwell, hazarding a bold guess.
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 211 
 
 •• Yes," returned Miss Teresa, eagerly. 
 
 " Rather a snub nose?" 
 
 " iVo," said the disappointed Teresa, " he has a Roman nose." 
 
 " I said a Roman nose, didn't 11" inquired Flam well. "He's au 
 elegant young man?" 
 
 " Oh, certainly." 
 
 "With remarkably prepossessing manners?" 
 
 " Oh, yes 1 " said all the family together. " You must know 
 him." 
 
 " Yes, I thought you knew him, if he was anybody," triumphantly 
 exclaimed Mr. Malderton. "Who d'ye think he is?" 
 
 "Why, from your description," said Flamwell ruminating, and 
 sinking his voice almost to a whisper, "he bears a strong resemblance 
 to the Honourable Augustus Fitz-Edward Fitz-John Fitz-Osborne 
 He's a very talented young man and rather eccentric. It's extremely 
 probable he may have changed his name for some temporary pur- 
 pose." 
 
 Teresa's heart beat high. Could he be the Honourable Augustus 
 Fitz-Edward Fitz-John Fitz-Osborne ! What a name to be elegantly 
 engraved upon two glazed cards, tied together with a piece of w hite 
 satin ribbon I " The Honourable Mrs. Augustus Fitz-Edward Fitz- 
 John Fitz-Osborne !" The thought was transport. 
 
 "It's five minutes to five," said Mr. Malderton, looking at his 
 watch : " I hope he's not going to disappoint us." 
 
 "There he is 1" exclaimed Miss Teresa, as a loud double- knock was 
 heard at the door. Everybody endeavoured to look — as people when 
 they particularly expect a visitor always do — as if they were per- 
 fectly unsuspicious of the approach of anyone. 
 
 The room door opened — "Mr. Barton!" said the servant. 
 
 " Confound the man !" murmured Malderton. "Ah I my dear sir, 
 how d'ye do? Any news?" 
 
 " Why, no," returned the grocer, in his usual honest, bluff manner. 
 " No, none partickler. None that I am much aware of. How d'ye 
 do, gals and boys ? — Mr. Flamwell, sir, — glad to see you." 
 
 " Here's Mr. Sparkius," said Tom, who had been looking out at 
 the window, "on such a black horse!" There was Horatio, sure 
 enough, on a large black horse, curvetting and prancing along like 
 an Astley's supernumerary. After a great deal of reining in and 
 pulling up, with the usual accompaniments of snorting, rearing, and 
 kicking, the animal consented to stop at about a hundred yards from 
 the gate, where Mr. Sparkins dismounted, and confided him to the 
 care of Mr. Malderton's groom. T^be ciremony of introduction waa
 
 212 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATIOS. 
 
 gone through in all due form. Mr. Flamwell looked from behind 
 his green spectacles at Horatio with an air of mysterious importance; 
 and the gallant Horatio looked unutterable things at Teresa, who 
 tried in her turn to appear uncommonly lackadaisicaL 
 
 "Is he the Honourable Mr. Augustus — what's his name?" whis- 
 pered Mrs. Malderton to Flamwell, as he was escorting her to the 
 dining-room. 
 
 " Why, no — at least not exactly," returned that great authority — 
 " not exactly." 
 
 "Whowhe then?" 
 
 " Hush ! " said Flamwell, nodding his head. 
 
 The dinner was excellent; Horatio was most attentive to Misa 
 Teresa, and everyone felt in high spirits, except Mr. Malderton, 
 who, knowing the propensity of his brother-in-law, Mr. Barton, 
 endured that sort of agony which the newspapers inform us is expe- 
 rienced by the surrounding neighbourhood when a pot-boy hangs 
 himself in a hay-loft, and which is "much easier to be imagined than 
 described". 
 
 " Have you seen your friend, Sir Thomas Noland, lately, Flam- 
 well 1" inquired Mr. Malderton, casting a sidelong look at Horatio, 
 'M see what eflFect the mention of so great a man had upon him. 
 
 " Why, no — not very lately; I saw Lord Gubbleton the day before 
 yesterday." 
 
 "I hope his lordship is very well," said Malderton, in a tone of 
 the greatest interest. It is scarcely necessary to say that untU that 
 moment he was quite innocent of the existence of such a person. 
 
 " Why, yes ; he was very well — very well indeed. He's a deuced 
 good feUow ; I met him in the City, and had a long chat with him. 
 Indeed I'm rather intimate with him. I couldn't stop to talk to him 
 as long as I could wish, though, because I was on my way to a 
 banker's, a very rich man, and a member of Parliament, with whom 
 I am also rather, indeed I may say very, intimate." 
 
 " I know whom you mean," returned the host, consequentially, in 
 reality knowing as much about the matter aa Flamwell himself. 
 
 " He has a capital business." 
 
 This was touching on a dangerous topic. 
 
 " Talking of business," interposed Mr. Barton, from the centre of 
 the table. " A gentleman that you knew very well, Malderton, 
 before you made that first lucky spec of yours, called at our shop the 
 other day, and " 
 
 " Barton, may I trouble you for a potato," inquired the wretched 
 master of the house, hoping to nip the story in the bud.
 
 SKLECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION, 213 
 
 " Cei-tainly," returned the grocer, quite insensible of bis brother-in- 
 law's object — " and he said in a verj' plain manner " 
 
 '■'■Flowery^ if you please," interrupted Maldertou again ; dreading 
 the termination of the anecdote, and fearing repetition of the word 
 "shop". 
 
 " He said, says he," continued the culprit, after despatching the 
 potato — "says he, 'how goes on your business?' So I said, jokingly 
 — you know my way — says I, ' I'm never above my business, and I 
 hope my business will never be above me.' Ha, ha, ha!" 
 
 " Mr. Sparkins," said the host, vainly endeavouring to conceal his 
 dismay, "a glass of wine?" 
 
 " With the utmost pleasure, sir." 
 
 " Happy to see you." 
 
 " Thank you." 
 
 "We were talking the other evening, resumed the host, addressing 
 Horatio, partly with the view of displaying the conversational powers 
 of his new acquaintance, and partly in the hope of drowning the 
 grocer's stories — "we were talking the other day about the nature of 
 man. Your argument struck me veiy forcibly." 
 
 " And me," said Mr. Frederick. Horatio made a graceful inclina- 
 tion of the head. 
 
 "Pray what is your opinion of woman, Mr. Sparkins?" inquired 
 Mrs. Malderton. The young ladies simpered. 
 
 "Man," replied Horatio, "man, whether he ranged the bright, 
 gay, flowery plains of a second Eden, or the more sterile, barren, and, 
 I may say, commonplace regions, to which we are compelled to 
 accustom ourselves in times such as these; man, I say, under any 
 circumstances, or in any place — whether he were bending beneath 
 the withering blasts of the frigid zone, or scorching under the rays 
 of a vertical sun — man, without woman, would be — alone." 
 
 " I'm very happy to find you entertain such honourable opinions, 
 Mr. Sparkins," said Mrs. Malderton. 
 
 At twelve o'clock on the following morning, the "fly" was at the 
 door of Oak Lodge, to convey Mrs. Malderton and her daughters on 
 their expedition for the day. The young ladies beguiled the tedious- 
 ness of the ride by eulogizing Mr. Horatio Sparkins, scolding their 
 mamma for taking them so far to save a shilling, and wondering 
 whether they should ever reach their destination. At lencfth the 
 vehicle stopped before a dirty-looking ticketed linen-draper's shop, 
 with goods of all kinds, and labels of all sorts and sizes in the window. 
 There were dropsical figures of a seven with a little three-farthings 
 ta the comer, something like the aquatic animalculae disclosed by the
 
 214 SELECTIONS FOR RBADINQ AND RECITATION. 
 
 gas microscope "perfectly invisible to the naked eye"; three hundred 
 and fifty thousand ladies' boas, from one shilling and a penny half- 
 penny; real French kid shoes, at two and ninepence per pair; green 
 parasols, with handles like carving- forks, at an equally cheap rate; 
 and "every description of goods", as the proprietors said — and they 
 must know best — "fifty per cent under cost price". 
 
 " La ! ma, what a place you have brought us to !" said Miss Teresa; 
 " what would Mr. Sparkins say if he could see us 1 " 
 
 " Ahl what, indeed !" said Miss Marianne, horrified at the idea. 
 
 "Pray be seated, ladies. What is the first article?" inquired the 
 obsequious master of the ceremonies of the establishment, who, in 
 his large white neckcloth and formal tie, looked like a bad "portrait 
 of a gentleman" in the Somerset House exhibition. 
 
 " I want to see some silks," answered Mrs. Malderton. 
 
 "Directly, ma'am.— Mr. Smith. Where is Mr. Smith?" 
 
 " Here, sir," cried a voice at the back of the shop. 
 
 " Pray make haste, Mr. Smith," said the M. C. " You never are 
 to be found when you're wanted, sir." 
 
 Mr. Smith, thus enjoined to use all possible despatch, leaped over 
 the counter with great agility, and placed himself before the newly- 
 arrived customers. Mrs. Malderton uttered a faint scream ; Miss 
 Teresa, who had been stooping down to talk to her sister, raised her 
 head, and beheld — Horatio Sparkins ! 
 
 THE MASTERPIECE OF BROTHER FELIX. 
 R. E. White. 
 
 Two monks were in a cell at close of day — 
 A cell, too, that the artist's craft portrayed. 
 
 Dying upon a bed the youi ger lay, 
 The older one beside him knelt and prayed. 
 
 The older spoke : " Your end is very near, 
 
 To see another day you cannot live ; 
 So banish thought of eai-th, my brother dear, 
 
 And to your soul alone all thought now give." 
 
 " Nay, Francis," said the other, "speak not so; 
 
 I cannot die, my life-work incomplete. 
 Were that but finished, I would willing go — 
 
 Then death would be a messenger most sweet" 
 
 Then Francis spoke: "The world counts the succeas, 
 Hut God will judge by what you have essayed ;
 
 gKLECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 216 
 
 And though you fail, He •will not deem the less 
 The efiorts and the struggles you have made. 
 
 " The painter's earthly triumph is but brief, 
 
 A passion-flower is fame, that soon decays; 
 There is a poison in the laurel leaf, 
 
 While green the wreath of heaven keeps always," 
 
 And Felix answered : " Brother Francis, so 
 
 You dream I hanker after earthly fame. 
 I sought for it one time— 'twas long ago — 
 
 But now a holier, better meed I claim : 
 
 " And if grim death were standing by the gate, 
 
 A messenger who brought the final call, 
 1 tell you, brother, that he still should wait 
 
 Till I had done yon picture on the wall. 
 
 " Nay, more : were I beside the golden throne, 
 
 I would bend down at the Almighty's feet, 
 And beg with tears : ' My life-work is not done — 
 
 Let me return until it be complete,' 
 
 " Of prapng, therefore, speak not now to me ; 
 
 Or if you pray, pray that I still may live 
 Until my painting all completed be, 
 
 That I to coming time the work may give." 
 
 " God give you grace, my brother," Francis said, 
 " Your heart submissive to His will to keep." 
 
 And then he turned away, and silent prayed ; 
 But soon, o'ercome with watching, fell asleep. 
 
 Then from his bed to rise up Felix tried, 
 But with the effort, faint and weak, fell back ; 
 
 Then, clasping hands imploringly, he cried : 
 " O God of heaven, one little hour I lack 
 
 " To work again upon my masterpiece. 
 
 Till I the face divine have painted there ; 
 I care not then how soon my life may cease, 
 
 Kind God, one hour unto thy servant spare I 
 
 "But death creeps fast; too weak is now my hand 
 To picture true the thought that fills my brain. 
 
 Send down an angel from the spirit land, 
 
 That I may not have dreamed such dream in vain?"
 
 216 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 The cell door opened as he ceased to speak ; 
 
 A young man entered — tall he was, and fair; 
 The glow of youth was mantled on his cheek, 
 
 His eyes were blue, and golden was his hair, 
 
 "Why come you?" Felix questioned, "and your name?' 
 The youth made answer: " I am Angelo, 
 
 Who, hearing of the Brother Felix's fame, 
 
 Have come that I his wondrous art might know." 
 
 Then Felix spoke: "I am the man you seek; 
 
 But I am dying, and have not the power 
 To teach you aught. My heart and hand are weak, 
 
 But you may aid me in this final hour. 
 
 " Take yonder painting — set it on the stand 
 Here at my bedside, full within my view — 
 
 Palette and pencils all are here at hand; 
 Then paint, good youth, as I desire you to. 
 
 " 'Tis all complete except the Saviour's face, 
 And that upon the canvas faintly lined. 
 
 But still so clear that you may plainly trace 
 The features fair and God-like; you will find 
 
 " The face is somewhat of a Jewish cast — 
 I sketched it from a beggar in the street. 
 
 Ah, little dreamed I then, a few weeks past, 
 Another hand my painting would complete I " 
 
 Then spake the youth: "A spirit sure has brought 
 Me to your cell to be, as 'twere, a hand 
 
 Acting responsive to your every thought — 
 Your faintest wish shall be as a command. 
 
 "Speak, and I paint 1" The dying Felix spoke 
 A few words now and then — no need of much; 
 
 The canvas into life and beauty woke 
 Beneath the magic of the artist's touch. 
 
 The youth at last his pencil laid aside, 
 
 And spoke: "O master mine, your work is done; 
 
 Can I assist you more?" The monk replied: 
 " Go on your way and leave me here alone." 
 
 The youth departed, and then Felix prayed: 
 " I thank thee, God, and death is now most sweet,
 
 8KLECTI0NS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 217 
 
 Since Thou its shaft a little while hast staid 
 Until my masterpiece is all complete." 
 
 Francis was wakened by the matin bell; 
 
 He rose, and lo ! the light of early day 
 Upon the painting of the Saviour fell 
 
 That uo the easel all completed lay. 
 
 In silence Francis by the painting stood: 
 The features gleamed as with a love divine, 
 
 From hands and feet transpierced gushed forth the blood, 
 'Twas perfect and complete in every line. 
 
 " In truth," then Francis spoke, " no mortal hand 
 Has limned the rapturous beauty of that face.. 
 
 Heaven surely heard liis supplication, and 
 An angel must have visited the place." 
 
 To Felix turning; "Yes, the laurel crown 
 
 Is yours, for you have reached art's proudest goal" 
 
 Then, bursting into tears, he knelt him down: 
 " May God have mercy on the passing soul ! " 
 
 ROMEO AND JULIET. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 Two Characters. Romeo and Juliet. 
 
 Enter Romeo. 
 
 GapdeVs Garden. 
 
 Rom. He jests at scars that never felt a wound. 
 
 {Juliet appears above, at a ttnndow.) 
 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: 
 Be not her maid, since she is envious; 
 Her vestal livery is but sick and green, 
 And none but fools do wear it; ca-st it off. — 
 It is my lady; O, it is my love. 
 O, that she knew she were i— 
 She speaks, yet she says nothing: What of thati
 
 218 SELECTIoyS FOR READING JlSD RBCITATIOll. 
 
 Her eye discourses, I will answer it. — 
 I am too bold, 'tis not to me she speaks; 
 Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven. 
 Having some business, do entreat her eyes 
 To twinkle in their spheres till they return. 
 Wliat if her eyea were there, they in her head? 
 The brightness of her cheek would shame those star^ 
 As daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven 
 Would through the airy region stream so bright, 
 That birds would sing, and think it were not night. 
 See how she leans her cheek upon her hand ! 
 O, that I were a glove upon that hand, 
 That I might touch that cheek ! 
 Jul. Ah me ! 
 Rom. She speaks: — 
 O, speak again, bright angel 1 for thou art 
 
 As glorious to this night, being o'er my head 
 As is a winged messenger of heaven 
 Unto the white-upturned wond'ring eyes 
 
 Of mortals, that fall back to gaze on him, 
 
 When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds, 
 
 And sails upon the bosom of the air. 
 
 JtU. Eomeo, Eomeol wherefore art thou Romeo 1 
 
 Deny thy father, and refuse thy name; 
 
 Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love. 
 
 And I'll no longer be a Capulet. 
 
 Ro7n. Shall I hear more, or shaU I speak at thisi [Atids.) 
 
 Jul. 'Tis but thy name that is my enemy;— 
 
 Thou art thyself, though not a Montague. 
 
 What's Montague] is it nor hand nor foot, 
 
 Xor arm, nor face, nor any other part 
 
 Belonging to a man. O, be some other name 1 
 
 What's in a name? that, which we call a rose, 
 
 By any other name would smell as sweet ; 
 
 So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call'd, 
 
 Retain that dear perfection which be owes, 
 
 Without that title:— Romeo, doflf thy name ; 
 
 And for that name, which is no part of thee, 
 
 Take all myself. 
 
 Ro7ii. I take thee at thy word: 
 
 Call me but love, and I'll be new baptised ; 
 
 Henceforth I never will be Romeo.
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 219 
 
 Jul. What man art thou, that, thus bescieen'd in night, 
 So stumbleat on my counsel? 
 
 Rom. By a name 
 I know not how to tell thee who I am : 
 My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself, 
 Because it is an enemy to thee ; 
 Had I it written. I would tear the word. 
 
 JvX. My ears have not yet drunk a hundred words 
 Of that tongue's utterance, yet I know the sound: 
 Axt thou not Romeo, and a Montague? 
 
 Rom. Neither, fair saint, if either thee dislike. 
 
 Jul. How camest thou hither, tell me? and wherefore? 
 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. 
 
 Bxym. With love's light wings did I o'er- perch these walla 
 For stony limits cannot hold love out : 
 And what love can do, that dares love attempt ; 
 Therefore thy kinsmen are no let to me. 
 
 Jvl, If they do see thee, they will murder thee. 
 
 Rom. Alack ! there lies more peril in thine eye, 
 Than twenty of their swords ; look thou but sweet, 
 And I am proof against their enmity. 
 
 JvX. I would not for the world they saw thee here. 
 
 Row.. 1 have night's cloak to hide me from their sight: 
 And, but thou love me, let them find me here : 
 My life was better ended by their hate, 
 Than death prorogued, wanting of thy love. 
 
 JvX. By whose direction found'st thou out this place V 
 
 Rom. By love, who first did prompt me to inquire ; 
 He lent me counsel, and I lent him eyes. 
 I am no pilot ! yet wert thou as far 
 As that vast shore waah'd with the farthest sea, 
 I would adventure for such merchandise. 
 
 JvX. Thou know'st the mask of night is on my face; 
 Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek, 
 For that which thou hast heard me speak to-night. 
 Fain would I dwell on form, fain, fain deny 
 What I have spoke ; but farewell compliment ! 
 Dost love me ? I know, thou wilt say — Ay : 
 And I will take thy word : yet, if thou swear'st 
 Thou mayst prove false ; at lovers' perjuries,
 
 220 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATIOm. 
 
 They say, Jove laughs. O gentle Romeo, 
 If tliou dost love, pronounce it faithfully: 
 Or if thou think'st I am too quickly won, 
 I'll frown and be perverse, and say thee nay, 
 So thou wilt woo ; but, else, not for the world. 
 But trust me, gentleman, I'll prove more true 
 Than those that have more cunning to be straiiire. 
 I should have been more strange, I must confess. 
 Rut that thou overheard'st, ere I was ware. 
 My true love's passion ; therefore pardon me ; 
 And not impute this yielding to light love. 
 Which the dark night hath so discovered. 
 
 Rom. Lady, by yonder blessed moon I swear. 
 That tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops, — 
 
 Jul. O, swear not by the moon, the inconstant inoon. 
 That monthly changes in her circled orb, 
 Lest that thy love prove like variable. 
 
 Rovi. What shall I swear by? 
 
 Jul. Do not swear at all ; 
 Or, if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self, 
 Which is the god of my idolatry 
 And I'll believe thee. 
 
 Rom. If my heart's dear love — 
 
 Jul. Well, do not swear : although I joy in thes, 
 I have no joy of this contract to-night : 
 It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden : 
 Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be, 
 Ere one can say — It lightens. Sweet, good night I 
 This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath, 
 May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet. 
 Good night, good night ! as sweet repose and rest 
 Come to thy heart, as that within my breast ! 
 
 Rom. O, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied! 
 
 Jul. What satisfaction canst thou have to-night^ 
 
 Rom,. The exchange of thy love's faithful vow for mine. 
 
 Jul. I gave thee mine before thou didst request it : 
 A nd yet I would it were to give again. 
 
 Rom. Wouldst thou withdraw it? for what puri)ose, lov«>6 
 
 Jul. But to be frank, and give it thee again. 
 And yet I wish but for the thing I have : 
 My bounty is as boundless as the sea, 
 My love as deep ; the more I give to thee,
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READINa AND RECITATION. 221 
 
 The more I have, for both are infinite. — {Nurse ccdh iinthin.) 
 
 I hear some noise within : Dear love, adieu 1 — 
 
 Anon, good nurse ! — Sweet Montague, be true. 
 
 Stay, but a little, I will come again. [Exit. 
 
 Rom. O blessed, blessed night ! I am afeard, 
 Being in night, all this is but a dream, 
 Too flattering-sweet to be substantial. 
 
 Re-enter Juliet, above. 
 
 Jul. Three words, dear Romeo, and good-night, indeed. 
 If that thy bent of love be honourable. 
 Thy purpose marriage, send me word to-morrow 
 By one that I'll procure to come to thee, 
 \Vliere, and what time, thou wilt perform the rite; 
 Vud all my fortunes at thy foot I'll lay, 
 And follow thee, my lord, throughout the world. 
 
 Nurse. ( Within.) Madam ! 
 
 .hd. I come, anon : — But if thou mean'st not well, I do beseeeb 
 thee, — 
 
 Nurse. ( Within.) Madam I 
 
 Jul. By and by, I come : — 
 To cease thy suit, and leave me to my grief: 
 To-morrow will I send. 
 
 Rotn. So thrive my soul — 
 
 Jul. A thousand times good night! [Erit 
 
 Rom. A thousand times the worse, to want thy light — 
 Love goes toward love, as school-boys from their books ; 
 But love from love, toward school with heavy looks. 
 
 {Retiri'iig slowlif ^ 
 
 Re-enter Juliet, above. 
 
 Jul. Hist, Romeo, hist! — O, for a falconer's voice, 
 To lure this tassel-gentle back again ! 
 Bondage is hoai'se, and may not speak aloud ; 
 Else would I tear the cave where echo lies, 
 And make her airy tongue more hoarse than miue 
 Wivh repetition of my Romeo's name. 
 
 Rom. It is my soul that calls upon my name : 
 How silver-sweet sound lovers' tongues by nigt^ 
 Like softest music to attending ears I 
 
 Jul. Romeo I 
 
 Rom,. My sweet I
 
 222 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 Jvl. 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 
 I have 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, 
 Rememb'ring how I love thy company. 
 
 Rom. And I'll still stay, to have thee still forget, 
 Forgetting any other house but this. 
 
 Jul. 'Tis almost morning, I would have thee gone: 
 And yet no farther than a wanton's bird 
 Who lets it hop a little from her hand. 
 Like a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves, 
 And with a silk thread plucks it back again, 
 So loving-jealous of his liberty. 
 
 Rom. I would I were thy bird. 
 
 Jul. Sweet, so would I : 
 Yet I should kill thee with much cherishing. 
 Good-night, good night ! parting in such sweet sorrow, 
 That 1 shall say — good night, till it be morrow. \ExvL 
 
 Rom. Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast ! — 
 Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest 1 
 Hence will I to my ghostly father's cell ; 
 His help to crave, and my dear hap to tell. 
 
 EDINBURGH AFTER FLODDEN. 
 
 Prof. Aytgun. 
 
 News of battle ! — news of battle ! — Hark ! 'tis ringing down the 
 
 street ; 
 And the archways and the pavements bear the clang of hurrying 
 
 feet. 
 News of battle! who hath brought it? News of triumph? — Who 
 
 should bring 
 Tidings from our noble army, greetings from our gallant King? 
 All last night we watched the beacons blazing on the hills afar, 
 Each one bearing, as it kindled, message of the opened war. 
 All night long the northern streamers shot across the tremblino 
 
 sky- 
 Fearful lights, that never beckon save when kings or heroes die.
 
 SELECTIONS TOR READING AND RECITATION. 223 
 
 News of battle ! who hath brought iti — All are thronging to the 
 
 gate; 
 "Warder — warder! open quickly! Man — is this a time to wait 1" 
 And the heavy gates are opened: — then a murmur long and loud, 
 And a cry of fear and wonder bursts from out the bending crowd ; 
 For they see, in battered harness, only one hard-stricken man, 
 And his weary steed is wounded, and his cheek is pale and wan ; 
 Spearless hangs a bloody banner in his weak and drooping hand — 
 God ! can that be Randolph Murray, Captain of the city band ! 
 
 Round him crush the people, crying, " Tell us all — oh, tell us true ! 
 Where are they who went to battle, Randolph Murray, sworn .0 
 
 you? 
 Where are they, our brothers —children? Have they met the English 
 
 foe? 
 Why art thou alone, unfollowed? Is it weal, or is it woe?" 
 Like a corpse the grisly warrior looks from out his helm of steel ; 
 But no word he speaks in answer — only with his armed heel 
 Chides his weary steed, and onward up the city street they ride ; 
 Fathers, sisters, mothers, children, shrieking, praying by his side. 
 " By the God that made thee, Randolph ! — tell us what mischance 
 
 hath come." — 
 Then he lifts his riven banner, and the asker's voice is dumb. 
 
 The elders of the city have met within their hall — 
 
 The men whom good King James had charged to watch the tower 
 
 and wall: — 
 W hen in came Randolph Murray : — his step was slow and weak ; 
 A.nd, as he doflFed his dinted helm, the tears ran down his cheek ; 
 fhey fell upon bis corslet, and on his mailed hand, 
 As he gazed around him wistfully, leaning sorely on his brand; 
 And none who then beheld him but straight were smote with 
 
 fear — 
 For a bolder and a sterner man had never couched a spear. — 
 They knew so sad a messenger some ghastly news must bring ; 
 And all of them were fathers, and their sons were with the King. 
 
 And up then rose the Provost : — a brave old man was he, 
 
 Of ancient name, and knightly fame, and chivalrous degree. 
 
 Oh ! woeful now was the old man's look, and he spake right heavily — 
 
 " Now, Randolph, tell thy tidings, however sharp they be ! 
 
 Woe is written on thy visage, death is looking from thy face: — 
 
 Speak! though it be of overthrow — it cannot be disgrace I"
 
 224 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 Right bitter was the agony that wrung that soldier proud ; 
 Thrice did he strive to answer, and thrice he groaned aloud. 
 Then he gave the riven banner to the old man's shaking hand, 
 Saying — " That is all I bring ye from the bravest of the land 1 
 Ay ! ye may look upon — it was guarded well and long, 
 By your brothers and your children, by the valiant and the strong: 
 One by one they fell around it, as the archers laid them low. 
 Grimily dying, still unconquered, with their faces to the foe. 
 Ay 1 ye may well look upon it — there is more than honour there, 
 Else, be sure, I had not brought it from the field of dark despair. 
 Never yet was royal banner steeped in such a costly dye ; 
 It hath lain upon a bosom where no other shroud shall lie: — 
 Sirs! I charge you, keep it holy: keep it as a sacred thing, 
 For the stain ye see upon it was the life-blood of your King ! " 
 
 Woe, and woe, and lamentation ! What a piteous cry was there ! — 
 Widows, maidens, mothers, children — shrieking, sobbing in despair ! 
 Through the street the death-word rushes, spreading terror, sweep- 
 ing on — 
 " Jesu Christ! our King has fallen — O Great God, King James is 
 
 gone! 
 Woe to us, and woe to Scotland 1 O our sons, our sons and men I — 
 Surely some have 'scaped the Southron, surely some will come 
 again I " — 
 
 Till the oak that fell last winter shall uprear its shattered stem — 
 Wives and mothers of Dunedin — ye may look in vain for them I 
 
 Ijike a knell of death and judgment wrung from heaven by angel 
 
 hand, 
 Fell the words of desolation on the elders of the land. 
 Hoary heads were bowed and trembling, withered hands were 
 
 clasped and wrung: — 
 God had left the old and feeble, He had ta'en away the young. 
 
 Then the Provost he uprose, and his lip was ashen white; 
 
 But a flush was on his brow, and his eye was full of light. 
 
 "Thou hast spoken, Randolph Murray, like a soldier stout and true; 
 
 Thou hast done a deed of daring had been perilled but by few: 
 
 For thou hast not shamed to face us, nor to speak thy ghastly tale. 
 
 Standing — thou, a knight and captain — here, alive within thy mail! 
 
 Now, as my God shall judge me, I hold it braver done, 
 
 Than hadst thou tarried in thy place, and died above my sonl —
 
 SBLECTXONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 225 
 
 Thou needst not tell it, — he is dead. God help us all this day! 
 But speak — how fought the citizens within the furious fray? 
 For, bv the might of Mary ! 'twere something still to tell 
 That no Scottish foot went backward when the Koyal Lion fell!" 
 
 "No one failed him! He is keeping Eojal state and semblance 
 
 still; 
 Knight and noble lie around him, cold on Flodden's fatal hill. 
 Of the brave and gallant-hearted, whom ve sent with prayers away, 
 Not a single man departed from his monarch yesterday. 
 Had you seen them, O my masters! when the night began to fall, 
 And the English spearmen gathered round a grim and ghastly wall ! 
 As the wolves, in winter, circle round the leaguer on the heath. 
 So the greedy foe glared upward, panting still for blood and death: 
 But a rampart rose before them, which the boldest dared not scale — 
 Every stone a Scottish body, every step a corpse in mail ! 
 And behind it lay our monarch, clenching still his shivered sword; 
 By his side Montrose and Athole, at his feet a Southron lord. 
 All so thick they lay together, when the stars lit up the sky, 
 That I knew not who were stricken, or who yet remained to die. 
 Few there were when Surrey halted, and his wearied host with- 
 drew — 
 None but dying men around me, when the English trumpet blew. 
 Then I stooped and took the banner (as you see it) from his breast; 
 And I closed our hero's eyelids, and I left him to his rest. — 
 In the mountains growled the thunder, as J leaped the woeful wall, 
 And the heavy clouds were settling over Flodden like a palL" 
 
 HOW THE FLAG WAS SAVED. 
 J. B. O'Reilly. 
 
 Twas when we were young and fearless, for 'twas in oxir first cam- 
 paign. 
 When we gaUoped through the orange groves and fields of sunny 
 
 Spain, 
 Our wary old commander was retiring from the foe. 
 Who came pressing close upon us, with a proud, exulting show. 
 We could hear their taunting laughter, and within our very sight 
 Did they ride defiant round us, — ay, and dared us to the fight. 
 But brave old Picton heeded not, but held his backward track. 
 And, smiling, said the day would come to pay the Frenchmen back. 
 
 (986) H
 
 226 SELECTIOKS TOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 And come it did ! One morning, long before the break of day, 
 
 We -were standing to our arms, all ready for the coming fray. — 
 
 Yes, there we stood all ready, and the foe was ready, too ; 
 
 Soon the fight was raging fiercely, — thick and fast the bullets flew, 
 
 With a bitter hiss of malice, as if hungry for the life 
 
 To be torn from manly bosoms in the maddening heat of strife. 
 
 Distant batteries were thundering, pouring grape and shell Uke 
 
 rain, 
 And the cruel missiles hurtled with their load of death and pain, 
 \Yhich they carried, like fell demons, to the heart of some brigade, 
 Where the sudden, awful stillness told the havoc they had made. 
 Thus the struggle reached till noon, and neither side could vantage 
 
 show; 
 Then the tide of battle turned and swept in favour of the foe 1 
 Fiercer still the cannon thundered, — wilder screamed the grape and 
 
 shell, — 
 Onward pressed the French battalions, — back the British masses fell ! 
 Then, as on its prey devoted, fierce the hungered vulture swoops, 
 Swung the foeman's charging squadrons down upon our broken 
 
 troops. 
 Victory hovered o'er their standard, — on they swept with maddening 
 
 shout. 
 Spreading death and havoc round them, till retreat was changed to 
 
 rout! 
 Twaa a saddening sight to witness ; and, when Picton saw them fly, 
 Grief and shame were mixed and burning in the old commander's 
 
 eye. — 
 Yes ! alas 1 our troops were routed. Far and near they broke and 
 
 fled, 
 The grapeshot tearing through them, leaving lanes of mangled dead. 
 All order lost, they left the fight, — they threw their arms away 
 And joined in one wild panic rout, — ahl 'twas a bitter day! 
 But did I say that all was lost? Nay, one brave corps stood fast, 
 Determined ihei/ would never fly, but fight it to the last. 
 They barred the Frenchman from his prey, and his whole fury 
 
 braved, — 
 Could they but hold their ground one hour, the army might be 
 
 saved. 
 Fresh troops were hurrying to our aid, — we saw their glittering 
 
 head, — 
 Ah, God 1 how those brave hearts were raked by the death-shower 
 
 of lead 1
 
 SELECTIONS FOR BEADING AND RECITATION, 227 
 
 But stand they did : they never flinched nor took one backward 
 
 stride, 
 They sent their bayonets home, and then with stubborn courage 
 
 died. 
 But few were left of that brave band when the dread hour had 
 
 passed, 
 Still, faint and few, they held their flag above them to the last. 
 But now a cloud of horsemen, like a shadowy avalanche, 
 Sweeps down. As Picton sees them, e'en his cheek is seen to blanch 
 They were not awed, that little band, but rallied once again. 
 And sent us back a farewell cheer. Then burst from reckless men 
 The anguished cry, " God help them ! " as we saw the fleeble flash 
 Of their last defiant volley, when upon them with a crash 
 Burst the gleaming lines of ridere, — one by one they disappear. 
 And the chargers' hoofs are trampling on the last of that brave 
 
 square ! 
 On swept the squadrons 1 Then we looked where last the band was 
 
 seen; 
 A scarlet heap was all that marked the place where they had been 1 
 Still forward spurred the horsemen, eager to complete the routj 
 But our lines had been re-formed now, and five thousand guns 
 
 belched out 
 A reception to the squadrons, — rank on rank was piled that day, 
 Every bullet hissed out " Vengeance I " as it whistled on its way. 
 And now it was, with maddened hearts, we saw a galling sight : — 
 A French hussar was riding close beneath us on the right. 
 He grasped a British standard ! With insulting shout he stood 
 And waved the flag, — its heavy folds drooped down with shame and 
 
 blood, — 
 The blood of hearts unconquered: 'twas the flag of the staunch 
 
 corps 
 They had fought to death beneath it, — it was heavy with their gore. 
 The foreign dog I I see him as he holds the standard down. 
 And makes his charger trample on its colours and its crown ! 
 But his life soon paid the forfeit : with a cry of rage and pain 
 Hilton dashes from the escort, like a tiger from his chain. 
 Nought he sees but that insulter, and he strikes his frightened horse 
 With his clenched hand, and spurs him, with a bitter-spoken curse, 
 Sti-aight as a bullet from a rifle — but, great God ! he has not seen. 
 In his angry thirst for vengeance, the black gulf that lies between 
 All our warning shouts unheeding, fiercely on he headlong rides, 
 And lifts his horse, with bloody spurs deep buried in his sides.
 
 228 SELECTIONS FOR BEADING AND RECITATION. 
 
 God's mercy ! does he see the gulf? Ha ! now his purpose dawna 
 Upon our minds, as nearer still the rocky fissure yawns : 
 Where from the further side the stone leans o'er the stream beneath, 
 He means to take the awful leap ! Cold horror checks our breath, 
 And still and mute we watch him now ; he nears the awful place ; 
 We hear him shout to cheer the horse and keep the headlong pace. 
 Then comes a rush — short strides — a blow! — the horse bounds 
 
 wildly on, 
 Springs high in air above the abyss, and lands upon the stone ! 
 It trembles, topples 'neath their weight 1 it sinks ! ha 1 bravely 
 
 done! 
 Another spring — they gain the side — the ponderous rock is gone 
 With crashing roar, a thousand feet, down to the flood below, 
 And Hilton, heedless of its noise, is riding at the foe ! 
 The Frenchman stared in wonder: he was brave, and would not 
 
 run, 
 'Twould merit but a coward's brand to fly from only one, 
 But still he shuddered at the glance from 'neath that knitted brow; 
 He knew 'twould be a death fight, but there was no shrinking 
 
 now. 
 He pressed his horse to meet the shock : straight at him Hilton 
 
 made, 
 And, aa they closed, the Frenchman's cut fell harmless on his blade; 
 But scarce a moment's time had passed ere, spurring from the field, 
 A troop of cuirassiers closed round and called on him to yield. 
 One glance of scorn he threw them, — all his answer in a frown, — 
 And riding at their leader, with one sweep he cut him down ; 
 Then aimed at him who held the flag a cut of crushing might, 
 And split him to the very chin !— a horrid, ghastly sight ! 
 He seized the standard from his hand; but now the Frenchmen . 
 
 close. 
 And that stout soldier, all alone, fights with a hundred foes ! 
 They cut and cursed, — a dozen swords were whistling round his 
 
 head ; 
 He could not guard on every side, — from fifty wounds he bled. 
 His sabre crashed through helm and blade, as though it were a 
 
 mace; 
 He cut their steel cuirasses, and he slashed them o'er the face. 
 One tall dragoon closed on him, but he wheeled his horse around, 
 And, cloven through the helmet, went the trooper to the ground. 
 But his sabre-blade was broken by the fury of the blow. 
 And he hurled the useless, bloody hilt against the nearest foe;
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 229 
 
 Then furled the colours round the pole, and, like a levelled lance, 
 He charged with that red standard through the bravest troops of 
 
 France ! 
 His horse, as lion-hearted, scarcely needed to be urged, 
 And steed and rider bit the dust before him as he charged. 
 Straight on he rode, and down they went, till he had cleared the 
 
 ranks, 
 Then once again he loosed the rein and struck the horse's flanks. 
 A cheer broke forth from the French dragoons — a loud, admiring 
 
 shout ! — 
 As off he rode, and o'er him shook the tattered colours out. 
 Still might they ride him down : they scorned to fire or pursue, — 
 Brave hearts ! they cheered him to our lines, — their army cheering, 
 
 too! 
 And we — what did we do? you ask. Well, boy, we did not cheer. 
 Nor not one sound of welcome reached our hero comrade's ear; 
 But, as he rode along the ranks, each soldier's head was bare, — 
 Our hearts were far too full for cheers, — we welcomed him with 
 
 prayer. 
 Ah, boy ! we loved that dear old flag, — ay, loved it so, we cried 
 Ijike children, as we saw it wave in all its tattered pride ! 
 No, boy, no cheers to greet him, though he played a noble part, — 
 We only prayed "God bless him!" but that prayer came from the 
 
 heart, 
 He knew we loved him for it — he could see it in our tears — 
 A_ud such silent, earnest love as that is better, boy, than cheers. 
 
 THE OLD KNIGHT'S TALE. 
 Egbert B. Brough. 
 
 We were six of old Aymer's choosing, each heading a goodly troop 
 We pounced on a border castle as kites on a dove might swoop ; 
 We stormed the place and took it ; yet, to give the fiend his due. 
 We never had turned a pebble, or shaken a single screw 
 
 Of the stout old walls and posterns with all our valour and pride, 
 
 Had not a few grim Scotchmen fought on the English side. 
 
 They were rough tall fellows and churlish and without a care we 
 
 thought, 
 An it were for Edward Longshanks, or Satan himself they fought. 
 
 Still fight they did like tigers, and the stronghold quickly fell ; 
 Chief thanks to these valiant traitors, who knew theirown laud so well.
 
 230 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 To note the shoutiug ai'd tossing of caps you had thought we visitors 
 
 brave 
 Had sure recovered the Holy Shrine and carried the Soldan slave. 
 
 And what was our goodly caption? A swamp in Ettrick Vale, 
 With scarcely grass for a black-faced sheep, or soil for a head of kail, 
 And a donjon flanked with turrets, like a moor-hen 'mid her young ! 
 And yet we shouted and blew our horns, and our caps in the air we 
 flung. 
 
 You see this warring in Scotland, though an emprise not to scorn, 
 Was a goodly sample of seeking wool and coming back home al' 
 
 shorn ; 
 There were store of foes to cope with, and towns enow to take, 
 But never a cask of wine to broach or a measure of meal to bake. 
 And the guerdon fair of valour — the conquered nation's spoil — 
 Was a plant we found not growing on that bleak uncourteoua soil. 
 
 Though the towns were mean and slavish, and acknowledged Edward's 
 
 sway, 
 Vet the hill, the moss, and the border, were our foes as they are 
 
 to-day. 
 How I hated these border rascals, they harass'd our march like 
 
 flies, 
 And pUf ered our wines and dainties from imder our very eyes I 
 
 This castle in Ettrick valley (if I have not forgot its name), 
 Belonged to a stout freebooter mighty well known to fame : 
 Hamilton — Hepburn — Douglas — something of these, I think; 
 No matter ! he liked fair English cakes, and was prone to Gascon 
 drink. 
 
 For scarcely a sumpter wagon o'er the border could we bring 
 JAn it were not guarded strongly by an escort fit for a king). 
 As by mother wit or magic, he would scent it upon the road, 
 Fall on it with his varlets, and lighten it of its load. 
 
 I have said we took his stronghold, but the bird from the nest h«d 
 
 flown : 
 He had left his mate behind him, brooding but not alone ; 
 Two eaglets fair beside her — delicate maids, I mean — 
 One of a blooming twenty, one of a sweet sixteen I 
 
 When we had told the wounded, watch on the captives eet, 
 Counted the castle treasure (little of that we met!)
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 231 
 
 All we could dream or thiuk of, we of Old Aymer's band, 
 Was which, in these fair maids' graces, highest and best should 
 stand. 
 
 There was combing of beards and ringlets, trimming of gloves and 
 
 plumes ; 
 Cursing for lack of mirrors, essences and perfumes. 
 But we made ourselves fine as might be, and our chivalrous bent so 
 
 proved, 
 That to sit at their victors' table the ladies at length were moved. 
 
 We prated of England's glories, we sang our Provengal lays, 
 
 We won bright looks from the Scottish maids by our courtly acts 
 
 of praise; 
 But the hireling Scots were sulky, they would neither wash nor 
 
 trim; 
 They sat at the board in armour, late stained by the carnage grim. 
 
 We were vexed at one especial, who in silence took his seat. 
 And never opened his mouth at all, except, like a hog, to eat ; 
 And our hatred all the stronger may have been that in the fray 
 He had proved himself the champion and the hero of the day. 
 
 A rough-bearded chain-clad giant, with a tall and knitted brow — 
 I know, if I had the limner's art, I could paint his picture now. 
 He swallowed the wine by goblets, he tore the meat with his teeth ; 
 His armour was worn and rusty, with never a shirt beneath. 
 
 His hands from the fight were crimson, where they were not black 
 
 with mud. 
 Said a young knight, " Lo ! there a Scot eats bread mixed with his 
 
 country's blood!" 
 Then the Scot laid down the goblet, crushing it flat in hia hand ; 
 I can see his blue eyes staring, and his jaws wide open stand. 
 
 Twas a frenzy fit of passion which at once he overcame, 
 
 As he said, for the first time speaking low, " My lords, I am much 
 
 to blame. 
 I am but a Scot and a savage, and your blame deserve, I wis, 
 In a company of English knights to sit in a plight like this. 
 
 But a man may mend bis manners, so I pray you let me go ; 
 1 will strive my best in more seemly guise before you next to show." 
 He rose from his seat and bowed him with reverence deep to ail, 
 We young men laughed; but our leader said, "Sir Scot, leave not 
 the hall.
 
 232 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 This madcap jest he shall pay for ; — thou hast helped King Edward's 
 
 bands 
 Like a liegeman true — " But the Scotsman smiled, " I go but to 
 
 wash my hands." 
 None dai'ed impede his egress, to smile or frown none knew, 
 When our leader (Ralph de Warrenne, Aymer's own kinsman true,) 
 
 Exclaimed, " Run after the Scotsman ; for a paltry jest like this 
 The help of so brave a warrior 'twere shame and folly to miss." 
 We sought him down in the courtyard, out in the marsh below ; 
 His steed was there in the stable, no one had seen him go. 
 
 We named him a fiend or warlock, who had vanished up in the air ; 
 The wines were good and the ladies kind^ — why for one Scotchman 
 
 care? 
 Till a terror-struck page came gliding into the banquet-hall, 
 He had been in the chapel hiding behind a pillar'd wall ; 
 
 He had seen the Scotch knight enter (with a face that made him gasp), 
 And hug the steps of the altar with impassioned, feverish clasp ; 
 Had heard him pray the Virgin to cleanse his traitorous hand 
 From the hideous stain, ne'er shown till now, the blood of his native 
 land ! 
 
 With writhing self-abasement he had heard the Scotsman swear 
 That soul and body to purify no penance would he spare — 
 That so long as a tyrant foeman with his heel on Scotland trod. 
 He would ne'er draw sword except to fight for his country and his 
 God 
 
 " Find him at once," cried Warrenne, " whether as friend or foe 
 'Tis a man too good for wasting, he is free to stay or go ; 
 Fight in our ranks or at them, for or against his land, 
 I would not let such a hero slip without a grasp of his hand. 
 
 Boot and spur and saddle over the moss and fen, 
 
 After the unwashed giant, varlets and gentlemen 1" 
 
 T^ate in the night we hunted, but the game had stolen away — 
 
 And ne'er has he grasped an English hand in friendship since that day 
 
 "No news of him?" "Well, somewhat, there were tidings of him afloat 
 The first, perhaps worth noting — he had cut knave Comyn's throat . 
 A very good deed (to deny it, at my time of life, what use?) — 
 He is now the old King of Scotland, and they call him Robert 
 the Bruce."
 
 SaLECTlONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 233 
 
 THE OLD LIEUTENANT AND HIS SON. 
 
 Dr. Norman Macleod. 
 
 (Adapted for Recital.) 
 
 One night Lieutenant Fleming, while walking along the sea-shore 
 with his son, said : — 
 
 "Neddy, my boy, did you ever think what profession you would 
 like to foUow?" 
 
 " Yes, father ; the sea, with your permission." 
 
 " The sea, my boy ! I need not say to you, Ned, that I honour the 
 sea ; Ned, I would give my right hand to see you in the navy, if we 
 had the old ships, the old men, the old officers, and the old wars : 
 but these, all these are gone." 
 
 " Well, father, you know I must do something. I can't hang on 
 you and mother much longer, and I won't." 
 
 " Bless you, my boy ! I like your spirit. Meanwhile we'll see 
 about it ; I'll have a talk with old Freeman, Ned, he is a sensible 
 man and has seen much of the world. Any man who was boatswain 
 in the Arethusa must have the right stuff in him. Yes, I shall have 
 a talk with Freeman." 
 
 But before Freeman was consulted, Mrs. Fleming .said to her hus- 
 band : "Edward, dear, what think you of the church for Neddy? 
 To tell you frankly, I dread the temptations and dangers of the sea." 
 
 "Mary, my love, do you think that a minister has no temptations? 
 or the pulpit no dangers 1 I have known and seen ministers firing 
 broadsides and showing bunting on Sunday, but all the week silent 
 and without a signal. Don't tell me a parson has no temptations." 
 
 "A doctor then, Edward?" 
 
 " Well, you know, Mary, neither Neddy nor I ever took medicine 
 ourselves, and we wouldn't like to give it to others." 
 
 " A lawyer, then, or any profession to keep Neddy at home." 
 
 " Well ! well ! we'll see about it ; but I'm resolved on one point, 
 that Neddy don't take up one of the idle professions. Look at some 
 of these young fellows that talk big English, swagger along the 
 streets and flirt with the girls. They wish to be gentlemen, without 
 work to soil their fingers or thoughts to shake up their brains, if 
 tliey have any. I tell you, Mary, I'd rather see our Neddy a tailor, 
 sewing his own clothes, than see him parade the streets an idle fool 
 in clothes he might have worked for, but wouldn't." 
 
 One evening shortly after this Freeman came to take tea at the 
 Captain's cottage. During the conversation the Captain said :— 
 (990) ■ H2
 
 234 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION, 
 
 " We've been thinking, Freemanj what to make, of Neddy. His 
 caother thinks the sea dangerous." 
 
 " Cap'n, I've often remarked that men drown boat.a oftener than 
 boats drown men ! " 
 
 " Ha 1 ha 1 I understand that, Freeman 1 The seaman makes the 
 vessel." - ■ 
 
 Freeman nodded. 
 
 " His mother would like him to be a minister/*' 
 
 Freeman shook his head. 
 
 "Ned has ballast but not bunting for a parson! "What say you to 
 a doctor, Freeman, eh?" 
 
 " A doctor, Cap'n ! Give me a man who will lose his own legs -on 
 deck, fighting for Queen and country, and not spend hiji time in the 
 cockpit sawing off the legs of other people." 
 
 " There you have hit the nail, Freeman. Pills and plasters won't 
 do for Ned. A lawyer, Freeman, eh?" 
 
 " A lawyer, Cap'n 1 No, no, a lawyer's rig won't do." 
 
 "You're quite correct, Freeman; quite correct. I don't understand 
 these lawyer fellows a bit." 
 
 " No — nor nobody else, Cap'n. The sea, the old sea's the thing for 
 Ned. Blow, breezes, blow! It's in the lad, Cap'n, it's in the 
 lad!" 
 
 It was at length arranged that Ned should go to sea. Mrs. 
 Fleming announced the fact to her old and faithful servant Babby. 
 Babby stopped in the middle of her work and looked at her mistress 
 with eyes aghast. 
 
 "Oor Neddy gaun to the sea! Never tell me he's gaun to the 
 sea; a nasty, jumbling, pairt o' creation. That auld Captain o' oors 
 was surely drinkin' saut water instead o' milk when he was a bairn, 
 or he wad ne'er be sae clean daft as send my laddie to the sea. 
 Could you no' mak' him a shopkeeper or a something at hamel" 
 
 " Oh no, that would never do for Neddy." 
 
 "Maybe no; he would be ower proud for that. Eh, sirs' the 
 day, it's a wonderfu' thing this pride : ye dinna like your bairn to 
 handle tea, but ye think tiir nicer for his hauns. Ye object to 
 saft sugar, but no' to saut water. There's ay thing, if he was a 
 shopkeeper he'd never be drooned, and he micht be a bailie or a 
 a provost, maybe, an' marry a fine winsome lass. An' noo, Mrs. 
 Fleming, ye needna lauch at me, for I'm positeeve I'm richt. Foi 
 my sake, for a' oor sakes, keep my bonnie laddie in his auld nest." 
 
 The night which was to usher in the day of Ned's leaving home 
 arrived, and Babby, who waa busy packing his outfit, said to him :
 
 ' V"- 
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 235 
 
 " Nog, Maister Neid, ye're no' to pft on thae fine socks unless ye be 
 askeil oot to your dinner," 
 
 " A^ked out to dinner, Babby !• Who's to ask me — a mermaid, ehV 
 
 "Ob, I'm no' heediu' wha asks ye. A merrymaid, as ye ca' her, 
 is just as gude as ony other body if she's a bit decent lass. Pit that 
 comforter I made ye roon yer neck when it's cauld; and if yer 
 wise, ye should hae an umbrella wi' ye to keep the saut water aff 
 your new pilot- jacket. What sJre ye lauchin' at, ye sillie laddie?" 
 
 It was now abouf midnight, and Ned's mother entered the room 
 holding a Bible in her hand. " Ned, dear, you and I shall have no 
 sad farewells, but promise me, dear, that you will read a little of this 
 book every day, and that j[ou will never neglect your prayers to God." 
 
 "I say — yes, mother, with heart, soul, and strength." 
 
 At this moment the old Lieutenant entered. "You'll go and kill 
 yourself with this packing business. Leave us, ilarj', I want to speak 
 to Ned." 
 
 Ned's mother slowly left the room. 
 
 " Ned, you know, I have no present to give you." 
 
 " Present, father 1 You ? " 
 
 " No, boy, no ; but for all that I mean to present you with my 
 greatest treasure on earth. Look at that signature." 
 
 "Nelson! An order from him to you, father, to make certain signals? " 
 
 " Yes, Ned ; an order, and to me your father. Ned, I give it to 
 you as my present, that as you look at it, in storm or sunshine, at 
 home or abroad, you may remember that ' England expects every 
 man to do his duty ', and that you may never disgrace your old 
 father by neglecting your duty." 
 
 " Thank you, father ; I wiU keep it for your sake, and whatever 
 happens to me, I hope I will never disgrace you." 
 
 "Ned, I never had much learning: never could teU you what 
 was passing in my heart ; can't do it now. A heavy sea swamps 
 me when I want to sail ahead. Ned, you must be a better man 
 than your father ; for I never saw my father, and hardly my poor 
 mother. You must do what your good mother has taught you; 
 though God knows how I love you, Ned." 
 
 "Father, don't Speak in that way, as if you weren't the best father 
 in the world. What did I ever see in you but good? What did I 
 ever get from you but good?" 
 
 "Do you say so, Ned? Do you believe that? Neddy, my boy — 
 my only boy— my own — my own — I tell you — I — I — God bless and 
 keep you, my own dear boy !" 
 
 {By special permisiion of Messrs. Charles Burnet »£• Co. ,
 
 236 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 MRS. CORNEY MAKES TEA, AND MR. BUMBLE 
 MAKES LOVE. 
 
 Dickens. 
 
 (Adapted for Recital.) 
 
 Scene — The Worl-house. Private apartments o/ Mrs. Cornet, thi 
 Matron thereof. Mr. Bumble enters, bringing in some toine to he 
 given to the sick paupers. After various remarks upon out-door 
 relief, he prepares to take his departure, when Mrs. Cornet thus 
 addresses him : — 
 
 " You'll have a very cold walk, Mr. Bumble." 
 
 "It blows, ma'am," replied Mr. Bumble, turning up his coat-collar, 
 " enough to cut one's ears oflf." 
 
 The matron looked, from the little kettle, to the beadle, who was 
 moving towards the door ; and as the beadle coughed, preparatory 
 to bidding her good-night, bashfully inquired whether — whether he 
 wouldn't take a cup of teal 
 
 Mr. Bumble instantaneously turned back his collar again; laid 
 his hat and stick upon a chair ; and drew another chair up to the 
 table. 
 
 "Sweet? Mr. Bumble," inquired the matron, taking up the sugar- 
 basin. 
 
 " Very sweet, indeed, ma'am/' replied Mr. Bumble. He fixed his 
 eyes on Mrs. Corney as he said this : and if ever a beadle looked 
 tender, Mr. Bumble was that beadle at that moment. 
 
 "You have a cat, ma'am, I see, and kittens too, I declare 1" 
 
 " I am ao fond of them, Mr. Bumble, you can't think. They're so 
 happy, so frolicsome, and so cheerful, that they are quite companions 
 for me." 
 
 "Very nice animals, ma'am," replied Mr. Bumble, approvingly; 
 "so very domestic." 
 
 "Oh, yes!" rejoined the matron ; "so fond of their home too, that 
 it's quite a pleasure, I'm sure." 
 
 " Mr.s. Corney, ma'am," said Mr. Bumble, slowly, and marking the 
 time with his tea-spoon; "I mean to say this, ma'am, that any cat. 
 or kitten, that could live with you, ma'am, and not be fond of its 
 home, must be a ass, ma'am." 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Bumble!" 
 
 " It's of no use disguising facts, ma'am ; I would drown it myself, 
 with pleasure." 
 
 "Then you're a cruel man," said the matron; "and a very hard- 
 hearted man be.sidea."
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 237 
 
 " Hard-hearted, ma'am," said ilr. Bumble, "hard !" Mr. Bumble 
 resigned his cup without another word; squeezed Mrs. Corne/a 
 little finger as she took it; and inflicting two open-handed slaps upon 
 his laced waistcoat, gave a mighty sigh, and hitched his chair a very 
 little morsel farther from the fire. 
 
 The table was a round one; consequently Mr. Bumble, moving his 
 chair by little and little, soon began to diminish the distance between 
 himself and the matron ; and, continuing to travel round the outer 
 edge of the circle, brought his chair, in time, close to that in which 
 the matron was seated. Indeed, the two chairs touched ; and when 
 they did so, Mr, Bumble stopped. 
 
 Now, if the matron had moved her chair to the right, she would 
 have been scorched by the fire ; and, if to the left, she must have 
 fallen into Mr. Bumble's arms ; so (being a discreet matron, and no 
 doubt foreseeing these consequences at a glance) she remained where 
 she was, and handed Mr. Bumble another cup of tea. 
 
 "Hard-hearted, Mrs. Corney?" said Mr. Bumble; "are ymi hard- 
 heai-ted, Mrs. Corney?" 
 
 " Dear me ! what a very curious question from a single man. 
 What can you want to know for, Mr. Bumble 1" 
 
 The beadle drank his tea to the last drop; finished a piece of 
 toast ; whisked the crumbs off his knees ; wiped his lips ; and deli- 
 berately kissed the matron. 
 
 "Mr. Bumble," cried that discreet lady in a whisper; for the 
 fright was so great that she had quite lost her voice; "Mr. Bumble 
 I shall scream ! " Mr. Bumble made no reply, but in a slow and 
 dignified manner put his arm round the matron's waist. 
 
 As the lady had stated her intention of screaming, of course she 
 would have screamed at this additional boldness but that the exer- 
 tion was i-endered unnecessary by a hasty knocking at the door. 
 
 A withered old female pauper put in her head : " If you please, 
 mistress, Old Sally is a-going fast." 
 
 The matron hastened away, asking the beadle to await her return. 
 
 Mr. Bumble's conduct, on being left to himself, was rather inex- 
 plicable. He opened the closet, counted the tea-spoons, weighed the 
 sugar-tongs, closely inspected a silver milk-pot to ascertain that it 
 was of the genuine metal; and, having satisfied his curiosity on these 
 points, put on his cocked-hat corner-wise, and danced with much 
 gravity four distinct times round the table. Having gone through 
 this very extraordinary performance, he took off the cocked-hat 
 again ; and spreading himself before the fire with his back towards 
 't, semaed to be mentally engaged in taking an exact inventory of
 
 238 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 the furniture, then said, with a grave and determined air, "I'll do it !" 
 
 Mrs. Coruey, hvirrying into the room, threw herself, in a breath- 
 less state, on a chair by the fireside; and covering her eyes with one 
 hand, placed the other over her heart, and gasped for breath. 
 
 " Mrs. Corney," .said Mr. Bumble, stooping over the matron, 
 " what is this, ma'am ? has anything happened, ma'am 1 Pray 
 
 answer me; I'm on — on " Mr. Bumble, in his alarm, could not 
 
 immediately think of the word " tenter-hooks", so he said " broken 
 bottles, ma'am." 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Bumble ! I have been so dreadfully put out !" 
 
 "Put out, ma'am! Who has dared to 1 I know? This is 
 
 them wicious paupers ! " 
 
 " It's dreadful to think of I" 
 
 " Then don't think of it, ma'am." 
 
 " I can't help it." 
 
 "Then take something, ma'am. A little of the wine?'* 
 
 "Not for the world!" replied Mrs. Corney. "I couldn't — ohl 
 The top shelf in the right-hand corner — oh I " Uttering these words, 
 the good lady pointed, distractedly, to the cupboard, and underwent 
 a convulsion from internal spasms. Mr. Bumble rushed to the 
 closet; and snatching a pint green-glass bottle from the shelf thus 
 incoherently indicated, filled a tea-cup with its contents, and held it 
 to the lady's lips. 
 
 " I'm better now," said Mrs. Corney, falling back, after drinking 
 half of it. 
 
 Mr. Bumble raised his eyes piously to the ceiling in thankfulness; 
 and bringing them down again to the brim of the cup, lifted it to his 
 nose. 
 
 "Peppermint," exclaimed Mrs. Corney, in a faint voice, smiling 
 gently on the beadle as she spoke. "Try it! There's a little— a 
 little something else in it." 
 
 Mr. Bumble tasted the medicine with a doubtful look; smacked 
 his lips; took another taste; and put the cup down empty. He 
 drew a chair beside the matron, and tenderly inquired what had 
 happened to distress her. 
 
 " Nothing," replied Mrs. Corney. " I am a foolish, excitable, weak 
 creetur." 
 
 "Not weak, ma'am. Are you a weak creetur, Mrs. Corney?" 
 
 " We are all weak creeturs," said Mrs. Corney, laying down a 
 general principle. 
 
 " So we are," said the beadle. 
 
 Nothing was said, on either side, for a minute or two afterwards
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 239 
 
 By the expiration of that time, hlx. Bumble had illustrated the posi- 
 tion by removing his left arm from the back of Mrs. Corney's chair, 
 where it had previously rested, to Mrs. Corney's apron-string, round 
 which it gradually became entwined. 
 
 " We are all weak creeturs," said Mr. Bumble. 
 
 Mrs. Corney sighed. 
 
 " Don't sigh, Mrs. Corney." 
 
 " I can't help it." And she sighed again. 
 
 " This is a very comfortable room, ma'am. Another room and 
 this, ma'am, would be a complete thing." 
 
 " It would be too much for one," murmured the lady. 
 
 " But not for two, ma'am. Eh, Mrs. Corney?" 
 
 Mrs. Corney drooped her head when the beadle said this; the 
 beadle drooped his, to get a view of Mrs. Corney's face. Mrs. 
 Corney, with great propriety, turned her head away, and released 
 her hand to get at her pocket-handkerchief ; but insensibly replaced 
 it in that of Mr. Bumble. 
 
 "The Board allow you coals, don't they, Mrs. Corney?" 
 
 " And caudles." 
 
 " Coals, candles, and house-rent free. Oh, Mrs. Corney, what a 
 Angel you are 1 " 
 
 The lady was not proof against this burst of feeling. She sunk 
 into Mr. Bumble's arms; and that gentleman, in his agitation, im- 
 printed a passionate kiss upon her chaste nose. 
 
 "Such parochial perfection!" exclaimed Mr. Bumble rapturou.sly. 
 " You know that Mr. Slout is worse to-night, my fascinator?" 
 
 " Yes," replied Mrs. Corney, bashfully. 
 
 "He can't live a week, the doctor says," pursued Mr. Bumble. 
 "He is the master of this establishment; his death will cause a 
 wacancy ; that wacancy must be filled up. Oh, Mrs. Corney, what 
 a prospect this opens 1 What a opportunity for a joining of hearts 
 and housekeepings ! " 
 
 Mrs. Corney sobbed. 
 
 "The little word? The one little, little, little word, my blessed 
 Corney?" 
 
 " Ye — ye — yes !" sighed out the matron. 
 
 " One more," pursued the beadle ; " compose your darling feelings 
 for only one more. When is it to come oflf?" 
 
 Mrs. Corney twice essayed to speak ; and twice failed. At length, 
 summoning up courage, she threw her arms round Mr. Bumble's 
 neck, and said it might be as soon aa ever he pleased, and that ht 
 was "a irresistible duck !"
 
 840 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 TRUTH. 
 
 John Rdskin. 
 
 There is a marked likeness between the virtue of man and thf 
 enlightenment of the globe he inhabits; — the same diminishing gra- 
 dation in vigour up to the limits of their domains,— the same essential 
 separation from their contraries, — the same twilight at the meeting 
 of the two; a something wider belt than the line where the world 
 rolls into night: that strange twilight of the virtues; that dusky 
 debatable land wherein zeal becomes impatience, and temperance 
 becomes severity, and justice becomes cruelty, and faith superstition, 
 and each and all vanish into gloom. 
 
 Nevertheless, with the greater number of the virtues, though the 
 dimness increases gradually, we may mark the moment of sunset ; 
 and, happily, may turn the shadow back by the way which it had 
 gone down : but, for one virtue, the line of the horizon is irregular 
 and undefined; and this, too, the very equator and girdle of them all, 
 — Truth: — that only one of which there are no degrees, but breaks 
 and rents continually; that pillar of the earth, yet a cloudy pillar: 
 that golden and narrow line which the very powers and virtues that 
 lean upon it bend, which Policy and Prudence conceal, which Kind- 
 ness and Courtesy modify, which Courage overshadows with his 
 shield. Imagination covers with her wings, and Charity dims with 
 her tears. How difficult must the maintenance of that authority be, 
 which, while it has to restrain the hostility of all the worst principles 
 of man, has also to control the disorders of his best; — which is con- 
 tinually assaulted by the one and betrayed by the other, and which 
 regards with the same severity the lightest and the boldest violations 
 of its law! There are some faults slight in the sight of Love, some 
 errors trivial in the estimate of Wisdom ; but Truth forgives no insult 
 and endures no stain. 
 
 We do not enough consider this; nor enough dread the slight and 
 continual occasions of offence against her. We are too much in the 
 habit of looking at Falsehood in its darkest associations, and through 
 the colour of its worst purposes. Thai indignation which we profess 
 to feel at deceit absolute, is indeed only felt at deceit malicious. We 
 resent calumny, hypocrisy, and treachery, because they harm us, not 
 because they are untrue. Take the detraction and the mischief from 
 the untruth, and we are little offended by it; turn it into praise, and 
 we may be pleased with it. And yet it is not calumny nor treachery 
 that does the largest sum of mischief in the world ; but it is the 
 glistening and softly-spoken lie; the amiable fallacy; the patriotic
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 24* 
 
 lie of the historian, the provident lie of the politician, the zealous lie 
 of the partisan, the merciful lie of the friend, and the careless lie of 
 each man to himself, that cast that black mjstery over humanity, 
 through which any man who pierces, we thank — as we would thank 
 one who dug a well in a desert ; happy that the truth still remains 
 with us, even when we have wilfully left its fountains. 
 
 It would be well if moralists less frequently confused the great- 
 ness of a sin with its unpardonableness. The two characters are 
 altogether distinct. The greatness of a fault depends partly on the 
 nature of the person against whom it is committed, partly on the 
 extent of its consequences. Its pardonableness depends, humanly 
 speaking, on the degree of temptation to it. One class of circum- 
 stances determines the weight of the impending punishment; th-e 
 other, the claim to remission of punishment. Since it is not easy for 
 men to estimate the relative weight, or possible for them to know 
 the relative consequences, of crime, it is usually wise in them to quit 
 the care of such measurements, and to look to the other clearer con- 
 dition of culpability, — esteeming those faults worst which are com- 
 mitted under least temptation. I do not mean to diminish the 
 blame of the injurious and malicious sin, of the selfish and deliberate 
 falsity; yet it seems to me that the shortest way to check the daiker 
 forms of deceit is — to set watch more scrupulously against those 
 which have mingled, unregarded and unchastised, with the currents 
 of our life. 
 
 Do not let us lie at all. Do not think of one falsity as harmless, 
 and another as slight, and another as unintended. Cast them all 
 aside : it is better that our hearts should be swept clean of them, 
 without over-care as to which is largest or blackest. To speak and 
 to act truth with constancy and precision are nearly as difficult, and 
 perhaps as meritorious, as to speak it under intimidation or penalty; 
 and it is a strange thought, how many men there are, as I trust, 
 who would hold to it at the cost of fortune or life, for one who 
 would hold to it at the cost of a little daily trouble ! And, seeing, 
 that, of all sin, there is, perhaps, no one more flatly opposite to the 
 Almighty, no one more "wanting the good of virtue and of being", 
 than this of lying, it is surely a strange insolence to fall into the 
 foulness of it on light or on no tempation; and surely becoming an 
 honourable man to resolve, that, whatever semblances or fallacies 
 the necessary course of his life may compel him to bear or to believe, 
 none shall disturb the serenity of his voluntary actions, or diminish 
 the reality of bis chosen delights, 
 
 {By special permission of Oeorge Allen, Publisher.)
 
 242 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 THE FIELD OF WATERLOO. 
 Lord Byron. 
 
 Stop ! 'for thy tread is on an Empire's dust 1 An Earthquake's 
 spoil is sepulchred below ! — Is the spot marked with no coiossaJ 
 bust, or column trophied, for triumphal show? None ; but the 
 moral's truth tells simpler so. As the ground was before, thus let it 
 be. —How that red rain — hath made the harvest growl, ..And is 
 this all the world has gained by thee, thou first and last of fields ! 
 king-making Victory? 
 
 There was a sound of revelry by night : and Belgium's capital had 
 gathered then her Beauty and her Chivalry ; and bright the lamps 
 shone o'er fair women and brave men; a thousand hearts beat 
 happily ; and when music arose with its voluptuous swell, soft eyes 
 looked love to eyes that spake again, and all went merry as a 
 marriage-bell. — But hush I — hark 1 A deep sound strikes like a rising 
 knell! — Did ye not hear if? — "No; 'tis but the wind, or the car 
 rattling o'er the stony street. On with the dance ! — let joy be uncon- 
 fined 1 No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet to chase 
 the glowing hours with flying feet." — But hark I — that heavy sound 
 breaks in once more, as if the clouds its echo would repeat; and 
 nearer, clearer, deadlier than before I Arm ! arm ! it is — it is — the 
 cannon's opening roar ! 
 
 Within a window'd niche of that high hall sat Brunswick's fated 
 chieftain : he did hear that sound tlie first amidst the festival, and 
 caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear ; and when they smiled 
 because he deemed it near, his heart more truly knew that peal too 
 well which stretched his father on a bloody bier, and roused the ven- 
 geance blood alone could quell : he rushed into the field, a7id, fore- 
 most fighting, fell ! Ah ! then and there was hurrying to and fro, 
 and gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, and cheeks ail pale, 
 which, but an hour ago, blushed at the praise of their own loveliness ; 
 And there were sudden partings, such as press the life from out 
 young hearts, and choking sighs which ne'er might be repeated : 
 who could guess if ever more should meet those mutual eyes, since, 
 upon night so sweet, such awful morn could rise ! And there was 
 mounting in hot haste : the steed, the mustering squadron, and the 
 clattering car, went pouring forward with impetuuus spee<l, and 
 swiftly forming in the ranks of war: and tlie deep thunder, peal on 
 peal, afar; and near, the beat of the alarming drum roused up the 
 soldier ere the morning star: while thronged the citizens, with
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READIKQ AND RECITATION. 243 
 
 terror dumb, or whispering, with white lips—" The foe ! they come . 
 they come I" And wild and high the "Cameron's gathering" rose! 
 (the war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills have heard — and heard, 
 too, have her Saxon foes !) — How, in the noon of night, that pibroch 
 thrills, savage and shrill ! But with the breath which fills their 
 mountain pipe, so fills the mountaineers with the fierce native daring, 
 which instils the stirring memory of a thousand ye^rg; and Evan's, 
 Donald's fame, rings in each clansman's ears I And Ardennes vraves 
 above them her green leaves, dewy with Nature's tear-drops; as 
 they pass, grieving — if aught inanimate e'er grieves — over the unre- 
 turning brave ; — alas ! ere evening, to be trodden, like the grass — 
 which now beneath them, but above shall grow in its next verdure ; 
 when this fiery mass of living valour, rolling on the foe, and burning 
 with high hope, shall moulder cold and low ! 
 
 Last noon, beheld them full of lusty life ; last eve, in Beauty's 
 circle proudly gay ; the midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, 
 — the morn, the marshalling in arms, — the day, battle's magnificently 
 stern array! The thunder-clouds close o'er it: which when rent, 
 the earth is covered thick with other clay which her own clay shall 
 cover — heaped and pent; rider and horse, — friend, foe, — in one red 
 burial blent I 
 
 SCENE FROM "THE HUNCHBACK". 
 
 J. S. Knowles. 
 
 TWO CHARACTERS. 
 Helen and Modos. 
 
 Scene — A Room in the Earl of Rochdale's, 
 Enter Helen. 
 
 Helen. I'm weary wandering from room to room ; 
 A castle after all is but a house — 
 The dullest one when lacking company. 
 Were I at home T could be company 
 Unto myself. I see not Master Walter. 
 He's ever with his ward. I see not her. 
 By Master Walter will she abide, alone. 
 My father stops in town. I can't see him. 
 My cousin makes his books his company. 
 I'll go to bed and sleep. No — I'll stay up 
 And plague my couain into making love I
 
 244 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 For, that he loves me, shrewdly I suspect. 
 
 How dull he is that hath not sense to see 
 
 What lies before him, and he'd like to find. 
 
 I'll change my treatment of him. Cross him, wliere 
 
 Before I used to humour him. {Looking of. ) He comet: 
 
 Poring upon a book. 
 
 Enter Modus, with a small book. 
 
 What's that you read t 
 ' Modiu. Latin, sweet cousin. 
 
 Helen. 'Tis a naughty tongue, 
 1 fear, and teaches men to lie. 
 
 Modus. To lie ! 
 
 Helen. You study it. You call you cousin sweeu, 
 And treat her as you would a crab. As sour 
 'Twould seem you think her, so you covet her I 
 Why how the monster stares, and looks about 1 
 You construe Latin, and can't construe that 
 
 Modus. I never studied women. 
 
 Helen. No ! nor men. 
 Else would you better know their ways : nor read 
 In presence of a lady. (Strikes the book from his hand i 
 
 Modits. Right you say, 
 And well you served me, cousin, so to strike, 
 The volume from my hand. I own my fault; 
 So please you, — may I pick it up again ? 
 I'll put it in my pocket I 
 
 Helen. Pick it up. 
 (Aside.) He fears me as I were his grandmother. 
 (Aloud.) What is the book? 
 
 Modus. 'Tis Ovid's Art of Love. 
 
 Helen. That Ovid was a fool 1 
 
 Modus. In what? 
 
 Helen. In that. 
 To call that thing an art, which art is noua 
 
 Modus. And is not love an art? 
 
 Helen. Are you a fool 
 As well as Ovid? Love an art ! No an 
 But taketh time and pains to learn. Love comf^ 
 With neither. Is't to hoard such grain as that, 
 You went to college ? Better stay at home, 
 And study homely English.
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 24f 
 
 Modus. Nay, vou know not 
 The argument. 
 
 Helen. I don't? I know it better 
 Than ever Ovid did ! The face, — the form, — 
 The heart, — the mind we fancy, cousin ; that's 
 The argument I Why, cousin, you know nothing. 
 Suppose a lady were in love with thee, 
 Couldst thou by Ovid, cousin, find it out? 
 Couldst find it out, wast thou in love thyself? 
 Could Ovid, cousin, teach thee to make love? 
 I could, that never read him. You begin 
 With melancholy ; then to sadness ; then 
 To sickness ; then to dying — but not die I 
 She would not let thee, were she of my mind ; 
 She'd take compassion on thee. Then for hope ; 
 From hope to confidence ; from confidence 
 To boldness: — then you'd speak ; at first entreat: 
 Then urge ; then flout ; then argue ; then enforce ,. 
 Make prisoner of her hand ; besiege her waist ; 
 Threaten her lips with storming ; keep thy worn 
 And carry her ! My sampler 'gainst thy Ovid ! 
 Why, cousin, are you frightened, that you stand 
 As you were stricken dumb? The case is clear, 
 You are no soldier. You'll ne'er win a battle. 
 You care too much for blows I 
 
 Modus. You wrong me there. 
 At school I was the champion of my form, 
 And since I went to college — 
 
 Helen. That for college I 
 
 Modus. Nay, hear me ! 
 
 Helen. Well? What, since you went to college^ 
 You know what men are set down for, who boast 
 Of their own bravery. Go on, brave cousin. 
 What, since you went to college ? Was there not 
 One Quintin Halworth there? You know there wjml 
 And that he was your master 1 
 
 Modus. He my master ! 
 Thrice was he worsted by me. 
 
 Helen. Still was he 
 Your master. 
 
 Modus. lie allow'd T had the best I 
 AUow'd it, mark me ! not to me alone.
 
 246 SELKCTIONS FOR READING AND RKCITATIOH. 
 
 But twenty I could name. 
 
 Helen. And mastered you 
 At last ! Confess it, cousin, 'tis the trutb 
 A proctor's daughter you did both affect — 
 Look at me and deny it ! Of the twain 
 She more affected you ; I've caught you now, 
 Bold cousin ! Mark you? opportunity 
 On opportunity she gave you, sir, — 
 Deny it if you can ! — but though to others, 
 When you discoursed of her, you were a flame : 
 To her you were a wick that would not light. 
 Though held in the very fire I And so he won hes -" ■ 
 Won her, because he woo'd her like a man. 
 For all your cuifings, cuffing you again 
 With most usurious interest. Now, sir, 
 Protest that you are valiant ! 
 
 Modus. Cousin Helen I 
 
 Hden. Well, sir? 
 
 Modus. The tale is all a forgery 1 
 
 Helen. A forgery ! 
 
 Modus. From first to last ; ne'er spoke I 
 To a proctor's daughter while I was at college — 
 
 Helen. 'Twas a scrivener's then, or somebody's. 
 But what concerns it whose 1 Enough, you loved her t 
 And, shame upon you, let another take her I 
 
 Modiis. Cousin, I tell you, if you'll only hear me. 
 I loved no woman while I was at college — 
 Save one, and her I fancied ere I went there. 
 
 Helen. Indeed! (Aside.) Now I'll retreat, if he's advancing. 
 Conies he not onl O what a stock's the man ! 
 {Aloiid.) Well, cousin? 
 
 Modus. Well 1 What more wouldst have me sayi 
 I think I've said enough. 
 
 Helen. And so think I. 
 I did but jest w^th you. You are not angry? 
 Shake hands! Why, cousin, do you squeeze me so? 
 
 Modus. {Letting her go.) I swear I squeezed you not I 
 
 Helen. You did not? 
 
 Modus. No. 
 I'll die if I did! 
 
 Hden. Why then did you not, cousin^ 
 8o let's shake hands again. {He takes her hand as be/ore.) O go and noM
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 247 
 
 Read Ovid I Will you tell me one thing. 
 Wore lovers ruffs in Master Ovid's time? 
 Behoved him teach them, then, to put them on ; — 
 A.nd that you have to learn. Hold up your head 1 
 WTiy, cousin, how you blush. Plague on the ruff 1 
 I cannot give't a set. You're blushing still ! 
 Why do you blush, dear cousin 1 So ! — 'twill beat me : 
 I'll give it up, 
 
 Modus. Nay, prithee don't — try on 1 
 
 Helen. And if I do, I fear you'll think me bold. 
 
 Modus. For what? 
 
 Helen. To trust my face so near to thine. 
 
 Modiis. I know not what you mean. 
 
 Helen. I'm glad you don't ! 
 Cousin, I own right well behaved you are, 
 Most marvellously well behaved ! They've bred 
 You well at college. With another man 
 My lips would be in danger! Hang the ruff! 
 
 Modus. Nay, give it up, nor plague thyself, dear cousin. 
 
 Helen. Dear fool 1 (Throws the ruff on the ground.) 
 I swear the ruflf is good for just 
 As little as its master I There I — 'Tis spoil'd— 
 You'll have to get another. Hie for it. 
 And wear it in the fashion of a wisp, 
 Ere I adjust it for thee ! Farewell, cousin ! 
 You'll need to study Ovid's Art of Love ! [Exit. 
 
 Modus. Went she in anger? I wiU follow her, — 
 No, I will not 1 Heigho ! I love my cousin ! 
 O would that she loved me ! Why did she taunt me 
 With backwardness in love 1 What could she mean f 
 Sees she I love her, and so laughs at me 
 Because I lack the front to woo her? Nay, 
 I'll woo her then 1 Her lips shall be in danger, 
 When next she trusts them near me 1 Look'd she at me 
 To-day, aa never did she look before ! 
 A bold heart, Master Modus 1 'Tis a saying, 
 A faint one never won fair lady yet ! 
 I'll woo my cousin, come what will on't ! Yes : 
 
 (Begins reading again, and throws doxcn the boo\ ) 
 Hang Ovid's Art of Love 1 I'll woo my cousin 1 
 
 Enter Helen. 
 Heleit, Why, cousin Modus 1 What I will you stand by
 
 248 SELECTIONS lOR READING AND RECITATION, 
 
 And see me forced to marry? Cousin Modus 1 
 Have you not got a tongue I Have you not eyes J 
 Do you not see I am very — very ill, 
 And not a chair in all the corridor? 
 
 Modm. I'll find one in the study. 
 
 Helen. Hang the study ! 
 
 Modus. My room's at hand. I'll fetch one thence. 
 
 Helen. You sha'n't ! 
 I'd faint ere you came back I 
 
 Modus. What shall I do? 
 
 Helen. Why don't you offer to support me? Well? 
 Give me your arm — be quick. {Modus offers his arnO 
 Is that the way 
 
 To help a lady vehen she's like to faint? 
 I'll drop unless you catch me 1 (Modus supports her.) 
 That will do ; 
 
 I'm better now— (Modus offers to leave her) — don't leave me! Isone well 
 Because one's better? Hold my hand. Keep so, 
 I'll soon recover so you move not. (Aside.) Loves he — 
 Which I'll be sworn he does, he'll own it now. 
 Well, cousin Modus? 
 
 Modus. Well, sweet cousin? 
 
 Helen. Well? 
 You heard what Master Walter said? 
 
 Modus. I did. 
 
 Helen. And would you have me marry ? Can't you speak ? 
 Say yes or no. 
 
 Modus. No, cousin. 
 
 Helen. Bravely said ! 
 And why, my gallant cousin? 
 
 Modics. Why? 
 
 Helen. Ali, why? — 
 Women, you know, are fond of reasons— why 
 Would you not have me marry? How you blush 
 Is it because you do not know the reason? 
 You mind me of a story of a cousin 
 Who once her cousin such a question asked. 
 He had not been to college, though — for bool; 
 Had passed his time in reading ladies' eyes. 
 Which he could construe marvellously well. 
 Though writ in language all symbolical. 
 Thus stood they once together, on a day —
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 249 
 
 As we stand now — discoursed as we discourse, — 
 But with this difference, — fifty gentle words 
 He spoke to her, for one she spoke to him I — 
 What a dear cousin ! well, as I did say, 
 As now I questioned thee, she questioned him. 
 And what was his reply? To think of it 
 Sets my heart beating — 'twas so kind a one 1 
 So like a cousin's answer — a dear cousin ! 
 A gentle, honest, gallant, loving cousin ! 
 What did he say? A man might find it out, 
 Though never read he Ovid's Art of Love. 
 What did he say? He'd marry her himself! 
 How stupid are you, cousin ! Let me go I 
 
 Modus. You are not well yet? 
 
 Helen. Yes. 
 
 Modus. I'm sure you're not? 
 
 Helen. I'm sure I am. 
 
 Models. Nay, let me hold you, cousin I 
 I like it. 
 
 Helen. Do you ? I would wager you 
 Tou could not tell me why you like it. Well? 
 You see how true I know you ! How you stare I 
 What see you in my face to wonder at? 
 
 Modus. A pair of eyes ! 
 
 Helen. (Aside.) At last he finds his tongue — 
 {Aloud.) And saw you ne'er a pair of eyes before? 
 
 Modus. Not such a pair. 
 
 Helen. And why? 
 
 Modus. They are so bright I 
 You have a Grecian nose. 
 
 Helen. Indeed. 
 
 Modus. Indeed! 
 
 Helen. What kind of a mouth have I? 
 
 Modus. A handsome one. 
 I never saw so sweet a pair of lips 1 
 I ne'er saw lips at all till now, dear cousin ! 
 
 Helen. Cousin, I'm well, — you need not hold me now. 
 Do you not hear ? I teU you I am well 1 
 I need your arm no longer — take 't away ! 
 So tight it locks me, 'tis with pain I breathe ! 
 Let me go, cousin I Wherefore do you hold 
 io\xx face so close to mine ? What do you mean ?
 
 250 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 Modus. You've questioned me, and now I'll question you. 
 
 Helen. What would you learn? 
 
 Modus. The use of lips. 
 
 Helen. To speak. 
 
 Modus. Nought else? 
 
 Helen. How bold my modest cousin grows S 
 Why, other use know you? 
 
 Modus. I do ! 
 
 Helen. Indeed ! 
 You're wondrous wise ! And pray what is it? 
 
 Modus. {Attempting to kiss her.) This! 
 
 Heleyi. Soft ! My hand thanks you, cousin — for my lips 
 I keep them for a husband 1 — Nay, stand off 1 
 I'll not be held in manacles again I 
 Why do you follow me 1 
 
 Modv^. I love you, cousin 1 
 
 Helen. O cousin, say you so 1 That's pa.ssing strange i 
 Falls out most crossly — is a dire mishap — 
 A thing to sigh for, weep for, languish for, 
 And die for ! 
 
 Modus. Die fori 
 
 Helen. Yes, with laughter, cousin 1 
 For, cousin, I love you ! 
 
 Modiis. And you'll be mine? 
 
 Helen. I wiU. 
 
 Modus. Your hand upon it. 
 
 Helen. Hand and heart, 
 flie to thy dressing-room, and I'll to mine- 
 Attire thee for the altar — so will I. 
 Whoe'er may claim me, thou'rt the man shall have me. 
 Away I Despatch 1 But hark you ere you go, 
 Ne'er brag of reading Ovid's Art of Love ! 
 
 Modus. And, cousin 1 stop — one little word with you ! 
 
 [^She returns^ he snatches a kist. 
 
 KING ROBERT OF SICILY. 
 B. W. Longfellow. 
 
 Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane, and Valmond, Emperor 
 of Alleniaine, apparelled in magniiicent attire, with retinue of many 
 a knight and squire, on St. Jolin's eve, at vespers, proudly sat, and 
 heard the priests chant tlie Magnificat. And as he listened, o'er and
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 25J 
 
 o'er again repeated, like a burden or refrain, he caught the words, 
 ** Beposuit potenies de sede, et exaltavit kumiles"; and slowly lifting 
 up his kingly head, he to a learned clerk beside him said, " What 
 mean these words?" The clerk made answer meet, "He has put 
 down the mighty from their seat, and has exalted them of low 
 degree." Thereat King Robert muttered scornfully, " Tis well that 
 such seditious words are sung only by priests, and in the Latin 
 tongue; for unto priests and people be it known, there is no power 
 can push me from my throne ! " And leaning back, he yawned and 
 fell asleep, lulled by the chant monotonous and deep. 
 
 When he awoke, it was already night; the church was empty, and 
 there was no light, save where the lamps, that glimmered few and 
 faint, lighted a little space before some saint. He started from his 
 seat and gazed around, but saw no living thing and heard no sound. 
 He groped towards the door, but it was locked; he cried aloud, and 
 listened, and then knocked, and uttered awful threatenings and 
 complaints, and imprecations upon men and saints. The sounds 
 re-echoed from the roof and walls as if dead priests were laughing 
 in their stalls 1 
 
 At length the sexton, hearing from without the tumult of the 
 knocking and the shout, and thinking thieves were in the house of 
 prayer, came with hia lantern, asking, "Who is there?" Half-choked 
 with rage, King Robert fiercely said, " Open : 'tis I, the King ! Art 
 thou afraid?" The frightened sexton, muttering, with a curse, 
 " This is some drunken vagabond, or worse ! " turned the great key 
 and flung the portal wide; a man rushed by him at a single stride, 
 haggard, half-naked, without hat or cloak, who neither turned, nor 
 looked at him, nor spoke, but leaped into the blackness of the night, 
 and vanished like a spectre from his sight. 
 
 Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane, and Valmond, Emperor 
 of AUemaine, despoiled of his magnificent attire, bare-headed, breath- 
 less, and besprent with mire, with sense of wrong and outrage des- 
 perate, strode on and thundered at the palace gate; rushed through 
 the court-yard, thrusting, in his rage, to right and left each seneschal 
 and page, and hurried up the broad and sounding stair, his white 
 face ghastly in the torches' glare. From hall to hall he passed with 
 breathless speed ; voices and cries he heard, but did not heed ; until 
 at last he reached the banquet- room, blazing with light, and breath- 
 ing with perfume. 
 
 There, on the dais, sat another king ! wearing his robes, his crown, 
 his signet-ring. King Robert's self in features, form, and height, but 
 all transfigured with angelic light I It was an Angel; and his pre-
 
 252 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 eeiice there with a divine effulgence filled the aii ; an exaltation, 
 piercing the disguise, though none the hidden Angel recognize. 
 
 A moment, speechless, motionless, amazed, the throneless monarch 
 on the Angel gazed, who met his looks of anger and surprise with 
 the divine compassion of his eyes; then said, "Who art thou? and 
 why com'st thou here?" To which King Robert answered, with a 
 sneer, " I am the King, and come to claim my own from an impostor, 
 who usurps my throne ! " And suddenly, at these audacious words, 
 ap sprang the angry guests, and drew their swords; the Angel 
 answered, with unruffled brow, " Nay, not the King, but the King's 
 Jester 1 thou henceforth shalt wear the bells and scalloped cape, and 
 for thy counsellor shalt lead an ape; thou shalt obey my servants 
 when they call, and wait upon my henchmen in the haU!" 
 
 Deaf to King Robert's threats and cries and prayers, they thrust 
 him from the hall and down the stairs; a group of tittering pages 
 ran before, and as they opened wide the folding-door, his heart 
 failed, for he heard, with strange alarms, the boisterous laughter of 
 the men-at-arms, and all the vaulted chamber roar and ring with 
 the mock plaudits of " Long live the King ! " 
 
 Next morning, waking with the daj'^s first beam, he said within 
 himself, " It was a di-eam ! " but the straw rustled as he turned his 
 head; there were the cap and bells beside his bed; around him rose 
 the bare discoloured walls; close by, the steeds were champing in 
 their stalls ; and in the corner, a revolting shape, shivering and chat- 
 tering sat the wretched ape. It was no dream : the world he loved 
 so much had turned to dust and ashes at his touch! 
 
 Days came and went; and now returned again to Sicily the old 
 Saturnian reign; under the Angel's governance benign, the happy 
 island danced with corn and wine; and deep within the mountain's 
 burning breast, Enceladus, the giant, was at rest. 
 
 Meanwhile, King Robert yielded to his fate, sullen and silent and 
 disconsolate. Dressed in the motley garb that jesters wear, with 
 looks bewildered and a vacant stare; close shaven above the ears, as 
 monks are shorn; by courtiers mocked, by pages laughed to scorn; 
 his only friend the ape, his only food what others left, — he still was 
 unsubdued. And when the Angel met him on his way, and half in 
 earnest, half in jest, would say, sternly, though tenderly, that he 
 might feel the velvet scabbard held a sword of steel, " Art thou the 
 King?" the passion of his woe burst from him in resistless overflow, 
 and, lifting high his forehead, he would fling the haughty answer 
 back, " I am, I am the King I " 
 
 Almost three years were ended; when there came ambassadors of
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 253 
 
 great repute and name from Valmond, Emperor of AUemaine, unto 
 Kiug Robert, saying that Pope Urbane, by letter, summoned them 
 forthwith to come on Holy Thursday to his city of Eome. The 
 Angel with great joy received his guests, and gave them presents of 
 embroidered vests, and velvet mantles with rich ermine lined, and 
 rings and jewels of the rarest kind. Then he departed with them 
 o'er the sea into the lovely land of Italy; whose loveliness was more 
 resplendent made by the mere passing of that cavalcade, — with 
 plumes, and cloaks, and housings, and the stir of jewelled bridle and 
 of golden spur. 
 
 And lo 1 among the menials, in mock state, upon a piebald steed, 
 with shambling gait, — his cloak of foxtails flapping in the wind, the 
 solemn ape demurely perched behind, — King Robert rode, making 
 huge merriment in all the country towns through which they went. 
 
 The Pope received them with great pomp, and blare of bannered 
 trumpets, on Saint Peter's Square, giving his benediction and em- 
 brace, fervent, and full of apostolic grace. "While with congratula- 
 tions and with prayers he entertained the Angel unawares, Robert, the 
 Jester, bursting through the crowd, into their presence rushed, and 
 cried aloud, " I am the King ! Look, and behold in me Robert, your 
 brother, King of Sicily I This man, who wears my semblance to your 
 eyes, is an impostor in a King's disguise. Do you not know me? 
 does no voice within answer my cry, and say we are akin?" The 
 Pope in silence, but with troubled mien, gazed at the Angel's coun- 
 tenance serene; the Emperor, laughing, said, "It is strange sport to 
 keep a madman for thy fool at court ! " and the poor, baffled Jester, 
 in disgrace, was hustled back among the populace. 
 
 In solemn state the Holy Week went by, and Easter Sunday 
 gleamed upon the sky; the presence of the Angel, with its light, 
 before the sun rose, made the city bright, and with new fervour 
 filled the hearts of men, who felt that Christ indeed had risen again. 
 Even the Jester, on his bed of straw, with haggard eyes the un- 
 wonted splendour saw; he felt within a power uufelt before, and, 
 kneeling humbly on his chamber floor, he heard the rushing garments 
 of the Lord sweep through the silent air, ascending heavenward. 
 
 And now the visit ending, and once more Valmond returning to 
 the Danube's shore, homeward the Angel journeyed, and again the 
 land was made resplendent with his train, flashing along the towns 
 of Italy unto Salerno, and from there by sea. And when once more 
 within Palermo's wall, and seated on the throne in his great hall, he 
 heard the Angelus from convent towers, as if the better world con- 
 versed with ours, he beckoned to King Robert to draw nigher, and
 
 254 SELECTIONS FOR BEADING AND RECITATION. 
 
 with a gesture bade the rest retire; and when they were alone, the 
 Angel said, "Art thou the Kingl" Then, bowing down his head, 
 King Robert crossed both hands upon his breast, and meekly 
 answered him: "Thou knowest best! My sins as scarlet are; let 
 me go hence, and in some cloister's school of penitence, across those 
 stones, that pave the way to heaven, walk barefoot, till my guilty 
 soul is shriven!" The Angel smiled, and from his radiant face 
 a lioly light illumined all the place; and through the open window, 
 loud and cleai-, they heard the monks chant in the chapel near, 
 above the stir and tumult of the street : " He has put down the 
 mighty from their seat, and has exalted them of low degree!" and 
 through the chant a second melody rose like the throbbing of a 
 single string: " I am an Angel, and thou art the King !" 
 
 King Robert, w) r> was standing near the throne, lifted his eyes, 
 and lo! he was alone! but all apparelled as in days of old, with 
 ermined mantle and with cloth of gold ; and when his courtiers 
 came, they found him, there, kneeling upon the floor, absorbed in 
 silent prayer! 
 
 HOW HE SAVED ST. MICHAEL'S. 
 Mary A. P. Stansbury. 
 
 'Twas long ago — ere ever the signal gun 
 
 That blazed above Fort Sumter had wakened the North aa one; 
 Long ere the wondrous pillar of battle-cloud and fire 
 Had marked where the unchained millions marched on to their 
 hearts' desire. 
 
 On roofs and glittering turrets, that night aa the sun went down. 
 The mellow glow of the twilight shone like a jewelled crown. 
 And, bathed in the living glory, as the people lifted their eyes. 
 They saw the pride of the city, the spire of St. Michael's, rise. 
 
 High over the lesser steeples tipped with a golden ball. 
 That hung like a radiant planet caught in its earthward fall ; 
 First glimpse of home to the sailor who made the harbour round. 
 And last slow-fading vision, dear to the outward-bound. 
 
 The gently-gathering shadows shut out the waning light; 
 The children prayed at their bedsides, as they were wont each night ; 
 The noise of buyer and seller from the busy mart was gone. 
 And in dreams of a peaceful morrow the city slumbered on.
 
 SBLECTI0N8 FOR READING AND RECITATION. 200 
 
 But another light than sunrise aroused the sleeping street, 
 For a cry was beard at midnight, and the rush of trampling feet; 
 Men stared in each other's faces, through mingled fire and smoke, 
 While the frantic bells went clashing, clamorous, stroke on stroke. 
 
 By the glare of her blazing rooftree the houseless mother tied, 
 With the babe she pressed to her bosom shrieking in nameless dread; 
 While the fire-king's wild battalions scaled wall and capstone high, 
 And planted their daring banners against an inky sky. 
 
 From the death that raged behind them, and the crash of ruin loud, 
 To the great square of the city was driven the surging crowd. 
 Where yet, firm in all the tumult, unscathed by the fiery flood, 
 With its heavenward -pointing finger, the church of St. Michael 
 stood. 
 
 But e'en as they gazed upon it there rose a sudden wail, 
 A cry of horror blended with the roaring of the gale, 
 On whose scorching winds updriven a single flaming brand 
 Aloft on the towering steeple clung like a bloody hand. 
 
 "Will it fade?" The whisper trembled from a thousand whitening 
 
 lips; 
 Far out on the lurid harbour they watched it from the ships, 
 A baleful gleam, that brighter and ever brighter shone, 
 Like a flickering, trembling will-o'-the-wisp to a steady beacon grown. 
 
 " Uncounted gold shall be given to the man whose brave right hand, 
 For the love of the perilled city, plucks down yon burning brand!" 
 So cried the mayor of Charleston, that all the people heard. 
 But they looked each one at his fellow, and no man spoke a word. 
 
 Who is it leans from the belfry, with face upturned to the sky — 
 Clings to a column, and measures the dizzy spire with his eye? 
 Will he dare it, the hero undaunted, that terrible, sickening height. 
 Or will the hot blood of his courage freeze in his veins at the sight? 
 
 But, see ! he has stepped on the railing, he clings with his feet and 
 
 his hands. 
 And firm on a narrow projection, with tlie belfry beneath him, he 
 
 stands 1 
 Now once, and once only, they cheer him — a single tempestuous 
 
 breath, 
 A.ud there falls on the multitude gazing a hush like the stillness of 
 
 death.
 
 256 SBLECTIONS FUR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 SJow, steadily mounting, unheeding aught save the goal of the fire. 
 Still higher and higher, an atom, he moves on the face of the spire ; 
 He sto])s ! Will he fall ? Lo 1 for answer a gleam like a meteoi-'s 
 
 track, 
 And, hurled on the stones of the pavement, the red brand lies 
 
 shattered and black 1 
 
 Once more the shouts of the people have rent the quivering air ; 
 At the church door mayor and council wait with their feet on the 
 
 stair, 
 And the eager throng behind them press for a touch of his hand — 
 The unknown saviour, whose daring could compass a deed so grand. 
 
 But why does a sudden tremor seize on them as they gaze ? 
 And what meaneth that stifled murmur of wonder and amaze ? 
 He stood in the gate of the temple he had perilled his life to save, 
 And the face of the unknown hero was the sable face of a slave ! 
 
 With folded arms he was speaking in tones that were clear, not loud; 
 And his eyes, ablaze in their sockets, burnt into the eyes of the crowd. 
 " Ye may keep your gold — I scorn it ! But answer me, ye who can, 
 If the deed I have done before you be not the deed of a man ! " 
 
 He stepped but a short space backward, and from all the women 
 
 and men 
 There were only sobs for answer, and the mayor called for a pen, 
 And the great seal of the city, that he might read who ran ; 
 And the slave who saved St. Michael's went out from its door a man. 
 
 OLD SCEOOGE. 
 
 Dickens. 
 {Adapted for Recital.) 
 
 Marley was dead to begin with — he was as dead as a door-nail. 
 Scrooge knew he was dead — of course he did. Scrooge and he were 
 partners for I don't know how many years; Scrooge was his sole 
 executor — his sole residuary legatee — his sole friend — and sole 
 mourner. Oh, but he was a tight-fisted hand at the grindstone was 
 Scrooge — a grasping, wrenching, clutching, scraping, covetous old 
 binner. 
 
 Nobody ever stopped him in the street to say, " My dear Scrooge, 
 how are you? When will you come to see mel" No beggars im- 
 plored him for a trifle. No children asked him, "AVhat it was 
 o'clock?"
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 267 
 
 Even the blind men'a dogs appeared to know him, and when they 
 saw him coming on, would tug their owners into doorways and up 
 courts ; and then would wag their tails, as though they said, " No 
 eye at all is better than an evil eye, dark master." But what did 
 Scrooge care? Bah ! all this was the very thing he liked 1 
 
 One day, of all the days of the year, on Christmas-eve, old Scrooge 
 sat busy in his counting-house. It was cold, bleak, biting weather 
 ~^oggy withal ; he could hear the people outside go wheezing up 
 and down, beating their hands upon their breasts and stamping 
 their feet upon the pavement stones to warm them. 
 
 The door of Scrooge's counting-house was open, that he might 
 keep his eye upon his clerk, who, in a dismal little cell beyond— a 
 sort of tank — was copying letters. Scrooge had a very small fire; 
 the clerk's fire was so very much smaller it looked one coal, but he 
 couldn't replenish it, because Scrooge kept the coal-box in his own 
 room ; wherefore, the clerk put on his white comforter, and tried to 
 warm himself at the candle, in which ejQfort, not being a man of 
 strong imagination, he failed. 
 
 "A merry Christmas, uncle," said a cheerful voice; it was the 
 voice of Scrooge's nephew, who had just entered. 
 
 " Bah ! " said Scrooge. " Humbug ! " 
 
 " Christmas a humbug ! You don't mean that, uncle ! " 
 
 " I do ! Merry Christmas ! Out upon merry Christmas ! What's 
 Christmas-time to you, but a time for finding yourself a year older, 
 but not an hour richer; a time for paying bills — without money. 
 Merry Christmas I Keep Christmas in your own way, and let me 
 keep it in mine." 
 
 " Keep it ; yes : but you don't keep it." 
 
 " Let me leave it alone then : much good may it do you ; much 
 good it has ever done you." 
 
 " There are many things, uncle, from which I might have derived 
 good, by which I have not benefited, I daresay — Christmas among 
 the rest ; but I am sure I have always thought of Christmas when it 
 has come round — apart from the veneration due to its sacred name 
 and origin, if anythmg belonging to it can be apart from that— as a 
 good time, a kind, forgiving, loving, charitable time. And although, 
 uncle, it has never put a scrap of gold or silver in my pocket, I 
 believe it has done me good, and will do me good, and I say, " God 
 bless it!" 
 
 The clerk in the tank involuntarily applauded. 
 
 "Let me hear another sound from you," said Scrooge, "and you'll 
 keep your Christmas — by losing your situation." 
 
 (906) J
 
 ^58 SKLBCTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 '' Don't be angry, uncle ! Come and dine with us to-morrow I " 
 
 "No— I won't I" 
 
 "But— why?— why?" 
 
 " Why did you get married?" 
 
 " Because I — well — because I fell in love I " 
 
 " Because you fell in love ! Good-afternoon ! " 
 
 " We've never had a quarrel, uncle, to which I have been a party 
 why can't we be friends?" 
 
 " Good-afternoon ! " 
 
 " Well, I'll keep my Christmas humour to the last — bo a merry 
 Christmas, uncle!" 
 
 " Good-aftemoon 1 " 
 
 " And a happy new year ! " 
 
 " Good-afternoon ! " 
 
 Foggier yet, and colder — piercing, searching, biting cold. The 
 owner of one scant young nose, gnawed and mumbled by the cold as 
 bones are gnawed by dogs, stooped down at Scrooge's keyhole to 
 regale him with a Christmas carol ; but at the first sounds of 
 
 " God bless you, merry gentleman, 
 May nothing you dismay," 
 
 Scrooge seized the ruler with such alacrity that the singer fled in 
 terror, leaving the keyhole to the fog and even more congenial frost. 
 
 At length the hour of shutting up the counting-house arrived. 
 With an ill-will Scrooge dismounted from his stool, and tacitly 
 admitted the fact to the expectant clerk in the tank, who instantly 
 snuffed his candle out, and put on his hat. 
 
 " You'll want all day to-morrow, I suppose !" said Scrooge. 
 
 " If quite convenient, sir." 
 
 " But it's not convenient — and it's not fair. If I waa to stop half- 
 a-crown for it, you'd think yourself iU-used, I'll be bound ; — (The 
 clerk smiled faintly) — and you don't think me ill-used when I pay 
 a day's wages for no work." 
 
 The clerk observed that it was only once a year. 
 
 '* A poor excuse for picking a man's pocket every twenty-fifth of 
 December," said Scrooge, buttoning his great-coat to the chin. 
 " But I suppose you must have the whole day. Be here all the 
 earlier next morning." 
 
 The clerk promised that he would, and Scrooge walked out with 
 
 i growL 
 
 {By tpecial permitsion, of Mesfri. Chapman «fe HalL)
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 259 
 
 THE BATTLE OF FLODDEN FIELD AND DEATH OF 
 
 MARMION. 
 
 Scott. 
 
 (Adapted for Recital.) 
 
 Next mom Lord Marmion climbed the tower. 
 To view afar the Scottish power, 
 
 Encamped on Flodden edge : 
 The white pavilions made a show, 
 Like remnants of the winter snow, 
 
 Along the dusky ridge. 
 Long Marmion looked : at length his eye 
 Unusual movement might descry 
 
 Amid the shifting lines : 
 The Scottish host drawn out appears, 
 For, flashing on the edge of spears 
 
 The eastern sunbeam shines. 
 Their front now deepening, now extending; 
 Their flank inclining, wheeling, bending, 
 Now drawing back, and now descending, 
 The skilful Marmion well could know, 
 They watched the motions of some foe, 
 Who traversed on the plain below. 
 
 Even so it was. From Flodden ridge 
 
 The Scots beheld the English host 
 
 Leave Barmore Wood, their evening pc-:% 
 
 And heedful watched them as they crossed 
 The Till by Twisel Bridge. 
 
 High sight it is, and haughty, while 
 
 They dive into the deep defile ; 
 
 Beneath the caverned cliff they fall, 
 
 Beneath the castle's airy walL 
 By rock, by oak, by hawthorn tree, 
 
 Troop after troop are disappearing; 
 
 Troop after troop their banners rearing ; 
 Upon the eastern bank you see. 
 StUl pouring down the rocky den. 
 
 Where flows the sullen TUl, 
 And rising from the dim- wood glen, 
 Standards on standards, men on men.
 
 260 SELECTIONS FOR READIKG AND RECITATION, 
 
 In slow succession still, 
 And, sweeping o'er the Gothic arch, 
 And pressing on, in ceaseless march, 
 
 To gain the opposing MIL 
 
 And why stands Scotland idly now, 
 Dark Flodden I on thy airy brow. 
 Since England gains the pass the while, 
 And struggles through the deep defile? 
 What checks the fiery soul of James? 
 Why sits that champion of the dames 
 
 Inactive on his steed, 
 And sees, between him and his land, 
 Between him and Tweed's southern straml, 
 
 His host Lord Surrey lead? 
 What 'vails the vain knight-errant's brand i 
 Oh, Douglas, for thy leading wand 1 
 
 Fierce Randolph, for thy speed I 
 Oh, for one hour of Wallace wight, 
 Or well-skilled Bruce, to rule the fight, 
 And cry, "Saint Andrew and our right I'' 
 Another sight had seen that morn. 
 From Fate's dark book a leaf been torn, 
 And Flodden had been Bannockbourne 1 
 The precious hour has passed in vain. 
 And England's host has gained the plain ; 
 Wheeling their march, and circling still, 
 Around the base of Flodden HilL 
 
 Ere yet the bands met Marmion's eye, 
 Fitz-Eustace shouted loud and high, 
 " Hark ! hark ! my lord, an English drum! 
 And see ascending squadrons come 
 
 Between Tweed's river and the hill. 
 Foot, horse, and cannon : hap what hap, 
 My basnet to a 'prentice cap. 
 
 Lord Surrey's o'er the Till t 
 Yet more ! yet more ! — how far arrayed 
 They file from out the hawthorn shade, 
 
 And sweep so gallant by ! 
 With all their banners bravely spread, 
 
 And all their armour flashing high.
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 261 
 
 Saint George might waken from the dead, 
 
 To see fair England's standards fly." 
 With kindling brow Lord Marmion said — 
 " This instant be our band arrayed ; 
 The river must be quickly crossed, 
 That we may join Lord Surrey's host. 
 If fight King James — as well I trust 
 That fight he will, and fight he must, 
 The Lady Clare behind our lines 
 Shall tarry, while the battle joins." 
 
 Himself he swift on horseback threw, 
 Scarce to the Abbot bade adieu ; 
 Then on that dangerous ford, and deep, 
 Where to the Tweed Leafs eddies creep, 
 
 He ventured desperately : 
 And not a moment will he bide, 
 Till squire, or groom, before him ride ; 
 Headmost of aU he stems the tide, 
 
 And stems it gallantly. 
 Eustace held Clare upon her horse. 
 
 Old Hubert led her rein. 
 Stoutly they braved the current's course. 
 And though far downward driven per forc^ 
 
 The southern bank they gain. 
 A moment then Lord Marmion stayed, 
 And breathed his steed, his men arrayed, 
 
 Then forward moved his band. 
 Until, Lord Surrey's rear-guard won. 
 He halted by a cross of stone. 
 That, on a hillock standing lone, 
 
 Did all the field command. 
 
 Hence might they see the full array 
 
 Of either host, for deadly fray ; 
 
 Their marshalled lines stretched east and west 
 
 And fronted north and south. 
 The hillock gained. Lord Marmion stayed : 
 " Here, by this cross," he gently said, 
 " You well may view the scene. 
 Here shalt thou tarry, lovely Clare : 
 Oh I think of Marmion in thy prayer I
 
 268 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 Thou wilt not? well — no less my care 
 Shall, watchful, for thy weal prepare. 
 You, Blount and Eustace, are her guard, 
 
 With ten picked archers of my train ; 
 With England if the day go hard. 
 
 To Berwick speed amain. 
 But if we conquer, cruel maid, 
 My spoils shall at your feet be laid, 
 
 When here we meet again." 
 He waited not for answer there, 
 And would not mark the maid's despair, 
 
 Nor heed the discontented look 
 From either squire ; but spurred amair, 
 And, dashing through the battle plain, 
 
 His way to Surrey took. 
 
 " The good Lord Marmion, by my life 1 
 
 Welcome to danger's hour ! 
 Short greeting serves in time of strife: 
 
 Thus have I ranged my power : 
 Myself wUl rule this central host, 
 
 Stout Stanley fronts their right. 
 My sons command the vaward post, 
 
 With Brian Tunstall, stainless knight; 
 
 Lord Dacre, with his horsemen light, 
 
 Shall be in rearward of the fight, 
 And succour those that need it most. 
 
 Now, gallant Marmion, well I know, 
 
 Would gladly to the vanguard go ; 
 Edmund, the Admiral, Tunstall there. 
 With thee their charge will blithely share 
 There fight thine own retainers too. 
 Beneath De Burg, thy steward true." 
 "Thanks, noble Surrey !" Marmion said, 
 Nor farther greeting there he paid ; 
 But, parting like a thunderbolt. 
 First in the vanguard made a halt. 
 
 Where such a shout there rose 
 Of " Marmion ! Marmion 1" that the cry 
 Up Floddeii mountain shrilling high, 
 
 Startled the Scottish foes.
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATIOK. 263 
 
 Blount and Fitz-Eustace rested still 
 With Lady Clare upon the hill ; 
 Ou which, for far the day was spent, 
 The western sunbeams now were bent. 
 The cry they heard, its meaning knew, 
 Could plain their distant comrades view " 
 Sadly to Blount did Eustace say, 
 " Unworthy office here to stay ! 
 No hope of gilded spurs to-day. 
 But see ! look up — on Flodden bent 
 The Scottish foe has fired his tent." 
 
 And sudden, as he spoke. 
 From the sharp ridges of the hill, 
 All downward to the banks of TiU, 
 
 Was wreathed in sable smoke. 
 Volumed and fast, and rolling far, 
 The cloud enveloped Scotland's war, 
 
 As down the hill they broke ; 
 Nor martial shout, nor minstrel tone, 
 Announced their march; their tread alone 
 At times one warning trumpet blown, 
 
 At times a stifled hum. 
 Told England, from his mountain -throne 
 
 King James did rushing come. 
 Scarce could they hear or see their foee, 
 
 Until at weapon-point they close. 
 They close, in clouds of smoke and dust, 
 With sword-sway, and with lance's thrust : 
 
 And such a yell was there. 
 Of sudden and portentous birth. 
 As if men fought upon the earth, 
 
 And fiends in upper air; 
 Oh, life and death were in the shout. 
 Recoil and rally, charge and rout. 
 
 And triumph and despair. 
 Long looked the anxious squires ; their ey* 
 Covdd in the darkness nought descry. 
 
 At length the freshening western blast 
 Aside the shroud of battle cast ; 
 And, first, the ridge of mingled spears 
 Above the brightening cloud appears;
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READINa AND RECITATIOSc 
 
 And in the smoke the pennons flew. 
 As in the storm the white sea-mew. 
 Then marked they, dashing broad and HVf 
 The broken billows of the war, 
 And plumfed crests of chieftains brave 
 Floating like foam upon the wave ; 
 
 But nought distinct they see; 
 Wide raged the battle on the plain; 
 Spears shook, and falchions flashed amain ; 
 Fell England's arrow-flight like rain ; 
 Crests rose, and stooped, and rose again, 
 
 Wild and disorderly. 
 They see Lord Marmion's falcon fly : 
 Advanced — forced back — now low, now high, 
 
 The pennon sunk and rose; 
 As bends the barque's mast in the gale, 
 When rent are rigging, shrouds, and sail, 
 
 It wavered 'mid the foes. 
 No longer Blount the view could bear : 
 " By heaven and all its saints I I swear, 
 
 I will not see it lost ; 
 Fitz-Eustace, you with Lady Clare 
 May bid your beads, and patter prayer— 
 
 I gallop to the host." 
 And to the fray he rode amain. 
 Followed by aU the archer train. 
 The fiery youth, with desperate charge, 
 Made for a space an opening large — 
 
 The rescued banner rose — 
 But darkly closed the war around. 
 Like pine-tree rooted from the ground, 
 
 It sunk among the foes. 
 Then Eustace mounted too : — yet stayed., 
 As loth to leave the helpless maid, 
 
 When, fast as shaft can fly, 
 Bloodshot his eyes, his nostrils spread, 
 The loose rein dangling from his head. 
 Housing and saddle bloody red, 
 
 Ix)rd Marmion's steed rushed by; 
 And Eustace, maddening at the sight, 
 
 A look and sign to Clara cast. 
 
 To mark he would return in haate,
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 266 
 
 Then plunged into the fight. 
 
 With that, straight up the hill there rode 
 
 Two horsemen drenched with gore, 
 And in their arms, a helpless load, 
 
 A wounded knight they bore. 
 His hand still strained the broken brand ; 
 His arms were smeared with blood and aand. 
 Dragged from among the horses' feet, 
 With dinted shield and helmet beat, 
 The falcon-crest and plumage gone, 
 Can that be haughty Marmion? 
 Young Blount his armour did unlace, 
 And, gazing on his ghastly face. 
 
 Said — " By St. George, he's gone ! 
 That spear- wound has our master sped- 
 And see, the deep cut on his head I 
 
 Grood-night to Marmion." 
 
 When, doffed his casque, he felt free air, 
 Around 'gan Marmion wildly stare : — 
 "Where's Harry Blount? Fitz-Eustace where! 
 Linger ye here, ye hearts of hare ? 
 Redeem my pennon — charge again ! 
 Cry — ' Marmion to the rescue !' — Vain I 
 Last of my race, on battle-plain 
 That shout shall ne'er be heard again ! 
 Yet my last thought is England's — fly, 
 
 To Dacre bear my signet ring : 
 
 Tell him his squadrons up to bring. 
 Fitz-Eustace, to Lord Surrey hie ; 
 
 Let Stanley charge with spur of fire - 
 
 With Chester charge, and Lancashire, 
 
 Full upon Scotland's central host. 
 
 Or victory and England's lost. 
 
 Must I bid twice ? — hence, varlets ! fly i 
 
 Leave Marmion here alone — to die." 
 
 They parted, and alone he lay ; 
 
 Clare drew her from the sight away, 
 Till pain wrung forth a lowly moan. 
 And half he murmured — " Is there none, 
 
 Of all my halls have nursed, 
 Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bring 
 
 (996) 12
 
 266 BELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATIOSS. 
 
 Of blessbd water from the spring, 
 To slake my dying thirst?" 
 
 O woman ! in our hours of ease, 
 
 Uncertain, coy, and hard to please, 
 
 And variable as the shade 
 
 By the light quivering aspen made ; 
 
 When pain and anguish wring the brow, 
 
 A ministering angel thou ! 
 
 Scarce were the piteous accents said, 
 
 When, with the baron's casque, the maid 
 
 To the nigh streamlet ran : 
 Forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears : 
 The plaintive voice alone she heai-s, 
 
 Sees but the dying man. 
 She stooped her by the runnel's side, 
 
 But in abhorrence backward drew ; 
 For, oozing from the mountain's side, 
 Where raged the war, a dark -red tide 
 
 Was curdling in the streamlet blue. 
 Where shall she turn 1 — behold her mark 
 
 A little fountain cell, 
 W^here water, clear as diamond-spark, 
 
 In a stone basin fell. 
 She filled the helm, and back she hied, 
 And with sui^prise and joy esj)ied 
 
 A monk supporting Marmion's head; 
 A pious man, whom duty brought 
 To dubious verge of battle fought, 
 
 To shrive the dying, bless the dead. 
 
 Deep drank Lord Marmion of the wave, 
 And, as she stooped his brow to lave — 
 " Is it the hand of Clare," he said, 
 "Or injured Constance, bathes my head"' 
 
 Then, as remembrance rose — 
 ** Speak not to nie of shrift or prayer ! 
 
 I must redress her woes. 
 Short space, few words, are mine to spar*' 
 Forgive and listen, gentle Clare!" 
 
 "Alasl" she said, "the while, 
 Oh, think of your immortal weal !
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 267 
 
 In vain for Constance is your zeal ; 
 
 She— died at Holy Isle." 
 Lord Marmion started from the ground. 
 As light as if he felt no wound ; 
 rhough in the action burst the tide 
 In torrents, from his wounded side. 
 " Then it was truth," he said — " I knew 
 That the dark presage must be true. 
 I would the Fiend, to whom belongs 
 The vengeance due to all her wrongSj 
 
 Would spare me but a day ! 
 For wasting fire, and dying groan, 
 And priests slain on the altar stone 
 
 Might bribe him for delay. 
 It may not be ! — this dizzy trance — 
 Curse on yon base marauder's lance, 
 And doubly cursed my failing brand I 
 A sinful heart makes feeble hand." 
 Then, fainting, down on earth he sunk 
 Supported by the trembling monk. 
 
 With fruitless labour, Clara bound 
 
 And strove to staunch the gushing wound : 
 
 The monk with unavailing cares. 
 
 Exhausted all the Church's prayers. 
 
 Ever, he said, that, close and near, 
 
 A lady's voice was in his ear, 
 
 And that the priest he could not hear ; 
 
 For that she ever sung, 
 "/n the lost battle, home down hy the flying, 
 Where mingles war's rattle with groans of the dying t *" 
 
 So the notes rung : — 
 "Avoid thee, Fiend! — with cruel hand, 
 Shake not the dying sinner's sand 1 
 Oh, look, my son, upon yon sign 
 Of the Redeemer's grace divine I 
 
 Oh, think on faith and bliss ! 
 By many a death-bed I have been, 
 And many a sinner's parting seen. 
 
 But never aught like this." 
 The war, that for a space did fail. 
 Now trebly thundering swelled the galft.
 
 268 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATICN. 
 
 And — "Stanley!" was the cry; 
 A light on Marmion's visage spread, 
 
 And fired his glazing eye : 
 With dying hand above his head, 
 He shook the fragment of his blado, 
 
 And shouted "Victory! 
 Charge, Chester, charge ! On, Stanley on !'' 
 Were the last words of Marmion. 
 
 THE LADY OF PROVENCE. 
 
 Mrs. Hemans. 
 
 The war-note of the Saracen was on the winds of France : 
 
 It had stilled the harp of the troubadour, and the clash of thf 
 
 tourney's lance. 
 The sounds of the sea, and the sounds of the night, 
 And the hollow echoes of charge and flight. 
 Were around Clotilde, as she knelt to pray 
 In a chapel where the mighty lay, 
 
 On the old Provenfal shore : 
 Many a Chatillon beneath. 
 Unstirred by the ringing trumpet's breath. 
 
 His shroud of armour wore. 
 But meekly the voice of the Lady rose 
 Through the trophies of their proud repose ; 
 And her fragile frame, at every blast 
 That full of the savage war-horn passed. 
 Trembling, as trembles a bird's quick heart 
 When it vainly strives from its cage to part, — 
 
 So knelt she in her woe ; 
 A weeper alone with the tearless dead ; — 
 Oh, they reck not of tears o'er their quiet shed. 
 
 Or the dust had stirred below ! . . . 
 
 Hark ! — a swift step : she hath caught its tone 
 Through the dash of the sea, through the wild wind's moan 
 
 Is her lord returned with his conquering bands ? — 
 
 No 1 a breathless vassal before her stands I 
 " Hast thou been on the field? art thou come from the host 7* 
 
 " From the slaughter, Lady ! All, all is lost I 
 
 Our banners are taken — our knights laid low — 
 
 Our spearmen chased by the Paynim foe —
 
 BSLECTIONS FOR READING AKD RECITATION. 269 
 
 And thy lord " — his voice took a sadder sound — 
 
 " Thy lord — he is not on the bloody ground ! 
 There are those who tell that the leader's plume 
 Was seen in the flight through the gathering gloom ! " 
 
 A change o'er her mien and spirit passed : 
 
 She ruled the heart which had beat so fast, 
 
 She dashed the tears from her kindling eye, 
 
 With a glance as of sudden royalty. — 
 " Dost thou stand by the tombs of the glorious dead 
 And fear not to say that their son hath fledl 
 Away ! — he is lying by lance and shield : — 
 Point me the path to his battle-field 1" 
 
 Silently, with lips compressed, 
 
 Pale hands clasped above her bi'east, 
 
 Stately brow of anguish high, 
 
 Deathlike cheek, but dauntless eye, — 
 
 Silently, o'er that red plain, 
 
 Moved the Lady, 'midst the slain. 
 She searched into many an unclosed eye. 
 That looked without soul to the starry sky ; 
 She bowed down o'er many a shattered breast. 
 She lifted up helmet and cloven crest — 
 
 Not there, not there he lay ! 
 " Lead where the most has been dared and done ; 
 Where the heart of the battle hath bled ; — lead ou !*" 
 
 And the vassal took the way. 
 
 He turned to a dark and lonely tree 
 
 That waved o'er a fountain red ; 
 Oh, swiftest there had the current free 
 
 From noble veins been shed ! 
 
 Thickest there the spear-heads gleamed, 
 
 And the scattered plumage streamed. 
 
 And the broken shields were tossed, 
 
 And the shivered lances crossed — 
 He was there ! the leader amidst his band, 
 Where the faithful had made their last vain stand ; 
 With the falchion yet in his cold hand grasped, 
 And his country's flag to his bosom clasped I 
 She quelled in her soul the deep floods of woe, — 
 The time was not yet for their waves to flow ;
 
 87C SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATIOX. 
 
 And a proud smile shone on her pale despair, 
 As she turned to her followers : — " Your lord is there i 
 Look on him ! know him by scarf and crest 1 
 ±5ear him away with his sires to rest 1" 
 
 There is no plumed head o'er the bier to bend — 
 No brother of battle — no princely friend : — 
 
 By the red fountain the valiant lie — 
 
 The flower of Provencal chivalry. 
 
 But ONE free step, and one lofty heart, 
 
 Bear through that scene, to the last, their part 
 " I have won thy fame from the breath of wrong ? 
 My soul hath risen for thy glory strong ! 
 Now call me hence by thy side to be : 
 The world thou leav'st has no place for me. 
 Give me my home on thy noble heart ! 
 "Well have we loved — let us both depart!" 
 
 And pale on the breast of the dead she lay, 
 
 The living cheek to the cheek of clay. 
 
 The living cheek ! oh, it was not in vain 
 
 That strife of the spirit, to rend its chain ! 
 
 She is there, at rest, in her place of pride ! 
 
 In death, how queenlike ! — a glorious bride ! 
 
 From the long heart-withering early gone : 
 
 She hath lived — she hath loved — her task is done I 
 
 THE LIFEBOAT. 
 G. R Sims. 
 
 "Been out in the lifeboat often?" Ay, ay, sir, oft enough. 
 "When it's rougher than this?" Why, bless you! this ain't what we 
 
 calls rough. 
 It's when there's a gale a-blowin', and the waves run in and break 
 On the shore with a roar like thunder, and the white cliffs seem to 
 
 shake: 
 When the sea is a swirl of waters, and the bravest holds his breath 
 As he hears the cry for the lifeboat — his summons, maybe, to death. 
 That's when we call it rough, sir; but, if we can get her afloat. 
 There's always enough brave fellows ready to man the boat. 
 
 You've heard of the Royal Helen, the ship as was wrecked last year; 
 Yon be the rock she struck on — the boat as went out be here:
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECnATION. 271 
 
 The night as she struck was reckon'd the worst as ever we had ; 
 And this is a coast in winter where the weather be awful bad. 
 The beach here was strew'd with wreckage, and, to tell you the 
 
 truth, sir, then 
 Was the only time as ever we'd a bother to get the men. 
 The single chaps were willin', and six on 'em volunteer'd, 
 But most on us here is married, and the wives that night waa 
 
 skeer'd. 
 
 Our women ain't chicken-hearted when it comes to savin' lives, 
 But death that night look'd certain — and our wives be only wives ; 
 Their lot ain't bright at the best, sir; but here, when the man lies 
 
 dead, 
 'Tain't only a husband missin', it's the children's daily bread. 
 So our women began to whimper, and beg o' the chaps to stay — 
 I only heard on it after, for that night I was kept away. 
 I was up at my cottage, yonder, where the wife lay nigh her end ; 
 She'd been ailin' all the winter, and nothing 'ud make her mend. 
 
 The doctor had given her up, sir, and I knelt by her side and pray'd 
 With my eyes as red as a babby's, that Death's hand might yet be 
 
 stay'd. 
 I heard the wild wind howlin', and I look'd on the wasted form, 
 And thought of the awful shipwreck as had come in the ragin' 
 
 storm — 
 The wreck of my little homestead — the wreck of my dear old wife, 
 Who'd sailed with me forty years, sir, o'er the troublous waves of 
 
 life; 
 And I look'd at the eyes so sunken, as had been my harbour lights, 
 To tell of the sweet home haven in the wildest, darkest nights. 
 
 She knew she was sinkin' quickly, — she knew as her end was nigh, 
 But she never spoke o' the troubles as I knew on her heart must lie ; 
 For we had one great big sorrow with Jack, our only son — 
 He'd got into trouble in London, as lots o' the lads ha' done; 
 Then he'd bolted, his master told us — he was alius what folks call 
 
 wild. 
 From the day as 1 told his mother, her dear face never smil'd. 
 
 And the night as the Royal Helen went dovm on yonder sands, 
 I sat and watch'd her dying, holdin' her wasted hands. 
 She mov'd in her doze a little, then her eyes were open'd wide. 
 And she seem'd to be seekin' aomethin', aa she look'd from side to 
 side;
 
 272 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 Then half to herself she whispered, "Where's Jack, to say good-byel 
 It's hard not to see my darlin', and kiss him afore I die ! " 
 
 T was stoopin' to kiss and soothe her, while the tears ran down my 
 
 cheek, 
 And my lips were shap'd to whisper the words I couldn't speak; 
 When the dooi of the room burst open, and my matt-s were there 
 
 outside 
 W"ith the news that the boat was launchin'. "You're wanted!" their 
 
 leader cried. 
 "You've never refused to go, John; you'll put these cowards right. 
 There's a dozen of lives, maybe, John, as lie in our hands to-night!" 
 'Twas old Ben Brown, the captain; he'd laugh'd at the women's 
 
 doubt, 
 We'd always been first on the beach, sir, when the boat was going 
 
 out. 
 
 I didn't move, but I pointed to the white face on the bed — 
 
 " I can't go, mate," I murmured; "in an hour she may be dead — 
 
 I cannot go and leave her to die in the night alone." 
 
 As I spoke Ben raised his lantern, anyd the light on my wife was 
 
 thrown, 
 And I saw her eyes fix'd strangely with a pleading look on me. 
 While a tremblin' finger pointed through the door to the ragin' sea; 
 Then she beckon'd me near, and whisper'd, " Go, and God's will be 
 
 done! 
 For every lad on that ship, John, is some poor mother's son." 
 
 "Go, John, and the Lord watch o'er you! and spare me to see the 
 
 light, 
 And bring you safe," she whispered, "out of the storm to-night." 
 Then I turned and kissed her softly, and tried to hide my tears, 
 And my mates outside when they saw me set up three hearty cheers; 
 But I rubb'd my eyes wi' my kranckles, and turned to old Ben and 
 
 said, 
 * I'll see her again, maybe, lad, when the sea gives up its dead!" 
 
 We launched the boat in the tempest, though death was the goal in 
 
 view, 
 And never a one but doubted if the craft could live it through, 
 But our boat she stood it bravely, and weary, and wet, and weak, 
 We drew in hail of the vessel, we had dared so much to seek. 
 But just as we came upon her she gave a fearful roll. 
 And went down in the seething whirlfKjol with every living soul!
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 272 
 
 We rowed for the spot, and shouted, for all around was dark — 
 But only the wild wind answer'd the cries from the plungin' bark. 
 
 I was straining my eyes and watchin', when I thought I heard a cry, 
 And I saw past our bows a somethin' on the crest of a wave dasli by: 
 I stretched out my hand to seize it — I dragged it aboard, and then 
 I stumbled and struck my forehead, and fell like a log on Ben. 
 I remember a hum of voices, and then I know'd no more 
 Till I came to my senses here, sir — here in my home ashore. 
 My forehead was tightly bandaged, and I lay on my little bed— 
 I'd slipp'd, so they told me arter, and a rowlock had struck my head. 
 
 Then my mates came in and whisper'd; they'd heard I was coming 
 
 round, 
 At first I could scarcely hear 'em, it seem'd like a buzzin' sound ; 
 But as soon as my head got clearer, and accustom'd to hear 'em 
 
 speak, 
 I knew as I'd lain like that, sir, for many a long, long week. 
 I guess'd what the lads were hiding, for their poor old shipmate'? 
 
 sake; 
 I could see by their puzzled faces they'd got some news to break; 
 So I lifts my head from the pillow, and I says to old Ben, " Look 
 
 here — 
 I am able to bear it now, lad — teU me and never fear." 
 
 Not one on 'em ever answered, but presently Ben goes out. 
 And the others slink away like, and I says, " What's that about? 
 Why can't they tell me plainly as the dear old wife is dead?" 
 Then again I fell on the pillow, and I hid my achin' head; 
 I lay like that for a minute, till I heard a voice cry " John," 
 And I thought it must be a vision as my weak eyes gazed upon; 
 For there by the bedside standin', up and well, was my wife. 
 An d who do you think was with her? Why, Jack, as large as life! 
 
 It was him as I sav'd from drownin', the night as the lifeboat went 
 To the wreck of the Royal Helen — 'twas that as the vision meant. 
 They'd brought us ashore together; he'd knelt by his mother's bed, 
 And the sudden joy had rais'd her like a miracle from the dead — 
 And mother and son together had nursed me back to life, 
 And my old eyes woke from darkness to look on my son and wife. 
 Jack? He's our right hand now, sir; 'twas Providence pulled hinj 
 
 through ; 
 He's alius the first aboard her when the lifeboat wants a crew. 
 
 (From the " Lifeboat and other Poems", ly special permission of the. Author.)
 
 274 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND BECITATIOK 
 
 BABIES. 
 Jerome K. Jerome. 
 
 [Adapted for Recital.) 
 
 Oh yes, I do— I know a lot about 'em. I was one myself once- 
 thoiigh not long, not so long as my clothes. They were very long, 
 I recollect, and always in my way when I wanted to kick. Why do 
 babies have such yards of unnecessary clothing? Is it that parents 
 are ashamed of the size of the child, and wish to make believe that 
 it is longer than it actually is? I asked a nurse once why it was. 
 She said — " Lor', sir, they always have long clothes, bless their little 
 hearts." 
 
 And when I explained that her answer, although doing credit to 
 her feelings, hardly disposed of my difficulty, she replied — "Lor', 
 sir, you wouldn't have 'em in short clothes, poor little dears?" 
 
 Since then, I have felt shy at making inquiries on the subject, 
 and the reason — if reason there be — is still a mystery to me. But 
 indeed, putting them in any clothes at all seems absurd to my mind. 
 Why wake the poor little wretches up in the morning to take one 
 lot of clothes off, fix another lot on, and put them to bed again ; and 
 then, at night, haul them out once more, merely to change every- 
 thing back? And when all is done, what difference is there, I 
 should like to know, between a baby's night-shirt and the thing it 
 wears in the day-time? Very likely I am only making myself 
 ridiculous — I often do ; so I am informed — but, however, it would 
 be a great convenience if some fashion were adopted, enabling you 
 to tell a boy from a girl. 
 
 At present it is most awkward. Neither hair, dress, nor conver- 
 sation affords the slightest clue, and you are left to guess. By some 
 mysterious law of Nature you invariably guess wrong, and are 
 thereupon regarded by all the relatives and friends as a mixture of 
 fool and knave, the enormity of alluding to a male babe as " she " 
 being only equalled by the atrocity of referring to a female infant 
 as " he ". Whichever sex the particular child in question happens 
 iwt to belong to is considered as beneath contempt, and any mention 
 of it is taken as a personal insult to the family. 
 
 And as you value your fair name, do not attempt to get out of 
 the difficulty by talking of " it ". There are various methods by 
 which you may achieve ignominy and shame. But if you desire to 
 drain to the dregs the fullest cup of scorn and hatred that a follow 
 human creature can pour out for you, let a young mother hear you
 
 SELECTIONS TOR KBADINQ AND RECITATION. 275 
 
 call dear baby "it". Your best plan is to address the article as 
 "little angel". The noun "angel" being of common gender, suits 
 the case admirably, and then the epithet is sure of being favourably 
 received. "Pet" or "beauty" are useful for variety's sake, but 
 "angel" is the term that brings you the greatest credit for sense 
 and good feeling. The word should be preceded by a short giggle, 
 and accompanied by as much smile as possible. And whatever you 
 do, don't forget to say that the child has got its father's nose. This 
 " fetches " the parents (if I may be allowed a vulgarism) more than 
 anything. They will pretend to laugh at the idea at first, and will 
 say, " Oh, nonsense I " You must then get excited, and insist that 
 it is a fact. You have no conscientious scruples on the subject, 
 because the thing's nose really does resemble its father — at all 
 events quite as much as it does anything else in nature — being as it 
 is, a mere smudge. 
 
 A man — an unmarried man, that is — is never seen to such disad- 
 vantage as when undergoing the ordeal of "seeing baby". A cold 
 shudder runs down his back at the bare proposal, and the sickly 
 smile with which he says how delighted he shall be, ought surely to 
 move even a mother's heart, unless, as I am inclined to believe, the 
 whole proceeding is a mere device, adopted by wives to discourage 
 the visits of bachelor friends. It is a cruel trick, though, whatever 
 its excuse may be. The bell is rung, and somebody sent to tell 
 nurse to bring down baby. This is the signal for all the females 
 present to commence talking " baby ", during which time you are 
 left to your own sad thoughts, and to speculations upon the prac- 
 ticability of suddenly recollecting an important engagement, and the 
 likelihood of your being believed if you do. Just when you have 
 concocted an absurdly implausible tale about a man outside, the door 
 opens, and a tall, severe-looking woman enters, carrying what at first 
 sight appears to be a particularly skinny bolster, with the feathei-s 
 all at one end. Instinct, however, tells you that this is " baby ", and 
 you rise with a miserable attempt at appearing eager. When the 
 first gush of feminine enthusiasm with which the object in question is 
 received has died out, and the number of ladies talking at once has 
 been reduced to the ordinary four or five, the circle of fluttering 
 petticoats divides, and room is made for you to step forward. This 
 you do with much the same air that you would walk into the dock of 
 a Police Court, and then, feeling unutterably miserable, you stand 
 solemnly staring at the child. There is dead silence, and you know 
 that every one is waiting for you to speak. You try to think of some- 
 thing to say, but find, to your hon'or, that your reasoning faculties
 
 276 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 have left you. It is a moment of despair, and your evil genius, 
 seizing the opportunity, suggests to you some of the most idiotic 
 remarks that it is possible for a human being to perpetrate. Glanc- 
 ing round, you observe that "It hasn't got much hair, has it?" 
 Nobody answers you for a minute, but at last the stately nurse says 
 with much gravity — "It is not customary for children five weeks 
 old to have long hair." Another silence follows this, and you feel 
 you are being given a second chance, which you avail yourself of by 
 inquiring if it can walk yet, or what they feed it on. 
 
 By this time you have got to be regarded as not quite right in 
 your head, and pity is the only thing felt for you. The nurse, how- 
 ever, is determined that, insane or not, there shall be no shirking, 
 and that you shall go through your task to the end. She says, 
 holding the bundle towards you, "Take her in your arms, sir." 
 You ai-e too crushed to offer any resistance, and so meekly accept 
 the bui'den. " Put your aiTU more down her middle, sir." Then all 
 step back and watch you intently as though you were going to do a 
 trick with it. 
 
 What to do you know no more than you did what to say. It is 
 certain something must be done, however, and the only thing that 
 occurs to you is to heave the unhappy infant up and down to the 
 accompaniment of " oopsee-daisy ". 
 
 "I wouldn't jig her, sir, if I were you," says the nurse; "a very 
 little upsets her." You promptly decide not to jig her, and sincerely 
 hope that you have not gone too far already. 
 
 At this point, the child itself, who has hitherto been regarding 
 you with an expression of mingled horror and disgust, puts an end 
 to the nonsense by beginning to yell at the top of its voice, at which 
 nurse rushes forward and snatches it from you with, " There, then, 
 ♦^here ; what did ums do to ums ? " 
 
 " How very extraordinary ! " you say pleasantly. " Wliatever made 
 (t gooff like that?" 
 
 " Oh, you must have done something to her ! " says the mother 
 indignantly ; "the child wouldn't scream like that for nothing." 
 
 It is evident they think you have been running pins into it. 
 Thfi wretch is calmed at last, and would no doubt remain quiet 
 enough, only some mischievous busybody points you out again with 
 "Who's this, baby?" and the intelligent child, recognizing you, 
 howls louder than ever. 
 
 Babies, though, with all their crimes and errors, are not without 
 their use — not without use, surely, when they fill an empty heart ; 
 not without use, when, at their call, sunbeams of love break through
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 277 
 
 iMire-clouded faces ; not without use when their little fingers press 
 wrinkles into smiles. 
 
 Odd little people I They are the unconscious comedians of the 
 world's great stage. 
 
 The world ; the small round world ; what a vast, mysterious place 
 it must seem to the little innocent faces clustered in timid helpless- 
 ness round those great gates that open dow p. that longest street of 
 all— that long, dim street of life that stretches out before them — 
 what grave, old-fashioned looks they seem to cast ! What pitiful, 
 frightened looks sometimes ! Poor little feet, just commencing the 
 stony journey ! We, old travellers, far down the road, can only 
 pause to wave a hand to you. You come out of the dark mist, and 
 we, looking back, see you, so tiny in the distance, standing on the 
 brow of the hill, your arms stretched out towards us. 
 
 " God speed you ! We would stay and take your little hands in 
 ours, but the murmur of the great sea is in our ears, and we may 
 Dot linger. God speed you, little ones — God speed you ! 
 (From "Idle Thoughit of an Idle Fellow", by special permission of the Author.) 
 
 LASCA. 
 
 Frank DESPREii. 
 
 {Adapted for Recital.) 
 
 I want free life and I want fresh air ; and I sigh for the canter 
 after the cattle, — the crack of the whips, like shots in a battle, — the 
 mSlee of horns and hoofs and heads that wars and wrangles and 
 scatters and spreads ; the green beneath and the blue above, and 
 dash and danger, and life and love, and Lasca. 
 
 Lasca used to ride on a mouse-grey mustang, close to my side, 
 with blue serape and bright-belled spur ; I laughed with joy as I 
 looked at her! Little knew she of books or of creeds; an "Ave 
 Maria " sufficed her needs ; little she cared, save to be by my side, 
 to ride with me, and ever to ride ! from San Saba's shore to 
 Lavaca's tide. She was as bold as the billows that beat — she was 
 as wild as the breezes that blow ; from her little head to her little 
 feet she was swayed, in her suppleness, to and fro by each gust of 
 passion : a sapling pine, that grows on the edge of a Kansas bluff, 
 and wars with the wind when the weather is rough, is like this 
 LajBca — this love of mine ! She would hunger, that I might eat ; 
 would take the bitter, and leave me the sweet ; but once, when I 
 made her jealous, for fun, at something I whispered, or looked, or
 
 278 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 done, one evening in San Antonia, she drew from her girdle a dear 
 little dagger, and — sting of a wasp I — it made me stagger 1 An inch 
 to the left, or an inch to the right, and I shouldn't be maundering 
 here to-night ; but she sobbed — and, sobbing, so swiftly bound, that 
 I quite forgave her. Scratches don't count in Texas, down by the 
 Rio Grande. 
 
 One murky night the air was hot, I sat by her side, and forgot— 
 forgot ! Forgot the herd that were taking their rest ; forgot that 
 the air was close opprest; that the Texas "Norther" comes sudden 
 and soon, in the dead of night or the blaze of noon ; that once let 
 the herd at its breath take fright, nothing on earth can stop their 
 flight; then — woe to the rider, and woe to the steed, who falls in 
 front of their mad stampede ! 
 
 Was that thunder? I grasped the cord of my swift mustang 
 without a word. I sprang to the saddle — and she clung behind : 
 away ! on a hot chase down the wind 1 But never was fox-hunt half 
 80 hard, and never was steed so little spared. For we rode for our 
 lives. You shall hear how we fared, in Texas, down by the Rio Grande. 
 
 The mustang flew, and we urged him on; there was one chance 
 left, — and you have but one, — halt, jump to ground, and shoot your 
 horse ; crouch under his carcase, and take your chance ; and if the 
 steers, in their frantic course, don't batter you both to pieces at once, 
 you may thank your stars; if not, good-bye to the quickening kiss, and 
 the long-drawn sigh, and the open air, and the open sky, in Texas, 
 down by the Rio Grande ! 
 
 The cattle gained on us, just as I felt for my old six-shooter 
 behind in my belt, down came the mustang, and down came we, 
 clinging together, and — what was the rest? A body that spread 
 itself on my breast. Two arras that shielded my dizzy head, two lips 
 that hard on my lips were prest ; then came thunder in my ears, as 
 over us surged the sea of steers ; blows that beat blood into my eyes, 
 and when I could rise — Lasca was dead ! 
 
 I gouged out a grave a few feet deep, and there, in Earth's arms, I 
 laid her to sleep ; and there she is lying, and no one knows; and the 
 summer shines, and the winter snows: and, for many a day, the 
 flowera have spread a pall of petals over her head ; and the little grey 
 hawk hangs aloft in the air ; and the sly coyot6 trots here and there ; 
 and the black snake glides and glitters and slides into a rift in a 
 Cottonwood tree ; and the buzzard sails on, and comes and is gone, 
 stately and still like a ship at sea; and I wonder why I do not care 
 for the things that are, like the things that were : does half my heart 
 lie buried there, in Texas, down by the Rio Grande?
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 279 
 
 AFTEE-DINNER ORATORY. 
 Rev. David Macrae. 
 
 We had a great public dinner in connection with the Charity 
 School. When dinner was over and the toast-drinking commenced, 
 I wish you could have been there to hear some of the speeches. 
 How, for instance, in proposing the health of the Governor of the 
 School, our Chairman, who had never heard of the Governor before, 
 said that he was sure we would drink this toast with the utmost 
 enthusiasm. 
 
 " It is entirely unnecessary for me," he said, " to say a single word 
 in regard to one whose name is so familiar to us all as the name of 
 — of " (a pause, Chairman trying to remember) — *' as the name of 
 Mr." — (trying to find it now upon the programme) — " the name of 
 Mr."— 
 
 " Duffy," whispered the gentleman on his right. 
 
 " Duffy," repeated the Chairman with an air of relief—" so familiar 
 to us all as the name of Mr. Duffy." 
 
 Then how poor Mr. Duffy, who had prepared an elaborate speech, 
 but had forgotten it, got up with a face as if he were on his way to 
 be hanged, to assure us that this was the happiest moment in all hia 
 life ; which I was glad to hear Mr. Duffy say, for I should not have 
 inferred it from his appearance. 
 
 The Rev. Mr. Maclacky rose next, and proposed, in a pulpit voice 
 of appalling solemnity, the health of Mrs. Anderson, the matron of 
 the Institution. 
 
 It was, he said, a wonderful Institution. We were living in a 
 wonderful age. He might point abroad, and he might point at 
 home. He might point to— to the Cattle Plague, which had proved 
 itself of so destructive a character. He was not aware that that 
 plague had extended itself to sheep, but amongst cattle of all kinds 
 it had proved itself most destructive in its character. 
 
 As there seemed no likelihood of Mr. Maclacky getting off this 
 singular tack, his next neighbour nudged him. 
 
 " Yes," said Mr. Maclacky, " it is time to be done. I must not 
 detain you with any lengthened observations. But after what has 
 been already said, I am sure that you will cordially join with me in 
 drinking the health of Mrs. Anderson, the matron of this Institution." 
 
 But the memorable speech of the evening was to come. 
 
 The Rev. Mr. Burke, our Episcopal minister, was there, of course ; 
 and M'Swilling of M'Swilling was to propose the Clergy, coupling 
 the toast with Mr. Burke's name. When the time came, however,
 
 280 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 M'Swilling waa nowhere to be seen, being, as we afterwards dia- 
 covered, asleep, in a rather elevated condition, in the cloak-room, 
 with an admirable speech on the progress of religion and morality 
 in the tail-pocket of his coat. 
 
 As M'Swilling had disappeared, the Chairman pencilled a note 
 hastily to my next neighbour, Rumbleton, asking him to propose 
 the toast, and not forget, in winding up, to pay a compliment to the 
 Episcopal clergyman, and refer to his connection with "the celebrated 
 Burke" — meaning, of course, the famous orator and statesman. The 
 last word, however, was indistinctly written, and Eumbleton, after 
 Btaring at it for a while, nudged me and said, "What word is thisi 
 — The celebrated B — n — k — e, Binkiel 'The celebrated Bmkie' — 
 Who waa he?" 
 
 "No," I said; "that's 'Burke' — the same name as our clergyman. 
 His family is related to the famous Burke." 
 
 "Oh, indeed!" said Rumbleton, apparently with some surprise. 
 He paused awhile, and then said in a low voice, " Would he like 
 that mentioned? Do you think Burke was a good man?" 
 
 " Certainly," I said. " Why not ? His peculiar views may have 
 gained him some bitter enemies ; but there can be no doubt that, 
 personally, Burke was both a good and a great man." 
 
 Rumbleton looked rather dubious ; but having his reputation to 
 sustain as a crack speaker, he threw himself into the subject with 
 his usual enthusiasm. Towavds the close of his speech he paid a 
 high-flown compliment to the Rev. Mr. Burke, and proceeded to 
 refer to his family. 
 
 "Who has not heard a thousand times," he said, "of his connection 
 with the celebrated Burke? (Hear, hear.) I hold that Burke was 
 a good man (hear, hear) — yes, a good and a great man. (Cheers.) 
 I am aware that some people have thought otherwise, owing, of 
 course, to the peculiar views which Mr. Burke held on the [Rumble- 
 ton looked doubtfully at Mr. Burke, and coughed] — on the subject," 
 he said, as if disgorging an alligator, " of providing bodies for the 
 Edinburgh doctors." 
 
 Edinburgh doctors! I got a shock like the shock of a voltaic 
 battery. Bodies for the Edinburgh doctors ! What I Did the idiot 
 think it was Burke the murderer? 
 
 A deathly stillness had fallen suddenly upon the company. Mr. 
 Burke's face turned fiery red. Every eye was turned on Rumbleton 
 with an awful expression. Rumbleton saw the change, seemed sur- 
 prised, but evidently felt tliat lie had a strong case to go upon. 
 
 " I cannot but think, gentlemen," he said in a tone of expostulation.
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATIOTT. 281 
 
 ** that these peculiar views of Mr. Burke's had a doubtful look — at 
 least to some people — mark me, I say onl^ to some people !" 
 
 " Stop, man, stop ! " I whispered, twitching his coat-tail. " That 
 was another person altogether!" 
 
 "A different person !" exclaimed Eumbleton, looking round at me 
 in utter bewilderment, while the company began to break into uproar. 
 " Oh, now I see ; yes, yes, you mean the other man ! " 
 
 "One moment, gentlemen !" he cried. "Hear me for a moment, 
 gentlemen ! I said, to some people they had a doubtful look ; but 
 why, gentlemen, why? Because these people are shamefully igno- 
 rant of the circumstances of the case. But my own opinion is, and 
 I think I may assure Mr. Burke that the opinion of this entire 
 company is, that it was a different person altogether ! — that Burke 
 was not the man, though he suffered for it ! — that it was the other 
 man — the scoundrel Hare — that did the business ! " 
 
 {By special permission of the Author.) 
 
 BEAUTIFUL SNOW. 
 
 W. A. SiGOURNET. 
 
 Oh I the snow, the beautiful snow, 
 Filling the sky, and earth below, 
 Over the housetops, over the street. 
 Over the heads of the people you meet ; 
 
 Dancing — flirting — skimming along — 
 Beautiful snow ! it can do nothing wrong ; 
 Flying to kiss a fair lady's cheek, 
 Clinging to lips in frolicsome freak ; 
 Beautiful snow from the heavens above, 
 Pure as an angel, gentle as love ! 
 
 Oh ! the snow, the beautiful snow ; 
 
 How the flakes gather, and laugh as they go, 
 
 "Whirling about in maddening fun ; 
 
 It plays in its glee with every one ; 
 
 Chasing — laughing — hurrying by, 
 It lights on the face, and sparkles the eye • 
 And the dogs, with a bark and a bound, 
 Snap at the crystals that eddy around ; 
 The town is alive, and its heart in a glow, 
 To welcome the coming of beautiful snow. 
 
 How wildly the crowd goes swaying along. 
 Hailing each other with humour and song ;
 
 282 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATIONo 
 
 How the gay sledges like meteors flash by, 
 Bright for a moment, then lost to the eye ; 
 
 Ringing — swinging — dashing they go, 
 Over the crust of the beautiful snow ; 
 Snow so pure when it falls from the sky, 
 As to make one regret to see it lie 
 To be trampled and tracked by thousands of feet, 
 Till it blends with the filth in the horrible street. 
 
 Once I was fair as the beautiful snow, 
 
 With an eye like its crystal, and heart like its glow 
 
 Once I was loved for my innocent grace — 
 
 Flattered and sought for the charms of my face ! 
 
 Once I was pure as snow, but I fell. 
 
 Fell like the snow-flakes from heaven to hell ; 
 
 Fell to be trampled as filth on the street, 
 
 Fell to be scoflTed, and spit on, and beat ; 
 
 The veriest wretch that goes shivering by 
 
 Will make a wide sweep lest I wander too nigh ; 
 
 Merciful God, have I fallen so low 1 
 
 And yet I was once like the beautiful snow. 
 
 How strange it should be that this beautiful snow 
 Should fall on a sinner with nowhere to go ! 
 How strange it should be when the night comes again^ 
 If the snow and the ice struck my desperate brain ! 
 
 Fainting — freezing — dying alone, 
 Too wicked for prayer, too weak for a moan 
 To be heard in the streets of the crazy town. 
 Gone mad in the joy of snow coming down ; 
 To lie and to die in my terrible woe, 
 With a bed and a shroud of the beautiful snow. 
 
 Helpless and foul as the trampled snow. 
 Sinner, despair not : Christ stoopeth low 
 To rescue the soul that is lost in its sin, 
 And raise it to life and enjoyment again. 
 
 Groaning — bleeding — dying for thee. 
 The Crucified hung on the accursed tree ; 
 His accents of mercy fall soft on thine ear — 
 " Is there mercy for me? Will He heed my prayer?' 
 Oh God ! in the stream that for sinners doth flow. 
 Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING A^D RECITATION. 283 
 
 BRIARY VILLAS. 
 
 Anon. 
 
 rm number one : Vidler is number two Briary Villas, Plimliville. 
 
 Now, I am not a violent man, and I never make use of bad 
 language, but I must say something when I mention Vidler's name, 
 if it's only " BoU Vidler ". 
 
 We were just settling down when he arrived, and the very first 
 night his servant came and knocked at our door with "master's 
 compliments, and he had left his last house on account of the 
 horgans, and would we leave oflF playing the pyhanner". 
 
 That was a sample, for every day there was something the nasty 
 little, fat, round, bald-headed old bachelor, or his pea-like sister 
 had to complain about. 
 
 At last the troubles culminated one cold February evening, and 
 that trouble cost me fifty pounds, and made Vidler my sworn 
 enemy for life. 
 
 Binny and I were just having a quiet chat in the sitting-room, 
 and all was cosy, when suddenly I sniflfed. Then Binny sniffed. 
 Then we both sniffed together. 
 
 " What a smell of soot ! " I exclaimed. 
 
 "It's that odious old Vidler's chimney smoking," said Binny. 
 "Oh, Charlie, do let's move, they are such disagreeable people. The 
 old woman actually made faces at me to-day as I sat by the window.'" 
 
 At this moment there was a knock at the door, and " Our Emma " 
 appeared. Cook always calls her "Our Emma", to distinguish her, 
 I suppose, from the next door servant, whose name is Jane. 
 
 " WeU, Emma?" 
 
 "Oh, if you please, mum, will you come down, please?" 
 
 " Is anything the matter, Emma?" 
 
 ■' No, mum, there's nothink the matter ; but I made up a good 
 fire, as you told me, in the dining-room, and it will keep on 
 a-roaring so." 
 
 "Why, you've set the chimney on fire !" I shouted. 
 
 " Well, sir, that's what cook says ; but I don't think it is. 
 
 I ran downstairs to find that not only was the fire roaring away, 
 but great pats of burning soot were tumbling down the chimney. I 
 seized the salt-cellars and emptied them on the fire. That seemed 
 no good; so calling to the maids to bring a couple of pails, I had 
 them fiUed and carried upstairs, climbed the ladder, and got 
 on the roof. " It will make a horrible mess," I thought, as I looked 
 at the smoke pouring up from the long narrow chimney stack
 
 284 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 "But better a dirty fender," I continued aloud, " than five pounds 
 for a fire-engine." 
 
 As I spoke I raised the paU of water and poured it down the 
 smoking chimney. Then I took a full can from Emma, whose head 
 appeared upon the scene. 
 
 " No fire-engines to-night," I chuckled ; and as a rumbling, 
 gurgling noise came up the chimney, I poured down the second 
 paiLful and descended. "How is the dining-room, Biunyl" I asked, 
 when I got down. 
 
 " It's left ofi" roaring, dear," shd replied ; and on going in, to my 
 surprise I found the fire burning brightly, while the roaring noise 
 had ceased, and all was beautiful and clean. 
 
 " Why, my dear Binny ! " I exclaimed ; and then the roaring noise 
 began again — not in the chimney this time, but at the front door, 
 which somebody seemed determined to batter down. 
 
 " I'll go, Emma," I said ; " it's the engine." Going to the door 
 then I opened it cautiously, but only to be driven in and followed 
 by a hideous little object in the shape of Vidler — round, fierce, 
 blackened with soot, drenched with water, and foaming at the 
 mouth. I was not afraid of him but of the dirt, as he chased me 
 into the dining-room, where I kept him at bay with the legs of a 
 chair. 
 
 " You atrocious scoundrel ! " he panted, from the midst of his 
 strangely blackened face, as he tore with sooty hand at his wet 
 black shirt-front and white kerseymere waistcoat. "You villain, 
 this is one of your cursed practical jokes ; but I'll have an action — 
 I'll have an action ! " 
 
 " Perhaps, sir, as plaintiff, you will explain upon what grounds,'' 
 I said blandly. 
 
 "Grounds, sir! grounds! you smooth-tongued, insulting black- 
 guard. Why, sir, five minutes ago I was standing, as is my wont, 
 reading my paper and wanning my back, when an avalanche, a 
 cataract — a dirty, abominable fall of Niagara, sir, came rushing down 
 my chimney, sir, deluging me, my Turkey carpet and my hearth- 
 rug, and putting out my fire. As soon as I could recover from my 
 astonishment, sir, I thi-ust my head up the chimney, sir, and roared 
 out to you to cease, when, sir, a second avalanche came down, and — 
 and — hang it all, sir, just look at me !" 
 
 I did look, and he certainly was a guy. 
 
 "Now, sir, what does this mean?" 
 
 " Mean, sir," I replied, " well, I'm afraid I poured the water down 
 the wrong chimney."
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 286 
 
 SCENE FEOM THE RIVALS. 
 
 R. B. Sheridan. 
 
 Two Characters— Sir Anthony and Captain Absolute. 
 
 Enter Sir Anthony. 
 
 Capt. A. Sir, I am delighted to see you here, and looking so well ! 
 —your sudden arrival at Bath made me apprehensive for your health. 
 
 Sir Anth. Very apprehensive, I dare say, Jack. What, you are 
 recruiting here, eh? 
 
 Capt. A. Yes, sir, I am on duty. 
 
 Sir Anth. Well, Jack, I am glad to see you, though I did not expect 
 it; for I was going to write to you on a little matter of business. 
 Jack, I have been considering that I grow old and infirm, and shaD 
 probably not trouble you long. 
 
 Capt. A. Pardon me, sir, I never saw you look more strong and 
 hearty, and I pray fervently that you may continue so. 
 
 Sir Anth. I hope your prayers may be heard with all my heart. 
 Well, then, Jack, I have been considering that I am so strong and 
 hearty, I may continue to plague you a long time. Now, Jack, I 
 am sensible that the income of your commission, and what I have 
 hitherto allowed you, is but a small pittance for a lad of your spirit. 
 
 Capt. A. Sir, you are very good. 
 
 Sir Anih. And it is my wish, while yet I live, to have my boy 
 make some figure in the world. I have resolved, therefore, to fix 
 you at once in a noble independence. 
 
 Capt. A. Sir, your kindness overpowers me. Yet, sir, I presume 
 you would not wish me to quit the army ? 
 
 Sir Anth, Oh! that shall be as your wife chooses. 
 
 Capt. A. My wife, sir ! 
 
 Sir Anth. Ay, ay, settle that between you ; settle that between 
 you. 
 
 Capt. A. A wife, sir, did you aay? 
 
 Sir Anth. Ay, a wife; why, did not I mention her before? 
 
 Capt. A. Not a word of her, sir. 
 
 Sir Anth. Od so! I mustn't forget her though. — Yes, Jack, the 
 independence I was talking of is by a marriage ; the fortune is 
 saddled with a wife; but I suppose that makes no difference. 
 
 Capt. A. Sir! sir! you amaze me! 
 
 Sir Anth. Why, what on earth's the matter with the fool? Just 
 now you were all gi'atitude and duty.
 
 286 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 Capt. A. I waa, sir; you talked to me of independence and a for- 
 tune, but not a word of a wife. 
 
 Sir A nth. Why, what difference does that make 1 Ods life, sir ! if you 
 have the estate, you must take it with the live stock on it, as it stands. 
 
 Capt. A. Pray, sir, who is the lady? 
 
 Sir Anth. What's that to you, sir? Come, give me your promise 
 to love, and to marry her directly. 
 
 Capt. A. Sure, sir, this is not very reasonable, to summon my 
 affections for a lady I know nothing of ! 
 
 Sir Anth. I am sure, sir, 'tis more unreasonable in you to object to 
 a lady you know nothing of. 
 
 Capt. A. You must excuse me, sir, if I tell you, once for all, that 
 in this point I cannot obey you. 
 
 Sir Anth. Harkye, Jack ! I have heard you for some time with 
 patience; I have been cool, quite cool; but take care; you know I 
 am compliance itself, — when I am not thwarted I No one more 
 easily led, — when I have my own way; but don't put me in a phrenzy 
 
 Capt. A. Sir, I must repeat it, — in this I cannot obey you. 
 
 Sir Anth. Now hang me if ever I caU you Jack again, wiiile I live I 
 
 Capt. A. Nay, sir, but hear me. 
 
 Sir A nth. Sir, I won't hear a word, not a word ; not one word : so 
 give me your promise by a nod; and I'll tell you what, Jack (I mean, 
 you dog I), if you don't — 
 
 Capt. A. What, sir, promise to link myself to some mass of ugli- 
 ness! — 
 
 Sir Anth. Zounds 1 sirrah 1 the lady shall be as ugly as I choose : 
 she shall have a hump on each shoulder; she shall be as crooked aa 
 the crescent; her one eye shall roll like the bull's in Cox's museum; 
 she shall have a skin like a mummy, and the beard of a Jew; she 
 shall be all this, sirrah ! yet, I'll make you ogle her all day, and sit 
 up all night to write sonnets on- her beauty. 
 
 Capt. A. This is reason and moderation, indeed! 
 
 Sir Anth. None of your sneering, puppy! no grinning, jackanapes! 
 
 Capt. A. Indeed, sir, I never was in a worse humour for mirth in 
 my life. 
 
 Sir Anth. 'Tis false, sir; I know you are laughing in your sleeve! 
 1 know you'll grin when I am gone, sirrah ! 
 
 Capt. A. Sir, I hope I know my duty better. 
 
 Sir Anth. None of your passion, sir! none of your violence, if you 
 please; it won't do with me, I promise you. 
 
 Capt. A. Indeed, sir, I never was cooler in my life. 
 
 Sir Anth. 'Tis a confounded lie! I know you are in a passion at
 
 SBLECTIONS FOB READING AND RECITATION. 287 
 
 your heart; I know you axe, you hypocritical young dogj but it 
 won't do. 
 
 Capt A. Nay, sir, upon my word — 
 
 Sir Anth. So you will fly out ! Can't you be cool, like me? What 
 good can passion do? passion is of no service, you impudent, inso- 
 lent, over-bearing reprobate ! There, you sneer again ! don't pro- 
 voke mel — but you rely upon the mildness of my temper; you do, 
 you dog ! you play upon the meekness of my disposition! Yet, take 
 care; the patience of a saint may be overcome at last. But mark ! — 
 I give you six hours and a half to consider of this : if you then 
 agree, without any condition, to do everything on earth that I 
 choose, why — confound you! I may in time forgive you: if not, 
 zounds ! don't enter into the same hemisphere with me ! don't dare 
 to breathe the same air, or use the same light with me; but get an 
 atmosphere and a sun of your own! I'll strip you of your commis- 
 sion! I'll lodge a five-and-threepence in the hands of trustees, 
 and you shall live on the interest. I'll disown you, I'U disinherit 
 you, and hang me! if ever I call you Jack again ! 
 
 THE COTTEE'S SATUKDAY NIGHT. 
 EoBERT Burns. 
 
 {Adapted for Recital. ) 
 
 November chill blaws loud wi' angry sough: 
 
 The ahort'ning winter-day is near a close; 
 The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh; 
 
 The black'uing trains o' craws to their repose: 
 The toil-worn cotter frae his labour goes, 
 
 This night his weekly moil is at an end, 
 Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, 
 
 Hoping the mom in ease and rest to spend. 
 And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend- 
 
 At length his lonely cot appears in view, 
 
 Beneath the shelter of an agM tree ; 
 Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin', stacher thro' 
 
 To meet their dad, wi' flichterin' noise an' glee. 
 His wee bit ingle, blinkiu' bonnily, 
 
 His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wifie's smile, 
 The lisping infant prattUng on his knee. 
 
 Does a' his weary, carking cares beguile, 
 An' makes him quite forget his labour an' his toil
 
 288 SELECTIONS FOR KEADINQ AND RECITATlOJl 
 
 Belyve the elder bairns come drappin' in, 
 
 At service out, amang the farmers roun'; 
 Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie tin 
 
 A cannie errand to a neebor town: 
 Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown, 
 
 In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e, 
 Comes hame, perhaps, to show a braw new gown, 
 
 Or deposite her sair-won penny-fee. 
 To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. 
 
 But hark! a rap comes gently to the door; 
 
 Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, 
 TeUs how a neebor lad cam' o'er the moor, 
 
 To do some errands, and convoy her hame. 
 The wily mother sees the conscious flame 
 
 Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek: 
 Wi' heart-struck, anxious care, inquires his name, 
 
 While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak; 
 Weel pleas'd the mother hears, it's nae wild, worthless rake. 
 
 Wi' kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben; 
 
 A strappin' youth; he taks the mother's eye; 
 Blithe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en; 
 
 The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye; 
 The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy. 
 
 But blate and laithfu', scarce can weel behave; 
 The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy 
 
 What makes the youth sae bashfu' an' sae grave; 
 Weel pleased to think her bairn's respected like the lave. 
 
 O happy love! — where love like this is found! — 
 
 O heart-felt raptures! bliss beyond compare! 
 I've paced much this weary mortal round. 
 
 And sage experience bids me this declare — 
 " If Heav'n a draught of heavenly pleasure spare, 
 
 One cordial in this melancholy vale, 
 'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair. 
 
 In other's arms breathe out the tender tale. 
 Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the ev'ning gale '• 
 
 The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face. 
 They, round the ingle, form a circle wide; 
 
 The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace, 
 The big ha' -Bible ance his father's pride;
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 289 
 
 His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside, 
 
 His lyart haflfets wearing thin an' bare; 
 Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, 
 
 He wales a portion with judicious care; 
 And "Let ua worship God!" he says, with solemn air. 
 
 From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, 
 
 That makes her loVd at home, rever'd abroad: 
 Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, 
 
 "An honest man's the noblest work of God": 
 And certes, in fair virtue's heavenly road. 
 
 The cottage leaves the palace far behind; 
 What is a lordling's pomp? — a cumbrous load, 
 
 Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, 
 Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refin'dl 
 
 O Scotia! my dear, my native soil! 
 
 For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent ! 
 Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil, 
 
 Be bless'd with health, and peace, and sweet content! 
 And, O! may Heaven their simple lives prevent 
 
 From luxury's contagion, weak and vile! 
 Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, 
 
 A virtuous populace may rise the while, 
 And stand a wall of fire around our much-loved isle. 
 
 JUD BROWNIN ON RUBINSTEIN'S PIANO PLAYING. 
 
 Moses Adams. 
 
 " Jud, they say you heard Rubinstein play when you were in New 
 York 1 Tell us about it." 
 
 "What, me? I might's well tell you about the creation of the 
 world." 
 
 "Come, now; no mock modesty: go ahead." 
 
 " Well, sir, he had the blamedest, biggest, catty- corneredst planner 
 you ever laid eyes on ; somethin' like a disti-acted billiard table on 
 three legs. The lid was hoisted, and mighty well it was : if it hadn't 
 been, he'd a tore the intire inside clean out, and scattered it to the 
 four winds of heaven." 
 
 "Played well, did he?" 
 
 " You bet he did. When he first set down, he 'peared to keer 
 mighty little 'bout playin', and wished he hadn't come. He tweedle- 
 leedled a little on the trible, and twoodle-oodle-oodled some on 
 (Sd6) K
 
 290 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 the baas, — jist foolin' and boxin' the thing's jaws for bein' in his 
 way. And I says to a man setting next me, 'What sort o' fool- 
 playin' is that?' And he says, 'Heish!' But presently his hands 
 commenced chasin' one 'nother up an' down the keys, like a passel o' 
 rats scamperin' through a garret very swift. Parts of it was sweet, 
 though ; and reminded me of a sugar-squirrel turnin' the wheel of a 
 candy- cage, 
 
 " ' Now,' I says to my neighbour, ' he's a-showin' off. He thinks 
 he's a-doin' of it, but he ain't got no idee — no plan of nothin'. If 
 he'd play a tune of some kind or other, I'd ' 
 
 " But my neighbour says, ' Heish ! ' very impatient. 
 
 " I was jist about to git up and go home, being tired of that foolish- 
 ness, when I heard, a little bird wakin' up away off in the woods, 
 and callin' sleepy -like to his mate ; and I looked up and see that 
 Rubin was beginnin' to take some interest in his business, and I set 
 down again. It was the peep o' day. The light come faint from 
 the east, — the breeze blowed gentle and fresh — some more birds 
 waked up in the orchard — then some more in the trees neai- the 
 house — and all begun singin' together. People begun to stir, and 
 the gal opened the shutters. Jist then the first beam o' the sun 
 fell upon the blossoms ; a leetle more, an' it techt the roses on the 
 bushes ; an' the next thing it was broad day : the sun fairly blazed, 
 the birds sang Uke they'd split their little throats; all the leaves 
 were movin', and flashin' diamonds of dew; and the whole wide 
 world was bright and happy as a king. Seemed to me like there 
 was a good breakfast in every house in the land, and not a sick child 
 or starvin' woman anywhere. It was a fine mornin'. And I says 
 to my neighbour, 'That's music, that is !' 
 
 " But he glared at me like he'd like to swallow me. 
 
 "Presently the music changed; a kind of grey mist come over 
 things ; I got low-sperited d'rectly. Then a silver rain began to fall. 
 I could see the drops touch the ground ; some flashed up like long 
 pearl ear-rings, and the rest rolled away like round rubies, and'raade 
 a brook that flowed silent — except that you could kinder see the 
 music — 'specially when the bushes on the banks moved, as the 
 music went along down the valley. I could smell the flowers in the 
 meadow. The most curious thing, though, was a Little white Angel- 
 boy, like you see in pictera, that ruu ahead of the music brook, and 
 led it on and on, away out of the world, where no man ever was — 1 
 never was, certain. I could see that boy jist as plain as I see you. 
 Then it got dark ; the wind moaned and wept like a lost child foi 
 M)s dead mother ; and I could a' got up then and thar, and preacher
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 291 
 
 a better seiinon than any I ever listened to. There wasn't a thing 
 in the world left to live for, not a blamed thing; and yet I didn't 
 want that music to stop one bit. It was happier to be miserable, 
 than to be happy without being miserable. I couldn't understand 
 it, so I pulled out my handkerchief, and blowed my nose loud to keep 
 from cryin' — my eyes is weak anyway, — and I didn't want anybody to 
 be a-gazin' at me a-snivlin', and it's nobody's business what I do with 
 my nose. It's mine. But some several glared at me as mad as Tucker. 
 
 " Then, all of a sudden, old Rubin changed his tune. He ripped 
 and he rared, he tipped and he tared, he pranced and he charged, 
 like the grand entry at a circus. 'Peared to me that all the gas in the 
 house was turned on at once, things got so bright ; and I hilt up my 
 lead, ready to look any man in the face, and not afeard of nothin'. 
 It was a circus, and a brass band, and a big ball, all goin' at the same 
 time 1 He lit into them keys like a thousand o' bricks ; he give 'em 
 no rest day nor night; he set every livin' joint in me a-going; and 
 ■ lot bein' able to stand it no longer, I jumpt spang onto my seat, and 
 /ist hollered, ' Go it, my Rube !' 
 
 " Every blamed man, woman, and child in the house riz on me, 
 and shouted, 'Put him out ! put him out !' 
 
 " ' Put your great grandmother's grizly-grey -greenish cat into the 
 middle of next month,' I says. ' Tech me if you dar ! I paid my 
 money, and you jist come a-nigh me ! ' 
 
 " With that some several p'Jicemen run up, and I had to simmer 
 down. But I would a' fit any fool that laid hands on me, for I was 
 bound to hear Rubie out or die. 
 
 " He had changed his tune again. He tip- toed fine from eend to 
 eend of the key-board. He played soft, and low, and solemn. I 
 heard the church-bells over the hills. The candles in heaven were 
 lit one by one. 1 saw the stars rise. The great organ of eternity 
 began to play from the world's end to the world's end, and all the 
 angels went to prayers. Then the music changed to water ; full of 
 f eelin' that couldn't be thought of ; and began to drop — drip, drop, 
 drip, drop — clear and sweet, like tears of joy fallin' into a lake of 
 glory. It was sweeter than that — it was as sweet as a sweetheart 
 sweetinin' with white sugar mixed with powdered silver and seed 
 diamonds. It was too too sweet. I tell you, the audience cheered ; 
 Rubin he kinder bowed, like he wanted to say, ' Much obleeged, but 
 I'd rather you wouldn't interrupt me." 
 
 " He stopt a minute or two to fetch breath. Then he got mad. 
 He run his finger through his har; he shoved up his sleeves; he 
 opened his coat-tails a little further, he drug up his stool, he leaned
 
 292 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 over, and, sir, he just went for that old pianner. He slapped her 
 face, he boxed her jaws, he pulled her nose, he pinched her ears, and 
 he scratched her cheeks, till she fairly yelled. He knocked her down, 
 and he stamped on her shameful She bellowed like a bull — she 
 bleated like a calf, she howled like a hound — she squealed like a pig, 
 she shrieked like a rat — and then he wouldn't let her up ! He ran 
 a quarter-stretch down the low grounds of the bass, tiU he got clean 
 into the bowels of the earth — and you heard thunder gallopin' after 
 thunder through the hollows and caves of perdition; and then he 
 fox-chased his right hand with his left, till he got away out of the 
 trible into the clouds, whar the notes was finer than the pints of 
 cambric needles, and you couldn't hear nothin' but the shadders of 
 them. And then he wouldn't let the old pianner go ! He for'ard 
 two'd, he crost over first gentleman, he crost over first lady, he 
 balanced to pards, he chassey'd right and left, back to your places ; 
 he aU hands'd aroun', ladies to the right, prominade all, in and out, 
 here and thar, back and forth, perpetual motion, doubled and twisted, 
 and turned and tied and tacked and tangled into forty-'leven thousand 
 double-bow knots ! 
 
 " It was a mixtery ! And even then he wouldn't let the old pianner 
 go ! He fetched up his right wing, he fetched up his left wing, he 
 fetched up his centre, he fetched up his reserves. He fired by file, 
 he fired by platoons, by companies, by regiments, and by brigades. 
 He opened his cannon, — siege-guns down thar; Napoleons here, 
 twelve pounders yonder; — big guns, little guns, middle-size gunsj 
 round shot, shells, shrapnels, grape, canister, mortars, mines and 
 magazines — every livin' battery and bomb a-goin' at the same time ! 
 The house trembled, the lights danced, the walls shuk, the floor come 
 up, the ceilin' come down, the sky split, the ground rocked; heaven 
 and earth, creation, sweet potatoes, nine-pins, glory, tenpenny nails, 
 my Mary Anne, Hallelujah, Samson in a 'simmon tree, Jeroosalem, 
 Tump Tompson in a tumbler cart — roodle-oodle-oodle-oodle-oodle ! 
 ruddle-uddle-uddle - uddle - uddle ! raddle - addle - addle - addle-addle . 
 riddle - iddle - iddle - iddle ! reette - eette - eette - eette-eette-eette-eette \ 
 p-r-r-r-r-r-lang ! p-r-r-r-r-lang ! per langl per langi ! p-r-r-r-r-r-r- 
 lang ! Bang ! ! ! 
 
 " "With that hang ! he lifted himself bodily into the air, and he 
 come down with his knees, his ten fingers, his ten toes, his elbows 
 and his nose, striking every single solitary key on that pianner at 
 the same time. The thing busted, and went off into seventeen 
 hundred and fifty-seven thousand five hundred and forty-two hemi- 
 demi-semiquavers — and I knowd no mo' !"
 
 SELECTIONS FOK READING AND RECITATION-. 293 
 
 THE MURDER OF MONTAGUE TIGG. 
 
 Charles Dickens. 
 
 (Adapted for Recital.) 
 
 "My dear Chuzzlewit ! " cried Montague Tigg as Jonas entered : 
 * you rise with the lark. Though you go to bed with the nightin- 
 gale, you rise with the lark." 
 
 " Ecod I I should be very glad not to get up with the lark, if 
 I could help it. But I am a light sleeper ; and it's better to be up, 
 than lying awake, counting the dismal old church - clocks, in bed. 
 Hallo ! who's that ? Oh, old what's - his - name : looking as if he 
 wanted to skulk up the chimney. He's not wanted here, I suppose. 
 He may go, may'nt he?" 
 
 This remark of Mr. Jonas was in allusion to Mr. Nadgett, the 
 man employed by Mr. Montague Tigg at a pound a week to make 
 inquiries. Mr. Nadgett was then standing with his back to Jonas, 
 apparently unconscious of the presence of anybody, and absorbed 
 in drying his pocket-handkerchief. 
 
 " Oh, let him stay, let him stay !" said Tigg. " He's a mere piece 
 of furniture. He has been making his report, and is waiting for 
 further orders. He has been told not to lose sight of certain friends 
 of oura. He understands his business." 
 
 " He need," replied Jonas ; " for of all the precious old dummies 
 in appearance that ever I saw, he's about the worst. He's afraid 
 of me, i think." 
 
 " It's my belief that you are Poison to him. Nadgett ! give me 
 that towel!" 
 
 He had as little occasion for a towel as Jonas had for a start. But 
 Nadgett brought it quickly ; and, having lingered for a moment, fell 
 back upon his old post by the fire 
 
 Then Jonas spoke : 
 
 " Now we've done with child's talk, I want to have a word with 
 you before we meet up yonder to-day. I am not satisfied with the 
 state of afi"airs." 
 
 " Not satisfied ! The money comes in well." 
 
 "The money comes in well enough, but it don't come mtt well 
 enough. It can't be got at easily enough. I haven't sufficient power; 
 it is all in your hands. If you should take it into your honourable 
 head to go abroad with the bank, I don't see much to prevent you. 
 Well ! That won't do. I've had some very good dinners here, but 
 they'd come too dear on such terms: and therefore, that won't do."
 
 294 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 " I am unfortunate to find you in this humour," said Tigg, with a 
 remarkable kind of smile : " for I was going to propose to you — for 
 your own advantage ; solely for your own advantage — that you 
 should venture a little moEC with us." 
 
 "Was you?" said Jonas. "And it'll be ail to my advantage, 
 won't it?" 
 
 " It will be very much to your advantage." 
 
 "And you can't tell how, can't you?" 
 
 "Shall I tell you how?" 
 
 " I think you had better," said Jonas. " Strange things have been 
 done in the Assurance way before now, by strange sorts of men, and 
 I mean to take care of myself." 
 
 •' Chuzzlewit ! " replied Montague, leaning forward, with his arms 
 upon his knees, and looking full into his face. "Strange things 
 have been done, and are done every day ; not only in our wa}'^, but 
 in a variety of other ways ; and no one suspects them. But ours, as 
 you say, my good friend, is a strange way; and we strangely happen, 
 sometimes, to come to the knowledge of very strange events." 
 
 He beckoned to Jonas to bring his chair nearer; and looking 
 slightly round, whispered in his ear. 
 
 From red to white ; from white to red again ; from red to yellow ; 
 then to a cold, dull, awful, sweat- bedabbled blue. In that short 
 whisper, all these changes fell upon the face of Jonas Chuzzlewit; 
 and when at last he laid his hand upon the whisperer's mouth, 
 appalled, lest any syllable of what he said should reach the ears of 
 the third person present, it was as bloodless, and as heavy as the 
 hand of Death. 
 
 He drew his chair away, and sat a spectacle of terror, misery, and 
 rage. He was afraid to speak, or look, or move, or sit stUl. Abject, 
 crouching, and miserable, he was a greater degradation to the form 
 he bore, than if he had been a loathsome wound from head to heel. 
 
 " You'll not object to venture further with us, Chuzzlewit, my 
 friend?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 "A thousand thanks. Shall we walk downstairs? Mr. Nadgott! 
 Follow us, if you please." 
 
 They went down in that order. Whatever Jonas felt in reference 
 to Montague; whatever sense of being caged, and barred, and trapped; 
 he never for an instant thought that the slinking figure half a dozen 
 stairs behind him was his pursuing Fate. 
 
 Next night unwatched, alone in his own house, Jonas took from his 
 portmanteau a pair of clumsy shoes, and put them on his feet; also
 
 8ELKCTI0NS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 295 
 
 a pair of leather leggings, such as countrymen are used to wear, with 
 straps to fasten them to the waistband. In these he dressed himself 
 at leisure. Lastly, he took out a common frock of coarse dark jean, 
 which he drew over his own underclothing; and a felt hat. He 
 looked out; passed out; locked the street door after him. 
 
 All was clear and quiet as he fled away. Hia object was to kill 
 the man who held his secret. 
 
 He shaped his course for the main western road, and soon reached 
 it. 
 
 Wandering into a copse by the roadside he tore out from a fence 
 a thick, hard, knotted stake; and, sitting beneath a hay-rick, spent 
 some time in shaping it, in peeling off the bark, and fashioning its 
 jagged head with his knife. 
 
 The day passed on. Noon, afternoon, evening. Sunset. 
 
 At that serene and peaceful time, two men, riding in a gig, came 
 out of the city by a road not much frequented. One of the travellers 
 was Montague Tigg. 
 
 "Keep the path, my dear sir, and go straight through the little 
 wood you'll come to. Good-night!" 
 
 " Good-night. And a pleasant ride 1 " 
 
 Tigg was flushed with wine, but not gay. His scheme had suc- 
 ceeded, but he showed no triumph. A shadowy veil was dropping 
 round him, closing out all thoughts but the vague foreknowledge of 
 impending doom. 
 
 Cold, although the air was warm : dull, although the sky was 
 bright. He checked himself, undecided whether to pursue the 
 footpath or to go back by the road. 
 
 He took the footpath. 
 
 The glory of the departing sun was on his face. The music of 
 the birds was in his ears. Sweet wild-flowers bloomed about him. 
 Thatched roofs of poor men's homes were in the distance. 
 
 He had never read the lesson which these things conveyed; he 
 had ever mocked and turned away from it; but, before going down 
 into a hollow place, he looked round, once, upon the evening pros- 
 pect, sorrowfully. Then he went down, down, down, into the deU. 
 Then, he was seen or heard no more. 
 
 Never more beheld by mortal eye or heard by mortal ear: one 
 man excepted. That man, parting the bi-anches on the other side, 
 near where the path emerged again, came leaping out soon after- 
 wards. 
 
 What had he left within the wood, that he sprang out of it, aa if 
 it were a hell?
 
 296 SELECTIONS FOR HEADING AND RECITATION. 
 
 The body of a murdered man. 
 
 In the London streets again. Hush ! 
 
 But five o'clock. Jonas had time enough to reach his own house 
 unobserved. 
 
 The passage-way was empty when his murderer's face looked into 
 it. He stole on, to the door. 
 
 He listened. Not a sound. 
 
 He went in, locked the door. Took oflF his disguise, undressed, 
 and went to bed. 
 
 The raging thirst, the fire that burnt within him as he lay beneath 
 the clothes ; the starts with which he left his couch, and looking in 
 the glass, imagined that his deed was broadly written in his face, 
 and lying down and burying himself once more beneath the blankets, 
 heard his own heart beating Murder, Murder, Murder, in the bed. 
 
 The morning advanced. Footsteps in the house. A stealthy 
 tread outside his door. 
 
 He looked, and his gaze was nailed to the door, Wbat men wera 
 standing in the doorway? 
 
 Nadgett foremost. 
 
 " That is the man. By the window ! " 
 
 Three others came in, and secured him. 
 
 " Murder," said Nadgett. " Let no one interfere." 
 
 " I accuse him yonder of the murder of Mr. Montague, who was 
 found last night, killed, in a wood. From that garret-window 
 opposite," said Nadgett, pointing across the nairow street, " I have 
 watched this house and him for days and nights. From that garret- 
 window opposite I saw a countryman steal out of this house, by a 
 side-door in the court, who had never entered it. I knew his walk, 
 and that it was himself, disguised. I arrest him for tha Murder." 
 
 He whined, and cried, and cursed, and entreated them, and 
 struggled, and submitted, in the same breath, and had no power to 
 stand. They got him away and into the coach. He soon fell moan- 
 ing down among the straw at the bottom, and lay there. 
 
 The man stooped down in quick alarm, and looked at the 
 prisoner. 
 
 " Stop the coach 1 He has poisoned himself 1" 
 
 They dragged him out, into the street; but jury, judge, and 
 hangman could have done no more, and could do nothing now. 
 Dead, dead, dead, 
 
 {By special permitnon of Messn. Chapman it Hall.)
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 297 
 
 JENNIE McNEALE. 
 
 Will Carleton. 
 
 Paul Revere was a rider bold — 
 
 Well has his valorous deed been told ; 
 
 Sheridan's ride was a glorious one — 
 
 Often it has been dwelt upon. 
 
 But why should men do all the deeds 
 
 On which the love of a patriot feeds? 
 
 Hearken to me while I reveal 
 
 The dashing ride of Jennie McNeale. 
 
 On a spot as pretty as might be found 
 
 In the dangerous length of the Neutral Ground, 
 
 In a cottage cosy, and all their own, 
 
 She and her mother lived alone. 
 
 Safe were the two, with their frugal store, 
 
 From all of the many who passed their door ; 
 
 For Jennie's mother was strange to fears, 
 
 And Jennie was large for fifteen years ; 
 
 With fun her eyes were glistening. 
 
 Her hair was the hue of a blackbird's wing. 
 
 And while tlie friends who knew her well 
 
 The sweetness of her heart could tell; 
 
 A. guf. that hung on the kitchen wall, 
 
 Looked solemnly quick to heed her call ; 
 
 And they who were evil-minded knew 
 
 Her nerve was strong and her aim was true. 
 
 So all kind words and acts did deal 
 
 To generous, black-eyed Jennie McNeale. 
 
 One night, when the sun had crept to bed, 
 And rain clouds lingered overhead. 
 And sent their pearly drops for proof 
 To drum a tune on the cottage roof. 
 Close after a knock at the outer door, 
 There entered a dozen dragoons or more. 
 Their red-coats, stained by the muddy road,. 
 That they were British soldiers showed ; 
 The captain his hostess bent to greet. 
 Saying : " Madam, please give us a bit to eat; 
 We will pay you well, and if may be, 
 This bright-eyed girl for pouring our tea ; 
 
 (996) K2
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATIOK, 
 
 Then we must dash ten miles ahead, 
 
 To catch a rebel colonel abed. 
 
 He is visiting home, as doth appear ; 
 
 We will make his pleasure cost him dear." 
 
 And they fell on the hasty supper with zeal. 
 
 Close watched the while by Jennie McNeale. 
 
 For the gray-haired colonel they hovered near 
 Had been her true friend — kind and dear; 
 And oft, in her younger days, had he 
 Right proudly perched her upon his knee, 
 And told her stories, many a one 
 Concerning the French war lately done. 
 She had hunted by his fatherly side, 
 He had shown her how to fence and ride ; 
 And once had said, " The time may be . 
 Your skill and courage may stand by me''. 
 So sorrow for him she could but feel, 
 Brave, grateful-hearted Jennie McNeale. 
 
 With never a thought or a moment more, 
 Bareheaded she slipped from the cottage-doos- 
 Ran out where the horses were left to feed, 
 Unhitched and mounted the captain's steed, 
 And down the hilly and rock-strewn way 
 She urged the fiery horse of gray. 
 Around her slender and cloakless form 
 Pattered and moaned the ceaseless storm ; 
 Secure and tight, a gloveless hand 
 Grasped the reins with stern command ; 
 And full and black her long hair streamed, 
 Whenever the ragged lightning gleamed. 
 And on she rushed for the colonel's weal, 
 Brave, lioness-hearted Jennie McNeale. 
 
 Hark ! from the hills, a moment mute. 
 Came a clatter of hoofs in hot pursuit ; 
 And a cry from the foremost trooper said, 
 " Halt ! or your blood be on your head ! " 
 She heeded it not, and not in vain 
 She lashed the horse with the bridle-rein. 
 So into the night the gray horse strode ; 
 His shoes heaved fire from the rocky road
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 299 
 
 And the high-born courage, that never dies, 
 Flashed from his rider's coal-black eyes. 
 The pebbles flew from the fearful race ; 
 The rain-drops splashed on her glowing face. 
 '' On — on, brave beast ! " with loud appeal, 
 Cried eager, resolute Jennie McNeale. 
 
 " Halt ! " once more came the voice of dread ; 
 
 " Halt 1 or your blood be on your head 1 " 
 
 Then, no one answering to the calls, 
 
 Sped after her a volley of balls. 
 
 They passed her in a rapid flight, 
 
 They screamed to her left, they screamed to her right 
 
 But, rushing still o'er the slippery track, 
 
 She sent no token of answer back, 
 
 Except a silvery laughter-peal. 
 
 Brave, merry-hearted Jennie McNeale. 
 
 So on she rushed, at her own good- will, 
 
 Through wood and valley, o'er plain and hill; 
 
 The gray horse did his duty well. 
 
 Till all at once he stumbled and fell. 
 
 Himself escaping the nets of harm. 
 
 But flinging the girl with a broken arm. 
 
 Still undismayed by the numbing j)ain, 
 
 She climg to the horse's bridle-rein, 
 
 And gently bidding him to stand, 
 
 Petted him with her able hand ; 
 
 Then sprung again to the saddle-bow, 
 
 And shouted : " One more trial now !" 
 
 As if ashamed of the heedless fall. 
 
 He gathered his strength once more for alL 
 
 And, galloping down a hillside steep, 
 
 Gained on the troopers at every leap; 
 
 No more the high-bred steed did reel. 
 
 But ran his best for Jennie McNeale. 
 
 They were a furlong behind or more. 
 When the girl burst through the colonel's doofj 
 Her poor arm, helpless hanging with pain, 
 And she all drabbled and drenched with rain^ 
 But her cheeks as red as firebrands are, 
 And her eyes as bright as a blazing star,
 
 300 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 And shouted : " Quick ! be quick, I say 1 
 They come ! they come ! Away ! away I " 
 Then sank on the rude white floor of deal, 
 Poor, brave, exhausted Jennie McNeale. 
 
 The startled colonel sprang and pressed 
 
 The wife and children to his breast. 
 
 And turned away fi-om his fireside bright, 
 
 And glided into the stormy night; 
 
 Then soon and safely made his way 
 
 To where the patriot army lay; 
 
 But first he bent in the dim firelight. 
 
 And kissed the forehead broad and white. 
 
 And blessed the girl who had ridden so well 
 
 To keep him out of a prison cell. 
 
 The giri roused up at the martial din. 
 
 Just as the troopers came rushing in, 
 
 And laughed, e'en in the midst of a moan, 
 
 Saying, " Good sirs, your bird has flown. 
 
 'Tis I who have scared him from his nest, 
 
 So deal with me now as you think best." 
 
 But the grand young captain bowed, and said-' 
 
 " Never you hold a moment's dread, 
 
 Of womanhood I must crown you queen; 
 
 So brave a girl I have never seen. 
 
 Wear this gold ring as your valour's due ; 
 
 And when peace comes I will come for you.'' 
 
 But Jennie's face an arch smile wore, 
 
 As she said, " There's a lad in Putman's corpa^ 
 
 Who told me the same, long time ago ; 
 
 You two would never agree, I know. 
 
 I promised my love to be true as steel," 
 
 Said good, sure-hearted Jennie McNeale. 
 
 CHRISTMAS GREETINGS. 
 G. A. Baker. 
 
 Oh, Lowbury pastor is fair and young. 
 But far too good for a single life, 
 
 And many a maiden, saith gossip's tongue. 
 Would fain be Lowbury pastor'a wife —
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 30] 
 
 So his bookmarks are 'broidered in crimson and gold. 
 And his slippers are, really, " a sight to behold ". 
 
 That's the Lowbury pastor, sitting there 
 
 On the cedar boughs by the chancel rails; 
 His face is clouded with carking cai'e, 
 
 For it's nearly five, the daylight fails — 
 The church is silent — the girls are gone, 
 And the Christmas wreaths not nearly done. 
 
 Two tiny boots crunch-crunch the snow. 
 
 They saucily stamp at the transept door, 
 And then up the pillared aisle they go 
 
 Pit-pat, clack-clack, on the marble floor — 
 A lady fair doth that pastor see, 
 And he saith, " Oh, bother, it isn't she ! " 
 
 A lady in sealskin — eyes of blue 
 
 And tangled tresses of snow-flecked gold — 
 
 She speaks, " Good gracious ! Can this be you. 
 Sitting alone in the dark and cold I 
 
 The rest all gone ? Why, it wasn't right ; 
 
 These texts will never be done to-night." 
 
 She sits down at her pastor's feet. 
 
 And, wi'eathing evergreens, weaves her wiles, 
 
 Heart-piercing glances bright and fleet. 
 Soft little sighs, and shy little smiles; 
 
 But the pastor is solemnly sulky and glum, 
 
 And thinketh it strange that " she " doesn't come. 
 
 Then she teUs him earnestly, soft and low. 
 How she'd do her part in this world of strife. 
 
 And humbly look to him to know 
 The path that her feet should tre^d through life— 
 
 Her pastor yawneth behind his hat. 
 
 And wondereth what she is driving at. 
 
 Crunch-crunch again on the snow outside, 
 
 The pjistor riseth unto his feet, 
 rhe ve.stry-door is opened wide, 
 
 A dark-eyed maid doth the pastor greet, 
 And the lady fair can see and hear 
 The pastor kiss her, and call her " dear ''.
 
 302 SELECTIONS FOK READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 " Why, Maud I " " Why, Nelly I " those damsels cry, 
 But lo, what troubles that lady fair? 
 
 On Nelly's finger there meets her eye 
 The glow of a diamond solitaire, 
 
 And she thinks, as she sees the glittering ring, 
 
 " And so she^s caught him — the hateful thing ! " 
 
 There sit they all 'neath the Christmas-tree, 
 For Maud is determined that she won't go, 
 
 The pastor is cross as a man can be. 
 And Nelly would like to pinch her so, 
 
 And they go on wreathing the text again — 
 
 It is " Peace on earth and good-will towards men ". 
 
 THE EXECUTION OF MONTROSE. 
 
 Professor Attoun. 
 
 Come hither, Evan Cameron, come, stand beside my knee — 
 
 I liear the river roaring down towards the wintry sea. 
 
 There's shouting on the mountain-side, there's war within the blast ; 
 
 Old faces look upon me, old forms go trooping past. 
 
 [ hear the pibroch wailing amidst the din of fight, 
 
 And my dim spirit wakes again upon the verge of night. 
 
 'Twas I that led the Highland host through wild Lochaber's 
 snows, 
 What time the plaided clans came down to battle with Montrose. 
 I've told thee how the Southrons fell beneath the broad claymore. 
 And how we smote the Campbell clan by Inverlochy's shore : 
 I've told thee how we swept Dundee, and tamed the Lindsay's pride ; 
 But never have I told thee yet how the great Marquis died. 
 
 A traitor sold him to his foes : O, deed of deathless shame ! 
 I charge thee, boy, if e'er thou meet with one of Assynt's name — 
 Be it upon the mountain's side, or yet within the glen, 
 Stand he in martial gear alone, or backed by arm6d men — 
 Face him, as thou wouldst face the man who wrong'd thy sire's 
 
 renown ; 
 Remember of what blood thou art, and strike the caitiff down ! 
 
 They brouglit liim to the Watergate, hard bound with hempen 
 span, 
 Aa though they held a lion there, and not a fenceless man.
 
 SELECTIONS FOB READING AND RECITATION. 303 
 
 They set him high upon a cart — the hangman rode below — 
 They drew his hands behind his back, and bared his noble brow. 
 Then, as a hound is slipp'd from leash, they cheer'd the common 
 
 throng. 
 And blew the note with yell and shout, and bade him pass along. 
 
 It would have made a brave man's heart grow sad and sick that day, 
 To watch the keen malignant eyes bent down on that array. . . . 
 But when he came, though pale and wan, he looked so great and 
 
 high, 
 So noble was his manly front, so calm his steadfast eye, 
 The rabble rout forbore to shout, and each man held his breath, 
 For well they knew the hero's soul was face to face with death. 
 
 But onwards— always onwards, in silence and in gloom, 
 The dreary pageant laboured, till it reach'd the house of doom. 
 Then, as the Grasme looked upwards, he saw the ugly smile 
 Of him who sold his King for gold — the master-fiend, Argyle 1 
 And a Saxon soldier cried aloud, " Back, coward, from thy place 1 
 For seven long years thou hast not dared to look him in the face." 
 
 Had I been there, with sword in hand, and fifty Camerons by. 
 That day through high Dunedin's streets had peal'd the slogan-cry; 
 Not all their troops of trampling horse, nor might of mailed men, 
 Not all the rebels in the South had borne us backwards then 1 
 Once more his foot on Highland heath had trod as free as air, 
 Or I, and all who bore my name, been laid around him there 1 
 
 It might not be. They placed him next within the solemn hall, 
 Where once the Scottish kings were throned amidst their nobles all. 
 With savage glee came "Warristoun to read the murderous doom; 
 And then uprose the great Montrose in the middle of the room. 
 
 " Now, by my faith as belted knight, and by the name I bear. 
 And by the bright Saint Andrew's cross that waves above us there — 
 I have not sought in battle-field a wreath of such renown. 
 Nor dared I hope on my dying day to win the martyr's crown! 
 There is a chamber far away, where sleep the good and brave. 
 But a better place ye have named for me, than by my father's grave; 
 For truth and right, 'gainst treason's might, this hand hath always 
 
 striven, 
 And ye raise it up for a witness still, in the eye of earth and heavea 
 Then nail my head on yonder tower— give every town a limb — 
 And God, who made, shall gather them : I go from you to Him I "
 
 304 SELECTIONS FOR READING AXD RECITATION, 
 
 All, boy ! that ghastly gibbet ! how dismal 'tis to see 
 The great tall spectral skeleton, the ladder, and the tree 1 
 Hark 1 hark ! it Ls the clash of arms — the bells begin to toU — 
 " He is coming ! he is coming ! God's mercy on his soul I " 
 There was colour in his visage, though the cheeks of aU were wan, 
 And they marvell'd as they saw him pass, that great and goodly 
 man. 
 
 He mounted up the scafifold, and he turned him to the crowd ; 
 But they dared not trust the people, so he might not speak aloud. 
 But he looked upon the heavens, and they were clear and blue. 
 And in the liquid ether the eye of God shone through ; 
 Yet a black and murky battlement lay resting on the hill, 
 As though the thunder slept within — all else was calm and still. 
 
 A beam of light fell o'er him, like a glory round the shriven. 
 And he climb'd the lofty ladder, as it were the path to heaven. 
 Then came a flash from out the cloud, and a stunning thunder-roU 1 
 And no man dared to look aloft, for fear was on every soul. 
 There was another heavy sound, a hush, and then a groan; 
 And darkness swept across the sky — the work of death was done I 
 
 ARTEMUS T^ARD'S LECTURE. 
 A. Ward. 
 
 Ladies and Gentlemen, — I don't expect to do great things here 
 to-night. But I thought if I could make enough money to take me 
 to New Zealand — 1 shouldn't have lived in vain. I don't want to 
 live in vain, I'd rather live in Margate or here. T don't care for 
 money. How often do large fortunes ruin young men — I should 
 like to be ruined. I'm not an artist, but I have been always, more 
 or less, mixed up with Art. I have an uncle who takes photographs, 
 and I have a servant who takes anything he can lay his hands on. I 
 like Art, I admire Dramatic Art, altho' I failed as an actor. The 
 play was, "The Ruins of Herculaneum". I played "The Ruins". 
 The Ruins was not a success; a friend of mine played "The Burn- 
 ing Mountain"; he was worse than "The Ruins", he was a bad 
 Vesuvius. 
 
 The remembrance often makes me ask, where are the boys of my 
 youth? Some are with you here; some are abroad, some are in gaol. 
 Hence arises a most touching question. Where are the girls of ray 
 youth? Some are married, some would like to be. Oh! my Maria
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 305 
 
 Alas! she married another. They frequently do. I hope she is 
 happy — Because I am. I like music. I can't sing — a« a singist I'm 
 not a success,— I am saddest when I sing, so are those who hear me, 
 they are sadder than I am. 
 
 Some silver-voiced young men came under my window the othei 
 night, and sang — 
 
 " Come where my love is dreaming". 
 
 But I didn't go. 
 
 The Great American Desert in Winter ; this is a great Work of 
 Art, an oil painting, done in petroleum. It is by the "Old Masters". 
 This is the last thing they did before dying ; they did this, and then 
 they expired. 
 
 Some of the greatest living artists come here, every morning, 
 before daylight, with lanterns, to look at it. They say — " They 
 never saw anything like it before — and they hope they never shall 
 again". 
 
 I don't like to speak about it, but I once made the great speech of 
 my life — I wish you could have heard it — I have a fine education, 
 I speak six diflFerent languages — London, Chatham, and Dover; 
 Margate, Brighton, and Hastings. 
 
 I wish you could have heard that speech — if Cicero — Well — he's 
 dead now — he has gone from us — but if dear old Cis could have 
 heai'd that effort, it would have given him the influenza. 
 
 I spoke that speech to two battalions of soldiers, and I worked 
 them up to such a pitch of enthusiasm, that they came very near 
 shooting me on the spot. 
 
 I remember being once surrounded by a band of Indians — they 
 were armed with rifles, knives, and pistols. 
 
 I am a brave man. On the very day before the battle of Bull's 
 Run I was on the highway, while the bullets, those awful messengers 
 of death, were passing all around me thickly — in waggons, on their 
 way to the battle-field. There were too many of those Indians; 
 there were forty of them and only one of me. So I said, "Great 
 Chief, I surrender." His name was Wocky Bocky. He approached 
 me, I saw his Tomahawk glisten in the morning sunlight ; he min ■ 
 gled his swarthy fingers with my golden locks. He waved his 
 dreadful Thomas-hawk before my lily-white face. He exclaimed : 
 
 " Toosha— AiTa — Darra Book she." 
 
 Says I, " Mr. Wocky Bocky, I've thought so for years, and so has 
 all our family." 
 
 I regret to say that efforts were made to make a Mormon of me 
 when I waa at Utah — ^seventeen young widows, the wives of a
 
 306 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 deceased Mormon, offered me their hands and hearts. Taking their 
 soft white hands in mine, which made eighteen hands altogether — I 
 found them in tears — I said: "Why is this thus? What is the 
 meaning of this thusness?" They hove a sigh — seventeen sighs— 
 of different size. Then they said: "Doth not like us?" I said: 
 " I doth — I doth." I also remarked : " I hope your intentions 
 are honourable, as I am a lone child, my parents being 'far, far 
 away'." 
 
 Then they said : " Wilt not marry us?" 
 
 I said : "Oh 1 no ! It cannot was." Then they said : "Oh cruel, 
 cruel man ! this is too much, too much !" 
 
 " Yes," says I, " I think it is. It is on account of the muchness I 
 decline." 
 
 SCENE FROM "THE LADY OF LYONS". 
 
 BULWER LyTTON. 
 
 Two Characters — Claude Mklnottb. Paulins. 
 
 Mel. Now, lady, hear me. 
 
 Pauline. Hear thee ! 
 Ay, speak — her son! have fiends a parent? speak 1 
 That thou may'st silence curses — speak ! 
 
 Mel. No, curse me : 
 Thy curse would blast me less than thy forgiveness. 
 Pauline {Laughing vdldly). " This is thy })alace, where the perfumed 
 
 light 
 " Steals through the mist of alabaster lamps, 
 " And every air is heavy with the sighs 
 " Of orange-groves, and music from sweet lutes, 
 "And murmurs of low fountains, that gush forth 
 " I' the midst of roses !" Dost thou like the picture? 
 This is my bridal home, and thou my bridegroom 1 
 
 fool — O dupe — O wretch ! — I see it all — 
 The by-word and the jeer of every tongue 
 In Lyons. Hast thou in thy heart one touch 
 Of human kindness ? If thou hast, why kill me, 
 And save thy wife from madness. No, it cannot — 
 It cannot be : this is some horrid dream : 
 
 1 shall awake soon. — {Touching him.) Art flesii? art man? or but 
 The shadows seen in sleep ? — It is too real. 
 
 What have I done to thee? how sinn'd against thee,
 
 SELECTIONS FOR RKADINO AND RECITATIOD. 307 
 
 That thou shouMst crush me thus? 
 
 Mel. Pauline, by pride — 
 Angels have fallen ere thy time : by pride — 
 That sole alloy of thy most lovely mould — 
 The evil spirit of a bitter love, 
 And a revengeful heart, had power upon thes. 
 From my first years my soul was fiU'd with thee i 
 I saw thee midst the floVrs the lowly boy 
 Tended, unmark'd by thee — a spirit of bloom, 
 And joy and freshness, as if Spring itself 
 Were made a living thing, and wore thy shape I 
 I saw thee, and the passionate heart of man 
 Enter'd the breast of the wild-dreaming boy. 
 And from that hour I grew — what to the last 
 I shall be— thine adorer ! Well ; this love, 
 Vain, frantic, guilty, if thou wilt, became 
 A fountain of ambition and bright hope; 
 I thought of tales that by the winter hearth 
 Old gossips tell — how maidens sprung from Kings, 
 Have stoop'd from their high sphere : how Love like Death, 
 Levels all ranks, and lays the shepherd's crook 
 Beside the sceptre. Thus I made my home 
 In the soft palace of a fairy Future ! 
 My father died ; and I, the peasant-born, 
 Was my own lord. Then did I seek to rise 
 Out of the prison of my mean estate ; 
 And, with such jewels as the exploring Mind 
 Brings from the caves of Knowledge, buy my ransom 
 From those twin gaolers of the daring heart — 
 Low Birth and iron Fortune. Thy bright image, 
 Glass'd in my soul, took all the hues of glory. 
 And lured me on to those inspiring toils 
 ^y which man masters men ! For thee I grew 
 A midnight student o'er the dreams of sages ! 
 For thee I sought to borrow from each Grace, 
 A.ud every Muse, such attributes as lend 
 Ideal charms to Love. I thought of thee, 
 And Passion taught me poesy — of thee, 
 And on the painter's canvas grew the life 
 Of beauty! — Art became the shadow 
 Of the dear staiiight of thy haunting eyes ' 
 Mtm call'd me vain — some mad — i heeded not;
 
 308 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATIOM, 
 
 But still toil'd on — hoped on — for it was sweet, 
 If not to win, to feel more worthy thee ! 
 
 Pauline [Aside]. Why do I cease to hate him? 
 
 Mel. At last, in one mad hour, I dared to pour 
 The thoughts that burst their channels into song, 
 And sent them to thee — such a tribute, lady, 
 As beauty rarely scorns, even from the meanest. 
 The name — appended by the burning heart 
 That long'd to show its idol what bright things 
 It had created — yea, the enthusiast's name. 
 That should have been thy triumph, was thy scorn I 
 That very hour — when passion, turned to wrath, 
 Resembled Hatred most — when thy disdain 
 Made my whole soul a chaos — in that hour 
 The tempters found me a revengeful tool 
 For theu- revenge ! Thou hadst trampled on the worm- 
 It turn'd and stung thee ! 
 
 SCENE FEOM "JULIUS C^SAE "— BEUTUS AND 
 
 CASSIUS. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 Cas. That you have wronged me doth appear in this — you have 
 condemned and noted Lucius Pella, for taking bribes here of the 
 Sardians; wherein my letters praying on his side, because I knew 
 the man, were slighted off. 
 
 Bru. You wronged yourself, to write in such a case. 
 
 Cas. In such a time as this it is not meet that every nice ofience 
 should bear its comment. 
 
 Bru. Yet let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself are much con- 
 demned to have an itching palm ; to sell and mart your ofl&ces for 
 gold to undeservers. 
 
 Cas. I an itching palm ! You know that you are Brutus thai, 
 speak this ; or, by the gods, this speech were else your last ! 
 
 Bru. The name of Cassius honours this corruption, and chastise- 
 ment doth therefore hide its head. 
 
 Cas. Chastisement ! 
 
 Bru. Eenieuiber March, the ides of March remember ! Did not 
 great Julius bleed for justice' sake? What villain touched his body, 
 that did stab, and not for justice? What! shall one of us, that 
 struck the foremost luan of all this world, but for supporting robbers
 
 SELECTIONS TOR READING AND RECITATION. 309 
 
 — shall we now contaminate our fingers with base bribes, and sell 
 the mighty space of our large honours for so much trash as may be 
 graspfed thus? I'd rather be a dog, and bay the moon, than such a 
 Roman. 
 
 Cos. Brutus, bay not me ! I'U not endure it ; you forget yourself 
 to hedge me in ; I am a soldier, I ; older in practice, abler than 
 yourself to make conditions. 
 
 Bru. Go to ; you are not, Cassius, 
 
 Cas. I am ! 
 
 Bru. I say you are not. 
 
 Cas, Urge me no more, I shall forget myself — have mind upon 
 'your health— tempt me no farther ! 
 
 Bru. Away, slight man 1 
 
 Cas. Is't possible ? 
 
 Bru. Hear me, for I will speak. Must I give way and room to 
 your rash choler ? Shall I be frighted when a madman stares ? 
 
 Cas. O gods ! ye gods ! must I endure all this ? 
 
 Bru. All this ! ay, more. Fret, till your proud heart break ; go. 
 show your slaves how choleric you are, and make your bondmen 
 tremble. Must I budge? Must I observe you? Must I stand and 
 crouch under your testy humour? By the gods ! you shall digest 
 the venom of your spleen, though it do split you ; for, from this daj 
 forth, I'U use you for my mirth, yea, for my laughter, when you are 
 waspish. 
 
 Cas. Is it come to this? 
 
 Bru. You say you are a better soldier; let it appear so: make 
 your vaunting true, and it shall please me well. For mine own 
 part, I shall be glad to learn of noble men, 
 
 Cas. You wrong me every way — you wrong me, Brutus; I said 
 an elder soldier, not a better; did I say better? 
 
 Bru. If you did, I care not. 
 
 Cas. When Caesar lived, he durst not thus have moved me I 
 
 Bru. Peace, peace ; you durst not so have tempted him. 
 
 Cas I durst not? 
 
 Bru. No. 
 
 Cas. What 1 durst not tempt him? 
 
 Bru. For your life you durst not. 
 
 Cas. Do not presume too much upon my love; I may do that I 
 shall be sorry for I 
 
 Bru. You have done that you should be sorry for. There is no 
 terror, Cassius, in your threats ; for I am armed so strong in honesty 
 that they pass by me as the idle wind, which I respect not. I did
 
 310 SELECTIONS FOR BEADING AND RECITATION. 
 
 send to you for certain sums of gold, which you denied me; for I 
 can raise no money by vile means. I had rather coin my heart, 
 and drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring, from the hard 
 hands of peasants, their vile traah, by any indirection. I did send 
 to you for gold to pay my legions, which you denied me ; was that 
 done Uke Cassius? Should I have answered Caius Cassius so? 
 When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous, to lock such rascal- 
 counters from his friends, be ready, gods 1 with all your thunder- 
 bolts, dash him to pieces ! 
 
 Cos. I denied you not. 
 
 Bru. You did. 
 
 Cos. I did not ; he was but a fool that brought my answer back. 
 Brutus hath rived my heart. A friend should bear his friend's 
 infirmities, but Brutus makes mine greater than they are. 
 
 Bru. I do not, till you practise them on me. 
 
 Cat. You love me not. 
 
 Bru. I do not like your faults. 
 
 Cos. A friendly eye could never see such faults. 
 
 Bru. A flatterer's would not, though they did appear as huge as 
 high Olympus. 
 
 Cos. Come, Antony, and young Octavius, come, revenge your- 
 selves alone on Cassius, for Cassius is a-weary of the world ; hated 
 by one he loves ; — braved by his brother ; — checked like a bondman ; 
 • — all his faults observed, set in a note-book, learned and conned by 
 rote, to cast into my teeth. O, I could weep my spirit from mine 
 eyes! There is my dagger, and here my naked breast; within, a 
 heart dearer than Plutus' mine, richer than gold ; — if that thou be'st 
 a Roman, take it forth. I, that denied thee gold, will give my 
 heart. Strike, as thou didst at Caesar : for I know, when thou didst 
 hate him worst, thou lovedst him better than ever thou lovedst 
 Cassius. 
 
 Bru. Sheath your dagger. Be angry when you will, it shall have 
 scope ; do what you will, dishonour shall be humour. O Cassius, 
 you are yokM with a lamb, that carries anger as the flint bears fire; 
 which, much enforcM, shows a hasty spark,^ — and straight is cold 
 again. 
 
 Cos. Hath Cassius lived to be but mirth and laughter to his 
 Brutus, when grief and blood ill-tempered vexeth him ? 
 
 Bru. When I spoke that I was ill-tempered too. 
 
 Cas. Do you confess so much? Give me your hand. 
 
 Bru. And my heart too. 
 
 Cai. O Brulus!
 
 SifiLECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATIOW. 311 
 
 £ru. What's the matter 1 
 
 Cos. Have you not love enough to bear with me, when that rash 
 humour which my mother gave me, makes me forgetful ? 
 
 Bru. Yes, Cassiua; and, from henceforth, when you are over- 
 earnest with your Brutus, he'll think your mother chides, and leave 
 you 80. 
 
 SCENE FEOM HENRY VIIL 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 Cardinal Wolsey. Earl of Surbkt. 
 
 Duke of Norfolk. Lord Chamberlain. 
 
 DuKB OF Suffolk, Cromwell, Secretary to Wolsst 
 
 Wol. What should this mean? 
 
 What sudden anger's thisl how have I reap'd it? 
 He parted frowning from me, as if ruin 
 Leap'd from his eyes. So looks the chafed lion 
 Upon the daring huntsman, that has gall'd him; 
 Then makes him nothing. I must read this paper; 
 I fear the story of his anger — 'Tis so 
 This paper has undone me ;— 'Tis the account 
 Of all that world of wealth I have drawn together 
 For mine own ends; indeed, to gain the popedom, 
 And fee my friends in Rome. O negligence, 
 Fit for a fool to fall by I What cross devil 
 Made me put this main secret in the packet 
 I sent the king? Is there no way to cure this? 
 No new device to beat this from his brains? 
 I know 'twill stir him strongly ; yet I know 
 A way, if it take right, in spite of fortune 
 Will bring me off again. What's this— to the Pope? 
 The letter, as I live, with all the business 
 I writ to his holiness. Nay, then, farewell I 
 I have touched the highest point of all ray greatness ; 
 And, from that full meridian of my glory, 
 I haste now to my setting ; I shall fall 
 Like a bright exhalation in the evening. 
 
 And no man see me more. 
 
 Enter the Dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk, the Earl, of 
 Surrey and the Lord Chamberlain. 
 Nw. Hear the king's pleasure, cardinal; who commands you 
 
 i'c render up the great seal presently
 
 312 SELECTIONS FOR READINO AND RECITATIOS. 
 
 Into our hands; and to confine yourself 
 To Asher-house, my lord of Winchester's, 
 Till you hear farther from his highness. 
 
 Wol. Stay, 
 
 Where's your commission, lords? words cannot carry 
 Authority so weighty. 
 
 Suf. Who dare cross themi 
 
 Bearing the king's will from his mouth expressly 'i 
 
 Wol. Till I find more than will, or words, to do it, 
 (I mean, your malice), know, officious lords, 
 I dare, and must deny it. Now I feel 
 Of what coarse metal ye are moulded, — envy. 
 How eagerly ye follow my disgraces. 
 As if it fed ye ! and how sleek and wanton 
 Ye appear in every thing may bring my ruin 1 
 Follow your envious courses, men of malice ; 
 Vou have christian warrant for them, and, no doubt, 
 In time will find their fit rewards. That seal, 
 You ask with such a violence, the king, 
 (Mine, and your master), with his own hand gave me ; 
 Bade me enjoy it, with the place and honours, 
 During my life ; and, to confirm his goodness. 
 Tied it by letters patents: Now, who'll take it? 
 
 iS'icr. The king, that gave it. 
 
 Wol. It must be himself then, 
 
 Sur. Thou art a proud traitor, priest. 
 
 Wol. Proud lord, thou lieat 
 
 Within these forty hours Surrey durst better 
 Have burnt that tongue, than said so. 
 
 Sur. Thy ambition, 
 
 Thou scarlet sin, robb'd this bewailing land 
 ()i noble Buckingham, my father-in-law ; 
 The heads of all thy brother cardinals, 
 (With thee, and all thy best parts bound together), 
 Weigh'd not a hair of his. Plague of your policy I 
 You sent me deputy for Ireland ; 
 Far from his succour, from the king, from all. 
 That might have mercy on the fault thou gavest him ' 
 Whilst your great goodness, out of holy pity. 
 Absolved him with an axe. 
 
 Wol. This, and all else 
 
 lliis talkir.g lord can lay upon my credit,
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATIOS. 313 
 
 I answer, is most false. The duke by law 
 Found hia deserts : how innocent I was 
 From any private malice in hia end, 
 His noble jury and foul cause can witness. 
 If I loved many words, lord, I should tell you, 
 Yoii have as little honesty as honour ; 
 That I, in the way of loyalty and truth 
 Toward the king, my ever royal master, 
 Dare mate a sounder man than Surrey can be, 
 And all that love his follies. 
 
 Sur, By my soul, 
 
 Your long coat, priest, protects you ; thou shouldst feel 
 My sword i' the life-blood of thee else. — My lords, 
 Can ye endure to hear this arrogance? 
 And from this fellow? If we live thus tamely, 
 To be thus jaded by a piece of scarlet. 
 Farewell nobility ; let his grace go forward. 
 And dare us with his cap, like larks. 
 
 Wol. All goodness 
 
 Is poison to thy stomach. 
 
 Sur. Yes, that goodness 
 
 Of gleaning all the land's wealth into one. 
 Into your own hands, cardinal, by extortion ; 
 The goodness of your intercepted packets, 
 You writ to the pope, against the king : your goodness; 
 Since you provoke me, shall be most notorious. — 
 My lord of Norfolk, — as you are truly noble. 
 As you respect the common good, the state 
 Of our despised nobility, our issues. 
 Who, if he live, will scarce be gentlemen, — 
 Produce the grand sum of his sins, the articles 
 Collected from his life; — I'll startle you 
 Worse than the scaring bell, when the brown wench 
 Lay kissing in yoitr arms, lord cardinal. 
 
 Wol. How much, methinks, I could despise this man. 
 But that I am bound in charity against it 1 
 
 Nor. Those articles, my lord, are in the king's hand : 
 But, thus much, they are foul ones. 
 
 Wol. So much fairer, 
 
 And spotless, shall mine innocence arise, 
 VSTien the king knows my truth. 
 
 Sur. This cannot save you.
 
 314 SELECTIONb FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 I thank my memory, I yet remember 
 Some of these articles; and out they shall. 
 Now, if you can blush, and cry guilty, cardinal. 
 You'll shew a little honesty. 
 
 Wol. Speak on, sir ; 
 
 I dare your worst objections : if I blush, 
 It is, to see a nobleman want manners. 
 
 Sur. I'd rather want those, than my head. Have at yooi 
 First, that, without the king's assent, or knowledge. 
 You wrought to be a legate ; by which power 
 You maim'd the jurisdiction of all bishojis. 
 
 N'or. Then, that, in all you writ to Eome, or else 
 To foreign princes, Ec/o et Rex metts 
 Was still inscribed ; in which you brought the king 
 To be your servant. 
 
 Suf. Then, that, without the knowledge 
 
 Either of king or council, when you went 
 Ambassador to the emj^eror, you made bold 
 To carry into Flanders the great seal. 
 
 iSur. Item, you sent a large commission 
 To Gregory de Cassalis, to conclude, 
 Without the king's will, or the state's allowance, 
 A league between his highness and Ferrara. 
 
 Suf. That, out of mere ambition, you have caused 
 Vour holy hat to be stamp'd on the king's coin. 
 
 Sur. Then, that you have sent innumerable substance, 
 (By what means got, I leave to your own conscience), 
 To furnish Rome, and to prepare the ways 
 You have for dignities ; to the mere undoing 
 Of all the kingdom. Many more there are ; 
 Which, since they are of you, and odious, 
 I will not taint my mouth with. 
 
 Cham. O my lord, 
 
 Press not a falling man too far ; 'tis virtue : 
 His faults lie open to the laws ; let them. 
 Not you correct them. My heart weeps to see him 
 So little of his great self. 
 
 Sur. I forgive him. 
 
 Suf. Lord cardinal, the king's farther pleasure ip. -- 
 Because all those things, you have done of late 
 By your power legatine within this kingdom, 
 Fall into the compass of a prcnmunire, —
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READIKO AND RECITATION, 316 
 
 That therefore such a writ be sued against you; 
 To forfeit all yoiu goods, lands, tenements, 
 Chattels, and whatsoever, and to be 
 Out of the king's protection ; — This is my charge. 
 
 Nor. And so we'U leave you to your meditations 
 How to live better. For your stubborn answer, 
 About the giving back the great seal to us, 
 The king shall know it, and, no doubt, shall thank you. 
 So fare you well, my little good lord cardinal. 
 
 \_Exeuiit all bui Wohiy. 
 
 Wot. So farewell to the little good you bear me. 
 Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness ! 
 This is the state of man ; to-day he puts forth 
 The tender leaves of hope, to-morrow blossoms, 
 And bears his blushing honours thick upon him : 
 The third day comes a frost, a killing frost ; 
 And, — when he thinks, good easy man, full surely 
 His gi-eatnesa is a-ripening, — nips his root. 
 And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured. 
 Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, 
 This many summers in a sea of glory ; 
 But far beyond my depth; my high-blown pride 
 At length broke under me ; and now has left me. 
 Weary, and old with service, to the mercy 
 Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me. 
 Vain pomp, and glory of this world, I hate ye ; 
 I feel my heart new opened : O, how wretched 
 Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours ! 
 There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to, 
 That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin, 
 More pangs and fears than wars or women have j 
 And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, 
 Never to hope again. 
 
 Enter Cromwell, amazedly. 
 
 Why, how now, Cromwell ? 
 
 Grom. I have no power to speak, sir. 
 
 Wol. What, amazed 
 
 At my misfortunes? can thy spirit wonder 
 A great man should decline ? Nay, an you weep, 
 I am fallen indeed. 
 
 Orom. How does your grace ?
 
 316 SBIiECTlOKS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 Wol. Why, well ; 
 
 Never so truly happy, my good Cromwell. 
 1 know myself now ; and I feel within me 
 A peace above all earthly dignities, 
 A still and quiet conscience. The king has cured me, 
 I humbly thank his grace ; and from these shoulders^ 
 These ruin'd pillars, out of pity, taken 
 A load would sink a navy, too much honour : 
 O, 'tis a burden, Cromwell, 'tis a burden 
 Too heavy for a man that hopes for heaven. 
 
 Ch-om. I am glad your grace has made that right use of it 
 
 Wol. I hope T have : I am able now, methinks, 
 (Out of a fortitude of soul I feel). 
 To endure more miseries, and greater far, 
 Than my weak-hearted enemies dare offer. 
 What news abroad ? 
 
 Crom. The heaviest, and the worst, 
 
 Is your displeasure with the king. 
 
 Wol. God bless him ! 
 
 Crom. The next is, that Sir Thomas More is chosen 
 Lord Chancellor in your place. 
 
 Wol. That's somewhat sudden : 
 
 But he's a learned man. May he continue 
 Long in his highness' favour, and do justice 
 For truth's sake, and his conscience ; that his bones, 
 When he has run his course, and sleeps in blessings, 
 May have a tomb of orphans' tears wept on 'em ! 
 What more? 
 
 Crom. That 0"anmer is return'd with welcome, 
 Install'd lord archbishop of Canterbury. 
 
 Wol. That's news indeed. 
 
 Crom. Last, that the lady Anne. 
 
 Whom the king hath in secrecy long married, 
 This day was view'd in open, as his queen, 
 Going to cliapel : and the voice is now 
 Only about her coronation. 
 
 Wol. There was the weight that pulled me down. O Cromwell, 
 The king has gone beyond me,— all my gloi'ies 
 In that one woman I have lost for ever : 
 No sun shall ever usher forth mine honours, 
 Or gild again the noble troops, that waited 
 Upon my smiles. Go, get thee from me, Cromwell ;
 
 BELKCTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 3J7 
 
 I am a poor fallen man, unworthy now 
 
 To be thy lord and master: seek the king; 
 
 That sun, I pray, may never set ! I have told him 
 
 What, and how true thou art : he will advance thee : 
 
 Some little memory of me will stir him, 
 
 (I know his noble nature), not to let 
 
 Thy hopeful service perish too : good Cromwell, 
 
 Neglect him not ; make use now, and provide 
 
 For thine own future safety. 
 
 Ci-om. O my lord, 
 
 Must I then leave you? must I needs forego 
 So good, so noble, and so true a master? 
 Bear witness, aU that have not hearts of iron, 
 With what a sorrow CromweU leaves his lord. — 
 The king shall have my service ; but my prayers 
 For ever, and for ever, shall be yours. 
 
 Wol. Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear 
 In all my miseries ; but thou hast forced me, 
 Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman. 
 Let's dry our eyes : and thus far hear me, Cromwell ; 
 And, — when I am forgotten, as I shall be ; 
 And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention 
 Of me more must be heard of, — say, I taught thee, 
 Say, Wolsey, — that once trod the ways of glory. 
 And sounded all the depths and shoals of honour,— 
 Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in ; 
 A sure and safe one, though thy master miss'd it. 
 Mark but my fall, and that, that ruin'd me. 
 Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition : 
 By that sin fell the angels, how can man then, 
 The image of his Maker, hope to win b/t? 
 Love thyself last : cherish those hearts that hate thee ; 
 Corruption wins not more than honesty. 
 Still in thy right hand cairy gentle peace. 
 To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not : 
 Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's. 
 Thy God's, and truth's ; then if thou fall'st, O Cromwell, 
 Thou fall'st a blessed martyr. Serve the king; 
 And, — pry'thee, lead me in : 
 There take an inventory of all I have. 
 To the last penny ; 'tis the king's : my robe, 
 And my integrity to Heaven, is aU
 
 318 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATIOK. 
 
 I dare now call mine own. O Cromwell, Cromwell, 
 Had I but served my God with half the zeal 
 I served my king, he would not in mine age 
 Have left me naked to mine enemies. 
 
 Crom. Good sir, have patience. 
 
 Wol. So I have. Farewell 
 
 The hopes of court ; my hopes in Heaven do dwell. 
 
 THE ISLAND OF THE SCOTS. 
 
 Professor Attoun. 
 
 The Rhine is lunning deep and red, the island lies before — 
 " Now is there one of all the host will dare to venture o'er ? 
 For not alone the river's sweep might make a brave man quail; 
 The foe is on the further side, their shot comes fast as hail. 
 God help us, if the middle isle we may not hope to win ! 
 Now is there any of the host will dare to venture in] 
 
 " The ford is deep, the banks are steep, the island-shore lies wide : 
 Nor man nor horse could stem its force, or reach the further side. 
 See there ! amidst the willow boughs the serried bayonets gleam ; 
 They've flung their bridge — they've won the isle; the foe have 
 
 crossed the stream ! 
 Their voUey flashes sharp and strong — by aU the saints ! I trow 
 There never yet was soldier born covild force that passage now ! " 
 
 So spo^e the bold French Mareschal with him who led the van. 
 Whilst rough and red before their view the turbid river ran. 
 Nor bridge, nor boat had they to cross the wild and swollen Rhine, 
 And thundering on the other bank far stretched the German line. 
 Hard by there stood a swarthy man was leaning on his sword. 
 And a saddened smile lit up his face, as he heard the Captain's word 
 " I've seen a wilder stream ere now than that which rushes there ; 
 I've stemmed a heavier torrent yet, and never thought to dare. 
 If German steel be sharp and keen, is ours not strong and true ? 
 There may be danger in the deed, but there is honour too." 
 
 The old lord in his saddle turned, and hastily he said — 
 
 " Thou art the leader of the Scots — now well and sure I know. 
 
 That gentle blood in dangerous hour ne'er yet ran cold nor slow. 
 
 And I have seen ye in the fight do all that mortal may ; 
 
 If honour is the boon ye seek, it may be won this day — 
 
 The prize is in the middle isle, there lies the adventurous way. 
 
 And armies twain are on the plain, the daring deed to see."
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 319 
 
 Right gladsome looked the Captain then, and nothing did he sav, 
 But he turned him to his little band — oh few, I ween, were they 1 
 The relics of the bravest force that ever fought in fray, 
 No one of all that company but bore a gentle name, 
 Not one whose fathers had not stood on Scotland's fields of fame. 
 " The stream," he said, " is broad and deep, and stubborn is the foe- 
 Yon island strength is guarded well — say, brothers, will ye gol" 
 
 No stay, no pause ; with one accord they grasped each other's hand, 
 Then plunged into the angry flood, that bold and dauntless band. 
 High flew the spray above their heads, yet onward still they bore, 
 'Midst cheer, and shout, and answering yell, and shot and cannon 
 
 roar — 
 " Now, by the Holy Cross 1 I swear, since earth and sea began, 
 Was ever such a daring deed essayed by mortal man ! " 
 
 Thick blew the smoke across the stream, and faster flashed the flame, 
 The water plashed in hissing jets as ball and bullet came; 
 Yet onwards pushed the cavaliers, all stern and undismayed, 
 With thousand armdd foes before, and none behind to aid. 
 Once, as they neared the middle stream, so strong the torrent swept, 
 That scarce that long and living wall their dangerous footing kept. 
 Then rose a warning cry behind, a joyous shout before : 
 'The current's strong — the way is long — they^U never reach the 
 
 shore ! 
 See, see 1 they stagger in the midst, they waver in their Line ; 
 Fire on the madmen ! break their ranks, and whelm them in the 
 
 Rhine!" 
 But sternly bending forward, they wrestled on a while, 
 Until they cleared the heavy stream, then rushed towards the isle. 
 
 The German heart is stout and true, the German arm is strong ; 
 
 The German foot goes seldom back where armed foemen throng. 
 
 But never had they faced in field so stern a charge before, 
 
 And never had they felt the sweep of Scotland's broad claymore. 
 
 Not fiercer pours the avalanche adown the steep incline, 
 
 That rises o'er the parent-springs of rough and rapid Rhine — 
 
 Scarce swifter shoots the bolt from heaven than came the Scottish 
 
 band; 
 Right up against the guarded trench, and o'er it sword in hand. 
 In vain their leaders forward press, they meet the deadly brand 1 
 
 Oh, lonely island of the Rhine — where seed was never sown. 
 What harvest lay upon thy sands, by those strong reapers thrown?
 
 320 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 Wtat saw the winter moon that night, as struggling through the rain, 
 She poured a wan and fitful light on marsh, and stream, and plain? 
 A dreary spot with corpses strewn, and bayonets glistening round; 
 A broken bridge, a stranded boat, a bare and battered mound ; 
 And one huge watch-fire's kindled pile, that sent its quivering glare 
 To tell the leaders of the host the conquering Scots were there ' 
 
 Long years went by. The lonely isle in Ehine's impetuous flood 
 Has ta'en another name from those who bought it with their blood ; 
 And, though the legend does not live — for legends lightly die — 
 The peasant, as he sees the stream in winter rolling by, 
 And foaming o'er its channel-bed between htm and the spot 
 Won by the warriors of the sword, still calls that deep and dangerou? 
 
 ford 
 The Passage of the Scot. 
 
 VIEGINIA— A LAY OF ANCIENT ROMK 
 
 Macaulat. 
 
 Over the Alban mountains the light of morning broke; 
 
 From all the roofs of the Seven Hills curled the thin wreaths of 
 
 smoke. 
 The city gates were opened ; the Forum, all alive 
 With buyers and with sellers, was humming like a hive : 
 Blithely on brass and timber the craftsman's stroke was ringing, 
 And blithely o'er her panniers the market-girl wa« singing : 
 And blithely young Virginia came smiling from her home — 
 Ah ! woe for young Virginia, the sweetest maid in Rome, 
 With her small tablets in her hand, and her satchel on her arm. 
 Forth she went bounding to the school, nor dreamed of shame or 
 
 harm. 
 She crossed the Forum shining with the stalls in alleys gay. 
 And just had reached the very spot whereon I stand this day. 
 When up the varlet Marcus came ; not such as when, erewhile. 
 He crouched behind his patron's wheels, with the true client smile . 
 He came with lowering forehead, swollen features and clenched fist. 
 And strode across Virginia's path, and caught her by the wrist : 
 Hard strove the frighted maiden, and screamed with look aghast — 
 And at her scream from right and left the folk came running fast ; 
 And the strong smith Mursena gave Marcus such a blow. 
 The caitiiF reeled three paces back, and let the maiden go : 
 Yet glared he fiercely round him, and growled, in harsh, fell tone.
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 321 
 
 " She's mine, and I will have her : I seek but for mine own. 
 
 She is my slave, born in my house, and stolen away and sold, 
 
 The year of the sore sickness, ere she was twelve hours old. 
 
 I wait on Appius Claudius ; I waited on his sire : 
 
 Let him who works the client wrong, beware the patron's ire ! " 
 
 — But ere the varlet Marcus again might seize the maid, 
 
 Who clung tight to Muraena's skirt, and sobbed, and shrieked for 
 
 aid, 
 Forth through the throng of gazers the young Icilius pressed, 
 And stamped his foot and rent his gown, and smote upon his breast, 
 And beckoned to the people, and, in bold voice and clear, 
 Poured thick and fast the burning words which tyrants quake to 
 
 hear! 
 " Now, by your children's cradles, now, by your fathers' graves. 
 Be men to-day Quirites, or be for ever slaves ; 
 Shall the vile fox-earth awe the race that stormed the lion's den? 
 Shall we, who could not brook one lord, crouch to the wicked Ten? 
 Exult, ye proud Patricians ! the hard-fought fight is o'er : 
 We strove for honour — 'twas in vain : for freedom — 'tis no more. 
 Our very hearts, that were so high, sink down beneath your will: 
 Riches and lands, and power and state, ye have them — keep them 
 
 stmi 
 
 Heap heavier still the fetters : bar closer still the gate ; 
 
 Patient as sheep we yield us up unto your cruel hate : — 
 
 But, by the shades beneath us, and by the gods above. 
 
 Add not unto your cruel hate your yet more cruel love ! 
 
 Have ye not graceful ladies, whose spotless lineage springs 
 
 From Consuls, and high Pontiffs, and ancient Alban Kings ? 
 
 Ladies, who deign not on our paths to set their tender feet — 
 
 Who from their cars look down with scorn upon the wondering 
 
 street — 
 Who, in Corinthian mirrors, their own proud smiles behold. 
 And breathe of Capuan odours, and shine with Spanish gold? 
 Then leave the poor Plebeian his single tie to life — 
 The sweet, sweet love of daughter, of sister, and of wife 1 — 
 Spare us the inexpiable wrong, the unutterable shame. 
 That turns the coward's heart to steel, the sluggard's blood to flame , 
 Lest when our latest hope is fled, ye taste of our despair. 
 And learn, by proof, in some wild hour, how much the wretched 
 
 dare I" 
 
 Straightway Virginius led the maid a little space aside.
 
 322 SELECTIONS FOB READING AND RECITATION 
 
 To where the reeking shambles stood, piled up with horn and hide, 
 Hard by, a flesher on a block had laid his whittle down — 
 Virginiiis caught the whittle up, and hid it in his gown ; 
 And then his eyes grew very dim, and his throat began to swell, 
 And in a hoarse, changed voice he spake, " Earewell, sweet child, 
 
 farewell ! 
 Oh I how I loved my darling I Though stern I sometimes be, 
 To thee, thou knoVst, I was not so. Who could be so to thee? 
 And how my darling loved me 1 How glad she was to hear 
 My footstep on the threshold when I came back last year ! 
 And how she danced with pleasure to see my civic crown. 
 And took my sword, and hung it up, and brought me forth my 
 
 gownl 
 Now, all those things are over — yes, all thy pretty ways — 
 Thy needlework, thy prattle, thy snatches of old lays ; 
 And none will grieve when I go forth, or smile when I return, 
 Or watch beside the old man's bed or weep upon his urn. 
 — The time is come 1 See, how he points his eager hand this way 1 
 See, how his eyes gloat on thy grief, like a kite's upon the prey. 
 With all his wit he little deems, that, spurned, betrayed, bereft. 
 Thy father hath, in his despair, one fearful refuge left. 
 He little deems, that, in this hand, I clutch what still can save 
 Thy gentle youth from taunts and blows ; the portion of the slave ; 
 Yea, and from nameless evil, that passe th taunt and blow — 
 Foul outrage, which thou knowest not, which thou shalt nevei 
 
 know! 
 Then clasp me round the neck once more, and give me one more kiss; 
 And now, my own dear little girl, there is no way — but this!" 
 — With that he lifted high the steel, and smote her in the side. 
 And in her blood she sank to earth, and with one sob she died ! 
 When Appius Claudius saw that deed, he shuddered and sank 
 
 down, 
 And hid his face, some little space, with the corner of his gown. 
 Till, with white lips, and bloodshot eyes, Virginius tottered nigh, 
 And stood before the judgment-seat, and held the knife on high : 
 " Oh ! dwellers in the nether gloom, avengers of the slain. 
 By this dear blood I cry to you, do right between us twain; 
 And even as Appius Claudius hath dealt by me and mine, 
 Deal you by Appius Claudius, and all the Claudian line!" 
 He writhed, and groaned a fearful groan, and then with steadfast 
 
 feet 
 Strode right across the Market-place into the Sacred Street
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AlTD RECITATION. 323 
 
 Then up sprang Appixis Claudius : " Stop him ; alive or dead 1 
 Ten thousands pounds of copper to the man who brings his headl" 
 He looked upon his clients — but none would work his will ; 
 He looked upon his lictors — but they trembled and stood still; 
 And, as Virginius through the press his way in silence cleft, 
 Ever the mighty multitude fell back to right and left • 
 And he hath passed in safety unto his woeful home, 
 And there ta'en horse to tell the Camp what deeds are done u. 
 Rome! 
 
 PICKETT'S NELL. 
 Mather Dean Kimball. 
 
 Feel more 'an ever like a fool 
 Sence Pickett's Nell come hack from schooL 
 She oncet wuz twelve 'nd me eighteen 
 ('Nd better friends you never seen); 
 
 But now — oh, my I 
 She's dressed so fine, 'nd growed so tall, 
 'Nd I'amin' — she jes knows it all. 
 She's eighteen now, but I'm so slow 
 I'm whar I wuz six year ago. 
 
 Six year ! Waal, waal ! don't seem a week 
 Sence we rode Dolly to th' creek, 
 'Nd fetched th' cattle home at night, 
 Her hangin' to my jacket tight. 
 
 But now — oh, my ! 
 She rides in Pickett's new coopay 
 Jes' like she'd been brung up that way, 
 'Nd lookin' like a reg'lar queen — 
 Th' mostest like / ever seen. 
 
 She uster tease, 'nd tease, 'nd teas?- 
 Me fer to take her on my knees; 
 Then tire me out 'itfc Marge'y Daw, 
 'Nd laffin' tell my throat wuz raw. 
 
 But now — oh, my ! 
 She sets up this way — kinder proud, 
 'Nd never noways laughs out loud. 
 You Vu'dn't hardly think thet she 
 Had ever see-sawed on my knee. 
 
 'Nd sometimes, ef at noon I'd choose 
 To find a shady place 'nd snooze,
 
 324 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATIOK. 
 
 I'd wake with burdocks in my hair 
 'Nd elderberries in my ear. 
 
 But now — oh, my ! 
 Somebody said ('twas yesterday) : 
 "Let's hev some fun Vile Ned's away; 
 Let's turn his jacket inside out 1 " 
 But Nell — she'd jes' turn red 'nd pout 
 
 'Nd oncet wken I wuz dreamin' like, 
 A-throwin' akerns in th' dike. 
 She put her arms clean round my head, 
 'Nd whispered soft, "I like you, Ned;'' 
 
 But now — oh, my 1 
 She curteseyed so stiflf 'nd grand, 
 'Nd never oncet held out her hand, 
 'Nd called me " Mister Edward 1 " LawB ? 
 Thet ain't my name, 'nd never wuz. 
 
 'Nd them 'at knowed 'er years ago 
 Jes laughed t' see 'er put on so ; 
 Coz it wuz often talked, 'nd said, 
 " Nell Pickett's jes' cut out fer Ned," 
 
 But now — oh, my I 
 She held her purty head so high, 
 'Nd skasely saw me goin' by — 
 I Vu'dn't dast (afore last night) 
 A-purposely come near her sight. 
 
 Last night ! — Ez I wuz startin' out 
 To git th' cows, I heerd a shout; 
 'Nd, sure ez ghostses, she wuz thar 
 A-settin' on ol' Pickett's mar"; 
 
 'Nd then — oh, my I 
 She said she'd cried fer all th' week 
 To take th' ol' ride to th' creek; 
 Then talked about ol' times, 'nd said, 
 "Them days wuz happy, wa'n't they, Nedl* 
 
 Th' folks wuz talkin' ev'rywhars 
 'Bout her a-puttin' on sech airs, 
 'Nd seemed f me like they wuz right. 
 Afore th' cows come home last night 
 But now — oh, my 1
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 325 
 
 ZARAFI. 
 
 L AMA RTINB. 
 
 The sultry day has closed at night on Syria's glowing plains, 
 The stare are gleaming pure and bright, the moon in beauty reigns; 
 Far o'er the waste of drifting sand the fiery coursers speed, 
 Free as the air the Arab bands, the men of daring deed. 
 The white tents glimmer in the light by Acre's storied fane, 
 When erst streamed out the banners bright on Syria's hoary plain— 
 And where the cross was held on high by Europe's knights of old, 
 Their lances pointing to the sky, their arms of burnished gold. 
 Beside the tent at midnight hour is heard a stifled moan, 
 A. murmuring to Allah's power, to Allah's dazzling throne ; 
 And suffering, weak, and wounded sore, the fainting captive lay. 
 His mem'ries with the battles were, his dread the coming day. 
 And home and wife and children dear came thronging through hi» 
 
 brain, 
 Unmanned at last, the silent tear wets his dark cheek like rain — 
 But hark ! he hears a gentle sound, it floats along the plain, 
 It makes his fainting pulses bound, it stills hi§ maddening pain. 
 Zarafi calls — a friend in need — his master knows full well ; 
 Oh, could he mount that gallant steed — then, Acre's tents, farewell ! 
 His captor's eyes are closed in sleep, he groans with racking pain — 
 The cruel cords are cutting still in quivering muscles bare; 
 But naught can curb his iron will — no wailing of despair — 
 One purpose firm the Arab chief now nerves his utmost power — 
 Then welcome all the pangs of death and slav'ry's darkest hour. 
 " Poor friend," he said, in accents low, as at his feet he lay — 
 Zarafi bends his crest of snow and licks his tears away — 
 " Go forth across the burning sands where Jordan's infant stream 
 Descends to Zion's holy lands, the prophet's ancient dream — 
 To Zeenab's tent — oh, sneed the well — my courser swift and strong 
 Where fair Arabia's mountains swell the land of love and song. 
 Oh, put thy head within the door — oh, speak with loving eyes ! 
 Tell her El Marc returns no more, in slavery's bonds he dies. 
 But thou art free ! no Turk shall ride my proud Zarafi's form, 
 Free as the air, my Arab pride, swift as the rushing storm — 
 Go forth ! go forth ! with stately grace across the burning sands, 
 And look once more in Zeenab's face and lick my children's hands.' 
 
 His bleeding mouth untied the knot that held the good steed there 
 Hia blinding tears bedewed the spot upon the glossy hair ;
 
 326 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 Thy turn, Zarafi ! bend thy crest, and lift thy master now, 
 
 Thy limbs must know no laggard rest, thy breath is on his brow. 
 
 He lifts him to his back. As breaks the opening day — 
 
 Swift as an arrow from the bow Zarafi speeds away. 
 
 Beneath thy sun, oh, storied land, with energies unspent, 
 
 The good steed spurns the burning sand, his goal is Zeenab's tent, 
 
 Each bubbling spring that marks the way Zarafi knows full well; 
 
 Each tree that screens from burning ray, he knows each shaded dell, 
 
 Nor stays he by the grassy run, nor in the shade's cool breath. 
 
 Though strained is now each aching limb, though every stride ia 
 
 death. 
 His master faints unconscious now, nor thought of child or wife 
 Throbs through his pale and haggard brow as ebbs his fleeting life. 
 The night's cold dews are falling o'er Zarafi's drooping crest, 
 And Zeenab mourns her Arab mate, her face to Mecca's shrine, 
 She prays to him who guides her fate, to Allah all divine. 
 Her little ones are gathered round — as to her form they cling. 
 They hear the distant beating sound; it is an angel's wing? 
 They hear a faintly uttered neigh, it is his latest breath. 
 At Zeenab's door his master lay — the horse lay still in death. 
 The death-sweat lay upon his skin, erst smooth and glossy fair, 
 His faithful heart was still within, and wet his matted hair. 
 El Marc yet lived, and loving hands brought back his fleeting life, 
 He led again the Arab bands in war's remorseless strife. 
 In tents of wandering Ishmael, as in the days of old, 
 Is heard the proud rehearsal now — Zarafi's deeds are told, 
 And sweetly flows the story, and glows each swarthy face, 
 And ever bright the glory of Zarafi's dying race. 
 
 THE HIGH TIDE. 
 
 (ON THE COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE, 1671.) 
 Jean Ingelow. 
 
 The old mayor climbed the belfry tower, 
 The ringers ran by two, by three; 
 
 • Pull if ye never pulled before ; 
 
 Good ringers, pull your best," quoth ha • 
 
 " Play uppe, play uppe, Boston Bells ! 
 
 Play all your changes, all your swells. 
 Play uppe 'The Brides of Enderby'."
 
 SEVtECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 327 
 
 Men say it was a stolen tyde — 
 
 The Lord that sent it, He knows all ; 
 But in myne ears doth still abide 
 
 The message that the bells let fall ; 
 And there was nought of strange, beside 
 The flights of mews and peewits pied 
 
 By millions crouched on the old sea waU, 
 
 I sat and spun within the doore, 
 
 My thread brake off, I raised myne eyea ; 
 
 The level sun, like ruddy ore, 
 Lay sinking in the barren skies : 
 
 A.nd dark against day's golden death 
 
 She moved where Liudis wandereth, 
 
 My Sonne's fair wife, Elizabeth- 
 
 "Cushal Cusha! Cusha!" calling, 
 Ere the early dews were falling, 
 Farre away I heard her song. 
 " Cusha ! Cusha 1" all along ; 
 Where the reedy Liiidis floweth, 
 
 Floweth, floweth, 
 From the meads where melick groweth 
 Faintly came her milking .song — 
 
 "Cusha I Cusha! Cusha!" calling, 
 " For the dews will soone be falhng ; 
 Leave your meadow grasses mellow, 
 
 Mellow, mellow ; 
 Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow ; 
 Come uppe, Whitefoot, come uppe, Lightfoot: 
 Quit the stalks of parsley hollow. 
 
 Hollow, hollow ; 
 
 Come uppe. Jetty, rise and follow, 
 
 From the clovers lift your head ; 
 
 Come uppe, Whitefoot, come uppe, Lightfoot, 
 
 Come up. Jetty, rise and follow. 
 
 Jetty, to the milking shed." 
 
 If it be long, ay, long ago. 
 
 When I beginne to think howe long, 
 Againe I hear the Lindis flow. 
 
 Swift as an arrow, aharpe and strong ;
 
 328 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATIOM. 
 
 And all the aire, it seemeth mee 
 Bin full of floating bells (sayth ahee), 
 That ring the tune of Enderby. 
 
 Alle fresh the level pasture lay, 
 And not a shadowe mote be seene, 
 
 Save where full fyve good miles away 
 The steeple towered from out the greens 
 
 And lo 1 the great belle farre and wide 
 
 Was heard in all the country side 
 
 That Saturday at eventide. 
 
 The swannerds where their sedges are 
 Moved on in sunset's golden breath, 
 The shepherde lads I heard afan-e, 
 And my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth ; 
 Till floating o'er the grassy sea 
 Came downe that kyndly message free, 
 The " Brides of Mavis Enderby". 
 
 Then some looked uppe into the sky. 
 And all along where Lindis flows 
 
 To where the goodly vessels lie, 
 
 And where the lordly steeple shows. 
 
 They sayde, " And why should this thing bfl i 
 
 What danger lowers by land or sea? 
 
 They ring the tune of Enderby I 
 
 " For evil news from Mabelthorpe, 
 Of pyrate galleys warping down ; 
 For shippes ashore beyond the scorpe, 
 
 They have not spared to wake the towne: 
 But while the west bin red to see. 
 And storms be none, and pyrates flee, 
 Why ring 'The Brides of Enderby'?" 
 
 I looked without, and lo I my sonne 
 
 Came riding downe with might and main; 
 He raised a shout as he drew on, 
 Till all the welkin rang again. 
 "Elizabeth! Elizabeth!" 
 (A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath 
 Than my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth.) 
 
 •' The olde sea wall," he cried, " is downe, 
 The rifling tide comes on apace,
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 622 
 
 And boats adrift in yonder towne 
 
 Go sailing uppe the market-place." 
 He shook as one that looks on death : 
 " God save you, mother 1 " straight he saith ; 
 "Where is my wife, Elizabeth?" 
 
 " Good Sonne, where Lindis winds away. 
 With her two bairns I marked her long ; 
 
 And ere yon bells beganne to play 
 Afar I heard her milking song." 
 
 He looked across the grassy lee, 
 
 To right, to left, "Ho Enderby!" 
 
 They rang "The Brides of Enderby !" 
 
 With that he cried and beat his breast ; 
 
 For, lo ! along the river's bed 
 A mighty eygre reared his crest, 
 
 And uppe the Lindis raging sped. 
 It swept with thunderous noises loud. 
 Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud, 
 Or like a demon in a shroud. 
 
 And rearing Lindis backward pressed 
 Shook all her trembling bankes amaine ; 
 
 Then madly at the eygre's breast 
 
 Flung uppe her weltering walls again. 
 
 Then bankes came downe with ruin and rout — 
 
 Then beaten foam flew round about — 
 
 Then all the mighty floods were out. 
 
 So farre, so fast the eygre drave. 
 
 The heart had hardly time to beat, 
 Before a shallow seething wave 
 
 Sobbed in the grasses at oure feet ; 
 The feet had hardly time to flee 
 Before it brake against the knee. 
 And all the world was in the sea. 
 
 Upon the roofe we sate that night, 
 
 The noise of bells went sweeping by ; 
 I marked the lofty beacon light 
 
 Stream from the church tower, red and high— 
 A lurid mark and dread to see ; 
 And awsome bells they were to mee, 
 That in the dark rang " Enderby". 
 
 96 J L2
 
 330 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION 
 
 They rang the sailor lads to guide 
 
 From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed ; 
 
 And I — my sonne was at my side, 
 And yet the ruddy beacon glowed : 
 
 And yet he moaned beneath his breath, 
 
 " O come in life, or come in death 1 
 
 O lost ! my love, Elizabeth." 
 
 And didst thou visit him no more? 
 
 Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare ; 
 The waters laid thee at his doore. 
 
 Ere yet the early dawn was clear. 
 The pretty bairns in fast embrace, 
 The lifted sun shone on thy face, 
 Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place. 
 
 That flow strewed wrecks about the grass, 
 That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea ; 
 
 A fatal ebbe and flow, alas ! 
 
 To manye more than myne and mee : 
 
 But each will mourn his own (she saith), 
 
 And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath 
 
 Than my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth. 
 
 (By special permiision of Miss Ingtloxc.) 
 
 MOUNTAIN MISTS. 
 
 John Ruskin. 
 
 Stand upon the peak of some isolated mountain at daybreak, 
 when the night-mists first rise from otf the plains, and watch their 
 white and lake-like fields as they float in level bays and winding 
 gulfs about the islanded summits of the lower hills, untouched yet 
 by more than dawn, colder and more quiet than a windless sea 
 under the moon of midnight ; watch when the first sunbeam is sent 
 upon the silver channels, how the foam of their undulating surface 
 parts and passes away ; and down under their depths the glittering 
 city and green pasture lie like Atlantis, between the white paths of 
 win<ling rivers ; and flakes of light falling every moment faster and 
 broader among the starry spires, as the wreathed surges break and 
 vanish above them, and the confused crests and ridges of the dark 
 hills shorten their gray shadows upon the plain. Has Claude given 
 this?
 
 SKLECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 331 
 
 Wait a little longer and jou shall see those scattered mists rallying 
 in the ravines, £md floating up towards you, along the winding 
 valleys, till they couch in quiet masses, iridescent with the morning 
 light, upon the broad breasts of the higher hills, whose leagues of 
 massy undulation will melt back and back into that robe of material 
 light, until they fade away, lost in its lustre, to appear again above 
 in the serene heaven, like a wild, bright, impossible dream, founda- 
 tionless and inaccessible, their very bases vanishing in the unsub- 
 stantial and mocking blue of the deep lake below. Has Claude 
 given this? 
 
 Wait yet a little longer and you shall see those mists gather 
 themselves into white towers, and stand like fortresses along the 
 promontories, massy and motionless, only piled with every instant 
 higher and higher into the sky and casting longer shadows athwart 
 the rocks; and out of the pale blue of the horizon you will see 
 forming and advancing a troop of narrow, dark, pointed vapours, 
 which will cover the sky, inch by inch, with their gray net- work, 
 and take the light off the landscape with an eclipse which will stop 
 the singing of the birds and the motion of the leaves together ; and 
 then you will see horizontal bars of black shadow forming under 
 them, and lurid wreaths create themselves, you know not how, along 
 the shoulders of the hills ; you never see them form, but when you 
 look back to a place which was clear an instant ago, there is a cloud 
 on it, hanging by the precipices, as a hawk pauses over his prey. 
 Has Claude given this? 
 
 And then you will hear the sudden rush of the awakened wind, 
 and you will see those watch-towers of vajiour swept away from 
 their foundations, and waving curtains of opaque rain let down to 
 the valleys, swinging from the burdened clouds in black, bending 
 fringes, or pacing in pale columns along the lake level, grazing its 
 surface into foam as they go. And then, as the sun sinks, you shall 
 see the storm drift for an instant from off the hills, leaving theii 
 broad sides smoking, and loaded yet with snow-white, torn, stream- 
 like rags of capricious vapour, now gone, now gathered again; while 
 the smouldering sun, seeming not far away, but burning like a red- 
 hot ball beside you, and, as if you could reach it, plunges through 
 the rushing wind and rolling cloud with headlong fall, as if it 
 meant to rise no more, dyeing all the air about it with blood. Has 
 Claude given this? 
 
 And then you shall hear the fainting tempest die in the hollow of 
 the night, and you shall see a green halo kindling on the summit of 
 the eastern hills, brighter — brighter yet, till the large white circle of
 
 332 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION, 
 
 the slow moon is lifted up among the barred clouds, step by step, 
 line by line ; star after star she quenches with her kindling light, 
 setting iii their stead an army of pale, penetrable, fleecy wreaths in 
 the heaven, to give light upon the earth, which move together, 
 hand in hand, company by company, troop by troop, so measured in 
 their unity of motion that the whole heaven seems to roll with them 
 and the earth to reel under them. Ask Claude, or his brethren, for 
 that. 
 
 And then wait yet for one hour, until the east again becomes 
 purple, and the heaving mountains, rolling against it in darkness, 
 like waves of a wild sea, are drowned one by one in the glory of its 
 burning; watch the white glaciers blaze in their winding paths 
 about the mountains, like mighty serpents with scales of fire; 
 watch the columnar peaks of solitary snow, kindling downwards, 
 chasm by chasm, each in itself a new morning ; their long avalanches 
 cast down in keen streams brighter than the lightning, sending each 
 his tribute of driven snow, like altar-smoke, up to the heaven ; 
 the rose-light of their silent domes flushing that heaven about them 
 and above them, piercing with purer light through its purple lines 
 of lifted cloud, casting a new glory on every wreath as it passes by, 
 until the whole heaven — one scarlet canopy — is interwoven with a 
 roof of waving flame, and tossing, vault beyond vault, as with the 
 drifted wings of many companies of angels ; and then, when you can 
 look no more for gladness, and when you are bowed down with feai 
 and love of the Maker and Doer of this, tell me who has best 
 delivered this His message unto men 1 
 
 (By tpecial permusion of George Allen, Puhlhher.) 
 
 THE SCULPTOR'S LAST HOUR 
 
 Thomas Buchanan Read. 
 
 The middle chimes of night were dead ; — 
 The sculptor pressed his sleepless bed, 
 With locks grown gray in a world of sin; 
 His eyes were sunken, his cheeks were thin j 
 And, like a leaf on a withering limb. 
 The fluttering life still clung to him 
 
 While gazing on the shadowy wall, 
 He heard the muffled knocker fall :- • 
 Before an answering foot could stir, 
 Entered th« midnight messenger:
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATIOK. 333 
 
 Around his shining shoulders rolled 
 Long and gleaming locks of gold ; 
 The radiance of his features fell 
 In Beauty's light unspeakable. 
 And like the matin song of birds, 
 Swelled the rich music of his woi da. 
 
 " Arise 1 it ia jour Monarch's will ; 
 Ere sounds from the imperial hill 
 The warder's trumpet-blast, 
 His palace portal must be passed : 
 Arise ! and be the veil withdrawn, 
 And let the long- wrought statue dawn 1 
 The stars that fill the fields of light 
 Must pale before its purer light ; 
 The unblemished face — the spotless limb, 
 Must shine among the seraphim : 
 Faultless in form — in nothing dim- 
 It must be ere it come to Him 1 " 
 
 The sculptor rose with heavy heart, 
 
 And slowly put the veil apart, 
 
 And stood with downcast look, entranced, 
 
 The while the messenger advanced, 
 
 And thought he heard, yet knew not why^ 
 
 Hia hopes like boding birds go by, 
 
 And felt his heart sink ceaselessly 
 
 Dovra, like the friendless dead at sea. 
 
 O ! for one breath to stir the air, 
 
 To break the stillness of despair ; 
 
 Welcome alike, though it were given 
 
 From sulphurous shade, or vales of Heavet i 
 
 Now on the darkness swelled a sigh I — 
 The sculptor raised his languid eye, 
 And saw the radiant stranger stand 
 Hiding his sorrow with his hand ; 
 His heart a billowy motion kept, 
 
 And ever, with its fall and rise, 
 The stillness of the air was swept 
 
 With a long wave of sighs. 
 
 The old man's anxious asking eyes 
 
 Grew larger with their blank 8urpris*3, 
 With wonder why he wept : —
 
 334 SELECTIONS FOB READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 And while bis eyes and wonder grew, — 
 Came, with the teai-s which gushed anew, 
 The music of the atraiiger's tongue, 
 But broken, like a swollen rill 
 That heaves adown its native hill. 
 Sobbing where late it sung : — 
 
 " Is this the statue fair and white 
 A long laborious life hath wrought. 
 And which our generous Prince hath bought i 
 Is this (so soulless, soiled, and dull) 
 To pass the golden gates of light 
 And stand among the beautiful? 
 
 The lines which seam the front and cheek 
 
 Too well unholy lusts bespeak; 
 
 The brow by Anger's hand is weighed, 
 
 And Malice there his scar hath made ; 
 
 There Scorn hath set her seal secure, 
 
 And curled the lip against the poor; 
 
 And Hate hath fixed the steady glance 
 
 Which Jealousy hath turned askance ; 
 
 While thoughts, of those dark parents bom^ 
 
 Innumerable, from night till morn, 
 
 And morji till night, have wrought their will; 
 
 Like stones upon a barren hill. 
 
 Old man ! although thy locks be gray, 
 
 And life's last hour is on its way — 
 
 Although thy limbs with palsy quake, 
 
 Thy hands, like windy branches, shake — 
 
 Ere from yon rampart high and round 
 
 The watchful warder's blast shall soiind, 
 
 Let this be altered — still it may, — 
 
 Your Monarch brooks no more delay ! " 
 
 The stranger spake and passed away. 
 
 A moment stood the agfed man 
 With lips apart, and looks aghast. 
 Still gazing where the stranger passed. 
 
 And now a shudder o'er him ran, 
 As chill November's breezes sweep 
 
 Across the dying meadow grass ; 
 His tongue wjus drj', he could not apeak, 
 
 Ilia eyes were glazed like heated glass.
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATIO* 236 
 
 But when the tears began to creep 
 A.down the channels of his cheek, 
 
 A long and shadowy train, 
 
 Born of his sorrowing brain, 
 With shining feet, and noiseless tread, 
 By dewy-eyed Repentance led, 
 Around the statue pressed : 
 With eager hand and swelling breast 
 Hope, jubilant, the chisel seized 
 
 And heavenward turned the eye ; 
 Forgiveness, radiant and pleased. 
 The ridges of the brow released ; 
 
 While with a tear and sigh 
 Sweet Charity the scorn effaced ; 
 
 And Mercy, mild and fair, 
 Upon the lips her chisel placed, 
 And left her signet there : 
 And liove, the earliest bom of Uoaven, 
 
 Over the features glowing, ran ; 
 While Peace, the best and latest given. 
 
 Finished what Hope began. 
 
 One minute now before the last, 
 
 The stately stranger came ; 
 A smile upon the statue cast — 
 Then to the fainting stranger passed, 
 
 And spake his errand and his name : 
 And on the old man's latest breath 
 Swelled the sweet whisper, " Welcome, Death )'* 
 
 Afar from the imperial height 
 
 Sounded the warder's horn : 
 
 Upward, by singing angels borne, 
 The statue passed the gates of light 
 Outshining all the stars of night, 
 
 And fairer than the morn. 
 
 THE SCULPTOR'S FUNERAL. 
 Thomas Bdohanan Read. 
 
 Tfirongh the darkened streets of Florence, 
 Moving toward thy church, Saint Lorenz, 
 Marched the bearers, masked and singing, 
 With their ghostly flambeaux flinging
 
 336 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATIOH. 
 
 Ghostlier shadows that went winging 
 Eound the portals and the porches. 
 As if spirits, which had hovered 
 In the darkness undiscovered, 
 Danced about the hissing torches. 
 Like the moths that whirl and capei 
 Drunken round an evening taper. 
 Unconsoled and unconsoling 
 Rolled the Arno, louder rolling 
 As the rain poui'ed— and the tolling, 
 Thi'ough the thick shower fell demurely, 
 Fell from out one turret only 
 Where the bell swung sad and lonely 
 Prisoned in the cloud securely. 
 Masked in black, with voices solemn. 
 Strode the melancholy column, 
 With a stiff and soulless burden 
 Bearing to the grave its guerdon ; 
 While the torch flames, vexed and taunted 
 By the night winds, leapt and flaunted, 
 'Mid the funeral rains that slanted, 
 Those brave bearers marched and chatted, 
 Through the darkness thick and dreary, 
 With a woful voice and weary, 
 
 MISERERE. 
 
 Light to light, and dark to dark, 
 
 Kindred natures thus agree ; 
 Where the soul soars none can mark, 
 But the world below may hark — 
 Miserere, Dominel 
 
 Dew to dew, and rain to rain, 
 
 Swell the streams and reach the sea; 
 When the drouth shall burn the plain. 
 Then the sands shall but remain — 
 Miserere, Dominel 
 
 Flame to flame — let ashes fall 
 Where the fireless ashes bej 
 
 Embers black and funeral 
 
 Unto dying cinders call — 
 Miserere, Dominel
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. d31 
 
 Life to life, and dust to dust I 
 
 Clirist, who died upon the tree, 
 Thine the promise, ours the trust, 
 We are weak — but thou art just— 
 
 Miserere Dominel 
 
 FIRST BYSTANDER. 
 
 There, stand aside, the very caves are weeping 
 As are the heavens in sympathy with us: — 
 Italia's air hath not within its keeping 
 A nobler heart than that which lies there sleeping, 
 for whom the elements are wailing thus, 
 
 SECOND BYSTANDER. 
 
 I reverenced him — he was a marvellous scheaaer; 
 Hath built more airy structures in his day 
 Than ever wild and opiate-breathing dreamer 
 Hath drugged his dreams with even in Cathay. 
 Hia fancy went in marble round the earth 
 And whitened it with statues — where he trod 
 The silent people leapt to sudden bii'th. 
 And all the sky, exulting high and broad, 
 Became a mighty Pantheon for God. 
 
 THIRD BYSTANDER. 
 
 You reverenced him ? I loved him, with a scope 
 Of feeling I may never know again ; 
 And love him still, even though beyond all hope 
 The priest, the bishop, cardinal, and pope, 
 Should banish him to wear a burning chain 
 In those great dungeons of the unforgiven. 
 Under the space-deep castle walls of Heaven 
 I know the Church considered it a sin, 
 I know the Duke considered it a shame — 
 That our Alzoni would not stoop to win 
 What any blunderer, now-a-day, may claim, 
 A niche in Santa Croce, — which hath been, 
 And is, to them, the very shrine of Fame ! 
 Wliy, look you, why should one carve out his soul 
 In bits to meet the world's unthankful stare ; 
 For Ignorance to hold in his control 
 And sly-eyed Jealousy's detracting glare?
 
 338 SELECTIONS FOR READIKG AND RECITATIOK. 
 
 To see the golden glories of his brain 
 Out-glittered by a brazen counterfeit? 
 The starriest spirit only shines in vain. 
 When every rocket can outdazzle it 1 
 
 CHORUS OF STUDENTS, FOLLOWING. 
 
 They bear the great Alzoni— he is dead,— 
 
 Our hope is dead, and lies on yonder bisr; 
 There is no comfort left for any here 
 Since he is dead. 
 
 Oh, mother Florence, droop your queenly head, 
 
 And mingle ashes with your wreath of flowers — 
 Build funeral altars in your ducal bowers . 
 For he is dead 
 
 Oh, sacred Arno, be your ripples shed 
 
 No more in music o'er your silver sands, 
 But mourn to death, and wring your wateiy hands 
 For he is dead. 
 
 Ye dusky palaces, whose gloom is wed 
 
 To princely names that never may depart, 
 Drown all your lights in tears — the prince of Art, 
 Your hope, is dead ! 
 
 Ye spirits who to glory have been led, 
 
 In years agoue, departed souls of might. 
 Make joyful space in Heaven, for our deligl.t 
 On eaii/h is dead. 
 
 And thus with melancholy songs they bore him 
 
 Into the chapel — 'twixt the columns vast 
 They set the bier, and lit great tapers o'er him, 
 And looked their last. 
 
 They looked and pondered on his dreamy history 
 
 Whose sudden close had left them broken-hearted. 
 Till cloudy censors veiled the light in mystery 
 And they departed.
 
 SKLECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 339 
 
 MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 THREE CHARACTERS. 
 Ladncelot Gobbo, Old Gobbo, and Bassanio. 
 
 Venice. A Street. 
 
 Enter Launcelot Gobbo. 
 
 Laun. Certainly my conscience will serve me to run from this 
 Jew, my master : The fiend is at mine elbow, and tempts me, saying 
 to me, Gobbo, Launcelot Gobbo, good Launcelot, or good Gobbo, or 
 good Launcelot Gobbo, use your legs, tale the start, run away: My 
 conscience says, — No, take heed, honest Launcelot, take heed, hon-esl 
 Gobbo; or, as aforesaid, honest Launcelot Gobbo; do not run; scorn 
 running with thy heels: Well, the most courageous fiend bids me 
 pack; Via! says the fiend; away! says the fiend; for the heavens! 
 rouse up a brave mind, says the fiend, artd run. "Well, my conscience, 
 hanging about the neck of my heart, says very wisely to me, — My 
 honest fnend, Launcelot, being an honest magi's son, or rather an 
 honest woman's son ; — for, indeed, my father did something smack, 
 something grow to, he had a kind of taste ; — Well, my conscience 
 says, Launcelot, budge not; Budge, says the fiend; Budge not, says 
 my conscience : Conscience, say I, you counsel well ; fiend, say I, 
 you counsel well : to be ruled by my conscience, I should stay with 
 the Jew, my master, who (God bless the mark !) is a kind of devil ; 
 and to run away from the Jew, I should be ruled by the fiend, who, 
 saving your reverence, is the devil himself: Certainly, the Jew is 
 the very devil incarnal ; and, in my conscience, my conscience is but 
 a kind of hard conscience, to off"er to counsel me to stay with the 
 Jew : The fiend gives the more friendly counsel : I will run, fiend ; 
 my heels are at your commandment, I will run. 
 
 Enter Old Gobbo, tvith a basket. 
 
 Gob. Master, young man, you, I pray you ; which is the way to 
 master Jew's? 
 
 Laun. (Aside.) O heavens, this is my true begotten father ! who, 
 being more than sand-blind, high-gravel blind, knows me not : — I 
 will try confusions with him. 
 
 Gob. Master, young gentleman, I i)ray you, which is the way to 
 master Jew's? 
 
 Laun. Turn up on your right hand, at the next turning, but at 
 the next turning of all, on your left ; marry at the very next turning, 
 turn of no hand, but turn down indiiectly to the Jew's house.
 
 340 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATIOK 
 
 Gob. By God's sonties, 'twill be a hard way to hit. Can you teli 
 me, whether one Launcelot, that dwells with him, dwell with him 
 or no] 
 
 Laun. Talk you of young master Launcelot? — Mark me now; 
 (Aside.) now will I raise the waters: — Talk you of young master 
 Launcelot? 
 
 Oob. No master, sir, but a poor man's sou ; his father, though I 
 say it, is an honest exceeding poor man, and, God be thanked, well 
 to live. 
 
 Laun. Well, let his father be what he will, we talk of young 
 master Launcelot. 
 
 Oob. Your worship's friend, and Launcelot, sir. 
 
 Laun. But I pray you ergo, old man, ergo, I beseech you : Talk 
 you of young master Launcelot? 
 
 Oob. Of Launcelot, an't please your mastership. 
 
 Laun. Ergo, master Launcelot; talk not of master Launcelot, 
 father ; for the young gentleman, according to fates and destinies 
 and such odd sayings, the sisters three, and such branches of learn- 
 ing, is, indeed, deceased; or, as you would say, in plain terms, gone 
 to heaven. 
 
 Oob. Marry, God forbid ; the boy was the very staff of my age, 
 my very prop. 
 
 Laun. Do I look like a cudgel, or a hovel post, a staff, or a prop? 
 — Do you know me, father? 
 
 Oob. Alack the day, I know you not, young gentleman : but, I 
 pray you, tell me, is my boy (God rest his soul !) alive or dead ? 
 
 Laun. Do you not know me, father? 
 
 Gob. Alack, sir, I am sand-blind ; I know you not. 
 
 Laun. Nay, indeed, if you had your eyes, you might fail of the 
 knowing me : It is a wise father that knows his own child. Well, 
 old man, I will tell you news of your son : Give me your blessing : 
 truth will come to light : murder cannot be hid long, a man's son 
 may ; but, in the end, truth will out. 
 
 Oob. Pray you, sir, stand up ; I am sure you art not Launcelot 
 ray boy. 
 
 Laun. Pray you, let's have no more fooling about it, but give me 
 your blessing : I am Launcelot, your boy that was, your son that is, 
 your child that shall be. 
 
 Oob. I cannot think you are my son. 
 
 Laun. I know not what I shall think of that : but I am Launcelot, 
 the Jew's man ; and, I am sure, Margery, your wife, is my mother. 
 
 Gob. Her name ia Margery, indeed: I'll be sworn, if thou be
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 341 
 
 Launcelot, thou art mine own flesh and blood. Lord worshipp'd 
 might he be ! what a beard hast thou got ! thou hast got more hair 
 on thy chin, than Dobbin my thill-horse has on his tail. 
 
 Laun. It should seem, then, that Dobbin's tail grows backward • 
 I am sure he had more hair on his tail than I have on my face, when 
 I last saw him. 
 
 Oob. Lord, how art thou changed! How dost thou and thy 
 master agree ? I have brought him a present. How 'gree you now \ 
 
 Laun. Well, well ; but for mine own part, as I have set up my 
 rest to run away, so I will not rest till I have run some ground ; my 
 mastei-'s a very Jew ! Give him a present ! give him a halter : I am 
 famish'd in his service ; you may tell every finger I have with my 
 ribs. Father, I am glad you are come ; give me your present to one 
 master Bassanio, who, indeed, gives rare new liveries; if I serve not 
 him, I will run as far as God has any ground.— O rare fortune ! here 
 comes the man ; — to him, father : for I am a Jew, if I serve the Jew 
 any longer. 
 
 Enter Bassanio, with Leonardo, and other followers. 
 
 Bass. You may do so ; — but let it be so hasted, that supper be 
 ready at the farthest by five of the clock. See these letters delivered ; 
 put the liveries to making ; and desire Gratiano to come anon to my 
 lodging. \_E.vit a Servant. 
 
 Laun. To him, father. 
 
 Gob. God bless your worship ! 
 
 Bass. Gramercy ; wouldst thou aught with me ? 
 
 Gob. Here's my son, sir, a poor boy, — 
 
 Laun. Not a poor boy, sir, but the rich Jew's man ; that would, 
 sir, as my father shall specify. 
 
 Gob. He had a great infection, sir, as one would say to serve, — 
 
 Laun. Indeed, the short and the long is, I serve the Jew, and I 
 have a desire, as my father shall specify, — 
 
 Gob. His master and he (saving your worship's reverence), are 
 scarce cater-cousins: — 
 
 Laun. To be brief, the very truth is, that the Jew having done 
 me wrong, doth cause me, as my father, being, I hope, an old man, 
 shall frutify unto you — 
 
 Gob. I have here a dish of doves that I would bestow upon your 
 worship ; and my suit is, — 
 
 Laun. In very brief, the suit is impertinent to myself, as your 
 worship shall know by this honest old man ; and though I aay it, 
 though old man, yet poor man, my father.
 
 342 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 Bass. One speak for both ; — What would you? 
 
 Laun. Serve you, sir. 
 
 Ooh. This is the very defect of the matter, sir. 
 
 Bass. 1 know thee well, thou hast obtaiu'd thy sxiit 
 Shylock, thy master, spoke with me this day, 
 And hath preferr'd thee, if it be preferment, 
 To leave a rich Jew's service, to become 
 The follower of so poor a gentleman, 
 
 Laun. The old proverb is very well parted between my mastei 
 Shylock and you, sir ; you have the grace of God, sir, and he hath 
 enough. 
 
 Ba^s. Thou speak'st it well. Go, father, with thy son : — 
 Take leave of thy old master, and inquire 
 
 My lodging out. — Give him a liveiy {To his Followei's.) 
 
 More guarded than his followers : see it done. 
 
 Laun. Father, in : — I cannot get a service, no : — I have ne'er a 
 tongue in my head. — "Well ; {looking on his palm) if any man in 
 Italy have a fairer table, which doth offer to swear upon a book, I 
 shall have good fortune.- — Go to, here's a simple line of life : here's a 
 small trifle of wives : Alas, fifteen wives is nothing ; eleven widows, 
 and nine maids, is a simple coming-in for one man ; and then, to 
 'scape drowning thrice ; and to be in peril of my life with the edge 
 of a feather bed ; — here are simple 'scapes ! Well, if fortune be a 
 woman, she's a good wench for this gear. — Father, come ; I'll take my 
 leave of the Jew in the twinkling of an eye. 
 
 THE BLOOMSBURY CHRISTENING. 
 
 Dickens. 
 
 {Adapted for Recital.) 
 
 Mr. Nicodemus Dumps, or, as his acquaintance called him, "Long 
 Dumps", was a bachelor, six feet high, and fifty years old — cross, 
 cadaverous, odd, and ill-natured. The only real comfort of hia 
 existence was to make evervbody about him wretched — then he 
 might be truly said to enjoy Life. His friends said he was .surly — he 
 insisted he was nervous; and, if he hated one thing more than 
 another, it was a child. 
 
 Mr. Dumps had a nephew who has been married about a year, and 
 who was somewhat of a favourite with his uncle, because he was an 
 easy victim to his misery-creating powers. Mr. Charles Kitterbell 
 was a small, sharp, spare man, witli a very large head, and a broad,
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 343 
 
 good-humoured countenance. He had a cast in his eye which ren- 
 dered it quite impossible for anyone with whom he conversed to 
 know where he was looking. His eyes appeared fixed on the wall, 
 and he was staring you out of countenance — in short, there was no 
 catching his eye; and perhaps it is a merciful dispensation of Provi- 
 dence that such eyes are not catching. It may be added that Mr. 
 Charles Kitteibell was one of the most credulous and matter-of-fact 
 little personages that ever took to himself a wife, and for himself a 
 house in Great Russell Street, Bedford Square. 
 
 " No, but uncle, 'pon my life you must — you must promise to be 
 godfather," said Mr. Kitterbell, to his respected relative one morning. 
 
 " I cannot : indeed I cannot," returned Dumps. 
 
 "Well, but why not? Jemima will think it very unkind. It's 
 very little trouble." 
 
 "As to the trouble," rejoined the most unhappy man in existence, 
 " I don't mind that ; but my nerves ai-e m that state— I cannot go 
 through the ceremony. You know I don't like going out.— For 
 goodness sake, Charles, don't fidget with that stool so, you'll drive 
 me mad." 
 
 " I beg your pardon, uncle ; but come, don't refuse." 
 
 " But the child — mai/ die before it is christened." 
 
 " I hope not," said the father, looking very grave. 
 
 " / hope not," acquiesced Dumps. He was beginning to get happy. 
 " / hope not, but distressing cases frequently occur during the first 
 two or three days of a child's life ; fits, I am told, are exceedingly 
 common, and alarming convulsions are almost matters of course." 
 
 "Oh, uncle !" ejaculated little Kitterbell, gasping for breath. 
 
 "However, your child may not die, and if it should be a boy, and 
 should live to be christened, why, I suppose I must be one of the 
 sponsors." 
 
 Six weeks passed away, and Dumps was beginning to flatter him- 
 self that the child was dead, when the following note painfully 
 resolved his doubts : 
 
 "Great Russell Street, 
 
 Monday morning. 
 " Dear Uncle, 
 
 " You will be delighted to hear that my dear Jemima has left 
 her room, and that your future godson is getting on capitally ; he was 
 very thin at first, but he is getting much larger, and nurse says he is 
 filling out, every day. He cries a good deal, and is a very singular 
 colour, which made Jemima and me rather uncomfortable; but as 
 nurse says it's natural, and as, of course, we know nothing about
 
 344 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 these things yet, we are quite satisfied with what nurse says. We 
 thiriK he will be a sharp child; and nurse says she's sure he will, 
 because he never goes to sleep. You will readily believe that we are 
 all very happy, only we're a little worn out for want of rest, as he 
 keeps us awake all night; but this we must expect, nurse says, for 
 the first six or eight months. He has been vaccinated, but in conse- 
 quence of the operation being rather awkwai'dly performed, some 
 small particles of glass were introduced into the arm with the matter. 
 Perhaps this may in some degree account for his being rather frac- 
 tious ; at least, so nurse says. We propose to have him christened 
 at twelve o'clock on Friday, at Saint George's Church, in Hart Street, 
 by the name of Frederick Charles William. Pray don't be later 
 than a quarter before twelve. We shall have a very few friends in 
 the evening, when, of course, we shall see you. I am sorry to say, 
 that the dear boy appears rather restless and uneasy to-day: the 
 cause, I fear, is fever. 
 
 " Believe me, dear Uncle, 
 
 " Yours affectionately, 
 
 " Charles Kitterbell." 
 
 "P.S. — I open this note to say that we have just discovered the 
 cause of little Frederick's restlessness. It is not fever, as I appre- 
 hended, but a small pin, which nurse accidentally stuck in his leg, 
 yesterday evening. We have taken it out, and he appears more 
 composed, though he still sobs a good deal." 
 
 It was impossible to recede now, so Dumps put his best face — that 
 is to say, an uncommonly miserable one — upon the matter; and pur- 
 chased a hand.some silver mug for the infant Kitterbell, upon which 
 he ordered the initials "F. C. W. K." to be engraved forthwith. 
 
 Dumps was on the staircase of No. 14 Great Eussell Street on the 
 appointed day at the appointed hour. The female servant ushered 
 him into a front drawing-room. 
 
 "Ah, uncle!" said Mr. Kitterbell, "how d'ye do? allow me— 
 Jemima, mydear — my uncle — I think you've seen Jemima before, sir?" 
 
 " Have had the pleasure" returned Dumps. 
 
 "I'm sure," said Mra Kitterbell, with a languid smile and a 
 slight cough, " I'm sure — hem — any friend of Charles's — hem — much 
 less a relation is — " 
 
 " Knew you'd say so, my love," said little Kitterbell, who, while 
 he appeared to be gazing on the opposite houses, was looking at his 
 wife with a most affectionate air. 
 
 In a short time in came the nurse, with a remarkably small parcel
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 345 
 
 in her arms, packed up in a blue mantle trimmed with white fur.— 
 This was the baby. 
 
 "Now, uncle," said Mr. Kitterbell, lifting up that part of the 
 mantle which covered the infant's face, with an air of great triumph, 
 " who do you think he is like?" 
 
 "He! he! Yes, who?" said Mrs. K., putting her arm through 
 her husband's, and looking up into Duraps's face with an expres.sioD 
 of as much interest as she was capable of displaying. 
 
 " How small he is ! remarkably small indeed." 
 
 "Do you think so? He's a monster to what he was — an't he, 
 nurse? But who is he like?" 
 
 " I really don't know loho he's like." 
 
 "Don't you think he's like mel" inquired his nephew, with a 
 knowing air. 
 
 " Oh, decidedly not !" returned Dumps, with an emphasis not to be 
 misunderstood. "Decidedly not like you.— Oh, certainly not." 
 
 "Like Jemima?" asked Kitterbell, faintly. 
 
 "Oh dear, no; not in the least. I'm no judge, of course, in such 
 cases; but I really think he's more like one of those little interesting 
 carved representations that one sometimes sees blowing a trumpet 
 on a tombstone ! " 
 
 " Well !" said the disappointed little father, "you'll be better able 
 to tell what he's like by and by. You shall see him this evening 
 with his mantle off." 
 
 " Thank you," said Dumps, feeling particularly grateful. 
 
 The other godfather arrived, and the little party entered the 
 hackney-coach that was to take them to the church ; Dumps amus- 
 ing Mrs. Kitterbell by expatiating largely on the danger of measles, 
 thrush, teeth-cutting, and other interesting diseases to which children 
 are subject. 
 
 The ceremony (which occupied about five minutes) passed off, 
 without anything particular occurring, and Dumps returned to 
 busiress with the painful conviction that he was regularly booked 
 for an evening party. 
 
 Evening came — and so did Dumps. It was some time before the 
 miserable man could muster up courage to knock at the door, but 
 when at length he did do so, and was ushered into the drawing-room, 
 he felt about as much out of place as a salmon might be supposed to 
 be on a gravel-walk. 
 
 A general hum of admiration announced the entrance of nurse 
 with the baby. A general rush of the young ladies immediately took 
 place. (Girls are always »o fond of babies in company.)
 
 346 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 " O, you dear ! " said one. 
 
 " How sweet ! " cried anotlier, in a low tone of the most enthusiastic 
 admiration. 
 
 " Heavenly ! " added a third. 
 
 " Oh ! what dear little arms ! " said a fourth, holding up an arm 
 and fist, about the size and shape of the leg of a fowl cleanly picked. 
 
 " Did you ever — " said a little coquette with a large bustle, who 
 looked like a French lithograph, appealing to a gentleman in three 
 waistcoats — " Did you ever — " 
 
 " Never, in my life," returned her admirer, pulling up his collar. 
 
 " Oh ! do let me take it, nurse," cried another young lady. " The 
 love ! " 
 
 "Can it open its eyes, nurse?" inquired another, affecting the 
 utmost innocence. 
 
 Suffice it to say that the single ladies unanimously voted him an 
 angel, and that the married ones, nevi. con., agreed that he was de- 
 cidedly the finest baby they had ever beheld — except their own. 
 
 The evening promised to go off excellently. Dumps didn't mind 
 it ; he had devised a plan for himself — a little bit of fun in his own 
 v/ay — and he was almost happy ! 
 
 The " sit-down supper " was excellent. The young ladies didn't 
 eat much for fear it shouldn't look romantic, and the married ladies 
 ate as much as possible for fear they shouldn't have enough. 
 
 " Ladies and gentlemen," said long Dumps, rising from his chair, 
 and speaking in a very sepulchral voice, and rueful accent, " will you 
 have the kindness to charge your glasses'? I am desirous of proposing 
 a toast." 
 
 A dead silence ensued, and the glasses were filled — everybody 
 looked serious — " from gay to grave, from lively to severe ". 
 
 " Ladies and gentlemen," slowly continued the ominous Dumps, 
 "in accordance with what is, I believe, the established usage on 
 these occasions, I, as one of the godfathers of Master Frederick 
 Charles William Kitterbell, venture to rise to propose a toast. I 
 need hardly say, that it ia the health and prosperity of that young 
 gentleman, the particular event of whose early life we are here met 
 to celebrate— (applause). Ladies and gentlemen, it is impossible to 
 suppose that our friends here, whose sincere well-wishers we all are, 
 can pass through life without some trials, considerable sulTering, 
 severe afflictions, and heavy losses ! That these trials may be long 
 spared them, is ray most earnest prayer, my most fervent wish. I 
 hope and trust, ladies and gentlemen, that the infant whose christen- 
 ing we have this evening met to celebrate, may not be removed from
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 347 
 
 the arms of his parents by premature decay" (several cambrics were 
 in requisition); "that his young and now apparently healthy form 
 may not be wasted by lingering disease " (great sensation was mani- 
 fest among the married ladies). " You, I am sure, will concur with 
 me in wishing that he may live to be a comfort, and a blessing, to 
 his parents." (" Hear, hear ! " and an audible sob from Mr. Kitter- 
 bell.) " But, should he not be what we could wish — should he for- 
 get in aftertimes the duty which he owes to them — should they 
 unhappily experience that distracting truth, 'how sharper than a 
 serpent's tooth it is to have a thankless child ' — '"' 
 
 Here Mrs. Kitterbell rushed from the room, and went into violent 
 hysterics in the passage, leaving her better-half in almost as bad a 
 condition. 
 
 It need hardly be added that this occurrence quite put a stop to 
 the harmony of the evening. The musicians were silenced, flirting 
 ceased, and the company slowly departed. Dumps left the house at 
 the commencement of the bustle, and walked home, with a light step, 
 and (for him) a cheerful heart. 
 
 CLARENCE AND BEAKENBURY. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 Brak. Why looks your grace so heavily to-day ? 
 
 Clar. Oh, I have passed a miserable night, so full of ugly sights, 
 of ghastly dreams, that, aa I am a Christian faithful man, I would 
 not spend another such a night, though 'twere to buy a world of 
 happy days ; so full of dismal terror was the time. 
 
 Brak. What was you dream, my lordl I pray you tell me. 
 
 Clar. Methought that I had broken from the Tower, and was 
 embarked to cross to Burgundy, — and in my company my brother 
 Glo'ster ; who from my cabin tempted me to walk upon the hatches, 
 rhence we looked toward England, and cited up a thousand heavy 
 times during the wars of York and Lancaster, that had befallen us. 
 As we paced along upon the giddy footing of the hatches, methought 
 that Glo'ster stumbled, and, in falling, struck me (that thought to 
 stay him) overboard, into the tumbling billows of the main. Oh, 
 Heaven ! methought what pain it was to drown ! What dreadful 
 noise of waters in mine ears ! What sights of ugly Death within 
 mine eyes ! I thought I saw a thousand fearful wrecks ; a thousand 
 men that fishes gnawed upon ; wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps 
 of pearl, inestimable stones, unvalued jewels all scattered in the 
 bottom of the sea; some lay in dead men's skulls; and in those holes
 
 348 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 where eyes did once inhabit, there were crept, as 'twere in scorn of 
 eyes, reflecting gems, that wooed the slimy bottom of the deep, and 
 mocked the dead bones that lay scattered by. 
 
 Brak. Had you such leisure in the time of death to gaze upon 
 these secrets of the deep? 
 
 Clar. Methought I had ; and often did I strive to yield the ghost ; 
 but still the envious flood kept in my soul, and would not let it 
 forth to find the empty, vast, and wandering air ; but smothered it 
 within my panting bulk, which almost burst to belch it in the sea. 
 
 Brak. Awak'd you not in this sore agony ? 
 
 Clar. Ah no ; my dream was lengthened after life : O then began 
 the tempest of my soul ! I passed, methought, the melancholy flood, 
 with that grim ferryman whom poets write of, unto the kingdom of 
 perpetual night. The first that there did greet my stranger-soul 
 was my great father-in-law, renowned Warwick, who cried aloud, — 
 " What scourge for perjury can this dark monarchy afford false 
 Clarence?" and so he vanished. Then came wandering by a shadow 
 like an angel, with bright hair dabbled in blood ; and he shrieked 
 out aloud, — "Clarence is come, false, fleeting, perjured Clarence, 
 that stabbed me in the field by Tewkesbury : seize on him, furies, 
 take him to your torments ! "■ — With that, methought, a legion of 
 foul fiends environed me, and howlM in mine ears such hideous 
 cries that, with the very noise, I, trembling, waked ; and for a season 
 after could not believe but that I was in hell : such terrible impres- 
 sion made my dream I 
 
 CATO ON IMMORTALITY. 
 
 Addison. 
 
 It must be so — Plato, thou reason'st well I 
 
 Else, whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire, 
 
 This longing after immortality? 
 
 Or, whence this secret dread, and inward horror, 
 
 Of falling into nought? Why shrinks the soul 
 
 Back on herself, and startles at destruction ? — 
 
 'Tis the Divinity that stirs within us, 
 
 'Tis heaven itself, that points out an hereafter. 
 
 And intimates Eternity to man. 
 
 Eternity ! thou pleasing — dreadful thought I 
 
 Through what variety of untried being. 
 
 Through what new scenes and changes must we j»a8s i
 
 SBLKCTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 349 
 
 The wide, the unbounded prospect lies before me ; 
 But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it. 
 Here will I hold : If there's a Power above us — 
 And that there is, all nature cries aloud 
 Through all her works — He must delight in virtue ; 
 And that which He delights in, must be happy, 
 But when? or where? This world was made for Csesar 
 I'm weary of conjectures — this must end them. 
 
 [Laying his hand on his sv'ord. 
 Thus I am doubly armed. My death, my life, 
 My bane and antidote, are both before me 
 This — in a moment, brings me to an end, 
 But this — informs me I shall never die ! 
 The soul, secured in her existence, smiles 
 At the drawn dagger, and defies its point. — 
 The stars shall fade away, the sun himself 
 Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years ; 
 But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth. 
 Unhurt amidst the war of elements. 
 The wreck of matter, and the crash of worlds ! 
 
 SELECTION FEOM "THE STAELING". 
 
 Dr. Norman M'Leod. 
 
 {Adapted for Recital.) 
 
 John Hall, or as he was more familiarly called, Jock Ha', was a 
 th'n, sallow-faced man, of a nervous temperament, and with lank, 
 black hair, and sharp, piercing eyes. He might be aged thirty, 
 although he looked liker forty. His jacket was made of fustian, 
 which might have been clean some years before ; his corduroy 
 trousers had ragged endings, beneath which were revealed old boots 
 and worn-out stockings; while a tattered bonnet covered his capa- 
 cious head. How Hall lived no one knew, nor cared to know. He 
 had been on a visit to John Spence, the senior keeper to Lord 
 Bennock, and, having expressed a desire to see the Castle, in a short 
 time Hugh was conducting him towards it. After they had passed 
 the lodge, and were walking along the beautiful avenue and beneath 
 the fine old trees, with the splendid park sweeping around, and the 
 turrets of the castle in sight, Hugh said, " Now, Hall, dinna speak 
 to onybody unless they speak to you, and gie a discreet answer. 
 Dae my biddin'; for I'm takin' a great responsibility in bringin' ye 
 in here. His lordship maybe wadna be pleased to see a trampin'
 
 350 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 chiel like you here. But I'll tak' care he doesna see ye, nor, i/ possible, 
 hear tell o' ye." 
 
 " Never fear me, I'll be as quate as a dead rabbit. But, Hugh, 
 mon, I hae seen his lordship afore." 
 
 "Whaur?" 
 
 " He ance tried me." 
 
 " TTried ye ! tried ye for what?" 
 
 " Oh, never heed, dinna be ower particular. It was a babble I got 
 into wi' twa taUors, and his lordship widna mind me noo, tho' faix i 
 I mind him, for he sent me to jail." 
 
 "Was that a'? ye micht hae thrashed nine tailors and no got 
 yersel' hurt; I gripped three o' them mysel' when poachin'." 
 
 But Jock did not tell the whole history of his poaching affray 
 along with the tailors. 
 
 Hugh ensconced Jock in the shrubbery until he had ascertained 
 from one of the servants that his lordship had gone out to walk in 
 the grounds, that the ladies were taking an airing in the carriage, 
 and that it was quite possible to get a peep into the great hall and 
 the public rooms opening from it without being discovered. Aa 
 Hugh, accompanied by Jock, crept almost noiselessly along the pas- 
 sages, he directed, with underbreath, Jock's attention to the noble 
 apartments, the arms and suits of mail hung round the wall of the 
 great entrance-hall, the stags' heads, the stuflfed birds, and one or 
 two fine old paintings. 
 
 But when the drawing-room door was opened, and there flashed 
 upon Jock's eyes all the splendour of colour reflected from large 
 mirrors, a vision presented itself which was as new to him as if he 
 liad passed into the Garden of Eden from the lodgings of Mrs. 
 Craigie. As they were retreating, suddenly the inner door of the 
 hall opened, and his lordship stood before them ! 
 
 " Heeven be aboot us ! " ejaculated Spence. " Dune for, — dune 
 for life ! " Jock, seeing only a plain-looking little gentleman in a 
 Glengarry bonnet and tweed suit, never imagined that this could be 
 a lord, and was accordingly quite composed. 
 
 His lordship was a slight-built man, of about forty, with pleasing 
 hazel eyes and a large moustache. He had retired from the army, 
 and was much liked for his frank manner and good humour Seeing 
 his keeper in such ])erj)lexity, accompanied by so disreputable look- 
 ing a person, he sail], " Hollo, Spence ! whom have you got here? I 
 hope not a poacher, eh?" 
 
 "1 humbly beg your lordship's pardon; but, my lord, the fac' 
 is—"
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 351 
 
 "Is that his lordship?" whispered Jock. 
 
 " Haud yer tongue ! " replied Hugh. Theu addressing his lordship, 
 he said, " He's no a poacher, my lord ; no, no, but only — " 
 
 "Oh! an acquaintance, I suppose?" 
 
 " No that either, no that either, but an acqua'ntance o' an acqua'nt- 
 ance o' my faither's lang syne — a maist respectable man— Sergeant 
 Mercer, in Drumsylie; and I took the leeberty, thinking yer lord- 
 ship was oot, to — " 
 
 "To show him the house. Quite right, Spence, quite right; glad 
 you did so." Then addressing Jock, he said, " Never here before, I 
 suppose?" 
 
 Jock drew himself up, placed his hands down his sides, heels in, 
 toes out, and gave the military salute. 
 
 "Been in the army? In what regiment? Have you seen ser- 
 vice?" 
 
 "Yes, sir — yes, my lord," replied Jock; "as yer honour says, I hae 
 seen service." 
 
 This was information to Spence, who breathed more freely on 
 hearing such unexpected evidence of Jock's respectability. 
 
 "Where?" inquired his lordship. 
 
 " In the berrick-yaird o' Stirlin', yer honour," replied Jock ; " but 
 in what regiment I dinna mind. It was a first, second, or third 
 something or anither; but I hae clean forgotten the name and num- 
 ber." 
 
 "The barrack-yard?" said his lordship; "pray how long did you 
 serve his Majesty in that severe campaign?" 
 
 " Aboot a fortnicht." 
 
 " What ! " exclaimed his lordship; " a fortnight only? And what 
 after that?" 
 
 " I ran afi" as fast as my legs could carry me, never ran faster a' 
 my days, till I reached Drumsylie." 
 
 His lordship burst into a fit of laughter, and said, "On my honour, 
 you're a candid fellow." 
 
 " I 'listed ae day I was in Stirlin'; and though I hae nae objections 
 at ony time to fire a gun at a bird or a Frenchman, or to fecht them 
 that wad fecht me, but the sodgers at Stirlin' made a fule o' me, and 
 keepit me walkin' and trampin' back and forrid for twa weeks in a 
 yaird, as if they were breakin' a horse ; and I could dae naething, 
 neither fish, nor shoot craws, wi'oot the leave o' an iU-tongued cor- 
 poral. I couldna thole that, could I ? It wisiia in the bargain, and 
 sae I left, and they didna think it worth their while to speer after 
 me."
 
 352 SELECTIONS FOR READIKa AND RECITATION, 
 
 "Egad!" said his lordship; "I daresay not, I daresay not! Do 
 you know what they might have done to you had they caught 
 you ■? " 
 
 " Shot me, I expec'," said Jock ; " but I wasna worth the pooder, 
 and, to tell the truth, I wad raither be shot like a gled for harryin' 
 a paitrick's nest, than be kept a' my days like a gowk in a cage o' a 
 berricks at Stirlin'. But I didna heed atweel whether they shot 
 me or no." 
 
 " The black dog tak' ye ! " said Spence, who lost his temper. " My 
 lord, I declare — " 
 
 " Never mind, Spence, never mind ; let him speak to me ; and go 
 you to the servants' hall until I send for youj" and motioning Jock 
 to remain, the catechism went on. 
 
 "What did your parents dol" 
 
 " Little guid and muckle ill" 
 
 "Have you been to school?" 
 
 " No' that I mind o'." 
 
 "And how have you lived?" 
 
 "Guid kens." 
 
 "But what have you been?" 
 
 "A ne'er-do-weel — a kin' o' cheat- the-widdie. Sae folk tell me, 
 and I suppose they're richt." 
 
 "Are you married?" 
 
 "That's no a bad ane, efter a'!" said Jock. 
 
 "A bad what?" 
 
 "I jist thocht yer lordship was jokin'; to think that ony wumman 
 wad marry me ! Lassies wad be cheaper than castawa' shoon afore 
 ony o' them wad tak' Jock Ha' — unless, ane like Luckie Craigie. 
 But yer lordship 'ill no ken her, I'se warrant ? " 
 
 " I have not that honour," said his lordship with a smile. " But 
 I must admit that you don't give yourself a good character, any- 
 how." 
 
 " I hae nane to gie." 
 
 " On my word, I think you are honest ! " 
 
 " Weel, it's mair than onybody else thinks. But if I had wark, 
 I'm no sure but I wad be honest." 
 
 "What would you like to have?" 
 
 "It's no for me to say," replied Jock; "beggars shouldna be 
 choosers." 
 
 " Perhaps you would have no objection to have this fine house — 
 eh?" asked his lordship. 
 
 " I'll no say that I wad," replied Jock.
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 353 
 
 " Aud what would you make of it?" 
 
 " I wad fiU't fu' wi' puir ne'er-do-weel, faitherless and mitherless 
 bairns, aud pit Sergeant Mercer and his wife ower them — that's Mr 
 Speuce's cousin, ye ken." 
 
 " Hillo ! that would make a large party ! And what would you 
 do with them when here assembled, my man?" 
 
 " I wad feed them wi' the sheep and nowt in the park, and the 
 birds frae the heather, and the fish frae the burns, and gie them 
 the flowei-s aboot the doors, and schule them weel, and learn them 
 trades ; and shoot them or hang them, if they didna dae weel efter- 
 hin." 
 
 " And what would you do with me and my wife and daughters ? " 
 asked his lordship. 
 
 " I wad mak' you their faither, and them their mither and sisters 
 Ye niver wad be idle, nor want pleasure, yer honour, among sic a 
 hantle o' fine lads and lasses." 
 
 " Never idle — never idle ! I should think not ! But as to the 
 pleasure ! — " 
 
 " Eh, sir, y6 dinna ken what poverty is ! ye never lay trimlin' on 
 a stairhead on a snawy nicht; nor got a spoonfu' or twa o' cauld 
 parritch in the mornin' to cool ye, wd' curses and kicks to warm 
 ye, for no stealin' yer ain meat; nor see'd yer wee brithers an' sisters 
 deein' like troots, openin' their mooths, wi' naethin' to put in them; 
 or, faix, ye wad be thankfu' to help mitherless and faitherless bairns, 
 and instead o' sendin' young craturs like them to jail, ye wad sen' 
 aulder folk that ill-used and neglected them ; ay, and maybe a lot o' 
 ither folk I ken, for helpin' naebody but themsels ! " 
 
 His lordship looked in silence at Jock; and for a moment, amidst 
 his ease and luxury, his fits of eimui and difiiculty in killing time, 
 his sense of the shallowness and emptiness of much of his life, with 
 the selfishness of idle society, there flashed upon his naturally kind 
 heart a gleam of noble duties yet to perform, and noble privileges 
 yet to enjoy, though not perhaps in the exact form suggested by 
 Jock Hall. So he only said, " You are not a bad fellow — not at all. 
 Wiser men have said more foolish things;" and then, approaching 
 Jock with a friendly smile, ofi"ered him some money. 
 
 "Na, na!" said Jock; "I didna come here to beg. I'll no tak* 
 onything." 
 
 " Come, come ! " said his lordship; " you won't disoblige me, will 
 you?" and he thrust the money into Jock's hand; and, ringing a 
 bell, he ordered the servant, who appeared in reply, to take Jock to 
 the servants' hall, and to send Hugh Spence to the business-room. 
 
 (996J M
 
 354 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 " William," said hia lordship to another servant, who happened to 
 be passing, "go to the old clothes-press, and select a complete suit 
 for this poor fellow. Be kind to him: see that he has some food and 
 a glass of beer." 
 
 When Hugh Spence entered the presence of his lordship he had 
 carefully prepared a long, apologetic speech, which, however, he had 
 hardly begun when he was cut short by his lordship saying, " You 
 have picked up a rare character, Spence, upon my honour! But I 
 like the fellow. He is an original, and has something good in him. 
 I can't quite make him out." 
 
 " Nor me either, my lord, I do assure you," interrupted Spence. 
 
 " But I have taken rather a fancy to him," continued his lordship. 
 " He is neither knave nor fool ; but seems to have been ill-used, and 
 to have had a hard time of it. There is something about him which 
 takes me, and if any friend of your father's has an interest in him, I 
 sha'n't object — quite the reverse — to you getting him something to 
 do about the kennels. I really would like it. So look to him." 
 
 {By special permission of Messrs. Charles Burnet di Co.) 
 
 "HOME, SWEET HOME." 
 
 Detroit Free Pi-ess. 
 
 The household goods of a ruined millionaire were being sold at 
 auction, and a fashionable assembly of bidders were present. The 
 auctioneer came to a handsome grand square piano, and as he opened 
 it, he observed that the maker's catalogue price for the instrument 
 was 1400 dollars. Then he invited anyone present to try the instru- 
 ment, so all might hear its tone. 
 
 " Please come forward and play something, someone — anyone," he 
 urged, noticing nobody seemed inclined to accept the invitation. 
 
 At this second call there was a stir near the door, and then a man 
 advanced — a man who seemed strangely out of place among the 
 elegantly-attired people assembled in that grand parlour. It was a 
 ragged, soiled tramp, on whose face hardship and dissipation had 
 left their imprints. 
 
 A murmur of astonishment and disgust ran around the room. How 
 came such a creature there? What right had he in that room with 
 decent people? How did he gain admittance? 
 
 The fatiltlessly-attired men fell back as the tramp approached, and 
 the women drew aside their skirts, as if the touch of such a being 
 were contamination. Some looked around for the auctioneer's assist- 
 ants, and one man half lifted his cane a.s if to strike the vagabond.
 
 SELBCTION8 FOR READING AND RECITATION. 355 
 
 " Put him out." 
 
 The words were uttered by more than one pair of lips. 
 
 Heedless of the looks or words of those around, the tramp walked 
 — or rather staggered — toward the piano. His step was that of a 
 drunken man, but his cheeks were sunken and pallid, as if hunger 
 gnawed at his vitals, and his eyes gleamed with a wild unnatural 
 light — a light that caused the auctioneer to shiver and fall back with 
 a hand half upraised. 
 
 Without a word the vagrant seated himself at the piano, and 
 his fingers touched the ivory keys. For a moment he seemed to 
 hesitate, his fingers wandering aimlessly, yet producing a few soft 
 and harmonious notes. Then, of a sudden, a burst of melody came 
 from the piano — a flood of music that thrilled the souls of all who 
 heard. It was Beethoven's gi-andest march, and it was rendered by 
 a master musician. Never before in that magnificent parloiu- was 
 such music heard. Could it be the ragged tramp who was playing] 
 
 Amazed, stricken dumb and motionless by what they saw and 
 heard, the people who had gathered there stared and hstened, hold- 
 ing their breath while their ears drank in the soul-intoxicating 
 strains conjured from the faultless instrument by the wizard musi- 
 cian in rags. The march ended, but the flood of music still poured 
 from the piano. Beethoven, Mozart, Wagner, Liszt, — the strange 
 man knew them all, and their best work he rendered with a master's 
 touch. 
 
 " Wonderful ! Amazing ! " 
 
 The enthralled listeners looked into each othei-'s faces, and whis- 
 pered the words — 
 
 "Who is he?" 
 
 No one could answer, but one thought he must be some great 
 musician masquerading. 
 
 Listen 1 He is improvising now. How sweet his strain 1 Soft 
 and low, yet full of joy and sunshine, it flows on and on like a laugh- 
 ing, dancing brook. 
 
 Slowly a touch of sadness creeps into the melody. It is like the 
 gentle fall of summer rain on a new-made grave — it is like the 
 faintly-heard sobbing of a mother as she bends above the dead face 
 of her first-born. It moves the heart of many a woman as she 
 listens, and more than one pair of eyes are dim with unbidden tears. 
 
 At length comes the sweetest, saddest, grandest tune ever com- 
 posed — "Home, Sweet Home". All else is forgotten now. One of 
 the women is sobbing softly in the depths of her handkerchief. 
 Softer and softer, slower and slower the strain is sinking- dying. It
 
 356 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 is like the last efifort of a soul passing from earth. Finally it ceases, 
 and then the tramp musician sinks forward on the instrument and 
 remains motionless. A sigh runs round the room. The auctioneer 
 touches the tramp on the shoulder. The vagabond does not stir. 
 They lift the nerveless body and look into his face. He has gone 
 home. 
 
 THE BACHELOR 
 F. Anstet. 
 
 This is an instance of a piece which the superficial student will 
 feel inclined to despise for its extreme simplicity. The short coup- 
 lets will be sure to strike him as altogether too commonplace and 
 monotonous to afford sufficient scope for the infinite variety of his 
 powers. But a Reciter with a dash of the Heaven-bom Artist in his 
 composition will know better ; he will see instinctively the immense 
 and electrical effects that can be got out of almost every stanza : he 
 will recognize that here he has a piece capable of rendering a draw- 
 ing-room audience more uncomfortable than any five ordinary reci- 
 tations could do. However, as Reciters of this type are almost 
 necessarily rare, we shall venture to interpolate a few hints and 
 suggestions. 
 
 The great point at starting is to strike the right key-note, and it 
 is as well to do this at once by the tone and manner in which you 
 announce your title : — 
 
 THE BACHELOR. 
 
 {Don't do it too jauntily, or your audience will instantly imagine it is going 
 to be a funny piece, and permit themselves an anticipaiory titter, know- 
 ing by experience that there are many excellent jests current on such a 
 topic. Atid after that, your mast pathetic efforts are as likely a^ not 
 to go vnth roars — m/yre likely than not. Announce it with a note of 
 deprecation, a suggestion that you are fully avare that bachelors as a 
 class are fit objects for ridicule, but that this particular bachelor is an 
 
 exception.] 
 
 PART THE FIRST. 
 
 Beside the fire the bachelor sat, 
 A friendless man — in a furnished flat. 
 [Insist lightly on the furniture, so as to emphasize the friendlessness. 
 
 The light of youth from his eyes had fled. 
 The hair was thin on the top of his head. 
 [If the majority of your male hearers are similarly affected, they are likely tc 
 express great amusement here. So you should be careful to check such 
 levity in advance by the excessive solemnity of your manner.
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 357 
 
 Angular, cynical, bilious, grim, 
 
 [With a rising inflection, then in hollow despair. 
 
 Was there one in the world to care for himi 
 
 Thus he mused — as often he'd mused before ; 
 When — he heard the hammer on his front door ! 
 iPoint to be made here; this occurrence, not unusual elsewhere, is almost un 
 precedented in the bachelor's experience. 
 
 And he rose — impelled by repeated knocks — 
 To find on his threshold — a boy — with a box ! 
 
 A plain deal box of a medium size, 
 Which the bachelor took in mild surprise. 
 [There is a good deal to be got out of the "plain deal box". It is very effec- 
 tive in its way. 
 
 He had made no purchase of late ; then swift, 
 The inference followed — it must be a gift 
 
 From some former friend he had long forgot ! 
 So he searched for his scissors to sever the knot. 
 
 And in eager haste he lifted the lid, 
 
 All unsuspicious of what it hid. 
 [Pause here to communicate some of this curiosity to your audience, whc 
 ought to be dying to know what was in the box— though they ivill pro- 
 bably disguise their impatience. 
 
 Then — his fury broke in a frantic curse 
 Too vigorous to repeat in verse ! 
 
 What unknown hand had dealt this stroke? 
 What fiend conceived so cruel a joke 
 
 As to send — 
 
 [Another pause so as to keep your secret as long at you can. 
 Ah, — smile at it those who can ! 
 A dainty doll— to a childless man ? 
 [Unless you are very careful some of the audience ivill infallibly giggle here 
 
 He flung it from him ! it fell on a chair — 
 And smiled through its fleece of golden hair 
 
 Straight up in his face — till he gave a start 
 Aa a sudden compunction pierced his heart;
 
 358 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 For the eyes, and the amber tresses above, 
 Resembled those of his Early Love. 
 
 So he softly patted her waxen hand, 
 
 And she seemed in some way to iinderatand 
 
 When he raised her gently, for, wondrous thing ! — 
 As though his fingers had found a spring 
 
 That set in motion some secret gear. 
 She spoke — in silver- toned accents clear. 
 
 [The passage which follows is, so to speak, the cheval de bataille of this reci- 
 tation. If it is difficult — and isn't itl — for a male reciter to ode- 
 quately convey the nursery prattle of an infant, how much more so ta 
 indicate the faltering accents of a phonographic doll/ Take it very 
 slowly; rid your countenance of all expression; make your intonation 
 metallic, with a touch of wooUiness — and tht compiler wishes you well 
 over it. Now — 
 
 " I'se 'oor dolly — 'oo must be 
 Always velly tind to me, 
 Yike me best of all 'oor toys, 
 Hide me thafe from naughty boys ; 
 Never 3^eave me near ze fiah, 
 In ze wain, or in ze miah. 
 And I'll 'peak when 'poken to, 
 'Oo yove me— an' I'll yove 'oo." 
 
 If thrilled his pulse to a faster throb, 
 He sought to swallow a rising sob. 
 
 For his flinty bosom he could not steel 
 'Gainst the innocent guile of the doll's appeal ! 
 
 And his furrowed face grew strangely mild 
 As he nursed the doll — like a little child ! 
 
 All through the night she softly slept 
 
 In the drawer where his cleap shirts were kept I 
 
 But the bachelor's eyelids closed in vain. 
 For there rang in his ears that naive refrain ! 
 
 [Pause here; then wilh a fierce scorn of irreverent ridicule. 
 
 Ah, well, it came from a phonograph, 
 Yet I pity those who would merely laugh. 
 
 [This will shut up any sniggerer.
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 359 
 
 And malice itself might feel some shame 
 To see how its shaft had missed its aim ! 
 [Pause again, but not too long, or you may lose your audience. Catch them 
 in the act of rising, and compel them to resume their teats by the 
 announcement of — 
 
 PART THE SECOND. 
 
 [Apologetically, as if it was the author's fault, not ymirs. 
 All through the next succeeding day, 
 From the time his breakfast was cleared away 
 
 Till after he had taken tea, 
 
 He nursed the doll on his elderly knee. 
 
 He was holding it still upon his lap 
 
 When — once again — he heard a rap ! 
 
 [Impressive silence. 
 
 And thrusting the doll with a guilty air 
 Between the cushions that lined his chair, 
 
 [Rapid, and dramatic delivery for this. 
 
 He sat up — stifFer than just before, 
 Grimly eyeing his opening door. 
 
 [Nod here twice. 
 
 Then he felt his brains in confusion whirl, 
 For his visitor was — a little girl ! 
 
 A small patrician in plush and fur, 
 With hardly a trace of the child in her. 
 
 [Remember to make this infant as unsympathetic as possible. 
 
 And he caught his breath in a gasping choke. 
 He had guessed her errand — or ever she spoke. 
 
 She sat down, preening her parasol, 
 
 Then, " I've come to ask if you've seen my doll, 
 
 "I ordered it yesterday afternoon, 
 A nd they promised me they would send it soon. 
 
 " But they never did — and such silly mistakes 
 A shopkeeper person so often makes, 
 
 '(There's a perfect idiot who keeps that shop!) 
 That — though we're at the bottom and you at the top—
 
 360 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 *' I thought I'd just step up and inquire," she said, 
 " If they'd happened to send it to you instead. 
 
 •* So boring losing one's doll, you know." 
 And he answered : " I — should imagine so." 
 
 [Put plenty of repressed feeling into this 
 
 Though he wreathed his face in a ghastly grin 
 A bitter struggle went on within ! 
 
 [Indicate this by facial contortions. 
 
 The child came armed with the legal claim, 
 But oh ! it was cruel, all the same. 
 
 [With a cry of bitter protett. 
 
 For how could he now, without disgrace, 
 Produce that doll from her hiding-place? 
 
 Then gripping his chair in convulsive clutch, 
 "Do you love " he faltered, "your doll so much?" 
 
 [Intense anxiety here — expressed vnth eyebrows. 
 
 "Well I liked her — rather," she drawled, "before, 
 But I've thought of something I'd like still more. 
 
 " So — as soon as I get her — I mean to arrange 
 "With the man at the shop to let me exchange." 
 
 Then he 7night regain her ! 
 [Dramatic pause — indicate by pantomime the workings of his mind — hope, 
 doubt, despair. 
 
 No, he was shy, 
 
 A doll was a thing that he dared not buy 1 
 
 And still, as the child went chattering on. 
 He suppressed — what he was sitting upon ! 
 
 And his soul was seething in revolt. 
 Like a cistern struck by a thunderbolt 1 
 
 What — yield his idol and all her charms 
 To alien unsympathetic arms? 
 
 Give her up forever ? Not so, not so I 
 He could not — he would not — let her go ! 
 
 [Desperately — then return to narrative tone 
 
 "Then you haven't seen her," she asked. (Ah why 
 Ib it always so easy to tell a lie
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READINQ AND RECITATION. 361 
 
 Upon any sudden emergency? 
 
 yHere full yourself together as if for a thumper. 
 " I am sorry to say, . . I have — not," said he. 
 
 And he bowed her out with a courtly air, 
 
 [Illustrate this as well as you can. 
 Then sank with a sigh in his easy chair. 
 
 What recked he, now that the deed was done, 
 If fairly or foully the prize were won ! 
 
 [In a tone of reckless triumph. 
 
 Soon under the cushion he eagerly sought 
 The hidden treasure so dearly bought. 
 
 She was disinterred — and his hot tears gushed, 
 lor her small soft nose was entirely crushed! 
 
 And remorseful grief he in vain indulged, 
 As he noticed one of her eyes had bulged ! 
 
 Then next, with his nerves unstning, he tried 
 The spring of the cylinder inside. . . . 
 
 [Pause again — moment of agonized suspense 
 
 She Hpoke — 
 
 [Relief at first, then terror. 
 
 Ah horror ! the sounds he heard 
 
 Were now discordant and harsh and blurred, 
 
 And beneath the jumble of words and jerks. 
 The click and stammer of damaged works, 
 
 His ear detected — unless he dreamt — 
 An undercurrent of "keen contempt ! 
 
 [Th'i ntxii piece is perhaps the worst "crux " of the two. You have to render a 
 disorganized version of the original speech, as perverted by its hearer's 
 sense of irreparable wrong — an extremely complicated impression to 
 convey. A guttural click at intervals wiU go a long way towards 
 attaining your object, but requires rigorous practice, 
 
 ' Yeave me ! Thafer I must be ! 
 'Oo's so — click ! — un-tind to me ! 
 Tick-tack. . . 'Oo have boke 'oor toy 
 Yike a — gurr-gurr — naughty boy ! 
 Hide from me, 'oo dwedful liah I 
 An — an--i — as and Zafiah I 
 
 (996) M2
 
 362 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 Never more I'll 'peak — it's too ! — 
 Dolly — dud — dud — don't yove 'oo ! " 
 
 [No2V continue in a solemn awe-struck tone. 
 
 She ceased — and he knew he had sinned in vain — 
 He could never endure that speech again 1 
 
 Nor meet unmoved the stern blue eye 
 That stared reproachfully all awry ! 
 
 For the broken accent that clicked and jerked 
 Was the voice of Conscience he would have burk'd ! 
 
 Then, pale and panting, he poked the fire, 
 And— placed her upon the funeral pyre, 
 
 Hiding his haggard eyes, — for he felt 
 He should go stark mad if he saw her melt ! 
 [fhre you should rumple your hair and gaze about you wildly before speaking 
 the final couplet^ in your hoUoivest accents. 
 
 And he staggered forth with a stiiled groan. 
 Once more — forever— unloved — alone ! 
 
 {From Mr. Punch's Young Re.ciier, by special permission oftlie Autlwr and 
 Messrs. Bradbury, Agnew, de Co., Ld.) 
 
 LITTLE LOED FAUNTLEEOY. 
 
 Mrs. Frances Hodgson Burnbtt. 
 {Adapted for Recital.) 
 
 Captam Cecil was the second son of the Earl of Dorincourt ; he 
 had incurred his father's bitter anger because he had married a young 
 American lady; the Earl wrote his son, saying, he might live where 
 he pleased, and die where he pleased, for that he was done with him. 
 The result was that Captain Cecil left the army, and went to live in 
 New York with his young wife. 
 
 When their only child Cedric was between six and seven. Captain 
 Cecil took fever — he was so ill that Cedric was sent away for a time. 
 When he was brought home again, his mother looked pale and thin, 
 and she was dressed in black. 
 
 " Dearest," his father had always called his mother by that name, 
 "dearest, is my papa betterl Is he welH" 
 
 " Yes, darling, he is well, quite well. But we have no one left but 
 each other now. No one at all."
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 363 
 
 Then, young as he was, he knew that Lis papa would not come 
 back any more. 
 
 One day Mr. Havisham, the Earl of Dorincourt's legal adviser, 
 called on Mrs. Cecil. He had come to New York to take Cedric 
 back with him to England. 
 
 "Must he be taken away from me? He is all I have. You don't 
 know what he has been to me." 
 
 " I am sorry to have to tell you, Mrs. Cecil, that the Earl is not 
 very friendly towards you. He proposes that his gi-andson shall 
 live with him at Dorincourt. He offers to you Court Lodge, a very 
 nice house, not far from the Castle ; he also proposes to settle upon 
 you a suitable income. The only stipulation is, that while his grand- 
 son may visit you at Court Lodge, he does not wish you to call at 
 the Castle. Not very hard terms, I think, Mrs. Cecil." 
 
 " My husband was very fond of England. It will be best for my 
 little boy, and so long as we see each other I ought not to suffer very 
 much." 
 
 At that moment Cedric came into the room, and ran up to his 
 mothtr. 
 
 " A-nd so this is little Lord Fauntleroy." 
 
 After the lawyer had left, the story Mrs. Cecil told Cedric was a 
 very curious and singular one. In the first j)lace, his grandfather 
 was the Earl of Dorincourt; then his uncle, if he had not been killed 
 by a fall from his horse, would have been the Earl of Dorincourt in 
 time; and then his papa, had he lived, might have been Earl of 
 Dorincourt; but since they had both died, little Cedric was the heir 
 to the title, and in the meantime he was Lord Fauntleroy. 
 
 Next morning his young lordship stepped in to see his old friend 
 Mr. Hobbs, the grocer. 
 
 " Helloh, Cedric ! Mornin' ! " ' 
 
 " Good morning, Mr. Hobbs ! Do you remember what we were 
 talking about yesterday?" 
 
 " Wal, seems to me, Cedric, 'twas 'bout England an' the aristo- 
 cracy." 
 
 " Yes, and I think you said you wouldn't have any earls sitting 
 around on your biscuit boxes?" 
 
 "That's so, Cedric, and I meant it too ! Let 'em try it — that's alL" 
 
 " Do you know, Mr. Hobbs, one is sitting ol this box now." 
 
 "Eh! Wbat'sthat?" 
 
 " Well, I'm one, or going to be." 
 
 "Got any pain? How do you feel?" 
 
 "Thank you, I'm all right."
 
 364 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 " One of us has got a sunstroke." 
 
 "Oil no, we haven't! You see it's this — the lawyer came all the 
 way from England to tell us ; my grandpapa sent him." 
 " Who is your grandfather?" 
 " He's the Earl of Dorincourt, you know." 
 "And what's your name, Cedric?" 
 " Well, the lawyer said I was Lord Fauntleroy." 
 "The lawyer said you was Lord Fauntleroy?" 
 "Yes, he just said, 'and so this is little Lord Fauntleroy'." 
 "Great Caesar's ghost!" 
 
 " Do you know, Mr. Havisham," he said to the lawyer, " I don't 
 know what an earl is?" 
 
 "Don't you?" 
 
 "No; I think when a boy is going to be an earl he ought to 
 know. Don't you?" 
 
 " Well, yes." 
 
 "Would you mind 'splaining it? What made my grandpapa an 
 «arl?" 
 
 "The first Earl of Dorincourt was made four hundred and fifty 
 years ago." 
 
 " Well, well ; that's a long time since. And what else do earls do 
 besides being made ! " 
 
 " Well — well, some earls have been very brave men." 
 
 " I'm glad of that. My papa was a soldier, and Dearest says he 
 was a very brave man." 
 
 " Then some earls have a great deal of money — " 
 
 "That's a good thing to have — I wish I had a great deal of 
 money." 
 
 "Do you; and why?" 
 
 " Because Dearest says a person can do so much with money. If 
 I were rich I'd buy Dearest all sorts of beautiful things; and then 
 there's Dick, a bootblack, one of the nicest bootblacks you ever 
 knew. I've known him for years." 
 
 "Oh, indeed! and if you were rich what would you do for him?" 
 
 " I'd buy Jake out." 
 
 "And who is Jake?" 
 
 "Jake's Dick's partner, you know; but Jake isn't square — " 
 
 " O, Jake isn't square ! " 
 
 "No; he cheats, and that's what makes Dick so wild, you know. 
 If you were blacking boots all day and your partner wasn't square 
 it would make you wild, too."
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 365 
 
 " I daresay it would. But — ah — what would you buy for yourself, 
 now, if you were rich?" 
 
 " Lots of things ; but first I'd give Mary some money." 
 
 "And who's Mary?" 
 
 " A. particular friend of mine. She has twelve childi-en and a hus- 
 band — and he has the fever, and they're very badly off." 
 
 " This is the most singular boy I ever came across. Ah, Mrs. 
 Cecil, I'm very glad you've come in. Before I left England, Lord 
 Doriiicourt said : ' Make my grandson understand he can have any- 
 thing he wants," 
 
 And thus it was, that before little Lord Fauntleroy left New 
 York for the home of his ancestors, he was able to give Mary and 
 Dick enough money to keep them out of all their troubles. 
 
 Just before the steamer sailed Dick, the bootblack, came panting 
 on board. 
 
 " I've run all the way t' see ye off — wear this when ye git among 
 the swells, it's a red silk handkerchief. Hulloh ! thar's the beU ! 
 Good-bye, Cedric." 
 
 He rushed along the gangway and stood waving his cap, as the 
 steamer moved slowly away. Dick saw nothing but that bright face 
 and golden hair that the sun shone on, and heard nothing but that 
 sweet, childish voice calling "Good-bye, Dick, good-bye". 
 
 He spent his first night in England with his mother at Court 
 Lodge. 
 
 " Will you tell the earl, Mr. Havisham, that I would rather not 
 have the money?" 
 
 " The money ! Mrs. Cecil ; you can't mean the — ah — income the 
 earl proposes to settle upon you?" 
 
 " Yes ; if I took it I should feel as if I were selling my boy to 
 him. I am giving him up only because I love him enough to forget 
 myself for his good, and because — because his — father — would have 
 wished it to be so." 
 
 " I shall deliver your message, Mrs. Cecil." 
 
 When Mr. HavLsham called at the Castle, he found the Earl of 
 Dorincourt recovering from an attack of his old complaint, the gout. 
 
 "Well, Havisham, got back; what sort of a lad is he?" 
 
 " Well, it's rather difficult to say, mi lord." 
 
 "Ah — a foolish or a clumsy cub?" 
 
 " No, I don't think so. You will find him different, I daresay, to 
 most English children." 
 
 " I haven't a doubt of it, little beggars. These Americans call it 
 Emartness and precocity. I call it downright cheek and impudence."
 
 866 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 " Mrs. Cecil has asked me to say that she would rather not accept 
 the income you — " 
 
 "Ah — she wants to wheedle me into seeing her, does she? But 1 
 won't see her ! I hate to think of her ! A mercenary woman ! " 
 
 " You can hardly call her mercenary, mi lord. She has asked for 
 nothing, and won't even accept the money you offer her." 
 
 " All done for effect, Havisham, all done for effect." 
 
 " I have another message from Mrs. Cecil. She asks you not to 
 tell her son the reason she is not allowed to live with him." 
 
 " Come, now, Havisham, you don't mean to teU me she hasn't told 
 him the reason?" 
 
 " Not a syllable." 
 
 " I'll be sworn she has poisoned his mind against me, though I " 
 
 " She has not, mi lord ; you misjudge her entirely." 
 
 " He'll forget her in a week ; he'U forget her in a week, he's only 
 seven." 
 
 "Yes, he is only seven, mi lord, but he has spent these seven 
 yeara at his mother's side, and I know she has all his affection." 
 
 As he stepped into the room in his black velvet suit, white lace 
 collar, and flowing golden locks, the little fellow looked a jjerfect 
 picture. 
 
 "Are you the Earl? I'm your grandson, you know. I hope you 
 are quite well. I'm very glad to see you!" 
 
 The old Earl could hardly believe his eyes or ears. 
 
 " I've been wondering if you would look like my papa. Well, I 
 was very, very young when he died, and I mayn't remember exactly 
 how he looked, but I don't think you look like him." 
 
 "Ah, you're disappointed, I suppose?" 
 
 'Oh, no; you can't help your look, you know; and of course you 
 would love your grandpapa even though he wasn't like your papti, 
 'specially one who has been so kind as you." 
 
 "Ah, I've been kind, have I?" 
 
 "Yes, very — I'm ever so much obliged to you about Mary and 
 Dick." 
 
 "Mary and Dick?" 
 
 " Yes, they're particular friends of mine. Michael had the fever." 
 
 "Michael, who's Michael?" 
 
 " Michael's Mary's hus])and. When a man has the fever, and 
 twelve children, you know how it is. But the money you sent me 
 made them all right, and then there was Dick. You'd like Dick. 
 Dick's so square, you know!" 
 
 "Square; what do you mean by square?"
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 36" 
 
 ^ It means Dick wouldn't cheat," 
 
 "And who is Dick?" 
 
 " Dick's a bootblack." 
 
 " Oh, Dick's a bootblack ! " 
 
 "Yes; I've known him for years, and the money you sent me 
 bought out Jake, his partner, who wasn't squTe at all. So you see 
 you made Mary and Michael and their twelve children and Dick 
 very happy." 
 
 "Ah, have I?" 
 
 " Yes. Dearest says that's the best kind of goodnes.s, and I hope 
 when I grow up I shall be just like you." 
 
 "Ah, just like me?" 
 
 " Yes; if I can, I am going to try." 
 
 Dinner was now announced. 
 
 "You're lame, Grandpapa; will I help you?" 
 
 "Do you think you could do it, Fauntleroy?" 
 
 " I think I could ; you could lean on your stick on the one side 
 and me on the other. Dick says I've a good deal of muscle for a boy 
 that's only seven." 
 
 " Well, Fauntleroy, well, you may try." 
 
 " Lean on me. Grandpapa, I'm all right — if it isn't a very long way. 
 It's a warm night, isn't it?" 
 
 " Well, you have been doing some hard work, you know." 
 
 "Oh, it wasn't exactly hard, you know; but a person will get 
 warm in summer. This is a very big house for just two people to 
 live in, isn't it?" 
 
 "Do you find it is large, Fauntleroy?" 
 
 "Well, I was thinking that if just two people lived here who 
 weren't very fond of each other, they might feel a little lonely some- 
 times. I wish Dearest was with us." 
 
 "Dearest; and who's Dearest, Fauntleroy?" 
 
 "My mama; you know, my papa always called her Dearest." 
 
 He looked wistfully into the fire. As the old man sat watching the 
 child, visions tif a wasted, selfish life came up before him, and a pang 
 of self-reproach pierced him like a knife. 
 
 "Fauntleroy, tell me what _vou are thinking about?" 
 
 "I was thinking about Deai-est. But she isn't very far away. 
 She told me to remember that ; and I can always look at the picture 
 she gave me. My papa used to wear it. You see, you touch this 
 spring She is then — ah, and there she is, Grandpapa." 
 
 The sweet, loving face that looked up from the picture was very 
 like the child's.
 
 368 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 " And that is your mama, Fauntleroy?" 
 
 " Yes, that's Dearest." 
 
 "Are you very fond of her, Fauntleroy?" 
 
 " Yes, Grandpapa, very. You see, my papa left her to me to take 
 care of, and when I am a man I'm going to work and earn money 
 for Dearest." 
 
 " And do you miss her very much, Fauntleroy?" 
 
 " Yes, Grandpapa ; but Deartrst told me she would put a light in 
 her window when it got dark. I see it, Grandpapa, I see it twink- 
 ling through the leaves, and I know what it says." 
 
 "What does it say, Fauntleroy?" 
 
 "'Good-night, God keep you all the night', and I know I am 
 quite safe, Grandpapa." 
 
 " Quite safe, Fauntleroy, my boy, quite safe." 
 
 The room was very still. A large St. Bernard dog had gone to 
 sleep on the rug. Little Lord Fauntleroy was asleep also, his head 
 lying on the dog's shoulder; his mother's picture still in his hand. 
 The Earl sat watching him; many new, strange thoughts were pass- 
 ing through the old man's mind. 
 
 By and by Mr. Havisham was shown in. " Havisham, I'm glad 
 to see you. You were right, Havisham, and I was wrong, utterly 
 wrong. Call on Mrs. Cecil in the morning, and say I ask her to for- 
 give me. and bring her with you here, Havisham, to take her place 
 as Little Lord Fauntleroy's mother and as my daughter. Look at 
 him, Havisham, look at him. That child has taught me more to- 
 night than I have learned in all my misspent life. The dear, noble, 
 
 little fellow. God bless him 1 " 
 
 {By special permission of Mrs. Burnett.) 
 
 THE AEMADA. 
 
 Lord Macaulat. 
 
 Attend, all ye who list to hear our noble England's praise ; 
 [ sing of the thrice-famous deeds she wrought in ancient days, 
 When tliat great fleet Invincible against her bore in vain, 
 The richest spoils of Mexico, the stoutest hearts in Spain. 
 It was about the lovely close of a warm summer's day. 
 There came a gallant merchant ship, full sail to Plymouth Bay; 
 The crew had seen Castille's black fleet beyond Aurigny's Isle, 
 At earliest twilight, on the waves, lie heaving many a mile. 
 Forthwith a guard, at every gun, was placed along the wall; 
 The beacon blazed upon the roof of Edgcombe's lofty hall ;
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 369 
 
 Many a light fishing bark put out to pry along the coast ; 
 
 And, with loose rein, and bloody spur, rode inland many a post. 
 
 With his white hair unbonneted the stout old sheriff comes, 
 
 Behind him march the halberdiers, before him sound the drums ; 
 
 And haughtily the trumpets peal, and gaily dance the bells, 
 
 As slow, upon the labouring wind, the royal standard swells. 
 
 Look how the Lion of the sea lifts up its ancient crown, 
 
 And underneath his deadly paw treads the gay lilies down ! 
 
 " Ho ! strike the flagstaff deep, sir knight 1 ho ! scatter flowers, fair 
 
 maids ! 
 Ho, gunners ! fire a loud salute ! ho, gallants ! draw your blades ! 
 Thou sun, shine on her joyously ! ye breezes, waft her wide ! 
 Our glorious semper eadem ! the banner of our pride ! " 
 The freshening breeze of eve unfurled that banner's massy fold — 
 The parting gleam of sunshine kissed that haughty scroll of gold : 
 Night sunk upon the dusky beach, and on the purple sea : 
 Such night in England ne'er has been, nor ne'er again shaU be. 
 The bugle's note, and cannon's roar, the death-like silence broke, 
 And with one start, and with one cry, the royal city woke. 
 At once on all her stately gates arose the answering fires ; 
 At once the wild alarum clashed from all her reeling spii'es : 
 From aU the batteries of the Tower pealed loud the voice of fear. 
 And all the thousand masts of Thames sent back a louder cheer. 
 And from the farthest wards was heard the rush of hurrying feet, 
 And the broad streams of flags and pikes dashed down each rousing 
 
 street ; 
 And broader still became the blaze, and louder still the din, 
 As fast, from every village round, the horse came spurring in ; 
 And on, and on, without a pause, untired they bounded still ; 
 All night from tower to tower they sprang, all night from hill to hill ; 
 Till the proud Peak unfurl'd the flag o'er Derwent's rocky dales ; 
 Till, like volcanoes, flared to Heaven the stormy hills of Wales, 
 Till twelve fair counties saw the blaze on Malvern's lonely height ; 
 Till streamed in crimson, on the wind, tlie Wrekin's crest of light ; 
 Till, broad and fierce, the star came forth, on Ely's stately fane, 
 And town and hamlet rose in arms, o'er all the boundless plain. 
 Till Eelvoir's lordly terraces, the sign to Lincoln sent. 
 And Lincoln sped the message on o'er the wide vale of Trent ; 
 Till Skiddaw saw the fire that burned on Gaunt's embattled pile, 
 And the red glare on Skiddaw roused the burghers of Carlisle.
 
 870 SELECTIONS FOR BEADING AND RECITATIOK. 
 
 "ON AHEAD." 
 
 Wm. Toynbee, in the CornhUl Magazine. 
 
 "A little bit low?" "Well, I is, sir, mebbe; 
 
 I ain't took a rap since the mornin', yer see, 
 
 And a twenty-mile tramp is a tidyish bit, 
 
 With nuffin' to eat at the end on it. 
 
 Pai-tickler when it's best part thro' the snow, 
 
 Still it ain't just that neither what makes me feel low. 
 
 It's the lad. But there, bless yer, ye've no call to stare, 
 
 For look as yer will, sir. yer won't see 'im there; 
 
 Tho' at times, on the tramp, when the sun 'as drawed in. 
 
 And it ain't quite time yet for the stars to begin, 
 
 I thinks some'ow, fight 'gainst the craze as I will, 
 
 I 'ears 'im a-toddlia' 'longside o' me still. 
 
 " Whose lad ? " Mine, in course, for some'ow the mother 
 Didn't take to 'im like 'er dead 'un, 'is brother, 
 Worn't unkind, can't say that, allers gave 'im 'is share. 
 But for lovin' 'im, well, yer see, sir, it worn't there. 
 Not as I wants to blame 'er (poor gal, she's gone now); 
 But yer loves, or yer doan't, and she didn't some'ow. 
 
 And at f urst, not to speak of, no more didn't I ; 
 
 Worn't my kind o' lad, can't exactly say why, 
 
 Excep' 'e wus allers as thin as a thread 
 
 (Which ain't much account when ye've got to get bread), 
 
 And mostly seemed mumlike, and wouldn't cheer up, 
 
 Not tho' yer reached 'im yer glass for a sup ! 
 
 But one day, a-trampin' along on the pike, 
 
 I cotched 'im a-lookin' so wistful like — 
 
 Just the same as yer sees a dawg 'casional do, 
 
 As yer doesn't partickler want to take to. 
 
 That says I, with a larf, "Why, wot's up with yer, lad?'' 
 
 " Nuliin'," says 'e, quite soft, " save's I love yer so, dad ! " 
 
 "Love me!" chuckles I to myself, "well, that's queer, 
 When all as 1 loves now on earth be the beer 1 " 
 Love me when I've took no more notice on 'im. 
 Than I would on a weazel, the poor little limbl 
 Hut when in my 'and 'ere I felt 'isn slide — 
 Why, I thought, yer see, Captin, it might as well bide.
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 371 
 
 Still, 'e worn't a good traveller, some'ow the lad 
 Wouldn't cadge for a brown, be things ever so bad, 
 And at times, when all day, there'd bin nuffin' to grind, 
 I'd give 'im, p'raps roughish, a bit o' my mind : 
 But yer might just as well jaw the wind or the rain, 
 All 'e'd do was to sniggle up closer again ! 
 
 But to cut it short, Captin (there's five good miles still 
 To the crossways, and then I've got 'arkaway 'ill), 
 Tho' I loved a quart then, and still do mortal bad, 
 'Twor nowt to my love as grow'd up for that lad. 
 Ay, to sight 'im again — tho' to talk where's the good 
 I'd take to the ribbon, yes, s'ope me, I would ! 
 
 But there ! for my likes lovin' worn't, I s'pose, meant, 
 I loved my poor gal, and afore long she'd went ; 
 Parson says it's all right, and 'e jawed kind enough, 
 But my 'ead ain't no good at parson's book stuff, 
 All I knows is, I used to jog on then some'ow, 
 But, beer or no beer, it's bad travellin' now ! 
 
 For last winter I lorst 'im. I calls it that way 
 
 'Cos I promised 'im f other I never would say, 
 
 " Wen I'm gom," says 'e, " dad, don't yer think as I'm dead, 
 
 I shall only be trampin' a bit on a'ead. 
 
 An<l yer'U soon ketch me up," says 'e, 'arf with a smile, 
 
 " And love me the same as yer've done all this while. 
 
 " I dreamed all about it last night in the bam, 
 A square sort o' dream, as I know worn't no yarn. 
 So don't think I'm dead, as yer mebbe might think, 
 For then ye'll be druv' like to keep orf the drink, 
 But foot it just steady a bit, and yer'U see, 
 Some night about sunset, yer'U come up with me." 
 
 Well, that's all about it; at times like to-night, 
 
 I get 'arf to fancy as p'raps 'e wor right, 
 
 And mebbe I'll come on 'im just the same still, 
 
 A-waitin' to meet me far side o' the 'ill, 
 
 For they'd 'ardly 'ave let 'im dream that if on true, 
 
 Lejiatways, I can't think they would, Captin, can you?" 
 
 {By special ■permission of the Author.)
 
 372 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATIOH. 
 
 LOUIS XI. 
 W. R Markwell. 
 
 FOUR characters. 
 
 Louis, Cottier, Francois de Paule, Nemours. 
 
 Scene — The King's Bedchamber. 
 
 Louis. [To Coitier) My suflPering is extreme, I do admit, bii' 
 Fran^-uis may to-morrow give me health — but as a simple friend 
 I here extend my hand. 
 
 Enter Franqois de Paule. 
 
 {To Francois, showing Coitier) See, my father, he has braved 
 his king, yet I pardon him. {To Coitier.) Retire ! 
 
 [Conducting him to his room. 
 On a friend's faith sleep thou in quietude. {Aside, after shutting the 
 door.) Ah, traitor ! should'st thou useless e'er become ! I'll watch ye ! 
 I'll watch ye ! See, my father. {Prostrating him.self.) I tremble at 
 thy feet with hope and fear, kiss e'en the spot thy holy feet have 
 trod. 
 
 Francois. Arise. What would you? 
 
 Louis. All's possible to thee. Restore my health, efface the lines 
 of age, extend thine hand, and bid me live again. Ten years, at 
 least, my father — grant ten years, and I'll heap on thee honours 
 twenty-fold. In thy name great cathedrals will I found — 
 
 Francois. King, Heaven permits not this feeble worm even to 
 know, much less to change, the laws of Nature, and to assume such 
 power is blasphemy. 
 
 Louis. I'm growing tired of this — come, do thy duty, monk — exert 
 for me thy supernatural powers^or, if need be, I'll have resort to 
 force. I'm king — the holy oil has touched my brow. 
 
 Francois. I fear me, king, that in your heart remorse is like a 
 burning wound — kept fresh by crime, and dragging slowly your 
 body to its grave. 
 
 Louis. Priests have absolved me. 
 
 Francois. Vain hope ! True penitence alone can wash your stains 
 away. 
 
 Louis. Shall I find grace? 
 
 Francois. Heaven grant you may. 
 
 Louis. You promise it if I confess? Listen, then, and to thee I'll 
 tell that which has never reached the ear of man. 
 
 [Francois sits.
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READINQ AND RECITATION. 373 
 
 Francois. What hast thou done ? 
 
 Louis. It was rumoured that the fear the Dauphin caused the late 
 king hastened him to Heaven. 
 
 Francois. A son abridge his aged father's life? 
 
 Louis. I was that Dauphin ! 
 
 Francois. You? 
 
 Louis. But his weak rule would have ruined France — state 
 interests — 
 
 [Nemours is seen to open the bed-curtains and look forth occasion- 
 ally, at intervals, during the scene. 
 
 Francois. Confess. Do not excuse thy faults. 
 
 Louis. I had a brother who by poison died. 
 
 Francois. By your order? 
 
 Louis. Some suspected so. But he was a traitor, and deserved it, 
 
 Frarocois. Murderer — fratricide — repent ! 
 
 Louis. (Falling on his knees.) I do ! I do ! {Dragging himself 
 towards Francois and clutching his clothes.) Be merciful! See, 
 kneeling, I deplore another crime! The old Nemours — he had 
 conspired, and at his death, beneath the scaffold, his three weeping 
 sons were placed. 
 
 Francois. Barbarian ! 
 
 Louis Others I have put to death. Prisoners e'en now — far, far 
 below these floors — groan out forgotten lives ! 
 
 Francois. Since these are wrongs which thou canst still repair, 
 come. 
 
 Louis. Whither? 
 
 Francois. To release them. Haste — haste — and save thy soul ! 
 
 Louis. And risk my crown as king? No. It is enough that I 
 repent. The church lias pardons which a king can buy. 
 
 Francois. God sells not pardon. Unhappy man, appease the torture 
 of thy guilty soul. An act of mercy may give back thy sleep — and 
 some, at least, will bless thy waking hours. 
 
 Louis. I'U see about it (peevishly). 
 
 Francois. Heaven will not wait. 
 
 Louis. To-morrow! 
 
 Francois. Ere to - morrow, death may seize — this night — this 
 instant I 
 
 Louis. No ; I am too well inclosed, and too well defended. 
 
 Francois. Adieu, then, murderer 1 \Ooing. 
 
 iMuis. Father, stay ! 
 
 Francois. Pray — and not with words — pray with your deeds — 
 atone the past. Farewell! \^Exit, having lingered for a nuyment.
 
 874 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 Lmds. He's gone ! Yes ! "Who will extend a helping hand to 
 me, for rescue from the abyss in which I'm plunged? I'll pray — he 
 bade me. 
 
 [He kneels on his prie-dieu, places his hat before him, and prays 
 to a small image of the Virgin hanging to his coat — Nemours 
 opens the curtains, and standing still, vdth dagger in his hand 
 watching him. 
 
 Nemours. No shriving time did he allow my father. 
 
 {^Music heard in the distance, 
 
 Louis. {Rising.) What do I hear? {Approaches window — turns from 
 window — sees Nemours) Ha ! 
 
 Nemours. Silence 1 
 
 Louis. 1 am dumb ! 
 
 Nemours. Not a cry 1 
 
 Jjouis. No I 
 
 Nemours. Thy guards defend thee well. 
 
 Louis. Nemours, what wouldat thou ? 
 
 Nemours. Vengeance ! 
 
 Louis. Judge not in passion. 
 
 Nemours. I am not thy judge I 
 
 Louis. And who is, then? 
 
 Nemours My father ! 
 
 Louis. Thou Nemours, 
 
 Nemours. My father 1 
 
 Louis. Thou alone ! 
 
 Nemours. My father I 
 
 Louis. He would slay me. 
 
 Nemours. Thou'st judged thyself 
 
 Louis. Be merciful 1 
 
 Nemours. Wert thou? 
 
 Louis. Oh, hear my prayer. 
 
 Nemours. Dost recollect his prayer to thee — this last appeal ? 'Tis 
 here ! {Showing him a scroll tied with silk taken from his b^'east.) 
 
 Louis. I ne'er received — 
 
 Nemours. Which was by thee rejected. 
 
 Louis. Not by me, Nemours. 
 
 Nemours. And which, when dead, we found upon his heart — my 
 only heritage. Behold it, king 1 it is thy death-warrant. Impostor 
 see — behold and read ! 
 
 Louis. Forgive. 
 
 Nemours. Beneath this dagger, read — to whet thy memory 
 
 Louis. I cannot.
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 375 
 
 Nemoxirs. 'Neath the axe he well could write; read, as he wrote. 
 
 Louis. I cannot ; no, I die. This dagger, which I shun, and which 
 thy hand directs againat me, dazzles, blinds me ; no, I cannot — no I 
 
 Nemours. Listen ! 
 
 Louis. Mercy ! 
 
 Nemours. {Reads from the paper.) " My very dear, and sovereign 
 lord, as much and as humbly as I can, I recommend myself to your 
 pity and mercy". Well — 
 
 Louis. I was severe and cruel, but I'll make amends. I'll make 
 full atonement — put me to the proof; and by my deeds I'll show 
 my penitence. 
 
 Nemours. Listen again, (Continnes reading.) " I will serve yon 
 so well and so loyally, that you shall know I am truly penitent. 
 Have pity on me, and on my poor children. Let me not die for my 
 transgressions to their shame, that they may survive me in dishonour 
 and in beggary. For God's sake, sire, have pity upon me and my 
 poor children ! " Look — read — read 1 
 
 Louis. Where 1 
 
 Nemours. {Pointing to the place with the dagger.) There 1 
 
 Louis. "Your poor friend, Jacques d'Armaguac!" 
 
 Nemours. And there — his blood I 
 
 Louis. Nemours 1 
 
 Nemours. His blood. Oh, what punishment can meet thy crimes 1 
 How make it equal to thy matchless guilt ? 
 
 Louis. {Falling at ll>iKidovKs's feet.) Mercy, Nemours! 
 
 Nemours. There's but one torture can suffice. 
 
 Louis. {Sinking in terror.) It is my death ! [Falls insensible. 
 
 Nemours. {Raising the dagger, and then thrmving it from him.) No, 
 'tis thy life. What, I free thee? No, live on, or rather, living die; 
 die slowly, too, that all thy cruel schemes may add accumulated woes, 
 and foretaste give of thine eternity. Ay, wait till death, both just 
 and pitiless, shall seize that soul which never mercy felt, loaded 
 with crime so high that even Heaven's mercy has no measure for 
 thee; live, live, if it is thy wish — thy prayers. Heaven grant it! 
 then ; prolong this damned life, until his crimes reach, Babel-like, 
 to heaven to bring its judgment down. [Exit. 
 
 Louis. { Utters some inarticulate sounds us he recovers.) Help, 
 Tristan I An assa-ssin ! Murder ! HeU) !
 
 376 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATIOS. 
 
 ANNIE AND WILLIE'S PEAYER 
 Sophia P. Snow. 
 
 Twas the eve before Cliristmas; good-night had been said. 
 
 And Annie and WiUie had crept into bed. 
 
 There were tears on their pillows, and tears in their eyes, 
 
 And each little bosom was heaving with sighs ; 
 
 For to-night their stern father's command had been giveo 
 
 That they should retire pi-ecisely at seven 
 
 Instead of at eight; for they troubled him more 
 
 "With questions unheard of than ever before. 
 
 He had told them he thought this delusion a sin; 
 
 No such creature as " Santa Glaus " ever had been; 
 
 And he hoped, after this, he should never more hear 
 
 How he scrambled down chimneys with presents each year. 
 
 And this was the reason that two little heads 
 
 So restlessly tossed on their soft, downy beds. 
 
 Eight, nine, and the clock on the steeple tolled ten; 
 
 Not a word had been spoken by either till then; 
 
 ^^^len Willie's sad face from the blanket did peep. 
 
 And he whispered : " Dear Annie, is 'ou fast asleep!" 
 
 " Why, no, Brother Willie," a sweet voice replies; 
 
 " I've long tried in vain, but I can't shut my eyes; 
 
 For somehow it makes me so sorry because 
 
 Dear Papa has said there is no ' Santa Claus *. 
 
 Now we know there is, and it can't be denied, 
 
 For he came every year before dear mamma died ; 
 
 But, then, I've been thinking that she used to pray, — 
 
 And God would hear everything mamma would say, — 
 
 And maybe she asked Him to send ' Santa Claus ' here 
 
 With the sack full of presents he brought every year." 
 
 " Well, why tan'ot we p'ay, dust as mamma did, den, 
 
 And ask Dod to send him with presents aden?" 
 
 " I've been thinking so too ; " and without a word more 
 
 Four little bare feet bounded out on the floor, 
 
 And four little knees on the soft carpet pressed, 
 
 And two tiny hands were clasped close to each breast. 
 
 " Now, Willie, you know, we must firmly believe 
 
 That the presents we ask for we're sure to receive; 
 
 You must wait just as still till I say the 'Amen', 
 
 And by that you will know that your turn has come then.
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 377 
 
 " Dear Jesus, look down on my brother and me, 
 Ajid grant us the favours we're asking of Thee. 
 I want a wax dolly, a tea-set, and ring, 
 And an ebony work-box that shuts with a spring; 
 Bless papa, dear Jesus, and cause him to see 
 That Santa Claus loves us as much as does he : 
 Don't let him get fretful and angry again 
 At dear brother Willie and Annie. Amen." 
 
 " Please Desus, 'et Santa Taus tum down to-night, 
 And bring us some p'esents before it is 'ight ; 
 I want he sood div' me a nice little sed, 
 Wid bright shinin' 'unners, and all painted 'ed ; 
 A box fuU of tandy, a book, and a toy, 
 Amen. And den, Desus, I'll be a dood boy." 
 Their prayers being ended, they raised up their heads, 
 And with hearts light and cheerful, again sought their beds; 
 They were soon lost in slumber both peaceful and deep, 
 And with fairies in dream-land were roaming in sleep. 
 Eight, nine, and the little French clock had struck ten 
 Ere the father had thought of his children again ; 
 He seems now to hear Annie's self-suppressed sighs, 
 And to see the big tears stand in Willie's blue eyes. 
 " I was harsh with my darlings," he mentally said, 
 " And should not have sent them so early to bed : 
 But then I was troubled ; my feelings found vent ; 
 For bank-stock to-day has gone down two per cent; 
 But of course they've forgotten their troubles ere this, 
 And that I denied them the thrice-asked-f or kiss ; 
 But just to make sure, I'll steal' up to their door — • 
 To my darlings I never spoke harshly before." 
 So saying, he softly ascended the stairs, 
 And arrived at the door to hear both of their prayers ; 
 His Annie's " Bless papa ", drew forth the big tears, 
 And Willie's grave promise fell sweet on his ears. 
 " Strange, strange 1 I'd forgotten," he said with a sigh, 
 " How I longed when a child to have Christmas draw nigk 
 I'll atone for my harshness," he inwardly said, 
 " By answering their prayers ere I sleep in my bed." 
 Then he turned to the stairs, and softly went down, 
 Threw off velvet slippers and silk dressing-gown, 
 Donned hat, coat, and boots, and was out in the street, 
 k millionaire facing the cold, driving sleet 1
 
 878 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 Nor stopped he until he had bought everything, 
 
 From the box full of candy to the tiny gold ring: 
 
 Indeed, he kept adding so much to his store 
 
 That the various presents outnumbered a score. 
 
 Then homewai-d he turned, when his holiday load, 
 
 With Aunt Mary's help, in the nursery was stowed. 
 
 Miss Dolly was seated beneath a pine tree, 
 
 By the side of a table spread out for her tea; 
 
 A work-box, well-filled, in the centre was laid, 
 
 And on it the ring for which Annie had prayed ; 
 
 A soldier in uniform stood by a sled, 
 
 " "With bright shining runners, and all painted red ". 
 
 There were balls, dogs, and horses; books pleasing to sec,- 
 
 And birds of all colours were perched in the tree ; 
 
 While Santa Claus, laughing, stood up in the tx)p, 
 
 As if getting ready more presents to drop. 
 
 Now as the fond father the picture surveyed. 
 
 He thought for his trouble he'd amply been paid ; 
 
 And he said to himself, as he brushed off a tear, 
 
 " I'm happier to-night than I've been for a year ; 
 
 I've enjoyed more true pleasure than ever before: 
 
 What care I if bank-stock fall two per cent more I 
 
 Henceforward I'll make it a rule, I believe, 
 
 To have Santa Claus visit us each Christmas-eve." 
 
 So thinking, he gently extinguished the light, 
 
 And, slipping downstairs, retired for the night. 
 
 As soon as the beams of the bright morning sun 
 
 Put the darkness to flight, and the stai-s one by one, 
 
 Four little blue eyes out of sleep opened wide, 
 
 And at the same moment the presents espied. 
 
 Then out of their beds they sprang with a bound. 
 
 And the very gifts prayed for were all of them found. 
 
 And they laughed, and they cried, in their innocent glee, 
 
 And shouted for papa to come quick and see 
 
 What presents old Santa Claus brought in the night, 
 
 (Just the things that they wanted !) and left before light 
 
 "And now," added Annie, in voice soft and low, 
 
 "You'll believe there's a Santa Claus, papa, I know;" 
 
 While dear little Willie climbed up on his knee, 
 
 Determined no secret between them should be, 
 
 And told, in soft whispers, how Annie had said 
 
 That their blessed mamma, so long ago deatl,
 
 SSLECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 37y 
 
 Used to kneel down and pray by the side of her chair, 
 And that God up in heaven had answered her prayer. 
 "Den we dot up and p'ayed just as well as we tood, 
 And Dod answered our p'ayer; now wasn't He dood?" 
 " I should say that He was, if He sent you all these, 
 And knew just what presents my children would please," 
 (" "Well, well, let him think so, the dear little elf 1 
 Twould be cioiel to tell him I did it myself.") 
 
 Blind father ! who caused your stern heart to relent. 
 And the hasty words spoken so soon to repent ? 
 'Twas the Being who bade you steal softly upstairs. 
 And made you His agent to answer their prayers. 
 
 THE MIDNIGHT MAIL. 
 Samuel K. Cowan. 
 
 All night, within the thunderous sky 
 
 No signal star was seen ; 
 And the torrents foamed to the gorge below, 
 
 With a lightning flash between. 
 
 Brave be the hand that drives the train 
 
 On a fearful night like this ! 
 And brave the heart which crosses the bridge 
 
 That spans the black abyss ! 
 
 For the strong boards creak to the roaring blast, 
 
 And over it bursts the sea; 
 But the train must r\m, and work be done, 
 
 Whatever the night may be ! 
 
 The signal-man, by the lightning stabbed, 
 
 Lay dead in his signal-cot : 
 When the hurricane roars, O happy the dead 
 
 Who sleep, and hear it not ! 
 
 And the mother knelt by her weeping child, 
 
 A babe of summers seven : 
 " Weep not, my child ! tho' father sleeps, 
 
 His spirit wakes in Heaven ! 
 
 " Rise ; light the signal lamps, my child : 
 
 The steps are steep and high : 
 G jd guide thy feet 1 'tis nigh the hour 
 
 When the Midnight Mail goes byl*
 
 380 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATIOK. 
 
 But harkl what sound was that? again — 
 There by the ruountam ridge? 
 
 A crash — again — again ! O God, 
 It is the bridge — the bridge ! 
 
 " The bridge is broke ! the bridge is broke \ 
 The steps are steep and high : 
 
 Haste — climb — light, light the danger-lamp, 
 For the Midnight Mail is nigh ! " 
 
 Out rushed the child ; the ruffian winds 
 Shrieked round her shivering form ! 
 
 Ho ! ho ! for the babe in the hurricane 1 
 And the child in the giant storm ! 
 
 Above her, like a tower in heaven, 
 
 The signal-pillar stood. 
 And its iron stairs, in the howling gale, 
 
 Shivered, like lathes of wood I 
 
 Above her shook the signal- lamps : 
 Like reeds, they shook amain : 
 
 Below her swung the shattered bridge : 
 Beside her shrieked the train ! 
 
 ** O father, help me ! help thy child I 
 Dear father, hear my prayer : 
 
 The train is nigh, the lamp is high, 
 I cannot climb the stair ! 
 
 " Save — save the train ! dear father, save i' 
 Nearer the wild train swept : 
 
 Within, upon her fevered couch 
 The mother swooned and slept I 
 
 Listening the storm in fevered dreanip 
 
 Her restless spirit lies : 
 When lo ! what sudden light is this 
 
 That opens her dreaming eyes? 
 
 With thankful tears, her burning cheek 
 And fevered eyes are damp : 
 
 " Father baa heard my darling's prayer, 
 And lit the signal-lamp I 
 
 "See how it gleams! look how it shine* ^ 
 Tho' raved the tempest wild,
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 381 
 
 I knew her father's soul was near, 
 And still woiild help his child 1" 
 
 Then lo ! above her, smiling, bent 
 
 Her babe of summers seven : 
 " Yes, mother, yes : tho' father sleeps, 
 
 His spirit wakes in Heaven : 
 
 For when I could not climb the stair, 
 
 The storm so fiercely raved. 
 Dear father drove the clouds abroad, 
 And showed the signal-stars of God, 
 
 And so the train was saved ! " 
 
 {By special permission outfit Author. ) 
 
 THE COURTSHIP OF ALLAN FAIBLEY OF 
 EARLSWOOD. 
 
 S. R. Crockett. 
 
 {Adapted for Recital.) 
 
 This is no carried tale, but just as the minister himself told it to 
 me, and the way T came to hear it was this: — Allan and the wife 
 were at Drumquhat overnight on their marriage jaunt, him being 
 sib to my mistress, and prood of the connection, as he has a right to 
 be. My wife was a wee feared about having her in the house, being 
 aware that she was a Gordon of Earlswood — the auldest stock in 
 Galloway, and brought up to be a lady-body. But she need have 
 had no fears, for ye never saw gentle or semple mair free or heart- 
 some. She ran to the barn to help to gather the eggs, and got five, 
 three being nest-eggs, and a cheeiia one, that was put there to deceive 
 the chuckles. She kilted her coats and helped to feed the calves 
 Then she was for learning to milk, but Black Bet laid back her lugs, 
 and in the hinderend kicked ower the higgle ; and there never was 
 such laughing in Drumquhat since it was a farm-town. She made 
 . herself as merry and heartsome as though there had never been a 
 Gordon in Earlswood or a Douglas in the Isle. And Allan watched 
 her as if he could not let her out of his sight — smiling like a man 
 that dreams a pleasant dream, but fears he will awaken. Then 
 when her dancing een came across his steady, quiet look, she would 
 come behind him and put her hands over his eyes, asking what she 
 had done that he should look at her like that. 
 
 It was gurly weather when they were at Drumquhat, and when
 
 389 8FXECTIONS FOK RSADINO AND RECITATIOS. 
 
 the wife was off with the candles and her hostess's mysteries (mostly 
 kindly fuss and a chance to gossip) to see Allan's young wife to her 
 chamber, Allan and me sat a gye while glowering at the red of the 
 peat, till I broke the silence that had fallen between us — the silence 
 of companionship, with the question that rose quite natural, for it 
 was not yesterday, or the day before, that I first kenned the lad. 
 'Ay, Allan, lad, an' where did ye fa' on wi' her?" I could see the 
 pride (good, honest pride) rising in Allan's face, flushing his cheek, 
 and setting his eye fairly in a lowe, as he answered, "Ay, Saunders, 
 didna I do the best day's work ever I did when I got her?" This 
 was my own thought for the lad, but I only said, " An' hoo did ye 
 fa' on wi' her?" 
 
 " It's a long story, Saunders, but I'll tell you. When I was elected 
 to the parish of Earlswood I was the people's candidate, ye maun 
 ken. I had four hundred votes to thirty-three; but Walter Douglas 
 Gordon of Earlswood, sole heritor of the parish, was against me. 
 He proposed a far-out friend of his own, never dreaming but that he 
 would be elected without a word, and ye may guess what a back-set 
 he got when only his foresters and them that was most behadden to 
 him voted for his man." 
 
 " He wad neyther be to haud nor bin'," said I. 
 
 " Na," said Allan ; " and in open kirk meeting he cuist up to them 
 that was proposing me that my faither was but a plooman, and my 
 mither knitted his hose. But he forgot that the days of patronage 
 were by, for the Cross Roads joiner rises, and says he : ' I ken Allan 
 Fairley, and I ken his faither an' mither, an' they hae colleged their 
 son as honestly on plooin' an' stockin'-knittiu' as your son on a' the 
 rents o' Earlswood ! ' 
 
 " ' He'll never be minister o' the parish o' Earlswood wi' my guid- 
 will ! ' says he. 
 
 " ' He'll e'en be minister o' Earlswood withoot it, then,' said the 
 joiner — an honest man, not troubled with re.^pect of persons. ' There's 
 nae richt o' pit an' gallows noo, laird ! ' says he. 
 
 " ' An' it's as well for you and your like ! ' said the Laird of Earls- 
 wood, as lie strode out of the kirk, grim as Archie Bell-the-Cat. 
 
 "Weel, Saunders, I considered that four hundred was a good 
 enough off-set against thirty-five of Earlswood's foresters and cot- 
 men, so I was settled in the parish, and took my mither from her 
 knitting to keep the manse." 
 
 "Honour thy father and thy mother 1" said I. "You did well, 
 Allan." 
 
 " The fnlk at the big house left the kirk and drove over to the
 
 SELECTIONS FOR UEADINO AND RECITATION. 383 
 
 Episcopalians at Ford, but I went to call, as it was my duty to do, 
 And I met a young lady in the grounds and asked her the way. 
 She kindly walked with me to the door. This was the message that 
 the footman brought back, the young lady standing by: ''Mr. Gor- 
 don declines to see you, and if you come on the policies again he will 
 have you prosecuted for trespass '." 
 
 " Of course he couldna uphaud that," I put in. 
 
 "Very likely no," said Allan; "but it was sore to bide from a 
 poo'dered fitman on Earlswood doorstep under the blue een o' Grace 
 Gordon 1 » 
 
 "An' what did she say?" I asked, curious for once. 
 
 "Say 1" said Allan, proudly; "This is what she did: 'Permit me 
 to offer you an apology, Mr. Fairley,' she said, ' and to show you the 
 private path through the fir plantation, which you may not know. 
 Oh, I know it was maybe no ladylike, Saunders — " 
 
 " But it was awfu' woman-like 1 " said L 
 
 " I'll no say anything about the walk through the plantation," said 
 Allan Fairley, who no doubt had his own sacred spots like other 
 folk, "but I have no need to deny that a new thing came into my 
 life that day when the rain-drops sparkled on the fir needles. I 
 mind the damp smell o' them to this day." (And there is no doubt 
 that the boy would to his dying day. I mind mysel' — but there is 
 no need going into that.) 
 
 " The time gaed on as it has the gait of doing," Allan continued, 
 and things settled a wee, and I thocht that they would maybe all 
 come round — except Earlswood, of course. Ye maun ken that 
 there's a big colony o' dreadfu' respectable gentry in our parish — 
 retired tradesfolk frae Glasgow and Edinburgh, with a pickle siller 
 and a back-load o' pride." 
 
 " I ken the clan ! " says L 
 
 " Weel, Saunders, ye'U hardly believe what I'm gaun to tell you, 
 but it's no made story I'm telling you. There were twa o' them cam' 
 to the- manse yae nicht," said Allan, lapsing into his Doric, " and the 
 lass showed them intQl the study. It was gye an' dark, but they 
 wadna hear o' lichtin the lamp, an' I didna wunner or a' was dune. 
 They didna seem to have come aboot onything in particular, but 
 they couldna get awa', so they sat and sat, an' just mishandled the 
 rims o' their hats. They lookit at yin anither an' oot at the wunda 
 an' up at the ceilin', but they never lookit at me. At last yin o' 
 them, a writer body, said in a kin' o' desperation, 'Mr. Fairley, we 
 have been deputed to teU you what the better classes of the pariah 
 think would be best for you to do — '
 
 384 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND EECITATIOW. 
 
 " ' I am muckle obliged for the interest of the better classes of the 
 palish in my affairs,' says I ; but he gaed on like a bairn that has his 
 lesson perfect. 
 
 " ' They think that it is a very noble thing of you to provide for 
 your mother — filial piety and so on' — here he was at a loss, so he 
 waved his hands — ' but you must be aware that — that I have a diffi- 
 culty in expressing my meaning- — that the ladies of the congregation, 
 however willing, are as unable to call upon Mistress Fairley as it 
 would be no doubt embarrassing for her to receive them. Would it 
 not be better that some other arrangement — some smaller cottage 
 could surely be taken — ' 
 
 " He got no further; he wadna hae gotten as far if for a moment 
 I had jaloused his drift. I got on my feet. I could hardly keep my 
 hands off them, minister as I was ; but I said : ' Gentlemen, you are 
 aware of what you ask me to do. You ask me to turn out of my 
 house the mither that bore me, the mither that learned me " The 
 Lord's my Shepherd ", the mither that wore her fingers near the bane 
 that I might gang to the college, that selled her bit plenishin' that 
 my manse micht be furnished ! Ye ask me to show her to the door 
 — I'll show tou to the door ! ' an' to the door they gaed 1 " 
 
 " The story was ower a' the parish the next day, as ye may guess, 
 an' wha but Miss Gordon o' Earlswood ca'ed on my mither the day 
 efter that — an' kissed her on the doorstep as she gaed away. The 
 lawyer's wife saw her. 
 
 " There was a great gathering o' the clans at Earlswood when it a' 
 cam' oot, but Grace had the blood of Archibald the Grim as weel as 
 her faither; an' she stood by the black armour of the Earlswood 
 who died at Flodden by the King, and said she afore them a': 'I 
 have heard what you say of Mr. Fairley, now you shall hear what I 
 say. I say that I love AUan Fairley with all my heart, and if one 
 of you says another word against him, I shall walk down to Earls- 
 wood Manse and ask Allan Fairley if he will marry Grace Gordon 
 as she stands ! '" 
 
 " Saunders," said my wife, entering as if she had not been having 
 an hour long woman's gossip with Grace Fairley, " Saunders, there'll 
 be nae word o' this when the clock strikes five the morrow's morn. 
 I wunner at you, Allan Fairley, a mairrit man, keepin' him oot o' 
 his bed till this time o' nicht wi' yer clavers ! " And so we parted. 
 {F-rtvt " Tilt Slichit Minister", hy special permission of the Author, and 
 T. Fislizr Unwin, £sq., Fublisfur.)
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 385 
 
 THE LADY'S DEEAM, 
 
 Tom Hood. 
 
 The lady lay in her bed, her couch so warm and soft, 
 But her sleep was restless and broken still; for turning often and oft 
 From side to side, she mutter'd and moan'd, and toss'd her arma 
 aloft. 
 
 At last she started up and gazed on the vacant air, 
 
 With a look of awe, as if she saw some dreadful phantom there — 
 
 And then in the pillow she buried her face from visions ill to bear. 
 
 The very curtain shook, her terror was so eitreme ; 
 And the light that fell on the broider'd quilt kept a tremulous gleam ; 
 And her voice was hollow, and shook as she cried : — " Oh me ! that 
 awful dream I 
 
 "That weary, weary walk in the churchyard's dismal ground! 
 And those horrible things, with shady wings, that came and flitted 
 
 round, — 
 Death, death, and nothing but death, in every sight and sound ! 
 
 " And oh ! those maidens young who wrought in that dreary room, 
 With figures drooping and spectres thin, and cheeks without a bloom; 
 And the Voice that cried, 'For the poron of pride, we haste to an 
 early tomb 1 
 
 '• * For the pomp and pleasure of Pride we toil like Af ric slaves, 
 And only to earn a home at last, where yonder cypress waves;' — 
 And then they pointed — I never saw a ground so full of graves 1 
 
 ** And still the cofl&ns came, with their sorrowful trains and slow ; 
 
 Cofl&n after coffin still, a sad and sickening show ; 
 
 From grief exempt, I never had dreamt of such a World of Woe ! 
 
 ^ • Of the hearts that daily break, of the tears that hourly fall, 
 Of the many, many troubles of life that grieve this earthly ball — 
 Disease and Hunger, and Pain and Want, but now I dreamt of them 
 all! 
 
 ' For the blind and the cripple were there, and the babe that pined 
 
 for bread, 
 And the houseless man, and the widow poor who begged — to bury 
 
 the dead ; 
 The naked, alas, that I might have clad, the famish'd I might have 
 
 fed!
 
 386 SELECTIOMS FOR READING AND RKCITATIOH. 
 
 " The sorrow I might have aooth'd, and the unregarded tears ; 
 
 For many a thronging shape was there, from long forgotten yearB-- 
 
 A.y, even the poor rejected Moor who raised my childish fears ! 
 
 " Each pleading look, that long ago I scanned with a heedless eye, 
 Each face was gazing as plainly there as when I pass'd it by ; 
 Woe, woe for me if the past should be thus present when I die ! 
 
 " No need of sulphurous lake, no need of fiery coal. 
 
 But only that crowd of human kind who wanted pity and dole — 
 
 In everlasting retrospect — will wring my sinful soul ! 
 
 " Alas ! I have walk'd through life too heedless where I trod ; 
 Nay, helping to trample my fellow-worm, and fill the burial sod — 
 Forgetting that even the sparrow falls not unmark'd of God I 
 
 " I drank the richest draughts ; and ate whatever is good — 
 Fish, and flesh, and fowl, and fruit, supplied my hungry mood ; 
 But I never remembered the wretched ones that starve for want of 
 food I 
 
 " I dress'd as the noble dress, in cloth of silver and gold, 
 With silk, and satin, and costly furs, in many an ample fold; 
 But I never remembered the naked limb that froze with winter's 
 cold. 
 
 **The wounds I might have heal'd ! the human sorrow and smart! 
 
 And yet it never was in my soul to play so ill a part : 
 
 But evil is wrought by want of Thought, as well as want of Heart!" 
 
 She clasp'd her fervent hands, and tears began to stream ; 
 Large, and bitter, and fast they fell, remorse was so extreme : 
 And yet, oh yet, that many a Dame would dream the Lady's Dream ! 
 
 A HOLIDAY IDYL. 
 
 TWO CHARACTEKS. 
 
 EuTH. Jack Dudley. 
 
 Scene — Oarden of a Farmhouse, Euth discovered sittiyig seinng. 
 
 Enter Jack. 
 
 Jack. {Aside). " A rosebud set in little wilful thorns. 
 
 And sweet as English air could make her." 
 
 When Tennyson wrote that, he must have seen such a girl as she is. 
 Why can't I write poetry about herl 1 fed it. What a contrast she
 
 83LECTI0NS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 387 
 
 is to the flimsy women I've left? "WTiat is she working at? Not 
 useless, imbecile embroidery nonsense, I'll be bound, but good honest 
 plebeian calico. What will society say if I ask her successfully, what 
 day after day for a fortnight has told me. I can't help but ask her? 
 Bah ! Society is as hollow as the noise it makes. — I wish she'd look 
 round. 
 
 Ruth. {Aside.) Is he there? Watching me. If yes, I wonder 
 how I look in this position. He doesn't speak. — Oh, if he should 
 have gone ! {She cautiously looks round.) 
 
 Jack. {Raising his hat.) Good evening! How are you? 
 
 Ruth. {Brusquely.) As usual. 
 
 Jack. That means very well. You see I am here again ; I couldn't 
 keep away. I hope you're not sorry I've come. 
 
 Ruth. Perhaps I am. You're always coming. I'm anything but 
 sure that you're not getting a nuisance. A regular nuisance ! 
 
 Jack. Yes ; regular because I come every day. But don't say I'm 
 a nuisance, and don't look at me so severely. 
 
 Ruth. I won't look at you at aU. {Turns from him.) I'm not an 
 inspector of nuisances ! 
 
 Jack. Have I leave to come in ? 
 
 Ruth. Certainly not 1 
 
 Jack, May I take leave? 
 
 Ruth. Yes; leave of me. Good-bye I {Aside.) I hope he won't 
 think I mean that. 
 
 Jack. Oh, let's come in. 
 
 Ruth. Not with my permission. 
 
 Jack. May I without? 
 
 Ruth {Shyly.) Yes, if you like. 
 (Jack comes into the garden and stands., or sits, opposite to her on the 
 
 other sid^ of the table.) 
 
 Jack. What a jolly day it's been ! 
 
 Ruth. Has it? I've really not had time to think about it. 
 
 Jack. No, you're always too industrious, early and late. Farming 
 in the day, mending in the evening. {Looks over her work.) 
 
 Ruth. It's never too late to mend: but I'm not mending now. 
 I'm manufacturing. 
 
 Jack. What is it? 
 
 Ruth. Harding — sevenpence a yard. 
 
 Jack. What will it be? 
 
 Ruth. A smock. 
 
 Jack. "A smock!" Doesn't it hurt your mouth to say it? Is it 
 for yourself ? Do you wear smocks ?
 
 388 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 R\ith. Dear me, no ! It's for Hodge, the labourer. 
 
 Jack. I wish I were a smock. — No, no — of course I don't mean 
 that. I mean, I wish I were Hodge. 
 
 Ruth. With ten children to feed ? 
 
 Jack. No, by Jove! Has he ten children? {Aside.) What a lot 
 they'll eat ! A man's no business to have a family like that. It's a 
 bad example to them. In a few years every other person one meets 
 will be a Hodge. 
 
 Ruth. Why did you wish you were Hodge ? 
 
 Jack. Because then you'd make a smock for me. 
 
 Ruth. I will as it is, if you'll turn out in the fields and work like 
 him. 
 
 Jack. I shouldn't mind. It would kill time. 
 
 Ruth. What has Time done to deserve killing? 
 
 Jack. It so often drags along so wearily. 
 
 Ruth. By killing it you'd stop it altogether. But here in the coun- 
 try we are taught to be Conservative, and I'm Conservative, even in 
 maxims. So I must admit that Time flies. 
 
 Jack. Perhaps it does. But more like a gi-eat lumbering partridge 
 than a swallow. 
 
 Ruth. Then, if I know anything about guns, it should be easier 
 to kill. Come, confess — Time flies. 
 
 Jack. It does now. It does always when I'm doing something 
 like this. 
 
 Ruth. Like what? 
 
 Jack. Talking to you. 
 
 Ruth. Do you like talking to me? 
 
 Ja/;k. Far more than I can say. 
 
 Ruth. {Suddenly after an awkward pause, during which she has 
 worked rapidly.) Do you like weather? No, I mean, do you like 
 umbrellas? 
 
 Jack. Umbrellas ! I dc indeed. I shall swear by them in future. 
 
 Ruth. The oath at all events will be original. It's usual, isn't it, 
 for young men to swear " By Jove I " 
 
 Jack. Yes ; with an occasional variation in the shape of "Jingo". 
 
 Ruth. Romeo swore by the moon, didn't he? I wonder how he 
 managed when there was no moon? 
 
 Jack. I should think he made use of the nearest lamp-post. For 
 give my talking nonsense. 
 
 R%Uh. Don't mention it. I like it. 
 
 Jack. So do I. I've not been able to talk nonsense for long. 
 
 Ruth. How very clever and wise you must have been.
 
 SELECTIONS FOR BEADING AND RECITATION. 389 
 
 Jack. No; disheartened. Do you know what brought me from 
 busy London here, into its completest contrast ] 
 
 Ruth. Was it a cheap tripl 
 
 Jack. No ; another train of reason. I've lived and moved in town 
 for a long time. I've seen there much that is good, and more that 
 is worthless; one-third of Truth to two of Humbug. Cynics in 
 society of these advanced days are considered fools, because cynicism 
 and society's usages are at daggers drawn. But cynicism is no folly 
 when it sneers at vice — at fair young girls swearing to love, honour, 
 and obey palsied mammons, with one foot in the grave ; at high- 
 bred men who boast of the poor hearts they have wrecked ; at high- 
 born women who are eternally simpering and smiling, not, heavee 
 knows, because they are happy, but because they have brilliant 
 teeth. I have seen all this, and though it's an unhealthy sentiment 
 to feel better than one's neighbour, I irresistibly grew disgusted, 
 sickened, bitter as wormwood. 
 
 Ruth. Bitter as wormwood ; how bitter is that ? Up to the standard 
 of marmalade? 
 
 Jack. You're laughing at me. 
 
 Ruth. It was such a long speech with so many big words in it. I'm 
 sure you must be very thirsty after it. What may I offer you? 
 
 Jack. What can you offer me ? 
 
 Ruth. Being such a convert to the country, what do you say to 
 milk? 
 
 Jack. Well, there's a good deal of sameness about milk, but I don't 
 mind. Where is it? 
 
 Ruth, Oh, you'll have to go and help yourself; you'll find a cow 
 in the next field but one. 
 
 Jack. No, its pure strength would be too much for me. We 
 Londoners are not accustomed to take our milk neat. How you do 
 quiz ! But I like you to laugh at me. I came here seeking honest 
 laughter and candour, and freshness and brightness, and I've found 
 more than I ever hoped to find in this dear place, and let me say, 
 in you. 
 
 Ruth. That's very good of you. Unfortunately I've not got a 
 convenient forelock, or I'd pull it. It's very gratifying, very grati- 
 fying indeed, to know that Eookwood and / have exceeded your 
 expectations. What did you think to find the place? 
 
 Ja/ik. Natural, thorough, straight. 
 
 Ruth. And its people? 
 
 Jack. Also natural, thorough, straight. But I confess not graceful, 
 and clever, and refined, and very beautiful.
 
 390 SELECTIONS TOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 Ruth. I see. You believed that the male portion of our community 
 could only {mimicking) grin "ee, ee", and reply "Es, Zur", and 
 that the highest accomplishments of a dairy-maid lay in her ability 
 to drop eyelids, curtsies, and h's. 
 
 Jack. Scarcely so bad as that 1 I thought — 
 
 Ruth. Only to be able to tolerate us, and you find that you like us 
 in spite of yourself. 
 
 Jack. So much, that I think I shall stop here always. Why noti 
 I could turn farmer, and every week take my farmyard produce to 
 the market in the most uncomfortable gig that ever incompetent 
 coach-builder conceived. Huge baskets of butter, cream, cheese, 
 and eggs. 
 
 Ruth. How many eggs would you sell for a shilling? 
 
 Jack. That would altogether depend upon the industry of the hens. 
 Oh, I think I could work a farm famously in every department. 
 
 Ruth. Do you? Who'd churn your butter, milk your cows, look 
 after your parlour curtains, regulate your mangling, and superintend 
 your peggy tub? 
 
 Jack. Of course I should require help in certain necessary details ; 
 and whom do you think I should ask to help me?; 
 
 Ruth. How can I teU, Mr. Dudley ? I suppose you'd hire some- 
 body at eighteen pence a day. 
 
 Jack. No, I should study economy. I should ask you to help me 
 for nothing. 
 
 Ruth. {Her head bent to her work.) I scarcely understand you. 
 
 Jack. Then I'll cut parable and try to make myself understood. 
 {Rath sews furiously.) I want you to help me in everything— (^ean- 
 ing across the table, and speaking earnestly)— to help me to be better, 
 and healthier-minded, and happier. I want you to believe, Ruth, 
 that I love you very, very much, and that I hope you will be ray 
 wife, 
 
 Rxith Oh, Mr. Dudley, you have — 
 
 Jack. Not oilended, or hurt you? 
 
 Ruth. No, made me prick my fingers. You see, Mr. Dudley, I 
 know so little of you. 
 
 Jack. Trust me, I'll give you eveiy opportunity of knowing more. 
 
 {i^lth. And you see, too, Mr. — 
 
 •Jack. You'll make me feel desperate if you call me " Mr." My 
 name's Jack. 
 
 Ruth. That's short for John, isn't it? 
 
 Jack. I'm never called John, except by the Governor, when he 
 rows me, and he very often does.
 
 SELECTIONS FOR RBADIMO AND RECITATION. 391 
 
 Ruth. Who is the Governor? 
 
 Jack. My father. 
 
 Ricth. What is your father? 
 
 Jack. How do you mean? 
 
 Ruth. What's his profession, his business? 
 
 Jack. He is in the Baronet interest. 
 
 Ruth. Are you the son of a real live Baronet? (Rises.) But what 
 would he say of your projiosal to a poor, simple, rustic specimei* 
 like me? 
 
 Jack. I don't like to tell you, 
 
 Ruth. But I wish you to. 
 
 Jack, If you insist, I suppose I must tell you. He'd say— 
 
 Ruth. (Quickly interrupting.) Stop — a bad word? 
 
 Jack. Several. 
 
 Ruth. Then tell me what he'd say, without the bad words? 
 
 Jack. He'd say — nothing. 
 
 Ruth. He must be a very dreadful man. 
 
 Jack. He's about the average of baronets who've got the gout. 
 
 Ruth. What are his politics? 
 
 Jack. Like your eyes, true blue. 
 
 Ruth. Then his is not a "short-sighted policy". And suppose — 
 suppose — nothing more, yet — that I do care for you — just a little, 
 would you, with this gulf of station between us, in spite of all, be 
 thoroughly constant, thoroughly true? 
 
 Jack. Always true ? 
 
 Ruth. How true? 
 
 Jack. As — as — true as steel. 
 
 Ruth. Even if that simile were original, I shouldn't like it. Steel 
 is so cold, and if you're going to be like steel, you'd get rusty when 
 you were cried over 1 
 
 Jack. Cried over? Why should I be cried over? 
 
 Ritth. All girls cry over their sweethearts some time or another. 
 Try again. 
 
 Jack. Then as true as gold. 
 
 Ruth. What carat? 
 
 Jack. Eighteen, of course. 
 
 Ruth. You'd never relapse into anything approaching aluminium I 
 Always gold? Eighteen carat? 
 
 Jack. Always. 
 
 Ruth. Then I'll— 
 
 Jack. (Taking her hand across the table.) Take me? 
 
 Ruth. Yes, and call you Jack.
 
 392 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATIOW. 
 
 Jack. The happiest Jack living. 
 
 Ruth. That's saying a good deal. {Both sit. After a pause.) So 
 we're engaged. {After a pause, shyly.) Doesn't it strike you that 
 there is something a little incomplete about the arrangement? In 
 London, when a man proposes to, and is accepted by a woman, isn't 
 it usual for him to — to — kiss her? 
 
 Jack. It is indeed. (He sits on the table close to her.) 
 
 Ruth. Of course, you know — of course, it is of no great conse- 
 quence, but it's sometimes done in the country. 
 
 Jack, It's a pity to be exceptional. {Kisses her, and puts his arm 
 around her.) 
 
 Ruth. {Touching his arm.) I'm not sure that this is customary ii 
 the country. 
 
 Jack. Then we'll set a wholesome precedent. 
 
 Ruth. But if anybody sees us, what shall we look like? 
 
 Jack. If "anybody" is fanciful — like the sun and the sea over 
 there in the distance. 
 
 Ruth. The sun's popularly supposed to be a "He" — so you're the 
 sun. 
 
 Jack. Yes, and you're the sea. Look — the sun is kissing "good- 
 night" to the sea, and doesn't the sea seem to like it? 
 
 Ruth. 1 don't know. She's blushing dreadfully. 
 
 Jack. She'll moan very dismally when the sun has left her, and 
 when she has to be contented to enjoy only the memory of him in the 
 shape of the moon. But he'll come back to her to-morrow evening. 
 
 Ruth. Yes, after having kissed sundry other seas in the meantime. 
 But he might not come back. Clouds might rise between them. 
 You're rather unhappy in your comparisons. 
 
 Jack. I can't be unhappy in anything now. No clouds, no doubts, 
 shall ever arise between us. We shall trust each other implicitly. 
 No jealousies, no suspicions, no secrets. 
 
 Ruth. No secrets 1 Well, I have a wee secret, so wee, it's scarcely 
 worth sharing with you. 
 
 Jack. Don't be selfish. Give me half of it. 
 
 Ruth. Not now ; I'll test your patience, and tell you when we can 
 find nothing else to talk about. 
 
 Jcu:k. Then you'll never tell it to me. What is it ? 
 
 Ruth. Only a little romance of my own. But it's too late to tell 
 it now. See, the sun is going. You must go, too. 
 
 Jcu;k. Not yet. 
 
 Ruth. {Rising.) Then the sea must rise and leave the sun. I must 
 go. Farewell, resplendent sun.
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND KECITATIOH. 393 
 
 Jack. Farewell, imperious ocean. 
 
 Ruth. {Offering her hand.) Good night, Jack. 
 
 Jack. {Kissing her.) Good uiglit, Ruth. [Exit Ruth. 
 
 Jack. {After a pause.) I wonder if there's a shop in the district 
 where I can buy an engagement ring. No, hang it 1 I'll go in for 
 a wedding ring right off, and marry her to-morrow. 
 
 {Adapted from "Ruth's Romance" hy special permission of Messrs. French, 
 89 Strand, London. — To whom application, for permission to play it in 
 public must he made.) 
 
 THE LAST SHOT: A TALE OF THE INDIAN MUTINY 
 
 John D. Rbid. 
 
 Three to ride and to save, one to ride and be saved— 
 That's the key of my tale, boys, deep on my heart engraved. 
 With death before and behind, through dangers many and nigh, 
 Four to ride together, and three of the four to die. 
 
 There was the Captain's daughter, a young and delicate girl, 
 With her childlike face and shining eyes, and hair of sunniest curl; 
 She looked like a beautiful flower, too slight to be even caressed. 
 Yet never had hero braver heart than beat in that girlish breast. 
 
 And then there was Sergeant Gray, a martinet old and grim ; 
 The biggest tyrant that ever lived was a lamb compared to him ; 
 Ne'er-dae-weel Douglas next, a Borderer bom and bred, 
 With a sin on his soul for every hair that grew on his handsome 
 head. 
 
 And then there was Fighting Denis — Denis the stout of heart, 
 Foremost in every row and brawl, skilled in the "manly art"; 
 Take the three altogether, the truth is, old and young. 
 They were three o' the greatest scamps, boys, that ever deserved to 
 be hung. 
 
 What was she doing, you ask, alone with fellows like these, 
 
 Down by the Ganges' bank, hid 'mong the mango trees'? 
 
 Well, she couldn't help herself, could only wait and pray, 
 
 And they — they were doing their duty as well as they knew the way. 
 
 Slowly the red moon rose, and then the sergeant spoke — 
 " Pat, look to the horses' girths ; Graham, give the lady this cloak ; 
 Now, Miss, be your father's daughter, our lads are close below. 
 The horses are fresh the road is clear, and we've only five miles 
 to go." 
 
 ( 996 ) N 2
 
 394 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 Then spoke tlie Captain'a daughter, aiid her voice was weak but 
 
 clear — 
 *' I want you to promise, brave friends, while we're together here, 
 That you'll keep the last shot for me — when each heart of hope 
 
 despairs ; 
 Better to die by hands like yours than be left alive in theira" 
 
 The sergeant cleared his throat, and turned his face away ; 
 Denis, the stout of heart, had never a word to say; 
 And Douglas grasped his hilt with a look and gesture grim, 
 While he looked on the face o' the girl with eyes grown suddenly 
 blurred and dim. 
 
 "Oh, you'll promise me, will you not?" the weak voice pleaded 
 
 again, 
 " You will not leave me to them — you — soldiers — my father's men 1 
 For the sake of my mother in Heaven — and God and death so near — 
 Oh, father, father, you would, I know, if only you were here." 
 
 "I promise." "And I." "And I." The voices were hoarse and 
 
 low, 
 And each man prayed, I ween, that the task he might not know 
 As out on the plain they rode swiftly and silently — 
 Four to ride togethei", and three o' the four to die. 
 
 The sergeant's charger led with a long and raking stride, 
 And her Arab's lighter bound kept the lady by his side. 
 While hanging on either flank, the watchers, steady and strong, 
 Swept on through the clouds of dust that rose as the leader* 
 hastened along. 
 
 Fire to the right and left, fire in front and rear, 
 As the dusky demons broke from their lurking ambush near — 
 " Noo, Denis, boot tae boot — keep close between, ye twa — 
 We've cut her a way through waur than this, an' — "Chairgel" 
 "Hurroo!" "Hurrah I" 
 
 As the lightning cleaves the cloud, as the tempest rends the oak. 
 The comrades' headlong rush the gathering miscreants broke ; 
 Unharmed through the yelling horde the Captain's daughter fled, 
 While thick and fast in fierce pursuit the Sirdar's horsemen sped 
 
 Up on the crest o' the rise where Cawnpore's curse of blood 
 Hushes with horror yet the wide and rolling flood, 
 Douglas reeled in his saddle, and whispered brokenly — 
 " Gray, dinna let her ken, but it's near a' ower wi' me.
 
 SBLECTIoyS FOR BEADING AND RECITATION. 39d 
 
 "Hitl"— "Ay, here in the side."— "Bad?"— "Ay, bad, but-^a— h! 
 I'll face yon hounds on the brae, it may gain ye a minute or twa — 
 Tak' my horse - ye may need it for her. Steady, there! — woa, 
 
 there, Gem : — 
 Dinna forget your promise — yon lassie's no for them." 
 
 An iron grip o' the hands — a mist o'er the" sergeant's sight. 
 As he swiftly wheeled the horses, and vanished in the night ; 
 ITien round to the nearing foe, under the starry sky, 
 Alone with his God and his own brave heart Grahame Douglas 
 turned to die. 
 
 On came Hamed, the boastful — who so sure as he, 
 With his Siva-charmed sword, keen-edged, against the Feringhee ? 
 Woe for Hamed, the boastful ! woe the mistake he made. 
 When he matched his sword 'gainst a Border arm and the sweep of 
 a Border blade 1 
 
 Then fighting it, thrust for thrust, and fighting it, blow for blow, 
 Till at last, where the bank feU sheer to the dusky stream below, 
 He fell — a groan — a plunge — wave circles eddying wide — 
 And the ne'er-dae-weel was still at last 'neath the river's turbid tide. 
 
 On and over all, — over nullah and stream ; 
 
 On, where the serpents hiss, where the leopards' eyeballs gleam ; 
 
 On and on like the wind, faster and faster yet, 
 
 While the iron fingers clutch the hilt, and the grinding teeth are set. 
 
 "Stretch to it, gallant Selim! — leap to it, Ned and Dan! 
 
 Well done, brave brutes I Hurrah ! Let them catch us now who 
 
 can!" 
 On and on for life — for a higher, dearer stake — 
 For true men's chivalry— for a helpless woman's sake! 
 
 A sputter of fire on the right, a flame of fire in the rear, 
 
 And Gem leaped up and fell — another, and all too near 
 
 The hissing bullets came, and then the sergeant knew 
 
 His blood and life were ebbing away with every breath he drew 
 
 Sore and deep the wound, but never a moan he made, 
 And, rising up in his saddle, erect as when on parade, 
 "Pat, if you get in, report that Douglas and I are dead ; 
 Tell them we did our duty, and mind — your promise," he said. 
 
 The maiden checked her horse with a quick, wild scream of pain— 
 "O Heaven, have pity!" she sobbed, as Denis seized her rein;
 
 396 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 Then, giving hia last command — " Eide on ! " with impatient frown. 
 True British soldier to the last, the brave old man went down. 
 
 Oh, pale the maiden's face, but her brow was calm and clear, 
 Though never had woman yet such awful cause for fear ; 
 And Denis, the stout of heart, in his saddle turned to rise. 
 With the lurid glare of maddened rage in his kindly Irish eyes. 
 
 Swiftly he aimed and fired — every shot was sure. 
 And fierce the yells that bailed the fall of each dusky blackamoor, 
 Till sudden the maiden's voice came shrill in agony — 
 " Oh, Denis, brave Denis, you promised you would keep the last for 
 me I" 
 
 Was that the glint of steel that flashed from yonder wood 1 
 Rose there hoarse commands in voices stern and rude? 
 " On, on — oh, Grod 1 so near — so near, and to fail at last ! 
 On, on — in vain — our brave brutes fail us — hope is past ! " 
 
 Oh, pale was the maiden's face, and her white lips moved in prayer; 
 Then, with never a sign of fear, for the hero soul was there ; 
 With the virgin martyi^'s glory lighting her bonny brow, 
 She laid her hand on Denis' arm, and gently whispered, " Now I " 
 
 The strong man shook 'neath the touch of those tiny finger-tips. 
 And, " Say you forgive me, Miss," broke hoarse from his ashen lips. 
 '* Forgive you I Again and again ! You see I do not fear I 
 God bless you, gallant soldier I Now, straight and sure — aim here ! " 
 
 She laid one hand on her heart, then clasped them o'er her head, 
 And into the darkened sky her latest look she sped; 
 And Denis raised his arm with slow and deadly aim — 
 When all hell seemed leaping to meet them in thunder and cloud 
 and flame. 
 
 'Mid the smoke — 'mid splintering shells that glare and shriek and 
 
 grate — 
 'Mid the battery's bursting blaze — 'mid the rifle's flashing hate — 
 'Mid the pibroch's savage swell — 'mid the trumpet's mad'niug 
 
 alarms — 
 The Captain's daughter fainted safe in her frantic father's arms. 
 
 While, with hurricane-roar, and rush, with clang of hoof and steel, 
 With flame in each rider's eyes, and fire at each charger's heel, 
 With shouts that rose to the sky on vengeance-laden breath — 
 The British squadrons thundered by to the carnival of death.
 
 SELECTIONS FOR HEADING AND RECITATION. -397 ' 
 
 Sabres reddened and gleamed, pistols and carbines rang, 
 Lances shook and flashed, bullets hissed and sang. 
 Full the payment then of a black and damning debt — 
 They frighten their dusky babes with tales of that midnight murder 
 yet. 
 
 Prone on his back lay Denis — Denis, the stout of heart — 
 Still as she for whom he had played a hero's part. 
 Dying — alone! Unheeded! What matter? The fight was won. 
 He was only a common soldier — besides, his work was done. 
 
 The sounds o' the vengeful stiife aroused death's drowsy ear, 
 He listened — rose on his elbow, and then with a whispered cheer— 
 " Ho, Douglas, Gray — we've beaten that murderin' son of a thafe ! 
 I'm going — What matter? — Hurroo! Sure, the Captain's daughter's 
 safe!" 
 
 Only three common soldiers, only three common men, 
 
 Giving their lives for a woman, as men have again and again; 
 
 Only doing their duty, teaching this lesson anew — 
 
 Where'er true woman points the way, true man will dare and do. 
 
 Then here's to the gallant three — reckless and rough and brave ! 
 And here's to the Captain's daughter, the girl they died to save I 
 And here's to all true women, where'er they are under the sun — 
 Worthy the toast they well must be for whom such deeds are done. 
 
 {By special permission of the Author.) 
 
 THE WIFE. 
 
 Washington Irving. 
 
 (Adapted for Recital.) 
 
 I have often had occasion to remark the fortitude with which 
 women sustain the most overwhelming reverses of fortune. Those 
 disasters which break down the spirit of a man, and prostrate him 
 in the dust, seem to caU forth all the energies of the softer sex, and 
 give such intrepidity and elevation to their character, that at times 
 it approaches to sublimity. Nothing can be more touching than to 
 behold a soft and tender female, who has been all weakness and de- 
 pendence, and alive to every trivial roughness, while treading the 
 prosperous paths of life, suddenly rising in mental force, to be the 
 comforter and support of her husband under misfortune, and abiding, 
 with unshrinking firmness, the bitterest blasts of adversity. 
 
 These observations call to mind a little domestic story, of which I
 
 398 SELBCTIONS FOR READIKQ AND RECITATION. 
 
 was once a witness. My intimate friend, Leslie, had married a 
 beautiful and accomplished girl, who had been brought up in the 
 midst of fashionable life. She had, it is true, no fortune, but that 
 of my friend was ample; and he delighted in the anticipation of 
 indulging her in every elegant pursuit and administering to those 
 delicate tastes and fancies that spread a kind of witchery about the 
 sex. " Her life," said he, " shall be a fairy tale." The very diflfer- 
 ence in their characters produced an harmonious combination : he 
 was of a romantic and somewhat serious cast; she was all life and 
 gladness. Never did a couple set forward on the flowery path of 
 early and well-suited marriage with a fairer prospect of felicity. 
 
 It was the misfortune of my friend, however, to have embarked 
 his property in large speculations; and he had not been married 
 many months when, by a succession of sudden disasters, it was swept 
 from him, and he found himself reduced almost to penury. For a 
 time he kept his situation to himself, and went about with a haggard 
 countenance and a breaking heart. His life was but a protracted 
 agony ; and what rendered it more insupportable was the necessity 
 of keeping up a smile in the presence of his wife ; for he could not 
 bring himself to overwhelm her with the news. She saw, however, 
 with the quick eyes of affection, that all was not well with him. 
 She marked his altered looks and stifled sighs, and was not to be 
 deceived by his sickly and rapid attempts at cheerfulness. She 
 tasked all her sprightly powers and tender blandishments to win 
 him back to happiness; but she only drove the arrow deeper into 
 his soul. The more he saw cause to love her the more torturing 
 was the thought that he was soon to make her wretched. A little 
 while, thought he, and the smile will vanish from her cheek — the 
 eong will die away from those lips — the lustre of those eyes will be 
 quenched with sorrow^ and the happy heart, which now beats 
 lightly in that bosom, will be weighed down like mine, by the cares 
 and miseries of the world. 
 
 At length he came to me one day, and related his whole situation 
 in a tone of the deepest despair. When I heard him through, I 
 inquired. "Does your wife know all this?" At the question he 
 burst into an agony of tears. " For God's sake ! " cried he, " if you 
 have any pity on me, don't mention my wife; it is the thought of 
 her that drives me almost to madness ! " 
 
 " And why not?" said I. " She must know it sooner or later: you 
 cannot keep it long from her, and the intelligence may break upon 
 her in a more startling manner than if imparted by yourself ; for the 
 accents of those we love soften the harshest tidings."
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 399 
 
 ** Oh, but, my friend ! to think what a blow I am to give to all her 
 future prospects — how I am to strike her very soul to the earth by 
 telling her that her husband is a beggar; that she is to forego all the 
 elegancies of life — all the pleasures of society — to shrink with me 
 into indigence and obscurity! How can she bear neglect? she has 
 been the idol of society. Oh, it will break her heart — it will break 
 her heart ! " 
 
 I saw his grief was eloquent, and I let it have its flow; for sorrow 
 relieves itself by words. When his paroxysm had subsided, I re- 
 sumed the subject gently, and urged him to break his situation at 
 once to his wife. He shook his head mournfully, but positively. 
 
 " But how are you to keep it from her 1 It is necessary she should 
 know it, that you may take the steps proper to the alteration of your 
 circumstances. You must change your style of living — nay," observ- 
 ing a pang to pass across his countenance, " don't let that afflict you. 
 I am sure it does not require a palace to be happy with Mary — " 
 
 " I could be happy with her," cried he convulsively, " in a hovel ! 
 I could go down with her into poverty and the dust I I could — I 
 could — God bless her! God bless her!" cried he, bursting into a 
 transport of grief and tenderness. 
 
 "And believe me, my friend," said I, stepping up and grasping 
 him warmly by the hand, "believe me, she can be the same with 
 you. Ay, more : it will be a source of pride and triumph to her — 
 it will call forth all the latent energies and fervent sympathies of 
 her nature; for she will rejoice to prove that she loves you for your- 
 self. There is in every true woman's heart a spark of heavenly fire, 
 which lies dormant in the broad daylight of prosperity; but which 
 kindles up, and beams and blazes in the dark hour of adversity. No 
 man knows what the wife of his bosom is — no man knows what a 
 ministering angel she is — until he has gone with her through the 
 fiery trials of this world. 
 
 There was something in the earnestness of my manner, and the 
 figurative style of my language, that caught the excited imagination 
 of Leslie. I knew the auditor I had to deal with; and following up 
 the impression I had made, I finished by persuading him to go home 
 and unburden his sad heart to his wife. 
 
 I must confess, notwithstanding all I had said, I felt some little 
 solicitude for the result, and I could not meet Leslie the next morn- 
 ing without trepidation. He had made the disclosure. 
 
 "And how did she bear it?" 
 
 " Like an angel ! It seemed rather to be a relief to her mind, for 
 she threw her arms round my neck, and asked if this was all that
 
 400 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 had lately made me unhappy. But, poor girl," added he, " she can- 
 not realize the change we must undergo. When we come practically 
 to experience its sordid cares, its paltry wants, its petty humiliations 
 — then wiU be the real trial." 
 
 " But," said I, " now that you have got over the severest task, that 
 of breaking it to her, the sooner you let the world into the secret the 
 better. It is not poverty so much as pretence that harasses a ruined 
 man — the struggle between a proud mind and an empty purse — the 
 keeping up a hoUow show that must soon come to an end. Have the 
 courage to appear poor, and you disarm poverty of its sharpest stiug." 
 On this point I found Leslie perfectly prepared. He had no false 
 pride himself, and as to his wife, she was only anxious to conform to 
 their altered fortune. 
 
 Some days afterwards he called upon me in the evening. He had 
 disposed of his dwelling-house, and taken a small cottage in the 
 country, a few miles from town. He had been busied aU day in 
 sending out furniture. The new establishment required few articles, 
 and those of the simplest kind. All the splendid furniture of his 
 late residence had been sold, excepting his wife's hai-p. That, he 
 said, was too closely associated with the idea of herself, it belonged 
 to the little story of their loves ; for some of the sweetest momenta 
 of their courtship were those when he had leaned over that instru- 
 ment and Ustened to the melting tones of her voice. 
 
 He was now going out to the cottage, where his wife had been 
 all day superintending its arrangements. My feelings had become 
 strongly interested in the progress of this family story, and, as it was 
 a fine evening, I offered to accompany him. 
 
 He was wearied with the fatigues of the day, and, as he walked 
 out, fell into a fit of gloomy musing. 
 
 " Poor Mary ! " at length broke, with a heavy sigh, from his lips. 
 
 "And what of her?" asked I; " has anything happened to her?" 
 
 "What?" said he, darting an impatient glance, "is it nothing to 
 be reduced to this paltry situation — to be caged in a miserable 
 cottage — to be obliged to toil almost in the menial concerns of her 
 wretched habitation?" 
 
 "Has she then repined at the change?" 
 
 " Eepined ! she has been nothing but sweetness and good humour. 
 Indeed, she seems in better spirits than I have ever known her ; she 
 has been to me all love, and tenderness, and comfort ! " 
 
 " Admirable girl ! " exclaimed I. " You call yourself poor, my 
 friend; you never were so rich — you never knew the boundless 
 treasures of excellence you possess in that woman."
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 401 
 
 "Oh! but, my friend, if this first meeting at the cottage were 
 over, I think I could then be comfortable. But this is her first day 
 of real experience ; she has been introduced into an humble dwelling 
 — she has been employed all day in arranging its miserable equip- 
 ments — she has for the first time known the fatigues of domestic 
 employment — she has for the first time looked round her on a home 
 destitute of everything elegant — almost of everything convenient; 
 and may now be sitting down, exhausted and spiritless, brooding 
 over the prospect of future misery." 
 
 There was a degree of probability in this picture that I could not 
 gainsay, so we walked on in silence. 
 
 After turning from the main road up a narrow lane, so thickly 
 shaded with trees as to give it a complete air of seclusion, we came 
 in sight of the cottage. It was humble enough in its appearance for 
 the most pastoral poet, and yet it had a pleasing rural look. A small 
 wicket gate opened upon a footpath that wound through some shrub- 
 bery to the door. Just as we approached, we heard the sound of 
 music — Leslie giasped my arm; we paused and listened. It was 
 Mary's voice singing, in a style of the most touching simplicity, a 
 little air of which her husband was peculiarly fond. 
 
 I felt Leslie's arm tremble on my arm. He stepped forward to 
 hear more distinctly. His step made a noise on the gravel walk. A 
 bright, beautiful face glanced out at the window and vanished— a 
 light footstep was heard — and Mary came tripping forth to meet ub; 
 she was in a pretty rural dress of white, a few wild flowers were 
 twisted in her fine hair, a fresh bloom was on her cheek, her whole 
 countenance beamed with smiles — I had never seen her look so 
 lovely. 
 
 '•' My dear George," cried she, " I am so glad you are come. I have 
 been watching and watching for you, and running down the lane and 
 looking out for you. I've set out a table under a beautiful tree be- 
 hind the cottage, and I've been gathering some of the most delicious 
 strawberries, for I know you are fond of them — and we have such 
 excellent cream — and everything is so sweet and still here— Oh ! " 
 said she, putting her arm within his, and looking up brightly in his 
 face, "Oh, we shall be so happy 1" 
 
 Poor Leslie was overcome. He caught her to his bosom^he 
 folded his arms round her — he kissed her again and again — he could 
 not speak, but the tears gushed into his eyes, and he has often 
 assured me that though the world has since gone prosperously with 
 him, and his life has indeed been a hap])y one, yet never has he 
 experienced a moment of more exquisite felicity.
 
 402 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATIOH 
 
 THE ARTLESS PRATTLE OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 E. J. BURDETTE. 
 
 We always did pity the man who does not love children. There 
 is something morally wrong with such a man. If his tender sym- 
 pathies are not awakened by their innocent prattle, if his heart does 
 not echo their merry laughter, if his whole nature does not reach out 
 in ardent longing after their pure thoughts and unselfish motives, he 
 is a crusty, crabbed old stick, and a world full of children has no use 
 for him. And what a pleasure it is to talk with them ! Ah! yes, to 
 be sure. 
 
 One day a lady friend who was down in the city shopping came 
 into the sanctum with her little boy, a dear little tid-toddler of five 
 summers, and begged us to amuse him while she pursued some duties 
 vhich called her down town. Such a pretty boy; so delightful it 
 was to talk to him. We can never forget the blissful half-hour we 
 spent getting that prodigy up in his centennial history. 
 
 "Now, listen, Clary," we said — his name was Clarence Fitzherbert 
 Alenfon de Marchemont Carruthers, — "and learn about George 
 Washington." 
 
 " Who's he?" inquired Clarence. 
 
 " Listen," we said, " he was the father of his country." 
 
 "Whose countiy?" 
 
 " Ours — yours and mine : the confederated union of the American 
 people, cemented with the life-blood of the men of '76, poured out 
 upon the altars of our country. The dearest libations her votariei? 
 could offer." 
 
 "Who did?" asked Clarence. 
 
 There is a peculiar tact in talking to children that very few people 
 possess. Now most people would have grown impatient when little 
 Clarence asked so many irrelevant questions, but we did not. We 
 knew that however careless he might appear at first, we could soon 
 interest him in the story. And so, smiling, we went on. " Well, 
 one day George's father — " 
 
 "George who?" asked Clarence, 
 
 "George Washington — he was a little boy then just like you, 
 One day his father — " 
 
 "Whose father?" demanded Clarence, with an encouraging ex- 
 pression of anxiety. 
 
 "George Washington, this great man we were telling you of. One 
 day George Washington's father gave him a little hatchet for — "
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 403 
 
 "Gave vrho a little hatchet?" the dear child interrupted with a 
 gleam of bewitching intelligence. Most men would have betrayed 
 signs of impatience, hut we did not. We know how to talk tc 
 children, so we went on, 
 
 " George Washington ; his — " 
 
 "Who gave him the little hatchet?'"' 
 
 " His father. And his father—" 
 
 "Whose father?" 
 
 "George Washington's." 
 
 "Ohl" 
 
 "Yes, George Washington. And his father told him — * 
 
 "Told who?" 
 
 "Told George." 
 
 " Oh yes ! George." 
 
 And we went on. We took up the story where the boy interrupted ; 
 for we could see he was just crazy to hear the end of it. We said : 
 
 "And he told him that—" 
 
 " Who told him what?" Clarence broke in. 
 
 " Why, George's father told George." 
 
 "What did he tell him?" 
 
 " Why, that is just what I'm going to tell you. He told him — " 
 
 "George told him?" 
 
 " No ; his father told George — " 
 
 "Ohl" 
 
 " Yes ; told him that he must be careful with the hatchet — " 
 
 " Who must be careful?" 
 
 " George must." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 " Yes, must be caief ul with the hatchet — " 
 
 "What hatchet?" 
 
 " Why, George's." 
 
 " Oh ! " 
 
 " Yes, with the hatchet, and not cut himself with it, or drop it in 
 the cistern, or leave it out on the gi-ass at night. So George went 
 round cutting everything he could leach with his hatchet. At last 
 he came to a splendid cherry-tree, his father's favourite, and he cut 
 it down, and — " 
 
 "Who cut it down?" 
 
 " George did." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 " And his father came home, and saw it the first thing, and — " 
 
 "Saw the hatchet?"
 
 404 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 " No, saw the cherry-tree. And he said ; ' Who has cut down mj 
 favourite cherry-tree'?"' 
 
 "What cherry-tree?" 
 
 " George's father's. And everybody said they did not know any- 
 thing about it, and — " 
 
 "Anything about what?" 
 
 " The cherry-tree." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 " — And George came up and heard them talking about it.** 
 
 "Heard who talking about it?" 
 
 " Heard his father and his men." 
 
 " What was they talking about?" 
 
 " About this cherry-tree." 
 
 "What cherry-tree?" 
 
 "The favourite cherry-tree that George cut down." 
 
 "George who?" 
 
 "George Washington." 
 
 " Oh !" 
 
 " So George came up and heard them talking about it, and he — " 
 
 " What did he cut it down for?" 
 
 " Just to try his little hatchet." 
 
 "Whose little hatchet?" 
 
 " ^VTiy, his own. The one his father gave to him." 
 
 "Gave who?" 
 
 " Why, George Washington." 
 
 "Who gave it to him?" 
 
 " His father did." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 " So George came up, and he said : ' Father, I cannot tell a lie. 
 I—'" 
 
 "Who could not tell a lie?" 
 
 " Why, George Washington. He said : ' Father, I cannot tell a 
 lie. Itwas— '" 
 
 "His father could not?'' 
 
 " Why, no. George could not." 
 
 "Oh, George; oh, yes!" 
 
 " ' It was I cut down your cherry-tree. I did—'" 
 
 "His father did?" 
 
 " No, no ! It was George said this." 
 
 " Said he cut his father?" 
 
 " No, no, no ! Said he cut down hia cherry-tree.* 
 
 "George's cherry-tree?"
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 406 
 
 "No, no! His father's." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 « He said—" 
 
 "His father said?" 
 
 " No, no, no ! George said : ' Father, I cannot tell a lie. I did it 
 with my little hatchet.' And his father said : ' Noble boy, I would 
 rather lose a thousand trees than have you tell a lie'." 
 
 "George did?" 
 
 " No, his father said that." 
 
 "Said he would rather have a thousand cherry-trees?" 
 
 " No, no, no I Said he would rather lose a thousand cherry-trees 
 than—" 
 
 "Said he would rather George would?" 
 
 " No ! said he would rather he would than have him lie." 
 
 "Oh ! George would rather have his father lie?" 
 
 We are patient and love children, but if Mrs. Carruthera had not 
 come and got her prodigy, we do not believe all Burlington Street 
 could have brought us out of the snarl. And as Clarence Fitzherbert 
 Alen9on de Marchemont Carruthera trotted downstairs we heard 
 him telling his mother about a boy "who had a father named George. 
 and he told him to cut down a cherry-tree, and he said he wouW 
 rather tell a thousand lies than cut down one apple-tree ". 
 
 THE DUKITE SNAKE. 
 
 A WEST AUSTRALIAN BUSHMAN'S STORY. 
 
 John Botle O'Reilly. 
 
 Well, mate, you've asked me about a fellow 
 You met to-day, in a black and yellow 
 Chain-gang suit, with a pedlar's pack. 
 Or with some such burden, strapped to his back. 
 Did you meet him square? No, he passed you by' 
 Well, if you had, and had looked in his eye. 
 You'd have felt for your irons then and there, 
 For the light in his eye is a madman's glare. 
 Ay, mad, poor fellow ! I know him well, 
 And if you're not sleepy just yet, I'll tell 
 His story — a strange one as ever you heard 
 Or read ; but I'll vouch for it, every woi-d. 
 
 You just wait a minute, mate ; I must see 
 How that damper's doing, and make some tea
 
 406 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 You smoke? Thafs good ; for there's plenty of weed 
 In that wallaby skin. Does your horse feed 
 In the hobbles ? "Well, he's got good feed here, 
 And my own old bush-mare won't interfere. 
 Done with that meal 1 Throw it there to the dogs, 
 And fling on a couple of banksia logs. 
 
 And now for the story. That man who goes 
 
 Through the bush with the pack and the convict's clothes 
 
 Has been mad for years ; but he does no harm, 
 
 And our lonely settlers feel no alarm 
 
 When they see or meet him. Poor Dave Sloane 
 
 Was a settler once, and a friend of my own. 
 
 Some eight years back, in the spring of the year, 
 
 Dave came from Scotland and settled here. 
 
 A splendid young fellow he was just then, 
 
 And one of the bravest and truest men 
 
 That I ever met : he was kind as a woman 
 
 To all who needed a friend, and no man — 
 
 Not even a convict — met with his scorn, 
 
 For David Sloane was a gentleman born. 
 
 Ay, friend, a gentleman, though it sounds queer 
 
 There's plenty of blue blood flowing out here, 
 
 And some younger sons of your "upper ten" 
 
 Can be met with here, first-rate bushmen. 
 
 Why, friend, I — 
 
 Bah 1 curse that dog ! you see 
 This talking so much has afi"ected me. 
 
 Well, Sloane came here with an axe and a gun 
 He bought four miles of a sandal-wood run. 
 This bush at that time was a lonesome place ; 
 So lonesome, the sight of a white man's face 
 Was a blessing, unless it came at night. 
 And peered in your hut with the cunning fright 
 Of a runaway convict; and even they 
 Were welcome for talk's sake, while they could stay 
 Dave lived with me here for a while, and learned 
 The tricks of the bush — how the snare was laid 
 In the wallaby track, how traps were made. 
 How 'possums and kangaroo rats were killed ; 
 And when that was learned, I helped him to build
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 40? 
 
 From mahogany slabs a good bush hut, 
 
 And showed him how sandal-wood logs were cut 
 
 I lived up there with him days and days, 
 
 For I loved the lad for his honest ways. 
 
 I had only one fault to find ; at first 
 
 Dave worked too hard ; for a lad who was nursed. 
 
 As he was, in idleness, it was strange 
 
 How he cleared that sandal- wood oflF his range. 
 
 From the morning light till the light expired 
 
 He was always working, he never tired ; 
 
 Till at length I began to think his will 
 
 Was too much settled on wealth, and still 
 
 When I looked at the lad's brown face, and eye, 
 
 Clear, open, my heart gave such thought the lie. 
 
 But one day — for he read my mind — he laid 
 
 His hand on my shoulder. " Don't be afraid," 
 
 Said he, " that I'm seeking alone for pelf ; 
 
 I work hard, friend ; but 'tis not for myself." 
 
 And he told me then in his quiet tone 
 
 Of a girl in Scotland who was his own, — 
 
 His wife, — 'twas for her ; 'twas all he could say, 
 
 And his clear eye brimmed as he turned away. 
 
 After that he told me the simple tale : 
 
 They had married for love, and she was to sail 
 
 For Australia, when he wrote home and told 
 
 The oft-watched-for story of finding gold. 
 
 In a year he wrote, and his news was good : 
 He had bought some cattle and sold his wood. 
 He said, " Darling, I've only a hut, — but come," 
 Friend, a husband's heart is a true wife's home ; 
 And he knew she'd come. Then he turned his hand 
 To make neat the house, and prepare the land 
 For his crops and vines ; and he made that place 
 Put on such a smiling and home-like face. 
 That when she came, and he showed her round 
 His sandal-wood and his crops in the ground, 
 And spoke of the future, they cried for joy. 
 The husband's arm clasping his wife and boy. 
 
 Well, friend, if a little of heaven's best bliss 
 Ever comes from the upper world to this,
 
 408 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 It came into that manly bushman's life, 
 
 And circled him round with the arma of his wife, 
 
 God bless that bright memory! Even to me, 
 
 A rough, lonely man, did she seem to be, 
 
 While living, an angel of God's pure love, 
 
 And now I could pray to her face above. 
 
 And David, he loved her as only a man 
 
 With a heart as large as his is, can. 
 
 I wonder how they could have lived apart, 
 
 For he was her idol, and she his heart. 
 
 Friend, there isn't much more of the tale to tell : 
 
 I was talking of angels awhile since. Well, 
 
 Now I'll change to a devil, — ay, to a devil ! 
 
 You needn't start ; if a spirit of evil 
 
 Ever came to this world its hate to slake 
 
 On mankind, it came as a Dukite Snake. 
 
 Like! Like the pictures you've seen of sin, 
 A long red snake, — as if what was within 
 Was fire that gleamed through its glistening skin. 
 And his eyes — if you could go down to hell, 
 And come back to your fellows here and tell, 
 What the fire was like, you could find no thing, 
 Here below on the earth, or up in the sky, 
 To compare it to but a Dukite's eye ! 
 
 Now, mark you, these Dukites don't go alone : 
 There's another near when you see but one ; 
 And beware you of killing that one you see 
 Without finding the other ; for you may be 
 More than twenty miles from the spot that night. 
 When camped, but you're tracked by the lone Dukite ; 
 That will follow your trail like Death or Fate, 
 And kill you as sure as you killed its mate. 
 
 Well, poor Dave Sloane has his young wife here 
 Three months, — 'Twas just this time of the year ; 
 He had teamed some sandal-wood to the Lasse, 
 And was homeward bound, when he saw in the grass 
 A long red snake ; he had never been told 
 Of the Dukite's way, — he jumped to the road 
 And smashed its flat head with the bullock-efoad I 
 He was proud of the red skin, so he tied
 
 SELECTIONS FOB READING AND RECITATION, 409 
 
 Its tail to the cart, and the snake's blood dyed 
 The bush on the path he followed that night. 
 
 He was early home, and the dead Dukite 
 
 Was flung at the door to be skinned next day. 
 
 At sunrise next morning he started away 
 
 To hunt up his cattle. A three hours' ride 
 
 Brought him back ; he gazed on his home with pride 
 
 And joy in his heart ; he jumped from his horse 
 
 And entered — to look on his young wife's corse. 
 
 And his dead child clutching its mother's clothes 
 
 As in fright; and there, as he gazed, arose 
 
 From her breast, where 'twas resting, the gleaming head 
 
 Of the terrible Dukite, as if it said, 
 
 " I've had vengeance, my foe ; you took all I had." 
 
 And so had the snake — David Sloane was mad I 
 
 I rode to his hut just by chance that night. 
 
 And there on the threshold the clear moonlight 
 
 Showed the two snakes dead. I pushed in the door 
 
 With an awful feeling of coming woe ; 
 
 The dead were stretched on the moonlit floor, 
 
 The man held the hand of his wife — his pride. 
 
 His poor life's treasure, — and crouched by her side. 
 
 God 1 — I sank with the weight of the blow. 
 
 1 touched and called him ; he heeded me not. 
 So I dug her grave in a quiet spot, 
 
 And lifted them both, — her boy on her breast,— 
 And laid them down in the shade to rest. 
 
 Then I tried to take my poor friend away, 
 But he cried so woefully, " Let me stay 
 Till she comes again ! " that I had no heart 
 To try to persuade him then to part 
 From all that was left to him here — her grave ; 
 So I stayed by his side that night, and, save 
 One heart-cutting cry, he uttered no sound, — 
 O God ! that wail — like the wail of a hound 1 
 'Tis six long years since I heard that cry, 
 But 'twill ring in my ears till the day I die. 
 Since that fearful night no one has heard 
 Poor David Sloane utter sound or word.
 
 410 SELECTIOlfS FOR READING AND RKCITATIONw 
 
 You have seen to-day how he always goes : 
 He's been given that suit of convict's clothes 
 By some prison-officer. On his back 
 You noticed a load like a pedlar's pack? 
 Well, that's what he lives for ; when reason went 
 Still memory lived ; for his days are spent 
 In searching for Dnkites ; and year by year 
 That bundle of skins is growing. 'Tis clear 
 That the Lord out of evil some good still takes, 
 For he's clearing the bush of the Dukite snakes. 
 
 KAEL, THE MAETYR 
 Fanny Brotjgh. 
 
 It was the closing of a summer's day, 
 
 And trellised branches from encircling trees 
 
 Threw silver shadows o'er the golden space 
 
 Where groups of merry-hearted sons of toil 
 
 Were met to celebrate a village feast ; 
 
 Casting away, in frolic sport, the cares 
 
 That ever press and crowd and leave their mark 
 
 Upon the brows of all whose bread is earned 
 
 By daily labour. 'Twas perchance the feast 
 
 Of fav'rite saint, or anniversary 
 
 Of one of bounteous Nature's season gifts 
 
 To grateful husbandry — no matter what 
 
 The cause of their uniting. Joy beamed forth 
 
 On ev'ry face, and the sweet echoes rang 
 
 With sounds of honest mirth too rarely heard 
 
 In the vast workshop man has made this world, 
 
 Where months of toil must pay one day cif song. 
 
 Somewhat apart from the assembled throng 
 There sat a swarthy giant, with a face 
 So nobly grand that though (unlike the rest) 
 He wore no festal garb nor laughing mien, 
 Yet was he study for the painter's art : 
 He joined not in their sports, but rather seemed 
 To please his eye with sight of others' joy. 
 There was a cast of sorrow on his brow, 
 As though it had been early there. He sat 
 In listless attitude, yet not devoid
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 41 i 
 
 Of gentlest grace, as down his stalwart form 
 He bent, to catch the playful whisperings, 
 And note the movements of a bright-hair'd child 
 Who danced before him in the evening sun, 
 Holding a tiny brother by the hand. 
 
 He was the village smith (the rolled-up sleeves 
 And the well-charred leathern apron show'd his craft); 
 Karl was his name — a man beloved by all. 
 He was not of the district. He had come 
 Amongst them ere his forehead bore one trace 
 Of age or suflFering. A wife and child 
 He had brought with him; but the wife was dead. 
 Not so the child — who danced before him now, 
 And held a tiny brother by the hand — 
 Their mother's last and priceless legacy I 
 So Karl was happy still that those two lived, 
 And laughed and danced before him in the sun 
 
 Yet sadly so. The children both were fair, 
 Ruddy, and active, though of fragile form ; 
 But to that father's ever- watchful eye, 
 Who had so loved their mother, it was plain 
 That each inherited the wasting doom 
 Which cost that mother's life. 'Twas reason more 
 To work and toil for them by night and day I 
 Early and late his anvil's ringing sound 
 Was heard amidst all seasons. Oftentimes 
 The neighbours asked him why he worked so haid 
 With only two to care for. He would smile, 
 Wipe his hot brow, and say, " 'Twas done in love. 
 For sake of those in mercy left him still — 
 And hers : he might not stay. He could not live 
 To lose them all." The tenderest of plants 
 Required the careful'st gardening, and so 
 He worked on valiantly ; and if he marked 
 An extra gleam of health in Trudchen's cheeks. 
 A growing strength in little Casper's laugh, 
 He bowed his head, and felt his work was paid. 
 Even as now, while sitting 'neath the tree, 
 He watched the bright-haii-'d image of his wife. 
 Who danced before him in the evening sun. 
 Holding her tiny brother by the hand.
 
 412 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 The frolics pause : now Casper's laughing head 
 Rests wearily against his father's knee 
 In trusting lovingness; while Trudchen runs 
 To snatch a hasty kiss (the little man, 
 It may be, wonders if the tiny hand 
 With which he strives to reach his father's neck 
 Will ever gi'ow as big and brown as that 
 He sees embedded in his sisters curls). 
 When quick as lightning's flash up starts the smith, 
 Huddles the frightened children in his arms, 
 Thrusts them far back, extends his giant frame, 
 And covers them as with Goliath's shield I 
 
 Now hark ! a rushing, yelping, panting sound, 
 So terrible that aU stood chilled with fear ; 
 And in the midst of that late joyous throng 
 Leapt an infuriate hound, with flaming eyes, 
 Half-open mouth, and fiercely-bristling hair, 
 Proving that madness tore the brute to death. 
 One spring from Karl, and the wild thing was seized, 
 Fast prison'd in the stalwart Vulcan's gripe. 
 
 A sharp, shrill cry of agony from Karl 
 Was mingled with the hound's low fever'd growL 
 And all with horror saw the creature's teeth 
 Fix'd in the blacksmith's shoulder. None had power 
 To rescue him ; for scarcely could you count 
 A moment's space ere both had disappeared — 
 The man and dog. The smith had leapt a fence 
 And gained the forest with a frantic rush, 
 Bearing the hideous mischief in his anna. 
 
 A long receding cry came on the ear, 
 Showing how swift their flight ; and fainter grew 
 The sound : ere well a man had time to think 
 What might be done for help, the sound was hushed — 
 Lost in the very distance. Women crouched 
 And huddled up their children in their arms ; 
 Men flew to seek their weapons. 'Twaa a change 
 So swift and fearful, none could realize 
 Its actual horrors — for a time. But now, 
 The panic past, to rescue and pursuit I
 
 BSLECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 413 
 
 Crash ! through the brake into the forest track : 
 But pitchy darkness, caused by closing night 
 And foliage dense, impedes the avengers' way; 
 When lo 1 they trip o'er something in their path 1 
 
 It was the bleeding body of the hound, 
 "Warm, but quite dead. No other trace of Karl 
 Was near at hand ; they called his name : in vain 
 They sought him in the forest all night through ; 
 Living or dead, he was not to be found. 
 At break of day they left the fruitless search. 
 
 Next morning, as an anxious village group 
 Stood meditating plans what best to do, 
 Came little Trudchen, who, in simple tones, 
 Said, " Father's at the forge — I heard him there 
 Working long hours ago; but he is angry. 
 I raised the latch: he bade me to be gone. 
 What have I done to make him chide me so?" 
 And then her bright blue eyes ran o'er with tears. 
 " The child's been dreaming through this troubled night," 
 Said a kind dame, and drew the child towards her. 
 But the sad answers of the girl were such 
 As led them aU to seek her father's forge 
 (It lay beyond the village some short span). 
 They forced the door, and there beheld the smith. 
 
 His sinewy frame was drawn to its full height ; 
 And round his loins a double chain of iron, 
 Wrought with true workman skill, was riveted 
 Fast to an anvil of enormous weight. 
 He stood as pale and statue-like as death. 
 
 Now let his own words close the hapless tale : 
 " I killed the hound, you know ; but not until 
 His maddening venom through my veins had passed 
 I knew full well the death in store for me, 
 And would not answer when you called my name; 
 But crouched among the brushwood, while I thought 
 Over some plan. I know my giant strength, 
 And dare not trust it after reason's loss. 
 Why ! I might turn and rend whom most I love. 
 I've made all fast now. 'Tis a hideous death. 
 I thought to phinge me in the deep, stili pool
 
 414 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 That skirts the forest — to avoid it ; but 
 
 I thought that for the suicide's poor shift 
 
 I would not throw away my chance of heaven, 
 
 And meeting one who made earth heaven to me. 
 
 So I came home and forged these chains about me : 
 
 Full well I know no human hand can rend them, 
 
 And now am safe from harming those I love — 
 
 Keep off, good friends ! Should God prolong my life, 
 
 Throw me such food as nature may require. 
 
 Look to my babes. This you are bound to ; 
 
 For by my deadly grasp on that poor hound, 
 
 How many of you have I saved from death 
 
 Such as I now await? But hence away! 
 
 The poison works 1 these chains must try their strength 
 
 My brain's on fire I with me 'twill soon be night." 
 
 Too true his words I the brave, great-hearted Karl, 
 A raving maniac, battled with his chains 
 For three fierce days. The fourth day saw him free ; 
 For Death's strong hand had loosed the martyr's bonds; 
 Where his freed spirit soars, who dares to doubt? 
 
 HER LETTER. 
 Bret Harte. 
 
 I'm sitting alone by the fire. 
 
 Dressed just as I came from the danc«, 
 In a robe even you would admire — 
 
 It cost a cool thousand in France ; 
 I'm bediamonded out of all reason, 
 
 My hair is done up in a cue : 
 In short, sir, " the bolle of the season ' 
 
 Is wasting an hour upon you. 
 
 A dozen engagements I've broken ; 
 
 I left in the midst of a set; 
 Likewise a proposal half spoken. 
 
 That waits — on the stairs — for mo yet. 
 They say he'll be rich — when he grows uiv- 
 
 .And then he adores me indeed. 
 And you, sir, are turning your nose up, 
 
 Three thousand miles ofl", as you read.
 
 SELECTIONS TOR READING ANU RECITATION. <tl5 
 
 "And how do 1 like my position?" 
 
 "And what do I think of New York?" 
 "And now, in my higher ambition, 
 
 With whom do I waltz, flirt, or talk?" 
 " And isn't it nice to have riches, 
 
 And diamonds and silks, and all that?" 
 " And isn't it a change to the ditches 
 
 And tunnels of Poverty Flat?" 
 
 Well, yes — if you saw us out driving 
 
 Each day in the park, four-in-hand — 
 If you saw poor dear mamma contriving 
 
 To look supernaturally grand — 
 If you saw papa's picture, as taken 
 
 By Brady, and tinted at that — 
 You'd never suspect he sold bacon 
 
 And flour at Poverty Flat. 
 
 And yet, just this moment, when sitting 
 
 In the glare of the grand chandelier — 
 In the bustle and glitter befitting 
 
 The " finest soiree of the year", 
 In the midst of a gaze de Chambery, 
 
 And the hum of the smallest of talk — 
 Somehow, Joe, I thought of the "Ferry", 
 
 And the dance that we had on "The Fork^j 
 
 Of Harrison's barn, with its muster 
 
 Of flags festooned over the wall ; 
 Of the candles that shed their soft lustre 
 
 And tallow on head-dress and shawl ; 
 Of the steps that we took to one fiddle ; 
 
 Of the dress of my queer vis-cL-vis; 
 And how I once went down the middle 
 
 With the man that shot Sandy M'Gee ; 
 
 Of the moon that was quietly sleeping 
 
 On the hiU when the time came to go ; 
 Or the few baby peaks that were peeping 
 
 From under their bedclothes of snow ; 
 Of that ride — that to me was the rarest ; 
 
 Of — the something you said at the gate ; 
 Ah, Joe, then I wasn't an heiress 
 
 To "the best- paying lead in the State".
 
 416 SELECTIONS FOR BEADING AND RECITATION, 
 
 Well, well, it's all past ; yet it's funny 
 
 To think, as I stood in the glare 
 Of fashion and beauty and money, 
 
 That I should be thinking, right there, 
 Of some one who breasted high water, 
 
 And swam the North Fork, and all that, 
 Just to dance with old Folinsbee's daughter, 
 
 The lily of Poverty Flat. 
 
 But goodness ! what nonsense I'm writing I 
 
 (Mamma says my taste still is low ;) 
 Instead of my triumphs reciting, 
 
 I'm spooning on Joseph — heigh-ho I 
 And I'm to be " finished " by travel — 
 
 Whatever's the meaning of that? 
 Oh, why did papa strike pay gravel 
 
 In drifting on Poverty Flat? 
 
 Good-night ! here's the end of my paper j 
 Good-night ! if the longitude please — 
 For maybe, while wasting my taper. 
 Your sun's climbing over the trees. 
 But know, if you haven't got riches. 
 
 And are poor, dearest Joe, and all that, 
 That my heart's somewhere there in the ditched. 
 And you've struck it — on Poverty Flat. 
 (By special permission of the Author and Messrs. Chatto de Windui.) 
 
 AN AMATEUE COOK. 
 W. Grant Stevenson, A.E..S.A. 
 
 I wonder if any man is as clever as he imagines himself. I know 
 I have not the confidence in myself I had a month ago as an amateur 
 cook. I think it was my friend Davidson who first put the idea in 
 my head to try my hand at cooking. The way he would describe the 
 cooking of steaks on his yacht would make any one's mouth water, 
 and it seemed to be always steaks they had. I asked him how he 
 learned to cook, and he gave me the secret in one lesson. He said, 
 " You just use plenty butter ; that's how women can't cook properly: 
 they grudge butter." It is five or six years since he first told me about 
 his wonderful powers as a cook, and I have often longed for an oppor- 
 tunity to emulate him in the art. Davidson always got quite enthusi-
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 417 
 
 astic on this subject. He would say, " Man, when it was my turn, 
 the fellows could hardly be kept on deck after the onions began to 
 brown and the smell went up; and the doctor used to stand with a 
 big rolling-pin to keep Jamie and the rest of them back, and every 
 minute they would be crying down that it would do fine." 
 
 I don't know anything about yachting, and any time I have been 
 over two hours at sea I had no taste for food. I always had more 
 than I wanted. I remember going to Dublin, and at breakfast a 
 tureen of ham and eggs was placed beside me, but by the time 1 had 
 helped the company I had to go on deck and admire the prospect. 
 An idea occurred to me, however, to get some companions to join me 
 on a holiday with a caravan. " I would attend to the cooking," I 
 said ; but I never got any one to agi-ee. I believe now if I had pro- 
 moted each one to the office of cook I would have been successful, 
 for I think every man — who has not tried it — is sure he is a born 
 cook. 
 
 " Everything comes to him who waits" ; and I got an opportunity 
 to try my skill last month. 
 
 It came about in this way: we had taken a house in the country 
 for August ; and as the date approached, I found that business would 
 prevent me from getting away for about a week. " But that need 
 not prevent you and the girls from going," I said to my wife. 
 " There's no use of having the house empty." 
 
 " But what will you do for food 1 " she said. 
 
 " Oh ! I can easily make my breakfast, and I can dine at the club 
 if necessary." 
 
 "Well," said my wife, "I must tell you where the things are. 
 The tea is in a japanned box on the kitchen dresser. You put in a 
 teaspoonful for yourself and a spoonful to the teapot." Davidson, I 
 remembered, had not said anything about tea. 
 
 " There's cold meat in the pantry, and some tongue and sausages, 
 and I'U leave word at the dairy about the cream." 
 
 There were several more injunctions thrown away on me, for my 
 mind was on the cooking of a steak, and I fancied I could smell fried 
 onions. 
 
 When I came home the first night I tried to persuade myself that 
 I rather liked the hollow, echoing sound of my footsteps in the 
 lobby. The house had a dismal appearance. I tried to read, but 
 the stillness was oppressive, so I went to the club to get some one to 
 speak to. 
 
 When I returned, the house seemed more deserted than before. 
 
 I wasn't afraid to sleep in the house by myself, but, just for th* <un 
 ( 996 ) o-
 
 418 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 of the thing, I looked under the beds, but there was no one there, as 
 of course I knew. 
 
 I intended rising an hour earlier than usual to make breakfast, 
 and was wakened by the bell ringing, but fell asleep. I think it was 
 the bell which wakened me again, and I rose, and, after dressing, 
 started to light the fire. It was not till after considerable rummaging 
 that I found the firewood, and it was a good while longer before 1 
 could get it to burn. I must have used at least half a dozen news- 
 papers before the wood took fire ; and as I had not time to wait on 
 the coal burning, I used several bundles of sticks. The coffee wasn't 
 a success. I had put in three times as much water as was necessary, 
 and it was the colour of beer. I couldn't find the milk, — at least not 
 then : but I found it when I was hurrying out, knocking it over with 
 my foot. It had been laid at the door, with the morning paper on 
 the top of it, and I left a stream meandering down the steps. 
 
 On my way along the street I fancied I was being looked at more 
 than was necessary, and found, by a mirror in a shop window, that 
 my face was peculiarly tattooed with black marks through using my 
 hand for a handkerchief while sweating over the fire. 
 
 My great success — the steak — was yet to come off. I would have 
 it for supper, and went into a butcher's shop for it on the way home. 
 I had never been in a butcher's before, and did not know what to 
 ask for. I said, " A piece of beef, please." 
 
 "Yes, air. Where ofi", sir?" 
 
 I am not up in the anatomy of the cow, so I said, " Oh I the place 
 you make steaks of." 
 
 "Yes, sir. How much shall I give you, sir?" 
 
 A waiter would have known, and gone ofi" shouting " Steak one," 
 but I had to indicate the size with my hands. I didn't like the way 
 he handled the meat — he did not use a fork. 
 
 "Can I send it for you, sir?" 
 
 "Oh no," I said, " I'll take it with me." 
 
 He wrapped it in a piece of old newspaper, and I nearly let it 
 drop when I got it in my hand, it was so damp and flabby, like 
 carrying a frog by the middle. There was no use trying to persuade 
 myself that people would think it was a bunch of flowers; it was 
 hanging limp down each side of my hand, and I had not gone far till 
 the blood oozed through the paper. I felt like a cannibal. Of course 
 the fire was to light again ; and as I did not like the kitchen range, 
 I lit the dining-room fire. 
 
 Now Davidson had never alluded to the diflSculty and pain con- 
 nected with slicing onions. After getting the outer coat off 1 had
 
 SELECTIONS FOB READING AND RECITATION. 419 
 
 to hold the onion at arm's length, my eyes were nipping so badly ; 
 then they are so slippery inside that it is almost impossible to keep 
 a hold while cutting off a slice. Sometimes the knife went down 
 with a bang on the table, and the onion would shoot out of my hand 
 to the floor. 
 
 The fire had plenty of time to bum up before the operation was 
 concluded, and I was now ready for my great triumph. There was 
 a very disagreeable feeling in unfolding the steak,— it felt so dead : 
 but I dug a fork in it and landed it in the pan. I had no compunc- 
 tion about the onions ; they had made me suffer. 
 
 There is a sort of musical sound in the fritter from a pan ; and 
 I waited for the tempting smell, but it was not what I expected. It 
 brought to mind the days of my boyhood when I was in a smithy 
 and a hot shoe was being applied to a horse's foot. Hang it ! the 
 butter. "Where on earth is the butter?" I searched all the presses 
 for it, and at last found it on the table beside me. I quickly put in 
 a large piece, and in a second the fire blazed up the chimney. The 
 confounded pan was leaking, and I had not noticed it at first. 
 
 The steak was ruined : one side was like charcoal, and the other 
 quite raw. It was annoying. If I only had another steak and 
 another pan, and some one to slice the onions, I could now do it all 
 right. As it was, I had to wash myself and hurry out of the house 
 to get away from the smell. 
 
 The next morning I made my final attempt at cooking. I remem- 
 bered about the milk, and took it and the paper in, reading the news 
 while the milk boiled. It took so long that I forgot about it, till it 
 suddenly boiled over, and the grate and the fender were in a feaiiul 
 mess, and the fire neaily out, before I could lift it off. 
 
 I remembered, now it was too late, that I was to be careful not to 
 allow the milk to boil, but the thought of the steak had put every- 
 thing else out of my head. I gave it up in despair, breakfasted at 
 the club, and left that night for the country. I think Davidson 
 has been drawing on my credulity: there is more than butter in 
 cooking. {^£y special ■permission of tlie Aui/wr.) 
 
 THE BELLS. 
 
 POK. 
 
 Hear the sledges with the bells — silver bells ! What a world of 
 merriment their melody foretells ! How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, 
 in the icy air of night ! while the stars that oversprinkle all the 
 heavens seem to twinkle with a crystalline delight; keeping time,
 
 420 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 time, time, in a sort of Runic rhyme, to the tintinnabulation chat so 
 musically wells from the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. 
 
 Hear the mellow wedding bells — golden bells ! What a world of 
 happiness their harmony foretells I Through the balmy air of night 
 how they ring out their delight! From the molten-golden notes, 
 what a liquid ditty floats ! what a gust of euphony voluminously 
 wells ! How it swells ! how it dwells on the future ! how it tells of 
 the rapture that impels to the swinging and the ringing, to the 
 rhyming and the chiming of the bells 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 I In a clamorous appealing to the mercy 
 of the fire, in a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire. 
 What a tale their terror tells of Despair 1 How they clang, and 
 clash, and roar ! What a horror th»^y outpour on the bosom of the 
 palpitating air ! Yet the ear it fully knows, by the twanging and 
 the clanging, how the danger ebbs and flows ; yet the ear distinctly 
 tells, in the jangling and the wrangling, how the danger sinks and 
 swells, by the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells — in 
 the clamour and the clangour of the bells 1 
 
 Hear the tolling of the bells — iron bells ! 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 tone! 
 For every sound that floats from the rust, within their throats, is a 
 groan. And the people — ah, the people — they that dwell up in the 
 steeple, all alone, and who, tolling, tolling, toDing, in that mufiied 
 monotone, feel a glory in so rolling on the human heart a stone. 
 They are neither man nor woman — they are neither bnite nor 
 human — they are Ghouls : and their king it is who tolls ; and he 
 rolls, rolls, rolls, a paean from the bells! and his bosom proudly 
 swells with the paean of the bells I And he dances and he yells ; 
 keeping time, time, time, in a sort of Runic rhyme, to the paean of 
 the bells — to the throbbing of the bells — to the sobbing of the bells 
 — to the rolling of the bells — to the tolling of the bells — to the 
 moaning and the gi-oaning of the bells. 
 
 THE HAUNTED MERE. 
 
 Holme Lee. 
 
 " O mother, the wind blows chill o'er the moor, the sleet drives 
 sliarp 'gainst the pane, the blast, like a guest, at the shaken door, 
 comes knocking again and again. O! mother, there's one on the
 
 SELECTIONS FOB READING AND RECITATION. 421 
 
 bleak, bare wold, so weary and woin and thin, wand'ring alone in 
 the bitter cold : O! mother, you'll let her in? for the winter creeu is 
 dark and drear while our home fireside is bright; its glow shines out 
 on the glassy mere like a star through the stormy night. 01 mother, 
 that woman is wan and faint, footsore and hunger'd and ill : open the 
 door to her piteous plaint, she may die on the snow-wreathed hill." 
 " Put up the bolt on the creaking door, the shutter across the pane, 
 your sister darkens my hearth no more, nor eats of my bread again." 
 There presses a face to the streaming glass; she can see the light in 
 the room ; she can see her mothei-'s tall shadow pass, to the inner 
 chamber's gloom. As it duskily glows on the panelled wall, the fire 
 looks kind and clear, and the peering eye that traces it all, grows dim 
 with a burning tear. The gleam from the midnight mere is gone, 
 the face from the window glass, and a step drags wearily, wearily, on 
 to the edge of the morass. The clouds that flitter across the moon 
 make shadowy shapes and strange, and beckon and waver and tosa 
 and croon round the dim and darksome grange. What misty form 
 on the threshold stands, faltering in every gust 1 moaning, and wring- 
 ing its ghastly hands, leaving no track in the dust? coming and going 
 with soundless tread, in the gloaming across the marsh, when the 
 moon is up and the world's abed, and the winds whistle loud and 
 harsh? in the rusty grate there is not a spark, the door from its 
 hinge is gone; the wainscot is mouldy and damp and dark, and 
 shattered the threshold stone. The ivy has crept through the 
 broken glass and trails on the mossy floor; gauntly and ghastly the 
 shadows pass in and out at the door. Who calls, who calls through 
 the frosty nights, as the spring-time comes apace? who calls, who 
 calls when the summer lights on meadow and wold and chase? who 
 calls, who calls through the autumn drear when the dusk-brown 
 leaves grow thin? who calls with a voice of grief and fear, "O! 
 mother, pray let me in!" It comes from the mere like a wailing 
 breeze, with a shriek, a sob, a moan; then dies away 'midst the 
 writhing trees, with a curse in its fainting tone. " O I mother, you'll 
 hear that heart-break cry when yoii come to Heaven's gate, and 
 angel ears are deaf to your sigh — 'Too late, too late, too latel'" 
 
 PREPARING TO RECEIVE COMPANY. 
 
 J. M. Barrie. 
 {Adapted for Recital.) 
 
 Henry M'Lumpha's house in Thrums, where I am at present a 
 lodger, was flung into consternation yesterday by Henry's casual
 
 422 SELECTIONS FOB READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 remark that he had seen Babbie Meaimaker in the town with her 
 man. 
 
 Jess Webster, Henry's wife, was at the fire " braiidering " a quarter 
 of steak on the tongs. 
 
 " Losh preserve's ! " she cried, running ben the house to see what 
 time it was. " Half-f ower ! " she said appealingly to Leebj, the 
 daughter. 
 
 " Then it canna be done," said Leebv, falling despairingly into a 
 chair, " for they may be here ony meenit." 
 
 " It's maist michty," said Jess, turning upon her husband, " 'at ye 
 should tak' a pleasure in bringin' this house to disgrace. Hoo did 
 ye no teU's suner?" 
 
 " I fair forgot," answered Henry; "but what's a' yer steer aboot?" 
 
 "Steer! is't no time we was makin' a steer 1 They'll be in for 
 their tea ony meenit, an' the room no sae much as sweepit. Ay, an' 
 me lookin' like a sweep, an' Babbie Meaimaker, 'at's sae particularly 
 genteel, seein' ye sic a sicht as ye are ! — Get oot o' my road ! " 
 
 Jess shook Henry out of his chair, and with her one hand began 
 to sweep the room, while with the other she agitatedly unbuttoned 
 her wrapper. 
 
 " She didna see me," said Henry, sitting down forlornly on the 
 table. 
 
 " Get afF that table ! " cried Jess. 
 
 " See haud o' that bessom," cried Leeby, seizing the broom out of 
 her mother's hand. " For mercy's sake, mither, rin an' pit on yer 
 other wrapper and a clean mutch, an' be ready to open the door." 
 
 " I'll open the door if they come afore yer ready," said Henry, as 
 his wife pushed him against the dresser. 
 
 " Ye daur to speak about opening the door and you in sic a mess," 
 cried Jess, with pins in her mouth. 
 
 " Havers ! " retorted Henry, " a man canna be aye washiu' at 
 himsel'!" 
 
 Seeing that Henry was as much in the way as myself, I invited 
 fiim upstairs to my own apartment, whence we heard Jess and 
 Leeby rushing about and upbraiding each other shrilly. I w;is 
 aware that the room was speckless, but for all that Leeby was turn- 
 ing it upside down. 
 
 " She's aye ta'en like that," Henry said, " when she's expectin' 
 company. Ay, it's a peety she canna tak' things cannier." 
 
 " Babbie Meaimaker must be someone of importance?" 
 
 " Oh, she's naething by the ord'nar, but ye see she was mairit to a 
 Tiiliedrum man no lang syne, an' they're said to ha'e a michty grand
 
 SKLKCTTONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 423 
 
 establishment. Ay, they've a wardrobe spleet new, an' what think 
 ye Babbie wears ilka day ? It was Chirsty Miller 'at put it aboot 
 the toon. Chirsty was in Tilliedrum last Teisday or Wednesday, 
 an' Babbie gaed her her tea. Ay, weel, Babbie telt Chirsty 'at she 
 wears hose ilka day." 
 
 " Wears hose 1 " 
 
 " Ay. It's some michty grand kind o' stockin'. I never heard o't 
 in this toon. Na, there's uaebody in Thrums 'at wears hose." 
 
 " But you have not told me to whom Babbie was married." 
 
 "His name's Davit Curly; ou, a crittiir fu' o' maggots, an' nae 
 great match, for he's jist the Tilliedrum bill-sticker." 
 
 At this moment Jess shouted from the foot of the stair (she was 
 burnishing the society teapot as she spoke), " Mind, Henry M'Lum- 
 pha, 'at upon nae condition are ye to mention the bill-stickin' afore 
 Babbie." 
 
 "Babbie," Henry explained to me, "is a terrible vain tid, an' 
 doesna think the bill-stickin' genteel. Ay, they say 'at if she meets 
 Davit in the street wi' his paste-pot and the brush in his hands she 
 pretends no to ken 'im." 
 
 Every time Jess passed the foot of the stair she sent up orders such 
 as — 
 
 " Dinna call her Babbie, mind ye ; always address her aa Mrs. 
 Curly." — " Shake hands wi' baith o' them, an' say ye hope they're in 
 the enjoyment o' guid health." — " Dinna put yer feet on the table." 
 — " Mind, you're no to mention 'at ye kent they were in the toon." — 
 "When onybody passes ye yer tea say 'Thank ye'." — "Dinna stir 
 yer tea as if ye were churnin' butter, nor let on 'at the scones are 
 iio oor aiu bakin'."— " If Babbie says onything aboot the china, yer 
 no to say 'at we dinna use it ilka day." — " Dinna lean back in the 
 big chair, for it's broken, and Leeby's gi'en it a lick o' glue this 
 minute." — " When I gie ye a kick aneath the table, that'll be a sign 
 to ye to say grace," 
 
 Henry looked at me apologetically while these instructions came 
 up. 
 
 " I winna dim my head wi' sic nonsense," he said. " It's no for a 
 man body to be sae crammed fu' o' manners." 
 
 " Come awa doon," Jess shouted to him, " an' put on a clean dicky." 
 
 " I'll better do't to please her, though for my ain pairt I dinna 
 like the feel o' a dicky on week-days — na, they mak's think it's the 
 Sabbath." 
 
 Ten minutes aftei-wards I went downstairs to see how the prepara- 
 tions were progressing. Fresh muslin curtains had been put up in
 
 424 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 the room. There was a book on each corner of the centre table. 
 The grand footstool, worked by Leeby, was so placed that Babbie 
 could not help seeing it, and a fine cambric handkerchief, of which 
 Jess was very proud, was hanging out of a drawer as if by accident. 
 A.n anti-macassar lying carelessly on the seat of a chair concealed a 
 rent in the horse-hair, and the china ornaments on the mantel-piece 
 were so placed that they looked whole. Leeby's black silk was 
 hanging near the window in a eood light, and Jess's Sabbath bonnet 
 occupied a nail beside it. The tea-things stood on a tray in the 
 kitchen bed, whence they could be quickly brought into the room, 
 just as if they were always ready to be used daily. Leeby, as yet in 
 dishabille, was shaving her father at a tremendous rate, and Jess, 
 looking as fresh as a daisy, was ready to receive the visitors. She 
 was peering through the window-blind looking for them. 
 
 " Be cautious, Leeby," Henry was saying, when Jess shook her 
 hand at him. 
 
 " Wheesht ! " she whispered, " they're coming ! " 
 
 Henry was hustled into his Sabbath coat, and then came a rap at 
 the door: a very genteel rap. Jess nodded to Leeby, who softly 
 shoved Henry into the room. Jess gave a final tug at his necktie, 
 and Leeby thrust Spurgeon's sermons, open, into his hands. Tlien 
 Leeby disappeared, while Jess said in a loud English voice : 
 
 "Was that not a chap at the door?" 
 
 Henry was about to reply, but she shook her hand at him again. 
 Next moment Jess opened the door. I was upstairs, but I heard 
 her say : 
 
 " Dear me, if it's not Mrs. Curly ! and Mr. Curly ! And how are 
 ye? Come in by. Weel, this is indeed a pleasant surprise ! " 
 
 {From "A Window in Thrums ", by special permission of the Author.) 
 
 SELECTIONS FROM "ROBERT FALCONER." 
 Dr. George Mac Donald, 
 
 (Adapted for Recital, ) 
 
 Part I. 
 
 The holidays commenced on Saturday; but it was not till the 
 Monday following that the boys set out for Bodyfauld. 
 
 Aa soon as they were clear of the houses, Shargar lay down behind 
 a dyke, and Robert set off at full speed for Dooble Sandy's shop, 
 making a half circuit of the town to avoid the chance of being seen
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 425 
 
 by his grandiuuther. Having given due warning before, he found 
 the brown-paper parcel containing his tiddle ready for him, and 
 carried it off in triumph. He joined Shargar in safety, and they 
 set out on their journey as rich and happy a pair of tramps as ever 
 tramped. A hearty welcome awaited them, and they were soon 
 revelling in the glories of the place, the first instalment of which 
 was in the shape of curds and cream, with oatcakes and butter, as 
 much as they liked. 
 
 In the evening, resolved to make a confidant of Mr. Lammie, and 
 indeed to cast himself upon the kindness of the household generally, 
 Eobert went up to his room to release his violin from its prison of 
 brown paper. What was his dismay to find — not his bonny leddy, 
 but her poor cousin, the soutar's auld wife ! It was too bad — Double 
 Sandy indeed ! He first stared, then went into a rage, and then 
 came out of it to go into a resolution. He replaced the unwelcome 
 fiddle in the parcel, and came downstairs gloomy and wrathful. 
 
 About eleven o'clock, after all had been still for more than an 
 hour, he took his shoes in one hand and the brown parcel in the 
 other, and descending the stairs like a thief, undid the quiet wooden 
 bar that secured the door, and let himself out. All was darkness, 
 for the moon was not yet up, and he felt a strange sensation of 
 ghostliness in himself — awake and out of doors, when he ought to 
 be asleep and unconscious in bed I He put on his shoes and hurried 
 to the road. 
 
 Nothing was to be heard but his own footsteps. The cattle in the 
 fields were all asleep. The larch and spruce trees on t'he top of the 
 hill by the foot of which his road wound were still as clouds. 
 
 By the time he reached Rothieden all the lights were out, and 
 this was just what he wanted. Arrived at Dooble Sandy's, he lifted 
 the latch, closed the door behind him, took off' his shoes once more, 
 and felt his way to and up the stair to the bed-room. There was a 
 sound of snoring within. The door was a little ajar. He reached 
 the key and descended. Gently as he could he turned it in the 
 lock. In a moment more he had his hands on the spot where the 
 shoemaker always laid his violin. But his heart sank within him • 
 there was no violin there ! A blank of dismay held him both motion- 
 less and thoughtless ; nor had he recovered his senses before he 
 heard footsteps, which he well knew, approaching in the street. He 
 slunk at once into a corner. The soutar entered, feeling his way 
 carefully, and muttering at his wife. He was tipsy, most likely, 
 but that had never yet interfered with the safety of his fiddle. 
 Robert heard its faint echo as he laid it gently down. Nor was he 
 ( 996 ) 2
 
 426 SBLECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 too tipsy to lock the door behind him, leaving Robert incarcerated 
 amongst the old boots and leather and rosin. 
 
 For one moment only did the boy's heart fail him. The next he 
 was in action, for a happy thought had already struck him. Hastily, 
 that he might forestall sleep in the brain of the soutar, he undid his 
 parcel, and after carefully enveloping hia own violin in the paper, 
 took the old wife of the soutar, and proceeded to perform upon her 
 a trick which in a merry moment hia master had taught him, and 
 which, not without some feeling of irreverence, he had occasionally 
 practised upon his own bonny leddy. The shoemaker's room was 
 overhead ; its thin floor of planks was the ceiling of the workshop. 
 Ere Dooble Sandy was well laid by the side of his sleeping wife, he 
 heard a frightful sound from below, as of someone tearing his be- 
 loved violin to pieces. He sprang from his bed with a haste that 
 shook the crazy tenement to its foundation. The moment Robert 
 heard that, he put the violin in its place, and took his station by the 
 door-cheek. The soutar came tumbling downstairs, and rushed at 
 the door, went straight to the nest of his treasure, and Robert, 
 slipping out noiselessly, was in the next street before Dooble Sandy, 
 having found the fiddle uninjured, and not discovering the substi- 
 tution, had finished concluding that his imagination had played him 
 a very discourteous trick, and retired once more to bed. And not 
 till Robert had cut his foot badly with a piece of glass, did he dis- 
 cover that he had left his shoes behind him. He tied it up with his 
 handkerchief, and limped home the three miles, too haf)py to think 
 of consequences ; reached home in safety, found the door as he had 
 left it, and ascended to his bed, triumphant in hia fiddle. 
 
 In the morning bloody prints were discovered on the stair, and 
 traced to the door of his room. Misa Lammie entered in some 
 alarm, and found him fast asleep on his bed, still dressed, with a 
 brown-paper parcel in his arms, and one of his feet evidently enough 
 the source of the frightful stain. She was too kind to wake him, 
 and inquiry was postponed till they met at breakfast, to which he 
 descended barefooted, save for a handkerchief on the injured foot. 
 
 "Robert, my lad," said Mr. Lammie, kindly, " hoo cam' ye by 
 that bluidy futl" 
 
 Robert began the story, and guided by a few questions from his 
 host, at length told the tale of the violin from beginning to end. 
 
 In the evening, as they sat together after supper, Mr. Lammie 
 ^id: 
 
 "Weel, Robert, hoo's the fiddle?" 
 
 " Fine, I thank ye, sir," answered Robert
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 427 
 
 "Lat's hear what ye can dae wi't." 
 
 Robert fetched the instrument and complied. 
 
 " That's no' that ill," remarked the farmer. " But eh 1 man, ye 
 suld ha'e heard yer gran'father han'le the bow. That was something 
 to hear — ance in a body's life. Ye wad ha'e jist thought the strings 
 had been drawn frae his ain inside ; he kent them sae weel, and 
 han'led them sae fine. Jist fan' them like wi' his fingers thro' 
 the bow an' the horse-hair an' a', an' a' the time he was drawin' the 
 soun' like the sowl frae them, an' they jist did onything 'at he likit. 
 Eh ! to hear him play the ' Flooers o' the Forest ' wad ha'e garred ye 
 greit. Lat's ha'e a luik at her." 
 
 He took the instrument in his hands reverently, turned it ovei 
 and over, and said : " Ay, ay ; it's the same auld mull, an' I wat it 
 grun' bonny meal. That sma' crater, noo, 'ill be worth a hunner 
 poun', I's warran'," he added, as he restored it carefully into Robert's 
 hands, to whom it was honey and spice to hear his bonny leddy paid 
 her due honours. " Can ye play the ' Flooers o' the Forest', noo?" 
 
 " Ay, can I," answered Robert, with some pride, and laid the bow 
 on the violin, and played the air through without blundering a 
 single note. 
 
 " "Weel, that's verra weel," said Mr. Lammie. " But it's nae mair 
 like as yer gran'father played it than gin there war twa sawyers at 
 it, ane at ilka lug o' the bow, wi' the fiddle atweeu them in a saw- 
 pit." 
 
 Robert's heart sank within him. 
 
 "To hear the bow croonin', and wailin', and greitin' ower the 
 strings, wad ha'e jist garred ye see the lands o' braid Scotlan' wi' a' 
 the lasses greitin' for the lads that lay upon reid Flodden side ; lasses 
 to cut, and lasses to gether, and lasses to bin', and lasses to stook, and 
 lasses to lead, and no' a lad amang them a'. It's jist the murnin' 
 o' women, daein' men's wark as weel's their ain, for the men that 
 suld ha'e been there to dae't ; and I'se warran' ye, no' a word to the 
 orra lad that didna gang wi' the lave." 
 
 Robert had not hitherto understood it — this wail of a pastoral and 
 ploughing people over those who had left their side to return no 
 more from the field of battle. But Mr. Lammie's description of his 
 grandfather's rendering laid hold of his heart. " I wad raither be 
 grutten for nor kissed," said he. 
 
 "Haud ye to that, my lad," returned Mr. Lammie. "Lat the 
 asses greit for you gin they like, but haud oot ower frae the kissin'. 
 I wadna meddle wi't. But, Robert, my man, ye maun pit mair 
 Boul into yer fiddlin'. Ye canna play the fiddle till ye can gar it
 
 428 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 greit. It's unco ready to that o' it's ain sel' ; an' it's my opinion, 
 that there's no' aiiither instrument but the fiddle fit to play the 
 'Flooers o' the Forest' upon." 
 
 Robert was silent. He spent the whole of the next morning in 
 reiterated attempts to alter his style of playing the air in question, 
 but it was not till the afternoon, when he was returning home 
 through the barley-stubble, and heard the wind soughin' through 
 the heads of barley in the sheaves, that he for the first time realized 
 the sadness of a harvest-field. He ran home and up the stair to his 
 own room, seized his violin with eager haste, nor laid it down till he 
 could draw from it, at will, a sound like the moaning of the wind 
 over the stubble-field. Then he knew that he could play the 
 "Flowers of the Forest". 
 
 Part IL 
 
 On the night of Robert's return from Bodyfauld, he left his books 
 on the table and sped like a greyhound to Dooble Sandy's shop, 
 lifted the latch, and entered. 
 
 By the light of a single dip set on a chair, he saw the shoemaker 
 seated on his stool, one hand lying on the lap of his leathern apron, 
 his other hand hanging down by his side, and the fiddle on the 
 ground at his feet. His wife stood behind him, wiping her eyes 
 with her blue apron. Through all its accumulated dirt, the face 
 of the soutar looked gliastly, and they were eyes of despair that he 
 lifted to the face of the youth as be stood holding the latch in his 
 hand. Mrs. Alexander moved towards Robert, diew him in, and 
 gently closed the door behind him. 
 
 " What on airth's the maitter wi' ye, Sandy?" said Robert. 
 
 " Eh, Robert!" returned the shoemaker, "the Almiclity will gang 
 his ain gait, and I'm in his grup noo !" 
 
 "He's had a stx'oke," said his wife, without removing her apron 
 from lier eyes. 
 
 " I ha'e gotten my pecks," resumed the soutcr, " for cryin' doon 
 my ain auld wife to set uj) your bonny leddy. The tane's gane a' to 
 aise, and frae the tither I canna draw a cheep, for my richt han' lias 
 forgotten her cunnin'. Man, Robert, I canna lift it frae ray side." 
 
 " Ye maun gang to yer bed," said Robert. 
 
 " Ou, ay, I maun gang to my bed, and syne to the kirkyaird ; I 
 ken that weel eneuch. Robert, I lea' my fiddle to you. Be guid 
 to the auld wife, man, — bettor nor I ha'e been. An aiild wife'-i 
 better nor nae fiddle." He stooped, lifttd the violin with bis left
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 429 
 
 hand, gave it to Robert, rose, and made for the door. They helped 
 him up the creaking stair, got him half undressed, and laid him in 
 his bed. 
 
 Robert put the violin on the top of a press within sight of the 
 sufferer, and ran home. 
 
 For the first week or so, Sandy was very testy and unmanageable. 
 If Robert, who strove to do his best, in the hope of alleviating the 
 poor fellow's sufferings, happened to mistake the time or to draw a 
 false note from the violin, Sandy would swear as if he had been the 
 Grand Turk and Robert one of his slaves. But Robert was too 
 t^exed with himself, when he gave occasion to such an outburst, to 
 mind the outburst itself. And invariably, when such had taken 
 place, the shoemaker would ask forgiveness before he went. Hold- 
 ing out his left hand, he would say : 
 
 " Robert, ye'U jist pit the sweirin' doon wi' the lave an' score't 
 oot a'thegither. I'm an ill-tongued wratch, an' I'm beginnin' to 
 see't But, man, ye're jist behavin' to me like God himsel', an' gin 
 it warna for you, I wad jist lie here roarin' and greitin' frae mornin' 
 to nicht." 
 
 "I'll try and get a sicht o' my sins ance mair," he added one 
 evening. "Gin I could only be a wee bit sorry for them, I reckon 
 he wad forgi'e me. Dinna ye think he wad, Robert ?" 
 
 " I duv think it," answered Robert. 
 
 " Something beirs't in upo' me 'at he wadna be sair upo' me. 
 There's something i' the New Testament, some gait, 'at's pitten't 
 into my held ; though, faith, I dinna ken whaur to luik for't. 
 Canna ye help me oot wi't, man ? " 
 
 Robert could think of nothing but the parable of the prodigal son. 
 Mrs. Alexander got him the New Testament and he read it. 
 
 "There!" cried the soutar triumphantly, "I telled ye sae! Not 
 ae word aboot the puir lad's sins ! It was a' a hurry an' a scurry to 
 get the new shune upo' 'im, an' win at the calfie an' the fiddlin' an' 
 tbe dancin'. — O Lord," he broke out, " I'm comin' hame as fast's I 
 can; but my sins are jist like muckle bauchles on my feet and winna 
 lat me ! I expec' nae ring and nae robe, but I wad fain ha'e a fiddle 
 i' my grip when the neist prodigal comes hame; an' gin I dinna fiddle 
 weel, it s' no be my wyte. — Eh, man, but that is what I ca' gude I — 
 O Lord, gin ever I win up again, I'll put in ilka steek as gin the 
 shune war for the feet o' the prodigal himsel'. An' I'U never lat 
 taste o whusky iiitil my mou', nor smell o' whusky intil my nose, 
 gin aae be 'at I can help it— I sweir't, O Lord ! An' gin I biuna 
 raised up again — "
 
 430 SELECTIONS FOR KEADINQ AND RECITATION. 
 
 Here his voice trembled and ceased, and silence endured for a 
 short minute. Then he called his wife. 
 
 " Come here, Bell. Gi'e me a kiss, my bonnie lass. I ha'e been 
 an ill man to you," 
 
 "Na, na, Sandy. Ye ha'e aye been gude to me — better nor I 
 deserved. Ye ha'e been naebod/s enemy but yer ain." 
 
 " Haud yer tongue. I tell ye I ha'e been a scoun'rel to ye. I 
 ha'ena even hauden my ban's aff o' ye. And eh, ye war a bonnie 
 lass when I merried ye I I ha'e spoilt ye a'thegither. But gin I 
 war up, see gin I wadna gi'e ye a new goon, an' that wad be some- 
 thing to make ye like yersel' again. 
 
 " I'm alfrontet wi' mysel' 'at I had been sic a brute o' a man to ye. 
 But ye maun forgi'e me noo, for I do believe i' my he'rt 'at the 
 Lord's forgi'eu me. Gi'e me anither kiss, lass. God be praised, and 
 mony thanks to ye ! Ye micht ha'e run awa' frae me lang or noo, 
 an' a'body wad ha'e said ye did richt. — Robert, play a spring." 
 
 Robert began to play "The Ewie wi' the Crookit Horn". 
 
 "Hoots! hoots!" cried Sandy, angrily. "What are ye about'/ 
 Nae mair o' that. I ha'e dune wi' that. What's i' the heid o' ye, man?" 
 
 " What'U I play, than, Sandy?" asked Robert. 
 
 "Play 'The Lan' o' the Leal', or 'My Nannie's Awa", or something 
 o' that kin'. — I'll be leal to ye noo. Bell. An' we winna pree o' the 
 whueky nae mair, lass." 
 
 " I canna bide the smell o't," cried Bell, sobbing. Robert struck 
 in with "The Lan' o' the Leal", When he had played it over two or 
 three times, he laid the fiddle in its place and departed — able just 
 to see, by the light of the neglected candle, that Bell sat on the bed- 
 side stroking the rosiny hand of her husband, the rhinoceros hide of 
 which was yet delicate enough to let the love through to his heart. 
 
 Plenceforth Robert had more to do in reading the New Testament 
 than in playing the fiddle to the soutar, though they never parted 
 without an air or two. 
 
 There was no return of strength to the helpless arm, and his con- 
 stitution was gradually yielding. 
 
 The rumour got abroad that he was a " changed character". 
 
 Food, wine, and delicacies were sent him, and to the day of his 
 death the shoemaker had need for nothing. His humour, however, 
 aided by his violin, was a strong antidote against evil influences. 
 
 " I doot I'm gaein' to dee, Robert," he said at length one evening 
 as the lad sat by his bedside. 
 
 " Weel, that winna do ye nae ill," answered Robert; "ye needna 
 care about that."
 
 BFXECTIONS FOB READING AND RECITATION. 431 
 
 " I do not care aboot the deein' o't. But I jist want to live lang 
 euouffli to lat the Lord ken 'at I'm in doonricht earnest aboot it. 
 I ha'e nae chance o' drinkin' as lang's I'm lyin' here." 
 
 " Never ye fash yer heid about that. Ye can lippen that to him, 
 for it's his ain business. He'll see 'at ye're a' richt. Dinna ye think 
 'at he'll let ye atf." 
 
 " The Lord forbid ! it maun be a' pitten richt. It wad be dreidf u' 
 to be latteu aff. I wadna ha'e him content wi' cobbler's wark. — 
 I ha'e't," he resumed, after a few minutes' pause : "the Lord's easy 
 pleased, but ill to satisfee. I'm sair pleased wi' your playin', Eobert, 
 but it's naething like the richt thing yet. It does me gude to hear 
 ye, though, for a' that." 
 
 The very next night he found him evidently sinking fast. 
 
 Eobert took tlie violin, and was about to play, but the soutar 
 stretched out his left hand and took it from him, laid it across his 
 chest and his arm over it for a few moments, as if he were bidding 
 it farewell, then held it out to Eobert, saying : 
 
 " Hae, Eobert, she's yours.— Death's a sair divorce. Maybe they'll 
 ha'e an orra liddle whaur I'm gaun, though. Think o' a Eothieden 
 soutar playin' afore his grace !" 
 
 Eobert saw that his mind was wandering, and mingled the paltry 
 honours of earth with the grand simplicities of heaven. 
 
 He began to play "The Land o' the Leal". 
 
 For a little while Sandy seemed to follow and comprehend the tones, 
 but by slow degrees the light departed from his face, his jaw fell, and 
 with a sigh the body parted from Dooble Sandy, and he went to God. 
 
 His wife closed mouth and eyes without a word, laid the two arms, 
 equally powerless now, straight by his sides, then seating herself on 
 the edge of the bed burst into tears. 
 
 (By special permission of Messrs. Hurst d: Blackell.) 
 
 THE MIDNIGHT CHAEGE. 
 
 Clement Scott. 
 
 Pass the word to the boys to-night 1— lying about 'midst dying and 
 
 dead ! 
 Whisper it low ; make ready to fight I stand like men at your horse's 
 
 head ! 
 Look to your stirrups and swords, my lads, and into your saddles 
 
 your pistols thrust; 
 Then setting your teeth as your fathers did, you'll make the enemy 
 
 bite the dust !
 
 43^ SKLECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 What did they call ua, boys, at home 1— "Feather-bed soldiers I"- 
 
 faith, it's true 1 
 " Kept to be seen in her Majesty's parks, and mightily smart at a 
 
 grand review ! " 
 Feather-bed soldiers? Hang their chaff! Where in the world, I 
 
 should like to know, 
 When a war broke out and the country called, was an English soldier 
 
 sorry to go? 
 Brothers in arms and brothers in heart ! cavalry 1 infantry ! there 
 
 and then. 
 No matter what careless lives they lived, they were ready to die 
 
 like Englishmen ! 
 
 So pass the word ! in the sultry night, 
 Stand to your saddles ! make ready to fight 1 
 
 We are sick to death of the scorching sun, and the desert stretching 
 
 for miles away; 
 We are all of us longing to get at the foe, and sweep the sand with 
 
 our swords to-day ! 
 Our horses look with piteous eyes — they have little to eat, and 
 
 nothing to do ; 
 A.nd the land around is horribly white, and the sky above is terribly 
 
 blue. 
 But it's over now, so the Colonel says : he is ready to stai't, we are 
 
 ready to go : 
 And the cavalry boys will be led by men — Ewart ! and Russell ! and 
 
 Drury-Lowe ! 
 Just once again let me stroke the mane — let me kiss the neck and 
 
 feel the breath 
 Of the good little horse who will carry me on to the end of the battle 
 
 — to life or death ! 
 " Give us a grip of your fist, old man ! " let us all keep close when the 
 
 charge begins ! 
 God is watching o'er those at home ! God have mercy on all our sins ! 
 
 So pass the word in the dark, and then, 
 
 When the bugle sounds, let us mount like men I 
 
 Out we went in the dead of night ! away to the desert, across the 
 
 sand — 
 Guided alone by the stars of heaven ! a speechless host 1 a ghostly 
 
 band '
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 433 
 
 No cheery voice the silence broke; forbidden to speak, we could 
 
 hear no sound, 
 But the whispered words, "Be firm, my boys !" and the horses' hoofs 
 
 on the sandy ground. 
 "What were we thinking of then?" Look here I if this is the last 
 
 time word I speak, 
 I felt a lump in my throat — just here — and a tear came trickling 
 
 down my cheek. 
 If a man dares say that I funked, he lies ! But a man is a man 
 
 though he gives his life 
 For his country^s cause, as a soldier should — he has still got a heart 
 
 for his child and wife ! 
 But I still rode on in a kind of dream ; I was thinking of home and 
 
 the boys — and then 
 The silence broke ! and a bugle blew ! then a voice rang cheerily, 
 
 " rihai'ge, my men ! " 
 
 So pass the word in the thick of the fight. 
 For England's honour and England's right I 
 
 What is it like, a cavalry charge in the dead of night? I can 
 
 scarcely tell, 
 For when it is over it's like a dream, and when you are in it a kind 
 
 of heU ! 
 I should like you to see the oflBcers lead — forgetting their swagger 
 
 and Bond Street air — 
 Like brothers and men at the head of the troop, while bugles echo 
 
 and troopers dare ! 
 With a rush we are in it, and hard at work — there's scarcely a 
 
 minute to think or pause — • 
 For right and left we are fighting hard for the regiment's honour 
 
 and country's cause ! 
 Feather-bed warriors! On my life, be they Life Guards red or 
 
 Horse Guards blue, 
 They haven't lost much of the pluck, my boys, that their fathers 
 
 showed us at Waterloo ! 
 It isn't for us, who are soldiers bred, to chatter of wars, be they 
 
 wrong or right ; 
 We've to keep the oath that we gave our Queen ! and when we are 
 
 in it— we've got to fight ! 
 
 So pass the word, without any noise, 
 Bravo, cavalry ! Well done, Iwys !
 
 434 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 Pass the word to the boys to-night, now that the battle is fairlT 
 
 won, 
 A message has come from the Empress-Queen — ju.st what we wanted 
 
 —a brief " Well done I " 
 The sword and stirrups are sorely stained, and the pistol-barrels are 
 
 empty quite, 
 And the poor old charger's piteous eyes bear evidence clear of the 
 
 desperate fight. 
 There's many a wound and many a gash, and the sun-burned face is 
 
 scarred and red ; 
 There's many a trooper safe and ^ound, and many a tear for the 
 
 " pal " who's dead ! 
 I care so little for rights and wrongs of a terrible war ; but the world 
 
 at large — 
 It knows so well when duty's done ! — it will think sometimes of our 
 
 cavalry charge ! 
 Brothers in arms and brothers in heart ! we have solemnly taken an 
 
 oath ! and then, 
 In all the battles throughout the world, we have followed our fathers 
 
 like Englishmen I 
 
 So pass the blessing the lips between — 
 
 'Tis the soldier's oath — God Save the Queex ! 
 
 {By special permission, of the Author.) 
 
 DEBATE ON THE CHARACTER OF JULIUS CAESAR. 
 
 Gavin L. Pagan, Chairman. 
 
 Debaters — 
 
 Arthur Robin. 
 
 DnUGL.VS M'GREGOR. 
 
 Wm. Dunlop. 
 Victor A. Wilson. 
 
 John B. Fairley. 
 Crichton D. Fulton. 
 Archd. Main. 
 Wm. Aitken. 
 
 Wm. G. F. Laurie. 
 Cecil Cruickshank. 
 John Anderson. 
 John Falconer. 
 
 Gavin L. Pagan. — Gentlemen, — I am happy to see you. You 
 have assembled to discuss the [propriety of calling Caesar a great 
 man ; I promise myself much satisfaction from your debate. I pro- 
 mise myself the pleasure of hearing many ingenious arguments on 
 each side of the question. I promise myself the gratification of wit- 
 nessing a contest, maintained with animation, good Immour, and 
 courtesy. You are ray sureties, and I shall not be disappointed. 
 My first duty is to declare my sense of the honour I enjoy in ha^/ing 
 been appointed to this station, and my next to present you with a
 
 SELECTIONS FOR llEADINQ AND RECITATION 435 
 
 few observations that have reference to the occasion of your being 
 assembled. 
 
 You are assembled, Gentlemen, to discuss the merits of a man 
 whose actions are connected with some of the most interesting events 
 in Eoman story. You have given the subject due consideration. 
 You come prepared for the contest; and I shall not presume to offer 
 any opinion respecting the ground which either side ought to take. 
 My remarks shall be confined to the study of Oratory — and, allow 
 me to say, I consider Oratory to be the second end of our academic 
 labours, of which the first end is, to render us enlightened, useful, 
 and virtuous. 
 
 The principal means of communicating our ideas are two — speech 
 and writing. The former is the parent of the latter ; it is the more 
 important, and its highest eff"orts are called — Oratory. If we con- 
 sider the very early period at which we begin to exercise the faculty 
 of speech, and the frequency with which we exercise it, it must be 
 a subject of surprise that so few excel in Oratory. The causes are 
 various; but we must not attempt here to investigate them. 
 
 I shall simply state, that one cause of our not generally excelling 
 in Oratory is — our neglecting to cultivate the art of speaking — of 
 speaking our own language. We acquire the power of expressing 
 our ideas, almost insensibly— we consider it as a thing that is natural 
 to us ; we do not regard it as an ax-t. It is an art — a difficult art — an 
 iotricate art — and our ignorance of that circumstance, or our omit- 
 ting to give it due consideration, is the cause of our deficiency. 
 
 Select a dozen men — men of education— ask them to read a piece 
 of animated composition ; you will be fortunate if you find one in the 
 dozen that can raise, or depress, his voice — inflect or modulate it, as 
 the variety of the subject requires. 
 
 They have not been exercised — they have been neglected — they 
 have never been put into the hands of the artist, that he might apjily 
 them to their proper use — they have been laid aside, spoiled, abused. 
 
 Oratory is highly useful to him that excels in it. In common con- 
 versation, observe the advantage which the fluent speaker enjoys over 
 tlif: man that hesitates and stumbles in discourse. With half his 
 information he has twice his importance; he commands the respect 
 of his auditors; he instructs and gratifies them. In the general 
 transactions of business the same superiority attends him. 
 
 Does he plead the cause of friendship ?— how happy is his friend ! 
 Of charity? — how fortunate is the distressed 1 Should he enter the 
 senate of his country, he gives strength to the party which he 
 espouses.
 
 436 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 That you will persevere in the pursuit of so useful a study as that 
 of Oratory, I contideutly hope. Gentlemen, the question for debate 
 is : " Was Caesar a great man?" 
 
 Arthur Robin. — Sir, — To bespeak your indulgence is a duty, im- 
 posed no less by a knowledge of your abilities than by a consciousness 
 of my deficiency. Let me anticipate that failure will not be imputed 
 as a crime to him who dares not hope success. 
 
 " Was Caesar a great man ? " What revolution has taken place in 
 the first appointed government of the universe ; what new and oppo- 
 site principle has begun to direct the operations of nature; what 
 refutation of their long-established precepts has deprived reason of 
 her sceptre and virtue of her throne, that a character which forms 
 the noblest theme that ever Merit gave to Fame should now become 
 a question for debate 1 
 
 No painter of human excellence, if he would draw the features of 
 that hero's character, needs study a favourable light or striking atti- 
 tude. In every posture it has majesty, and the lineaments of its 
 beauty are prominent in every point of view. Do you ask me, 
 "Had Caesar genius'?" — He was an orator 1 "Had Caesar judg- 
 ment?"- — He was a politician! "Had Caesar valour?" — He was a 
 conqueror 1 " Had Caesar feeling?" — He was a friend ! 
 
 To expatiate on Caesar's powers of oratory would only be to add 
 one poor eulogium to the testimony of the first historians. Cicero 
 himself grants him the palm of almost pre-eminent merit, and seems 
 at a loss for words to express his admiration of him. And it is well 
 presumed that, had he studied the art of public speaking with as 
 much industry as he studied the art of war, he would have been the 
 first of orators. 
 
 As a politician, how consummate was his address 1 — how grand his 
 projections ! — how happy the execution of his measures 1 He compels 
 the vanquished Helvetii to rebuild their towns and villages, making 
 his enemies the guards, as it were, of his frontier. He governs hi. 
 province with such equity and wisdom as add a milder but a faire.* 
 lustre to his glory, and, by their fame, prepare the Roman people for 
 his liappy yoke. 
 
 To you, Sir, who are so fully versed in the page of history, it must 
 be unnecessary to recount the military exploits of Caesar. 
 
 As a soldier he was the first of warriors ; nor were his valour and 
 skill more admii-able than his abstinence and watclif ulness ; his dis- 
 regard of ease and his endurance of labour ; his moderation and his 
 mercy. 
 
 That Caesar had a heart susceptible of friendship, and alive to the
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 437 
 
 finest touches of humanity, is unquestionable. "Why does he attempt 
 so often to avert the storm of civil war'? Why does he pause so long 
 upon the brink of the Eubiconl "Why does he delight in pardoning 
 his enemies — even those very men that had deserted him? 
 
 It seems as if he lived the lover of mankind, and fell— as the bard 
 expresses it — vanquished, not so much by the weapons as by the 
 ingratitude of his murderers. 
 
 If, Sir, a combination of the most splendid talents for war, with 
 the most sacred love of peace — of the most illustrious public virtue, 
 with the most endearing private worth — of the most unyielding 
 courage, with the most accessible moderation, may constitute a great 
 man — that title must be Caesar's ! 
 
 Douglas W'Oregor. — Sir, — No change has taken place in the first 
 appointed government of the universe ; the operations of nature 
 acknowledge now the same principle that they did in the beginning — 
 Reason still holds her sceptre, "Virtue still fills her throne, and the 
 epithet of great does not belong to Caesar ! 
 
 I would lay it down, Sir, as an unquestionable position, that the 
 worth of talents is to be estimated only by the use we make of them. 
 If we employ them in the cause of virtue their value is great, if we 
 employ them in the cause of vice they are less than worthless — they 
 are pernicious and vile. Now, Sir, let us examine Caesar's talents 
 by this principle, and we shall find that neither as an orator nor as 
 a politician, neither as a warrior nor as a friend, was Caesar a great 
 man. 
 
 If I were asked, "What was the first, the second, and the last 
 principle of the virtuous mind?" I should reply, " It was the love of 
 country". Sir, it is the love of parent, brother, friend ! — the love of 
 Man ! — the love of honour, virtue, and religion ! — the love of every 
 good and virtuous deed ! Without these principles man is the basest 
 of his kind ! — a selfish, cunning, narrow speculator !— a trader in the 
 dearest interests of his species ! 
 
 "What, Sir, was Caesar's oratory ? How far did it prove him to be 
 actuated by the love of country? 
 
 It justified, for political interest, the invader of his domestic 
 honour! — sheltered the incendiary! — abetted treason! — flattered the 
 people into their own undoing! — and bawled into silence every vir- 
 tuous patriot that struggled to uphold them ! He would have been 
 a greater orator than Cicero ! I question the assertion — I deny that 
 it is correct. He would have been a greater orator than Cicero! 
 Well I — let it pass. He might have been a greater orator, but he 
 never could have been so great a man.
 
 438 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 But Caesar is to be admired as a politician ! I do not pretend to 
 define the wortliy speaker's idea of a politician, but I shall attempt, 
 Mr. Chairman, to put you in possession of mine. B}' a politician, 
 I understand a man who studies the laws of prudence and of justice, 
 as they are applicable to the wise and happy government of a people 
 and the reciprocal obligations of states. Now, Sir, how far was 
 Caesar to be admired as a politician? 
 
 He makes war upon the innocent Spaniards, that his military 
 talents may not suffer from inaction. This was a ready way to pre- 
 serve the peace of his province, and to secure its loyalty and affection! 
 That he may be regarded as the first Roman that had ever crossed 
 the Rhine in a hostile manner, he invades the unoffending Germans, 
 lays waste their territories with fire, and plunders and sacks the 
 country of the Sicambri and the Suevi. Here was a noble policy! — 
 that planted in the minds of a brave and formidable people the 
 fatal seeds of that revenge and hatred which finally assisted in 
 accomplishing the destruction of the Roman empii'e 1 In short, Sir, 
 Caesar's views were not of that enlarged nature which could entitle 
 him to the name of a great politician; for he studied, not the happi- 
 ness and interest of a community, but merely his own advancement, 
 which he accomplished — by violating the laws and destroying the 
 liberties of his country. 
 
 Tliat Caesar was a great conqueror, I do not care to dispute. His 
 admirers are welcome to all the advantages that result from such a 
 position. I will not subtract one victim from the hosts that perished 
 for his fame, or abate by a single groan the sufferings of his van- 
 quished enemies 1 
 
 But Caesar's munificence, his clemency, his moderation, and his 
 affectionate nature, constitute him a great man! What was his 
 munificence, his clemency, or his moderation?— The automaton of 
 his ambition 1 
 
 He could possess no real munificence, moderation, or clemency 
 who ever expected his gifts to be doubled by return. 
 
 Of the same nature. Sir, were his affections. He atones to the 
 violated and murdered laws by doing homage to their manes, and 
 expatiates the massacre of thousands by dropping a tear or two into 
 an ocean of blood ! 
 
 Wm. Dunlop. — Sir, — To form an accurate idea of Caesar's charac- 
 ter, it is necessary that we should consider the nature of the times 
 in which he lived ; fur the conduct of public men cannot be duly 
 estimated without a knowledge of the circumstances under which 
 they have acted
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 439 
 
 Let ua examine whether the times in which Caesar lived did not 
 call for, and justify, the measures which he adopted. 
 
 The erroneous ideas that we have formed concerning Roman 
 liberty have induced us to pass a severe judgment on the actions of 
 many an illustrious man. 
 
 The admirers of that liberty will not expect to be told that it was 
 little better than a name. True liberty, Sir, could never have been 
 enjoyed by a people who were the slaves of continual tumults; whose 
 magistrates were the mere echoes of a crowd, and among whom 
 virtue itself had no protection from popular caprice or state intrigue. 
 By tlie term liberty I understand a freedom from all responsibility, 
 except what morality, virtue, and religion impose. That is the only 
 liberty which is consonant with the true interests of man — the only 
 liberty that makes him the son of a land that he would inhabit till 
 his death, and the subject of a state that he would defend with his 
 property and his blood ! All other liberty is but a counterfeit — 
 selfish domination — anarchy— such anarchy as needed more than 
 mortal talents to restrain it, and found them in a Caesar. 
 
 I hold it to be an unquestionable position, that they who duly 
 appreciate the blessings of liberty, revolt as much from the idea of 
 exercising, as from that of enduring, oppression. 
 
 Yes, Sir, that people, so jealous of what they called their liberties, 
 to gratify an insatiate thirst for conquest, invaded the liberties of 
 every other nation; and on what spot soever they set their tyrant 
 foot, the fair and happy soil of the freeman withered at their stamp! 
 But the retributive justice of Heaven ordained that their rapacity 
 should be the means of its own punishment. As their territories 
 extended, their armies required to be enlarged and their campaigns 
 became protracted. Hence the citizen lost in the camp that inde- 
 pendence which he had been taught in the city; and being long 
 accustomed to obey implicitly the voice of his general, from having 
 been sent forth the hope, returned the terror, of his country. Hence, 
 Sir, their generals forgot in foreign parts the republican principles 
 which they had imbibed; and, long habituated to unlimited com- 
 mand, from being despots abroad learned to be traitors at home. 
 
 Hence, Sir, Marius returned the salutations of his fellow-citizens 
 with the daggers of assassins; and, with cool ferocity, marched to 
 the Capitol amidst the groans of his butchered countrymen. Hence 
 Sylla's bloody proscription, that turned Eome into a shambles — that 
 tore its victims from the altars of the gods — that made it death for a 
 man to shelter a person proscribed, though it were his son, his brother, 
 or his father.
 
 440 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 Such, Sir, were the events which characterized the times in which 
 Caesar lived. To such atrocities were the Roman 23eo])le subject 
 while the rivalry of their leading men was at liberty to create 
 divisions in the state. Had you, Sir, lived in those times, what 
 would you have called the man that would have stepped forward to 
 secure your country against the repetition of those horrid scenes'? 
 Would you not have styled him a friend to his country — a benefactor 
 to the world — a great man 1 Yes, Sir, Caesar was a great man ! 
 
 Victor A. Wilson.- — Caesar, Sir, was not a great man. He who for 
 his own private views disobeyed the order of the senate, from whom 
 he held his power — he who seduced from their duty the soldiers 
 whom he commanded in trust for the republic — he who plurdered 
 the public treasury that he might indulge a selfish and rapacious 
 ambition — he against whom the virtuous Cato ranked himself, whose 
 very mercy the virtuous Cato deemed a dishonour to which death 
 was preferable, — was not a great man. " Caesar erected himself 
 into a tyrant, that he might prevent a repetition of those atrocities 
 which had been committed by Marius and Sylla ! " What does the 
 gentleman mean by such an assertion? Caesar pursues the same 
 measures that Marius and Sylla did — Why 1 — That he may arrive at 
 a different point of destination ! What flimsy arguments are these! 
 What were Sylla and Marius that Caesar was noil If they were 
 ambitious, was not he ambitious? If they were treacherous, was 
 not he treacherous? If they were tyrants, was not he a tyrant? 
 You were told — the people, from their long-continued service in the 
 army, gradually lost the spirit of independence, and that the calami- 
 ties of the state arose from that cause. Was it to revive in his 
 countrymen the spirit of independence that he audaciously stepped 
 from the rank of their servant to that of their master? — Was it to 
 preserve the integrity which fosters that spirit that he corrupted 
 the virtue of all that came in contact with him, and that he dared 
 to tempt? — Was it for the regeneration of the republic that he con- 
 verted it into a tyranny? 
 
 These were the acts of Caesar. Did they tend to restore the 
 ancient virtue of the Roman people? No, Sir; they tended to 
 annihilate the chance of its restoration — to sink the people into a 
 viler abasement — to rob them of the very names of men. 
 
 But the gentleman has brought forward a very curious argument, 
 for the purpose of proving that the Romans were incapable of being 
 a free people — namely, that their magistrates were the mere echoes 
 of the people. He adverts, I suppose, to what were called the 
 tribunes of the people — officers that acted particularly for the
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 441 
 
 plebeian orders, and were generally chosen from their body. Bnt 
 those magistrates, or tribunes, were, it seems, the mere voices of the 
 people, and that circumstance rendered the people incapable of being 
 free ! To me, at least, this is a paradox. 
 
 Who elected these tribunes'? — The people. What were they? — 
 The representatives of the people. Whose affairs did they manage? 
 — The affairs of the people. It was not the liberty which the 
 plebeians enjoyed that was the cause of their enslavement. It was 
 the senate's jealousy of that liberty — the senate's straggles for the 
 control of that liberty— the senate's plunder of that liberty — the 
 senate's desire to annihilate that liberty, which left it in the power 
 of any crafty knave, miscalled a great man, who was sufficiently 
 master of hypocrisy and daring, to set his foot on both the senate 
 and the people, and make himself, as Caesar did, the tyrant of his 
 country ! 
 
 John B. Fairley. — Mr. Chairman — 
 
 Archd. Main. — Mr. Chairman — 
 
 John B. Fairley.— I beheve I am in possession of the chair. I 
 certainly spoke first. 
 
 Archd. Main. — I apprehend that I rose first — 
 
 Chairman. — The last speaker is certainly in possession of the 
 chair. 
 
 John B. Fairley. — I bow to the decision. 
 
 Archd. Main. — When the voice of a single man can operate so 
 instantaneously in composing a difference, who would not approve 
 of a rational and moderate tyranny? It is not, however, Mr. Chair- 
 man, my present object to answer the arguments which have been 
 so ably brought forward to support the negative of this question. I 
 rise to submit a few observations upon the nature of the question 
 itself. I take the liberty of stating, that I think it an injudiciously 
 selected question — a question which does not receive from every mind 
 the same interpretation. I dare assert, Mr. Chairman, that, in this 
 very assembly, there are various different opinions with respect to 
 what constitutes a great man. Some will tell you that gi-eatness 
 consists in rank, some in exploits, some in talents, some in ^^rtue. 
 Thus, Sir, the very premises of our discussion are unsettled and 
 wavering. 
 
 Already do the gentlemen on the opposite side endeavour to strain 
 your question to the construction, that greatness essentially consists 
 in goodness; and they may quote Mr. Pope, and say, '"Tis phnvse 
 absurd to call a villain great ". Others, again, may insist that great- 
 ness depends upon rank, and exclaim witli Milton, "Worthiest, by
 
 442 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 being good, far more than great or high ". I confess, Mr. Chairman, 
 that until this point shall have been disposed of, I cannot hope for 
 an end to the debate; and, therefore, propose, as an amendment, we 
 shall determine, " What it is that constitutes a great man ". 
 
 John B. Fairley. — I oppose the amendment — I oppose it becaiise 1 
 think it unnecessary. 
 
 Crichton D. Fulton. — I beg your pardon, Mr. Chairman, but I believe 
 there is not any motion before you, as the gentleman's amendment 
 has not been seconded. 
 
 Wm. Aitken. — Mr. Chairman, I second the amendment. 
 
 Chairman. — -The gentleman, then, will have the goodness to submit 
 his amendment in writing. 
 
 John B. Fairley. — I apprehend, Sir, that your recommendation 
 involves a question of no small importance, namely, whether the 
 gentleman can write? 
 
 Archd. Main. — I thank the gentleman for his friendly insinuation, 
 and beg leave to assure him that, if I cannot write, my deficiency is 
 far less deplorable than his, who is master of the art of penmanship 
 and makes a despicable use of it ; and I dare assert that the man 
 who makes a bad use of his tongue, will never use his pen to much 
 advantage. Mr. Chairman, here is the motion, ready written ; and 
 if the writing is not mine, the dictation is. And that is more than 
 many a man can say who flourishes upon paper. 
 
 John B. Fairley. — Sir, if the little gentleman that has just sat down 
 imagines it would give me any pleasure to hurt his feelings, I assure 
 him he is much mistaken. Mr. Chairman, I object to the amend- 
 ment on two grounds — first, because it is indecorous with regard to 
 you; secondly, because it is uncalled for with regard to the question. 
 Your experience. Sir, could never have allowed yoTi to propose a 
 question that required revision ; and had you proposed such a ques- 
 tion, it would have been our duty to receive it without comment. 
 Surely, Sir, in these enlightened times, we do not inquire what it is 
 that constitutes a great man. The question cannot be viewed in 
 any light but one, namely, as inquiring whether Caesar was a man 
 of great virtues and justifiable conduct? If he waa so, our opposition 
 will be fruitless ; if he was not so, these gentlemen exert their elo- 
 quence to little purpose. 
 
 Archd. Main. — Sir, I hope the big gentleman that has just sat 
 down will do me the justice to believe, that as I receive little satis- 
 faction from being ofTended, so I am not sedulous to find out cause 
 for offence. If tlie gentleman is serious in his apology, I ought to 
 be, and 1 am, satisfied. If he is not seriou.s, I assure him that I pitj'
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 443 
 
 the poverty of that man's pretensions who thinks he can humiliate 
 another by reflecting upon the dimensions of his body — that least 
 and lovrest part of a man. It is not, Sir, the consideration of five 
 feet, or six, that ever yet operated in achieving a noble action or 
 performing a virtuous one; nor have those maxims which have 
 instructed, or those imaginations which have delighted mankind, 
 proceeded from how much a man could measvxre in his stockings, 
 the length of his back, or the thickness of his body. Those are 
 considerations for your tailor; and give me leave to assure the 
 worthy gentleman that though he could overlook me by a full head 
 and a half, it would not give him the advantage of one poor eighth 
 of an inch with respect to height or breadth of soul, or intellect — 
 the proper, the real, the only measure of man. "With regard to my 
 amendment, Mr. Chairman, I am not anxious to press it. That I 
 did not propose it from any disrespectful feeling towards you, 
 I entreat you to believe. I withdraw it, and I beg you will excuse 
 the interruption it has occasioned. 
 
 Chairman. — I cannot allow the last speaker to withdraw his 
 amendment without expressing my conviction that, in proposing it, 
 he was actuated solely by the desire of giving the question a greater 
 degree of precision. However, I trust that you will proceed with 
 the discussion, at the same time keeping in mind that the greatest 
 talents and the most brilliant achievements are not sufl&cient to con- 
 stitute a great man, unless his ends are virtuous and noble. 
 
 John B. Fairley. — Mr. Chairman, to you, Sir, I am sure I need not 
 apologize for the freedom I have used with regard to the gentleman 
 who has last addressed you. Believe me, Sir, had I not known his 
 great natural talents — had I not admired and valued them, I should 
 not have presumed to ruffle him into resentment, or pique him into 
 retort. I appeared to slight him because I knew that he was above 
 slight; and I rejoice at his triumph, although it has been achieved 
 by my own apparent defeat. 
 
 Let us not call Caesar a great man because he was a great warrior; 
 if we must admire him, let us seek some other warrant for onr 
 applause than what proceeds from the groans and writhinga of 
 humanity. 
 
 ^Tiat do we find him doing? — He produces the images of Marius 
 — that man who, as my worthy friend has said, returned the salu- 
 tations of his fellow-citizens with the blows of his assassins, and 
 marched to tlie Capitol amidst the groans of his butchered country- 
 men. This was not following the steps of Marius — it was justify- 
 ing them — it was inviting to the standard of his ambition every
 
 444 SELECTIONS FOR RIADINQ AND RECITATION. 
 
 recreant that would sell the vigour of his ann to any cause, no 
 matter how bloody, how unnatural, how immoral, how sacrilegious ! 
 Were your country. Sir, in a state of anarchy — were it distracted by 
 the struggles of rival parties, drawn out, every now and then, in 
 arms against one another — and were you, Sir, to attempt a reforma- 
 tion of manners, what qualifications would you require in the men 
 whom you would associate with you in such an undertaking ? What 
 would content you ? Talent ?~No, Enterprise?— No. Courage?— 
 No. Reputation? — No. Virtue? — No. The men whom you would 
 select should possess, not one, but all of these. They must be proved 
 men, tested men men that had again and again passed through the 
 ordeal of human temptation, without a scar, without a blemish, 
 without a speck ! 
 
 Who, Sir, I ask, were Caesar's seconds in his undertaking? 
 Crebonius Curio, one of the most vicious and debauched young men 
 in Rome — a creature of Pompey's, bought off by the illustrious 
 Caesar; Marcus Antonius, a creature of that creature's — a young 
 man so addicted to every kind of dissipation that he had been driven 
 from the paternal roof. 
 
 Paulus ^miiius, a patrician, a consul, a friend of Pompey's, bought 
 off by the great Caesar with a bribe of fifteen hundred talents. 
 Such, Sir, were the abettors of Caesar. What, then, was Caesar's 
 object? Do we select extortioners to enforce the laws of equity? 
 Do we make choice of profligates to guard the morals of society? 
 Do we depute atheists to preside over the rites of religion? The 
 achievement of great objects does not belong to the vile, or of virtuous 
 ones to the vicious, or of religious ones to the profane. Caesar did 
 not associate such characters with him for the good of his country ; 
 his object was the gratification of his own ambition, the attainment 
 of supreme power — no matter by what means accomplished, no 
 matter by what consequences attended. 
 
 Crichton D. Fulton. — Mr. Chairman, I solicit your attention. 
 
 The gentleman says we ought not to rejoice at the triumphs of 
 the warrior 1 Is this position. Sir, to be received without the least 
 restriction? Let us detect the sophistry of those who support the 
 negative of the question. 
 
 A caitiff enters your house at the dead hour of the night prepared 
 for robbery, and grasping the instrument of murder. You hear the 
 tread of unknown feet — you rise, come upon the intruder, resist him, 
 and lay him prostrate. Shall your wife shudder when you approach 
 to tell her she is safe? Shall your children shrink from you when 
 you say you have averted the danger that threatened their innocent
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READIKG AND RECITATION. 445 
 
 sleep? Why should they not? I'll tell you, sir; — because you have 
 followed the dictates of reason, of affection, of nature, and of God. 
 
 Sir, there are warriors whose victories should be celebrated with 
 ehouts and songs — for whose brows our wives and daughters should 
 weave garlands, and whose knees our infants should embrace — such 
 warriors as guard the boundaries of their native land. 
 
 And Caesar is to be condemned because he produced the images of 
 Marius and revived his memory and honours ! Now, Sir, I conceive 
 a weaker ground of accusation could not have been selected, for the 
 mere circumstance of Marius's having been related to Caesar by mar- 
 riage presents a very natural excuse for such a proceeding, particu- 
 larly as it took place upon the death of Caesar's aunt, who was the 
 wife of Marius. 
 
 Let us, Sir, do justice to the dead, though their interests be parted 
 from ours by the lapse of a hundred generations. As to the 
 assertion that Caesar's aims may be ascertained by examining 
 the character of those whom he associated with him, it must go for 
 nothing. 
 
 Our cause may rest upon one single fact — Eome was happy, pros- 
 perous, and honoured under Caesar's government ; and I shall have 
 the hardihood to assert that he whose rule secures the happiness, 
 prosperity, and glory of a nation deserves to rule it. 
 
 Wm. Aitken. — Sir, if you are not indebted to the gentleman that 
 has just addressed you, I am sure the fault is not his. He has made 
 you a present of a wife, and a fine thriving family, with all the happy 
 et ceteras. Allow me, sir, to pay my compliments to you in your 
 new character, which you wear with a peculiar grace, and which, I 
 fervently trust, you will wear long. Yet let me hope, Mr. Chairman, 
 that you will sometimes remember your late affectionate fraternity, 
 now disconsolate at the loss they have sustained. 
 
 Let me presume that you will sometimes steal yourself away from 
 the lullaby of the nurse, and the prattling of the children, to visit 
 your old companions. Your condescension will not be unprofitable. 
 From the contemplation of our desolate state you will turn with a 
 livelier zest to your own little domestic circle ; your heart will feel 
 the prouder by the contrast ; and in the fulness of your joy you will 
 sigh an involuntary blessing upon the day that first introduced you 
 to the acquaintance of the worthy gentleman. You know, Mr. 
 Chairman, I never prided myself upon my talents for speaking 
 
 However, as I have risen, I shall venture an observation or two 
 upon the question before me. And, first of all, Sir, I have not 
 the least idea of calling a man great because he has been a great
 
 446 SELECTIONS FOB READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 conqueror. How many a renowned general has turned his arms 
 against the very cause in whose defence he first took them up? — Aa 
 Caesar did — Caesar, who was commissioned by his country to sub- 
 due the Gauls, and then commissioned himself to subdue his country! 
 I wonder that any man who has a regard for common sense, or plain 
 honesty, can so far forget himself as to justify Caesar's conduct in 
 this particular. I shall state a very simple case to you, Mr. Chair- 
 man. You have a very large estate; you employ a couple of stewards 
 to assist you in the management of it, and you send one of them to 
 reside in the most distant part of it. "Well, Sir, this steward is a 
 fellow of address; he manages his little government very skilfully; 
 keeps your tenants in due subjection and your servants in admir. 
 able order, at the same time taking care to secure himself in their 
 good graces by indulgences and gifts and flatteries, and every 
 eflfective means of engaging esteem. Well, Sir, in process of time 
 you determine to dismiss this steward ; but you retain the other. — 
 You recall him that he may give an account of himself, and receive his 
 discharge. Does he obey you 1 — No. — He does not stir a step ! He 
 sets his arms akimbo, and thus accosts your messsenger — " Mr. Jack 
 — or Thomas — or "Walter, — present my duty to my master and say, 
 that when steward such-a-one receives his discharge I'll accept 
 mine." I should like to see your face, Mr. Chairman, upon your 
 receiving his message. I fear it would require something more than 
 the caresses of your wife, and che prattling of your infant family, to 
 preserve it in its natural smoothness. What would you do with the 
 rascal? You would have him fined — imprisoned — whipped — put in 
 the piUory — hanged — and yet, Sir, such a man — though acting upon 
 a larger scale — was the immoi-tal Caesar. It makes one sick to hear 
 the cause of such a fellow advocated 1 And let me recall to the 
 recollection of those gentlemen, the truth, that gi'eatness cannot 
 consist in anything that is at the disposal of chance, or rather that 
 exists by chance. Had not fortune favoured Caesar in his first 
 battles, he would have been recalled, perhaps, brought to trial, and 
 banished — and then he would have been little Caesar. 
 
 And now, Sir, in the name of common sense, what mighty acts 
 did Caesar perform when he became the master of his country? "We 
 are told that the servile senate created him reformer of manners. A 
 fine reformer of manners, whose own manners stood so much in need 
 of reforming I Sir, they should have rather made him inspector of 
 markets — for it was in that capacity he shone the most conspicuously. 
 It is said lie limited the expense of feasts, and that his officers used 
 to enter the liouses of the citizens and snatch from ofi" their tables
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RBCITATIOJI. 447 
 
 any meats that were served up ! I should like to see a constable 
 enter my parlour at dinner-time, and hand away a dish just as it had 
 been placed upon the table. I'd cut liis fingers olT v\'ith the carving- 
 knife 1 But the best of it is, his restrictions eifected certain orders 
 only. Men of rank might do as they pleased. 
 
 In fine, J^Ir. Chairman, my opinion of Caesar is this — He was a 
 very fine fighter, a very bad patriot, a very selfish master, and a 
 very great rogue ! 
 
 Wm. G. F. Laurie. — Sir, — If my worthy friend has presented you 
 with a wife and family, the last speaker is not behindhand with 
 him, for he has given you a large estate to maintain them — an estate 
 so large, as to require two stewards to manage it ! 
 
 As to the gentleman's eloquence in opposition to Caesar's great- 
 ness, he himself tells you what degree of importance you are to 
 attach to his opinions, for he very ingenuously says you are not to 
 expect anything serious from him. In one instance, however, I 
 shall comment upon what he has said, because a man should not 
 be frivolous even in his jesting. I allude to his wit, respecting the 
 restraints that Caesar laid upon luxury. 
 
 Surely I need not remind him that the heroes of Greece fared 
 upon black broth, and drew their glory no less from the modera- 
 tion of their appetite than from the excess of their courage and 
 patriotism. 
 
 The gentleman says it makes him sick to hear the cause of such 
 a man as Caesar advocated ! I shall prescribe for his sickness. Let 
 him take a dose of common sense, and use a little mental exercise — 
 that will remove his sickness. I am sure it makes me sick to hear 
 the arguments of Caesar's opponents. Sir, he was a man of stupen- 
 dous loftiness of mind ! A man above all influence of fortune ! 
 Himself, where other men would have been — nothing! Observe 
 him when he is surprised by the Nervii. His soldiers are employed 
 in pitching their camp. — The ferocious enemy sallies from his con- 
 cealment, puts the Koman cavalry to the rout, and falls upon the 
 foot. Everything is in alarm, confusion, and disorder. Everyone 
 is doubtful what course to take. Everyone, but Caesar ! He causes 
 the banner to be erected, the charge to be sounded, the soldiers at a 
 distance recalled — all in a moment! 
 
 The contest is doubtful and dreadful! Two of his legions are 
 entirely surrounded ! He seizes a buckler from one of the private 
 men — puts himself at the head of his broken troops, darts into 
 the thick of the battle, rescues his legions, and overthrows the 
 enemy!
 
 448 SELECTIONS FOR READING AND RECITATION. 
 
 Really, Sir, I cannot command my patience when I hear those 
 gentlemen indulge themselves in invectives against a man, tlie twen- 
 tieth part of whose excellence, divided amongst the whole of them, 
 would make them heroes. I shall certainly vote for the affirmative 
 of the question. 
 
 Cecil Cruickshank. — Sir, — If my worthy friend was sick, I hope he 
 is now in a fair way of recovery. The gentleman has considered his 
 case and prescribed for him, and he certainly could not have fallen 
 into better hands. 
 
 You must confess, Mr. Chairman, you preside over an assembly 
 whose members entertain a very respectful sense of your merits. 
 One has made you the father of a happy family, another has be- 
 stowed on you a handsome estate — allow me, Sir, to recommend a 
 physician to you — one who will be a faithful guardian of your 
 health, who will watch with skilful eye the delicate complexion of 
 your wife, and regulate, with gentle and innocent doses, your chil- 
 dren's habit of body. Believe me, Sir, the gentleman's merit does 
 not consist in his diploma only ; it has its foundation in knowledge, 
 in science, and experience. 
 
 He is, as you may perceive from the speech that he has just made 
 you, a philosopher and a moralist. Unlike Macbeth's physician 
 be— 
 
 " Can minister to a mind diseased ; 
 Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow; 
 Rase out the written troubles of the brain; 
 And, with some sweet oblivious antidote, 
 Cleanse the foul bosom of that perilous stuff, . 
 
 That weighs upon the heart ". 
 
 I regret, however, Mr. Chairman, that, notwithstanding my eulo- 
 gium, I must dissent fi^om him with regard to his admiration of 
 Caesar. I cannot, I confess, behold those incidents he has just 
 named in Caesar's life in the same light that he does. When 
 Caesar was surprised by the Nervii, he had a great cause at stake, 
 and his conduct was the natural result of that consideration. I am 
 sure you will agree with me, that great exploits must have noble 
 ends — and then, indeed, they make the executor great. 
 
 " Who wickedly is wise, or madly brave, 
 Is but the more a fool — the more a kna'^e I 
 Who noble ends, by noble means, obtains. 
 Or, failing, smiles, in exile or in chains — 
 Like good Aurelius, let him sigh, or bleed 
 Like Socrates -that man is great indeed ! *'
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READIKO AND RECITATION. 449 
 
 John Anderson. — Mr. Chairman, a gentleman has said, that the 
 man whose rule secures the happiness, prosperity, and glory of a 
 nation deserves to rule it. With equal confidence I assert, that the 
 man who obtains the rule of his country by violating ita laws — how 
 much soever he may contribute to make it happy, prosperous, and 
 great — does not deserve to rule it; for he sets a bad example, he 
 leaves it in the power of any wretch, who may possess his ambition, 
 without his excellence, to quote his name, and use it as an authority 
 for the commission of similar crime. No gentleman has yet pre- 
 sumed to say that Caesar's conduct was sanctioned by the laws of 
 Rome — those laws that guarded more cautiously against the ap- 
 proacQes of tyranny than against the invasion of a foreign enemy. 
 
 Caesar, then, did not deserve to rule his country, for he violated 
 its laws. A good man respects the laws of his country; Caesar was 
 not in tnis view a good man — Caesar was not in this view a great 
 man ; for goodness is an essential part of greatness. 
 
 Let UB now examine how far he deserved to rule his country, 
 because, as it has been said, he secured its happiness, prosperity, and 
 greatness. Sir, I do not oelieve that he accomplished any such 
 object. To dispose of all offices and honours just as his own interest 
 or fancy directed his choice of the candidates : to create new offices 
 for the gratification of his favourites and creatures— I say. Sir, to 
 adopt such measures as these had not a tendency to secure the happi- 
 ness or prosperity of his country. 
 
 A gentleman, speaking of Caesar's benevolent disposition, and of 
 the reluctance with which he entered into the civil war, observes, 
 "How long did he pause upon the brink of the Rubicon!" How 
 came he w the brink of that river] How dared he cross it ! Shall 
 private men respect the boundaries of private property, and shall a 
 man pay no respect to the boundaries of his country's rights? How 
 dared he cross that river ! 
 
 Caesar paused upon the brink of the Rubicon ! What was the 
 Rubicon? — The boundary of Caesar's province. From what did it 
 separate his province? — From his country. Was that country a 
 desert? — No, it was cultivated and fertile, rich and populous 1 Its 
 sons were men of genuis, spirit, and generosity ! Its daughters were 
 lovely, susceptible, and chaste ! Friendship was its inhabitant ! — 
 Love was its inhabitant! — Domestic affection was its inhabitant! 
 — Liberty was its inhabitant! — All bounded by the strean) of the 
 Rubicon I What was Caesar, that stood upon the brink of that 
 stream? — A traitor, bringing war and pestilence into the heart of 
 that country ! No wonder that he paused. No wonder if, his ima- 
 f996) P
 
 450 SELECTIONS FOR KEADINO AND RECITATIOS. 
 
 gination ■wrought upon by Lis conscience, he had beheld blood instead 
 of water, and heard groans instead of murmurs ! No wonder if some 
 gorgon horror had turned him into stone upon the spot 1 But no 1 — 
 he cried, "The die is cast!" He plunged I — he crossed! — and Eome 
 was free no more 1 
 
 He is not content to triumph over the GauJs, the Egyptians, and 
 Pharnaces ; he must triumph over his own countrymen ! He is not 
 satisfied to insult the Romans with triumphing over the death of 
 liberty; they must gaze upon the representation of her expiring 
 agonies, and mark the writhings of her last, fatal struggle ! Mr. 
 Chairman, I confidently anticipate the triumph of our cause. 
 
 John Falconer. — Sir, —With great reluctance I present myself to 
 your notice at this late hour. We have proved that your patience 
 is abundant — we cannot presume that it is inexhaustible. I shall 
 exercise it for only a fe .v moments. Were our cause to be judged 
 by the approbation which our opponents have received, it would 
 appear to be lost. But that is far from being the case, Mr, Cliair • 
 man. The approbation they receive is unaccompanied by conviction. 
 It is a tribute — and a merited one — to their eloquence, and has not 
 any reference to the justice of the part they take. Our cause is not 
 lost — is not in danger — does not apprehend danger. We are as 
 strong as ever — as able for the contest — and as confident of victory. 
 We fight under the banners of Caesar, and Caesar never met an open 
 enemy without subduing him. 
 
 We grant that Caesar was a usurper, but we insi.it that the circum- 
 stances of the times justified his usurpation. We insist that he 
 became a usurper for the good of his country, for the salvation of the 
 republic, for the preservation of its very existence, 
 
 A gentleman very justly said, that the love of country is the first, 
 the second, and the last principle of a virtuous mind. Now, Sir, it 
 appears that the Boman people sold their country — its office, its 
 honours, its liberty 1 sold them to the highest bidder, as they would 
 sell their wares, a sheep or the quarter of an ox ; and that, after 
 they had struck the bargain, they threw themselves into it and fought 
 manfully for the purchaser ! 
 
 Thus, Sir, the independence of the republic was virtually lost 
 before Caesar became a usurper; and, therefore, to say that Caesar 
 destroyed the independence or liberty of his country, is to assert that 
 he destroyed a nonentity. 
 
 Gentlemen talk of what are called the people as if they were the 
 most enlightened part of the community. Are they the guardians 
 of learning? — or of the arts? — or of the sciences? Do we select
 
 SKLECTIONS FOR READiNQ AND RECITATION 451 
 
 counsellors from them? — or judges? — or legislators? Do we inquire 
 arooTig them for rhetoricians?— logicians? — or philosophers?- -or, 
 rather, do we not consider them little regulated by judgment?— njuch 
 influenced by prejudice? — greatly subject to caprice?— chiefly gov- 
 erned by passion? Of course, Sir, I speak of what are generally 
 called the people — the crowd, the mass of the community. 
 
 Mr. Chairman, I think that the times in which Caesar lived called 
 for and sanctioned his usurpation. I think his object was to extin- 
 guish the jealousies of party, to put a stop to the miseries that 
 resulted from them, and to unite his countrymen. I think the 
 divided state of the Eoman people exposed them to the danger of a 
 foreign yoke, from which they could be preserved only by receiving 
 a domestic one. I think that Caesar was a great man; and I would 
 rather patiently sutler the oppressions of an arbitrary master than 
 the cruelties and disorders which generally attend civil dissensions. 
 
 Arthur Robin. — Mr. Chairman, — As the opener of this debate I 
 am entitled to reply, but it is a privilege by which I shall not profit. 
 I leave our cause to the fate it merits. But allow me to remark, that 
 how much soever we may disagree in our opinion of Caesar's charac- 
 ter, there is a subject upon -which we cannot have the slightest differ- 
 ence of sentiment, namely, that your patience, indulgence, and 
 impartiality have been great, and claim — our gratitude.
 
 IN^DEX OF AUTHORS AND SUBJECTS. 
 
 A.bou Ben Adhem and the Angel, 87. 
 
 Adams, Moses, 2S9. 
 
 Addison, 348. 
 
 After Dinner Oratory, 279. 
 
 Aldine, The, 117. 
 
 Amateur Cook, an, 416. 
 
 Aj^derson, Alex., 74, 103. 
 
 Annie and Willie's Prayer, 376. 
 
 Anon., 75, 83, S5, 89, 91, 116, 130, 
 
 137, 148, 162, 283. 
 Anstet, F., 356. 
 Archery of Tell, the, 72. 
 Are the Children Home? 71. 
 Armada, the, 368. 
 Art«mus Ward's Lecture, 304. 
 Artless Prattle of Childhood, the, 402. 
 "Atlantic Monthly", 84. 
 At Last, 60. 
 Attoun, Professor, 177, 222, 302, 318. 
 
 Babies, 274. 
 
 Baby in Church, 61. 
 
 Bachelor the, 366. 
 
 Baine, 72. 
 
 Baker, G. A., 300. 
 
 Ballad of War, a, 69. 
 
 Barbara Frietchie, 100 
 
 Barinq-Gould, Rev. Sabink, 179 
 
 Barrie, J. M., 421. 
 
 Beautiful Child, 122. 
 
 Beautiful Snow, 281. 
 
 Becalmed, 153. 
 
 Bellows, Dr. H. W., 161. 
 
 Bells, the, 419. 
 
 Better Land, the, 27. 
 
 Bishop and the Caterpillar, the, 110. 
 
 Bivouac Fire, the, 166. 
 
 Blackie, John Stuart, 106. 
 
 Bloomsbury Christening, the, 342. 
 
 Bobolink, the, 117. 
 
 "BOTS' Own Pafkk," 110. 
 
 brave Cameron, the Lay of, 106, 
 
 452 
 
 Briary Villas, 283. 
 
 Brough, Fannt, 410. 
 
 Brocgh, R. B., 229. 
 
 Brouohton, Fred. W., 3S6. 
 
 Browne, R. A., 86. 
 
 Brownin' Jud, 2S0. 
 
 Brutus and Cassir.s, .308. 
 
 BCRDET7E, R. J., 402. 
 
 Burnett, Mrs. Frances Hodgscw, 
 
 149, 362. 
 Burns, Robert, 287. 
 Burst Bubble, the, 78. 
 
 Calverley, C. S., 132. 
 
 Carleton, Will, 297. 
 
 Carltle, THOiiAS, 32, lc4, 160. 
 
 Castlewood, the Death of, 38. 
 
 Cato on Immortality, 34'. 
 
 Caught in the Quick-sand, 81. 
 
 CTiarcoai Man, the, 103. 
 
 Charles Edward at Versailles, 177. 
 
 Christmas Greetings, 300. 
 
 Clarence and Brakenbury, 347. 
 
 Cochrane, 93. 
 
 Cook, Eliza, 67. 
 
 Cornwall, Bap.rt, 64. 
 
 Cotter's Saturday Night, the, 287. 
 
 Courtship of Allan Fairley of Earls- 
 wood, the, 381. 
 
 Cowan, Samuel K., 00, 153, 166, 
 379. 
 
 Crockett, S. R., 381, 
 
 CCRRAN, 121. 
 
 Curran on Freedom, 121. 
 
 Deacon's Story, the, 186. 
 Debate, 434. 
 De.spr?:z, Frank, 277. 
 "Detroit Free Press", 354. 
 Dickens. Charles, 29, 66, 206. 2-36, 
 256, 293, 342.
 
 IKBEX OF AUTHORS AND SUBJECTS. 
 
 453 
 
 Domestic Asides, 80. 
 DOUDNET, Sabah. 102. 
 DOTLE, Sir F. H., 197. 
 Dukite Snake, the, 405. 
 
 Edinburgh after Flodden, 222. 
 Editha's Burglar, 149. 
 Emerson, N. S., 186. 
 English Christmas-day, an, 29. 
 Excelsior, 139. 
 
 Execution of Montrose, the, 302. 
 Exercises in Modulation, 3f). 
 Exercises on Emphasis, 45. 
 Exercises on the Inflections, 24. 
 Exercises on the Pause, 47. 
 
 Fall of D'Assaa, the, 80. 
 Fashionable Choir, the, 165. 
 Fishers, the Three, 69. 
 Flodden Field, the Battle of, .nnd 
 
 Death of Marmion, 259. 
 Fool's Prayer, the, 84. 
 
 FORRESTEB, MaRY, 124. 
 
 Funny Young Gentleman, the, 65. 
 
 Gemini and Virgo, 132. 
 George the Third, 41. 
 Germs of Greatness, 67. 
 Gesture, the Theory of, 51. 
 Getting into Society, 183. 
 Glove and the Lions, the, 76. 
 GouQH, John B., 78, 92. 
 Gow, Minnie M., 61. 
 
 Haddock, C. M., 159. 
 Hamlet and the Queen, 144, 
 Harbough, T. C, 165. 
 Harmosan, 77. 
 
 •'Harper's Magazine ", 157. 
 Harris, Lee, 0., 140. 
 Harte, Bret, 414. 
 Haunted Mere, the, 420. 
 Hemans, Mrs., 27, 80, 268. 
 '•Henry V.", 155. 
 "Henry VIII.", Scene from, 311. 
 Her Letter, 414. 
 
 High Tide on the Coast of Linculu- 
 shire, 326. 
 
 HoUday Idyl, a, 386. 
 
 Holmes, Oliver W., 94. 
 
 "Home Sweet Home", 354. 
 
 Hood, Tom, 80, 385. 
 
 Horatio Sparkins, 206. 
 
 How He Saved St. Michael's, 254. 
 
 How the Flag was Saved, 225. 
 
 How Uncle Podgcr Hung a Picture, 
 
 200. 
 Hugo, Victor, 81. 
 " Hunchback ", the, Scene from, 243. 
 Hunt, Leigh, 76, 87. 
 
 [f 1 Could Keep Her So, 63. 
 
 If I Should Die To-night, 79. 
 
 IroELOw, Jean, 326. 
 
 " In the Evening Time it will be 
 
 Light", 60. 
 Irishman's Love for His Children, an, 
 
 130. 
 Irishwoman's Letter, the, 148. 
 Iratng, Washington, 397. 
 Island of the Scots, the, 318. 
 
 Jack's Little Sister Kate, 125. 
 Jenny M'Neale, 297. 
 Jerome K. Jerome, 200, 274. 
 
 Karl, the Martyr, 410. 
 Kimball, Mather Dean, 323. 
 King Rol)ert of Sicily, 250. 
 KiNGSLET, Charles, 59, 69. 
 Knowles, J. Sheridan, 243. 
 
 Labour, 32. 
 
 "Lady of Lyons", the, Scene from, 
 
 306. 
 Lady of Provence, the, 268. 
 Lady's Dream, the, 385. 
 IjAMartine, 325. 
 Lasca, 277. 
 Last Hymn, the, 108. 
 Last of the proud Monarch, the, l.''>4 
 Last Shot, the, 393. 
 Leap for Life, a, 89. 
 Lee, Holme, 420. 
 Level Crossing, the, 135.
 
 454 
 
 INDaX OF APTHOIIS AITD SUBJECTS. 
 
 Lifeboat, the, 270. 
 
 Littlo Lord Fauntleroy, 332. 
 
 Little Orphant Annie, 68. 
 
 LoNGFEixow, Henry W.,44, 139, 250. 
 
 Louis XL, 372. 
 
 Lowell, R. T. S., 119. 
 
 Lttton, Sir Edwabd Bdlweb, 306. 
 
 Lttton, Lord, 190, 193. 
 
 Mabel Martin, 123. 
 Macaitlat, Lord, 320, 363. 
 Macdonald, Dr. Geo., 424. 
 MACLEOD, Dr. Norman, 233, 349. 
 Macbak, Rev. David, 127, 279. 
 Marie Antoinette, the Death of, 160. 
 Marit and I, 162. 
 Markwell, W. Rk, 372. 
 Masterpiece of Brother Felix, the, 214. 
 Maud Miiller, 94. 
 
 Means of Acquiring Distinction, 88. 
 Measuring the Baby, 86. 
 "Merchant of Venice", the, Scene 
 
 from, 339. 
 Midnight Charge, the, 431. 
 Midnight Mail, the, 379. 
 Morris, Geo. P., 89. 
 MouLTON, Louise CHAifDij:R, 63. 
 Mountain Mists, 330. 
 Mrs. Comey makes Tea and Mr. 
 
 Bumble makes Love, 236. 
 Murder of Montague Tigg, the, 293. 
 Myers, Robert C. V., 79. 
 My Neighbour's Baby, S3. 
 My Uncle Roland's Tale, 193. 
 
 Newsboy's Debt, the, 157. 
 No, thank you, Tom, 89. 
 Nottman, 103. 
 
 Old Clock on the Stairs, the, 44. 
 Old Knight's Tale, the, 229. 
 Old Lieutenant and His Son, the, 233. 
 Old Schoolmaster, the, 140. 
 Old Scrooge, 256. 
 " On Ahead ", 370. 
 Ora Pro Nobis, lOa 
 O'Rkilly, Jambs B., 225, 405. 
 Oxford and Cambridge Boat-race, 
 Uie, 85. 
 
 Papa's Letter, 137. 
 
 Pickett's XeU, 323. 
 
 Pilot, the, 93. 
 
 Pitt, V, m., 147. 
 
 Pitt's Reply to Walpole, 147. 
 
 POE, Edgar Allan, 203, 4 19. 
 
 Practice of Elocution, the, 22. 
 
 Preparing to Receive Company, 121, 
 
 Principles of Elocution, the, 13. 
 
 Proctor, Adelaidk Annk, 90. 
 
 Public Speech, 161. 
 
 Railway Chase, a, 127. 
 
 P^pids, the, 92. 
 
 Raven, the, 203. 
 
 Rkad, Thos. Buchanan, 332, 335i 
 
 Rebd, John D., 393. 
 
 ReUef of Lucknow, the, 119. 
 
 Retort, the, 91. 
 
 " Richelieu ", Scene from, 190, 
 
 Rn.ET, James "W., 68. 
 
 " Rivals", the. Scene from, 285. 
 
 " Robert Falconer", Selections from. 
 
 424, 428. 
 "flobRoy", 97. 
 RoDieo and Juliet, 217. 
 Rr^KiN, John, 240, 330. 
 
 Sands of Dee, the, 69, 
 
 Sangster, M. E. M. , 71. 
 
 School for Scandal, the, 172. 
 
 Scott, Clement, 96, 142. 
 
 Scott, Sib Walter, 97, 259. 
 
 Sculptor's Funeral, the, 335. 
 
 Sculptor's Last Hour, the, 332. 
 
 Sea-Sght, the, 64. 
 
 Shakespeabk, 144, 155, 217, 303. 
 
 311, 339, 347. 
 Sheridan, Richard B., 172, 285. 
 Sigourney, W. a. H., 122, 281. 
 Sims, Georgk R., 270. 
 Sisters, the, 114. 
 Smedlet, Menella Bute, 69. 
 Smith. Sydney, S8. 
 Smith, Theyre, 168. 
 Snow, Sophia P., 376. 
 Soul's Awakening, the, 159. 
 Spanish Mother, the, 197
 
 INDEX or AUTHORS AND SUBJECTS, 
 
 455 
 
 Spinning-wbeel Sony, the, 129. 
 Stansbuet, Mary A. P., 254. 
 "Starling", the. Selection from, 349. 
 Stevenson, W. Grant, A.K.S.A., 
 
 416. 
 Stoddard, R. H., 13& 
 Stood at Clear, 74. 
 3t. Sophia, the Building of, 179. 
 
 Thackeray. W. M., 38, 41, J83. 
 
 The llessage, 80. 
 
 The Tale He told the .Marines, 168. 
 
 The Three Bells, 119. 
 
 The Two Armies, 94. 
 
 Thurlow, Lord, 106. 
 
 Thurlow's Reply to the Duke of 
 
 Grafton, 106. 
 TOTNBEE, Wm., 370. 
 Trench, Dr., 7T. 
 Teowbridoe, J. T., 103. 
 
 Truth, 240. 
 
 Two's Company and Three's None, 76 
 
 Village Choir, the, 116. 
 
 Virginia — A Layof Ancient Rome, 320. 
 
 Walker, Robert, 135. 
 
 Waller, John F., 129. 
 
 Ward, Artemus, 304. 
 
 Warriors of the Sea, the, 96. 
 
 Water-mill, the, 102. 
 
 Where? 138. 
 
 Whtte, R. E., 214. 
 
 Whittier, John Greenleaf, 60, 94, 
 
 100, 114, 119, 123. 
 Wife, the, 397. 
 Women of Mumbles Head, the, 142. 
 
 Zaraf;. 825,
 
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